Hey, you look good today.

A man was sitting on the floor in front of Apartment 6B. Not slouching, he was propped up against the wall, he was clearly not well.

It was him. Your neighbor. You knew him only by the boots, which were now sitting several feet away from him, looking even more battered than before.

He was a mountain of a man. Wide shoulders. Even in the gloom of the 40-watt hallway bulb, you could tell he was powerful. But what stopped your heart was the color.

His gray hoodie was stained a deep, saturated, terrifying crimson. It was a slick patch covering his entire chest. There was another bloom of it on his thigh.

You felt your bag slip from your shoulder, hitting the dingy tile floor with a heavy, wet thud. All the clean clothes, everything you’d worked so hard to maintain, forgotten. You took an involuntary step back. Your mind was screaming run, scream, call 911, but your body was locked.

You had only ever seen the man in brief flashes, a strong profile by the window of the deli, the broad back as he walked away. The image that flashed in your mind now, though, was different. It was the one you knew of him, but had never really seen. A hard, squared jaw. A strong profile. A fading scar.

He didn't move. He didn't speak. He was just… there. Bloody. Imposing. A ghost that had finally made itself solid.

Slowly, his head turned towards you. His eyes were dark, almost black in this lighting, and they were the single most terrifying thing you had ever seen. They held an intensity that was paralyzing. A look that didn't just see you; it examined you, tested you, weighed you.

For the longest, coldest five seconds of your life, he just stared. You were sure this was it. You had stumbled into something you weren't supposed to see, and you were going to pay the price.

His face was a mask of pain and exhaustion, but below that, something else was moving. Slowly, painfully, a muscle in his jaw twitched. A faint crease of what might have been amusement appeared at the corner of his eyes.

He didn’t smile. The expression was too grim for that. But his eyes softened, just a fraction. Just enough to show that whatever he was looking at, it wasn't a threat.

Then, his voice, a low rumble like a concrete mixer, broke the silence.

“Evening, young lady.”

He spoke with a gravelly accent, his tone flat but not unkind. It was the absolute normalness of the greeting, the simple politeness of it, that was the final shattering shock.

You could have laughed. You could have cried. You just stared at him. The man looked like he had just gone fifteen rounds with a buzzsaw, yet he was treating this like a simple encounter on the subway.

His eyes held yours for another second, a wordless message passing between you. Then, he looked down at his own chest, at the fresh pool of blood staining his hands, and the moment was broken.

A grimace of pain finally broke through his mask. He gasped, a low, guttural sound, and his head thudded back against the wall. His body went slack. He was collapsing in front of you.

The paralysis finally broke. You didn't think. You didn't call the police. You ran.

Not away. Towards him.

Your laundry was scattered across the hall floor, but you ignored it, leaning over him. As his shadow fell over you, those dark, intense eyes snapped open again. The sheer speed of his reaction made you freeze, but the moment he registered it was just you, the sharp tension drained from his shoulders.

"You're still here," he muttered, his voice sounding like two millstones grinding together. "Was sure you'd be three blocks away by now, calling every badge in the five boroughs."

"I thought about it," you said, stepping closer and slinging his uninjured arm over your shoulder. "Then I realized if you bled out in the hall, the landlord would find a way to deduct it from my security deposit. Up we go."

A faint, breathless huff escaped his chest—his version of a laugh. "Practical. I respect it."

He grunted as you hoisted his massive frame off the cold floor. He was heavy pure muscle and dead weight. He groaned as he stumbled forward, relying almost entirely on you to keep him upright. You dragged him across the threshold into your apartment, kicked the front door shut behind you, and maneuvered him onto your worn living room couch.

He collapsed onto the cushions with a heavy sigh, his dark eyes sweeping over your small, neat living space before settling back on you.

"Nice place," he rumbled, watching as you ran to the bathroom, grabbing your emergency first-aid kit, a bowel of warm water, and a stack of clean towels to set on the coffee table. "A little small, but... cozy."

"Don't get attached. And try not to ruin the upholstery," you commanded, reaching for the hem of his heavy, blood-stained hoodie. "We need to get this off you."

"Whoa there, Doc," Jon’s lips twitched, a crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the pain in his eyes. "At least buy me a drink first."

"Shut up and help me," you grumbled, though your face warmed slightly.

You gently unzipped the front, peeling the stiff, bloody fabric away from his shoulders. "Lean forward. Slowly."

Jon grunted, bracing his forearms on his knees as he tipped his head down. You carefully gathered the thick material of the hoodie, easing it up his back and over his head to avoid snagging the jagged cut near his cheek. As you worked the sleeves down his massive arms, your hands naturally slid against his skin to guide the heavy cotton off him.

Your fingers brushed directly against his abdomen - his stomach was impossibly firm, warm, and ridged with hard, defined muscle that flexed instinctively under your touch. You caught your breath for a split second, your palms lingering against the heat of his skin as you finally pulled the ruined garment away and set it aside.

Jon raised his head, catching the brief hesitation in your hands. A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated in his chest. "Like what you see, sweetheart?"

"I'm inspecting the damage," you retorted quickly, though you didn't immediately pull your hands away from his torso. "You're lucky this missed anything vital."

"Pure skill," Jon murmured. As you leaned in closer to inspect the deep slice near his ribs, his hand moved slow, deliberate, and impossibly warm. His thick, calloused fingers reached up and rested lightly against your waist, steadying himself. The heat of his palm seeped right through the thin cotton of your shirt. "And maybe a little bit of luck."

"A guy with a hole in his side shouldn't be boasting," you said, grabbing a damp rag and gently pressing it against the cut on his jawline.

Jon flinched, a sharp intake of air hissing through his teeth, but his grip on your waist only tightened, his thumb lazily tracing a slow, grounding circle against your hip bone. Your gaze dropped to his hands large, warm, and anchored firmly against your body. "Just making sure you don’t collapse on me," he said, his voice low. "You're hovering. I'm supporting."

"Right." you scoffed, moving down to clean the blood from his ribs, your fingers occasionally skimming the firm line of his waist.

"Jesus, lady," he grunted, tilting his head back against the sofa cushions with a groaning sigh. "You're ruthless."

"You're the one who crashed into my doorway looking like a horror movie extra," you replied smoothly, applying an antiseptic wipe. "What even happened out there?"

Jon was quiet for a second, his dark eyes searching your face. His hand shifted from your waist, his large, rough fingers tracing up your side, lingering over your ribs before coming to rest on the curve of your shoulder. His grip was heavy, possessive, and grounded.

"Occupational hazard," he said softly, the playful banter dropping for just a fraction of a second. "Let's just say... the neighborhood's gonna be a lot quieter from now on."

You looked up, catching the raw, dark edge in his eyes before he smoothed it over with another lopsided grin. The unspoken truth hung between you: the strange, watching feeling that had haunted you for weeks wasn't just in your head and Jon had just personally put an end to it.

"Quiet, huh?" you murmured, pressing a thick pad of gauze to his side and taping it down securely.

"Dead silent," Jon confirmed, his thumb gently brushing the side of your neck, his rough skin sending a shiver straight down your spine. "Which means you owe me. I just upgraded your apartment security for free."

"I pulled you off the floor, saved your sweater's replacement, and brought you inside," you pointed out, leaning back slightly to assess your handiwork. "I'd say we're even."

"Not quite," Jon grunted, his hand sliding from your neck down to your arm, his thumb tracing one last slow line across your wrist. "You still gotta buy me a drink once I can walk without spilling my guts."

"Is that a threat or a date, 6B?"

Jon leaned back against your cushions, bare-chested and bandaged, looking completely at home on your couch with a genuinely warm, crooked smile breaking through the grime on his face.

"Both, young lady," he rumbled. "Definitely both."

You held his gaze, your fingers lingering near his wrist where his pulse hammered strong, steady, and dangerously fast.

"You talk big for a guy who’s one bad shift away from needing an IV," you murmured, tilting your head. But you didn't pull back. If anything, the distance between you was shrinking, the quiet air in your living room suddenly heavy with a thick, electric heat.

"Yeah?" Jon’s dark eyes darkened further, a low, gravelly hum in his broad chest. Without breaking eye contact, his big hand traveled back up your arm, his calloused palm wrapping firmly around the back of your neck. His grip was broad and possessive, pulling you down just an inch until your breath hitched against his lips. "Why don't you test me, sweetheart? See if I'm as fragile as you think."

"Is that a challenge?" you whispered, your hands resting on his chest. You could feel the deep, steady rise and fall of his lungs under your palms, the heat radiating off him like a furnace.

"Call it an invitation."

His thumb stroked along your jawline, tilting your face up just enough before he closed the final fraction of space between you.

The kiss wasn't gentle, but it wasn't rushed, either. It was heavy, deliberate, and intoxicatingly thorough. Jon tasted like copper and heat, his mouth demanding and possessive as he pulled you closer, ignoring the slight wince when his side flexed. A low growl caught in the back of his throat when your fingers tangled into the dark, coarse hair at the nape of his neck, deepening the kiss until you were breathless.

When he finally pulled back just enough to catch his breath, his forehead rested against yours. His eyes burned into yours, dark and intense, a faint, lopsided smirk tugging at his mouth.

"See?" he rumbled, his breath hot against your swollen lips, his hand sliding down to rest heavily on your hip. "Not so fragile."

"You're a terrible patient," you managed to say, your voice a little breathier than you would've liked as your hands traced the hard line of his shoulders, brushing over the fresh bandages. "I should've left you in the hallway."

"Lie," Jon teased softly, his lips tracing a fiery, lingering path from the corner of your mouth, down the curve of your cheek, to the sensitive spot just below your ear. You let out a soft gasp as his teeth lightly grazed your skin before his tongue smoothed over the spot, sending a shiver straight down your spine. "You like having me right where I am."

"I like having my security deposit," you countered, though your fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him back to your lips.

Jon chuckled against your mouth, a rough, dark sound. His dark eyes locked onto yours, blazing with a sudden, sharp hunger that made your stomach drop. His hand tightened at the nape of your neck, and before you could even catch your breath, he shifted.

With a low, gravelly grunt, he reached for your waist with both hands and pulled you directly onto his lap.

The movement was sudden and raw. As you landed straddling his thighs, his body jerked beneath you, a sharp, ragged gasp catching violently in his throat. His eyes snapped shut for a split second, a harsh wince twisting his features as the tension pulled directly against the fresh stitches and bandage on his ribs.

"Jon" you started, instinctively placing your hands on his broad shoulders to lift yourself back off him. "You're gonna hurt yourself"

"Don't," he growled, the word a thick, breathless command. His eyes snapped open, dark and completely unyielding, burning right through you. "Don't move. I'm fine."

To prove it, his hands slid possessively down your back, large, heavy palms smoothing over the fabric of your shirt before gripping your hips. He pulled you flush against him, ignoring the sharp flare of pain in his side as if it were nothing compared to the urge to hold you close.

"You're out of your mind," you whispered, your voice trembling slightly, though you stopped trying to pull away. Your hands slid up to frame his jaw, your thumbs smoothing over the rough stubble on his cheek.

"You're bleeding, 6B."

