VEE 𑣲⋆｡˚

the lock clicked.

a grocery bag hung from peter’s wrist as he nudged the apartment door open with his shoulder, already bracing himself for the familiar creak of old hinges and the hum of overworked computers.

“you’re kidding.”

his apartment wasn’t empty, he wasn’t alone.

you sat comfortably in his chair, one boot hooked beneath the desk as it lazily spun from side to side. an energy drink rested in one hand while the other danced across his keyboard with practiced confidence. the glow of three monitors reflected in your eyes as lines of code scrolled faster than most people could read.

you didn’t even look at him. “you should really replace your front door.”

“you broke into my apartment.” peter slowly lowered the grocery bag.

“i picked the lock.”

“that’s still breaking in.”

“it sounds more impressive when you say it your way.”

he just stared. his apartment wasn’t much to look at, and he sort of hoped you didn't mind a cramped basement tucked beneath a crumbling brick building where the pipes rattled whenever someone upstairs flushed a toilet, exposed wiring hugged the ceiling, boxes of spare parts were stacked against one wall, and every flat surface had somehow become storage for unfinished prototypes and dismantled gadgets.

but he was amused you looked completely at home. “you left your wi-fi password written under the router.”

“uh, no, i didn’t.”

you pointed toward the underside of the shelf without looking.

“‘mayparker&tonystark99.’”

peter visibly deflated.

“i’m changing that.”

“you should.” finally, you glanced over your shoulder. “after you change the lock.”

his gaze drifted to the monitors. “you touched my computer.”

“i improved your computer.”

“i spent six months building that system.”

“and i spent six minutes finding seventeen vulnerabilities.”

“what…? seventeen?”

“eighteen.” you tapped another key.

“there. eighteen.”

peter blinked. “how?”

“i have siblings.”

“…that’s not an explanation.”

“it is if you’ve met jean.”

he sighed.

“fair.” curiosity eventually won over whatever annoyance he was trying to hold onto. he stepped closer, setting the grocery bag on the workbench before leaning over your shoulder.

“what are you doing?”

you took another sip of your drink before gesturing toward one of the monitors.

“i’m trying to understand why someone smart enough to engineer synthetic web fluid thought suppressing his own dna was a good idea.”

peter’s expression immediately hardened. “you looked at the inhibitor.”

“i reverse-engineered it.”

“you reverse-engineered it?”

“i got bored.”

“you got bored in my apartment.”

“it has terrible lighting.”

he rubbed a hand over his face. “you know, most people start with ‘thanks for letting me in.’”

“you didn’t.”

“i wasn’t given the option.”

“no, you weren’t.”

a schematic of the inhibitor rotated across the center monitor which made you frown, “this algorithm is compensating instead of regulating.”

peter folded his arms. “explain…?”

“you built a device that constantly fights your mutation.”

“it keeps it under control.”

“it keeps it suppressed.”

“same thing.”

“no.” you swiveled toward him. “control means understanding something well enough to work with it. suppression means pretending it doesn’t exist until it inevitably pushes back.”

you reached for the keyboard again. “if your arachnid physiology is part of your genetic baseline, forcing your body to overwrite it every second is biologically inefficient.” your fingers flew across the keys, watching as windows opened, graphs shifted, and simulation models recalculated.

“you’ve created a feedback loop.”

he leaned closer. “what feedback loop?”

“your inhibitor monitors arachnid activity.”

“right.”

“it detects a spike.”

“yeah.”

“so it suppresses it.”

“well… yeah.”

you looked at him like he was proving your point. “and what does every living organism do when you suppress a natural response?”

peter’s brow furrowed. “it…”

“…compensates,” you finished. “your body’s constantly trying to restore what you’re artificially pushing down. you’re wasting energy fighting yourself.”

he stared at the screen with squinted eyes, then at you, and back at the screen. “i never modeled it that way.”

“i noticed.”

“you noticed?”

“you labeled three variables wrong.”

“i absolutely did not.”

you silently turned one of the monitors toward him, where his own equations stared back at him and a single coefficient highlighted in red.

peter almost winced. “…that’s…”

“wrong.”

“…huh.”

you couldn’t help the small, smug smile that appeared, “i was wondering how long it’d take.”

“you’ve been waiting for me to notice?”

“i wanted to see if you’d argue first.”

“i really hate that you’re right.”

“i know.”

he laughed under his breath, shaking his head as he watched you effortlessly navigate software he’d spent years developing. “you know what’s bothering me?”

“hm?”

“you walked into my apartment…”

“picked the lock.”

“…picked the lock, insulted my security, hacked my computer, dismantled one of my biggest projects,”

“mhm.”

“and somehow you’ve convinced me to let you keep going.”

only then did you finally swivel the chair to face him completely, balancing the energy drink on one knee. “you could stop me.”

“i really couldn’t.” peter looked from you, to the monitors, to the corrected equations still rendering across the screens.

a satisfied grin spread across your face. “that’s what i thought.”

you rose from the chair, the worn casters scraping softly against the concrete floor. the apartment suddenly felt smaller than it had moments ago. peter remained where he stood, one hand still resting against the edge of the desk, watching as you closed the distance between you.

neither of you spoke and the only sound came from the quiet whir of overworked computer fans and the rain tapping against the basement window.

you stopped just in front of him, close enough that he caught the faint scent of citrus from the energy drink mixed with cold air from outside. close enough that you could make out the barely-healed scratches along his jaw, the exhaustion hidden behind eyes that had spent far too many nights without sleep.

peter didn’t move, and he knew he should’ve asked what you were doing, but instead, he found himself watching your gaze linger on his for a long moment before drifting behind his neck.

“you know,” you murmured, “for someone who’s supposed to be a genius…” a teasing smile tugged at your lips. “you make some incredibly questionable decisions.”

his brow lifted when your hand rose between you.

peter’s breath caught, not from fear, but from the certainty in your movements. your fingers brushed lightly against the nape of his neck, searching until they found the small device hidden beneath the collar of his hoodie.

the contact lasted only a second.

a soft click echoed through the apartment and you held the inhibitor between two fingers, examining it with quiet amusement before flicking it aside. it landed somewhere beneath his workbench with an insignificant clatter.

peter’s eyes instinctively followed the sound.

when he looked back, you were still standing there, impossibly close.

you held his gaze without hesitation, the confidence in your expression never wavering. then, barely above a whisper, you said,

“let loose, spiderman.”

peter staggered. his hand shot to the edge of the workbench, knuckles whitening against the metal as his breathing caught in his throat.

every sound inside the apartment seemed to sharpen at once, the hum of the computer fans, rain striking the basement window, water rattling through ancient pipes somewhere overhead. even your heartbeat became impossible to ignore.

“peter.”

he squeezed his eyes shut. “don’t.” the word came through gritted teeth.

when he looked up again, the familiar warmth in his eyes had vanished, swallowed by an endless black that stretched from iris to sclera.

your expression never changed, instead, you studied him with the same quiet curiosity you’d shown his equations only moments earlier.

“so that’s what it looks like up close.”

he let out a humorless laugh. “you think this is funny?”

“i think you’re scared.”

his jaw tightened. “i’m angry.”

“no.” you took one measured step toward him. “you’re overwhelmed and you’re mistaking that for anger.”

his pulse hammered in his ears as every instinct screamed at him to leave. to put distance between himself and the one person who insisted on dismantling every wall he’d spent years building.

“you don’t know what this feels like.”

“i don’t.”

you stopped only when you stood within arm’s reach. “but i know what it looks like.”

his breathing remained uneven while your gaze never left those pitch-black eyes.

“they’re beautiful.”

peter’s composure cracked.

in one swift movement, he closed the distance between you, one hand catching your wrist as the other braced itself against the wall beside your head. his breathing was ragged, his face inches from yours, every muscle taut as though he were fighting himself more than he was fighting you.

“you really don’t know when to stop.”

your lips curved into the faintest smile. “i told you.” you held his gaze without flinching.

“i usually stop only when i’m wrong.”

neither of you moved, then peter kissed you.

not carefully. it was months of restraint colliding with relief, frustration, fear, and something he’d buried for far too long. the kiss was firm, almost desperate in its urgency, before the realization of what he’d done cut through the haze.

when he pulled back abruptly, his breathing was still uneven.

“…i…”

the anger had already begun to fade, replaced by guilt.

“i’m sorry.”

you looked at him for a long moment before reaching up and resting your hand lightly against his cheek.

“i know.” your thumb brushed his jaw. “because you stopped.”

a quiet exhale escaped him which made you smile, just enough to soften the tension between you. “see?”

he frowned. “see what?”

“you were never losing yourself.” your fingers slipped into his hand.

“you were just afraid you would.”

peter lingered only inches away, his breathing still uneven. the black in his eyes hadn’t faded, but neither had the restraint he’d fought so hard to regain.

“you’re insufferable.”

“oh, i know.” a smug smile tugged at your lips.

his jaw tightened, because both of you knew you should’ve stepped away. but you held his gaze, unwavering, studying those inhuman eyes with the same curiosity that had driven you to tear the inhibitor from his neck in the first place. there was no fear in your expression. no hesitation, only quiet defiance.

the silence stretched.

peter searched your face for the slightest crack in your confidence. what frustrated him was that he found none. a dry laugh escaped him, almost disbelieving.

“you never back down.”

“neither do you.”

another beat passed, then he reached for you again. this time there was no anger behind the movement, only the stubborn refusal to let you have the last word. his hand settled lightly against your jaw, tilting your face toward his before he kissed you again.

you met him without hesitation. the endless arguments, the chase, and every reason the two of you had for standing on opposite sides disappeared into the quiet of the apartment.

when the kiss broke, neither of you moved very far.

but you looked up at him with the faintest smirk. “feel better?”

peter exhaled a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head once.

“you talk too much.”

“so i’ve been told.”

before you could say anything else, he kissed you again, cutting off whatever remark had been waiting on your tongue.

fuck. you cursed in your head.

feeling your back crashing onto the rumpled sheets in a heated scramble with peter, your breasts heaving against his chest as your lips moved together in a fierce, reluctant kiss, tongues battling with the same intensity as the first jabs and blows from each other a week ago.

your defiance cracked into a gasp when he deepened it, hands roaming your curves with ruthless intent, arousal thickening between the two of you. he put a small distance between the two of you as he began palming your breasts, eyebrows raising at the discovery you weren't wearing any bra underneath the layers of your clothes.

now your hands were also everywhere. one draped over his broad, muscular shoulder, and the other caressed his clothed dick through his sweatpants. your index finger continuously switched from stroking and rubbing the tip (after many times of squeezing around lightly) until something wet come out.

oh, cute. precum.

he broke the kiss just enough to growl, “i told you i’d web and fuck the life out of you,” before shoving you down as silken webs coiled around your wrists like living handcuffs, binding your arms above your head to the headboard.

“don’t stop me,” peter loomed over you, his cock straining hard against his sweatpants as he tore at your clothes, exposing the slick heat of your pussy and the taut peaks of your breasts.

“wet already?”

with a lazy smirk, he began pressing between your thighs, grinding the thick head of his cock along your folds in deliberate, rough strokes that made your hips buck involuntarily, and the webs tightened around your wrists with every shift.

his eyes drinking in the sight of you in a reluctant ecstasy, the air thick with the scent of your mingled arousal and the promise of deeper violation. “warnings for a whore like you shouldn’t be given.”

tension coiled tighter in the space between the two of you as his body poised to thrust inside,

your defiant glare melting into desperate need without any release yet in sight, “peter, please.”

and he doesn't hesitate, he never does, driving his hips forward with brutal force to bury his thick cock fully inside your slick, clenching pussy in one deep thrust that stretched your walls and drew a ragged moan from your throat.

“f-fuck!”

you met his gaze with a slight nod, the webs coiled tighter around your bound wrists like a deliberate tie to the headboard, your body yielding beneath his while your defiance melted into hungry acceptance.

raw desire surged higher with every relentless stroke, his cock hitting the perfect spots deep within you that made your pussy spasm and flood with arousal, breasts jiggling against his chest as he lost all restraint, hips snapping wildly while you writhed and gasped in evident enjoyment, “you like that, baby?”

“mhmm..”

“fucking slut.”

he took note of your cheeks that were flushed with ecstasy, and how you repeatedly clenched around him each thrust. he swore he almost came after the first clench.

his thrusts became harsher, faster, and rougher by the time— and seriously, you don’t know how he does that, but you couldn’t care less because he’s hitting all of the right spots.

it was impossible to focus on one thing while he fucked you hard.

peter watched as your head slightly turned to the side before he grabbed your jaw. “look at me while i fuck you.”

then he spat in your mouth.

your pussy clenched so tightly around him, a loud groan came out from his parted lips. he continued fucking you into his mattress relentlessly, not caring about how it creaked so loudly while his eyes remained fixated on you.

“you can come in me,” you panted, granting consent in a breathless rush, legs locking around him to pull him deeper as he pounded without mercy.

“yeah?”

shliiick, shliiick, shliiick

the wet sounds of him ramming himself into your pussy alongside your skins slapping echoed through his apartment amid the heavy scent of sweat and sex.

“come with me.”

“...god– shit!”

“peter’s my name, baby.”

his black eyes drank in every detail of you unraveling beneath him, observing the way your inner muscles milked his cock as your moans grew frantic, pushing him over the edge as his balls tightened and released roared through his veins.

“come.”

the hot pulse of his cum began to erupt inside the same time you felt yourself come hard, eliciting a loud moan from you as you mindlessly tugged at the webs that kept you bound to the headboard.

shortly, the apartment settled back into silence as rain tapped softly against the basement window, the steady rhythm filling the space between the hum of peter’s computers and the uneven sound of two people remembering how to breathe.

he stayed still for a moment, the darkness in his eyes began to recede.

slowly, almost imperceptibly, the endless black gave way to the familiar brown until there was nothing in them but exhaustion. his gaze dropped to your wrists.

the strands of webbing still held them loosely against the headboard, forgotten in the chaos of everything that had happened, and guilt crossed his face almost instantly.

