Everyone says you need to get back out there anyway, and he's cute... In an abandoned-puppy-at-a-shelter kind of way. He smiled weakly at passerbys, clutched his cup too tightly, like he's expecting someone to snatch it from him at any given moment. You straighten your posture, fix a dress you stole from your roommate, and muster up the courage to go over and speak to him. He looks distracted, and he is.

Peter's life is so scrambled, he doesn't know who or what he is anymore. He only came here to try and recollect what he'd lost four years ago. His best friends. Now he's not so sure, it's too crowded, and he feels everything too deeply now.

Then you came up.

His breath hitched, his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, backed up as if there was no more space behind him. "Hi." You simply stated.

"H-Hi?"

You give him your hand to shake, telling him your name. He just stands there. Stares at you blankly before his lips stutter out: "Peter." Wow, he hadn't told anyone his name in so long, it felt wrong. No one was supposed to know him, Peter's just another face in the crowd, a nobody to everybody.

"Nice to meet you, Peter." You smile.

"Y-You too." He hides his flush behind the cup as he practically chugs the rest.

"You okay?"

"Fine! I'm fine, I just came to give N-Ned and MJ a housewarming gift, I- I was gonna leave... I have a headache so..."

"Ohh, I see. Migraine?"

"Something like that." He murmurs. He shifts on his feet quietly, Peter's restless where he stands, his hands trembling at his sides. His head was pounding so hard, he could feel his brain shaking around and ricocheting against his skull. He can hear your heart beating, and he's not sure if he likes that or not.

You tilt your head, the alcohol's fogging your brain, and you just let loose. "Look, I think you're really cute." You say slowly, slightly slurred. "You want to get out of here?"

Peter stands as still as a statue. Get out of here. Go where? He didn't know you, couldn't take you home with him, his place isn't... 'Guest material.' That and the fact all of his tech is there, including clues that would reveal his identity as Spider-Man to you. Would a drunk girl go blabbering to J. Jonah Jameson like Mysterio had those years ago? He certainly hoped not! He couldn't afford to do that again. Not that he could, Strange wouldn't remember Peter anyways. "Sure." He shrugs.

The two of you make your way out of the apartment, to the elevator, then down. You loop your arm around Peter's which you notice is pretty muscular. He guides you quietly and calmly through the streets, he wasn't too sure on what you guys were doing, where you were going, but you were going. You don't think much of it, too giddy and tipsy for your own good. Most of the time you knew better than this, but hey! It's cool to get out of your comfort zone.

Hopefully this guy wasn't a killer.

Worse! He's a masked vigilante who saves the neighborhood.

Thankfully Peter's a good guy, he makes sure you cross the street safely, he keeps you close by to ensure your safety. Despite his inner battles that it was a bad idea, he brought you to his apartment complex. You hang patiently by his side as the elevator descends up.

He creaks the door open; his apartment is kind of sad. You pay no mind to the monitors or any of his technological stuff across the room. Instead? You skip over to the couch and flop down, letting out a content sigh. Peter watches you curiously. "Can I get you anything?" Not that he had much to offer, you shake your head.

"I'm okay. Thanks, Pete!" You smile. A smile. Something sweet and genuine that he hasn't seen in a while. A smile that isn't fake or laced with the sinking weight of guilt and pain and trauma of the past nine or ten years beating your ass every day. Peter gently sinks onto the couch next to your feet, he glances over as the skirt of your dress rides up your thighs, and he bites his inner lip. Genuinely, the second he sat down, you popped up and leaned near him. The alcohol is catching up slowly but surely as you inspect Peter. closely. He is cute.

"How old're you anyway?" You question.

"Um, 22. You?"

Not too young, not too old, is he just perfect? "Same: 22. What do you do for work?"

Ah shit. "Uh, I'm.. a student?"

"Where?"

"ESU..." He clears his throat, praying you'll believe his fib.

"Oh cool!" You exclaim, not interested enough to continue prying on his supposed education. "You single?"

He stops, just stares at his shoes. Is he? Technically, yes, mentally? He's not so sure. "Sort of."

"What does 'sort of' mean?" You chuckle.

"I had someone."

"Oh, nasty break up or something?"

"Or something."

"You know," you sigh, pressing against his side, "you're too cute to be alone like this. Do you even have friends?"

"No, I don't need them."

"Everyone needs friends! Hmm, okay, I'll be your new best friend!"

"You're drunk, you don't know what you're saying."

"Um, I know exactly what I'm saying. Or I wouldn't be saying it."

Can't argue with that logic.

"Do you ever get drunk?"

"I try not to." Bummer.

So he's cute, non-alcoholic and single. Win win, you move over, gently straddling his lap with your legs. Peter freezes, he hasn't had this kind of contact in who knows how long. Maybe never. He doesn't stop you when you lean in halfway, and he closes the distance by allowing your lips to meet and melt into a kiss, slowly deepening as the seconds pass. One of his hands rests at your waist, the other comes up to your cheek steadying himself as the two of you make out. It's passionate, heated, needy, and a bit sloppy as tongues intercept and teeth accidentally click against each other. Peter lets out a shaky exhale through his nose as you move against his lap, maybe it's just his newfound senses but he swore he could hear your heart thumping in your chest, he can practically feel your need in his own body.

His hand slides back into your hair, gently fisting it. Dammit, he was so screwed.

One thing seemed to lead to another, he found himself carrying you to his small bedroom, gently laying you on his bed as he tossed his coat on the floor with his shirt. You would've never guessed this shy guy was beautifully ripped. Your heart skips a beat. Peter senses the shift in your body, how your breath hitches, the flutter of your eyes, he's been able to feel things on a deeper level recently. Apparently he's developed heightened arachnid hormones. For him, it's been a struggle, but right now? It's an advantage over you. He assists you in taking off your dress, he kicks off his pants and tugs you to the edge of the bed, his boner pressing against your heat as he leans down to capture your lips once again. He'd hoped to get his mind stress-free, it seemed to be working because all of his duties as Spider-Man, the spell, the guilt, it all disappeared for the time being. His head fogged with desperation to get inside of you.