"I've got plenty of blood, sweetheart," Jon rumbled, a crooked, dark smirk tugging at his lips despite the sweat glistening at his temples from the sheer effort. "What I don't have is time to waste."

His hands were restless, urgent, and hot against your skin. One palm slid up under the hem of your shirt, his broad, calloused fingers tracing the smooth skin of your waist, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He palmed the curve of your ribcage, squeezing firmly, pulling a soft gasp from your throat. He seemed almost obsessed with the feeling of you, proving to himself that you were real, safe, and right there in his arms.

"Jon..." you breathed, leaning down until your forehead rested against his.

"Look at me," he grumbled, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate circle over your bare hip bone under your shirt. When you met his gaze, his expression softened just a fraction, though the dark, possessive intensity stayed. "Need to feel you. Just for a second."

He didn't wait for permission. Jon surged up, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was deeper and far more demanding than the last. He tasted of heat and copper, his tongue tangling with yours in a slow, heavy rhythm that made your head spin.

He let out a low, satisfied groan into your mouth, his hands sliding lower to cup your thighs, pressing you firmly down into his lap. Every time his side throbbed, his grip on you only tightened, the physical pain completely eclipsed by the desperate, searing need to have you as close as humanly possible.

A messy moan escaped your mouth as you felt his hands rub against your thighs, slowly letting them find their way underneath your sweatshirt.

"God," he rasped, trailing wet, impatient kisses along your jawline and down the sensitive curve of your neck.

"I think we should take this off," he chuckled, his large hands moving with ease as he gathered the hem of your sweatshirt in his fists. He tugged the thick material up your torso, exposing your bare stomach and ribcage to the cool air of the room. He guided your arms out of the sleeves and pulled the top over your head, tossing it onto the floor without breaking eye contact.

He leaned back against the cushions to take in the sight of you sitting flush on his lap. You could feel your cheeks flush under his intense gaze his stare was possessive, heavy, and utterly intoxicating. His calloused fingers slid around your back, hooking under the strap of your bra. With a flick of his fingers, he unclasped it, hooking his thumbs under the shoulder straps and peeling the lace down your arms. You let the fabric drop to the couch, leaving your chest completely bare to his dark, hungry gaze.

Jon didn't waste a single second. His mouth found its way to your nipple, his warm tongue swirling around the sensitive flesh with a slow, deliberate heat. You threw your head back, letting a breathy moan escape your lips to echo softly through your small apartment.

"You like that, sweetheart?" he murmured smoothly, looking up at you through dark eyes as his calloused hands palmed your chest, squeezing gently.

Chewing on your lower lip, you nodded, the dizzying sensation of his hands and mouth making your head spin too fast to formulate a proper thought.

"Use your words. I wanna hear it," Jon grumbled, bringing one hand up to cup your chin, his thumb dragging slowly across your slick lower lip.

"Yes," you managed to choke out, your voice trembling. "I like it, Jon... Please, I need you," you whined, instinctively rolling your hips down against the hard line of his bulge.

Jon’s grip on your hips tightened until his knuckles turned white, a low, guttural growl vibrating deep in his chest at the movement of your skin grinding against his denim. The sharp, searing flare of pain from his stitched-up side didn't slow him down for a second; if anything, the raw friction only stoked the fire behind his dark, heavy eyes.

"Patience, sweetheart," he rumbled, his voice thick and rough like gravel. "We're gonna do this right."

Without breaking eye contact, his broad hands shifted, sliding down to the waistband of your shorts. His fingers hooked under the elastic, dragging them down over your hips along with your panties in one smooth, practiced motion. He lifted you just enough to strip the clothing completely off your legs, tossing the scraps aside so you were entirely bare on his lap.

His hand worked blindly at his own belt. The heavy brass buckle clinked loudly in the quiet living room, followed by the sharp scrape of his zipper. He shoved his dark jeans and briefs down over his hips, freeing his heavy, throbbing length. The tip brushed against your wet, sensitive center, making your breath hitch violently. You were already slick for him, dripping against the hot, rigid length resting between your thighs.

But instead of driving up into you right away, Jon held your hips firm, anchoring you in place. His other hand slid down between your bodies, his thick, calloused fingers finding your slick heat. A dark, crooked smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he felt how soaked you were for him.

"Look at you," he growled low, his thumb finding your sensitive clit and circling it with a slow, agonizing pressure. "Dripping. All this for your neighbor, huh?"

You gasped, your back arching off his chest as a sharp wave of pleasure shot straight up your spine. "Jon—please—"

"Not yet, sweetheart," he teased, slipping two thick fingers smoothly inside you. He gasped slightly at how tight and hot you felt, his fingers curling upward in a slow, deliberate rhythm that had you squirming helplessly on his lap. He worked you open, his thumb continuing its relentless, maddening circles against your bundle of nerves until you were whimpering, your hands clutching blindly at his shoulders.

"Jon, stop teasing," you whimpered, your hips trying to roll down onto his rigid length, but his grip on your thigh kept you locked right where he wanted you.

"I'm establishing baseline, Doc," he rumbled with a gravelly laugh, his mouth coming up to capture your earlobe in a light bite while his fingers slicked you further, pumping into you with an agonizing, expert pace. "Need to make sure you're completely ready for me."

"I am, I'm ready, please—"

Satisfied with your breathless pleading, Jon finally withdrew his fingers, his dark eyes fixed on yours as he guided his broad head to your entrance. He aligned himself and slowly pushed upward, easing into you with a steady, agonizing patience.

The moment he broke past your entrance, your head snapped back, a sharp, choked gasp tearing from your throat. Your toes curled, and your inner walls stretched and fluttered around his thick length, every inch of him filling you so completely it took your breath away entirely. The sheer size and heat of him made your hips tremble, your fingers digging so hard into his broad shoulders that your knuckles turned white.

You let out a soft, helpless whimper, your core arching instinctively to take more of him even as the overwhelming fullness made your head spin. Every sensitive nerve ending fired at once, a thrilling, heavy ache blooming deep in your pelvis as he sank all the way home, locking your hips flush against his.

Jon let out a heavy, shuddering exhale against your neck, his muscles locking under the sheer restraint it took not to tear into you right then and there.

"Jesus, baby..." he gritted out, his jaw clenched so hard a vein throbbed in his temple. He began to roll his hips up into yours, setting a slow, agonizingly deep rhythm that hit every sensitive nerve inside you. "You feel unbelievable. So tight... fucking perfect for me."

You matched his pace, setting a rhythm on his lap, your hips rolling to meet every brutal thrust. Jon’s hands gripped your waist tight, his thumbs pressing into the dimples of your lower back to guide you down hard onto him. The wet, slapping sound of your skin colliding echoed off the small apartment walls, completely drowning out the quiet hum of the city outside.

He leaned up, capturing one of your exposed nipples between his teeth, giving a light tug that made you arch your back and cry out. His hands moved everywhere cupping your breasts, dragging down your sides, and palming your thighs, leaving red marks against your flushed skin.

"Jon—" you gasped out, your vision blurring into stars as the intense, heavy pressure built rapidly in your lower stomach. Your inner walls pulsed around his length, threatening to set him off. "I'm... I'm close—"

"Go on then," he rasped, his mouth claiming yours in a harsh, bruising kiss as his pace turned desperate, his hips driving up into you with relentless force. "Take every last inch of it and let go sweetheart"

The tension snapped, a violent wave of pleasure crashing over you that made your entire body coil tight and shatter. You cried out directly into his mouth, your walls throbbing in tight spasms around him.

The feeling of your release gripping him was the final straw. With a harsh, guttural groan, Jon buried his face into the crook of your neck, his hips driving up one last deep, punishing time as he poured himself inside you, his massive frame shuddering violently on the couch.

"God... baby girl," he choked out against your skin, his voice thick, raw, and completely wrecked as he held you impossibly tight through the final, lingering thrum of his release.

For a long time, the only sound in the room was the heavy, ragged sound of your shared breathing. Jon kept his arms wrapped tight around your bare waist, holding your chest flush against his as his heart hammered heavily against your ribs.

Slowly, his rough hand came up to smooth over your hair, pressing a warm, lingering kiss to the slick skin of your neck, his breath still hot against your ear.

“Everyone’s waiting for us to fix it. Like we’ve always fixed it. Like Galactus is just another normal problem and the Fantastic Four are supposed to have the answer before breakfast.” He laughed once, short and bitter. “And I’m sitting here playing alien Rosetta Stone while the guy who eats planets is still out there deciding whether Earth looks tasty.”

You didn’t say anything right away. The silence sat heavy between you. You could feel how useless you were in it—no genius-level intellect, no stretchy limbs or rock skin or flame powers that could somehow translate cosmic tongues. Just you. Sitting. Watching him grind himself down against something that refused to give.

Johnny’s next words came quieter, almost like he was talking to himself instead of you.

“I keep thinking about what happens if we don’t figure it out in time. If he comes here and we’re still scrambling. Sue’s already not sleeping— especially with Franklin. Reed’s barely a person anymore. Ben’s doing that thing where he pretends he’s fine by making more jokes than usual. And me…” He exhaled hard through his nose. “I’m the Human Torch. I’m supposed to be the one who doesn’t crack under pressure. The funny, hot one. The jokester. Not the one staring at half baked translations until my eyes cross because I’m terrified we’re already too late.”

He finally turned his head. The blue of his eyes looked tired.

“You don’t have to keep sitting here,” he said. Not unkind. Just honest. “I know this is boring as hell. And it’s not like you can… help with any of this.”

And it’s not like you can help with any of this.

The words landed like a slap.

You felt your face go hot, then cold. All the quiet hours of sitting there, of watching him grind himself into the ground over waveforms and alien syllables, of swallowing the useless ache in your chest because at least you could be present—all of it suddenly felt stupid. Transparent. Pitiful.

Johnny didn’t even notice at first. He was already turning back to the audio, pencil moving again, muttering something about patterns. Like the conversation was over. Like of course you couldn’t help. Like that was just a fact of the universe, as fixed as Galactus’s hunger.

You stood up so fast the chair skidded back and scraped against the floor.

“Okay,” you said, voice tight. “Got it.”

His head snapped around. “Wait—what?”

You didn’t answer. You were already moving, crossing the lab in long, sharp strides, pulse hammering in your ears. The door hissed open under your hand. You didn’t look back.

“Hey—come on, I didn’t mean—”

The door shut behind you and cut him off.

You made it all the way to the residential level before the first real sting hit behind your eyes. The shared room was dark when you shoved the door open. You didn’t bother with lights. Just stood there in the middle of the floor with your arms crossed tight over your chest, breathing too hard, trying to decide whether you were more angry or embarrassed. Both, maybe. The kind of both that made your throat ache.

You should leave. That was the thought that kept looping. Pack a bag, go stay somewhere else for a few days, stop taking up space in a place where the actual problems were cosmic and the people who solved them were enhanced geniuses. Stop being the soft, powerless thing Johnny had to step around while the universe waited for the Fantastic Four to save it.

The door opened behind you harder than necessary.

