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"What? I'm just saying." He takes a lazy sip of beer. "You're way too tense these days. You need to hook up with someone. Let off some steam."

She gasps, swatting at his leg. "I absolutely am not."

He grins, eyes glinting. "Yes you are. I can't put my finger on it, but you just seem so restless lately. Like you're crawling out of your skin."

"It's just stress over work." She pulls the pillow tighter. "Writing for the New York Chronicles is a lot of work. Deadlines, interviews, fact-checking—"

"Uh-huh. And when's the last time you got properly fucked?"

"Ned!"

He laughs, full and unbothered. "I'm serious. Maybe some good dick will help you. Relax those shoulders, clear that head of yours. You're practically vibrating."

On the fire escape, Peter's hands tighten into fists.

She's mine.

The thought crashes through him, possessive and raw. His jaw aches from clenching. He watches her through the window—her flustered expression, the way she hides her face in the pillow, the way she doesn't deny it. She's restless. He knows. He's seen her pace her apartment at 2 a.m., seen her press her thighs together in the bathtub, heard the soft, frustrated moans she thinks no one can hear.

And he knows Ned is right. She needs release. But the idea of her finding that release in someone else—some stranger's hands, some stranger's mouth, some stranger's cock inside her—makes his stomach twist with something dark and violent.

"You're impossible," she mutters, throwing the pillow at Ned.

He catches it easily. "And you're in denial. But okay. Keep telling yourself it's deadlines."

She stands, smoothing her shirt. "I'm leaving before you say something even more embarrassing."

"Text me if you change your mind! I know a guy—"

"Goodnight, Ned!"

The door clicks shut. Ned chuckles to himself, shaking his head.

Peter stays frozen on the fire escape long after she's gone, her scent still lingering in the air, her laugh still ringing in his ears.

He knows what he has to do.

He has to reintroduce himself. Casually, carefully. Slide back into her life before she finds someone else to release those frustrations on. Before some other man touches what's his.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he watches her walk home from a rooftop three blocks away, her silhouette moving under the amber streetlights. He watches her pause at her door, glance over her shoulder like she feels something watching her. She hugs herself, shivers, and disappears inside.

Soon, he tells himself, pressing a hand over his chest where his heart used to belong to her. Soon I'll make you remember. Or I'll make you want me again.

But for now, he waits.

Peter stands outside the coffee shop, his reflection staring back at him from the glass door. He checks his hair three times—runs his fingers through it, smooths the front, tucks a stray strand behind his ear. The black shirt hugs his shoulders just right, and the glasses frame his face in a way that used to make Y/N bite her lip and look at him twice.

She loved these glasses, he thinks, adjusting them once more. She used to say I looked like a secret librarian. A hot one.

He takes a breath, pushes the door open, and walks in with a confidence he's been practicing for weeks.

The bell above the door chimes. Y/N looks up from the counter where she's been scribbling in a notebook—probably working on another article for the New York Chronicles. Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She's wearing a simple apron over a cream sweater, and when she sees him, she smiles.

It's polite. Professional. The same smile she gives every customer working at her parent's cafe.

But it's still her smile, and his heart stumbles.

"Hi," she says, setting down her pen. "What can I get started for you?"

He steps up to the counter, leaning an elbow on the polished wood. "Hey. I'll take an iced americano and a chocolate donut."

She nods, writing it down. "Anything else?"

"No, thanks. That's perfect."

She turns to prepare the coffee, and he watches her movements—efficient, practiced. The way she scoops ice, pours the espresso, reaches for the donut with a tissue. When she turns back and hands him the cup, their fingers brush.

It's barely a second. Just a whisper of contact.

But she pauses, her eyes lifting to his face. A flicker of something—recognition? Curiosity?—passes through her gaze before she blinks it away.

"Here you go," she says softly.

He takes the cup, letting his fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary. "Thanks."

She smiles again, a little different this time—warmer, a hint of confusion. Then she turns back to the sink where a few dishes are waiting, rolling up her sleeves.

Peter takes a seat by the window, sipping his americano, watching her from behind his glasses. She's humming softly, something he doesn't recognize. From the back room, he hears Ned's voice, humming some pop song, the clatter of boxes being moved.

Over the next few weeks, he becomes a regular.

He comes in every other day, sometimes every day. Always orders the same thing—iced americano, chocolate donut. Sometimes he grabs a table and pretends to work on his laptop, but really he's watching her. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear. The way she bites her lip while reading. The way she laughs at something Ned says, bright and easy.

Their interactions are casual. Limited.

"Morning Peter." She learns his name.

"The usual?" She asks.

"You know it."

A smile. A quick exchange. Then she's busy, and he's left with the ghost of her attention.

It's not enough.

So one afternoon, when the shop is empty and Ned is in the back, he makes his move.

He walks up to the counter, coffee in hand, and as he reaches to pay, he lets his wrist go slack. The cup tips. The lid pops off. Brown liquid splashes across the floor, a puddle spreading near his feet.

"Shit," he mutters, a little too loud.

Y/N spins around from the espresso machine. "Oh no! Don't worry, I'll get it—"

She grabs a roll of paper towels from under the counter and moves to crouch down, but he's already there. He takes the roll from her hands, his fingers closing over hers for a brief, deliberate second.

"It was my fault," he says, meeting her eyes. "Don't worry about it."

"Really, I can—"

"Nope. I got it." He kneels, wiping up the mess quickly, ignoring her protests. "You have enough to do. Let me take care of this."

She stands there, hands on her hips, watching him clean up her floor with an expression caught between amused and impressed.

"You're not going to let me help, are you?" she asks.

"Nope." He finishes, tosses the wet paper towels in the trash, and straightens up. "See? All good."

She shakes her head, a smile tugging at her lips. "You're stubborn."

"I prefer determined."

"A determined mess-maker."

He laughs—a real laugh, not the careful one he's been using.

They stand there, the air between them easier now, the tension cracked open. She leans against the counter, crossing her arms, studying him with fresh eyes.

"You come here a lot," she says.

"I do. Good coffee. Good donuts." He pauses, letting his voice drop just a fraction. "Good company."

Her cheeks flush. She looks down, then back up, a spark in her gaze. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"Born and raised. Just... been away for a while."

"Ah. A returning native."

"Something like that."

She tilts her head. "What do you do, Peter? Besides cleaning up your own messes?"

"I'm a freelance photographer. I take pictures of the city, the people. Try to capture moments that don't last."

Her eyes light up. "That sounds beautiful."

"It has its moments." He holds her gaze. "Maybe I could show you sometime. If you're interested."

The offer hangs in the air, soft and deliberate. She bites her lower lip, considering, and he feels his pulse quicken.

"I'd like that," she says quietly.

A bell rings from the back—Ned calling something about a shipment. The moment breaks, but it doesn't shatter. It settles into something warm, something potential.

"I should let you get back to work," Peter says, stepping back. "But I'll see you tomorrow. Same time?"

"Same time," she confirms, her smile lingering.

He walks out of the coffee shop, heart hammering, a grin threatening to break across his face. He doesn't look back, but he doesn't need to.

He knows he has her attention now.

Ned slides up beside Y/N the moment the door swings shut behind Peter. He nudges her shoulder with his, a knowing grin already spreading across his face.

"Okay, so that guy? Exactly your type."

Y/N rolls her eyes, but she can feel the heat creeping up her neck. "Peter?"

"Obviously Peter." Ned leans against the counter, crossing his arms. "Like, I get it. He's attractive in that nonchalant way. The whole I just rolled out of bed but I'm still hotter than you vibe. And that confidence? It's practically dripping off him." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Makes you horny, doesn't it?"

"Ned!" She smacks his shoulder, but she's laughing. "Shut up. He's just a nice guy."

"A nice guy who you've been staring at for three weeks straight."

"I have not—"

"You literally watched him walk to the door just now. Like a sad puppy."

She opens her mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because he's right. She did watch him. She always watches him.

Ned groans, shaking his head with mock exasperation. "When you two finally hook up, I'm going to be right there to say I told you so."

"He's just a customer, Injun."

"Mhmm. Sure." He pats her shoulder and heads toward the back room, already humming again, leaving her standing there with her thoughts.

She bites her lip.

He's just a customer, she tells herself. But her mind drifts anyway, unbidden.

His voice—low and warm, with a teasing edge that makes her stomach flip. The way he carries himself, relaxed but aware, like he knows exactly what he's doing at all times. His baggy clothes, the way they hang off his frame, hiding and revealing at the same time. The silver rings on his fingers. That little smirk he gives her sometimes, like he's in on a joke she hasn't heard yet.

Her exes were... fine. Nice. Respectful. Boring.

They held doors open and said please and thank you. They kissed her forehead and asked if she was comfortable. They never made her pulse race. They never made her wonder what it would feel like to be pushed against a wall and taken.

Peter does.

He gives her mystery. Maybe even a little danger. The way he looks at her sometimes, like he's holding something back—something intense.

She shakes her head, physically trying to dislodge the thought. Crazy. You don't even know him.

But the thought lingers, hot and stubborn, all the way through the rest of her shift. It follows her home, past the subway, up the stairs to her apartment. It settles in her bones the moment she closes her door.

---

She's restless.

The apartment is quiet, dark except for the lamp by her bed. She changes into a tank top and shorts, lies down, tosses, turns. Her body feels tight—a coil wound too tight, needing release.

She gives in.

From the nightstand drawer, she pulls out her vibrator—a sleek pink thing she's had for years. She lies back, spreads her legs, and lets the hum of the motor fill the silence.

Her mind drifts to him.

To Peter. To his hands. Those rings. What they'd feel like gripping her thighs. His voice, low in her ear, telling her exactly what he's going to do to her.

She presses the vibrator harder against her clit, her breath hitching. She thinks about his smirk, his confidence, the way he holds her gaze a second too long. She chases the image, lets it build—

And then she comes.

A sharp, quick release. A gasp. The tension snaps, but it doesn't dissolve. It just... scatters. Falls apart unsatisfyingly.

She sighs, letting the vibrator drop onto the mattress. Her body feels hollow. Empty. Like the orgasm barely scratched the surface of what she actually needs.

"Fuck," she whispers to the ceiling.

She lies there, staring at the dark, her skin still buzzing with unresolved heat. She wants more. She wants him. But he's a stranger. A customer. Nothing.

She rolls onto her side, pulls the blanket up, and tries to sleep.

---

Outside her window, perched on a fire escape three buildings over, Peter watches the dark shape of her bedroom through the gap in her curtains.

He didn't look. Not directly. He swung toward her building on instinct, drawn by the familiar pull of her presence, and he landed on the adjacent rooftop just in time to hear it.

The buzz of the vibrator. Her soft, breathy moans.

His name. She whispered his name—Peter—on a desperate exhale.

And then the sigh. That disappointed, hollow sigh at the end.

He heard it all.

His fingers curl into a fist against the brick wall beside him. A smirk spreads across his face, slow and predatory, mixing with the ache in his chest.

You're not satisfied, are you, baby?

He knows the feeling. He's been unsatisfied too—in a different way. Hungry for her touch, her voice, her warmth. But that hunger is about to be fed.

He pushes off the ledge, letting the night air rush past him as he swings into the darkness.

Soon. I'll take my rightful place soon.

Below him, the city blurs. Sirens wail somewhere in the distance. Another night of crime waits for him—thugs to stop, civilians to save. The usual.

But tonight, for the first time in weeks, he feels something close to hope.

———

It starts slowly.

A whisper of warmth against her skin. The weight of a body behind her, pressed close, solid and familiar. She can't see his face, but she knows him—or rather, her body knows him. Her back arches into his chest instinctively, seeking more contact.

His hands. God, his hands. Calloused palms sliding up her thighs, fingers digging into her hips with just enough pressure to bruise. She feels the cool bite of metal rings against her overheated skin. A low chuckle rumbles against her ear.

"You've been so good for me, baby. But I'm gonna take what's mine now."

She opens her mouth to respond, but he's already rolling her onto her stomach, pulling her hips up, positioning her on her knees. The sheets are soft beneath her palms. She can feel his cock—thick, hard, pressing against her soaked entrance—and she whimpers, pushing back against him.

"Please," she breathes. "Please, I need—"

He cuts her off with a sharp thrust. He slams into her to the hilt, and she screams, her body clenching around him immediately. He doesn't stop. He fucks her like he owns her, like he's been waiting for this, each stroke deep and punishing, hitting a spot inside her that makes stars burst behind her eyelids.

"That's it. Take it. Take all of it."

His voice is low, rough, almost unrecognizable through the fog of lust. She can't think. She can only feel—the stretch, the burn, the relentless pounding. He wraps a hand around her throat, not choking, just holding, tilting her head back so he can whisper directly into her ear.

"You missed me, didn't you? Your tight little pussy missed me. Say it."

"I—yes—fuck—I missed you—"

He groans, a sound so raw it vibrates through her bones. His pace quickens, his grip on her hip bruising. She feels the coil building, tighter and tighter, her moans turning into desperate sobs—

And then she wakes up.

---

Gasping.

Y/N bolts upright in bed, her tank top soaked with sweat, her thighs sticky with arousal. The sheets are twisted around her legs. Her pussy is throbbing, clenching around nothing, so empty it almost hurts.

She blinks at the ceiling, panting.

What the fuck was that?

The dream is already fading, slipping through her fingers like water. She remembers heat. A deep voice. Being pinned down and fucked senseless. But the face—she can't remember the face. Just a blur of dark hair, broad shoulders, a cruel smirk.

She presses her palm against her cunt, gasping at the sensitivity. She's soaked. Her thighs are slick. Her hole flutters, desperate to be filled.

"Fucking hell," she mutters, flopping back onto the pillows.

