The Library Is Open.

No hi, hello, how are you. If you were to scroll through your text thread with Dr. Jack Abbot, you would see that the faux pleasantries stopped three months ago. The two of you started sleeping together four months ago; it took four weeks for Jack to discern that he didn't need to use basic human greetings to get you in his truck, in his bed. That's not to say you were easy—god, no—it was just that you two had a mutual understanding for what this was.

Sex. That was all it was. Pure primal, fuck like you're going to die otherwise, sex.

It started after the night of the PittFest mass casualty. You had come in early along with your fellow night shifters to work through what was one of your most gruelling shifts to date. The Pitt only lost six patients, but the weight of that day was going to stay etched into your bones for the rest of your life.

Dr. Abbot came back to the ED around two am, checking in on how Shen was handling things—at least, that's what he used as a guise. The truth was that he had struggled to close his eyes once he got home, tossing and turning with the police scanner on, endless memories of dust and gunshots plaguing his mind.

He stayed until shift change, the act of caring for others quietening the buried memories that were crawling to the surface. He stayed to keep an eye on his staff—noticing how people were a little more quiet, how they were exchanging soft, hesitant smiles with one another instead of their usual jokes. At least, that's what he noticed about you.

You couldn't remember what exactly was said to transition from you two walking towards your cars to you sinking onto his cock in the backseat of his truck. In your memory overridden by lust, you could vaguely hear him saying something vulnerable; a response you weren't expecting after your exhausted tongue let slip how you were struggling with the events of the day.

Mutual words about feeling on edge, needing some kind of release, were whispered into the hazy dawn glow—the fusing saffron skies and coral clouds painting you both in a different light.

Mosaics of amber and olive flaked with gold stared up at you, catching every morsel of pleasure that scrunched your eyebrows and relaxed your mouth. Strong, sure hands moulded the flesh on your hips, keeping you completely at his mercy as he pounded up into you. One of your hands met the condensation slicked window, the wet glass providing no support as his every thrust bruised your cervix.

Your nails dug crescents into his sun-speckled canvas, a crescendo of moans and gasps drowning out the wet mess gushing from your core. Hands you admired while wrist deep in chest cavities clutched your ass, one rearing back to land harsh slaps to the heated and aching skin—setting the fire coursing through your veins ablaze.

Your head flung back with a guttural cry of his name, the warmth of his release coating your walls plunging you into a sea of ecstasy. A groan of your name pushed through the ringing in your ears, the thick chest pressed against yours rapidly rising and falling with pants.

The sex thick air in the truck turned suffocating in the tense aftermath—both your minds spiralling about how bad of a mistake this was. Jack's stomach curdled from his blatant abuse of power, your hands trembled in fear of fucking for special treatment accusations—terrified of tarnishing your reputation.

Jack was the first to break the silence. "This was a one time thing."

You nodded, avoiding his eyes as you straightened your scrub top, pulling your pants up while his seed continued to leak out of you. "Agreed."

Despite his unforgiving mind reminding him how badly he screwed up, Jack fell into a dreamless sleep—the ghosts that permanently resided in the back of his mind staying locked in their rooms, letting him rest alone for once.

He struggled to make eye contact with Dana when he arrived for his next shift—the feeling of betraying one of his dearest friends gripping his chest. The logical side of him reasoned that you weren't her daughter—you were an adult capable of making her own questionable decisions, and letting him manhandle you in the back of his truck was just one of them. Unfortunately, that logical side couldn't silence the guilt that invaded him when he saw her wrap an arm around your shoulder and kiss your temple.

However, that guilt vanished hours later—replaced with a sick sort of admiration, one wrapped in barbed wires of lust. He always knew you were competent—hell, out of all his residents, he would trust you the most with his life in your hands. He always knew you were beautiful—it was a fact he accepted with ease the second you set foot in the Pitt.

But now, he knew how your pussy felt squeezing his cock—knew how your hips moved the closer you got to your release, how you crumbled into a whimpering mess as you reached your precipice. Your competency mixed with this new knowledge created a dangerous concoction, one that infiltrated his bloodstream and made him drunk on the thought of you.

You tried to not let it affect your work—willed your nerves to steady with a scalpel in hand, trying to ignore the empty ache you felt since you left his truck. The ache you tried to soothe on your own but failed every time. Because Jack Abbot had fucked you better than all of your exes combined, and it pissed you off. You refused to be a cliché—the young resident who followed the older, handsome, charming attending around, basking in whatever affection and praise he discarded without a care.

You were better than that. Stronger. Evans women didn't risk their careers for silver foxes who hid behind wry quips and flirty smiles.

Apparently, you weren't as strong as you thought.

One week later, you found yourself back in his truck—your knees pressed into the worn carpet, drool dripping down your chin and neck, the air filled with the sounds of his grunts and your gagging.

He instructed you to slip a hand into your pants, to swipe your fingers through your folds and show him how wet you were from sucking an old man's cock.

"Fucking soaked," he groaned out, the slick on your hand shimmering like liquid gold as the sunrise filtered through the tinted windows. "Knew you'd like being on your knees," a calloused finger tapped your cheek, urging your glistening eyes to meet his, "always so eager to please."

The finger slid down to your jaw, tracing a line until his hand cupped the back of your neck. His grip was tight and strong, keeping your head exactly where he wanted it. His other hand encircled your wrist, yanking your hand coated in your arousal to his mouth. Eyes black with hunger penetrated yours, daring you to look away and disobey his silent command. His tongue slipped out, licking a strip up your fingers. Your responding whine was muffled by his cock thrusting down your throat, resulting in a sinful vibration that had his spine tingling.

In this moment, he wasn't your attending and you weren't his resident, weren't one of his closest friends' nieces. You were two willing adults—a man and woman troubled by their own demons, seeking release and relief.

His hand gripping your neck kept you still as he started to fuck your mouth in earnest, each hit of his tip to the back of your throat earning him a gag. Jack watched as tears breached your waterline, slipping down your cheeks to mix in with the slobbery mess glazing your neck. His eyes drifted down, taking in the sight of your wrinkled black scrubs—committing it to memory, to fuck his fist to later. The shift of your hips didn't go unnoticed, the way you were trying to grind against nothing drawing a mocking laugh from his chest.

"You that desperate, huh? Drooling all over my cock got you so worked up you're tryna fuck nothing."

You nodded your head with another muffled whine, lust overpowering your innate urge to bite back. He eased your head back, leaving his leaking tip resting on your tongue, letting you fill your lungs with oxygen before he continued his efforts to ruin you.

"Touch yourself, pretty girl."

You happily obliged, trying to pull your hand from his grasp.

"Uh-uh," he tutted, tightening his grip—just shy of leaving bruises. "This one's mine. You got another one, don't you?"

Your hand clutching his thigh for support let go in an instant, eager to please Jack and in turn please yourself.

You were so sensitive, your panties already soaked, your clit puffy from arousal and neglect. The first touch had you mewling around him, your hips humping your hand with fervour. Jack chuckled above you, gleaming eyes enraptured by your desperation.

"Fuck your fingers like you wanna fuck my cock." He ordered, heat gathering at the base of his spine when you obeyed immediately. He brought your hand back to his mouth, eagerly licking and sucking your slick off it, all while keeping his eyes locked on your hooded, hazy ones. "Taste so fucking good," he moaned, his hips picking up speed.

He came down your throat minutes later, watching your eyes roll back as you swallowed all of him down. Your own orgasm rushed up behind you, tightening every muscle in your body as you clamped down on your fingers with a moan.

Jack manoeuvred you onto the seat next to him, brows furrowed as his post orgasm clarity soured his gut again.

He kept his eyes locked on where he was twisting his ring around his finger. "That wasn't—I didn't mean to," he cleared his throat. "I didn't intend on being so harsh—mean."

You could feel the stress radiating from him, his words softly spoken and genuine.

"It's okay," you murmured, biting your lip. "I…I liked it." And because you wanted to ease his worries and silently give him permission—"I've begged for worse."

He lifted his head, shocked eyes meeting yours with a disbelieving chuckle and shake of his head.

"This is gonna keep happening, isn't it?"

You answered by pulling your scrubs and panties down your legs, pouting at him with a twinkle in your eyes.

"Need you to help me clean up my mess, Doctor Abbot."

You collapsed into the drivers seat of your car with two orgasms and a mutual agreement under your belt.

Strictly physical, no strings attached. No kissing, no cuddling, definitely no staying the night. Nothing untoward within the Pitt's walls—these two hookups in the parking lot staying as the only ones.

Never speak a word of this to anyone else.

Three nights—technically mornings—a week you found yourself pulling into Jack's driveway, parking your barely road-legal car behind his truck. His black, navy, and white minimalist interior didn't surprise you one bit, neither did the barren walls. The first few times, he led you into the kitchen with the offer of a drink, exchanging idle chatter about the weird cases that came through the Pitt's doors hours before.

The first time your skin touched his soft sheets, he had you on your back with large, calloused hands pushing your legs towards your chest as he devoured your pussy like a man starved. He made your vision dance with stars, made your ears ring from two earth shattering orgasms before he removed his face—his mouth and chin soaked with your release, a cocky smirk deepening the lines carved around his eyes. Your skin was still tender from his stubble when he sunk in deep, reaching spots you didn't even know existed—pulling sounds from your chest you didn't know you could make.

As you floated from his front door to your car, you knew that Jack Abbot had ruined you for any other man. No one had read your body that quickly before, no one else had found the switch to turn off your brain and give in to primal desire.

And you didn't even know what the simple touch of his lips against yours felt like.

By the sixth night you had learnt absolutely nothing new about him. Well, nothing that was outside of bodies and pleasure.

You learnt he was an ass man, needing to land slaps to your cheeks no matter what position you were in. You learnt he liked to talk—liked to mock every pathetic sound he wrung out of you. You learnt that he had a bottle of blue pills in his bedside drawer, learnt that he was unashamed to swallow one down in front of you and fuck you with his tongue and fingers until it took effect.

You knew exactly what Jack liked in bed. Outside of that? Absolutely nothing.

His favourite colour? Fuck knows. How he cared for his leg after a long shift and long night of screwing you senseless? That was between him and his physiotherapist, you guessed.

And he knew nothing about you. Or, at least, he didn't try to get to know you.

You stopped thinking of this arrangement as friends with benefits—friends felt too generous of a word. Coworkers with benefits sounded the closest to the truth. You worked together, spent at least twelve hours a day in the same building, exchanged the occasional witty remark under fluorescent lights. There were no lingering looks, no secret touches, no dropped voices and subtle smirks. And you were fine with it being that way.

Until you weren't.

By month two it had become impossible to ignore the pang that ricocheted behind your ribcage every time you drove away. The pang that grew to an ache every time you went to Dana and Benji's for dinner.

You adored their relationship, admired it. Your parents' messy divorce had left you skeptical of love, had you doubting if it was worth pursuing if it only ended in misery and spite. But your aunt and uncle softened that cynical side of you, reminding you that yes, love could be messy, but it could also be beautiful and fun. It could be coming home to your best friend everyday, hugging each other even after an argument because going to sleep angry never solved anything.

You tried to find what they had in your exes, putting more effort into relationships that drained you by the end. You heard too many times to count that your lives weren't compatible, that they couldn't give their all to someone who was happy to run out the door when the hospital called.

They didn't understand you—didn't understand what it meant to make a difference, to hold someone's life in the palm of your hands and safely return them to their loved ones. They only focused on the days when you couldn't save someone, when the grief held you captive and motionless. They didn't want to continue holding your hand on those hard days.

And so somewhere along the way you stopped trying—convincing yourself that you were fine with casual, that it was the most suitable relationship for your lifestyle. But every time you saw Dana and Benji, you knew that wasn't true.

They reminded you that you wanted, and deserved, more.

Jack had never slept better. Even with that little voice in the back of his head telling him that he had crossed a line—that he was risking not only your career but his friendship with Dana. He managed to silence that voice three times a week; the sounds of the pleasure he was unleashing on you drowning out everything else.

He truly believed he could keep things separate—that the beautiful woman he had in his bed wasn't the same beautiful woman he trusted and found himself proud of every shift. He could totally keep them separate.

So what if his eyes followed your ass when you walked away from the Hub, admiring how the black scrubs clung like a second skin, knowing how they looked discarded on his bedroom floor. Knowing how the globes of your ass felt clutched in his hands, the sound of his palms slapping them reverberating off his walls.

So what if he found himself craving your taste a minimum of three times every shift, the mere thought of your sweet nectar drenching his face leading to inopportune boners.

No one had to know that whenever he saw you biting back at arrogant surgeons that his eyes were glued to your lips, remembering how good they looked—how good they felt—wrapped around his cock. The no kissing clause had been his suggestion—a subconscious part of him knowing that if he felt your lips against his, he wouldn't be able to let go.

The simple act of kissing felt infinitely more intimate than everything else you did. It was a tender act, saved for the person who walked out his door in the morning only to return in the evening. Saved for the person that had left one cold, winter morning and never returned in the frigid evening.

Jack ignored the warmth that spread throughout him in your company, convincing himself it was just lust, just sexual desire. He convinced himself he didn't need to know anything new about you—he already knew what type of student you were, the doctor he had watched you flourish into from the sidelines.

He knew where to touch you, that mouthing at the spot below your ear made you putty in his hands. He knew what positions had you trembling, had your eyes rolling back as you squirted on his dick, on his face. He knew his favourite view was a tie between you above him, suffocating him as you ground your pussy on his mouth, nose, chin, and him behind you, holding you up with a bicep wrapped around your neck in a chokehold, ordering you to keep your eyes on the mirror across from his bed as he stretched your tight pussy with his thick cock over and over again.

He knew that your car was a piece of shit, knew he was worried every time he heard it sputtering out of his driveway—worried enough to demand you stop driving it, to let him drive you to and from work until you could get it fixed, or better yet, buy a new one from this century. (You compromised by getting the bus instead, saying that you two arriving and leaving together would look suspicious.)

And unfortunately, due to his close friendship with Dana, he knew other things about you. What your childhood nickname was, that you once found an abandoned kitten and tried to hide it from your parents—the kitten that was now an old cat, spending it's days curled up on the couch in Dana's sunroom. He knew your parents had an ugly divorce, one they threw you in the middle of—forcing you to choose a side, which subsequently left you in the care of Dana and Benji for a few years.

He knew more about you than he ever wanted to.

"Strip."

Oh, you fucked up.

The drive to Jack's had been dead silent, his anger rolling off of him in waves—sitting in between you two like a physical being. It had your muscles tensing, and more shamefully, had a fire brewing in your core. Because you liked when he got mad—when he barely spoke a word to you, choosing to get his frustrations out by relentlessly drilling you into his mattress. You liked when he got mean—because at least then you knew he was feeling something towards you other than indifference.

You did as you were told, stripping out of your black scrubs, leaving you in your mismatched bra and panties. From his spot leaning against the wall, Jack could already see the damp patch spreading on your underwear. He let out a humourless chuckle, a thrill running through him seeing how desperate you were already.

"Take your bra off. Lie on the bed."

Again, you followed his instructions with no complaint, no backtalk. Which was the complete opposite to how you had been three hours before—questioning his treatment plan in front of everyone in Trauma One, implying that his orders would cause the patient unnecessary problems later on.

You had a good argument, but he was not going to let your attitude go unchecked. He was not going to let you think the way you spoke to him was something you could do again.

He pushed off the wall, ignoring the pain in his leg—he would deal with it later, once you were in an uber on your way home. He sat down next to you on the bed, trailing light fingers from your ankle up your leg, avoiding the area you wanted him the most. He revelled in the sight of your breasts heaving up and down—you were so responsive, nothing more than his teasing touches starting to unravel you. His fingers continued their journey up your body, skimming over your trembling stomach and resting in the valley between your breasts.

The light touches distracted you enough that you weren't expecting his other hand coming up, slapping your tit before pinching the pebbled nipple. Hard.

"Ah—Jack!" You shrieked, your back arching away—or towards, you weren't sure—from the pain. Whimpers slipped from you as his touch eased up, his head dropping to place soft kisses around the tender skin. The fingers between your breasts trailed to the neglected nipple, tweaking it gently.

He pulled back, smirking when you whined at the loss of his touch. "Anything you want to say before we get started?" He drawled, raising his eyebrows pointedly.

You pouted, pretending to think. "Your curls looked really good today."

A rough hand dropped to your thigh, spreading them apart and pinching the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. "Flattery will get you nowhere, not in this room."

"So there are other rooms where it will get me somewhere?"

"You need to learn when to keep your mouth shut." He didn't give you time to talk back, raising his hand and landing a harsh slap to your clothed pussy. Your hips shot off the bed with a gasp, chasing the friction—needy for it. He openly laughed at you, his free hand pushing your thigh down as he delivered another slap.

He moved back to sit on the edge of the bed, patting his thigh with a warning look. He watched with sick pleasure as you crawled towards him on all fours, grabbing your upper arm once you were close enough and pulling you over his lap with force. You let out a yelp, muffled by the sheets as you failed to catch yourself on your arms.

His hands gripped your ass cheeks, squeezing and kneading them. "Love this ass, sweetheart. Distracts me a bit too much at work, though. Somethin' else you need to be punished for."

