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Warnings → Fluff, university AU, light teasing, hand doodles, fluff.
Summary → Peter complains every time you doodle on his hand, yet secretly saves every single drawing on his phone.
“I’m gonna get ink poisoning,” Peter muttered for the fifth time that month, even though he still held his hand perfectly still on your desk.
You snorted, tongue poking out slightly in concentration as you doodled a tiny spider wearing sunglasses onto the back of his hand. “That’s not how pens work, genius.”
“I’m serious,” he whispered dramatically, glancing toward the front of the classroom where your professor droned on about something neither of you were listening to anymore. “What if the ink seeps into my bloodstream and I die?”
“You’re Spider-Man. You’ve been hit by a train.”
“That is so not the point.”
You ignored him completely and kept drawing.
It started innocently one day when you got bored during a lecture and absentmindedly drew a smiley face on Peter’s hand while he was taking notes. He’d looked down at it with immediate offense.
“Did you just vandalize me?”
Now it had become a routine.
Every class.
Every boring lecture.
Peter’s hand automatically finding its way onto your desk without either of you acknowledging it.
Sometimes you drew flowers curling around his fingers. Sometimes dumb stick figures. Once you recreated the entire Spider-Man mask in tiny detail while Peter watched with betrayed fascination.
Today’s masterpiece included: the spider with sunglasses, a tiny coffee cup, your initials hidden near his thumb., and a speech bubble that said “Help, I’m being held hostage.”
Peter sighed heavily like this was the worst thing anyone had ever done to him.
“You know,” he whispered, “people usually flirt normally.”
“This is normal.”
“No, normal flirting is like…” He paused. “Eye contact or holding hands.”
“We do that too.”
“That’s worse somehow.”
You grinned and grabbed his wrist before he could pull away, adding a little heart near his pulse point.
Peter immediately went quiet.
The teasing vanished from his face so fast it was honestly adorable.
You looked up at him through your lashes. “Aw. Parker’s blushing.”
“I am not.”
“You literally are.”
“It’s hot in here.”
“It’s December.”
Peter rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched upward anyway.
The bell finally rang, and the room exploded into noise as students started packing up. You capped your pen and stretched lazily.
“Okay, lemme see your notes because I definitely learned nothing today.”
“Absolutely not,” Peter gasped. “Academic theft.”
“You love me.”
“That’s unrelated.”
You laughed and shoved your books into your bag while Peter gathered his things beside you.
By the time you both stepped out into the hallway, you’d already forgotten about the doodles entirely.
Peter hadn’t.
Later that night, after patrol, after homework, after answering three texts from Ned and one from May reminding him to eat the leftovers in the fridge, Peter finally collapsed onto his bed.
Exhausted.
Wearing a worn out t-shirt and sweatpants.
Hair messy from the shower.
And that’s when he noticed the fading ink still covering the back of his hand.
Peter stared at it quietly.
The tiny spider.
The dumb little speech bubble.
The heart near his wrist.
His chest did that stupid soft thing again.
“God,” he mumbled to himself, flopping backward onto his pillow. “I’m so done for.”
Because the thing was—you never remembered the doodles.
To you, it was just something silly to do when lectures got boring.
But Peter remembered every single one.
He remembered the flower crowns you drew around his knuckles during finals week because you were stressed.
The little stars you doodled when you were sleepy.
The tiny “PP ❤️” you once scribbled absentmindedly before realizing what you wrote and immediately trying to cover it with random squiggles while Peter nearly flatlined beside you.
And the worst part?
Peter kept pictures of them.
An embarrassing amount of pictures.
Hidden deep in his camera roll between Spider-Man selfies and photos of lab assignments were dozens of late-night pictures of his hands.
Your doodles.
Your handwriting.
Tiny pieces of you.
Peter grabbed his phone from the nightstand and unlocked it.
Yep.
Still there.
A whole album.
Like an absolute loser.
He clicked on the newest photo he’d taken earlier in the bathroom mirror before washing his hands. The lighting was terrible, but he could still see the tiny heart near his wrist clearly.
Peter zoomed in slightly.
Then smiled without meaning to.
His phone buzzed suddenly with a text from you.
Y/n/n: Did you take pictures of my doodles today?
Y/n/n: 👀
Peter froze. Then slowly, he typed back.
Petey: First of all, stalking is illegal.
Petey: Second of all HOW DID YOU KNOW?!
Three dots appeared instantly.
Y/n/n: Because I know you.
Y/n/n: ...and you left your camera roll open on the lab desk yesterday, genius.
Petey: That's violation of privacy
Petey: …and they’re cute okay
You stared at your screen for a solid ten seconds after that.
Your face getting warmer.
Because somehow that confession felt way more intimate than it should’ve.
Meanwhile Peter buried his face into his pillow the second he hit send.
“Smooth, Parker,” he groaned into the mattress. “Real smooth.”
Summary ⟅ When it comes time for you to finally admit your feelings for Peter, you meet a version of him you've never seen before.
Requested: yes
Peter Parker x Reader / ⟣ SMUT / 3.6k ⟢
Warnings: BND peter, no spoilers that aren't in the trailer, light angst if you squint, virgin!peter (is this canon...?), peter is SENSITIVE, some yearning, grinding, dry humping (everyone cheered), dirty talk, peter is losing control, p in v, dacryphilia, nipple sucking, peter cums A LOT, creampie, slight praise, he whines and whimpers a bunch, he overstimulates himself, kinda sub space, I think that's it?
Lily's note — 🪷 well this is clearly not my niche but i got that request and needy peter? you don't have to ask me twice. IF YOU ENJOY PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT LETTING ME KNOW :D
It had taken you a while to break through to Peter. But ever since you bumped into him that first day of moving into your new apartment, there was something about his eyes—something that eerily reflected the pain you'd felt through the past years—that made you want to know him.
He was extremely hesitant at first, understandably so given what you knew now about the whole spiderman and everyone forgetting him thing, but after getting to know you and hearing about the barrage of troubles the universe had thrusted your way, he figured if there was anyone he could trust, it was you.
A year later, not much had changed in your lives. You were still two struggling adults in your twenties just trying to get by on the day-to-day, except now, at least you had each other to cope. At least you were able to find some reprieve and light, though the pain from your lives remained a low hum in the background.
You weren't exactly sure when it began happening—maybe a few months in—but you noticed it randomly one day. Your heart started beating faster around him. Then, he began taking up extra space in your mind until eventually, the thoughts became too loud to ignore.
You chalked the feelings up to all the trauma bonding and hours you’d spent together trying to shut out and disappear from the real world. You tried to ignore the rush of joy you felt when he laughed, or the dizziness of your head whenever you caught a glimpse of him changing out of his suit, until you were drowning in a pool of affection that you weren't sure you could surface from.
There’d been a few times the confession almost slipped from your tongue. The intimate nights sitting out on the fire escape with food and the sound of the city in the distance, or the times where he sat a little too close to you on the couch during movie nights.
But then he’d sigh, his gaze going foggy as he zoned out on some far off point, murmuring, “MJ would have hated this movie,” or “Ned used to love this burger place.”
And just like that the words would die on your tongue. How could you ever compete with the monument of love he carried for his past relationships? No, it was easier to suppress the feelings and toss them atop the mountain of other struggles you carried. You’d learn to manage with the extra weight simple because the alternative—a life absent of his presence—wasn’t something you could fathom.
Then things started changing.
First, he was suddenly busy on your sacred days off, days you would always spend together exploring new restaurants and coffee shops around the city. Then, he started turning you away on his patrol nights, nights where you’d kept him company and even helped patch up the nastier cuts he couldn't reach. Excuse after excuse came and the fear that he’d figured out your feelings twisted your gut with nerves.
It didn't take long for you to come to the conclusion that he was building a wall to preserve the sanctity of his memory with MJ. There could be no other reason for the sudden distance. You tried convincing yourself it was for the best. The perfect solution to help you cope with losing him, because if it wasn’t now, it would be later.
You lasted exactly three days. Three days of radio silence was what it took for you to realize that no, you couldn’t do this. You couldn’t stay away from him. Maybe it was the return to a forgotten loneliness, a deep, screaming void, that had you knocking on his door frantically that night, your fist nearly pounding through the paint-chipped wood.
The door cracked open an inch and before he could get the opportunity to reject you, you pushed your way through, bursting into his apartment with a temper he’d never seen.
“Hey, stranger,” you said with a hint of venom in your voice. You turned to face him, your eyes widening slightly at the sight of his pale, flushed skin, a fine sheen of sweat settled on his temples. His eyes looked unusually dark; you blinked your own a few times to clear them and make sure you weren’t seeing something that wasn’t there.
He said your name through the rasp of his shaky voice. “I-I’m sorry, I’m busy right now… you should go.”
“Like hell I should,” you scoffed, any anxious thoughts replaced by an unwavering surge of protectiveness. “Is this why you’ve been ghosting me? Are you sick or something?”
His face suddenly scrunched up, his hand raising to hold his head as he whimpered in pain. “I’m n-not ghosting you… I just…”
You took a step closer to him, freezing when he flinched back and held out a hand to stop you. Your heart fell to your stomach as you watched his eyes darken further. “Pete, I don’t know what’s going on but, please, let me help you… Stop pushing me away.”
You attempted another careful step forward until he pushed himself back against the wall.
“S-stop, stop! Please just… don’t come closer.”
You swallowed down the thick lump in your throat that had risen, clenching your hands into fists to stop them from shaking. You waited patiently for him to speak, scared that the next words that left him were going to be the ones to shatter your world.
“I,” he paused, breathing in a deep breath before continuing. “I can’t… trust myself to be around you right now.”
Your brows pressed together in confusion. “Why not?”
His eyes bore into the ground as he tried to gather his thoughts over the multitude of senses that surged the moment you approached his door, but everything was fuzzy and melted together until all he could feel was you. Your presence, and it was driving him crazy.
“My systems are detecting an abnormally high heart rate, Peter,” Evie’s robotic voice rang out. “System overload is approaching.”
“Not now, Evie,” Peter choked out.
You shook your head in disbelief. “You can trust me, Peter. Please. Haven’t I proven that to you? After everything?”
“I-It’s not that—”
“Then what?” You approached him despite his protests, not stopping until you were a step away from touching.
His brain nearly short-circuited, any lasting restraint vanishing as he allowed you to fully flood his senses. The shampoo you used this morning, the perfume you’d applied a few hours ago, the fast thump thump of your heart, a beautiful rhythm that drowned out all rational thought to disarm him completely.
“Something is happening to me,” he gasped, the words tearing from his chest. “My arachnid DNA is… it’s evolving. Mutating. Everything is turned up to ten thousand a-and my impulses—” he cut himself off, slamming his head back against the door hard enough to make it rattle on its hinges.
You shook your head, your hands reaching for him again. “If you’re scared you’ll hurt me, you won’t—”
“No!” he spat out desperately. “It’s not that I—I c-can’t—” He was practically shaking now, violent tremors racking his body.
Your heart ached as you watched him. Unable to control yourself, you lifted your hands to cup his flushed cheeks, his skin burning under your palms. “Peter,” you whispered softly, your voice reaching him over the storm raging within.
He stared at you, his pupils dilated so wide, only a thin ring of the soft brown you loved so much was present. Your lips parted with a pant at the hunger displayed in them as you got lost in their depths, a raw need you’d never seen before. “Woah…”
A low, tormented whimper escaped him when your thumbs rubbed along his skin, the sound shooting straight to pool low in your stomach, spreading a heat you scolded yourself for internally. Now was not the time.
“I can’t think straight when you’re near,” he confessed through a strained voice. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I can’t act normal. I can’t pretend like I usually do… not when all I want to do is—”
He groaned, tipping his head back against the door, a final sliver of restrain returning before he crossed the line.
“What, Peter?” you pressed, leaning closer to eliminate the last inch of space between your bodies, your chests brushing. You looked at him with such care, your gaze so gentle and understanding and comforting. “What do you want to do?”
In the split second before he moved you were able to catch the black swallowing the last fragment of brown, followed quickly by the entirety of the whites of his eyes. Then his lips were on yours.
It was all consuming as his mouth moved over yours, desperately kissing as if you were the very air that filled his lungs and it was being threatened away from him.
His hands dug into your sides, fisting your skin to pull you flush against his body until you could feel the taught muscle hidden beneath his shirt. You gasped into his mouth when he lifted you to wrap your legs around his waist, moaning when he took the opportunity to slide his tongue along yours.
He fell back onto the couch behind him, keeping you close as he continued to devour your lips, whimpering when your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging to pull him back so you could take a breath.
He fought against your grip, his eyes opening to lock onto yours when you pulled harder. Your chest heaved as you stared into the black pools with awe.
“I-I’m sorry,” he managed to say through clenched teeth, barely suppressing the desire to ravage you whole. “I tried to hide my feelings but it's harder like this.”
The smile that graced your lips had his head spinning all over again, his eyes burning as they turned glassy.
“Feelings?” you mumbled, leaning down to ghost your lips over his, the heat in your belly spreading further when he tried to chase them. You curve into him just enough to feel something poking you as he let out another strangled gasp. “You like me, Peter?”
A tear slips down his cheek when you say his name, the sound falling so beautifully from your lips, making his cock pulse harder in his sweatpants. The grip he has on you tightens, subconsciously pressing you down over his throbbing boner.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats with a shake of his head. “I don’t want to ruin what we have, I just… can’t lose you, too.”
Your heart clenches when his voice cracks with agony. You want to scream at him and the world the depths of your feelings for him, how he could never lose you and how the same fear had been tormenting you for weeks. But words felt small, too insufficient. So you showed him by capturing his lips with yours once more.
He met them with relief, his arms wrapping fully around your torso to cage you against him in an attempt to get as close to fusing your bodies together as possible. You arched into him, fully dragging your core against his cock, the friction a sweet torture that had his mouth falling open in a broken moan.
“Please,” he gasped against your cheek.
You buried your face in the crook of his neck, your lips latching onto the sensitive skin as you rocked your hips faster. You could feel every inch of his cock pressing against your heat, your aching clit pulsating in your soaked panties. His grip on you turned bruising, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips as he guided your movements to match how much he needed you.
“So g-good… you feel so—mngh—” he whined.
Just then a sharp blaring came from the other side of the room, a sound you recognized as his police scanner. You stilled your movements and removed your head from his neck. Before you could say anything, Peter’s arm flung out. A web whipped through the air and a second later it connected with the phone, striking it hard enough for a loud crack to sound out, silencing the alarm.
His black eyes shot back to find your surprised ones. He’d never, ever, ignored the call. But tonight he didn’t care. Tonight, all he wanted was you.
You could practically see the possession in his eyes as he stood up, holding you against him. Seconds later, your back met the soft mattress of his bed as he laid you down, quickly pressing himself back between your legs, his mouth finding your neck, kissing and nipping a trail of fire. Your mind, however, was still trying to comprehend what you’d just seen.
He intertwined his fingers with yours, pinning your hands beside your head, his hips rutting shamelessly into you with a pressure that stole your breath. You turned to stare at his wrist, bare of the bulky web shooters.
