warnings — MDNI, smut, p in v, unprotected sex, dom!peter, oral (r receiving), bondage (webbing), slight choking, drool/spit, edging, mocking/teasing, multiple orgasms, cream pie, pet names, vulgar wording/expression, peter gets a bit rough, porn w little to no plot. slight BND spoilers (?)
summary — you and peter have a complicated relationship. just [best] friends that fuck, even more now that peter can’t help himself when his arachnid levels skyrocket.
wc — 2.8k
a/n — this is my first fic on this account woooo! saw the movie last night and i feel like a feral animal. didn’t rlly proof read this so srry. entirely self-indulgent.
In the moment, you wouldn’t be able to describe how you got here. With your thoughts clouded, tainted and filthy, you found yourself underneath your best friend, his legs straddling yours with his knees dipping into the plush mattress on both sides of your hips. Tongues tangled together, you held the sides of his face, gently swiping your thumbs over his cheekbones as you relish in the feeling of his soft lips effortlessly aligning with yours.
With both of your legs being imprisoned between his, you took the advantage and began to gently graze your knee against the tent forming on his sweatpants, earning a soft moan from him in return. The moment of pure transparency made him feel vulnerable, and after a few moments of you gently repeating your movements, it took much strength for him to not succumb to your advances, gently grasping your legs to wrap them around his waist.
After that, there was no turning back.
Grabbing a free pillow from the bed with one hand, Peter wraps his opposite forearm underneath your lower back, lifting you to place the pillow on the mattress beneath you. With a soft gasp at the sudden movement, you realize what he's doing, ultimately lifting your lower back even further to help, your back arching against the bed. Once Peter has done so, he pushes you back down against the pillow, which noticeably raises you up just a little less than enough to be in level with him.
“Can I do it?”
Peter raises a brow, “Do what?” he inquires in a genuine tone, stroking himself slowly as to not disturb the tender moment. The two of you, tangled together fully unclothed, was not something Peter would have expected five months ago by a long shot -- but this wasn't the first time. Hell, he's lost count at this point. Thankfully, you've managed to keep your friendship strong with no strings attached.
Instead of answering, you take it upon yourself to wrap your fingers just above his around his length, gently pulling it closer to your core, ultimately forcing him on top of you. Peter easily catches himself, his hands landing on the pillow that rests underneath your head. He would have teased you for your impatience if it weren’t for the sudden doe eyes catching him off guard.
Of course, you knew he would melt and have to oblige.
You gently guide the tip to your folds, your eyes never once leaving his as he watches your lips gradually part open the more he fills you.
Fuck, Peter thought, though his facial expression remained clear. He knew you had him wrapped, and you knew too.
It wasn’t long before...
“I know,” Peter fake pouts, dipping his thumb between your teeth, feeling your tongue wrap around the pad of his thumb, along with a vibration of a muffled moan. His hips worked at a deep, meaningful pace. He wanted to make sure he felt all of you with each thrust, loving the way your eyes would cross ever so slightly when he’d bottom out, but yet he still managed to keep his pace slow and calculated. One side of his lips gently quirked into a smug smirk before it quickly fell back into focus. Peter softly pulls his thumb down, dragging your bottom lip with it.
The look of your swollen lips along with your gently furrowed brows was enough for him to start fastening his pace, each deep thrust of his hips against yours forcing your legs to lose balance around his waist. He feels your heels desperately digging into him, trying to stay in place but his force was nonetheless causing your legs to drop further with each movement.
“-m slipping,” you softly whine, your fingernails absentmindedly digging into his shoulders. The feeling of them combined with your heels in his sides were a clear representation of your attachment to him; no matter the challenge, you continue to hold on. Peter was always a challenge, and who were you to ever turn that down?
Sure, you were cold and reserved on the outside, preferring to preserve yourself for only those you wanted let in. Peter was, and has been, one of the few people to make your walls dishevel in such a way that he could have you this vulnerable in front of him. This vulnerable for him.
At first, it was hard getting him to open up to you, especially about the fact that he’s fucking spider-man. It seemed to only bring you closer — very close.
“I gotcha,” Peter softly whispers, assuring you that no matter how weak you become, he will be able to hold your weight. He wraps his hands around your underthighs, pushing them to force your knees to your shoulders as much as you could withstand. The angle was electrifying, unlike anything you had experienced before. He’s so fucking strong. The sounds of your cunt, along with your pitiful moans grew stronger the longer he held your thighs against your chest.
“G-onna cum… m’gonna cum,” you breathlessly manage to gasp as he rams into you, your cunt practically splashing against his bare thighs with each thrust. It was pretty obvious, but he loved when you’d tell him. The thought of feeling you cum around him made his skin feel hot, his grip on your thighs tightening so much you thought he might crush you beneath his fingertips.
“Oh yeah?” he softly instigates your orgasm, keeping his pace the same as to not disturb it. “I don’t know… I think you can hold on longer than that.”
A pitiful, desperate cry falls from your lips at his response, as you know fully well that he would be just as satisfied if you couldn’t hold out, but you wanted to try for him.
“F-fuck,” your chest heaves with a whine, your eyes screwing shut. “I don’t know if I can.”
Your moans continue with no particular end, your slick walls tightly clenching around him as you try to hold back, the rippling sensations gradually growing stronger. Your heart pounds in your chest as your eyebrows furrow tighter, your mouth hanging open and jaw trembling as you attempt to control yourself.
“You’re doing so good,” you hear Peter praise, intently watching your facial expressions and tightly closed eyes as your thighs tremble around him. Peter suddenly deepens his next thrust, ramming your sweet spot that was sure to send you over the edge. Your eyes fly open, landing right on him as you felt yourself begin to unravel.
“O-oh god,” you huff before warning, “I’m-i’m c—“
Quickly, Peter pulls his hips back, disconnecting from you. This was a complete surprise to you, since Peter had never ruined a climax for you before. Before you can protest, he firmly grabs your hips, twisting his wrists to easily flip you over. A whimper falls from your lips at the sudden change, falling into the bed with a ruffled thud, but you ultimately lift yourself onto your knees, lifting your ass just enough for him.
“My god,” Peter groans deeply but quietly, his grip on your waist tightening before he presses numerous wet kisses on the plushy skin on the edge of your lower back. Despite being frustrated, you knew he wouldn’t leave you like this, patiently anticipating his next move.
While your body continues to tremble in his hold, he rolls over onto his back, moving up the bed as to fit his face underneath your dripping slit, yanking your thighs down. You land perfectly on his tongue, with which he wastes no time swirling through your lips, collecting your arousal with a muffled groan. Although your face is further away than before, he can still hear your unfiltered moaning and whimpering as the trembling in your body grows worse.
You grip the pillow in front of you for slight stabilization, your knuckles turning white as they curl around the cotton. You couldn’t speak, overwhelmed with pleasure to the point where you were ready to start begging.
The room was otherwise quiet, the only light illuminating the room coming from the lamp next to Peter’s bed, and the city lights from the large windows.
“Can’t take it,” you manage in a weak whisper between your incoherent mumbles, knowing he wasn't able to hear you. “c-can’t take it.”
Peter could hear that you were speaking, but he couldn’t make out your words. Withdrawing his tongue from your clit, he asks, “What was that, baby?”
Baby. You shiver at the feeling of his breath against your swollen cunt. You try, you really do, to answer, but you couldn’t properly take control of your thoughts just yet, mustering a muffled moan in return. Peter hums, his cold fingers slipping up the sides of your bare thighs before landing on your waist. His tongue gently swipes up your folds one more time before firmly gripping your waist, lifting you to allow himself to slip further up the bed.
“Sit up,” he gently demands. You weakly push your arms off the mattress to sit up, your knees continuing to dig into the bed as you watch him move up into his new position. Now, you're straddling his lap, his cock resting against your inner thigh as he sits up with you, his mouth inches from yours.
He wastes no time connecting his lips with yours, sharing the taste of you on his tongue as it dips onto your mouth. His hands remain busy, gripping your waist with one hand as he uses the other to wrap his fingers around his cock. The unspoken action results in you lifting yourself up, his only focus now being on what you want most.
He gently pushes the tip past your folds, your desperate cunt practically sucking it in as you easily slip down, filling yourself completely as he watches. You begin to softly roll your hips, bouncing gently so that all that could be heard was his shaky breath, your desperate moans, and the sounds of your slick cunt accepting him inch by inch.
“Can’t even let me take my time,” he softly murmurs to himself with a raised brow, his sarcastic, blank eyes staring into yours. He wants more than anything to throw you back into your previous position and fuck you senseless into the mattress, but this moment is for you. Your grip on his shoulders tighten, your movements becoming faster as you feel your high building once again, desperately chasing it. He takes note of this. “Mm, getting close…”
To him, you’re an open fucking book. You couldn’t hear him, and if you could, you weren't paying attention. Your mind was lost in the feeling of him, the feeling that you only allow him to provide you.
Your whimpers and whiny moans grow louder, and you desperately wrap your arms around him as if you were seeing him for the first time in years. Raw cries escape your lips as you roll your hips faster, feeling your orgasm creeping closer and closer. Peter does the same, wrapping his arms around your frame, bear hugging you. Weakly, your chin takes place on his shoulder to rest, though your hips continue to move. Peter’s arms tighten around you and he lifts you slightly, his strength and the shift in position allowing him much more stabilization to start moving his own hips, thrusting them up to meet your movements.
“Oh fuck.. oh fuck,” you ramble in his ear, your muscles spasming. He feels the additional grip of your pussy as it tightens around him, your climax barreling into you. You don't warn him, your eyes rolling back, nails digging into him, desperately grabbing at his skin to hold onto him as he thrusts up into you. Your body jolts as you hit your peak, a string of pretty, pitiful moans falling from your lips as your orgasm strikes and slowly dissipates. Peter knows your body well enough to know you were cumming, that rhythmic flutter of your cunt quite familiar by now… but that didn’t stop him from thrusting even deeper.
His strength felt stronger, if it were even possible. More purposeful. You couldn’t see it, the way his eyes clouded with darkness, a darkness that had only started occurring just recently and would especially happen whenever you’d have sex. The feeling of you cumming around him was so overwhelming, so electrifying, that his arachnid levels would skyrocket. Peter’s sweet, coffee brown eyes were gone, now entirely jet black. It was as if black ink had spilled and spread so quickly, so effortlessly, that it would be impossible to fix the stain.
“Pete… Peter…” you weakly moan, chin still planted on his shoulder. “I can’t.. s’enough.. babe!”
You moan desperately, measly pushing his waist back as a reflex in response to the overwhelming sensations as he continues to hold you in a bear hug, thrusting into your wet cunt that’s practically oozing around him. Peter unwraps an arm from around you, using his hand to grab both of yours and plant them against your lower back.
thwip!
You tug, it’s not budging. Peter practically handcuffed you against yourself with his webbing, the wet strings giving slightly before becoming tighter the more you fight it. Your eyes roll back completely, your body shaking uncontrollably as he takes full control of you. You were fucked out. You knew fully well that you could use the safe word you’d made, but deep down, you didn’t want to. All you wanted was to keep feeling this fucking good.
You feel his arms wrap around you once again, the heat of his breath tickling your neck,
“You’re done when I think you are,” Peter grunts, his cock pulsing as your pussy continues to suck him in with greed. You feel your heart thud in your chest, his sudden gravely tone sending a shockwave down your spine. It’s happening.
With his arms still wrapped around you, he reaches up with one hand to grab the back of your neck, his long fingers making it to the sides of your throat. Pressing his fingers against the right spots, your moans grow louder and more pornographic than before.
“Listen to yourself… you really wanna stop?” Peter fake pouts in your ear, and at this point, a small dribble of drool is spilling from your lips, down your chin and onto his shoulder. He feels it instantly.
“You’re fuckin drooling,” he growls, his grip tightening around you, but not tight enough to completely restrict your breathing. You had never felt this fucked used before. The overstimulation was insane, sending shocks through your entire body, and you fucking loved it.
“More.”
Peter smirks to himself, gripping your throat tighter as your fingernails dig into his skin. “Like that?”
You whine, to which he mutters, “More what?”
Unable to respond, you roll your hips with his, chasing more friction. Getting the hint, he reaches down and yanks your hands off your back, ripping the webs with ease before he flips you onto your back, his right arm remaining underneath you while his other hand moves to tighten around the front of your throat. With the new position making it much easier for him to move, he lifts your lower back with his arm, angling you to aim much deeper than before, the pillow for that purpose before being knocked off the bed a long time ago.
You felt yourself gush around him at the sight of his eyes, at the sight of him taking you like a man starved. They were like a black hole you could get lost in over, and over. You felt as if the wind was being knocked out of you each time his tip would ram your cervix. You have not been this vocal before, not this loud. Peter didn’t mind it though, no. It surprised him.
“Please… can I—”
“I want you to,” he shuts down your inquiry with his answer before you have to muster your thoughts. Nearly instantly, your back arches, forcing your hips onto his to close any gap as your peak crashes. Your eyes blow wide and glisten with tears as you cum again, your mouth agape as your pussy spasms around him.
You squeak when Peter suddenly fastens his pace, teetering on the edge himself. Your nails grip at his biceps, taut and tense as he finally cums with a strained, pitiful grunt of your name. You feel him pulse inside you, each rope of cum gradually filling you as your eyes struggle to stay open. The sight of you is fucking intoxicating.
Peter shows you mercy, gently holding your hips and slowing his thrusts as you both ride it out, your body jolting in his hold. That sweet feeling of you cumming around him is torturous. He just couldn’t help himself.
Through hooded lids, you watch the black in his eyes dissipate, replaced by the usual warm brown you’re used to. Soft gasps fall with each jerk of your body, your focus slowly growing steady. Peter slowly pulls his hips back, his dick coated in his thick, viscous cum as he watches it leak out of you. Without another thought, he leans down and plants a soft kiss on your mound before trailing upward. Feeling the featherlight kisses he places on your stomach, Peter unravels his arm from underneath you.
You look up at him, lashes fluttering as you struggle to keep your eyes open. You want to speak, but your mouth fails you, resulting in a huff instead. Peter smiles at you,
tags: 18+ smut. heightened everything, he’s extra rough and desperate, just shows up, unprotected sex, rough sex, free use, hyperspermia, soooo much cum, cum eating, filthy filthy filthy
a/n: first time writing for peter, I couldn’t help it after watching brand new day… head empty only horny thots. no spoilers really just his senses going crazy
With the way Peter’s senses have tremendously heightened lately he found himself getting overwhelmed far too easily.
He hears even more things than before and he feels things so intensely when someone touches him.
It was all getting too much for him so he quickly calmed himself down and swung over to your place, beyond desperate for a distraction before his brain exploded.
You jumped when you heard the knock at your fire escape but you quickly walked over, opening it when you saw his familiar face.
You couldn’t even open your mouth to speak when Peter quickly went in, mask in hand, and smashed his lips onto yours.
You gasped as his hands pulled you towards him, keeping you as close as possible to his body. You didn’t have time to think so you kissed back making him moan and reach down to lift you.
Your legs wrapped around his waist as he made his way straight to your bedroom, as if he knew your place like the back of his hand.
His tongue slipped into your mouth expertly and fast, your hands reached up to his hair to tug on his curls. He groaned into your mouth and within seconds your back was met with your mattress.
You had never seen him this eager before, with his hands tearing through every item of clothing, and his teeth nipping at your skin.
There was no time to ask why the hurry as he got in between your legs and started eating your pussy like there was no tomorrow.
You moaned, letting your hands go down to run through his curls. Instead of taking his time and teasing you like he loved doing, he was the complete opposite.
His head was moving up and down as his mouth worked overtime, sucking and licking every crevice of your pussy.
Somehow with just those few seconds of excitement it was enough for you body to get wet for him.
Wouldn’t be the first nor last time that happened.
“Fuck Peter-“ you moan, instantly making him moan against you.
It sent a shiver down your spine and before you could blink, he was off and climbing on top of you. You sat up a bit as he moved towards you and you instinctively opened your mouth.
He didn’t hesitate and instantly thrusted his hard cock all the way then held your head to keep you there. His hairs tickled your nose and you felt your eyes well up with tears already before he let you go and his cock slipped out.
You took a deep breath only for him to thrust himself down your throat again. Right when you were about to move your head, he pulled out once again then got off the bed.
His strong arms then pulled you to the edge of the bed before lifting your legs up high. They were spread as he slapped his cock on your dripping cunt, the noises being more obscene than usual.
He looked down where your bodies were about to meet, damn near salivating before he locked up and locked eyes with you.
You could have sworn his eyes looked completely black but right when you were going to take a closer look, he slammed inside you.
You whimpered as he bottomed out, putting your legs on his shoulders before he started to move. His thrusts were instantly hard and fast, which caught you by surprise.
But you weren’t opposed to it.
Not when every inch of him was bullying its way inside you like never before.
He was grunting and groaning with every thrust as if you weren’t even there.
As if you were just a hole he needed to fuck and fill.
You always told him this was something you’d be up for but now that he was actually doing it, you felt so needy.
His eyes were rolled back as he held your legs up, the sounds of skin slapping filling the room. You moaned along with him as he continued his brutal pace, using your poor pussy like a toy.
You felt so dirty.
But couldn’t help getting wetter.
If this was how he was going to be then it was definitely something you could get used to.
And his dirty words were only making you worse with every passing second.
“Fits me so perfectly.”
“Take it like that, baby.”
“I love this fucking pussy.”
You whimpered out and he moaned your name, squeezing your skin — you decided to hold your legs for him so he pushed them down and he moved down as well.
You cried out when he thrusted his hips into yours, giving you no mercy whatsoever as he pounded his cock into you.
With the slight change his cock now reached deeper inside you and his thrusts didn’t slow down, no they were even worse.
It felt so good and you didn’t have words to say, his cock leaving you dumb and whiny.
You really did try to think of something smart to say but nothing came up besides broken sobs and pleas for more.
He listened and leaned down a little more, his head above yours as you locked eyes while he pounded into you. His curls were falling and some were already stuck to his forehead because of the sweat.
You let go of your legs and grab onto his arms which were by your side. You squeezed his arms as he kept his relentless pace, making you both moan at the same time.
Your eyes were fluttering but his were right on you, watching your every reaction and moaning louder.
Suddenly he slowed down, almost pulling all the way out before slamming right back in.
You whimpered and gave him a pout while he repeated the action again.
He had a devious grin on his face as he did it again, grunting your name under his breath.
Your nails dug into his skin making him groan and it was like activating a switch because he stopped. He pulled back and brought your legs down before just spreading them wide and hovering over you.
Your hands went up to the back of his neck, playing with his hair when he went back to his rough thrusts.
“God- you’re so tight.” He groans, making you whimper, “J-Just for y-you Peter.”
“Good girl.” He moans, bringing a hand to cup your jaw.
You bite your lip and his eyes go down to it, before leaning down and kissing you. You kissed back and he slipped his tongue inside, clearly impatient.
Your tongue glided against his messily and he gave the same beefy back. He moaned in your mouth which earned himself a needy whimper from you.
You were so focused on the kiss you almost forgot how he was fucking your brains out.
His hips were pressed flush against yours, with every deep push he felt himself getting closer and closer to his release.
And he could feel that you were the same.
You were clenching against him more, your walls entrapping his cock and almost throbbing in need.
He pulled back and pressed his forehead against yours, “tell me what you want.”
He rammed into you hard, making you cry out then whine, unable to think.
He was pleased with himself and whispered, “c’mon you can do it.”
You stubbornly shook your head making him groan, “fine.”
Right when you thought he was going to pull out his movements were somehow even faster than before.
“I’ll just take what I needed from you-“ he grunts instantly making you whimper.
He chuckles then murmurs, “Mm dirty girl.. fuck I needed you so bad baby.”
“Peter!”
“Tell me you want me to make this needy pussy come.” He whispers, his dark eyes on yours.
Your vision was so hazy but they were so clearly different but you couldn’t focus on that when you felt your orgasm being right there.
“Please make us cum. Please, please!” You plead, followed by a loud cry.
He groaned and with a final deep thrust he spilled his load and you felt yourself explode on his cock. Your body shook as you came with him and your lips collided with his as he tried to drown out both your cries and moans.
You lazily kissed him back as your legs shook and your poor pussy was clenching against him. But he wasn’t pulling out.
And he was still cumming.
You suddenly felt very full and tried to push him off but he didn’t budge and slid his tongue inside your mouth to distract you.
You whimpered, shivering as he just kept pumping more and more cum inside you. Never in your life have you ever felt so full and he just wasn’t stopping.
But it was like he couldn’t, not that he didn’t want to.
He pulled away from you, eyes tired as he pulled out and came on your clit. Two seconds later it finally stopped and his load was spilling out all at once, dripping down to your asshole and straight onto your bed cover.
You looked down and watched in shock as he did the same but he had a look in his eye that had you guessing what he wanted to do.
In a blink of an eye he dropped to his knees and he was slurping up his cum. He was eating it out of you, with no care if you were sensitive or not, just swallowing drop after drop.
When it finally felt like it all came out he slipped two fingers in and started fingering you slow.
Then the rest of the cum came out slowly but surely and he licked it all off you.
When he finished, he climbed up, and you joined him, quickly getting comfortable in his arms as he calmed his breathing and wiped his mouth.
You decided to rest with him instead of bombarding him with questions that you weren’t so sure you wanted answers to.
just a girl who saw brand new day and can’t stop thinking about fucking Peter Parker
spoilers below the cut including:
Peter Parker who is so so so unbelievably pent up
Peter Parker who’s not used to having to practice so much self control
Peter Parker and this new instinct?
okay last chance not really plot spoilers but I will be discussing peters beefcake-ification and new spidery stuff so yeah last chance
warnings- smut, dub-con-ish (everyone wants it but yknow plot stuff), masturbation, unprotected p in v, breeding kink, fem! Reader
Peter Parker is a few things, a hermit, a hero, hung, and absolutely hopeless
No friends. no life. he has just a police scanner, a caffeine addiction and a little bit of a thing for his cute neighbor down the hall.
He met you the day you moved in, after your movers pointed to the “out of service” sign on the elevator and bailed
He found you on the curb staring at your u-haul with nothing short of contempt. A frown so deeply set it could make Strange falter.
Something made him double back, at the time he rationalized it as guilt. The least he could do was help with some of your boxes, after all he is the one who broke the elevator (not that anyone knew that)
One box became two, became three, became him insisting you start unpacking while he unloaded the rest. Just being a good neighbor, of course. Had nothing to do with your smile or the way your heart sped up when he shook your hand. The fact that his pulse spiked when he touched you was completely unrelated.
An empty u-haul became a drive into Jersey to return the truck. Which became a ferry ride, which became Chinese takeout (your treat at your insistence)
Peter Parker who develops this maddening crush and is so repressed he doesn’t even fucking realize it.
Six months go by in this weird limbo. More than neighbors. Not quite friends, definitely not lovers. Lo mein shared from the same pair of chopsticks, drinks taken from hands without asking, a spot on your couch that is unofficially his.
Six months of noticing the way your eyes linger on his lips and doing nothing about it.
He can’t do anything, even if he wanted to (he does), he can’t risk it again. He’s in no shape too, you’re the only person he talks to with the mask off and with the exception of Frank he’s pretty sure you’re the only person who would notice if he disappeared tomorrow.
Besides, Peter still spends most nights scrolling Ned’s Instagram when he can’t sleep, still closes his eyes and pictures MJ when he needs to calm down.
You deserve better than that.
Then something weird happens.
Well a lot of weird things happen.
The headaches for one, all consuming and unbearable.
He stops eating as much, can’t with the nausea they bring. Eventually your takeout nights dwindle down to once a week, until finally they stop altogether.
Instead he spends his nights with a cold washcloth over his eyes, ignoring your texts and nearly crying every time the scanner goes off and he has to pull himself out of bed.
Then the webs.
They start to appear everywhere, Peter waking up to a pillow covered in spindles of thread and an apartment that looks more like a bad haunted house a place where someone lives.
Everyday he cleans them out, tears them from corners and washes his sheets.
Every morning they reappear, usually even worse than the day before.
Then the noise. God the noise.
There’s just so much of it, a car alarm blaring in the alley, the guy in 4C watching reruns of the Office, the pigeon on the roof building a nest.
You in your apartment, tossing in your sheets and making these breathy little noises-
Those haunt Peter the most.
The first time he heard them was the middle of the night. After he’d cancelled on you and stopped a bank robbery instead. Sometime around three a.m. the sound had traveled through plaster and hit him like a solid brick.
A whimper from the back of your throat, soft and unbidden. Not even conscious, your breathing was even, no sounds of movement either. Just the tiny gasps and pounding of your heart.
Sure, it’s been a while, and yeah it’s pretty different from person to person but even an idiot would know what kind of dream you need to be having to make those noises.
That night, when Peter finally closed his eyes, it wasn’t MJ behind them.
He’s pretty sure that’s when things started to unravel (he’s a fool, he was already beyond saving)
Even as guilt begins to line his gut, Peter turns to the only silver lining he’s been able to find in these changes.
The sound of water rolling off your skin in the shower. The sound of you humming as a you cool. The hum of vibrations and those sweet little moans when you think no one else is listening
Without even meaning too, it consumes him. One second he’s just checking you’re okay the next, and the he’s silencing his phone and shoving a hand in his waist band and - oh my god that feels good.
Constant dreams, every time he sleeps he sees you, you underneath him, you above him, your back pulled into his chest with a leg thrown over his hip.
He’s starts to avoid you, he has to. When he does see you, when he’s sentenced to an elevator ride next to you and all he can notice is your hips. Were they always like that? Were they always so fucking tempting and perfect with a spot for his hands.
The dreams get more perverse, it’s not just sex it’s possession.
You, a ring on your hand. You, tangled in his sheets. You with webs around your wrists attached to his headboard. You round with his-
You. You. You. You. You.
Then one night it all splinters. The load-bearing walls inside Peter Park’s restraint fracture.
The suit is still half-on, mask pulled up to his nose while he hisses at the feeling of his own hand. Dry and damn near painful he still can’t stop, gripping his cock like a fucking vice as he works it over. He didn’t even close the window, stumbled into the room with hardly enough time to spare.
It was an awful night, two big bruises blossoming over his ribs and the guy who gave them to him is still somewhere in Mid-Town.
He’d struggled home with ragged breaths and ears trained on one thing.
Well I think you can probably guess what by now.
He’d heard it half way across the city, the tell tale sign of your end table drawer sliding open and the sound of you digging around inside it.
Like Pavlov’s dog, his dick rose to the occasion.
You’re struggling tonight too though, whining into your pillow with these cute wet sounds that almost make it sound like you’re crying. You can’t get the angle, or enough friction, or something and it’s driving you crazy.
Little huffs of frustration and the sound of your hips lifting and slamming back into the mattress as you try to find that edge and-
Then the stutter of batteries dying.
You’re so close, so close he can feel it, the slick sound of your cunt and the tortured groan as you toss the damned toy away.
He’s so close, balls pulled tight and painful with his hand at the base holding it all together.
Then there’s a slam outside, someone pressing on their breaks and skidding across the asphalt with a high pitched shriek. A new alert popping up over his eyes, shots fired outside Central Park. Some kid launching a firework off the roof next door. The guy downstairs making a second bag of popcorn and your hand reaching down and finding your cunt-
It’s all too much, the throbbing in his head turning tenfold and the pain his gut matching it.
Peter doesn’t remember getting up, doesn’t know how he gets to your door. He changed out of his suit and has no idea when. His fists are busted and burn when he knocks and he doesn’t even feel it.
It’s out of body, like he’s gone into a rage fueled cruise control and something else completely is behind the wheel.
You answer with an out-of-breath hello and a started gasp when you see it’s him.
“Peter?” You gasp, pulling your sweatshirt tighter over your chest. You must not be wearing anything else underneath it, he heard you scramble to pull it on, snatch it from the floor with a frantic hand as you raced to answer the door. “Are you okay? You look like shit.”
Peter who’s entire chest freezes, who watches you take him in and the way your eyes linger over his naked torso and all the way up to the place you always seem to stop. His lips.
“No.” He murmurs, voice on the edge of deadly. “I’m not.”
The entire foundation gives out and Peter Parker kisses you.
Peter Parker kisses you rougher than he wants, harder than he should, and it still isn’t enough.
His entire body sings at the feeling, skin erupting with goosebumps and for the first time in a week, his head stops screaming.
The fog of pain lifts and instead of finding clarity whatever is controlling him doubles down.
Hungry hands grab at you like have any right to be greedy, pawing at your hips and waist.
He grabs the backs of your thighs and mutters a ragged “jump” into your mouth.
The way you instantly do has his cock jumping in his sweats. It’s enough for him to cross the threshold completely, step into your apartment and slam the door behind him.
Shooting it with a web behind his back is easier than turning the lock. It’ll be harder to explain to you in the morning but he can’t find the breath to care.
You’re kissing him back like you’ve been waiting for this. Waiting for him. The sweetest sounds hummed against his lips while your hands rake over his shoulders. Nails draw jagged lines over his back and your hips twitch when his tongue pushes past your lips.
Peter licks into your mouth like he’s trying to swallow you, find the source of what makes you so damn sweet and pretty and fuck he is an idiot for not doing this sooner.
Four years of torture and self-blame and a guilty limp dick and now he’s like a virgin all over again.
Your bed knocks his knees out, sending him tumbling over top of you in a messy of tangled limps and sweaty skin.
