Fangirl Land

| 24 | Virgo | Pan | She/her | I'm sorry mom, I'm definitely not what you wanted in a kid.

[brightflamer]

to be gone

- ser gwayne hightower x rhaenyra’s daughter!reader

part one

synopsis. You are named Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne upon your return to the Red Keep, following months as a Hightower hostage. Ser Gwayne Hightower, your former escort and secret lover while on the road home, is captured and thrown into the dungeons of the Keep. contents. smut, angst, reader is rhaenyra’s eldest daughter (around the same age as aegon) and silverwing’s rider, show-canon divergence, love confessions, reader lowkey gets post nut clarity and is still just as oblivious, dry humping, finger sucking, fingering, p in v a/n. the timeline for this fic compared to the show is so off but lets just ignore that and enjoy the story PLEASE. theres also less smut than the last part so sorry in advance if thats what you were looking forward to - its still there just not as much - i wanted this part to serve as sort of an epilogue and not its own entire thing

Gwayne would like nothing more than to turn his own blade inward and let the steel put an end to his immoral life.

He would have done it weeks ago if you had not been lurking deep in the shadows of his mind—the maddening shape of you standing behind the closing gates to the Keep, forever to haunt him for giving in to the gold cloaks and their command for him to leave.

He should have laid down his sword, got down on a knee, and he should have sworn fealty to your mother. Yes, he might have been prolonging his inevitable demise—a beheading, or a hanging, or perhaps immolation by dragonfire—but anything would have been worth it if it meant he could sit with your presence for just a few moments more.

The rain had come and gone several times throughout the day. It was relentlessly pelting the top of his head now, as his men prepared to continue the march toward Tumbleton. He should not be thinking of your face, but you persist. You have only now just begun to leave him.

He cannot remember the shape of your nose well enough, nor the exact inflection of your voice. It comes to him in moments then promptly slips away. Soon, the rest of your features will be sentenced to the same fate, and if he survives the war, he will only be able to remember you as a fleeting figure deep in the crevices of his mind.

He hopes he does not survive the war.

Worst of all, he cannot escape the dream of a life with you.

You could be a sellsword, and I a scribe—I your wife, you had said. He had brushed you off thereafter, told you that you should not worry yourself with eventuality, and then he had distracted you with his mouth.

His decisions regarding you had only sealed the truth of his character. He cannot escape the fact that he is a coward, and the fact that he deeply abhors himself for what he let happen that day, and for what he did not do—but nothing will change now. He will continue the trek to Tumbleton, and he will continue the loop of war, like the dishonorable man he is.

He will continue to think about you. Of your smile, only brought on by the simplest of things and the most surprising of things, nothing in between. And of your unwavering loyalty to your mother—the thing he would never truly have for his own cause. And the fact that you loved him, you truly loved him—the fact that you said it, and the fact that he said nothing in turn.

He and his men were soon overwhelmed by enemy bannermen wearing black and red before he could cease in his reflections. And just as he had at the gates of the Keep, he had given up without a fight when they tried, letting himself be thrown to the ground without even reaching for his sword.

It had been a small ceremony, your coronation as Princess of Dragonstone. There were no high lords, and none of your siblings either. It was just your mother, her husband, and her council members, as well as the Dowager Queen and her own daughter. It was over quickly.

You begged and pleaded with your mother the day before to choose anyone but you. To choose Joffrey, as he was still young and learning—that you were too old and too overwhelmed with the war and with your duties “as a young maiden” to learn anything about ruling over the Seven Kingdoms.

They were all feeble excuses, but they were all you could think of in the moment your mother proclaimed you as heir. You never wanted to be queen of anything, and your mother knew it, which was why she had named Jace as Prince of Dragonstone despite your precedence over him.

She had apologized, and you could see sympathy in her eyes as you argued against it, but her decision was final. You were to rule as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms someday, probably with some noble house’s lord as your husband. Perhaps the son of your former betrothed—you believe his name is Benjicot. He was young, but closer in age to you than his father was.

Would you get to choose your husband? Perhaps your mother truly would force a marriage between you and one of the Dowager Queen’s younger sons as a way to secure peace. You hope not. One is mental, the other you know nothing of except that he is a Green.

The thought brings you back to many moons ago, when you had committed treachery with one of them. Not just any one of them, but the uncle of the usurper.

You find yourself thinking about him more as the nights grow restless—the day he had taken your maidenhood, the days following, and just how little you regret it. You hate yourself for worrying about him, but the heavy hum of nervousness persists. You have long already loathed yourself for your disloyalty.

The idea that Jace would understand brings you comfort in your dread only for moments before it is overtaken by the fact that he wouldn’t. Just like how your mother wouldn’t understand, nor your cousins. Not even your ladies-in-waiting.

Your kin would probably name you a traitor, and if they would not put your head to the sword, they would marry you off to some elderly lord, and your life would be squeezing out heirs until you died in the pursuit. You believe you deserve as such.

You wonder if he has already taken another lover. Perhaps he is already dead. His head rotting on a pike somewhere, body having been used as meat for hounds. You’d prefer that to it being used in pursuit of another’s pleasure.

If he is alive, he has probably forgotten all about you by now. The only thing on his mind must be survival.

“Open the gate!” a gold cloak had yelled, and the gates screeched against the gravel as they parted.

You had been called forward by your mother to view a gift from some bannermen on the roseroad. She had instructed a different gold cloak called Ser Manfred to accompany you to the King's Gate, the same spot where Gwayne had been taken from you weeks ago.

Something sudden and unfamiliar washes over you, worse than the chill—something indescribably dreadful, as if your entire life as well as your future had flashed before your eyes, and you see him for a split second behind your eyes. Him, Gwayne, the only man you have ever truly loved, there in your head and gone the next.

It comes back to you, in that moment, what you had said to him. You had told him you loved him in the haze of intimacy, and you hadn’t been in possession of your thoughts enough to see how he reacted, if he even reacted at all. Had he said it back? You cannot remember. If he did, you did not notice.

A little voice in your head whispers to you. You will see him soon enough. He will tell you then.

