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Indebted

Dark!dom!Peter Parker x Reader

Summary: The city despised Spiderman after Mysterio's death and it destroyed Peter, but you knew better. When both Spiderman and Peter are proven innocent of all of Mysterio's accusations, Peter does what he can to make sure he gets his revenge on the city that betrayed him and take back what he is owed.

NSFW (18+)

Includes: dark!dom!Peter (18+) but also softdom!Peter? S.M.U.T. dubious consent, slight masochism, ass+pussy shmacking, Peter being mean and narcissistic, oral (f+m receiving inc. anal), spitting, cum play, overstimulation, bondage, choking, shower sex, itty-bitty bit of angst, fluff? Am I allowed to say fluff after everything I’ve just mentioned?

w/c: A whopping 13.3K - I'm sorry I got carried away

a/n: I hope you guys enjoy this cos I've been obsessed with the idea and I know I have other T.H. oneshotes to come out but this one couldn't wait. Feed me your feedback :)

☆MASTERLIST☆

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The city always owed Spiderman. It always had done from the first crime he stopped, the first person he saved, the first favour he granted the police. Regardless, the city was always indebted to him. That never changed. Especially after Mysterio’s posthumous announcement which, not only did it propagate erroneous lies about Spiderman, but it revealed his true identity. It was a moment that shocked the world and one person in particular.

Mysterio’s bitter end caused chaos and engendered an uprise against Spiderman as the city, alike in mindlessness, believed the lies about him and all within the space of about a minute - the public revolted against him.

It was what initiated the downfall of Peter Parker.

Having Spiderman’s true identity revealed, Peter was destroyed in the process. His reputation had been butchered, his chances for college went down the drain and verbal, physical and mental abuse became part of his everyday routine. There wasn’t a day that went passed without a purple and red haze blemishing his cheek, or a bandage wrapped around at least one of his appendages, and you shamefully watched from a far how the city resolved to violence as his punishment.

You were in the same school year, and as someone who lived in the same neighbourhood as Peter, you had always known him to be the quiet, rather intelligent guy who was independent, who took care of his aunt, and who never bothered a soul. As Spiderman, he had a strong affinity for rescuing people, capturing every calibre of ‘bad guy’ and without a shadow of a doubt, always tried his best to save the neighbourhood he grew up in. He was such a people pleaser, desperate for people to see the good in him he always had.

Although you didn’t know each other personally, you still felt for him. You really did. Even as your family repulsed the boy. Even as the very school he attended pretended to have no affiliation with him. Even as the world around you tried to convince you otherwise, you always sympathised for the boy. Because all those years of saving, rescuing and rising up to every threat Queens has ever faced had been forgotten the moment Mysterio’s accusation was televised across the city. The public latched onto the idea like a parasite and refused to acknowledge how, years prior, it was Spiderman who played a major role in saving the world against Thanos and his army.

It was like it never fucking happened.

It infuriated you that no one paid attention to the evidence, or lack thereof for the matter. You wanted to protest Peter’s innocence, and many people in your year did but no one wanted to listen, in fact, all it did was arouse abuse, triggering fights, assaults and brutality. Being televised, it triggered mass hate for the ‘sympathisers’, and before too long social media was plagued with propaganda - painting sympathisers as evil and corrupt and your campaign really took a blow because of it. With each day that passed, sympathisers were becoming smaller by number and by hope. It meant that you had to keep changing your tactic until it all became too dangerous to express such thoughts. So you had to give up, go into hiding and preach your beliefs covertly.

As for Peter, he became a recluse. Never to be seen, never to be heard. He had broken himself off from society and explicitly made it clear that no one was to contact him. He wanted to be alone and his word was final. He was utterly broken. It became strange when you no longer saw the flash of red and blue zoom past you on the streets. The only red and blue you see these days are the flashing sirens of the police, late and definitively ineffective in controlling crime now that Spiderman was no longer stopping criminals. One of the major repercussions of the disappearance of Spiderman was that Queens quickly became dangerous. Walking alone wasn’t an option, even during the day. No where was safe. There was a threat around every corner.

It took years for the city to realise that Mysterio was wrong. Once Stark industries and Fury finally vindicated him and cleared the air, there was still tension throughout the streets. Queens was a stubborn place. No one wanted to admit they were wrong, despite disproving all allegations against Peter. The scandal was swept under the carpet and everyone turned a blind eye, and just like that, Peter was quickly forgotten about.

No one had seen Peter in years. Even after his name had been cleared, he never came out of hiding.