Johnny stood in the doorway, hair a mess, chest rising and falling like he’d taken the stairs at a run. His ocean eyes flickering with leftover adrenaline and something that looked a lot like panic.

“I’m an idiot,” he said immediately. No preamble. “A complete, fucking idiot. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it the way it came out.”

You turned. Your voice came out quieter than you expected, and more tired.

“But you did mean it. That’s the problem. I can’t help. I’ve been sitting there for hours watching you tear yourself apart over something I don’t even understand, and the only thing I contribute is taking up a chair. I’m just… here. Useless. A burden you don’t need while you’re trying to stop a planet-eater.”

Johnny’s face did something complicated. He stepped fully into the room and let the door shut. The soft click of the lock felt loud.

“Don’t,” he said. Low. Serious in a way he rarely let himself be. “Don’t call yourself that.”

You shook your head, already moving past him toward the closet. “Maybe I should just go. Get out of the way. You guys have enough—”

He caught your wrist.

Not hard. Just firm enough to stop you. His palm was warm—almost hot—and the contact sent a little jolt up your arm. When you looked up, his eyes were bright and intent and a little wrecked.

“You’re not a burden,” Johnny said, voice rough. “Not even close. You’re the only reason I haven’t put my fist through the wall yet. You’re the only thing in this whole building that doesn’t feel like it’s waiting for me to fail. I said something stupid because I’m scared and frustrated and my mouth gets ahead of my brain when the pressure’s this high. That is on me. Not you.”

His thumb brushed once over the inside of your wrist, soft and apologetic.

“I need you here,” he said, quieter. “Not because you can translate cosmic languages. Because when you’re in the room I can still breathe. Because the second you walked out I felt like the floor dropped. So don’t you dare stand there and tell me you’re something I don’t need.”

You opened your mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to fold—but Johnny didn’t give you the chance.

He stepped in, cupped the side of your face with his free hand, and kissed you hard.

It wasn’t careful. It was desperate and a little clumsy with leftover adrenaline, mouth hot and insistent. One of his hands slid into your hair; the other stayed locked around your wrist like he was afraid you’d still try to leave. He made a low sound against your mouth when you didn’t pull away—relief and hunger mixed together—and pressed closer, backing you a half-step until your shoulders touched the wall.

When he finally broke the kiss it was only far enough to speak against your lips, voice rough and wrecked.

“You’re not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not over something I said like an asshole. You’re staying right here with me. Got it?”

His forehead rested against yours. The heat of him soaked into your skin.

Johnny deepened the kiss without warning—mouth opening against yours, tongue sweeping in hot and sure, the kind of kiss that didn’t ask so much as take. His hand slid down your back and locked at the small of it, guiding you backward in slow, deliberate steps. You felt the edge of the mattress hit the backs of your knees a moment later. He kept walking you until the only option left was to sit, then follow you down, knees bracketing your hips, the heat of him already bleeding through his clothes.

You managed to turn your face just enough to speak against his mouth.

“Johnny—wait. The translation. The Surfer. You were—”

“It can wait.” His voice was low, rough, the words spoken right against your lips like he didn’t want to give them any more distance than that. “All of it can wait. Reed’s still got the files. The universe isn’t ending in the next twenty minutes.” He kissed you again, slower this time but no less intense, then pulled back just far enough to look at you. The blue of his eyes was dark, focused, a little wild around the edges. “You’re more important right now. You’re my whole goddamn world, and I need you to feel that. Not hear it. Feel it.”

His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking once along your cheekbone—soft, almost careful—before his grip tightened just enough to tilt your face where he wanted it. Dominant without being harsh. Soft without being hesitant.

“I was an asshole earlier,” he murmured. “Said the dumbest possible thing at the worst possible time. But I need you to listen to me now, okay? Really listen.” He leaned in and kissed the corner of your mouth, then the hinge of your jaw, then lower, voice still going the whole time. “You are not a burden. You are not in the way. You are the only thing in this building that makes any of the rest of it feel worth the pressure. When I’m losing my mind over Galactus and alien languages and the whole planet looking at us like we’ve already got the answer, you’re the reason I can still put one foot in front of the other.”

He shifted his weight, pressing you more firmly into the mattress, one thigh sliding between yours. The heat of him was everywhere—skin, breath— every point of contact felt charged.

“So I’m not going back to that lab right now,” he said, voice dropping into something rougher, filthier around the edges. “I’m staying right here. And I’m going to take my time showing you exactly what you are to me. How much I need this. How much I need you.” His free hand slid under the hem of your shirt, palm spanning your side, fingers splaying warm and possessive. “Gonna touch you until you stop thinking about being useless. Until the only thing in your pretty brain is how hard I am for you and how good it feels when I take care of what’s mine.”

He kissed you again—deeper, wetter, a soft groan vibrating in his chest when your hands finally lifted to his shoulders. When he spoke next it was against your mouth, words half-swallowed by the next press of his lips.

“Tell me you understand. Tell me you’re gonna let me do this. Because I need to hear it, baby. Need to know you’re not still thinking about walking out that door.”

His hips rolled once, slow and deliberate, letting you feel the hard line of him through both layers of clothes. The possessiveness in the way he held you—firm, unhurried, hungry—made the words land heavier.

“You’re staying,” he said, almost a growl now. “And I’m going to make damn sure you feel how wanted you are. Every single inch of you.”

Johnny kissed his way down your body without rushing, like there wasn't a universal sized threat looming in the background of his consciousness. The way he tugged your shirt up and off, the way he unbuttoned your pants and dragged them down your legs like he’d already decided you weren’t getting them back tonight. He settled between your thighs like he belonged there, palms warm and steady as he pushed your knees farther apart.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and rough. The heat of his breath ghosted over your cunt before his mouth even touched you. “Already so wet for me baby. That’s fucking perfect.”

Then he licked a slow, deliberate stripe up the center of you and groaned like the taste of you was something he’d been starving for. The warmth of him was immediate and different—his tongue hotter than any normal mouth should be, the residual fire under his skin turning every stroke into something that sparked and lingered. You felt it when he sealed his lips around your clit and sucked, felt it again when he slid two fingers into you without warning and curled them just right.

“Fuck—feel that?” he said against you, the words vibrating. His fingers moved in slow, deep strokes, the unnatural heat of them making every press of his knuckles feel sharper, denser. “That’s how hot I get when I’m inside you. Can’t even help it.” He licked again, slower, then fucked his tongue in alongside his fingers for a moment just to hear the wet sound it made. “God, you take me so well. So fucking responsive.”

He didn’t let up. He set the pace and kept it—steady, relentless attention all on you. Fingers curling against that spot that made your hips twitch, tongue working your clit in firm, focused circles, the heat of him sinking deeper the longer he stayed. Every time your thighs tried to close he simply pressed them wider with his free hand and kept going.

“That’s it,” he murmured when your breath started coming shorter. “Don’t hold it back. I want to feel you come on my fingers. Want to taste it when you fall apart for me.” He sucked harder on your clit, fingers stroking deeper, hotter. “You’re doing so good. Just let it happen. I’ve got you.”

The heat of his mouth and the heat of his fingers stacked until it was almost too much—pleasure edged with that unique heat only he could give you. Your hands fisted in the sheets. Your hips rolled up against his face and he just groaned and took it, tongue flattening, fingers pumping a little faster now, still controlled but hungrier.

“Come on,” he coaxed, voice filthy and soft at the same time. “Give it to me. Soak my fingers. Let me feel how hard you come when I’m the one making you.”

You broke with a sharp, broken sound, thighs shaking around his head, cunt clenching tight around the heat of his fingers. Johnny stayed right there through it—licking you through the pulses, working you with slow, deep strokes until the aftershocks made you twitch and try to twist away. He didn’t let you. He simply pinned your hip with one hand and kept his mouth on you, gentler now but still present, still hot.

When your body finally started to settle he lifted his head just enough to look up the length of you, lips shiny, eyes dark and satisfied. His fingers stayed inside you, still moving in lazy, possessive little curls that kept the sparks alive.

“There she is,” he said, voice rough with want. “That’s what I needed. You coming on my tongue like you were made for it.” He leaned in and pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, then another closer to where his fingers were still buried. “You good? Or does my baby need more?”

Your answer came out wrecked and immediate—begging, hips shifting restlessly against his hand, the leftover heat of him still throbbing inside you.

Johnny’s smile was slow and dark and completely in control.

“Yeah,” he murmured, already lowering his mouth again. “That’s what I thought. Hold on, baby. I got you.”

Johnny crawled up your body and pulled you into him—turning you onto your side, dragging your back flush against his chest, one strong arm banding tight around your middle so there was nowhere to go. His cock was already hard and heavy against the curve of your ass, the unnatural warmth of him bleeding straight through skin.

“C’mere,” he muttered against the side of your neck, voice low and rough. He hauled your top leg up and over his thigh, opening you wide, and the shift left you completely exposed to him. “Just like that. Let me hold you.”

He lined himself up and pushed in slow but deep, a long, controlled slide that made both of you groan. The heat of him was immediate—thicker, hotter than any normal body temperature, every inch of his cock radiating as he buried himself to the hilt. His arm tightened around your chest, palm splayed over your sternum, keeping you locked against him while he started to move.

“Fuck—feel that?” he breathed against your neck, hips rolling up into you in steady, deep thrusts. “How hard I am inside you? That’s all you, baby. You do this to me.” He kissed the side of your throat, open-mouthed and hungry, then dragged his teeth lightly over the same spot. “So fucking tight. Taking every inch like you were made for it.”

He kept the pace deliberate in a way that he controlled the angle, the depth, the way he held your leg exactly where he wanted it so he could drive up into you without you having any leverage to rush him. Every thrust was a firm upward roll of his hips, cock dragging against that sensitive spot inside you on every stroke, the heat of him making the friction feel denser, more intense.

“That’s it,” he murmured, lips moving against your skin between words. “Just stay right here and take it. I’ve got you. Not letting go.” His free hand slid down to where you were joined, fingers finding your still-sensitive clit and rubbing slow circles in time with his thrusts. “Listen to how wet you are for me. Fucking filthy. Love the way you sound when I’m this deep.”

He kissed your neck again—harder this time, sucking a mark into the side of it while his hips kept working, the wet slap of skin and the low, continuous heat of his body against your back turning the whole thing into something almost overwhelming. His voice stayed right at your ear, filthy and steady.

“You’re not going anywhere. Not after earlier. Not after you tried to walk out on me.” Another deep thrust, another tight squeeze of his arm around your chest. “You’re mine. This cunt is mine. And I’m gonna keep fucking you just like this until you come again all over my cock. Until you remember exactly how wanted you are.”

He didn’t stop talking. Didn’t stop moving. Just held you closer, hotter, and kept pushing up into you with that same controlled, relentless rhythm while his mouth stayed busy on your neck and his voice stayed filthy and sure against your skin.

Johnny’s hand left your chest and slid higher, palm spanning one breast before his fingers found your nipple the exact way you liked—rolling it between warm fingertips, then giving a slow, firm pinch that sent a fresh jolt straight down to where his cock was still driving into you. He groaned against the side of your neck when your back arched into the touch.

