Finn

He barely lifted his head when he heard you gasp, the lens of his mask focusing on your figure standing there with wide eyes, wearing only an oversized shirt.

“Wrong window,” he choked, then tried to hold himself up but immediately collapsed again. “Dammit,” he cursed, waiting for you to freak out any second now. 

You could have, but instead you rushed to him and knelt beside him.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Your hands hovered helplessly over his body, trying to see how bad the damage was in the dark. “You need a hospital–”

“No!” He snapped, trying to turn away but failing miserably. “I’ll be fine, I heal quickly.”

“You still need to stop the bleeding,” you countered, folding your knees under your body so you could rest on your calves. “Listen, I can help you. I took some medical courses last year and I have a kit somewhere.”

You looked at him with pleading eyes. He’d saved the city so many times, the fucking world, it was the least you could do to give something back. 

He considered his options for a second, and to be honest he didn’t have many. His body was betraying him, and he couldn’t even get up to fix it himself like usual. 

The blood loss made him nod, and you wasted no time in getting up and finding said kit. The blood loss also made him drift in and out of consciousness as you tended to the wounds on his ribs as much as you could. 

It did not make him less cautious of you though. When you noticed the rip on his mask over a nasty gash on his neck and reached for it, his hand closed around your wrist and even half conscious, his grip was strong. 

“Please,” he whispered. Pleaded. “Keep it on.” 

The fear in his voice made you promise you would. Even if you couldn’t get to that gash properly. Even when he fell asleep on your floor and didn’t wake up for six whole hours. 

The next morning, he opened his eyes and found you sitting on your bed, still staring at him. 

His hands patted his chest, and confirmed his arachnid powers had done its job and healed him mostly. But most importantly, his mask was still in place. With no warning from E.V of it being removed. He learned that you’d spent the night making sure he was still breathing without seeing his face. 

That had been one year ago. 

After thanking you profoundly for helping him, he’d repaired your window, apologized several times, and disappeared into the apartment next door. He then considered moving into another building, but the thought was brushed away very quickly when he remembered the balance in his bank account. 

So he acted more careful instead. For a while, he only turned back home when your curtains were already closed, or he only left the apartment when you had already left for your job (because yes, he absolutely researched the hell out of you after that night.)

Then he moved to the attic of the building. Bigger space, no neighbors, no risks. No you. Or at least he thought. 

Because some nights…some delirious nights he still found your window a few stories down, and the accidental visits became less accidental. When he was too badly injured to care for himself, he came to you, even after you confessed your degree had nothing to do with medicine. 

When he noticed you understood about his equipment malfunctioning, he’d bring it for you to inspect. When he became too reckless with himself you talked his ear off about how being difficult to kill did not make him immortal.

Somewhere along the way, you became spiderman’s friend. 

Spiderman was safer. With you, spiderman was the only part of him he could let you see. Because that was the thing, you only knew the masked superhero. 

He’d spent so much time blocking away his identity, making peace with the fact that there was no longer anyone in the world who would call him Peter and know exactly who that person was. That name only belonged to the people that once knew him, and no longer existed, so he never gave it to you.

Never showed you more than a sliver of skin when his mask rode up or glimpses of his abdomen when you tended to his wounds. He always kept that barrier and you respected it, even on those nights he was too weak to stop you. Even if sometimes not knowing the color of his eyes kept you up at night. 

A promise was a promise. 

Maybe that’s why he kept coming. Why he trusted you with a certainty he couldn’t understand. Why he eventually showed you his new living quarters in the attic and let you spend time with him. Why half a year ago, he added another chair next to his desk so you could work together, or help him when he was out patrolling and needed an extra set of eyes.

“I’m officially the girl in the chair, spidey,” you joked that time as you sat next to him, spinning around in your chair.

He’d gone quiet immediately, his body tensing up enough to make you frown, but then managed a small smile and said you were. You pretended you didn’t notice him being too quiet as he worked on his inhibitor after that. 

He was wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and the mask. Always the mask that didn’t quite let you see through him. After a moment of quiet, you rolled your chair closer to his and nudged his arm playfully. 

“You know I can’t keep calling you spidey forever, right?” 

He snapped out of his trance, and the chuckle that came from under the fabric was unmistakable. 

“Why not?” He nudged your arm back, but still focused on the device he was hunched over. “I like spidey.”

You put your elbow on the desk, resting your cheek on your hand so you could lean a little closer. 

“I like it too, but it feels ridiculous after having my hands all over your body almost every night.” 

The moment the words left your lips, you realized how bad that sounded. He straightened up, turning toward you.

“Wow.” Even if you couldn’t see the smile on his face, the lenses of his mask were quite expressive sometimes. He was amused. 

“That came out very wrong,” you said immediately, before he bursted into laughter. He had been laughing more since you entered his life. “You know what I meant,” you whined, laughing too with heat flooding your cheeks. 

“I think I know,” he chuckled, making you roll your eyes. 

“I’m being serious though,” you added, a little more quietly. “You don’t have to say your real name. Just give me something.”

“Mmm…” he acted like has considering it, going back to tinkering with the piece of metal between his fingers, but then his eyes drifted to the flowers he’d bought that morning, and the name came out of his lips before he could think twice about it. “You can call me Maynard.” 

“Maynard?” You repeated, suppressing a chuckle. “You don’t sound like a Maynard. That’s like an 80 year old man’s name.”

“That’s all I can give you,” he shrugged playfully. 

You had a feeling it went deeper than that, but you’d also learned not to push it with him. 

“Alright. Maynard,” you nodded, “but don’t expect me to use that name unless you’re dying. Guess I’ll stick to spidey for now,” you chuckled, going back to your own work as he hummed in agreement. 

The conversation ended there. With him trying not to think about your hands all over his body in…different conditions. 

Peter didn’t know exactly when his gratitude became longing. He could not identify the moment the friendship, the closeness, or just your smile, shifted into something he craved everyday. 

Despite the mask and the fake name, he knew that after years of being no one to everyone, he had become someone to you. And you had become everything to him. Even if it was behind walls he’d built, you were the person who knew him better than anyone alive.

Which is why, the night he lost control of himself after an unknown dust was thrown at him in a fight, he chose not to crash land into your room. 

Peter hit the floor of the dark attic with a loud thud, as his senses went overboard. His suit was sticking to his body uncomfortably due to the sweat coating his feverish skin. The fabric was intact, with no visible wounds in his body, just that burning sensation of something running through his veins. 

And that dark part of him he’d managed to lock down with the inhibitor, trying to claw its way out. 

“What the…what the fuck is going on,” he cursed, clutching his heaving chest as he panted against the worn wood floors. “I can’t–I can’t breathe…” 

The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence. 

“You have arrived injured. I’m letting her know–”

“NO!” He cut the AI off, “EV, don’t tell her–”

“Message already sent.”  

He glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. 2:18 am. 

He groaned, grabbing his head when a wave of migraine hit him. He knew what came after that. The black eyes. The desire to break. To take. But this time something felt different. It was like a pull, looking for something or someone…for…for you? 