Or so people thought.

~~~~

The nasally voice of the news reporter echos clearly around the perimeter of your apartment. Eyes are glued to the TV as blurred images of what might be Queens newest threat span across the screen. Silence ensues as you and your roommates sit anxiously in anticipation of what could only be bad news from the tone of the news anchor’s voice.

‘Coroner reports detail that the three men found at the scene on Hillside Avenue died from internal bleeding sustained by blunt force trauma. The NYPD found no traces of evidence of the culprit, but have quickly determined a link with another 3 cases of a similar nature which happened just last week. Captain John H. McKenzie of the NYPD proclaims that the evasive, unnamed masked killer dressed entirely in black is to blame but without supporting evidence, a definitive answer is yet to be found.’

‘Inspectors are yet to understand why these victims have been targeted. Their cases are ongoing. Police are warning people to remain cautious and to limit the number of times they leave their home.’

“Fuck, that’s not that far from here.” Your roommate, Sophia, exclaims.

“Shit.” Your other roommate, Hannah, replies. “Just what Queens needs. Another psychopath running around.” She sighs dejectedly and turns her attention to her phone.

“I know,” you concur, “it’s quite scary. There’s going to be no one left in Queens at this rate, the police really need to get their shit together.” This mysterious man has been on the NYPD’s Hitlist since witnesses came forward claiming they had seen a man, dressed from head to toe in black, fleeing from the scene. But he’s always been one step ahead.

Well…it isn’t hard with the NYPD being as useless as they are.

“We need someone better than the police…” mutters Sophia.

“Yeah,” Hannah concurs, “I just can’t be bothered with another Spiderman situation, though.” The comment passes through her lips casually without so much of a thought. You swallow a nervous lump in your throat at the mention of his name. Neither Sophia or Hannah know about your involvement of the scandal of Spiderman and you intend to keep it that way. After protests turned violent and haters became hostile, it was at the advice of the police to back down from the cause at the threat of your safety. You and many others were forced to withdraw and disband with no means of communication, all to lower the risk of riots ensuing throughout the city. ‘Spiderman sympathisers’ were well sought after by those most opposed to the hero - claiming that to defend ‘a liar and a fraud’ warranted punishment. Your parents couldn’t afford to lose their child, and you couldn’t afford to keep putting yourself at risk. Death outweighed passion.

So you had to retire.

It’s been several years, but the paranoia is still there. In the time that’s passed, you graduated high school, got accepted into college and now you are awaiting results from exams in your final year. You met new people, made new friends all to distance yourself as far as possible from the life you used to live; even if that included your obstinate, hateful parents. Everyone you knew from school had vanished from your social circle; messages deleted, numbers blocked and profiles unfollowed. It was a common occurrence particularly in your year because of one main reason.

Nobody wanted to evoke Peter’s name.

You still think about him occasionally, and wonder how different, how better, life would be if everyone wasn’t so quick to judge. Spiderman would still be keeping the city safe and Peter would still be living a normal life. The same wave of passion that motivated you to protest on Peter’s behalf all those years ago still rolls back in its tide every now and then. Your pulse elevated, you often have to find the space to vent, let out your anger and frustration as the ordeal still bothers you to this day.

A few more days pass by and every night at 8pm, you and your roommates sit in your pyjamas (because you are all too worried to leave your apartment past this time) and listen apprehensively as that same nasally voice of the reporter breaks the news of yet another discovery of a vicious murder scene.

‘Police responded to a call from a 60 year old woman of apartment 61B explaining that banging and shouting could be heard from apartment 71B directly above her, reporting what could only be described as a violent fight breaking out between two people. The NYPD arrived minutes later to discover that forty-eight year old Danny Black was found dead on the floor of his apartment. Upon further inspection, detective inspectors discovered a note with the words ‘you owe me’ attached to the body.’

‘Forensics concluded that cause of death was constriction of the throat, but other injuries were sustained from a fight in the lead up to his death. Police are appealing for witnesses to come forward with any information they could provide about the events of Wednesday night.’

“Do you think it’s that masked guy?” Sophia asks, concern laced through her words. Your initial answer is ‘yes’ but you don’t want to say the word in fear of terrifying her more.

“It seems so. This is the fifth one this month. How has he not been caught yet?” Hannah queries. “I want to be able to go out without fearing for my life - can this guy just give us all a break?”

As the story continues, you take it upon yourself to read through the articles already posted about the murder, itching for more detail. There’s something about this story that has the hair on the back of your neck stand on end, something that has your stomach dropping unlike previous news reports. Many articles already presume that what ties these murders together is the untouchable masked man: always leaving his victims at the scene, always inflicting physical injury, and always getting away with it. But that’s easy enough to decipher and it’s not the answer you’re looking for. What you and many journalists and government reports fail to identify is the determining link between victims; why those people in particular? Is it all preemptively coordinated as part of his sick, twisted plan or is it just the case of a sporadic killer in need of his fix?

Swirling with questions, your head thumps and you pull yourself away from your phone screen. Fed up, tired and feeling weighed down, you bid your roommates goodnight and head to your bed.

Sleep is struggling to find you as you toss and turn through the hours of the night. With a sigh of defeat, you rise from your bed suddenly finding that it’s 12:30am. Your feet take you to your dark living room where everything has been switched off for the night; Hannah and Sophia must’ve gone to bed. You turn your TV on sitting at the foot of the couch and you can’t explain why you’re rewinding to the news report that you all watched hours ago. Perhaps it’s your unsettled subconscious begging you to find out why you’re more perturbed by the recent murder. Through muted tones the news reporter echoes her words once more…

‘Forty-eight year old Danny Black…’

Danny Black. You swear you know that name. It’s hidden somewhere in the back of your memory. It’s on the tip of your tongue and even as you say his name out loud, you realise how familiar it is when the syllables roll out so easily. It’s a name you’ve definitely mentioned multiple times before. But why?

‘A note with the words ‘you owe me’ attached to the body.’

You owe me. You owe me. You owe me.

Then it hits you. Back during the heat of the Spiderman scandal, there was always one name that haunted you and other protestors. And it was Danny’s. Danny Black was responsible for orchestrating anti-Spiderman rallies years ago, calling large crowds together to demonstrate mass hate for the hero which inevitably turned into riots. He was responsible for designing the propaganda that indoctrinated the public with lies, posting them on social media, hiring out billboards where he could to persuade politicians and mayors to implement interventions against everything Spiderman related. He was the sole reason why people responded violently to your peaceful protests, why many of your friends and fellow sympathisers were hurt and targeted as victims of assaults, why you and many others had to go into hiding. You found it remarkable that for all the hate-crime he instigated, he was never arrested for it. He got away with everything.

Danny Black was one evil son of a bitch. But it seems that karma has finally paid its due and it condemned him in his final moments.

The revelation passes a shiver through your tense limbs. Caught in the bright light of the TV, now only emitting the low hum of static, you sit, frozen with the knowledge that your erstwhile arch-nemesis ceases to exist. You blink once, twice - your eyes remaining motionless but yet your sight seems to pulse with the heavy tread of your beating heart.

In a swift, sudden movement, your hand reaches for your phone as a new worrying thought spawns in your mind. Your fingers twitch into motion, researching the names of the victims who have fallen at the hands of this masked murderer. With each name your eyes latch onto, the more you realise something utterly horrifying. Every victim, every name, every life that has been taken belongs to someone who once actively preached against Spiderman. You didn’t know how you missed it before, but it’s so obvious now. Each of them played a major role in the organisation that defeated you in the cause to defend Spiderman.

This masked man, whoever he is, is making his way through the ranks, killing them off one-by-one.

“Hey-”

“Jesus Christ, Sophia.” Her voice stuns you out of your revelation as she stands timidly by the doorway. She mutters words of an apology but her face tells of a guilty conscience. “What’s wrong?” You flick the TV screen off and turn the corner lamp on.

“I need a favour.”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“I’ve…um…I’ve started my period and there’s no sanitary towels left,” she mutters awkwardly. “I would’ve gone to get some myself but…uh,” she uncrosses her legs ever so slightly to reveal a red stain on her shorts between her thighs. The red hue on her cheeks deepens and your heart sinks for her. “I was going to ask Hannah but she’s asleep. Could you-”

“Sophia, yes, of course. You don’t need to be embarrassed to ask. I’ll just pop to the corner store.”

“Thank you.” You give her a warm smile as you begin to put your shoes on.

“No worries, go and get yourself cleaned up and I’ll be back by the time you’re done.”

“Okay, be careful. Keep your phone on you in case anything happens.”

You heed her warning and you leave straight away, bouncing down the stairs and out into the ever-present ambience of New York City. Ignoring the constant paranoia of walking the streets alone, one favourable thing about New York is that it isn’t called ‘the city that never sleeps’ for nothing. Whatever it is you need, there’s always somewhere open. Every walk is with purpose and there’s always a destination. Thankfully, where you need to go is only five minutes away.

The entrance dings as you walk in and on instinct, you throw the shopkeeper a friendly smile to let them know that your intentions are innocent to ease their mind. These days, with the number of in-store robberies rising you feel like it’s a requirement to do so. The shopkeeper reciprocates and you make your way over to the sanitary products as you have done many times before, picking up the brand you know Sophia likes. But just as you turn to head towards the till, you bump into someone you didn’t notice before.

“Sorry!”

“It’s no worries, I wasn’t looking where I was going either,” the stranger replies. You take in his appearance; soft features donning blue eyes with a cloud of ginger curls on top of his head. He peers down to the women’s products in your hand and you offer a bashful smile.

“For my friend…” He nods in understanding.

“Being the hero then,” It’s your turn to nod, thankful that he doesn’t pass a sexist remark like you were half-expecting him to.

“God, a hero’s what we all need right now.” It’s a flippant remark aided in the airy laugh you give, but it somehow triggers his features to switch, exuding blatant disapproval.

“A hero?” He reiterates and immediately you sense something’s wrong.

“S-something like that-“

“Like Spiderman.” When you see his eyes scrutinise you, alarm bells ring and you decide right away that you need to leave.

“Um, sure, whatever. Look, sorry for bumping into you.” You manoeuvre yourself out of his way but his hypercritical voice follows you down the aisle and he catches you before you make it to the till. Your heart is thumping and in a blind panic, your ears begin to ring.

“So you’re a Spidey-sympathiser then, are you?” Your mouth goes dry as a menacing smile takes place upon his wicked face. Shit, shit, shit! As you attempt to mumble your way through incoherent sentences, you back away from the man, evidently still homing a resentment to ‘spidey-sympathisers’. You thought this was all over with.

“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that! I just - please, I need to leave. Please leave me alone.”

“Oh my god, you are a fucking Spidey-sympathiser!” His words echo louder the further you walk away from him. Scattered and trembling, you pay for the sanitary towels and you march your way out the door, naively thinking you managed to escape the situation, but as the lingering ding of the door reaches your ears, you know he’s isn’t willing to let it go.

“Leave me alone!” You shout, mustering up as much bravery as you can.

“Or what?” He laughs. “You gonna get Spiderman after me? Where’s your fucking Spiderman now, idiot?”

You don’t know where it comes from, but a sudden fury swims through the fear and takes its place in your mind. Anger rolls high in its tide and rather than cowering away from him, you spin, heels burning underneath the soles of your shoes as you march closer to him in an irrefutable rage.

“And where’s your fucking Danny Black, huh? I’ll tell you where, dead. You should be thankful that fuckers no longer corrupting your half-wit of a brain.”

“You fucking bitch.”

A powerful hand collides with the side of your face and you are immediately swept off your feet, falling to the ground with a thud and a burning pain erupts from your head. Once the initial pain metastasises, the first thing your brain senses is the sound of your belongings scattering across the concrete ground. Downed and helpless, you anticipate more blows to your body and you hope that by curling into yourself, it’ll inhibit the pain. But when nothing but a strangled yelp comes from your attacker, your eyes whip open seizing the opportunity to grab your belongings as quick as you can and run far, far away. Only for a split second does your frenzied brain register how strange it is that your attacker is suddenly gone, and it’s that very irrational thought that tempts your curiosity. Perhaps the daze of the slight concussion is to blame for your completely nonsensical thinking, because you find yourself looking down the dark alleyway to your left.

And you do indeed find your answer.

Past the bins and the mouldy cardboard boxes do you find your attacker, lying flat on the ground unmoving and with a wash of red covering his face. But he’s not the only person you see. You don’t notice at first, but after the dizziness alleviates you spot a tall, dark figure looming over him. A gasp catches his ears and he spins to see you standing at the entrance of the alleyway having witnessed the aftermath of something sinister. The man stands before you dressed head to toe in black, barely visible but there all the same. A mask obscures his facial features, perched on the heaving shoulders evidently tired by whatever punishment he’s just inflicted on your attacker. Eyes trained on you, he takes a step closer and displays himself where the most prominent feature of him comes into the light of the street lamp.

The clues are evident enough and the last piece of the jigsaw fits together. You can’t believe what you are seeing. It’s the masked murderer. Just as other witnesses described, he is just a man clad in a black, utility all-in-one, armed to the teeth. But what they failed to mention is how daunting it is to be in his presence; a physique built to destroy, standing strong with burled fists to radiate intimidation. And it does exactly that. Just the sight of him drains the colour from your face in the knowledge that his erratic behaviour makes him twice as dangerous as what the police convey.

Amongst everything it’s the whites of his mask covering his eyes that catches your attention. The mask itself bares a very obvious resemblance to his. To Spiderman’s. And it’s not likely to be a coincidence. He must be an old sympathiser with a really bad grudge.

Despite having his entire assault witnessed by you, he doesn’t seemed alarmed. Whether that’s part of his tactic to intimidate you, you don’t know. Regardless, you stand there quivering, immobilised by fear and shock as you impatiently wait for your fight or flight response to kick in. Your lungs heaving through panic is the only sound to enter your ears, the ambience of the city blanketed out as your attention remains situated on the man standing just feet in front of you.

You blink and everything happens all at once. Adrenaline kicks in and sends an electrical pulse to your muscles, shocking them into their own state of mind as they begin to carry you down the street. The cerebrum experiencing a second’s delay, only fully understanding what’s happening by the time you are halfway down the street. When it eventually catches up, the terror of the situation takes over and pushes your legs faster and faster. You have never been more desperate to be in the safety of your apartment.

All of a sudden you feel a tightness coil around your stomach as if someone had caught you in a lasso and it whips the air out of your lungs. Whiplash sends you flying backwards, your feet not touching solid ground for at least three seconds before your back collides with a sturdy chest attached to two powerful arms squeezing you, keeping you hostage without so much of a struggle. Your lips part in an attempt to plead but his hand muzzles your mouth.

“Shhhhhh…” The menacing sound hisses just millimetres from your ears and your eyes are blown wide when the course material of his mask brushes against your skin. Nuzzling against your ear, there is nothing about his mannerisms that are remotely calming and you can only sense malicious intent. Especially with the way his words drip with mockery, elevating fear with the taunting tones of his calm, deep voice.

“Where are you going, little one? I never got to thank you for finding one of my little rats.” He doesn’t take his hand away from your mouth, rather he pulls your head further back to rest flush against his shoulder. The tears roll down your cheeks and are caught by his hand. In a silent prayer, you hope that they won’t be the last tears you’ll ever cry. “You see, he owed me something. As do many, many other people in this fucking backstabbing city.” His words are gritted, his temperament deteriorating. Yet, he continues. “Do you know what they owe me?” He plays coy, only allowing you just an inch of movement to shake your head before clamping down even tighter. You swear his next words will haunt you for the rest of your life.

“They owe me an apology.”

Oh my God. It’s Spiderman. It’s Peter. He’s alive.

Eyes wide, your lungs full of strained breath, you muster up every ounce of energy to squirm against him, whimpering through the persistence of his hand covering your mouth. In all your efforts, you realise that it barely even affects him, in fact, he finds the hilarity in watching you writhe against him as the epiphany washes over you. The dark chuckle wracks a shiver through your bones and in effect, it buzzes on him too.

“Now, now,” he tuts, voice as close as ever, “play nice.” His warning comes from the hand wrapped around your body, fingers finding the crook of your waist and teasing with a purposeful squeeze. Like flicking a switch, you are still. Not daring to push your luck even further. Before he opens his mouth again, thankfully Sophia’s concern reaches you when your phone begins to ring.

“Looks like someone wants you more than I do,” shiver. “This conversation isn’t over, little one. I have one more rat to find, and once I’ve dealt with him…” His voice lowers to a whisper, his mouth presses against your ear. “I’m going to find you and I’m going to catch you.”

