lh43 and op81 defender

You were Oscar Piastri's mental coach. When you were hired in Woking, you knew it wouldn't be easy. You came here from Ferrari, where you worked with Carlos Sainz until the news about Hamilton reshaped the entire market. Although you were young, you had learned a lot during your year with Carlos. You knew the Spanish temperament well, but Oscar turned out to be the polar opposite: closed off, restrained, emotionally unavailable, and it forced you to feel like you were starting your career all over again.

From the first days, your sessions resembled a game of chess. He acted as if he knew everything better than you, and every word had to be dragged out of him. But somewhere in the middle of the season, this professional tension began to transform into something else. Something thick, electric, and forbidden.

You caught yourself lingering on his lips when he spoke about pressure. You noticed how the muscles in his neck tensed during training when you came to collect him for another session, and your pulse would quicken.

And he... He began looking at you longer than etiquette allowed. In the cramped briefing rooms, the air between you became so electrified that it seemed a single spark would be enough to make everything explode. You never spoke about it, but those accidental elbow touches, those eye-to-eye glances that lasted long seconds, his incredible knack for always ending up near you. You felt that he had changed, and his attitude toward you had too. But the turning point, when he let you in closer, happened in Austin, at the US Grand Prix. Then, having lost the lead in the standings, he took off his armor for the first time. He confessed to you that he sees the team sacrificing him for Lando. It was a moment of vulnerability that brought you closer. You became his ally, his voice of reason. You made him believe he was still in the game.

And he believed. He worked like he was possessed. Pole in the sprint, sprint victory, pole in the race... And all of it was destroyed by a clumsy strategy decision. The fault wasn't his.

"Y/N?"

You flinched, feeling a heavy hand on your shoulder. Turning around, you saw Zak Brown. The McLaren Team Principal looked worried, but in his eyes, you read something else—calculation. That look made everything inside you tighten into an unpleasant knot. His concern seemed fake, plastic.

"Oscar... he's a bit upset that he couldn't finish first..." Zak said, looking at you and gesturing with his hands. You looked at him calmly, seeing that he was nervous that Oscar might have major grievances against him. "He kicked out the engineer, he doesn't want to see me. Only you can get through to him. Please. Calm him down and tell him we just made a mistake..."

You nodded, feeling your stomach clench. You knew this "other" Oscar—the one hiding behind the "Ice Cold" mask. But you had never seen him like this.

"I was just about to go to him. It's okay, Zak. I'll calm him down," you said, trying to make your tone sound indulgent, though all you wanted was to tell this man to go to hell.

"Thank you. I'm counting on you," Zak said, smiling, and not a trace of worry remained on his face. What kind of person is he? He left, and you headed to Oscar's private driver room.

When you approached his door, you heard a crash, as if something heavy had fallen. You touched the handle and opened the door. Chaos reigned in the room. Oscar's helmet lay in the corner, as if it had been hurled there with full force. That sound you just heard must have been the helmet hitting the wall.

Oscar stood in the middle of the room, still in his fireproof suit, unzipped to the waist. The sleeves dangled down, revealing a sweaty black t-shirt clinging to his chest.

Seeing you, his gaze bore into you. It lasted less than a second, but a chill ran down your spine from that furious look. You had never seen him like this. But his anger was fully justified.

He looked away from you and began pacing back and forth like a trapped animal, and the stream of profanity flying from his lips made you freeze. It was a mix of pure English and Australian slang, every word soaked in venom directed at himself.

"Oscar," you called quietly, locking the door behind you.

"I want to be alone," he said coldly. You looked at his broad back, which evoked a desire to hug it, and tried again.

"I just wanted to say..." you began, but Oscar didn't let you finish. He stopped abruptly and turned around. His eyes were dark, wild. His breathing heavy, ragged, his chest heaving.

"I said I want to be alone!" he barked. "Get out!"

You knew he couldn't be left in this state. You felt you had to calm him down. So you didn't listen to him. You took a step forward, ignoring your instinct for self-preservation. You walked right up to him, boldly invading his personal space, which was sparking with tension.

"No," you said firmly. "You won't be alone. Look at me."

He tried to turn away, but your palms, cool and soft, cupped his flushed, sweat-slicked face. You forced him to look into your eyes.

"Oscar, calm down," your voice was an anchor in his storm. "You're still the best on this track. Nothing is lost."

He was breathing heavily and quickly, his hands shaking from excess adrenaline that had nowhere to go.

"I blew it, Y/N. I was supposed to be there, in first place... I was supposed to fucking win this damn Grand Prix..." he cursed. You heard the pain in his voice, and it hurt you even more.

