{Daemon Targaryen x f!Reader}
You find yourself held for ransom by a minor lord and his idiot son, and the only thing worse than your current situation is the knowledge that your husband probably won't even notice you're gone...
♡ dragon daddy is back on my screen and so I'm back writing ~xo ♡
8.4k words - Warnings: smuttt, kidnapping, blood and gore, captivity, threats of sexual assault {not carried out}, cliche heroic rescue, descriptions of violence, daemon being daemon, caraxes lil squeaks, && dragon riding in more ways than one...
You probably shouldn't have wandered off, but you were bored. The Red Keep was dreadful and you had long since run out of places to explore. So you took a secret little stroll outside and hoped you would be back before anyone noticed. Your husband certainly wasn't going to miss you, he was too busy whoring and gambling off in some far distant city. Doing whatever deplorable thing suited his fancy that day.
And now you were sitting at a dingy table, in a castle that was so run down it was more like a ruin, being held for ransom by a bunch of morons. They seemed to think they were getting some great prize by holding you hostage. As if your husband would ever lift a finger to get you back.
The chains around your wrists and ankles were heavy and uncomfortable, your skin chafing from their weight. It was difficult to lift your goblet of wine to your lips, your hand shaking from the effort.
"Drink up, Princess." Lord Byrch said from across the table, chewing on a turkey leg with the sort of vile gluttony that would make even a pig nauseous. "I won't have the Prince thinking I've mistreated you."
Your hair was tangled and your dress torn and dirty, your face bruised and bloody from the initial fight. You hadn't let them take you easily, and you were quite proud of the fact that you had managed to scratch Lord Byrch's son right across his ugly face.
You raised your goblet towards him, lifting it as high as you could, keeping your eyes locked on his before you poured it all over the floor. He watched you in silence, chewing, chewing, chewing, until a slow smile spread across his lips.
"Fiery." He commented and you narrowed your eyes, "I see why the Prince married you."
He married me because his brother and my father told him he had to. You didn't say it out loud. You wouldn't give Byrch the satisfaction of hearing your marriage reduced to its ugly, political truth. Instead, you leaned back in your chair as far as the chains would allow and let your lips curl into something cruel.
"My husband will come for me," you said, your voice surprisingly steady and confident. "And when he does, he will kill every last one of you. He'll feed your entrails to his dragon and string up what remains as a warning to any other fool who thinks they can touch what belongs to him."
Inside you only had doubts. Will he, though?
You remembered how excited you had been when the betrothal was announced. The Rogue Prince. The most dangerous man in the Seven Kingdoms, and he was to be yours. You used to dream of him sweeping you off your feet, of dragon rides and passionate nights, of a love story that would make the bards weep. You thought of your wedding night, the way his body had felt, so warm and firm, pressing you into the bed. How he had been so gentle with you, so tender. How he had called you wife and kissed your mouth as if he were trying to drink you down and drown in you.
You actually thought, for a brief, beautiful moment, that the fairy tale was real. But a year of marriage had shown you a very different side of your husband. One that was cruel and cold. One that cared only for himself.
But Byrch didn't know that, so you were satisfied when a flash of fear crossed his features and he put that bloody turkey leg down.
"Father."
Byrch's son strode in behind you, you looked over your shoulder to see the scratch you gave him still looking a little swollen, raw, and definitely not healing well…You quickly turned to face his father again before he could see you smile. But it didn't matter, the son’s hand came down hard across the back of your head. The force of the blow made stars burst across your vision, a cry tearing from your throat.
The son chuckled as he walked past you and towards his father, clapping a hand on the back of his own chair. "What have you learned?" Lord Byrch asked, gesturing for him to sit.
"King Viserys has responded to our ransom demand. He's willing to pay. Fifty thousand gold, just as we asked. He's sending envoys to negotiate the exchange."
Your stomach dropped.
Viserys. Not Daemon. Of course.
"Your good-brother is a reasonable man," Byrch said, taking another bite of his turkey leg. "He understands that gold is cheaper than blood... I knew Daemon wouldn't risk open war with his brother over a woman." He tilted his head, enjoying your silence. "You see, my lady? Your husband is on a leash, just as I predicted."
The son's smirk widened. "From what I hear, the Prince has been in Pentos this past week."
Pentos. Fucking Pentos. Of course he was in fucking Pentos. Probably so deep in his cups he forgot his own name let alone yours.
Some small, foolish part of you had hoped. But you knew better, you had always known better. It was always going to be Viserys, probably by the urging of your father... And of course the reputation of the Targaryen name. It was his duty to try and bring you back. He would pay, and send the envoys. Perhaps you would get to wear some of the better royal jewels at the next public event, a consolation prize for your suffering.
Lord Byrch waved a hand. "Take her back to her cell. No point letting her sour the wine."
The son grabbed your arm, his fingers digging into the bruises already blooming there, hauling you to your feet. You stumbled on the chains, but he didn't slow. He dragged you down a cold stone corridor with a rough hand, until he reached the heavy wooden door of your cell.
He shoved you inside and you hit the damp stone floor hard, the impact jarring through your knees and wrists, the chains clinking loudly. The door didn't close behind you, instead a shadow fell over you, the son's boots crossing the threshold, his foot landing dangerously close to your head.
"I'd watch that mouth, if I were you." He crouched down and grabbed your chin, forcing your gaze upward. His thumb pressed into the bruise on your jaw, and you bit back a hiss. "I'm sure the gold is coming," he murmured, almost thoughtfully. "But if it doesn't..." He smiled. "Father said I get to fuck you first. Might even scratch up your pretty face to match mine. Would you like that?"
Your stomach turned to ice at his words, but you didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply. Instead you held his gaze, you wouldn't look away. Wouldn't give him an inch of your fear.
He squeezed your jaw tight enough that tears welled in the corners of your eyes. "No? You don't look so pretty anymore, anyway. Not much a man would want."
He shoved your head down, pushing you into the ground before turning and walking out. The lock clicked heavily in the quiet.
You lay there for a long moment, face pressed into the floor, the taste of blood and dirt on your tongue. The son's words echoed in your mind and your whole body began to shake.
Slowly, you pushed yourself up and leaned against the wall. Your wrists were raw. Your head throbbed. And somewhere deep in your chest, a sob was building.
Daemon wasn't coming. Daemon was in Pentos, drunk, probably with a whore on each arm. And these men were going to-
You pressed your palms to your eyes and bit down on your lip until you tasted copper. You couldn't cry. You wouldn't. You were stronger than that.
But the tears came anyway, hot and humiliating, the kind you hadn't cried since you were a girl. You curled in on yourself, forehead to your knees, and let them fall. You cried for the girl who had dreamed of a gallant dragon prince. You cried for the wife who had once reached for her husband in the dark and found only cold sheets. You cried because he had been gentle once, and you had been stupid enough to believe it meant something.
He's not coming.
The thought was a cold stone in your gut.
He's not coming. He was never going to come.
Your honor and safety would be traded for gold and Daemon Targaryen would continue to forget he ever had a wife at all.
You cried until your throat was raw and your eyes burned, until you were shivering and weak.
Finally, you took a shaky breath and looked up at the small, barred window. The sky was darkening, the sun sinking beyond the distant hills. You were exhausted, the weight of your chains a terrible burden, your eyes drooping and heavy.
Sleep took you before you could think to fight it. Your head fell back against the stone.
You didn't see the small black dot that appeared on the horizon. So small one might mistake it for a distant bird. But it grew. Larger. Faster. Until the beating of wings echoed through the walls.
And the screams began.
Flames. Everywhere. But they didn't burn. They cradled you, lapped at your skin like warm water. Is this what dying feels like? It wasn't so bad. Not as bad as what Byrch's son had promised.
Screams.
You stirred. The dream flickered.
Screams. Real ones.
Your eyes cracked open. Smoke stung your throat. The cell was awash in orange light. Outside the small window, the world was nothing but flame. The castle was on fire.
And then you heard it. A sound you would know anywhere; a long, stretched-out shriek that was half roar and half scream, and yet all dragon.
Caraxes.
Something like relief washed through you, even as your heart beat faster. If the castle was on fire and Caraxes was outside, then that could only mean-
Footsteps. Heavy. Unhurried.
You scrambled backward, pressing yourself against the far wall. The lock scraped, the mechanism groaning, and you held your breath as the door swung open.
Byrch's son filled the frame. His face was streaked with soot and blood, his eyes wild. The smug cruelty from before was gone, burned away by fear. Fear of dragonfire and its vicious rider.
"You-" His voice was high and shaky as he grabbed a fistful of your tangled hair, yanking you to your feet. "You're coming with me. Now. H-he'll gut me if he finds me, but I'll make sure you-"
His words stopped, because the tip of a blade punched through the front of his throat.
He released you. Stumbled. His hands flew to his neck, but the blood was already pouring, too fast, too much, and his eyes went wide. Confused. Then dim. Then he collapsed at your feet. The last thing he ever heard was you screaming at the sight of his throat gaping open.
You stood there, shaking, staring down at the body in shock. He had been threatening you a heartbeat ago. Now he was just meat.
And then you saw him.
Daemon stood in the threshold, his dark armor was slick with crimson, his face streaked with ash. His pale hair was braided and he held a dagger in one hand, blood dripping from its edge.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Your gaze locked. The crackle of flames and distant screams filled the silence.
"Wife."
He sheathed the dagger and crossed to you in three quick strides. You couldn't speak, couldn't move, but you let him take your face in his hands. His fingers were gentle as he tilted your chin this way and that, inspecting the cuts and bruises, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he did.
You lifted your wrists to show him the heavy shackles. He stepped back and unsheathed his sword and brought it down upon the chains. They fell from your limbs and clattered to the ground.