~~~~

When you eventually reached home Sophia opened the door to you, panting, crying and bleeding. You had never been more relieved to see her. She, alongside Hannah when she heard all commotion, had nursed you back to health, listened to your worries and comforted you when your nerves spiked. In your stupor of what happened, you remember insistently murmuring the same few words over and over again.

“The police are going to find another body.”

You tried to ease your way through the days feeling conflicted and, in all honesty, petrified of the foreseeable. With each day that passed, you found it harder and harder to keep your paranoia at bay clinging onto the need for constant company, terrified to be alone. Sophia and Hannah did everything they could to alleviate the distress, and they had promised you their full protection once they knew the masked man was after you. But being two girls in their twenties, with an average height of 5’4 and not much experience in self-defence, there was only so much they could do. Although, what you didn’t tell them was that the masked man was the once-missing Peter Parker. Why? Because his identity had already been revealed once before and it caused complete bedlam. You didn’t want to be the person to do it again.

Finding rest was a rare luxury for at least a week. You had your eyes trained to watch the rectangle window in the corner of your room for hours on end, fearful that if you looked away for just one second, you would let your guard down and he would be there, waiting for you like he promised. You didn’t even know what he was going to do to you, and whatever it was you didn’t understand why. You had defended him; you actively tried to protect his integrity all those years ago, so why was he coming after you when, just as he said, there was still thousands of other people in the city still resenting him? Didn’t it mean anything to him? It just didn’t make sense.

You knew when you heard the news break a couple of days later about the death of your attacker on the TV that it was a warning, that it was only a matter of time before he found his last ‘rat’ and would be coming for you next. You didn’t dare leave your apartment and the mental torture infected you with restlessness; having to check locks four, fives times before you left each room, having to check that Sophia and Hannah were close by wherever you went. If and when you did leave your apartment, you couldn’t go longer than ten seconds without feeling the urge to check over your shoulder - you caught a nerve doing it so much.