It's been like this for almost a week now. Every night, another dream. Some nights she's on her knees, sucking a thick cock while a hand tangles in her hair. Some nights she's tied to a bed, spread open, being fucked so slowly she can feel every inch drag against her walls. Some nights it's just a voice—a low, possessive voice—calling her filthy, desperate, mine.

She always wakes up the same way: wet, aching, unsatisfied.

She reaches for her vibrator on the nightstand, but even as she presses it against her clit, she knows it won't be enough. It never is anymore. She comes—hard, fast, grinding into the plastic—but the release is hollow. An echo of what her body actually craves.

She doesn't know what that is.

Her exes were boring. They never made her feel claimed. They never made her scream.

But her body wants something more, something she's never experienced. Or so she thinks.

She sighs, tossing the vibrator aside. Her cunt still throbs, still clenches, still weeps for something she can't name.

Why does this feel like grief?

---

Across the city, perched on a water tower overlooking her block, Peter watches the distant glow of her window with a dark, hungry expression.

He knows.

He's been watching her sleep through the gap in her curtains. He's heard her moans, her whimpers, the desperate sounds she makes when she's lost in a dream he put there—not consciously, but through the lingering threads of the spell that binds them. She can't remember him, but her body can. Her body is a traitor, whispering his name in the language of her muscles, her slick, her trembling thighs.

He clenches his fists, his cock hardening painfully in his suit.

He lets out a slow, shaky breath.

I'll give you what you're craving soon.

He pushes off the water tower, swinging into the night, leaving his mark on the rooftops like a promise.

But he doesn't go far. He lands on the fire escape just outside her window—close enough to hear her frustrated sigh, the rustle of sheets as she rolls over, the quiet, desperate whisper she thinks no one hears:

"What do I need? What's wrong with me?"

He presses a hand to the glass, his rings glinting in the moonlight.

Nothing's wrong with you, love. You just need me.

————

The morning rush at the coffee shop had been mercifully slow, leaving Y/N and Ned with nothing better to do than wipe down the already-clean countertops in a lazy, synchronized rhythm. The TV mounted in the corner murmured in the background—some local news broadcast about a bank robbery in Midtown. The anchor's voice was tinny, almost an afterthought.

"...and witnesses report that Spider-Man intervened just moments after the robbers entered. No casualties reported. The web-slinger made a quick escape as usual—"

Y/N didn't look up. Neither did Ned. It was New York. Spider-Man stopping a robbery was as routine as a subway delay. They'd both heard the name so many times it barely registered anymore—a ghost in red and blue, flickering across screens, saving lives, disappearing.

Ned hummed a tune under his breath, rubbing a smudge off the granite with his thumb. Y/N's mind was elsewhere. Still half-lost in the hazy aftertaste of another dream from last night—the echo of a deep voice, the phantom weight of hands on her hips, the ache between her legs that hadn't fully faded even after she'd come twice this morning.

She bit her lip, grip tightening on the rag.

Focus. Work. Coffee. Normal stuff.

The little bell above the door jingled.

She looked up.

And there he was.

Peter stepped inside, and she felt the air shift. He was breathing hard, his black t-shirt clinging to his torso like a second skin, dark patches of sweat spreading across his chest and under his arms. His hair was damp, plastered to his forehead in messy waves, and a thin sheen of perspiration glistened over his neck and collarbones.

He looked exhausted. But also... good. Really good.

"Hey," Y/N said, her voice coming out a little too breathy. She cleared her throat. "You okay?"

He offered a tired smile, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Yeah. Just tired. Killed it at the gym today." He let out a huff of laughter, rolling one shoulder like it ached. "Didn't realize I pushed myself that hard."

She nodded, already moving to make his usual ice americano. Her body went through the motions automatically while her eyes trailed down his frame. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle, veins visible beneath the tanned skin. The sweat highlighted every contour—the arch of his biceps, the column of his throat, the way his chest rose and fell with each controlled breath.

Shit. She felt heat creep up her cheeks.

Her gaze dropped lower, catching a glint of silver at his wrist. A bracelet—woven black cord with a small metallic charm, a roughly shaped star. It looked handmade, well-worn, the edges smooth like it had been touched a thousand times.

She slid the cup across the counter toward him. "That's pretty," she said, nodding at the bracelet.

For a split second, something flickered in his eyes. A flash of emotion too fast to name—hope? Pain? He opened his mouth, and she could've sworn she saw him about to say something, his throat bobbing with a swallow.

Do you remember that you gave this to me?

But the words didn't come. He just watched her as she pulled away from the counter, already turning back to the rag in her hand.

Of course she didn't remember.

"Thanks," she said over her shoulder, already distracted, moving toward the back to restock napkins.

Peter stared at the bracelet on his wrist. The star charm. She'd made it for him on their six-month anniversary, clumsily braiding the cord while sitting cross-legged on his bed, laughing about how she'd never made jewelry before. "So you don't forget me," she'd said, pressing it into his palm. "Wear it even when you're being Spider-Man. I want to be with you, always."

He clenched his jaw, forcing the ache down his throat.

She doesn't remember. Of course she doesn't. You knew that.

Ned slid off his stool and walked over, holding out a napkin. "Hey," he said, his voice soft but pointed. "Your forehead's bleeding a bit."

Peter blinked, reaching up. His fingers came away with a smear of red. Shit. Must've caught a stray piece of debris during the takedown. He'd been too focused on getting there fast—on changing out of the suit in that alley, on making it to the shop before she closed—that he hadn't bothered to check for damage.

"Ah, that." He took the napkin with a casual shrug, pressing it to the cut. "Tripped on the way here. Almost ate pavement. Stupid, I know."

Ned's eyes lingered on him a moment too long, a quiet skepticism behind his gentle gaze. He didn't say anything, but Peter could feel the weight of his unspoken question.

That's a weird place to trip. And you're too banged up for just a fall. And you showed up right after Spider-Man was seen.

But Ned just nodded, taking a slow sip of his own drink. "Be careful," he said simply, and walked back to the counter.

Peter exhaled slowly, pressing the napkin harder against his temple. He watched Y/N move behind the counter, her hair tied in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She was beautiful. She was his. And she didn't even know it.

He took a long sip of the coffee she'd made him, letting the bitterness ground him.

He smiled against the rim of the cup, eyes fixed on the curve of her back as she bent down to grab more cups from the low shelf.

The bracelet gleamed on his wrist like a promise.

The morning air in Manhattan carried the usual cocktail of exhaust fumes, pretzel cart steam, and distant sirens. Y/N walked with her messenger bag slung across her body, earbuds in, a playlist of lo-fi beats keeping her grounded. The New York Chronicle skyscraper loomed ahead, all glass and steel, reflecting the pale winter sun. She was running a little early today, which meant she could grab a decent coffee from the lobby cart before heading up to her desk.

She was two blocks away when the screaming started.

At first, it was distant—a ripple through the crowd ahead. Then it grew, a wave of panic rolling toward her. People began sprinting in her direction, faces twisted with fear, elbows knocking pamphlets and coffee cups out of the way. A woman clutching a toddler nearly collided with her.

"What—" Y/N pulled out her earbuds, heart lurching. "What's happening?"

No one stopped to answer. The tide of bodies pushed past her, and she stumbled sideways, grabbing a lamppost to steady herself. Then she saw it: a column of smoke rising from the base of the Chronicle building. Orange flames licked at a collapsed awning. Glass littered the street like crushed diamonds.

Oh god. That's the lobby.

Her feet started moving before her brain caught up. She had to get in there. Had to see if her coworkers—her editor, the layout team, Maria from HR who always gave her extra granola bars—were okay. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it.

"HEY!"

A blur of red and blue dropped from above, landing in front of her with a soft thud that cracked the asphalt. She yelped, skidding to a halt.

Spider-Man.

His lenses narrowed, body angled like he was about to grab her.

"What the hell are you doing?" His voice was modulated, sharp with urgency. "There's a gas leak—could blow again any second. Get back."

"I have to see if the people in that building are okay!" She tried to sidestep him, but he moved with her, a wall of spandex and muscle.

"I'll check. You stay here." He pointed a gloved finger at the sidewalk behind her. "Don't move."

She barely registered that she'd just been ordered around by a superhero. Her heart was hammering. The smoke stung her nostrils. "I'm not just going to—"

He was already turning, preparing to leap. She took a step forward, following him.

A sharp thwip sliced through the air.

Something snapped around her right wrist—a rope of white webbing, sticky and warm, yanking her arm sideways. She stumbled, grunting, and found herself anchored to the handle of a police cruiser parked at the curb. The web held fast, elastic but unyielding.

"What the hell?!" She yanked at her wrist, but the webbing stretched and held. "Are you serious right now?!"

Spider-Man paused, tilting his head. She could almost hear the smirk behind the mask. "Nope. Wait here. I'll free you after I'm sure it's safe."

And then he was gone, a red streak disappearing into the smoke-filled doorway.

Y/N stood there, arm stretched awkwardly toward the cop car, jaw hanging open. People were still running past her, but the immediate panic was thinning. She looked at her wrist, at the white strands wrapped snugly around it, and felt a jolt—not of anger, but of something else.

The texture. The pressure. The slight give when she pulled.

Her breath caught.

She was in her bedroom. The lights were dim. Her wrist was bound to the bedpost with...not a rope...not a scarf...something else entirely. Her arms stretched above her head and a dark figure hovered over her. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his weight, his heat, the deep rumble of his voice against her ear.

"Stay still, baby. I'm not done with you yet."

The memory dissolved as quickly as it came, leaving her gasping on the sidewalk, knees weak.

What the fuck?

She shook her head violently, pressing her free hand to her flushed cheek. "I'm starting to feel like a fucking sex addict," she muttered under her breath. Of all the things to think about right now—tied to a car by Spider-Man—her brain was conjuring erotic flashbacks? With...Spider-Man? For all she knew, the guy was a forty-year-old accountant underneath that suit. He could be balding.

But he didn't move like a forty-year-old. And his voice, even through the modulator, had a certain quality—young, confident, teasing.

She shook her head again, harder. Stop it. Focus. The building.

A few minutes passed. The fire trucks arrived. EMTs started setting up a triage zone. Y/N strained her neck, trying to see if anyone was being carried out. She pulled at the web again, frustrated, but it held true.

Then Spider-Man emerged from the smoke, walking casually now, hands on his hips. He jogged over to her.

"Building's clear. No casualties. Gas leak was contained before it got worse. Minor injuries, but everyone's out." He reached for the web on her wrist and gave it a sharp tug setting her free.

She rubbed her wrist, red and slightly raw. "That wasn't cool. You could have just asked me to stay."

"I did. You didn't listen." He shrugged, the motion exaggerated by the suit's padding. "You should be more careful. People get hurt when they run toward explosions."

"I work there." She glared at him. "I was worried about my friends."

He was quiet for a second, his head tilted. She could feel his gaze through the white lenses, studying her. There was something familiar about the angle of his jaw, the set of his shoulders.

Then he straightened. "Bye."

And with a single leap, he was gone, swinging between buildings, disappearing into the Manhattan skyline before she could even respond.

Y/N stood there, mouth half-open, hand still rubbing her wrist. The phantom sensation of the web lingered—soft, taut, possessive. Her skin tingled where it had been wrapped.

Why does that feel like a memory I can't reach?

She stared up at the empty sky, the smoke still curling into the gray clouds.

And for some reason, her thighs pressed together.

Get a grip, Y/N. He's a stranger in a mask.

But her body didn't believe that. Not for a second.

The evening air did nothing to cool the heat lingering beneath Y/N's skin. After the chaos at the Chronicle building, after being webbed to a police car like some disobedient puppy, after the shredded remains of her dignity scattered across Sixth Avenue—she'd gone through the motions. Talked to her editor. Confirmed everyone was safe. Filed a preliminary report on the gas leak. Smiled at Maria's thanks.

But all the way home, her wrist tingled. The ghost of that webbing refused to fade.

Now she stood in her apartment, shoes kicked off, coat thrown over the armchair. The city lights bled through her window, painting amber stripes across her wooden floor. She should shower. Eat something. Answer the three texts Ned had sent asking if she was okay.

Instead, she grabbed her laptop and collapsed onto her bed, flipping it open.

YouTube.

Her fingers moved before she could talk herself out of it. She typed in the search bar: Spider-Man New York 2024.

The results flooded the screen. News clips. Fan edits. Compilations titled "Spider-Man's Top 10 Saves" and "Spider-Man Being a Menace for 12 Minutes Straight." She clicked the first one—a news report from two months ago, shaky cell phone footage of Spider-Man webbing a falling construction beam before it crushed a bus.

She watched it twice. Then a third time.

The comments section was a battlefield.

"whoever is under that suit is DEFINITELY packing i'm not taking questions"

"imagine getting railed by spider-man... the grip?? the stamina???"

"he literally fights crime every night and still has time to help old ladies cross the street... husband material"

"plot twist: he's actually a 50 year old dude with a beer belly and we're all just simping for spandex"

"even if he is 50 i'd still let him web me to the bed 🥴"

Y/N snorted despite herself, scrolling deeper. The thirst was real, embarrassingly real. These women were out there, posting paragraphs about what they'd let Spider-Man do to them. What they'd do to him. She felt a pang of something—not judgment, because who was she to judge—but recognition.

She'd felt that web around her wrist. She'd felt the possessiveness in that single thwip.

And God help her, she wanted to feel it again.

She clicked on another video. This one was different—a street interview, low-budget, filmed by someone's phone. The camera focused on Spider-Man, standing casually beside a hot dog cart, and standing next to him was a little boy—maybe eight years old, holding a notebook.

The interviewer says, "We've got a special guest today—this is Liam, and he wanted to ask Spider-Man a few questions."

Spider-Man crouched down to the boy's level. His lenses softened, tilted—the body language of someone genuinely engaged. He reached out and patted the kid's head, a casual, affectionate gesture.