"I thought you were in Pentos," you managed, your voice hoarse and raw.
He tilted his head. "Why would I be in Pentos?"
"They told me-"
He chuckled, low and humorless, and reached up to push a loose lock of hair from your face. "Pentos?"
You opened your mouth to yell at him. To demand he tell you where he'd been and why you'd spent days believing he'd abandoned you. But a shout echoed from the corridor, followed by the clash of steel.
Daemon's hand found your wrist. "Stay behind me."
He pulled you through the doorway, and the corridor was chaos. Smoke billowed, thick and choking. Two of Byrch's guards rounded the corner, swords drawn, their faces twisted with panic as they laid eyes on your husband.
Daemon moved before you could breathe.
He met the first guard head-on, his sword singing as it caught the man's blade, disarming him in a single twisting motion. The second guard lunged, aiming for Daemon's exposed side, but Daemon spun, driving his elbow into the man's face, then burying his blade in his chest before he could fall.
The first guard tried to scramble for his fallen blade, but Daemon's boot came down on his wrist, and the crack of bone made you feel sick. Then Daemon swung and the guard's head rolled away.
It took seconds. Less.
"Come." He didn't look back, just reached out his arm for you to grab.
There were three more guards in the next passage. Daemon didn't slow. He shoved you backwards, his body a wall between you and the attackers, and then he struck them like a viper. His blade was a blur. Parrying, slashing, driving through armor like it was parchment. One man fell with a gurgle. Another dropped his sword and tried to run; Daemon's dagger found the back of his head. The third lunged, aiming for you, and Daemon caught him by the throat as he tried to rush past him, lifting him off the ground, driving his sword through the man's gut before letting him crumple.
The corridor was slick with blood. Daemon's chest heaved as he retrieved his dagger from the guards head. Then he stalked towards the exit.
"Keep moving."
You stumbled after him, past bodies, past flames licking at tapestries and wooden beams. The heat was suffocating, but Daemon's pace was relentless. He kicked open a side door and more guards spilled out and Daemon carved through them without hesitation.
And then he pulled you onward.
Finally, the great doors to the courtyard loomed ahead. Daemon didn't slow. He raised his boot and kicked them open.
The smell outside hit you like a wall. Fire raged across the courtyard walls, and the air was thick with smoke and the stench of burning flesh.
But the fighting was over.
Byrch's men were on their knees.
Dozens of them. Lines of them, forced onto the cobblestones with gold cloaks behind them, swords at their throats. Targaryen household guards stood at attention, their armor black and red, their faces hard and grim. And above it all, perched on the broken walls like a god of old, was Caraxes. His long neck craned toward the sky, and when he opened his maw, a plume of flame burst forth.
The heat made the air shimmer. Byrch's men flinched. Some wept.
Daemon walked you through them.
His hand wrapped around yours, and he led you past the kneeling men with a slow, deliberate stride. He wanted them to see. He wanted them to know. That the prince's wife was alive. That he had come for her. That this wreckage, this blood, this brutality; was the price of touching what belonged to him.
Your bare feet left bloody prints on the stone. Your dress was torn, your hair tangled, your face bruised. But you walked with your chin held high, because Daemon was holding your hand, and you would not let these men see you break.
At the center of the courtyard, Byrch knelt alone. His face was pale, streaked with sweat and ash, and his hands were bound behind him. Two gold cloaks held him in place.
"Byrch."
Your husband's voice was like silk, calm and smooth, his arm came around your waist and pulled you against his side. He kissed your temple gently before letting you go, gently guiding you to a waiting gold cloak. The guard wrapped you in a clean cloak, the targaryen sigil stitched into the fine material. It struck you in that moment, that this was all for you. His men. His dragon. The blood on his hands. Every corpse in this courtyard was a gift laid at your feet.
The lord's head snapped up. His eyes darted to you, then back to Daemon. "Mercy, my Prince. Please. You've already taken everything. Mercy."
Daemon cocked his head. "Everything?"
"Mercy," Byrch begged again. "I beg you-"
"Begging," Daemon said, chuckling to himself before he placed the point of his blade against Byrch's throat.
Byrch's eyes were wide, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps.
Daemon leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Why should I show you mercy?"
"Because I- because-"
"What's done is done," Daemon smiled, and it was the cruellest thing you'd ever seen.
Then he drew his sword back. And plunged it straight down Byrch's throat.
The gurgle was wet, horrible. Daemon pushed the blade deeper, through flesh and bone, until the tip emerged from the back of Byrch's neck. He held it there for a long moment, staring into the lord's empty eyes, before he wrenched the sword free.
Byrch's body slumped. Daemon wiped the blade clean on the dead man's clothes.
Byrch's remaining men cried out. Some begging, some cursing, a few trying to rise. The gold cloaks drove them back down to their knees.
Daemon looked at the prisoners, then at his men. He nodded once.
A flash of steel. A spray of blood. And without a single word, one by one, the kneeling men fell.
You watched, frozen, as the courtyard became a slaughterhouse. It was over in moments. Dozens of bodies lay sprawled across the cobblestones, their blood pooling together, running in dark rivulets between the cracks.
Daemon turned to you.
He crossed the distance to you in an instant, his hand finding yours again. His fingers were slick with blood, but you didn't pull away. He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.
"Burn it," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I want no trace left of this place. Take everything of value and bring it to Dragonstone."
"Yes, my Prince." His men shouted out in unison.
He pulled you away, past the bodies and towards where Caraxes waited. And that's when you saw the way he was favoring his right leg, barely, but you saw it.
"You're hurt," you breathed.
He didn't slow. Didn't respond. But you knew he heard you.
You wanted to argue, to grab his arm and make him stop; but then you were at Caraxes's side, and the dragon's heat washed over you, and your words died in your throat.
A sudden base instinct to flee gripped you, the sight of the great red dragon enough to freeze your limbs. But Daemon's grip was firm, his pace steady, and before you could process what was happening, he was lifting you up onto the dragon's back.
He climbed up behind you, a grunt escaping him as he swung his leg over. His arms came around your waist, and you felt the warmth of him, solid and real.
"Sovès" Daemon yelled.
Caraxes roared, a long, high sound, and lifted his wings. For a brief, terrifying moment, you were weightless.
And then the dragon launched itself into the air.
You didn't scream, didn't even cry out. You couldn't. Your mind was still catching up, your thoughts a jumble. Your mouth fell open, and your hands grasped at the saddle, your fingers digging in so hard your knuckles turned white.
The air rushed past, and you looked down, and the sight made you dizzy. The castle shrank beneath you, the bodies, the smoke, the flame. Everything was so small. The world was vast and the sky was endless and you were soaring.
A laugh bubbled up, the thrill of it filling your lungs. Then tears. Tears because you were safe and Daemon had come for you and it wasn't a dream and your chest was so tight and you were gasping for air-
You leaned back against your husband and sobbed, tears streaking down your cheeks, the sound swallowed by the wind.
Daemon's arms tightened around you, and the feeling of him there, his heartbeat against your spine, made you cry harder.
"Paghā" he whispered against your ear, the word rumbling through his chest. You didn't know Valyrian, but the tone was clear.
It was alright.
You were safe.
At first you thought you were going to Dragonstone, you could smell the salt in the air, the tang of the sea.
But no, Caraxes moved south, along the coast leading to Dorne. Daemon kept a firm grip on the reins, his arms wrapped tight around your waist. He was silent.
Your sobs faded as you flew over the waves, and you settled in, watching the water, and the horizon, the sky painted in shades of red, orange and purple as the sun sank beyond the distant peaks.
Finally, Caraxes began to descend. He landed gracefully near a stone tower that looked out over the ocean, his body shuddering and his claws digging deep into the ground.
Your heart was still beating wildly, and you were grateful when Daemon slid down first and offered his hand. You took it, his warm touch bringing you back to earth, and let him guide you down.
Caraxes snorted and shook his wings, the gust of wind nearly knocking you off your feet. Daemon chuckled, pulling you against his side as the dragon's tail swished and he launched himself into the air, his huge wings beating so hard that dust billowed.
"Where are we?" you asked.
"A place I keep," he said, already moving past you toward the tower door.
You followed, watching the way he favored his right leg, the slight hitch in his stride he was trying to hide. He shouldered open the door and held it open, gesturing for you to enter.
The tower was not what you expected. Not the cold, damp ruin it looked to be from the outside. It was well furnished, with a large bed in the corner piled high with furs and pillows, a table bearing wine, bread wrapped in cloth, a basin of clean water. The hearth was cold, but fresh wood was laid and waiting.
This wasn't some abandoned hole he used for hunting. This was meant for something far more intimate.
"Is this where you bring your whores?" You didn't mean to say it, but the words escaped anyway, the bitterness in them a surprise.
"Why would I do that?" He crossed the room and grabbed a flagon, filling a cup with wine.
"Because they're easier than a wife," you snapped.
He laughed, and you bristled, but didn't respond. You watched him let out a quiet groan of pain as he knelt in front of the fire. It made something twist in your chest. He grabbed the wood and flint, struck a spark, and coaxed the flames to life. You watched as the flames licked up the dry wood, slowly consuming it.
"Your leg," you said, when he didn't speak.
"It's fine."
"No, it isn't."
He didn't answer. He was staring into the flames.
"Daemon."
He glanced over his shoulder at you, and then rose to his full height, turning to face you fully. He looked tired. Dark shadows hung under his eyes , and there was a pallor to his skin beneath the ash and blood. You hadn't noticed it before, when you'd seen him in the castle. He must have been riding all day, flying, killing...and he hadn't stopped. Not for rest, not for food, not until he had you back.
"I'll live," he said. "Sit."
You stayed standing. "Let me at least help you with your armor."