“There it is,” he muttered, voice already fraying at the edges. “Knew that would get you. Love how sensitive these are for me.” He kept playing with you—squeezing, tugging, rolling the peak between his fingers while his hips never stopped their deep upward thrusts. The heat of him was everywhere now: the solid furnace of his chest against your back, the thick hot slide of his cock, the warmer-than-human palm working your tit like he owned it.

You craned your head back toward him, searching for his mouth. He met you halfway, kissing you messy and open while his rhythm finally broke into something faster, harder. The wet sound of him fucking into you filled the quiet room. His other hand stayed busy between your legs, fingers rubbing tight, relentless circles over your overstimulated clit.

“Fuck—kiss me like that again,” he growled against your lips, then dove back in, tongue sliding against yours as his hips snapped up sharper. “So goddamn perfect. My perfect baby.”

The dual assault—his cock slamming into that same sensitive spot, his fingers working your clit, the heat of his hand still tormenting your nipple—pushed you over without warning. Your second orgasm hit hard and sudden, cunt clamping down around him in tight, pulsing waves. A broken sound tore out of you into his mouth. Your whole body shook against his chest.

Johnny cursed, low and wrecked.

“Shit—yes, come on my cock just like that. Fucking soak me.” His thrusts turned short and urgent, chasing you. “That’s it, baby. Milk it. Take every drop I’m about to give you.”

He lasted only a few more strokes. The second your walls kept fluttering around him he buried himself to the hilt, mouth locking hard onto the side of your neck. He sucked a deep, deliberate mark into your skin as he came—hips stuttering, cock pulsing hot and heavy inside you, the heat of his release flooding you in thick spurts while he held you locked against his chest. A long, rough groan vibrated against your throat as he emptied himself, still grinding up into you through every pulse like he couldn’t stand to leave even an inch of space between you.

He stayed buried deep afterward, breathing hard against the fresh mark he’d left, arm still tight around you, hand still cupping your breast like he wasn’t ready to let go of any part of you yet.

Johnny kissed you again as he slid out of you—slow, lingering, mouth soft but still hungry against yours. The thick heat of him left you with a warm, messy ache, and he made a low sound at the loss before he carefully turned you in his arms. One hand at your hip, the other cradling the back of your head, he rolled you onto your back and followed, settling over you so your bodies stayed flush. The residual warmth of his skin soaked into yours, steady and familiar.

He guided your face up with gentle fingers under your chin until you had no choice but to look at him. His eyes were dark, a little wrecked, the usual spark dimmed into something quieter and more serious. A faint flush still colored his cheeks. The mark he’d left on your neck pulsed under the open air.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough from everything that had just happened. His thumb stroked once along your jaw, keeping you right there. “Look at me.”

He waited until your eyes stayed on his.

“I love you.” The words came out plain and sure, no performance in them. “Not just because of this. I love you for you. You’re perfect for me—exactly like this. So smart and stubborn and still here. Even when I say stupid shit that makes you want to walk out.”

His free hand drifted down your side, palm warm against your skin like he needed the contact to keep the words grounded.

“I don’t need you to translate alien languages or save the world with me,” he continued, quieter. “I need you. Exactly how you are. When you sit with me when I’m losing my mind. When you let me hold you after. How you look at me like I’m worth something.” He leaned in and pressed another slow kiss to your mouth, then rested his forehead against yours. “You’re not a burden. You’re the best thing I’ve got. And I’m not letting you forget it.”

He stayed there, breathing with you, the heat of his body still wrapped around yours like a second skin. He refused to let the moment slip away without making sure you heard every word.

────────

“Jesus Christ, you feel fucking amazing…” Eddie pants as he fucks you into the mattress. His forehead pressed against yours as he buried himself over and over again in your cunt. It was nights like these that had you questioning everything.

The sex was supposed to be casual. Just a quick way for you both to blow off steam and help each other out. But, when things got so hot and passionate like this, it was hard to remember that he wasn’t yours. That this was just good fun for him. That it was supposed to be devoid of feelings.

“Love the way your pussy feels.” He whimpers “I’m getting close, baby. Need you to- fuck- t-tell me where you want me to cum.”

You wrap your legs around him, hooking your ankles to pull him closer and hold him right where you wanted him.

“Oh fuck-“ He pants “Yeah? Inside of you? Christ….okay, sweetheart. Stay riiight there. Gonna….fucking….cum for you.”

He releases with a fit of heavy pants and gasps as he spills inside of you, his cock twitching as he gives you his orgasm. From below him, it was always beautiful to watch him come apart. Even if he wasn’t yours to keep.

After it was over, he releases your hand that he was holding onto- his fingers laced with yours. He flops onto the bed beside you as he smiles at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath.

“Holy shit.” He laughs “That was…wow.”

You gave yourself five seconds to soak it in- to enjoy the moment before it had to end. Just like it always did.

You sit up in his bed, swinging your legs over the side as you began to get up and search from your discarded clothes that were scattered across his bedroom floor.

You find your underwear, stepping into them as you scan the floor with your eyes- looking for your bra. As soon as you pick it up to put it back on, Eddie frowns.

“You’re gonna sleep in that?” He asks “It looks uncomfortable. Why don’t you just leave it off. S’not like I haven’t seen them before.”

You were immediately confused by what he meant about you sleeping in your bra. It didn’t don on you what he was really saying.

“Oh.” You reply “I mean, I don’t usually sleep with my bra on.”

“Then why are you wearing it, you dork?” He asks, watching as you do the clasp and reach down for your shirt. “Wait. You’re not leaving, right?”

“I…I didn’t think…”

“You don’t have to leave. I like it when you stay. Stay with me.”

This isn’t the first time you’ve stayed the night after a hookup with Eddie. The difference is that this was an actual invitation. Him expressing that he wanted you there unlike the other times where he offered for you to stay because it was already late and there was no point in driving home.

What you didn’t know was that every time that Eddie offered you a place in his bed for the night, he was hoping that you would accept- because he didn’t like how empty it felt without you there. He had grown used to the feeling of you lying next to him at night.

“C’mon.” He pouts “Get back over here. It’s late anyway. And, besides, I can’t sleep without you here.”

“You sure?” You ask, looking up at him from staring at the shirt in your hands.

“Yes.” He rolls his eyes “Now c’mere. I’m already missing your warmth…..and I’m also ready to go again if you’re down.”

You drop your shirt to the ground, shaking your head at him playfully as he grins at you- beckoning you over with one of his ringed fingers.

“You’re such a horny fuck.” You laugh, taking off your bra as you fling it at him.

“That doesn’t sound like a no.” He smirks, reaching his arms out for you “Get back here. I’m getting impatient.”

“Ugh. You’re so obsessed with me.” You joke, flopping down into the bed beside him as he immediately rolls over on top of you, kissing your lips.

“Mmm…I prefer the word ‘addicted.”

“Sounds like you need an intervention.” You sass, causing him to shake his head.

“Nah.” Eddie answers, taking you in with his big brown eyes “I don’t want help. I’m right where I wanna be.”

@spacejjunk 🕸️๋࣭ ⭑ jennifer's body

@beasbrain 🕸️๋࣭ ⭑ silence of the lambs

@gem-writes 🕸️๋࣭ ⭑ obsession

@hamilhansen 🕸️๋࣭ ⭑ rosemarys baby

@5lutforeddie 🕸️๋࣭ ⭑ carrie

@lofi-fics 🕸️๋࣭ ⭑the exorcist

@mylliy 🕸️๋࣭ ⭑ texas chainsaw massacre

@amorieile 🕸️๋࣭ ⭑ friday the 13th

@harringtonstar 🕸️๋࣭ ⭑ halloween

@eddiemunsonspantschain 🕸️๋࣭ ⭑ interview with a vampire

@munsonsdangerousgirl 🕸️๋࣭ ⭑ ready or not

@rip-quizilla 🕸️๋࣭ ⭑i know what you did last summer

@aurorairi 🕸️๋࣭ ⭑ the conjuring

@monsieurmorpheus 🕸️๋࣭ ⭑ evil dead

@moontannedmunson 🕸️๋࣭ ⭑ my bloody valentine

@jestthejoker-12 🕸️๋࣭ ⭑ silent hill

@cozymoonlight18 🕸️๋࣭ ⭑ midsommar

@autumn-rain-embers 🕸️๋࣭ ⭑ cabin in the woods

@selenevesper 🕸️๋࣭ ⭑ saw

@hamilhansen 🕸️๋࣭ ⭑ dawn of the dead

@spacejjunk 🕸️๋࣭ ⭑ childs play

@munson-blurbs 🕸️๋࣭ ⭑ the shining

coming to a theater near you...

“Thank you.. oh f-fuck thank you,” Peter whines, his pitiful voice barely coherent as he watches you take him in his mouth, head bobbing rhythmically as he lays before you on his plushy bed.

Peter’s hands seek your head, wanting to pull it closer to him, but he ultimately plants them on the bed, grasping at the sheets as if they’re some sort of lifeline. His knuckles turn white, his eyes rolling involuntarily. He can’t focus, how can he?

It’s not like this is the first time, or that he’s too nervous to make such a move… he’s thankful for anything you give him, and doesn’t want to take it for granted.

“Yes, oh god, thank you s-so m-much..”

Every time you suck him off, Peter can’t believe how fucking good it feels. He wonders how you’re so good, then quickly pushes the thought aside. He doesn’t want to think about the how or why.

Peter’s moans are fucking pitiful. Such a whiny boy with shaky thighs and rosy cheeks, the heat of it all rushing to tint his skin. You can taste the pre leaking from him, his cock pulsing against your tongue. The smirk that spreads across your lips as you lick the tip and hold eye contact with him makes Peter huff. His cheeks darken even more, his body heating rapidly at the sight of you as you take him fully again.

“Oh, please… I’m, fuck,” Peter’s pathetic attempt to warn you dies out, his hands gripping the sheets even harder, seemingly seconds away from ripping them. Another reason why he’s careful with touching you. Sometimes, he just can’t help himself. Pathetic.

When you slow down your pace just to tease him, you hear his squeaky whine, the breath being knocked from his lungs. Just as you expected. Peter gets so fucking needy, and you relish in it. It doesn’t take him very long to get close, ever, and a part of you can’t stand it because you want this too. You want to make it last just to see and hear how pitiful he gets.

“No- shit, please,” Peter whimpers, emphasizing his plea to gain some sort of sympathy from you. You oblige, gradually fastening your pace, the filthy, sloppy sounds echoing between you. He can’t help it. His hand flies to your hair, fingers lacing through the soft strands before he tugs. “I-I’m-“

Unable to properly speak, his jaw slacks and his eyelids squeeze shut. Thighs trembling, he chokes out a cry, feeling his cock pulse with each string of cum that stuffs down your throat. Then, it’s over. Just like last time.

Peter shoots up into a sitting position, gulping thickly with a huff as reality sets in. His duvet covers are thick, splayed across his lower half, which is feeling exceptionally more warm than usual. The room is dark, cold, and very much empty. He feels it instantly, the way his briefs cling to his skin, wet and warm.

