Dia ; 21

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

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

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

What has he done?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't go." He whispers.

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

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

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

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

He's shaking, and almost feverishly warm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Promise?" He murmurs weakly.

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

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

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

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

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

Apparently, today was its much-needed day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay, sure. You could work with that.

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

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

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

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

"Spidey." You whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It gets demolished within seconds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's not true." You hum.

He blinks slowly, processing your words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your gaze softens. "She sounds sweet."

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

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

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

"Spidey." You call out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Peter. Peter Parker."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He collapsed beside you on the couch with a heavy, breathless exhale, half on his side and half against you because there wasn’t really enough room for both of you to lie comfortably. Neither of you cared. Peter’s arm immediately found your waist, dragging you closer until your bare skin pressed against his, warm and sticky and familiar.

His face tucked into the side of your neck, and for a moment all you could hear was both of you breathing, the movie still playing uselessly in the background, completely forgotten. You were sure the apartment was a disaster.

His suit was probably in a half-peeled heap somewhere near the couch, your shirt had been abandoned behind it, your panties were still somewhere in the wreckage, and the blanket had slid halfway onto the floor. Peter shifted like he might attempt to sit up, always so painfully ready to take care of things even when he looked like he could fall asleep mid-breath, but you caught his arm before he could go anywhere.

You reached down blindly until your fingers found the blanket and pulled it up over both of you, covering your bare bodies in a crooked, warm mess. Peter let out a soft sound when the fabric settled over his shoulders, his arm tightening around you as if the permission to stop moving had finally reached him.

You tucked yourself against his chest, your legs still weak, your body still sticky, your throat still a little dry from everything you’d said and moaned, and you felt Peter press one final lazy kiss to the top of your head. “We can clean up later,” you mumbled sleepily, barely managing to get the words out before your eyes started drifting shut.

Peter’s quiet laugh rumbled against you, tired and warm and completely spent. His fingers traced one absent line up your spine beneath the blanket before coming to rest against your back, holding you close. “Yeah,” he whispered, voice rough from all the sounds he’d made for you. “Later.”

note: i am so hungry, and i hope this will also make you all full of peter. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

Walking home alone with too much alcohol in your system makes the city streets feel a little less lonely at night. You stumble slightly over the curb while you check your phone for the time. Spiderman is out there swinging between the buildings somewhere above you. You know he exists without ever trying to follow where he goes. Seeing him on the news occasionally is enough for you. You keep walking down the sidewalk until footsteps drop from the rooftops above you. Tonight feels like an ordinary walk home before someone bumps right into you. Peter is fighting bad headaches that won’t go away no matter what he tries to do about it. His arachnid genes are acting abnormally lately and pushing past his human side in ways he can’t control. He spends his nights searching for a cure because the animal instincts keep taking over his thoughts. Stress makes the biological changes worse tonight since his mind is already exhausted, and seeing MJ kissing another man at her housewarming party earlier today makes it worse.

Watching her with someone else triggered something feral inside him, and it doesn’t help that no one remembers who Peter Parker is anymore. His arachnid instincts take over as he drops over the street before he bumps right into your path. Organic web shoots directly from his wrists instead of mechanical shooters before it wraps around your waist. He grabs you with him to swing around until both of you are up on a rooftop. You don’t know Spiderman personally for him to do that so you think you are in danger as he lands on the roof. The spinning motion, together with the drinks in your stomach, creates a terrible feeling by the time you reach the top of the building. You immediately bend over to throw up all the alcohol in your stomach right onto the roof. He watches you puke before he lets out a loud laugh. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand while he just looks at you and shakes his head.

That first night didn’t end up so terrible because Spiderman brought you home safely after you threw up on the roof. He even apologized for grabbing you off the sidewalk before he left you outside your building. Running into him once feels like a simple coincidence when you think about it the next morning. He knows he doesn’t mean to keep doing it, but he saw you walking home alone weeks later and decided to give you another ride across the city. Happening twice is already something unusual, yet a third or fifth time tells both of you that this is no longer an accident. He can’t control the urges yet since he hasn’t managed to suppress his arachnid genes. Everything that happened on that first night opened his eyes to the idea of trying again. He isn’t actively searching for another girlfriend, though he feels open to the possibility now. He doesn’t understand why his arachnid side feels so protective over you whenever you are out late at night.

He isn’t stalking you by any means, yet his senses alert him whenever someone gets too close to you on the street. He has no idea why his biological instincts react so strongly whenever you walk home alone after a night out. The urge to check on you keeps happening without any clear explanation. Maybe he even programmed your details into E.V so his tech tracks you whenever the cameras catch you walking by yourself. E.V notifies his mask display whenever you leave a building late at night so he can make sure the streets are clear. He tells himself it’s just a safety measure to keep you out of trouble. You never actually saw each other face to face during any of those times E.V watched over you from above. He waited up on the roofs while you walked down the pavement. You only knew he was around when he decided to drop down to pick you up for another ride home. Those repeated trips across the city happened several more times over the past few weeks.

Neither of you talks about why he keeps showing up whenever you are out late. His arachnid side feels satisfied whenever he drops you off safely at your front door. He never fails to bring you home after you finish drinks with your friends. Tonight tests his patience because the alcohol in your system makes you act way too clingy. You wrap your arms around his shoulders instead of holding onto him normally while he takes you above the street. You press your face into his neck right over his collar. He tries to ignore the way you rub your nose against him as he moves between the buildings. “Don’t move around so much up here,” he grunts while he checks the distance to the next roof. You ignore his warning before you inhale the scent of his suit right against his throat. Your mouth opens against the material as you leave small pecks along his neck. He tenses up when your teeth bite down on him through the fabric.

His senses are already too sensitive tonight, so your mouth against his neck distracts him. His web misses the next building after your teeth catch him by surprise. “F-fuck- what are you doing?” he curses as he brings you closer against his chest. Both of you almost fall before he shoots another web to find support and avoid touching the ground. “You smell good,” you mumble against his throat while your teeth nip at him again. He manages to get both of you across the rest of the blocks without falling again. He lands on the floor of your balcony before he sets you down. You refuse to let go of his shoulders even after your feet touch the ground. His arachnid side reacts badly because your mouth keeps trailing over his neck. “Stop biting me,” he warns you as his hands hold your waist. He backs you toward the wall of your apartment while his breathing turns ragged behind his mask. “Mmm- no,” you say before you tug him closer by his shoulders.

He looks down at you with his chest heaving while he tries to control his urges. He raises one arm while he keeps you against the wall of the balcony. A line of web shoots from his wrist toward the knob of your balcony door. It sticks to the handle before he pulls his arm back to slide the door open. He wants you inside because standing out here makes everything too complicated. You ignore the open door while you keep your arms around his shoulders. Your hands leave his shoulders before you reach up toward his mask. You try to pull the red fabric up over his chin so you can look at his face. His right hand leaves your waist before his fingers wrap around your wrist to stop you from lifting it higher. He pushes your hand away from his face while he looks down at you. “Don’t do that,” he warns you as he shoves your wrist back down between your bodies. You try to reach for the mask again with your other hand, but he blocks you easily.

“I can’t let you see me,” he tells you while he keeps your hands away from his head. The alcohol in your system makes you stubborn, so you push your hands against his chest in frustration. You hate that he stops you every time you try to see who hides behind the mask. “That’s not fair,” you complain while you try to wiggle your wrists away from his fingers. He keeps you against the wall while your feet kick slightly against the floor. “You always pick me up and bring me home, but you won’t even show me your face,” you whine as you bump your forehead against his shoulder. He watches you throw a tantrum before he finally lets go of your wrists to guide you through the open balcony door into your living room. He swats your hands away whenever you try to touch his chest again. He walks you backward across the floor while he watches your face. “You’re too drunk tonight,” he tells you as he tries to keep some space between your bodies.

You ignore his warning before you wrap your hands around his arms. “I’m very aware of what I’m doing,” you complain while your fingers caress the fabric of his sleeves. He tries to shake you off, but you refuse to let go of him. You look up at him while he keeps walking you backward across the room. “Don’t you want a reward for keeping me safe?” you ask him while your hands move up to his shoulders. He shakes his head immediately before he tries to remove your hands from his suit. “You need to sleep,” he answers while he pushes you toward your bedroom hallway. You hate that he keeps rejecting you after everything he did for you tonight. You stop walking backward so you can look up at his face. He pulls the bottom of his mask up just enough above his chin to leave his lips exposed so he can catch his breath. You stare at his mouth while he tries to get you to move again.

You lean forward quickly to try to kiss his lips. He catches your shoulders with his hands before your mouth can touch him. He pushes you back away from him while he turns his head to the side. “No,” he warns you as he holds you at arm’s length. You stumble backward into your bedroom while you look at him in disbelief. “Why won’t you let me thank you?” you whine before you try to step toward him again. He acts quickly by shooting a thick line of web around both of your forearms to bind your wrists together behind your back so you stop grabbing him. You stumble back a step until the back of your knees hit the mattress, and you sit down. His hands reach for your ankles before he starts taking your shoes off your feet. He tosses your shoes aside while he tries to ignore the way you keep staring down at him. You spread your legs wider apart on the edge of the mattress to get his attention.

He tries to ignore what you are doing while he drops your second shoe onto the floor. You lift your right leg before you place your foot right on his shoulder. You use your leg to pull his shoulder closer toward the bed. He shakes his head at you while he kneels on the floor between your knees. “Why are you acting like you don’t want me?” you whine while you pout down at his mask. He lets out a loud sigh before he leans forward between your knees. He drops his forehead right against your thigh with his shoulders tensed up. The mask is rolled up above his chin so his mouth is uncovered. His exposed lips touch the fabric of your pants while he rests his head on your leg. “You’re making it really hard for me to behave tonight,” he warns you as his chest rises against your knees. You feel his breath through your pants while he keeps his forehead on your thigh. He tries to control his arachnid side before he does something he can’t take back.

You feel the web that binds your arms together behind your back. The alcohol makes you bold, so you lean your chest closer toward his face. “I wouldn’t mind if you tied the rest of me up with your web,” you tease him while you nudge his shoulder with your foot. He lifts his head from your thigh to look up at your face. His jaw tightens after he hears what you want him to do. “Jesus- don’t give me ideas like that,” he mutters before his hands reach up to hold your hips. He pulls you closer to the edge of the mattress until your thighs surround his chest. He refuses to back away from you now that you invited him closer. “I can’t do much with my arms tied up anyway,” you tease him while you look down at his exposed mouth. He looks at your face before his hand reaches up to grab your ankle. He removes your foot from his shoulder and sets your heel down onto the floor between his knees. “Are you really going to leave me here like this?” you ask him before you nudge his side with your leg. He shakes his head as he kneels on the floor in front of you.

“This is some freaky shit you’re doing tonight,” you joke while you watch his jaw tighten. He keeps looking at you like he is trying to figure out how far you are going to push this. “Don’t make this harder than it already is,” he warns you while his jaw tightens behind his mask. He keeps his head down as he tries to ignore the way you lean toward him. “If you won’t untie me, then at least help me get my pants off,” you complain while you tilt your chin down at him. You don’t really care about changing your clothes tonight. You only want to make it look like you need help so you can see how far you can push his patience. He looks down at your lap before his thumbs touch the waistband of your pants. He knows you are trying to mess with him, but he refuses to back away from the bed. “Come on, do the belt first,” you chuckle while you wiggle your hips slightly on the mattress. He looks up at your face while he kneels on the floor between your knees.

You watch him hesitate before he reaches for the front of your waist. Both of his hands move to the belt around your pants so he can undo it for you. He removes the belt from your waist. He drags the strap free while you keep your attention on his exposed mouth. He drops the belt onto the floor before his hands return to the sides of your waist. “You took the belt off, but you aren’t going to unzip them?” you complain while you shake your head at him. You start pulling your wrists apart behind your back while he kneels in front of you. “What the fuck is that about?” you ask him while you try to push your hips forward on the mattress. You manage to tear through some of the web around your hands even though it doesn’t come off all the way. You keep pulling your wrists apart while you wait for him to answer you. He hears the web tearing behind your back while he kneels between your knees. He doesn’t try to stop your hands from moving because he is just letting you have your fun.

He ignores what you are doing behind your back while his thumbs move to the top of your pants. “Just stop moving for a second,” he tells you before his fingers pop the button open. He pulls the zipper down until your pants open wide at your waist. You spread your legs wider on the edge of the bed so he can take them off. You wait for him to lean closer, but he surprises you by moving away instead. He crawls backward on his knees two steps away from the edge of the mattress. He pushes your knees together with his hands before he grabs the waistband of your pants. He pulls the pants all the way down your legs in one motion until they slide off your ankles. You smirk down at him because he stripped them off you so easily. “You can look,” you tease him when you notice him turn his head to the side. Your smirk grows bigger as you watch him avoid looking at your red panties. “I’m trying really hard to be responsible here,” he mutters while he looks away from you.

He keeps his eyes away from your waist while he drops your pants onto the floor beside him. “You don’t always have to be the good guy,” you tease him while you wiggle your knees on the edge of the mattress. You pull your wrists apart harder behind your back while you wait for him to look at you. “They match your suit,” you point out as you lean your chest forward. He turns his head back toward you before his eyes drop down to your red panties. He doesn’t mean to stare, but your words make him look anyway. “I knew you wanted to see,” you laugh while you keep working your wrists apart behind your back. He shakes his head at you while he kneels on the floor between your feet. “You’re not helping my case here,” he groans before he looks up at your face. You stretch the last strands of web behind you while you watch him hesitate. “Take them off,” you tell him as you tilt your chin down at him.

His jaw tightens while he tries to ignore what you want him to do. “It won’t hurt anyone if you do,” you add while your shoulders twist on the bed. His human side wants to back away so he doesn’t take advantage of you. His arachnid instincts fight harder against him because every second near you makes him want to stop holding back. He keeps his mouth shut while his hands hover over his knees. You force your wrists apart until the web snaps behind your back. You bring your arms forward so your hands sit in your lap. The web still covers your fingers and wrists, but your arms are finally free. You grin down at him while you show off what you did. He scoffs at your face because you look so proud of yourself. “You know I let you do that, right?” he asks you while his mouth almost forms a smirk. You ignore his excuse before you rest your hands against your thighs. “I’m stronger than you thought,” you boast while you look down at his exposed lips.

He shakes his head while he reaches forward to touch your knees. You lift your hands to grab his mask again, but he tilts his head back away from your reach. “Keep trying that, and I’m going to tie you to the bed,” he warns you while his hands move up from your knees to your waist. He looks up at your face before his thumbs hook over the waistband of your red panties. “Yeah? With your web?” you smirk down at him as you open your knees wider against his sides. You ignore what his hands are doing at your hips before you grab the bottom of your shirt. You pull the top over your head in one motion and toss it across the bedroom floor. Taking off your shirt leaves you sitting on the mattress in only your underwear and your bra while he kneels between your feet. “Jesus- I told you to stop making this worse,” he mutters while his jaw clenches below the rolled fabric of his mask. You reach your hands behind your back to undo the clasps of your bra so you can take it off too.

He raises his right hand before a line of web shoots from his wrist right onto the center of your bra. He yanks his arm backward so the web snaps the clasps open behind you and pulls the bra away from your chest. He catches the bra with his right hand and throws it into the corner of the room. “I told you not to be stubborn,” he warns you while he drops his right arm back to your waist. You cross your arms over your chest to cover yourself because you didn’t expect him to strip you like that. Your face heats up while you look down at his exposed mouth in surprise. You look up at his eyes through the mask and think they look like they are turning black. You blame the dark room and the bad lighting for making his eyes look so strange. He knows it isn’t the lighting because his arachnid genes are fighting harder to push past his human side. His animal instincts want to take over now that you are sitting unprotected in front of him.

Both of his hands return to your hips before his thumbs hook into the waistband of your red panties. You push his hands away from your waist before you crawl backward toward the middle of the mattress. He gets up from the floor while he watches you get to your feet on the bed. You hook your thumbs into the sides of your panties to push them down your legs. You kick the red fabric off your ankles before you throw it right at his chest. “I can take them off myself,” you tease him while you stand naked in front of him. He catches the underwear with one hand before he lets it drop onto the floor. He tries to avoid looking right between your legs, but his arachnid side takes over. He raises his wrist before a line of web hits your stomach. He yanks his arm backward to pull you off the mattress and into the middle of the bedroom. The web lifts you up so your feet leave the floor. “What the fuck- are you serious right now?” you laugh while you kick your legs in the air.

He ignores you before he lifts his other wrist to send another web around your right forearm. He attaches the other end to the ceiling so your right arm stretches above your head. He casts more web across your waist before he connects the ends to the walls to keep you in place. The web holds you high enough so your hips align with his waist. You yank your free left arm around to see what he will do about it. He releases another line of web around your left wrist before you can swing at him again. He pulls your left arm upward before he attaches the end to the ceiling on the opposite side of the room. Both of your arms spread wide open above your head while the web wraps down to your elbows so you can’t pull your hands down. “Are you going to fuck me like this, spidey?” you tease him while you try to wiggle your hips against the web. He watches you test the hold before he shakes his head at your consistency in trying to get into his pants.

“You wanted me to tie you up,” he grunts before he sends more web across your chest and hips. He attaches the ends to the walls around you until you have nowhere else to go. Your legs dangle in the air while your feet hover above the floor. He aims his wrist at your right leg to put web around your thigh before he lifts your knee up to the side to connect the end to the wall. “Like what you see?” you tease him while you look down at where his eyes drop. He ignores your joke before he raises his left wrist to release more web around your left calf and ankle. He pulls your other knee upward and attaches that web to the opposite wall so your legs spread wide apart. The web bends your knees back until your feet hang high off the bedroom floor. Your entire body hangs in the center of the bedroom right at his hip level with your knees bent back. The web covers your forearms before it wraps around your waist to hold your body up in the air.

Your bent legs hang open so your chest and your cunt are exposed to his eyes. He steps right between your spread knees while he looks down at your waist. You can’t move your limbs away while he stands right in front of you with his mask rolled up above his mouth. “You’re not so talkative now,” he mutters while he looks at your face. You try to wiggle your hips against the web, but it holds you tight in the air. His suited hands reach toward your thigh where the web wraps around your leg. His hands trail slowly over the web while you watch his mouth open slightly. “What’s wrong, spidey? Are you going to leave me here like this?” You laugh as you push your hips forward. His hand leaves your thigh before his palm slaps hard against your exposed cunt. “Ah-! F-fuck-” you gasp while your thighs flex against the web. He watches you react to the slap while his head tilts to the side. “I told you to stop testing me,” he warns you before his hand rests against your inner thigh.