His lips twitched, but he nodded, sitting down heavily next to the table. You crossed to him, your hands reaching for the buckles of his pauldrons before you could second-guess yourself. He watched you, silent, his eyes tracking your movements as you worked the leather straps free.
The first piece of armor clattered to the floor. Then the second. Each buckle you loosened revealed more of him. The sweat-dampened tunic beneath, the way his shoulders sagged slightly without the weight of the steel.
"Did they hurt you badly?" he asked, his voice a soft rasp.
"They wanted to," you replied. "They said a lot of things."
You weren't sure why you told him. Perhaps because you wanted him to know what had happened. What might have happened if he hadn't come. Or maybe you simply needed to say it. To put the words into the air.
He reached up to where your hand was struggling with a strap at the back of his shoulder. He wrapped his fingers around yours, stilling them for just a moment before he helped you work the rest of the buckles free.
"I should have killed them slower."
"And more creatively." You smiled despite yourself.
He returned the smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.
You stepped back as he rose and began stripping the rest of his armor. Greaves, gauntlets, bracers, until finally he was free. His white underclothes were stained red, blood seeping from the wound in his thigh.
"That needs stitching."
"I'm not some green knight who needs tending." He pulled a dagger from his belt and cut the fabric away, revealing a jagged cut down the outside of his thigh, the edges dark with blood. "See? It's not deep. It'll heal."
"Fine." You threw up your hands and turned away, anger simmering beneath your skin.
You could hear him moving, and you imagined him grabbing his sword and leaving. You wouldn't care. Let him leave. Let him go fly off wherever the hell he pleased.
But he didn't. Instead, his hands came around your waist, his warm breath tickling the shell of your ear.
"Paghā," he whispered, his voice low and soothing.
"What does that mean?"
"It means," he murmured, kissing your shoulder gently, "breathe."
"Breathe," you repeated.
"Aye, you're shaking."
You hadn't noticed, not until his hands slid over yours and took hold, his chest warm against your back. He brought one of your hands to his mouth, pressing his lips to your knuckles, looking over the raw flesh around your wrists.
"You look to be the one who needs tending," he said.
"I'm fine," you echoed his own words.
"Not yet." He led you over to the basin and guided you to sit on the bed, and then he dipped a cloth into the water, and began to clean the wounds.
His touch was gentle, the water soothing. You watched him in silence, your gaze tracing the line of his brow, the sharp angles of his face. Flashes of him fighting Byrch's men filled your mind. You'd never seen a man kill before.
"Why did you come for me?" you asked.
He paused, before dripping the cloth into the bowl.
"Because you're my wife."
"Am I?" You couldn't keep the bitterness from your voice.
"Do you think I'd have gone through the trouble otherwise?"
You didn't know what to say to that.
He finished cleaning the last of the wounds, then wrapped a bandage around each wrist, the feeling of his fingers on your skin sending a shiver through you.
"It doesn't mean anything," you said. "Being your wife."
"Make meaning then."
He rose and crossed the room, his movements stiff, and filled another cup with wine. He drank it quickly, then refilled the cup and came back to where you sat.
"Drink."
You took the cup, and sipped. The wine was rich and sweet, and after a few swallows you felt warm. You let out a slow breath and met his gaze.
"I didn't think you would come."
He said nothing.
"They told me Viserys was to pay a ransom," you went on. "I thought-"
"I'd let my brother handle the responsibility of saving my wife?" He smirked.
You looked away. The room was warm now, the fire roaring and the heat suffocating. You rose and went to the door, opening it, and the cool air rushed over you, making you sigh.
The sun was nearly gone, the stars bright in the sky, and the waves lapped gently against the cliffs below. It was beautiful, and quiet. It made the fear of the past days feel distant.
"If I matter so much, why have I not seen you since our wedding night?" You kept your gaze on the horizon, too afraid to look at him, all the pent up emotions you'd held inside threatening to spill over.
He let out a quiet laugh, a short, derisive sound, and rose, coming to stand beside you. He leaned against the door frame and looked out at the night sky.
"What do you want me to say?" he asked.
"The truth."
"You won't like it."
"That doesn't change it." You finally turned to look at him, a sudden surge of anger rising.
"I don't know how to be a husband." He said simply, his jaw tense. "I didn't want a wife. I didn't choose this. So, what should I have done? Made empty promises? Made you think you were special? That I was besotted? What was the point?"
He pushed off the doorframe and walked down the steps, and you stood frozen, staring at his back.
"You are right," he called over his shoulder. "This is where I bring my whores."
He kept walking. Away from the tower, down the path towards the shore.
Your heart was pounding. Anger, pain, frustration, relief; they were all warring inside you, and it made your head spin. Your feet carried you after him, the grass soft beneath them, the path winding down to the sand.
By the time you reached the beach, he had already stopped at the water's edge. He didn't turn around. Didn't acknowledge you. He just reached for the hem of his tunic and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion, the fabric stained dark with blood and ash. His boots followed, then his breeches, until he stood bare in the moonlight, the waves lapping at his feet.
He walked into the sea without a word.
You stood frozen on the sand, watching him wade deeper until the water reached his waist. He stopped there, facing the horizon, letting the surf wash over him. The cold didn't seem to bother him, or if it did, he didn't show it. He just stood there, washing the gore from his body.
You should have let him be. Should have turned around and gone back to the tower, wrapped yourself in furs, and waited for him to return... or not return. But something in you refused to let him walk away again.
You reached back and worked loose the ties of your dress, letting the fabric pool at your feet, the night air raising goosebumps across your bare skin. The shift followed a moment later.
The cold hit you like a slap as you stepped into the surf, the water shocking and sharp against your cuts. You hissed through your teeth but kept going, wading out until you were beside him, the water lapping just below your ribs. He still didn't turn, but you saw his jaw tighten.
The waves rolled in, cold and rhythmic, pulling at your legs. Neither of you spoke for a long moment. Just the sound of the sea and the distant cry of gulls.
"What was your plan?" you asked finally. "To come, rescue me, and then ignore me again? Go back to drinking, fighting and whoring?"
"Something like that."
You crossed your arms over your chest, though it did little to ward off the cold. You weren't sure what to say. He had given you no false promises, no declaration of love. But your wedding night was etched in your mind, a memory you couldn't let go.
"Then why did you treat me so kindly on our wedding night? Why were you..." You trailed off, your face suddenly warm despite the cold.
He laughed, a short, loud bark that echoed across the water. "Would you rather I have hurt you? Is that what you're asking?"
"No!" You scowled, feeling foolish. "I mean...you were gentle."
He finally turned to face you, the moonlight catching the sharp lines of his face. "What would you have preferred? A whore's treatment?"
"Shut up."
He laughed again, a rich, deep sound that made your stomach flip. His hand came up, brushing a lock of hair from your cheek.
"If it makes you feel better, my wife," he said, his voice dropping lower, "I enjoyed our wedding night very much." He shifted closer, his hand sliding around your waist, pulling you against the warmth of his chest. "Maybe I'll enjoy it again tonight."
You shoved his shoulders, but you were smiling despite yourself. "I don't even like you."
"I just saved your life. I'd say you should start liking me."
"You are a terrible husband."
"I'm the worst." He kissed your jaw, his mouth moving along the line of your neck, his breath warm against your cold skin. "Tell me how terrible."
You let him kiss along your skin, a soft sigh escaping.
"You're selfish."
"And?"
"A cheater."
"Keep going."
"Infuriating."
"More."
"Unkind."
"Very."
He tilted your chin up, and you let him, his lips were a breath from yours, and then you turned your face away. Not hard. Just away.
He went still. The water lapped against your ribs. You felt his breath on your cheek, unsteady. His hand didn't leave your jaw, but he didn't force you back.
"So what am I, then? Just another whore you'll leave in the morning?" you asked, the question quiet in the night. You weren't sure you wanted an answer. You were already regretting the words. They made you feel weak, desperate. But they were the truth.
He slowly let go of your chin, letting his hand drop back into the water. He looked at you, really looked at you, and you saw something there in the moonlight, something raw and unguarded.
"A cage," he said. "My brother. Your father. This marriage."
He paused, then reached up, his thumb brushing over the bruise on your cheekbone. "And you," he added, softly. "It was-" He broke off, looking away across the water. When he spoke again, his voice was rough, almost angry. "It was good. And I didn't want it to be."
You stared at him.
He turned back to you, and his eyes were dark, unreadable. "I don't get given things."
"Well this might surprise you," you said, a sudden surge of boldness washing over you. "But I am not a thing."
He looked at you for a long moment, then let out a short, sharp laugh. "I'm aware." His gaze dropped to your lips. "That's the problem."
"You've never once asked me what I want."
He tilted his head. "What do you want?"
You didn't know what to say, your mind was racing. The answer was on the tip of your tongue, but you were scared to say it. Scared he'd laugh, or worse, agree. But you were tired of being scared. And you were standing naked in the sea with your husband who had just slaughtered a castle for you.
"I want a husband who doesn't ignore me," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "One who maybe, occasionally, eats dinner with me. I want to not feel so alone in my own chambers."
You paused, gathering your courage. "And I... I want you to stop being a stranger to me."
"Anything else?" he asked, and you couldn't tell if he was mocking you.
You took a shaky breath. "I don't know... I didn't hate that ride on Caraxes... It was thrilling."
A slow, genuine smile spread across his lips. "No?"
You shook your head, a small smile of your own. "Perhaps the occasional dragon ride."
"I can arrange that," he said, pulling you close again. His hands were on your waist, and yours rested on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart. "Is that all, wife?"
"I'm freezing," you admitted, shivering now as the cold seeped into your bones.
He let out a soft chuckle, his arms wrapping around you, lifting you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, and he started wading back to the shore.
You should have protested. You should have told him to put you down, that he was still wounded, that you could walk. But his eyes were fixed on yours, and you were in his arms, and all you could think was how safe he made you feel.