A whimper, one of the ones he’s been coveting through the walls is breathed into his lip and he swears he’s never felt his dick twitch so hard.
When you pull back for air you have to grab his hair to get it, tugging on his roots and using it to make enough distance to get a lungful.
“Peter?” You ask, concern etching across your face.
“What?” He grumbles, burying his face into your neck, tucking his nose beneath your ear and sucking in a long breath.
“Your eyes,” you whisper, hands carding through his curls. “They’re black.”
“It’s fine.” He promises, sucking a kiss at the apex of your jaw, smiling as he feels your arch into him.
Still your hands pull at his hair again, trying in vain to get a better look and well, Peter just can’t have that.
He grabs your wrists in one palm, pinning them above your head in one quick movement.
He drags his lips back to yours, running his nose along your skin as he does so.
“Said it’s fine.” He insists, and presses you into another punishing kiss.
Peter forgot how good this feels, the touching, the sounds, the heat of another body. When he pulls down the zipper of your sweatshirt there’s no teasing. Just the harsh tug of the guide and the sounds of the metal teeth all but ripping apart.
His free hand monopolizes your chest, each grope made sweeter by the fact his hunch was right, nothing but skin underneath
You’re whining into him, pathetic mewls that go straight to his aching cock. Your thighs are tight around his hips, ankles pushing on his lower back to try as you fight to grind into him
There’s no gentleness no exploration. he pulls your panties to the side and fucks into you like it’s the only thing that can save him
And maybe it is
The instant he sinks into you it’s like a high, everything finally fucking stops. There’s no noise, no pain, the world shrinks back down to four walls, a bed, and you underneath him.
“Peter-“ you’re gasping, “P-Peter oh my god!”
You’re white hot around him, clenched so tight Peter thinks he might be seeing stars.
“I’m sorry-“ he grunts, the words muffled into your neck. “I’m so sorry I can’t- fuck.” his hips twitch, burying him even deeper. “Can’t stop.”
Your hands twist in his grip, flexing as you writhe and try to cant your hips.
“Don’t stop no please don’t stop.” You sound panicked, like you only half heard him. “Just fuck me, please.”
So he does.
Peter Parker fucks you like animal, shallow thrusts like leaving your cunt mike just kill him. He ruts like a dog, grunts and growls like one into your neck until he can feel his orgasm start to swell.
He think you came, it’s wet between your thighs like you did. Your cunt pulses around him in an overstimulated mess, hiccups bubbling as tears stream down your face. You’re babbling nonsense, every other word either a piece of praise or a beg
That sick thing inside of him grows. It’s blossoms behind his ribs and boils in his gut.
He finally lets your hands go. One drops down to your clit, tweaking it between his index and thumb. The other splays over your stomach.
He leans back onto his haunches, thick thighs propping you up as he ruts into you.
“Fuck. Need to, need to-“ He’s gritting his teeth, the pleasure so hot it almost hurts. “Inside.”
You nod, cockdrunk and molten underneath him.
“Inside.” You agree, “give me everything. Please.”
His brain finally shuts off, nothing left but his body.
It consumes him, he buries himself to the hilt and lets go. It floods you, he can feel it under his hand. Distantly registering the newness of that too.
Minutes pass, his body slumped over yours, each of you wrung dry.
Your hands pull at his scalp, pinching the nape of his neck until he turns up to look at you.
You hum, delighted at what you see. “There you are.” You whisper. “That’s my Peter.”
Shame stirs, guilt in his throat.
“I’m sorry.” He whispers. “I don’t know what happened.”
You shush him. “Don’t worry.” You yawn around the words. “Been waiting for you to do that since I moved in.”
summary: when your upstairs neighbor, spider-man, had begun to experience bizarre side effects to his arachnid DNA taking over, he fought to suppress it. you encouraged the idea of him letting go and seeing what happened, knowing he would always be peter. for months, he didn’t even entertain the thought, not willing to 'become a monster'. today? today he was a bit more susceptible.
written with something’s off with peter parker dynamic written in mind, but by no means a required read before this one
sister fic here!
wc: 5.3k
cw: BND SPOILERS!!! nothing monumental to the storyline, and i would argue nothing that wasn’t mentioned in the trailer, but the descriptions of The Spider™️ are very much written and talked about in the context of the film. read at your own discretion for those who have not seen it.
actual cw: !!MDNI!! smut (p in v), vivid spider-like descriptors, dubcon and bdsm elements (absolutely everything is consensual, but in peter’s current state, he is not “himself”, which therefore makes the consent dubious): bondage/restrained by webs, slapping (but you hit peter 🤭), choking, a dash of fear play and a touch of some primal/prey descriptors going on. dacryphilia, mean dirty talk by peter that also has a dubcon vibe, finishing inside, minor subspace mention, Def domdrop mention for peter, and probably more. jesus christ, let me know if i missed anything.
also a gross overuse of italics and bold. title is from 'my strange addiction' by billie eilish
don’t like, don’t read! enjoy my little freaks!
two years ago, your neighbor, you supposed, moved in to the apartment's storage loft right above you. peter parker, he had introduced himself as, was a rather shy, reserved guy for someone who created an entire new list of expectations for the upstairs neighbor archetype.
a year and ten months ago, peter parker was a frequent weekly guest for tuesday dinner and switch tournaments. what had started as a knock on his door and some of your grandmother's brownies had evolved into peter spending hours losing to you on mario kart over bowls of bland spaghetti and spongebob mac and cheese.
a year and eight months ago, spider-man swan-dove through your window instead of his on accident, mask stripped before he knew better.
a year and a half ago, peter parker had managed to become the person you trusted most in this life. and in a measly six months, you had become that for peter in return. he opened up to you about the deaths of his aunt and tony, how he'd lost his friends - fuck, his whole life - to the spell.
and after about a year, though he'd never admit it, you could tell he was happy to have a "guy in the chair" again. to have someone in his headset, someone to patch him up after a rough night with scorpion. suddenly, peter wasn't so alone. he had someone who knew him as well as he knew himself, someone who - while you didn't get it necessarily - was the only one in the world who finally knew he fucking existed again.
which is exactly why you also knew about the headache's peter had been getting more and more over the past few months.
you were the first person he ran to when they started, collapsing on your bedroom floor in tears as he tugged at his curls for relief from the pounding. he was begging you to make it stop, curled in on himself like, well... a spider.
the first time was the worst of them, mostly due to not knowing what was going on. but after decorating your room in a thick layer of web (despite not having his web-shooters), it was clear this was outside your basic first-aid training. that didn't stop you from helping how you could. in that moment, and beyond.
you attended professor banner's lectures with him, taking whatever notes you could understand. you stayed up late into the night with him, acting as his assistant as peter worked up in his loft on getting to the bottom of whatever the fuck was happening with his own DNA. he jokingly called you "Dum-E" once, and was quick to backtrack as he saw bewilderment flash across your face. he apologized and rambled on that it was a good thing, tripping over his words to explain himself, though the hurt in his eyes when telling the story told you it wasn't a time to push.
all of this to say, you knew that something about the arachnid DNA was evolving, and going fucking haywire in the process. which is exactly why, when you heard a thunderous crash and sharp curses from peter in the loft above you, worry immediately flooded your system.
you bolted up the stairs, the obscene noises coming from peter's apartment growing louder as you approached his door. you knocked rapidly, calling out his name as you did.
another loud crash sounded, and you heard peter howl. "uhh, not right now! not a good time!"
you huffed. "yeah it doesn't seem like a good time! let me in, parker!"
peter went to respond, but was cut off by his own pained groan, and a worried whine left your own lips in reply. he deserved his privacy, hell, he deserved his own autonomy, but your concern overrode all ethical dilemma as you heard his knees hit the floor. hard.
thank fuck peter never locked his door.
you crashed into the loft, stopping dead in your tracks as you took in the state of peter's apartment. there was webbing everywhere. it covered the ceiling and his furniture, splattered over the windows which caused the light to scatter in awkwardly. you could only describe the state of his webbed bed as a nest. there was a PC monitor on the ground next to his desk that looked like it had been torn in fucking half. in the left most corner, there were handprints in the exposed brick on the wall from where peter had tried to catch himself before hitting the ground below where you saw him now.
peter was hunched over in a similar position you had seen him in that first time, limbs curled in on himself as he gripped his head, no doubt pounding like a motherfucker. he was facing away from you, but his shirt was ripped off, showing off just how pale he looked. a thin layer of sweat glistened off his skin, droplets forming and almost looking sticky. peter was shaking and breathing heavy as you approached him.
you had seen him like this before. it hadn't been this bad in a while, but you had been there for peter through it before and you could do it again. you had seen him when everything got too loud and he started to shut down, something else fighting to take over. that was the entire point of the inhibitor he had been working on. to suppress whatever the fuck this was.
you had pushed back initially, playing devil's advocate to encourage him to let it happen. to let the spider in. prove to himself that he was still peter parker when spider-man took over. after seeing him in this much pain and discomfort enough times, you stopped entertaining the notion.
because seeing him like this? was heartbreaking. you knew just how much everything was hitting him right now. how every sense was stabbing at him individually, how each breath you took was a knife to his eardrums. so you approached cautiously, keeping a step or two away and knowing not to touch him right now.
you met him with a hushed voice. "peter, hey. it's just me."
he flinched at your whispers and you cringed, feeling nauseated knowing it was your voice that hurt him. "let me help, okay? how can i help right now? do you need me to grab your-"
"no," he rasped out. his voice was deep, in a tone you hadn't heard from him before. "no, i'm not kidding. you need to fucking go."
"pete, i'm not-"
"no!" peter's voice boomed throughout the loft as he screamed your name. "i don't fucking care what you think right now!"
"parker," you went to scold, but he cut you off.
"i cannot get this fucking inhibitor to calibrate, and i-i.. fuck, i'm not myself right now. you need to go." his voice cracked on the last word, like he was trying to hold back tears. a moment ago, his voice literally shook the building. now, it just sounded broken.
you stood your ground. "peter, i'm not leaving you. don't do this alone."
his fist slammed into the floor in front of him, shattering the hardwood. as if it were fucking glass, splinters flew around him like shards of glass snowing in the air. peter held onto the edge of the newfound hole in the ground while trying to recenter himself, his grip on the floorboard literally causing the wood to disintegrate into dust in his hands.
you heard him fucking growl at you, and while you still weren't afraid of him, part of you was a little grateful peter was still facing the other way as you felt your cheeks heat up at the outburst.
"do you not see that i fucking have to?!" peter screamed into the corner, dust and loose grout crumbling from the ceiling at the sheer strength of his voice. you could see his back expanding and inflating as he desperately tried to suck in breaths, his many muscles flexing around his ribcage, and-
okay jesus, maybe not the time.
you sighed, shaking your head and taking another step closer. "peter-"
"fuck, get out of here! i don't want to hurt you!" he pleaded, still trembling and pulling at his hair.
you took a step back to look over at his computer, noticing his vitals freaking out on one monitor as the other was hooked up to some homemade tech he had running sequences on the inhibitor. EVIE was working with the same desperation that peter was oozing, already on trial #392. you looked back to the corner where he was still hunched in pain, and decided with unwavering finality that you were not leaving him alone during this.
walking back over, you crouched down to brush his shoulder with your fingertips, hoping to ground him with a singular sensation. he caught your wrist before you could even bother.
"i said. don't."
peter finally looked up at you for the first time, and your heart dropped to your stomach.
a lot about peter had begun to change during his "molting process" (as you referred to it). his strength had grown expotentially -- so had his spidey-sense. even the organic webbing, which was brand fucking new.
you hadn't seen his eyes go black like that before.
you stared into his fully darkened eyes, hoping the shock wasn't as evident in your own as you knew it was. hoping the tinge of something else in your eyes wasn't as evident as you thought it was. you flicked between his deep glare and his hand on your wrist as you regained your composure.
"peter. i'm not leaving you. i'm not scared of you."
he laughed. peter parker honest to god laughed at you, as he kept a firm grasp on your wrist and held your gaze.
"you fucking should be."
before you could blink, peter launched upwards, fucking jumping from his spot on the ground as shoved you against the wall. hard. despite the aggressive action and your back slamming against the brick, his hand landed behind your head to cushion the impact. the rest of you still hit with enough force that the wall cracked behind you, dust from the concrete swirling in the air.
you coughed hard, though, whether that was a result of the dust or the grip of peter's hand on the base of your fucking neck, it was hard to tell. he stared at you for a moment, black eyes darting up and down your body as he tracked your every movement. every rise of your chest, every twitch of your lip as you wheezed through his grip.
peter looked at you like you were his prey. like you were a fly that had been caught in his fucking web. you tried not to be as turned on as you were.
his eyes flickered slightly towards his hand on your neck and he loosened the grip, though still not letting you go. he regained a bit more of himself, a bit more of peter, as his shaking hand kept you pined to the wall. his voice betrayed the stone cold look on his face, trembling as he told you: "clearly, you should be".
peter didn't miss how your eyes jut down to his lips before hitting him with a rattled but firm: "well, i'm fucking not."
he smirked at you and let you go fully, stepping back to analyze as you took a moment to catch your breath. he drank you in, sizing you up before letting out a deep chuckle. before you could look up at him, both of your wrists were webbed to the wall behind you, pinned over your head as your back was once again pressed against the hard brick. peter closed in on you, boxing your frame in against his own. he pressed against you, getting in your face. literally breathing down your neck.
"no, you are. just a little," he growled in your ear. "but i think you like it."
you felt how fucking hard peter was through his juicy sweatpants, felt just how fucking big he was pressed against your hip. this was not a side effect of the arachnid DNA that either of you had seen in the last few months. or at least, nothing that peter had mentioned. come to think of it, why would he? it's not like he felt the same way.
you were snapped out of your thoughts as peter fucked sniffed you. you shook off the self-doubt as you took stock of the man in front of you, restricting himself to the point of physical pain right now as he caught whiff of your arousal. consequences to the friendship be damned, you were determined to stay at his side through this as his inhibitor kept running sequences on the computer, red flashing from the screen every few minutes to signal yet another failed attempt.
and, well. he exactly wasn't wrong.
you fought to hold contact with his deep, piercing eyes. "maybe i do, spider-man. what are you going to do about it?"
those were the magic words.
he ripped you off the wall, webbing still hanging from your wrists as he picked you up like you were nothing. a scream escaped your lips as you were airborne suddenly, flying through the air shortly before your back hit peter's bed.
his bed. oh fuck, you hadn't expected that to work so easily.
it was starting to become crystal clear that you were in fact going to have whiplash and possibly even a concussion tomorrow, but you were too fucking wet to care. you'd analyze what that meant about your psyche later. for now? you were simply too excited to see what the fuck he was going to do to you.
you watched as he stalked, taking in your frame as you laid hopelessly in his bed. his bed, which, was covered in webbing that extended down to the floor where peter was standing. you shifted with hesitation and watched peter's head flick towards you, almost like...
almost like he could feel your fucking vibrations against the webbing. like a fucking prey caught in his web, writhing for help and sending vibrations up this silk to signal the spider.
the spider, who was watching you through his black-hooded eyes, like he was fucking hungry.
peter started to squat down, and you sat up in turn, instantly worried his headache was consuming him again.
you didn't even get to meet his eyes.
peter pounced forward, a hydraulic explosion coming from his legs as he fucking jumped you on the bed, using his limbs to pin your own underneath him. your breath had initially hitched, but all air was taken from you as peter's hands were on your clothes, tearing the garments from your body like you'd only been in a paper fucking bag. shreds of cotton stuck to the webs around you as peter stared down at your mostly naked body.
he straddled you properly, using his hands to hold down your own again as he leaned close, breathing you in heavy. no doubt catching the pheromones in your sweat, a downright villainous smirk creeping on his lips as he got confirmation of just how turned on you were.
peter pulled back to see your eyes, and was taken aback to see the fear in them. regardless of every other emotion you were feeling right now, you were also scared.
and fuck, he did that.
he sat up straight, the black around his sclera retreating slightly as his breathing picked back up. you could feel him start to tremble over you again as peter buried his face in his hands for a moment.
"fuck, i don't- that's not," he choked out. "fuck, i'm so sorry. you need to get out of here, i fucking meant it earlier."
you could tell the headache was back as his grip tightened in his curls, a pained groan escaping from deep in his chest. he was fighting himself, trying to use the strength he had just minutes ago to lift himself off of your lap. you grabbed his hips to hold him down.
"peter, listen to me."
"please, i-i can't, i shouldn't have-"
"peter." he shook his head, refusing to look at you.
"i can't believe i put you in this position, oh my god. i-i, fuck i can't even begin to apologize..." he rambled. you tried to fight back, to tell him that it was okay, to let it happen.
you had been a firm supporter this entire time of the notion that peter just needed to let the spider in and see what the fuck happened. obviously, he had never wanted to do that. too afraid of what would happen. at this point, you were afraid of what would happen to him if he didn't submit to what was desperately trying to crawl out of him. this had seemed like as good time as any to test your theory, as peter's monitor still continued to flash red, the trial number now surpassing five hundred.
besides, if you died because spider-man ripped you in half from fucking you too hard? that was a fine way to go out, in your opinion.
so you antagonized him. just... a little.
"spider-man!" you yelled in his face, and your voice rang out alongside the CRACK! of your palm across his cheek.
peter looked back at you, slight shock on his flashing on face before his eyes went fully black again. he locked sight on you, eyes twitching as he analyzed each minute movement your body made. and there was that fucking smirk again.
"oh i see. you want this, don't you?" peter rasped in your ear as he leaned back down, his breath hot against your skin. "fine. but don't be mad at me when it gets to be too much."
in a split second, your hands were whipped high above your head, warm and sticky webs encasing your wrists once again. this time, attached to peter parker's headboard. fuck.
you squirmed in his grasp, fighting the webbing even though you knew it was no use. you were there when he discovered just how fucking strong his organic web was in comparison to the lab-designed. you couldn't move, and you knew it. he knew it too.
peter's hands were on you in a frenzy, ripping your bra clean from your body in a single motion. you gasped as he stared down at your chest, vibrating with restraint. restraint that peter didn't have right now.
perfect.
his hands weren't off your body for long, quickly lunging to wrap around your exposed breast. he squeezed the soft tissue, hard enough to elicit a scream that ripped straight from your throat. he growled at your response, loosening his grip and focusing on pinching your erect nipples instead. he leaned down to bite one, earning another piercing scream.
peter pulled back to admire his work, and you looked down to see the instant handprint that was bruising over your left tit. it made you dizzy, seeing peter spider-man mark you with such a primal fucking desire. blood rushed back to comfort the sore area, leaving your chest feeling warm and fuzzy. you weren't allowed much of a reprieve, however.
peter manhandled you exactly how he wanted you, crawling out of his hold on you to spread your legs and raise your knees. once he had you positioned, you felt the warm rush of webbing cover your feet as well. oh, you were so fucked.
his fingers trailed up your legs, starting at your feet and working their way towards your aching core. you shivered against his touch, and noticed how he relished in the way it caused his webbing around you to vibrate. you were but a bug in his web, caught and waiting to be eaten.
you let out a moan as he grabbed at your inner thighs, no doubt leaving matching handprints to the one on your chest. peter just snarled in response.
"so fucking desperate for it. is this why you've been helping me all along? just waiting to get fucked by spider-man?"
he stared up at you from where he was in between your legs, hot breath teasing against your damp underwear. "so desperate i bet you don't even need any prep, am i right?"
peter reached his hand towards your core, fingertips trembling with constraint as he could feel just how wet you were for him. he hissed, retracting his hand as though he had been burnt. within seconds, your underwear had been ripped off your body like the rest of your clothes, leaving you fully naked in front of peter parker.
in front of spider-man.
you stared into the black void of his eyes as he repeated the same action to himself, shredding the infamous juicy sweatpants in the process. you were pretty sure your eyes were as dark as his were, pupils blown to shit as you stared at the fucking greek statue in front of you.
did spiders have insanely large dicks, or was that just a peter thing?
not now, jesus.
as he promised, there was no goddamn prep. no easing into it. peter climbed back on top of you, his limbs stalking over yours as his webbing held you firmly in place. you tried to struggle against it, even if just for the show of it. definitely for the show of it.
"just a dumb. fucking. bug. aren't you? landed right where i fucking wanted you to."
peter gave no warning as he thrust all of himself inside you, a sharp cry punching from your chest as he bottomed out in one go. the line between pain and pleasure was a fine one as he set a disgustingly rough pace, pistoning in and out of you like it would literally kill him to go any slower.
maybe it would. you weren't here to find out.
you squirmed against him on a particularly heavy thrust, only to be met with a hand at the base of your throat again.
"no, hold still. you fucking wanted this."
oh, you were so gone. you weren't even sure you were going to remember enough of this to be able to psychoanalyze these newfound kinks, you were too fucking cock-drunk off peter. he was still relentlessly forcing his way into you, but you seemed almost distant from your body now. as though the pleasure was so good, you had started floating.
peter noticed and it only drove him crazier, watching your limp body move in time with his thrusts as he milked you dry, a creamy ring around his cock each time he pulled out.
"is this why you've been so against the fucking inhibitor? been wanting me to lose my goddamn mind like this?"
you weren't sure when you had started crying, but warm tears were now flooding down your rosy cheeks. peter mock cooed at the sight.
"don't cry now, baby. this is exactly what you wanted, isn't it? this is exactly what you fucking asked for."
you moaned at his words, too lost to form your own. peter only held you tighter. "such a pretty fucking crier. taking me so well."
peter dropped his head in the crook of your neck as he kept going, reaching new levels of overstimulation. and for the first time, the overstimulation wasn't destroying him. it was consuming, driving his every movement and decision -- but it didn't hurt anymore. it almost felt... good. natural.
he had never had sex like this before. sure, in the past, the physical intimacy of it all had been overwhelming, feeling each sensation of the other person as if it were also his own. but something about this was different. peter could feel your heartbeat inside of his own body, each time you pulsed around him sent an electrical current through his system that was, well... electrifying.
peter could feel you getting close, the constrictions of your muscles changing every so slightly to signal to him that you were on the edge. not only that, but he could fucking smell the hormonal change in your body before you even knew it yourself, soft moans falling from your lips in a desperate attempt to let him know.
like he didn't already fucking know.
"i know, that's it. come for me, baby. i want you to feel me for weeks. i want you to hurt so bad that no one else can fuck you. only me. you're fucking mine," peter snarled possessively in your ear.
that was all it took for you to fall over the edge, weightless as you screamed through the orgasm. the feeling of your cunt tightening around him, your juices slicking his cock even more, the sounds of it all: it was beyond lewd. peter was immediately behind you, the sensations coming from you enough to reset his entire system. it was a sensory overload in the best way possible, his vision going white as he came the hardest he ever had.
peter flooded you with his warmth, and you had come back to earth just enough to notice how similar his cum inside of you felt like his webs against your wrists. he gave one final thrust before collapsing on top of you, using his remaining strength to rip the webbing from your hands and feet. his breathing was heavy again as he pulled his head up to look at you, and you noticed that his eyes had returned to the soft brown rings of peter parker.
he flickered his gaze around you and where you both were, confusion flashing across his face as he fought everything in his body telling him to sleep.
"what... oh my god, what happened?"
peter barely slurred it out before he passed out on top of you. still inside of you.
you fought against your own haze, still on cloud nine as you caught a green glow from the corner of your eyes. thank god for his loft set up -- his desk being tucked next to his bed, allowing you to close access to his tech in this moment. sometime in the last god knew how long, EVIE had run a successful trial, signified by the incandescent green radiating from his monitor.
you reached out as far as peter's weight over you had allowed, just barely catching the inhibitor in your fingertips. you guided the small machine around his sleeping frame, connecting it to the spot on the back of his neck. you were already out of breath, fucked dumb and on the verge of passing out, but this was about peter. it had been since the beginning.
with the inhibitor finally latched and active with a soft chrip!, you let out a sigh of relief watching peter's vitals and DNA level back out on the computer monitor. you could feel peter further relax on top of you, and it was enough to give you a final sense of accomplishment before you let the lull wash over you too, pulling you under with peter into a blissful slumber.
you woke up hours later, tucked into the covers, still on peter's stiff mattress. the webbing around his bed was gone, leaving you to wake up on fresh sheets. the scent was overwhelming peter, causing a smile to graze your lips before you even opened your eyes. he must've moved you in your sleep, as both the bedding and you were cleaned off.
you opened your eyes slowly, a dull headache settling behind your eyes and confirming your whiplash/concussion hypothesis from earlier. you saw the evening light coming through the loft windows, which had also been cleared of the previous webbing, and noted that it had in fact been hours that you'd been sleeping. it was now that you also noticed you were still naked while wrapped in peter's comforter, and a blush settled over your cheeks.
you went to sit up, but your entire body screamed protest as you moved. only a soft grunt left your lips, but it was enough to alert peter that you were awake again. he was at your side in an instant.
"oh my god, you're awake. thank fucking god, i was so worried that-"
you cut off his rambling with a hand to his chest, grateful to feel his heart beat almost at a normal rate again. normal for anxious peter, at least.
"pete, i'm okay." you gave him a soft smile, but it was the comfort that sent him over the edge. he quivered next to you as tears fought to fall from his eyes, physical proof of just how sorry he was.
there was your peter parker.
"no, listen. i'm so fucking sorry. i can't actually describe to you how sorry i am, there's no words for it. i-i'm a fucking monster, i can't believe that i... fuck, oh my god- i'm going to fucking throw up. i-i have the cops on speed dial, you know that, right? i'll call them. i swear to god, i will turn myself in right fucking now-"
"peter," you tried again, sitting up to meet his eye level more. to stop his spiraling.
the opposite happened as the blanket fell slightly in your adjustment, revealing a bit of your chest where he had left a handprint. peter's eyes locked onto the bruise, and he looked moments away from throwing himself off the building. his nervous shaking had turned to violent, full body tremors as tears finally slipped down his cheeks. he opened his mouth, surely to apologize more, but you weren't having it.
you pulled him in for a kiss, ignoring how tender your wrists were as you grabbed onto his sweatshirt. peter was hesitant at first, but soon melted into the kiss, feeling something deep and primal within him relax.
you broke the kiss to look at him again, and peter was beyond confused. "but i-"
"peter, i wanted it. all of it." you held his gaze firmly, one hand holding his comforter over your bare chest, the other tightly holding his own trembling palm. "i wanted to push you and see what would happen. to help you prove to yourself that you aren't a fucking monster, even if you don't know what the fuck is taking over. you're still my peter parker. you're still good."
peter let out a relieved huff of air, pulling you in for a gentle and cautious hug as happy tears landed against your bare back. he held you, thanking you profusely for trusting him. for helping him trust himself.
"do you feel better, pete?" you mumbled into the crook of his neck.
he choked on a laugh, and you felt a soft nod against your cheek. "yeah. yeah, fuck, i guess i do."
peter pulled back, concern laced in his eyebrows once again. "but you-"
"but i nothing, parker. i'm okay, really. think i can't handle a good fucking? being hurt a little?"
peter's cheeks lit on fire, a red flush extending down under the collar of his shirt. he laughed nervously, absentmindedly reaching up to graze his fingertips over the bruise blooming over your breasts. "good, huh? you're not too hurt?"
"oh i'm definitely hurt," you smirked at how quickly his face fell, your hand cupping his over your chest. "dare i say, hurt so bad that no one but you can fuck me?"
maybe it wasn't so bad if peter let the spider take over every now and then.
Description: You’re spider-man’s closest thing to a friend since the world forgot his name. Helping him with gadgets, cleaning his wounds…all without him ever taking the mask off. His true identity has always been a barrier between you two, but what happens when he gets hit with the pollen, and not only him, but the creature lurking inside him fixates on the only person he gets to call home?
Tags/warnings: sex pollen smut, fem!reader, porn with plot, whiny desperate peter >>>, dry humping, piv, riding, oral fem!rec, fingering, dark!peter taking over for a bit, orgasm denial, prone bone, so much yearning, mask stays on…or does it?
Note: You have no idea how giddy it makes me to write him again. He had NO business looking that good in the movie so I had to get this out of my system. Enjoy 🤍
Masterlist
You've seen spiderman hurt many times. When you signed the lease of the first apartment you could afford as a recent graduate, you never thought that would become your new normal.
The first time it happened was completely accidental. He’d arrived at the building in the middle of the night, bruised, bleeding and too disoriented to realize that the window he’d come through was not his.
That night, the noise of a heavy body collapsing onto the floor woke you up. For one terrifying moment, you believed someone had broken into your apartment, only to switch on the lamp and find the city’s superhero groaning and pressing his hands to his side. His suit was torn there, and blood soaked through the ruined fabric onto your rug.
He barely lifted his head when he heard you gasp, the lens of his mask focusing on your figure standing there with wide eyes, wearing only an oversized shirt.
“Wrong window,” he choked, then tried to hold himself up but immediately collapsed again. “Dammit,” he cursed, waiting for you to freak out any second now.
You could have, but instead you rushed to him and knelt beside him.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” Your hands hovered helplessly over his body, trying to see how bad the damage was in the dark. “You need a hospital–”
“No!” He snapped, trying to turn away but failing miserably. “I’ll be fine, I heal quickly.”
“You still need to stop the bleeding,” you countered, folding your knees under your body so you could rest on your calves. “Listen, I can help you. I took some medical courses last year and I have a kit somewhere.”
