plot is typing…

A quiet grunt, followed by the creak of floorboards. They’re hesitant and light, almost as if they’re contemplating simply hopping back out. Oddly enough you’re not worried about who just crashed through your window but rather how. Your apartment is about seven floors up.

“Uh… Hello?” A voice calls, sheepish and unsure. You freeze. You recognise that voice. You swear it. You stand up on shaky legs and take a hesitant step toward the kitchen door. “Hello? S’anyone home?” The voice calls again, a little closer this time, and you grip onto the kitchen doorway for support, the other hand now rubbing at the tender spot at the top of your head. You grip the doorframe a little harder, the wood groaning. The sound is quiet, almost inaudible, but the other person seems to hear it.

“So… funny story, I did not mean to do that!” There’s a pause and another creak of floorboards right outside in the hallway. “Okay, you’re in there… I can hear you. Probably wondering who the lunatic in your house is, right?”

You furrow your brow, leaning to look around the kitchen door, but you can only really see a silhouette in the dim lighting of the hallway. “Who are you? What d’you want?” The figure straightens up as they notice your head peeking out through the doorway. The person is tall and lean, and their eyes seem to be huge and reflective. They step forward into view. Your breath catches in your throat.

“First off, hi! I’m your friendly neighbourhood Spiderman. Emphasis on ‘friendly,’ I promise.” He laughs awkwardly, his hands open and visible in a placating gesture. “Secondly, really sorry about the window. I was, uh… well, I got distracted. Been having these… headaches… lately. Yeah.”

You can’t help but crack a small smile. Here he was — Spiderman. Yes, the Spiderman. In your hallway. Acting awkward and sheepish. I mean, what a sight to behold. You’ve never met a celebrity before, nevermind having one very flustered Spiderman in your house. You duck your head back into the kitchen to try and collect yourself.

Your sudden departure seems to alarm him, “I’ll pay for the damages. Or, um, help fix it? I’m handy with… well, webs. It’s a whole thing.” He laughs again, but it sounds a bit forced. There’s a beat of silence. “…You’re not calling the police, are you?”

“No!” You yell a bit too quickly before remembering yourself. You clear your throat. “No, I just… you’re…” You shake your head, amazed at the whole situation. You take a deep breath and step out fully into the hallway. He’s standing there expectantly, his head tilted. You can see your own pale form staring back at you in the reflection on his lenses. 

“It’s really no—“

“Again, I’m rea—“

You both splutter at the same time. You laugh, gesturing for him to continue. He shakes his head, bewildered and possibly embarrassed, planting his hands on his hips. He lets out a jagged huff of air that sounds almost like a laugh.

“I’m really sorry.” He’s slightly leaning forward as if he’s staring right at you, though his featureless expression conceals it. His lenses seem to be…squinting? “Seriously. I’ll go clean it up right now. I don’t want you cutting yourself because of me and I…” His words trail off, his voice catching as he leans even further forward, suddenly quiet. “I… uh, I mean, I really don’t want you hurting yourself. Not that you’re clumsy or anything! You’re, uh… really, um, graceful. Like, in a totally-not-creepy way that I’ve definitely noticed because… uh, spider-sense. Yeah. Spider-sense.” He scratches the back of his head, shifting from one foot to the other, the faintest scuff of his suit-clad foot on the carpet giving away his sheepishness. “Wow, that… sounded way cooler in my head. Anyway! I’ll just… clean it up before I embarrass myself further.”

He retreats quickly, and a moment later you hear the grating sound of glass being scraped across the floor. “Do you… do you have, like, a dustpan?” He calls, his voice a bit less wobbly. You blink, grappling with the thought that Spiderman is in your apartment, probably crouched on your living room floor like some awkward house guest.

“Uh, yeah!” You manage, heading back into the kitchen to grab the dustpan and brush from under the sink. When you enter the livingroom, the first thing you notice isn’t Spiderman hunched over a mountain of broken glass, but the freezing cold wind whipping at your curtains. You shiver involuntarily. “Here.” You mutter, holding the dustpan and brush out to him.