"Better?" he asked, his mouth close to your ear.
"Getting warmer," you murmured.
He carried you back up the path, into the warmth of the tower, and set you gently on the bed. The furs were soft, and you sighed, letting your body sink into them. A real bed. Clean. Safe. The feeling was so overwhelming that for a moment you just lay there, eyes closed, breathing.
When you opened them, Daemon was kneeling by the hearth, feeding logs to the fire. You watched him through the haze of your exhaustion. The broad plane of his back, the way the firelight caught the edges of old scars, the careful way he stacked the wood.
He rose, and you saw him favor his right leg again. A hitch he smoothed over almost instantly. Almost.
"How's your leg?"
"You will probably be a widow by morning," he deadpanned.
"I doubt that." You couldn't hide your smile, and his answering grin sent a flush of warmth through you.
He crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, not touching you, just… there… and you realized he was waiting. For you to sleep. For you to speak. For something. He didn't know what to do with a woman in his bed who wasn't there for his pleasure.
You propped yourself up on your elbows, the furs pooling around your waist. The fire had warmed the room enough that the air no longer bit at your bare skin. You were acutely aware that you were both still naked, but the awareness didn't feel urgent. It just felt… present.
"You're very far away," you said.
He glanced down at the small space between you. "This is far?"
"For a man who just saved my life and carried me naked up a cliff…yes."
His lips twitched. "I was giving you room to breathe."
"How considerate."
"I have my moments."
You shifted, sitting up fully, letting the furs fall away. He watched you move, his gaze steady but unhurried. He wasn't going to reach for you. You understood, suddenly, that he was waiting for you to decide. If you wanted him, you'd have to give him something. The realization was terrifying and thrilling in equal measure.
You reached out and pressed your palm flat against his chest. His skin was warm from the fire. You felt his heartbeat, steady and slow, under your hand.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice low.
"I don't know," you admitted. "I've never done this before."
"Done what?"
"Take what I want."
Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Interest. His hand came up and covered yours, pressing it more firmly against his chest. "And what is it you want?"
You swallowed. "I'm figuring it out."
He laughed, short and rough and utterly charmed. "Take your time, then."
You moved before you could talk yourself out of it, shifting onto your knees and then, carefully, deliberately, climbing into his lap. It wasn't graceful. Your knee caught his injured thigh and he grunted, but his hands came up to your hips anyway, steadying you.
"What's all this for?" he murmured.
"Because I want to."
"Not because I rescued you?"
"No." You met his eyes. "Though… you are owed thanks."
His grin was slow and sharp. "And you want to thank me with your-"
You pressed your fingers to his mouth before he could finish. "Do not say it."
He kissed your fingertips.
"I don’t like crude words. I am a lady."
"You are a lady who is currently sitting naked in my lap."
"Then stop talking and let me concentrate."
He leaned back on his hands, the picture of obedience, his eyes dancing. "By all means."
You glared at him, but it was hard to maintain, with the way he was looking at you like you were the most entertaining thing he'd seen in years. You were suddenly, acutely aware of your nakedness. The way your thighs bracketed his hips, the heat of him, the fact that you had no idea what to do next.
Your cheeks flushed.
His smile turned knowing. "I recall how shy you were on our wedding night."
"I recall you being rather drunk."
"That, I was." He sat up, his chest now a breath from yours, one hand coming up to brush the hair from your shoulder. "You were prettier than I expected."
"Is that meant to be a compliment?"
"It's the truth."
You looked at him, the sharp lines of his face, the pale lashes, the mouth that had just confessed more in the sea than you'd heard him say in a year. He was still a stranger in so many ways. But he was yours. And he was here. And he wasn't running.
"You're still too far away," you said.
"I'm right here."
"Then kiss me."
His eyes held yours for a long moment, searching. Then, slowly, he leaned in and brushed his lips against yours. It was deep and unhurried and certain, his mouth slanting over yours like he'd been waiting for you to ask. His hands slid into your hair, tilting your head back, and you made a sound against his lips, a soft, needy thing you didn't recognize as your own.
When he finally pulled back, you were breathing harder than you wanted to admit. He looked far too pleased with himself.
"You're very good at that," you said, a little accusatory.
"Years of practice," he smirked.
You shoved at his shoulder, but you were smiling.
"I don't want to hear about your practice."
"Then don't ask."
You wound your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, your hands tangling in the soft hair at his nape. "I want to be the only practice."
His smirk faded. His gaze was serious now, searching your face. Something in your chest tightened, an old, familiar fear. You'd said too much. But then he was kissing you again, and this kiss was different. Deeper. Possessive. It wasn't a question or an answer; it was a statement. Mine.
Your body responded before your mind could catch up. You shifted in his lap, trying to find a better angle, and the movement brought your bodies flush together. He was half-hard beneath you, the heat of him pressing against your thigh, and the contact made you gasp against his mouth. You'd done that. The thought sent a sharp, unfamiliar thrill through you.
His hand slid down your chest, over the swell of your breast, the pad of his thumb brushing against your nipple, which pebbled instantly at the contact. He moved lower, tracing the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, until his fingers found the heat between your legs. He paused there, a feather-light touch against your seam, and you held your breath.
"Daemon," you whispered, the name a plea against his lips.
He answered you with a touch, a slow, deliberate glide of his fingers through your wetness. Your hips jerked, a moan escaping your lips. He found the small, hidden spot at the apex of your thighs and circled it once, twice, a gentle pressure that made your toes curl. He was watching your face, absorbing every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, and the intensity of his gaze was almost as intoxicating as the pleasure itself.
You tried to kiss him again, needing the anchor of his mouth, but he pulled back slightly, his focus entirely on the movement of his hand. He slid one finger inside you, a slow, deliberate intrusion that stretched you, filled you. Your head fell back, your neck arching as he began to move, a steady, maddening rhythm that had you rocking against his hand. He let you move with him, let you find a pace that built the tension in your core, a hot, tightening coil. You were losing yourself, the world narrowing to the sensation of him touching you. The sounds you made were uninhibited, wanton, and you didn't care.
Just as you felt the precipice of your release, he pulled away. You made a sound of protest, your eyes flying open to meet his. He was smirking, that infuriating, handsome smirk that made you want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure.
"Why did you stop?" you demanded, your voice embarrassingly breathless.
"Impatient," he chuckled, not ungently. He shifted you in his lap, adjusting your position until you were straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips, your core flush against his hard length. "I thought you wanted to be in charge."
Your breath hitched. The reality of him, hot and heavy against your most sensitive flesh, was a shock. You could feel your own wetness slicking him. The power was yours to take.
"I am," you said, though the claim felt less certain than you wanted it to be. Your hands on his shoulders trembled.
"Then take what you want, wife."
The challenge was clear in his eyes. You braced yourself, your hands flat on his chest, and lifted your hips. He held himself steady for you, one hand gripping the base of his cock, guiding the head to your entrance. The slow press as you began to lower yourself was a sweet, aching stretch. Your body welcomed him, a familiar, perfect fit that you remembered from your wedding night, but it felt different now. More intense.
When you'd taken him to the hilt, you paused, adjusting to the feeling of him. He was breathing hard, his eyes locked on where your bodies joined, the muscles in his neck taut. His self-control was admirable, and you wondered what would happen if you pushed it.
You started to move. Tentative, at first, just a slow roll of your hips that made you both gasp. You found a rhythm, unpracticed and a little unsteady, but it was yours. His hands stayed on your hips, but he let you lead, his head falling back slightly, his fingers digging into you tighter and tighter. The sight of him undone beneath you sent a surge of confidence through your veins.
"Does that feel good, husband?" you asked, and the word came out teasing.
His laugh was half groan. "You're a fast learner."
Your pace quickened, your thighs burning with the effort, but the pleasure was building again, that tight coil low in your belly. His thumb found that spot once more, pressing in time with your movements, and the combination shattered your rhythm. You cried out, your nails raking down his chest, and he sat up suddenly, one arm banding around your waist to keep you steady as you came apart around him.
He let you ride it out, your face buried in his neck, your body shuddering. Then, gently, he shifted. You felt yourself being lowered onto your back, the furs soft beneath you, his weight a warm, solid anchor, his forearms braced on either side of your head.
"Look at me."
His voice was rough. You opened your eyes, and the firelight caught the sharp lines of his face, the vulnerability he was letting you see. His thrusts stayed slow, deliberate, his gaze never leaving yours.
"You're beautiful."
The words were whispered against your lips, and for a moment you thought you imagined them. But he said it again, and again, each repetition timed with a deep, rolling thrust, until the pleasure crested and broke and you were falling apart beneath him, his name a broken cry on your lips.
He followed moments later, a low groan tearing from his throat as he spilled inside you, his forehead pressing to yours. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The fire crackled. The sea whispered against the cliffs below.
He pulled out gently and rolled to his side, but he didn't let you go. He pulled you against his chest, tucking your head beneath his chin, and you felt his lips brush your hair.
"Still hate me?" he asked, and you could hear the smirk in his voice without needing to see it.
"A little less," you whispered, running your hand down the side of his face. He caught it and pressed a kiss to your palm.
It should have felt strange to lie naked in the arms of a man who had, up until this afternoon, been little more than a stranger. But instead it felt comfortable. Safe. Like something that had been waiting for you both to stop running.
"Perhaps I was hasty," you mumbled, the words slurred and soft with exhaustion.
"In what regard?" His voice rumbled under your ear.
"I do think you could be a good husband, after all."
His arm tightened around your waist. "I can try."
"You'll be here when I wake? You won't run off?" You murmured sleepily. "If you're going to run, just tell me now."
"I'll be here, little wife. Sleep."