You huffed, pushing up on your arms. "How is that my fau—" you cut off with a gasp, a hard slap to your left cheek stealing your breath and jolting you forward. The heat travelled the short distance to your core, adding fuel to the flames already blazing. Your panties were embarrassingly soaked from his rough treatment, sticking to your skin and his scrub pants.

"What did I say about keeping your mouth shut, huh?" His hand rubbed over the tender spot, tsking.

"Technically," you started, voice light and breathy, "you didn't tell me to shut my mouth."

You were rewarded with three slaps in quick succession, pulling a loud moan from you. You ground your hips the best you could, trying to get the right angle for your aching clit to rub against the growing bulge under you.

"Fucking brat," Jack spat, faux malice lacing his tone. "Running your mouth in my ED, and now you're trying to get off without my permission?" He pulled the ruined cloth between your legs to the side, a light finger ghosting along the slick covering your folds. He groaned, pulling his finger back to suck it clean. "You're dripping—not much of a punishment if you're enjoying yourself, is it?"

Any response you had is stolen from your mouth, whines falling out instead as he plunged two thick fingers into you. He didn't start slow—he never did when he was like this—pistoning them in and out at a force that was bordering on inhuman, making sinful wet sounds fill his room. His other hand forced your head into the sheets, muffling your whimpers—the sheets growing damp underneath you from your drool.

He hit your sweet spot with every thrust, your clit rubbing against his leg from the force. You could feel your high rapidly approaching, the spankings leaving your nerve ends feeling raw and exposed. Jack could feel it—how your walls were fluttering and clenching around his fingers, your muffled whines and moans turning high-pitched. He inserted a third finger, stopping the thrusting and leaving them still—the pads of them rubbing oh so slowly against the textured spot.

He knew it felt like torture to you, how slow he was going—keeping you right on the edge, suspended in the air, looking down at the waves of pleasure he was denying you. Your hips moved back and forth, trying to fuck yourself on his fingers. His hand left your head, delivering another harsh slap to your aching ass—making you sob from the unbearable mix of pain and pleasure swirling in your core. "Who said you're allowed to do that, sweetheart?" He asked, mockingly sweet.

"Please," you whimpered, turning your head to look at him with glazed eyes. "Please, Jack."

"Begging isn't gonna do you any favours tonight, pretty girl."

He pulled his fingers out, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing. "Up you get," he said, helping you move until you were straddling him—your naked thighs bracketing his clothed ones. One large hand was clutching your ass, keeping your hips from meeting his—prolonging your search for sweet relief. His other hand came up to your mouth, a wet finger tapping your bottom lip. "Clean up your mess," he muttered, hooded eyes focused on your lips parting for him.

You licked the tip of his finger teasingly, moaning at the taste of yourself on his skin. Something low rumbled in his chest, and he pushed all three fingers into your mouth—watching intently as you licked and sucked your slick off of them. Your dazed eyes met his and it struck him—not for the first time—how beautiful you were, how you allowed him to see you like this. It made that annoying thing in his chest happen—the thing that felt like his heart was aching in longing, yearning.

He thrust his fingers in deeper, making you gag around them—watching in sick delight as tears slipped down your cheeks. Your hips started to rock in his hold, seeking friction that you weren't going to find. His cock was painfully hard and tenting his scrubs, making it impossible to ignore—especially not when you looked so fucking ruined.

He removed his fingers from your mouth, a string of saliva keeping them connected to your lips. He felt the overwhelming urge to kiss you—again, not for the first time—and knew that the only way to stop himself from doing so was to fuck you from behind—a position he had been favouring lately, for this very reason.

He unceremoniously shifted you onto the bed next to him—a small, surprised squeak escaping you. His lips twitched at the cute sound, and he briefly forgot what he was doing, what he was mad about. Your hand sneaking onto his lap to squeeze his cock reminded him.

Jack abruptly stood up, placing himself between your open thighs. He gripped your chin, tilting it up so you couldn't look anywhere except his eyes—his desire painting them black, amber flames surrounding the dilated pupils. "You're just making this harder for yourself, sweetheart. You sure there's nothing you wanna say?"

Your eyes dropped down to the tent inches from your face, your fingers twitching with the need to start palming him. "You sure you're not the one making it harder for yourself?" You met his eyes again, watching them narrow menacingly as your innocent smile morphed into a cheeky smirk.

His hand moved from your chin, gripping your cheeks hard and squishing them 'til your lips puckered. "Still haven't learnt your lesson." He pushed your head back, encouraging you to lie back.

He grabbed the sides of your soiled underwear and yanked them down your legs, leaving you completely bare while he was still fully dressed. His hands found your waist, flipping you onto your stomach with ease and pulling you back so your legs were hanging off the bed with your ass in the air.

Your cheeks received one more slap each—Jack really was obsessed with your ass—before you felt his tip prodding at your entrance, slipping down to nudge your clit. You whined at the teasing, pushing your ass back against him. A large hand splayed between your shoulder blades, pressing you into the mattress with force.

"Stay. Still." He ordered through gritted teeth.

Then he plunged in, sinking to the hilt in one thrust. A choked moan lodged in your throat, his size still a shock no matter how many times he stretched you open. He gave you no time to adjust, setting a harsh rhythm, making your hands scramble around on the sheets looking for support.

"So big," you gasped out.

A deep laugh rumbled from him. "So big," he mocked you. "You say that every time."

Skin slapping against skin filled the room, along with his grunts and your mewling. You could feel the fabric of his scrubs on the back of your thighs—the fact he was fucking you while fully clothed sending a shiver down your spine.

Jack picked up on the signs of your impending orgasm straight away, feeling his own tightening his balls. "Hold it," he demanded, slipping a hand under your hips and easily finding your clit. You sobbed into the sheets as he rubbed tight circles, your body locking up in effort to keep your release at bay.

"S'not fair," you whined, high and wrecked. The fire in your core was raging, threatening to set you aflame—Jack's orders be damned.

"Y'know what's not fair?" Jack grunted. "When pretty residents walk around like they own the place." His hand moved from your back, his palm resting on the sheets next to your head. He dropped forward, dragging his lips up your spine, biting down on the curve where your shoulder met your neck. Your eyes rolled back, the pain adding to the dizzying pleasure that was making your whole body ache from holding back. "S'not fair," he mocked you again, "when you make me walk around hard. All. Fucking. Shift." He punctuated the last words with hard thrusts, the force knocking breaths out of you.

"Come in me, Jack, please." You whined, delirious and in need of whatever he'll give you. "Need it s'bad, I'll be good f'you—promise!"

He groaned at your begging, pulling out at the last second to deny you what you were so prettily asking for. Even if he wanted nothing more than to fill you to the brim, this was part of your punishment. He spilled over your ass and lower back, painting your skin in white streaks.

You sobbed at the loss of him, at his hand leaving your burning clit and giving you no relief. He leaned back over you, his mouth hovering right next to your ear. "Aw, you wanna come, sweetheart?" You nodded fervently, tears soaking the sheets below you. He gripped your chin tight, turning your face until your lips were inches from his—your breaths mingling together. "Be a good girl and apologise."

"But I didn't do anything wrong." You whimpered out.

He tutted. "Try again."

His hand returned to your clit, fingers rubbing agonisingly slow figure eights—the fire blooming at full force beneath his touch. He watched the sweat beading at your hairline, the tremors running through your body making his bed shake; you were so determined to not give in, and it only made him inevitably breaking you that much sweeter.

He moved his head, nuzzling into the side of your neck—breathing in your intoxicating scent before he started nipping and sucking at the spot below your ear. And just as he predicted, that was your breaking point. Your body shook harder underneath him, a debauched moan slipping from you lips.

"M'sorry, Jack! I'm so sorry—won't do it again." You whimpered, hips rolling back and forth, trying to hump his hand. "Please—it hurts so bad!"

Satisfied that you finally said you were sorry, he moved off of you—flopping onto his back next to you and not wasting a second to grasp your waist and pull you on top of him. He positioned you so you were hovering over his face, giving you a moment to get your bearings before yanking you down and absolutely devouring you.

Your hands were quick to thread into his curls, tugging hard as you rode his face. Three fingers thrust into you again, this time curling and hitting your g-spot perfectly. The most sinful sounds he'd ever heard fell from your mouth, a sharp cry jolting out of you when his lips wrapped around your clit and sucked hard. You were so close already, the teasing and edging for what felt like hours leaving a painful knot that was ready to unravel violently.

"Jack—oh, fuck!" You shook above him, your body glistening with sweat as you climbed higher. He groaned, marvelling at the sight of you—yeah, he was never going to forget this. It sent vibrations through your pussy and your vision started to blur at the edges. "I'm gonna come—please let me come!"

He doubled his efforts, silently telling you to let go. You threw your head back with a scream, an all-consuming orgasm tearing through your core—ripping every single one of your nerves apart, a new galaxy bursting behind your eyes. You squirted all over Jack's face, his eyes never once leaving your heaving body as he eagerly drank every drop you offered him. He continued fucking his fingers into you, mouthing at your clit as you came down. You tried to lift your hips off his face but he refused, not letting up until overstimulated sobs left you and you begged him to stop.

He sat you on his chest, rubbing his hands along your thighs and hips. "That wasn't so hard now, was it?"

You returned home feeling both light and heavy—your head light from the brief sub space Jack put you in, your heart heavy because you couldn't do this anymore.

You couldn't do casual, you deserved more. And you knew Jack could never offer you what you truly needed, not when he was so adamant on being alone—which, honestly, was bullshit. He was never alone—choosing to either strap his SWAT vest on or pick up an extra shift in the ED, calling you up when he wanted company sex, refusing to sit in the silence by himself.

You didn't re-download the dating apps right away, content with accepting the fact that you were ready to start looking again. You continued your routine with Jack, albeit with a little less enthusiasm than usual. If he picked up on it, he didn't say anything—it wasn't like you two talked much anyways.

A few weeks later, you were at the Northside Farmers Market with your mom, browsing the stalls before you had to leave for your night shift. It was something the two of you tried to do every other week when your schedules lined up—an old tradition you had as a kid, every Friday going to the market to buy fresh, local ingredients for your family dinner the following Sunday. It stopped when your parents' tumultuous arguments in front of the vendors, the public, tainted something you once held so dear. Now that you were an adult, you were determined to replace those memories with good ones again.

You were at the baker's stall, exchanging idle chit-chat with Billie—the vendor—when a tall man approached the stall. Billie's face lit up at the sight of him, the older woman rounding the counter to pull him into a hug.

"Ollie," she said, pulling back and swatting his arm lightly. "I should be mad at you, y'know. You work how many blocks away, and you're only visiting your Ma now?"

You turned to the man in surprise, watching his cheeks flush red. He was older than you—most likely in his forties, if you were to guess from the few grey hairs streaking his dark beard. He was ruggedly handsome but tamed—his clothes looking like he would fit in on a farm, but the stitching on his jacket told you he would've paid at least a couple hundred for it.

Before he could respond, Billie looked between the both of you—the smile of a cunning mother overtaking her face. She placed a hand on his bicep, turning to you. "This is my son Oliver, he works at Westbridge as an anesthesiologist. If I remember correctly, you work at a hospital, don't you?" Oliver turned to you fully then, kind green eyes looking you up and down in pleasant surprise.

You smiled bashfully. "Yes, you remember correctly. I'm a third year resident at PTMC, specialising in Emergency Medicine." Oliver held out a hand and you shook it, offering him your name.

Billie returned to the other side of her stall, helping out with another customer. You and Oliver stepped to the side, falling into easy conversation about your jobs. Time passed quickly, and before you knew it your warning alarm to leave for your shift was going off. Oliver politely asked if he could get your number—saying that it's been really nice talking to you, and that he would love to get to know you more over a coffee or dinner sometime. You happily gave it to him with the smallest flutter in your chest—something in the shape of hope.

You found your mom at the books & records stall, gushing to her about the handsome man you just met.

"People hardly meet organically anymore!" She exclaimed, looping her arm through yours, the two of you practically squealing as you left the market.

Not even an hour later, you were standing at the Hub, talking to Lena about the parents in North Three with a degree in medicine from Google University, when your phone vibrated in your pocket. You pulled it out to see a text from an unknown number.

7:15pm

(412) 858-5725: It was really great meeting you today, I would love to take you out for dinner one night soon if you're interested (412) 858-5725: I completely understand if our schedules don't match up, no pressure at all :) (412) 858-5725: This is Oliver, by the way. If that wasn't obvious already haha

"I know that look," Lena singsonged, pointing an accusatory finger at your face. You looked up from your phone to see a sly smirk on her face. "Who's the guy?"

You looked away, biting your lip to suppress the smile you didn't realise had bloomed across your face. "It's no one, really. We only met, like, an hour ago."

"Ah, young love," the older nurse swooned. "Let me know how it goes, hon." Then she was throwing you a wink and calling after Vivi who was rushing past.

Luckily, you and Oliver figured out you both had the following Friday off and made plans to go to a family-owned Italian restaurant—not too intimate, not too casual. You kept the date to yourself—not even telling your mom—in fear of jinxing it. The two of you exchanged a handful of texts before your date, each one making you feel more giddy about your upcoming date.

You went to Jack's once in the week before your date with Oliver—cutting your usual three nights a week down to one, claiming that you were feeling too unwell the other nights. Which technically wasn't a lie, the guilt was starting to make you feel uneasy. You reminded yourself that you had no reason to feel guilty—you and Jack weren't dating, weren't exclusive, and you hadn't even been on a date with Oliver yet. But even with your reasoning, there was something clenching your chest and curdling your gut. You reminded yourself that you and Jack were just coworkers who used each other for stress relief; you didn't tell Shen about your date, so why would you tell Abbot?

The guilt stayed with you as you got ready for the date—feeling like you were trying to cover a cold secret with someone else's warmth. Your thoughts were briefly distracted when your phone pinged with a text.

7:03pm

Abbot: Come over to mine tonight. 9pm.

You: Sorry, can't tonight. I have plans.

Abbot: 👍

You scoffed at his response, your previous guilt evaporating in an instant. This was what you needed—the reminder that you deserved more than what Jack could give you.

You walked into the restaurant just before seven thirty, feeling like you had something to prove—to yourself or to someone else, you weren't sure.

The date went well—great, even. Oliver was charming, but also humble—mentioning his less than glamorous upbringing, how he got into med school on a scholarship, that the first thing he did with his first big paycheck was pay off part of his parent's mortgage.

You bonded over the struggle that was med school, the failing healthcare system, the weirdest cases you've worked on. Dinner continued into dessert, then another bottle of wine, but there was still a tension in the back of your head. It had you turning your head when he leaned in to kiss you, his lips brushing your cheek instead of your lips. It had you comparing the hand on your bare shoulder to another hand, one that wore a dark ring and knew exactly how to touch you.

You parted ways with tentative plans for a second date; the next time your nights off aligned wasn't for another two weeks, and you both didn't want to put too much pressure on a set date just yet.

You visited your mom the next day for lunch, filling her in on all the details about your date. She was ecstatic for you, claiming that she always knew the market was going to pay you back somehow.

Monday rolled around quickly, and you walked into your shift ten minutes early like you always did—allowing yourself a few minutes to catch up with your aunt before she went home. Dana was at the Hub as usual, complaining to Robby about the nurse shortage and the pressure it was putting on her people.

She looked over as you approached the counter, her face morphing into a smirk that you knew meant she had been talking to your mom.

"Hey, doll. How was your weekend?" She emphasised the question with a small wink. "Your mom told me you had a handsome date on Friday."

You rolled your eyes at her fondly. "I should've known she'd tell you as soon as I left on Saturday."

Dana rounded the counter and slung an arm around your shoulder. "It wasn't straight away, she waited until we had dinner that night." You laughed with a small shake of your head. "Don't leave me hanging, how was it?"

Robby was still stood behind the counter with his arms crossed, partially paying attention to you and your aunt. His face was pulled into a puzzled expression as he observed Jack standing not far behind you—clearly eavesdropping on your conversation with Dana, a small frown furrowing his brows and setting his mouth in a straight line. It wasn't really eavesdropping since you were both talking at a normal volume, any of your colleagues passing by would've heard your conversation.

What Robby found odd was that Jack had stopped walking on his way to the lockers to listen, one hand frozen on his bag strap and the other curled into a tight fist at his side. His cheek twitched in the way that meant something was bothering him, and Robby came to the chilling realisation that Jack was jealous. Over you—Dana's niece.

You started recounting the date to Dana, a giddy smile stretching your lips. It felt good to be openly wanted by someone, to not be a secret kept in the dark—to be something other than a stress relief booty call.

Robby watched in unease as Jack continued to stand as still as a statue, the vein in his forehead starting to bulge as a dark red crept up his neck.

Robby grabbed a tablet and casually rounded the Hub's counter, trying not to draw your attention. He started towards the North rooms, grabbing Jack's bicep in an iron grip and forcing him through the North Bay doors.

Once safely out of your earshot, he turned to his friend with a scolding glare.

"What the fuck did you do?"

Jack was pretty damn proud of himself. He managed to get to the end of his shift without blowing up at you once. It was due to Robby's threat ringing in his ears for the most part—having your best friend threaten to castrate you with a dead serious face tends to lower your anger to a simmer.

Jack hadn't uttered a word to Robby, the guilt and jealously written all over his face told him enough. Robby kindly reminded him that he was the least of Jack's worries—if Dana found out he so much as touched a hair on your head, losing his dick would be sweet relief compared to what she'd do.

