him asking, âyeah, you like that?â but not in the cocky sense (okay well maybe a little). mostly because heâs genuinely curious. he canât believe that you love having his weight on you like this.
although heâs holding back, most of his weight settled into the forearm he has pressed into the mattress. his other hand grips your jaw, fingers spreading down to your throat and when you jerk your chin up, it takes him a second to put together what youâre nonverbally asking for.
but when his hand tentatively wraps around your throat and you moan, unabashed and raw, it all clicks.
âyeah, you like that,â he concludes, now completely cocky and confident in his abilityâdevotion, actuallyâto give you everything you want. always.
summary: reader storms into peter's apartment, upset over her last tinder date being a complete tool and refusing to eat her out. peter gets a little... distracted.
wc: ~2.1k
cw: ! MDNI ! not full smut, but descriptions of peter being hard, talking about oral (fem!receiving), dry humping, hints of peter being an absoulte munch, swearing, peter getting so embarassed he makes half-jokes to himself about suicide, friends to lovers sexual tension babyyyyyyyyyy
masterlist and taglist!
he didn't mean it. honestly.
in fact, there's nothing peter wanted more in this moment than not to be painfully hard. but here he was, and he didn't know what the fuck to do.
you had let yourself into his apartment with your spare, angrily marching down his hallway already yelling, up in arms about your latest shitty tinder hook up. his bedroom door slammed open, causing him to jump from where he was working at his desk. he looked to you with wide eyes as you continued the rant you'd started upon entering the threshold of his apartment.
"i mean, seriously? i give you the best head of your life, and you return with saying how 'disgusting' going down on me would be? and then you have the audacity to get mad at me when i don't want to fuck you? what the fuck is wrong with the men of new york?!"
you threw yourself down on his bed, frustrated sighs wracking through your chest as you attempted to calm yourself down, hands rough in your hair. peter stared back with bewilderment, and unfortunately, upon the thought of eating you out, an insane hard-on.
it's not like you hadn't talked about sex in the past five years of knowing peter, the two of you told each other everything. peter had just never seen you so... vulgar about it. so frustrated. he knew he needed to come up with a response â hell, he should've a solid thirty seconds ago â but he was currently willing his blood to stay in the upper half of his body, failing miserably as he couldn't fight off images of you spread for him out of his mind.
"what do you think, pete?" your voice snapped him back to earth.
"w-what?"
you gave a shrug, staring down at your lap and thankfully not seeing peter adjust himself and bring a sweatshirt into his own lap.
"i dunno, maybe i'm being the crazy one here. is it so bad to want head in return?" you stared at him expectantly, like you hadn't just asked him the most insane question he'd ever heard.
he shook his head a little too quickly, mentally cringing at how awkward he was being. parker, pull your shit together!
"no," he responded honestly. "i don't think you're being crazy." i think he's crazy for not wanting to.
you gave another heavy sigh, this time your turn to shake your head. "this is the third guy in a row who was appalled i even dare to bring it up. isn't that fucking crazy?"
peter nodded as though he was in a trance, eyes glossy as he stared at you. his reply fell to a whisper, not trusting the pitch of his own voice right now. "fucking crazy."
he held your gaze for a while as you sat in a comfortable silence. maybe for you, peter, however, was looking for any possible exit strategy that could come his way. his mind was going a million miles per hour, rushing thoughts of having you under him keeping him twitching against his sweatpants. he shifted in his seat, a lapse of judgment on peter's end as the sweatshirt in his lap moved against his groin, a sharp exhale falling from his gaped lips as he did everything in his power to hold back a moan.
if you noticed, you didn't let him know, giving him a soft smile as you stood from his bed to walk closer, gaze now heavy on the physics notes sprawled on the desk. you leaned over his shoulder, a hand on the back of his chair to stabilize yourself as you peered down.
"i'm sorry for complaining about my trashy sex life, this looks a thousand times more important. jesus, what even is all this?"
you leaned down further, your chest now brushing against his shoulder blade as you skimmed the papers, breath hot against his ear. normally, your proximity was no issue for peter â you've been best friends for years, touch wasn't foreign. but with his current circumstances, your touch against him was sending his senses into overdrive, and he was going to combust.
"j-just... physics... i-i guess." he stuttered, not daring to move his head a millimeter as your cheek nearly grazed his own.
you gave a gentle chuckle, the sound earning a groan deep in peter's throat before he knew to stop it. "yeah, i could figure out that much, parker. what's up with you? you're being weird."
you pull back slightly to adjust, immediately turning around to sit on peter's knee. again, it was something you'd done hundreds of times before with no other thoughts or implications, but with the sinful chains around his thoughts right now, it only threw him off more. you went to grab the sweatshirt in his lap, hoping to shift onto him more comfortably. he immediately grabbed your hand to stop you.
"no! i-i mean, i'm fine. i'm not being weird." he let go of your hand, crossing his arms and giving you a shrug, his best attempt at coming off nonchalant. his best wasn't good enough.
"yeah right, peter. what's your prob-" while speaking, you had grabbed for the sweatshirt quicker this time, using the momentum to immediately swing your leg over both his thighs to sit in his lap properly. you sat down fully, cheeks instantly flushing pink, "oh."
there were many times in his life when peter thought about ending it all, but none as much as now. he was going to have to either move countries, or jump from the empire state without his web shooters. those were the only two options circling his head as his wide eyes met yours, a red tint taking over his entire upper body.
"i'm so sorry, h-holy shit," he breathed out, grabbing at your hips to lift you off of him so he could get out of here as quickly as possible. you resisted him, though, doing what you could to fight against him and stay firmly planted on his lap. that made him panic even more. because, of course. he wasn't going to have time to kill himself. you were going to kill him first.
"i-i tried to, i don't... i'm so sorry."
you put your hands on his chest, a genuine look of bewilderment splayed across your features. "is that... is this because of me? what i was talking about?"
not only were you going to kill him, you were going to torment him about it first. and he knew he deserved it.
"peteâ"
"i'm so sorry, please let me go, i didn't, iâ"
"pete, listen to me."
"this is so embarrassing, i really didn't mean toâ"
"peter," you let out his name in a voice he hadn't heard before, something torn between a growl and a moan â all while dragging your hips up against him. he gave a shaky exhale at the pressure, the feeling of you rutting against his cock stopping his guilty rambling.
you found his gaze, his pupils blown and irises dark, a direct correlation to the twitching of his cock as you gave him another soft roll of your hips. his hands found your hips again, holding you firmly in place to stop the teasing movement. his brows knit together, geunine confusion plastered across his face.
"what... what are you doing?" he was breathless, chest heaving as he stared back at you. you hesitantly reached a hand to his hair, palm splaying out on his scalp as your thumb traced circles on his temple. even in his worst possible moments, you were there to calm him down. he had absolutely no idea why you weren't yelling at him, or what you were even still doing here, but he wasn't going to fight it. he melted into your touch, and his breathing hitched as you leaned in closer.
"have you always felt this way?" you whispered, breath against his cheeks sending goosebumps across his body.
"felt... what?" he tried to play dumb, despite the fact that you could also feel how excruciatingly hard he was against you. when he daydreamed about confessing he was in love with you, this was never a scenario in his head.
you let your hand graze slowly down the side of his face, fingers coming to trace his sculpted jawline. his breath didn't just hitch at this point, he was pretty sure his lungs stopped working entirely.
"why haven't you ever said anything?" it wasn't angry, it was a genuine question.
he let out a scoff, a hand leaving your hip to scratch the back of his neck, embarrassment covering his features for the hundredth time this evening. "yeah, well. this isn't exactly how you want to tell your best friend you love her."
your eyes widened, and peter's followed, realization of his words hitting him.
"you love me?"
"holy shit, that's, i didn't, oh my god that'sâ"
peter's panic was cut off and replaced with awe as he felt your lips crash against his, a feeling he'd been dreaming of since the day he'd met you back in high school. he immediately reciprocated, tilting his head to deepen the kiss and letting a long overdue moan escape from his lips. you smiled against it, both hands interlocking with those brown curls you'd been dying to run your hands through, just like this.
peter nipped at your bottom lip, earning a sharp gasp from you that allowed his tongue much-needed entry into your mouth. the kiss was nothing short of hungry, years of pent-up feelings being released hot and noisily as peter bruised his lips against yours.
he pulled back sharply, out of breath and looking at you as though you weren't real. "wait, i dont... you...?"
you laughed at the lack of his question, though instantly understanding him. you gave a soft nod, a blush creeping over your cheeks as you brought your hands to cup his face. while the kiss was downright sinful, the way you looked at him filled him with nothing but reverence.
"every shitty tinder date happened after i chickened out of telling you how i felt. i just couldn't stand to lose you, peter." you added sadly.
he gave you a knowing look, nodding in agreement. "i know what you mean," he squeezed your hips, a contagious smirk controlling his lips. "wait, you've been going on shitty tinder dates since we moved out for college three years ago."
you returned the smirk, fingers trailing down to ghost the tendons in his neck. "i know."
peter pulled you in again, no longer embarrassed at the desperate noises escaping his throat as he attacked your lips, this kiss somehow hungrier than the last. you grinded down against him again, a raspy "fuck" leaving his swollen lips as he held a firm grip on your hips to keep you moving.
you chuckled at his desperation.
"you're telling me i could've been doing this the whole time instead of shitty jocks thinking its gross to make a woman feel good?" you sighed out as he trailed down your neck, teeth nipping and bruising your soft flesh as he continued to move against your hips, leaving you to soak up the feeling out how hard he was underneath you.
peter groaned in frustration, standing quickly with you still wrapped around his hips. he held you with one arm as though you weighed nothing, lips still attached to the pulse point in your neck. he used the other to catch himself as he threw you down onto his bed. you gasped, your back hitting the soft mattress as you took in peter's frame over you, hands on either side of your head.
he pulled back from his artwork on your neck, his jaw clenched. "i can't believe anyone could ever tell you such nonsense,"
he leaned down again to peck at your lips, hands making their way down to explore your sides. "i can't tell you what an honor it is to even think about how good you taste," he growled in your ear.
you gave a gasp, his words alone enough to have your cunt aching, as if you hadn't been since the second you sat down on his lap. "you... you think about that?"
he let out a chuckle as he sat back, his hands teasingly making their way to the button of your jeans. he ran his fingers under your waistline as his other hand tugged at your zipper, the feeling of your muscles tensing under his touch driving him absolutely crazy.
"more times than you could torture out of me," he pulled your jeans down, nearly finishing in his sweats at the sight of the delicate lace underwear against your burning skin.
obsessed peter! who, whenever he has a chance, sneaks you into every conversation because he can barely go an hour without talking about you
obsessed peter! whose lockscreen is a picture of you from your first date because you just have to be the first thing he sees when he wakes up in the morning
obsessed peter! who absolutely hates whenever you complain about a pimple or a nonexistent flaw about yourself because he thinks youâre an angel thatâs descended from heaven
obsessed peter! who doesnât care if he cooked something the night before, will order whatever you want
obsessed peter! who coordinates his outfits to what youâre wearing because youâre the main attraction and heâs the accessory
obsessed peter! who insists you have a fashion show whenever you go shopping without him, so he can judge your outfits and watch you change
obsessed peter! whose social media is basically a fan page for you
shy!reader who thanks to peter has come more out of her shell since they started dating
shy!reader who depends on peter a lot in social situations since theyâre stressful for her
obsessed peter! who carefully plans their dates so that you can be comfortable
obsessed peter! who stopped going out every weekend so he could spend time with you
obsessed peter! who spends weeks apologizing when he upsets you accidentally or not
shy!reader who forgave him two days after the argument, but lets him grovel because she likes it
shy!reader who loves how obsessed peter is with her because itâs not that creepy obsession that borders on dangerous
Synopsis: ââŚbecause maybe, youâre gonna be the one that saves me.â [GIF Creds: milesgmorales]
WC: 3684
Category: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Angst With An Optimistic Ending, Slow-Burn, Mutual Pining, Shifting POVâs, {TW: Grief, Mentions of Loneliness}
[PART 1 | MASTERLIST]
LAST PART! Are you guys crying? Because I am đ Unironically, I never thought this would turn into a series but now iâm glad that all the support i got made it happen. So, thank you. All of you đ
For some background on how I came up with this idea, I was watching the show Lost (very good show), and this songâthe one I named this part afterâbecame one of my favorites solely because of its importance due to two of the âmainâ characters.
Iâve always had this thought of âwhat if someone did remember Peter?â and this song was the game-changer in making my thought a reality. So, if you guys know this song as well as I do, get ready. This finale is a MESS of emotions
ăâ˘â˘ââ˘â˘ă
Peterâs mind raced, trying to piece together the puzzle in front of him. You were a messâa soaked, trembling, sobbing messâand for a terrifying second, he thought someone had hurt you. His senses went into overdrive, cataloging every detail: the scent of rain and chemicals clinging to your clothes, the frantic, arrhythmic beat of your heart against his chest, the salt of your tears soaking into the collar of his shirt. He was ready to bolt, to hunt down whoever or whatever had caused this, to make them pay.
But then you pulled back, just enough to look at him, and what he saw in your eyes wasnât fear or pain. It was recognition. A deep, soul-shattering understanding that made his blood run cold.
And he knew. He knew before you even said the words. You werenât running from something. You were running to him because you finally, truly, understood. You believed him in the way he needed, the way he had never, ever expected anyone to.
You believed him and it was destroying you. The girl who had been so kind, so gentle, so quietly resilient, was breaking right in front of him, and it was all because of him. Because of the truth he had selfishly laid at your feet. He had thought giving you the truth would be a gift. A relief. But looking at you now, he saw it for what it was: a curse.
He didnât know what to do. His entire life, people had relied on him for strength. May had relied on him to be responsible. MJ had relied on him to be honest. Ned had relied on him to be the hero. Spider-Man was supposed to have the answers. He was supposed to be the one who fixed things.
But what did you need him to be? Spider-Man couldnât stop the storm outside. He couldnât erase the grief etched onto your face. And Peter Parker⌠Peter Parker caused this. How could he comfort someone when he was the very source of their pain?
He made a decision. Not a hero decision. A Peter Parker decision. He guided you further into the apartment, his hands gentle but firm on your arms. He maneuvered you around a stack of textbooks and a precariously balanced pile of takeout containers, leading you to the one piece of furniture that wasnât salvaged from a curb: the armchair. He gently pushed you down into it, then dropped to his knees in front of you, looking up at you with an expression of such raw, unguarded concern that it made your breath hitch.
âIâll be right back,â he said, his voice soft but steady. âDonât move.â
He was up and moving before you could respond, a blur of motion. He returned a moment later with the towel from the floor, now warm from being draped over a radiator, and a large, worn-out sweatshirt that smelled faintly of detergent and⌠him. He gently draped the towel over your shivering shoulders, then started unwrapping the wet lab coat from your body, his movements clumsy but careful, like he was defusing a bomb instead of taking off a piece of clothing.
You were too numb to protest, too overwhelmed to do anything but let him. He peeled the soaked fabric from your arms and tossed it aside, then held out the sweatshirt.
âHere,â he said. âPut this on. Youâll get sick.â
You nodded, your fingers fumbling with the damp hem of your own shirt. He waited patiently, his gaze fixed on a spot just over your shoulder, giving you a sliver of privacy in the small, cluttered room. You pulled the sweatshirt over your head, the soft, warm fabric enveloping you like a cocoon. It was too big, the sleeves swallowing your hands, the hem falling down to your mid-thigh. You were swimming in it, swimming in him. And for the first time since youâd run out of the lab, you felt a semblance of warmth return to your body.
He was still on his knees in front of you, looking up at you with those big, brown eyes that held a universe of pain. He reached out, not to touch you, but to peel away your set of safety goggles, which youâd forgotten you were still wearing. He set them aside on a nearby stack of books, then just⌠looked at you. He looked at you as if you were a piece of art in a museum, with a kind of reverence and a hint of sadness.
âYou saw them, didnât you?â he asked, his voice barely a whisper. He knew. Of course he knew. He saw the truth in your eyes, the same way heâd seen the truth in your kindness in that cafe, the same way he saw the truth in that quote on your book.
You just nodded, a fresh wave of tears welling up in your eyes. You tried to speak, to tell him about Ned and MJ, about Mr. Harrington and the AV cart, but the words got stuck in your throat, coming out as a series of choked, incomprehensible sobs.
He didnât need the words. He understood. He just gave a small, sad nod, a silent acknowledgment of your shared burden. Then, in a move that was both utterly heartbreaking and profoundly comforting, he leaned forward and rested his forehead on your lap. You felt the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of the sweatshirt, the slight tremor in his body. You were reminded at that moment that he wasnât just the boy who was erased, who had to live with being erased. He was also secretly the friendly-neighborhood hero, bearing the weight of two worlds.
You kept forgetting about that part.
You let your hand fall to his head, your fingers tangling in his damp, soft hair. You could feel the slight, rhythmic buzz of his senses working overtime, cataloging your every shudder, every hitched breath, every frantic beat of your heart. But it wasnât invasive. It was⌠intimate. A quiet, unspoken conversation between two people who existed in a space no one else could see.
âIs this⌠is this what it feels like?â you managed to choke out, your voice hoarse. âAll the time?â
He didnât lift his head, but you felt him nod against your knee. âA little,â he whispered. âYou get used to it.â
He was lying. You both knew he was lying. You donât get used to being a ghost. You just learn how to haunt the living.
He finally pulled back, looking up at you with an intensity that made your heart ache. His hair was a mess from your fingers, so much so that you had to fight back the urge to smooth it down.
âWhy didnât you tell me it was this bad?â you asked, your voice cracking with a mixture of anger and sorrow. âWhen you were at the cafe⌠you made it sound like a metaphor. With how you described it, I thought⌠I donât know what I thought. But I didnât think this. I didnât think that I would ask about you and get blank stares. I didnât think I had to convince my own mind that you were real.â
âWhat was I supposed to say?â he asked, his voice rising with a frustration that had been building for a year. âThat I caused the multiverse to almost collapse, and to fix it, I had to make everyone I ever loved forget me? That my auntâs last words were to a stranger? That Iâve been living in a glorified closet, eating expired microwave meals, talking to myself because the silence is so loud it feels like itâs going to crush me?!â
He was on his feet now, pacing the small length of the room, the frantic energy returning with a vengeance. âI barely know how to say it to myself without wanting to punch a hole through the wall! How was I supposed to say it to you? To the only person on the planet who doesnât look through me? What was I supposed to do, scare you away? Have you look at me with the same⌠pity⌠that I see in my own reflection?!â
He stopped, his back to you, his shoulders slumping in defeat. You could see the tension in the lines of his back, the way his hands were clenched into fists at his sides.
âIâm sorry,â he said, his voice muffled. âI didnât mean to yell. I just⌠what was I supposed to say?â
You watched him, your own tears momentarily forgotten. You saw the desperation in his posture, the raw, unfiltered pain. He wasnât angry at you. He could never be angry at you. He was angry at the universe, at the cruel, cosmic joke that had become his life. And he was terrified. Terrified that you, the one miracle, the one anchor, would be snatched away just like everything else.
So you did the only thing you could think to do. You stood up, the sweatshirtâa tangible reminder of his careâhanging on your small frame like a shield. You walked over to him and, without a word, wrapped your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek against the tense muscles of his back.