Sleep took hold before you could say more. Your last conscious thoughts were of how safe you felt, in this man's arms, in this strange little tower on the edge of the sea. And the strange realization that he was no longer a stranger. He was yours, and you were his.
He was still there in the morning, wrapped in furs and snoring softly beside you, your legs tangled with his. You smiled against his chest. It was a good beginning.
Description: You’re spider-man’s closest thing to a friend since the world forgot his name. Helping him with gadgets, cleaning his wounds…all without him ever taking the mask off. His true identity has always been a barrier between you two, but what happens when he gets hit with the pollen, and not only him, but the creature lurking inside him fixates on the only person he gets to call home?
Tags/warnings: sex pollen smut, fem!reader, porn with plot, whiny desperate peter >>>, dry humping, piv, riding, oral fem!rec, fingering, dark!peter taking over for a bit, orgasm denial, prone bone, so much yearning, mask stays on…or does it?
Note: You have no idea how giddy it makes me to write him again. He had NO business looking that good in the movie so I had to get this out of my system. Enjoy 🤍
Masterlist
You've seen spiderman hurt many times. When you signed the lease of the first apartment you could afford as a recent graduate, you never thought that would become your new normal.
The first time it happened was completely accidental. He’d arrived at the building in the middle of the night, bruised, bleeding and too disoriented to realize that the window he’d come through was not his.
That night, the noise of a heavy body collapsing onto the floor woke you up. For one terrifying moment, you believed someone had broken into your apartment, only to switch on the lamp and find the city’s superhero groaning and pressing his hands to his side. His suit was torn there, and blood soaked through the ruined fabric onto your rug.
He barely lifted his head when he heard you gasp, the lens of his mask focusing on your figure standing there with wide eyes, wearing only an oversized shirt.
“Wrong window,” he choked, then tried to hold himself up but immediately collapsed again. “Dammit,” he cursed, waiting for you to freak out any second now.
You could have, but instead you rushed to him and knelt beside him.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” Your hands hovered helplessly over his body, trying to see how bad the damage was in the dark. “You need a hospital–”
“No!” He snapped, trying to turn away but failing miserably. “I’ll be fine, I heal quickly.”
“You still need to stop the bleeding,” you countered, folding your knees under your body so you could rest on your calves. “Listen, I can help you. I took some medical courses last year and I have a kit somewhere.”
You looked at him with pleading eyes. He’d saved the city so many times, the fucking world, it was the least you could do to give something back.
He considered his options for a second, and to be honest he didn’t have many. His body was betraying him, and he couldn’t even get up to fix it himself like usual.
The blood loss made him nod, and you wasted no time in getting up and finding said kit. The blood loss also made him drift in and out of consciousness as you tended to the wounds on his ribs as much as you could.
It did not make him less cautious of you though. When you noticed the rip on his mask over a nasty gash on his neck and reached for it, his hand closed around your wrist and even half conscious, his grip was strong.
“Please,” he whispered. Pleaded. “Keep it on.”
The fear in his voice made you promise you would. Even if you couldn’t get to that gash properly. Even when he fell asleep on your floor and didn’t wake up for six whole hours.
The next morning, he opened his eyes and found you sitting on your bed, still staring at him.
His hands patted his chest, and confirmed his arachnid powers had done its job and healed him mostly. But most importantly, his mask was still in place. With no warning from E.V of it being removed. He learned that you’d spent the night making sure he was still breathing without seeing his face.
That had been one year ago.
After thanking you profoundly for helping him, he’d repaired your window, apologized several times, and disappeared into the apartment next door. He then considered moving into another building, but the thought was brushed away very quickly when he remembered the balance in his bank account.
So he acted more careful instead. For a while, he only turned back home when your curtains were already closed, or he only left the apartment when you had already left for your job (because yes, he absolutely researched the hell out of you after that night.)
Then he moved to the attic of the building. Bigger space, no neighbors, no risks. No you. Or at least he thought.
Because some nights…some delirious nights he still found your window a few stories down, and the accidental visits became less accidental. When he was too badly injured to care for himself, he came to you, even after you confessed your degree had nothing to do with medicine.
When he noticed you understood about his equipment malfunctioning, he’d bring it for you to inspect. When he became too reckless with himself you talked his ear off about how being difficult to kill did not make him immortal.
Somewhere along the way, you became spiderman’s friend.
Spiderman was safer. With you, spiderman was the only part of him he could let you see. Because that was the thing, you only knew the masked superhero.
He’d spent so much time blocking away his identity, making peace with the fact that there was no longer anyone in the world who would call him Peter and know exactly who that person was. That name only belonged to the people that once knew him, and no longer existed, so he never gave it to you.
Never showed you more than a sliver of skin when his mask rode up or glimpses of his abdomen when you tended to his wounds. He always kept that barrier and you respected it, even on those nights he was too weak to stop you. Even if sometimes not knowing the color of his eyes kept you up at night.
A promise was a promise.
Maybe that’s why he kept coming. Why he trusted you with a certainty he couldn’t understand. Why he eventually showed you his new living quarters in the attic and let you spend time with him. Why half a year ago, he added another chair next to his desk so you could work together, or help him when he was out patrolling and needed an extra set of eyes.
“I’m officially the girl in the chair, spidey,” you joked that time as you sat next to him, spinning around in your chair.
He’d gone quiet immediately, his body tensing up enough to make you frown, but then managed a small smile and said you were. You pretended you didn’t notice him being too quiet as he worked on his inhibitor after that.
He was wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and the mask. Always the mask that didn’t quite let you see through him. After a moment of quiet, you rolled your chair closer to his and nudged his arm playfully.
“You know I can’t keep calling you spidey forever, right?”
He snapped out of his trance, and the chuckle that came from under the fabric was unmistakable.
“Why not?” He nudged your arm back, but still focused on the device he was hunched over. “I like spidey.”
You put your elbow on the desk, resting your cheek on your hand so you could lean a little closer.
“I like it too, but it feels ridiculous after having my hands all over your body almost every night.”
The moment the words left your lips, you realized how bad that sounded. He straightened up, turning toward you.
“Wow.” Even if you couldn’t see the smile on his face, the lenses of his mask were quite expressive sometimes. He was amused.
“That came out very wrong,” you said immediately, before he bursted into laughter. He had been laughing more since you entered his life. “You know what I meant,” you whined, laughing too with heat flooding your cheeks.
“I think I know,” he chuckled, making you roll your eyes.
“I’m being serious though,” you added, a little more quietly. “You don’t have to say your real name. Just give me something.”
“Mmm…” he acted like has considering it, going back to tinkering with the piece of metal between his fingers, but then his eyes drifted to the flowers he’d bought that morning, and the name came out of his lips before he could think twice about it. “You can call me Maynard.”
“Maynard?” You repeated, suppressing a chuckle. “You don’t sound like a Maynard. That’s like an 80 year old man’s name.”
“That’s all I can give you,” he shrugged playfully.
You had a feeling it went deeper than that, but you’d also learned not to push it with him.
“Alright. Maynard,” you nodded, “but don’t expect me to use that name unless you’re dying. Guess I’ll stick to spidey for now,” you chuckled, going back to your own work as he hummed in agreement.
The conversation ended there. With him trying not to think about your hands all over his body in…different conditions.
Peter didn’t know exactly when his gratitude became longing. He could not identify the moment the friendship, the closeness, or just your smile, shifted into something he craved everyday.
Despite the mask and the fake name, he knew that after years of being no one to everyone, he had become someone to you. And you had become everything to him. Even if it was behind walls he’d built, you were the person who knew him better than anyone alive.
Which is why, the night he lost control of himself after an unknown dust was thrown at him in a fight, he chose not to crash land into your room.
Peter hit the floor of the dark attic with a loud thud, as his senses went overboard. His suit was sticking to his body uncomfortably due to the sweat coating his feverish skin. The fabric was intact, with no visible wounds in his body, just that burning sensation of something running through his veins.
And that dark part of him he’d managed to lock down with the inhibitor, trying to claw its way out.
“What the…what the fuck is going on,” he cursed, clutching his heaving chest as he panted against the worn wood floors. “I can’t–I can’t breathe…”
The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence.
“You have arrived injured. I’m letting her know–”
“NO!” He cut the AI off, “EV, don’t tell her–”
“Message already sent.”
He glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. 2:18 am.
He groaned, grabbing his head when a wave of migraine hit him. He knew what came after that. The black eyes. The desire to break. To take. But this time something felt different. It was like a pull, looking for something or someone…for…for you?
Oh fuck.
You were going to come in and you were going to see him like this. No, no–
“Spidey?” You asked from behind the door, knocking exactly twice before opening it anyways.
The air changed the exact moment you walked in, and that something inside him shifted too. It became aware that the only thing it craved to survive was in the room now.
He needed to get to you. He needed to pin you down and–
“Don’t!” He managed to scream, holding his hand up weakly when you scrambled toward him.
You stopped right in your tracks, eyes wide and running all over him, searching for torn fabric, blood, or anything that would explain why he looked like every breath was painful.
“What happened?” You frowned, when you couldn’t find any source. “Did you get hurt?”
You instinctively stepped forward, but he waved his hand in front of him again.
“Stop, stop, stop,” he said quickly, “don’t come any closer.”
The harshness in his voice caught you off guard, but what sealed the deal was him dragging himself further away from you. It was barely more than a clumsy, desperate crawl, but he managed to put a decent distance between you before collapsing against the side of his thrifted couch.
He avoided looking at you. The oversized shirt covering your body, the comfy shorts you were probably wearing, the way your hair looked messy from rolling out of bed as soon as you got EV’s warning even if you had work the next morning.
You stayed right where you were, watching him. His suit had always fit him like it was painted on his skin, but every pant made his chest rise and fall beneath the fabric so violently that you wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped at the seams.
