Sierra

The building is strangely quiet, that’s the first thing you notice as you climb up the stairs, a stack of two cardboard boxes in your arms, chin resting on the very top of one, just enough that you can see the next stair. Because of course the elevator wasn’t working on the day that you need to move in. Because life is just like that. 

            “Woah, hey!” a voice calls out from behind you, deep and light in the same instance, the sound a shock from the previous silence, your body seizing, shaking, a slight jump, the top box sliding off your arms and falling, hitting the stair ahead of you with that peculiar thump of cardboard against, well, anything. 

            “Shit!” you hiss, looking down at the box on the step, at the one in your arms before glancing over your shoulder, looking for the owner of the voice, the one who startled you. 

            “Let me help,” the voice says again, this time from beside you and you turn, startling again, breath hitching but not just from fear because there beside you is one of the single-handedly most attractive men you’ve ever seen with dark curly hair, curls falling onto his forehead, partially obscuring the dark brown colour of his irises, the corner of his lips curled up into a half-smile. A kind of crooked grin that sets your heart alight. 

            He bends down, lifting the box from the stair in front of you, your breaths ragged for a moment more before you blink, shaking off the daze and forcing yourself to smile, the kind of practiced smile that you learned long ago for school pictures and talks with older people who always want to tell you how to live your life. 

            “Thanks,” you tell him and he smiles at you, a full smile, one that sets your heart alight as the two of you climb the stairs, a comfortable silence descending. He seems like the type of guy who would never push for conversation, who is okay with silence, familiar with it. 

            “What floor?” he asks you as the two of step onto the fifth floor landing. 

            “This one,” you tell him, stepping forwards, your back against the heavy metal door, pushing against it, pushing it back, swinging it open and holding it while he steps through. You step away from the door and out into the floor, stepping around him, shifting the box to one arm, reaching for your keychain in your pocket, pulling the bright, bedazzled SOURcharm from your hoodie, flipping it to grasp the key, stepping forwards and slipping it into the lock of 502. 

            “We’re neighbours,” he says from behind you and you turn towards him, pushing your door open, keys slid back into your hoodie pocket. 

            “Are you new here?” you ask him, one eyebrow arching as you step backwards into your new apartment, him following you with the last of your boxes. 

            “To the building?” he asks you, his voice confused, eyebrows knitting together, nose crinkling and you can’t help but roll your eyes as you step into your kitchen, setting the box down on the counter by the sink. 

            “No,” you call out as he follows you, setting the second box beside the first, “to New York. Because if so, you’re neighbours with the right person.”

            “Why?” he asks, his voice growing suspicious. Like he suspects that you’re hitting on him, which objectively he’s attractive enough to be hit on, you are just not the kind of person to do said hitting on. “Because you’ll show me around?”

            “No,” you reply, drawing out the word, making it as long and dramatic as possible, your eyes drifting around your crappy apartment, a true New York experience. “Because I’m new and haven’t you always wanted a buddy to explore a new city with? You know, experience everything with someone who also has no experience with said things? Because, honestly, it’s scientific at its base. You experience one thing and the other experiences something else and you’ll get the clearest picture of New York by comparing the two new experiences.” Your voice has risen and sped up in the way it does when you get excited, your hands moving with your words, gestures always arising when you’re interested in a topic, an experiment. 

            But this guy…he doesn’t look annoyed by it, rather the way his lips are curved into a smile that seems soft if a smile can be such a thing, suggests that he…he might like it. 

            “Yeah,” he whispers, one hand reaching up to brush his curls back from his forehead, showing eyes the colour of melted chocolate glimmering in the dim lighting of your apartment, “I’m new.”

            “So,” you say, both eyebrows arching as you peer at him, “buddies?” His smile widens, dimples showing in a way that makes your breath hitch, but you ignore it, simply reaching your hand forward for his. You’re good at ignoring things especially when they’re related to your feelings. 

            “Buddies,” he agrees, taking your hand in his, the callouses on his skin rubbing against yours in a way that is strange, but not unpleasant. His grip is firm, his hand is warm and the smile he gives you bright. He’s like sunshine in a person. 

            “Well,” you tell him, letting go of his hand and walking towards your door, putting it between your body and him, using it as a shield against emotions you’re going to need to tamp down, ignore, shove past and aside. “Thanks for your help.” He nods, stepping out of your apartment and turning, eyes narrowing as you begin to close the door. 

            “Peter!” he calls out, the words loud and echoing in the hallway, his face flushing a deep red, face shifting into embarrassment as he continues, his voice barely audible, barely a whisper as he says, “my name…it’s…it’s Peter.” He sounds so nervous as he says it that a small smile blooms across your face as you look at him, at the way he’s glancing down and away from you, cheeks flushed bright red. 

            “My name’s Y/n,” you tell him and he looks up, the motion abrupt and rapid, so fast you worry that he’s going to get whiplash. 

            “Nice name,” he whispers, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he waves, watching as you close the door, the sound of the latch clicking ominous and final. Not really, because no sooner have you closed it than have you wrenched it open again, seeing him still standing there, looking slightly frozen. 

            “You want to find a place to get hot dogs?” you ask him and he startles, like you did on the stairs, nodding and you nod once, back at him, ducking back to your kitchen, pulling your wallet from your bag and tucking it into your pocket before slipping out and closing your door, locking it behind. “Let’s go, buddy!”

            “Sooo,” you say, your legs hooked over the fire escape ledge, your hot dog in one hand, the other pressed against the metal grate beneath you. 

            “Sooo what?” Peter asks, his mouth slightly full, the sounds of the words off and you glance over at him, a smile threatening to form on your face at the way mustard is smeared on his cheek. 

            “Um…you have a little something,” you say, taking the napkin from your lap and leaning forwards, wiping it away, his eyes locked on you, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, hard. “Anyways,” you continue, looking away from him, back to the New York City skyline, the napkin set to the side, “I was going to ask what you do.”

            “I, um, I’m going to NYU,” he says and you look back at him, a smile blossoming on your face, the kind of smile you have when you’re genuinely excited, when something has genuinely made you happy. A smile you’ve kept smiling at Peter. 

            “Me too,” you tell him, your voice light in a way that it rarely is, in a way it hasn’t really since you packed up all your stuff to move alone to the city of your dreams. The city that’s strange and rings with a hollow sort of loneliness, except for right now on a fire escape ledge, the skyline twinkling like stars. “What are you studying?”

            “Engineering,” he says, his voice quiet, unsteady, just a little unsure, his gaze turned away from you as he sets the wrapper from his hot dog down beside him, brushing his hands together, brushing crumbs off of them. 

            “What’s your specialty?” you ask him and he glances back at you, surprise glimmering in his warm eyes, eyebrows knitting together, lips quirking up just a bit like he’s pleased that you’ve surprised him. 

            “Hold up,” he says, “what are you studying?”

            “Engineering,” you tell him, your smile growing wider as the surprise shifts to a pleasant kind of shock in his eyes, like he didn’t expect to have something in common with you. “Specifically,” you continue, “biomedical engineering focusing upon neuroengineering.”

            “A brain girl,” he says and you nod, the smile pleased as you turn away from him, back to the skyline of the city that never sleeps. The city you used to dream of as a kid. You lean back, your back slumping against the grated brick wall of the apartment building, your wrappers set aside, hands in your hoodie pockets, gaze trained on the blinking, twinkling lights of the city. “I’m in biotech,” he says and you let out a low whistle as he turns back to look at you, his body leaning forwards against the railing. “What?”

            “And I thought I was a nerd,” you tell him and he tosses a balled up napkin at you, one which you swat away with a laugh, one light and bright that has him pausing, just looking at you like one looks at an oasis in the desert. “What?” you ask, a familiar heat flooding your face the kind that comes from embarrassment. Or the fear of it. “Do I have something on my face?”

            “No,” he whispers, scooting himself back over the grating to slump beside you. “I just haven’t had something like this in a long time.”

            “Well,” you tell him, letting your head rock to the side, rock to face him, eyes blinking once before focusing on him, tiredness seeping into your bones, to your eyelids, “you have it now.” The smile you give him is hesitant, but he returns it, taking your hand in his, palms against one another, his fingers closing around the sides of your hand, a slight, gentle squeeze given. 

            “Yeah,” he says. “I guess I do. We do.”

            “Yeah,” you agree, your gaze darting away from him, flutters in your stomach that are unfamiliar, but also familiar. “We do.”

            Peter knows that he should stay away from you, that he should avoid you if he knows what’s good for him. That all knowing you will cause is danger, put you in harm’s way the way it did Ned and MJ, but he doesn’t want to stay away from you. You, the girl who didn’t look at him for a one-night stand, but a friend. Someone to experience New York City with for the first time. 

            You were lonely, but braver than he’s ever been and you were so…enthusiastic about the comparing of experiences that how could he ever say no to you. He just couldn’t. There’s just something about you that drew him in and the late night talks that keep happening, legs dangling over the fire escape, whispers carried to one another on the breeze, watching as New York lives on, gleaming and twinkling, just make him want to stay more. 

            Like last night, when you fell asleep beside him and he lay you down, your head on his lap, his hand smoothing down your hair over and over while you slept on, safe and content beside him. He’d whispered to you then, even though you couldn’t hear him, that he should stay away, but he just couldn’t seem to close the door on you. 

            “You know,” he’d said, “I should stay far away from you and keep you safe but…something about you keeps drawing me back. Like I can’t stay away from you, pretty girl.” That’s what he’s called you in his head, pretty girl, because you are. You’re pretty and you’re nice and you’re smart and you laugh too loud and too long and it’s just perfect and he knows in some way that he’s falling even when he wishes that he wasn’t. 

            Because he’ll just bring harm to you. That’s the nature of his life, isn’t it?

            But can’t he have a friend? Does he have to be alone? he wonders as he swings his legs over the edge of his bed, standing up on slightly shaky legs, tired from the fight yesterday and the classes he rushed to get to. 

            “PETER!” he hears you call, your voice echoing through the thin door of his apartment, palm flat, slamming against the door and he sighs, an annoyed sounding sigh even when he’s not really annoyed, but happy, excited. Excited in the way you make him because you live and you’re dragging him along with you. 

            “What?” he rasps as he pulls the door open, the clock reflecting 5:00 AM at him from its perch beside the door. You’re fully dressed, jeans and boots and an Olivia Rodrigo t-shirt on, a trench coat thrown over, arms crossed. 

            “It’s Saturday,” you tell him and he closes his eyes, sighing again, this time real as he leans his forehead against the door, tired and sore and so not in the mood for this. 

            “I’m aware.”

            “Then you’re aware of the fact that we’re looking for the best place to get breakfast,” you say, one eyebrow arched in the way you have when you’re annoyed, your hips canting, weight resting on your left foot, right loose. 

            “Right,” he sighs, pushing himself off the door and holding up four fingers to you, closing the door, saying, “four minutes!”

            “I’ll be waiting!” Maybe that’s what keeps drawing Peter in, the fact that you wait, that you never push, that you plan. That you’re so different from MJ, the girl he still loves, can’t entirely forget, can’t entirely erase no matter how hard he tries. Most of the time he still remembers that goodbye, holding her tight, but when he’s with you…he can see that there is a future. One where he’s okay. 

            “Why NYU?” he asks you, his hand wrapped around yours, the two of you walking on a path in Central Park, raincoats on, the sky grey and overcast, clouds hanging low, swollen with impending rain. “I mean,” he continues when you look back at him, your expression quizzical and so, so pretty that his breath catches in his throat, “why not MIT if you had the grades?”

            “I did have the grades,” you tell him, tipping your head up, eyes closing for a moment as you breathe in the smell of the rain. He knows that you do this often, that you like the stormy weather, has watched you climb out onto the fire escape when it rains to just stand there, arms wide, the rain soaking into your clothes. “I got into MIT, Yale, Stanford, Harvard, Columbia and Cornell, plus of course, NYU. But as a kid,” you pause, your head tipping back down, gaze falling on the cracked pathway, the lines of breaking. “As a kid, I dreamed of New York and NYU because…I don’t know…I just felt that it was right.”

            “Gotta say,” Peter says, squeezing your hand, breath hitching as you look over at him, lips curled into a soft smile, the kind you reserve for him, “that I’m glad you chose NYU.”

            “Me too, buddy,” you tell him, knocking your shoulder against his, his skin tingling, feeling alive in a way it hasn’t really. It’s felt like rubber stretched over bone and now it feels like skin, like he’s alive. 

            But is it selfish to love you?

            “Hey! Puppies!” you cry, tugging him along behind you, taking off towards the animal shelter set-up, puppies tumbling over one another and as he follows, as he watches you scoop a wriggling rottweiler mix into your arms, as he watches that puppy lick your face, eliciting a giggle, one that rings through the park and his heart, he finds he doesn’t care if it’s selfish to love you because he’s fallen anyways. 

            And he can love you from afar, be your friend. It doesn’t change that. 

            It won’t. 

            It can’t. Right?

            The stadium is packed full, your baseball cap pulled low, a newly bought Yankees jersey on, Peter beside you, his body radiating heat as the game goes on. You don’t entirely understand what’s going on having never been a baseball fan before, but it’s the Yankees and it’s iconically New York so you dragged Peter with you after saving up for the tickets. 

            It’s been six months of being buddies with Peter and it’s a sweet kind of torture because every minute that you spend with him, the more you learn about him, the more you feel for him. You don’t know if it’s love, if it can be quantified as such but it’s something. It’s something and you know you should stop hanging out with him, just give your heart a break, but something about him means that you can’t stop. 

            He just keeps drawing you back in. You’ve gone shopping with him, picking out books for one another based on vibes. You’ve spent hours together poring over engineering books and formulas, doing homework side-by-side and every time, there’s that moment when he looks at you with pupil-blown eyes and you think maybe, just maybe but then the moment passes and you curse yourself every time. 

            You curse the heart that just can’t stop hoping. It hurts to hope yet it doesn’t stop. 

            “HOLY SHIT!” Peter yells, standing up and pulling you with him, a baseball flying up at you and you shriek, lifting your hands to bat it away from you, but rather your fist closes on it and you’re left staring at the baseball in your hand. “YOU CAUGHT IT!” he cries and then his arm is around your shoulder and for a moment you can’t breathe because to breathe is to smell him, his uniquely Peter scent of vanilla and sandalwood and nutmeg. 

            The casual touch is the worst part of this torture. 

            “What…what do I do with it?” you ask him and he looks at you, face incredulous before he curls your fingers tighter over the ball, the fingers that had opened, holding the ball out to him like an offering. 

            “You keep it,” he tells you and there’s another moment. Another one where you think maybe, just maybe, his gaze dropping to your lips, his lips parting, but then he blinks and turns away, neck muscles rigid and you can feel that deflating, that crushing. That loss of hope. 

            “Will do,” you whisper, your eyes on him, on the line of his neck, of his jaw. Of him. You really hate hope. 

            The street is lit by the streetlights, dark descended while you were still in the stadium watching a game you didn’t really understand, holding a ball you didn’t mean to catch in your hands. 

            “Let’s go here,” you tell Peter, the two of you looking for a place to eat something sweet, a bakery just off to the side with lights blazing. 

            “No,” he says. “They suck.”

            “You’ve been there?” you ask him, lips curving up as you look at him, watching as his expression blanches, eyes go wide, calculations occurring in that wonderful brain of his. 

            “Yeah,” he says and then he tugs on your arm, pulling you towards a dimly lit diner, an overhang in red and black obscuring a sign that glimmers, refracting at you. “And this place is good.”

            “And how would you know that?” you ask him, tone leading, high-pitched in the way it is when you know something and you’re trying to pry what you already know from someone. 

            “Um…well…uh,” he swallows hard, gaze focused solely on the diner as the two of you run across the street, rushing just as headlights come up to the side, the two of you stepping onto the cracked and falling apart sidewalk as the car rushes past, a breeze blowing by you. 

            “You’re from New York, right?” you ask him and he looks over at you, shock writ upon his features as he pulls the door open, the two of you stepping into the diner, knocking dust and street litter from your boots on the mat. 

            “How’d you know?” he asks and you roll your eyes, sighing as the two of you cross to a table, him sliding in on one side of the booth and you frozen for just a minute. A part of you wants to sit beside him, but you know you shouldn’t, but as you go to slide in across from him, he pats the seat beside him and you slide in beside him, your side pressed against his, heart racing, racing, racing. 

            “No one just finds all of those places on the first try,” you tell him. “Plus…you have this look about you, like the city isn’t a marvel, but rather home. I don’t have that.”

            “So, you just knew?” he asks, his elbow on the table, cheek resting on his palm, attention locked upon you. “You just knew?”

            “I told you I’m smart,” you tell him and he smiles at you, your body alight with feelings and sensations and you look away from him, picking up one of the grease-covered plastic menus, the red binding fraying, plastic cracking in a way that tells you this place is good, well-loved. 

            “What will it take to earn your forgiveness?” he asks and you glance up at him, eyebrows knitting together, your heart climbing into your throat as you look at him, at the way he’s looking at you. Looking at you like you matter. 

            “You don’t have to earn it, Peter. I’m not mad, just curious. Why’d you lie?”

            “Because you were so…enthusiastic and I…I was enamoured by it and didn’t really want anyone else to be your buddy.” You swallow hard, your throat thick, tears stinging your eyes because of what can never be. 

            “Oh,” you whisper and he takes your hand in his, the one beside him, interlacing your fingers with his, resting the joined hands on his thigh. 

            “Do you want to go out with me?” he asks you, stare intense and you can feel your skin heating up, flushing, heart racing and you swallow hard again, mouth just a little bit dry. 

            “Aren’t we kind of already?” you ask him and you like how he ponders what you’ve said, his stare changing, shifting as he considers. 

            “I guess so,” he says. “I mean, we spend all our time together. We might as well just make it official.”

            “Official?”

            “Will you be my girlfriend?” he asks, his cheeks a bright red and you nod, the gesture fast and excited and then he’s letting go of your hand, shifting, hands coming to rest on your cheeks, pulling you to him and pressing a soft and lingering kiss against your lips. 

            It’s a kiss that tastes of first chances, of hope and promise. 

            It’s a kiss for the ages. 

            “I don’t want anything to really change between us, Peter,” you whisper one night, your body curled into him on the fire escape, the two of you watching the skyline of New York, entranced by it. 

            “Then it won’t,” he whispers and you lift your head from his chest to look at him, at the way his face is relaxed, his body safe and warm and not tense like it sometimes is. 

            “Promise?” you ask and he nods, leaning forwards, his lips pressing against yours, open-mouthed and hot, tongue sliding in like a promise, his grip tightening on you like he never wants to let you go. Never wants to lose you. 

            “Promise,” he vows, breaking away from the kiss, his forehead pressing against yours, his eyes closing like you’re his safe space. 

            You think you just might be.

            “Jesus!” you cry out, your back arching off the bed as Peter thrusts in for the first time, sliding in with ease, but the stretch still burns a little bit no matter how long he spent with his face buried between your legs, wanting to make this first time with him the best. It’s a good kind of burn though, a good kind of pain. 

            “’m sorry,” he breathes out, hips rolling slow and steady, the rickety bed still creaking beneath him. 

            “Don’t be sorry,” you whisper, your nails digging into his back. “Just go harder.” He looks at you, concern etched upon his face before he nods and it’s like he’s had restraint and then just lets go, driving in and out of you with force you didn’t really know he had. 

            It’s hard and fast and relentless, stimulating every part of you as he drives in and out, your body moving with the force, his lips hot on your neck and chest as he sucks hickeys into your skin, marking you, the bed creaking and creaking and creaking. 

            Honestly, the warning signs were all there, but you were too fucked out to notice and Peter was too obsessed with the feel of your walls clinging to him, to the taste of you on his tongue and the way you cry out his name, but the bed creaks one more time as Peter thrusts in and then it feels like the ground has given way, the bed breaking, landing on the floor with force. 

            “Shit,” Peter whispers, pausing in his rhythm, hands running over your body, not to turn you on, not to make love to you, but to check for injury. “You okay?” he asks and maybe it’s the way he asks, but you can’t help but let out a small giggle, one that grows as he looks at you with such horror on his pretty face. “Why are you laughing?”

            “We broke the bed,” you tell him, your voice high, a giggle itself. 

            “And that’s funny? Because I’m still inside of you and you laughing is not doing much for my confidence,” he tells you and you’re still giggling as you lift one hand to his cheek, his head moving into your hand, pressing in. 

            “I just think it’s funny that we broke the bed, Peter. We were already going to get noise complaints,” you tell him and his expression darkens, but not in an angry way, rather a horny way. 

            “We’re gonna earn those noise complaints,” he tells you and that’s all the warning you get before he’s thrusting back into you without abandon, your back arching up and into him again, the giggles turning to cries of his name. 

            It’s later, after, the two of you curled into each other on his broken bed when he rests his hand upon your cheek that he whispers, “I love you.” It’s like the world has stopped, your heart in your throat, tears stinging your eyes, but the good kind of tears. 

            “I love you too,” you whisper and he pulls you even closer against him like he’s trying to fuse the two of you together, just burrow into you. 

            And it’s the best sleep you’ve had in ages. The first time you’ve ever felt safe. 

            Peter’s tired as he swings into his apartment, ready to just peel his suit off and fall into his bed, the attic apartment better for his arrivals, better because it goes unnoticed, it’s not right next to your apartment. He can’t drag you into this if you don’t know. 

            He lands in his bedroom, hands drifting to his mask, pulling it off and preparing to toss it onto his bed when he shrieks, a figure sitting on the bed, arms crossed. 

            “Who the fuck are you?!” he yells, shooting a web at the figure only to hear your muffled groan of distaste. “Pretty girl?! Is that you?!”

            “Yeah, it’s me,” you tell him, voice flat with distaste, your figure pushing off the bed, rising and walking towards him, expression irritated, arms stuck to your torso by webs.

            “What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice gentle as he walks to you, pulling the webs from off your body, tossing them aside, his hands, still gloved in his costume, resting on your upper arms, grip warm and your expression softens. 

            “I figured out that you were Spiderman weeks ago and I’ve been waiting for you to tell me, but you haven’t and I was tired of waiting so I…you know, broke in.”

            “You broke into my apartment?” he asks and you nod, your hand coming to rest on his cheek where a bruise is forming from where the bad guy hit him. He hisses as you touch it, your touch achingly gentle but the skin so sensitive. 

            “I wanted answers,” you tell him and he walks the two of you backwards towards his bed, pulling you onto his lap, your body curling into him, fitting to him in a way that makes his heart ache in good ways and bad, guilt seeping in. 

            It’s a guilt that made him write a letter weeks ago to MJ, one to never be sent. He feels this deep guilt because he worries that he moved on too soon. But when he’s with you like this, feeling alive, feeling loved when to the rest of the world he’s naught but a ghost, he doesn’t feel guilty at all. He feels like he’s right where he belongs. 

            “Are you mad?” he whispers and you look at him, shock and hurt on your face as you press a soft, gentle, tender kiss against his lips, the taste of your cherry lip gloss slipping into his mouth.

            “Never,” you whisper and he relaxes, your hand tracing shapes on his still suit covered chest. “It’s just…can you tell me everything about Spiderman or…” you trail off, your gaze falling away from him, brow furrowing and he lets go of your thigh to reach up, pulling your face to him, making you look at him, his lips pressing against yours in a harder kiss, one that says forever. That says everything he needs it to say. 

            “I don’t want to have secrets from you,” he whispers and then he tells you everything. He tells you about his parents, the spider bite, the first villain, the meeting of MJ and the Europe debacle; Aunt May’s death, the other Spidermen, the erasure of himself from everyone’s memory. 

            He doesn’t know what he expected when he finished, but it wasn’t this, the way you hold his cheek so tenderly, so preciously, like he’s everything, your eyes warms and glimmering, full of love. 

            It wasn’t you whispering, “I know you, Peter. You’re not a ghost. Not to me. I didn’t know you before but I know you now. I don’t think that’s nothing.”

            “It’s not,” he whispers, pressing his forehead against yours. “It’s everything because you’re right. I’m a ghost to everyone, but you and I love you. More than that, I’m in love with you.”

            “Me too, Peter. I’m in love with you too,” you whisper and that’s how the two of you fall asleep, curled into one another, his suit still on. 

            And when he wakes in the morning, he doesn’t move, doesn’t shift, just pulls you closer. You, the only person in the world who knows him. All of him. 

            He wouldn’t trade that for the world. 

            “Peter!” you squeal as he swings into his apartment, scooping you up and running to the bathroom. “Put me down! You need to shower!”

            “I know,” he says, closing the door behind, peeling his suit off, standing there in nothing but his boxers before you, a tent noticeable. “You don’t expect me to do this alone, do you?” You laugh as he strips entirely naked and pulls your clothes off, guiding you into the shower and under the spray. 

            It’s not rough sex or fevered sex. It’s slow and gentle and full of kisses, lips gliding along skin, tongues against tongues. Him tracing the lines of your body with his mouth, whispering I love you against your body with every kiss. 

            It’s hot and sweet and perfect. Just like him. 

            You didn’t go looking for the letter, you went looking for your notebook that you left at Peter’s place two days ago, but you found the letter anyways. The letter written for the girl who forgot him, the girl he apparently never got over. 

            And sometimes, Spider-Man has to do the hard thing. Even if it breaks Peter Parker's heart. Maybe I'll never read this to you. Maybe I'm just writing this for me. Maybe that's my responsibility, to live alone with the truth. But the truth is I love you. 

            And I hope that deep down, something inside you remembers you love me too.

            You didn’t go looking for the letter, but you found it anyways when it fluttered out of the pages of his favourite book. Almost four years of being with him, of knowing him, every piece of him and it’s not enough. 

            It’s not enough because someone else holds his heart and you are just the other woman. You are the one warming his bed until some miracle occurs and she remembers and they can live happily ever after together. And you’ll be nothing but a footnote in his story. 

            An adventure without her. 

            The truth is I love you. 

            How many times has he said that to you, you wonder, your tears soaking into your pillow, body shaking with your sobs, blankets pulled up to your chin. 

            Logically, you know it could be old. That it doesn’t matter, that things changed, but you…don’t believe that. You have spent nearly four years loving him and he hasn’t loved you. Maybe he doesn’t even now. 

            Maybe he’s never loved you. How do you know? The problem is you don’t. 

            All you know is that your skin is seared with tears, throat thick, heart racing, chest constricting, lungs burning as you cry. As you cry everything out, sobs hurting your body, destroying you because you know that even after that, you will not leave him. Because you love him. 

            Because how can you leave him when you don’t know the truth of the letter? Maybe it’s old. Maybe he does love you.

            And life is good, isn’t it?

            You just need to cry right now. That’s all. 

            “Peter?” you call out, pushing his door open, stepping into his apartment in the attic, webs everywhere. You’ve been avoiding him for a week, the hurt of the letter still too fresh. It’s why you’re here now, you want to talk to him about it, get the truth behind it, but the apartment…it looks destroyed. 

            Furniture knocked over, webs on every surface, over all the walls. Nail marks on the walls, deep gouges. 

            “Peter?!” you call out, your voice urgent, worried, your heart beating a frantic rhythm as you step deeper into the apartment, hearing a strange sound from his room. “PETER!”

            “Go away!” you hear him yell, his voice hoarse, halfway between his voice and a deeper sound, a growl. “Just go away!”

            “No,” you call out, heart beating both out of fear and anger because you are here because you need answers and you’re not just going to be turned away. “No, come out here!” You hear him stand, shuffle out towards you and your breath hitches when you see him, eyes black, just black. “Peter? What’s wrong?”

            “I’m not…me,” he rasps, the black leaching away as he looks at you, body sweating, shaking, stumbling towards you. “I’m worried I’ll…hurt you.”

            “You won’t,” you whisper and then he’s there, pulling you against him, his body shaking as he holds you, his nose buried into the crook of your neck, breathing you in. 

            “It’s like…the world is dark…” he whispers. “Like I know…nothing. Nothing but you. Always you.” And then he’s pulling you down onto the floor, his body holding yours, tight, tight, tight like he can’t let you go. Like if he lets you go, he’ll lose you. 

            Like you’ll leave him. 

            And if he knows nothing but you…doesn’t that mean he loves you?

            “Peter,” you whisper, “is this because I’ve been avoiding you?” His grip tightens, a growl sounding deep in his throat. 

            “Mine,” he whispers and you swallow hard, guilt leaching into your bones as you shift, your hands brushing his hair back from his face, the black in his eyes leaching back to the warm, soft brown. “I think…maybe…it was a trigger. For my…change.”

            “Peter,” you whisper and he looks at you, warm brown eyes filled with tears. “I’m not leaving you. I’m not. I was dealing with some stuff and didn’t know what to do, but I’m not leaving you. I love you.” And that’s your truth—you love him. Deeply, like it’s a piece of you. 

            “Don’t leave,” he whispers and you press your forehead against his, hands still smoothing his hair back, his body shuddering beneath you. 

            “Never,” you whisper and that’s how you stay, held tight by him all night. Because he needs you. 

            And you need him too.

            “What if we…inhibit whatever is changing you?” you ask him the next morning, seated on the only intact chair in his apartment, pencil moving on the scrap piece of paper, formulas spilling out, a design sketching across the paper. “Like…Professor Banner did one. If we could inhibit this change in you, chemical or biological and prevent it from controlling you…that would be good right?”

            He turns from where he’s been struggling to make coffee around all the webs and destruction. “God, I love you,” he says and you roll your eyes, a pleased smile growing on your lips nonetheless. 

            “Well come on, biotech engineer! Can’t do this without you!”

            Peter knows nothing when the arachnid comes over him, takes over. It’s like the world is dark and everything is strange and foreign and so much. Too loud, too strong, too bright. It’s like he’s possessed, the real him shoved down, but one thing he does know. 

            You, always you. It’s like he’s engineered to know you, designed to love you. 

            He always knows you. 