“Peter,” you panted, arching into his thrust. “How did you… the web?”
His lips trailed up your cheek, messily kissing over your lips with a desperate fervor.
“Arachnid DNA,” is all he mumbled.
“O-Oh.. cool,” you managed to say before he swallowed the word with his tongue.
He parted to sit back on his heels, pulling his shirt over his head to reveal his sweat slicked torso. Your mouth went dry when he pulled down his sweats and underwear in one go, kicking them off the rest of the way.
Your gaze dropped, a heady moan slipping at the sight of his thick cock flushed a deep red as it pulsed against his stomach, streams of precum dripping down the sides.
He climbed back over you, pressing his cock into your clothed heat to resume his rutting, panting little sounds of pleasure into your ear.
“Mnmh—ah! I can—fuck… I can feel how warm you are, can smell you." His hands slipped beneath your shirt, running up until they grazed the soft skin of your breasts.
Something new in him snapped when he realized you weren't wearing a bra. He started snapping his hips harder into you until your body was climbing up the bed. “I’m sorry—oh god… fuck, I’m so sorry—I can't stop—”
“It’s okay, Peter.”
“No,” he pleaded, his lips brushing your throat. “I can’t hold back anymore. Fuck—I need you to tell me—”
“I’m here for you, Peter,” you whispered, cupping his face to force his dazed eyes back to yours. His lids were blotchy with tears, his lips red and kiss-swollen. You could see the struggle in them, the fight against his depraved thoughts to make sure you were okay with this. It only made you want him more. “Use me.”
Any remaining tension in his face melted. His brows relaxed, the cute crinkles by his eyes smoothing over at your permission.
He shoved your shirt over your head, moaning at the sight of your chest, your nipples peaked and begging for his touch. He captured one in his mouth, laving it with his tongue before sucking hard. His other hand rolled the other between his fingers, flicking and pinching the sensitive bud, drawing out high pitched cries from your lips.
“Mmm, so pretty, taste so sweet.”
His free hand fumbled with your pants in an attempt to push them down, a frustrated, almost animalistic groan escaping him when they caught on your hips. He gave a small tug and tore the fabric away from your body, discarding it without a second thought.
“Hey!” you yelped, the protest dying when he pressed the hot head of his cock through your sodden folds, rubbing it through the slick mess.
The slick sounds of your wet heat were enough to make his consciousness slip as he failed to suppress a sob.
He could hear every microscopic hitch of your breath in his heightened ears, every pulse at your clit against his shaft a divine torment, the rush of your blood beneath your skin. You watched, enamored, as his eyes fluttered weakly when his tip caught at your hole, and then he was pushing in.
“O-Oh fuu—” his eyes fluttered as your tight cunt clenched around the invasion.
“I’m sorry, so sorry—so tight, fuck, ‘M sorry—” he apologized in a continuous stream as he sank in, forcing himself deeper until he was fully bottomed out. Tears slipped from his eyes, cascading down his flushed cheeks, your walls clamping down to draw out more small cries from him, basking in the sight.
You sucked in a sharp breath at the stretch. It had been a while for you and Peter was so thick. You could feel every vein, every ridge of his cock dragging against your velvety walls as his hips met yours.
Before you could fully adjust and let the sting subside, he was pulling out and driving back into you with a punctured breath, stealing the air from your lungs. You dug your nails into the muscles of his back, biting your lip to suppress a yelp as he set a brutal pace, each thrust burying him just as deep.
The head of his cock kissed your cervix with an overwhelming, euphoric pressure.
“Cunt feels so fucking good, squeezing me so tight.”
The pain began to fade, replaced by a pleasure so sharp it bordered on agony. You wrapped your legs tighter around him, locking your ankles, pushing him deeper inside you. “'M so full, Peter.”
He collapsed onto you, his lips leaving wet, sloppy kisses wherever he could reach as he fucked you mercilessly, his cock pistoning in and out of you.
The pressure in your belly snuck up on you, building and coiling tight like a live wire trapped beneath your skin.
“P-Peter—!” you cried out, your cunt fluttering around his cock. You bowed off the bed, your back arching as he fucked the orgasm out of you, wave after wave of white-hot ecstasy flowing through your nerves.
The foreign scent of your cum invaded his senses, something he could only describe as overwhelmingly you and all-consuming, causing his eyes to screw shut with a sob.
The violent constrictions of your walls around his cock only edged him on further. He fucked you through your climax with ragged, desperate bucks, his movements dissolving into a frenzy, the filthy sounds of wet skin slapping together filling the room.
You latched onto his wrists beside your head, feeling an intense heat radiating from the hypersensitive skin over his organic webbing. Before you were even aware of your actions, your head was turning, your lips pressing a soft kiss to his wrist.
Words were beyond him as your touch reduced him to incoherent, whimpering babbles. “Feels… s’good—mphm. C-Can’t… ‘M yours… all yours—”
His thrusts turned erratic, his gut tightening as he rested his forehead on your chest, nuzzling into your skin in an attempt to sink into you, to become one.
"It h- it hurts—can't stop... 'M sorry—"
You could feel his cock swelling inside you, his thrust faltering to shallow, uncoordinated thrusts. A sob wretched from him, wanton and broken, hot tears spilling from his clenched eyes, dripping onto your skin.
"Come for me, Peter."
He sank all the way in one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go as his body tensed.
Then his mind blanked.
His vision went black, speckled with stars. With a guttural cry, he came, his release a torrent, spilling deep into your cunt in thick, hot pulsing waves. He whined into your chest, his body spasming through each powerful jet.
You panted through each hard twitch of his cock, overwhelmed with the sheer volume of cum as he continued to fill you, the sensation so intense you struggled to catch your breath. It just kept going as he shook above you, his cum leaking out around the base of his cock still stuffed deep inside you.
He stayed there as your cunt milked every drop, creating a home for himself, content with living inside you for as long as you'd let him.
You carded a hand through his hair as tremors continued to wrack his oversensitive body. “Shh, you’re okay,” you whispered into his ear, your voice hoarse. “You did so good.”
He went boneless above you, a dead, spent weight. Eventually, his softened cock slipped from your used cunt, followed by a stream of his release dripping down to soak the sheets as you whimpered through it all.
A few moments later, the silence in the room was broken by Evie’s voice. “Heart rate regulated. Vitals have returned to baseline levels.”
It seemed to bring Peter back to earth. He lifted his head from your chest with a groggy moan, blinking blearily down at you. His eyes were back to their normal, warm brown, the black reduced to his pupils, though still glazed with wonder.
You guided him to his back, leaning over to wipe the tears from his cheek before pressing a soft kiss to his lips.
He sniffled, fresh tears welling in his bloodshot eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “I didn’t… I didn’t want it to happen like that. I wanted to be… better for you.”
You shushed him gently, kissing his cheek. “We’re okay.”
“I’m sorry,” he insisted, the vulnerability clear in his tone. “I am.”
You shook your head, a small smile playing at your lips. “Then never ignore me like that again.”
He sniffled with a nod, his lips squirking up into that boyish smile that made your heart ache. “Okay.”
“Do you feel better?” you asked, your hands smoothing down his chest.
He nodded, a dark blush spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. “I didn’t know I could feel that good,” he admitted with awe.
“Has it been a while for you, too?”
He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking away for a second before meeting yours again anxiously. ‘I’ve never, um…” he took a shaky, deep breath. “That was my uh, first time.”
Your hands froze on his chest. “What?”
He winced. “I told you I couldn’t control myself.”
You laughed at the surprising confession, leaning down to brush your nose against his. “Well, at least it was memorable.”
He smiled, all shy and genuine and so Peter-like, you couldn’t resist kissing him, tender and slow. Your hand continued rubbing, your thumb brushing over a nipple, circling it to a peak when he whimpered, his whole body jolting back away at your touch.
“Tsk, so sensitive.” Your hand trailed lower, grazing over the dips of muscle to rest just above where his cock was stirring back to life. “So how easy is it for that side of you to come out?”
His breath caught as your finger dug into the sensitive skin of his lower stomach. When you flicked your eyes back up to his, you saw it again.
The inky blackness had started to expand, swallowing the warm brown, once again drawn out by you.
Don't be shy to leave a like comment or reblog, truly means the world to me :D
Summary ⟅ When it comes time for you to finally admit your feelings for Peter, you meet a version of him you've never seen before.
Requested: yes
Peter Parker x Reader / ⟣ SMUT / 3.6k ⟢
Warnings: BND peter, no spoilers that aren't in the trailer, light angst if you squint, virgin!peter (is this canon...?), peter is SENSITIVE, some yearning, grinding, dry humping (everyone cheered), dirty talk, peter is losing control, p in v, dacryphilia, nipple sucking, peter cums A LOT, creampie, slight praise, he whines and whimpers a bunch, he overstimulates himself, kinda sub space, I think that's it?
Lily's note — 🪷 well this is clearly not my niche but i got that request and needy peter? you don't have to ask me twice. IF YOU ENJOY PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT LETTING ME KNOW :D
It had taken you a while to break through to Peter. But ever since you bumped into him that first day of moving into your new apartment, there was something about his eyes—something that eerily reflected the pain you'd felt through the past years—that made you want to know him.
He was extremely hesitant at first, understandably so given what you knew now about the whole spiderman and everyone forgetting him thing, but after getting to know you and hearing about the barrage of troubles the universe had thrusted your way, he figured if there was anyone he could trust, it was you.
A year later, not much had changed in your lives. You were still two struggling adults in your twenties just trying to get by on the day-to-day, except now, at least you had each other to cope. At least you were able to find some reprieve and light, though the pain from your lives remained a low hum in the background.
You weren't exactly sure when it began happening—maybe a few months in—but you noticed it randomly one day. Your heart started beating faster around him. Then, he began taking up extra space in your mind until eventually, the thoughts became too loud to ignore.
You chalked the feelings up to all the trauma bonding and hours you’d spent together trying to shut out and disappear from the real world. You tried to ignore the rush of joy you felt when he laughed, or the dizziness of your head whenever you caught a glimpse of him changing out of his suit, until you were drowning in a pool of affection that you weren't sure you could surface from.
There’d been a few times the confession almost slipped from your tongue. The intimate nights sitting out on the fire escape with food and the sound of the city in the distance, or the times where he sat a little too close to you on the couch during movie nights.
But then he’d sigh, his gaze going foggy as he zoned out on some far off point, murmuring, “MJ would have hated this movie,” or “Ned used to love this burger place.”
And just like that the words would die on your tongue. How could you ever compete with the monument of love he carried for his past relationships? No, it was easier to suppress the feelings and toss them atop the mountain of other struggles you carried. You’d learn to manage with the extra weight simple because the alternative—a life absent of his presence—wasn’t something you could fathom.
Then things started changing.
First, he was suddenly busy on your sacred days off, days you would always spend together exploring new restaurants and coffee shops around the city. Then, he started turning you away on his patrol nights, nights where you’d kept him company and even helped patch up the nastier cuts he couldn't reach. Excuse after excuse came and the fear that he’d figured out your feelings twisted your gut with nerves.
It didn't take long for you to come to the conclusion that he was building a wall to preserve the sanctity of his memory with MJ. There could be no other reason for the sudden distance. You tried convincing yourself it was for the best. The perfect solution to help you cope with losing him, because if it wasn’t now, it would be later.
You lasted exactly three days. Three days of radio silence was what it took for you to realize that no, you couldn’t do this. You couldn’t stay away from him. Maybe it was the return to a forgotten loneliness, a deep, screaming void, that had you knocking on his door frantically that night, your fist nearly pounding through the paint-chipped wood.
The door cracked open an inch and before he could get the opportunity to reject you, you pushed your way through, bursting into his apartment with a temper he’d never seen.
“Hey, stranger,” you said with a hint of venom in your voice. You turned to face him, your eyes widening slightly at the sight of his pale, flushed skin, a fine sheen of sweat settled on his temples. His eyes looked unusually dark; you blinked your own a few times to clear them and make sure you weren’t seeing something that wasn’t there.
He said your name through the rasp of his shaky voice. “I-I’m sorry, I’m busy right now… you should go.”
“Like hell I should,” you scoffed, any anxious thoughts replaced by an unwavering surge of protectiveness. “Is this why you’ve been ghosting me? Are you sick or something?”
His face suddenly scrunched up, his hand raising to hold his head as he whimpered in pain. “I’m n-not ghosting you… I just…”
You took a step closer to him, freezing when he flinched back and held out a hand to stop you. Your heart fell to your stomach as you watched his eyes darken further. “Pete, I don’t know what’s going on but, please, let me help you… Stop pushing me away.”
You attempted another careful step forward until he pushed himself back against the wall.
“S-stop, stop! Please just… don’t come closer.”
You swallowed down the thick lump in your throat that had risen, clenching your hands into fists to stop them from shaking. You waited patiently for him to speak, scared that the next words that left him were going to be the ones to shatter your world.
“I,” he paused, breathing in a deep breath before continuing. “I can’t… trust myself to be around you right now.”
Your brows pressed together in confusion. “Why not?”
His eyes bore into the ground as he tried to gather his thoughts over the multitude of senses that surged the moment you approached his door, but everything was fuzzy and melted together until all he could feel was you. Your presence, and it was driving him crazy.
“My systems are detecting an abnormally high heart rate, Peter,” Evie’s robotic voice rang out. “System overload is approaching.”
“Not now, Evie,” Peter choked out.
You shook your head in disbelief. “You can trust me, Peter. Please. Haven’t I proven that to you? After everything?”
“I-It’s not that—”
“Then what?” You approached him despite his protests, not stopping until you were a step away from touching.
His brain nearly short-circuited, any lasting restraint vanishing as he allowed you to fully flood his senses. The shampoo you used this morning, the perfume you’d applied a few hours ago, the fast thump thump of your heart, a beautiful rhythm that drowned out all rational thought to disarm him completely.
“Something is happening to me,” he gasped, the words tearing from his chest. “My arachnid DNA is… it’s evolving. Mutating. Everything is turned up to ten thousand a-and my impulses—” he cut himself off, slamming his head back against the door hard enough to make it rattle on its hinges.
You shook your head, your hands reaching for him again. “If you’re scared you’ll hurt me, you won’t—”
“No!” he spat out desperately. “It’s not that I—I c-can’t—” He was practically shaking now, violent tremors racking his body.
Your heart ached as you watched him. Unable to control yourself, you lifted your hands to cup his flushed cheeks, his skin burning under your palms. “Peter,” you whispered softly, your voice reaching him over the storm raging within.
He stared at you, his pupils dilated so wide, only a thin ring of the soft brown you loved so much was present. Your lips parted with a pant at the hunger displayed in them as you got lost in their depths, a raw need you’d never seen before. “Woah…”
A low, tormented whimper escaped him when your thumbs rubbed along his skin, the sound shooting straight to pool low in your stomach, spreading a heat you scolded yourself for internally. Now was not the time.
“I can’t think straight when you’re near,” he confessed through a strained voice. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I can’t act normal. I can’t pretend like I usually do… not when all I want to do is—”
He groaned, tipping his head back against the door, a final sliver of restrain returning before he crossed the line.