"Go ahead, Liam. I'm all ears."

And he laughed—a low, warm chuckle that cut through the modulator like a blade through silk.

Y/N's breath hitched.

That laugh. She knew that laugh. It tickled something deep in her chest, a phantom sensation, like a voice calling from underwater. Her fingers tightened on the laptop. She replayed it. Once. Twice. Three times.

"I'm all ears."

The way he said it—teasing, gentle, familiar.

She shook her head, hard. You're projecting. Every guy laughs. It's not him. You don't even know who "him" is.

But her skin was prickling. Her thighs pressed together under the laptop.

She kept scrolling.

There was a Reddit link. r/SpiderManFantasies (NSFW). Her thumb hovered over it for a full ten seconds before she clicked.

The forum was a treasure trove of desperation. Women (and some men) posting photos they'd taken of Spider-Man mid-swing, or perched on a rooftop, or standing in the middle of a street after a rescue. The photos weren't explicit—they couldn't be, he was fully suited—but the captions were anything but.

"If I ever meet him I'm dropping to my knees immediately. That suit does NOT hide what he's working with."

"Imagine him pinning you down after a fight, all that adrenaline still pumping... you'd feel the bass in his chest."

"I don't even care what he looks like. I just want one night. ONE. NIGHT. With whoever is under that mask."

One post showed a blurry shot of Spider-Man crouched on a fire escape, his legs spread, the suit stretching taut across his thighs. The caption read: "I want to sit on his face and never get up."

Y/N closed the laptop so fast the screen clicked shut.

Her heart was hammering. Her cheeks burned. She pressed a hand to her forehead, groaning.

"I'm not above this," she whispered to the empty room. "I'm so far below this it's embarrassing."

She threw the laptop aside and flopped onto her back, staring at the ceiling. The city hummed outside—distant sirens, a neighbor's TV, the low bass of a car passing by. Her skin felt too tight. Her cunt ached, a dull, persistent throb that had been living in her bones for weeks now.

The clock on her nightstand read 11:47 PM when Y/N finally collapsed onto her bed, still wearing her jeans and a thin camisole.

Sleep came heavy and reluctant.

---

She woke with a gasp, thighs pressed together, a dull throb between her legs.

The clock read 2:47 AM.

Her skin was damp with sweat. Her nipples were hard, rubbing against the cotton of her shirt. She'd been dreaming again—fragments of a body above her, weight pressing her into the mattress, a warm mouth trailing down her stomach. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his hands. Strong, calloused, knowing exactly where to touch.

"I've got you, baby. I've always got you."

She threw an arm over her eyes, breathing hard. She was wet, aching, clenching around nothing. She slid a hand down her belly, into her underwear, her fingers finding her clit swollen and desperate.

She rubbed herself slowly, trying to chase a release that never came. She imagined the web wrapped around her wrist again. Spider-Man's lenses staring down at her. The low laugh from the video.

"Fuck," she whimpered, fingers moving faster. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough. She could feel a shape just out of reach.

Her body remembered. Her mind didn't.

She pressed her palm harder, hips bucking, but the orgasm hovered like a mirage, untouchable. She let out a frustrated sob, pulling her hand away, her chest heaving.

Outside, on the fire escape, a shadow shifted.

Peter pressed his back against the brick wall, his own breathing uneven. He'd heard her whimper through the glass. Heard the wet sound of her fingers working. The whine of her frustration when she couldn't finish.

His cock was hard, straining against the suit. He'd come here to check on her after the explosion—to make sure she was safe, to watch her sleep like he did most nights. He hadn't expected this.

But he couldn't leave. Not while she was aching.

Not when he was the only one who could fix it.

He pressed a palm against the cold glass of her window, the mask hiding the anguish on his face. Soon, he told himself. Soon I'll find a way.

But for now, he just listened to her breathe, and hated the spell that kept them apart.

———

The knock that rattled Ned's door at 11 PM was frantic—three sharp, pounding hits, then a pause, then another. He barely had time to unlatch the lock before Y/N pushed past him into his apartment, her eyes wild, her hair a mess, her chest heaving like she'd run the whole way.

"Okay," she said, hands on her hips, pacing his narrow living room. "You were right. You were fucking right."

Ned closed the door slowly, crossing his arms. He was in sweatpants and an old band tee, clearly winding down for the night. "Right about what, exactly? Because I'm right about a lot of things."

She whirled on him, jaw tight. "The sex thing. The needing-to-get-laid thing. The I'm crawling out of my skin thing." She raked her fingers through her hair, tugging at the roots. "It's not just being horny, Ned. It's like—" She stopped, struggling for words. "It's like my body is craving something specific. A specific touch. A specific rhythm. A specific person. But I don't know who or what. I don't remember. I just feel this ache that nothing fills."

Ned's teasing demeanor softened. He gestured to the couch, and she collapsed onto it, head in her hands.

He sat beside her, voice careful. "An ex? Someone you dated before? Maybe your brain locked away a breakup that hit you harder than you think."

She looked up, rolling her eyes so hard it was almost audible. "No. It's not an ex. I don't have any traumatic breakup memory. It's—" She groaned, frustrated. "I don't know. It feels like a ghost. A phantom limb."

Ned was quiet for a moment. Then he said, slowly, "Maybe you don't need to find that specific person. Maybe you just need to try someone new."

She blinked at him. The idea hung in the air, fresh and foreign.

"Someone new," she repeated, tasting the words.

"Someone who doesn't come with baggage or memories. Someone who can just—" He made a vague gesture. "Fuck you into forgetting whatever's haunting you. A clean slate. A hot body. A night of no strings."

She stared at him. Then, slowly, a nod. "Maybe you're right."

His grin spread wide. "I am right. And I know exactly how to start." He pulled out his phone, already scrolling. "There's that new nightclub in midtown. Opened last week. 'Velvet Underground.' It's got black lights, VIP booths, and supposedly a very attractive bartender who does body shots. I've been dying to go."

"A club," she said flatly.

"A club where you can find a guy—or girl, no judgment—who will take you home and fuck you until you forget your own name. That kind of club."

She chewed her lip. The idea terrified her. Thrilled her. She thought of her empty bed, the wet sheets, the incomplete orgasms. She thought of the phantom hands in her dreams.

"Okay," she whispered. "Okay. Let's do it."

Ned clapped his hands together. "Yes. I'll text you the details. Wear something slutty. I'm talking a dress that says 'I'm here to get railed.'"

She laughed—a real laugh, shaky but genuine. "You're such a bad influence."

"Someone has to be."

They spent the next hour planning. What time to arrive. Which drinks to order. An exit strategy if the guy was a creep. Y/N felt lighter than she had in weeks, a fragile hope blooming in her chest.

---

Outside, pressed against the brick wall of the adjacent building, a figure in red and blue watched through the sliver of curtain left uncovered.

Peter's hands curled into fists.

His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

Someone new.

The words echoed in his skull, each syllable a knife twist. She was going to let some stranger touch her. Some random guy from a club. He'd put his hands on her skin, his mouth on her throat...

A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, muffled by the mask.

No. Absolutely fucking not.

He pushed off the wall, landing silently on the fire escape below. His mind raced. He couldn't stop her—not directly. He couldn't reveal himself, couldn't break the spell. But he could intercept. He could follow. He could make sure that no one—no one—got close enough to touch what was his.

Even if she didn't remember it.

He swung into the night, a plan already forming. The club. He'd be there. Not as Spider-Man—too obvious. He'd ditch the suit, put on something tight, something that would make her look. He'd find her on the dance floor, buy her a drink, let the night unfold.

The hunt was on.

The strapless bodycon dress was a weapon, and Y/N knew it.

Black velvet hugged every curve from her collarbone to mid-thigh, the hem riding up just enough to make men's eyes glaze over. She'd paired it with strappy heels that made her legs look miles long and a thin silver necklace that caught the light. Her hair fell in loose waves, makeup smoky and deliberate.

Ned let out a low whistle when she stepped out of her bedroom. "Holy shit."

"Too much?" She tugged at the neckline nervously.

"Not enough. You're going to break necks tonight. Possibly some hearts too, but who's counting." He offered his arm. "Shall we?"

She took it, laughing. "Let's get me laid."

---

The Velvet Underground lived up to its name. The interior was all dark burgundy and dim gold lighting, with a massive dance floor pulsing under black lights that made white fabrics glow. Bodies moved together in a haze of sweat and bass, the air thick with perfume and alcohol.

They claimed a spot at the bar, and Ned ordered them both shots of tequila. "Warm-up," he shouted over the music.

Y/N downed hers, grimacing at the burn. A second followed. Then a third.

By the fourth, the edges of her anxiety had blurred into a pleasant haze. The bass thrummed through her bones, and she found herself swaying, scanning the crowd. Potential candidates everywhere—sharp jawlines, broad shoulders, confident grins.

None of them made her stomach flip.

But then the door opened.

And he walked in.

Peter had planned this.

Tight black jeans that hugged his thighs and sat low on his hips. A simple white T-shirt, thin enough that the outline of his chest was visible when he moved. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the veins in his forearms. He'd styled his hair messy, like he'd just rolled out of bed, and he wore that lazy half-smirk that had always made her knees weak.

Her favorite outfit.

He remembered the first time she'd seen him in it. They'd been dating for a few weeks, and he'd shown up at her door looking like this. She'd pulled him inside by his collar, pinned him against the wall, and kissed him so deep he'd seen stars. Her hands had tangled in his hair, pulling, while the other roamed down his stomach to palm him through the denim. She'd broken the kiss just to whisper against his lips, "You look so good it should be illegal. I want to ruin you."

And she had. For hours.

He carried that memory in his bones as he pushed open the club door, scanning the crowd with practiced casualness. His eyes landed on the bar.

There she was.

Strapless black dress. Hair loose. Cheeks flushed from alcohol. She was even more beautiful than he remembered—which was saying something, because he remembered every detail.

He pretended not to see her at first. Ordered a drink. Leaned against the bar, letting the black lights catch the contours of his arms.

Then Ned spotted him.

"Hey! Peter!"

Peter turned, feigning surprise. His eyes landed on Y/N, and he let them widen slightly—just enough. "Oh. Hey. Didn't expect to see you guys here."

Y/N's breath caught. Her lips parted, a soft gasp escaping. "Hi."

Just that. Hi. But the word came out breathy, almost involuntary.

Ned gestured him over. "Come join us. We're just warming up. Y/N's on a mission tonight."

"A mission?" Peter raised an eyebrow, sliding onto the stool beside her. Close enough that his knee brushed hers under the bar. "Sounds intriguing."

She opened her mouth to respond, but the words came out slurred. "M'sion... find someone... hot..."

Ned sighed. "I think the tequila hit faster than expected."

Peter smiled knowingly. She always did get tipsy fast. Three drinks and she'd be clinging to him, whispering dirty things in his ear. Four and she'd be begging to go home. Five and she'd be asleep before they hit the door.

"I can help you get her home," he offered, voice steady. "If you want."

Ned looked relieved. "God, yes. I was not looking forward to carrying her six blocks in those heels."

They helped her off the stool. Her legs wobbled, and she stumbled forward—

Right into Peter's arms.

Her palms landed flat on his chest. Her head tipped up, eyes glassy and unfocused. She blinked at him, a dopey smile spreading across her face. "Wow. You're... strong."

His hands caught her waist, steadying her. The velvet of her dress was soft under his fingers, her skin warm beneath the fabric. He could feel the rapid flutter of her pulse.

He lowered his voice, letting it dip into that husky register she'd always loved. "Oh yea?"

She nodded, earnest and drunk. "Mmhm. Like... hero strong."

If only you knew.

Ned was already heading for the door, waving them along. Peter kept one arm around Y/N's waist, guiding her out into the cool night air. The city hummed around them, taxis honking, distant sirens, the buzz of neon signs.

The walk to her apartment was slow. She kept tripping on cracks, leaning into him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. At one point she looked up at him, squinting.

"You smell... familiar."

His chest tightened. "Good familiar or bad familiar?"

"Good." She nuzzled into his shoulder. "Really good."

Ned shot him a look—half curious, half amused. Peter just shrugged, playing it casual, though his heart was hammering.

They reached her building. Ned held the door while Peter helped her up the stairs. At her apartment door, she fumbled with her keys, nearly dropping them twice.

When she finally got it open, she turned around, throwing her arms around both of them in a messy group hug.

"Thank you," she mumbled into Ned's shoulder. "You're the best."

She pulled back, swaying slightly, and turned to Peter.

Her eyes met his.

The air between them thickened.

"You..." She reached up, touching his cheek with drunken clumsiness. Her thumb brushed his jawline. "You look so good tonight."

The words came out soft. Barely a whisper. Heavy with something she couldn't name.

Peter's throat tightened. He wanted to grab her, pull her inside, pin her against that door and remind her exactly what she was missing. He wanted to kiss that drunk confession off her lips and replace it with moans.

But not yet.

Not yet.

He smiled, gentle and aching. "Get some sleep, Y/N."

She blinked slowly, then ducked inside, closing the door with a soft click.

The lock turned.

Peter stood there for a long moment, hand pressed flat against the wood. He could hear her on the other side, shuffling, probably kicking off her heels.

"She say something?" Ned asked from behind.

"Just saying goodnight."

Ned hummed, unconvinced. "You know, for a guy who just met her, you're pretty invested."

Peter turned, keeping his face neutral. "She's a friend. I don't like seeing friends drunk and alone."

"Uh huh." Ned didn't push. "Well, thanks for the help. I'm gonna crash. See you around, Peter."

"Yeah. See you."

When Ned disappeared down the stairwell, Peter let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

He pressed his forehead to the door, listening. On the other side, he heard her humming—off-key, sleepy—as she padded toward her bedroom.

Soon, he promised himself. Soon she'll know.

