#no proofread

Dammed be the overwhelming desperation that makes his wet cock slip out of you because of a needy, clumsy movement, causing Dex to grunt softly beneath you. Before you can even catch your breath, he blindly searches for his cock, shoving it roughly back into your swollen ruined pussy, ripping a shaky moan from your lips.

His hips resume their punishing rhythm, pounding upward in vicious thrusts that have you tensing and arching off his chest in a poor attempt to escape his overheated body. But his hands are tight on your hips, holding you captive as his cock rubs relentlessly against your G-spot.

Sobs, gasps, and small whines are all that escape your parted lips while you're just trying to beg him for a tiny break.

You have no idea how many times you've come, how many times you've dripped all over his cock until you've soaked the sticky sheets, all you know is that Dex hasn't come and seems to be on the agonizing edge for a long time, just pounding and leaking and whining and cursing because he can't fill you up and he's bringing you to his torture, ruining you as he's at it.

The sounds he makes in your ear are nothing but broken, pained with frustration as he sweats profusely and his freckled skin is deeply flushed, pretty blush trailing down past his shoulders and you feel another orgasm building inside you as his hand slides from your hip to your cunt, his middle finger beginning to make tight little circles on your swollen clit.

“Dex! Wait—wait,” you huff, whining, instinctively closing your legs, but you hear him refuse behind you, and a loud smack of his four fingers against your soaked cunt sends you shuddering, your thighs opening again thanks to the delicious sting.

“Open—” he commands, muffled in that hoarse voice, “keep them open, come on, come on baby, don’t close them, I don’t want it.” His voice is weary, desperation dripping from its tone, and you're sobbing, gripping his wrist because your clit is so sensitive to the touch. His hips don’t stop, his finger continues to abuse your flesh up and down, side to side, pressing while making circles, and he notices you squeeze his weeping cock tighter when he puts you under a restraint.

He starts thrusting rapidly into your cunt, some strokes of his finger softer than others, causing you to gasp his name and try to move your hips away from him, but he's still frustrated beneath you, accelerating his thrusts and slapping your pussy harder until the sound is so obscene and wet that you reach other orgasm, pain and pleasure merging into one, and you clench around him, coaxing a curse from him as the wave of pleasure tear your feverish tight body apart.

“Shit! Oh fuck—Ah, again, again” he sobs eagerly, feeling himself almost finish again but going back to the torture of not being able to, there are tears welling on his eyes and he's keeping his hand on top of your cunt as he fucks you, and the overwhelming stimulation is making you try to escape again, still fresh and tired from your orgasm and when his cock slips out of your quivering entrance again, he lets out a muffled sound, complaining and unable to bear how your body keeps trying to get away.

Regardless of your silent protests, he places his forearm around your neck, pressing against your throat roughly, causing your body to freeze on top of his. Your hands move up to grip his arm, his bicep, pawing and gripping at the muscles as you feel strange sensations rising towards your bladder and you force your throat to work, trying to spit out pitiful excuses of words as your body burns.

“S—Stop, Dex, please, please, I feel—” you mutter, a smack knocking the wind out of you, and you regain your voice while he's trying to merge with you. “M’gonna pee…” you sob, so embarrassed. “Dex, I’m gonna pee—please!” and you're not even sure if you're actually going to pee or it is just squirt, either way, both mean a mess on top of him, both mean shame when you're so overwhelmed and weak to think about the sweet benefits.

A burning tremor runs through every part of Dex's body at the your words full of panic and he has to swallow hard to speak.

For a split second, his thrusts cease and a quiet gasp escapes his lips. “Yeah? Are you sure?” he begins, his free hand traveling down your body until it rests on your stomach, and he's purring, talking again. “Do you promise?” he whispers eagerly, pressing his palm hard right over your lower belly, and you squirm, tensing as he starts moving his hips upward again quickly, stealing your breath and making your cheeks burn with shame.

He never thought about stopping.

Now you're letting your tears flow, trying to muffle your pitiful little cries as you're feeling your limit break faster than you can bear and Dex is babbling softly in your ear, making it so much worse for you. His forearm finally lets you breathe and suddenly he's using both hands, letting them rest on your bladder, maintaining such pressure that you arch your back, trying not to make a fucking mess on top of him as your chest rises an falls because the sick bastard is kneading at your stomach, milking you.

You can feel his cock twitching inside you, intrigued by what's coming next. So hard and eager for it, Dex is humming when he feels you just can't take it anymore and he lets out a hoarse, shaky laugh, so excited he's lost his mind and completely forgot about his own impossible climax.

“It hurts, right? The restraint... Worst part is that you're doing it to yourself,” he purrs amusedly, gently pounding upwards, nothing compared to what he's doing on your belly. “I'm not even doing it anymore... You love to restrain yourself when you're with me. It's sad.” he whispers and you sob because it hurts so much and he's right.