"You still have a chance," you squeezed his cheeks tighter, trying to transfer your confidence to him. "You're still fighting for the championship."

Championship. That was the trigger word.

Something clicked in his eyes. The rage, instead of fading, flared up with a new, dangerous fire.

In the next instant, the world flipped. He grabbed your wrists, tearing your hands from his face, and shoved you back sharply. Your back hit the wall, knocking the air from your lungs. Oscar loomed over you, pinning you with his body, blocking any escape route. He was hot as a furnace. You smelled sweat, burnt rubber, and expensive cologne mixed with pure testosterone.

"Don't do that," he hissed right against your lips, his voice dropping to a dangerous, husky tone. "Don't talk to me about the fucking championship when I just gave it away with my own hands..."

You stayed silent. Your eyes treacherously fell to his lips, which were so close. You felt your heart pounding somewhere in your throat. You saw a vein pulsing in his neck.

"You didn't give it away with your own hands..." you said, and Oscar's eyes dropped to your lips. "You did everything you could to win that first place, but the team failed you again, and you know it..."

You felt the pressure of his body ease slightly at your words. It was barely noticeable, but you realized he saw your support and he knew that you knew what was really happening.

"You'd better go," he said, but didn't pull back a millimeter. His knee wedged between your legs, pressing you against the wall. It was a warning, but his body said otherwise. "I'm not in control right now. I'm very angry, Y/N. I could hurt you, I could snap..."

His gaze fell on your lips again. You saw the hunger. This tension had been between you for a long time, and now the dam was cracking.

You lifted your chin, reducing the distance to microscopic. You felt his hot breath on your skin.

"If it helps you calm down..." you whispered, looking straight into his dark eyes. "If it makes you feel better... do it. Take it out on me."

A second of silence. You saw his pupils dilate. He accepted the permission.

Oscar crushed his lips against yours. It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was rough, commanding, the desperate kiss of a man needing release. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling your head back to deepen the kiss. Your hands found his waist on their own, unconsciously squeezing his body.

He bit your lips, pouring all his anger, all his loss into this union. You tasted him—salty from sweat, bitter from defeat, and intoxicating from desire. He lowered his lips to your neck, leaving a warm, wet trail there and sucking the skin so hard there would definitely be a bruise tomorrow.

"Oscar..." a moan escaped you when he pressed his hips against your center, letting you feel how much he wanted you.

"Shut up," he said huskily near your ear, his hand dropping sharply down your body, squeezing your thigh to the point of pain. "You allowed this yourself. Don't complain now."

You weren't going to complain. On the contrary, this roughness, this undisguised, animal attraction that he had hidden for months behind a mask of indifference, was now acting on you like a drug. You felt his fingers on your skin so sharply, as if you'd been electrocuted.

He abruptly scooped you up under your buttocks, lifting you off the floor. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, touching the stiff fabric of the suit hanging at his hips and the bare skin above. He didn't wait, didn't ask if you were comfortable. He just carried you to the narrow leather sofa in the corner of the room, not breaking the kiss, which was becoming deeper and wetter.

Oscar pushed you onto the sofa, and you fell onto your back, looking up at him. In the semi-darkness of the room, he looked damn sexy, and you couldn't stop thinking that he looked even better like this than you could have ever imagined. His chest heaved heavily; he pulled his t-shirt with sponsor logos off over his head in one jerky motion and threw it aside, remaining only in his suit pulled down to his hips.

Oscar loomed over you like a storm about to break. His eyes, dark and hungry, slid over your body as if he were seeing you for the first time—not as his mental coach, not as an ally in this ruthless game of Formula 1, but as something that could consume his rage and turn it into flame. The suit hung low on his hips, revealing defined abdominal muscles covered in a thin layer of sweat that glistened in the dim lamp light. You felt the heat of his skin even at a distance, the smell of adrenaline mixed with that same cologne you would recognize among thousands.

You lay on the sofa, your heart pounding as if you had just finished on the track yourself. Your blouse was wrinkled from his rough touches, and your skirt had ridden up, exposing your thighs. You didn't even have time to steady your breath before Oscar dropped to his knees between your legs, his hands bracing on the sofa on either side of your head, trapping you in his body. He was massive, strong—years of training in simulators and on the track had made his muscles steel, and now they were tense with pent-up energy.

He thrusted against you, and only now did you realize how hard he was with desire.

"Are you sure I should continue?" he hissed, his voice hoarse, as if after shouting into the microphone on the podium. His lips were so close you felt their warmth on your skin. You nodded, your fingers sliding over his chest, feeling his heart beating wildly under the skin.