But for tonight, he'd settle for knowing that even drunk and confused, she still thought he looked good.

That was enough.

For now.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence of his apartment swallowed him whole.

Peter stood there for a long moment, forehead pressed against the wood, listening to the echo of her voice in his head. You look so good tonight. Drunk, slurred, honest. She'd meant it. Even without knowing who he was, her body remembered. Her eyes had traced the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his jaw, and something deep in her gut had stirred.

But she was inside, alone, probably already curled up in bed, dreaming of strangers.

And he was out here. Alone. Again.

He pushed off the door and walked to his kitchen, grabbing a glass of water he didn't want. The apartment was too quiet. Too empty. The walls seemed to press in on him, carrying the weight of every night he'd spent like this—restless, aching, watching the clock tick toward dawn while the city hummed outside.

It's hard when no one loves you and the ones you love can't remember you.

He set the glass down harder than intended. It cracked. Water spilled across the counter.

"Fuck."

He stood there, dripping, staring at his own reflection in the dark window. A stranger in his own life. Spider-Man saved people. Peter saved no one. Not even himself.

He loved being Spider-Man. Loved the rush of swinging between buildings, the wind in his face, the sound of sirens fading as he swooped in to help. Loved the gratitude in strangers' eyes when he pulled them from wrecks, the way kids pointed up at him with awe.

But Peter deserved his own life too. A job he didn't have to hide. Friends who called him by his real name. A girl who looked at him like he was the only man in the world.

He closed his eyes, and there she was. Y/N. Laughing. Touching his face. Whining his name in that breathless way she used to when he was inside her.

"You're so good, Peter. Fuck—don't stop—"

His hand curled into a fist.

Then his spider-sense flared.

Sharp. Urgent. Something wrong.

He sighed, heavy and resigned, and reached for the suit.

---

The city was cruel tonight.

He swung from rooftop to rooftop, the wind biting at the exposed skin of his face and hands. Below, the neon lights of Manhattan bled into puddles on wet asphalt. Somewhere, a woman screamed—he veered toward it, landing on a fire escape to find a mugger wrestling a purse from an elderly lady. He webbed the guy to a lamppost in seconds, returned the purse, and was gone before the woman could finish thanking him.

Two blocks over, a car crash. He helped pull a family out before the fuel line sparked.

A domestic disturbance. He talked a man down from a balcony ledge.

A break-in at a convenience store.

A fire on the Lower East Side.

He kept moving. Kept saving. Kept pretending that each life he touched filled the hole inside him.

But it didn't.

Because the whole time, in the back of his mind, he was thinking of her. Her safety. Her smile. The way she used to trace the scars on his shoulders after a bad fight, her voice soft with worry: "You can't keep doing this, Peter. One day you won't come back."

And he'd kissed her forehead and promised he'd always come back to her.

Now she didn't even know to wait.

---

He landed on a rooftop overlooking her building.

The lights were off in her apartment. She was asleep, probably still drunk, tangled in sheets that smelled like her perfume. He imagined her lips slightly parted, hair fanned across the pillow, the slow rise and fall of her chest.

He pulled out the photo he kept tucked inside his suit. Polaroid, edges worn from handling. Her smiling at the camera, hair messy, wearing his hoodie. She'd taken it one morning after they'd spent the whole night tangled together. He'd been making coffee, and she'd grabbed his phone, snapped the picture just as he turned around.

"So I can look at you even when you're gone," she'd said.

He didn't know she'd end up being the one gone.

He pressed his thumb to her face, tracing the curve of her smile.

Soon.

Soon, he'd find a way. Something drastic. Something that would break through the spell's hold and make her remember—or at least make her feel it, even if she couldn't name it.

Soon, he'd be inside her apartment. Inside her. Reminding her exactly what she was missing.

But for now, he tucked the photo back, turned toward the next siren, and launched himself into the night.

For her. Always for her.

The bell above the door chimed, and Peter walked in like he owned the place.

Y/N looked up from the register, head pounding, eyes barely open. Her hair was pulled into a messy knot, and she was pretty sure she still smelled like last night's cheap perfume and regret. The hangover was a dull throb behind her eyes, a punishment for every shot Ned had convinced her to take.

She squinted at him. Him. The guy with the dangerous smile and the bracelet she didn't remember giving him.

"Morning," she grumbled, not even trying to sound pleasant.

He grinned. Actually grinned, like her misery was the highlight of his day. "Someone had fun last night."

"Someone regrets everything."

He laughed—that low, easy sound that did something annoying to her stomach—and walked past her to the counter. "Just the usual, please."

She turned to make it, moving slow, her head throbbing with every step. The espresso machine hissed, and she winced.

Behind her, she heard the door open again—a small commotion, a child's voice. She glanced over her shoulder.

A little boy, maybe seven or eight, had run in too fast, his backpack swinging. He collided with the table where Peter had set his bag, sending it toppling. But before it could hit the ground, Peter's hand shot out, catching it mid-air with reflexes too fast, too precise.

"Sorry, mister!" the boy said, eyes wide.

Peter just smiled, crouching down to the kid's level. "It's okay, buddy. No harm done." And he reached out, ruffling the boy's hair with an easy, affectionate motion.

Y/N froze.

The gesture. The way his fingers moved through the dark strands, the gentle mock-scolding in his tone. It was exactly how Spider-Man had ruffled that kid's hair in the interview she watched online. She'd watched the clip multiple times, her body heating each time—the way those gloved fingers had been so careful, so human, beneath the mask.

She blinked, shaking off the thought. No. That's ridiculous. Lots of people ruffle kids' hair.

But something nagged at her. The precision of the catch. The casual confidence. The way he moved.

Peter straightened, catching her stare. His eyebrow arched. "Something wrong?"

She realized she'd been staring. Heat crept up her neck. "No. Nothing. Your coffee."

She shoved the cup toward him, maybe a little too aggressively. He took it, amused, and leaned against the counter instead of leaving like a normal person.

She needed to get this over with.

"Listen," she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "About last night. I was... a lot. I know I was all over you, and I'm sorry. I don't usually—I mean, I was drunk, and Ned was being an ass, and—"

"Cute."

She stopped. "What?"

"You were cute." He took a sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim. "Not 'a lot.' Cute."

Her face burned. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. No words came out. Just a stupid, flustered silence.

He smiled—that knowing, crooked smile that made her knees weak—and pushed off from the counter. "See you around, Y/N."

He walked out, the bell chiming behind him.

She stood there, heart hammering, watching him disappear down the street.

Fuck.

She touched her cheek. It was hot. She was blushing like a teenager. And worst of all, she was thinking about him—the scent of his cologne, the strength in his hands when he'd caught that bag, the way his voice had dipped when he said "cute."

She shook her head, turning back to the register.

But as she wiped down the counter, her mind wandered. To Spider-Man. To Peter. To the way both of them made her feel seen in a way she couldn't explain.

Maybe I have a crush on him.

She bit her lip.

Or maybe I'm just that desperate.

But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't true. There was something about him. Something familiar. Something that pulled at the edges of her memory, just out of reach.

And somewhere across the city, swinging between rooftops, Peter smiled to himself, her blush burned into his mind.

Soon, he thought. Soon, you'll remember.

The city was settling into dusk, streetlights flickering to life as Y/N walked home, her bag slung over one shoulder. The hangover had faded to a dull ache, replaced by the restless energy that had been gnawing at her all day. She was thinking about Peter—the way he'd laughed, the way his hand had caught that bag, the way he'd called her cute.

She was so lost in thought she almost missed the commotion.

A sharp cry. An old man's voice, cracked with panic. "Help! Someone help!"

Y/N's head snapped up. Across the street, a figure in a hoodie was sprinting away, an old leather bag clutched under his arm. Behind him, an elderly man stumbled, reaching out helplessly.

"Hey!" Y/N didn't think. She ran.

Three blocks. Her lungs burned, her legs pumping, the thief weaving through pedestrians. She was fast—she'd always been fast—but he was younger, more desperate. He ducked into a narrow alley, reeking of garbage and stale urine.

She followed without hesitation.

The alley was dark, shadows pooling like liquid. She could hear his footsteps echoing, slowing. He was cornered. She rounded a corner, ready to tackle him—

And then he was gone.

No. Not gone. Pinned.

A figure in red and blue dropped from above, landing silently. The thief was already webbed to a wall, the bag dangling from Spider-Man's hand. The hero turned to her, the white lenses of his mask catching the faint light.

"You really need to stop running into danger," he said, his voice modulated, teasing.

Y/N's heart pounded—not from the chase, but from him. From the way he stood, the way he moved.

She tried to step forward, to get a better look at the thief, to see where he'd gone into the darkness—

A thwip. A strand of web shot out, catching her wrist, yanking it to the brick wall beside her.

She stared at her hand, pinned by the familiar white silk. Again.

"Are you kidding me?" she snapped, yanking at the web. It held firm. "You can't just—"

"Watch and learn," Spider-Man said, and in two quick moves, he had the thief subdued, the bag retrieved, a police call tapped into his comm—all while she stood there, helpless, a memory flickering in the back of her mind.

Webs. Restraint. A voice whispering in the dark. Hands on her wrists, pinning her down. A body pressing against hers, the rough texture of a suit, the heat beneath it.

She blinked, the image dissolving like smoke.

He was in front of her now, the old man's bag tucked under one arm. He reached up and flicked the web on her wrist. It dissolved instantly, dropping her hand.

"You're free," he said. "Now go home. It's not safe."

She rubbed her wrist, glaring at him. "You can't just do that whenever you want! I was helping! I could have—"

She stepped forward, jabbing a finger at his chest plate. "You don't get to decide when I'm in danger! You don't get to just—"

She pushed him. Hard. He didn't move, but she kept going, frustration boiling over, her hands flat against his chest—

And then her foot caught on a loose piece of asphalt.

She stumbled forward, off-balance, straight into him.

Her body collided with his, her hands instinctively grabbing his arms to steady herself. Her fingers wrapped around his biceps, the fabric of his suit smooth and textured beneath her palms.

And something clicked.

The feel of it—the tight compression, the subtle ribbing, the exact way the material hugged the muscle underneath—sent a shiver through her. Her eyes widened. She didn't know why, but her hands began to move, sliding down his arms slowly, almost reverently. She felt the curve of his shoulders, the strength of his forearms, the way his muscles tensed under her touch.

She looked up.

The mask stared back at her, white lenses unreadable. But she could feel him watching her, feel the sudden stillness in his body.

Her breath caught. She could see him beneath the mask. Not his face, but something else. A feeling. A memory just out of reach.

I know you. I've felt you before.

She lifted a hand, reaching for his mask, her fingers trembling—

He stepped back.

Just one step, but it was enough to break her hold. Her hand hung in the air, empty.

"I have to go," he said, his voice tighter now, less playful. He set the bag down. "The police are on their way. Stay safe."

And before she could say another word, he was gone—a blur of red and blue vanishing into the night sky, leaving her alone in the dark alley, the old man's bag at her feet, her skin still tingling where she'd touched him.

She stood there, heart racing, frustration and confusion twisting in her chest.

Why does he feel so familiar?

She clenched her fists. It was like a word on the tip of her tongue, a name she couldn't remember, a face she couldn't see.

And yet, he's a stranger.

She bent down, picked up the bag, and walked out of the alley, her mind churning.

Who are you?

The question echoed in the empty space where Spider-Man had been. And somewhere, high above, hidden in the shadows, Peter watched her go, his hands shaking, his heart aching with the weight of everything she didn't remember.

——————————

The bell above the café door chimed, and Y/N's heart did a little flip she immediately suppressed.

Peter walked in, all easy confidence in a loose black t-shirt and those worn jeans that hung just right on his hips. He ran a hand through his hair—still slightly damp, like he'd just showered—and gave her a small smile as he approached the counter.

"Morning, Y/N."

She should have said something. She should have smiled back, asked for his usual order, made some casual remark about the weather. But her mind was still reeling from last night. The alley. The webs. The way her hands had traced the suit's texture like her fingers remembered what her brain couldn't.

Instead, she just nodded, her movements mechanical as she punched in his order. "Americano."

He blinked, clearly noticing her clipped tone. "Yeah. Thanks."

She turned to make the coffee, her back to him, feeling his gaze on her. She could sense the question in his silence—what's wrong?—but she couldn't bring herself to address it. She didn't know what to say. Hey, I think you might be the superhero who's been haunting my dreams and my subconscious sex life, but I can't be sure, so just pretend everything's normal.

She slid the cup across the counter. He took it, their fingers almost brushing. She pulled back too fast.

"Thanks," he said again, slower this time, searching her face.

She just nodded and turned to wipe down the counter, even though it was already clean.

The café was quiet—a lull between the morning rush and the lunch crowd. Ned was in the back, restocking cups, humming something under his breath. Y/N busied herself with meaningless tasks, acutely aware of Peter settling into his usual table by the window, pulling out his phone.

He didn't look at her again. Or maybe he did, in brief glances she pretended not to notice.

After a few minutes, he stood up, stretching his arms above his head. The motion pulled his shirt up just slightly, revealing a sliver of his stomach. Y/N's eyes tracked it before she forced them away.

"Bathroom," he said, more to announce it than anything, and disappeared through the back hallway.

The moment the door clicked shut, Ned emerged from the stockroom, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Okay. Now's my chance."

Y/N frowned. "What chance?"

Ned didn't answer. He darted to Peter's table, where the worn leather messenger bag sat propped against the chair leg.

"Ned, what the hell—"

"Shh." He was already crouching, unzipping the bag with practiced ease. "He's so mysterious. I just want to snoop a little. See if he's hiding anything interesting."

