RhiRhi

Apparently so because when the words, “Does it come out anywhere else?” slipped from your lips, Peter looked at you like he just watched his puppy get run over.

There was confusion, worry, and maybe a little bit of awkward ‘humor’ in his face. But even as he told you no, he didn’t look sure of himself anymore.

“Should we test that?” you asked, your voice low and sultry, trying to get the mood back. It worked, because you felt Peter’s still-hard cock twitch against your leg. “Yeah?”

He nodded, waiting for you to make a move.

If he was being honest, he didn’t know what you meant when you said to test it. He just knew that his very sexy girlfriend was talking about making him cum, so he agreed without thinking.

Watching as your hand snaked between your bodies, Peter’s heart was racing with anticipation. He wasn’t sure it would be safe for a normal person’s heart to be beating that fast.

Luckily, he wasn’t a normal person.

And he found that opened a lot of opportunities in the bedroom.

“You can go twice right? I still want you inside me after...” your voice was laced with need, almost pushing Peter over the edge right then and there. He nodded frantically, his hips twitching, pushing his aching cock against your palm.

“I can. I promise. Please just—” he cut himself off with a moan as your hand pumped and curled around his tip. “Fuck.”

Failing to hold in a giggle, a smile spread on your face that made Peter feel like he just fell in love with you all over again. Weird.

Your hand wrapped around him, giving him a few teasingly slow strokes before you scooted backwards enough to wrap your mouth around his sensitive pink tip. You started to up your pace while your mouth sank further down, taking more of him in.

Bringing him closer and closer to the edge, he felt the same internal panic he did when the webs came out of his wrists for the first time. But you didn’t stop. No. You only went harder.

Peter barely pulled you off at the last second, watching as webs came out of his cock and splattered on the ceiling.

It was probably the best orgasm he’d ever had.

The relief when it was over, the pleasure he felt during it. All of it. His curls were sticking to the sweat on his forehead, and when he looked over you were staring at him with wide eyes.

Wide, excited, horny eyes. (He could tell).

“That was so hot, oh my god,” you squealed, wiping off the last string of web from his extremely sensitive cock. A strangled noise came from his throat, overwhelmed by the strong feeling.

“Oh jesus,” he whispered, trying to catch his breath. “I think I need just a minute. It’s really, really sensitive.”

You nodded, running your hands over his curls. He smiled, his head subconsciously leaning into your hand. Before you knew it, Peter was pulling you down to kiss him again, all wet and open-mouthed. His hands were roaming your body, reclosing the gap.

One of your legs swung over him, straddling his abdomin that was glistening with a sheer layer of sweat. You were careful not to go too far back until Peter was ready, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t rock yourself against him.

The hard ridges of his ab muscles were perfect for grinding your clit against, and not to mention Peter loved it. He didn’t realize how much he liked the praise until he met you.

“That’s it. Uh-huh,” he mumbled as he helped you guide yourself against him. Sweet noises were falling from your open mouth as you ran your slick pussy over his stomach.

One of his hands ran up, kneading your tits while the other stayed and grabbed at your ass—helping spread you open to get a better feel of him. You could feel your second orgasm of the night quickly approaching, but you wanted to save it.

Halting your hips was hard, you really didn’t want to stop, but you knew you’d be happier if you came with Peter inside you.

“Are you ready?” your voice was breathless and whiney, your eyes hooded and glazed over with need. He flipped you onto your back, pulling a cute squeak from your throat.

“Uh-huh.” Leaving open kisses down your neck, he asked, “But are you ready?” against your sticky skin.

You felt yourself squeeze around nothing. “Yeah.”

He pressed one last kiss to your neck before you felt his long cock stretch you out. You could feel every ridge, every vein, as he slid into you so far you felt like it would come out your mouth.

Your mouth was stuck open, tears from the pleasure welling up in your eyes. Peter felt your nails dig into his back as he started at a slow pace. It wasn’t gentle, but it was just enough to refamiliarize yourself with him.

As the seconds passed, you needed more and more. Trying to grind your hips up and meet him halfway for more pressure, more speed, wasn’t cutting it. You needed his all.

“Peter. Oh my, fuck. Peter, please. I need more. I can handle it,” you moaned as he thrusted, your eyes meeting his so he could see the truthfulness in your eyes. That you would really be okay if he went harder.

He was always scared of hurting you, so he needed that confirmation every time.

His pace sped up along with his thrusts’ power. After only a few seconds, he was fucking you into the mattress. Moans and heavy breaths were spilling out of your mouth, along with Peter’s grunts and moans himself.

The bed was squeaking, a dull thud against the wooden wall for every thrust he gave you. “Shit,” Peter grumbled, looking at something behind your head for only a second.

You could feel your second orgasm coming back, along with Peter’s antsy hands. They were moving from beside your head, to your waist, to your legs—pushing your legs further apart and hitting an even deeper angle.

Your moaning only spurred him on, his hand coming to rub circles to your clit. He felt you squeeze and flutter around him, your eyes and face scrunched up.

He felt his own orgasm coming up, but he was determined to focus on you. Your shaky legs and light knuckles from gripping the sheets too hard. Your short breaths and teary eyes.

“C’mon. Come for me,” he whispered as you felt yourself go over the edge. Your hips twitched and your pussy squeezed him unbearably tight, followed by his warm liquid leaking inside you.

The thought of his web-sperm mix you saw earlier being inside you made you flutter around him again.

He had the same sensitivity as before, hissing through his teeth as he dropped his head to your neck. He relaxed his body on top of you, too sensitive to move or pull out yet.

His weight and heat on top of you was a common feeling, but it was one of your favorites.

You loved having him lay on top of you, especially right after sex. “Thank you,” you mumbled against his hair, your fingers gently rubbing up and down his rigid back muscles. You could feel him twitching and softening inside you, an almost ticklish feeling.

Peter hummed before laughing and whispering, “Also, uh, we might need a new bed, by the way.”

masterlist

But, every night, your body betrayed you. Your ears strained for a sound your mind tried to convince you wouldn't come. It was ridiculous, really, how thoroughly he'd woven himself into your evenings. Even as you tried to lose yourself in the newest shows or the pages of your book, there was a restless part of you that kept your body on the edge of expectation.

The knock at your window came 10 minutes into the movie that you'd been pretending to watch. Your core reacted before the rest of you did, a flutter between your thighs that spread warmth over your body.

You were already smiling by the time you crossed the room, your hand reaching for the window latch.

"Hey, Spidey," you purred, stepping aside to let him climb in. "You're late."

His head tilted slightly at the sound of your voice, the white lenses of his mask narrowing as though he could somehow see straight through the teasing tone you'd put on.

"You miss me?" He said, closing the window behind him.

You pursed your lips, pretending to consider the questions. A small shrug followed as if you hadn't already pictured him having you in 5 different positions. "A little."

"You know I can smell you, right?" Even though you couldn’t see his face under the mask, you were sure he was smirking.

You took a step back, as if that would help, and intentionally let your eyes roam down his frame. The sleek suit hugged every contour of his body, the fabric shifting over the sharp lines of his protruding muscles.

Seeing videos of him swinging across the city was a form of torture, really. You knew how those muscles felt under your hands, how warm his skin was, how he could lift you like you weighed nothing at all. And nobody but you knew.

"Well, if you can smell me, why are you still wearing so many clothes?"

"Whatever happened to 'hello, Spider-Man, how was your day?"" He chuckled, even as he moved to take his suit off.

You shrugged. "Figured we moved past the small talk a few visits ago."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah."

"So, where does that put us?"

You looked over at him. "I don't know, you tell me."

Wearing nothing but his boxers and his mask, Spider-Man closed the distance between you in a fluid motion. One second, he was by the window, and the next, he was looming right in front of you.

"That's a dangerous question to ask someone who makes terrible decisions for a living."

"Terrible decisions, huh?" You reached out, finger tracing the hard lines of the muscles in his chest, over his perky nipples, and down the ridges of his abs. The muscle beneath your touch flexed instantly, turning to stone as fire ran through his veins.

"And here I thought you were supposed to be the responsible one," you teased.

His breath hitched as your finger hooked just beneath the waistband of his boxers.

It was intoxicating knowing that the city's greatest protector could be this undone by just a single touch from you. He nearly stopped breathing as your fingers inched just slightly lower, your whole hand in his pants.

Even with only a semi, he was already so thick and heavy and warm in your palm. You ran your thumb over the slit, spreading the precum that had already pooled there. Spider-Man practically whimpered as you tightened your grip, and he bucked into your hand.

It only took your hand travelling the length of him twice and a tight flick of your wrist for him to become fully hard.

"Woooow, Spider-Man. Someone's eager tonight."

"You're one to talk," he gritted out. "You're fucking soaked, it's all I can smell."

He wasn't wrong, flushes of arousal coated your panties at every buck of his hips and soft whine that your hands pulled from him.

"True, but you're the one about to cum from the shortest handjob ever." Spider-Man hissed as you squeezed his already too sensitive head, knees bucking. "It's not even my best work."

A few visits ago, Spider-Man confessed that his recently enhanced senses left him unusually sensitive. You didn't know his name or his face but you did know that, and you used it to your advantage at every moment.

"Poor, Spidey," you cooed, pace increasing around his length, twisting and rolling your palm over the tip. In response, his dick twitched in your hand and you had to bite back the smile.

"Fuck..." Spider-Man breathed.

When your other hand slid into his boxers to play with his balls, he gasped your name. The sound send heat straight from your belly and down between your thighs, your clit throbbing to be touched.

Ignoring the throb, you pressed closer to him, standing on your tiptoes so your nose could brush against the line of his jaw, covered by his mask. "This is to say thank you, Spider-Man," you whispered.

Spider-Man's thighs quivered the moment he felt your tongue swipe over his erect nipple. "Oh, shit- I-."

The muscles in his abs clenched as he came into his boxers, leaving a thick and sticky mess on your hands. The grunts slipped freely from him as you gently stroked him through it.

The white lenses of his mask widened when you pulled your hand from his boxers and immediately began licking them clean. Sucking your fingers into your mouth, making a show of how your tongue swirled around them.

"Mhm, you want a taste?" You asked, raising your fingers to his mask.

"I want a taste of you," Spider-Man replied, his voice sounding unusually rough. "On the sofa, legs wide for me."

A part of you wants to be defiant, ask him "and if I don't?" just to see his reaction, see if you could push whatever buttons he was trying to hide. But another part, the stronger part, was burning with an ache so strong that you didn't know what to do with it. So, you listened.

You shimmied out of your sleep shorts with all the grace of a deer on ice. They were barely off of your ankles when you turned for the sofa, nearly tripping in your rush. Spider-Man's hands caught you to steady you, picking you up and dropping you onto the cushions.

The asshole had the audacity to laugh, a low, gravelly chuckle that made heat flush under your skin. He knelt between your spread legs, eyeing the way your obvious arousal had your pussy slick and ready. "Someone's eager tonight," he joked.

"Fuck you, Spider-Man."

Spider-Man pushed his mask up so it sat across the bridge of his nose, exposing the way his mouth was curved into a crooked grin.

"I thought you didn't take the mask off?"

That was the one unbroken rule between you. No matter how naked you both got, the mask stayed fully on, always.

"I always take it off to eat."

The problem was he said it so simply, as if he had no idea of the effects his words could have when you knew that wasn't true.

You shuddered a breath, anticipation prickling under your skin once again.

His hands cupped the bottom of your thighs and pulled you to the edge of the sofa. He leant in close, deliberately inhaling deeply as if he couldn't already smell you perfectly fine. "Fuck. Let's see if you taste as good as you smell."

Spider-Man pressed a warm kiss to your inner thigh, then trailed his kisses higher and higher until he got to the top of your inner thigh. He paused there for a minute, his warm breath fanning against your skin and leaving goosebumps.

"Spidey, you okay?" you asked.

With effortless ease, he manoeuvred you so that you were spread even wider for him, with one of your legs over his shoulder.

A shiver rippled down your spine as Spider-Man used two fingers to spread your folds open. With his other hand, he ran a finger from your twitching hole up to your clit, circling it before running it back down again.

"Hmm," he hummed in approval as your hole clenched around nothing. He pushed a finger in slightly, barely, letting it catch before pulling out. "I'm going to enjoy this."

The first touch of Spider-Man's tongue sliding across your folds had you gasping loudly. His tongue was rougher than you expected, but it felt so perfect against you.

"Fucking delicious," he moaned. He licked another fat stripe, did it again, and again, and again, lapping up the juices there before moving to focus on your clit.

Picking up a pillow, your nails dug into the soft cushion. Spider-Man sucked your clit into his mouth as he used a finger to circle your dripping hole.

The soft sigh that escaped you spurred him on, and he flattened his tongue on your clit, circling it with his tongue.

"Spidey~," you moaned, "t'so good."

At that, he pushed his face deeper into you, using his nose to rub at your clit as his tongue moved lower. His tongue wiggled inside of you, reaching as far as it could go to touch your insides.

"Oh, ooohh, shit, fuck, shit."

Spider-Man worked over your pussy as if it was his mission. His jaw must have been aching but he hummed and cooed around you, slurping loudly as he sucked up your juices.