“What, Peter?” you pressed, leaning closer to eliminate the last inch of space between your bodies, your chests brushing. You looked at him with such care, your gaze so gentle and understanding and comforting. “What do you want to do?”
In the split second before he moved you were able to catch the black swallowing the last fragment of brown, followed quickly by the entirety of the whites of his eyes. Then his lips were on yours.
It was all consuming as his mouth moved over yours, desperately kissing as if you were the very air that filled his lungs and it was being threatened away from him.
His hands dug into your sides, fisting your skin to pull you flush against his body until you could feel the taught muscle hidden beneath his shirt. You gasped into his mouth when he lifted you to wrap your legs around his waist, moaning when he took the opportunity to slide his tongue along yours.
He fell back onto the couch behind him, keeping you close as he continued to devour your lips, whimpering when your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging to pull him back so you could take a breath.
He fought against your grip, his eyes opening to lock onto yours when you pulled harder. Your chest heaved as you stared into the black pools with awe.
“I-I’m sorry,” he managed to say through clenched teeth, barely suppressing the desire to ravage you whole. “I tried to hide my feelings but it's harder like this.”
The smile that graced your lips had his head spinning all over again, his eyes burning as they turned glassy.
“Feelings?” you mumbled, leaning down to ghost your lips over his, the heat in your belly spreading further when he tried to chase them. You curve into him just enough to feel something poking you as he let out another strangled gasp. “You like me, Peter?”
A tear slips down his cheek when you say his name, the sound falling so beautifully from your lips, making his cock pulse harder in his sweatpants. The grip he has on you tightens, subconsciously pressing you down over his throbbing boner.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats with a shake of his head. “I don’t want to ruin what we have, I just… can’t lose you, too.”
Your heart clenches when his voice cracks with agony. You want to scream at him and the world the depths of your feelings for him, how he could never lose you and how the same fear had been tormenting you for weeks. But words felt small, too insufficient. So you showed him by capturing his lips with yours once more.
He met them with relief, his arms wrapping fully around your torso to cage you against him in an attempt to get as close to fusing your bodies together as possible. You arched into him, fully dragging your core against his cock, the friction a sweet torture that had his mouth falling open in a broken moan.
“Please,” he gasped against your cheek.
You buried your face in the crook of his neck, your lips latching onto the sensitive skin as you rocked your hips faster. You could feel every inch of his cock pressing against your heat, your aching clit pulsating in your soaked panties. His grip on you turned bruising, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips as he guided your movements to match how much he needed you.
“So g-good… you feel so—mngh—” he whined.
Just then a sharp blaring came from the other side of the room, a sound you recognized as his police scanner. You stilled your movements and removed your head from his neck. Before you could say anything, Peter’s arm flung out. A web whipped through the air and a second later it connected with the phone, striking it hard enough for a loud crack to sound out, silencing the alarm.
His black eyes shot back to find your surprised ones. He’d never, ever, ignored the call. But tonight he didn’t care. Tonight, all he wanted was you.
You could practically see the possession in his eyes as he stood up, holding you against him. Seconds later, your back met the soft mattress of his bed as he laid you down, quickly pressing himself back between your legs, his mouth finding your neck, kissing and nipping a trail of fire. Your mind, however, was still trying to comprehend what you’d just seen.
He intertwined his fingers with yours, pinning your hands beside your head, his hips rutting shamelessly into you with a pressure that stole your breath. You turned to stare at his wrist, bare of the bulky web shooters.
“Peter,” you panted, arching into his thrust. “How did you… the web?”
His lips trailed up your cheek, messily kissing over your lips with a desperate fervor.
“Arachnid DNA,” is all he mumbled.
“O-Oh.. cool,” you managed to say before he swallowed the word with his tongue.
He parted to sit back on his heels, pulling his shirt over his head to reveal his sweat slicked torso. Your mouth went dry when he pulled down his sweats and underwear in one go, kicking them off the rest of the way.
Your gaze dropped, a heady moan slipping at the sight of his thick cock flushed a deep red as it pulsed against his stomach, streams of precum dripping down the sides.
He climbed back over you, pressing his cock into your clothed heat to resume his rutting, panting little sounds of pleasure into your ear.
“Mnmh—ah! I can—fuck… I can feel how warm you are, can smell you." His hands slipped beneath your shirt, running up until they grazed the soft skin of your breasts.
Something new in him snapped when he realized you weren't wearing a bra. He started snapping his hips harder into you until your body was climbing up the bed. “I’m sorry—oh god… fuck, I’m so sorry—I can't stop—”
“It’s okay, Peter.”
“No,” he pleaded, his lips brushing your throat. “I can’t hold back anymore. Fuck—I need you to tell me—”
“I’m here for you, Peter,” you whispered, cupping his face to force his dazed eyes back to yours. His lids were blotchy with tears, his lips red and kiss-swollen. You could see the struggle in them, the fight against his depraved thoughts to make sure you were okay with this. It only made you want him more. “Use me.”
Any remaining tension in his face melted. His brows relaxed, the cute crinkles by his eyes smoothing over at your permission.
He shoved your shirt over your head, moaning at the sight of your chest, your nipples peaked and begging for his touch. He captured one in his mouth, laving it with his tongue before sucking hard. His other hand rolled the other between his fingers, flicking and pinching the sensitive bud, drawing out high pitched cries from your lips.
“Mmm, so pretty, taste so sweet.”
His free hand fumbled with your pants in an attempt to push them down, a frustrated, almost animalistic groan escaping him when they caught on your hips. He gave a small tug and tore the fabric away from your body, discarding it without a second thought.
“Hey!” you yelped, the protest dying when he pressed the hot head of his cock through your sodden folds, rubbing it through the slick mess.
The slick sounds of your wet heat were enough to make his consciousness slip as he failed to suppress a sob.
He could hear every microscopic hitch of your breath in his heightened ears, every pulse at your clit against his shaft a divine torment, the rush of your blood beneath your skin. You watched, enamored, as his eyes fluttered weakly when his tip caught at your hole, and then he was pushing in.
“O-Oh fuu—” his eyes fluttered as your tight cunt clenched around the invasion.
“I’m sorry, so sorry—so tight, fuck, ‘M sorry—” he apologized in a continuous stream as he sank in, forcing himself deeper until he was fully bottomed out. Tears slipped from his eyes, cascading down his flushed cheeks, your walls clamping down to draw out more small cries from him, basking in the sight.
You sucked in a sharp breath at the stretch. It had been a while for you and Peter was so thick. You could feel every vein, every ridge of his cock dragging against your velvety walls as his hips met yours.
Before you could fully adjust and let the sting subside, he was pulling out and driving back into you with a punctured breath, stealing the air from your lungs. You dug your nails into the muscles of his back, biting your lip to suppress a yelp as he set a brutal pace, each thrust burying him just as deep.
The head of his cock kissed your cervix with an overwhelming, euphoric pressure.
“Cunt feels so fucking good, squeezing me so tight.”
The pain began to fade, replaced by a pleasure so sharp it bordered on agony. You wrapped your legs tighter around him, locking your ankles, pushing him deeper inside you. “'M so full, Peter.”
He collapsed onto you, his lips leaving wet, sloppy kisses wherever he could reach as he fucked you mercilessly, his cock pistoning in and out of you.
The pressure in your belly snuck up on you, building and coiling tight like a live wire trapped beneath your skin.
“P-Peter—!” you cried out, your cunt fluttering around his cock. You bowed off the bed, your back arching as he fucked the orgasm out of you, wave after wave of white-hot ecstasy flowing through your nerves.
The foreign scent of your cum invaded his senses, something he could only describe as overwhelmingly you and all-consuming, causing his eyes to screw shut with a sob.
The violent constrictions of your walls around his cock only edged him on further. He fucked you through your climax with ragged, desperate bucks, his movements dissolving into a frenzy, the filthy sounds of wet skin slapping together filling the room.
You latched onto his wrists beside your head, feeling an intense heat radiating from the hypersensitive skin over his organic webbing. Before you were even aware of your actions, your head was turning, your lips pressing a soft kiss to his wrist.
Words were beyond him as your touch reduced him to incoherent, whimpering babbles. “Feels… s’good—mphm. C-Can’t… ‘M yours… all yours—”
His thrusts turned erratic, his gut tightening as he rested his forehead on your chest, nuzzling into your skin in an attempt to sink into you, to become one.
"It h- it hurts—can't stop... 'M sorry—"
You could feel his cock swelling inside you, his thrust faltering to shallow, uncoordinated thrusts. A sob wretched from him, wanton and broken, hot tears spilling from his clenched eyes, dripping onto your skin.
"Come for me, Peter."
He sank all the way in one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go as his body tensed.
Then his mind blanked.
His vision went black, speckled with stars. With a guttural cry, he came, his release a torrent, spilling deep into your cunt in thick, hot pulsing waves. He whined into your chest, his body spasming through each powerful jet.
You panted through each hard twitch of his cock, overwhelmed with the sheer volume of cum as he continued to fill you, the sensation so intense you struggled to catch your breath. It just kept going as he shook above you, his cum leaking out around the base of his cock still stuffed deep inside you.
He stayed there as your cunt milked every drop, creating a home for himself, content with living inside you for as long as you'd let him.
You carded a hand through his hair as tremors continued to wrack his oversensitive body. “Shh, you’re okay,” you whispered into his ear, your voice hoarse. “You did so good.”
He went boneless above you, a dead, spent weight. Eventually, his softened cock slipped from your used cunt, followed by a stream of his release dripping down to soak the sheets as you whimpered through it all.
A few moments later, the silence in the room was broken by Evie’s voice. “Heart rate regulated. Vitals have returned to baseline levels.”
It seemed to bring Peter back to earth. He lifted his head from your chest with a groggy moan, blinking blearily down at you. His eyes were back to their normal, warm brown, the black reduced to his pupils, though still glazed with wonder.
You guided him to his back, leaning over to wipe the tears from his cheek before pressing a soft kiss to his lips.
He sniffled, fresh tears welling in his bloodshot eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “I didn’t… I didn’t want it to happen like that. I wanted to be… better for you.”
You shushed him gently, kissing his cheek. “We’re okay.”
“I’m sorry,” he insisted, the vulnerability clear in his tone. “I am.”
You shook your head, a small smile playing at your lips. “Then never ignore me like that again.”
He sniffled with a nod, his lips squirking up into that boyish smile that made your heart ache. “Okay.”
“Do you feel better?” you asked, your hands smoothing down his chest.
He nodded, a dark blush spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. “I didn’t know I could feel that good,” he admitted with awe.
“Has it been a while for you, too?”
He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking away for a second before meeting yours again anxiously. ‘I’ve never, um…” he took a shaky, deep breath. “That was my uh, first time.”
Your hands froze on his chest. “What?”
He winced. “I told you I couldn’t control myself.”
You laughed at the surprising confession, leaning down to brush your nose against his. “Well, at least it was memorable.”
He smiled, all shy and genuine and so Peter-like, you couldn’t resist kissing him, tender and slow. Your hand continued rubbing, your thumb brushing over a nipple, circling it to a peak when he whimpered, his whole body jolting back away at your touch.
“Tsk, so sensitive.” Your hand trailed lower, grazing over the dips of muscle to rest just above where his cock was stirring back to life. “So how easy is it for that side of you to come out?”
His breath caught as your finger dug into the sensitive skin of his lower stomach. When you flicked your eyes back up to his, you saw it again.
The inky blackness had started to expand, swallowing the warm brown, once again drawn out by you.
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Description: You’re spider-man’s closest thing to a friend since the world forgot his name. Helping him with gadgets, cleaning his wounds…all without him ever taking the mask off. His true identity has always been a barrier between you two, but what happens when he gets hit with the pollen, and not only him, but the creature lurking inside him fixates on the only person he gets to call home?
Tags/warnings: sex pollen smut, fem!reader, porn with plot, whiny desperate peter >>>, dry humping, piv, riding, oral fem!rec, fingering, dark!peter taking over for a bit, orgasm denial, prone bone, so much yearning, mask stays on…or does it?
Note: You have no idea how giddy it makes me to write him again. He had NO business looking that good in the movie so I had to get this out of my system. Enjoy 🤍
Masterlist
You've seen spiderman hurt many times. When you signed the lease of the first apartment you could afford as a recent graduate, you never thought that would become your new normal.
The first time it happened was completely accidental. He’d arrived at the building in the middle of the night, bruised, bleeding and too disoriented to realize that the window he’d come through was not his.
That night, the noise of a heavy body collapsing onto the floor woke you up. For one terrifying moment, you believed someone had broken into your apartment, only to switch on the lamp and find the city’s superhero groaning and pressing his hands to his side. His suit was torn there, and blood soaked through the ruined fabric onto your rug.
He barely lifted his head when he heard you gasp, the lens of his mask focusing on your figure standing there with wide eyes, wearing only an oversized shirt.
“Wrong window,” he choked, then tried to hold himself up but immediately collapsed again. “Dammit,” he cursed, waiting for you to freak out any second now.
You could have, but instead you rushed to him and knelt beside him.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” Your hands hovered helplessly over his body, trying to see how bad the damage was in the dark. “You need a hospital–”
“No!” He snapped, trying to turn away but failing miserably. “I’ll be fine, I heal quickly.”
“You still need to stop the bleeding,” you countered, folding your knees under your body so you could rest on your calves. “Listen, I can help you. I took some medical courses last year and I have a kit somewhere.”
You looked at him with pleading eyes. He’d saved the city so many times, the fucking world, it was the least you could do to give something back.
He considered his options for a second, and to be honest he didn’t have many. His body was betraying him, and he couldn’t even get up to fix it himself like usual.
The blood loss made him nod, and you wasted no time in getting up and finding said kit. The blood loss also made him drift in and out of consciousness as you tended to the wounds on his ribs as much as you could.
It did not make him less cautious of you though. When you noticed the rip on his mask over a nasty gash on his neck and reached for it, his hand closed around your wrist and even half conscious, his grip was strong.
“Please,” he whispered. Pleaded. “Keep it on.”
The fear in his voice made you promise you would. Even if you couldn’t get to that gash properly. Even when he fell asleep on your floor and didn’t wake up for six whole hours.
The next morning, he opened his eyes and found you sitting on your bed, still staring at him.
His hands patted his chest, and confirmed his arachnid powers had done its job and healed him mostly. But most importantly, his mask was still in place. With no warning from E.V of it being removed. He learned that you’d spent the night making sure he was still breathing without seeing his face.
That had been one year ago.
After thanking you profoundly for helping him, he’d repaired your window, apologized several times, and disappeared into the apartment next door. He then considered moving into another building, but the thought was brushed away very quickly when he remembered the balance in his bank account.
So he acted more careful instead. For a while, he only turned back home when your curtains were already closed, or he only left the apartment when you had already left for your job (because yes, he absolutely researched the hell out of you after that night.)
Then he moved to the attic of the building. Bigger space, no neighbors, no risks. No you. Or at least he thought.