He left you no more chances to retreat. His lips crashed into yours again, slower this time. The kiss was deep, his tongue invading your mouth, exploring, dominating, making you moan into his lips. His right hand moved lower, slid down your neck, his fingers gliding over your collarbone, then over your breast through the fabric of your blouse, and you arched under him, feeling your nipples harden at the touch.

"Fuck, you're so... hot," he muttered, pulling away from your lips only to lower his head. His lips touched your neck, softly at first, but then he bit the skin, sucking it into his mouth, leaving a red mark that would turn into another bruise tomorrow. You cried out in surprise, a mix of pain and pleasure, your nails digging into his shoulders, leaving faint scratches on his sweaty skin. He didn't stop—his mouth moved lower, down your décolletage, his teeth grazing the edge of your blouse.

His hands were everywhere. One in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your neck for new kisses. The other on your thigh, squeezing the muscles, sliding up under your skirt. You felt his fingers touch the edge of your panties, and your heart skipped a beat. He wasn't gentle—his touch was possessive, exploratory, as if he were taking what he considered his.

"You're wet for me, aren't you?" he whispered hoarsely, his voice vibrating against your skin, and you couldn't answer properly, only a quiet exhale that meant "yes," as you felt warmth spreading through your body.

Oscar lifted himself for a moment, his eyes meeting yours—the rage was still there, but now mixed with desire, making his gaze even darker. He pulled your blouse over your head in one quick motion, tossing it into the corner of the room where the helmet already lay. Your bra followed the blouse, and your skin broke out in goosebumps from the cool air, but his body immediately covered you, hot and heavy. His lips found your breast, his tongue gliding over the nipple, and you arched, moaning louder. He bit down, not hard, but enough for you to feel a sharp flare, and then soothed it with his tongue, circling around, making you grab his hair.

"Oscar... please," you whispered, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. You felt his erection through the fabric of the suit, hard and strained, and it made you squeeze your thighs. He groaned in response, his hand moving lower, fingers sliding under your panties, touching you where you were most sensitive. He moved slowly at first, exploring, feeling your wetness, and then faster, circling around your clitoris, making you tremble under him.

"So wet for me..." he muttered, his voice low and gritty, as if he were still fighting himself. His fingers slipped inside, first one, then two, stretching you, moving in a rhythm that made you gasp for air. You felt the slow entry, the pressure on the walls, how he curled his fingers, touching that spot that made your eyes roll back in pleasure. Your body reacted instantly, your hips rising to meet him, and a moan tore from your throat, uncontrolled.

He watched you, not looking away, wanting to burn this moment between you into his memory for a long time.

"I'm going to fuck you right now," he said, his thumb pressing on your clitoris, circling, intensifying the sensation. "Are you ready to take me?"

You were more than ready. You needed him inside you immediately. You couldn't hold back—the words slipped out on their own:

"Yes... I'm ready... come inside."

Oscar smiled—it was a dark smile that didn't reach his eyes but made him even sexier. And you couldn't believe you had discovered another side of him again. That dark side he hides so diligently from everyone in the Paddock.

Oscar pulled away for a moment, stripping off his suit completely, remaining only in his boxers. You saw him fully—a muscular body covered in sweat, an erection straining the fabric. He pulled them off too, freeing himself, and you swallowed, feeling a mix of excitement and anticipation. He was big, bigger than you expected, and ready. You couldn't look away.

He turned back to you, his hands pulling your panties down, tossing them away. Your skirt was still on you, hiked up, but it didn't matter. Oscar settled between your legs, his hands spreading your thighs wider, and for a moment you felt vulnerable, but his look—full of desire—made you relax.

He leaned down, his lips touching your center, his tongue gliding over your clitoris, and you screamed, clutching the sofa. He tasted you like favorite ice cream that one wants to eat for as long as possible. His tongue moved in a rhythm that made you shake. He sucked, licked, bit lightly, while his fingers held your thighs, not letting you pull away.

"Oh God... Oscar..." you moaned, your body arching, feeling the pleasure building like a wave about to crash. He didn't stop, his movements becoming faster, more intense, as if he wanted to drive you to the edge. You felt the orgasm approaching—muscles clenched, breathing became ragged, and finally, it crashed over you, making you scream, your body trembling in convulsions.

But Oscar wasn't going to give you a break. He moved up, his lips glistening with you, and he crushed his mouth to yours, letting you taste yourself.

His kisses made your head spin, his tongue filling your mouth, not giving even the slightest chance for a respite. His hot flesh pressed against your sensitive pussy, which was still twitching from the experienced orgasm.

He thrust against you without entering, just smearing the remnants of your wetness over his cock. The sensations were incredible. His kiss plus this friction and pressure almost made you cry.