"F-Fuck, who knew Spider-Man could eat like a pro."

Spider-Man looked up at you, a mixture of his spit and your arousal shining the only visible part of his face. The bottom part of his mask was slightly wet and your clit throbbed at the sight. Part of you had marked him.

"It's Peter."

He buried his face back between your legs before you had time to register it. "What?"

"Name's Peter," he hummed around your pussy, sending vibrations up your core. "Want you to use my name."

The sounds that came out of your mouth after that even surprised you. Spider-Man was in your home, between your legs, begging you to call him by his real name. The worlds between real life and the one concocted by your deeply satisfied brain were colliding.

"You're so good, Peter."

Your hips ground down on his face, thighs quivering around him as the familiar knot in your stomach started to form.

Peter moved his attention back to your clit as his hand slid under the hem of your shirt. He rolled and tugged and flicked at your nipple in time with his tongue's movements on your clit.

You could feel it building, the knot tightening in the pit of your stomach. "Peter~ I'm so close, Peter~~."

"Need you to cum on my face, pretty girl," he mumbled, words muffled by your thighs tight around him.

Your back arched off of the sofa, mouth falling open in a breathless moan as you came on his face, soft and mumbled 'Peter's falling from your lips.

His mouth stayed on you the entire time, licking up every drop that you could give him. He didn't stand until your body had stopped wracking with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

From your slumped position on the sofa, your eyes trailed down his body memorising the nose that had rubbed against you so relentlessly and the mouth that had sucked you into oblivion before moving down again.

Your eyes landed on his boxers, where another erection was straining against them.

"Soooo, round two?" He asked.

Four years of living next to Peter Parker had taught you the difference between him being clumsy and him being in trouble. You barely knew him after all this time living next to each other. You knew that you liked him. Knew that when you'd both come home late at night— meeting in the shared hallway— you always noticed the dark bags under his eyes and the slight tremor in his hand as he opened his apartment door.

You knew about the man behind the mask.

You didn’t bother knocking. The knob turned under your palm and the door swung open on a scene that made your stomach drop.

Webbing.

It coated everything. Thick, glistening strands stretched from ceiling to floor, across the kitchen counters, over the cracked television, wrapping the furniture like a cocoon spun by something frantic and enormous. The air was heavy with that sharp, organic scent of fresh silk and something darker underneath—sweat, adrenaline, the copper edge of blood.

Peter was on the far side of the living room, collapsed against the wall. His hands frantically covered his ears, hands trembling, chest rising and falling in an unnatural pattern. The familiar blue-and-red suit was shredded across his torso, torn open like something had clawed its way out from the inside. More webbing leaked from his wrists in uncontrolled pulses, sticking to the floor, the walls, his own skin. His fingers flexed and the strands thickened, twitching like living things.

“Peter—”

His head snapped toward you so fast it was almost inhuman.

The eyes that met yours weren’t fully his anymore.

The whites had darkened, pupils blown wide. When he spoke, his voice was rough, layered, like two people trying to use the same throat.

“Stay back.”

You didn’t.

You stepped carefully over a thick strand of webbing that still quivered on the floor. “What- What's happening to you?”

A humorless laugh scraped out of him. One hand mover to press against his temple, webbing still dripping from his wrist in lazy, involuntary strands. “Should've heard you come in. Everything is so fucking loud.”

His gaze flicked over you—hooded, assessing, too sharp. Something hungry and not entirely human lived behind those eyes now. You watched him fight it, jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped.

“You knew,” he said quietly. Not a question. “About the suit. And you didn't say anything? How long?”

“Long enough.” You kept your voice steady even as another thick strand of webbing shot from his wrist and slapped wetly against the wall beside your head. “Saw you swinging back into your place one night when I couldn't sleep. I never said anything because you clearly needed the secret. But this? This is different.”

Peter pushed off the wall. The movement was too fluid, too many joints working in ways human joints shouldn’t. He stopped a few feet from you, chest rising and falling hard. The torn suit hung off him, exposing pale skin.

“I don't know what's happening,” he admitted, voice dropping. “Instincts. Hunger. Everything feels… louder. Stronger. I almost put my fist through the wall earlier because the neighbor’s music was too much. And the webbing—” He lifted his hand— more silk poured out, wrapping around his own forearm in tight, pulsing coils. “I can’t stop it. It’s like my body is rewriting the rules without asking me first.”

You took another step closer. The air between you felt charged, thick with the scent of him.

“Then let me help,” you said. “You’re not doing this alone. Not anymore.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed, the reflective sheen catching the light. For a second the man you knew was still there—the awkward, brilliant, exhausting friend who’d spent years pretending he was just a guy with bad luck and worse timing. Then something deeper stirred, and the look he gave you turned heavier, more intent.

“You barely know me. You shouldn’t be this close,” he warned, but he didn’t move away. “I don’t know what I’m becoming. And right now every instinct I’ve got is telling me to—”

He cut himself off, throat working.

Peter moved.

Not the familiar, slightly awkward steps you’d watched from afar for years. This was something else entirely—low, fluid, predatory. He circled you in a slow arc, bare feet silent on the web-slick floor, head tilted just a fraction too far. Those dark, reflective eyes never left your face. The torn suit clung to him in ruined strips, and every step made fresh silk drip from his wrists in lazy, glistening threads that stuck to the hardwood like living things.

“Get out.”

The words came out layered, rough, almost a snarl. He stopped a few feet away, shoulders rolling like he was fighting the urge to drop lower. “I’m serious. Walk out that door right now.”

You stayed exactly where you were.

“I’m not scared of you.”

A sharp, humorless sound left his throat. He stepped closer. The air between you thickened with the scent of him. His nostrils flared once, deliberate.

“Liar.”

Another step. He was inside your space now, close enough that you could see every vein, every scar, every time one of his muscles twitched. When he spoke again, the voice was quieter, meaner.

“I can feel it. Your heart’s hammering. Pulse jumping right there—” His eyes dropped to the side of your throat. “And that smell.” He inhaled again, slower this time, and a low sound rumbled in his chest. “You’re getting wet. Standing in the middle of my apartment like a defiant brat while I turn into a monster. You’re fucking dripping for it.”

Heat flooded your face. You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. The longer he circled, the worse it got—every predatory shift of his body, every dark glance, every warning he threw at you only made the ache between your legs sharper.

Peter’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t a smile.

“Look at you. So much time of being the careful, quiet neighbor and the second I start turning into something that wants to eat you, your body decides it’s the hottest thing it’s ever seen.” He leaned in just enough that his breath ghosted over your ear. “You’re not scared of me. You’re desperate for me. That’s so fucking pathetic. And so fucking hot.”

You swallowed. “I still want you. Not just this— the real you.”

The admission landed heavy between you.

For half a second the familiar Peter flickered back into his eyes—the one who you could hear through the walls tinkering away at two in the morning. Then the arachnid thing surged again and his expression went sharp, almost cruel.

“You want this?” He gestured at himself with a web-slick hand—the torn suit, the dark eyes, the silk still pulsing from his wrists in uncontrolled strands. “You want this version of me that looks at you and only sees prey? That wants to wrap you up and keep you?”

He took another step. You backed up on instinct and your shoulders hit the wall. He didn’t give you space. One hand planted beside your head. The other hovered near your hip, fingers twitching like he was fighting the urge to grab.

“I can smell how bad you want it,” he murmured, voice dropping into something filthy and low. “Your cunt’s practically begging. All that wetness just sitting there, waiting for something dangerous to notice. And I’m noticing, sweetheart. I’m noticing real fucking hard.”

His free hand finally settled at your waist, not quite gripping, just resting there with dangerous weight.

“I’m trying,” he said, and for a moment the struggle was clear in his face—jaw clenched, eyes flickering between human and something darker. “I’m trying so hard not to take what you’re offering. Because once I start, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop. And you—” His gaze dragged down your body, lingering openly between your legs. “You’re standing here like you want me to fail.”

He leaned in until his mouth was almost against yours, breath hot, voice pure filth.

“So tell me again you’re not scared. Tell me while your thighs are pressing together and your pulse is screaming for me to pin you to this wall and find out just how wet you can get for the monster next door.”

The webbing under his hand pulsed once, tightening against the plaster.

Peter’s control was slipping by the second.

And he was still right there, waiting to see if you’d push him over the edge.

“I’m not scared of you.”

Peter’s eyes flashed. The words had barely left your mouth before thick, warm webbing shot from both his wrists. It hit the wall on either side of your head with a wet slap, then snapped tight around your wrists, pinning them high and wide. The silk was hot, almost feverish, and it contracted once—deliberate—pulling your arms taut until your shoulders burned.

He stepped in close, chest nearly brushing yours, and tipped your chin up with two sticky fingers.

“Say it again.”

“Nope.” Your voice came out steadier than you felt. “Still not scared.”

Something dark and delighted flickered across his face. Then his hands dropped to the waistband of your sweatpants. He didn’t bother with the drawstring. He just ripped. The fabric gave like paper under that unnatural strength, the sound loud and final in the quiet apartment. Cool air hit your bare thighs. Your underwear was left behind—plain, nothing special—except for the very obvious dark, soaked patch right in the center.

Peter went still.

Then he laughed. Low, mean, almost delighted.

“Jesus Christ.” He dragged two fingers slowly over the wet spot, pressing just hard enough to feel how the fabric clung. “Look at that. You’re soaked through. Standing here being a lying brat, telling me you’re not scared while your cunt is making a mess of itself.”

He rubbed again, slower, watching your face as the damp cotton dragged over your clit. “This isn’t the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man anymore, sweetheart. This is the version that will treat you like the prey you are. And you’re dripping for it like a desperate little bug.”

His voice cracked for half a second. The mean edge faltered. His eyes flashed back to those rich browns you always got yourself lost in.

“Fuck—I’m sorry. You should still leave. I mean it. I don’t… I don’t know how much longer I can—”

The arachnid thing surged back. His fingers pressed harder against the soaked fabric, tracing the outline of your folds through the thin cotton.

“But you won’t leave, will you? You’re standing here getting wetter every time I open my mouth. Look at you. Thighs already shaking and I haven’t even touched skin yet.”

You felt it happen—the sharp, helpless clench deep inside you, the fresh rush of wetness that soaked through the fabric under his fingers. A soft, involuntary sound escaped your throat.

Peter’s eyes went completely black.

“Oh,” he breathed. “You liked that?”

He dropped to his knees so fast it was almost a fall. Both hands hooked into the sides of your underwear. One sharp pull and the fabric tore straight down the middle, the ruined scraps falling to the floor. Cool air hit your bare, dripping cunt. For one heartbeat he just stared, chest heaving, silk still leaking from his wrists and sticking to your thighs.

Then the last thread of control snapped with an almost audible crack.

A low, animal sound ripped out of him. He shoved your thighs apart with both hands, gripped hard enough to bruise, and buried his face between your legs like a man starving. There was no careful exploration, no soft start. His tongue dragged flat and filthy from your entrance all the way up to your clit in one long, greedy stroke, and the sound he made against you was pure hunger.

“Fuck—taste that,” he growled into your folds, voice muffled and wrecked. “So fucking wet. Dripping down my chin already.” He licked again, deeper this time, tongue pushing inside you just to feel how easily you opened for him. “Gonna eat this pretty cunt until you forget how to speak. Until the only thing you can do is come on my tongue while I decide whether to keep you or ruin you.”

His mouth sealed over your clit and sucked hard, no mercy, while two sticky fingers pushed into you without warning and curled. The webbing around your wrists pulsed tighter as your body jerked.

Peter Parker was gone.

What was left between your thighs only wanted to devour.

He ate you like he’d been starving for days—tongue flat and relentless, dragging over every sensitive inch before pushing deep inside you just to fuck you with it. The wet heat of his mouth sealed over your cunt completely, and the sounds that filled the apartment were filthy and constant— the soft, slick noise of his tongue working you open, the wet suck each time he pulled back just enough to breathe, the low, broken groans that vibrated straight against your clit.

Two fingers joined almost immediately, thick enough that it made the stretch burn in the best way. He curled them hard against that spot that made your vision white out and sucked your clit between his lips at the same time, the combination brutal and perfect. Your thighs trembled on either side of his head. The webbing around your wrists pulsed tighter every time your body jerked. He didn’t give you any time to breathe—just kept going, tongue fucking into you in deep, greedy strokes while his fingers worked faster, wetter, the slick sounds of it getting louder the more you dripped for him.

“That’s it,” he growled against your folds, voice rough and muffled. “Let me feel it. You’re so fucking close I can taste it.”

The pressure built in waves. First a sharp, coiling heat low in your belly, then a deeper ache that made your hips try to roll against his face even as he held you open. He chased every tiny shift, adjusting the angle of his tongue, the pressure of his fingers, until the only thing you could do was take it. Your cunt clenched around him. A broken sound tore out of your throat. The second the orgasm hit, it hit hard—your whole body locking up as you squirted, a hard, pulsing rush of wetness that hit his mouth and chin and dripped down his throat in messy streaks. He didn’t pull back. He just groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted and kept licking through it, messy and greedy, chasing every drop until your legs were shaking and you were whimpering from the overstimulation.