But it had all seemed to be for nothing. A month had passed. The last rat was found, his murder was televised like you had been dreading for a while. But there was no sign of Peter. There was no sign of him anywhere for that matter: he had stopped killing and any sightings of him reduced to absolute zero. The NYPD, as relieved as they were for the killings to stop were just as equally frustrated that they never caught him. It seemed he was just as good as playing the villain as he was the hero.

You concluded that his empty promise was part of a sick ruse to keep you and the general public terrified of him, making you think he was after you, when really, he just wanted to keep you quiet.

~~~~

It’s the end of the second month when you eventually manage to break away from your compulsive tendencies, when the paranoia no longer lingered. In time, you slowly became you again. So much so that you insist upon Sophia and Hannah visiting their respective boyfriends that they have been neglecting over the last few months in favour of you. Up until the last second, they still check to see if you are alright and you confirm; you want them to go, you need to do this yourself now.

Having the quiet humming of the refrigerator buzz around the kitchen without Hannah or Sophia’s voice laced over the top seems strange. Having the apartment to yourself seems strange. But you need to get over your paranoia. Living in a constant state of stress isn’t healthy on the mind nor is it sustainable as a lifestyle. With a hot chocolate in hand, the TV blaring something other than the news, you find yourself very quickly settling into normality and for the entire night, not a single worry troubles you.

It gets late and before retiring to your bed, you give the living room a quick tidy, taking plates, mugs and cups to the kitchen. You reach for the sink, filling up a glass of water to keep by your bedside as a force of habit but as you turn around to leave the kitchen, you lock onto a dark figure crawling across your ceiling with the whites of its eyes directly on you. Like a spider.

He’s found you.

A shriek leaves your mouth and the glass slips between your fingers and smashes onto the floor. Your heart stammers in your chest, stumbling against the countertop behind you. Suddenly, two months worth of fear and paranoia rushes back just when you thought you were okay again.

Ever so slowly, he twists his head as he surveys you standing motionless in the corner of the kitchen, bug eyed and hyperventilating. With such grace, he easily dangles himself from the ceiling dropping down to his feet without a decibel of sound splitting the room. The black of his clothing has never seemed so dark now that he stands in the bright white of your kitchen spotlights. It grants his size and demeanour all the favours it could offer, painting him with a poise so hostile and menacing that makes it harder to breathe.

“Hello, little one.” A quick ‘fuck’ stutters from your lips. “Did you think I forgot about you?”

“P-please.” You plead. “I didn’t do anything, please.”

“Oh, but you did.” He takes small, stalking steps towards you. “You did a lot of things. Don’t you remember what happened all those years ago? Don’t you remember how you…defended me?”

You keep your lips sealed shut, eyes bouncing around the room for something to use for protection.

“I watched you and your little posse of Spiderman-sympathisers for months after Mysterio’s betrayal. Watched how you would protest in my name, protect my honour, my identity, preach about me, worship me like I was some sort of God and - fuck,” Peter laughs as he tears off his mask in one slick movement, revealing the face you haven’t seen in years. Fuck indeed. “That’s how I felt.”

The quiet, intelligent boy you once observed from a far is no longer a boy. He’s a man. Taller, stronger, more structured; he’s certainly grown into himself. His curls spring free on top of his head, no longer constrained from his mask and you can’t help but notice how something as subtle as his now-unruly hair makes such a difference to his appearance. Before, Peter was never seen without a smile on his face, like you said, he really was a people pleaser, so the smirk on his face isn’t entirely unfamiliar. But what has changed is his motive; once cheerful and charismatic is now devilish and wicked.

He dips the curve of his finger underneath your chin and angles your face towards him, demanding attention. His thumb gently skates around in circles over your chin, inching closer and closer to your bottom lip. You let him, moving without his permission seems illicit.

“It was the darkest moment of my life, but you made me feel like a God.” He says, eyes widening at the thrill of the word, drunk on some sort of power-trip. Everything that’s coming out of his mouth is making you feel sick with embarrassment. All of that time and effort you put into defending Spiderman wasn't supposed to boost his ego, it was supposed to be about making things right again, opening up the eyes of the world to see that they had been lied to, and restoring peace in the city. You were certain that everything you had done for him was worthy of, at least, his appreciation but alas he’s mistaken it for idolatry.

He only ever cared about the attention and the dominance that it came with.

He tilts his head and knits his eyebrows when he doesn’t get any response from you. “Come on, little one, let me hear that voice of yours again. Pretty, pretty, please?” He pouts like a child but it’s those moments of immaturity that makes you more scared of him. “Haven’t you always wondered where I was throughout it all? What I had been doing?”

“Yes…”

“Ahhh, she speaks.” He passes an evocative chuckle. “I’ll tell you where I was: I was in Tony’s-” Tony? What happened to the innocent ‘Mr Stark’? “-little hideaway cabin watching the city, taking notes and planning.”

“Planning what?” You dare ask.

“Who to kill: anyone that dragged my name through the mud. Anyone who turned against me without a second’s hesitation. Anyone who refused to repay the favour they owed me. I was going to hunt each and every one of them down. I was forced to watch my own city betray me just like that - so easily willing to forget everything that I had done for them and pass me off as the villain. So I thought; if it’s the villain they want, then it’s the villain they get.”

In his wrath, his hand slides further up the line of your jaw, gripping it with such vehemence that you’re convinced you’ll die at the hands of Peter Parker. But then his features soften, head tilting with endearment when he notices your glossy eyes. “Then I saw you,” and the smirk returns. “Standing up to those pathetic low-lives as if you had nothing else to lose. The clever girl smart enough to refuse the lies. You always knew, didn’t you? You even knew it was me that night on the street.” The teasing scrunch of his nose tells you he already knows the answer. “You were so…passionate. I had never seen someone so feisty…”

There’s a brief moment of silence as he remembers that night. Seizing the moment to yourself, you comprehend the two things that he does that makes your skin raise and your stomach plummet. First, he runs those dark, sinful eyes from your own down to the array of freckles that cross the bridge of your nose, before becoming enchanted by your parted lips. Second, his fascination urges him to push the weight of his body against yours, meeting foreheads, entangling breaths, grinding his hips closer to yours until your back is pressed firmly against the counter behind you. Being this close to you, your scent alone is enough to make his eyes roll and his teeth sink down onto his lip. You can’t even turn away as his hands clamp down at the sides of your head. He’s not allowing any room for escape.

“Watching you,” he breathes, faltering just ever so slightly. “Was so fucking sexy. You have no idea how much it turned me on.”

Your breath hitches, “Peter-”

“But I was kinda disappointed, you know? I always imagined that when I saw you again you would’ve been happy to see me. The person who martyred herself for me greeting me like the God she thought I was. But you didn’t-”

“Because you’re not a God, Peter. You’re a man, a killer. We supported Spiderman, the friendly neighbourhood hero, not the masked murderer you are now.”

The comment evokes a chuckle but you’re struggling to see what’s funny. But then you remember that piece of provocative insight he disclosed seconds earlier and you discern that he’s not laughing because it’s funny, he’s laughing because it’s feisty. Regret immediately runs through your veins because it only prompts him to edge closer, to sweep the tip of his nose across the highs of your cheek inhaling you before his parted lips skim across your ear.

“Well guess what, sweetheart. They’re the same person and they both want the same thing. Do you know what that is?” He whispers, tone seductive.

“What?” Inexplicably you find yourself invested, eyes fluttering to a close and words flowing in a whisper.

“You.”

The soft kiss to your ear forces you to exhale, wavering as he places another at the base of your ear before going back to take your earlobe between his teeth. Just at the touch of his tongue running along the curve of your jaw, you reach to stop him and yourself committing a crime worse than sin. A crime so sacrilegiously immoral, it would be the ruin of your virtue. But Peter seizes your hands in his and keeps them locked under his as he grapples the edge of the counter. He’s already decided for himself that he has nothing left to question - his morals corrupted, his principles dishonourable, there’s no humanity left in him that would suffer from his indecency.

He leans back just enough to see your face through half hooded eyes, his slow and easy breath sweeping across your face. You’re sure that he’s going to reprimand you for deterring him, but instead, he spots each and every strained muscle on your face and offers relief through his kisses. One lands on your forehead, just above your eyebrows. One to each eyelid, previously closed tightly now fluttering demurely. One to each cheek, burning with diffidence. One to the tip of your nose, once scrunched but now able to breathe steady breaths.

Peter notices your parted lips and he can’t help but think how inviting they look, how enticing and it doesn’t take much convincing. A switch pulls in Peter and suddenly he’s absolutely ravenous. He takes your lips in his, forcefully and passionately, unable to contain the greed. The effect seems to be infectious. The switch that pulled in him pulls in you too. The commitment to Spiderman, to Peter, resurfaces and obsession takes control. You protested for hours, speaking out about how much better life was with him around. You just want life to be good again and fuck, you want to be good for him too.