You looked at him with pleading eyes. He’d saved the city so many times, the fucking world, it was the least you could do to give something back.
He considered his options for a second, and to be honest he didn’t have many. His body was betraying him, and he couldn’t even get up to fix it himself like usual.
The blood loss made him nod, and you wasted no time in getting up and finding said kit. The blood loss also made him drift in and out of consciousness as you tended to the wounds on his ribs as much as you could.
It did not make him less cautious of you though. When you noticed the rip on his mask over a nasty gash on his neck and reached for it, his hand closed around your wrist and even half conscious, his grip was strong.
“Please,” he whispered. Pleaded. “Keep it on.”
The fear in his voice made you promise you would. Even if you couldn’t get to that gash properly. Even when he fell asleep on your floor and didn’t wake up for six whole hours.
The next morning, he opened his eyes and found you sitting on your bed, still staring at him.
His hands patted his chest, and confirmed his arachnid powers had done its job and healed him mostly. But most importantly, his mask was still in place. With no warning from E.V of it being removed. He learned that you’d spent the night making sure he was still breathing without seeing his face.
That had been one year ago.
After thanking you profoundly for helping him, he’d repaired your window, apologized several times, and disappeared into the apartment next door. He then considered moving into another building, but the thought was brushed away very quickly when he remembered the balance in his bank account.
So he acted more careful instead. For a while, he only turned back home when your curtains were already closed, or he only left the apartment when you had already left for your job (because yes, he absolutely researched the hell out of you after that night.)
Then he moved to the attic of the building. Bigger space, no neighbors, no risks. No you. Or at least he thought.
Because some nights…some delirious nights he still found your window a few stories down, and the accidental visits became less accidental. When he was too badly injured to care for himself, he came to you, even after you confessed your degree had nothing to do with medicine.
When he noticed you understood about his equipment malfunctioning, he’d bring it for you to inspect. When he became too reckless with himself you talked his ear off about how being difficult to kill did not make him immortal.
Somewhere along the way, you became spiderman’s friend.
Spiderman was safer. With you, spiderman was the only part of him he could let you see. Because that was the thing, you only knew the masked superhero.
He’d spent so much time blocking away his identity, making peace with the fact that there was no longer anyone in the world who would call him Peter and know exactly who that person was. That name only belonged to the people that once knew him, and no longer existed, so he never gave it to you.
Never showed you more than a sliver of skin when his mask rode up or glimpses of his abdomen when you tended to his wounds. He always kept that barrier and you respected it, even on those nights he was too weak to stop you. Even if sometimes not knowing the color of his eyes kept you up at night.
A promise was a promise.
Maybe that’s why he kept coming. Why he trusted you with a certainty he couldn’t understand. Why he eventually showed you his new living quarters in the attic and let you spend time with him. Why half a year ago, he added another chair next to his desk so you could work together, or help him when he was out patrolling and needed an extra set of eyes.
“I’m officially the girl in the chair, spidey,” you joked that time as you sat next to him, spinning around in your chair.
He’d gone quiet immediately, his body tensing up enough to make you frown, but then managed a small smile and said you were. You pretended you didn’t notice him being too quiet as he worked on his inhibitor after that.
He was wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and the mask. Always the mask that didn’t quite let you see through him. After a moment of quiet, you rolled your chair closer to his and nudged his arm playfully.
“You know I can’t keep calling you spidey forever, right?”
He snapped out of his trance, and the chuckle that came from under the fabric was unmistakable.
“Why not?” He nudged your arm back, but still focused on the device he was hunched over. “I like spidey.”
You put your elbow on the desk, resting your cheek on your hand so you could lean a little closer.
“I like it too, but it feels ridiculous after having my hands all over your body almost every night.”
The moment the words left your lips, you realized how bad that sounded. He straightened up, turning toward you.
“Wow.” Even if you couldn’t see the smile on his face, the lenses of his mask were quite expressive sometimes. He was amused.
“That came out very wrong,” you said immediately, before he bursted into laughter. He had been laughing more since you entered his life. “You know what I meant,” you whined, laughing too with heat flooding your cheeks.
“I think I know,” he chuckled, making you roll your eyes.
“I’m being serious though,” you added, a little more quietly. “You don’t have to say your real name. Just give me something.”
“Mmm…” he acted like has considering it, going back to tinkering with the piece of metal between his fingers, but then his eyes drifted to the flowers he’d bought that morning, and the name came out of his lips before he could think twice about it. “You can call me Maynard.”
“Maynard?” You repeated, suppressing a chuckle. “You don’t sound like a Maynard. That’s like an 80 year old man’s name.”
“That’s all I can give you,” he shrugged playfully.
You had a feeling it went deeper than that, but you’d also learned not to push it with him.
“Alright. Maynard,” you nodded, “but don’t expect me to use that name unless you’re dying. Guess I’ll stick to spidey for now,” you chuckled, going back to your own work as he hummed in agreement.
The conversation ended there. With him trying not to think about your hands all over his body in…different conditions.
Peter didn’t know exactly when his gratitude became longing. He could not identify the moment the friendship, the closeness, or just your smile, shifted into something he craved everyday.
Despite the mask and the fake name, he knew that after years of being no one to everyone, he had become someone to you. And you had become everything to him. Even if it was behind walls he’d built, you were the person who knew him better than anyone alive.
Which is why, the night he lost control of himself after an unknown dust was thrown at him in a fight, he chose not to crash land into your room.
Peter hit the floor of the dark attic with a loud thud, as his senses went overboard. His suit was sticking to his body uncomfortably due to the sweat coating his feverish skin. The fabric was intact, with no visible wounds in his body, just that burning sensation of something running through his veins.
And that dark part of him he’d managed to lock down with the inhibitor, trying to claw its way out.
“What the…what the fuck is going on,” he cursed, clutching his heaving chest as he panted against the worn wood floors. “I can’t–I can’t breathe…”
The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence.
“You have arrived injured. I’m letting her know–”
“NO!” He cut the AI off, “EV, don’t tell her–”
“Message already sent.”
He glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. 2:18 am.
He groaned, grabbing his head when a wave of migraine hit him. He knew what came after that. The black eyes. The desire to break. To take. But this time something felt different. It was like a pull, looking for something or someone…for…for you?
Oh fuck.
You were going to come in and you were going to see him like this. No, no–
“Spidey?” You asked from behind the door, knocking exactly twice before opening it anyways.
The air changed the exact moment you walked in, and that something inside him shifted too. It became aware that the only thing it craved to survive was in the room now.
He needed to get to you. He needed to pin you down and–
“Don’t!” He managed to scream, holding his hand up weakly when you scrambled toward him.
You stopped right in your tracks, eyes wide and running all over him, searching for torn fabric, blood, or anything that would explain why he looked like every breath was painful.
“What happened?” You frowned, when you couldn’t find any source. “Did you get hurt?”
You instinctively stepped forward, but he waved his hand in front of him again.
“Stop, stop, stop,” he said quickly, “don’t come any closer.”
The harshness in his voice caught you off guard, but what sealed the deal was him dragging himself further away from you. It was barely more than a clumsy, desperate crawl, but he managed to put a decent distance between you before collapsing against the side of his thrifted couch.
He avoided looking at you. The oversized shirt covering your body, the comfy shorts you were probably wearing, the way your hair looked messy from rolling out of bed as soon as you got EV’s warning even if you had work the next morning.
You stayed right where you were, watching him. His suit had always fit him like it was painted on his skin, but every pant made his chest rise and fall beneath the fabric so violently that you wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped at the seams.
This reminded you too much of the changes that happened in him months ago.
It started with a sharpened temper, then the heightened sensitivity to everything, the black covering his eyes, and moments during patrol when his reactions became simply frightening for someone who had as much strength as he did. But you were supposed to have stopped it.
“Is it the inhibitor?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, “is it failing?”
“I–I don’t know…I was hit with some dust out there,” he breathed. “I think it’s tampering with it…my head is killing me. Everything is too much.”
You nodded, turning toward the workstation.
“I will check the programming. Just hold on.” Not your best attempt at reassuring him, but he groaned in acknowledgment.
“EV?”
The computer woke when you touched the keyboard, illuminating the dark attic in a wash of blue light.
“Online.”
“Please run a diagnostic on the inhibitor and any possible interference.”
“Beginning diagnostic.”
You waited impatiently for the results, tapping your fingers on the desk while you watched him from the corner of your eye.
Over there, he…he was doing his best trying to breathe.
This obviously wasn't his first time having sensory overload. When the animal tried to take over the human part of him, everything in the city became impossible to escape. Not a single movement, or sound, or simple existence within miles was unnoticed by him.
But this time? The rest of the city had disappeared. There were no sirens in the distance, or voices coming through the walls, or every heartbeat in the building pounding in his head.
There was only you.
Your rapid heartbeat echoing inside him. He felt every tap of your fingers against the wood, every slight catch in your breathing each time he made another involuntary and pathetic sound from his spot on the floor.
Your scent…God, your scent filled the entire apartment.
The scent he found himself coming back to so often that it scared him. He didn’t want the attachment. The possibility of having someone again only to risk losing them again.
That same scent was making every muscle in his body react in a way he didn’t understand. It made him, and the other him, wanna do things to you he had only dreamed of in his wildest fantasies. Things he wasn’t proud of, things he wouldn’t dare to say out loud, even if he looked at you through the lenses of his mask and you couldn’t see the black in his eyes.
He pressed the back of his head against the couch harshly.
This was wrong. So wrong.
His senses were supposed to consume everything when the change came. Instead, they had fixed themselves entirely on you.
He could feel the heat of your body from across the room as though you were still in front of him. Could remember with sickening detail how soft your hands looked when they reached for him. Could almost feel the burn of the touch that had never landed because he stopped you.
What if he’d let you? What if he’d felt the way your hands ran all over his body? What if you’d moved them lower, and lower, as your mouth–
“Diagnostic complete.”
Your heads snapped toward the screen.
“There’s no external damage affecting the integrity of the device. I detected a foreign biotoxin in the bloodstream that may be bypassing the inhibitor, activating the suppressed arachnid hormones.”
“What biotoxin?” You frowned.
“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.”
Great. He thought. He had no time to take a bath with Yelena Belova to find out what the stupid dust was.
The screen changed, displaying a model of his nervous system. There were yellow bright lines pulsing quickly, running all the way from the base of his brain down the length of his spine. Something unknown was moving through his blood, altering the part of him he had spent months forcing into submission.
He sucked in a breath as he watched you read the screen. Your eyes were focused, and a bead of sweat made its way down the side of your forehead.
He suddenly felt the need to lick it off.
Wanted to run his tongue from the base of your neck to the back of your ear. Wanted to fist your hair and make your heart beat out of your chest from how good he knew he could make you feel–
“The effects remain within his enhanced tolerance. However, prolonged exposure to certain hormones can cause extreme distress without relief.”
“What hormones?” Your voice, worried and unknowing of his thoughts only made him feel guiltier.
It took him a second to realize what you asked, but EV threw him under the bus before he could say anything.
“There’s a significant rise in reproductive hormones. The unknown toxin is inducing a strong mating response in him.”
Mating response. He stopped breathing.
Your eyes slowly moved from the monitor to him, and he saw the moment your attention dropped lower to the tent of his pants.
That suit concealed nothing on a good day. On one like this? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck–
He shifted almost immediately, but the movement only worsened the pressure, pulling a helpless groan from his throat that made your pulse jump. You looked away at once, turning back to the computer.
“Is there a way we can…umm…stop it?” You asked hesitantly.
“The subject is experiencing severe sexual arousal with a fixation on a nearby individual,” she explained, because fuck him if he wasn’t the unluckiest individual on earth. “Acting upon it can be a positive option to relieve sexual tension.”
He wished the floor would open beneath him, swallow him, and never ever EVER spit him back out again.
Your pulse was absolutely hammering after that. He caught the sudden change in your scent. There was a sharp spark of surprise, nervousness, and something else beneath it that his altered senses fed on immediately.
You kept your eyes fixed on the monitor, although the data had stopped meaning anything the moment you heard fixation on a nearby individual.
“Is that what you really feel?” You asked softly after a moment.
His head fell forward, catching it between his gloved hands. He didn’t know how to answer without making everything worse.
Although, after what EV said, could it really be worse?
“…Yes.” The word came out rougher than he expected. Yet still not enough for what was happening inside him. “It’s like…I can only feel you. All of you.”
Heat rose to your face once again.
“What does that mean?”
Don’t say anything, don’t–
“I can smell you.” Great start, idiot. He cleared his dry throat before continuing. “I can smell your shampoo…the lotion you use…the ink on your hands from your favorite pen.”
He chose not to mention he could also smell the adrenaline on you. The heat gathering slowly beneath your skin.
Your eyes dropped to your hands, and under the dim light of the computer, you caught the ink stains in them from your journaling session before bed.
“I can hear your heartbeat changing every time I speak,” he added. Okay, that one slipped out.
You swallowed. And god, he felt that in his own throat.
The suit was suffocating him at this point. He wanted to rip it off as much as he wanted to rip off the fabric covering the goosebumps on your skin.
“Is it only because I’m nearby?” You asked, gathering the courage to turn your chair to him.
White lenses met you across the room. He dragged in another shaky breath of oxygen made of you as he thought about his next words. He could’ve lied. He should’ve lied. But instead, chemically overwhelmed and stripped of every defense he possessed, he gave you the truth.
“No.”
His voice was firmer this time. No hesitation in it despite the thousand red alarms pounding in his head telling him to shut up.
“It picked you–no, I picked you for a reason,” he added. “And it’s not just me. The other…the other me wants you too.”
His voice went lower on the last part, that told you how much it cost him to admit that.
The silence following his confession was heavy. For a moment he wished he could read your mind. For all he could feel of you, your thoughts were unreachable.
His own mind was a mess. The impulses didn’t feel like thoughts anymore, just his body feeding him instructions.
Get up. Cross the room. Touch her. Breathe her in.
His palms shook with the urge to close around you. His teeth ached with the need to graze your skin. His eyes burned with the desire to see beyond fabric.
Every part of him seemed convinced that the small distance between you was a mistake he needed to correct. That he needed to breathe you in until his lungs burned. Drag his mouth along the inside of your wrist and taste the pulse there.
He hated it.
He hated that something inside him could look at the person he cared for the most and reduce her to an answer for his pain.
“EV, how long is this state going to last?” He asked the computer, followed by a weak cough as he clutched his side.
“Your enhanced physiology is struggling to break down the toxin’s structure. I estimate a time between ten to twelve hours before it’s metabolized. However, neurological collapse is expected before that timeframe.”
“What?” You looked at him. “There’s no way we’re letting that happen. Maybe I can–”
“Don’t even start,” he cut you off, shaking his head profusely.
“So what? I’m supposed to sit here betting on whether your body collapses on hour three or hour six?”
“I’ll just pass out, big deal. I’m not putting you in danger because of this. I can handle it.”
“You’re barely handling it now. There’s no danger in trying–”
“You don’t understand what’s happening inside me right now,” he argued, raising his voice. “This other thing, the one the inhibitor controls it’s…awake. That part of me doesn’t think like I do. It doesn’t care if you're scared, or hurting–”
“You wouldn’t hurt me–”
“You don’t know that!” He snapped, his fist struck the floor next to him, hard enough to make the worn wood crack beneath his knuckles.
The sudden noise made you flinch. He smelled the flash of fear moving through your body for only a second.
One second enough.
“Fuck–that is what I mean,” he cursed, covering his lenses with his hands. “I don’t…I don’t know if I’d be gentle. I can’t risk this, I can't…shit, I can’t risk you.”
The words, said with so much pain, and honesty, seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest.
“Okay,” you nodded, settling deeper in your chair. “But I’m not leaving you like this. I can’t risk you either.”
He shuddered a painful exhale. His head dropped to the couch again, shutting his eyes in preparation of what the next hours of torture would be.
Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes.
The suit was killing him, so he decided he’d be better without it. He reached desperately behind his back, clumsily undoing the zippers that tied the suit together.
He could feel your wide eyes on him as he tugged the fabric off his shoulders, peeling it off his sweaty arms. He groaned when he lifted his hips and the suit grazed his swollen crotch. In a matter of seconds that felt like eternity he managed to break free from the spandex, and threw it away somewhere in the room. He’d undressed down to his dark boxers, mask still in place, revealing the marble sculpture of his body.
You let out a shaky breath from your spot, eyes raking over a body you’d only seen partially. He was covered in wounds most of the time, but this time, he only had faint bruises from the night before decorating his chiseled abs.
His tight muscles flexed with every rise of his chest, his bulge straining harder the more you devoured him, pressing against his pants, making him curse quietly.
You noticed, and returned your eyes to the screen to track his vitals.
He felt grateful that you’d given him that grace, but just you being in that room made it very hard for him to think of anything other than your existence.
Too hard.
Before he knew his hand drifted down the growing ache in his crotch, trying to feel some relief, but every rub he made over the fabric of his boxers sent a jolt of pain through his body instead of pleasure.
It only made it worse when he realized you were tense at the desk, trying very hard to keep your focus on the screen and not on the whines he was letting out.
“…I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly, breathlessly, moving his hand away. “I didn’t–”
“Don’t apologize,” you shook your head quickly, eyes still on the screen. “You…you can do whatever you need.”
He didn’t say anything, just whined in pain again, so you took it as a chance to say it before you regretted it.
“But my offer still stands, spidey.”
What a polite way of saying ‘I’d let you fuck me into next week so you can control your horny arachnid hormones, spidey.’
Fucking hell.
“I’m okay I just–God I didn’t–I didn’t think it would feel this way…” He laughed humorlessly, staring at the ceiling. “But I–I got this. Yes.”
You kept quiet, hearing him mumble to himself about a hundred times about how he had this.
“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…”
He wasn’t.
“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”
For God’s sake.
“I think I can help.”
By the time he registered the words and looked back at you, you had already moved from your chair and shortened the distance between you, kneeling in front of him.
His senses went from one thousand to one million. He forced his hands behind his back, trying to keep the animal from grabbing you and getting it over with.
“What–what are you doing?” He stammered nervously, the lenses of his mask going wide.
“Maynard,” you said quietly, ignoring the way his body tensed up at that name. “Would it make you feel better if I put my hand here?”
You placed your hand right in the center of his chest, and your cold palm met his overheated skin. He gasped, feeling every individual fingerprint on his skin. He wanted them marked on him. Tattooed.
His back arched from the couch, with a strangled gasp breaking from beneath the mask. The relief hit him all at once, through a simple contact that felt like salvation.
Your hand steadied him for only a glorious second, but now that you had touched him, his body knew precisely what it had been denied.
It wanted more.
His own hand closed around yours so suddenly that you almost pulled back, but he loosened his grip the instant he realized how tightly he was holding you.
“Sorry–”
“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder.
He was burning.
The heat beneath your palm scared you, but what scared you more was the violent pounding of his heart beating against your hand so so quickly.
“Better?” You asked quietly, trying not to bite your bottom lip at the image of him crumbling under your palm.
“So fucking better,” he said breathlessly, pressing your hand tighter against his chest. “I…dammit–”
“Breathe,” you reminded.
His head fell back against the couch. Chest rising up and down, up and down, up and down.
Just take her, man, she’s right there–
Your free hand accidentally brushed his neck, right where the border of the mask started, snapping him right back. He grabbed your hand, not harshly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch.
“Please.” Was all he said.
Leave it on.
It brought you back to that first night he’d crashed into your life.
“I wasn’t planning on removing it,” you whispered, leaning closer. “You can keep it on. But let me help you…I really want to.”
See? She wants it. She needs it so bad.
He hated that the other guy was right. He knew you meant what you said because he could smell the proof pooling between your thighs.
Fuck it.
In a sudden movement he reached for your waist, dragging you forward so you were straddling his lap. The bulge you landed on made you gasp, hands instinctively grabbing onto his sweaty biceps for balance when he let out a broken groan that vibrated against your core.
His hand cupped your jaw, bringing it closer to his face, and your dilated pupils reflected on the white of his lenses.
“I can feel that you want this,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. “Please, say it again…”
You shifted your hips, barely, so minimal yet he felt it travel through his whole body. He hissed, tightening the grip on your jaw.
“I want this,” you repeated firmly, moving your head closer to his ear. “You can take whatever you need…”
You moved your hips again, more deliberate this time, pulling a broken whine from him. The toxin made every contact feel like electricity racing down his spine, straight to the heavy, aching weight of his cock under you.
“Yes…yeah just like that…” he panted. “Just let me…”
His hands landed on your waist, moving you back and forth at a quicker pace over his bulge. You gasped at the friction, fingers digging into his shoulders, while he let out a collection of muffled words you could barely understand.
“...M–more…” he whined, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t–I need…”
“What do you need? More what?”
“More contact.”
His hands left your waist to grab the hem of your shirt.
“Can I?” He whispered.
You nodded eagerly, gasping when his hands shifted to the collar of your shirt instead, ripping it off your body with a sharp pull.
“Oh fuck,” he cursed when he realized there was nothing under that shirt, and saw your nipples hardening instantly under the cold air.
He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask.
His hands, however, wasted no time to cup your breasts with a broken whine. His thumbs played with your nipples, tugging at them as hard as he could allow himself to without hurting you.
“Fuck you’re perfect…you’re so perfect…” he whispered, more to himself than you, pulling some soft whimpers out of you when he tugged a little harder. His hands drifted to your lower half, to the hem of the last piece keeping your body from his greedy eyes. “These too,” he said, “please, can I? I want to feel you.”
“Yes,” you nodded, already out of air.
You didn’t even know why you tried to get off his lap to take the shorts off properly, when he just did the same as the shirt: ripped it in half where it rested on your hips, yanked it off from your body and threw the ruined pieces far away.
You weren’t wearing anything underneath.
“I can smell you. God, I can smell you. You’re so–oh God…”
Now he could feel your wetness drenching his boxers, dripping onto the fabric. He could almost taste it in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to drown in it for hours.
“Can–can I–?”
You didn’t even let him finish, you grabbed his hand and placed it right between your legs.
Water. He found water in the middle of the dessert.
His hand moved carefully through your wet folds once, twice, delighting in your warmth, the way you felt, the way you let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard in his miserable life.
“Fuck…” you cursed softly, moving your hips eagerly when he kept stroking slow. Too slow. “Touch me, please.”
He obliged, fingers finding your clit in movements that had you gripping his shoulders tighter, eyes fluttering shut so beautifully he had to bite his lip to not let out a pathetic sound.
“Been wanting this,” he mumbled. “Longer than today. Longer than tonight.”
His finger slid inside of you, making you moan when he curled it just right.
“There were…there were nights I thought about you riding my hand,” he kept going, voice cracking as he added a second finger, stretching you more. “I’ve wanted you for so long–not just because of this shit in my blood. Because it’s you.”
Every word made you clench around his fingers. Every admission pulled another shaky moan out of your throat. You were a mess already, breathless, hips rolling down to meet the thrust of his fingers.
“Oh my God–don’t stop, please don’t stop–”
“Not stopping, baby.”
He kept working you open, the white lenses of the mask never leaving your face. His free hand slid up your chest, settling between your breasts.
“I’m–I’m close,” you managed. “I’m so close–”
“Come on…you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”
The heel of his palm lifted to press against your clit. You were right there, right on the edge, about to come on his hand and drip down his boxers–
“Please,” he begged, unable to keep it in. “Let me fuck you after this…please. I need to be inside you. I’ve needed it for so long–just let me, after you come, please, please–”
The plea undid you.
You came with a broken cry, stopping your movements as your walls pulsed around him. The sound you made against his shoulder nearly finished him right there.
It took you a second to just breathe again, your chest synching up with his in the search of oxygen. He kept rocking his hand slowly, not just to work you through the aftershocks, but because the friction of your pussy in his hand brought the tiniest relief to him.
You just stayed there as the last soft waves rolled through you.
Once you were able to see clearly again, you let out a breathless chuckle and straightened back up.
He needed you. He needed you so badly you really thought he was going to die if you didn’t help him.
You placed one hand on his chest as the other reached under you, slipping inside the fabric of his boxers without breaking eye contact.
The second your bare fingers brushed him, his hips jerked hard under you.
“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly.
You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.
His cock sprang out, heavy and flushed between your bodies, so thick and hard and painful. The head was red and shiny, with precum dripping down the vein that ran along his length. The tip brushed the skin of your stomach, leaving a warm, wet patch that made the hair on your arms go up. He could smell the small flicker of intimidation sparking inside you, but the want that followed was stronger.
You stroked him a few times, slowly just as he’d touched you at first.
“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”
Another thick bead of precum welled up and spilled over your fingers. Whether it was the toxin or just his enhanced physiology, he was dripping for you.
Flustered wasn’t enough of a word when you had his leaking cock in your hand.
His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tighter, guiding you up as if he was about to lift you then pulling you back down immediately.
Fuck her. Fuck her right now.
“Please, I need–I need to feel you…” he cried out. “Let me…let me…”
You nodded just as desperately, lifting yourself up as he helped, steadying you with shaking hands until the thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance. You both exhaled hard at the same time when you started to sink down, taking him inch by inch.
He was big. Almost too much. The burn of it made your breath hitch, but the way he cursed under his breath multiple times, completely at your mercy, made you keep going until he was buried balls deep.
You sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, and so full of him.
When the initial sting faded away, you started moving. He let you set the pace as you adjusted, holding back his need of thrusting up. His fingers dug on your skin, not lifting just holding you, but the more that you moved, the more that control started to waver.
He could feel it coming. The change.
You kept moaning, bouncing on top of him, completely unaware of his self restraint crumbling away.
His grip slowly tightened when his eyes began turning completely black under his mask. That careful, pathetic boy who’d been begging disappeared beneath something more…primal.
Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.
The next thing he knew, his hands slid under your thighs with sudden strength. He lifted you up in one motion until only the thick head of him remained inside you, held you there for a second as the last part of him tried to remember how to be gentle–then snapped his hips up hard.
That first thrust pulled a sharp moan out of you, but there was no chance to adjust this time. He set a relentless pace almost immediately, using pure strength to bounce you on his cock while he drove up to meet every drop of your body, buried so deep it stole your breath every time he bottomed out.
“Oh my–May…Maynard–” the name you barely used on him slipped out in the middle of the frenzy, but his hand reached behind your head to pull your hair back slightly as he kept thrusting up.
“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, his voice so different from just minutes earlier. “It’s Peter. Call me Peter when I’m inside you.”
He didn’t even give you time to process, still lifting and dropping you onto his cock at the exact hard rhythm he wanted. The only one that satisfied the need inside of him. Your hands instinctively reached for the edge of the arm of the couch he was leaning against, fingers digging into the worn fabric as he hit that spot inside you over and over again.
“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”
“That’s better,” he approved. “I was right, you’re so so perfect…taking every inch like you need it as bad as I do…”
A desperate sound slipped out of you at the praise, he could feel your walls clenching tight around him as your body went for that second orgasm, your eyes were fluttering shut, almost there–
“Nuh–uh,” he denied immediately, stopping mid thrust, holding you pressed against him as you gasped, surprised and confused.
“What–what happened? I was about to–”
“I want you to hold it for me. I know you can.”
That twisted part of him enjoyed the slow realization on your face.
Even if you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew the same spiderman he’d been without the inhibitor, was the one with your body at his mercy now.
Good.
He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, breathing hard behind the mask. When your breathing finally slowed down and accepted that the high never came, he stood up. Still inside you, he walked you to the bed in the corner of the room.
His bed.
He pulled out with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then laid you down roughly near the edge of the mattress. He kneeled down, strong hands hooking behind your knees and dragging your legs over his shoulders, folding you open for him completely.
“Look at the ceiling,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me.”
You obeyed, staring up at the wood beams high above you while he tugged the bottom of the mask just high enough to free his mouth.
Peter leaned down and pressed a few soft kisses to your swollen folds. He wasn’t necessarily eating you out, just giving a few loud smooches that felt good enough to make you grip the sheets.
“M’sorry, you were so perfect there…” he mumbled condescendingly against your most sensitive spots. “But I need you to hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”
You nodded, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Maybe too eager. Maybe too pathetic. Just like he’d been. Had he pumped that toxin into you?
Either way, you didn’t care. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this version of him.
He laughed right over your clit when you moaned loudly, after he moved his tongue in a slow, torturous swipe over it.
“Was back there too much?” He cooed. “Maybe I just need to stretch you more...”
Two fingers slid inside you, so easily, but the sudden stretch still dragged a whine out of your throat. He curled them immediately, finding the spot that made your hips jerk.
“Peter…”
“Huh?” He acted coy, pumping his fingers with a rhythm that kept you right on the edge without letting you tip over. He added a third finger, making your back arch from the mattress. “Keep holding it in.”
Every shake of your body fed the stupid toxin inside him. Having you like this…really trying to keep your body from coming apart because he said so.
God. He was never going back.
“You just took my cock. I think you can take three fingers with no problem.”
He kept the same relentless pace, chuckling when your body started twitching again.
“Shhh, you’re perfect, absolutely perfect…”
“Peter…” you called out again, hand dropping the sheet to find his shoulder instead. “I need…need…”
“Need what?”
“Need you inside me…please I won’t–I won’t hold for much longer just–fuck me.”
He stopped altogether, a smirk you couldn’t see stretching the corner of his mouth. He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, licking them clean before tugging his mask back in place and standing up.
“Yeah?”
Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed for a moment before his hands gripped your hips and turned you over. He moved you higher up the bed, grabbing one of the pillows, and shoving it under your hips, tilting your lower body up for him.