“i’m sorry.”

his voice was quieter now— uncertain, almost hesitant. with a careful touch, he reached up and peeled the webbing away. the strands dissolved beneath his fingertips, breaking apart until your hands were free again.

he gently took one of your wrists, turning it over to make sure the webbing hadn’t left any marks, watching you flex your fingers before slapping his hand away which caused peter to roll his eyes after, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him with the ghost of a smile.

with a weary exhale, he shifted away just enough to give you space, running a hand through his already-disheveled hair before dropping back against the mattress. the tension that had filled the apartment earlier had settled into something quieter while peter reached for the blanket pooled near the foot of the bed and pulled it over both of you without ceremony.

“you know,” he said, staring up at the stained ceiling, “breaking into someone’s apartment is generally considered rude.”

you turned your head toward him. “and yet you still haven’t asked me to leave.”

“i’ve considered it.”

“liar.”

“…maybe.”

“is my pussy that good?” a satisfied smile crossed your face. “you know i could use another round with proper foreplay.”

he glanced sideways at you. “was it too fast?”

“i just felt like that should be considered an improper sex because you didn’t do foreplay. you just went straight into fucking me!”

“my bad, remind me to do it next time.”

“no next times, dipshit. do it now.”

peter let out a tired laugh, shaking his head.

“a spider has to rest before he takes a request.”

“oh, wow.”

Ი𐑼 yeah so it’s short , just a little thought and concept but I will definitely write a longer fic about this <3 I’m not prepared for the person I’m going to become when the movie is out … I’m already freaking out from the trailer 🤓

bf!peter parker who stares at you from across the cafeteria during lunch. it got so bad that you eventually decided to save him the trouble and began sitting with him. but even that didn't work.

"pete?"

he blinks, head propped on the heel of his hand. "hm?"

"you're still staring."

he smiles dopily. "yeah. you're pretty."

bf!peter parker who plays up his injuries tenfold just so you'll be nice to him. he'll come busting through your window with only a few mere scratches on his arm and abdomen, but be clutching his chest like he's in agony.

he'd flop down onto your bed on top of you, reaching for your hands. "it hurts so bad, baby. kiss it better?"

you'd giggle. "oh, yeah? it hurts soo bad, pete? should i call may and have her get you some he—"

"no, no. just you. only your help." he'd pout oh so adorably up at you. "please?"

bf!peter parker who pretends to hate it when you buy him silly little spiderman gadgets, but secretly finds it adorable. thanks to you, he has upwards of 4 spiderman plushies, a spiderman lego keychain, a few crochet spideys, and a t-shirt with webs on it.

bf!peter parker who only bought the hello kitty pjs and "i survived my trip to nyc" shirt because you'd been browsing in a random tourist shop with him and thought they were cheesy and adorable.

bf!peter parker who sometimes accidentally leaves his suit in your bedroom, and trying to get it back is a bit awkward.

he'd crashed at yours after patrol one day, stripping himself of the suit and changing into sweats. he'd realizes before school the next day that he'd need it back asap... you needed to meet up in the all-gender bathroom to exchange the spandex without being caught. ned still caught you, though.

bf!peter parker who loves to take candid shots of you when you least expect it. you'd be sat at his desk, chewing lightly on a pen as you think, then suddenly... click. you'd whip toward him. "what was that?"

he'd wait a bit before handing you the polaroid. "it's you. i thought you looked pretty.

bf!peter parker who is especially clingy and sweet when he's tired after patrol. he'd absolutely melt when you'd run your hands through his sweaty hair after removing his mask. when you'd let him lay his head in your lap and massage his shoulders. when you'd ask him how things went and let him ramble against your stomach for hours.

bf!peter parker who seeks your help when developing his web shooters. you'd become his test subject, giggling as he shot the webs at you from varying distances, testing their reliability.

"ah! peter!" you'd squeal as he shot the web at you from literally a foot away, causing him to giggle softly.

"oh, sorry! too close?"

bf!peter parker who begs to try the upside-down kiss. like, fully begs on his knees with prayer hands. when you finally agree, you swear you can see his tail wagging behind him.

bf!peter parker who loves to mess with you by approaching you in public as spiderman, forcing you to pretend you don't know who he is.

you'd hear him before you see him, the soft thump of feet landing behind you. "morning, ma'am," he'd greet, falling into step beside you. "nice coffee. heard that's a good place." he'd tap the side of your cup.

you'd see his eyes crinkle in amusement through his lenses, which also narrow. "good morning, spiderman," you'd grit, glaring at peter spidey. "yes, it's very good."

"i'm glad. you stay safe on these streets, miss. new york can be...troublesome."

"so i hear. so shouldn't you be, y'know, fixing that? not talking to some random lady on the street?"

he'd smirk. "a random, very pretty lady," he'd correct, still walking casually beside you. "new york's quiet right now. i've got alllll the time in the world."

your jaw would clench. "amazing."

"i am, aren't i?"

bf!peter parker who loves when you doodle on his notes or research papers. you'd always draw little cartoon-y webs on the corners of the sheets, surrounding them with hears.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re very untrusting?” She raises a brow playfully. 

Your eyes narrowed, already preparing another comeback when the heavy grated iron door groaned open from the other side of the room. Years of training settled over you before you even realized it had happened, your gaze snapping toward the entrance before flicking immediately to Yelena.

“Were you expecting company?”

She made an exaggerated show of thinking about it, lips pursed and finger tapping thoughtfully against her chin before her expression broke into an impossibly smug grin.

“Oh. Right.”

A figure in bright red stepped hesitantly through the haze, stopping just inside the doorway as though he wasn’t entirely convinced he’d walked into the correct room. Spider-Man looked between the two of you, then back toward the hallway as if debating on running. As if seeing two naked widows was the biggest threat he’d seen all day. 

Yelena didn’t give him the chance. “Take off your clothes.”

“W-what?” 

“You don't wear clothes in the banya, ditch the leotard.” She ordered. 

“This is not a leotard.” He shuffled awkwardly, his arms moving around his sides aimlessly. “Uh, your tech told me this was your office?” 

Yelena’s arms went up, “This is my office. Get in.” 

His entire body tenses, “I’m fine thanks-“ 

“Waa, waa.” Yelena laughs, “My office, my rules.” 

He’s not biting, which makes you stifle a laugh. The silence stretched just long enough that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing.

Yelena leaned forward conspiratorially, as though she were making him the deal of a lifetime.“You get to enjoy a very nice, relaxing soak..“

You finally took pity on him, and picked up where she intentionally left off. “And we get confirmation you aren’t carrying any weapons. Everybody wins.” 

His masked head turned toward you, the eyes on his suit getting animatedly larger. 

“…Seriously?”

You smiled sweetly. “Seriously. I’ve learned to stop fighting her on it, it’s very nice in here.” 

His shoulders sagged in the unmistakable posture of someone realizing resistance was entirely pointless. With a defeated sigh, he shuffled toward one of the wooden stalls. The stall door clicked shut behind him, and almost immediately the muffled rustle of fabric echoed through the room. At the same time, Yelena lazily stirred the water with one hand, looking altogether too pleased with herself.

“He said it was some small potato problem,” she murmured, effortlessly slipping into Russian. “Figured two Avengers could help him with intel.” 

You hum, “Why didn’t you tell me he was coming by?” 

“I forgot.” 

“I don’t believe you.” You rolled your eyes, earning another satisfied grin from her just as the wooden stall creaked open. Spider-Man stepped out clutching a white towel around his waist with both hands like it was a lifeline. His shoulders were tense enough to rival a man walking into an execution, his face hidden behind the mask he’d somehow insisted on keeping despite surrendering the rest of the suit.

You had expected him to be lean, scrawny almost. 

Instead, you found yourself staring for half a second longer than intended.

The suit had done him absolutely no favors. Beneath it were years of relentless training, packed onto a frame that looked carved from stone, broad shoulders tapering into a narrow waist, every muscle defined by years of keeping the city safe. His arms alone looked capable of lifting a car without much effort, his biceps so absurdly large you were fairly certain one of them rivaled the size of his own head.

You caught Yelena watching your expression from the corner of your eye. The smug little smile spreading across her face told you she had noticed your momentary lapse immediately. 

Yelena burst into laughter, which stopped abruptly when she realized he was in fact not actually going to take the mask off. 

“Wait, you’re serious? You’re not going to take it off?” 

He slips into the water, “It would defeat the whole anonymous thing.” 

“Even for your girlfriend, or boyfriend, or whatever.” She trails off, “You know there’s fanart-“ 

You tuned her out almost immediately, letting the words fade into meaningless background noise while she enthusiastically listed the bizarre piece of online fan art she’d stumbled across. You had long ago accepted that Yelena somehow found herself on the strangest corners of the internet imaginable, usually against her own will and yet somehow always with enough curiosity to constantly send links to the group chat. Bucky had blocked her long ago. 

The first night she downloaded Twitter, she had run into the common room, her tablet clutched in her hand her eyes searching for Bucky as he very innocently was eating his popcorn. “Barnes, have you ever heard of Sambucky? Or a website called AO3?” 

You’re pulled out of the memory when Spider-Man speaks up again. 

“- Look, I don’t have anyone. I kinda keep to myself.” 

“All by yourself? All the time?” Her voice falls. “No wonder you’re so sad.” 

“I’m not so sad.” He lies, his voice rising a pitch. 

“A little bit.” She mumbles, then her shoulders straighten as if she just got the idea of a lifetime. “You know, my sister here is very lonely too. She says she is not, but yet every weekend she is with me or eating ice cream pretending we cannot hear her watching those horrible American movies through the walls.”

You turn your head to her, expression blank. “Yelena.”

“Can we talk about what I came here to talk about? The attack on Damage Control. ” Spider-Man buts in, making you nod in agreement. 

“Yes, can we?” 

“Right,” The shit-eating grin is still wide on her face, “So that is more your area. Like small potato, whereas the New Avengers are focusing on big potato stuff.” 

“Right, there’s more to it than that.” He adds. Going on about what he had learned the past day and giving details of the incident that had not been made public yet. 

The warmth of the water settled around you as you absentmindedly dragged your fingers across its surface, watching small ripples spread between the three of you while you pieced together everything he was saying. After a long moment, you glanced toward Yelena.

“So you think it’s something like what they used on us?” you asked quietly. “The conditioning. Whatever they did to the other widows.”

“That was my first thought,” Spider-Man admitted, looking toward Yelena.

“It’s not,” She replied without a second’s hesitation.

Spider-Man frowned beneath the mask. “You’re sure?”

”It is more like possession."

You hum, your hands still moving the water around in front of you as they talk, letting Yelena fill the two of you in on what she knew. Unfortunately, every road ended exactly where it had begun. The New Avengers had no additional intelligence, no active investigation, and no plans to divert resources toward Damage Control while larger threats occupied their attention.

Spider-Man didn’t argue, but disappointment settled visibly across his shoulders all the same. The hopeful energy he’d arrived with slowly disappeared beneath the weight of another dead end, and after sitting quietly for a moment, he let out a long sigh before pushing himself up from the water.

“Fine,” he muttered, reaching for the towel he’d left folded on the bench. “I’ll just go ask Damage Control myself.”

You very intentionally kept your eyes fixed somewhere above his shoulder, refusing to acknowledge the beads of water slowly tracing paths over abs that the suit had done an excellent job of concealing. Or the way the veins in his muscles flexed when he pulled himself up. Or the way his boxers clung to his thick thighs. 

“You know,” Yelena said with far too much innocence to be trusted, “you’re not completely anonymous anymore.”

Spider-Man paused in the middle of grabbing his clothes. “What?”

“I’ve seen your belly button.”

All you could do was sigh, letting your body sink further into the water until your chin was covered. 

“…Uh,” Spider-Man finally managed after several painfully long silent seconds, “okay.”

“Goodbye, Yelena,” he said, already halfway through the doorway before remembering to glance toward you. “And… goodbye, Y/N.”

The heavy iron door barely had time to swing shut behind him before he was gone, leaving a trail of wet footprints stretching down the hallway outside. You waited until the echo of his footsteps disappeared before leaning over and bumping your shoulder against Yelena’s.

”You’ve scared him off.” 

“Hmm, something is telling me you’ll see him again.” She smirks.

Before you had the chance to ask what exactly that was supposed to mean, Yelena slipped beneath the surface without another word, disappearing completely beneath the rippling water while you were left staring after her, equal parts amused and unconvinced.

News of the attacks seemed impossible to escape days later. Every television hanging in an airport terminal, every radio crackling through military transports, every phone notification carried another version of the same story, each one somehow more unbelievable than the last. 

 The majority of your updates came from Yelena, whose texts arrived at all hours of the day with the urgency of someone who had remembered a detail halfway through another conversation. It was a lot of, “Just talked to Spider-Man;)))))) u wish this was u huh?????” 

You and Bucky had spent the better part of the week chasing leads that dissolved into nothing before you could ever get close enough to investigate. Reconnaissance, surveillance, more reconnaissance, another anonymous tip that turned into an abandoned warehouse with little more than stale coffee cups and dust to show for it. By the time your transport finally touched back down stateside, you felt like you’d spent more time staring through binoculars than actually accomplishing anything. 

“Remind me why people still choose to live in New York,” you muttered as you dropped a thick stack of mission reports onto Val’s desk with enough force to make the folders slide apart. “

“I’ve stopped wondering.” Bucky admitted, “It was nicer in the 40s.”

You sighed, rubbing absentmindedly at the side of your neck where the edge of your Kevlar vest had spent the last several days digging relentlessly into your skin. The movement earned an immediate wince as the irritated patch protested beneath your fingertips.

“You should put ice on that,” Bucky said, noticing before you’d even finished reaching for it. He shrugged off his own tactical vest with considerably more irritation than necessary before tossing it onto the chair beside him. “Couple more days in these things and it’s going to rub you raw. These vests are garbage.”

“They’re definitely not sized correctly.”

“They’re not sized correctly because procurement buys whatever’s cheapest.”

A tired laugh escaped you. “I think Val just hates us.”

“I’ll have her order us different sizes,” he continued, already looking toward her office despite knowing she was deliberately never here. “These are shit.”

You smiled despite yourself, unfastening the last strap before setting your own vest aside. “Thanks, Bucky.”

“So what’s next?”

“I think…” You stretched your shoulders until your back gave a satisfying pop. “I might stop by Yelena’s office.”

He raised an eyebrow knowingly. “Checking on your sister?”

“And Spider-Man.” You said casually, “Heard he got shot, she’d know how he’s doing” 

“Oh? That’s it huh?” 