You didnât say anything. You just held him. You let him feel the warmth of your body, the steady rhythm of your breathing. You let him know just how much strength he had. That he wasnât alone.
He was tense for a long moment, a coiled spring of grief and anger. Then, slowly, incrementally, he began to relax. He leaned back into your embrace, the fight draining out of him, leaving behind a hollow ache. He brought one of his hands up, covering yours where they were clasped over his stomach, his fingers entwining with yours.
âYou could have said that,â you whispered, your lips brushing against the fabric of his shirt. âI would have listened. I would have tried to understand.â
âYouâre trying to understand now,â he said, his voice thick with emotion. âAnd look what itâs doing to you.â
âThen let it,â you said, your voice firm with a conviction that surprised even you. âDonât you get it, Peter? Thatâs what friends do. They carry the heavy stuff together. You donât have to be strong for me. You donât have to be a hero. You can just⌠be. Be Peter Parker. And Iâll be right here.â
He turned in your arms, slowly, until he was facing you. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face etched with a sorrow so profound it seemed to age him by years. He looked at you, and for the first time, you saw something other than pain in his eyes. You saw⌠hopeâa fragile, flickering ember in the vast darkness of his loneliness.
âFriends?â
He said the word with a mixture of wonder and disbelief, like he was trying on a coat that hadnât fit him in a year. Friends didnât seem like a big enough word for what you were, for what he needed you to be. It was too small, too simple for the weight of this truth.
âJust friends?â he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
You looked at himâat the boy who could apparently lift a bus, who could swing between skyscrapers, who could face down aliens and monsters, but was terrified of being forgotten. You saw the vulnerability in his eyes, the desperate, hopeful plea for something more than just a shared burden.
And in that moment the past came into play, for both of you. For him, it was all those years in high school where you had been just a face in the crowd. All those missed opportunities, all those silent observations, all those what-ifs that had suddenly become painfully relevant when he found you. In a matter of days, those short conversations and your quiet presence had become more real to him than years of memories with people who no longer knew his name.
The cafe conversation, the hug, the sticky noteâit all came rushing back to him, a kaleidoscope of moments that had led to this. You had been there, all along, a quiet observer in the background of his life, and he had been too preoccupied with his own world to see you. And now, here you were, as if the universe had given him a second chance, a do-over for all the times he had been too busy, too distracted, too Spider-Man to just be a teenager.
And for you, it was all those years of watching from the sidelines. All those times you played observer instead of participant. All those moments you chose your textbooks over a chance at a real connection. You saw himâthe boy who was always running, the boy who was always kind, the boy who was always just out of reach. And you had done nothing. You had let him run right past you, too caught up in your own quiet world of grades and expectations to see that he might have needed another friend. The trip to Europe was proof of that. You had seen the grief on his face and you did nothing. Nothing.
A wave of guilt washed over you, so strong it almost brought you to your knees. You regretted everything. The silence. The lost years. You shouldâve gone to those parties. You shouldâve spoken up in class. You shouldâve gone up to him in Venice and asked if he was okay, even if you had never spoken a word to him before. You should have said something. Anything.
You looked at him, at the hope in his eyes, and you knew, with a certainty that was both terrifying and exhilarating, that âfriendsâ was not enough. It was a start, a crucial and necessary start, but it wasnât the end. It wasnât what this was. This was bigger than friendship. This was⌠fated. A cosmic collision of two lonely souls who had been orbiting each other for years, never quite close enough to touch, until a cataclysmic event had finally forced them into each otherâs gravitational pull.
You took a deep breath, the air catching in your lungs as you made a decision. A decision to stop watching. A decision to start living. A decision to finally, after all these years, take a risk.
âIf not friends,â you whispered, your voice trembling with a mixture of fear and anticipation, âthen what would you call this, Pete?â
You let the nickname slip, a casualty of the intimacy, a sign that the old rules no longer applied. You saw the way it made him flinch, not in a bad way, but in a way that suggested it was a long-forgotten word that suddenly held new meaning.
âWhat would you call us?â you pressed, your eyes locked on his, daring him to give you an answer.
And he didnât know how to. Not in words, anyway. Heâd spent the last year learning that words were flimsy, unreliable things that could be erased with a wave of a hand. They were promises that could be broken, memories that could be rewritten. But actions⌠actions had weight. They had consequences. They had a truth that couldnât be denied.
So instead of answering, he did the only thing he could think to do. The only thing that felt right.
He leaned in and kissed you.
Slowly, making it known he was giving you all the power. If you were to pull away now, heâd let you. If you had even a spark of hesitation in your eyes, he would have stopped. One of his perks of being him was seeing it all before it even happened. Spider-sense aside, heâd learned how to read people. And what he was reading in you now was all about the courage to take a chance. So thatâs what he did.
His lips were hesitant at first, a question rather than an answer, a gentle exploration of this new, uncharted territory. He tasted of rain and grief and a desperate, aching hope that made your heart ache with a sweetness you had never known before. You responded in kind, your lips parting slightly, a silent invitation.
He knew immediately this was your first kiss. It wasnât hard to figure out. The slight tremble in your lips, the way your hands remained at your sides, unsure of what to do. He wouldâve smiled if he wasnât so busy. So he made it a point to show you what to do, to lead you in a dance as old as time itself. His hands found their way to your waist, pulling you closer, the space between you disappearing until there was nothing but the shared heat of your bodies and the frantic, synchronized beating of your hearts. Your own hands came up to rest on his chest, feeling the solid, reassuring thump of his heart beneath your palm, a steady rhythm against the chaos of your own.
This was it. This was the answer to your question. This was what you were. This was what this was. It wasnât friendship. It wasnât pity. It wasnât even a second chance. It was a beginning. A new beginning, born from the ashes of two lives that had been consumed by fire.
The kiss deepened, growing in confidence and intensity, a conversation without words. You werenât the quiet girl in the front of the class anymore. He wasnât the ghost haunted by a past that no one else could remember. You were just two people, two lost souls who had finally found their eye in the middle of a hurricane.
He was the one to pull away, not out of hesitation, but out of a need to breathe, to see, to process the monumental shift that had just occurred. He rested his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his eyes closed, as if he was trying to burn this moment into his memory, to hold onto it with every fiber of his being. His hands were still on your waist, his thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles on the fabric of the sweatshirt that now smelled like both of you.
You were breathless, your head spinning, your body humming with a new and unfamiliar energy. You felt⌠seen. Truly seen. Not for your grades or your quiet demeanor or your potential, but for you. For the girl who had watched and waited and regretted. For the girl who had finally found the courage to speak up, to reach out, to take a chance.
You opened your eyes, finding him already looking at you, a soft, wondrous smile playing on his lips. It wasnât a sad smile. It wasnât a tired smile. It was a real smile. A Peter Parker smile. And it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.
It took you a second to realize he was humming a song. It was soft, so quiet you almost thought you were imagining it. But you recognized it immediately. It was that one song you were always listening to in class, the one with the intricate guitar riff and the haunting lyrics. The one youâd been listening to on your headphones the day he ran into you, as well as the day in the cafe.
And ironically, thinking back, it had matched the situation more than you realized. The one about being lost and found, about being seen and unseen, about saving someone from the wreckage of a life they thought was over.
And he knew it, too. He heard it first through your headphones. And since then, he heard it everywhere he went, and for the life of him he couldnât figure out what it was. He tried Shazaming it, he tried humming it to Siri, he tried searching the lyrics, but nothing.
Then, on a night he was feeling nostalgic and pulled out one of Mayâs old record players, he found it. Tucked away in a box of her old vinyls, a record by a band heâd remembered as her favorite. He played it, and he listened. And he understood.
He understood the lyrics, the melody, the ache behind it all. He understood why it had been playing on a loop in your head, why it had been following him around like a shadow. Because it was his song. It described his life to a tee. The feeling of being erased, of being a stranger in your own life, of knowing that the one person who saw you could be the one thing that could save you.
And when he looked at you now, he didnât see the quiet girl from the front of the class. He saw the girl who had been listening to the soundtrack to his life, even before she knew she was in the movie. He saw the girl who had been singing the words he couldnât say, feeling the pain he couldnât show, holding the hope he couldnât find.
He stopped humming, the last note hanging in the air between you, a fragile, ephemeral thing. You didnât have to ask what it was because you were singing the same song. Always have been.
He didnât know what tomorrow would look like. He didnât know how you were going to help him, how you were going to navigate this strange new reality that only the two of you could see. He didnât know how you were going to convince the world that a boy named Peter Parker existed, or if you even could.
But as he looked at you, as the lyrics said:
ââŚbecause maybe, youâre gonna be the one that saves me.â
He knew one thing for sure: that you would. And you did in more ways than you could possibly imagine. You saved him from the silence, from the loneliness, from the crushing weight of being the only one who remembered. You saved him from himself.
You were his wonderwall. And after today, he was starting to believe he might have been yours, too.
summary: you've been observing your neighbor peter ever since he moved in 4 years ago. hes quiet. smart. painfully nice. oh and hes also spiderman- not that you were going to let on that you knew. not until the noises of a man in pain next door got too much for you to ignore.
warnings/tags: porn w some plot, brand new day era peter!, spoilers equivalent to watching the trailer, smut (oral f receiving, being tied webbed up, rough sex, very much dom! mean! peter, multiple orgasms, squirting, bruising, aftercare) neighbors to something
a/n: zendaya pls dont fight me for this
masterlist // join the taglist
You were stretched out on the couch in a pair of old shorts and a hoodie that you couldn't remember where it'd came from. The TV murmured some mindless afternoon show you werenât really watching. Outside, Queens hummed its usual Sunday quietâdistant traffic, a dog barking two streets over, the low thrum of the city that never fully slept.
Then the noise hit.
A sharp, wet crack followed by something heavy slamming into a wall hard enough to rattle the shared plaster between your apartments. Glass shattered. A low, guttural sound that didnât belong to any human throat bled through the wall, half-growl, half-pain.
You were on your feet before the last echo died.
Four years of living next to Peter Parker had taught you the difference between him being clumsy and him being in trouble. You barely knew him after all this time living next to each other. You knew that you liked him. Knew that when you'd both come home late at nightâ meeting in the shared hallwayâ you always noticed the dark bags under his eyes and the slight tremor in his hand as he opened his apartment door.
You knew about the man behind the mask.
You didnât bother knocking. The knob turned under your palm and the door swung open on a scene that made your stomach drop.
Webbing.
It coated everything. Thick, glistening strands stretched from ceiling to floor, across the kitchen counters, over the cracked television, wrapping the furniture like a cocoon spun by something frantic and enormous. The air was heavy with that sharp, organic scent of fresh silk and something darker underneathâsweat, adrenaline, the copper edge of blood.
Peter was on the far side of the living room, collapsed against the wall. His hands frantically covered his ears, hands trembling, chest rising and falling in an unnatural pattern. The familiar blue-and-red suit was shredded across his torso, torn open like something had clawed its way out from the inside. More webbing leaked from his wrists in uncontrolled pulses, sticking to the floor, the walls, his own skin. His fingers flexed and the strands thickened, twitching like living things.
âPeterââ
His head snapped toward you so fast it was almost inhuman.
The eyes that met yours werenât fully his anymore.
The whites had darkened, pupils blown wide. When he spoke, his voice was rough, layered, like two people trying to use the same throat.
âStay back.â
You didnât.
You stepped carefully over a thick strand of webbing that still quivered on the floor. âWhat- What's happening to you?â
A humorless laugh scraped out of him. One hand mover to press against his temple, webbing still dripping from his wrist in lazy, involuntary strands. âShould've heard you come in. Everything is so fucking loud.â
His gaze flicked over youâhooded, assessing, too sharp. Something hungry and not entirely human lived behind those eyes now. You watched him fight it, jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped.
âYou knew,â he said quietly. Not a question. âAbout the suit. And you didn't say anything? How long?â
âLong enough.â You kept your voice steady even as another thick strand of webbing shot from his wrist and slapped wetly against the wall beside your head. âSaw you swinging back into your place one night when I couldn't sleep. I never said anything because you clearly needed the secret. But this? This is different.â
Peter pushed off the wall. The movement was too fluid, too many joints working in ways human joints shouldnât. He stopped a few feet from you, chest rising and falling hard. The torn suit hung off him, exposing pale skin.
âI don't know what's happening,â he admitted, voice dropping. âInstincts. Hunger. Everything feels⌠louder. Stronger. I almost put my fist through the wall earlier because the neighborâs music was too much. And the webbingââ He lifted his handâ more silk poured out, wrapping around his own forearm in tight, pulsing coils. âI canât stop it. Itâs like my body is rewriting the rules without asking me first.â
You took another step closer. The air between you felt charged, thick with the scent of him.
âThen let me help,â you said. âYouâre not doing this alone. Not anymore.â
Peterâs eyes narrowed, the reflective sheen catching the light. For a second the man you knew was still thereâthe awkward, brilliant, exhausting friend whoâd spent years pretending he was just a guy with bad luck and worse timing. Then something deeper stirred, and the look he gave you turned heavier, more intent.
âYou barely know me. You shouldnât be this close,â he warned, but he didnât move away. âI donât know what Iâm becoming. And right now every instinct Iâve got is telling me toââ
He cut himself off, throat working.
Peter moved.
Not the familiar, slightly awkward steps youâd watched from afar for years. This was something else entirelyâlow, fluid, predatory. He circled you in a slow arc, bare feet silent on the web-slick floor, head tilted just a fraction too far. Those dark, reflective eyes never left your face. The torn suit clung to him in ruined strips, and every step made fresh silk drip from his wrists in lazy, glistening threads that stuck to the hardwood like living things.
âGet out.â
The words came out layered, rough, almost a snarl. He stopped a few feet away, shoulders rolling like he was fighting the urge to drop lower. âIâm serious. Walk out that door right now.â
You stayed exactly where you were.
âIâm not scared of you.â
A sharp, humorless sound left his throat. He stepped closer. The air between you thickened with the scent of him. His nostrils flared once, deliberate.
âLiar.â
Another step. He was inside your space now, close enough that you could see every vein, every scar, every time one of his muscles twitched. When he spoke again, the voice was quieter, meaner.
âI can feel it. Your heartâs hammering. Pulse jumping right thereââ His eyes dropped to the side of your throat. âAnd that smell.â He inhaled again, slower this time, and a low sound rumbled in his chest. âYouâre getting wet. Standing in the middle of my apartment like a defiant brat while I turn into a monster. Youâre fucking dripping for it.â
Heat flooded your face. You didnât deny it. Couldnât. The longer he circled, the worse it gotâevery predatory shift of his body, every dark glance, every warning he threw at you only made the ache between your legs sharper.
Peterâs mouth curved into something that wasnât a smile.
âLook at you. So much time of being the careful, quiet neighbor and the second I start turning into something that wants to eat you, your body decides itâs the hottest thing itâs ever seen.â He leaned in just enough that his breath ghosted over your ear. âYouâre not scared of me. Youâre desperate for me. Thatâs so fucking pathetic. And so fucking hot.â
You swallowed. âI still want you. Not just thisâ the real you.â
The admission landed heavy between you.
For half a second the familiar Peter flickered back into his eyesâthe one who you could hear through the walls tinkering away at two in the morning. Then the arachnid thing surged again and his expression went sharp, almost cruel.
âYou want this?â He gestured at himself with a web-slick handâthe torn suit, the dark eyes, the silk still pulsing from his wrists in uncontrolled strands. âYou want this version of me that looks at you and only sees prey? That wants to wrap you up and keep you?â
He took another step. You backed up on instinct and your shoulders hit the wall. He didnât give you space. One hand planted beside your head. The other hovered near your hip, fingers twitching like he was fighting the urge to grab.
âI can smell how bad you want it,â he murmured, voice dropping into something filthy and low. âYour cuntâs practically begging. All that wetness just sitting there, waiting for something dangerous to notice. And Iâm noticing, sweetheart. Iâm noticing real fucking hard.â
His free hand finally settled at your waist, not quite gripping, just resting there with dangerous weight.
âIâm trying,â he said, and for a moment the struggle was clear in his faceâjaw clenched, eyes flickering between human and something darker. âIâm trying so hard not to take what youâre offering. Because once I start, I donât know if Iâll be able to stop. And youââ His gaze dragged down your body, lingering openly between your legs. âYouâre standing here like you want me to fail.â
He leaned in until his mouth was almost against yours, breath hot, voice pure filth.
âSo tell me again youâre not scared. Tell me while your thighs are pressing together and your pulse is screaming for me to pin you to this wall and find out just how wet you can get for the monster next door.â
The webbing under his hand pulsed once, tightening against the plaster.
Peterâs control was slipping by the second.
And he was still right there, waiting to see if youâd push him over the edge.
âIâm not scared of you.â
Peterâs eyes flashed. The words had barely left your mouth before thick, warm webbing shot from both his wrists. It hit the wall on either side of your head with a wet slap, then snapped tight around your wrists, pinning them high and wide. The silk was hot, almost feverish, and it contracted onceâdeliberateâpulling your arms taut until your shoulders burned.
He stepped in close, chest nearly brushing yours, and tipped your chin up with two sticky fingers.
âSay it again.â
âNope.â Your voice came out steadier than you felt. âStill not scared.â
Something dark and delighted flickered across his face. Then his hands dropped to the waistband of your sweatpants. He didnât bother with the drawstring. He just ripped. The fabric gave like paper under that unnatural strength, the sound loud and final in the quiet apartment. Cool air hit your bare thighs. Your underwear was left behindâplain, nothing specialâexcept for the very obvious dark, soaked patch right in the center.
Peter went still.
Then he laughed. Low, mean, almost delighted.
âJesus Christ.â He dragged two fingers slowly over the wet spot, pressing just hard enough to feel how the fabric clung. âLook at that. Youâre soaked through. Standing here being a lying brat, telling me youâre not scared while your cunt is making a mess of itself.â
He rubbed again, slower, watching your face as the damp cotton dragged over your clit. âThis isnât the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man anymore, sweetheart. This is the version that will treat you like the prey you are. And youâre dripping for it like a desperate little bug.â
His voice cracked for half a second. The mean edge faltered. His eyes flashed back to those rich browns you always got yourself lost in.
âFuckâIâm sorry. You should still leave. I mean it. I donât⌠I donât know how much longer I canââ
The arachnid thing surged back. His fingers pressed harder against the soaked fabric, tracing the outline of your folds through the thin cotton.
âBut you wonât leave, will you? Youâre standing here getting wetter every time I open my mouth. Look at you. Thighs already shaking and I havenât even touched skin yet.â
You felt it happenâthe sharp, helpless clench deep inside you, the fresh rush of wetness that soaked through the fabric under his fingers. A soft, involuntary sound escaped your throat.
Peterâs eyes went completely black.
âOh,â he breathed. âYou liked that?â
He dropped to his knees so fast it was almost a fall. Both hands hooked into the sides of your underwear. One sharp pull and the fabric tore straight down the middle, the ruined scraps falling to the floor. Cool air hit your bare, dripping cunt. For one heartbeat he just stared, chest heaving, silk still leaking from his wrists and sticking to your thighs.
Then the last thread of control snapped with an almost audible crack.
A low, animal sound ripped out of him. He shoved your thighs apart with both hands, gripped hard enough to bruise, and buried his face between your legs like a man starving. There was no careful exploration, no soft start. His tongue dragged flat and filthy from your entrance all the way up to your clit in one long, greedy stroke, and the sound he made against you was pure hunger.