“Fuck… not again,” he whimpers, peeling his briefs down just enough to expose the globs of thick cum sticking to his skin. Now this wasn’t the first time. It’s almost nightly at this point. He glances over at his door, as if you would somehow know what happened or be there. You never were. He then turns his head toward the alarm clock on his nightstand, 3:14am. “Hey evie?”

Peter’s desktop illuminates with light as numerous monitors flash on, the system starting up.

“Yes, Peter?” evie’s artificial voice responds.

“We need to make a different kinda inhibitor,” he groans, pushing the covers off his legs before getting up, making his way toward the bathroom.

Peter didn’t go back to sleep. He spent hours trying to formulate an inhibitor that would target his arachnid DNA and block hormone levels… particularly his testosterone. With a cheap Newport cigarette lit between his lips, his fingertips pattered across his keyboard, his eyes laser-focused on the screen.

With a soft chime, his phone illuminated on the desk just beside the keyboard. He quickly glanced over, scanning the words across the screen before looking at the map beneath the text, the pinned location insinuating that you’ve arrived to work.

Peter knows it’s wrong. Having secret hidden cameras around the city is one thing, but using them to watch someone that’s not a threat is another.

He tried, really fucking tried, to let it go. To stop. But he can’t.

That’s just another reason why he needs to make an inhibitor that actually fucking works.

Ever since you moved into the apartment across the hall four months ago, he hasn't been able to get you out off his mind no matter how hard he's tried. He’d often think about the first time you met, running into each other in the hall as you rush to work and he heads to get flowers for May.

All of the innocent conversations in passing, the friendly smiles and waves… He tried so fucking hard. You’re just so pretty. So sweet. God, you smell so sweet.

He can smell you from your apartment across the hall, the scent similar to fresh-picked strawberries. He fucking loves strawberries.

That wasn’t what started it, though. After the incident two months ago, with you stuck in the middle of a bank robbery, it was as if a flip had switched and caused a surgical spell. You were sweet and innocent, just trying to deposit a measly check, and next thing you knew, you had a gun pointed at you. Since then, he feels like he has an obligation to protect you — to keep you safe. Knowing you only strengthened that feeling, but your voice… your face… the way you smell. It all adds to it.

He wants to get closer to you, so fucking badly, but he just can’t with how hectic his life is. He tells himself it’s safer for you to stay acquaintances, no matter how much it bothers him.

Ever since that incident, ever since he saw your terrified expression through the lens of his mask, he had your face in his records. He specifically had evie program a separate alert system with facial recognition just for you. So when he gets a legitimate alert, he knows if you’re nearby. That's what he tries to tell himself, anyway.

If only you knew that spider-man had a special system just to keep you safe.

But that's why he needs this to work. It has to. He knows his behavior is wrong. It's weird. Fucking creepy, even...

“Smoke detected,” evie’s voice alerts, prompting a banner message across the monitor screen. Peter’s eyes roll, mentally damning Tony for implementing smoke detection into her programming.

“Just a cigarette, evie. Same as last time, and the time before that,” Peter murmured, his voice muffled from the cigarette trapped between his soft lips.

“Cigarettes can impact your vitals,” evie’s voice responds, to which Peter sighs, pulling the cigarette from his lips and smashing the end into the ashtray beside his phone, the bright amber ash crushing into a pasty grey. He wasn’t a casual smoker. It was usually during late nights or early mornings like this, where he just needed something to ground him. He hated to admit that it calmed him, or at least thought it did. Maybe it was all in his head, but either way, he knew it wasn’t good for him.

While he waits for the inhibitor to finish, Peter thinks of a few ideas on how he could test it. Truly, there’s only one way to really test it. He has to talk to you, really talk to you, without making things awkward. He needs an excuse to see you that wouldn’t lead to a “hi” and “bye” situation. He hates how his heart races every time you smile at him or even pass by him. You have his mind completely scrambled with your fingers wedged in the folds of his brain.

He’s pacing now, crossing back and forth in front of his desk with his eyes planted on the hardwood floor. His hands moved around as he spoke, a somewhat comforting expression he did during deep thought.

“Maybe… I can wait and we bump into each other in the hall? No, that’s stupid. I could just… knock? What would I say?” Peter groans at himself, covering his cheeks with his hands and slowly pulling them toward his temples. “Or I could…”

Peter’s feet come to a halt, his eyes slowly moving to his apartment door, then to his monitor. The pin on the electronic map shows you’re still out in town.

Oh, he has an idea alright.

Not a sane one, at that.

He really needs that fucking inhibitor.

Within minutes, he has his suit on and is swinging around the outside of the apartment building, his webs allowing a clean swing around the brick structure before he lands on your fire escape just outside your bedroom window.

No, this is insane.

With his eyes squinted behind his mask, he looks through your window, immediately spotting it. A beautiful silver chain necklace with a diamond pendant, carefully laid on your nightstand. The same one he sees caressing the skin of your neck every time he sees you. He recalls the way it lies against your chest, the chain slightly pooling against your collarbones. Why’d you leave it today?

No, I shouldn’t do this, he thinks, shaking his head at the reckless idea. But he couldn’t muster any real flaws in the plan. He gets your necklace, then returns it to you as himself. Not as Spider-Man. That’s innocent, right? No, it’s not.

It’s not like he’s stealing it— well, he is. But… he’s giving it back to you. It’s not a total robbery; it’s harmless.

His gloved hands latch onto your window, pushing it up with ease despite the lack of a handle. It’s as if the breath had been knocked out of his lungs, replaced by the intoxicating scent of you.

Fuck it, he thought, slipping through the open window with ease and landing on his feet with precision. His heart was thumping, but not out of nervousness. Excitement.

Glancing around your bedroom, he takes in the sight of your decor, mentally picturing and framing it inside his head against his will. He’d remember regardless.

He slowly stalks toward the nightstand, the finger pads of his gloves gently catching on the chain just before he tightens his fingers around it, holding it up at eye level. Yes, it’s the exact same one you wear all the time. Not particularly expensive looking, as far as he could tell. Not that it mattered much.

Peter felt another thump in his chest, you’ll notice it’s gone. That should’ve been enough for him to put it down. But he’s giving it back to you. Shit, what is he gonna say? That he found it in the lobby? That’s ridiculous.

Peter groans, clenching the thin chain in his fist, pressing it against his mask-covered forehead.

“This is fucking stupid,” he whispers, cursing his own thoughts. No, it’s going to work. It has to. He wants you to understand that you can trust him. He’s more than just your neighbor. He’s your secret protector, but he wouldn’t directly call himself that. He has good intentions, but that doesn’t make his actions any less wrong. He knows it too: “…and creepy.”

The skin on the nape of his neck prickles. He should put it back. This is wrong. This isn’t who he is.

Peter’s thoughts are suddenly interrupted as his head snaps up, his senses spiking. As soon as he hears the familiar jingle of your keys, his throat tightens.

Fuck.

He quickly tucks your necklace into his suit, where his phone would usually sit. Of course he forgot to grab it. Too fucking concerned about getting into your apartment, he was completely unprepared. No wonder he had no idea you were on your way back.

Peter slowly stalked back toward your window, his footsteps completely silent. As soon as his hand grasps the frame of your window, he hears a startled gasp that was awfully similar to a yelp. He whips around, seeing you in the doorway of your bedroom, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. Peter’s lenses widened on his mask, emphasizing his own surprise.

For several seconds, the two of you just stared at each other.

“Oh my god.”

Think. Quick!

“Hi,” Peter greets you with a slight change in his voice, lifting a hand and giving you a small wave. He's pathetic, really.

“Spiderman?” you breathe, unsure whether you should take a step forward or a step back. The spider-man is standing in your room. You’ve seen him in person once before, your mind flashing to the incident at the bank. The way he focused on you, but never spoke to you. How could you forget?

Your expression shifts, your wide eyes narrowing slightly, eyebrows leveling and furrowing closer. Why the hell is Spider-Man in here?

“What… are you doing here?”

“Oh- aha. Just a, uh, mixup. Wrong apartment… building. Entirely. I’m a little scrambled. Hit my head on the fire escape,” Peter rambles, mustering lies while using his hands to emphasize his words since he lacked showing expression from behind the mask. His pulse is racing; he's sure you can see the way his suit shifts against his chest.

Your eyes are intensely boring into him as you take in the explanation. Strange, but believable.

“Well... are you okay?” you take a step forward, the space between you shrinking, dangerously close. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Peter feels like he’s about to fucking explode. Is he okay? No, not at all. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to see him.

“I.. yeah! I’m fine, I’ll just go—“ he stammers, turning back toward your window.

“Wait-“ you stop him, slightly lifting your hand in his direction to halt him before crossing your arms over your chest. You couldn’t help but wonder. “This might be a stupid question, especially since I'm sure hundreds of people a day, but… do you remember me?”

Peter’s eyes widen again, his mask mirroring his expression. He turns back in your direction, his eyes scanning your face. Of course he does. He knows you way more than you think. It’s not a stupid question, but kind of ridiculous considering what Peter knows about you.

Though, you’re referring to him infiltrating the bank robbery, saving you amongst other innocent civilians. A pang strikes in his chest as he remembers how terrified you were, but it quickly dissipates just being in your presence.

“Uh, well,” he ponders, quickly trying to muster a response that doesn’t sound creepy while also wanting to validate your curiosity. He mirrors you and crosses his arms over his chest, trying his best to shove his panic to the side. “Now that I think about it… yeah, I do.”

“Really?” your eyes light up, and you take a step closer, your arms falling to your sides now that you feel less strange for asking. “I just- I never got to thank you.”

“Oh, no need. You don’t have to-“

“I know,” you shrug, your lips spreading into a slight smile as you step even closer, your eyes shifting from his face to his chest, then his biceps— fuck, he’s built. “but, thank you. Really. I feel a lot safer here, living here alone and all.”

Truth is, you don’t have any family here in New York. Peter didn’t know that, though. You weren’t sure what compelled you to tell him, either. Regardless, he's Spider-Man — not a threat.

Peter’s breath hitches in his throat. This is exactly what he’s been craving; your undivided attention. He made an impact, and you made it a point to mention it. He quickly shakes it off, taking in your words.

You’re not alone here. You’re so blissfully unaware that he is the same man living across the hall from you. He tries not to think about the way he feels himself twitching against his briefs within the suit the closer you step toward him. He physically can’t help it, and it doesn’t matter how tender the conversation is. He can practically feel the warmth radiating from your body despite being just a few feet away.

He needs to leave. Now.

If he doesn’t, if he allows himself to sink into your spell any further, he’s afraid he won’t be able to help himself. He can’t avoid the filthy visuals raiding his mind, disarming him of critical consideration. Your fingers had somehow sunk even deeper in the crevices of his brain. Leave.

“O-of course! Yeah, no worries at all,” he waves you off, his voice matching his relaxed, confident persona. He climbs through the window, stepping onto the fire escape with ease. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

“Whoa, hey! You can’t just break into someone’s apartment and then leave like it's normal,” you softly scoff, arms raised at your sides to express your disagreement.