You squeeze your eyes shut a moment, as if to ease the voice away. It works for only a moment.

Two men on their horses amble in. You breathe a sigh, somewhat relieved yet all the more disappointed that he is not with them, and let your head drop to your chin.

He is, the voice whispers again, and your head jolts right back up.

A third horse has trudged in behind them in the time you had been recollecting your scattered thoughts. There he was—your man, Ser Gwayne Hightower, a thick rope tied around his middle and another binding his hands to each other.

He was thinner than you remember him being, and much more disheveled. Prickles of hair had begun to sprout on the lower half of his face. And his limp, restrained body was slipping off of his horse.

“He is going to fall.” You step forward, voice heightening as his frame curls further off the mount. “He is going to fall off his horse.”

At that, his body gives, and he drops to the ground with a heavy thud. It knocks the wind from his lungs and he heaves weakly, using the rest of his strength to try and flip himself over, to no avail. His throat is scratchy and you cannot make out what it is trying to say, but he attempts to speak nonetheless. All that comes out is slurred and nonsensical.

“What is this?” you ask the bannermen, who you now notice to have been letting out stifled chuckles at Gwayne’s peril with wide grins on their faces.

“Well…” one of them glances over to the other, the smile having been wiped from his face as he searches for a good enough answer for the sorry display. “It’s a Hightower, Your Grace.”

The other takes a single step forward, holding a proud finger up to get your attention. “Not just any Hightower—Otto Hightower’s eldest son.”

“And why haven’t you killed him?” you question.

The first bannerman shrugs. “We thought you might want to do it.”

You look back down at Gwayne. He has made it to his knees, torso curled toward the ground, but he cranes his neck up to look at you.

Your brows furrow and your pupils dilate, despite the sight before you. His brows are equally as downturned—more so, even, and you look away.

“I will not have him killed. Ser Manfred—” you turn to face him. “Take Ser Gwayne to the dungeons. Have him fed. I shall discuss the terms of his apprehension with my mother.”

Ser Manfred nods, moving forward to lift Gwayne up to his feet. Your eyes track the pair of them as they trudge across the yard, until they finally pass through a doorway.

“Your Grace—” one of the bannermen says. He clears his throat. “We were hoping—both of us—if there might be a… reward for our services—”

Your eyes haven’t left the doorway which Ser Manfred and Gwayne had disappeared into, and the bannermen’s speech does not draw your attention away from it.

“There shall be no reward,” you state.

You take off to re-enter the castle, heading in the direction of the small council chamber—where your mother had been meeting with her privy council.

Normally you would be with her—since you had been since being named heir—as a cupbearer for the council. You’d assumed they had been discussing something both incredibly important and incredibly confidential, and that was the reason why she had sent for you to attend to the arrival of the bannermen. Now, given who was with them when they arrived, you are unsure of her intentions.

You remember fragments of the day you returned to the Red Keep, but none of it is certain in your mind. You cannot recall the exact words you desperately uttered to your mother as you watched the gates lock you away from Gwayne, but you know whatever they were, they were much too honest. You cant remember what she said in turn, if she said anything at all.

You seem to have buried much of the last few months deep in your head. The fact that you have disappoints you, as most of it includes what happened on the roseroad with Gwayne. All you can recall is what you felt. The feelings you felt for the first time, and those you felt for the last time.

Now he is here. Here, as a prisoner of war, much like you were up until just weeks ago. Surely, you can protect him the same way he protected you. At least for a few moons. Until someone powerful enough calls for his death.

Once you make it to the small council chamber, the few of its members are already pouring out. You peek through the half-opened door, and sure enough, your mother sits at the head of the table. Judging by her strained figure that seeks to push itself further back into the chair than humanly possible, she seems vexed. You can only hope you don’t push her further.

The final council member files out, one you’ve yet to have seen before, and you slip inside. Hushed conversation dies down as the eyes of both her husband and her Mistress of Whispers fall unto you.

You step forward and replace your disconcerted expression with a calmer one. Your brows settle back over your eyes, and the corners of your lips turn up.

You offer her Mistress of Whispers a polite nod, and glance over to the man across from her. “Stepfather.” He nods back at your acknowledgement.

Your mother burns holes into you. She attempts the same, a happier face, but it comes out as a swift breath of air from her nose and a closed-mouth grin which is no doubt artificial.

It depresses with each second of silence on your end. You shake your head once to get the thoughts back to you—Gwayne—

“Gwayne,” you blurt. The faces of the White Worm and the Prince before you curl into something you can only recognize as amusement.

You lift your chin up anyway and clear your throat. “Ser Gwayne Hightower, Otto’s eldest. He has been captured by our men. He is currently held in the keep’s dungeons.”

“He escorted you from the Reach, did he not?” Daemon interjects, a finger pointed up and at you.

You look between him and your mother. She offers you a small nod, so you proceed. “That is correct, my Prince.”

“Wandering back into the dragon’s jaws, has he? The gall must run in the family.” He looks over to your mother, letting a smirk inch over his mouth. At her blank expression, he pushes himself into an upright position, intertwining his fingers together.

She exhales. “As Princess of Dragonstone, the choice is yours to make,” she begins. “The prisoner is yours to dispose of.”

“He must live, mother.” You find yourself wringing your hands together, unable to stop. Your mother leans forward. “To execute Otto Hightower’s eldest son just weeks after you did he, it serves their narrative of you, that you are cold-blooded, and merciless.”

Daemon’s mouth opens before your mother can reply. “Perhaps it serves us better to be seen as merciless—”

His words are cut off by the White Worm very loudly clearing her throat. You notice her head shake gently in his direction.

You clear your throat once more. “Lord Ormund Hightower already believes Targaryens to be a savage race. If we slaughter the Protectors of the Faith to near extinction, that would send a message to the—”

“Okay.” A tight smile strains your mother’s lips. She rises swiftly from her seat.

You think she might be leaving, so you open your mouth again. “We hold him, and let him rot in the cells under our watch, where he can be useful.” It is that last word, useful, that halts her.