He then climbed onto the bed behind you and knelt between your spread thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight as one hand stroked down the length of your spine.
But something made him stop.
“This fucking mask–” he cursed under his breath. “It’s suffocating me.”
The sweat on his forehead had pooled under the mask, making it so sticky over his eyebrows that it was affecting the lenses he was trying to see you through.
“I need you to be a good girl for me,” he added breathlessly, yet still commanding enough. “Keep your head on the mattress. Ass up. Don’t turn around.”
You nodded. Too eagerly again. Couldn’t care any less again.
He didn’t think twice, just yanked the mask off and tossed it aside. It landed near you, making you bury half your face on the sheets as if staring at the mask alone would be disobeying his commands.
The sound he made when the cool air hit his face was pure relief. He swiped the sweat off with his forearm, finally seeing you clearly. Face down. Eyes squeezed shut. Already clutching the sheets.
“You look so pretty like this,” he mumbled. “All spread out for me…waiting.”
“Peter…” you whined, lifting your ass slightly from the pillow.
“I know, I know. You’re okay.” He couldn’t keep the smirk away when he added, “you said please.”
He reached between you, guiding the thick head of his cock between your thighs until it nudged against your entrance. You were still soft and ready and perfect.
Peter pushed in slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank deep and deep and deeper.
He braced one hand beside your head and kept the other on your hip, pushing you into the mattress as his thighs hit the back of yours. Slap. Slap. Slap. The position left almost no space between your bodies, with Peter pressing his chest against your back.
“Fuck…you feel so good like this…so pretty taking me.”
He kept going, making the mattress creak and the base of the bed hit the brick wall repeatedly. Your desperate moans ran through his body like electricity, making something inside him crack open again.
What? What is–
The moment his rhythm stuttered, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Beads of sweat flew from his hair to your back.
“God–you…you’re making me–” The roughness of his thrusts slowed down immediately, inhaling a sharp intake of air as he felt the change again. “I can’t, I can’t…”
He lifted his gaze to the window behind the bed and noticed his eyes had turned back to its original color.
“Oh my god,” he gasped, stopping altogether. He straightened up, still kneeling and inside you, but panicking. “I’m…I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened I–“
“Peter!” You cut him off, pushing yourself back, closer to him, without turning around. “Shut up and fuck me.”
The order left your mouth breathless, pushing back against him even more to make the point clear. His hands twitched when they gripped your hips again.
“Okay, okay…” he panted, groaning when you dropped back on the bed and his cock almost left the warmth of your pussy. “I’m sorry–if I was too rough, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
He picked up the pace again, but the words tumbling out of him now were pure pleading Peter again.
“Don’t turn around–don’t turn around–fuck, fuck…” slap, slap, slap. “You can come now. Please. Please, I want to feel it–you’d come apart so pretty on me, I know you would…pleasepleaseplease–”
His final permission and the desperate way he said it made you crash harder than the first time, crying out into the mattress. The second he felt you coming around him, he knew he couldn’t last much longer either.
“Can I–inside…please, can I??…let me fill you up–”
“Yes–inside, Peter, do it inside me…”
He buried himself to the hilt with a strained groan and finally came. The orgasm tearing out of him was harder and longer than anything he’d ever felt, holding you there, filling you up.
You gasped against the sheets, breathless, as the waves of cum seemed to go on forever, flooding you with warm and thick ropes in every spurt as he emptied himself inside you.
“Thank you…thank you…” His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, sending broken gasps against your skin as he kept coming. “You are so perfect–fuck…so perfect…thank you…”
The pollen wrung him dry until he could barely breathe, and even then he kept rolling his hips weakly, chasing the last of it while he slowly softened inside you.
When it finally eased, the pain, the need, the hunger…he pulled out slowly with a whine, and half collapsed over you. His arms held most of his weight as he planked above you, but you could feel every ridge of his muscles brushing your sweaty skin.
Peter’s eyes fluttered shut, feeling exhausted and aching in the best way, almost lulled by the sounds of your agitated breaths.
You both felt the warm trail of liquid leaking out between your bodies and neither of you moved or said anything for a while. He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With your naked body under him, no masks, no barriers, just your swollen pussy leaking out his seed–
“Successful ejaculation brought down the arachnid hormone levels immediately. Inhibitor working within regular parameters now. Congratulations, Peter.”
EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence.
It took two seconds of shock before you both broke into breathless laughter. His teeth grazed your back as your bodies vibrated in sync from the amusement and overall flustering after everything that happened.
“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered.
“You’re welcome. I gathered data and the released semen volume exceeds standard parameters by two hundred and twenty six percent due to the high hormonal concentration. Hydration, clean up and rest are advised.”
“For fucks sake…” Peter cursed under his breath.
“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets.
That was your call back to reality.
Peter felt you move under him, reaching blindly to the side until your hand found the mask. You lifted it over your shoulder, offering it to him without looking.
“I don’t want to,” he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I…I don’t want to put it back on.”
“Then I’ll close my eyes,” you offered instead.
“No–I mean…you don’t have to. I don’t want to wear it around you anymore. Not after…all of this,” he admitted sheepishly.
“But you told me to not turn around,” you reminded him, dropping the mask on the mattress again. “And that was you, not the darker you.”
He chuckled, nodding even if you couldn’t see him yet.
“Yeah, because if I saw your face while I was balls deep inside you I would’ve busted before you came.”
There it was. He said it. No turning back now.
At least it got a chuckle from you too.
“Listen I…I meant everything I said. Everything. The wanting, the nights I thought about you,” he confessed. “I don’t want you to feel like I just used you when…when there was always a reason why I needed you like oxygen tonight.”
Your breath hitched, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him, and when you didn’t push away…he exhaled in relief behind you.
“So maybe…you can turn around now. If–if you want to. Know the real me.”
“I would really like that,” you whispered without hesitation.
You tried lifting yourself up to turn around, but he did most of the job, moving away the pillow he had placed under you and helping you roll onto your back. You closed your eyes, at least until you were facing him completely, and took a deep breath. Holding onto his biceps for moral support, you finally opened them again.
Seeing his face for the first time felt so intimate, even after everything you just did.
There he was. The same guy who just fucked you into next week, looking more shy and boyish than you could’ve ever imagined.
Brown eyes. Dark, curly hair sticking to his forehead. A nervous smile tugging at the corner of his gorgeous mouth.
So young. So earnest. So yours.
Not spidey anymore. Just Peter.
Your Peter.
Thank you so much for reading 🤍 I used to write Peter so much back in the day (shoutout to my starktonyx era) and I’ve missed him dearly.
warnings: p in v sex. ex!reader. dirty talk. flirting. was initially wrote with bnd!peter in mind but fits insomniac better.
“Well this is,” the cluttered disarray of the dingy small apartment filled your sight beyond the door, hinges screeching to a close as you stepped inside on the uneven floorboards. “Cozy.”
You had never known Peter to be particularly neat, when you had dated his work spaces always including a wide variety of unimaginably small delicate tools and scrawled notes tossed haphazardly around a vacant bin, this particular space being no different. It had been a few months of moving into his new apartment—out of yours—a space he rented with little to no cost, a storage unit more likely of a word to use for the top cropping of an old rundown building with dwindling residents.
“Well, you know, busy mind busy—uh—station,” Peter's lips curled anxiously as he gathered up loose trash, old takeout boxes he meekly shoved into a waste basket tucked into his arm, gaze drifting along the ruined nature of his work desk, technology whirring. “A bit too busy, maybe.”
“Old habits,” you grinned, an inside joke to the old work station he kept at Otto's lab. A strand of hair swept over Peter's forehead as he leaned down to set the bin under his desk, a sheepish chuckle spilling from his mouth at the sudden memory.
“I’m not that much of a mess, am I?” your hands clung to your sides as he gestured vaguely to the space surrounding you both, “There’s a sort of…organized chaos thing I have going on.”
“Yeah, sure, if it was lacking the organized part,” your boots made the floorboards uneasy with your weight, coming to stand at the highly technical desk that whirred and moved its wired parts mechanically all on their own. Old bandaged parts and more high profile bits that you wouldn’t ask where he found. You recalled the scraps of old computers you had helped him find in dumpsters and second hand stores back in highschool, when he could hardly scrounge up enough pennies for a CD. Even after all these years Peter's own genius never ceased to impress you.
“Well, I mostly cleaned up when we were dating so I wouldn’t gross you out,” he admitted, arms crossing smoothly across his board chest. You did your part in ignoring the taut stretch of his t-shirt creating a cusp around the swell of his stalky bicep.
“Yeah, I was undoubtedly hot for your ability to keep a clean work space,” you joked, watching the way he picks himself up at the thought, table rumbling as his foot kicked the humble leg.
“Wait, seriously?” he cleared his throat, deflating at the curl of your girlish grin. Attempting to look unphased he spared a glance to the opposite wall, “No, right, joke, obviously. Totally not regretting not cleaning up before having you over.”
“Peter,” you called, his head whipping back to stare at you the moment you uttered his name. “The flash drive?”
“Yes, right, the whole reason you’re here,” his brows pinch, faux seriousness as turns toward the desk, “Look at me, putting pleasure before business—not like that! I mean, I know we’re not—I wasn’t planning on,” he swallows thickly as he tucks his hand under a hardly secured mint tin, “It’s, uh, over here.”
You stall at his side as he places a simple black hard drive into his computer, the machine buzzing to life with a bypassed encryption Peter had surely gotten past before he had called you over, knowing you had been reporting on a case linked to the information detailed in the onslaught of files. A heavy stacked list of file names and hidden agendas and data breach plans filled the screen under the guise of a business mock up. Big names and their small attributes contribute to a long list of crimes circulating through the city for weeks.
“These are all the files you found?” you asked, hips jutting back as you leaned down to look at the screen, propped on your left leg to keep yourself steady against the desk as you leant over.
Peter’s body shuffled sideways to allow you more room, never truly taking that step back to allow any real sort of personal space, but enough to let you close in on the computer to scroll and search yourself, much more familiar to the aliases used in the files than he had been.
“Yeah. Some of them were scrubbed but I figured they didn’t have enough time to dump everything,” he murmured, short of breath as his gaze trailed down the soft arch of your spine, the glow of the computer screen shadowing the dip of your blouse between your breasts, “Did I…do good?”
“They’re definitely incriminating," you murmured, eyes flitting across the plans, some expunged but most still containing most of their set details and workarounds.
“Did you switch shampoos?”
The question is so sudden and out of the blue it completely removes you from the task at hand, head turning off to the side where he stood far too close. His long fingers stretched across the edge of the desk, forearm tensed under his weight as he leaned to look at you better, head tilted down to look at the tufts of hair that furled behind your ear.
“You’re hovering,” you told him, watching the glint in his eye as his eyes flickered to the soft hinted smile at the corner of your mouth.
“Yeah, right, sorry.”
“Peter,” you scold when his demeanor remains unchanged, statuesque body still looming over yours.
“It’s eucalyptus, isn’t it? Smells fresh, nice, you smell,” his lips curl up when you turn to face him completely. “Good.”
The white computer light casts a soft halo over your profile, his eyes shamelessly surveying your curling smile, all too used to this familiar game to pretend it was anything else.
“We said last time was the last time,” you voice with no real conviction.
“It’s always the last time,” he argued, snuffing out the weak excuse with a boyish shrug. “Atleast, you know, until the next time.”
Your laugh is airy as you step back.
“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of saying ‘last time’?”
“Maybe just a little bit,” he says, stepping forward to close the brief distance. “I guess I should really stop inviting you over then, huh?”
It’s dangerous how easily he can reel you back in, open mouth pants passed over a swiped clear desk, conveniently worn dress bunched up around your hips to accommodate the thickness of his body settled between your parted legs as his cock drags in and out of your eager cunt. His broad hands yank your hips to the edge of the desk, ricketing legs trembling under the weight of your bodies meeting with each sharp thrust of his hips—cock ramming into you as sheathes to the hilt before pulling back, a relentless pace that has you lurching forward to grasp onto him.
“Oh—fuck—Peter, feels so good—oh my god,” you mewl, pitchy and loud. If neighbors were an issue in this apartment like they had been in yours, it didn’t cross your mind. Your fingers dragged against the bare muscle of his shoulders, thighs hiked up high on his hips, face hot and flushed as you panted and mewled into his open mouth, desperate pleas and chants of his name to spur him on. There’s a distant silence that follows your begging and moaning, the brief space where an ‘I love you’ had been in the months prior. You and Peter make no mention of it, enraptured by the feelings of pleasure you so easily bring one another.
“Look at you—god. Take me so good, always take me so good,” he groans, eyes darting down to where your raw sexes meet, the rhythmic slapping of skin and the soft plaps of your cunt sucking him in with each drive of his hips making him shudder under your clawing hands. “You really missed me, huh? Hardly had to work for it—came over just for this too, didn’t you?” he inquired huskily, voice rasping as he felt you clench around his aching cock, “Just had to tease me for it first. Make me work for it?”
Your lips curled up, guilty in his own conscience of using a case for a good fuck. Inviting your ex over for sex is too easy for a guy like Peter, “Don’t—mm—tell me Spider-Man’s afraid of a little effort?”
“S’ that what I look like to you? Afraid?” he smirks, a squeal echoing in the apartment as Peter hoisted you up off the desk entirely, cock still buried deep inside your cunt as he held you up with both hands on the swell of your ass. Your own hands clutched the muscle of his thick frame, a sharp moan leaving your throat as he brought you down flush against him, cock pushed to the hilt, a lump in your throat as he kept you up in the air, completely at his mercy, “Remember how this left you the last time we tried it?” he hummed, brute strength unwavering as he stood at the middle of the room with you in his arms, “Gotten stronger since then. Could probably get you to say you love me again by the time I’m done with you.”
tags: 18+ smut. he’s down bad for you, turning him into an exhibitionist, public sex, mask stays on, unprotected sex, trying to be quiet, praise, creampie
he’s living rent free in my head this is not good (it is) also almost fell asleep writing oops
Peter had never considered himself an exhibitionist, by any means. He knew he had the means to be able to find sneakier places if he wanted but it was never his thing.
Until he met you.
He didn’t know what it was about you but something about that sparkle in your eye and alluring tone in your voice made him wanting to do just about any and everything you wanted.
So when you wanted him to fuck you on the top of a vacant parking lot, mask on, he swung you over to the tallest one.
Now the good thing about this was it could easily be any crazy guy in a Spider-Man mask because he didn’t have his suit on.
And his spidey sense could save the day.
But you weren’t thinking of any of those things.
Instead you were thinking of where you could go next.
You were leaning over the railing of the vacant parking garage, holding on for dear life while Peter fucked you.
Your ass was out and his hands kept smacking them, giving you a slight sting that you didn’t want to end.
He was thrusting into you and biting his lip to keep quiet otherwise he was afraid he’d wake up the neighborhood.
You tried doing the same but his cock hadn’t stopped bullying its way inside you and you were struggling.
You even started biting into your hand because the whimpers were just coming out and they would echo out.
The sun was coming down and cars were definitely on their way home at this hour, upping the risk.
The thought of getting caught excited you, making you clench against Peter and create a ring of cream around him just because it was so hot.
He let out an accidental moan and you couldn’t help but do the same, gripping the railing tight.
“S-Sh.. we have to be q-quiet.” He mumbled and you nodded, “I know.”
“Just f-feels too good baby.” You whisper, making him take a deep breath.
He moved his hands to your hips, squeezing them and pulling you into him with every thrust. He wasn’t going as fast, he held himself back because of the echo but you needed more.
You decided to take things into your own hands and started to bounce your ass against him. You heard a little noise behind you and you couldn’t help but want more.
You timed your movements with his perfectly so you’d get every delicious inch deep inside you.
It worked well, you moved like a team and he was so patient. His cock was throbbing and you knew he wanted to come soon.
You suddenly straighten up and he instinctively wraps his arms around you, one over your waist and the other across your chest. You grabbed onto his arms and he groaned in your ear, “you feel so good like this.”
“Then start fucking me like it.” You whisper and he moans.
He instantly did as you asked, his thrusts finally fast and rough with the lovely sounds of skin slapping making an echo. But you didn’t care and neither did he.
Your lower back was arched a bit, allowing him to be able to fuck you propelry, and the way he was holding you was just enough to make sure you don’t fall.
He was suddenly letting out moans of your name into your ear and your pussy clenched against his cock. You moaned almost in sync as you heard each other and used one another as motivation.
You gripped his right arm, wanting to move it from your chest to your neck but you knew your moans we’re doing it for him.
He was throbbing so much and it was a tell tale sign that he was almost there. Instead you moved your hand to start rubbing your clit and you did it fast, wanting to cum with him.
A whimper slipped past your lips and you let out praises for him to hide it.
“Doing so good baby.”
“Don’t stop, just like that-“
“Fuck Peter-“
It all worked in your favor as you felt yourself getting closer, You looked back and with your unoccupied hand, tried to lift his mask up, you failed until he wiggled his nose and he took a breath.
You chuckled and let out a sigh, “I’m so close.”
“Uh huh.” He murmured and blinked.
You gave him a smile, lightly breathing on his lip, “are you gonna cum with me?”
He bit his lip and looked like he wanted to shake his head, clearly debating it.
He was clearly wanting to be a little stubborn but you knew him. You lightly pecked his lips, gently and soft, two little pecks before you drop your voice to a whisper.
“Can you do something for me?” You suddenly ask and he nods, sighing, “Y-Yeah- fuck yes whatever you want baby.”
“Cum inside me, please-“ you plead, making him gasp, “oh god-“
“Peter please- please, please give it to me Peter. I need you-“
You didn’t get to finish your thought when he suddenly groaned and came. You felt him spill his load and you came along with him, quickly rubbing your clit before pulling your hand away.
Your body shook, you looked forward again, and you held onto him tightly as his hands squeezed you — preventing you from falling. Your legs were about to give out as he finished cumming, now panting in your ear.
You closed your eyes and leaned your head back against his chest, trying to calm yourself down.
He suddenly pulled out and you gasped at the loss of him then at the cum oozing out. You felt it make its way of your body and you kept your legs spread, letting it drip out.
At least that was until Peter fixed your skirt and sighed, “let’s get you home before the cops come, yeah?”
You laughed and nodded, opening your eyes before turning around to face him. He gave you a smile before giving you a peck then pulling his mask down.
You held onto him and closed your eyes as he began swinging en route to your place.
Peter who shamelessly chants gutteral moans of "good fucking girl, good fucking girl," when you try anal for the first time. His cock pressed to the hilt inside — your rimmed hole contracts around the girth of him, rhythmically pulsing with each soft circle of his thumb to your sensitive clit. And you're apologizing cos it feels so good and you want him to move so bad but its just a little too much right now and he's so quick to soothe you. He presses himself flush to your chest and smooths your hair away from where it had stuck to your clammy cheeks and forehead. He presses a warm kiss between your brows, shuddering a bit when you wrap your legs around his waist, forcing his cock even deeper, "s'okay, baby," he swallows roughly, "take all the time you need. M'not goin' anywhere."
notes: 18+ explicit [smut?], dry humping, dub-con, coercion, heavy persuasion of giving in & confessing, mentions of past voyeurism & stalking, shame, embarrassment, struggles with emotional availability, unhealthy behaviour/coping mechanisms, both of you are sad freaks, slight plot
follows the neighbour!dex series [blurring lines of platonic & romance this time], also kinda part 2 to: hold me closer – 4.5 k
Once again you succumb to your desires. Not in the way you had planned.
It clouds your mind, pooling around your abdomen, travelling downwards. It’s been like this all day and you don’t know what brought it on.
You can’t even recall when it began, maybe after you woke up?
You were only a little cranky, but that went away when you went on a walk around the park with your old neighbour.
Maybe it was during that walk? Or after, when you both had a late lunch just as rush hour was passing. Was it when you both had sat down in a booth opposite each other?
Was it his smug attitude after lodging a blade into a Task Force member’s neck for simply existing? Well he did more than that, the guy was being a rude prick to an old lady after all. It must have been that.
You both went your separate ways for a while, insisting that you needed to finish up a few errands and eventually he relented, making you promise to wind down together for the night. Not like you had any other plans. Still he made you pinky promise to be back home, like every other night.
You get lost into the crowd, finding your way to the old archive where you used to get your information from, old articles, leaflets, outdated case files that you could access without being questioned or monitored. It was a top notch source for you, many cases you worked on led you back here.
You like the smell, it was old, somewhat moldy but not in a revolting way, just an aged scent that filled the room from the decaying papers and the slightly moldy walls. How silent it was, apart from the odd sound of papers shuffling, or cabinets being shut closed.
You needed some time away from him, because eventually you had figured out it was him who was making you all hot and bothered for absolutely no reason at all. You couldn’t pinpoint why, but you knew it was him.
It was the worst thing ever, it may sound a little dramatic, but for now, in this situation, this was a pressing matter. You can’t focus at all.
And eventually you would have to head back and face him. He would most definitely know something was wrong, that you were a little off, because you would either act awkward as hell, unable to look at him, or you would just become quiet. Not engaging with anything.
He liked the attention that you gave him, that was clear. Gazing at him with your pretty lashes like whatever he was blabbing about was the most important thing, in need of all your attention. Now if you decided to disengage with his mere presence tonight, he would badger you all night until you relented, spilling your guts out of pure frustration.
That was something you really disliked. Being coerced into talking when in fact you didn’t want to. Preferring to drag it out, giving yourself time and distance to come to a conclusion yourself, to decide when you want to talk, not because of the other person’s impatience and insatiable curiosity.
That was something you had to deal with when it came to Dex. When he wanted to know, he would find out by any means, he’d draw it out of you eventually. In the end, you know the best outcome is if only one of you is frustrated, because when his mood switched, his impulsive behaviour came out to play.
So better you than him.
You’d never hear the end of it if he was annoyed due to you not talking to him, like you were keeping something from him. You think sometimes he felt like you rejected him if you decided to bottle up your feelings or thoughts from him.
It wasn’t a rejection though, it was just the way you functioned when it came to these kinds of things.
You wished he would understand, but you couldn’t expect that from him, not when he hovered around when you went all quiet, face void of any emotion. He made it up by following your lead when you decided to not talk much, helping you around, doing small things that lightened the load.
And he hated it, like watching a ticking bomb. He constantly asked if you needed anything, if you wanted to talk to him, but you’d just shake your head and ignore his advances. Instead you’d fixate on whatever was playing on the TV.
He’d huff and puff, sinking into the couch with his legs spread. Face contorted into something short of a pout, waiting for you to speak up. It may have been cruel but you just knew that the more he asked, the more he nudged you with his words, you would eventually flip.
The frustration bubbled, but you kept your mouth shut. He was so annoying, and so frustrating to deal with, but he was sweet, too sweet at times that you didn’t know how to behave.
The way to get him to stop sulking was to give him a little affection. Any contact would make him shut his mouth. So you’d just hook your arm around his, hoping it would be enough to let him know that you were fine and not upset at him.
Sometimes that worked, sometimes it didn’t. The times when it didn’t work was due to your aversion to touch when you became like this, because touch simply made you even worse, even more hot and bothered, because of him.
Today you don’t really know how it’s going to play out, you just hope you can keep yourself at bay, not wanting to worry him over something so small. It happens often, and usually you can release your energy elsewhere, but today it just felt different.
So by rifling through newer articles, giving you an insight about another raid that occurred a few months ago, and how it changed the city within that short time frame. That investigative nature that possessed you had never really left you. You would find some answers if you kept looking, and you are able to distract yourself for many hours, that is before you start receiving multiple texts from Dex asking when you’ll be back.
It was getting dark and you remember that you promised to spend it together, meaning eating together, possibly binging a show or doing your own things before turning in for the night. You prefer nights like that, getting to do whatever you want, be it crochet a little or watch a show, or simply have a deep conversation with him.
Another text asking you what you wanted to eat. If you wanted him to pick up some dessert on his way back. Then another one asking why you weren’t replying.
He was demanding in small ways that you didn’t mind, but when you required time and space, to be alone with your thoughts, it got overwhelming with the barrage of texts urging you to reply. If you didn’t message him back he’d call and call till you replied. And if you didn’t he’d find you before you have the chance to get back.
It was also about safety, both of you were living away from prying eyes, always covering your faces when you went out, or tucking yourselves away from the eyes of the AVTF or any street cameras, check-ins were therefore, important.
You send him a simple text, telling him to choose whatever he wants, and that you’ll pick up some cookies from the dessert place you both frequented.
You slow your pace down, soaking up the time you had for yourself. It would shatter the minute you got back, he would bombard you with questions once he sees you entering his apartment.
And bombard you he did. As soon as he hears you close the door. You swap out your shoes with some house slippers.
“You back so late? Why didn’t you reply to my texts?” He asks, taking the container of cookies from you, “I told you to check in with me.”
“I did reply to you. What are you on about?” you mumble, taking your jacket off and head towards the bathroom to change into comfier clothes, not giving him time to reply back.
He watches you emerge from the bathroom a few minutes later, face dripping from water after splashing yourself with it.
“You okay?” He watches as you fill two glasses of water and set it on the small dining table.
You nod. He takes a seat across from you. You both dig in. Neither saying much, and because you’re not as talkative as you usually are, he begins to pick up on it, wondering why.
If there was something truly wrong, you would have told him. Right?
Still, he watches you closely. Looks at how you eat, where your eyes move, the tension in your shoulders, how much you eat, the skin around your lips in case you’d been biting them again.
Anything. Anything that would indicate something, an answer, an explanation.
He can’t come to a conclusion when he explicitly knows what was wrong, he needs you to talk. That was the issue though, you weren’t saying anything at all.
“You like it?” You nod, chewing your food. That’s all he gets. No eye contact, no smile. Not even a hum.
He tries again after you both have settled onto the couch. With the dishes washed and dried, the food packed away, you can finally relax. Grabbing two plates for the cookies, turning the TV on and deciding to turn on an episode of a sitcom you had already re-watched.
After about ten minutes, he can’t handle it anymore, with eyes darting your way every few minutes, he receives nothing, not even a questioning look shot his way. He turns down the volume, you don’t react, simply waiting for him to say what was on his mind.
“You wanna talk to me now? Tell me what’s wrong.”
“No. Nothing’s wrong.”
It comes out flatter than you had meant it to. You almost regret it, he didn’t deserve such an apathetic response after thinking of you and getting the food all set out and ready to be devoured.
“Sorry, um…” you trail off, leaning forward to grab your plate and take a big bite of your cookie, avoiding answering him now that your mouth is full, hoping he diverts his attention after your small, yet strange apology.
His brow quirks up as he watches you take a bite. Eyes drop to your mouth and back up, you flush when you notice him doing that. You shuffle away from him to create some distance between you, some boundary that you felt needed to be established.
An offended look graces his face, almost baffled at you distancing yourself from him.
He tucks his lip into his mouth, then he grasps your wrist and with his other hand takes the plate away from you and places it back on the table before dragging you close into him.
Both his hands are on your shoulder, “now, speak. Or I’ll make you.”
You scoff, “make me?”
He looks expectantly at you, glad that you at least were replying to him. That doesn’t last when you turn your head away from him.
“I can’t stand it when you go all quiet on me. Is it because of me?”
You shake your head, squirming away from his hold. He doesn’t let up, so you try and move his hands off of you. He retaliates, using his other hand to make you stop, and that was how you were both wrestling around for a good twenty seconds before you huffed out when you’re inevitably pinned on the couch by him.
“What’s wrong with you? Can’t you leave me alone!” you jostle in his hold, groaning out out loud in agitation, only for him to push you down even further.
He waits, watches you until you get it out of your system. When you settle a little, “you won’t even look at me,” eyes sharper now, almost accusing as he says it, “whilst we were eating, you wouldn’t look at me. You've been off the whole day, wanna tell me why?”
You shake your head, "I don't know why, okay?”
“You do know. Think again.”
“I don’t,” you whine out, “I really don’t.” You wait for his grip to loosen, it doesn’t, “let me go now…please?”
He carefully observes your facial reactions, you gulp. He notices, your skin is hot, you’re frustrated, snippy too. Why? What happened when you were both separated for a few hours?
“You do know that I can tell when you’re lying to me. You are a lousy liar Star. I don’t like it when you hide things from me. You understand?”
You still, and look past him. “I’m not lying,” and it’s tears of frustration that prick the corner of your eyes.
He can’t ever let things go, can he?
The frustration has built up throughout the day, at its tipping point now. And once the tears begin to flow, you’re fucked, because that means something is actually wrong, and your body cannot hide it anymore with loose words and empty reassurances.
“You are,” his tone softens when he sees your wet eyes, taking one of his hands away from your wrist and laying it flat on your stomach, “you don’t wanna test me. I’ll be insufferable till you tell me and you know it.”
Instead of taking the usual approach of letting you be, what he normally does, but he can’t shake off the curiosity that has accumulated over the course of the months you two had been living together.
He chooses to fuck around and find out.
Maybe this way he can get you to open yourself up to him even though he meddled, not the way a healthy relationship functions.
But who said he was normal and healthy?
He strokes his hand up and down the fabric where your stomach is like he’s done so before.
It clenches, tightens at the feeling. Not your stomach that clenches, and your eyes widen when you realise. It pools downwards, you purse your lips, unable to stop your body from reacting that way.
It was him this whole time, you realise that now. It started sometime after this morning, when you left together before splitting up after a while.
