i love peter & mj together but i really appreciate the fact that the movie didn't have an easy fix to the spell. like she doesn't just suddenly get her memories back, and after reading the letter she doesn't just fall back in love (bc he is still just a stranger to her!!). she gets to be a little angry that part of her life was torn away, but is also aware that both her & ned mean a lot to peter and is kind to him, inviting him to the apartment and letting him decide if he wants to tell ned. the nwh ending was a huge moment for peter & before this movie came out i was a little worried they'd just kinda undo / gloss over it, but they're actually working through the consequences and fallout which was so nice
warnings: smut!!! explicit!!! minors DNI!!! p in v (protected), porn with plot, fingering, oral (female receiving), extremely rough sex, biting, dirty talk, slight masochism I think, dominate Peter because of the DNA change, set in the Brand New Day era so spoilers... some sad parts oops...
summary: you'd always had a crush on Spider-Man, so when he saves you one night and the two of you slowly build a friendship, you can't deny how badly you want to help him when he comes to you in need of something...
word count: 8.6k
a/n: ok sooooo I've never written for Peter, crazy I know. but I saw the movie and my Spiderman phase has fully returned. for some clarification, reader is basically the MJ in this. if you know you know. and whatever maybe his DNA change wouldn't make him super dark and dominate and animalistic but to me, it does. so let it happen. it's super long, I love this SO MUCH. just read it I guess, I can't explain everything without spoiling it. just know the smut is soooo worth it.
~~~
For as long as you could remember, you'd been obsessed with Spider-Man.
You'd first heard of him in your sophomore year of high school. Everyone had seen the YouTube videos of the strange hero in red spandex swinging around the city. When MJ would criticize him—he's probably an old man, or even worse someone our age—you'd always be quick to defend. He was a good person, an Avenger. That meant something.
You'd never grown out of it. Not really. Even now, at twenty-one, with a shitty apartment in Queens and a job that barely paid rent, you still felt that flutter in your chest whenever you caught a glimpse of red and blue against the skyline. MJ still teased you about it, but at least Ned understood your fascination.
Spider-Man had saved your life numerous times. In Washington during your decathlon championship, in Europe one summer. He'd been there for you and all your friends in the times when it counted. But it wasn't just about the mask or the mystery or the fact that he'd happened to save you a few times. It was about what he represented. Hope. Safety. Someone who gave a fuck about the neighborhood.
However, the world had changed in many ways since you were fifteen—in some ways you couldn't quite explain. Sometimes you felt as if there were gaps in your memory, holes where something important should have been. You'd go through old photos on your phone—group shots from high school with faces you recognized and one you... didn't? Couldn't? A blurred figure in the background, or a space where someone should have been standing. The feeling was unsettling, like trying to remember a dream that slipped away the moment you woke up.
There were other gaps too. Muscle memory that didn't make sense. You'd reach for your phone to text someone and then forget who you wanted to text. You'd wake up reaching across the bed for a warmth that wasn't there. Sometimes you'd catch yourself trying to remember someone you couldn't remember.
Your phone felt too dry. Your bed felt too empty. And you couldn't explain why.
But you remembered Spider-Man. Everyone did.
That's why, when he saved you a month ago, it felt like fate.
You'd been walking home late from your shift at your part-time job—a bar a few blocks from your apartment—cutting through an alley you'd taken a hundred times before. This time, though, three men had other plans. They'd cornered you against the brick wall, and your phone was already on the ground, screen cracked, useless. Your heart had been hammering so hard you thought it might burst.
This was it. This was the moment when your worst fears would finally come true.
But then he was there.
A flash of red and blue, the sound of webbing, and suddenly your attackers were stuck to the wall, struggling and cursing. Spider-Man landed in front of you, and even though you couldn't see his face, you felt his attention lock onto you like a physical touch.
"You okay?" His voice was younger than you'd remembered. And somehow achingly familiar in a way you couldn't place.
You'd nodded, unable to form words, and he'd stepped closer. Tilted his head. "Are you sure?"
"No—I mean yes," you'd stumbled over your words, starstruck. "I'm good."
Something shifted in his posture. His hand came up like he was going to touch your face, then stopped halfway. Dropped. "Okay. Good. That's—that's good."
There was something in his voice. Something that sounded like relief and grief all tangled together.
"I've—" God, this was embarrassing. But your heart was still racing and he'd just saved your life and the words tumbled out. "I've kind of had a crush on you since I was fifteen."
You couldn't see his expression, but his whole body went still. When he spoke, his voice was almost...pained. "Yeah. I—yeah. I know."
You blinked. "You know?"
"I mean—" He rubbed the back of his neck. An oddly familiar gesture. "You've told me before. Whenever I've saved you. You mentioned it."
That made sense. Sort of. Except you couldn't remember telling him that before, and the way he said it sounded like he meant something else entirely. You also found it hard to believe Spider-Man remembered saving you. He saved hundreds—if not thousands of people all over the world. But you didn't think too much of it.
Spider-Man had walked you home that night. Insisted on it. And then he'd come back the next night. And the night after that.
At first, it was innocent. He'd perch on your fire escape and you'd talk through the open window. He'd ask about your day, tell you stories about his patrols. You'd make him tea that he'd sip through a straw slipped under his mask. It was sweet. Comfortable. Almost... familiar.
Too familiar.