This reminded you too much of the changes that happened in him months ago.
It started with a sharpened temper, then the heightened sensitivity to everything, the black covering his eyes, and moments during patrol when his reactions became simply frightening for someone who had as much strength as he did. But you were supposed to have stopped it.
“Is it the inhibitor?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, “is it failing?”
“I–I don’t know…I was hit with some dust out there,” he breathed. “I think it’s tampering with it…my head is killing me. Everything is too much.”
You nodded, turning toward the workstation.
“I will check the programming. Just hold on.” Not your best attempt at reassuring him, but he groaned in acknowledgment.
“EV?”
The computer woke when you touched the keyboard, illuminating the dark attic in a wash of blue light.
“Online.”
“Please run a diagnostic on the inhibitor and any possible interference.”
“Beginning diagnostic.”
You waited impatiently for the results, tapping your fingers on the desk while you watched him from the corner of your eye.
Over there, he…he was doing his best trying to breathe.
This obviously wasn't his first time having sensory overload. When the animal tried to take over the human part of him, everything in the city became impossible to escape. Not a single movement, or sound, or simple existence within miles was unnoticed by him.
But this time? The rest of the city had disappeared. There were no sirens in the distance, or voices coming through the walls, or every heartbeat in the building pounding in his head.
There was only you.
Your rapid heartbeat echoing inside him. He felt every tap of your fingers against the wood, every slight catch in your breathing each time he made another involuntary and pathetic sound from his spot on the floor.
Your scent…God, your scent filled the entire apartment.
The scent he found himself coming back to so often that it scared him. He didn’t want the attachment. The possibility of having someone again only to risk losing them again.
That same scent was making every muscle in his body react in a way he didn’t understand. It made him, and the other him, wanna do things to you he had only dreamed of in his wildest fantasies. Things he wasn’t proud of, things he wouldn’t dare to say out loud, even if he looked at you through the lenses of his mask and you couldn’t see the black in his eyes.
He pressed the back of his head against the couch harshly.
This was wrong. So wrong.
His senses were supposed to consume everything when the change came. Instead, they had fixed themselves entirely on you.
He could feel the heat of your body from across the room as though you were still in front of him. Could remember with sickening detail how soft your hands looked when they reached for him. Could almost feel the burn of the touch that had never landed because he stopped you.
What if he’d let you? What if he’d felt the way your hands ran all over his body? What if you’d moved them lower, and lower, as your mouth–
“Diagnostic complete.”
Your heads snapped toward the screen.
“There’s no external damage affecting the integrity of the device. I detected a foreign biotoxin in the bloodstream that may be bypassing the inhibitor, activating the suppressed arachnid hormones.”
“What biotoxin?” You frowned.
“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.”
Great. He thought. He had no time to take a bath with Yelena Belova to find out what the stupid dust was.
Tiny, microscopic potato, she would say.
The screen changed, displaying a model of his nervous system. There were yellow bright lines pulsing quickly, running all the way from the base of his brain down the length of his spine. Something unknown was moving through his blood, altering the part of him he had spent months forcing into submission.
He sucked in a breath as he watched you read the screen. Your eyes were focused, and a bead of sweat made its way down the side of your forehead.
He suddenly felt the need to lick it off.
Wanted to run his tongue from the base of your neck to the back of your ear. Wanted to fist your hair and make your heart beat out of your chest from how good he knew he could make you feel–
“The effects remain within his enhanced tolerance. However, prolonged exposure to certain hormones can cause extreme distress without relief.”
“What hormones?” Your voice, worried and unknowing of his thoughts only made him feel guiltier.
It took him a second to realize what you asked, but EV threw him under the bus before he could say anything.
“There’s a significant rise in reproductive hormones. The unknown toxin is inducing a strong mating response in him.”
Mating response. He stopped breathing.
Your eyes slowly moved from the monitor to him, and he saw the moment your attention dropped lower to the tent of his pants.
That suit concealed nothing on a good day. On one like this? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck–
He shifted almost immediately, but the movement only worsened the pressure, pulling a helpless groan from his throat that made your pulse jump. You looked away at once, turning back to the computer.
“Is there a way we can…umm…stop it?” You asked hesitantly.
“The subject is experiencing severe sexual arousal with a fixation on a nearby individual,” she explained, because fuck him if he wasn’t the unluckiest individual on earth. “Acting upon it can be a positive option to relieve sexual tension.”
He wished the floor would open beneath him, swallow him, and never ever EVER spit him back out again.
Your pulse was absolutely hammering after that. He caught the sudden change in your scent. There was a sharp spark of surprise, nervousness, and something else beneath it that his altered senses fed on immediately.
You kept your eyes fixed on the monitor, although the data had stopped meaning anything the moment you heard fixation on a nearby individual.
“Is that what you really feel?” You asked softly after a moment.
His head fell forward, catching it between his gloved hands. He didn’t know how to answer without making everything worse.
Although, after what EV said, could it really be worse?
“…Yes.” The word came out rougher than he expected. Yet still not enough for what was happening inside him. “It’s like…I can only feel you. All of you.”
Heat rose to your face once again.
“What does that mean?”
Don’t say anything, don’t–
“I can smell you.” Great start, idiot. He cleared his dry throat before continuing. “I can smell your shampoo…the lotion you use…the ink on your hands from your favorite pen.”
He chose not to mention he could also smell the adrenaline on you. The heat gathering slowly beneath your skin.
Your eyes dropped to your hands, and under the dim light of the computer, you caught the ink stains in them from your journaling session before bed.
“I can hear your heartbeat changing every time I speak,” he added. Okay, that one slipped out.
You swallowed. And god, he felt that in his own throat.
The suit was suffocating him at this point. He wanted to rip it off as much as he wanted to rip off the fabric covering the goosebumps on your skin.
“Is it only because I’m nearby?” You asked, gathering the courage to turn your chair to him.
White lenses met you across the room. He dragged in another shaky breath of oxygen made of you as he thought about his next words. He could’ve lied. He should’ve lied. But instead, chemically overwhelmed and stripped of every defense he possessed, he gave you the truth.
“No.”
His voice was firmer this time. No hesitation in it despite the thousand red alarms pounding in his head telling him to shut up.
“It picked you–no, I picked you for a reason,” he added. “And it’s not just me. The other…the other me wants you too.”
His voice went lower on the last part, that told you how much it cost him to admit that.
The silence following his confession was heavy. For a moment he wished he could read your mind. For all he could feel of you, your thoughts were unreachable.
His own mind was a mess. The impulses didn’t feel like thoughts anymore, just his body feeding him instructions.
Get up. Cross the room. Touch her. Breathe her in.
His palms shook with the urge to close around you. His teeth ached with the need to graze your skin. His eyes burned with the desire to see beyond fabric.
Every part of him seemed convinced that the small distance between you was a mistake he needed to correct. That he needed to breathe you in until his lungs burned. Drag his mouth along the inside of your wrist and taste the pulse there.
He hated it.
He hated that something inside him could look at the person he cared for the most and reduce her to an answer for his pain.
“EV, how long is this state going to last?” He asked the computer, followed by a weak cough as he clutched his side.
“Your enhanced physiology is struggling to break down the toxin’s structure. I estimate a time between ten to twelve hours before it’s metabolized. However, neurological collapse is expected before that timeframe.”
“What?” You looked at him. “There’s no way we’re letting that happen. Maybe I can–”
“Don’t even start,” he cut you off, shaking his head profusely.
“So what? I’m supposed to sit here betting on whether your body collapses on hour three or hour six?”
“I’ll just pass out, big deal. I’m not putting you in danger because of this. I can handle it.”
“You’re barely handling it now. There’s no danger in trying–”
“You don’t understand what’s happening inside me right now,” he argued, raising his voice. “This other thing, the one the inhibitor controls it’s…awake. That part of me doesn’t think like I do. It doesn’t care if you're scared, or hurting–”
“You wouldn’t hurt me–”
“You don’t know that!” He snapped, his fist struck the floor next to him, hard enough to make the worn wood crack beneath his knuckles.
The sudden noise made you flinch. He smelled the flash of fear moving through your body for only a second.
One second enough.
“Fuck–that is what I mean,” he cursed, covering his lenses with his hands. “I don’t…I don’t know if I’d be gentle. I can’t risk this, I can't…shit, I can’t risk you.”
The words, said with so much pain, and honesty, seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest.
“Okay,” you nodded, settling deeper in your chair. “But I’m not leaving you like this. I can’t risk you either.”
He shuddered a painful exhale. His head dropped to the couch again, shutting his eyes in preparation of what the next hours of torture would be.
Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes.
The suit was killing him, so he decided he’d be better without it. He reached desperately behind his back, clumsily undoing the zippers that tied the suit together.
He could feel your wide eyes on him as he tugged the fabric off his shoulders, peeling it off his sweaty arms. He groaned when he lifted his hips and the suit grazed his swollen crotch. In a matter of seconds that felt like eternity he managed to break free from the spandex, and threw it away somewhere in the room. He’d undressed down to his dark boxers, mask still in place, revealing the marble sculpture of his body.
You let out a shaky breath from your spot, eyes raking over a body you’d only seen partially. He was covered in wounds most of the time, but this time, he only had faint bruises from the night before decorating his chiseled abs.
His tight muscles flexed with every rise of his chest, his bulge straining harder the more you devoured him, pressing against his pants, making him curse quietly.
You noticed, and returned your eyes to the screen to track his vitals.
He felt grateful that you’d given him that grace, but just you being in that room made it very hard for him to think of anything other than your existence.
Too hard.
Before he knew his hand drifted down the growing ache in his crotch, trying to feel some relief, but every rub he made over the fabric of his boxers sent a jolt of pain through his body instead of pleasure.