“Technically, I didn’t break anything. Just came through the window, which was unlocked,” he quips with a matter-of-fact tone, the space enabling him to finally breathe and collect his thoughts.

“How is that any better?”

Well, it’s not.

Avoid the question.

With his hands still planted firmly on the windowsill, he tilts his head at you, “Lock your window.”

Mirroring him, you tilt your head as well, raising a brow at the order, “Why, so no one else can stumble in here after getting concussed?”

“Because there are people out there who aren’t as nice as me. Now lock it, and keep it that way unless you’re home, yeah?”

It’s somewhat of a cocky response, but it’s true. He lets you sit with that for a moment, the two of you just sharing a few seconds of silence before he shoots a web to the top of the building, making a quick getaway.

You stand there astonished, still trying to comprehend the fact that you came home to find Spider-Man in your room. You wish he stayed at least a little bit longer. There was something about him that felt comforting and familiar, but you couldn’t quite figure out why. You have to admit, you feel a sense of pride at the fact that he remembers you.

If only you knew.

Two nights later, Peter is pacing around his apartment, per usual. The clock on his monitor strikes 9:34pm; he's been contemplating for hours. The more he thought about how he'd return the necklace to you, the more he realized how risky it is.

There was no way he could return it as himself, as Peter, and manage to pull off a lousy lie about how he found it.

All he can think about is how you'd figure it out. He can't risk you putting the pieces together. Fuck, why didn't he think of this beforehand?

Truth is, his behavior has been beyond risky and ridiculous. You quite literally drive him insane to the point where rational decisions are nonexistent. For a split second, he even considers moving away, saving himself the absolute torture of living beside you and not being able to do anything about it.

Deep down, he knows he would never do such a thing... but he can't involve himself personally with you, he just... can't.

He has to return your necklace, but not as Peter. He understands that, but what is he going to say?

Doesn't matter. He can say a lot more with a mask on, knowing you won't figure him out. In fact, he could just tell you he took it and face zero consequences, but what's the fun in that?

As he waits for the inhibitor that’s just nearly finished, Peter lies down on his bed, staring up at the cracked brick ceiling. Maybe a tranquilizer is what he needs. He doesn’t even realize he’s fallen asleep until evie’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Inhibitor complete. Trial number forty-seven on standby.”

Finally.

The washer in Peter’s apartment tumbled, numerous articles of clothing swishing and sloshing, covered in suds. His suit was laid flat on top, shaking along with the rumbling of the machine.

“Alright,” Peter sighs to himself, reaching around to settle the inhibitor on the back of his neck. He feels it latch on, letting out a small grunt as his eyes scan the monitor in front of him.

“Arachnid levels decreasing,” evie states as the orange-tinted bar lowers in real time.

“And my hormones?” Peter inquires, raising a brow.

“Decreasing,” evie’s responds, pulling up a second page on the screen to show various hormone levels. Peter lets out a breath of relief, nodding to himself.

“Perfect," he whispered, snatching his suit off the top of the washer.

In your bedroom, you're comfortably sprawled out, sketchbook in hand as you continue marking the thin sheet of paper with a charcoal pencil. A loud knock startles you, causing you to jump and inevitably scratch the pencil across the paper, ruining your work.

Your head whips in the direction of the sound; your window. On the other side of the glass stands Spider-Man, his arms crossed comfortably on the outside of your windowsill as he waits for your response. His suit is glistening, the loud pattering of rain bellowing in his ears.

You quickly close the sketchbook, tossing it aside before standing from the bed.

Peter would usually feel his heart racing the moment you look at him, but he feels calm. Much better. Even though you look so fucking good in your pj shorts.

Hands finding the latch, you unlock the window and push it up, opening it swiftly. The sound of the rain pattering loudly against the fire escape and nearby streets is much clearer now. Before you can even ask why he's here, his voice shuts you down,

“Good girl,” he drawls out in a high teasing tone, voice still quippy and unrecognizable. You blink, your lips parting slightly, but no words come out. What an introduction.

That's the first thing he says? Not that you can complain. You'd be lying if you denied the way it made your stomach twist deliciously.

“W-What?”

“You locked the window.”

You let out a breath, unable to contain your smile and the slight tint in your cheeks. Face flushing, you turn away from the window to make your way back toward your bed, sitting on the edge of it.

“You scared the shit out of me. I can’t keep seeing you like this, you know,” you say, which catches him completely off guard. You can't see it, but a sense of hurt mixed with panic flicks in his eyes before he can control it.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean with you, at my window, uninvited,” you explain. Peter’s mouth opens slightly, words dying in his throat. Before he has a chance to panic further, your next words take him by surprise. “Come in.”

“What?”

“I said come in. You can’t be uninvited when I’m telling you I want you here,” you add softly. You took the chance, throwing the ball into his court for him to catch.

Was it bold? Yes. Did he find it hot? Also yes.

Feeling an instant wave of relief, you hear a cute, "Oh," before he chuckles, slipping through your window, his feet landing effortlessly on your bedroom floor as he stands upright. He takes in the environment, your ambient lighting causing the droplets of water on his suit to reflect even brighter.

"Care to tell me why you've blessed me with your presence again? Everything okay?" you ask jokingly, yet still surprised by his sudden return. It's been two days, and you'd be lying if you said you hadn't thought about him since then. That’s what he hoped, at least.

"I was just coming to check on you," he lies, standing still so as not to get any of your belongings wet. Besides your floor, of course.

“Why?”

“Because someone broke into your apartment.”

Another lie.

“That was you."

“I meant the building.”

“Still applies.”

“I’m aware,” he quips, the eyes of his mask squinting playfully at you as he tilts his head slightly. You snicker. This back-and-forth game gives him a rush he hasn’t felt in a while. He feels much more confident this time, much more willing to play such a game.

That fucking smirk, he thinks.

“Well, as you can see,” you start, holding your arms up at your sides. “I’m fine.”

Peter tsks, sucking his teeth slightly as he steps toward you, almost as if he's sizing you up. "Well, that's not the only reason I'm here."

You watch as he lifts his hand, loosening the grip of his fingers to release the chain in his fist, dangling it in front of you. Your necklace.

"Oh my god," you softly gasp, reaching for the silver chain and grasping it from his hold. "How did you... Wait, did you take this?"

Now he's panicking.

"W-what? No, no. I found it," he lies again, his tone strong but his legs are feeling a bit weak. Shit.

"...In my room?"

"No," he laughs, trying to muster an explanation before you can dig any deeper. His heart is thundering so fast, he can feel it in his veins, causing him to twitch slightly. "Why would I steal from you?"

Good thing you're gullible enough to believe Spider-Man wouldn't steal from you. Because that's not who he is, right?

"Where was it?"

He rehearsed this, but the way you're looking at him makes it impossible to mutter out a lie. On the ground outside of Delmar’s? No. Fuck it.

"Don't worry about it."

"But how did you know-"

"I've seen you wear it," he admits, unable to control the smile spreading across his lips beneath the mask.

You don't think much of it. He must’ve recognized it from the bank. Opening the clasp, you reach behind you to latch it around the back of your neck, the necklace now resting against your collarbones, the pendant nearly reaching your cleavage. You twist slightly to face away from him, “Can you help me, please?”

He doesn’t answer, immediately grasping the ends from your delicate fingers. His gloved fingers graze the nape of your neck, and he notices the instant goosebumps that litter your skin. He struggles at first, the chain being so small and not having much to work with, but he manages, “anddd... got it.”

You turn back and smile up at him, at his figure standing directly in front of you, head peering down at you.

You felt incredibly inferior, watching him stare with his head tilted in such a way, like you were some sort of prey. If only you could see what's underneath the mask.

"Thanks. I owe you one, again,” you smile, eyes fluttering up at him. His stomach is doing somersaults.

"We talked about this. You don’t owe me anything," he quickly responds, referring to your last conversation. All in all, he’s grateful to return it without consequences. He appreciated the gratitude, but he didn’t expect a damn thing from you. Just the ability to see you.

Pausing, unable to form a proper response, you gaze up at him. Never, ever would you have thought you would be in this position before. Especially with him being so intimately close to you.

You stand, instantly feeling the heat radiating from him. He’s so close. Less than a foot away, chests just barely touching. His posture is steady as he awaits your next move, shocking even himself. If it weren't for his inhibitor, his mind would be going absolutely nuts.

"I know," you finally murmur a response, your eyes searching for his, but all you can see is white mesh. You lift your hand, instinctively trying to reach for him, but you stop yourself. He doesn't move.

You do it anyway. Your hand finds rest at his jaw, your thumb softly rubbing over the ridges of the mask. What is it about him that gets you so?

Is it that he saved you? No...

Maybe the fact that he remembered you and made it a point to make you safe.

It's not like you could stay casual after hearing him praise you like that.

"You... you should probably stop," he warns softly, but doesn't pull away from you. He knows you can feel his chest thundering just a mere inch from you. Despite that, the inhibitor was working, because if it wasn't... you'd definitely not be standing any longer.

"Do you want me to?"

He doesn't answer immediately, his eyes intently focusing on yours through his mask. Is that even a question? It's not like he could just tell you that this is practically torture for him.

"No."

That's just enough for you to raise your other hand, fully grasping his jaw on both sides to get a good look at his mask. Curiosity gets the best of you, your thumb reaching down and gently tugging at the edge of his mask beneath his neck. You just want to feel his skin, feel how warm he is. Feel how real he is.

In a flash, his hand wraps around your wrist, stopping your hand in place.

"Hey, hey. I didn't say you could do that," his tone is playful but his thoughts are a complete contrast, his grip tight on your wrist, but not too tight. Just enough to convey the message. God, he wanted to let you, though. So fucking bad.

It’s too risky. No matter how badly he wants to.

Even if he only shows his lips, he’s sure you’d recognize them after so many small talks. After so many exchanged smiles.

"Then how am I supposed to..." you trail off, the word kiss dying in your throat as your eyes trail down to where his lips would be beneath the mask, then down to where his hand is wrapped around your wrist, his grip firm but soft. He understands immediately.

"You don't."

It killed him to say it.

"I can't kiss you?"

"No."

Your lips curl into a small frown. You understand and respect his boundaries, but you can't deny how much you've thought about this. Rehearsed this. Ever since you caught him in your room, you couldn't help the thoughts that pooled in the moment he left. The fact he'd saved you once before only strengthened that.

What if he just took you, right then and there? God, that's fucked up. You knew that, but... the way you'd feel your core twist and get damp, fuck.

I mean, who doesn't want to fuck him? He's a hero. He's sweet. He's incredibly muscular, and his suit only accentuates that. You could go on and on.

It's not crazy to think about. You're not the only one that thinks this either, confirmed by the many reddit forum threads you dove down after he left. But, you are the only one to have this kind of luxury. The luxury of him being in your room, so close to you, touching you

"You're right, I'm-" you cut yourself off, taking a step back as you rethink your actions. What the hell are you doing? You don't even know him. You're being ridiculous - pathetic, even. You shake your head at yourself, shyly plastering your hand over your face. "I'm so sorry-”

"No, no, don’t be,” he whispers, releasing your wrist from his grasp, shaking his head. If this is his chance, he’d be a goddamn fool to pass it up.

