camm

Self-care doesn't fit in Spider-Man's schedule, never mind Peter Parker's.

From the slow crawl of dawn to the creeping greys of dusk, Peter contributed to a worker's cycle, soulless if not for the souls he saved daily. Waking up to work on his suit, not himself, and throwing himself into the streets was his routine, only limping inside his sheltered apartment when the night was deep and the crime rate evened out. The sanctuary of his solitude didn't comfort him, but falling back on the lack of comfort was more secure than the unknown of attachment.

His cycle lasted an unhealthy but impressive two years, Peter Parker wiped from memories and the majority of documentation. He wallowed in his own sadness until a valiant effort to pull himself together sprang through. To better his true identity or heroic one as Spider-Man, he was unsure, but in between restless nights and mourning what he had, his heart opened up enough to let another slide into place.

Who would have thought an unfamiliar face was the key when his own was unfamiliar to everyone who once knew him.

---/╲/\╭ºoꍘoº╮/\╱\---

"Peter?" Hammering the toe of your shoe to the rotting wood, dust clouds around the bottom of the door, coating the fraying welcome mat in dirt. Your teeth click, pushing your jaw out in a disapproving hiss, deciding that wiping the muck off your sneaker would only further dirty the sole than clean. Typical, Peter wasn't exactly the cleanest guy you knew. Two years with him solidified that.

You'd think the man behind Spider-Man would be spatially aware enough to remember to dust his front door- you'd think it'd come with the job, but then again, Peter's been missing for the past four days. Wrapped up in himself, you left him for the first two, figuring he crashed from exhaustion, then sent a slew of angry messages the third when he refused to open your contact at all.

By the fourth, today, you've figured he's dead, dying, or ditched you. All three were bad, and by standing outside his studio, you still couldn't narrow it down to one.

Reaching up, you bat the webbing from an old spider's nest from the corner of his doorway, muttering to yourself to sweep it down for him as you force your key into the lock, twisting the knob with a rusty click and push.

"You better be decent!" You call out, head ducked down as you shoulder the stuck wood inwards, stepping through the doorway. "Or at least your corpse better be posed in a flattering way!"

Lifting your head up, your breath catches in a hitch as you enter his apartment, inhaling a collection of stale air and dirt, the door swinging shut behind your heels. You wave your hand over your mouth, covering your lips in shock as a strand of coiled, sleek webbing drifts in front of your face, the web broken as the movement of the door disconnected its clinging ends from the hinge.

"God fuck, Pete." Grunting behind your palm, you slowly reach forward, pushing aside large clumps of webs, intricate and sticky, still new as it decorates the expanse of his apartment. It'd be revolting if it wasn't so bizarre, your brain stuck in shock rather than disgust at the silk smearing along your forearm as you tear down the bulk of the webs.

Forward, wound up in a cocoon, you see the flash of skin behind tightly woven silk, forearms bunched together, curled around his face. The nest bundles around his apartment, clinging to his couch, all around his desk, binding together parts of his 3D printer and technology you're sure will be a burden to clean later.

Stepping closer, you spin on your heel, scanning the cluttered room for a clue on what happened the past few days. If Peter was okay trapped in his own coffin. You remember being told to never cut open a caterpillar's cocoon, that it'd gravely hurt their life cycle, but you figure a spider can't be that different. Or dangerous.

Dragging your nails through the cottony webs, you push your face closer, wide eyes blinking, searching for a wrinkled forehead or the bump of Peter's nose, flinching when you meet dark pupils glaring back at you.

"Oh-" You gasp, drowned out by Peter's equally horrified, far more frantic shout of his own. "Woah-?"

His forearms tense, pushing outwards as he tears through the upper part of the cocoon, flailing the sticky webs off of his face. He sputters, choking out the cobwebs as the strands along his legs buckle and snap, sending him plummeting from the rafters headfirst into the floor.

"Awh! Crap- what the hell..." Peter mumbles, catching his panicked breath as he springs up, stumbling back and forth as he sheds the last of his web from his flesh. You rear backwards, legs pumping before you can confirm Peter is Peter and not dead, or worse, a bipedal arachnid. Jumping over the encased couch, you duck behind his shelf, head poking out to glance at him cautiously.

