#spider-man x reader

[reareaotaku]

Just watched brand new day and I want to write Yandere Peter Parker/Spider-Man but I don’t have any ideas

Please send something interesting please; I’m not really finding anything good on search 😭😭😭

[scariffs]

hate that part of the writing process where you're obsessed w ur own idea so u just lwk go crazy over it but it's not like anyone knows what's up so i just feel crazy and alone like oh my goodness... anyways for mj x mj's gf!reader x peter, which shld reader be based off of (reader won't be named or anything but will have certain traits)

comics mj

wants to be an actress, theater major + film studies minor

more outgoing than movie mj but has somewhat of a snarky/gossipy/petty streak that pairs well with her girlfriend's cynical humor

baddie baddie shot o'clock what can i say, also prob sleeps over ned & mj's place a lot, vaguely a 3rd roommate bc she loves her gf that much

gwen stacy (specifically a spiderwoman interp)

nerd, more similar to mj tbh, majored in biochem

would love to have her just starting to get powers somehow idgaf and peter's like "god i hate my ex-gf's gf but i have to help her with these powers" i think it wld be interesting

possibility for freaky spider stuff lwk dont shoot me

black cat felicia hardy

peter sees her & is like "wait i've seen that smirk before. wait on god ive seen that fucking smirk before".

"stay away from her" vs "i was about to tell you the same thing, spidey"

turns out she stole something very dear to spiderman on accident. whoops! she's not returning it. she also gives "im becoming a 3rd roommate" vibes and gifts mj SO much stolen shit knowing mj lwk (highkey) wldnt fw it if she knew... "baby i-- yes i stole it, i stole it for you--" and when she gets put in the doghouse (cathouse?) she's soooo fucking whiny and pouty about it

[greenwillowss]

Part 5 Fandom: Spider-Man: No Way Home / Brand New Day AU Mature Warnings: Yandere/obsessive behavior, stalking, memory erasure, kidnapping, touch starvation, psychological manipulation, dark themes, possessive behavior, morally gray protagonist.

Two weeks after Marcus got hurt, you noticed a change.

Marcus had been your closest friend for years. He worked at the diner with you, covered your shifts when you were sick, and always made you laugh. When he sprained his ankle, you brought him soup and helped him with groceries.

But after that, you heard from him less and less.

You would text him. He would not reply for days. You would call him. He would let it ring out. When you finally got him on the phone, his voice sounded distant, tired.

"Hey, sorry I have been busy," you said one evening. "I feel like I have not talked to you in forever."

"Yeah, things have been crazy." He paused. "Look,I have been meaning to tell you something."

"What is it?"

"I think I need some space."

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. "What? Why?"

"I do not know how to explain it." Marcus sighed. "Every time I talk to you lately, I feel... off. Like something is draining me. I do not know if it is you or me or what, but I need a break."

"Marcus, that does not make sense. We have been friends for years."

"I know. I am sorry. I just need time."

He hung up.

You stared at the phone, your hands shaking. Something was wrong.

You tried to call another friend. No answer.

You tried to text a coworker. The message would not send.

You called Peter. He answered on the second ring.

"Hey. Are you okay?"

"Everyone is pulling away from me," you choked out. "Marcus just said he needs space. Nobody is answering my calls. I feel like I am going crazy."

He arrived within minutes.

Peter wrapped his arms around you the moment he stepped inside. "Shh," he murmured. "I have you. I have you."

"It is like I am losing everyone," you sobbed.

"Nothing is happening." His voice was calm, soothing. "They were not right for you. They never were."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean they did not understand you like I do." He cupped your face in his hands. "They did not see you like I see you."

His eyes were dark, intense.

"Peter..."

"I am sorry." He blinked, and the intensity faded. "I just hate seeing you upset."

Your job ended three days later.

The manager called you into his office. "I am sorry, but we have to let you go. Customer complaints have been piling up. Nothing specific, just a pattern of unease."

"What complaints?"

"People say you seem distracted. Disconnected." He slid a piece of paper across the desk. "One customer left a written complaint. Anonymous."

You stared at the paper. The handwriting was neat, precise, almost mechanical. It described your interactions in unsettling detail, exact times, exact words.

You felt sick.

The night after you lost your job, you got a text from Marcus.