When the last tremor left you, Peter finally leaned back on his heels.

Your release was dripping off his chin, shining on his lips, streaking down his neck. He looked at the mess you’d made of him and laughed—low, mean, delighted.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and then licked that clean too. “You just fucking squirted on me. Look at that. One little push and you made a mess all over my face.” His eyes were almost pure black now, pupils blown wide with hunger and amusement. “I’ve heard you, you know. Through the wall. Late at night when you think no one’s listening. The soft little sounds you make when you’re getting yourself off alone in your apartment. Always wondered what it would take to make you get loud. Turns out all it took was me on my knees with my tongue in your cunt.”

He stood in one fluid motion. The remaining scraps of the suit came off with two sharp rips—fabric tearing like it was nothing. Then he was naked in front of you, cock hard and heavy between his legs, the head already shiny with precum. Every muscle in his body looked coiled and ready.

He didn’t give you time to catch your breath.

Why would he?

One sticky hand closed around your waist, the other around the back of your neck. He ripped you off the wall, your wrists aching at their release and spun you, marched you the few steps to the webbed kitchen counter, and bent you over it hard enough that your chest hit the cool surface with a soft grunt. Your cheek pressed to the webs, sticking you in place. Your ass was up, completely exposed, still dripping from the orgasm he’d forced out of you.

Peter stepped in behind you. The thick, hot length of his cock dragged through the mess between your thighs, slow and deliberate, smearing your own wetness up and down your folds.

“Look at this,” he murmured, voice pure filth. One hand spread you open so he could watch the way his cock slid through your slick. “So fucking wet. You came all over my face and your cunt’s still greedy for more. Is this what you wanted when you walked in here? To get bent over my counter like a little toy? Is this what you think about in bed?”

He leaned over your back, mouth near your ear, the head of his cock catching on your entrance with every slow roll of his hips.

“I can feel how bad you want it. You’re dripping down my cock. Such a messy, desperate little thing.” A soft, mean laugh brushed your skin. “I’m gonna fuck you until you squirt again. Until the only thing you can do is take it and thank me for not webbing you to the ceiling while I do it. And you’re gonna love every second of it, aren’t you?”

The blunt head of him pressed against you, not quite pushing in, just resting there—hot, heavy, promising.

Peter’s voice dropped even lower, rough with the last scraps of the man fighting the hunger.

“Tell me you still want this.”

“I want you.”

The words were barely out of your mouth before Peter drove into you in one hard, unbroken thrust.

The stretch was brutal—thick and sudden and so deep it punched the air from your lungs. Your cheek stuck against the webbed laminate as he bottomed out and stayed there for half a second, just breathing, just feeling the way your cunt clenched around him like it was trying to keep him.

Then he moved.

He fucked you hard and fast, hips snapping forward with a force that made the counter creak under you. Every thrust was deep, relentless, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet apartment. His hands locked around your hips hard enough that you already knew there would be bruises tomorrow—dark fingerprints where his fingers dug into soft flesh and held you exactly where he wanted you.

“Fuck—look at you,” he gritted out, voice rough and mean. “Taking it like you were made for this. I didn’t even think you could handle getting fucked this hard.” Another sharp snap of his hips drove a broken sound out of your throat. “But you’re dripping down my cock every time I bury it in you. So fucking greedy.”

You hadn’t known either. The pace was almost too much—too deep, too fast, the stretch burning in the best way with every drag of his cock. His blunt head kissing your cervix with every thrust. Your body still hadn’t fully come down from the last orgasm and already the pressure was coiling again, sharp and overwhelming. Peter didn’t slow. He just kept slamming into you, one hand sliding up your spine to fist in your hair and pull your head back so he could watch your face.

“That’s it. Let me feel it. You’re gonna squirt on my cock this time, aren’t you?” His voice dropped into something filthy and delighted. “I can already feel you getting tighter. Do it. Make a mess of me again.”

The second orgasm hit harder than the first. Your cunt locked down around him as you squirted again, a hot, pulsing rush that soaked his cock and thighs and dripped onto the floor between your feet. Peter groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever felt and fucked you through it, chasing every flutter and clench until your legs were shaking and you were gasping against the counter.

Strong hands hauled you up and carried you the few steps to the couch. He dropped onto the cushions and pulled you with him in the same motion, settling you over his lap so you straddled him. Your knees sank into the cushions on either side of his hips. Before you could even try to find your balance he planted both hands on your waist and started fucking up into you.

There was no pretense that you were in control.

Peter used you like a toy, lifting you just enough to drop you back down onto his cock while he thrust up to meet every fall. The angle was devastatingly deep. Every upward snap of his hips forced a wet, broken sound out of you. His grip never eased. Fresh bruises bloomed under his fingers as he held you exactly where he wanted and took what he needed.

“Oh sweetheart,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded and dark with hunger. “Sitting on my cock like a perfect little fucktoy. Can’t even move unless I let you.” He thrust up harder, watching the way your body took every inch. “You’re so wet it’s running down my balls. Still gushing for me like you can’t help it. Such a messy, desperate thing.”

One hand left your hip to wrap lightly around your throat—while the other kept you steady for the relentless pace of his hips. The look in his eyes was pure predator.

Peter’s grip on your hips never eased. He kept fucking up into you in deep, relentless strokes, using your body exactly the way he wanted while his voice stayed low and filthy against your ear.

“That’s it—take it. Look at how easy you open up for me. Sitting on my cock like you were made to get used.” Another hard thrust forced a broken sound out of your throat. “You’re shaking again. I can feel it. That pretty cunt’s about to soak me one more time, isn’t it? Go on. Squirt on me again. Make a mess while I fuck you through it.”

The pressure built too fast, too sharp. Your thighs trembled on either side of his hips. Every upward snap of his cock dragged over that perfect spot until the only thing you could do was just take it. When it hit, it hit hard—your whole body locking up as you squirted around him for the third time, a hot, pulsing rush that soaked his cock and the skin of his stomach. Peter groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever felt and kept thrusting through it, chasing every flutter and clench.

“Fuck—yes. Just like that. So fucking messy for me.”

His rhythm finally stuttered. The mean edge in his voice cracked into something rawer as his hips snapped up once, twice more, burying himself as deep as he could go. A low, guttural sound tore out of him when he came—hot, thick pulses spilling into you. He held you down through every spurt, grinding up into the mess he’d made of you until the last tremor left him.

Your strength gave out all at once.

You collapsed forward against his chest, forehead pressing to the damp skin of his shoulder, body still trembling with aftershocks. His cock twitched inside you one last time. For a long moment the only sound in the apartment was the two of you trying to breathe.

Then the change happened.

You felt it in the way his hands loosened. The bruising grip softened into something almost careful. When you managed to lift your head, his eyes were no longer that dark, reflective black. The familiar warm brown was fully back—wide, stunned, and filling fast with horror as the full weight of what he’d done settled over him.

Peter stared at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

His gaze dropped to the dark fingerprint shaped bruises already developing across your hips and thighs, to the torn scraps of clothing on the floor, to the mess of webbing and come and your own release still slick between your bodies. A shaky breath left him.

“Oh my god.”

His voice was his own again—quiet, wrecked, and already cracking with guilt.

“I—what did I just do to you?”

Peter’s hands were careful now.

He eased out of you slowly, like he was afraid even that small movement might hurt. A soft, broken sound left him at the loss of heat, but he didn’t linger on it. Instead he reached for the nearest blanket—one of the soft ones from the back of his couch—and wrapped it around both of you, tucking the edges in so your bare skin was shielded from the cool air. His arms slid under your thighs and back without asking. He lifted you like you weighed nothing.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured against your hair. “Just hold on to me.”

He carried you out of his apartment and the few steps across the hall to yours. The door was still unlocked from earlier. Inside, the quiet of your place felt almost surreal after everything. Peter walked straight to your bedroom and lowered you onto the bed with a gentleness that made your throat tight. He pulled the covers up over your still-trembling body, then brushed a strand of hair away from your face with the backs of his fingers.

“I’m going to take care of a few things next door,” he said softly. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”

You nodded, too wrung out to speak. The door clicked shut behind him.

For a little while you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, body heavy and aching in places that hadn’t hurt an hour ago. The bruises on your hips already throbbed in time with your heartbeat. Between your legs you were sore and slick and still faintly pulsing with aftershocks. Your mind kept drifting—back to the way he’d looked at you when the black had first flooded his eyes, the mean, hungry things he’d said, the way he’d used your body like it belonged to him. And then the moment those eyes had cleared and pure horror had replaced the hunger.

You could hear him through the shared wall. The soft scrape of furniture being moved. Water running. The quiet, almost frantic sounds of someone trying to clean up evidence of something they couldn’t quite believe had happened.

When the door to your apartment opened again, Peter stepped inside carrying a small bag and wearing only a pair of soft gray sweatpants. His chest and shoulders were still bare, sweat dripped down and cooled along his muscles. He set the bag down and came straight to the bed, kneeling beside it so his face was level with yours.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “I’m going to run you a bath, okay? You’re… you’re covered in me. And I want to make sure you’re not hurt anywhere I can’t see.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He disappeared into your bathroom. The sound of water filling the tub was steady and soft. A few minutes later he returned, scooped you up again—blanket and all—and carried you into the steam-filled room.

The water was perfect, just on the edge of too warm. Peter eased you down into it first, then stepped out of his sweatpants and climbed in behind you. The tub wasn’t really big enough for two, but he made it work, stretching his legs on either side of yours and gently pulling you back until your spine rested against his chest. His arms came around your waist, loose and careful, like he was still afraid of holding too tight.

For a long moment he didn’t speak. He just reached for the washcloth, wet it, and began slowly cleaning the dried mess from your skin—your thighs, your stomach, the places where his hands had left marks. Every touch was deliberate. Tender.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper against the side of your neck.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I lost control. Completely. And I hurt you. I can see the bruises already and I… I hate that I did that.” His forehead pressed to your shoulder. “But I’m here now. I’ve got you. Just let me take care of you for a little while, okay?”

The water stayed warm around you both. Peter kept the washcloth moving in slow, careful strokes—down your arms, across your collarbones, along the tender insides of your thighs where the evidence of everything they’d done still lingered. He never rushed. Every pass of the cloth felt like an apology and a promise at the same time.

When he finally set it aside, he reached for the shampoo instead. Gentle fingers worked it through your hair, massaging your scalp with a tenderness that made your eyes sting. He rinsed it just as carefully, cupping water in his palm so none of it ran into your face. Then his arms slid back around your waist and he simply held you, chest rising and falling against your spine.

“It’s been getting worse for weeks,” he said eventually, voice low against the side of your neck. “The webs I can’t control. The strength that comes out of nowhere. The way every sound and smell is suddenly too much. But the instincts… those are the scariest part. There’s this constant pull to claim things. To protect. To take. And it’s getting harder to tell where the spider ends and I begin.”

His thumb traced absent circles against your stomach under the water.

“I’ve liked you for a long time,” he admitted, quieter now. “Longer than I probably should’ve. Four years of living next door, not saying anything to you because frankly— I'm an idiot. And this… whatever’s happening to me… it made all of that louder. Like the part of me that already wanted you suddenly had permission to stop being careful about it.”

You turned your head just enough to catch the edge of his profile. Steam curled around both of you.

“I’ve liked you too,” you said softly. “For a while now.”

Peter went still behind you. Then a shaky breath left him, warm against your damp skin. One hand lifted to brush a wet strand of hair behind your ear, the touch lingering.

“Are you scared of me?” he asked. The question was barely more than a whisper. “After everything I just did… after what I might keep becoming… are you scared?”

You shifted carefully in the water until you could look at him properly. His eyes were so clear again—familiar brown, open and uncertain and so painfully human. You reached up and rested your palm against his cheek.

“No,” you said, and meant every word. “I’m not scared of you. I’m here. For all of it. Whatever this turns into, I’m not going anywhere. We'll figure this out together.”

Something in his expression cracked open—relief and wonder and leftover guilt all tangled together. He leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to your forehead, then another to your temple, before guiding you back against his chest. His arms settled around you again, secure without being tight.

The water lapped gently at your skin. The bathroom was quiet and warm and safe. Peter’s heartbeat was steady under your ear. You let your eyes drift closed, the last of the tension finally leaving your body as the heat and the solid presence of him pulled you under.

You started to doze off right there in the bath, wrapped in his arms, at peace.

Peter Parker is a few things, a hermit, a hero, hung, and absolutely hopeless

No friends. no life. he has just a police scanner, a caffeine addiction and a little bit of a thing for his cute neighbor down the hall.

He met you the day you moved in, after your movers pointed to the “out of service” sign on the elevator and bailed

He found you on the curb staring at your u-haul with nothing short of contempt. A frown so deeply set it could make Strange falter.

Something made him double back, at the time he rationalized it as guilt. The least he could do was help with some of your boxes, after all he is the one who broke the elevator (not that anyone knew that)

One box became two, became three, became him insisting you start unpacking while he unloaded the rest. Just being a good neighbor, of course. Had nothing to do with your smile or the way your heart sped up when he shook your hand. The fact that his pulse spiked when he touched you was completely unrelated.