His mouth moves against yours as he snakes his hands under your back to get to your bra, unclasping and yanking it off. His eyes glisten, he licks his lips and bends down to press a kiss on both of your breasts. You left out a soft hum, toying with his curls around your finger as he sucks your tit, massaging the other with his large hand. He loses himself in your soft moans, enjoying the way your fingers thread through his hair. Only then does his head move across to the other, then trails down your tummy, stopping right above the waistband of your panties.

You huff, “C’mon… Please don’t stop.”

“What’s next is better. You trust me?” He bats his lashes.

"Only because I'm drunk." Peter cannot help but laugh. He sits up and pulls your panties down. He lets out a shaky breath when he sees your wetness. His index and middle finger lightly trace your pussy lips, making you shiver. Peter straightens himself, gently pushing his boxers down and lifting your legs on his hips. His eyes search yours, you look so beautiful like this, he almost forgets MJ completely.

He gently slides his tip along your wetness, making you whimper. He hated these new arachnid senses, everything was twice as intense. Jerking off was a fucking chore, he can’t believe he’s having sex when he’s like this, he's a monster. A monster who can absolutely ruin you sexually.

With one long, deep breath, he pushes himself inside you carefully, just the tip, for now. Peter's jaw clenches, the feeling is overwhelmingly euphoric. Your tightness is like heaven on Earth, he swallows. Gently he pulls out, then pushes back in- but only the tip, he wants to tease you.

Your moans escape, shaky and breathless and Peter extends this torture of teasing. He watches the way your pussy grips onto him as he pulls out; as if trying to keep him in and pull him deeper. It's oddly satisfying. At some point something snapped in Peter and he buried himself in you without warning, he wasn't sure what came over him but oh God did it practically kill him to have you like this, around him, squeezing him, making him see stars. He almost stopped entirely, it was so overwhelming to his entire nervous-system that he thought he might cry, not because it hurt– no, it felt fucking amazing. Because it felt too good. It's the best thing he's felt in four long years.

"You're okay?" He asks softly, leaning beside your ear as he finds his confidence in actual thrusts. You nod.

"I'm great." A smile spreads over your lips, as well as a small blush. Peter can't help but smile back, it's cute seeing your nose scrunch as you force a smile while he's ruining you. His hips continue to meet yours every other second, intently watching your expressions, trying to understand what makes you arch, what makes you moan louder, what truly pleases you. He's trying to ignore his senses, the way every movement feels like a tank running over every individual nerve in his body, how your sounds echo in his mind like someone is whacking his head with a metal bat. He isn't complaining, it's sexy knowing he has total control to make you have the best orgasm of your life because he senses what's good to you and what isn't.

When you don't whine or tighten on his cock, he angles differently, his body is on autopilot with the arachnid hormones, he's on a new level of weirdness. "Fuck," he whispers breathlessly near your ear before softly nipping it, making you gasp. "Sorry." He quickly murmurs, pressing completely against you as though he's trying to melt your bodies together. He starts fucking faster, it's diabolical.

"Fuck, fuck." He repeats it like a mantra trying to ground himself in the words as he physically cannot control himself anymore. It's like someone has him on puppet strings and is controlling his hips. Your hands come to his shoulders, brows knitted together with a sad puppyish expression that makes his cock twitch inside you. Finally, he hikes your legs a bit higher and breathing in, he starts fucking faster. Your brain fogs with pleasure, "Tell me if it's too much," he says softly, reminding you: he will stop if you want. He doesn't want to hurt you.

"Oh, my god, Pete, that's it." You moaned.

Something in Peter's brain lagged, like a broken computer. He smelt it, he could feel it under his fingertips, and around his dick, it's precious and it's dirty. You're close. Right now, his hips pistoned quicker, no one else could achieve this, only him. Because of what he is. You don't need to know that, he hopes you think he has really good stamina. Peter's fingers dig into your thighs as he grips them for balance, a sharp thrill runs up his spine because fuck he's close too. And with all of that: he blanks for a moment.

Your eyes had squished close when he started thrusting at this new pace, you almost tapped out. It's too much, but it's too good to give up. This is a train you can't get off of. Amidst the very moment you find yourself gasping for more, pleading Peter that he doesn't stop, your eyes open. His head is hung, sweat dotted on his forehead as his curls stick to his skin. His muscles flexed and abs tensed.

"Peter..." You whispered in a whiny tone.

"M-mhm??" His eyes flicker up to you.

"I'm gonna..." You trail off, with a moan because it's already happening before you can forewarn him. And holy shit, he wasn't expecting it- he groans as your cunt tightens impossibly around him. Every breath catches in his throat, and his stomach knots. "Oh my God." He pants.

You're overstimulated by the feelings, him pounding you through your orgasm, then... His face scrunches, he moans out, eyes snapping shut, his hip thrusts go sloppy and he whines when his own orgasm hits him. When his eyes open as he's thrusting his cum into you, you find yourself staring into pure black eyes, like his body had been possessed by something other-worldly, he doesn't even realize it. "P-Pete... Your eyes!"

"What?" He moans.

"Your eyes are black!"

when you asked your boyfriend if he could fuck you with the mask on after he came back from a late night swing, peter was a bit skeptical.

but one velvety look, a flutter of your lashes, and a “pretty please, peter-baby? i’ve been working soooo hard” with a vague gesture toward your laptop screen in your darkened dorm, wearing one of his oversized shirts with one side slipping off your shoulder, and peter was game.

he loves having a smart girlfriend, after all.

now, your boyfriend’s hands grip your naked thighs in a secure hold, as opposed to his jumbled, messy life. “oh my god, peter, yes—“ your nails scratch lightly over his shoulders, your fingertips digging deep into his mole-scattered back.