“I just want to know how his Damage Control adventure went.” You defended yourself, despite there being no reason to. 

Bucky laughed quietly through his nose. “Good luck with that.”

“Yelena?” you called as you nudged the heavy iron door open with your shoulder, expecting to be greeted by either an insult or something thrown in your general direction.

Instead, silence answered you.

The bath sat empty, steam lazily drifting through the room while the familiar scent of cedar, herbs, and eucalyptus lingered in the warm air. The water rippled softly beneath the lantern light, untouched except for the occasional drip falling from the ceiling into the pool below. You still wondered how this building managed to keep up with the humidity. 

You frowned, pulling your phone from your pocket.

I’m at your office. Where are you?

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

running 2 get food

Another notification popped up before you could even lock your screen.

do u want blini

wait no dumplings

there's an ice cream cart do u want 

of course u want why do i ask

Then another.

I'll get them all brb

there's new vodka stashed under the third bench, landlady got a new bottle from home country 

You couldn’t help smiling. 

thanks. I’ll warm the bath for you. bring me a tea 

Her reply came so quickly you wondered if she’d been holding the phone the entire time.

yayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy girly time 

Chuckling to yourself, you slipped your phone onto one of the dry benches before slipping your clothes off in an untidy pile until all that remained was the comforting humidity wrapping around your skin.

You eased yourself carefully down the stone steps until the water climbed past your ankles, your knees, your waist, every aching muscle loosening a little more with each inch. The heat seeped deep into your bones, unraveling tension you hadn’t even realized you’d been carrying since boarding the quinjet days earlier.

By the time the water reached your shoulders, the exhaustion finally caught up with you.

A quiet, involuntary moan escaped your lips as you leaned your head back against the smooth stone edge of the bath, your eyes slipping closed while the warmth wrapped around every sore joint and bruised muscle. For the first time in what felt like days, your breathing slowed, your shoulders finally relaxed.

So completely, in fact, that you never heard the heavy iron door slowly creak open behind you.

”Uh, Ms. Y/n?” A timid voice spoke, making the tension rise back in your shoulders as you jumped. The bright red suit made your heart race out of shock and a weird sense of nervousness at being here alone with him.

“G-God, I’m so sorry,” he blurted, spinning around so quickly he nearly lost his footing on the damp stone. His back was to you before you’d even managed to respond, his hands raised awkwardly as if surrendering. “I didn’t mean to walk in on you. Yelena said she’d be here today and I just… I thought…” He groaned quietly to himself. 

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you.

“It’s okay,” you said, your voice softer now as the adrenaline finally ebbed away. “Really. She’s just getting food. She should be back any minute.”

“I’ll just wait here.” 

“Spidey,” You pout playfully, splashing the water to beckon him in, “Join me.” 

“Are you sure?”

”Yes.”

“I was actually…” He hesitated, sounding almost embarrassed to admit it. “I was kind of looking forward to the soak.”

That pulled a genuine laugh from you. “Right?”

He glanced over his shoulder just enough that you caught the sheepish grin tugging beneath the edge of the mask. 

“I wasn’t sure if it was weird that I was, I’ll just change.”

“It took me a while too,” you admitted, as he disappeared into the stall, “The first time Yelena dragged me down here I thought she’d finally lost her mind. Now I’m her after almost every mission.”

”Man,” He says through muffled fabric, equipment dropping on the wood bench, “I’d love to come and soak after a long day.” 

“I’m sure Yelena would allow it, as long as you don’t throw a party in here or tell anyone or make a mess.” You drag on, smiling as he came into view. This time with no towel wrapped around him, just his boxers clinging expertly to him as he stepped inside the water.

He leaned back against the stone edge with a contented sigh, finally allowing his shoulders to drop. For the first time since you’d met him, he looked… peaceful.

It was then your eyes caught the scar.

Angry red tissue stretched across his side just beneath his ribs, the wound still fresh despite already being sealed shut. The edges remained inflamed, the skin surrounding it slightly pink from rapid healing that no ordinary body should have been capable of.

He followed your gaze and instinctively looked down at himself. “Oh, that.”

One hand brushed lightly across the mark before he flexed experimentally, watching the skin pull without discomfort.

”I was going to ask, how you were doing. Yelena was giving me updates.” 

“Doctor’s said it will leave a nasty scar, but I heal faster than most.” His voice is quieter now, reflective as you stare at him. “I can barely feel it.” 

“This was a gunshot that almost killed you, just days ago?” 

He nodded, sensing your hesitation. “You can touch it.” 

He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d offered. Maybe because it didn’t hurt anymore, or maybe because the concern written so plainly across your pretty face made something warm settle in his chest. There was something strangely comforting about it, enough that he found himself hoping you would say yes before he’d even realized he’d been hoping at all.

You held his gaze through the mask for a brief moment, silently asking if he was certain, and when he gave another small nod you pushed gently through the water until barely a foot separated the two of you. The movement sent soft ripples across the surface, brushing against his shoulders as you lifted your hand. Instead of pressing your palm directly against the wound, the backs of your knuckles grazed lightly across the newly healed skin, careful enough that it almost wasn’t a touch at all.

“I heal faster due to a diluted version of the serum they give us widows, but nothing like this.” Your fingertips traced lightly around the edge of the injury without putting pressure on it, fascinated by how smooth the tissue already felt. “But nothing like this. This shouldn’t even be closed yet.”

“Y-Yeah…”

The word caught somewhere in his throat.

A visible shiver rolled across his shoulders, one that had absolutely nothing to do with the temperature of the water. It was the realization that you were standing impossibly close now, naked underneath the murky water, and close enough that he could count the droplets of water clinging to your shoulders, close enough that every sensible thought he’d had moments earlier evaporated into steam.

His eyes betrayed him.

For only the briefest second, they dipped downward before he caught himself, snapping immediately back to your face with an expression that could only be described as horrified with himself.

“I’ve…” He cleared his throat a little too forcefully. “I’ve been having some issues with my DNA and the spider thing.” 

“The spider thing.” You echo, urging him to continue.

He rubbed the back of his neck, grateful for the excuse to look anywhere but directly at you.

“It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud, but my arachnoid DNA started climbing way higher than it’s supposed to. I was acting… not exactly like myself for a while.” He gestured vaguely with one hand, struggling to summarize weeks of bizarre mutations. “I’ve started shooting webs out of my actual wrists instead of using web shooters, and apparently that’s only one of the side effects. Everything is stabilizing now, though. I’m… mostly normal again.”

Your expression shifted from amusement to fascination almost instantly. “Out of your wrists?”

Before he could answer, your hand had already slipped from his side to his forearm. Your fingers wrapped gently around his wrist, turning it over in the warm water until the small opening nestled against his skin came into view. 

“I used to make web fluid, but now it’s all homegrown.” He jokes, but goes silent when you don’t laugh instead you’re too fascinated. 

“Do you shoot webs from other places?” 

“Oh, no. Absolutely not. No, no.” He shook his head so quickly a few damp curls escaped the edge of the mask. “Just… just the wrists. I’m very normal everywhere else.”

A small hum escaped you, thoughtful more than anything else.“That’s a shame.”

“…I’m sorry.”

“I said that’s a shame.”

“No, I heard you. You sound… disappointed.”

“I’m not disappointed,” you corrected with a sheepish smile, finally releasing his wrist. “I just think it would’ve been kind of interesting.”

For a long second he simply stared at you.

“What? I like spiders too, you know?”

Then a laugh escaped him, bright and completely unrestrained, echoing warmly off the cedar walls. He shook his head, still smiling to himself as he looked down at the water between you.

“You widows,” he shook his head, “You guys are something else.” 

“Hmm, and what about you, Spidey? What are you?” 

He pauses for a moment, his mind going back to the first night he officially met you in this bath, the towel clutched around him while Yelena spoke enough for the both of you. 

“I am lonely,” he admitted at last, the confession coming softer than he’d intended. There wasn’t any self-pity in his voice, only a quiet sort of acceptance. “It’s… gotten better lately. A lot better, actually. But your sister was right.” He laughed weakly to himself, shaking his head. “I hate giving her that satisfaction.”

Your smile widened despite yourself. “So do I, but alas she keeps being right.” 

He shifts a little closer, either consciously or subconsciously you don’t know. Close enough that you could make out the constellation of freckles scattered across his shoulders. Close enough to hear the steady rhythm of his breathing over the gentle splash of water against the stone. Close enough that every time either of you shifted even slightly, your knees threatened to brush.

For reasons neither of you could explain, the room suddenly felt much warmer than it had a moment before.

“I’m not very good at… this,” Peter admitted with a nervous smile, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Talking to people, getting close to people. I mean I think you’re the first person to touch me in years. Is that depressing?” 

“A little.” You admit with a playful smile. “But I understand. Our lives, it’s impossible to have normal relationships.” 

“You don’t know the half of it.” He breathes out, and neither of you move. You both just sit there, relaxing against the concrete wall. The tension between the two of you is electric, it’s like every drop of water is drawing you closer to him.

The silence is only broken when he decides to speak up, “She sure is taking a while.” 

“She sure is…” You turn to him, “You really never take the mask off for anyone?” 

He shakes his head, “I try not to.” 

You watch the fabric strain against his lips, and you yearn to see how plump they are. What shade of pink, how they’d feel against your own. You wanna see his nose, feel it pressed against your skin, to watch his eyes as you touch him.

“Not even a little?” You ask, your palms moving up to cup his cheek. 

“It’s easier this way.” He says and he’s not sure if he’s telling you, or trying to convince himself. His body ignites with each rub of your fingers against the fabric. 

You sit up, your hands falling to his shoulders.

“Is this okay?” 

“More than okay.” He whispers, in awe as you practically tangle yourself in his lap. He holds you gracefully, and respectfully as you straddle him. You can feel his boxers against your inner thigh as his hands hover respectfully on the outside of your ribcage to keep you balanced. 

Your fingertips trace the outline of his face, trying to memorize the feel of his cheekbones. 

“I’ve spent so long wondering what you look like under there,” you admitted, your voice barely louder than your own breathing. 

“Just like anyone else.” He managed to get out, his mouth going dry as he all but melted underneath your touch. 

“I find that,” You lean forward, pressing a kiss to his fabric-covered forehead, “Very hard to believe.” 

He shivers, fingers digging into your skin as you press long kisses down his cheeks right to where the mask ends and his skin begins. 

“Would you,” The warmth of your breath makes the hair on his neck stand up, “Be willing to move the mask up about, an inch or two?” 

“I-“ 

“You don’t have to.” You remind him, leaning back to catch his eyes again. “I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable-“ 

One hand leaves your skin, pulling the mask up just enough to expose his plump and waiting lips. There’s barely enough time to stare at the new part of him before he's pulling your lips into his. It’s a little clumsy at first, awkward with the bunched-up mask rubbing against your nose, but you make it work. His lips were warm against yours, opening his mouth at the first swipe of your tongue against it. 

He pulls away with a gasp, “Can I touch you?” 

You’re nodding before he can get it out, letting his head drop down so his mouth could suck and bite at your chest. Your nipples are pebbled by being exposed to the cool air, only warming once he pulls one into his warm and waiting mouth. 

One of his hands is already guiding your legs apart, his fingers slipping in between your folds. 

“You’re so wet.” He whispered against your tits. 

“We’re in water.” Your eyes were closed, relishing the feeling of the gentle circles he was rubbing into your aching clit. 

“And I’ve been able to smell you since I walked in, you can’t hide from me.” 

Your heart rate picks up, and he no doubt feels that too as he slips a finger inside of you. You’re all but grinding against his fingers, your clit brushing against the raised spot on his wrist. 

“F-fuck,” You cry out, “Can feel your wrist throbbing against me.” 

“It wants to shoot webs at you, wants to wrap you in them. Keep you all for myself,” He whispers, “You’d like that wouldn’t you? You want me to fuck my webs into you.”

There’s no shame to be had at the fire that licks in your lower belly at his words as you nod frantically. 

In a split second you’re being pulled up from the water, and laid down on a towel. Your head propped up by his discarded suit bunched up as he hovers above you. 

He leans down and licks a strip of water droplets from your tits, before his hand travels back down to your cunt. 

There’s a soft hiss as his webs disperse onto you, they’re warm and sticky and practically dissolve into your wetness as he slides two fingers inside of you. With each brush of your clit against his wrist, he dribbles out fluid that only makes him fuck into you faster. His fingers curl expertly, and the sounds bouncing off the walls of the bath are lewd. 

“You’re so dirty,” He growls against your skin, feeling every nerve on his body stand up. The inhibitor did little to quell just how feral he felt pressed against you. His cock was hard in his boxers, rutting against the soft skin of your leg to dull the ache. “You know, this is how spiders mate. They roll their sperm into webs and fuck them into the female.” 

Your moan is broken off into confusion as you watch him, a small smile on his lips. “Yeah?” 

“Sorry,” He whispered, his fingers still prying the nastiest sounds from your heat. “This is really hot.” 

“You know, widows kill their mate after sex.” You manage to stutter out. 

“Are you gonna kill me?” He asks, pressing harshly against your clit with another messy ooze of his webs. 

“G-god no, I’m gonna cum.” You’re all but gasping as he pries an orgasm out of you 

Your legs are shaking, chest heaving by the time you come to. He’s still sitting between your legs, boxers still on as he presses gentle kisses to your thigh. 

You try to take him off guard by flipping him over onto his back, as gently as you could. He lands with a huff, and you pretend he didn’t see that coming. The view of you on top of him has him reeling, your tits bouncing as you tug briskly down at his boxers, pressing your lips to his.

“I can’t,” He pulls away from your lips reluctantly, “I can’t take the mask off.” 

“I don’t care.” You sigh pressing your lips harshly against his again. 

When he pulls away this time, a thread of spit connects your mouths. “I'm sorry, I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable if you can’t see me-“

”I don’t care,” You echo, “I just wanna feel you.” 

“The mask stays on.” He asks, once more to confirm. 

“The mask stays on.” You agree, digging your nails into his shoulder blades as you reach down to guide his aching cock to your entrance. You slide down on him with a satisfying hiss, gasping at the stretch of him. His cock is so thick, you have to pace yourself before your hips meet his.

“God.” He seethes through his clenched jaw, his eyes rolling back into his head. You wished so badly to see the pathetic, fucked out look on his face. “You feel so good.” 