An empty u-haul became a drive into Jersey to return the truck. Which became a ferry ride, which became Chinese takeout (your treat at your insistence)

Peter Parker who develops this maddening crush and is so repressed he doesn’t even fucking realize it.

Six months go by in this weird limbo. More than neighbors. Not quite friends, definitely not lovers. Lo mein shared from the same pair of chopsticks, drinks taken from hands without asking, a spot on your couch that is unofficially his.

Six months of noticing the way your eyes linger on his lips and doing nothing about it.

He can’t do anything, even if he wanted to (he does), he can’t risk it again. He’s in no shape too, you’re the only person he talks to with the mask off and with the exception of Frank he’s pretty sure you’re the only person who would notice if he disappeared tomorrow.

Besides, Peter still spends most nights scrolling Ned’s Instagram when he can’t sleep, still closes his eyes and pictures MJ when he needs to calm down.

You deserve better than that.

Then something weird happens.

Well a lot of weird things happen.

The headaches for one, all consuming and unbearable.

He stops eating as much, can’t with the nausea they bring. Eventually your takeout nights dwindle down to once a week, until finally they stop altogether.

Instead he spends his nights with a cold washcloth over his eyes, ignoring your texts and nearly crying every time the scanner goes off and he has to pull himself out of bed.

Then the webs.

They start to appear everywhere, Peter waking up to a pillow covered in spindles of thread and an apartment that looks more like a bad haunted house a place where someone lives.

Everyday he cleans them out, tears them from corners and washes his sheets.

Every morning they reappear, usually even worse than the day before.

Then the noise. God the noise.

There’s just so much of it, a car alarm blaring in the alley, the guy in 4C watching reruns of the Office, the pigeon on the roof building a nest.

You in your apartment, tossing in your sheets and making these breathy little noises-

Those haunt Peter the most.

The first time he heard them was the middle of the night. After he’d cancelled on you and stopped a bank robbery instead. Sometime around three a.m. the sound had traveled through plaster and hit him like a solid brick.

A whimper from the back of your throat, soft and unbidden. Not even conscious, your breathing was even, no sounds of movement either. Just the tiny gasps and pounding of your heart.

Sure, it’s been a while, and yeah it’s pretty different from person to person but even an idiot would know what kind of dream you need to be having to make those noises.

That night, when Peter finally closed his eyes, it wasn’t MJ behind them.

He’s pretty sure that’s when things started to unravel (he’s a fool, he was already beyond saving)

Even as guilt begins to line his gut, Peter turns to the only silver lining he’s been able to find in these changes.

The sound of water rolling off your skin in the shower. The sound of you humming as a you cool. The hum of vibrations and those sweet little moans when you think no one else is listening

Without even meaning too, it consumes him. One second he’s just checking you’re okay the next, and the he’s silencing his phone and shoving a hand in his waist band and - oh my god that feels good.

Constant dreams, every time he sleeps he sees you, you underneath him, you above him, your back pulled into his chest with a leg thrown over his hip.

He’s starts to avoid you, he has to. When he does see you, when he’s sentenced to an elevator ride next to you and all he can notice is your hips. Were they always like that? Were they always so fucking tempting and perfect with a spot for his hands.

The dreams get more perverse, it’s not just sex it’s possession.

You, a ring on your hand. You, tangled in his sheets. You with webs around your wrists attached to his headboard. You round with his-

You. You. You. You. You.

Then one night it all splinters. The load-bearing walls inside Peter Park’s restraint fracture.

The suit is still half-on, mask pulled up to his nose while he hisses at the feeling of his own hand. Dry and damn near painful he still can’t stop, gripping his cock like a fucking vice as he works it over. He didn’t even close the window, stumbled into the room with hardly enough time to spare.

It was an awful night, two big bruises blossoming over his ribs and the guy who gave them to him is still somewhere in Mid-Town.

He’d struggled home with ragged breaths and ears trained on one thing.

Well I think you can probably guess what by now.

He’d heard it half way across the city, the tell tale sign of your end table drawer sliding open and the sound of you digging around inside it.

Like Pavlov’s dog, his dick rose to the occasion.

You’re struggling tonight too though, whining into your pillow with these cute wet sounds that almost make it sound like you’re crying. You can’t get the angle, or enough friction, or something and it’s driving you crazy.

Little huffs of frustration and the sound of your hips lifting and slamming back into the mattress as you try to find that edge and-

Then the stutter of batteries dying.

You’re so close, so close he can feel it, the slick sound of your cunt and the tortured groan as you toss the damned toy away.

He’s so close, balls pulled tight and painful with his hand at the base holding it all together.

Then there’s a slam outside, someone pressing on their breaks and skidding across the asphalt with a high pitched shriek. A new alert popping up over his eyes, shots fired outside Central Park. Some kid launching a firework off the roof next door. The guy downstairs making a second bag of popcorn and your hand reaching down and finding your cunt-

It’s all too much, the throbbing in his head turning tenfold and the pain his gut matching it.

Peter doesn’t remember getting up, doesn’t know how he gets to your door. He changed out of his suit and has no idea when. His fists are busted and burn when he knocks and he doesn’t even feel it.

It’s out of body, like he’s gone into a rage fueled cruise control and something else completely is behind the wheel.

You answer with an out-of-breath hello and a started gasp when you see it’s him.

“Peter?” You gasp, pulling your sweatshirt tighter over your chest. You must not be wearing anything else underneath it, he heard you scramble to pull it on, snatch it from the floor with a frantic hand as you raced to answer the door. “Are you okay? You look like shit.”

Peter who’s entire chest freezes, who watches you take him in and the way your eyes linger over his naked torso and all the way up to the place you always seem to stop. His lips.

“No.” He murmurs, voice on the edge of deadly. “I’m not.”

The entire foundation gives out and Peter Parker kisses you.

Peter Parker kisses you rougher than he wants, harder than he should, and it still isn’t enough.

His entire body sings at the feeling, skin erupting with goosebumps and for the first time in a week, his head stops screaming.

The fog of pain lifts and instead of finding clarity whatever is controlling him doubles down.

Hungry hands grab at you like have any right to be greedy, pawing at your hips and waist.

He grabs the backs of your thighs and mutters a ragged “jump” into your mouth.

The way you instantly do has his cock jumping in his sweats. It’s enough for him to cross the threshold completely, step into your apartment and slam the door behind him.

Shooting it with a web behind his back is easier than turning the lock. It’ll be harder to explain to you in the morning but he can’t find the breath to care.

You’re kissing him back like you’ve been waiting for this. Waiting for him. The sweetest sounds hummed against his lips while your hands rake over his shoulders. Nails draw jagged lines over his back and your hips twitch when his tongue pushes past your lips.

Peter licks into your mouth like he’s trying to swallow you, find the source of what makes you so damn sweet and pretty and fuck he is an idiot for not doing this sooner.

Four years of torture and self-blame and a guilty limp dick and now he’s like a virgin all over again.

Your bed knocks his knees out, sending him tumbling over top of you in a messy of tangled limps and sweaty skin.

A whimper, one of the ones he’s been coveting through the walls is breathed into his lip and he swears he’s never felt his dick twitch so hard.

When you pull back for air you have to grab his hair to get it, tugging on his roots and using it to make enough distance to get a lungful.

“Peter?” You ask, concern etching across your face.

“What?” He grumbles, burying his face into your neck, tucking his nose beneath your ear and sucking in a long breath.

“Your eyes,” you whisper, hands carding through his curls. “They’re black.”

“It’s fine.” He promises, sucking a kiss at the apex of your jaw, smiling as he feels your arch into him.

Still your hands pull at his hair again, trying in vain to get a better look and well, Peter just can’t have that.

He grabs your wrists in one palm, pinning them above your head in one quick movement.

He drags his lips back to yours, running his nose along your skin as he does so.

“Said it’s fine.” He insists, and presses you into another punishing kiss.

Peter forgot how good this feels, the touching, the sounds, the heat of another body. When he pulls down the zipper of your sweatshirt there’s no teasing. Just the harsh tug of the guide and the sounds of the metal teeth all but ripping apart.

His free hand monopolizes your chest, each grope made sweeter by the fact his hunch was right, nothing but skin underneath

You’re whining into him, pathetic mewls that go straight to his aching cock. Your thighs are tight around his hips, ankles pushing on his lower back to try as you fight to grind into him

There’s no gentleness no exploration. he pulls your panties to the side and fucks into you like it’s the only thing that can save him

And maybe it is

The instant he sinks into you it’s like a high, everything finally fucking stops. There’s no noise, no pain, the world shrinks back down to four walls, a bed, and you underneath him.

“Peter-“ you’re gasping, “P-Peter oh my god!”

You’re white hot around him, clenched so tight Peter thinks he might be seeing stars.

“I’m sorry-“ he grunts, the words muffled into your neck. “I’m so sorry I can’t- fuck.” his hips twitch, burying him even deeper. “Can’t stop.”

Your hands twist in his grip, flexing as you writhe and try to cant your hips.

“Don’t stop no please don’t stop.” You sound panicked, like you only half heard him. “Just fuck me, please.”

So he does.

Peter Parker fucks you like animal, shallow thrusts like leaving your cunt mike just kill him. He ruts like a dog, grunts and growls like one into your neck until he can feel his orgasm start to swell.

He think you came, it’s wet between your thighs like you did. Your cunt pulses around him in an overstimulated mess, hiccups bubbling as tears stream down your face. You’re babbling nonsense, every other word either a piece of praise or a beg

That sick thing inside of him grows. It’s blossoms behind his ribs and boils in his gut.

He finally lets your hands go. One drops down to your clit, tweaking it between his index and thumb. The other splays over your stomach.

He leans back onto his haunches, thick thighs propping you up as he ruts into you.

“Fuck. Need to, need to-“ He’s gritting his teeth, the pleasure so hot it almost hurts. “Inside.”

You nod, cockdrunk and molten underneath him.

“Inside.” You agree, “give me everything. Please.”

His brain finally shuts off, nothing left but his body.

It consumes him, he buries himself to the hilt and lets go. It floods you, he can feel it under his hand. Distantly registering the newness of that too.

Minutes pass, his body slumped over yours, each of you wrung dry.

Your hands pull at his scalp, pinching the nape of his neck until he turns up to look at you.

You hum, delighted at what you see. “There you are.” You whisper. “That’s my Peter.”

Shame stirs, guilt in his throat.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers. “I don’t know what happened.”

The thing is, he hasn't quite learned how to compartmentalize memories away. (And he doesn't think he really wants to. Not when those memories are the only proof that he ever mattered to someone—to you.) Every waking moment since Dr. Strange cast the spell has been a living hell. When he's in between states of consciousness, his lips tremble with the ghost of your name. When he's walking through a crowd, he hears your laugh distantly in the wind. When he lays down at night, your face is the one that visits him in his dreams. When he opens his eyes, you're the first thing on his mind.

He's been chasing a ghost for three years. Seeing you, and hearing you, and looking for you in other people, and all that chasing has led him right here. To this party. He'd initially told himself—promised, actually—that he'd let you go because it was the only way to guarantee your safety. That you deserved to live a normal life. A life without all the worry, and the uncertainty, and the pain that came along with knowing someone like Peter Parker. A final act of love. Of selflessness.

But for all of his good qualities, Peter is a liar. He'd like to think himself selfless, but the truth of it, the raw, nasty truth of it all, is that he is a selfish person—and it scares him. The pretending to move on from you started out fine, at first. He'd tell himself it was right. That leaving you alone was the best decision for you. And for him. But then the want, the ache that resides deep in his marrow, started becoming louder than the voice telling him that his decision was right, clawing and scratching its way up to his throat until he acquiesced to the new voice encouraging him to seek you out.

After years of lightly keeping track on you (well, "lightly" was putting it rather generous. Everything he knew was easily google-able—really, you should start taking internet safety seriously), he knew from browsing through your Instagram (also, easily findable) where you worked, your course schedule, and where you liked to party. Which is how he found out that there was a house party happening tonight, and that you were definitely going to be in attendance.

You'd posted a story of you tipsy, with your arms slung around your college friends, smile easy and eyes half-lidded in a way Peter has never had the luxury of witnessing intimately like the people in the picture probably do. But he's seen the outside of the frat house on more than one occasion because of your story posts, enough to have memorized it and the surrounding structures. (Enough to have found it while patrolling the city on his rather slow nights.)

When he saw the story, his initial reaction was to ignore it. At first glance it just looked like another frat party. Same location, same group of friends. Except, there was one thing, one person, in the picture that didn't quite belong…

There was a guy slung around your arms, an unfamiliar face that Peter had never seen before. His face was turned from the camera, eyes fixed on you, soft and heavy with fascination in the way people's eyes usually looked whenever you walked into a room. (Peter knows the look because he remembers looking at you like that. He practically invented the look.)

Upon further inspection, though, the guy didn't just have an arm slung over your shoulder, but he had an arm wrapped around your waist like it belonged there, with his fingers splayed across your stomach in an almost proprietorial grip, and the other hand holding up a red solo cup like some douche bag.