Oh fuck. 

You were going to come in and you were going to see him like this. No, no–

“Spidey?” You asked from behind the door, knocking exactly twice before opening it anyways.

The air changed the exact moment you walked in, and that something inside him shifted too. It became aware that the only thing it craved to survive was in the room now. 

He needed to get to you. He needed to pin you down and– 

“Don’t!” He managed to scream, holding his hand up weakly when you scrambled toward him. 

You stopped right in your tracks, eyes wide and running all over him, searching for torn fabric, blood, or anything that would explain why he looked like every breath was painful. 

“What happened?” You frowned, when you couldn’t find any source. “Did you get hurt?” 

You instinctively stepped forward, but he waved his hand in front of him again. 

“Stop, stop, stop,” he said quickly, “don’t come any closer.” 

The harshness in his voice caught you off guard, but what sealed the deal was him dragging himself further away from you. It was barely more than a clumsy, desperate crawl, but he managed to put a decent distance between you before collapsing against the side of his thrifted couch. 

He avoided looking at you. The oversized shirt covering your body, the comfy shorts you were probably wearing, the way your hair looked messy from rolling out of bed as soon as you got EV’s warning even if you had work the next morning.

You stayed right where you were, watching him. His suit had always fit him like it was painted on his skin, but every pant made his chest rise and fall beneath the fabric so violently that you wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped at the seams. 

This reminded you too much of the changes that happened in him months ago. 

It started with a sharpened temper, then the heightened sensitivity to everything, the black covering his eyes, and moments during patrol when his reactions became simply frightening for someone who had as much strength as he did. But you were supposed to have stopped it. 

“Is it the inhibitor?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, “is it failing?” 

“I–I don’t know…I was hit with some dust out there,” he breathed. “I think it’s tampering with it…my head is killing me. Everything is too much.”

You nodded, turning toward the workstation. 

“I will check the programming. Just hold on.” Not your best attempt at reassuring him, but he groaned in acknowledgment. 

“EV?” 

The computer woke when you touched the keyboard, illuminating the dark attic in a wash of blue light. 

“Online.”

“Please run a diagnostic on the inhibitor and any possible interference.” 

“Beginning diagnostic.” 

You waited impatiently for the results, tapping your fingers on the desk while you watched him from the corner of your eye. 

Over there, he…he was doing his best trying to breathe. 

This obviously wasn't his first time having sensory overload. When the animal tried to take over the human part of him, everything in the city became impossible to escape. Not a single movement, or sound, or simple existence within miles was unnoticed by him. 

But this time? The rest of the city had disappeared. There were no sirens in the distance, or voices coming through the walls, or every heartbeat in the building pounding in his head. 

There was only you. 

Your rapid heartbeat echoing inside him. He felt every tap of your fingers against the wood, every slight catch in your breathing each time he made another involuntary and pathetic sound from his spot on the floor. 

Your scent…God, your scent filled the entire apartment. 

The scent he found himself coming back to so often that it scared him. He didn’t want the attachment. The possibility of having someone again only to risk losing them again. 

That same scent was making every muscle in his body react in a way he didn’t understand. It made him, and the other him, wanna do things to you he had only dreamed of in his wildest fantasies. Things he wasn’t proud of, things he wouldn’t dare to say out loud, even if he looked at you through the lenses of his mask and you couldn’t see the black in his eyes. 

He pressed the back of his head against the couch harshly. 

This was wrong. So wrong. 

His senses were supposed to consume everything when the change came. Instead, they had fixed themselves entirely on you.

He could feel the heat of your body from across the room as though you were still in front of him. Could remember with sickening detail how soft your hands looked when they reached for him. Could almost feel the burn of the touch that had never landed because he stopped you. 

What if he’d let you? What if he’d felt the way your hands ran all over his body? What if you’d moved them lower, and lower, as your mouth–

“Diagnostic complete.” 

Your heads snapped toward the screen. 

“There’s no external damage affecting the integrity of the device. I detected a foreign biotoxin in the bloodstream that may be bypassing the inhibitor, activating the suppressed arachnid hormones.” 

“What biotoxin?” You frowned. 

“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.” 

Great. He thought. He had no time to take a bath with Yelena Belova to find out what the stupid dust was. 

Tiny, microscopic potato, she would say.

The screen changed, displaying a model of his nervous system. There were yellow bright lines pulsing quickly, running all the way from the base of his brain down the length of his spine. Something unknown was moving through his blood, altering the part of him he had spent months forcing into submission.

He sucked in a breath as he watched you read the screen. Your eyes were focused, and a bead of sweat made its way down the side of your forehead. 

He suddenly felt the need to lick it off. 

Wanted to run his tongue from the base of your neck to the back of your ear. Wanted to fist your hair and make your heart beat out of your chest from how good he knew he could make you feel–

“The effects remain within his enhanced tolerance. However, prolonged exposure to certain hormones can cause extreme distress without relief.” 

“What hormones?” Your voice, worried and unknowing of his thoughts only made him feel guiltier. 

It took him a second to realize what you asked, but EV threw him under the bus before he could say anything. 

“There’s a significant rise in reproductive hormones. The unknown toxin is inducing a strong mating response in him.”

Mating response. He stopped breathing. 

Your eyes slowly moved from the monitor to him, and he saw the moment your attention dropped lower to the tent of his pants. 

That suit concealed nothing on a good day. On one like this? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck–

He shifted almost immediately, but the movement only worsened the pressure, pulling a helpless groan from his throat that made your pulse jump. You looked away at once, turning back to the computer. 

“Is there a way we can…umm…stop it?” You asked hesitantly. 

“The subject is experiencing severe sexual arousal with a fixation on a nearby individual,” she explained, because fuck him if he wasn’t the unluckiest individual on earth. “Acting upon it can be a positive option to relieve sexual tension.”

He wished the floor would open beneath him, swallow him, and never ever EVER spit him back out again.  

Your pulse was absolutely hammering after that. He caught the sudden change in your scent. There was a sharp spark of surprise, nervousness, and something else beneath it that his altered senses fed on immediately.

You kept your eyes fixed on the monitor, although the data had stopped meaning anything the moment you heard fixation on a nearby individual. 

“Is that what you really feel?” You asked softly after a moment. 

His head fell forward, catching it between his gloved hands. He didn’t know how to answer without making everything worse.

Although, after what EV said, could it really be worse? 

“…Yes.” The word came out rougher than he expected. Yet still not enough for what was happening inside him. “It’s like…I can only feel you. All of you.”

Heat rose to your face once again. 

“What does that mean?” 

Don’t say anything, don’t–

“I can smell you.” Great start, idiot. He cleared his dry throat before continuing. “I can smell your shampoo…the lotion you use…the ink on your hands from your favorite pen.” 

He chose not to mention he could also smell the adrenaline on you. The heat gathering slowly beneath your skin. 