Hey, sorry I have been distant. I have been feeling really weird lately... I do not know how to explain it. I think I need to leave the city for a while. Do not worry about me.

You tried to call him. The call went straight to voicemail.

You never heard from him again.

You called Peter.

"I do not understand what is happening to me," you whispered into the phone.

"Nothing is happening." His voice was gentle. "You are just overwhelmed. You lost your job. Your friends are going through their own things. It is not about you."

"It feels like it is about me."

"It is not." He paused. "Come stay with me for a few days. Just until things settle down. I have a spare room. You can rest, clear your head."

You hesitated. Something felt wrong. But you were so tired, so lonely, so desperate for someone to hold onto.

"Okay," you said finally.

[greenwillowss]

part 4 Fandom: Spider-Man: No Way Home / Brand New Day AU Mature Warnings: Yandere/obsessive behavior, stalking, memory erasure, kidnapping, touch starvation, psychological manipulation, dark themes, possessive behavior, morally gray protagonist.

"You look tired," Peter said, setting down his coffee cup.

You forced a smile. "Long shift. Marcus is out with a sprained ankle, so I have been covering extra tables."

"I heard about that." Peter's voice was soft, sympathetic. "That is unfortunate. He seemed like a nice guy."

"He is. He is a good friend."

Peter nodded slowly, his eyes studying your face. There was something in his gaze that was almost tender, almost caring. It made your chest ache in a way you could not explain.

"You should take care of yourself," he said. "You cannot help anyone if you are exhausted."

"I know." You sighed, running a hand through your hair. "I just feel like I have been off lately. Like I forgot something important, but I cannot remember what."

Peter's expression flickered. For a split second, something dark passed through his eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by that gentle, understanding smile.

"Memory is strange," he said quietly. "Sometimes we lose things without realizing we lost them. But that does not mean they are gone forever."

"What do you mean?"

He shrugged, a casual gesture. "Just that the mind is a complicated place. Sometimes the feelings stay even when the memories fade."

You frowned. "That does not make sense."

"Maybe not." He took another sip of his coffee. "But I think it is true. I think the heart remembers what the mind forgets."

You stared at him for a long moment. There was something in his words that resonated with you, something that made your eyes sting with unshed tears.

"Why do you keep coming here?" you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop it.

Peter looked at you, and for a moment, his mask cracked. You saw something raw underneath, something desperate and hungry and achingly lonely.

"Because I like being around you," he said simply. "You make me feel less alone."

The words hit you like a wave. You opened your mouth to respond, but a customer called for your attention, and the moment shattered.

"I should go," you said, already backing away.

Peter nodded. "I will be here."

He was there the next day.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

Peter Parker became a constant in your life, a familiar face in the blur of your routine. He would arrive in the afternoon, order a coffee, and sit in the same booth by the window, watching you work with a quiet, patient intensity.

Sometimes he would talk to you. Ask about your day. Share stories about his photography work. He was funny, in a self-deprecating way, and he had a gentle charm that made you feel safe.

But sometimes he would just sit there, sipping his coffee, saying nothing at all. And you would catch him looking at you with an expression that made your skin prickle, even as your heart warmed.

He is just lonely, you told yourself. He is just a lonely boy who likes having someone to talk to.

You told yourself that a lot.

[dontaskwhowroteit]

Don’t Make Me Go Home

Wc: 4k

Pairing: Peter Parker x Female Reader

Synopsis:Peter hates going home to an empty apartment.

So he starts staying at yours longer. Movie nights turn into sleepovers. Sleepovers turn into him showing up after patrol without asking.

He always has an excuse.

“It’s late.”

“I’m tired.”

“Can I stay just tonight?”

Eventually, you tell him he needs to go home.

Peter goes quiet.

He looks around your apartment before quietly asking—

“I thought this was home.”

Warnings: Needy Dark! Peter, emotional dependency, loneliness, possessiveness, attachment issues, Dub con , Smut,( 18+ MDI) , Kidnapping, Emotional Manipulation, Dead doves don’t eat , jealousy, obsessive behavior, Yandere, dark romance, post-No Way Home angst.

————————————————————————

"Do you think the capacitors in this thing are actually shot, or is it just the wiring?"