Her chin drops to her chest. “If he stays in the dungeons, you will handle his confinement, and you will ensure he surrenders the…” her head shakes as she searches for a good word, “intelligence we require.”

She makes her way around the table and situates herself in front of you. Her hands rise to your arms, and then one brushes your hair from your temple, ignoring how it falls right back into place after. “Does that sound suitable to you, daughter?”

You nod, and she smiles sincerely. Her hand cradles your cheek for just a second more, and she departs. Her husband and the Mistress of Whispers disregard your presence as they follow after her.

The dungeons were empty, save for Gwayne. Your mother had all the prisoners “taken care of” throughout the week she had come back to power, you had soon discovered, the first of which being Gwayne’s own father.

Your loyal lady-in-waiting, Cissy, had told you it was a gruesome sight—one she was not even supposed to see, but she had been looking to see if you were with your mother when she had come to take back the Keep. You hadn’t seen her since the start of the war, as she had been forced to remain in the castle while you were away with your family on Dragonstone, becoming one of your cousin Helaena’s handmaids.

Cissy continued, describing in detail how your mother had been crying as she lifted Dark Sister, and first delivered a strike to his back instead of his head. The second blow had been the one to behead him, and she had ascended onto the Iron Throne, leaving footsteps of his blood on the path to it.

You had always thought your mother to be capable, and hearing the story of how it happened had left you somewhat satisfied. You were proud it was not her husband to do it.

Not only were the dungeons empty, but they were dusty all the more. Dusty, and with the stench of sweat, from the countless other prisoners held for nearly a century-and-a-half before you—the now-dead prisoners.

In spite of all you were taught as a child, even what you were told by the most exceptional of maesters in the entire realm, you cannot recall ever learning of a prisoner who ever survived the dungeons of the Keep. Or, of a prisoner who has ever escaped. Did anyone love that prisoner, though? Did they have someone to feed them hope while they rot?

Two white cloaks stand guard beside his cage. He’s been placed alone in one of the celled blocks, and thankfully not the one with the heavy steel door that truly confines you from any outside life. You recall Cissy telling you that Otto was held there.

“Leave us,” you instruct the guards. They hesitate for a moment, and share a glance between each other, but depart eventually.

Gwayne looks worse in the candlelit dim of the dungeons. He has not touched the food that has been provided to him, and it instead sits as food for insects.

His eyes are shut, you quickly find, and his head leans against the wall. You do not think he has ever looked so peaceful. But his eyelids peel open, and the natural scowl returns to him as quickly as his vision does.

You straighten your back and cease the staring.

“My princess,” he mumbles. His voice is still hoarse, but he can get the words out now. He uses seemingly all of his strength to push himself up from the ground.

You feel an urge to correct him, despite your insistence on the truth being anything but. “Your Grace.”

“Your…” His brows pull together. “What?”

Your hands are wringing again. “Jace is gone. I have been named Princess of Dragonstone. The Iron Throne is my birthright now.” The words feel like glass as they come up your throat. Your head bows to look at the dirt floor, instead of at his puzzled expression.

“I…” he mutters. “You remain my princess.”

You cannot bring yourself to look him in the eye for long. He finds it as easy as breathing. It must be why his gaze seems to pierce through you.

Your pointer finger begins picking at the skin around your thumb. “To be perfectly truthful, I’m not sure what to do with you.” On your other hand, your thumb runs against the backside of all the other fingers. You keep your eyes fixed firmly onto the floor.

He chuckles. “What does the Queen reckon you do?”

“The Queen and her council think it best that I kill you.” You inhale, and the softening of his features goes unnoticed. “Do you believe it? Me, killing you. It is madness, Gwayne.”

“If I must die, I am ready,” he murmurs, leaning his head against the cold metal of the cell.

Your hand has found a place on your sternum, rubbing back and forth, attempting to calm yourself. The thought of killing Gwayne was never certain in your mind—it would never be certain—and it brings you immediate distress. His brows knit together at the sight.

There is offense in your voice, alongside tremble. “I will not be your executioner.”

He looks up at you, genuinely pleading, as if you would not defy the stars to bring about his being. “But if it must be so, let the last thing I feel be your touch.” His fingers curl around the cell bars. “Even if it brings about my death. That is all I ask.”

You take a step closer, gently placing your hands overtop of his. “You will not meet the Stranger as long as you are down here.” Your forehead, wavering in its effort, lies against his. Gwayne shudders at the contact. “Besides, I’ve already discussed the terms of your confinement to my mother.”

You let your eyes shut, unable to look into his.

“I must go now,” you whisper, yet you do not move. Unsurprisingly, neither does he.

When you finally pull back, you see a single tear fall from the corner of his eye. Your hand comes up to swipe it away, and it lingers on his cheek for a moment longer, before you breathe a shuddery breath and push yourself away from him.

You were never particularly close to your grandsire, Lord Corlys Velaryon. You had only strayed further from him since the war begun, in both relations and distance—in fact, you do not think you have had a single conversation since long before you flew off to fight the Hightowers yourself.

It was a foolish decision. You realized that when you hesitated to rain fire upon their army, and directly after when you and Silverwing had been pelted with arrows—and as your body met the ground—and as the Hightower belligerents advanced to your position. It was certain as you watched your dragon fly away on your instruction, and as you began bleeding profusely from a shot to your shoulder.

The next few moons came and went, and throughout most of them, you were not conscious. You remember a man, a kind man, wearing green and protecting you from the danger that are men with fury. His face slips from memory. You remember all but that.

“I will not have her killed,” he had said. “I will not let her be a martyr for the Black cause.” And then you were out again.

You wonder if your sympathy for Gwayne comes only from your love for him, or also as a deeply-rooted need to requite that man for saving you. You reckon it is both. If not, he had certainly taught you something valuable about negotiation. The idea to keep Gwayne alive for such a reason wouldn’t have come to you if not.

Your grandsire was there in the Gullet when your brother was shot down a similar way. Only he did not live, and neither did Vermax. You find that the gods have a curious way of letting someone such as yourself live over someone so brave and steadfast.