He knew things he shouldn't have known. That you took your tea with honey, not sugar. That you had a habit of tucking your hair behind your left ear when you were nervous. That you hummed when you were concentrating. Little things. Intimate things. Things only someone close to you would know.
"How do you know that?" you'd asked once, when he'd mentioned you always kept your window unlocked.
He'd frozen. "I—patrol this area a lot. I notice things."
As if that wasn't strange enough, you noticed something was changing beyond that.
You noticed it in the way he looked at you—or seemed to, even behind the mask. The way his body would tense when you laughed. How his fingers would flex and curl like he was fighting the urge to reach for you. He started sitting closer. Touching more—a hand on your shoulder, your arm, once brushing hair from your face with a gentleness that made your breath catch.
"Sorry," he'd said quickly, pulling back. "Sorry, I shouldn't—"
"It's okay," you'd told him. And you'd meant it. More than okay. His touch felt right in a way you couldn't explain.
Last week, he'd shown up with a cut on his shoulder, visible through a tear in his suit. You'd insisted on cleaning it, and he'd let you. Your hands had been shaking as you'd dabbed antiseptic on the wound, hyperaware of the heat of his skin, the way his muscles moved under your touch.
"You're always taking care of everyone else," you'd murmured as you worked. "Who takes care of you?"
Your fingers had moved with practiced ease, like you'd done this before. Like you knew exactly how to tend to his wounds.
His hand had caught your wrist. Gently, but firm. When he spoke, his voice was wrecked. "You do. You always—" He'd stopped himself, released you abruptly. "I should go."
But he hadn't gone far. You'd felt him out there, on the roof, for hours.
Tonight, you weren't surprised when you heard the window slide open.
You were in your bedroom, wearing an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts, your hair still damp from the shower. You turned to find him climbing through—not the window in your living room where he usually appeared, but your bedroom window.
"Hey," you said softly. "Everything okay?"
He didn't answer right away. Just stood there, chest rising and falling like he'd been running. Or fighting something.
"I shouldn't be here," he said finally. His voice was strained. "I should—I need to go."
But he didn't move an inch. You continued to stare, your confusion probably written all over your face. His chest was still heaving, and suddenly you noticed that his fists were clenched at his sides—hard. Something was wrong.
"Is it your head?" You moved to take a step toward him, and he simultaneously took a step back. "What's going on?"
"Don't." The word came out sharp. Desperate. "Don't come closer."
You froze. "Did something happen? Are you hurt?"
"No. Yes. I don't—" He took a deep, shaky breath. "Something's wrong with me. Has been for a while. It's getting worse."
"What do you mean? The headaches?"
"Yes, sort of—I haven't been completely honest. The spider that bit me. The DNA. It's... changing things. Changing me." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "It started with the headaches but it's getting worse. My senses get overloaded, and now I keep—fuck I can't stop thinking about you. Can't focus on anything else. I know where you are every second. I can hear your heartbeat from three blocks away. I know when you're scared, when you're happy, when you're—" He cut himself off. "It's not normal. It's not... human."
Your heart was pounding now. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying it wants to—" His voice dropped to something almost guttural. "I want to touch you. Mark you. Claim you. Make you mine. And I know that's fucked up. I know I sound like a psycho, we're just... friends, but I can't—I can't make it stop."
The words lingered in your head for a moment.
Mark you. Claim you. Touch you.
To anyone else, such words would cause fear or at least a sense of being uncomfortable. But you didn't feel any of that. Instead, you suddenly felt too warm, heat pooling deep inside you. And something else. Something that felt like recognition.
Mine.
That word specifically rang through you like a bell. Like an echo of something you'd heard before.
"That's..." You swallowed, and you saw the way he clenched his fists even harder at the sight. "Alright. Okay. And what if... what if I want that too?"
His head snapped up. "You don't know what you're saying."
"Yes, I do." You took another step forward. "I've had a crush on you for six years. You think I'm going to run away now?"
"This isn't—" He backed up until he hit the wall. "This isn't some romantic fantasy. I'm barely holding on here. If I touch you, I don't know if I can stop."
"Then don't stop."
"Fuck." The word was punched out of him. "You can't—you can't just say things like that."
"Why not?" You were right in front of him now. Close enough to touch. "I'm an adult. You're—however old you are—"
"Twenty-one," he said hoarsely. "Same as you. I'm—we're the same age."
Something about the way he said it made your chest ache. We're the same age. Like it was important. Like it meant something.
"Then we're both adults. And I'm telling you I want this. I want you." You placed your hand on his chest, felt his heart racing beneath the suit. "Whatever this is, whatever you need—I'm saying yes."
For a moment, he didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Then his hand came up to cover yours, pressing it harder against his chest. "You have no idea what you're agreeing to."
But his thumb was stroking across your knuckles in a pattern that felt familiar. Soothing. Like he'd done it a thousand times before.
"So show me."
The last thread of his control snapped.
He moved faster than you could track, spinning you around and slamming you face-first against the wall. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs—not enough to hurt, but enough to make your heart race. His body was a solid line of heat against your back, one hand splayed possessively across your stomach, the other braced beside your head, caging you in.
"Last chance," he growled against your ear, and his voice was all wrong—too deep, too rough, barely human. "Tell me to leave. Tell me to stop. Because if you don't, I'm going to fuck you until you can't remember anyone else. Until the only name you know is mine."
Your knees went weak. "Stay," you breathed. "Please stay."