Because some nights…some delirious nights he still found your window a few stories down, and the accidental visits became less accidental. When he was too badly injured to care for himself, he came to you, even after you confessed your degree had nothing to do with medicine.
When he noticed you understood about his equipment malfunctioning, he’d bring it for you to inspect. When he became too reckless with himself you talked his ear off about how being difficult to kill did not make him immortal.
Somewhere along the way, you became spiderman’s friend.
Spiderman was safer. With you, spiderman was the only part of him he could let you see. Because that was the thing, you only knew the masked superhero.
He’d spent so much time blocking away his identity, making peace with the fact that there was no longer anyone in the world who would call him Peter and know exactly who that person was. That name only belonged to the people that once knew him, and no longer existed, so he never gave it to you.
Never showed you more than a sliver of skin when his mask rode up or glimpses of his abdomen when you tended to his wounds. He always kept that barrier and you respected it, even on those nights he was too weak to stop you. Even if sometimes not knowing the color of his eyes kept you up at night.
A promise was a promise.
Maybe that’s why he kept coming. Why he trusted you with a certainty he couldn’t understand. Why he eventually showed you his new living quarters in the attic and let you spend time with him. Why half a year ago, he added another chair next to his desk so you could work together, or help him when he was out patrolling and needed an extra set of eyes.
“I’m officially the girl in the chair, spidey,” you joked that time as you sat next to him, spinning around in your chair.
He’d gone quiet immediately, his body tensing up enough to make you frown, but then managed a small smile and said you were. You pretended you didn’t notice him being too quiet as he worked on his inhibitor after that.
He was wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and the mask. Always the mask that didn’t quite let you see through him. After a moment of quiet, you rolled your chair closer to his and nudged his arm playfully.
“You know I can’t keep calling you spidey forever, right?”
He snapped out of his trance, and the chuckle that came from under the fabric was unmistakable.
“Why not?” He nudged your arm back, but still focused on the device he was hunched over. “I like spidey.”
You put your elbow on the desk, resting your cheek on your hand so you could lean a little closer.
“I like it too, but it feels ridiculous after having my hands all over your body almost every night.”
The moment the words left your lips, you realized how bad that sounded. He straightened up, turning toward you.
“Wow.” Even if you couldn’t see the smile on his face, the lenses of his mask were quite expressive sometimes. He was amused.
“That came out very wrong,” you said immediately, before he bursted into laughter. He had been laughing more since you entered his life. “You know what I meant,” you whined, laughing too with heat flooding your cheeks.
“I think I know,” he chuckled, making you roll your eyes.
“I’m being serious though,” you added, a little more quietly. “You don’t have to say your real name. Just give me something.”
“Mmm…” he acted like has considering it, going back to tinkering with the piece of metal between his fingers, but then his eyes drifted to the flowers he’d bought that morning, and the name came out of his lips before he could think twice about it. “You can call me Maynard.”
“Maynard?” You repeated, suppressing a chuckle. “You don’t sound like a Maynard. That’s like an 80 year old man’s name.”
“That’s all I can give you,” he shrugged playfully.
You had a feeling it went deeper than that, but you’d also learned not to push it with him.
“Alright. Maynard,” you nodded, “but don’t expect me to use that name unless you’re dying. Guess I’ll stick to spidey for now,” you chuckled, going back to your own work as he hummed in agreement.
The conversation ended there. With him trying not to think about your hands all over his body in…different conditions.
Peter didn’t know exactly when his gratitude became longing. He could not identify the moment the friendship, the closeness, or just your smile, shifted into something he craved everyday.
Despite the mask and the fake name, he knew that after years of being no one to everyone, he had become someone to you. And you had become everything to him. Even if it was behind walls he’d built, you were the person who knew him better than anyone alive.
Which is why, the night he lost control of himself after an unknown dust was thrown at him in a fight, he chose not to crash land into your room.
Peter hit the floor of the dark attic with a loud thud, as his senses went overboard. His suit was sticking to his body uncomfortably due to the sweat coating his feverish skin. The fabric was intact, with no visible wounds in his body, just that burning sensation of something running through his veins.
And that dark part of him he’d managed to lock down with the inhibitor, trying to claw its way out.
“What the…what the fuck is going on,” he cursed, clutching his heaving chest as he panted against the worn wood floors. “I can’t–I can’t breathe…”
The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence.
“You have arrived injured. I’m letting her know–”
“NO!” He cut the AI off, “EV, don’t tell her–”
“Message already sent.”
He glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. 2:18 am.
He groaned, grabbing his head when a wave of migraine hit him. He knew what came after that. The black eyes. The desire to break. To take. But this time something felt different. It was like a pull, looking for something or someone…for…for you?
Oh fuck.
You were going to come in and you were going to see him like this. No, no–
“Spidey?” You asked from behind the door, knocking exactly twice before opening it anyways.
The air changed the exact moment you walked in, and that something inside him shifted too. It became aware that the only thing it craved to survive was in the room now.
He needed to get to you. He needed to pin you down and–
“Don’t!” He managed to scream, holding his hand up weakly when you scrambled toward him.
You stopped right in your tracks, eyes wide and running all over him, searching for torn fabric, blood, or anything that would explain why he looked like every breath was painful.
“What happened?” You frowned, when you couldn’t find any source. “Did you get hurt?”
You instinctively stepped forward, but he waved his hand in front of him again.
“Stop, stop, stop,” he said quickly, “don’t come any closer.”
The harshness in his voice caught you off guard, but what sealed the deal was him dragging himself further away from you. It was barely more than a clumsy, desperate crawl, but he managed to put a decent distance between you before collapsing against the side of his thrifted couch.
He avoided looking at you. The oversized shirt covering your body, the comfy shorts you were probably wearing, the way your hair looked messy from rolling out of bed as soon as you got EV’s warning even if you had work the next morning.
You stayed right where you were, watching him. His suit had always fit him like it was painted on his skin, but every pant made his chest rise and fall beneath the fabric so violently that you wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped at the seams.
This reminded you too much of the changes that happened in him months ago.
It started with a sharpened temper, then the heightened sensitivity to everything, the black covering his eyes, and moments during patrol when his reactions became simply frightening for someone who had as much strength as he did. But you were supposed to have stopped it.
“Is it the inhibitor?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, “is it failing?”
“I–I don’t know…I was hit with some dust out there,” he breathed. “I think it’s tampering with it…my head is killing me. Everything is too much.”
You nodded, turning toward the workstation.
“I will check the programming. Just hold on.” Not your best attempt at reassuring him, but he groaned in acknowledgment.
“EV?”
The computer woke when you touched the keyboard, illuminating the dark attic in a wash of blue light.
“Online.”
“Please run a diagnostic on the inhibitor and any possible interference.”
“Beginning diagnostic.”
You waited impatiently for the results, tapping your fingers on the desk while you watched him from the corner of your eye.
Over there, he…he was doing his best trying to breathe.
This obviously wasn't his first time having sensory overload. When the animal tried to take over the human part of him, everything in the city became impossible to escape. Not a single movement, or sound, or simple existence within miles was unnoticed by him.
But this time? The rest of the city had disappeared. There were no sirens in the distance, or voices coming through the walls, or every heartbeat in the building pounding in his head.
There was only you.
Your rapid heartbeat echoing inside him. He felt every tap of your fingers against the wood, every slight catch in your breathing each time he made another involuntary and pathetic sound from his spot on the floor.
Your scent…God, your scent filled the entire apartment.
The scent he found himself coming back to so often that it scared him. He didn’t want the attachment. The possibility of having someone again only to risk losing them again.
That same scent was making every muscle in his body react in a way he didn’t understand. It made him, and the other him, wanna do things to you he had only dreamed of in his wildest fantasies. Things he wasn’t proud of, things he wouldn’t dare to say out loud, even if he looked at you through the lenses of his mask and you couldn’t see the black in his eyes.
He pressed the back of his head against the couch harshly.
This was wrong. So wrong.
His senses were supposed to consume everything when the change came. Instead, they had fixed themselves entirely on you.
He could feel the heat of your body from across the room as though you were still in front of him. Could remember with sickening detail how soft your hands looked when they reached for him. Could almost feel the burn of the touch that had never landed because he stopped you.
What if he’d let you? What if he’d felt the way your hands ran all over his body? What if you’d moved them lower, and lower, as your mouth–
“Diagnostic complete.”
Your heads snapped toward the screen.
“There’s no external damage affecting the integrity of the device. I detected a foreign biotoxin in the bloodstream that may be bypassing the inhibitor, activating the suppressed arachnid hormones.”
“What biotoxin?” You frowned.
“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.”
Great. He thought. He had no time to take a bath with Yelena Belova to find out what the stupid dust was.
The screen changed, displaying a model of his nervous system. There were yellow bright lines pulsing quickly, running all the way from the base of his brain down the length of his spine. Something unknown was moving through his blood, altering the part of him he had spent months forcing into submission.
He sucked in a breath as he watched you read the screen. Your eyes were focused, and a bead of sweat made its way down the side of your forehead.
He suddenly felt the need to lick it off.
Wanted to run his tongue from the base of your neck to the back of your ear. Wanted to fist your hair and make your heart beat out of your chest from how good he knew he could make you feel–
“The effects remain within his enhanced tolerance. However, prolonged exposure to certain hormones can cause extreme distress without relief.”
“What hormones?” Your voice, worried and unknowing of his thoughts only made him feel guiltier.
It took him a second to realize what you asked, but EV threw him under the bus before he could say anything.
“There’s a significant rise in reproductive hormones. The unknown toxin is inducing a strong mating response in him.”
Mating response. He stopped breathing.
Your eyes slowly moved from the monitor to him, and he saw the moment your attention dropped lower to the tent of his pants.
That suit concealed nothing on a good day. On one like this? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck–
He shifted almost immediately, but the movement only worsened the pressure, pulling a helpless groan from his throat that made your pulse jump. You looked away at once, turning back to the computer.
“Is there a way we can…umm…stop it?” You asked hesitantly.
“The subject is experiencing severe sexual arousal with a fixation on a nearby individual,” she explained, because fuck him if he wasn’t the unluckiest individual on earth. “Acting upon it can be a positive option to relieve sexual tension.”
He wished the floor would open beneath him, swallow him, and never ever EVER spit him back out again.
Your pulse was absolutely hammering after that. He caught the sudden change in your scent. There was a sharp spark of surprise, nervousness, and something else beneath it that his altered senses fed on immediately.
You kept your eyes fixed on the monitor, although the data had stopped meaning anything the moment you heard fixation on a nearby individual.
“Is that what you really feel?” You asked softly after a moment.
His head fell forward, catching it between his gloved hands. He didn’t know how to answer without making everything worse.
Although, after what EV said, could it really be worse?
“…Yes.” The word came out rougher than he expected. Yet still not enough for what was happening inside him. “It’s like…I can only feel you. All of you.”
Heat rose to your face once again.
“What does that mean?”
Don’t say anything, don’t–
“I can smell you.” Great start, idiot. He cleared his dry throat before continuing. “I can smell your shampoo…the lotion you use…the ink on your hands from your favorite pen.”
He chose not to mention he could also smell the adrenaline on you. The heat gathering slowly beneath your skin.
Your eyes dropped to your hands, and under the dim light of the computer, you caught the ink stains in them from your journaling session before bed.
“I can hear your heartbeat changing every time I speak,” he added. Okay, that one slipped out.
You swallowed. And god, he felt that in his own throat.
The suit was suffocating him at this point. He wanted to rip it off as much as he wanted to rip off the fabric covering the goosebumps on your skin.
“Is it only because I’m nearby?” You asked, gathering the courage to turn your chair to him.
White lenses met you across the room. He dragged in another shaky breath of oxygen made of you as he thought about his next words. He could’ve lied. He should’ve lied. But instead, chemically overwhelmed and stripped of every defense he possessed, he gave you the truth.
“No.”
His voice was firmer this time. No hesitation in it despite the thousand red alarms pounding in his head telling him to shut up.
“It picked you–no, I picked you for a reason,” he added. “And it’s not just me. The other…the other me wants you too.”
His voice went lower on the last part, that told you how much it cost him to admit that.
The silence following his confession was heavy. For a moment he wished he could read your mind. For all he could feel of you, your thoughts were unreachable.
His own mind was a mess. The impulses didn’t feel like thoughts anymore, just his body feeding him instructions.
Get up. Cross the room. Touch her. Breathe her in.
His palms shook with the urge to close around you. His teeth ached with the need to graze your skin. His eyes burned with the desire to see beyond fabric.
Every part of him seemed convinced that the small distance between you was a mistake he needed to correct. That he needed to breathe you in until his lungs burned. Drag his mouth along the inside of your wrist and taste the pulse there.
He hated it.
He hated that something inside him could look at the person he cared for the most and reduce her to an answer for his pain.
“EV, how long is this state going to last?” He asked the computer, followed by a weak cough as he clutched his side.
“Your enhanced physiology is struggling to break down the toxin’s structure. I estimate a time between ten to twelve hours before it’s metabolized. However, neurological collapse is expected before that timeframe.”
“What?” You looked at him. “There’s no way we’re letting that happen. Maybe I can–”
“Don’t even start,” he cut you off, shaking his head profusely.
“So what? I’m supposed to sit here betting on whether your body collapses on hour three or hour six?”
“I’ll just pass out, big deal. I’m not putting you in danger because of this. I can handle it.”
“You’re barely handling it now. There’s no danger in trying–”
“You don’t understand what’s happening inside me right now,” he argued, raising his voice. “This other thing, the one the inhibitor controls it’s…awake. That part of me doesn’t think like I do. It doesn’t care if you're scared, or hurting–”
“You wouldn’t hurt me–”
“You don’t know that!” He snapped, his fist struck the floor next to him, hard enough to make the worn wood crack beneath his knuckles.
The sudden noise made you flinch. He smelled the flash of fear moving through your body for only a second.
One second enough.
“Fuck–that is what I mean,” he cursed, covering his lenses with his hands. “I don’t…I don’t know if I’d be gentle. I can’t risk this, I can't…shit, I can’t risk you.”
The words, said with so much pain, and honesty, seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest.
“Okay,” you nodded, settling deeper in your chair. “But I’m not leaving you like this. I can’t risk you either.”
He shuddered a painful exhale. His head dropped to the couch again, shutting his eyes in preparation of what the next hours of torture would be.
Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes.
The suit was killing him, so he decided he’d be better without it. He reached desperately behind his back, clumsily undoing the zippers that tied the suit together.
He could feel your wide eyes on him as he tugged the fabric off his shoulders, peeling it off his sweaty arms. He groaned when he lifted his hips and the suit grazed his swollen crotch. In a matter of seconds that felt like eternity he managed to break free from the spandex, and threw it away somewhere in the room. He’d undressed down to his dark boxers, mask still in place, revealing the marble sculpture of his body.
You let out a shaky breath from your spot, eyes raking over a body you’d only seen partially. He was covered in wounds most of the time, but this time, he only had faint bruises from the night before decorating his chiseled abs.
His tight muscles flexed with every rise of his chest, his bulge straining harder the more you devoured him, pressing against his pants, making him curse quietly.
