I finally quit my soul sucking retail job, so I finally have enough time to write a whole bunch more!! With that I'm opening up writing commissions.
I'm not by any means a professional, but I do spend a lot of time reading and writing fan fiction. And English isn't my first language..... hint hint...
Some fandoms I really enjoy writing is:
One Piece
Jujutsu Kaisen
Invincible
Stranger Things
Marvel
DC
Inuyasha
However I am open to writing any characters, even if I’m not familiar with their fandom.
COMMISSION FORM
The form will be closing after ten requests, as I feel that’s the amount I can realistically handle while also being in school. Thanks for reading :)
summary : when frank comes home late from a mission after being hit by a suspicious powder, he wonders why he can't bring himself to take his hands off of you.
warnings : SMUTTTT !!!!!, minors please dni, somnophilia (oops), size kink, praise kink, needy!frank, desperate!frank, rough!frank (the list goes on honestly), p in v, unprotected sex, overstimulation, some angst. (both characters in this fic are fully consensual)
word count : 16 k (oops ?)
a/n : based off this gem of a rq and not proofread (as always what do yall expect) also yes this is an au where frank alr works with the avengers sue me
The warehouse is quiet.
Too quiet.
Frank knows better than to trust quiet.
He moves through the darkness with practiced efficiency, boots barely making a sound against the cracked concrete floor. His pistol hangs low at his side. Every muscle in his body is loose, ready.
Three men. One on the catwalk. Two below. He counts them automatically. A fourth steps out from behind a stack of shipping crates.
Frank doesn't hesitate. The first shot echoes through the building. Then everything explodes. Gunfire ricochets off steel beams. Someone shouts. Another body hits the ground.
Frank ducks behind a forklift as bullets tear through the rusted metal above his head.
"He's over there!"
"Move!" One comes around the corner too fast. Frank catches his wrist, twists until something snaps, and drives the man into the wall hard enough to leave a crack in the drywall before finishing the fight with brutal efficiency. Another rushes him with a knife. Too slow. A sharp elbow. A disarm. Done. The warehouse falls quiet again. Frank scans the room.
One…
Two…
Three…
Four.
All down.
His breathing is steady as he steps over the bodies toward the office overlooking the floor. Whoever had been running tonight's operation had been smart enough to stay hidden. Until now. The office door bursts open. An older man stumbles out, coughing violently, clutching something metallic in his hand. Not a gun. A canister. Frank raises his pistol.
"Don't." The man smiles. Not afraid. Almost… relieved.
"You should've stayed away." Frank fires. The man jerks backward. But not before his thumb slams the button. The canister hisses. A burst of fine crimson powder erupts into the air. Frank instinctively turns his face away.
Too late.
The cloud engulfs him. It coats his jacket. His neck. His face.
He coughs once. Twice. The powder tastes metallic. Bitter. Like copper and ash.
"What the hell…" The old man collapses before he can answer. Silence settles over the warehouse once more.
Frank waits.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Nothing.
He wipes the red dust from his cheek onto his glove.
"…Weird." He holsters his weapon. Checks the room one final time. Collects the drive he'd come for. Then heads for the exit. Halfway across the parking lot… Something feels wrong. At first it's subtle. His collar suddenly feels too tight. His jacket heavier than usual. He unzips it. The cold November air should help.
It doesn't. By the time he reaches the van, heat is blooming beneath his skin. Not outside. Inside. Like someone lit a match behind his ribs. He frowns.
"Jesus.." He slides into the driver's seat. Starts the engine. The heater is off. The windows are down. Still… He's sweating.
His pulse pounds in his ears. His shirt sticks to his back. The skin along his neck prickles. Burns. The drive home becomes a blur of red lights and clenched teeth. By the time he parks outside the house, he's gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles ache. His vision swims. His breathing comes too fast. Every inch of him feels feverishly hot. Like his blood has been replaced with molten metal. He nearly stumbles climbing the porch steps. The key misses the lock twice before he finally gets the door open. The house is dark. Quiet. Safe. He closes the door behind him and leans against it, breathing hard.
The familiar scent of home hits him immediately. Lavender detergent. Fresh coffee lingering from that morning. And you.
Somewhere upstairs. As if pulled by instinct alone, Frank starts climbing. Each step feels heavier than the last. His skin burns. His heartbeat refuses to slow. His wedding ring feels too hot against his finger. The hallway swims in and out of focus. He reaches your bedroom door. Pushes it open. Moonlight spills through the curtains. There you are. Curled beneath the blankets. Fast asleep. One of his old black T-shirts hangs from your shoulders, slipping enough to reveal one bare shoulder against the pillow. Your hair is spread across the sheets. One hand tucked beneath your cheek.
Completely unaware that your husband is standing in the doorway.
The heat that was solid in his chest spreads down and down to rest between his legs.
You grumble in your sleep, shifting your hips upward. The duvet slips off, revealing the soft curve of your naked thigh, and the soft pink lace of the panties laying beneath the shirt.
The sight of you, so soft and vulnerable in the moonlight, is like a physical blow. The heat that was simmering in his groin explodes into a full-blown inferno. His cock, already half-hard from the fever, thickens and strains against the confines of his jeans, a sudden, urgent ache that steals his breath. He grits his teeth, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
He should go to the bathroom.
Turn on a cold shower.
Stick his head under the water until this… this thing passes. It has to be the powder. A delayed reaction. Some kind of chemical weapon designed to incapacitate.
He knows this, logically. He knows it.
But his body doesn't care about logic.
His feet move of their own accord, carrying him silently across the room. He tells himself he's just checking on you. Making sure you're okay. Making sure the house is secure. It's a lie, and he knows it. He's drawn to you like a moth to a flame, and he's terrified he's about to get burned. He stops at the edge of the bed, his shadow falling over you. You shift again in your sleep, a soft sigh escaping your lips, and the sound goes straight to his cock. It's agony. It's the sweetest sound he's ever heard. He reaches out, his hand trembling, his fingers hovering just above your shoulder. He just wants to touch you. Just a little. Just to feel the warmth of your skin, to ground himself.
His fingertips make contact.
It's a mistake.
A jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure shoots up his arm, so intense it's almost painful. Your skin is so soft, so warm, and the contact sends another wave of heat crashing through him. He can't stop the low groan that rumbles in his chest. He snatches his hand back as if he's been burned, his breathing ragged.
'"Fuck." he rasps, hand going for his jeans, palming himself shamelessly.
He should go.
Go sleep on the couch, wait for this to pass.
But then you shift again, turning your back to him fully, the shirt riding up your waist and god- Frank almost comes in his pants. The heat threatens to consume his whole body, and he falls forward, fingers tangling in the mess of sheets as he tries to reign in his self control.
But the thin thread that usually is his self control is a mere scrap tonight, and it breaks in the span of an instant. Before Frank can even realise what he's doing, he's shedding his outer layer of clothes, leaving him in his boxers, and he slides into the bed with you, his body seeking your warmth.
You shift again, and the scent of your hair, your skin, it hits him like a drug. The need is immediate, primal, and so sharp it drowns out the last of his thoughts. He curls around you from behind, the mattress dipping under his weight, his arm heavy and hot as it wraps around your waist and anchors you to him. You make a soft, sleepy noise—surprised, but not afraid—just as his hand slips beneath the taut hem of the black T-shirt. He palms your stomach, sliding up to cup your breast, and you arch into his touch out of instinct. A silent plea for more. Frank presses his face into your hair, breathing you in, jaw clenching against the urge to rut like an animal right then and there. He wants to be gentle, slow, but the heat inside him is so pure, so urgent, it takes everything just to keep from tearing the panties from your hips and driving himself into you. His cock is hard, hot, and leaking, pinned between you and the sheets. You squirm back against him, a wordless encouragement, and the friction is a mercy and a torment. You groan in your sleep as Frank softly peels the fabric of your panties to the side, a sleepy huff leaving your lips. Frank can’t resist.
He pulls his boxers down and without a second thought, grabs his cock in one hand and pushes it towards your folds. Frank pushes the head of his cock through your folds, dragging it through the slick heat, and the sensation is so overwhelming he almost blacks out. He can feel the precum leaking, painting your skin, and he wants—fuck, he needs—to be inside you. But you’re so soft underneath him, breathing slow and deep, eyelashes trembling against your cheek, that he hesitates at the last second. Your body is so warm, so inviting, and the urge to just take is a living thing in his blood. He lines himself up, gripping the meat of your hip so tight he’ll leave bruises.
The first push steals his breath. You’re so wet, so impossibly tight, the resistance making him groan into your shoulder. Your body wakes in slow motion, hips shifting unconsciously, a low whine leaking from your lips as he pushes in, stretching you inch by impossible inch. He’s big, always has been, but tonight he’s swollen, almost angry in his hardness, and the way you squeeze him is enough to make him see stars.
“God, baby,” he grunts, voice all gravel and hunger. He’s halfway in when you wake, startled, breath catching and body tensing in his arms.
“Frank?” It’s a question, sleepy and confused. He buries his face in your hair, his breath shuddering through your roots.
“Sorry,” he mutters, but there’s nothing sorry in the way he grinds against you, pushing deeper. “Need you so bad. Can’t—can’t fuckin’—” He groans, the sound guttural, primal. You writhe, caught between sleep and the sudden, aching fullness inside you.
“Frank, what—” You cut yourself off with a gasp as he bottoms out, the head of his cock kissing your cervix, the heat of him splitting you open. The stretch is so much, so sudden, your body clamps down, trembling. He holds you tight, one hand splayed over your belly, thumb rubbing circles just below the hem of your shirt.
“Shh, that’s it, you take it so good,” he says, voice low in your ear. He starts to move, shallow thrusts at first, testing your give, your grip. Every time he pulls back, your walls try to drag him in, greedy for more. Your hand scrabbles for the sheets, hips arching back helplessly, and Frank loses whatever fragile grip he has on self-control. He thrusts hard, burying himself inside you over and over, each slide slicker, hotter, more desperate.
“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so tight—squeezing me so fuckin’ good—look at you, taking every inch. My girl.” The praise slips out like a confession, rough and needy. You shudder, the words hitting you somewhere deep.
“Frank—oh, god, Frank, it’s—” He finds your hand and laces his fingers through yours, anchoring you as his pace picks up. His cock fills you, stretches you, and every thrust knocks the air from your lungs. Frank feels his heart hammering inside his chest, a booming drum against your spine. The grip he has on your hip is vice-like, holding you in place while he fucks into you with a pace that would shame him in the morning, but right now he’s too far gone to care. There’s only the velvet clutch of your heat, the way your body yields and draws him in, and the choked, breathless sounds you make every time he bottoms out. You’re whimpering now, the little noises you usually try to swallow down coming out bright and desperate. The sound of it is like gasoline on fire. He feels every inch of you, every pulse, every tremor, and he can’t—not for the life of him—slow down. His cock is thick, splitting you open, and you clamp around him so tight his vision goes white at the edges. He can’t tell if he’s drooling or if it’s sweat slicking his lips, but he’s got his mouth buried in your neck and he grinds his teeth together, trying not to lose it in the first minute.
“Jesus Christ—fuck, baby, you’re so fuckin’ perfect—” He bites the words into your hair, his lungs on fire. “Can’t stop, need to fill you up, need—” You just moan and buck back against him, your body greedy for every inch he gives you. Frank can feel you trembling, the way your thighs strain and your ass rocks against his hip, seeking out every thrust. He keeps telling himself to be gentle, to ease up, but every drag of your heat over his cock is ecstasy. He hammers into you, chasing the buzz building at the base of his spine, rolling his hips so deep you whine his name into the mattress.Frank can’t get enough. The words burned into the meat of his brain, pulsing there with the same desperate, animal rhythm he’s using to fuck you. He’s not even thinking about the mission anymore, about the canister, about the city he probably just infected with whatever the hell this is. He’s thinking about you, the shape your body makes under him, how you cling to him like you know exactly how close he is to breaking.
He’s close. So close it hurts. Every time your pussy milks him he wants to howl, wants to make you scream his name so loud the neighbors call the cops, wants to rut so deep into you it fucks the fever right out of his bloodstream.
You’re gasping now, not even trying to muffle it. The sound is everything. It’s everything. He grinds his cock into you, one hand tangled in your hair, the other clamped over your hip, using you to chase his own high. You’re so wet he can hear it, obscene and messy, every slam of his hips into yours punctuated by the filthy slap of skin on skin. He can feel you getting close, your muscles spasming around him, and he wants to drag it out, wants to make you come so hard you see stars, but he’s losing it. He’s never felt this out of control, like something in that powder rewired every nerve in his body, lit up every one of his instincts. He’s not just thinking with his cock—he is his cock, every fiber of him tuned to your body and the way you fuckin’ tremble underneath him.There’s no way you’re going to last. Not at this pace. Not with the way his cock fills you, the way his words break over your skin and pool in your belly, thick and sweet and filthy. You’re awake now, fully awake, and every inch of you is burning. The heat radiates off Frank like a fever, a wet, hungry furnace clamped to your back, and you never want it to end. He doesn’t slow down, not even when you’re keening his name into the pillow, not even when your body jerks and tightens and you come so hard you see black behind your eyelids. Frank just holds you tighter, shushing you, telling you how fucking good you are, how perfect, how you’re made for him, and the words turn your bones to water.
He doesn’t stop.
He’s not going to stop.
You can feel it—he’s close, he’s shaking, and the hand he has on your hip digs in hard enough to bruise. His thrusts grow ragged, desperate, and you know he’s about to— He curses, voice thick and hot in your ear.
“Fuck, fuck—sweetheart, can’t—can’t stop—” The heat in your belly doesn’t fade. If anything, it intensifies. You’re high on it, delirious, and still you want more. Frank doesn’t let up. He pulls you tighter, shifts your hips up just so, and starts to move again, slower this time, but just as deep. You whine, nails digging into the sheets, but he just pets your thigh, soothing and rough all at once.
“That’s it, baby. Take it. Take all of me.” He sounds ruined, but there’s a pride in it—a marvel at how much he can give you, how much you can take. You can barely think, every inch of your skin stretched taut with need. He sets a rhythm, brutal and sweet, and his fingers find your clit, rubbing circles that make you shake. You lose track of time. There’s nothing but Frank and the feel of him inside you, the sound of your bodies and his breath and the words he can’t keep to himself:
“so fucking tight—so good—my girl—my perfect girl—” and it never ends. He loses it first.
He’s never come this fast, not even as a dumb teenager, but tonight it’s like every nerve in his body is wired straight to his cock. He slams in, buried to the hilt, and lets out a groan that’s half agony, half worship. The first spurt of cum is so intense he shudders, vision blurring. His body stills, and his breath is so heavy on your neck. Your whole body is shaking and you whine as you pull yourself off him and turn to face him.
His whole body is covered in sweat, and his brows are pinched in pain.
The joke you were going to make about him missing you too much dies in your throat as concern spikes up through your chest.
“Frankie ?” You ask, trying to reach out to touch him. The second your hand touches his bare bicep, his hips rut towards you and a loud unabashed moan leaves his lips. His large hand comes down and wraps around his cock, his fist pumping around his length as he pants.
“Frank, what-”
“Shit, shit, baby- I think - I think- I think somethin’s wrong with me.” He writhes on the bed, clearly uncomfortable. “I thought- maybe if i- i thought it’d go away-” He moans, his eyes flying open to stare at you.
Yeah. It’s defintely not gone away.
The tension in his jaw is visible, the way his hand moves over himself so desperate, so unlike the usual Frank. Not controlled, not careful—just raw and frantic. You’ve seen him after missions, shaking with adrenaline, but never like this. His cock is flushed, almost angry, the head slicked and red, and he’s rutting into his fist with a single-mindedness that makes your mouth go dry.
You try to reach for him again.
“Sweetheart—don’t. I can’t—” His voice is all gravel, unsteady. He looks at your hand like it’s fire. “If you touch me, I swear to god—” He shakes his head, but it’s a threat with no teeth, because the next second he grabs your wrist, the grip almost bruising, and yanks you into his lap. The world goes sideways, your thighs splayed over his, the shirt riding up to your hips. His mouth is on you, not soft or sweet but open and desperate, biting at your collarbone, dragging his teeth down the slope of your shoulder. You giggle, delirious.
“Is this a new kink I don’t know about?”
“Fuck.” He’s red in the face, hair stuck to his forehead, pupils dilated so wide it swallows the blue. “I shouldn’t touch you. I’m— I’m fucked up. I should go.” But he doesn’t go. He’s already got you pinned a, his cock rutting against the crease of your thigh, leaving smears of precum all over your skin. He’s shaking so hard it vibrates through the bed. You try to wriggle out of his grip, but it’s like moving under a sandbag.
“Babe, maybe we should—” Frank just grunts, He pants into your skin like he’s drowning and you’re the only air.
“Need you,” he mumbles, the words slurred and low. “Need to fuck you, please, I—” He cuts off with another moan, huge hands hauling you up so the head of his cock slips between your folds. You’re already aching, slick from the first round, but now you feel an answering heat, an insistent, hungry want that’s not entirely your own. He doesn’t guide himself inside—he lifts you and drops you down, and the stretch is so sudden you yelp.
“Oh my god- Frank-” He buries his face in your neck, breath ragged.
“God, baby, so fucking tight,” he breathes, hips bucking up, driving you down to the hilt. It’s a lot, more than usual, and you have to cling to his shoulders just to keep from being fucked straight off him. Frank sets a brutal rhythm, all upward thrusts, his thighs flexing beneath you. He mutters into your skin, endless filthy praise—
“so good, so fucking good for me, made to take me, you’re perfect, fuck, my perfect girl”—and your body can’t help but respond, the words turning to liquid heat in your belly. You ride him, helpless to do anything but take and take, the pleasure almost overwhelming. He’s relentless, fucking up into you so hard you see white at the edges of your vision.
“Can’t stop,” he grits out, voice nearly gone. “Can’t—fuck—can’t stop unless you want me to—” He makes it a question, somehow, but you just dig your nails into his back and rock into him, letting him know you want more, need it as bad as he does. You’re so full you can barely breathe, every inch of your insides stretched around him. It’s more than you can remember, somehow, thicker, longer, and when you look down you see the way he’s split you open, the obscene bulge where his cock seats itself deep inside. The sight of it thrills you, makes you want to be ruined. Makes you want to take all of it, every frantic thrust.
You start to break — the way you always do when he gets like this, when the praise pours out like it’s the truth of him, when the thick hot weight of him pounds you open and the world narrows to the sound of your bodies slapping together and the hunger in his voice. You dig harder into his shoulders, nails scoring lines down his back, and his grip on your hips is bruising, anchoring you in place, and all you can do is hang on. The whole bed rocks under the violence of it, and your breath shatters, every exhale coming out as a broken whimper or a plea. Frank’s head tips back, his neck corded and slick with sweat, face gone slack with animal need, and you see the wildness burning bright behind his eyes. It’s too much, and it’s not enough, and you can feel the orgasm rising, savage and relentless, the friction of him inside so hot it verges on pain. You can’t think, can barely remember your own name, and Frank’s hand stays splayed flat on your back, fingers digging in, holding you down as his hips jackhammer up, merciless and perfect. You lose track of how many times you come, the edge blurred into a single long frantic wave, your staring eyes and raw throat and overheating skin all proof that you’re still alive, still tethered to this earth by the iron will of the man fucking you apart.
You collapse against his chest and he doesn’t slow, not even when you start to cry, the tears hot on your cheeks, the sobs punched out by each new thrust. He fucks you through it, each new climax wringing your insides tighter, until you’re trembling, clinging, babbling his name over and over. And he matches you, each time you squeeze down his cock he shudders, the veins in his neck standing out. Frank drags you higher on his lap and fucks up into you, hard enough you see stars. You sob, nails digging bloody half-moons into his shoulders, but the pain is good, it’s grounding, it’s proof that this is real and happening and not some fever dream. He’s soaked in sweat, skin slick and burning hot, and you feel him pulsing inside, the head of his cock battering places you didn’t know you had. He won’t stop. He can’t. His hands grip your waist and throttle you down, using you as leverage, rutting in single desperate slams that make your vision flicker white. You think you’re going to pass out. You want to. But he fucks you alive.
“M’sorry-” He rasps, his chest tense. “M’so sorry, mama-” He rasps, mouth grazing over your collarbones. His hips piston up, his cock splitting you on every thrust, and you’re so oversensitive it’s a miracle you don’t faint. Frank’s got you held up like a rag doll, hands locked around your waist, flexor tendons standing out in relief under his skin, and he’s making these animal noises deep in his chest, almost a whine, like even the shame can’t touch the need that’s got him by the throat. You try to say his name but it comes out as a wail, your body wrung dry, so full of him it feels like he’s rearranged your ribs. He thrusts up again, hard, and you see black behind your eyelids, a hot flash of white that rips through the mush of your brain and leaves you blank except for the feeling of him, the heat of him, the words he pours into your ear in a frantic, hungry spill.
“So good, baby, so—fuck—never felt you like this, you’re fucking perfect, so perfect, fuck, mama, look at you, taking all of me.” You do. You force your eyes open, and the sight of where your bodies meet should be obscene, but it’s gorgeous, it’s art, the way he disappears into you, the way you clamp down on him, shuddering and limp at the same time.
He can’t stop. It’s not just that he doesn’t want to — his body won’t let him. You see the panic in his face, the way he tries to slow, but every time he bottoms out, every time your heat milks him, it’s like he’s possessed.
He comes again, the heat of it flooding you, and you yelp, the sensation so much you spasm around him, another little aftershock wringing through your pelvis. Frank doesn’t even have enough air to groan — he just shivers, teeth grit and eyes squeezed shut, and then he slumps, just barely, his grip loosening a little. Your whole body slumps forward, and you grip onto his hair, whimpering at the soreness between your thighs. Frank groans, shaking his head. You gulp, looking up at him.
“Are you- Are you okay ?” You ask. You’re limp on his chest, so full you’re leaking down his balls, but even that spills more want into his bloodstream. He lifts you, and your cunt makes a wet, lewd pop as his cock drags out, thick and purple and smeared with both your releases. Frank is still hard. Still leaking. Still burning under every inch of skin. He tries to slow his breath, the drag of air through his lungs, but it’s like trying to wrangle a livewire with his bare hands. The need doesn’t fade. It only coils tighter, meaner, sharper against the base of his spine. He’d always prided himself on self-control, on discipline, but whatever was in that powder, it’s bending him backwards over his own rules, turning every nerve ending into a live fuse. You’re sprawled across his chest, boneless and slick, but the scent of you is gasoline in the furnace. He looks down, watches the way his cock stands, angry and thick and still twitching above the mess he’s made of you. He thinks: he could die this way. He’d be fine with it. You nuzzle your face into his neck and laugh, lightheaded.
“Are you seriously still—” He grunts.
“Don’t—don’t look at it.” You do. Both of you. Your hand drags down his chest, tracing the ridges of his body—slick with sweat, shuddering in the aftershocks, so alive it’s almost painful. You move to touch his cock and he flinches, a sharp inhalation, but he doesn’t stop you.
“Frank, you’re—oh my god.” You squeeze your hand around the shaft, thumb swiping over the slit, and Frank’s whole body seizes. He nearly throws you off in the spasm, but you’re still locked around his hips, and the movement only grinds you down over his lap, cock slipping between your folds in a slick, obscene slide.
“Fuck—” He’s biting down on his own knuckles to keep from making noise, but it’s helpless. You’re laughing, delirious with the power of it, and the sound is a hook in his ribs. He wants to be embarrassed, but it’s gone, burned out of him by the liquid hunger that soaks every thought. He needs to be inside you again. He needs it like air. All you want is to collapse, to melt into the mattress. Frank doesn’t give you the chance. Not even a full breath later, he’s up on his knees, cock still rock-hard and glistening. He drags you by the hips until you’re on your back, knees crooked open, and spears himself in one brutal thrust, splitting you apart again.
“Fuck- I’m sorry-” He rasps. The sensation is so sharp you see stars, a shriek punched out of your chest when he bottoms out, rutting into you like he’s never going to stop.The pressure is so much, all at once, Frank’s vision tunnels. He can’t even hear above the roar of blood in his ears. The bed rattles. The whole goddamn planet could rattle apart and he wouldn’t stop. He’s fucking you through the mattress, through the next dimension. He can’t catch a full breath. He gasps for air and tastes your sweat, your scent, the ozone tang of the fever now churning through him like black fire. You’re screaming. The raw, high sound of it rips the last discipline out of him. Some part of him tries to be gentle, tries to hold back, but his body goes on autopilot, rutting harder, faster, every thrust shoving his cock deeper into you, until it feels like he’s turned you inside out. You go limp, then rigid, then limp again. The only thing holding you together is his hands. He braces his forearm across the small of your back and folds you in half, his weight crushing you into the ruined tangle of sheets. He’s got you locked in, locked down, and the only thing you can do is take it, over and over, every stroke. Your sobs go silent, lungs emptied, and you’re reduced to shuddering and twitching, a gooseflesh wreck. It should scare him, and somewhere, deep behind the thick fog of want, it does. But your body milks him, clings to him, wants him just as much.
You’re still trying to crawl up his cock, even as it’s too much, even as you whimper “please—please—Frank—” and he loses the thread of what you’re even asking for. You come again, your pussy clamping so tight he almost blacks out. The bedframe slams against the wall, a steady drumbeat to the obscene, wet slap of your bodies. Frank’s not sure there’s anything left to give, but his balls ache and his cock throbs and he’s still not done, not even close. He’s barely human, all muscle and bone and nerve endings, and he’s so deep in the need it’s like swimming blind. The pulsing heat should fade, but it doesn’t. His cock stays hard, the ridge of it throbbing against your walls, and you can taste the panic in the way he looks at you, eyes wild, brow shiny with sweat. You’re so full it feels like you’ll split, like he’s pounding straight through your core. He fucks you with a single-minded desperation, every thrust a promise he can’t break, and you ride each wave with him, helpless to do anything but take and take until your mind blanks out and your body remembers nothing but the shape of him inside you.
Frank’s world is the inside of your cunt. He’s got no purchase outside it. Every time he tries to slow, just breathe, it’s like the fever burns hotter, pushes him right back to rutting into you like he’ll die if he stops. You’re not even crying anymore; the sound you make is a dull, broken gasp at every shove into your center, and still you’re so fucking good for him, you take it, you take him, you always do. He’s never been rough with you like this, never let himself, but there’s no pulling back, nothing but the thick slap of skin and the way your body folds around him, greedier than anything Frank’s ever known. Sweat pours off him, mouth gone dry, every muscle in his arms and gut straining to keep you locked onto his cock.
You shudder your way through three orgasms. Four. He loses count, can only track the relentless pulse at the base of his cock, the way every new wave of your desperation clenches him tighter, tries to milk him dry. He wants to say he’s sorry, wants to fucking stop, but if he stops he’ll die right here, naked and empty with nothing but want. He crushes you to his chest, presses his brow to yours, and his voice shreds in his throat.
“Honey—fuck—don’t know what’s wrong—can’t—” He can’t finish. He reaches down, grabs your thighs, and pushes them up, your knees by your ears, so he can watch his cock disappearing into your ruined cunt. The sight turns his brain to static. He fucks you through his own softening, the rawness of it sending his balls tight, a pulsing ache so deep it’s like punishment. You blink up at him, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted in a soundless plea. Frank heaves in ragged breaths. He wipes the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his hand, but it’s useless, just keeps coming. You try to touch his face, but your hand falls limply to the pillow.
“Can’t—” you try, voice so hoarse it’s a rasp, “Frank, too much—”
“I know, baby, I know,” he chokes, but he doesn’t stop, can’t stop, the rhythm just slows, each push in and out a new kind of agony. You’re so full you’re leaking, the pale mess of him painting your thighs, every thrust making a fresh drip down to the sheets. He can’t get enough of it. He can’t get enough of you. He thinks—maybe, if he comes again, this will break. Maybe it’s just a matter of getting it all out of his system. Frank’s hips keep going, chasing something neither of you can name, deeper and harder, until even the friction starts to blur into a numb, syrupy ache. You’re not sure your body can take another orgasm, but Frank’s cock doesn’t slow, doesn’t even twitch toward softening inside you. He’s still diamond-hard, still rutting in mindless, ragged thrusts, the tip of his dick punching against your cervix so sharp you nearly sob. You want to stop, want to tap out, but you can’t say the words, not with the way his body cages yours, his forearm braced above your head. Every time you so much as gasp for air, he hushes you, whispers more praise into your skin.
“Good girl, fuck, you’re such a good girl, baby—so tight, squeezing me, you wanna make me come again? Huh? Want me to fill you all the way up?” His voice cracks, goes thin and desperate, and you almost come just from the sound. The praise is a wire wrapped around your spine, drawing you tighter, tighter, until the next orgasm hits like a rubber bullet and rips a wail out of your chest. Frank’s cock doesn’t give you a break to even register the aftershocks before he’s already pounding you through another. Your thighs shake, your calves spasm, even your toes curl up tight. You’re crying again, you think, but it’s not from pain, not really. It’s because your body’s hit max capacity and refused to let go, and Frank’s not slowing down, not even to catch his breath. The bed frame is a lost cause, the cheap wood splintering against each slam of Frank’s hips. You grip the pillow, face buried in the wet cotton, and try to ride it out.
You want to tell him to stop, to check if he’s okay, but every time you try, you just get another mouthful of “Frank, fuck, Frank—”
He’s panting so loud his breath sounds like a threat. His hand finds the back of your neck, palm warm and damp with sweat, and holds you down, grinding his cock so deep you shiver. The sound that comes out of him isn’t human: a full-body groan, like coming is the only relief left in the world. His cock throbs, thick and pulsing, and you feel the heat spill inside you, a flood that has you clenching, wringing every drop out of him. He collapses on top of you, and you shudder in pain, your body begging for a break. Frank groans, his shoulders shaking. He peels himself away from you, shaking his head, his chest heaving.
He’s in pain. You can tell.
He faces the wall as he tries his hardest to settle his breathing, and you can see his cock, pressed against his stomach- still red and hard and bulging. Your insides churn with ache, and you whine.