The hazy glow of the afternoon sun makes the apartment shine, each strand of silk catching the reflection of light, creating a maze throughout the studio. Peter palms his head, wrist rubbing slow circles into his temple as he glances around, eyes squinting in confusion, catching the edge of your face in the shining room.

Silence settles over the small room before Peter clears his throat, shaking his head to clear his mind alongside it, only resulting in him clutching his skull in agony. He rounds the small wall separating the flat, shouldering bunches of webs to the ground as he takes a closer peek at you.

"Hey... nice survival skills you got there." He croaks, voice hoarse and high, pushing his hair back before shrugging off his sluggishness to no avail. "I took like, three seconds to get out of that... stuff... and you were already hiding."

The curve of his lips twitched into a soft smile, sheepish, the skin around the bottom rubbed raw and flaking from dryness. His joke falls flat, leading Peter to slowly swivel his neck, looking around the rest of his now ruined apartment.

"What the fuck is wrong with you!" Is the first thing that snaps out of your mouth, chest stuttering to breathe as you collapse back the last two feet onto his bed, the cheap frame springing in protest. Peter whips his head back to you, groaning at the twinge in his neck before raising his arms placantly.

"I don't know? Do you think if I knew I'd have consciously done this? I don't even know how-" He flails his arms, gesturing to the den he's made of his apartment. "-to do this!"

"Why didn't you answer me?"

"Because I was busy doing this, apparently!"

The warm air weighs heavy on your skin as you bite your cheek, stopping yourself from snapping at Peter again. He pouts down at you, blinking hard as he slowly creeps to his bed, collapsing beside you, the mattress dimpling under his added weight. Thankfully, this nook of his flat is mostly empty from his webs- you're unsure how you'd ever sleep in his bed again if it was coated in his silk.

Bringing your knees up to your chest, you take a moment to do a proper once-over of Peter, now slumped on his elbows as he scans the cluttered floor of his apartment. His skin is pale, almost dewy-looking, a red tint underpainting around his eyes and nose. His pupils are blown out, darker around the rim, darting back and forth over the flat before dropping to his forearms.

Swallowing down your mild disgust, you lay your hand over his wrist, squeezing his joints before smoothing down the length of his arm. Wiping the stray strands on his skin, your thumb catches on an indent as you move down, trailing back up his protruding veins to feel around the small hole, tucked in the middle of his forearm right before his wrist.

You prod at the bump within the hole, dropping his arm immediately at the choked sound Peter makes, his voice cracking as he cups his wrist. "Sorry." You mumble, gripping the edge of the bed frame, peering up at his dark eyes. "You look the worst you've ever looked."

Peter smiles at that, small and tired, circling his fingers around his wrist and massaging slowly. "I'm not sure about that. I've looked a lot worse for a lot of my life."

You let out a shaky laugh, shoulders slumping in on yourself, watching Peter fan away a clump of webbing sticking to his nightstand. The apartment settles into a heavy silence, even breathing sounding hesitant as you sniffle at the still air, dust collecting on the clutter Peter left before his cocoon.

"I'm opening a window." Declaring to no one but the two of you, you carefully toe around the mass of webs, cracking open the closest window, leaning on the sill as you force the pane open despite the silk holding onto it. Peter watches you, his eyes squinting the closer you get before he winces.

His gasp is sharp and whiny, hands cupping his ears with a cry, blinking hard as you finally manage to pry open the window a good two feet. "Ahh! Shut it- shut it!" He yelps, stumbling forward when you take a moment too long to shut the window.

With a thwip! Peter extends his forearm, his fingers curling then posing, a strand of web shooting from the divot, smacking against the edge of the window. He pulls his arm down, slamming the glass back in place, the strength sending vibrations through existing webs, causing them to snap and unfurl to the ground.