“My girl, you make me feel bad for this. But you won't leave until you do it.”

© machiavelliam | masterlist | 02 / 05 / 26

I LOVEEE DOING THAT DUMB SHIT WITH ENDINGS OMGGGGGG 😭😭😭WHO WANT ME😭😭😭😭

The weeks pass in fragments.

Not whole days, not clean stretches of time; just pieces. Moments stolen between shifts. Conversations that begin with clinical observation and end somewhere softer, somewhere neither of them fully understands.

They do not seek each other out openly.

That would be noticed.

Instead, it becomes a pattern.

He appears in the observation labs when she is already there. Or she finds herself assigned to sectors she never used to work in, only to realize, minutes later, that he is somewhere nearby. Neither of them acknowledges the pattern out loud.

But it exists.

And it grows.

At first, their conversations remain structured.

He asks questions.

Precise. Focused. Sometimes strangely specific.

“How do you determine trust in a non-quantifiable environment?”

“What differentiates familiarity from attachment?”

“Is emotional stability dependent on external presence or internal regulation?”

She answers as best as she can.

Sometimes clinically.

Sometimes honestly.

Sometimes she just says, “I don’t know,” and he accepts that in a way that surprises her every time.

Over time, the space between their words changes.

It becomes less about data.

More about presence.

He begins to stand closer.

Not close enough to touch.

Never that.

But the careful distance he maintained at first begins to shrink in small, almost imperceptible increments.

And she notices.

Of course she does.

She notices the way he watches her hands when she works, as if memorizing the motion.

The way his gaze lingers not on her face, but slightly to the side of it, like he is trying not to look too directly.

The way he pauses sometimes before speaking. Not because he doesn’t know what to say, but because he is deciding whether to say it at all.

He is learning restraint.

Not from programming.

From experience.

From her.

And that realization unsettles her more than anything else.

Because it means this, whatever this is, is no longer just residual memory.

It is becoming something new.

----

The day everything changes does not feel different at first.

The facility hums the same way it always does. Sterile. Controlled. Predictable.

She is halfway through a routine systems check when the alert comes through.

Level three clearance required.

Restricted lab access.

Subject: Zeno.

Her stomach drops before she even finishes reading.

She moves immediately.

The corridors feel longer than usual, the distance stretching in ways that don’t make sense. Her steps are quick, controlled, but her pulse is already too fast, her mind already racing ahead to possibilities she does not want to consider.

Testing.

They said he would be tested.

She knew that.

Clinical. Controlled. Necessary.

But theory has always been easier than reality.

When she reaches the lab, the doors are already sealed.

Two guards stand outside.

They move to block her.

“Restricted-”

“I have clearance,” she cuts in sharply, already pulling up her credentials.

There is a brief pause.

A check.

Then the doors slide open.

The moment she steps inside, something feels wrong.

Not visibly.

The lab looks the same. White, sterile, filled with equipment that hums softly in the background.

But the air..

The air feels tighter.

Charged.

Like something irreversible has already happened.

He is in the center of the room.

Seated.

Restrained.

Her breath catches.

Not violently restrained. Not struggling. The bindings are clinical; precautionary rather than punitive.

But they are still restraints.

And she hates them instantly.

His head is slightly lowered, shoulders tense in a way she has never seen before.

Around him, technicians move with quiet efficiency, recording data, monitoring vitals, speaking in low voices that try to sound calm and fail.

One of them turns as she approaches.

“The procedure is complete,” they say.

Procedure.

The word makes her stomach twist.

“What did you do?” she asks, her voice already colder than she intends.

“Mutated T-strain integration,” the technician replies. “Phase one.”

Her eyes snap back to him.

“Why wasn’t I informed?”

There is a pause.

Then, carefully, “The decision came from above.”

Of course it did.

The Connections.

Always watching. Always deciding. Always pushing further than anyone should.

Her jaw tightens.

“What strain?” she demands.

“Modified. Enhanced adaptability. Accelerated cellular response.”

That tells her nothing.

Or rather, it tells her too much.

Her gaze shifts back to him.

“Release him,” she says.

“That’s not advisa-”

“Release him.”

Something in her tone makes them hesitate.

Then comply.

The restraints disengage with a soft mechanical click.

For a moment, he doesn’t move.

Then slowly, deliberately, he lifts his head.

And her breath stops.

It’s subtle at first.

A shift in the skin along the left side of his face.

Dark.

Vein-like.

But not veins.

Something else.

Something growing.

It spreads from just beneath his eye, branching outward in thin, jagged lines that look almost like cracks in porcelain but alive. The same pattern trails down along his jaw, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt, curling along the side of his neck like something invasive, something that does not belong.

Her chest tightens painfully.