“Frankie-”
“N-No, baby, i gotta- I gotta stop.” He rasps, shaking his head. But his body disagrees. Frank’s hand finds the headboard and he grinds the heel of his palm into his brow, eyes clenched, like that might squeeze the need out of his skull by force. He tries to turn away, but your hand is there, cupping his jaw, so gentle he almost sobs from it.
“It’s okay.” Your voice is thin, spent, but there’s not a trace of fear in it. Only worry. Only the same devotion he’s always known, the kind that makes his chest ache on a normal day, and now it’s a knife. You look up at him, lashes stuck together with tears and sweat, and he sees it—what he’s done to you. The red handprints on your thighs, the way your lips are bruised from your own teeth. He’s never hated himself more. He tries to say your name but his throat seizes, a dry, animal noise spilling out, and it takes everything not to punch a hole through the fucking drywall just to have something to break. You crawl into his lap, soft and warm and so goddamn patient, and rest your head on his shoulder. The touch is an IV drip straight to what’s left of his self-control. He wraps his arms around you, desperate to keep you safe, but the second your cunt grazes his cock he’s hard again—no pause, no mercy. Your body folds around him, open and wrecked and beautiful, and the urge to fuck you into the floorboards is so strong it’s all he can do not to bite your shoulder until it bruises. He’d always thought himself a man of limits. Rules. But this is new country. This is past the boundary of pain and into the realm of need that’s got no words. He wants to stop, but his cock is already rutting against your heat, and you’re slick, still so wet he can feel the mess soaking his thighs. You ease back, the weight of you on his lap, and thread your hand through his hair.
“Frankie, you’re burning up,” you whisper. Your palm settles on his chest, like you could press the fever out of him with enough pressure. But it’s not just fever. It’s a bomb—ticking. He can’t remember the last time he felt this powerless.
“God, it’s that fuckin’ red powder- I don’t- I don’t know what was in it-”
“It’s okay, Frankie.” You huff.
“No, it’s not fucking okay !” He yells, whining as his hips rut up, chasing the feel of your pussy clamped on him. His eyes fly open, and he takes you in. “Baby, look what i’ve fuckin’ done to ya.” He rasps, shaking his head.
“Frankie-”
“Please- get- get off me, mama, please- I don’t wanna hurt you anymore, i-” You see Frank’s resolve start to buckle. The panic in his eyes crashes up against the tidal wave of need that’s got him rutting into you even as he begs for distance, for mercy, for anything to keep you safe from his own treacherous body. You shift in his lap and he moans, the sound so raw and petulant it threatens to break your heart. You bury your face into his neck, lips pressed to the salt and heat there, and you try to anchor him with your words.
“I’m not afraid of you, Frankie. You’re not gonna hurt me. I want to help—” You’re cut off by a shudder as his cock twitches, fat and fever-hot, pressing up against your drenched folds. Even through the haze of soreness, you can’t help but want him, the way he fills you, the way he worships every inch of you with his eyes and hands and words. He tries to scoot back, but you wrap your arms around his shoulders, locking him in place.
“Frank. Look at me.” He tries to obey, but the shame is a physical force, tethering his chin to his chest. You take his face in both hands and lift it, so he’s forced to see you—your ruined makeup, your puffy lips, the tears still drying in sticky trails down your face. He trembles, and the glassy, pleading look in his eyes is almost more than you can bear. You force yourself to smile. “It’s not you, Frankie. It’s whatever they hit you with. You’re not going to break me. I know you.” You guide his hand so it cups your hip, thumb stroking over the place where his fingerprints are already bruising your skin. “Let me help you. Please.” A sob racks his chest, but you don’t let go. You shift your hips, the soreness blooming into a fierce ache, but the sharp stretch of him splitting you open is its own kind of mercy, a reminder that you’re real, that he’s real, that everything that has you gasping and groaning and crying is because the man you love can’t stop loving you back, even when it shreds him to the bone. He mutters something—could be your name, could be some broken apology—but you cut him off by grinding down, forcing the thick head of his cock inside again. You both moan, the sound a harmonized exhale of pain and relief and want. You ride him slow, savoring the way his hands grip your ass, the way his mouth stutters against the hollow of your neck.
“Baby—fuck—don’t wanna—don’t wanna ruin you—” he whimpers. You’ve never seen him lose it like this. The red powder’s got him raw, desperate, every boundary burned away by the chemical fire in his veins. His face shines with sweat and tears, and his voice is so cracked and pleading it makes you want to cry for him. You whine as you overstimulated clit bumps against his pubic bone and you shake your head.
"Just- ah shit, wanna help-" You manage, your face drawn up in pain.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck-" Before you can understand what's going on, you're ripped off of him, and your cheek meets the pillow as your ass is propped up. Frank’s got you on your stomach, ass in the air, and the whole world narrows to pressure, his hands locked around your hips so hard you can taste the bruise forming. He’s inside you before your brain catches up—a single mean thrust, bottoming out, and your mouth opens but nothing comes out except a stuttered gasp. He doesn’t move at first, just holds you there, cock throbbing so deep you can feel it behind your navel.
His voice is a raw scrape: “Sorry, sorry—can’t—” and then he fucks down, fucks through you, every stroke hard enough to punch the air from your lungs. You try to brace your hands but your shoulder gives out, leaving you cheek-down on the pillow, drool pooling in the crook of your mouth. You think you might cry, but it turns to a wail instead, a high desperate sound muffled by the bed. Frank’s not slow, not at all—he’s relentless, hips snapping, spine bowed over your back, the heat of him rolling off in waves. He mutters your name into your hair, worship and apology in every syllable, but he doesn’t stop, not even when your thighs seize up and your body starts to shake.
It’s like he’s in a race to fuck the poison out of himself, a self-punishment as much as a need. He doesn’t just pound, he grinds, the fat ridge of his cock scraping every hypersensitive spot and making you see colors behind your eyelids. He gets a rhythm going, a brutal, unyielding cadence that’s all force and no mercy, the wet slap of skin so loud it drowns out your own whimpers. He’s saying something—maybe a prayer, maybe a curse—but your ears ring too loud to tell. Frank’s rhythm shudders, then redoubles, each thrust a new promise he can’t keep—he’s sorry, he’s trying, but his body won’t even let him lie. All you can do is take it. Your hips knock forward with every impact, your knees gone numb, your hands scrabbling at the sheets. He’s a furnace at your back, sweat dripping from his jaw onto the nape of your neck. Your cunt is raw, fluttering, so full of him you feel like his cock is splitting your spine in half, pulse after pulse hammering your insides. The praise keeps coming, wrecked and hoarse, every word scraping the meat of your brain:
“That’s it, mama, god, you’re so good for me, fucking perfect, fuck, fuck, look at how you take it—” His hands bracket your waist, thumbs pressing so hard you’re sure you’ll wear his fingerprints for days. The bed gives a death rattle under the both of you, and for a second you’re sure you might break through the floor. It’s not just the pain, it’s the stretch, the impossible misshape of him inside you, the friction grinding against nerves you didn’t know you had. Each time he bottoms out, your whole body spasms, jaw slack, and your eyes roll up until all you see is white. You want to say it’s too much, you need to say it’s too much, but your throat can’t find the air. All you can manage is a strangled sob and a whimper, the sound burrowing straight into Frank’s brain. He’s so loud you barely hear yourself. He can’t stop moaning, every inhale a curse, every exhale a plea for you to hold on, to keep going, to save him from this. His cock throbs inside you, thick as a goddamn fist, and you feel every vein, every twitch.
You can’t even squeeze him now; you’re so open, so obliterated, but he uses you anyway, cocking his hips to make sure he grinds against every raw inch of your walls. It’s a mercy when you come again—your pussy fluttering, a helpless, shivery clamp that wrings a keening noise out of both of you. He feels it, all of it, the heat and the pulse and the way your body tries to milk him dry, and it snaps something vital in him.
He shoves forward, so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach, and he grunts a broken “fuck—” as he spills inside you again, so much it leaks out the second he starts to move. He doesn’t soften. Not even a little. He leans over, body caging you in, his huge hand coming to cradle your head, gentle and sweet and so at fucking odds with the way he rails you from behind, over and over and over. You think you might faint. You hope you do, but Frank won’t give you the out. He drags you up onto your knees, keeping you impaled, your ass flush against his hips. His chest is a solid wall at your back, every breath a ragged hurricane. You lean into him, and the only thing keeping you from sliding forward is the white-knuckle grip he’s got on your hip. Every muscle in his arm is bunched and trembling, and you can’t see his face, but you can hear him, every breath a broken, bruised whimper. The pressure inside you is so intense it feels like he’s going to split you, and the wet mess leaking out onto your thighs is obscene, but you can’t stop clenching, can’t stop reaching for every last inch he gives, even when it knocks a raw scream out of you.
He’s not talking anymore; he’s just animal, all want and motion, the drag of his cock so deep it makes your vision rattle. He’s fucking through every stop sign his brain tries to throw up. It’s not anger—he’s not rough, not really, not even when the thrusts get mean. He’s wounded, desperate, every snap of his hips a white flag of surrender to whatever’s in his blood. There’s a low, guttural moan in the back of his throat that never quite makes it out—just a vibration that crackles down his spine and into yours.
The only words he manages are yours: your name, and then sorry, then your name again, and then “please, please, please,” like there’s a finish line he can barely see.
You try to push up, to arch back into him, and he groans like he’s in pain. The new angle gives him enough to work with that he slams in even deeper, punching the air out of your lungs. The slap of your bodies is filthy, echoing off the drywall. You’re not sure you can take it, but every time you think you’ll fall apart, he tightens his fingers and pulls you closer and you break in a new way, shattered and made again in the space of a heartbeat. His cock is so hard it feels like a weapon, the head swelling every time your pussy convulses around it. You’re so full it’s like he’s rearranging your guts, and the ache is a raw, sweet line from your cervix to your clit, every stroke against that spot another quicksilver jolt.
He keeps muttering—“fuck, fuck, fuck, baby, good, that’s it, take it, take it, please”—each phrase more frantic than the last. His balls slap your clit with every thrust, a wet, brutal rhythm that leaves you shaking. You can’t move, not really, just grip the sheets and let him fuck you through the next dimension. Your body responds with a will of its own, cunt fluttering, greedy, and he all but howls, the pitch of his voice climbing as you milk him. He wraps a hand over your mouth, not to silence you, but to keep himself from biting into your shoulder. Your vision blurs at the edges, black stars exploding behind your eyes with every brutal slap of Frank’s hips. You don’t remember the last time you took a breath that wasn’t torn from your lungs; you don’t remember the last time you wanted anything as bad as you want him to finish—just finish—so you can collapse and glue your bones back together.
He holds you locked against his chest, your knees straining and your hands scrabbling for the headboard, but your arms are noodles, your muscles shaking with nothing left to give. He fucks you like he’s trying to get through to the other side, like if he just goes hard enough, deep enough, the chemicals will burn themselves out and he’ll stop being an animal. The sounds coming out of him are wild, nothing you’ve ever heard in your own bed—raw, grunting, half-sobbed apologies and broken praise.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, please, baby, need you to take it, need—can’t—” Frank’s voice is a rasp, a snapped wire, and you can feel his cock twitching, so hard you think he could split you in half with it. Each time he bottoms out, it punches a fresh scream out of you, but you clamp your jaw down, try to muffle the madness of it. He’s never rough with you, not like this, never so greedy, but you get it. Something is wrong, and you want to help—want to be the answer, the antidote, the safe place for him to burn out and come back to himself. He holds your waist so tight you can feel each ridge of his fingerprints, bruising you into memory. You want to say it hurts, but the words won’t come. Your pussy is on fire—raw, stretched, so abused it’s gone numb and then come back to life even sharper. The mess is everywhere: leaking out around him, slicking your thighs, running down to stain the sheets. All you can do is ride the waves and hope you don’t drown.
The only noise in the room is the animal rhythm of bodies and Frank’s voice, disbelieving and desperate: “So fucking tight, fuck, mama, so good, can’t stop, can’t—please don’t make me stop—” He thrusts so hard your hips jar forward, your face mashed into the bed. You start to sob, not from pain, not really, but because it’s too much, because you’ve never seen him like this, never heard him cry out with so little control. You want to help, that’s what matters—help him, take all of it, prove you’re strong enough. You push back into him, arching your ass higher, and the noise he makes is so grateful it breaks your heart.
“Good girl,” he says, voice shredded and hoarse. “Perfect, you’re perfect, fuck, sweetheart, doing so good, just gotta—” He loses the thread, ruts into you so deep your vision whites out. His cock pulses, and you feel a new rush of heat inside, and that does it. You clench down, body wracked by the kind of orgasm that hurts, hurts so good you see stars.
He lets you drop back down against the mattress, and you struggle to keep yourself upright. You scream yourself hoarse, your pussy clamped down vice-tight. You feel everything, every pulse and stretch and starburst, and Frank howls against your shoulder. The noise doesn’t even sound like him—it’s wounded and messy, his breath burning loud in your ear. You can’t move, can’t breathe, can only let him use you, rail you, like he’ll die if he doesn’t get it all out. The aftershocks won’t stop, not for you, not for him. He stutters through another frantic thrust, and you feel his cock jerk, another hot wave of come flooding you, and you go limp in his hands, deadweight against his chest. He keeps moving, barely half a second between one orgasm and the next, and you’re sobbing into the pillow, your senses so blown you can’t tell if you’re still coming or if the world just feels that sharp now. You want to beg for mercy, but Frank doesn’t have any to give. His grip shakes. His whole body shakes. He clings to you like he’ll fall apart if he lets go, every inch of him slick and hot, pressing you into the mattress until you’re shaped to it. You can hear the edge-of-panic in his voice, the way he repeats your name and sorry and “baby, I can’t—can’t stop, can’t stop.” He’s terrified of himself. You know it, and it makes you want him more, want to fix it, take the ache out of him even if it means breaking yourself in the process.
He lifts you higher, knees scrabbling to keep you upright, and then he’s fucking up into you again, as frantic as the first time. It’s a miracle you’re still wet, still open, but the heat between your legs is unreal—slippery, raw, your clit throbbing with every slap of his body. You don’t think you’re meant to come this many times; it’s like your nerves are fried, but every time his cock grinds against that spot inside you, you jolt and seize and scream. The room smells like sex, thick and musky and everywhere. You’re distantly aware of how filthy it is, how you both sound like animals, how you must look wrecked beyond repair—but Frank won’t even let you hide your face. He grabs your jaw, turns your head so you’re looking at him, his eyes wild and glassy and pleading.
“Need you,” he says, and it sounds like a confession. “Can’t—please, baby, don’t let go—” You nod, tears streaming down your cheeks, because you can’t talk, and the way he looks at you—like you’re the last thing tethering him to the planet—makes you want to endure a thousand more hours of this, if it’ll help. You squeeze around him, even though you’re not sure you can take any more; you brace your arms against his, let him rut into you until you both lose track of time.
Frank’s hand slides up the back of your neck, fingers in your hair, not pulling, just holding. Like if he lets go, he’ll float away. You feel his lips at your skin, a blur of kisses and apologies, but it’s not enough to gentle the pace. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t soften, just fucks you through every last bit of resistance. You can’t even squeeze him, but he doesn’t need it—he’s so big you’re stretched taut, every vein and ridge inside you, scraping against a spot that makes your eyes roll up. He leans over, flush against your back, and you feel the tremble in his chest—like he’s sobbing, too. His whole body shakes, and you realize with a lurch that he’s crying.
You turn your head, try to see him, but all you get is the hot rush of his breath in your hair, the way he chokes on another “sorry, sorry, baby, fuck—” before slamming in so deep you swear he’s fucking your soul out of your body. He doesn’t stop. Not even when you start to tremble, then seize up, body clamped so tight around him you think it might snap him in two. He keeps moving, relentless, grinding you to dust on the inside and the outside, and the sounds coming out of his mouth break open something raw in your chest—a wet, hiccupping sob choked down between every thrust. He feels everything too much, all at once, and it hurts, you can see it in the way his hands shake against your skin, the way he buries his face in your neck like he’s trying to hide from himself.
You want to tell him it’s okay, that you want it, that you want him, but your tongue is heavy, glued to the roof of your mouth. All you can do is take it, take him, every brutal inch, and hope it helps. The room is a blur: lamp tipped on its side, blood pounding in your ears, the hot animal stink of sweat and sex and desperate, chemical need. You’re so full it hurts, but you keep clenching, greedy for more, even as your muscles threaten to give out.
He pins your wrists to the mattress, fingers threaded through yours, so tight it burns. You twist under him, searching for leverage, but he flattens you, cages you, and there’s no air left in your lungs. His cock pistons in, then out, a punishing, friction-sharp rhythm that makes you see strobing white. You feel it all: the stretch, the obscene wet slap, the pulse of blood behind your clit, the way your body tries to force him out but can’t. For a second, you wonder if it’s permanent, if you’ll ever be able to close again without the imprint of him inside you. He keeps his hand on your throat, not squeezing, just holding, grounding himself with your pulse as he chases that feeling through you. The pressure behind your eyes is unbearable; you can’t tell if you’re lightheaded from the lack of air, or from the way he pounds you, relentless even as your body goes limp.
“Ah shit, ah shit- baby- He rasps. You can feel his body burning so unbelievably hot that it burns your skin.
“Shit, baby, i think i’m gonna come-” He rasps, and his hips pick up speed. You’re not sure if you’re even conscious when it happens; your body is numb but your brain is a live wire, the noise in your skull too loud to parse. He moves again, humping at you in little, frantic jerks, already hard, never soft. He sounds panicked, desperate, like he’s drowning and needs you to save him.
“Please, baby, fuck, please,” he gasps, and you push back into him, let him set the new rhythm, not even thinking. You’re beyond pain, beyond thought; just animal, just wet and open and clenching down because you have nothing else to give. You feel every inch, every vein, every frantic stutter of his cock, and it’s like you were made for this, for him, for the way he fills you up and burns you clean from the inside out.
Frank’s cock jerks inside you and the heat floods out in a wave, so much come you can feel it forcing its way out past the seal of you both, drooling down your thighs and pooling under your knees. He collapses against your back, and the world goes silent except for the crash of his heartbeat and the rasp of his breathing. He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t move at all, not even to loosen the grip he’s got on your wrists. For a second, you think he’s passed out. Then you hear it—a soft, broken noise in the hollow of your shoulder, the kind of sound that only comes out when the body runs out of things to burn. He shudders, the shift of his body smearing sweat and spit and tears down your back. You’re both shaking, but his is an aftershock, yours is still the quake. He buries his nose in your hair, inhaling like it might save him. A minute passes. Then another. He’s still inside you, and you can feel every twitch, every minute pulse, like your walls are mapped to his heartbeat.
“Baby,” he croaks, and his voice is so small you almost don’t hear it. “Jesus. Fuck. Are you—” He can’t finish. He’s breathing like he’s been sprinting for miles. You can’t breathe right. Every inch of skin feels flayed, body spasming around the thickness of him still buried in you. Frank is nothing but heat and bone and the low, sick whimper echoing in your ear. You don’t know if you’re crying, but your face is wet and your teeth ache from clenching. You’re glad you didn’t say no—glad you could take it, for him, whatever this is. You’re glad to be the thing he needs, even if you don’t understand the why of it. He doesn’t move. Not one millimeter. You try to flex around him, a weak squeeze, and he makes a soft, torn sound. There’s shame in it. You don’t have to see his face—you can feel it in the way he goes slack against your back, the way his arms drop away from you like he’s afraid of his own hands. He pulls out so slow you want to scream, cock dragging against your swollen, battered walls, and the afterrush of everything floods out between your thighs. You collapse onto the wet, ruined sheets, legs so dead you couldn’t move if you tried.
“Shit, shit !” He rasps, gently reaching for you and flipping you over to your back. The haze that filled his eyes is gone now, and he looks at your body in pure horror.
Bruises.
Bite marks.
The indentation of his fingers.
You blink into the light. You’re vibrating apart, every nerve raw and humming. Frank’s hands hover, then drop. He’s kneeling above you, shaking, looking down like he’s a monster who’s just drawn a bloodline in the sand and crossed it. Frank stares at the marks on your hips in horror, mouth open but no words coming out, breath rattling. He drags a hand over his face and looks at you, really looks, and his eyes go wide and dark like he’s seeing you for the first time.
“Jesus, baby, I—fuck, I’m—” He can’t even say it. His hands flutter, wanting to reach, not daring. You’re splayed open, cold now that he’s not filling you, the wet between your legs turning sticky against your skin. It’s obscene, the way your body wants him even now, the ache in your cunt still a live wire, pulsing. You press your legs together but he’s left you so stretched there’s nothing to squeeze. Frank scrambles off the bed and almost falls, legs shaking, cock slapping wet against his thigh. He’s pale and sweating, haunted, retreating from you like you’re radioactive. In the bathroom you hear him gag, then the faucet running, then another low, choked noise that’s all guilt and fear.
You lie in the mess and wait. The ceiling is just a white blur, your blood humming in your ears.
You could sleep forever.
Or die.
Either would be a mercy. You roll to your side, wince at the wet slap between your thighs, the way your body won’t hold you together. Your hand comes away sticky, smeared with both of you. You wipe it on the sheets, a halfhearted gesture, and laugh—quiet, ugly, edged with hysteria.
Frank comes back in, eyes rimmed red. He’s holding a towel and a bottle of water, both with the same careful gentleness that he used to carry your favorite takeout after a long shift. He doesn’t look at you while he presses the towel between your legs, mopping up the worst of the mess. His hands are shaking so bad he can’t get it right, so you grab the towel, dig it in yourself. The rough scrape hurts and you do it anyway.
He sits on the edge of the bed, as far from you as he can get without falling off, and stares at the wall.
“I don’t know what the fuck—” he starts, but his voice cracks. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. I’m so fucking sorry.” Frank's voice cracks on the last word, the sound swallowed by the thick, oppressive silence of the room. He can't look at you. His gaze is fixed on the wall, but he's not seeing the paint or the framed photo of your wedding day. He's seeing the imprint of his hands on your skin, the way your body went limp under his, the sounds you made that were half pleasure, half pain. He's seeing a monster wearing his face.
"Frankie," you start, your own voice a raspy whisper. You push yourself up, ignoring the screaming protest of every muscle. The sheet sticks to you, damp and cold. "Frankie, look at me." He flinches like you've struck him. He doesn't turn.
"Don't. Don't… don't be nice to me right now. I don't deserve it."
"Deserve's got nothing to do with it," you manage, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. The world tilts, and you brace a hand on the nightstand. "What happened? The powder. You said something about red powder." His shoulders hunch. He runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair, the gesture sharp and agitated.
"It was during my stupid mission. In the warehouse. Some old bastard… thought he was carrying a piece but he wasn't. Had a canister. I shot him, but he… he popped it. Red dust. Got all over me." He finally turns his head, and the devastation in his eyes makes your chest ache. "It was nothing at first. Just… weird. Then driving home… it was like a fire got lit inside me. A fever. And then… and then I saw you."He says it like a confession. Like seeing you, safe and asleep in your bed, was the catalyst that turned a chemical reaction into an act of violence. To him, it was.
"Okay," you say slowly, trying to piece it together through the fog of exhaustion and lingering arousal. "So it was a drug. Something that made you… like this."
"I didn't want to hurt you," he says, the words rushing out, thick with unshed tears. "I swear to god, I tried to stop. I tried to leave the room. I tried to… fuck, I don't know what I tried. Every second I was fighting it, but my body… it wasn't mine anymore. It was just… need. And you were there." You reach for his hand, and he lets you take it, his fingers cold and limp in yours.
"We need to figure out what it was. What it's doing to you." Your mind races, sifting through the limited options. The fever, the relentless… need. It's beyond anything you understand. "Frank… we should call Bruce. He knows this stuff. Chemicals, weird science, biological reactions. He could help." The reaction is instantaneous and violent. Frank snatches his hand back as if you've offered him poison. He's on his feet, pacing the small space at the end of the bed like a caged animal. The movement is jerky, still fueled by a residual tremor in his limbs.
"No. No fucking way."
"Frank, be reasonable," you plead, trying to stand, but your legs give out and you sink back onto the mattress. "You were burning up for almost three hours. We don't know if this is… if it's actually over, or if it's going to cause damage to you long term. He's the smartest guy we know. He could probably identify it over the phone."
"I said no!" he snaps, the voice of the Punisher cutting through the raw, wounded man from a moment ago. He stops pacing and glares at you, but the anger is all directed inward. "You think I'm gonna call that green freak and tell him I lost control? That I drugged myself and used my wife like a goddamn fleshlight until she passed out? You think I want him to know what I did to you?" The words are ugly, brutal, and they hang in the air between you. But you hear the fear underneath. The shame.
"Frank, it wasn't you," you insist, your voice gaining a little strength. "It was whatever was in that canister. Bruce would understand that."
"I don't care !" he shouts, running both hands through his hair in frustration. "I'm not telling him! I'm not telling anybody! The last thing I need is… is a lab coat poking at me while I explain how I couldn't keep my dick in my pants!" He stops, his chest heaving. He looks at the mess on the bed, at the marks on your skin visible even in the dim light, and the anger drains out of him, replaced by a crushing wave of self-loathing. He sinks to his knees at the foot of the bed, far enough away that he can't touch you, close enough that he can see the damage.
"Forget fucking Banner right now," he says, his voice quiet now, broken. "Forget everybody. Just… just let me take care of you. Please. We can call whoever the hell you want in the morning, sweetheart, i just-" He looks up at you, his eyes pleading. He rests his forehead against the mattress, his whole body trembling with the force of his regret. "I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry." You run your fingers through his hair.
"It's okay, Frank." He shakes his head so hard it almost looks painful.
"No." His voice is barely audible. "No, don't…" Another shake. "Don't say that." You frown.
"Frank—"
"I hurt you." The words come out flat. Certain. Like a verdict that's already been handed down. "I've spent years making damn sure I never did." He laughs once. It's a horrible sound. Empty.
"You know…" His eyes stay fixed on the floor. "I've broken bones with these hands." He holds them out in front of him. They won't stop trembling. "I've killed with these hands." His fingers curl into fists. "But every time I came home…" His voice cracks. "…I left all that outside." He looks up at you then, eyes red and swollen. "I never wanted you to be scared of me."
"I'm not."
"You should be."
"I'm not."
"I left bruises on you." You instinctively glance down. Finger-shaped marks are already darkening across your wrists and hips. Frank follows your gaze. Whatever composure he'd managed to hold together shatters.
"Oh, God…" He covers his face. "I did that."
"You were drugged."
"I did that."
"It wasn't your choice."
"It was my hands." His breathing starts to hitch. Not panicked. Not angry. Just… broken.
"I've spent every day since we got married trying to be gentle with you." He laughs bitterly through tears. "Remember the first time I helped you out of the shower after you sprained your ankle?" You nod. "You kept telling me I was holding you like you were made of glass."
"You were."
"'Cause I was scared I'd hurt you." Another tear slips down his face. "I've always been scared I'd hurt you." His shoulders begin to shake. "I know what I am."
"No."
"I do."
"Frank."
"I know what I've done." He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. "I can live with what I've done to people who deserved it." His voice drops to almost nothing. "I don't know how to live with doing it to you." You slide carefully off the bed. Every muscle protests. Your legs are unsteady. Frank notices immediately. His head snaps up.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm coming here."
"No." He backs away on instinct. "Don't."
"Frank."
"I'm filthy."
"No."
"I don't deserve—" You ignore him. You kneel in front of him anyway. It hurts. He notices that too. His face crumples.
"Baby…" You take his face in your hands. He tries to pull away. You don't let him.
"You have never once hurt me on purpose." He closes his eyes.
"That doesn't make this disappear."
"No. It doesn't." You rest your forehead against his. "But neither does you punishing yourself." His breath catches. "I married a man who checks the water temperature before I get into the shower." A tiny smile threatens at the corner of your mouth. "The man who apologizes if he bumps into me in the kitchen." He lets out a watery laugh."The man who still asks before touching me if he thinks I've had a bad day." Another tear rolls down his cheek. "That's my husband." You squeeze his hand. "Not whatever you think that powder turned you into." For a long time he doesn't answer.
Then, finally.... He leans forward. Just enough to rest his forehead against your shoulder. His entire body starts shaking.
Years of discipline. Years of control. Years of refusing himself the luxury of falling apart.
Gone.
He cries. Quietly. Like he's ashamed to even make noise. You hold him. Running slow circles across his back. Neither of you knows how long you stay like that. Eventually, his breathing evens out.
"I'm so tired," he whispers.
"I know."
"I'm scared to sleep." You pull back enough to look at him.
"Why?"
"What if it isn't over?" The fear in his eyes is raw. "What if I wake up like that again?"
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"No." You brush damp hair back from his forehead. "I don't." A beat. "But if something's wrong…" You lace your fingers through his. "…we'll face it together." He nods once. Reluctantly.
You convince him into a hot shower—not together, just enough to wash the chemical residue and sweat away. He insists on checking the water temperature for you before you step in, a habit so familiar it almost makes you cry. Afterwards he helps you into one of his old T-shirts and fresh pajamas with painstaking care, asking every few seconds if you're hurting, if you're dizzy, if he's moving too fast. When you finally crawl back into bed, he doesn't touch you. He lies on his back, rigid, leaving almost a foot of space between you. As though he's afraid his own skin might betray him again.
You reach across the mattress. Find his hand. He startles.
"It's okay," you whisper.
He hesitates before turning his hand over and intertwining your fingers. Neither of you says anything else. Exhaustion eventually wins.
-------
Morning arrives gray and quiet. You wake first. Frank is wrapped around you so tightly you fear he might actually suffocate you.
One arm is around your waist.
The other is tucked protectively beneath your neck.
One leg is hooked over yours.
You're fairly certain if someone tried to kidnap you, they'd have to take Frank with you. You blink up at the ceiling.
"…Frank." A sleepy grunt. "You are crushing me." Another grunt.
"No, I'm not."
"You absolutely are."
"I'm protecting you."