Your eyes dropped to your hands, and under the dim light of the computer, you caught the ink stains in them from your journaling session before bed. 

“I can hear your heartbeat changing every time I speak,” he added. Okay, that one slipped out.  

You swallowed. And god, he felt that in his own throat. 

The suit was suffocating him at this point. He wanted to rip it off as much as he wanted to rip off the fabric covering the goosebumps on your skin. 

“Is it only because I’m nearby?” You asked, gathering the courage to turn your chair to him.

White lenses met you across the room. He dragged in another shaky breath of oxygen made of you as he thought about his next words. He could’ve lied. He should’ve lied. But instead, chemically overwhelmed and stripped of every defense he possessed, he gave you the truth. 

“No.”

His voice was firmer this time. No hesitation in it despite the thousand red alarms pounding in his head telling him to shut up. 

“It picked you–no, I picked you for a reason,” he added. “And it’s not just me. The other…the other me wants you too.” 

His voice went lower on the last part, that told you how much it cost him to admit that. 

The silence following his confession was heavy. For a moment he wished he could read your mind. For all he could feel of you, your thoughts were unreachable. 

His own mind was a mess. The impulses didn’t feel like thoughts anymore, just his body feeding him instructions. 

Get up. Cross the room. Touch her. Breathe her in.

His palms shook with the urge to close around you. His teeth ached with the need to graze your skin. His eyes burned with the desire to see beyond fabric. 

Every part of him seemed convinced that the small distance between you was a mistake he needed to correct. That he needed to breathe you in until his lungs burned. Drag his mouth along the inside of your wrist and taste the pulse there.

He hated it.

He hated that something inside him could look at the person he cared for the most and reduce her to an answer for his pain. 

“EV, how long is this state going to last?” He asked the computer, followed by a weak cough as he clutched his side. 

“Your enhanced physiology is struggling to break down the toxin’s structure. I estimate a time between ten to twelve hours before it’s metabolized. However, neurological collapse is expected before that timeframe.”

“What?” You looked at him. “There’s no way we’re letting that happen. Maybe I can–”

“Don’t even start,” he cut you off, shaking his head profusely. 

“So what? I’m supposed to sit here betting on whether your body collapses on hour three or hour six?” 

“I’ll just pass out, big deal. I’m not putting you in danger because of this. I can handle it.”

“You’re barely handling it now. There’s no danger in trying–”

“You don’t understand what’s happening inside me right now,” he argued, raising his voice. “This other thing, the one the inhibitor controls it’s…awake. That part of me doesn’t think like I do. It doesn’t care if you're scared, or hurting–”

“You wouldn’t hurt me–”

“You don’t know that!” He snapped, his fist struck the floor next to him, hard enough to make the worn wood crack beneath his knuckles. 

The sudden noise made you flinch. He smelled the flash of fear moving through your body for only a second. 

One second enough. 

“Fuck–that is what I mean,” he cursed, covering his lenses with his hands. “I don’t…I don’t know if I’d be gentle. I can’t risk this, I can't…shit, I can’t risk you.”

The words, said with so much pain, and honesty, seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest. 

“Okay,” you nodded, settling deeper in your chair. “But I’m not leaving you like this. I can’t risk you either.”

He shuddered a painful exhale. His head dropped to the couch again, shutting his eyes in preparation of what the next hours of torture would be. 

Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes. 

The suit was killing him, so he decided he’d be better without it. He reached desperately behind his back, clumsily undoing the zippers that tied the suit together.

He could feel your wide eyes on him as he tugged the fabric off his shoulders, peeling it off his sweaty arms. He groaned when he lifted his hips and the suit grazed his swollen crotch. In a matter of seconds that felt like eternity he managed to break free from the spandex, and threw it away somewhere in the room. He’d undressed down to his dark boxers, mask still in place, revealing the marble sculpture of his body.

You let out a shaky breath from your spot, eyes raking over a body you’d only seen partially. He was covered in wounds most of the time, but this time, he only had faint bruises from the night before decorating his chiseled abs. 

His tight muscles flexed with every rise of his chest, his bulge straining harder the more you devoured him, pressing against his pants, making him curse quietly. 

You noticed, and returned your eyes to the screen to track his vitals. 

He felt grateful that you’d given him that grace, but just you being in that room made it very hard for him to think of anything other than your existence. 

Too hard. 

Before he knew his hand drifted down the growing ache in his crotch, trying to feel some relief, but every rub he made over the fabric of his boxers sent a jolt of pain through his body instead of pleasure. 

It only made it worse when he realized you were tense at the desk, trying very hard to keep your focus on the screen and not on the whines he was letting out. 

“…I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly, breathlessly, moving his hand away. “I didn’t–”

“Don’t apologize,” you shook your head quickly, eyes still on the screen. “You…you can do whatever you need.” 

He didn’t say anything, just whined in pain again, so you took it as a chance to say it before you regretted it. 

“But my offer still stands, spidey.” 

What a polite way of saying ‘I’d let you fuck me into next week so you can control your horny arachnid hormones, spidey.’

Fucking hell. 

“I’m okay I just–God I didn’t–I didn’t think it would feel this way…” He laughed humorlessly, staring at the ceiling. “But I–I got this. Yes.”

You kept quiet, hearing him mumble to himself about a hundred times about how he had this.

“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…” 

He wasn’t. 

“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”

For God’s sake. 

“I think I can help.”

By the time he registered the words and looked back at you, you had already moved from your chair and shortened the distance between you, kneeling in front of him. 

His senses went from one thousand to one million. He forced his hands behind his back, trying to keep the animal from grabbing you and getting it over with. 

“What–what are you doing?” He stammered nervously, the lenses of his mask going wide. 

“Maynard,” you said quietly, ignoring the way his body tensed up at that name. “Would it make you feel better if I put my hand here?” 

You placed your hand right in the center of his chest, and your cold palm met his overheated skin. He gasped, feeling every individual fingerprint on his skin. He wanted them marked on him. Tattooed. 

His back arched from the couch, with a strangled gasp breaking from beneath the mask. The relief hit him all at once, through a simple contact that felt like salvation. 

Your hand steadied him for only a glorious second, but now that you had touched him, his body knew precisely what it had been denied.

It wanted more.

His own hand closed around yours so suddenly that you almost pulled back, but he loosened his grip the instant he realized how tightly he was holding you. 

“Sorry–”

“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder. 

He was burning.

The heat beneath your palm scared you, but what scared you more was the violent pounding of his heart beating against your hand so so quickly. 

“Better?” You asked quietly, trying not to bite your bottom lip at the image of him crumbling under your palm. 

“So fucking better,” he said breathlessly, pressing your hand tighter against his chest. “I…dammit–”

“Breathe,” you reminded.

His head fell back against the couch. Chest rising up and down, up and down, up and down. 

Just take her, man, she’s right there–

Your free hand accidentally brushed his neck, right where the border of the mask started, snapping him right back. He grabbed your hand, not harshly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch. 

“Please.” Was all he said. 