Y/N's heart lurched. "Stop! Put that back." She hissed, crossing the café in three quick strides. "What are you doing? That's his private stuff—"

"Relax, I'm just looking." Ned's hands moved through the bag's contents—a wallet, a phone, a protein bar wrapper, a small notebook. "Boring, boring, boring. How does this guy have no personality in his bag?"

"Ned, I swear to God—"

He pulled out a crumpled piece of fabric. Dark red and blue, folded into a rough square.

His eyebrows shot up. "Oh, he's a fan."

He unfolded it, and Y/N's breath caught in her throat.

It was a mask. A Spider-Man mask. The white lenses stared up at her, empty and familiar.

Ned held it up, smirking. "See? Fanboy. Probably wears it to bed or something." He scoffed, tossing it carelessly back into the bag. "Guess even mysterious guys have heroes."

But Y/N wasn't listening.

She reached down, her fingers trembling, and picked up the mask. The fabric was cool against her skin. She ran her thumb across the surface—the subtle ribbing, the tight weave, the exact texture that had pressed against her palms last night.

The same texture.

Her blood ran cold.

She remembered the alley. The way her hands had slid down Spider-Man's arms. The way the suit had felt beneath her fingers. The way her body had known it, even when her mind couldn't.

This was the same mask. The same fabric. The same—

She looked up. Ned was staring at her, his smirk fading into confusion. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

She couldn't speak. Her throat was tight, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.

She was holding Spider-Man's mask.

Peter's mask.

Peter is Spider-Man.

The realization hit her like a freight train, knocking the air from her lungs. She stood there, frozen, the fabric clutched in her hands, the truth burning through her.

He's the one who saved me. He's the one who webs me to walls. He's the one who watches me from the shadows.

He's the one I've been dreaming about.

She thought of the dreams—the vivid, explicit dreams where Spider-Man's voice had whispered filthy things in her ear, where his hands had pinned her down, where his body had moved inside hers like he knew every inch of her. The dreams where she had arched into him, moaning, pleading, coming undone.

Her face flushed, her thighs pressing together involuntarily.

Oh God.

She had been dreaming about him. About the man who had been coming into her café, smiling at her, teasing her, touching her—and she hadn't known.

But her body had.

Her body had remembered.

"Y/N?" Ned's voice was sharper now. "Put it back. He'll be out any second."

She forced her hands to move, folding the mask roughly and shoving it back into the bag. She zipped it closed just as the bathroom door creaked open.

Peter emerged, wiping his hands on his jeans. He glanced at them—Ned standing awkwardly by the table, Y/N frozen behind the counter—and his brow furrowed.

"Everything okay?"

"Fine!" Ned said, too quickly. "Great. Just—telling Y/N about a thing. A thing I saw. Bye."

He scurried back to the stockroom, leaving Y/N alone with Peter.

He walked to the counter, picking up his coffee, his eyes studying her. "You sure you're okay? You seem... off today."

She couldn't look at him. She stared at the counter, at the espresso machine, at anything but his face.

"I'm fine," she said, her voice flat. "Just tired."

He didn't push. He just nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "Alright. I'll see you later, then."

He turned and walked out, the bell chiming behind him.

Y/N stood there, her heart pounding, her mind racing.

Peter is Spider-Man.

And she had been dreaming of him fucking her senseless.

She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the rapid thrum of her pulse. A strange mix of fear, confusion, and something else—something hot and hungry—coiled in her stomach.

She had questions. So many questions.

But more than that, she had a need.

A need to find out if the dreams were somehow real.

----------

Apparently so because when the words, “Does it come out anywhere else?” slipped from your lips, Peter looked at you like he just watched his puppy get run over.

There was confusion, worry, and maybe a little bit of awkward ‘humor’ in his face. But even as he told you no, he didn’t look sure of himself anymore.

“Should we test that?” you asked, your voice low and sultry, trying to get the mood back. It worked, because you felt Peter’s still-hard cock twitch against your leg. “Yeah?”

He nodded, waiting for you to make a move.

If he was being honest, he didn’t know what you meant when you said to test it. He just knew that his very sexy girlfriend was talking about making him cum, so he agreed without thinking.

Watching as your hand snaked between your bodies, Peter’s heart was racing with anticipation. He wasn’t sure it would be safe for a normal person’s heart to be beating that fast.

Luckily, he wasn’t a normal person.

And he found that opened a lot of opportunities in the bedroom.

“You can go twice right? I still want you inside me after...” your voice was laced with need, almost pushing Peter over the edge right then and there. He nodded frantically, his hips twitching, pushing his aching cock against your palm.

“I can. I promise. Please just—” he cut himself off with a moan as your hand pumped and curled around his tip. “Fuck.”

Failing to hold in a giggle, a smile spread on your face that made Peter feel like he just fell in love with you all over again. Weird.

Your hand wrapped around him, giving him a few teasingly slow strokes before you scooted backwards enough to wrap your mouth around his sensitive pink tip. You started to up your pace while your mouth sank further down, taking more of him in.

Bringing him closer and closer to the edge, he felt the same internal panic he did when the webs came out of his wrists for the first time. But you didn’t stop. No. You only went harder.

Peter barely pulled you off at the last second, watching as webs came out of his cock and splattered on the ceiling.

It was probably the best orgasm he’d ever had.

The relief when it was over, the pleasure he felt during it. All of it. His curls were sticking to the sweat on his forehead, and when he looked over you were staring at him with wide eyes.

Wide, excited, horny eyes. (He could tell).

“That was so hot, oh my god,” you squealed, wiping off the last string of web from his extremely sensitive cock. A strangled noise came from his throat, overwhelmed by the strong feeling.

“Oh jesus,” he whispered, trying to catch his breath. “I think I need just a minute. It’s really, really sensitive.”

You nodded, running your hands over his curls. He smiled, his head subconsciously leaning into your hand. Before you knew it, Peter was pulling you down to kiss him again, all wet and open-mouthed. His hands were roaming your body, reclosing the gap.

One of your legs swung over him, straddling his abdomin that was glistening with a sheer layer of sweat. You were careful not to go too far back until Peter was ready, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t rock yourself against him.

The hard ridges of his ab muscles were perfect for grinding your clit against, and not to mention Peter loved it. He didn’t realize how much he liked the praise until he met you.

“That’s it. Uh-huh,” he mumbled as he helped you guide yourself against him. Sweet noises were falling from your open mouth as you ran your slick pussy over his stomach.

One of his hands ran up, kneading your tits while the other stayed and grabbed at your ass—helping spread you open to get a better feel of him. You could feel your second orgasm of the night quickly approaching, but you wanted to save it.

Halting your hips was hard, you really didn’t want to stop, but you knew you’d be happier if you came with Peter inside you.

“Are you ready?” your voice was breathless and whiney, your eyes hooded and glazed over with need. He flipped you onto your back, pulling a cute squeak from your throat.

“Uh-huh.” Leaving open kisses down your neck, he asked, “But are you ready?” against your sticky skin.

You felt yourself squeeze around nothing. “Yeah.”

He pressed one last kiss to your neck before you felt his long cock stretch you out. You could feel every ridge, every vein, as he slid into you so far you felt like it would come out your mouth.

Your mouth was stuck open, tears from the pleasure welling up in your eyes. Peter felt your nails dig into his back as he started at a slow pace. It wasn’t gentle, but it was just enough to refamiliarize yourself with him.

As the seconds passed, you needed more and more. Trying to grind your hips up and meet him halfway for more pressure, more speed, wasn’t cutting it. You needed his all.

“Peter. Oh my, fuck. Peter, please. I need more. I can handle it,” you moaned as he thrusted, your eyes meeting his so he could see the truthfulness in your eyes. That you would really be okay if he went harder.

He was always scared of hurting you, so he needed that confirmation every time.

His pace sped up along with his thrusts’ power. After only a few seconds, he was fucking you into the mattress. Moans and heavy breaths were spilling out of your mouth, along with Peter’s grunts and moans himself.

The bed was squeaking, a dull thud against the wooden wall for every thrust he gave you. “Shit,” Peter grumbled, looking at something behind your head for only a second.

You could feel your second orgasm coming back, along with Peter’s antsy hands. They were moving from beside your head, to your waist, to your legs—pushing your legs further apart and hitting an even deeper angle.

Your moaning only spurred him on, his hand coming to rub circles to your clit. He felt you squeeze and flutter around him, your eyes and face scrunched up.

He felt his own orgasm coming up, but he was determined to focus on you. Your shaky legs and light knuckles from gripping the sheets too hard. Your short breaths and teary eyes.

“C’mon. Come for me,” he whispered as you felt yourself go over the edge. Your hips twitched and your pussy squeezed him unbearably tight, followed by his warm liquid leaking inside you.

The thought of his web-sperm mix you saw earlier being inside you made you flutter around him again.

He had the same sensitivity as before, hissing through his teeth as he dropped his head to your neck. He relaxed his body on top of you, too sensitive to move or pull out yet.

His weight and heat on top of you was a common feeling, but it was one of your favorites.

You loved having him lay on top of you, especially right after sex. “Thank you,” you mumbled against his hair, your fingers gently rubbing up and down his rigid back muscles. You could feel him twitching and softening inside you, an almost ticklish feeling.

Peter hummed before laughing and whispering, “Also, uh, we might need a new bed, by the way.”

masterlist

peter's brows pull together, still unsure, and then he's throwing his head back in ecstasy, sputtering a string of 'baby's that echo off the walls. your mouth latches onto the flap of skin where his organic webs spurt from, and you watch him intently as he comes undone beneath you, a mischievous smile forming on your lips.

"that nice?" you ask, pulling away briefly, hand still tugging and squeezing.

then, a second later, breathless and strained, "god, this is so weird," he chokes out, gripping the sheet. "but 's g-good... sososo good. don't stop."

you giggle against him, and the vibration shoots up the length of his arm. your tongue dances across his skin, alternates between flicking and sucking the flap, and you can feel his forearm pulsing. throbbing. shifting under your tongue like it's preparing for release.

when you glance up at peter, he's already looking up at you, leaning back on his elbow. his jaw is slack, chest rising and falling in rapid succession, and his eyes flicker from white to black intermittently. you quicken your pace, sucking his wrist and stroking him in tandem, all while holding his gaze.

briefly, you pull off to encourage his release. "you're so close, baby. let go for me."

a few more licks and tugs later, peter comes violently. he releases all over your hand. wet and thick and warm. his wrist follows next, shoots out webbing in quick succession, and lands all over the room before covering you in one final spurt.

peter falls against the sheets with a huff, too far gone to be embarrassed by the state of the room. you pump him a few more times before you retract your hand, then settle on top of him, straddling his waist.

"how do you feel?" you ask, licking the spend off your hands.

he blinks an eye open, still panting. "used," is all he says.

you laugh, lean in close to his ear. "well, get ready to be 'used' again because i wanna try something else," you say, voice low and teasing, "and... i can already feel you getting harder. you liked that, admit it, pervert."

peter turns his head, rolls his eyes. "no comment."

he'll never admit it, but you know.

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

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

"...P–Peter."

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

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

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

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

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

"Pete?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What happened, handsome?" You ask softly.

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

"Suit yourself," you say.

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

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

"Come here."

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

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

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

He nods in response.

"The other guy look worse than you?"

Another nod.

"Good."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know." Is his simple response.

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

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

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

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

"I think we're done."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fuck... Pete."

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

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

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

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

"Okay, yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Feeling better, Pete?" You ask.

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

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

At first, it really had been coincidence. His patrol would take him past your building, and if he happened to see you walking home, he'd follow for a few minutes just to make sure you got inside safely.

It had seemed harmless then, even responsible. You walked alone sometimes, often later than you should, and Peter knew better than most that a quiet street didn't necessarily mean a safe one.

But then came the late-night visits. You'd let him inside and, somehow, the minutes would turn into hours as you'd consume him in ways he never knew was possible.

By the third visit, the uncomfortable realisation that you were different hit him. It wasn't supposed to become personal. Just some stress relief for a busy superhero. That had been the whole point of keeping the mask on, of keeping Peter Parker safely out of it.

But somewhere between it all, the parts of himself that he was compelled to keep hidden kept fighting its way out. He craved more from you, to know what you thought about the man behind the mask, to know how you looked in the morning.

But, every time he'd open his mouth to tell you, he'd think back to the danger it put MJ in and change his mind.

Being Spider-Man meant making the hard decision, even if it broke Peter Parker's heart. It meant making the difficult choice when the easier, selfish, choice was right in front of him, smiling and asking him to stay the night.

So, he kept close to you in any way that he could. Watching over you was almost instinctive now, something buried beneath all the careful reasoning that he liked to tell himself he was in control of. Peter wasn't always sure where the instinct ended and he began anymore.

He stopped just outside the window, staring before he could help himself.

Your hair is styled differently, your clothes are nicer than what he usually sees you wearing, and there's something about the way you're standing there, glancing down at your phone and then towards the door, that makes his chest tighten.

You looked beautiful, you always did to him but this was different, this was the kind that made him forget what he was supposed to be doing. This was the kind that had the spider humming beneath his skin, pushing at the edges of the restraint he'd been trying so desperately to build.

'I need to introduce myself.'

The thought arrived so quickly that he barely had time to argue with it before his feet were moving towards the door. One second, he was standing outside, telling himself he should leave, and the next he's pushing open the cafe door.

"Hey."

You looked up at him, a polite smile on your face. "Hi?"

Peter suddenly forgot every remotely normal opening line he's ever heard. "Sorry... I don't mean to bother you."

"You aren't."

The relief flooded through him immediately enough that he nearly laughed at himself. It was embarrassing, really. "Oh, that's good."

He looked at you for a beat longer, mouth opening and closing as he mentally reworked his sentence.

"Are you oka-."

"I'm Peter, by the way."

The words came out at exactly the same time, leaving him blinking at you. He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling heat creeping up the back of his neck and settling on his cheeks.

"Sorry. What were you saying?"