It only made it worse when he realized you were tense at the desk, trying very hard to keep your focus on the screen and not on the whines he was letting out.
“…I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly, breathlessly, moving his hand away. “I didn’t–”
“Don’t apologize,” you shook your head quickly, eyes still on the screen. “You…you can do whatever you need.”
He didn’t say anything, just whined in pain again, so you took it as a chance to say it before you regretted it.
“But my offer still stands, spidey.”
What a polite way of saying ‘I’d let you fuck me into next week so you can control your horny arachnid hormones, spidey.’
Fucking hell.
“I’m okay I just–God I didn’t–I didn’t think it would feel this way…” He laughed humorlessly, staring at the ceiling. “But I–I got this. Yes.”
You kept quiet, hearing him mumble to himself about a hundred times about how he had this.
“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…”
He wasn’t.
“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”
For God’s sake.
“I think I can help.”
By the time he registered the words and looked back at you, you had already moved from your chair and shortened the distance between you, kneeling in front of him.
His senses went from one thousand to one million. He forced his hands behind his back, trying to keep the animal from grabbing you and getting it over with.
“What–what are you doing?” He stammered nervously, the lenses of his mask going wide.
“Maynard,” you said quietly, ignoring the way his body tensed up at that name. “Would it make you feel better if I put my hand here?”
You placed your hand right in the center of his chest, and your cold palm met his overheated skin. He gasped, feeling every individual fingerprint on his skin. He wanted them marked on him. Tattooed.
His back arched from the couch, with a strangled gasp breaking from beneath the mask. The relief hit him all at once, through a simple contact that felt like salvation.
Your hand steadied him for only a glorious second, but now that you had touched him, his body knew precisely what it had been denied.
It wanted more.
His own hand closed around yours so suddenly that you almost pulled back, but he loosened his grip the instant he realized how tightly he was holding you.
“Sorry–”
“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder.
He was burning.
The heat beneath your palm scared you, but what scared you more was the violent pounding of his heart beating against your hand so so quickly.
“Better?” You asked quietly, trying not to bite your bottom lip at the image of him crumbling under your palm.
“So fucking better,” he said breathlessly, pressing your hand tighter against his chest. “I…dammit–”
“Breathe,” you reminded.
His head fell back against the couch. Chest rising up and down, up and down, up and down.
Just take her, man, she’s right there–
Your free hand accidentally brushed his neck, right where the border of the mask started, snapping him right back. He grabbed your hand, not harshly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch.
“Please.” Was all he said.
Leave it on.
It brought you back to that first night he’d crashed into your life.
“I wasn’t planning on removing it,” you whispered, leaning closer. “You can keep it on. But let me help you…I really want to.”
See? She wants it. She needs it so bad.
He hated that the other guy was right. He knew you meant what you said because he could smell the proof pooling between your thighs.
Fuck it.
In a sudden movement he reached for your waist, dragging you forward so you were straddling his lap. The bulge you landed on made you gasp, hands instinctively grabbing onto his sweaty biceps for balance when he let out a broken groan that vibrated against your core.
His hand cupped your jaw, bringing it closer to his face, and your dilated pupils reflected on the white of his lenses.
“I can feel that you want this,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. “Please, say it again…”
You shifted your hips, barely, so minimal yet he felt it travel through his whole body. He hissed, tightening the grip on your jaw.
“I want this,” you repeated firmly, moving your head closer to his ear. “You can take whatever you need…”
You moved your hips again, more deliberate this time, pulling a broken whine from him. The toxin made every contact feel like electricity racing down his spine, straight to the heavy, aching weight of his cock under you.
“Yes…yeah just like that…” he panted. “Just let me…”
His hands landed on your waist, moving you back and forth at a quicker pace over his bulge. You gasped at the friction, fingers digging into his shoulders, while he let out a collection of muffled words you could barely understand.
“...M–more…” he whined, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t–I need…”
“What do you need? More what?”
“More contact.”
His hands left your waist to grab the hem of your shirt.
“Can I?” He whispered.
You nodded eagerly, gasping when his hands shifted to the collar of your shirt instead, ripping it off your body with a sharp pull.
“Oh fuck,” he cursed when he realized there was nothing under that shirt, and saw your nipples hardening instantly under the cold air.
He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask.
His hands, however, wasted no time to cup your breasts with a broken whine. His thumbs played with your nipples, tugging at them as hard as he could allow himself to without hurting you.
“Fuck you’re perfect…you’re so perfect…” he whispered, more to himself than you, pulling some soft whimpers out of you when he tugged a little harder. His hands drifted to your lower half, to the hem of the last piece keeping your body from his greedy eyes. “These too,” he said, “please, can I? I want to feel you.”
“Yes,” you nodded, already out of air.
You didn’t even know why you tried to get off his lap to take the shorts off properly, when he just did the same as the shirt: ripped it in half where it rested on your hips, yanked it off from your body and threw the ruined pieces far away.
You weren’t wearing anything underneath.
“I can smell you. God, I can smell you. You’re so–oh God…”
Now he could feel your wetness drenching his boxers, dripping onto the fabric. He could almost taste it in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to drown in it for hours.
“Can–can I–?”
You didn’t even let him finish, you grabbed his hand and placed it right between your legs.
Water. He found water in the middle of the dessert.
His hand moved carefully through your wet folds once, twice, delighting in your warmth, the way you felt, the way you let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard in his miserable life.
“Fuck…” you cursed softly, moving your hips eagerly when he kept stroking slow. Too slow. “Touch me, please.”
He obliged, fingers finding your clit in movements that had you gripping his shoulders tighter, eyes fluttering shut so beautifully he had to bite his lip to not let out a pathetic sound.
“Been wanting this,” he mumbled. “Longer than today. Longer than tonight.”
His finger slid inside of you, making you moan when he curled it just right.
“There were…there were nights I thought about you riding my hand,” he kept going, voice cracking as he added a second finger, stretching you more. “I’ve wanted you for so long–not just because of this shit in my blood. Because it’s you.”
Every word made you clench around his fingers. Every admission pulled another shaky moan out of your throat. You were a mess already, breathless, hips rolling down to meet the thrust of his fingers.
“Oh my God–don’t stop, please don’t stop–”
“Not stopping, baby.”
He kept working you open, the white lenses of the mask never leaving your face. His free hand slid up your chest, settling between your breasts.
“I’m–I’m close,” you managed. “I’m so close–”
“Come on…you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”
The heel of his palm lifted to press against your clit. You were right there, right on the edge, about to come on his hand and drip down his boxers–
“Please,” he begged, unable to keep it in. “Let me fuck you after this…please. I need to be inside you. I’ve needed it for so long–just let me, after you come, please, please–”
The plea undid you.
You came with a broken cry, stopping your movements as your walls pulsed around him. The sound you made against his shoulder nearly finished him right there.
It took you a second to just breathe again, your chest synching up with his in the search of oxygen. He kept rocking his hand slowly, not just to work you through the aftershocks, but because the friction of your pussy in his hand brought the tiniest relief to him.
You just stayed there as the last soft waves rolled through you.
Once you were able to see clearly again, you let out a breathless chuckle and straightened back up.
He needed you. He needed you so badly you really thought he was going to die if you didn’t help him.
You placed one hand on his chest as the other reached under you, slipping inside the fabric of his boxers without breaking eye contact.
The second your bare fingers brushed him, his hips jerked hard under you.
“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly.
You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.
His cock sprang out, heavy and flushed between your bodies, so thick and hard and painful. The head was red and shiny, with precum dripping down the vein that ran along his length. The tip brushed the skin of your stomach, leaving a warm, wet patch that made the hair on your arms go up. He could smell the small flicker of intimidation sparking inside you, but the want that followed was stronger.
You stroked him a few times, slowly just as he’d touched you at first.
“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”
Another thick bead of precum welled up and spilled over your fingers. Whether it was the toxin or just his enhanced physiology, he was dripping for you.
Flustered wasn’t enough of a word when you had his leaking cock in your hand.
His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tighter, guiding you up as if he was about to lift you then pulling you back down immediately.
Fuck her. Fuck her right now.
“Please, I need–I need to feel you…” he cried out. “Let me…let me…”
You nodded just as desperately, lifting yourself up as he helped, steadying you with shaking hands until the thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance. You both exhaled hard at the same time when you started to sink down, taking him inch by inch.
He was big. Almost too much. The burn of it made your breath hitch, but the way he cursed under his breath multiple times, completely at your mercy, made you keep going until he was buried balls deep.
You sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, and so full of him.
When the initial sting faded away, you started moving. He let you set the pace as you adjusted, holding back his need of thrusting up. His fingers dug on your skin, not lifting just holding you, but the more that you moved, the more that control started to waver.
He could feel it coming. The change.
You kept moaning, bouncing on top of him, completely unaware of his self restraint crumbling away.
His grip slowly tightened when his eyes began turning completely black under his mask. That careful, pathetic boy who’d been begging disappeared beneath something more…primal.
Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.
The next thing he knew, his hands slid under your thighs with sudden strength. He lifted you up in one motion until only the thick head of him remained inside you, held you there for a second as the last part of him tried to remember how to be gentle–then snapped his hips up hard.
That first thrust pulled a sharp moan out of you, but there was no chance to adjust this time. He set a relentless pace almost immediately, using pure strength to bounce you on his cock while he drove up to meet every drop of your body, buried so deep it stole your breath every time he bottomed out.
“Oh my–May…Maynard–” the name you barely used on him slipped out in the middle of the frenzy, but his hand reached behind your head to pull your hair back slightly as he kept thrusting up.
“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, his voice so different from just minutes earlier. “It’s Peter. Call me Peter when I’m inside you.”