            The arachnid in him always whispers mine and when Peter wakes up…he can’t argue with it. Because he’s never loved anyone like he’s loved you. 

            Peter doesn’t know how Jean Grey got into his apartment, but she did. She found the letter he wrote three years ago to MJ, back when he was feeling guilty, back before he’d spilled everything to you. Back before you became his everything. 

            But Jean Grey found the letter to MJ and once again he’s put her in danger. Because he loved her once, because he knew her. Because he misses her, not as a girlfriend, but a friend. The person he used to know. And he feels so guilty over putting her in danger again.

            Which is why he’s here, at MJ’s apartment, bursting in only to see you there too, sitting and talking with her, that soft smile on your face, the one he fell in love with all those years ago.

            “Babe?” he calls out and you turn, a question in your eyes. 

            “Why’d you ask me here?” you ask him and he can feel the ground shift underneath his feet as he looks at MJ, a smile on her face that he doesn’t know. One that’s wholly not her. 

            “You’re in MJ aren’t you, Jean?” he asks and the grin only widens as she nods, stepping around the kitchen counter, a knife in her hand. “Come on! Stab me, I can take it.”

            “It’s not for you, Peter,” Jean says, but it’s MJ’s voice and it hurts, hearing her voice say his name. “It’s for your girlfriend.” He barely has time to breathe, to speak before he’s watching MJ (Jean) plunge the knife into your stomach, your body bending into the gesture, folding in, a silent scream leaving your lips. 

            “NO!” he yells and he can feel the arachnid claw up into him, the inhibitor not yet finished as he crosses the room to you, your body falling into his arms. 

            “Peter, Peter. Peter,” Jean says, her words in a parody of MJ’s voice, dark and cruel and unrelenting, teasing and taunting. 

            “WHAT?!” he roars, turning, his arms still holding you, tears slipping down his cheeks. 

            “I’m giving you a choice,” she says and he realizes just how close MJ stands to the open window, the one that if she fell out of would kill her. “You choose one of them to save. There’s a right choice and a wrong choice, Peter. The right choice saves them both, the wrong choice has one die. Who’s it gonna be, Peter?” He watches as she climbs onto the window ledge, turning, preparing to jump, that cruel smile on her face. 

            “Peter,” you whisper, your hand reaching for him, your blood soaking your shirt, soaking the floor and he feels his body hitch, fold in on itself because he wants to stay with you, call the ambulance and save you, but he knows that MJ is the right choice. Because he failed her once and he can’t fail her again. 

            “I’m sorry,” he whispers and he lays you down on the floor, gentle and takes off, jumping out the window, arms wrapped around MJ, webs shooting up and out, carrying her away, carrying her to safety in Castle’s hideout. 

            “Wrong choice, Peter,” Jean whispers and then she’s gone and in her place is MJ, scared and terrified MJ who he explains some things to and she relaxes, going with him. He drops her off and then he’s rushing back, his heart feeling like it’s breaking as he races against time back to MJ’s apartment, hurrying and breaking, bursting back into the window, your body unconscious, the blade removed, a giant pool of blood beneath you. 

            “NO!” he cries, falling to his knees beside you, shooting webs into your stomach, using them to hold you together, the sound of the ambulance roaring, the webs soaking with blood and he holds you against him, crying, your pulse so weak. “NO! STAY! I LOVE YOU!” 

            And he stays with you until the EMTs take you away and then he leaves the apartment, needing justice. Needing to finish this. 

            For you. 

            “Why’d you do that to me, Jean?” you ask, your body lying flat in the meadow. A memory of yours that you’re in, that she’s in too. 

            “To show Peter the truth,” she says and you sit up, turning to look at her, a redheaded girl no older than you are, her face worried and tear-stained. “That sometimes you make the wrong choice and you have to live with that. With what it does.”

            “So, you killed me for that?”

            “No,” she says, sinking down beside you in the swaying grass. “No one was ever going to die. I called the ambulance as soon as he made his choice. I just need him to understand.”

            “Why Jean?” She looks at you, utterly broken. 

            “Because I have answers that I need and I keep making wrong choices. And I have no one.”

            “Not true,” you tell her and she looks at you, brows knitting as you reach for her hand, taking it in yours. “You have me.”

            “I almost killed you.”

            “But you were never going to let me die,” you tell her and watch as a single tear slips down her cheek. “You know, there’s this story I read once about sisters forged in blood. And I don’t know your story, Jean. But I can be that if you need it.”

            “Why?” she asks you, her voice not breaking so much as already broken. 

            “Because everyone needs someone. And you’re not evil, Jean. You’re just…you need someone and that can be me.”

            “I’d like that,” she says and the two of you lay back into the meadow, the ring of ambulance sirens just cutting through along with the echo of someone yelling stay. “I’ll see you later.”

            “Yeah,” you tell her. “Later.” And she disappears and you’re left with the knowledge that Peter didn’t choose you ringing in your heart, tears slipping down your cheeks until the light flares bright and pain flares stronger and the meadow winks out and the hospital lights wink in. 

            “She’s back!”

            But back to what, you wonder. What’s there for you now in a city where you’ve only really found pain?

            When you got discharged from the hospital, the first thing you did was pack up all your stuff, the acceptance to Oxford for your Ph.D finally chosen. Two weeks before you fly out. Two weeks before you leave New York behind for good. 

            You took your stuff to your best friend, Gwen’s house where you’ve been ever since, camping on her couch, alternating between crying your eyes out and going out only when you know that Peter will be busy with work. The times where you’ll never cross paths. 

            He didn’t choose you. He chose MJ. He had the chance to save you both and he saved her because he didn’t see the fact that he could have caught her with a web while staunching the flow of blood from your wound. Choosing you was the right choice but he didn’t think at all. He just said sorry and took her to safety. 

            He left you to die. 

            He left you to die like you were nothing. 

            You can’t stay around him because when you look at him, how will you ever see anything but the man who left you to bleed out? How can you forgive him?

            You can’t. 

            You just can’t. 

            So, you’ll bide your time before you fly out, before you leave New York, leave the fucking country behind, finding safety at Oxford, at the hallowed halls you’ve always wanted to be at. 

            You’ll leave Peter behind and move on with your life. 

            Because you deserve that.

            Because he didn’t choose you. He’ll never choose you. You were just the Other Woman. 

            Peter didn’t want to meet with Ned, but he’s spent weeks moping over you, over the fact that everywhere he looks you’re not there. The arachnid is not happy, but it can’t do anything, not now that Peter can control it. Not now that he knows that it’s him. 

            He went because he just wanted to know if he could remember him and he wasn’t expecting that spark, the handshake or the way Ned cried after he said Peter. He wasn’t expecting him to remember. 

            “You really love her?” Ned asks now, the two of them in his attic apartment, piecing Legos together to form the Millenium Falcon. 

            “I really do,” he answers, pressing a block down and Ned sighs, leaning back in his chair and shaking his head at him. 

            “Then dude! You have to get her back.” Peter looks at Ned, red just tinging his vision, the urge to smash the work of several weeks still there, the darker side always going to be there. 

            “How, Ned? I chose MJ and she thinks I left her to die! I doubt she’ll believe anything I have to say.”

            “If you really love her,” Ned says, leaning forwards in his chair, arms resting on his knees, hands folded under his chin, “then show her. Put everything on the line for her and tell her everything. Even if it means leaving it all behind.”

            “But what if she still says no?” Peter whispers. 

            “But what if she says yes, man?”

            The airport is far too loud for this early in the morning and you’re still sad, that particular sadness of leaving your life behind swirling in your gut, the sight of Gwen’s teary face as she waved goodbye still eating at you now while you sit, waiting for the time to board. Waiting for the time to leave it all behind. 

            At least that was until you heard your name being called in a voice you never wanted to hear again. You turn in your chair, taking in the sight of Peter, his curls brushed out of his face, hooded jacket on, dark blue jeans and the Rolling Stones shirt you bought him one Christmas on his frame. 

            He looks good. And that hurts. You turn back around, ignoring him, hoping he doesn’t come closer, but of course you aren’t that lucky, his footsteps, his unique rhythm echoing behind you as he steps around to sit down beside you, his hands folded in his lap, attention focused on the large windows exposing the planes. 

            “When Harry Met Sally,” he says and you glance at him, surprise etching on your face, throat thickening and lungs burning as you look at him. 

            “What?” you ask, your voice thick in that way a voice is when you’re holding back tears, that image of his masked face whispering sorry still too strong. 

            “Hardy-Weinberg equilibrium, blue, popcorn and milk duds. You hate coding but you love calculating. You love watching sunrises but hate watching sunsets. You like the moon more than the sun but the sun more than the stars. You hate sleeping with the windows open. You love sleeping with your arms out of the covers. You love when we cuddle. You love coffee, so much so that if we cut you open, you always say that you’d bleed caffeine.”

            “Peter,” you whisper and he looks over at you, his face creased with pain, tears slipping down his cheeks over and over again, his face carved with the rivulets of grief. “Peter, you didn’t choose me. You left me to die. How can…How can I-I forgive you?” Tears are slipping down your cheeks now and he sighs, reaching for your hand, fingers interlacing through yours. 

            “I chose wrong,” he whispers. “I know that now. I could have saved you both, but all I thought in that moment was that I had already failed MJ and that I didn’t want her to die because I felt guilty. But I went right back for you. I must have broken a thousand speed records to get back to you. 

            “I held you as you bled. It were my webs that saved you, staunching the blood flow. I held you until the EMTs arrived. I yelled and begged and pleaded for you to stay, but you were unconscious, you didn’t hear me. But I was there.” He looks at you with such pain that you reach forwards, hands cupping his cheeks, thumbs wiping away his tears. 

            You look at him and in his eyes, you see the truth there. You know he’s not lying. You know he loves you. That he would do anything for you. That he loves you. That it wasn’t fake. 

            You weren’t the other woman after all. 

            “Peter,” you whisper, your voice still hitching with the tears, “I forgive you…but I can’t stay here. I can’t stay in New York.”

            “I know,” he whispers and then a figure steps up beside him, two carry-on bags on his shoulders. 

            “I’m Ned,” he says and you can feel a bit of shock in your system, this man, Peter’s best friend. The one who forgot him. “And yeah, I remember.”

            “I’m coming with you,” Peter says. 

            “While, actually,” Ned says. “We’re coming with you because he’s following you and I’m following him because I’ve gone four years without my best friend and not any more. Also, I’m mission control so… you know. He needs me.” He sits down beside Peter and Peter elbows him, a choked giggle escaping from your throat as you wave at Ned. Peter whispers, “Shut up” at Ned and it only makes you laugh harder. 

            “But what about Spiderman?” you whisper and he looks at you with such love as he pulls you against him that it feels for a moment like you’re complete. 

            “I’m always gonna be him,” he says. “It’s not the city that matters. It’s you. I can be Spiderman anywhere so long as my home is there. As long as you’re there, because, pretty girl. You’re all that matters to me. Where you go, I go.”

            “I hope you like rain,” you whisper and he pulls back, pressing his forehead against yours. 

            “I love it,” he whispers and then he’s kissing you, hard and deep and fast and you were wrong before. Your first kiss wasn’t a kiss for the ages. 

            This is. 

            Because this is the moment that you became real. 

Another rainy evening results in you staying cooped up in your dorm, eyes heavy despite being dosed up on caffeine, the warm lamp light on your desk ghosting over your laptop screen and papers in a golden blur.

It’s that point in the semester where the weather is getting colder, the stakes are getting higher, and everyone is cramming to memorize fifteen weeks of school work in one night. For you, an Entomology major, your current ball and chain is a thoroughly written report on arachnids, their mating cycles, and their habits.

The sound of the rain thumping against your windowsill makes it hard to focus. But it’s not just the rain that tears away your attention—it’s the fact that your boyfriend, Peter, is out doing God knows what on his exam night. He assured you he would be back no later than ten, but one quick glance at the clock tells you he’s late. It reads 12:45 AM.

You’re eager to reach for your phone and shoot a quick call to Evie, but you try your best to resist so you don’t get in the way of his typical superhero duties. As the minutes tick by and your daunting report burns bright on your screen, your worry gives way.

With a sigh, you sit up straight in your chair and snatch your phone. As you’re dialing his suit, a hard crash against the window makes you gasp and jolt in your seat.

As if he knew you were about to call, Peter is right there.

He quickly slides your window open and sneaks in smoothly—drenched in rain and panting hard.

“Christ, Peter!” You try to will away the adrenaline from the scare. “You told me you’d be back at ten. I was just about to call you—”

Peter nearly collapses over your desk as he tries to hold himself up, scattering your research papers. Normally, you’d give him a lecture for messing up your study station, but as worry washes over you, you don’t even glance at the pages you’ve slaved over for the past twenty-four hours.

“Peter? Peter, look at me—what happened?” you hurry over to him, your hands cupping his cheeks through his mask.

His suit is soaked through, cold rain pooling on the floor, but despite the chill, his body radiates a feverish, unnatural heat. His breathing comes in hard pants and desperate gulps. He rips his gloves off harshly and tears at the neck of his suit.

“I—I don’t know,” he rasps, his voice strained as if he’s trying to swallow down a growl. “Something’s wrong. I—I’ve been feeling like this for days, and I thought it was just a fever—but then I started producing my own webs, and I—”

“Okay, okay, just breathe. Help me get you down.”

You wrap one arm around his waist and guide him toward your bed, but the contact makes him hiss sharply, as if your touch hurts him. You quickly help him undress out of the rest of the suit, eager to examine him for any injuries.

He lies before you in just his underwear—and as you scan Peter’s muscular frame, you notice nothing unusual except for a strange pulsing in the veins at his wrists.

“Peter,” you frown, eyeing him up and down to make sure you haven’t missed anything. “You’re not injured—are you?”

“No,” he reassures through ragged breaths. “No, I’m not injured—it’s just—I don’t know, everything feels so warm and I—”

“Here, let me help you remove your mask.”

Without warning, you lean over his body and reach for the hem of his mask at the base of his neck. He gasps sharply the moment your fingers graze his hot skin. “No! Don’t touch it!”

His hand shoots out and clasps your wrist tightly, making you wince. He has never grabbed you like that before.

Peter, realizing what he’s done, loosens his grip on your wrist just slightly.

“Crap—I’m sorry. I just… don’t remove it, okay?” He pants heavily. “My eyes—they’re pitch black. I’ve never had this happen before, and I don’t want to scare you.”

A line creases between your brows in worry. “I could never be scared of you.”

“I know, I know,” he sucks in a deep breath, the pillows rustling as he turns his head toward you. You can’t see his face, but his voice betrays his pained expression. “Please don’t remove it. Not yet.”

“But what if you’re injured?”

“If I had a head injury, I would tell you.”

You search the white lenses of his mask, but eventually, you give in with an exasperated sigh and slowly lower your hand from his neck. Peter doesn’t let go of your wrist; he intertwines his clammy fingers with yours.

With a solemn expression, you cup your free palm over his knuckles while holding his hand.

“Peter, what’s happening to you?” you ask softly, kneeling beside him at the edge of the bed.

He swallows hard, his neck flushing a deep, embarrassing shade of red where his mask pulled up.

“It’s hard to explain,” he stammers, his lenses focusing on the ceiling of your warmly lit dorm room. “For the past few days, my body’s been feeling restless. It’s like every single instinct I have is screaming at me to do something, but my brain couldn’t figure out what.”

His hand—the one that isn’t holding yours—clenches into a fist, the veins and muscles in his forearm popping with frustration.

“And then tonight,” he continues in almost a bashful whisper, “I started producing my own webs. Like Peter Two did—” He turns to you real quick. “You remember Peter Two, right?”

You nod. He looks back up at the ceiling.

“Anyway, the webs weren’t strong enough to control at all. It felt… almost painful. It wouldn’t stop spurting out. There’s also this feeling in my gut— like I’m hungry.”

The white lenses of his mask narrow in embarrassment. “And I don’t mean for food,” he mutters, shifting his hips awkwardly until the bed creaks. “My body was screaming at me to come back to you. To feel your touch, to hear your voice… and now that you’re here, my skin burns every time you touch me, but I don’t want you to stop. I feel like I’d die if you did.”

You hum softly, your fingers stroking over his knuckles as your eyes rake over his body once more. Without even looking at you, Peter can feel the weight of your gaze—and fuck, it’s heavy. You’re his girlfriend, and you’ve seen him through all his ups and downs, but for some reason, this feels completely different.

His body is tense, his skin is burning hot, and his heart is beating erratically. The longer you stare at him, the longer you stroke your fingers against his hand, the more he feels an unmistakable ache in his groin.

Before he knows it, his underwear begins to tighten, revealing a prominent, pulsing bulge right in front of you—begging for your touch to move from his hands to somewhere much lower.

You swallow hard, your face heating up instantly at his size.

Your mind—trained by months of endless lectures, lab practicals, and late-night readings—slowly begins connecting the dots. The feverish body temperature, the blacked-out eyes, the hyper-fixation on your presence, his restlessness, the involuntary production of silk, the sudden surge of physical arousal—it isn’t just a random mutation spike.

It’s textbook arachnid behavior. It also happens to be exactly what you’re writing your report on right now.

“Peter,” you try your best to pry your eyes away from the space between his legs. “You’re in an ultimate molt cycle.”

Through the white lenses of his mask, he squints at you in confusion. “A... a what?”

“Ultimate molt,” you repeat, pushing yourself off the floor so you’re sitting at the edge of the bed. “In mature male spiders, the final molt signals sexual maturity. Their bodies undergo a massive physiological shift. They stop eating, their metabolic rate and temperature skyrocket, and their brain gets overtaken with one goal in mind.”

Peter swallows hard. “And what’s that?”

“Um,” you say, sheepish. “Reproduction.”

His head slumps back onto the pillow with a small thud. “Oh, God.” He shuts his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. “I’m pretty sure you’ve explained this to me before.”

You squint at him. “I did. During the beginning of the semester. I also told you this was something you should keep in mind—but you insisted that none of it actually applied to you.”

Peter doesn’t say anything, but you can already see the smug grin sitting behind his mask.

“Anyway,” you quickly glance down at his erection before continuing. “When a male reaches this stage, his silk glands change. He builds what’s called a sperm web—a small, specialized sheet of silk where he deposits his genetic material so he can charge his pedipalps.”

“English, please.”

You roll your eyes. “Your body is trying to build a sperm web, Peter. Your spider DNA is hitting its final maturation phase, and your bloodstream is swimming with reproductive hormones.”

“And the only way to fix it is by…” Peter drawls.

He already knows the answer, but the way he dances around the words makes it clear he’s trying to get you to admit it out loud. You can’t believe that even in such a vulnerable situation, he still manages to find a way to tease you.

“Having sex,” you finish, a shy expression creeping onto your face.

A silence settles between the two of you—a silence filled with so much tension that most people wouldn’t consider it “normal” for a couple.

The few times you and Peter had sex, it was gentle, intimate, and respectful. It always involved him whispering sweet nothings into your ear and making sure your pleasure came first. Even without saying it aloud, you both know that if you were to do it right now, it would be entirely different. Peter isn’t even sure he could control himself.

You clear your throat, trying to break the tension.

“Well—that’s what I’ve been writing my research paper on. Male spiders can get extremely aggressive at this point in their lives, so scientists are trying to find remedies that don’t require a female partner,” you explain, slowly prying your hand away from his and standing up from the bed. “If I check my references, I might be able to find something that can help you—”

Peter’s whole body tenses. With your touch gone for even a millisecond, he feels like he’s starving. Before you can step away, he stops you with a firm grip around your wrist.

“No,” he breathes roughly. “Get back here.”

With a harsh tug, he pulls you back down onto the mattress. “If having sex is what’ll solve this,” Peter rasps in a low, hungry voice, “then that’s what we’re going to do.”

Warmth spreads rapidly across your face and down your neck. You look down at him, reaching to gently cup the side of his masked jaw. He shudders.

“Peter… look at me,” you whisper softly, your voice trembling just a bit. “I’m always going to want to help you. Always. But… is this something you actually want?”

Peter’s body tenses—not because of anything you said, but because your touch feels like throwing gasoline onto a roaring flame.

“More than anything,” he breathes out, his hand blanketing yours to keep it there. “Every cell in my body is begging for you.”

His white lenses stay locked on your eyes as his hands move down to his waist. Even just lying in his underwear, he feels restricted. Contained. His body screams at him to get rid of it. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and shoves them down his legs, kicking them aside.

Freed from the restraint, his length springs heavy and hard against his lower stomach, so swollen it looks almost painful. The dark tip is already glistening, leaking a clear, hot bead of pre-cum. His whole body twitches at the release of pressure, a low groan escaping his throat as he guides your hand down to his hip.

You’ve touched him plenty of times, but tonight, even the simplest graze of your fingertips feels like nothing he’s ever experienced before.

“It hurts so bad,” he whimpers behind his mask. “Please… I need you to ride it.”

His cock twitches, his balls sitting heavy and full between his legs. You swallow hard, clenching your thighs together. You’ve never ridden him before, and the thought of doing it now—when he needs it most—makes you feel self-conscious.

“Peter, I’ve… I’ve never—”

“I know,” he reassures, though his voice strains painfully, like he’s fighting to hold back. “Just try your best, okay? I know your body can take it. I can smell how wet you are.”

His spider sense is buzzing violently. He can hear the uneven thump of your heartbeat, feel the heat radiating off your skin, and smell the scent of your arousal filling the air—sweet and intoxicating, driving every instinct in his blood wild.

His masked head tilts up, white lenses expanding slightly as he watches you straddle his hips.

Hovering over him, you reach for the hem of your shirt. You pull it over your head and cast it aside, followed by your sleep shorts, until you’re straddling him in just your underwear.

Peter lets out a trembling exhale. His large hand wraps around the base of his cock, his hot fingers closing tight over himself. He begins to stroke lazily—up and down in long drags that make his hips roll for more. The wet slicking noise of his pre-cum against his palm echoes in the quiet room.

“Fuck,” he groans. Through the white lenses of his mask, you can tell his gaze is glued to you, tracing every curve, watching every move. “Look at you… you’re so pretty.”

Emboldened by how much of an effect you have on him, you discard your panties, baring yourself completely. You settle yourself back over his hips, positioning yourself right above him. Peter’s hand rests at his base, holding his cock steady as he watches you slowly lower your body until the tip presses against the tightness of your entrance.

A choked, almost sobbing sound breaks from his throat.

Control yourself, Peter tries to remind himself. He thought he had it handled, but his senses are louder than ever—telling him to grab your waist and drive you down in one ruthless pull.

“Oh, God,” he curses, tossing his head back against the pillows as you sink deeper.

You stop halfway, your face flashing with worry. “Is this hurting you?” you ask. “We can stop.”

Peter feels like he’s going insane. His hands fist the blankets beneath him, because he doesn’t trust himself to touch you right now.

“No,” he hisses. “It only hurts because I’m not inside yet. Don’t stop. All the way in, baby. You’re almost there.”

You take a deep breath, resting your hands flat on his broad chest to steady yourself. You push your hips down, taking the remaining inch of his girth until your hips flush against his. The stretch is dizzying, making your heart take flight in your chest.

Peter’s cock sheathes hot inside you, twitching as it savors every surface of your tight walls.

You can’t make out his expression past the mask, but from the way his head is thrown back and the veins pop in his forearms as he grips the bedsheets, it’s clear he’s about to lose his mind. You tilt your head back with a soft breathy sigh, letting your hips roll against his in a slow, testing rhythm.

The movement alone drives his heightened senses over the edge.

Whatever thin thread of restraint Peter was clinging to snaps entirely.

With a sharp hiss, his hands shoot out from the tangled sheets. His large hot palms slam against your bare hips, his long fingers digging into your skin with an inescapable grip—holding you tightly in place as his primal instincts take over.

“I can’t—I can’t wait,” he rasps painfully. “I’m sorry, baby, I need it now—”

Without giving you time to answer, his hips snap upward in a ruthless thrust that sends a gasp flying from your lips. Before you can even catch your breath, he sets a punishing pace from underneath you, using his grip on your waist to guide your body up and down his length in hard, unrelenting pistons.

The wet slap of skin meeting skin echoes loudly through your dorm room. You feel his chest heaving against your hands while the white lenses hide the obsession behind his pitch-black eyes. It’s a good thing he kept the mask on—because with the way his cock is kissing your womb, he knows his eyes are crazed.

“Oh, God! Peter!” You cry out, your tits bouncing with every upward thrust of his hips.

“Fuck—fuck, you feel so tight,” Peter groans.

He lifts his hips, bridging his back so he can thrust deeper, angling his length so every hard drive grinds right up against your most sensitive spot. Your vision swims as he ravages you from the inside, a tight, coiled pressure building deep in your lower belly.

The pleasure is overwhelming, yet it’s still not enough for him. His cock needs to drive even deeper—until your wetness coats his entire length from tip to base, until both of your juices combine into a thick sheen right where his brunette curls rest at his pelvis.

He wants to make a mess out of you, to see you crying his name and begging to be filled.

Filled up…

The idea of it makes Peter go crazy.

Peter sits up fast, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you to his chest before you can even blink. Your positions are flipped as he hovers over you from behind.

His knees bracket your thighs while his chest presses flush against your spine. You gasp at the sudden shift, his hands wrapping firmly around your hips to pull you back against his cock as he aligns himself once more.

“Peter—” you cry out, your voice muffled into the mattress. It smells just like him.

“Stay right there,” he growls into your neck, his hot breath searing your skin. “Don’t move.”

He’s got you in a perfect position—face down, ass up, completely bared and vulnerable for mating.

He’s never had you in such a vulgar position before—all of your lovemaking before was face to face so he could see every whimper and tear that spills. But in this position, the angle is even deeper. Your back arches perfectly. His cock finds your entrance again, and with how wet you are, he finds no trouble burying his cock all the way back inside you, a harsh grunt breaking from his throat as your tight walls clamp around him. His hands dig into your hips, locking you in place as he begins to pound into you from behind with a speed he’s never used on you before.

“Oh!” you cry into the pillow.

Every thrust pushes you forward into the sheets, the wet, slapping sound of his hips against yours filling the air alongside his groans.

“I feel so backed up,” he grunts so quietly, it’s like he’s speaking to himself. “This feels so good—gonna dump it all inside you. Make me feel better.”

Peter’s balls slap against your folds, obscenely hot and heavy. It’s in this moment that you realize what exactly this is. He has you in the same position you’ve seen in countless textbooks during your studies.

During spider mating, the male must align his pedipalps with the female’s epigyne for a successful sperm transfer.

Peter is going to breed you.

A low growl escapes him when his cock hits a particularly sensitive spot. Your walls, tight and rubbing against the underside of his cock, drive him insane, his muscles tensing as he throws his head back in pleasure. He’s sweating profusely under the mask, almost making it harder to breathe, but he doesn’t care. His body screams for something else, and as his cock pistons in and out of you, accompanied by your moans and cries of his name, he feels himself getting close.

His girth makes your eyes roll back, an overwhelming cry tearing from your throat. Instinctively, you scramble your legs and arms for purchase, trying to get into a more suitable position, but in Peter’s blacked-out eyes, he thinks you’re running away.

A disapproving groan vibrates in his chest as one hand releases your hip to grab your wrists, pinning them behind your back. His legs wrestle against yours to keep them still from behind. Then, he shoots out a web—an organic, self-made web that slings around your wrists like a band, and then another to keep your ankles pinned, effectively keeping you in place.

“Almost there,” Peter grunts, his sweaty chest pressing up against your bare back as he ruts into you. “You’re doing so good for me, baby. God—my balls are so full, I needed this. Just stay like that—let me fill you up.”

His hand moves to the back of your neck, his palm resting gently over your nape to press your head into the pillow.

“You’re trapped,” he rasps, his voice deep and gravelly. You have never heard him talk to you like this before, and the filth of it makes your body clench with desire. “Look at you… bound up, completely wide open for me. You can’t get away.”

His hips snap forward to bottom out inside you, it makes your heels twitch against the web binding your ankles.

“You’re gonna take all of it,” Peter grunts, the words coming in shallow bursts against the shell of your ear. “Every single drop. I’m gonna flood you so deep you’ll feel me inside you for days… make sure everyone knows you belong to me. My sweet, beautiful mate…”

The biological urge to plant his seed, to mark you, and to fill you until you overflow turns his pace crazed.

The wet slapping of his pelvis against your rear sings like a song in the room, mixing with the strained, needy whines escaping your throat. His cock swells inside you, pulsing and stretching your walls to their limit. It’s more than you can take, and you feel yourself getting close.

“Peter—! I’m—I’m going to—” you cry out, your chest heaving against the bed.

“Come for me,” he commands, his fingers tightening gently on your neck as his thrusts turn short, vicious, and frantic. “Clench around my cock and take it. Breeding you, baby… I’m breeding you.”

Your mind is hazy with an overwhelming sense of desire. His words, the position—it’s like a whole new side of Peter you never knew existed, and your body is enjoying every second of it.

You cry out his name, your body twitching as your pussy clenches around his shaft, milking him for every drop. Peter’s muscles pull taut at the sensation, his forehead pressing into your damp shoulder blade as his balls draw tight against your entrance.

One pulse, then another, and your womb fills with his cum.

Thick, scorching floods of semen pump deep into your core. Spurt after heavy spurt fills you past your capacity, the force of his release so strong his entire frame shakes violently, his breathing erratic as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

His instincts move his body on command. Just like a spider aligning with the epigyne, he pulls out quickly and spins you around so your back hits the mattress. He spreads your legs, positioning himself between them as his cock slaps heavy against your lower belly, letting the rest of his cum seep onto your skin.

He groans incoherently as he watches his body mark you, holding himself at the base and smearing his seed over your stomach with his tip.

He stays above you for a long moment until you both catch your breath. Finally, he sits back on his knees.

His cock, now half-limp, slaps against his stomach lazily as a trickle of his seed drips down your inner thigh and lower belly. He slumps onto the mattress, but wastes no time pulling you in close against his chest.