"I was just going to ask if you were okay," you laughed, head tilting slightly. "You looked like you were working up the courage to say something."

Peter glances around the cafe, hoping that nobody else is listening to this trainwreck. "That obvious, huh?"

"A little," you shrugged.

"That's embarrassing."

"It doesn't have to be."

"I'm going to start again. Hi, I'm Peter Parker."

He extends a hand to you. You looked down at his hand, then back up to his face, mouth curving as you took it and introduced yourself. "It's nice to meet you."

Peter almost forgot to let go of your hand. "Nice to meet you too."

The words sound absurd coming from him. He already knew you. He knew what your hand felt like, what you sounded like when you were close, and he knew about the little crease that appeared in your brow when you were annoyed.

This was your first time meeting Peter, but it wasn't his first time meeting you.

"So," he said, because apparently his brain had decided that was the best contribution he could make, "you come here often?"

Your laugh was bright and airy and, despite the fact that he winced at the line, the sound still hits him pleasantly in his chest.

"Is that your opening line?"

"I've never been good at his," he muttered, suddenly finding the wall behind your shoulder fascinating.

"At talking to women?"

"To women I actually want to impress."

"Oh, really?" You asked, smiling so hard that it touched your eyes.

"Yeah," he said, eyes creasing as he smiled back. He gestured to the seat in front of you. "Can I sit?"

You glanced down at your phone, then towards the cafe door. Peter followed your gaze before looking back at you and understanding washed over him.

"Oh. You're waiting for someone."

It wasn't really a question, not in the way he said it. But you answered anyway.

"Yeah, I am."

Peter nodded, something small and unpleasant settling in his stomach. He knew he should leave you alone to whatever you were waiting for, but you were still looking at him, and he found himself wanting to stay for just a little longer.

"Do you mind if I sit until they get here?"

You nodded and he quickly scrambled into the chair.

The smile that spread across your face was somehow brighter than before, and Peter found himself returning it without thinking. There was something almost playful in your expression, something he couldn't quite place, and when you leaned toward him across the small table, his body followed before his mind had caught up

"Are you sure you have the time to sit and chat?" You whispered. "Don't you have to swing by somewhere else?"

Peter's eyes widened as he considered if he misheard you. Your lips were pressed together, visibly fighting a laugh.

"You knew?" It came out as a hiss, quiet enough that nobody around you seemed to notice, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

"You literally just told me your name was Peter and you sound exactly like the guy." You looked at him as though the answer should have been obvious. "You really should consider using different voices."

"I can't believe you figured it out that quickly."

"It's practically insulting my intelligence that you thought I wouldn't."

He laughed under his breath, dropping his gaze to the table for a moment. "Okay. Fair."

It was ridiculous, he had spent weeks imagining this moment, but he hadn't prepared for you to look this delighted. You were studying his face, eyes roaming over all the features you'd never gotten to see before.

Peter felt suddenly, painfully aware of every feature you might be noticing. The shape of his nose, the unevenness of his hair, the faint shadows beneath his eyes from too many nights without enough sleep. He wondered if you could see every insecurity he'd only realised once he met you.

"So, this is you?" You asked.

His throat felt strangely dry, and he had to swallow a few times before words came out. "Yeah."

You looked at him for another second, and then your expression softened. "I like it."

"You like what?"

"Your face."

"Oh."

"That's all you've got?"

"No, I-." He cleared his throat for what felt like the fiftieth time today, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just wasn't expecting that."

"What were you expecting?"

"I don't know."

"That's not an answer."

"I know," Peter sighed. "It's just... you never asked to see it. Wasn't sure you cared."

Something changed in your expression then, the teasing giving way to something quieter.

"I didn't know I was allowed." Your voice was quiet, barely a whisper but he picked it up, the words settling somewhere deep in his chest.

"Maybe not in the beginning," he admits, "but you were."

"Then why didn't you take the mask off?"

Peter looked at you for a moment, and suddenly the cafe felt too warm and too bright. There were too many people around you, too much noise, and too many things he could say but none of them felt like it was enough.

So, instead of answering, he let out a quiet breath and looked away.

"Okay," you said, your voice gentler as you apparently decide to let him off the hook. "Easier question."

Peter looked back at you.

"What made you finally introduce yourself?"

"Well, I was in the neighbourhood and-."

"Really?" You interrupted, eyebrow raised and the corner of your mouth twitching. "In the whole of New York, you just happened to find me in this tiny cafe?"

Peter gave you a small, helpless shrug. "Yes?"

You leant in closer, your face only inches from his when you lowered your voice. "You're not a very good liar, Spidey."

Peter's mouth twitched despite himself. "So, I've been told."

You both stayed there, faces inches apart as you watched him with a slight tilt in your head. He was still working on a plausible explanation for why he'd been following you down the street when the scent of flowers and strong aftershave reached him, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps. His nose wrinkled slightly.

"Hey, babe."

Your eyes shifted past him and the change in you is immediate.

You brightened, pushing your chair back as you stood. And, before Peter has processed what he was seeing, you were walking towards the man approaching from behind him.

Wrapping his arms around your waist, the man pulled you in to a hug. He whispered something to you and you laughed. It's the same one that Peter, for some reason, believed was reserved for him.

Peter was suddenly aware of the wood of the table creaking beneath the pressure of his grip. He forced himself to loosen his grip on the table, and it's immediately replaced with the sound of his teeth grinding.

He managed to look away for all of two seconds before he was looking back at the man's hand resting comfortably on your waist. Something hot moved beneath Peter's skin as a heavy weight pressed on his chest. His jaw started to ache with how tightly he was clenching it.

The man looked over to Peter, his gaze moving over him with mild curiosity before returning to you. "Who's this?"

"This..." You gestured over to where Peter was sitting, forcing a smile on his face, "is my friend, Bob."

It's irrational, he knows, but Peter's stomach drops at the word friend.

He'd spent all this time insisting that Spider-Man and Peter Parker had to remain separate, insisting that you deserved the freedom to live your life without being dragged into his.

So, what else would you call him?

And now he was sitting across from you while another man's hand rested comfortably around your waist, discovering exactly how much he hated the consequences of his own rules.

"Hey, Bob."

"I was just leaving," he said, pushing himself to his feet with a little too much force.

The chair scraped loudly against the floor, drawing a couple of curious glances from nearby tables.

"Bob?" You said, voice tight.

He turned to look at you and the irritation on his face must have been evident, because your expression shifted. Peter softened immediately.

"Sorry," he said, forcing a smile. "I just remembered I have somewhere I need to be."

He mumbled a quick goodbye and walked out of the cafe before he could do something stupid like throw you over his shoulder and march you out of there.

The moment the door closed behind him and the cold air hit his face; he hoped that would be enough to clear his mind. It wasn't.

He made it half a block before he changed direction, following the familiar streets until your apartment came into view. He was just making sure you got home safe after being out with a strange man.

That was all.

It had nothing to do with the fact that he couldn't stand the thought of you going home with someone else. Nothing to do with the way his chest had tightened when he'd seen you with him. And absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he'd finally shown you his face and, within minutes, discovered that you were waiting for another man.

He was simply making sure you were safe.

That was what he did, what Spider-Man did, keep the citizens of New York safe.

He sat on the fire escape outside of your apartment, elbows resting on his knees. The city stretched around him in a blur of headlights and distant sirens, but none of it held his attention for more than a few seconds at a time. It was nothing that needed Spider-Man's attention.

He stayed where he was until the lights in your apartment came on. His heart jumped at the sound of your window opening.

Peter turned to find you standing there, one hand resting against the frame and your expression far less surprised than it should have been.

"Are you going to come in?"

He climbed through, carefully manoeuvring over the familiar clutter beside the window before straightening inside your apartment. You closed the window behind him and walked away without another word.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," you responded.

Peter stood there for a moment, watching you disappear toward the bathroom. He'd expected you to ask why he was there. Maybe he'd even imagined you'd be angry. Instead, you seemed almost determined to carry on with your evening as though he wasn't standing in the middle of your apartment, which somehow made him more unsettled than either reaction would have.

A few minutes later, you emerged with your face still damp, rubbing your skin dry with a towel as you crossed toward your bedroom. Peter followed close behind you.

Still, you ignored him as you took a seat on your vanity, patting your face dry.

"You were with a man."

You glanced at him through the mirror. "I was."

His jaw tightened. "You were on a date."

"Yes."

The answer was so simple that it irritated him more than it should have. You turned toward the desk, reaching for a jar of cream. He remained by the door; hands tucked into his pockets as he watched you through the mirror.

"Did you sleep with him?"

Your hand stopped.

"Not today." Slowly, you lifted your eyes to meet his reflection. "Does that make you feel better?"

"No."

"Then, why'd you ask?"

"I don't know."

You gave him a tired look through the mirror, one eyebrow lifting as you began smoothing the cream over your skin. "That's becoming your favourite answer."

He flinched. "Wait, are you annoyed at me?"

You turned to face him properly, folding your arms across your chest. "Wow, you really are a genius."

Peter's eyebrows drew together. "I should be mad at you."

"Excuse me?"

"You're the one off with other men."

"Men!?" You repeated. "It was one man."

"One man too many." The words came out before he could soften them. Your arms tightened across your chest.

Peter looked away, jaw working as he tried to rein himself in. He knew how this sounded.

"You want to rephrase that?"

"I'm sorry," he said immediately, running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that. I just meant that I didn't like it."

"I noticed." You folded your arms. "You were rude to him for no reason."

"I mean I did have a reason," he muttered, looking down at the floor.

Your expression softened as something warm ran through you, which only served to make you more annoyed, because you weren't supposed to be rewarding Peter's behaviour.

"What was the reason, Peter?"

"I was jealous." Peter seemed almost embarrassed by the words once they were out in the open, his shoulders dropping as though admitting them had taken more out of him than he'd expected. "I saw him with his hand around you and I hated it. I hated that he was touching you. I hated that you were looking at him like…" He stopped himself, jaw tightening before he forced the words out. "I hated it because I wanted to be the one standing there."

A small smile tugged at your mouth. "Well, Peter, that's unfortunate."

He gave a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh. "Yeah, it is."

Getting up from the chair, you walked over to him, stopping just before him. "You know this is your fault, right?"

"I know."

"We never set any boundaries apart from the mask doesn't come off."

"I know."

"You never asked me to wait for you."

Peter blinked. "Would you have waited for me?"

You stepped closer. Peter could feel the warmth coming off your body now that you were standing so close. He could hear your heartbeat, steady but just a little faster than it had been a moment ago. His own pulse was pounding hard enough that he was sure you could hear it too.

You tilted your head.

"No," you snorted. "I don't wait around for men." Peter's eyebrows lifted, his mouth twitching despite himself. "But it would have been good information to have."

"Noted."

Peter's gaze dropped to your mouth before he could stop it. And, of course, you noticed.

"So," you murmured, "you were jealous."

He looked back into your eyes. "Yeah."

"How jealous?"

His jaw flexed again as the images of you in another man's arms flashed through his mind. "Very."

"So, what are you going to do about it?" You challenged.

Peter felt something inside of him pull taut. He reached out, hooking his hand around the waistband of your trousers, and pulled you into his arms.

The second his mouth met yours, every thought he'd been trying to keep under control seemed to scatter. His other hand found your waist, drawing you against him as the kiss deepened, and you rose instinctively into him, your fingers twisting in the front of his jacket.

He groaned into your mouth, as you shifted against him, the contact sending a sharp rush through him.

He broke the kiss only to let you catch your breath, his nose draggling along your jaw as he pressed kisses to your neck. He breathed in, the smell of the cocoa butter you'd used in the morning hit his nose first. He smelt like the drink that you'd had in the cafe, and then something that made his nose turn.

"Fuck, you smell like him."

You laughed. "We can fix that."

Pushing him off of you, your fingers curled under the hem of your top and you pulled it off over your head. Peter swallowed thickly as he watched you slowly undoing the buttons on your trousers, shimming out of them, leaving you in nothing but your underwear.

"I was thinking I needed a shower anyway."

Without waiting for his response, you walked out of the room. He stood where you left him, listening as the shower turned on. He heard you sigh as the hot water hit your skin and he closed his eyes, imagining what you looked like in there.

"You're not joining?" You called from the bathroom.

Peter was moving before his mind even realised what was happening, stripping out of his clothes and discarding them around the apartment as he raced into the bathroom.

The mirror had already fogged by the time he got in there, the steam from the shower clouding the room. He stepped in behind you, his hands catching your waist and pulling you flush against him.

"Peter," you warned, even as you tilted your neck to give him better access. "I don't want to get distracted and slip."

"I'd never let you slip," Peter scoffed. "Now let me help you."

Peter took the soap from your hands and built up a lather. Once soapy enough, his hands immediately went to your breasts, kneading them as he covered it with soap.

"Really?" You breathed, your head lolling against his chest as his soapy thumb rubbed over your erect nipples. Heat spread low and fast between your legs. "My tits are the first place you wash?"

Peter smiled and kissed the side of your neck, then nipped at your ear. "They looked in desperate need of holding."

"Whatever, Peter."

Peter's attention remained on your breasts, fingers squeezing and rolling your nipples while you used the washcloth to wash the day off of your skin. He kept rubbing himself against you, his erection pressing against the curve of your ass.

"Peter," you warned as his hand wrapped around one of your thighs and lifted. You fell back into his broad chest.

"I'm helping."

Peter's idea of 'helping' was to drop a hand between your legs. He ran a finger through your folds, humming approvingly at the wetness there.

"You're this wet already?" He asked between nips at your neck.

"We're in a shower."

"You can still be wet in the shower."

His fingers stopped near your clit, teasing around there but not quite touching you.

"Stop being an ass," you sighed, the water hitting your chest and rolling down your body. "Otherwise, I'll go ask my friend from this morning. I know he knows how to get a girl off."