Leave it on. 

It brought you back to that first night he’d crashed into your life. 

“I wasn’t planning on removing it,” you whispered, leaning closer. “You can keep it on. But let me help you…I really want to.”

See? She wants it. She needs it so bad. 

He hated that the other guy was right. He knew you meant what you said because he could smell the proof pooling between your thighs.

Fuck it.

In a sudden movement he reached for your waist, dragging you forward so you were straddling his lap. The bulge you landed on made you gasp, hands instinctively grabbing onto his sweaty biceps for balance when he let out a broken groan that vibrated against your core. 

His hand cupped your jaw, bringing it closer to his face, and your dilated pupils reflected on the white of his lenses. 

“I can feel that you want this,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. “Please, say it again…”

You shifted your hips, barely, so minimal yet he felt it travel through his whole body. He hissed, tightening the grip on your jaw. 

“I want this,” you repeated firmly, moving your head closer to his ear. “You can take whatever you need…”

You moved your hips again, more deliberate this time, pulling a broken whine from him. The toxin made every contact feel like electricity racing down his spine, straight to the heavy, aching weight of his cock under you. 

“Yes…yeah just like that…” he panted. “Just let me…”

His hands landed on your waist, moving you back and forth at a quicker pace over his bulge. You gasped at the friction, fingers digging into his shoulders, while he let out a collection of muffled words you could barely understand. 

“...M–more…” he whined, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t–I need…”

“What do you need? More what?” 

“More contact.”

His hands left your waist to grab the hem of your shirt. 

“Can I?” He whispered.

You nodded eagerly, gasping when his hands shifted to the collar of your shirt instead, ripping it off your body with a sharp pull. 

“Oh fuck,” he cursed when he realized there was nothing under that shirt, and saw your nipples hardening instantly under the cold air. 

He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask. 

His hands, however, wasted no time to cup your breasts with a broken whine. His thumbs played with your nipples, tugging at them as hard as he could allow himself to without hurting you. 

“Fuck you’re perfect…you’re so perfect…” he whispered, more to himself than you, pulling some soft whimpers out of you when he tugged a little harder. His hands drifted to your lower half, to the hem of the last piece keeping your body from his greedy eyes. “These too,” he said, “please, can I? I want to feel you.”

“Yes,” you nodded, already out of air. 

You didn’t even know why you tried to get off his lap to take the shorts off properly, when he just did the same as the shirt: ripped it in half where it rested on your hips, yanked it off from your body and threw the ruined pieces far away. 

You weren’t wearing anything underneath. 

“I can smell you. God, I can smell you. You’re so–oh God…”

Now he could feel your wetness drenching his boxers, dripping onto the fabric. He could almost taste it in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to drown in it for hours. 

“Can–can I–?”

You didn’t even let him finish, you grabbed his hand and placed it right between your legs. 

Water. He found water in the middle of the dessert. 

His hand moved carefully through your wet folds once, twice, delighting in your warmth, the way you felt, the way you let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard in his miserable life. 

“Fuck…” you cursed softly, moving your hips eagerly when he kept stroking slow. Too slow. “Touch me, please.”

He obliged, fingers finding your clit in movements that had you gripping his shoulders tighter, eyes fluttering shut so beautifully he had to bite his lip to not let out a pathetic sound. 

“Been wanting this,” he mumbled. “Longer than today. Longer than tonight.”

His finger slid inside of you, making you moan when he curled it just right. 

“There were…there were nights I thought about you riding my hand,” he kept going, voice cracking as he added a second finger, stretching you more. “I’ve wanted you for so long–not just because of this shit in my blood. Because it’s you.”

Every word made you clench around his fingers. Every admission pulled another shaky moan out of your throat. You were a mess already, breathless, hips rolling down to meet the thrust of his fingers. 

“Oh my God–don’t stop, please don’t stop–”

“Not stopping, baby.” 

He kept working you open, the white lenses of the mask never leaving your face. His free hand slid up your chest, settling between your breasts. 

“I’m–I’m close,” you managed. “I’m so close–”

“Come on…you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

The heel of his palm lifted to press against your clit. You were right there, right on the edge, about to come on his hand and drip down his boxers–

“Please,” he begged, unable to keep it in. “Let me fuck you after this…please. I need to be inside you. I’ve needed it for so long–just let me, after you come, please, please–”

The plea undid you.

You came with a broken cry, stopping your movements as your walls pulsed around him. The sound you made against his shoulder nearly finished him right there. 

It took you a second to just breathe again, your chest synching up with his in the search of oxygen. He kept rocking his hand slowly, not just to work you through the aftershocks, but because the friction of your pussy in his hand brought the tiniest relief to him. 

You just stayed there as the last soft waves rolled through you. 

Once you were able to see clearly again, you let out a breathless chuckle and straightened back up. 

He needed you. He needed you so badly you really thought he was going to die if you didn’t help him. 

You placed one hand on his chest as the other reached under you, slipping inside the fabric of his boxers without breaking eye contact. 

The second your bare fingers brushed him, his hips jerked hard under you. 

“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly. 

You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.

His cock sprang out, heavy and flushed between your bodies, so thick and hard and painful. The head was red and shiny, with precum dripping down the vein that ran along his length. The tip brushed the skin of your stomach, leaving a warm, wet patch that made the hair on your arms go up. He could smell the small flicker of intimidation sparking inside you, but the want that followed was stronger. 

You stroked him a few times, slowly just as he’d touched you at first. 

“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”

Another thick bead of precum welled up and spilled over your fingers. Whether it was the toxin or just his enhanced physiology, he was dripping for you.  

Flustered wasn’t enough of a word when you had his leaking cock in your hand. 

His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tighter, guiding you up as if he was about to lift you then pulling you back down immediately. 

Fuck her. Fuck her right now. 

“Please, I need–I need to feel you…” he cried out. “Let me…let me…”

You nodded just as desperately, lifting yourself up as he helped, steadying you with shaking hands until the thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance. You both exhaled hard at the same time when you started to sink down, taking him inch by inch.

He was big. Almost too much. The burn of it made your breath hitch, but the way he cursed under his breath multiple times, completely at your mercy, made you keep going until he was buried balls deep.

You sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, and so full of him. 

When the initial sting faded away, you started moving. He let you set the pace as you adjusted, holding back his need of thrusting up. His fingers dug on your skin, not lifting just holding you, but the more that you moved, the more that control started to waver. 

He could feel it coming. The change. 

You kept moaning, bouncing on top of him, completely unaware of his self restraint crumbling away. 

His grip slowly tightened when his eyes began turning completely black under his mask. That careful, pathetic boy who’d been begging disappeared beneath something more…primal. 

Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.

The next thing he knew, his hands slid under your thighs with sudden strength. He lifted you up in one motion until only the thick head of him remained inside you, held you there for a second as the last part of him tried to remember how to be gentle–then snapped his hips up hard.