“feel good, baby?” peter asks, voice laden with tension and depth like a dark swimming pool you could drown in for eternity. his mask is a little dirty from the countless scaffles he gets into on the daily, but he smells like home and familiarity.

his cock fills you up perfectly, the juices you’re producing leaking out onto your cheap bed sheets as you feel your thighs shake. “yeah— yeah, perfect—” you nod your head vigourously.

you pull your boyfriend down for a kiss, only to feel the mere shape of his lips through the thin fabric as his body rolls against yours. you try to kiss him through the spandex, but when you poke your tongue out to trace his bottom lip, peter pulls back.

“fuck— can’t kiss you,” peter breathes out, momentarily stopping mid-thrust, pausing the squelching sound of your pussy, hanging like dust in the air. “gotta be able to kiss my smart girl.”

without wasting another word, he pulls the mask from under his chin, up to the middle of his nose bridge, revealing his slightly bloody lip, all puffy from biting and kissing you through the mask. his dick inside you twitches as you clench around him at the sight of just the lower-half of his face.

“peter—” you whine, almost noiselessly.

peter also doesn’t waste another second to dip his head back to yours, slotting his mouth over yours as his tongue tangles with yours, spreading spit all over your chin from the nastiness and messiness.

“should wear my mask more often, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he'll never admit it, but you know.

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.

Feedback is always appreciated 🕷️

Divider by @andromeda-graphics

Four years of living next to Peter Parker had taught you the difference between him being clumsy and him being in trouble. You barely knew him after all this time living next to each other. You knew that you liked him. Knew that when you'd both come home late at night— meeting in the shared hallway— you always noticed the dark bags under his eyes and the slight tremor in his hand as he opened his apartment door.

You knew about the man behind the mask.

You didn’t bother knocking. The knob turned under your palm and the door swung open on a scene that made your stomach drop.

Webbing.

It coated everything. Thick, glistening strands stretched from ceiling to floor, across the kitchen counters, over the cracked television, wrapping the furniture like a cocoon spun by something frantic and enormous. The air was heavy with that sharp, organic scent of fresh silk and something darker underneath—sweat, adrenaline, the copper edge of blood.

Peter was on the far side of the living room, collapsed against the wall. His hands frantically covered his ears, hands trembling, chest rising and falling in an unnatural pattern. The familiar blue-and-red suit was shredded across his torso, torn open like something had clawed its way out from the inside. More webbing leaked from his wrists in uncontrolled pulses, sticking to the floor, the walls, his own skin. His fingers flexed and the strands thickened, twitching like living things.

“Peter—”

His head snapped toward you so fast it was almost inhuman.

The eyes that met yours weren’t fully his anymore.

The whites had darkened, pupils blown wide. When he spoke, his voice was rough, layered, like two people trying to use the same throat.

“Stay back.”

You didn’t.

You stepped carefully over a thick strand of webbing that still quivered on the floor. “What- What's happening to you?”

A humorless laugh scraped out of him. One hand mover to press against his temple, webbing still dripping from his wrist in lazy, involuntary strands. “Should've heard you come in. Everything is so fucking loud.”

His gaze flicked over you—hooded, assessing, too sharp. Something hungry and not entirely human lived behind those eyes now. You watched him fight it, jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped.

“You knew,” he said quietly. Not a question. “About the suit. And you didn't say anything? How long?”

“Long enough.” You kept your voice steady even as another thick strand of webbing shot from his wrist and slapped wetly against the wall beside your head. “Saw you swinging back into your place one night when I couldn't sleep. I never said anything because you clearly needed the secret. But this? This is different.”

Peter pushed off the wall. The movement was too fluid, too many joints working in ways human joints shouldn’t. He stopped a few feet from you, chest rising and falling hard. The torn suit hung off him, exposing pale skin.

“I don't know what's happening,” he admitted, voice dropping. “Instincts. Hunger. Everything feels… louder. Stronger. I almost put my fist through the wall earlier because the neighbor’s music was too much. And the webbing—” He lifted his hand— more silk poured out, wrapping around his own forearm in tight, pulsing coils. “I can’t stop it. It’s like my body is rewriting the rules without asking me first.”

You took another step closer. The air between you felt charged, thick with the scent of him.

“Then let me help,” you said. “You’re not doing this alone. Not anymore.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed, the reflective sheen catching the light. For a second the man you knew was still there—the awkward, brilliant, exhausting friend who’d spent years pretending he was just a guy with bad luck and worse timing. Then something deeper stirred, and the look he gave you turned heavier, more intent.

“You barely know me. You shouldn’t be this close,” he warned, but he didn’t move away. “I don’t know what I’m becoming. And right now every instinct I’ve got is telling me to—”

He cut himself off, throat working.

Peter moved.

Not the familiar, slightly awkward steps you’d watched from afar for years. This was something else entirely—low, fluid, predatory. He circled you in a slow arc, bare feet silent on the web-slick floor, head tilted just a fraction too far. Those dark, reflective eyes never left your face. The torn suit clung to him in ruined strips, and every step made fresh silk drip from his wrists in lazy, glistening threads that stuck to the hardwood like living things.

“Get out.”

The words came out layered, rough, almost a snarl. He stopped a few feet away, shoulders rolling like he was fighting the urge to drop lower. “I’m serious. Walk out that door right now.”

You stayed exactly where you were.

“I’m not scared of you.”

A sharp, humorless sound left his throat. He stepped closer. The air between you thickened with the scent of him. His nostrils flared once, deliberate.

“Liar.”

Another step. He was inside your space now, close enough that you could see every vein, every scar, every time one of his muscles twitched. When he spoke again, the voice was quieter, meaner.

“I can feel it. Your heart’s hammering. Pulse jumping right there—” His eyes dropped to the side of your throat. “And that smell.” He inhaled again, slower this time, and a low sound rumbled in his chest. “You’re getting wet. Standing in the middle of my apartment like a defiant brat while I turn into a monster. You’re fucking dripping for it.”