“I can’t kiss you, but..” he continues, his hands moving to find your waist, gently gripping your soft skin through your soft, silky shirt. "I can touch you.”

No, he shouldn’t be doing this. He should’ve left right after giving you the necklace. This wasn’t part of the plan at all.

Tilting your head back up, you peer at him through the gaps of your fingers, your cheeks tinted rosy pink.

“Wha.. what?”

It's a bold move, he knows that. At least it's something he can actually give you.

Slowly, he backs you up, the back of your knees hitting the edge of the bed, inevitably making you fall back down into a sitting position. He leans down, hands planting on your plushy covers on either side of your thighs. You’re trapped.

“You heard what I said. I can touch you— I want to touch you,” he repeats, his teasing grin beneath the mask widening as he watches your eyes melt. Despite his rather audacious idea, Peter truly didn’t have a dominant bone within him. Not when it came to sex, anyway.

He would try for you, though. If that’s what you wanted.

The heat radiating from your skin through your shirt was a clear sign of just how much he was affecting you. You don’t know he can tell, but he does. He can sense it. He can smell it.

Despite how much he’s wanted this, how much he’s been dreaming of this, he couldn’t shake the thought in the back of his mind that this wasn’t right. This feels too fast. No real connection. No romance.

But if you want this just as much as he does, he’s not fucking leaving.

“I…” you start, your words absolutely failing you. You feel so small below him, so vulnerable. An idea sparks, and there’s a particular glint in your eye. Fine, you can play that game. “If I can’t see you, then you can’t touch me until I say so.”

Oh.

Peter wasn’t expecting that. Not by a long shot.

“Oh really?” he murmurs, his purr causing you to instinctively squeeze your thighs together. You’re fucking leaking. Maybe he can… just only when you tell him to. You’re calling the shots. His padded fingers move to gently caress your jaw, softly grasping your chin. “You sure about that?”

Who is he kidding? Peter knows he would be a fucking mess if you told him when he could and couldn’t feel you or take control of himself. He loves seeing you flustered, though. It’s a sight he will never forget.

You grab his hand, pulling it away from your chin before pushing him over to land beside you. He lets you, allowing himself to plop down on the bed, his legs still hanging off the edge. He stabilizes himself, sitting up to grab your waist as you straddle him.

Just before his hands can make contact with you, you quickly grab his wrists, shaking your head at him with a grin, “Nu-uh.”

“That’s not very fair.”

“You heard what I said.”

Peter let’s put a short, weak huff of protest at you using his own words against him. You’re fully aware that he’s much stronger than you could ever be, and yet he was letting you control him. You release his wrists, pressing a hand against his chest, pushing him down until his back is against the bed.

Softly grinding your hips on his way down, you could feel him twitching and hardening against your clothed cunt, his suit failing him tremendously.

“Shit, you’re that easy?” you tease, moving your hips back and forth, the friction only worsening the wet spot forming on your panties, seeping to your shorts. He could feel it.

“F-fuck, so are you,” he whimpers in defense, unable to control how pathetic he is from the change in dynamic, his gloved fingers grasping at the blanket to avoid touching you without permission. “You’re so wet.”

“You can feel that?” you smile, leaning forward to cup his jaw, running your thumb over his mask-covered lips. You lift yourself up, and he whines at the loss of contact. A playful smirk tugs at your lips, “Aw, don’t be like that.”

Your hand moves from his face and down his chest until you feel his abs, feeling them twitch beneath your touch. You need to see him.

“Take it off,” you demand softly, removing yourself from his lap and moving to lay properly on the bed, watching as he struggles to regain himself to stand. Once he does, you watch him discard the suit, taking note of the way the cloth tightly hugs his muscles until it’s gone. Your eyes light up as soon as his abs are exposed, you almost want to throw the whole game out the window and have him take you. But you had to admit, watching him struggle and fall apart was even better.

Your eyes trail down to his briefs, the large tent exposing just how much he needs you. Of course, he kept the mask on. He stands there, unsure of what to do, suit discarded to the floor.

You twist your wrist, motioning for him to come closer with your finger, curling it toward you. His drops his bare hands to the bed, carefully crawling onto your covers until he’s hovering over you.

“Now take mine off.”

Holy fuck.

Swallowing thickly, Peter’s hands shift to the hem of your shirt, wanting to slip them underneath and touch your warm, bare skin. He contains himself just enough. He gently pulls your shirt up, his heartbeat picking up once again. He pushes it above your waist, exposing your bra that's so pretty and lacy. Almost as if you'd planned this already.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers to himself, the barrier of the mask making it difficult for you to hear. You don't bother having him repeat himself, lifting your back slightly to allow him to pull your shirt over your head.

He reaches to grab your clothed breast, eyes wide and hungry, but he stops himself. Still lifted, you unclasp your bra and before you can even move another inch, he's tugging it off you, the straps easing off your shoulders.

"Shit," he nearly moans, the sight enough to have him leaking. He's already throbbing, it's almost painful. He wants to touch them, to squeeze your plushy skin, but you haven't told him to yet. "You're so pretty. You know how fucking pretty you are?"

"I've been told," you smile irresistibly, your shoulders lifting slightly in a shrug. You've been told? By who?

Stop it, he thinks to himself, to his own thoughts. He has you right here, underneath him.

His hands shift downward, eager and cold, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shorts. He doesn’t waste any time. As he tugs your shorts down your thighs, you hear a pitiful, muffled whimper. You look down to see his thumb just barely grazing the wet spot on your panties.

God, you smell so sweet.

“Please,” he whimpers again, his fingers hovering over the side of the thin cotton, wanting to pull them aside. You smile, your hand lowering and wrapping around his to guide his hand, having him push them over, exposing your slick folds.

"Go on," you nod, slightly condescending and full of pity as you hand-over-hand guide him further, allowing his finger to graze before pushing closer, his finger slipping between your wet slit and making a filthy squelch. 

“Pretty,” he huffs. He’s fucking vibrating. Every bone in his body, his mind, everything is telling him to just take you. He’s being good, though. You have to give him that credit. 

He pushes his finger inside you, a puff of air being knocked out of his lungs as he feels your walls hug around it. You’re tight. He curls it inside you, earning a tiny moan from you as you buck your hips up ever so slightly. All restraint is lost. 

“Oh, god,” you whimper softly, melting beneath him. You sound so pretty. He can’t take it. He can’t keep holding back. He needs you to break and give in fully. 

Peter’s free hand moves to your lower stomach, pressing down to hold you in place as his finger works inside you, pumping slowly yet deliciously loud. 

“S-shit, so wet. So fucking wet,” he murmurs to himself, easing in a second finger. It almost feels like he’s done this before, or it’s just from the spike in confidence after hearing the pretty noises you make. 

Softly biting your lower lip, you try to grasp his hand, wanting to stop him just to tease him but he surprises you. Quickly, moves his free hand to grab yours before holding it down against your stomach, on the same spot that his was previously. “J-Just.. wait. Please, let me.”

Of course, you give in. Peter experiments, pumping his fingers as deep as he can, the veins in his hands prominent. He watches, completely mesmerized, at the way your pussy sucks in his fingers, accepting them, your juices leaking around them. The filthy sound your pussy’s making combined with that warm squeeze — he can’t wait any longer.

If you smell this good, he can only imagine how you taste. He needs to know. He pulls his hand back, looking up at you.

“Please… Cover your eyes,” he demands in a gentle tone, waiting until you cover them with your forearm, your back resting comfortably against your plushy sheets. He pulls the mask up just enough to expose his lips, raw and plump from him biting them, trying to keep himself from sounding utterly fucking pathetic. 

He doesn’t even bother properly removing your panties first, he just keeps them held to the side as he dives down. You gasp, feeling his tongue dip between your folds, collecting your wetness on his tongue before swiping it up to your clit. You taste just as sweet as he thought you would; even more so. 

He groans against you, the vibrations shooting straight into your core. His lips wrap around your sensitive bud, pulling a loud, unapologetic moan from your throat. The pretty sound causes his cock to twitch against his briefs, his hips starting to slowly rutt into the mattress. He’s ravenous. 

“Fuck, you taste so sweet... so good.. s'good,” he slurs incoherently, his tongue working almost expertly, swirling around your sensitive bud with such focus, softly sucking then lapping at it. Over and over. 

You feel his fingers push inside you again, your mouth falling open with a pitiful cry. His mouth works meticulously with his fingers, feeling your orgasm creeping closer, the spindle in your core tightening with each passing second. 

“My fucking g-god, you’re… you’re doing so good,” you breathe between your words, your chest rising and falling rapidly as he laps at your messy cunt like a little puppy. He whimpers against you, his fingers curling each time he sucks around your bud. The friction he's created, rutting his cock against the mattress, he's already fucking close.

So are you. It shocks you, really. You’ve never had someone get you so close so quickly. It’s like he was made for this.

“Shitshit, I’m— fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you squeak softly, whimpering when you feel his free hand on your waist, his fingers squeezing your soft, plushy skin. He keeps the same pace, not wanting to ruin this for you. He can feel you squeezing around his fingers that are expertly pumping inside you, curling deliciously to graze your sweet spot. “F-fuck!”

Your thighs squeeze together, trapping his face against your messy cunt as you start to cum, your eyes blowing wide. You’re shaking, and not just because of the force of his fingers ramming into you, working you through your orgasm. Peter can feel how hard you’re breathing, his thumb rising and falling on your stomach as he keeps his grip on your waist firm, holding you.

Just as you start to reach down for his head to pull it closer, he pulls away from you, the filthy pop of his lips disconnecting from your clit echoing between you. 

"Shit, what's wrong?"

"Nothings wrong," he responds a little too quickly.

You can hear the rustling of him pulling his mask back down, your heart jumping in your chest. 

“You can look now,” he breathes, moving to hover above you, his cock throbbing against your thigh within the confines of his briefs. You’re still panting as you move your arm away to see him hovered above you, your eyes searching his through the mask. “Did I do a good job?”

“Such a good job,” you huff, a smile pulling at the corner of your lips. Your hand instantly moves down to his clothed cock, your fingers curling around him. You feel the definition, and how much he’s throbbing. 

Nearly instantly, he’s whimpering. You feel his two fingers, still wet and messy from you, pushing against your lips. You were hoping to taste yourself on his tongue, but this’ll do. You part them, sucking them as soon as they touch your tongue.

Peter didn’t expect it to feel so good, the way your tongue wraps around his fingers makes his head spin. You hadn’t even really touched him yet and he’s a leaking, moaning mess. 

Taking him by surprise, you slip your hand into his briefs, your soft fingers wrapping around him to slowly stroke him as you continue sucking on his fingers. His eyes roll, his head tilting back slightly as he relishes in the feeling. It’s just like how he imagined it. 

Despite being unable to see his face, you can tell he’s falling apart. You swear it’s like he knows what he’s doing, but has never been touched before. Maybe he really is just that pathetic. 

You start to fasten the pace of your hand, but just as you start, he’s just as quick to stop you.