He didn’t even give you time to process, still lifting and dropping you onto his cock at the exact hard rhythm he wanted. The only one that satisfied the need inside of him. Your hands instinctively reached for the edge of the arm of the couch he was leaning against, fingers digging into the worn fabric as he hit that spot inside you over and over again.
“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”
“That’s better,” he approved. “I was right, you’re so so perfect…taking every inch like you need it as bad as I do…”
A desperate sound slipped out of you at the praise, he could feel your walls clenching tight around him as your body went for that second orgasm, your eyes were fluttering shut, almost there–
“Nuh–uh,” he denied immediately, stopping mid thrust, holding you pressed against him as you gasped, surprised and confused.
“What–what happened? I was about to–”
“I want you to hold it for me. I know you can.”
That twisted part of him enjoyed the slow realization on your face.
Even if you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew the same spiderman he’d been without the inhibitor, was the one with your body at his mercy now.
Good.
He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, breathing hard behind the mask. When your breathing finally slowed down and accepted that the high never came, he stood up. Still inside you, he walked you to the bed in the corner of the room.
His bed.
He pulled out with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then laid you down roughly near the edge of the mattress. He kneeled down, strong hands hooking behind your knees and dragging your legs over his shoulders, folding you open for him completely.
“Look at the ceiling,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me.”
You obeyed, staring up at the wood beams high above you while he tugged the bottom of the mask just high enough to free his mouth.
Peter leaned down and pressed a few soft kisses to your swollen folds. He wasn’t necessarily eating you out, just giving a few loud smooches that felt good enough to make you grip the sheets.
“M’sorry, you were so perfect there…” he mumbled condescendingly against your most sensitive spots. “But I need you to hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”
You nodded, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Maybe too eager. Maybe too pathetic. Just like he’d been. Had he pumped that toxin into you?
Either way, you didn’t care. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this version of him.
He laughed right over your clit when you moaned loudly, after he moved his tongue in a slow, torturous swipe over it.
“Was back there too much?” He cooed. “Maybe I just need to stretch you more...”
Two fingers slid inside you, so easily, but the sudden stretch still dragged a whine out of your throat. He curled them immediately, finding the spot that made your hips jerk.
“Peter…”
“Huh?” He acted coy, pumping his fingers with a rhythm that kept you right on the edge without letting you tip over. He added a third finger, making your back arch from the mattress. “Keep holding it in.”
Every shake of your body fed the stupid toxin inside him. Having you like this…really trying to keep your body from coming apart because he said so.
God. He was never going back.
“You just took my cock. I think you can take three fingers with no problem.”
He kept the same relentless pace, chuckling when your body started twitching again.
“Shhh, you’re perfect, absolutely perfect…”
“Peter…” you called out again, hand dropping the sheet to find his shoulder instead. “I need…need…”
“Need what?”
“Need you inside me…please I won’t–I won’t hold for much longer just–fuck me.”
He stopped altogether, a smirk you couldn’t see stretching the corner of his mouth. He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, licking them clean before tugging his mask back in place and standing up.
“Yeah?”
Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed for a moment before his hands gripped your hips and turned you over. He moved you higher up the bed, grabbing one of the pillows, and shoving it under your hips, tilting your lower body up for him.
He then climbed onto the bed behind you and knelt between your spread thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight as one hand stroked down the length of your spine.
But something made him stop.
“This fucking mask–” he cursed under his breath. “It’s suffocating me.”
The sweat on his forehead had pooled under the mask, making it so sticky over his eyebrows that it was affecting the lenses he was trying to see you through.
“I need you to be a good girl for me,” he added breathlessly, yet still commanding enough. “Keep your head on the mattress. Ass up. Don’t turn around.”
You nodded. Too eagerly again. Couldn’t care any less again.
He didn’t think twice, just yanked the mask off and tossed it aside. It landed near you, making you bury half your face on the sheets as if staring at the mask alone would be disobeying his commands.
The sound he made when the cool air hit his face was pure relief. He swiped the sweat off with his forearm, finally seeing you clearly. Face down. Eyes squeezed shut. Already clutching the sheets.
“You look so pretty like this,” he mumbled. “All spread out for me…waiting.”
“Peter…” you whined, lifting your ass slightly from the pillow.
“I know, I know. You’re okay.” He couldn’t keep the smirk away when he added, “you said please.”
He reached between you, guiding the thick head of his cock between your thighs until it nudged against your entrance. You were still soft and ready and perfect.
Peter pushed in slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank deep and deep and deeper.
He braced one hand beside your head and kept the other on your hip, pushing you into the mattress as his thighs hit the back of yours. Slap. Slap. Slap. The position left almost no space between your bodies, with Peter pressing his chest against your back.
“Fuck…you feel so good like this…so pretty taking me.”
He kept going, making the mattress creak and the base of the bed hit the brick wall repeatedly. Your desperate moans ran through his body like electricity, making something inside him crack open again.
What? What is–
The moment his rhythm stuttered, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Beads of sweat flew from his hair to your back.
“God–you…you’re making me–” The roughness of his thrusts slowed down immediately, inhaling a sharp intake of air as he felt the change again. “I can’t, I can’t…”
He lifted his gaze to the window behind the bed and noticed his eyes had turned back to its original color.
“Oh my god,” he gasped, stopping altogether. He straightened up, still kneeling and inside you, but panicking. “I’m…I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened I–“
“Peter!” You cut him off, pushing yourself back, closer to him, without turning around. “Shut up and fuck me.”
The order left your mouth breathless, pushing back against him even more to make the point clear. His hands twitched when they gripped your hips again.
“Okay, okay…” he panted, groaning when you dropped back on the bed and his cock almost left the warmth of your pussy. “I’m sorry–if I was too rough, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
He picked up the pace again, but the words tumbling out of him now were pure pleading Peter again.
“Don’t turn around–don’t turn around–fuck, fuck…” slap, slap, slap. “You can come now. Please. Please, I want to feel it–you’d come apart so pretty on me, I know you would…pleasepleaseplease–”
His final permission and the desperate way he said it made you crash harder than the first time, crying out into the mattress. The second he felt you coming around him, he knew he couldn’t last much longer either.
“Can I–inside…please, can I??…let me fill you up–”
“Yes–inside, Peter, do it inside me…”
He buried himself to the hilt with a strained groan and finally came. The orgasm tearing out of him was harder and longer than anything he’d ever felt, holding you there, filling you up.
You gasped against the sheets, breathless, as the waves of cum seemed to go on forever, flooding you with warm and thick ropes in every spurt as he emptied himself inside you.
“Thank you…thank you…” His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, sending broken gasps against your skin as he kept coming. “You are so perfect–fuck…so perfect…thank you…”
The pollen wrung him dry until he could barely breathe, and even then he kept rolling his hips weakly, chasing the last of it while he slowly softened inside you.
When it finally eased, the pain, the need, the hunger…he pulled out slowly with a whine, and half collapsed over you. His arms held most of his weight as he planked above you, but you could feel every ridge of his muscles brushing your sweaty skin.
Peter’s eyes fluttered shut, feeling exhausted and aching in the best way, almost lulled by the sounds of your agitated breaths.
You both felt the warm trail of liquid leaking out between your bodies and neither of you moved or said anything for a while. He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With your naked body under him, no masks, no barriers, just your swollen pussy leaking out his seed–
“Successful ejaculation brought down the arachnid hormone levels immediately. Inhibitor working within regular parameters now. Congratulations, Peter.”
EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence.
It took two seconds of shock before you both broke into breathless laughter. His teeth grazed your back as your bodies vibrated in sync from the amusement and overall flustering after everything that happened.
“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered.
“You’re welcome. I gathered data and the released semen volume exceeds standard parameters by two hundred and twenty six percent due to the high hormonal concentration. Hydration, clean up and rest are advised.”
“For fucks sake…” Peter cursed under his breath.
“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets.
That was your call back to reality.
Peter felt you move under him, reaching blindly to the side until your hand found the mask. You lifted it over your shoulder, offering it to him without looking.
“I don’t want to,” he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I…I don’t want to put it back on.”
“Then I’ll close my eyes,” you offered instead.
“No–I mean…you don’t have to. I don’t want to wear it around you anymore. Not after…all of this,” he admitted sheepishly.
“But you told me to not turn around,” you reminded him, dropping the mask on the mattress again. “And that was you, not the darker you.”
He chuckled, nodding even if you couldn’t see him yet.
“Yeah, because if I saw your face while I was balls deep inside you I would’ve busted before you came.”
There it was. He said it. No turning back now.
At least it got a chuckle from you too.
“Listen I…I meant everything I said. Everything. The wanting, the nights I thought about you,” he confessed. “I don’t want you to feel like I just used you when…when there was always a reason why I needed you like oxygen tonight.”
Your breath hitched, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him, and when you didn’t push away…he exhaled in relief behind you.
“So maybe…you can turn around now. If–if you want to. Know the real me.”
“I would really like that,” you whispered without hesitation.
You tried lifting yourself up to turn around, but he did most of the job, moving away the pillow he had placed under you and helping you roll onto your back. You closed your eyes, at least until you were facing him completely, and took a deep breath. Holding onto his biceps for moral support, you finally opened them again.
Seeing his face for the first time felt so intimate, even after everything you just did.
There he was. The same guy who just fucked you into next week, looking more shy and boyish than you could’ve ever imagined.
Brown eyes. Dark, curly hair sticking to his forehead. A nervous smile tugging at the corner of his gorgeous mouth.
So young. So earnest. So yours.
Not spidey anymore. Just Peter.
Your Peter.
Thank you so much for reading 🤍 I used to write Peter so much back in the day (shoutout to my starktonyx era) and I’ve missed him dearly.
prguitarman
pixelskylines
stormborns
izzy806
vaporwave
ellievsbear
