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@ drewsprettygirl est, 2026, do not use my works for personal use, to copy, or to run through ai. translations may be considered if notified and approved.
summary: peter’s new arachnid senses often leave him disoriented—hibernating and waking up in places he doesn’t recognise. it’s a small problem, one he's willing to deal with on his own, till he wakes in your apartment with his arms wrapped around you.
pairing: peter parker x reader
content: no bnd movie spoilers (feel free to read if you haven't seen bnd), FLUFF, clingy! peter parker, comfort, light banter, arachnid! peter, peter goes through it, yearning
Peter hates most of the new developments that arrived with the enhanced levels of his arachnid half—and migraines are definitely top of the list. Particularly the ones that start early in the morning, muffling his senses and rendering him a zombie slob for the entire start of the day. He stirs in his sleep, a soft, pounding ache burrowed in the back of his skull. It's an irritating sensation, one he's already grown familiar with, worsening the overheating, the sensitivity that comes with his overloaded senses, the pull of nerves behind his eyeballs.
His nose burrows deeper into a comforting scent, arms tightening around something soft. Letting out a dragged sigh, low against his throat, the pain fades into something barely noticeable. A sort of relaxed relief that hasn't hit him in years, with his entire body growing slack and heavy, the kind that only comes after a restful sleep. One he hasn't achieved since—his gaze peers open, blinking heavily as his eyes adjust to his surroundings.
The first thing he catches sight of is a familiar bundled sight of hair, and the curve of a shoulder. He must be dreaming. The sunlight stings the sensitivity of his eyes, and he blinks harsher in an effort to recollect himself. His brows furrow as he loosens a hand, parting from his tight grip to run his fingers gently over the loosened hair.
He wasn't dreaming. Somehow, he was laying in your bed, hugging you like an oversized koala.
"What?" He mumbles, the word falling soft out of his cotton mouth.
You stir slightly in response to the grazing of his touch, and it kicks Peter-Tingle on high-alert that this was not a figment of his imagination. He's quick to un-hand you, scooting backwards towards the edge—and tumbling harshly onto the floorboards with a loud thump, snatching the sheets with him.
The noise echoes in his eardrums, curls splaying out over the floorboards, and Peter is completely frozen. In absolute cold, drowning terror, he watches you stir fully, turning around and stretching at your limbs—a dissatisfied frown perched in your lips at the sudden loss of warmth.
What has he done?
"Spider-Man?" You mumble, voice groggy, almost muffled as your nose dips deeper into the pillow, the one he occupied seconds ago.
Your gaze finally peers open, one palm coming to rub at your undereyes—before meeting his own widened, nearly terrified expression.
"You're awake." You state, as if his existence within the walls of your apartment is a daily, common occurrence. Even if he hasn’t stepped foot into his most favourite apartment, in years. "Hm, you've got brown eyes, who would've thought?"
Why is he here? Why are you so calm about this?
“I’m—so, so sorry.” His words fumble over each other, ears reddened at the tips. Feeling awfully exposed, he wraps his arms around his knees as he lifts himself into a sitting position, caving in on himself as he averts his gaze. “I don’t know why—or how—oh god. Was I hugging you? How did I even—I’m so sorry, I swear I have no clue on how I ended up here.”
Worse, he wasn't wearing a mask. Or much of anything really, aside from an old t-shirt, and Hello Kitty shorts that barely fit his thighs. As his fingers grip at the edge of the shirt, running over the hem, it hits him that these are his clothes. Ones he never stole back from your place, that he had merely assumed was lost to time.
Nothing could have prepared him for this situation, no prep-time or warnings from E.V.I.E.. He didn't have the protection of being Spider-Man and the mask that's become his second skin. No, he had landed bottom-first as bare-faced, shell-shocked Peter.
"You really don't remember how you got here?" You question, lashes fluttering shut as you struggle to stir awake. "Damn, I was wondering if you could tell me."
"No—I swear, I completely blacked out." He scrambles for a response. "Next thing I knew, I was in your bed—I can't believe I just said that."
Running a hand past the bridge of his nose, he hides pathetically behind his fingers, his best attempt of a mask against the chaotic churn of nerves bundling through his gut. He had promised to keep you safe by staying as far away as he could—aside from the daily checking of your social media pages and the occasional swing down your usual coffee shop just to see if your favourite order remained the same, but this? How was he ever going to forgive himself for it?
He hears shuffling, in the normal sense and not the heightened echoes he’s used to ever since his arachnid side started spinning out of control. Strangely, his senses have been dialed down to normal since he regained consciousness—and he can’t dumb it down to just a good rest. It has to be cause of you.
His lashes flutter against the pads of his fingers as he meets your gaze through the gaps. You face him head-on, sitting cross legged right in front of him, head tilted in innocent curiosity.
“You’re a cuddler.” You hum in acknowledgment.
He was genuinely going to be the first Spider-person to ever die of shame, not that he's met many, but he's sure Peter 1 and Peter 2 have never unknowingly climbed into the bed of their special someone because they couldn't control their own DNA evolution. A low sound escapes his throat, clenched through his teeth—completely at a lost for words.
He has no clue on what he’s supposed to do, not when there's no routine or steps to fall back on. Be Spider-Man (Mask's gone). The man the city actually wanted (One who preferably doesn't have panic attacks wearing Hello Kitty pants). Stay far away from his previous life (Scored a huge FAIL here). Get flowers for May (Done). Scroll through your social media pages (..Done). Feel the thrumming vibrations of the washing machine after patrols (Skipped, was too nauseous). Rinse and repeat.
There’s no coming back from this, and it wasn’t even in his control. He hadn’t meant to find you. The last thing he could recall before passing out in his apartment was—he had just wanted to go home. He swore that was all he intended.
“Hey.” Your voice, soft and warm, finally coaxes him out of his thoughts. He hadn’t even realised just how tight he had been clenching his eyes shut—as his gaze takes a few seconds to adjust back into colour with you in his full view.
Slowly and gently, your own fingers raise to pry his away from his face. He’s sure he has hand marks all over his skin, but you look at him with such a soft expression—he nearly keens.
“I got you. You're safe.” You reassure, repeating it as a mantra. “You’re safe here.”
His Adam’s apple bobs harshly, and he feels the tightening of his chest nearly burst at the seams. God, he missed you. All he wanted was to hug you, and tell you he was sorry—for all of it. That he hadn’t gone a single day without wanting to hear your voice, to be exactly where he was right now—that this was all he needed if he wasn’t so weak. If he wasn’t cursed.
“Sorry.” That’s all that comes out, a croak in his voice that he failed to swallow back.
Your lips quirk into a soft smile, and you look like home. He feels his muscles physically deflate in tension at the sight, something no inhibitor or invention could ever replicate. His life has been spinning out of control, and you've just set the needle aside without even blinking.
“You’re all good, Spidey.” Your voice is warm, comforting. “Aside from hogging the blankets, it wasn’t half-bad for my first sleepover with a vigilante.”
His lips part, a laugh caught in his throat—half shattered, half hopeful.
“Could you—I don’t know, explain to me what happened?” He raises his hands, gesturing to your apartment. “I can’t believe I lost control—I don’t remember anything.”
Your lips part, a small grin tucked between your lips. "If you insist."
A loud crash resounds behind you, kick-starting your frightened senses. Head whipping to the window, you spot your window ledge shoved half-way with brutal force, and a body covered in deep reds and blues on your wooden floorboards.
"Holy shit." You mutter to yourself, skillet pan still in hand, the oil coating its surface bubbling into tiny pops.
Spider-Man is in your living room. Spider-Man is spread out across your floorboards, seemingly knocked out cold, in your apartment.
Another sizzling pop snaps you out of your stump, and you realise the collapsed vigilante is your responsibility. Your fingers fumble to switch off your stove with a click, skillet haphazardly placed over the stove burner—apron still hanging around your neck as you rush towards the body. God, you hope it wasn't an actual body.
"Spider-Man?" You call out tentatively, and you're struck by how his body moves in response, the stretch of his back with that familiar logo disappearing to reveal a mop of dark brown curls.
He wasn't wearing a mask. You didn't know what you expected from a hero who seemed nearly indestructible on the news, even when in the process of being smashed into buildings by tanks, but Spider-Man looks much younger than you expected, ahead of you by at most a couple years—bearing a youth that is almost frightening.
He certainly did look battered. Bruises littered his cheek, as if he had slammed himself into bricks or concrete on the way, before he had landed himself in your apartment. Dark circles pooled as a dark shadow under his eye-bags, and his hair was a wet, clumped mess from the rain.
You didn't know where to begin—if you were even allowed to touch him to check if he's hurt, or to call a professional. Did the professionals even know who he was, of his true identity? What if you doomed New York City's most beloved vigilante to his fate, just because you made the wrong call?
Your knees meet carpet, hands trembling in indecision and nerves, coming to rest on his shoulder. At your touch, a hiss escapes his lips and you immediately snatch your hand back, clutching it at the wrist. Who were you kidding, you were the last person equipped to save a person's life—much less a hero's.
You rise halfway, head swinging around to locate your phone—when you feel an insistent pull of your apron, tripping you back to land on the carpet.
"Don't go." He whispers.
Your gaze snaps back to his face, and find his eyes open. Or at least, that's where his pupils should've been. He must be half-unconscious, with the way his eyes are blown into a darkened void, lips parted in some sort of daze.
"I'm going to get help." Your words form despite the panic arising in your chest at the state of him. Is this poisoning? What else could explain the blackened sclera, the way darkened veins coated his skin in an almost bluish-purple. "I'll be right back." You promise.
He shakes his head, almost insistently stubborn, jaw clenching in panic. "No, don't go." His grip tightens almost instantly, and you're swept by his abnormal strength with a sudden tug, tumbling on top of him. "Please."
You freeze, feeling the wet raindrops from his suit seep into the cotton of your apron. Before you even have a chance to push yourself off, his arms wrap around you protectively. Squashed between his broad chest and the tight grip of his hold, your nose is buried into the crook of his shoulder. You smell fresh detergent, sweat, and something so achingly familiar—it churns your senses into mush that it takes you a few seconds to register.
He's shaking, and almost feverishly warm.
"Spider-Man." You plead. "Listen to me. You don't look good. And I do not want a dead Spider on my conscience, so please—you have to let me go so I can find some professionals, just someone to check if you're alright."
His touch is a sizzling heat as the warmth envelopes you, almost like a weighted, heated blanket.
"No. Stay." He pleads. "Please, I don't want—I just need you."
He sounds so exhausted. Why wouldn't he be? Before he had suffocated you into this strange circumstance of a hug, his entire face had been dull in colour, sweat pooling at the curls over his forehead, and he just looked—fragile. Completely unlike the hero of the city you're used to seeing on screen, whether it be receiving the keys to the city or those cheerful quips that make its frequent rounds through the internet when he swoops in to save the day.
"Spidey." You call him gently, trying to think of how to persuade him. "—I won't leave you alone, I promise. Just let me get up, to at least fetch you a change of clothes. You're soaked."
The seconds passing by without a response, or the loosening of his muscles, feel like the longest beats of your life. Your own heart thumps along with the rise and fall of his chest, waiting with bated breath.
"Promise?" He murmurs weakly.
"I promise." You whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."
You feel the slow release of warm breath against your skin, the way his fingers tremor over the small of your back. Something in him relaxes just enough, and his arms give in, thumping heavily at his sides. You rise instantly, palms pushing at his chest and falling back onto the carpet. Feeling the wet residue of the rain coat your apron, and the side of your cheek that had been buried in his shoulder—your cheeks grow impossibly hot.
You need to snap out of it. He needs clean clothes. Yeah, that's a start.
Stumbling in your step, you rush towards your wardrobe—digging through the unorganised mess for a bag of clothes you had kept hidden in the most corner nook. One you hadn't thrown out since your first discovery of its existence, containing Hello Kitty shorts, some old, faded T-shirts—choices you would've never purchased for yourself but had for as long as you could remember.
You had run through a list of reasons for its existence, seemingly packed for an overnight guest. Maybe from that house-warming party you had thrown once before deciding you much preferred your space being reserved for only you, and someone had left their clothes mistakenly. Despite whatever plausibility or excuse—you never found the strength to throw them away. Even when you had every reason to, your mind instinctively buries the thought and the bag remained exactly where it was, kept in a zip-locked bag for it to be used by someone.
Apparently, today was its much-needed day.
Hoisting the bag over to the living room where he still laid, cheek pressed to the carpet, you’re relieved that the tension that previously consumed his expression has faded somewhat, with his lips parted slightly in slow exhales. His body seemed to be recalibrating, instinctively calming down right in the centre of your home.
Your hand comes to rest on his cheek, tapping it gently. Although his eyes with that dark void don't open, a low rumble escapes his throat—convincing you that he's still somewhat conscious.
"Hey, Spidey." You whisper. "I brought some clothes. Do you have the energy to change?"
He doesn't respond, and you poke your tongue into your cheek, analysing the length of him with dawning dread. It's no big deal, you just have to peel off this ridiculously tight suit with no zipper in sight without making it weird, and attempt at successfully pulling a T-shirt over his head.
Making your choice of a 'I Survived My Trip To NYC' graphic tee found at the top of the pile inside, your gaze switches back to the sprawled vigilante. From how heavy his arms had been earlier, rendering you immobile when pinned under them, you wouldn't dare make the mistake of assuming his weight would be easy to flip over. You could attempt to at least expose his back for you to take off that suit—assuming the costume even had a zipper.
Your long calculation apparently does the job for you as Spider-Man senses you near, and his arm curls protectively around your thigh, burying his nose into the crook below your knee. Your entire body stills, a tight grip over the tee as he gently rests his head over your knee, the soft texture of his curls brushing goosebumps against your skin. HIs body turns just enough to expose the expanse of his back—and the sight of a hidden zipper beneath that familiar symbol is a good sign.
Okay, sure. You could work with that.
He was ripped. You should've expected that, but the slow rise and fall of his chest expands the muscles across his exposed torso. You force yourself to tear your gaze away from the sight, reassuring yourself that your eyes were purely looking for possible injuries. You wouldn't go that low to check out a vigilante who was passed out in your living room.
Your fingers press into the sides of his cheeks, maneuvering his head so you could fit the opening of the tee over his head. Curls run through the white fabric before landing over his shoulder blades. It's strangely intimate, the way he's easily pliable in your hands—trusting you so completely. His lashes flutter once every few seconds, but he remains exactly where he is, body wrapped almost completely around yours—acting as a human barrier to you and the outside world—as you dress him in something soft and clean.
He's not supposed to be here, and you're not supposed to feel this protective over a stranger who dresses in two primary colours. Yet, seeing him at rest—makes you feel calm. The quiet of the apartment is a low hum rather than the empty chasm you’re used to, and your fingers run through his hair almost habitually.
You can't just leave him on the floor. There's also the latter half of his suit you don't want to deal with.
"Spidey." You whisper.
He lets out a low groan, wincing as his eyes shut tighter—burying himself deeper into your skin.
"No-no." Your hands come up to gently cup his cheek, coercing him.
His lashes part, and you're met with that same, expansive void, finding your own reflection in his gaze. He's still not quite himself, you believe—but he is able and willing to listen to you.
"I need you to put on these shorts." You gesture to the Hello Kitty pants you laid out for him. "Then, I need you to come to bed."
His brows furrow, lashes fluttering slowly as he processes your request. "Bed."
"Yes." You repeat. "You're exhausted, and I'm not leaving you on my floorboards. It's not too far, so please—help me out a little, Spidey."