“S-stop,” he whimpers, pulling his fingers from your mouth and lifting his hips. You retract your hand, and before you can ask what happened, he’s quick to continue, “I’m already getting close.”

What?

He pushes his briefs down the rest of the way, kicking them off. You see the way his cock springs free, aching red and already leaking precum at the tip. In an instant, he's hovering over you again, his cock just mere inches from you. From where you want him the most.

“You poor thing-” your teasing is cut short when you feel his arms wrap around your thighs, pulling them closer to him. You gasp, eyebrows raising as he softly grinds his tip against your slit free-handed. He’s rushing and he knows it. He can’t fucking help it. 

You wanted to degrade him, to remind him of his rules, but he's just so desperate. So needy. It's a pretty sight.

“J-Just tell me when I can, please,” he huffs, his tip rubbing between your folds causing a filthy squelching sound. His eyes are focused on your pretty cunt, at the way his tip fits perfectly against your slit before he starts to push in, “Oh my god, fuck, please. Tell me. Tell me I can—“

"Of course you can, baby. Touch me," you purr teasingly, your hands move to his hips, gently tugging to pull him even closer. The pet name nearly makes him rut, but he's hanging on to the last thread of control he has left. He pushes in slowly, the pitiful sound he makes nearly making you gush.

"O-oh my, fuck. Thank you. Shit, you're so tight," he whines, pushing into you slowly, watching your pussy take him, sucking him in inch by inch. Your hands tighten on his hips, your nails sinking into his taut skin.

“Feels so good, doesn’t it?” you purr, intently watching the way his movements stutter at your teasing. He can't take it. He can't fucking take it anymore.

"Yes, yes. Feels so fucking good," he whimpers, pushing in the rest of the way before bottoming out completely with his hips snug against yours. The feeling makes your eyes roll slightly, your head tilting back against the pillow.

When you move to roll your hips against his, his hands fly from your thighs to your waist, pushing you slightly up the bed with such ease, stopping your movements, "S-stop, stop."

You look up at him, naturally searching for his eyes through the mask, "It's okay, we can stop."

"No, I just," he grunts, his hips shaking slightly as he fights to control himself. "I need a second."

“Okay,” you nod softly, lifting a hand from his hips to wrap it around the side of his throat, your thumb gently caressing his adam’s apple. He swallows thickly, and you feel it bob under your touch. 

With the remnants of your orgasm still rippling through you, you can’t control the way your cunt flutters around him. Fuck, is he gonna have to cum before he can keep going? He wants this to last. 

Slowly, his hips start rolling against yours, “I-I’m okay, sorry, m’sorry,” he whispers, looking back down at where you’re connected before rambling on. 

"You have no idea-" he grunts, eyes locked onto the way his cock is fully stuffed inside you, your pussy taking him so good. So wet and eager. He pulls his hips back until his cock slips out halfway, glistening with your juices before he slowly pushes back in, listening to the filthy sound it makes, "-how much I've thought about this."

His hands are still tightly gripping your waist as his hips work to keep a steady pace. He doesn't want to go too fast, he can’t. This is so embarrassing. 

Your eyes light up at the admission, hand still gently wrapped around the side of his neck, “Shit. I’m- me too.”

His ears perk, his hips never faltering. His thrusts are slow and deliberate, your response making him whimper. 

“I want to see you,” you whisper, your fingers slipping down to the edge of his mask at the base of his neck. “Let me kiss you.”

He stills. Is it too risky? At this point, how would a kiss be more ridiculous than him literally eating you out?

Well, it’s not, but it’s too much risk. 

“You can’t.”

“Why? You don’t have to tell me your name.”

“That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

How is he supposed to answer that? 

His hands leave your waist, leaving your skin cold. He slips a hand underneath you, between your back and the mattress, lifting you enough to press your chest against his. Your face rests just above his shoulder as his hips continue thrusting against yours, deep and slow. His arm stays there, tightly holding you against him, your eyes struggling to stay focused. That’s when you hear it. 

With his free hand, he pulls the mask off, but purposely holding you close enough that he could hide his face over your shoulder. 

“Y-You really don’t trust me?” you manage with a moan, feeling his bare chest tighten against yours at the accusation.  

“That’s not it,” he groans softly against the side of your neck, his lips finally touching the skin of it, warm and wet. You feel his cock twitch inside you, your eyes hooded with the inability to focus. 

“Mmh, then what is it?”

“I trust you. I don’t trust what might happen.”

“Please.”

“I can’t, f-fuck,” he whimpers against your skin, his hips starting to fasten in pace at the sound of your plea. The filthy fucking sounds your pussy is making is driving him insane, his cock easing in and out effortlessly. You know there’s no winning this. 

You wrap your arms above his shoulders and around his back, holding him as you tuck your chin into the crevice between his neck and shoulder. You feel him breathing into your neck, his breath shaky and weak. That oh-so familiar scent has Peter’s head spinning. 

“You smell so good. I fucking dream about this, about you,” he pathetically admits, voice weak and breath hot against your neck. “Y-You- fuck, you make me fucking cum in my sleep. Make me- agh, wake up all messy.”

He’s losing it. He’s so vulgar.

He hears your gasp, so close and soft beside his ear, it sends a chill down his spine. 

“It’s pathetic, isn’t it?” he whimpers, his voice barely audible when all you can focus on is how much of a loud fucking mess he’s making of your poor cunt. “I dream about fucking you, just like this, making you cum around me, s-shit.”

The thought has his hips stuttering before he picks up the pace even more, his hips smacking yours with a force that causes your body to jolt with each thrust. His grip is tight as he holds you, feeling you jolt against him all while he whimpers in your ear, struggling to not look at you. His other hand remains on your waist, helping to stabilize you as he fucks into you. The filthy squelching of your cunt grows even louder, and you feel the vibrations of a low growl against your neck, “F-Fucking god, do you hear it?” 

“Mh-m, yes,” you moan, your nails digging into the skin of his back. Peter wouldn’t be able to explain the sudden confidence boost, particularly with his words. 

“S’fucking messy,” he whimpers, your wetness splashing on his thighs after each deep thrust, dribbling down his skin. You feel his lips connect with the side of your neck, sucking a harsh love mark into your skin before softly licking it to soothe it. He does it again, over and over, his pitiful noises vibrating against your throat.

Your eyes roll at the feeling, your senses overloading. You feel your core tightening, your second orgasm growing dangerously close. 

“I’m gonna… mmph, fuck, I-I’m close,” you moan into his ear, your pussy milking him with each jolt he causes. With the arm wrapped around your back, he pulls you closer. With his other, he releases your waist, his free hand moving to grab your arm and guide your hand down to your stomach. Pressing his hand on top of yours, he forces you to feel your lower stomach.

You feel it immediately, your stomach bulging slightly with each pump of his cock. He’s in your fucking guts.

“Y’feel it? Feel me in your tummy?” he moans softly in you ear, his pathetic expression one that he’d be embarrassed for you to see. There’s no way you don’t feel it, even he can as he holds your hand down against your rapidly bulging skin. “Feel me filling y’up.”

That was a statement. A demand. Your eyes roll back again, your body growing weak in his hold as he takes complete control. You don’t have any fight left in you to tease him. You’re so fucking close, facing an internal conflict with the need to cum and the desire to keep going. 

“Fill me up,” you whimper, rolling your hips against his, purposely squeezing your pussy around him, wanting to milk every last drop. “I wanna feel you cum.” 

“O-oh my, haah, g-god, aaagh,” Peter instantly whines, his mouth parting open as he starts driving into you faster, pounding his hips into yours. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

He was being so good, now he’s rushing just because you told him to fill your pretty cunt with his cum? 

How pathetic can he get?

“You’re doing so fucking good,” you praise softly, feeling him fuck into you even deeper with your hand still prisoned between his and your stomach. That’s all he needed. 

“S-shit, t-thank you,” he whines louder, his voice cracking in your ear as his chest tightens against yours, his breath growing shallow. He doesn’t have time to warn you before he’s cumming. “Thankyouthankyou, fuck!”

His cock twitches with each spurt of thick, warm ropes of cum stuffing inside you. The pathetic sounds he’s making and the feeling of his cum filling you up is enough for you to break, your pussy spasming around him uncontrollably. Your body goes slack against him, thighs trembling as you gasp like all the air in your lungs was violently knocked out.

What’s shocking is he doesn’t stop. His hips keep moving, pistoning relentlessly as he keeps cumming. Your pussy can only contain so much, the leftovers of cum leaking out of you, bubbling around your slit and making a filthy mess each time he pulls his hips back and thrusts back in. It’s like he purposely wants to overfill it, to stuff you full and keep fucking it back into you, not wanting to waste it. 

With your limbs weak and achy, you’re completely limp, but that doesn’t mean you want to stop. You lift your hand from your stomach, lacing your fingers with his before he plants your hand back down against your plushy skin, not letting up. You move your other hand from his back to the nape of his neck, barely grazing his hair as your fingers unintentionally land on his inhibitor.

Oh dear. 

“F-fuck, don’t. Don’t touch that,” he struggles, a whiny moan escaping him as he feels your pussy squeezing him so fucking tight. He pulls his hand from yours on your stomach, quickly moving to grab your wrist, but it's already too late.

He feels it detach from his skin.

You didn’t mean to, only wanting to grab onto him, but it catches onto your fingers and slides out of place. 

“Shit!” he grunts, his free hand moving to cover your eyes. He sits up, still inside you as he looks around for the inhibitor that’s now fallen and out of sight.

“W-what! What was that?”

“Just- don’t move,” he pleads, his head twisting as his eyes search the bunched up sheets. “Fuck, where did it go?”

“Please, just let me see you,” you beg, your hand moving to grab onto his that’s blocking your vision. 

“N-no! Just hold on a second—“

“Peter.”

Oh, no.

He stills completely, eyes widening as he takes in hearing his name coming from your mouth. His ears start ringing. 

“Peter, I know it’s you.”

“What? That’s… not my name,” he lies, eyes still wide, his cheeks flushing rosy red. 

“Inhibitor complete. Trial number forty-seven on standby.”

This can't be happening.

“What did you say?”

Peter gasps, his back shooting up from his bed. Eyes wide, heart pounding. He’s in his room. Peter’s hand quickly moves up to graze the back of his neck. His skin is damp, a cold chill creeping through him at the realization he never had the inhibitor on.

No, no, no. It felt so real.

Whipping his head in the direction of his monitor, he sees the notification that the inhibitor is complete, blinking across the screen. The same notification he swore he already saw. But he didn’t.

When he laid down for that nap at nine, he never truly woke up.

How did he possibly wake up from a nap, put the inhibitor on, and go see you, all within one dream? It made sense, considering how fast things escalated and how he knows what your bedroom like looks now, but…

Something is wrong. It felt too fucking real.

He glances over at his nightstand, the clock blinking 6:26am. Beside his alarm clock was… nothing. No, he could’ve sworn that’s where he put your necklace, carefully laid on the stained wood.

What is going on?

That’s when he feels it. The dampness in his briefs, warm and sticky. His hands fly to his face, a frustrated groan bellowing from him.

“Fuck!”