To anyone else, it'd look like two friends having fun and taking a picture for the camera, but Peter knew what it looked like when a guy was into a girl. And this guy was conventionally attractive, he could admit that—he wasn't blind. The next story after that was even worse. And it was a video. You were playing beer pong with the same guy who, in the video, was stood at your side hyping you up as you focused on lining up your shot. The camera panned to the other side, and then your ball went into one of the opposing team's cups. The crowd watching burst into cheers, and then you turned to your teammate and he pulled you into a celebratory hug, hoisting you off the ground.

That was the final straw before he decided to abandon his nightly patrol. There wasn't much going on tonight anyway, aside from the usual: jaywalking, petty civilian arguments, robberies from the halal street carts—so he didn't feel too guilty.

He swung all the way home to his cramped little apartment in Queens, deliberating the whole way whether or not this was crazy, or if it was selfish, and then convinced himself somewhere in between 65th ave and 63rd ave that it was necessary. After a quick change (like a really quick change—he has all of five outfits, four of which were in the hamper), he swung all the way back to downtown Manhattan.

As soon as he got to the frat house, he regretted it almost instantaneously. What was he going to do, really? Introduce himself to you? Tell you that he's not a creep but actually your ex-boyfriend who you can't remember because Dr. Strange cast a spell that erased not only your memories of him, but his entire existence in the whole world? Oh, yeah, and in revealing all of that, that he's Spider-Man?

He didn't exactly plan that far ahead, and the more his mind ruminated, the more he realized there's no possible scenario in which this ends well. Even if he did get the chance to talk to you tonight, he'd slip up. Say too much. End up ruining everything he's worked tirelessly to protect for three years. Just as he's about to retreat from the porch, a voice emerges from behind him.

"Hey, you alright? Been watching you pace back and forth for about five minutes now."

His heart drops into the pit of his stomach. He closes his eyes, and a shaky breath escapes his lips. All the hairs on the back of his neck are standing on edge, and not because he's sensing a threat, but because the voice is so familiar, so warm, that his body is reacting to it involuntarily. Similar to how the sea reaches for the sand, his body has developed a second instinctual response, and it knows when you are near. Because it was made for you.

Quickly, he inhales a deep breath through his nose to brace himself, and then hesitantly, turns on his heels to face you. When his eyes meet yours, it feels like a punch to the gut that expels all the air from his lungs. You're leaning against one of the porch columns, wearing a curious expression, and there's a joint pinched between your fingers that you bring up to your lips. Smoothly. Practiced. Peter has never seen you smoke before. Unconsciously, his brows furrow in response, and he wants to ask when you took that up, but he catches himself before the words get the chance to leave his mouth and he clears his throat awkwardly. Looks away.

"I, uh," he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, "sorry. I just—I don't really know what I'm doing here." His words come out more high-pitched than intended, and he shakes his head, muttering something under his breath before shifting his gaze to the side.

You look at him curiously, taking another hit of the joint, and then blow the smoke from the side of your mouth. The light on the porch is dim, illuminating only a few feet in front of him and casting shadows that dance across the planes of your face—but you look devastatingly beautiful, he thinks. It makes his chest throb terribly, and he has to make a conscious effort to not make eye contact because he's spent so long not being able to look at you, that he fears his body will betray him if he indulges. So he busies himself with the loose thread on his shirt instead, twirling it around his fingers nervously.

"Yeah, me neither," you sigh wistfully, looking off to the side. Your lips do that twitchy thing they do when you're holding back something, but before Peter has a chance to register it, you're already turning back to him with that easy, cool smile. Whatever is, or was on your mind, dies before you can give them voice. "Which is why I'm out here. Needed some air." You lift the joint (well, a roach now), waving it around in your hand.

Peter gives you a light chuckle. "What, is the party too boring? Should I go?" He jokes, pointing in the direction of the steps. You offer him an amused grin, and then move from leaning against the column to the railing, taking a seat.

"Nah, the brothers actually throw pretty good parties. Just gets repetitive after awhile, you know? Beer pongs, keg stands, body shots, people dry humping on the couch—you know, all the stupid shit intoxicated college kids usually get up to at these kinds of parties."

Peter nods his head slowly, pretends like he knows exactly the kinds of things college kids get up to, as if his community college experience has even been remotely similar to yours. "No. Yeah. Exactly," he blurts, unconvincingly.

Narrowing your eyes, you say, "You don't sound too sure," then, "Can I ask you something?"

Peter nods reluctantly. "Y-yeah." There's a look on your face and a firmness to your voice that Peter can't quite discern. A mix between suspicion and intrigue. He shifts anxiously on his heels, waiting expectantly for whatever it is you're going to ask.

"You don't… know the brothers, do you? A lot of faces come through here, but I've never seen you before." Your question leans less on accusation, and more on sheer curiosity. You tilt your head, waiting for a response, and then lean down to the ground to put out the roach.

Choosing his words carefully, he quickly thinks of something to say. Something passable, and harmless, that you (hopefully, fingers crossed) wouldn't read too much into. "No, I don't know the brothers," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck, "a buddy of mine invited me along, said I could just show up. I texted him earlier that I was here but he hasn't responded. So I've been out here… trying to gather the courage to go inside. I don't really go to parties much—ever, really."

When his eyes flit back to yours, you're sporting a knowing grin. "Yeah, I figured as much. You don't really look like the 'party type'," you say matter-of-factly with a shrug of your shoulders.

Peter scoffs, holding his hand over his heart in faux-offense. "What does that mean? I'm the 'party type,'" he crosses his arms, voice cracking on the end of type. His face flushes beet red, and he turns his head in embarrassment, hoping you don't comment on the way his grown-man body just betrayed him. Amused, you laugh, and not just a lighthearted one, but a genuine, full-belly laugh. He turns back to you and just stares, letting the sound ring through his ears, because God, he's missed the sound of your laughter—even if it was at his expense.

"You're right. I'm sorry. You're totally a party person. My mistake—" your words come out quick and breathy from laughing, and you wipe away a tear from the corner of your eye. "No, but when I said you're not the 'party type,' I meant that in a good way. I'd remember someone like you."

"Someone like…" Peter queries, raising a brow because it still sounds like he should be offended. You get up from where you're sat on the railing and step closer towards him, stopping just a few inches away from where he's stood.

"Cute," you say, tone void of teasing. "Like I said, I'd remember." Slowly, you circle him, and you're so close, his body starts reacting again. The hairs on the back of his neck are standing, his palms grow slick with sweat, and his heart is beating viciously behind the confines of his ribcage. Peter swallows thickly, and it feels like there's a ball of cement lodged in the epicenter of his throat. He has to look forward, lest he runs the risk of passing out right here on the spot like some loser.

"O-oh," is all he can say, voice shaky. Your shoulder briefly makes contact with his when you return to your spot in front of him again, and he stiffens.

Then, like nothing just happened, you move past him and head for the door. Peter turns around, and you gesture with your head towards the party, as if to say 'are you coming or what?' Your hand rests patiently on the knob, leg perched on the doorstep, and you're looking at him like you've known him for years. Like the rest of the night hinders solely upon his decision to follow you inside, and judging by the expression on your face, you seem to be more than aware of the effect that you have on him.

"Oh, by the way," you step back down, facing him, "I forgot to ask you for your name. Or should we stick with Mr. Party Type?"

He clears his throat, choking out a rushed, "P-peter. It's Peter."

He watches you mutter it under your breath, like you're trying to let it sit on your tongue. Memorize it. As if after tonight it'll remain one of the many names you keep catalogued up in your head. Hearing you say his name after all these years of basically being dead to everyone he's ever known—loved, does something irreversible to his brain chemistry. Now that he's had a taste, he doesn't think he can go back to a reality where it doesn't live on your lips.

"But, uh, w-what's your name? I also… forgot to ask." He listens intently as you tell him your name, and briefly, he feels silly. Pretending he hasn't said it countless of times before. Like he doesn't know the nickname you prefer to be called, and how you only let the people closest to you use it. As if your name isn't the only thing taking up residence in all of his thoughts.

Still, he pretends it's the first time he's ever heard it, and then says, "That's a pretty name." This time, Peter doesn't choke on his words. He says it with a confident edge, holding eye contact while moving closer to you. It'd been so long since the last time he flirted, especially with you, that he almost forgot what it felt like. But he finds himself falling back into routine, like picking up a bike after years of having not rode one.

Caught off guard, a shy smile replaces your cheeky one, and you stutter out a thank you. "Coming, Pete?" you ask coolly, trying to regain your easy composure, "we can look for your friend inside or you can stick with me. Up to you."

He almost trips over himself trying to get to you. "Y-yeah, we can look." (There's nobody to look for.)

With a final glance, you grab hold of his wrist and lead him inside, and all Peter can think about is how the skin of his wrist blooms with heat where you're touching him, and how the smell of your perfume wafts through the air with every stride. What is that, he wonders. Sandalwood? It's spicy. Musky—unfamiliar. You used to be a vanilla girl. He guesses that's another thing that's changed. His jaw twitches.

Peter's so lost in his thoughts, he doesn't even notice that you've stopped until he collides into your back, and he quickly apologizes. You stumble forward from the impact but quickly regain your balance, and turn to face him, releasing your hold on his wrist. His eyes watch disappointedly as your hand returns to your side, and he shivers from the loss of contact.

"See your friend around? If he's not in here, we can check out back. There's usually people out there just hangin'." You point towards the sliding doors, and he pretends to follow your line of sight, swiveling his head around the room and then through the glass, looking for a person who doesn't exist.

He pulls out his phone, makes like he's pulling up someone's number, then puts the phone to his ear. He waits a beat, gives it a few seconds like it's actually ringing, and then walks a few steps away. Every few seconds, he spares a glance over his shoulder to see you watching him, and he gives a shy smile that you return with a thumbs up as if to ask 'any luck?'

He slips his phone in his pocket and returns to you, "Yeahhh, no answer," a lie, "maybe I'll bump into him later or something, but uh, is that offer to kick it with you still on the table? Unless, you know, you're ready to ditch this loser and go hang out with your cool friends."

There's a teasing lilt to his words, you notice this, and roll your eyes playfully. "Hey, I never called you a loser," you say, a smirk forming on your lips, "you said it not me—but yes, the offer is still on the table. One condition, though." A smile, then wider. Mischievous.

He turns his head slightly, narrows his eyes. "Shoot."

"Since you don't go to parties much," you start slowly, drawing out the anticipation, "it's only right that you get the authentic college experience, right?"

"Right…" not following where you're going with this. He shifts his weight and crosses his arms.

"So, what better way than to start off with a body shot?" you say finally, gesticulating with jazz hands.

Peter's eyes go wide, and now he's thinking about the implication. Who would be doing the body shot? Would it be him doing it to you? Or would it be you doing it to him? Then he starts to think about the where. Like, on your collarbone? Your neck? God, your chest?

His mind runs a mile a minute trying to compute each and every possible scenario, but all he can think about, is how each one is infinitely worse than the last. Not that he doesn't want to—God, of course he wants to—but he'd never planned on getting this far tonight, let alone getting the opportunity to touch you in that way… again. And Peter was weak, so very, very weak. All signs were pointing to this being a bad idea, but then again, Peter never much had a knack for making the right decisions.

With a twisted, unsure but excited smile, he says, "Alright. Sure, let's do it."

"Which one, Vodka or Tequila?"

Neither, is what he wants to say. Instead, he says, "Uh, I g-guess that one?" He points to the bottle in your right hand, and you make an elated noise.

"Tequila, good choice. Ever had it before?" you ask, eyes flickering from him to the knife in your hand as you cut up a lime.

He shakes his head, "Nope. Never really saw the appeal of alcohol. Tastes gross."

"You know, I actually agree with you there. But the appeal is getting drunk and then blaming all your bad decisions on the alcohol," you say, to which he chuckles.

"Yeah, well, I never needed alcohol for that," he admits, looking down shyly, "trust me."

You respond to his admission with a soft laugh and nod your head, "Also fair."

When the conversation dies, the two of you settle into a peaceful silence. Peter watches you slice the lime in half, and then again into two halves. One for him, and… one for you, he presumes. While he observes, he notices the practiced ease with which you set it all up. You line each item on the counter like you do this often, discarding of the knife in the sink, finding the salt from the cabinet, drying your hands on the sink towel.

Briefly, his mind can't help but to wander. Just how close were you with these frat brothers? How many times have you done body shots here? Then, bitterly, he begins to ask himself something that makes the back of his throat slick with bile. He wonders if you've done this with that guy. The one in your story post from earlier.

Before he can ponder on the last question for too long, the sound of your voice pulls him from his thoughts. "Sorry, can you repeat that?"

"Stand up," you say, motioning for him to get up from his seat on the counter. "You go first."

Sliding from the counter, he lands on wobbly feet, the nerves finally catching up to him. He was so busy pouting about hypotheticals that he totally forgot he walked into the kitchen with a knot in his stomach, but it was back now. Twisting with a vengeance.