He lifts his left hand between your legs before he presses his covered palm right between your legs. He rubs his palm over you while you try to push your hips forward to meet his hand. The web around your waist holds you in place so you can’t grind against his palm. “Is this what you want?” he asks you while his fingers trace over your wetness. You nod at him while you pout down at his exposed mouth. “You can’t tie me up like this and not give me anything,” you complain as your knees pull against the web. He hums at your answer before he rubs his palm harder against your cunt. “Nnngh-” you gasp while you try to close your legs, but the web keeps your knees apart. He watches your mouth open while he keeps working his hand between your thighs. You try to move your hips again, but the web holds your waist in the air. “You’re really asking me to do this?” he asks you while his teeth clench below the red fabric.

He slows his hand down between your thighs while he waits for your answer. “That’s what I’ve been trying to get you to do all night,” you answer while you look down at his face. He stops rubbing your cunt before he pulls his hand away from between your legs. He takes a step back from your feet before he turns around so his back faces your body. He reaches for the shoulders of his suit and starts pulling the fabric down his chest. You watch him peel the top half of the suit off his back while he stands in the middle of the room. “What about the mask?” you ask him as he pushes the suit past his waist. He keeps his back turned toward you while he steps out of the bottom half of the suit. “The mask isn’t coming off,” he tells you while he drops the suit onto the floor. He wears only his boxers and the red mask over his head before he turns around to face your spread knees. He brings his right hand back between your legs without the suit in his way anymore.

He brushes his middle finger down your folds while his thumb presses against your clit. You bite your lower lip and try to wiggle your knees, but the web around your hips stops you from moving closer. He raises his left wrist and shoots another band of web around your right thigh to stop you from moving around. “Ah-! Why did you do that?” you whine as the web wraps tight around your leg. He ignores your complaint before he slips two fingers inside your cunt. “You look adorable tied up in my web like this,” he tells you while he watches your mouth open. You try to push your hips forward to take more of his fingers, but the web holds you back. “Yeah? Adorable enough to actually fuck?” you tease him while you look down at his face. His lips curve up into a smile below his mask before he pushes his fingers deeper inside you. “Nngh-! F-fuck-” you gasp as his fingers move inside your wetness. He watches your chest rise and fall while he keeps his hand between your thighs.

“You’re so desperate tonight, you can’t even wait five seconds,” he mutters while he curls his fingers inside your entrance. He pushes his hand deeper between your legs while you look down at his mask. “You’re still holding back on me,” you complain while you try to move your knees against the web. He steps closer between your spread legs and brings his face right next to your neck. His exposed lips press against your throat before he speaks against you. “I’m only doing this for your own good,” he whispers while his fingers work inside your cunt. It’s been years since the last time he touched someone like this or actually had sex with anyone. That’s the main reason he’s been holding back as much as he can all night. His arachnid side wants to swallow his human genes so his animal instincts can take control over his actions. He knows he’s on the edge of breaking if he keeps touching you like this.

He pushes his fingers deeper between your thighs while he listens to your breathing change. You squeeze your cunt tight around his fingers while you look at the top of his head. “So do you want me just to moan spidey all night since I don’t know your real name?” you taunt him as you try to move your hips. He pushes his thumb hard against your clit before he drags his tongue across your neck. “Haaah-! m-mfffh-” you gasp as his mouth leaves your throat before he lifts his head to look at you. He licks his own bottom lip while he thinks about whether he should tell you or keep quiet. He doesn’t stop moving his fingers inside your cunt while he stares at your face through the mask. You look up at his covered face where only his mouth shows below the red fabric. “Don’t you want to hear me moan your actual name?” you ask him before you squeeze your cunt around his fingers again.

You can’t push your hips forward to get his hand deeper because the web holds you in place. He sighs through his nose while his jaw moves under the mask. “Peter- you can call me Peter,” he mutters while he curls his fingers inside you. There are thousands of guys named Peter in New York, so you wouldn’t know who he really is anyway. He knows that if he ever takes the mask off to show you his face, then he will just have to keep you by his side so you never tell anyone. You hum when you hear his name while he keeps moving his fingers between your thighs. Your clit starts to throb against his thumb, so you close your eyes and let your mouth fall open. “Mmn- ahhnn-” you breathe out while your head tilts back against the air. He lifts his left hand away from your side and brings it up to your chest. His palm cups your exposed breast while his fingers roll your nipple between them.

He squeezes your breast while his other hand works inside your wetness. “You really know what you’re doing with those hands, Peter,” you tell him while you open your eyes to look down at his mask. He scoffs under his breath because he knows you’re just trying to talk him into fucking you now. Hearing his name from your mouth sends a rush straight down to his cock, so his arachnid side reacts before he can stop it. An embarrassing but small amount of web shoots out from his wrists. “Looks like someone else can’t hold back anymore,” you tease him while you laugh at the white string on his wrist. He pinches your nipple hard before he drops his hand away from your chest. “Ah-! sh-shit-” you gasp while he reaches his hand down to the front of his boxers. He grabs his cock right through the fabric while he stares up at your mouth. “See? I told you that you were just as desperate as me,” you laugh while more slick coats his fingers inside your cunt.

He sighs through his nose before he slips his hand under the waistband of his boxers. He strokes his cock inside his shorts while he watches you try to close your legs. “Stop playing around and take those off,” you complain while you watch his hand move under the fabric. You try to wiggle your hips forward to reach him, but the web keeps you in place. “You want it so bad? Come over here and get it,” he teases you while he keeps his fingers working inside your wetness. You glare up at his masked face because your arms are stretched above your head. “Oh, that’s right... You can’t move because you’re tied up,” he mocks you while he curls his fingers inside your cunt. He watches you try to pull your knees together against the web. “Nngh-! p-please-” you whine out while your hips try to push against his hand. He never stops pumping his fingers between your thighs while his other hand strokes his hard cock inside his shorts.

You shake your head at him because he won’t do anything besides finger you. It frustrates you that you can’t even wiggle your knees away from his touch. “Poor baby... Are you getting impatient?” he laughs while he looks at your pout. He pushes his fingers deeper between your wet folds while he watches your mouth open. “I hate you so much,” you mutter while your cunt squeezes around his fingers. He smiles below his rolled-up mask before he slows down his hand between your legs. “Mhm, you’ve been good enough for me tonight,” he tells you before he pulls his hand out of your cunt. He lifts his wet hand up to his mouth to lick your slick off his fingers. He watches your cunt clench around emptiness while he uses both hands to push his boxers down his hips. He kicks the shorts off his feet away from him across the bedroom floor. You watch him stand naked in front of you with only the red mask covering the top of his head. “Never fucked someone like this before, Peter?” you taunt him while you look down at his cock.

You arch your back against the web while he steps closer to your spread thighs. “Never had someone tied up like a toy without their legs around you?” you ask him while your knees pull against the web. His exposed lips curve into a smirk because he knows you always have to be a smart-ass. He steps closer to your spread legs before he slips his right hand through the web to hold your leg. He uses his free left hand to guide his hard cock right between your thighs. He rubs the head of his cock up and down against your wet folds without pushing inside you yet. “Hah- wait- P-Peter-” you gasp out while he slides his length over your clit. He looks down at your face while you try to push your hips forward against the web. “Shh- quiet down for me,” he whispers before he starts to push his cock slowly between your lips. His left hand guides him inside until his length is deep enough to fill your cunt before he drops his hand and stops pushing forward.

He brings his hand up to your face while you tilt your head to rub your cheek against his palm. “Mmf-” you whine while you lean into his hand. He watches you through the white lenses of his mask while you close your eyes to bite your bottom lip. He looks at the way your face reacts to him opening you up, and he likes seeing you tied up for him. He pushes his hips forward again to slide the rest of his cock inside you. You breathe through your open mouth once he pushes all the way inside your cunt. You open your eyes to look at his covered face because you want to see what he looks like right now. Your eyebrows knit together while tears start to gather in the corners of your eyes. “Oh god- haaah-” you moan while you feel him push your cunt wide open. He squeezes your thigh before he leans forward to rest his forehead against your neck. He starts thrusting his hips back and forth while the web holds your body up.

“You take me so well,” he grunts against your throat while he picks up his pace. He brings his hips back so only the tip of his cock is inside you before he slams himself forward to bury himself deep again. You try to move your knees, but the web forces your legs wide open. “P-peter… please, let me see you-” you beg him while he thrusts fast and hard inside your cunt. He ignores what you asked before his teeth bite down onto the side of your neck. “I told you no- jesus-” he mutters against your throat while his hand squeezes your thigh tighter. He moves his other hand from your cheek to the back of your head so he can tangle his fingers in your hair. He forces your head back while he keeps pumping his cock in and out of your cunt. You cry out against his shoulder while his hips slap against your thighs with every thrust. His lips trail up from your throat to your jaw before he presses his mouth against yours. You close your eyes while he kisses you hard enough to force your teeth apart with his tongue.

He bites down on your bottom lip before he sucks it into his mouth and lets it go to spit right onto your lips. “Mmmph- you’re so-” you moan after he does that, and his tongue licks your lips. He pulls his face back to look at you before his right hand reaches down to snap the web around your right thigh. He pulls your freed leg up against his side so your knee rests beside his hip. The new position lets him push his cock deeper inside your cunt while he holds you close against his body. He watches your face through his white lenses while he keeps moving his hips forward. His left hand rests tangled in your hair behind your head to keep you in place. Your cunt clenches tight around his cock, and his fingers pull back on your hair hard enough to make your scalp burn. His shaft throbs inside your wetness while he watches your mouth fall open. “Do you want your other leg wrapped around me too?” he asks you while his hips slam into your thighs.

You nod at him while you try to move your left knee against the web. He keeps holding your right thigh with his right hand while he raises his left wrist to shoot two fresh bands of web over your arms. It gives your arms more support in the air before his left hand snaps the web around your left calf. He guides your left leg over his waist so both of your thighs wrap around his hips. He grabs both of your hips with his hands while you float in the middle of the room. “You know how good you look right now?” he asks you before he thrusts deeper inside your cunt. His fingers dig so hard into your hip that it hurts your flesh like he wants to devour you. “Nngh-! o-ow- Peter that hurts-” you complain while your hips rock against his cock. He looks down at your face while he slows down for a second. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” he tells you while his thumbs push harder into your waist. He leans in closer to your ear to bite it, but it’s just an excuse to be closer to you.

“You’re going to take it like a good girl,” he whispers before he lifts your legs off his waist and puts your ankles up onto his shoulders. He looks down between your bodies to watch his cock slide in and out of your wet cunt. His enhanced hearing picks up every single noise in the bedroom while he speeds up his thrusts. He listens to the wet squelching of your cunt and the loud slap of his hips against your thighs. Your ragged breaths are loud in his ears while he pushes his cock all the way to his pelvis. He holds your ankles on his shoulders while his hips work faster inside your wetness. His fingers caress up and down your calves while he thrusts deep inside you. You get closer to the edge every time he pushes all the way in. You don’t tell him you’re about to cum, but he feels the way you pulse around him. The wetness drips down his shaft while you squeeze him tight. You need to hold onto him while the pleasure builds, so you tug hard against the web around your arms.

“I need you- p-please let me hold you,” you whine while your toes curl against his shoulders. He turns his head to the side to bite down hard onto your calf. He pulls his cock back until only the tip is left inside you before he slams all the way deep again. He fucks you so hard that the web around your body starts to break. The broken pieces weigh you down, but the rest of the web holds you up in the air. He moves his hands away from your legs to tear right through the bands around your waist. His arms wrap tight around your body while he brings you against his chest. “I need you right here with me,” he grunts before he buries his face into your neck. He thrusts deep enough to reach that spot inside your cunt, and it makes you cum instantly. “Nngh-! o-oh god-” you moan while your wetness coats his cock. He feels you cumming around him and his arachnid instincts take over his head. His enhanced strength makes it effortless for him to walk forward and break right through the remaining webs to carry you.

You wrap your arms around his neck before he walks both of you toward the bed without ever pulling his cock out of you. He gets onto the bed so he can lay you down on the mattress and hover over you. Shredded web clings to your arms and your thighs. “You came around me so fast,” he mutters while he looks down at your face. You nod at him before he slowly starts to thrust inside your cunt again. Your hands leave his shoulders to grab the bottom edge of his mask. You push the fabric all the way up over his head to see his face finally. It scares you because his eyes are pitch black instead of human. You open your mouth to react, but he grabs both of your wrists with his hands. He pins your arms down hard onto the mattress beside your head. “Come on- you wanted to see me so bad,” he smirks while he stares down at you. You try to pull your hands out from under his palms, but he keeps smirking at you.

“You’re not even human- you’re a d-demon,” you gasp while you stare up into his black eyes. He ignores what you called him before he thrusts his cock deep into your cunt. “Ahhhnn- f-fuck-” you moan out loud even though you just tried to insult him. He watches your mouth fall open while he keeps his body pressed over you. “Shh- it’s just me,” he mocks you with fake sympathy while he holds your arms down on the bed. He raises his wrists to shoot web right over your forearms to bind them to the bed so your arms are spread wide open again. “You have such playful hands,” he tells you before he lets go of your wrists. He gets up onto his knees between your spread legs before his left hand grabs your waist and his right hand reaches up to grope your breast. “Are you scared of me now?” he asks you while his fingers squeeze your nipple. You shake your head quickly on the pillow, but he smirks down at you from his knees. “You really should be,” he tells you while his right hand squeezes your breast. He pushes his cock deep into your cunt, and his fingers play with your nipple.

His left hand slides down your side to reach between your legs. You try to twist your bound wrists against the mattress before his right hand leaves your chest. He raises his right wrist to shoot an extra layer of web right over your hands. “Stop fighting me, or I’ll shut your mouth for you,” he warns you while his left hand finds your wet clit. He pinches your clit hard enough to make you whine. “Ah-! nn- please-” you beg him while you shake your head on the pillow. You don’t want to piss him off because he keeps staring at you with those black eyes. You spread your thighs wider for him in response, and he takes a deep breath. “That’s a good girl,” he tells you while a smirk forms on his face. He slams his hips forward with more force, and his left thumb rubs back and forth over your clit. He doesn’t care that you just had an orgasm minutes ago because he keeps rubbing exactly where you are most sensitive.

“Mmf- hahh- it’s too much-” you cry out while your cunt clenches around his cock. His right hand goes right back up to your chest to grab your other breast. He squeezes the soft flesh while his hips slap against your thighs. “You look so fucking perfect like this,” he grunts while his thumb flicks over your tight nipple. You want to touch his body badly, but the webs keep your hands pinned to the bed. “Nngh- let me hold you- p-please, Peter,” you beg him while you twist against the web. He looks down at your wrists, and he keeps thrusting into your wetness. “If you want to touch me, then just break free,” he challenges you while he keeps his hands on your body. You stop struggling because you know exactly what he will do if you manage to escape. “Nn- you’d just tie me down again,” you complain while your hips rock up to meet his thrusts. He chuckles above you before he leans all the way down over your body.

He pushes his mouth right against yours for a quick kiss, and he trails his lips down your neck. He moves over to the breast that he neglected earlier to drag his tongue right across the tip. “Oh god- haaah-” you moan out loud while his wet tongue licks your nipple. He moves his face back a few inches to look at you again. “You can try to break free all you want because I don’t bite,” he whispers before he drops his head back down. He wraps his mouth all the way around your nipple, and he bites down hard on the sensitive peak. “F-fuck- ahhhnn-!” you scream out while your back arches off the mattress. The bite makes your cunt squeeze tight around his cock. You thrust your hips up against him while he sucks on your breast. He grunts out loud before he shoves his hips forward to push you deeper into the mattress. He thrusts his cock as deep as he can go while he keeps his teeth pressed into your nipple. His mouth works over your bud while his left hand rubs your wet clit.

His right hand squeezes your other breast before his cock slams deep into your cunt. Having all his attention on your sensitive body pushes you over the edge again. You tear your wrists right through the webs to free your hands from the mattress. You throw your arms around his shoulders so you can tangle your fingers into his hair. You drag your nails down his back while your hips thrust up to welcome every deep pound inside your cunt. “Fuck- yes- mmn- right there,” you moan out loud while you arch your back off the bed. He sucks hard on your breast to take whatever he can get from you. He slams his hips forward faster to match your needy movements. The thought of breeding you takes over his head. He wants to pump all of his cum as deep as he can reach inside your cunt. He feels his balls tighten because he gets closer to cumming with every hit. “I’m going to fill you up so much,” he grunts against your chest before he bites your nipple one more time.

He lifts his mouth from your breast to leave wet kisses up your neck until he reaches your shoulder. He sinks his teeth right into the curve of your shoulder before he pulls away to look at your face. He watches your eyes roll back while his left hand pinches your clit and his right hand pinches your nipple. He rubs his thumb faster over your wetness while he shoves his cock all the way to the base. “You feel so fucking good around me, don’t you?” he praises you before he leans all the way down. He pushes his mouth against yours to force his tongue past your lips. You open your mouth for him so he can taste you while his hips slap against your thighs. “Mmmph- ahhh-” you whine right against his mouth while you kiss him back. The urge to cum gets too close for him to think straight. He doesn’t even notice that his fingers slow down on your clit or how his thrusts become sloppy.

He can feel his cock throb deep inside your wetness. He knows he won’t last another minute before he cums inside you. He bites down hard on your bottom lip until he tastes blood on his tongue. He keeps his teeth there the exact moment his cum starts shooting deep inside your cunt. “Mmf- f-fuck-” he groans against your lips while he empties himself inside you. He leans his forehead against yours while his hips keep moving. He feels how close you are to another orgasm, so he slows his movements down to be gentler. You push his face away to tug on his hair until he opens his eyes. You look up at his face to see that his eyes are normal again. He realizes he is finally back to normal. He moves his hand away from your clit to rest his palm on the mattress beside your neck. He continues to roll his hips between your legs before he leans his forehead against yours again. “I- I’m sorry,” he whispers over your mouth.

You close your eyes to caress his back while you listen to his heavy breaths. “Why are you sorry?” you ask him while your hips move with his thrusts. He takes a moment to catch his breath before he answers you. “I was too rough earlier, and I wasn’t myself,” he mumbles right against your lips. Hearing that makes you bite your bottom lip before you grind your hips up against his cock. You breathe hard against his mouth to share his air before you lean up to kiss him. “I can handle you just fine,” you tell him between soft pants. He moves his face away from yours after he hears that. He wonders if someone can actually take that side of him without getting hurt. His left hand squeezes your chest gently while his cock pushes deeper inside your cunt. He closes his eyes as he feels the wetness coating his shaft. He wants to give you a second orgasm, so his hand balls up into a fist to twist the bedsheets beside your head.