So, Jack treated you as normal—ignoring the stabbing in his chest, the beast in his gut demanding to be let out.

There were less than ten minutes left of his shift when he caught sight of you talking to Lena at the north nurse's station.

Keep walking, he told himself. His feet didn't seem to get the memo.

"I meant to ask," Lena said, leaning her arms on the counter. "Any update on Market Guy?"

Robby had dragged Jack away before he heard the full recount of your date to Dana, which he had been both grateful for and disappointed by. He needed to know like he needed air to breathe—which was a terrifying realisation to him.

"We went out for dinner on Friday," you replied, biting your lip to hold back yet another smile. "It was really nice. He was a total gentleman, very charming, pretty down to earth." Lena nodded along, hanging off of every word. "We're planning a second date for when our schedules next align."

That was it for Jack. His vision clouded with a red fog, the beast in his gut rearing its head and breaking out. He stormed over to the two of you, gripping your upper arm.

"We need to talk," he bit out, ignoring the shocked look Lena gave him.

He didn't wait for your response, pulling you towards the only empty Central room. Once the door was closed, you struggled in his hold, trying to rip your arm free.

"Let go of me, Dr. Abbot." You demanded as calmly as you could, your heart beat quickening at the storm rolling over his face. He let go but stepped closer, crowding your personal space.

"That's why you couldn't see me on Friday? Because you had a date?" He seethed through clenched teeth.

You stepped back, anger starting to grip your chest. "I'm sorry—what?"

He followed you, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Did you sleep with him?"

"How the fuck is that any of your business?"

Unbeknownst to the both of you, the day shift had started filtering in—Robby and Dana finding their command posts at the Hub. Dana was the first to notice the two of you in Central Seven, her eyebrows drawing together at the furious look on your face.

"Hey," she said to Robby, getting his attention. She nodded towards where you and Jack looked like you were having a heated discussion. "You know what's going on with them?"

Robby followed her eyeline, tensing as he saw what he prayed wouldn't happen within the walls of his ED. He rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head. "Uh, no, not a clue."

Dana eyed him suspiciously. "Well, do you mind telling them we have patients who could use that room?"

"I'd rather not go in there."

Dana slowly turned to him, levelling him with a glare. "Michael Robinavitch, what aren't you telling me?"

Back in the room, your hands were starting to shake from anger, and Jack's head was throbbing from holding back the full wrath of his jealousy.

"I have the right to know if you're screwing other people."

You let out a humourless laugh. "Are you kidding me right now? You don't have the right to know shit!"

Jack's cheek twitched. "Yes I do. You said no to me to see some other guy."

"Oh, what—so I'm meant to come running at your beck and call?"

His jaw flexed and he opened his mouth, but your anger and disbelief at the situation had taken over.

"This has just been one big waste of time! I don't want casual anymore—not with you, not with anyone."

Jack opened his mouth before he could think better of it. "I didn't hear you complaining when you opened your legs for me."

A crack echoed throughout the room, the sound of your palm slapping Jack's cheek filling the tension riddled air. "You're a fucking asshole, Jack Abbot."

You shoulder checked him as you rushed out the door, refusing to let him see the tears streaming down your cheeks. You hurried past the Hub, not noticing Dana and Robby watching you with shock painting their faces. Your hand was tingling from the impact, your vision blurring as you made your way out the ambulance bay doors.

Dana didn't stop to think, storming into Central Seven where Jack was staring at the ground—his hand rubbing his tender cheek.

"What the fuck did you do to my baby?" She demanded, her voice dangerously low.

Shit.

The cold morning air made the tears staining your cheeks sting slightly, the sensation grounding and stopping you from completely falling apart. You never cried over a man—it was a rule you made for yourself when you were young, after seeing how your dad would make your mom fall apart at least once a week. They weren't worth your tears.

You wanted to charge back into the ED and slap Jack again for making you cry.

You stayed sitting on the ground with your back against the brick wall until your tears dried, until your breaths evened out and didn't hurt on their way out your lungs. You tensed when you heard uneven steps approach you—there was only one person whose steps sounded like that.

Your head shot up as he sat down opposite you, glaring daggers at him. He raised his hands placatingly.

"Please don't hit me, I'm here to apologise." When you didn't make a move to leave or attack him, he slowly lowered his hands. "I'm really sorry, I didn't mean what I said—to imply that you were easy."

"Then why did you say it?" Fuck, you hated how small your voice sounded.

He let out a long breath, looking up at the sky. "Because I was mad—upset." He looked back at you, his eyes softer than you'd ever seen them. "I didn't know that's how you felt…you never said anything to me."

"How could I when you barely speak to me? You just fuck me and then push me into an uber. Really makes a girl feel special," you shook your head, wrapping your arms around your chest—starting to feel exposed. "I can't read your mind, Jack. You can't tell me you want casual one day and the next get mad because I went on a date."

He had the decency to look ashamed, wincing and squeezing his eyes shut. "That's fair. I don't really have any excuses, no good ones at least."

You sighed, your head feeling heavy and starting to throb. "I don't need excuses; I just want to know why. Why you act like you don't know me, why you won't—" your voice dropped, wobbling slightly. "Why you won't kiss or hug me. I mean," you let out a bitter chuckle, "do you even know what aftercare is?"

He started to twist his ring around his finger, his mouth moving side to side as he struggled to find the right words to say. "Kissing and hugging felt too intimate—felt like things I couldn't take back." He looked up at you again, his eyes glassy. "I didn't want to admit to myself that I had—have—feelings for you, and the thought of kissing you…I mean I've thought about it a lot—to the point it's been driving me insane." He rubbed a hand along his jaw, a huffed laugh leaving him. "I was worried that by kissing you I wouldn't be able to let go, and that terrified me. It meant you could become another photo I keep in my nightstand."

You knew what he was talking about—you had opened it while looking for tissues, finding a collection of photographs in the drawer. You tried not to snoop, but you were fairly certain one of them was his wife and a couple others were his old army buddies.

"I get that, I do. The universe has handed you more than enough grief and hardship for one lifetime." You stood up, closing the distance between you and sitting next to him. "But that isn't solely your decision to make, Jack. You've been hurting us both by keeping your feelings to yourself." You brought your knees up, hugging them to your chest and resting your cheek on them. "And, honestly? A girl needs kisses and cuddles after coming four times in one night; a sub drop can be pretty brutal."

Jack's guilt multiplied tenfold. "Shit. Fuck, I'm sorry—I didn't even think about that." He shifted slightly, turning to look at you fully. "I would like to try again, if you'll let me. No casual bullshit, no pretending like I don't think about you all the time. Lots of kissing and cuddling—and orgasms, so many orgasms."

It was then that you noticed the ice pack in Jack's hands, resting over his groin. You couldn't stop the snort that slipped out. "I see you had a chat with Dana."

"Don't know if I would call it a chat. She's got a harder kick than I was expecting."

You hummed. "Just be glad you didn't get to experience her right hook—she gave my dad a black eye when she found out he was cheating on my mom. And she won't hesitate to give you one if you hurt me again."

His eyes were shining, hope swirling around the honey gold and sunlit green. "Does that mean you'll give me another chance?"

"Yes," you replied, letting the small smile break through. "But no sex until I think you deserve it."

Jack nodded, his own megawatt smile putting the sun to shame. "You're in charge here, sweetheart." He leaned in slowly, his eyes flicking between yours and your lips. "Can I kiss you, at least?"

You barely managed a nod before his mouth descended on yours, his lips achingly tender. He moved slowly, basking in the warmth he had been denying himself of for so long. A cold hand came up to cup your cheek and you jerked away in surprise, making him laugh and apologise before diving back in, settling the hand on your back to pull you in closer.

"I was right," he mumbled against your lips. "There's no way I'm letting go now."

“can’t?” you smile into the kiss, completely unaware of the raging turmoil inside your devastatingly cute neighbor’s head. 

“i promised myself i wouldn't- that i wouldn't-” he mumbles incoherently, but he’s grabbing at your bottom lip with his mouth as soon as he utters the jumbled words.

“wouldn’t what? come into my apartment? kiss me? give me the time of day?” you tease, kissing slowly down his neck while peter whimpers out in absolute shock at how good it feels to have your mouth on his pulse…again. “fuck me?” you add to your teasing with a whispered voice against his ear, giggling when you hear a shattered whine escaping his throat.

“hhaaa- you can’t just say that to me” peter gasps at your new found forwardness, a side of you he is yet to adapt to, his brows turn in awe at the ceiling while you just grow amused at his reactions.

"then what?"

"i don't- its complicated"

“you’re really are a tough egg to crack peter parker”

it takes everything in him not to sob on the very spot. this is the first time you’ve said his name in years. its the first time in a while you’ve said it like that too. 

peter's almost 100% sure he won’t be able to live with himself after this.

that his selfish want let things get this far. that it lead to him going against every single moral code he’s ever abided by. 

now that he’s pathetically clinging to every touch, every flex of your tongue over his, every ounce of attention that's pouring into him like water after a heavy drought. 

god he had been so alone, so pitifully alone after that god forsaken spell, it’s driven him to near insanity. it’s driven him to do the most vile thing he’s ever done.

it caused for him to chase after you. the person he’s been keeping a watchful eye over for god knows how long now, keeping you at a distance from his dangerous life. the only person his every truly loved. his first and only girlfriend. or well, ex-girlfriend to be exact.

you. who has no actual memory of who peter parker really is, or how fucking badly he hurt you in the first place or how it drove you to eventually break up with him. 

"we can stop this if you want" you say, with a patient and sincere look in your eyes, just to make things all the more worse.

just so it dawns on him how truly awful he really is.

“no, please-” he begs. shaking his head frantically. peter can’t control the words that spill out of him in desperation “i've always wanted you like this, you’re-“ 

-everything to me. i love you, so so much. he completes inside his head. 

⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎

(a few hours earlier) 

“hey! i know you!”

your words and voice aggressively ricochet against all the walls inside peter’s head. he nearly chokes on what he’s convinced is actually poison and not a cocktail drink.

even if this was inadvertently what he seeking after, even when he could sense you were closing in on him with his heightened senses, he didn’t expect for you to acknowledge his presence. at least not so damn quickly. 

peter had grown far too used to being a spectator to your life, never an active participant. 

“you do?” peter asks, his voice hilariously raw from coughing. his heart is thrumming inside his chest at your mere proximity. 

a part of him thinks you’ve miraculously remembered who he is. 

but no, its a stone-cold fact that the mind altering spell erased all memories of him from you. the good as well as the bad. 

all the nights your sweet boyfriend peter left you waiting and worried sick about him. all the times he lied to you about his whereabouts or the severity of his injuries. all the times he promised he would be there for you only for him to prioritize his duty as the friendly neighborhood spider-man. all gone.

theres one thing the spell clearly hadn’t erased though, and that is your blatant attraction towards him. if the way you’re looking at him now is any indication. 

“yeah! you’re 107 right? you live in my building? the guy that keeps getting noise complaints” you chirp, an oblivious and easy smile on your face.

theres also a teasing lilt to your voice that peter remembers all too well. the hairs on his arms stand on end in response, it makes him lightheaded with the painful familiarity of it all. 

“ah. yeah!” he laughs, not not embarrassed about his growing reputation of causing a ruckus every now and then. “that’s uh- definitely me”

he attempts to do a playful tone, trying so hard to mask how he's struggling to breathe properly under your heated gaze. 

“so like- are you actively trying to avoid me or?” you tease. 

yep, he has. at least up until today. 

“no of course not, why um- why would you think that?” peter blurts out, he shakes his head so defensively that he curls on his forehead dance. 

“you’re always running off”

“i’m just kind of busy all the time, its nothing personal i swear” he answers, he tries to be nonchalant but his voice wavers anyways.

personal is all it is really.  

its the reason peter moved into the same building as you to begin with, its the reason he panics and flees every time he sees you in his vicinity, its also the reason he’s at this damn house party filled with people he doesn’t even know. 

it’s painfully and horridly personal, the reason he’s been trailing after you relentlessly for years.

and even when your life had moved on pass the need for peter parker, he couldn’t find it himself to stop then either. 

“okay, busy guy” you giggle, all too smitten by his awkwardness in the same way you were the first first time you met him “wanna join me for a drink?”

⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎

peter knows theres no absolution to what he's doing, but that doesn't stop him from moaning into the crook of your neck a crazed chant of "baby, baby, baby, shit- you feel so fucking good"

he can't stop the wave of possessiveness that crawls up his being now that you're finally under him, moaning his name exactly how he envisioned you would.

the way he always tried to imagine it each night he slipped a hand down his plaid pajama bottoms to relieve the aching need burning inside him.

it was torture, to see you walking down the hallways smiling at your phone without sparing him a glance, to see you conversing happily with the rest of your neighbors, to pass by your apartment door and hear you laughing with your shiny new friends.

it was torture, when instead of laughs he heard something else. your moans, sighs of pleasure in response to people that weren't him. strangers that you brought into your apartment and then never saw again. strangers who dared touch what had always been his.

peter would stand outside, his feet anchored below him, blushing crimson red with the shame of even daring to listen in to the cacophony of debauched noises. the seething jealousy eating him alive.

now, the memory of all those times just switch on something visceral inside him.

something possessive and plain animalistic.

suddenly he hears not only his heartbeat ringing in his ears, but yours too. suddenly, your whispered sighs of his name reverberate so loudly into his ears it almost startles him and shakes him.

its all overstimulating, your touch, your kisses, your sounds, the warmth inside you that wraps around him like a vice, but he loves it. every second of it.

he's so lost in you that he doesn't even realize theres a momentary worried look on your face when he lifts up for a needy kiss mid frenzied thrusts.

"peter- your eyes, they-" you say, before he's silencing your concerned string of words with his tongue slipping inside your mouth.

oh right. he thinks. that happens lately.

his eyes have turned unnaturally pitch black. they have overtaken and overshadowed all the sweetness from his face.

all sweetness has been erased from his movements too, peter grows instinctive with every push of himself inside, like muscle memory has kicked in, he hisses against your neck when you scratch at his back in retaliation.

there really was nothing sweet about what he was doing to begin with.

"you're made for me right?, i knew we were made for each other baby-" peter groans, his voice is considerably deeper this time around.

"peter? what are you-" you ask, a little bit horrified, but theres no denying that even though his words and his sudden change in appearance is confusing, your body is far too busy responding to everything else he's doing to you.

its why your legs wrap around his middle to bring him that much closer, so close you begin to lose track of where he ends and you begin.

the blinding pleasure outweighs the shock of his next sentence as it slips out in the form of a tortured growl against your lips.

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

“Alright, Spiderman. There’s a bank robbery going on at 30th Avenue. Suspect is—uh, hello? Is this thing on?”

Peter laughs, already swinging through the tall buildings of New York City, zipping and flying through them faster than you can even say ‘Spiderman.’ While one arm is busy slinging out webs from building to building, his other arm holds onto a thick communications radio that looks like an amateur concoction of a walkie-talkie accompanied with old thick wires he found in a junkyard.

“Yep, I hear you loud and clear,” Peter says from his end. “I’m already a few blocks away. What does the suspect look like—”

“Spiderman? Hellooo?” Your voice cuts him off in a burst of static that makes his ears ring. “Ugh—is this radio even working? Are you still there?”

He needs to make a mental note to figure out a way for your voice to come through clearer—and preferably not through a brick of what feels like a tenth-century sad excuse for a cellphone that he has to clutch every time he wants to talk to you.

“I’m here!” Peter shouts through the mic, swinging around a corner.

“Ah! There you are!” you say, sounding like you’re smiling, if only Peter could picture what you looked like. “Missed your voice for a second.”

Peter’s face flushes under his mask.

“Detecting a sudden increase in body heat—specifically around the facial region—and a spike in heart rate despite no intense physical activity being performed—”

“Shut up, Evie,” Peter mumbles, hoping you didn’t hear him from the other end of the line.

He hadn’t gotten around to fixing the background noise integration yet, so the shitty microphone attached to the radio picks up almost everything. He hears you laugh on the other end, and he has to force down the rapid thumping of his heart before Evie calls him out on it again.

“Are you blushing, Spiderman?”

“What—no!” Peter immediately interjects, landing on top of a tall building on 30th Avenue. His eyes scan the windows of the bank directly across the street. “Just tell me what the suspect looks like, alright?”

You chuckle again. “Okay, the suspect is tall, wearing dark clothing, and probably handsome—if it weren’t for the ski mask covering his face.”

Peter rolls his eyes underneath his goggles.

“Now’s not the time to play around,” he says, already swinging through the entrance as innocent bystanders and employees run out in a panic.

He swings above the crowd in a perfectly prone position mid-air until he lands on his feet in the center of the bank. He doesn’t need your comms in here—he can handle whatever gets thrown at him at this point. His ears tingle with a warning that tells him the enemy is to his left. He turns his head to that direction, and…

“Spiderman!” A tall man in dark clothing and a ski mask holds up a rifle, pointing it directly at Peter. “You’re dead, kid!”

“Oh, jeez,” Peter says, slowly raising his hands in surrender.

“Oh, and I forgot to mention,” your voice statics through. “He’s heavily armed.”

“Yeah, good comms,” Peter scoffs sarcastically.

“Who the hell are you talking to?” the man shouts, pointing at the radio in Peter's hand. “Is that a bomb? Drop it!”