He growls roughly when he feels you kissing him back and it motivates him to slide his tongue to clash with yours. For him, the taste of your lips is utter ecstasy. It sparks an impatience to indulge you, eager to find other parts of you that he’s dying to savour. His hands roam free over your body, clad in pathetic pyjamas that if he tried, they would rip immediately. The grip of his fingers tease down the length of your back, sinking in at the dip of your waist and grabbing your hips rolling them in any direction he pleases. He’s drunk with power, thrilled to know that you’ve submitted yourself to him and he can’t get enough. Now firmly grabbing your ass, his pinkies dip lower beneath the hem of your shorts, itching to feel the soft skin of your thighs.

Before he gets carried away too soon, because he’s been desperate for this to happen, he reserves his hands to your face, sliding down to circle your neck. A warning. Your eyes snap open to find fiery eyes staring back at you.

“You have three seconds to get your bedroom.”

“What?” You whisper.

“I said I was going to catch you, didn’t I?”

“Fuck. Peter-”

“One…”

You have to tear yourself from his hands, stumbling over your feet as you slip and slide across the wet kitchen tiles. You never imagined regretting wearing fluffy socks because now that you’ve entered the living room, you still can’t find any grip from the wooden floor beneath you.

“Two…” Peter’s voice follows you. He isn’t joking. He really is going to catch you. For every two measly steps you take, Peter takes one in his stride and he’s easily catching up. The hall’s in sight and at the very end is the door to your bedroom. You’re so very close; it’s within touching distance. You think you can make it…

But Peter decides he’s not going to play fair.

“Three,” he growls and just has he did that night, a thwip resonates behind you and stops you dead on the spot. Peter yanks you back into his chest once more but he continues walking. Bound to him, his arms lift you just ever so slightly that your tiptoes grazed the floor. Your stumbled and misguided steps are somewhat of a stark contrast from his calculated movements as he pushes you towards your bed, face down and folded over the edge of the bed.

Lying there, hands bound behind you and almost smothered by your bedsheets, the nerves are swimming in your stomach. There’s a hundred different thoughts, feelings and emotions swimming through your head too and you have no idea which one you should be prioritising. Are you in danger? Do you trust him? Are you just going to let this happen? Should you fight back?

That same shrill of a shriek leaves your mouth when he rips your pyjama shorts completely in half and all within a split second you’re exposed to him. You never expected the Peter you once knew to be so vulgar. Then again, as he so explicitly reminded you - they are the same person.

“What the fuck?!” You shout, slamming your feet against the floor in protest.

“There’s that feisty girl,” he purrs. He slips his fingers, free from clothing, down your slit as if mapping it out, acclimating his touch to your increasingly wetting cunt. With each hole his fingers runs across, he pushes in ever so slightly and you jut forward each time. But nothing makes you squirm more than when he slaps the skin of your cheeks. “Come on, little one, you’re being too easy. I know there’s a brat inside you desperate to put up a fight. Let me see her. I wanna fight her…”

“Fuck off, you sadist. I’m not one of your toys.” You grit.

He sniggers, a smile paints his lips. “No? Seems like it to me.” He slaps your cheeks again, getting closer and closer to your cunt. “If I hadn’t stopped that man that night, would you have let him do this to you? I bet you would, you’ve lost your touch…”

“Shut up!” But he only laughs. Determination runs through your veins, motivating you to shuffle on your spot, rolling until you face him. Although your hands are tied behind you by the sticky substance you manage to find your feet, Peter seemingly entertained by your act of defiance. Just to spite him, you encroach his space with perseverance, noses inches apart. Frustratingly so, he fucking pouts his bottom lip and encourages the anger to bubble inside you.

“Aw,” he tuts, “here, let me help.” He reaches round, head so close to yours he can’t resist a taunting kiss to your cheek, and easily snaps the substance holding your hands together. You don’t hesitate to ball your fists and repeatedly punch his chest, stopping in intervals only to violently push him away and the cycle repeats. It doesn’t faze him in the slightest. He stands there, smug as ever while you are tirelessly hitting, punching, screaming insults, overrun by frustration.

Aggravated, you swing your palm round to slap his face with a final, mighty blow. Your palm cups the side of his cheek perfectly to crack an ear-piercing sound that has you internally wincing.

In a silent outrage, Peter runs his tongue along the lining of his cheek as his eyes scrutinise you, challenging you to take the dare again. This is what he wanted after all. You; brawling, protesting, stirring up a fight against him. Like a brat.

A brat he wants to put back in her place.

You wound yourself up to slap him again, nails included this time, but before your hand reaches his face, he catches it. Taking advantage of your distraction, he snags your other hand in his fists and in an instance he’s advancing on you, intentions void of mockery but full of menace.

He physically pins you to the bed this time, your hands confined to the headboard above you by the vigorous bonds of his webbing and the panic rises in your eyes.

“Wait, no, Peter, please - oh, fuck!” You scream as his hand slaps your bare pussy. Almost as a retaliation for slapping him the face. For someone who is never short of a smug, witty comment, Peter is worryingly silent as he rips off the remaining clothes on your body: a very clear indication of what he’s going to do to you.

You let one more plead drip from your lips but he silences it, cupping his hand over your mouth. He keeps it there as he climbs onto the bed, straddling your bare hips with the rough material of his clothes. For a split second, a flash of insight sparks in your mind, suddenly wondering if this what his other victims felt like; dread running their heart ragged and internally screaming for their life. The brute, ominous man above you emits a terror only seen in nightmares; a sheer contrast to the relief you used to feel when you saw Spiderman in situations as terrifying as this.

Mysterio's betrayal really did destroy him.

“You see,” he whispers, “no matter how hard you try, no matter how much this city want me gone, I cannot be defeated. Like you said all those years ago, this city owe me everything and I fucking deserve it. So, little one, I’m going to have my way with you so shut the fuck up and spread your legs.” You do as you’re told. “Good girl.”

As he leans down you can feel just how full he is, grinding his dick against you, of course, always with intention. You can tell he’s aching to relieve the tension. He leaves no room for intimacy and immediately starts to take ownership, taking mouthfuls of your neck and branding you. He sinks his teeth into every inch of skin, pinching it and running his tongue across it. He reaches the groove of your clavicle and he takes his time to savour the smooth texture of your skin. It’s cold, Peter notices. He washes his warm breath over your shoulder but strangely, it produces the opposite effect. Chills arise and a shudder shakes beneath him.

Every nip earns a gasp or a quick inhale because you’re too scared to make a sound. He’s already rampaging down the length of your body, and you would quite like to make it out alive after it all so you try to subdue all noises.

Peter reaches down to your breasts, teasing your nipples either between his teeth or his fingers; either way it’s a pain that turns to pleasure and heats your cunt. Peter rolls around your breasts in his hands, not afraid to grope as hard as he can knowing that there’s nothing you can do it about it. He cannot be defeated. Although, the dirty thought in his head wishes your fiery nature would try, just so Peter could see how pathetic your attempts would be against his unmatched skill and strength. ‘Another time…’ Peter thinks. Besides, you and Peter both know how that would play out.

Once satisfied, he trails his tongue in a long line down your torso, skipping across the hills and dips of your navel until he can sense the heat of your arousal luring him. Legs hunched over his shoulders, he observes your anticipation; writhing, shaking, squirming beneath him and christ, the sight did make him feel like a God. He blows a gentle breeze to your clit and you whimper. Tutting, Peter warns you with a squeeze to your waist, fingernails digging deep. He blows again but you’ve learned your lesson. A smirk dances across Peter’s lips at the thought. You’re just so good for him.

Your cunt is temporarily left aside as he occupies himself with leaving marks on the inside of your thighs. He wants to make sure that he leaves his own trail of marks up and down your body so you both know just how much of you belongs to him. The sinful thought planted deep into the forbidden parts of your mind tells you that you had already submitted yourself to him years ago…

Biting, sucking and licking every part of you except your cunt is driving you crazy and he knows it. Your hips roll following the direction of his tongue in an attempt to get him where you want him most but he doesn’t allow it.

“Beg for it. Only I can give you what you want, little one, so beg me for it.”

You have never done such a thing. You don’t even know what you should say; the words too provocative to pass through your innocent mouth. You’re desperate and the teasing is insatiable, what the fuck do you say?

“Please,” you mutter. Dissatisfied, he continues the teasing by spitting onto your cunt, letting it drip down your slit without touching it.

“Not good enough,” he grumbles from beneath your thigh.

“Peter, please, I…” you swallow the lump in your throat, “I want you to…um, lick me,”

“Oh I’m going to do more than just lick you, little one. I’m going to fucking devour you.”

Grabbing you by your waist, he yanks you onto his mouth and immediately his tongue swirls around his spit and your arousal, mixing the two together into a concoction that has him thrusting his hips into the bed. You let loose a sob, his vicious attack almost too much for you to handle. Your arms tug against the restraints which eases you away from Peter’s mouth but the strong arms encircling your hips brings you back again. You can sense every movement of his tongue, flicking, swirling, pressing into your clit and your entrance. He’s completely demolishing you and like he expected, it’s complete ecstasy.

His tongue swims through your folds and the wetter you are the more feral he becomes. Peter finds your clit, pulling the hood of it back and taking the small, sensitive little bud within his mouth. In a trance, he sucks on it rapidly and with each tug of his lips, you can feel yourself breaking. The coil in your stomach tightens and your breathing becomes frantic. You have to warn him…