His gaze doesn't blink, but you feel the shift in his muscles at your command. He stumbles as he raises himself, body slumping into you—but you steady him with your own grip. His nose buries itself once more into a crook to inhale your scent, this time being your shoulder.
"Okay." You mutter. "That's progress. Come on, up."
It takes you a couple minutes, mostly because he clings to you with every step and he is made of heavy weight. Whatever they feed the heroes of New York, it was clearly something out of limits from your measly grocery bill. By the time he managed to slip himself into those Hello Kitty shorts while you kept your gaze heavily fixated on the ceiling, making sure only to look when the waistband was tight around his torso, it wasn't long before he tripped himself face-first into your blankets. Your own body collapses beside him—equally tired as he is.
You attempt to form a pillow fort in your daze, a barrier of sorts. More for him than you, as you're sure in the morning once this side of him disappears—he'll have a much different reaction to waking up in an apartment with a stranger he doesn't know.
It gets demolished within seconds.
As if the pillows have formed a personal vendetta against him, they're thrown aggressively onto the floorboards. Your hand reaches out to grab them because you had just put them in the laundry—but your wrist is snatched too and you're tugged into his embrace.
You land back into the sheets, cheek smothered against his chest, and there he goes again, wrapping himself around you like a cocoon.
Here in your bed with his arms wrapped around you like you're his only anchor, brows furrowed tight—Spider-Man looked so human. Soft, and incredibly vulnerable. His arm still grips limply onto you even if you can feel his consciousness fading, as if the lack of contact would have you disappearing completely from his reach.
"Those pillows were meant for you, y'know." You mutter, unable to hide your amusement.
His lips curl into a stubborn pout. "Don't want them." He grumbles, words nearly incoherent with the small parting of his lips. "In my way."
You snort softly, before noting the dirt that coats his cheeks. With such a close proximity, you see everything. The soft lines at the corners of his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and just how beautiful he was.
"You've got dirt on your face." You whisper softly. "I should help you with that."
His grip tightens considerably, and you're dragged up so close to his face that your noses nearly bump into one another.
"Okay-okay. I'm not going anywhere." You feel the need to remind him, hand slowly lifting to press against his bruised cheek.
If the press of your finger-pads against the bruise was painful, he didn't show it—only burrowing his face deeper into the curve of your palm, a relieved sigh escaping his lips. The crease between his brows finally unfolds, and the years coated on his expression fades with it—leaving him looking impossibly young.
"Smells like you." He grumbles lowly, pressing the tip of his nose deeper into your palm.
Your heart skips a beat, traitorously even when you're sure he won't remember any of this by the morning.
“Do you have anyone?” You ask gently. “Someone I need to call?”
It’s heart-breaking, the way he immediately shakes his head, his curls ruffled against the sheets. For someone so beloved by the city, even in such a weakened state, he still believes that he has no one.
"Why are you here?" You murmur more for yourself, gazing openly over the fanning of his lashes over his darkened circles.
If it weren't for the expansive heat seeping from his broad chest through the cotton tee you tugged over his head, you would've believed yourself to be in the thick of a sweet, non-sensical dream.
You expect him to be fully asleep, but you hear it, low and almost inaudible. "Home."
Your heart tremors, barely able to comprehend it. "What?"
His words grow muffled against the sheets, the mess of his curls sinking deeper into the pillows—but you hear it. “Wanted to come home.”
Peter watches as you wring a cloth of its excess water over the sink, and the familiarity is dangerously luring. How many times has he sat here on your couch, watching as you prepped a medicine kit or a towel after his patrols? It’s almost unfathomable how quickly the new routines, rigorous with repetition and duty, all that control—that responsibility that leashed him tight falls apart the second he is in your proximity. Where old overpowers the new, because there is nothing he craves more than this. The past—the memories that became more present than reminder, when his own life had pressed ‘pause’ the moment he lost you.
He should’ve insisted on leaving when you offered to clean up the dirt that still coated his face. He should’ve shattered the hope that gleamed in your eyes when he gave you the barest nod, knowing how dangerous that fleeting belief could be when his own had never held value.
He did none of what he was supposed to do—and he didn’t even have the gull to feel ashamed for it, taking in the sight of you with unconditional hunger, absorbing every trace of movement and the way your voice resonated in the hearth of your home. He belonged in your life once, the same way the remains of his old t-shirts were kept in your wardrobe, or how the bathroom door still has the replaced hinges he fixed once on your third home date. There’s him all around, and the sight was its own guilty pleasure that the universe hadn’t completely stripped away the parts of him that used to exist in your life.
"You didn't do anything." You reassure him from across the kitchen counter. "Trust me, when you showed up in my apartment—you weren't in a state of anything other than being near-collapse."
His expression contorts. As if he needed more reasons to hate these new changes to his body—messing up all that is predictable. Predictable is good. It's safe. What isn't within even the remote levels of safe, is forcing you to look after him the entire night because he isn't even in control of his own body.
You stop in front of him, brushing some magazines and half-littered candy wrappers to the side as you sit on the coffee-table, knees brushing against his.
"Breathe." You murmur softly, eyes crinkling with a soft teasing expression.
He hadn't even realised he was holding his breath, being so close to you that it makes him feel faint. Oxygen swoops back into his lungs, his chest rising and falling as he stares at you openly with his mouth slightly gaped.
The cloth in hand raises to press against his cheek, and he feels the slight sting of its cool temperature against the warmth of his skin, the bruise above his cheekbone.
It doesn't truly register for him, not when you're staring at him so keenly he feels the need to ask. "What?"
"I just didn't expect Spider-Man to be so—" You struggle to find the words. "Human. I don't know. I suppose that sounds stupid, but you could pass by me in a coffee shop and I'd just sum you up as a cute stranger I'd never see again, not an actual crime-fighting vigilante."
The two of you were together, so it shouldn’t have struck him with elated surprise to hear it, but the admission that you still found him—he feels sixteen again, taken back to when you had first pressed a kiss onto his cheek and he understood immediately on what it meant to fall in love so completely that you could never look back.
You're too focused on dapping the wet cloth to notice his widened gaze, or the way he swallows dryly—licking at his lips. "You think I'm cute?"
"I mean—this entire time, I half-expected Spider-Man to be at least half-spider. Plus, I have eyes." You tease, your fingers gently brushing the wet cloth over the darkened soot across his cheek, rubbing off the marks. "I meant to do this last night, but you kept protesting when I tried to leave the bed. Clinging onto me—"
"Okay, okay." He raises his hand, catching you by the wrist. He's definitely flustered now. "I don't need to hear the details. I believe you."
You snort softly. "Thought you wanted the full story."
"Yeah, summed up—minus the details." He splutters. "I'm already dying inside from shame, and I've definitely ruined my impression with you forever."
"That's not true." You hum.
He blinks slowly, processing your words.
"There's no shame in reaching out for help, hero or not. I know you’re under a lot of public scrutiny but—it doesn't change who you are, y'know? You're deserving of support, just as much as everyone else. Even if the world expects you to be a hero—" You state. "You're still a person, and it seemed like you really needed someone."
He stiffens, jaw tightening as his eyes avert from yours to pinpoint his focus elsewhere—anywhere but you.
"You're not just someone." He mumbles lowly.
The press of the cloth against his cheek falters. "What?"
"You're—" His voice trails off, jaw clenching tight. “You weren’t scared of me?”
He understands how he can get when he loses control. The way his vision blacks out, and how his mind caves into silence—with his body moving on instinct rather than command. The reflection of a monster in the mirror, everything he swore not to be. The version of him that snuck into your apartment, clinging onto you as a lifeline—was stripped of the rules and promises he had made to keep everything together.
It was him at his most selfish—doing what his instincts pleaded—no, begged for him to do, and he had caved in for all of it. That's why he's here, and why you're staring with an expression he didn't dare uncover.
“I think you’re a lot more scared of yourself right now than I am.” You answer truthfully. “You were in a lot of pain. The last thing I would be was scared, when all you needed was someone to look out for you. Even if it's just for a little while.”
"I—" What is he supposed to say to that? That you're right on, and you've always been even without knowing who he is, and that he's been losing himself ever since he lost you? He swallows thickly. "I haven't been myself lately."
Your fingers tighten imperceptibly, grounding him. "You're still you, maybe you've just been putting aside what reminds you of that. I'm no vigilante, but working yourself to the bone and collapsing in a stranger's apartment—I think that's a signal for a horrible work-life balance."
"I have been resting." He argues. "I get enough hours, I have proof."
"Yeah, that's definitely why you slept like a log last night."
His lips part, gaze finally meeting yours, staring at you wordlessly. Eventually, a laugh escapes his lips, deepening the lines near the corners of his eyes. It's a little sad, and you wonder just how much he had to carry on his own—for a laugh to sound that broken.
"This is hard. I'm not supposed to—" He mutters, and that's the closest thing to raw honesty that you've pulled out of his mouth. "You're way too good for me."
Your smile deepens, and your fingers trace gently over his cheek where the bruise was finally fading. That must've been the mistake of it—the familiarity of muscle memory after a long patrol. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek in thank you.
It’s only when he spots your frozen expression that he realises what he's done.
"I was not supposed to do that." He mutters to himself, widened eyes locked onto the spot where he left the kiss.
You blink, and he follows the movement—staring at each other in complete silence. His expression contorts, and you can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you.
"That was—wow." You choke back on your laughter. "I think you're running out of things you're not supposed to do, Spidey."
His own gaze crinkles into a smile, abashed. "I'm sorry, I just—I wanted to thank you. It was out of habit."
"Habit—you crash into people's apartments often and give out these free kisses?" You tease. "Is it part of the job description?"
He shakes his head immediately, terrified by the suggestion. "No—no. I swear this is my first time ever doing anything like this. I got the habit from my aunt, she used to—um..."
His expression dampens considerably. "Kiss my cheek for good luck."
Your gaze softens. "She sounds sweet."
"Yeah." His laugh churns awkwardly with a wince. "You would've loved her."
You watch him, and you sense it again—that chasm that ran deeper than the surface of his winced smiles. The way he shook his head when you asked if he had anyone, and even now, the way he fumbled with his fingers as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself in your gaze—and how he hadn't suggested once since waking up that he wanted to leave.
He was waiting, the way one waits for permission to exist in a room when they haven't been invited in one for years.
"Spidey." You call out.
He whips his head to look at you, pupils still widened in some perpetual disbelief, over the fact that he was in your apartment—that you were right in front of him.
"I'm going to make breakfast." You start, not leaving room for argument. "And you're going to help me."
He blinks once, then twice in astonishment. He swallows dryly. "O-Okay."
Your smile loosens into something reserved for a vigilante you had stayed up all night checking his temperature for.
You find that Spider-Man is pretty good in making pancakes, and that he easily maneuvers himself around your kitchen as if he had already memorised the layout. Of where your favourite mugs are, and how he didn't question twice when taking out the ice-cream tub without you needing to say it.
You could narrow it down to Spidey-senses, or whatever theories that's come up on your feed for his inhuman capabilities—but could it really just be that? Could his super-human abilities be the only reason behind why the warm hazel of his eyes light into the tiniest fireworks as he watches you scourge on your pancake, smiling at him with butter at the corner of your lips—as if the sight of you eating breakfast was the most beautiful thing he's ever seen?
Or why he picked you as his destination for home, or the slip of his tongue on how you meant a great deal more to him than just a someone who so happened to let him stay the night.
You have so much to uncover, but for now, he's just a boy in a NYC graphic tee that’s his exact size, and fluorescent shorts that do nothing for his thighs. He catches your gaze on his peculiar outfit, and his own lips purse in amusement.
"Any reason for the outfit choice?" He murmurs, a knowing smile covered by his fist as he rests his chin over his wrist, head tilting slightly as he gazes at you. "It's inventive."
"Oh—" You blink. "I don't know. I kinda always had them. They don't belong to me, but I just didn't see a need to throw out free clothes."
Your lips quirk up, teasing. "Suits you though. Think you'll keep it?"
He shrugs. "I don't know. I think I'll have to return it."
"Why?"
"So I can borrow it again." He suggests slowly.
You stare at him, unable to hide your growing grin. "Smooth, Spidey. Real smooth."
His gaze lights up. "Better than the cheek kiss?"
"Tons better. You could try it again—I'll see if I can adjust the scores." You tease.
"Really?" He stutters, akin to a flustered high-schooler.
"Yeah, but you'll have to tell me your name." You gesture with a point of your fork. "Can't go around giving free kisses without ID."
You meant it as a joke. You're no expert in superhero protocols, but you're sure the codenames meant no personal information spilled outside their work-life. Even when you've already seen his face, and shared a bed with him, and let him take your second favourite mug though he can't possibly know that last one. There's lines you've certainly crossed, but his name?
You part your lips to take back your impulsive request, to brush it off—only to find genuine consideration forming in his expression. Your smile falls slack in wonder. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't possibly.
Yet, he looks at you, almost peering deep into your soul. He looks at you as if he knows you, all boyish and unguarded. Whatever he sees, past the bed-hair and ice-cream smothered lips—it's worth it to him. It's worth something honest, and sacred—a truth he'll never be able to take back. It's a genuine, soft thing—a precious smile that lifts his lips, one you have no idea how brave he is for keeping. He has made his choice, and you're a part of it, always.
Peter looks at you, and he sees the only present he'll ever want. Past spells and starting-overs and stupid choices—at the centre of it all, it all becomes so simple. You—who his body sought out of instinct, who inhabited his mind with your own personal island, who had taken his heart from the first time he saw you. You're home, and no rules or lines drawn could've stopped him from returning back to you. His everything.
"Peter. Peter Parker."
likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3!!
marvel masterlist (do let me know if you'd like to be added to a peter parker taglist as i have more fics coming up for him <3).
Hiii!!! I’m new to your blog, so I’m still learning the ins and outs, I am so obsessed with it so far tho😍
I was wondering if you wanted to write a dom!logan x sub!reader smut and then like after the smut they kinda rejoin the group and everyone is surprised that Logan is a dom? (Maybe they overheard or something idk)
Feel free to ignore or ask me to send something different in!
I was also wondering if I could be one of your emoji anons? 🤩
With love,
Anon💌
hi anon! i’m so glad you love my blog so much it means the world to me!!
unfortunately atm all my requests are closed due to my event so i won’t get overwhelmed BUT you can still request something in a way, down in the tags i’ll link my celebration and you can just scroll to find my introduction to the celebration and request that way!
also of course you can be my 💌 anon!!!! if that’s the emoji you were wanting, i hope you enjoy your stay here <3
Could i perhaps get an iced latte brown sugar chocolate and caramel drizzle? 🤪 this is such a cutie idea btw!!
hi b! of course you can, it’s down below! enjoy <3
“b,” you say after a comfortable silence washes over you and beau as you both lay in your shared bed. he hums in response as he turns to face you.
“i’m scared to be a mom,” you confess truthfully as your hand moves down to caress your growing bump.
“i am too honey, but as long as im with you i’ll be okay,” he says after taking in your words. and there was no lie behind his words, he meant it, he’s scared and nervous but he knows with his pretty woman by his side, he’ll get through it and so will you.
hi there ! could i get a mango-coconut matcha with caramel drizzle and a cheese danish? thank you 🤍🤍
hi anon! i only did mango instead of mango & coconut i hope that’s alright >_<, your drink is below, hope you enjoy <3
the mystery man’s lips trail down from your jaw to your neck. your soft moans fill the room as you tug him even closer. you didn’t know his name nor did you care to know, all you wanted was him on you, in you both physically and mentally.
he slips your shirt off leaving you in your black lacy bra and matching underwear. his kisses move from your neck down to your navel as he slowly makes his way down to your thighs.