He doesn’t even know where to begin. He’s never allowed himself to take you so vulgarly—almost monstrously. Now, he’s terrified of removing the mask; he doesn’t want you to see the burning shame etched on his features.

Peter’s hands cradle your back, his chin resting gently against your sweaty temple. He tries to muster up an apology, maybe say something along the lines of, “I don’t know what took over me.” Because truthfully, he didn’t.

But then your laugh comes first—soft, raspy, and utterly spent.

“You know what female spiders do to their partners after they’ve finished mating?” you ask into his neck.

Peter stiffens. “What?”

“They eat them. It's a good source of nutrients for the babies.”

Peter tries to remember if you had anything to eat before he got here. “Oh.”

📝 idk what to say. if you've read my first peter parker fic, i felt like i just put on an evil mask because this is a complete 180 twist from my last story. again, i only proofread like half of it and got lazy, so i apologize for any mistakes !! if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them! I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.

It was another lively Saturday night at Empire State University when your best friend convinced you to escape the solitude of your quiet dorm room and go out with her to some party at the Kappa Tau Zeta fraternity house. You had put up your best fight, like you always did. Telling her things like you needed to study for your upcoming psych exam, all of your going-out tops were dirty, you had a killer migraine. But she was persistent, like she always was. 

Ten minutes into your battle, she fled the room long enough to fix all of your poor excuses. She returned to your dorm with some fruity seltzer beer that tasted like TV static, a skimpy little top of hers that you could borrow, and a bottle of Advil. 

She sat cross-legged on your twin bed, droning on about the guy she had all intentions on bringing back to her dorm after the party. Every few minutes, while you sat in front of your desk, using the small mirror to fix your appearance, she would pause to answer your “does this look good?” every time you completed a step of your makeup routine. 

“God, you’re sickening,” she gaped when you stood in front of your over-the-door, full-length mirror, analyzing your outfit and everything else about you that felt a little too different.

Your head craned back at her. “Like, sickening in a good way, or…”

“In a great way,” she urged, sliding off your slightly-lofted bed to stand next to you before the mirror. 

Her eyes hung on the royal blue, cropped, tight-fitting baby-Tee that said “Stevie Knicks” in orange vinyl lettering. It was the shirt your best friend had made a few months ago when the New York Knicks were heading into the NBA Finals. She saw Taylor Swift in the same shirt and just had to recreate it for the Finals watch party she attended.

You didn’t know shit about basketball, and you didn’t really listen to Taylor Swift, but you didn’t entirely hate the way it clung to your curves. Plus, it paired nicely with your black, cut-off, denim shorts that were fraying at the hem from the number of wears and washes they’d been put through.

Your best friend smirked up at you in the mirror’s reflection. “Parker’s gonna lose his shit when he sees you.”

The sound of his name sent your eyes rolling, an agitated groan spilling from your glossed lips. 

“Ew.” You feigned disgust, slamming your closet door shut. “Don’t speak that asshole into existence, please.”

She snickered in response, rolling up the bag of Doritos she’s been munching on and chugging the last few gulps of her black cherry-flavoured White Claw. “You know he’s gonna be there.”

“Why do you think I didn’t want to go?” you deadpanned, flattening your lips.

“It’s so obvious he wants to fuck you,” she countered with a sigh. “It’s kind of sad, actually.”

Your brows stitched together. “He does not want to fuck me—God, don’t even say that. I’m, like, actually gonna hurl,” you protested, feeling an odd sense of dread as you zipped up your makeup bag and flipped the switch on your lamp. 

“No one—” she pulled open your dorm door “—and I mean no one, fucks with someone as much as Peter Parker fucks with you unless they have some ulterior motive.”

Slipping past her, you fumbled with your key, locking up and trying to find a reasonable response. But, for some reason, your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

“It’s called arrogance, babe,” you countered, shoving your keys into your front pocket. “That’s his motive. He does it with everyone.”

Falling into step next to you, she shrugged. “I don’t know…” her voice trailed, ending in a high-pitched tone, which told you she actually did know.

The walk across campus was gruesome. The late-spring mugginess combined with the complete and utter dread pumping through your veins made it nearly impossible to focus on anything your best friend was saying. 

Your hands were clenched into fists at your side, your chipped, polished nails digging into the delicate skin of your palms. It hurt in just the right kind of way—just enough to distract you from the string of tainted memories that floated through your mind. 

It came like a supercut of doom and despair, Peter Parker’s face at the center of them all. 

That cocky bastard.

You met him in your first year seminar class. It was a course taught by people in the admissions building and its sole purpose was to help students become more acquainted with college life. But that wasn’t at all what it turned out to be. 

The woman who led the class every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from 12:30 to 1:45 was barely twenty five. She had just graduated from grad school the summer before and she cared far too much about the freshly eighteen-year-old guys in your class. Peter, specifically. 

He fucking loved it, too. He loved the attention anyone gave him, really—especially if they had what he wanted between their legs. 

When he rushed Kappa Tau Zeta that September, no one was surprised. All guys like that joined posh fraternities, thinking the Greek letters they sported on their too-tight T-shirts and vinyl stickers on their car’s back glass somehow made them superior. 

You hated it. You hated him even more so. 

Ever since he claimed the seat next to you in that pointless, mind-numbing seminar class, it seemed as though his only passion in life became making yours miserable. 

He would comment on your outfits, always hitting you with the same “did you wear all that just for me, baby” every time you walked into the lecture hall with more makeup than usual or wore something other than athleisure. 

But even when you came to class bare-faced, hair tied up in some mess of an up-do, in sweatpants and a sweatshirt two sizes too big, he would still find ways to get under your skin.

You gave it right back to him, of course. Replying to his snarky remarks with something even more devious, just to watch the way he smirked back at you. Even when you would get one over on him, he fucking ate it up. It was like diesel to a flame. 

The second semester of your first year, you found out he was majoring in the same thing as you, which meant his presence became agonizingly consistent. 

He didn’t sit next to you in any other class, but he always made sure you were within earshot. He wanted you to hear the way he said all the same things to other, more naive, girls who folded under his smug charm, just like he had expected you to. 

He liked getting under your skin the most, though. It wasn’t the same with the others. It was too easy, too predictable. 

He liked that you kept him on his toes, constantly dodging his existence like the plague, and didn’t fall for the filthy things he’d whisper in your ear every time he found you alone or a little too close to him. He liked that you seemingly couldn’t care less about him. 

Knowing all of this made walking through the fraternity house’s back door (because the front one was for “brothers only”) so much worse. 

The chorus of Sammy Adams’ “All Night Longer” blared at max volume from an over-sized speaker resting on top of the make-shift bar in the center of what was supposed to be the house’s living room, but there wasn’t a couch or chair in sight. It was just sweaty bodies littering every square inch of the space, all nursing red Solo cups full of cheap-smelling vodka, and dancing to the rhythm of the bass-loaded song. 

Your best friend wasted no time, letting the guy behind the bar who was sporting a T-shirt with Greek letters stitched on the front pour her some of the concoction everyone else was getting buzzed on into a cup. 

“She needs one, too,” she shouted over the ear-piercing music, gesturing to you from where you stood next to her.

The guys scoffed. You knew him, of course. He played lacrosse and was the one who shared that video of one of the sorority presidents sucking off his teammate with the entire campus. 

“Oh, is little miss Dean’s List gonna have some fun for once?” he jested, smirking up at you as he poured some pink-tinted liquid in the red Solo cups on the bar counter.

You sighed lamely at the use of that frustrating nickname. “If I wanted to have some fun, Harry, I’d go somewhere else,” you countered, tone calm and even despite having to shout so he could hear you.

He didn’t respond, just coughed out a laugh and handed over the cups. 

Peter was the one who started the whole Dean’s List thing. 

Despite his incredibly unfortunate attitude, he was pretty smart. No, he was a fucking genius, actually. Which made the way he acted really disappointing. All those brains and not a single good thing ever produced from them. 

It was the end of your first year when he told you that the two of you were tied GPA-wise, both taking up the top of the Dean’s List, which was a literal list of students who had the highest academic achievement. 

He wanted it, of course. He wanted his name to be posted in big, bold lettering. He wanted the dean himself to hand over that trophy, placing it in his sleazy hands just so he could brag about it, and flaunt it to the next girl he wanted to get in his bed.

But it was your hands the trophy went to. It was your name that ended up at the top of the list, his right under it. 

He feigned indifference. Riffing off things like, “nobody cares about that stupid shit.” But you knew better than that. Unfortunately, you knew him better than that. You saw the way his mood soured when it was announced at the end-of-year award ceremony. 

Beneath his subtle disappointment, though, he was still Peter Parker. Your win turned into just another one of his tricks to get under your skin. 

There suddenly became a Dean’s List for anything. His Dean’s List for “best dick sucking” was his favorite though. You could still remember the way his breath felt on your skin when he whispered, “I bet you’d be at the top of that list, too.”

You took it on the chin, like you did with all of his sly taunts. “I bet you’d like to know, wouldn’t you,” is what you’d replied with.

The nickname caught on quickly, just like everything did at your small university—forcing you to remember his breath, his voice, his words, every time someone said it. 

Peter was in what was supposed to be the house’s dining room, playing a game of beer pong with a few of his fraternity brothers and whatever girls they’d roped into joining their teams. There was a separate speaker set up in there, playing Cobra Starship and Leighton Meester’s “Good Girls Go Bad” at an even more mindnumbing volume. 

His left hand was toting a half-empty cup of cheap vodka mixed dangerously with half of a strawberry-lemonade-flavoured Crystal Light packet. It tasted like poison, but the effects of it felt nice pumping through his system.

The short blonde girl next to him was taking her turn at tossing the ping-pong ball into the cups lined up accordingly at the other end of the painted, plywood table. They were winning, but it wasn’t anything to do with her persistence. 

Every toss Peter made landed with a splash in his opponent’s cups, causing them to dreadfully chug its contents. His fraternity brother was rambling out taunts, trying to get under Peter’s skin, but it went in one ear and out the other. 

He was immovable. Plus, he always won. No matter what it was—beer pong, lacrosse matches, fucking pop quizzes—he was always determined to win. Some people said he was just doing too damn much, but he called it charming competitiveness. Sounded less desperate that way.

The only thing he couldn’t beat, though, was you. Even after knowing you for three years now, in just about every single one of your classes since freshman year—he just couldn’t win with you.

The minute his eyes landed on you, catching the way you were being dragged by that girl you always kept around into the crowd of dancing bodies in the living room, the game of beer pong unfolding before him became an afterthought. 

He turned his back to it, earning a few groans from his opponents and a pout from the blonde who had thought she had all of his attention. He took slow sips of his drink, eyeing you through the massive sea of people flooding his living room. 

All bets were off then. Literally. He’d bet a lousy twenty bucks on winning against his frat brother. But he didn’t care if it was twenty dollars or a hundred that he lost. His favorite victim was here—fuck everything else. 

“The fuck, Parker,” the guy behind him cursed, tossing the ball right at his back out of irritation, but it missed him by a few inches, bouncing onto the sticky wood flooring and rolling under one of the other tables.

Peter laughed, glancing back at him for only a brief moment. “You weren’t winning shit anyway with a toss like that.”

His attention immediately flew back to you, desperate to figure out a way to get close to you. 

There was not one good intention flowing through that mind of his when he walked through the doorway leading into the living room, ignoring the sound of someone shouting his name, and making a slow, calculated beeline to where you were moving around in the crowd. 

The room was dark, the only light that illuminated your face was the cheap, party store strobe lights set up on various tabletops. Every second, your face would disappear in the darkness only to reappear a moment later, in a different position.

He watched you with a precise gaze, slipping through sloppy, drunk bodies to get to you. 

As the color of the lights flashed different hues of blue, green, purple, and red on the soft outlines of your features, the music seemed to slow and distort, his vision tunneling in a way that felt intoxicating. 

Your back was pressed against your best friend’s front, grinding on her to the beat of the music in a platonically seductive way that caused Peter’s gaze to drop to the shape the arch of your back was creating. His eyes twitched at the sight of your ass spilling out of the hem of your too-short shorts. 

It pissed him off more than anything. 

The song faded into the next, some other song about partying, sex, and drinking that he knew came straight from Harry’s endless Spotify playlist. It was a remix of 3OH!3’s “DONTTRUSTME,” he immediately clocked it based on the first note. He’d heard the same songs every weekend, the lyrics and rhythms were basically engraved in his mind. 

The second the chorus hit, your eyes met his. 

Your dancing halted abruptly, causing your best friend to frown, immediately clocking your shift. 

“The hell?” she mumbled, stumbling back a bit, already too tipsy for her own good and desperate to find that guy she was supposed to meet up with. 

You unintentionally ignored her, too distracted by the way Peter made his way in front of you, glaring down at you from his height. 

“Lookin’ good, Dean’s List,” he smirked, his tongue running along his top row of teeth, taking his time to rake you over with his dark eyes. 

The sight of him—the way he violated your body with his gaze—made you want to throw up. “What do you want, Parker?”

He sarcastically frowned down at you, his bottom lip pursing out. “I missed you.”

Your face became riddled with disgust, but the liquid courage pumping through your system had you feeling mouthy. “Oh, did you?”

“Mm-hmm,” he mumbled, sipping his drink. “Did you miss me?”

“No,” you deadpanned, giving him a phoney sympathetic look. “Not even a little.”

He scoffed, offering you a toothy grin. You pried your attention away from the way muscle in his chiseled jawline ticked when he did it, meeting his gaze with feeble confidence.

His eyes flashed to your tits, where “Stevie Knicks” was printed out on your borrowed T-shirt. Shamelessly, his fingers traced over the lettering. 

The touch sent a shockwave through your system, something like white-hot lightning ricocheting in your nerves. It wasn’t an enticing feeling. It was the opposite, really. It was more like a big, red, flashing siren sounding in your ears, telling you to get away from him while you still stood a chance. 

“God, does it ever get boring being so basic?” he sneered, hand moving away from your heaving chest. “The Taylor Swift shit? I expected more from you, baby.”

The way his voice sounded when he called you baby was like nails on a chalkboard. “But I thought you liked basic, Pete.” You batted your lashes up at him. “I did all this just for you,” you added, using an artificial high-pitched voice before hardening your features. 

His lips curled again, fingers moving back to your chest. He tapped the fabric, feeling the outline of your bra. “Mm,” he hummed, sinking his tongue in his jaw. “You’re feisty this evening, aren’t you? Tequila’s got you needy?”

He liked you best like this. At some party in a tight-fitting outfit, buzzing off cheap alcohol, and willing to entertain his bullshit. He liked having your attention. He liked pissing you off to the point that you felt the need to slap him. 

Hell, he wanted you to slap him. 

“Maybe,” your voice trailed, peering up at him over your drink with your sharp eyes. “But not for you.”

The muscle in Peter’s jaw ticked. “Oh, you got your sights on someone else?”

You shrugged your shoulders, head turning to scan the party. There wasn’t anyone you were looking for. You just wanted to show Peter the number of options you had. “Maybe.”

He knew there were countless guys at the party who wanted their chance with you. He would hear them talk about you in the back of class, every time you would bend down to pick up something, your ass in the air. Sometimes they’d talk about you in the locker room at lacrosse practice, too. They would drone on about your recent sighting at some party, reeling in the way none of them could ever get you in their beds even after you drank too much to walk yourself back to your dorm. 

Peter wouldn’t ever really entertain it. He’d tell them they were all idiots, warning them to stop trying with you because you were too “uptight” and didn’t “put out.” But he knew the reason you never gave into their attempts was because it didn’t excite you.

“You should put your sights on me,” he said with full confidence. 

You coughed out a laugh, nearly choking on your drink, causing him to wonder if you would sound the same choking on his dick. “You fucking wish, you creep.”

“I’m a creep now?” he pried, narrowing his eyes on you as the two of you stood unusually still in the center of all the commotion.

“You’re something, that’s for sure.”

He liked that. “Something’s a little too vague for me, baby. Tell me what I am.”

“You’re disgusting,” you quipped, eyes betraying you when they fell to the rigid outline of his biceps that were being suffocated by the hem of his T-shirt sleeves. “And I don’t want to waste my night out standing here with you.”

“Disgusting?” Peter feigned hurt, cocking his head back. “Oh, come on. Now you’re just being mean.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically, turning your head to the side. 

Peter felt his dick twitch at the sight despite himself, that imagination of his working tirelessly to picture the way he could make you do that—make you roll your eyes to the back of your head. 

He would never admit—even to himself—but he wanted you in a way that bordered obsession. He wanted to see what the fuss was all about. He wanted to be the one to break down those impenetrable walls of yours, spreading you open and learning his way around those venomous curves of yours.

“I’m bored,” you sneered, taking a quick step away from him, realizing your best friend was long gone.

Peter blinked, knocking himself out of his stupid thoughts long enough to reach out and grab your wrist. It was a firm grasp. The tips of his fingers dug into your soft skin, forcing you to stumble back in front of him. 

“Don’t walk away from me,” he bit, but his voice was unusually soft and vindictive. “I’m not done with you.”

Knocked off balance from the tug, he shifted his free hand from your wrist to your waist in an attempt to steady you. The fact that he didn’t let you fall flat on your ass was even more dizzying. 

“You’re not done with me?” Your brows pinched. “Oh, come on, Peter. Don’t be desperate.”

He smirked devilishly. “You think I’m desperate for you?”

Narrowing your eyes on his, you refused to respond.

“That’s cute,” he went on to say anyway. “You think I want you?” His head bowed slowly, his hand still tight on the curve of your waist. “You think that’s what this is, baby—” his nose nudged the line of your jaw, causing your head to tilt up “—that I’m all needy for you, falling to pieces every time you walk away?”

Your body went rigid, feeling his warm breath on the crook of your neck. The way your skin prickled, a shudder coursing through you as the hairs on your arm stood straight, irritated you far more than his words. The feeling was so distracting, you couldn’t manage another snarky response.

The two of you had been in this position before. It was common—second nature, even. That didn’t make it any easier, though. 

“What?” Peter snarled in your ear, soft lips grazing the delicate cartilage. “Can’t speak?”

Your teeth ground, jaw taut with tension as you used your free hand to shove him off you. 

He let go of your hip, taking a stuttering half-step back. That smug, toothy little smirk spread on his face. 

The people behind him shouted a string of obscenities at him, pissed that his movement had caused one of the girls to spill her drink. But Peter didn’t offer them a single glance. His eyes were glued to you. 

The second your small hand had shoved him—that touch, that force—he keeled. There was a newfound hunger in the way he was looking at you. Once he regained his stability, he was right back flush against you. 

“What do you want from me, Parker?” you snarled, glaring up at him. His eyes flicked back and forth, not able to choose one to hone in on. “If you don’t want me—what is it that you’re trying to do?”

Peter shrugged, but it didn’t meet his eyes. “Just want to see how long you can take it.”

“Take what?”

“That puddle forming in your panties,” he stated in such a calm tone, it made your skin crawl.

You scoffed, not necessarily surprised but just as shocked. “You’re fucking sick.”

His head tilted slightly to the side. “I bet you’re soaked right now, aren’t you? Putting your hands on me like that get your panties all wet?” His eyes dropped to your shorts. “What color are they, I wonder.” You inhaled sharply, growing restless. His head lowered slightly, your foreheads a dangerous inch apart. “Probably something skimpy.”

Your eyes flashed up to his. “Guess.”

The corner of his lip rose, nodding slowly. “You could show me.”

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Your head was spinning when you inched closer to him, the hand you’d had at your side slowly moving to graze the bulge forming in his suddenly too-tight jeans. You stood on the tips of your toes, mimicking his early actions by digging your nose into the chiseled line of his jaw. 

“You’re all hard and desperate and I haven’t even touched you,” you whispered before quickly ripping your hand away and falling back on your heels. “So pathetic.”

It took Peter a moment to get control of himself. You noticed it, relishing in the power you’d taken over him. But—like all accomplishments pertaining to Peter—it was a short-lived win.

His tongue slipped out between his lips, wetting them with a slow graze. “Disgusting… pathetic…” he talked slowly, a lazy sigh escaping him. “God, I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

You tilted your head. “Oh, that’s what you want, huh?” You coughed out another laugh. “You want me to be mean to you, Parker? That your kink, or something? You like when girls degrade you. That’s what gets you off?”

“No.” He shook his head nonchalantly. “I just like when you do it.”

You hated how bold he was. You hated even more that you couldn’t ever tell when he was being serious or messing with you. The lines between his truths and his teases was a fine one. One that you refused to fall for. 

But there was no denying the way it made you feel. There was no denying that knowing how hard he was after just talking to you wasn’t driving you absolutely crazy. And there was definitely no way to deny the arousal puddling at your core, the warm flutters aching in your lower stomach.

It was a dangerous curiosity, wondering what it would feel like for him to be on top of you—inside you. You had thought about it before, of course. But the two of you had never been this close before. 

You had never been caught before him like this, suffering the consequences of too much cheap vodka with music muddling the outside world. The bass was so loud, vibrating the floor beneath your feet and ricocheting through your bones, that it drowned out the sound of your heart racing. It drowned out the sound of everything around the two of you. 

For a moment, you forgot where you were. You forgot you were surrounded by a bunch of your peers, not caring about any lingering glares. 

The only thing you could think about was the way Peter was standing before you, smirking down at you in a way you couldn’t hide from. 

“Where’s your head at, baby?” Peter probed, noticing your trance-like state as you were so deep in thought. “You're thinking about it, aren’t you?” He grinned pridefully. “Now that you’ve touched it, you want it, don’t you?”

You blinked hard, eyes dropping to the floor in defeat. Your thoughts were becoming a tangled mess. Lust and desire was meshing with your reluctance and hatred. 

His hand slowly raised to your face. The pad of his thumb grazed your glossed bottom lip while his fingers slipped the side of your jaw, tugging slightly to force your gaze up at him.

The sticky feeling of your lip gloss on his thumb caused him to bite down on his lip. He wanted to taste it. He wanted it around his throbbing dick, becoming a sticky mess with your spit. 

A wave of confidence coursed through you, thrumming with newfound adrenaline with his hand on you. “Is that what you want?” You parted your lips, tongue slowly creeping out to graze the tip of his thumb. “You want me to want you?”

“Oh, I know you want me,” Peter quickly countered, his dick painfully hard in his pants. 

He wanted so desperately to move closer to you. He wanted to grind his hips against you so you could feel how much he wanted you, but he didn’t want you to have that power yet, nor did he want to corrupt the way your plump lips were closing around his thumb.

What you did next was just cruel, really. You bobbed your head forward slowly, welcoming the way his thumb slid right into your mouth. You suctioned your lips around it, tongue swirling over the skin. The salty taste flooded your taste buds as your lashes fluttered up at him. 

His jaw went slack, his chest rising as he sucked in a sharp breath at the sight. 

You repeated the motion once more, showing him exactly what you were capable of before pulling away. 

You reeled in it for a moment. The way you had Peter Parker folding in front of you just by sucking his stupid thumb. The guy who thrived on having the power over you was biting down on his lip hard enough to cause injury, absolutely lost in the shape of your lips. 

The thought entered your mind before you could brace yourself. 

You liked it.

Peter’s hand dropped to the waistband of your shorts, slipping two fingers in the gap and tugged you flush against him. A gasp tore from your tight throat when you felt his length press against your stomach. 

God, he could’ve came just by the sound you made.

His head bowed down once more, his lips returning to the place he loved for them to be—right at your ear. “We’re gonna go up to my room,” he hissed, his arm creeping around your waist to keep you from moving away from them, “and you’re gonna do that to my dick.”

You chuckled, placing your hand on his shoulder to shove him off, but it only led him to squeeze you tighter. 

“Uh-uh,” he warned in a devastatingly deep tone. “Stop fighting it, baby.”

He reared his head back, immediately making eye contact with you. Something had shifted, you realized. He wasn’t fucking around with you anymore. 

“Go upstairs,” he whispered. “First door on the right.”

You swallowed hard, rethinking every single decision that had led you to this moment, wondering if you would regret any of it. 

He released you, causing you to fall back on your heels with a stutter, unable to find a single coherent thought in your dizzied, lust-clouded mind.

You both remained dangerously still for a moment. His eyes were staring into you with such viciousness, it felt like a dagger to the heart. 

The muscle in his jaw ticked. “Go.”

You reeled in your defeat, feeling an overwhelming sense of disgust with yourself when you walked through Peter Parker’s bedroom door. 

His room, however, was exactly how you thought it would be. His bed was unmade, pushed into the corner of the small room. It was the cleanest disaster you’d ever seen. There wasn’t enough stuff to categorize it as messy, but the stuff that was there was all disorganized. 

His navy-blue comforter was tangled up on the mattress, paired with his grey sheets. On the wall above the headboard was a Star Wars poster and it smelled the same as the rest of the frat house did—like they tried to smother the filth with a can of Febreze. 

You closed the door behind you, more afraid of someone catching you in his room than what you were getting yourself into. 

Inching further into his room, your eyes danced around, analyzing the open Altoids tin with a few pre-rolled joints in them. There were a few crushed beer cans littering his desk, where he had a mountain of books and a lamp draped with a red T-shirt, casting an ambient maroon lighting on the room. 

Sucking in a sharp, weighted breath, you sat down on the edge of his bed and combed a hand through your hair, tugging slightly at the root in a feeble attempt to bring you back to reality.

But every time you thought about how poor of a decision you were making, you recalled the feeling of him up against you—the size of his bulge and the way his breath felt on your skin.

But it was Peter fucking Parker.

You couldn’t let him win.

You were about to stand up and walk out when his bedroom door creaked open. Your eyes shot up, jolting at the sudden sound. Peter walked in nonchalantly, closing the door behind him and locking it. 

When he saw you sitting on the edge of his bed, your curves illuminated under the soft glow, he couldn’t conceal the sly smirk on his face. 

You stood up, the regret washing over you as soon as that cocky expression of his reappeared. 

“This was a mistake,” you mumbled, taking a step towards the door.

He side-stepped, blocking your path. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” you snapped, glaring up at him.

“Don’t act like you don’t want this.”

“I don’t.”

He tilted his chin up slightly, features hardening. “Then why’d you come up here?”

“Because…” You shook your head, not able to obtain a single viable reason. “I wasn’t—I wasn’t thinking.”

“I think you were,” he whispered. “I think you were doing a whole lot of thinking, actually.”

Your nostrils flared when you peered up at him. 

His hands snuck to your waist, gripping the skin with just the right amount of pressure. “I think you were wondering what this would be like,” he added, taking a step forward, which caused you to take one backwards. “I think you were wondering what it would feel like to have me completely to yourself. No, I know it—I know you want me all to yourself like this. You’re fucking crazy for it, aren’t you?” 

Your eyes remained glued to his as he continued forcing you to walk backwards until the back of your legs hit the edge of his bed. 

“Say it,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Tell me you want me.”

You scoffed. “I’m not entertaining your ego.”

“Fine.” His hands gripped tighter. “Then just say stop when you want me to,” he said so quickly, you barely had time to realize what he was doing.

The moment you fell back on the bed, Peter climbed on top of you. He used his knee to spread your legs so he could fit himself between them. His lips immediately crashed onto yours. It was the roughest kiss you’d ever had. It was like he couldn’t get enough of it. 

His tongue slipped through his lips as they moved in sync with yours, fighting for a way into your mouth. You let him continue doing that for a few moments, enjoying the way his hand trailed down to your thigh that was hiked up against his waist. 

He squeezed, nails digging into the skin, until you parted your lips and let him in. 

When his tongue finally tangled itself with yours, a rugged moan broke from his throat. It vibrated your entire body, ricocheting all the way down to your needy center. 

He pulled away from the kiss, leaving you a panting mess beneath him. But he didn’t stay away for long. His head dug into the crook of your neck, using his nose to push your head to the side so he could suck on the sensitive skin just below your ear. 

Your jaw went slack as a shudder rolled down your spine, causing your hips to buck against his bricked erection. The friction it induced against your clit drew a soft moan from your throat that Peter desperately wanted to hear again.

“You want me to stop?” he asked, voice muffled against your neck and gruff from his rugged breathing. 

In absolutely pitiful desperation, you shook your head. 

He pulled away from your neck, holding himself over you with his hands pressed into the mattress on either side of your head. When he ground his hips against your pulsating center again, his bulge rubbing the outline of your slit beneath your shorts, he smirked at the sounds you made. 

“I need to hear you say it, baby,” he whispered, repeating his rough humps. “You gotta tell me you want it—gotta use your words.”

You knew the potential threat of admitting it—the way you’d never be able to return from it—but you just couldn’t help yourself. It was too consuming, too good. He felt too good.

Your eyes screwed shut, jaw going slack at the sensation building beneath your shorts.

“I want it,” you hissed, bringing your arms over his shoulders, interlocking your hands to pull his face closer to yours so you could taste his lips again. 

Fuck, you thought. You actually wanted it.

“Come here” he ordered, crawling off of you. 

He stood up off the bed, crooking two fingers, gesturing for you to sit up. When you complied, sitting up straight on the bed with your legs falling off the side, he looped his fingers under your T-shirt. In one swift motion, he brought it up over your head, discarding it on his bedroom floor. 

Your bra came off next. He urged you to lean forward, reaching behind you to unclasp it. The entire time he worked with the hooks, your eyes were trained on the pulsating length suffocating in his jeans. 

“Fuck…” he groaned, watching you shrug off the black bra. “You look so good.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled, reaching out and gripping him by the waistband of his jeans, using all the strength you had to pull him closer to you. 

You were working to undo the button and unzip them when he ran a hand through your hair. “Oh, you want it rough—that it?”

Your eyes flicked up to him, pulling his jeans down over his muscular hips. “Take your shirt off.”

He chuckled, taking a half step back, tearing out of his T-shirt. 

You took a second to rake your gaze over his tanned, rigid abdomen, analyzing the way his muscles flexed in the soft light every time he moved. When your eyes moved back to the jeans barely holding on, you sat up further on the bed, bringing your ass to the very edge.