But a moment later he pulled away. You both froze for a second, aroused to the maximum.

"I'm going to come in right now, so promise me you'll be quiet so no one can hear the sounds that only I should hear," he ordered.

"I'll be quiet," you promised, and he finally positioned the head of his cock at your entrance.

Oscar entered you in one sharp motion, filling you completely, and you cried out from a mix of pain and pleasure. He was rough, giving no time to adapt—his hips moved fast, deep, as if he were pouring all his anger into this. You felt his thrusts, how he stretched you, how he touched the deepest spots. And it was euphoria.

His hands held your hips, lifting them higher to go deeper. "Fuck, you're so tight," he groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder, hot breath scorching your skin. You wrapped your legs around him, your nails leaving deep crescent marks on his broad back, which you had dreamed of hugging every time you saw it.

The rhythm was frantic—fast, jagged, like a race where every second counts. You felt him pulsating inside, felt his breathing becoming heavier.

"Faster..." you whispered, and he obeyed, picking up the pace, his body slamming against yours with loud slapping sounds. The room was filled with quiet moans that merged into one sound with the impact of bodies against each other.

Pleasure built again, deeper and more intense this time. You felt him nearing the edge—his muscles tensed, his groan became louder. "Come for me," he hissed, and you nodded, feeling the orgasm wash over you. Your walls clenched around his hard cock, and he barely managed to pull out. His cock fell onto your stomach, and he spilled onto you.

Hot, thick streams landed on your stomach, on the skin between your breasts, one drop even reaching your collarbone. Oscar breathed heavily over you, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder, his whole body shuddering from the last wave. You felt his heart beating against your chest—wildly, as if he had just driven the final lap.

It was quiet for about five seconds. Only heavy breathing and the smell of sex, sweat, and burnt rubber.

Then he lifted his head.

His eyes no longer burned with that wild rage. Remnants of anger still smoldered somewhere deep, but now there was something else—a quiet, almost painful wonder. He looked at you as if, for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to see the real you. Not the coach. Not the ally. You.

"Y/N..." his voice was husky, barely audible. He ran his thumb over your cheek, as if checking if you were real. "I... fuck. I'm sorry. I was... so rough..."

You smiled, looking at the ceiling of the driver room. Your body ached with a pleasant pain, reminding you of what had just happened.

"Don't apologize," you whispered, kissing him on the lips lightly. "You needed it. We needed it."

Oscar finally lifted his head. There was no longer that dark abyss of despair in his eyes. There was softness, gratitude, and that same silent adoration he had hidden behind a professional mask for so long. He ran his thumb over your lower lip, which was slightly swollen from his kisses.

"You're incredible," he said quietly, and those words made butterflies flutter in your stomach.

He reluctantly got up, offering you a hand to help you stand. The next few minutes passed in silent intimacy. Oscar found a towel and wet wipes, helping you clean yourself up. This contrast between the animal passion on the sofa and the gentle attentiveness now finally conquered you.

As you began to dress, reality slowly returned. Somewhere outside the door of this room was the noisy paddock, journalists, Zak Brown, and the unresolved situation with the championship. But the air in the room no longer sparked with tension—it was saturated with calm and confidence.

Oscar zipped up his suit but didn't rush to put on the top part, tying the sleeves at his waist. He walked to the mirror, smoothing his hair, and you saw the familiar, focused expression return to his face. But when he met your gaze in the reflection, the corners of his lips lifted slightly.

"You were right," he said, turning to you. You were adjusting your skirt, trying to make it look presentable.

"About what exactly?" you asked, walking up to him.

"I'm still in the game. I'm not going to give them this title. If the team makes mistakes—I'll drive to cover their mistakes. I'll claw out this damn championship."

You walked right up to him and placed your palms on his chest, feeling the hard muscles under the fabric of his t-shirt.

"That's the Oscar I know."

He covered your hands with his.

"Thanks for helping me calm down," he smiled slyly. You couldn't suppress your own smile.

"It's my job, Piastri," you said.

"Just a job?" he leaned toward you, his eyes gleaming mischievously.

"Well... maybe a little more," you whispered before he kissed you briefly but tenderly on the lips.

"Let's go," he exhaled, pulling away.

When Oscar opened the door, the bright light of the corridor hit your eyes. He walked out first, and you saw his back straighten and his shoulders square. The "Ice Cold" mask was back in place, perfect and impenetrable. To the whole world, he was once again the cold-blooded Australian who knows no emotions.

Zak Brown stood nearby, nervously checking his phone. And you really hoped no one had heard you. Your cheeks were a bit red, but that could be written off as you having diligently comforted Oscar. Though exactly how, no one needed to know.