Pulling away from the window, you stare in shock at Peter, eyes dropping to his arm, to the small point where his veins all flow to, silk protruding from the dip in his forearm. He stares at the strand as well, smacking the end off with a shiver of disgust, stumbling forward to his computer.

"Ew." Is all you can manage, lip curling in horror, wiping into an unsure smile at the look Peter shoots at you. He slumps against his desktop, calling for E.V, fingers fumbling with his keyboard obnoxiously, pawing away the strands clinging to the caps.

"What's wrong with you?" Leaning into his side, you watch the diagnostics fly over his screen, his hardware starting up with a sizzle, burning the webs caught in his mechanics. Peter scoffs at that, a quip at the tip of his tongue that he thankfully holds back, too exhausted and not wanting to upset you further, as he glances at his phone to note the dozens of messages you sent the past days.

"It's organic webfluid," Peter explains, nodding like that made any sense to you, clicking away as the strong voice of E.V. calls out in response, her volume making him flinch inwards. "Why it's happening to me, I dunno."

Furrowing your brows, you grab the top half of his discarded suit, laying the fabric over his couch cushion to sit down. "You say that like you know about this shit."

Peter perks up at that slightly, shrugging to himself. "I do. Peter two had them-" He pauses, glancing at you over his bare shoulder, gauging the confused look you cast back. He sighs, running his fingers down his nape before turning back to his monitors. "He was cool. It can kinda just happen. I guess. Spider DNA and all. What's a spider without webs?"

"Are you gonna turn full spider then? Like, eight legs and abdomen and all fuzzy?"

"Okay, please don't ask me that right now... ...god I really hope not."

---/╲/\╭ºoꍘoº╮/\╱\---

"Alright, now this inhibitor will hopefully suppress the arachnid genomes to the same frequency they were originally. Suppressing the new symptoms but keeping the old ones. Kinda like The Hulk? Y'know The Hulk? Of course you do, what am I saying?"

The last of the webs falls into the rubbish with a short sweep, dusting off the white strands, the small apartment freshened up after three days of dedicated pulling and dusting. Peter's lucky no real spiders decided to invade his web mansion, cooped up in his own mess as he focused intensely on fixing his new party trick of organic webs.

The past three days have been bad, and for someone who swore he was remorseful for metamorphosing and leaving you alone for four days, he's sure as hell doing it again without an excuse this time. Thrown deep into his work, Peter's been fine-tuning and experimenting with prototypes of an inhibitor to suppress the new hormonal flux of his spider DNA, frustrated with the physical changes he's endured.

Along with keeping him company slouched over his chair, you've gotten the luxury of watching Peter attempt to control the new changes in his body, trying to get the hang of his new webbing and keeping himself from keening over from the sensory overload he now struggled with. Thin curtains are pulled tight over blinds, blocking out as much natural light in the small flat as he could, really emphasizing how sad and frankly creepy his apartment was.

"Are you sure this is safe?" Sitting on his bed, your hands roam up and down his forearms, guilty for being so disgusted over his new spinnerets. He turns his arms over for you, his skin smooth and warm once again, fingers twitching into your touch with each soothing motion you make.

"Ehhh," Peter starts, batting your concern away, his hands finding yours with a squeeze. "Not really, but I know what I'm doing. Trust me, I've learnt from the best. These things will be gone and under control."

Peter picks up on your hesitance, watching your nails trace faint circles over his forearm, careful not to apply pressure. He's been cautious to let you touch him too much lately, restricted to casual, gentle touches at best.

"I thought you said Peter Two had natural web shooter things, and that Peter Two was cool." You tip your head, gently pushing inwards on his veins, watching his muscles spasm lightly before he moves to divert your caress. "Undoing this cool part of you would like, make Peter Two body dysmorphic, I think."

Peter raises his brow at that, ducking his head in a bemused smile, trying to direct your curious fingers away from his wrists, turning his arms over. "I don't.. I don't think Peter Two will have body images now. But your concern is admirable."

"Well, how would you know? Did you ask Peter Two? Apparently, he thinks spinny things are pretty cool."