"Fuck." The word was guttural. His hips pressed forward and you could feel how hard he was, the thick length of him grinding against your ass through his suit. "You have no idea what you're asking for. What I want to do to you."
"Tell me," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "Tell me what you want."
His hand slid under your shirt, fingers spreading across your bare skin, and you gasped at the contact. His palm was burning hot, almost feverish. "I want to mark every inch of you. Want to bite you, scratch you, make you bleed just a little so everyone knows you're claimed. Want to fuck you so hard you feel me for days." His other hand came up to wrap around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, a promise of control. "Want to make you scream my name until your voice breaks."
"Yes," you whispered. "Yes, all of it, whatever you need—"
"Jesus Christ." Suddenly his voice changed. It went higher—the voice you had learned to know over the past month. The hand on your throat jerked away like you'd burned him. "Wait, wait, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—that's too much, that's way too much, I shouldn't have—"
You turned in his arms to face him. Even through the mask you could sense his panic. "Hey. Look at me. I want this. I want you. All of you, including whatever this is. I want to help you in any way I can."
"You don't understand." His hands were shaking. "I could hurt you. I'm so much stronger than I used to be and I can't—when I get like this I can barely think and—"
"Then we need a safeword," you said firmly. "Something I can say if it's too much. If I need you to stop."
He went very still. "You... you'd do that?"
"Red," you replied. "If I say red, you stop immediately. No questions, no hesitation. Okay?"
"Okay." His voice was rough. "Okay, yes. Red means stop. I can do that. I will do that." His hands came up to frame your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a gentleness that contradicted everything he'd just said. "Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure you want this? We've never really—I mean have you ever done anything like this?"
You went still this time. You knew you'd had sex before, but the only real memory you had was a random hookup with a guy in your freshman year of college. It had felt wrong, almost as if something inside you knew you shouldn't have done it. But you couldn't remember any other experiences, despite a lingering feeling inside of you telling you that you had done it countless times.
"I don't think so," you finally answered. You reached up to cover his hands with yours. "But that doesn't matter, I've never been more sure of anything. I want to help you—to do whatever I can. You've saved my life multiple times, maybe this time I can save yours."
The way he touched you then—gentle, reverent, like you were something precious—made your chest ache with a longing you couldn't name.
The sound he made was barely human—a low, possessive growl that vibrated through your entire body. "Mine," he breathed. "You're mine. You've always been—" He caught himself. "You're mine."
"Yours," you agreed. "Now stop holding back. Take what you need."
He kissed you the moment you said it.
Somehow, the lower half of his mask had shifted before you could even register it, leaving his mouth and chin exposed. His mouth found yours with a desperation that stole the breath from your lungs—not gentle, not tentative, his lips moving against yours like he was trying to remember something. Like he was starving for it. You made a sound against his mouth and felt him shudder in response, his hands coming up to frame your face with a gentleness that didn't match the intensity of the kiss at all.
Then he pulled back just enough to breathe.
"Off," you managed. Your fingers had moved to the fabric of his suit. "Can you—get this off?"
"Yeah." His hands were already moving to the spider emblem at his chest, pressing something that made the suit loosen all at once, peeling away from his torso. He shrugged it down to his waist. "Is this—"
"Yes," you cut him off. "I want to see you."
You'd imagined it, of course. With six years of fantasizing about Spider-Man, you couldn't not have imagined what he looked like under the suit. Everyone had imagined it. But imagining and seeing were two entirely different things. He was extraordinary—not necessarily in a photoshopped, magazine-cover way, but in the way of something built for a specific purpose.
Every line of him was functional, precise. His shoulders were broad, his chest defined, his stomach a ladder of muscle that flexed with each breath he took. Scars scattered across his torso in pale constellations—healed clean but numerous, evidence of everything he'd survived.
You reached out and ran your palms up his arms. He went impossibly still under your hands, like touch was something he'd been holding his breath for. His muscles jumped under your fingers.
Then something changed.
It wasn't gradual. One moment he was watching you with barely-restrained control, the next his hands were on your shirt and the fabric gave way with a sound like tearing paper—not a slow rip but an immediate, total destruction. The shirt fell from your body in two pieces before you'd fully registered his hands had moved. The cool air rushed over your bare skin and you felt your heart stutter.
He was looking at you.
The silence stretched for three full seconds.
"You're perfect," he said, and his voice cracked down the middle. "God. I've—" He stopped. Swallowed. Something moved across his expression. Despite the mask still covering half his face, you could tell. Something complicated and aching. "You're beautiful. That's all."
Before you could ask what he'd almost said, his hands were on you again.
His palms slid up your sides with a pressure that wasn't quite bruising but wasn't gentle either, and when they cupped your breasts the touch was firm and certain and made you gasp. His mouth dropped to your neck immediately, kissing down the column of your throat with an intensity that felt desperate, his lips and chin warm against your skin—the only parts of his face you could feel. His teeth grazed your collarbone and you tilted your head back on instinct.
His mouth moved lower.
When his mouth closed around your nipple, you expected warmth, suction, the usual mechanics of it. Instead his teeth sank in with sudden, sharp force and the pain that shot through your breast was immediate and bright and it made you cry out before you could stop yourself.
He didn't pull back. He bit harder.
The sound you made surprised you both. Not a protest—something more complicated than that. The pain was radiating through your chest, throbbing, and underneath it something else was building that you didn't have a name for. Heat. A low, spreading ache between your thighs that had nothing to do with pain. You could feel yourself getting wet and the realization disoriented you.