The question hung in the air of the cramped dorm adjacent workshop, where the scent of ozone and solder mingled with the stale aroma of overpriced espresso. Peter was hunched over a disassembled motherboard, his fingers calloused and scarred from a thousand unseen collisions trembling slightly as he probed a circuit with a multimeter. He looked younger when he was focused, the intensity in his eyes shifting from the heavy burden of a city's protector to the frantic curiosity of a twenty one year old student trying to pass Advanced Electromagnetics. The workshop was a chaotic sanctuary of stripped copper wires and discarded heat sinks, a place where the logic of physics provided the only certainty in a life that had become an exercise in erasure.

"Definitely the wiring," you replied, leaning over his shoulder. You pointed to a frayed connection where the insulation had melted into a blackened glob, looking less like a circuit and more like a burnt piece of charcoal. "You oversteered the voltage on the primary coil. You're lucky you didn't blow the whole bench."

Peter blinked, his focus snapping from the board to you. For a second, the intensity vanished, replaced by that soft, crooked smile that always seemed to be reserved for the moments when the mask was truly off. He let out a huff of a laugh, leaning back in the swivel chair that groaned under his weight. "I was trying to optimize the pulse. I thought if I could just push the current a little harder, the response time would drop."

"Optimization is just a fancy word for 'I wanted to see if it would explode,'" you teased, reaching for the soldering iron.

You had met Peter during your sophomore year in a crowded lecture hall where the air felt thick with the collective anxiety of two hundred students. He had been the quiet one in the back, always wearing oversized hoodies that seemed to swallow his frame, sketching complex geometric patterns in the margins of his notebook. At first, you were just the person who lent him a pen or shared a glance of mutual exhaustion during a three-hour lab. But as the semesters blurred, you noticed the gaps in his life the way he’d mention a memory of a home that no longer existed, or the haunting silence that followed whenever he spoke about his family. He moved through the campus like a ghost, an expert at blending into the background, yet possessing a gravity that drew you in. He wasn't just shy; he was adrift, a man who had mastered the art of being alone in a room full of people.

The progression had been slow, a series of shared coffees and late night study sessions that eventually bled into something more intimate. You became the anchor he didn't know he needed. You were the only one who noticed when his eyes grew hollow from a night of "studying" (which you eventually realized was patrolling the city in spandex), and he was the only one who truly listened when you rambled about your own niche passions. He began to treat your presence like a lifeline, a steady frequency in a world of static. The loneliness he carried wasn't a loud, screaming thing; it was a quiet, persistent hunger, and your apartment with its warmth and the smell of cinnamon candles became the only place where he felt he could actually breathe without permission.

"You're always taking care of me," Peter murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he watched you fix the connection he’d botched. He wasn't looking at the circuit anymore; he was looking at the way your hair fell over your shoulder, his gaze lingering with a focused, almost hungry intensity.

"Get used to it," you laughed, though the warmth in your chest felt like a physical weight. You stepped back, the circuit finally humming with a steady, clean light, and for a moment, the two of you just existed in the golden glow of the workshop.

The months that followed were a blur of exhilarating firsts. Dating Peter felt like discovering a hidden language; there were late night calls that stretched into the early hours of the morning, where he would describe the way the city looked from the top of the Chrysler Building, his voice a low, soothing vibration over the line. He would tell you about the small things the way a street performer in Queens played a song that reminded him of a childhood memory he couldn't quite name, or the absurdity of fighting a man in a rhinoceros suit on a Tuesday. You became the keeper of his secrets, the one person who knew exactly how he liked his tea and which specific bruise on his ribs was acting up after a rough night. He was devoted, almost frighteningly so, treating every date like a sacred ritual and every touch like he was memorizing the texture of your skin.

But as the honeymoon phase stretched on, the devotion began to warp. The warmth that once felt like a sanctuary started to feel like a perimeter. It started with the questions not the curious, gentle inquiries of a boyfriend, but a relentless, systematic cataloging of your day. He didn't just want to know how your classes went; he wanted to know who you sat next to, why you had stayed ten minutes late after the lecture, and why a particular classmate had texted you a joke at 3:00 PM. He wouldn’t yell; he would just tilt his head, his eyes wide and searching, his voice soft and wounded. "I just worry about you," he'd murmur, his hand gripping your wrist just a little too tightly. "The city isn't safe. I just need to know where you are."