Peter furrows his brows, glancing at the object in his hand. A bomb? Seriously? The radio really looks that bad?

The man’s grip on the gun tightens, holding it in a way that lets Peter know he has clearly never held a gun before in his life. The panic among the people remaining in the building surges at the sight of the weapon, everyone shoving past each other toward the entrance.

“Come on, man. Don’t shoot—there are innocent people in here!” he tries to interject.

“Innocent dead people soon, if you don’t put that weapon away!” the man barks back.

“The police are on their way,” you explain, serious this time, through the radio. “Take care of that gun now, or he’ll start shooting like a madman once he sees the sirens. You have less than two minutes.”

“Okay,” Peter says. “Time me.”

“Starting now?”

“Starting now,” he confirms before switching off the radio’s microphone input.

The man takes the loud clicking sound as a threat, his finger hovering over the trigger with every intention to shoot—but Peter moves faster.

Extending his left hand, a thick layer of web covers the muzzle, trapping any potential bullet in the barrel. The poor man doesn’t even have time to react before Peter webs the gun, yanked it out of his hands, and tosses it aside. Just as the man turns to make a run for it, Peter pins his ankles together with a thick strip of webbing, sending him face first onto the floor before securing his wrists behind his back with another band of webs.

From where he still stands in the center of the room, Peter unclicks the microphone. “You got it, Static?”

He can practically feel you rolling your eyes at the stupid nickname. “That was fifteen seconds. Good job,” you applaud. “And are you seriously still sticking with Static? I hate that nickname.”

Peter chuckles, scanning the area for any signs of injuries, but finds none. The police finally arrive, pulling up with sirens blaring as they assess the crowd and begin scouting the area with weapons drawn. Seeing the suspect already bound by webs on the floor, they immediately move in with handcuffs.

Knowing the police will take it from here, Peter zips out of the building as if the entire fight—if you would even call it that—was just a quick pit stop.

“Well, that’s just what I’m gonna have to keep calling you, because your voice always comes through staticky,” he says, the wind picking up through the microphone and making it harder for you to hear him. “Unless… you wanna give me your actual name. Then maybe I can call you that instead.”

You pause at the other end of the radio, the silence between you filled only by the harsh wind and the snap of spiderwebs on his end.

As Peter swings his way back to his apartment, his heart pounds wildly in his chest with anticipation.

This isn’t the first time he’s teased you to get you to give up your name, and you’ve asked for his name more times than he can count on his fingers.

“Very funny,” you muse from the other end, your voice drawing out with a teasing tilt. “I could say the same thing to you.”

Peter smiles, landing on his apartment rooftop with a huff. “I don’t know—I think I like the way Spiderman rolls off your tongue.”

For the very first time since you two found each other through a stroke of pure luck—when Peter spent a night building a radio to hijack police comms and accidentally connected to you, a woman doing the exact same thing—you find yourself completely at a loss for words.

He doesn’t even know where the sudden boost of confidence came from to blurt out a flirtatious comment like that. Maybe it’s the suit, or maybe it’s that flutter of excitement he gets every single time he talks to you.

But that confidence slowly teeters away the longer you stay quiet. He grimaces, feeling like he overshot his mark big time.

Finally, he hears a slow draw of breath from the other end.

“That’s a shame,” you tease. “I would’ve loved to hear the sound of my name in your voice.”

Peter sucks in a sharp breath, his body tensing as your words travel down his spine and straight to his heart. It was the way you said it—that sultry little rasp that even the static couldn’t mask. An awkward silence takes over the both of you, and for once, Peter is grateful for how poorly he configured this radio, since he can use it as an excuse for a faulty mic.

“Dramatic increase in heart rate detected. Body heat has increased an additional two degrees, and your suit—specifically around the groin region—appears to be tighter. I am also detecting a heightened state of arousal—”

“Evie!” Peter barks suddenly. He hears your laugh come through the other end, and the sound definitely doesn’t help his situation at all.

“Got you to blush twice today.” You taunt. “I think that’s a record, Spidey.”

“I wasn’t blushing,” Peter lies. “Anyway—enough of that. Are you seeing any other criminal activity in the area?”

You hum, and he hears a faint clicking noise on your end. “Nothing,” you say. “But what’s the rush? You’re given the opportunity to relax. You should take it, considering how hard you’ve been pushing yourself.”

Peter hops onto the ledge of his building and starts idly pacing back and forth, smiling under his mask as he holds the radio close to his ear. “Aw, you don’t have to worry about me. I have Evie for that.”

You blow a raspberry, and Peter’s smile widens.

“Yeah—well, Evie is an artificial intelligence. She can only care so much. Plus, she can’t make as many good jokes as I can.”

Peter’s tongue pokes the inside of his cheek as he kicks a tiny stray pebble off the ledge, watching it fall ten stories to the ground. “Are you getting jealous of my assistant now?”

A garbled noise leaves your lips, and he chuckles as you stammer over your own words.

“God—you’re so full of yourself, aren't you?” you huff. “I’m your partner—so it’s only natural for me to look out for you.”

“We’re partners?”

“Haven’t we been this entire time?”

Peter pauses, glancing up at the sky, where the orange sun is starting to set behind several towers of buildings.

Partners. He hasn’t had anyone he could call a partner since everything happened—since he made the whole world forget who he was. He hasn’t had a real, caring partner since… them. Ned and MJ.

And now, after all that time spent in solitude, he’s finally found someone to call his partner again. Someone he’s never even seen, whose name he doesn’t even know. All he knows about you is that you’re smart—smart enough to build a radio and link up to his frequency—and that you live in New York. He could’ve passed you on his way to buy groceries, or seen you on the subway. Hell, you might even live in his building. Maybe you’re even that girl he accidentally swapped laundry with the other night.

“Spiderman? You still there?” you ask, snapping him out of his daze.

Despite your usual spunky attitude, in that moment, you sound so… small. Like you don’t want to hang up, even if there aren’t any crimes to report.

“I’m here,” he breathes, his voice coming out softer than he expected. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You smile at that. He can hear it. “Okay. Good.”

The microphone picks up shuffling noises on your end—judging by the sound, he pictures you rolling over in bed and getting comfortable.

“How about we play a game?” you ask before the radio falls into silence again.

Peter raises a brow under his mask. “A game?”

“Yeah—every time you complete a successful mission, we trade a fun fact about each other.”

He hums, taking a seat on the ledge and letting his feet dangle over the edge. “Okay, sure. And since I just finished one—does that mean the game starts now?”

You chuckle softly at his enthusiasm to play along. “Sure. Want to go first?”

Peter cranes his neck back to look at the sky. Although neither of you has ever brought it up, he has a feeling you’re both on the exact same page when it comes to secrecy. Neither of you wants to give away too much and blow your identity, but you share just enough to keep things interesting.

And by letting him go first, it feels like you’re giving him the chance to set the tone.

“Hm. Let me think.” He rubs his chin through his mask. “Okay—I’m ready. My favorite coffee is a hot Americano.”

You snort. “The first fun fact you want to share is your coffee order?”

“Hey—coffee can be fun!” Peter interjects. “Now tell me yours.”

A little laugh escapes you, and he can hear you shaking your head. “Fine. I get an extra-hot almond milk latte, with one pump of sugar-free vanilla, one pump of regular hazelnut, and two scoops of vanilla bean powder.”

The white lenses of Peter’s goggles widen, and he lets out a brief, disbelieving laugh. “Oh—so you’re pulling my leg because I started us off with a lame fun fact? Is that it?”

“What?” You giggle along. “I’m not! That’s my actual order—especially on chilly days. You should try it sometime.”

Peter imagines it: a girl—a pretty one, judging by your voice and personality—ordering that ridiculous concoction at a coffee shop while the barista rolls their eyes at how long it takes to recite. For some reason, the visual warms his chest.

“Sure. And I’d tell you to try a hot Americano—but based on the order you just gave me, I don’t think you’d like it very much,” he jokes.

You chuckle. “No, probably not.”

Silence fills the space again, and Peter kicks his legs over the edge of the ledge, trying to think of something to say before he loses you.

He clears his throat. “So, uh—”

“Can I ask you something?”

You both talk over each other, and his face warms with embarrassment. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

“Okay,” you continue. You let out a shaky breath, and he instinctively braces himself for whatever you’re about to ask. “I’ve noticed that your receiver is always on. Do you forget to turn it off?”

Peter pauses, confused by the question. “No. It’s on twenty-four seven—just in case something happens, you know?”

You hum softly. “I get that. But I guess what I’m trying to ask is… don’t you have other things in your life to worry about, instead of fighting crime behind a mask?”

Peter stays quiet for a moment.

In truth, there’s a bigger reason he keeps the radio on besides his duties as Spiderman. He could easily listen in on reported crimes just fine without your help, but he keeps it on twenty-four seven in the hopes of hearing your voice ring through—just in case you might… need him.

There have been several nights since meeting you where he tosses and turns in bed, reaching for the radio to see if your receiver is on. It usually isn’t during consistent parts of the day—meaning you’re either at work or in class. It’s usually off at night, but sometimes around three in the morning, he’ll see your receiver light up and you’ll call in, your voice completely wide awake, proving you can be a real night owl.

Ever since meeting you, it feels like he finally has a friend to talk to. The worst part of it all is that he doesn’t even know your name. And he can never meet you, no matter how badly he wants to.

Peter finally found someone he cares about—and he isn’t going to risk losing you.

“I… I guess I do,” Peter says, trying his best to tread carefully. “I always keep an earpiece in, just in case something happens. You can never be too careful.”

You hum again, and Peter knows that answer wasn’t enough to buy it.

“And I guess I also keep it on… just in case you ever want to talk.”

Shit, Peter curses to himself. If his half-assed answer just now wasn’t enough to make you switch off the line, this one definitely takes the cake. You’re quiet on the other end, and each passing second makes him want to do you both a favor and turn it off himself.

“In that case,” you speak softly, “I’ll keep my receiver on in case you want to talk to me.”

His heart stutters in his chest, feeling as though all the air has been sucked straight out of his lungs.

Peter hasn’t felt this way since high school. He’s grinning ear to ear—a smile so wide it hurts the muscles in his cheeks. He lets out a chuckle, a raspy, disbelieving sound at the realization that there’s a chance you might feel the exact same way about him.

“Don’t say that,” he says before he can stop himself, trying to inject some humor to cover up his flustered state. “You’re gonna get annoyed with me.”

“Who’s to say I’m not already?” you joke back.

And for the first time in a long time, Peter feels like the happiest man on Earth.

He looks up at the sky, watching birds fly across the orange hues as he kicks his feet like a high schooler who just scored a date with the prettiest girl in class. His heart is racing so fast in his chest and he feels so giddy that he’s actually surprised Evie hasn’t called him out on it yet.

He wants to make this last—to say something, anything, to keep this moment from ending.

Suddenly, a series of sharp beeps emits from your end of the radio. It's a sound he knows all too well, a reminder that duty calls before anything else.

“Oh, God,” you mutter quietly.

Every hair on Peter’s arms stands on end. He leaps to his feet, ready to launch himself toward whatever is happening. “What is it, Static?”

“There’s an alarm triggered at Grand Central Terminal,” you explain. “NYPD comms just flagged it—there are a bunch of hostages. It looks bad, Spiderman. Multiple armed men have barricaded the main concourse.”

Peter wastes no time, shooting a thick web line toward the nearest building and flinging himself into the sky. “How many hostages are we talking?”

“At least fifty. Commuters, staff—they were trapped during rush hour,” you answer, the clack of your keyboard clattering over the staticky connection. “I’m tapping into the security feed right now. They’re holding guns, and… it looks like there’s a heavy grade explosive right in the center, attached to the information booth.”

The wind roars through Peter’s mic as he accelerates through the air. “How much time is on the clock?”

“I’m trying to zoom in—eight minutes,” you say. “They’ve blocked all the major exits with deadbolts and wired the perimeter. It looks pretty half-assed, Spidey. If SWAT breaches the doors, or if even a piece of rubble hits that rig, the whole thing will blow.”

“Alright, no breaches,” Peter takes a mental note, his mind racing through entry points as the massive arched roof of Grand Central comes into view. “You’re my eyes in there, Static. Find me an entry point that skips the doors.”

“The skylight above the west balcony has an old grate,” you reply instantly. “It leads directly into the ventilations—high enough to keep you out of sight, but close enough to drop in.”

“Got it,” Peter replies, landing silently on the glass roof. He peers through the skylight, his eyes adjusting to the interior where dozens of terrified people are huddling on the floor, held at gunpoint by masked men with automatic rifles.

Right in the center, duct-taped to the information booth and blinking with a harsh red timer, sits the bomb.

“Okay, I’m in position,” Peter breathes through the radio. “Time me?”

He hears a soft click on your end, signaling that your timer is already running.

“Be careful, Spiderman.”

He tucks the radio against his thigh, securing it with a thick band of web.

Peter moves exactly in the direction you tell him to—he wedges his body into the dusty vents, moving with the practiced speed of an arachnid that takes him from point A to point B in the blink of an eye. He slowly lifts the grate, the poor thing held up by only a flimsy screw, and sets it down softly beside him to avoid any loud noises.

He lands gently right in the center of the terminal—but his plans for discretion don’t last when a hostage looks up and yells, “We’re saved, everyone! It’s Spiderman!”

Immediately, all the armed threats spin around, several barrels abandoning the hostages to point straight at the man in the red-and-blue suit.

“Oh,” Peter smiles. “Making my job a lot easier. Thanks.”

Before giving them the chance to shoot, Peter fires off thick strings of web into every single barrel, clogging up the firearms. With every weapon bound, he tangles the web lines together into one big knot and yanks them all out of their hands.

The guns crash into each other in a tangled mass of spiderwebs and steel. With the firearms rendered completely useless, he tosses the mess aside to focus on the men—who are now charging at him with combat knives and sidearms.

Peter quickly makes short work of the pistols, disarming the men with his webs before a stray bullet can even graze the bomb. One by one, he takes them down, firing webs with every intention of keeping them bound and completely immovable.

When Peter gets down to the last guy, slinging a thick web to pin him flat against the wall, your voice rings out from where the radio sits tucked against his thigh.

“SWAT is moving in—mind the doors and tripwires!”

“Shit,” Peter curses, whipping his head toward the exits—but it’s already too late.

The SWAT team breaches fast, shouting and gesturing for the hostages to run. Panic surges through the crowd, and every frantic step from the civilians echoes like thunder in Peter’s ears. One misstep, even one piece of falling debris, could set this entire place off. Peter snaps his head back to the bomb. Four minutes remain on the digital clock, but suddenly the numbers freeze—and a sharp high pitched frequency fills the room.

It’s quiet to everyone else, but to Peter's heightened senses, it might as well be an air siren.

“Wait!” Peter shouts, turning to vault himself away before the bomb sets off.

But it’s too late.

“Spiderman! Get out of there!” you cry out through the radio—right before a brilliant flash of red and white blinds the entire building.

Pressure and heat slam right into Peter’s chest, throwing him backward through the air and showering him in flying stone like a ragdoll. Glass shatters overhead, raining down thousands of sparkling fragments as the information booth detonates into a massive cloud of fire and smoke.

Peter crashes hard against the far wall, the impact knocking every last drop of air from his lungs. He coughs up blood, staining the inside of his mask, before sliding down a broken slab of marble. He wheezes violently as dense gray smoke fills the room. His ears ring loudly, drowning out the shouting SWAT officers, the screaming crowd, and the creaking support beams above.

Evie’s voice sings in his ear like a taunt.

“Detecting bone fractures near the lower hip. Internal bleeding. Labored breathing—”

Then, your voice comes cutting through the static.

“Spiderman! Answer me!” Your voice cuts in and out, and despite being crushed under rubble with smoke filling his lungs, he reaches for the radio at his thigh.

He lifts it with a trembling hand, and his heart stops. It’s broken, snapped open with electricity sparking near the wires.

“Please—are you there? Spiderman! Check in!”

“Time, Static,” he manages to croak out.

Even through the static, the sheer panic in your voice is unmistakable. “The ambulances are on their way. Just hold on for a little longer—”

“What’s the time, Static?” he repeats with a wet cough.

You suck in a sharp breath. “Four minutes and twenty-three seconds. Now save your breath and stop talking!”

“Peter,” he croaks, coughing up more blood.

“W-what?” you stammer through tears. The sound makes his chest hurt more than the slab of concrete resting heavy on his ribs. “You’re breaking out.”

“Our little game—remember? Every successful mission, we exchange a fun fact,” he wheezes, fighting for air. “My name is Peter Parker.”

A broken, sobbing gasp escapes you. He glances down at the radio, watching the little light that indicates his microphone is working flicker in and out.

“Static? Are you still there?”

“I can’t hear you, Spiderman.”

The blue glow of your television screen is the only source of light in your dim apartment. Outside your window, New York City keeps moving, but inside, time feels like it has been frozen for seven agonizing days.

On the screen, a news anchor stands outside Queens Hospital Center, her face grave under the studio-lit broadcast.

“…we return to our top story tonight regarding Spiderman,” the reporter’s voice echoes through your quiet room. “It has been one week since the explosive incident at Grand Central Terminal that left the vigilante in critical condition. Authorities and medical staff at Queens Hospital Center have kept tight-lipped about his recovery.”