You noticed, and returned your eyes to the screen to track his vitals.
He felt grateful that you’d given him that grace, but just you being in that room made it very hard for him to think of anything other than your existence.
Too hard.
Before he knew his hand drifted down the growing ache in his crotch, trying to feel some relief, but every rub he made over the fabric of his boxers sent a jolt of pain through his body instead of pleasure.
It only made it worse when he realized you were tense at the desk, trying very hard to keep your focus on the screen and not on the whines he was letting out.
“…I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly, breathlessly, moving his hand away. “I didn’t–”
“Don’t apologize,” you shook your head quickly, eyes still on the screen. “You…you can do whatever you need.”
He didn’t say anything, just whined in pain again, so you took it as a chance to say it before you regretted it.
“But my offer still stands, spidey.”
What a polite way of saying ‘I’d let you fuck me into next week so you can control your horny arachnid hormones, spidey.’
Fucking hell.
“I’m okay I just–God I didn’t–I didn’t think it would feel this way…” He laughed humorlessly, staring at the ceiling. “But I–I got this. Yes.”
You kept quiet, hearing him mumble to himself about a hundred times about how he had this.
“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…”
He wasn’t.
“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”
For God’s sake.
“I think I can help.”
By the time he registered the words and looked back at you, you had already moved from your chair and shortened the distance between you, kneeling in front of him.
His senses went from one thousand to one million. He forced his hands behind his back, trying to keep the animal from grabbing you and getting it over with.
“What–what are you doing?” He stammered nervously, the lenses of his mask going wide.
“Maynard,” you said quietly, ignoring the way his body tensed up at that name. “Would it make you feel better if I put my hand here?”
You placed your hand right in the center of his chest, and your cold palm met his overheated skin. He gasped, feeling every individual fingerprint on his skin. He wanted them marked on him. Tattooed.
His back arched from the couch, with a strangled gasp breaking from beneath the mask. The relief hit him all at once, through a simple contact that felt like salvation.
Your hand steadied him for only a glorious second, but now that you had touched him, his body knew precisely what it had been denied.
It wanted more.
His own hand closed around yours so suddenly that you almost pulled back, but he loosened his grip the instant he realized how tightly he was holding you.
“Sorry–”
“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder.
He was burning.
The heat beneath your palm scared you, but what scared you more was the violent pounding of his heart beating against your hand so so quickly.
“Better?” You asked quietly, trying not to bite your bottom lip at the image of him crumbling under your palm.
“So fucking better,” he said breathlessly, pressing your hand tighter against his chest. “I…dammit–”
“Breathe,” you reminded.
His head fell back against the couch. Chest rising up and down, up and down, up and down.
Just take her, man, she’s right there–
Your free hand accidentally brushed his neck, right where the border of the mask started, snapping him right back. He grabbed your hand, not harshly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch.
“Please.” Was all he said.
Leave it on.
It brought you back to that first night he’d crashed into your life.
“I wasn’t planning on removing it,” you whispered, leaning closer. “You can keep it on. But let me help you…I really want to.”
See? She wants it. She needs it so bad.
He hated that the other guy was right. He knew you meant what you said because he could smell the proof pooling between your thighs.
Fuck it.
In a sudden movement he reached for your waist, dragging you forward so you were straddling his lap. The bulge you landed on made you gasp, hands instinctively grabbing onto his sweaty biceps for balance when he let out a broken groan that vibrated against your core.
His hand cupped your jaw, bringing it closer to his face, and your dilated pupils reflected on the white of his lenses.
“I can feel that you want this,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. “Please, say it again…”
You shifted your hips, barely, so minimal yet he felt it travel through his whole body. He hissed, tightening the grip on your jaw.
“I want this,” you repeated firmly, moving your head closer to his ear. “You can take whatever you need…”
You moved your hips again, more deliberate this time, pulling a broken whine from him. The toxin made every contact feel like electricity racing down his spine, straight to the heavy, aching weight of his cock under you.
“Yes…yeah just like that…” he panted. “Just let me…”
His hands landed on your waist, moving you back and forth at a quicker pace over his bulge. You gasped at the friction, fingers digging into his shoulders, while he let out a collection of muffled words you could barely understand.
“...M–more…” he whined, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t–I need…”
“What do you need? More what?”
“More contact.”
His hands left your waist to grab the hem of your shirt.
“Can I?” He whispered.
You nodded eagerly, gasping when his hands shifted to the collar of your shirt instead, ripping it off your body with a sharp pull.
“Oh fuck,” he cursed when he realized there was nothing under that shirt, and saw your nipples hardening instantly under the cold air.
He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask.
His hands, however, wasted no time to cup your breasts with a broken whine. His thumbs played with your nipples, tugging at them as hard as he could allow himself to without hurting you.
“Fuck you’re perfect…you’re so perfect…” he whispered, more to himself than you, pulling some soft whimpers out of you when he tugged a little harder. His hands drifted to your lower half, to the hem of the last piece keeping your body from his greedy eyes. “These too,” he said, “please, can I? I want to feel you.”
“Yes,” you nodded, already out of air.
You didn’t even know why you tried to get off his lap to take the shorts off properly, when he just did the same as the shirt: ripped it in half where it rested on your hips, yanked it off from your body and threw the ruined pieces far away.
You weren’t wearing anything underneath.
“I can smell you. God, I can smell you. You’re so–oh God…”
Now he could feel your wetness drenching his boxers, dripping onto the fabric. He could almost taste it in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to drown in it for hours.
“Can–can I–?”
You didn’t even let him finish, you grabbed his hand and placed it right between your legs.
Water. He found water in the middle of the dessert.
His hand moved carefully through your wet folds once, twice, delighting in your warmth, the way you felt, the way you let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard in his miserable life.
“Fuck…” you cursed softly, moving your hips eagerly when he kept stroking slow. Too slow. “Touch me, please.”
He obliged, fingers finding your clit in movements that had you gripping his shoulders tighter, eyes fluttering shut so beautifully he had to bite his lip to not let out a pathetic sound.
“Been wanting this,” he mumbled. “Longer than today. Longer than tonight.”
His finger slid inside of you, making you moan when he curled it just right.
“There were…there were nights I thought about you riding my hand,” he kept going, voice cracking as he added a second finger, stretching you more. “I’ve wanted you for so long–not just because of this shit in my blood. Because it’s you.”
Every word made you clench around his fingers. Every admission pulled another shaky moan out of your throat. You were a mess already, breathless, hips rolling down to meet the thrust of his fingers.
“Oh my God–don’t stop, please don’t stop–”
“Not stopping, baby.”
He kept working you open, the white lenses of the mask never leaving your face. His free hand slid up your chest, settling between your breasts.
“I’m–I’m close,” you managed. “I’m so close–”
“Come on…you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”
The heel of his palm lifted to press against your clit. You were right there, right on the edge, about to come on his hand and drip down his boxers–
“Please,” he begged, unable to keep it in. “Let me fuck you after this…please. I need to be inside you. I’ve needed it for so long–just let me, after you come, please, please–”
The plea undid you.
You came with a broken cry, stopping your movements as your walls pulsed around him. The sound you made against his shoulder nearly finished him right there.
It took you a second to just breathe again, your chest synching up with his in the search of oxygen. He kept rocking his hand slowly, not just to work you through the aftershocks, but because the friction of your pussy in his hand brought the tiniest relief to him.
You just stayed there as the last soft waves rolled through you.
Once you were able to see clearly again, you let out a breathless chuckle and straightened back up.
He needed you. He needed you so badly you really thought he was going to die if you didn’t help him.
You placed one hand on his chest as the other reached under you, slipping inside the fabric of his boxers without breaking eye contact.
The second your bare fingers brushed him, his hips jerked hard under you.
“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly.
You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.
His cock sprang out, heavy and flushed between your bodies, so thick and hard and painful. The head was red and shiny, with precum dripping down the vein that ran along his length. The tip brushed the skin of your stomach, leaving a warm, wet patch that made the hair on your arms go up. He could smell the small flicker of intimidation sparking inside you, but the want that followed was stronger.
You stroked him a few times, slowly just as he’d touched you at first.
“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”
Another thick bead of precum welled up and spilled over your fingers. Whether it was the toxin or just his enhanced physiology, he was dripping for you.
Flustered wasn’t enough of a word when you had his leaking cock in your hand.
His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tighter, guiding you up as if he was about to lift you then pulling you back down immediately.
Fuck her. Fuck her right now.
“Please, I need–I need to feel you…” he cried out. “Let me…let me…”
You nodded just as desperately, lifting yourself up as he helped, steadying you with shaking hands until the thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance. You both exhaled hard at the same time when you started to sink down, taking him inch by inch.
He was big. Almost too much. The burn of it made your breath hitch, but the way he cursed under his breath multiple times, completely at your mercy, made you keep going until he was buried balls deep.
You sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, and so full of him.
When the initial sting faded away, you started moving. He let you set the pace as you adjusted, holding back his need of thrusting up. His fingers dug on your skin, not lifting just holding you, but the more that you moved, the more that control started to waver.
He could feel it coming. The change.
You kept moaning, bouncing on top of him, completely unaware of his self restraint crumbling away.
His grip slowly tightened when his eyes began turning completely black under his mask. That careful, pathetic boy who’d been begging disappeared beneath something more…primal.
Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.
The next thing he knew, his hands slid under your thighs with sudden strength. He lifted you up in one motion until only the thick head of him remained inside you, held you there for a second as the last part of him tried to remember how to be gentle–then snapped his hips up hard.
That first thrust pulled a sharp moan out of you, but there was no chance to adjust this time. He set a relentless pace almost immediately, using pure strength to bounce you on his cock while he drove up to meet every drop of your body, buried so deep it stole your breath every time he bottomed out.
“Oh my–May…Maynard–” the name you barely used on him slipped out in the middle of the frenzy, but his hand reached behind your head to pull your hair back slightly as he kept thrusting up.
“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, his voice so different from just minutes earlier. “It’s Peter. Call me Peter when I’m inside you.”
He didn’t even give you time to process, still lifting and dropping you onto his cock at the exact hard rhythm he wanted. The only one that satisfied the need inside of him. Your hands instinctively reached for the edge of the arm of the couch he was leaning against, fingers digging into the worn fabric as he hit that spot inside you over and over again.
“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”
“That’s better,” he approved. “I was right, you’re so so perfect…taking every inch like you need it as bad as I do…”
A desperate sound slipped out of you at the praise, he could feel your walls clenching tight around him as your body went for that second orgasm, your eyes were fluttering shut, almost there–
“Nuh–uh,” he denied immediately, stopping mid thrust, holding you pressed against him as you gasped, surprised and confused.
“What–what happened? I was about to–”
“I want you to hold it for me. I know you can.”
That twisted part of him enjoyed the slow realization on your face.
Even if you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew the same spiderman he’d been without the inhibitor, was the one with your body at his mercy now.
Good.
He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, breathing hard behind the mask. When your breathing finally slowed down and accepted that the high never came, he stood up. Still inside you, he walked you to the bed in the corner of the room.
His bed.
He pulled out with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then laid you down roughly near the edge of the mattress. He kneeled down, strong hands hooking behind your knees and dragging your legs over his shoulders, folding you open for him completely.
“Look at the ceiling,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me.”
You obeyed, staring up at the wood beams high above you while he tugged the bottom of the mask just high enough to free his mouth.
Peter leaned down and pressed a few soft kisses to your swollen folds. He wasn’t necessarily eating you out, just giving a few loud smooches that felt good enough to make you grip the sheets.
“M’sorry, you were so perfect there…” he mumbled condescendingly against your most sensitive spots. “But I need you to hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”
You nodded, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Maybe too eager. Maybe too pathetic. Just like he’d been. Had he pumped that toxin into you?
Either way, you didn’t care. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this version of him.
He laughed right over your clit when you moaned loudly, after he moved his tongue in a slow, torturous swipe over it.
“Was back there too much?” He cooed. “Maybe I just need to stretch you more...”
Two fingers slid inside you, so easily, but the sudden stretch still dragged a whine out of your throat. He curled them immediately, finding the spot that made your hips jerk.
“Peter…”
“Huh?” He acted coy, pumping his fingers with a rhythm that kept you right on the edge without letting you tip over. He added a third finger, making your back arch from the mattress. “Keep holding it in.”
Every shake of your body fed the stupid toxin inside him. Having you like this…really trying to keep your body from coming apart because he said so.
God. He was never going back.
“You just took my cock. I think you can take three fingers with no problem.”
He kept the same relentless pace, chuckling when your body started twitching again.
“Shhh, you’re perfect, absolutely perfect…”
“Peter…” you called out again, hand dropping the sheet to find his shoulder instead. “I need…need…”
“Need what?”
“Need you inside me…please I won’t–I won’t hold for much longer just–fuck me.”
He stopped altogether, a smirk you couldn’t see stretching the corner of his mouth. He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, licking them clean before tugging his mask back in place and standing up.
“Yeah?”
Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed for a moment before his hands gripped your hips and turned you over. He moved you higher up the bed, grabbing one of the pillows, and shoving it under your hips, tilting your lower body up for him.
He then climbed onto the bed behind you and knelt between your spread thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight as one hand stroked down the length of your spine.
But something made him stop.
“This fucking mask–” he cursed under his breath. “It’s suffocating me.”
The sweat on his forehead had pooled under the mask, making it so sticky over his eyebrows that it was affecting the lenses he was trying to see you through.
“I need you to be a good girl for me,” he added breathlessly, yet still commanding enough. “Keep your head on the mattress. Ass up. Don’t turn around.”
You nodded. Too eagerly again. Couldn’t care any less again.
He didn’t think twice, just yanked the mask off and tossed it aside. It landed near you, making you bury half your face on the sheets as if staring at the mask alone would be disobeying his commands.
The sound he made when the cool air hit his face was pure relief. He swiped the sweat off with his forearm, finally seeing you clearly. Face down. Eyes squeezed shut. Already clutching the sheets.
“You look so pretty like this,” he mumbled. “All spread out for me…waiting.”
“Peter…” you whined, lifting your ass slightly from the pillow.
“I know, I know. You’re okay.” He couldn’t keep the smirk away when he added, “you said please.”
He reached between you, guiding the thick head of his cock between your thighs until it nudged against your entrance. You were still soft and ready and perfect.
Peter pushed in slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank deep and deep and deeper.
He braced one hand beside your head and kept the other on your hip, pushing you into the mattress as his thighs hit the back of yours. Slap. Slap. Slap. The position left almost no space between your bodies, with Peter pressing his chest against your back.
“Fuck…you feel so good like this…so pretty taking me.”
He kept going, making the mattress creak and the base of the bed hit the brick wall repeatedly. Your desperate moans ran through his body like electricity, making something inside him crack open again.
What? What is–
The moment his rhythm stuttered, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Beads of sweat flew from his hair to your back.
“God–you…you’re making me–” The roughness of his thrusts slowed down immediately, inhaling a sharp intake of air as he felt the change again. “I can’t, I can’t…”
He lifted his gaze to the window behind the bed and noticed his eyes had turned back to its original color.