As he sweeps at the shards, he glances up at you. “I’m such a…” He shakes his head, huffing, “I can uh… board it up with my webs. Until you can get it fixed properly.” He takes in your shivering form and his shoulders droop. He doesn’t say anything else, but he looks guilty. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to hide the tremor in your hands. “It’s… okay. Accidents happen.” He pauses mid-sweep, tilting his head. “You’re being way too nice to the guy who just wrecked your window.” A small laugh escapes you, breaking some of the tension. “Well, you did just save the city, like, last week… right?” He snorts quietly, resuming the sweep with his gloved hands. “You heard about that, huh? It wasn’t as glamorous as the news made it look. I mostly just… got lucky.” You watch him for a moment, the way his shoulders are slightly hunched, like he’s bracing for you to get mad. When there’s no backlash, no anger, he glances back at you, giving a small, grateful nod. He finally finishes gathering the larger shards, webbing them neatly into a sticky bundle. “There. At least you won’t step on these in the middle of the night.” Then he glances at you again, hesitating. “You’re still shivering. Can I…uh… can I stay until you’re, you know, less… ice cube-y?” You blink, surprised. “I mean… sure. Yeah. I guess I could use the company.” He sits cross-legged on the floor, fiddling with a piece of webbing and looking comically out of place sitting on your rug. “So… do you always let strange guys in spandex hang out in your apartment after they break your stuff?” You chuckle softly, feeling your cheeks getting a little warm. He is awfully charming and likeable, and he’s sitting on your living room floor. He tilts his head, and though you can’t see his face under the mask, you can practically feel his grin. “You good?” You give a small shrug, trying to keep your face angled away to hide your growing flush. The silence stretches, broken only by the faint city noises outside. You catch yourself leaning against the wall, still hugging your arms, but the tension in your chest is slowly easing. “Thanks, by the way. For not yelling. Or calling the police. Or, you know, throwing a lamp at me.” He mutters, tilting his head to look up at you, his lenses narrowing. You smile faintly. “I don’t have very good aim.” He leans back on his palms, his posture relaxed now. His head darts around, seemingly taking in his surroundings properly for the first time. “You’ve got a nice laugh, by the way. Made me feel better about this whole disaster.” Your cheeks warm even more at the unexpected compliment, and you find yourself stepping closer, drawn in by his odd mixture of awkwardness and charm. “It wasn’t a disaster. You’re just… a bit clumsy. And a bit of a drama queen.” You add with a snort. “Clumsy hero,” he mutters, then his head snaps back to you quickly, “Hey! Drama queen? Really?” You both laugh, letting the strange tension and situation dissipate into comfortable familiarity. The laughter slowly ebbs and there’s a beat where you’re both just… looking at eachother. The city light flickers in from the broken window, painting stripes across his red and blue suit. He tilts his head, voice soft. “I should, uh… probably head out before I make things worse. Unless…” You tilt your head, waiting for him to continue.

“Unless, uh, you…” He shakes his head and waves his hand dismissively, like he’s expecting you to reject the idea completely. “S’nothing. Nevermind.”

You furrow your brow and cross your arms. Your voice is soft and coaxing. “No, what is it?”

He lets out a shaky breath, pretending to be interested in a notch in your wooden coffee table. “Unless you don’t want me to?” You glance at the table, then at him, taking in the way his gloved fingers trace the edge of the wood. The quiet hum of the city outside seems louder in the pause between you. You swallow, trying to find your voice. “I… I don’t mind if you stay,” you say softly, almost questioning yourself as the words leave your lips. He looks up, his shoulders relaxing slightly, “Yeah? Okay… cool. I can, um… stay… sitting here for a bit, if that’s alright?” You nod, and he settles more comfortably on the floor, his back against your couch. He lets out a quiet, almost content sigh, the sound draws your gaze, and you notice the way his chest rises and falls beneath the suit. You’re closer than you realised. You take another step closer and settle down onto the floor beside him. The quiet stretches, but not uncomfortably. He shifts slightly, angling his body toward you. “I mean… if you want me to go, I will. I just…” He hesitates, then shrugs. “I kinda like being here.” Your heart flutters. You reach out without thinking, letting your fingers brush his gloved hand. He freezes for a second, then turns his hand over, letting your fingers settle against his palm. “I kinda like having you here,” you admit with a small laugh. He exhales, a slow, careful breath, and you can almost feel the smile behind the mask. He leans in just a little, his hand coming up as if to touch your face, but he hesitates, letting it hover mid-air. The shutters on his lenses snap closed for a moment before opening, and he seems to remember himself, snatching his hand back.

“Sorry. That was weird.” He groans, sounding almost as if he was in physical pain. “It’s just— You’re really… uh, y’know. And I just…” He scrubs a hand over his mask-clad face. “I don’t even know your name and it’s all… it’s…” “It’s (Name).” You say quietly, your eyes still fixed on his hand that had been hovering near your face a few seconds ago, now curled into a fist. “(Name),” he repeats softly, like he’s testing the taste of it through the fabric of his mask. “That’s… yeah, that’s a really nice name.” He laughs nervously, a breathy little huff, shifting slightly closer, “I, um, don’t usually do this kinda thing. Y’know—talk to strangers often. Or… stare at them. Which I’m not! Anymore. I’m stopping now.” You can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Is that what you’ve been doing this whole time? It’s hard to tell.” He groans again, letting his head fall back for a second. “I’m terrible at this. I mean, I just met you like, thirty minutes ago, and my brain’s already… jelly.” “You’re nervous?” “Yeah. I mean… you’re… wow.” His voice drops, becoming a bit more gravelly, a little raspy. “You’re kinda distracting, you know that?” He hesitates, his hand twitching at his side before lifting half an inch, as if he wants to reach for you but doesn’t dare. “If I… um… wanted to…” He swallows, his voice cracking slightly. “Would it be… totally insane if I… kissed you right now?” Your breath catches, and for a moment you can’t even think, let alone speak. You make a choked little noise at the back of your throat. “Maybe… just a little bit insane.” “Insane’s kinda my thing, isn’t it?” he says quickly, a grin audible in his voice. He closes the distance, scooting so close that your thighs are touching. He’s close enough now that you can feel the heat radiating through his suit. “Can I?” he whispers, leaning in and nodding toward your hand, still giving you a chance to pull away. You nod, and he reaches a hand out slowly, hovering for a split second before it closes around yours, and pulls it up toward the bottom of his mask. Your fingers close around the fabric and his hand guides yours to pull gently.