You pull your knees tighter into your chest, your fingers trembling as they wrap around a lukewarm mug of tea you haven’t touched.

“In a shocking turn of events earlier this morning, hospital administrators confirmed that Spiderman is no longer in their care,” the reporter continues. “According to sources, when attending nurses entered his private room to adjust his IVs and monitor his severe injuries, they found the hospital bed empty. There is no security footage explaining how or when the injured hero managed to slip past guards, leaving NYPD officials baffled—and deeply concerned given the extent of his internal trauma.”

Your eyes widen, and you press a hand over your mouth as a shaky exhale spills past your lips.

He woke up.

He survived.

You keep watching, waiting to see if the reporter will expose his identity. A part of you is already annoyed that these attention-hungry journalists would stoop so low now that he’s been admitted to a hospital. But another part of you desperately wants to know—because you felt like that might’ve been what he was trying to tell you over the radio right before the line cut out.

A heavy breath escapes you when the reporter doesn’t mention a name, and the broadcast switches to a story about local stray animals. You’re not even sure if the sigh you let out is one of relief or frustration.

You glance over at the radio resting on the couch beside you.

Your receiver light blinks green—it has been on this entire time.

For the past seven days, you’ve been sleeping with the radio clutched in your hands in hopes that you’ll hear his voice one more time. Even as you walk through the hallways of your university, moving from lecture to lecture, you keep an earpiece tucked in your ear so you won’t miss him if he calls.

A few more days pass, and you’re sitting at your desk with heavy eyes. A lamp at the corner of your desk emits a warm glow over the pages of your notebook. You feel like you’ve been awake for days, running on far too little sleep and not nearly enough caffeine to keep you going.

Your head rests heavily in your palm. A quick glance at the clock tells you it’s 3:41 in the morning.

With a tired sigh, you start to push your chair back—but the sudden sound of familiar static stops you in your tracks.

A sound that is usually so grating to your ears suddenly sounds like heaven.

You quickly scramble back to your desk, your hand swiping up the radio and lifting it to your ear.

“Hello?” you say, your heart racing. “Hello? Is someone there?”

The static cuts out for a second, and you pull the radio back to check the lights. Both indicator lights are glowing green, showing that you—and whoever is on the other line—are connected. The static crackles through again, and you press the receiver tight against your ear, holding your breath as you wait for them to speak first.

“—atic?”

That voice—so familiar, so gentle—rings out. You feel your heart leap straight into your throat. You’ve been waiting for days to hear him again, but you aren't prepared for what to say now that he's actually here.

“Sta—t—ic,” Peter’s voice cuts in and out before suddenly coming through crystal clear—clearer than the very first time you ever connected with him. “This is Spiderman. Are you there?”

Your heart swells with a profound wave of relief. Tears prick at your eyes, spilling down your cheeks before you can even stop them.

“Oh my God,” you breathe, your hand trembling as you press the radio against your forehead. “You’re okay. You’re here. Thank God. I—I thought I lost you. I was keeping up with the news, and when they said you fled the hospital—I hoped you were okay. I’ve been waiting for your call all week. I—”

“Hey, hey,” Peter coos softly on the other end. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve been here the whole time. I’m not going anywhere.”

You hear him rustling around on the other line, the soft friction of sheets sounding like he’s lying in bed. The thought of him resting comfortably in his own room rather than trapped in a sterile hospital bed makes your heart melt.

“Where have you been?” you ask, your voice cracking as you wipe a stray tear from your cheek. “Why didn’t you call sooner?”

“I know, I know… I’m sorry,” Peter says softly, his breath catching in a faint, painful wince that he tries to cover up with a dry laugh. “My suit was pretty much trashed, and the radio got crushed in the blast. It took everything in me just to crawl over to my workbench, and a few more days to rebuild the transmitter from scratch.”

A shaky breath leaves his lips. “With the radio broken, I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to find you again. I spent all this time rebuilding it—I even fixed the signal integration so both our voices would come through clearer.”

You let out a wet, teary laugh. “So that’s why you sound like that.”

You can picture him grinning on the other end. “A lot better, huh?”

That familiar, teasing tilt in his voice sends a wave of butterflies straight to your stomach. A soft laugh escapes you, and he chuckles in return. Then, as if savoring the sound of your joy, he breathes out softly.

“I missed hearing your voice.”

Your feet carry you over to the comfort of your mattress, and before you even realize it, you’re collapsing onto your bed, kicking your feet like a giddy, hopeless romantic.

“I missed hearing you, too. You’d better not let that happen again. If I can barely handle losing you for a week, I definitely can’t bear losing you forever,” you say, trying to pass it off as a joke, but the tremble in your voice betrays you.

Peter’s grin widens where he lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I’ll make sure to be extra careful from here on out, just so you don’t lose me.”

You smile into your pillow. “Good.”

A comfortable silence settles between you two—not the awkward kind from when you first met, but a warm one, wrapping around you both like a blanket despite the distance. You set the radio down on the empty space beside your pillow, and he does the same. With the microphone improvements, you can hear his steady breathing on your end, and he can hear yours.

“Were you able to hear anything I said... the last time we spoke?” Peter asks softly.

You shake your head, the friction against your pillow rustling over the mic. “You were cutting out too much.”

He pauses, the soft sound of sheets shifting as he pulls his blanket up over his shoulders.

“It was about our game—the fun facts one,” he says, his voice careful, like he’s walking on eggshells.

You couldn’t catch much before the line broke down completely. Pet... That was all you had managed to hear. But a deep feeling in your gut tells you that whatever he said was a precious piece of himself—a piece he wanted you to have in case he didn’t make it.

You hold your breath, waiting to see if he’ll offer it up again.

“And since I completed a successful mission,” he continues, swallowing hard. “I thought I’d continue with that trade.”

You brace yourself, your heart clawing in your chest as you wait for the confession—for him to finally drop his guard and lay his identity on the line, just like you plan to do with yours.

Peter draws a slow, quiet breath.

“Do you… have a boyfriend?”

You blink.

The silence stretches for a long second, the sudden change in direction catching you so off guard that your mind does a hard reset. Of all the things you expected him to say—a big secret, a superhero revelation, a tender confession about his life—that was not on your bingo card.

“What?” you squeeze out, your voice squeaking slightly.

Over the line, Peter clears his throat awkwardly, a sudden rustle of sheets betraying how fast he just sat up to bury his face in his hands.

“O-or girlfriend! Sorry—I shouldn’t have assumed! I mean, you don’t have to answer! It’s just—it’s a fun fact! A personal fact! That’s how the game works, right? You tell me something, I tell you something… or—”

A helpless, snickering laugh bubbles up from your chest, breaking off his ramble.

“Spiderman,” you giggle, burying your blushing face deeper into your mattress.

“Yeah?” he yelps, sounding like a man standing on trial.

“No,” you answer, a wide grin spreading across your face. “No boyfriend. No girlfriend.”

A long, almost dramatic exhale breezes through the speaker, followed by the soft thud of Peter flopping back down onto his mattress.

“Oh, thank God,” he mutters, trying to keep it quiet enough so the microphone doesn’t catch it—but you hear it anyway. “I mean… cool. That’s cool.”

You snort. “Okay. You know how the game goes. Now it’s my turn to ask.”

“Do I have a girlfriend?” he prompts.

You shrug, taking the opportunity to tease him. “Or boyfriend. I don’t judge.”

A playful scoff leaves his lips, and you can already imagine him rolling his eyes. He’s quiet for a few seconds, making you think he’s just too flustered to answer. But when his voice comes through shaky, almost hesitant, you feel an unfamiliar tug at your heart.

“I—um… I used to have this girl,” he murmurs. “We were dating for a while—but it didn’t work out.”

The tone of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. He speaks like a man who’s been broken again and again, carrying a profound heartache you couldn’t even begin to measure. A small, selfish twinge of jealousy tugs at you, but you know it’s not your place.

“What happened?” The words spill out before you can stop them.

Peter sucks in a sharp breath, and you wince with regret for pushing too far.

“Well, that’s something you’re gonna have to ask the next time I complete a successful mission,” he says, trying to ease the tension with a playful tone, and you’re more than happy to fall right back into it.

You roll onto your back, looking up at your bedroom ceiling. Across the city, Peter does the exact same thing.

“Deal. But let’s not jump back into all that too soon, okay? Whatever crime happens out there, let the police handle it,” you say, pulling your blanket up to your chin. “I just want to keep you all to myself tonight.”

You want to slap yourself for how ridiculous you sound. He just opened up about a painful past relationship, and you immediately turn around and sound like a clingy girlfriend.

But Peter laughs—a full, rich sound that doesn't sound at all like he just survived a traumatic experience a week ago. It’s a laugh that never fails to make you smile.

“Usually, I’d oppose the idea of ignoring crime,” he says softly. “But for you? I’ll stay. For as long as you want me to.”

You smile, nuzzling your nose into the soft fabric of your blanket. “Good. Goodnight, Spiderman.”

“Goodnight, Static.”

And for the remainder of the night, neither of you switches the radio off, letting the quiet and comforting sound of each other’s breathing lull you to sleep.

It’s a brand new day, and Peter is running around New York getting his errands done. Laundry run, check. Grocery run, check. The last thing on his list is to pick up some flowers for Aunt May.

Right next to the small bodega where he always buys his flowers sits a busy coffee shop.

The front window is large enough to see everything and everyone inside—which is exactly why he has to do a double take at the person standing near the cashier.

He stops dead in his tracks, causing a hurried pedestrian to bump into his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Peter mumbles, but the man just shoots him a dirty look and keeps walking.

Standing inside the coffee shop is a face that’s all too familiar—someone he hasn’t seen in a long, long time.

Ned.

Peter’s feet are moving before he even realizes it. He hovers near the entrance, stepping aside for a few exiting customers before pushing the door open. Slipping into an empty seat near the front, he watches Ned chat with the barista. But Ned isn’t alone.

He’s standing next to a girl—a pretty girl, at that. And one he doesn’t recognize.

Peter smiles to himself, a swell of pride washing over him seeing his best friend doing well, and scoring a pretty girlfriend to date.

“And for the missus?” The barista holds up a paper cup, pen hovering over the cardboard as she waits.

You glance up at the menu board, though you don’t really need to. You know your order like the back of your hand.

“Can I get an extra-hot almond milk latte with one pump of sugar-free vanilla—”

Peter’s heart stops.

“—one pump of regular hazelnut…”

That voice. That familiar, sing-song cadence he hears every night through a staticky radio. The last voice he listened to when he nearly died just a few weeks ago.

“And two scoops of vanilla bean powder,” Peter mumbles to himself like a mantra.

“…and two scoops of vanilla bean powder?” you finish, flashing the barista a harmless, innocent smile.

The barista gives you a disbelieving look, and you chuckle awkwardly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The movement gives Peter a clear view of a small earpiece nestled right inside. Everything playing out before his eyes matches the picture he’d built in his head—except for you. You being this stunning was far beyond anything he could have imagined.

The barista finally finishes jotting your order down, and you and Ned turn to search for an open table. Peter holds his breath, watching your easy smile and the natural way you interact with his once best friend.

The pang in his chest is a feeling he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. Two people he cares about more than anything... so close, yet entirely out of reach.

His heightened spider-sense gives him the ability to hear almost anything, even from across the room. Yet right now, the ringing in his ears and the heavy thumping of his heart drown out every other sound. You and Ned approach an empty table with only a single chair, but you glance around and spot the unused chair across from Peter.

“Hey,” you smile politely—a soft, courteous tone reserved strictly for strangers, not your partner in crime. “Are you using this chair?”

This is it.

Finally, for the first time, he can introduce himself to you properly. He could bring both you and Ned back into his life with a single, simple greeting.

Hi, I’m Peter. Peter Parker. The guy you’ve been talking to over a flimsy radio these past few months.

Peter looks up at you, completely frozen where he sits. Your smile fades into a faint frown when he hesitates. Then, your eyes flicker briefly to the earpiece resting in his ear—identical to yours, worn for the exact same reason.

Just in case either of you calls in.

Before he loses you, Peter clears his throat. His hand subtly moves up to scratch his ear, hiding the earpiece with his knuckles before slipping it into his palm. When he finally speaks, he deliberately drops his voice a few pitches deeper—adding a slight rasp for good measure.

“No, go ahead.”

That polite smile returns, and you pull the chair away from his table. “Cool, thanks.”

You slide the chair up to the table you’re sharing with Ned, and just like that—unaware that you’ve completely flipped his world upside down and inside out—you fall right back into conversation with him.

The barista calls out your order with your name, and the sound of it is like music to his ears.

He repeats it quietly under his breath. It sounds natural, like a name that was always meant to be spoken in his voice.

Peter squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t reveal his identity to you. Telling you his real name that night—when he was trapped under rubble and bleeding out—was just a lapse in judgment brought on by desperation. But now that he’s here, looking at you and his best friend in broad daylight, he knows he can’t risk letting you into his world.

Anyone who knows Peter Parker is Spiderman is a person bound to be lost. And Peter can’t afford to lose you.

Yet as he watches you sit across from him, tossing your head back with a laugh that is painfully familiar, it feels like he’s already lost you anyway.

“So, tell me more about this party.”

“Well, it’s a housewarming party,” you explain, tucking your hands into your pockets as you walk through the night streets of Queens. “Two of my friends moved into an apartment recently—so we’re celebrating tonight.”

Peter hums, leaning back in his chair and staring mindlessly at his screens. He folds a piece of paper, fiddling with it as his mind wanders to who those friends could be. Ned? And if so, he wonders who else he could be moving in with—if not him.

“That’s… cool,” he finally answers in an indifferent tone.

You round the corner, the sounds of the bustling city nightlife picking up on your microphone. “Yeah. And since I’ll be busy socializing tonight, I won’t have my receiver on all night. But I’ll try my best to check in with you.”

Peter huffs a laugh through his nose. “I’m a big boy. You don’t need to check up on me.” He glances at the window. “I’m more worried about you, though.”

You step aside for a pedestrian who’s rushing past. “What for?”

Peter pushes himself out of his chair with a grunt, stepping up to the small window and looking down at the city street below. “Well, you’re a woman walking all by yourself at night. I hope your friends at least know where you’re at.”

You chuckle, pulling open the door of the small corner grocery store and being welcomed by a soft bell jingle.

“Don’t worry your head, Spiderman. If I constantly worry about my well-being just because I’m a woman, then I’ll never get anything done in this city.”

You’re greeted by a frail, older lady behind the counter, and you offer her a polite smile as you walk past. Making your way to the coolers in the back, you weigh your options between beer and seltzers.

“Do you think two cases of Budweiser is enough?” You ask Peter.

The bell chimes again, and a large man with a dark hoodie pulled over his face enters. You glance at him, and he holds your stare. You look back down.

Peter’s cackle draws you back in. “And you’re drinking?”

You can’t help but grin at the worry in his voice. Grabbing two cases—one in each hand—and shutting the refrigerator door, you head to the front counter. “Yes, because I’m an adult and should be enjoying myself. And you should be, too, Spiderman. It’s Friday night.”

A bitter smile dances on his lips. He should be enjoying himself—a night out with you, instead of being cooped up in his apartment, worrying about you getting wasted at a house party surrounded by men your age with grimy hands and bad intentions.

You set the cases on the counter, and the lady begins to ring you up. The man in the dark hoodie falls in line right behind you, holding just a pack of gum in his hand.

“Okay, I gotta head out. I’ll check in with you later tonight—”

The lady at the front counter has her attention locked on the man behind you, and she sharply gasps, ducking down immediately. Your head whips around, and you find yourself face to face with the black metal of a handgun.

“You know Spiderman?” the man before you asks in a deep gravelly voice, finger poised right above the trigger.

A pathetic, broken sound escapes you. You still have Peter on the line, and you hear the sudden panic in his voice the minute your microphone picks up your heavy breathing and whimper.

“Static? Who is that? What’s happening?”

“You must be mistaken,” you raise your hands in surrender, shoulders timid, as a bead of sweat rolls down your temple. “I—I don’t know Spiderman—”

“Bullshit!” the man shouts, backhanding you with the grip of the gun.

You cry out in pain, your body collapsing hard onto the floor as your hand flies to your cheek. Your earpiece falls out, Peter’s voice ringing out loudly in sheer panic. The man huffs an incredulous laugh as he crouches down to pick it up and lift it to his ear.

“Tell me your location—where are you? I’m coming—!”

“103rd Street,” the man answers with a grin. “That’s where your little lady is at—on the floor, bleeding outta her lip.”

The wind whips loudly through the earpiece, audible even from where you’re prone on the ground.

“Don’t lay a fucking hand on her,” Peter’s voice crackles through the wind and speaker. “What do you want from me?”

The man only chuckles, turning the small earpiece in his fingers, unfazed by the threat of a friendly neighborhood superhero.

“That’s the thing with people like you who try to play hero,” the man says, his tone dripping with bitter resentment. “You stop guys like us, but what you fail to realize is that we aren’t the bad guys at all, Spiderman. While you sit in your fancy little apartment, the rest of us are out here fighting for scraps just to survive—and it’s people like you who keep stopping us.”

He looks down at you, lying on the cold floor with a trembling hand pressed against your bleeding lip.

“We’re just trying to eat,” the man spits into the receiver. “So if a guy like me has to take a little collateral to get your attention, or to get a quick payday—that’s not evil. That’s just survival. There’s a lot of money on your head, Spiderman. Money that can help an average person like me tremendously.”