Heat flooded your face. You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. The longer he circled, the worse it got—every predatory shift of his body, every dark glance, every warning he threw at you only made the ache between your legs sharper.

Peter’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t a smile.

“Look at you. So much time of being the careful, quiet neighbor and the second I start turning into something that wants to eat you, your body decides it’s the hottest thing it’s ever seen.” He leaned in just enough that his breath ghosted over your ear. “You’re not scared of me. You’re desperate for me. That’s so fucking pathetic. And so fucking hot.”

You swallowed. “I still want you. Not just this— the real you.”

The admission landed heavy between you.

For half a second the familiar Peter flickered back into his eyes—the one who you could hear through the walls tinkering away at two in the morning. Then the arachnid thing surged again and his expression went sharp, almost cruel.

“You want this?” He gestured at himself with a web-slick hand—the torn suit, the dark eyes, the silk still pulsing from his wrists in uncontrolled strands. “You want this version of me that looks at you and only sees prey? That wants to wrap you up and keep you?”

He took another step. You backed up on instinct and your shoulders hit the wall. He didn’t give you space. One hand planted beside your head. The other hovered near your hip, fingers twitching like he was fighting the urge to grab.

“I can smell how bad you want it,” he murmured, voice dropping into something filthy and low. “Your cunt’s practically begging. All that wetness just sitting there, waiting for something dangerous to notice. And I’m noticing, sweetheart. I’m noticing real fucking hard.”

His free hand finally settled at your waist, not quite gripping, just resting there with dangerous weight.

“I’m trying,” he said, and for a moment the struggle was clear in his face—jaw clenched, eyes flickering between human and something darker. “I’m trying so hard not to take what you’re offering. Because once I start, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop. And you—” His gaze dragged down your body, lingering openly between your legs. “You’re standing here like you want me to fail.”

He leaned in until his mouth was almost against yours, breath hot, voice pure filth.

“So tell me again you’re not scared. Tell me while your thighs are pressing together and your pulse is screaming for me to pin you to this wall and find out just how wet you can get for the monster next door.”

The webbing under his hand pulsed once, tightening against the plaster.

Peter’s control was slipping by the second.

And he was still right there, waiting to see if you’d push him over the edge.

“I’m not scared of you.”

Peter’s eyes flashed. The words had barely left your mouth before thick, warm webbing shot from both his wrists. It hit the wall on either side of your head with a wet slap, then snapped tight around your wrists, pinning them high and wide. The silk was hot, almost feverish, and it contracted once—deliberate—pulling your arms taut until your shoulders burned.

He stepped in close, chest nearly brushing yours, and tipped your chin up with two sticky fingers.

“Say it again.”

“Nope.” Your voice came out steadier than you felt. “Still not scared.”

Something dark and delighted flickered across his face. Then his hands dropped to the waistband of your sweatpants. He didn’t bother with the drawstring. He just ripped. The fabric gave like paper under that unnatural strength, the sound loud and final in the quiet apartment. Cool air hit your bare thighs. Your underwear was left behind—plain, nothing special—except for the very obvious dark, soaked patch right in the center.

Peter went still.

Then he laughed. Low, mean, almost delighted.

“Jesus Christ.” He dragged two fingers slowly over the wet spot, pressing just hard enough to feel how the fabric clung. “Look at that. You’re soaked through. Standing here being a lying brat, telling me you’re not scared while your cunt is making a mess of itself.”

He rubbed again, slower, watching your face as the damp cotton dragged over your clit. “This isn’t the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man anymore, sweetheart. This is the version that will treat you like the prey you are. And you’re dripping for it like a desperate little bug.”

His voice cracked for half a second. The mean edge faltered. His eyes flashed back to those rich browns you always got yourself lost in.

“Fuck—I’m sorry. You should still leave. I mean it. I don’t… I don’t know how much longer I can—”

The arachnid thing surged back. His fingers pressed harder against the soaked fabric, tracing the outline of your folds through the thin cotton.

“But you won’t leave, will you? You’re standing here getting wetter every time I open my mouth. Look at you. Thighs already shaking and I haven’t even touched skin yet.”

You felt it happen—the sharp, helpless clench deep inside you, the fresh rush of wetness that soaked through the fabric under his fingers. A soft, involuntary sound escaped your throat.

Peter’s eyes went completely black.

“Oh,” he breathed. “You liked that?”

He dropped to his knees so fast it was almost a fall. Both hands hooked into the sides of your underwear. One sharp pull and the fabric tore straight down the middle, the ruined scraps falling to the floor. Cool air hit your bare, dripping cunt. For one heartbeat he just stared, chest heaving, silk still leaking from his wrists and sticking to your thighs.

Then the last thread of control snapped with an almost audible crack.

A low, animal sound ripped out of him. He shoved your thighs apart with both hands, gripped hard enough to bruise, and buried his face between your legs like a man starving. There was no careful exploration, no soft start. His tongue dragged flat and filthy from your entrance all the way up to your clit in one long, greedy stroke, and the sound he made against you was pure hunger.

“Fuck—taste that,” he growled into your folds, voice muffled and wrecked. “So fucking wet. Dripping down my chin already.” He licked again, deeper this time, tongue pushing inside you just to feel how easily you opened for him. “Gonna eat this pretty cunt until you forget how to speak. Until the only thing you can do is come on my tongue while I decide whether to keep you or ruin you.”

His mouth sealed over your clit and sucked hard, no mercy, while two sticky fingers pushed into you without warning and curled. The webbing around your wrists pulsed tighter as your body jerked.

Peter Parker was gone.

What was left between your thighs only wanted to devour.

He ate you like he’d been starving for days—tongue flat and relentless, dragging over every sensitive inch before pushing deep inside you just to fuck you with it. The wet heat of his mouth sealed over your cunt completely, and the sounds that filled the apartment were filthy and constant— the soft, slick noise of his tongue working you open, the wet suck each time he pulled back just enough to breathe, the low, broken groans that vibrated straight against your clit.