"No- now you can't-"

Rocking forward on your knees, Peter's blanket bunches under your legs as you sit up, leaning into his chest and crowding him against the headboard. He follows without protest, the crown of his head hitting the wood with a thump, sliding down the mattress.

Pressing your lips against his, Peter stalls against you, debating in his mind before he grabs the inhibitor, stashing it nearby on his nightstand. It's essentially a fail-safe, tucked on standby in case anything drastic happens, and Peter figures he's allowed to have an intimate moment that lasts longer than a few seconds for his hard work this past week.

Agile hands reach out, planting over your waist as you press into him, the slow kiss growing demanding as you trail your tongue along the seam of his lips. Peter obliges to your silent demand, mouth parting to let your tongue slide along his bottom teeth, spit light and fruity from breakfast earlier. He hums in approval, palms cupping your hips respectfully, grounding you to the moment.

Pressing closer, you nudge his knees apart, folding your legs to sit criss-cross in front of him. Peter doesn't argue nor question you, simply letting you twist and adjust him to your liking, trying to raise one hand to cup your jaw.

Pulling back, you find both his wrists, bringing his hands down to your lap, soothing his confused hum with a peck to his chin. Brown hair fans against cracked brick, stained grey from aging as Peter lets his neck tilt back, offering the expanse of his throat to your greed.

While he's distracted, you move, having gained more than enough courage over the past three days of observing Peter to be confident in your exploration. Pressing down, your fingers wrap around his wrists, grinding your hands against the bones in slow, circular motions. His arms jerk under you, twitching up into the touch, coaxing a gasp from his lips.

Peter's knuckles pop loudly as he flexes them, letting his shoulders drop as he relaxes into the touch. Lifting your head, you seal your lips over his, muffling his pleased hum with your tongue. His neck cranes into you, too focused on pushing forward with his head to do the same with his arms.

Slowly, you loosen the grip on his wrists, gliding your fingers up the curve of his forearms, grazing the small dent of his spinnerets before traveling higher. You part your mouth, digging your teeth into the soft flesh of Peter's bottom lip, forcing him to tense at the sudden nip. Applying more pressure against his arms, you trail your thumbs back down the length of his forearms, his veins now protruding from tension.

"Woah-" Peter inhales against your tongue, noses pressed together in a tight grind, leaving little space between your bodies. He rotates his wrists, letting out a curious hum at the steady sensation of your thumbs working down his arms. Your nails slide into the crease of where his spinnerets start but pull back, returning at your starting point and looping the slow path down once more.

"Feels good?" You giggle against his cheek, grinning at the quick inhales and punched-out exhales Peter lets out, his heightened senses making his muscles spasm, flexing all the way up to his biceps, pulsing under his skin.

"Yeah." He manages to hum, smiling back at your small laugh. His eyes are blown wide, darker than normal, taking in your face in quick, frantic passes. You don't comment on them, noting the small inhibitor nearby before you lean back in, this time with Peter nudging his chin forward to meet your kiss.

Continuing the slow massage, his blanket shifts down the mattress, the corner of Peter's sheets peeling as he shuffles in place. Spit strings between the two of you when you part minutes later, glossy and in thin strands, branching from your tongues with a soft click.

Life imitates art, or in this case, life, as your thumbs grow firmer on the next down pass, pressing deep into his flesh as you grind the pad of your finger down. Peter's skin ripples under your touch, tensing as you drag your touch down his veins and into the divots near his wrists, pushing into the top of his spinnerets. With a broken and sudden moan, strands of web spools out from Peter's forearm, shooting in small bursts across your thumb and hand, clinging to your skin when you pull away.

"Oh- oh? What the... god-" Gasping loudly, drool snaps from your lips as Peter's head falls forward, his eyes wide in shock as he stares down at your lap. His fingers spread open, curling into fists as he grits his jaw, blinking rapidly to process what just happened.

Hiding your pleased smirk with another kiss, you repeat the process, thumb moving slowly until more spurts of webbing shoot from his spinnerets, his body tilting forward in another cry. Peter laughs, half in disbelief and half in awe, his elbows folding as he tries to withdraw from your touch.