“You’re huge.” You sigh contentedly, rocking your hips lazily against his as his tip presses gently into your sweet spot each time. 

You ride him slowly, relishing the moans leaving his glossy lips. Or the way his abs tense every few seconds as you bounce and grind against him. It’s frantic, but intimate as you fall apart above him. 

“You’re so beautiful.” He pants, watching your thighs shake as the thick curve of his cock pressed against the deepest parts of you. 

“Spidey.” You moaned, your palms heavy on his chest as you tried to keep up your rhythm, failing when the pleasure overtook you.

“Right there, baby. Fuck.” The term of endearment leaves his mouth recklessly as he leans up, the soles of his feet hitting the ground as he fucks up into you. His hands are on your tired hips, picking you up and fucking yourself on his cock as if you weigh nothing. He hit every single spot inside of you, the bulge of him pressing deep against your stomach as you cried out for him. 

“I’m gonna- I’m gonna-“ 

“I got you,” He cooed, “Cum for me, let me feel you.” 

He felt every second of it, as you spasmed and came around him. It wasn’t too long before he followed behind you, letting your cunt milk him for every drop of his cum. It was warm, and thick. You’ve never felt this full before, it felt like he was coating your insides, claiming you as his. 

“Spidey,” You mumbled, “That was…” 

“I know…” He sighed dreamily, rubbing gentle circles into your hips from where he still lazily held you.

You pull off of him with a lewd pop, his release dribbling down your inner thighs. 

“It’s so thick.” You stare in amazement, a finger gliding through the thickened cum.

He sits up quickly, head tilting in confusion. “That’s- it’s not webbing.” 

“Definitely not normal.” You giggle like a schoolgirl,. “Don't worry. I’m into it. Majorly.” 

He shakes his head in disbelief, watching each sway of your hips as you slide into one of the shower stalls. He just lays there, chest still heaving in disbelief that the past twenty minutes have even happened. 

“You not gonna clean me up, Spidey?” You speak through the haze of the shower spray and a smirk falls on your face when you hear his feet frantically slapping against the wet concrete.

That’s how Yelena finds the two of you, your back pressed against the metal of the stall door. The water long gone cold as Spider-Man had your eyes shut in pleasure while he fucks up into you harshly, blubbering out pathetic moans of your name. 

You’re still sensitive and so full from his last release by the time he slides into you again. He leaves no stone unturned as he urges you to come apart around him again, and again. 

“Yes, yes,” He grunted, “Is this okay?” 

“Yes.” You cried out, your legs locking around his ass to prevent him from stopping, as if he’d ever dream of it, “Please don’t stop. I’m right there, right fucking there.” 

The metal stall was shaking with the ferocity of it, the sound of his hips slapping against yours drowned out by your cries. 

“Are you gonna cum?” He panted, his fingers already rubbing at your swollen clit, “I need you to cum for me.” 

“I’m gonna cum,” You nod, “Just keep going. Yeah, like that fuck. Fuck, Spidey I’m cumming.” 

“M’behind you.” His hips stuttered as your cunt suckled him in and drank in every drop of thick cum he released deep inside of you. 

“Fuck.” You laughed lazily, pressing your sweaty temple against his shoulder. He shuddered when he tried to pull out, his cum plopping out of you and clinging to his cock like glue. “Guess you gotta stay inside of me.” 

“There’s worse places to be.” He laughed, pressing a gentle kiss to your head. 

The blissful afterglow was interrupted by a loud throat clearing, Yelena’s voice carrying through the steam.

You and Peter were both hunched over the same lab notebook, rereading your notes and trying to make sense of it all. The light was dim, the sky outside dark, as the sun had already set. Your heads were almost touching when his knee bumped yours under the table for the third time in the last half hour. 

“Sorry—sorry.” He whispered with a tight and awkward smile, his voice cracking a little when he glanced at you up close, then looking back at the papers. He was wearing that white t-shirt, the one that suddenly hugged his body in a way you never noticed before—stretched tightly around his arms and way too fitted around his buff chest. The corner of your mouth lifted in a subtle smirk when he avoided your eyes again, but you looked down to notice the hard and prominent outline against the front of his jeans. 

You knew he had been hard for the past twenty minutes but tried to act nonchalant about it and shift like he could will it away. 

“It’s just… the data’s really good tonight. We can make something out of it.” He mumbled too fast, cheeks pink and fingers fidgeting with the forgotten pencil on the table. “And you’re really close, and your perfume is really sweet, and I keep thinking about—uh. Never mind.”

You glanced down at his jumping knee, the tent in the jeans even more prominent now. 

Peter followed your eyes now, freezing for a second with that adorable pink dust on his cheeks, then let out this soft and embarrassed half-laught and half-scoff. “Yeah, sorry. That’s… new. Everything’s new. Everything has changed. I keep tripping over my own feet, and I’m feeling everything differently, and also I can't stop looking at your mouth, and I’m really, really trying to be normal right now.”

He began tapping the tip of his pen on the table, but you caught his wrist gently. The second your fingers wrapped around his wrist, he made a tiny, surprised sound. Peter looked back at you, pupils dilated and running over your face, while his lips parted like he wanted to say something. 

“Can I…?” You murmured.

He nodded so fast the long strands of his hair fell forward, yet he didn’t even know what you were meaning by your words. He was just willing to accept whatever. Your hand left his to brush his hair back. You felt the hitch in his breath. Then you pushed back on your stool, slightly towering over him now, and Peter’s throat bobbed. 

“Please. God, please. I’ve been thinking about you since you leaned over the centrifuge earlier and your shirt—yeah. Yeah.”

You sank to your knees between the slightly spread thighs silently. Peter stared down at you with parted lips, eyes so dark and lustful like he could not believe it was actually happening. His breath came in little huffs, and when you actually palmed the thick ridge through his jeans, he actually whimpered. 

“Oh my god. Oh my god. You’re really—okay. Okay.” He was babbling, voice high and shaky and so fucking turned on. “I’m gonna last like twelve seconds. I’m warning you. I’ve jerked off thinking about this so many times and it never felt this—”

You popped the button first. The zipper down. His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed, the thick head already shiny with precum. Peter made a broken little noise and covered his face with both hands before peeking through his fingers. Your fingers wrapped around the base, barely connecting around his girth, when you gave a long, experimental stroke. 

“Please don’t stop. I’ll be quiet. I’ll be so quiet. Just—just put your mouth on it, please, I need—”

You looked up when your lips finally wrapped around the tip and sucked. Peter’s hips jerked forward suddenly. A high, almost giddy moan spilled out of him before he bit down on his lip and he lowered his hands to grip the sides of the chair underneath him. You took him deeper, tongue working the underside, right over the prominent and pulsating vein, and Peter’s thighs started trembling under your palms.

“Holy shit—your mouth—I’m gonna—wait, wait, I’m already—” He was laughing breathlessly between the curses, half-shy, half-wrecked. He looked down, alternating between your seductive mouth and your lips that looked so good stretched around his cock—a sight he was sure he could never forget. “You’re so good at that. How are you so good at that. I’m gonna come, I’m serious, I’m—fuck—”

You hollowed your cheeks and took him to the back of your throat until your eyes started watering. He was so big and heavy, precum a bit salty on your tongue. Peter’s whole body seized. You bobbled your head a few times, swirling your tongue around the sensitive head until he whimpered softly again. Then his hips pushed forward slightly and he came with a soft, shocked cry, pulsing thick and hot spurs of cum across your tongue while his fingers finally got bold enough to tangle in your hair and move you slightly. 

His hips kept stuttering, warm drops still leaking into your mouth, as his voice was cracking on your name. 

When he finally softened in your mouth, he looked down at you with blown pupils and the biggest, dazed smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That had been one year ago. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A promise was a promise. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence. 

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

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

“Message already sent.”  

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

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

Oh fuck. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded, turning toward the workstation. 

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

“EV?” 

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

“Online.”

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

“Beginning diagnostic.” 

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

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

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

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

There was only you. 

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

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

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

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

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

This was wrong. So wrong. 

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

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

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

“Diagnostic complete.” 

Your heads snapped toward the screen. 

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

“What biotoxin?” You frowned. 

“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.” 

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

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

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

He suddenly felt the need to lick it off. 

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

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

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

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

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

Mating response. He stopped breathing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heat rose to your face once again. 

“What does that mean?” 

Don’t say anything, don’t–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hated it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wouldn’t hurt me–”

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

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

One second enough. 

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

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

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

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

Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too hard. 

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

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

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

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

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

“But my offer still stands, spidey.” 

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

Fucking hell. 

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

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

“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…” 

He wasn’t. 

“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”

For God’s sake. 

“I think I can help.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wanted more.

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

“Sorry–”

“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder. 

He was burning.

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

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

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

“Breathe,” you reminded.

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

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

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

“Please.” Was all he said. 

Leave it on. 

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

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

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

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

Fuck it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you need? More what?” 

“More contact.”

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

“Can I?” He whispered.

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

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

He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask. 

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

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

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

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

You weren’t wearing anything underneath. 

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

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

“Can–can I–?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not stopping, baby.” 

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

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

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

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

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

The plea undid you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly. 

You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.

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

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

“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”

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

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

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

Fuck her. Fuck her right now. 

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

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

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

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

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

He could feel it coming. The change. 

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

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

Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”

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

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

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

“What–what happened? I was about to–”

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

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

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

Good. 

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

His bed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Peter…” 

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

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

God. He was never going back. 

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

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

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

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

“Need what?”

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

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

“Yeah?” 

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

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

But something made him stop. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What? What is–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence. 

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

“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered. 

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

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

“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets. 

That was your call back to reality. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least it got a chuckle from you too. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So young. So earnest. So yours. 

No spidey anymore. Just Peter. 

Your Peter. 

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

Feedback is always appreciated 🕷️

Divider by @andromeda-graphics

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That had been one year ago. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A promise was a promise. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence. 

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

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

“Message already sent.”  

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

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

Oh fuck. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded, turning toward the workstation. 

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

“EV?” 

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

“Online.”

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

“Beginning diagnostic.” 

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

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

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

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

There was only you. 

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

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

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

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

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

This was wrong. So wrong. 

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

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

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

“Diagnostic complete.” 

Your heads snapped toward the screen. 

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

“What biotoxin?” You frowned. 

“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.” 

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

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

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

He suddenly felt the need to lick it off. 

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

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

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

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

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

Mating response. He stopped breathing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heat rose to your face once again. 

“What does that mean?” 

Don’t say anything, don’t–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hated it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wouldn’t hurt me–”

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

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

One second enough. 

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

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

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

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

Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too hard. 

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

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

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

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

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

“But my offer still stands, spidey.” 

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

Fucking hell. 

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

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

“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…” 

He wasn’t. 

“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”

For God’s sake. 

“I think I can help.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wanted more.

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

“Sorry–”

“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder. 

He was burning.

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

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

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

“Breathe,” you reminded.

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

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

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

“Please.” Was all he said. 

Leave it on. 

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

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

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

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

Fuck it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you need? More what?” 

“More contact.”

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

“Can I?” He whispered.

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

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

He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask. 

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

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

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

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

You weren’t wearing anything underneath. 

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

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

“Can–can I–?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not stopping, baby.” 

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

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

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

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

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

The plea undid you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly. 

You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.

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

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

“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”

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

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

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

Fuck her. Fuck her right now. 

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

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

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

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

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

He could feel it coming. The change. 

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

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

Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”

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

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

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

“What–what happened? I was about to–”

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

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

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

Good. 

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

His bed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Peter…” 

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

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

God. He was never going back. 

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

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

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

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

“Need what?”

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

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

“Yeah?” 

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

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

But something made him stop. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What? What is–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence. 

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

“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered. 

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

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

“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets. 

That was your call back to reality. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least it got a chuckle from you too. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So young. So earnest. So yours. 

No spidey anymore. Just Peter. 

Your Peter. 

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

Feedback is always appreciated 🕷️

Divider by @andromeda-graphics

Everything had started much earlier, in a house where conversations about missions were as normal as talking about the weather, and where you learned that observing would always be more important than reacting.

Your parents were always proud to belong to S.H.I.E.L.D. They believed that, with their knowledge and skills, they were contributing to making the world a better place. Because, in theory, that was how it was.

But when the agency fractured under the weight of corruption and HYDRA's infiltration, your parents' work ceased to make sense. Three years later, that same spirit to find answers and do the right thing ended up costing them their lives.

You were left adrift, under the care of the State until you reached adulthood. Then the blip happened. And now, six years later, you worked the same way they had, clinging to the hope that, maybe, the world could still be a little less fucked up.

The problem was your teammates; who had lost that hope long ago and, furthermore, had actively contributed to making the world the fucked up place it was now.

They were a rather peculiar collection of people. You knew that, of all of them, perhaps the least terrifying was Bob. Although, from the stories the others told, if you had known his other side you probably wouldn't think the same.

You were a strategist, so you always believed your place was behind the scenes. However, you soon discovered that, for a plan to succeed, you needed more than just giving instructions through a communicator. Especially considering the team you were working with.

One way or another, everyone had something to teach you. Little by little you learned to shoot, to fight, and, only when strictly necessary, to kill. That last one was always your last option.

A priority that seemed unshakeable, until Spiderman started crossing your path.

You had met him during a mission with John. You had spent weeks tracking a small criminal group that Yelena considered "small potatoes." However, you insisted that, if they didn't stop them right then, sooner or later they would end up becoming a bigger problem.

The operation consisted of intercepting a weapons transaction before the merchandise left the building. While Walker guarded the only escape route, you had to disable the security cameras, block communications, and give the signal to enter when all the buyers were gathered. No gunshots, no chases, and, if everything went well, no casualties.

What you didn't expect that night was for a red and blue blur to burst through the building's window, ruining any attempt to follow the plan.

You had seen him countless times on the news and knew the city adored him. No headline questioned his work as a hero —something that did happen constantly with your teammates and, by extension, with you—. He was always recognized for his bravery, his ingenuity, and his ability to save the day.

The problem was that, at that precise moment, you didn't need the friendly neighborhood guy. You needed him to stop ruining a perfectly planned operation.

In the end, the target was captured and the mission was a success. The credit, of course, went to Spiderman.

On the way to the tower, Walker asked you why it bothered you so much, if in the end they had gotten exactly what they wanted.