"From oxygen?" His eyes stay closed.
"…Maybe." You smile despite yourself.
"Frankie."
"Hm?"
"I need circulation."
"You've got circulation."
"My left arm is completely numb." He cracks one eye open.
"That's because you're dramatic."
"Oh, I'm dramatic?"
"Very." You wiggle experimentally. Every muscle below your waist immediately protests. You hiss through your teeth. Frank is fully awake before the sound has even finished leaving your mouth. His entire body goes rigid.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"What hurts?" You sigh.
"My everything." His face falls. Immediately.
"Oh…" He sits up so fast the mattress bounces. "I'm sorry."
"Frank."
"I'm so—"
"Frank."
"I shouldn't have—" You reach over and flick him lightly on the forehead.
"Ow."
"Good." He rubs the spot with exaggerated offense.
"You flicked me."
"You were spiraling."
"I wasn't."
"You apologized three times in six seconds."
"I could've hit seven." You can't help laughing. The sound makes his shoulders loosen just a fraction. "There's my girl."
He reaches toward you automatically. Then hesitates halfway. His hand hangs awkwardly in the air. You notice. Without saying anything, you take it yourself. His fingers close around yours immediately.
"I'm sore," you admit.
"I know."
"But I'm okay."
"I know."
"You look like you're about to throw up."
"I might." You roll your eyes.
"If you pass out before breakfast, I'm divorcing you." That earns the tiniest smile.
"You'd miss me."
"I would."
"You love me."
"Unfortunately."
"Hm." He nods once. "Still marrying me again."
"Maybe."
"Definitely."
"Depends."
"On?"
"Whether you make coffee." Without another word, Frank stands.
"I'll make coffee."
"And pancakes."
"I'll make pancakes."
"And bacon."
"I'll make bacon."
"And you're doing dishes." He points at you.
"Now you're pushing it." You grin.
"There he is."
"Who?"
"My grumpy husband."
"I was always here."
"You disappeared for a bit." His smile fades.
"I know." The room grows quiet again. You squeeze his hand.
"We're still here." He nods.
"We're still here." An hour later, the kitchen smells like coffee and burnt toast. Frank glares at the toaster.
"It betrayed me."
"You forgot to push it down."
"I was distracted."
"By?" He glances at you.
"You walked funny." You freeze halfway to your chair.
"…Excuse me?"
"You winced."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"I tripped."
"You tripped while standing still."
"I was thinking."
"You were limping."
"I was not limping." Frank raises one eyebrow. You sigh dramatically.
"I was… walking thoughtfully." He snorts into his coffee.
"Thoughtfully."
"Exactly."
"You've got a hitch in your step."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"No." You smile into your mug. "I really don't." His expression softens again.
"I'm sorry." You point your fork at him.
"That's apology number… honestly, I've lost count."
"I'm serious."
"So am I." You reach across the table.
"I know you are." He looks at your joined hands. Then down at his plate.
"I've never…" His voice trails off.
"I know."
"I've always worried…" He swallows. "…about bringing that part of my life home."
"You never did."
"I almost did."
"You came home because you trusted me."
"I came home because I didn't know where else to go."
"And that's okay." He nods slowly.
"Still hate that you're hurting."
"I'll survive."
"I know."
"I've survived your cooking."
"The toast wasn't that bad."
"It achieved a level of carbon previously unknown to science."
"It was artisanal."
"It was charcoal." He chuckles quietly. The sound feels like sunlight. After breakfast, Frank disappears into the laundry room. A minute later you hear,
"…Sweetheart?"
"What?"
"Where're the freezer bags?" You blink.
"The… freezer bags?"
"Yeah." You find him standing over yesterday's discarded clothes with a pair of barbecue tongs.
"…Frank."
"What?"
"Why are you holding my kitchen tongs?"
"I'm not touching that stuff."
"You literally fought an entire warehouse."
"Bullets don't usually come covered in mystery chemicals." Fair point. You hand him a box of large zip-top storage bags. He carefully picks up his shirt with the tongs.
"You know," you say, leaning against the doorway, "Bruce is never going to let you live this down." Frank stuffs the shirt into the bag.
"He says one word—"
"He'll say at least twelve."
"I'll leave."
"You can't."
"I absolutely can."
"You need him."
"I know." He seals the bag with excessive force. "I'm just not happy about it." You laugh.
"I'm putting money on Tony finding out within the hour." Frank looks horrified.
"…Don't even joke."
"I'm serious."
"He'll make a PowerPoint."
"He'll make merch."
"He'll name the chemical after me."
"'Castle Syndrome.'"
"'Frank's Bad Decision Dust.'"
"'Horny Powder.'" You burst out laughing. Frank pinches the bridge of his nose.
"I hate all of you."
"You haven't even left the house yet."
"I'm getting a headache in advance." You tuck the sealed evidence bag into another airtight container.
"There." You smile up at him. "Ready?" Frank takes a long breath. His eyes drift briefly to you, checking—again—that you're steady on your feet.
"You sure you're okay to go?"
"I'm sure."
"You'll tell me if you're hurting?"
"I will."
"You promise?"
"I promise." He studies you for another second before nodding. Then he picks up the container with the contaminated clothes as though it contains a live grenade.
"Let's go." You slip your hand into his free one.
"And maybe," you add, "let's not open the conversation with 'Hi, Bruce, I accidentally got dusted by horny cocaine.'" Frank groans.
"…I'm driving."
"You say that like it solves the problem."
"It solves my problem."
The drive to the Avengers Compound is unusually quiet. Normally, Tony would have received at least three sarcastic voice messages by now. Today, Frank's hands stay locked around the steering wheel. Every few minutes, he glances sideways.
"You okay?" You nod.
"I'm okay." Five minutes later—
"You sure?" You smile faintly.
"I'm still okay." Another red light.
"You dizzy?"
"No."
"You nauseous?"
"A little." His grip tightens.
"Frank."
"What?"
"You've asked me twenty-three questions."
"I have not."
"You absolutely have."
"…Twenty-two." You snort. He doesn't. He's serious. Painfully serious. You reach across the center console and squeeze his forearm.
"I'm fine." His eyes remain on the road.
"I know."
"No." You shake your head. "You don't." He finally looks at you for half a second.
"I don't know anything right now." Bruce is already waiting when the two of you arrive. He takes one look at Frank's expression and immediately frowns.
"…Frank."
"Banner." Bruce's eyes move to you.
"You alright?" You answer before Frank can.
"I'm sore." Frank visibly winces. Bruce notices.
"So… why don't we start from the beginning?" Frank sets the airtight container on the lab bench like it's an unexploded bomb.
"I brought the clothes." Bruce blinks.
"…Good?"
"I wasn't touching 'em."
"You carried them with barbecue tongs," you add. Bruce looks between the two of you.
"…You carried contaminated evidence with kitchen utensils?" Frank crosses his arms.
"They're stainless steel." Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose.
"I'm… not sure that's the issue." Frank shrugs.
"They were clean."
"They're definitely not anymore."
"They're in the dishwasher." Bruce sighs.
"I'm suddenly very concerned about your dishwasher." Despite everything, you laugh. Frank looks relieved just to hear it. Bruce pulls on gloves and carefully removes Frank's shirt from the bag. The fabric still carries faint reddish stains near the collar.
"Hm." He transfers tiny samples into a glass dish. The lab falls quiet except for the hum of machines. Frank paces. You sit on one of the stools, trying very hard not to shift your weight. Every muscle in your hips protests. You ignore it. Frank notices anyway.
"You alright?"
"Yep."
"You just made a face."
"I was… thinking." Bruce looks over his shoulder.
"Thoughtfully?" You glare.
"He's infected everyone." Frank almost smiles. Almost. Bruce spends another several minutes scanning the residue, and taking a blood sample from Frank. Then he pauses.
"…Well." Neither of you likes that tone.
"What?" Frank asks immediately. Bruce adjusts the image on the monitor.
"It's… not exactly what I expected."
"What is it?" Bruce folds his arms.
"The compound appears to be an engineered biochemical aerosol." Frank stares.
"In English." Bruce sighs.
"It hijacks several neurochemical pathways simultaneously."
"…English."
"It artificially stimulates areas of the brain associated with sexual arousal, reward, impulse suppression, and temperature regulation." You blink.
"So…" Bruce clears his throat.
"It's… essentially a weaponized aphrodisiac." Frank looks horrified. Bruce continues, almost apologetically. "An extremely aggressive one."
"…You're telling me I got hit with sex pollen?" Bruce hesitates.
"…Scientifically speaking…Yes. Your sex drive went into overdrive."
Silence.
Frank rubs both hands over his face.
"Fuck's sake. I got taken out by horny fairy dust." The lab doors slide open.
"Please tell me somebody said 'horny fairy dust.'"
Tony.
Of course.
He strolls in carrying a coffee the size of a flower vase.
"I leave for one meeting…" His eyes land on Frank. "…and somehow Castle has managed to invent a brand-new category of workplace incident." Frank groans.
"I knew it." Tony points dramatically.
"I called it!"
"You weren't here."
"I psychically called it." Bruce mutters,
"I absolutely did not tell him."
"I have ears."
"You have surveillance software."
"I have excellent surveillance software." Tony finally notices you.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine." He nods. Then his eyes catch something near your shoulder where your oversized T-shirt has slipped. A dark bite mark. He winces.
"…Wow." Frank immediately turns.
"What?" You instinctively pull the collar up.
"Nothing." Frank's face drains of color. He'd seen the bruises. He hadn't seen that. Tony opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
"I'm gonna make exactly one joke." Bruce sighs.
"Tony."
"I'm exercising tremendous restraint."
Bruce looks back toward the monitor.
"Based on your blood sample, i'd say the toxin has been cleared from your system." He says. He looks back up at Frank. "Do you have any idea how ?" Frank freezes beside you. His ears go bright red.
"Uh.. Well.." he starts, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor tiles. "There was… a lot of… liquid intake." Tony’s coffee freezes halfway to his lips. His eyes widen in dawning, gleeful comprehension. Bruce, bless him, just looks confused.
"Liquid intake?" Bruce asks, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Hydration is good, but I'm not sure how that would metabolize a complex neurotoxin this quickly. We're talking about a half-life of—"
"He doesn't mean he drank a lot of water, Bruce," Tony cuts in, his voice dripping with suppressed laughter. "He means Mrs Castle here had a lot of liquid intake." He makes a vague gesture towards Frank's groin. Frank’s entire face is now the color of a stop sign.
"Stark, I swear to God—"
"What ? You gonna hit me because you came in your wife ?"
"Tony !" You hiss, stepping between them before Frank can actually make good on the promise in his eyes. "He's not the only one who came, you know. It was a team effort." Tony blinks. Frank, who had been coiled to strike, freezes so completely you can hear the blood rushing in your ears. He slowly lowers his fists, turning his head to look at you with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock. Tony, however, recovers instantly. His grin becomes a thing of legend.
"A team effort," he repeats, savoring the words. "I like that. Collaborative problem-solving. Very Avengers of you. So, just to be clear for my notes, was this a… simultaneous deployment, or a series of controlled bursts?" Bruce finally catches on, and a horrified blush creeps up his neck.
"Tony, for the love of God, stop."
"No, no, this is a legitimate scientific inquiry!" Tony insists, pointing a finger at Frank. "Because, and I'm just spitballing here, you didn't know this would work, did you, Castle? You just went for it. You looked at a situation involving a weaponized aphrodisiac and your solution was… what? More sex? Rougher sex? Did you have a hypothesis? 'If I just rail her into next week, maybe the chemical bonds will break from sheer force of will?'" Frank's jaw works, but the rage is being replaced by a deep, soul-crushing mortification. He looks at Tony, then at you, then at the floor.
"It… seemed like a good idea at the time, I couldn't exactly control it." he mumbles, the words barely audible.
"It seemed like a good idea," Tony crows, delighted. "The man's entire tactical genius boils down to 'it seemed like a good idea at the time'! I'm putting that on your tombstone. 'Frank Castle: He Had A Good Idea Once.'" You can't help it. A small, helpless laugh escapes you. Frank shoots you a wounded look, but you just pat his arm.
"He's not wrong," you whisper. 'You did come home quite charged and didn't really think." Bruce, desperate to regain control of his lab, clears his throat loudly.
"Okay. Fascinating as this… post-op analysis is, we should discuss the aftereffects." He looks at you, his expression professional but tinged with concern. "The chemical was designed to lower inhibitions and increase physical endurance. The… physical activity… would have been intense. You should be checked over. Just to make sure there are no… internal injuries." Frank's head snaps up, his face a mask of renewed horror. He looks at you, his eyes wide with a fresh wave of guilt.
"Jesus," he breathes. You feel your own cheeks heat up. You wave a dismissive hand, trying for nonchalance and probably failing.
"Oh, I'm… I'm fine. Really. Just… a little tender."
"Tender?" Tony jumps on the word. "Tender is for steak! Jesus, sweetheart, you have a bite mark on your shoulder ! I frankly don't even want to see what you're hidin' under them clothes."
"Tony, I swear to God—" Frank starts, but you cut him off.
"I'm fine. I swear." you manage, your throat dry.
"Listen, i know this is awkward but-"
"Seriously, Bruce. I'm fine." You say. Bruce pushes his glasses up his nose, his expression shifting from concerned to deeply uncomfortable.
"I know you are, but I need to be sure. We don't have enough data on the transmission vector of this compound. Frank's blood is clear, but we only tested his. The toxin was primarily absorbed through his respiratory system and skin. However, the… fluid transfer… creates a new variable." You frown.
"What variable?" Bruce sighs, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else on earth.
"We don't know if the compound can be passed between hosts like a sexually transmitted disease. Frank's system may have flushed it out, but if there's any residual trace in his semen, and if it's still viable… it could reinfect you. Or worse, it could mutate. We have no precedent for this." The lab goes dead silent. Tony, who had been smirking with self-satisfaction, slowly lowers his coffee mug. The humor drains from his face, replaced by a dawning, clinical curiosity that's somehow even more unnerving.
"Whoa," he says softly. "Reinfection. Mutation. So, what you're saying is, Castle's… cure… might actually be the carrier for round two?" Frank looks like he's been physically struck. He stares at Bruce, his face a mask of horror, all the blood having drained from it. He glances at you, his eyes wide with a fresh, sickening wave of guilt. It's one thing to have lost control in the heat of the moment; it's another thing entirely to have potentially poisoned you with it.
"So… what?" Frank asks, his voice a hoarse rasp. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Bruce says, choosing his words with extreme care, "that until I can run more simulations and analyze the data, you should… abstain. From any and all sexual intercourse. Just to be safe. We need a clean baseline to make sure she's not carrying it either."
"Abstain," Frank repeats, the word sounding foreign and wrong in his mouth. Tony, ever the helpful one, chimes in.
"Yeah, you know. No more 'collaborative problem-solving.' No more 'controlled bursts.' You're on a mandatory dry run, Castle. For science." You can't help it. A small, hysterical bubble of laughter escapes your lips. It's either that or cry. Frank looks at you like you've grown a second head.
"Sorry," you choke out, waving a hand. "It's just… the timing." Frank just stares at you, then at Bruce, then at the floor. He looks utterly defeated. He came here for answers, for a clean slate, and instead, he's been handed a life sentence. He nods, a short, sharp, jerky motion.
"Right. No… that. Right." He turns to you, his expression a mixture of apology and profound misery. "Let's… let's go." He doesn't wait for a reply. He just turns and walks out of the lab, his shoulders hunched, his steps heavy. You shoot a helpless look at Bruce, who just gives you a sympathetic shrug, and then at Tony, who has the decency to look at least a little bit ashamed. You hurry after Frank, catching up to him just as he reaches the elevator. The doors slide shut, enclosing you in the small, silent space. He doesn't look at you. He just stares at the numbers counting down, his jaw clenched so tight you're surprised his teeth don't crack.
"Frank," you say softly. He doesn't respond. "Frank, it's okay."
"It's not okay," he says, his voice low and rough. "I… I hurt you. And now… now I can't even… touch you."
"You can touch me," you say, reaching out and placing a hand on his arm. "Just not… that." He lets out a short, bitter laugh.
"Might as well be the same thing." The elevator doors open, and he walks out into the garage, heading straight for the car. He's quiet on the drive home, staring out the window, his jaw working. You can almost hear the gears turning in his head, replaying every humiliating moment. When you get back to the apartment, he heads straight for the kitchen, pulling a beer from the fridge. He twists the cap off and takes a long swallow, leaning against the counter.
"He's never gonna let it live it down, is he?" Frank asks, his voice low and rough.
"No," you say gently, moving to stand in front of him. You take the beer from his hand and set it aside, then wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his chest. "He's going to have PowerPoint presentations. There might be merch. He's probably already designing a logo for 'Frank's Bad Decision Dust.'" Frank's arms come around you, holding you tight. You feel him let out a long, shuddering breath.
"I'm sorry," he says, his voice muffled in your hair. "For all of it. For… last night. For this morning. For… all of it." You pull back just enough to look up at him.
"Hey. Look at me." He meets your gaze, his eyes filled with a familiar, weary self-loathing. "We're okay. You hear me? We're okay."
"I hurt you."
"And I'm sore," you admit. "But I'm not broken. And you didn't mean to. It wasn't you."
"It felt like me," he says quietly.
"It wasn't," you say, your voice firm. "It was the… fairy dust." You can't help but smile a little. "The horny fairy dust." A tiny smile touches his lips, so faint you almost miss it.
"Horny fairy dust," he repeats, shaking his head. "Jesus."
thinking about frank castle with a girl who’s just so shy…
One of Franks favorite things in the whole world is your giggle. When you get all shy and embarrassed and giddy and bashful and he calls you out on it, every single time, you’ll hide your face and giggle your sweet little giggle.
You’d do it now, if he were to wake you up, but that’s the last thing he’d ever think of doing. Your eyes blink open anyways, though, and he watches you rub them with a sleepy little groan. Your breath hitches and your head turns when his big fingers push your messy hair off your forehead.
“Mornin’ pretty girl,”
You smile, bashful and still half asleep, while you wrap around his bare chest. He’s always so warm, and his heartbeat pumping in your ear has you lulling back to sleep.
“Tired?” His voice murmurs, while he drags a paw over your cheek. You nod against him, snuggling closer. “Yeah, baby? I tire you out, huh?”
There it is.
You whine his name, covered by giggles, while stuffing your face into the crevice between his arm and stomach, embarrassed like he hasn’t had you worn out and out of breath, laying in bed with legs you didn’t know could shake that much.
“Oh,” He laughs, grinning down at you. “Ain’t gotta be embarrassed. Just me, just your man.”
His hands cup your head and pry you out of hiding.
“Just your Frankie.” Then, just to see you flush again, while his fingers hold your jaw and sweep over your face, he adds, quiet and soft, “Look so pretty all flushed, no reason to hide fr’m me. Think I had you lookin’ a lot worse for wear last night, this ain’t nothin’ to be blushin’ ‘bout.”
“Frank!” You repeat, rolling over to the other side of the bed while your hands cover your face and the smile that you can’t force away.
“Baby,” He chases after you, chastising you with puppy-dog eyes and an ear-to-ear grin. “C’mon,”
“You’re dirty, Frank,” You let him push you back against his side anyways.
“Oh, am I? Am I, my dirty girl?” He’s murmuring down at you, holding you close and tight enough that there’s no where else to hide. “Gets so shy, like she ain’t just as nasty, my sweet, dirty baby.”
“Frank,” You whine once more, quieter, and maybe just a little bit needy. It’s his fault; he can’t talk like that and expect nothing! He grins again, delivering a swift and forceful kiss to your lips.
“There she is,” He pulls back, holding you against his chest. “My girl already wantin’ some more from me?”
“Frank!” His laughter bellows through the small bedroom. God, there isn’t anything that he loves more than this.
⠀ ⠀⠀ — fem! reader x situationship! gojo , angst, suggestive content, cursing, gojo is toxic (boooo)
pt. 2 here!
⟢ 𝗆𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌: i know im gonna make some people tingle with this cliff hanger but it adds drama if u get what i mean… universal experience to all us pretty girls and a RATTY TOXIC MAN. if u want a pt2 lmk to tag u in the comments :3
About: You can't help but feel like you're being followed. Ned is concerned and wants you to go to the police. MJ gifts you a taser. Or for some odd reason, Spider-Man starts walking you home after your late-night shifts, and you don't know if it's a good thing or bad. Or Peter keeps his promise he gave you, even if you don't remember him.
Pairing: Peter Parker x Fem!Reader
Warnings: Sadboy!Peter, fluff, slight yearning, barely any use of y/n, and not edited.
Word Count: 4.2K
Masterlist
Author's Note: Trying to get over this creative burnout. Here's some Peter fluff :') I haven't written in so long, so idk how I feel about this.
Divider: @/enchanthings @/saradika-graphics
It's 10 am, and you and MJ are sitting in a lecture hall of 200 people listening to the professor drone on about Fundamentals of Biochemistry. You glance over at MJ, who's slouched in her seat, doodling away in her notebook. You're barely following along with the professor's presentation when you get a feeling that someone is watching you. It's the gut feeling in the pit of your stomach, the one you can't ignore.
It's not the first time you've got the feeling that someone is watching you or that you're being followed. It started about a month ago, around the same time you had your first run-in with Spider-Man. And now you're thinking it's a sign from the universe that something bad is going to happen to you.
One run-in with Spider-Man is a coincidence.
But almost every day this past month? Not so much.
Yeah, you're doomed.
For some odd reason, you haven't shared this fact with your two closest friends/ roommates, MJ and Ned. You don't want Ned overreacting or MJ coming up with theories about why you keep running into the masked superhero. She's already suspicious of Spider-Man, and the last thing she needs to know is about how Spider-Man has been personally escorting you home after your closing shifts, and you don't know why. You don't buy Spider-Man's excuse of "being in the area" after the last time you asked him why he's walking you home.
You're so lost in your thought that you don't notice the lecture is over until MJ is nudging you, giving you a slightly concerned look. "You okay?" she asks, stands and waits patiently as you gather your things.
"Yeah, of course," you easily lie, but nothing gets past MJ.
"And your lack of note-taking?"
"Uh," you drag out, trying to think of an excuse, but she sighs and shakes her head.
"Are you worried about your stalker?" she casually says as she gently ushers you down the steps, and you almost choke at her words.
"MJ," you hiss, and you whip around to face her while simultaneously seeing if anyone was listening, but the hall was mostly empty except for a few stragglers in the front row.
"I'm just saying. Also, please stop taking the train home alone at night. Ned has been an anxious mess ever since you told us you started doing that. I'm worried for you, too. What happened to Gwen and her meathead fiancé?"
"You mean Brock."
"Whatever," she huffs and raises her eyebrow at you. "So, what happened to them giving you a ride back home after your closing shifts?"
"Brock's been forced to stay late at work."
"He works at The Daily Bugle," she deadpans.
You shrug and continue down the steps. "I dunno, his boss is an asshole."
The part about Brock's boss was true, but not the part about him staying late at work.
MJ started to grow suspicious when you kept coming home way later than usual.
Your excuses of deep cleaning the store and inventory only worked on MJ for about a week. And you weren't going to tell her the truth.
How Spider-Man has basically been waiting for you after work, then walking you home.
Almost like a boyfriend.
A few weeks ago, when you first sensed you were being watched, your slightly paranoid self let it slip to Ned and MJ that you think someone is following you. That was kind of a mistake. MJ's solution was to give you a taser, and Ned was ready to take you to the closest precinct himself.
The thing is, all you had to go on was a gut feeling, and that wasn't enough for a police report. And that's all it is. A feeling.
A feeling that someone was watching you. Having lived in a big city your whole life, you were no stranger to what to watch out for, but this felt different.
You found yourself constantly looking over your. Whether it be on campus, in the library, or even at work. If you did have a "stalker," they hadn't tried to contact you in anyway and you're not sure if you're relieved or not.
Between MJ, Ned, and your work bestie, Gwen, you're never alone when you have somewhere to go. You, Ned, and MJ have similar class schedules, so you're always commuting to campus with either one of them.
And you and Gwen work night shifts at the cafe. You started to feel a little guilty when Gwen and her fiancé, Brock, kept giving you rides back home after each closing shift. Your mind goes back to that first night you ran into the masked superhero himself.
---
"Are you sure you don't need a ride?" Gwen asks again for what seems like the hundredth time in the past hour.
A small part of you feels a little bad that Brock and Gwen have been giving you rides back home every single day this week. Despite Brock and Gwen's constant reassurance that it's not a big deal, you decide to chance it and take the train this time. Besides, it's not that late, and there'll still be enough people around.
MJ is convinced that the moment you're totally and completely alone, your stalker will pop out and attack. But you won't be alone, you'll be with other commuters.
Everything will be fine.
"I'm sure," you insist with a laugh, "Ned is meeting me at the bus stop. I told you we're having a late-night study sesh at the library.
Gwen purses her lips with slightly narrowed eyes as she stares you down, as you anxiously gnaw on the inside of your cheek, praying she'll buy your lie.
She huffs. "Well, Brock and I can walk-"
"Gwen," you slightly whine.
"What?" she scoffs, crossing her arms. "Having a stalker is serious, and they can escalate at any gi-"
"Oh my god," you groan, throwing your head back. "You sound like MJ."
She tosses a rag at you. "Sorry if we care more about your safety than you do."
Your expression softens as you catch her worried tone. "Gwen, I really appreciate you and Brock giving me rides all this week, but seriously, I'll be okay. It's literally a 3-minute walk to the bus stop, and Ned will be waiting for me." It scares you a little that the lie slipped out so easily.
Gwen hold's you gaze for a few more moments before relenting. "Fine, but promise me if Ned's not there waiting for you, call me and stay on the phone until he gets there."
A few hours later, you stare at the back of Gwen's head as she sets the security alarm to the cafe, and you both exit the shop. The guilt of the lie you told her weighs down on you as Gwen pulls you in for a goodbye hug, and Brock gives you a friendly wave before you leave them both behind, walking in the opposite direction to the "bus stop".
You keep mentally saying the words 'it's fine, everything will be fine' all the way to the train station, only to be met with a closed-off sign to the entrance. You're not sure if it's due to construction or Spider-Man and the Punisher having a showdown earlier this week. Knowing New York, it's probably both.
You groan as you realize you'll have to head down several blocks to the next entrance, and you quickly shoot a text to Gwen saying you and Ned are on the bus. A few feet ahead, you hear some yelling coming from the alley, nothing out of the normal for New York, but you still quicken your pace as you pass the alley.
What you don't notice is one of the figures spotting you as you hurry by.
Curiosity gets the best of you, and you give a quick peek as you're passing, and there are several figures at the end of the alley, and it definitely looks like it's a fight of some sort.
Even though you saw a brief second of the altercation, your heartbeat still quickens as you stick your hand into your purse, digging out your phone, and as you do so, you realize you forgot to pack the taser and pepper spray.
And that's when you hear it.
Footsteps behind you.
And you know it's one of the people in the alley since there's no one else around. You quicken your pace, almost jogging, as panic sets in.
"Hey!" A slightly muffled voice calls from behind you, causing you to start running to the nearest store, which happens to be in the deli. You reach the door, latch onto the handle, and start frantically yanking on the door, only for it to be locked.
Tonight really isn't your night.
In your frantic state, you don't realize that only one side of the door is locked, and you almost fall through and into the owner as he opens the other side, giving you a confused look.
"What the hell? Can't you rea-whoa, hey, are you okay?" he asks, finally taking in your shaken-up state as he helps you stand up.
"S-someone is following me," you manage to get out, and you see him look at something over the top of your head.
Your heart drops at his change of expression, and your mind jumps to all these horrible assumptions.
He lets out a slight chuckle. "Is this an act? You got yourself in some trouble with Spider-Man, huh?"
You gape at his face, completely bewildered and not registering his words at first.
"Wh-what? I-I-what? I-" you stutter, still staring at him, not ready to turn around and see if he's telling the truth.
He pats your shoulder and gives a nod towards the door. "If you're an alien, you mind taking the fight with Spider-Man somewhere else? Still waiting on the insurance for this place." And with that, he leaves you at the door, confused as hell.
You stand there staring blankly at the register and have half a mind to call Gwen and see if she and Brock are still nearby. The person following you hasn't come into the deli, unless they're waiting for you outside.
Taking a deep breath, you turn around to look outside the door, and you don't see anyone. Well, except for one person, the deli owner was telling the truth.
Spider-Man.. just standing outside the deli.
He can't be the one who was following you, right? Was he in the alley? Is he hurt? Why is he standing there? Is he waiting for someone? All these thoughts race through your mind as you continue to stare. He doesn't notice you're staring.
You watch as he slightly shuffles his feet, staring at the ground, and kicks at a pebble. You imagine if his suit had pockets, his hands would be shoved inside. He looks so normal, despite the fact that he's Spider-Man.
You're indifferent when it comes to the masked superhero. MJ is obsessed with figuring out who he is, and Ned is such a fanboy of Spider-Man. All the times you've seen him are through a T.V screen or some blurry picture of Spider-Man mid-swing that Brock somehow managed to get for The Daily Bugle.
Seeing Spider-Man literally standing a few feet away in the flesh is a little jarring. You hesitate before going outside, the ding of the bell causes Spider-Man to look up, and you notice how the eye lenses on his mask widen slightly before going back to normal.
An awkward silence hangs between you two, and you still aren't sure if this is real or not.
"H-hi," he finally says, breaking the silence. There's a slight waver in his voice, almost as if he's nervous to see you. Which is crazy, maybe you're imagining things. All these late-night shifts and a full course load are getting to you.
"Are you okay?" You're not sure why those are the first words that come out of your mouth.
Again, his 'eyes' widen slightly before he takes a step closer, staring at you as you remain on the stoop.
"Are you?" Peter counters. "I mean, earlier, you seemed a little spooked."
He notices the change in your expression and mentally kicks himself.
Your eyes slightly narrow as you eye him suspiciously. Maybe MJ is right, maybe there's more to Spider-Man than meets the eye. So what if the mayor gave him the Key to the City? Are all superheroes truly good?