He moved to your other breast and this time you knew what was coming. You braced for it—but bracing didn't help your extremely sensitive skin. The sharp clench of his teeth made your back arch and your fingers fly to his head, gripping the back of his mask.
"You like this," he suddenly said against your skin, and his voice had gone low and certain. "You like when I hurt you."
"I don't—" You were breathing far too hard. "I don't know. It's—I've never—"
His thumb and finger found your abused nipple and pinched, and the word you'd been about to say dissolved entirely. You squirmed against him, your thighs pressed together, and he made a sound that wasn't quite human.
He moved you. Not a suggestion—a fact. His hands gripped your waist and he walked you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of your mattress and you fell. He followed you down before you'd finished falling, his body covering yours with a weight that was extraordinary. Not crushing—controlled—but you became quickly aware that this was not the weight of a normal person. This was something else. Something that knew its own strength and was managing it carefully.
His hips settled between your thighs as if they belonged there. Naturally. Without adjustment.
You could feel him through the remaining material of his suit—how hard he was, the length of him, and the slow grind of his hips against yours made your breath escape in an embarrassing rush.
"I remember—" His mouth was at your jaw, your throat, his voice barely above a murmur. "I remember the sounds you make when I—" He went still. His whole body locked. "Fuck. I'm sorry. I don't know why I keep—"
"Keep what?" You breathed. "What do you mean you remember?"
"Nothing," he responded tightly. "I just—you're so responsive. I mean—can I keep going?"
"Yeah—don't—" You took a deep breath. "Don't stop."
He made a low sound and moved down your body, his mouth dragging over your sternum, your stomach, your hip, each spot left with a mark. His hands hooked into your shorts and underwear together and yanked, and the motion was so effortless it startled you. One smooth pull and they were gone, somewhere on the floor behind him, and suddenly your thighs were exposed to the cool air.
He parted them with both hands.
You felt suddenly, completely exposed. The dark eyepieces of his mask caught the low light and for a moment you felt the full weight of the strange position you'd gotten yourself into. Spider-Man, the hero of your city, and your celebrity crush, was in your bedroom, his hands on the insides of your thighs—
His mouth found you and thought dissolved.
The first stroke of his tongue pulled a sound from you that you'd never made before. Long and slow and devastating, and you grabbed for his head on instinct, your fingers finding the edge of his mask and gripping. A desperate sound left him then, and he moved his tongue again, and you couldn't breathe.
There was no hesitation in him. No searching, no adjustment, no learning curve. He moved like he was reading from a map—tongue circling, pressure shifting, finding the exact angle and rhythm that made your thighs shake within seconds. When he sealed his mouth around your clit and sucked, you cried out loud enough that you distantly registered the embarrassment of it and immediately stopped caring.
"I've dreamed about this," he said, muffled, his voice thick with something that sounded like grief and want tangled together. "Every night. The way you sound. The way you—" A sharp exhale against your skin. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be talking."
"What do you mean you've dreamed—" But then his fingers pressed at your entrance and pushed inside and you lost the question.
Two fingers. Thick and stretching and immediate. He curled them as he thrust and found the spot that made your toes curl hard, and his mouth was still on your clit, and the combination was—
"Oh God," you gasped. "Oh—"
He worked you with the same focused, already-knowing precision, his fingers finding the right angle like muscle memory, his tongue in that specific rhythm that climbed you toward the edge faster than you'd thought possible. Your thighs were shaking so hard it would be embarrassing if you weren't so lost in the pleasure. Your free hand was fisted in the bedsheet.
"Say my name," he murmured against you, and his voice broke on it. "Please, I just—" Then, quietly: "Never mind. Just let me make you feel good."
"I don't—" The pressure was almost unbearable, the finish line right there. "I don't know your name—"
"I know." His voice was wrecked. "I know you don't."
His fingers drove deeper and his tongue pressed flat against your clit, and suddenly you were crossing that finish line, cumming with a cry that scraped your throat, your thighs clenching around his head. Pleasure crashed through you in waves, and he worked you through every second of it. Every aftershock, every clench, until you were pushing weakly at his head, oversensitive and shaking.
He pulled back.
"Red?"
"No," you said, your breath ragged. "Not red. Just—I need a second."
His hands stroked the outsides of your thighs, slow and gentle. The contrast with everything that had come before was dizzying.
"Take your time," he mumbled softly. Something moved into his voice—something quieter and more careful than the dark thing that had been there before. "I used to love watching you come down from it. The way you'd go all soft and—" His voice caught. "Fuck. I'm sorry. I keep—"
"Kept doing that," you said. "You keep saying things like that."
"I know." He pressed a single, careful kiss to the inside of your knee. "I know I do."
You looked down at him—at the mask, at the exposed lower half of his face, at the tension in the set of his jaw.
"I want you," you admitted. "I still want you. Don't stop."
He made a sound like something wound too tight finally giving way.
His hands went to the suit at his hips, working it down, and then he was free and you subconsciously held your breath at the sight of his cock. He was bigger than you'd prepared yourself for—thick and flushed and already leaking with pre-cum—and the nervousness that moved through your chest was real.
"Is this—" His voice cracked. "I could get a condom, I think—"
"IUD," you managed. "And I'm clean. I don't really do this."