âFuckâtaste that,â he growled into your folds, voice muffled and wrecked. âSo fucking wet. Dripping down my chin already.â He licked again, deeper this time, tongue pushing inside you just to feel how easily you opened for him. âGonna eat this pretty cunt until you forget how to speak. Until the only thing you can do is come on my tongue while I decide whether to keep you or ruin you.â
His mouth sealed over your clit and sucked hard, no mercy, while two sticky fingers pushed into you without warning and curled. The webbing around your wrists pulsed tighter as your body jerked.
Peter Parker was gone.
What was left between your thighs only wanted to devour.
He ate you like heâd been starving for daysâtongue flat and relentless, dragging over every sensitive inch before pushing deep inside you just to fuck you with it. The wet heat of his mouth sealed over your cunt completely, and the sounds that filled the apartment were filthy and constantâ the soft, slick noise of his tongue working you open, the wet suck each time he pulled back just enough to breathe, the low, broken groans that vibrated straight against your clit.
Two fingers joined almost immediately, thick enough that it made the stretch burn in the best way. He curled them hard against that spot that made your vision white out and sucked your clit between his lips at the same time, the combination brutal and perfect. Your thighs trembled on either side of his head. The webbing around your wrists pulsed tighter every time your body jerked. He didnât give you any time to breatheâjust kept going, tongue fucking into you in deep, greedy strokes while his fingers worked faster, wetter, the slick sounds of it getting louder the more you dripped for him.
âThatâs it,â he growled against your folds, voice rough and muffled. âLet me feel it. Youâre so fucking close I can taste it.â
The pressure built in waves. First a sharp, coiling heat low in your belly, then a deeper ache that made your hips try to roll against his face even as he held you open. He chased every tiny shift, adjusting the angle of his tongue, the pressure of his fingers, until the only thing you could do was take it. Your cunt clenched around him. A broken sound tore out of your throat. The second the orgasm hit, it hit hardâyour whole body locking up as you squirted, a hard, pulsing rush of wetness that hit his mouth and chin and dripped down his throat in messy streaks. He didnât pull back. He just groaned like it was the best thing heâd ever tasted and kept licking through it, messy and greedy, chasing every drop until your legs were shaking and you were whimpering from the overstimulation.
When the last tremor left you, Peter finally leaned back on his heels.
Your release was dripping off his chin, shining on his lips, streaking down his neck. He looked at the mess youâd made of him and laughedâlow, mean, delighted.
âOh, sweetheart.â He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and then licked that clean too. âYou just fucking squirted on me. Look at that. One little push and you made a mess all over my face.â His eyes were almost pure black now, pupils blown wide with hunger and amusement. âIâve heard you, you know. Through the wall. Late at night when you think no oneâs listening. The soft little sounds you make when youâre getting yourself off alone in your apartment. Always wondered what it would take to make you get loud. Turns out all it took was me on my knees with my tongue in your cunt.â
He stood in one fluid motion. The remaining scraps of the suit came off with two sharp ripsâfabric tearing like it was nothing. Then he was naked in front of you, cock hard and heavy between his legs, the head already shiny with precum. Every muscle in his body looked coiled and ready.
He didnât give you time to catch your breath.
Why would he?
One sticky hand closed around your waist, the other around the back of your neck. He ripped you off the wall, your wrists aching at their release and spun you, marched you the few steps to the webbed kitchen counter, and bent you over it hard enough that your chest hit the cool surface with a soft grunt. Your cheek pressed to the webs, sticking you in place. Your ass was up, completely exposed, still dripping from the orgasm heâd forced out of you.
Peter stepped in behind you. The thick, hot length of his cock dragged through the mess between your thighs, slow and deliberate, smearing your own wetness up and down your folds.
âLook at this,â he murmured, voice pure filth. One hand spread you open so he could watch the way his cock slid through your slick. âSo fucking wet. You came all over my face and your cuntâs still greedy for more. Is this what you wanted when you walked in here? To get bent over my counter like a little toy? Is this what you think about in bed?â
He leaned over your back, mouth near your ear, the head of his cock catching on your entrance with every slow roll of his hips.
âI can feel how bad you want it. Youâre dripping down my cock. Such a messy, desperate little thing.â A soft, mean laugh brushed your skin. âIâm gonna fuck you until you squirt again. Until the only thing you can do is take it and thank me for not webbing you to the ceiling while I do it. And youâre gonna love every second of it, arenât you?â
The blunt head of him pressed against you, not quite pushing in, just resting thereâhot, heavy, promising.
Peterâs voice dropped even lower, rough with the last scraps of the man fighting the hunger.
âTell me you still want this.â
âI want you.â
The words were barely out of your mouth before Peter drove into you in one hard, unbroken thrust.
The stretch was brutalâthick and sudden and so deep it punched the air from your lungs. Your cheek stuck against the webbed laminate as he bottomed out and stayed there for half a second, just breathing, just feeling the way your cunt clenched around him like it was trying to keep him.
Then he moved.
He fucked you hard and fast, hips snapping forward with a force that made the counter creak under you. Every thrust was deep, relentless, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet apartment. His hands locked around your hips hard enough that you already knew there would be bruises tomorrowâdark fingerprints where his fingers dug into soft flesh and held you exactly where he wanted you.
âFuckâlook at you,â he gritted out, voice rough and mean. âTaking it like you were made for this. I didnât even think you could handle getting fucked this hard.â Another sharp snap of his hips drove a broken sound out of your throat. âBut youâre dripping down my cock every time I bury it in you. So fucking greedy.â
You hadnât known either. The pace was almost too muchâtoo deep, too fast, the stretch burning in the best way with every drag of his cock. His blunt head kissing your cervix with every thrust. Your body still hadnât fully come down from the last orgasm and already the pressure was coiling again, sharp and overwhelming. Peter didnât slow. He just kept slamming into you, one hand sliding up your spine to fist in your hair and pull your head back so he could watch your face.
âThatâs it. Let me feel it. Youâre gonna squirt on my cock this time, arenât you?â His voice dropped into something filthy and delighted. âI can already feel you getting tighter. Do it. Make a mess of me again.â
The second orgasm hit harder than the first. Your cunt locked down around him as you squirted again, a hot, pulsing rush that soaked his cock and thighs and dripped onto the floor between your feet. Peter groaned like it was the best thing heâd ever felt and fucked you through it, chasing every flutter and clench until your legs were shaking and you were gasping against the counter.
Strong hands hauled you up and carried you the few steps to the couch. He dropped onto the cushions and pulled you with him in the same motion, settling you over his lap so you straddled him. Your knees sank into the cushions on either side of his hips. Before you could even try to find your balance he planted both hands on your waist and started fucking up into you.
There was no pretense that you were in control.
Peter used you like a toy, lifting you just enough to drop you back down onto his cock while he thrust up to meet every fall. The angle was devastatingly deep. Every upward snap of his hips forced a wet, broken sound out of you. His grip never eased. Fresh bruises bloomed under his fingers as he held you exactly where he wanted and took what he needed.
âOh sweetheart,â he murmured, eyes half-lidded and dark with hunger. âSitting on my cock like a perfect little fucktoy. Canât even move unless I let you.â He thrust up harder, watching the way your body took every inch. âYouâre so wet itâs running down my balls. Still gushing for me like you canât help it. Such a messy, desperate thing.â
One hand left your hip to wrap lightly around your throatâwhile the other kept you steady for the relentless pace of his hips. The look in his eyes was pure predator.
Peterâs grip on your hips never eased. He kept fucking up into you in deep, relentless strokes, using your body exactly the way he wanted while his voice stayed low and filthy against your ear.
âThatâs itâtake it. Look at how easy you open up for me. Sitting on my cock like you were made to get used.â Another hard thrust forced a broken sound out of your throat. âYouâre shaking again. I can feel it. That pretty cuntâs about to soak me one more time, isnât it? Go on. Squirt on me again. Make a mess while I fuck you through it.â
The pressure built too fast, too sharp. Your thighs trembled on either side of his hips. Every upward snap of his cock dragged over that perfect spot until the only thing you could do was just take it. When it hit, it hit hardâyour whole body locking up as you squirted around him for the third time, a hot, pulsing rush that soaked his cock and the skin of his stomach. Peter groaned like it was the best thing heâd ever felt and kept thrusting through it, chasing every flutter and clench.
âFuckâyes. Just like that. So fucking messy for me.â
His rhythm finally stuttered. The mean edge in his voice cracked into something rawer as his hips snapped up once, twice more, burying himself as deep as he could go. A low, guttural sound tore out of him when he cameâhot, thick pulses spilling into you. He held you down through every spurt, grinding up into the mess heâd made of you until the last tremor left him.
Your strength gave out all at once.
You collapsed forward against his chest, forehead pressing to the damp skin of his shoulder, body still trembling with aftershocks. His cock twitched inside you one last time. For a long moment the only sound in the apartment was the two of you trying to breathe.
Then the change happened.
You felt it in the way his hands loosened. The bruising grip softened into something almost careful. When you managed to lift your head, his eyes were no longer that dark, reflective black. The familiar warm brown was fully backâwide, stunned, and filling fast with horror as the full weight of what heâd done settled over him.
Peter stared at you like he was seeing you for the first time.
His gaze dropped to the dark fingerprint shaped bruises already developing across your hips and thighs, to the torn scraps of clothing on the floor, to the mess of webbing and come and your own release still slick between your bodies. A shaky breath left him.
âOh my god.â
His voice was his own againâquiet, wrecked, and already cracking with guilt.
âIâwhat did I just do to you?â
Peterâs hands were careful now.
He eased out of you slowly, like he was afraid even that small movement might hurt. A soft, broken sound left him at the loss of heat, but he didnât linger on it. Instead he reached for the nearest blanketâone of the soft ones from the back of his couchâand wrapped it around both of you, tucking the edges in so your bare skin was shielded from the cool air. His arms slid under your thighs and back without asking. He lifted you like you weighed nothing.
âIâve got you,â he murmured against your hair. âJust hold on to me.â
He carried you out of his apartment and the few steps across the hall to yours. The door was still unlocked from earlier. Inside, the quiet of your place felt almost surreal after everything. Peter walked straight to your bedroom and lowered you onto the bed with a gentleness that made your throat tight. He pulled the covers up over your still-trembling body, then brushed a strand of hair away from your face with the backs of his fingers.
âIâm going to take care of a few things next door,â he said softly. âIâll be right back. I promise.â
You nodded, too wrung out to speak. The door clicked shut behind him.
For a little while you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, body heavy and aching in places that hadnât hurt an hour ago. The bruises on your hips already throbbed in time with your heartbeat. Between your legs you were sore and slick and still faintly pulsing with aftershocks. Your mind kept driftingâback to the way heâd looked at you when the black had first flooded his eyes, the mean, hungry things heâd said, the way heâd used your body like it belonged to him. And then the moment those eyes had cleared and pure horror had replaced the hunger.
You could hear him through the shared wall. The soft scrape of furniture being moved. Water running. The quiet, almost frantic sounds of someone trying to clean up evidence of something they couldnât quite believe had happened.
When the door to your apartment opened again, Peter stepped inside carrying a small bag and wearing only a pair of soft gray sweatpants. His chest and shoulders were still bare, sweat dripped down and cooled along his muscles. He set the bag down and came straight to the bed, kneeling beside it so his face was level with yours.
âHey,â he said quietly. âIâm going to run you a bath, okay? Youâre⌠youâre covered in me. And I want to make sure youâre not hurt anywhere I canât see.â
He didnât wait for an answer. He disappeared into your bathroom. The sound of water filling the tub was steady and soft. A few minutes later he returned, scooped you up againâblanket and allâand carried you into the steam-filled room.
The water was perfect, just on the edge of too warm. Peter eased you down into it first, then stepped out of his sweatpants and climbed in behind you. The tub wasnât really big enough for two, but he made it work, stretching his legs on either side of yours and gently pulling you back until your spine rested against his chest. His arms came around your waist, loose and careful, like he was still afraid of holding too tight.
For a long moment he didnât speak. He just reached for the washcloth, wet it, and began slowly cleaning the dried mess from your skinâyour thighs, your stomach, the places where his hands had left marks. Every touch was deliberate. Tender.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper against the side of your neck.
âIâm so sorry,â he said. âI lost control. Completely. And I hurt you. I can see the bruises already and I⌠I hate that I did that.â His forehead pressed to your shoulder. âBut Iâm here now. Iâve got you. Just let me take care of you for a little while, okay?â
The water stayed warm around you both. Peter kept the washcloth moving in slow, careful strokesâdown your arms, across your collarbones, along the tender insides of your thighs where the evidence of everything theyâd done still lingered. He never rushed. Every pass of the cloth felt like an apology and a promise at the same time.
When he finally set it aside, he reached for the shampoo instead. Gentle fingers worked it through your hair, massaging your scalp with a tenderness that made your eyes sting. He rinsed it just as carefully, cupping water in his palm so none of it ran into your face. Then his arms slid back around your waist and he simply held you, chest rising and falling against your spine.
âItâs been getting worse for weeks,â he said eventually, voice low against the side of your neck. âThe webs I canât control. The strength that comes out of nowhere. The way every sound and smell is suddenly too much. But the instincts⌠those are the scariest part. Thereâs this constant pull to claim things. To protect. To take. And itâs getting harder to tell where the spider ends and I begin.â
His thumb traced absent circles against your stomach under the water.
âIâve liked you for a long time,â he admitted, quieter now. âLonger than I probably shouldâve. Four years of living next door, not saying anything to you because franklyâ I'm an idiot. And this⌠whateverâs happening to me⌠it made all of that louder. Like the part of me that already wanted you suddenly had permission to stop being careful about it.â
You turned your head just enough to catch the edge of his profile. Steam curled around both of you.
âIâve liked you too,â you said softly. âFor a while now.â
Peter went still behind you. Then a shaky breath left him, warm against your damp skin. One hand lifted to brush a wet strand of hair behind your ear, the touch lingering.
âAre you scared of me?â he asked. The question was barely more than a whisper. âAfter everything I just did⌠after what I might keep becoming⌠are you scared?â
You shifted carefully in the water until you could look at him properly. His eyes were so clear againâfamiliar brown, open and uncertain and so painfully human. You reached up and rested your palm against his cheek.
âNo,â you said, and meant every word. âIâm not scared of you. Iâm here. For all of it. Whatever this turns into, Iâm not going anywhere. We'll figure this out together.â
Something in his expression cracked openârelief and wonder and leftover guilt all tangled together. He leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to your forehead, then another to your temple, before guiding you back against his chest. His arms settled around you again, secure without being tight.
The water lapped gently at your skin. The bathroom was quiet and warm and safe. Peterâs heartbeat was steady under your ear. You let your eyes drift closed, the last of the tension finally leaving your body as the heat and the solid presence of him pulled you under.
You started to doze off right there in the bath, wrapped in his arms, at peace.
pairing: peter parker x gf!reader
summary: you're determined to leave love bites all over peter's neck, but unfortunately for you, his accelerated healing has other plans. peter has a couple of suggestions to lift your spirits.
cw: attempts at giving hickeys, dry humping, kissing, allusions to sex, reader is kind of possessive but peter loves it
wc: 1k+
Peter sharply inhales, hands tightening on your hips as your teeth softly graze the soft skin of his neck. In the back of the room, Evie calls out âSenses are overridingâ, but you couldnât care less, gripping your boyfriendâs face in one hand and moving it away from you so more space on his neck becomes exposed to you. A pathetic noise leaves Peterâs mouth at the way you handle him, lips reconnecting with his neck to sharply begin sucking again.
A slick layer of sweat coats Peterâs skin for a few reasons. One, youâve been kissing him for a while now, and not long ago you got the brilliant idea to start leaving love bites on his skin. Two, your hips began moving against his own from where youâve perched yourself above him a little while ago, and heâs been putting a large effort into not rolling his growing erection into your core. And lastly, youâre growing frustrated, which frankly makes him a little nervous.
You pull back from Peterâs neck with a loud pop, wiping your saliva off his skin with your unoccupied hand, and the second you huff again, Peter swallows thickly. The hickeys youâve been trying to decorate him with just arenât settling. In the minutes they take to appear, they already begin healing, leaving his skin unmarked.
âItâs not fair.â You mumble, and Peter truly sympathises with you, taking in the soft pout on your lips as you let go of his face. âWhat does a girl have to do give her boyfriend a couple of hickeys?â Peter gives you a small smile despite himself, eyes fluttering shut when you lean in again to continue your assault on his neck. God, youâre like a vampire, he thinks, groaning quietly as you press your entire body harder against his, chest flat against his. The hand you had on his face now buries itself in his hair, and Peterâs lips part as you grind down onto his lap.
âHeart rate quickly accelerating.â The robotic voice announces again, and Peter feels heat instantly rush to his face as you hum against his skin, taking in Evieâs words. You move your lips closer to Peterâs jaw, right where his pulse point lies, and he whimpers when your lips stretch into a smile against his neck, feeling the heavy thump of his pulse fighting against his veins. You pucker your lips to kiss the spot, and Peterâs hands snake up from your hips to the curve of your waist, where his fingers can dig better into your plush fat.
You pull away from Peter, seemingly unbothered by the fact that none of his hickeys are appearing, too busy admiring the state youâve left your boyfriend in this time. Peter risks letting go of your waist with one hand, using it to cradle your cheek and pull you into a kiss instead. Your lips are wet with your saliva, and Peter moans against them, relaxing back into his pillows when you press your hands to his chest. Peter tries breaking the kiss, parting his lips to tell you something, but youâre quick to follow his lips, his open mouth letting you glide your tongue against his with practiced ease.
Peterâs hips twitch below you, bucking up into you in a way that makes the both of you let out a pleasured sigh. You break the kiss as Peter had tried doing mere moments ago, but now you ask him âPete, why wonât you let me leave hickeys on you?â
Your boyfriendâs face softens at your upset expression, and he tilts his head sympathetically, saying âTrust me baby, I want you to be able to mark me up as much as you do.â The words send a throb to your core, and you try squeezing your thighs together, blocked by Peterâs body between them, and he grins softly. âWhat if I leave a couple on you, mhm?â Peter asks, fingers brushing up against your neck. He doesnât wait for your response before bringing his lips there, his nose tickling your neck as it brushes against your skin, even as you reject his offer.
âBut I want people to know youâre taken.â You open your mouth to add to your sentence, but what comes out instead is a quiet moan as Peter creates suction on your skin, one of your hands gripping his shoulder harshly. âI have a solution for that.â Peter mumbles, separating from your neck and looking up at you. You lean forward a little, pressing your forehead against Peterâs as you hum inquisitively, and your boyfriend mimics the noise with a slight nod of his head. âAll it takes is to have you by my side any time I leave the house, and Iâm sure everyone in Manhattan will get the hint.â
You press a short kiss to Peterâs lips, and you pull away for him to find you with a smile on your face. âLike that idea?â He questions quietly, and you nod softly, playing with the hair that hangs in front of his face. He pecks your lips shortly before returning his attention to your neck, grazing his teeth against your skin before sucking harshly on the spot for a long moment. You gasp, arching your body into his, and Peter pulls away to observe his work.