“one time yeah?” he asks as he places lovebites on your right thigh. you just nod, incapable of saying words aloud, he smirks against your skin as he takes his hands and slides your underwear off of you, leaving you bare to him.
Congrats on 500!! Can I order an americano with brown sugar & cold foam please with a cheese danish maybe? 🥹🫶
hi anon! of course you can, your drink is down below i hope you enjoy and thank you so much for<3
pulling your trash can down to the curb, you see logan quickly rush over and take over. you give him a grateful smile as you place your hand over your growing bump.
“thank you logan,” you tell him as you continue to walk with him.
“no pregnant lady should be allowed to touch the trash let alone drag it down to the curb,” he tells you teasingly as he places his hand on your lower back.
“are you hinting you’re nominating yourself?” you ask as you start to walk back to your house.
“i’ll do anything you ask,” he says to you truthfully.
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, college setting, inaccurate depictions of arachnology and entomology, established relationships, fluff, rough p in v, porn little plot, breeding kink, mask stays on, dirty talk, inappropriate use of webs (bdsm), soft dom!peter
⭐︎ word count: 4.2k
⭐︎ a/n: this literally came to me in a vision right before bed and i woke up like a sleeper agent and got to work. kinda proofread so we kinda die like men
synopsis:
You're an overworked entomology student trying to finish a report on spiders and their mating cycles. At the same time, Peter Parker is undergoing strange, ravenous arachnid changes in his body. Lucky for you, Peter also happens to be your boyfriend.
← previous fic | marvel masterlist
Another rainy evening results in you staying cooped up in your dorm, eyes heavy despite being dosed up on caffeine, the warm lamp light on your desk ghosting over your laptop screen and papers in a golden blur.
It’s that point in the semester where the weather is getting colder, the stakes are getting higher, and everyone is cramming to memorize fifteen weeks of school work in one night. For you, an Entomology major, your current ball and chain is a thoroughly written report on arachnids, their mating cycles, and their habits.
The sound of the rain thumping against your windowsill makes it hard to focus. But it’s not just the rain that tears away your attention—it’s the fact that your boyfriend, Peter, is out doing God knows what on his exam night. He assured you he would be back no later than ten, but one quick glance at the clock tells you he’s late. It reads 12:45 AM.
You’re eager to reach for your phone and shoot a quick call to Evie, but you try your best to resist so you don’t get in the way of his typical superhero duties. As the minutes tick by and your daunting report burns bright on your screen, your worry gives way.
With a sigh, you sit up straight in your chair and snatch your phone. As you’re dialing his suit, a hard crash against the window makes you gasp and jolt in your seat.
As if he knew you were about to call, Peter is right there.
He quickly slides your window open and sneaks in smoothly—drenched in rain and panting hard.
“Christ, Peter!” You try to will away the adrenaline from the scare. “You told me you’d be back at ten. I was just about to call you—”
Peter nearly collapses over your desk as he tries to hold himself up, scattering your research papers. Normally, you’d give him a lecture for messing up your study station, but as worry washes over you, you don’t even glance at the pages you’ve slaved over for the past twenty-four hours.
“Peter? Peter, look at me—what happened?” you hurry over to him, your hands cupping his cheeks through his mask.
His suit is soaked through, cold rain pooling on the floor, but despite the chill, his body radiates a feverish, unnatural heat. His breathing comes in hard pants and desperate gulps. He rips his gloves off harshly and tears at the neck of his suit.
“I—I don’t know,” he rasps, his voice strained as if he’s trying to swallow down a growl. “Something’s wrong. I—I’ve been feeling like this for days, and I thought it was just a fever—but then I started producing my own webs, and I—”
“Okay, okay, just breathe. Help me get you down.”
You wrap one arm around his waist and guide him toward your bed, but the contact makes him hiss sharply, as if your touch hurts him. You quickly help him undress out of the rest of the suit, eager to examine him for any injuries.
He lies before you in just his underwear—and as you scan Peter’s muscular frame, you notice nothing unusual except for a strange pulsing in the veins at his wrists.
“Peter,” you frown, eyeing him up and down to make sure you haven’t missed anything. “You’re not injured—are you?”
“No,” he reassures through ragged breaths. “No, I’m not injured—it’s just—I don’t know, everything feels so warm and I—”
“Here, let me help you remove your mask.”
Without warning, you lean over his body and reach for the hem of his mask at the base of his neck. He gasps sharply the moment your fingers graze his hot skin. “No! Don’t touch it!”
His hand shoots out and clasps your wrist tightly, making you wince. He has never grabbed you like that before.
Peter, realizing what he’s done, loosens his grip on your wrist just slightly.
“Crap—I’m sorry. I just… don’t remove it, okay?” He pants heavily. “My eyes—they’re pitch black. I’ve never had this happen before, and I don’t want to scare you.”
A line creases between your brows in worry. “I could never be scared of you.”
“I know, I know,” he sucks in a deep breath, the pillows rustling as he turns his head toward you. You can’t see his face, but his voice betrays his pained expression. “Please don’t remove it. Not yet.”
“But what if you’re injured?”
“If I had a head injury, I would tell you.”
You search the white lenses of his mask, but eventually, you give in with an exasperated sigh and slowly lower your hand from his neck. Peter doesn’t let go of your wrist; he intertwines his clammy fingers with yours.
With a solemn expression, you cup your free palm over his knuckles while holding his hand.
“Peter, what’s happening to you?” you ask softly, kneeling beside him at the edge of the bed.
He swallows hard, his neck flushing a deep, embarrassing shade of red where his mask pulled up.
“It’s hard to explain,” he stammers, his lenses focusing on the ceiling of your warmly lit dorm room. “For the past few days, my body’s been feeling restless. It’s like every single instinct I have is screaming at me to do something, but my brain couldn’t figure out what.”
His hand—the one that isn’t holding yours—clenches into a fist, the veins and muscles in his forearm popping with frustration.
“And then tonight,” he continues in almost a bashful whisper, “I started producing my own webs. Like Peter Two did—” He turns to you real quick. “You remember Peter Two, right?”
You nod. He looks back up at the ceiling.
“Anyway, the webs weren’t strong enough to control at all. It felt… almost painful. It wouldn’t stop spurting out. There’s also this feeling in my gut— like I’m hungry.”
The white lenses of his mask narrow in embarrassment. “And I don’t mean for food,” he mutters, shifting his hips awkwardly until the bed creaks. “My body was screaming at me to come back to you. To feel your touch, to hear your voice… and now that you’re here, my skin burns every time you touch me, but I don’t want you to stop. I feel like I’d die if you did.”
You hum softly, your fingers stroking over his knuckles as your eyes rake over his body once more. Without even looking at you, Peter can feel the weight of your gaze—and fuck, it’s heavy. You’re his girlfriend, and you’ve seen him through all his ups and downs, but for some reason, this feels completely different.
His body is tense, his skin is burning hot, and his heart is beating erratically. The longer you stare at him, the longer you stroke your fingers against his hand, the more he feels an unmistakable ache in his groin.
Before he knows it, his underwear begins to tighten, revealing a prominent, pulsing bulge right in front of you—begging for your touch to move from his hands to somewhere much lower.
You swallow hard, your face heating up instantly at his size.
Your mind—trained by months of endless lectures, lab practicals, and late-night readings—slowly begins connecting the dots. The feverish body temperature, the blacked-out eyes, the hyper-fixation on your presence, his restlessness, the involuntary production of silk, the sudden surge of physical arousal—it isn’t just a random mutation spike.
It’s textbook arachnid behavior. It also happens to be exactly what you’re writing your report on right now.
“Peter,” you try your best to pry your eyes away from the space between his legs. “You’re in an ultimate molt cycle.”
Through the white lenses of his mask, he squints at you in confusion. “A... a what?”
“Ultimate molt,” you repeat, pushing yourself off the floor so you’re sitting at the edge of the bed. “In mature male spiders, the final molt signals sexual maturity. Their bodies undergo a massive physiological shift. They stop eating, their metabolic rate and temperature skyrocket, and their brain gets overtaken with one goal in mind.”
Peter swallows hard. “And what’s that?”
“Um,” you say, sheepish. “Reproduction.”
His head slumps back onto the pillow with a small thud. “Oh, God.” He shuts his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. “I’m pretty sure you’ve explained this to me before.”
You squint at him. “I did. During the beginning of the semester. I also told you this was something you should keep in mind—but you insisted that none of it actually applied to you.”
Peter doesn’t say anything, but you can already see the smug grin sitting behind his mask.
“Anyway,” you quickly glance down at his erection before continuing. “When a male reaches this stage, his silk glands change. He builds what’s called a sperm web—a small, specialized sheet of silk where he deposits his genetic material so he can charge his pedipalps.”
“English, please.”
You roll your eyes. “Your body is trying to build a sperm web, Peter. Your spider DNA is hitting its final maturation phase, and your bloodstream is swimming with reproductive hormones.”
“And the only way to fix it is by…” Peter drawls.
He already knows the answer, but the way he dances around the words makes it clear he’s trying to get you to admit it out loud. You can’t believe that even in such a vulnerable situation, he still manages to find a way to tease you.
“Having sex,” you finish, a shy expression creeping onto your face.
A silence settles between the two of you—a silence filled with so much tension that most people wouldn’t consider it “normal” for a couple.
The few times you and Peter had sex, it was gentle, intimate, and respectful. It always involved him whispering sweet nothings into your ear and making sure your pleasure came first. Even without saying it aloud, you both know that if you were to do it right now, it would be entirely different. Peter isn’t even sure he could control himself.
You clear your throat, trying to break the tension.
“Well—that’s what I’ve been writing my research paper on. Male spiders can get extremely aggressive at this point in their lives, so scientists are trying to find remedies that don’t require a female partner,” you explain, slowly prying your hand away from his and standing up from the bed. “If I check my references, I might be able to find something that can help you—”
Peter’s whole body tenses. With your touch gone for even a millisecond, he feels like he’s starving. Before you can step away, he stops you with a firm grip around your wrist.
“No,” he breathes roughly. “Get back here.”
With a harsh tug, he pulls you back down onto the mattress. “If having sex is what’ll solve this,” Peter rasps in a low, hungry voice, “then that’s what we’re going to do.”
Warmth spreads rapidly across your face and down your neck. You look down at him, reaching to gently cup the side of his masked jaw. He shudders.
“Peter… look at me,” you whisper softly, your voice trembling just a bit. “I’m always going to want to help you. Always. But… is this something you actually want?”
Peter’s body tenses—not because of anything you said, but because your touch feels like throwing gasoline onto a roaring flame.
“More than anything,” he breathes out, his hand blanketing yours to keep it there. “Every cell in my body is begging for you.”
His white lenses stay locked on your eyes as his hands move down to his waist. Even just lying in his underwear, he feels restricted. Contained. His body screams at him to get rid of it. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and shoves them down his legs, kicking them aside.
Freed from the restraint, his length springs heavy and hard against his lower stomach, so swollen it looks almost painful. The dark tip is already glistening, leaking a clear, hot bead of pre-cum. His whole body twitches at the release of pressure, a low groan escaping his throat as he guides your hand down to his hip.
You’ve touched him plenty of times, but tonight, even the simplest graze of your fingertips feels like nothing he’s ever experienced before.
“It hurts so bad,” he whimpers behind his mask. “Please… I need you to ride it.”
His cock twitches, his balls sitting heavy and full between his legs. You swallow hard, clenching your thighs together. You’ve never ridden him before, and the thought of doing it now—when he needs it most—makes you feel self-conscious.
“Peter, I’ve… I’ve never—”
“I know,” he reassures, though his voice strains painfully, like he’s fighting to hold back. “Just try your best, okay? I know your body can take it. I can smell how wet you are.”
His spider sense is buzzing violently. He can hear the uneven thump of your heartbeat, feel the heat radiating off your skin, and smell the scent of your arousal filling the air—sweet and intoxicating, driving every instinct in his blood wild.
His masked head tilts up, white lenses expanding slightly as he watches you straddle his hips.
Hovering over him, you reach for the hem of your shirt. You pull it over your head and cast it aside, followed by your sleep shorts, until you’re straddling him in just your underwear.
Peter lets out a trembling exhale. His large hand wraps around the base of his cock, his hot fingers closing tight over himself. He begins to stroke lazily—up and down in long drags that make his hips roll for more. The wet slicking noise of his pre-cum against his palm echoes in the quiet room.
“Fuck,” he groans. Through the white lenses of his mask, you can tell his gaze is glued to you, tracing every curve, watching every move. “Look at you… you’re so pretty.”
Emboldened by how much of an effect you have on him, you discard your panties, baring yourself completely. You settle yourself back over his hips, positioning yourself right above him. Peter’s hand rests at his base, holding his cock steady as he watches you slowly lower your body until the tip presses against the tightness of your entrance.
A choked, almost sobbing sound breaks from his throat.
Control yourself, Peter tries to remind himself. He thought he had it handled, but his senses are louder than ever—telling him to grab your waist and drive you down in one ruthless pull.
“Oh, God,” he curses, tossing his head back against the pillows as you sink deeper.
You stop halfway, your face flashing with worry. “Is this hurting you?” you ask. “We can stop.”
Peter feels like he’s going insane. His hands fist the blankets beneath him, because he doesn’t trust himself to touch you right now.
“No,” he hisses. “It only hurts because I’m not inside yet. Don’t stop. All the way in, baby. You’re almost there.”
You take a deep breath, resting your hands flat on his broad chest to steady yourself. You push your hips down, taking the remaining inch of his girth until your hips flush against his. The stretch is dizzying, making your heart take flight in your chest.
Peter’s cock sheathes hot inside you, twitching as it savors every surface of your tight walls.
You can’t make out his expression past the mask, but from the way his head is thrown back and the veins pop in his forearms as he grips the bedsheets, it’s clear he’s about to lose his mind. You tilt your head back with a soft breathy sigh, letting your hips roll against his in a slow, testing rhythm.
The movement alone drives his heightened senses over the edge.
Whatever thin thread of restraint Peter was clinging to snaps entirely.
With a sharp hiss, his hands shoot out from the tangled sheets. His large hot palms slam against your bare hips, his long fingers digging into your skin with an inescapable grip—holding you tightly in place as his primal instincts take over.
“I can’t—I can’t wait,” he rasps painfully. “I’m sorry, baby, I need it now—”
Without giving you time to answer, his hips snap upward in a ruthless thrust that sends a gasp flying from your lips. Before you can even catch your breath, he sets a punishing pace from underneath you, using his grip on your waist to guide your body up and down his length in hard, unrelenting pistons.
The wet slap of skin meeting skin echoes loudly through your dorm room. You feel his chest heaving against your hands while the white lenses hide the obsession behind his pitch-black eyes. It’s a good thing he kept the mask on—because with the way his cock is kissing your womb, he knows his eyes are crazed.
“Oh, God! Peter!” You cry out, your tits bouncing with every upward thrust of his hips.
“Fuck—fuck, you feel so tight,” Peter groans.
He lifts his hips, bridging his back so he can thrust deeper, angling his length so every hard drive grinds right up against your most sensitive spot. Your vision swims as he ravages you from the inside, a tight, coiled pressure building deep in your lower belly.