“Oh my god,” he gasped, stopping altogether. He straightened up, still kneeling and inside you, but panicking. “I’m…I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened I–“
“Peter!” You cut him off, pushing yourself back, closer to him, without turning around. “Shut up and fuck me.”
The order left your mouth breathless, pushing back against him even more to make the point clear. His hands twitched when they gripped your hips again.
“Okay, okay…” he panted, groaning when you dropped back on the bed and his cock almost left the warmth of your pussy. “I’m sorry–if I was too rough, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
He picked up the pace again, but the words tumbling out of him now were pure pleading Peter again.
“Don’t turn around–don’t turn around–fuck, fuck…” slap, slap, slap. “You can come now. Please. Please, I want to feel it–you’d come apart so pretty on me, I know you would…pleasepleaseplease–”
His final permission and the desperate way he said it made you crash harder than the first time, crying out into the mattress. The second he felt you coming around him, he knew he couldn’t last much longer either.
“Can I–inside…please, can I??…let me fill you up–”
“Yes–inside, Peter, do it inside me…”
He buried himself to the hilt with a strained groan and finally came. The orgasm tearing out of him was harder and longer than anything he’d ever felt, holding you there, filling you up.
You gasped against the sheets, breathless, as the waves of cum seemed to go on forever, flooding you with warm and thick ropes in every spurt as he emptied himself inside you.
“Thank you…thank you…” His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, sending broken gasps against your skin as he kept coming. “You are so perfect–fuck…so perfect…thank you…”
The pollen wrung him dry until he could barely breathe, and even then he kept rolling his hips weakly, chasing the last of it while he slowly softened inside you.
When it finally eased, the pain, the need, the hunger…he pulled out slowly with a whine, and half collapsed over you. His arms held most of his weight as he planked above you, but you could feel every ridge of his muscles brushing your sweaty skin.
Peter’s eyes fluttered shut, feeling exhausted and aching in the best way, almost lulled by the sounds of your agitated breaths.
You both felt the warm trail of liquid leaking out between your bodies and neither of you moved or said anything for a while. He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With your naked body under him, no masks, no barriers, just your swollen pussy leaking out his seed–
“Successful ejaculation brought down the arachnid hormone levels immediately. Inhibitor working within regular parameters now. Congratulations, Peter.”
EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence.
It took two seconds of shock before you both broke into breathless laughter. His teeth grazed your back as your bodies vibrated in sync from the amusement and overall flustering after everything that happened.
“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered.
“You’re welcome. I gathered data and the released semen volume exceeds standard parameters by two hundred and twenty six percent due to the high hormonal concentration. Hydration, clean up and rest are advised.”
“For fucks sake…” Peter cursed under his breath.
“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets.
That was your call back to reality.
Peter felt you move under him, reaching blindly to the side until your hand found the mask. You lifted it over your shoulder, offering it to him without looking.
“I don’t want to,” he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I…I don’t want to put it back on.”
“Then I’ll close my eyes,” you offered instead.
“No–I mean…you don’t have to. I don’t want to wear it around you anymore. Not after…all of this,” he admitted sheepishly.
“But you told me to not turn around,” you reminded him, dropping the mask on the mattress again. “And that was you, not the darker you.”
He chuckled, nodding even if you couldn’t see him yet.
“Yeah, because if I saw your face while I was balls deep inside you I would’ve busted before you came.”
There it was. He said it. No turning back now.
At least it got a chuckle from you too.
“Listen I…I meant everything I said. Everything. The wanting, the nights I thought about you,” he confessed. “I don’t want you to feel like I just used you when…when there was always a reason why I needed you like oxygen tonight.”
Your breath hitched, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him, and when you didn’t push away…he exhaled in relief behind you.
“So maybe…you can turn around now. If–if you want to. Know the real me.”
“I would really like that,” you whispered without hesitation.
You tried lifting yourself up to turn around, but he did most of the job, moving away the pillow he had placed under you and helping you roll onto your back. You closed your eyes, at least until you were facing him completely, and took a deep breath. Holding onto his biceps for moral support, you finally opened them again.
Seeing his face for the first time felt so intimate, even after everything you just did.
There he was. The same guy who just fucked you into next week, looking more shy and boyish than you could’ve ever imagined.
Brown eyes. Dark, curly hair sticking to his forehead. A nervous smile tugging at the corner of his gorgeous mouth.
So young. So earnest. So yours.
Not spidey anymore. Just Peter.
Your Peter.
Thank you so much for reading 🤍 I used to write Peter so much back in the day (shoutout to my starktonyx era) and I’ve missed him dearly.
Piemontese Lacquer Cabinet on Stand. European lacquer (ca. 1750)
Mid-18th-century cabinet crafted as a European reinterpretation of Asian lacquer. The exterior features polychrome chinoiserie figures on a deep blue ground, while the interior reveals thirteen drawers decorated with pale green landscapes.
This "vernis européen" style reflects the refined aesthetics of the Savoyard court, merging Eastern inspiration with Mediterranean craftsmanship.
Loc. Private Collection (Sold via Sotheby's in 2021). Dim. 180 cm H x 101 cm W x 64 cm D (71 x 39 3/4 x 24 in.).
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Synopsis: A simple conversation in Peter’s apartment turns into a pivotal moment as he realizes the depth of what he has found in you: not just someone who remembers, but a piece of his own history that survived. [GIF Creds: milesgmorales]
PART THREE! I have no idea how many parts I’m actually going to make about this, so I’m kinda just winging it for now. Creativity hits when it hits lmaooo
『••✎••』
The hug in the cafe had ended too soon, but it lingered like static on Peter’s skin for the rest of the day. You hadn’t asked a hundred questions. You hadn’t pulled away or looked at him like he was broken. You’d just… held on. And when you finally stepped back, you’d said:
“Text me if you need another one. Or coffee. Or silence. Whatever.”
Then you’d packed up your books, shot him a last, small, reassuring smile, and walked out of the cafe, leaving Peter alone with the salt shaker and a warmth spreading through his chest that had nothing to do with the lukewarm coffee.
He did end up texting you that night. Once. Just an awkward “thanks again” at 7 p.m. before patrol. You’d replied with a simple thumbs-up emoji and a photo of your pet judging a half-eaten ramen bowl. It was normal. Stupidly, perfectly normal. And it kept him going through another night of swinging past the places that used to mean something—Ned’s old apartment building, the bodega where MJ used to steal his fries, the rooftop where he and May used to watch fireworks.
Little did he know that three days later, just as he was sulking about the past once again, he’d run into you again in his own apartment.
It wasn’t even a plan, and he hadn’t texted you first either. You had texted him—ranting, as if you had known him for years. You were near the library, and your laptop had died, and since you seemed so stressed about completing your upcoming paper that was due soon, he’d—with a surge of desperate impulsiveness—offered his outlet. He hadn’t invited anyone to this place, this tiny, subsidized room that was supposed to be for a student but was really just a place to sleep in between patrols. He hadn't thought it would ever happen.
So, in a panic, he’d spent the twenty minutes it took you to get there frantically tidying: shoving things into drawers, using his web shooters to clear the mess of dirty clothes piled by the dresser, and spritzing the room with a borrowed can of air freshener that now smelled like chemicals mixed with despair.
Now, currently, you were perched on the edge of his worn-out couch with your laptop open, murmuring to yourself about a dead hyperlink in your research paper. You weren’t intimidated by the starkness of the room. You hadn’t commented on the single mattress on the floor or the precarious stacks of old textbooks. You’d simply found the outlet, plugged in, and made yourself at home in the quiet space he’d carved out of the world.
Peter stood by the small kitchen counter, pretending to make tea he had no intention of drinking, just watching you. He was struck again by the sheer, profound normality of it. The domesticity. The way you tapped your computer with impatience, the soft sigh you gave when the link finally worked. It was like a scene from a life he’d only ever seen in movies—a life he could have had, maybe, if the world hadn’t erased him.
“Peter?”
He jumped. He still wasn’t used to hearing his name directed at him, especially not from you. He turned, the teabag in his hand dripping forgotten spots onto the counter.
“Yeah?”
You pretended not to notice the drips. “Could you pass me my book? Please? It’s the big blue one.” You gestured to your stack of books near the door.
He grabbed it, the heavy hardcover a familiar weight. Quantum Mechanics and Its Implications. He flipped it over, and a small, printed-out sticky note on the back cover caught his eye. It was a quote, typed in a neat serif font: “It’s not that I’m so smart, it’s just that I stay with problems longer.” – Albert Einstein.
Peter felt a dizzying sense of vertigo. He’d seen that quote before. He used that quote.
He remembered sitting in Mr. Harrison’s class, senior year. Flash was making some snide comment, and Peter, buried in a book, had muttered the quote under his breath—a silent mantra for himself. Of course, Mr. Harrison, a massive Einstein buff, had overheard. He’d made Peter write it on the board, a mortifying experience that had ended with him getting a rare, approving nod from the teacher and a week of dealing with Flash calling him “Little Einstein,” along with being sung the theme song of that stupid child’s TV show anytime he walked by in the hall. Man, was he glad he didn’t have to deal with him anymore.
Still, regardless of the memory, it wasn’t a famous Einstein quote. Not really. It was obscure, one Peter had found in a biography; However, the chances of you randomly printing it out and sticking it on your book…
The floor seemed to tilt beneath his feet. He walked back to the couch, movements slow and deliberate, and handed the book to you.
“Thanks,” you said, taking it without looking.
Peter sank into the rickety armchair opposite you, the teabag long forgotten. He watched you read, but in his mind he was back in that classroom. He saw you a few rows ahead, diligently taking notes. He saw you glance up when Mr. Harrison called him to the board. He saw the ghost of a smile on your face as you watched him write—not of mockery, but amusement? Appreciation?
A minor moment in his eyes, a forgettable blip in the chaos of high school. But this sticky note must have been printed later. After. The thought ricocheted around his skull with stunning clarity: you hadn’t just known him. You hadn’t just remembered him. You had proof of him. A piece of him that was now your proof, sitting right there in his apartment, surviving the spell.
And you didn’t even realize.
The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of your laptop fan and the distant wail of a siren. Peter stared at you—at the way the light from your screen illuminated the focused line of your jaw, the way your fingers curled around the spine of the book. He saw so much more now than the quiet girl from history class. He saw a person who had held onto a piece of him, however small, without even knowing its true value. A person who had been handed a cosmic puzzle piece and had simply stuck it on a book because it resonated.
He had been so focused on what he’d lost—Ned, MJ, May, the life that was stolen—that he’d never once considered what might have survived. Not in the world, but in other people. He’d assumed the spell was perfect, absolute. But what if it wasn’t? What if it was like a shattering mirror, and some people, like you, had picked up a shard and kept it?
What if that mirror could be mended? Reverted? The thought was so terrifying and brilliant it almost knocked the wind out of him. He didn’t have the sling ring. He had no idea where Strange was, or if he’d even help. But maybe… maybe he didn’t need the spell broken. Maybe he just needed to find the other pieces of the mirror. The other people who might have their own sticky notes, their own faded photographs, their own ghost of a memory.
He had a lead. A tiny, fragile, tangible lead. Sure, there was the chance that you could’ve just bought a bunch of inspirational sticky notes from the dollar store. But… he knew. He felt it, deep in his bones, in that same place where the tingling of his spider-sense lived.
And truthfully, even if you had just bought the sticky note, he still had you.
He had a friend. At least, he hoped he had a friend.
Peter stood up so abruptly that the legs of his armchair scraped against the cheap linoleum floor. You looked up, startled.
“Everything okay?”
He ignored the question and moved to your side of the coffee table. He didn’t touch the book again. He just sat close enough to draw your attention. Which, of course, worked. You looked at him—really looked at him. He must have looked like a wreck, with his sleep-deprived eyes and trembling hands.
“Did we ever talk? In high school?” Peter started, then stopped, licking his lips. He felt bad asking this, because he genuinely couldn’t remember. He didn’t want to hurt your feelings by not remembering something you might have. “I know we weren’t in the same friend group or anything, but…”
He trailed off, leaving the question hanging in the air.
You considered it, your head tilting to the side as you accessed your mental archives. It was a strange expression, one of genuine concentration, as if you were trying to recall a very specific, long-forgotten fact.
“Not really, no,” you said finally. A tiny pang of relief went through him, followed immediately by a wave of something that felt suspiciously like disappointment. “But… I was aware of you. You know how it is.”
But peter didn’t know how it was anymore. At least, not for the past year. He had spent so long being the only one who knew about himself.
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess so.” He looked away, feeling the familiar sting of being a footnote in someone else’s story. It was an old feeling, one he’d had long before the spell, when he was just a scholarship kid with a secondhand backpack. But now, it was amplified a thousand times.
You must have seen something in his expression, because you elaborated, a small, self-deprecating smile on your lips. “I wasn’t exactly the queen of the social scene. I mostly kept to myself—my books, my music. But I saw people. I watched them. You were… a notable presence, Peter Parker.”
You said the name again, so casually. Every time you did, it felt like a tiny reset button for his soul.
“You were always running,” you continued, your gaze distant, lost in memory. “Literally always. Either to the library, or out of the cafeteria, or down the hall with your backpack half-unzipped. Nice to know why, now,” you added with a dry glance at him. “I always thought you just had terrible bladder control.”
A startled laugh escaped him, a raw, rusty sound he didn’t recognize as his own. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed like that—genuinely, without an undercurrent of grief or exhaustion.
Your smile widened a little at his reaction. Encouraged, you kept going. “You were also one of the smartest kids in our year too, but you never flaunted it. You’d just… know the answer when nobody else did. I remember that day in Harrison’s class, when he made you write that quote on the board…”
Peter’s heart hammered against his ribs. Here it was.
“He was so thrilled to have a kindred spirit in the class,” you said, your voice soft. “And you looked so embarrassed, but you also… stood a little taller after that. I don’t know. It was just a small thing. But I remembered it.”
You paused, then looked down at the book in your lap. You ran your finger over the sticky note, a thoughtful caress.
“I found that quote later, when I was looking up stuff for another paper. It stuck with me. That idea that persistence matters more than genius. Felt… relevant, I guess.” You shrugged, a little self-conscious. “So I printed it out. It’s been on my notebooks ever since. I have a whole collection of them.”
Peter stared at you. At the casual, unthinking way you laid out the evidence. A small thing, you’d said. A memory. A quote that resonated. To you, it was just a personal quirk, a habit of collecting inspirational snippets. To him, it was a holy relic. A piece of a world he thought had been completely atomized.
You had no idea. You had absolutely no idea that your little habit, your quiet appreciation for a moment in a classroom, was the only thing anchoring his existence to the rest of humanity.
He felt a surge of something so powerful it almost bowled him over. It wasn’t just gratitude. It was… awe. For the small, unnoticed ripples a person leaves behind them, the ways in which they touch other lives without ever realizing it. He’d spent so much of his life trying to be significant, to make a big, loud difference as Spider-Man. He’d never once considered the quiet, enduring legacy of just… being Peter Parker.