He takes his time to slide all the way out before he pushes back in. “Haaah- oh god- yes,” you whine out loud while your cunt squeezes his cock. You cum hard around him, and he throbs inside you the exact second he feels it. He drops all his weight onto your chest to hide his face in your neck. “That was my first time letting that part of me out,” he whispers against your collarbone. You trace your nails over his shoulders to comfort him. “Let’s hope it was worth it,” you tease him while you wrap your arms around his back. He shivers against you, and his cock twitches deep inside you. He drags his teeth over your collarbone before a ragged exhale leaves his mouth. His body melts completely against your chest, and he refuses to pull out. You let your fingers wander down his sweaty spine while he nuzzles your neck. “More than worth it,” he mumbles back.

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ twenty-twenty-six © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

You had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Someone had muttered behind you annoyed, and stepped around your laundry bag. The city kept moving in every direction, yellow cabs pushing through the intersection, steam curling from a grate, somebody laughing too loudly outside a bodega. But your attention had narrowed to that blinking dot.

You had only meant to look. Just for a second. Just to see if the app was accurate, because people exaggerated online all the time and half the sightings turned out to be drones, cosplayers, or blurry red jackets photographed from four avenues away.

Then something had swung overhead.

A blur of red and blue cut between the buildings, so quick your breath caught before your mind could name him. The air shifted with him. People on the sidewalk looked up in scattered bursts, phones rising, mouths open, one man yelling, “Yo! Spider-Man!” like he was calling to a friend across the street.

You had craned your neck so hard it hurt.

He landed on the side of a brick building as if gravity had simply made an exception for him. One hand stuck to the wall, knees bent, white lenses angling down toward the street. Below him, a black SUV fishtailed hard around the corner, its bumper half-torn loose, sparks spitting from beneath the frame.

Spider-Man pushed off the wall.

Your bag split somewhere behind you. A white sock escaped onto the curb. You didn't bother going back for it.

You had run.

Not toward the SUV exactly, because you were not stupid enough to run into traffic on purpose. Not then, at least. But you ran in the same direction, weaving through pedestrians, shoes slapping pavement, pulse climbing higher with every shout and honk. 

By the time you reached the next block, the SUV was webbed to a lamppost, the driver was dangling upside down from a fire escape, and Spider-Man was crouched on top of a dented mailbox with one hand pressed to his ribs.

He looked smaller up close than you expected. Not small, exactly, but strangely human. 

Breathing hard. Shoulders rising and falling. Suit scuffed dark along one thigh. A tear near his side showed a thin line of skin beneath before he twisted away from the cameras.

You stood behind the police tape with everyone else, hair sticking to your face, lungs burning, and one sock missing from your laundry life forever.

He turned his head.

For half a second, those white lenses landed on you.

You knew he couldn't have recognized you. There was nothing to recognize. You were just another girl in a city full of people who wanted to see a miracle and then post about it before the adrenaline wore off.

Still, your stomach dropped.

Then he lifted two fingers in a quick salute to the crowd, shot a web, and vanished between buildings.

You downloaded two more tracking apps that night.

After that, seeing him became less of an accident and more of a bad habit you pretended was harmless.

You learned the patterns the way other people learned train delays. Robberies traveled fast through comment sections. Sirens became invitations. Helicopters meant something serious. If three different users posted the same grainy red-blue blur within five minutes, you grabbed your jacket before the app could refresh again.

Sometimes you missed him completely and arrived only in time to see cops clearing debris or tourists replaying videos at full volume. Sometimes you caught him from far away, a streak against the gray of the sky, no closer than a rumor. But sometimes you got lucky.

Lucky meant standing across from a jewelry store with shattered glass glittering over the sidewalk while he webbed a man’s wrists to a parking meter.

Lucky meant watching him swing down to stop a delivery cyclist from being clipped by a fleeing van.

Lucky meant hearing him talk.

That was the part nobody could capture right in videos. The way he sounded in person. Younger than the headlines made him, sharper when he was annoyed, and funny even when he was clearly in pain. He filled dangerous moments with words, like if he talked fast enough nobody had time to panic.

“Okay, so, quick note,” he told a guy holding a crowbar outside a pawn shop one wet Thursday evening, “if your getaway plan involves running directly into a bike lane during rush hour, I do think maybe crime isn’t your strongest career path.”

The guy swung at him.

Spider-Man ducked, webbed the crowbar to a street sign, and added, “Oh-kay, so that was a growth opportunity that you just missed.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

His head snapped toward you.

You were standing too close. Not past the tape, not exactly in the line of fire, but close enough that a cop had already told you twice to move back. Rain dotted your cheeks. Your hood kept sliding off. Your phone was clutched against your chest, recording nothing because you had forgotten to press the button.

Spider-Man stared at you for one beat too long.

Then he pointed at you.

“You,” the words were barely clear to your ears. 

Your face warmed so fast it felt humiliating. “Me?”

“Yes, you. With the…” He gestured vaguely at your entire existence. “The enthusiastic crime tourism thing.”

A few people nearby turned to look at you. Someone snorted. You should have been embarrassed enough to leave. Instead, you smiled.

“You noticed?”

His lenses narrowed. Somehow, they managed to look exhausted. “That is not the takeaway I was hoping for.”

You lifted your chin as if that proved something to him. “I’m behind the tape.”

“You are practically dating the damn tape.”

“I respect boundary lines!”

His tone turned slightly incredulous. “You followed a man with a crowbar into a rainstorm.”

The correction came quickly on your lips. “I followed you.”

“That is relatively worse.”

It should have ended there. He should have swung away and become a story you told yourself later, replaying every word until the edges wore smooth. But the man webbed to the street sign started yelling about unlawful restraint, the cops moved in, and Spider-Man hopped backward onto the side of a parked van.

Before he left, he looked down at you again.

“Go home,” he said as if you needed the reminder. 

You had grinned like an idiot. “Will you be there?”

There was a pause.

Not long, just enough for him to register the line, process it, and decide he absolutely did not want to touch it.

“Nope,” he sighed, voice flatter than before. “Wow. Okay. Definitely go home.”

Then he was gone, leaving you with rain in your eyelashes and the distinct, dangerous realization that Spider-Man could be flustered.

Peter remembered you after that.

He didn't mean to.

He remembered plenty of people in flashes: New York was made of recurring characters if you paid attention long enough.

But you, you became hard not to notice.

You were at the edge of too many scenes, always just outside safety, and always pretending you had arrived by coincidence while breathing like you had sprinted ten blocks. Sometimes your hair was pulled back messily. Sometimes you wore work shoes that were really not made for running. Once, you showed up with a grocery bag still looped around your wrist, and had a bunch of cilantro sticking out the top while an armored car smoked behind you.

He saw the app open on your phone once when he swung low past a bus shelter.

That made his stomach twist.

The city had always watched him, but the tracking apps made it worse. They turned danger into a scavenger hunt. They pulled kids, tourists, thrill-seekers, and people with too much faith in his reflexes toward scenes they should have been running from. 

Peter hated them in the abstract way he could. 

He hated yours specifically because you looked at the screen like it was a promise.

He told himself he was not responsible for your choices. He told himself he had bigger problems than one reckless woman with quick comebacks and bad self-preservation instincts. He told himself a lot of things while dragging stolen cars out of intersections, yanking weapons from hands, and getting punched in the same bruised shoulder three nights in a row.

Still, every time Peter landed somewhere and spotted you in the crowd, his first reaction was not annoyance.

It was relief.

Then anger, quick and hot behind it, because relief meant he had started looking.

“You’re here again,” he sighed again one night, landing on the fire escape above you after a group of teenagers tried to rob a closed pharmacy.

You looked up, breath fogging in the cold. There was a knit scarf wrapped around your neck and one glove missing from your hand. You had probably lost it running.

Your response came instinctive in its quickness. “You say that like you’re not also here again.”

Peter pinched at the bridge of his noise as if that could stifle his second sigh. “I’m working.”

“So am I.”

He tilted his head, looking down at you with clear disbelief. “Your job is standing under active crime scenes?”

Your chin tilted back up in a counter measure. “My job is none of your business.”

“Fair. Is your hobby standing under active crime scenes?”

You tucked your ungloved hand into your sleeve and looked around with fake surveying. “Maybe I’m a concerned citizen.”

His words came out too quick and too impulsive. “You are a concerning citizen.”

That got a smile out of you, small but entirely pleased, and Peter hated how quickly he noticed the shape of it. He was hanging upside down from the railing, one knee hooked around metal, and blood drying uncomfortably under the torn fabric near his elbow. The cold bit through the suit where it was damp. Below, police lights washed your face blue, then red, then blue again.

“You’re bleeding,” you faltered slightly when your gaze caught on the blood. 

He glanced at his arm and the white lenses dilated before going back. “It’s not mine.”

You gave him a look that had him sighing. “It’s mostly mine.”

You stepped closer before you were cut off. “Do you need—”

“No.”

A scoff left you. “You didn’t even know what I was going to offer!”

Peter felt the need to run his hands through his hair to stifle the whirlwind of exasperation you made him feel instantly. “Unless it was ‘a renewed commitment to staying several blocks away from felonies,’ no.”

You shifted your weight. The crowd had thinned behind you. People were still filming from across the street but the immediate danger had passed, and with it came that strange hollow quiet after a loud thing ended. Sirens faded. Glass crackled under people's boots. 

You looked up at him with your scarf covering your chin, your gaze narrowing suddenly. 

“Do you ever get tired of doing that?” 

“Bleeding?”

“Deflecting.” The word landed too cleanly, you saw it in real time. 

Peter’s fingers flexed against the railing. The easy answer was right there. A joke about reflective surfaces, maybe. Something stupid and quick that would let him swing away before the conversation took on weight.

Instead, he looked past you toward the pharmacy windows. Fluorescent lights flickered inside. A display of cough drops had toppled near the door, someone would have to sweep all of that up. Someone would have to call insurance. Someone would wake up tomorrow and deal with the ordinary consequences of extraordinary panic.

“Go home,” he repeated, though it was quieter this time.

Your expression changed, not much. Just a pause around the eyes. “You always say that.”

Peter's exasperation came back tenfold. “Because you never do it.”

A face got made instantly at the words. “I do eventually!”

“Eventually is not good enough.”

You hugged your arms around yourself, and the words came out light. “You worried about me?”

“Yes,” he scoffed before he could stop himself.

The answer sat between you, plain and unarmored.

Your mouth parted slightly at the unexpectedness of it.

Peter pulled himself upright too fast, his boots sticking to the fire escape. “I mean—generally. In the way I worry about all civilians who make terrible decisions near blunt objects.”

“Right,” you nodded, but your voice had taken a slight tone that had Peter instantly regretting the words even more. 

He pointed toward the subway entrance with intensity. “Home.”

You glanced at his arm again, seeing the material start to soak up the darker redness. “You too.”

Peter let out a humorless little laugh. “Yeah. Sure.”

He swung away before you could say anything else, before he could do something stupid like ask your name.

You told yourself the chase was harmless because Spider-Man always won.

That was the lie at the center of it.

You knew he got hurt. You had seen him limp. You had watched him press a hand to his side and pause on rooftops when he thought nobody was looking. You had noticed how he changed after harder fights, how the jokes thinned out, and how his head turned sharply at sudden noises. 

He wasn't invincible.

But he survived so consistently that survival became part of the spectacle. People cheered before the danger fully ended. Phones came out before the weapons were down. The city trusted him with the unreasonable ease of people who needed someone to trust.

You were worse than most because somewhere along the way, your fascination had stopped being abstract and freeformed.

It was not just the suit, though the suit did something humiliating to your ability to think clearly near him. It was not just the swing of him between buildings, the impossible strength, the quick hands, or the way he landed with a dancer’s balance and a boxer’s readiness.

It was the pauses he had. 

The way he crouched beside frightened strangers and made his voice gentler. The way he checked on shop owners after the crowd moved on. The way he sometimes stayed an extra second after saving someone, hand hovering near their shoulder but not actually touching unless they leaned in first. The way he seemed both everywhere and entirely alone.

That was what kept pulling you closer to him. 

The app buzzed late on a Friday, when the city had already loosened into nightlife. You were in a corner booth at a diner, poking at fries that had gone soft with vinegar, half-listening to your friend complain about a coworker who microwaved fish in the break room.

Your phone lit up.

Three alerts. Then five. Then too many.

SPIDEY SIGHTING NEAR 42ND. BIG GUY WITH TECH??

STAY AWAY FROM 9TH AVE. EXPLOSION HEARD.

Your friend stopped talking.

“No,” she reached for you immediately when she saw you were already reaching for your jacket.

She grabbed at your sleeve with intent. “Are you serious?”

“It’s close.”

A groan left her from knowing you too well. “That’s the problem.”

“I’ll stay back!”

She didn't seem convinced. “You always say that.”

The echo of his words should have slowed you.

It didn't.

Outside, the air was sharp with exhaust and fried food from a halal cart. You ran until your lungs burned, cutting through clusters of people spilling out of bars, and ignoring the tightness that formed under your ribs. The closer you got, the more the city changed. Laughter thinned. Traffic tangled. People moved in the opposite direction with their heads turned back, faces lit by emergency lights.

Then something slammed into the side of a parked car half a block ahead.

The impact folded the roof inward. Windows burst. People screamed and scattered.

You froze.

For once, your body understood before your obsession did.

Spider-Man hit the pavement hard beside the car, rolled, and barely got a hand under himself before a heavy metal device skidded after him, sparking violently. It looked homemade and expensive at the same time, all black plating and unstable blue light. A man in a reinforced jacket limped into view, one arm fitted with some kind of mechanical brace that whined when he lifted it.

Peter saw you from the ground.

Even through smoke, flashing lights, and the chaos of running bodies, he found you standing beside a newspaper box with your phone in your hand and fear finally catching up to you.

His blood went cold.

“Move!” he shouted with a loud rasp.

You did not.

Not because you refused, but because for one terrible second, you couldn't even tell where to go. People shoved past you. A cab jumped the curb. The device near Spider-Man pulsed brighter, high-pitched and wrong, and the man with the brace swung his arm toward the street.

Peter fired a web at you before he thought about gentleness.

The strand hit your waist and yanked.

Your feet left the ground and the world snapped sideways. Your shoulder clipped something hard, maybe a signpost, maybe somebody’s elbow. You gasped, more startled than hurt, and then you were against him, one of his arms locked around you as he twisted midair and slammed both of you behind the concrete mouth of a subway entrance.

The street exploded white-blue.

Heat washed over your back and the sound swallowed everything.

For a moment there was only his body curved around yours, the texture of his suit under your fingers, the hard rise and fall of his breathing. Dust rained over the steps. Someone was crying nearby, your ears rang so badly the world seemed underwater.

Spider-Man lifted his head first.

“Are you hit?” he demanded with his grip tightening to pull you back enough to look at you. 

You stared at him, and apparently it must've been a flatter look than you had tried to express. 

“Hey.” His hand came up to the side of your face, not tenderly, not quite. He turned your head enough to check you, fingers firm along your jaw. “Are you hit?”

The world returned to you in pieces and you shook your head enough to move. “I—no. I don’t think so.”

Peter's voice came out strangled before he tried to reign it in. “You don’t think so?”

You emphasized better. “I’m not.”

His white lenses narrowed and the hand at your jaw stayed for half a second longer than necessary, then dropped.

He pushed himself up and looked over the edge of the subway entrance. The man with the brace was running now, injured but still moving. Peter’s shoulders tensed with the need to follow.

Then, he looked back at you.

You were covered in dust. Your phone was certainly gone. There was a scrape along your cheekbone where something had caught you, and your eyes were too wide, your breath coming shallow in a way that finally made you look as scared as you should have been all along.

The anger hit him so hard it almost steadied him.

“Stay here,” he all but demanded

You nodded because it seemed like it was necessary to do so. 

He pointed at you, sharper now. As if you weren't truly listening. “No. I need you to hear me. Stay. Here.”

“I heard you.”

“Because if I turn around and you are not exactly where I left you—”

“I’ll stay.”

Peter really didn't believe you.

But someone shouted from the street, and the brace whined again, and it was clear he had to go. He launched himself back into the fight with his teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.

You stayed.

For three minutes, maybe four, you sat on the subway steps with dust in your mouth and your hands shaking in your lap. You heard the impacts, webs snapping tight, and Spider-Man’s voice cutting through the noise in strained bursts.

“Hey, buddy, quick question—did you build that in a garage, or was there a coupon situation?”

A crash came next.

“No? Cool, cool, just asking because it’s very explode-y for something near civilians.”

Another loud noise of impact.

You pressed your palms together to stop them from trembling.

The fight ended with a sound like metal tearing away from itself, followed by a heavy thud and a chorus of relieved shouting. When Spider-Man came back where he left you, he was limping.

Badly so.

He dropped into the subway entrance hard enough that one hand hit the tiled wall to steady himself. His suit was scorched along one side. Dust clung to the webbing pattern across his chest. One lens had a faint crack through it, thin as a hair.

You stood up too quickly, instincts taking over. “you’re hurt.”

Peter laughed but it was entirely without humor. “You have got to be kidding me.”

The frown came instantly. “I’m serious.”

His answer came too quick. “So am I.”

The space between you seemed smaller than it had before. The city kept roaring above, but down here everything echoed: footsteps, sirens, your breathing, his. 

He stepped closer.

“What is wrong with you?”

The words were not shouted. That made them even worse somehow. His voice was rough, scraped thin at the edges, and controlled only because he was forcing it to be.

You swallowed because he seemed actually upset this time, and you figured it wasn't time to poke the bear. “I know—”

“No, you don’t. You don’t know.” The words had your head flicking up in surprise for their intensity. “You keep showing up with your phone and your big eyes and your little comments, and you think because there’s a crowd, because there are cops, because I’m there, that nothing can happen to you.”

Your throat tightened and you opened your mouth but shut it when he pointed up toward the street. “That was not a photo op. That was not a cute story. You almost got turned into collateral damage because you ran toward an explosion.”

“I didn’t know it was going to—”

“That’s the point!” His voice cracked around the words. He stopped, breathed hard, and tried again. “You don’t know. You never know. Hell, I barely know half the time.”

You looked down at his hand because the movements caught your attention. His fingers were flexing open and closed, like he wanted to grab something and couldn't decide whether it should be the railing, his own temper, or you.

“I’m sorry,” you stopped him from going further and he went still.

Maybe it was because you had never said it before. Not really. You had flirted, teased, and smiled your way around his warnings until they became part of the game. But there was no game left in your voice now because there wasn't in his. 

“I am,” you continued quieter and immediately hated it because of how exposing it felt. “I know it’s stupid. I know you keep telling me to stop.”