Two fingers joined almost immediately, thick enough that it made the stretch burn in the best way. He curled them hard against that spot that made your vision white out and sucked your clit between his lips at the same time, the combination brutal and perfect. Your thighs trembled on either side of his head. The webbing around your wrists pulsed tighter every time your body jerked. He didn’t give you any time to breathe—just kept going, tongue fucking into you in deep, greedy strokes while his fingers worked faster, wetter, the slick sounds of it getting louder the more you dripped for him.

“That’s it,” he growled against your folds, voice rough and muffled. “Let me feel it. You’re so fucking close I can taste it.”

The pressure built in waves. First a sharp, coiling heat low in your belly, then a deeper ache that made your hips try to roll against his face even as he held you open. He chased every tiny shift, adjusting the angle of his tongue, the pressure of his fingers, until the only thing you could do was take it. Your cunt clenched around him. A broken sound tore out of your throat. The second the orgasm hit, it hit hard—your whole body locking up as you squirted, a hard, pulsing rush of wetness that hit his mouth and chin and dripped down his throat in messy streaks. He didn’t pull back. He just groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted and kept licking through it, messy and greedy, chasing every drop until your legs were shaking and you were whimpering from the overstimulation.

When the last tremor left you, Peter finally leaned back on his heels.

Your release was dripping off his chin, shining on his lips, streaking down his neck. He looked at the mess you’d made of him and laughed—low, mean, delighted.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and then licked that clean too. “You just fucking squirted on me. Look at that. One little push and you made a mess all over my face.” His eyes were almost pure black now, pupils blown wide with hunger and amusement. “I’ve heard you, you know. Through the wall. Late at night when you think no one’s listening. The soft little sounds you make when you’re getting yourself off alone in your apartment. Always wondered what it would take to make you get loud. Turns out all it took was me on my knees with my tongue in your cunt.”

He stood in one fluid motion. The remaining scraps of the suit came off with two sharp rips—fabric tearing like it was nothing. Then he was naked in front of you, cock hard and heavy between his legs, the head already shiny with precum. Every muscle in his body looked coiled and ready.

He didn’t give you time to catch your breath.

Why would he?

One sticky hand closed around your waist, the other around the back of your neck. He ripped you off the wall, your wrists aching at their release and spun you, marched you the few steps to the webbed kitchen counter, and bent you over it hard enough that your chest hit the cool surface with a soft grunt. Your cheek pressed to the webs, sticking you in place. Your ass was up, completely exposed, still dripping from the orgasm he’d forced out of you.

Peter stepped in behind you. The thick, hot length of his cock dragged through the mess between your thighs, slow and deliberate, smearing your own wetness up and down your folds.

“Look at this,” he murmured, voice pure filth. One hand spread you open so he could watch the way his cock slid through your slick. “So fucking wet. You came all over my face and your cunt’s still greedy for more. Is this what you wanted when you walked in here? To get bent over my counter like a little toy? Is this what you think about in bed?”

He leaned over your back, mouth near your ear, the head of his cock catching on your entrance with every slow roll of his hips.

“I can feel how bad you want it. You’re dripping down my cock. Such a messy, desperate little thing.” A soft, mean laugh brushed your skin. “I’m gonna fuck you until you squirt again. Until the only thing you can do is take it and thank me for not webbing you to the ceiling while I do it. And you’re gonna love every second of it, aren’t you?”

The blunt head of him pressed against you, not quite pushing in, just resting there—hot, heavy, promising.

Peter’s voice dropped even lower, rough with the last scraps of the man fighting the hunger.

“Tell me you still want this.”

“I want you.”

The words were barely out of your mouth before Peter drove into you in one hard, unbroken thrust.

The stretch was brutal—thick and sudden and so deep it punched the air from your lungs. Your cheek stuck against the webbed laminate as he bottomed out and stayed there for half a second, just breathing, just feeling the way your cunt clenched around him like it was trying to keep him.

Then he moved.

He fucked you hard and fast, hips snapping forward with a force that made the counter creak under you. Every thrust was deep, relentless, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet apartment. His hands locked around your hips hard enough that you already knew there would be bruises tomorrow—dark fingerprints where his fingers dug into soft flesh and held you exactly where he wanted you.

“Fuck—look at you,” he gritted out, voice rough and mean. “Taking it like you were made for this. I didn’t even think you could handle getting fucked this hard.” Another sharp snap of his hips drove a broken sound out of your throat. “But you’re dripping down my cock every time I bury it in you. So fucking greedy.”

You hadn’t known either. The pace was almost too much—too deep, too fast, the stretch burning in the best way with every drag of his cock. His blunt head kissing your cervix with every thrust. Your body still hadn’t fully come down from the last orgasm and already the pressure was coiling again, sharp and overwhelming. Peter didn’t slow. He just kept slamming into you, one hand sliding up your spine to fist in your hair and pull your head back so he could watch your face.

“That’s it. Let me feel it. You’re gonna squirt on my cock this time, aren’t you?” His voice dropped into something filthy and delighted. “I can already feel you getting tighter. Do it. Make a mess of me again.”

The second orgasm hit harder than the first. Your cunt locked down around him as you squirted again, a hot, pulsing rush that soaked his cock and thighs and dripped onto the floor between your feet. Peter groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever felt and fucked you through it, chasing every flutter and clench until your legs were shaking and you were gasping against the counter.

Strong hands hauled you up and carried you the few steps to the couch. He dropped onto the cushions and pulled you with him in the same motion, settling you over his lap so you straddled him. Your knees sank into the cushions on either side of his hips. Before you could even try to find your balance he planted both hands on your waist and started fucking up into you.

There was no pretense that you were in control.

Peter used you like a toy, lifting you just enough to drop you back down onto his cock while he thrust up to meet every fall. The angle was devastatingly deep. Every upward snap of his hips forced a wet, broken sound out of you. His grip never eased. Fresh bruises bloomed under his fingers as he held you exactly where he wanted and took what he needed.