Then came the "surprises." You’d wake up to find your phone on the nightstand, the screen dark, but you'd notice a new app installed a location sharing software you didn't remember downloading. When you questioned him, he’d laugh that awkward, boyish laugh and tell you he just wanted to be able to find you if you ever got lost, his thumb grazing your cheek in a way that felt more like a claim than a caress. He started showing up at your workplace before you were even off the clock, leaning against the wall with a crooked smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He was always there, a constant, looming presence that made the rest of the world feel small and unnecessary.

The oddities transitioned from digital to physical with a seamless, unsettling fluidity. You’d find your favorite snacks stocked in the pantry before you even knew you were craving them, the bags placed with mathematical precision. Your wardrobe began to shift; you’d find your less-flattering dresses missing from their hangers, replaced by softer, more inviting fabrics that Peter had "thought you'd love," the tags still crisp and new. He began curated your surroundings, rearranging your bookshelves by color or subject without being asked, as if he were sculpting a version of your life that suited his vision of comfort. When you complained that you couldn't find your chemistry textbook, he didn't just tell you where it was; he had already highlighted the sections he thought you'd struggle with, his neat, precise handwriting filling the margins like a silent guide.

The tension peaked on a Friday when a group of classmates invited you to a rooftop mixer a loud, crowded celebration of the semester's end. Peter hadn't been invited, but he didn't seem to mind, promising he had "things to take care of" and encouraging you to go. Yet, throughout the night, your phone buzzed with a rhythmic persistence. Who are you talking to? Is the music too loud? Do you want me to come get you? Each text arrived seconds after you’d mentioned a detail to a friend, as if he were listening through the very air. By the time you returned home, exhausted and smelling of cheap punch and city smog, you felt a strange sense of relief to find him waiting in the dark, the only light in the apartment coming from the soft, blue flicker of the television.

"I thought we could just do something quiet," he whispered, pulling you into a hug that felt less like a greeting and more like a reclamation. He had already set up the movie night popcorn in a bowl, the lights dimmed to a cinematic gloom, and a romantic comedy queued up that you’d mentioned wanting to see months ago. For two hours, you tried to sink into the rhythm of the evening, leaning against his chest, but you couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Even as he kissed your temple, his eyes weren't on the screen; they were scanning the room, tracking the way you shifted in your sleep, ensuring you didn't drift too far from his reach.

As the credits rolled, a sudden wave of claustrophobia hit you. The apartment felt smaller than usual, the air thick with his scent and his silent, heavy needs. You gently disentangled yourself from his arms, stepping toward the kitchen to clear the bowls. "It's getting late, Peter," you said, your voice sounding thin in the silence. "You should probably head home. You have that early lab on Monday."

The reaction was instantaneous. Peter didn't move; he froze, his body turning rigid as if you had physically struck him. The warmth that had radiated from him moments ago vanished, replaced by a cold, sudden void. He didn't argue or snap; he simply went quiet, his gaze dropping to the floor. He began to gather his things with a mechanical slowness, his movements devoid of their usual grace. He picked up his phone, his jacket, and his keys, but as he reached the door, he stopped. His hand hovered over the knob, but he didn't turn it.

"I don't want to," he murmured, his voice barely audible. He turned back to look at you, and the expression on his face was devastating a mixture of raw longing and a desperation that bordered on something predatory. "I can't go back there. It's so quiet, and it's so empty, and the only thing that makes the silence stop is being here. With you." He stepped closer, his space invading yours, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. "Please. Just let me stay. I can't face the silence tonight."

"Stay," you whispered, the word barely a breath. You didn't see the way his pupils dilated, swallowing the iris until his eyes were two bottomless wells of hunger.

Peter didn't just move toward you; he surged, his movements blurring with a speed that defied human physics. One moment he was five feet away, and the next, his chest was flushing against yours, pinning you against the cool surface of the kitchen counter. He was wearing a charcoal-grey oversized hoodie that smelled of rain and ozone, the fabric soft but the grip of his arms around your waist like iron bands. You were in grey slacks and a matching tank top , that felt suddenly too fragile, too exposed under the intensity of his gaze. The contrast was stark: the delicate silk of your skin pressed against the rugged, utilitarian cotton of his clothes.