What Walker didn't understand was that the problem had never been the outcome. What was truly unbearable was knowing that the masked kid had ruined what would have been an impeccable operation. He was chaotic. And chaos was not tolerable to you.

When you told Bucky what happened, he made sure to remind you that that hadn't been your first encounter with the arachnid; or, at least, the first time your paths had crossed. Spiderman had fought on Tony Stark's side during the events related to the Sokovia Accords, the same time Steve had turned to you for help. After all, he knew your parents and —it went without saying— held a special affection for them. He confessed to you that he hoped you possessed the same brilliance they did.

While you had provided him with the strategy to advance their mission without being detected by the government, that kid had fought against him on the battlefield. What for you had been nothing more than a consultation, for him had become an experience that would mark his life. You couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy. And, as if that weren't enough, your rejection of Spiderman only increased.

Soon, it turned out that the arachnid wished to maintain communication with the team of self-proclaimed "new Avengers." Yelena was in charge of doing so, luckily, because if it had been up to you, you wouldn't have accepted a single one of his meetings.

Sometimes you were forced to work with him, although you had never openly mentioned that you didn't completely like him. Some suspected it, because of the expression you made every time someone mentioned him or your refusals to ask him for help with anything minor.

Almost a month after your first encounter with him, another case appeared on your desk.

It didn't come from a mission assigned by Valentina nor was it among the team's priorities. It was a police report that someone had filed as a simple attempted robbery: a group of armed men had broken into a small convenience store in southern Brooklyn, taking a safe and disappearing before the authorities arrived.

Nobody seemed interested in investigating it. Yelena barely gave the file a glance.

“Not worth it. We have more important things,” she had said.

Maybe for her, but you had been studying criminal organizations long enough to recognize a pattern when you saw one. Those men had acted with too much precision to be improvised criminals. Furthermore, one of the faces captured by a security camera matched that of a buyer who had managed to escape during the operation Spiderman had ruined days ago.

It wasn't an isolated case. And you were convinced it was your duty to do something about it.

You didn't need the rest of the team, checking an address was enough to make it real.

The next forty-eight hours were spent discreetly following one of the suspects to an old commercial building. They entered and exited carrying unmarked boxes, always at different hours, always taking different routes.

To you, it looked more like a distribution point than a warehouse.

You waited until nightfall to approach, and getting inside turned out to be ridiculously simple. The lock gave way after a few seconds, with an alarm system so old that disabling it barely took you a minute.

The ease of it should have warned you, made you back off. Instead, you moved forward.

The interior was practically empty. Just a few stacked boxes and metal shelves covered in dust. You navigated the place cautiously, photographing documents and noting down serial numbers printed on several containers.

You found exactly what you were looking for. And you also understood too late why it had been so simple to get in.

When a metallic click echoed behind you, the lights came on and a voice resonated saying:

“I knew you'd come back.”

Looking up, you discovered the man who had escaped. Around him several armed figures appeared, occupying the upper walkway while as many others emerged from between the shelves.

They had used that warehouse as bait and you, stupidly, had fallen right into the trap. You sighed just a moment before reaching for your weapon, trying to hide your nerves from the men.

The first shot came even before you could say anything.

You threw yourself behind a concrete column as several bullets shattered the boxes you had just inspected. You took advantage of the brief silence to return fire, forcing two men to take cover.

You only hit one, as he uttered a scream upon taking a hit to the side.

You changed position before they could surround you and you knew your training was paying off. You knew where to position yourself, when to shoot, and when to move. You closed distances, forced the enemy to make mistakes, and made the most of every second of cover.

But there were too many of them.

You didn't realize when one had already come up from behind, and you turned just in time to dodge a blow from the butt of a rifle, responding with an elbow that made your attacker stagger. You managed to disarm him, but another man hit you in the ribs before you could recover your balance.

The air escaped your lungs, but even so you managed to fight your way to an emergency door and pushed the metal bar with all your strength.

It didn't budge at all.

Understanding that they had blocked it from the outside, you looked for another exit. However, a second later you took an impact to your vest, forcing you back several steps as pain spread through your entire chest. Once there, another shot grazed your shoulder.

It didn't take long for them to surround you –and of course they were going to, it was just you out there in the middle– until panic took hold of you. You had never thought it was reckless to go alone and now you feared it was going to cost you your life.

One pointed at you and you had no time to react.

A web attached itself to the barrel of the rifle, deflecting it toward the ceiling just as the shot echoed through the warehouse.

The gun flew out of the man's hands, while a red and blue figure descended swinging between the ceiling beams, landing with the lightness of someone who seemed to have rehearsed that movement hundreds of times.

“You know?” he commented while another web immobilized two more men “There are much healthier ways to receive visitors.”

You felt something tighten in your jaw.

No.

It couldn't be him.

Spiderman dodged a burst of gunfire with an almost insulting ease. He jumped between the shelves, used webs to disarm some, knock down others, and leave those trying to escape immobilized.

Chaotic. Unpredictable. But ridiculously efficient.

You took advantage of the distraction to get up and return to the fight. Between the two of you, you quickly reduced the rest of the group, until the warehouse was plunged into a silence interrupted only by the groans of the criminals stuck to the floor.

You were breathing heavily when he approached.

“Are you okay?”

The question sounded so natural that it almost managed to irritate you more. You looked at him for a few seconds before answering.

“I had it under control.”

Spiderman tilted his head slightly, observing the vest marked by the bullet impact and the blood slowly trickling down your arm.

“Sure.”

He paused.

“If it helps, from the outside it didn't give that impression.”

You clenched your jaw.

“Who called you?”

“Nobody.”

He answered as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“I heard gunshots while I was patrolling.”

He wasn't following that investigation. He didn't know your operation, he didn't even know who those men were. He had simply heard that someone needed help.

And he had shown up.

You wished you were upset with him, but you couldn't be. Especially not after he had probably saved your life.

He remained there until you obtained all the information you needed. Afterward, he even offered to take you back to the tower, which you immediately refused. Still, a part of you knew, even before crossing the main door, that he had stayed close enough to make sure you arrived safe and sound. He was absurdly gentlemanly. And you hated him for that.

The days kept passing. From time to time, his figure appeared on the news or flooded social media: saving a child trapped under the rubble of a building, thwarting a robbery on the subway, helping an old man cross an avenue after an evacuation. He was always there. He always arrived on time.

You kept doing your job, but you couldn't get him out of your head.

You weren't thinking about the boy hiding his face under the mask. You were thinking about Spiderman.

Since Tony Stark's death and Captain America's disappearance, the world had ceased to have figures who seemed to belong to something larger than themselves. Sam Wilson was doing what he could to fill that void, trying to assemble a new team under Steve Rogers' legacy. However, Valentina had built hers first, and you were already part of it.

That was supposed to be the right path.

Wasn't it?

Bucky had known Steve better than anyone. If anyone understood what it meant to continue his legacy, it had to be him. So why did you keep feeling like something didn't fit?

It was enough to remember the past of each of your teammates for the contradiction to appear again. Murderers, mercenaries, spies... people trying to do good while carrying decades of mistakes. You yourself were no exception.

It was frustrating.

And then you went back to Spiderman.

He didn't need to belong to any team. He didn't answer to anyone, he didn't wait for orders or permission. He simply saw someone in danger and acted. While the rest argued over governments, jurisdictions, or who had the right to call themselves an Avenger, he kept roaming New York, saving one life after another without asking for recognition.

That was what hurt you the most to admit. Because he was exactly the kind of hero you had always wanted to be. And, instead, the last time you tried to do something on your own, you had ended up needing Spiderman to rescue you.

You hadn't even been capable of completing a simple reconnaissance mission without turning into someone who needed to be saved.

The feeling was unbearable.

You felt... small. Pathetic.

That night, unable to fall asleep, you ended up wandering around the tower. The balcony was one of the few places where silence still existed. You liked to imagine that, years ago, Captain America had also stopped there, observing the city with the same weight on his shoulders. Maybe wondering, just like you now, if wanting to do the right thing would ever be enough.

It was then that a noise alerted you. It had been barely noticeable, but for a trained —and sharp— ear like yours, it was enough. The first thing you thought of was Bob.

Maybe he had another nightmare. Maybe something had gone wrong.

However, you discarded the idea almost instantly. Bob was incapable of moving discreetly. He tried to, yes, but he ended up tripping over anything or announcing his presence before even entering a room. Getting scared easily had that effect on him.

Then, who?

You frowned.

The tower was practically empty. The rest of the team had left hours ago and you had stayed behind as support in case Bob needed anything. There was no one else who should be there.

That only left one possibility. An intruder.

Out of pure instinct you reached a hand to your waist, searching for a weapon that you knew perfectly well wasn't there. You had gone out to the balcony convinced it would only be a few minutes; you hadn't considered it necessary to carry one. You were at home, why the hell would you walk around with a gun in your own building?

You took a deep breath and advanced slowly, making sure not to make noise. If whoever had entered didn't expect to run into anyone, you still held the element of surprise. And if they also didn't know how to fight...

Well, you would have a chance.

As soon as you turned the corner, two familiar colors appeared in front of you: red and blue.

You closed your eyes for a second and let out your breath in a sigh heavy with annoyance.

Of course it was him.

“What are you doing here?”

Spiderman gave a small start upon hearing your voice.

“Oh! I'm sorry, I...” he raised both hands immediately, as if he had just been caught doing something wrong “I didn't expect to find anyone.”

He pointed inside the tower with his thumb.

“I was looking for Agent Belova.”

“Yelena?”

He nodded.

“She's not here,” you explained, regaining your composure “In fact, nobody is. They went out on a mission.”

Wishing that he wouldn't underestimate you or believe, for a moment, that they hadn't wanted to bring you along, you added:

“I stayed behind to keep Bob company.”

For a moment, Spiderman remained completely motionless.

Although the mask hid his expression, there was something in the way he slightly lowered his shoulders and averted his gaze that conveyed a silent apology. It was evident that he hadn't wanted to barge in that way, much less startle you.

“It's just… I need help with something and I thought she could help me.”

“Well, she's not here. Call her when she gets back.”

He let out a brief laugh, more out of nerves than amusement.

“Yeah... that's what I was planning to do.”

He kept quiet for a moment, as if he were deciding whether to say something else or simply leave.

He ended up doing the former.

“It's just... I've been following a group for a couple of days that has been stealing tech equipment. Nothing especially eye-catching separately, but when you put all the robberies together... they start to look too specific.”

He reached a hand into one of the compartments on his belt and pulled out a small metallic device, the size of a USB drive.

He held it between two fingers.

“This dropped during the chase of one of them. I thought it might tell me something, but I haven't been able to figure out what it is.”

You observed it for barely a second. You didn't recognize the device.

“And what does that have to do with us?”

He scratched the back of his neck over the mask.

“Well, I thought that… Yelena would know how to identify weapons, military tech, and stuff like that. Or that there would be something in the databases.”

You couldn't argue with that logic.

“Besides,” he continued “I was told that before forming this team she did a lot of intelligence work. I thought maybe she could help me figure out who is behind it.”

He slowly lowered his hand.

“But if she's not here, I'll find another way.”

He took half a step toward the edge of the balcony, ready to leave. You noticed by the way he slightly flexed his legs, preparing to shoot a web.

You could have let him leave without any problem because, at the end of the day, you didn't even care about helping him. But a part of you felt that it wasn't the right thing to do.

One always had to do the right thing.

“Wait,” you murmured, before he left “Let me see that.”

In barely two strides he came back to you and placed the device on your hand.

You turned it over a couple of times between your fingers. It had no visible markings, no serial number, no inscription.

“I don't know what it is.”

Spiderman nodded with barely perceptible disappointment.

“But we can investigate it.”

“Really?”

“Inside. We have analysis labs, databases, and reconnaissance equipment that are considerably more advanced than any home computer… or whatever it is you use.”

There was a brief silence.

“Come.”

You led him into the building. The balcony doors closed automatically behind you both, and the silence of the night was replaced by the constant hum of the electrical systems.

Spiderman walked a few steps behind you, discreetly looking at every corner.

The lobby was immense. Glass panels lined the walls; several screens remained on displaying maps, satellite readings, and real-time reports. Even at those hours, the tower seemed to keep functioning as if it never slept.

“Wow...”

His voice came out almost as a whisper, genuinely impressed by how imposing the inside of the tower was. You wondered if he had ever been inside during its prime, that of the original Avengers, but you doubted it.

You led him to an analysis room located several hallways further ahead, where the doors opened upon recognizing your ID.

The lab was practically empty.

In the center rested a huge interactive glass table. Several holographic screens remained suspended above it, while different analysis modules surrounded the room.

Spiderman stood motionless as soon as he crossed the door. He slowly turned his head from one station to another.

“All of this is… next level, right?”

You smiled faintly to yourself. It was impossible not to notice the genuine awe with which he observed every piece of equipment.

There was no ambition in his voice, nor greed. Just curiosity.

You approached the main console and activated the interface, making the room come alive immediately.

You asked him to put the device in one of the slots and a few seconds later, the scanner began to slowly move across the surface of the object.

As the system initiated the analysis, you crossed your arms.

“Don't get used to it. I'm only helping you this time.”

His white lenses narrowed slightly, as if trying to interpret the reason.

“Why?”

You looked at him directly.

“Because you helped me last time.”

You paused briefly.

“Consider it a settled debt.”

Spiderman remained silent for a few seconds. Then he tilted his head slightly.

“I don't… think we were in debt. I didn't do it for that, really.”

“I know,” you admitted.

Silence settled between the two of you again. He didn't press.

He simply watched as the screens began to display the first results, understanding that, behind that distant attitude, there was a person incapable of ignoring someone in need of help. Even if she wasn't ready to admit it yet.

When it was all over, you told him you hoped the information would be useful to him and he thanked you before leaving.

A few days later he returned to the tower, but this time, he wasn't looking for Yelena, but for you. He told you that thanks to the information he had managed to discover the origin of the robberies; it was an altered weapons trafficking network. He managed to dismantle it thanks to the lead he had.

It surprised you that he had decided to tell you about it, as if the trouble of using the machines ought to be rewarded with good news. You accompanied him to the balcony and as you watched him swinging through the city, you promised yourself it would be the only time you were going to do him a favor.

Unfortunately, that wasn't the case.