His words replayed in the back of your mind. “We’re gonna go up to my room, and you’re gonna do that to my dick.” All of your hesitance went out the window, knowing how eager you had him. 

He stepped forward until his shins met the bed, his erection inches from your face. 

By the time you worked to get his boxers off, letting them fall around his ankles, you could barely think straight. The only thing on your mind was the way his throbbing cock slapped his lower stomach when it sprung out of its confines. 

It was exactly like you thought it would be. Girthy in a way that matched the rigid muscles of his toned build, and just as formidable in length. 

Peter smirked down at you, hands working to gather your hair as your hand wrapped around the base of it. “You nervous?” he probed, clenching his fist around your strands. “Too big for you? Don’t think you can take it?”

You worked him in your hand for a minute, eyes fluttering up to where he was towering over you. In one slow movement, you leaned forward, sticking your wet tongue out, leaving a sopping wet trail of your spit at the base of him, all the way up to his sensitive, pink tip without breaking eye contact. 

He brought his bottom lip between his teeth, biting down hard as a grunt vibrated from his throat when your tongue swirled his tip, licking up the bead of pre-cum dripping out. 

“Stop… fucking… teasing,” he grunted, hips bucking against the hold you had on him. Your nails dug into the skin of his thighs, managing to keep him still. He gritted his teeth, feeling you lick his tip again. 

“Open your fucking mouth,” he ordered.

Complying, you parted your lips and welcomed the way he slid into your mouth as you leaned forward. You wanted so badly to be able to take all of him, pushing yourself until your nose came flush with his base. A gag tore from your throat, causing your throat to squeeze tight around him. 

“Mm,” he sounded, watching you bob your head along his throbbing cock in all the ways he once dreamed of. Your lips suctioned around him, tongue swirling around his dripping tip every time you moved away before pushing him back down your throat. 

“Yeah, look at you—talking all that shit just to have my dick down your throat,” he grunted.

His words, combined with the way he tugged your hair, forcing your head to move at the rhythm of his choosing, was enough to cause a shallow moan to escape you, vibrating against his dick as you intentionally swallowed, keeping him deep in your throat.

“Fuck…” he moaned, growing more rough with the way he was forcing your head to move on him. 

Your spit, combined with the salty taste of his pre-cum, was dripping down your chin when he suddenly let go of your hair, grabbing your hands from where they were gripping his thigh. 

The sudden movement caused you to push away from him, his dick coming out of your mouth with a wet pop. 

Panting, you eyed him. “What are you—” 

“Put your hands behind your back,” he demanded, an air of aggression in his voice that awoke something inside you. 

Your hands moved behind your back, interlocking with one another. His dick throbbed in front of you as he reached over to his bedside table, grabbing the belt that was rolled up. 

Something akin to pure fire sparked inside of you, understanding his attention. “Oh, you want to tie me up?”

His jaw was taut with tension as he reached behind you, wrapping the brown leather around your wrists, tightening it until it almost hurt.

“You’re such a freak, Parker,” you laughed, your chin glistening with the remnants of your spit. 

He knotted the leather, binding you before bringing his hands back to your hair. “You like it,” he snarled, clenching his fist back around your strands, tugging. “Now—” he breathed, taking a hold of himself, aligning his tip back with your dripping, swollen lips “—shut up and let me fuck that throat, baby.”

And that was exactly what he did. 

Unable to tame his movements due to your hands being tightly bound behind you, he was the one to control his thrusts into your mouth, causing your jaw to grow sore. 

He worked quicker the more you moaned against his shaft, feeling the tightness of your throat every time he pumped himself deep.

His biceps flexed from how hard he was tensing. When he lulled his head back, your name rolling off his tongue in the form of a deep grunt as you gagged on his length. 

He let his head fall forward, watching the way you took him so perfectly. 

His eyes were glued to your face, watching the way your eyes rolled back the harder he thrusted into your tight throat, admiring the way the wetness was leaking down your chin, dripping into your lap where your legs were trembling, desperate to be touched. 

“Yeah,” he moaned, moving your falling strands of hair away from your face, ensuring he always kept a perfect view of you taking him. “You’re gonna think about this the next time you call me pathetic, baby—you’re gonna think about the way I fucked your tight little throat, aren’t you?”

Your response came as muffled moans against his flesh that he couldn’t get enough of.

His release was coming quickly, like an atomic bomb readying to detonate within him. You could tell based on the way his thrusts got sloppy, going back to using your head instead of bucking his own hips.

But, as much as he craved the feeling of shooting his warm release down your precious throat, he didn’t want to do it yet. Not until he explored the rest of you.

He pulled out of you slowly, taking half a step back while panting raggedly. 

It took every sliver of self-restraint he had to keep himself from busting all over you when he saw the way your jaw went slack, panting with soft, pretty little breaths, and blinking slow, completely drunk off the way he’s been working you. 

“You good?” he asked you without thinking.

Your eyes sharpened up at him, reverting back to your soured self despite the way he’d numbed your mind with his cock.

A smile broke through your defeat. “What? You worried about me, Parker?”

Fine, he thought, be that way. “Stand up.”

You tried to, you really did. But with your hands tied up behind you, it was impossible. Peter knew that would happen, of course. 

When he snickered, you glared up at him. 

“You struggling, baby?”

You refused to respond, not giving him anymore verbal ammunition. 

He reached around you, undoing the belt in one quick motion. “Try now.”

Finally able to rise on your own two feet, you rolled your wrists at your side, already secretly missing the constriction. 

Peter took a second to admire you. His eyes traced a devious glare down your entire frame, stopping where your shorts were. His jaw ticked. “Take ‘em off.”

You tilted your head. “Gonna make me do it all by myself?” you pouted teasingly, meeting his gaze. “Where’s the fun in that, Peter?”

Beneath your sly taunts, he read right through your intentions. He knew that was your way of begging him to undress you. So, he did. He did it all with one hand, actually. 

Pulling you closer with his finger hooked around the denim waistband, he undid the button and lowered the zipper, shoving them down your legs. He brought your black panties with it, spending a little too much time eyeing the drenched spot in them.

“Lay down,” he urged, taking a step forward that forced you to back up. 

“Uh-uh,” you mumbled, shaking your head and stopping yourself when the back of your legs met the edge of the bed once again. 

Peter’s brows furrowed, his saturated, throbbing dick pressed between the two of you.

Your eyes fell to the belt on the bed, then back up to him. 

A despicable expression formed on his face as the realization dawned on him. “That what you want?”

Reluctantly, you nodded.

“Words, baby,” he grumbled.

“Yes.” You huffed. “That’s what I want.”

By the time the belt returned around your wrists—tighter this time—your back was flush with his front. The sticky wetness of his dick was pressed against your ass when he put his lips close to your ear, coaching you into slowly lowering down on the bed.

“I got you,” he whispered, gripping your arms to help you down slowly, even if he really wanted to throw you down and watch you squirm. “Yeah… just like that. Good girl,” he added when you laid flat on the mattress, ass arched up in the air.

You turned your head to the side, catching him reaching over into the top drawer of his nightstand, returning behind you with a condom in his grasp. 

“No.” The word came out of you before you could think.

Peter’s eyes flashed to yours. “You want it raw?”

“Don’t make me fucking say it,” you groaned, pushing your ass up against him, desperate to relieve the neediness at your core. 

“I’m clean, just so you—”

“I know,” you interjected, growing irritably restless. “So am I.” You exhaled heavily. “Just put it in. I wanna feel you—please.”

The desperate sound of your voice was enough to drive Peter mad. He had never heard that side of you before. 

He wanted to hear more of it. A lot more.

One of his hands fell to his pulsating length, the other planted a firm grip on your ass as he guided his tender tip to your swollen, needy entrance. His teeth ground together as he slowly inserted himself inside you. 

Your walls immediately clenched around his size, a high-pitched moan tearing from your throat as he spread you open more and more the deeper he went. 

“Fuck…” he hissed, watching the way your slippery cunt suctioned him in. “You’re so tight, baby. And so… wet—Oh, fuck…”

He drew out of your partially, not taking his eyes off the way your pussy gripped him as he made another slow thrust deeper inside of you.

You could feel the exact spot his tip was hitting deep in your core. It was the exact spot you needed him to be. 

“Oh… my God,” you cried out as he picked up the pace, driving himself into you with ferocious thrusts. “It’s so deep.”

That only made him want to fuck you harder. He moved his grip on your ass to where the belt was fastened around your wrists, tugging at the leather as he bullied his cock into your tight pussy. 

“Has anyone ever fucked you this good, baby?” he taunted, watching the way your body dug deeper into his bed as he slammed into you over and over and over again. The sound of your ass clapping against him was almost too loud, but he didn’t care. 

He wasn’t going to give up his rhythm for anything. “Anybody ever been this deep inside your pussy?”

Your teeth bit down on the bundle of sheets beneath you to keep the screams that threatened to escape you in. “N—No,” you cried out through your gritted teeth. “Ne—Never.”

He couldn’t cope with the way you were squirming in front of him, back arched in a way that shouldn’t have been possible. 

“Peter,” you moaned out, your entire body shaking violently, toes curling. “I can’t—I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby,” he grunted out, reaching to grab your hair and pull you off the bed. 

The stinging sensation on your scalp was mind-bending. But when he brought your back flush with him, still deep inside you as he wrapped one arm around your waist to brace you before moving his other hand to your clit, you just couldn’t fucking take it. 

Your head lulled back on his shoulder, back arched as he bucked his hips up into you faster and faster while working his fingers in circles over your swollen clit. 

“Oh, God, yes,” you nearly screamed.

He gripped you tighter, feeling the way you clenched around him, your arousal dripping down his balls. 

“Not God, baby,” he breathed into your ear. “Just Peter.”

“Shut up,” you tried to jest, but it just came out as a pathetically high-pitched moan. 

With your arms fastened behind you, your release came quick.

Peter held you as tight as possible, his muscles flexing as you convulsed against him, trembling from head-to-toe. “Look at you, cumming all over my dick like that.”

You could barely feel anything. Every single nerve in your body was coursing with an all-consuming pleasure unlike anything you’d ever felt before. You became completely slack in his big arms, like a rag doll, as his pumps became sloppier. 

“Your turn,” you managed to say, feeling how close he was to his release. 

His breathing was uneven and deep when he asked, “Where, baby?”

“In me,” you replied.

His heart nearly stopped beating, but he played it off. “Want me to fill you up?”

He had never done that before, but he was more than willing to do that for you if it was what you wanted. He was highly certain he’d do just about anything for you—and to you—as long as it was what you wanted.

“Mm-hmm.” Your head nodded sloppily, unable to lift it on your own. “IUD,” you added, already knowing where his thoughts went.

The last thing this world needed was another Peter fucking Parker.

“Hold on.”

He pulled out of you so fast, it caused you to wince. The sudden emptiness felt disparaging, but it didn’t last long. In one gentle move, he turned you around, quickly tore off the belt around your wrists, and pushed you back on the bed.

Your breath was caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan when he climbed on top of you. He wasted absolutely no time, aligning himself with your slick entrance and pushing in as deep as he could. 

“Hands,” he grunted.

He remained deep inside you as he took your hands, forcing them down on the bed above your head. Squeezing your wrists with his big, tough hands, he started thrusting himself into you.

“I wanna look… at your face while I fill you up,” he bit out through pants.

“Mm,” you smirked, hearing the squelching sounds echoing off the walls of his bedroom every time he pounded himself inside you. “You’re such a fucking freak.”

“Only for you, baby,” he grinned devilishly down at you, eyes staying glued to yours as he continued hammering into you. “Only… f—for you.”

He was so close, he could taste it. It was a fucking miracle he’d lasted this long, only able to do so because of the dangerous levels of adrenaline pumping through his system. 

Peering up at the grip he had on your hands, he let one go.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered, holding himself up with only one hand as he eagerly brought your other one down to your clit. “Cum with me.”

You were going to cum even if you hadn’t started rubbing your clit as he worked himself into you. But as soon your fingers touched your swollen flesh, your head tilted back against the mattress, digging into the fabric as a moan escaped you. 

“That’s it,” Peter coaxed. “Doing s—so good.”

Your legs clenched around him as you met your second release. His thrusts became sloppy and slow, telling you he was right there with you.

His head fell into the crook of your neck, lips parting to bite the skin as he pounded his hips against you one last time.

The minute his warmth shot inside you, you gasped. 

A shudder rolled through him, all the way down to his cock still inside of you, as he filled you with his sticky seed. 

He rode out his high with slow, quivering pumps until there was nothing else to empty out of him. 

Forcing himself up, he slowly pulled himself out of you. The second his tip popped out of you and his eyes fixed on his white cum seeping out of your throbbing pussy, he moaned.

“Shit,” he mumbled, bringing his fingers to touch the puddle oozing out. “I like that.”

You watched him with illicit precision, smirking. “You never done that before?”

He shook his head, unable to look away. “No.”

When your hand trailed down your body, reaching to where you felt his seed dripping out of you, you spread the thick liquid on your fingers. 

Peter watched you with a slack jaw as you brought your fingers to your mouth, sucking the remnants of his release. 

“F—fuck…” he gaped, eyes wide at your actions. “You’re gonna make me bust again, acting like that, baby.”

You snickered, swallowing the salty sweetness of him. “Tastes good.”

He shook his head, coughing out a laugh. “You’re fucking sick.”

When he could finally stand again, you watched as he walked over to his door, grabbing the white towel that was hanging on the over-the-door hook. He brought it back over to you, wiping up the mess he’d left inside you.

After he cleaned you up, he fell back on the bed next to you with a thud.

You turned your head to the side, chest heaving as your breathing slowed. “So…” you trailed, exhaling raggedly. “Did I make it to the top of your fucking Dean’s List?”

“Something like that.”

hope you enjoyed it! pls leave a comment/like/reblog. if you have a one shot request, you can send it through my “ask me.” ୨ৎ─ delaney!

“Thank you.. oh f-fuck thank you,” Peter whines, his pitiful voice barely coherent as he watches you take him in his mouth, head bobbing rhythmically as he lays before you on his plushy bed.

Peter’s hands seek your head, wanting to pull it closer to him, but he ultimately plants them on the bed, grasping at the sheets as if they’re some sort of lifeline. His knuckles turn white, his eyes rolling involuntarily. He can’t focus, how can he?

It’s not like this is the first time, or that he’s too nervous to make such a move… he’s thankful for anything you give him, and doesn’t want to take it for granted.

“Yes, oh god, thank you s-so m-much..”

Every time you suck him off, Peter can’t believe how fucking good it feels. He wonders how you’re so good, then quickly pushes the thought aside. He doesn’t want to think about the how or why.

Peter’s moans are fucking pitiful. Such a whiny boy with shaky thighs and rosy cheeks, the heat of it all rushing to tint his skin. You can taste the pre leaking from him, his cock pulsing against your tongue. The smirk that spreads across your lips as you lick the tip and hold eye contact with him makes Peter huff. His cheeks darken even more, his body heating rapidly at the sight of you as you take him fully again.

“Oh, please… I’m, fuck,” Peter’s pathetic attempt to warn you dies out, his hands gripping the sheets even harder, seemingly seconds away from ripping them. Another reason why he’s careful with touching you. Sometimes, he just can’t help himself. Pathetic.

When you slow down your pace just to tease him, you hear his squeaky whine, the breath being knocked from his lungs. Just as you expected. Peter gets so fucking needy, and you relish in it. It doesn’t take him very long to get close, ever, and a part of you can’t stand it because you want this too. You want to make it last just to see and hear how pitiful he gets.

“No- shit, please,” Peter whimpers, emphasizing his plea to gain some sort of sympathy from you. You oblige, gradually fastening your pace, the filthy, sloppy sounds echoing between you. He can’t help it. His hand flies to your hair, fingers lacing through the soft strands before he tugs. “I-I’m-“

Unable to properly speak, his jaw slacks and his eyelids squeeze shut. Thighs trembling, he chokes out a cry, feeling his cock pulse with each string of cum that stuffs down your throat. Then, it’s over. Just like last time.

Peter shoots up into a sitting position, gulping thickly with a huff as reality sets in. His duvet covers are thick, splayed across his lower half, which is feeling exceptionally more warm than usual. The room is dark, cold, and very much empty. He feels it instantly, the way his briefs cling to his skin, wet and warm.

“Fuck… not again,” he whimpers, peeling his briefs down just enough to expose the globs of thick cum sticking to his skin. Now this wasn’t the first time. It’s almost nightly at this point. He glances over at his door, as if you would somehow know what happened or be there. You never were. He then turns his head toward the alarm clock on his nightstand, 3:14am. “Hey evie?”

Peter’s desktop illuminates with light as numerous monitors flash on, the system starting up.

“Yes, Peter?” evie’s artificial voice responds.

“We need to make a different kinda inhibitor,” he groans, pushing the covers off his legs before getting up, making his way toward the bathroom.

Peter didn’t go back to sleep. He spent hours trying to formulate an inhibitor that would target his arachnid DNA and block hormone levels… particularly his testosterone. With a cheap Newport cigarette lit between his lips, his fingertips pattered across his keyboard, his eyes laser-focused on the screen.

With a soft chime, his phone illuminated on the desk just beside the keyboard. He quickly glanced over, scanning the words across the screen before looking at the map beneath the text, the pinned location insinuating that you’ve arrived to work.

Peter knows it’s wrong. Having secret hidden cameras around the city is one thing, but using them to watch someone that’s not a threat is another.

He tried, really fucking tried, to let it go. To stop. But he can’t.

That’s just another reason why he needs to make an inhibitor that actually fucking works.

Ever since you moved into the apartment across the hall four months ago, he hasn't been able to get you out off his mind no matter how hard he's tried. He’d often think about the first time you met, running into each other in the hall as you rush to work and he heads to get flowers for May.

All of the innocent conversations in passing, the friendly smiles and waves… He tried so fucking hard. You’re just so pretty. So sweet. God, you smell so sweet.

He can smell you from your apartment across the hall, the scent similar to fresh-picked strawberries. He fucking loves strawberries.

That wasn’t what started it, though. After the incident two months ago, with you stuck in the middle of a bank robbery, it was as if a flip had switched and caused a surgical spell. You were sweet and innocent, just trying to deposit a measly check, and next thing you knew, you had a gun pointed at you. Since then, he feels like he has an obligation to protect you — to keep you safe. Knowing you only strengthened that feeling, but your voice… your face… the way you smell. It all adds to it.

He wants to get closer to you, so fucking badly, but he just can’t with how hectic his life is. He tells himself it’s safer for you to stay acquaintances, no matter how much it bothers him.

Ever since that incident, ever since he saw your terrified expression through the lens of his mask, he had your face in his records. He specifically had evie program a separate alert system with facial recognition just for you. So when he gets a legitimate alert, he knows if you’re nearby. That's what he tries to tell himself, anyway.

If only you knew that spider-man had a special system just to keep you safe.

But that's why he needs this to work. It has to. He knows his behavior is wrong. It's weird. Fucking creepy, even...

“Smoke detected,” evie’s voice alerts, prompting a banner message across the monitor screen. Peter’s eyes roll, mentally damning Tony for implementing smoke detection into her programming.

“Just a cigarette, evie. Same as last time, and the time before that,” Peter murmured, his voice muffled from the cigarette trapped between his soft lips.

“Cigarettes can impact your vitals,” evie’s voice responds, to which Peter sighs, pulling the cigarette from his lips and smashing the end into the ashtray beside his phone, the bright amber ash crushing into a pasty grey. He wasn’t a casual smoker. It was usually during late nights or early mornings like this, where he just needed something to ground him. He hated to admit that it calmed him, or at least thought it did. Maybe it was all in his head, but either way, he knew it wasn’t good for him.

While he waits for the inhibitor to finish, Peter thinks of a few ideas on how he could test it. Truly, there’s only one way to really test it. He has to talk to you, really talk to you, without making things awkward. He needs an excuse to see you that wouldn’t lead to a “hi” and “bye” situation. He hates how his heart races every time you smile at him or even pass by him. You have his mind completely scrambled with your fingers wedged in the folds of his brain.

He’s pacing now, crossing back and forth in front of his desk with his eyes planted on the hardwood floor. His hands moved around as he spoke, a somewhat comforting expression he did during deep thought.

“Maybe… I can wait and we bump into each other in the hall? No, that’s stupid. I could just… knock? What would I say?” Peter groans at himself, covering his cheeks with his hands and slowly pulling them toward his temples. “Or I could…”

Peter’s feet come to a halt, his eyes slowly moving to his apartment door, then to his monitor. The pin on the electronic map shows you’re still out in town.

Oh, he has an idea alright.

Not a sane one, at that.

He really needs that fucking inhibitor.

Within minutes, he has his suit on and is swinging around the outside of the apartment building, his webs allowing a clean swing around the brick structure before he lands on your fire escape just outside your bedroom window.

No, this is insane.

With his eyes squinted behind his mask, he looks through your window, immediately spotting it. A beautiful silver chain necklace with a diamond pendant, carefully laid on your nightstand. The same one he sees caressing the skin of your neck every time he sees you. He recalls the way it lies against your chest, the chain slightly pooling against your collarbones. Why’d you leave it today?

No, I shouldn’t do this, he thinks, shaking his head at the reckless idea. But he couldn’t muster any real flaws in the plan. He gets your necklace, then returns it to you as himself. Not as Spider-Man. That’s innocent, right? No, it’s not.

It’s not like he’s stealing it— well, he is. But… he’s giving it back to you. It’s not a total robbery; it’s harmless.

His gloved hands latch onto your window, pushing it up with ease despite the lack of a handle. It’s as if the breath had been knocked out of his lungs, replaced by the intoxicating scent of you.

Fuck it, he thought, slipping through the open window with ease and landing on his feet with precision. His heart was thumping, but not out of nervousness. Excitement.

Glancing around your bedroom, he takes in the sight of your decor, mentally picturing and framing it inside his head against his will. He’d remember regardless.

He slowly stalks toward the nightstand, the finger pads of his gloves gently catching on the chain just before he tightens his fingers around it, holding it up at eye level. Yes, it’s the exact same one you wear all the time. Not particularly expensive looking, as far as he could tell. Not that it mattered much.

Peter felt another thump in his chest, you’ll notice it’s gone. That should’ve been enough for him to put it down. But he’s giving it back to you. Shit, what is he gonna say? That he found it in the lobby? That’s ridiculous.

Peter groans, clenching the thin chain in his fist, pressing it against his mask-covered forehead.

“This is fucking stupid,” he whispers, cursing his own thoughts. No, it’s going to work. It has to. He wants you to understand that you can trust him. He’s more than just your neighbor. He’s your secret protector, but he wouldn’t directly call himself that. He has good intentions, but that doesn’t make his actions any less wrong. He knows it too: “…and creepy.”

The skin on the nape of his neck prickles. He should put it back. This is wrong. This isn’t who he is.

Peter’s thoughts are suddenly interrupted as his head snaps up, his senses spiking. As soon as he hears the familiar jingle of your keys, his throat tightens.

Fuck.

He quickly tucks your necklace into his suit, where his phone would usually sit. Of course he forgot to grab it. Too fucking concerned about getting into your apartment, he was completely unprepared. No wonder he had no idea you were on your way back.

Peter slowly stalked back toward your window, his footsteps completely silent. As soon as his hand grasps the frame of your window, he hears a startled gasp that was awfully similar to a yelp. He whips around, seeing you in the doorway of your bedroom, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. Peter’s lenses widened on his mask, emphasizing his own surprise.

For several seconds, the two of you just stared at each other.

“Oh my god.”

Think. Quick!

“Hi,” Peter greets you with a slight change in his voice, lifting a hand and giving you a small wave. He's pathetic, really.

“Spiderman?” you breathe, unsure whether you should take a step forward or a step back. The spider-man is standing in your room. You’ve seen him in person once before, your mind flashing to the incident at the bank. The way he focused on you, but never spoke to you. How could you forget?

Your expression shifts, your wide eyes narrowing slightly, eyebrows leveling and furrowing closer. Why the hell is Spider-Man in here?

“What… are you doing here?”

“Oh- aha. Just a, uh, mixup. Wrong apartment… building. Entirely. I’m a little scrambled. Hit my head on the fire escape,” Peter rambles, mustering lies while using his hands to emphasize his words since he lacked showing expression from behind the mask. His pulse is racing; he's sure you can see the way his suit shifts against his chest.

Your eyes are intensely boring into him as you take in the explanation. Strange, but believable.

“Well... are you okay?” you take a step forward, the space between you shrinking, dangerously close. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Peter feels like he’s about to fucking explode. Is he okay? No, not at all. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to see him.

“I.. yeah! I’m fine, I’ll just go—“ he stammers, turning back toward your window.

“Wait-“ you stop him, slightly lifting your hand in his direction to halt him before crossing your arms over your chest. You couldn’t help but wonder. “This might be a stupid question, especially since I'm sure hundreds of people a day, but… do you remember me?”

Peter’s eyes widen again, his mask mirroring his expression. He turns back in your direction, his eyes scanning your face. Of course he does. He knows you way more than you think. It’s not a stupid question, but kind of ridiculous considering what Peter knows about you.

Though, you’re referring to him infiltrating the bank robbery, saving you amongst other innocent civilians. A pang strikes in his chest as he remembers how terrified you were, but it quickly dissipates just being in your presence.

“Uh, well,” he ponders, quickly trying to muster a response that doesn’t sound creepy while also wanting to validate your curiosity. He mirrors you and crosses his arms over his chest, trying his best to shove his panic to the side. “Now that I think about it… yeah, I do.”

“Really?” your eyes light up, and you take a step closer, your arms falling to your sides now that you feel less strange for asking. “I just- I never got to thank you.”

“Oh, no need. You don’t have to-“

“I know,” you shrug, your lips spreading into a slight smile as you step even closer, your eyes shifting from his face to his chest, then his biceps— fuck, he’s built. “but, thank you. Really. I feel a lot safer here, living here alone and all.”

Truth is, you don’t have any family here in New York. Peter didn’t know that, though. You weren’t sure what compelled you to tell him, either. Regardless, he's Spider-Man — not a threat.

Peter’s breath hitches in his throat. This is exactly what he’s been craving; your undivided attention. He made an impact, and you made it a point to mention it. He quickly shakes it off, taking in your words.

You’re not alone here. You’re so blissfully unaware that he is the same man living across the hall from you. He tries not to think about the way he feels himself twitching against his briefs within the suit the closer you step toward him. He physically can’t help it, and it doesn’t matter how tender the conversation is. He can practically feel the warmth radiating from your body despite being just a few feet away.

He needs to leave. Now.

If he doesn’t, if he allows himself to sink into your spell any further, he’s afraid he won’t be able to help himself. He can’t avoid the filthy visuals raiding his mind, disarming him of critical consideration. Your fingers had somehow sunk even deeper in the crevices of his brain. Leave.

“O-of course! Yeah, no worries at all,” he waves you off, his voice matching his relaxed, confident persona. He climbs through the window, stepping onto the fire escape with ease. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

“Whoa, hey! You can’t just break into someone’s apartment and then leave like it's normal,” you softly scoff, arms raised at your sides to express your disagreement.

“Technically, I didn’t break anything. Just came through the window, which was unlocked,” he quips with a matter-of-fact tone, the space enabling him to finally breathe and collect his thoughts.

“How is that any better?”

Well, it’s not.

Avoid the question.

With his hands still planted firmly on the windowsill, he tilts his head at you, “Lock your window.”

Mirroring him, you tilt your head as well, raising a brow at the order, “Why, so no one else can stumble in here after getting concussed?”

“Because there are people out there who aren’t as nice as me. Now lock it, and keep it that way unless you’re home, yeah?”

It’s somewhat of a cocky response, but it’s true. He lets you sit with that for a moment, the two of you just sharing a few seconds of silence before he shoots a web to the top of the building, making a quick getaway.

You stand there astonished, still trying to comprehend the fact that you came home to find Spider-Man in your room. You wish he stayed at least a little bit longer. There was something about him that felt comforting and familiar, but you couldn’t quite figure out why. You have to admit, you feel a sense of pride at the fact that he remembers you.

If only you knew.

Two nights later, Peter is pacing around his apartment, per usual. The clock on his monitor strikes 9:34pm; he's been contemplating for hours. The more he thought about how he'd return the necklace to you, the more he realized how risky it is.

There was no way he could return it as himself, as Peter, and manage to pull off a lousy lie about how he found it.

All he can think about is how you'd figure it out. He can't risk you putting the pieces together. Fuck, why didn't he think of this beforehand?

Truth is, his behavior has been beyond risky and ridiculous. You quite literally drive him insane to the point where rational decisions are nonexistent. For a split second, he even considers moving away, saving himself the absolute torture of living beside you and not being able to do anything about it.

Deep down, he knows he would never do such a thing... but he can't involve himself personally with you, he just... can't.

He has to return your necklace, but not as Peter. He understands that, but what is he going to say?

Doesn't matter. He can say a lot more with a mask on, knowing you won't figure him out. In fact, he could just tell you he took it and face zero consequences, but what's the fun in that?

As he waits for the inhibitor that’s just nearly finished, Peter lies down on his bed, staring up at the cracked brick ceiling. Maybe a tranquilizer is what he needs. He doesn’t even realize he’s fallen asleep until evie’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Inhibitor complete. Trial number forty-seven on standby.”

Finally.

The washer in Peter’s apartment tumbled, numerous articles of clothing swishing and sloshing, covered in suds. His suit was laid flat on top, shaking along with the rumbling of the machine.

“Alright,” Peter sighs to himself, reaching around to settle the inhibitor on the back of his neck. He feels it latch on, letting out a small grunt as his eyes scan the monitor in front of him.

“Arachnid levels decreasing,” evie states as the orange-tinted bar lowers in real time.

“And my hormones?” Peter inquires, raising a brow.

“Decreasing,” evie’s responds, pulling up a second page on the screen to show various hormone levels. Peter lets out a breath of relief, nodding to himself.