Peter's voice loudened before he could've controlled it. “Then stop!”

You looked up again quickly with widening eyes. 

There was dust on his shoulder, a rip near his ribs, and a dark stain spreading slowly through the fabric at his side. He was standing in front of you like he could hold the entire city back by force if he had to, and yet he would not give you one ordinary piece of himself. 

Not a name. Not a face. Not the truth behind the voice that kept finding you in crowds.

“I just wanted to know you,” the words came out smaller than you meant them to.

Peter forgot how to breathe.

Not because nobody wanted to know Spider-Man. Everybody wanted that. They wanted the picture, the secret, the headline, the face under the mask. They wanted proof, access, even ownership. They wanted to solve him.

But that was not how you said it.

You said it like you had already noticed the part he worked hardest to hide. The pauses. The pain. The loneliness that leaked through the jokes no matter how quickly he patched over it.

You said it like knowing him didn't mean unmasking his whole identity. 

You said it like you had been chasing danger for the stupid, impossible privilege of standing close enough to ask if he was okay.

Peter hated how easily that worked on him.

He hated that after everything, after the blast and the blood and the fear still souring his mouth, some tired part of him wanted to believe you.

“You don’t,” he scoffed, but it was smaller this time. 

Your brows drew together immediately at the insinuation. “I don’t what?”

“Want to know me.”

You made a face, and answered just as quickly as he stopped. “I do.”

“No.” He shook his head once, and even the movement had him straining, you could tell by the way he held himself in tension. “You want the guy who swings in at the right second. You want the banter and the upside-down thing and whatever version of me lives in your phone notifications.”

You stepped forward again and forced a huff away when he shot you a pointed look that had you stopping short. “That’s not fair—”

Peter cut you off. “It’s accurate.”

You found your voice again, because you kept letting it be cut off by him. “You don’t know what I want.”

“I know you don’t want the rest.”

You stared at him, anger beginning to push through the shock. Good, Peter thought. Anger was safer than that open, aching look you had given him.

“The rest?” you asked with your brows twitching together in a face that wasn't clear in its expression. 

He laughed again, though more bitterly this time. His head kept moving, looking around the emptiness of the place between you too as if that gave him a refuge.  “The blood. The missed calls. The lies. The never showing up on time. The disappearing without explaining because if I explain, someone gets hurt. The fact that I know where you live because I’ve followed you home twice to make sure you got there safely, and I hated myself both times.”

The confession landed badly.

You blinked blankly, the movement was fast and clearly unexpected.  

Peter realized what he had said half a second too late when your lips parted. “You know where I live?”

“No.” His answer came too quick and that only spurred you on more. 

Your lips opened and let out a puff of air. “You just said—”

Peter's hand went up to the back of his neck, immediately cutting you off again. “I said a lot of things. Head injury, probably.”

“You followed me home?”

He looked up to the sky and felt his eyes shut tightly. “Not in a creepy way.”

You threw him a well deserved glance of judgement. “That is exactly what someone says when it is a creepy way.”

“I was making sure you were safe.”

Your expression shifted. The fear had not left you completely, but something warmer and more reckless, moved beneath it. You took one careful step closer.

“You know where I live,” you repeated, breathless now, almost vindicated by the confession. 

Peter pointed at you again, but there was less force behind it. His jaw strained again just from listening to you throw his words back at him. “Do not make that sound romantic.”

You kept going, your voice turning more observational by each passing second, but not losing its tone. “You noticed me that much.”

“I notice threats.”

“You think I’m a threat?”

His answer came swift. “To yourself? Constantly.”

“To you?” He didn't answer fast enough.

Your gaze moved over him, slower now that the immediate danger had passed. He felt it through the suit in a way he should not have. The cracked lens, the torn fabric, the blood near his ribs, even the tense line of his shoulders. He knew what he looked like after a fight. He knew people saw the damage and either flinched from it or turned it into a bigger moment.

You looked at him like the damage made him harder to ignore, not less.

“Let me help,” you softened again because it was hard not to when looking at him. 

The response came expected, but still unwelcome. “No.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I noticed.”

You let out an exasperated groan,  one hand coming up to knead through your hair and the other stretching it towards him. “Then let me do something.”

“You can do something.” Peter willed his voice to be sharpened again. “You can stop chasing me.”

Your jaw tightened and a scoff escaped you. “You keep saying that like it’s easy.”

“It should be.”

“Well, it’s not.” The honesty of it hung there, inconvenient and too human.

Above you, officers shouted to each other. The subway tiles gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights, grime caught in the grout, and had old posters peeling at the corners. Peter could smell smoke, rain, metal, and the faint sweetness of your perfume beneath the dust.

He should have left.

He should have just webbed up to the street, given one last warning, and removed himself from whatever this was before it became another thing he could ruin.

Instead, the only thing that came out was, “You’re impossible.”

You let out a shaky breath that almost became a laugh. “So you’ve mentioned.”

“I’m not joking.”

You finally quieted down when he did, the air felt still. “I know.”

“Do you?”

Not entirely, but you just nodded. “Yes.”

He stepped closer this time.

You had to tilt your head back to keep looking at him. Up close, he was all controlled tension, every line of him caught between staying and going. The white lenses hid his eyes, but they didn't hide the way his attention dropped briefly to your mouth and snapped back up.

Your pulse jumped and you figured Peter saw that too.

“Don’t,” he rasped out quickly after you opened your mouth again, but the word had no clear target. Maybe it was to you, or maybe to himself.

You lifted your hand slowly, giving him time to move away. And when he didn't, your fingertips touched the center of his chest, light enough that it should not have mattered.

It mattered.

The suit was warm from his body, textured beneath your fingertips, and damp in places from rain and sweat. His chest rose sharply at the contact.

“You’re really here,” you let slip out with your voice barely above a whisper.

His laugh was low and strained. You had a feeling his expression mirrored that. “That explosion did a number on you.”

Your voice hadn't lost its lightness,  but you paused for a moment. “I’m serious.”

Peter let out a wry exhale to himself. “That’s what worries me.”

Your fingers drifted, not very far, just over the red fabric where dust had settled into the raised black lines. He caught your wrist before you reached the torn place near his side. His grip was firm, but not painful though.

It was a warning with a pulse.

“Careful,” he murmured and the word ran through you in a way it should not have, roughened by exhaustion and the edge of pain.

You looked at his hand around your wrist. It felt tingly for all the right reasons. “You always sound like that when you’re mad?”

His fingers flexed slightly against you.“No.”

“When you’re hurt?”

Peter attempted repetition for it to stick. “No.”

You decided to push more. “And when you’re trying not to be?”

He went quiet.

That was answer enough for you.

You should've apologized again. You should've stepped back, let him have the distance he kept asking for, promised to delete the apps and mean it. Some responsible part of you knew that. And some part of you was still sitting on the subway steps with shaking hands, understanding far too late that your fantasy had edges sharp enough to cut.

But he was still holding your wrist.

And, he hadn't let go.

“Tell me to leave,” you all but challenged him and Peter didn't bother containing the groan that left him. 

“I did.”

“Tell me again.”

Peter’s grip tightened for half a second. You felt his fingers twitch against the inner area of your wrist. 

Under the mask, his jaw shifted. You could see the shape of it where the fabric clung to him, could see the movement of his throat when he swallowed. He was close enough now that you heard the faint hitch in his breathing, and betraying close enough that the city above felt less real than the narrow pocket of space between your bodies.

“You need to leave,” he said instead, but still, he didn't move away. 

Neither did you.

The misunderstanding was almost laughable, except neither of you laughed or probably could've. His words said one thing. His hand said another. His body, angled toward yours despite every reason not to be, said something else entirely.

You reached up with your free hand.

This time, you touched his jaw.

Not skin, not yet at least. Just the mask, the red fabric pulled taut over the hard line of him. His whole body went still, frighteningly still, like even breathing had become a choice.

“Don’t take it off,” he commanded and the intensity of him sent prickles up your spine.

Your fingers settled where his jawline rested, and your head tipped back slightly when your eyes fluttered shut.“I wasn’t going to.”

Peter tilted his head slightly at you from the proximity, his face did a funny thing that mixed genuinity with suspicion. “No?”

“No.”

That seemed to undo something in him more than if you had begged for his face.

You did not want the reveal, not right now. Not in this way, in a dirty subway entrance with sirens overhead and blood drying beneath his suit. You wanted what he was willing to give. The covered jaw beneath your palm. The breath he was trying to control. The impossible nearness of him.

Peter let go of your wrist only to catch your waist.

The motion was sudden enough that you inhaled sharply. He turned you, backing you against the tiled wall beside an old transit map, his hand braced near your shoulder before your spine met cold ceramic. He left you space to pull away. Barely, but still enough that the choice remained yours and his restraint remained visible in the strain of his posture.

“Tell me no,” he exhaled and you had to tear your eyes away from where the material of his suit strained against his shoulders. 

Your voice came out unsteady. “No to what?”

“To this.”

You looked at him then almost incredulous, at the cracked lens, the scorched suit, and the careful violence of how still he held himself.

“I’m not saying no.”

Peter's head dipped on bodily instinct the second his ears registered the words. 

He stopped an inch from you.

The pause was unbearable. Awkward in the way real wanting often was, full of breath and doubt and the tiny adjustments of two people realizing they had crossed a line before either had agreed where it was. Your hand slid from his jaw to the edge of his mask.

Peter caught your fingers again.

“Mask stays on,” he murmured with warning. 

Your voice came breathless in its agreement. “I know.”

“I mean it.”

“Yeah, I know.”

He searched your face for something. A trick, maybe. Regret. Fear. A demand he could refuse so he could return to familiar ground. You gave him none of those things. You were breathing too fast, still dust-streaked, but your gaze held steady in truth.

Peter reached up and tugged the mask just high enough to bare his mouth and jaw.

Only that.

The reveal was smaller than you had imagined and somehow more intimate for it. A cut marked his lower lip. His jaw was tense, faintly shadowed, skin flushed from exertion. He looked painfully real in pieces.

You didn't reach for more despite your inner voice. 

His mouth found yours before you could say anything.

The kiss was not gentle at first. It was too full of everything that had nowhere else to go: anger, fear, adrenaline, the weeks of him telling you to run and you refusing, the awful second when he had seen you frozen in the path of the blast. Peter kissed you like he was still furious with you for almost dying. Like he was furious with himself for caring. Like the only way to stop the argument was to take it apart with his mouth.

You made a small sound against him when he nipped at you with the sharpened corners of his teeth, and he pulled back immediately. “Too much?”

You shook your head, fingers curling into the front of his suit. Your eyes were blown wide by the chain of actions and the unmistakable grip of him on you. “No.”

“You sure?”

You nodded again, almost embarrassingly eager and his breath left him unevenly. “You are so bad at self-preservation.”

“You keep saving me.”

Peter pulled away despite his best efforts to stand still, and felt that familiar pathetic exasperation creeping back in. “That is not a plan.”

Your lips pulled into a lazy grin as you tried to chase the space he made away. “It’s worked for me so far.”

He gave you a look, or he tried to. With the mask half-up and the lenses still covering his eyes, the effect should have been ridiculous. It wasn't because his mouth was still too close for your to.focus on anything else. His hand at your waist was too warm and his voice had dropped into something lower, rougher, stained by the night.

“You’re so not funny,” Peter shut his eyes behind the mask and looked back to the sky as if that would prove his point more heavily. 

You disagreed with that. “I made you pause.”

His scoff came absentminded, and so did his words. “You make me do a lot of stupid things.”

You smiled despite the tremor still living under your skin, and Peter was already weary of that smile even more now. The path you fingers trailed up on his abdomen was careful, as if trying to coax a street cat into staying longer. “Like what?”

He answered by kissing you again.

This time, it built slower. Still hungry and edged with frustration, but less like impact and more like surrender dragged unwillingly into the open. His gloved hand slid along your waist, then stopped, fingerpads flexing once as if he had to remind himself of the shape of restraint. Your hands moved over his chest, careful around the torn places, less careful when he made a quiet sound into your mouth and pressed closer.

The tile was cold through the back of your jacket. His body was warm everywhere he touched you. Smoke clung to him and rainwater dripped from the ends of your hair. New York kept shouting above, honking, and demanding. Down here, your world shrank to the scrape of his breath, the brush of his bare jaw against your cheek, the strange intimacy of being kissed by a man who still wouldn't even let you see his eyes.

When he pulled back, his forehead almost touched yours. The mask’s fabric brushed your brow.

“You have to stop chasing me,” Peter found the words finally after catching his breathe. 

The words were softer now, which made them harder to deflect. You looked down at your fingers that were still hooked in his suit, holding on like he might disappear if you didn’t. “I know.”

“I’m serious.”

“I get it.”

“You could’ve died tonight.”

You sighed with your head tipping back against the solid frame behind you. “I said I get it.”

Peter exhaled through his nose, frustrated by your agreement because it left him nowhere to put the rest of his fear. His thumb moved once against your waist before he seemed to realize he was doing it.

“You can’t know me by getting yourself killed,” he said and you looked back up at him.

There it was again. Not the superhero or the symbol, just the simple person beneath the suit, saying the closest thing to please that he would allow himself.

“Then let me know you another way,” you let out quickly and instantly regretted it when you saw his mouth tighten alongside his jaw. 

For a second, you thought he would step back. Pull the mask back down. Make a joke mean enough to end the moment. It would have been easier for him, maybe even kinder in the long run.

Instead, he lowered his head until his mouth brushed the corner of yours.

“You don’t even know what you’re asking,” Peter murmured and found himself crazy for even leaning back in. 

You closed your eyes for half a breath. “Then tell me.”

His silence moved over you slowly.

He didn't tell you his name or give you any truth clean enough to hold. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe that kind of trust did not arrive all at once in a stairwell after sirens and smoke.

But his hand left the wall and settled against your cheek, careful of the blooming scrape there. His thumb hovered near the bruise without touching it. The tenderness of that restraint did something to you more than the roughness had.

“I’m not good at this,” Peter finally spoke up once more when he realized you were waiting. 

Your reply came back softer. “At what?”

“Letting people stand this close.”

Your fingers loosened against his chest and a stupidly placed smile grew on your lips. “Yeah, I can tell.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound was tired and real against your ear drums. “That obvious?”

You gave a merciful nod. “A little.”

“Great.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s really not.”

You smiled faintly because you knew what he meant. “No. Probably not.”

That earned you another silence, but this one was different. It was less defensive. He stayed close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke.

“I’ll take you home,” Peter inhaled once, quickly and reminding. 

A lighter breath left you alongside the silent, almost wondrous laugh that bubbled from your throat. “You know where that is.”

He groaned and did that thing where his jaw tensed and head tilted back in resignation. “Please never say that with that tone again.”

“What tone?”

“The tone that says you’re about to make my severe boundary issues into some sort of a compliment.”

You bit your lip, mostly to stop the small smile that grew because there was no telling if he wouldn't run off just yet. “You have severe boundary issues?”

Peter fought and lost the urge to throw you a disbelieving glance. “I wear spandex and fight strangers on rooftops. What do you think?”

“I think you’re avoiding.”

“I think you’re concussed.”

“You asked if I was hit.”

His words came back mumbled. “And I’m revising my assessment.”

You laughed then, breathless and completely unsteady, and some of the tightness in his shoulders eased.

He looked at your mouth again.

You noticed.

This time, Peter didn't pretend he hadn't.

The kiss that followed was quieter than before, but it carried more danger because it felt less accidental. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, feeling the strength there and the tremor of fatigue beneath it. He leaned into you for one brief second like he needed the support, then seemed to hate that he needed it and kissed you harder.

You gave back as much as he took.

That surprised him. You felt it in the way his breath caught, the way his fingers tightened at your waist, the way his mouth paused against yours before continuing with darker intent. He was careful with his strength, but not soft. He let some of the frustration show in the press of his body, in the angle of your chin guided by his gloved hand, and in the low sound he made when your fingertips traced the edge where his mask had been pushed up.

“Careful,” he said again.

This time, you understood he was not only warning you about him. You were both quiet for a moment. Then you decided to break the silence, “I don’t need to be another person with a video of you.”

His hand stilled on impact of your words. 

“I don’t want proof,” you continued bevause it felt necessary. “I don’t want your face because I won some game. I just…” You searched for the right words and found none that didn't sound too exposing. You tried again.  “I wanted you to feel real. And then you did. And I didn’t know how to stop wanting more.”

Peter listened without interrupting.

That felt worse to him somehow. It was easier when he was joking. Safer when he was pushing back. But he only stood there with the mask covering most of him and his bare mouth pressed into a line, taking in what you said like it had cost him something too.

Finally, he cursed faintly and tried to circle back, “You can’t use danger to get close to me.”

“I won’t.”

His voice came low and questioning. “You mean that?”

You nodded with more energy than you'd expected. “I mean it.”

He studied you for another long second. Then, he leaned in, not quite kissing you yet, and said, “If I see you at another active crime scene—”

You cut him off with that all too familiar pleased look. “You’ll lecture me?”

Peter scoffed at your sheer ability to get on his nerves all over again. “I’ll web you to the nearest bus stop.”

“That seems really excessive.”

“Yeah? I’ll leave a note too.”

You tilted your head, the movement making his own tip into yours. “What would it say?”

“Please return reckless civilian to sender.”

You smiled against his mouth before he kissed you again, and this time there was something almost relieved in it. It was still heated and messy. Still far too much for a subway stairwell while police lights strobed faintly above. But beneath the hunger, there was a fragile shift, a thread pulled taut between warning and permission.

Peter did take you home.

Not immediately, though.

The route blurred into faint fragments: his firm grasp around your waist, the startling lift of your feet leaving the ground, and your face tucked against his shoulder because the height stole the breath from you. Wind tore tears from your eyes and the city flashed beneath you in streaks of light and shadow, rooftops silvered by old rain, and apartment windows glowed with lives that had nothing to do with yours.

Peter moved differently while carrying you.

Less flashy and more controlled. He avoided the busiest streets and landed twice to check his side, though he insisted he was fine both times in a tone that made the lie obvious.

By the time he reached your building, your nerves stopped feeding into the adrenaline. 

Mostly.

He landed on the fire escape outside your apartment window with a soft metallic creak. You stared at him, then at the window, then back at him. 

A laugh escaped you before you could control it.  “You really do know where I live.”

Peter scrubbed a palm at his temple. “I am begging you to focus on the part where I brought you here safely.”

Your brows twitched together slightly. “You brought me to my window.”

“It seemed less awkward than the lobby.”

The question came with instinct now. “You’ve thought about this?”

“No.” A pause. Peter cursed when he met your diluted pupils.   “Not in a way I’m discussing.”