“No…”

The word barely escapes her.

His eyes find hers.

Still gold.

Still clear.

But there is something else there now.

Something sharper.

Something… strained.

“It is within acceptable parameters,” he says.

His voice is steady.

Too steady.

She steps closer, ignoring the technicians, ignoring everything except the sight of that unnatural marking spreading across skin that should have remained untouched.

“They did this to you,” she whispers.

“It was anticipated.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

Her hand lifts before she can stop herself.

For a split second she hesitates.

Then her fingers hover just beside the mark on his face.

Not touching.

Close enough to feel the faint heat radiating from his skin.

“It’s spreading,” she says quietly.

“Yes.”

“Does it hurt?”

A pause.

“Yes.”

The answer is simple.

Unadorned.

And it hits harder than anything else.

Her throat tightens.

“They didn’t even tell you, did they?” she asks softly.

He doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t need to.

Something sharp and angry rises in her chest.

Not at him.

At them.

At the people who see him as nothing more than a project. A result. A thing to be tested and pushed and altered without consent.

“You’re not a weapon,” she says, more to herself than to him.

He studies her face carefully.

“That is debatable.”

“No,” she says, firmer now. “It’s not.”

Silence falls between them again.

The technicians have stepped back slightly, giving them space, though she can feel their eyes watching, analyzing, recording.

She doesn’t care.

Her gaze softens as she looks at him again.

“You should have been told." she says quietly.

“It would not have changed the outcome.”

“That’s not the point.”

Another pause.

Then, unexpectedly, he says,

“I have not experienced this level of… unpredictability before.”

Her eyes flick back to his.

“From the virus?”

“No.”

A beat.

“From you.”

Her breath catches.

He looks at her like he’s trying to understand something that doesn’t fit into any framework he has.

“You are… upset,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The question isn’t cold.

It isn’t detached.

It’s genuine.

And that makes it worse.

She exhales shakily.

“Because they hurt you.”

“It is a necessary part of development.”

“I don’t care.”

The words come out sharper than she expects.

“I don’t care if it’s ‘necessary.’ You’re not just something they get to break apart and rebuild whenever they feel like it.”

He watches her, something shifting behind his eyes.

“You are assigning value to my well-being beyond functional parameters,” he says slowly.

She lets out a small, disbelieving breath.

“Yes.”

Silence.

Then-

“I have not left this facility before.”

The statement comes out of nowhere.

It takes her a second to process it.

“What?”

“I have not been outside.”

Her chest tightens.

“Not once?”

“No.”

She stares at him.

“You’ve never seen the sky?”

“No.”

The word is quiet.

Certain.

And something inside her breaks.

All at once, the image of the cemetery rises in her mind.

The open sky.

The wind.

The quiet.

Albert’s grave beneath the tree.

Free.

And him..

This man standing in front of her, marked by something he never chose, confined to walls he never left.

He has never seen any of it.

Her voice softens to something fragile.

“There’s a whole world out there,” she says.

“I am aware of its existence.”

“That’s not the same as seeing it.”

He studies her expression carefully.

“You place significance on it.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

She hesitates.

Because how do you explain something like that to someone who has only ever known artificial light and controlled air?

“Because it reminds you that you’re… not just this,” she says quietly, gesturing faintly around them.

“That there’s something bigger. Something that isn’t controlled. Something that just… exists.”

He processes that.

Slowly.

Carefully.

“And you believe that has value?”

“Yes.”

Another pause.

“I would like to see it.”

The words are simple.

But they land with unexpected weight.

Her breath catches.

She looks at him.

At the marks on his skin.

At the quiet restraint in his posture.

At the way he is standing there, trying to understand a world he has never been allowed to experience.

And something inside her shifts.

Softens.

“I’ll take you,” she says.

The promise leaves her mouth before she can stop it.

Before she can think about consequences.

Before she can consider what it would mean.

His gaze sharpens slightly.

“You would do that?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

She meets his eyes.

Because no one ever gave him a choice.

Because he deserves more than this.

Because she knows what it feels like to be trapped in a place that takes and takes and never gives anything back.

But what she says is quieter.

“Because you should see it at least once.”

He watches her for a long moment.

And for the first time since she met him, there is something in his expression that isn’t analysis.

Isn’t calculation.

Something softer.

Something uncertain.

Something almost… human.

The mark along his face pulses faintly beneath the surface of his skin.

But for that moment, she doesn’t see it.

She just sees him.

Idia will know it. You can't tell me that man doesn't stalk you. Even if you're a friend, when he will get bored or having nothing to do or just for knowing what his friend/partner do, he will look in the school cameras. He will see that you act differently with almost everyone, adapting to the person you are speaking with. He would surely be intrigued and/or confused about this. Idia will probably wonder who the real you is, and if you were lying to him all along. He'll question you about it at some point, if you lie about being the real you with him, there's a 50/50 chance he'll believe you, his sixth sense screaming that you're lying. If you tell the truth, he won't talk to you for days, can't believe he fell into this trap- the trust will be broken, and it would be worse if you were together romantically because he will think you also lie about loving him, but it could be fixed with time.