“Pete-oh shit! Peter, I can’t…ah, I can’t hold it,” you stutter. He doesn’t respond, nor does he care for that matter because his assault on your cunt continues. Suddenly, you are folded in half; knees held in place against your shoulders and your ass is lifted slightly into the air, allowing Peter to raise to his knees and eat you from a slightly different angle. It’s one that drives him to slot his tongue into you, licking your walls and savouring that sweet aftertaste that comes with it. With his tongue pulsing inside you and his nose pressed against your clit, it’s a feeling you’ve never felt before and it's positively filthy. Although there’s something rather disconcerting about it all; Peter already knowing how to break you when he’s just met you, knowing how to have you wrapped around his finger like a King. He really is as powerful as he claims to be.

Already, Peter’s attacked your clit and penetrated your walls all with his tongue, and you’re quivering with restraint. Surely, Peter would be willing to give you a moment's respite…but you would be stupid to think so. Because what Peter does next truly has you dumbstruck. The sticky substance that bounds your arms to the headboard now bounds your ankles. Stuck in this folded position gives Peter the freedom to do whatever pleases with his hands, rendering you completely vulnerable and helpless. He lands a slap once, twice, thrice on the back of your thighs and you howl in pain and pleasure, the stimulation shocking your muscles.

“Ahh! Shit, I c-can’t. God, it hurts,” you whimper but the only response you get from Peter is the accursed and rather hysterical glaze from the black of his eyes.

With an appetite to satisfy, his amorous tongue follows the stream of your slick, dripping down onto your pursed hole and he doesn’t hesitate to indulge. Peter hums a moan, seemingly louder than before and cups your cheeks, raising you higher and opening you up. His tongue pokes and prods, demanding entrance but you’re too preoccupied by his fingers frantically circling your clit to respond to it. Instead he breaks in, stretching you out centimetre by centimetre, thrusting back and forth, back and forth. If it wasn’t for you writhing around on the bed with wanton cries escaping your mouth, he wouldn’t have known that you were breaking.

Peter has never known someone to taste so delicious in all his life. He can hear, see and feel you teetering on the edge, and he knows you’re close to snapping but he has to admit; he’s always been one to play with his food. He needs more.

“Look at this cunt,” he murmurs, his lips finding your clit again and sucking. “So fucking good to me. So fucking sweet. And all mine.” The words vibrate into your clit. “When I tell you to,” another kiss to your clit. “You’re going to give me everything.” He drags his tongue up your slit. “Understood?”

You nod, your mouth has dried out from the cries.

“I need your words, little one.”

“Yes, fuck, okay, yes.”

A finger trails down the skin of your thigh before finding itself circling your entrance, teasing, warning, preparing. You let loose a gasp when he slots into you with ease as your arousal sucks his finger in. When you feel his finger curling into you, you clench, stopping your breath to focus entirely on that. He has you so dazed, your body can only really function one thing at a time.

“Thaaaat’s it,” Peter drawls. “Take it.” He starts pumping, your entire body moving with him because you have no other control. He literally has you wrapped around his finger. Wait, fuck. Fingers. Tongue. Mouth. Oh my God, he’s fucking relentless.

Peering down, you see him shaking his head between your legs, your clit suffering between his mouth and you actually find yourself grappling on to the restraints above you with an orgasm threatening to snap. But he hasn’t told you to yet. So, sorrowfully, you can’t.

He begins to evoke his upper arm strength that you know he has, and pounds his fingers into your cunt. Every second that passes, you’re just anxiously waiting for the words and your intoxicated brain can even imagine how they would sound in his voice. But still, that fucking mouth is still torturing your oversensitive clit. Until finally…

“Cum. Cum for me and don’t you dare hold back.” He warns, sadistic and demanding.

One flick of the tongue to your clit and you snap. Your head goes flying back onto your pillow when you let out a drawled-out moan as the orgasm washes over you like it never has done before. You feel yourself squeezing out every ounce of pressure that had built up in your stomach, completely horrified to find yourself soaking, albeit Peter adores it. Every instinct to move your limbs suffers at the cruel persistence of your restraints. No matter how hard you try to writhe away in search of relief, Peter’s always right there to pull you back again.

Peter doesn’t rest until he has drank every single ounce of sweet cum you give him, even if that does include struggling to keep you still. His entire mouth is drenched although not for one second does that deter him from continuing to take mouthfuls of your cunt, swiping his tongue across it mercilessly. However, whether selective or not, he ignores the strained ‘please’s, ‘stop’s and ‘too much’s coming from your mouth. Why wouldn’t he? He is, after all, satiating his sexual desires, not yours.

“Peter, please! No more, it’s-it’s too much, ah, ah, ah, fuck!” Without warning, the white wash of pleasure swims through you again and a shower of cum drenches him and your bed. This time round though, Peter isn’t afraid to get messy. Rising to his knees, he swipes a hand across your pussy uncontrollably, growling with lust. The voice that enters your ears is unrecognisable; it’s demonic, rough and deep. Gathering the mess that he’s caused and you’ve made, his spreads it all across your spasming limbs; along the length of your thighs, up across your stomach and leaves traces of it smeared over your face when his fingers sink themselves deep into your mouth. With his teeth gritted and his lips pursed, he demands you lick his fingers clean and in this blissful, orgasm-inebriated state, you would do anything for relief.

His fingers leave your mouth and for the first time in hours, Peter detaches all touch from you. You bring your focus back onto your own body as your mind clears from lechery, and hundreds of complaints come flying in. Your arms are strained and aching, and the blood circulation is running low in your arms and legs, and your spine calls to be unhinged from this position. For as wild and insane as Peter may be for defiling you in such a way, you hope that he can find it in his heart to cut you loose.

You shoot him pleading eyes as he stands panting like a dog in heat, almost buckling at the sight of your shaking, spent body. For a moment, he considers taking you again but he watches as you weakly move your limbs, struggling and mewling in defeat, and decides to reward you with release. The way the restrains easily snap at the softest of Peter’s touches baffles your brain, even after all the desperate tugging, pulling and yanking you’ve done the entire night.

The room fills with grateful sighs and stable breathing.

Exhaustion slowly creeps in and your eyes close, your hands still tending your aching limbs. Dazed, you still somehow make out the weight of your bed dipping beside you. Through the narrow slits of your eyes, you find Peter, sitting close to you with his head tilted in admiration. Suddenly, the air breathes different. The aura of the room changes regardless of the filth and profanity that’s just ensued. Everything’s just…calm. At first, it’s suspicious and the little ding of alarm bells sound in your mind as it assumes the worst considering Peter’s unpredictable nature. Justifiably, you flinch as Peter curiously reaches out his hand, stuttering in its movements when he sees you cower. However with a certain determination, he leans closer. Ever so gently, the knuckles of his hand carefully caresses the skin of your cheek in a sweet manner you didn’t know he was capable of.

You hum quietly, lulling your head to lean into the affection and inexplicably, Peter’s heart lurches. The poor, helpless kitten that you are accepts the monstrous beast he’s become. But within every monstrous beast, there’s always a protective factor; something that they possess that inhibits the hostile qualities inside him and brings out the good in him he knew he always had. For Peter, it’s you. Even when he was painted as the lying, cheating criminal, you still defended him. The epiphany has him shaking his head in disbelief; how can someone be so…pure?

Although the city has a hefty debt to pay, he has to admit that as someone so strong-willed, you make him contemplate his revenge and reconsider his plans. It wouldn’t be fair to punish an entire city when there’s someone as devoted and committed to him like you residing in it. It would be as painful for you as it was for him when the city betrayed him. He just couldn’t face the guilt.

He sighs and it brushes across the loose strands of hair that have fallen on your face.

“Come on, then.” The words, like butter melting, reaches your ears before his arms tuck themselves behind your back and underneath the crook of your still quivering legs. He hoists you into the air, tucking you close to him and begins to carry you away. You’re not quite sure where he’s taking you until the lights of your small en suite bathroom glares in your eyes. Questions disease your mind wondering why, after everything, Peter is now suddenly showing this affection. He reads the dubious expression on your face as clear as day and quietly whispers as he sets you down into the bathtub…

“Sometimes I still am that friendly neighbourhood Spiderman.” He gives you a soft smile and memories of the shy, teenage boy you saw so often floods your brain. It makes you want to you reach out to press a hand to his cheek, so you do. He relishes it for a minute before reaching for the shower handle to let the soothing, warm water wash away the remnants of your lust. The reassurance of the warmth has you rolling your head, sinking further into the calmness of the moment. Peter turns to leave, but your hand reaches out for him.

“Wait!” His eyes latch onto your hand coiled around his wrist and quirks a brow quizzically. “Stay.” The word comes out shy, coy and a touch embarrassed. But for Peter, it’s like a symphony he can’t resist. The temptation lures him in, but not before he strips himself - his suit wet and irritating to the touch - and joins you in the shower.

The beads of water roll down his abs and subconsciously you lick your lips. His arms hang at his sides, brooding and sturdy with muscles bulging, shadows hugging every curve as they are accentuated by the overhanging light seemingly unbelievable how little accuracy the suit depicts of his frame. Veins run like poison ivy down to his hands homing deft and agile fingers. If you are honest with yourself, the sight of his godly body completely overrides the endearing moment you both shared because fuck, you felt a spark of lust ignite in you again. It seems Peter’s spark still roars like a fire because you can clearly see how hard he is, his tip red and angry.