When there was a reality in which you two were dating, he never had to worry about embarrassing himself in front of you. (Well, in the beginning stages, sure. But when you really started dating, like officially, it was easy. You had found his awkwardness charming then, but now, he finds himself feeling a little insecure. Out of his depth. In your separation, you'd grown, found community, experienced new things—and you did it all without him. And he doesn't know if you're a new person entirely because of the spell, or if this version of you is who you would've grown into regardless.)

His eyes flicker anxiously from the ingredients to you, and you flash him a reassuring smile, brushing his forearm lightly.

"Hey, I'll walk you through it," you say, hoisting yourself onto the counter. Lay flat on your back. You extend an arm and tug him closer by the sleeve of his jacket, and he settles next to your side. "Okay, first, pick where you wanna do it."

"I guess your, uh, stomach," he decides, swallowing thickly. The corner of your mouth twitches with a smirk, and then you continue on.

"Now, you're gonna pour it into my belly button. So lift up my shirt."

With shaky fingers, Peter tugs on the hem of your shirt, then slowly lifts it up until it reaches your ribs. Folds it over neatly so as to not get it wet, and his knuckles brush your skin. Your abdomen flexes in response, once, twice, then his eyes flit up to yours and you're already looking at him. The air feels charged. The hairs on the back of his neck can feel it, and he thinks you feel it, too. You swallow, continue on.

"G-good, now…" you tilt your head to the bottle, watch as he grabs it and begins to pour. Once he's satisfied, he puts the bottle down and then returns his gaze to you like a lost puppy. "Now, take the salt and pour some on my stomach. Salt first, then shot."

He grabs the shaker and sprinkles out a thin line of salt just above the shot. From here, you stop giving instructions, and Peter comes to a silent understanding. Unhurriedly, he lowers his mouth to your stomach, hovering just a few centimeters above, and he exhales through his nose. Eyes fixed on yours, unmoving.

Reflexively, your abdomen caves again, and now you're hyper-aware of what's happening. Your high was quickly starting to wear off, to your dismay, and the reality that you were letting a complete stranger do a body shot off of you was starting to settle in. In any other case, you'd think better on it, but for some reason, the stranger before you didn't really feel like a stranger at all…

Then, his tongue is on you. Warm and wet and gentle. One long, fluid flick. A wave of warmth washes over you, pools low into the pit of your stomach. Your hand grips the edge of the counter as he hovers over your navel, and you watch with bated breath as he wraps his lips around the pool of liquid, his dilated eyes never once leaving yours. He hums as he sucks it up, the vibration sending a shiver down your spine, and then in the flash of a second, he's pulling off of you with a satisfied grin, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Guess this is the last step," he says, grabbing a lime wedge. He squeezes it into his mouth and makes a face, sticking out his tongue. "Yeah, can't say I'm a fan of that part."

Watching him take a shot off your body had more of an effect on you than you expected. You convince yourself it's just the weed. (Your high already wore off.) Sitting up, you adjust your shirt and try to recompose yourself to the best of your ability, already opening your mouth to shift the focus from you to him.

"Alright, so, you did your first body shot! Now it's my turn." You put extra emphasis on the my, and shoot him a cheeky wink. Peter can only imagine what you're planning to do. He only hopes his body doesn't betray him. And for clarification, he's not a pervert. It's just… been too long, to his misfortune. He only just licked your stomach a minute ago, and now you were going to be licking him.

If he ever got the chance to feel your mouth on him again, he never envisioned it'd be in the kitchen of some frat. In his daydreams, you had your memories back. He'd hold you in his arms, cradle your face in his hands, and kiss you sweetly. Your hands would find their way to the nape of his neck, and you'd pull him closer by the curls, and tease him when he sighs into your mouth. The reality of the situation was that you were still spell you, and spell you had no idea that the boy she had taken under her wing tonight was fantasizing about all the ways he used to kiss her.

He wasn't going to last much longer tonight.

Just as he's about to lay on the counter, you stop him with a tut of your hand, grab him by the shoulders and walk him backwards until his legs hit a chair at the kitchen table.

"Sit," you say, pushing him down. He obliges, takes a seat and watches as you line up all the ingredients again. Then, smoothly, you bend down just enough to slide his jacket off from his shoulders, place it on the back of his chair, eyes focused and unreadable. You're so close that if Peter leaned in a few inches, he'd be able to press a kiss to your neck. The smell of sandalwood floods his senses, makes him dizzy.

"Hold this for me." Not asking. Demanding. You tug on the collar of his shirt and he lifts a hand to replace yours. Lightly, you trace the skin of his collarbone, drag it from one point to the other, then prod the space where you'll be putting the shot. Every inch of skin where your finger touched blooms with heat, he thinks he'll feel it tomorrow morning.

"This too, please." You pick up the lime wedge. Peter opens his hand but you shake your head, point to your mouth. "Open."

Hesitantly, he opens his mouth and you stick it in between his teeth, smiling in satisfaction because of how agreeable he's being. Without delay, you take his free hand and pour a sprinkle of salt on the back, then grab the bottle of tequila and pour it into the hollow of his clavicle.

You don't even know why you were making such an effort to do all of this. Part of you wants to believe it's your twisted way of getting back at him for flustering you, but really, you know it's because another part of you feels weirdly drawn to him. It was strange. You, who had very little patience for people—who was repulsed by most people—found yourself willingly leaning into this stranger. You'd known him for all of an hour, and yet, he has been the single most interesting thing all night.

Bending down, your eyes find his as you lower your mouth to his hand, and then you dart your tongue out, lick the salt off. Long and slow and wet. Peter's breath hitches. Closes his eyes to focus. When you drop his hand, he can hear you shuffling to his other side, then your hands are holding him steady by the shoulders, and he can feel you—hear you—leaning closer to his neck, your breath fanning the shell of his ear.

Slowly, you plant your mouth onto his clavicle and suck the liquor from the hollow, until there's nothing left. Until you've decided you're ready to pull away. And he sighs. He fucking sighs. Something soft and content, it almost sounds too intimate. Like you shouldn't have heard it, but you continue on. Try to ignore it as you cup his face and pluck the lime from in between his teeth.

When Peter decides it's safe, he opens his eyes, blinks. You squeeze the lime juice into your mouth and turn your back towards him abruptly, walk towards the kitchen counter. To take another shot, recompose yourself, put some space between you—you don't know. You just do, and you can feel his gaze burning into your back. Your heart is beating viscously, and you attempt to quell it with a soothing hand over your chest.

Peter watches you with an inquisitive expression. "You alright over there?" Genuine, concerned. He gets up from his seat and rounds the counter, goes to grab your shoulder but you shrug him off.

"I-i'm fine, I just—the juice, too sour," you breathe, unconvincingly.

He goes to open his mouth again but is interrupted by a new voice coming from the kitchen doorway.

"Babe, I've been looking all over for you," the voice shouts. "Where have you been?"

The two of you turn around, and Peter feels an amalgamation of things wash violently over him at once. Dread. Bitterness. Jealousy. It was him. The fucking guy from your story post—the one who was looking at you how he used to. The one who was holding you like he used to. The hairs on the back of his neck begin to raise, and he feels his body vibrate with something too dark to name. It should scare him, he thinks briefly. But that feeling quickly dissolves the second this douche bag opens his mouth.

"You went out for air and then never came back, needed you out there for the second round, wait—" the guy walks closer, finally acknowledging Peter's presence, "Who's this, babe?"

You roll your eyes, drop the lime wedge on the counter and take three big strides across the room to him. "Stop calling me that, we're not together, remember?" You whisper-shout, tugging him by the elbow to the other side of the room. Peter probably shouldn't eavesdrop, but he can't help but to overhear bits and pieces from the conversation.

You make an honest effort to keep your voice low enough but the guy purposely voices his words loud enough for Peter to hear, glaring over your shoulder every now and then when he gestures to Peter.

"So while I was out there waiting for you, you were in here with him? Doing what, exactly? Just talking? I see the limes on the counter, I'm not fucking stupid. I know you like to…" his voice trails, words slurring, and you pinch the space between your brows, visibly annoyed.

"It's none of your business, Harry!" you yell this time, abandoning your effort to keep your conversation at whisper-level. "What I do at parties is none of your concern, we're not together. You broke up with me, remember? You. Broke up. With me."

Peter's knuckles turn white. He had a name now. Harry. And not only did he have a name, but he had confirmation. That the two of you are together—or were, whatever. The semantics don't really matter; he knows now there was history. His only question: why did this asshole think he had any entitlement to your social life?

"That's not…" Harry starts, fumbling backward, suddenly losing his semblance of balance. "That's not fair."

You scoff, fold your arms, tongue in cheek. Peter knows that look; the one you wear when you call bullshit. "Oh, don't talk to me about fair, Harry. You made it pretty clear that I had no place in your life. Can't blame everything on Daddy," you say, tone venomous. "And, God, Harry… You're embarrassing. You missed a little something."

Harry blinks stupidly when you gesture to his face, and he brings a hand up to his nose, wipes it with the sleeve of his shirt. Embarrassment etches onto his face, and he curses under his breath. Just as he's about to speak again, you raise a hand.

"Don't. You're high, Harry—and drunk. Just leave, please. I indulged you earlier by coming and playing nice, but don't mistake that for anything more. Just leave, please. Just go."

Sparing one last glance between you and Peter, Harry scoffs, then stumbles back out into the party. When you finally turn around, Peter doesn't even realize he's been balling his fists at his sides for the entire conversation. His knuckles are blanch white, and there's crescent shaped indents scattered all over the palm of his hand. He shakes his hands loose, puts them behind his back.

You walk back over to him with a sigh, hiding your face behind your hands. "I'm so sorry," you apologize, too embarrassed to look him in the eye. "That was so weird. I promise you I'm not one of those girls who get into dramatic arguments with their boyfriend at parties. Not that he's my boyfriend—I mean you heard it, obviously—but you know what I mean. He's not usually like that, I don't know what got into—actually, I don't know why I'm rambling. Sorry."

"You don't have to do that, you know."

Furrowing your brows, you say, "Do what?"

"Defend him. You don't need to do that. He's an asshole," he added, stating it matter-of-factly. "Sorry if I'm overstepping but, based off of what I heard just now, he gave up on you. He ended things. He has no right to feel entitled to you or to what you do, I'd ne—I mean, the right guy would never treat you the way he's treating you. Like you're disposable. Who treats you like a safety net to come back to when he's bored."

When he's finished, he quickly notices how still you are. Your eyes are wide and you're staring at him with an unreadable expression. His stomach drops to his ass. Shit, he curses himself.

"I m-mean, it's not like I know your situation or anything. I overstepped, didn't I? I'm sorry, it just sounded like—and you kept going on, and I just wanted to reassu—" his voice shakes, hands gesturing wildly.

Unthinking, you take two steps forward and close the distance between you and Peter melts. Slow at first, then all at once. His hands drop to his sides, his shoulders relax, and he sighs into your mouth. Soft and syrupy. You deepen the kiss in response, angle his head how you want it, and then his hands are on you, pulling you flush against him with a hunger that threatens to consume.

This is when the air in the room shifts, becomes charged with something else. Something hungry, and desperate, and familiar. Careful turns messy, a clash of teeth and tongue, wet and breathy and delicious. In the midst of the chaos, he backs you into the wall, slots his thigh between your legs and you let out a noise in between a whine and a moan.

Unceremoniously, Peter breaks the kiss and stumbles backward to the kitchen counter, putting as much distance between the two of you as he can. His chest rises and falls in quick succession and he's profusely apologizing, muttering a string of 'sorry's and 'we can't's. Confused, you push off the wall and make your way to him but he puts out a hand. Leans against the counter and shakes his head while trying to catch his breath.

"W-what's wrong? Are you—did I…" you start, breathless, "did I do something?"

Peter clutches his chest, shakes his head profusely, "What—no. No. You didn't do—no, I just…" he stammers, walking closer but still being cautious of the space between you. "I just…can't."

He internally cringes. It's a lie, of course, and he fucking hates it. Hates lying to you. Hates that you're wearing that expression on your face, like you've just been rejected—denied. And it's his fault.

"I don't understand. I thought you… Did I get the wrong idea?" Your voice gets quieter, smaller. Peter has never known you to retreat into yourself, you've always walked and talked with an air of confidence; he's not sure when this has changed, but he briefly wonders if this has something to do with him. If that guy has done this to you.

Quickly, he takes three long strides across the kitchen and moves to hold you, but decides against it. Drops his hands awkwardly to his sides and cringes.

"You did not get the wrong idea, trust me." His voice comes out strained, as if there's a paperweight on his chest, and he's trying to choose his words carefully. "It was a good kiss—God, a really good kiss, actually. But… I'm not really in the right headspace for anything right now, you know?"

A beat. Before you respond, you mull it over in your head, then, "I'm not asking for a relationship, Peter. It was just a kiss. I figured maybe after, you'd want to come over to mine or something. I mean, you did say the kiss was 'really good' if I recall."

His eyes widen again from the implication, and he huffs out a breath because this conversation was literally going to kill him. "Wow, yeah, that's definitely an incredible offer—" his voice goes up a pitch, "but I think you'd feel differently about what you just suggested in the morning. Besides, you just met me. What if I was some big, bad serial killer?" He folds his arms, makes an attempt to sound intimidating but his voice cracks on the last word, and you laugh.