I've seen MULTIPLE people say that 'Peter is justified in not helping Gwen during the Go-Home scene. Because Miguel was obviously violent and he's probably scared of him plus he was holding MayDay.'

Which is an excuse that ignores the fact that it's pitiful that GWEN a teenage girl facing homelessness - who is likely weaker than both Peter and Miguel - is more willing to stand up to Miguel than PETER PARKER.

It ignores the fact Miguel would NOT attack a fucking baby. He's a FATHER.

But it's easier to assume the Latino man is a raging, angry, baby killer than to admit the white man is committing neglect.

It baffles me that people will really defend Peter saying 'he was scared - he didn't know what Miguel would do-'

Neither did Gwen. But she still did it.

Because she's a GOOD GUY. Because it mattered to her. Because the people she cared about were getting hurt.

She stood up to Miguel in the face of literal danger and homelessness.

Peter had nothing to lose. He make a joke and shut up when he was told.

Once again: If Gwen and Hobie hadn't come for Peter, we have NO IDEA how long he would've stayed with Miguel. We are given NO INDICATION prior to Gwen's arrival that Peter is actively going to change sides. Or is even really considering it in that moment.

Even in the script Peter shows no remorse or worry for Gwen or Miles at all.

It's as if they don't cross his mind. As if he doesn't care he led Miguel directly to Miles because he forgot he had on a tracking watch. As if what he just witnessed didn't disturb him, as if he isn't worried that Gwen is literally homeless.

All he cares about is him, and his image as mentor.

Like sir, I do not give a DAMN. I might not even give a fuck, if you will.

Shut the fuck up about that mentorship shit 😭😭😭😭 You tryna mentor niggas that's MISSING.

He's like that deadbeat dad that brought you a bike a decade ago at 6 and he still bringing it up asking you why you don't call him 'dad'. Like just because you taught Miles to swing over a year ago doesn't mean you're his mentor mfer. Miles would've learned to swing anyway cause it's literally instinctual and every person bitten eventually learns it by themselves so really Peter wtf 😐

People will scream 'But there's nothing he could do!! Miguel is too scary!!'

One: Peter is one of if not the Spider-person with the most experience. If we assume he was bitten at 18 and he's say 45 now, that's still over 25 years of experience. If he was bitten in high school, that's even more experience.

He has biological powers Miguel doesn't, plus he has years of experience over Miguel - who canonically got his powers as an adult. If anyone in that room can beat Miguel - it's him.

If you're telling me that Peter B. Parker is not only scared of Miguel but he's scared to the point he will not even attempt to question him, even though three people younger than him will - Gwen, Hobie, and Miles - that's pitiful. That's a sad excuse for a Spider-man.

Also He's Spider-Man. The whole point of Spider-man is he fights even if he isn't sure he can win.

Two: At the very least, he can show that he's genuinely concerned for the kids he wants to mentor so bad. But he doesn't even do that. Even bringing them up or saying their names doesn't cross his mind.

But once again, the white male character emotionally neglecting those around him - especially the children who depend on him - and both he are George are either shown as innocent, unwilling to act, or the script is outright sympathetic towards them.

It's easy to call the Latino man an animal but writing a scene in which a white cop is rightfully portrayed as selfish is too hard.

It's easy to call the Latino man a monster but writing Peter Parker as a heroic figure is too hard.

The racism is not just towards Miguel. It's also in the blatant favoritism the white male characters are given.

Both George and Peter actively endanger those around them and at no point do they do something on their own accord that helps anybody but themselves.

Gwen has to go to her father - by force. Gwen has to go to Peter - using Hobie's hard work.

What we NOT GONNA DO is give the white man praise when it's literally the black guy who did all the work.

Fuck - Hobie mentored Gwen TEN TIMES MORE than Peter ever did Miles. Hobie put a roof over Gwen's head and came to get her when no other person would.

Writers, stop trying to make me sympathetic towards the white men who actively hurt the people around them when there's good mentors like Hobie and good parents like Rio and Jeff.

I ain't with the shits'. If anyone is an animal in this script, it's the man who pointed a gun at his daughter.

I guess assaulting and mentally scaring children is only okay if you do it with a firearm? Or if you make this face while doing it 🥺*

(*coupon not available for the melinated)

I changed my mind i don't forgive Peter or George. Miguel who has a whole ass arc of life and death and loss gets called an animal while the white cop with six minutes of screentime gets shown as father of the year while holding a loaded gun to a child girl you must be kidding me