As you sit before him, you can’t help but think how close he is, how reachable he is like he’s there for the taking. He can see the thought glossing over your eyes while he watches you admire him. Knowing your character, he lets you take your time until your eyes finally land back on his, partnered with a bitten lip.

God, you’re so fucking precious.

The smirk finds his lips again. “Go on, little one” he murmurs lowly. That nickname causes shivers. Every. Time. “Be brave. I know you want to.”

Perched on your knees, you take his cock in your hands and guide it towards your mouth where you tongue hangs in anticipation. Just inches from your mouth, he stops you. A hand curls underneath your jaw closing your mouth but eager for you to look up at him.

“Before you do,” he purrs. “Open your mouth.” You do, just as you had seconds before. Having you kneeling for him, mouth open, eager and grasping his cock causes the bubble of desire to rumble in his chest. He quirks a brow playfully, winking before he spits into your mouth. The glossy saliva drips onto your tongue but he keeps your jaw captive. “Much better.”

He pushes his hips forward and sinks his cock slowly into your mouth. Your tongue runs along the prominent vein on the underside of his shaft, coating him with his own spit in your mouth - the act so promiscuous it stirs a groan in his chest, once again filling with pleasure. While you swallow him, those same caressing hands plant themselves just at the curve your jaw where his fingers comb themselves your hair. Unable to contain himself, he takes over and bounces your head against his cock, hips stuttering every second or third time his tip slides down the back of your throat. Head swung back in pleasure, you realise how fulfilling the sensation is to know that the man you appreciated and devoted yourself to let you do it again. Committed, you push yourself down to the hilt and gag while his cock fills your mouth. But neither of you pull away. You eventually rise to swirl your tongue across his slit, gathering his arousal before sinking yourself again.

It’s a process that if Peter had the choice, he would play it on repeat forever.

“That fucking mouth,” he growls, you suck, he gasps. “Always makes me feel so good.” His thrusts become faster, more needy and driven by the chase of an orgasm. Courageously, your hand cups his balls and you offer a light squeeze but even in the slightest of touches, it has his dick twitching in your mouth. Sensing his impending orgasm he gives you a warning squeeze, telling you to look up at his face through blurred eyes, contorted with pleasure. He’s close.

“Shit, that mouth. Fuck. Can I cum in your mouth?” You hum in acceptance and just a few seconds later he releases his load into your mouth, having no other choice but to swallow it all gulping over and over again. His knees slightly buckle at the overload of pleasure but you keep your mouth on him, a lingering mischief deciding to pay him back with the overstimulation he tortured you with earlier.

But he just can’t let you take control.

“Nuh-uh. Up.” Dragging you up and perching you on your own two feet, he possess you in a sensual kiss where his tongue searches for yours in a bid to taste himself and god, is it appetising. While desire runs through you, you take his bottom lip between your teeth and drag it out ever so slowly. The gravelly moan he responds with has your nipples perking with pride.

Slick with water you both find opportunity in the moment, you more so, to map out each other’s bodies; massaging your hands to feel every muscle, every dent in his skin, every bit of flesh you can grab to fill the insatiable craving. However there is one particular craving that’s been taunting you all night and you’ve only just found the confidence to do something about it…

“Peter,” you murmur between kisses. While you divulge, he lips dip to your neck, sucking away the water replacing it with his tongue. “I-I need you, please. I need you inside me. I’ve been wanting it all night.”

A harsh smack to your ass splits the silence along with the yelp that escapes your lips when he bites down onto your neck.

“Why didn’t you fucking say, hm? Were you just going to hold this back from me the entire night?”

“I… I, no, I didn’t…I couldn’t-”

“You better turn around right now so help me god, I’m gonna make sure you don’t walk for a week.”

A red stain blemishes your cheeks hearing the provocative words that stun you into silence. Not quick enough, Peter whips you around and pushes you into the cold tiles of the shower wall and lifts your left leg by the force of his hand. He gathers your wet hair in his hand, using it as a leash to control your movements. Avid, Peter runs his flat tongue up the length of your spine to meet at the base of your neck where this lips suck and his teeth nip. He twists your head to the right and does it again. It’s a tactic that has your back arching to meet your ass his with hips, his cock just touching the surface of your clit.

“Keep that fucking leg where it is, you hear me?”

You nod frantically, a shrewd moan escapes. “Okay.” Your mother would be astonished to hear such a desperate sound coming from you.

Peter’s hands grip onto your waist keeping you balanced as he kneels down behind you, taking sight of your desperate, leaking pussy. He licks his lips, unable to contain himself and swipes his tongue along your slit again. Greedy, he pulls apart your cheeks and buries his face between your lips, sloppily licking up what’s already dripping from your cunt and sucking frantically on your clit. Because after all, he can’t be fucking you without your sweet taste lingering on his tongue.

You moan into the wall, forehead pressing against the tile in a bid to prevent the bubble bursting in your stomach. You just need him inside you, you’re clenching on nothing.

Finally, Peter rises to his feet. At first, his movements are slow and calculated just innocently teasing the tip of his cock up and down the length of your cunt. Like a bitch in heat, you swivel your hips trying to feel more of him but your impatience rewards you smacks to your cheeks in quick succession.

“Do you ever learn?” He groans. “You know what you need to do if you want something.”

This time you don’t even spare a second to think about the words slipping from your lips. “Please, Peter, fuck me. I need you inside me…just, God, fuck me, please!”

The feeling of him entering you, stretching you out and immediately filling you is comparable to an orgasm in itself. It steals a breath from you and if it wasn’t for Peter reminding you to breathe, you probably would’ve passed out. The harmonies of your moans fill the air, not too long before they are replaced by the slapping of skin on skin. Peter can feel your cunt sucking him in, squeezing him. He’s pummelling into you like he hasn’t lost a bit of energy this entire night, his physical qualities doped up with adrenaline.

“Don’t you ever hide this pussy from me again,” he snarls, biting your shoulder. “I shouldn’t even let you cum-”

“No! Please…”

“Looks like you owe me an apology, little one.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, shit, sorry.”

The words spur him on, peering down to watch the waves of your skin ripple from your ass across your body. He decides to take the fingers of his right hand and snake them around the curve of your hip before sinking them to your pussy, where his left slithers up to your throat, gripping your neck. The tips of his fingers swivel around your clit, dancing in circles while you fall apart. At first, he’s slow and meticulous but the more frenzied your body becomes, the more harsh his fingers press down onto your clit. The poor, lonely leg you’ve been standing on can’t take the weight of pleasure and Peter sniggers. There’s no way you could put up a fight against him, you can’t even stand on one leg for long enough.

“Can…can I cum?” Your voice breaks through the falling water.

“Not yet, little one.”

“I…I can’t, Peter. Fuck, I’m going to fall.” The sobs breaking through between your words convinces Peter because he too is close to releasing.

“I’ve got you,” he says, voice absolute. “Go on, little one. Cum for me.”

You let loose a strained whine, body seizing at the rush of blood pumping towards your pussy. Your legs shake beneath but Peter has a strong grasp of you because he’s not quite letting you rest just yet. He fucks you through your high, as he basks in your post-orgasm fit, continuously clenching and milking him closer and closer. An act of spontaneity forces him to hook the tip of his thumb into your asshole, keeping it there to feel the squeeze of your orgasm from every hole. It’s simply bliss. He follows the chase of your high with his own, and for the second time he cums. But this time he paints your walls with his seed, intentionally staining you and making sure you never, ever forget how he fucked you, how he suppressed the fiery, bratty nature inside you because, as he likes to remind himself, he cannot be defeated.

Peter relieves himself from you and having recovered much quicker than you, he takes the shower head and washes you down. His hand caresses the muscles of your legs and your aching pussy, cleaning you once again. Feeling tired and exhausted, you don’t have the energy to move but that’s where you are grateful for Peter; recognising your sudden dependence on him. The quiet after the storm sends a lethargic smile to your lips, the fluttering in your stomach still shaking you as Peter runs his hands over every inch of your body letting loose an impish chuckle.

“I’m sorry for slapping you, by the way.”

Fuck, you were now apologising to him. Peter couldn’t shake the remorse.

You turn around to face him, eyes meeting and bodies touching. The little curl that hangs on his forehead gets adjusted under your thumb and just ever so bravely do you trail a finger down the side of cheek, running over a scar you never noticed before. In fact, the more your eyes fully explore the skin on his chest, his shoulders, his arms and his ribs, the more you realise that it’s disfigured with scars. Above all, you don’t even need to question where they came from.

He didn’t deserve this.

“Hey,” Peter whispers, recognising the disheartening look on your face. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not. You didn’t deserve this, I should’ve done more…” He stops your words with a kiss, soft and emotional, and you melt into his arms.

“You did more than I could ask for. Sometimes life just doesn’t always go the way we want it to,” he admits dejectedly, now stealing a turn to pin away the hair behind your ear. He reaches behind you and turns the shower off, simultaneously grabbing a towel from the rack and placing it around your shoulders. “But I got even.”

When all is said and done, one question still remains…what happens next?