"You were following me?"
"Yes-I-I mean, no, but-"
"Uh-huh," you deadpan, and you're about to head back into the deli when his next words stop you.
"One of the guys from the alley was following you, but I stopped him," he calls out, almost pleadingly. As if he's hoping you'll believe him. "Also, you dropped this."
Slowly, you turn around and see that Spider-Man is holding up your student ID.
You step off the stoop and carefully take it from him, and you can't help but stare intently at his masked face. Peter knows you can't see through the mask, and even if you could, you still wouldn't recognize him.
If he wanted, he could unmask himself right now in this moment, and all you would see is some stranger staring back at you. Even though it's been several years since Stephen Strange cast that spell, making everyone forget Peter Parker. Peter is still grieving Aunt May, and he's also grieving the loss of the closest people to him, forgetting him. Happy, Ned, MJ, and of course, you.
Peter tried his best to keep his distance, but that didn't stop him from going to the diner where MJ worked. He would hide away in some back booth and wait patiently every day for you and Ned to come and bother MJ during her shift.
The ache and longing in his chest would grow every day when carefully watching and listening to the three of you mess around and joke with each other. Peter knows he's torturing himself, but he can't help it. Soon, it became routine for him to come to the diner, hideaway, and watch the three of you almost daily. In a way, Peter felt like he was still a part of the group.
Peter forced himself to stop when MJ got a little suspicious of him. Not with him coming in all the time, she wrote him off as a regular, but she did catch Peter watching you and Ned, alot.
Specifically, you.
And MJ, being MJ, confronted him about it. One day before you and Ned stopped by. She bluntly told Peter to stop creepily staring at her best friend or else she would call the cops. She also, in not-so-many words, banned him from the diner.
Peter was going stir-crazy not seeing the three of you, so he took to social media stalking. Which was way worse than seeing the three of you in person at the diner. He was trying to think of ways to 'casually' bump into you or Ned when it happened.
He bumped into you at a deli near campus. You were with Gwen, smiling, and Peter almost burned his hand, forgetting he was pouring himself some coffee. He quietly stayed behind you and Gwen, pretending to look at the menu as he listened to you rant about a professor to Gwen.
Peter tried his best not to smile as he listened to you talk. He missed hearing your voice. And since that day, he's quietly observed you from afar. He knows it's a little creepy following your girlfriend when she has no idea who you are. But in Peter's defense, he's keeping his promise to you.
The one you made him promise you before Strange cast the spell.
And Peter was never one to break a promise.
He thought he was doing a pretty good job at keeping his distance until tonight. Honestly, it was a happy accident that he was in the area. And now you're standing in front of him, and he could die happy. Even though you are giving him the stink eye. He's glad that MJ is rubbing off on you.
"Okay, well, this has been sufficiently awkward. Thanks again," you quickly say before heading back in the direction of the train station.
"Hey, wait!" Peter calls out and easily catches up with you. There are a few people around, but no one really pays Spider-Man much mind.
You ignore him as you continue to walk, crossing your arms. You want this night to be over with. The last thing you need is Spider-Man pestering you. Seriously, why isn't he leaving?
"So-"
"Don't you have bad guys to catch?" you abruptly cut in.
Peter tries not to stare at your profile for too long. "We-well, I, uh... it's my duty to make sure you get home safely," Peter lamely finishes.
You stop walking and look at him with a raised brow. "Duty?" you slightly scoff.
"Okay, maybe duty isn't the right word, but-"
"I'm fine, now. I don't need a personal escort home, Spider-Man," you snap at him. And the moment the words leave your mouth, you want to take them back as you see him almost deflate before your eyes. You feel terrible, and you don't know why.
The way you say Spider-Man almost feels like a slap to the face for Peter. He definitely didn't picture his first real interaction with you to go this way. Before the spell, and before you, Ned and MJ even knew Peter was Spider-Man, he knew you were a bit of a fan, maybe not much as Ned, but you still admired Spider-Man.
Now, it seems not so much.
"Oh," his voice sounds so small, and it adds to the regret you're feeling. "Okay, well, I'll just," he mumbles before getting ready to shoot a web out of his web shooter.
"Wait... maybe you could walk me to the train station?" you quietly offer. Even though you can't see it, Peter is beaming underneath the mask.
---
That was a few weeks ago, and since then, Spider-Man has been walking you to the train station each night, and soon those train station walks have turned into walking you all the way home.
All the way to East Harlem.
And that's quite a walk from the cafe.
During those long walks, you feel like you've grown close to Spider-Man if that's possible. If you say the words out loud, it makes you sound crazy, but it's true.
In some odd way, you've grown close to the masked superhero without knowing anything about him. He lets slip a few things about himself. He's always careful not to make them too personal.
As of recently, you've caught yourself thinking about Spider-Man during the daylight hours. Just small thoughts, what's he doing? Is he sleeping? At school? You almost laugh at the ridiculous thought of Spider-Man sharing a class with you, and you wouldn't even know.
Later that night, you had a closing shift with Jack, and you were grateful you didn't have to deal with Gwen's constant offers for a ride home.
Before you knew it, you were nearing a very familiar deli. Since that first night, you and Spider-Man have unofficially made this place your meeting spot after your shift. You've also grown close with the deli owner, Dale, and finally convinced him you weren't an alien.
It's part of your routine now: close up the cafe, go to the deli, get a chopped cheese from Dale, and walk home with Spider-Man. Like always, Spider-Man is waiting for you, sitting on the stoop, and you can't help but laugh at the sight.
Peter looks up at the sound of your laugh and smiles underneath his mask. He stands as he says, "You better not be laughing at someone who got you a free chopped cheese."
You let out a slight gasp. "You didn't. How? Is Dale sick? Because he would never, not even for you, maybe a discount."
Peter laughs as he hands you the wrapped sandwich. "Just did him a small favor," Peter mysteriously replies.
"Mhm," you tease as you and Spider-Man start the long walk back home. "Soon it'll be winter," you comment.
"Wow, already," he murmurs.
"Yeah," you start as you shoot him a glance. "I'll have to actually take the train home. There's no way I'm walking over an hour in the freezing cold."
Peter lets out a small hum in thought as he stares up at the night sky. "I could always swing you home," he partially jokes as he looks over at you.
"Hell no. I hate heights," you say, and start telling a story about how MJ dared you to go on a roller coaster at Coney Island.
As Peter listens to the all-too-familiar story. He was there with you, MJ, and Ned, too. He's picturing the memory in his head, but he can't help but notice how the details of your story differ from the real memory. You keep saying how it was Ned who held your hand during the ride and how Ned held back your hair as you barfed in the trash can. Yeah, Ned was there, but Ned wasn't doing all those things. Peter was.
And the familiar ache builds in his chest, and he feels his eyes start to water, and he tries to quiet a sniffle that comes out. Suddenly, he's gruffly saying, "Yeah, I know." Trying to hide the fact he's about to cry.
You stop dead in your tracks. "How would you know that?" you ask, suspicion seeping into your words. While the comment isn't weird, it's his tone that has you growing weary.
It's not the first time you've heard his voice change. It's a tone that almost sounds like he heard a story or a comment you've made before.
Like he knows you.
Which is crazy.
Maybe you're looking too much into it.
Peter tries to save the moment. "Uh... I mean, you didn't let me finish. Yeah, I know. It reminds me of an old memory with some friends of mine."
You let it go for now. "So, Spider-Man has friends?" you lightly tease as you both continue to walk, and Peter lets out a quiet sigh of relief.
You're almost home when you finally ask the question that's been on your mind since the third time Spider-Man has walked you home.
You abruptly cut in front of him and face him. "Okay, tell it to me straight. Am I on some death wish list?" you bluntly ask.
Peter gapes at you. "Huh?"
"Ya know. Did I do something to piss someone off? Am I on a hit list and you're protecting me or something?"
Peter can't help but let out a slight laugh at your words. "You watch way too many movies." He tries moving around you, but you stop him.
It's the first time you've touched him, and even though it's a casual touch to his arm. Peter's heart skips a beat, it's you. Of course, he would react this way. Your warm touch seeps through the material of his suit and goes straight to his heart.
"I'm being serious. Why else are you always waiting around after my shift? And don't you dare say you're in the neighborhood," you say, pointing a finger at his face.
"Well, I am the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man," Peter lamely jokes.
Your expression drops. "Oh my god," you gasp out. "Am I dying? I'm dying, aren't I?"
"What?!" Peter exclaims as he pulls you back to him when you frantically turn away. "Where the hell did that come from? First, you think you're on some hit list, and now you think you're dying?"
"Well, am I? Can't you sense that sort of thing? A disease, death? Do I have some unknown illness?" you frantically rant.
Peter tries his best not to laugh at how slightly dramatic you sound. He gently takes hold of your shoulders and gives you a slight shake as he says your name.
"You're not dying. You're not sick, and you're definitely not on some hit list," he firmly says while staring into your eyes.
You stare back at him. "Oh..."
"You good?"
You relax as you stare at his masked face, and for some odd reason, you have an overpowering urge to reach out and touch it. Another feeling hits you. Almost like deja vu. Being this close to Spider-Man brings back an unknown feeling deep inside you, and you can't explain it.
"Yeah," you sigh.
Peter clears his throat, giving you a slight nod, and reluctantly drops his hands from your shoulders. "It's nothing bad," he reassures a few moments later.
"What?"
"Me being in the area of your workplace," he clarifies.
You still don't believe him, and something deep down is nagging you to get the truth from him, but you know he won't tell you the truth. At least not anytime soon.
You're a few blocks from the apartment, and, unknowingly, you've both slowed the pace. Both of you are trying to drag out the last few moments alone with each other. Peter, for obvious reasons, and for you, you still don't know why.
You turn to him and say, "So, same time tomorrow?"
Every breath you take - Peter parker, imagine Spiderman following y/n everywhere, keeping her safe from any threat no matter how big or small. And her confronting(not in a bad way) him about it once she notices him
Every Breath You Take (Imani’s Mixtape Series) | Peter Parker x Fem!Reader
SUMMARY: For some peculiar reason, Spider-Man, the masked hero seems to constantly save you from even the smallest things. When you confront him about it and ask if you know him, he insists that you don’t. But then, when you confront him about being in love with you, he doesn’t deny it.
WARNINGS: No spoilers for Brand New Day :) , Peter is low key a stalker but he means well, reader accidentally cuts her hand, mentions of blood, upside down kiss at the end!
A/N: Thank you for the request anon! Requests are currently open for Peter Parker, you can send in your own request or do the mixtape!!
WC: 2.7K
Main Masterlist!
Mixtape Series! (Only taking requests for Peter Parker right now!)
Everyone adored the renowned Spider-Man.
But you?
You found him awfully strange.
Throughout your high school years you had a vague memory of constantly being saved by the hero.
It started with the Vulture, then came Mysterio, and then you couldn’t quite make sense of it, but there was you falling off of the Statue Of Liberty.
All those memories contained some version of Spider-Man saving you.
Those situations made sense for you to be saved, but after you started college, it seemed as though the masked hero was infatuated by you because he showed up everywhere.
The first time you were caught off guard was when you had just gotten back from MIT for Christmas break after your first semester there.
Snow dwindled down the city, encasing it in a thick layer of cold. Hands shoved in your pockets, you walked as fast as you could to get to the coffee shop for a warm drink before starting your Christmas shopping.
Just your luck, the streets were slippery from the ice and partially melting snow.
You gasped as your boot slipped on a metal plate on the sidewalk with a loud squeak of your shoe slipping.
Right before you hit the ground, someone caught you in their arms.
You caught your breath, blinking, and when your vision cleared, you found none other than Spider-Man holding you in his warm embrace.
“Are you alright, ma'am?" he asked through his mask, arms wrapped around you protectively.
Your eyes were wide in both embarrassment that you almost fell and shock that Spider-Man was coincidentally nearby to save you from busting your ass.
You nodded, letting out a chuckle that caused you to see your own breath in the air. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
Spider-Man helped you stand up straight, his hands on your waist with such care. As soon as your feet landed on the metal plate again, your shoes slid across it once more.
Instinctively, Spider-Man grabbed onto you, keeping you steady. “This city needs to get rid of this metal plate!” he exclaimed. “Someone could get seriously hurt!”
You laughed awkwardly. “Or I’m the problem. I haven’t seen anyone else fall on it.”
Spider-Man stared at you through his mask for a moment, and you couldn’t make out his face, but he was giving you the biggest puppy eyes.
He missed your laugh, especially the one you let out when you were nervous.
He swallowed hard, shaking his head. “Here, let me help you,” he said, holding his hands out for you to hold.
Your cheeks were burning pink and he wasn’t sure if it was because of him or the cold.
He liked to believe it was him.
Your own gloved hands met his, holding onto them tightly as he helped you walk across the plate.
“There you go,” he said, finally getting you off of the deadly metal.
“Thanks,” you said, shoving your hands back into your pockets and flashing him a smile.
Spider-Man shuffled awkwardly, placing his hands onto his hips. “Yeah, it’s no problem.”
And that was the first incident of Spider-Man saving you over something so minor.
The second made you raise a brow, but you didn’t think too much of it.
You were out at a library, laptop wide open, the light of a document full of notes illuminating your textbooks surrounding you as you studied for your physics final.
You sipped on your coffee, highlighting and scribbling in your textbook.
Hours ticked by and you were growing sleepy. You reached for your coffee again, but by now it was empty.
“Damn it,” you whispered, clicking your pen and looking at the time on your laptop.
It was almost midnight.
You didn’t want to leave to grab more coffee because if you left, you knew you’d go straight back home and call it a night.
As if on cue, someone beside you cleared their throat.
You turned to find Spider-Man standing to your right with a fresh cup of coffee.
You blinked in shock. “How did…”
“Spider senses,” he said sheepishly, placing the coffee in front of you. “Good luck on your finals.”
Little did you know he had been watching you all day from through the window you sat beside.
By the third incident, you had a feeling that he had been watching you to some extent, because now it didn’t feel so much as to be a coincidence.
You were at home, in your own apartment making dinner. You weren’t paying attention and accidentally cut yourself with a knife.
“Shit!” you exclaimed, blood dripping all over the counter and floor.
You scrambled to grab a towel and held it against your hand, trying to stop the bleeding.
About five seconds later, there was a knock at your door.
You groaned and walked over to answer it, not even bothering to look through the peephole to see who it was.
“Spider-Man?” you said in disbelief.
He nodded, though his eyes were fixated on the towel in your hand and the blood dripping down your pinky finger and onto the floor. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Hold up how’d you-”
“Do you need help?”
“No, how’d you know that I-”
“You’re losing a lot of blood.”
“I cut myself, I’m not shot.”
“Okay, but still.”
You stared at him for a moment, the pain in your hand already beginning to burn. You wondered how he even knew you were hurt and how he arrived in record time. You didn’t dwell on the thought much because your skin was on fire. “Fine, whatever. Come in.”
He came inside, shutting the door behind him. “Do you have a first aid kit or something?”
“In my bathroom,” you said, leading the way.
You brought him into the bathroom, opening the medicine cabinet and pulling the first aid kit out.
“You can sit, just give me one sec,” he said, hands moving hastily to open the kit.
You sat down on the toilet seat, staring at him in disbelief.
He had saved you on numerous occasions, sometimes over major things, mostly over minor matters.
The first few were major, with significant villains, but now it had grown so incredibly minor with catching you when you fell and replacing your empty coffee cups.
Your brain started to connect the dots and realize that he wasn’t just coincidentally in the area when you needed help. He was forcing himself to be within your proximity.
He grabbed a few supplies from the med kit and kneeled in front of you. He glanced up into your eyes through his mask. “Can I see?” he asked, motioning to your hand.
You still had the towel wrapped tightly around it, hand slightly trembling from the pain.
You slowly held your hand out, staring at him with uncertainty.
Why was he everywhere?
Didn’t he have real crimes to attend to?
His gloved hands carefully pulled on the towel and you released it from your hold.
He reached up to put it onto the counter as you looked down at your hand.
The cut was pretty deep, but not deep enough for stitches. The bleeding had stopped, leaving dried blood all down your hand and fingers.
He grabbed a fresh cloth from the counter and got it damp in the sink before kneeling back in front of you and cleaning the wound with such care.
You stared at him, as he focused on helping you. Your hand shook slightly as he held it. His expression softened, though you could not see it. His thumb grazed the pulse point on your wrist. “It’s okay,” he said softly, making your heart flutter.
He could sense your unease, the adrenaline wearing off and the pain beginning to truly settle in.
“You’re everywhere,” you said abruptly, though there was no harshness in your tone. It was simply an observation.
Peter reached for the antiseptic and looked up at you. “Kind of my job,” he chuckled. “This might sting.”
“Go for it,” you said.
Peter began to clean the wound and you winced, the cut burning more than before.
“Sorry,” he apologized, grabbing the bandages. He moved quickly, like someone who had done this a million times before. He hated the idea of hurting you because way back when you knew who he was, you were constantly hurt, simply for knowing him.
“It’s alright,” you said, watching as he wrapped your hand. “How’d you know I cut myself if I was in my apartment?” you asked.
“Spider senses,” he said.
“Right…” you trailed off. “What about the library? The coffee?”
Peter hesitated for a moment, before glancing up at you. “Spider…senses…”
You chuckled. “Really? You have spider senses for when a college student runs out of coffee at midnight.”
“Yes.”
Your brows pressed together and he knew that you knew he was full of shit.
He was watching you.
You narrowed your eyes and him and he gulped, your hand still in his.
“Are you lying to me?” you asked.
“No!” he exclaimed.
“You sure?”
“Yeah!”
You sat up straight, taking your hand away from his and crossing your arms over your chest. His fingers tingled where your hand once was. “You save anyone else in their own house?”
“No…”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re the only one clumsy enough to get hurt in your own house,” he mumbled under his breath, though it didn’t go unheard by you.
“Excuse you?!”
“Nothing!” Peter scrambled up to his feet. “Stay safe!”
And that wasn’t the last you saw of him, those were just the first three incidents that made you catch onto the fact that Spider-Man seemed to love to find ways to save you.
Over the next few years he’d show up and stop you from stepping into puddles, talk with you on your fire escape when you seemed lonely, and he’d even save you from traffic, swinging you over the city to get you to work on time.
And tonight wasn’t any different, he was saving you from the late night traffic after work.
You grunted as he swung onto the side of your apartment building, holding you close with one arm as the other worked to slide your window up.
You climbed inside, the guy who you’d seen on a million occasions but didn’t have a name or face to, helping to lift you in.
With a soft thud, your shoes hid the ground of your bedroom.
“Alrighty, ma’am,” he said, jumping off of your building and shooting out a web to hang himself upside down from so that he could get a better look into your apartment. He glanced around in your room to make sure that the coast was clear. “Everything looks good to me. Have a great night.”
Before he could shut your window, you stopped it with your hand. He tilted his head slightly, already on high alert for threats. “Are you okay? Is something wrong?” he asked quickly, worry in his tone.
You stared at his eyes through the mask, without even knowing that you were doing it. Peter’s heart palpitated, eyes locked on yours.
“I have a question,” you said, causing Peter to silently freak out.
“Okay,” he said, voice cracking. In embarrassment, he cleared his throat, trying again. “I mean, okay.”
You smirked at his actions. “Why are you always saving me?” you asked.
Peter blinked. “Because you’re always in danger.”
You shook your head slowly, a sympathetic look on your face. “No I’m not.”
“But you are,” Peter insisted. “I mean, you cut your hand, and you almost tripped on a metal plate, and you could’ve been late for work, like a thousand times, and- oh! What about that one time you-”
“The one time I dropped a glass vase?” you asked. “The one time someone bumped into me and spilled their coffee on my shirt? Come on, Spider-Man,” you said with a laugh. “Some of those instances don’t necessarily call for a superhero to save me. You’re following me.”
Peter shifted awkwardly, not knowing what to say. He had been following you, and he had been doing it for years.
And over the course of those few years, you were catching onto something.
You were falling into something more.
But it was kind of hard to fall in deep when the guy wouldn’t even give you his name.
“Do I know you?” you finally asked.
“What?!” he exclaimed.
“I mean, it’s the only viable explanation as to why you keep following me and trying to protect me from a bunch of nonsense.”
The masked hero shook his head adamantly. “You do not know me,” he insisted. His head was starting to ache and maybe it was because he was handing upside down or because you were finally catching on.
You hummed and rocked back on your heels. “I think I do,” you said. “Why else do you keep following me?”
“Because…” he breathed out, losing track of his own words.
You tilted your head slightly, awaiting a response.
Peter let out a defeated sigh. “I just want to protect you, alright?”
You narrowed your eyes at him, and when you did that, he immediately knew you weren’t taking that answer. “Why?”
“It’s my job,” he said plainly. “You know, friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.”
You took a step closer, making Peter stiffen. “And is stalking in the job description of your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man?”
“I’m not stalking!” Peter defended himself.
“You totally are,” you said.
“No!”
“Yes.”
“I’m not!”
“Yes you are.”
“Nuh uh!”
“Yeah huh.”
He groaned, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can you not call it stalking?” he sighed. “It makes me sound like a creep and that’s not the case.”
“Then tell me why you keep following me,” you said. You took a step closer to the window. “Do we know each other?” you asked curiously.
He swallowed hard. “Used to,” he whispered.
Your brows pressed together. “Used to?”
Peter realized what he said. “I- I mean- like, well- we uh- it was a long time ago.”
Now you had more questions than answers. “Did we lose contact or something?” you asked.
“Uh…” Peter trailed off, wishing he hadn’t slipped up. “I…”
“You don’t have to tell me who you are,” you said softly, realizing he didn’t want to tell you. “Probably would defeat the whole anonymous thing.”
Peter chuckled. “Yeah.”
“What’s not so anonymous is how you’re clearly in love with me,” you half joked.
Peter’s eyes widened as his heart skipped a beat. His hold on the web loosened and he slipped, nearly plummeting down a multitude of floors into the street.
Thankfully he caught himself in time and you laughed at him, leaning on the window seal, the cool New York air blowing against your skin. “That was partially a joke, but good to know you do like me,” you teased.
“You're really pretty,” he blurted out, his face a bright shade of pink from under his mask.
Your face heated up. “You think so?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
You smirked. “Can’t say the same for you.”
“Hey!”
“I’ve never seen your face, dork,” you laughed.
“True…” he trailed off.
Your expression softened as your fingers came up to where the fabric of his mask could be lifted. You carefully pulled it up to the tip of his nose, his lips fully exposed to you.
His breath shuttered as you touched him because over the last few years, he missed nothing more than your fingers on his skin.
Not touching his suit.
His skin.
You slowly leaned in, lips meeting his in a soft, sensual kiss.
His eyes fluttered shut behind his mask as he hummed against your lips. He tilted his head slightly, deepening the kiss as if to remember what it was like to love you again. The shape of your lips, the way yours moved against his, the way you felt.
It was incredibly intoxicating and he never wanted the moment to end because he was suddenly reminded of what it was like to be in love with you before he lost it all.
It felt euphoric, a better feeling than any drug could ever give him.
You were his drug and he had been in withdrawal for years.
You pulled away and gave him a small smile, face hot. “Goodnight, Spider-Man.”
The poor boy’s lips were still parted, a tingling sensation running across his mouth, the ghost of your lips still on his.
“G-goodnight,” he stuttered, face flushed.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
A/N: Starting a taglist for Peter oneshots, lmk if you want to be added! :)
synopsis ⠀:: ⠀ he was just trying to make sure everything's okay, that you're taking care of yourself. but you come home early and he had to hide in your closet. it's not like he wants to see you naked or watch you fuck your toy. it's all an accident, alright?!
including ⠀! ⠀ peter parker. ✶
contents ⠀! ⠀ spiderman : brand new day (no spoilers tho). fem reader. dark peter. obsessive behavior. nsfw. voyeurism. masturbation. use of sex toys. angst. reader is peter ex girlfriend who don't remember him, obviously. he's kinda fucked up in the head. gif by @.milesgmorales. masterlist. english is not my first language. ✶
He didn't mean for this to happen.
He swears he didn't. He was just checking on you. Making sure your windows were locked, your fire alarm had fresh batteries, your fridge wasn't empty because sometimes you forget to eat when you're stressed and he can't have that, he won't have that, not when he's supposed to be taking care of you. You’d thank him if you knew.
And then your key turned in the lock.
Early. You came back early.
Why you're back early? You weren't supposed to be here for another two hours, he checked your schedule, he knows your schedule, tuesday is yoga and grocery shopping and then that overpriced coffee place where you always get the same oat milk latte and you sit by the window and he watches you from across the street and you look so peaceful and so fucking beautiful and—
Focus, Peter. Focus.
You were inside. Keys on the hook. Shoes kicked off. Humming something under your breath that made his chest ache because he recognized it, he knew that song, it was playing the first time you let him kiss you, the first time you tangled your fingers in his hair and called him sweet—
Alright alright he have to get out. He have to get out!!!
No time for the window. No time for the ceiling.
What the fuck what the fuck what the—
The closet.
The fucking closet. He barely got the door shut before you walked in, and now he’s folded behind your winter coats, breathing through his mask, heart hammering so loud he’s sure you can hear it. His hands are shaking, his whole body is shaking, and he can't breathe, he can't breathe but he has to be quiet, has to be fucking quiet—
It’s fine. It’s fine. He just has to wait. Be patient. You’ll fall asleep eventually and then he can slip out. Just wait. Then everything be fine. Easy. Simple. He's done harder things. He can sit in a closet for a few hours without losing his goddamn mind.
But you're not.
Oh god, you're fucking not.
He clenches his jaw. Waits. The closet smells like you. Your shampoo, your detergent, that faint vanilla body spray you’ve used since tenth grade. He’s dizzy with it.
And you're just—you're standing there, in the middle of your bedroom, and you're reaching for the hem of your shirt and—
Wait.
Wait wait wait wait—
Why are you getting naked?????
The shirt goes up. Over your head. Tossed onto the chair in the corner.
God damnit. Look away. Look away right now, Parker. Close your eyes. You’re better than this. You’re a hero. You’re her boyfriend not some pervert hiding in the closet with his mouth open and his cock—
But you’re so pretty.
The curve of your shoulders, the way your hair falls messy against your skin, the little mole on your left shoulder blade that he used to kiss, used to run his tongue over just to hear you giggle and squirm—
Look away look away look away—
DON'T FUCKING LOOK!!
He tries. He genuinely tries. He squeezes his eyes shut so hard he sees colors blooming behind his lids, and he counts to ten, and he tells himself he's not going to look, he's a good person, he's respectful and he loves you and he don't want to...
But it’s been so long since he’s seen you like this.
Your jeans. You’re taking off your jeans. The button pops and the zipper whisper hisses down and he can see the edge of your underwear, plain cotton, the kind you always wore on lazy nights when you didn’t expect anyone to see.
You’re naked now.
And he's not looking away.
It's a violation of privacy—
No it's not! You're his girlfriend!
Well, you don't remember him, but that doesn't change the FACT that he's your boyfriend. Your high school sweetheart. The guy who held your hand through every panic attack, who learned how to braid your hair because you said it helped you relax, who gave you his virginity in his aunt's apartment while it rained outside and it was the first time you told him you love him—
And also, it's not like he hid in your closet on purpose! He didn't PLAN this!! This is just... circumstances! Bad timing. A misunderstanding, yeah that's it! If you knew the truth, you'd understand. You'd forgive him. You always forgave him.
So maybe it's fine if he watches. Just for a little while. Just until you're asleep. It's not like he hasn't seen you naked before. You were his girlfriend. His first everything. The woman who taught him how to kiss without emberassing himself, how to use his tongue to make you cum, how to angle his hips just right to hit that spot inside you that makes your eyes roll back.
"Right there, Pete, right there, don't stop—ahh love you love you love you—"
Love him.
You love him.
He missed it.
He missed your voice. Missed the way you gasped, the way your nails raked down his back, the way you clenched around him so tight he thought he might die from how good it felt. And you smiled at him afterward, sweaty and glowing and proud, and you said he was a fast learner.
Of course he is. He's a smart guy. Not that he's bragging, but truth is just truth.
You always said he was the best you ever had.
Do you still think that?
Would you still think that, if you remembered him?
Do you remember him?
Of course you don't.
Hahaha. Peter Parker don't exist anymore. What the fuck is he even thinking?? Stupid stupid stupid—
Huh?
Oh.
His face is wet again.
Tears sliding down his cheeks and soaking into the fabric of his mask.
When did that happen? When did he start crying?
Doesn’t matter.
He’s gotten good at crying without making a sound. Good at a lot of things he never wanted to be good at.
Don't. Don't you fucking cry right now. You're not a kid, why the fuck are you crying?
Because he misses you.
He misses you so much it feels like someone scooped out his insides and left him hollow. You don't look at him anymore. You don't smile at him anymore. You walk past him on the street like he's a stranger, and every time it kills him but at least you're alive, at least you're safe, at least he can still protect you even if you don't know he exists—
Oh him? No he's great. He's fantastic. What are you talking about? Pfffff—
He's not sad. He's not lonely. He's not spending every night curled up in his suit, jerking off into your sock while he replays memories of your laugh on a loop in his head.
No, no, he's fine. Everything is fine. What's important is that you're safe. That's all that matters.
Okay. Okay, get your shit together and just shut the fuck up until it's over. You can have a breakdown later. In private. Like you always do.
When he looks back through the slats of the closet door, you're on the bed.
When did you get on the bed??
He must have blacked out for a second. It happens a lot these days.
You're stretched out on top of the covers, completely naked (when did you took off your panties?) and the lamplight is hitting your skin in a beautiful way that make his mouth water. Your hair is fanned out on the pillow. Your legs are slightly parted. And your hand is lazily trailing down your stomach like you have all the time in the world and—
Nope.
Nope nope nope.
Don't think about it, Peter.
Just don't fucking think about it.
But it's been so long.
So fucking long since he touched you. Since he tasted you. Since he heard the little sounds you make when you're turned on, those breathy, helpless whimpers that drive him insane. And if you knew he was your boyfriend, you wouldn't have a problem with this. You'd probably invite him out of the closet. You'd probably pull him onto the bed and let him take over, let him worship you the way you deserve, because that's what you used to do, that's what you used to want.