A legacy you had somehow preserved without even trying.
“Peter?” Your voice pulled him back from the brink of that existential chasm. “You’re staring again. You okay?”
He blinked, focusing on your concerned face. He realized he was leaning forward, his hands gripping the edge of the coffee table so hard his knuckles were white.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You have no idea how okay I am.”
He pushed himself to his feet, the sudden movement full of nervous energy. He started pacing the small length of the room, from the counter to the window and back. The tiny apartment felt like a cage, and at the same time, like the entire universe was contained within its four walls—all centered around you and your sticky note.
“You know,” you said, watching him with a tolerant, slightly amused expression, “for a guy who can stick to walls, you’re surprisingly jittery.”
“I’m not jittery,” he retorted, a little too quickly. “I’m… processing. You’ve given me a lot to process.”
He stopped by the window, looking down at the street twelve floors below. The evening rush was starting, a river of red and white lights flowing through the concrete canyons. Down there, he was nothing more than a shadow. A rumor. Up here, with you, he was as solid and real as the scuffed floorboards beneath his feet.
He turned back to face you, that single thought crystallizing in his mind with blinding clarity.
“I wish things could’ve been different,” he said, the admission feeling heavier than any building he’d ever lifted. “I’m starting to think I really missed out.”
Your teasing expression softened into something more gentle. You leaned forward, propping your chin on your hand, your forgotten research paper glowing softly beside you.
“On what, a life of petty drama and crippling student loan debt?” you asked, your tone light but your eyes serious. “Trust me, you didn’t miss much.”
“No, not that,” he said, shaking his head. He took a hesitant step closer. “I mean… high school. Being friends with you. Not having my head so far up my own… you know… that I didn’t see the smart, funny girl sitting two rows ahead of me.”
The words hung in the air, surprisingly intimate. He saw the way your posture changed, the slight shift of your shoulders, the flicker of surprise in your eyes. You hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t expected to say it.
You looked down at your laptop for a second, a small, almost shy smile touching your lips before you looked back up at him.
“Peter Parker,” you said, and there it was again—that name, anchoring him. “Are you trying to tell me we could’ve been friends?”
“I’m trying to tell you we should have been,” he corrected, a quiet intensity in his voice. He took another step, now standing right in front of the coffee table. “You’re the only person in the entire world who knows my name. And I never even bothered to learn yours.”
A new silence settled, different from the others. This one wasn’t filled with grief or confusion, but with a budding, terrifying possibility. Peter’s gaze dropped from your eyes to your laptop, and then to the textbook on your lap. Your name was printed in neat block letters on the spine, next to your student ID.
He’d seen it a hundred times in the halls, on attendance sheets, on the spines of your notebooks. But he’d never really seen it.
Because he never really saw you.
But he did now, with a sudden, jarring clarity. He saw everything: the worn texture of your pants, the dent in your favorite water bottle you’d brought with you, the way you’d unconsciously started chewing on your pen cap. It was an overwhelming flood of sensory information, and he had to fight to keep from being swept away.
You didn’t seem to notice his sensory overload. Instead, you met his gaze, your own expression unwavering. “Well,” you said, closing your laptop with a soft click that echoed in the tiny room. “It’s a good thing we have all the time in the world to make up for it, then.”
It was a simple statement, but it felt like a promise. A vow. The words settled over Peter, warm and heavy, like a blanket he hadn’t realized he was shivering without.
All the time in the world. A world where he was real. A world where someone knew him.
Before he could stop himself, he took the final step around the coffee table. He didn’t think. He didn’t calculate. He just moved, closing the last few inches of space between you. He lowered himself onto the couch beside you—not too close, but close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from your arm, close enough to smell the faint scent of your shampoo.
“Is this code for you needing another hug?” you asked, your voice light, but he could hear the slight tremor beneath it.
“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “This is…”
He trailed off, at a loss for words. He turned to face you, one arm resting along the back of the couch, his body angled toward yours. He could see every fleck of color in your irises, the way the light from the lamp caught the tiny hairs on your cheek. He’d never been this close to you before. Not in high school, not when he’d knocked your books over, not even when you’d hugged him in the cafe.
This was different. This was… deliberate.
“Peter?” Your voice was barely a breath now.
He could only stare at your lips, at the way they parted slightly as you said his name. He felt a pull, an undeniable force that had nothing to do with spider-powers and everything to do with the lonely, desperate yearning that had been clawing at him for a year.
But he knew. He knew that a year of solitude didn’t magically disappear because someone knew your name. He knew that the grief was still there, a raw, gaping wound that would take a long, long time to heal. He knew that you were still a virtual stranger, that he was still a basket case with more baggage than a cargo plane, and this was only the fourth time you had spoken more than two sentences to him.
He also knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that you were important. Not MJ important, not Ned important, but Peter important. A new kind of important, one that was still forming, still taking shape, but no less vital.
And he knew he couldn’t screw this up. So instead of closing the distance, instead of acting on the impulse that was screaming at him to just feel something real, he reached for the book with the quote on it. Because at the end of the day, it was the thread that connected you. A small thread that was holding him together.
Pairings: Peter Parker x fem!reader
Wordcount: 3k+
Summary: When your quiet neighbor collapses outside your door one night, a dangerous side of him emerges that neither of you saw coming.
Warnings: MDNI,Non-Con/Grape, Explicit Sexual Content, Non-Consensual Bondage, Web Restraints, Forced Silencing, Loss of Control, Feral Behavior, Forced Orgasm, Overstimulation, Monster Fluids, Rough Handling, Fear/Panic, Body Betrayal
A/N: I watched the movie the other day and my goodness he’s so fine esp with the black eyes. Had ya girl hungry up in there. So Ofcourse I had to write this ,that was on my mind. First time writing for Spider-Man and I write smut😂Enjoy this filth I guess😭😭
The top floor of this particular tenement building in the sprawling, unforgiving heart of the city possessed exactly one redeeming quality: it was quiet.When you moved in a year ago, the landlord had warned you about the water pressure, the radiator that clanked like a dying engine, and the five-story walk-up. But he hadn't lied about the solitude. You were the only tenant on the top floor—until a few months ago, when a quiet, perpetually exhausted-looking guy named Peter moved into the unit at the end of the hall.Most of the time, the silence held. But on certain nights, when the city traffic lulled, you could hear the muffled cadence of his voice bleeding through the cheap drywall. He spoke in hushed, hurried tones, sometimes accompanied by a female voice with a clipped, slightly synthetic accent. You had assumed she was a girlfriend or a demanding long-distance relative. They seemed to bicker endlessly about obscure things—mostly about a "suit," its structural integrity, and the cost of polymer webbing. You had half-convinced yourself he was a dedicated cosplayer trying to make it big at conventions.
Despite the weirdness, Peter was harmless. Endearing, even. You recalled your only real interaction with him with a faint smile. It had been a dreary Tuesday in the basement laundry room—a claustrophobic concrete bunker smelling of mildew and cheap floral detergent. You had been loading your darks when he shuffled in, carrying a plastic basket with the sheepish posture of someone who perpetually felt in the way."Hey," he had mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. His brown hair was a messy, chaotic mop, and he looked like he hadn't slept in a decade. "Is the machine on the left...?"
"Eats quarters and spits out soggy clothes," you had warned him, leaning against the humming dryer. "Stick to the middle one."He sighed, dropping his basket. "Great. My apartment washer just broke because of... well, a mechanical issue."You laughed, the sound echoing in the damp space. "Welcome to the broke part of the building. I’ve been praying for an in-unit washer and dryer since I signed the lease."A small, genuine chuckle escaped him, lifting the heavy exhaustion from his features for a brief second. "The public one isn't so bad, is it?"
"It's great," you replied dryly, "Right up until someone steals your clothes. I once had to sleep on that very folding table over there just to guard my work shirts because they kept vanishing. A raccoon got in once. It was a whole thing."He had laughed at that—a bright, warm sound that reached his tired eyes. He was cute, in a frantic, bruised sort of way. You noticed a fresh scrape along his jawline, but politely ignored it. That was New York. Everyone had their battles.That brief, pleasant memory was violently shoved out of your mind the moment you reached the top of the stairs after a grueling fourteen-hour shift.It was past 2:00 AM. Your feet throbbed in rhythm with your heartbeat, your uniform smelled faintly of stale coffee and industrial cleaner, and your brain was running on fumes. You rounded the corner, fishing your keys from your purse, eager for nothing but a hot shower and your mattress.
Instead, you found Peter.
He was lying face-down directly in front of your door, motionless. And he was completely naked, save for a pair of tight black briefs.You froze, a spike of pure, unadulterated adrenaline slicing through your exhaustion. Your keys nearly slipped from your numb fingers. "Peter?" you whispered into the dim, flickering fluorescent light of the hallway. Silence. He didn't twitch.
Your mind raced through a rolodex of horrifying possibilities. Is he dead? Did he get mugged in his own hallway? Is he drunk? Why is he outside MY door? You took a cautious step forward, your heart hammering against your ribs. You glanced nervously over your shoulder, suddenly profoundly grateful that you two were the only residents on this floor. Explaining a nearly nude, unconscious man face-down at your doorstep to a nosy neighbor was not on your bingo card for the night. Gingerly, you extended a foot and nudged his thigh with the toe of your sneaker.
Nothing. He was out cold. But as your foot made contact, you noticed the terrifying heat radiating off his skin, even through the fabric of your shoe, and the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his back. Okay. Not dead. Breathing. Thank God. You stepped carefully over his prone form, mindful not to step on his fingers, and jammed your key into the lock. You shoved the door open, practically tossing your purse and phone onto the entryway console table. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself, and marched back out into the hallway. You couldn't just leave him out here. Crouching down, you grabbed him by both of his upper arms, intending to hoist him up by his shoulders and drag him inside.The moment your hands clamped down on his skin, your brain stuttered. How have I never noticed he was this big? Under baggy thrift-store sweaters and flannels, Peter looked lean, maybe even lanky. But gripping his arms now felt like gripping sculpted marble. He was incredibly dense, packed with lean, corded muscle that felt entirely disproportionate to his unassuming demeanor.
You shook your head, dismissing the intrusive thought, and pulled with all your might.
"Ghhk—" you choked out, dropping him immediately.
He didn't budge. It was like trying to deadlift an anvil. He was impossibly, gravitationally heavy. You rubbed your lower back, panting softly. "What do you eat for breakfast, dude? Lead?" you muttered under your breath. This was a problem. You couldn't lift him, and you certainly couldn't carry him. Resigning yourself to a complete loss of dignity for both of you, you crouched down and placed your hands on his hip and shoulder. "Sorry about this, neighbor," you grunted. With a monumental heave, you rolled him over. He flopped onto his back with a heavy thud. You pushed, rolled, and nudged his dead weight across the threshold, inch by agonizing inch, sweating profusely by the time you finally managed to clear his feet past the doorframe. You kicked your apartment door shut, locking it with a satisfying click, and collapsed against the wood, catching your breath. It was a hell of a late-night workout. Peter lay sprawled on your living room rug, a testament to physical exhaustion. In the better lighting of your apartment, you could see the faint scattering of fading bruises on his ribs and the distinct pallor of his face. He was breathing steadily, but when you brushed the back of your hand against his forehead to check his temperature, you yanked it back with a hiss.
He was burning up. It felt like a furnace was raging beneath his skin.
You grabbed a throw blanket from the back of your couch, intending to cover him up for decency's sake, but hesitated. With him running a fever that high, trapping the heat might make it worse. You opted to drape a small towel over his midsection instead, just to preserve some modesty. Sighing, you sank into the cushions of your cheap couch, your aching legs finally getting a reprieve. You stared down at him. Who exactly was Peter? Your mind drifted back to the accented voice you'd heard through the walls. A girlfriend? A roommate? Cosplay, you reminded yourself. He’s just a really intense, really heavy nerd who maybe drank too much or got sick. You decided you would just wait for him to wake up. Just an hour. Once he roused, you could get him a glass of water, walk him the ten feet back to his own apartment, and finally go to sleep. You leaned your head back against the couch, your heavy eyelids drooping. The rhythmic, slightly labored sound of his breathing became a bizarre lullaby.
Just ten minutes of resting my eyes, you promised yourself.
The darkness took you instantly.
You woke up with a sharp gasp, your consciousness snapping back to reality like a stretched rubber band.You didn't know how many hours had passed, but the ambient light filtering into the room was the bruised purple-gray of pre-dawn. Your brain was foggy, struggling to piece together the sequence of events.The first realization hit you like a physical blow: you were no longer on your couch.The second realization was infinitely worse: you couldn't move.Panic, cold and sharp, flooded your veins. You tried to sit up, to thrash, to throw your arms out, but your body was locked in place. You were encased from the neck down in something tight, yielding, and impossibly strong. You strained your neck upward, your eyes widening in horror as you took in your predicament.You were wrapped in a cocoon of stark white material, suspended a few inches off the floor. It looked like some sort of industrial-grade silly string, woven in a complex, overlapping pattern that bound your arms to your sides and your legs tightly together. Was he a killer? The thought slammed into your mind. Did I just invite a serial killer into my apartment?Adrenaline roared in your ears. You began to squirm violently, testing the tensile strength of the bindings. The material was incredibly bizarre—it felt sticky, yet dry to the touch, and it stretched slightly when you pulled against it, only to snap back tighter. You wriggled your fingers, finding a small gap near your hip. Digging your nails into the fibrous material, you pulled. It was like tearing through Kevlar.
Gritting your teeth, you ripped and clawed at the strange webbing. It took agonizing minutes of frantic, hyperventilating effort, pulling at the sides until the structural integrity of the cocoon finally gave way. With a sickening riiiiip, the casing tore down the middle.
Gravity claimed you instantly. You tumbled out of the suspension, hitting the hardwood floor hard on your shoulder.
"Ow, fuck!" you hissed, scrambling backward like a cornered animal until your back hit the nearest wall. You looked around, your chest heaving. This wasn't your apartment. The layout was a mirror image of yours, but the similarities ended there. The room was sparsely furnished, littered with mechanical parts, soldering irons, and blueprints. But dominating the far wall was a wildly expensive, hyper-advanced computer setup. Multiple monitors cast a faint, blue glow across the room, displaying rapidly scrolling lines of code and complex molecular diagrams.
You had been dragged into his apartment. You had been dragged into his lair.
"What the fuck... what the fuck is going on?" you whispered, your voice shaking as you frantically patted yourself down, looking for your phone. It was gone. Left in your apartment, no doubt.
"Heart rate elevated. Please attempt to remain calm." You shrieked, pressing yourself harder against the wall. The voice was female, crisp, and carried that exact synthetic accent you had heard through the walls. But there was no woman in the room. The voice was emanating from the computer terminal. "Who's there?! Where is he?!" you demanded, your eyes darting toward the shadows.
"I am currently alerting Peter to your awakened state," the AI responded placidly. "His vital signs indicate he is in transit and approaching rapidly. Please, refrain from sudden movements."