The air shifted, the silence no longer peaceful but heavy, as if the oxygen had been sucked out of the room to make space for his desperation. Peter didn't pull away; instead, his grip tightened, his fingers digging into you , anchoring you to him with a strength that reminded you he could lift a city bus if he wanted to. When you tried to shift, to create even an inch of breathing room, his arms locked, pinning you firmly against the granite counter. It wasn't a hug anymore; it was a hold.

"Peter, you're hurting me a little," you whispered, your voice trembling.

Peter didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look surprised that he was squeezing too hard; he just looked focused, as if he were calculating the exact amount of pressure required to keep you from drifting away. A strange, distant light flickered in his eyes a cocktail of love and a terrifyingly singular purpose.

"I know," he murmured, his voice devoid of its usual tremor. "But if you leave, you might realize you don't need me. And I can't let that happen."

Before you could process the shift in his tone, his hand moved with a blurring speed, reaching into the hidden pocket of his hoodie. You caught a glimpse of a small, pressurized canister something he’d whipped up in the lab, a concentrated sedative derived from his own synthetic pheromones and neurotoxins. He didn't shake it; he just pressed the nozzle against the pulse point of your neck. A sharp, cold hiss echoed in the quiet kitchen, and a mist of colorless vapor bloomed against your skin.

"So sorry," he whispered, his lips brushing your ear, "but this is for your own good."

The first thing you noticed was the ceiling. It wasn’t the familiar, slightly cracked plaster of your bedroom with the water stain in the corner that looked vaguely like a cloud; this was a seamless, industrial concrete expanse, painted a sterile, muted grey. You tried to sit up, but your limbs felt like they were made of lead, a heavy, humming lethargy clinging to your muscles. As your vision cleared, you realized you weren't in your bed. You were lying on a massive, plush mattress that smelled overwhelmingly of Peter cedarwood, expensive electronics, and that sharp, ozone tang of his web-fluid.

You looked around the room. It was a sanctuary of high tech minimalism, a penthouse fortress where the floor to ceiling windows overlooked a New York City that felt miles away, separated by reinforced glass. This wasn't your apartment; this was his. He had simply moved the center of your world to his own.

The door clicked open, and Peter stepped in, carrying a tray of breakfast. He looked radiant, the haunted hollows beneath his eyes replaced by a terrifyingly serene glow. He didn't ask if you were okay; he simply sat on the edge of the bed and pressed a warm kiss to your forehead. When you tried to pull away, his hand slid to the nape of your neck, his thumb tracing your jawline with a possessiveness that felt like a brand. Then, he leaned in, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was slow, deep, and demanding. It was a dizzying blur of affection and control, a sensory overload that tried to convince you that this this cage was actually a homecoming.

As the haze of the sedative finally lifted, a cold spark of panic flared in your chest. You pushed back, your voice raspy. "Peter, what is this? Why am I here? I... I need to go home."

Peter’s smile didn't fade, but it didn't reach his eyes. He reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch light, almost ghostly. "Home is wherever I am now," he murmured. "The city is too dangerous, the noise is too loud. Here, I can keep you perfect. I can make sure nothing ever hurts you again."

"I can't just live in a penthouse because you're worried!" you snapped, though the fight felt fragile. "What happens if I just... if I try to leave? Right now?"

He paused, his gaze drifting to the reinforced glass of the window, where the city looked like a miniature model. "You could try," he said softly, his voice devoid of any threat, which somehow made it worse. "But I’ve already thought of everything. I know the route you take to work, the exact timing of the light on 4th Street. I know your mother’s shift schedule at the hospital, which pharmacy she uses for her blood pressure medication, the brand of tea you buy when you're stressed." He leaned in, his breath warm against your cheek. "The world is so small, and I know every single piece of it that touches you. Why would you want to go back to a place where you're so... unprotected?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He surged forward, his body pinning you back into the plush depths of the mattress. The kiss was different this time urgent and hungry, tasting of desperation and a terrifying kind of love. It was a blurring of boundaries, a slow slide into a reality where your consent was something he had decided for you. As his hands slid under the silk of your dress, your mind screamed for the exit, but your body betrayed you, leaning into the familiar warmth of the only person who had ever truly seen you. You felt the heavy, rhythmic thrum of his heart against yours, a steady beat that sounded like a promise and a prison.