The pleasure is overwhelming, yet it’s still not enough for him. His cock needs to drive even deeper—until your wetness coats his entire length from tip to base, until both of your juices combine into a thick sheen right where his brunette curls rest at his pelvis.
He wants to make a mess out of you, to see you crying his name and begging to be filled.
Filled up…
The idea of it makes Peter go crazy.
Peter sits up fast, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you to his chest before you can even blink. Your positions are flipped as he hovers over you from behind.
His knees bracket your thighs while his chest presses flush against your spine. You gasp at the sudden shift, his hands wrapping firmly around your hips to pull you back against his cock as he aligns himself once more.
“Peter—” you cry out, your voice muffled into the mattress. It smells just like him.
“Stay right there,” he growls into your neck, his hot breath searing your skin. “Don’t move.”
He’s got you in a perfect position—face down, ass up, completely bared and vulnerable for mating.
He’s never had you in such a vulgar position before—all of your lovemaking before was face to face so he could see every whimper and tear that spills. But in this position, the angle is even deeper. Your back arches perfectly. His cock finds your entrance again, and with how wet you are, he finds no trouble burying his cock all the way back inside you, a harsh grunt breaking from his throat as your tight walls clamp around him. His hands dig into your hips, locking you in place as he begins to pound into you from behind with a speed he’s never used on you before.
“Oh!” you cry into the pillow.
Every thrust pushes you forward into the sheets, the wet, slapping sound of his hips against yours filling the air alongside his groans.
“I feel so backed up,” he grunts so quietly, it’s like he’s speaking to himself. “This feels so good—gonna dump it all inside you. Make me feel better.”
Peter’s balls slap against your folds, obscenely hot and heavy. It’s in this moment that you realize what exactly this is. He has you in the same position you’ve seen in countless textbooks during your studies.
During spider mating, the male must align his pedipalps with the female’s epigyne for a successful sperm transfer.
Peter is going to breed you.
A low growl escapes him when his cock hits a particularly sensitive spot. Your walls, tight and rubbing against the underside of his cock, drive him insane, his muscles tensing as he throws his head back in pleasure. He’s sweating profusely under the mask, almost making it harder to breathe, but he doesn’t care. His body screams for something else, and as his cock pistons in and out of you, accompanied by your moans and cries of his name, he feels himself getting close.
His girth makes your eyes roll back, an overwhelming cry tearing from your throat. Instinctively, you scramble your legs and arms for purchase, trying to get into a more suitable position, but in Peter’s blacked-out eyes, he thinks you’re running away.
A disapproving groan vibrates in his chest as one hand releases your hip to grab your wrists, pinning them behind your back. His legs wrestle against yours to keep them still from behind. Then, he shoots out a web—an organic, self-made web that slings around your wrists like a band, and then another to keep your ankles pinned, effectively keeping you in place.
“Almost there,” Peter grunts, his sweaty chest pressing up against your bare back as he ruts into you. “You’re doing so good for me, baby. God—my balls are so full, I needed this. Just stay like that—let me fill you up.”
His hand moves to the back of your neck, his palm resting gently over your nape to press your head into the pillow.
“You’re trapped,” he rasps, his voice deep and gravelly. You have never heard him talk to you like this before, and the filth of it makes your body clench with desire. “Look at you… bound up, completely wide open for me. You can’t get away.”
His hips snap forward to bottom out inside you, it makes your heels twitch against the web binding your ankles.
“You’re gonna take all of it,” Peter grunts, the words coming in shallow bursts against the shell of your ear. “Every single drop. I’m gonna flood you so deep you’ll feel me inside you for days… make sure everyone knows you belong to me. My sweet, beautiful mate…”
The biological urge to plant his seed, to mark you, and to fill you until you overflow turns his pace crazed.
The wet slapping of his pelvis against your rear sings like a song in the room, mixing with the strained, needy whines escaping your throat. His cock swells inside you, pulsing and stretching your walls to their limit. It’s more than you can take, and you feel yourself getting close.
“Peter—! I’m—I’m going to—” you cry out, your chest heaving against the bed.
“Come for me,” he commands, his fingers tightening gently on your neck as his thrusts turn short, vicious, and frantic. “Clench around my cock and take it. Breeding you, baby… I’m breeding you.”
Your mind is hazy with an overwhelming sense of desire. His words, the position—it’s like a whole new side of Peter you never knew existed, and your body is enjoying every second of it.
You cry out his name, your body twitching as your pussy clenches around his shaft, milking him for every drop. Peter’s muscles pull taut at the sensation, his forehead pressing into your damp shoulder blade as his balls draw tight against your entrance.
One pulse, then another, and your womb fills with his cum.
Thick, scorching floods of semen pump deep into your core. Spurt after heavy spurt fills you past your capacity, the force of his release so strong his entire frame shakes violently, his breathing erratic as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.
His instincts move his body on command. Just like a spider aligning with the epigyne, he pulls out quickly and spins you around so your back hits the mattress. He spreads your legs, positioning himself between them as his cock slaps heavy against your lower belly, letting the rest of his cum seep onto your skin.
He groans incoherently as he watches his body mark you, holding himself at the base and smearing his seed over your stomach with his tip.
He stays above you for a long moment until you both catch your breath. Finally, he sits back on his knees.
His cock, now half-limp, slaps against his stomach lazily as a trickle of his seed drips down your inner thigh and lower belly. He slumps onto the mattress, but wastes no time pulling you in close against his chest.
He doesn’t even know where to begin. He’s never allowed himself to take you so vulgarly—almost monstrously. Now, he’s terrified of removing the mask; he doesn’t want you to see the burning shame etched on his features.
Peter’s hands cradle your back, his chin resting gently against your sweaty temple. He tries to muster up an apology, maybe say something along the lines of, “I don’t know what took over me.” Because truthfully, he didn’t.
But then your laugh comes first—soft, raspy, and utterly spent.
“You know what female spiders do to their partners after they’ve finished mating?” you ask into his neck.
Peter stiffens. “What?”
“They eat them. It's a good source of nutrients for the babies.”
Peter tries to remember if you had anything to eat before he got here. “Oh.”
📝 idk what to say. if you've read my first peter parker fic, i felt like i just put on an evil mask because this is a complete 180 twist from my last story. again, i only proofread like half of it and got lazy, so i apologize for any mistakes !!
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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summary: The entire hospital fears Brendon Park. Except you. You can steal his coffee, order him around, tease him all day, and tell him he’s being an ass. Nobody understands why he listens until they discover you met him before — back when he was struggling, unknown, and not yet “Park the Shark.” 9.9k
The scent of hospital-grade disinfectants and stale dark roast coffee was the same in Pittsburgh as it was in New York, but the air here felt heavier, thick with the damp heat of an impending late-spring thunderstorm.
You adjusted the collar of your black scrubs, checking your reflection in the small, slightly warped mirror of the staff locker room.
Undeniably, the move had been a shock to your system. A week ago, you had packed your entire life into a single U-Haul, leaving behind a brownstone in Brooklyn, a prestigious fellowship, and a man who had successfully managed to hollow out your chest over the course of three years.
“You’re just never there, babe,” Richard had said, his voice dripping with that smooth, corporate condescension you had somehow mistaken for maturity when you first met him.
He had been standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows of your downtown apartment, not even looking at you. “I need someone who actually shows up for dinner, not someone who prioritizes a bunch of strangers over her own relationship. Look at you. You’re undeniably beautiful, you’re brilliant, you have the whole world handing you whatever you want—but you’re empty. Your job is your real partner. I’m just the guy holding the ring until you realize you don’t have room in your life for a real man.”
That last sentence had been the final, brutal blow—the one that made you slide the engagement ring off your finger, drop it onto the marble kitchen island, and tell him to get the hell out. You weren’t going to let a man who wanted a trophy wife make you feel guilty for saving lives. So, you chose yourself. You chose your career. You chose Pittsburgh.
The memory still tasted like ash, but as you tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, you reminded yourself of who you actually were. You were young, you were an incredibly talented Emergency Medicine attending, and despite Richard’s parting attempts to dismantle your self-esteem, the appreciative glances you’d received in the hospital corridors over the last seven days proved you hadn’t lost an ounce of your charm or your looks.
You were talented, you were charismatic, and you were finally free.
Pushing through the double doors into the main hub of the Emergency Department, you were immediately greeted by the low, constant hum of the pit.
"Morning, superstar," called out Dr. Robby, the Chief of the ED. He was a salt-pepper haired genial man whose eyes always held a paternal warmth. He was leaning against the central tracking board, a tablet balanced on his forearm. "How's the transition treating you? No one’s driven you back to the turnpike yet?"
"Not yet, Chief," you said with an easy, radiant smile that made a passing intern nearly trip over an IV pole. "The pace is good. The staff is sharp. I think I'm actually starting to figure out which elevator leads to the cafeteria without ending up in the morgue."
"That's a victory in week one," Dr. Frank Langdon chimed in, stepping up to the desk. Langdon was a senior resident, highly excellent, effortlessly charming, and currently sporting a grin that suggested he’d spent the last ten minutes trying to think of an excuse to talk to you. "If you ever need a personal guided tour of the city's better culinary establishments, Doc, my schedule is surprisingly flexible for an R4."
"I appreciate the offer, Dr. Langdon," you replied, your tone perfectly balanced between warm collegiality and a gentle, unmistakable boundary. "But I think I'll stick to learning the hospital grid before I venture out into the wild."
Langdon gave a good-natured shrug, his eyes lingering on your smile for just a beat too long before he walked away. He wasn't the first.
Over the past week, a steady stream of eligible bachelors from cardiology, neurology, and general surgery had suddenly found reasons to consult or simply wander down to the ED, all of them eager to introduce themselves to the gorgeous new attending everyone was talking about. You had politely, flawlessly deflected every single dinner invitation. Your heart was under construction, and frankly, you didn't have the bandwidth for more corporate slickness.
"Don't let them hound you," a gravelly voice said from behind the terminal. Dr. Abbot, the night shift attending who was currently finishing up his hand-off notes, looked up with a tired but deeply kind smile. "They're like seagulls when a new ship docks. You've been a breath of fresh air around here, truly. The night shift reports have been immaculate since you took over the swing."
"Thanks, Abbot. Get some sleep. You look like you're walking in a dream."
"More like a nightmare, but I'm heading out now. Good luck today," Abbot said, gathering his things with a grateful nod.
You walked over to the main nurse's station, where Dana Evans, the legendary charge nurse of the PTMC trauma bays, was currently terrorizing a supply representative over a late shipment of rapid infusers. Dana was tough, deeply competent, sarcastic to a fault, and fiercely protective of her clinical space.
She slammed the phone down, took one look at you, and her fierce expression softened into a wry smirk. "Look at you, still looking like a shampoo commercial after five consecutive shifts. What's your secret, Doc? Genetic superiority or just high-quality concealer?"
"Good moisturizer and a complete lack of a personal life, Dana," you joked, leaning against the counter.
"Well, keep that shield up. The vultures are circling," Dana said, gesturing subtly toward a group of internal medicine residents pretending to study a chart nearby. "They aren't used to an attending who can run a level-one trauma without breaking a sweat or looking like they slept in a ditch. Speaking of which, you've got Trinity Santos on your team today. Keep her on a leash."
Right on cue, R2 Trinity Santos marched up to the desk, her jaw set, her eyes burning with the fierce, highly competitive ambition she was already famous for. She was sharp-tongued and possessed a brash confidence that bordered on terrifying for the medical students.
"Hey, Doc," Trinity said, dropping a clipboard onto the counter. "Bay 3 is prepped for the chest tube evaluation. I've already reviewed the films from last night. I can perform the exchange myself, no supervision required."
Before you could answer, R3 Melissa King drifted over. Melissa was empathetic and highly intelligent, possessing an incredible emotional perceptiveness, but she was also humanly, beautifully awkward. She was clutching a cup of tea like a security blanket. "Um, actually, Dr. Santos, the patient in Bay 3 specifically asked for a female doctor who 'doesn't shout at them,' so maybe... maybe we let the attending take the lead? Not that you shout! You just... speak with high velocity."
Trinity rolled her eyes. "It's efficiency, King. If the patient wants a lifestyle chat, they can call a therapist. We need the bed."
"Let's compromise," you said, your calm, cool voice instantly cutting through the resident bickering. "Trinity, you'll perform the procedure, but I will be in the room, and you will speak to the patient at a volume that doesn't suggest an air raid. Melissa, I want you on the ultrasound for the subsequent cardiac window checks. Deal?"
Both residents nodded—Trinity with a tight, respectful click of her jaw, and Melissa with a sigh of relief.
Just then, Dennis Whitaker, an R1 who perpetually looked like he was being hunted by an apex predator, stumbled toward the desk, nearly dropping a handful of specimen tubes. "Uh, Doc? MS4 Victoria Javadi is in the hallway... she's trying to explain the entire coagulation cascade to a patient with a minor laceration, and the patient is crying because they think they have leukemia now."
You let out a soft laugh, rubbing the bridge of your nose. Victoria Javadi was a brilliant medical student, but her social skills were still in the embryonic stage. "Dennis, breathe. Go tell Victoria that the cascade is beautiful, but the patient just needs three standard sutures and a lollipop. Then take over the closure for her."
"Yes, ma'am! Thank you, ma'am!" Dennis scrambled away like a startled rabbit.
Dana Evans shook her head, an amused grin on her face. "You're a saint, Doc. Seriously. If this were the upper floors, they'd have eaten those kids alive by now. Especially if they wandered into the penthouse."
"The penthouse?" you asked, charting a quick note on the computer.
"Ortho," Trinity Santos answered, her voice dropping into a tone that was unusually reverent for her. "Specifically, the Chief of Ortho. Dr. Park. They call him 'The Shark.' He’s a total machine. Aggressive confidence, complete clinical dominance, and if an intern breathes out of rhythm in his OR, he bans them for a month. He’s completely terrifying."
You frowned slightly. Park? The name was common enough, but a strange, distant memory twitched in the back of your mind. No. It couldn't be. The only Park you knew from medical school was someone who couldn't even look a Starbucks barista in the eye without stuttering, let alone terrify an entire Level 1 trauma center.
"He doesn't have emotions," Melissa King added with a slight shudder. "I saw him look at a shattered femur last week like it was a fun puzzle, and when the resident missed a bone fragment on the pre-op, he just stared at them until they started sweating through their scrubs. Literally. He’s like an apex predator."
You smiled slightly, shaking your head at the hospital lore. Every major trauma center had one—the legendary, unyielding surgeon who ruled their department with an iron fist.
"Well, let's hope the Shark stays in his deep water today. We have enough to deal with down here."
The peace didn't last. Forty minutes later, the red courtesy phone at the trauma desk began its shrill, rhythmic wail. Dana picked it up on the first ring, her sharp eyes scanning the room as her expression instantly shifted into high-alert mode.
"Copy that. ETA three minutes. Give us both bays," Dana barked, slamming the receiver down. She looked directly at you. "Multi-vehicle collision on I-376. Inbound are two criticals. First up is a twenty-four-year-old male, unrestrained driver, ejected from the vehicle. Unstable vitals, massive pelvic disruption, obvious open deformities to the lower extremities. Second is a passenger, entrapped for thirty minutes, severe crush injuries."