You laughed softly, and he looked away toward the alley like the brick wall had suddenly become intently more fascinating.

The window stuck, as usual. You had to shove it twice before it groaned open. The ordinary annoyance of it grounded you so abruptly that you almost felt embarrassed. Your room waited beyond the sill, cluttered and warm, a sweater thrown over a chair, a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand, even shoes abandoned near the closet. 

Evidence of a life Spider-Man had no business knowing and yet somehow did.

You climbed in first, turning back when he remained crouched on the fire escape.

“You’re not coming in?”

Peter looked at the window frame, then at you with clear weariness. “That is a bad idea.”

You pointed it the obvious. “You’ve had a lot of those tonight.”

“You were most of them.”

“Still.”

His mouth twitched up before he willed it away. The mask was still pushed up just enough to show it.

You reached out before you could overthink it, fingers curling lightly around his wrist. Peter could have resisted without any real effort on his part. But instead, he let you draw him closer to the window.

“Just for a minute,” your lull came strong. 

Peter knew that was how bad ideas survived. They dressed themselves as small things. One minute. One kiss. One exception. One person who looked at him and didn't ask for the mask.

He really should have said no.

But your room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and whatever candle you had burned earlier. Your cheek was scraped because of him and not because of him. Your fingers were warm around his wrist. The city had spent the whole night taking pieces out of him, and here you were, offering one quiet moment where he didn't have to be a symbol or a headline or a blur in someone else’s footage.

Peter climbed through the window before reason could take hold of him.

The room felt too small with him in it.

Not because he was larger, though he seemed broader here than he did against the skyline. It was the impossibility of him among ordinary things. Spider-Man standing beside your desk. Spider-Man ducking slightly to avoid the curtain rod. Spider-Man glancing at a stack of books and a mug with chipped paint as if he had crossed into a place more dangerous than the street outside.

“You’re nervous,” you couldn't help but gape at the clear display of nerves bundled in red and blue. 

“I’m injured.”

You made a face and tilted your head with an all too pleased expression. “That’s not what I said.”

Peter scoffed with little humor. “It’s what I’m choosing to answer.”

You stepped closer.

He watched you do it.

The air changed again, slower than before. There were no sirens here. No crowds. No urgent reason to pretend this was only adrenaline. Your radiator hissed, a car passed below in the street, and somewhere in the building, a neighbor’s TV murmured through the wall.

Your hand rose to his chest, then paused.

“Is this okay?” you asked hesitantly,  more hesitant than you'd have imagined. 

Peter looked at you for a long moment, then he covered your hand with his.

“Yeah,” he cleared at his throat, rough and quiet. “It’s okay.”

The kiss in your room felt different from the ones taken in the subway, less stolen from disaster and more chosen in spite of it. Peter backed you toward the edge of your bed, stopping when your knees touched the mattress, giving you that narrow sliver of space again. You took it away yourself, pulling him closer by the front of his suit.

A low sound left him.

“Still terrible at self-preservation,” he muttered when your hand reached for anything that could be used to pull him in closer. 

Your hand landed on the back of his neck, with your thumb pressing into his collar to bring him in nearer. “You like it a little.”

The refusal came expected once again. “I absolutely do not.”

Peter kissed you before you could smile any wider.

His gloved hand slid to the back of your neck, careful but firm, angling you up to meet him. The mask stayed where it was, bunched above his mouth and tight over his nose, his eyes still hidden behind white lenses that made every exposed inch feel more deliberate. You kissed the corner of his mouth, then the cut on his lip lightly enough that he went still.

“That hurt?” you whispered against him.

“No.”

A laugh escaped you, all quiet and breathless. “You liar.”

“Maybe.”

Your thumb brushed his jaw and he turned his face into the touch despite himself, and the motion was so tired, so unguarded for one brief second, that your chest ached.

Then his hand caught your waist again, and the softness sharpened into heat.

He kissed you deeper quickly after that. Your back met the mattress, and he followed only as far as you pulled him, bracing one hand beside your shoulder so his weight didn't crush you. The suit rasped beneath your palms. His breath came unevenly against your mouth. Every time you touched too close to an injury, he flinched and pretended he had not, which made you slow down until he grew impatient and kissed you harder for it.

“You’re impossible,” he said again, but this time it sounded less like an accusation.

“You keep kissing me.”

His mouth hovered above yours.

For a moment, neither of you moved after that.

The truth of that sat in the dim light between you. He had come back. Again and again. To warn you, to argue, to make sure you got home. 

Peter lowered his head until his covered forehead rested near your temple.

“You can’t chase me anymore,” he said it softer this time, catching your attention more than any other shout could. 

Your tongue slid over your teeth and finally exhaled when his silence felt defeating. “I won’t.”

Peter pushed. “You swear?”

“I swear.”

“And if you see me on that app—”

You turned your head up to point a finger up at him to answer. “I’ll close it.”

He lifted his head slightly, giving you a such a pointed grasp of his silence that you could only sigh. “I’ll delete it.”

“Now.”

You blinked, his request caught you off guard. “Now?”

“Yes.”

Your tongue looked at the inside of your cheek now, clearly trying to stall under the weight of his stare. “You’re very demanding for a man bleeding on my comforter.”

Peter didn't take the bait just yet. “I’ll bleed less judgmentally after you delete it.”

You stared at him in confliction, and despite everything, you laughed.

He climbed off you enough to let you reach for your phone with begrudging fingers. The screen was cracked from where it must have hit the pavement, but it still worked. You opened the app under his silent, watchful stare. For a second, your thumb hovered over the icon of the app.

It felt strange to let it go.

Not because you needed the app itself, but because deleting it meant admitting that what you wanted from him could no longer be taken by chasing red dots across a map. If he came back after this, it had to be because he chose to.

You deleted it.

Then the second one.

Then the third.

Peter said nothing while you did so. 

When you set the phone down, he was looking at you with an unreadable stillness that made your pulse climb again.

“There,” you let an exhale of breath out and narrowed your eyes at him with no real spite.  “Happy?”

“No.”

You rolled your eyes at that. “Of course not.”

“I’m…” Peter stopped, like the word he wanted to find was difficult to translate through the mask. His bare mouth pressed together, then softened. “Slightly less actively horrified.”

Despite your better judgment, you let your grin form again. “That’s romantic.”

“I’m known for that.”

You reached for him again and this time, he came willingly.

The kiss deepened slower, then became not slow at all. His restraint was still there, visible in every careful placement of his hands, but the darkness you had sensed in him edged closer to the surface. It was something more conflicted than plain cruelty or defensiveness. It was hunger tangled with fear. 

He held you like he was still deciding whether he was sure he could and you kissed him like the decision had already been made. And for you, it had. 

Peter's mouth crashed back into yours with a low sound that vibrated through the mask and straight into your chest. The second your lips parted he pushed his tongue in, deep and wet, tasting every inch like he was starving for it. Your back sank deeper into the mattress under his weight, the mattress springs creaking as he braced one hand beside your head and let the other slide down your side.

His suit scraped against your palms when you grabbed at him again, your fingers curled into the textured fabric over his ribs. You tugged hard, trying to work it up, but the material barely budged. Peter made a rough noise into your mouth and suddenly caught both your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand.

"Nuh-uh," he muttered against your lips, his voice low and amused. "You don't get to strip me just because you're feeling greedy."

“That can't be fair.” You scoffed and tried to twist free, your hips rolled up to grind against the hard line of his cock through the suit. The pressure dragged a hiss out of him. He pressed his hips down in answer, grinding slow and deliberate to let you feel every inch of him trapped behind the fabric. The suit was warm from his body heat, slightly rough where it rubbed your inner thighs.

"Fuck, look at you," he breathed out with forehead pressed to yours. "Already trying to climb me like you can't wait five seconds."

“You're hard, isn't that contradicting?” You bucked harder, chasing friction and he smacked your hands away again, this time letting them fall to the sides so he could shove his knee between your legs and grind it up against you through your clothes. The pressure was perfect and not nearly enough. 

You gasped into another kiss and Peter swallowed the sound, and had his tongue sliding deep again while his hips kept that slow and punishing roll.

Every time your fingers crept back toward the edge of his suit he caught them, smacked them away, or pinned them down. The teasing only made you even more worked up. You could feel how pent-up he was in the way his breathing stuttered every time you ground up against him. It was in the little involuntary jerks of his hips when you would moan into his kisses.

"Fuck," you whispered with your voice shakier than you'd meant it. "Please—"

"Please what?" He dragged his mouth down your jaw and had his teeth scraping against your skin. "Please let you rip my suit off so you can ride me? Not happening. You get what I give you."

Peter rocked his hips harder, grinding the thick line of his cock right against your clit through the layers between you. Your back arched and he caught the movement and pressed you flat again with his body, one hand sliding under your shirt to palm your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple until you squirmed.

"You're so fucking eager," he groaned and his voice cracked with how turned on he was. "Been driving me crazy for months and now you're just—fuck—spreading your legs the second I touch you. You like this? Like me holding you down, keeping the suit on, making you work for it?"

You nodded frantically and had your hips jerking up to meet every grind in tandem. Peter kissed you again, deeper and messier this time, the mask brushed against your cheek every time he tilted his head too high. His free hand slid down to grip your thigh with his fingers digging hard as he rocked faster, keeping the friction building until you were panting into his mouth and clutching at his shoulders.

"That's it," he whispered against your lips, though it was followed by a chuckle that had your stomach tightening. "Be a good girl and take it. Show me how bad you want it. Maybe if you keep being this eager for me I'll let you come like this, grinding on my cock through the suit. Maybe."

He kissed you again before you could answer, he tried to swallow every desperate sound you made while his hips kept that relentless rhythm that had you completely at his mercy.

“You're annoyingly mouthy.” A weak scoff escaped you and your fingers found the hem of your shirt. You peeled it upward in one impatient motion, tossing it somewhere off the side of the bed. The cool air hit your skin just before his palm did, landing firm and flat against your ribs.

"Slow down," Peter muttered, the words half-laugh, half-warning. His hand slid lower, smacking lightly at your hip. "Lift."

You lifted up obediently, hips rising off the mattress. He hooked his fingers into your waistband and dragged the fabric down your thighs in one slow, deliberate pull, leaving your panties exactly where they were. The cotton clung to you, already damp, and Peter made a low sound when he saw it.

"Look at that," he inhaled with his voice tight. "Soaking through already."

"Maybe stop teasing me then," you shot back, breath hitching when he pressed his palm flat against your sternum and shoved you back down flat. The mattress dipped under your weight. His hand stayed there, pinning you in place while his other hand worked the last of your bottoms off your ankles.

"You're the one who can't keep still," he only answered, reaching for the pillow beside your head. He shoved it over your face without ceremony, muffling your next protest. "Keep that there. If it comes off, I'm gone. You won't see me again. Understand?"

You nodded hard against the pillow, fingers clutching the fabric on either side of your head. The threat landed somewhere between fear and heat, making your thighs press together. Peter watched the movement, then pushed them apart with his knee again.

"Good girl," he repeated quieter now. His hand left your sternum. You heard the faint rustle of fabric shifting, then felt the mattress dip as he settled lower between your spread legs.

The first press of his mouth landed through the thin cotton of your panties. Hot, open, and unhurried. He licked a slow stripe from bottom to top, pressing the fabric against your clit until it was plastered to you. The wet heat of his tongue dragged again, firmer this time, soaking the material until it clung obscenely. You moaned into the pillow, hips twitching up toward his face.

Peter cursed under his breath, the sound was rough and conflicted. His tongue flattened and dragged again, then curled, tracing the shape of your folds through the soaked fabric like he was trying to memorize it. Every pass made the cotton wetter, until you could feel every ridge of his tongue pressing through. Peter sucked at the fabric, pulling it tight against you, then released it with a wet sound that made your face burn.

"Fuck," he hissed, pulling back just enough to hook two fingers into the side of your panties. He tugged them aside, exposing you to the cool air for half a second before his tongue was back. This time there was nothing between you. The flat of his tongue dragged up through your folds in one long, messy stroke, then curled at the tip to flick over your clit. He did it again, slower with his lips sealing around you while his tongue worked in deep, filthy strokes.

“Fuck, woah—don't, don't do that!” Peter breathed out a chuckle when he felt you shake under him, your thighs trembling on either side of his head. Your grip on the pillow tightened until your knuckles ached. Every time his tongue curled just right you whined into the fabric, hips rolling up to chase the pressure. Peter didn't let you have it easy. He pulled back when you got too close, licked around your clit instead of on it, then dove back in with that same hungry rhythm.

The mask came off.

You felt the shift in pressure first, the way his hand shoved the pillow harder against your face as he used the other to yank the fabric up and over his head. The sudden absence of the mask's texture against your inner thigh made you gasp into the pillow. Your body went loose for a second, boneless, before instinct kicked in.

One hand stayed obedient on the pillow. The other reached out blindly, fingers searching for his shoulder, his hair, anything. You barely brushed skin before his hand snapped around your wrist, grip tight enough to make you still.

"No," Peter stopped, and had his voice raw and mean. "You don't get to touch. Keep that hand on the pillow or I stop."

“Fine, whatever. Just, fuck—don't stop.” You nodded frantically, pulling your hand back to clutch the fabric again. Your whole body trembled as he lowered his mouth once more, tongue dragging through you in those same messy, desperate movements. Peter groaned against you like he hated how much he wanted it, the sound vibrated straight through your core.

Your moans came out muffled and broken now. Every time his tongue curled just right your hips jerked, and every time he pulled back you whined like you were begging without words. He kept you right there, shaking and soaked until your thighs were quivering and your grip on the pillow was the only thing keeping you from reaching for him again.

“Holy shit, I'm so close—” Your fingers dug into the pillow, flexing and twitching as you tried to form words, but every attempt dissolved into broken moans that the fabric swallowed whole. Your hips rolled up against his mouth, chasing the pressure, and the tension coiled so tight in your belly that when it snapped it hit like a live wire.

You came hard, thighs clamping around his head as your whole body jerked. The orgasm tore through you without warning, soaking his face in a sudden rush that hit his cheeks and chin, dripping down his jaw. Peter groaned against you, his tongue still working through the mess, and his lips parting to lick at the slick coating his mouth. 

Every flick of his tongue sent another twitch through your over-sensitive folds, and he gave your clit a few light, wet smacks with his fingers, watching the way your hips jumped at each one and the slick connecting at his fingertips before breaking apart in stands. 

The sound of fabric shifting reached you through the haze. His suit peeled away in sections, the material sliding over skin until you felt the sudden press of bare warmth against your inner thighs. His chest, his stomach, the hard line of his cock brushing your slick folds. You reached again, one hand lifting off the pillow in desperate need to touch, and he caught your wrist with a low, raspy laugh.

"Fuck, you're shaking," Peter breathed out with his voice turning rougher by the second. He brought your palm to his mouth and kissed it, lips dragging over your skin before he let your hand slide down his side. Your fingers traced the hard muscle of his abdomen, feeling the heat of him, the faint tremor in his body as he held himself back. He let you explore for a few seconds longer, then shoved your hand back to the pillow and pressed down harder on the fabric covering your face.

"Keep it there," Peter warned, though the edge in his voice wavered. "Didn't I tell you that already?"

“Shit, sorry—” The apology came mindless, distracted by the frantic muffled agreement vibrating against the pillow. He shifted between your legs, the blunt head of his cock dragging through your soaked slit in one slow, teasing pass. 

The contact made him hiss through his teeth, and had hips jerking forward like the restraint was finally cracking. He pushed in deep on the next stroke, burying himself to the hilt in one rough thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.

The pace turned brutal fast. Deep, heavy strokes rocked you up the mattress, each one forcing a broken sound out of you that the pillow barely contained. He watched the way your body jolted with every thrust, the way your tits bounced, the way your thighs trembled around his hips. Peter's hand stayed firm on the pillow, keeping you blind and muffled while he fucked into you like he'd been starving for it.

"God, listen to you," he murmured with a humorless chuckle. "So fucking wet. You like this? Being held down, can't even see me, can't touch?" He drove in harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing loud in the room. "Been holding back too long. Lonely too long, God I'm going insane. Fuck—"

Your hands went slack against the pillow, fingers twitching uselessly as the intensity built again. He noticed the moment your grip loosened and pressed the pillow down harder, the fabric smothering every whimper. The control should have felt demeaning, but it only made the heat spike hotter, making you clench around him like your body was begging for more even as your mind spun from the overwhelming sensation.

Peter kept the rhythm punishing, having hips snapping forward with a desperation that matched the conflict in his voice. Every thrust pushed you closer to the edge again, and every time you tried to reach for him his free hand caught your wrist and pinned it back down. The threat hung between you, unspoken but heavy: touch him and he'd stop. Don't touch and he'd keep going until you couldn't think straight.

Your moans turned frantic, muffled and wet against the pillow and he answered with a low groan that vibrated through his chest as he drove into you again, chasing the feeling without letting himself finish just yet.

He finally pulled out with a wet drag that left you clenching around nothing, the sudden emptiness making your hips twitch back toward him. And before you could even form a protest his hands were on you, gripping your waist hard enough to leave marks as he flipped you onto your stomach. The mattress dipped under his weight when he pressed your knees apart and yanked your hips up, forcing your hips into the air while your face stayed buried in the pillow.

"Fuck, look at you," Peter exhaled, and his voice cracked between a laugh and something unintentionally darker. "So eager. You want it this bad?"

You tried to push up on your elbows, twisting to look back at him, but one of his hands slid up your spine and pressed between your shoulder blades, pinning you back down. The other hand gathered at the base of your neck, tugging just enough to arch your neck as he leaned over.

"Can't fault you. I'm not doing much better," his voice hit your ear though the words came out shaky. His cock dragged through your folds again, the head catching on your entrance before he sank back in with one rough thrust that stuttered the air away from your lungs. The angle was deeper like this, hitting something that made your thighs shake. "God, you're tight. Squeezing me like you don't want me to leave."

His hips snapped forward in a punishing rhythm, skin slapping wetly against skin while his free hand roamed under your body to grab at your tits, squeezing hard before sliding lower to rub tight circles over your clit. Every thrust rocked you forward, your muffled moans vibrating into the bedspread as he fucked you like he was trying to crawl inside.

"This is so fucked," Peter breathed out against your spine with his lips dragging hot and open-mouthed down the curve of your back. He kissed each vertebra like he was apologizing for how hard he was pounding into you, even as his cock kept driving deep enough to make your vision blur. "I shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be doing this. But fuck, you feel too good. Can't stop."