"I know," he said, and then froze. "I mean—the spider bite, it makes me clean. Immune to most things. But if you want me to use one anyway—"
"I want to feel you," you cut him off. "Just you."
"Christ." He dropped his forehead toward yours, stopping short of contact, the mask a barrier between you. "You have no idea how long I've—" He stopped. Breathed. "Tell me if it's too much. The second it's too much tell me. Promise me you will."
"I will," you agreed. "I promise."
With that, you reached between your bodies and wrapped your hand around his cock and he jolted, a rough exhale escaping him, his hips pressing forward into your grip. He was hot and very hard and pulsing. You felt the specific way his breath hitched when your thumb moved over the tip.
"Please," you mumbled.
His hand covered yours and guided himself to your entrance. Then he pushed in slowly.
The stretch was immediate and intense. You made a choked sound. He stopped.
"Too much?"
"No." You breathed through it. "Slow. Just—slow."
He did as you said, slowly. Inch by careful inch, his breathing shallow, his arms braced on either side of you holding himself above you with a rigidity that told you how hard he was working to stay controlled. You could feel the restraint like a physical thing—like pressure before a storm.
"You feel—" His voice was barely above a breath. "Perfect. God. Just like—" He caught himself. "Perfect. That's all."
When he was fully seated inside you, you both went still.
The fullness was overwhelming. Not just physically—something else, too. Something that felt disorienting and familiar all at once, like a word on the tip of your tongue you couldn't quite reach.
"Okay?" he asked.
"Yeah. Keep going," you answered.
He pulled back and thrust slowly and you made a sound that surprised you both. He did it again. The rhythm he set was deliberate and measured, each movement hitting that spot that made you practically see stars. Even holding back—even barely giving you anything—it was already more than you'd had before. Your fingers found his shoulders and held on.
"Is this good?" His voice was strained to breaking.
"Yes," you said breathlessly. "But you're still holding back."
"I know." His forehead dropped toward yours, stopped short of contact. Every line of him was coiled. "If I stop—"
"Don't." You dug your heels into the backs of his thighs and pulled him deeper and felt him shudder to his core. "Take what you need."
One of his hands shot up to your headboard.
The wood cracked.
Not bent—cracked, a sharp splitting sound, and the entire bed frame shuddered under you as his fingers closed and sank into the wood. You looked up and saw deep impressions gouged into the headboard where his knuckles had gone in, splinters peeling away from his grip like paper. His hand was shaking.
Then he moved.
The thrust drove the air from your lungs completely. Not slow, not careful—deep and sudden and overwhelming, his hips snapping forward with a force that rocked yours up off the mattress. You made a sound you could barely recognize as your own voice. He did it again before you'd recovered, and again, setting a brutal pace that was nothing like before—relentless and enormous, each movement forcing sounds from you that you couldn't contain.
The headboard cracked further. A second fracture, spiderwebbing out from where his grip had sunk in.
"Oh God," you gasped.
He didn't answer. Despite the mask, you knew he was watching your face with something that went past human—pupils blown wide and dark, tracking every flicker of expression, adjusting angle with each thrust until he found the place that made you make a sound that was completely involuntary and raw. His whole body responded, another deep shudder moving through him.
"There," he said, low and certain.
He thrust again, hitting the same place deliberately.
"There."
His voice had changed. There was nothing tentative in it anymore. Almost nothing human in it anymore.
The pain when he drove deeper was sharp and bright and knocked a cry out of you—real pain, immediate, blooming through your whole pelvis. He stilled.
"Red?" The word was ragged.
"No." Your voice was shaking. The pain was flaring, white-edged, and already beginning to dissolve into something else—something liquid and spreading and overwhelming in a completely different direction. "Not red. Don't stop."
A sound came from low in his chest. A warning. One last chance to reconsider.
Then his free hand locked around your hip.
You felt his fingers press in—really press in—and the pressure was immediate and total, deep bruising force moving through your hip bone, the kind of grip that had nothing in common with what a person was supposed to be able to do. You knew he wasn't trying to hurt you. He'd simply stopped calculating.
He moved.
This was different. This was him—whatever the deep, instinct-driven part of him was—finally off the leash, nothing held back. Each thrust rocked you hard up the bed and you grabbed the headboard above his hands on pure reflex, your own fingers finding the wood just above where he'd already destroyed it. The frame slammed against the wall in a rhythmic, structural way that suggested neither the headboard nor the wall was going to win. You could hear the cracking—low and continuous—beneath every impact.
"Mine." His mouth was at your temple, his voice a growl that vibrated through your skin. "You're mine. You've always been mine."
You clenched around him without meaning to—reflexive and overwhelmed—and the sound he made was pulled from somewhere so deep in his chest it barely sounded human. His thrusts stuttered, then redoubled.
He thrust so hard the headboard gave. Not cracked—gave, a chunk of wood breaking free with a sound like a gunshot, hitting the wall hard enough to leave a mark. You heard it distantly through the rushing in your ears.
Neither of you stopped.
His grip on your hip shifted and tightened and you felt the bruising go deeper and the heat that followed was frightening in its intensity. You'd never wanted anything like this. You'd had no idea you were capable of wanting anything like this—the force of him, the roughness, the impossible sense of being completely held down and claimed. Your body was responding in ways you were still catching up to, heat pooling low and urgent, wetter than you'd thought possible. Every thrust was edging you back toward something unbearable.