Peter responded by sucking down on your neck, tugging the skin between his lips. A loud whine was dragged from your throat as he also pressed down on your clit, circling with a pressure so dizzying you arched back into him.

The way your body responded to him sent blood rushing to his groin, a desperate throb in between his legs that he ignored in favour of driving you over the edge.

"Wait- Peter- I-," you moaned

He moved to another spot on your neck, sucking at the skin there as two of his fingers pressed at your hole. He eased them in, stretching and curving and scissoring them within you, pressing against the spot that had your thighs shaking.

"Peter," you sighed. "Fuck, I'm gonna cum."

"That's it, baby," he cooed, his breath warm against the skin of your neck as his thumb circled your clit and his fingers pumped within you with terrifyingly accurate coordination.

"Yes," you groaned, eyes rolling back, "don't stop."

You reached your hand back, fingers curling into the stands of his hair with force as if to stabilise yourself as the orgasm wracks through your body.

It took a good minute before your body stopped shaking with the after effects of the orgasm, and Peter couldn't help the grin that spread across his face.

"You were saying?" He asked, kissing over the blooming marks he'd left on your skin.

Peter didn't give you the chance to come up with something snarky to say, he spun you around in his arms and kissed you. It was no less desperate and consuming than the one he'd given you in your bedroom.

His hands hooked under your thighs as he continued kissing you, spit collecting in the corner of your mouths as the kiss turned sloppy.

Peter's hands cupped your ass, lifting you up with ease. A shiver ran down your spine as he pressed your back against the cool tile of the shower wall.

"I was hoping to drag this out," he murmured against your lips. "But, fuck, I need you now."

He kept you up with one hand, his other hand guiding the tip of his dick through your soaked folds. He swore as your fingers ran along his chest, eventually settling into his shoulders where you imprinted little crescent moons into his skin with your nails.

Your felt the tip of him nudging at your entrance, thick and heavy and pulsing.

As he sank into you, a shared moan filled the room. His forehead pressed into yours as he bottomed out, the feeling of you all wet and warm around him was almost too much for him to handle.

He held himself for a minute there, feeling the now cold shower water hitting his back. But he didn't mind the wait or the cold, not when he was nestled so deeply in you. It's not until you started squirming in his arms did, he ask,

"Can I move?"

"Yes, please!" You pleaded, your hole clenching around him.

Peter didn't waste any time, his hips immediately snapping into yours. It was relentless. Desperate in a way that Peter hadn't felt in years. His dick pulses within you, dragging against your clenching walls and hitting your g-spot, bringing you closer to another orgasm.

The noises you make only urged him on more, pushing his hips to move faster, slap into you harder. His hands tightened around your thighs hard enough to bruise, and you hoped they would.

Your eyes closed, little gasps coming from your mouth at every thrust of his hips. Each thrust sent your back sliding up the wall and each soft curse and moan of your name from Peter drove you closer to the edge. Your hand slipped between your bodies, circling your clit with all desperation and no technique as you chased your second orgasm.

It came just as easily as your first, your walls clamping down around Peter.

The sound of the cries that slipped through your mouth as you came and the feeling of you clamped around him had Peter's hips stuttering. His carefully controlled hips started to lose their rhythm as he got close, his breaths coming out heavy.

"Cum in me, Pete."

And he did, with a strangled cry of your name, Peter filled you to the brim, his thrusts turning into slow rolls of his hips as he continued shooting cum into you.

He pulled out of you slowly, his sticky release dripping down your thighs as he set you down gently. Grabbing the shower head, he ran it over your body, gently spreading your folds to clean you up there.

"Ah," you moaned as the cold water hit your skin.

"I know," he cooed, "I'm sorry, just let me clean you up."

Peter made quick work of washing you properly this time. You felt putty in his hands, almost falling asleep as he pulled you out of the shower.

"Am I forgiven yet?" He asked, pressing a kiss your forehead as he wrapped your body in the towel.

"No," you said, even as a soft smile took over your features.

p.s. I am SO tired as i finished this fic, so if you see any mistakes, no you didn't xoxo

You gave him a smile before walking to your usual spot in the back.

Bucky was debriefing you all beside Thor as you tried your best to pay attention, but the doors flew open and behind Sam four people in blue and white suits gathered in.

When the aircraft landed this is the last situation Johnny Storm and the Fantastic Four expected to be in.

They were here for one reason and one reason only, to defeat Doom. But they were brought into the conference room and immediately spotted you.

The one who made them the Fantastic Five. The one who Johnny Storm loved so deeply, he never quite moved on.

Johnny wasn’t sure what to do. He was looking right at you. You were wearing clothes he had never seen before, and your hair wasn’t curly like it so often was.

People were introducing themselves all around the room, but he didn’t hear any of it.

He couldn’t speak, you said your name, the name he used to call you, the name he used to whisper at night. The name he proposed to. Your eyes were still so bright, the same way they were before he lost you.

Then his eyes went to your left hand.

That was not your ring. That was not the ring he had spent months carefully curating. And it couldn’t have been, because he buried you in it. The entire room was spinning.

Sue’s face was laced with concern and yours with confusion.

“Johnny,” she whispered softly, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of you, “Johnny it’s not her. She’s not from our earth.”

He took a deep breath. “Sue, what do you mean?” His breath became more ragged as he looked you up and down, eyes falling to where your body leaned against the brunette man standing beside you, “Sue it’s her.”

His voice cracked, and you couldn’t help but feel some sort of guilt crawl up your throat.

“Johnny, we knew this. That there are different variants in different universes,” Reed said from beside them, he took a shaky breath, “we knew this would be a possibility.”

You reached for Peter’s hand, suddenly uncomfortable about the conversation being had about you.

Johnny’s hands went to his hair, pulling anxiously, “yeah— yeah Reed you said that, but you didn’t say she would be right here, or that I would have to — have to look at her.”

Sue stepped in front of him, placing both her hands on his biceps, “Johnny, she’s from this earth. Not ours, she’s not her, I’m so sorry.” Her voice was thick with emotion.

Johnny was trying to breathe, but it sounded more like he was gasping for air.

You weren’t sure what to do, Peter’s hand gripped yours tighter, an anxious habit he had. You looked to Bucky and Sam for some sort of help, some sort of explanation, but they were just as confused as you.

The large rock man approached Johnny’s side next, splaying a hand gently across his shoulder blades, “Johnny, let’s get some air, yeah?”

Johnny nodded quickly, needing an exit from the situation.

He murmured his apologies through his gasps for air. Ben guided him out of the conference room, gently closing the door behind him.

All eyes turned to Sue, who was looking at you with a look in her eyes you have seen over a million times at this point in your life, you know it because you see it in yourself sometimes when you look in the mirror. Her eyes were filled with grief.

She shook her head, trying to plaster a smile across her face, “I’m really sorry, it’s just a bit weird for us.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, “yeah we could say the same.”

Reed placed a supportive arm around his wife, “we lost someone, um back on our earth,” he said your name softly, Sue squeezed her eyes shut when he did, “she um, was Johnny’s fiancée when she passed. So it’s just weird seeing you here… like this.”

Bucky cleared his throat, stepping forward with Sam and Bruce.

You tried to bite back the tears that sat behind your eyes. You’re not sure if it was embarrassment, discomfort or what. But a chill climbed up your spine the second Reed spoke and it was sitting at the base of your neck like it belonged there.

Bucky began continuing as normal, Reed and Sue peeled their eyes from you and started participating in the group conversation.

“You okay?” Peter leaned over with his arms crossed over his chest, whispering just to you.

“That was weird,” Yelena says under her breath in a sing-song voice next to you.

“Yelena,” Peter warned.

You sighed, leaning against him, “I’m okay, just feel off, I don’t know.” You shrugged.

He unfolded his arms and slipped one over your shoulder, “I could imagine.”

You leaned further into him, trying to focus on the complexities of the challenge ahead, and not the weight on your chest.

The meeting carried on and plans were arranged on how to handle the situation that the Fantastic Four came all the way to your earth for.

You excused yourself as soon as the meeting was concluded. You couldn’t sit in that room with them for another minute. You pushed the door to your shared room open before promptly flopping onto the bed.

Peter softly closed the door behind himself, “I’m going to be completely honest with you here, this feels like uncharted territory.”

You huffed a laugh into the bed, “it’s definitely new.” Your voice was muffled by the comforter.

You felt the bed dip where Peter sat beside you.

You turned your head so that you were looking at him. He gave you an unsure smile.

”Is it weird that I feel bad?” You asked quietly.

He sighed, “I mean, you have nothing to feel bad about, but I’m definitely not surprised you do.”

You smiled at him.

“I don’t think your empathy came from your dad, I’ll just say that,” he smiled down at you.

“Ain’t that the truth,” you replied.

“But… at the same time, I think he was just better at hiding it than you are,” he added.

You sighed, you knew he was right. Tony Stark was many things, and an empath didn’t seem like one of them. But to the people that knew him best, he cared deeply.

You twisted your body so that you were now sitting shoulder to shoulder with Peter.

“Well, hi,” he said softly.

You smiled at him again, “any ideas on what to do when you meet someone from a different universe that claims you’re their dead lover?”

Peter let out a real laugh at your bluntness.

You laughed, but still maintained a look of frustration, hitting him in the bicep. Which probably hurt you more than it hurt him, “Pete, I’m being serious.”

He was still laughing, “I know you are, I just don’t think there’s rules written out on what to do here. Not that you’re known for following the rules anyway.”

You smirked, “if I followed the rules, we wouldn’t have dated,” recalling the time in high school when your father forbade you from seeing Peter.

Peter nodded, “yeah, I know, you like to bring that one up whenever I try to get you to follow rules.”

You smiled at him for a moment.

”Is it crazy if I go to talk to him?” You asked, breaking the momentary silence.

He shook his head, “no.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek, “love you.”

He smiled, trying to hide his blush that still crept up his neck whenever you showed him any affection even after nearly ten years of being together, “love you more.”

When you first started “talking” in high school, you had expected the blush. But now, all this time later, you loved that he was still so affected by you.

You hopped off the bed and headed out to talk to Johnny.

You found him by himself on the roof. You’re not sure what brought you up here, but something guided you here.

He was bent over the railing, calmly looking out at the skyline. You took a moment to look at him before approaching him. You wondered what you were like on his earth if you were still you. Clearly not if you were a member of their team, and you were into blondes. You wondered if you were smart, if you had any family.

You shook your curiosities away. Exhaling sharply, you moved to stand beside him, also leaning on the railing.

He didn’t turn and look at you when you made your presence known.

“I’m sorry about that, that must have been a lot for you,” you said quietly, nervously fiddling with the sleeves of your hoodie.

You turned your body to face him, and he slowly lifted his upper half off the railing to mirror you.

“An empath in every universe, I see,” he said calmly, there was a ghost of a smile on his face, “you have nothing to be sorry for.”

You gave him one that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You’re not sure what was possessing you, but you reached out and took his hand in yours. He seemed perplexed by the sudden touch. You swore his breath caught, his eyes glistening lightly.

Johnny stared down at your joined hands for a long moment.

His thumb rubbed absentmindedly across the back of your knuckles before he seemed to realize what he was doing. He let go immediately, almost embarrassed.

“You sound just like her,” the words were barely above a whisper.

A sad smile tugged at your lip again, “I guess that's the multiverse for you.”

He laughed through his nose, “yeah.”

Silence settled between you. It wasn't uncomfortable anymore, that feeling had passed. But it was a weight above you both, it made the air thicker.

“I haven't heard someone say her name in her voice for almost three years,” he admitted shyly, “or I guess, your name… in your voice.”

You looked down, “I’m really sorry.”

“You keep apologizing,” he searched your face.

“I know,” you shrugged, bringing your hands back to your sleeves to keep fidgeting.

“You don't owe me one.”

Another pause.

“When she died,” Johnny swallowed hard, “I kept thinking there had to be a universe where we ended up together. Not in the literal sense. I didn’t exactly know of the multiverse yet.”

His eyes found yours again, “it’s just… overwhelming. Seeing you here, with him, alive. I’m sorry for how I reacted.”

“I would imagine it’s rather odd,” you tried to find a way to lighten the situation, you were like your dad in that sense, but in this situation, you decided to go for connection, “when I lost my dad, I thought the whole world was over. And for a while… it was. But if the roles were reversed, and I walked onto your earth and saw my dad standing there?,” you shook your head, “let’s just say I think you had a a rather calm reaction.”

For the first time all day, Johnny Storm actually smiled.

Although he had calmed down, it was still a strange adjustment for the entire team. Johnny still caught himself staring every now and then. And you could feel the eyes of the other Fantastic four members whenever you walked into the training or meeting room.

Sometimes he'd walk into the kitchen and freeze because for half a second your laugh sounded exactly like hers and he had to remind himself that you weren’t his.

Sometimes you'd catch him looking away the instant you noticed.

Neither of you mentioned it, nobody did. It was silently and unanimously decided that it was better not to talk about it.

Over the following weeks the Fantastic Four integrated into the team surprisingly well.

Reed spent most of his time with Bruce arguing over dimensional energy signatures and the pattern of Doom’s movements.

Sue and Yelena were getting along as sisters would and Ben became Sam's gym partner.

And somehow through all of the stress, Johnny became your friend.

Not because he wanted you to replace anyone, but because he found that you were impossible not to like.

You were sarcastic enough to keep up with him, stubborn enough to challenge him, and compassionate enough to understand when he'd occasionally go quiet.

Peter was the first to notice it, mostly because he was always paying attention to you. And all three of you fell into a rhythm of friendship. The type of rhythm you couldn’t remember your life without.

The three of you sat on the roof one evening sharing pizza.