"That's the second funniest thing you've said tonight. You? A serial killer? Peter I'd no sooner believe you were a boy scout than a serial killer."

"Hey, they can be anyone," he counters, nodding his head.

"Not you," you say, then, "Can I say something crazy, though?"

Peter nods, shifts his stance and braces. "Of course."

Hesitantly, you open your mouth, busy your fingers with the chipped polish on your nails. "Would it be weird if I said you don't feel like a stranger? There's something about you, I don't know how to explain it but… You feel familiar. And that kiss… I don't know. Maybe you're right. Maybe I am drunk, or high, or whatever. I must sound ridiculously crazy. I'm sor—"

Peter interjects. "How about this. We're gonna be friends, okay? How's that sound?"

Thinking, you nod slowly. "Okay. Friends. We can be friends." You repeat it. Let it sit on your tongue. "Well, since we're gonna be friends, can I ask you a favor?"

"Shoot."

"Walk me home? Kinda partied-out. Don't wanna chance running into Harry on the way out and him bothering me. Figured if he sees you, he'll back off."

Peter nods, "Yeah, sure. Let's go."

As you make your way out of the kitchen and through the party, the two of you can only think of one thing.

Peter thinks he's just friend-zoned himself back into your life.

But you? You can't stop thinking about how you're not going to be friends.

That was the best way to describe how you're feeling right now. Filled to the brim and completely at the mercy of the man you're sheathed on. A moan escapes your lips as he trails kisses along your neck.

Frank's hands have a firm grip on your ass, holding you in place. As he bucks his hips, painfully slow, his hard cock reaches the deepest parts of you and he grins teasingly when he coax a needy moan from your pretty lips.

Frank knows what this is doing to you, and he can’t help but revel in the way your body responds to him. How you moan his name, how each delicious drag of his cock pulls small whimpers from you.

“You’re doing so good, baby girl.”

His skin is glistening with perspiration, holding tightly to control as the urge to just give in and fuck you into oblivion is almost overwhelming, but he loves how you look when he teases you like this. Lips parted and moist from your tongue, you're absolutely breathtaking, and you're his.

His eyes focus on you and his lips curl up into a grin, as he sees how another wave of pleasure washes over you.

“Fuck,” you hiss through clenched teeth, feeling your heart hammering wildly in your chest. Your fingers dig deep into his back, and you roll your hips, urging him on, pleading for more. “Please, Frank...”

Frank decides you’ve endured enough, and he finally gives in, thrusting harder. One hand moving to your mound, his thumb expertly rubbing against your clit.

Your eyes snap open, every nerve ending coming to life, leaving you breathless.

Your back arches and Frank almost loses himself, lost in your moans and how good you feel around him. Lost in how you look, lost in pleasure. Once again, his name rolls off your lips, like the sweetest song he’s ever heard.

“That’s it. Be a good girl and come for me.”

He hits your sweet spot again and again, the pace unrelenting, and he feels your walls clench around him.

Your body is on fire as the climax washes over you, feeling like you’re being ripped apart and stitched back together again, over and over, as he keeps his brutal rhythm. Nothing escapes you besides a whimper. You have never felt so alive.

Frank has been holding back, but in that moment, you hear his breath hitch, like something snaps in him. He wraps your legs around his waist, before he pulls you off the table and throws you down onto the floor. A growl rolls up his throat and only one word comes to your mind, ‘feral’.

You find yourself flat on the floor, pinned beneath his body, his throbbing cock still sheathed to the hilt, never missing a beat.

He snaps his hips viciously, making you see stars once more. You wanna tell him how good he makes you feel, how much you love him. How you’re completely in love with him, but all you can manage is to moan his name, over and over.

“Fuck, darling...”

Frank can barely think, lost in the feeling of you. All he wants is to claim you, make sure you know you’re his. He turns your head, forcing you to look into his fiery eyes.

“You’re mine.”

He holds your gaze as he keeps pounding into you, each snap of his hips sending you closer and closer to the edge. He holds you down, almost growling like a wild animal, and you feel yourself transfixed by him, lost in the depth of his eyes gazing into your soul.

Then, like fireworks, you break into a million pieces with every colour of the rainbow.

You can’t hold back your scream as you cry out your orgasm. As you clench around him, Frank can’t hold it back any longer and buries his head into your neck as he thrusts a few more times, filling you with his cum. He keeps rutting into you slowly, riding out his high.

Eventually he stills, panting heavily. You can feel him smirk against your skin, as he leaves small kisses on your neck.

His breathing slows and he pops up on one elbow, looking into your eyes. You have a blissful smile on your face, your breathing still heavy. You reach out and cup his cheek, before your hand moves to his neck, pulling him closer.

The kiss is sweet and tender, nothing like the feral act you did moments ago.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks softly, his face full of worry, afraid he might have taken it a step too far this time.

“No” you answer truthfully, smiling. If anything, your blissed out face must tell him everything he needs to know, because his worried frown turns into a beautiful smile. The smile that always makes your heart flutter.

He moves to get up, but you hold him in place, not wanting this moment to end.

“Just a few more minutes, please.”

Truth is, you don’t want this moment to end. You’ve lost your heart to this man, but you’re afraid to tell him. Afraid he doesn’t love you back. So, you snuggle closer, ignoring the way your heart is pounding wildly in your chest.

Frank just leans in and kisses you softly, before laying down on the floor, pulling you into his embrace. You place your head on his shoulder, your fingers dancing across his chest.

You push yourself up and sit on your knees, looking around at the contents of your bag scattered around you. The gun you were gifted from your boyfriend, Frank, pokes out from inside, the silver barrel catching what little light it could from between two tall buildings. You should've lead with that, you now think. That would've made far larger a impact than to shove the man from behind. 

Stashing everything back inside your bag, you reach for your phone just a little out of grasp from you — the screen broken and cracked under the foot of such a vile, reprehensible man. You turn it on, and while it glitches, you can just about make it work. Clicking on the phone icon, you press Frank's name at the top of your most recent calls, the heart emoji beside his name helping you navigate through such a malfunction.

In just a couple short rings, he answers, worry clear in his voice when he hears the same in your own as you relay the event. 

"And then he just punched me, Frank. I don't—" you take a breath, trying to regulate yourself. "I don't—" you cough on the blood that seeps down the back of your throat and spit it onto the ground in a clump. "He just—"

"Easy, baby. It's alright," he lies. It was definitely not, alright. Despite his own indignation, he knew you were in need of something gentle — his anger won't calm you. "Just hang on for me, yeah?"

"I was only trying to help," you mutter, speaking to yourself through him. "He was pushing her around— and I…" you feel yourself grow emotional, mind flickering between alternating states. You lower your phone and place your face into your palms, blood spilling from your nose and down your wrists.

"I know, baby. You helped, alright? You did good. Keep that phone to your ear, yeah? Gotta know you're still there, sweetheart," he speaks into his side of the phone, voice similar to a plea. "Just round the block, baby, okay?" he awaits a response. "Okay?" he repeats.

"Okay," you confirm, tone so soft it's just about audible. 

You keep your phone to your ear and place your free hand to the ground, using it for stability as you push yourself to your feet. You stumble for a moment trying to find your footing and inch closer and closer to the brick wall in front of you. Placing your hand to the graffiti wall, you balance yourself, using it to hold yourself upright despite feeling so disorientated. 

"Still there?"

You hum into the speaker and rest the side of your head against the arm you have for support, wet, teary eyes closing also. 

"Then speak, baby," he speaks, voice rustling with the movement of his phone. A slam of a door follows his instruction, the closing truck door indicating his arrival. 

You hear the scuffling of rushed footsteps and a voice echo down the alley, and you stand up stiff and straight. Your neck snaps to follow the sound, but it can't be Frank, there's no truck; not one that you've seen or heard. 

"Frank?" you whisper into your phone. "Frank are you here? Is that you?" you reach into your bag for your gun and hold it out in front of you, directing it to the darkness down the dim alley.

"It's me baby."

"I think someone else is here, Frank," you utter into your phone, voice scared and panicked in a way he's never once heard. 

"Sweetheart, it's me. Promise… see, listen."

Your name is called from the dimmest part of the alley, the voice belonging to Frank, and you breathe out — relief clear with your ragged exhale. 

You hold out your phone and wave it, directing him to you with the light of your screen.

"Frank," you mutter, spotting his silhouette become vastly more clear. 

Ending the call, you place your phone into your bag and trudge forward. Though Frank's quick to close the gap, pace quickening with broad strokes when he notices you inch forwards.

Frank stands in front of you, dark brown eyes narrowing in on your nose and the blood that leaks from it. He places a hand on your chin, fingers hooking most cautiously into the lowers of your cheeks as he tilts your head, directing your face into the flickers of light so he can assess just how much damage was made — how much force was inflicted upon the sole thing he cares most about. 

He tilts your head just a bit too much and just a bit too soon. You flinch, hissing at the sting of pain. 

"Sorry, baby. I'm sorry," his gaze flicker over yours, voice sympathetic. His head tilts to match yours, keen to keep his eyes locked on your own. "You did good, my girl," he nods once and adjusts the placement of his hands — settling them on either cheek. "Took one hell of a punch."

'Took one hell of a punch.' He found that most distasteful to say and it left a foul feel in his mouth. You shouldn't be taking any punches, especially not from a man. But still, he had to commend your strength, your sheer will for doing right even if it meant getting a punch or two to the face. 

Your eyes well and you divert from his gaze, lowering them to settle somewhere around his chest. He doesn't urge you to meet his eyes, instead he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a couple crumpled takeout napkins he found in the truck. He pinches the corner and reaches for your nose, carefully placing the tissue just under the nostril that was making the most amount of mess. 

You sniffle and close your eyes, wet lashes practically fusing together. You raise a hand and wrap it around his wrist, for the hand he has clasped to the side of your face. Holding what you can reach of his very lower arm, you keep him close — using the dual sense of touch to seek comfort quicker. 

"I hit him too," you speak through a hiccup. 

He brushes his thumb along the apple of your cheek, roughened pad as soft as he can muster. A small, amused smile tugs one corner of his mouth and he nods, each act displaying something satisfying.

"Attagirl," he coos, voice low. "Where'd you get him?" he asks, almost like the question was a means for distraction, andof keen interest.

"Throat and eyes... and his balls." 

The corners of his lips reach down as he pulls a pleased face, features exhibiting pride as he nods a couple times. "Remember what he looks like?"

You nod within the hold he has on you. 

"I got a picture of him in the bar."

Frank pulls you in slightly and presses a kiss to your forehead, to just between your eyebrows, lips remaining in place as he speaks. "That's my girl."

He'll need a copy, need it later to ensure payback is being dealt to the right person. But not now, maybe later when you've bathed and are in bed, maybe that's when he'd remind the man that women are not for hitting and belittling. 

"That's it, baby. Take my cock like a good girl," Frank growls in-between trust, his feral eyes watching as your tight, little cunt stretches open for his cock. He loves how fucking small you are compared to him, how he takes control over you with ease and how that small pussy of your grips his cock so tightly with every thrust. Loves the obscene, wet noises your cunt makes every time his dick slides in and out of you. 

Frank's broad physique is hovering above you, his muscled arms easily folding you into a mating press and pounding into you as his brown eyes stare down at you like a wild beast. 

You gasp, your eyes widening at the depth the position gives him, his big, fat cock hitting your cervix with every ferocious thrust, coaxing choked moans from you. You’re quickly pulled into another gushing orgasm, your pussy desperately clenching and twitching around Frank's cock as your juices squirts out and wets your inner thighs.

Your eyes roll back, saliva drooling from the corner of your open mouth as Frank fucks you into a dazed, blubbering mess. You love how much bigger than you Frank is, how he makes you feel so small and vulnerable, and yet so protected and safe.

Frank has you exactly where he wants you, fucked into submission as he thrust into you a final time, pressing you down into the mattress as he growls and pumps his load into your pussy. You're gasping for air as you lay beneath him completely mind fucked with a dumb smile on your lips, feeling his cock throbbing inside you and filling you up with his seed. 

"Good girl." Frank grins as he pulls out and watches as thick streams of his cum gush out of your used cunt. 

~

The metallic and bitter copper tang of blood coats your tongue, thick enough that every breath tastes like rust.

It’s not yours.

You groan as you spit the crimson liquid onto the cracked pavement, watching it disappear into a puddle streaked with oil and ash.

The alley around you smells like smoke, damp concrete, burnt gunpowder, and gasoline—the lingering aftermath of a firefight that had transformed three whole city blocks into a war zone mere minutes ago.

Your back slams against the freezing brick wall behind you as your knees finally give out.

The impact of your knees hitting the pavement sends a lance of pain through your spine, causing you to let out a hiss through your clenched teeth.

Every muscle in your body trembles violently.

The graffiti-covered wall is cold enough to bite through the damaged armor covering your shoulders, but right now it feels like the only thing keeping you upright. 

Chunks of broken concrete litter the alley floor around your knees. 

Empty shell casing glint beneath the flickering glow of a dying streetlamp.