"Wait wait wait, humor me." You rush, voice breathy as you tug his arms into your lap, unfolding your legs to throw them around his hips. Squirming uncomfortably, Peter slides his knees under your thighs, sitting temple to temple and tangled up in one another.

"I thought you said my organic webs were, and I quote, gross?" He quips, his tone light but weighted, gauging your reaction closely.

"I think you hallucinated that." You tease back, pushing hard against the small holes and massaging tight rings around the openings, coaxing string after string of web from his skin. "Should we see if it comes out anywhere else?”

Peter chokes, a drawn-out whine hitching in his throat as he bucks forward, dropping his forehead to your chin. Silk sprays in short, rapid bursts, coating down your wrist and to the ruffled sheets beneath your lap, clinging to your skin desperately. “God,” He huffs, torn between a sultry laugh and another cry for relief, “you sound like me.”

Not fully understanding and not wanting to question what Peter means by that, your thumb crooks into his spinneret’s, nails digging into the tiny holes, ripping a groan from his chest. Your fingers squeeze around his forearm, tightening around the edge of where his skin dips in, forcing Peter to tense his muscles.

His hair blocks out your vision, leading to you pressing your chin over his skull, cradling his face closer to your neck. His temple is damp, beading in exertion as he gasps, arms spasming, bucking out of your grip. Web unravels from his wrists as your thumbs slide out of the holes, his hands jerking up to grip onto your shoulders, silk grazing the corner of your jaw as it spews behind you.

“Come on, you can do better than that.” You coo, forcing his hands back down to your lap. Peter whines, his lips pulled in a smile, open mouth and gasping for control over his lungs. With a thump, he lays back on the bed, offering his wrists up for you, his fingers crooked instinctively. Sinfully greedy and knowing he can offer more, you climb onto his lap, nails curling down his navel and into the hem of his sweats.

Peter’s hips arch naturally, helping you guide the thick fleece of his pants then the soft cotton of his boxers, skin slick with sweat. His knees bend behind you, supporting your weight as you rock along his crotch, slotting the rigid length of his cock between your thighs. The head is swollen, blushed a deep red from stimulation, begging for true release. You laugh at him, tapping your finger against his tip, beading with so much arousal you almost believe he could shoot webs from here.

“Oh my god.” He huffs, throwing his head back with a pleased moan, his hips rutting twice into the crevice of your thighs before relaxing flat. His eyes blink, lazy and half-glossed over, the bright whites blackened by his pupils, leaving his face looking sharper. You don’t comment on it, disguising your sharp gasp with a palm enclosed around the base of his cock, tipping forward to drool down the tip.

“Jeez, Pete. Is this all me or your little sensory problems?” Dragging your thumb up his swollen glands, you stroke slowly, flicking your wrist at the top of his length before pulling his skin down, teeth flashing in a wicked grin when Peter responds with a whimper. “Will flattery get me more attention? If so, all you.”

“Sweet boy.” Your brows raise high, watching him tremble with each pump, his wrists curling inwards then flexing out, tensing his arms like he was prepared to swing. “Flattery will get you nowhere but another round, if that’s what you’re aiming for.” A heavy spurt of arousal glistens at the top of his cock, slickening up his tip when you collect it. “You already sealed a second with those whines, so unless you want thirds, I’d be quiet.”

Peter, to his credit, listens well when you have a fist around his dick, face falling apart as he approaches his release. You figure his eyes are rolled back, unsure from the dark depths of them right now, his knuckles trembling as he claws at your thighs. Lifting off his lap, you give him the space to thrust sloppily into your closed palm, not that your weight was hindering him much.

It takes another minute before Peter bucks into you, fingers clasping around your hand, letting out a guttural groan as his climax hits. You focus around the tip of his cock, milking the white froth spilling over your fingertips, dribbling down his length and to his pelvis.