Peter glances up to meet your eyes before his gaze is quickly dipping down to your neck, and he grins, adding âAnd this hickey on your neck may very well be a sign to everyone that we belong to each other.â
âAlready!?â You gasp, fingers coming up to graze the love bite Peter has so easily left on you. He nods, bringing an annoyed groan out of you, and you slump on his chest as you mumble in annoyance âThatâs so unfair, I wanted to leave my mark on you, but no, of course Mr. Spider-Manâs accelerated healing has to confiscate his girlfriendâs simple pleasures in life.â
Peter laughs loudly, securing an arm around your waist and carefully rolling you over on the bed so he can hover over you. âOkay Mrs. Spider-Man, since youâre so upset about the hickeys, we can see if something else like back scratches last any longer.â
And of course, itâs all worth it to see the way your eyes light up at his suggestion, even though you demand a couple more rounds when nothing appears on his back the first time around.
âď¸ warnings: pre-brand new day canon compliant, fluff, huge idiots in love, hurt/comfort, typical depictions of violence (fighting, blood, guns, injury), near death experience, angst, light banter, suggestive themes, abandonment issues, touch-starvation
âď¸ word count: 9.6k
âď¸ a/n: there are no major spoilers for bnd in this fic !! i've only mentioned/alluded to things that were already shown in the trailers, so you do not need to watch the movie to understand.
synopsis:
You have been Spidermanâs communicatorâhis eyes for crime and the voice on the other end of a staticky little radio that took him less than an hour to build. He doesnât know your name, or what you look like. And you donât know a single thing about him. Peter tells himself itâs better this way, that keeping you at armâs length is the only way he can keep you safe. But the longer he speaks to you, that promise slowly begins to fray.
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âAlright, Spiderman. Thereâs a bank robbery going on at 30th Avenue. Suspect isâuh, hello? Is this thing on?â
Peter laughs, already swinging through the tall buildings of New York City, zipping and flying through them faster than you can even say âSpiderman.â While one arm is busy slinging out webs from building to building, his other arm holds onto a thick communications radio that looks like an amateur concoction of a walkie-talkie accompanied with old thick wires he found in a junkyard.
âYep, I hear you loud and clear,â Peter says from his end. âIâm already a few blocks away. What does the suspect look likeââ
âSpiderman? Hellooo?â Your voice cuts him off in a burst of static that makes his ears ring. âUghâis this radio even working? Are you still there?â
He needs to make a mental note to figure out a way for your voice to come through clearerâand preferably not through a brick of what feels like a tenth-century sad excuse for a cellphone that he has to clutch every time he wants to talk to you.
âIâm here!â Peter shouts through the mic, swinging around a corner.
âAh! There you are!â you say, sounding like youâre smiling, if only Peter could picture what you looked like. âMissed your voice for a second.â
Peterâs face flushes under his mask.
âDetecting a sudden increase in body heatâspecifically around the facial regionâand a spike in heart rate despite no intense physical activity being performedââ
âShut up, Evie,â Peter mumbles, hoping you didnât hear him from the other end of the line.
He hadnât gotten around to fixing the background noise integration yet, so the shitty microphone attached to the radio picks up almost everything. He hears you laugh on the other end, and he has to force down the rapid thumping of his heart before Evie calls him out on it again.
âAre you blushing, Spiderman?â
âWhatâno!â Peter immediately interjects, landing on top of a tall building on 30th Avenue. His eyes scan the windows of the bank directly across the street. âJust tell me what the suspect looks like, alright?â
You chuckle again. âOkay, the suspect is tall, wearing dark clothing, and probably handsomeâif it werenât for the ski mask covering his face.â
Peter rolls his eyes underneath his goggles.
âNowâs not the time to play around,â he says, already swinging through the entrance as innocent bystanders and employees run out in a panic.
He swings above the crowd in a perfectly prone position mid-air until he lands on his feet in the center of the bank. He doesnât need your comms in hereâhe can handle whatever gets thrown at him at this point. His ears tingle with a warning that tells him the enemy is to his left. He turns his head to that direction, andâŚ
âSpiderman!â A tall man in dark clothing and a ski mask holds up a rifle, pointing it directly at Peter. âYouâre dead, kid!â
âOh, jeez,â Peter says, slowly raising his hands in surrender.
âOh, and I forgot to mention,â your voice statics through. âHeâs heavily armed.â
âYeah, good comms,â Peter scoffs sarcastically.
âWho the hell are you talking to?â the man shouts, pointing at the radio in Peter's hand. âIs that a bomb? Drop it!â
Peter furrows his brows, glancing at the object in his hand. A bomb? Seriously? The radio really looks that bad?
The manâs grip on the gun tightens, holding it in a way that lets Peter know he has clearly never held a gun before in his life. The panic among the people remaining in the building surges at the sight of the weapon, everyone shoving past each other toward the entrance.
âCome on, man. Donât shootâthere are innocent people in here!â he tries to interject.
âInnocent dead people soon, if you donât put that weapon away!â the man barks back.
âThe police are on their way,â you explain, serious this time, through the radio. âTake care of that gun now, or heâll start shooting like a madman once he sees the sirens. You have less than two minutes.â
âOkay,â Peter says. âTime me.â
âStarting now?â
âStarting now,â he confirms before switching off the radioâs microphone input.
The man takes the loud clicking sound as a threat, his finger hovering over the trigger with every intention to shootâbut Peter moves faster.
Extending his left hand, a thick layer of web covers the muzzle, trapping any potential bullet in the barrel. The poor man doesnât even have time to react before Peter webs the gun, yanked it out of his hands, and tosses it aside. Just as the man turns to make a run for it, Peter pins his ankles together with a thick strip of webbing, sending him face first onto the floor before securing his wrists behind his back with another band of webs.
From where he still stands in the center of the room, Peter unclicks the microphone. âYou got it, Static?â
He can practically feel you rolling your eyes at the stupid nickname. âThat was fifteen seconds. Good job,â you applaud. âAnd are you seriously still sticking with Static? I hate that nickname.â
Peter chuckles, scanning the area for any signs of injuries, but finds none. The police finally arrive, pulling up with sirens blaring as they assess the crowd and begin scouting the area with weapons drawn. Seeing the suspect already bound by webs on the floor, they immediately move in with handcuffs.
Knowing the police will take it from here, Peter zips out of the building as if the entire fightâif you would even call it thatâwas just a quick pit stop.
âWell, thatâs just what Iâm gonna have to keep calling you, because your voice always comes through staticky,â he says, the wind picking up through the microphone and making it harder for you to hear him. âUnless⌠you wanna give me your actual name. Then maybe I can call you that instead.â
You pause at the other end of the radio, the silence between you filled only by the harsh wind and the snap of spiderwebs on his end.
As Peter swings his way back to his apartment, his heart pounds wildly in his chest with anticipation.
This isnât the first time heâs teased you to get you to give up your name, and youâve asked for his name more times than he can count on his fingers.
âVery funny,â you muse from the other end, your voice drawing out with a teasing tilt. âI could say the same thing to you.â
Peter smiles, landing on his apartment rooftop with a huff. âI donât knowâI think I like the way Spiderman rolls off your tongue.â
For the very first time since you two found each other through a stroke of pure luckâwhen Peter spent a night building a radio to hijack police comms and accidentally connected to you, a woman doing the exact same thingâyou find yourself completely at a loss for words.
He doesnât even know where the sudden boost of confidence came from to blurt out a flirtatious comment like that. Maybe itâs the suit, or maybe itâs that flutter of excitement he gets every single time he talks to you.
But that confidence slowly teeters away the longer you stay quiet. He grimaces, feeling like he overshot his mark big time.
Finally, he hears a slow draw of breath from the other end.
âThatâs a shame,â you tease. âI wouldâve loved to hear the sound of my name in your voice.â
Peter sucks in a sharp breath, his body tensing as your words travel down his spine and straight to his heart. It was the way you said itâthat sultry little rasp that even the static couldnât mask. An awkward silence takes over the both of you, and for once, Peter is grateful for how poorly he configured this radio, since he can use it as an excuse for a faulty mic.
âDramatic increase in heart rate detected. Body heat has increased an additional two degrees, and your suitâspecifically around the groin regionâappears to be tighter. I am also detecting a heightened state of arousalââ
âEvie!â Peter barks suddenly. He hears your laugh come through the other end, and the sound definitely doesnât help his situation at all.
âGot you to blush twice today.â You taunt. âI think thatâs a record, Spidey.â
âI wasnât blushing,â Peter lies. âAnywayâenough of that. Are you seeing any other criminal activity in the area?â
You hum, and he hears a faint clicking noise on your end. âNothing,â you say. âBut whatâs the rush? Youâre given the opportunity to relax. You should take it, considering how hard youâve been pushing yourself.â
Peter hops onto the ledge of his building and starts idly pacing back and forth, smiling under his mask as he holds the radio close to his ear. âAw, you donât have to worry about me. I have Evie for that.â
You blow a raspberry, and Peterâs smile widens.
âYeahâwell, Evie is an artificial intelligence. She can only care so much. Plus, she canât make as many good jokes as I can.â
Peterâs tongue pokes the inside of his cheek as he kicks a tiny stray pebble off the ledge, watching it fall ten stories to the ground. âAre you getting jealous of my assistant now?â
A garbled noise leaves your lips, and he chuckles as you stammer over your own words.
âGodâyouâre so full of yourself, aren't you?â you huff. âIâm your partnerâso itâs only natural for me to look out for you.â
âWeâre partners?â
âHavenât we been this entire time?â
Peter pauses, glancing up at the sky, where the orange sun is starting to set behind several towers of buildings.
Partners. He hasnât had anyone he could call a partner since everything happenedâsince he made the whole world forget who he was. He hasnât had a real, caring partner since⌠them. Ned and MJ.
And now, after all that time spent in solitude, heâs finally found someone to call his partner again. Someone heâs never even seen, whose name he doesnât even know. All he knows about you is that youâre smartâsmart enough to build a radio and link up to his frequencyâand that you live in New York. He couldâve passed you on his way to buy groceries, or seen you on the subway. Hell, you might even live in his building. Maybe youâre even that girl he accidentally swapped laundry with the other night.
âSpiderman? You still there?â you ask, snapping him out of his daze.
Despite your usual spunky attitude, in that moment, you sound so⌠small. Like you donât want to hang up, even if there arenât any crimes to report.
âIâm here,â he breathes, his voice coming out softer than he expected. âIâm not going anywhere.â
You smile at that. He can hear it. âOkay. Good.â
The microphone picks up shuffling noises on your endâjudging by the sound, he pictures you rolling over in bed and getting comfortable.
âHow about we play a game?â you ask before the radio falls into silence again.
Peter raises a brow under his mask. âA game?â
âYeahâevery time you complete a successful mission, we trade a fun fact about each other.â
He hums, taking a seat on the ledge and letting his feet dangle over the edge. âOkay, sure. And since I just finished oneâdoes that mean the game starts now?â
You chuckle softly at his enthusiasm to play along. âSure. Want to go first?â
Peter cranes his neck back to look at the sky. Although neither of you has ever brought it up, he has a feeling youâre both on the exact same page when it comes to secrecy. Neither of you wants to give away too much and blow your identity, but you share just enough to keep things interesting.
And by letting him go first, it feels like youâre giving him the chance to set the tone.
âHm. Let me think.â He rubs his chin through his mask. âOkayâIâm ready. My favorite coffee is a hot Americano.â
You snort. âThe first fun fact you want to share is your coffee order?â
âHeyâcoffee can be fun!â Peter interjects. âNow tell me yours.â
A little laugh escapes you, and he can hear you shaking your head. âFine. I get an extra-hot almond milk latte, with one pump of sugar-free vanilla, one pump of regular hazelnut, and two scoops of vanilla bean powder.â
The white lenses of Peterâs goggles widen, and he lets out a brief, disbelieving laugh. âOhâso youâre pulling my leg because I started us off with a lame fun fact? Is that it?â
âWhat?â You giggle along. âIâm not! Thatâs my actual orderâespecially on chilly days. You should try it sometime.â
Peter imagines it: a girlâa pretty one, judging by your voice and personalityâordering that ridiculous concoction at a coffee shop while the barista rolls their eyes at how long it takes to recite. For some reason, the visual warms his chest.
âSure. And Iâd tell you to try a hot Americanoâbut based on the order you just gave me, I donât think youâd like it very much,â he jokes.
You chuckle. âNo, probably not.â
Silence fills the space again, and Peter kicks his legs over the edge of the ledge, trying to think of something to say before he loses you.
He clears his throat. âSo, uhââ
âCan I ask you something?â
You both talk over each other, and his face warms with embarrassment. âSorry. Go ahead.â
âOkay,â you continue. You let out a shaky breath, and he instinctively braces himself for whatever youâre about to ask. âIâve noticed that your receiver is always on. Do you forget to turn it off?â
Peter pauses, confused by the question. âNo. Itâs on twenty-four sevenâjust in case something happens, you know?â
You hum softly. âI get that. But I guess what Iâm trying to ask is⌠donât you have other things in your life to worry about, instead of fighting crime behind a mask?â
Peter stays quiet for a moment.
In truth, thereâs a bigger reason he keeps the radio on besides his duties as Spiderman. He could easily listen in on reported crimes just fine without your help, but he keeps it on twenty-four seven in the hopes of hearing your voice ring throughâjust in case you might⌠need him.
There have been several nights since meeting you where he tosses and turns in bed, reaching for the radio to see if your receiver is on. It usually isnât during consistent parts of the dayâmeaning youâre either at work or in class. Itâs usually off at night, but sometimes around three in the morning, heâll see your receiver light up and youâll call in, your voice completely wide awake, proving you can be a real night owl.
Ever since meeting you, it feels like he finally has a friend to talk to. The worst part of it all is that he doesnât even know your name. And he can never meet you, no matter how badly he wants to.
Peter finally found someone he cares aboutâand he isnât going to risk losing you.
âI⌠I guess I do,â Peter says, trying his best to tread carefully. âI always keep an earpiece in, just in case something happens. You can never be too careful.â
You hum again, and Peter knows that answer wasnât enough to buy it.
âAnd I guess I also keep it on⌠just in case you ever want to talk.â
Shit, Peter curses to himself. If his half-assed answer just now wasnât enough to make you switch off the line, this one definitely takes the cake. Youâre quiet on the other end, and each passing second makes him want to do you both a favor and turn it off himself.
âIn that case,â you speak softly, âIâll keep my receiver on in case you want to talk to me.â
His heart stutters in his chest, feeling as though all the air has been sucked straight out of his lungs.
Peter hasnât felt this way since high school. Heâs grinning ear to earâa smile so wide it hurts the muscles in his cheeks. He lets out a chuckle, a raspy, disbelieving sound at the realization that thereâs a chance you might feel the exact same way about him.
âDonât say that,â he says before he can stop himself, trying to inject some humor to cover up his flustered state. âYouâre gonna get annoyed with me.â
âWhoâs to say Iâm not already?â you joke back.
And for the first time in a long time, Peter feels like the happiest man on Earth.
He looks up at the sky, watching birds fly across the orange hues as he kicks his feet like a high schooler who just scored a date with the prettiest girl in class. His heart is racing so fast in his chest and he feels so giddy that heâs actually surprised Evie hasnât called him out on it yet.
He wants to make this lastâto say something, anything, to keep this moment from ending.
Suddenly, a series of sharp beeps emits from your end of the radio. It's a sound he knows all too well, a reminder that duty calls before anything else.
âOh, God,â you mutter quietly.
Every hair on Peterâs arms stands on end. He leaps to his feet, ready to launch himself toward whatever is happening. âWhat is it, Static?â
âThereâs an alarm triggered at Grand Central Terminal,â you explain. âNYPD comms just flagged itâthere are a bunch of hostages. It looks bad, Spiderman. Multiple armed men have barricaded the main concourse.â
Peter wastes no time, shooting a thick web line toward the nearest building and flinging himself into the sky. âHow many hostages are we talking?â
âAt least fifty. Commuters, staffâthey were trapped during rush hour,â you answer, the clack of your keyboard clattering over the staticky connection. âIâm tapping into the security feed right now. Theyâre holding guns, and⌠it looks like thereâs a heavy grade explosive right in the center, attached to the information booth.â
The wind roars through Peterâs mic as he accelerates through the air. âHow much time is on the clock?â
âIâm trying to zoom inâeight minutes,â you say. âTheyâve blocked all the major exits with deadbolts and wired the perimeter. It looks pretty half-assed, Spidey. If SWAT breaches the doors, or if even a piece of rubble hits that rig, the whole thing will blow.â
âAlright, no breaches,â Peter takes a mental note, his mind racing through entry points as the massive arched roof of Grand Central comes into view. âYouâre my eyes in there, Static. Find me an entry point that skips the doors.â
âThe skylight above the west balcony has an old grate,â you reply instantly. âIt leads directly into the ventilationsâhigh enough to keep you out of sight, but close enough to drop in.â
âGot it,â Peter replies, landing silently on the glass roof. He peers through the skylight, his eyes adjusting to the interior where dozens of terrified people are huddling on the floor, held at gunpoint by masked men with automatic rifles.
Right in the center, duct-taped to the information booth and blinking with a harsh red timer, sits the bomb.
âOkay, Iâm in position,â Peter breathes through the radio. âTime me?â
He hears a soft click on your end, signaling that your timer is already running.
âBe careful, Spiderman.â
He tucks the radio against his thigh, securing it with a thick band of web.
Peter moves exactly in the direction you tell him toâhe wedges his body into the dusty vents, moving with the practiced speed of an arachnid that takes him from point A to point B in the blink of an eye. He slowly lifts the grate, the poor thing held up by only a flimsy screw, and sets it down softly beside him to avoid any loud noises.
He lands gently right in the center of the terminalâbut his plans for discretion donât last when a hostage looks up and yells, âWeâre saved, everyone! Itâs Spiderman!â
Immediately, all the armed threats spin around, several barrels abandoning the hostages to point straight at the man in the red-and-blue suit.
âOh,â Peter smiles. âMaking my job a lot easier. Thanks.â
Before giving them the chance to shoot, Peter fires off thick strings of web into every single barrel, clogging up the firearms. With every weapon bound, he tangles the web lines together into one big knot and yanks them all out of their hands.
The guns crash into each other in a tangled mass of spiderwebs and steel. With the firearms rendered completely useless, he tosses the mess aside to focus on the menâwho are now charging at him with combat knives and sidearms.
Peter quickly makes short work of the pistols, disarming the men with his webs before a stray bullet can even graze the bomb. One by one, he takes them down, firing webs with every intention of keeping them bound and completely immovable.
When Peter gets down to the last guy, slinging a thick web to pin him flat against the wall, your voice rings out from where the radio sits tucked against his thigh.
âSWAT is moving inâmind the doors and tripwires!â
âShit,â Peter curses, whipping his head toward the exitsâbut itâs already too late.
The SWAT team breaches fast, shouting and gesturing for the hostages to run. Panic surges through the crowd, and every frantic step from the civilians echoes like thunder in Peterâs ears. One misstep, even one piece of falling debris, could set this entire place off. Peter snaps his head back to the bomb. Four minutes remain on the digital clock, but suddenly the numbers freezeâand a sharp high pitched frequency fills the room.
Itâs quiet to everyone else, but to Peter's heightened senses, it might as well be an air siren.
âWait!â Peter shouts, turning to vault himself away before the bomb sets off.