~~~~

It was a question that neither of you wanted to answer, and instead you filled the void with silence.

Even into the little hours of the night, Peter stayed with you, lying wrapped up in a towel until you were warm, dry and easing into a slumber. Peter knew himself that he couldn’t be here for much longer; the hurt in him that morphed him into a monster wasn’t compatible with you. You were too good, too wholesome, too angelic for the beast he had become and he’s corrupted you far more than he allowed himself. Perhaps in another life where Spiderman was still around, maybe only then would life with you be simpler. Alas, as unfortunate as his current life is, he knows Spiderman can’t ever return: too far gone into history, and he would only resurrect an old pain back into the world. He couldn’t do that to you.

“It doesn’t need to be Spiderman, you know?” You had whispered to him from the depths of his chest. It was cute, but naive. In all honesty, he didn’t want to serve this city anymore, not really, because he had completely lost his ambition; Aunt May moved away, Tony was gone, Fury was…well Fury about it all, and his friends disappeared. There was nothing worth his while left in his city.

Although the terms were seldom used, ‘anti-Spiderman' and ‘Spiderman-sympathiser’ were still very much hidden qualities about people that wasn’t always disclosed. It was what segregated the city and made Queens a very dangerous place to be and no hero could rectify that. It needed to heal on its own. You tried to convince him to stay, not just with you, but in New York, persuading him that no one would even recognise him anymore but he didn’t want to risk the thought. It wasn’t even an option on his mind.

But he didn’t want to tell you that. He just held you close and planted a sweet kiss to your forehead.

By the time you woke the next morning, he was gone. Your bed, largely empty and cold, held you still damp from the shower you shared with him. Even the towel he used was folded neatly back into its space. Of course, you acknowledged how hopeful and selfish of you it was to expect to see him so soon. Besides, he was a wanted criminal topping the NYPD’s hitlist. Anywhere is dangerous for him. Just like that criminal they failed to catch, every trace of his presence disappeared with him…except for one final note.

‘I owe you, little one’, it said. You smiled down at the note, held it dearly to your chest and remembered the one and only night you spent with Peter Parker.

a/n: Epilogue anyone??????

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