“Johnny, keep your pineapple bullshit as far away from ours as possible,” you had, gesturing offensively towards his half of the pizza.

“Dude, aren’t you from New York? Do they allow that in your New York?” Peter added.

Johnny chuckled, “you haven’t even tried it.”

Peter scoffed, “don’t have to.”

Johnny turned to face you. “See? I guess that’s why you're marrying him and not me.”

The joke landed awkwardly. Johnny's smile faltered as you and Peter turned to look at each other.

“I'm—”

You interrupted with a grin, “and don’t forget Peter actually does the dishes.”

Peter looked absurdly proud, “I do.”

Johnny rolled his eyes so dramatically Ben could probably feel it from three floors down, “well that’s just unfair. Peter is what the people of your earth call, a simp? I believe that’s what Joaquin called you.”

Peter looked offended, but the tension dissolved into laughter.

Unfortunately, normal never lasted.

Reed's scanners picked it up first.

Victor von Doom wasn't simply trying to conquer Earth-616. He was using fragments of collapsing universes to build something impossible.

A machine capable of stitching realities together. Reed spoke in circles around everyone in the room before realizing he was strictly using science terms.

“He wants to erase every universe that doesn’t fit his… master plan,” Bruce said in the meeting room.

“Was that it dumbed down for us regular folks?” You asked, trying and failing to lighten the mood.

“Says the MIT grad and her MIT grad fiancé,” Bruce quipped back.

“It was for me and Alexei and Quino, okay?” Yelena corrected, gesturing vaguely, and rolling her eyes.

Joaquin threw his hands up in defense, making Sam smile.

You huffed a laugh, but when you looked around everyone’s smiles quickly faded as they processed the severity of the mission.

The mission took you to the center of three collapsing realities. The most fucked up part of the whole thing was that it was actually beautiful.

It was like the most intense sunset you had ever seen with the northern lights somehow sparkling through it all. What quickly wiped that vision of beauty away was the smoke and the screams.

Sue nearly collapsed holding together an entire collapsing bridge long enough for hundreds of people to escape.

As Peter looked around, he saw Johnny looking at you again.This time he was checking to make sure you were alright.

Honestly, he didn’t mind. Because he knew how you were, you were just like your father. Willing to make the sacrifice for the greater good. But Peter couldn’t lose you too.

So whatever it may be, an old habit, the need to subconsciously keep some version of you safe, Peter didn’t mind that Johnny protected you when he couldn’t.

Doom managed to escape you that day. You’re not sure how he did, but you knew he was calculated, that much you had all learned. But for now, the collapse of reality was delayed.

You were all cooped up in an abandoned building near the incursion point.

You were helping Yelena rebraid her hair when Peter sat down on the ground next to Johnny.

Johnny looked over at Peter as he sat.

Peter exhaled, keeping his eyes on you across the room, “thanks.”

Johnny’s brow furrowed, “for what?”

Peter turned to him, holding his mask in his lap, “for watching out for her.”

Johnny stared into the small fire burning between them, “I don't even have to think about it. It just… happens.”

Peter smiled knowingly.

After a moment he added quietly, “if she was even half as amazing as she is here, then I get it.”

Johnny let out a slow breath, “I couldn’t… save her.”

Peter nodded, he didn’t press further, he simply sat with Johnny in his grief.

The final battle took place inside Doom's reality fortress.

Everything collided and somehow everyone fought separately.

Peter swung through collapsing platforms trying to reach you.

You were trapped between two buildings. Fighting between two of Doom’s accomplices, barely holding on. And then a massive fracture opened beneath your feet.

Reality itself cracked apart… and you fell.

Peter fired two webs. Both dissolved before reaching you. He let out a scream that could’ve been heard in space.

You didn’t scream. No. You couldn’t. You simply gasped before realizing you were falling to your death. Your stomach flipped as you came to the realization that the webs were out of reach.

Just as you closed your eyes, something hot encompassed your wrist. He caught you just before you disappeared into the void.

Your eyes shot open and met his.

“Johnny!” You breathed out in a panicked tone.

“I’ve got you!” He yelled back, pulling you up and nearly throwing you both over the side of the crack in the ground.

Peter swung and landed where you both laid on the dirt.

Johnny pushed himself up on his forearms, gasping for air before standing upright. Peter’s hands moved to your back, gently coaxing you up as you tried to catch your breath.

The thick combat suit you always wore was completely burnt through at the wrist, but you didn’t care.

Just as you all stood up, time stopped. The ground shook beneath you as Doom fell. The incursions began to separate and go back to their natural realities.

You saw Sam and Bucky hug in the distance, Yelena smiling at Alexei, it was over. You won.

You all piled into the quinjet and made your way back to the New Avengers tower.

The thing about saving the world that you never got used to, was the after. Your whole life has revolved around saving the universe for months, and just like that, it’s over. You always found it hard to go back to normal.

You were slipping out of your combat suit and sitting on a table while Bruce patched you up.

Peter found Johnny sitting alone on one of the landing platforms overlooking the city skyline.

Cheers could be heard in the distance, alarms blared, fireworks went off. The city, and the world, were safe again.

His hand was flexing, as he rotated his wrist that had been lazily wrapped before excusing himself to get some air.

Peter sat beside him, “looks like I owe you another thank you.”

Johnny looked over.

Peter swallowed, “you saved her,” he looked out over the city again, “I missed.”

Johnny smiled sadly.

Peter laughed shakily, sniffing and trying to will his tears away, “I thought I was going to lose her.”

Johnny stared at the skyline glowing beneath the setting sun.

Peter looked at him.

Johnny's voice was quiet, “I couldn't save her,” he blinked once, “on my earth. We uh, we were the fantastic five once you know?” Peter nodded, smiling at Johnny.

“She was so amazing,” he shook his head fondly, “but uh, she took the risk, and she saved the day. But I couldn’t get there. And by the time I did, well uh, it was too late.”

A small smile crossed his face, “I'm just happy I could save her here. That there’s a universe where she gets to live and be loved, even if it’s not by me.”

Peter understood immediately.

Peter reached over and squeezed Johnny's shoulder, “I owe you everything.”

Johnny shook his head, “I could say the same to you guys.”

For the first time in years, the ache in his chest stopped feeling like an open wound and felt more like a scar. It didn’t feel debilitating.

That night, the teams shared a mountain of takeout boxes and bottles of whatever liquor you could find.

The laughs rang through the tower in a way that felt familiar and homely. Peter held a beer in one hand and your lower back in the other.

You fiddled with the ring on your left hand as he conversed with Reed about something you hadn’t caught.

Your eyes wandered to Johnny who was across the room laughing with Bucky.

You couldn’t help but smile.

The next morning, hangover and all, it was time to say goodbye. It ended up being more tearful than anyone had expected. In the past few months, you have all grown so close, you felt more like one team than two. Whether it be trauma bonding, or just the attachment, you’re not sure.

When you finally got to Johnny, he smiled nervously, unsure where to start, so you did.

“Can I hug you?” You asked tentatively, voice small.

He looked confused, “um, yeah, sure.”

You closed the distance between you in two small strides, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your head against his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry I’m not… her,” you said against him.

He let out a wet laugh, nuzzling his head against yours as he held your upper body tightly, “you truly have nothing to apologize for.” He took a shaky breath, “in fact, this has been more healing than you know.”

“You know, if it were me, which I guess it was in some weird way, I would want you to be happy,” you spoke quietly.

You felt him tense lightly at that.

“I don’t mean to upset you,” you pulled out of the hug, taking his hands in yours softly, “I just have to say it. If— if Peter were to lose me, I would want him to live his life for me, not stop it,” you swallowed nervously, “I would want him to feel love and happiness, take the trips we always talked about, laugh with his friends. I would want him to live for both of us.”

Johnny smiled at you sadly, “god, yeah. That’s something she would say.”

You huffed a laugh, “when you get home, just try it.”

He nodded slowly, “I think I will.”

You parted from him with one final squeeze of his hands, making your way back over to Peter.

You slid your arms around his waist and he held you tightly against him.

You waved goodbye as they all piled back in their ship.

“Well,” Peter looked down at you, “now that we saved the universe… again, I guess it’s time to plan a wedding.”

You laughed, wiping a stray tear that had fallen, “that’s what Pepper is for.”

He laughed at that, squeezing you a little tighter, “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

You smiled up at him with glossy eyes, “me too.”

The Fantastic Four disappeared into the sky, the engines of their ship becoming nothing more than a distant hum before finally fading completely.

You stood on the landing platform long after they were gone.

Peter was beside you, his arm wrapped securely around you.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded slowly, “yeah.”

You looked down at the ring on your finger. Then back toward the sky.

“I think he’ll be okay,” you said, thinking out loud.

Peter followed your gaze. “Yeah,” he agreed softly. “I think he will too.”

He had come to your universe carrying the weight of losing you. And he was leaving having saved you.

Maybe, in some strange way, that was what the multiverse had given him.

For the first time since the Fantastic Four had arrived, the strange ache in your chest finally began to fade.

You weren't her.

You never would be.

And Johnny didn't need you to be.

You were you.

Tony Stark's daughter.

Peter Parker's fiancée.

Yelena's best friend.

An Avenger.

Three months later, the Baxter Foundation officially reopened its dimensional research division.

Reed insisted it was purely scientific, but Ben insisted it was because Reed was incapable of leaving anything alone.

The first time the Fantastic Four returned to Earth-616, it was nearly a year later and you were waiting for them in the lobby of the New Avengers Tower.

Johnny stepped off the platform first.

His eyes found yours immediately, “hey, Stark. Bet you thought you’d seen the last of me.”

You smiled, “hey, Storm.”

He opened his arms and you laughed and walked straight into them.

When you pulled away, Johnny looked down at your left hand, “wedding plans yet?”

You smiled, “unfortunately.”

He shook his head, “oh poor Parker.”

You swatted his arm, making him laugh.

Peter appeared behind you, sliding an arm around your waist, “why poor me?”

Your wedding day arrived far sooner than you expected, as people always say it does.

The ceremony was small by Stark standards. Which meant there were still approximately two hundred people there.

You stood at the end of the aisle, your father's old wedding band tucked safely into a sewn pocket of your dress.

Peter stood at the other end and the second the doors opened and your eyes met him, he was crying.

Pepper held your arm tightly, smiling so big it had to hurt her, “I’m so proud of you.” She whispered before taking the step to walk you down the aisle.

You laughed through your own tears.

“Seriously?” you mouthed to him.

He shook his head, laughing as he wiped his eyes.

You reached him and he immediately took your hands.

“You look so beautiful,” he whispered, his smile was almost goofy.

“You're crying,” you said, crying yourself.

He laughed, leaning closer, “I love you.”

Your smile softened, “I love you.”

And as the ceremony continued, you glanced toward the front row.

Yelena was crying and Bucky was pretending he wasn't.

Sam was smiling and Thor was absolutely sobbing.

And then you turned back towards Peter.

Because this was your life. This was your universe. This was your story.

And when Peter slipped the ring onto your finger, you realized that perhaps the strangest gift the multiverse had ever given you was the reminder that life was precious precisely because it wasn't guaranteed.

Peter leaned down and kissed you as everyone around you erupted into cheers.

You laughed against his lips.

And somewhere beyond the stars, in a universe you would probably never see, Johnny Storm was learning how to live again.

Not because he had forgotten her.

But because he finally understood what she would have wanted.

And in the strange, infinite expanse of the multiverse, that was enough.

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He groaned, holding you even closer to his body. “Baby, you can’t squeeze me like that while I’m trying to swing us.”

“I’m sorry! I got scared,” you closed your eyes and stuck your head between his neck and shoulders, focusing on the feeling of flying through the air and his pulsing cock inside you rather than your thoughts about falling to your death.

Peter laughed and you could feel it in your chest—and your pussy, but that was besides the point—genuine curiosity in his voice as he asked, “Is this what you wanted? Is it living up to your dreams?”

You giggled, unknowingly clenching around him tighter. A strangled noise ripped from his throat but you were already answering, “Yeah, ’s super fun. Don’t you think?”

“Uh-huh,” he groaned, not meaning for you to hear it when he followed with, “I think I’d rather be actually fucking you right now, though. Squeezin’ me so fucking tight.”

It was almost hotter that he didn’t mean for you to hear it, his dirty whispers one of your favorite things about being intimate with him. Peter wasn’t one to do crazy dirty talk—he tried, but if he tried too hard it was completely unnatural and he would get super flustered.

He didn’t realize that he was already doing it, just under his breath where you could barely hear it. It was his raw reactions, no bullshit to try and make you feel good, it was honest.

Peter didn’t know what caused the sudden change in you, but he wasn’t complaining. He could feel your warm pussy flutter around him, maybe even wetter than before, and a shyness in you that wasn’t there two seconds ago was apparent.

“Pete...” you trailed off, imagining him stopping on some random empty rooftop just to fuck the shit out of you.

Imagining how he would react if someone were to come up, seeing Spider-Man dressed all casual and pounding into you in the middle of the night out in public. “Can we stop for a sec? I need a break.”

He looked confused but nodded, swinging to a stop on an empty rooftop that was suspiciously just like what you imagined.

Now, the plan wasn’t originally to recreate your dirty thoughts, honestly. But you happened to be there and he was already inside you, so is it really surprising that less than a minute later, you were looking out on the skyline of NYC while your superhero boyfriend pounded into you from the back? No, not at all.

masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course he hesitates.

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

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

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

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

Until the clasp of your bra gives.

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

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

But this is Peter.

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

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

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

And just like that, the tables have turned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And oh god—you believe him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because God, Peter knows what he’s doing.

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

And oh, he is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

Fuck, he’s lying to himself.

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

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

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

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

But you’re done waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

Like he’s really gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s intoxicating.

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

It’s madness.

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

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

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

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

Good lord—you want to fuck this man forever.

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