But itâs too late.
âSpiderman! Get out of there!â you cry out through the radioâright before a brilliant flash of red and white blinds the entire building.
Pressure and heat slam right into Peterâs chest, throwing him backward through the air and showering him in flying stone like a ragdoll. Glass shatters overhead, raining down thousands of sparkling fragments as the information booth detonates into a massive cloud of fire and smoke.
Peter crashes hard against the far wall, the impact knocking every last drop of air from his lungs. He coughs up blood, staining the inside of his mask, before sliding down a broken slab of marble. He wheezes violently as dense gray smoke fills the room. His ears ring loudly, drowning out the shouting SWAT officers, the screaming crowd, and the creaking support beams above.
Evieâs voice sings in his ear like a taunt.
âDetecting bone fractures near the lower hip. Internal bleeding. Labored breathingââ
Then, your voice comes cutting through the static.
âSpiderman! Answer me!â Your voice cuts in and out, and despite being crushed under rubble with smoke filling his lungs, he reaches for the radio at his thigh.
He lifts it with a trembling hand, and his heart stops. Itâs broken, snapped open with electricity sparking near the wires.
âPleaseâare you there? Spiderman! Check in!â
âTime, Static,â he manages to croak out.
Even through the static, the sheer panic in your voice is unmistakable. âThe ambulances are on their way. Just hold on for a little longerââ
âWhatâs the time, Static?â he repeats with a wet cough.
You suck in a sharp breath. âFour minutes and twenty-three seconds. Now save your breath and stop talking!â
âPeter,â he croaks, coughing up more blood.
âW-what?â you stammer through tears. The sound makes his chest hurt more than the slab of concrete resting heavy on his ribs. âYouâre breaking out.â
âOur little gameâremember? Every successful mission, we exchange a fun fact,â he wheezes, fighting for air. âMy name is Peter Parker.â
A broken, sobbing gasp escapes you. He glances down at the radio, watching the little light that indicates his microphone is working flicker in and out.
âStatic? Are you still there?â
âI canât hear you, Spiderman.â
The blue glow of your television screen is the only source of light in your dim apartment. Outside your window, New York City keeps moving, but inside, time feels like it has been frozen for seven agonizing days.
On the screen, a news anchor stands outside Queens Hospital Center, her face grave under the studio-lit broadcast.
ââŚwe return to our top story tonight regarding Spiderman,â the reporterâs voice echoes through your quiet room. âIt has been one week since the explosive incident at Grand Central Terminal that left the vigilante in critical condition. Authorities and medical staff at Queens Hospital Center have kept tight-lipped about his recovery.â
You pull your knees tighter into your chest, your fingers trembling as they wrap around a lukewarm mug of tea you havenât touched.
âIn a shocking turn of events earlier this morning, hospital administrators confirmed that Spiderman is no longer in their care,â the reporter continues. âAccording to sources, when attending nurses entered his private room to adjust his IVs and monitor his severe injuries, they found the hospital bed empty. There is no security footage explaining how or when the injured hero managed to slip past guards, leaving NYPD officials baffledâand deeply concerned given the extent of his internal trauma.â
Your eyes widen, and you press a hand over your mouth as a shaky exhale spills past your lips.
He woke up.
He survived.
You keep watching, waiting to see if the reporter will expose his identity. A part of you is already annoyed that these attention-hungry journalists would stoop so low now that heâs been admitted to a hospital. But another part of you desperately wants to knowâbecause you felt like that mightâve been what he was trying to tell you over the radio right before the line cut out.
A heavy breath escapes you when the reporter doesnât mention a name, and the broadcast switches to a story about local stray animals. Youâre not even sure if the sigh you let out is one of relief or frustration.
You glance over at the radio resting on the couch beside you.
Your receiver light blinks greenâit has been on this entire time.
For the past seven days, youâve been sleeping with the radio clutched in your hands in hopes that youâll hear his voice one more time. Even as you walk through the hallways of your university, moving from lecture to lecture, you keep an earpiece tucked in your ear so you wonât miss him if he calls.
A few more days pass, and youâre sitting at your desk with heavy eyes. A lamp at the corner of your desk emits a warm glow over the pages of your notebook. You feel like youâve been awake for days, running on far too little sleep and not nearly enough caffeine to keep you going.
Your head rests heavily in your palm. A quick glance at the clock tells you itâs 3:41 in the morning.
With a tired sigh, you start to push your chair backâbut the sudden sound of familiar static stops you in your tracks.
A sound that is usually so grating to your ears suddenly sounds like heaven.
You quickly scramble back to your desk, your hand swiping up the radio and lifting it to your ear.
âHello?â you say, your heart racing. âHello? Is someone there?â
The static cuts out for a second, and you pull the radio back to check the lights. Both indicator lights are glowing green, showing that youâand whoever is on the other lineâare connected. The static crackles through again, and you press the receiver tight against your ear, holding your breath as you wait for them to speak first.
ââatic?â
That voiceâso familiar, so gentleârings out. You feel your heart leap straight into your throat. Youâve been waiting for days to hear him again, but you aren't prepared for what to say now that he's actually here.
âStaâtâic,â Peterâs voice cuts in and out before suddenly coming through crystal clearâclearer than the very first time you ever connected with him. âThis is Spiderman. Are you there?â
Your heart swells with a profound wave of relief. Tears prick at your eyes, spilling down your cheeks before you can even stop them.
âOh my God,â you breathe, your hand trembling as you press the radio against your forehead. âYouâre okay. Youâre here. Thank God. IâI thought I lost you. I was keeping up with the news, and when they said you fled the hospitalâI hoped you were okay. Iâve been waiting for your call all week. Iââ
âHey, hey,â Peter coos softly on the other end. âItâs okay. Iâm here. Iâve been here the whole time. Iâm not going anywhere.â
You hear him rustling around on the other line, the soft friction of sheets sounding like heâs lying in bed. The thought of him resting comfortably in his own room rather than trapped in a sterile hospital bed makes your heart melt.
âWhere have you been?â you ask, your voice cracking as you wipe a stray tear from your cheek. âWhy didnât you call sooner?â
âI know, I know⌠Iâm sorry,â Peter says softly, his breath catching in a faint, painful wince that he tries to cover up with a dry laugh. âMy suit was pretty much trashed, and the radio got crushed in the blast. It took everything in me just to crawl over to my workbench, and a few more days to rebuild the transmitter from scratch.â
A shaky breath leaves his lips. âWith the radio broken, I was terrified I wouldnât be able to find you again. I spent all this time rebuilding itâI even fixed the signal integration so both our voices would come through clearer.â
You let out a wet, teary laugh. âSo thatâs why you sound like that.â
You can picture him grinning on the other end. âA lot better, huh?â
That familiar, teasing tilt in his voice sends a wave of butterflies straight to your stomach. A soft laugh escapes you, and he chuckles in return. Then, as if savoring the sound of your joy, he breathes out softly.
âI missed hearing your voice.â
Your feet carry you over to the comfort of your mattress, and before you even realize it, youâre collapsing onto your bed, kicking your feet like a giddy, hopeless romantic.
âI missed hearing you, too. Youâd better not let that happen again. If I can barely handle losing you for a week, I definitely canât bear losing you forever,â you say, trying to pass it off as a joke, but the tremble in your voice betrays you.
Peterâs grin widens where he lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. âIâll make sure to be extra careful from here on out, just so you donât lose me.â
You smile into your pillow. âGood.â
A comfortable silence settles between you twoânot the awkward kind from when you first met, but a warm one, wrapping around you both like a blanket despite the distance. You set the radio down on the empty space beside your pillow, and he does the same. With the microphone improvements, you can hear his steady breathing on your end, and he can hear yours.
âWere you able to hear anything I said... the last time we spoke?â Peter asks softly.
You shake your head, the friction against your pillow rustling over the mic. âYou were cutting out too much.â
He pauses, the soft sound of sheets shifting as he pulls his blanket up over his shoulders.
âIt was about our gameâthe fun facts one,â he says, his voice careful, like heâs walking on eggshells.
You couldnât catch much before the line broke down completely. Pet... That was all you had managed to hear. But a deep feeling in your gut tells you that whatever he said was a precious piece of himselfâa piece he wanted you to have in case he didnât make it.
You hold your breath, waiting to see if heâll offer it up again.
âAnd since I completed a successful mission,â he continues, swallowing hard. âI thought Iâd continue with that trade.â
You brace yourself, your heart clawing in your chest as you wait for the confessionâfor him to finally drop his guard and lay his identity on the line, just like you plan to do with yours.
Peter draws a slow, quiet breath.
âDo you⌠have a boyfriend?â
You blink.
The silence stretches for a long second, the sudden change in direction catching you so off guard that your mind does a hard reset. Of all the things you expected him to sayâa big secret, a superhero revelation, a tender confession about his lifeâthat was not on your bingo card.
âWhat?â you squeeze out, your voice squeaking slightly.
Over the line, Peter clears his throat awkwardly, a sudden rustle of sheets betraying how fast he just sat up to bury his face in his hands.
âO-or girlfriend! SorryâI shouldnât have assumed! I mean, you donât have to answer! Itâs justâitâs a fun fact! A personal fact! Thatâs how the game works, right? You tell me something, I tell you something⌠orââ
A helpless, snickering laugh bubbles up from your chest, breaking off his ramble.
âSpiderman,â you giggle, burying your blushing face deeper into your mattress.
âYeah?â he yelps, sounding like a man standing on trial.
âNo,â you answer, a wide grin spreading across your face. âNo boyfriend. No girlfriend.â
A long, almost dramatic exhale breezes through the speaker, followed by the soft thud of Peter flopping back down onto his mattress.
âOh, thank God,â he mutters, trying to keep it quiet enough so the microphone doesnât catch itâbut you hear it anyway. âI mean⌠cool. Thatâs cool.â
You snort. âOkay. You know how the game goes. Now itâs my turn to ask.â
âDo I have a girlfriend?â he prompts.
You shrug, taking the opportunity to tease him. âOr boyfriend. I donât judge.â
A playful scoff leaves his lips, and you can already imagine him rolling his eyes. Heâs quiet for a few seconds, making you think heâs just too flustered to answer. But when his voice comes through shaky, almost hesitant, you feel an unfamiliar tug at your heart.
âIâum⌠I used to have this girl,â he murmurs. âWe were dating for a whileâbut it didnât work out.â
The tone of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. He speaks like a man whoâs been broken again and again, carrying a profound heartache you couldnât even begin to measure. A small, selfish twinge of jealousy tugs at you, but you know itâs not your place.
âWhat happened?â The words spill out before you can stop them.
Peter sucks in a sharp breath, and you wince with regret for pushing too far.
âWell, thatâs something youâre gonna have to ask the next time I complete a successful mission,â he says, trying to ease the tension with a playful tone, and youâre more than happy to fall right back into it.
You roll onto your back, looking up at your bedroom ceiling. Across the city, Peter does the exact same thing.
âDeal. But letâs not jump back into all that too soon, okay? Whatever crime happens out there, let the police handle it,â you say, pulling your blanket up to your chin. âI just want to keep you all to myself tonight.â
You want to slap yourself for how ridiculous you sound. He just opened up about a painful past relationship, and you immediately turn around and sound like a clingy girlfriend.
But Peter laughsâa full, rich sound that doesn't sound at all like he just survived a traumatic experience a week ago. Itâs a laugh that never fails to make you smile.
âUsually, Iâd oppose the idea of ignoring crime,â he says softly. âBut for you? Iâll stay. For as long as you want me to.â
You smile, nuzzling your nose into the soft fabric of your blanket. âGood. Goodnight, Spiderman.â
âGoodnight, Static.â
And for the remainder of the night, neither of you switches the radio off, letting the quiet and comforting sound of each otherâs breathing lull you to sleep.
Itâs a brand new day, and Peter is running around New York getting his errands done. Laundry run, check. Grocery run, check. The last thing on his list is to pick up some flowers for Aunt May.
Right next to the small bodega where he always buys his flowers sits a busy coffee shop.
The front window is large enough to see everything and everyone insideâwhich is exactly why he has to do a double take at the person standing near the cashier.
He stops dead in his tracks, causing a hurried pedestrian to bump into his shoulder.
âSorry,â Peter mumbles, but the man just shoots him a dirty look and keeps walking.
Standing inside the coffee shop is a face thatâs all too familiarâsomeone he hasnât seen in a long, long time.
Ned.
Peterâs feet are moving before he even realizes it. He hovers near the entrance, stepping aside for a few exiting customers before pushing the door open. Slipping into an empty seat near the front, he watches Ned chat with the barista. But Ned isnât alone.
Heâs standing next to a girlâa pretty girl, at that. And one he doesnât recognize.
Peter smiles to himself, a swell of pride washing over him seeing his best friend doing well, and scoring a pretty girlfriend to date.
âAnd for the missus?â The barista holds up a paper cup, pen hovering over the cardboard as she waits.
You glance up at the menu board, though you donât really need to. You know your order like the back of your hand.
âCan I get an extra-hot almond milk latte with one pump of sugar-free vanillaââ
Peterâs heart stops.
ââone pump of regular hazelnutâŚâ
That voice. That familiar, sing-song cadence he hears every night through a staticky radio. The last voice he listened to when he nearly died just a few weeks ago.
âAnd two scoops of vanilla bean powder,â Peter mumbles to himself like a mantra.
ââŚand two scoops of vanilla bean powder?â you finish, flashing the barista a harmless, innocent smile.
The barista gives you a disbelieving look, and you chuckle awkwardly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The movement gives Peter a clear view of a small earpiece nestled right inside. Everything playing out before his eyes matches the picture heâd built in his headâexcept for you. You being this stunning was far beyond anything he could have imagined.
The barista finally finishes jotting your order down, and you and Ned turn to search for an open table. Peter holds his breath, watching your easy smile and the natural way you interact with his once best friend.
The pang in his chest is a feeling he wouldnât wish on his worst enemy. Two people he cares about more than anything... so close, yet entirely out of reach.
His heightened spider-sense gives him the ability to hear almost anything, even from across the room. Yet right now, the ringing in his ears and the heavy thumping of his heart drown out every other sound. You and Ned approach an empty table with only a single chair, but you glance around and spot the unused chair across from Peter.
âHey,â you smile politelyâa soft, courteous tone reserved strictly for strangers, not your partner in crime. âAre you using this chair?â
This is it.
Finally, for the first time, he can introduce himself to you properly. He could bring both you and Ned back into his life with a single, simple greeting.
Hi, Iâm Peter. Peter Parker. The guy youâve been talking to over a flimsy radio these past few months.
Peter looks up at you, completely frozen where he sits. Your smile fades into a faint frown when he hesitates. Then, your eyes flicker briefly to the earpiece resting in his earâidentical to yours, worn for the exact same reason.
Just in case either of you calls in.
Before he loses you, Peter clears his throat. His hand subtly moves up to scratch his ear, hiding the earpiece with his knuckles before slipping it into his palm. When he finally speaks, he deliberately drops his voice a few pitches deeperâadding a slight rasp for good measure.
âNo, go ahead.â
That polite smile returns, and you pull the chair away from his table. âCool, thanks.â
You slide the chair up to the table youâre sharing with Ned, and just like thatâunaware that youâve completely flipped his world upside down and inside outâyou fall right back into conversation with him.
The barista calls out your order with your name, and the sound of it is like music to his ears.
He repeats it quietly under his breath. It sounds natural, like a name that was always meant to be spoken in his voice.
Peter squeezes his eyes shut. He canât reveal his identity to you. Telling you his real name that nightâwhen he was trapped under rubble and bleeding outâwas just a lapse in judgment brought on by desperation. But now that heâs here, looking at you and his best friend in broad daylight, he knows he canât risk letting you into his world.
Anyone who knows Peter Parker is Spiderman is a person bound to be lost. And Peter canât afford to lose you.
Yet as he watches you sit across from him, tossing your head back with a laugh that is painfully familiar, it feels like heâs already lost you anyway.
âSo, tell me more about this party.â
âWell, itâs a housewarming party,â you explain, tucking your hands into your pockets as you walk through the night streets of Queens. âTwo of my friends moved into an apartment recentlyâso weâre celebrating tonight.â
Peter hums, leaning back in his chair and staring mindlessly at his screens. He folds a piece of paper, fiddling with it as his mind wanders to who those friends could be. Ned? And if so, he wonders who else he could be moving in withâif not him.
âThatâs⌠cool,â he finally answers in an indifferent tone.
You round the corner, the sounds of the bustling city nightlife picking up on your microphone. âYeah. And since Iâll be busy socializing, I wonât have my receiver on all night. But Iâll try my best to check in with you.â
Peter huffs a laugh through his nose. âIâm a big boy. You donât need to check up on me.â He glances at the window. âIâm more worried about you, though.â
You step aside for a pedestrian whoâs rushing past. âWhat for?â
Peter pushes himself out of his chair with a grunt, stepping up to the small window and looking down at the city street below. âWell, youâre a woman walking all by yourself at night. I hope your friends at least know where youâre at.â
You chuckle, pulling open the door of the small corner grocery store and being welcomed by a soft bell jingle.
âDonât worry your head, Spiderman. If I constantly worry about my well-being just because Iâm a woman, then Iâll never get anything done in this city.â
Youâre greeted by a frail, older lady behind the counter, and you offer her a polite smile as you walk past. Making your way to the coolers in the back, you weigh your options between beer and seltzers.
âDo you think two cases of Budweiser is enough?â You ask Peter.
The bell chimes again, and a large man with a dark hoodie pulled over his face enters. You glance at him, and he holds your stare. You look back down.
Peterâs cackle draws you back in. âAnd youâre drinking?â
You canât help but grin at the worry in his voice. Grabbing two casesâone in each handâand shutting the refrigerator door, you head to the front counter. âYes, because Iâm an adult and should be enjoying myself. And you should be, too, Spiderman. Itâs Friday night.â
A bitter smile dances on his lips. He should be enjoying himselfâa night out with you, instead of being cooped up in his apartment, worrying about you getting wasted at a house party surrounded by men your age with grimy hands and bad intentions.
You set the cases on the counter, and the lady begins to ring you up. The man in the dark hoodie falls in line right behind you, holding just a pack of gum in his hand.
âOkay, I gotta head out. Iâll check in with you later tonightââ
The lady at the front counter has her attention locked on the man behind you, and she sharply gasps, ducking down immediately. Your head whips around, and you find yourself face to face with the black metal of a handgun.
âYou know Spiderman?â the man before you asks in a deep gravelly voice, finger poised right above the trigger.
A pathetic, broken sound escapes you. You still have Peter on the line, and you hear the sudden panic in his voice the minute your microphone picks up your heavy breathing and whimper.
âStatic? Who is that? Whatâs happening?â
âYou must be mistaken,â you raise your hands in surrender, shoulders timid, as a bead of sweat rolls down your temple. âIâI donât know Spidermanââ
âBullshit!â the man shouts, backhanding you with the grip of the gun.
You cry out in pain, your body collapsing hard onto the floor as your hand flies to your cheek. Your earpiece falls out, Peterâs voice ringing out loudly in sheer panic. The man huffs an incredulous laugh as he crouches down to pick it up and lift it to his ear.
âTell me your locationâwhere are you? Iâm comingâ!â
â103rd Street,â the man answers with a grin. âThatâs where your little lady is atâon the floor, bleeding outta her lip.â
The wind whips loudly through the earpiece, audible even from where youâre prone on the ground.