Cissy tells you Corlys can be found wandering around the castle these days—that he does not seem to like it on the water very much. It is just your luck to find him in the gardens overlooking the Blackwater Bay.

“Grandsire,” you chirp, and he turns to face you. A smile washes over his face, certainly most curious as to why you are here, instead of attending to some other matters.

He steps closer to you, his hands linked behind his back. “Princess.”

You find it simpler not to correct him. “It is peaceful out here, is it not?” you look to the bay, and he mirrors you. It is not just idle talk. It truly is peaceful. It is enough to make the feigned smile on your face falter.

“Indeed,” Corlys murmurs. “I find myself out here more often than not these days.”

You take a step forward, so that you are standing next to him instead of behind. “I was pleased to hear of Ser Addam’s knighthood. It is most wondrous news.”

He nods. “The Queen does not find it suitable to acknowledge him, nor his brother Alyn, as trueborn seed.” You look to him, and there is a subtle scowl on his face.

Good, you note. You can use that.

You look back to the sea and lessen your tone. “It is a cruel thing, grandsire.” He turns his head slightly toward you. “To watch men fight and die for the throne, just to be slighted by the council in return.”

The words, treasonous to anyone but the two of you, flow naturally. You yourself have been slighted in being named heir, and so has your grandsire with his own bastards—it is foolish of you to think your mother would understand your love for someone forbidden just because she has experienced such herself.

Lord Corlys looks through you to find no traps, but unfamiliar sincerity in its place. It frightens him. “What is it you want of me, child?” he demands.

Your lips press together. There are endless risks to practically unveiling your fondness of Ser Gwayne to the Lord of the Tides. You will give the crown away—no, you will give yourself away if you have made the mistake of telling the wrong man of your necessities.

The risks, however, seem so small over the benefits. Gwayne is the benefit. Knowing you saved an honorable man—one of the few honorable men you have ever known—is the benefit. There is not much for you to lose at this point, except him.

“Ser Gwayne Hightower, the eldest son of Otto Hightower, has been captured by our men.” Your nails dig deep into your palms. “He sits in the dungeons now, where he will rot away unless I do something about it.”

His jaw twitches. “He is the enemy. The usurper’s uncle—” he stops himself, realizing the irony of his words. He does not have to feign in your presence.

“On each side of the war there exists those both principled and unprincipled,” you continue. “Most seem to lose their honor as time goes on, but he has not. I have seen it myself, for weeks on the roseroad and while in capture, and I know I am correct in saying he does not deserve to lose his life behalf of the throne.”

You let your tone soften, as to appeal to the weary man before you. “We have both known many who have died in the pursuit of war. Surely there are those on the opposing side you wish were not our enemies.” Your hand finds a place on his forearm. “If you assist me with this, grandsire, I will ensure that when the crown is mine, Driftmark will have its due.”

He looks into your eyes. Your brows are pivoted upward, and it feels as though they are touching your hairline.

What you see in his are those that have seen death—much death. The lines that etch onto his forehead in defeat have felt the pain of losing a brother, losing his children, losing his wife, losing his grandchildren, all for it to culminate in the ascent of your mother to the throne. You can sympathize with him. He can see that.

He takes your arm into his. “Walk with me, my girl.”

The two of you proceed further into the gardens, to a secluded area, where you will secure Gwayne’s fate as the first prisoner you know of to escape the dungeons of the Red Keep.

You find lingering around the dungeons as your grandsire seems to find himself around the sea. Some days you do not enter, some days you do, and stand out of view of Gwayne, instead settling to bask in his presence.

It is surprisingly difficult to lay under the weight of his heavy gaze. The last time you did, you could not handle it for long, and excused yourself before you could even speak a word to him.

You must inform him of what you have planned. It will take place just two moons from now—a commotion large enough and near to the dungeons will occur, and Gwayne’s newly-replaced guards will be called to help. Someone will guide him through the hidden passages of the Keep, and he will meet Corlys to be escorted to one of the trade vessels that will then be shipped off to Essos. He will survive, and he will live the life you had planned together, with or without you.

You do not know yet whether or not to follow them. You are unsure if you could just leave your life and your kin behind—you think you could, but in the moment, you might stray away like you had in battle.

Gwayne perks up at the sound of your voice, as you order the guards away. Your body, clad in only your shift and a cloak over it, unveils itself. Your hair has been braided—he presumes you have snuck out before bed to visit—and you smell sweet and flowery, a stark contrast to what Gwayne has been used to in the days since his capture.

In turn, he has only grown more unkempt since you have last seen him. You deeply pity him, all while you assume he has anything and everything but the stress of how he looks on his mind.

You hope the news you bring to him will ease the thoughts that must be swarming through him constantly. He is, no doubt, incredibly lonely—especially as he is being guarded by two men incredibly resolute in both silence and dedication.

“Sit.” You point to the pallet hanging by chains to the wall. He obeys almost immediately, watching you as you unlock the cell door, and as you find a place beside him.

In your hands, you hold a bowl of soap, a blade, and a small cloth. You turn your body to him, putting your leg up onto the pallet and letting the other hang, and shift closer.

“I haven’t seen you for many moons, my princess.” His voice comes out hoarse. That seems to be normal for him now.

“I apologize.” You take the cloth into hand, dunking it into the soapy water. “I’ve had many duties to attend to.” A lie. You’ve spent much of your time hovering around the dungeons and considering whether or not to enter and see him, all to decide not to.

The cloth is gentle as it passes over his jaw, which you notice to feel considerably sharper. “Have you been eating, Gwayne?” you mutter, watching as his grime dissolves onto the material.

He sighs, his head dropping and forcing your touch to cease in its ministrations. “What they give me is fit for hounds, not humans,” he murmurs, a faint smirk touching his chapped lips. “So, no.”

You bring a hand to his chin and force it back up, continuing to wipe away at the filth on his face. In spite of it all, he remains as beautiful as the day you realized it such in the flower field. You would tell him, but he seems to not want to hear it.

“You must get your strength up.” Your cloth passes over his cheek, and he winces. “You are a knight, after all.” You find a blueish bruise under all the grime, no doubt from the bannermen.