The sharp thwip of a web fires through the speaker, followed by the harsh gust of the open night sky.

If it were anyone else being held hostage, maybe Peter would extend the courtesy of hearing him out. But he’s not holding just any person. He’s holding you—the only person Peter has opened his heart to in years. The only voice he looks forward to, the one that gives him hope to push through to a brand-new day. Right now, there isn’t a single shred of restraint left in Peter’s mind—not when your life is on the line because of him.

“I don’t give a shit about your excuse,” Peter spits, whipping around a sharp corner as he flies onto 103rd Street. “If you hurt her again before I get there, I swear to God—”

“It’s too late, Spiderman.”

From high above, Peter spots the grocery store below. The white lenses of his mask widen as he peers through the large front windows, catching sight of you scrambling backward in fear, hands raised in surrender.

The man above you stands straight and lifts the gun. Peter’s eyes lock onto the finger resting against the trigger. With one launch off the side of a building, he catapults himself straight through the glass windows.

The explosion of glass shatters in time with the gunshot. As the bullet travels through the barrel of the gun, Peter collides into the man, sending him flying sideways and the gun tilting upwards. The bullet hits the ceiling, the fluorescent lights exploding with electricity as the roof panel falls. You quickly scramble away so it doesn’t hit you.

Peter sends the man flying from one window to another, rolling around on the pavement outside until he lands on top. There is no amount of webs he can use to convey his anger—so he settles with his fists.

One punch after another, one hit after brutal hit. Blood flies out of the man’s face, tainting Peter’s suit with red. It splatters across his knuckles, and he delivers a hit so violent that it sprays right over the white lenses of his mask.

“Spiderman, stop!”

You shout, but the ringing in his ears is louder.

Tears prick at his eyes behind the mask as he continues raining down punches. The man lost consciousness long ago, but Peter isn’t done. He can’t rest knowing anyone who threatens to hurt you is free to walk these streets.

He can’t rest until he knows, for certain, that you’re safe from danger.

He cocks his fist back one last time, with every intention of putting this guy down for good—until your body crashes into his, your arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders. His arm freezes mid-air, suddenly weighing a ton.

“Stop! It’s over—it’s done,” you try to reassure him but your voice comes in a panicked and rushed tone. Sirens sound in the distance. “The police are coming.”

Peter looks around, his chest heaving.

Several bystanders have stopped to stare, hands covering their mouths after witnessing such a brutal act by a man who was supposed to be a savior to all.

He curses under his breath, one arm wrapping tightly around your body.

“Hold on,” he says, before slinging a web to the highest point of the building next to you and launching you both into the night sky.

You bury your face in his chest, legs wrapped tightly around his waist as you hold on to him for dear life. You’re too terrified to look down. So instead, you glance up at the man holding you—the very man you’ve dedicated your life to assisting these past few months.

He doesn’t look like the friendly Spiderman you see on television or in the newspapers.

Blood lays over his mask like a veil, and you can feel his heart racing against yours from how tightly you’re holding him.

He doesn’t say a word until he finds a discreet alleyway. Then, finally, he sets you down gently.

Your eyes don’t leave his face even as you release your grip on him. You stand in front of him, eyes wide and lips parted as you stare at the man you’ve been dying to meet for what feels like years. But while this is your first time seeing him, it isn’t his first time seeing you.

There are so many things you wanted to say, but none of them come out. You never expected your first meeting to be like this—under circumstances where he tarnishes his reputation and your face bloodied and bruised.

“I…” your voice wavers, desperate to say anything, terrified he might swing away at any second.

Peter swipes his bloodied hand against his thigh to clean it before stepping forward, gently cupping your face in both hands. The lenses of his mask are so expressive, shifting with every furrow of his brow. Even behind it, his expression is wrecked.

“Look at what he did to you,” his voice cracks, sounding so broken, like it’s all his fault.

You huff a soft laugh, resting your palm over his knuckles as you lean into his touch. “If I’d known I was going to see you tonight, I probably would’ve worn more makeup.”

You try to joke, but he doesn’t laugh. His thumb gently brushes over the torn skin at your cheekbone, then down to your busted lip.

“I can’t believe you’re right here,” he breathes. “And I’m holding you.”

Peter should get your injuries fixed up, take you somewhere safe, or even take you home, but doing that means he’ll have to say goodbye—and he doesn’t know when he’ll give himself the chance to be this selfish again.

For the first time in years, it feels like he’s found salvation. After everything, he tries to convince himself he deserves this—even if it's just for a few minutes.

“You know what I look like,” you smile painfully. “Yet, I still don’t know a single thing about you.”

Peter bites the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking down. “I’m sorry.”

You step closer, your hands slowly finding the hem of his mask resting around his neck. With trembling fingers, you slowly lift it up—giving him every opportunity to pull away if he wants to—holding your breath as you raise it over his nose. Brown curly hair decorates the nape of his neck.

As you try to tug it up higher, his hands find your wrists, gently stopping you. “I can’t.”

With a quiet nod, your hands fall back down to his cheeks, cupping them softly. Your thumb traces the curve of his cheekbone, his jawline, and the plump of his bottom lip.

The press of your thumb against his lower lip makes his breath hitch. He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch—the first grace of warmth he’s felt in forever.

His white lenses open again, and his gaze drops to your lips—bruised, bleeding, and parting softly. The tension between you two suffocates him, and without waiting another impatient second, Peter tilts his head down and kisses you.

His lips press against yours, gentle and soft. And when you return the kiss, he feels like he’s in heaven. He takes his time with you, his lips exploring yours and savoring the quiet sweetness of the moment. Your hands are warm against his cheeks, and his hand finds your waist, respectfully holding you close as his heart beats as one with yours.

You kiss until you both run out of breath, finally pulling away to rest your foreheads against each other.

Peter shuts his eyes, breathing in your scent. “I wanted to do that from the moment I first laid eyes on you.”

“I am detecting a sudden increase in heart-rate and body warmth—”

“Shut up, Evie.”

You chuckle, your teeth catching your bottom lip while heart beats wildly in your chest.

“A successful mission,” you smile up at him. “You know what that means.”

He chuckles at that, the sound sending butterflies to your stomach now that you’re hearing it up close for the first time.

“You’re right. You go first.” He prompts.

You tell him your name, but he doesn’t react the way you thought he would after hearing it for the first time. He smiles—almost boyish, with kiss-swollen lips. It feels as though he’s known your name all along.

Peter repeats it softly. “It’s beautiful,” he says.

Warmth fills you from head to toe. You were right. You loved hearing the sound of your name in his voice.

You tilt your head, leaning in until your nose grazes against his. “What’s yours—”

Frantic footsteps echo just outside the alleyway.

Peter’s senses tingle and reverberate through his entire frame. Everything in his body is screaming at him to do one thing: run.

Two people turn the corner, and he freezes at the sight.

“Oh my god, there you are!” Ned shouts frantically, catching his breath. “We were wondering why you weren’t answering our calls—then someone at the party said there was an accident happening on 103rd Street—which is where you were going—and wait, is that Spiderman?”

Standing right behind him is MJ.

“You scared us!” she yelps, running to you with a hug. You turn around with a weary smile and a relieved sigh.

“I’m okay, you guys shouldn’t have left to come find me. It was dangerous back there, and yes,” you motion behind you, “this is—”

Peter doesn’t even let you finish. He pulls his mask down and, without another word, zips up and out, moving through the dark like a ghost in the night. All the warmth vanishes like the gust of wind he leaves behind as he disappears into the air.

“God,” Ned breathes, the three of you standing dumbfounded in the alleyway as you watch him disappear around the corner. “See! It’s like I told you, MJ! He’s like Peter Pan—if you really believe in him, he’ll show up!”

“Okay—you know, your fanboying really freaks me out,” MJ says, making a face. She looks back at you. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re okay—”

A shudder passes through your body.

My name is Peter Parker.

“Peter,” you whisper with a sudden realization.

📝 first time writing for peter parker kinda nervous !! "all these things that i've done" by the killers was on repeat while writing this. for the first time in a while, i've had a lot of fun and passion writing a marvel fic again, and i hope you can feel it when you read this fic. if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them! I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.

𑣲⋆

The steam from the hot tub coiled upward into the cool evening air, little tendrils of vapor that caught the glow of the rooftop string lights and turned them soft, hazy. You’d positioned the tub years ago so it faced west toward the city skyline, toward the Avengers compound in the distance if you squinted and tonight the view was doing its job. Manhattan glittered like a circuit board, all gold and white and flickering red from the tower beacons.

Your phone buzzed on the cedar decking beside the tub.

On my way. Ten minutes out. You have the files?

No emojis. No banter. Very on-mission energy from Peter Parker tonight.

You let the message sit for a full three minutes before responding, using the time to adjust the jets, to let the bubbling water massage the backs of your thighs, to touch up your lip combo in the reflection of your phone screen. The brown liner was still crisp.

The gloss sat perfect in the center of your bottom lip, catching light. Your wispy lashes fanned against your cheeks when you blinked down at the screen, and you smiled slow, private— before tapping out your reply.

I have what you need. Come to the roof. I’m in the hot tub.

Three dots immediately. Then they stopped. Then they started again.

The hot tub?? I’m coming about the Jean Grey intel. This is serious.

So am I, you typed back. And so is the intel. Door’s unlocked. Bring a towel if you’re shy.

You set the phone aside and sank a little deeper into the water, your shoulders kissed by steam, your curly flip-over grazing the nape of your neck. The water temperature sat at exactly one hundred and one degrees, perfect for loosening muscles, for softening tension, for making someone forget why they walked through the door in the first place.

Peter Parker had been in and out of your orbit for two years now. On and off, as you’d described it to your journal never quite dating, never quite strangers. A gravitational pull that kept yanking you back toward each other every few months when a case overlapped, when intel needed sharing, when he swung through your window at midnight with a gash on his ribs and that sheepish, I know I should’ve called first expression. He was brilliant.

He was maddening. He was twenty-three years old with the weight of the goddamn world strapped to his shoulders, and he still somehow found time to remember that you took your coffee with oat milk and two sugars.

But the on-and-off rhythm had tilted three weeks ago. A late-night argument about his recklessness.

Your refusal to hand over classified data without proper clearance. Words that cut deeper than either of you intended. He’d called you impossible. You’d called him a liability to himself. And then he’d disappeared into the city skyline, and you hadn’t heard from him since.

Until this morning.

I need your help. It’s about Jean Grey.

And now here you were. In the hot tub. Because if Peter Parker wanted to treat you like an information vending machine, he was going to have to work for every byte of data.

The door to the roof stairwell creaked open behind you.

You didn’t turn around.

“You’re not wearing a towel,” you said.

“I— no. I’m wearing the suit. I thought this was a business meeting.” Peter’s voice had that slightly strained quality it always got when he was trying not to sound flustered. Footsteps on cedar, careful and light. “You’re literally in a hot tub.”

“Literally.”

“With… is that a mimosa?”

The glass flute sat on the tub’s lip, condensation sliding down the stem. “Orange juice and prosecco. Want one?”

His silhouette moved into your peripheral vision. He was in the red-and-blue suit, mask and all, the web pattern catching the string lights in a way that made him look like something out of a fever dream, muscle definition that the spandex did nothing to hide, lean athletic lines from shoulders to hips to thighs. He’d gotten broader since you first met him. The boyish edges were sharpening into something harder. More capable.

The mask’s white eye lenses narrowed. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Doing what?”

“This.” He gestured at the hot tub. At you. At the mimosa and the city skyline and the slow, deliberate way you lifted the glass to your lips and took a sip without breaking eye contact.

“The whole… thing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You set the glass down. Trailed your fingers through the bubbling water. “You said you needed Jean Grey intel. I have it. We’re meeting.”

“We’re meeting in a hot tub.”

“Is there a problem?”

Peter exhaled, a sharp little sound that the mask’s speakers picked up and broadcast. He reached up, thumbs hooking under the edge of his mask, and peeled it off in one clean motion. Brown hair stuck up in seventeen different directions. His cheeks were flushed, and not from the steam. “You’re impossible.”

“You’ve mentioned that.”

“Three weeks ago.”

“I remember.”

His eyes met yours. Dark, warm, a little tired around the edges. He hadn’t been sleeping, you could tell, the faint purple smudges beneath his lashes telling stories he’d probably never volunteer. But there was something else there too. Something that flickered when his gaze dipped below the waterline, traced the silhouette of your body through the steam, and snapped back up to your face like he’d been burned.

“The intel,” he said.

“The intel,” you agreed.

Neither of you moved.

“There’s a protocol for information exchange between Avengers-adjacent operatives and independent intelligence contractors,” Peter said, and it was such a transparent attempt to regain control of the situation that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

“Standard Form 7-B. Digital transfer preferred. Encrypted channels. Not…this.”

“Mm.” You lifted one leg out of the water, propping your heel on the tub’s edge, letting the jets churn against your calf. His throat moved. You watched it happen. “See, the thing about Standard Form 7-B is that it’s tedious. And I’ve had a very tedious week. So I thought we might negotiate more… directly.”

“Negotiate.”

“You ask questions. I answer them. Every answer costs you something.”

Peter’s jaw tightened. “I’m not playing games with you.”

“Then you don’t get the intel.” You sank back into the water, arms spreading along the tub’s rim, head tilting to expose the line of your throat. The brown lip gloss shimmered. Your lashes caught the light.

“And Jean Grey remains a mystery because you don’t want to play games.”

Silence.

Then a sound, half groan, half laugh. Peter dragged a hand through his hair, and when he looked at you again, something had shifted in his expression. The tiredness was still there. But so was the recognition.

The understanding that this was happening whether he liked it or not.

“What kind of games?”

“Easy ones.” You crossed your legs beneath the water. “I’m not cruel.”

“You’re a tease.”

“That’s different.”

A beat. He knew it was different. You could see him recalibrating, his scientist-brain slotting variables into place, adjusting parameters. He’d come here expecting a transaction. He was realizing it was going to be something else entirely.

“Fine.” Peter set the mask down on a cedar bench.

“First question. Is Jean Grey the Phoenix?”

“Yes and no. She’s a host. The Phoenix is separate.

They’re… entangled.” You traced the rim of your mimosa glass with one wet finger and watched his eyes follow the movement. “That’s your first answer. Now you pay.”

“What’s the price?”

“Suit off. Join me.”

Peter looked at you for a long moment. Then he reached for the spider emblem on his chest and pressed the release mechanism. The suit slackened instantly, nanotech fibers loosening their grip, and the sight of him peeling spandex away from his collarbones, his chest, the ladder of his ribs was so familiar and so foreign all at once that your thighs pressed together beneath the water.

He’d changed in three weeks. More definition across the shoulders. A new scar on his left hip, thin and pink and still healing. His cock was soft against his thigh as he stepped out of the suit, and you didn’t let yourself stare, but you noticed. You always noticed. He was proportional and cut, and the water was going to do interesting things to your self control.

Peter climbed into the hot tub without grace. One leg, then the other, a splash that sent water sloshing over the side and sank onto the bench opposite you.

The jets churned between you. Steam rose. His chest was flushed pink from the heat already.

“Happy?” he asked.

“Getting there.” You lifted your mimosa. “Question two.”

“Where is Jean Grey now?”

“Westchester. Xavier’s school. She’s been there for six months under observation.” You sipped.

Swallowed. Set the glass down. “Price: you tell me why you really showed up tonight. And don’t say the intel. You could’ve gotten this from anyone else.”

Peter’s jaw flexed. His hands were beneath the water, and you could see his arms moving slow, restless motions, palms gliding over his own thighs maybe, or gripping the edge of the bench. “The intel was a reason.”

“Not the reason.”

“No.”

“So?”

He met your eyes. The steam was making his hair curl at the temples. “I missed you.”

The words landed somewhere in your chest and spread outward, warm and slow and dangerous.

You didn’t let your expression change. But your heartbeat had picked up, and you knew if he was paying attention. And he was always paying attention. He could probably sense it. Spider-sense or not.

“You missed me,” you repeated.

“Three weeks is a long time.”

“You could’ve called.”

“You could’ve called too.”

Fair point. You didn’t acknowledge it. Instead you reached for your mimosa and finished it in one long swallow, the prosecco bubbling against your tongue, and when you set the empty glass aside, Peter had shifted closer. Not by much. Maybe six inches. But six inches in a hot tub is a negotiation all its own.

“Third question,” you said.

“What’s the price this time?”

“Still negotiating.” You let your voice drop, let it go softer and smokier the way you knew he liked. “Ask.”

“Is Jean Grey dangerous?”

“Unbelievably. She could crack the planet in half if the Phoenix fully manifests. But she’s also the only person keeping it contained. So she’s dangerous the way a nuclear reactor is dangerous. Necessary. Volatile. Terrifying.” You paused. “That answer’s worth two prices.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I don’t make the rules.”

“You literally just made that rule.”

“And I stand by it.” You smiled, and Peter’s eyes dropped to your mouth, and the water suddenly felt ten degrees hotter. “First price: you tell me something true. Something you’ve never told anyone.”

He didn’t hesitate. “I’m scared all the time. Not of dying. Of failing. Of letting someone down because I wasn’t fast enough, smart enough, good enough. Tony used to say I had a hero complex. He was wrong. I have a—” He stopped. Swallowed. “I have a worth complex. Like if I’m not useful, I don’t deserve to be here.”