As if he could hear your thoughts, his fingers found your clit.
Immediate and precise, no adjustment, and you gasped so sharply it scraped your throat raw.
"Right here," he murmured, and it was entirely the dark voice, certain and intent. He worked tight, deliberate circles and the pressure built almost instantly—embarrassingly fast—your hips rolling into his hand against your own will.
He kept moving—deep, relentless, hitting the same place on every thrust—while his fingers worked in counterpoint, and the combination was devastating in the best way possible. You could hear yourself. The sounds you made were unfamiliar and unguarded, pulled from somewhere you hadn't known existed in you, and you couldn't stop them even if you tried.
"I'm close." You could barely speak. "I'm—"
"Cum for me." His voice was rough and urgent against your ear, his breath hot. "Please. I need to feel you. I've missed—" His rhythm fractured. A crack in the dark voice, something real bleeding through beneath it. "I've missed the way you feel around me when you cum. The sounds you make. The way you—please. Please cum for me."
"What do you mean you've missed—"
His fingers pressed harder.
The question was forgotten. Everything was forgotten.
You came with what could only be described as a scream, your whole body seizing, clenching around him so hard your vision practically went black at the edges. He groaned—broken, wrecked, desperate—and his rhythm truly stuttered for the first time.
"Fuck," he moaned.
He held there, buried deep, his forehead dropping to the crook of your neck. You could feel his heart pounding through every point of contact. His breathing was ragged and uneven. The hand still locked on the headboard had gone white-knuckled, the remaining intact section of wood groaning continuously under the pressure.
Then he pulled out and you made a sound of protest before you'd even decided to.
He flipped you onto your stomach in one motion.
Effortless. You weighed nothing to him. The repositioning took less than a second—one smooth, total movement—and he pulled your hips back toward him and pushed back inside of you and the angle was completely, devastatingly different.
You cried out into one of your pillows.
He was deeper like this than you'd thought possible. You felt him everywhere, the fullness of it making your eyes sting, your fingers clawing at the sheets.
"Like this," he said suddenly, and his voice was the dark thing now, nothing hesitant remaining in it. "I need you like this."
Both hands locked on your hips. Thumbs pressing hard into the small of your back, fingers wrapping around your hip bones, and he set a pace that was brutal and utterly relentless. With each thrust, the headboard—or at least what was left of it—hit the wall. The frame groaned beneath you in a way that told you the structural integrity of the bed itself was a question mark.
Suddenly, the remaining intact section of the headboard gave with a sound like a crack of thunder. A piece of it hit the floor. Neither of you registered it as anything worth stopping for.
It was too much. The force of him, the depth, the bruising weight of his hands, the sensation of being fully pinned and overwhelmed. Your eyes were burning and your thighs were shaking so hard you knew if he weren't holding your hips, you'd collapse. You could no longer tell where the pain ended and pleasure began because they had become the same thing, indistinguishable, braided together into something you had no prior reference for.
And you didn't want to stop.
The realization hit you almost as hard as everything else. You didn't want it to stop. You caught yourself pushing back into him, meeting his thrusts, your body having made a decision your mind was still catching up to. You had stopped bracing against it somewhere along the way and started reaching for it, and you didn't know what that meant, but you knew it was true.
"Red?" Sharp, tight, dragged out of him like it cost something.
"No," you whimpered. "Don't you dare stop. Please—please—"
One of his hands tangled in your hair and pulled your head back.
The sting at the roots was sharp, and the sound you made when it hit made him moan in response and thrust harder. His other hand came to your shoulder—not painfully, just holding, just pinning—and he was moving again with something renewed, and you were crying into the pillow you'd somehow managed to get a hold of through all of this, genuinely crying, overstimulated past any point you'd ever reached before. Your whole body was wound so tight your teeth ached with it.
"I've missed this." His voice cracked. Not the dark thing—his normal voice, young and grief-stricken and real. "Missed you. Missed—all of you. I've missed—" His pace faltered, unsteady. "I'm sorry. I can't stop saying it. I don't know why I can't stop."
"Don't be sorry," you practically sobbed. You didn't understand it. You didn't understand any of it. But the grief in his voice was doing something to your chest even as his body drove thought from your head. "Don't be sorry, just—please—"
He moaned and his hand moved from your shoulder to your clit, finding it immediately, and you were already so over-sensitized that the first touch made you convulse.
"Where?" he gasped, his pace erratic.
"Inside," you told him. "Inside—"
He drove in deep and held there, and the noise he made was broken and reverent and devastated all at once. You felt him—felt the heat of it, the pulse of him—and it crested into something that swept through you in waves so intense you stopped being able to hold yourself up. Your arms gave out and you went flat and he followed you down, still deep inside you, one hand pressed flat to the mattress beside your head.
Then his mouth found the curve of your shoulder.
A half-second where you felt only his lips—just his lips, warm and soft, and something in you registered it as tender, as familiar, as something you'd felt before.
Then his teeth closed down.
The pain was white and total and entirely separate from everything that had come before, a completely different register of sensation—sharp and breaking and real. You cried out. He bit harder, gone completely, nothing human left in the moment, and you felt the skin give and the wet heat of blood and then—
He stilled.
One second.
Two.
He released.
His whole body went slack against yours, heavy and trembling, and the sound he made against your shoulder was quiet and horrified and very, very young.