“Oh sweetheart,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded and dark with hunger. “Sitting on my cock like a perfect little fucktoy. Can’t even move unless I let you.” He thrust up harder, watching the way your body took every inch. “You’re so wet it’s running down my balls. Still gushing for me like you can’t help it. Such a messy, desperate thing.”

One hand left your hip to wrap lightly around your throat—while the other kept you steady for the relentless pace of his hips. The look in his eyes was pure predator.

Peter’s grip on your hips never eased. He kept fucking up into you in deep, relentless strokes, using your body exactly the way he wanted while his voice stayed low and filthy against your ear.

“That’s it—take it. Look at how easy you open up for me. Sitting on my cock like you were made to get used.” Another hard thrust forced a broken sound out of your throat. “You’re shaking again. I can feel it. That pretty cunt’s about to soak me one more time, isn’t it? Go on. Squirt on me again. Make a mess while I fuck you through it.”

The pressure built too fast, too sharp. Your thighs trembled on either side of his hips. Every upward snap of his cock dragged over that perfect spot until the only thing you could do was just take it. When it hit, it hit hard—your whole body locking up as you squirted around him for the third time, a hot, pulsing rush that soaked his cock and the skin of his stomach. Peter groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever felt and kept thrusting through it, chasing every flutter and clench.

“Fuck—yes. Just like that. So fucking messy for me.”

His rhythm finally stuttered. The mean edge in his voice cracked into something rawer as his hips snapped up once, twice more, burying himself as deep as he could go. A low, guttural sound tore out of him when he came—hot, thick pulses spilling into you. He held you down through every spurt, grinding up into the mess he’d made of you until the last tremor left him.

Your strength gave out all at once.

You collapsed forward against his chest, forehead pressing to the damp skin of his shoulder, body still trembling with aftershocks. His cock twitched inside you one last time. For a long moment the only sound in the apartment was the two of you trying to breathe.

Then the change happened.

You felt it in the way his hands loosened. The bruising grip softened into something almost careful. When you managed to lift your head, his eyes were no longer that dark, reflective black. The familiar warm brown was fully back—wide, stunned, and filling fast with horror as the full weight of what he’d done settled over him.

Peter stared at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

His gaze dropped to the dark fingerprint shaped bruises already developing across your hips and thighs, to the torn scraps of clothing on the floor, to the mess of webbing and come and your own release still slick between your bodies. A shaky breath left him.

“Oh my god.”

His voice was his own again—quiet, wrecked, and already cracking with guilt.

“I—what did I just do to you?”

Peter’s hands were careful now.

He eased out of you slowly, like he was afraid even that small movement might hurt. A soft, broken sound left him at the loss of heat, but he didn’t linger on it. Instead he reached for the nearest blanket—one of the soft ones from the back of his couch—and wrapped it around both of you, tucking the edges in so your bare skin was shielded from the cool air. His arms slid under your thighs and back without asking. He lifted you like you weighed nothing.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured against your hair. “Just hold on to me.”

He carried you out of his apartment and the few steps across the hall to yours. The door was still unlocked from earlier. Inside, the quiet of your place felt almost surreal after everything. Peter walked straight to your bedroom and lowered you onto the bed with a gentleness that made your throat tight. He pulled the covers up over your still-trembling body, then brushed a strand of hair away from your face with the backs of his fingers.

“I’m going to take care of a few things next door,” he said softly. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”

You nodded, too wrung out to speak. The door clicked shut behind him.

For a little while you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, body heavy and aching in places that hadn’t hurt an hour ago. The bruises on your hips already throbbed in time with your heartbeat. Between your legs you were sore and slick and still faintly pulsing with aftershocks. Your mind kept drifting—back to the way he’d looked at you when the black had first flooded his eyes, the mean, hungry things he’d said, the way he’d used your body like it belonged to him. And then the moment those eyes had cleared and pure horror had replaced the hunger.

You could hear him through the shared wall. The soft scrape of furniture being moved. Water running. The quiet, almost frantic sounds of someone trying to clean up evidence of something they couldn’t quite believe had happened.

When the door to your apartment opened again, Peter stepped inside carrying a small bag and wearing only a pair of soft gray sweatpants. His chest and shoulders were still bare, sweat dripped down and cooled along his muscles. He set the bag down and came straight to the bed, kneeling beside it so his face was level with yours.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “I’m going to run you a bath, okay? You’re… you’re covered in me. And I want to make sure you’re not hurt anywhere I can’t see.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He disappeared into your bathroom. The sound of water filling the tub was steady and soft. A few minutes later he returned, scooped you up again—blanket and all—and carried you into the steam-filled room.

The water was perfect, just on the edge of too warm. Peter eased you down into it first, then stepped out of his sweatpants and climbed in behind you. The tub wasn’t really big enough for two, but he made it work, stretching his legs on either side of yours and gently pulling you back until your spine rested against his chest. His arms came around your waist, loose and careful, like he was still afraid of holding too tight.

For a long moment he didn’t speak. He just reached for the washcloth, wet it, and began slowly cleaning the dried mess from your skin—your thighs, your stomach, the places where his hands had left marks. Every touch was deliberate. Tender.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper against the side of your neck.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I lost control. Completely. And I hurt you. I can see the bruises already and I… I hate that I did that.” His forehead pressed to your shoulder. “But I’m here now. I’ve got you. Just let me take care of you for a little while, okay?”

The water stayed warm around you both. Peter kept the washcloth moving in slow, careful strokes—down your arms, across your collarbones, along the tender insides of your thighs where the evidence of everything they’d done still lingered. He never rushed. Every pass of the cloth felt like an apology and a promise at the same time.

When he finally set it aside, he reached for the shampoo instead. Gentle fingers worked it through your hair, massaging your scalp with a tenderness that made your eyes sting. He rinsed it just as carefully, cupping water in his palm so none of it ran into your face. Then his arms slid back around your waist and he simply held you, chest rising and falling against your spine.