So it's okay, right?
It's okay if he touches himself. Just a little. Just to take the edge off. He'll be quiet. He'll be so fucking quiet. You won't even know he's here.
He's just palming himself through his suit, see? No big deal.
His breath stuttering. He unzips his suit slowly, one careful inch at a time. His cock springs out, already hard, already leaking, the head slick and flushed and obscene in the dim light filtering through the closet slats. He wraps his hand around himself and bites down on his lip so hard he tastes copper.
You’re touching yourself.
Fuck you're so pretty.
Just like always.
You cup your breast, thumb brushing over the nipple, and he watches it tighten under your touch. Watches you pinch it, roll it between your fingers.
Yeah yeah yeah.
Play with your tits just like that. Pinch them. You always liked it when he did that. Always liked it when he got a little rough, when he pushed you just enough to make you feel it the next day—
He remembers doing that, remembers the way you'd arch into his mouth when he sucked on you, the way you'd gasp his name and told him you love him.
He's stroking himself now. Slow. Trying to match your rhythm. His palm is too dry, the friction almost painful, but he don't care because you're spreading your legs wider and your other hand pushing deeper inside—
Fuck.
Shit.
Shit shit shit shit—
The closet door creaked. He moved. He fucking moved and his elbow hit the door and it creaked.
You heard him didn't you?
Fuckfuckfuck—
You heard it, oh god you definitely heard it, your head just turned toward the closet and you're looking right at him, right through the slats, and he can see your brow furrowing, can see the question forming on your lips—
Why are you standing up???
Wait. Wait. Wait.
STOP!!!
He can't breathe. He can't move. His hand is frozen on his cock, pre cum dripping onto his knuckles, and his heart is slamming against his ribs so hard he probably going to have a stroke.
You're going to find him, and he's going to have to explain, going to have to watch your face twist into fear and disgust and he's going to have to see the moment you realize spiderman is a creep who hides in women's closets and watches them—
Oh...
You're not looking at the closet anymore.
You're bending down. Reaching under the bed. Pulling out a box.
It's your toy box, the one he knows about because he's gone through it half a dozen times because you two used to play together and now when you're not home, he replace the batteries in your vibrator and clean your plugs even though you probably wondering why they were suddenly spotless—
You're pulling out a dildo.
The one you custom ordered online for your two years anniversary. Modeled after his dick, every vein and every curve. Everything exactly like his.
You hold it up and a little smile tugs at the corner of your mouth.
You like that one, don't you? You always reach for it. He's seen you. He's seen you more times than he should admit, and every time you pick this, every time you choose this over the others—
Okay. Okay, everything's okay. Thank god. Thank fucking god.
But he needs to be quiet. He was loud. Too loud. He needs something to muffle himself.
And there—right there beside his foot—a pair of panties. Lace. Red. The little bow on the front slightly frayed from too many washes.
He recognizes them. Of course he recognizes them. He bought them for you. Four years ago. Valentine's Day. You wore them for him that night and then peeled them off slow, teasing, throwing them over your shoulder with a grin and then he eat you out until his knees bruised.
He picks them up. Brings them to his face. Inhales before he can stop himself.
Fuck.
He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. But he's already folding them, already pressing them past his lips, already biting down on the fabric, and the taste of you—even secondhand, even laundered—floods his senses and makes his eyes roll back.
Okay. Okay, now he can be more comfortable. Now he can jerk off without giving himself away.
You don't mind, right? No? Okay thanks.
You're on the bed again. Propped up against the pillows. The dildo is in your hand but you're not pushing it inside yet.
No, you're teasing yourself. Just like you always used to.
Running the tip along your slit. Circling your clit. Getting it wet with your own arousal while your hips twitch and your breath hitches and you make those perfect little sounds that he loves too fucking much.
You always wanted him to tease you first. Always wanted him to rub the head of his cock against your pussy, back and forth, back and forth, until you were so needy you couldn't do anything but beg—
"Please, Pete, please, I need you inside me—"
Go on. Put it in. You've teased yourself long enough, sweet girl. Put it in.
And then you do.
The tip slides inside you, stretching you open, and Peter watches your mouth fall open, watches your back arch off the mattress, watches your hand fly up to grip the sheets. And the sound you make goes straight to his cock and nearly make him cum right there.
Yeah. Yeah, just like that. Pretty girl. Such a pretty fucking girl.
His pretty, gorgeous, perfect girl.
He strokes himself faster. The pre cum ease the friction. His eyes are glued to the place where the dildo disappears inside you, the way your hips start to roll, the way your thighs tense and tremble.
Aww, look at you. You're so desperate, aren't you?
Yeah baby? You want to get off? You want to cum?
You want him, don't you? You want his cock?
So bad you don't remember your boyfriend, right?
So fucking bad he just can stalk you on the street.
So bad he had to break your date’s teeth down his throat last month when the guy got too handsy at the bar.
So bad he has to hide in closets like a fucking cockroach instead of fucking your brains out like he used to, instead of holding you after and listening to your heartbeat slow down while you trace patterns on his chest—
So bad Peter Parker doesn't exist anymore.
Haha.
But it’s fine. He can protect you better now. Spiderman doesn’t have a curfew. Spiderman doesn’t have a secret life to care about. Spiderman can be on your fire escape every night, can follow you home through the subway tunnels, can crawl across your ceiling while you sleep and make sure you're breathing and your nightmares stay away.
He's protecting you.
Yeah. He knows you get scared sometimes. He's seen the way you double check your locks at night, the way you jump at shadows, the way you told your friend on the phone that you think someone's following you. "I think I have a stalker," you said, voice trembling, and Peter had to press his forehead against the wall and breathe through the urge to break something.
You called him a stalker.
He's not a fucking stalker. He's your BOYFRIEND. The man who loves you more than anyone has ever loved anyone in the history of the entire goddamn universe. The man who would crawl through hell just to see you smile. The man who let you go because it was the only way to keep you alive, and he'd do it again, he'd do it a thousand times, even if it meant you'd never know his name.
So what if he beat up your date? You were about to cheat on him. Yeah, yeah, you don't remember him, he knows, but what if you REMEMBERED and you'd already cheated on him and then you were going to hate yourself and feel guilty because how could you cheat on your high school sweetheart? The boy who held your hair back when you were sick, who stayed up all night helping you study for exams, who looked at you like you hung the goddamn moon?
You'd hate yourself. You'd be so guilty. You be a bitch. A horrible, disgusting piece of shit—
No. No no no, baby, you're not that. It's not your fault. Peter knows it's not your fault. He's not blaming you. He could never blame you. You're a victim in all this, you're innocent, you're perfect, you're the only good thing left in his miserable excuse for a life.
He's just helping you stay loyal. That's all. Helping you be the person you'd want to be, if you could remember. You're welcome.
"Ahh—fuck—"
You're close, aren't you, sweet girl? Yeah, you're close. He can see it in the wetness spreading down your ass, the way your nipples are tight and peaked, the way your hips are bucking up to meet the toy like you're fucking it instead of the other way around.
You're going to cum. He can tell by the way your rhythm is faltering, the way your thighs are starting to shake, the way your free hand has is now frantically rubbing your clit in needy, desperate circles.
Go on. Go faster. Faster. Yeah, just like that. Fuck, you're perfect, you're so fucking perfect, look at you taking it like a good girl.
His good girl. His.
Play with your clit. Yeah, yeah, baby, just like that. He remembers exactly how you like it. Two fingers, tight circles, a little pressure, not too much. You taught him that, remember? You guided his hand, showed him the rhythm, moaned his name when he got it right—
"Just like that, Pete, don't stop, please don't stop—"
It's almost like you can read his mind.
He's close. So fucking close his vision is blurring at the edges. His cock is throbbing, slick with pre cum, and his hand is moving in short, desperate strokes, and he's biting down so hard on the panties that his jaw aches, and he wants to come, needs to come, but he wants to come with you—
Come on, baby. Come on. You can do it. A little bit harder. He can hold on, don't worry about him, he can hold on forever if that's what you need—
Ah, fuck. Ah, fuck fuck fuck—
You're shaking. Your whole body is shaking. The hand on your clit is moving faster now, sloppy and messy, and your back is arched so high you're barely touching the mattress, and your mouth is open in a silent scream, and your stomach is tightening, rippling, and you're so pretty, so fucking beautiful that Peter feels his heart crack right down the middle—
So hot. So fucking hot. Look at you. Look at you coming apart on his cock. Yeah it's a dildo but it's still his cock. It's still him inside you, still his shape. So sorry he can't give you the real thing baby—
Ah, shit—
You come with a broken cry, your pussy clenching around the dildo so hard Peter can see it, can see the way your body pulses and milks the silicone, and that's it, that's all it takes, he's gone—
He comes so hard his knees buckle. Hot ropes of cum spatter his hand and the closet floor. He bites down on your panties and screams into the fabric, a muffled sound that would have given him away if you weren't still lost in your own orgasm. His hips jerk, his cock pulses, and he keeps stroking himself through it, keeps milking every last drop while his vision whites out and his heart threatens to explode and it's just your name in his head and on his tongue.
Y/n. Y/n. Y/n.
And then it's over.
He slumps against the back of the closet, panting, soaked in his own shame and sweat and tears. The panties are still in his mouth. He doesn't take them out. He can't. If he takes them out, he might start sobbing, might start screaming, might do something that gets him caught, and he can't get caught, not if he wants you safe and sound and happy—
Through the slats, he watches you catch your breath. Watches you pull the dildo out with a wet sound. Watches you stare at it for a moment, something unreadable flickering across your face.
Then you set it aside, roll onto your side, and close your eyes.
Just like that. Like nothing happened.
Peter tucks himself back into his suit. Wipes his hand on an old tshirt from the laundry basket. Spits the panties out. Yeah he's keeping them, he's definitely keeping them, they're his now.
Sorry baby. It's just this time. You probably won't even notice. It's not like you remember wearing it especially for him anyway. So it's fine.
Then he waits.
Waits until your breathing evens out. Waits until your heartbeat slows to the steady rhythm of sleep. Waits until he's sure, absolutely sure, that you're not going to wake up.
The closet door opens without a sound. He's spiderman, after all. Give him some credit, yeah?
He stands over your bed for a long moment. Looking at you. Memorizing the curve of your cheek, the part of your lips, the way your eyelashes flutter against your skin. You're drooling a little on the pillow.
Cute.
He leans down. Presses the gentlest kiss to your forehead. You don't stir.
"I love you," he whispers against your skin. "Don't be mad. I won't do it again, I promise. I'm sorry."
Then he slips out the window, into the night, and disappears like he was never there.
The only evidences are a single tear, dried on your pillow, and a pair of red lace panties missing from your closet.
Please don't hate him too much.
Okay?
If you want to be in my marvel taglist let me know :)
SUMMARY. . . You'd made a habit out of chasing Spider-Man across the city, phone in hand with your heart in your throat, just to catch a glimpse of him. Peter knew it was stupidly reckless. He also knew he should have stopped encouraging it. But when you look at him in that way, something in him gives way.
pairing: peter parker/spiderman x reader
content warnings: reckless behavior, kinda stalker-ish behavior, reader repeatedly chasing active crime scenes, danger, explosions, injuries, blood, peter parker being chronically stressed, near-death experience, protective spider-man, arguing, down bad pining, emotional vulnerability, identity secrecy, tracking apps, disastrous flirting, light hurt/comfort, panic and fear, bruises and minor injuries, kissing, making out, masked kisses, peter parker's severe boundary issues & reader's even worse self-preservation instincts, accidental emotional confessions, possessive undertones, references to violence and crime, PLEASE MDNI! 18+, smut. creampies, cockwarming, degradation/praise, dirty talk, doggy style, dry humping, groping, hair pulling, marking/biting, missionary, multiple rounds, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation, rough sex, secret identities (mask stays ON! until it doesn't), sensory deprivation (m!&f!), sensory overload (m!&f!), slight manhandling, teasing, unprotected p in v sex, lmk if i missed anything!
comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡
— amazing support banners used are from @moonstoneandmoonlight !
w/c: 13k (she's a big girl im sry </3)
a/n: big credits to @rip-quizilla who gave me the idea for this, and all my other friends/moots who helped me spent so long watching me lose my mind over finishing this. guys, please do NOT do anything you see in this fic, this is purely for fictional purposes sakes 😭
The first time you saw Spider-Man in person, you hadn't meant to follow him.
At least, that was what you told yourself.
You had been two blocks from the laundromat, carrying a plastic bag of warm clothes against your hip while your phone buzzed violently in your hand. The tracking app had lit up with a sudden red pulse near Delancey, a messy little cluster of comments flooding beneath it.
SPIDEY NEAR ESSEX. CAR CHASE??
NO WAY HE JUST FLIPPED OVER A BUS!
You had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Someone had muttered behind you annoyed, and stepped around your laundry bag. The city kept moving in every direction, yellow cabs pushing through the intersection, steam curling from a grate, somebody laughing too loudly outside a bodega. But your attention had narrowed to that blinking dot.
You had only meant to look. Just for a second. Just to see if the app was accurate, because people exaggerated online all the time and half the sightings turned out to be drones, cosplayers, or blurry red jackets photographed from four avenues away.
Then something had swung overhead.
A blur of red and blue cut between the buildings, so quick your breath caught before your mind could name him. The air shifted with him. People on the sidewalk looked up in scattered bursts, phones rising, mouths open, one man yelling, “Yo! Spider-Man!” like he was calling to a friend across the street.
You had craned your neck so hard it hurt.
He landed on the side of a brick building as if gravity had simply made an exception for him. One hand stuck to the wall, knees bent, white lenses angling down toward the street. Below him, a black SUV fishtailed hard around the corner, its bumper half-torn loose, sparks spitting from beneath the frame.
Spider-Man pushed off the wall.
Your bag split somewhere behind you. A white sock escaped onto the curb. You didn't bother going back for it.
You had run.
Not toward the SUV exactly, because you were not stupid enough to run into traffic on purpose. Not then, at least. But you ran in the same direction, weaving through pedestrians, shoes slapping pavement, pulse climbing higher with every shout and honk.
By the time you reached the next block, the SUV was webbed to a lamppost, the driver was dangling upside down from a fire escape, and Spider-Man was crouched on top of a dented mailbox with one hand pressed to his ribs.
He looked smaller up close than you expected. Not small, exactly, but strangely human.
Breathing hard. Shoulders rising and falling. Suit scuffed dark along one thigh. A tear near his side showed a thin line of skin beneath before he twisted away from the cameras.
You stood behind the police tape with everyone else, hair sticking to your face, lungs burning, and one sock missing from your laundry life forever.
He turned his head.
For half a second, those white lenses landed on you.
You knew he couldn't have recognized you. There was nothing to recognize. You were just another girl in a city full of people who wanted to see a miracle and then post about it before the adrenaline wore off.
Still, your stomach dropped.
Then he lifted two fingers in a quick salute to the crowd, shot a web, and vanished between buildings.
You downloaded two more tracking apps that night.
After that, seeing him became less of an accident and more of a bad habit you pretended was harmless.
You learned the patterns the way other people learned train delays. Robberies traveled fast through comment sections. Sirens became invitations. Helicopters meant something serious. If three different users posted the same grainy red-blue blur within five minutes, you grabbed your jacket before the app could refresh again.
Sometimes you missed him completely and arrived only in time to see cops clearing debris or tourists replaying videos at full volume. Sometimes you caught him from far away, a streak against the gray of the sky, no closer than a rumor. But sometimes you got lucky.
Lucky meant standing across from a jewelry store with shattered glass glittering over the sidewalk while he webbed a man’s wrists to a parking meter.
Lucky meant watching him swing down to stop a delivery cyclist from being clipped by a fleeing van.
Lucky meant hearing him talk.
That was the part nobody could capture right in videos. The way he sounded in person. Younger than the headlines made him, sharper when he was annoyed, and funny even when he was clearly in pain. He filled dangerous moments with words, like if he talked fast enough nobody had time to panic.
“Okay, so, quick note,” he told a guy holding a crowbar outside a pawn shop one wet Thursday evening, “if your getaway plan involves running directly into a bike lane during rush hour, I do think maybe crime isn’t your strongest career path.”
The guy swung at him.
Spider-Man ducked, webbed the crowbar to a street sign, and added, “Oh-kay, so that was a growth opportunity that you just missed.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
His head snapped toward you.
You were standing too close. Not past the tape, not exactly in the line of fire, but close enough that a cop had already told you twice to move back. Rain dotted your cheeks. Your hood kept sliding off. Your phone was clutched against your chest, recording nothing because you had forgotten to press the button.
Spider-Man stared at you for one beat too long.
Then he pointed at you.
“You,” the words were barely clear to your ears.
Your face warmed so fast it felt humiliating. “Me?”
“Yes, you. With the…” He gestured vaguely at your entire existence. “The enthusiastic crime tourism thing.”
A few people nearby turned to look at you. Someone snorted. You should have been embarrassed enough to leave. Instead, you smiled.
“You noticed?”
His lenses narrowed. Somehow, they managed to look exhausted. “That is not the takeaway I was hoping for.”
You lifted your chin as if that proved something to him. “I’m behind the tape.”
“You are practically dating the damn tape.”
“I respect boundary lines!”
His tone turned slightly incredulous. “You followed a man with a crowbar into a rainstorm.”
The correction came quickly on your lips. “I followed you.”
“That is relatively worse.”
It should have ended there. He should have swung away and become a story you told yourself later, replaying every word until the edges wore smooth. But the man webbed to the street sign started yelling about unlawful restraint, the cops moved in, and Spider-Man hopped backward onto the side of a parked van.
Before he left, he looked down at you again.
“Go home,” he said as if you needed the reminder.
You had grinned like an idiot. “Will you be there?”
There was a pause.
Not long, just enough for him to register the line, process it, and decide he absolutely did not want to touch it.
“Nope,” he sighed, voice flatter than before. “Wow. Okay. Definitely go home.”
Then he was gone, leaving you with rain in your eyelashes and the distinct, dangerous realization that Spider-Man could be flustered.
Peter remembered you after that.
He didn't mean to.
He remembered plenty of people in flashes: New York was made of recurring characters if you paid attention long enough.
But you, you became hard not to notice.
You were at the edge of too many scenes, always just outside safety, and always pretending you had arrived by coincidence while breathing like you had sprinted ten blocks. Sometimes your hair was pulled back messily. Sometimes you wore work shoes that were really not made for running. Once, you showed up with a grocery bag still looped around your wrist, and had a bunch of cilantro sticking out the top while an armored car smoked behind you.
He saw the app open on your phone once when he swung low past a bus shelter.
That made his stomach twist.
The city had always watched him, but the tracking apps made it worse. They turned danger into a scavenger hunt. They pulled kids, tourists, thrill-seekers, and people with too much faith in his reflexes toward scenes they should have been running from.
Peter hated them in the abstract way he could.
He hated yours specifically because you looked at the screen like it was a promise.
He told himself he was not responsible for your choices. He told himself he had bigger problems than one reckless woman with quick comebacks and bad self-preservation instincts. He told himself a lot of things while dragging stolen cars out of intersections, yanking weapons from hands, and getting punched in the same bruised shoulder three nights in a row.
Still, every time Peter landed somewhere and spotted you in the crowd, his first reaction was not annoyance.
It was relief.
Then anger, quick and hot behind it, because relief meant he had started looking.
“You’re here again,” he sighed again one night, landing on the fire escape above you after a group of teenagers tried to rob a closed pharmacy.
You looked up, breath fogging in the cold. There was a knit scarf wrapped around your neck and one glove missing from your hand. You had probably lost it running.
Your response came instinctive in its quickness. “You say that like you’re not also here again.”
Peter pinched at the bridge of his noise as if that could stifle his second sigh. “I’m working.”
“So am I.”
He tilted his head, looking down at you with clear disbelief. “Your job is standing under active crime scenes?”
Your chin tilted back up in a counter measure. “My job is none of your business.”
“Fair. Is your hobby standing under active crime scenes?”
You tucked your ungloved hand into your sleeve and looked around with fake surveying. “Maybe I’m a concerned citizen.”
His words came out too quick and too impulsive. “You are a concerning citizen.”
That got a smile out of you, small but entirely pleased, and Peter hated how quickly he noticed the shape of it. He was hanging upside down from the railing, one knee hooked around metal, and blood drying uncomfortably under the torn fabric near his elbow. The cold bit through the suit where it was damp. Below, police lights washed your face blue, then red, then blue again.
“You’re bleeding,” you faltered slightly when your gaze caught on the blood.
He glanced at his arm and the white lenses dilated before going back. “It’s not mine.”
You gave him a look that had him sighing. “It’s mostly mine.”
You stepped closer before you were cut off. “Do you need—”
“No.”
A scoff left you. “You didn’t even know what I was going to offer!”
Peter felt the need to run his hands through his hair to stifle the whirlwind of exasperation you made him feel instantly. “Unless it was ‘a renewed commitment to staying several blocks away from felonies,’ no.”
You shifted your weight. The crowd had thinned behind you. People were still filming from across the street but the immediate danger had passed, and with it came that strange hollow quiet after a loud thing ended. Sirens faded. Glass crackled under people's boots.
You looked up at him with your scarf covering your chin, your gaze narrowing suddenly.
“Do you ever get tired of doing that?”
“Bleeding?”
“Deflecting.” The word landed too cleanly, you saw it in real time.
Peter’s fingers flexed against the railing. The easy answer was right there. A joke about reflective surfaces, maybe. Something stupid and quick that would let him swing away before the conversation took on weight.
Instead, he looked past you toward the pharmacy windows. Fluorescent lights flickered inside. A display of cough drops had toppled near the door, someone would have to sweep all of that up. Someone would have to call insurance. Someone would wake up tomorrow and deal with the ordinary consequences of extraordinary panic.
“Go home,” he repeated, though it was quieter this time.
Your expression changed, not much. Just a pause around the eyes. “You always say that.”
Peter's exasperation came back tenfold. “Because you never do it.”
A face got made instantly at the words. “I do eventually!”
“Eventually is not good enough.”
You hugged your arms around yourself, and the words came out light. “You worried about me?”
“Yes,” he scoffed before he could stop himself.
The answer sat between you, plain and unarmored.
Your mouth parted slightly at the unexpectedness of it.
Peter pulled himself upright too fast, his boots sticking to the fire escape. “I mean—generally. In the way I worry about all civilians who make terrible decisions near blunt objects.”
“Right,” you nodded, but your voice had taken a slight tone that had Peter instantly regretting the words even more.
He pointed toward the subway entrance with intensity. “Home.”
You glanced at his arm again, seeing the material start to soak up the darker redness. “You too.”
Peter let out a humorless little laugh. “Yeah. Sure.”
He swung away before you could say anything else, before he could do something stupid like ask your name.
You told yourself the chase was harmless because Spider-Man always won.
That was the lie at the center of it.
You knew he got hurt. You had seen him limp. You had watched him press a hand to his side and pause on rooftops when he thought nobody was looking. You had noticed how he changed after harder fights, how the jokes thinned out, and how his head turned sharply at sudden noises.
He wasn't invincible.
But he survived so consistently that survival became part of the spectacle. People cheered before the danger fully ended. Phones came out before the weapons were down. The city trusted him with the unreasonable ease of people who needed someone to trust.
You were worse than most because somewhere along the way, your fascination had stopped being abstract and freeformed.
It was not just the suit, though the suit did something humiliating to your ability to think clearly near him. It was not just the swing of him between buildings, the impossible strength, the quick hands, or the way he landed with a dancer’s balance and a boxer’s readiness.
It was the pauses he had.
The way he crouched beside frightened strangers and made his voice gentler. The way he checked on shop owners after the crowd moved on. The way he sometimes stayed an extra second after saving someone, hand hovering near their shoulder but not actually touching unless they leaned in first. The way he seemed both everywhere and entirely alone.
That was what kept pulling you closer to him.
The app buzzed late on a Friday, when the city had already loosened into nightlife. You were in a corner booth at a diner, poking at fries that had gone soft with vinegar, half-listening to your friend complain about a coworker who microwaved fish in the break room.
Your phone lit up.
Three alerts. Then five. Then too many.
SPIDEY SIGHTING NEAR 42ND. BIG GUY WITH TECH??
STAY AWAY FROM 9TH AVE. EXPLOSION HEARD.
Your friend stopped talking.
“No,” she reached for you immediately when she saw you were already reaching for your jacket.
She grabbed at your sleeve with intent. “Are you serious?”
“It’s close.”
A groan left her from knowing you too well. “That’s the problem.”
“I’ll stay back!”
She didn't seem convinced. “You always say that.”
The echo of his words should have slowed you.
It didn't.
Outside, the air was sharp with exhaust and fried food from a halal cart. You ran until your lungs burned, cutting through clusters of people spilling out of bars, and ignoring the tightness that formed under your ribs. The closer you got, the more the city changed. Laughter thinned. Traffic tangled. People moved in the opposite direction with their heads turned back, faces lit by emergency lights.
Then something slammed into the side of a parked car half a block ahead.
The impact folded the roof inward. Windows burst. People screamed and scattered.
You froze.
For once, your body understood before your obsession did.
Spider-Man hit the pavement hard beside the car, rolled, and barely got a hand under himself before a heavy metal device skidded after him, sparking violently. It looked homemade and expensive at the same time, all black plating and unstable blue light. A man in a reinforced jacket limped into view, one arm fitted with some kind of mechanical brace that whined when he lifted it.
Peter saw you from the ground.
Even through smoke, flashing lights, and the chaos of running bodies, he found you standing beside a newspaper box with your phone in your hand and fear finally catching up to you.
His blood went cold.
“Move!” he shouted with a loud rasp.
You did not.
Not because you refused, but because for one terrible second, you couldn't even tell where to go. People shoved past you. A cab jumped the curb. The device near Spider-Man pulsed brighter, high-pitched and wrong, and the man with the brace swung his arm toward the street.
Peter fired a web at you before he thought about gentleness.
The strand hit your waist and yanked.
Your feet left the ground and the world snapped sideways. Your shoulder clipped something hard, maybe a signpost, maybe somebody’s elbow. You gasped, more startled than hurt, and then you were against him, one of his arms locked around you as he twisted midair and slammed both of you behind the concrete mouth of a subway entrance.
The street exploded white-blue.
Heat washed over your back and the sound swallowed everything.
For a moment there was only his body curved around yours, the texture of his suit under your fingers, the hard rise and fall of his breathing. Dust rained over the steps. Someone was crying nearby, your ears rang so badly the world seemed underwater.
Spider-Man lifted his head first.
“Are you hit?” he demanded with his grip tightening to pull you back enough to look at you.
You stared at him, and apparently it must've been a flatter look than you had tried to express.
“Hey.” His hand came up to the side of your face, not tenderly, not quite. He turned your head enough to check you, fingers firm along your jaw. “Are you hit?”
The world returned to you in pieces and you shook your head enough to move. “I—no. I don’t think so.”
Peter's voice came out strangled before he tried to reign it in. “You don’t think so?”
You emphasized better. “I’m not.”
His white lenses narrowed and the hand at your jaw stayed for half a second longer than necessary, then dropped.
He pushed himself up and looked over the edge of the subway entrance. The man with the brace was running now, injured but still moving. Peter’s shoulders tensed with the need to follow.
Then, he looked back at you.
You were covered in dust. Your phone was certainly gone. There was a scrape along your cheekbone where something had caught you, and your eyes were too wide, your breath coming shallow in a way that finally made you look as scared as you should have been all along.
The anger hit him so hard it almost steadied him.
“Stay here,” he all but demanded
You nodded because it seemed like it was necessary to do so.
He pointed at you, sharper now. As if you weren't truly listening. “No. I need you to hear me. Stay. Here.”
“I heard you.”
“Because if I turn around and you are not exactly where I left you—”
“I’ll stay.”
Peter really didn't believe you.
But someone shouted from the street, and the brace whined again, and it was clear he had to go. He launched himself back into the fight with his teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.
You stayed.
For three minutes, maybe four, you sat on the subway steps with dust in your mouth and your hands shaking in your lap. You heard the impacts, webs snapping tight, and Spider-Man’s voice cutting through the noise in strained bursts.
“Hey, buddy, quick question—did you build that in a garage, or was there a coupon situation?”
A crash came next.
“No? Cool, cool, just asking because it’s very explode-y for something near civilians.”
Another loud noise of impact.
You pressed your palms together to stop them from trembling.
The fight ended with a sound like metal tearing away from itself, followed by a heavy thud and a chorus of relieved shouting. When Spider-Man came back where he left you, he was limping.
Badly so.
He dropped into the subway entrance hard enough that one hand hit the tiled wall to steady himself. His suit was scorched along one side. Dust clung to the webbing pattern across his chest. One lens had a faint crack through it, thin as a hair.
You stood up too quickly, instincts taking over. “you’re hurt.”
Peter laughed but it was entirely without humor. “You have got to be kidding me.”
The frown came instantly. “I’m serious.”
His answer came too quick. “So am I.”
The space between you seemed smaller than it had before. The city kept roaring above, but down here everything echoed: footsteps, sirens, your breathing, his.
He stepped closer.
“What is wrong with you?”
The words were not shouted. That made them even worse somehow. His voice was rough, scraped thin at the edges, and controlled only because he was forcing it to be.
You swallowed because he seemed actually upset this time, and you figured it wasn't time to poke the bear. “I know—”
“No, you don’t. You don’t know.” The words had your head flicking up in surprise for their intensity. “You keep showing up with your phone and your big eyes and your little comments, and you think because there’s a crowd, because there are cops, because I’m there, that nothing can happen to you.”
Your throat tightened and you opened your mouth but shut it when he pointed up toward the street. “That was not a photo op. That was not a cute story. You almost got turned into collateral damage because you ran toward an explosion.”
“I didn’t know it was going to—”
“That’s the point!” His voice cracked around the words. He stopped, breathed hard, and tried again. “You don’t know. You never know. Hell, I barely know half the time.”