“Perfect," he whispered, snatching his suit off the top of the washer.

In your bedroom, you're comfortably sprawled out, sketchbook in hand as you continue marking the thin sheet of paper with a charcoal pencil. A loud knock startles you, causing you to jump and inevitably scratch the pencil across the paper, ruining your work.

Your head whips in the direction of the sound; your window. On the other side of the glass stands Spider-Man, his arms crossed comfortably on the outside of your windowsill as he waits for your response. His suit is glistening, the loud pattering of rain bellowing in his ears.

You quickly close the sketchbook, tossing it aside before standing from the bed.

Peter would usually feel his heart racing the moment you look at him, but he feels calm. Much better. Even though you look so fucking good in your pj shorts.

Hands finding the latch, you unlock the window and push it up, opening it swiftly. The sound of the rain pattering loudly against the fire escape and nearby streets is much clearer now. Before you can even ask why he's here, his voice shuts you down,

“Good girl,” he drawls out in a high teasing tone, voice still quippy and unrecognizable. You blink, your lips parting slightly, but no words come out. What an introduction.

That's the first thing he says? Not that you can complain. You'd be lying if you denied the way it made your stomach twist deliciously.

“W-What?”

“You locked the window.”

You let out a breath, unable to contain your smile and the slight tint in your cheeks. Face flushing, you turn away from the window to make your way back toward your bed, sitting on the edge of it.

“You scared the shit out of me. I can’t keep seeing you like this, you know,” you say, which catches him completely off guard. You can't see it, but a sense of hurt mixed with panic flicks in his eyes before he can control it.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean with you, at my window, uninvited,” you explain. Peter’s mouth opens slightly, words dying in his throat. Before he has a chance to panic further, your next words take him by surprise. “Come in.”

“What?”

“I said come in. You can’t be uninvited when I’m telling you I want you here,” you add softly. You took the chance, throwing the ball into his court for him to catch.

Was it bold? Yes. Did he find it hot? Also yes.

Feeling an instant wave of relief, you hear a cute, "Oh," before he chuckles, slipping through your window, his feet landing effortlessly on your bedroom floor as he stands upright. He takes in the environment, your ambient lighting causing the droplets of water on his suit to reflect even brighter.

"Care to tell me why you've blessed me with your presence again? Everything okay?" you ask jokingly, yet still surprised by his sudden return. It's been two days, and you'd be lying if you said you hadn't thought about him since then. That’s what he hoped, at least.

"I was just coming to check on you," he lies, standing still so as not to get any of your belongings wet. Besides your floor, of course.

“Why?”

“Because someone broke into your apartment.”

Another lie.

“That was you."

“I meant the building.”

“Still applies.”

“I’m aware,” he quips, the eyes of his mask squinting playfully at you as he tilts his head slightly. You snicker. This back-and-forth game gives him a rush he hasn’t felt in a while. He feels much more confident this time, much more willing to play such a game.

That fucking smirk, he thinks.

“Well, as you can see,” you start, holding your arms up at your sides. “I’m fine.”

Peter tsks, sucking his teeth slightly as he steps toward you, almost as if he's sizing you up. "Well, that's not the only reason I'm here."

You watch as he lifts his hand, loosening the grip of his fingers to release the chain in his fist, dangling it in front of you. Your necklace.

"Oh my god," you softly gasp, reaching for the silver chain and grasping it from his hold. "How did you... Wait, did you take this?"

Now he's panicking.

"W-what? No, no. I found it," he lies again, his tone strong but his legs are feeling a bit weak. Shit.

"...In my room?"

"No," he laughs, trying to muster an explanation before you can dig any deeper. His heart is thundering so fast, he can feel it in his veins, causing him to twitch slightly. "Why would I steal from you?"

Good thing you're gullible enough to believe Spider-Man wouldn't steal from you. Because that's not who he is, right?

"Where was it?"

He rehearsed this, but the way you're looking at him makes it impossible to mutter out a lie. On the ground outside of Delmar’s? No. Fuck it.

"Don't worry about it."

"But how did you know-"

"I've seen you wear it," he admits, unable to control the smile spreading across his lips beneath the mask.

You don't think much of it. He must’ve recognized it from the bank. Opening the clasp, you reach behind you to latch it around the back of your neck, the necklace now resting against your collarbones, the pendant nearly reaching your cleavage. You twist slightly to face away from him, “Can you help me, please?”

He doesn’t answer, immediately grasping the ends from your delicate fingers. His gloved fingers graze the nape of your neck, and he notices the instant goosebumps that litter your skin. He struggles at first, the chain being so small and not having much to work with, but he manages, “anddd... got it.”

You turn back and smile up at him, at his figure standing directly in front of you, head peering down at you.

You felt incredibly inferior, watching him stare with his head tilted in such a way, like you were some sort of prey. If only you could see what's underneath the mask.

"Thanks. I owe you one, again,” you smile, eyes fluttering up at him. His stomach is doing somersaults.

"We talked about this. You don’t owe me anything," he quickly responds, referring to your last conversation. All in all, he’s grateful to return it without consequences. He appreciated the gratitude, but he didn’t expect a damn thing from you. Just the ability to see you.

Pausing, unable to form a proper response, you gaze up at him. Never, ever would you have thought you would be in this position before. Especially with him being so intimately close to you.

You stand, instantly feeling the heat radiating from him. He’s so close. Less than a foot away, chests just barely touching. His posture is steady as he awaits your next move, shocking even himself. If it weren't for his inhibitor, his mind would be going absolutely nuts.

"I know," you finally murmur a response, your eyes searching for his, but all you can see is white mesh. You lift your hand, instinctively trying to reach for him, but you stop yourself. He doesn't move.

You do it anyway. Your hand finds rest at his jaw, your thumb softly rubbing over the ridges of the mask. What is it about him that gets you so?

Is it that he saved you? No...

Maybe the fact that he remembered you and made it a point to make you safe.

It's not like you could stay casual after hearing him praise you like that.

"You... you should probably stop," he warns softly, but doesn't pull away from you. He knows you can feel his chest thundering just a mere inch from you. Despite that, the inhibitor was working, because if it wasn't... you'd definitely not be standing any longer.

"Do you want me to?"

He doesn't answer immediately, his eyes intently focusing on yours through his mask. Is that even a question? It's not like he could just tell you that this is practically torture for him.

"No."

That's just enough for you to raise your other hand, fully grasping his jaw on both sides to get a good look at his mask. Curiosity gets the best of you, your thumb reaching down and gently tugging at the edge of his mask beneath his neck. You just want to feel his skin, feel how warm he is. Feel how real he is.

In a flash, his hand wraps around your wrist, stopping your hand in place.

"Hey, hey. I didn't say you could do that," his tone is playful but his thoughts are a complete contrast, his grip tight on your wrist, but not too tight. Just enough to convey the message. God, he wanted to let you, though. So fucking bad.

It’s too risky. No matter how badly he wants to.

Even if he only shows his lips, he’s sure you’d recognize them after so many small talks. After so many exchanged smiles.

"Then how am I supposed to..." you trail off, the word kiss dying in your throat as your eyes trail down to where his lips would be beneath the mask, then down to where his hand is wrapped around your wrist, his grip firm but soft. He understands immediately.

"You don't."

It killed him to say it.

"I can't kiss you?"

"No."

Your lips curl into a small frown. You understand and respect his boundaries, but you can't deny how much you've thought about this. Rehearsed this. Ever since you caught him in your room, you couldn't help the thoughts that pooled in the moment he left. The fact he'd saved you once before only strengthened that.

What if he just took you, right then and there? God, that's fucked up. You knew that, but... the way you'd feel your core twist and get damp, fuck.

I mean, who doesn't want to fuck him? He's a hero. He's sweet. He's incredibly muscular, and his suit only accentuates that. You could go on and on.

It's not crazy to think about. You're not the only one that thinks this either, confirmed by the many reddit forum threads you dove down after he left. But, you are the only one to have this kind of luxury. The luxury of him being in your room, so close to you, touching you

"You're right, I'm-" you cut yourself off, taking a step back as you rethink your actions. What the hell are you doing? You don't even know him. You're being ridiculous - pathetic, even. You shake your head at yourself, shyly plastering your hand over your face. "I'm so sorry-”

"No, no, don’t be,” he whispers, releasing your wrist from his grasp, shaking his head. If this is his chance, he’d be a goddamn fool to pass it up.

“I can’t kiss you, but..” he continues, his hands moving to find your waist, gently gripping your soft skin through your soft, silky shirt. "I can touch you.”

No, he shouldn’t be doing this. He should’ve left right after giving you the necklace. This wasn’t part of the plan at all.

Tilting your head back up, you peer at him through the gaps of your fingers, your cheeks tinted rosy pink.

“Wha.. what?”

It's a bold move, he knows that. At least it's something he can actually give you.

Slowly, he backs you up, the back of your knees hitting the edge of the bed, inevitably making you fall back down into a sitting position. He leans down, hands planting on your plushy covers on either side of your thighs. You’re trapped.

“You heard what I said. I can touch you— I want to touch you,” he repeats, his teasing grin beneath the mask widening as he watches your eyes melt. Despite his rather audacious idea, Peter truly didn’t have a dominant bone within him. Not when it came to sex, anyway.

He would try for you, though. If that’s what you wanted.

The heat radiating from your skin through your shirt was a clear sign of just how much he was affecting you. You wouldn’t know tell, but he does. He can sense it. He can smell it.

Despite how much he’s wanted this, how much he’s been dreaming of this, he couldn’t shake the thought in the back of his mind that this wasn’t right. This feels too fast. No real connection. No romance.

But if you want this just as much as he does, he’s not fucking leaving.

“I…” you start, your words absolutely failing you. You feel so small below him, so vulnerable. An idea sparks, and there’s a particular glint in your eye. Fine, you can play that game. “If I can’t see you, then you can’t touch me until I say so.”

Oh.

Peter wasn’t expecting that. Not by a long shot.

“Oh really?” he murmurs, his purr causing you to instinctively squeeze your thighs together. You’re fucking leaking. Maybe he can… just only when you tell him to. You’re calling the shots. His padded fingers move to gently caress your jaw, softly grasping your chin. “You sure about that?”

Who is he kidding? Peter knows he would be a fucking mess if you told him when he could and couldn’t feel you or take control of himself. He loves seeing you flustered, though. It’s a sight he will never forget.

You grab his hand, pulling it away from your chin before pushing him over to land beside you. He lets you, allowing himself to plop down on the bed, his legs still hanging off the edge. He stabilizes himself, sitting up to grab your waist as you straddle him.

Just before his hands can make contact with you, you quickly grab his wrists, shaking your head at him with a grin, “Nu-uh.”

“That’s not very fair.”

“You heard what I said.”

Peter let’s put a short, weak huff of protest at you using his own words against him. You’re fully aware that he’s much stronger than you could ever be, and yet he was letting you control him. You release his wrists, pressing a hand against his chest, pushing him down until his back is against the bed.

Softly grinding your hips on his way down, you could feel him twitching and hardening against your clothed cunt, his suit failing him tremendously.

“Shit, you’re that easy?” you tease, moving your hips back and forth, the friction only worsening the wet spot forming on your panties, seeping to your shorts. He could feel it.

“F-fuck, so are you,” he whimpers in defense, unable to control how pathetic he is from the change in dynamic, his gloved fingers grasping at the blanket to avoid touching you without permission. “You’re so wet.”

“You can feel that?” you smile, leaning forward to cup his jaw, running your thumb over his mask-covered lips. You lift yourself up, and he whines at the loss of contact. A playful smirk tugs at your lips, “Aw, don’t be like that.”

Your hand moves from his face and down his chest until you feel his abs, feeling them twitch beneath your touch. You need to see him.

“Take it off,” you demand softly, removing yourself from his lap and moving to lay properly on the bed, watching as he struggles to regain himself to stand. Once he does, you watch him discard the suit, taking note of the way the cloth tightly hugs his muscles until it’s gone. Your eyes light up as soon as his abs are exposed, you almost want to throw the whole game out the window and have him take you. But you had to admit, watching him struggle and fall apart was even better.

Your eyes trail down to his briefs, the large tent exposing just how much he needs you. Of course, he kept the mask on. He stands there, unsure of what to do, suit discarded to the floor.

You twist your wrist, motioning for him to come closer with your finger, curling it toward you. His drops his bare hands to the bed, carefully crawling onto your covers until he’s hovering over you.

“Now take mine off.”

Holy fuck.

Swallowing thickly, Peter’s hands shift to the hem of your shirt, wanting to slip them underneath and touch your warm, bare skin. He contains himself just enough. He gently pulls your shirt up, his heartbeat picking up once again. He pushes it above your waist, exposing your bra that's so pretty and lacy. Almost as if you'd planned this already.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers to himself, the barrier of the mask making it difficult for you to hear. You don't bother having him repeat himself, lifting your back slightly to allow him to pull your shirt over your head.

He reaches to grab your clothed breast, eyes wide and hungry, but he stops himself. Still lifted, you unclasp your bra and before you can even move another inch, he's tugging it off you, the straps easing off your shoulders.

"Shit," he nearly moans, the sight enough to have him leaking. He's already throbbing, it's almost painful. He wants to touch them, to squeeze your plushy skin, but you haven't told him to yet. "You're so pretty. You know how fucking pretty you are?"

"I've been told," you smile irresistibly, your shoulders lifting slightly in a shrug. You've been told? By who?

Stop it, he thinks to himself, to his own thoughts. He has you right here, underneath him.

His hands shift downward, eager and cold, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shorts. He doesn’t waste any time. As he tugs your shorts down your thighs, you hear a pitiful, muffled whimper. You look down to see his thumb just barely grazing the wet spot on your panties.

God, you smell so sweet.

“Please,” he whimpers again, his fingers hovering over the side of the thin cotton, wanting to pull them aside. You smile, your hand lowering and wrapping around his to guide his hand, having him push them over, exposing your slick folds.

"Go on," you nod, slightly condescending and full of pity as you hand-over-hand guide him further, allowing his finger to graze before pushing closer, his finger slipping between your wet slit and making a filthy squelch. 

“Pretty,” he huffs. He’s fucking vibrating. Every bone in his body, his mind, everything is telling him to just take you. He’s being good, though. You have to give him that credit. 

He pushes his finger inside you, a puff of air being knocked out of his lungs as he feels your walls hug around it. You’re tight. He curls it inside you, earning a tiny moan from you as you buck your hips up ever so slightly. All restraint is lost. 

“Oh, god,” you whimper softly, melting beneath him. You sound so pretty. He can’t take it. He can’t keep holding back. He needs you to break and give in fully. 

Peter’s free hand moves to your lower stomach, pressing down to hold you in place as his finger works inside you, pumping slowly yet deliciously loud. 

“S-shit, so wet. So fucking wet,” he murmurs to himself, easing in a second finger. It almost feels like he’s done this before, or it’s just from the spike in confidence after hearing the pretty noises you make. 

Softly biting your lower lip, you try to grasp his hand, wanting to stop him just to tease him but he surprises you. Quickly, moves his free hand to grab yours before holding it down against your stomach, on the same spot that his was previously. “J-Just.. wait. Please, let me.”

Of course, you give in. Peter experiments, pumping his fingers as deep as he can, the veins in his hands prominent. He watches, completely mesmerized, at the way your pussy sucks in his fingers, accepting them, your juices leaking around them. The filthy sound your pussy’s making combined with that warm squeeze — he can’t wait any longer.

If you smell this good, he can only imagine how you taste. He needs to know. He pulls his hand back, looking up at you.

“Please… Cover your eyes,” he demands in a gentle tone, waiting until you cover them with your forearm, your back resting comfortably against your plushy sheets. He pulls the mask up just enough to expose his lips, raw and plump from him biting them, trying to keep himself from sounding utterly fucking pathetic. 

He doesn’t even bother properly removing your panties first, he just keeps them held to the side as he dives down. You gasp, feeling his tongue dip between your folds, collecting your wetness on his tongue before swiping it up to your clit. You taste just as sweet as he thought you would; even more so. 

He groans against you, the vibrations shooting straight into your core. His lips wrap around your sensitive bud, pulling a loud, unapologetic moan from your throat. The pretty sound causes his cock to twitch against his briefs, his hips starting to slowly rutt into the mattress. He’s ravenous. 

“Fuck, you taste so sweet... so good.. s'good,” he slurs incoherently, his tongue working almost expertly, swirling around your sensitive bud with such focus, softly sucking then lapping at it. Over and over. 

You feel his fingers push inside you again, your mouth falling open with a pitiful cry. His mouth works meticulously with his fingers, feeling your orgasm creeping closer, the spindle in your core tightening with each passing second. 

“My fucking g-god, you’re… you’re doing so good,” you breathe between your words, your chest rising and falling rapidly as he laps at your messy cunt like a little puppy. He whimpers against you, his fingers curling each time he sucks around your bud. The friction he's created, rutting his cock against the mattress, he's already fucking close.

So are you. It shocks you, really. You’ve never had someone get you so close so quickly. It’s like he was made for this.

“Shitshit, I’m— fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you squeak softly, whimpering when you feel his free hand on your waist, his fingers squeezing your soft, plushy skin. He keeps the same pace, not wanting to ruin this for you. He can feel you squeezing around his fingers that are expertly pumping inside you, curling deliciously to graze your sweet spot. “F-fuck!”

Your thighs squeeze together, trapping his face against your messy cunt as you start to cum, your eyes blowing wide. You’re shaking, and not just because of the force of his fingers ramming into you, working you through your orgasm. Peter can feel how hard you’re breathing, his thumb rising and falling on your stomach as he keeps his grip on your waist firm, holding you.

Just as you start to reach down for his head to pull it closer, he pulls away from you, the filthy pop of his lips disconnecting from your clit echoing between you. 

"Shit, what's wrong?"

"Nothings wrong," he responds a little too quickly.

You can hear the rustling of him pulling his mask back down, your heart jumping in your chest. 

“You can look now,” he breathes, moving to hover above you, his cock throbbing against your thigh within the confines of his briefs. You’re still panting as you move your arm away to see him hovered above you, your eyes searching his through the mask. “Did I do a good job?”

“Such a good job,” you huff, a smile pulling at the corner of your lips. Your hand instantly moves down to his clothed cock, your fingers curling around him. You feel the definition, and how much he’s throbbing. 

Nearly instantly, he’s whimpering. You feel his two fingers, still wet and messy from you, pushing against your lips. You were hoping to taste yourself on his tongue, but this’ll do. You part them, sucking them as soon as they touch your tongue.

Peter didn’t expect it to feel so good, the way your tongue wraps around his fingers makes his head spin. You hadn’t even really touched him yet and he’s a leaking, moaning mess. 

Taking him by surprise, you slip your hand into his briefs, your soft fingers wrapping around him to slowly stroke him as you continue sucking on his fingers. His eyes roll, his head tilting back slightly as he relishes in the feeling. It’s just like how he imagined it. 

Despite being unable to see his face, you can tell he’s falling apart. You swear it’s like he knows what he’s doing, but has never been touched before. Maybe he really is just that pathetic. 

You start to fasten the pace of your hand, but just as you start, he’s just as quick to stop you.

“S-stop,” he whimpers, pulling his fingers from your mouth and lifting his hips. You retract your hand, and before you can ask what happened, he’s quick to continue, “I’m already getting close.”

What?

He pushes his briefs down the rest of the way, kicking them off. You see the way his cock springs free, aching red and already leaking precum at the tip. In an instant, he's hovering over you again, his cock just mere inches from you. From where you want him the most.

“You poor thing-” your teasing is cut short when you feel his arms wrap around your thighs, pulling them closer to him. You gasp, eyebrows raising as he softly grinds his tip against your slit free-handed. He’s rushing and he knows it. He can’t fucking help it. 

You wanted to degrade him, to remind him of his rules, but he's just so desperate. So needy. It's a pretty sight.

“J-Just tell me when I can, please,” he huffs, his tip rubbing between your folds causing a filthy squelching sound. His eyes are focused on your pretty cunt, at the way his tip fits perfectly against your slit before he starts to push in, “Oh my god, fuck, please. Tell me. Tell me I can—“

"Of course you can, baby. Touch me," you purr teasingly, your hands move to his hips, gently tugging to pull him even closer. The pet name nearly makes him rut, but he's hanging on to the last thread of control he has left. He pushes in slowly, the pitiful sound he makes nearly making you gush.

"O-oh my, fuck. Thank you. Shit, you're so tight," he whines, pushing into you slowly, watching your pussy take him, sucking him in inch by inch. Your hands tighten on his hips, your nails sinking into his taut skin.

“Feels so good, doesn’t it?” you purr, intently watching the way his movements stutter at your teasing. He can't take it. He can't fucking take it anymore.

"Yes, yes. Feels so fucking good," he whimpers, pushing in the rest of the way before bottoming out completely with his hips snug against yours. The feeling makes your eyes roll slightly, your head tilting back against the pillow.

When you move to roll your hips against his, his hands fly from your thighs to your waist, pushing you slightly up the bed with such ease, stopping your movements, "S-stop, stop."

You look up at him, naturally searching for his eyes through the mask, "It's okay, we can stop."

"No, I just," he grunts, his hips shaking slightly as he fights to control himself. "I need a second."

“Okay,” you nod softly, lifting a hand from his hips to wrap it around the side of his throat, your thumb gently caressing his adam’s apple. He swallows thickly, and you feel it bob under your touch. 

With the remnants of your orgasm still rippling through you, you can’t control the way your cunt flutters around him. Fuck, is he gonna have to cum before he can keep going? He wants this to last. 

Slowly, his hips start rolling against yours, “I-I’m okay, sorry, m’sorry,” he whispers, looking back down at where you’re connected before rambling on. 

"You have no idea-" he grunts, eyes locked onto the way his cock is fully stuffed inside you, your pussy taking him so good. So wet and eager. He pulls his hips back until his cock slips out halfway, glistening with your juices before he slowly pushes back in, listening to the filthy sound it makes, "-how much I've thought about this."

His hands are still tightly gripping your waist as his hips work to keep a steady pace. He doesn't want to go too fast, he can’t. This is so embarrassing. 

Your eyes light up at the admission, hand still gently wrapped around the side of his neck, “Shit. I’m- me too.”

His ears perk, his hips never faltering. His thrusts are slow and deliberate, your response making him whimper. 

“I want to see you,” you whisper, your fingers slipping down to the edge of his mask at the base of his neck. “Let me kiss you.”

He stills. Is it too risky? At this point, how would a kiss be more ridiculous than him literally eating you out?

Well, it’s not, but it’s too much risk. 

“You can’t.”

“Why? You don’t have to tell me your name.”

“That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

How is he supposed to answer that? 

His hands leave your waist, leaving your skin cold. He slips a hand underneath you, between your back and the mattress, lifting you enough to press your chest against his. Your face rests just above his shoulder as his hips continue thrusting against yours, deep and slow. His arm stays there, tightly holding you against him, your eyes struggling to stay focused. That’s when you hear it. 

With his free hand, he pulls the mask off, but purposely holding you close enough that he could hide his face over your shoulder. 

“Y-You really don’t trust me?” you manage with a moan, feeling his bare chest tighten against yours at the accusation.  

“That’s not it,” he groans softly against the side of your neck, his lips finally touching the skin of it, warm and wet. You feel his cock twitch inside you, your eyes hooded with the inability to focus. 

“Mmh, then what is it?”

“I trust you. I don’t trust what might happen.”

“Please.”

“I can’t, f-fuck,” he whimpers against your skin, his hips starting to fasten in pace at the sound of your plea. The filthy fucking sounds your pussy is making is driving him insane, his cock easing in and out effortlessly. You know there’s no winning this. 

You wrap your arms above his shoulders and around his back, holding him as you tuck your chin into the crevice between his neck and shoulder. You feel him breathing into your neck, his breath shaky and weak. That oh-so familiar scent has Peter’s head spinning. 

“You smell so good. I fucking dream about this, about you,” he pathetically admits, voice weak and breath hot against your neck. “Y-You- fuck, you make me fucking cum in my sleep. Make me- agh, wake up all messy.”

He’s losing it. He’s so vulgar.

He hears your gasp, so close and soft beside his ear, it sends a chill down his spine. 

“It’s pathetic, isn’t it?” he whimpers, his voice barely audible when all you can focus on is how much of a loud fucking mess he’s making of your poor cunt. “I dream about fucking you, just like this, making you cum around me, s-shit.”

The thought has his hips stuttering before he picks up the pace even more, his hips smacking yours with a force that causes your body to jolt with each thrust. His grip is tight as he holds you, feeling you jolt against him all while he whimpers in your ear, struggling to not look at you. His other hand remains on your waist, helping to stabilize you as he fucks into you. The filthy squelching of your cunt grows even louder, and you feel the vibrations of a low growl against your neck, “F-Fucking god, do you hear it?” 

“Mh-m, yes,” you moan, your nails digging into the skin of his back. Peter wouldn’t be able to explain the sudden confidence boost, particularly with his words. 

“S’fucking messy,” he whimpers, your wetness splashing on his thighs after each deep thrust, dribbling down his skin. You feel his lips connect with the side of your neck, sucking a harsh love mark into your skin before softly licking it to soothe it. He does it again, over and over, his pitiful noises vibrating against your throat.

Your eyes roll at the feeling, your senses overloading. You feel your core tightening, your second orgasm growing dangerously close. 

“I’m gonna… mmph, fuck, I-I’m close,” you moan into his ear, your pussy milking him with each jolt he causes. With the arm wrapped around your back, he pulls you closer. With his other, he releases your waist, his free hand moving to grab your arm and guide your hand down to your stomach. Pressing his hand on top of yours, he forces you to feel your lower stomach.

You feel it immediately, your stomach bulging slightly with each pump of his cock. He’s in your fucking guts.

“Y’feel it? Feel me in your tummy?” he moans softly in you ear, his pathetic expression one that he’d be embarrassed for you to see. There’s no way you don’t feel it, even he can as he holds your hand down against your rapidly bulging skin. “Feel me filling y’up.”

That was a statement. A demand. Your eyes roll back again, your body growing weak in his hold as he takes complete control. You don’t have any fight left in you to tease him. You’re so fucking close, facing an internal conflict with the need to cum and the desire to keep going. 

“Fill me up,” you whimper, rolling your hips against his, purposely squeezing your pussy around him, wanting to milk every last drop. “I wanna feel you cum.” 

“O-oh my, haah, g-god, aaagh,” Peter instantly whines, his mouth parting open as he starts driving into you faster, pounding his hips into yours. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

He was being so good, now he’s rushing just because you told him to fill your pretty cunt with his cum? 

How pathetic can he get?

“You’re doing so fucking good,” you praise softly, feeling him fuck into you even deeper with your hand still prisoned between his and your stomach. That’s all he needed. 

“S-shit, t-thank you,” he whines louder, his voice cracking in your ear as his chest tightens against yours, his breath growing shallow. He doesn’t have time to warn you before he’s cumming. “Thankyouthankyou, fuck!”

His cock twitches with each spurt of thick, warm ropes of cum stuffing inside you. The pathetic sounds he’s making and the feeling of his cum filling you up is enough for you to break, your pussy spasming around him uncontrollably. Your body goes slack against him, thighs trembling as you gasp like all the air in your lungs was violently knocked out.

What’s shocking is he doesn’t stop. His hips keep moving, pistoning relentlessly as he keeps cumming. Your pussy can only contain so much, the leftovers of cum leaking out of you, bubbling around your slit and making a filthy mess each time he pulls his hips back and thrusts back in. It’s like he purposely wants to overfill it, to stuff you full and keep fucking it back into you, not wanting to waste it. 

With your limbs weak and achy, you’re completely limp, but that doesn’t mean you want to stop. You lift your hand from your stomach, lacing your fingers with his before he plants your hand back down against your plushy skin, not letting up. You move your other hand from his back to the nape of his neck, barely grazing his hair as your fingers unintentionally landing on his inhibitor.

Oh dear. 

“F-fuck, don’t. Don’t touch that,” he struggles, a whiny moan escaping him as he feels your pussy squeezing him so fucking tight. He pulls his hand from yours on your stomach, quickly moving to grab your wrist, but it's already too late.

He feels it detach from his skin.

You didn’t mean to, only wanting to grab onto him, but it catches onto your fingers and slides out of place. 

“Shit!” he grunts, his free hand moving to cover your eyes. He sits up, still inside you as he looks around for the inhibitor that’s now fallen and out of sight.

“W-what! What was that?”

“Just- don’t move,” he pleads, his head twisting as his eyes search the bunched up sheets. “Fuck, where did it go?”

“Please, just let me see you,” you beg, your hand moving to grab onto his that’s blocking your vision. 

“N-no! Just hold on a second—“

“Peter.”

Oh, no.

He stills completely, eyes widening as he takes in hearing his name coming from your mouth. His ears start ringing. 

“Peter, I know it’s you.”

“What? That’s… not my name,” he lies, eyes still wide, his cheeks flushing rosy red. 

“Inhibitor complete. Trial number forty-seven on standby.”

This can't be happening.

“What did you say?”

Peter gasps, his back shooting up from his bed. Eyes wide, heart pounding. He’s in his room. Peter’s hand quickly moves up to graze the back of his neck. His skin is damp, a cold chill creeping through him at the realization he never had the inhibitor on.

No, no, no. It felt so real.

Whipping his head in the direction of his monitor, he sees the notification that the inhibitor is complete, blinking across the screen. The same notification he swore he already saw.

How did he possibly wake up from a nap, put the inhibitor on, and go see you, all within one dream? It made sense, considering how fast things escalated and how he knows what your bedroom looks now, but…

Something is wrong. It felt too fucking real.

He glances over at his nightstand, the clock blinking 6:26am. Beside his alarm clock, there was nothing. He could've sworn he put your necklace down, carefully laying it on the stained wood before he fell asleep.

What is going on?