He appeared more often than you wished on the tower balcony to ask you endless questions and request that you investigate something for him. It was almost always minor things, something that would only help him take the necessary step or find an adequate starting point for his investigation.

The news was right about something: New York was safer thanks to him.

When you got fed up with being surprised at the window of your room in the complex or having to go to the balcony to meet him, you told him he could have your number. Only in case of emergencies.

Thus, you ended up getting calls at least once a week from the vigilante from Queens.

“But it makes no sense,” you heard him say, on the other end of the line.

You were leaning against the kitchen island resting, after having handled off-the-record matters assigned by Valentina.

His voice came through broken up by the wind. You didn't need to ask him where he was to imagine him swinging between buildings with the phone held between his shoulder and his mask.

“What makes no sense?”

“Last week we dismantled a substance trafficking network. Today I found another one. Two days ago I stopped a robbery in Queens and, while I was taking the guy to the police, I received three more alerts. It's like the city always finds a way to fill the gaps.”

You remained silent for a few seconds before answering.

“That's crime for you,” you admitted bitterly.

If he had been in front of you, he would have seen you press your lips together and shrug. You heard a sigh on the other end of the line.

“I guess I hoped that, over time, things would get better.”

“Do you think they haven't gotten better?” you asked, almost offended.

It took him a moment to answer.

“I don't know.”

“Well then you're dumber than I thought.”

“Do you think I'm dumb?”

“Naive would be a better adjective.”

The silence that followed was brief, but different. It wasn't uncomfortable; it sounded more like someone thinking while traversing the city.

“The city is safer,” you assured him “Even if you don't believe it.”

“And how are you so sure?”

“Because the numbers say so. The news too. I thought you watched it... especially since lately they won't stop talking about you.”

The kid let out a low laugh.

“I try not to read much of what they say about Spiderman.”

“Why?”

“Because one day I'm the neighborhood hero and the next, responsible for all of Manhattan's problems.”

The conversation seemed to remain suspended after that. You stood looking at an indefinite point in front of you, with the phone pressed against your ear, while the distant noise of the city formed an indistinguishable murmur.

On the other end of the line, he waited. First one second. Then two. He didn't push; he thought you were simply thinking of a response. But the silence stretched long enough for it to stop seeming like a natural pause.

The only thing he could hear was your breathing.

“Are you okay?”

You frowned slightly.

“Why?”

“You sound weird.”

You let out a nasal laugh.

“Great. Now you can tell how I am by the way I talk?”

“And how do you know I'm not spying on you through the window?”

By reflex you turned your head toward the huge kitchen window. The city was still there, immense, illuminated, and completely empty.

Then you heard his laugh.

“You turned around, didn't you?”

You rolled your eyes.

“You're a dummy.”

“But you did turn around.”

You shook your head, surprised to have let yourself be fooled so easily. Why had he made you smile?

“But seriously, is something wrong?”

The smile faded bit by bit. You rested a hand on the kitchen counter, debating whether you should tell him what was bothering you or not.

“Today I was in a meeting,” you began.

A part of you expected him to interrupt you, but since he didn't, you continued.

“There were people arguing for hours over who had the authority to intervene in a situation that's been getting worse for weeks. In the end they resolved nothing. They only agreed to meet again.”

He kept silent.

“And while they talk about jurisdictions, permits, and diplomatic consequences… someone else ends up doing the job.”

You weren't going to admit it out loud, but both of you knew exactly who you were referring to. Silence returned. You paid attention, almost out of habit, and noticed how the wind disappeared on the other side of the call.

“I'm starting to think the world spends more time discussing problems than solving them.”

Spiderman's breathing became more steady, closer. He had stopped moving. You imagined he had just landed on the roof of his building and that, for the first time since you had started talking, all his attention was on you.

“Sometimes I don't know if it's worth it.”

This time his response came almost immediately.

“You don't want to be in the new Avengers?”

“What? No! I didn't mean that. Of course I want to be there. But...” you let the air out slowly, searching for the right words “sometimes it's frustrating to want to do something and discover that, no matter how hard you try, you simply can't.”

He remained quiet for a few seconds. This time he didn't try to contradict you or offer an immediate solution.

Silence settled back in, although it no longer felt so heavy.

“Well… there's always space on my team.”

You smiled involuntarily.

“Spiderman works in a team?”

“I could start doing so.”

You raised an eyebrow, even though he couldn't see it.

“What a terrible way to recruit people.”

“I don't have much experience.”

A laugh escaped from both of you, small, genuine.

For the first time since you had answered the call, the conversation no longer revolved around a case or an investigation. You were simply talking and, honestly, neither of you seemed to be in a hurry to hang up.

“Did you get home?”

“Just now. Honestly, I hope no emergency pulls me out of bed. I'm exhausted.”

You smiled faintly.

“Crime doesn't rest. But you should.”

“I'll try.”

Thinking that there was nothing left to discuss, you sighed:

“Good night, Spiderman.”

“Good night.”

He made a brief pause before adding:

“I hope you feel better tomorrow.”

You frowned slightly.

“Thank you.”

The call ended a few seconds later.

You would have never thought you'd end up swinging through the city in Spiderman's arms. In fact, if someone had told you a few weeks ago —a few months, actually— you probably would have thought it was one of the most absurd ideas you had ever heard.

And yet, there you were.

Your arms were around his shoulders while the lights of New York passed beneath your feet, trying to ignore how un-normal the situation was.

Spiderman always called you when he needed a favor. A clue, a location, an answer that only you could find. That night had been different: this time it was you who had called him.

You had hesitated before dialing his number. Not because you didn't trust him, but because asking for help had never been easy for you. You were used to solving things alone.

A tracking device had disappeared during an operation and the last signal located it inside an abandoned building in an industrial zone. It wasn't something that justified mobilizing an entire team, but you couldn't simply go in either without knowing what you would find. There were too many variables and very little information.

Spiderman had agreed to help you without thinking twice about it.

You had spent the last hour following the signal, checking the place, and making sure no one else was using the building as a meeting point. In the end, it turned out to be less complicated than expected: the device was hidden among abandoned equipment in one of the upper rooms and it had only been impossible to retrieve because the structure was unstable.

When you finished, the tension of the mission vanished almost at once.

That was when you mentioned that you were dying for a burger. It hadn't been a request or an invitation, just a comment after a day that was far too long. But Spiderman seemed to have taken it as a new task.

“Is it much further? I feel like you're going to drop me any second.”

“I would never,” he assured you, letting out a laugh.

In reality, his grip was quite strong. You had never noticed how muscular he was. Of course you knew Spiderman possessed extraordinary strength; you had seen him stop blows capable of knocking down walls and carry objects no normal person could move. But there was a difference between observing him from a distance and feeling the security with which he held you while crossing the city.

After a few more minutes of swinging between buildings, he finally slowed down. The city lights stopped moving so fast around you until you landed on the roof of a building.

Although Spiderman tried to go unnoticed, it wasn't exactly easy to ignore someone in a brightly colored suit coming in to eat a burger. So he had bought takeout from a nearby place and had decided a rooftop was the best alternative.

Apparently, after so many years traversing the city that way, he also knew which ones had the best views.

“Before being Spiderman, were you afraid of heights?” you asked with apparent indifference.

As you spoke, you walked along the narrow edge of the roof with your arms slightly spread from your body to keep your balance. Every step was deliberate, almost playful, as if you enjoyed testing your stability. Spiderman, on the other hand, didn't take his eyes off you for a second.

“No... but now you're making me nervous. Do you want to get down from there?”

You smiled sideways, amused by the change in his tone.

“Seriously? Would you let me fall?”

“No,” he answered immediately.

You didn't even notice when he had closed the distance between you. You only realized it when his hand found your arm and held it with a delicacy that contrasted with the urgency of his movement.

“But I don't want that to happen either.”

You couldn't see his eyes behind the mask. Even so, there was something in the way he stood in front of you, with a firm hand on your arm and his body prepared to support you if necessary, that made you lose part of that carefree confidence.

Without saying anything else, you stepped down from the edge of the roof. He didn't loosen his grip until both of you had your feet on solid ground.

“So then?”

“So then what?”

“Were you afraid of heights?”

“No,” he confessed “But I was of spiders.”

“You're kidding.”

“I'm serious,” he laughed. He was already moving some boxes so you could sit down “Great irony, right?”

“That's a lie. You're saying it to annoy me,” you murmured, still incredulous.

He made a polite gesture to you, as if giving you passage to a chair of honor, and you took a seat. He did the same and then handed you the food bag, where there were two plain burgers and an order of french fries.

As soon as you had it, you took a bite of yours. The silence that settled between both of you was comfortable; it was only accompanied by the distant rumor of traffic and the occasional sound of paper wrapping the food.

After a few seconds, he turned his head slightly toward you.

“Where did you learn everything you know?”

“About what?”

“Well, about everything. You know, your… agent skills.”

The gesture he made brought a laugh out of you. He seemed to point at all of you with his hand.

“From my parents. They were S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, before the organization was dismantled.”

He let out a whistle of surprise.

“Really? How cool.”

You pulled the other burger out of the bag and offered it to him. He took it with a gesture of gratitude.

“What about yours? What did they do?”

“They died when I was a kid. Almost my whole life I lived with my aunt and uncle.”

You lowered your gaze.

“Oh... I'm sorry.”

He brushed it off with a small movement of his shoulders.

“It's okay. It wasn't your fault.”

You took another bite of the burger before speaking again.

“You know? It's really strange...”

He waited for you to finish the thought.

“There's so little I know about you.”

“That's supposed to be the idea of having a secret identity.”

You smiled.

“Fair enough. Then I'll ask normal questions.”

Spiderman tilted his head slightly, amused.

“What's your favorite movie?”

He thought for a few seconds.

“I don't have just one. I like the ones about space.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Have you been there?”

“Yeah. A while ago.”

He said it so naturally that it took you a second to process it.

Of course. The Avengers. The originals.

“What food can't you stand?”

“Avocado. I hate the texture. And I don't like jello either.”

You smiled before throwing out the next question.

“Who did you vote for in the last election?”

He let out a laugh.

“I wasn't old enough to vote.”

You frowned.

“What do you mean you weren't old enough?”

“Yeah. It was four years ago.”

You froze for a few seconds.

Something didn't add up.

You turned your body to look at him better.

“Wait... how old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

He made a brief pause before adding:

“Well... I'd be a few years older, but you know... the blip thing.”

You stared at him intently. The information took an instant to settle in your head.

Twenty-two.

Spiderman was twenty-two years old.

You had never thought about it. He had always seemed... older. Not because of his appearance —you didn't even know his face—, but because of the way he spoke, because of the responsibility he carried on his shoulders, because of the way he faced every situation as if he had been doing it for years.

He tilted his head.

“What?”

You blinked.

“It's just... I never imagined you were my age.”

He burst out laughing.

“And how old did you think I was?”

You thought about it for a moment.

“I don't know... thirty?”

“Thirty?!”

He let out a loud laugh.

“Of course not! Why would you think that?”

You shrugged, unable to justify it.

“I don't know... you just... give off that impression.”

Since you had started talking, he hadn't touched his food. When he unwrapped the burger you saw him lift his mask just a little bit to take a bite.

“You never take it off, do you?”

“Hm-hm,” he hummed.

You took a moment to observe him or, at least, what little he was revealing. He was Caucasian and, apparently, had brown hair.

“Did your curiosity run out?”

“What's your favorite color?”

“Red.”

“Yeah, well, that one wasn't that hard.”

You kept quiet, thinking of another question.

“Hmm, what do you love most in life?”

“Helping others. A person very important to me used to say that: when you help someone, you help everyone. And I think that's what makes me get up every day. Thinking that… maybe I can help make the world a better place.”

You stayed quiet for a second. You had never stopped to think that, just maybe, Spiderman and you weren't so different. You both wanted to do something good in life and, somehow, you were doing it. He had never done anything to you, all that rejection you had felt at the beginning stemmed from a childish spat that he wasn't even aware of.

He was a good person.

“That's the answer expected of a superhero.”

“I also have other passions, I must confess. I really like science, I like technology, legos…”

“Legos? Spiderman, you're a total nerd.”

You couldn't help letting out a soft laugh while turning your face slightly to look at him. He also tilted his head toward you.

“What about you? Did you always dream of being part of the Avengers?”

You felt the title was too big for you. In reality, you were nothing like the idea you had of what an Avenger should be. And yet, Spiderman recognized you as one.

“I just wanted to be like my parents. I wanted… to do something good for the world. Maybe not fix it, but help.”

His mask was still lifted to the level of his nose and, for the first time, you saw his smile.

“One would think that's everyone's dream, right? Though it turns out it's not always like that. That's why we have work.”

You two shared a soft laugh. Not as agents, but as friends.

You searched his eyes and going down toward his lips, you realized he had a stain of ketchup. Without thinking too much about it, you stretched out a bit to wipe it off him.

Upon feeling your hand touching his skin he flinched, but as soon as he understood your intentions, his shoulders relaxed.

“Is Spiderman afraid of being touched?”

“Of course not,” he huffed, clearly nervous.

Or uncomfortable, you couldn't figure it out.

“It's just… I didn't expect it.”

“That someone would wipe a stain off your face?”

“That someone would invade my personal space with so much confidence.”

You observed him for a few seconds, pretending to analyze him.

“I thought a New York hero would be more used to attention.”

“It depends on who it comes from.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“There are people who make me more nervous than stopping a robbery.”

A mischievous smile appeared on your lips.

“And which category do I fall into?”

He took a second longer than necessary to answer.

“I'm not going to answer that.”

“How convenient.”

“It's self-preservation.”

“So I do make you nervous.”

“That's not what I said.”

“But you didn't deny it either.”

He let out a laugh, shaking his head.

“You're impossible.”

Having annoyed him made you laugh and, for a second, you forgot who he was. You weren't with the hero of New York, he was just a twenty-two-year-old guy whose name you didn't even know, but with whom you shared a moral mission.

You two finished eating and he swung to take you home. Soon the already familiar goodbye scene unfolded on the balcony.

“Thanks for today,” you murmured, once your feet touched the ground.

“It was nothing.”

His voice sounded sincere. He stayed on the edge, waiting for you to go through the door.

But instead of walking backward, you took a step forward.

Your feet moved on their own and when you reached him, you gave him a kiss on the cheek over the mask. You were close enough to see the blur of his eyes behind the white visors.