The vulnerability hit you like a blade between the ribs. You’d known Peter for two years. He’d never said that. Not to you. Not to anyone, you suspected.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Second price?”

You pushed off your bench and moved through the water, slowly, deliberately, letting the jets buffet your hips, your belly, your breasts. Your one-piece was black and cut low in the front and lower in the back, and you felt his gaze track the movement like a physical touch. When you were close enough to touch his knee with yours, you stopped.

“Kiss me.”

Peter’s breath caught. “That’s the price?”

“That’s the price.”

“I thought we were—” He gestured vaguely between your bodies. “On one of the off cycles.”

“We were. We’re not anymore.” You tilted your head.

“Unless you don’t want to.”

His hand came out of the water and found your jaw.

His fingers were wet and warm and slightly pruned from the steam, and they spread along the curve of your cheek with a gentleness that made your stomach clench. The calluses on his palm scraped lightly against your skin, webslinging calluses, rough and permanent. And when he drew you forward, the water seemed to part around you, offering no resistance, as if the universe itself was conspiring to close the distance.

The kiss started soft.

His lips brushed yours like a question, tentative, almost shy. Two years of on-and-off and Peter Parker still kissed like he was asking permission.

You answered by catching his lower lip between yours, drawing the kiss deeper, and the sound he made a low, helpless noise from somewhere in his chest. It sent heat cascading down your spine.

Tender, you thought. He’s always tender first.

And then he wasn’t.

Something unlocked behind the kiss. His free hand found your waist beneath the water, fingers splaying across the wet fabric of your swimsuit, and he pulled you forward until you were straddling his lap, thighs bracketing his hips, the heat of his chest pressing against your breasts. The kiss turned open-mouthed and urgent, tongues sliding, teeth grazing your lower lip. Your hands came up to grip his shoulders muscle and bone and slick-wet skin and the jets continued to churn around you, indifferent, mechanical, completely at odds with the way your pulse was hammering in your throat.

Peter pulled back just far enough to speak, his forehead pressed to yours. “More questions.”

“You haven’t earned them yet.”

“I kissed you.”

“One kiss. I need more.” Your fingers traced down his chest, following the center line of his sternum, nails scratching lightly through the sparse hair. His stomach contracted. His cock twitched against your inner thigh, half-hard now, growing, a weight and a warmth that you chose not to acknowledge yet. “Tell me what you want, Peter.”

“I want the Jean Grey intel.”

“Bullshit.”

“I want—” He stopped. Swallowed. His hands were on your hips now, thumbs rubbing circles into the jut of your pelvic bones through the swimsuit. “I want you to stop pretending this is a business transaction.”

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“You’re doing it right now.” His voice had gone lower, rougher, the way it always did when he was getting frustrated. Not angry. Just frustrated. Wound up.

“You’re sitting in my lap in a hot tub, and you’re acting like you’re handing me intel, but we both know you could’ve emailed me the file. You wanted this. You wanted me here. So stop.”

The words landed like a challenge.

You lifted your chin. “Make me.”

Peter’s expression shifted. Something flickered behind his eyes. Not anger, not exactly. Control. The kind of control he wore in the suit, facing down threats that would make lesser people crumble. But this wasn’t a threat. This was you. And he was looking at you like you were a puzzle he’d just figured out how to solve.

“Okay,” he said.

And then his hands were under your thighs, and he was standing.

The water sluiced off both of you in sheets, spilling over the edge of the tub, and you made a sound, half gasp, half laugh as Peter stepped out onto the cedar decking with you cradled against his chest.

The lift was effortless. Superhuman strength applied with surgical precision, one arm supporting your back, the other hooked beneath your knees, the classic bridal carry executed like he’d been planning it all evening.

“What are you doing?” You squirmed, not trying to escape, just registering surprise. Your legs kicked once, a token protest. “My apartment is downstairs.”

“I know.” He was already walking toward the stairwell door, the cedar cool under his bare feet, water dripping from both your bodies and leaving a trail across the decking. “You said make you. I’m making you.”

“This isn’t—”

“You wanted a negotiation.” Peter nudged the door open with his shoulder and carried you through into the dim stairwell, the motion-sensor lights flickering on overhead. Your body angled slightly toward his chest, thighs draped over one arm, your curly flip-over brushing against his bicep. “You set the terms. You set the prices. Now I’m changing the venue. That’s allowed.”

“I didn’t agree to that.”

“You’re not kicking.” His voice had a smile in it, even if his face stayed serious. “You’re not telling me to put you down. You’re gripping my shoulder like you’re afraid of falling, but you know I won’t drop you.” He descended the stairs, each step smooth and sure despite the slickness of his wet feet. “So you didn’t agree to it, but you’re not stopping it either. Which means you want to see where I’m taking this.”

Your heart was beating in your throat. He wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t wrong about any of it.

“Where are you taking it?”

“Your bedroom.” Peter reached the bottom of the stairs and pushed through into your living room. It was dark, quiet, the city lights spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He navigated the furniture without hesitation, crossing toward the hallway that led to your bedroom, still carrying you like you weighed nothing. “Unless you have objections.”

You didn’t have objections.

The bedroom door swung open. The bed was made, with dark sheets, too many pillows, a throw blanket folded at the foot because you liked the texture.

Peter set you down on the edge of the mattress with unexpected care, your legs dangling, your feet barely touching the floor. He stood between your knees. Water dripped from his hair onto your thighs.

“Last chance,” he said. “Tell me to leave. Tell me to go back to the roof and get the rest of the intel like a professional. I’ll do it. I’ll walk out right now.”

You looked up at him. At his chest, rising and falling with breaths that were too controlled to be calm. At his cock, half-hard and hanging heavy, glistening with hot tub water. At his face… that face you’d missed for three weeks, the stubborn jaw, the tired eyes, the mouth that had kissed you soft and then urgent and then soft again.

“Ask me the fourth question,” you said.

Peter’s breath shuddered out of him. “How do we stop Jean Grey if the Phoenix takes over?”

“We can’t. Not yet. But there’s a containment protocol being developed by Doctor Strange. Mystic dampeners. They’re not ready, six months, maybe eight, and until then we monitor. We watch. We hope she stays in control.” You reached up and caught his wrist, tugging him closer. “That’s your answer. Now pay.”

“Price?”

“Touch me.”

His free hand found the strap of your swimsuit and dragged it down your shoulder. The fabric peeled away, wet and clinging, revealing the upper swell of your breast. He traced the newly exposed skin with one fingertip, light, circular, teasing and you shivered.

“Where?” he asked.

“Surprise me.”

Peter knelt.

The motion brought his face level with your chest, and his hands. Both of them now found the straps of your swimsuit and pulled them down your arms in tandem. The one-piece slid to your waist, then lower as he hooked his thumbs in the fabric and eased it over your hips, your thighs, your calves, until it pooled on the floor at your feet. You were naked on the edge of your bed, and he was kneeling between your legs, and the way he looked at your body. At your breasts, full and dark-nippled and tipped upward by the angle of your spine made your stomach clench.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. Not like a compliment.

Like a fact. Like he was naming something he’d always known and was finally allowed to say aloud.

“You’re so beautiful, and you know it, and you use it, and it drives me crazy.”

“Good crazy?”

“Insane crazy.” His palms settled on your thighs, spreading them wider. His thumbs stroked the soft skin of your inner thighs, close to where the heat was building, close but not close enough. “You showed up in the hot tub with that look on your face and those lips—god, your lips—and you knew exactly what you were doing. You knew I’d break.”

“You didn’t break.”

“I’m on my knees. I broke.”

You laughed, breathless. “That’s not breaking. That’s participating.”

“Then I’m participating.” His hands slid higher. His thumbs traced the crease where your thighs met your hips, and his gaze dropped to what he was about to touch, and you watched his expression change, soften, sharpen, focus as he really looked at you.

Your pussy was bare, clean-shaven, the skin smooth and brown and slightly darker than the surrounding flesh. The outer lips were full and closed, a seam that ran from the top of your cleft down toward the tighter pucker of your ass, and when Peter’s thumbs brushed either side of that seam, you felt yourself flush with heat. Your lips parted slightly under the pressure, revealing the first glimpse of pink inner flesh, glossy, already wet, not from the hot tub.

“You’re slick,” he murmured. “That’s not water.”

“I know what it is.”

“How long?”

“Since you took the mask off. Maybe before.”

His thumbs spread you wider, and the cool bedroom air kissed your inner lips, and your hips jerked involuntarily. He made a sound, low and appreciative and held you open, studying the architecture of your arousal like it was a scientific paper he needed to memorize.

“Your clit’s already swollen,” he said, and the clinical observation delivered in that hushed voice made you throb. “Right here. Peeking out.” One thumb moved upward, barely grazing the hood. “Does that feel good? When I talk about it?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.” His thumb circled, feather-light, nowhere near enough pressure. “Tell me what you like.”

“I like—” Your voice caught as he repeated the motion, clockwise this time, still too light. “I like when you describe things. What you’re seeing. What you’re going to do.”

“Okay.” Peter leaned closer, and his breath ghosted over your clit, and your fingers clenched in the sheets. “I’m looking at your pussy. It’s open now, your outer lips are dark and full, and your inner lips are pink and glistening, and there’s wetness pooling right at your entrance. I can see it. I can smell it.” He inhaled, and the sound was obscene. “You smell like sex and chlorine. You smell like you’ve been thinking about this all day.”

“I have.”

“I’m going to touch you now. Not with my tongue. Not yet.” His thumb returned to your clit, tracing the hood with slightly more pressure, and your back arched. “With my finger. Right here. And you’re going to tell me question five, where Cyclops fits into the Phoenix equation.”

You laughed, strangled. “You’re negotiating during—”

“You started it.” His thumb circled again, and your thighs trembled. “Answer the question.”

“He—Scott—he’s her anchor. Their bond is what keeps her tethered to her humanity. If he dies, she loses control. If they’re separated for more than a few months, she gets unstable. He’s her weakness and her strength.”

“Good.” Peter’s thumb pressed down, finally, and your clit pulsed under the attention, and the moan that escaped you was louder than you’d intended.

“Good girl. That’s what I needed to know.”

The praise hit you like a drug. Your hand flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the damp curls, and he hummed approval against your thigh.

“You like that,” he said. “Being called good.”

“Yes.”

“Even when you’re being a brat. Even when you’re teasing me and making me jump through hoops. You still want to hear that you’re good.” He pressed another kiss to your inner thigh, wetter this time, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin.

“That’s okay. You can be both. You can be a tease and still be my good girl.”

The words vibrated against your skin, and your hips rolled forward, seeking more pressure, more contact, more. Peter obliged by replacing his thumb with his mouth—one long, flat-tongued lick up the seam of your pussy that ended at your clit and sent electricity arcing through your nervous system.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Mm.” He did it again, slower this time, his tongue parting your inner lips and curling into your entrance just barely. “Question six. What’s the Phoenix’s ultimate goal?”

“I can’t… I can’t think when you’re—”

“Can’t think, or don’t want to?” His tongue circled your clit, and your vision blurred at the edges.

“Answer the question, and I’ll give you something to really lose your mind over.”

“Rebirth,” you gasped. “The Phoenix wants cosmic rebirth. Burn the old universe, seed a new one. Jean is fighting that impulse constantly.”

“Good job.” Peter’s mouth sealed over your clit, and he sucked gentle, rhythmic, devastating and your orgasm built out of nowhere like a storm front rolling over the horizon. Your thighs clamped around his head. Your fingers pulled his hair. He didn’t stop, didn’t ease up, just kept sucking with that steady, patient pressure until you shattered against his tongue.

The climax rolled through you in waves, each one triggered by another flick of his tongue, another gentle suction, until you were trembling and gasping and pushing weakly at his forehead because it was too much and not enough simultaneously.

“There,” Peter said, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips wet and shining. “There’s one.”

“One?”

“One orgasm. I’ve got more for you.” He rose from his knees, and his cock was fully hard now, jutting upward toward his belly, the head flushed dark and glossy with the first bead of pre-cum. “But I want to be inside you for the next one. Any objections?”

You shook your head, still catching your breath.

“Words. I need words.”

“No objections. Yes. Please.”

Peter smiled, and it was warm and kind and still slightly wicked, the smile of someone who had discovered a new favorite hobby and intended to pursue it with dedication. “Good girl. Lie back.”

You scooted up the bed, and he followed, positioning himself between your thighs. His cock hung heavy, the tip grazing your belly as he leaned down to kiss you, soft again, reassuring, his tongue sliding against yours and sharing the taste of your own arousal.

“I’m going to tease you first,” he whispered against your mouth. “You teased me all evening. It’s my turn.”

“That seems fair.”

“I’m a fair guy.” His hips shifted, and the head of his cock dragged through your wetness, sliding up between your pussy lips without penetrating. The sensation was electric, smooth, hot, the ridge of his head bumping against your clit with each pass.

“Feel that? That’s what you do to me. I’m dripping already. Look.”

You looked. His cock was slick with your combined arousal, pre-cum mixing with your wetness, the head glistening every time it appeared from between your folds. He repeated the motion up, down, up, down,and the sound it made was obscene. Wet. Slick. Shlick-shlick-shlick with every stroke.

“Hear that?” Peter’s voice was strained now, the first cracks showing in his composure. “That sound. Your pussy is making music for me.”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please put it in.”

“Not yet.” He rubbed the head of his cock against your clit deliberate circles, bumping and massaging in rhythm and your hips bucked. “I want to watch you squirm a little more. You had me negotiating. Now I get to take my time.”

The head of his cock dragged lower, pressing against your entrance barely, just a suggestion of pressure before sliding away. Your inner lips clung to him, reluctant to let go, and the emptiness when he pulled back was a physical ache.

“Peter.”

“I’m right here.” Another pass. Another bump against your clit. “Ask me a question. Your turn.”

“Why did you really miss me?”

The question surprised him. His rhythm faltered, and for a moment he was just Peter again, vulnerable, unguarded, his cock sliding to rest between your folds with no intent behind it.

“Because you see me,” he said quietly. “Not Spider-Man. Not the suit. Me. Peter. When I’m with you, I don’t have to be anything except what I am.”

You pulled him down into a kiss before he could say more, and he sank into it, and the head of his cock nudged against your entrance and this time—this time—it stayed.

“Now?” he whispered.

“Now.”

He pushed inside.

The penetration was slow, deliberate, a centimeters-at-a-time advance that let you feel every ridge, every vein, every pulse of his heartbeat transmitted through the flesh currently claiming space inside your body. Your pussy stretched to accommodate him, tight, wet, welcoming and he watched your face the whole time, cataloguing every flutter of your lashes, every parting of your lips, every gasp.

“You feel—” He stopped. Swallowed. Started again.

“You feel like coming home. I know that’s cheesy. I don’t care. You do.”

“Deeper.”

He pushed deeper, and your inner walls fluttered around him. The fit was perfect, full without pain, stretching you in a way that made your toes curl against his calves.

“Look at you,” Peter breathed. “Taking all of me. You’re so good at this. So good for me. Your pussy was made for my cock, you know that?”

The words—the degradation wrapped in praise, the crude language in that gentle voice sent an electric shock straight to your clit. You clenched around him, and his eyes fluttered shut, and his hips jerked forward involuntarily.

“Say it again.”

“Your pussy was made for my cock.” His hips drew back, then thrust forward slow, deep. “You take it so perfectly. Like you’ve been waiting for it.”

“I have.”

“Three weeks?”

“Three weeks.”

He thrust again, harder, and the sound your bodies made when they met was a wet slap that echoed off the bedroom walls. His pace picked up, but it wasn’t frantic it was controlled, measured, a rhythm designed to keep you on the edge without pushing you over.

“Question seven,” he said, and you stared at him in disbelief.

“You’re still—oh—” He’d angled his hips differently, and the new position rubbed his pubic bone against your clit with every stroke. “You’re still doing the intel thing.”

“Multitasking. What’s Jean Grey’s connection to the Shi’ar Empire?”

“She—god—she destroyed one of their galaxies. They’ve got a kill order on her. Xavier’s been protecting her from—from—”

“From?”

“Assassination attempts. Three in the last year.”

“Good.” His rhythm increased, and your second orgasm was building, coiling tight at the base of your spine. “Good girl. You’re doing so well. Come for me.”

“Not until you—”

“Come for me,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a register that vibrated in your chest. “Right now. On my cock. I want to feel it.”

The command tipped you over.

Your second climax hit harder than the first, deeper, a full-body convulsion that started in your pussy and radiated outward until your fingers were numb and your vision was white at the edges and all you could hear was the sound of your own voice crying out his name. Peter didn’t stop thrusting, working you through it with steady, even strokes that milked every last spasm from your body.

When you came back to yourself, he was still hard inside you. Still in control.

“There’s my good girl,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Now let’s try the mating press. I want to see how deep I can get.”

His hands found the backs of your thighs and pushed them upward, folding you in half, your knees approaching your shoulders. The shift in angle pressed his cock impossibly deeper, and your gasp was swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you and thrust simultaneously.

“Ready for question eight?” he asked.

You were never going to survive this man.

His grip on your thighs tightened, not painful, just present, a grounding pressure that reminded you exactly who was holding you in place. The mating press folded you in ways your yoga instructor would approve of, knees bracketing your ears, your calves draped over his shoulders, and Peter above you like a promise he intended to keep.