And far above your head, the neon sign of the motel that is on the opposite side of the alley buzzes erratically.

VA—AN—Y

Both Cs are burned out.

Every few seconds, the broken sign paints the alley in flashes of crimson before plunging everything back into shadow.

Several streets away, sirens scream through Hell’s Kitchen.

NYPD.

EMS.

Maybe firefighters.

It’s impossible to tell anymore.

Late.

Always too damn late. 

By the time the police arrived, the Russian syndicate’s operation was nothing more than smoking rubble and corpses.

Business as usual.

Your head tips back against the wall behind you.

Your eyes slide shut for just a moment.

You force yourself to inhale.

The air burns your lungs.

The energy still simmering beneath your skin—the power you’ve spent years trying to master—flickers weakly through your veins like a dying electrical current.

Normally it burns beneath your skin with restless life, responding instinctively to danger.

Now… It barely whispers.

The battle tonight has drained you further than ever before.

The explosion.

The shield.

Holding an entire floor of collapsing concrete above two people with nothing but raw force of will.

You’d managed it though.

Barely.

Your vision still swims from the strain, your hands shake uncontrollably and you can also feel your heartbeat echoing painfully inside your skull.

That’s when a heavy pair of boots crunches across the broken glass scattered around you.

You don’t even have to open your eyes.

You know exactly who it is.

Frank Castle.

He comes to a stop at your side without saying a word.

The alley somehow feels smaller with him standing there.

He’s a massive silhouette wrapped in black tactical gear, broad shoulders outlined by the pulsing neon overhead.

His vest is almost unrecognizable beneath layers of soot, dust, dried blood, and fresh bullet holes.

The iconic white skull painted across his chest is streaked with grime, chipped from flying debris, and splattered with the blood of men who had made the mistake of pointing guns at the two of you.

His breathing is slow.

Heavy.

Controlled.

But you know him well enough now to hear what hides beneath it.

Fatigue.

Adrenaline.

Relief.

He'd never admit to the last one though.

One gloved hand still rests casually on the grip of his sidearm.

The rifle hangs against his chest on its sling.

His dark eyes never stop moving.

Rooftops.

Windows.

Fire escapes.

The mouth of the alley.

Every shadow.

Every possible threat.

Frank Castle is never truly at rest.

Even now.

Especially now.

"You're bleedin’."

His voice cuts through the silence like gravel dragged across concrete.

Low.

Calm.

Matter-of-fact.

You open one eye.

"So are you."

He doesn't even glance down.

"It's mine."

You manage a weak laugh.

The motion immediately makes you regret it as pain tears through your ribs.

"Well..." You cough once. "...that's reassuring."

Frank's gaze finally shifts toward you.

Only for a moment.

Just enough to assess.

His eyes travel over every visible injury with practiced efficiency.

Split lip.

Burns climbing your left arm.

Bruising already darkening beneath your suit.

The tear across your side where shrapnel had ripped through reinforced fabric.

He notices all of it.

Nothing escapes him.

"You should've pulled back."

You roll your eyes despite the exhaustion. "And let twenty mobsters surround you?"

"I would've handled it."

"You would've gotten yourself blown to hell."

"I've survived worse."

"So have I."

A quiet silence settles between you.

Only broken by the distant scream of sirens.

Rain begins to fall.

Just barely.

Tiny droplets hiss against still-smoldering debris.

Steam curls upward from scattered wreckage.

"You should see the other guy," you mutter eventually.

Your voice is hoarse.

Weak.

"Oh..."

Another tired smile tugs at your lips.

"...wait."

You glance toward the alley entrance where several bodies remain scattered across the pavement.

"You did."

Frank follows your gaze.

Then back to you.

"I shot him."

"He was aiming for my head."

"He was." He agrees with a nod.

"You didn't hesitate."

"No."

The answer comes instantly.

No remorse.

No uncertainty.

Just simple truth.

"He would've killed you."

"So you killed him first."

"Yeah."

He says it like discussing tomorrow's weather.

To Frank, it is that simple.

Someone points a weapon at the person he's protecting.

They stop breathing.

End of story.

You don't argue.

Not anymore.

Months ago, maybe.

Back when you still believed there was a line between justice and vengeance.

Back before you'd watched murderers laugh as they walked free.

Before judges accepted bribes.

Before witnesses disappeared.

Before corruption swallowed every courtroom in New York.

Now… The line doesn't exist.

Not for either of you.

This isn't your first mission together.

Hell—You stopped counting after the tenth warehouse.

Then came abandoned docks.

Drug labs.

Human trafficking rings.

Safehouses.

Arms dealers.

Private compounds.

The Russian mob.

The Irish mob.

Cartels.

Mercenaries.

Every operation ended exactly the same.

Smoke.

Gunfire.

Blood.

Silence.

At first, you tolerated each other.

Then you trusted each other.

And then… Somewhere along the way… Without either of you noticing...

You became partners.

Not officially of course.

Frank doesn't do partners.

But somehow… That's exactly what happened.

The difference between the two of you has always been obvious.

Frank relies on relentless discipline.

Military precision.

Training earned through decades of violence.

Every movement is calculated.

Every shot is deliberate.

You… You were born different.

Power lives beneath your skin.

Raw.

Volatile.

Dangerous.

Energy crackles invisibly beneath your fingertips whenever your emotions spike. It can shield buildings, level concrete walls, stop bullets in midair, or hurl armored vehicles like toys.

It has saved Frank's life more than once.

Tonight… It nearly killed you.

The syndicate had rigged the entire third floor with military-grade explosives.

Neither of you saw them until the detonator clicked.

By the time Frank shouted your name—The world exploded.

Concrete.

Steel.

Glass.

Fire.

Everything came crashing down.

Instinct took over.

Your hands lifted.

Power erupted from every nerve in your body.

A shimmering barrier formed above both of you.

The explosion hit.

The building collapsed.

And somehow… Somehow… You held.

Just long enough.

Long enough for Frank to drag both of you through the collapsing hallway.

Long enough to survive.

But powers always demanded payment.

Now every nerve in your body feels like exposed wire.

Frank finally turns fully toward you.

For the first time since entering the alley...

He stops scanning.

Stops listening.

Stops hunting.

He just… Looks at you.

Really looks.

The burn marks climbing your neck.

The soot smeared across your cheek.

The strands of hair stuck to your forehead with sweat.

The exhaustion in your eyes.

The way your hands still shake.

His jaw tightens. "You pushed too hard."

"I know."

"I told you to stay outside."

"I ignored you."

"You always ignore me."

You smile tiredly. "You noticed."

A ghost of something almost resembling amusement touches the corner of his mouth.

Barely.

Gone almost as soon as it appears.

"I saved your ass," you murmur.

"You did." He agrees.

That makes you look up at him fully, eyebrows raised. "No smart comeback?"

"No."

"Are you admitting I was right?"

"Don't push it."

You laugh again.

This time he actually steps closer.

Close enough that the cold wind suddenly disappears.

Close enough that his body blocks the rain beginning to fall.

Close enough that you can smell him beneath the smoke.

Gunpowder.

Leather.

Rain.

Aftershave.

Blood.

Frank kneels in front of you.

The movement surprises you.

He almost never lowers himself for anyone.

His gloved hand reaches toward your face.

You instinctively freeze.

His fingers stop inches away.

Like he's giving you the chance to pull back.

You don't.

Instead… You lean forward.

Just slightly.

His thumb brushes carefully across your cheek.

Gentle.

Almost impossibly gentle.

It wipes away a streak of dried blood you hadn't realized was there.

The rough leather of his glove contrasts with the incredible care behind the movement.

The tenderness steals your breath.

This man has broken bones with his bare hands.

Snapped rifles over his knee.

Dragged grown men across concrete like rag dolls.

Yet somehow… He's touching you like you're made of glass.

His eyes never leave yours.

Dark.

Unreadable.

But softer than you've ever seen them.

"You scared me."

The words are so quiet you almost miss them.

Frank Castle.

The Punisher.

The man criminals whisper about like an urban legend.

Admitting fear.

Because of you.

Your heart stumbles. "Frank..."

"You stopped moving."

"I was tired."

"You weren't breathing."

"I got better."

His jaw clenches harder. "Don't joke about that."

The seriousness in his voice erases your smile.

You reach up slowly.

Your hand settles against the side of his face.

Rough stubble scratches your palm.

Warm.

Real.

Alive.

"You came back for me."

His eyebrows knit together.

"I always come back."

The words hang between you.

Simple.

Certain.

Absolute.

Something shifts.

Months of stolen glances.

Late-night stakeouts.

Shared coffee in abandoned safehouses.

Silently stitching each other's wounds beneath flickering lights.

Watching each other's backs without ever asking why.

Every unspoken feeling suddenly presses against the surface.

You look at him.

Really look.

The scar cutting across his jaw.

The exhaustion hidden beneath relentless determination.

The tiny crease between his brows that only appears when he's worried.

The man beneath the legend.

His gaze drops.

Just briefly.

To your lips.

Your pulse spikes.

His breathing changes.

Slower.

Heavier.

The city disappears.

No sirens.

No rain.

No smoke.

Only him.

Only this impossible moment suspended in the darkness.

"Frank..."

You barely whisper his name.

He closes the distance before you can say anything else.

One hand slides behind your neck.

His fingers disappear into your hair.

The other settles firmly—but carefully—against your waist.

Then his lips meet yours.

The kiss isn't careful.

It isn't tentative.

It crashes into you with every emotion the two of you have buried for months.

Relief.

Fear.

Need.

Longing.

Hope.

Grief.

It feels like surviving.

His lips are warm despite the freezing rain.

They taste faintly of smoke and copper and the bitter coffee he'd downed hours earlier before the mission began.

You kiss him back instantly.

There’s no hesitation.

No second thoughts.

Your arms slide around his neck, your fingers disappearing into the short hair at the back of his head, pulling him impossibly closer.

Frank lets out a low sound against your lips—not quite a groan, not quite a sigh.

A sound you've never heard him make.

Raw.

Honest.

Human.

The tactical vest presses firmly against your chest as he gathers you closer.

You can feel his heartbeat.

Fast.

Far faster than he'd ever admit.

Strong enough that it almost matches your own racing pulse.

His forehead bumps lightly against yours before he kisses you again.

Longer this time.

Slower.

Less desperate.

More certain.

As though he's memorizing you.

As though proving to himself that you're really here.

Really alive.

Rain continues falling around you.

Tiny droplets collect in his dark hair.

They cling to your eyelashes.

Neither of you notices.

Neither of you cares.

Months of restraint dissolve with every passing second.

Every lingering glance from opposite rooftops.

Every time he'd silently handed you ammunition without being asked.

Every night spent patching up bullet wounds in silence.

Every argument over reckless plans.

Every moment one of you had instinctively stepped between the other and incoming fire.

This… This had been building for a long time.

Neither of you had been brave enough to acknowledge it.

Until now.

Eventually, the need for air forces you apart.

Your foreheads remain pressed together.

Both of you breathe heavily.

Rainwater trickles down his face.

You brush it away with your thumb.

Frank's eyes remain fixed on yours.

Dark.

Intense.

But beneath all that steel… There’s something heartbreakingly vulnerable.

His hand cups your cheek once more. "You don't get to die."

His voice is rough.

Almost breaking.

"You hear me?"

You smile softly. "I'll do my best."

"No." His thumb strokes slowly across your jaw. "I'm serious."

"So am I."

"I can't..."

He stops himself.

Swallows hard.

Then finishes quietly. "I can't lose you."

Your heart aches.

You rest both hands against his chest, feeling the warmth beneath layers of armor. "You won't."

"I've buried enough people."

"I'm not one of them."

"You almost were."

"But I'm here." You smile through the exhaustion. "I'm still here."

For several long moments, neither of you speak.

The rain grows steadier.

The sirens come closer.

Blue and red lights begin flashing at the far end of the street.

Frank notices first.

Of course he does.

His head turns instinctively. "Cops."

"They'll ask questions."

"I don't like questions."

"I noticed."

Another tiny smile tugs at his lips.

Before you can protest, he slips one arm behind your back.

The other slides beneath your knees.

With effortless strength, he lifts you into his arms.

You instinctively wrap one arm around his neck.

"You know," you murmur, resting your head against his shoulder, "I can technically still walk."

"Barely."

"I've had worse."

"I know."

"You don't have to carry me."

"I know."

"So..."

"So I'm carrying you anyway."

You huff out a quiet laugh, too tired to argue.

Your eyes slowly drift closed.

You listen to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear as he walks deeper into the maze of narrow back alleys, away from the approaching police lights and into the familiar shadows that have become your refuge.

The city continues to howl around you.

Sirens scream.

Helicopters circle overhead.

Somewhere, another gunshot echoes through Hell's Kitchen.

Another war waits for tomorrow.

Another battle.

Another impossible night.

But for now… Wrapped safely in Frank Castle's arms, with the rain washing the blood from the streets behind you and the warmth of his body shielding you from the cold, you allow yourself one rare, impossible luxury.

You let yourself believe that, for tonight at least, the two of you have survived together.

And somehow… That feels like enough.