That first thrust pulled a sharp moan out of you, but there was no chance to adjust this time. He set a relentless pace almost immediately, using pure strength to bounce you on his cock while he drove up to meet every drop of your body, buried so deep it stole your breath every time he bottomed out. 

“Oh my–May…Maynard–” the name you barely used on him slipped out in the middle of the frenzy, but his hand reached behind your head to pull your hair back slightly as he kept thrusting up. 

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, his voice so different from just minutes earlier. “It’s Peter. Call me Peter when I’m inside you.” 

He didn’t even give you time to process, still lifting and dropping you onto his cock at the exact hard rhythm he wanted. The only one that satisfied the need inside of him. Your hands instinctively reached for the edge of the arm of the couch he was leaning against, fingers digging into the worn fabric as he hit that spot inside you over and over again. 

“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”

“That’s better,” he approved. “I was right, you’re so so perfect…taking every inch like you need it as bad as I do…”

A desperate sound slipped out of you at the praise, he could feel your walls clenching tight around him as your body went for that second orgasm, your eyes were fluttering shut, almost there–

“Nuh–uh,” he denied immediately, stopping mid thrust, holding you pressed against him as you gasped, surprised and confused. 

“What–what happened? I was about to–”

“I want you to hold it for me. I know you can.”

That twisted part of him enjoyed the slow realization on your face. 

Even if you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew the same spiderman he’d been without the inhibitor, was the one with your body at his mercy now. 

Good. 

He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, breathing hard behind the mask. When your breathing finally slowed down and accepted that the high never came, he stood up. Still inside you, he walked you to the bed in the corner of the room. 

His bed.

He pulled out with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then laid you down roughly near the edge of the mattress. He kneeled down, strong hands hooking behind your knees and dragging your legs over his shoulders, folding you open for him completely.

“Look at the ceiling,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me.”

You obeyed, staring up at the wood beams high above you while he tugged the bottom of the mask just high enough to free his mouth. 

Peter leaned down and pressed a few soft kisses to your swollen folds. He wasn’t necessarily eating you out, just giving a few loud smooches that felt good enough to make you grip the sheets. 

“M’sorry, you were so perfect there…” he mumbled condescendingly against your most sensitive spots. “But I need you to hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?” 

You nodded, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Maybe too eager. Maybe too pathetic. Just like he’d been. Had he pumped that toxin into you? 

Either way, you didn’t care. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this version of him. 

He laughed right over your clit when you moaned loudly, after he moved his tongue in a slow, torturous swipe over it. 

“Was back there too much?” He cooed. “Maybe I just need to stretch you more...”

Two fingers slid inside you, so easily, but the sudden stretch still dragged a whine out of your throat. He curled them immediately, finding the spot that made your hips jerk. 

“Peter…” 

“Huh?” He acted coy, pumping his fingers with a rhythm that kept you right on the edge without letting you tip over. He added a third finger, making your back arch from the mattress. “Keep holding it in.”

Every shake of your body fed the stupid toxin inside him. Having you like this…really trying to keep your body from coming apart because he said so. 

God. He was never going back. 

“You just took my cock. I think you can take three fingers with no problem.” 

He kept the same relentless pace, chuckling when your body started twitching again. 

“Shhh, you’re perfect, absolutely perfect…”

“Peter…” you called out again, hand dropping the sheet to find his shoulder instead. “I need…need…”

“Need what?”

“Need you inside me…please I won’t–I won’t hold for much longer just–fuck me.”

He stopped altogether, a smirk you couldn’t see stretching the corner of his mouth. He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, licking them clean before tugging his mask back in place and standing up. 

“Yeah?” 

Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed for a moment before his hands gripped your hips and turned you over. He moved you higher up the bed, grabbing one of the pillows, and shoving it under your hips, tilting your lower body up for him. 

He then climbed onto the bed behind you and knelt between your spread thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight as one hand stroked down the length of your spine. 

But something made him stop. 

“This fucking mask–” he cursed under his breath. “It’s suffocating me.”

The sweat on his forehead had pooled under the mask, making it so sticky over his eyebrows that it was affecting the lenses he was trying to see you through. 

“I need you to be a good girl for me,” he added breathlessly, yet still commanding enough. “Keep your head on the mattress. Ass up. Don’t turn around.”

You nodded. Too eagerly again. Couldn’t care any less again. 

He didn’t think twice, just yanked the mask off and tossed it aside. It landed near you, making you bury half your face on the sheets as if staring at the mask alone would be disobeying his commands. 

The sound he made when the cool air hit his face was pure relief. He swiped the sweat off with his forearm, finally seeing you clearly. Face down. Eyes squeezed shut. Already clutching the sheets. 

“You look so pretty like this,” he mumbled. “All spread out for me…waiting.”

“Peter…” you whined, lifting your ass slightly from the pillow. 

“I know, I know. You’re okay.” He couldn’t keep the smirk away when he added, “you said please.”

He reached between you, guiding the thick head of his cock between your thighs until it nudged against your entrance. You were still soft and ready and perfect. 

Peter pushed in slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank deep and deep and deeper. 

He braced one hand beside your head and kept the other on your hip, pushing you into the mattress as his thighs hit the back of yours. Slap. Slap. Slap. The position left almost no space between your bodies, with Peter pressing his chest against your back. 

“Fuck…you feel so good like this…so pretty taking me.”

He kept going, making the mattress creak and the base of the bed hit the brick wall repeatedly. Your desperate moans ran through his body like electricity, making something inside him crack open again. 

What? What is–

The moment his rhythm stuttered, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Beads of sweat flew from his hair to your back. 

“God–you…you’re making me–” The roughness of his thrusts slowed down immediately, inhaling a sharp intake of air as he felt the change again. “I can’t, I can’t…”

He lifted his gaze to the window behind the bed and noticed his eyes had turned back to its original color. 

“Oh my god,” he gasped, stopping altogether. He straightened up, still kneeling and inside you, but panicking. “I’m…I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened I–“

“Peter!” You cut him off, pushing yourself back, closer to him, without turning around. “Shut up and fuck me.”

The order left your mouth breathless, pushing back against him even more to make the point clear. His hands twitched when they gripped your hips again. 

“Okay, okay…” he panted, groaning when you dropped back on the bed and his cock almost left the warmth of your pussy. “I’m sorry–if I was too rough, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

He picked up the pace again, but the words tumbling out of him now were pure pleading Peter again. 

“Don’t turn around–don’t turn around–fuck, fuck…” slap, slap, slap. “You can come now. Please. Please, I want to feel it–you’d come apart so pretty on me, I know you would…pleasepleaseplease–”

His final permission and the desperate way he said it made you crash harder than the first time, crying out into the mattress. The second he felt you coming around him, he knew he couldn’t last much longer either.

“Can I–inside…please, can I??…let me fill you up–”

“Yes–inside, Peter, do it inside me…” 

He buried himself to the hilt with a strained groan and finally came. The orgasm tearing out of him was harder and longer than anything he’d ever felt, holding you there, filling you up. 