You managed to prop yourself up on your elbows again, and your voice was hoarse when you gasped out, "Then don't stop. Please, keep going—"

His hand tightened in your hair, yanking your head back as he slammed into you harder, the pace turning almost frantic. "Don't say it like that," Peter groaned to himself, conflicted and desperate all at once. "Makes me want to stay. Makes me want to ruin you."

The hand under you kept working your clit in tight, relentless circles while his cock pistoned in and out, the wet sounds were obscene in the quiet room. Every time you tried to push back against him he shoved you forward again, controlling the angle, the depth, the pace. His breath came in ragged pants against your skin with his lips still trailing kisses down your exposed skin even as his thrusts grew rougher and more desperate.

"Been too long," Peter admitted between thrusts, and he could hear his voice turn thick with frustration. "Lonely too long. And you—fuck—you're so wet. So fucking perfect. I can't—"

His words cut off into a broken moan as you clenched around him. Your body responded to every rough stroke with another rush of slickness. He pressed his forehead between your shoulder blades, having his hips stuttering for a moment before he caught himself and started at you even harder, like he was trying to outrun whatever guilt was eating at him.

"Tell me to stop," he rasped, even as his hand in your hair pulled tighter and he drove in deeper. "Tell me this is wrong. Because I can't make myself leave."

“Told you, don't stop—” the words hung there frantically in their plea, and you pushed back against him, meeting every thrust with a desperate roll of your hips. The sound he made was half-laugh, half-groan. "Yeah," Peter breathed against your shoulder. "That's what I thought.”

His fist tightened in your hair again, yanking your face up from the pillow until your neck arched and your spine bowed. The sudden pull made your vision swim, but you kept your eyes squeezed shut, forcing yourself to obey even as every instinct screamed to look back at him.

"Good girl," he rasped against the shell of your ear and his voice shredded. "Keep those eyes closed. You feel that? Feel how fucking deep I am?"

You nodded frantically, a broken whimper escaping as he dragged out slow and deliberate before slamming back in. The angle had you seeing stars, each thrust punching the air from your lungs in sharp little gasps.

"Fuck—I'm—"

"Don't look," Peter tried to warn again, but his voice cracked on the words. His lips found the back of your neck, having his teeth scraping before he sucked hard enough to bruise. The wet pull of his mouth made your clench around him, and the groan that tore from his chest vibrated straight through your spine. "Christ, you're squeezing me so tight. Like you want me to lose it."

You tried to be good. Really tried. But when his teeth sank into the side of your throat, just below your ear, your hand twisted back on instinct. Your fingers found his hair, soft, sweat-damp curls that brushed against your knuckles, and you buried your hand in them, tugging him closer even as your eyes fluttered open for half a second.

"Fuck, I knew it," Peter breathed, catching your wrist and pinning it to the small of your back. His pace never faltered like his voice, hips continuing to snap forward in that relentless rhythm that had your thighs shaking. "Told you not to touch. Told you to be good. But you can't help yourself, can you?"

"I'm sorry," you gasped and your voice was hoarse, you shook your head at nothing as you continued. "I won't look, I swear! Just—please don't stop. Please, I need—"

His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades again, his exhales came breathless and ragged against your skin. "I shouldn't have taken the mask off. This is so fucking stupid. You could—god, you feel too good. Been too long since anyone—fuck—"

The words dissolved into a guttural curse as you clenched around him again, your second orgasm building fast and sharp in the pit of your stomach. Every thrust dragged across that perfect spot inside you, and the lack of allowance from him made it worse. It made every touch electric. You could feel his cock throbbing, feel the way his rhythm stuttered when you squeezed him, and feel the desperate way his free hand grabbed at your hip hard enough to bruise.

"You're close," Peter groaned into your ear, and he sounded completely wrecked now. "I can feel it. Fuck, you're dripping everywhere. Making such a mess."

Your eyes rolled back despite yourself, and a broken moan tore from your throat as he bit down on your shoulder. The sensation of his teeth marking you while he relentlessly pounded into you pushed you right to the edge. Your hand twisted in his hair again, fingers tightening in frenzied motion and this time he didn't stop you.

"That's it," Peter panted and cursed wordlessly when his hips stuttered at the feeling. "Come on my cock. Let me feel it. Been so fucking lonely, and you—god, you're just fucking insane—"

His words cut off into a choked groan as your orgasm crashed over you, your cunt pulsing around him in rhythmic waves. Your whole body seized; your thighs shook violently as you came with a broken cry, and the feeling of you clenching around him dragged a wrecked sound from Peter's chest.

"Fuck—fuck—fuck—" His hips jerked erratically, his pace faltering as he fought to hold back. "You're gonna make me come. God, I can feel every fucking pulse. Don't—don't look back, fuck."

Peter buried his face in your neck, sucking another bruise into your skin while his cock throbbed inside you. His hand stayed tangled in your hair, keeping your face turned away even as his body trembled against yours, every muscle tight with the effort of holding back his own release.

"You're too good," he whispered against your ear, all hoarse and desperate. "Too fucking perfect. I can't—"

His hips snapped forward one more time in a loss of control, burying himself to the hilt as he fought to regain control, his breath coming in harsh pants against your marked throat.

A broken gasp tore from your throat as his hips stilled, the thick length of him buried to the hilt inside you. Instead of pulling back, he ground forward, rolling his pelvis in a slow, deliberate circle that forced another inch of him deeper. Your walls fluttered around him, oversensitive and raw, and the sensation made your vision blur even with your eyes squeezed shut.

"Fuck, too much—" The words came out ragged and barely coherent. Your body had gone limp in his grip, head only held up only by his fist in your hair and the arm banded around your waist. Every nerve ending sparked like live wires, the stimulation making your head spin.

"I know," Peter groaned against your ear with overwhelming rasp. "I can feel you shaking. God, you're so fucking tight around me. Can't stop—need to feel all of it."

You tilted your head back desperately, blindly seeking his mouth. "Please, need—"

His palm came up rough and warm, fingers splaying across your eyes to keep you from looking, and then his lips crashed into yours from the side. The kiss was messy, uncoordinated, all teeth and tongue and shared gasps. Peter swallowed your whimpers as he started to grind again, short, shallow rolls of his hips that kept him buried deep while the head of his cock dragged against that oversensitive spot inside you.

"Fuck, fuck—I'm—" His voice cracked. You could feel it happening from the way his abs flexed hard against your back, the tremor that ran through his thighs, and the way he throbbed inside you like a heartbeat. His rhythm stuttered with his hips jerking in shallow pulses as he came with a guttural groan that vibrated through your spine.

You felt every pulse of it. Hot, thick spurts flooding you, filling you until it leaked out around his cock with each weak thrust. Peter kept fucking it deeper, grinding the mess back into you while his hand stayed clamped over your eyes and his mouth devoured yours in desperate, open-mouthed kisses.

"God—god—" He panted against your lips, and his hips kept twitching in movement.

Your hand reached back blindly, fingers finding his hip and your nails dug into his skin as you held onto him. He was shaking against you, every muscle tight, his breath coming in harsh pants against your neck. The hand over your eyes softened, thumb stroking your temple as he slowly came down, his cock still twitching inside you with aftershocks.

"You okay?" Peter whispered with his voice strained after the moment quieted down, his high climbing down in shallow breaths. His forehead dropped to your shoulder against your marked skin. "Did I—fuck, tell me you're okay."

You nodded weakly, still floating in feeling, still feeling the slow leak of him between your thighs. "Don't pull out yet," you managed with your voice barely audible. "Just—stay. Please."

Peter's arm tightened around you, pulling you closer even as his own breathing started to even back out. The hand he had over your eyes slid down to cup your jaw, gentler now, and his thumb brushed your bottom lip. "Yeah, okay," he murmured. "Just for a while."

The room was quiet except for your mingled breathing and his lips pressed soft kisses along your shoulder, soothing the bite marks he'd left, and you could feel the tension slowly bleeding out of his body as he held you through the afterglow.

The last thing you registered was the slow drag of his cock easing out of you, the wet slide of his cum following in its wake, and the gentle press of his lips against your shoulder. Then everything went soft and dark.

You didn't even feel yourself slipping under.

Consciousness returned in pieces.

Firstly, it came with the weight of the sheets tucked up to your chest, cool cotton against your bare skin. Then, with the faint ache between your legs, a deep, pleasant throb that pulsed in time with your heartbeat. Your thighs felt sticky, but when you shifted, the sensation was clean. There was no dried mess, just the ghost of it cleaned away.

Your eyes cracked open.

The room was dim at first, the only light filtering in from the streetlamp outside your window. The space beside you was empty, the sheets cool. And he was gone.

You pushed yourself up on one elbow, wincing at the pull in your hips, and spotted the bottle of water on your nightstand. Beside it, a folded piece of paper with your name scrawled across the front in handwriting you recognized: messy, rushed, and unmistakably his.

You reached for it, unfolding the note with fingers that still trembled.

Drink water. Eat something. Don't let me see you at any more crime scenes.

Beneath it, smaller, almost an afterthought:

P.S. If you behave, maybe you'll see me without those stupid apps.

A laugh bubbled up in your throat immediately after reading it, all hoarse and disbelieving. You pressed the note to your chest, letting your head fall back against the pillows with a soft thud.

"Well," you muttered to the empty room, voice scratchy from use, "guess I finally deleted the right thing."

Your body sank deeper into the mattress, sore in all the right places and light in a way that made no sense. The ache between your legs was a reminder, the faint scent of him still clinging to your sheets. You closed your eyes, the note crinkling softly against your skin, and smiled.

The ball was in his court now, and you couldn't wait to see what he'd do with it.

You had been on a total of three dates with one Peter Parker so far. Far too impatient for your own good, so you'd suggested his place this time, low-key, no pressure, you'll bring the wine, and he'd said yes fast, too fast, in a way you'd have found suspicious from anyone else. But not Peter.

You wanted, so badly, horrifically, to get your hands on him. You had wanted this since date one, technically, possibly since before date one, and you had spent the intervening weeks channeling that want into research and preparation, the same way you channeled everything, because if you were going to lose your mind over a boy you were at least going to do it efficiently.

First, you wore kitten heels for the occasion even though this is definitely not the right occasion, but you couldn't help yourself. They were the ones that made your ass perk up just-so and led to three seconds of Peter eyeing your legs up and down as you passed him into the elevator, and you even wore perfume that a very reputable and frankly life-changing article on The Cut described as the closest thing to a pharmaceutical aphrodisiac you can legally buy at Sephora. He had leaned over in the cramped elevator car and looked at you, wonderstruck and in that low, boyish voice of his, "You smell really good."

And you were, as of nine-forty-two p.m., extremely fucking frustrated, because none of it, not one single thing you've done, had resulted in the guy making a move.

The movie's some spin-off Star Wars movie that Peter had frantically explained before chucking it into his bootleg streaming site, laptop flickering slightly as he plopped next to you on his couch. God yeah, Rogue One was just so severely underrated, he says as one hand brushes against your shoulder, and you'd nodded along like you had any context for what he was talking about, and you'd had to press your knees together like that would help. You've already decided you're going to watch the other seven (eight? nine? you should probably know this) before you see him again, so that next time you can argue back instead of just making the interested noise you've been perfecting for the last twenty minutes.

You end up abandoning the heels. 

That was his idea, technically, a stammered offer somewhere around minute fifteen—you can, um, if your feet hurt, I don't know if they hurt, forget I said anything—that you'd accepted with a swiftness that surprised you both, unbuckling the little metal straps and easing your feet into his lap like you'd been waiting all night for permission.

Now his hand's on your ankle. His thumb does this thing, tracing little spiderwebs around your lateral malleolus, and you're so fine. So okay with this progression, totally.

"You can talk during it," he says ten minutes later when your feet, have decidedly fallen asleep, not looking away from the screen. "I know people say you're not supposed to talk during movies, but I like—I mean, only if you want. You don't have to. I just talk during movies, but not in like, a mean, dickish way like some people do in theaters, not that there's anything wrong with that, it's just a little disrespectful, but not in my apartment, so if you were gonna say something you don't have to feel—"

His thumb then drags one slow line up along your instep, absent, unthinking, entirely unaware of what it's doing to the rest of you, and something in your chest pulls taut like a wire about to snap.

"Peter, that's not it. That's not—it's just—I've never done this," you say, quieter now, and it costs you something to say it, you can feel it cost you something. "Any of it. I don't have a… single fucking clue. I don't know how this part goes."

"Neither do I."

"I know you don't, that's the problem, we're both just sitting here being—" You cut yourself off. Start over. "I'm not gonna say it. You have to do it."

"Do what?"

"Peter."

"I don't know what you—"

"Take what you want," you say, and it comes out low, and a little wrecked, and entirely unlike you. "For the love of God. Just—take it. Please. I'm not saying it again."

That's how he ends up fingering you over the arm of his couch, half-suspended and scrambling for purchase. A mean, relentless lover is most definitely not what you pegged Peter Parker to be. The boy who was flustered and uncertain just a mere ten minutes ago shouldn't be wrapping a stray arm around your waist to pull you closer, practically making you fuck yourself against his fingers. The boy who's now making embarrassing huffs of breath escape your lipgloss-stained lips and wrenching the oxygen out of you. 

You know, for a fact, that Peter would never, ever let you drop, but the look on his face when you turn your head over your shoulder makes you think that the ground might be a bit safer for you.

God, you've never even been fingered from behind before but the angle of it, the relentlessness, it makes you feel so thoroughly used, dizzy from the speed and the sheer force of him taking you. Combined with him dipping his head down, sucking harsh love bites into the swell of your ass, and you think you may as well have just lost your mind.

The movie's still playing when his hands force your legs wider apart, his hushed "that's right, hips up for me," lining up at the same time as Vader chokes and dismisses Director Krennic, breath hitching. You're so proud of Peter, he had mentioned how cool this scene was, and he's so focused—your cunt squeezing tight like a vice grip on his fingers. Your whole world is spinning, just an endless cacophony of Peter, Peter, Peter, Peter—and oh, oh god, when his thumb swipes over your clit, you realize that that that's all you've been saying.

"What is it? What do you need, sweet girl?" He bites harder at your neck, filing the way you twitch and heartbeat flutters uselessly. You're gonna be all marked up tomorrow, but you couldn't care less. The pleasure and pain felt like an electric current through your body, sending phantom shocks down your spine.

"M–More, please—Peter, oh, Peter—"

"Pretty girl needed someone to take care of her, huh?" His brows furrow in mock concern, even though his hands make no move to slow down. Your thoughts trail off, wondering if Peter could take care of you just like this forever. You think he might, he could, he should. You wouldn't mind. You'd let him keep fucking you until your voice ran raw, keep his fingers wet and pretty for as long as he wanted, just one orgasm into another. 

"Someone to spoil you," his tongue drags from your cheek, up to your lower back, "someone to give it to you every day," up, and up, and up your spine until his breath bears down on your neck. "I can be that for you, right, baby?"

Your whining hits a fever pitch, blissed out and on the edge of your orgasm. "Yes, of course, mmm—just don't stop."

Peter slaps your clit once, twice—fuck, and your cunt squeezes one final time around his fingers, and you're coming, your hand closing into a fist on the chenille fabric. It feels like the rest of the room is just pure nothingness, just static and buzzing and the feeling of Peter's hand coaxing you through each wave. 

"You got my hand so wet, honey," He tuts, and oh. There was no reason for that to be as hot as it was, and you're sure he can feel it too, the way you clench down on his hand and pull him further into you. You've always been told you respond like a dream.  "Such a good pussy. You're going to feel so good around my cock."

You turn onto your back when Peter gently pulls his fingers out of your cunt, still breathless and heaving from the attack on your senses and nothing ever could've prepared you from the sight before you. He examines his fingers in the light, the way they glisten–god, did you really get that wet—a small smile playing at his lips—and sucks those very fingers into his mouth.

Maybe it's only been seconds, or maybe it's an eternity, but you sit there like that, watching him in that entranced way of yours. He doesn't break eye contact with you once. It's filthy. You think you could be raring up to go again just from the way he looks at you. 

Peter hums contentedly. The sound goes straight to your cunt. This boy's gonna be the death of you.

The laptop stirs back to life at some accidental brush of the trackpad many, many moments later, Rogue One resuming exactly where you left it, some spaceship still doing something important that neither of you had ever actually been watching. 

"Oh man, we missed the ending," Peter says, squinting at the screen and dragging his mouse down to try and wind it back. 

"Really, Peter? You just made me come and you'd rather I care about the ending?"

"You're gonna care. I'm gonna make you care. I have so many more things to explain to you."

"I'm sure you do."

"Is that—was that sarcastic? I can't always tell with you."

"Fine, we can watch the movie," you say, and press your smile into his shoulder so he can't see it, and he does, mostly, in between turning to look at you every ninety seconds like he still can't quite believe you're still there, and you let him check, again and again, all night, because you're checking too. "Go ahead, play it back."

+ from mara

this was short and sweet! i haven't written anything in over a year, but after seeing tom holland's rock hard abs grace my screen, i simply had to dip my toes back in. it's been hard getting back on the horse (that is, the metaphorical writing horse) and i fear you guys will most definitely be able to tell but i hope you guys like it! IM SO SCARED but okay stream audrey hobert and support your local nurses <3

Gwayne had hoped, above all else, that his future wife would be kind.

It was a small hope, perhaps an unambitious one, but it was the only wish he had allowed himself after his father informed him that King Viserys had accepted the match. Marriage had never been a matter left to younger sons or heirs to decide, and though Gwayne had long since resigned himself to that truth, resignation did not make the prospect any less uncertain. He knew almost nothing about the princess he was to marry beyond the fragments offered by gossip, and gossip was a poor foundation upon which to build a life.

Still, kindness, he thought, could make even an unwanted marriage bearable. Everything else could be learned in time.

The rumors, unfortunately, offered very little hope of that.

Some called the king's younger daughter gentle to the point of foolishness, while others claimed she possessed the wildness of Old Valyria itself. There were whispers that she disappeared from court for days at a time, that she drank wine before the sun had set, that she climbed rooftops with her ladies-in-waiting, wandered the city in disguise, and laughed whenever septas reminded her of her duties. Others dismissed her as odd, insisting she spoke more to ravens than noble lords and spent entire afternoons wandering the castle alone.

No two stories resembled one another. The only detail upon which everyone agreed was that she was... peculiar.

He had intended to reserve judgment until they met. That intention became rather difficult when she failed to appear at all. She did not stand beside her father during his arrival, nor his welcome feast.

His sister and King Viserys greeted him warmly enough upon his arrival, clasping his arm like an old friend and speaking at length about tournaments, knighthood, and the honor of joining their two houses before finally apologizing, almost absentmindedly, for his daughter's absence.

"The princess has been feeling unwell," the king said with a tired smile. "She has retired early."