You looked down at his hand because the movements caught your attention. His fingers were flexing open and closed, like he wanted to grab something and couldn't decide whether it should be the railing, his own temper, or you.
“I’m sorry,” you stopped him from going further and he went still.
Maybe it was because you had never said it before. Not really. You had flirted, teased, and smiled your way around his warnings until they became part of the game. But there was no game left in your voice now because there wasn't in his.
“I am,” you continued quieter and immediately hated it because of how exposing it felt. “I know it’s stupid. I know you keep telling me to stop.”
Peter's voice loudened before he could've controlled it. “Then stop!”
You looked up again quickly with widening eyes.
There was dust on his shoulder, a rip near his ribs, and a dark stain spreading slowly through the fabric at his side. He was standing in front of you like he could hold the entire city back by force if he had to, and yet he would not give you one ordinary piece of himself.
Not a name. Not a face. Not the truth behind the voice that kept finding you in crowds.
“I just wanted to know you,” the words came out smaller than you meant them to.
Peter forgot how to breathe.
Not because nobody wanted to know Spider-Man. Everybody wanted that. They wanted the picture, the secret, the headline, the face under the mask. They wanted proof, access, even ownership. They wanted to solve him.
But that was not how you said it.
You said it like you had already noticed the part he worked hardest to hide. The pauses. The pain. The loneliness that leaked through the jokes no matter how quickly he patched over it.
You said it like knowing him didn't mean unmasking his whole identity.
You said it like you had been chasing danger for the stupid, impossible privilege of standing close enough to ask if he was okay.
Peter hated how easily that worked on him.
He hated that after everything, after the blast and the blood and the fear still souring his mouth, some tired part of him wanted to believe you.
“You don’t,” he scoffed, but it was smaller this time.
Your brows drew together immediately at the insinuation. “I don’t what?”
“Want to know me.”
You made a face, and answered just as quickly as he stopped. “I do.”
“No.” He shook his head once, and even the movement had him straining, you could tell by the way he held himself in tension. “You want the guy who swings in at the right second. You want the banter and the upside-down thing and whatever version of me lives in your phone notifications.”
You stepped forward again and forced a huff away when he shot you a pointed look that had you stopping short. “That’s not fair—”
Peter cut you off. “It’s accurate.”
You found your voice again, because you kept letting it be cut off by him. “You don’t know what I want.”
“I know you don’t want the rest.”
You stared at him, anger beginning to push through the shock. Good, Peter thought. Anger was safer than that open, aching look you had given him.
“The rest?” you asked with your brows twitching together in a face that wasn't clear in its expression.
He laughed again, though more bitterly this time. His head kept moving, looking around the emptiness of the place between you too as if that gave him a refuge. “The blood. The missed calls. The lies. The never showing up on time. The disappearing without explaining because if I explain, someone gets hurt. The fact that I know where you live because I’ve followed you home twice to make sure you got there safely, and I hated myself both times.”
The confession landed badly.
You blinked blankly, the movement was fast and clearly unexpected.
Peter realized what he had said half a second too late when your lips parted. “You know where I live?”
“No.” His answer came too quick and that only spurred you on more.
Your lips opened and let out a puff of air. “You just said—”
Peter's hand went up to the back of his neck, immediately cutting you off again. “I said a lot of things. Head injury, probably.”
“You followed me home?”
He looked up to the sky and felt his eyes shut tightly. “Not in a creepy way.”
You threw him a well deserved glance of judgement. “That is exactly what someone says when it is a creepy way.”
“I was making sure you were safe.”
Your expression shifted. The fear had not left you completely, but something warmer and more reckless, moved beneath it. You took one careful step closer.
“You know where I live,” you repeated, breathless now, almost vindicated by the confession.
Peter pointed at you again, but there was less force behind it. His jaw strained again just from listening to you throw his words back at him. “Do not make that sound romantic.”
You kept going, your voice turning more observational by each passing second, but not losing its tone. “You noticed me that much.”
“I notice threats.”
“You think I’m a threat?”
His answer came swift. “To yourself? Constantly.”
“To you?” He didn't answer fast enough.
Your gaze moved over him, slower now that the immediate danger had passed. He felt it through the suit in a way he should not have. The cracked lens, the torn fabric, the blood near his ribs, even the tense line of his shoulders. He knew what he looked like after a fight. He knew people saw the damage and either flinched from it or turned it into a bigger moment.
You looked at him like the damage made him harder to ignore, not less.
“Let me help,” you softened again because it was hard not to when looking at him.
The response came expected, but still unwelcome. “No.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I noticed.”
You let out an exasperated groan, one hand coming up to knead through your hair and the other stretching it towards him. “Then let me do something.”
“You can do something.” Peter willed his voice to be sharpened again. “You can stop chasing me.”
Your jaw tightened and a scoff escaped you. “You keep saying that like it’s easy.”
“It should be.”
“Well, it’s not.” The honesty of it hung there, inconvenient and too human.
Above you, officers shouted to each other. The subway tiles gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights, grime caught in the grout, and had old posters peeling at the corners. Peter could smell smoke, rain, metal, and the faint sweetness of your perfume beneath the dust.
He should have left.
He should have just webbed up to the street, given one last warning, and removed himself from whatever this was before it became another thing he could ruin.
Instead, the only thing that came out was, “You’re impossible.”
You let out a shaky breath that almost became a laugh. “So you’ve mentioned.”
“I’m not joking.”
You finally quieted down when he did, the air felt still. “I know.”
“Do you?”
Not entirely, but you just nodded. “Yes.”
He stepped closer this time.
You had to tilt your head back to keep looking at him. Up close, he was all controlled tension, every line of him caught between staying and going. The white lenses hid his eyes, but they didn't hide the way his attention dropped briefly to your mouth and snapped back up.
Your pulse jumped and you figured Peter saw that too.
“Don’t,” he rasped out quickly after you opened your mouth again, but the word had no clear target. Maybe it was to you, or maybe to himself.
You lifted your hand slowly, giving him time to move away. And when he didn't, your fingertips touched the center of his chest, light enough that it should not have mattered.
It mattered.
The suit was warm from his body, textured beneath your fingertips, and damp in places from rain and sweat. His chest rose sharply at the contact.
“You’re really here,” you let slip out with your voice barely above a whisper.
His laugh was low and strained. You had a feeling his expression mirrored that. “That explosion did a number on you.”
Your voice hadn't lost its lightness, but you paused for a moment. “I’m serious.”
Peter let out a wry exhale to himself. “That’s what worries me.”
Your fingers drifted, not very far, just over the red fabric where dust had settled into the raised black lines. He caught your wrist before you reached the torn place near his side. His grip was firm, but not painful though.
It was a warning with a pulse.
“Careful,” he murmured and the word ran through you in a way it should not have, roughened by exhaustion and the edge of pain.
You looked at his hand around your wrist. It felt tingly for all the right reasons. “You always sound like that when you’re mad?”
His fingers flexed slightly against you.“No.”
“When you’re hurt?”
Peter attempted repetition for it to stick. “No.”
You decided to push more. “And when you’re trying not to be?”
He went quiet.
That was answer enough for you.
You should've apologized again. You should've stepped back, let him have the distance he kept asking for, promised to delete the apps and mean it. Some responsible part of you knew that. And some part of you was still sitting on the subway steps with shaking hands, understanding far too late that your fantasy had edges sharp enough to cut.
But he was still holding your wrist.
And, he hadn't let go.
“Tell me to leave,” you all but challenged him and Peter didn't bother containing the groan that left him.
“I did.”
“Tell me again.”
Peter’s grip tightened for half a second. You felt his fingers twitch against the inner area of your wrist.
Under the mask, his jaw shifted. You could see the shape of it where the fabric clung to him, could see the movement of his throat when he swallowed. He was close enough now that you heard the faint hitch in his breathing, and betraying close enough that the city above felt less real than the narrow pocket of space between your bodies.
“You need to leave,” he said instead, but still, he didn't move away.
Neither did you.
The misunderstanding was almost laughable, except neither of you laughed or probably could've. His words said one thing. His hand said another. His body, angled toward yours despite every reason not to be, said something else entirely.
You reached up with your free hand.
This time, you touched his jaw.
Not skin, not yet at least. Just the mask, the red fabric pulled taut over the hard line of him. His whole body went still, frighteningly still, like even breathing had become a choice.
“Don’t take it off,” he commanded and the intensity of him sent prickles up your spine.
Your fingers settled where his jawline rested, and your head tipped back slightly when your eyes fluttered shut.“I wasn’t going to.”
Peter tilted his head slightly at you from the proximity, his face did a funny thing that mixed genuinity with suspicion. “No?”
“No.”
That seemed to undo something in him more than if you had begged for his face.
You did not want the reveal, not right now. Not in this way, in a dirty subway entrance with sirens overhead and blood drying beneath his suit. You wanted what he was willing to give. The covered jaw beneath your palm. The breath he was trying to control. The impossible nearness of him.
Peter let go of your wrist only to catch your waist.
The motion was sudden enough that you inhaled sharply. He turned you, backing you against the tiled wall beside an old transit map, his hand braced near your shoulder before your spine met cold ceramic. He left you space to pull away. Barely, but still enough that the choice remained yours and his restraint remained visible in the strain of his posture.
“Tell me no,” he exhaled and you had to tear your eyes away from where the material of his suit strained against his shoulders.
Your voice came out unsteady. “No to what?”
“To this.”
You looked at him then almost incredulous, at the cracked lens, the scorched suit, and the careful violence of how still he held himself.
“I’m not saying no.”
Peter's head dipped on bodily instinct the second his ears registered the words.
He stopped an inch from you.
The pause was unbearable. Awkward in the way real wanting often was, full of breath and doubt and the tiny adjustments of two people realizing they had crossed a line before either had agreed where it was. Your hand slid from his jaw to the edge of his mask.
Peter caught your fingers again.
“Mask stays on,” he murmured with warning.
Your voice came breathless in its agreement. “I know.”
“I mean it.”
“Yeah, I know.”
He searched your face for something. A trick, maybe. Regret. Fear. A demand he could refuse so he could return to familiar ground. You gave him none of those things. You were breathing too fast, still dust-streaked, but your gaze held steady in truth.
Peter reached up and tugged the mask just high enough to bare his mouth and jaw.
Only that.
The reveal was smaller than you had imagined and somehow more intimate for it. A cut marked his lower lip. His jaw was tense, faintly shadowed, skin flushed from exertion. He looked painfully real in pieces.
You didn't reach for more despite your inner voice.
His mouth found yours before you could say anything.
The kiss was not gentle at first. It was too full of everything that had nowhere else to go: anger, fear, adrenaline, the weeks of him telling you to run and you refusing, the awful second when he had seen you frozen in the path of the blast. Peter kissed you like he was still furious with you for almost dying. Like he was furious with himself for caring. Like the only way to stop the argument was to take it apart with his mouth.
You made a small sound against him when he nipped at you with the sharpened corners of his teeth, and he pulled back immediately. “Too much?”
You shook your head, fingers curling into the front of his suit. Your eyes were blown wide by the chain of actions and the unmistakable grip of him on you. “No.”
“You sure?”
You nodded again, almost embarrassingly eager and his breath left him unevenly. “You are so bad at self-preservation.”
“You keep saving me.”
Peter pulled away despite his best efforts to stand still, and felt that familiar pathetic exasperation creeping back in. “That is not a plan.”
Your lips pulled into a lazy grin as you tried to chase the space he made away. “It’s worked for me so far.”
He gave you a look, or he tried to. With the mask half-up and the lenses still covering his eyes, the effect should have been ridiculous. It wasn't because his mouth was still too close for your to.focus on anything else. His hand at your waist was too warm and his voice had dropped into something lower, rougher, stained by the night.
“You’re so not funny,” Peter shut his eyes behind the mask and looked back to the sky as if that would prove his point more heavily.
You disagreed with that. “I made you pause.”
His scoff came absentminded, and so did his words. “You make me do a lot of stupid things.”
You smiled despite the tremor still living under your skin, and Peter was already weary of that smile even more now. The path you fingers trailed up on his abdomen was careful, as if trying to coax a street cat into staying longer. “Like what?”
He answered by kissing you again.
This time, it built slower. Still hungry and edged with frustration, but less like impact and more like surrender dragged unwillingly into the open. His gloved hand slid along your waist, then stopped, fingerpads flexing once as if he had to remind himself of the shape of restraint. Your hands moved over his chest, careful around the torn places, less careful when he made a quiet sound into your mouth and pressed closer.
The tile was cold through the back of your jacket. His body was warm everywhere he touched you. Smoke clung to him and rainwater dripped from the ends of your hair. New York kept shouting above, honking, and demanding. Down here, your world shrank to the scrape of his breath, the brush of his bare jaw against your cheek, the strange intimacy of being kissed by a man who still wouldn't even let you see his eyes.
When he pulled back, his forehead almost touched yours. The mask’s fabric brushed your brow.
“You have to stop chasing me,” Peter found the words finally after catching his breathe.
The words were softer now, which made them harder to deflect. You looked down at your fingers that were still hooked in his suit, holding on like he might disappear if you didn’t. “I know.”
“I’m serious.”
“I get it.”
“You could’ve died tonight.”
You sighed with your head tipping back against the solid frame behind you. “I said I get it.”
Peter exhaled through his nose, frustrated by your agreement because it left him nowhere to put the rest of his fear. His thumb moved once against your waist before he seemed to realize he was doing it.
“You can’t know me by getting yourself killed,” he said and you looked back up at him.
There it was again. Not the superhero or the symbol, just the simple person beneath the suit, saying the closest thing to please that he would allow himself.
“Then let me know you another way,” you let out quickly and instantly regretted it when you saw his mouth tighten alongside his jaw.
For a second, you thought he would step back. Pull the mask back down. Make a joke mean enough to end the moment. It would have been easier for him, maybe even kinder in the long run.
Instead, he lowered his head until his mouth brushed the corner of yours.
“You don’t even know what you’re asking,” Peter murmured and found himself crazy for even leaning back in.
You closed your eyes for half a breath. “Then tell me.”
His silence moved over you slowly.
He didn't tell you his name or give you any truth clean enough to hold. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe that kind of trust did not arrive all at once in a stairwell after sirens and smoke.
But his hand left the wall and settled against your cheek, careful of the blooming scrape there. His thumb hovered near the bruise without touching it. The tenderness of that restraint did something to you more than the roughness had.
“I’m not good at this,” Peter finally spoke up once more when he realized you were waiting.
Your reply came back softer. “At what?”
“Letting people stand this close.”
Your fingers loosened against his chest and a stupidly placed smile grew on your lips. “Yeah, I can tell.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound was tired and real against your ear drums. “That obvious?”
You gave a merciful nod. “A little.”
“Great.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s really not.”
You smiled faintly because you knew what he meant. “No. Probably not.”
That earned you another silence, but this one was different. It was less defensive. He stayed close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke.
“I’ll take you home,” Peter inhaled once, quickly and reminding.
A lighter breath left you alongside the silent, almost wondrous laugh that bubbled from your throat. “You know where that is.”
He groaned and did that thing where his jaw tensed and head tilted back in resignation. “Please never say that with that tone again.”
“What tone?”
“The tone that says you’re about to make my severe boundary issues into some sort of a compliment.”
You bit your lip, mostly to stop the small smile that grew because there was no telling if he wouldn't run off just yet. “You have severe boundary issues?”
Peter fought and lost the urge to throw you a disbelieving glance. “I wear spandex and fight strangers on rooftops. What do you think?”
“I think you’re avoiding.”
“I think you’re concussed.”
“You asked if I was hit.”
His words came back mumbled. “And I’m revising my assessment.”
You laughed then, breathless and completely unsteady, and some of the tightness in his shoulders eased.
He looked at your mouth again.
You noticed.
This time, Peter didn't pretend he hadn't.
The kiss that followed was quieter than before, but it carried more danger because it felt less accidental. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, feeling the strength there and the tremor of fatigue beneath it. He leaned into you for one brief second like he needed the support, then seemed to hate that he needed it and kissed you harder.
You gave back as much as he took.
That surprised him. You felt it in the way his breath caught, the way his fingers tightened at your waist, the way his mouth paused against yours before continuing with darker intent. He was careful with his strength, but not soft. He let some of the frustration show in the press of his body, in the angle of your chin guided by his gloved hand, and in the low sound he made when your fingertips traced the edge where his mask had been pushed up.
“Careful,” he said again.
This time, you understood he was not only warning you about him. You were both quiet for a moment. Then you decided to break the silence, “I don’t need to be another person with a video of you.”
His hand stilled on impact of your words.
“I don’t want proof,” you continued bevause it felt necessary. “I don’t want your face because I won some game. I just…” You searched for the right words and found none that didn't sound too exposing. You tried again. “I wanted you to feel real. And then you did. And I didn’t know how to stop wanting more.”
Peter listened without interrupting.
That felt worse to him somehow. It was easier when he was joking. Safer when he was pushing back. But he only stood there with the mask covering most of him and his bare mouth pressed into a line, taking in what you said like it had cost him something too.
Finally, he cursed faintly and tried to circle back, “You can’t use danger to get close to me.”
“I won’t.”
His voice came low and questioning. “You mean that?”
You nodded with more energy than you'd expected. “I mean it.”
He studied you for another long second. Then, he leaned in, not quite kissing you yet, and said, “If I see you at another active crime scene—”
You cut him off with that all too familiar pleased look. “You’ll lecture me?”
Peter scoffed at your sheer ability to get on his nerves all over again. “I’ll web you to the nearest bus stop.”
“That seems really excessive.”
“Yeah? I’ll leave a note too.”
You tilted your head, the movement making his own tip into yours. “What would it say?”
“Please return reckless civilian to sender.”
You smiled against his mouth before he kissed you again, and this time there was something almost relieved in it. It was still heated and messy. Still far too much for a subway stairwell while police lights strobed faintly above. But beneath the hunger, there was a fragile shift, a thread pulled taut between warning and permission.
Peter did take you home.
Not immediately, though.
The route blurred into faint fragments: his firm grasp around your waist, the startling lift of your feet leaving the ground, and your face tucked against his shoulder because the height stole the breath from you. Wind tore tears from your eyes and the city flashed beneath you in streaks of light and shadow, rooftops silvered by old rain, and apartment windows glowed with lives that had nothing to do with yours.
Peter moved differently while carrying you.
Less flashy and more controlled. He avoided the busiest streets and landed twice to check his side, though he insisted he was fine both times in a tone that made the lie obvious.
By the time he reached your building, your nerves stopped feeding into the adrenaline.
Mostly.
He landed on the fire escape outside your apartment window with a soft metallic creak. You stared at him, then at the window, then back at him.
A laugh escaped you before you could control it. “You really do know where I live.”
Peter scrubbed a palm at his temple. “I am begging you to focus on the part where I brought you here safely.”
Your brows twitched together slightly. “You brought me to my window.”
“It seemed less awkward than the lobby.”
The question came with instinct now. “You’ve thought about this?”
“No.” A pause. Peter cursed when he met your diluted pupils. “Not in a way I’m discussing.”
You laughed softly, and he looked away toward the alley like the brick wall had suddenly become intently more fascinating.
The window stuck, as usual. You had to shove it twice before it groaned open. The ordinary annoyance of it grounded you so abruptly that you almost felt embarrassed. Your room waited beyond the sill, cluttered and warm, a sweater thrown over a chair, a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand, even shoes abandoned near the closet.
Evidence of a life Spider-Man had no business knowing and yet somehow did.
You climbed in first, turning back when he remained crouched on the fire escape.
“You’re not coming in?”
Peter looked at the window frame, then at you with clear weariness. “That is a bad idea.”
You pointed it the obvious. “You’ve had a lot of those tonight.”
“You were most of them.”
“Still.”
His mouth twitched up before he willed it away. The mask was still pushed up just enough to show it.
You reached out before you could overthink it, fingers curling lightly around his wrist. Peter could have resisted without any real effort on his part. But instead, he let you draw him closer to the window.
“Just for a minute,” your lull came strong.
Peter knew that was how bad ideas survived. They dressed themselves as small things. One minute. One kiss. One exception. One person who looked at him and didn't ask for the mask.
He really should have said no.
But your room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and whatever candle you had burned earlier. Your cheek was scraped because of him and not because of him. Your fingers were warm around his wrist. The city had spent the whole night taking pieces out of him, and here you were, offering one quiet moment where he didn't have to be a symbol or a headline or a blur in someone else’s footage.
Peter climbed through the window before reason could take hold of him.
The room felt too small with him in it.
Not because he was larger, though he seemed broader here than he did against the skyline. It was the impossibility of him among ordinary things. Spider-Man standing beside your desk. Spider-Man ducking slightly to avoid the curtain rod. Spider-Man glancing at a stack of books and a mug with chipped paint as if he had crossed into a place more dangerous than the street outside.
“You’re nervous,” you couldn't help but gape at the clear display of nerves bundled in red and blue.
“I’m injured.”
You made a face and tilted your head with an all too pleased expression. “That’s not what I said.”
Peter scoffed with little humor. “It’s what I’m choosing to answer.”
You stepped closer.
He watched you do it.
The air changed again, slower than before. There were no sirens here. No crowds. No urgent reason to pretend this was only adrenaline. Your radiator hissed, a car passed below in the street, and somewhere in the building, a neighbor’s TV murmured through the wall.
Your hand rose to his chest, then paused.
“Is this okay?” you asked hesitantly, more hesitant than you'd have imagined.
Peter looked at you for a long moment, then he covered your hand with his.
“Yeah,” he cleared at his throat, rough and quiet. “It’s okay.”
The kiss in your room felt different from the ones taken in the subway, less stolen from disaster and more chosen in spite of it. Peter backed you toward the edge of your bed, stopping when your knees touched the mattress, giving you that narrow sliver of space again. You took it away yourself, pulling him closer by the front of his suit.
A low sound left him.
“Still terrible at self-preservation,” he muttered when your hand reached for anything that could be used to pull him in closer.
Your hand landed on the back of his neck, with your thumb pressing into his collar to bring him in nearer. “You like it a little.”
The refusal came expected once again. “I absolutely do not.”
Peter kissed you before you could smile any wider.
His gloved hand slid to the back of your neck, careful but firm, angling you up to meet him. The mask stayed where it was, bunched above his mouth and tight over his nose, his eyes still hidden behind white lenses that made every exposed inch feel more deliberate. You kissed the corner of his mouth, then the cut on his lip lightly enough that he went still.
“That hurt?” you whispered against him.
“No.”
A laugh escaped you, all quiet and breathless. “You liar.”
“Maybe.”
Your thumb brushed his jaw and he turned his face into the touch despite himself, and the motion was so tired, so unguarded for one brief second, that your chest ached.
Then his hand caught your waist again, and the softness sharpened into heat.
He kissed you deeper quickly after that. Your back met the mattress, and he followed only as far as you pulled him, bracing one hand beside your shoulder so his weight didn't crush you. The suit rasped beneath your palms. His breath came unevenly against your mouth. Every time you touched too close to an injury, he flinched and pretended he had not, which made you slow down until he grew impatient and kissed you harder for it.
“You’re impossible,” he said again, but this time it sounded less like an accusation.
“You keep kissing me.”
His mouth hovered above yours.
For a moment, neither of you moved after that.
The truth of that sat in the dim light between you. He had come back. Again and again. To warn you, to argue, to make sure you got home.
Peter lowered his head until his covered forehead rested near your temple.
“You can’t chase me anymore,” he said it softer this time, catching your attention more than any other shout could.
Your tongue slid over your teeth and finally exhaled when his silence felt defeating. “I won’t.”
Peter pushed. “You swear?”
“I swear.”
“And if you see me on that app—”
You turned your head up to point a finger up at him to answer. “I’ll close it.”
He lifted his head slightly, giving you a such a pointed grasp of his silence that you could only sigh. “I’ll delete it.”
“Now.”
You blinked, his request caught you off guard. “Now?”
“Yes.”
Your tongue looked at the inside of your cheek now, clearly trying to stall under the weight of his stare. “You’re very demanding for a man bleeding on my comforter.”
Peter didn't take the bait just yet. “I’ll bleed less judgmentally after you delete it.”
You stared at him in confliction, and despite everything, you laughed.
He climbed off you enough to let you reach for your phone with begrudging fingers. The screen was cracked from where it must have hit the pavement, but it still worked. You opened the app under his silent, watchful stare. For a second, your thumb hovered over the icon of the app.
It felt strange to let it go.
Not because you needed the app itself, but because deleting it meant admitting that what you wanted from him could no longer be taken by chasing red dots across a map. If he came back after this, it had to be because he chose to.
You deleted it.
Then the second one.
Then the third.
Peter said nothing while you did so.
When you set the phone down, he was looking at you with an unreadable stillness that made your pulse climb again.
“There,” you let an exhale of breath out and narrowed your eyes at him with no real spite. “Happy?”
“No.”
You rolled your eyes at that. “Of course not.”
“I’m…” Peter stopped, like the word he wanted to find was difficult to translate through the mask. His bare mouth pressed together, then softened. “Slightly less actively horrified.”
Despite your better judgment, you let your grin form again. “That’s romantic.”
“I’m known for that.”
You reached for him again and this time, he came willingly.
The kiss deepened slower, then became not slow at all. His restraint was still there, visible in every careful placement of his hands, but the darkness you had sensed in him edged closer to the surface. It was something more conflicted than plain cruelty or defensiveness. It was hunger tangled with fear.
He held you like he was still deciding whether he was sure he could and you kissed him like the decision had already been made. And for you, it had.
Peter's mouth crashed back into yours with a low sound that vibrated through the mask and straight into your chest. The second your lips parted he pushed his tongue in, deep and wet, tasting every inch like he was starving for it. Your back sank deeper into the mattress under his weight, the mattress springs creaking as he braced one hand beside your head and let the other slide down your side.
His suit scraped against your palms when you grabbed at him again, your fingers curled into the textured fabric over his ribs. You tugged hard, trying to work it up, but the material barely budged. Peter made a rough noise into your mouth and suddenly caught both your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand.
"Nuh-uh," he muttered against your lips, his voice low and amused. "You don't get to strip me just because you're feeling greedy."
“That can't be fair.” You scoffed and tried to twist free, your hips rolled up to grind against the hard line of his cock through the suit. The pressure dragged a hiss out of him. He pressed his hips down in answer, grinding slow and deliberate to let you feel every inch of him trapped behind the fabric. The suit was warm from his body heat, slightly rough where it rubbed your inner thighs.
"Fuck, look at you," he breathed out with forehead pressed to yours. "Already trying to climb me like you can't wait five seconds."
“You're hard, isn't that contradicting?” You bucked harder, chasing friction and he smacked your hands away again, this time letting them fall to the sides so he could shove his knee between your legs and grind it up against you through your clothes. The pressure was perfect and not nearly enough.
You gasped into another kiss and Peter swallowed the sound, and had his tongue sliding deep again while his hips kept that slow and punishing roll.
Every time your fingers crept back toward the edge of his suit he caught them, smacked them away, or pinned them down. The teasing only made you even more worked up. You could feel how pent-up he was in the way his breathing stuttered every time you ground up against him. It was in the little involuntary jerks of his hips when you would moan into his kisses.
"Fuck," you whispered with your voice shakier than you'd meant it. "Please—"
"Please what?" He dragged his mouth down your jaw and had his teeth scraping against your skin. "Please let you rip my suit off so you can ride me? Not happening. You get what I give you."
Peter rocked his hips harder, grinding the thick line of his cock right against your clit through the layers between you. Your back arched and he caught the movement and pressed you flat again with his body, one hand sliding under your shirt to palm your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple until you squirmed.
"You're so fucking eager," he groaned and his voice cracked with how turned on he was. "Been driving me crazy for months and now you're just—fuck—spreading your legs the second I touch you. You like this? Like me holding you down, keeping the suit on, making you work for it?"
You nodded frantically and had your hips jerking up to meet every grind in tandem. Peter kissed you again, deeper and messier this time, the mask brushed against your cheek every time he tilted his head too high. His free hand slid down to grip your thigh with his fingers digging hard as he rocked faster, keeping the friction building until you were panting into his mouth and clutching at his shoulders.
"That's it," he whispered against your lips, though it was followed by a chuckle that had your stomach tightening. "Be a good girl and take it. Show me how bad you want it. Maybe if you keep being this eager for me I'll let you come like this, grinding on my cock through the suit. Maybe."
He kissed you again before you could answer, he tried to swallow every desperate sound you made while his hips kept that relentless rhythm that had you completely at his mercy.
“You're annoyingly mouthy.” A weak scoff escaped you and your fingers found the hem of your shirt. You peeled it upward in one impatient motion, tossing it somewhere off the side of the bed. The cool air hit your skin just before his palm did, landing firm and flat against your ribs.
"Slow down," Peter muttered, the words half-laugh, half-warning. His hand slid lower, smacking lightly at your hip. "Lift."
You lifted up obediently, hips rising off the mattress. He hooked his fingers into your waistband and dragged the fabric down your thighs in one slow, deliberate pull, leaving your panties exactly where they were. The cotton clung to you, already damp, and Peter made a low sound when he saw it.
"Look at that," he inhaled with his voice tight. "Soaking through already."
"Maybe stop teasing me then," you shot back, breath hitching when he pressed his palm flat against your sternum and shoved you back down flat. The mattress dipped under your weight. His hand stayed there, pinning you in place while his other hand worked the last of your bottoms off your ankles.
"You're the one who can't keep still," he only answered, reaching for the pillow beside your head. He shoved it over your face without ceremony, muffling your next protest. "Keep that there. If it comes off, I'm gone. You won't see me again. Understand?"
You nodded hard against the pillow, fingers clutching the fabric on either side of your head. The threat landed somewhere between fear and heat, making your thighs press together. Peter watched the movement, then pushed them apart with his knee again.
"Good girl," he repeated quieter now. His hand left your sternum. You heard the faint rustle of fabric shifting, then felt the mattress dip as he settled lower between your spread legs.