âDonât lay a fucking hand on her,â Peterâs voice crackles through the wind and speaker. âWhat do you want from me?â
The man only chuckles, turning the small earpiece in his fingers, unfazed by the threat of a friendly neighborhood superhero.
âThatâs the thing with people like you who try to play hero,â the man says, his tone dripping with bitter resentment. âYou stop guys like us, but what you fail to realize is that we arenât the bad guys at all, Spiderman. While you sit in your fancy little apartment, the rest of us are out here fighting for scraps just to surviveâand itâs people like you who keep stopping us.â
He looks down at you, lying on the cold floor with a trembling hand pressed against your bleeding lip.
âWeâre just trying to eat,â the man spits into the receiver. âSo if a guy like me has to take a little collateral to get your attention, or to get a quick paydayâthatâs not evil. Thatâs just survival. Thereâs a lot of money on your head, Spiderman. Money that can help an average person like me tremendously.â
The sharp thwip of a web fires through the speaker, followed by the harsh gust of the open night sky.
If it were anyone else being held hostage, maybe Peter would extend the courtesy of hearing him out. But heâs not holding just any person. Heâs holding youâthe only person Peter has opened his heart to in years. The only voice he looks forward to, the one that gives him hope to push through to a brand-new day. Right now, there isnât a single shred of restraint left in Peterâs mindânot when your life is on the line because of him.
âI donât give a shit about your excuse,â Peter spits, whipping around a sharp corner as he flies onto 103rd Street. âIf you hurt her again before I get there, I swear to Godââ
âItâs too late, Spiderman.â
From high above, Peter spots the grocery store below. The white lenses of his mask widen as he peers through the large front windows, catching sight of you scrambling backward in fear, hands raised in surrender.
The man above you stands straight and lifts the gun. Peterâs eyes lock onto the finger resting against the trigger. With one launch off the side of a building, he catapults himself straight through the glass windows.
The explosion of glass shatters in time with the gunshot. As the bullet travels through the barrel of the gun, Peter collides into the man, sending him flying sideways and the gun tilting upwards. The bullet hits the ceiling, the fluorescent lights exploding with electricity as the roof panel falls. You quickly scramble away so it doesnât hit you.
Peter sends the man flying from one window to another, rolling around on the pavement outside until he lands on top. There is no amount of webs he can use to convey his angerâso he settles with his fists.
One punch after another, one hit after brutal hit. Blood flies out of the manâs face, tainting Peterâs suit with red. It splatters across his knuckles, and he delivers a hit so violent that it sprays right over the white lenses of his mask.
âSpiderman, stop!â
You shout, but the ringing in his ears is louder.
Tears prick at his eyes behind the mask as he continues raining down punches. The man lost consciousness long ago, but Peter isnât done. He canât rest knowing anyone who threatens to hurt you is free to walk these streets.
He canât rest until he knows, for certain, that youâre safe from danger.
He cocks his fist back one last time, with every intention of putting this guy down for goodâuntil your body crashes into his, your arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders. His arm freezes mid-air, suddenly weighing a ton.
âStop! Itâs overâitâs done,â you try to reassure him but your voice comes in a panicked and rushed tone. Sirens sound in the distance. âThe police are coming.â
Peter looks around, his chest heaving.
Several bystanders have stopped to stare, hands covering their mouths after witnessing such a brutal act by a man who was supposed to be a savior to all.
He curses under his breath, one arm wrapping tightly around your body.
âHold on,â he says, before slinging a web to the highest point of the building next to you and launching you both into the night sky.
You bury your face in his chest, legs wrapped tightly around his waist as you hold on to him for dear life. Youâre too terrified to look down. So instead, you glance up at the man holding youâthe very man youâve dedicated your life to assisting these past few months.
He doesnât look like the friendly Spiderman you see on television or in the newspapers.
Blood lays over his mask like a veil, and you can feel his heart racing against yours from how tightly youâre holding him.
He doesnât say a word until he finds a discreet alleyway. Then, finally, he sets you down gently.
Your eyes donât leave his face even as you release your grip on him. You stand in front of him, eyes wide and lips parted as you stare at the man youâve been dying to meet for what feels like years. But while this is your first time seeing him, it isnât his first time seeing you.
There are so many things you wanted to say, but none of them come out. You never expected your first meeting to be like thisâunder circumstances where he tarnishes his reputation and your face bloodied and bruised.
âIâŚâ your voice wavers, desperate to say anything, terrified he might swing away at any second.
Peter swipes his bloodied hand against his thigh to clean it before stepping forward, gently cupping your face in both hands. The lenses of his mask are so expressive, shifting with every furrow of his brow. Even behind it, his expression is wrecked.
âLook at what he did to you,â his voice cracks, sounding so broken, like itâs all his fault.
You huff a soft laugh, resting your palm over his knuckles as you lean into his touch. âIf Iâd known I was going to see you tonight, I probably wouldâve worn more makeup.â
You try to joke, but he doesnât laugh. His thumb gently brushes over the torn skin at your cheekbone, then down to your busted lip.
âI canât believe youâre right here,â he breathes. âAnd Iâm holding you.â
Peter should get your injuries fixed up, take you somewhere safe, or even take you home, but doing that means heâll have to say goodbyeâand he doesnât know when heâll give himself the chance to be this selfish again.
For the first time in years, it feels like heâs found salvation. After everything, he tries to convince himself he deserves thisâeven if it's just for a few minutes.
âYou know what I look like,â you smile painfully. âYet, I still donât know a single thing about you.â
Peter bites the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking down. âIâm sorry.â
You step closer, your hands slowly finding the hem of his mask resting around his neck. With trembling fingers, you slowly lift it upâgiving him every opportunity to pull away if he wants toâholding your breath as you raise it over his nose. Brown curly hair decorates the nape of his neck.
As you try to tug it up higher, his hands find your wrists, gently stopping you. âI canât.â
With a quiet nod, your hands fall back down to his cheeks, cupping them softly. Your thumb traces the curve of his cheekbone, his jawline, and the plump of his bottom lip.
The press of your thumb against his lower lip makes his breath hitch. He closes his eyes, leaning into your touchâthe first grace of warmth heâs felt in forever.
His white lenses open again, and his gaze drops to your lipsâbruised, bleeding, and parting softly. The tension between you two suffocates him, and without waiting another impatient second, Peter tilts his head down and kisses you.
His lips press against yours, gentle and soft. And when you return the kiss, he feels like heâs in heaven. He takes his time with you, his lips exploring yours and savoring the quiet sweetness of the moment. Your hands are warm against his cheeks, and his hand finds your waist, respectfully holding you close as his heart beats as one with yours.
You kiss until you both run out of breath, finally pulling away to rest your foreheads against each other.
Peter shuts his eyes, breathing in your scent. âI wanted to do that from the moment I first laid eyes on you.â
âI am detecting a sudden increase in heart-rate and body warmthââ
âShut up, Evie.â
You chuckle, your teeth catching your bottom lip while heart beats wildly in your chest.
âA successful mission,â you smile up at him. âYou know what that means.â
He chuckles at that, the sound sending butterflies to your stomach now that youâre hearing it up close for the first time.
âYouâre right. You go first.â He prompts.
You tell him your name, but he doesnât react the way you thought he would after hearing it for the first time. He smilesâalmost boyish, with kiss-swollen lips. It feels as though heâs known your name all along.
Peter repeats it softly. âItâs beautiful,â he says.
Warmth fills you from head to toe. You were right. You loved hearing the sound of your name in his voice.
You tilt your head, leaning in until your nose grazes against his. âWhatâs yoursââ
Frantic footsteps echo just outside the alleyway.
Peterâs senses tingle and reverberate through his entire frame. Everything in his body is screaming at him to do one thing: run.
Two people turn the corner, and he freezes at the sight.
âOh my god, there you are!â Ned shouts frantically, catching his breath. âWe were wondering why you werenât answering our callsâthen someone at the party said there was an accident happening on 103rd Streetâwhich is where you were goingâand wait, is that Spiderman?â
Standing right behind him is MJ.
âYou scared us!â she yelps, running to you with a hug. You turn around with a weary smile and a relieved sigh.
âIâm okay, you guys shouldnât have left to come find me. It was dangerous back there, and yes,â you motion behind you, âthis isââ
Peter doesnât even let you finish. He pulls his mask down and, without another word, zips up and out, moving through the dark like a ghost in the night. All the warmth vanishes like the gust of wind he leaves behind as he disappears into the air.
âGod,â Ned breathes, the three of you standing dumbfounded in the alleyway as you watch him disappear around the corner. âSee! Itâs like I told you, MJ! Heâs like Peter Panâif you really believe in him, heâll show up!â
âOkayâyou know, your fanboying really freaks me out,â MJ says, making a face. She looks back at you. âAnyway, Iâm glad youâre okayââ
A shudder passes through your body.
My name is Peter Parker.
âPeter,â you whisper with a sudden realization.
đ first time writing for peter parker kinda nervous !! "all these things that i've done" by the killers was on repeat while writing this. for the first time in a while, i've had a lot of fun and passion writing a marvel fic again, and i hope you can feel it when you read this fic.
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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Summary â When it comes time for you to finally admit your feelings for Peter, you meet a version of him you've never seen before.
Requested: yes
Peter Parker x Reader / ⣠SMUT / 3.6k â˘
Warnings: BND peter, no spoilers that aren't in the trailer, light angst if you squint, virgin!peter (is this canon...?), peter is SENSITIVE, some yearning, grinding, dry humping (everyone cheered), dirty talk, peter is losing control, p in v, dacryphilia, nipple sucking, peter cums A LOT, creampie, slight praise, he whines and whimpers a bunch, he overstimulates himself, kinda sub space, I think that's it?
Lily's note â 𪡠well this is clearly not my niche but i got that request and needy peter? you don't have to ask me twice. IF YOU ENJOY PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT LETTING ME KNOW :D
It had taken you a while to break through to Peter. But ever since you bumped into him that first day of moving into your new apartment, there was something about his eyesâsomething that eerily reflected the pain you'd felt through the past yearsâthat made you want to know him.
He was extremely hesitant at first, understandably so given what you knew now about the whole spiderman and everyone forgetting him thing, but after getting to know you and hearing about the barrage of troubles the universe had thrusted your way, he figured if there was anyone he could trust, it was you.
A year later, not much had changed in your lives. You were still two struggling adults in your twenties just trying to get by on the day-to-day, except now, at least you had each other to cope. At least you were able to find some reprieve and light, though the pain from your lives remained a low hum in the background.Â
You weren't exactly sure when it began happeningâmaybe a few months inâbut you noticed it randomly one day. Your heart started beating faster around him. Then, he began taking up extra space in your mind until eventually, the thoughts became too loud to ignore.
You chalked the feelings up to all the trauma bonding and hours youâd spent together trying to shut out and disappear from the real world. You tried to ignore the rush of joy you felt when he laughed, or the dizziness of your head whenever you caught a glimpse of him changing out of his suit, until you were drowning in a pool of affection that you weren't sure you could surface from.Â
Thereâd been a few times the confession almost slipped from your tongue. The intimate nights sitting out on the fire escape with food and the sound of the city in the distance, or the times where he sat a little too close to you on the couch during movie nights.
But then heâd sigh, his gaze going foggy as he zoned out on some far off point, murmuring, âMJ would have hated this movie,â or âNed used to love this burger place.â
And just like that the words would die on your tongue. How could you ever compete with the monument of love he carried for his past relationships? No, it was easier to suppress the feelings and toss them atop the mountain of other struggles you carried. Youâd learn to manage with the extra weight simple because the alternativeâa life absent of his presenceâwasnât something you could fathom.
Then things started changing.
First, he was suddenly busy on your sacred days off, days you would always spend together exploring new restaurants and coffee shops around the city. Then, he started turning you away on his patrol nights, nights where youâd kept him company and even helped patch up the nastier cuts he couldn't reach. Excuse after excuse came and the fear that heâd figured out your feelings twisted your gut with nerves.
It didn't take long for you to come to the conclusion that he was building a wall to preserve the sanctity of his memory with MJ. There could be no other reason for the sudden distance. You tried convincing yourself it was for the best. The perfect solution to help you cope with losing him, because if it wasnât now, it would be later.
You lasted exactly three days. Three days of radio silence was what it took for you to realize that no, you couldnât do this. You couldnât stay away from him. Maybe it was the return to a forgotten loneliness, a deep, screaming void, that had you knocking on his door frantically that night, your fist nearly pounding through the paint-chipped wood.
The door cracked open an inch and before he could get the opportunity to reject you, you pushed your way through, bursting into his apartment with a temper heâd never seen.
âHey, stranger,â you said with a hint of venom in your voice. You turned to face him, your eyes widening slightly at the sight of his pale, flushed skin, a fine sheen of sweat settled on his temples. His eyes looked unusually dark; you blinked your own a few times to clear them and make sure you werenât seeing something that wasnât there.Â
He said your name through the rasp of his shaky voice. âI-Iâm sorry, Iâm busy right now⌠you should go.â
âLike hell I should,â you scoffed, any anxious thoughts replaced by an unwavering surge of protectiveness. âIs this why youâve been ghosting me? Are you sick or something?â
His face suddenly scrunched up, his hand raising to hold his head as he whimpered in pain. âIâm n-not ghosting you⌠I justâŚâ
You took a step closer to him, freezing when he flinched back and held out a hand to stop you. Your heart fell to your stomach as you watched his eyes darken further. âPete, I donât know whatâs going on but, please, let me help you⌠Stop pushing me away.âÂ
You attempted another careful step forward until he pushed himself back against the wall.
âS-stop, stop! Please just⌠donât come closer.â
You swallowed down the thick lump in your throat that had risen, clenching your hands into fists to stop them from shaking. You waited patiently for him to speak, scared that the next words that left him were going to be the ones to shatter your world.
âI,â he paused, breathing in a deep breath before continuing. âI canât⌠trust myself to be around you right now.â
Your brows pressed together in confusion. âWhy not?â
His eyes bore into the ground as he tried to gather his thoughts over the multitude of senses that surged the moment you approached his door, but everything was fuzzy and melted together until all he could feel was you. Your presence, and it was driving him crazy.
âMy systems are detecting an abnormally high heart rate, Peter,â Evieâs robotic voice rang out. âSystem overload is approaching.â
âNot now, Evie,â Peter choked out.
You shook your head in disbelief. âYou can trust me, Peter. Please. Havenât I proven that to you? After everything?â
âI-Itâs not thatââ
âThen what?â You approached him despite his protests, not stopping until you were a step away from touching.
His brain nearly short-circuited, any lasting restraint vanishing as he allowed you to fully flood his senses. The shampoo you used this morning, the perfume youâd applied a few hours ago, the fast thump thump of your heart, a beautiful rhythm that drowned out all rational thought to disarm him completely.
âSomething is happening to me,â he gasped, the words tearing from his chest. âMy arachnid DNA is⌠itâs evolving. Mutating. Everything is turned up to ten thousand a-and my impulsesââ he cut himself off, slamming his head back against the door hard enough to make it rattle on its hinges.Â
You shook your head, your hands reaching for him again. âIf youâre scared youâll hurt me, you wonâtââ
âNo!â he spat out desperately. âItâs not that IâI c-canâtââ He was practically shaking now, violent tremors racking his body.
Your heart ached as you watched him. Unable to control yourself, you lifted your hands to cup his flushed cheeks, his skin burning under your palms. âPeter,â you whispered softly, your voice reaching him over the storm raging within.
He stared at you, his pupils dilated so wide, only a thin ring of the soft brown you loved so much was present. Your lips parted with a pant at the hunger displayed in them as you got lost in their depths, a raw need youâd never seen before. âWoahâŚâ
A low, tormented whimper escaped him when your thumbs rubbed along his skin, the sound shooting straight to pool low in your stomach, spreading a heat you scolded yourself for internally. Now was not the time.
âI canât think straight when youâre near,â he confessed through a strained voice. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. âI canât act normal. I canât pretend like I usually do⌠not when all I want to do isââ
He groaned, tipping his head back against the door, a final sliver of restrain returning before he crossed the line.
âWhat, Peter?â you pressed, leaning closer to eliminate the last inch of space between your bodies, your chests brushing. You looked at him with such care, your gaze so gentle and understanding and comforting. âWhat do you want to do?â
In the split second before he moved you were able to catch the black swallowing the last fragment of brown, followed quickly by the entirety of the whites of his eyes. Then his lips were on yours.
It was all consuming as his mouth moved over yours, desperately kissing as if you were the very air that filled his lungs and it was being threatened away from him.
His hands dug into your sides, fisting your skin to pull you flush against his body until you could feel the taught muscle hidden beneath his shirt. You gasped into his mouth when he lifted you to wrap your legs around his waist, moaning when he took the opportunity to slide his tongue along yours.
He fell back onto the couch behind him, keeping you close as he continued to devour your lips, whimpering when your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging to pull him back so you could take a breath.
He fought against your grip, his eyes opening to lock onto yours when you pulled harder. Your chest heaved as you stared into the black pools with awe.
âI-Iâm sorry,â he managed to say through clenched teeth, barely suppressing the desire to ravage you whole. âI tried to hide my feelings but it's harder like this.â
The smile that graced your lips had his head spinning all over again, his eyes burning as they turned glassy.
âFeelings?â you mumbled, leaning down to ghost your lips over his, the heat in your belly spreading further when he tried to chase them. You curve into him just enough to feel something poking you as he let out another strangled gasp. âYou like me, Peter?â
A tear slips down his cheek when you say his name, the sound falling so beautifully from your lips, making his cock pulse harder in his sweatpants. The grip he has on you tightens, subconsciously pressing you down over his throbbing boner.
âIâm sorry,â he repeats with a shake of his head. âI donât want to ruin what we have, I just⌠canât lose you, too.â
Your heart clenches when his voice cracks with agony. You want to scream at him and the world the depths of your feelings for him, how he could never lose you and how the same fear had been tormenting you for weeks. But words felt small, too insufficient. So you showed him by capturing his lips with yours once more.
He met them with relief, his arms wrapping fully around your torso to cage you against him in an attempt to get as close to fusing your bodies together as possible. You arched into him, fully dragging your core against his cock, the friction a sweet torture that had his mouth falling open in a broken moan.Â
âPlease,â he gasped against your cheek.
You buried your face in the crook of his neck, your lips latching onto the sensitive skin as you rocked your hips faster. You could feel every inch of his cock pressing against your heat, your aching clit pulsating in your soaked panties. His grip on you turned bruising, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips as he guided your movements to match how much he needed you.
âSo g-good⌠you feel soâmnghââ he whined.
Just then a sharp blaring came from the other side of the room, a sound you recognized as his police scanner. You stilled your movements and removed your head from his neck. Before you could say anything, Peterâs arm flung out. A web whipped through the air and a second later it connected with the phone, striking it hard enough for a loud crack to sound out, silencing the alarm.
His black eyes shot back to find your surprised ones. Heâd never, ever, ignored the call. But tonight he didnât care. Tonight, all he wanted was you.
You could practically see the possession in his eyes as he stood up, holding you against him. Seconds later, your back met the soft mattress of his bed as he laid you down, quickly pressing himself back between your legs, his mouth finding your neck, kissing and nipping a trail of fire. Your mind, however, was still trying to comprehend what youâd just seen.