"Alright, let's move!" you commanded, your voice carrying that effortless, magnetic authority that instantly pulled the chaotic ED into a tight, synchronized orbit. "Trinity, you're with me in Bay 1. Dennis, get the rapid infuser spiked. Melissa, I want you on airway with Dr. Garcia from Trauma Surgery. Victoria!" you called out to the medical student who had just appeared. "Stand back, observe, and do not recite textbooks unless I ask you to. Let's go!"
The doors to the ambulance bay flew open with a violent crash, the sound of rain and roaring sirens flooding the room. The paramedics rolled in, their faces grim, their forearms strained as they kept manual pressure on a mountain of bloody gauze.
"Patient is responsive only to deep pain!" the medic yelled over the din. "Systolic's been hovering in the low seventies. We got two lines of wide-open normal saline going. He’s got an obvious unstable pelvic binder on, but his left leg is practically pointing backward!"
"On my count, over to the trauma gurney," you ordered, stepping into the slot at the head of the bed. "One, two, three, shift!"
The patient was transferred in a flurry of movement. The smell of copper, road rash, and damp earth filled Bay 1.
"Trinity, check breath sounds. Dennis, get those lines hooked up to the blood products now!" your voice was a cool, steady anchor amidst the storm. You ran your hands expertly over the patient's abdomen and pelvis, feeling the terrifying, unhinged crepitus of a shattered pelvic ring. "He's bleeding out into his retroperitoneum. We need an immediate pelvic binder tight, and call the blood bank for a massive transfusion protocol."
Dr. Yolanda Garcia, the attending trauma surgeon, strode into the bay, her eyes taking in the scene in half a second. "He's got a rigid abdomen, Doc. We might need to ex-lap him right here if we can't stabilize this pressure."
"It's the pelvis, Yolanda," you argued, your hands steady as you secured the mechanical binder, pulling it taut until the lock clicked. "Look at the left lower extremity. The femoral artery is compromised from a massive orthopedic distortion. We need an immediate ortho consult for external fixation and vascular exploration. Dana! Who's the on-call ortho attending?"
"It's the Shark's service today," Dana said, her fingers flying over the keyboard. "Paging him now."
"Tell him to get his ass down here in thirty seconds or he's going to be operating on a corpse!" Trinity Santos yelled, her competitive adrenaline spiking as she tried to maintain an airway window.
"Watch the tone, Santos," you said mildly, not looking up as you began an ultrasound of the patient's heart. "But she's right, Dana. Make it a stat page."
The minutes stretched like taffy. The patient's blood pressure ticked up slightly with the first two units of O-negative, but the left leg was cold, pulseless, and pale—a ticking clock of ischemia.
"Where the hell is Ortho?" Garcia muttered, her hands hovering over her surgical tray.
Suddenly, the automatic doors of the trauma bay didn't just open; they seemed to part out of sheer deference. A tall, broad-shouldered man in dark green scrubs and a black surgical cap strode into the room. His presence was immediate, an oppressive wave of absolute focus and aggressive confidence that caused Dennis to instinctively step backward into a corner.
He didn't look at anyone's face. He walked straight to the foot of the bed, his dark eyes fixed entirely on the mangled left leg of the patient.
"What do we have?" his voice was deep, gravelly, and entirely devoid of warmth. It was a voice designed to cut through noise and command absolute obedience.
"Multi-vehicle MVC, severe pelvic ring disruption, open left femur fracture with absent distal pulses," Trinity Santos rattled off, her voice actually trembling slightly as she stood before the legendary surgeon. "We’ve placed a binder, but the limb is ischemic."
The tall surgeon reached down, his large, powerful hands moving with an terrifyingly precise efficiency as he evaluated the injury. "The binder is decent, but the traction is wrong. Who placed this?"
"I did," you said, stepping around the side of the bed to face him directly.
Dr. Brendon Park looked up from the injury, his sharp, dark eyes locking onto yours for the very first time.
The entire trauma bay seemed to lose its oxygen.
The man standing before you was a towering specimen of clinical perfection. His shoulders were broad enough to fill the doorway, his jawline sharp, his posture commanding and unyielding. He was the epitome of a brilliant, intimidating Chief of Orthopedic Surgery.
But as you stared into those familiar, dark eyes, the hospital room completely vanished.
You weren't looking at "The Shark."
You were looking at Brendon. Your Brendon.
The lanky, socially awkward, intensely brilliant boy from medical school who used to trip over his own shoelaces and hide in the back row of anatomy lectures. The boy whose shoulders used to slouch because he hadn't yet figured out how to carry the weight of his own genius. The boy whose lips had tasted like cheap beer and desperate, beautiful promises under a starry Ohio sky seven years ago.
Brendon froze. The absolute, unshakeable confidence that defined his entire reputation cracked in a fraction of a second. His wide, expressive eyes dilated, his lips parting slightly as a sudden, breathless shock washed over his features.
He whispered your name, his voice suddenly losing every ounce of its gravelly, intimidating edge. He looked at you like he was seeing a ghost, his hands hovering mid-air above the patient's leg.
"Brendon," you breathed, your cool, professional composure momentarily slipping as a wave of intense, buried yearning slammed into your chest.
For three long seconds, the busiest trauma bay in Pittsburgh was completely silent. The nurses, the residents, and the trauma surgeon stared at the two of you in absolute, slack-jawed bewilderment. The terrifying "Shark" was looking at the new ED attending like a man who had just found water in the middle of a desert, and you were looking at him with a vulnerability that none of them had ever witnessed from the unflappable new doctor.
"Uh..." Dennis Whitaker squeaked from the corner, breaking the spell.
Brendon blinked, his wall of clinical steel instantly slamming back into place, though his eyes remained fiercely, desperately anchored to yours. He cleared his throat, his chest expanding as he took a deep breath.
"Right," he said, his voice deep again, but there was a subtle tremor in it that only someone who knew him inside out could detect. "The leg needs immediate reduction and an ex-fix in the OR. If we don't restore perfusion in ten minutes, he loses the limb. Is she stable for transport, Doctor?"
He called you Doctor. The professionalism was a shield, but his eyes were pleading with you.
"Vitals are holding after the second unit," you replied, your voice snapping back into its signature, charismatic rhythm, though your heart was hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "He's all yours, Dr. Park. Take him."
"Santos, Whitaker, with me," Brendon commanded, turning on his heel. "We're going straight to OR 4. Move!"
The residents scrambled to unlock the gurney, flying out of the room behind him.
As Brendon reached the threshold of the door, he stopped for a second, turning his head just enough to catch your eye one last time before disappearing into the corridor.
Dana Evans stepped up beside you, her eyes wide as she looked from the doorway back to you. "What the hell was that?"
You let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding for seven years, leaning against the central desk. "That... was an old friend."
By the time your shift wound down to its final hour, the storm outside had broken, a steady, rhythmic rain drumming against the frosted glass of the emergency department.
The adrenaline of the trauma had faded, leaving behind a profound, aching hollow in your chest that you hadn't felt since you left medical school.
You sat in the quiet doctors' lounge, a lukewarm cup of terrible coffee cradled between your hands, your mind entirely hijacked by the past.
You had met him during your second year of medical school at Ohio State.
You had been one of the "cool girls" in your class—undeniably brilliant, managing to effortlessly ace your pathology exams while still maintaining a vibrant social life, going out to bars, and living your early twenties to the absolute fullest. You had a status to uphold. You were charming, pretty, and effortlessly popular.
Then came the infamous mid-semester house party.
You had gone because you desperately needed to unwind, to forget the crushing weight of textbooks and clinical rotations for just a few hours. The air was thick with the scent of cheap beer and loud music.
And that’s where you first saw him.
Brendon had been dragged there by his roommate, he was sitting in the corner of a crowded kitchen, looking completely miserable, wearing an oversized gray hoodie that practically swallowed his lanky, six-foot-two frame. He was fumbling with a red solo cup, staring intensely at the floor, praying to whatever deity was listening that no one would try to talk to him. He was painfully shy, socially awkward, and completely out of his depth.
You had found him absolutely adorable.
Later in the night, a rowdy group of drunken surgery track students forced everyone into a circle for a classic, juvenile game of "Seven Minutes in Heaven." The beer bottle spun on the carpet, slowly losing speed, until the neck pointed straight at you.
The crowd cheered. You smiled, tossing your hair back, ready for whoever it was.
Then, they spun the bottle for the guy.
It landed on Brendon.
The room erupted into groans and laughter. Brendon looked like he wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole. His ears were bright red. He clumsily stood up, his long limbs awkwardly adjusting as he was pushed into the small, dark coat closet under the stairs with you.
“Good luck, babe, he might faint if you touch him!” your friend had yelled.
The door clicked shut, plunging both of you into darkness, save for the faint sliver of light beneath the door.
"Um... hi," Brendon had squeaked, his voice cracking slightly. He pressed his back firmly against the wall of the closet, as far away from you as physically possible.
"Hi," you had laughed softly, stepping closer to him. The scent of his clean laundry and nervous sweat filled the small space. "You know," you said, your tone light, cool, and teasing, "you don't look like you're in heaven, Brendon. You look like you're on death row."
"I... I don't really do parties," he stammered, staring at the ceiling. "And I... I really don't think we should do this."
You blinked, surprised. "Do what? Kiss?"
"Yeah," Brendon muttered, his face burning hot even in the dark. "I mean, you're... you're you. You're popular, and you're really pretty, and everyone knows you. And I’m... I’ve only ever kissed my high school girlfriend, okay? Once. And it was bad. I'll just embarrass myself. So... we don't have to. Let’s just stay on opposite sides of the closet.”
You had been surprised. Most guys in med school were arrogant, overflowing with unearned ego. You had found his honesty incredibly endearing. You actually wanted to kiss him. You had wanted to see what those nervous lips felt like.
But you respected his boundaries, and more importantly, you had a reputation to uphold. If you walked out of that closet and told everyone that the awkward, lanky guy had rejected kissing the coolest girl in the class, your ego would never recover.
"Alright," you had said, a mischievous spark igniting in your chest. "We won't kiss. But we have to make them think we did. Otherwise, they'll never let us live it down."
Brendon looked relieved. "How do we do that?"
"Mess up your hair," you commanded smoothly. You reached up, your fingers running through his thick, messy dark hair, intentionally rumpling it. Brendon went entirely rigid, his breath hitching as your fingers brushed his scalp. You grabbed the lapels of his oversized hoodie, shaking them, making a rustling noise, while you loudly sighed and threw your back against the closet wall, making a soft thud. You even let out a breathless, fake moan that made Brendon exhale a strangled, terrified gasp.
“Oh my god,” he whispered, his face burning in the dark.
“Shh, they’re listening,” you giggled.
"Perfect," you smirked. "But listen, Park. I'm saving your reputation out there, and I'm protecting my own. So, you owe me. Big time."
Brendon blinked in confusion. "A debt?"
"A debt of absolute servitude," you had declared dramatically. "From now on, you buy my late night coffee. You are going to be my personal driver when it rains. And you are going to be my mandatory study buddy, because I know you're secretly a genius who makes perfect flashcards. Deal?”
Brendon had stared at you through the dark, a slow, incredibly endearing smile finally breaking across his face. "Okay. Deal."
That silly party game had been the catalyst for the most beautiful, chaotic friendship of your life.
Brendon had kept his word with terrifying precision. He became your shadow, your defender, and your personal assistant. The hospital staff at your school clinic used to laugh watching the two of you. You would sit at the library tables, completely exhausted, and bark orders at him like a spoiled queen, and he would just grin and fulfill them.
“Park! I need a venti iced caramel macchiato with exactly two pumps of vanilla, and if it’s warm, I’m giving you the most complicated cases on our next quiz,” you’d yell across the student lounge. And twenty minutes later, he’d return, breathless, holding the perfect cup.
“Park, my car is making a noise like a dying cat. I need a ride to my 4:00 AM shift,” you’d text him at midnight. And at 3:45 AM, his beat-up Honda Civic would be idling outside your apartment, the heater already blasting because he knew you hated the cold.
The peak of your comedic tyranny had occurred during your internal medicine rotation. You had unexpectedly started your period during a twelve-hour shift, and the hospital supply closet was completely bare of anything useful. You had called him in a panic.
“Brendon. I need you to go to the pharmacy right now. Get me a box of Tampax Pearl. Regular absorbency. Do not get the generic brand, or I will end our friendship.”
An hour later, Brendon had sneaked into the back of the ward, his face bright red, holding a brown paper bag like it contained active explosives. He had handed it to you, coughing nervously. “I... I didn't know what absorbency meant, so I bought one of every box they had. The cashier looked at me like I was a pervert.” You had laughed so hard you almost cried, pulling him into a fierce hug right there in the hallway.
But slowly, beautifully, the surface-level banter had faded into something deeper. You began to see the brilliant mind beneath his awkward exterior. He was the only one who understood the crushing, suffocating anxiety of trying to be perfect in a field that demanded infallibility. You would sit on the floor of his messy apartment, surrounded by open textbooks, talking until the sun came up—not about medicine, but about your fears, your childhoods, the things that kept you awake at night.
He became your anchor.
Slowly, under your warmth and confidence, Brendon began to bloom. His lanky frame filled out as he started lifting weights to handle the physical demands of orthopedic surgery interest. He grew taller, his shoulders broader, his confidence slowly blooming under your constant, fierce encouragement. You had built him up. You had told him every single day that he was going to be the greatest surgeon this country had ever seen.
And then, during the final week before graduation, the tension had finally snapped.
You had been sitting on the hood of his car, looking out over the city lights. He had turned to you, his new, broad frame towering over you, his eyes burning with a confidence he had stolen directly from your belief in him. He had reached out, his large hands cupping your face, and he had kissed you.
It wasn't the awkward kiss of a boy. It was a kiss full of 2 years of unsaid words, full of desperation, yearning, and promises that tore at your soul. You had clung to him, your cheeks wet with tears, knowing that you had fell completely, deeply in love with him, and he was completely, utterly devoted to you.
But medical school is a meat grinder. By your final year, the pressure reached a boiling point. You were placed in different clinical rotations at entirely different hospitals across the city. You were working eighty-hour weeks, collapsing into sleep the moment you got home. The coffee dates stopped. The late-night study sessions vanished.
The final, crushing blow came on Match Day. You opened your envelope to find you had matched into an ultra-competitive emergency medicine residency in New York. Brendon opened his to find he had matched into an elite orthopedic surgery residency in California.
The distance, the exhaustion, the terrifying reality of residency loomed over you both. And on that rainy day at the airport, unable to face the agony of a long-distance relationship while drowning in intern year, you had mutually, heartbreakingly let each other go.
You remembered the tear-stained cheeks. The hugs that felt like they were trying to fuse your ribs together. And the kisses—god, the kisses—that were full of promises you both desperately wanted to keep, but ultimately couldn't. “We’ll find each other,” he had whispered into your hair. “I’ll come find you, baby.”
And then, life happened. Years passed. You met your douchebag ex-fiancé.
And Brendon became the "Shark."
The doors to the doctors' lounge flew open, shattering your reverie.
Dennis sinks against the wall, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Oh my god. I thought he was going to murder me for leaving the drill bits.”
"He's a psycho," Trinity Santos huffs, straightening her lab coat defensively. "He thinks he owns this entire hospital just because he’s a prodigy. Did you see the way he looked at everyone? He’s completely heartless."
You stand there, quietly hooking your stethoscope around your neck, a brilliant, knowing smirk playing on your lips.
Heartless? If only they knew.
Over the next few weeks, a massive, utterly baffling phenomenon takes over the halls of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.