The first press of his mouth landed through the thin cotton of your panties. Hot, open, and unhurried. He licked a slow stripe from bottom to top, pressing the fabric against your clit until it was plastered to you. The wet heat of his tongue dragged again, firmer this time, soaking the material until it clung obscenely. You moaned into the pillow, hips twitching up toward his face.
Peter cursed under his breath, the sound was rough and conflicted. His tongue flattened and dragged again, then curled, tracing the shape of your folds through the soaked fabric like he was trying to memorize it. Every pass made the cotton wetter, until you could feel every ridge of his tongue pressing through. Peter sucked at the fabric, pulling it tight against you, then released it with a wet sound that made your face burn.
"Fuck," he hissed, pulling back just enough to hook two fingers into the side of your panties. He tugged them aside, exposing you to the cool air for half a second before his tongue was back. This time there was nothing between you. The flat of his tongue dragged up through your folds in one long, messy stroke, then curled at the tip to flick over your clit. He did it again, slower with his lips sealing around you while his tongue worked in deep, filthy strokes.
“Fuck, woah—don't, don't do that!” Peter breathed out a chuckle when he felt you shake under him, your thighs trembling on either side of his head. Your grip on the pillow tightened until your knuckles ached. Every time his tongue curled just right you whined into the fabric, hips rolling up to chase the pressure. Peter didn't let you have it easy. He pulled back when you got too close, licked around your clit instead of on it, then dove back in with that same hungry rhythm.
The mask came off.
You felt the shift in pressure first, the way his hand shoved the pillow harder against your face as he used the other to yank the fabric up and over his head. The sudden absence of the mask's texture against your inner thigh made you gasp into the pillow. Your body went loose for a second, boneless, before instinct kicked in.
One hand stayed obedient on the pillow. The other reached out blindly, fingers searching for his shoulder, his hair, anything. You barely brushed skin before his hand snapped around your wrist, grip tight enough to make you still.
"No," Peter stopped, and had his voice raw and mean. "You don't get to touch. Keep that hand on the pillow or I stop."
“Fine, whatever. Just, fuck—don't stop.” You nodded frantically, pulling your hand back to clutch the fabric again. Your whole body trembled as he lowered his mouth once more, tongue dragging through you in those same messy, desperate movements. Peter groaned against you like he hated how much he wanted it, the sound vibrated straight through your core.
Your moans came out muffled and broken now. Every time his tongue curled just right your hips jerked, and every time he pulled back you whined like you were begging without words. He kept you right there, shaking and soaked until your thighs were quivering and your grip on the pillow was the only thing keeping you from reaching for him again.
“Holy shit, I'm so close—” Your fingers dug into the pillow, flexing and twitching as you tried to form words, but every attempt dissolved into broken moans that the fabric swallowed whole. Your hips rolled up against his mouth, chasing the pressure, and the tension coiled so tight in your belly that when it snapped it hit like a live wire.
You came hard, thighs clamping around his head as your whole body jerked. The orgasm tore through you without warning, soaking his face in a sudden rush that hit his cheeks and chin, dripping down his jaw. Peter groaned against you, his tongue still working through the mess, and his lips parting to lick at the slick coating his mouth.
Every flick of his tongue sent another twitch through your over-sensitive folds, and he gave your clit a few light, wet smacks with his fingers, watching the way your hips jumped at each one and the slick connecting at his fingertips before breaking apart in stands.
The sound of fabric shifting reached you through the haze. His suit peeled away in sections, the material sliding over skin until you felt the sudden press of bare warmth against your inner thighs. His chest, his stomach, the hard line of his cock brushing your slick folds. You reached again, one hand lifting off the pillow in desperate need to touch, and he caught your wrist with a low, raspy laugh.
"Fuck, you're shaking," Peter breathed out with his voice turning rougher by the second. He brought your palm to his mouth and kissed it, lips dragging over your skin before he let your hand slide down his side. Your fingers traced the hard muscle of his abdomen, feeling the heat of him, the faint tremor in his body as he held himself back. He let you explore for a few seconds longer, then shoved your hand back to the pillow and pressed down harder on the fabric covering your face.
"Keep it there," Peter warned, though the edge in his voice wavered. "Didn't I tell you that already?"
“Shit, sorry—” The apology came mindless, distracted by the frantic muffled agreement vibrating against the pillow. He shifted between your legs, the blunt head of his cock dragging through your soaked slit in one slow, teasing pass.
The contact made him hiss through his teeth, and had hips jerking forward like the restraint was finally cracking. He pushed in deep on the next stroke, burying himself to the hilt in one rough thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.
The pace turned brutal fast. Deep, heavy strokes rocked you up the mattress, each one forcing a broken sound out of you that the pillow barely contained. He watched the way your body jolted with every thrust, the way your tits bounced, the way your thighs trembled around his hips. Peter's hand stayed firm on the pillow, keeping you blind and muffled while he fucked into you like he'd been starving for it.
"God, listen to you," he murmured with a humorless chuckle. "So fucking wet. You like this? Being held down, can't even see me, can't touch?" He drove in harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing loud in the room. "Been holding back too long. Lonely too long, God I'm going insane. Fuck—"
Your hands went slack against the pillow, fingers twitching uselessly as the intensity built again. He noticed the moment your grip loosened and pressed the pillow down harder, the fabric smothering every whimper. The control should have felt demeaning, but it only made the heat spike hotter, making you clench around him like your body was begging for more even as your mind spun from the overwhelming sensation.
Peter kept the rhythm punishing, having hips snapping forward with a desperation that matched the conflict in his voice. Every thrust pushed you closer to the edge again, and every time you tried to reach for him his free hand caught your wrist and pinned it back down. The threat hung between you, unspoken but heavy: touch him and he'd stop. Don't touch and he'd keep going until you couldn't think straight.
Your moans turned frantic, muffled and wet against the pillow and he answered with a low groan that vibrated through his chest as he drove into you again, chasing the feeling without letting himself finish just yet.
He finally pulled out with a wet drag that left you clenching around nothing, the sudden emptiness making your hips twitch back toward him. And before you could even form a protest his hands were on you, gripping your waist hard enough to leave marks as he flipped you onto your stomach. The mattress dipped under his weight when he pressed your knees apart and yanked your hips up, forcing your hips into the air while your face stayed buried in the pillow.
"Fuck, look at you," Peter exhaled, and his voice cracked between a laugh and something unintentionally darker. "So eager. You want it this bad?"
You tried to push up on your elbows, twisting to look back at him, but one of his hands slid up your spine and pressed between your shoulder blades, pinning you back down. The other hand gathered at the base of your neck, tugging just enough to arch your neck as he leaned over.
"Can't fault you. I'm not doing much better," his voice hit your ear though the words came out shaky. His cock dragged through your folds again, the head catching on your entrance before he sank back in with one rough thrust that stuttered the air away from your lungs. The angle was deeper like this, hitting something that made your thighs shake. "God, you're tight. Squeezing me like you don't want me to leave."
His hips snapped forward in a punishing rhythm, skin slapping wetly against skin while his free hand roamed under your body to grab at your tits, squeezing hard before sliding lower to rub tight circles over your clit. Every thrust rocked you forward, your muffled moans vibrating into the bedspread as he fucked you like he was trying to crawl inside.
"This is so fucked," Peter breathed out against your spine with his lips dragging hot and open-mouthed down the curve of your back. He kissed each vertebra like he was apologizing for how hard he was pounding into you, even as his cock kept driving deep enough to make your vision blur. "I shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be doing this. But fuck, you feel too good. Can't stop."
You managed to prop yourself up on your elbows again, and your voice was hoarse when you gasped out, "Then don't stop. Please, keep going—"
His hand tightened in your hair, yanking your head back as he slammed into you harder, the pace turning almost frantic. "Don't say it like that," Peter groaned to himself, conflicted and desperate all at once. "Makes me want to stay. Makes me want to ruin you."
The hand under you kept working your clit in tight, relentless circles while his cock pistoned in and out, the wet sounds were obscene in the quiet room. Every time you tried to push back against him he shoved you forward again, controlling the angle, the depth, the pace. His breath came in ragged pants against your skin with his lips still trailing kisses down your exposed skin even as his thrusts grew rougher and more desperate.
"Been too long," Peter admitted between thrusts, and he could hear his voice turn thick with frustration. "Lonely too long. And you—fuck—you're so wet. So fucking perfect. I can't—"
His words cut off into a broken moan as you clenched around him. Your body responded to every rough stroke with another rush of slickness. He pressed his forehead between your shoulder blades, having his hips stuttering for a moment before he caught himself and started at you even harder, like he was trying to outrun whatever guilt was eating at him.
"Tell me to stop," he rasped, even as his hand in your hair pulled tighter and he drove in deeper. "Tell me this is wrong. Because I can't make myself leave."
“Told you, don't stop—” the words hung there frantically in their plea, and you pushed back against him, meeting every thrust with a desperate roll of your hips. The sound he made was half-laugh, half-groan. "Yeah," Peter breathed against your shoulder. "That's what I thought.”
His fist tightened in your hair again, yanking your face up from the pillow until your neck arched and your spine bowed. The sudden pull made your vision swim, but you kept your eyes squeezed shut, forcing yourself to obey even as every instinct screamed to look back at him.
"Good girl," he rasped against the shell of your ear and his voice shredded. "Keep those eyes closed. You feel that? Feel how fucking deep I am?"
You nodded frantically, a broken whimper escaping as he dragged out slow and deliberate before slamming back in. The angle had you seeing stars, each thrust punching the air from your lungs in sharp little gasps.
"Fuck—I'm—"
"Don't look," Peter tried to warn again, but his voice cracked on the words. His lips found the back of your neck, having his teeth scraping before he sucked hard enough to bruise. The wet pull of his mouth made your clench around him, and the groan that tore from his chest vibrated straight through your spine. "Christ, you're squeezing me so tight. Like you want me to lose it."
You tried to be good. Really tried. But when his teeth sank into the side of your throat, just below your ear, your hand twisted back on instinct. Your fingers found his hair, soft, sweat-damp curls that brushed against your knuckles, and you buried your hand in them, tugging him closer even as your eyes fluttered open for half a second.
"Fuck, I knew it," Peter breathed, catching your wrist and pinning it to the small of your back. His pace never faltered like his voice, hips continuing to snap forward in that relentless rhythm that had your thighs shaking. "Told you not to touch. Told you to be good. But you can't help yourself, can you?"
"I'm sorry," you gasped and your voice was hoarse, you shook your head at nothing as you continued. "I won't look, I swear! Just—please don't stop. Please, I need—"
His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades again, his exhales came breathless and ragged against your skin. "I shouldn't have taken the mask off. This is so fucking stupid. You could—god, you feel too good. Been too long since anyone—fuck—"
The words dissolved into a guttural curse as you clenched around him again, your second orgasm building fast and sharp in the pit of your stomach. Every thrust dragged across that perfect spot inside you, and the lack of allowance from him made it worse. It made every touch electric. You could feel his cock throbbing, feel the way his rhythm stuttered when you squeezed him, and feel the desperate way his free hand grabbed at your hip hard enough to bruise.
"You're close," Peter groaned into your ear, and he sounded completely wrecked now. "I can feel it. Fuck, you're dripping everywhere. Making such a mess."
Your eyes rolled back despite yourself, and a broken moan tore from your throat as he bit down on your shoulder. The sensation of his teeth marking you while he relentlessly pounded into you pushed you right to the edge. Your hand twisted in his hair again, fingers tightening in frenzied motion and this time he didn't stop you.
"That's it," Peter panted and cursed wordlessly when his hips stuttered at the feeling. "Come on my cock. Let me feel it. Been so fucking lonely, and you—god, you're just fucking insane—"
His words cut off into a choked groan as your orgasm crashed over you, your cunt pulsing around him in rhythmic waves. Your whole body seized; your thighs shook violently as you came with a broken cry, and the feeling of you clenching around him dragged a wrecked sound from Peter's chest.
"Fuck—fuck—fuck—" His hips jerked erratically, his pace faltering as he fought to hold back. "You're gonna make me come. God, I can feel every fucking pulse. Don't—don't look back, fuck."
Peter buried his face in your neck, sucking another bruise into your skin while his cock throbbed inside you. His hand stayed tangled in your hair, keeping your face turned away even as his body trembled against yours, every muscle tight with the effort of holding back his own release.
"You're too good," he whispered against your ear, all hoarse and desperate. "Too fucking perfect. I can't—"
His hips snapped forward one more time in a loss of control, burying himself to the hilt as he fought to regain control, his breath coming in harsh pants against your marked throat.
A broken gasp tore from your throat as his hips stilled, the thick length of him buried to the hilt inside you. Instead of pulling back, he ground forward, rolling his pelvis in a slow, deliberate circle that forced another inch of him deeper. Your walls fluttered around him, oversensitive and raw, and the sensation made your vision blur even with your eyes squeezed shut.
"Fuck, too much—" The words came out ragged and barely coherent. Your body had gone limp in his grip, head only held up only by his fist in your hair and the arm banded around your waist. Every nerve ending sparked like live wires, the stimulation making your head spin.
"I know," Peter groaned against your ear with overwhelming rasp. "I can feel you shaking. God, you're so fucking tight around me. Can't stop—need to feel all of it."
You tilted your head back desperately, blindly seeking his mouth. "Please, need—"
His palm came up rough and warm, fingers splaying across your eyes to keep you from looking, and then his lips crashed into yours from the side. The kiss was messy, uncoordinated, all teeth and tongue and shared gasps. Peter swallowed your whimpers as he started to grind again, short, shallow rolls of his hips that kept him buried deep while the head of his cock dragged against that oversensitive spot inside you.
"Fuck, fuck—I'm—" His voice cracked. You could feel it happening from the way his abs flexed hard against your back, the tremor that ran through his thighs, and the way he throbbed inside you like a heartbeat. His rhythm stuttered with his hips jerking in shallow pulses as he came with a guttural groan that vibrated through your spine.
You felt every pulse of it. Hot, thick spurts flooding you, filling you until it leaked out around his cock with each weak thrust. Peter kept fucking it deeper, grinding the mess back into you while his hand stayed clamped over your eyes and his mouth devoured yours in desperate, open-mouthed kisses.
"God—god—" He panted against your lips, and his hips kept twitching in movement.
Your hand reached back blindly, fingers finding his hip and your nails dug into his skin as you held onto him. He was shaking against you, every muscle tight, his breath coming in harsh pants against your neck. The hand over your eyes softened, thumb stroking your temple as he slowly came down, his cock still twitching inside you with aftershocks.
"You okay?" Peter whispered with his voice strained after the moment quieted down, his high climbing down in shallow breaths. His forehead dropped to your shoulder against your marked skin. "Did I—fuck, tell me you're okay."
You nodded weakly, still floating in feeling, still feeling the slow leak of him between your thighs. "Don't pull out yet," you managed with your voice barely audible. "Just—stay. Please."
Peter's arm tightened around you, pulling you closer even as his own breathing started to even back out. The hand he had over your eyes slid down to cup your jaw, gentler now, and his thumb brushed your bottom lip. "Yeah, okay," he murmured. "Just for a while."
The room was quiet except for your mingled breathing and his lips pressed soft kisses along your shoulder, soothing the bite marks he'd left, and you could feel the tension slowly bleeding out of his body as he held you through the afterglow.
The last thing you registered was the slow drag of his cock easing out of you, the wet slide of his cum following in its wake, and the gentle press of his lips against your shoulder. Then everything went soft and dark.
You didn't even feel yourself slipping under.
Consciousness returned in pieces.
Firstly, it came with the weight of the sheets tucked up to your chest, cool cotton against your bare skin. Then, with the faint ache between your legs, a deep, pleasant throb that pulsed in time with your heartbeat. Your thighs felt sticky, but when you shifted, the sensation was clean. There was no dried mess, just the ghost of it cleaned away.
Your eyes cracked open.
The room was dim at first, the only light filtering in from the streetlamp outside your window. The space beside you was empty, the sheets cool. And he was gone.
You pushed yourself up on one elbow, wincing at the pull in your hips, and spotted the bottle of water on your nightstand. Beside it, a folded piece of paper with your name scrawled across the front in handwriting you recognized: messy, rushed, and unmistakably his.
You reached for it, unfolding the note with fingers that still trembled.
Drink water. Eat something. Don't let me see you at any more crime scenes.
Beneath it, smaller, almost an afterthought:
P.S. If you behave, maybe you'll see me without those stupid apps.
A laugh bubbled up in your throat immediately after reading it, all hoarse and disbelieving. You pressed the note to your chest, letting your head fall back against the pillows with a soft thud.
"Well," you muttered to the empty room, voice scratchy from use, "guess I finally deleted the right thing."
Your body sank deeper into the mattress, sore in all the right places and light in a way that made no sense. The ache between your legs was a reminder, the faint scent of him still clinging to your sheets. You closed your eyes, the note crinkling softly against your skin, and smiled.
The ball was in his court now, and you couldn't wait to see what he'd do with it.
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 - coming soon! (do let me know if you'd like to be added to a peter parker taglist, i may be making one as i have more fics coming up for him <3).
Peter Parker / Want me to teach you? ── 18+ (MDNI)
Summary ⟅ You discover that Peter has never given head before, and being the kind, generous friend you are, you offer to teach him.
Sub!Peter Parker x Best friend!Reader / ⟣ SMUT / 2.9k ⟢
Warnings: no spoilers, peter uses his spidey-sense to eat you out (walk with me), cunnilingus, oral (fem receiving), praise, sub!peter, pussy drunk!peter, he cums his pants, overstimulation, virgin!peter, mutual pining
Lily's note — 🪷 i can't believe im on my third fic RELEASE ME FROM THE CHOKEHOLD
"Wait... what did you just say?"
You whipped your head to look at Peter beside you on the couch, your eyes narrowed into slits, unsure if you heard him correctly.
He kept his eyes locked onto the wall in front of him, his cheeks heating under your intense stare. He cleared his throat before repeating himself, “I said I wouldn't know.”
The admission came after you finished ranting about your stupid ex boyfriend, listing every single thing he was bad at, specifically his inability to eat you out properly.
“Is it really that difficult?” you’d asked aloud, not actually expecting him to answer. But then came his surprising response.
Peter gathered his courage and tore his gaze away from the wall to look at where your narrowed eyes were still glued to him. He chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “I-Is it that surprising?”
You snapped out of your shocked state. A small pool of guilt settled in your stomach at the way you’d reacted, he was obviously embarrassed, but you just couldn't believe it.
“Wait—so you’ve never… gone down on a girl?”
The flush on his cheeks darkened as he shook his head, swallowing the nervous lump in his throat.
“Like, you’ve never given head?”
His brows rose when you repeated yourself, and just before he could form a response, you were speaking again.
“As in, you’ve never eaten a girl's pussy out—”
He clamped a hand over your mouth, forcing you into silence, cringing at how blunt you were being.
“Oh my god, I already said yes! Do you have to be so—hey!” He ripped his hand away when you licked a stripe up his palm with your tongue.
You laughed as he wiped his hand on his pant leg, leaning over to rest a comforting hand on his shoulder. He stiffened under your touch for a fraction of a second, his breath catching as the warmth of your palm sank into his skin.
“Sorry Pete, I’m just surprised.”
He exhaled a sharp chuckle, fidgeting with a loose thread on the couch to distract himself from the conversation. “Surprised? Why?”
“Well,” you started, shifting your hand to the back of his neck, toying with the curls there. “I guess the better question is why haven't you?”
A shiver ran down his spine at your soft touch, his heart beating faster. “J-Just,” he cleared his throat to calm his shaky voice. “The opportunity never came I guess.”
“The opportunity never came?” you repeated, bewildered. “You’re literally Spiderman! I’m sure you could have anyone you wanted.”
Not anyone, he thought, smiling bitterly. Your ex boyfriend made sure of it when he managed to get to you first before Peter could pluck up the courage to ask you out. But now you were single—the realization slammed into him.
The room settled into silence with you still lightly caressing his hair, your fingers scratching at his scalp now. His eyes fluttered shut as he sank into the feeling, a small, breathy sigh escaping him.
“Do you want me to teach you?”
His eyes shot open. He stared at you, waiting for you to pull your hand away and tease him for falling for your joke. But you only looked at him with a soft, patient smile, your eyes glimmering under the low light of his apartment.
“W-What?” he stuttered.
You bit back your smile, adjusting yourself on the couch to shift closer to him. “Do you want me to teach you how to eat a girl out?”
His eyes flicked to your lips then back up quickly. “Haha, I um… A-Are you being serious right now?”
You bit your lip with a nod. “Dead serious. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t help you? Your future girl will thank you for learning.”
The universe must be playing some cruel joke on him. He was seconds away from screaming I only want you in your face, but something told him that wouldn’t go over well. Instead, with a hopeful lilt of his mouth, he said, “O-Okay. If you’re okay with that. N-No pressure… or anything…”
Your heart ached with fondness at how awkward he was being. You stood up in front of him, holding a hand out for him to take which he merely stared at. You glanced down to where his hands were clasped tightly together, positioned snugly over his lap.
Oh.
You licked your lips, reaching down to tug his hand free, your gaze fixed on his lap as his hand moved to reveal the boner he was concealing, his bulge pushing insistently against his pants.
“I’m sorry!” he rushed out. “I-It just happened and—god I’m acting like such a loser—”
“Peter,” you grabbed his chin, tilting his head up to you, the sight of his big, shiny, round eyes causing a warm ache to settle low in your belly. “It’s okay. I’m flattered, actually.”
You smiled reassuringly and tugged him up, leading him to his bed. When you were both stood at the foot, you turned to face him, your fingers intertwining with his.
“Hey, are you sure this is okay? We can stop and pretend like this never happened… just say the word.”
He took in a deep, trembling breath, exhaling it with a small chuckle. “You’re asking me if I’m okay with a super pretty girl teaching me to—”
You raised your brows at him expectantly, laughing when he struggled to vocalize what was about to happen.
He rubbed the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly. “Yes. Yes I’m okay with that. Very okay with it actually…”
You grinned at him through your lashes, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to his cheek, satisfied with the spaced out expression on his face when you pulled back.
“Okay, Spiderman, let’s see if you’re good at this too!”
He groaned, clenching his eyes shut. “Don’t call me that.”
When they opened, they grew in alarm at the sight of you slipping your bottoms down your legs. His gaze shot back up to your face when he realized you’d pulled down your panties too, his skin burning hot.
You gave his hand a final squeeze before sitting down on the bed, pushing yourself back to rest against the headboard.
He kept his eyes locked onto yours, his breaths coming in sharper as he saw you part your thighs from the fuzzy part of his vision. A moan threatened to escape him, his cock twitching excitedly in his pants.
“Peter,” you whispered, “Look at me.”
With a deep breath, he let his gaze trail down slowly over your neck, your shirt clad torso, until finally they rested between your spread thighs, your cunt dripping with arousal.
He was drunk on the sight, a rush of dizziness flowing through him when you let out a breathy pant, your clit pulsating at the way he was taking you in like you were the most mesmerizing painting hung in the Louvre.
“Do you see how wet I am already, Peter?”
His hand twitched at his side when you lowered your own to your cunt, running a finger through your folds to collect your slick, holding it up in the air for him to see.
“Mmm, all for you,” you sighed. “Come here.”
His feet that were seemingly glued to the ground broke free of their spell as he rushed forward, planting his knees on the bed.
“On your stomach, lay between my thighs.”
He obeyed your command, his pulse thumping quickly in his ears. The moment his head hovered close enough to your pussy, he breathed in deep, his eyes screwing shut at the way your intoxicating scent filled his nostrils.
When he opened them you were staring at him with parted lips, your chest rising and falling heavily.
“Sorry…was that weird,” he apologized. “It’s just… my senses are enhanced and you just smell so…” He breathed in again, exhaling with a soft whimper.
Your cunt tensed, squeezing around nothing as the pleasure burned through you. You could see the worry still brewing in his eyes so you reached down to press a hand to his head, running your fingers affectionately through his curls. “It wasn’t weird.”
He smiled with relief, his eyes flicking back to your heat, waiting earnestly for your first instruction.
“Start with some kisses,” you murmured, “Right here… and here.” You pointed to your swollen bud, then down to your slick folds.
He nodded, eyes all hopeful and bright. His lips brushed against your inner thigh first—a sweet, unexpected chaste kiss that made your heart flutter. Then he moved in, his lips ghosting your heat. The second kiss landed just below your clit, a little hesitant but soft, missing the target, but you didn’t care. Not with how gently he was treating you.
You sighed with pleasure, your head falling back against the headboard to watch him through half-lidded eyes.
The third kiss was firmer, his lips pressing right over your center, sending electricity shooting through your body. You gasped, your hips lifting off the bed.
“God, yes, Peter,” you moaned, your fingers tightening in his curls. “Just like that, you’re doing so good.”
He whimpered at the praise, his hips involuntarily pressing harder against the mattress below him, unbeknownst to you.
“Now taste me,” you instructed, your voice slightly wobbly. “Lick through my folds. It might be a little salty, okay?”
He nodded, his nose nudging your clit, as his tongue slipped past his lips. The first swipe was agonizingly slow, the muscle exploring through your soaked slit.
You gasped, your back arching as he hummed, the taste of you—an intoxicating mix of musky, sweet, and salty—flooded his enhanced senses. His next lick came quicker, a broad stroke that gathered your arousal on his tongue. He repeated the action until he was lapping at you eagerly, drinking in your juices, his soft whimpers muffled against your cunt.
“Yes… oh f-fuck, Peter… you’re a natural.” Your body shifted, writhing on the bed. He wrapped his arms around your thighs, spreading you more open while holding you still as he feasted. His hips circled on the bed, building to a steady pace until he was rutting desperately, the friction a sweet torture on his trapped, aching cock.
“O-Okay,” you panted, your vision blurring. “Here’s my clit… use your tongue, rub it in circles.”
He dove in, his tongue flattening against the bundle of nerves before circling it slowly. A sharp, white-hot pleasure shot through you, your moans growing louder, shifting to high-pitched cries.
“S-So good—mmngh… Just like tha—oh!” You bucked your hips against his mouth, his grip tightening even more. “Now j-just, flick… flick your… fuuuck—”
You tried to form words, to guide him forward, but all you could manage was a broken stream of cries. It felt too good, the heat in your belly coiling tighter with each perfect rotation of his tongue.
He glanced up the length of your body, fixing on your face to watch the pleasure overtake you, your lashes fluttering as your eyes rolled back. He parted from your clit to ask what to do next when a familiar electric prickle ticked at his brain. His focus zeroed into your clit, feeling the frantic pulses, sensing the desperate clenches of your inner walls.
Woah, he thought, not knowing his spidey sense could be used for anything but danger.
It was like a switch went off in him. He dove back in, this time with expert flicks focused on your sensitive nub. He didn’t have to think anymore, guided by his sharp instincts.
“P-Peter! Oh my g-god!” You screamed, pushing his face harder into your cunt, grinding yourself against his mouth. He mewled against your clit, the sound making your vision turn fuzzy, bright stars clouding it.
You whined when he pulled away from your clit until his tongue dove lower, licking around your hole. He slurped up the arousal, then pressed the tip of his tongue into your tight walls, poking and teasing.
“Yes yes yes, right there… please,” you begged.
He pressed harder until his tongue slipped inside, fucking you with it in shallow thrusts. You rocked your hips over him, riding his face to force him in deeper, your thighs trembling around his head.
He gasped against your cunt, a breathy, wanton cry, the sounds helpless and needy, as he rubbed his cock faster into the sheets, his pre-cum soaking through the sweatpants.
“You’re doing so good,” you chanted, “Eating me out so perfectly… such a good boy… my good boy, Peter…”
He held you tighter as he whimpered into your cunt at the praise, his hips jerking wildly before his body seized. Heat flooded his underwear, his climax pushing through him with an intensity he’d never felt before.
But even as his cock pulsed over and over again, he kept working you open.
He dragged his lips back to your clit, sucking the throbbing nub into his mouth, laving at it in tune with the aftershocks of his own body.
Your own release was within reach, dangling dangerously over the edge while he alternated between hard sucks and flicks of his tongue.
“So pretty, nggh, taste so good,” he mumbled, and the sentence alone was enough to make you fall.
Your stomach buckled, your cunt convulsing with hard, fluttering clenches. He splayed a large hand over your stomach, holding you still as you came, his tongue never ceasing its relentless, worshipful assault.
“Peter… Peter,” you gasped, your clit burning as the pleasure curled into a sharp, sweet pain. “Cant! H-Hurts! ‘S too m-much!”
His brain went foggy, blocking out your cries as your cunt consumed him, losing himself in the taste and feel of you, licking and sucking long after your climax had passed. You groaned, your thighs clamping around his head.
You pushed him back as he gasped to catch his breath.
“Too much, baby… too much.”
His eyes glossed over at the pet name, his cheek falling to rest on your trembling thigh. He blinked up at you, his face flushed and blissed out, his nose, lips, and chin glistening with your arousal.
He carefully began to rub your thigh absentmindedly, his touch tender as he gazed at you, the devastating weight of love held in his eyes.
You played with the sweat-damp curls as you caught your breath, your body still twitching every few seconds with lasting pulses of pleasure.
A small, incredulous smile spread across your lips, growing to spread across your face.
“Wow,” you whispered, your voice wrecked. “Were you lying about not knowing how to do that?”
The accusation brought him back faster than the speed of light. He shot up, panicked, scrambling to his knees. “What? N-No! Of course not! I swear I—look my tingle—” He stopped when he saw your grin. The tension drained from him, replaced by a sigh of relief. “You’re joking…”
You laughed, soft and breathless. “I’ve never come like that before.”
His chest swelled with pride. He sat back on his heels, a goofy, triumphant smile appearing on his wet lips.
You glanced down, your smile faltering at the wet patch at his crotch.
“Peter… did you…?”
He looked down, mortification instantly flooding him, his cheeks tinting crimson all over again. He hadn’t even realized he came, lost in pleasuring you. His throat went dry as he stammered to pull together an explanation, an apology.
Before he could, you reached for him, your hand curling around his neck to pull him close. He held his breath as his lips brushed yours.