You gasped against the sheets, breathless, as the waves of cum seemed to go on forever, flooding you with warm and thick ropes in every spurt as he emptied himself inside you. 

“Thank you…thank you…” His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, sending broken gasps against your skin as he kept coming. “You are so perfect–fuck…so perfect…thank you…”

The pollen wrung him dry until he could barely breathe, and even then he kept rolling his hips weakly, chasing the last of it while he slowly softened inside you. 

When it finally eased, the pain, the need, the hunger…he pulled out slowly with a whine, and half collapsed over you. His arms held most of his weight as he planked above you, but you could feel every ridge of his muscles brushing your sweaty skin. 

Peter’s eyes fluttered shut, feeling exhausted and aching in the best way, almost lulled by the sounds of your agitated breaths. 

You both felt the warm trail of liquid leaking out between your bodies and neither of you moved or said anything for a while. He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With your naked body under him, no masks, no barriers, just your swollen pussy leaking out his seed–

“Successful ejaculation brought down the arachnid hormone levels immediately. Inhibitor working within regular parameters now. Congratulations, Peter.” 

EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence. 

It took two seconds of shock before you both broke into breathless laughter. His teeth grazed your back as your bodies vibrated in sync from the amusement and overall flustering after everything that happened. 

“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered. 

“You’re welcome. I gathered data and the released semen volume exceeds standard parameters by two hundred and twenty six percent due to the high hormonal concentration. Hydration, clean up and rest are advised.”

“For fucks sake…” Peter cursed under his breath. 

“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets. 

That was your call back to reality. 

Peter felt you move under him, reaching blindly to the side until your hand found the mask. You lifted it over your shoulder, offering it to him without looking. 

“I don’t want to,” he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I…I don’t want to put it back on.” 

“Then I’ll close my eyes,” you offered instead. 

“No–I mean…you don’t have to. I don’t want to wear it around you anymore. Not after…all of this,” he admitted sheepishly. 

“But you told me to not turn around,” you reminded him, dropping the mask on the mattress again. “And that was you, not the darker you.”

He chuckled, nodding even if you couldn’t see him yet. 

“Yeah, because if I saw your face while I was balls deep inside you I would’ve busted before you came.”

There it was. He said it. No turning back now. 

At least it got a chuckle from you too. 

“Listen I…I meant everything I said. Everything. The wanting, the nights I thought about you,” he confessed. “I don’t want you to feel like I just used you when…when there was always a reason why I needed you like oxygen tonight.”

Your breath hitched, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him, and when you didn’t push away…he exhaled in relief behind you. 

“So maybe…you can turn around now. If–if you want to. Know the real me.”

“I would really like that,” you whispered without hesitation. 

You tried lifting yourself up to turn around, but he did most of the job, moving away the pillow he had placed under you and helping you roll onto your back. You closed your eyes, at least until you were facing him completely, and took a deep breath. Holding onto his biceps for moral support, you finally opened them again. 

Seeing his face for the first time felt so intimate, even after everything you just did. 

There he was. The same guy who just fucked you into next week, looking more shy and boyish than you could’ve ever imagined. 

Brown eyes. Dark, curly hair sticking to his forehead. A nervous smile tugging at the corner of his gorgeous mouth. 

So young. So earnest. So yours. 

Not spidey anymore. Just Peter. 

Your Peter. 

Thank you so much for reading 🤍 I used to write Peter so much back in the day (shoutout to my starktonyx era) and I’ve missed him dearly.

Feedback is always appreciated 🕷️

Divider by @andromeda-graphics

it was about nine p.m. when peter called frank, upside down on a building with his mask halfway on. perer forgot to bring your bag from the last time you stayed at his place… two weeks ago. youve been bugging him about the bag as of late but he hasn’t been available so he asked frank to do it.

ring…. ring…. ring…. “what, kid.” the older mans gruff voice crackled through the phone.

“frank, can you—”

“no.”

“i didn’t even get to say it yet!”

“since when do i do favors for you?”

“dude, i literally saved your life!”

“no you didnt.”

“frank, please.”

frank groans on the other line, probably running a hand through his hair. “fine, kid.” he hangs up. peter calls him back. “frank.” he says flatly.

“what.”

“i didnt tell you the favor yet.”

“hurry up.” frank grumbled.

“can you drop off a backpack for me? i’ll send you the address.”

“‘kay”

.

.

.

a sudden knock startled you awake. you were supposed to be altering a formula for peter but you dozed off on accident. stretching, you look to the small white analog clock on your desk. the time blinking 10:30 p.m. at you. a look confusion takes over your tired face.

who would be knocking on your door at this hour?

another sharp knock sounds from your front door, you hastily get up from your desk and rush to the front door. without looking through the peephole, you unlock and open the door. you did NOT expect to see a tall, handsome and well built man at your door holding… your backpack? well, to be fair you didn’t know what to expect but damn. you couldn’t help but stare at him. he’s so handsome. he’s tall, broad shouldered with rough stubble that lined his jaw. his eyes make him even more attractive, tired yet still alert. something in the way he looked at you made the room feel ten times hotter.

it took you a few moments to realize your gaze lingered for a bit longer than you intended and with that you looked away immediately. you look down from his face and notice something in his hand. your backpack!

“oh, peter sent you?” you asked, eyebrows furrowed. the older man holds your bag out to you with a curt nod. “mhm.” you take the bag, fingers brushing his wrist gently. the contact sent a spark through you and you flinch slightly. frank crosses his arms across his chest. “wus’ ya name?” he asks simply. you give him your name, a soft murmur aided by a small smile. he doesn’t say anything. you look up at him, meeting his eyes once again. “whats your name?”

“‘s frank”

.

.

.

He’s always away for lengths of time, missing you, your voice, your touch. He hates every second of being away - but he knows he has to do it. And however much you hate the space he leaves behind, you also know he has to.

But the worst part about it all? about the void he leaves when he goes? It’s his return.

And yes, that sounds crazy - given the intense loss you feel whenever you wake up and his broad body isn’t next to you, warm enough to heat the entire house on its own - but the worst part is when he comes back.

When he comes back so bloody and bruised that you wonder if it’s someone dropping his body off. Then comes the question of whether it’s his blood, or someone else’s. The god awful feeling of opening the door to his oh-so-distinctive knock, the find a man drenched in blood right in front of you.

And the fear it brings for the first couple seconds you see him.

That’s why, when he got back off his last ‘trip away’ - he gently knocked, and opened the door with his key himself - partially hoping you were a asleep, so he could wash himself off, clean up his own wounds. But he knows that life isn’t that easy, especially for him.

“Frankie?” he immediately hears your quiet voice, hesitant and concerned, as your head pops up from the couch.

He can tell by the look in your eyes he’s done it again - you’re scared.

“Hi, sweet girl.” he whispers, quieter than he thinks he’s ever been before, “i promise it’s a lot better than it looks.”

You sit up on the couch, eyes scanning over him, assessing what damage you could see. He wonders if you know what it does to him to see you like this, so afraid of the man you love.