That’s when he feels it. The dampness in his briefs, warm and sticky. His hands fly to his face, a frustrated groan bellowing from him.

“Fuck!”

your mouth dried out, only gasping when he pulled down your shorts to prove his point. your panties were drenched. “see?” he coo’ed, teasing your clit with a feather like touch. “satoru!” you whimpered out, struggling to do anything but watch him toy with you.

“let me help you out, okay?”

he temporarily released his hold on you, only to grab onto the back of your thighs, forcing them up to your chest. with your panties now to the side, he had full access to your cunt. “wish i could see you properly.” he sighed. “but i like this position, don’t you?”

the bastard didn’t give you a chance to reply before he inserted two fingers into you. he chuckled at the way your body arched, groaning at your walls closing in on him.

“i’m going to make you feel so good, wanna show you how much i’ve been needing you.” he kissed your shoulder, curling his digits, causing an embarrassing wet sound to come out of you. “you’re so wet.” gojo hummed. “think you’re ready to take me.”

you shook your head, grabbing onto his hand that was fingering you. “just.. just touch me a bit more like this..” you pleaded, fluttering your eyes shut.

gojo raised a brow, but did as you said.

you moaned, grinding your hips to the same rhythm he was using, fucking yourself on his fingers. he watched carefully over your shoulder, mesmerized by the way he just slipped in and out. you felt your tummy turn, a warning of your release. you braced yourself to let go before gojo halted his movements.

“alright that’s enough of that. i need my cock in you, like right now.”

“but-“ you protested, pouting when he reached toward his pants, pulling them off to release his cock. his lips curled at your reaction, loving how flustered you’ve gotten upon seeing his length. “i don’t expect you to take it all, so i’ll put half of it in. how does that sound, sweets?” he mumbled against your skin, trailing hot kissed down your collarbone. he didn’t wait for a response, gripping his base after a few pumps, lining it up to your entrance.

he needed to feel all of you, fuck condoms.

your nails clawed at his arm that was still wrapped around your neck, moaning when he split you open. “oh my god!”

gojo clamped his hand over your mouth, muffling your screams. he loved how in just one thrust, he had you unraveled. “shhh, sweets. you forget i have neighbors.”his breath hitched as you clenched around him, making it impossible to go past a few inches. “fuck, baby. please stop being so goddamn tight.”

you could feel his veins scrape at your inner walls, touching in just the right places. “that’s it..” 

he praised with every thrust he gave, using your body for leverage as he picked up the pace. “you’re taking me so well.” your eyes were shut close, drooling into his mouth. this wasn’t how’d you imagined your night to go, but in no way were you complaining.

your pussy was so relieved to get the attention it needed.

a wicked grin spread across gojo’s face, knowing you were close. he tightened his hold on you to the point of bruising, inhaling sharply. “fuck fuck fuck.”

“ngh!” you whined, head falling back on his shoulder. his hair’s even more of a disaster than usual, sweat-damp strands sticking to his forehead as those ocean-blue eyes stay on you. "fuckin’ hell," gojo grits out between panting breaths before suddenly flipping you over in one brutal motion. "wanna see your face" 

“b-but i liked the other position..” you bit your lip after admitting to that. 

he flashes is all teeth before driving into you again deeper this time just watch those pretty noises fall apart for him instead. 

“we’ll go back to that one in a bit. just wanna see your face when you cum.”

“but i can’t, it feels t’ good!” you try to compromise, attempting to stifle your sweet moans and failing miserably — but how could you? how is it possible to quiet down whenever peter, himself is chasing that exact high that makes you both a little delirious in the feat of heat?

your toes curl, and hands claw down from his scalp to his shoulders making peter groan at the sting. “i know— hah- it feels it good…” he chokes, hips stammering in place. his cheeks are flushed, stray strands of hair glued to his forehead as sweat drips down every crevice of his sculpted muscles.

peter lifts his head, desperate eyes latched onto yours as his calloused hands snake up your waist to cradle your face in his hands.

his breathing is staggered — chest rising up and down at a quickened pace before dropping eye level, as if he were trying to tell you something telepathically before pressing his lips against yours. his mouth devouring every inch of your mouth as he repositions his hips while pulling away to replace his hand for his mouth.

“i’m so sorry, baby.” peter softens his voice, “i can’t stop because it feels too fuckin’ good to stop.” he whines.

and maybe that kiss alone was a telltale sign of what’s next to come as you feel the sensation of warmth spread across your mouth.

a stringy-like texture forming a tacky layer against your lips to silence any sound because as much as he loved your raw, sweet pathetic moans. he also knew that there’d be a neighborly complaint waiting just outside his door the next morning.

peter drives his hips forwards, thrusting straight to the hilt making your back arch off the mattress. your nails carving moon-shaped crescents into his flesh earning low grunts as a moan climbs through your throat with nowhere to go because your mouth is webbed shut, forcing you to swallow down a few muffled whimpers. “that’s better…” peter sighed, letting his subconscious thoughts slip past his lips.

this was the perfect solution. a little unethical? yes, but nonetheless perfect in his books because now — now, peter can finally immerse himself into pure lust that he’s strayed away from — the kind of lust where he doesn’t have to hold back, where he can completely lose his mind in pleasure without having to worry about a disturbance warning.

and it’s all thanks to his organically crafted webs.

Once the clock hit midnight you pounced onto Peter. He hadn’t been injured too badly recently and it was a big day so you were going to make the most out of it.

The whole hour prior you had been teasing him, touching yourself in front of him but only over your (his) sweatpants. You locked eyes with him the entire time and made sure to let out little noises to tease him further.

But now that it was his birthday you could go all out.

You started by making out with him, grinding right on his aching bulge while you felt yourself getting wetter by the second.

His hands were all over you. First they were on your hips, helping you grind right against him then they were going up and down your back while you shoved your tongue in his mouth.

He moaned and you pulled away going down to his neck, leaving mark after mark all over before kissing every new bruise.

Your name came out like a prayer, needy and pretty, just how you liked it.

You left kisses along his collarbone plus a few more marks for good measure before kissing down his chest. You stuck your tongue out and licked down his chest then down his abs until getting to his boxers.

You looked up at him through batted lashes and he was already breathing heavily, eyes pleading. You gave him a smile and put a stop to your teasing, instantly pulling his boxers down and taking his cock in your hand.

It instantly throbbed as you let out a tiny chuckle before taking him into your mouth.

“Ah- fuck-“ he mumbled, bucking his hips up.

You got yourself comfortable between his legs then went down, taking more of him. You pulled up, spitting on it then stroked it two times before taking him back in your mouth.

This time you didn’t stop until he was all the way down your throat and he was moaning so much. You looked up at him, making him groan, his hands resting on your head — softly grabbing your hair.

You pulled back halfway then went back down, his tip hitting the back of your throat quickly earning yourself a whimper from him.

At this time you’d usually stop and just stroke him because you loved to tease him but tonight had to be different.

Instead you kept going, bobbing your head back and forth on him wanting to give him the utmost pleasure you possibly can.

After two minutes of that, he moaned out, “b-baby- please, I need you.”

You pulled his cock out and smiled, “how do you want me?”

“On top- please.” He breathes out and you nod, taking your clothes off before quickly climbing on top of him.

He looked out of breath but excited which is perfect in your books.

You hovered above him while he lined himself up to your entrance, you gasped before lowering yourself all the way down. You both moaned in sync as you placed your hands on his shoulders and his were on your waist.

“Feel so good.” He mumbled and you giggled, “someone’s excited.”

“It’s your fault.” He chuckled, making you smile, “whatever you say birthday boy.”

He gasped then gave you a playfully glare, “You teased me for an hour! If that’s not your fault I don’t know what is.”

“It’s not my fault you didn’t want to stroke yourself!” You deflected, slowing moving yourself up.

“Well no- I just wanted you.” He mumbled and you nod, halfway on his cock.

You lean in close to him, just enough for your breath to hit his lips, “And now you have me.”

You slammed down and he groaned, gripping your skin while you started to ride him properly. He trained your legs just for this, he loved this position and you loved making him happy even if this’ll probably pain you tomorrow morning.

Which is why you called the day off.

You moved your body just like he taught you, first slow movements then upping the pace when he had that look in his eye.

When he was impatient and wanted more but was too shy to ask.

Almost like giving you puppy dog eyes when he wanted something.

Sometimes they went hand in hand.

So you moved yourself a little faster, getting the hang of it while he helped you. His hands were holding you, moving you at the pace he wanted and you let him.

He’s been having rough fights out there lately and you wanted to give him these moments so he could feel human and normal.

Which by the loud moans he was letting out, was working like a charm.

“You won’t laugh if I come too fast right?” He asks and you quickly shake your head, “never.”

“Okay good because,” he starts then bucks his hips up, “you’re getting me closer to.”

Before you could give him a snarky remark, he started fucking up into you but at the same time he was bringing you down.

You were slamming into him right at the moment he thrusted up into you and it instantly made you whimper. He let out a chuckle, going harder than before and bringing you down with him.

“Fuck baby-“ you moan, digging your nails into his shoulders.

He grunted and bit his lip, thrusting harder and faster into you that your thighs were starting to burn. But you could feel him getting closer.

He was throbbing and pulsing, a tell tale sign that he was seconds away from release.

Your cunt was dripping against him and the sounds of slapping skin were filling your bedroom, louder than it usually does.

You bounced just as hard as him, not relying on his help which had him groaning and throwing his head back. His eyes fluttered as he tried to watch the sight between your bodies, how you take every inch of him with every thrust.

His hands were suddenly on your hips, and he lifted his ass up, now full on pounding into you like there was no tomorrow.

You tried your hardest to stay with him, and match his pace but he didn’t budge. Every inch of him was inside you and he wasn’t slowing down.

Instead he was moaning so many things out.

“Fuck baby you make me feel s-so good-“

“Best present ever.”

“I love you.”

Once he said the last one, you repeated it straight after making him whimper. You gasped and a moan followed as he opened his eyes and mumbled, “say it again.”

You smiled and murmured, “I love you. I love you so much Peter.”

With that he let out the loudest of moans and groans, spilling his load into you while he kept you up high before sinking down into the bed.

His moans didn’t stop and you leant down, giving him a soft kiss but he was the one to change it fast.

It turned into a heated kiss as he finished cumming inside you and he was trying to calm his breathing down. You held him close as his moans turned quiet but still needy.

You brought a hand up to his head, playing with his curls to calm him down and he slowed the kiss down. It was a tiny clash of tongues with light pecks while you tried to get off him.

He whined, “Can we sleep like this?”

“You know we shouldn’t.” You murmur and he sighs, pulling away, “you’re right.”

After getting cleaned up, you ended up on top of him and in his arms while you both tried to doze off.

“What do you wanna do tomorrow?” You ask quietly and he chuckles, “maybe we could do this again..”

You laughed and nodded, “we could..”

He then shuffled a little before his hands ended up on your back, “what if… you.. y’know..”

“I don’t know actually.” You teased, making him groan.

“What if.. you wake me up to.. something?” He says and you hum, “like a bj?”

“Mhm… or…” he says and the silence was just loud.

You smiled and hummed, “or… me using your cock like a dildo?”

He suddenly started choking making you laugh while you tried to calm him down and tell him you were absolutely down to do it.

Again.

It was the following morning and Peter’s snores woke you up.

It was still pretty early and he decided to try to ignore the city until noon so that still gave you a few hours with him.

Through the night it seems you switched positions as you were now spooning, his arm wrapped loosely around you while you tried to turn around as well as try to move him.

Once you succeeded in both, you leaned close to him, kissing his neck then his shoulder. You then brought a hand over his body, roaming up and down his abs oh so gently.

He somehow was a heavy sleeper, although sometimes it depends.

Right now though, he was out.

Your hand traveled down to his cock, slowly stroking him over his boxers as he breathed normally.

You smiled and continued, going a little faster as you felt him getting harder under your touch. You grinned when he let out a little moan, going a little faster before stopping to just go under his boxers.

Your hand went under them with ease and you worked his cock how you were before, just right for him to subconsciously feel good and to not wake up.

You figured the best position to fuck him was on top but you wanted it to be different.

So you laid down on your left side before turning then moving him with you. He subconsciously moved and wrapped his arm around your waist again.

You were somehow able to take off your panties without him waking up and spread your legs without hearing a peep from him.

At that point you figured you were completely safe so you reached back, trying to find his cock. Once you felt it, you brought your ass close to him before lining him up to your already drenched pussy.

You slipped him in and held your moans back as his hand held spasmed. You froze and it stopped.

You waited a few seconds before moving back, all the way against him that he left you full.

His cock was stretching you much more like this and you wanted to be loud but didn’t want him to wake up.

So you moved slow and covered your mouth as you fucked yourself into him. It felt so dirty, so forbidden.

Yet you couldn’t help but want more.

You moved your ass faster, desperate to make yourself cum before he woke up because the idea just turned you on so badly last night.

You weren’t sure what was in the air, if it was the excitement or maybe the thought of him cumming fast last night but you felt close.

The good thing about this was you could just lie and he wouldn’t know a thing.

He was still snoring but he would let out the occasional moan which was just so incredibly hot that you couldn’t stop.

You were so turned on that you were letting out accidental whimpers every time his tip hit that sweet spot deep inside you.

It was surprising he still hadn’t woken up but it was better this way.

You just knew you looked so needy and his ego didn’t need to get any bigger.

So you let your moans out and continued using his cock like a dildo, as promised. You felt that too familiar feeling in the pit of your stomach and you couldn’t stop whatsoever.

You chased that feeling and held onto his arm for help while you slammed back into his cock and after one final thrust, you came.

You cried out and held tightly onto his arm while your pussy clenched against him. You shivered as you came and you clapped a hand over your mouth as you finished.

Suddenly though you felt his cock twitching and he came.

Your eyes widened in shock as he let out a sleepy moan and he spilled a load inside you.

You whimpered and tried to keep quiet, hell try to not move too as he whined in his sleep.

Then as if by magic, he stirred then yawned, you whipped your head back to look at him. Right at that moment, he opened his eyes and gasped, “oh god-“

You smiled then sighed, “happy birthday baby.”

“You’re the best.” He sighs and you giggle as he leans forward giving your cheek a kiss.

Then without saying anything else, he grabbed you and moved you until you were straddling him. You laid comfortably on him, hearing his heartbeat go back to normal but still racing just a bit.

“Already a great birthday.” He whispers and you grin, looking up at him, “you haven’t seen anything yet.”

He took that as a challenge so he carried you all the way to the bathroom, turning the warm water on fast before getting in.

Your arms were wrapping around his neck as he got in under the water first. He then moved and it was your turn, it was the perfect temperature.

The warm water eased the pain from your thighs, which were still wrapped around him.

And as if he read your mind, he finally put you down. You smiled and he got in the water but not before his hands playfully smacked your ass.

You chuckled and stepped into the water with him, reaching up to kiss him. He met you halfway and moaned into your mouth, as you tried to ignore his cock hitting your stomach.

“I came inside you?” He asks and you hum, “mhm..”

“Fuck..” he moans, making you whimper.

“It was so hot.” You murmur as he gropes your ass, “It felt like a dream.”

“A very realistic dream.” You hum and he nods.

He then suddenly brought a hand between your legs, “I need you.”

“Let’s clean you up a bit yeah?” He asks, pulling away and you nod slowly.

You spread your legs wide and he helps you bring a leg up while he stuffs two fingers inside you. You moan and hold onto him tightly as he started pumping them in and out of you.

“So messy.” He whispers and you nod, “because of you.”

“We’ve gotta do that more.” He answers, making you quickly nod, “please.”

He chuckles before bringing his fingers up, showing you the mixture of his cum and yours. “Such a messy girl.” He teases, making you pout, “you like messes.”

“No, you’re wrong baby..” he mumbles and you raise an eyebrow.

He suddenly turned you around then pushed you against the wall, sticking your ass out and slammed inside you, making you cry out as you held onto the wall.

You body was pressed against it and his body was behind you, you could feel his chest on your back as well as his mouth close to your ear because of his breath. “I fucking love messes.” He mutters and sticks his fingers into your mouth.

You moaned at the taste of it as he started pounded into you. You made sure you licked every bit of it as his thrusts got rough, very fast.

Your feet were planted on the floor and you only prayed you wouldn’t slip and bust your ass.

But he held onto you tightly with his unoccupied hand and after you sucked every bit of the juices, his fingers came out and he held you firm with both hands.

“Still so fucking tight..” he groans, making you whimper, “Peter-“

“Yeah baby? You like when I tell you these things, don’t you?” He teases in your ear, his voice low.

You cried out and he clearly didn’t like that answer when he smacked your ass, leaving a sting until he massaged it. “Answer me baby.” He whispers and you nodded.

He clicks his tongue and presses onto your stomach, his thrusts becoming harder by the second, your grip barely steady. “I said answer me.” He murmurs and another whimper came out, “I can’t!”

“Yes you can- just like how you’re taking me.. you can tell me how you love when I tell you how good you feel.” He says into your ear and you moan out, “f-fuck!”

“Always so fucking good.” He teases and your walls envelope his cock even more than before.

He groans then chuckles, “I wanna be here all day with you.”

“Then don’t leave-“ you moan out and he groans, “yeah? You want me to stay?”

“Y-Yes- I need you to stay and fuck me all day.” You finally admit and he instantly groans.

“Might just have to baby- fuck you make me feel so good.” He pants and you nod, “please, please do.”

“Fuck baby- you’re gonna make me cum inside you again.” He moans, making you whimper.

Every thrust hit you deep and hard, you were practically seeing stars. You mumbled out, “Good! Mm I want you to.”

“You want me to cum in you again?” He asks, in that tone you love.

“You can cum in me all day baby.” You answer, making him groan.

“Fuck baby- you’ll regret saying that.” He says and you shake your head, “I won’t- I promise, I want you to.. I need you to.”

“Oh baby- fuckkk baby-“ he moans before giving you one deep thrust and cumming.

Your whimpers nearly drowned out his groans as he filled you for the third time on his birthday. You came on his cock once again, somehow harder than before and your legs finally gave up on you but he grabbed you just in time.

You had no idea that Spider-Man— Peter Parker— lived above you and had been so exhausted he climbed through the wrong window. He wouldn't tell you that, of course, but he also didn't mind the company. Ever since reconnecting with MJ and Ned, there was still a piece of him that knew they were all different now. Peter never got to grow up with them. He wasn't there for their first college party or even when Ned got a stick-and-poke despite being afraid of needles. A part of Peter wondered who he'd be if he had told MJ the truth when he wanted to. Maybe he'd be less afraid and lonely now. Hell, maybe he'd have some cheap tattoo he could call a drunken mistake— if his abilities didn't make it nearly impossible for him to get drunk.

The superhero was a great listener. He always sat and nodded along, or gave his own two cents when you complained about work or friends or family. Occasionally, he told stories about his aunt, but there was always a particular tone in his voice that made clear he didn't want you asking further questions.

Neither of you quite knew how it began. You knew it happened the second time he paid a visit, when touches became more prevalent. Maybe it's because when one lonely person meets another lonely person, sometimes there are no words for that loneliness— only a kiss. Spider-Man had his mask lifted above his lips, taking a sip of his beer, when you cupped his face and kissed him. He didn't stop you. The two of you stumbled back into your apartment and ended up face down, the mask laying right next to you while he took care of you both. You were so lost in it that you tried to look back at him, but he gently pushed your head back into the pillow without a word.

It happened over and over for about three months now. It doesn't shock you that he's here tonight. You close your laptop and sit up, looking him up and down. He makes his way to your kitchen— right there in the living room space— opens your refrigerator, and takes out two beers, easily popping the caps off both. Without saying anything he walks over to the couch and you lift your legs for him to sit, dropping them into his lap as he simultaneously hands you a beer.

You watch closely as he lifts the mask up— a little higher than usual. This time the point of his nose is exposed and his cheeks. Your eyes fall on his neck and the brown hair peeking from under the mask, curling slightly where it hugs his skin. He always looks more and more familiar, but you brush it off. You only think that because he's been over so much.

His skin is decorated in bruises, his upper lip split open. You sigh, lean forward, and tilt his chin so he's facing you. "What did you get into this time?" you tease lightly.

A small smile tugs at his lips, and recently, whenever he does that, you can't help but wonder if it reaches his eyes. You also wonder what his eyes look like. You tried asking him once what color they were, but he never answered. He shrugs, taking another sip of beer. "Nothing I couldn't handle."

"Right," you draw out, unconvinced. "That's why you keep flinching every time you move your right side?"

As if on cue he snorts, his hand shooting to grab at his side. "Ah, you know… it'll heal in no time."

You look at him again, into the goggles of his mask, feeling his eyes looking right back. Sometimes you wish you knew his name just so you could use it for moments like this. "I could always take a look?" you suggest softly. Another thing you've noticed recently— even after months of hooking up, you've started getting shy with him.

You were in no way a doctor or even a nurse. You had no paramedic experience, and sometimes when you nicked yourself with a knife you barely did anything about it. And to be fair, both of you knew there was no other reason you had him strip the suit so it pooled at his waist than to sit in his lap and trace the different cuts and bruises painted across his fair skin. Your fingers run down his stomach, feeling him flex under your soft touch. They graze upward, circling a bruise right on his rib.

Sometimes he'll tell you the play-by-play, guessing exactly when he got punched or kicked or thrown against a wall. But this time he just watches you closely, his breath hitching— either from pain or desire, and maybe with you there isn't much difference.

You lean down and press a soft kiss to the bruise, the tip of your tongue circling. You smile against his skin when you feel him shift beneath you. You move up to his chest, taking in the old and new purples and blues speckled across it. You reward his nobility with open-mouthed kisses, eyes looking up at him through your lashes. The white goggles shift slightly, like he's pointedly looking at you underneath the mask. Heat travels through you, and you feel the ache between your legs, lightly grinding against his lap.

Your mouth finds his pec and your tongue swirls around his nipple, teeth grazing it. You finally receive a hiss from him, his head tipping back, his hands flying to your hips for support. You feel the heat of him underneath you, pressing against the fabric of his suit and briefs. Your fingers brush the larger bruise on his right side and he winces. None of that stops him from helping strip off your hoodie, or from the way he still stares at your chest like it's the first time he's seen your tits. His large palms— still gloved— cup your breasts, and you've never been more grateful for opting out of a bra that evening. His thumbs roll over your hardened nipples, sending a current of pleasure through your nerves, a small whimper falling from your lips. The fabric is soft, but the texture of the webs adds an extra sensation. You roll your hips and grip his waist.

"I thought about you all day," Spider-Man admits, helping push down your sleep shorts.

You look at him with a blank stare, blinking, mouth parted, ready to ask a million questions— all of which are quickly replaced with a gasp as he slips two fingers into your mouth. "Suck, please."

He gives his light chuckle when you bite down on the fabric, dragging it off. His mask is back down but you can make out the smirk as the glove dangles from your mouth. You let it go, hearing the soft plop when it hits the floor. Spider-Man then offers his other hand and you do the same thing, biting the glove off, watching it roll down his arm. The muscles in his biceps and forearms stretch the material as he flexes, a soft groan from his lips the moment your mouth wraps around his fingers once the other glove hits the ground.

Your tongue swirls and your cheeks hollow as you suck on his fingers. Your eyes stay focused on the white part of his goggles, trying to see through the mesh— hoping for even just a glimmer. You hear his breathless grunts as you start to rock yourself, your wet panties dragging over him. The crotch of his suit is surely soaked by now, and most of the time he's particular about keeping it clean. But this time he looks down and comments on how wet you are. How hot you are. Your pussy drenching his suit while he fucks his fingers into your mouth— squelching smacks filling the room— his entire torso bare, wearing nothing but his mask. Drool gathers at the corners of your mouth as your spit runs down his fingers and hand. His wrist drips with your saliva as you take them deeper, letting yourself gag on his digits.

Spider-Man retracts his fingers and you chase after them— needy and high on him. He's already onto the next thing, slipping his fingers under the fabric of your panties, teasing.

"You feel so good… already so wet. It's like you're ready for me." He glides his middle finger right between your folds, barely grazing your clit, and it makes you roll your hips— aching for him. "How bad do you want it?"

You let out a whimper, trying to grind on his hand, but the grip on your hip holds you in place.

"Tell me," he commands gently.

That was the funny thing about Spider-Man— he really did live up to the friendly neighborhood title. He always told you what to do, but there was always an endearing politeness behind it. Please. Can you? His tone kind and soft. You might take it as a lack of confidence in what he's doing, but it was the opposite. Somehow it worked with him. He made it sexy.

"Really bad, Spidey," you say.

His fingers are already inside you by the time you finish your sentence. A sharp, whiny breath escapes and your hands fly to his biceps for support as he thrusts his fingers inside you. He leans forward and his mouth is on your neck, still covered by the mask. But you can feel his hot breath and the sounds of his lips kissing your skin through the fabric. At one point you even feel the small pinch of teeth poking through, grazing your pulse point.

Spider-Man curls his fingers and you push him back against the couch, your grip on his biceps concerningly tight, nails digging into his skin. You hear him wince but your mouth falls on his throat, sucking and kissing any part not covered by the mask. You feel his Adam's apple bob, and the sound at the back of his throat makes you wetter, clenching around his fingers.

You pant into his neck as he pulls an orgasm out of you. Your eyes struggle to stay open as your vision blurs while you ride his hand, his thumb pressing on your clit. He's breathing heavily too, your chest flush against his as he works you through another wave of electricity. "That… I think that was a new record," he mumbles.

You laugh— if you would call it that. It's mostly a choked scoff. "You're timing my orgasms?"

You can practically hear and see the blush creeping up his face even under the mask. He starts slipping his hand under the waistband of his black briefs, pulling himself out with the hand that had been inside you. You suspect it's to distract you from your question. It works.

It's rare you actually get to see his cock fully like this. Most of your hookups are quick and rushed— foreplay not really a feature. The whole secret identity thing makes it hard to experience everything. But you've always been okay with it because he consistently brings you over the edge. He has a sixth sense for pleasure and orgasms. He always knows it's about to happen before you can tell yourself.

You two are already pushing many boundaries tonight. Him letting you see more than usual, being dangerously close to slipping the mask off completely. And Peter Parker would never tell you this, but if you ever asked him to take it off— he would. He trusted you. Maybe even more than he trusted himself.

You want to press your thighs together at the sight of his cock, slick with precum, his thumb running over another bead as he pumps himself. Schlick. Schlick. Schlick. He spreads your arousal all over his cock, making it shinier, wetter. You knew he was big from how he felt inside you, but seeing it is a whole new awakening— your eyes going wide from the confounded realization that he's ever been able to fit inside you.

You knew you needed him. Like it was in your DNA. Like something in you was made specifically for him— to want him, to ache for him. Even with these walls and him hiding behind the mask, you knew whoever was underneath it. Even without knowing his name.

You're about to climb off his lap and get on all fours like you normally do, but Spider-Man's hand stays on your hip, making no motion to move. You let out a shaky breath, your hands squeezing his shoulders.

"Condom?" he asks, his free hand roaming your skin again. He squeezes your ass before slipping his fingers under the waistband of your panties, teasing, running his finger along the band. He always tries to take them off carefully. But a hungry man with super strength sometimes results in ripped lingerie. Or blouses. Once, your favorite jeans— and every time it happens, you come home to a package webbed to your window.

You let out a defeated sigh, laughing incredulously, your forehead falling on his shoulder. "They're all the way in my room…" you trail off, kissing his collarbone. You have no intention of getting up, and from his grip on your hip and the way he's groaning into your neck, he has no intention of moving either. "I'm on the pill," you mutter, and you know he hears you because he takes a moment to absorb it.

"Y-you sure?" His voice goes higher and it only makes you more curious about who he is. How can someone with such great power be so soft and careful?

You nod, leaning back to look at him. "Yeah… unless you have like superhuman sperm or something."

You remember the first time you hooked up, when you asked if he came webs, and he quickly assured you he didn't. But that didn't mean things couldn't be different or unusual.

He opens his mouth, goggle eyes widening at the remark. He shakes his head. "No! No… it's totally normal. At least I think so… I mean when I'm alone it's normal and—"

You grab him by the face and kiss him through the mask. "You gonna fuck me or not, Spider-Man?"

It's like the boy morphs into someone different. He's broader, his motions led with more purpose. He guides you up, hovering over his cock. A light chuckle leaves his lips as he gives your pussy a few light taps, then teases your clit. The two of you letting out a sound in unison as he enters you, stretching you open.

"It's okay. I've got you…" he whispers assuringly, rubbing circles on your hip. "You're doing so good." He praises you— or maybe your cunt, for taking him almost all the way. More. More. And more. He finally bottoms out and you waste no time starting to move.

You can feel all of him in a way you've never been able to before. Every single previous time, you'd been bent over so you couldn't see his face.

But there's a different kind of bareness between you tonight. Feeling the veins of his cock inside you, feeling his tip brush nerves this new angle offers. You're in blissful ecstasy, each thrust pulling wanton moans from your lips. You rock back and forth. His hand slips to your lower back, splaying wide, pushing you closer. His fingers grip the skin there and it's sure to leave a mark with how lost in you he seems.

You lift yourself nearly all the way off him, the chill of the air against your wet cunt, and Spider-Man pulls you back down, both of you crying out. He grows more relentless, no longer letting you take the lead. With one hand he lifts you and brings you back down, over and over. The wet, sticky slaps of your skin meeting, the damp thatch of pubic hair brushing your clit. You're already fucked stupid enough that you collapse your bare chest against his, wrapping your arms around him. You clutch the back of his mask, feeling strands of hair through the mesh, tugging lightly.

You hear his moan and it only encourages you to grip the hair at the nape of his neck peeking from under the mask. It's damp with sweat, but you still run your fingers through it and pull. He thrusts harder and faster, panting into your neck, his grip on your back tightening. Spider-Man moves his hand up into your own hair. He doesn't pull it, but he digs his fingers into your scalp. "You always make me feel so good," he whispers in your ear. "You're so beautiful, you know that?" He kisses your cheek— again, through the mask.