It sounded innocent enough yet Gwayne did not miss the look and sighs exchanged between his father and sister. She looked toward the doors through which the princess ought to have entered, her disappointment obvious before she carefully concealed it behind practiced courtesy.

No one explained further. No one ever seemed to.

By the end of the feast, Gwayne found himself wondering less about the alliance and more about the girl herself.

Was she truly ill? Or had she simply refused to meet the man she was expected to marry?

-

By the time the castle realized you were gone, you had already vanished into the night.

It was hardly the first time.

The servants searched the places they always searched first, the library, the dragonpit where you often disappeared to sit with the hatchlings long after the keepers had retired, the godswood where you sometimes spent entire afternoons reading beneath the heart tree. Even your ladies-in-waiting were questioned, though they could offer little beyond nervous shrugs and uncertain smiles. They had grown accustomed to your disappearances years ago.

Tonight, however, was different as you had no intention of returning.

You sighed as you reached the wall at the far end of the gardens. For a moment you stood there and pondered about when your father announced your betrothal. Your first thought had been your dreams.

Fragments scattered across years of restless nights, all circling the same terrible feeling that settled deep within your chest whenever you imagined standing beside the man you had been promised to. You had seen cages and felt a sorrow unlike anything you had ever known.

Somewhere between those two moments lay a future you could neither understand nor prevent. And for the first time in your life, you did not wish to discover which vision came first.

So you did the only thing that had ever made sense whenever the dreams became too heavy and you left.

That single thought drowned out every other, beating steadily against your ribs as you gathered your skirts in one hand and planted your slipper against the ancient garden wall. Time seemed to press in from every side so you quickly pushed yourself upward, fingertips stretching desperately toward the thick oak branch that hung just beyond your reach. The bark brushed your fingers before slipping away again.

You frowned, it had seemed much lower when you were a child. Surely you had climbed trees twice this height without a second thought. Determined, you shifted your footing higher against the moss-covered stone, ignoring the way your slippers slipped against the wall.

Just a little farther...

"You appear to be losing your battle."

The voice behind you was warm, low, and entirely too amused.

You startled so violently that your foot slipped from the stone altogether. Landing rather less gracefully than you would have liked, you spun around, silver hair whipping over your shoulder as you searched the darkness for its owner.

A man stood several paces away beneath the shadow of an elm tree, the hood of a dark traveling cloak obscuring most of his face. Moonlight caught only the edge of his jaw and the outline of broad shoulders, leaving the rest hidden in darkness.

You did not recognize him nor did you particularly care to.

You were in far too much of a hurry.

"May I help you?" you asked, though the impatience in your voice made it abundantly clear you hoped he would do precisely the opposite.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," he replied pleasantly. "It seems you are the one in need of assistance."

His tone was infuriatingly calm as though finding a princess attempting to climb the garden wall in the middle of the night was an entirely ordinary occurrence.

"I am not," you answered briskly. "So you may leave."

You turned back toward the wall without waiting for his reply, already reaching for the branch once more. Behind you came the sound of unhurried footsteps.

"I will," he said. "But I confess, I am rather curious as to what you're doing."

You closed your eyes for the briefest moment. "I am not doing anything."

"You are trying to do something."

"I am not."

"You are."

A sigh escaped you. Not the graceful sort of sigh expected of a princess, but one born entirely of exasperation. You turned sharply, fixing the stranger with a look that had intimidated far older men than this.

"Who are you, anyway?" Stepping closer, you tried to make out his face beneath the hood, though the shadows remained stubbornly loyal to him, "Reveal yourself."

"I am simply a guest in the Keep."

The answer only irritated you further, "What an exceptionally mysterious guest." You dismissed him with a wave of your hand before turning back toward the wall yet again. "Well then, perhaps you can make yourself useful and lift me."

There was the briefest pause, "I'm sorry?"

You looked over your shoulder as though he were being intentionally difficult. "If you lift me onto the wall, I can manage the rest."

The corner of his mouth twitched beneath the hood. "I see."

"Come now," you urged, gesturing impatiently toward the branch. "Make haste."

His amusement seemed only to deepen. "Well, if I must assist you, I should ask why you intend to climb the wall."

You groaned dramatically. "If you must know..." Your fingers wrapped around the branch again as though the conversation itself inconvenienced you. "...I am leaving."

"Are you?"

"I am taking my dragon," you said matter-of-factly, testing whether the branch might support your weight, "and flying somewhere very far away. And do not trouble yourself with informing the King or my betrothed. I shall be long gone by the time either of them discovers it."

A beat passed.

"Ah." There was laughter hidden beneath the single syllable, "So your betrothed is the reason you're running."

You shrugged, "He is certainly one of them."

"And they won't notice you've disappeared?"

A small, incredulous laugh escaped you. "Well, of course they will," you looked toward the branch again, "Now, please. Enough questions."

You pointed toward the wall with all the authority expected of a princess issuing commands. "If you would simply lift me over the garden wall, I'll reach the dragonpit before anyone notices."

The stranger looked from you to the wall and back again then he sighed with theatrical regret. "I have absolutely no intention of helping you."

You stared incredulously, "I beg your pardon?" You whirled around fully, prepared to remind this remarkably stubborn man exactly who he was refusing. As you did, he reached up almost absentmindedly and pushed back the hood that had hidden his face.

Moonlight settled across familiar features and you instantly recognized the face you had seen in your sleep numerous times. Everything inside you seemed to stop.

"...It's you."

The irritation vanished from your voice so completely that it almost startled you. Gwayne watched the change with quiet fascination. Only moments ago, you had looked ready to order him dragged from the gardens for daring to delay your escape. Now you simply stood there, staring at him with an expression he could not begin to understand.

He smiled despite himself, "You know who I am?"

You didn't answer immediately. Instead, your eyes lingered on his face, searching it with unsettling intensity, as though comparing the man standing before you to someone only you could see.

When you finally spoke, your voice was scarcely louder than the breeze moving through the trees, "I've dreamt of you."

The words were so unexpected that Gwayne forgot entirely what he had meant to say. His smile faded into quiet confusion, "You've... what?"

You seemed almost surprised that the words had escaped you. Your gaze dropped to the ground before lifting once more, softer this time, almost hesitant. "I've dreamt of you."

Silence settled between them.

Gwayne had heard the stories. The king's second daughter was said to possess the old gift of dragon dreams. He had dismissed them as little more than another courtly tale but standing before you now, he found himself less certain.

You did not look mad.

Nor did you resemble the reckless drunk whispered about by servants and lords alike. He noticed there was no heavy scent of wine clinging to your breath, no unsteady sway in your posture, no careless laughter born from too many cups. If you had drunk anything at all, it had been little more than enough to soothe an anxious mind, and judging by the shadows beneath your eyes, even that had failed.

More than anything, you looked tired. Painfully so.

Not the sort of tired that followed a late feast or too much dancing, but the deep exhaustion of someone who had spent far too many nights fighting battles no one else could see.

His expression softened. "Am I so terrible in your dreams," he asked, a small smile returning to his lips, "that you've resorted to climbing garden walls in the middle of the night to escape marrying me?"

He had meant it lightly yet the smile disappeared from your face so quickly that he regretted it almost at once. Your fingers tightened in the folds of your skirts until the silk wrinkled beneath your grasp.

You said nothing.

For the first time since he'd found you, the lively, impatient princess who had argued with him over a wall simply... vanished. In her place stood a frightened young woman trying very hard not to let it show.

His amusement melted into concern, "...Princess?" He took a cautious step forward, "Are you all right?"

You instinctively stepped back.

"I only jest," he said quietly.

Your voice was barely audible, "I must go."

Before he could answer, you slipped past him, gathering your skirts as you hurried back toward the castle, silver hair disappearing into the darkness between the garden paths.

Gwayne remained where he was for several moments after you'd gone. He should have let you leave, instead, he found himself watching the empty path where you had vanished, turning over those four impossible words in his mind.

I've dreamt of you.

Whatever those dreams had shown you, they had filled your eyes not with hatred but with sadness. And though he scarcely knew you, something deep within him recoiled at the thought that he might one day become the cause of it. For reasons he could not explain, he left the gardens that night with only one quiet resolve settling in his heart.

The laughter doubles and strangles Gwayne accordingly, who is completely and utterly out of his element now. He swallows hard through a tightening throat and draws a slow breath through his nose, trying once again to steady himself — because it was not for himself that he was out here in the first place. It was for Daeron, and for the dozen other boys just like him that Ormund had lined along the front ranks to take the war’s first bite. 

So Gwayne presses on, forcing an evenness into his voice that he doesn’t exactly feel beneath the death glares all around him. “My cousin, Ormund, has taken leave of his senses. As I’m sure you’re aware. He’d rather die than admit defeat—”

“And you?” Daemon lilts lazily, resting his arms along the hilt of his sword.

Gwayne’s eyes cut across the men arrayed before him, still only a fraction of the true Black host. “Well, I’m not blind… I know we will not survive the day if you attack. So… As a token of good faith… I return your Hand.” 

He drops Corlys’s shackles with a heavy clinking sound, but does not take the blade from his side. The silence that follows seems to last for an eternity, until your pretty voice breaks it at last.

“Can he be a Hard with only four fingers?” you joke, tilting your head towards the old lord’s bandaged fist.

The laughter returns again. Gwayne’s icy blue eyes flits once more to you in a quick, assessing pass; he does not mean for his gaze to linger upon you, but he can’t quite manage to look away. Your armor catches in what little light breaks through the clouds overhead, carved with the intricate detailing of your house. And beneath all that heavy steel is your much softer face — beautiful and unbothered by the promise of war simmering in the heavy summer air.

There is something very wrong about you, Gwayne knows; something he can’t quite decide to be afraid of or intrigued by. A bit of both, perhaps.

“I’ve come to sue for peace,” Gwayne announces, louder now, forcing the words out over the laughter. ‘To plead with you at the behest of Daeron Targaryen.”

The amusement in Daemon’s pale eyes flickers at once, a distant warmth running cold as his thin mouth curls into a sharp grin. “The war will end when all the traitors’ heads are mounted on spikes about the King’s Gate,” the older man answers. “And not before.”

“Listen to Daeron’s entreaty,” Gwayne pleads, eyes growing wide behind the silken auburn tendrils swaying over his brows. “Divide the realm. Let the Queen rule over the Crownlands, the North, the Vale, all the lands watered by the Trident… And let Daeron rule from Oldtown—"

“Oh, gods…” Roderick groans in disgust from his left.

“He’s boring me, Daemon,” you tell the silver-haired man standing on foot before you, voice flat with a theatrical ennui that borders on girlish. “Just kill him already.” 

“Do you hear that?” Daemon laughs as he turns back to Gwayne. “You’re boring her… And trust me, Ser, you do not want to see how she gets when she’s bored—”

“You jest?” Gwayne spits as his composure splinters all at once. The words seem to spill from his mouth before he can stop them, as he approaches the older man on instinct alone. “You would rather callously cast aside the lives of thousands—”

He does not get another word out before Daemon’s hand closes suddenly around his throat.  The world tilts sideways as the man drags him downward in his fist. His metal glove digs hard into Gwayne’s milky white neck, cutting off just enough of his air supply to keep him conscious, though Daemon does not so much as blink at the show of strength.

“No one will rule but Rhaenyra,” Daemon tells him in a casual voice, even as Gwayne’s hands scrabble uselessly for purchase at his wrist. “The ordained Queen of the Andals, of the First Men, of beggars and thieves and cowards, like you. A new Valyria will rise from the ashes of her usurper half-brothers. And of the Hightowers of Oldtown.” 

Gwayne can hardly hear him over the thunder of his pulse in his skull as black spots begin to speckle in his vision, like so many drops of ink spreading through water.

“But…” Daemon trails off. His grip on Gwayne’s neck does not loosen, but something in his eyes does. The cold burn of rage melts away into a distant look of calculation. “Since you came under the banner of peace… Perhaps I’ll give you a choice…” 

Daemon turns slowly to you, peering up at you from behind the wisps of white hair blowing across his face. Gwayne’s watery, unfocused eyes follow in turn and find you watching the whole ordeal with your head tilted gently to one side. There is no horror in your face, nor an ounce of pity either. 

“You said you wanted to live in a pretty castle, didn’t you?” Daemon calls to you, with a sort of fondness creeping into his voice while Gwayne turns purple under his fist. “To twirl around in pretty silk dresses, with a pretty silk husband?”

You had said it half in jest a few months past, in a hall far too to the north for anyone to remember its existence, except for when they needed its sword. You were the last living heir to a name older than most in the realm, ruling alone with more soldiers under your command than servants, when Daemon had come with his dragon asking for whatever men you could spare.

You’d given him what he asked, and when he’d wondered in turn what you wanted for it, you answered him evenly. “A castle… And a few dresses… And perhaps a husband to warm my bed— all the pretty, useless shit people like you worry about.”

You hadn’t expected to be repaid so soon, and certainly not on the battlefield on the very eve of war, with a dead man crumpling to his feet before you.

“What of it?” you say with an arched brow.

“Here’s your pretty husband,” Daemon nods his silver head down toward the man gasping in his grip. “Right here… If you want him, of course.”

Gwayne’s bleary eyes flit back to you. Through the black in his vision, he finds you studying the whole of him as if he were livestock to be appraised at market. He comes to the rather humiliating realization that he wants very badly for you to say yes — both with a primal despair of wanting to live and with the distant desperation of wanting your approval.

You scrunch the bridge of his nose. “He’s a bit puny, isn’t he?”

“A bit?” Ser Rodrick scoffs.

“Well, what he lacks in height and muscle, he makes up for twice over in wealth,” Daemon tells you. “Far wealthier than you’re like to find anywhere else, to be sure… What do you say?”

You consider for a long moment, then, despite watching Gwayne slowly slip from consciousness. He can no longer tell if it takes you one minute or one hour to decide, which you finally do with one lazy bounce of your shoulder. 

“Alright.” 

Daemon’s fingers loosen at once. Warm, summer air rushes back into Gwayne’s body as he crumples to his knees onto the dried grass below. The oxygen burns in his throat, his shoulders heaving as he retches. It takes a long moment for the world to come back into focus. And when it finally does, Daemon’s voice finds him again as he looms a long shadow over the kneeling man.

“Do you hear that? I will spare your life — and that of your precious nephew’s, should he bend the knee to the rightful Queen — and you will live out the rest of your days as lord husband to the new Lady of Oldtown… How does that sound?”

It sounds nothing like what Gwyane had walked out here to discuss, to be sure. He’d only meant to save Daeron’s life, and somehow bartered his own for a marriage to a woman he had known for the length of one terribly humiliating conversation. But he is still breathing, at least, and his nephew is too. And for now, that’s enough.

He nods wordlessly in response, and feels an aching in his throat when he does so.

“Thank her,” Daemon scolds like a parent would their child. When Gwayne’s bowed hands snap in his direction to make sure he’d heard him right, he feels the man take a sudden fistful of his auburn hair, wrenching him towards you again. “That was not rhetorical, Ser Gwayne— Thank your new lady wife for saving you. It’s only fair.”

Gwayne swallows hard through a raw throat and peers up at you with bleary eyes from where he kneels on the ground before you. “Thank...” he attempts to speak, but the word comes out strangled. “Thank you...”

“My lady,” Daemon reminds him.

Gwayne coughs. “M-My lady…”

You look down at him from where you idle on horseback. A small smile hints at the corner of your mouth as you hum in satisfaction. “Mm… You’re welcome, lord husband.”

You turn on your horse without so much as a backward glance, gathering the reins in your fist and looking instead toward the gates of Tumbleton — where Ormund’s men prepare their archers for the first wave of battle. “Now…” you say, grinning over your shoulder at your house’s men gathered just behind you. Your voice carries across the length of the plain. “Let’s go win this fucking war!”

The ranks roar a wordless answer in response — a ragged, joyous, bloodthirsty sound as swords beat against their shields. Gwayne hears the battlecry swell all around him, and wonders if his death would’ve been a kinder fate than what is sure to await him when the fight is done.

The wedding was done by evenfall, while smoke rose from the ashes of Tumbleton; the air still thick with the scent of blood and rot. 

You exchanged vows while your armor was still splattered with the blood of the Green Army and your hair was still matted with sweat. There had been no sept, no godswood, no seven blessings, no ribbon tied around clasped hands. There was only a shaded tent, a Tumbleton septon kept alive for the very purpose of ceremony, and a scrap of parchment to sign your names — though Gwayne’s hand was still a little sore from the heavy chains wrapped around them.

No feast follows. No song, no celebration, no bedding. Because too many people had died on both sides — Ormund among them, burnt and buried in ash. And though Daeron breathes still, safe and unbloodied by sword, Gwayne wears the cost of that safety in the shackles around his wrist and waist. He was lord now, and a husband, and he did not ask to be. 

He only wanted his nephew to live to see sixteen.

“So… That’s it then,” Gwayne said on an exhaled breath while a worse-for-wear Daemon shoved the old septon out by his neck. His pretty face was softened by the candlelight of the war tent, even despite the soot streaked across his face and the flaming tendrils clinging to his forehead with sweat. “Husband and wife, are we?”

“Seems that way,” you said beneath the quiet glugging of the ale you poured. The watered wine spilled slightly over the maps scattered there when you turned briefly to flash him a smile over your shoulder. “Congratulations, my lord.” 

Gwayne felt a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, right before a sharp breath escaped him in a sad sort of laugh. “Aren’t you concerned?” he said, pale eyes fixed on your armored form. “I’m not sure how a marriage such as this can be held up by law…” 

“Oh, I’m not worried,” you assured him with a shake of your head.

“No?” 

“No…” you insisted and turned back around to face him, sporting an old goblet in your bloodied fist. “Because I know you have no interest in being killed— or your nephew, besides… It’s righteous of you, really, so… You’re not going anywhere, Ser Gwayne.”

Your lips curled into a slow, sharp grin as you brought the cup to your mouth, chugging the whole of it until the soft purple wine started to drip down to your chin.

Gwayne still could not yet decide what you had planned for him — if you meant to love him truly or kill him the second you arrived at Oldtown. And a distant, disgusting part of him could not wait to find out.

Oldtown, as you’ve come to find it, smells nothing like the wet cobbles, and horse dung, and rotted wood of the half-forgotten manse you grew up in. Here, everything smells of salt and lemon trees and sun-warmed stone. It is everything you’d asked Daemon for — a large castle, enough silk to drown in, hands that tended to your every want, and a husband to warm your bed. Though you still spend most of your days in the fighting yard, tearing and sweating through whatever fine silk you’d dressed in that day.