“You came in your pants, just from eating me out?” You asked in a hush whisper, a smirk breaking through. “That’s so hot, Peter.”
You swallowed his whimper, pressing your lips to his.
They were soft and insistent against his still ones, his brain short-circuiting before he pulled himself together, parting his lips for you. You dipped your tongue against his, tasting the remnants of your arousal as he melted into you, his hands coming up to cradle your face. He kissed you back needily, pouring every bit of his longing into it until you gently broke away.
You ran your thumb over his swollen lips, your brows creasing. You looked oddly… shy.
You gnawed at your lip before sighing. “Is… is now a bad time to tell you that I like you?”
He stilled, his eyes staring into yours, unblinking and full of disbelief.
You misread the silence. “I, um… I noticed with my ex that I’d compare him to you with everything he did. That’s why we got into that last fight and broke up. Because I realized… I liked you.” You dipped your head with a sad chuckle. “Sorry. I guess I ruined it, huh?”
“No!” He screamed, so loud and sudden, you flinched. “No, no, no, I—I like you too. I have for a while,” he exhaled a sigh of relief, a happy smile forcing its way to his lips. “I didn’t think you felt the same…”
Your grin returned, brighter than ever. You kissed him again, slower this time, sliding down until your back was pressed to the mattress, his hovering over you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pressing his bulge, his cock already half-hard again, against your sensitive, spent cunt.
You smirked at him, a playful glint in your eye. “So… do you need me to teach you how to do this?” you asked, nodding down to where you were joined together.
Your laugh died down when he didn’t react to your joke as you expected. He just stared with a hopeful, wide-eyed vulnerability that told you everything you needed to know.
“O-Oh,” you breathed, your heart swelling, threatening to burst with affection. “You’re a…virgin?”
He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
Your eyes turned giddy, filled with a look of pure joy. You cupped his face, pulling him down for another kiss, whispering against his lips, “I’m gonna have so much fun with you.”
Comment or message to be added to the spiderman taglist <3
a not-so-typical season including: nesting, breeding, sniffing, a squeeze of choking, and knotting.
every rutting season was different with hybrid gojo..but this year seems to be particularly difficult.
you knew it was arriving when his demeanor begin to change and his routine hit a wall. instead of kissing you good morning with a thumping tail, he'd hang wrapped by your side, not letting go for a minute like you'd disappear in a flash.
gojo was clingy but now it was unbearable. constant monitoring, snaking himself around you, taking whiffs of your hair, even using your toothbrush.
you finally informed for boss of your expected yearly hiatus of around two weeks, but as you exited the building you almost feared it'd be more. he has never been this bad.
your stomach twisted once you entered the hall of your complex. you thought back to what he told you a while back, that paired mates know the moment the other begins their season. it almost made you laugh. maybe you were truly mates.
the laughter, however, was short lived. you knew he had started his full blown rutting and you knew the moment you entered, you will be all his.
your stomach flipped with each step, and as you entered your apartment, turning to lock the door, you felt a pair of heavy hands trail up your pelvis, past your breasts and gripping your back into his bare chest from your shoulders. trapping you in an X formation from his sturdy arms.
you gulped, hearing his sharp inhale as his traces his nose from your ear to the nape of your neck. you felt your legs almost shake...was this...fear? no, you know gojo would never hurt you, but this- this was predatory. you felt like a rabbit in shock, freezing in the jaw of the hunter...waiting for the bite.
deeper. he pressed you deeper into his chest. you let out a small gasp, feeling his throbbing cock against your lower back. you feel a grin being pressed into your hair..
" 'm missed you.." its an exhale but not of relief- far from it. it sounded like a way to ease the strain on his body, like he was suppressing every muscle and hormone in him.
"...yeah?" You gulped. slowly...so slowly bringing your hands up, cupping his around your shoulder. you close your eyes, then wait for the bite.
you let out what's almost a small scream as he lifts you, vertigo might as well assaulting you as swings you from corner to corner until you arrive at your bedroom.
or what you think is your bedroom. he stripped the duvet and pretty pillows to replace it with a mix of his and yours dirty laundry. piled in what almost appears to be a neatly constructed circle- like a flatter beanbag or an expensive abstract ottoman. it must've taken him all day to neatly tie each piece together to make this nest. you cringe to wonder how you'll deal with it after.
luckily he gives you a closer view by slamming you into it. the lights are off and you finally face this wild hybrid for the first time. he is panting, and you only notice now how hot he is. his hands that are expertly unbuttoning your shirt are scorching against your skin.
your heart is pounding in your ears. you're shaming yourself over and over for the wetness you've accumulated. he toys at your bra, frustrated but not willing to rip it -yet. once your breasts are exposed he gives a deep lick between the valley of your breasts, not even attempting to quiet down the absurdly lewd moan he huffs as he happy laps your sweaty tits. your fingers are gripping his hair, he teases your nipples but not even he and hold on for longer.
he rips your work pants off, now only in your underwear as this beasts takes and spreads both your legs. lowering his head, he presses his nose into the soaked fabric taking a deep inhale of what he's been craving most.
it's so disgusting, you have to hide your eyes as your body betrays you. thighs threatening to close as your throat bobs down a moan.
and now the rabbit feels the teeth penetrate her skin as he rips your panties off.
his dazed heated breath huffs into your pussy before he rises, removing his briefs. your eyes droop is pleasure and sorrow as you see how swollen your poor hybrid is.
"is it painful, my love?" its a whisper, you sound like a mouse afraid of being crushed. but your words bring a softness to gojo in this state, he leans down and hides his head into your shoulder, slightly bucking his hips; cock bumping your drooling hole
"only you can fix" it a pathetic stream of words but makes a welcomed shiver run right down you. your nails find his scalp,
"so let me fix it."
he rams himself into you, the stretch is horrible and you feel tears brim your eyes. he uses his elbows to arise to his hands and now hovering over you once again. he takes his palms into yours, pressing you deeper into the nest.
his pace is relentless, you close your eyes hoping to adjust and finally, you relax onto him. fully molded as your back escapes the bed, you're sure if he wasn't holding you- you would've floated right there.
his pace is understandably animalistic, but so incredibly brutal, even your moans which are coming out as a continued hum right now, are vibrating.
"I need to- i need to get you full- so full" he is whispering things of this nature but his tragic whimpers are making you clench harder on him.
it's a rude thing to do to a boy already suffering- you feel him snap. your head is pushed into some shirt by his deathly grip suddenly on your throat
"you think that shits funny? you're the one that's being bred right now so act like it." its a growl. before you react or respond- you're flipped, on your trembling knees as you try to hold yourself up. he climbs on top of the bed and pulls your back into his chest once more.
he enters and is hitting your inside harder. his moans are still so pretty in this state, you think.
he grips your throat again, leaning you up as he is slightly risen. your vision is blurred, you think you feel some scratch marks being drawn on your back, and all you hear is skin slapping and his grunts.
you're leaking onto the nest- you are humiliated by yourself- how can you be okay with this?
you feel yourself getting closer and higher, a sheer force with which he uses to fuck himself deeper is punching you toward your orgasm.
you mumble out "gojo i-" and wonder back to exactly who was the pathetic one here? he grunts in a reply and before you can hate yourself, you cream around him.
you can't stand- it's too much. you're shaking so horribly and his slamming is too sensitive. you hear a disconnected mixture of a growl and a moan before he completely slumps down (crushing you into the bed)
you feel himself growing in you to seal as ropes of hot cum are being shot into your womb like a neverending wave. if you could breathe right now, you'd be heaving.
you nudge him and he rolls back, bringing you onto his chest whilst you both are still tied.
"Im sorry" its sounds similar to him again, it makes you laugh a bit
"Im sorry too, I should've come home sooner.." you mumbled, fingertip tracing his chest
"you knew?"
your heart stops for a moment before your head is shaking with his deep laughter
"well, isn't that something, pup?"
your hand fists up and his rub down your back, feeling his cum seep into you as you begin to accept that maybe, you two are meant for each other.
an: a quick part 2 for my hybrid gojo. oh he is stuck in my brain..im so grateful for all the love on my last post, thank you all! the banner art is done by @/7junps
you fell for gojo satoru the moment you saw him and you're terrible at hiding it
You liked drawing beautiful things. Landscapes. Sunsets. Flowers. Architecture. People. Especially people. Every face was different. Every expression was its own puzzle. Every person carried shapes and colors that no one else could replicate. You'd spent your entire life fascinated by beauty.
Then, on your first day at Tokyo Jujutsu High, you met Gojo Satoru.
Quite frankly, it felt unfair. You'd never seen someone who looked so...paintable. White hair that caught the sunlight like fresh snow. Features so perfectly balanced they looked sculpted rather than born and eyes—his eyes. The first time he lowered his sunglasses to look at you properly, your brain forgot how to function.
Blue.
Not just blue. Your favorite shade of blue. The kind of blue you always reached for first whenever you painted the sky. The color that disappeared first from your paint palette because you used it so often. You'd spent years trying to mix that exact color. Then there it was. Looking back at you.
"...Why are you staring?"
You blinked. "Oh." You hadn't realized you were. "Sorry."
Gojo tilted his head. "Am I that pretty?"
You answered before your brain caught up. "...Yeah."
Silence. Gojo blinked. Suguru looked at you. Shoko slowly lowered the drink she'd been holding. Realizing what you'd just admitted, you immediately looked away.
"I mean—"
Too late. Gojo grinned.
"Oh, this is going to be fun."
It was, unfortunately, fun. Mostly for him. Over the next several weeks, Gojo discovered that getting you flustered had become one of his favorite hobbies. He'd lean into your line of sight just because he caught you sketching him.
"So?"
"So what?"
"You gonna draw me?"
"No."
"You already are."
"I was drawing the tree."
"You've been looking at me for five minutes."
"...The tree is behind you."
"Liar."
You'd throw an eraser at him. He'd stop it with Infinity. You insisted your crush wasn't obvious. Shoko disagreed.
"It's not."
"It is."
"It isn't."
"You literally stop functioning every time he takes his sunglasses off."
"I do not."
"You walked into a door yesterday."
"There were...circumstances."
"The circumstance was Gojo."
"...Maybe."
Shoko sighed. "I don't know why you're even trying to hide it."
"I'm hiding it very well."
Shoko stared. Across the training field, Gojo laughed at something Suguru had said. You looked over automatically. Shoko watched your eyes soften.
"...Sure."
One afternoon, the four of you ended up at the training grounds. Gojo and Suguru were sparring. Shoko sat beside you beneath the shade of a tree. You had your sketchbook balanced on your knees. Neither of you spoke much. You preferred watching. Gojo launched himself backward to avoid Suguru's attack. He laughed. Suguru looked completely unimpressed. You smiled to yourself. Your pen moved almost automatically. Not sketching. Just doodling. A curve...another. Little hearts filled the corner of the page without you noticing. You watched Gojo grin after landing another hit. Your pen added another heart. Then another. And another.
"...You're doing it again."
You jumped. "Huh?"
Shoko nodded toward your sketchbook. You looked down.
"...Oh."
The page was covered with tiny hearts. Medium hearts. One particularly elaborate heart you'd apparently shaded without realizing.
Your face immediately warmed. "I wasn't—"
"You were."
"It doesn't mean anything."
"Mhm."
"It doesn't!"
Shoko looked unconvinced.
"I was just..." You looked helplessly at the page. "...drawing."
"Your curse technique is living canvas."
"Exactly."
"You drew hearts."
"Artists draw hearts."
"Concerning boys they like."
"I don't—"
Across the field, Gojo yells. "SUGURU!" He laughs.
Your head turned automatically. Your cursed energy followed your attention. Shoko's eyes widened.
"...[name]."
"Hm?"
"...Your technique."
"What about it?"
A familiar warmth spread from your sketchbook. You looked down.
"...Huh?" The little hearts you'd been doodling glowed faintly. Your smile disappeared. "...Oh."
One heart floated off the page. Then another. Then another. Your eyes widened.
"...OH." Panic filled your eyes.
Shoko leaned away. "...[name]."
"OH NO."
The page burst with cursed energy. Dozens of tiny hearts shot into the air like startled birds.
"WAIT!" You lunged after them. "I DIDN'T MEAN—"
The little hearts drifted lazily across the training grounds. Gojo lowered his fists.
"...Huh?"
Suguru followed his gaze. The hearts floated with absolute confidence. Past Suguru. Past the trees. Past literally everyone else. Straight to Gojo.
"...no."
One landed on his shoulder. Another circled his head. A third settled in his hair. Within seconds, he was surrounded by floating hearts. Gojo blinked once. Then looked at you. Then at the hearts. Then back at you.
A slow grin spread across his face. "...Seriously?"
You immediately started waving your arms. "NO!"
"No?"
"They're defective!"
Suguru looked at the hearts. "They seem to be functioning normally."
"They are NOT!"
Gojo plucked one out of the air. It bounced happily in his palm.
"I don't know." He smiled. "They seem to like me."
"They don't like you!"
"They literally flew over here."
"They're confused!"
"They ignored everyone else."
"I SAID THEY'RE CONFUSED!"
Shoko had already started laughing. You pointed dramatically at the hearts.
"I CAN EXPLAIN!"
Gojo folded his arms. "I'm listening."
"...They're practicing."
Silence filled the training ground.
Suguru looked at you. "They're...practicing."
"Yep."
"For what?"
You looked at the sky. "...Flying."
"They're already flying."
"...Advanced flying."
Gojo burst out laughing. "No, seriously."
"I AM SERIOUS."
"You drew thirty hearts because they needed flying lessons?"
"YES."
"and they all just happened to fly toward me?"
You pointed at him. "That part wasn't supposed to happen!"
"So they're accidentally attracted to me?"
"They're not attracted to anything!"
Gojo tapped one of the hearts. "Seems pretty romantic."
"They're geometric shapes!"
"They're hearts."
"THEY COULD BE... SYMBOLIC."
"Of?"
"...Cardiology."
Shoko nearly fell off the bench laughing.
Suguru covered his face. "You are unbelievably bad at this."
"SHUT UP!"
Gojo walked toward you. The hearts happily followed him. You gasped.
"STOP FOLLOWING HIM!"
Another heart gently bonked him on the head.
Gojo looked delighted. "I've been chosen."
"YOU HAVE NOT."
"I think I have."
"You absolutely have not."
"They keep following me."
"They're malfunctioning!"
"So your cursed technique likes me."
"My cursed technique has terrible judgment!"
"Oh?"
"...WAIT."
You slapped both hands over your mouth. Gojo's grin somehow became even bigger.
"Terrible judgment?"
"I MISSPOKE."
"So you admit there's judgment involved."
"There isn't!"
"You just said—"
"I SAID I MISSPOKE!"
Gojo laughed so hard he had to wipe tears from his eyes.
You looked toward Shoko. "Help."
"No."
"Suguru?"
"I'm enjoying this too much."
"You guys are awful friends."
"We're excellent friends," Shoko corrected. "This is just funnier."
You groaned dramatically. "Fine!" You threw your hands into the air. "They don't mean anything!"
Gojo tilted his head. "Nothing?"
"Nothing."
"So if I keep them..."
"No."
"...there's no hidden message?"
"No."
"...you're not secretly in love with me?"
"WHAT?!"
The entire training ground went silent. Your eyes widened. Gojo blinked. Suguru slowly looked away. Shoko stared at the clouds as if she hadn't heard a thing.
You pointed frantically at Gojo. "YOU CAN'T JUST SAY THAT!"
"Why not?"
"BECAUSE WHAT IF SOMEONE HEARS YOU?!"
"...We all did," Suguru said.
You made a noise somewhere between a groan and a scream. Then, in one dramatic motion, you snapped your sketchbook shut. The floating hearts burst into wisps of cursed energy. Silence settled over the training field. You looked at everyone. Everyone looked at you.
"...I'm going to pretend this never happened."
You turned and started walking away. Very quickly.
Gojo called after you. "So that's a maybe?"
You whipped around. "It's a NO!"
"You hesitated."
"I DIDN'T!"
"You definitely did."
"I WAS OFFENDED!"
"So that's not a denial."
You pointed at him. "You are the worst person I've ever met."
Gojo beamed. "See you tomorrow?"
You stormed off. Shoko watched you disappear around the corner. Then looked at Gojo.
"You know she's never living that down."
Gojo smiled to himself. "No." He looked at the place where the last little heart had vanished. "...Probably not."
Suguru shook his head.
"You know..."
"What?"
"They really did only fly to you."
Gojo's smile lingered. "...Yeah."
He wasn't sure why but for some reason, that made him happier than it probably should have.
Hold on lmk cook rn… virgin!Peter Parker (bc I’m like 99.999 % sure he’s still a virgin) getting like super overstimulated and whiny during his first time with reader bc of his heightened senses from his new enhancements in brand new day 🙏🏾🙏🏾
Btw im the same person who sent the other overstimulated Peter ask but i thought of this after so you can lowk just ignore that one 😭
that scene where he was spurting webs everywhere and he couldn’t control it.. ugh
seeing him get all huffy and teary eyed because you just feel so good, his hands pressing on your hips harder than he realizes because he forgets how strong he can be sometimes.. and you’re on top of him, grinding your hips back and forth on his lap just clamping down on his pulsing cock :(( you can literally feel him throbbing inside you, all veiny and hard..
and peters just letting out these little pathetic whines of, “wait, y-you gotta slow down.. shit—“, in the crook of your neck because he’s hugging you so tight, his eyes squeezed shut and his lips in a deep frown—he’s feeling everything around him. he can feel your breast pressed against him, how slick and tight your pussy is around his cock and the filthy sounds it makes when your hole swallows all of him— and he hears your moans even more clearly <33 peter feels himself about to cum since it’s all too much and you won’t let up.. so it’s really inevitable that he just gets so needy for that release that he manhandles your body and grasps at your sides—slamming you down and pounding into you harshly, holding you down on his dick as he pumps his load into you with a loud groan, and he cums SO much! fills your tummy up completely that it spills out your hole and rolls down his cock onto the sheets..
✧˚₊‧ down bad! peter parker who fucks like he’s mindless !
it’s not like he’s touch starved for any sort of real connection; everyone who he loves doesn’t know who he is, he doesn’t have anyone to go home to besides that red and blue stupid spider-man suit that mocks him from the hanger. he watches the news as people cheer for him but no one wants him.
truly wants him. peter parker, not spider-man.
peter parker is a man who is starved of touch. he can live with no connection— it was just him and his aunt for many years… but the feeling of another person’s hands on him that wasn’t some goon in manhattan trying to put him to early retirement… it was foreign to him.
it’s been four years since mj, and he hasn’t felt anything on his body… except now, his breaking point.
youre not quite sure how you ended up in his vicinity anyway, but you did. you were simply in professor banners class when he came running in at the last minute, completely sloppy looking and out of his mind to talk to the professor. you stayed back to watch him ramble to him, seeing how disgruntled he looked, the bruises on his jaw and his forearm peaking out under the empire state hoodie.
when he left, you left, and you asked for his number.
that’s how you ended up here; in his messy bed, his cock thrusting in and out of you like a piston. he’s rough with his thrusts but gentle with his hands, like his fingers are trying to mark every single inch of your body, his lips haven’t left your neck since he’s thrusted.
“o-oh god baby.” he whispers, voice cracking under the pressure of your pussy clenching down on him. your nails rake down his biceps,
you moan around him, listening to his chorus of whimpers and pleads as the wet sound of his cock forcing its way into your puffy folds fills his mundane apartment bedroom. “f-fuck peter! keep going! oh fuck!”
the apartment walls in this place may not be the thickest, but peter’s cock is, so you don’t care that your moans could probably be heard from top floor to basement.
he moans when your fingers create more markings into his body, his senses going haywire with each stroke of his dick. “feels good baby? pussy needing me s’so much, don’t you?” he whispers, sucking on his right thumb before bringing it down to your clit, rubbing tight circles on it. “never letting you go, swear to god, fucking christ…”
each one of his thrusts picks up with the speed and velocity only a man like peter parker could display. you couldn't describe it but you felt so full but so good at the time time. your eyes rolled back as he kisses your cheek, feeling his balls slap against your clit.
he kept thrusting like he had something to lose; his hands touched you like he was trying to keep a reminder to himself what a female body felt like, what another human's body felt like under his own callous palms.
he's never felt like this in four years, and now, he's a selfish man and who could blame him?
peter was a man suffering in silence, currently thrusting into you like he was personally trying to break your cervix— and you didn't mind it, feeling like heaven itself as his forearms cage your head, kissing your face even as the tears flow from overstimulation, his mouth catching each one.
he brings you closer and closer, groaning deep into your ear as you tighten around him. the bed was louder than you at some points but you didn't even try to be quiet.
if anyone truly knew what peter parker was suffering with for four years... they'd understand why he fucks like this. why he fucks like it's his last day on earth. why his cock ruins you like it's never done before... and you didn't quite understand the full extent of it...
you just understood peter parker making you cum, and feeling ropes of his hot and heavy cum filling your pussy.
and in the same night? he tucks you in and sneaks out the fire escape, because peter parker only gets temporary joy when the city needs spiderman all the time.
click here for main masterlist! 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃
AUTHOR'S NOTE: god, brand new day is gonna eat so hard. ive never written for peter, but he was so fucking fine in that trailer, so why not write for him. sadie, tom, and zendaya in the same movie + promotion is gonna be so funnnnn, I can’t fucking wait. I do not care; i will somehow get a sadie hot ones episode as well as a sadie vs tom hot ones episode because I said so.
thank you for all the support in every way possible! all support is very much appreciated! all content created on this blog is mine, do not copy or sent it through ai!
peter parker x fem!reader | brand new day spoilers kinda
“Does it... What?” Peter laughed nervously, already naked and on top of you. “No! I mean—I mean I don’t think so.”
The night started like many others. Peter got home from saving people, slightly banged up but totally fine. You took care of him, made dinner and took a shower where you cleaned him up.
Which led to a small mid-shower makeout, which led to him eating you out, which led to now. In bed, with no clothes on.
The thought barely crossed your mind, but it came out before you could stop it.
He’d told you about all of his changes (kinda had to when his webs were all over your apartment) and you’d seen how incontrollable they still were. They were shooting out of him hard and fast and he was struggling to stop them.
So was it really that crazy for your brain to think ‘natural web shooting = web ejactulation = web cum?’
Apparently so because when the words, “Does it come out anywhere else?” slipped from your lips, Peter looked at you like he just watched his puppy get run over.
There was confusion, worry, and maybe a little bit of awkward ‘humor’ in his face. But even as he told you no, he didn’t look sure of himself anymore.
“Should we test that?” you asked, your voice low and sultry, trying to get the mood back. It worked, because you felt Peter’s still-hard cock twitch against your leg. “Yeah?”
He nodded, waiting for you to make a move.
If he was being honest, he didn’t know what you meant when you said to test it. He just knew that his very sexy girlfriend was talking about making him cum, so he agreed without thinking.
Watching as your hand snaked between your bodies, Peter’s heart was racing with anticipation. He wasn’t sure it would be safe for a normal person’s heart to be beating that fast.
Luckily, he wasn’t a normal person.
And he found that opened a lot of opportunities in the bedroom.
“You can go twice right? I still want you inside me after...” your voice was laced with need, almost pushing Peter over the edge right then and there. He nodded frantically, his hips twitching, pushing his aching cock against your palm.
“I can. I promise. Please just—” he cut himself off with a moan as your hand pumped and curled around his tip. “Fuck.”
Failing to hold in a giggle, a smile spread on your face that made Peter feel like he just fell in love with you all over again. Weird.
Your hand wrapped around him, giving him a few teasingly slow strokes before you scooted backwards enough to wrap your mouth around his sensitive pink tip. You started to up your pace while your mouth sank further down, taking more of him in.
Bringing him closer and closer to the edge, he felt the same internal panic he did when the webs came out of his wrists for the first time. But you didn’t stop. No. You only went harder.
Peter barely pulled you off at the last second, watching as webs came out of his cock and splattered on the ceiling.
It was probably the best orgasm he’d ever had.
The relief when it was over, the pleasure he felt during it. All of it. His curls were sticking to the sweat on his forehead, and when he looked over you were staring at him with wide eyes.
Wide, excited, horny eyes. (He could tell).
“That was so hot, oh my god,” you squealed, wiping off the last string of web from his extremely sensitive cock. A strangled noise came from his throat, overwhelmed by the strong feeling.
“Oh jesus,” he whispered, trying to catch his breath. “I think I need just a minute. It’s really, really sensitive.”
You nodded, running your hands over his curls. He smiled, his head subconsciously leaning into your hand. Before you knew it, Peter was pulling you down to kiss him again, all wet and open-mouthed. His hands were roaming your body, reclosing the gap.
One of your legs swung over him, straddling his abdomin that was glistening with a sheer layer of sweat. You were careful not to go too far back until Peter was ready, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t rock yourself against him.
The hard ridges of his ab muscles were perfect for grinding your clit against, and not to mention Peter loved it. He didn’t realize how much he liked the praise until he met you.
“That’s it. Uh-huh,” he mumbled as he helped you guide yourself against him. Sweet noises were falling from your open mouth as you ran your slick pussy over his stomach.
One of his hands ran up, kneading your tits while the other stayed and grabbed at your ass—helping spread you open to get a better feel of him. You could feel your second orgasm of the night quickly approaching, but you wanted to save it.
Halting your hips was hard, you really didn’t want to stop, but you knew you’d be happier if you came with Peter inside you.
“Are you ready?” your voice was breathless and whiney, your eyes hooded and glazed over with need. He flipped you onto your back, pulling a cute squeak from your throat.
“Uh-huh.” Leaving open kisses down your neck, he asked, “But are you ready?” against your sticky skin.
You felt yourself squeeze around nothing. “Yeah.”
He pressed one last kiss to your neck before you felt his long cock stretch you out. You could feel every ridge, every vein, as he slid into you so far you felt like it would come out your mouth.
Your mouth was stuck open, tears from the pleasure welling up in your eyes. Peter felt your nails dig into his back as he started at a slow pace. It wasn’t gentle, but it was just enough to refamiliarize yourself with him.
As the seconds passed, you needed more and more. Trying to grind your hips up and meet him halfway for more pressure, more speed, wasn’t cutting it. You needed his all.
“Peter. Oh my, fuck. Peter, please. I need more. I can handle it,” you moaned as he thrusted, your eyes meeting his so he could see the truthfulness in your eyes. That you would really be okay if he went harder.
He was always scared of hurting you, so he needed that confirmation every time.
His pace sped up along with his thrusts’ power. After only a few seconds, he was fucking you into the mattress. Moans and heavy breaths were spilling out of your mouth, along with Peter’s grunts and moans himself.
The bed was squeaking, a dull thud against the wooden wall for every thrust he gave you. “Shit,” Peter grumbled, looking at something behind your head for only a second.
You could feel your second orgasm coming back, along with Peter’s antsy hands. They were moving from beside your head, to your waist, to your legs—pushing your legs further apart and hitting an even deeper angle.
Your moaning only spurred him on, his hand coming to rub circles to your clit. He felt you squeeze and flutter around him, your eyes and face scrunched up.
He felt his own orgasm coming up, but he was determined to focus on you. Your shaky legs and light knuckles from gripping the sheets too hard. Your short breaths and teary eyes.
“C’mon. Come for me,” he whispered as you felt yourself go over the edge. Your hips twitched and your pussy squeezed him unbearably tight, followed by his warm liquid leaking inside you.
The thought of his web-sperm mix you saw earlier being inside you made you flutter around him again.
He had the same sensitivity as before, hissing through his teeth as he dropped his head to your neck. He relaxed his body on top of you, too sensitive to move or pull out yet.
His weight and heat on top of you was a common feeling, but it was one of your favorites.
You loved having him lay on top of you, especially right after sex. “Thank you,” you mumbled against his hair, your fingers gently rubbing up and down his rigid back muscles. You could feel him twitching and softening inside you, an almost ticklish feeling.
Peter hummed before laughing and whispering, “Also, uh, we might need a new bed, by the way.”
masterlist
note this isn’t proofread so if there’s any mistakes 🤫 (or lmk and i’ll fix em!)
౨ৎ — subby!top!peter... mmmm . . . 18+! (yes I'm spreading my subby!top!peter agenda i hope that's okay)
physically, he's got aaallll the control. he's got your legs hiked up, knees bent over his shoulders, body nearly folded in half beneath him. your pussy is swollen, fucked open, and achy around his thick cock, walls gooey and slick and pliant, helpless to do much else than take the brutal, deep thrusts he abuses them with.
effectively, he fucks you completely senseless, with precise snaps of his hips that have your eyes rolling back into your skull.
but verbally? fuck, you'd think you were the one fucking him dumb.
he whines, groans, moans, and whimpers, desperate little pleas falling from his throat while he uses your cunt to milk himself.
"ohhh, fuck, yesyes—fuck baby, just like that. don't stop, please don't stop! s'fuckin' perfect, fuck me s'good—!" between wet, loud plaps! and creaking wood with a voice that's broken and fucked out.
and when he's about to cum? oh, he begs for it. despite having the upper hand, despite being in control of the pace, he begs you to let him cum—"f-fuck, please, m'gonna cum. please lemme cum—i-inside, can i—fu-huuuck—please make me cum, please—!"
and he actually waits; he waits until you give him permission, pace never faltering, still fucking you so fast and hard that it rattles your brain, toned abdomen slamming into your puffy clit every time he bottoms out.
and you're so close yourself that all you can do is nod and chant, "yes, yes, fuck, yes." while your cunt slurps and flutters around him, moans crescendoing as he fucks you even harder, in fast, short thrusts that quickly bring you—and himself—to orgasm.
"o-ohmygod, baby—'m coming—fuck, please, stay still, please baby—need you to take it, please—" his words cut off into moans that morph into near sobs as he starts to release, cock spurting thick, sticky ropes of cum against your walls.
thick cum that squelches lewdly from your convulsing pussy as he sloppily fucks himself through the waves, eyes watering from the way he throws himself into near overstimulation just to ensure that he squeezes out every last drop into your warm womb ♡.
mimiii! @justasimpwhowrites - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