"Oh God," he whispered frantically as he pulled out of you and away from your body entirely. "Oh God. Oh god. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I hurt you, I lost control, I shouldn't have—I would never have done that, I've never—" His voice fractured entirely. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Stop—stop apologizing. I'm okay. I wanted it," you mumbled, despite the wet tears that were still escaping your eyes.
"I left marks." His voice was devastated. "I can see them. Your hips. Your—" He exhaled, broken, as if he were about to cry too. "I bit you. Oh my God, I can taste it. You're—you're bleeding."
You reached back weakly and touched your shoulder. Your fingers came away with a thin smear of red. The pain was a dull, distant throb now—present but separate, like something happening to someone else.
"I'm okay," you reassured.
"You're not," he said quietly, not arguing, just stating a fact. "I could've killed you. Oh, Y/N, I'm so sorry. Let me—let me fix this. Please."
Only then did you notice the full extent of what had happened to your room. The headboard was no longer a headboard so much as a wreck of splintered wood, one broken section lying on the floor where it had struck the wall. The bed frame had buckled beneath the mattress, which had shifted almost completely out of place. He looked from the damage to you.
"I'm fixing that," he said immediately, voice shaking. "The bed, the wall—everything. I'll fix all of it."
You felt his presence disappear for a moment, then you heard the tap run in your bathroom. The sound of it was ordinary in a way that felt surreal. No one had been in your bathroom before, not so naturally, at least. And yet, it didn't feel wrong.
When he returned, he had a warm washcloth, and he cleaned you with hands that were steady and careful and nothing like the hands that had gripped your hips almost hard enough to break the bones. As he moved the cloth over you, you hissed once and he stopped immediately.
"Sorry," he said. "I'm sorry, tell me where—"
"It's alright, really. I'm just sensitive." You looked over your shoulder and gave him a weak smile. "Keep going."
He did, and when he finished he set the cloth aside. Then he turned you gently onto your back. Even through the mask, you could feel the weight of his attention as he looked at you—really looked at you—cataloguing the marks he'd left. His expression, what you could see of it at least, was undone.
"These are going to bruise," he mumbled, his voice full of shame. His fingertips hovered over your hip bones without quite touching. "Bad."
"I know."
"And your neck, all these hickeys, they're going to be really sore."
"I know."
"You should be angry with me."
"I'm not."
He sighed, frustrated, and stood. It was then you realized he was wearing a pair of your sweatpants—the pair that you'd had forever that was far too big for you, the pair of men's sweatpants, and somehow ended up in your closet without you remembering how. You watched him cross to your bathroom again, heard the soft thud of cabinet doors. When he came back, he had the arnica gel from the top shelf of your medicine cabinet—not the bottom shelf, not the drawer under the sink. The top shelf. He'd gone straight to it without searching.
"How did you know where that was?" you asked.
He paused his movements.
"Lucky guess," he answered. But he didn't look up.
He sat on the edge of the mattress and began applying the gel to your already forming bruises with the same careful focus he'd used to clean you—tender, delicate, his thumbs moving in slow circles across your hips. His touch was so impossibly gentle now. Nothing held back in either direction.
"You've been saying things all night," you said quietly, unable to stop yourself. "That you've missed this. That you remember how I sound—how I feel. That you've dreamed about it." You watched his hands still on your skin. "What did you mean?"
He didn't respond for a long moment.
"I can't tell you yet."
"Why not?"
"Because—" His voice frayed at the edges. "Because if I tell you, everything changes. And if I tell you before you've actually... met me, before you know who I am, it won't mean the same thing. And I can't—" He pressed his lips together. "I need to not be Spider-Man when I tell you."
You hesitated for a few seconds before you weakly sat up. "Then take off the mask."
The room went very quiet.
"You sure?"
"I let you—" You gestured at the destroyed headboard, the empty space on the wall where a piece of it had struck. You gestured at the bruises that were already visible on your body, the bite mark on your shoulder. "I think there's enough trust established between us now. Take it off, if you want to."
He exhaled a long breath, his hands moving to the edge of his mask. They were shaking—visibly, the fine tremor of someone trying very hard to hold themselves together. After a few seconds that felt like hours, he pulled it off in one motion.
For a moment, your mind refused to make sense of what it was seeing.
Brown eyes. Messy curled brown hair, pressed flat from sweat and the mask and springing back unevenly. A face that your chest recognized a full second before your brain did—something clenching and lurching, some deep memory firing before the name arrived.
He smiled. Nervous and hopeful and terrified, the exact smile you had found utterly adorable.
The name came out of you like a breath.
"Peter."
And then it wasn't like remembering. It was like a wall coming down.
You remembered him all at once—not in a sequence, not carefully, but in a flood that hit every sense at the same time. The smell of his cologne. The specific warmth of his hand. The way he laughed at something stupid you said in chemistry class, ducking his head like he was trying to hide it. The day he sat next to you and said, totally unprompted, "your hypothesis is wrong but I like how you got there," and you'd thought, I'm going to like this person.
You remembered the friendship. The late study sessions. The nervous flirting because you were both fifteen, and you had no idea how romance actually worked.
You remembered him walking you home one night after studying had gone a little late. The streetlight. The way he'd been so quiet for the last block that you'd thought you'd said something wrong, and then he'd just—kissed you. Soft and clumsy and then less clumsy, his hands on your face. How he'd pulled back and looked at you with an expression like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to be this happy.