His brows knit together. “What are they going to do with me, my princess?” he questions, truly concerned and all the more desperate. His self-destructive exterior seems to have fallen.

“I’ve already told you. You will not die here, not under my command.” You swipe the cloth over the other cheek, softer this time.

“But what after?” he says.

You do not falter in your movements. “What do you mean?”

“If you manage to trade me to Ormund, what then?” he begins, voice cracking slightly. “Am I to stand in the Reach and fight a war I do not believe in? Away from you, never knowing if I will see you again?”

“Gwayne, I do not plan for you to be given back to Oldtown.” You take his hand and put the cloth into it. “Wipe your face.”

He obeys, and you ready the blade to shave the stubble from his lower face. You mix the soap and the water once more until it foams.

“What do you plan to do with me, then?” he questions, flipping the cloth over to the unsullied side to scrub his face harsher than you had. Painful as it looks, it is more effective than what you had done, and takes nearly all of the dirt off in one fell swoop.

You lather his face in the foam, and grab the blade from beside the bowl. He flinches back.

“I used to watch my brother when he would have it done by the maesters. I know enough.” You smirk, pressing the blade against his skin. He settles, letting the fine material scratch against his jaw.

“Do you remember what we talked about—escaping to Essos together?” you ask, and his eyes seem to brighten. Yours only falter at his reaction, and at your uncertainty to truly do what the two of you promised. “In two moons, you will. I have planned with my grandsire to get you on a ship headed there. You will be provided with just enough coin to live until you find a suitable trade—”

“What about you?” he interjects. You hadn’t noticed how his gaze has softened into something sad since you have continued speaking—since you have been focused on the scrape of his stubble against blade.

You pause. “As of this moment, I am more focused on your escape rather than mine.”

“I want you to come with me.” He takes your free hand into his. It makes you freeze again.

You shake your head, continuing to shave his face. “I cannot leave Silverwing.”

“She can come,” he pleads.

You scoff. “Gwayne, you’re amusing.” The blade against his skin presses harder as it drags down. “A dragon on a merchant ship—one that just so happens to carry an escaped Hightower?—”

Gwayne suddenly recoils backward, the hand that had just held yours now gripping onto the area you had just shaved down on.

You look at the blade in your grip. The tip is covered in red. “I apologize,” you mutter, nearly curling in on yourself and preparing for him to berate you.

“Nothing I haven’t felt before.” His thumb swipes the blood away. You look back up at him.

He looks like a different person, you realize, being clean and shaved with cuts and bruises all over his face. His eyes, though, are still the same. They still hold that deep, heavy sadness in them, as if he has been holding the weight of the world on his back.

Your head moves forward before you can get the sense to stop. Your lips are on his before you know it and it feels immoral, but you do not stop.

His lips are dry but pliable and they do not fight for power over yours. He lets your mouth almost entirely envelope his, and he lets your tongue find a place in his mouth. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

You let your cloak fall from your shoulders and onto the pallet before you, and without releasing his lips from yours, you straddle his hips.

Your linen shift has dragged up to your waist with the movement, leaving your bare cunt to rest on his clothed crotch. The noise that comes from your mouth and rings through him at the contact is humiliatingly desperate, but still, you do not waver.

Your hands come down to the edges of the cloth, and you pull it from your body, leaving yourself entirely bare before him. If the guards were to walk in, you would be in the most compromising of appearances, but it is the last thing on your mind.

You kiss him again. “I’ve missed you.” You kiss him. “So much.”

His hands finally rest on your hips, subconsciously dragging them forward to grind onto his bulge.

The two of you moan loudly together, and your hand comes up to smack over his mouth. Beneath it, he only pants harder as you take over in rocking against him. His head hits the wall once he lets it fall back, and his eyes squeeze shut as you persist.

He brings a hand up to your lips, and two of his fingers brush over the bottom one before pushing inside. You welcome them, sucking down and bobbing your head unto them. The thought of how dirty they must be—what they must be dirty with—does not even disconcert you in the moment.

Your hand covering his mouth comes to grip his wrist, using it to guide his fingers further past your lips. There isn’t much of an objective to it—you simply want to feel him everywhere, to taste him, to love him.

He watches you while you do it, blue eyes all big and glossed over, never moving from your face as you take his digits with such a desperate vitality.

The lack of physical contact you’ve experienced since returning home and the overexposure of it now with Gwayne paired together provide a brisk approach to your climax. You pull his fingers from your mouth and mash your lips onto his once more, all while rocking back and forth onto him, chasing the feeling you’ve forced yourself to forget in fear you’d never experience it again.

But you are feeling it again. And it could very well be the last time. So you let it wash over you, your unrestrained sounds being muffled by his mouth. He begins to grind up into you and you mirror his movements.

It comes over you quickly and washes away at the same pace. Like it does not want you to savor it, because perhaps it would be the last time, and you should be weaned off from his touch. Nevertheless, your body spasms and shakes overtop of his, and you can still feel bliss—even as it leaves your body and replaces itself with something similar to shame—coursing through you.

You pulled away from his mouth at some point, your lips sheen with his own saliva, and let your head drop to his shoulder. He pants against your ear all the same, trying to catch his breath, despite not even reaching his own climax. Still, he does not ask for anything in return.

“You told me Silverwing is large enough to saddle two.” His breath returns to him, slowly, though you still feel his chest jumping up and down when you push yourself from it to look him in the eye.

You shake your head after a moment’s silence. “The arrangements for your departure have already been made.” The floor is cold and rough against your bare feet, attached to weakened legs, but you do not let it show. “They will remain unchanged.”

“Then follow us,” he offers, reaching forward to tug your shift back down over your legs, letting his hands linger there for a moment before pulling back.

“It is not safe.” You grab your cloak, placing it over your shoulders.

He scoffs. “What are men compared to dragons?”

You let a heavy sigh come from your mouth, trying to communicate your weariness to him. “I shall consider it.”

“You must.” He steps forward, reaching a hand out to gently hold your wrist. “You will die if you do not flee your place here, if you do not relinquish your titles—”

“How can I be sure this is not just a ploy to weaken my mother’s rule?” you interject, and let your wrist jerk away from his grip.