“Good.” You purr, waiting for the last of his tremors to die down, keeping a light touch around his cock, teasing the pulsing skin. He whines, his chest heaving in rapid expansions as he floats on the high of his climax, hips slowly pausing until they were flat on the sheets once more. His nose twitches, head tilting down enough for you to assume he’s staring straight into your face, black eyes shining with adoration.

Pulling your hand away with one more firm, upward stroke, you grab his wrist, bending his middle and ring finger down into his iconic swinging pose. He huffs, watching but not objecting, far too pleased with the outcome of his submission so far to fight your whims. Pushing your thumbs together, you guide his hand to hover over his cock, pushing down on his forearm and rubbing the top of his veins into his spinneret.

“Holy shit-?” Peter jerks, his eyes widening as he lurches upwards, jostling your perch in his lap. Web shoots out from his spinneret, thin and weak from exhaustion, but the strand still holding together tightly. The sticky bunch clings to the tip of his cock, covering his slit, trapping the remaining cum weeping from his head. He thrashes, hands falling to pull at the webs, only to be intercepted by your own.

“No no, trust me. Just take it like this.” You tut, pressing firm on Peter’s hands until he dropped them beside his head, curling backwards to dig into the pillow. His lips part, tongue lapping over his bitten skin, his voice trembling in pitiful, whiny protests.

“N-Nah, I can’t,” Peter huffs, brown hair plastered to his temple as he throws his head back, neck turning side to side in a weak shake. His hips twitch, his cock still hard, still fighting against the webbed seal as you retake the length in your grip. “This is, fuck… this is insane even for you, us.”

Precum dampens the top of the web, creating a watery mix that clings tighter to the curve of his cock, beading through the silk with nowhere else to go. Wrapping both your hands around him, Peter arches into your palms, groaning low in his throat as he stops his weak-willed protest, lashes fluttering softly against the red of his cheeks.

With a pleased coo, you stroke him once again, firm and slow this time, taking your time on the underside of his cock, massaging the small veins with even pressure. Peter whines, thighs tensing and releasing, kicking out against your leg as he struggles to find leverage and his mind.

Spit falls from your lips, lubing up his length, saliva coating down to the base of the cock, residue from his first orgasm still painting his skin. With both hands, you pump him, eyes fixated on the way Peter pushes his chest out, ribs flaring as he struggles to breathe properly. His stomach trembles, the hard ridge of his abdomen contracting, shortening his breaths into aching gasps, timed with each full stroke.

“God- Oh god- I gotta cum.” The beg from Peter’s lips sounds false with the way he snaps his jaw, baring his teeth in a primal, animalistic way that was wrong with the soft slope and plane of his face. His canines are pointed into sharp fangs, jaw dropping to gasp, fighting back his awful sobs. You scoff, speeding up your strokes in retaliation, urging his sweet voice to tremble and break.

“Babe, seriously. I need to- I have to-” Peter’s brows furrow, the dark hair slick with his sweat as his eyes scrunch, bottom lip jutting out in a broken whine. The mattress cries out beneath both of you, mocking the sounds starting to rip deep from Peter’s lungs, his hips erratically thrusting into your palms. You let him, the web blocking his release sticking still, rendering his grinds useless against your fingertips.

“Please!” He whines, eyes flying open, revealing the beady tears along his waterline, slowly dripping down the slope of his cheeks.

“Try.” You coo back, peppering a reassuring kiss to his nose, forehead pushing against the side of his temple. The melodic sob of his pleas the fire you needed in your gut.

Try he does, Peter humps and thrusts into your hands, his resolve and exhaustion crumbling into broken, sappy cries, pining for your approval and help. You don’t do much but kiss along his brow ridge, squeezing rhythmically at the base of his cock, letting him work himself up and through.

Skin on skin echoes in the apartment, dry as the slick from your spit and Peter’s cum dissipates. He doesn’t care or doesn’t feel it, the tip of his cock smacking against your pelvis, stimulating the weeping head just enough for him to keen, his breath coming in short, pitched whines of relief.