Seeing Oscar, Zak Brown rushed forward, trying to read his driver's mood.

"Oscar, mate, listen, we analyzed the data, and..."

Oscar raised a hand, stopping the flow of excuses.

"It's fine, Zak. We'll break it down in the debrief. Right now I want to focus on the next race. We still have chances, and I'm not going to give up."

Zak froze, blinking, evidently expecting shouting or being ignored. He shifted his gaze to you, standing a bit behind Oscar. You just gave the boss a barely noticeable nod, holding your phone in your hands.

"Great!" Zak exclaimed, exhaling with relief. "That's... that's exactly what I wanted to hear. Great attitude, Oscar."

When you broke for lunch that day, Beau invited you and your friend/upcoming roommate, Maya, to sit with him and his friend, Dean. You agreed, and you met Dean. He immediately tried to charm you, but you just laughed him off. Which he liked, so he decided he liked you. Then he tried to do the same to Maya, who did the same as you. He then decided that he would like to keep both of you. Unfortunately, he did word it that way. 

“I don’t think that’s the way you should word it.” Maya teased and the blonde rolled his eyes. 

“Oh, please.” Dean starts. “For me to be saying that to the two of you, is an honor.” You looked to Beau for confirmation, who just shook his head no and you snickered quietly behind your water bottle. 

After that day, you didn’t expect to see Beau and Dean at all. You figured that freshman year would start, they wouldn’t remember you, or you wouldn’t see them, and all would be alright. Everybody makes friends with people at freshman orientation and never talks to them again. Beau and Dean were that to you and Maya. wrong.

Two weeks into the school year, you and Maya were invited to an after party of one of the football games. Neither of you thought anything of it, and decided to attend. Ten minutes in, while you were talking to a girl who lived on your hall, you had the feeling of eyes being on you. When you turned your head, you noticed that the curly haired brunette standing in the corner with a drink in his hand was Beau. As soon as you turn, his face lights up and he puts a pause on the conversation he’s in. You match his smile, waving at him. 

Beau makes it to you in quick fashion, wrapping you up in a hug. “Dude! I was wondering if I would run into you!!” He says as you hug and when you separate you can’t help but giggle up at him. 

“I didn’t think we would.” You admitted, shrugging your shoulders. 

“Well I’m glad we did! How are you?” The two of you catch up, he pointed out Dean across the room, making out with a girl with bright blue hair and piercings galore. “He told me he hopes there’s some secret piercings.” Beau wiggled his eyebrows in a suggestive manner and you laughed loudly, hitting his shoulder. 

“That’s disgusting!” Beau chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. One of the players from the football team came up, patting Beau on the back. You recognized him from one of the Instagram posts, and assumed that he’s older. 

“Maxwell! I see you’ve already got yourself a lady friend.” The player, who introduced himself as Kipner, teased the both of you. 

“Oh no, she’s just a friend.” You nodded your head, a small smile on your face. Just friends. You liked it that way.

2. Late night diner

Over the course of freshman and the first semester of sophomore year, you and Beau got extremely close. You considered him one of your best friends. Beau considered you his best friend right next to Dean, who was already salty that you were almost as close to Beau as he was. 

One night during your second semester of sophomore year, you were studying at the library. It was late, your eyes were starting to mix the words of your textbook together, and the ache forming in your head was something that you were pretty sure even ibuprofen couldn’t fix. Right as you were going to lay your head down and ‘rest’ your eyes, someone's hands landed on the table in front of you. You jumped, ready to tell the person off until you noticed that it was Beau. “Oh, it’s you.” Said man looked down at all of your textbooks and notebooks, worry laced on his face.

“How long have you been here?” 

“Long enough that I’m pretty sure I’m seeing two of you right now.” Beau shook his head, starting to tidy all of your things together. “Hey, hey, what are you doing?” 

“I’m packing your things. We’re going somewhere.” 

“Oh yeah, that doesn’t sound threatening at all.” Beau rolled his eyes, with no ill intent behind it before handing you your bookbag. 

“Let’s go.” You looked up at your best friend, who is in a sweatshirt and sweatpants, not gaining much attention from anyone on campus. He must’ve looked at your location. “Come on, I don’t have all night.” It was your turn to roll your eyes as you got up from the table, following Beau as he slung the bookbag over his shoulder. “Wow, it’s like getting a dog to obey.” He knew the shove was coming before it did, and he laughed so hard he almost fell over. 

“I swear, Maxwell, I will ruin that precious arm. It will be depleted by the time I’m done with it. And so will your career.” 

“Is that a threat or a promise?” 