The next few days bled into a surreal routine of luxury and surveillance. He curated every second of your existence. He brought you clothes silks and cashmeres that felt like costumes and prepared meals that were perfectly tailored to your tastes, as if he were feeding a prized pet. He was the perfect partner: attentive, doting, and utterly suffocating. He would spend hours brushing your hair or reading to you, his touch a constant, grounding presence that slowly began to overwrite the panic of the first forty eight hours. The terror didn't disappear; it just settled into a dull ache, a background noise that you learned to ignore in favor of the way he looked at you like you were the only star in a dead sky.

You began to find yourself waiting for the sound of his footsteps, craving the moment he would return from some unseen duty to wrap his arms around you. It was a slow, insidious erosion of your will. You started to forget the smell of your own apartment and the sound of your own doorbell. You started to see the penthouse not as a cage, but as a sanctuary where the chaos of the world couldn't reach you. When he kissed you, you didn't push him away; you clung to him, terrified that if you stopped, you would realize how truly alone you were in this glass tower.

"Who is this, Peter?"

You asked the question softly, your voice barely a ripple in the heavy silence of the bedroom. You were draped across his lap like a discarded ribbon, your head resting on his chest as he scrolled through his iPhone. The screen cast a ghostly blue pallor over his face, illuminating the sharp line of his jaw. You had caught a glimpse of the screen a series of frantic, unanswered messages from Ned Leeds and a string of biting, suspicious inquiries from MJ. They were asking where he was, why he’d gone radio silent, and why he had stopped responding to their group chats. More unsettlingly, you saw a shared location screen; they were pinging his phone, their dots hovering in a frantic, circling dance around the neighborhood, as if they were trying to scent a trail he had intentionally erased.

Peter didn't look up. His thumb slid over the glass, silencing a new notification with a clinical precision. "Just noise," he murmured, his voice a low, soothing vibration against your ear. "People who think they know what's best for me. They don't understand, do they? They don't understand that this is the only place where everything finally makes sense." He shifted, his grip on your waist tightening, pulling you flush against him. He didn't tell them you were there. He didn't tell them that the girl they were worried about had been absorbed into his private orbit. To the world, Peter Parker was simply absent; to you, he was the only thing left in existence.

The transition from the day's quietude to the night's intensity was always seamless, a slide into a territory where the boundaries of your will became blurred. As the light in the room dimmed to a deep, bruised purple, Peter’s attention shifted from the phone to the curve of your throat. He began to kiss you with a feverish urgency, his hands mapping your body as if he were reclaiming a territory he feared might be stolen. There was a moment a sharp, sudden flicker of hesitation where you tried to shift your weight, a subconscious attempt to create a pocket of space. You weren't fighting him, not really, but your body was remembering a version of yourself that had a say in when and how this happened.

The hesitation in your muscles was a whisper, but to Peter, it was a siren. He didn’t stop; he simply adapted, his strength shifting from the crushing pressure of a hold to a slow, methodical persistence. He moved over you with a fluid, predatory grace, his weight a warm anchor that pinned you into the silk sheets. Every touch was a calculation the way his calloused thumb traced the line of your hip, the way his breath hitched against the sensitive skin of your collarbone designed to dismantle your resistance before you even knew you were resisting. He wasn't just seeking pleasure; he was seeking a total surrender, a synchronization of your heartbeat to his own.

When he finally entered you, it wasn't with the tentative gentleness of the boy who used to blush at a touch of your hand in the lab. It was a reclamation. He groaned low in his throat, a sound of raw, aching relief, as if the act of merging with you was the only thing keeping him from shattering into a million pieces. He moved with a rhythmic, relentless intensity, his eyes locked on yours, searching for the exact moment your pupils dilated and your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie. He wanted to see the moment you stopped thinking about the door, the phone, and the life he had systematically erased.

friction became a searing, rhythmic heat that drowned out every lingering thought of the world outside. Peter’s breathing was a ragged symphony of desperation, his voice dropping to a gravelly, possessive whisper that vibrated against your skin. "You're mine," he groaned, the words raw and stripped of any hesitation. "Tell me you're mine. Tell me you don't want to be anywhere else."