I've wanted to do that for a long time, he'd said.
You remembered the Empire State Building at night, the city spread below you, the wind cutting cold through your jacket. The way he'd been nervous about something the entire train ride and finally turned to you and said he needed to tell you something. And you'd looked at him and known—not in the way you'd guessed or theorized, but in the bone-deep way of something you'd always known and just not let yourself name.
You're Spider-Man, you'd said.
The look on his face. The absolute undoing of him.
How long have you known?
Long enough.
You remembered the first time Aunt May had let you stay the night, the awkward talk she'd given you and Peter, and the box of condoms with a strict instruction to be quiet. A year into the relationship, the two of you tangled on his narrow bed, him asking permission at every step, apologizing twice before you'd even started. You'd taken his face in your hands and said, Peter, I want this. Stop apologizing. You remembered the way he'd looked at you after—stunned, like something he'd been afraid to want had actually happened.
I love you, he'd said, in this quiet disbelieving voice. I've loved you since the day we met.
You remembered loving him back. The weight of it. How easy it had been.
It hit you then, finally. Spider-Man, Peter Parker. You had never been in love with Spider-Man, you'd been in love with the boy underneath the mask.
You remembered, and the remembering was so total it left no room for anything else.
"Oh God." Tears were already forming in your eyes again. "Peter. We were—"
"Yeah." His voice was barely audible. "We were."
"I forgot you." The tears started falling, hot and fast, and you couldn't stop them and didn't try. "I forgot all of it. How did I—how did I forget you?"
"There was a spell." He reached for you, his hands cupping your face with a care that was so familiar it made your chest ache. "To make everyone forget me. To keep everyone safe who was associated with me. Do you remember the last thing I told you?"
You thought for a moment. Mysterio revealing Peter's identity, May dying, Peter two and three, the battle, the decision to erase Peter Parker so no more villains would come after him. His last words to you:
I'll come find you when the time is right. I promise. I love you so much, it'll all be okay.
A sob escaped you and you did the only thing you could think of, finally, after four years. You pulled him into a tight embrace, your arms wrapped around his neck, your face buried in his chest as your tears continued to fall.
"Oh, Peter," you cried.
He was crying too, you could feel the wetness of his tears falling into your hair. "And I really am so sorry about tonight. I would never have—the way I was tonight, I've never—that's not me. That's not how I ever—"
"I know," you cut him off. "I know it's your DNA, you said so earlier. It's okay, Peter. I promise. You did scare me for a second, yeah." And you saw the flash of shame instantly show on his face. "But you checked with me. You gave me a way to stop you. You stopped when you realized I was actually hurt. You're still you. That's still you."
"I made you bleed Y/N."
"I know." You pulled back to look him in the eye, and the sight of him crying made your chest ache. "And I'm telling you I'm okay now. I chose the intensity. I chose to keep going. The bite was different—but you stopped, and you're taking care of me now." You held his gaze. "You're still the same person. You're just dealing with something new. Something hard. And we'll figure it out together, like we always did."
For a long moment he just looked at you. Then something gave way in him—a sound that was barely a sound at all, grief and relief pressed into the same exhale—and he pulled you back into his arms.
"I love you," he said into your hair. "I've loved you this whole time. I've been watching you not know me and I—" His voice gave out. "I love you so much."
"I love you too," you replied, and it was true in the way that the oldest things are true—not discovered but remembered, like something that had been waiting in you the whole time, untouched by the spell because it was too deep for a spell to reach. "I never stopped. I just forgot."
You pulled back just far enough to find his mouth and kissed him slowly, the way you remembered—soft and unhurried, the specific warmth of him, the way he sighed against your lips like every time was still something he couldn't believe he was allowed to have.
This. This was the Peter you'd remembered. The one who was careful with you. Who apologized too much and asked permission and held you like you were something worth being gentle with.
You kissed him again. And again. Relearning the shape of his mouth, the way he tilted his head, the small sound he made when you bit his lower lip softly and felt him smile against your teeth.
"We have a lot to talk about," you said finally, forehead pressed to his.
"Yeah," he agreed. His hands were moving through your hair, slow and careful. "We do."
"Not tonight though."
"Not tonight."
Tonight there was only this—his arms around you, the weight of him, the soft press of his mouth against your temple. The rest of it could wait. The spell, the DNA, the years of missing him without knowing why. All of it could wait until morning.
Except.
"I expect a whole new bed frame from you by the way," you mumbled as the two of you laid beneath your sheets, engulfed in each other's arms.
He made that awkward sound he always used to before responding. "Yeah, of course. First thing I'll go get tomorrow morning."
the concept of a whole explanation and a love declaration not being enough to jog MJ's memories but a dorky handshake and a Single Glance At A Big Brown Eye was enough for Ned and Bruce to remember lmao
genuinely the most comic book spider-man movie of all time, they even recreated the punisher spider-man cover of civil war, he feels like he jumped straight out of the pages. some people might be bugged by seeing other marvel characters in a spider-man movie but he is almost never alone in the comics, there is always a team up or a small panel of at least one character. this feels like a love letter to comics new york, a city that's so full it's impossible to not run into your coworkers.
also the fact that they got him moving like insomniac spider-man was the cherry on top. they combined every version of him to make the best spider-man movie oat (my opinion).
i grew up with tom's spider-man and i couldn't be more proud or in love with a movie. this was everything I've ever wanted.