Your body responds in a multitude of ways. Your pussy tightens around him, your legs want to close, and he pushes them back apart. The pit of your stomach fizzing, ready to pop. And now your heart flips, butterflies spreading through you, and if you knew his real name you'd probably moan it loud and clear so he'd know he was yours and you were his.

All you can do is kiss him through the mask, the mesh rubbing against your lips as you tilt your head. He kisses you back and you have no idea how it's working, but the two of you are in sync—your tongues pressing through the fabric, running against one another.

Spider-Man's hands roam your back, squeezing everywhere, occasionally moving you up and down in rhythm with his thrusts. You need more. You kiss down his jawline, his throat, down to the seam of the mask. You bite down, dragging it up with your teeth, using your hands to roll it above his lips. Your palms on either side of his face, you look into the goggles intently, trying to see anything.

He's the one who hungrily pulls you into a kiss. Already open-mouthed and desperate. He's relentless as he fucks you and licks into your mouth. His hand moves back into your hair, the other squeezing your hip. You nip his bottom lip and he sucks on it, letting it go with a pop. He kisses and sucks and nips your neck, leaving small marks. His mouth finds your tits and it feels like worship—like he's denied himself this for too long and is making every second count. Saliva runs down your sternum, a string of spit stretching from his lips to your nipple before he comes back and kisses you again.

"I'm… shit—I'm so close, baby," he mutters into your mouth.

You rarely hear him swear. But you've never heard him call you baby before. You push his shoulders back so his head hits the back of the couch. His pink lips shiny and swollen, parted slightly as he watches you roll your hips and bounce on his cock. He reaches down and starts rubbing your clit with his thumb, his smile widening because he can already tell. "Come on, give it to me," he says, tilting his head, biting his lip, voice low and pleading. "Please cum for me baby, please."

Your pussy flutters, the feeling in your stomach popping open, and you cum— gasping, high-pitched, gripping his shoulders.

Almost immediately after, he follows, moaning your name. The veins in his neck standing out, sweat running down his chest. The muscles across his body flex as he releases inside you, hot and thick and a lot of it. You feel it dripping from your pussy onto his cock. Your body involuntarily locks your hips, rolling, soaking in it, as Spider-Man gives you a few lazy thrusts like he wants it inside you as badly as you do.

The two of you stay in silence, taking in each other's heavy breathing. Your hands rest on his chest, thumbs moving back and forth while he absentmindedly runs a hand up and down your hip and waist. You both laugh softly as you slip off him, still sitting in his lap.

Spider-Man brushes his knuckles against your cheek and you melt into the touch. "You're amazing, you know that, right?" you say to him. And you hope he knows you're not just talking about sex. You hope he knows— mask or no mask— he's a good guy.

He doesn't respond. But he doesn't push you away either. You turn your attention back to his right side, changing the subject. "How does it feel?"

He chuckles awkwardly. "Never better."

You swallow and look at him, the high of arousal fading, more sober thoughts settling in. You look down, then back up. "If we knew each other in real life, would we be doing this?"

His goggle eyes narrow like he's thinking. "Is this not real life?"

"No— I mean yes. I meant… would the guy behind the mask be doing this— never mind, I'm sorry. I know you have to keep the secret identity and I'm not supposed to ask questions… but can you blame me for being a little curious?"

He looks at you a moment. You wish you could see his eyes. His lip tugs up briefly. "Do you want to know?"

You furrow your brows. "Know what?"

"Who I am," he says. Casually.

You freeze. You're not sure if it's a test, because of course you want to know. You've wanted to know since the second he climbed through your window the first time. Spider-Man slowly takes your hands and places them on the mask, then lets go, setting them back on your thighs. "It's your call," he says.

Every time Peter has been found out by people important to him, it was always an accident. Always walked in on, or caught on surveillance, or guessed. But with you— not only could he trust you, it was through his own choice that made it mean something. He wanted you to know Peter Parker as much as you knew Spider-Man.

So he feels a small pang of disappointment when you slowly roll the mask back over his mouth. He assumes you never want to know— that you only want him as Spider-Man. But then he sees the playful smile on your face and his stomach flips the way it does when he's swinging between buildings.

You tilt your head, eyes gleaming. "How about this? If I meet you— like on the street, or at the market, or the subway— well, I guess maybe not the subway since you can swing around the city… whatever, not important. If I meet you, you have to ask me on a date. And if I think it's you, I'll say yes."

Spider-Man laughs. Your face doesn't change. You're looking at him with complete seriousness. And it's funnier to him because you two are much closer than you think. When he does see you in the building, he goes the other way— for exactly this reason, that you might recognize him. "And what if some random person asks you on a date and it's not me and you think it is them?"

He didn't know someone's smile could get bigger.

"Believe me. I'll know when it's you," you say confidently.

"But what if you don't?" he presses.

You kiss his cheek and whisper in his ear, "Trust me. I'll know."

You sigh heavily as you step out of the elevator onto the top floor of your apartment building. Your upstairs neighbor's mail found its way into your box again. Like all the times before, you head up to his apartment and leave it outside his door. You don't know anything about him, only that he lives above you and seems like a recluse.

He's also loud— thumping around at night and during the day. It doesn't bother you that much. You've started using it as background noise on your most irritable evenings. He probably doesn't even realize it.

You look around at the clutter on the floor, almost certainly from your landlord. You grimace at the spiderweb in the corner of the doorframe, a large brown spider resting there like it owns the place.

You shake your head and go to set the mail in the usual spot. The door swings open.

You jump back, eyes wide, looking up at the figure in front of you. "I'm so sorry!" The inside of his apartment is dim and it takes a few seconds for your eyes to adjust.

Your mouth falls open when you see him clearly. He's wearing an NYU hoodie and jeans, and even through them you can make out the muscles in his broad shoulders and thighs. Your eyes trail up to his chin, where a yellow bruise has settled. You glance up to his eyes— worried he can see you gawking— and nearly melt. They're brown, but right around the pupil the irises look almost amber. There's a butterfly band-aid on his eyebrow. His brown hair is mussed, curling at the ends.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," he says softly, with a slight panic behind it— like he was the one in the wrong.

Your body reacts immediately, your brain working overtime at the sound of his voice. The gentleness of it, so distinct. Your heart starts thudding against your chest. "No— I mean… mail," you stutter, and sigh at your own nervousness. You shoot your hand out, holding the envelopes toward him. You look at him, then at your hand, then at the wall.

Peter looks at you endearingly. And in his own particular awkwardness, he stares at you while you stare at the wall, still holding the mail. It isn't until your eyes dart back to him and you clear your throat, motioning toward the envelopes, that it registers. "Oh! Yeah… thanks," he says. He takes the mail and your breath hitches when his fingers graze yours.

Another beat of silence. You standing there not entirely looking at him and him rocking back and forth on his heels, probably looking at you too long. "Right… I should go." You point back with your thumb.

"Oh, yeah, of course. Thanks for uh… the mail." He scratches the back of his neck. His hoodie rides up slightly, and underneath it he isn't wearing a shirt. A sliver of his stomach shows— his bellybutton, and a faint bruise on his right side. Your eyes flick to his. Your throat goes dry.

It would be insane to think that all this time—

Your gaze falls slowly to his lips, and you realize you've been avoiding looking at them until now.

You were being delusional. There was no way.

"Uh… hey." His voice cracks.

"Yes?" you ask, a little too eagerly.

His mouth opens and closes a few times, nervous sounds that aren't quite words falling out. He finally sighs. "I really like your shoes."

Your face falls. Right. Silly to think it was him. You give him a half-hearted smile, nod, turn away, and walk back toward the elevator. You feel lucky you don't have to wait long for it to ding, the doors sliding open for you.

It's been a week since you last saw Spider-Man anyway. Maybe you scared him off with the whole date thing. Or maybe he didn't want you to know who he was. Or—

"Wait!"

The elevator doors stop closing, sliding back open. Peter Parker stands there, eyes dancing frantically, chest heaving in a way that has nothing to do with sprinting down the hall. Both hands grip the sides of the elevator doors and he looks at you with purpose.

Then, softly, he says your name. "I know you don't know me… but I kind of know you. Not in a weird way. I just see you around the building. Not because I'm stalking you or anything like—I just wanted to know if you'd like to go out sometime? Like… like a date, you know?"

The more he rambles, the more your lips curl. You're not even sure you hear all of it properly, too caught up watching his eyes dart nervously everywhere.

You giggle.

"Yeah. I'd like that, Peter." His name sounds foreign but like it was made for you to say it.

Peter's entire body relaxes. Even as the elevator starts buzzing from the doors being held open too long, he has a dopey smile on his face and looks two seconds away from pumping his fist in the air. Maybe once the doors close he'll actually do a celebratory backflip.

"Cool. Yeah, cool. How's tomorrow night at seven?" He steps back so the doors can close again.

"Sounds great," you answer. "I'll leave the window open."

His eyes soften, and he grins wider, something warm and private moving across his face— like a secret finally finding its way home.

The wind whipped through the gaps between the skyscrapers as Spider Man swung with a ferocity that felt uncoordinated, almost desperate. His lungs burned, but it wasn't just the exertion of the chase, it was the heat crawling under his skin, a low grade fever that made every nerve ending feel like it was being scraped with steel.

Black Cat, that was the name you got from the people, from the news. 

You were fast, but you were playing with him. You danced along the ledges of the Financial District, your hair gleaming under the moon as you laughed over your shoulders, taunting him with every nimble leap. You didn't know you couldn't know that the 'friendly neighborhood Spider Man' was unraveling.

Finally, he cornered you on a rooftop overlooking the East River. He landed hard, his boots skidding against the gravel, shoulders heaving. When you turned to face him, tilting your head with that infuriatingly playful smirk, Peter didn't crack a joke. He didn't make a quip about your terrible criminal choices. He just stared at you through those white lenses, his breath coming in ragged, even bursts.

“Give it up, Black Cat” he snapped, his voice rougher than usual. “Just... give me the necklace and go.”

You purred, stepping closer until you were well within your personal space, the scent of expensive perfume and night air clinging to you. “My, my, Spidey. Someone's in a bad mood tonight. Did you miss me that much?” You reached out to trail a gloved claw along his chest emblem, preparing to slip away into the shadows the moment he blinked.

But he didn't blink. As you turned to leap toward the fire escape, something in Peter snapped. The irritation wasn't just annoyance anymore it was a physical pressure behind his eyes. Before you could even take flight, his hand shot out like a whip. He grabbed your waist, his strength far exceeding what you expected, and yanked you backward.

With a started yelp, you hit the rooftop hard. Before you could recover, Peter was on top of you, pinning your wrists beside your head. He straddled your hips, his weight crushing you into the gravel, his breathing heavy and dangerous against the shell of your ear through his mask.

You gasped as your back collided with the hard rooftop, the wind knocked out of you. For a second, you expected the usual banter, the awkward deflection, the reluctant arrest. But when you looked up into the white lenses of his mask, you didn't see the hero. You saw something predatory.

“Spidey?” you breathed, your smirk faltering into something uncertain, almost breathless. “That's a bit aggressive, even for you. Did I hit a nerve?”

Peter didn't answer with words. His grip on your wrists tightened painfully, his fingers digging into your skin through your suit. His hips pressed down against yours with a deliberate, bruising force that made your stomach flip in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant. Up close, the heat rolling off him was intense, almost feverish.

“Shut up,” he grewled. His voice was low, stripped of its usual boyish cadence. It sounded guttural, vibrating against your chest. “Just... shut up.”

You felt a thrill of genuine danger and something darker, something more carnal, shot through you. You shifted beneath him, deliberately grinding your hips up against him. “Make me,” you challenged, your voice dropping to a sultry purr despite the situation. “Or are you all talking tonight?”

The tension had always been there, from the beginning, from when they started playing this cat-and-mouse game. You pressed, he pulled, always the same circle from which they couldn't escape. You had never seen his face, not even his name, but there was no need; this was Black Cat and Spider-Man, right? And it seemed that whoever was under the mask had enough.

The challenge was the breaking point. Peter's breathing hitched, becoming ragged and wet. “You think this is a game?” he hissed. The white lenses of his mask seemed to narrow, focusing on your mouth with terrifying intensity. “You think I'm playing?”

The muscles in his arms corded as he leaned down closer, his chest crushing against your breasts. The tension between them snapped like a taut webstring. Without warning, Peter's free hand abandoned his wrist to slide down your body, his palm rough as it gripped your thigh, hiking your leg up to hook around his waist. He wasn't asking; he was claiming space, his movements driven by an animalistic urgency that made your breath catch in your throat.

The friction between them was electric, a volatile mix of adrenaline and something far more primal. Peter wasn't holding back anymore. His enhanced strength was on full display as he pinned you, his hips grinding into yours with a punishing rhythm that threatened to bruise. He knew you, he knew you were resilient, that your enhanced physiology could take the force of what he was unleashing and that knowledge only made him more reckless.

“You like playing with fire, don't you?” Peter rasped against your throat, his teeth wishing they could sink into your skin, run his tongue without restrictions through the softness of your being. “Let's see how long you can keep up when I stop holding back.”

You let out a throaty laugh, although it was strained. Even pinned, you refused to submit. “Oh, Spider... you're finally showing some backbone. But you're still too tense.” 

With a fluid, practiced motion, you managed to slip one hand free from his crushing grip. Instead of pushing him away, you slid it down between you two, your gloved fingers finding the hard, throbbing length straining against his suit. You rubbed him through the fabric with deliberate, maddening strokes, you even let your sharp claws roam without fear.

“Is this what you want? To stop being the hero and start being the beast?” you taunted, your eyes bright with challenge. “Come on. Show me what's underneath all this restraint.” Your free hand shot upward, fingers hooking under the hem of his mask. You wanted to see him really see him to unmask the monster you felt beneath the spandex. “Let's see who you really are.”

You only managed to peel the fabric up past his jaw, exposing his mouth and chin, when Peter snapped. The last thread of his control incinerated. He didn't pull away; he lunged forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was less an act of affection and more an act of conquest. It was hard, desperate, and tasted of pent up fury and hunger. His tongue forced its way past your lips, claiming your mouth with a dominance that left you gasping, his hands moving to tear at your suit with frantic, unsteady urgency.

The kiss was violent, a collision of teeth and tongue that left you breathless and dizzy. Peter's control hadn't just slipped; it had evaporated entirely. The secondary mutation was screaming in his blood, flooding his system with a cocktail of aggression and raw, unadulterated need. His pupils dilated until the whites of his eyes disappeared. Under the lenses of his mask, pure black eyes watched you, attentive to every movement you made, to every breath you let out.

Your claws extended instinctively, a silver flash in the moonlight. “Then stop talking about it and do something about it, Spidey” you hissed against his lips. Your claws raked down his torso, tearing through the reinforced fabric of his suit with startling ease, shredding the red spandex to expose the hard, corded muscle beneath. The cool air hit his heated skin, but it did nothing to dampen the fire burning in his veins.

Peter didn't hesitate. He needed to taste you. He needed to consume you, it was a need established now, a hot glow that was born from the depths of his being. His hands tore at your suit with frantic strength, ripping open the cleavage of your costume until you were exposed to the night air. He shoved himself between your thighs, his hips forcing them wider apart until you were completely vulnerable beneath him. He descended, his mouth finding the sensitive junction of your thighs with terrifying hunger.

When his tongue first made contact, you arched off the rooftop with a cry that was half shock, half ecstasy. “Fuck! God, you're—”

“Shut up,” he growled against your clit, the words muffled by your flesh. He wasn't gentle. He lapped at you with a punishing intensity, his tongue broad and rough, driving into you with a relentless rhythm that mirrored the way he fought crime. He drank in your arousal like a man dying of thirst, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave marks that would last for days. He wanted you wrecked, wanted you begging for the very thing that would break you. He wanted your smart mouth silent, moaning to calm the new need that lived in him.

Peter was beyond any pretense of chivalry or restraint. The hunger in his gut was a physical ache, a predator's need to claim every inch of you. He buried his face deeper into your crotch, his nose pressing against your sensitive flesh, almost wanting to ignore the fabric that covered it, as he drank in your scent the metallic tang of arousal mixed with your expensive perfume. He sounded less like a man and more like something starving, making wet, obscene noises as he worked.

His hands were still partially covered by the red and blue fabric of his suit, the textured material rough against your inner thighs. With a grunt of effort, he hooked two gloved fingers into the soft folds of your labia, stretching them wide. He didn't do it delicately; he pulled them apart with a possessive force that exposed your slick, swollen entrance to the cool night air, exposing you completely to his assault.

The sight, the feel of your vulnerability drove him further into the feral haze. His tongue became a weapon, broad and relentless. He flicked upward, dragging his tongue from the base of your slit all the way to your swollen clit in one filthy, continuous motion. He ate you with an obscene focus, swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud while his fingers remained buried in you, spreading you open further so he could lap at every hidden crease, every wet fold.

“Fuck, Spidey... yes... right there…” Your hips bucked uncontrollably, your claws scraping uselessly against the gravel as your head thrashed back. You were coming apart, your body betraying you as he relentlessly tormented you.

“You're so fucking wet,” he growled against your slick flesh, the words vibrating directly into your nerves. “So fucking desperate for it. A fucking slut, huh?” His voice was hot, needy, punctuated by gasps and licks. This wasn't your usual Spiderman; this was a man taking everything from you, without restraint.

He plunged two gloved fingers inside you while his tongue continued its assault, the friction of the fabric against your sensitive walls sending electricity shooting straight to your brain. He was tasting you, drinking you in, his tongue working the space between your clit and your entrance with an obscene thoroughness. He wanted to coat himself in you, to make sure every part of you knew exactly who was claiming you. He swirled his tongue around your opening before shoving it deep inside your mouth, mimicking the thrusting you were about to receive, leaving you whimpering and completely undone beneath him. He didn't even let you process the taste of his saliva mixed with your fluids because he went back to thrusting into your pussy, drinking you completely.

Your vision swam as you clawed at the rooftop, your nails leaving furrows in the stone. The combination of his relentless tongue and the rough friction of his gloved fingers stretching you open was too much. Every time you thought you might find air, he would dive back in, his tongue flicking with punishing precision against your clit while his fingers pumped inside you with animalistic rhythm.

“Fuck! I'm—ah! Spidey!” you shrieked, your hips bucking upward in a desperate attempt to meet the onslaught. The pleasure was sharp, overwhelming, and utterly filthy. You could feel the heat pooling in your lower belly, building into a tension so tight it felt like you might shatter.

Peter sensed it. His enhanced senses picked up every minute twitch of your muscles, every hitch in your breathing. He didn't slow down; he accelerated. He drove two fingers deeper into your wetness while his tongue became a blur of motion, lapping at your swollen folds with increasing violence. He wanted to push you over the edge, to feel the exact moment your body surrendered to him.

The orgasm hit you like a freight train. Your entire body convulsed as a wave of ecstasy crashed through you, your inner walls clamping down around his fingers in desperate, milking spasms. “Oh fuck yeah!” you screamed into the night sky, your back arching so high your hips nearly left the roof. Your claws extended fully, raking across his shoulders as you climaxed, your vision exploding into white sparks.

Peter didn't stop immediately; he stayed pressed against you through the aftershocks, drinking in your cries and the taste of your climax as if he could absorb your pleasure into his own bloodstream. He let out a low, guttural growl against your thighs, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he watched you tremble beneath him, thoroughly wrecked and utterly claimed.

Then, he pulled back from his thighs, although the feral hunger in his eyes hadn't dimmed. His pupils were still blown wide, almost as if they were swallowing the white lenses of his mask. He looked down at you, whose breath was coming in broken, satisfied gasps as you tried to regain some semblance of control. But he wasn't done with you, not by a long shot.

“Sit up,” he commanded. His voice was different now deeper, rougher, stripped of all its usual boyish charm. It wasn't a request; it was an order born of something far more primal. “Sit up and fix this.”

Dazed and still quivering from her orgasm, you obeyed, your limbs feeling like jelly. You propped yourself up on your elbows, looking up at him with a challenging smirk that didn't quite reach your eyes. “What's the matter, Spidey? Can't handle the suit getting in the way?”

“Fix it,” he growled, stepping between your knees. “Show me how much you need this. Show me how badly you need me inside you.”

Trembling slightly whether from lingering pleasure or the sheer intensity of his presence—you couldn't tell—you reached for the waistband of his suit. Your claws extended, precise and deadly, as you carefully sliced through the fabric covering his groin. As the material peeled away, revealing his cock thick, flushed, and already leaking precum your instinct took over. You leaned forward, your tongue darting out to lick the tip, intent on tasting him before he could claim you completely.

But Peter wasn't allowing any games. Before your lips could close around him, his hand shot forward, fingers tangling brutally in your hair. He yanked your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze. “I didn't tell you to eat, Cat,” he hissed. “I told you to get ready.”

Without warning, he grabbed you by the hips and forcefully shoved you down. He flipped you onto your hands and knees, spinning you around with terrifying strength. “On your knees,” he ordered, his voice cracking with restrained need as he positioned himself behind you. “I'm going to fuck you properly.”

The cool night air bit at your exposed skin as you pressed your palms against the rooftop, your ass tilted high in the air. Even in your dazed state, you couldn't resist the urge to flirt with the danger. You glanced back over your shoulder, your eyes half lidded and pupils blown wide with arousal.

“Do you like it like this, baby?” you purred, deliberately rolling your hips backward to grind the remaining fabric of your suit against his hardening cock. “Does the big bad Spider Man like seeing me so helpless?”

Peter didn't answer with words. A low, dangerous sound rumbled in his chest. His hands came down on your hips like iron clamps, his grip bruising. “Too much fabric,” he rasped. With one violent motion, he hooked his fingers into the rear seam of your suit and yanked downward. The reinforced material shredded with a satisfying rip, baring your round cheeks completely to the moonlight. Not even your panties survived; you were exposed to a level you never thought you'd reach with him. Not because you hadn't slept with him before—you knew that would happen eventually—but because you never expected him to be the one in control.

He didn't wait for you to recover. He positioned himself at your entrance, the tip of his cock probing at your slick, swollen folds. Then, with one devastating thrust, he drove himself inside you.

“Fuck!” The cry tore from your throat as you were impaled. He was impossibly thick, stretching you to your absolute limit as he buried himself to the hilt. The sensation was overwhelming the fullness of him filling every inch of your aching cunt, the blunt force of his hips slamming against your ass.

Peter went feral. There was no tenderness left, only the relentless, driving rhythm of a predator. He grabbed your hair again, yanking your head back to expose your throat while his hips worked with terrifying speed. Each thrust was deep and punishing, making your vision blur as your insides were repeatedly hammered by his cock. The wet, slapping sound of his pelvis hitting yours echoed off the surrounding buildings, obscene and primal in the quiet night.

Every thrust was an overload of data for Peter's enhanced senses. Because of the mutation, he wasn't just fucking you; he was experiencing you with terrifying precision. His heightened nerve endings allowed him to feel every microscopic ridge of your vaginal walls as they gripped his cock, every involuntary spasm of your muscles as they tried to milk him. He could feel the way your heat intensified around him, the slick friction of your arousal mixed with his own precum creating a wet, suctioning sound that resonated through his entire body.

His hearing was dialed into the obscene symphony of the act: the wet, squelching slap of his pelvis against your ass, the rhythmic creak of your body shifting on the rooftop, and most intoxicatingly the sounds coming from you. He could hear the way your breathing broke into ragged gasps and the way your moans deepened into guttural, helpless whimpers every time he bottomed out inside you.

“Fuck... you're so tight,” he growled into your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. His voice was raw, stripped of any pretense. “I can feel everything. I can feel how much you're fucking clenching around me. Every time I hit you, you squeeze me like you never want me to leave.” He drove into you harder, his hips slamming against your ass with enough force to make your whole body jolt. “You like feeling me stretch you open like this, don't you?” He let out a choked noise as he felt your walls ripple around him again. “Say it. Tell me how much you need this cock inside you.”

“Fuck yeah!” you moaned as you closed your eyes, your forehead pressed against the concrete, your claws leaving even more marks. “Mgh… fuck… your cock feels so good…” you gasped, because it was the truth, there was no playfulness in your words.

The friction was becoming unbearable in the best possible way. Peter's heightened sensitivity meant that every sliding motion wasn't just pleasure; it was an electric overload that threatened to short circuit his brain. As he drove his cock deeper into your slick heat, his hips bucking with increasing desperation, he couldn't help the raw sounds escaping him.

“Ah… Fuck!” he groaned, his voice breaking into a high, needy moan. The way your cunt seemed to swallow him whole every time he thrust made his toes curl inside his boots. “Fuck, it feels too good... you're so fucking wet…”

You could feel every thrust, every vein of his cock stretching your vaginal walls, hitting that sweet spot that few men could reach. “S-Shit…” you whispered softly between gasps, your eyes stinging with tears of pleasure. The pain of being fucked like this was nothing compared to the overwhelming pleasure you were feeling. You were strong, you always had been, and now you were receiving a force that surpassed you, but didn't truly defeat you.

He was losing himself completely. The line between Peter and the spider was blurring faster than ever. His breathing was a series of harsh, wet gasps that synced with the rhythmic slap of skin on skin. He wasn't just fucking you anymore; he was chasing something, a release that felt like it would either save him or destroy him.

“I can't, I can't stop—” he panted, his forehead pressing against the small of your back as he accelerated his pace. His thrusts became shorter, faster, more frantic. The wetness between you was spraying now, a cocktail of your climax and his own arousal that made each stroke sound obscene, a squelching melody that filled his ears. “You're fucking killing me... clenching around me like that... fuck, I'm gonna—”

A guttural moan tore from his throat as he felt your walls begin to flutter again, sensing your impending orgasm. The sensation of your inner muscles seizing around his cock sent a jolt of pure lightning straight to his spine. His grip on your hips tightened until his knuckles went white, his entire body tensing as he prepared to follow you over the edge.

The tension in Peter's body snapped like a frayed cable. As your inner walls began to convulse in the throes of a powerful climax, milking him with desperate, rhythmic pulses, something inside him broke completely. The feral instinct that had been simmering beneath the surface roared to life, overriding every last shred of restraint.

“Oh! Jesus!” you cried out in pleasure. Your orgasm was powerful, it shook every part of your body, and you could almost swear that everything had opened up to you in a new world. It was pathetic; you could feel him fucking you as your orgasm bathed his cock, your legs trembling, your nails digging into the concrete. You were a mess of gasps, barely able to speak.

“Fuck! Cat—shit!” he screamed, the name torn from his lungs in a raw, agonized plea.

His hips became a blur of motion, driving into you with terrifying, piston like force. He wasn't just thrusting anymore; he was trying to fuse himself to you, each impact sending shockwaves through both your bodies. His enhanced senses registered the exact moment your orgasm peaked the way your cunt became a furnace of pleasure, the way your moans turned into incoherent, beautiful sounds of surrender.

That sensation was the trigger. Peter's entire body arched, his muscles locking tight as his own climax exploded. “I'm cumming—I'm fucking cumming inside you!” he roared, his voice cracking.

A torrent of hot cum erupted from him, each pulse feeling like liquid fire as it shot deep into the cradle of your womb. Because of his hypersensitivity, the feeling of his own seed pumping into you was overwhelming, nearly sending him into unconsciousness. His cock throbbed violently inside you, each spasm sending fresh waves of pleasure through both of you until your vision went white.

You felt it, you felt him fill you with his hot, thick fluid, how he decorated every part of you in ways you never thought possible. So sweet, so awkward, so gentle; you never imagined that this same Spiderman was now panting uncontrollably, having come inside you as if his life depended on it.

He collapsed against your back, his chest heaving against your spine, his breath coming in ragged, broken sobs of exhaustion. For several long seconds, the only sound on the rooftop was the wet, sticky aftermath of your joined bodies and the distant hum of New York City. His grip on your hips loosened, but he didn't pull away; he simply clung to you, shaking as the aftershocks continued to ripple through his enhanced nervous system.

The violent tremors in Peter's muscles gradually began to subside, replaced by the familiar, heavy ache of post coital exhaustion. The predatory haze that had clouded his mind the dark, consuming hunger of the mutation slowly retreated, leaving behind the raw, vulnerable man underneath. His breathing, once ragged and animalistic, steadied into shaky, uneven gasps.

The first thing he did was panic.

“Black Cat? Oh god, Kitty, are you okay?” His voice was no longer a growl; it was Spiderman high, cracking, and thick with immediate guilt. He scrambled to reposition himself, his hands moving with frantic gentleness as he carefully turned you over to face him. He needed to see your face, to check for bruises, to make sure he hadn't broken something in his frenzy. “I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't— I wasn't thinking, I just—you were so—”

His gloved hands cradled your face with terrifying tenderness, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks. Through the exposed jawline of his mask, you could see his lips trembling. “I shouldn't have said those things. I called you—you are not a slut, okay? I was being so crude, so disrespectful, and I just couldn't stop.” His hazel eyes, now clear of the black void, were swimming with self loathing. “I was so rough with you, I’m so sorry.”

A soft giggle escaped your lips, breaking through your breathless haze. You reached up, tracing the edge of his mask where his jaw met the fabric. “Spidey, stop,” you whispered, your voice still wrecked from screaming. “It was amazing. Truly.” You smiled teasingly, though your heart was still racing. “You regret it? Do you regret having sex with me like that?” You asked, staring at him. Your mask had fallen off; you hadn't even noticed thanks to everything that had happened, but you didn't care. It wasn't like you distrusted him.

Peter froze, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. He looked at you with an intensity that had nothing to do with hormones and everything to do with the months of unspoken tension that had been building between the two of you. 

He gazed at your face, your bare face without that mask that obscured your nose and eyes. You were beautiful, truly beautiful; he always knew it during those times when you and he played the same game.