He intertwined his fingers with yours, pinning your hands beside your head, his hips rutting shamelessly into you with a pressure that stole your breath. You turned to stare at his wrist, bare of the bulky web shooters.
âPeter,â you panted, arching into his thrust. âHow did you⌠the web?â
His lips trailed up your cheek, messily kissing over your lips with a desperate fervor.Â
âArachnid DNA,â is all he mumbled.
âO-Oh.. cool,â you managed to say before he swallowed the word with his tongue.
He parted to sit back on his heels, pulling his shirt over his head to reveal his sweat slicked torso. Your mouth went dry when he pulled down his sweats and underwear in one go, kicking them off the rest of the way.
Your gaze dropped, a heady moan slipping at the sight of his thick cock flushed a deep red as it pulsed against his stomach, streams of precum dripping down the sides.
He climbed back over you, pressing his cock into your clothed heat to resume his rutting, panting little sounds of pleasure into your ear.
âMnmhâah! I canâfuck⌠I can feel how warm you are, can smell you." His hands slipped beneath your shirt, running up until they grazed the soft skin of your breasts.
Something new in him snapped when he realized you weren't wearing a bra. He started snapping his hips harder into you until your body was climbing up the bed. âIâm sorryâoh god⌠fuck, Iâm so sorryâI can't stopââ
âItâs okay, Peter.â
âNo,â he pleaded, his lips brushing your throat. âI canât hold back anymore. FuckâI need you to tell meââ
âIâm here for you, Peter,â you whispered, cupping his face to force his dazed eyes back to yours. His lids were blotchy with tears, his lips red and kiss-swollen. You could see the struggle in them, the fight against his depraved thoughts to make sure you were okay with this. It only made you want him more. âUse me.â
Any remaining tension in his face melted. His brows relaxed, the cute crinkles by his eyes smoothing over at your permission.
He shoved your shirt over your head, moaning at the sight of your chest, your nipples peaked and begging for his touch. He captured one in his mouth, laving it with his tongue before sucking hard. His other hand rolled the other between his fingers, flicking and pinching the sensitive bud, drawing out high pitched cries from your lips.
âMmm, so pretty, taste so sweet.â
His free hand fumbled with your pants in an attempt to push them down, a frustrated, almost animalistic groan escaping him when they caught on your hips. He gave a small tug and tore the fabric away from your body, discarding it without a second thought.
âHey!â you yelped, the protest dying when he pressed the hot head of his cock through your sodden folds, rubbing it through the slick mess.Â
The slick sounds of your wet heat were enough to make his consciousness slip as he failed to suppress a sob.
He could hear every microscopic hitch of your breath in his heightened ears, every pulse at your clit against his shaft a divine torment, the rush of your blood beneath your skin. You watched, enamored, as his eyes fluttered weakly when his tip caught at your hole, and then he was pushing in.
âO-Oh fuuââ his eyes fluttered as your tight cunt clenched around the invasion.
âIâm sorry, so sorryâso tight, fuck, âM sorryââ he apologized in a continuous stream as he sank in, forcing himself deeper until he was fully bottomed out. Tears slipped from his eyes, cascading down his flushed cheeks, your walls clamping down to draw out more small cries from him, basking in the sight.
You sucked in a sharp breath at the stretch. It had been a while for you and Peter was so thick. You could feel every vein, every ridge of his cock dragging against your velvety walls as his hips met yours.
Before you could fully adjust and let the sting subside, he was pulling out and driving back into you with a punctured breath, stealing the air from your lungs. You dug your nails into the muscles of his back, biting your lip to suppress a yelp as he set a brutal pace, each thrust burying him just as deep.
The head of his cock kissed your cervix with an overwhelming, euphoric pressure.Â
âCunt feels so fucking good, squeezing me so tight.â
The pain began to fade, replaced by a pleasure so sharp it bordered on agony. You wrapped your legs tighter around him, locking your ankles, pushing him deeper inside you. â'M so full, Peter.â
He collapsed onto you, his lips leaving wet, sloppy kisses wherever he could reach as he fucked you mercilessly, his cock pistoning in and out of you.
The pressure in your belly snuck up on you, building and coiling tight like a live wire trapped beneath your skin.
âP-Peterâ!â you cried out, your cunt fluttering around his cock. You bowed off the bed, your back arching as he fucked the orgasm out of you, wave after wave of white-hot ecstasy flowing through your nerves.
The foreign scent of your cum invaded his senses, something he could only describe as overwhelmingly you and all-consuming, causing his eyes to screw shut with a sob.
The violent constrictions of your walls around his cock only edged him on further. He fucked you through your climax with ragged, desperate bucks, his movements dissolving into a frenzy, the filthy sounds of wet skin slapping together filling the room.
You latched onto his wrists beside your head, feeling an intense heat radiating from the hypersensitive skin over his organic webbing. Before you were even aware of your actions, your head was turning, your lips pressing a soft kiss to his wrist.
Words were beyond him as your touch reduced him to incoherent, whimpering babbles. âFeels⌠sâgoodâmphm. C-Canât⌠âM yours⌠all yoursââ
His thrusts turned erratic, his gut tightening as he rested his forehead on your chest, nuzzling into your skin in an attempt to sink into you, to become one.
"It h- it hurtsâcan't stop... 'M sorryâ"
You could feel his cock swelling inside you, his thrust faltering to shallow, uncoordinated thrusts. A sob wretched from him, wanton and broken, hot tears spilling from his clenched eyes, dripping onto your skin.
"Come for me, Peter."
He sank all the way in one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go as his body tensed.
Then his mind blanked.
His vision went black, speckled with stars. With a guttural cry, he came, his release a torrent, spilling deep into your cunt in thick, hot pulsing waves. He whined into your chest, his body spasming through each powerful jet.
You panted through each hard twitch of his cock, overwhelmed with the sheer volume of cum as he continued to fill you, the sensation so intense you struggled to catch your breath. It just kept going as he shook above you, his cum leaking out around the base of his cock still stuffed deep inside you.
He stayed there as your cunt milked every drop, creating a home for himself, content with living inside you for as long as you'd let him.
You carded a hand through his hair as tremors continued to wrack his oversensitive body. âShh, youâre okay,â you whispered into his ear, your voice hoarse. âYou did so good.â
He went boneless above you, a dead, spent weight. Eventually, his softened cock slipped from your used cunt, followed by a stream of his release dripping down to soak the sheets as you whimpered through it all.
A few moments later, the silence in the room was broken by Evieâs voice. âHeart rate regulated. Vitals have returned to baseline levels.â
It seemed to bring Peter back to earth. He lifted his head from your chest with a groggy moan, blinking blearily down at you. His eyes were back to their normal, warm brown, the black reduced to his pupils, though still glazed with wonder.
You guided him to his back, leaning over to wipe the tears from his cheek before pressing a soft kiss to his lips.
He sniffled, fresh tears welling in his bloodshot eyes. âIâm sorry,â he whispered, voice wrecked. âI didnât⌠I didnât want it to happen like that. I wanted to be⌠better for you.â
You shushed him gently, kissing his cheek. âWeâre okay.â
âIâm sorry,â he insisted, the vulnerability clear in his tone. âI am.â
You shook your head, a small smile playing at your lips. âThen never ignore me like that again.â
He sniffled with a nod, his lips squirking up into that boyish smile that made your heart ache. âOkay.â
âDo you feel better?â you asked, your hands smoothing down his chest.
He nodded, a dark blush spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. âI didnât know I could feel that good,â he admitted with awe.Â
âHas it been a while for you, too?â
He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking away for a second before meeting yours again anxiously. âIâve never, umâŚâ he took a shaky, deep breath. âThat was my uh, first time.â
Your hands froze on his chest. âWhat?â
He winced. âI told you I couldnât control myself.â
You laughed at the surprising confession, leaning down to brush your nose against his. âWell, at least it was memorable.â
He smiled, all shy and genuine and so Peter-like, you couldnât resist kissing him, tender and slow. Your hand continued rubbing, your thumb brushing over a nipple, circling it to a peak when he whimpered, his whole body jolting back away at your touch.
âTsk, so sensitive.â Your hand trailed lower, grazing over the dips of muscle to rest just above where his cock was stirring back to life. âSo how easy is it for that side of you to come out?â
His breath caught as your finger dug into the sensitive skin of his lower stomach. When you flicked your eyes back up to his, you saw it again.
The inky blackness had started to expand, swallowing the warm brown, once again drawn out by you.Â
Don't be shy to leave a like comment or reblog, truly means the world to me :D
๨ৠâ subby!top!peter... mmmm . . . 18+! (yes I'm spreading my subby!top!peter agenda i hope that's okay)
physically, he's got aaallll the control. he's got your legs hiked up, knees bent over his shoulders, body nearly folded in half beneath him. your pussy is swollen, fucked open, and achy around his thick cock, walls gooey and slick and pliant, helpless to do much else than take the brutal, deep thrusts he abuses them with.
effectively, he fucks you completely senseless, with precise snaps of his hips that have your eyes rolling back into your skull.
but verbally? fuck, you'd think you were the one fucking him dumb.
he whines, groans, moans, and whimpers, desperate little pleas falling from his throat while he uses your cunt to milk himself.
"ohhh, fuck, yesyesâfuck baby, just like that. don't stop, please don't stop! s'fuckin' perfect, fuck me s'goodâ!" between wet, loud plaps! and creaking wood with a voice that's broken and fucked out.
and when he's about to cum? oh, he begs for it. despite having the upper hand, despite being in control of the pace, he begs you to let him cumâ"f-fuck, please, m'gonna cum. please lemme cumâi-inside, can iâfu-huuuckâplease make me cum, pleaseâ!"
and he actually waits; he waits until you give him permission, pace never faltering, still fucking you so fast and hard that it rattles your brain, toned abdomen slamming into your puffy clit every time he bottoms out.
and you're so close yourself that all you can do is nod and chant, "yes, yes, fuck, yes." while your cunt slurps and flutters around him, moans crescendoing as he fucks you even harder, in fast, short thrusts that quickly bring youâand himselfâto orgasm.
"o-ohmygod, babyâ'm comingâfuck, please, stay still, please babyâneed you to take it, pleaseâ" his words cut off into moans that morph into near sobs as he starts to release, cock spurting thick, sticky ropes of cum against your walls.
thick cum that squelches lewdly from your convulsing pussy as he sloppily fucks himself through the waves, eyes watering from the way he throws himself into near overstimulation just to ensure that he squeezes out every last drop into your warm womb âĄ.
Description: Youâre spider-manâs closest thing to a friend since the world forgot his nameâŚall 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 onâŚor 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 đ¤
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.Â
The first time it happened was completely accidental. Heâd arrived at the building in the middle of the night, bruised, bleeding and too disoriented to realize that the window heâd come through was not his.Â
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 cityâs superhero groaning and pressing his hands to his side. His suit was torn there, and blood soaked through the ruined fabric onto your rug.Â
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.
âWrong window,â he choked, then tried to hold himself up but immediately collapsed again. âDammit,â he cursed, waiting for you to freak out any second now.Â
You could have, but instead you rushed to him and knelt beside him.
âOh my god, are you okay?â Your hands hovered helplessly over his body, trying to see how bad the damage was in the dark. âYou need a hospitalââ
âNo!â He snapped, trying to turn away but failing miserably. âIâll be fine, I heal quickly.â
âYou still need to stop the bleeding,â you countered, folding your knees under your body so you could rest on your calves. âListen, I can help you. I took some medical courses last year and I have a kit somewhere.â
You looked at him with pleading eyes. Heâd saved the city so many times, the fucking world, it was the least you could do to give something back.Â
He considered his options for a second, and to be honest he didnât have many. His body was betraying him, and he couldnât even get up to fix it himself like usual.Â
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.Â
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.Â
âPlease,â he whispered. Pleaded. âKeep it on.âÂ
The fear in his voice made you promise you would. Even if you couldnât get to that gash properly. Even when he fell asleep on your floor and didnât wake up for six whole hours.Â
The next morning, he opened his eyes and found you sitting on your bed, still staring at him.Â
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 youâd spent the night making sure he was still breathing without seeing his face.Â
That had been one year ago.Â
After thanking you profoundly for helping him, heâd 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.Â
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.Â
Because some nightsâŚsome 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.Â
When he noticed you understood about his equipment malfunctioning, heâd 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 spidermanâs friend.Â
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.Â
Heâd 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.Â
A promise was a promise.Â
Maybe thatâs why he kept coming. Why he trusted you with a certainty he couldnât 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.
âIâm officially the girl in the chair, spidey,â you joked that time as you sat next to him, spinning around in your chair.
Heâd 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 didnât notice him being too quiet as he worked on his inhibitor after that.Â
He was wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and the mask. Always the mask that didnât quite let you see through him. After a moment of quiet, you rolled your chair closer to his and nudged his arm playfully.Â
âYou know I canât keep calling you spidey forever, right?âÂ
He snapped out of his trance, and the chuckle that came from under the fabric was unmistakable.Â
âWhy not?â He nudged your arm back, but still focused on the device he was hunched over. âI like spidey.â
You put your elbow on the desk, resting your cheek on your hand so you could lean a little closer.Â
âI like it too, but it feels ridiculous after having my hands all over your body almost every night.âÂ
The moment the words left your lips, you realized how bad that sounded. He straightened up, turning toward you.
âWow.â Even if you couldnât see the smile on his face, the lenses of his mask were quite expressive sometimes. He was amused.Â
âThat came out very wrong,â you said immediately, before he bursted into laughter. He had been laughing more since you entered his life. âYou know what I meant,â you whined, laughing too with heat flooding your cheeks.Â
âI think I know,â he chuckled, making you roll your eyes.Â
âIâm being serious though,â you added, a little more quietly. âYou donât have to say your real name. Just give me something.â
âMmmâŚâ 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 heâd bought that morning, and the name came out of his lips before he could think twice about it. âYou can call me Maynard.âÂ
âMaynard?â You repeated, suppressing a chuckle. âYou donât sound like a Maynard. Thatâs like an 80 year old manâs name.â
âThatâs all I can give you,â he shrugged playfully.Â
You had a feeling it went deeper than that, but youâd also learned not to push it with him.Â
âAlright. Maynard,â you nodded, âbut donât expect me to use that name unless Iâm dying. Guess Iâll stick to spidey for now,â you chuckled, going back to your own work as he hummed in agreement.Â
The conversation ended there. With him trying not to think about your hands all over his body inâŚdifferent conditions.Â
Peter didnât 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.Â
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 heâd 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.Â
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.Â
And that dark part of him heâd managed to lock down with the inhibitor, trying to claw its way out.Â
âWhat theâŚwhat the fuck is going on,â he cursed, clutching his heaving chest as he panted against the worn wood floors. âI canâtâI canât breatheâŚâÂ
The computerâs monotone voice broke through the silence.Â
âYou have arrived injured. Iâm letting her knowââ
âNO!â He cut the AI off, âEV, donât tell herââ
âMessage already sent.â Â
He glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. 2:18 am.Â
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 someoneâŚforâŚfor you?Â
Oh fuck.Â
You were going to come in and you were going to see him like this. No, noâ
âSpidey?â 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.Â
He needed to get to you. He needed to pin you down andâÂ
âDonât!â He managed to scream, holding his hand up weakly when you scrambled toward him.Â
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.Â
âWhat happened?â You frowned, when you couldnât find any source. âDid you get hurt?âÂ
You instinctively stepped forward, but he waved his hand in front of him again.Â
âStop, stop, stop,â he said quickly, âdonât come any closer.âÂ
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.Â
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 EVâs 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 wouldnât be surprised if it ripped at the seams.Â
This reminded you too much of the changes that happened in him months ago.Â
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.Â
âIs it the inhibitor?â You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, âis it failing?âÂ
âIâI donât knowâŚI was hit with some dust out there,â he breathed. âI think itâs tampering with itâŚmy head is killing me. Everything is too much.â
You nodded, turning toward the workstation.Â
âI will check the programming. Just hold on.â Not your best attempt at reassuring him, but he groaned in acknowledgment.Â
âEV?âÂ
The computer woke when you touched the keyboard, illuminating the dark attic in a wash of blue light.Â
âOnline.â
âPlease run a diagnostic on the inhibitor and any possible interference.âÂ
âBeginning diagnostic.âÂ
You waited impatiently for the results, tapping your fingers on the desk while you watched him from the corner of your eye.Â
Over there, heâŚhe was doing his best trying to breathe.Â
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.Â
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.Â
There was only you.Â
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.Â
Your scentâŚGod, your scent filled the entire apartment.Â
The scent he found himself coming back to so often that it scared him. He didnât want the attachment. The possibility of having someone again only to risk losing them again.Â
That same scent was making every muscle in his body react in a way he didnât understand. It made him, and the other him, wanna do things to you he had only dreamed of in his wildest fantasies. Things he wasnât proud of, things he wouldnât dare to say out loud, even if he looked at you through the lenses of his mask and you couldnât see the black in his eyes.Â
He pressed the back of his head against the couch harshly.Â
This was wrong. So wrong.Â
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.Â
What if heâd let you? What if heâd felt the way your hands ran all over his body? What if youâd moved them lower, and lower, as your mouthâ
âDiagnostic complete.âÂ
Your heads snapped toward the screen.Â
âThereâs 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.âÂ
âWhat biotoxin?â You frowned.Â
âUnknown. No matches found in available databases.âÂ
Great. He thought. He had no time to take a bath with Yelena Belova to find out what the stupid dust was.Â
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.Â
He suddenly felt the need to lick it off.Â
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 feelâ
âThe effects remain within his enhanced tolerance. However, prolonged exposure to certain hormones can cause extreme distress without relief.âÂ
âWhat hormones?â Your voice, worried and unknowing of his thoughts only made him feel guiltier.Â
It took him a second to realize what you asked, but EV threw him under the bus before he could say anything.Â
âThereâs a significant rise in reproductive hormones. The unknown toxin is inducing a strong mating response in him.â
Mating response. He stopped breathing.Â
Your eyes slowly moved from the monitor to him, and he saw the moment your attention dropped lower to the tent of his pants.Â
That suit concealed nothing on a good day. On one like this? Fuck. Fuck. Fuckâ
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.Â
âIs there a way we canâŚummâŚstop it?â You asked hesitantly.Â
âThe subject is experiencing severe sexual arousal with a fixation on a nearby individual,â she explained, because fuck him if he wasnât the unluckiest individual on earth. âActing upon it can be a positive option to relieve sexual tension.â
He wished the floor would open beneath him, swallow him, and never ever EVER spit him back out again. Â
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.Â
âIs that what you really feel?â You asked softly after a moment.Â
His head fell forward, catching it between his gloved hands. He didnât know how to answer without making everything worse.