He looked at himself for a second, surprised by what you had just done. Then, on an impulse that not even you managed to question, you raised your hands to the edge of his mask.

He instantly tensed up.

“Wait...”

His fingers moved by reflex, as if they were going to stop you, but they remained suspended halfway.

“Relax,” you murmured right away, without taking your eyes off him.

He remained completely motionless, watching you in silence, trusting you, even though evident nervousness ran through his whole body. With extreme slowness, you lifted the fabric just enough to reveal his lips.

Your eyes searched for his through the mask, expecting to find a refusal, a gesture of discomfort, or any sign that would make you stop, but there was nothing. Only his Adam's apple moving up and down in a clear sign of anticipation.

You closed the minimal distance that still separated you both and brushed his lips with yours. It wasn't a long or passionate kiss. Barely a brief, soft contact, almost a question. But he responded.

With his lips still revealed, you stayed watching him for a few more seconds.

“What color are your eyes?”

It took him an instant to answer.

“Brown.”

“Mmm...”

You hummed with a small smile, as if you had just discovered a fascinating piece of information.

“But a… sweet brown, right? With amber touches.”

“I guess, yeah.”

“I imagined them like that.”

He let out a low laugh, unable to understand why that simple question seemed to have left you so satisfied.

You took a step back and smiled at him.

“Good night, Spiderman.”

You gave him one last smile and began to walk away toward the door leading inside the building. You were a couple of steps from crossing it when something softly wrapped around your wrist.

With a precise tug, the web tightened and your body was pulled backward. You let out a small muffled gasp as the distance between you disappeared in an instant.

Spiderman caught you by the waist before you could collide with him.

You would have liked to have the wit to fire back anything, but you were left speechless. And he didn't say anything either. He simply leaned toward you and kissed you.

His kiss was long enough to make you forget the cold wind blowing on the roof and the distant noise of the city. When he finally pulled away, you knew you were completely blushing.

“Good night…” he said with a small smile “And, please, don't try to take off my mask again without warning.”

He covered his face again and, before you could say another word, shot a web toward the building across the street.

With a push he disappeared among the lights of New York.

You stood motionless for a few seconds, watching the place where he had gone, until an inevitable smile formed on your face. Then you went inside the building, still with the tingling of that last kiss on your lips.

when you asked your boyfriend if he could fuck you with the mask on after he came back from a late night swing, peter was a bit skeptical.

but one velvety look, a flutter of your lashes, and a “pretty please, peter-baby? i’ve been working soooo hard” with a vague gesture toward your laptop screen in your darkened dorm, wearing one of his oversized shirts with one side slipping off your shoulder, and peter was game.

he loves having a smart girlfriend, after all.

now, your boyfriend’s hands grip your naked thighs in a secure hold, as opposed to his jumbled, messy life. “oh my god, peter, yes—“ your nails scratch lightly over his shoulders, your fingertips digging deep into his mole-scattered back.

“feel good, baby?” peter asks, voice laden with tension and depth like a dark swimming pool you could drown in for eternity. his mask is a little dirty from the countless scaffles he gets into on the daily, but he smells like home and familiarity.

his cock fills you up perfectly, the juices you’re producing leaking out onto your cheap bed sheets as you feel your thighs shake. “yeah— yeah, perfect—”you nod your head vigourously.

you pull your boyfriend down for a kiss, only to feel the mere shape of his lips through the thin fabric as his body rolls against yours. you try to kiss him through the spandex, but when you poke your tongue out to trace his bottom lip, peter pulls back.

“fuck— can’t kiss you,” peter breathes out, momentarily stopping mid-thrust, pausing the squelching sound of your pussy, hanging like dust in the air. “gotta be able to kiss my smart girl.”

without wasting another word, he pulls the mask from under his chin, up to the middle of his nose bridge, revealing his slightly bloody lip, all puffy from biting and kissing you through the mask. his dick inside you twitches as you clench around him at the sight of just the lower-half of his face.

“peter—” you whine, almost noiselessly.

peter also doesn’t waste another second to dip his head back to yours, slotting his mouth over yours as his tongue tangles with yours, spreading spit all over your chin from the nastiness and messiness.

“should wear my mask more often, huh?”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Peter Parker’s quaint little apartment was awfully loud for someone who lived alone.

The window was wide open, the hustle and bustle of New York infiltrating his home. The crap dryer was in the middle of shrinking his jeans as it hummed loudly, sounding as if a few screws were loose.

Which, come to think of it, probably were.

His speaker played music softly as he was hunched over the small desk near the window. He was in the middle of patching up his suit after an intense fight with The Hand.

Crash!

Peter jolted up, on high alert for any other sounds. His spider senses weren’t going off, but he was still worried about what caused the sound outside of his apartment.

He quickly grabbed his phone, pausing the music to hear better.

He was met with a dead silence until-

“Shit!”

Peter let out a sigh of relief, hearing a muffled voice from behind his door in the hallway.

The person must’ve dropped something.

Peter rose up from his seat and cracked open the door, only for his breath to quite literally catch in his throat.

You were standing there, three boxes stacked on top of one another, a fourth box on the floor with shattered glass surrounding it.

You set the three boxes down and huffed, scratching the back of your neck and looking at the mess you made in the hallway. You glanced up at the boy staring at you as if he had seen a ghost.

“I’m sorry,” you said sheepishly. “I just- well I thought I could carry all these boxes to my apartment, but clearly not.”

Peter swallowed hard and blinked, snapping out of the trance he was in. “You- wha- Sorry,” he laughed awkwardly, making you quirk a brow. “You’re moving in?” he asked, glancing at the apartment door right across the hall from him.

You nodded with a small smile, dangling your keys up. “Yup. Right across from you apparently.”

Peter’s eyes widened.

He hadn’t seen you or heard from you in years. Not since Dr. Strange casted that spell and made everyone forget who he was. For years he wondered where you were, if you were okay, and more importantly, if you found someone new because truth be told, he hadn’t.

He wasn’t even looking.

At university, girls would flirt with him every now and then, falling for that shy and dorky personality with something more mature growing around the edges. Peter Parker was an attractive guy and he was so sweet, so kind, to everyone he met.

The boy could’ve honestly had a new girlfriend by now.

But he didn’t because it had always been you.

You were the only girl he ever wanted.

You rocked back on your heels, staring at Peter with narrowed eyes. You couldn't quite place it, but he seemed familiar, like maybe you had seen him somewhere before, but then again, he looked like your average young adult in New York. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

Peter blinked. “Me?”

You looked around the empty hallway with a small giggle, already finding your new neighbor rather entertaining. “Who else?”

“Oh. Duh,” Peter lectured himself from under his breath with closed eyes and a pitiful headshake. He cleared his throat and straightened up, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Yeah, no, you don’t.”

He hated lying, especially to you.

You tilted your head slightly. “Are you sure? You seem…I don’t know. You seem familiar. What’s your name?”

“P-Peter,” he stuttered. “Peter Parker.”

You hummed, the name not entirely ringing a bell. “Peter Parker,” you repeated, as if it would jog your memory. “Sounds familiar, but then again, you have the most generic name.”

Before Peter could respond, you stuck your hand out and introduced yourself.

Peter stared down at your hand, then pulled his lips into a tight line. He knew that if he touched you he risked you immediately being overloaded with the knowledge of who he was and the history you both shared.

The day Dr. Strange casted that spell, he promised you that he would remind you of who he was.

That was the first time Peter Parker ever lied to you.

He went down to the pastry coffee shop he knew you and Ned would hangout at just to bother MJ, because there was once a time Peter was in the picture too. When he saw you sitting beside Ned, a small warm peppermint hot chocolate in your hands, his heart fluttered, excitement coursing through his veins as he made his way over to introduce himself, just like he had rehearsed a million times.

“Hi, I’m Peter Parker, and you don’t know me, but we used to be friends, more than friends actually.”

Was what he was supposed to say.

But when he got close enough for you to look up at him, a glint of confusion in the very eyes he had fallen in love with, his own eyes that you had no recollection of caught sight of the healing gash that caused a slit in your eyebrow and the bandage a few inches away from it on your forehead.

A painful reminder of what it meant to get too close to someone like him.

It was his fault that you had gotten hurt and nearly died.

He didn’t ever want to put you in a situation like that again, and after Aunt May…he figured it would be best if you were no longer associated with him.

He froze up completely and ended up telling you his name like some kind of dork and asking you if the peppermint hot chocolate was worth the five dollars.

So now, in the present moment, his heart was slowly breaking because you hadn’t fully remembered him from that day, which was fine because why would you have?

He was just a weirdo who approached you awkwardly and asked how the peppermint hot chocolate was, which…was strange because it wasn’t inherently obvious to anyone that wasn’t MJ or Ned that that was what you were drinking.

But Peter knew because it was your favorite.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “I would shake your hand, but my hands are dirty. I was just uh…cleaning.”

“Oh,” you muttered quietly, pulling your hand away awkwardly, glancing away from him feeling slightly embarrassed.

The hallway was silent as you stood there for a second, Peter thinking of something, anything to say to you because he didn’t want the moment to end.

“Do you want me to help you carry your stuff in?” Peter offered.

Your brows pressed together. “I thought your hands were dirty. I don’t want you touching my stuff,” you half joked.

“Right…” Peter replied. “I’ll sweep up the glass.”

You smiled softly and nodded, unlocking your door and dragging a box inside, thinking that your new neighbor was a little weird, but meant well.

Peter smiled and as soon as you disappeared into your empty apartment, his smile fell instantly. He squeezed his eyes shut, muttering a list of profanities under his breath as he returned back into his apartment to retrieve a broom and dustpan.

He swept up the glass and you thanked him before going back into your apartment.

For the next couple of days, you wouldn’t see Peter often. You’d sometimes cross paths heading downstairs to retrieve your mail, earning a small wave from him or see him on your way out to work. 

Regardless, that little to no interaction was driving him up the wall.

You were right there.

Right across the hall.

Right within arms touch, and one touch…just the one, had the potential to ignite an old flame again.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Peter lied on his couch, staring at the ceiling while tossing a pen into the air and catching it mindlessly. He was supposed to be figuring out what to eat for dinner, but alas, you were on his mind.

He had missed you before, but ever since you moved in he felt like he was losing his mind.

You consumed each and every one of his thoughts, every fiber in his being. If there was one thing Peter Parker wanted, it was you.

He jolted up, hearing the sound of someone knocking on his door. He practically bounced off of the wall, his spider senses going haywire, sensing that it was you. He swung the door open and saw you standing in the hallway wearing a casual outfit that you still looked cute in. Cute top, sweatpants, and pair of slippers that he bought you for Christmas one year that made him smile from ear to ear.

“Hey,” he said casually, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest, his biceps flexing, which he was doing on purpose.

He watched as your eyes darted down quickly and back up. He noticed the way you swallowed, blinking quickly as if to get your mind back on track, which only made him smirk.

He was glad to know you still liked that.

“Hi,” you chirped. “So…” you trailed off, rocking back on your heels. “I made dinner and I accidentally made too much, I doubled the recipe,” you explained, rolling your eyes at your own stupidity. “Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to come over and have dinner with me?”

Peter blinked, caught off guard. “I uh…yeah, I’ll have dinner. I’ll be over in a few.”

Your smile widened. “Perfect. See you in a few.”

You turned on your heel and went across the hallway to your own apartment. Peter went back into his and scrambled across the living room into his bedroom where he yanked off his tank top and sweatpants. He threw clothes out of his closet and tried on about five different outfits before deciding on a t-shirt and pair of jeans. He nearly tripped over the clothes that were now all over his floor as he raced towards his cologne, deciding on the one he knew you loved.

He grabbed his shoes and-

Wait…

Does he need shoes to take two steps across the hallway to your apartment?

He decided to slip on his slippers like you had. He grabbed a bottle of wine that he was saving for his Daily Bugle office party, figuring that this was more important.

Did you drink?

He wasn’t sure.

He’d bring it anyway.

He raced over to the door, hand halting over the handle.

Hold on…

Jeans? Really? You were in sweatpants!

He groaned and ran back into the kitchen, setting the wine bottle down and running back into his room, yanking a drawer open and grabbing a pair of sweatpants. He kicked the slippers off, hobbled on one foot, nearly falling over as he took his jeans off and replaced them with the sweats.

Peter went back to grab his slippers when a new thought filled his mind.

What if you had changed into jeans?

“No,” Peter lectured himself. “You look fine. You look great,” he reassured himself, though his heart was racing, which could’ve been because he just ran around his entire apartment in less than five minutes.

He made his way out of his apartment, standing in front of your door and taking a deep breath.

Knock knock.

Within two seconds you were at the door, opening it all the way.

He let out a sigh of relief to see that you were still in your sweatpants.

The scent of his cologne immediately filled your nose and you felt an odd tingling sensation in your finger tips, as if your powers were so desperately trying to remind you of something.

You raised a brow, knowing you didn't smelled cologne when you initially went to his place, meaning he put it on before coming to yours.

“Brought some wine!” Peter chirped, holding up the bottle. “I actually don’t know if you drink, but if not I have uh…” he trailed off, thinking. “Well, I don’t have anything except for water…out of the sink, but I’m saving up for a filter!”

You raised your brows as he rambled, and his face quickly went red in embarrassment. “I uh…” he laughed. “I’m joking,” he breathed out. “Well…not really, but…”

You giggled, stepping aside. “I don’t drink, but I’ll gladly try with you. Come on in.”

Peter made his way inside and looked around as you shut the door. Your apartment reminded him so much of your bedroom back at the Avenger’s Tower, it just looked as if you had grown up.

Because you both had.

Peter Parker was still the nerdy, awkward, and awfully cute boy you met back in high school that you unfortunately didn’t have the pleasure of remembering. But something about him had changed. He was more mature. Slightly less awkward but still rather awkward to a fault.

“Your apartment is nice,” he complimented, following you into the kitchen.

“Thanks,” you beamed. You reached into the cabinet and pulled out two regular glass cups. “I don’t have wine glasses,” you said sheepishly. “This should work, right?”

Peter smiled. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”

“Now would probably be a good time to tell you that I don’t have a bottle opener either.”

Peter shrugged, taking the foil off of the bottle. “It’s alright. I got it.” Peter’s muscles flexed ever so slightly as he quite literally flicked off the top. “Tada!”