And when he has you trapped underneath him like this, you feel like you’re somehow taking advantage of his affection. As if you were violating the terms of your friendship that was supposed to be pure, real.
It seems wrong to admit you really, really like it. The daunting feeling that you were actually seeking him out all day, most likely on other days too, and this was out of your control, the things that went on the inside were now not in your hands, but his.
Ashamed to admit that you want more from him, but it’s wrong. You can’t possibly want something so intimate, full of desire from him.
Do you even see him that way? Does he see you that way?
He’s your friend, he takes care of you, he keeps you safe. The thoughts you’re having at this moment borders on something you have never considered. Your relationship with him has never fallen into deeper intimacy, it’s always been a mutual transaction of affection, that was all. Nothing more, nothing less.
Yes, you depend on him for that surge of affection he provides without a second thought, in fact you are so starved of it that at times you attempt to get away from the overwhelming feeling of being held by another person.
This however, is completely different, you are so out of your depth that you cannot fathom the idea of viewing him as anything other than your friend, the one who keeps on coming back to you. In your mind, when you breach certain parts of a friendship, it changes things, it already has.
He cannot be your friend anymore, can he?
Then again, who are you to decide which actions are considered as a part of a friendship or not. Many people remain friends after doing things together that couples typically engage in. So how would this be any different?
You can’t want this, because you’ve never been in a position like this before.
“What do you want, Star? Tell me?” He murmurs to you.
You sniff, face still facing away. “I don’t know. I…I don’t want anything.”
“Yes you do. We can play this game all night,” his hand presses down instead of caressing the skin.
A soft gasp leaves you, mouth parting when you feel the air leave your lungs at the sudden press. Hand coming up to curl around his wrist.
“What are you doing?”
He smiles innocently, “nothin’ sweetheart.” His hand slides around your hip, squeezing the flesh over the material of your sweats.
You can’t. You can’t do this. Your unoccupied hand comes over your face, covering your eyes. You’re going to shut down in front of him or do something you're going to regret.
He pries your hand off, “no hiding, not right now,” he reprimands as if you had done this many times prior.
He pauses before choosing his words carefully, “you feeling a little frustrated today? Irritated?” Then he leans down to whisper, “here?” He pats your abdomen, not going further than that.
His face is almost shy of a smirk. It deepens the lines of his forehead, like he’s utterly amused.
He knows. He fucking knows. That is all that swirls in your head.
He can tell by now what was going on, he also knows he has to tread carefully, not wanting you to shut in on yourself from the embarrassment of it all.
You feel stuck, caged in with no way out. He won’t let you go, not until he deems it enough to have tortured you like this. Is he making fun of you? His tone is almost mocking as he asks you about your mood.
And all you can do is take his mockery of you feeling something so natural. He has the gall to laugh in your face. You frown, tears leaking out.
“Shh. It’s okay, Star. Don’t cry.” His hand comes up to wipe away your tears, “were you embarrassed because you couldn’t tell me?” A faux pout, “you know that you can tell me anything, even if it’s something like this.”
Your eyes screw shut at his implication. You shake your head, “I don’t wanna talk about this. Let’s just leave it, okay?”
He chuckles lightly, shaking his head, “no, we can’t. Not when you won’t trust me enough to talk to me,” his amusement turns into something you assume is disappointment, brows drawn in, “you know it hurts me when you keep things from me,” his thumb brushes your cheek, "did you know what?”
You gulp down the lump in your throat, you shake your head at his admission.
“Maybe some exposure therapy is needed here, hm? What do you think?” He’s serious as ever, no smile in sight, it makes your stomach churn. You breathe in at what he was suggesting. You don’t fully grasp what he’s meaning to say.
So you play along with him for the time being. You’ve calmed down enough to realise what he’s doing is wrong on so many levels. At least in your eyes, you feel a little icky with him holding you in such a compromising position due to the implications of it all.
You want to panic at what he said about exposure therapy. What does that even mean?
“I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“I’m sure it is, cuz’ you’ve made me all frustrated too. Think there’s a fix for that.”
He does seem frustrated. Though you understand the underlying meaning, especially the second he settles his hips over yours. The heavy weight of his body is leaning on your bottom half, pinned to the couch with no way of moving around anymore.
That constriction does not ease your nerves, but more like you have sealed your fate. Too late to argue with him, to tell him why you’re feeling the way you are, because he knows.
He knows and he won't let up.
Nothing you say will change his mind now. Be it a confession, the truth, whatever you say, he won't listen.
“Think I’m gonna let you get away now?” He leans down, forehead pressing against yours. He breathes heavily, like he’s so affected by the closeness, the proximity was downright dizzying.
You’re so transfixed by his actions that you almost feel the shame leave your body. Almost. It’s still there, enough that you are still aware of it.
He’s so near, so warm, and you can feel things that make you squeal on the inside. You shut your eyes tightly, when he rolls forward. He groans out loud, and your face burns, “look at me…please.”
And you do. What else can you do when he looks at you like this?
When you hesitate, his leg pushes your knee apart, granting him access so he can slot himself in between. Flush with your middle, then he stops.
“I saw you that day, before I took you with me,” you both gasp at the feeling of him punctuating his words with a rough grind that hits your core so pleasantly, “I watched you from your window.”
He carries on repeatedly pushing back and forth. Stimulating you so slowly, with the perfect amount of pressure where you need it, that it makes you want more, and more, and more and–
“You couldn’t even…and I shouldn’t have but I…m’sorry.”
Strange time to be confessing things. For now you overlook his timing. You can’t comprehend the severity of what he’s saying to you, but in the back of your mind there are alarm bells going off, urging you to question the man who keeps rutting into you like a dog in heat, whilst emptying out his stomach in the form of confessions.
“You watched me?”
“Watched you? yeah,” he nods, breathing heavily as a layer of sweat coats his temples, cheeks all red.
He has to tell you what he did, and to him right now seems to be the best time to admit he watched you get off to the thoughts of him.
“And then in the morning,” He shudders as he feels your fingers dig into his shoulder, “I found the photographs…” His voice pitches up a notch, and he rocks into you with intention, “...of me…of us,” his head moves to your neck, pushing it into the gap. You can feel his breath on your neck.
“Dex, I…why did you…” you reply, almost dazed when he hikes your leg around his waist, grabbing at the underside of your thigh to hold you there, as if he was trying to distract you from reacting, “...do that?”
“I swear, didn’t do anything, promise.” Words slurring slightly, half-hearted assurance that he really didn’t let his hand travel downwards.
“Why? Asked why you…uh…why you watched me.”
He ignores your question, breathing heavily into your neck, “did you think of me? Is that why you stopped that night?” his hand squeezes your thigh once, “did you?”
He pulls away from your neck, but his movements don’t falter. In fact the dragging pressure becomes more steady, consistent, never wavering as he waits for your reply. As if he would coax an answer out of you through the best form of communication he knows; with his eyes.
Confident in the way he moves, though his face tells you a different story. Face screwed up as his chest heaves up and down, “tell me…or I’ll stop.”
At this point even you know that to deny yourself this pleasure, coiling deep within your gut and all the way down to your core, and just this once you would allow yourself to have this despite the humiliation that came with Dex knowing you were pent up because of him.
Though you are concentrating on more things than you could count, the heat within, his touch that seems to be everywhere making you go all fuzzy, how he gives, and gives and gives.
Keeps on giving you what you desperately need.
You nod your head frantically when you hear his little threat.
“Use your…mhh…words, Star.”
It’s comical watching how much his words contradict his tone. Trying to come across all demanding, yet he’s not faring well from all the friction he’s creating. You don't linger on those thoughts much due to the impending release that is somehow so close, yet so far away.
“Yeah, I thought about you.” You whimper as he begins to speed up, “shouldn't have but… “
“You can…hah, y’can think bout’ me Star. Nothing wrong with…tha– fuck…nothing wrong with that.”
You don’t say anything after that, mind numbed in the best way possible due to the approach that keeps getting closer and closer.
His knee is digging into the couch, pushing you up towards your peak, dragging himself there right after you. The room fills with obscene sounds, downright filthy groans he was letting out, and the pitched gasps turning into whines that you had given up on hiding with the bite of your lip.
He loves having you like this, panting out his name while his own nonsensical pleads mix together, forming a language that communicates desperation for each other, sweet words slipping through, hands sweeping across any visible skin, heat spreading to places that connect you both.
Eyes rolling backward, pupils shaking as you writhe in his embrace, holding him tightly around his shoulders. It’s all so messy and desperate.
And he gets you to see you become undone like this; beneath him.
He made you face what you kept avoiding, he found your shyness, or rather the painful embarrassment you hid behind endearing; not that you could help it, but he just wanted you to confide in him, trust him since you never seemed to want to initiate anything remotely emotional. Even after everything you had been through with him, you still keep to yourself.
You try, you really do. He wants more, he always wants more from you. Maybe that’s a flaw in him that won’t ever be repaired. It’s up to you to give him what he tries to pry out of you, and it’s up to him to coax it out of you.
Breathy words whispered into his ear has him flushing a pretty red colour, they burn from the confessions that spill out of your mouth, unable to control his bodily reactions when you thank him so prettily as you cling onto him.
Dazed from the aftermath, he holds you close, sinking down onto your body. Letting his weight drop so that you’re completely flush against him. No gaps in between.
Almost crying at how good it felt, how he drove you to a point of bliss. Never had you been able to do this yourself, not to this degree. What a shame that was.
Well, at least you had him.
And he would happily provide, he would give you anything, and also because it was you who asked.
Reader is a vigilante with a healing factor, Dex is tasked to kill her as bullseye by order of Vanessa. She survives, heals up with help of Matt at a secret spot and after a few days comes back home and Dex is in her appartment waiting for her 🫣
Fatal Attraction
pairings: benjamin poindexter x vigilante!reader
warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, fighting, stabbing, blood, injuries, bestie matt murdock, sassy sarcastic reader, banter, dex whimpering, he's very vocal, pinv sex, cowgirl on the couch, service bottom dex??, dex is implied to be bit inexperienced but not really, the bullseye suit stays on 🫦.
word count: 6.4k
a/n: sorry for answering this late but all the asks will be posted soon. the pictures shown are not a description of the reader, only for aesthetic purposes. Requests are open!!!
closer- nine inch nails playing ▶️
bullseye masterlist main masterlist
Vanessa Fisk does not raise her voice when she gives an order, and that is somehow worse than if she screamed it at you across a boardroom table. She had folded her hands on the polished wood of her husband's old desk and told Dex, in that same even, cultured tone she used to discuss shipping routes and real estate acquisitions, that the vigilante operating in Hell's Kitchen with the healing factor needed to be removed from the equation before she became a variable Wilson could not control.
She did not say your name like it mattered. She said it like a line item, and Dex had nodded, because nodding was what he did when Vanessa spoke, and because some small ugly part of him had been waiting for an excuse to finally see what you were made of.
He finds you on a rooftop three blocks from the pier, crouched over a low level dealer you'd already zip tied to a vent pipe, your hood pushed back just enough that the streetlight catches the line of your jaw. You hear him before you see him, the particular quiet of a man who has trained his whole life to be quiet, and you turn with a knife already loose in your hand like you'd been expecting rain and this was just weather. He likes that immediately. He likes it more than he wants to admit, watching you clock him, watching you do the math on his silhouette and his stance and the way he holds himself like a coiled spring, and somewhere in that math you must have landed on the wrong number, because you smirk instead of running.
"Vanessa send the B team," you say, "or is Bullseye supposed to be a compliment?"
He doesn't answer with words. He answers by throwing the first thing his hand finds, a loose bolt from the rooftop vent, and it catches you in the shoulder hard enough to spin you half around before you've even registered he moved.
You hiss through your teeth, more surprised than hurt, and when you look back at him there's something bright and delighted in your expression that he was absolutely not prepared for.
"Okay," you say, rolling your shoulder like you're warming up rather than recovering, "that one actually stung. Ten out of ten, would get hit by a rogue bolt again."
"You're supposed to be running," he says, and his voice has that flat, almost bored quality that people who don't know him mistake for calm.
"And you're supposed to be intimidating," you say, "so I guess tonight's just full of disappointments."
The fight that follows is not clean, and it is not fast, and it is nothing like the tidy choreography of the fights you've had with lesser men who fold the moment they realize you don't fold back. Dex throws a knife and you take it in the side rather than let it find your throat, and you laugh, actually laugh, a short disbelieving bark of a sound, because the pain arrives and then arrives again a second later as your body starts knitting the wound shut in real time, muscle and vessel stitching themselves together with a deep internal burn that feels like someone poured lit gasoline directly into your bloodstream.
You've never gotten used to that part. You doubt you ever will. The healing is a mercy and a punishment delivered in the same breath, your body's insistence on survival paid for in a currency of pure agony every single time, and you grit your teeth and close the distance on him anyway because stopping to feel sorry for yourself has never once been useful.
He is good. He is better than good, he is the kind of good that comes from a lifetime of being trained like a weapon instead of raised like a person, and every throw he makes lands with a precision that would have ended a normal fight in the first ten seconds. But you are not a normal fight, and that seems to be dawning on him in real time, his expression shifting from clinical focus to something rawer and more interested with every wound that closes up in front of him.
You take a blade across your ribs and answer with an elbow to his jaw that snaps his head sideways. You take a hit that cracks two of your fingers and answer by grabbing his collar with the same broken hand, ignoring the way the bones grind, and headbutting him hard enough that he stumbles back tasting copper.
"You're insane," he says, spitting blood onto the rooftop gravel, and there's something almost admiring buried under the venom in his voice.
"You're the one throwing cutlery at strangers," you say, "so let's not start comparing diagnoses."
He drives you back with a series of throws that force you into a retreat you don't want to make, and it's the last one, a wicked curved blade he'd been saving, that finds the gap in your defenses and buries itself just under your ribs at an angle that makes your vision go white at the edges. You go down hard onto one knee, hand pressed to the wound, blood welling up hot and fast between your fingers, and for one long moment the two of you just look at each other across the rooftop, him breathing hard with his chest heaving, you kneeling in your own blood with your jaw set like you refuse to let this be the thing that finishes you.
"Stay down," he says, and it isn't quite a command, it's closer to something else, something that sounds almost like he doesn't want to say it twice.
"Not really in my nature," you say, and you push yourself back up onto your feet through sheer bloody-minded stubbornness, swaying, and he watches the wound at your side visibly begin to seal itself, the edges drawing together in a way that makes his breath catch even though he'd swear later he doesn't remember doing it.
"Vanessa wants you gone," he says. "Permanently."
"Vanessa can get in line," you say, "I've got a whole waiting room of people who want me gone. You'll have to take a number."
The end of that fight isn't a victory for either of you, not exactly. It's a near miss dressed up as a stalemate, a moment where Dex has you pinned against the low wall of the rooftop with a knife an inch from your throat, close enough that you can feel his breath and see the muscle working in his jaw, and instead of finishing it he just stares at you like he's trying to solve something. You use that half second of hesitation the only way you know how, driving your knee up hard into a place that makes even a man like him buckle, and you use the opening to throw yourself off the edge of the roof onto the fire escape below, half falling and half controlled, your body screaming the whole way down.
You don't remember much of the walk after that. You remember the wet warmth spreading down your side, the way your legs kept moving even when your brain wanted to stop giving them instructions, the particular clarity that comes right before a body decides it's had enough. You remember pulling out your phone with shaking fingers and typing a single word to the one person in this city who has patched you up more times than either of you likes to admit, and then you remember very little else until you're waking up on a cot in a space that smells like antiseptic and old brick, with Matt Murdock's hands moving carefully and methodically over a wound that is already half closed on its own.
"You need to stop doing this to yourself," Matt says, not looking at you, because he never really looks at anyone, but somehow always seeming to see you anyway.
"I didn't do this to myself," you rasp. "Some deranged human dartboard did this to me."
"Bullseye," Matt says, and something tightens in his voice, some old recognition. "You fought Bullseye and you're describing your injuries in a sentence instead of a body bag. That's not nothing."
"I'm aware I'm impressive, Murdock, you don't have to sound so surprised about it."
You wince as your body does its slow gruesome work beneath his hands, skin and muscle knitting closed millimeter by millimeter, and you grip the edge of the cot hard enough that your knuckles go white. "God, I hate this part. Everyone thinks healing factor sounds like a superpower and nobody mentions it feels like getting stabbed a second time, just slower."
"You should rest," Matt says, and he says it the way he says most things, gently but with an undertone that suggests he already knows you won't listen.
"I will," you say, and you almost believe it yourself for about four days.
You spend those four days in the dark, cramped little sanctuary Matt keeps for exactly this purpose, sleeping in long stretches that don't feel restful so much as necessary, waking every few hours to the low simmering ache of tissue still repairing itself somewhere under your skin. Matt checks on you when he can, brings food you mostly don't want, and doesn't push you to talk about the fight even though you can tell he's turning it over in that quiet analytical way of his, filing away every detail you let slip about the man who almost put a knife through your throat. By the fifth morning your ribs have stopped complaining every time you breathe, and the last of the deep bruising along your side has faded to something yellow and forgettable, and you decide, against every reasonable instinct you have, that it's time to go home.
"You're sure," Matt says, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, and it isn't really a question.
"I've got plants that need water and a bed that isn't a cot," you say, pulling your jacket on over the fresh bandages. "I'll live. I'm annoyingly good at that."
"That's not what I meant," Matt says, and there's a beat where you both know exactly what he means, the specific danger of walking back into a life where someone has already proven he knows your rooftops, your patterns, your face.
"Whoever Vanessa sent after you isn't going to just let this go. Men like that don't stop because they lost once."
"Then I guess I'll just have to win the next one too," you say, and you mean it as a joke, but it comes out sounding a little too much like a promise.
Your apartment key sticks in the lock the way it always has, a small stubborn detail of your life that feels almost sweet after four days spent somewhere that wasn't yours, and you have to jiggle it twice before the tumblers finally give. The hallway light is out again, which means the building super still hasn't fixed it despite three separate complaints, and you're already composing the aggravated voicemail you're going to leave him as you push the door open into the dark of your own living room. You don't turn the light on right away. Old habit. You stand in the doorway for a second just breathing in the familiar smell of your own space, and it's in that exact moment of quiet homecoming that you become aware you are not alone.
He's sitting in your armchair like he owns it, one leg crossed over the other, a knife spinning idly between his fingers with the kind of lazy competence that tells you this isn't the first minute he's spent in that chair. The streetlight through your window catches the sharp lines of his face, and for a second, just a second, you feel something that isn't quite fear and isn't quite anger, something closer to the electric jolt of recognizing an opponent you didn't expect to see again so soon.
"You know," you say, flicking the light switch because you refuse to have this conversation in the dark like it's some kind of ambush he gets to control the atmosphere of, "most people knock."
"Most people don't put a knee where you put yours," Dex says, and there's something almost conversational in his tone, like he's commenting on the weather rather than the fact that he broke into your home. "I've been sitting with that for four days."
"Aw, you missed me," you say, dropping your bag by the door with a deliberate carelessness you don't entirely feel, because your pulse is climbing and you're doing the math on every exit and every object in the room that could be a weapon, old habits refusing to switch off even as your mouth runs on autopilot. "That's genuinely the most romantic thing anyone's said to me all week, and I've been recovering from a stab wound, so the bar was low."
"I came here to finish the job," he says.
"You came here and sat in my chair for who knows how long instead of finishing the job," you say, folding your arms. "Which one of us is bad at this."
He stands up slowly, unfolding himself out of the chair with a kind of deliberate patience that feels more threatening than if he'd lunged, and you hold your ground even though every instinct screaming under your skin is telling you to put furniture between the two of you. He's close enough now that you can see the fading bruise along his jaw where you'd headbutted him, a mark you're absurdly proud of, and he studies you like you're a puzzle he's been chewing on for four sleepless nights and still hasn't solved.
"You should be dead," he says, and it isn't an accusation, it's something closer to bewilderment, the flat disbelief of a man whose entire skill set is built on the guarantee that his aim never fails to end a life. "I put a knife under your ribs at an angle that kills in under a minute. You should be dead, and instead you're standing in your kitchen making jokes about furniture."
"Sorry to disappoint," you say, though you don't sound sorry at all. "I'll try to die properly next time, really work on my technique."
"That's not—" He stops, jaw working, and for the first time since you've known of him, however briefly and violently, he looks almost frustrated with himself for not having the right words. "I've never had a job not finish. Not once. And you're just standing there like it's funny."
"It is a little funny," you say, stepping closer instead of back, because you've never once in your life been good at doing the safe thing when the reckless thing was right there available.
"You're Vanessa's attack dog and you got beat by someone bleeding out on a rooftop. If I were you I'd be having a real identity crisis right now, not sitting in my armchair brooding about it."
"I'm not brooding," he says, too fast, too defensive, and something in the way his eyes drop briefly to your mouth before snapping back up tells you that whatever is happening in his head right now is a great deal more complicated than professional frustration.
"You want to know what I think," you say, and you don't wait for permission before you say it, because waiting for permission has never once been your style.
"I think you've spent your whole life being told you're a weapon, a tool, something Vanessa points at a target and forgets about between uses. And I think you came here tonight because some part of you wanted to see if I was going to be scared of you, and the fact that I'm not is doing something to your head that Vanessa's approval never did."
His expression flickers, something raw and unguarded slipping through the careful blankness he wears like armor, and for a second you think you've cut too close, that he's going to close the distance between you with a knife instead of words. Instead he laughs, low and a little startled, like the sound surprised even him, and it's the first genuinely human noise you've heard him make since the rooftop.
"You talk a lot for someone who almost died four days ago," he says.
"And you break into a lot of apartments for someone whose job was supposedly done in one night," you say. "We're both a little pathetic, really, if you think about it."
"I'm not pathetic," he says, and there's an edge to it now, something wounded and defensive that tells you you've found a nerve worth pressing, the kind of nerve that says nobody has ever spoken to him like this and lived long enough to see his reaction.
"You're sitting in a stranger's apartment because you can't stop thinking about the one person who ever hit back," you say, softer now, watching him carefully. "That's not exactly a portrait of stability, Ben."
The way his name lands in your mouth does something to the air in the room, some shift you can feel more than see, his shoulders tightening and his grip flexing around the knife he's still absently spinning between his fingers. He takes a step closer, close enough now that you can feel the heat coming off him, close enough that you have to tip your head back slightly to keep looking him in the eye, and there's a dangerous, electric quality to the space between your bodies that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the same reckless current that ran through you on the rooftop when you laughed at a bolt buried in your shoulder.
"How do you know that name," he says, low, and it isn't quite a threat, it's closer to something raw and exposed.
"Vanessa's got a big mouth when she thinks nobody's listening," you say, holding perfectly still even as your heart pounds hard enough that you're sure he can probably hear it, given whatever strange senses a man like him has honed over a lifetime of aiming for soft, vulnerable places. "You're not the only one who does his homework before a fight."
"Careful," he says, and the knife stops spinning, held loosely now between two fingers like a promise he hasn't decided whether to keep. "I could still finish this."
"You could've finished it four days ago," you say, "and you didn't. So I don't really think that's what tonight's about."
He doesn't answer right away, and the silence between you stretches out taut and charged, full of everything neither of you seems willing to say out loud, until finally he reaches out, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted to, and traces two fingers along the fading pink line at your side where his knife had gone in four nights ago, the last visible evidence of a wound that would have ended anyone else. His touch is careful in a way that feels entirely at odds with the violence of how that scar was made, and you don't pull away, you just watch him, watch the strange, hungry fascination playing across his face as he feels the place where he genuinely believed he'd killed you.
"It's already healed," he says, quiet, almost reverent, and there's something in his voice that isn't quite awe and isn't quite obsession but sits somewhere dangerously close to both.
"Mostly," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you intend, because his hand hasn't moved and neither has yours. "It still aches when it rains. Healing factor doesn't mean painless, it just means persistent."
"I want to know what that feels like," he says, and it isn't a threat this time, it's something closer to genuine, unguarded want, the kind of confession that a man like him probably doesn't make twice in a lifetime. "Getting hurt and just... not staying broken. Getting to come back from it."
"It's not a gift," you say. "Every single time, it hurts exactly as much as the wound did the first time, and then it hurts again while it closes. People think it means I don't feel pain. I feel all of it. I just don't get to keep the excuse of dying to make it stop."
"That should scare me off you," he says, and there's a rough honesty in the admission that catches you off guard, "the idea that I could carve into you as many times as I wanted and you'd just keep coming back for more. Instead I've been sitting in that chair for four days thinking about it."
"That's deeply unwell of you," you say, though your voice has lost most of its bite, gone low and a little unsteady instead, "and also, if I'm being honest, extremely on brand for a man who throws playing cards at people's throats for a living."
"You're not scared of me," he says, and it isn't a question anymore.
"I'm a little scared of you," you admit, because pretending otherwise would be a lie and you've never seen the point of lying to a man who's already had his hand pressed to your ribs where he stabbed you. "But it's not the kind of scared that makes me want to run. It's the kind that makes me want to see what happens if I don't."
Something shifts in his face at that, some final piece falling into place behind his eyes, and the knife in his hand disappears into his jacket with a small practiced motion, tucked away like a decision he's just made and isn't planning to revisit. He's still close enough that you can feel every breath he takes, and the tension between you has curdled into something that isn't quite a fight and isn't quite anything either of you has a name for yet, charged and unresolved and humming under your skin like the moment right before a storm actually breaks.
"Vanessa's going to ask if it's done," he says, and there's a flicker of something almost like fear in it, the first time all night he's sounded uncertain of anything.
"So lie to her," you say. "You're apparently very good at getting close to people without them noticing. I bet you can manage one convincing story."
"And if she finds out I didn't finish it?"
"Then I guess you'll have a very interesting conversation with your boss," you say, "and I'll have a very interesting rematch with you, and honestly, at this point, I'm not sure which one of those I'm looking forward to more."
He looks at you for a long moment, something unreadable and strangely tender moving beneath the sharp planes of his face, the kind of look that belongs to a man who has spent his whole life being pointed at targets and has just discovered, apparently for the first time, that he might actually want to miss one on purpose.
"You're the only thing that's ever hit back and made me want to keep fighting instead of just finishing it," he says, quiet, like the admission costs him something.
"Careful, Poindexter," you say, stepping back just far enough to put a sliver of air between your bodies again, though neither of you looks particularly interested in that distance staying permanent, "keep talking like that and I'm going to start thinking you actually like me."
"Maybe I do," he says, and it sounds like it surprises him as much as it does you, raw and unpolished in a way nothing about him has been all night, "and I have absolutely no idea what to do with that."
"Well," you say, and you can't quite keep the smile off your face even though every rational part of you knows this is an objectively terrible idea, "for someone whose entire job is aiming for the exact right spot, you could try aiming for something other than my throat next time."
He almost smiles at that, something small and crooked that looks unpracticed on his face, like a muscle he hasn't used in a long time. "No promises," he says.
"Good," you say. "I'd hate for either of us to get predictable."
The silence that follows your challenge isn't empty; it's heavy, thick with the kind of static electricity that makes the hair on your arms stand up. Dex doesn't move away. Instead, he shifts his weight slightly, his massive frame casting a shadow that seems to swallow the space between you. The cocky retort you threw at him hangs in the air, but the usual sharp edge of his bravado has dulled into something far more dangerous: genuine curiosity.
His gaze drops. It isn't a casual glance. His eyes track downward, lingering on your mouth with an intensity that feels almost physical, like his stare has heat. He watches the way your lips part as you breathe, the way they move when you swallow, as if he's trying to memorize the exact shape of them. God, he's staring, you think, feeling a flush creep up your neck that has nothing to do with the adrenaline of the fight and everything to do with the way his pupils have blown wide.
Dex clears his throat, a rough, uncertain sound that betrays how badly he's off balance. He's a man who can calculate wind speed and trajectory in a heartbeat, yet here he is, looking like he's forgotten how to stand straight.
"Predictable is overrated anyway," he mutters, his voice dropping an octave, rougher than before. He takes half a step closer, closing that sliver of air you fought so hard to create. "But you... you're a problem. A real fucking problem."
The proximity is overwhelming. Up close, Dex smells like leather and something sharp like gunpowder, mixed with the clean, warm musk of his skin. You can feel the heat rolling off his massive body in waves, a furnace that makes the cool air of the room feel suddenly thin. His breathing has gone shallow, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that matches the frantic pounding in your own ribs.
"What's the matter, Dex?" you murmur, tilting your head back to meet that hungry, unreadable stare. You let a slow, challenging smirk tug at the corner of your mouth, leaning in just enough to make the contact inevitable. "For someone who never misses his mark, you're looking pretty lost right now. Afraid you might actually enjoy something you can't control?"
The words hit him like a physical blow. His composure cracks completely the controlled assassin vanishes, replaced by a man who looks utterly undone by your proximity. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard, his hands twitching at his sides as if he's fighting the urge to either push you away or crush you against him.
"Fuck you," he breathes, but there's no venom in it, only a raw, desperate need.
Before he can finish the thought, you close the distance. When your lips finally crash against his, it isn't gentle. It's a collision all teeth and tongue and pent up frustration. Dex makes a sound somewhere deep in his throat, something halfway between a growl and a whimper, as his arms finally wind around your waist, pulling you flush against the hard planes of his chest.