The entire hospital fears Dr. Brendon Park. The nurses warn new interns not to look him directly in the eye. The residents tremble when his pager number flashes on their screens. He is an unstoppable, ruthless force of surgical perfection.
Except when it comes to you.
It starts on a chaotic Tuesday morning. The ED is overflowing, and Brendon has been down in the bays for three hours helping reduce a complex posterior hip dislocation. He is standing at the central nursing station, looking absolutely exhausted but radiating pure, unadulterated venom as he berates Zach Torres, the senior Cardiology resident.
"If your department can't clear this patient for the OR within the next ten minutes, Torres, I will personally wheel him up myself and write the clearance under your name," Brendon growls, his broad chest looming over the senior resident. "Don't waste my time with unnecessary echoes."
Zach, usually highly excellent and charismatic, is sweating through his white coat. "Dr. Park, we just need to ensure—"
Suddenly, you stroll up to the desk, looking radiant and completely relaxed. Without saying a word, you reach out, snatch the tall, steaming cup of artisanal dark roast coffee right out of Brendon’s hand, and take a long, satisfied sip.
The entire nursing station goes dead silent. Dana Evans stops typing, her jaw literally dropping. Victoria Javadi, who was standing nearby carrying charts, gasps softly, grabbing Dennis Whitaker’s arm in sheer terror. They are all waiting for the "Shark" to turn around and rip your head off.
Instead, Brendon stops mid-sentence. He slowly turns his head to look down at you.
The terrifying, icy glare completely evaporates, replaced by an expression of pure, exasperated fondness that none of the staff has ever witnessed.
"You're drinking my coffee," Brendon says, his voice dropping from a roar to a quiet, familiar rumble. "Again."
"You order too much espresso, Park. It’s making you cranky," you say smoothly, handing him back the half-empty cup. You reach out, your hand casually pressing against his broad chest, physically pushing the feared Chief of Orthopedic Surgery back half a step. "And stop bullying the cardiologists. Zach is doing his job. You’re being an ass."
Zach Torres stares at you like you are a goddess descended from the heavens.
Brendon sighs, a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of his lips threatening to turn into a smile. He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking less like a ruthless surgeon and more like a tired boy. "He's taking too long."
"Go sit down in your office and rest for twenty minutes before your next case," you order him playfully, tapping your clipboard against his arm. "Doctor’s orders. Move it, or I'll make you buy me tampons again."
Brendon’s ears turn a violent shade of pink. He clears his throat, glances at the stunned residents, and mutters, "Fine. Ten minutes."
He turns and walks away toward the elevator, completely submissive to your command.
Langdon blinks, utterly bewildered. "What... what just happened? Did you just hypnotize the Shark?"
You laugh, taking another sip of your own water. "No, Frank. He just needs a Snickers bar and a nap."
Dana Evans leans over the counter, staring at you with intense, analytical eyes. "Doc... what kind of voodoo magic do you possess? Nobody talks to Park like that. Nobody. Last month a general surgery attending tried to tell him he was being an ass, and Park almost threw him into a linen cart."
"We just have a history, Dana," you say with a wink, walking away to check on a patient.
But it doesn't stop there. The teasing and the dynamic between you two becomes the primary source of entertainment and gossip for the entire medical center.
A week later, you are up in the main OR tracking a trauma patient. Brendon is in OR 3, finishing up a grueling, six-hour spinal reconstruction. He is furious because the equipment tech brought the wrong size pedicle screws, and his booming voice can be heard echoing through the sterile hallway, terrifying the scrub nurses.
You walk straight into the scrub room, pop the door open with your elbow, and look inside. "Park! Shut up!"
The entire OR freezes.
"You're vibrating at a frequency that's giving me a headache from across the hall," you call out, completely unfazed by the sterile environment. "Use the alternative screws and stop throwing a tantrum. You're a big boy."
Brendon looks up through his surgical loupes. The entire room holds its breath, expecting him to banish you from the surgical floor. Instead, he just lets out a heavy breath, his broad shoulders dropping. "The alternative screws have a wider thread pitch, Doc."
"Then adjust your torque and stop crying about it," you reply cheerfully. "I’ll see you at hand-offs."
"Unbelievable," Brendon mutters under his breath, but the anger completely leaves his voice. He looks at his scrub nurse, his tone entirely calm now. "Let's get the alternative tray, please."
The staff is utterly flabbergasted.
Later that evening, the Pittlings are sitting in the cafeteria, desperately trying to deconstruct the mystery.
"I'm telling you, she must have dirt on him," Trinity insists, stabbing a fork into her salad with fierce competitiveness. "She probably knows about a malpractice suit, or she caught him doing something illegal. There is no logical reason why a brutal chief of surgery lets a newly transferred ED attending push him around like a puppy."
"No, it's not dirt," King says softly, her highly perceptive nature taking over. She smiles, staring into her soup. "Did you see his face when she took his coffee? He didn't look mad at all. He looked... happy. Like he was finally breathing. I think they knew each other before. Like, way before."
"Before?" Victoria asks. "Like... before residency? Back when he was a nobody? But Dr. Park was never a nobody, he's a prodigy!"
"Everyone was unknown once, Victoria," Melissa points out wisely.
The bubble popped on a chaotic Friday night.
The weather had turned violent, a severe thunderstorm rolling over Pittsburgh, causing a massive pile-up on the Fort Duquesne Bridge. The ED was under siege. Every single trauma bay was full, the air thick with the smell of blood, sweat, and the sharp tang of antiseptic.
You were in Bay 2, dealing with a twenty-two-year-old female patient who had been crushed in the driver’s seat of her compact car. Her status was critical, deteriorating by the second.
“Vitals are dropping!” Victoria called out, her voice tight with panic. “BP is 60 over 30! Heart rate is spiking to 160! She’s slipping into profound hemorrhagic shock!”
You were standing at the patient’s side, your mind racing through the differentials. She had massive internal bleeding, but her abdomen was firm, and her pelvic X-ray showed a severe, unstable "open-book" pelvic fracture. The blood was pooling in her retroperitoneal space.
“We need to bind this pelvis, now!” you shouted over the noise. “Dennis, get the binder!”
“We’re out of binders!” Dennis yelled back, his voice cracking as he rummaged through the supply cart. “The previous traumas took the last ones from central supply, they’re fabricating more now!”
“Fuck!” you cursed. The patient’s monitor began to beep erratically.
“She’s going into PEA!” Trinity Santos called out, her hand flying to the patient’s carotid artery. “No pulse! Starting compressions!”
You looked at the monitor, then at the patient’s pale face. You were out of options. The blood transfusion wasn't keeping up. The pelvis was wide open, acting like a massive, bleeding cavern that was draining her life force. If you didn't close that pelvic ring immediately, she would die on this table within two minutes. You couldn't wait for surgery. You couldn't wait for a binder.
A reckless, insane, completely unorthodox idea flared in your mind. It was a technique you had read about once in a military medicine journal—a desperate, high-risk field maneuver used in combat zones when standard equipment was unavailable. It was highly reckless, completely unauthorized by hospital protocol, and could permanently damage the patient’s internal organs or nerves if done wrong.
But it was the only chance she had.
“Trinity, stop compressions,” you commanded, your voice turning to absolute ice.
“What? Doc, we need to keep perfusion—”
“STOP. COMPRESSIONS!” you roared, a rare flash of raw, commanding power echoing through the bay. Trinity instantly froze, pulling her hands away.
You stepped onto the step-stool at the side of the bed. You looked down at the patient’s fractured, unstable hips. Without a binder, you had to use manual, extreme counter-traction and internal fixation using whatever you had.
You grabbed a heavy, thick cotton hospital sheet from the bottom shelf. You quickly threaded it under the patient’s lower back, aligning it with the greater trochanters.
“Dennis, grab that end of the sheet,” you ordered. “When I say go, I want you to pull with everything you have. We are going to manually crush this pelvic ring back together using the sheet, and then I am going to lock it down using a surgical clamp from the chest tray.”
“Doctor, that’s... that’s completely non-standard!” Mel stammered, her eyes wide with terror. “The sheer force could transect the femoral nerve if the bone fragments shift wrong! It’s too dangerous!”
“She’s already dead!” you snapped. “Pull, Dennis! Go!”
You and Dennis pulled the sheet with brutal, immense physical force, twisting the heavy fabric against each other, forcing the patient’s shattered pelvic bones to slam back together by sheer tension. You felt the sickening crunch of bone shifting beneath the flesh.
The patient’s body jolted. Holding the immense tension of the sheet with one white-knuckled hand, you reached for a massive, heavy-duty Kocher forceps from the emergency thoracotomy tray and clamped the twisted sheet tightly against the patient’s skin, locking the makeshift binder under extreme, crushing pressure.
“Resume compressions!” you shouted.
Trinity jumped back on the chest. Within three cycles, the monitor beeped.
A rhythm emerged. Weak, thready, but stable.
“Pulses are back,” Victoria breathed, looking at you like you were either a god or a lunatic. “BP is... 90 over 50. It’s holding.”
You stepped down from the stool, your hands shaking from the sheer physical exertion, your scrubs soaked in sweat. You had done it. The reckless, insane technique had closed the space and stopped the catastrophic bleeding. You had saved her life.
The automatic doors slammed open.
Brendon strode into the bay, flanked by two orthopedic residents. He had received the page for an unstable pelvic fracture and had rushed down from the OR. He took one look at the patient, then his eyes dropped to the makeshift sheet-and-clamp setup crushed around her hips.
He froze. His face went entirely pale, then flushed into a deep, terrifying crimson. The "Shark" didn't just return; he exploded.
“What the hell is this?” Brendon’s voice thundered, vibrating the glass walls of the trauma bay. The residents shrank back.
“It’s a makeshift binder, Dr. Park,” you said, trying to keep your voice calm, though the adrenaline was still pumping through your system. “We were out of standard binders, she lost pulses from hemorrhagic shock, and I had to close the ring.”
“With a sheet and a chest clamp?” Brendon marched up to the bed, his eyes flashing with a raw, furious brilliance. He looked at you, his voice dripping with venomous, professional outrage. “Are you completely out of your mind? Do you have any idea what you just did? You could have severed her internal iliac artery! You could have shredded her sacral plexus! You took a blind, reckless gamble with a patient’s life!”
The room went dead silent. The residents didn't dare breathe. It was the first time the hospital had ever seen the Shark turn his teeth on you.
“She was in PEA, Brendon!” you shot back, using his name, your own temper flaring. “She was dead! I didn't have time to wait for your department to fabricate a piece of plastic! It worked. Her vitals are holding.”
“It was luck!” Brendon snarled, stepping into your personal space, his imposing height towering over you, his eyes cold and hard as flint. “It was a reckless, arrogant, cowboys-and-indians piece of medicine that violates every standard of care in this institute. You didn't save her; you got lucky that you didn't paralyze her. Get out of my way. Move.”
He shoved past you, his movements aggressive and sharp as he immediately began to assess the damage, barking orders to his residents to get her to the OR for a proper external fixator.
You stood there, your heart pounding against your ribs. The insult stung—not just because he criticized your medicine, but because he had done it in front of the entire department, stripping away the mutual respect you had built over the last few weeks. He looked at you like you were a liability. An incompetent child.
“Fine,” you said, your voice dropping into a cold, lethal whisper that cut through his shouting. “She’s your patient now, Chief.”
You turned on your heel and walked out of the trauma bay, your face a mask of absolute, icy calm, leaving a stunned, silent room behind you.
The fallout was immediate and devastating.
The playful, legendary dynamic between the ED’s star attending and the Chief of Ortho vanished overnight. In its place was a terrifying, suffocating ice age that gripped the entire hospital.
For three weeks, there were no more stolen coffees. There were no more playful shoves at the scrub sink. There were no more private smiles or late-night laughs.
When Brendon came down to the ED for a consult, the atmosphere turned to absolute glass. You handled hand-offs with an icy, flawless professionalism that was completely devoid of emotion.
“Patient in Bed 4 has a displaced bimalleolar fracture,” you would say, your voice flat, your eyes fixed strictly on the computer monitor, never looking at his face. “Films are on the system. Ortho is consulted.”
“Understood,” Brendon would reply, his voice deep, hollow, and equally cold. He would take the chart, his eyes lingering on you for a desperate, painful second, hoping for a spark, a glance, anything. But you gave him nothing. You were a wall of ice.
The hospital staff was miserable.
“I hate this,” Dennis Whitaker whimpered in the breakroom, putting his head in his hands. “When they were flirting, the hospital was safe. Now? Dr. Park looked at my cast yesterday and told me a toddler with a crayon could have done a better job. He’s meaner than he’s ever been.”
“She isn't doing well either,” Dana Evans sighed, leaning against the counter. “She’s quiet. She’s brilliant as always, but that light she brought with her? It’s dimmed. They’re both miserable, stubborn idiots.”
You were miserable. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the fury in his eyes in that trauma bay. The words “reckless, arrogant gamble” burned in your chest. You had thought he, of all people, would understand. He knew how you operated; he knew you would never do something unless it was the absolute last resort. But he had judged you. He had put his professional arrogance above the reality of the situation.
And worse, it felt like your ex-fiancé all over again—someone telling you that your passion, your instinct, your identity as a doctor was flawed, dangerous, or empty.
You threw yourself into your work, pulling extra shifts, running yourself ragged just to keep your mind from thinking about the giant, dark-eyed surgeon who occupied the upper floors.
It was a rainy Thursday night, nearly four weeks after the argument. The storm outside was a mirror of the mood inside the hospital.
You just visited a pediatric patient on one of the top floors of the hospital. You had promised the kid that you’d visit her after her CRPP. Your shift had just ended, and you were thoroughly exhausted. Your feet ached, your eyes burned, and you wanted nothing more than to crawl into your bed in Shadyside and sleep for a week.
You walked toward the main elevator bank in the central pavilion, waiting for the car to arrive. The bell chimed. The doors slid open.
You stepped inside. You reached out to press the button for the ground floor, but stopped.
Sitting in the corner of the elevator, leaning heavily against the handrail with his eyes closed, was Brendon. He looked absolutely destroyed. His scrubs were wrinkled, dark bags hung under his eyes, and his broad shoulders were slumped in a state of profound, total physical exhaustion.
You froze. Your first instinct was to step back out, to wait for the next car. But before you could move, the automatic doors slid shut behind you.
The elevator began its smooth, silent descent from the twelfth floor.
You stood near the control panel, your back rigid, your eyes fixed on the digital floor indicator as it changed. 11... 10... 9...
The silence inside the small metal box was heavy, suffocating, and charged with four weeks of unspoken agony. You could hear his breathing—slow, deep, and tired.
8...
Suddenly, the elevator gave a violent, sharp lurch.
A loud, mechanical screech echoed from the shaft above. The lights flickered violently once, twice, and then died completely, plunging the car into absolute darkness. A second later, the emergency red backup lights kicked in, casting a dim, crimson glow over the small space.
The elevator ground to a dead halt.
You blinked, gripping your bag tighter. You reached out and pressed the emergency call button. Nothing happened. The system was completely dead.
“Great,” you muttered under your breath. “Just perfect.”
From the back of the car, you heard a long, heavy sigh. Brendon shifted his weight, his large frame moving through the red light. He looked up at the digital indicator.
The indicator was stuck on a single digit.
7.
The irony hit you like a physical blow to the chest. Floor 7.
Seven years ago, you were trapped in a dark closet for seven minutes. And now, seven years later, you were trapped in a dark elevator on the seventh floor with the exact same man.