Although, after what EV said, could it really be worse?Â
ââŚYes.â The word came out rougher than he expected. Yet still not enough for what was happening inside him. âItâs likeâŚI can only feel you. All of you.â
Heat rose to your face once again.Â
âWhat does that mean?âÂ
Donât say anything, donâtâ
âI can smell you.â Great start, idiot. He cleared his dry throat before continuing. âI can smell your shampooâŚthe lotion you useâŚthe ink on your hands from your favorite pen.âÂ
He chose not to mention he could also smell the adrenaline on you. The heat gathering slowly beneath your skin.Â
Your eyes dropped to your hands, and under the dim light of the computer, you caught the blue stains in them from your journaling session before bed.Â
âI can hear your heartbeat changing every time I speak,â he added. Okay, that one slipped out. Â
You swallowed. And god, he felt that in his own throat.Â
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.Â
âIs it only because Iâm nearby?â 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 couldâve lied. He shouldâve lied. But instead, chemically overwhelmed and stripped of every defense he possessed, he gave you the truth.Â
âNo.â
His voice was firmer this time. No hesitation in it despite the thousand red alarms pounding in his head telling him to shut up.Â
âIt picked youâno, I picked you for a reason,â he added. âAnd itâs not just me. The otherâŚthe other me wants you too.âÂ
His voice went lower on the last part, that told you how much it cost him to admit that.Â
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.Â
His own mind was a mess. The impulses didnât feel like thoughts anymore, just his body feeding him instructions.Â
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.Â
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.Â
âEV, how long is this state going to last?â He asked the computer, followed by a weak cough as he clutched his side.Â
âYour enhanced physiology is struggling to break down the toxinâs structure. I estimate a time between ten to twelve hours before itâs metabolized. However, neurological collapse is expected before that timeframe.â
âWhat?â You looked at him. âThereâs no way weâre letting that happen. Maybe I canââ
âDonât even start,â he cut you off, shaking his head profusely.Â
âSo what? Iâm supposed to sit here betting on whether your body collapses on hour three or hour six?âÂ
âIâll just pass out, big deal. Iâm not putting you in danger because of this. I can handle it.â
âYouâre barely handling it now. Thereâs no danger in tryingââ
âYou donât understand whatâs happening inside me right now,â he argued, raising his voice. âThis other thing, the one the inhibitor controls itâsâŚawake. That part of me doesnât think like I do. It doesnât care if you're scared, or hurtingââ
âYou wouldnât hurt meââ
âYou donât know that!â He snapped, his fist struck the floor next to him, hard enough to make the worn wood crack beneath his knuckles.Â
The sudden noise made you flinch. He smelled the flash of fear moving through your body for only a second.Â
One second enough.Â
âFuckâthat is what I mean,â he cursed, covering his lenses with his hands. âI donâtâŚI donât know if Iâd be gentle. I canât risk this, I can'tâŚshit, I canât risk you.â
The words, said with so much pain, and honesty, seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest.Â
âOkay,â you nodded, settling deeper in your chair. âBut Iâm not leaving you like this. I canât risk you either.â
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.Â
ExceptâŚhe didnât even last ten minutes.Â
The suit was killing him, so he decided heâd 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. Heâd 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 youâd 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.Â
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.Â
You noticed, and returned your eyes to the screen to track his vitals.Â
He felt grateful that youâd 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.Â
Too hard.Â
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.Â
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.Â
ââŚIâm sorry,â he apologized instantly, breathlessly, moving his hand away. âI didnâtââ
âDonât apologize,â you shook your head quickly, eyes still on the screen. âYouâŚyou can do whatever you need.âÂ
He didnât say anything, just whined in pain again, so you took it as a chance to say it before you regretted it.Â
âBut my offer still stands, spidey.âÂ
What a polite way of saying âIâd let you fuck me into next week so you can control your horny arachnid hormones, spidey.â
Fucking hell.Â
âIâm okay I justâGod I didnâtâI didnât think it would feel this wayâŚâ He laughed humorlessly, staring at the ceiling. âBut IâI got this. Yes.â
You kept quiet, hearing him mumble to himself about a hundred times about how he had this.
âIâm okayâŚIâm goodâŚitâs fineâŚâÂ
He wasnât.Â
âFuck I donâtâŚIâm going to dieâŚâ
For Godâs sake.Â
âI think I can help.â
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.Â
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.Â
âWhatâwhat are you doing?â He stammered nervously, the lenses of his mask going wide.Â
âMaynard,â you said quietly, ignoring the way his body tensed up at that name. âWould it make you feel better if I put my hand here?âÂ
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
âSorryââ
âDonât apologize.â You pressed harder.Â
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.Â
âBetter?â You asked quietly, trying not to bite your bottom lip at the image of him crumbling under your palm.Â
âSo fucking better,â he said breathlessly, pressing your hand tighter against his chest. âIâŚdammitââ
âBreathe,â you reminded.
His head fell back against the couch. Chest rising up and down, up and down, up and down.Â
Just take her, man, sheâs right thereâ
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.Â
âPlease.â Was all he said.Â
Leave it on.Â
It brought you back to that first night heâd crashed into your life.Â
âI wasnât planning on removing it,â you whispered, leaning closer. âYou can keep it on. But let me help youâŚI really want to.â
See? She wants it. She needs it so bad.Â
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.Â
His hand cupped your jaw, bringing it closer to his face, and your dilated pupils reflected on the white of his lenses.Â
âI can feel that you want this,â he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. âPlease, say it againâŚâ
You shifted your hips, barely, so minimal yet he felt it travel through his whole body. He hissed, tightening the grip on your jaw.Â
âI want this,â you repeated firmly, moving your head closer to his ear. âYou can take whatever you needâŚâ
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.Â
âYesâŚyeah just like thatâŚâ he panted. âJust let meâŚâ
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.Â
â...MâmoreâŚâ he whined, throwing his head back against the couch. âI canâtâI needâŚâ
âWhat do you need? More what?âÂ
âMore contact.â
His hands left your waist to grab the hem of your shirt.Â
âCan I?â 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.Â
âOh fuck,â he cursed when he realized there was nothing under that shirt, and saw your nipples hardening instantly under the cold air.Â
He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask.Â
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.Â
âFuck youâre perfectâŚyouâre so perfectâŚâ 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. âThese too,â he said, âplease, can I? I want to feel you.â
âYes,â you nodded, already out of air.Â
You didnât 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.Â
You werenât wearing anything underneath.Â
âI can smell you. God, I can smell you. Youâre soâoh GodâŚâ
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.Â
âCanâcan Iâ?â
You didnât even let him finish, you grabbed his hand and placed it right between your legs.Â
Water. He found water in the middle of the dessert.Â
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.Â
âFuckâŚâ you cursed softly, moving your hips eagerly when he kept stroking slow. Too slow. âTouch me, please.â
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.Â
âBeen wanting this,â he mumbled. âLonger than today. Longer than tonight.â
His finger slid inside of you, making you moan when he curled it just right.Â
âThere wereâŚthere were nights I thought about you riding my hand,â he kept going, voice cracking as he added a second finger, stretching you more. âIâve wanted you for so longânot just because of this shit in my blood. Because itâs you.â
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.Â
âOh my Godâdonât stop, please donât stopââ
âNot stopping, baby.âÂ
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.Â
âIâmâIâm close,â you managed. âIâm so closeââ
âCome onâŚyouâre perfect. Youâre so fucking perfect like this.â
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 boxersâ
âPlease,â he begged, unable to keep it in. âLet me fuck you after thisâŚplease. I need to be inside you. Iâve needed it for so longâjust let me, after you come, please, pleaseââ
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.Â
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.Â
You just stayed there as the last soft waves rolled through you.Â
Once you were able to see clearly again, you let out a breathless chuckle and straightened back up.Â
He needed you. He needed you so badly you really thought he was going to die if you didnât help him.Â
You placed one hand on his chest as the other reached under you, slipping inside the fabric of his boxers without breaking eye contact.Â
The second your bare fingers brushed him, his hips jerked hard under you.Â
âYou said please,â you whispered breathlessly.Â
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.Â
You stroked him a few times, slowly just as heâd touched you at first.Â
âOh my God, your handâyour handââ
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. Â
Flustered wasnât enough of a word when you had his leaking cock in your hand.Â
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.Â
Fuck her. Fuck her right now.Â
âPlease, I needâI need to feel youâŚâ he cried out. âLet meâŚlet meâŚâ
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.Â
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.Â
He could feel it coming. The change.Â
You kept moaning, bouncing on top of him, completely unaware of his self restraint crumbling away.Â
His grip slowly tightened when his eyes began turning completely black under his mask. That careful, pathetic boy whoâd been begging disappeared beneath something moreâŚprimal.Â
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 gentleâthen 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.Â
âOh myâMayâŚMaynardââ 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.Â
âDonât call me that,â he snapped, his voice so different from just minutes earlier. âItâs Peter. Call me Peter when Iâm inside you.âÂ
He didnât 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.Â
âOf fuckâŚPeterâfuckâŚyesâŚâ
âThatâs better,â he approved. âI was right, youâre so so perfectâŚtaking every inch like you need it as bad as I doâŚâ
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 thereâ
âNuhâuh,â he denied immediately, stopping mid thrust, holding you pressed against him as you gasped, surprised and confused.Â
âWhatâwhat happened? I was about toââ
âI want you to hold it for me. I know you can.â
That twisted part of him enjoyed the slow realization on your face.Â
Even if you couldnât see his eyes, you knew the same spiderman heâd been without the inhibitor, was the one with your body at his mercy now.Â
Good.Â
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.Â
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.
âLook at the ceiling,â he ordered. âDonât look at me.â
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.Â
Peter leaned down and pressed a few soft kisses to your swollen folds. He wasnât necessarily eating you out, just giving a few loud smooches that felt good enough to make you grip the sheets.Â
âMâsorry, you were so perfect thereâŚâ he mumbled condescendingly against your most sensitive spots. âBut I need you to hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?âÂ
You nodded, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Maybe too eager. Maybe too pathetic. Just like heâd been. Had he pumped that toxin into you?Â
Either way, you didnât care. Youâd be lying if you said you didnât like this version of him.Â
He laughed right over your clit when you moaned loudly, after he moved his tongue in a slow, torturous swipe over it.Â
âWas back there too much?â He cooed. âMaybe I just need to stretch you more...â
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.Â
âPeterâŚâÂ
âHuh?â 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. âKeep holding it in.â
Every shake of your body fed the stupid toxin inside him. Having you like thisâŚreally trying to keep your body from coming apart because he said so.Â
God. He was never going back.Â
âYou just took my cock. I think you can take three fingers with no problem.âÂ
He kept the same relentless pace, chuckling when your body started twitching again.Â
âPeterâŚâ you called out again, hand dropping the sheet to find his shoulder instead. âI needâŚneedâŚâ
âNeed what?â
âNeed you inside meâŚplease I wonâtâI wonât hold for much longer justâfuck me.â
He stopped altogether, a smirk you couldnât 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.Â
âYeah?âÂ
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.Â
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.Â
But something made him stop.Â
âThis fucking maskââ he cursed under his breath. âItâs suffocating me.â
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.Â
âI need you to be a good girl for me,â he added breathlessly, yet still commanding enough. âKeep your head on the mattress. Ass up. Donât turn around.â
You nodded. Too eagerly again. Couldnât care any less again.Â
He didnât 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.Â
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.Â
âYou look so pretty like this,â he mumbled. âAll spread out for meâŚwaiting.â
âPeterâŚâ you whined, lifting your ass slightly from the pillow.Â
âI know, I know. Youâre okay.â He couldnât keep the smirk away when he added, âyou said please.â
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.Â
Peter pushed in slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank deep and deep and deeper.Â
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.Â
âFuckâŚyou feel so good like thisâŚso pretty taking me.â
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.Â
What? What isâ
The moment his rhythm stuttered, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Beads of sweat flew from his hair to your back.Â
âGodâyouâŚyouâre making meââ The roughness of his thrusts slowed down immediately, inhaling a sharp intake of air as he felt the change again. âI canât, I canâtâŚâ
He lifted his gaze to the window behind the bed and noticed his eyes had turned back to its original color.Â
âOh my god,â he gasped, stopping altogether. He straightened up, still kneeling and inside you, but panicking. âIâmâŚIâm so sorry. I donât know what happened Iââ
âPeter!â You cut him off, pushing yourself back, closer to him, without turning around. âShut up and fuck me.â
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.Â
âOkay, okayâŚâ he panted, groaning when you dropped back on the bed and his cock almost left the warmth of your pussy. âIâm sorryâif I was too rough, Iâm sorry, I didnât mean toâŚâ
He picked up the pace again, but the words tumbling out of him now were pure pleading Peter again.Â
âDonât turn aroundâdonât turn aroundâfuck, fuckâŚâ slap, slap, slap. âYou can come now. Please. Please, I want to feel itâyouâd come apart so pretty on me, I know you wouldâŚpleasepleasepleaseââ
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 couldnât last much longer either.
âCan IâinsideâŚplease, can I??âŚlet me fill you upââ
âYesâinside, Peter, do it inside meâŚâÂ
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 heâd ever felt, holding you there, filling you up.Â
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.Â
âThank youâŚthank youâŚâ His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, sending broken gasps against your skin as he kept coming. âYou are so perfectâfuckâŚso perfectâŚthank youâŚâ
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.Â
When it finally eased, the pain, the need, the hungerâŚhe 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.Â
Peterâs eyes fluttered shut, feeling exhausted and aching in the best way, almost lulled by the sounds of your agitated breaths.Â
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 couldâve stayed like that forever, really. With your naked body under him, no masks, no barriers, just your swollen pussy leaking out his seedâ
âSuccessful ejaculation brought down the arachnid hormone levels immediately. Inhibitor working within regular parameters now. Congratulations, Peter.âÂ
EVâs monotone voice cut through the silence.Â
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.Â
âThank you, EV,â Peter muttered.Â
âYouâre 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.â
âFor fucks sakeâŚâ Peter cursed under his breath.Â
âOh godâŚâ you mumbled against the sheets.Â
That was your call back to reality.Â
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.Â
âI donât want to,â he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. âIâŚI donât want to put it back on.âÂ
âThen Iâll close my eyes,â you offered instead.Â
âNoâI meanâŚyou donât have to. I donât want to wear it around you anymore. Not afterâŚall of this,â he admitted sheepishly.Â
âBut you told me to not turn around,â you reminded him, dropping the mask on the mattress again. âAnd that was you, not the darker you.â
He chuckled, nodding even if you couldnât see him yet.Â
âYeah, because if I saw your face while I was balls deep inside you I wouldâve busted before you came.â
There it was. He said it. No turning back now.Â
At least it got a chuckle from you too.Â
âListen IâŚI meant everything I said. Everything. The wanting, the nights I thought about you,â he confessed. âI donât want you to feel like I just used you whenâŚwhen there was always a reason why I needed you like oxygen tonight.â
Your breath hitched, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him, and when you didnât push awayâŚhe exhaled in relief behind you.Â
âSo maybeâŚyou can turn around now. Ifâif you want to. Know the real me.â
âI would really like that,â you whispered without hesitation.Â
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.Â
Seeing his face for the first time felt so intimate, even after everything you just did.Â
There he was. The same guy who just fucked you into next week, looking more shy and boyish than you couldâve ever imagined.Â
Brown eyes. Dark, curly hair sticking to his forehead. A nervous smile tugging at the corner of his gorgeous mouth.Â
So young. So earnest. So yours.Â
No spidey anymore. Just Peter.Â
Your Peter.Â
Thank you so much for reading đ¤ I used to write Peter so much back in the day (shoutout to my starktonyx era) and Iâve missed him dearly.
girl bye. my clothes are gone, hormones are high, but no spidey to help đ fuck me. canât get enough of your sex pollen fics. feel like you release youâre own toxins in your fics making me want crave more đ¤ loved every minute of it
One day ur a suicidal 15 year old and then suddenly you wake up and you're 22 years old and genuinely debating the merits of iceberg vs romaine lettuce in the salad ur making. Life goes on ig
satoru slapping your clit with the tip of his cock until you say âi love youâ the right amount of time (to his liking) while simultaneously jerking off and fingering you with his free hand and sweetly talking you through it âcome on, baby, give me one moreâ âyeah? louder, dearestâ âwe have new neighbors, so you gotta make sure they know it too, sweetnessâ âfuck yeah-tell them, babyâ
Soft-spoken and so very clingy â resting atop you, warming his hands under your shirt with his sleepy head cuddling your tits, not far off from snoring snot-bubbles â soft lips kissing the plush flesh with woozy murmurs â drumming his fingers down your thighs when squeezing them around him and drowsily humping his clothed bulge against your mound.
Heâll dig his hands under you and unclasp your bra, coming to paw your freed titties â lifting your shirt to needily suckle on your cute little nipples like a baby.
âStop that, itâs weirdâŚâ You whine â your hand in his hair, trying to tug him off.
But he just whines in return, âBut, baby~ please?â Begging you with a pout on his lips â cinched brows as he looks up at you with big puppy-dog eyes swirling with plead.
You can't say no to him when he looks at you like that.
You give in with a sigh, feeling how hard he is through his pants as he nudges the pudgy sack against you all wantonly â and he wraps his lips around your nipple again, drooling on it as he coos soft moans.
You donât get why he insists on being soâŚÂ so virginal. All cuddles and dry-humping â never with his hand wrapped around your neck or a hard smack against your ass. Always begging to put the tip in and almost cumming in his pants before heâs even unpacked himself from his boxers.
Heâs so hopeless â all blushy atop you, dewy-cheeked with a curl between his brows â eyes closed in bliss as he rubs himself against your panties â almost as though he doesnât want to take himself out in fear heâll cum as soon as he touches it.
He collapses with a sigh after a few minutes, licking your neck as he creams his underwear â and you huff, having been left in wet panties yourself from all the teasing.Â
âDonât be mad~â He drawls, lipping a path of wet kisses down your chest, over your belly, until he reaches the wet spot on the cottony lace covering your slit.
And youâre almost begging him to slip it to the side, but like always â he settles on nose-kissing your clit through the fabric, dipping his tongue into the trail and lapping at you until your panties are soaked as you cum out of sheer edging.
He climbs up again, planting a kiss on your cheek before nuzzling back against your tits with a pleased smile on his face.
im sitting on a patio at my favorite cafe rn and im hand stitching them hem of a dress im working on. and i can see why someone would say im being performative by working on something like this in a public space. but frankly theres no element of that. i just want to work somewhere that isnt my apartment. i want to be in public, i wanna chat with strangers, i wanna see the world. itâs nice to hang out somewhere that isnt my home!
what i mean is when you say people are being performative you discourage them from doing shit they love in public. and thats no way to foster the world we want to see.
your f/o experimenting with cheeky touches for the first time⌠a hand resting a little lower on your back than usual, or fingers brushing up the hem of your shirt to touch your bare skin, a touch brushing over your chest or squeezing at your hips to pull you closer, a hand on your thighâ a little higher than expected
If I'm eating, or in a gross situation, and someone thinks it's funny to try to trigger the dry heaving vomit reflex by making those HYYYĂĂĂĂRK hurl noises, make no mistake, these things are guaranteed:
I will throw up
I know exactly how long it will take for the reflex to kick in, and can calculate what to do with it
I can and will come running at the person who triggered it
I will aim for the most expensive/difficult to clean item they are currently wearing (hair and makeup included)
If I know I'm not likely to successfully reach them in time, I will instead aim for the most prized/expensive/hard to clean object they have nearby
Your siblings, partners, and other family count as an object. Have fun telling your nana it wasn't your fault that you triggered someone's vomit reflex and he aimed right at her.
7. If you see one of your own acting like a dickhead and don't make even one single gesture, movement or micro-expression to express in any way that you disapprove of them acting like a dickhead, that's just as much on you. Literally.