"Alerting him?!" you cried out, scrambling to your feet. You needed to leave. You needed to run. Before you could even take a step toward the front door, a heavy thud echoed from outside the window.You whipped your head around just in time to see the window slide open. Peter climbed through—from the outside. The five-story drop outside.He was no longer in his briefs. He was wearing baggy sweatpants and a worn hoodie, and in his hands, absurdly, he held a brown paper grocery bag and a small bouquet of bodega flowers.He froze the second his feet hit the floor, his messy hair blowing in the cold wind from the open window. His brown eyes widened in absolute shock as he looked at you, then at the shredded remnants of the web-cocoon on the floor.
The flowers slipped from his grasp, hitting the floorboards with a soft thud.
"Oh my god," he breathed out, panic lacing his tone. He carefully set the groceries down on the windowsill, raising both of his hands in a placating gesture. "Hey, hey, it’s okay. Everything is fine. You're safe."
"Don't come any closer!" you screamed, your voice cracking with absolute terror. "How did you get up here?! What the hell did you put me in?!"
"I know how this looks," Peter said quickly, taking a slow, agonizingly cautious step forward. His face was pale, his eyes pleading. "I didn't mean to scare you. When I woke up in your apartment, I was disoriented—I didn't want you to wake up and see... I panicked. I just wanted to keep you safe while I went to get something to explain—"
"Stay back!" you shrieked, abandoning all reason. You lunged toward the hallway, desperate to reach the front door.Peter's reaction was instantaneous, a blur of motion too fast for the human eye to track. He threw his hand out instinctively.
THWIP.
A thick, blindingly fast rope of white webbing shot from his wrist, striking you squarely in the chest and slamming you back against the wall with enough force to knock the wind out of your lungs. The webbing spread over your torso, pinning you instantly to the plaster.You gasped for air, struggling uselessly against the immovable binding."No, no, no, shit!" Peter cursed loudly, grabbing his own hair in frustration. "That wasn't supposed to happen! The webs are shooting from my boy weirdly again, I’m sorry!"
"Let me go!" you sobbed, genuine tears of terror spilling hot down your cheeks. You trashed against the wall, but it was like being glued to concrete. "What are you?! Let me go right now or so help me God I will hurt you!"
"I am so sorry, just listen to me for one second!" he begged, stepping closer, his hands outstretched. "I'm not going to hurt you, I swear on my life I'm not a killer, I’m just—"
He stopped abruptly.A loud, guttural groan tore from his throat. He staggered backward as if he’d been struck by an invisible blow."Peter?" you choked out, your threats dying on your lips as you watched him fold in on himself.He stumbled wildly over his own feet, crashing into the heavy oak desk. Keyboards, tools, and spare parts clattered loudly to the floor. He gripped the edge of the desk with white-knuckled intensity, his knuckles popping as the wood audibly groaned under his grip."R-run..." he tried to say, his voice strained, a deep, raspy struggle that sounded nothing like the awkward boy from the laundry room. He squeezed his eyes shut, his entire body trembling violently as heat seemed to roll off him in visible waves in the cold room.
When he opened his eyes again, the warm, pleading brown irises were gone.His pupils had dilated so massively, so instantly, that his eyes appeared entirely pitch black, devoid of humanity. The erratic, apologetic posture vanished, replaced by an unnerving, predatory stillness. He slowly tilted his head, his black, depthless eyes locking onto you pinned against the wall. The silence in the room became suffocating.
The AI's voice sliced through the tension, devoid of any panic.
"Warning," the female voice announced clearly. "Arachnid hormone levels have spiked to critical capacity."
Peter’s breath came in ragged, animal pulls. The black of his eyes swallowed every scrap of light in the room. He didn’t speak. The last shred of the awkward, apologetic neighbor was gone, burned away by the heat rolling off his skin in visible waves. Your heart slammed against the webbing hard enough that you felt the vibration travel up into his wrist. He closed the distance in two strides. The webbing that held you war ripped in a warm rush. You dropped forward an inch before his arms locked around you. One hand splayed wide between your shoulder blades; the other gripped the back of your thigh and hauled you up so your feet left the floor. He was burning. Every place his bare skin touched yours felt like fever. He carried you three steps and dropped you onto the unmade bed without gentleness. The second your back hit the sheets he was over you, knees forcing your legs apart, mouth open against the side of your neck. His teeth scraped, not quite biting, tasting the rapid flutter of your pulse. You shoved at his shoulders, twisting hard. “Get the fuck off me—Peter, stop, what the hell is wrong with you—”
He ignored every word. Fabric tore more than it unfastened as he stripped what was left of your clothes with single-minded focus. The moment you were bare under him he sat back on his heels, chest heaving, staring down at you like prey that had finally stopped running. The sweatpants he still wore were tented obscenely. He shoved them down just far enough. His cock sprang free, flushed dark, already leaking.
You tried to scramble backward. He caught both of your wrists in one hand, pinned them above your head, and thwipped—two thick strands shot from his wrists and locked your arms to the headboard in a tight figure-eight. Another pair of strands snapped around your thighs, yanking them wide and anchoring them to the mattress so you couldn’t close them. You thrashed, cursing him in a furious stream of every filthy word you knew.His head tilted. The black eyes fixed on your moving mouth. One more precise shot from his wrist and a thick band of webbing sealed over your lips, stretching tight across your cheeks. The rest of your curses died in a muffled, furious growl. You could still breathe through your nose, but you couldn’t form a single coherent threat.
He dropped forward again, one hand shoving your thigh even higher. There was no preamble. The blunt head of him dragged once through the slick that had gathered between your legs—your body reacting even while your mind still spun—and then he thrust in to the hilt in a single, ruthless stroke.Your eyes flew wide. A broken, muffled sound tore out of you. He didn’t give you time to adjust. His hips snapped back and drove forward again, deep, relentless, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the quiet apartment. Every thrust forced the air from your lungs in short, punched-out gasps against the webbing over your mouth. He fucked you like he was trying to crawl inside your body and stay there. The bedframe slammed the wall in a steady, brutal rhythm. Your bound wrists flexed uselessly above your head. The stretch was so intense your vision blurred; your eyes crossed for a second every time he bottomed out, the overstimulated pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain. You hated how good it felt. Hated the way your body clenched around him like it was starving for exactly this. Hated the wet, helpless sounds that kept slipping past the webbing every time he dragged over that spot inside you.
One of his hands slid between your bodies. Two fingers found your clit and rubbed in rough, perfect circles timed to his thrusts. The dual sensation ripped a broken, muffled cry out of you. Your back bowed hard against the mattress. He watched your face the entire time, black eyes fixed, drinking in every flicker of expression as the orgasm tore through you hard enough that your eyes crossed again and stayed that way for a long, helpless second. You came with a strangled noise against the webbing, walls pulsing tight around him. He didn’t stop. If anything the clenching only drove him harder. His pace turned almost frantic, hips snapping, the wet sound of him sliding in and out of your still-fluttering body obscenely loud.His rhythm finally stuttered. A guttural, almost pained noise ripped from his chest. He buried himself to the root and stayed there, cock pulsing hard as he came. It wasn’t normal. The release that flooded you was thicker, stickier—liquid enough to spill but with the same clinging, elastic quality as his webbing. It coated every inch of him inside you, binding the two of you together in a hot, gluey mess.
When he finally pulled out, the withdrawal was slow and reluctant. Long, glistening strands of that sticky, web-like cum stretched between the flushed head of his cock and your abused, fluttering hole, snapping only when he pulled far enough away. More of it leaked out of you in thick, clinging ropes that stuck to your thighs and the sheets, shiny and viscous, refusing to drip the way ordinary come would.
He stayed kneeling between your spread, webbed legs, chest heaving, black eyes still locked on the mess he’d made of you. The webbing over your mouth and the strands holding your wrists and thighs stayed exactly where they were. For a long minute the only sounds were the two of you breathing and the soft creak of cooling silk.Only when the last violent tremor left his muscles did the pure black of his eyes begin to recede, brown slowly bleeding back in at the edges. The primal stillness fractured. His breath hitched. For the first time since the change, something like recognition flickered across his face.
“Oh Shit.”
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summary: peter parker breaks into your apartment (on accident). it's snowing. he can't see that well.
w/c: 1.3k
a/n: hellooooo it's time i started writing for peter. i needed to add another sad white boy to my arsenal. this'll have another part to it coming sooooon :)
.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ requests are open (as always), likes, comments, & reblogs are much appreciated !
The first time Peter Parker breaks into your apartment, it’s snowing outside.
It isn’t an intentional break-in, really— just an unfortunate miscalculation of floors due to limited visibility because of the snow. He only notices that he’s in the wrong apartment when he clicks the window shut, turns around, and sees you.
Your computer sits open on the coffee table, the old plush of your worn loveseat dipping beneath your weight. It seems to him like you’re in the middle of something, based on the way your fingers move tirelessly scrawling something in the notebook on your lap. It also seems like you’d barely noticed his arrival.
Peter stands awkwardly by the window, hands drumming at his sides. Should he wait for you to notice him? Should he leave before you do? He decides that it’s probably better that Spider-Man doesn’t gain the reputation of breaking into girls’ apartments and starts to pull the window open from the bottom, when—
“What are you doing here?”
He whips around to face you. You’re standing now, notebook and blanket thrown haphazardly to the floor at the sudden motion. You’ve got this shocked look on your face, because obviously it’s normal to be shocked when a masked vigilante breaks into your apartment. He curses himself internally and watches as your eyes scan the apartment.
“Is— is something going on? Am I in trouble?” You ask.
“No!” Peter interjects, and when you flinch at the volume of his voice, lowers it and holds his arms out in front of himself, “No, no! I just, uh— this is the, uh… it’s wrong.”
“It’s… wrong?” You echo.
What an idiot. He’s got such a way with words. If E.V. doesn’t play this on loop to embarrass him later, his brain will do it for her.
With a rapid flailing of his arms, he clarifies: “No! I mean, it— it’s wrong, because this isn’t my apartment.”
By the look on your face, you’re not as terrified by the intrusion as before. A small smile creeps onto your lips as you glance around, almost as if to prove his point. “Well, yeah, dude. I could’ve told you that.”
He inhales deeply. Exhales like he’s blowing away his inability to speak. Emphasizes every word like he’s trying to correct himself. “I am not in my apartment.”
At this point, you’re not as on guard as you were. Wordlessly, you sit back down, pulling the blanket over your legs and lifting the notebook from the ground. Your hand resumes its busy motion of writing in the notebook, gaze focusing back on the laptop screen that illuminates your figure.
You’ve, seemingly, gone back to work. Peter has not. He stands there like an idiot.
After a moment, you cock an eyebrow at him. “You good?”
His face is probably scarlet— not that you’d even be able to tell through the already red fabric of his mask, but it’s the pure notion of it. He opens his mouth once, twice, trying to get any semblance of a coherent sentence to tumble from his mouth. “I’m— I’m going to leave now.”
You smile— wide, genuine, a laugh huffing through your nose as you do. “See you, Spidey.”
Peter fumbles with the already open window, blindly shoots a web, and swings back out.
The second time he breaks in, it’s pouring.
He’s absolutely sure, even with the fact that he can barely see the building with the rain beating down on him, that he’s made it into the right apartment this time. There’s no way that would happen again. He’s absolutely sure of it.
That is, until his feet land on an unfamiliar floor and the smell of vodka sauce floats in the air. A spoon clatters on the kitchen counter.
“We have got to stop meeting like this.”
It’s you, wrong-apartment-girl from before. He did it again. Son of a bitch.
Footsteps pad through your apartment and as he begins to lift his head to glance around, he notices that he’s dripping water all over your floor. A thought from May creeps into the forefront of his mind, something about ice cubes and water and hardwood floors. He quickly goes to stand off the hardwood to save the floors, but then realizes he’s now leaking water all over your nice rug.
You return from what he presumes to be the bathroom or the bedroom with two green bath towels in your hands. You hand one to Peter, which he gratefully wraps around himself, and drop the other to the puddle of water on the hardwood.
“Sorry about that, by— by the way. And— about this.”
After pushing around the towel on the floor with your foot, you pad back to the kitchen and start to stir the saucepan again. “What? You mean the fact that you keep breaking into my apartment?”
“It’s not on purpose, I promise!” He stutters, hands moving so fast that the towel nearly falls to the ground. “It’s just— the weather, and I miscounted, and—”
“Relax. I’m joking.” You say, turning off the burner beneath a pot of noodles. “Would you come strain this for me? Colander’s in the sink.”
Peter, to his own horror, obeys. He walks to the kitchen, slips on two green gingham-patterned oven mitts, and watches as the pasta produces a cloud of steam above the colander.
“Rigatoni? That’s— a good choice.” He says, small, and realizes at this moment how ridiculous he must look: Spider-Man, wielding no weapon but two oven mitts, marveling at your chosen type of pasta.
“Yeah? Thanks.” You laugh, ensuring that each burner knob is set to off. A clinking of dishes sounds from behind, and as Peter turns, he’s met with two flower-patterned ceramic bowls on the counter top. “Wanna stay for dinner? I probably made too much for just me, anyways.”
At first, he’s hesitant. He broke into your apartment, and you’re asking him to have dinner with you? It’s all backwards— not that he’s ever enact it in the forwards way, anyways, but regardless.
At his lack of response, you smile and pour the strained pasta from the colander to the pot. “What, no time to eat? Old lady stuck in a tree, or something?”
He can’t help but laugh at your joke. What else has he got to do, anyways? It’s not like he’s got anyone at home to have dinner with. “I’ll have some. That’d— that’d be nice.”
Peter pulls his mask up to eat, barely above his lips. He’s cautious about lowering it in between bites as you sit across from him at your small table. He notices you stab multiple noodles onto your fork and bite down on them, fork now clean.
“So… Spider-Man.”
“So…” Peter echoes, voice trailing off slightly. “I don’t think I ever caught your name.”
“And I don’t think I ever caught yours.” You say, grinning, eyes shining as you corner him with words.
Peter huffs a laugh. “Touché.”
A rigatoni-filled silence passes while you both continue to eat. “Fine. Keep your secrets. Remain mysterious.”
“That’s the plan.” Peter grins. He gestures up and down to himself with his fork. “Masked vigilante? It’s… kinda my whole thing.”
“I get it.” You say, stabbing a few more noodles with your fork. “Anonymity is key.”
“Exactly.” He answers. After a few moments, he speaks again. “I still didn’t get your name.”
You don’t answer. You shrug, grinning as you finish off the noodles in your bowl. The way you’ve chosen to deflect the topic makes him laugh. “What? Am I just gonna call you wrong-apartment-girl forever?”
You laugh too. “Hey! If anything, my name should be totally-innocent-repeat-victim-of-home-invasions-girl!”
“That’s… something. Very wordy.”
“Well, not all of us can be Spider-Man.”
As if on cue, his phone beeps: Bank robbery. 51st street. What an appropriate reminder.
Peter stands, firmly tugging his mask back into place as he deposits his bowl in your kitchen sink. You smile at him from the kitchen table.
“Stay dry out there, Spider-Man.”
He tugs open the window and plunges into the rain once more.
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