His jaw clenches at your words. For a heartbeat, his brows jump to his hairline in pure disbelief. “You do not think my love for you to be genuine?”

You cannot deal with the arguing, not now—so you turn to leave, pulling your cloak hood over your head. Perhaps he can settle his own thoughts in the time you are gone. You might be gone for a long, long time. You might even be gone forever, and he may never see you again, so he’ll be able to do a lot of thinking without you there—

“I love you,” he says, and every muscle in your body hardens, rooting you to the ground which you stand.

From the corner of your eye, you see him standing there, hesitating to take even a single step further. He hesitates even to continue speaking. You notice it, when you finally look back to him, in the way his lip quivers.

“Must I say it a million times? I love you. I have loved you since your dragon fell into our encampment. I will love you until I meet the Stranger, and if there exists a life after death, I will love you there too.”

You move back slightly as you shuck your arms into the sleeves of your cloak. His fingers instinctively twitches toward your hand when it comes back down to your side.

He takes another step until he stands right beside you. “I would like you to live out the rest of your days in rest and tranquility. I shall swear myself as your protector if that is what it takes. I shall swear fealty to your mother. Whatever it is, I shall do it. Just come with me.”

You press your lips together. The glint in his eye that grows the longer you look at him is almost depressing, because you know what must happen.

It takes your entire will to break your gaze away from his, and you shake your head. “It’s too late, Gwayne.”

He does not move. Not as you look back at him just once more before leaving the threshold of his cell block, not when you close and lock the door. He does not move a single inch. His expression remains the same, blank and dissociated, even as you walk off and out of his view.

An entire day had passed since you had last spoke to Gwayne, though it felt more like an eternity. You had not been so impatient since you were a child—since you did not have to be anything but.

You did not want for that to be the last conversation the two of you would share. It very well could be, since you do not have the courage to go down there and break your vow of silence, and because he has metal bars that confine him from doing so.

You’re still unsure of what to do. You do not think you should go with him, but you want to. And you are a princess—so what you want, typically, you get.

There was a small voice in your mind telling you that you did not know him well enough, that you should not go with him, and it would be unsafe, you would not be happy after just a few months, and you would miss home with no way to get back to it—but they were all silenced whenever you were tasked with another “duty” or whenever you had to serve as a cupbearer for your mother’s council.

They were silenced when you remembered how your brothers died—young and desperate and on dragonback. If you went with him, should you even bring Silverwing? She could be killed in Essos. It wouldn’t be the first time they have killed dragons there.

You did not need to add a number to the countless dragon deaths the war has produced already. Arrax, then Meleys, and most recently Vermax. The number should be zero, but battle still rages on. And Vermax will most certainly not be the last. Listening in on your mother’s council meetings has set that fact in stone.

Murders of gold cloaks in the streets throughout King’s Landing. The occupation of Tumbleton by Lord Ormund Hightower and his men. Aemond and Vhagar’s disappearance, a bounty to pay for his head. No word of the usurper’s body. These were only the recent tellings, and your mother has her own worries and petitions to deal with—Cissy tells you that she isn’t dealing with them very well.

Would you die if you did not follow Gwayne to Essos? The odds are higher with each passing day—even higher now that you have been named as your mother’s heir. You would not be leaving just for Gwayne’s sake, but for your own too. Possibly even your mother’s. Perhaps it would ease her to know that if she does not win the war, you would not be dead.

You loved her and you loved Gwayne and you loved the Red Keep to some degree, but above all, you loved living more. Your uncertainty regarding the gods had only grown since your mother had her throne taken from her. Even if there did exist some life after death, you would certainly be cycled through the seven hells, the sins you’ve committed.

You were not interested in the idea of death. Not until you’ve had children, at the most. Until you’ve left some legacy, something other than being Princess of Dragonstone, and even then—who knows? Your name might be erased from history if Aegon takes the throne once more. There is nothing to tell what he might do.

If you died now, your legacy would amount to nothing. In Essos, you could do something. Be something. You might not be remembered in Westeros, but you would be remembered somewhere. That mattered. Gwayne mattered. Your own opinion on what you should do in your life mattered.

You should not rule over the realm. You should not inherit the throne. You should live a life of peace. The life you dreamed of as a child in the Keep.

The night before Gwayne’s departure—and yours as well, you had decided—you find yourself outside your mother’s chambers. It was beyond late, and your body was exhausted, though your mind was restless and prevented you from dreaming.

The white cloak posted outside her door nods at the sight of you and lets you enter immediately.

Ahead, you see your mother lying on her featherbed. You cannot tell if she is feigning sleep, trying to catch it, or if she is truly awake. You step forward until you are beside her, fingertips grazing the quilt lying on top of her.

“Mother?” you murmur. Her eyes shoot open, and you nearly flinch back.

Her gaze softens when it reaches yours. “What is it, sweetling?” she questions.

It takes you a moment to find the words. “I cannot sleep.” You haven’t spoken them for over a decade, not since you were a child.

Instead of sending you back to your own chambers, or fetching a maester to make you some sort of tea like you had assumed she might, she slides over to make room for you.

You scurry under the sheets, her body warm and comforting as it lingers behind you. You pull the quilt up to your chin. Her arms wrap around your middle, and you take her hand into yours, squeezing your eyes shut.

You love her more than anything, in a way that is completely different to how you could ever love a man.

Someday, she will understand why you did what you are about to do. Perhaps she will not accept that it was you who did it, and that it was not some Green belligerent seeking to pain her further. You know what she suspects, though it is up to her to acknowledge the truth.

The words slip out. “I love you, mummy.”

You are so quiet, you do not even hear yourself. It is entirely possible that you did not say anything at all, and your mind is simply playing tricks on you.

Her breathing has already returned to a calmer state. She must have fallen back asleep. Your own fatigue hits you then, enveloped in her familiar hold, and you let yourself fall into dream. When you wake, Gwayne will have already gone, and you will follow him.