Your show is still playing in the background - that reality shit he hates so much - but it’s you. Everything you do, is all you. The way you look at him, the shows you watch, how quiet you are when your bare feed plod across the floorboards. Everything that could be about you, in franks world, is about you.

And then he drinks in what you look like. Well, he always knows what you look like - he has many images of you burnt into his brain - but right now, wearing just his t-shirt and that pair of tiny black panties with the bow on the front, he can’t quite believe that you’re really here.

“What- uh, what happened?” You question, just before realising that you ask this each time - and somehow, you still don’t know anything he’s ever done on his ‘trips away’ as he calls them. He never tells you what he does, who he hurts.

You just know it’s for good reason.

“Nothin’ baby, blood ain’t mine. I’m just gonna go clean up.” He grumbles in that just-so-Frank way - boots shuffling and turning round toward the bathroom, when you say, “Frank no, let me clean you up. You must be so tired.”

It’s moments like these when he wonders how he managed this. How he has someone like you - so caring, angelic. In Frank’s mind, he deserves the hide in his bunker, alone and just existing in the void that he became after he lost everything. But somehow - he gets to come home to you, who wants to take care of him, who doesn’t ask questions, who understands who he is.

He steps out of the way so your frame can pass, into the bathroom where the clean ups usually happen.

“Sweet girl, i can tidy myself up.” He reminds you, little smirk drawn across his face when you give him that look that tells him the answer already - “Oh i know you can, i just don’t trust you to do a good job of it.” you wink, smiling back.

Standing in front of you, Frank lifts you up to sit on the bathroom counter - facing him, legs spreading for his large, looking frame to stand in between.

Frank always had a prescience - which is a broad statement to make. But somehow, it captured him so well. No matter where he went, no matter where you went, you could always feel him when he was in the same place as you. That’s what makes you wonder if this is just meant to be, even when it’s hard.

Even when he comes home like this.

“i hate it when you come home like this.” you whisper, wiping his face, tissues coming off red. He looks at you knowingly - the sadness in his eyes, understanding why you hate this.

But he knows you understand why he has to do this.

Gently, your hands wipe away the blood of those who crossed your big bad boyfriend - while he looks at you with the softest, most loving brown eyes you’ve ever seen. Sometimes when you see him like this, so vulnerable… gentle, you wonder how anyone else could see him any other way.

Soon, Franks cuts are stitched back together, his body washed and cleaned and back to his normal self… almost.

“you know i’ll always come home to you.” he says, back to where you were before the shared shower - standing between your legs at the bathroom counter - you looking up at him, his hand on your cheek.

“i know you’ll always come home, Frank. I just sometimes worry it’ll be in a casket instead.” As soon as the words leave your mouth, you can see how much it breaks his heart. His other hand joins, both holding your face close to his, as he whispers, “I’ll always try my damn hardest to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Frank kisses you just as he talks - gently, slowly, softly. Lips tangling with yours like it’s the last chance he’ll get to do it - forehead touching yours like it’s the last touch he’ll ever have.

Even though he won’t say it, can’t bring himself to say it, he knows exactly what this is - Frank loves you.

His tongue finds its way past your lips, intertwining with yours as the warmth envelops you. Your hands hold onto his forearms, his giant hands still holding your face as close to him as he can get - almost in fear you’ll walk away.

“I need you.” you say, his lips moving down and meeting the skin of your neck - wet, sloppy kisses left behind as a note of his unspoken feelings. “I know, my girl. I know.” he grunts, in that classic Frank way of mumbling what he’s saying.

His hands carry on the way his mouth does - downwards. Gentle touches head toward the bottom of his tshirt you threw on to sleep in, tugging at the hem of it, a clear message. Frank lifts it, breaks contact with your skin for a painful second to let you steal yourself of the fabric, bare chest on show - all for him.

“You’re so beautiful. My beautiful girl.” He says, strong arms moving your hips closer to his, feeling the tent in his grey sweatpants rub against you, a wet patch already forming for him. Hands grabbing at your tits, pulling your nipple and relishing in your reaction, taking the chance when you gasp to set his tongue on yours again.

“Frankie, please.” You let your hands grab at him, holding at his shoulders, body begging for more of his touch. You’re aware that you’re begging for him, begging for the man that disappears for weeks on end, comes back bruised and covered in blood - all to end up in this situation again. He knows how to get you, knows your soft spots.

But you also know his.

“S’ok baby, let me make you feel good.” Frank grumbles, setting down on his knees, face meeting with your hot core - he lets his lips meet your panties, the ones you know he loves, pink with a little bow on the front. He kisses over the material, teeth nibbling gently on the skin that sits underneath, smirking at your quiet moan you tried so hard to hide.

A thick finger comes up, pulls your panties to the side, and Frank can’t help but whisper, “fuck.” just before his wet lips plant a kiss right over your already soaked folds - his tongue reaching out and desperate to taste you all over again, like it’s brand new.

“G-oh shit, fuck yes.” you gasp, leaning gently backwards on the counter with one hand, the other grasping onto his hair, weaselling through his soft strands of hair.

Frank licks gently, but with so much need. Tasting how sweet you are, how wet you are already for him makes him impossibly harder in his sweats. His lips gently suck your clit, revealing in his face being soaked in you. “Frankie, feels s-so good.” Your hips rocking slightly, trying to grind along his sharp face, seeking more of his touch.

“I know sweet girl, doing so good for me,” He speaks, looking up at you. Frank has one hand gripping to one of your thighs, holding still the shaking - the other reaches up to your hole, fingers spreading the wetness that threatens to drip out, and gently push in. He listens closely to the way you gasp and moan, becoming louder the more he lets his fingers inside your tight walls.

“Feels good, baby?” Frank smirks, waiting for you to try and muster an answer, before he presses his face back into your pussy, and all he hears is a loud, “oh fuck!” before he lets his fingers speed up, and wraps his lips around your clit again, and sucks. “i’m-i, oh shit, i’m coming.” you gasp, voice not quite coming out as a whole, as your vision whitens and you hold onto his hair tightly - the pain making Franks cock ache in its constraints.

He lets you ride out your orgasm, fingers only slowing once he feels your grip on his hair soften. He stands up, slowly taking his fingers from your core as you gasp at the loss - moving them from your soaked core, to your mouth.

“Holy fuck, sweetheart.” Frank mumbles, your tongue swirling around his two middle fingers, tasting all the remnants of the orgasm he just pulsed through you. “Makes me rock fuckin’ hard doin’ that.”

You pull him closer, hands finding his face and pulling him in for another soul crushing kiss - the wetness that still covers his chin sticking to yours, as messy as it always is between you both.

“Fuck me, please,” you begin, hands palming his cock through his pants, feeling how hard you always have him at just a glance, “need you inside me.”