“Both.” Beau laughs again, and you can’t help the smile on your face. The two of you have learned how to take each other's jokes. You’ve always been someone who can poke fun at others and then take it when they poke fun back. So when you met Beau, you were glad to have someone to do that back and forth with. 

He leads you to his car, the blue shining underneath the street light. Like a gentleman, he opens the passenger door for you and you shake your head as you get in. He walked around the front, getting in the driver’s seat and taking off, towards wherever he wanted to take you. “Is this the part where you tell me that you’ve been articulating this since we met and you’re gonna dump me on the side of the road?” You ask halfway through, and his nose scrunches in amusement. 

“Something like that.” The rest of the ride is filled with comfortable silence, nothing but the breathing patterns of the two of you, and the faint lyrics of a song being played from the radio. Before you knew it, Beau was pulling into a grand old 50s inspired diner, and you shook your head. 

“Beau, I do not have any money on me.” You admit as you open his door. Beau smirks, coming around to you and wrapping his arm around your shoulders. 

“Good thing I’m paying then, huh?” You shook your head, letting him walk you into the diner. The two of you took up a booth in the back corner, and an older lady with the diner’s themed costume came up to the table. You notice that her nametag reads Ethel. 

“Good evening, youngins. What can I get for the two of you?” You glance over the menu, but you already decided what you wanted the second you walked in. 

“Could I please get a chocolate milkshake? And do you guys have malt?” 

“We sure do, sweetheart.” 

“Awesome! Could I add that to it?”

“Of course you can, and for the gentleman?” 

“I’ll have the same thing.” You narrow your eyes at him and he does the same to you before turning back to Ethel. “Oh, and can we get a basket of fries as well?” Ethel nods her head before taking the menus and whisking herself away to behind the counter. You lean over the table, keeping your eyes on Beau. 

“What’s your move, Maxwell?” 

“No move, that sounded good.” He leans in as well, staring into your eyes. It takes a few moments before you lean back into the booth. Conversation starts to flow easily, just like it always does when it’s just the two of you. Beau tells you all about his practice today, and how his coach told him he’s in the running for starting quarterback next season. 

“Beau! That’s amazing!!” The exclamation causes you to put your hands out. Beau sheepishly shakes it off. 

“Yeah, it’s cool or whatever.” 

“Beau, do not do that right now. Stop downplaying it. That’s amazing, I’m so proud of you.” Your words are followed with a bout of silence. Beau doesn’t really know what to say. The two of you have expressed emotions such as that before, but never really out loud. Beau opens his mouth to say something, but it’s interrupted by Ethel putting your milkshakes and the basket of fries on the table. 

“Here you go, sweethearts.” There’s a huge smile on her face. “I’m sorry if I’m overstepping, but you two remind me of my husband and myself when we were your age. Such a beautiful young couple.” 

“Oh- we’re not-” 

“He’s not-” Ethel just gives the two of you a knowing look, letting out a hum and not letting either of you finish your sentences and walking away. You and Beau both share a look with each other before both of you start laughing, shaking your heads. 

3. Hockey House Hangout

The third time it happened, it was the beginning of Junior year. Beau was invited to the hockey house for a hangout, and you were having a movie night with friends in your dorm. Technically, the two of you weren’t together at all that night. But it doesn’t mean that the two of you weren’t together through your phones. 

Beau sat on the couch of the hockey house, absentmindedly looking down at his phone every ten seconds to see if you replied to his text. NHL was playing through the screen, Logan and Tucker currently facing off at each other in a seemingly really important game. Well, important in that Beau was pretty sure there was some money on the line. While he’s listening to Dean talk his most recent hook up, Beau feels his phone buzz against his thigh. Immediately, he picks it up to see your message. 

you: i’m pretty sure that was the worst class i have ever sat in. 

Beau lets out a snicker. You were talking about a lecture that the two of you shared earlier in the day. It’s your weekly Friday lecture, and it’s around an hour and a half, but today, the professor only talked about his wife leaving him the whole time. He picked on students and asked them why they thought she left him. You got picked on. You didn’t know what to say so you said, ‘maybe she’s just not in love anymore’. Fortunately, the person before you suggested that your professor cheated, so he didn’t really care about what you said and moved on to the next person.

As Beau is thinking about it, his phone buzzes again from another message. 

you: how in the world am i supposed to know why his wife left him, beau?!?! 

you: i mean, if my husband interrogated me like how he did our whole class today i would probably leave him too.

Beau’s laugh is louder now, and it causes Dean to look over from his previous focused attention on the tv screen. “What are you laughing at?” 

“Nothing.” Beau answers, shaking his head and replying to your text. 