Releasing the base of his cock, you cup your palms against his jaw, cradling his face and soothing his final sob with a slow kiss, his hips buckling as he comes. His orgasm is ruined, unsatisfied as his release bubbles behind the web blocking him, oozing through the thin silk in small drops, straining to escape his system. Peter whimpers, tears dripping down his chin, squinting his brows when you wipe the stray droplets from his nose.

With a slick, awful thwip! You pull off the web sticking to Peter’s cock, his tip bruised, leaking profusely as he gasps at the relief of pressure. Arousal leaks from his head, making his actual one woozy as he slumps into the mattress, blinking one eye up at you. At least, you assume with the shaky groan he lets out, your face split into a greedy grin.

“Give me your hands.” You whisper, voice holding a demand you didn’t need, Peter already offering them to you. You shift, pressing his cock between your thighs, the blunt head rutting against your crotch, smearing a mess of slick and arousal on your shorts. The stain is tolerated for the worshipful sigh Peter lets out, hands clawing at your knuckles.

Tightening your hold on his wrists, your thumbs push into his spinnerets, keeping his hands still as you rub into the swollen glands. Peter huffs, letting out an exhausted hiccup, accepting the soft kiss of approval you reward him with. Slowly, his hips grind up into you, sliding his cock back and forth against your thighs, matching the rhythm of your thumbs.

“You’re gonna make this inhibitor useless with all the hormones spiking right now.” Peter hisses, his voice lazy and broken, soft around the edges as he tucks his face into the crook of your neck. You hum, chuckling at his expense as his hips pick up the pace, rocking mindlessly in search of fast pleasure.

“Maybe I like you like this.” You snicker, nosing his ear, wringing out strand after strand of silk from his wrists. “All spider, barely man, the black eyes are kinda growing on me.”

Peter snorts, a pathetic attempt at a laugh, his forearms spasming as the dual stimulation on his spinnerets and cock gets to him, frayed nerves reacting to the way you were nursing his pleasure from him. His head tilts back, lips parting wide, tiny whimpers and moans tearing from his raw throat.

“Too much?” You whisper, nosing his hairline gently, taking the moment to admire the broken state he was in. He shakes his head, mindlessly thrusting against your pelvis, letting out pleased gasps each time the tip of his cock caught the seam of your shorts. Despite the sensory overload, Peter grinds through it, whining at the sensation but forcing his hips to continue. Pressing a kiss to his forehead, you squeeze your knees tighter around his hips, thighs closing around his cock, cushioning his thrusts. “That’s it, just let go.”

His wrists tense under your thumbs, tugging away from your touch abruptly. The pillow beneath his head falls to the floor when his arms dart out, webs sticking to his hanging shelf behind you. Plaster crackles as he loops his arms around your torso, pulling the strands of web, the shelf ripping from the wall with a snap. Crying out, Peter’s third climax paints over your thighs, his overstimulated cock pulsing against your skin, warm and tacky with his spend, trying to seek more contact without rubbing himself dry.

Peter falls back, strong arms crushed around your waist, taking you down with him. Sheets and blankets bundle up, soaking in the slick of his arousal, fighting to drape properly with the fresh coating of webs on the fabric. You press your chin to his skull, carding your fingers through the mess of his dark curls, tucking the stray locks away from his temple. Peter sighs, spent and exhausted, hands roaming over the dip of your lower back greedily, feeling for the warmth beneath your skin.

You don’t think about how you absolutely ruined the bed, or how you’ll always feel spiderwebs in his sheets even if he buys a new pair. Sleeping would be difficult in his apartment now, but you figure it’s an even trade-off when the reward is Peter curled against your ribs, flushed and glowing from a well-needed stress reliever.

“Hey,” he starts, his eyes peering up at you, the soft whites returned from his blown pupils. His cheeks pull into a lazy smile, the tension from his brow wiped clean, his brain fucked stupid from the aggravating stress of his body’s changes. “Were my eyes really black?”

“Yeah.” You smirk, poking the underside of his lid. “Like fully, looked like you were a demon."

Peter hums, studying the curve of your lips before nuzzling deeper into your throat, pressing a gentle kiss to the underside of your jaw. “And you didn’t even scream. I’m honored.”