You dream about him that night, of him and all his beauty. He is not unclean like he has been the last few days, but polished in such a way one could only be by living a life of peace. The sun rises slow, but it illuminates his skin, and he looks to you.

You hear your mother’s voice somewhere distant. “I love you too, sweet girl,” she says.

Her grip around your waist tightens.

You had snuck from your mother’s chambers early that morning, before Gwayne had been set to leave. The cloak that Cissy had placed unto your shoulders was heavy, but you presume it is the pit settled in your stomach that weighs you down as opposed to the cloth itself.

She had fit managed to fit numerous bags of assorted coins, golds, and jewelry up your sleeves, “in case you needed them,” she had said. Her hands had held to yours for a moment too long, and then she had hugged you so tight and so sudden it nearly knocked the wind from your lungs.

You wrapped your arms around her just as firmly. You had known her since you were just girls, and she was essentially the closest friend you ever had. She let you go at some point, or you let her go. You’re unsure which is true.

The walk to the Dragonpit was long and grueling, but you made it without being spotted. Nobody would notice the Princess of Dragonstone out so early.

Silverwing was more than joyous to see you—to feel your touch against her silver scales.

The idea finds you as you watch her and Vermithor bring their snouts together with something you can only describe as affection.

Who would not notice a dragon as beautiful and luminous as she to be flying the skies? There is nothing to guarantee her safety in Essos. Sure, she could protect you, but it would essentially be torture to force her away from her mate and from her own kind. You are her kind, too, but there would be another with the blood of the dragon, another who Silverwing would accept as hers.

Some dragonriders that had survived the Doom had come to Essos, and then their people killed them and their dragons. There is nothing to say the same would not happen the moment you set foot in their realm. You would be even more of a target if you brought her with you.

You make your choice spontaneously. With a heavy breath, you press a parting kiss to the scale over her cheek, and immediately push back.

You have never run so quickly in your life to the seaside. It reminds you of when you were a child with your brothers, racing to the end of the courtyard and back. You will never be a child with them again, but they will live in your memory. You will live for them because they could not.

Your grandsire was a blur as you ran past him, but you could see for just a heartbeat the shock on his face which froze him in place as he watched you go.

The dock was pungent with the scent of salt and fish. You could not focus on it for too long—only the thought of which ship Gwayne was on, and how you would get onto it. Would he be glad that you decided to come with him? You’re certainly disappointed you cannot bring Silverwing, but the sadness has not hit you yet. You expect it will once you are with him.

You know it is the right thing to do. She would not be safe—you and Gwayne would not be safe. It aches, the more you think about it. You wonder how it feels for her. You wonder how it will feel for your mother once she finds out you are gone. What are you doing?

You’re already on the docks, mindlessly looking around at the countless ships around you. The wind blows your cloak hood from off the top of your head. You scramble to conceal yourself back, but you hear your name from behind you and you turn.

The person calls your name again, and you look up to find Gwayne.

He has his own cloak around his head. When you make eye contact, he immediately breaks it to speak to one of the shipmen beside him. The shipman nods at his indiscernible speech, and Gwayne looks back down at you again.

And he smiles.

You do not think you’ve ever seen such pure delight on his face. As the ship’s ladder is put back over, he does not look at it. There is not anything in the world he would rather look at than you. You are the only thing in the world now. You are his world now. He will protect you with his life, and he will be your husband if you so desire it, he will give you children if it is what you want.

Above all else, you will live a life of rest and tranquility like he had promised you would. He would never break a single one to you again. He will vow anything as long you stay willingly by his side. He cannot bare to see you go—never again.

He meets you halfway, pulling you up onto the ship with him when you make it mostly up the ladder. And he holds you by the waist for just a moment—just a single moment, a heartbeat, to see if you are real, to feel if you are real—and he kisses you. Gently. With chivalry. As an honorable knight should.

Essos was more than you dreamed it would be. You were safer without Silverwing by your side, though that deep emptiness often came to you as if you weren’t your natural self without it, and you missed her so desperately.

You missed your mother, your brothers, your father, Cissy, your grandsire, your grandmother. Sometimes even your cousin Helaena and her mother too. You missed sparring in the courtyard as children, you missed living the moments that are now just stories in your head.

But they are stories. Stories you will remember and cherish forever. You wonder how you will be remembered. If your mother would spread the word that you were perhaps killed, or if her anger would prevail over her devastation and she would tell of how you betrayed her. She would never, but the shame of your disloyalty often prevails over the truth of her character, and you begin to think untrue things.

In spite of all of it, you know it was best for you to leave. You did it to rid yourself of the weight of your mother’s rightful golden crown, to prevent your own and your love’s death, and to live how you hoped you always might be able to live.

Your life now reminds you of one you dreamed of as a child. It reminds you of the songs and stories you heard then, the ones that fed your fantasies of your future—the tales of honorable knights sworn to protect fair maidens, who would fall in love with them against their own vows. They would run off together and live in peace for as long as their hearts should beat.

Gwayne had proven to you that those knights truly exist. He had proven it in his devotion, and in his affection, and in the way he would chase your pleasure before his own—like now, as the two of you stir in the early hours of the morning atop your featherbed.

His lips placed a kiss onto the nook between your jaw and your neck, hands wandering down where they had originally held your body close to his.

He pulls your shift up to your waist, letting the fabric pool there, and his fingers graze the area right below it. You shudder once they find a place on your cunt, cupping and caressing it all while he breathes heavily onto your neck.

Your hips instinctively grind back onto his, and his forehead drops to your shoulder. You crane your neck back and press a kiss to the top of his head, and he lifts it so that he can look you in the eye then join your lips together.

As his mouth mashes onto yours, a finger breaches your folds, and you breathe a sweet little mewl into him. It starts to pump, albeit languidly, back and forth, forcing out gasps and whimpers from the depths of your throat—and he adds another digit.

His other hand glides up beneath your shift to grope at your breast, and his mouth finds its way back to your neck and up to your jaw before settling near your ear.

“What would you like to do this morning?” he drawls. His pace quickens, two fingers in and out, over and over.