Beau: i thought you were gonna pass out. 

Beau: you should’ve seen your face, it was hilarious.

“You’re texting her aren’t you?” Beau looks up at that, confused by what Dean is saying. 

“Texting who?” 

“You know who.” Dean says accusingly. “y/n. It’s all you do all day. You text her, hang out with her, or talk about her. You’re obsessed with her, dude.” 

“That’s not even remotely true, Dean. We’re just friends.” 

“‘Just friends’ my asshole, Maxwell. Just wait, man. You’ll see what I’m talking about.” 

Meanwhile, on campus in your dorm, you’re currently watching Clueless with some of your friends when you read Beau’s texts. You roll your eyes with a smile on your face as you heart one of the messages and text him back. 

you: i really wish he would’ve called on you. i can only imagine what you would’ve said. 

beau: i would’ve told him that his voice probably put her to sleep during their intimate time. 

Unfortunately, you let out a loud laugh at the text, apologizing when your friends look at you. 

you: that’s such a horrible way to put that, maxwell. Please don’t ever say that again. 

Before you can see how he responds, Maya snatches your phone from you. “Hey!” You reach out towards your phone before Maya sneaks it behind her back. “Give it back!” 

“No! It’s girl’s night and you’re texting your boyfriend!” The scoff that leaves your lips is out of your control. 

“He’s not my boyfriend and you know that, Maya. We’re-” 

“Just friends, yeah, yeah, I know. When are the two of you gonna quit the charades and get together already? It’s really annoying watching the two of you pine after each other.” A chorus of agreements are heard throughout your room and you let another scoff leave your lips. 

“You guys don’t know what you’re talking about.” You cross your arms, focus going back onto the movie. 

4. Hurricanes Fundraiser

By the first semester of senior year, the two of you could barely leave without being accused as a couple. At first, you guys thought it was hilarious. But after the first couple of times, it got annoying. It unfortunately forces you to think about a life where Beau is your boyfriend, where you kiss and he holds you close, and shows you off around campus, and all of the things boyfriends and girlfriends are supposed to do together. 

You couldn’t get the thought out of your head. 

Beau was the same. He sits in the booth at Malone’s watching as you dance around with Maya near where the band is playing. The two of you arrived together, but you immediately left him to scout out Maya and your friends, all of whom you are surrounded by on the dance floor, hands in the air, hips bumping with others, and your hair all over the place. Beau can’t help it, he admires you from afar. Another person asked if you two were dating the other day, and both of you hesitated. Eventually, Beau was the one to correct them, but he could see the longing look in your eye. Except, he didn’t know how to say anything. Your friendship with Beau has been an anchor in his life since you guys first met, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if you don’t feel the same and the friendship is ruined. 

A familiar tune plays throughout the diner, and Beau watches as your face lights up, searching around the room. Before he knows it, you’re running towards him with a huge smile on your face. “Beau! It’s our song!!” You exclaim, reaching for his hands. Beau lets you take him to the dance floor, the lyrics of Let’s Hear it For the Boy by Deniece Williams. 

“Jealousy, turning saints into the sea, swimming through sick lullabies, choking on your alibis, but it’s just the price I pay, destiny is calling me, open up my eager eyesssssss, ‘cause I’m Mr. Brightside.” You and Beau sing along, jumping around and dancing together. He spins you around, and you place your hands around his neck, swinging back and forth. Beau follows your lead, swaying the both of you around the dance floor. 

“I didn’t know this would turn into my senior prom.” You laugh, throwing your head back. 

“Please, this is much better.” You assure him, still dancing along to the song. For the rest of the song, and the one afterwards, Beau stays and dances with you. Twirling you around, letting you put your arms around his neck, setting your hands on his shoulders, his hands on your hips, moving up to the middle of your back to balance you every once in a while. He could get lost in this feeling. 

“I think I’m gonna go get a drink, do you want anything?” you ask over the music. Beau shakes his head, letting you leave to go to the bar while he finds his way back to the booth. 

One of the freshmen on the football team come up to him, also looking in your direction. “Are you dating her?” the kid, Mark, asks. Beau shakes his head. 

“No. We’re just friends.” 

“Nice, I might go make a move then.” The words don’t even process in Beau’s head before Mark is making his way over the bar where you’re standing. You notice he’s there after a few seconds, and Beau watches as the two of you make conversation. Mark says something that makes you laugh and shake your head, but your eyes glance over to Beau, who quickly turns his head away from you, hoping that he didn’t get caught. 

It doesn’t take long for you to appear at the booth, squeezing in next to beau. “Did you tell that kid I was single?” 

“He asked if we were dating.” Beau answers, truthfully. 