He knows you need to feel close to him, need to feel him so deeply that he remains there forever - because no matter how many promises Frank makes, he knows there’s always a chance this could be the last time he has you like this. Stripping himself of his minimal clothes, he palms your ass and drags your hips to the edge of the counter, prime position for him to take you as he needs you.

“Tight squeeze, baby, let me in…” He says, rubbing the already leaking tip of his cock through your folds, spreading the wet remnants of your orgasm around to slide in.

The first push is always tight, Frank is big - you’ve known that since the first time you did this. He’s wide, he’s girthy, in more than one sense. Once he’s slid home, your head falls forward onto his chest, gasping and groaning at the full feeling.

“Feels s’good, love having you so close.” You gasp, looking up at him as he looks down at you, and he starts to move. Hips gently sliding in and out of your tight grip, as he makes a low, deep grunt at the feeling of you sucking him right in. “Always here, sweet girl. Never gonna leave.” And he truly means it, Frank never wants to go somewhere you aren’t.

Frank starts to move his hips quicker, the sound of how wet he has you loud and clear for the two of you to hear - just as loud as the gasps and moans coming from your lips. You need to feel him fill you, pull you so close there’s no breathing room, show you he’s here to stay.

You lean back on your hands, as you see Frank look down and watch the way his cock fills you up so good - and you know it’s almost over for him - but he’ll never finish without making you cum at least twice. A rule he’s had your whole relationship.

“You gon’ come for me again?” He speaks, looking up at you and, as one hand holds your thigh up to his hip, the other meets your clit again - rubbing right but gentle circles, feeling the way you clench so tightly around him. “Y-yes, Frankie please, need you s-so bad.” You blubber, as he sees the tears that drop onto your cheeks, and he knows this is it for him.

“You got me babygirl, i ain’t never letting you go.” And that’s the moment that breaks you, a loud moan escaping right from your chest - and the way you clench so tightly around him, walls pulsing around his cock sets off his orgasm too. Franks warm spend fills you up, feeling the way he pulls you impossibly closer, not wanting to let go.

Frank drops his head to your chest, hands holding your waist, not letting go of this moment quite yet.

“Was that true?” You ask, breaking the silence. Your heart beat quickens, awaiting his answer.

You know Frank is a man of few words, and those few words are chosen very carefully. But you also know he has suffered so much loss, that staying in one place makes him too restless, he needs to go in search of things that make him feel whole - even if he hasn’t found that yet, after years of running.

“What?” he asks, softening cock still revelling in your warmth, looking at you as you say, “When you said you’ll never leave.”

“Of course it’s true. I don’need anyone else. I’m comfortable with you here,” He says, and you almost miss the few words that quietly follow, “i ain’t comfortable with many people.”

“Then i’ll be here, to clean you up. As long as you come home safe.” You smile gently, stroking his cheek and watching for his reaction.

his favourite part about it all? when he gets to fuck you just the way he likes - and what he likes, is making you cum in all the places he can think of around the house.

“Frankie! fuck.” you squeak, his hips pushing in and out, he groans watching the way you grip the kitchen counter - godly tits falling out of that fucking vest.

“Good girl, my good girl, aren’t you?” he asks, giant hand swirling its way around your neck, big frame towering behind you, pulling your head back so his eyes can meet yours - so he can see the destruction he is wreaking on your body. “taking all o’me like this. so good.” he thinks he might just be talking to himself now.

his cock drives in and out of you, so deep you can feel him everywhere. the sound of your wetness filling the room, your moans and hint grunts - all you were trying to do was cook him some food.

“y-yes, just yours, just for you.” you mumble, looking at him and seeing how big his pupils are.

his other hand drifts from your hip, right onto your soaked clit - and you jump at the feeling of him rubbing little circles, trying to push you over the edge.

“fuck feels s’good frank, please don’t stop.” you beg, the way he hammers so good, at the right spot over and over again, so deep in your pussy - you can feel the end coming, so desperately wanting to fall over that edge. “pleaseplease, frankie fill me up please.”

“ahh, my sweet girl, always beggin’ for me. want me to fill this pussy up? wan’me to make you cum?” his words come out fast, and slurred together, and you know he’s close too.

“yes frankie yes, p-oh god!” you say, finally tipping over the edge, vision whitening head dropping forward onto the counter and hip pushing back, taking as much of his cock as you can get.

you don’t even realise how loud you’re screaming until he lifts your head, one hand covers your mouth, and he says, “you want the neighbours to know what i do to you, baby girl? want them to know how i make you scream in the kitchen?”

he’s still driving into you, hips slapping against yours as the wetness he created drips down onto his thighs, onto his clothes that swim around his ankles.

“yes frankie, wan’them to hear everything.” you moan out, vision still spotty after such a strong orgasm - just like he always gives you.

and finally, with a low, drawn out groan - you feel him fill you up, right to the brim. his warm spend filling your walls, dripping right out onto the floor. his thrusts slowing to a stop, his head meets your shoulders, and you can feel the way he smirks run across your skin.

when you always ended up like this.

“trying.” you squeak, kneeling on the bathroom floor - vision turning to static, loosing the feeling in your lips.

“you’re doing so good baby, just like that, in and out.” his hands holding your shoulders, down on one knee in front of you, and you can feel him trying to pull you back into his world.

a world that feels so separate. a different timeline. a different entity all together.

“it’s okay, it’s okay, everything is okay.” frank sits down, and holds you close to his chest, you listen to his heart and the way it beats rhythmically - trying to focus on the sound of him. but you still feel so lost and trapped at the same time.

“babygirl, remember last time, when i told you that no matter what, you’ll be okay? i meant that. i promise this will end, just breathe for me.” he says, in the most gentle way he has yet.

his giant hands rub your back, hold you close, and encourage you silently to breathe along with him - a slow, paced pattern - something calm.

“so proud o’you baby, just keep breathing.” something about his harsh, deep voice drags you back to him - his soft touch, holding you through everything.

“you know you’re safe with me sweetheart, i ain’t never leavin’ you.”

“f-frankie, please.” you beg, thighs quaking as he pushes your head into the sheets beneath you - cock stretching you out, the burning surrounding your walls. after all this time, he’s still too big.

his thrusts become more forceful, the push of his hips evoking sounds you’ve never heard from yourself before - moans, screams - as the feeling of him leaning over you makes you feel small.

“begging now? is that what you’re doing? nah babygirl, none o’that.” he spits out, teeth clenching at the feeling of you constricting his cock, nudged so deep he can feel the outline of him when his huge fingers run over your stomach. “got your big ol’frankie behind you, after all that attitude, and now you’re beggin?”

the feeling between your legs, deep within you, burns - and the words you were about to say leave your lips. your clit twitches, begging for his calloused hands to touch you.

his frame leans over fully, his weight folded on top of you - crushing you, almost - and all you can do is scream at the feeling of him bullying his cock ever deeper into you, and his hand finally slips under your bodies and onto the little nub that’s been begging for him for so long.

“like it when i fuck you like this?,” he growls in your ear, rubbing harsh, fast circles, “like it when i make you cum all over me?”