Your eyes widened. “What the hell? How’d you do that?”

Peter smirked. “Well, I work out a lot,” he said smoothly, leaning against the counter.

You raised a brow. “Do you now?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah. Like, a lot.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m at the gym all the time.”

“Right.”

Peter smirked, watching as you tried to conceal your smile, which you were doing a very poor job at. “You’re smiling.”

Now you broke, smiling like a dork. “Because you’re funny.”

“But I didn’t say anything funny.”

“You did,” you said matter of factly. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to impress me, Parker.”

“Are you impressed?”

You rolled your eyes and snagged the glasses off of the counter. “Come on. The food is getting cold.”

Peter smiled triumphantly to himself. Back when you two first met, you were both incredibly shy, but you managed to take charge, flirting with Peter constantly, making him a nervous mess.

But now time had changed you both.

Now Peter was the one with the confidence to flirt with you and make you all nervous.

He followed you to the small table in the kitchen where two bowls of pasta were sitting. You both sat down, Peter pouring both your glass a little less than halfway.

“So,” he said, trying to spark up a conversation, aka, trying to figure out how you had been the past few years since he had missed out. “How’d you manage to afford to live in the most expensive place in all of New York?”

You laughed because you and him definitely did not live in the most expensive place in all of New York. It was actually the cheapest and you considered it to be a literal shit box.

“I’m making, like, fifty cents above minimum wage working at a bookstore a few blocks down,” you said as he slid your glass of wine over to you. You grabbed the glass from him, your fingers just centimeters away from ghosting his…just centimeters away from knowing the truth. “It’s not bad though, I like it. What about you?”

Peter filled his glass the same amount as yours. “I work at the Daily Bugle. I get all the pictures of Spider-Man and stuff like that.”

Your eyes widened as he set the bottle down, meeting your gaze. “You know Spider-Man?”

Peter shook his head, averting his gaze. “No. I- I mean, I just get the pictures,” he said sheepishly, bringing the glass up to his lips.

You gave Peter a confused look. “Come on,” you said. “You must know him. I mean, how else do you get literal selfies of him on top of the Empire State Building? Unless…you are Spider-Man,” you joked.

Peter spit his drink out back into the cup, becoming a coughing mess. “Wha- What?! N- No-!” he managed out between coughs.

Your face contorted into one of pure bewilderment at his reaction, something you weren’t at all expecting. “Jeez, okay…”

Peter put his glass down, shaking his head adamantly. “I’m not Spider-Man,” he said sharply.

“Okay.”

“That wouldn’t even be possible.”

“I believe you.”

“I just…we’re close enough that he gives me those pictures.”

“Right.”

“I am not Spider-Man.”

“Exactly.”

It was silent for a beat as you stared at each other. By your expression and tone, Peter could tell that you were catching onto something, but he wasn’t quite sure what. It could’ve been the fact that he was Spider-Man, it could’ve been that you were slowly starting to realize you knew him before, he wasn’t sure.

One thing he knew for sure was that if you kept staring at him, you would probably start to put two and two together somehow, because you always did.

“Are you gonna try that?” he asked, motioning to the glass on the table.

You glanced down at it and grabbed it, bringing it to your nose.

“Oh, shit,” you grimaced, the scent burning.

Peter smiled. “It’s not all that bad.”

You brought the glass to your lips and immediately spat it back out into the glass. “What the hell!” you exclaimed. “How does anyone drink this shit?!”

Peter laughed. “This is supposed to be the good stuff.”

You gagged. “Gross.”

“So uhm,” he began, changing the subject, grabbing his fork and picking up some pasta with it, you repeating the action. “You got any family close by?”

Now, he was just checking to see if you still had your family of Avengers.

To his knowledge, and based upon where things were the last time you two were actually together, you had already lost Nat, Tony, and Steve, so you were really left with the only two people you were close to.

Sam and Bucky.

You had been complaining to Peter your whole field trip across Europe about how you hated living with Bucky because he was insanely over protective and the only reason you were on that trip was because of Sam.

But then again, Sam was also over protective, just slightly less.

Your fork clattered against the plate, making Peter’s brows raise slightly.

“Sorry,” you laughed awkwardly, picking it back up. “I uh…I don’t,” you said, figuring it would be best to not tell a stranger that you were a superhero and after you moved out, Bucky Barnes and Sam Wilson had a falling out, which meant they went their separate ways and suddenly you didn’t seem to exist to either of them anymore.

Bucky was a new Avenger and Sam was rounding up his own team and you were left behind.

“No?” Peter asked, not wanting to pry but so desperately curious to know that the past few years you’d been okay.

You couldn’t look at Peter as you shook your head. “No,” you said quietly.

Peter’s heart broke because that told him everything.

You had been just as alone as he had, with the exception of MJ and Ned of course.

You had no family and neither did he.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Peter shut the door behind him, back pressing into it as he slowly sank to the floor, letting out a deep sigh.

God, he still loved you more than anything.

Of course he did.

Peter was completely lost.

He wanted you to know that just a few years ago you were both so desperately in love with one another, and you were just one touch away from knowing it.

You clearly were interested in him, already starting to fall back in love with him all over again.

He could just fall back in love with you and act like there was no history, but what was the point?

He didn’t want you to know who he was anyway to keep you safe.

But his soul craved to be with you again.

He bit his lower lip in thought, deciding what to do.

He had to tell you.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Your nose was filled with the putrid smell of alcohol and marijuana as you leaned against the wall that was vibrating against your back due to the music.

You sipped on the red solo cup in your hand, the plastic filled a quarter of the way full with soda, which was probably meant to be used as a chaser, but you didn’t drink.

Your eyes scanned the party, watching college students do the most heinous things while under the influence.

“And then…there’s Miles. This random high school kid from Brooklyn who might be Spider-Man, but my friends said we probably shouldn’t be stalking a fifteen year old.”

Your friend, Ned, was rambling to someone about how you, MJ, and himself were on the brink of discovering who Spider-Man was, though you were all more than likely far off in your guesses.

MJ was beside you, arms crossed over her chest as she pointed out people for you to look at. First it was some frat guy standing on top of a table while chugging a bottle of beer, then it was some girl making out with her boyfriend, and now it was some loser who allegedly kept staring at you.

“That guy,” MJ said, nodding her head across the room. “He keeps looking over here every ten and a half seconds.”

You didn’t know who she was talking about due to the sheer amount of people in the room, and you didn’t necessarily care. “Glad to know you’re keeping tabs on potential threats,” you teased lightly heartedly.

“Hey,” MJ, shrugged. “Maybe once Spider-Man stops taking all your villains, you can get back at it. I feel like you don’t pay attention to anything anymore.”

Ever since the Avengers had gone their separate ways following Thanos, you hadn’t really done much as a masked hero. 

You vaguely remember fighting alongside Spider-Man to defeat Mysterio and then there was something that felt like a blur with three Spider-Men, Dr. Strange, and villains from differing universes.

On numerous occasions, the ‘New Avengers’ had reached out about you joining their team, but you objected each time, partially because you hated the idea of your family of heroes being replaced, partially because of the politics surrounding it with Sam fighting for copyright, and partially because you enjoyed being a normal person for once.

Your entire teenage years were dedicated to fighting and for once in your life, you wanted to just live.

“I pay attention,” you said, finishing your drink.

MJ, pursed her lips, giving you an uncertain expression. “You know, a few years ago you would’ve thought that weird guy over there was out to get you because he’s been staring at you since you got here,” she said matter of factly. “Oh, not to mention he keeps scanning the room as if something bad is going to happen.”

You smirked. “Imagine he’s Spider-Man.”

MJ raised her brows. “That loser?”

You giggled. “I honestly don’t even know who you’re talking about.” Before MJ could respond, you flashed her your cup. “I’m going to get some more soda. Want anything?”

“Soda is good.”

You nodded with a smile and began to push your way through the crowd.

MJ’s eyes followed you briefly before glancing to the side. The ‘loser’ that she said was staring at you was following you, pushing his way through the crowd.

“What a dork,” she mumbled to herself, assuming that he was some socially awkward dweeb who had a crush on you.

In the kitchen, you had already filled up MJ’s cup and now you were filling up your own. You weren’t paying any attention and didn’t seem to notice the guy whose hands were shaking as he moved to stand beside you, refilling his cup that was already full.

It was Peter Parker, your neighbor, and you couldn’t seem to notice him in a crowded room. A few years ago, you would’ve thought he was the only person in the room, your eyes locking with his naturally.

It was like he didn’t even exist in your world all over again, and it was then he realized he couldn’t take it anymore.

You had to know.

You screwed the cap back onto the soda and grabbed the cups. The boy opened his mouth to say something, but you were already walking away.

As you began to push through the crowd again, you glanced down at the soda you had poured for MJ.

It was Sprite and he hated light soda, she preferred dark, something like Coke because ‘Light soda isn’t on the same wavelength as my soul,’ or whatever nonsense she said back in high school.

“Damn it,” you muttered to yourself, turning abruptly onto your heel.

Little did you know, that ‘loser’ MJ mentioned just moments ago was hot on your tail, following you.

You both accidentally collided into one another, your chest hitting his, sending your drinks, and his splashing, and very conveniently only hitting your clothes.

“Oh no!” he exclaimed. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to! Are you alright?!”

Peter scrambled to figure out how to help, worried that he had completely ruined your night.

Then he looked at you and panic set in.

He recognized your reaction all too well.

Your breath caught in your throat as you looked down at the half empty cups in your hands. You looked like you had seen a ghost.

As soon as you touched him, you saw everything.

The boy in high school you had fallen in love with.

The first time you’d met, Tony Stark introducing him as ‘The Spider-Ling’, to which Peter embarrassingly looked away from you when you laughed.

All those late nights staying up together over a video call, ranting about whatever books you were reading, a science project he was working on, or rambling on about your days, which you’d already spent together.

The first time he swung you all around New York when you couldn’t sleep, your arms wrapped tightly around him as your stomach dropped each time his webs redacted from a building.

Your first kiss at the top of the Empire State Building, slow, desperate, and messy.

The entire team of Avengers finding out about you two being together and embarrassing you both endlessly.

The two of you growing and maturing together right before college applications.

And that was the last you could remember of it because your memories had been taken from you.

It was like the room had fallen silent, the music fading out, and suddenly only you and the boy you spent your entire teenage years loving were the only people in the room, two hearts beginning to beat in the same rhythm again.

Your eyes slowly glanced up to meet his gaze, tears threatening to spill from them. Your mouth had gone dry, not even knowing what to say.

Peter’s face immediately washed over with realization.

You knew.

You touched him and your powers went off, telling you exactly everything that happened.

Before he could say anything, you turned around quickly, pushing as fast as you could through the crowd.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

You managed to get away from the party, and found an empty fire escape on the side of the building where you sat crisscrossed, staring at the busy city despite it being so late at night.

You heard someone grunt softly and the sound of metal clanging. You turned and saw familiar brown hair and brown eyes.

Peter.

He gave you a soft smile, but you looked away, out into the skyline.

Peter’s smile faded, heart aching as he moved to sit beside you.

It was painfully quiet as he played with his fingers, not knowing what to say just yet.

Thankfully for him, you spoke up first.

“You promised me,” you whispered, voice trembling. “You promised you’d remind me of you. Of…of us.”

Peter glanced over to you, though your gaze remained on the skyline. “I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he apologized sincerely.

You finally turned to him, tears in your eyes. “Why?”

Peter swallowed, blinking rapidly. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I just…I thought that everyone was finally okay because I wasn’t there. You all got to finally go to college because you didn’t know me. You all got to be happy and live a life away from all that stuff. You guys didn’t need me.”

“I needed you, Peter,” you said. “I needed you more than anything.”

Peter’s heart absolutely shattered at your words and the pure hurt in your tone.

You grabbed Peter’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “I’d go back and do everything all over again if it means being with you. I’d go back and not get accepted into MIT. I’d go back and nearly die. I’d do it all over again, Peter.”

Peter’s expression softened. “I just wish it wasn’t like this. I want you safe and I want you to get everything you’ve ever wanted.”

“But that’s just the cards we’ve been dealt,” you said softly, his hand still in yours. “If we hadn't been dealt them, who’s to say we would’ve ever been together?”

Peter sighed, staring out into the city. “It’s not fair to you. You deserve better and it was selfish of me to even think about getting back with you.”

You stayed silent, staring at Peter before looking away again.

“You know,” he began, letting out another sigh. “I had this whole plan to tell you tonight about everything. I assumed you wouldn’t believe me so then I was going to get you to use your powers and-” he cut himself off, shutting his eyes. “It was stupid. So stupid.”

You shifted your body, turning sideways to face him fully. “Peter,” you said softly.

He slowly glanced up to meet your gaze. “Yeah?”

“It wasn’t stupid.”

Peter’s brows pressed together. “But it was-”

“Not, it wasn’t,” you interrupted him.

Peter then began to ramble a mile a minute, and it started to remind you of him in high school.

“Okay, but like, I just keep you in danger, and I know you always have been in danger because you have powers, but I feel like you’re in additional danger and-”

“Peter-”

“I just want you to be safe and I think maybe we should go back to not knowing each other-”

“Peter-”

“Not that I don’t want to know you, because I love you, and I-”

Peter cut himself off, face a bright shade of pink. He looked at you with wide eyes, your lips parted slightly.

Your lips slowly curved upward into a teasing smile as he began to panic again.

“No! I didn’t mean that!” Peter exclaimed. “Wait! I mean, I do love you but- but- like, you know- actually-”

Peter’s words weren’t cut off because you interrupted him verbally again.

No.

You kissed him.

Soft and gentle just like you had that night on the Empire State building.

Peter didn’t freeze up like he did that night.

He immediately melted into it, kissing you back.

Your powers gave you the ability to recall history or memories of the past. Peter’s did not, but something about that kiss made him remember the feeling he had been missing for years. The feeling he craved to experience again.

And that feeling was you.

The missing piece of his soul was you and it always had been.

You pulled apart, forehead resting on his. “I love you too,” you said softly, glancing up at him, cupping his cheek.

Peter swallowed. Hard. “You- You do?”

“I do.”

Peter’s lips curved into a smile. “I love you too.”

“Good,” you said, thumb brushing his cheek. “So, do you wish I could lose my memory of you again?”