“Oh my gosh, that was so embarrassing. He totally thought I was someone else. Started asking me about our class we had together, and I had to tell him I had no clue who he was.” You answer, putting your head in your hands. “I feel so bad.” Beau chuckles, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. 

“It’s okay, he needs the ego check. He’s been pretty cocky at practice lately.” You smile, taking a sip of your drink, not noticing the breath of relief Beau had just let out. 

+0 the confession

It was late at night. You were in your dorm watching a movie by yourself. Maya had decided to visit home for the weekend, and most of your friends wanted to go out and do things while you wanted to stay home and do nothing. 

You weren’t expecting anyone to come around, let alone, knock on your door. Everyone you know who would show up around this time would just waltz themselves in. You silently hope that it’s not an intruder wanting to kidnap you or something like that. Slowly, you make your way to the door, looking through the peephole to see a nervous Beau Maxwell, in a Briar Football t-shirt and grey sweatpants. You look down at yourself, your flowy nightgown a contrast to his everyday clothes. Opening the door a crack, you poke only your head out. “Hey, what are you doing here?” Beau looks up at your voice, a small smile on his face. 

“Hey, can we- uh, I need to talk to you.” It looks serious, so you open the door fully and let him in, shutting the door behind you as he starts to pace in your sitting room area. 

“Beau-” 

“I need to talk, and this is nothing against you, but I can’t be interrupted or I’ll forget everything and I’m already nervous as it is.” You furrow your brows, but nod, encouraging him to go on. “I’ve been in love with you for the past year, y/n. And not like, ‘oh, she’s kinda cute’ type of way but in ‘oh my gosh I’m desperately in love with her and everything she does’ type of way.” The words shock you, your face now softening. “And I needed to tell you because lately it’s been getting too much and I couldn’t go one more second without telling you. I was laying in my bed and before I knew it, I was driving here to tell you and I was at your door, and I just wanted to be truthful with you because I’m sick of telling people that we’re just friends when that’s not what I want.” You let out a small gasp at his words. “I want to be more than that. I want to be your boyfriend.” A bashful smile makes its way to your face. “If you want that, of course.” Walking up to Beau, you wrap your arms around his neck. 

“I want that.” Beau smiles before leaning down and capturing your lips in his, savoring this moment that he’s been thinking about for over a year. His hands make their way to your waist, pulling you closer to him and your hands thread into his curls, absentmindedly twirling the curls in between your fingers. He held you close, you held him close and you couldn’t help but think that this is all you want. 

When you separate, the two of you are both out of breath, and you place your forehead against his. “For the record,” You start, causing his eyes to flit up to yours. “I’m in love with you too.” The smile on his face could light up a whole room, and he leans back down to capture your lips into another kiss. 

This time when you break apart, it’s his turn to talk. “I like this nightgown.” You hit his shoulder, causing him to laugh. 

+ 1 

It was a party, or rather, a simple hangout. The hockey house was known for their parties, but it was also known for its inner circle hangouts, only girlfriends and close friends invited. Beau was invited by Dean, and you were invited by Beau, so you rightfully earned your spot on the corner of the couch next to Hannah as she shares about her Christmas break. You’re half listening to what she’s saying and half watching Beau from across the room. He’s currently in the kitchen with some of the guys, all of them drinking beers. 

Right as you’re about to look away, Beau looks towards you and you make eye contact. Both of you smile, and he waves at you. You wave back, before going back to your conversation with Hannah. She didn’t notice that you weren’t actually paying attention. You were thinking about Beau, and how the two of you were dating. And how you were treated so well. And how you were probably in love with him. But he didn’t need to know that yet.

It’s a few minutes of Hannah talking with barely an audience before she notices that you are in fact not paying attention. And are in fact stealing glances and longing looks towards Beau in the kitchen. A smirk plays on his face. “Just friends my ass.” She teases and you roll your eyes, but don’t defend yourself. Usually, you would jump to assure Hannah that you two were in fact just friends and she was jumping to conclusions. Her gasp is heard all throughout the room and your eyes widen in panic. “You’re not defending yourself!” Her finger points accusingly towards you, before then pointing to Beau. “You!” His hands shoot up in an innocent look. “You two are dating!!” You and Beau look at each other with small smiles on your faces. 

Beau is the first to break the silence. “Yeah, I’m her boyfriend.” Your smile widens. 

“I’m his girlfriend.” You shrug, playing it cool, but all of your friends are anything but cool, hooping and hollering at the idea of the two of you dating each other. Dean is hyping Beau up while Hannah is shaking your shoulders. Meanwhile, you and Beau keep your eyes on each other. 

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