Gwayne is still getting used to the presence of you and your men in his ancestral home, and his newfound position within it. Daeron, too, spends many weeks wary of the very sight of you — the reason for the death of his uncle, and simultaneously, the reason for his freedom. You do not ask for his forgiveness; you just put a sparring sword in his hand and ask him to give you all the brunt of the anger you know he keeps hidden. 

You and your men put the sweet boy on his back more often than not, but he keeps coming back for more anyway.  And somewhere in that routine, gratitude creeps in where the resentment used to live, and Daeron comes slowly around.

“Well… You’ve made a fine swordsman out of him,” Gwayne sighs without turning from the window overlooking the courtyard, where his nephew continues to spar with the northern knights. He hears you waltz by somewhere behind him, your pretty silk gown rustling at your ankles and clinging at the sweaty small of your back. “Ormund would never let the boy train this hard…” 

“Daeron has good enough instincts, it seems,” you answer, tugging lazily at the lace in your bodice. “Which I find rather surprising, considering the company he grew up with…” 

Gwayne finds himself smiling at the jab, far wider than he realizes. You’ve never run short of witty, merciless quips, he’s found throughout his time with you; and he finds himself taking a strange liking to the way you so effortlessly cut him down. 

“And what is that supposed to mean exactly?” he says as he turns away from the window. 

Whatever quip had been sitting on his tongue then, turns to ash in his throat at the sight of you — with your gown abandoned in a pile on the cobbles, and you slouched at your vanity stool in nothing but the thin slip beneath it. The fabric rises from your knee, revealing the soft canvas of your thighs. You’ve slid one arm free from the thin sleeves to bare a shoulder painted a darker shade from the fresh bruises blooming there.

Your skin is littered with scars from battles past, and he struggles to look away from any of it. His chest stings with the thought of you ever being hurt, then warms twice over at the sight of your breast threatening to spill over from where the slip had gone askew.

“You needn’t look so scandalized, husband,” you laugh as you reach for the clay pot of healing ointment, which never strays too far from your side. “Surely, you’ve seen worse than a woman’s shift… Handsome as you are.”

Gwayne’s face flushes at the compliment, and he hates how boyish he feels.

He clears his throat and averts his gaze, folding his clammy palms behind his back. “I only find myself surprised, I guess, at how… little you seem to mind it, is all.”

“Mind what? The bruises?” you scoff, dabbing the ointment along your shoulder and hissing at how tender the skin has gone. “I’ve had far worse from far better fights, I assure you. Maybe one day I’ll show you the scar on my—”

“Modesty,” Gwayne blurts before you can finish. “I meant modesty…” 

“Oh…” you hum, face screwing faintly as you work the earthy salve in slow circles. “I never had much use for modesty, I suppose… A keep with more soldiers than servants doesn’t have much of it, in truth…”

You reach back then, trying hopelessly to work the balm into the worst of the bruise along your shoulder blade, but the angle is not so forgiving. You huff and twist and achieve nothing but a fresher ache for the trouble. 

Gwayne exhales a sympathetic sigh from across the room. “Here…” he huffs as he crosses the distance between you, reaching out an expectant hand when he looms just behind your chair.

You consider arguing for a moment, if only out of habit, but place the clay pot into his pale palm regardless. “Try not to enjoy it too much,” you joke with a small grin tugging at your mouth.

“I make no promises, my lady,” he quips in a low deadpan. 

But even his sarcasm cannot mask the tenderness he holds in his hands when they find your shoulder, working the ointment in with a care you didn’t know he was capable of — a care you didn’t know you were deserving of. The pad of his thumb smooths slowly over the worst of the bruise, and you feel something soften in your chest.

“You’re better at this than I would’ve guessed,” you tell him, if only to fill the suffocating silence pressing hard on either side of you.

“I’ve had ample practice with bruises of my own,” Gwayne confesses, lifting his eyes to peer at you through the smudged looking glass. “I didn’t come into this marriage entirely unmarked, if you recall…”

“Mm… I do recall,” you croon lowly, as though amused by the memory. Your head tips back to grin up at him with a fond reminiscence. “You were very purple. And very sore… For weeks… It was delicious…” 

Gwayne shakes his head. “Well, you’ll forgive me if I don’t find the memory as amusing as you do…” 

“I find everything amusing,” you scoff.

“I know you do,” he huffs a not-quite laugh. “Honestly, it’s among the things I’ve come to… appreciate about you, I suppose.” 

Your eyes narrow in suspicion of his compliment. “Careful, Ser Gwayne… A lady could get ideas, hearing you talk like that…”

“Really?” the man hums, still working gently at your bruised skin. “And what ideas are those, I wonder?”

You do not answer him with words. Instead, you rise slowly from the creaking vanity stool until you’re stood just before him. Then you reach for the remaining sleeve of your slip and trail it down your arm until you’re free of it; until the thin fabric falls to your feet in a forgotten piece of cotton; until you’re stood utterly bare before him — made of warm skin, soft curves, and faded scars. There’s one at your sternum, a longer one at your hip, and a darker one along your ribcage.

Gwayne’s breath catches audibly in his throat. The composure he’s spent weeks holding onto — full of dry wit and careful distance and a week’s worth of telling himself this was a political arrangement and nothing more — seems to abandon him all at once. His glassy eyes drift over your naked form, and he feels some warm, boyish feelings sparkling somewhere deep in his chest. 

It takes everything in you not to cower — not because you are ashamed at his staring, you’ve never been ashamed of anything, but because you have never once been looked at with so much reverence.

“Do you get the hint now, Ser Gwayne?” you quip drily as you close the scant distance between you. Your palms splay over the chest of his emerald coat and drift slowly upward until they settle cold along his warm neck, dragging him down with a little more force than necessary. 

You kiss him then like you’ve kissed him a thousand times over, like you’ve kissed a thousand men a thousand times over. There is little reservation in the way you slot your lips against his, or in the way you lick into his mouth and sigh hard through your nose at the taste of him — like mint and wine and whatever fruit he’d been snaking on before you found him here. 

His mouth is far softer than your own, you realize, a far gentler touch than you think you’ve ever felt before. He spreads one wide hand along your back, pressing your bare chest flush against his clothed one, while his other trails down down down the ladder of your spine. 

Your breath nearly catches when his calloused palm settles warm along the plush of your ass; you lose it completely when he grabs a fistful of the skin to pull you closer. 

You rise onto the tip of your toes, curling your arms around his neck while your noses knock under the weight of your searing kiss — which breaks only when Gwayne’s knee slots between your thighs, and when the rough fabric of his trousers brushes the most sensitive part of you.

His rosy mouth curls into a slow grin at the pretty sound you make for him then.

“Yes. To answer your question…” the man quips through panted breaths, with the tip of his nose brushing the bridge of yours. “I believe I am starting to get the hint, my lady.”

Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.

Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.

At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.

You don’t know how he does it.

It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.

(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)

But instead, you just hum.

And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:

“Can you keep doing this forever?”

Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.

And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.

And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.

Not on purpose.

(Probably?)

(…Definitely.)

Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.

Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)

Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.

(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)

(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)

Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.

It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.

Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-

…Anyway. You’re getting ideas. (Again, sorry, framed Jack.)

“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)

“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”

“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.

It doesn’t.

What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-

“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-

“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-

“Sweetheart”.

All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.

The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.

(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)

“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.

Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.

(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)

“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.

All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.

Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-

“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”

And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.

If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.

It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.

So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:

“Could you go lower?”

“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.

Now you’re face-to-face with him.

Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.

Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:

Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)

Still, since profiling is such a complex job –

(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)

so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-

So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.

(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)

(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)

(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)

And apparently, he does.

Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:

“Again?!”

Ah. Yes. Again.

Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.

So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:

Close. The. Curtains.

(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

You fixed it.

You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.

Just the essentials.

Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.

You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)

…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.

You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)

Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.

Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.

Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.

They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.

Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.

And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”

Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.

“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)

“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”

He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.

Fond - yes.

Amused - definetely.

Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.

Veeeery humbling experience.

And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.

“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”

Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.

Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)

You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.

Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.

You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.

Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)

Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.

One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)

Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.

Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).

It’s… a moment.

You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;

It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.

And still, he manages to outdo himself.

Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.

“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”

(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)

“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.

You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”

Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.

He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.

Mouth open. Tongue flat.

You start cursing everything.

Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.

Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.

Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.

Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.

He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.

Then again. And again.

Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.

Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.

(Thank God.)

“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.

You were so fucking wrong.

His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.

It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.

“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.

He fucks you with it.

Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.

You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.

The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-

“Aaron- Aaron, please-”

Not your best work. Not ideal.

You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.

But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.

(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)

You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.

(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)

He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.

And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.

The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…

…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.

Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).

(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)

So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.

That first stretch.

That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”

(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)

You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.

“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”

He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.

And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.

(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)

“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.

(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)

(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)

(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)

(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)

(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)

(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)

“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.

Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.

He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”

Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.

White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.

(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)

“Do you feel it?” he asks.

You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.

Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-

“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”

Wrong answer, apparently.

Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.

(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)

“Lift your hips,” he instructs.

“What-”

“Just do it.”

You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.

(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)

He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.

“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.

“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.

He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.

Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.

You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.

A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.

So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.

(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)

You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.

“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”

You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.

Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”

(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)

“Trying,” you pant.

“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.

He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.

Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.

“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”

He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”

It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."

Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.

But you never find it. You never find him.

And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)

So instead, you settle. Again.

You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.

And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)

He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.

That’s the reason.

(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)

(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”

“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”

“Here where?”

“Shut up.”

Another slap.

Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)

“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”

You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.

“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)

He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.

“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.

You’re not really in the conditions to answer.

Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-

“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”

And oh… you feel it.

The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.

(You’re naked. He’s half-dressed. Fully dressed, actually…)

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”

His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.

And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.

The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-

It almost slips out.

That thing.

The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.

“F-fuck, Aaron-”

“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat

You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.

Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.

He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.

His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.

Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.

"You're okay,"

"Got you,"

"So good, baby..."

Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.

Your chest hurts.

Because he means it.

He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.

“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”

He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.

You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”

You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.

“Please don’t call anyone.”

These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.

But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?

The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.

You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.

You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.

Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.

“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”

Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.

Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.

“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”

He shakes his head - fond. Touched.

Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.

He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.

You watch in awe.

Reverence.

…Horniness.

So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.

“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.

Occasionally hums.

If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.

Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.

He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.

Which is immediately suspicious.

You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.

Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.

Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.

Not even the question. He’s already answered it.

He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.

Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)

(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)

And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.

He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.

“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”

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through the walls came the muffled sounds of conversation. you could hear toji grumbling under his breath about something, his low voice carrying through the halls before it abruptly gave way to a rough, booming laugh. whatever had annoyed him clearly hadn't lasted long. tsumiki's lighthearted voice followed almost immediately, and then came the soft, affectionate laughter of megumi's mom.

together, their voices blended into a comforting hum that made the whole place feel warm and full of life.

i mean, after being apart for so long, what parent wouldn't be happy to see their kids back home from college?

the only person missing? megumi fushiguro. and where was he? upstairs in his room.. with you. in his defense, though, he'd already spent the entire week catching up with his family. now, as far as he was concerned, it was time to spend some quality time with his girlfriend.

the air in his bedroom was thick with a tension that felt both fragile and heavy. downstairs, the muffled sounds of the fushiguro household, the clatter of plates and the low rumble of conversation continued, serving as a dangerous backdrop to the illicit act happening right now on his bed.

you were sprawled back against his cold pillows, your legs draped over his shoulders, exposing every inch of your cunt to him. because of megumi’s low sex drive, these moments were rare. he didn't crave sex with the urgency others did, and the gaps between your intimate encounters were often long enough that you almost forgot the sheer, devastating skill he possessed with his tongue.

though right now, you were remembering quite well.

"mmmh... what if tsumiki walks in?" you muttered, watching him through half lidded eyes before letting your head fall back against his pillows with a small sound escaping from your lips.

“she won’t.”

“your— hah! your dad?”

he opened his eyes just enough to meet your gaze, his slightly furrowed brows and narrowed eyes sending a silent warning your way; the silent equivalent of telling you to drop it. you got the message immediately and decided not to push your luck.

megumi was focused, his dark hair falling forward as he pressed his face against your folds for the third time that evening. he started slow, his tongue tracing a wet, deliberate line from the very bottom of your entrance, dragging upward through your slickness until he reached your clit. he didn't slurp or make loud, messy noises, instead, he used a firm, rhythmic pressure, sucking your swollen nub into his mouth with a precision that made your hips jerk involuntarily.

as he worked, his hands subconsciously began rubbing your thighs, his palms sliding up and down the soft skin of the back of your thighs in a slow, grounding motion.

a sharp gasp escaped your lips, echoing too loudly in the quiet room.

megumi slightly pulled away from your cunt with a small smooch, glancing up at you with those piercing eyes, his voice a low, warning velvet. "quiet down," he breathed, his breath hot against your skin, and pressed a small kiss to your folds. "they’ll hear you."

"i can't help it.." you whimpered, your fingers digging into the sheets. "megs, please— you know exactly what you're doing!"

"do i?" he murmured, pressing his mouth deeper into your pussy, letting out a low, vibrating hum that echoed through your entire pelvic floor. though, the sound was muffled by your flesh.

"forget how good you taste.. you're so sweet."

the admission only made your heart race more. you reached down, your fingers brushing through his dark spikes. "remember now?"

"hard to forget in the first place," he whispered, his voice vibrating against your clit. "you’re so wet for me, pretty..”

he leaned back in, but this time he was more methodical. he used his tongue to lap at your entrance, swirling in slow, heavy circles that made you feel like you were melting into the mattress. every time you tried to moan, megumi would increase the suction on your clit, effectively stealing the sound from your throat.

"oooh, fffuck— just like that! yeah—" you gasped.

his hands gripped your thighs tighter, pulling you closer to his face. "yeah? tell me how it feels."

"it feels.. too much," you squeaked out, your voice a strained whisper. "it feels incredible though— don't stop, please don't stop!"

megumi pulled back slowly, and as he retreated, a thick string of saliva remained connected, stretching from his lower lip to your dripping cunt for a heartbeat before it finally snapped. the sight was visceral and raw, sending a jolt of pure heat straight to your core.

before you could recover, he gathered a pool of spit in his mouth and spat directly onto your pussy, the wet glob glistening against your pink flesh. he followed it immediately with one long, slow lick that swept from your hole all the way to the top, coating you in his warmth.

you let out a choked moan, your mind racing. god, that was so erotic, you thought, your heart hammering against your ribs.

he wasted no time in burying his face back into you, but this time it was more aggressive, almost as if he were making out with your cunt. using his lips to seal around you, his tongue swirled and flicked with a relentless pace that pushed you toward the edge. he knew exactly where to press, exactly how much suction to apply to make your vision blur and toes curl.

"you’re so tight," he mumbled against your skin, his voice thick. "maybe i needa fuck you more, mmm?"

"it’s ’cause you're— you're too good at it," you managed to choke out, your hips beginning to buck.

“am i, now?”

“mmmh!”

as the pressure built, the world outside the room ceased to exist. you were spiraling, the warmth of his tongue against your clit becoming an unbearable pleasure.

your hand quickly darted out, fingers tangling firmly in his dark hair, and you pushed him deeper into your cunt, forcing his face flush against you. subconsciously, you parted your thighs wider, opening yourself completely to him. and your toes curled tight, your back arching off the pillows as the orgasm finally crashed over you in violent, pulsing waves.

through the haze of your climax, you felt megumi stop moving his tongue, but he didn't pull away. he stayed right there, his face pressed into your soaking wetness, staring up at you. he watched your expression, watching the way your eyes rolled back and your chest heaved, witnessing every second of your release without breaking eye contact. to him, you looked unbelievably beautiful like this.

as the tremors began to subside and you looked back down at him, he didn't move. he just let out a soft, huffed breath and smiled faintly against your pussy, a rare, intimate expression of affection, before closing his eyes and savoring the scent and taste of you.

"feels good?" he murmured, his voice vibrating against your clit.

you couldn't even form a coherent thought. your brain was mush, your body humming with afterglow. all you could manage was a broken, breathless murmur. "megsss.. why’d you stop? keep on—”

the moment was shattered by three heavy, rhythmic knocks against the bedroom door.

"oi, megumi," toji’s gruff voice boomed from the hallway, sounding impatient. "stop brooding in your room and get downstairs for dinner. now. you and your little girlfriend, both."

megumi groaned at the sound of his father’s voice and stiffened, finally pulling away with a wet pop. he sat back on his heels, wiping a stray drop of your juices from his lip with the back of his hand, looking entirely unfazed while you lay there trembling and completely undone.

"coming," he called back, his voice returning to its usual raspiness, though the glint in his eyes told you he knew exactly how much he'd just ruined you.

“can you sit on my dick after dinner? please?”

cockwarming drabble dropping soon fellas 🥳🥳🥳 jk……unless….. also im thinking abt writing for kashimo. does anyone fw that???? him have a tongue piercing??? i keep thinking abt that nerd armin fanart 🤤🤤🤤

the man’s wasted, disgustingly so and bakugou can feel you pressed against his back in comfort. you’re not a fan of blood, so that’s another reason why hurting this man is off the table. fuck my life.

“and who are you? ha, you look like that guy from tv!”

a third reason he can’t punch this guy— because he is that guy from tv. it’s a bad look if dynamight being seen getting into bar fights. maybe he could take him out when he leaves the building. no cameras, it wouldn’t link back to him?

there’s sweat brewing on the man’s forehead and he smells horrible. rank body odour and beer. grinning like he won something.

bakugou rolls his eyes. he can’t play god by killing the man but he can sure induce some law and order around here.

“hey cmon! guys don’t share their girlfriends anymore. we used to do that, you know!”

you tug bakugou’s sleeve and it grounds him for a moment. “let’s go back to our table, ‘ki.”

you’re always the voice of reason in his head, but something has got to give.

“sit back with the rest, i’ll join you,” katsuki whispers and you nod. looking between him and the guy before wading through the crowd back to your table.

as soon as you’re gone, bakugou grabs the man by his collar and drags him out the bar like he’s a plank of wood.

“woah man, what the hell!”

relief floods bakugou once he sees an alleyway. no cameras either.

bakugou goes to the bathroom before joining the table again. washes his hands. scrubs spots on his face.

he slides himself into the booth beside you and swings his arm around your shoulder. you look at him with round glowy eyes, like he saved your life back there. he wished he killed the guy. “you good, baby?”

you smile, “yeah! what did you do to him?”

“just threw him out. told him not to come back around here.”

bakugou looks across the table to ashido, midoriya and kirishima. ashido shakes her head with a smirk, midoriya looks unimpressed with a raised eyebrow and kirishima scrunches his face in confusion.

“you’re tellin’ me you didn’t—,”

bakugou kicks his knee under the table, “yes. i didn’t.”