“It’s been getting worse for weeks,” he said eventually, voice low against the side of your neck. “The webs I can’t control. The strength that comes out of nowhere. The way every sound and smell is suddenly too much. But the instincts… those are the scariest part. There’s this constant pull to claim things. To protect. To take. And it’s getting harder to tell where the spider ends and I begin.”

His thumb traced absent circles against your stomach under the water.

“I’ve liked you for a long time,” he admitted, quieter now. “Longer than I probably should’ve. Four years of living next door, not saying anything to you because frankly— I'm an idiot. And this… whatever’s happening to me… it made all of that louder. Like the part of me that already wanted you suddenly had permission to stop being careful about it.”

You turned your head just enough to catch the edge of his profile. Steam curled around both of you.

“I’ve liked you too,” you said softly. “For a while now.”

Peter went still behind you. Then a shaky breath left him, warm against your damp skin. One hand lifted to brush a wet strand of hair behind your ear, the touch lingering.

“Are you scared of me?” he asked. The question was barely more than a whisper. “After everything I just did… after what I might keep becoming… are you scared?”

You shifted carefully in the water until you could look at him properly. His eyes were so clear again—familiar brown, open and uncertain and so painfully human. You reached up and rested your palm against his cheek.

“No,” you said, and meant every word. “I’m not scared of you. I’m here. For all of it. Whatever this turns into, I’m not going anywhere. We'll figure this out together.”

Something in his expression cracked open—relief and wonder and leftover guilt all tangled together. He leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to your forehead, then another to your temple, before guiding you back against his chest. His arms settled around you again, secure without being tight.

The water lapped gently at your skin. The bathroom was quiet and warm and safe. Peter’s heartbeat was steady under your ear. You let your eyes drift closed, the last of the tension finally leaving your body as the heat and the solid presence of him pulled you under.

You started to doze off right there in the bath, wrapped in his arms, at peace.

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.”

"Min, I'm bored, this movie sucks, ugh!" you groan out, your words mixing with each other, rendering a semi coherent sentence, but you know he understood what you said, he always did, a lot of times you didn't even need to say anthing for him to know what you mean. It was the years spent together, going through different stages of life, some good some bad, that had made it possible.

"Hmm? I think its pretty fun, pay attention, see the plot is getting serious now." He speaks slowly, his deep voice rumbling back and forth in your head. His eyes are still focused on the tv, but his arms find your shoulder, settling in the crevice of your neck. The warmth of his hand seeping in your skin, making your head wobble.

"I dont like it, what the hell is even happening?" you whine, trying to get the warmth of his hands out of your head.

Frustrated you snatch the bottle from his hands and drink down multiple gulps of whiskey. Mingi looks at you, raising his eyebrows, he looks .... interesting. His dark hair is a mess from his own hands ruffling them, his cheeks are a little pink from the alcohol, but his lips, oh, they look so plump, almost perfect, slightly parted, breathing heavily. His expressions drop to a frown.

"Is there something wrong? On my face?" He asks, pointing a finger to himself. You flinch slightly, shaking your head. "Nuh, I guess I'm just zoning out, huh." You know it sounds like an excuse, because it is, you were totally staring at him. He shakes his head at that, turning his eyes back to the tv with a smile that looks awfully like a smirk.

You feel like you are going insane, no way you're getting all bothered by your best friend's, by Mingi's face, it must be the alcohol, you tell yourself, even though deep down you suspect that it might not be the case.

He stretches his arms, his warm skin grazing yours, making you huff out a breath. You swear he's doing this on purpose. He knows. So two can play this game right?

You move slightly towards him, enough to lean your head on his shoulder, he goes still for a mere second before relaxing back and wrapping his arms around you, caging you in a side hug. His hands rubbing slow circles on your shoulders.

His touch is so warm, and his body next to you feels so much bigger than it does from a few feet apart. He looks careless, sipping the whiskey and watching the movie. His fingers grip the bottle, the large chunky rings he always wears shining slightly from the glow of the overhead lamps. His index fingers tap around the rim of the bottle, and you can't take your eyes off them.

Irritated, you grab his hand that held the bottle, not to snatch the bottle, no, you fold your hands around his, and take a gulp from the bottle. He looks where you two's hand join on the bottle, and then, at you gulping down, his eyes follows your lips around the bottle, to your throat and finally landing on your breasts. His eyes gets fixated on them, making you look at your boobs, your nipples are hard and visible from the thin bralette and t-shirt you are wearing.

His expressions make you realize that you have a similar effect on him as he does on you. You remove your fingers from his, the lack of touch ending whatever trance he was in, making him finally look back at the tv without making eye contact with you. His face significantly more pink than it was a few moments before.

You lay your head on his shoulder again, but move your hand to his thigh, not doing anything big, just drawing circles, like was doing to your shoulder, well, its only fair if your return the favor.

He stiffens slightly, his eyes falling to your hands on his thigh, his lips parting. He looks adorable all flustered. He tries to relax and switch his attention to the movie, but you move your hands slightly upwards, caressing his thigh slowly.

"y/n" he says your name in a hushed tone, his deep voice settling somewhere in your chest.

"Hmm?"

"Don't do this."

"Do what Min?"

"Whatever this is." he says looking at your hand on his thigh.

"Huh, now I can't touch you?"

He puts his huge hand over yours, moving it downward, his touch on yours feel electric, your eyes are settled on his rings, the way they incase his long fingers make you wonder what these beautiful fingers can do. Maybe you really are drunk.

"You can touch me, just..." he trails off.

You wrap your fingers around his, rubbing your thumb on the back his palm, "Just what, you don't like it?"

"The problem is, y/n, that I do like it."

The words fall out of his mouth, and he quickly looks away, trying to snatch his hands from yours, but you don't let him.

"Yeah?" You ask with a smirk.

"Yeah"

"Well, I might like it too, who knows."

You get up slightly and put your hand on his chest, you can feel the hard muscles beneath his t-shirt, his heartbeat rapid from the alcohol, or you. Who knows.