“Regret it?” he breathed. “I—no,” he whispered, sincerely. “I don’t regret it, you… you’re… wow…” He blushed beneath the rest of his mask. “You’re… I…” He cleared his throat. “I don’t regret touching you or being this close to you,” his voice dropped to a vulnerable whisper. “But… I wish I hadn’t been so… rough. I… it’s just—” He sighed; he wasn't going to explain everything that was happening to him now, the whole mutation thing after having the most intense sex of his life. “I hate that I couldn't be better for you.”

“Look at me,” you whispered, reaching up to cup his jaw, forcing him to meet your gaze. “You didn't hurt me. I promise. I swear on everything, I wasn't hurt, I loved it,” you gave him a reassuring smile, though your voice still held that breathless quality. “I like it rough, Spidey. And more than that... I trust you. I know you'd never actually hurt me. You're Spiderman, I know what you're like.”

But Peter's hazel eyes remained troubled. Even as he leaned into your touch, the guilt seemed etched into the lines around his mouth. “You don't know what you're saying,” he insisted softly, his thumbs rubbing circles against your skin. “I was... I lost control. I felt like an animal. What if I didn't stop when I should have? What if I—”

“Hey,” you cut him off gently, tilting your head. “If you really want to make it up to me if you want to prove that you're not just some monster behind a mask then let me see you.” You let your fingers linger at the hem of his cowl, right at the jawline. “Let me see who’s under there. No more hiding,” you murmured softly, one of your claws tracing the fabric. You didn’t want to keep looking at the mask; you wanted to see his eyes.

Peter stiffened, a familiar panic flickering in his eyes. The instinct to protect his secret identity was ingrained in his bones, a reflex honed by years of loneliness and danger. But then he looked down at you, really looked at you and remembered the way you had just clung to him, the way you had accepted every raw, unfiltered inch of him. The tension between you hadn't broken with the orgasm; it had shifted into something deeper, something terrifyingly human.

“I... I shouldn't,” he stammered, but his hands didn't push yours away. “It's dangerous, Kitty. If anyone finds out—”

“No one is here but us,” you countered, your voice soft but commanding. “Just you and me. Please,” you murmured. “Besides… no one came by a few minutes ago, did they?” you said playfully. “We are fine, Spidey.”

A long exhale escaped him, one that seemed to deflate his entire body. The stubbornness left his shoulders. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he nodded. “Okay,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the distant city traffic. “Okay.”

Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for the hem of the fabric. Peter held his breath, his entire body rigid, like he was braced for an impact that might never come. Slowly, you peeled the red fabric upward, inch by inch. First his nose, then his cheeks, and finally, the mask slid free entirely, revealing the boy underneath.

The moonlight catching your face revealed a young man who looked far more fragile than the hero who had been ravaging you moments before. His brown curls were matted with sweat and sticking to his forehead, and the dark circles under his hazel eyes spoke of an exhaustion that went deeper than just physical exertion. Without the mask, he looked younger, softer, and heartbreakingly human. He looked like someone who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and was terrified he might finally drop it.

The silence between you stretched, no longer charged with lust or guilt, but with a profound, terrifying vulnerability. The cost of this moment, the exposure of his very self hung heavy in the air.

You said your name quietly, breaking the spell. You offered him a small, genuine smile, reaching out to brush a stray curl from his forehead. “So you don’t call me Kitty anymore, although it doesn’t bother me, you know?” you said with one of your typical smiles.

Peter blinked, processing the words as if they were foreign. He looked down at the mask in your hands, then back up at you, his expression raw. A shaky breath escaped him as he finally let himself relax into the moment, realizing he hadn't been rejected he had been seen.

I have repeated your name, testing the weight of it on his tongue. “It's... it's a beautiful name,” he swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. “I'm Peter. Peter Parker.”

“Peter Parker,” you repeated, savoring the syllables as you nodded slowly with a knowing, satisfied smile. “Peter Parker. Now that is a name I could get used to.”

The way you said it with that unmistakable Black Cat purr still clinging to your voice made Peter's entire face flush crimson. Without the mask to hide behind, there was no escaping the way his cheeks burned or the way his gaze darted nervously toward the ceiling. “I—uh, yeah. That's me. Just Peter. Mostly.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his Adam's apple bobbing as he tried to regain some semblance of composure. “I didn't think... I mean, I didn't expect this tonight.”

You shifted closer, your body warm against his, the playful spark returning to your eyes. You leaned in until your lips were hovering just inches from his ear. “Listen, Peter Parker,” you whispered, your breath ghosting over his skin. “If you're still sitting here drowning in all this guilt about being... unruly... then I think you owe me a remedy.”

Peter's breath hitched. “A remedy?”

“Mhm,” you pulled back just enough to meet his hazel eyes, your expression shifting into something wicked and challenging. “Meet me again. But not as the big, scary Spider Man. Meet me as Peter. No spandex, no web, no heroics,” you traced a clawed fingertip down the center of his chest. “And maybe next time, you can let me take control. I think I'd like to see what happens when you're not the one calling all the shots… Something tells me that what happened tonight is an exception, and you're not in control most of the time.”

Peter's jaw practically hit the ground. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “You… you… you want to... take control? Like, control control?” He sounded like he was short circuiting, his brain struggling to process the proposition. You… were you suggesting we have sex again? Yes, that's what you were doing. Sex again… with him. Not as Spiderman, but as Peter Parker. “I… well… uh…” he exhaled nervously.

Peter had a strict way of being, of keeping everyone at a distance, but… he’d already crossed the line with you, hadn’t he? Things were already mixed up, you… you weren’t like other people. You were Black Cat, you knew him first as Spider-Man, maybe now he could let you get to know Peter. Maybe he could let himself be Peter Parker again, even with all the chaos that was his life now.

“Okay,” he agreed, swallowing and nodding several times. “Yes, yes, okay, yes.”

You leaned back slightly, studying his flushed face with an amused, feline curiosity. The vulnerability you'd seen moments ago was still there, but it was being rapidly overtaken by that adorable, flustered panic that made you want to either kiss him or tease him mercilessly.

“Are you sure, Peter Parker?” you asked again, your voice dropping into that velvet purr, though the sharp edge of Black Cat's bravado softened just enough to show you were genuinely asking. “Because once I take the reins, I don't plan on being gentle. I might just make you regret ever asking for a remedy.”

Peter swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing violently. “I'm sure,” he insisted, though his voice cracked halfway through. “I mean yes. Definitely sure. I want to try that. With you.” A small, shy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite his nerves, a flash of the real Peter peeking through the superhero's trauma.

The moment passed as you glanced around the immediate area. The moonlight glinted off the tangled mess of red fabric and black leather scattered across the rooftop the evidence of your earlier... activities. You let out a throaty laugh, tossing your head back.

“Well, hero,” you teased, gesturing to the wreckage of your costumes. “What exactly are we supposed to do now? Our suits are absolutely wrecked from what we just did, and we're stuck on a rooftop in the middle of Queens at two in the morning. Unless you plan on swinging us home wrapped in nothing but spider webs?”

Peter's eyes went wide, his pupils dilating as he processed the logistics. “Oh oh god, you're right. Right. Uh—” He scrambled upright, nearly tripping over a discarded piece of his own suit as he tried to regain some dignity. “I… I can't let you walk around like that. That's... that's not safe. And I'm I'm not exactly dressed for a casual stroll either.”

He started scanning the rooftop with frantic, earnest eyes. “Wait, I think I have an old hoodie somewhere in my backpack. I keep it with my civilian gear for emergencies. And maybe a spare shirt? Just hang on, don't move. I keep my backpack nearby; I always have one just in case something happens. Don't—don't let any pigeons see you.”

You laughed as you shook your head and watched him trying to cover up what little he could with his suit—or rather, what was left of it—. He was adorable, completely adorable.

“I’ll be here, Spidey!” you crooned through your laughter.

Yeah, stealing that necklace was definitely worth it.

notes: this is the first time I've written about peter, but brand new day got me thinking about him, so I hope I did him justice lmao

so… would anyone like a part two, perhaps?

taglist: @hornheadswhxre @hellilovedit @silentrreader

secrets for the sleepless I @moonstruckme I H/C + F I you’re an insomniac, and you can’t help but notice your new roommate's comings and goings at odd hours. Peter’s a not-very-good liar that gets worse as he falls in love

underneath the suit I @yasministration I F I peter isn't prepared to take his clothes off for a meeting with the white widow, and he's much less prepared to meet his best friend for the very first time since fate tore them apart in a cruel twist of memory.

love bites I @/yasministration I ~S + F I you're determined to leave love bites all over peter's neck, but unfortunately for you, his accelerated healing has other plans. peter has a couple of suggestions to lift your spirits.

spiderfire superduo I @/yasministration I H/C I many of your superhero memories are riddled with the presence of spider-man, so how come you can't recall a single thing about him? oddly enough, getting all your answers begins with a youtube video titled 'spider-man and starfire being best friends for 10 minutes'

heartbeat pt2 I @thought-you-knew I F I As a nurse, nothing really fazes you. You've seen it all, but seeing the Punisher carrying in an unconscious Spider-Man? Well, maybe you haven't seen everything. Or Peter thinks you're cute while you're concerned for his elevated heartbeat.

did you get your taste back? I @xreader1989 I C + F I will you, an ex widow, and Spiderman himself be able to get over your past traumas and let each other in?

the anchor I @fireinmoonshot I H/C I When Doctor Strange's spell made the whole world forget Peter Parker, something went wrong (or very right). Now, you're the only person who remembers him. But it doesn't stop the nightmares from invading Peter's mind about the day where he might wake up and you don't remember him.

swinging by! I @starkissedxav I F I peter swings you around the city for the first time!

the frequency of forgetting pt2 pt3 I @violetrainbow412-blog I H/C I after erasing herself from his memories to save him, she spends years silently yearning for his love, unaware that fate would also ensure Peter was forgotten by the rest of the world. But no spell can break a bond that always finds its way back.

someone new I @/violetrainbow412-blog I C I after all, Peter just needs a friend

nothing sweet about it I @strangelure I S I your ex-boyfriend peter sees a chance and he takes it

sensitive I @arachine I S I accidentally discovering one day that peter's wrists are (weirdly) sensitive after his enhancement, so you take it into consideration the next time you go down on him and his entire world shatters.

find my way to your tongue I @/arachine I A + F I it's been three years since dr. strange cast the spell—three years peter has spent thinking about you. his final promise to you was to keep you safe. let you go. but peter has never been good at making promises.

frat!peter I @webslingingslasher I H/C

lucky I @miserymorgue I F

the ways that you say my name I @kryptidfiles I S I The sound of being known after years being forgotten makes Peter lose every careful piece of himself

i’m not there yet I @hanasnx I A + S

the front door I @hearts4hughes I A + F

yandere!stalker peter I @/heart4hughes I ~A

brand new changes, same ol’ spidey I @heyaheyrinny I S I Peter’s body is changing and you take this as an opportunity to tease his overstimulated senses.

drabble I @vampyrsm I ~S + F

thank you, spiderman I @sluvaffair I S I Enhanced!Spidey has made a habit of visiting you. You don't know what he looks like, but you do know how he likes to be touched.

drabble I @starlord-s I A

in dreams, i meet you in a warm conversation pt2 I @everythingcollided I H/C I you're avoiding the party that mj and ned wanted to throw, but that doesn't stop you from being found by a stranger. why can't you shake the feeling that he's familiar?

affixing attachment I @kentcant I H/C I where peter didn’t come back to remind you what you’d lost, and you confront him for leaving you abandoned too (aka you’re MJ, and you end up remembering him… sorta)

no strings webs attached I @mypoisonedvine I S I you've been hooking up with peter for a few months, letting him use you and never asking for more. but after he goes through some... changes, you end up getting more after all; unfortunately, it might be more than you can handle.

a journalist’s (lack of) integrity I @80sfilmclub I F I desperate to make it ahead (and establish yourself as an actual journalist) at the daily bugle, you tell your boss that you scored an exclusive interview with spider-man when you definitely did not. while you scramble to make good on your lie, peter parker hears your plight.

the kindness of a stranger I @webslinger-holland I F I After a night of one too many drinks, the reader finds herself vulnerable and alone on a Brooklyn street corner. Her night takes an unexpected turn as New York's own Spider-Man swoops in to save her and get her home safely.

sue me, i wanna be wanted I @rosesaints I F + S I it's been a long time coming and you want nothing more than to jump peter parker's bones

neighborly I @filmjules I S

sensory overload I @anon-188 I A + S I peter’s senses are spiraling out of control, and after an especially rough night, he decides staying away from you is the safest thing he can do. you, however, disagree.

You sit in silence, more confused than scared. Your thighs are still shaking from the incredible highs he's taken you to, your pussy still aching from his size, his load, his passion. Peter runs his hands through his curls, which are a bit sticky from his sweat. "I can explain it to you when you're sober, i-it's going to be a lot to take in. Is that okay? You can stay the night... Please don't leave.. I'll sleep on the couch." You stare at his pitiful puppy face, hesitantly, you nod. Your heart's racing a thousand miles an hour, carefully, Peter tugs the comforter over your naked form, so gentle compared to the beast he'd been moments ago. God, was he a monster? He felt like a monster.

He moves away quickly, wiping the sweat from his forehead before yanking up his boxers. His brain messed up from the sex, the arachnid hormones fogging his senses, his dick was still twitching– alive with need but he was too embarrassed to even look at you right now. He can't believe you had to see him like that.

Internal doubt crept into his heart that he would never be able to experience these things again, maybe it wasn't a huge deal because he never went out of his way to hook up with anyone. This felt special with you, even though he was pretty sure you'd sneak out after he fell asleep, and it was nothing more than a drunk fling to you. He owed you an explanation but he didn't want to overwhelm your brain until he knew you'd be able to process it. He didn't want you to go home alone and was stunned from the fact he went arachnid on you mid-orgasm. He hated this. Why can't his body just stay normal? A way he can still be Spider-Man, but also Peter Parker. Maybe there's a way, he's too tired now to think about it. He's more worried about you than himself.

Peter doesn't sleep a wink all night, he's too anxious about the following day, what you'll think, what you might say, would you think he's a monster?

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

The dawn peered through the windows of Peter's apartment sooner than he would've preferred, though sleep came easy to your intoxicated self, when you awoke, your head had a diabolical pain. Hangovers, one of the worst things to curse mankind. A little before noon is when you finally muster yourself out of the unfamiliar bed which is not your own, putting the pieces together, it's obvious you had a drunk hookup, and your memories are a little fuzzy. You find a t-shirt laid over a chair and tug it over your bare body, it fits nicely, but it isn't yours. If you had an "I survived my trip to NYC" shirt, you'd wear it more often. Your feet pad against the cold floor as you exit the unfamiliar bedroom, into the small living room area. You find someone laying on the creaky couch, and an odd amount of tech to your left.

"Hello?" You say softly, in case he's asleep.

Peter perks up quickly, turns to look at you. Somehow, more beautiful than last night. He smiles awkwardly.

"H-Hey... You sleep okay?"

"Yeah, good. Thanks."

There's tension, you're not sure why, but Peter looks like he's five seconds away from bolting right off the edge of the fire escape. "Are you okay...?"

"Um, yeah? Yeah. Fine." Now he's confused, do you not remember anything? He notices a small limp in your step as you move to sit on the couch beside him. Oh man, he wish that wasn't attractive, knowing that he fucked you enough to leave a lasting impression. He covers his recovering boner with a throw pillow. "Did... sorry I did that." He gestures to your limp.

"Mm, it's okay. Means you did something right."

"D-Do you remember anything?" He asks shakily.

"Like what? The sex? The party?"

"B-both."

"Sort of. Why didn't you sleep next to me?"

"Look, I'm just going to be honest with you, I promised I would last night..." Peter's eyes dart to his hands in his lap as you sit next to him more comfortably.

"Okay..."

"When we- finished," he clears his throat. "my body got really overwhelmed. I have- different DNA."

"What do you mean?"

"You have to promise me you will not tell anyone!"

"I don't have much of a circle, it's more like a triangle. Maybe a really short line."

"Promise!!"

"Okay! I promise!!"

Peter exhales, shoulders slumping. "I'm Spider-Man. And last night whenever I– like- finished my eyes turned black and you got really scared, and I felt horrible because you didn't deserve to see that. And I wanted to be honest because it doesn't feel right taking advantage of you like that and not explaining myself, and, I'm sorry."

Okay that was a lot to take in. You sit there for a minute, stunned by both his words and the pounding in your temples. "You're really Spider-Man?"

"Yeah. I guess I'm like going through stages or something, my body's been changing, I sense things more than I could before, and my webs are literally coming out of my wrists! It's disgusting!!"

You can't help but chuckle a little. "You can do that?" He nods, blush blooming over his freckled cheeks. "That's cool..."

"You're not weirded out?"

"No, why would I be?"

"I feel like most people would've gotten freaked out and like... ran out the door."

"To be fair, if I hadn't been drunk, I probably would have. I banged Spider-Man, so...That's a win in my book. I won't tell anyone, I promise."

Peter's face washes with relief as your words sink in.

"So... Did your new senses peak out last night?"

"Yeah, it was kinda embarrassing. I was like... Out of my mind."

"Clearly, I'm limping." You joke. "I think it's attractive."

"Y-you do?" His voice cracks.

"Yeah, you used your new abilities to fuck me. Tell me, what did you do to me, Spider-Man?" His breath hitches, he gulps. Then something makes him smirk,

"I'll just show you."

"Really?"

"Maybe now that you're sober you'll appreciate it more."

Just like that, he swept you off of the couch, and back to his bed. You felt a bit more in control now, alcohol couldn't fog your brain. Peter bent down sliding your panties down your legs. Then his face disappears between your thighs, "Pete-!" His tongue drags along your slit, making you shudder, your body tensing from that sweet, first contact. "Oh my god." You moan.

He isn't sure if the chill that runs down his spine is his own or his arachnid senses. He feels that thrum again, the same one that made him snap last night and pound into you to cause the limp you have today. Damn, you tasted like perfection served on a silver platter, his hands pushing your thighs back a bit to expose your pussy to him, his tongue going to work while his nose brushed against your clit, making you tremble. He's honestly so addicted to eating you now, all of a sudden, when your legs jerk back, he grunts and sits up. "You gotta quit movin' baby," he mutters, pressing your legs back as far as you're comfortable with, he makes you hold them in place, and he shoots a web over both of your hands.

"Pete!!" You exclaimed at the sticky feeling trapping your hands against the underside of your knees.

"Gotta stay still." He mumbles, and dives back in. Slowly slurping, like a man starved for weeks on end and this pussy is the only hope of keeping him alive. He edges you closer, and closer, until you're right on the brink of a precious orgasm, he can feel it in the way the hairs on his arm stand up. He bites his lip and pulls away, leaving you wet and ready for more. Suddenly, he stuffs his finger inside your pussy, gently pumping it in and out making you dizzy. It's so pleasurable. You let out soft whimpers as his fingers hit that gushy spot that takes you out of this world, and you can't help it when you squirt on his hands. He almost stops but it's such a beautiful sight that he genuinely can't stop thrusting his fingers into you until you've probably squirted every juice left in your body. He just stares, amazed that your body could do that. His eyes twinkle with want.

Peter lifts his fingers to his mouth and gently sucks them clean.

He discards his boxers onto the floor, pushing his body between your thighs and rubbing his cock along your wet slit. His precum mixes with your juices tenderly before he pokes his tip in once, then twice, and a third time. His body hunches until your chests press together, his hands carefully rip his webs from your thighs. He wraps them around his waist and starts rocking his hips desperately into you. "I'm s-so glad you're not scared of me." He whines, his thrusts are a bit sloppy at first, he's still getting used to these heightened feelings. It's so not fair that he can feel every muscle inside of you clenching and clinging to his cock, it's wonderfully miserable for him. "I hear it- feel it- all." He whimpers in your ear and he grips your thighs, pounding your pussy like he personally owned it. (He didn't).

Your moans bonded together to create an intimate atmosphere, between the heavy breathing, the squelches of your hips meeting and Peter practically fucking your cervix right now- it was the best sex either of you have had your entire lives.

"You're so, so, so good. Thank you." He whines, he really can't control it, maybe it's a mix of human and arachnid hormones, he wasn't sure if it was even genetically possible it could enhance his sexual performance, but clearly, it seemed to be because his pace was unmatched. His brows furrowed, hyper-focused of fucking you until you couldn't leave his bed. In the back of his mind, maybe he'd web you up and keep you like his own mate. But rational, sweet Peter could never do that to a sweet girl like you.

"I'm close," you moaned. He nods, keeping this pace, but his brain is getting cloudy, by choices that aren't his own. Then- he just starts pounding harder, making you squeal. "Mmh! Peter!" Mate. A real one? Perhaps. When you squirm under his pistoning hips, you tried to slow him down, not that you didn't like it. He grabs your wrists and webs them to his headboard.

"Stay." He growls.

Good grief! Your eyebrows knit together, mouth gaping as he impossibly fucks you in a way no person should be able to. His hands slide beneath your ass, gripping it and angling it up slightly, eliciting a sweet whine from your throat as he hits your g-spot, and more. Your walls squeeze his cock so wonderfully, his eyes are clenched shut again, fighting an internal battle between his arachnid self, and regular Peter Parker. When his eyes flutter open, you're gazing back into voidless, black eyes that are taunting and controlling. When you cum, he groans loudly, still thrusting through your unbearable tightness.

And when he cums?

He moans, and moans; and normal Peter Parker would pull out, but arachnid Peter held you still as his cock released his thick load right against your womb. He pants, head hanging as sweat trickles down his cheek and his eyes daze back to normal, his cock is swollen inside of you, and he lets out a pathetic whine as your walls continue to clench and pulse against his dick. "Oh, I didn't mean to- fuck!" His voice cracks as your pussy walls trap him inside you when he tries to pull out of you.

"Holy shit." His eyes widened a little as his cock finally popped out, watching as his semen dripped out of you. They dart from your pussy, to your face. "You're so beautiful."

"Thank you..." You smile, blushing.

He moves up and kisses you.

It's gentle, the perfect post-sex kiss.

"Can you get these webs off me now, please?" You smirk.

"Oh, no. I think I'm gonna keep you like this for a while."

by the time you came out the shower, peter was gone. you'd assume he’d be out saving the city once more this week, like the 15th time or so— you lost count. you decided to go to bed, tomorrow was the weekend so you could lounge about all you wanted. you sent peter a quick "be safe & i love you!!" text before you turned your phone off & went to sleep, expecting to wake up with his unusually cold hands wrapped around you but that was never the case. by the time you woke up, it was 11:52am but peter was no where to be found. "that’s unusual.." you mumbled to yourself, rubbing your eyes & stretching with a loud whine before you grabbed your phone, calling peter but it just went straight to voicemail. now you started to panic, where could he be?

you quickly got out of bed & went into the living room with the intentions to go look for him yourself but the room was filled with webs, real organic webs. they were too large for a regular spider to create so who could’ve done it? as you were about to touch one of the webs, you were suddenly lifted off the floor, your jaw dropping in preparation to scream but a hand covered your mouth, "it's me.." peter said, his body unnaturally warm which was confusing since he was usually cold, no matter the season. "peter where were y— your eyes—!!" he cut you off with a long kiss, scrambling into the nearest corner in the living room before he tied you up with his sticky webs. "peter?" you questioned once again, noticing that his webs came out of his wrists & he wasn’t using his web shooters. you couldn’t take your eyes off of his arachnid facial features; his sharp fangs sticking out from his upper lip & his fully pitch black eyes. "you're so beautiful." peter said, his hands traveling up your trapped body— his hands traveling up your thighs all the way up to your breasts before he grabbed your shirt with both of his hands, ripping it clean open to expose your brown, perky breasts.

you were stunned. you've never seen this side of him— bold. wild. animalistic. you tried to shimmy your way out of his webs but it was no use, it was like a human rat trap with glue so strong, you might as well make it your new home. "mmm." he hummed, his thumbs running over your nipple which made you squirm. before you could even open your mouth, your panties were off in a heartbeat. you were now fully nude, legs spread open for this transformed man in front of you who hissed silently but noticeably at the sight at your wet cunt. a tent formed in his boxers as you didn’t know what to do; you were his prey, he was the predator. he leaned forward, his lips brushing against yours before he started to makeout with you like his life depended on it. the more he melted into the kiss, the more primal— aggressive, he got. you moaned into the kiss which made him hiss back once again in response, "i need you now, baby." he told you as he kept one of his hands in the ceiling, dropping his legs down so now he’s hanging from the ceiling while he takes off his boxers. he lets them fall in the floor before he got back on top of you, entering the cocoon he made out of his webs & sealing it tightly with just you both in it.

you were at loss for words when you looked down; his cock 3x its size, the tip of it a reddish hue as it leaked nonstop. "gonna make you a mommy.." he whispered in your ear, causing you to tremble against the sticky material. "peter.." you whined before you jolted, feeling the fat tip of his cock poke against your hole before he barged in, forcing himself in with one big thrust that made you gasp loudly while he clenched his jaw, holding onto you tightly as he began to fuck into you at a wild pace. he leaned down, digging his sharp fangs into your neck which made you squirm & grab onto him, trying to push him away. "t-that hurts!” you complained but he bit harder, his animalistic instincts were treating you like genuine prey; biting down into your skin harder so you'd stay still, & that you did. your eyes rolled, the pain from his fangs sunk into your skin mixed with his cock pushing into warm, gummy insides while he occasionally let out noticeable whines. "breed, breed her, peter." his brain told him, he no longer had control over his body as he gave up all control to his arachnid side. he humped into you like crazy, moans ripping from your throat while he fixed your leg, putting it over his shoulder & fucking you as deep as he could. he pulled his fangs out of your neck, which made you sigh in delight before his tongue ran over the two holes he had put in your neck as blood started to pour out of it.

he whined, incoherent noises coming from him but boy did he sound slightly pathetic. "b-baby, please relax!” you tried to bargain but you were talking to a brick wall at this point. he quickly silenced you by attaching his lips back to yours, tasting the blood on his tongue while he rubbed tight circles on yours clit, making you grab onto the webs while your back arched— or tried to. you cried aloud, the pleasure becoming unbearable as he snapped his hips against yours while his thumb played with your clit, turning you into mush. "o-oh daddy!~" you moaned loudly, your eyes tearing up & he enjoyed that sight, a slight grin of amusement coming on his face while his balls pulsed like crazy, him nearing his orgasm. "love you so much, baby..” he told you before his other hand went to your throat, one now rubbing your clit & the other threatening to squeeze life out of you but you got noticeably wetter, which made his head tilt a little bit, more so intrigued than confused. he leaned down & kissed all over your jaw, resting his head in the crook of your neck & inhaling your scent as he nipped at your skin, marking it up with hickeys & bite marks, but he left a very distinct print in a shape of a spider on your collarbone. it blended into your skin nicely, like a birthmark. "wanna make you mine, forever." he said, staring deep into your beautiful brown eyes while you stared at his pitch black, damn near lifeless ones. he whined loudly, his orgasm nearing quickly which made him hold onto you for support as his hips moved desperately, wanting to finish inside of you.

"wanna start a family, make you happy, love you forever.." he said mindlessly, like he was confessing his hidden true feelings for you. he attached his lips to one of your nipples, sucking on it as he closed his eyes, enjoying the way your body released it’s pheromones while he inhaled your scent, it was extremely intoxicating for him. his cock throbbed violently inside you as he was nearing his orgasm, & so were you. you tried to move from him but it was no use, his body weight being on top of you & the material from his webs were impossible for you to move in the slightest, you couldn’t do much but just sit & take it. your eyes rolled back as his thumb came back down onto your clit, rubbing quick & tighter circles which sent you right over the edge, your hole pulsating around his cock as your orgasm triggered his own, which made him whine & hiss loudly as he came in you, pushing dick alll the way in you & kept you full of his seed. you panted violently as you thought, "what the fuck is going on with him?" while he pulled out.

you thought that was the end of it but you thought wrong. he quickly pulled out & effortlessly turned you around in the cocoon, making you get stuck face down, ass up before he reinserted himself. his mind was clouded with thoughts that told him to make it known you were his— he was extremely possessive & territorial, a side you've never seen of him before until today, & now. he grabbed your neck, causing your back to arch more as he rammed into your tight pussy, "good job baby, you're doing such a good job." he told you as he bit his lip, looking down to see both of your nuts mixed together which made a spike increase in his heartbeat. "mm, i'm sorry, baby.." he suddenly said, extremely sympathetic— that was peter. "you feel too good, just one more please, one more.." he whispered in your ear while his balls slapped against your sensitive bud, your eyes watering while your mouth fell agape due to the overstimulation. you could speak, just sounds of pleasure & chants of his name as he fucked you like he hated you, breeding you in his cocoon made out of sticky webs as he wanted you to bear his children.

you started to tremble, another orgasm washing over you which he felt. he looked down & seen the way your pussy pulsed around his thick & long dick while your asshole pulsed around nothing. he was intrigued by the sight, but loved the thought of your belly swole with him kids, you; his little gravid. "fuck, you feel so good— ughhh fuck!~" he whined as he came once again, his hips snapping against yours once again as he hissed, making sure you get every last drop of his seed before he pauses, keeping his dick inside of you as he didn’t want any of his kids to leak out of you. you laid there, your head spinning as you were now out of breath before the morning even started. "uhh, babe?" regular peter now said. you side eyed him as you couldn’t move but realized his eyes were now back to their regular brown color. "sorry he put you through that.." he said, nervously as his dick started to soften inside you slowly. "he..?" you questioned before you groaned, he had picked you up & made his way out of the cocoon as he realized the mess he caused as the house was filled with webs everywhere. "jesus.." he said as the sights as he took you to the bathroom & ran you a bath, holding you tightly in his arms as he spoke, "so those headaches i've been getting, apparently due to high stress levels, my DNA has been altering to one of a spider.." he explained to you. "so.. you're literally.. part spider." you pieced together. "yes.” he replied as he set you down in the warm water, tossing a bath bomb in there.