His hands are unsteady as they find purchase on your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh with a desperate strength that suggests he's afraid you might vanish if he loosens his grip even slightly. The kiss tastes of adrenaline and something sweeter, something dangerously vulnerable. Dex isn't kissing you like a predator claiming prey; he's kissing you like a drowning man who has finally found air, his mouth moving against yours with an awkward, clumsy hunger that makes your heart ache.
A low, broken whimper escapes him when your tongue brushes against his, a sound so uncharacteristic of the lethal man you've known that it sends a shiver down your spine. He's massive, built of solid muscle and hardened sinew, but in this moment, he feels terrifyingly fragile beneath your touch. His forehead drops against yours when you briefly break for air, both of you panting, the space between your lips still charged with enough heat to burn.
"I can't " he starts, his voice cracking, rough and strained. He sounds completely out of his depth, his usual confidence shattered into a thousand pieces. "I don't know what the fuck I'm doing."
You can feel the tremor running through him, a fine vibration that travels from his hands up through his arms where they encircle your waist. It's almost surreal this mountain of a man, someone who could snap bone with a casual grip, is visibly shaking because you dared to touch him.
"A grown man scared of me?" you tease, your voice dropping to a playful, silken purr. You reach up, your fingertips grazing the stubble along his jawline, feeling the way his skin jumps at your touch.
His breath hitches, and he closes his eyes for a second, leaning into your palm as if he's trying to ground himself. "You don't understand," he manages to rasp out, his voice thick with emotion. "I don't... I don't do this. I don't do any of this."
"Relax," you whisper, stepping closer until there's no space left between your bodies, your chest pressing against the solid wall of his. You let out a soft, melodic laugh that carries no malice, only amusement. "I don't bite. Unless you want me to."
The implication makes him flinch, but not away from you. Instead, he makes a sound that's almost a sob a choked, needy noise that vibrates against your lips. His grip on your hips tightens, his large thumbs dragging across the fabric of your clothes. He looks down at you with such naked, unguarded desperation that it makes your own breath catch.
"Fuck," he breathes, the word broken and helpless. "You're going to be the death of me."
The momentum carries you both backward until the back of your knees hit the edge of the couch. With a grunt of surprise that sounds more like surrender than protest, Dex lets you guide him down onto the cushions. He's still dressed in his tactical gear the dark, reinforced fabric of his bullseye outfit creaking as he settles, the leather straps and holsters creating a rugged barrier between you.
You don't waste time with buttons or complicated laces. Instead, you work with practiced urgency, shoving his shirt up to expose the hard ridges of his abdomen and tugging your own clothes aside just enough to expose your skin. When you straddle him, your thighs parting to accommodate his massive frame, you feel the heat of him through the thin barrier of his trousers. You lower yourself slowly, guiding him inside with a soft gasp, feeling the stretch and the fullness as you begin to ride him in slow, deliberate circles.
Dex's head thunks back against the couch cushions, his eyes rolling shut as his entire body goes rigid. "Fuck, oh god, " he whimpers, the sound raw and unpracticed. His hands hover uncertainly near your hips before finally settling, his fingers splaying wide across your skin. He's hyper aware of everything: the way your hips roll, the friction, and the way your breathing has gone ragged.
"Wait hold on," he rasps suddenly, his eyes snapping open, dark with panic. His hands move from your hips to your ribs, his touch surprisingly gentle as he scans your torso.
"Your side. You're still you're still healing. I can't I don't want to hurt you." His voice cracks, the fear of causing you pain overriding his own desperate need. He looks genuinely terrified that his size and strength might undo the fragile progress your body has made.
"I'm fine, Dex," you whisper, leaning forward to press a kiss to the hollow of his throat, trying to soothe the tension coiling in his shoulders. "I'm not going to break."
But the gentleness only seems to fuel his desperation. The sight of your skin against his dark tactical gear, moving on him with such confidence despite your injuries snaps something inside him. The awkwardness doesn't vanish, but it transforms into something more commanding. His hands slide from your ribs down to your ass, his fingers digging in with a possessive grip that makes you cry out.
"You're not fine, you're stubborn," he growls, his voice dropping into something darker, more primal. "And if you won't take it easy, then I'm taking over."
He shifts beneath you, his hips bucking upward to meet your descent with newfound purpose. He's not asking permission anymore; he's guiding the rhythm, his movements becoming more forceful as he chases the friction that's making him whimper and groan in equal measure.
"Look at me," he demands, his breath hot against your ear as he drives upward, his massive frame straining against the confines of his gear. "Don't you dare close your eyes. I want to see you when I lose it."
His hips roll beneath you with a sudden, devastating precision, each thrust sending waves of pleasure crashing through your body. The tactical fabric of his trousers scrapes against your inner thighs, the rough texture adding a sharp sting to the overwhelming fullness of him. Dex isn't smooth he's all raw nerve and uncoordinated power but there is something achingly honest about the way he moves, as if he's trying to memorize every inch of you through sheer physical contact.
"Fuck... you're so fucking tight," he gasps, his head thrashing against the cushion. A broken whimper escapes him when you arch your back, your nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders.
"I'm gonna I can't " His voice dissolves into incoherent sounds as his pace quickens, his movements becoming more desperate, more urgent. The controlled assassin has been completely replaced by a man undone by sensation, his breathing coming in ragged, wet pants that echo in the quiet room.
Every time he bucks upward, you feel the strain in his thighs, the sheer mass of him threatening to overwhelm you. His hands shift from your ass to your waist, his grip bruising as he anchors you to him, demanding more, demanding everything. "Please," he chokes out, the word foreign and terrified on his tongue. "Don't stop. Don't you fucking stop."
The friction builds to an unbearable crescendo, the rough tactical fabric of his gear grinding against your sensitive skin as he drives upward with increasing ferocity. Dex's entire body is coiled like a spring, his muscles jumping beneath your palms as he fights for control, yet every time you arch against him, he loses another piece of himself.
His voice breaks into a high, needy whimper that vibrates through your own bones. His hips buck one last time, hard and desperate, and you feel the sudden, hot rush of him filling you as he shudders violently beneath you.
His eyes fly open, pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow the irises, fixed on yours with a raw, terrifying vulnerability. He holds you there, pinned against his chest, his breathing coming in wet, ragged gasps that sound like he's just run miles. For several long seconds, the only sound in the room is the frantic rhythm of your shared breath and the creak of the leather beneath you.
Slowly, the rigid tension begins to drain from his massive frame. His grip on your waist loosens from a bruising hold to something almost reverent, his fingers tracing idle, unsteady patterns against your hips. He sags back into the cushions, looking utterly spent, his face flushed and damp with sweat. "I'm sorry," he mumbles against your neck, his voice thick and uncharacteristically small, the assassin completely gone. "I didn't I didn't mean to be so rough. Did I hurt you? Tell me if I hurt you." Even in the afterglow, his first instinct is to check, to make sure he hasn't broken the one thing he finally decided he wanted to keep.
You let out a shaky laugh, the sound muffled against the crook of his neck. "This is definitely not what Mrs. Fisk assigned you to do," you murmur, your voice still rough from the exertion.
Dex stiffens for half a second before he melts back into you, a sound that's halfway between a groan and a self deprecating chuckle vibrating through his ribcage. He buries his face deeper into the space between your shoulder and neck, breathing you in as if he's trying to memorize your scent to stave off the inevitable return to reality.
"Mrs. Fisk can die in a ditch," he rasps, his voice wrecked and gravelly. "Besides... she never said anything about what to do when the target starts hitting back."
He shifts slightly, trying to adjust his position without dislodging you, but his movements are still clumsy, still unpracticed in the art of post coital tenderness. His large hand moves from your waist to your back, his palm warm and heavy as he traces the line of your spine with surprising delicacy. "Besides," he adds, quieter now, almost as if he's afraid the words might escape if he says them too loud, "I think I've made my own decisions tonight. For once."
There's no cockiness in that admission, no assassin's bravado. Just a raw honesty that makes your heart flutter more than the climax did. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes searching yours with that same terrifying vulnerability. "You okay?" he asks, his thumb brushing against your cheekbone. "Really okay? I know you're still healing, and I " He cuts himself off, biting his lip as if frustrated by his own inability to articulate how badly he wants to make sure you're safe. "I don't want to be another thing that leaves a mark you can't get rid of."
His fingers linger at your jaw, his touch impossibly light for someone who just held you with such bruising intensity. The vulnerability in his expression is almost painful to witness; it's as if he's waiting for you to recoil, to realize that the monster who came to kill you is now the man who's terrified of accidentally breaking you.
"You're not going to break me, Dex," you reassure him again, reaching up to cover his hand with yours, pressing his palm more firmly against your cheek. "And you're not another wound. You're..." You pause, searching for a word that doesn't feel like a lie, but the truth is complicated. "You're a complication."
A ghost of that crooked smile returns to his lips, though it's softer now, tired. "Yeah," he agrees breathlessly, leaning down to press a chaste, lingering kiss to your forehead. "A complication I'm not sure I'm ready to solve yet."
do you think dex gets away with everything using sex or.....
Dex Learns Your Tricks
TW sex, no anatomical detail, fem!reader | WC 400
Dex lets you get away with anything using sex.
You don’t answer his texts for three hours because you’re at work? He’s waiting in your apartment like a fucking crow delivering an omen, eyes dead, phone in his hand like Exhibit A in the trial of you being a terrible girlfriend.
You should say, Dex, normal people don’t spiral because their partner is in a work meeting.
Instead, you kiss him, thigh sliding over his lap, and suddenly his hatred of your inability to make him feel safe in this relationship dies.
Poor thing! All that rage and abandonment panic? Gone.
So, obviously, you abuse this power.
He’s mad? You kiss him. He’s jealous? You get on your knees and pull your hair back. He’s spiraling because the barista knows you by name? You let him bend you over the nearest surface until he’s whining into your neck.
And Dex, because he’s sick and obsessed, learns to imitate your methods, because apparently he decides this is how accountability works now.
So when your favourite coworker suddenly resigns after making one too many jokes near your desk, you know immediately Dex must’ve gotten to him.
You come home furious, and Dex is just sitting there, looking at you like he didn’t just waterboard some poor employee into quitting for the crime of *squints* having eyes and looking at you too long?
You tell him you can’t do that! Not to people you actually like!
And he kisses you and you weakly try to push him off and say you don’t get to fuck your way out of this.
Which is hilarious, because ten minutes later you’re face down on the mattress, dress shoved up, panties around one ankle, Dex behind you with both hands clamped on your hips like he’s trying to hold onto his last chance at forgiveness.
And he’s not even sexy about it. He's pathetic.
He’s sweaty, shaking, and breathless, fucking you deep and messy. “Please,” he pants into your shoulder. “Please.”
His hips stutter hard enough to make you bite the sheets. “Please let me get away with it.”
Oh, fuck him.
He’s whining now, forehead pressed to your back, one arm hooked around your waist to drag you back onto him.
“He wanted you,” Dex says, voice breaking. “He did. I saw it. Please, baby. Please, please, please let me get away with it.”
You try to stay mad, but he makes this ruined sound and spills inside you still begging, still half-apologising without actually saying sorry, still trying to fuck his way out of trouble because you taught him this trick in the first place.
And, yeah.
Fine.
It works.
—
this is a queued post! I am currently either getting married or on my honeymoon! enjoy! 💕
your mom is passed out on the other end of the couch, wine glass still clutched loosely in her hand, mouth open slightly as she snores.
classy, you think, trying not to laugh. she's been like this since the second glass—lightweight as always.
dex sits between you, one arm stretched along the back of the couch behind your shoulders, the other resting casually on his thigh. to anyone watching, it would look perfectly innocent. just a nice family movie night.
except his fingers are playing with your hair, twirling the strands, and every few minutes his hand drifts lower—brushing your neck, your shoulder, the curve of your spine.
on screen, some action movie plays out. explosions. car chases. you haven't been paying attention for the last twenty minutes.
"you okay, honey?" he asks, voice perfectly normal, like he's not currently sliding his hand down your back and slipping it beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts.
your breath catches.
"mhm," you manage, trying to keep your voice steady.
"good." his fingers find the damp spot that’s been growing on your panties, and he makes a soft sound of approval. "always ready for me."
this is insane, you think, eyes darting to your mom. she's literally right there. right freaking there.
but dex doesn't seem to care. he works you slowly, methodically, two fingers pushing inside while his thumb makes its way to your clit. your lips sink into your lip hard enough to taste blood, trying to stay quiet, trying not to move.
the wet sounds are so loud in your ears—obscene and obvious—the movie barely covers them.
"such a needy little thing," he whispers against your ear, so quiet only you can hear. "sitting here dripping on my fingers while your mom sleeps three feet away."
your mom shifts in her sleep, and you freeze completely, every muscle locking up.
dex doesn't. he keeps fingering you, keeps that maddening rhythm, curling his fingers just right.
oh my god if she wakes up—
"relax," he murmurs. "she's out cold. had too much wine. she's not waking up."
"dex," you breathe, barely audible. it's supposed to be a protest but it comes out like a plea.
"shh." his thumb presses harder against your clit, and you have to roll your head over your shoulder and push it into the couch to muffle your sounds. "you're doing so good, baby. staying so quiet for me."
your thighs are shaking, clamped around his wrist, and you're so close you can barely breathe. the couch creaks slightly as you shift, and you freeze again, heart pounding.
your mom's wine glass tips slightly in her hand, and for one horrible second you think it's going to fall—going to shatter and wake her up and she's going to see—
but it doesn't. she just adjusts her grip in her sleep and keeps snoring.
this is the most insane thing that has ever happened to me, you think, but you're also grinding down on his fingers now, desperate and shameless.
"that's it," dex encourages quietly. "take what you need. show me how much you want it."
"i can't—" you whimper, voice breaking. "i can't be quiet—"
"yes, you can." his fingers speed up, and you're seeing stars. "you're gonna come for me right here. right now. with your mom three feet away. and you're not gonna make a sound."
he's actually insane. like clinically insane.
but you're going to do it anyway because you're just as insane as he is.
when you come, it's silent and devastating—your whole body going rigid, pussy clenching around his fingers in waves, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the effort of staying quiet. you bite down on your fist so hard you'll have marks tomorrow.
dex works you through it, relentless, thumb never easing up even as your thighs clamp around his wrist and you're shaking so hard the couch creaks.
your mom stirs.
"mm..." she makes a sleepy sound, shifting. "what'd i miss?"
you're still coming down, still trembling, and dex pulls his hand from your shorts smoothly, bringing his fingers to his mouth and sucking them clean while maintaining perfect eye contact with you.
"nothing, babe," he says easily, voice completely normal. his arm tightens around your shoulders, pulling you against his side as he turns to face her. "just the boring parts. go back to sleep."
"m'kay," she mumbles, already drifting off again.
you sit there trembling, feeling his cum-slick fingers trace patterns on your shoulder, and you're pretty sure you're going to pass out.
"good girl," he murmurs against your hair, so quiet you almost miss it. "next time i'm gonna make you come on my cock while she's sleeping right there. would you like that, honey? would you like daddy to fuck you with your mom in the room?"
no, you think.
but your pussy clenches at the thought, and you know—know—that when he does it, you're going to let him.
A/n: He's such a cutie, note; this of course takes place after him meeting the reader again and the blow job. I just wanted to write a fluff piece for him
Plus size!Reader • Model!Reader
The apartment was bathed in the soft glow of afternoon sunlight filtering through the half-drawn blinds. You stood in front of the full-length mirror near the closet, smoothing the fabric of your short dress with both hands. The material hugged your generous curves in all the right places, the hemline sitting just high enough to be playful without crossing into scandalous territory. It was one of those rare days off...no photoshoots, no runway fittings, just you and Peter enjoying a lazy Saturday together.
Peter was sprawled on the couch behind you, legs stretched out, scrolling through his phone with that absent-minded focus he got when he was trying not to stare. You caught his reflection in the mirror and smiled to yourself. He was terrible at pretending he wasn't watching you.
Walking over to him, you placed a kiss to the top of his head then turned to bend down, reaching for the pair of shoes you'd left on the floor, the hem of your dress riding up just enough to reveal the soft curve of your thighs. The movement was innocent enough, just you getting ready to put something away but the effect on Peter was immediate.
Smack.
The sound echoed through the apartment, sharp and unexpected. Peter's palm connected with the plush roundness of your ass in a playful slap that sent a warm tingle racing up your spine. You straightened slowly, turning to face him with raised eyebrows and a smirk already tugging at your lips.
Peter's face had gone through several shades of crimson in the span of three seconds. His eyes were wide, mouth hanging open in a perfect 'O' of horror and regret. He looked like he'd just accidentally punched the Punisher....again.
"I am so sorry... I don't know why I did that," he blurted out, voice cracking slightly on the last word. His hands flew up in surrender, phone clattering forgotten to the couch cushions. "It was...it was an accident? No, wait, that's worse. It wasn't an accident, but it wasn't on purpose either? I mean—" he started to ramble.
"Did you just slap my ass, Parker?" you teased, tilting your head as you watched him flounder. The mortification on his face was almost too precious to handle.
Peter opened and closed his mouth a few times, looking like a fish gasping for air. "I....mean yeah. I did. Oh god, I did. I'm the worst boyfriend ever. I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking. Well, I was thinking, but not with my brain, and now I'm making it worse..."
You crossed the short distance between you in two steps, the soft sway of your hips drawing his eyes despite his obvious panic. Without giving him time to spiral further, you settled yourself onto his lap, your plush thighs bracketing his as you cupped his face with both hands. His skin was warm beneath your palms, and you could feel the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath your fingertips as bis heart started to beat wildly out of his chest.
"Don't go having a heart attack on me, Parker," you murmured, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his lips. The contact was soft, reassuring, the kind of kiss that said everything was fine without needing words. When you pulled back, his eyes had softened from panic to something warmer, though the flush on his cheeks hadn't faded. "You slapped my ass. It's not the end of the world."
Peter let out a shaky laugh, his hands coming up to rest tentatively on your waist. His fingers splayed across the fabric of your dress, careful not to grip too hard, like he was still afraid he'd crossed some invisible line.
"You're not mad?" he asked, voice small. "Because I feel like I should be apologizing for at least another five minutes. Maybe ten. I could make a PowerPoint presentation about how sorry I am."
"Power point....who uses a power point anymore?" You teased as a soft laugh escaped your lips, the sound bright and genuine, as you shifted slightly on his lap to get more comfortable. The movement made his breath hitch, but he didn't look away from your face.
"I'm not mad," you assured him, brushing your thumb across his cheek. "It was kind of cute, actually. Very on-brand for you."
"On-brand?" Peter repeated, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. "Getting handsy with my incredibly beautiful girlfriend without warning is on-brand?"
"The impulsive part is," you teased, leaning in to nuzzle your nose against his. "The part where you immediately look like you're going to pass out from guilt? That's definitely Peter Parker behavior."
He groaned, dropping his forehead to rest against your shoulder. You could feel the smile against your neck, the tension slowly bleeding out of his frame as your fingers carded through his messy brown hair.
"I can't believe I did that," he mumbled into the fabric of your dress. "I've been trying so hard to be respectful. You're a model, for crying out loud. People stare at you all day professionally. The last thing you need is your boyfriend acting like a caveman."
"Peter." You tugged gently at his hair until he lifted his head to meet your eyes. "I like when you look at me. I like when you touch me. And I especially like when you get all flustered about it afterward. It's endearing."
His expression softened into something unbearably fond. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You pressed another kiss to the corner of his mouth, then the other, then the tip of his nose for good measure. "Besides, if I didn't want you touching me, I'd have said something. Or elbowed you in the ribs. Or sat on you until you apologized properly...or maybe have one of my security details shoot you."
Peter's laugh was startled out of him, bright and genuine. "Sitting on me doesn't sound like much of a punishment...shooting me on the other hand."
"That so? Well maybe we should try it out," you countered, wiggling your hips just enough to make a point. His hands tightened on your waist reflexively, and you grinned at the way his pupils dilated. "See? You're not as smooth as you think you are, Spider-Man."
"Hey, low blow," he protested, but there was no heat in it. His thumbs traced small circles against your sides through the dress fabric, a soothing, absent-minded gesture that betrayed how comfortable he was with you in his space. "I thought we agreed not to bring up the superhero thing during date night."
"This isn't date night. This is 'my boyfriend slapped my ass and had an existential crisis about it' night," you corrected, tapping his nose with one finger. "Completely different vibe."
Peter caught your hand before you could do it again, pressing a kiss to your palm before lacing your fingers together. The gesture was so sweet it made your chest ache in the best way.
"I really am sorry, though," he said, quieter now. "If I made you uncomfortable, even for a second.."
"You didn't." You squeezed his hand, using your free one to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. "I promise. It was surprising, but not unwelcome. And the look on your face after? Worth it."
"I'm never going to live this down, am I?" he asked, but he was smiling as he said it.
"Absolutely not," you confirmed cheerfully. "I'm going to bring this up at the most inopportune moments. Family dinners. Strangers on the street. At my shoots. Right before you swing off to fight bad guys. 'Remember that time you slapped my ass and looked like you wanted the earth to swallow you whole?'"
Peter buried his face in your neck with a dramatic groan, but you could feel him laughing against your skin. His arms came around you properly now, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. You fit together perfectly, your softness complementing the lean muscle of his frame.
"You're the worst," he said, voice muffled.
"You love me," you countered.
"I really do." He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes warm and sincere. "Even when you're threatening to humiliate me in front of your family and coworkers."
"Especially then," you agreed, leaning in for another kiss. This one lingered, slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that said everything words couldn't quite capture. When you finally parted, both of you were slightly breathless, foreheads pressed together.
"So," Peter said after a moment, voice low and teasing, "does this mean I can slap your ass on purpose now? Or do I still need to pretend it was an accident?"
You laughed, the sound echoing through the apartment like sunlight. "Ask nicely and maybe you'll find out."
Peter's grin was bright enough to power the city. "Noted. I'll start practicing my begging."
You settled more comfortably against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, the afternoon stretching out ahead of you like a promise. Outside, New York hummed with its usual chaos, but here, in this small pocket of peace, there was only the two of you, flustered apologies and gentle teasing and the kind of love that made even the most embarrassing moments feel like the start of something wonderful.
SUMMARY. . . You'd made a habit out of chasing Spider-Man across the city, phone in hand with your heart in your throat, just to catch a glimpse of him. Peter knew it was stupidly reckless. He also knew he should have stopped encouraging it. But when you look at him in that way, something in him gives way.
pairing: peter parker/spiderman x reader
content warnings: reckless behavior, kinda stalker-ish behavior, reader repeatedly chasing active crime scenes, danger, explosions, injuries, blood, peter parker being chronically stressed, near-death experience, protective spider-man, arguing, down bad pining, emotional vulnerability, identity secrecy, tracking apps, disastrous flirting, light hurt/comfort, panic and fear, bruises and minor injuries, kissing, making out, masked kisses, peter parker's severe boundary issues & reader's even worse self-preservation instincts, accidental emotional confessions, possessive undertones, references to violence and crime, PLEASE MDNI! 18+, smut. creampies, cockwarming, degradation/praise, dirty talk, doggy style, dry humping, groping, hair pulling, marking/biting, missionary, multiple rounds, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation, rough sex, secret identities (mask stays ON! until it doesn't), sensory deprivation (m!&f!), sensory overload (m!&f!), slight manhandling, teasing, unprotected p in v sex, lmk if i missed anything!
comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡
— amazing support banners used are from @moonstoneandmoonlight !
w/c: 13k (she's a big girl im sry </3)
a/n: big credits to @rip-quizilla who gave me the idea for this, and all my other friends/moots who helped me spent so long watching me lose my mind over finishing this. guys, please do NOT do anything you see in this fic, this is purely for fictional purposes sakes 😭
The first time you saw Spider-Man in person, you hadn't meant to follow him.
At least, that was what you told yourself.
You had been two blocks from the laundromat, carrying a plastic bag of warm clothes against your hip while your phone buzzed violently in your hand. The tracking app had lit up with a sudden red pulse near Delancey, a messy little cluster of comments flooding beneath it.
SPIDEY NEAR ESSEX. CAR CHASE??
NO WAY HE JUST FLIPPED OVER A BUS!
You had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Someone had muttered behind you annoyed, and stepped around your laundry bag. The city kept moving in every direction, yellow cabs pushing through the intersection, steam curling from a grate, somebody laughing too loudly outside a bodega. But your attention had narrowed to that blinking dot.
You had only meant to look. Just for a second. Just to see if the app was accurate, because people exaggerated online all the time and half the sightings turned out to be drones, cosplayers, or blurry red jackets photographed from four avenues away.
Then something had swung overhead.
A blur of red and blue cut between the buildings, so quick your breath caught before your mind could name him. The air shifted with him. People on the sidewalk looked up in scattered bursts, phones rising, mouths open, one man yelling, “Yo! Spider-Man!” like he was calling to a friend across the street.
You had craned your neck so hard it hurt.
He landed on the side of a brick building as if gravity had simply made an exception for him. One hand stuck to the wall, knees bent, white lenses angling down toward the street. Below him, a black SUV fishtailed hard around the corner, its bumper half-torn loose, sparks spitting from beneath the frame.
Spider-Man pushed off the wall.
Your bag split somewhere behind you. A white sock escaped onto the curb. You didn't bother going back for it.
You had run.
Not toward the SUV exactly, because you were not stupid enough to run into traffic on purpose. Not then, at least. But you ran in the same direction, weaving through pedestrians, shoes slapping pavement, pulse climbing higher with every shout and honk.
By the time you reached the next block, the SUV was webbed to a lamppost, the driver was dangling upside down from a fire escape, and Spider-Man was crouched on top of a dented mailbox with one hand pressed to his ribs.
He looked smaller up close than you expected. Not small, exactly, but strangely human.
Breathing hard. Shoulders rising and falling. Suit scuffed dark along one thigh. A tear near his side showed a thin line of skin beneath before he twisted away from the cameras.
You stood behind the police tape with everyone else, hair sticking to your face, lungs burning, and one sock missing from your laundry life forever.
He turned his head.
For half a second, those white lenses landed on you.
You knew he couldn't have recognized you. There was nothing to recognize. You were just another girl in a city full of people who wanted to see a miracle and then post about it before the adrenaline wore off.
Still, your stomach dropped.
Then he lifted two fingers in a quick salute to the crowd, shot a web, and vanished between buildings.
You downloaded two more tracking apps that night.
After that, seeing him became less of an accident and more of a bad habit you pretended was harmless.
You learned the patterns the way other people learned train delays. Robberies traveled fast through comment sections. Sirens became invitations. Helicopters meant something serious. If three different users posted the same grainy red-blue blur within five minutes, you grabbed your jacket before the app could refresh again.
Sometimes you missed him completely and arrived only in time to see cops clearing debris or tourists replaying videos at full volume. Sometimes you caught him from far away, a streak against the gray of the sky, no closer than a rumor. But sometimes you got lucky.
Lucky meant standing across from a jewelry store with shattered glass glittering over the sidewalk while he webbed a man’s wrists to a parking meter.
Lucky meant watching him swing down to stop a delivery cyclist from being clipped by a fleeing van.
Lucky meant hearing him talk.
That was the part nobody could capture right in videos. The way he sounded in person. Younger than the headlines made him, sharper when he was annoyed, and funny even when he was clearly in pain. He filled dangerous moments with words, like if he talked fast enough nobody had time to panic.
“Okay, so, quick note,” he told a guy holding a crowbar outside a pawn shop one wet Thursday evening, “if your getaway plan involves running directly into a bike lane during rush hour, I do think maybe crime isn’t your strongest career path.”
The guy swung at him.
Spider-Man ducked, webbed the crowbar to a street sign, and added, “Oh-kay, so that was a growth opportunity that you just missed.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
His head snapped toward you.
You were standing too close. Not past the tape, not exactly in the line of fire, but close enough that a cop had already told you twice to move back. Rain dotted your cheeks. Your hood kept sliding off. Your phone was clutched against your chest, recording nothing because you had forgotten to press the button.
Spider-Man stared at you for one beat too long.
Then he pointed at you.
“You,” the words were barely clear to your ears.
Your face warmed so fast it felt humiliating. “Me?”
“Yes, you. With the…” He gestured vaguely at your entire existence. “The enthusiastic crime tourism thing.”
A few people nearby turned to look at you. Someone snorted. You should have been embarrassed enough to leave. Instead, you smiled.
“You noticed?”
His lenses narrowed. Somehow, they managed to look exhausted. “That is not the takeaway I was hoping for.”
You lifted your chin as if that proved something to him. “I’m behind the tape.”
“You are practically dating the damn tape.”
“I respect boundary lines!”
His tone turned slightly incredulous. “You followed a man with a crowbar into a rainstorm.”
The correction came quickly on your lips. “I followed you.”
“That is relatively worse.”
It should have ended there. He should have swung away and become a story you told yourself later, replaying every word until the edges wore smooth. But the man webbed to the street sign started yelling about unlawful restraint, the cops moved in, and Spider-Man hopped backward onto the side of a parked van.
Before he left, he looked down at you again.
“Go home,” he said as if you needed the reminder.
You had grinned like an idiot. “Will you be there?”
There was a pause.
Not long, just enough for him to register the line, process it, and decide he absolutely did not want to touch it.
“Nope,” he sighed, voice flatter than before. “Wow. Okay. Definitely go home.”
Then he was gone, leaving you with rain in your eyelashes and the distinct, dangerous realization that Spider-Man could be flustered.
Peter remembered you after that.