His hand is trembling. His lips look soft. And then he’s kissing you, it’s clumsy at first, like he can’t quite believe it’s happening. Within seconds it deepens, the urgency and heat catching both of you off guard. One hand hovers uncertainly at your waist before finally settling there, trembling, the other hooks under your thigh. Almost effortlessly, he pulls you onto his lap, and you can feel the rapid pound of his heart through the thin layer of fabric where your chests are now pressed together. The kiss is almost inexperienced and sloppy, all clashing teeth and accidental nips.

You pull back for just a second, your lips kiss-swollen and wet. You try to catch your breath. “Wow…” You trail off, catching yourself, the name ‘Spiderman’ feeling a bit impersonal considering the circumstance.

Spiderman himself seems unbothered, already chasing your lips with his own and delivering a teasing little nip before diving back in. You can feel him grinning against your lips.

“It’s… Peter… say it…” He mumbles between kisses, his hands splaying across your lower back, pulling you flush against him. “…Please…”

The friction makes him groan. He plants another long, wet kiss on you. You can feel yourself getting pulled against the rigid length of him, making you squeak, “Peter!”

He lets out a low, steadying breath, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile. His hands are now firmly anchored onto your hips, holding you in place. You can feel him pulsing beneath you. His voice rises an octave, “God, yeah. That’s it. I’m Peter.”

You don’t let him say anything else, pressing your hips more firmly against him. He lets out a choked noise and his head falls back against the couch, his mask slipping back down over his face. He doesn’t seem to notice but his grip on your hips tightens, and you feel almost certain that it’s going to leave a bruise.

It’s almost comical, The Amazing Spiderman, pliant and trembling underneath you. His hips buck upwards, seeking more friction. “C’mon. Just… little bit… Oh. Oh fuck…” His hands grip tighter, slowly coaxing you to rock. The only sounds are both of your laboured breathing and the grating sound of denim against spandex. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the suit. “That’s… shit, that’s good…”

The rocking grows faster, less coordinated as he loses rhythm, his hips jerking involuntarily. You can feel a familiar heat pooling in your lower abdomen, like a coil that’s about to snap. The pleasure is starting to border on pain as he starts driving his hips upward, holding you captive in his bruising grip. “Peter… s’too much… I think I’m…”

You’re cut off by a particularly rough rut, the air being punched out of your lungs. You feel your lungs stinging a bit with the lack of oxygen, and him. You can feel him. Everywhere. His grip on your hips, the soft fan of his breath through his mask and the hot, pulsing length of him slotted between your thighs.

“Yeah?” His breathing is coming in short, jagged pants. The innocent looking lenses on his mask are half covered by the shutters, making him look in a perpetual state of bliss. You can see your flushed, sweat-damp face reflected in the still-visible whiteness. “G’on. ‘M close too… so close…”

With a final, stuttering rut and an almost vice-like clamp on your hips, he comes. He finally stills, letting his grip slacken and brings up a hand to sheepishly scrub at his masked face. You’re both panting, clothes stuck to your skin with sweat. With a few blink-like snaps of his shutters, his lenses seem to uncloud and he straightens up, checking you over as if looking for injuries. “You alright?”

You blink, nodding fervently. “Yeah. I’m alright. You?”

His other hand rubs gentle circles on your hip. “Alright? I’m uh, I’m a bit more than alright—“

A jingling, chip-tune like melody starts to play from close to his hip. Then it starts to play from your pocket, where your phone is. Peter tilts his head, then he jumps, as if remembering who he is. He pulls out his phone, and you dig in your pocket for yours.

“Spidey Tracker.” You both mutter.

Peter snorts, snapping his phone shut. “Ignore it.”

You huff, phone still clutched in your hand. You bring the other up to touch his chest, right over his spider emblem. Your eyes drift down his torso and land on the slowly spreading wet patch at the crotch of his suit. He groans, sounding embarrassed. “M’sorry about that. Gonna need to find a good dry-cleaner.”

You laugh, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to the side of his mask. Just then, a soft ding comes from your phone, lighting it up with a notification. Peter cranes his neck to look. “What’s that?”

A text comes through.