You snake your hand to his jaw, holding it gently, his eyes go wide and his lips part, "What do you say to that Min? Would you like that?"

He slowly nods his head, his eyes glued on yours. You lean towards him, letting your lips touch his soft, plump ones.

You kiss him softly at first, savoring the flavor of alcohol on his lips that probably mirrors yours, he kisses you back just as softly, humming when he does so. You lean further into him, wrapping your arms around his neck, tilting your head. He puts his arms behind your back and pulls you on top of him, his thick thighs warm beneath you.

You move closer to him so that your chest touches his. And he tries to pull you even closer, putting his hand in your hair, grabbing a fistful. He opens his mouth letting you enter your tongue into his, a trail of saliva sliding down both of your lips.

The kiss was driving you mad, you grabbed his hair, trying to pull him even closer, you can feel yourself getting wet, warmth spreading all over your body. You can also feel his bulge, right beneath you.

He moves his hands all over your body, stopping when reaching the hem of your t-shirt, he pulls his lips back a little, a string of saliva of connecting your lips to his, "uh, y/n, can I?" He asks looking down at his hands bunching up your t-shirt, you nod frantically and kiss him again. He pulls up your t-shirt and throws it somewhere in the room and you do the same with his. You both roam your hands all over each other's bodies, your hands stop at his nipples, rubbing them softly, making him groan, he throws his head back and cups your breasts with one of his hands, his other hand slithering to your back to unhook your bralette.

You lean towards him leaving open mouth kisses on his jawline and neck and move your hips slightly, eliciting a loud groan from him. His cock under his sweats is hard, you move on top of it, slowly rocking your hips. The fabric rubbing against your clit makes you wetter as you keep moving your hips. Mingi's hands finds your hips and he starts to guide them, setting a torturous pace. You drop your head in the crook of his neck, moaning loudly from the pleasure. His groans have also turned into moans, his eyes close and head fallen back. He moves you closer and kisses you, you keep rocking your hips, not stopping the pleasure.

"Nghh– ugh, y/n don't stop, ugh—" he whimpers.

You moan into the kiss. He starts to push up his hips, wanting to increase the sweet pleasure, you move your hands downwards, pushing them under his sweats, hooking your fingers to the hem of his boxers. You look at him and he nods. You pull your body a little up and push away his sweats along with the boxer away, revealing his dick, standing against his stomach, the tip red and slick with his precum. You run your fingers over the tip, the precum collecting on your fingers. He lets out a loud moan, "nggghh- y/n please- plea—" he begs in between his breaths, his jaw dropping when he sees you put the fingers coated in his precum in your mouth, letting out a hum when tasting the slightly salty fluid.

"Please what Min? Do you want something?" You breath out, slowly sucking on your fingers.

"Ughh, you know, pleas–" you cut him off by putting those same fingers on his lips. He opens his mouth and you push them inside. He starts to suck on them, his warm tongue sliding over them. He moves his hands to your hips and pulls down your shorts. He pushes his hand in your panties, towards your cunt, your wetness coating his fingers and those chunky rings. He finds your clit and starts to rubs slow circles on it, making you moan loudly, "aarg— Mi- so good ughh–"

You take out your fingers from his mouth and tangle them back in his hair, he grabs your hips and pushes you down, so that your pussy is directly above his cock.

"Baby, I want it, can I?" he loudly whines, "Yeah–" you hiss out.

He pushes you down on him, his cock stretching you out, the sudden pleasure making you both groan, you both lean forward and kiss each other, messily, you bite on his lips slightly, before moving your hips. His hands guide your hips to set a pace so fast you think you might really lose your mind.

The pleasure grows from your lower body, enveloping you whole. His mouth finds your hard nipple, his hand on the other. You whimper as he leaves little bites on it, those whimpers develop into a loud moan when he increases the pace of his hips below you, hitting that sweet spot in you. His other hand grip your hip so hard you think it might leave a mark, not that you mind. You grab his hair and yank his head up to press your lips on his neck, sucking and biting, wanting to leave a mark of your own on his smooth skin. He removes his hand from your breast and hips letting it roam freely all over back, finally settling in your hair and neck.

"Baby– ughh it- good- ah-" he moans, his voice echoing like a sweet melody in your ears. He snakes his hand down and finds your clit, his index finger rubbing it in the same rhythm as your hips, you whine against his neck, feeling so close to your orgasm, "Min- ugh- im clo–"

"Yeah?" He breaths out, increases the pace of his fingers and pushing them a little harder on your clit, moving you so close to your orgasm. He pulls your head up and gives you a messy open mouth kiss, finally pushing you to your climax. Your body writhes on top of his, toes curling and muscles twitching, he holds onto you with one hand while his other keeps the pleasure going on your clit.

You clench around him and he whimpers, trying to pull out, "y/n, ugh- ba– stop, gonna ah- gonna cum."

"Min baby– please don't huh– move- giv– give it to me, please!"

"Baby, don't say that, aa- are you sure?"

"Min, plea- please do it." You whine between gasps as you slowly come down from your high, Mingi lets out a loud whine as his hips stutter beneath you, you feel him fill you up. The warmth climbing up your body making you sigh. He keeps on moving until his climax finishes. Exhaling a loud breath when he finally stops, slowly pulling out, leaving a cold and empty feeling inside you. He grimaces as the cold air touches him and puts his forehead against yours.

"Well."

"Well."

You both say at the same.

You look at each other for a second and burst out in giggles, laughing at yourselves.

You both wrap your hands around each other in a tight hug, "well it was a fun movie night" you say.

"Yeah it was." he replies between giggles, and picks you while standing up, "now let's get cleaned up, hmm?"

He carries you towards the washroom, and you wonder if he's into shower sex, maybe you'll fuck around and find out, you always do.

a/n: this is the first time I wrote complete like all the way smut, and let me tell you one thing, writing moans and whimpers is the most awkward thing I've done.

divider by: @/saradika-graphics and @/diviniyae