He didn't mean to.
He remembered plenty of people in flashes: New York was made of recurring characters if you paid attention long enough.
But you, you became hard not to notice.
You were at the edge of too many scenes, always just outside safety, and always pretending you had arrived by coincidence while breathing like you had sprinted ten blocks. Sometimes your hair was pulled back messily. Sometimes you wore work shoes that were really not made for running. Once, you showed up with a grocery bag still looped around your wrist, and had a bunch of cilantro sticking out the top while an armored car smoked behind you.
He saw the app open on your phone once when he swung low past a bus shelter.
That made his stomach twist.
The city had always watched him, but the tracking apps made it worse. They turned danger into a scavenger hunt. They pulled kids, tourists, thrill-seekers, and people with too much faith in his reflexes toward scenes they should have been running from.
Peter hated them in the abstract way he could.
He hated yours specifically because you looked at the screen like it was a promise.
He told himself he was not responsible for your choices. He told himself he had bigger problems than one reckless woman with quick comebacks and bad self-preservation instincts. He told himself a lot of things while dragging stolen cars out of intersections, yanking weapons from hands, and getting punched in the same bruised shoulder three nights in a row.
Still, every time Peter landed somewhere and spotted you in the crowd, his first reaction was not annoyance.
It was relief.
Then anger, quick and hot behind it, because relief meant he had started looking.
“You’re here again,” he sighed again one night, landing on the fire escape above you after a group of teenagers tried to rob a closed pharmacy.
You looked up, breath fogging in the cold. There was a knit scarf wrapped around your neck and one glove missing from your hand. You had probably lost it running.
Your response came instinctive in its quickness. “You say that like you’re not also here again.”
Peter pinched at the bridge of his noise as if that could stifle his second sigh. “I’m working.”
“So am I.”
He tilted his head, looking down at you with clear disbelief. “Your job is standing under active crime scenes?”
Your chin tilted back up in a counter measure. “My job is none of your business.”
“Fair. Is your hobby standing under active crime scenes?”
You tucked your ungloved hand into your sleeve and looked around with fake surveying. “Maybe I’m a concerned citizen.”
His words came out too quick and too impulsive. “You are a concerning citizen.”
That got a smile out of you, small but entirely pleased, and Peter hated how quickly he noticed the shape of it. He was hanging upside down from the railing, one knee hooked around metal, and blood drying uncomfortably under the torn fabric near his elbow. The cold bit through the suit where it was damp. Below, police lights washed your face blue, then red, then blue again.
“You’re bleeding,” you faltered slightly when your gaze caught on the blood.
He glanced at his arm and the white lenses dilated before going back. “It’s not mine.”
You gave him a look that had him sighing. “It’s mostly mine.”
You stepped closer before you were cut off. “Do you need—”
“No.”
A scoff left you. “You didn’t even know what I was going to offer!”
Peter felt the need to run his hands through his hair to stifle the whirlwind of exasperation you made him feel instantly. “Unless it was ‘a renewed commitment to staying several blocks away from felonies,’ no.”
You shifted your weight. The crowd had thinned behind you. People were still filming from across the street but the immediate danger had passed, and with it came that strange hollow quiet after a loud thing ended. Sirens faded. Glass crackled under people's boots.
You looked up at him with your scarf covering your chin, your gaze narrowing suddenly.
“Do you ever get tired of doing that?”
“Bleeding?”
“Deflecting.” The word landed too cleanly, you saw it in real time.
Peter’s fingers flexed against the railing. The easy answer was right there. A joke about reflective surfaces, maybe. Something stupid and quick that would let him swing away before the conversation took on weight.
Instead, he looked past you toward the pharmacy windows. Fluorescent lights flickered inside. A display of cough drops had toppled near the door, someone would have to sweep all of that up. Someone would have to call insurance. Someone would wake up tomorrow and deal with the ordinary consequences of extraordinary panic.
“Go home,” he repeated, though it was quieter this time.
Your expression changed, not much. Just a pause around the eyes. “You always say that.”
Peter's exasperation came back tenfold. “Because you never do it.”
A face got made instantly at the words. “I do eventually!”
“Eventually is not good enough.”
You hugged your arms around yourself, and the words came out light. “You worried about me?”
“Yes,” he scoffed before he could stop himself.
The answer sat between you, plain and unarmored.
Your mouth parted slightly at the unexpectedness of it.
Peter pulled himself upright too fast, his boots sticking to the fire escape. “I mean—generally. In the way I worry about all civilians who make terrible decisions near blunt objects.”
“Right,” you nodded, but your voice had taken a slight tone that had Peter instantly regretting the words even more.
He pointed toward the subway entrance with intensity. “Home.”
You glanced at his arm again, seeing the material start to soak up the darker redness. “You too.”
Peter let out a humorless little laugh. “Yeah. Sure.”
He swung away before you could say anything else, before he could do something stupid like ask your name.
You told yourself the chase was harmless because Spider-Man always won.
That was the lie at the center of it.
You knew he got hurt. You had seen him limp. You had watched him press a hand to his side and pause on rooftops when he thought nobody was looking. You had noticed how he changed after harder fights, how the jokes thinned out, and how his head turned sharply at sudden noises.
He wasn't invincible.
But he survived so consistently that survival became part of the spectacle. People cheered before the danger fully ended. Phones came out before the weapons were down. The city trusted him with the unreasonable ease of people who needed someone to trust.
You were worse than most because somewhere along the way, your fascination had stopped being abstract and freeformed.
It was not just the suit, though the suit did something humiliating to your ability to think clearly near him. It was not just the swing of him between buildings, the impossible strength, the quick hands, or the way he landed with a dancer’s balance and a boxer’s readiness.
It was the pauses he had.
The way he crouched beside frightened strangers and made his voice gentler. The way he checked on shop owners after the crowd moved on. The way he sometimes stayed an extra second after saving someone, hand hovering near their shoulder but not actually touching unless they leaned in first. The way he seemed both everywhere and entirely alone.
That was what kept pulling you closer to him.
The app buzzed late on a Friday, when the city had already loosened into nightlife. You were in a corner booth at a diner, poking at fries that had gone soft with vinegar, half-listening to your friend complain about a coworker who microwaved fish in the break room.
Your phone lit up.
Three alerts. Then five. Then too many.
SPIDEY SIGHTING NEAR 42ND. BIG GUY WITH TECH??
STAY AWAY FROM 9TH AVE. EXPLOSION HEARD.
Your friend stopped talking.
“No,” she reached for you immediately when she saw you were already reaching for your jacket.
She grabbed at your sleeve with intent. “Are you serious?”
“It’s close.”
A groan left her from knowing you too well. “That’s the problem.”
“I’ll stay back!”
She didn't seem convinced. “You always say that.”
The echo of his words should have slowed you.
It didn't.
Outside, the air was sharp with exhaust and fried food from a halal cart. You ran until your lungs burned, cutting through clusters of people spilling out of bars, and ignoring the tightness that formed under your ribs. The closer you got, the more the city changed. Laughter thinned. Traffic tangled. People moved in the opposite direction with their heads turned back, faces lit by emergency lights.
Then something slammed into the side of a parked car half a block ahead.
The impact folded the roof inward. Windows burst. People screamed and scattered.
You froze.
For once, your body understood before your obsession did.
Spider-Man hit the pavement hard beside the car, rolled, and barely got a hand under himself before a heavy metal device skidded after him, sparking violently. It looked homemade and expensive at the same time, all black plating and unstable blue light. A man in a reinforced jacket limped into view, one arm fitted with some kind of mechanical brace that whined when he lifted it.
Peter saw you from the ground.
Even through smoke, flashing lights, and the chaos of running bodies, he found you standing beside a newspaper box with your phone in your hand and fear finally catching up to you.
His blood went cold.
“Move!” he shouted with a loud rasp.
You did not.
Not because you refused, but because for one terrible second, you couldn't even tell where to go. People shoved past you. A cab jumped the curb. The device near Spider-Man pulsed brighter, high-pitched and wrong, and the man with the brace swung his arm toward the street.
Peter fired a web at you before he thought about gentleness.
The strand hit your waist and yanked.
Your feet left the ground and the world snapped sideways. Your shoulder clipped something hard, maybe a signpost, maybe somebody’s elbow. You gasped, more startled than hurt, and then you were against him, one of his arms locked around you as he twisted midair and slammed both of you behind the concrete mouth of a subway entrance.
The street exploded white-blue.
Heat washed over your back and the sound swallowed everything.
For a moment there was only his body curved around yours, the texture of his suit under your fingers, the hard rise and fall of his breathing. Dust rained over the steps. Someone was crying nearby, your ears rang so badly the world seemed underwater.
Spider-Man lifted his head first.
“Are you hit?” he demanded with his grip tightening to pull you back enough to look at you.
You stared at him, and apparently it must've been a flatter look than you had tried to express.
“Hey.” His hand came up to the side of your face, not tenderly, not quite. He turned your head enough to check you, fingers firm along your jaw. “Are you hit?”
The world returned to you in pieces and you shook your head enough to move. “I—no. I don’t think so.”
Peter's voice came out strangled before he tried to reign it in. “You don’t think so?”
You emphasized better. “I’m not.”
His white lenses narrowed and the hand at your jaw stayed for half a second longer than necessary, then dropped.
He pushed himself up and looked over the edge of the subway entrance. The man with the brace was running now, injured but still moving. Peter’s shoulders tensed with the need to follow.
Then, he looked back at you.
You were covered in dust. Your phone was certainly gone. There was a scrape along your cheekbone where something had caught you, and your eyes were too wide, your breath coming shallow in a way that finally made you look as scared as you should have been all along.
The anger hit him so hard it almost steadied him.
“Stay here,” he all but demanded
You nodded because it seemed like it was necessary to do so.
He pointed at you, sharper now. As if you weren't truly listening. “No. I need you to hear me. Stay. Here.”
“I heard you.”
“Because if I turn around and you are not exactly where I left you—”
“I’ll stay.”
Peter really didn't believe you.
But someone shouted from the street, and the brace whined again, and it was clear he had to go. He launched himself back into the fight with his teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.
You stayed.
For three minutes, maybe four, you sat on the subway steps with dust in your mouth and your hands shaking in your lap. You heard the impacts, webs snapping tight, and Spider-Man’s voice cutting through the noise in strained bursts.
“Hey, buddy, quick question—did you build that in a garage, or was there a coupon situation?”
A crash came next.
“No? Cool, cool, just asking because it’s very explode-y for something near civilians.”
Another loud noise of impact.
You pressed your palms together to stop them from trembling.
The fight ended with a sound like metal tearing away from itself, followed by a heavy thud and a chorus of relieved shouting. When Spider-Man came back where he left you, he was limping.
Badly so.
He dropped into the subway entrance hard enough that one hand hit the tiled wall to steady himself. His suit was scorched along one side. Dust clung to the webbing pattern across his chest. One lens had a faint crack through it, thin as a hair.
You stood up too quickly, instincts taking over. “you’re hurt.”
Peter laughed but it was entirely without humor. “You have got to be kidding me.”
The frown came instantly. “I’m serious.”
His answer came too quick. “So am I.”
The space between you seemed smaller than it had before. The city kept roaring above, but down here everything echoed: footsteps, sirens, your breathing, his.
He stepped closer.
“What is wrong with you?”
The words were not shouted. That made them even worse somehow. His voice was rough, scraped thin at the edges, and controlled only because he was forcing it to be.
You swallowed because he seemed actually upset this time, and you figured it wasn't time to poke the bear. “I know—”
“No, you don’t. You don’t know.” The words had your head flicking up in surprise for their intensity. “You keep showing up with your phone and your big eyes and your little comments, and you think because there’s a crowd, because there are cops, because I’m there, that nothing can happen to you.”
Your throat tightened and you opened your mouth but shut it when he pointed up toward the street. “That was not a photo op. That was not a cute story. You almost got turned into collateral damage because you ran toward an explosion.”
“I didn’t know it was going to—”
“That’s the point!” His voice cracked around the words. He stopped, breathed hard, and tried again. “You don’t know. You never know. Hell, I barely know half the time.”
You looked down at his hand because the movements caught your attention. His fingers were flexing open and closed, like he wanted to grab something and couldn't decide whether it should be the railing, his own temper, or you.
“I’m sorry,” you stopped him from going further and he went still.
Maybe it was because you had never said it before. Not really. You had flirted, teased, and smiled your way around his warnings until they became part of the game. But there was no game left in your voice now because there wasn't in his.
“I am,” you continued quieter and immediately hated it because of how exposing it felt. “I know it’s stupid. I know you keep telling me to stop.”
Peter's voice loudened before he could've controlled it. “Then stop!”
You looked up again quickly with widening eyes.
There was dust on his shoulder, a rip near his ribs, and a dark stain spreading slowly through the fabric at his side. He was standing in front of you like he could hold the entire city back by force if he had to, and yet he would not give you one ordinary piece of himself.
Not a name. Not a face. Not the truth behind the voice that kept finding you in crowds.
“I just wanted to know you,” the words came out smaller than you meant them to.
Peter forgot how to breathe.
Not because nobody wanted to know Spider-Man. Everybody wanted that. They wanted the picture, the secret, the headline, the face under the mask. They wanted proof, access, even ownership. They wanted to solve him.
But that was not how you said it.
You said it like you had already noticed the part he worked hardest to hide. The pauses. The pain. The loneliness that leaked through the jokes no matter how quickly he patched over it.
You said it like knowing him didn't mean unmasking his whole identity.
You said it like you had been chasing danger for the stupid, impossible privilege of standing close enough to ask if he was okay.
Peter hated how easily that worked on him.
He hated that after everything, after the blast and the blood and the fear still souring his mouth, some tired part of him wanted to believe you.
“You don’t,” he scoffed, but it was smaller this time.
Your brows drew together immediately at the insinuation. “I don’t what?”
“Want to know me.”
You made a face, and answered just as quickly as he stopped. “I do.”
“No.” He shook his head once, and even the movement had him straining, you could tell by the way he held himself in tension. “You want the guy who swings in at the right second. You want the banter and the upside-down thing and whatever version of me lives in your phone notifications.”
You stepped forward again and forced a huff away when he shot you a pointed look that had you stopping short. “That’s not fair—”
Peter cut you off. “It’s accurate.”
You found your voice again, because you kept letting it be cut off by him. “You don’t know what I want.”
“I know you don’t want the rest.”
You stared at him, anger beginning to push through the shock. Good, Peter thought. Anger was safer than that open, aching look you had given him.
“The rest?” you asked with your brows twitching together in a face that wasn't clear in its expression.
He laughed again, though more bitterly this time. His head kept moving, looking around the emptiness of the place between you too as if that gave him a refuge. “The blood. The missed calls. The lies. The never showing up on time. The disappearing without explaining because if I explain, someone gets hurt. The fact that I know where you live because I’ve followed you home twice to make sure you got there safely, and I hated myself both times.”
The confession landed badly.
You blinked blankly, the movement was fast and clearly unexpected.
Peter realized what he had said half a second too late when your lips parted. “You know where I live?”
“No.” His answer came too quick and that only spurred you on more.
Your lips opened and let out a puff of air. “You just said—”
Peter's hand went up to the back of his neck, immediately cutting you off again. “I said a lot of things. Head injury, probably.”
“You followed me home?”
He looked up to the sky and felt his eyes shut tightly. “Not in a creepy way.”
You threw him a well deserved glance of judgement. “That is exactly what someone says when it is a creepy way.”
“I was making sure you were safe.”
Your expression shifted. The fear had not left you completely, but something warmer and more reckless, moved beneath it. You took one careful step closer.
“You know where I live,” you repeated, breathless now, almost vindicated by the confession.
Peter pointed at you again, but there was less force behind it. His jaw strained again just from listening to you throw his words back at him. “Do not make that sound romantic.”
You kept going, your voice turning more observational by each passing second, but not losing its tone. “You noticed me that much.”
“I notice threats.”
“You think I’m a threat?”
His answer came swift. “To yourself? Constantly.”
“To you?” He didn't answer fast enough.
Your gaze moved over him, slower now that the immediate danger had passed. He felt it through the suit in a way he should not have. The cracked lens, the torn fabric, the blood near his ribs, even the tense line of his shoulders. He knew what he looked like after a fight. He knew people saw the damage and either flinched from it or turned it into a bigger moment.
You looked at him like the damage made him harder to ignore, not less.
“Let me help,” you softened again because it was hard not to when looking at him.
The response came expected, but still unwelcome. “No.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I noticed.”
You let out an exasperated groan, one hand coming up to knead through your hair and the other stretching it towards him. “Then let me do something.”
“You can do something.” Peter willed his voice to be sharpened again. “You can stop chasing me.”
Your jaw tightened and a scoff escaped you. “You keep saying that like it’s easy.”
“It should be.”
“Well, it’s not.” The honesty of it hung there, inconvenient and too human.
Above you, officers shouted to each other. The subway tiles gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights, grime caught in the grout, and had old posters peeling at the corners. Peter could smell smoke, rain, metal, and the faint sweetness of your perfume beneath the dust.
He should have left.
He should have just webbed up to the street, given one last warning, and removed himself from whatever this was before it became another thing he could ruin.
Instead, the only thing that came out was, “You’re impossible.”
You let out a shaky breath that almost became a laugh. “So you’ve mentioned.”
“I’m not joking.”
You finally quieted down when he did, the air felt still. “I know.”
“Do you?”
Not entirely, but you just nodded. “Yes.”
He stepped closer this time.
You had to tilt your head back to keep looking at him. Up close, he was all controlled tension, every line of him caught between staying and going. The white lenses hid his eyes, but they didn't hide the way his attention dropped briefly to your mouth and snapped back up.
Your pulse jumped and you figured Peter saw that too.
“Don’t,” he rasped out quickly after you opened your mouth again, but the word had no clear target. Maybe it was to you, or maybe to himself.
You lifted your hand slowly, giving him time to move away. And when he didn't, your fingertips touched the center of his chest, light enough that it should not have mattered.
It mattered.
The suit was warm from his body, textured beneath your fingertips, and damp in places from rain and sweat. His chest rose sharply at the contact.
“You’re really here,” you let slip out with your voice barely above a whisper.
His laugh was low and strained. You had a feeling his expression mirrored that. “That explosion did a number on you.”
Your voice hadn't lost its lightness, but you paused for a moment. “I’m serious.”
Peter let out a wry exhale to himself. “That’s what worries me.”
Your fingers drifted, not very far, just over the red fabric where dust had settled into the raised black lines. He caught your wrist before you reached the torn place near his side. His grip was firm, but not painful though.
It was a warning with a pulse.
“Careful,” he murmured and the word ran through you in a way it should not have, roughened by exhaustion and the edge of pain.
You looked at his hand around your wrist. It felt tingly for all the right reasons. “You always sound like that when you’re mad?”
His fingers flexed slightly against you.“No.”
“When you’re hurt?”
Peter attempted repetition for it to stick. “No.”
You decided to push more. “And when you’re trying not to be?”
He went quiet.
That was answer enough for you.
You should've apologized again. You should've stepped back, let him have the distance he kept asking for, promised to delete the apps and mean it. Some responsible part of you knew that. And some part of you was still sitting on the subway steps with shaking hands, understanding far too late that your fantasy had edges sharp enough to cut.
But he was still holding your wrist.
And, he hadn't let go.
“Tell me to leave,” you all but challenged him and Peter didn't bother containing the groan that left him.
“I did.”
“Tell me again.”
Peter’s grip tightened for half a second. You felt his fingers twitch against the inner area of your wrist.
Under the mask, his jaw shifted. You could see the shape of it where the fabric clung to him, could see the movement of his throat when he swallowed. He was close enough now that you heard the faint hitch in his breathing, and betraying close enough that the city above felt less real than the narrow pocket of space between your bodies.
“You need to leave,” he said instead, but still, he didn't move away.
Neither did you.
The misunderstanding was almost laughable, except neither of you laughed or probably could've. His words said one thing. His hand said another. His body, angled toward yours despite every reason not to be, said something else entirely.
You reached up with your free hand.
This time, you touched his jaw.
Not skin, not yet at least. Just the mask, the red fabric pulled taut over the hard line of him. His whole body went still, frighteningly still, like even breathing had become a choice.
“Don’t take it off,” he commanded and the intensity of him sent prickles up your spine.
Your fingers settled where his jawline rested, and your head tipped back slightly when your eyes fluttered shut.“I wasn’t going to.”
Peter tilted his head slightly at you from the proximity, his face did a funny thing that mixed genuinity with suspicion. “No?”
“No.”
That seemed to undo something in him more than if you had begged for his face.
You did not want the reveal, not right now. Not in this way, in a dirty subway entrance with sirens overhead and blood drying beneath his suit. You wanted what he was willing to give. The covered jaw beneath your palm. The breath he was trying to control. The impossible nearness of him.
Peter let go of your wrist only to catch your waist.
The motion was sudden enough that you inhaled sharply. He turned you, backing you against the tiled wall beside an old transit map, his hand braced near your shoulder before your spine met cold ceramic. He left you space to pull away. Barely, but still enough that the choice remained yours and his restraint remained visible in the strain of his posture.
“Tell me no,” he exhaled and you had to tear your eyes away from where the material of his suit strained against his shoulders.
Your voice came out unsteady. “No to what?”
“To this.”
You looked at him then almost incredulous, at the cracked lens, the scorched suit, and the careful violence of how still he held himself.
“I’m not saying no.”
Peter's head dipped on bodily instinct the second his ears registered the words.
He stopped an inch from you.
The pause was unbearable. Awkward in the way real wanting often was, full of breath and doubt and the tiny adjustments of two people realizing they had crossed a line before either had agreed where it was. Your hand slid from his jaw to the edge of his mask.
Peter caught your fingers again.
“Mask stays on,” he murmured with warning.
Your voice came breathless in its agreement. “I know.”
“I mean it.”
“Yeah, I know.”
He searched your face for something. A trick, maybe. Regret. Fear. A demand he could refuse so he could return to familiar ground. You gave him none of those things. You were breathing too fast, still dust-streaked, but your gaze held steady in truth.
Peter reached up and tugged the mask just high enough to bare his mouth and jaw.
Only that.
The reveal was smaller than you had imagined and somehow more intimate for it. A cut marked his lower lip. His jaw was tense, faintly shadowed, skin flushed from exertion. He looked painfully real in pieces.
You didn't reach for more despite your inner voice.
His mouth found yours before you could say anything.
The kiss was not gentle at first. It was too full of everything that had nowhere else to go: anger, fear, adrenaline, the weeks of him telling you to run and you refusing, the awful second when he had seen you frozen in the path of the blast. Peter kissed you like he was still furious with you for almost dying. Like he was furious with himself for caring. Like the only way to stop the argument was to take it apart with his mouth.
You made a small sound against him when he nipped at you with the sharpened corners of his teeth, and he pulled back immediately. “Too much?”
You shook your head, fingers curling into the front of his suit. Your eyes were blown wide by the chain of actions and the unmistakable grip of him on you. “No.”
“You sure?”
You nodded again, almost embarrassingly eager and his breath left him unevenly. “You are so bad at self-preservation.”
“You keep saving me.”
Peter pulled away despite his best efforts to stand still, and felt that familiar pathetic exasperation creeping back in. “That is not a plan.”
Your lips pulled into a lazy grin as you tried to chase the space he made away. “It’s worked for me so far.”
He gave you a look, or he tried to. With the mask half-up and the lenses still covering his eyes, the effect should have been ridiculous. It wasn't because his mouth was still too close for your to.focus on anything else. His hand at your waist was too warm and his voice had dropped into something lower, rougher, stained by the night.
“You’re so not funny,” Peter shut his eyes behind the mask and looked back to the sky as if that would prove his point more heavily.
You disagreed with that. “I made you pause.”
His scoff came absentminded, and so did his words. “You make me do a lot of stupid things.”
You smiled despite the tremor still living under your skin, and Peter was already weary of that smile even more now. The path you fingers trailed up on his abdomen was careful, as if trying to coax a street cat into staying longer. “Like what?”
He answered by kissing you again.
This time, it built slower. Still hungry and edged with frustration, but less like impact and more like surrender dragged unwillingly into the open. His gloved hand slid along your waist, then stopped, fingerpads flexing once as if he had to remind himself of the shape of restraint. Your hands moved over his chest, careful around the torn places, less careful when he made a quiet sound into your mouth and pressed closer.
The tile was cold through the back of your jacket. His body was warm everywhere he touched you. Smoke clung to him and rainwater dripped from the ends of your hair. New York kept shouting above, honking, and demanding. Down here, your world shrank to the scrape of his breath, the brush of his bare jaw against your cheek, the strange intimacy of being kissed by a man who still wouldn't even let you see his eyes.
When he pulled back, his forehead almost touched yours. The mask’s fabric brushed your brow.
“You have to stop chasing me,” Peter found the words finally after catching his breathe.
The words were softer now, which made them harder to deflect. You looked down at your fingers that were still hooked in his suit, holding on like he might disappear if you didn’t. “I know.”
“I’m serious.”
“I get it.”
“You could’ve died tonight.”
You sighed with your head tipping back against the solid frame behind you. “I said I get it.”
Peter exhaled through his nose, frustrated by your agreement because it left him nowhere to put the rest of his fear. His thumb moved once against your waist before he seemed to realize he was doing it.
“You can’t know me by getting yourself killed,” he said and you looked back up at him.
There it was again. Not the superhero or the symbol, just the simple person beneath the suit, saying the closest thing to please that he would allow himself.
“Then let me know you another way,” you let out quickly and instantly regretted it when you saw his mouth tighten alongside his jaw.
For a second, you thought he would step back. Pull the mask back down. Make a joke mean enough to end the moment. It would have been easier for him, maybe even kinder in the long run.
Instead, he lowered his head until his mouth brushed the corner of yours.
“You don’t even know what you’re asking,” Peter murmured and found himself crazy for even leaning back in.
You closed your eyes for half a breath. “Then tell me.”
His silence moved over you slowly.
He didn't tell you his name or give you any truth clean enough to hold. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe that kind of trust did not arrive all at once in a stairwell after sirens and smoke.
But his hand left the wall and settled against your cheek, careful of the blooming scrape there. His thumb hovered near the bruise without touching it. The tenderness of that restraint did something to you more than the roughness had.
“I’m not good at this,” Peter finally spoke up once more when he realized you were waiting.
Your reply came back softer. “At what?”
“Letting people stand this close.”
Your fingers loosened against his chest and a stupidly placed smile grew on your lips. “Yeah, I can tell.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound was tired and real against your ear drums. “That obvious?”
You gave a merciful nod. “A little.”
“Great.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s really not.”
You smiled faintly because you knew what he meant. “No. Probably not.”
That earned you another silence, but this one was different. It was less defensive. He stayed close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke.
“I’ll take you home,” Peter inhaled once, quickly and reminding.
A lighter breath left you alongside the silent, almost wondrous laugh that bubbled from your throat. “You know where that is.”
He groaned and did that thing where his jaw tensed and head tilted back in resignation. “Please never say that with that tone again.”
“What tone?”
“The tone that says you’re about to make my severe boundary issues into some sort of a compliment.”
You bit your lip, mostly to stop the small smile that grew because there was no telling if he wouldn't run off just yet. “You have severe boundary issues?”
Peter fought and lost the urge to throw you a disbelieving glance. “I wear spandex and fight strangers on rooftops. What do you think?”
“I think you’re avoiding.”
“I think you’re concussed.”
“You asked if I was hit.”
His words came back mumbled. “And I’m revising my assessment.”
You laughed then, breathless and completely unsteady, and some of the tightness in his shoulders eased.
He looked at your mouth again.
You noticed.
This time, Peter didn't pretend he hadn't.
The kiss that followed was quieter than before, but it carried more danger because it felt less accidental. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, feeling the strength there and the tremor of fatigue beneath it. He leaned into you for one brief second like he needed the support, then seemed to hate that he needed it and kissed you harder.
You gave back as much as he took.
That surprised him. You felt it in the way his breath caught, the way his fingers tightened at your waist, the way his mouth paused against yours before continuing with darker intent. He was careful with his strength, but not soft. He let some of the frustration show in the press of his body, in the angle of your chin guided by his gloved hand, and in the low sound he made when your fingertips traced the edge where his mask had been pushed up.
“Careful,” he said again.
This time, you understood he was not only warning you about him. You were both quiet for a moment. Then you decided to break the silence, “I don’t need to be another person with a video of you.”
His hand stilled on impact of your words.
“I don’t want proof,” you continued bevause it felt necessary. “I don’t want your face because I won some game. I just…” You searched for the right words and found none that didn't sound too exposing. You tried again. “I wanted you to feel real. And then you did. And I didn’t know how to stop wanting more.”
Peter listened without interrupting.
That felt worse to him somehow. It was easier when he was joking. Safer when he was pushing back. But he only stood there with the mask covering most of him and his bare mouth pressed into a line, taking in what you said like it had cost him something too.
Finally, he cursed faintly and tried to circle back, “You can’t use danger to get close to me.”
“I won’t.”
His voice came low and questioning. “You mean that?”
You nodded with more energy than you'd expected. “I mean it.”
He studied you for another long second. Then, he leaned in, not quite kissing you yet, and said, “If I see you at another active crime scene—”
You cut him off with that all too familiar pleased look. “You’ll lecture me?”
Peter scoffed at your sheer ability to get on his nerves all over again. “I’ll web you to the nearest bus stop.”