“Actually, no more questions,” he said.

The words landed somewhere in your chest and spread hot. You blinked up at him, sweat-damp curls, flushed cheekbones, eyes dark and focused and tried to summon something clever. Something teasing. The part of your brain responsible for banter had short-circuited somewhere around the second orgasm.

“No more intel?” Your voice came out breathier than you intended.

“I have enough for now.” He drew his hips back, nearly withdrawing, and the emptiness made your inner walls clench around nothing. “Everyone and thing can wait.” A pause. His cockhead rested against your entrance, not pushing, just there, a blunt pressure that made your toes curl. “Right now, the only thing I care about is this.”

He thrust back in.

Deep. Deeper than before, the new angle from the mating press sent him grinding against your cervix, a sensation that teetered between discomfort and ecstasy and landed somewhere in the yes-please-don’t-stop category. Your mouth opened. No sound came out. The breath had been punched clean from your lungs.

“There it is,” Peter murmured, and his hips rolled in a slow circle, his cock stirring inside you like he was testing the fit. “That spot. You feel how tight you are right there? How your pussy clutches when I hit the end of you?”

Your hands scrabbled for something to hold— his biceps, the sheets, anything solid—and settled on his forearms. The muscles there were corded steel under velvet skin. “Peter.”

“I know.” Another slow withdrawal. Another deep thrust. “I know, sweetheart. You can take it.”

The rhythm he set was merciless. Not fast, not yet but thorough, each stroke a full retreat followed by an advance that bottomed out with a wet slap of skin on skin. The sound filled the bedroom: slick, rhythmic, punctuated by the creak of the mattress and the hitch of your breathing. The city lights through the window painted stripes across his shoulders, across your thighs, across the place where your bodies joined.

Your breasts bounced with each thrust, the movement constrained by the press of your own thighs against your chest. Peter noticed. His gaze dropped to watch the jiggle, your dark nipples pebbled tight, the full weight of your tits shifting with every impact and his rhythm stuttered.

“You have no idea what you look like right now.” His voice had gone ragged, the controlled tone fraying at the edges. “Folded up under me. Taking my cock. Your tits bouncing every time I move.”

“Tell me.”

“You want the narration?”

“I want you.” Your nails dug into his forearms. “Stop holding back.”

Something flickered in his expression— surprise, maybe, or the realization that you could see through the Pleasure Dom act to the strain underneath. He’d been controlling himself since the hot tub. Keeping the rhythm measured. Keeping the questions coming. Keeping his own need banked like a fire he wasn’t ready to feed.

But you’d had two orgasms. He’d had none. And his cock was rock-hard inside you, throbbing with every heartbeat, the head swollen and sensitive and leaking pre-cum that slickened your channel with each stroke.

“You want me to let go?” he asked.

“I want you to fuck me like you mean it.”

Peter’s jaw tightened. His hips snapped forward, harder this time, a thrust that shoved you up the mattress half an inch and knocked a gasp from your throat. “Like that?”

“Yes. Yes.”

The next thrust was harder. Then harder again. The controlled pace dissolved into something more urgent, more honest, the rhythm of a man who’d been patient long enough and was done pretending he didn’t need this. His cock drove into you with a force that made the headboard knock against the wall—thump-thump-thump—and you grabbed for the slats behind you, bracing yourself against the onslaught.

“This what you wanted?” His breath was hot against your ear now, his chest pressed to the backs of your thighs, folding you even deeper into the press.

“Wanted me to stop being nice? Stop asking permission?”

“I wanted—oh fuck—” He’d angled his hips and the new trajectory dragged his cockhead across your G-spot with every stroke. The sensation was electric, a live wire sparking somewhere behind your pubic bone. “I wanted you to stop thinking.”

“Thinking’s what I do.”

“Not tonight.” Your hand found the back of his neck, fingers tangling in sweat-damp curls. “Tonight you’re not Spider-Man.

You’re just Peter. And Peter gets to feel good. Peter gets to come. Peter gets to fuck me until he can’t think anymore.”

The words hit him like a physical blow. His rhythm faltered. His forehead dropped to yours, and for three heartbeats he was completely still, buried to the hilt, breathing like he’d run a marathon.

“Say that again,” he whispered.

“You get to feel good.”

His hips jerked. “Again.”

“You get to come inside me.”

A groan tore from his chest, low, and desperate, completely unguarded. He started moving again, but it was different now: less controlled, more instinctive, the rhythm of a body chasing sensation rather than orchestrating it. His cock pistoned into you with abandoned precision, each thrust driving deep and fast and god, the sound of it, the wet obscene slap of his balls against your ass, the creak of the mattress, the headboard knocking a staccato against the wall.

You clung to him, your hands on his shoulders, his back, his ass, anywhere you could reach and let yourself be fucked. There was no other word for it. He wasn’t making love. He wasn’t performing. He was fucking, raw and urgent and completely absorbed in the feeling of your pussy gripping his cock.

“You feel—” Peter’s voice cracked. “You feel so good. So wet. So tight. I can feel every inch of you.

Every time you clench. Every time you—” He thrust again, and your inner walls spasmed around him.

“yeah, like that. Just like that.”

“Close,” you managed. The word was barely a syllable. A warning and a plea.

“Me too.” His hand slid between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, swollen now, slick with your combined arousal, so sensitive that the first touch made you flinch. “No. Don’t pull away. Take it. Take what I give you.”

The pressure of his thumb circled your clit in counterpoint to his thrusts—down when he pushed in, up when he pulled out—and the dual stimulation was too much and not enough and exactly right.

Your third orgasm built differently from the first two. Slower. Deeper. A pressure that started in your toes and climbed your spine and settled somewhere in the base of your skull, white noise and static and the distant roar of blood in your ears.

“Peter, I’m going to—”

“I know. I can feel it. Your pussy’s fluttering around me. You’re going to come on my cock again. Third time tonight. My good girl.” His thumb pressed harder, circles smaller and faster. “Come for me. Let go. I’ve got you.”

The orgasm detonated.

Not a wave this time, a detonation, a bomb blast that started in your core and radiated outward until your fingers were numb and your vision was white and the only sound in the universe was your own voice keening his name. Your pussy clamped around his cock in rhythmic convulsions, squeeze-release-squeeze, milking him, and Peter’s answering groan was the most honest sound you’d ever heard him make.

“Fuck. Fuck. Your pussy is—you’re gripping me so tight—I’m going to—”

“Inside,” you gasped. “Come inside me. I want to feel it.”

His control snapped.

Peter’s hips slammed forward one last time, burying himself to the root, and his whole body went rigid above you. His cock pulsed, once, twice, a third time, and you felt each jet of cum paint your inner walls in hot, thick spurts. His face was buried in your neck. His breath was ragged. His hips kept twitching, tiny involuntary thrusts that milked the last drops of his release deeper into your pussy.

Time stretched.

You floated somewhere outside yourself, aware of your heartbeat slowing, of Peter’s weight settling more heavily on your folded body, of the wetness between your thighs that was both of you combined. His cock was still inside you, softening now but still present, still connected.

“I can feel it,” you whispered. “Your cum. It’s warm.”

Peter made a sound—half laugh, half groan—against your neck. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Worth it?”

He lifted his head. His eyes were hazy, post-coital, the sharp edges dulled by endorphins and exhaustion. But underneath the haze was something softer. Something that looked a lot like the vulnerability he’d shown in the hot tub, multiplied by a hundred.

“Worth it,” he said. “Worth everything. Worth three weeks of silence and every fight we’ve ever had and every fight we’re going to have. You’re worth all of it.”

Your heart did something complicated in your chest.

You ignored it in favor of practicality. “You’re heavy.”

“Sorry.” He untangled himself with exaggerated care, easing your legs down from his shoulders, slipping out of you with a wet sound that made both of you wince. His cum followed, a slow trickle that slid down your inner thigh and onto the dark sheets. Peter watched it happen. His expression flickered. “I should—do you want me to get a towel?”

“In a minute.” You caught his wrist before he could pull away. “Stay.”

He stayed.

Peter lowered himself onto the mattress beside you, and you turned onto your side to face him. The sheets were a disaster. The room smelled like sex and chlorine and the faint citrus of your diffuser still puffing away on the nightstand. Outside, the city carried on without you, sirens in the distance, the drone of late-night traffic, the glitter of lights that never went dark.

None of it mattered.

His hand found your hip, thumb tracing idle circles over the jut of bone. “I meant what I said. In the hot tub. I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

“Then why do we keep doing this? The on-and-off thing. The fights. The three weeks of silence.”

You considered the question. Considered the answer—the real answer, not the deflection you normally reached for. “Because we’re both terrified.”

Peter’s thumb stilled. “Of what?”

“Of this.” You gestured between your bodies, the inches of space, the tangled sheets, the shared warmth. “Of something that actually matters. It’s easier to walk away when things get hard than to stay and risk losing it for real.”

Silence. Then a slow exhale, warm against your collarbone.

“You’re terrifyingly smart,” he said.

“I know.”

“And you’re right. I’m scared. I’m scared all the time.

But I’m more scared of…” He stopped. Swallowed. Started again. “I’m more scared of not having this. Of waking up one day and realizing I let the best thing in my life slip away because I was too scared to hold on.”

Your throat tightened. “Peter.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I just—I wanted you to know. No more off cycles. No more three-week silences. If we fight, we fight. But we don’t disappear. Deal?”

“Deal.”

His smile was small and tired and the most beautiful thing you’d seen all night. He leaned forward and kissed you, soft, closed-mouth, impossibly tender given everything your bodies had just done to each other—and you kissed him back with the same gentleness.

When he pulled away, his eyes had sharpened slightly. The post-coital haze was lifting. The scientist-brain was rebooting.

“I have one more question,” he said.

“You said no more questions.”

“This one’s not about Jean Grey.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Then what?”

“How do you feel about round two?”

The laugh that burst out of you was startled and genuine and so loud it probably woke your downstairs neighbor. Peter grinned—that boyish grin you’d fallen for two years ago, the one that made him look nineteen again instead of twenty-three going on ancient.

“You just came,” you pointed out.

“I’m twenty-three. I have superhuman metabolism. Give me ten minutes.”

“You’re insufferable.”

..

OH LA LA LAAAA- I’m so happy that I’m back writing. Here’s to better times and newer stories 💋.

[Edit Credits: m9stics on TikTok]

"mhm," you huff. the divorce paper was real enough! just because it didn't have his or your name on it and was issued by the internet as opposed to an attorney didn't mean anything.

"and what was your reasoning again, baby?" jack mused.

"you don't love me anymore!"

jack sighs. "i tell you how beautiful you are before i leave for work, bring y’flowers everyday, and take you to dinner every friday, and you think i don't love you?"

"yeah, but those are the routine things!" you said. "so, you obviously don't love me anymore!"

jack put the paper down on the nightstand and approached you, backing you into the bed. "say it again, sweetheart."

you gulp at his proximity, sweat trickling down your face from the way his thumb tilts your chin upwards. "you. don't. love. me."

"yeah, okay," jack hummed. “if you really thought that, you wouldn't be wearing the shortest little skirt," he says, promptly hiking the garment in question up and making your breath hitch, "when you're trying to fucking divorce me."

"jackie-"

"mhm, there she is," jack said. he pushes you down onto the bed without further warning and pulls your skirt down your body, revealing your pussy to his hungry eyes. "and already so wet,” he tsks.

"hmph," you say with a huff. you turn away from his gaze, but it's short-lived as jack cranes your face back towards him.

"ah-ah. what do you have to say?"

you roll your eyes. "sorry."

"like you mean it."

"sorry," you say again.

jack doesn't have it in him to correct your attitude from that look on your face. god, his wife is just too cute.

you don't say anything else as he frees his cock from his slacks, slipping inside your aching cunt. jack is gentle with you as he rocks into you, whispering the sweetest praises that you'd needed for reassurance.

"tell me i love you. tell me how much daddy loves you, baby," jack coos as he cups your cheek, his thrusts slow as he fucks you deep.

"d- daddy loves me," you relent. "so much."

He carried you back to the small hut he'd built with his own hands and nursed you back to health.

You were a shy little thing, shrinking away from his touch at first, horrified and untrusting of men after having trusted the wrong men before.

So he never pushed. Instead, a companionship formed in the quiet spaces between you.

Words spoken in hushed whispers under the shade of trees stabbing at the sky, nights spent lying side by side on the cool sand, watching the moon. He’d always be the one going out to hunt, and cooking it, not letting you lift a finger. 

Occasionally you wake up pressed against him, seeking comfort in his arms. Odysseus would lie perfectly still, scarcely daring to breathe, afraid that even the smallest movement would break the beginnings of the trust you'd placed in him.

He did, though, eagerly await the day the thread would snap, the thread that grows precarious with every instance of you tending to his wounds after a bad hunt, every time your fingers brushed his as he handed you food.

Every morning he caught sight of you wading into the shallow water to wash yourself, rubbing the salt and sand off, the thin dress draped over you clinging to your skin. He would look away almost as quickly as he'd looked, ashamed of the longing and the lust growing heavier under his ribs, wondering how much longer that thread could hold before it finally gave way.

It snapped the day another ship washed ashore. A handful of men stumbled onto the beach, their laughter turning vile the moment they saw you. Odysseus was watching you from the corner of his eye as you bathed in the shallows below. The moment he saw them leering, he ran from where he was buried in the trees hunting for food. Grabbed his spear, the only weapon he had carved from wood, and met them before they could reach you. Striked them down with the fury he was certain not even Ares himself would possess, the God of War himself, as he killed them off, one by one, brutally. 

He did not stop until the beach fell silent once more.

When it was over, you stepped out from the water, the hem of your dress dripping seawater onto the blood-soaked sand. You found him standing among the bodies, blood streaking his arms, his chest rising with ragged breaths.

And that’s when you know – he would protect you forever. 

Slowly, almost timidly, you reached a hand out to cradle his face, wiped the splatter of blood on his cheek gently, before leaning in, and pressing your lips against his. For a heartbeat Odysseus stood frozen, unable to believe the warmth against his mouth was real. Then his hand free of the spear found your waist and drew you impossibly closer as he kissed you back with desperation, groaning into your mouth, breaking months of restrained longing.

Now after you carefully washed the blood off his body, Odysseus finally has you. 

You sit on his lap, his chest pressing into your back, impaling you on his cock. His thighs are pressed into the sand, your waist gripped in one massive arm as he moves you up and down, face buried in your neck. His other hand is gripping your neck loosely, holding you upright as he pounds into you.

“Fuck, this what you wanted hm? To be sittin’ on me, milkin’ my cock?” he grits out, feeling you tighten around him, your slick dripping down to his thighs.

You only whine, “fuck-yes, yes,” grip him tighter, one hand coming up to hold his, pressing his palm harder against your neck. You writhe in his grasp, trying to grind your clit against something, anything, before he grips your waist even harder in warning.

He grunts against your neck, moaning your name. His beard rubs against the side of your face as he lifts his head up.

“Yeah, my girl needs to be choked? That’s what she needs to stay. Fuckin’. Still.”

He pounds into you harder between each word. You’re reduced to a mess, can only whine and blubber out soft begs, “please.”

Instead of choking your neck with his hand, Odysseus shifts. Still thrusting into you, the wet sounds of your slick echoing through the island, his arm slides across your chest, gripping your shoulder, one thick bicep pressing against your neck. He traps you in a headlock while he moves his hips faster. You moan, loud, at the weight of him. 

“Try gettin’ out of this now,” he grunts against you. Everything is warm and fuzzy as he brings you closer to the edge, pounding into you with slower, deeper thrusts now. His hand slides down your waist, to your mound, rubbing at the patch of hair there.

“Please- fuck, please touch me,” you whine, desperately.

Then he pulls, hard, and you let out a whimper. 

“You take what I give you, yeah? Don’t be fuckin’ greedy,” he groans against your ear.

You blabber out apologies, gripping his arm tighter. He feels his balls tighten when you claw your nails into his arm, leaving red marks.

“S’okay pretty girl, shush, just let me do all the work yeah?”

You nod, or try to as much as you can while wrapped in a headlock, as he peppers kisses to the side of your face. His beard scrapes you deliciously as he fucks his cock into you deeper, the perfect amount of coarse and rough. 

After a harsh thrust, Odysseus finally takes mercy on you, and brings a finger to your clit, rubbing slow circles. Pleasure sparks up your spine.

“Fuck- yeah, just like that,” you moan softly, closing your eyes as you get closer and closer to your peak.

“That feel good?” He pants against you. You whimper out a yes, writhing in his grip.

“You gonna be my good girl and come now?” 

“Fuck- yes,” You moan, loud, your voice echoing in the island as you finally reach your peak. Your body grows limp in his grip as you close your eyes, pleasure washing over you. 

Odysseus jerks up, once, then twice, before spilling into you, groaning your name. It trickles down your thighs as you lean your weight against him, practically sitting on him. 

You’re still wrapped up in his massive arms as he pants against you, loosening his grip slightly. 

“Stay with me, on this island,” he whispers, tilting your head to the side. 

His eyes bore into yours.

 “Stay, forever. Please.”

You lean in, press the gentlest of kisses against his lips. 

“Forever.”

 And at last, Odysseus had found his way home, not to Ithaca, but to you.