Neither of you spoke for a long minute. The red light painted the space in a surreal, intimate warmth, cutting off the rest of the hospital, the rest of the world. There were no residents here. No nurses. No watchful eyes. Just the two of you.
“Are you okay?” Brendon’s voice broke the silence. It wasn't the voice of the Shark. It wasn't the voice of the angry Chief of Ortho. It was soft, hesitant, and carrying a deep, raw ache that made your chest tighten.
“I’m fine,” you said coldly, keeping your eyes fixed on the closed doors. “Just tired. I’d like to go home.”
“Baby... please.”
The use of the old nickname sent a violent tremor through your defenses. You closed your eyes, fighting the urge to turn around.
“Don’t call me that, Dr. Park,” you said, your voice shaking slightly despite your best efforts. “I think you made your thoughts on my identity quite clear four weeks ago.”
Hear a rustle of movement behind you. Brendon stood up. He walked across the small car, his massive, imposing presence closing the distance until he was standing right behind you. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, smelling the faint, familiar scent of cedar wood and soap that had always been him.
“I was wrong,” he whispered.
You bit your lip, refusing to look at him. “You think?”
“I was wrong about why I was angry,” he corrected himself, his voice cracking with emotion. He reached out, his large, calloused hand hovering over your shoulder, before he gently, tentatively placed it there. The touch was electric, burning through your scrubs. “I wasn't angry because your decision was bad. I knew the technique. I knew it was a battlefield maneuver. I knew she was in PEA.”
You finally turned around, snapping your eyes up to meet his. In the dim red light, his dark eyes were shining with unshed tears, his expression completely broken, stripped of all pride.
“Then why did you humiliate me in front of my team?” you demanded, your voice rising, the anger and hurt finally spilling over. “Why did you call me reckless and arrogant? Do you know what that felt like? After everything I went through, after my ex told me I was empty and that my career was a disease—you stood there and told me I was a liability!”
Brendon looked like he’d been stabbed. He took a sharp breath, his hands coming up to gently grip both of your shoulders, his thumbs rubbing circles against your skin.
“Because I was terrified!” he shouted softly, his voice thick with raw passion. “I walked into that bay and saw you covered in blood, pulling a stunt that could have ended your career if it went wrong. If that patient had died, if you had cut that artery, the board would have stripped your license before the sun came up. They would have destroyed you.”
He stepped closer, his chest pressing against yours, forcing you back slightly against the elevator wall. He looked down at you, his eyes wild with a desperate, consuming love.
“I didn't care about the protocol, baby. I cared about you. The thought of you losing your license, the thought of this hospital breaking you, the thought of you being taken away from me again before I even got the chance to tell you... I couldn't handle it. The Shark? That’s an act. It’s an act I put on so I don't break. But when it comes to you, I have no skin. I am completely raw. I saw you risking everything, and I panicked.”
You stared up at him, your breath hitching in your throat. The anger in your chest melted away, replaced by the profound, crushing realization of his true intent. He hadn't been attacking your competence; he had been trying to protect you from the system that had almost broken him.
“Brendon...” you breathed, your voice softening, your eyes searching his face.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispered, his forehead dropping down to rest against yours, his breath warm against your lips.
“Seven years, baby. Seven years of working eighty hours a week, looking at bone scans, moving up the ladder, but every single night, I woke up wishing I was back on that floor in med school sharing Chinese food with you. I wished I could turn back time. To when things were simple. To when I was just the awkward kid who was lucky enough to have the most beautiful girl in the world look at him.”
A tear slipped down your cheek, catching the red light. “I wished for it too,” you confessed quietly. “Every single day.”
“I love you,” he said, the confession raw, heavy, and absolute. “I never stopped. Not for a second.”
The final wall of ice inside you shattered into dust.
You reached up, your hands flying to the back of his neck, burying your fingers in his dark hair, and pulled him down.
The kiss wasn't like the ones from seven years ago—it wasn't full of tragic promises and impending goodbye. It was a violent, passionate, territorial reclamation. It was the release of seven years of pining, of loneliness, of misery.
Brendon groaned deep in his throat, his arms wrapping around your waist like bands of steel, lifting you slightly off the floor as he crushed his lips against yours. He kissed you with a desperate, consuming hunger, his tongue parting your lips, tasting you, drinking you in like a man dying of thirst.
You gasped into his mouth, your body melting completely into his broad, massive frame. You locked your legs around his waist, your back pressing hard against the cold metal wall of the elevator as he held you up effortlessly, his hands gripping your thighs with a fierce, possessive intensity.
The red light flickered around you, creating a private, chaotic heaven. He moved his mouth down your jawline, his lips burning against the sensitive skin of your neck, making you arch your back and let out a soft, breathless moan that echoed off the metal walls—the exact same sound you had faked seven years ago in that closet, but this time, it was entirely, beautifully real.
“Fuck, baby,” he groaned against your skin, his hands sliding under your scrub top, his warm palms mapping the curves of your waist, making your skin tingle with an electric fire.
You pulled his head back up, your eyes meeting his dark, blown-out pupils in the crimson dusk. “Don’t stop,” you whispered breathlessly. “Don’t you dare stop.”
He didn't. He kissed you until your lips were bruised, until your lungs burned, until the seven years of separation felt like nothing more than a bad dream.
CLUNK.
The elevator gave a sudden, violent jolt.
The mechanical screech returned, and suddenly, the bright, harsh fluorescent white lights of the car snapped back on. The digital indicator flickered and changed to G. The elevator began to move again smoothly.
You both froze. You quickly slid down his body, your feet hitting the floor, your hands frantically smoothing down your wrinkled scrubs and fixing your hair as Brendon stumbled back a step, his chest heaving, his face flushed, his eyes wild.
A second later, the chime echoed. The doors slid open smoothly to the main lobby.
Standing right outside the doors, waiting to board, were Langdon and Santos.
The two of them looked into the elevator. They took in the scene: you, standing near the back, your lips visibly swollen, your hair slightly disheveled, but your face wearing a cool, utterly unbothered expression. And beside you stood the Chief of Ortho, Dr. Brendon Park, his scrubs wrinkled, his breathing heavy, and a look of profound, dazed distraction on his face.
Trinity’s eyes went wide. Langdon blinked, looking back and forth between the two of you.
“Uh... evening, Doctors,” Frank stammered. “Is... is the elevator working?”
You flicked your hair over your shoulder, stepped past them with an elegant and utterly effortless charisma, and gave them a sweet smile.
“It’s working perfectly,” you said smoothly. “Have a good night, everyone.”
You walked out into the rainy Pittsburgh night, your heart soaring higher than it ever had in your entire life. Behind you, you heard Brendon’s heavy footsteps rushing to catch up.
The rain had stopped by the time the sun began to peek over the Monongahela River, casting a pale pink and gold glow over the brick buildings of Shadyside.
Inside your bedroom, the air was warm, quiet, and peaceful. The half-unpacked boxes in the corner didn't look like an unfinished chore anymore; they looked like a beginning.
In the center of the bed, tangled deep within the white cotton sheets, lay the two of you.
After the elevator doors had opened, there had been no more talking, no more hesitation. You had driven back to your apartment in a blur of rain and neon lights. The moment the front door had clicked shut, the clothes had been shed, the barriers broken down completely.
The sex had been profound—an intense, passionate, and deeply emotional consummation that carried the weight of seven years of waiting. It hadn't just been physical; it was the reclamation of your souls. Every touch, every gasp, every whispered confession against the skin had been a promise rewritten. He had loved you with a fierce, worshipful intensity that made you realize you were anything but empty. You were his entire world.
You slowly opened your eyes, a soft, content sigh escaping your lips.
The morning light filtered through the blinds, illuminating the broad, muscular expanse of Brendon’s back. He was sleeping on his side, his large frame taking up most of the mattress. One of his massive arms was wrapped tightly around your waist, his hand resting possessively against your hip, pulling your back flush against his chest even in his sleep.
You smiled, turning around slowly within his grip so you could look at him.
Without the mask of the Shark, his face was peaceful, handsome, and remarkably soft. The dark circles under his eyes seemed less prominent now, smoothed out by the deep, restorative sleep he’d been deprived of for weeks.
You reached out, your fingers gently tracing the sharp line of his jaw, moving up to brush a stray lock of dark hair away from his forehead.
Brendon stirred. His long eyelashes fluttered open, his dark eyes cloudy with sleep. The moment his gaze focused on your face, a slow, incredibly beautiful smile spread across his lips—a smile that was reserved strictly for you.
“Good morning, baby,” he rumbled, his voice thick and raspy from sleep, sending a delicious shiver down your spine.
“Good morning, Shark,” you whispered back, leaning forward to press a soft, sweet kiss against his lips.
He groaned happily, his arm tightening around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, his warm breath tickling your skin.
“Don’t make me go to work today,” he murmured against your skin. “I’ll page out. I’ll tell them I broke my arm.”
You let out a melodic, genuine laugh, running your hands through his hair. “You’re the Chief of Ortho, Brendon. You can't page out for a broken arm. That’s bad for your brand.”
“My brand is entirely yours,” he whispered, kissing the sweet spot just beneath your ear, making you gasp softly. “Let them handle the bones today. I’m staying right here.”
You smiled, closing your eyes as you held him tight, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest.
The past was gone. The cruel words of your ex-fiancé were nothing more than ash. You were here, in a new city, running a world-class department, and waking up in the arms of the man who had loved you through a lifetime of separation.
You were the cool and undeniably brilliant doctor who feared nothing—not the trauma bay, not the future, and certainly not the Shark. Because beneath the steel and the bone, he was just your Brendon, and you were his.
hi friends! a couple things about my milestone celebration
1. thank you so much for the many people who participated, it means the world to me you dong even know. i was so so so nervous that no one would do it and to see that you guys showed up and showed out makes me so happy!
2. please when you’re sending in your requests, make sure it makes sense!!! i’ve seen many people send in requests and they give me different syrups that contradict one another and what i’ve been doing is just choosing one but it’s getting to a point where almost every single one i’ve done is contradicting the other and so if i do see you doing it, i might just reply and ask you to redo it or again just continue what i’ve been doing and just choosing one. it might even come to a point where ill only allow you to choose one syrup.
3. please make sure you aren’t requesting one i’ve already done!!!! this hasn’t happened too much but again i just don’t want to repeats and i want everyone to get the moodboard and drabble they want without me having to come up with new scenarios
4. i am NO LONGER doing strawberry and whipped cream because of how many i’ve done and i want the others to get as much love so if you send an ask with it, no worries!! ill just kindly tell you to pick something else
5. you’re allowed to request as many times as you want!! i truly dont care as long as you can understand that, one, many people other than you are requesting, and two, that i do have a life outside of tumblr and it might take me awhile!
this event ends saturday, august 22nd, 2026 so get your orders in before then <3
Hi! May I please have an Americano with cookie butter and whipped cream? It’s all I’ve been thinking about recently
Congrats on your milestone! This is such a cute idea!
hi sweet anon! unfortunately we are all out of whipped cream, is there anything else you would like to be substituted for? also thank you so much for<3
thinking about giving neighbor!peter the best head of his life all because he helped you lift a few heavy boxes. he thought he was just being a good, nice neighbor when he offered to help you. you were clearly struggling and he was spider-man, so obviously he was going to help, right?
he brushed off the persistant thoughts in my mind about how gorgeous you were because he wasn’t trying to be creepy, he was just being nice. and he was being neighborly when he accepted your invite to come inside for a little. and when you offered him a drink. and another... the conversation was just flowing so well, and he hadn’t had a normal, good conversation with someone in way too long.
and he wasn’t crazy, so when you started batting your eyelashes a little extra and closing the already pretty small gap between you, he wasn’t going to reject you. there was no surprise when your lips met his in a bruising kiss, and he knew he was gone when he felt your hand slowly go from brushing his upper thigh to full on palming his bulge.
and when you slid off the couch, on your knees in front of him while you forced his legs open? he knew he was going to be completely wrecked by the end of the night. he was already this heavily affected by your simple touches, what was going to happen when you actually wrapped your warm mouth around him? when you licked a stripe up the bulging vein on the bottom of his dripping cock?
it didn’t take long to find out because you were already there, teasing his overly sensitive tip, watching the precum drip down to his balls before licking it up. his arms flew behind his head, not wanting to overstep with a woman he just met but needing something to do with his hands. your mouth was taking him perfectly, warm and wet and with just enough pressure that he wasn’t sure how he’d even lasted these last few seconds.
he could already feel himself coming closer and closer to the edge, and somehow you knew too, because you reached up to grab his arms, guiding his hands to your head. hesitantly, he gripped your hair, getting a hum of approval that almost made him cum. “fuck, i’m—holy shit. i’m coming, i’m—” he moaned while giving a weak attempt at pulling your head away. you worked him through it, swallowing as much as you could while disregarding the extra cum dripping down your chin.
when you were finally done, you wiped it off with your thumb, subtly biting your bottom lip. peter was panting heavy breaths, feeling his already spent cock twitch with the need for more, the sight in front of him not helping. you sucked the cum-covered thumb in your mouth, not breaking eye contact with peter. “so, peter... are you free tonight?”
Peter can’t control his enhanced senses and needs a distraction to fix him.
18+
Fun fact, back in the day I did write Spiderman fanficiton on Wattpad, so this feels a little like coming home. Indulge me, I need to create as much before my motivation leaves me. I don’t know if I should give a trigger warning for dubious consent on Peter’s side because he’s going berserk with his enhanced senses and stuff.
The last rays of the sun glittered through your window, half of your notes bathed in shadow. You were perched on your bed, lying on your stomach as you read over your notes. The soft buzzing of your years old laptop fills the silence, accompanied by your soft murmurs.
"What have you got on 4b?" You asked, looking over your shoulder. Peter was perched at your desk, the back of his hoodie the only thing visible. He had drawn up the hood to hide the bruises littering his cheeks. He never told you where he got them, waving it off. It was different at first. He came up with ridiculous excuses like 'I ran into a door', 'stumbled and fell on the stairway'. When he saw the look on your face after, he decided to just leave it be.
You wanted to poke, of course you did. But Peter would always get that weird look on his face, as if he was in pain, rather by your questions than the bruising coloring his skin.
"Answer C," Peter murmured distractedly. You frowned and quietly got off the bed, abandoning your mock exam. Peter didn't move as you grabbed the back of the chair and peeked over his shoulder at his screen. A flurry of numbers and visual scans of what looked essentially like a very high tech smart watch glared back at you.
"Wow, apparently I've been studying the wrong subject since my notes look very different," you said mockingly and Peter lowered the screen, turning halfway to look at you.
"It's just a private project," he cleared his throat and you arched a brow.
"Uh-huh." You rounded his chair and leaned against the desk. Peter leaned back in the chair, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. "Like that other secret project I caught you with last week?"
Peter flushed shaking his head. A few curls escaped his black hood as he glanced away. Your friend has always been a little closed off. The first day on campus you spotted him in the last row of the lecture, sitting on his own, looking like he wanted to blend in with the walls. You didn't mind, you weren’t the curious type, most of the times. But with Peter it was a little obscene. You hadn’t even seen his apartment after four years of friendship, if he didn't secretly live in a mansion. But these last weeks, Peter had been growing quieter than usual. So quiet that most of your times were spend in companionable silence.
"That was different," Peter admitted sheepishly.
"Right," you crossed your arms and eyed him with a tipped head. He still wouldn't meet your eyes but you could see the strain in his shoulders, the clench of his jaw. Was he in pain?