“That seems really excessive.”
“Yeah? I’ll leave a note too.”
You tilted your head, the movement making his own tip into yours. “What would it say?”
“Please return reckless civilian to sender.”
You smiled against his mouth before he kissed you again, and this time there was something almost relieved in it. It was still heated and messy. Still far too much for a subway stairwell while police lights strobed faintly above. But beneath the hunger, there was a fragile shift, a thread pulled taut between warning and permission.
Peter did take you home.
Not immediately, though.
The route blurred into faint fragments: his firm grasp around your waist, the startling lift of your feet leaving the ground, and your face tucked against his shoulder because the height stole the breath from you. Wind tore tears from your eyes and the city flashed beneath you in streaks of light and shadow, rooftops silvered by old rain, and apartment windows glowed with lives that had nothing to do with yours.
Peter moved differently while carrying you.
Less flashy and more controlled. He avoided the busiest streets and landed twice to check his side, though he insisted he was fine both times in a tone that made the lie obvious.
By the time he reached your building, your nerves stopped feeding into the adrenaline.
Mostly.
He landed on the fire escape outside your apartment window with a soft metallic creak. You stared at him, then at the window, then back at him.
A laugh escaped you before you could control it. “You really do know where I live.”
Peter scrubbed a palm at his temple. “I am begging you to focus on the part where I brought you here safely.”
Your brows twitched together slightly. “You brought me to my window.”
“It seemed less awkward than the lobby.”
The question came with instinct now. “You’ve thought about this?”
“No.” A pause. Peter cursed when he met your diluted pupils. “Not in a way I’m discussing.”
You laughed softly, and he looked away toward the alley like the brick wall had suddenly become intently more fascinating.
The window stuck, as usual. You had to shove it twice before it groaned open. The ordinary annoyance of it grounded you so abruptly that you almost felt embarrassed. Your room waited beyond the sill, cluttered and warm, a sweater thrown over a chair, a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand, even shoes abandoned near the closet.
Evidence of a life Spider-Man had no business knowing and yet somehow did.
You climbed in first, turning back when he remained crouched on the fire escape.
“You’re not coming in?”
Peter looked at the window frame, then at you with clear weariness. “That is a bad idea.”
You pointed it the obvious. “You’ve had a lot of those tonight.”
“You were most of them.”
“Still.”
His mouth twitched up before he willed it away. The mask was still pushed up just enough to show it.
You reached out before you could overthink it, fingers curling lightly around his wrist. Peter could have resisted without any real effort on his part. But instead, he let you draw him closer to the window.
“Just for a minute,” your lull came strong.
Peter knew that was how bad ideas survived. They dressed themselves as small things. One minute. One kiss. One exception. One person who looked at him and didn't ask for the mask.
He really should have said no.
But your room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and whatever candle you had burned earlier. Your cheek was scraped because of him and not because of him. Your fingers were warm around his wrist. The city had spent the whole night taking pieces out of him, and here you were, offering one quiet moment where he didn't have to be a symbol or a headline or a blur in someone else’s footage.
Peter climbed through the window before reason could take hold of him.
The room felt too small with him in it.
Not because he was larger, though he seemed broader here than he did against the skyline. It was the impossibility of him among ordinary things. Spider-Man standing beside your desk. Spider-Man ducking slightly to avoid the curtain rod. Spider-Man glancing at a stack of books and a mug with chipped paint as if he had crossed into a place more dangerous than the street outside.
“You’re nervous,” you couldn't help but gape at the clear display of nerves bundled in red and blue.
“I’m injured.”
You made a face and tilted your head with an all too pleased expression. “That’s not what I said.”
Peter scoffed with little humor. “It’s what I’m choosing to answer.”
You stepped closer.
He watched you do it.
The air changed again, slower than before. There were no sirens here. No crowds. No urgent reason to pretend this was only adrenaline. Your radiator hissed, a car passed below in the street, and somewhere in the building, a neighbor’s TV murmured through the wall.
Your hand rose to his chest, then paused.
“Is this okay?” you asked hesitantly, more hesitant than you'd have imagined.
Peter looked at you for a long moment, then he covered your hand with his.
“Yeah,” he cleared at his throat, rough and quiet. “It’s okay.”
The kiss in your room felt different from the ones taken in the subway, less stolen from disaster and more chosen in spite of it. Peter backed you toward the edge of your bed, stopping when your knees touched the mattress, giving you that narrow sliver of space again. You took it away yourself, pulling him closer by the front of his suit.
A low sound left him.
“Still terrible at self-preservation,” he muttered when your hand reached for anything that could be used to pull him in closer.
Your hand landed on the back of his neck, with your thumb pressing into his collar to bring him in nearer. “You like it a little.”
The refusal came expected once again. “I absolutely do not.”
Peter kissed you before you could smile any wider.
His gloved hand slid to the back of your neck, careful but firm, angling you up to meet him. The mask stayed where it was, bunched above his mouth and tight over his nose, his eyes still hidden behind white lenses that made every exposed inch feel more deliberate. You kissed the corner of his mouth, then the cut on his lip lightly enough that he went still.
“That hurt?” you whispered against him.
“No.”
A laugh escaped you, all quiet and breathless. “You liar.”
“Maybe.”
Your thumb brushed his jaw and he turned his face into the touch despite himself, and the motion was so tired, so unguarded for one brief second, that your chest ached.
Then his hand caught your waist again, and the softness sharpened into heat.
He kissed you deeper quickly after that. Your back met the mattress, and he followed only as far as you pulled him, bracing one hand beside your shoulder so his weight didn't crush you. The suit rasped beneath your palms. His breath came unevenly against your mouth. Every time you touched too close to an injury, he flinched and pretended he had not, which made you slow down until he grew impatient and kissed you harder for it.
“You’re impossible,” he said again, but this time it sounded less like an accusation.
“You keep kissing me.”
His mouth hovered above yours.
For a moment, neither of you moved after that.
The truth of that sat in the dim light between you. He had come back. Again and again. To warn you, to argue, to make sure you got home.
Peter lowered his head until his covered forehead rested near your temple.
“You can’t chase me anymore,” he said it softer this time, catching your attention more than any other shout could.
Your tongue slid over your teeth and finally exhaled when his silence felt defeating. “I won’t.”
Peter pushed. “You swear?”
“I swear.”
“And if you see me on that app—”
You turned your head up to point a finger up at him to answer. “I’ll close it.”
He lifted his head slightly, giving you a such a pointed grasp of his silence that you could only sigh. “I’ll delete it.”
“Now.”
You blinked, his request caught you off guard. “Now?”
“Yes.”
Your tongue looked at the inside of your cheek now, clearly trying to stall under the weight of his stare. “You’re very demanding for a man bleeding on my comforter.”
Peter didn't take the bait just yet. “I’ll bleed less judgmentally after you delete it.”
You stared at him in confliction, and despite everything, you laughed.
He climbed off you enough to let you reach for your phone with begrudging fingers. The screen was cracked from where it must have hit the pavement, but it still worked. You opened the app under his silent, watchful stare. For a second, your thumb hovered over the icon of the app.
It felt strange to let it go.
Not because you needed the app itself, but because deleting it meant admitting that what you wanted from him could no longer be taken by chasing red dots across a map. If he came back after this, it had to be because he chose to.
You deleted it.
Then the second one.
Then the third.
Peter said nothing while you did so.
When you set the phone down, he was looking at you with an unreadable stillness that made your pulse climb again.
“There,” you let an exhale of breath out and narrowed your eyes at him with no real spite. “Happy?”
“No.”
You rolled your eyes at that. “Of course not.”
“I’m…” Peter stopped, like the word he wanted to find was difficult to translate through the mask. His bare mouth pressed together, then softened. “Slightly less actively horrified.”
Despite your better judgment, you let your grin form again. “That’s romantic.”
“I’m known for that.”
You reached for him again and this time, he came willingly.
The kiss deepened slower, then became not slow at all. His restraint was still there, visible in every careful placement of his hands, but the darkness you had sensed in him edged closer to the surface. It was something more conflicted than plain cruelty or defensiveness. It was hunger tangled with fear.
He held you like he was still deciding whether he was sure he could and you kissed him like the decision had already been made. And for you, it had.
Peter's mouth crashed back into yours with a low sound that vibrated through the mask and straight into your chest. The second your lips parted he pushed his tongue in, deep and wet, tasting every inch like he was starving for it. Your back sank deeper into the mattress under his weight, the mattress springs creaking as he braced one hand beside your head and let the other slide down your side.
His suit scraped against your palms when you grabbed at him again, your fingers curled into the textured fabric over his ribs. You tugged hard, trying to work it up, but the material barely budged. Peter made a rough noise into your mouth and suddenly caught both your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand.
"Nuh-uh," he muttered against your lips, his voice low and amused. "You don't get to strip me just because you're feeling greedy."
“That can't be fair.” You scoffed and tried to twist free, your hips rolled up to grind against the hard line of his cock through the suit. The pressure dragged a hiss out of him. He pressed his hips down in answer, grinding slow and deliberate to let you feel every inch of him trapped behind the fabric. The suit was warm from his body heat, slightly rough where it rubbed your inner thighs.
"Fuck, look at you," he breathed out with forehead pressed to yours. "Already trying to climb me like you can't wait five seconds."
“You're hard, isn't that contradicting?” You bucked harder, chasing friction and he smacked your hands away again, this time letting them fall to the sides so he could shove his knee between your legs and grind it up against you through your clothes. The pressure was perfect and not nearly enough.
You gasped into another kiss and Peter swallowed the sound, and had his tongue sliding deep again while his hips kept that slow and punishing roll.
Every time your fingers crept back toward the edge of his suit he caught them, smacked them away, or pinned them down. The teasing only made you even more worked up. You could feel how pent-up he was in the way his breathing stuttered every time you ground up against him. It was in the little involuntary jerks of his hips when you would moan into his kisses.
"Fuck," you whispered with your voice shakier than you'd meant it. "Please—"
"Please what?" He dragged his mouth down your jaw and had his teeth scraping against your skin. "Please let you rip my suit off so you can ride me? Not happening. You get what I give you."
Peter rocked his hips harder, grinding the thick line of his cock right against your clit through the layers between you. Your back arched and he caught the movement and pressed you flat again with his body, one hand sliding under your shirt to palm your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple until you squirmed.
"You're so fucking eager," he groaned and his voice cracked with how turned on he was. "Been driving me crazy for months and now you're just—fuck—spreading your legs the second I touch you. You like this? Like me holding you down, keeping the suit on, making you work for it?"
You nodded frantically and had your hips jerking up to meet every grind in tandem. Peter kissed you again, deeper and messier this time, the mask brushed against your cheek every time he tilted his head too high. His free hand slid down to grip your thigh with his fingers digging hard as he rocked faster, keeping the friction building until you were panting into his mouth and clutching at his shoulders.
"That's it," he whispered against your lips, though it was followed by a chuckle that had your stomach tightening. "Be a good girl and take it. Show me how bad you want it. Maybe if you keep being this eager for me I'll let you come like this, grinding on my cock through the suit. Maybe."
He kissed you again before you could answer, he tried to swallow every desperate sound you made while his hips kept that relentless rhythm that had you completely at his mercy.
“You're annoyingly mouthy.” A weak scoff escaped you and your fingers found the hem of your shirt. You peeled it upward in one impatient motion, tossing it somewhere off the side of the bed. The cool air hit your skin just before his palm did, landing firm and flat against your ribs.
"Slow down," Peter muttered, the words half-laugh, half-warning. His hand slid lower, smacking lightly at your hip. "Lift."
You lifted up obediently, hips rising off the mattress. He hooked his fingers into your waistband and dragged the fabric down your thighs in one slow, deliberate pull, leaving your panties exactly where they were. The cotton clung to you, already damp, and Peter made a low sound when he saw it.
"Look at that," he inhaled with his voice tight. "Soaking through already."
"Maybe stop teasing me then," you shot back, breath hitching when he pressed his palm flat against your sternum and shoved you back down flat. The mattress dipped under your weight. His hand stayed there, pinning you in place while his other hand worked the last of your bottoms off your ankles.
"You're the one who can't keep still," he only answered, reaching for the pillow beside your head. He shoved it over your face without ceremony, muffling your next protest. "Keep that there. If it comes off, I'm gone. You won't see me again. Understand?"
You nodded hard against the pillow, fingers clutching the fabric on either side of your head. The threat landed somewhere between fear and heat, making your thighs press together. Peter watched the movement, then pushed them apart with his knee again.
"Good girl," he repeated quieter now. His hand left your sternum. You heard the faint rustle of fabric shifting, then felt the mattress dip as he settled lower between your spread legs.
The first press of his mouth landed through the thin cotton of your panties. Hot, open, and unhurried. He licked a slow stripe from bottom to top, pressing the fabric against your clit until it was plastered to you. The wet heat of his tongue dragged again, firmer this time, soaking the material until it clung obscenely. You moaned into the pillow, hips twitching up toward his face.
Peter cursed under his breath, the sound was rough and conflicted. His tongue flattened and dragged again, then curled, tracing the shape of your folds through the soaked fabric like he was trying to memorize it. Every pass made the cotton wetter, until you could feel every ridge of his tongue pressing through. Peter sucked at the fabric, pulling it tight against you, then released it with a wet sound that made your face burn.
"Fuck," he hissed, pulling back just enough to hook two fingers into the side of your panties. He tugged them aside, exposing you to the cool air for half a second before his tongue was back. This time there was nothing between you. The flat of his tongue dragged up through your folds in one long, messy stroke, then curled at the tip to flick over your clit. He did it again, slower with his lips sealing around you while his tongue worked in deep, filthy strokes.
“Fuck, woah—don't, don't do that!” Peter breathed out a chuckle when he felt you shake under him, your thighs trembling on either side of his head. Your grip on the pillow tightened until your knuckles ached. Every time his tongue curled just right you whined into the fabric, hips rolling up to chase the pressure. Peter didn't let you have it easy. He pulled back when you got too close, licked around your clit instead of on it, then dove back in with that same hungry rhythm.
The mask came off.
You felt the shift in pressure first, the way his hand shoved the pillow harder against your face as he used the other to yank the fabric up and over his head. The sudden absence of the mask's texture against your inner thigh made you gasp into the pillow. Your body went loose for a second, boneless, before instinct kicked in.
One hand stayed obedient on the pillow. The other reached out blindly, fingers searching for his shoulder, his hair, anything. You barely brushed skin before his hand snapped around your wrist, grip tight enough to make you still.
"No," Peter stopped, and had his voice raw and mean. "You don't get to touch. Keep that hand on the pillow or I stop."
“Fine, whatever. Just, fuck—don't stop.” You nodded frantically, pulling your hand back to clutch the fabric again. Your whole body trembled as he lowered his mouth once more, tongue dragging through you in those same messy, desperate movements. Peter groaned against you like he hated how much he wanted it, the sound vibrated straight through your core.
Your moans came out muffled and broken now. Every time his tongue curled just right your hips jerked, and every time he pulled back you whined like you were begging without words. He kept you right there, shaking and soaked until your thighs were quivering and your grip on the pillow was the only thing keeping you from reaching for him again.
“Holy shit, I'm so close—” Your fingers dug into the pillow, flexing and twitching as you tried to form words, but every attempt dissolved into broken moans that the fabric swallowed whole. Your hips rolled up against his mouth, chasing the pressure, and the tension coiled so tight in your belly that when it snapped it hit like a live wire.
You came hard, thighs clamping around his head as your whole body jerked. The orgasm tore through you without warning, soaking his face in a sudden rush that hit his cheeks and chin, dripping down his jaw. Peter groaned against you, his tongue still working through the mess, and his lips parting to lick at the slick coating his mouth.
Every flick of his tongue sent another twitch through your over-sensitive folds, and he gave your clit a few light, wet smacks with his fingers, watching the way your hips jumped at each one and the slick connecting at his fingertips before breaking apart in stands.
The sound of fabric shifting reached you through the haze. His suit peeled away in sections, the material sliding over skin until you felt the sudden press of bare warmth against your inner thighs. His chest, his stomach, the hard line of his cock brushing your slick folds. You reached again, one hand lifting off the pillow in desperate need to touch, and he caught your wrist with a low, raspy laugh.
"Fuck, you're shaking," Peter breathed out with his voice turning rougher by the second. He brought your palm to his mouth and kissed it, lips dragging over your skin before he let your hand slide down his side. Your fingers traced the hard muscle of his abdomen, feeling the heat of him, the faint tremor in his body as he held himself back. He let you explore for a few seconds longer, then shoved your hand back to the pillow and pressed down harder on the fabric covering your face.
"Keep it there," Peter warned, though the edge in his voice wavered. "Didn't I tell you that already?"
“Shit, sorry—” The apology came mindless, distracted by the frantic muffled agreement vibrating against the pillow. He shifted between your legs, the blunt head of his cock dragging through your soaked slit in one slow, teasing pass.
The contact made him hiss through his teeth, and had hips jerking forward like the restraint was finally cracking. He pushed in deep on the next stroke, burying himself to the hilt in one rough thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.
The pace turned brutal fast. Deep, heavy strokes rocked you up the mattress, each one forcing a broken sound out of you that the pillow barely contained. He watched the way your body jolted with every thrust, the way your tits bounced, the way your thighs trembled around his hips. Peter's hand stayed firm on the pillow, keeping you blind and muffled while he fucked into you like he'd been starving for it.
"God, listen to you," he murmured with a humorless chuckle. "So fucking wet. You like this? Being held down, can't even see me, can't touch?" He drove in harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing loud in the room. "Been holding back too long. Lonely too long, God I'm going insane. Fuck—"
Your hands went slack against the pillow, fingers twitching uselessly as the intensity built again. He noticed the moment your grip loosened and pressed the pillow down harder, the fabric smothering every whimper. The control should have felt demeaning, but it only made the heat spike hotter, making you clench around him like your body was begging for more even as your mind spun from the overwhelming sensation.
Peter kept the rhythm punishing, having hips snapping forward with a desperation that matched the conflict in his voice. Every thrust pushed you closer to the edge again, and every time you tried to reach for him his free hand caught your wrist and pinned it back down. The threat hung between you, unspoken but heavy: touch him and he'd stop. Don't touch and he'd keep going until you couldn't think straight.
Your moans turned frantic, muffled and wet against the pillow and he answered with a low groan that vibrated through his chest as he drove into you again, chasing the feeling without letting himself finish just yet.
He finally pulled out with a wet drag that left you clenching around nothing, the sudden emptiness making your hips twitch back toward him. And before you could even form a protest his hands were on you, gripping your waist hard enough to leave marks as he flipped you onto your stomach. The mattress dipped under his weight when he pressed your knees apart and yanked your hips up, forcing your hips into the air while your face stayed buried in the pillow.
"Fuck, look at you," Peter exhaled, and his voice cracked between a laugh and something unintentionally darker. "So eager. You want it this bad?"
You tried to push up on your elbows, twisting to look back at him, but one of his hands slid up your spine and pressed between your shoulder blades, pinning you back down. The other hand gathered at the base of your neck, tugging just enough to arch your neck as he leaned over.
"Can't fault you. I'm not doing much better," his voice hit your ear though the words came out shaky. His cock dragged through your folds again, the head catching on your entrance before he sank back in with one rough thrust that stuttered the air away from your lungs. The angle was deeper like this, hitting something that made your thighs shake. "God, you're tight. Squeezing me like you don't want me to leave."
His hips snapped forward in a punishing rhythm, skin slapping wetly against skin while his free hand roamed under your body to grab at your tits, squeezing hard before sliding lower to rub tight circles over your clit. Every thrust rocked you forward, your muffled moans vibrating into the bedspread as he fucked you like he was trying to crawl inside.
"This is so fucked," Peter breathed out against your spine with his lips dragging hot and open-mouthed down the curve of your back. He kissed each vertebra like he was apologizing for how hard he was pounding into you, even as his cock kept driving deep enough to make your vision blur. "I shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be doing this. But fuck, you feel too good. Can't stop."
You managed to prop yourself up on your elbows again, and your voice was hoarse when you gasped out, "Then don't stop. Please, keep going—"
His hand tightened in your hair, yanking your head back as he slammed into you harder, the pace turning almost frantic. "Don't say it like that," Peter groaned to himself, conflicted and desperate all at once. "Makes me want to stay. Makes me want to ruin you."
The hand under you kept working your clit in tight, relentless circles while his cock pistoned in and out, the wet sounds were obscene in the quiet room. Every time you tried to push back against him he shoved you forward again, controlling the angle, the depth, the pace. His breath came in ragged pants against your skin with his lips still trailing kisses down your exposed skin even as his thrusts grew rougher and more desperate.
"Been too long," Peter admitted between thrusts, and he could hear his voice turn thick with frustration. "Lonely too long. And you—fuck—you're so wet. So fucking perfect. I can't—"
His words cut off into a broken moan as you clenched around him. Your body responded to every rough stroke with another rush of slickness. He pressed his forehead between your shoulder blades, having his hips stuttering for a moment before he caught himself and started at you even harder, like he was trying to outrun whatever guilt was eating at him.
"Tell me to stop," he rasped, even as his hand in your hair pulled tighter and he drove in deeper. "Tell me this is wrong. Because I can't make myself leave."
“Told you, don't stop—” the words hung there frantically in their plea, and you pushed back against him, meeting every thrust with a desperate roll of your hips. The sound he made was half-laugh, half-groan. "Yeah," Peter breathed against your shoulder. "That's what I thought.”
His fist tightened in your hair again, yanking your face up from the pillow until your neck arched and your spine bowed. The sudden pull made your vision swim, but you kept your eyes squeezed shut, forcing yourself to obey even as every instinct screamed to look back at him.
"Good girl," he rasped against the shell of your ear and his voice shredded. "Keep those eyes closed. You feel that? Feel how fucking deep I am?"
You nodded frantically, a broken whimper escaping as he dragged out slow and deliberate before slamming back in. The angle had you seeing stars, each thrust punching the air from your lungs in sharp little gasps.
"Fuck—I'm—"
"Don't look," Peter tried to warn again, but his voice cracked on the words. His lips found the back of your neck, having his teeth scraping before he sucked hard enough to bruise. The wet pull of his mouth made your clench around him, and the groan that tore from his chest vibrated straight through your spine. "Christ, you're squeezing me so tight. Like you want me to lose it."
You tried to be good. Really tried. But when his teeth sank into the side of your throat, just below your ear, your hand twisted back on instinct. Your fingers found his hair, soft, sweat-damp curls that brushed against your knuckles, and you buried your hand in them, tugging him closer even as your eyes fluttered open for half a second.
"Fuck, I knew it," Peter breathed, catching your wrist and pinning it to the small of your back. His pace never faltered like his voice, hips continuing to snap forward in that relentless rhythm that had your thighs shaking. "Told you not to touch. Told you to be good. But you can't help yourself, can you?"
"I'm sorry," you gasped and your voice was hoarse, you shook your head at nothing as you continued. "I won't look, I swear! Just—please don't stop. Please, I need—"
His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades again, his exhales came breathless and ragged against your skin. "I shouldn't have taken the mask off. This is so fucking stupid. You could—god, you feel too good. Been too long since anyone—fuck—"
The words dissolved into a guttural curse as you clenched around him again, your second orgasm building fast and sharp in the pit of your stomach. Every thrust dragged across that perfect spot inside you, and the lack of allowance from him made it worse. It made every touch electric. You could feel his cock throbbing, feel the way his rhythm stuttered when you squeezed him, and feel the desperate way his free hand grabbed at your hip hard enough to bruise.
"You're close," Peter groaned into your ear, and he sounded completely wrecked now. "I can feel it. Fuck, you're dripping everywhere. Making such a mess."
Your eyes rolled back despite yourself, and a broken moan tore from your throat as he bit down on your shoulder. The sensation of his teeth marking you while he relentlessly pounded into you pushed you right to the edge. Your hand twisted in his hair again, fingers tightening in frenzied motion and this time he didn't stop you.
"That's it," Peter panted and cursed wordlessly when his hips stuttered at the feeling. "Come on my cock. Let me feel it. Been so fucking lonely, and you—god, you're just fucking insane—"
His words cut off into a choked groan as your orgasm crashed over you, your cunt pulsing around him in rhythmic waves. Your whole body seized; your thighs shook violently as you came with a broken cry, and the feeling of you clenching around him dragged a wrecked sound from Peter's chest.
"Fuck—fuck—fuck—" His hips jerked erratically, his pace faltering as he fought to hold back. "You're gonna make me come. God, I can feel every fucking pulse. Don't—don't look back, fuck."
Peter buried his face in your neck, sucking another bruise into your skin while his cock throbbed inside you. His hand stayed tangled in your hair, keeping your face turned away even as his body trembled against yours, every muscle tight with the effort of holding back his own release.
"You're too good," he whispered against your ear, all hoarse and desperate. "Too fucking perfect. I can't—"
His hips snapped forward one more time in a loss of control, burying himself to the hilt as he fought to regain control, his breath coming in harsh pants against your marked throat.
A broken gasp tore from your throat as his hips stilled, the thick length of him buried to the hilt inside you. Instead of pulling back, he ground forward, rolling his pelvis in a slow, deliberate circle that forced another inch of him deeper. Your walls fluttered around him, oversensitive and raw, and the sensation made your vision blur even with your eyes squeezed shut.
"Fuck, too much—" The words came out ragged and barely coherent. Your body had gone limp in his grip, head only held up only by his fist in your hair and the arm banded around your waist. Every nerve ending sparked like live wires, the stimulation making your head spin.
"I know," Peter groaned against your ear with overwhelming rasp. "I can feel you shaking. God, you're so fucking tight around me. Can't stop—need to feel all of it."
You tilted your head back desperately, blindly seeking his mouth. "Please, need—"
His palm came up rough and warm, fingers splaying across your eyes to keep you from looking, and then his lips crashed into yours from the side. The kiss was messy, uncoordinated, all teeth and tongue and shared gasps. Peter swallowed your whimpers as he started to grind again, short, shallow rolls of his hips that kept him buried deep while the head of his cock dragged against that oversensitive spot inside you.
"Fuck, fuck—I'm—" His voice cracked. You could feel it happening from the way his abs flexed hard against your back, the tremor that ran through his thighs, and the way he throbbed inside you like a heartbeat. His rhythm stuttered with his hips jerking in shallow pulses as he came with a guttural groan that vibrated through your spine.
You felt every pulse of it. Hot, thick spurts flooding you, filling you until it leaked out around his cock with each weak thrust. Peter kept fucking it deeper, grinding the mess back into you while his hand stayed clamped over your eyes and his mouth devoured yours in desperate, open-mouthed kisses.
"God—god—" He panted against your lips, and his hips kept twitching in movement.
Your hand reached back blindly, fingers finding his hip and your nails dug into his skin as you held onto him. He was shaking against you, every muscle tight, his breath coming in harsh pants against your neck. The hand over your eyes softened, thumb stroking your temple as he slowly came down, his cock still twitching inside you with aftershocks.
"You okay?" Peter whispered with his voice strained after the moment quieted down, his high climbing down in shallow breaths. His forehead dropped to your shoulder against your marked skin. "Did I—fuck, tell me you're okay."
You nodded weakly, still floating in feeling, still feeling the slow leak of him between your thighs. "Don't pull out yet," you managed with your voice barely audible. "Just—stay. Please."
Peter's arm tightened around you, pulling you closer even as his own breathing started to even back out. The hand he had over your eyes slid down to cup your jaw, gentler now, and his thumb brushed your bottom lip. "Yeah, okay," he murmured. "Just for a while."
The room was quiet except for your mingled breathing and his lips pressed soft kisses along your shoulder, soothing the bite marks he'd left, and you could feel the tension slowly bleeding out of his body as he held you through the afterglow.
The last thing you registered was the slow drag of his cock easing out of you, the wet slide of his cum following in its wake, and the gentle press of his lips against your shoulder. Then everything went soft and dark.
You didn't even feel yourself slipping under.
Consciousness returned in pieces.
Firstly, it came with the weight of the sheets tucked up to your chest, cool cotton against your bare skin. Then, with the faint ache between your legs, a deep, pleasant throb that pulsed in time with your heartbeat. Your thighs felt sticky, but when you shifted, the sensation was clean. There was no dried mess, just the ghost of it cleaned away.
Your eyes cracked open.
The room was dim at first, the only light filtering in from the streetlamp outside your window. The space beside you was empty, the sheets cool. And he was gone.
You pushed yourself up on one elbow, wincing at the pull in your hips, and spotted the bottle of water on your nightstand. Beside it, a folded piece of paper with your name scrawled across the front in handwriting you recognized: messy, rushed, and unmistakably his.
You reached for it, unfolding the note with fingers that still trembled.
Drink water. Eat something. Don't let me see you at any more crime scenes.
Beneath it, smaller, almost an afterthought:
P.S. If you behave, maybe you'll see me without those stupid apps.
A laugh bubbled up in your throat immediately after reading it, all hoarse and disbelieving. You pressed the note to your chest, letting your head fall back against the pillows with a soft thud.
"Well," you muttered to the empty room, voice scratchy from use, "guess I finally deleted the right thing."
Your body sank deeper into the mattress, sore in all the right places and light in a way that made no sense. The ache between your legs was a reminder, the faint scent of him still clinging to your sheets. You closed your eyes, the note crinkling softly against your skin, and smiled.
The ball was in his court now, and you couldn't wait to see what he'd do with it.
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