You can’t quite make out any words to respond with. You manage to breathe out his name, earning from him a breathy chuckle, and another kiss pressed to the highest point of your cheekbone.

His fingers suddenly curl and press against the spongy spot inside of you. “Gods,” you mewl.

“No,” he murmurs, and kisses your jaw. “It's only me.”

His fingers begin to piston in and out of your cunt and your thighs press together, but the hand you had forgotten was on your breast swiftly comes down to pry them apart.

You feel it come to you, building slowly and ready to break like a gate against a Northern army, and you can’t find the voice to warn him.

He must sense it, though. He’s grown accustomed to your body over these few weeks, just as he had on the roseroad—only this time, there is no castle to return to, no limit to how much time you would be able to spend together.

“I know, sweet girl. I know, let go—“ he says, and you obey.

You’ve felt it many times for the many moons you have already spent together, but it feels incredible nonetheless. The heat courses from your loins up to the tip of your head and back down again, past your cunt and to your feet, and you feel bliss.

You spasm and writhe beside him, and his fingers do not stop—they only slow. Your moans turn strangled as you ride it out, languidly grinding yourself down onto his digits.

You do not notice how his eyes watch you, how his lips part in awe. His brows gently furrow at the sight of you falling apart from his touch. Nothing would take you from him again. Not the gold cloaks, not the Greens, not those pesky figures they call gods.

He was yours, and you would be his. One day you should find something close to a septon, if they have those in Essos, to certify that fact.

Once your body calms, he pulls his fingers from your cunt. You whimper, and he chuckles before rising from the bed.

You reach for him. “Indulge me a moment longer.”

When he turns, you notice the bulge beneath his smallclothes.

“I must prepare us a morning meal,” he utters, seemingly oblivious to how hard he is.

You shake your head. “We can eat later.” You reach for him again, holding out a hand. “Come back to me.”

He seems to consider disobeying you for a moment, but when his hand grips your own, you know you have him.

You pull him back toward you, and smash your lips onto his. Your hands move to hold his face against yours, and his keep him upright over top of you.

He swings a leg over your waist, lowering himself to his elbows so that his body touches yours. He shifts his weight to one of his arms so that he can take your breast into his warm palm once more.

You remove your own hand from his cheek to slide down his covered torso, and beneath his undergarments, gripping the base of his cock.

He inhales sharply at that, swallowing your breaths down his throat. Your lips curl up as much as they physically can.

“I’d like you inside,” you say after you manage to break apart from his mouth. He freezes for a moment, then nods. Sometimes, to him, it is still a wonder that you are real, that you are truly asking him to do these things.

His linens are shed within moments. When he presses into you, you feel it too. Awe, and astonishment, that you are together. That you genuinely made it to Essos with him. That this is only the beginning of the long life you will live together.

It feels odd that just months ago, this was only a dream. A far-fetched and idealistic dream, one that would never come true. Though now, as he thrusts into you and you soon enough feel that familiar tight coil start to unravel inside of you, you can truly accept the fact that it is real.

You truly should marry him. The concept of it does not matter much to you any longer, not when you have this life together in exile, but it seems a nice idea.

He spills his seed inside of you, but it does not occur to you to mind. Perhaps one day you will give him children. Perhaps you wont. You will not worry yourself with eventuality.

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[mystixx-xoxo]

The wolf inside me has awoken…

[dearwalker]

mask on, fuck it, mask off | sex pollen

Pairing: Peter Parker x reader Word Count: 8.4k

Contains Brand New Day spoilers 🕸️

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. 

Tiny, microscopic potato, she would say.

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.

Feedback is always appreciated 🕷️

Divider by @andromeda-graphics

Tags: @johnnyfuckingsexystorm @harryplzruinme @jellyfishjpeg @tatumrileyslover @kg0626

[dearwalker]

mask on, fuck it, mask off | sex pollen

Pairing: Peter Parker x reader Word Count: 8.4k

Contains Brand New Day spoilers 🕸️

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. 

Tiny, microscopic potato, she would say.

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.

Feedback is always appreciated 🕷️

Divider by @andromeda-graphics

Tags: @johnnyfuckingsexystorm @harryplzruinme @jellyfishjpeg @tatumrileyslover @kg0626

[nabakovian]

i know people more eloquent than i am have said this but i can't ever get over what a revolutionary character trinity santos is. hyper-ambitious abrasive traumatized lesbian. adult who still self-harms. vaguely suicidal but chose to live anyway but doesn't know how to be alive. grieving. sexually abused as a child. in a toxic situationship with an equally abrasive sexy older surgeon. relentless advocate for her patients, especially the children. besties with her older traumatized suicidal boss and her formerly homeless coworker she took in off the street and her former child prodigy coworker who's just as abrasive as she is but just in a different way. secretly the kindest person on the planet. i could cry i love you so much trinity santos!!

[lovetechnique]

Gwayne Hightower & Daeron Targaryen HOUSE OF THE DRAGON | S03E08

[lenaikart]

Family portrait

[gaystation4]

[juliedillon]

A watercolor painting of a swimmer encoutering some sapphic mermaids, edited slightly for tumblr. (The titty-out version is over on my bluesky at juliedillon.bsky.social )

[gabriellelioncourt]

Gwayne Hightower, First of His Name, Heir Apparent to Oldtown, Scream Queen, Final Girl, Certified Twink, and the survivor of Season Three

[starkdirewolflove]

Aegon is actually so funny here. I love the way he says “I’m alive.”

Aemond probably genuinely thought that was Aegon’s ghost til he got slapped. Harrenhal is the place for hauntings.

[9everwhere]

«Dear Cregan, I have found you a son and a wife» pov Roderick Dustin

[kalichnikov]

“Terf is a slur used to silence us” dang bitch I wish it worked shut the fuck up

[jan-liliten]

op turned off reblogs but also i respect that they turned them off for a reason but i still want the post here so i removed their name

[depsidase]

[sylvernights]

Ewan Mitchell as Aemond Targaryen

3.05 | Unbowed and Unbent

[yeris]

roderick dustin + ser gwayne hightower ↳ house of the dragon 3.08