"Pete, what's going on?" You tried softening your tone. You nudged his foot gently and he huffed. You respected his well kept privacy but you were starting to get worried.
"Nothing...nothing. Why would there be something going on?" He looked up at you, a weird shimmer in his eyes. Like they were half cloudy, a dark shadow crawling in from the edges.
"You're behaving weirder than usual. You turn up with bad bruises." You grabbed his chin turning his face so the light lit up the lilac bruise on his cheekbone. Peter brushed your hand away impatiently. "You miss study sessions and lectures."
"I told you I had this thing," he grumbled. His shoulders were drawing higher, the air around him gaining a strange shimmer.
"What thing?" You pressed. You were growing impatient with his half-assed answers.
"With a friend."
You couldn't help but laugh, exasperated. "Peter, I'm your only friend."
His gaze snapped up to you and you flinched back. His pupils looked a little too dilated.
"You don't know that," his voice dipped down and you felt awfully cold, rubbing at your shoulders.
"Yeah? What's their name?" You prodded again and Peter was suddenly getting up, wincing.
"What—where are you going?"
He started shoving his stuff into his backpack, turning his back on you. You instantly felt bad, you'd pushed him too far. Being friends with Peter always felt like a slippery slope. Once you tipped too far to one side you were free falling.
"Pete, I'm sorr—" you reached for his shoulder and he flinched so far away, he was almost at the other side of your room. You gasped in surprise, your hand still halfway raised in the air.
"I'm sorry, I have to go."
Before you could even so as blink, Peter stormed out of your apartment, no trace left behind.
🕸️
Peter didn't turn up to next days lecture. He didn't answer any of your text or calls and it wasn't like you could turn up at his apartment to check on him. At first, you tried to rationalize. Maybe he really felt bad, got sick and now was bed ridden. But when days bled into a week, you felt tempted to cross a line.
After one of Prof. Bergami's lectures you creeped to the front and asked him for another fill out form for the upcoming exam. While he was searching his bag for the paper, you peeked at the attendance list, heart pounding as you flipped through the student informations. Before Prof. Bergami could hand you the form you'd glimpsed what you needed and slipped out of the lecture hall, only one mission on your mind.
One train trip, an angry run in with a pedestrian, and a dog trying to attack you, later you reached the apartment. It was the usual red brick stone walls that greeted you before you slipped in after a pretty blonde woman. Following her into the elevator you eyed the black sweatpants she had on, her bottom glittering in rhinestones, spelling the word juicy.
The blonde gave you a quick smile you reciprocated before you pushed the right button, the doors clinking shut. It felt weird, invading Peter’s privacy like this but maybe something did happen. What if he slipped in the shower, cracked his head open, and was bleeding away on his bathroom tiles? Or maybe he’d choked on his food, no help in sight and was lying dead in his apartment?
All right. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. He was probably sick, hence the chicken soup you stopped for at the deli on your way there.
The elevator beeped and you got out, walking down a narrow and rather dingy looking hallway. The plain door was glaring back at you as you stopped, eyeing the red dot in the corner of the wall. Before you could turn around— and not risk ruining your friendship—you pressed the doorbell. You heard the familiar buzzing of the bell echoing inside the apartment and waited. For what you didn’t know.
Some footsteps, a rushed but nasal ‘coming’. But nothing happened. You frowned before pushing the button again. Longer this time. The hallway and the apartment remained silent.
Your heart rate spiked as you lifted your fist, knocking against the wood. “Peter?”
Silence.
“Peter, are you home?” You pushed the button again. “If this is because of what I said at my place last time, I’m sorry.”
You doubted that was the reason for his disappearance. Peter might be closed off but he wasn’t petty. “Pete, open the door.”
You tried the handle, turning it in desperate hope but the door was locked. Fuck. You leaned your forehead against the door. “Peter, I’m really worried. I…I know I shouldn’t have pressed about it. Let’s just forget it, okay?”
Silence.
“I have chicken noodle soup. Please, open the door.”
For a moment you thought you heard some shuffling but it seemed to be a stretch of your imagination. With a quick glance at the red dot you sighed and turned back around. Slowly, you walked along the hallway, counting your steps until you reached about halfway. The camera couldn’t see you from that point.
And there. A soft shuffling. You couldn’t help but scoff. This time you took the elevator down with fire in your veins. The front door of the apartment complex slammed shut behind you before you rounded the corner and stopped. The rusty fire stairs came into view and you walked toward them determinately.
Was it a little unhinged? Maybe. Would the potential of falling ten floors down stop you from seeing him? Absolutely not.
So you climbed. Ten floors of fire escape stairs until you stopped in front of a grimy window. The paint on the frame was cracked on slowly peeling off. If you weren’t so set in your determination you’d chosen this second to wander in what kind of dingy place Peter decided to live. There were enough shared dormitories near campus that looked better than this. And were probably cheaper than this.
You gripped the iron railing with sweaty hands, the wind ice cold against your cheeks. You didn’t dare look down as you raised your first and knocked against the window like a maniac. A cloud of grime flew around you.
A slow screech sounded before the window opened. Peter’s head appeared, a shocked look on his face. “Are you crazy?”
A moment later his hands somehow had wound around your waist and you were pulled into the safe warmth of his apartment.
“Did you seriously climb ten floors?” Peter was still gripping your waist as he glared at you.
“Wrong question. Are you dead?” You snapped. Peter blinked, confused for a moment.
“What? No. No I’m not dead.”
“Good. That means I can kill you.” You swatted him over the head and despite his usual good reflexes he wasn’t fast enough.
“Ow. What was that for?” He ducked before you could hit him again.
“Oh…let me think…maybe the fact that you disappeared for a week and didn’t call or text and won’t let me into your apartment,” you snapped angrily. To be fair some of your anger had receded at the look of him. You were glad he wasn’t actually bleeding out on his bathroom tiles. Frankly he still looked like shit.
His hair was wet, you didn’t know if it was from sweat or water, lilac bags covered his under eyes and his eyes were bloodshot.
“What’s wrong? Are you sick?” You tried to tamp down your anger.
“I—yeah. Felt like I’ve been coming down with something for days,” he mumbled.
“Then why haven’t you called? I would’ve nursed you back to health by now. I’ve got soup, medicine and those ginger shots you like.” You zipped open your backpack.
“You have to leave.”
You looked up surprised at him. “What?” Your shoulders sunk slightly.
“Listen, I don’t wanna infect you with whatever I have—“
“Oh my god is that your worry?” You huffed. “Who cares, Peter. Just let me take care of you.”
Peter’s eyes closed for a moment and he held his head.
“Your head hurts?” You stepped closer, pressing your cold fingers against his temples. For a moment it seemed he was sighing in relief. “Sometimes we gotta admit we need help, even if it’s hard,” you reminded him gently. You started massaging his temples lightly and Peter groaned. His eyes remained closed as he sagged into your touch and you tried to tamp down your curiosity. Still, you took in the scattered tech on his desk. The dingy walls void of any personality, the lone bed in the corner. A broken clock on the nightstand.
The whole place looked utterly cold. Impersonal. Exactly like Peter. Or at least what Peter gave away of himself.
“Where do you hurt?” You tried speaking softly to not worsen his migraine. “Your throat? You need tea?”
His yes flicked open and you stumbled back in surprise. The abyss stared back at you in the dim light, lone and dark like a nightmare.
“W-what…?” You gasped.
Peter turned around, groaning as he bend over and held his head. “It’s too much,” he pressed out.
“Too much?” Your voice shook, counting the steps you’d have to take to get to the front door but strangely your body didn’t aim to leave. This was Peter. Your friend. He wouldn’t hurt you. Would he?
“I told you, you need to leave!”
“No. What’s wrong Peter tell me.” You inched forward but he threw his arm out knocking you back a few steps. “Are you on something? Is this your way of a cold turkey?”
“What? No!” He whirled around, his eyes still looking hellish. “Just leave me alone. Don’t you understand? You. Can’t. Be. Here. Fuck—“ he groaned again and it looked like he was battling himself. You didn’t know what he was trying to hold himself back from but you sure as hell wouldn’t let him do this on his own.
“I’m not leaving,” you swallowed down the fear as those black eyes focused on you. Peter was still wincing but suddenly his shoulders drew back. A muscle ticked in his jaw as he stood up to his whole height, arms bulging obscenely with muscles. Whatever—Whomever he was fighting, it seemed like he lost the fight.
Peter tipped his head to the side as he zeroed in on you.
“Oh yeah?” He inched closer. “You wanna help?”
“Of course I do.” Your breaths were coming faster as if your body could sense the danger.
“So helpful,” he murmured, voice an octave deeper than usual. You didn’t know when he took the steps but he was suddenly in front of you, caging you in against the cold wall. He leaned forward, groaning when his forehead met your shoulder.
“You need to, run—ahh.” His voice tipped up again, the familiar Peter shining through.
You frowned at his plea.
“Peter—“
“Run.” All of a sudden he crashed against the wall opposite you, the concrete crumbling under the impact. Something in his voice felt bone chilling and despite your stubbornness you aimed for the front door.
Your hold was slippery as you turned the handle with a hammering heart. It slipped right out of your grasp and you had to try again.
“Faster,” Peter groaned in the background. You turned to look over your shoulder to see him fling himself against the next wall. Debris crumbled into his curls. This definitely wasn’t drugs.
You turned back around and finally got the door open. For a split second the hallway glanced back at you like a safe haven before the door was forced shut again. His chest connected with your back, he was heating up. You could feel it even through his shirt, traveling down your spine, igniting something unfamiliar inside you.
“Where are you going?” His deep voice taunted. “You wanted to help. Now help.”
Confused was an understatement. You were right down baffled with the way Peter was talking to you.
“Turn around for me.”
You did but only to feel less trapped beneath his body. When you looked up into his face you gasped. The black eyes were back again.
“What…” carefully you raised your hand, fingers dusting over his cheekbones. “Peter, what’s happening to you?”
You grabbed his hand in your face, trying to see your friend in his eyes but there was nothing but darkness. His chest was rising faster at your touch, his skin vibrating beneath your fingertips. Something about it felt awfully thrilling.
“You wanted to see more of me,” he said. “This is more.”
You still didn’t understand.
Peter groaned again one hand coming up to hold his head.
“This is what’s giving you the migraine? How do we fix it?”
For a moment the black flickers at your words. “You…You’re not scared?”
“Of course I’m scared,” you huffed. “I’m scared for your life!”
“I can’t—ahh,” another wave of pain hit him. “It’s just too much…fuck. It’s too loud—”
“Try to focus on one thing. Focus on my voice,” you urged him.
“I can’t! My head feels like it’s splitting in two.” He inched away from you, your hands dropping to your sides. You didn’t know how to help him. Calling 911 didn’t feel appropriate. Whatever was happening to him wasn’t normal.
“Let me—“
“NO.” Peter surged forward. His hands wrapped around your wrists, slamming your back against the wall. Pain shot through your spine and your eyes fell shut for a moment.
“Fuck,” you winced, eyes fluttering open. Peter was looming above you, his head tilted away. You could see that he was fighting and a sudden thought entered you.
“Peter,” you said. “Kiss me.”
His dark eyes set on your face easily. His grip on your wrists tightened and you hissed.
“It’s okay,” you said through clenched teeth. “Kiss me.” If this wasn’t going to work, you would feel real stupid after.
He eyed you for a heart stopping moment, a predator eyeing his prey. Your lips parted gently, breaths hitting his lips tauntingly. Before another wave of pain could infiltrate his mind, Peter leaned forward and closed his lips over yours, hot and urgent.
You weren’t blind. You knew Peter was a good looking guy from the moment he sat down in your lecture hall in first semester. In the four years you’ve known him, Peter hadn’t dated anyone or expressed any interest in dating. As far as you knew.
That didn’t mean you couldn’t see how handsome he was. And not to forget utterly ripped. And apparently a great fucking kisser.
You shivered as he parted your lips, tongue tasting you greedily. His hold on your wrists loosened enough to slip out of it as he groaned into your mouth. His body pressed against you, every inch against yours.
Your hands wandered into his curls, tugging gently and eliciting a beautiful sound from him. Kissing Peter felt like doing drugs. Addictive. Exhilarating. You could feel his heart pounding beneath his heavy chest, his hips pressing, searching for friction.
His lips trailed along your jaw, sucking forcefully as you both stumbled over to his bed.
“Fuck,” Peter groaned as your hands slipped beneath his shirt as you took place in his lap. Your fingertips trailed over the hard pecks of his abdomen, skin as hot as the sun.
Your lips met again hungrily, tasting each other in a heated frenzy. Your hips started to rock gently, feeling his hard cock through his joggers. Fuck.
Your eyes flickered open for a moment in shock at the feel of him. “That’s not…what I expected,” you whispered shakily but before you could say something again, Peter pulled you in.
How funny it was. To know someone and to know them not. To know how Peter’s moans sounded when you rocked your hips harder. How his hold on you tightened almost painfully when your tongue dragged over his pulse point. But to not know him.
What you once planned to be a distracting kiss turned into dangerous territory. Your hands pushed the thick band of his joggers slightly downward. You both watched your hands with held breath.
“You need to help me,” you whispered and met his black eyes. “I don’t know if you actually want this—“
Before you could finish, Peter’s hand slipped into his joggers pulling them down enough for his cock to slip out. It slapped up against his stomach, painfully hard, the tip slick with pre cum.
“Oh fuck,” you cursed. Peter gave a low hum at your words and watched you intently as he wrapped his fist around his cock. You swallowed, thighs squeezing as a low ache set in your core. Peter’s abyss eyes never left your face as he started to give slow pumps up to his tip, spreading the pre cum along his length.
A soft moan fell of his lips as you watched him entranced, cheeks burning heavily. Peter’s breaths turned faster, his pumping more hasty. You reached forward, your fingers wrapping around his and Peter gave a soft whimper.
You looked up surprised, just as his eyes fell shut, head tipping back. “Keep going,” he ordered. He let you join him for a few times until you got the right rhythm he wanted and his hand slipped away. Fuck he was wet.
Your hand glided up easily and back down, soft wet sounds echoing und mingling with Peter’s groans. You twisted your hand lightly when going up to the tip and his hips bucked upward.
“Oh, fuck—fuck,” Peter groaned.
“It’s okay,” you whispered, leaning forward to kiss his throat. “You’re gonna feel better, I promise.” You jerked him off a little faster and his hips couldn’t stop bucking upward.
“Nhh—“ Peter whined as his fingers dug into your hips painfully.
“You gonna cum?” You murmured against his ear, the steady Schlick, Schlick, Schlick almost overpowering your voice. Peter made a noncommittal sound, his lips pressing into your shoulder. You could feel it when his hips surged up a last time and he started to shoot white ropes over your hand.
“Fuck,” you moaned as his teeth buried into the shoulder of your skin, muffling his moan as he came. You stopped pumping but he was still cumming, thick white cum spilling over your hand. It was obscene.
After what felt like minutes, his teeth let go of your skin, leaving a burning sting. He hid his face in your neck before soft tremors shook his shoulders. You wrapped your clean arm around him, hand stroking his curls. “It’s okay. You did good. No one got hurt, Peter.”
He shivered at your words and you knew that this was his big concern. Had to be. That was why he stayed away. He was scared he was gonna hurt you in whatever frenzy he was pulled into.
“I’m not gonna leave,” you whispered again. “I got you.”
Peter started to relax in your hold, his body growing heavy until you let him sink back against his pillows. He fell asleep.