He shifted his angle, the movement blurring with an intensity that left you breathless. As he surged deeper, the sheer intensity of his release began to build, and you felt the hot, slick evidence of his arousal thick and oozing leaking against your thighs, a viscous seal that bound you to him. He was a crimson red blur of exertion and obsession, his face flushed with a frantic, hungry energy. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low, dirty rumble that sent shivers down your spine. "Look at how much you want this. How much you want *me*."

"I'm yours," you gasped, the words breaking as a white hot wave of pleasure crashed through you. Your back arched, the silk sheets bunching beneath your shoulder blades as you surrendered the last remnants of your autonomy to the rhythm of his body. You felt exposed, a raw nerve of sensation, your breasts heaving against his chest, the tips aching and sensitive where his skin grazed them. You were open to him in every sense, your body slick and weeping, the heavy, viscous heat of his release mingling with your own as you leaked around him, a messy, shimmering evidence of the collision.

You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, pulling him deeper, your nails digging into the muscle of his back. The dirty, breathless sounds of your own voice surprised you the way you begged him to not stop, the way you whispered things that would have made the girl you were a week ago flush with shame. You weren't just accepting the pleasure; you were consuming it, meeting his obsession with a hunger that matched his own. As the peak hit, you felt him shudder violently, a low, guttural sound escaping his throat as he collapsed against you, his weight a crushing, comforting blanket.

For several minutes, the only sound in the room was the synchronized, ragged gasping of two sets of lungs. Peter stayed buried inside you, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes closed as he drifted in the afterglow of a total, terrifyingly complete union. He was shaking not from effort, but from the sheer emotional intensity of the moment. He looked smaller now, the predatory edge softened by a fragile, needy desperation.

You felt a strange, floating lightness in your chest. You knew the logic of the situation; you knew the locks were reinforced and your phone was gone. But as you looked at the way he clung to you, as if you were the only solid thing in a shifting universe, the anger felt distant, like a radio station losing its signal. You reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the stubble prickle against your skin.

"You're thinking about the door again," Peter whispered, his voice barely a ripple in the silence. He hadn't moved, his weight still pinning you into the mattress, but his eyes had opened. The predatory hunger had receded, leaving behind a wide eyed, searching vulnerability. He wasn't looking at your face; he was looking at the way your gaze had drifted toward the heavy oak door of the bedroom.

"I'm not," you lied, your voice sounding small even to your own ears. You felt the slick, drying heat of him between your thighs, a physical reminder of the boundary he had blurred and then erased. "It's just... Peter, this isn't how it's supposed to be. The way we started, the late-night study sessions, the way you used to ask if you could stay... it was about choice. This is just... a script you've written for me."

Peter shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at you. He reached out, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip with a tenderness that felt almost cruel given the circumstances. "Choice is a luxury for people who have nothing to lose," he murmured, his gaze intensifying. "I spent years being the ghost in the room, the boy who could be replaced by a different set of grades or a better set of jokes. But with you, the silence actually stopped. When I'm with you, the noise in my head the guilt, the loss, the constant screaming of a city that needs me to be a hero it all just... fades. You're not a script. You're the only thing that's actually real."

"But you're killing the part of me that makes me ," you whispered, a single tear escaping and tracking a path toward your temple. "If I can't leave, if I can't choose to stay, then I'm not your partner, Peter. I'm just another thing you're protecting. Like a piece of equipment or a trophy."

Peter didn’t flinch at the word trophy. Instead, he leaned down, his lips brushing the tear from your cheek with a slow, deliberate suction that felt less like a comfort and more like he was drinking in your sorrow. He didn't offer an apology or a key to the door; instead, he shifted his weight, his body molding to yours with a seamless, terrifying precision. He began to kiss the bridge of your nose, your eyelids, the soft dip of your philtrum, treating your face like a map he was memorizing for the thousandth time. It was a silent answer: he didn’t want a partner who could walk away; he wanted a constant, an anchor that he could weld to his side.

The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the hum of the penthouse’s climate control and the rhythmic thrum of his heart against your ribs. You felt the last flickers of your indignation begin to cool, dampened by the sheer, overwhelming scale of his need. He didn't argue with your logic because he didn't recognize it as valid; in his world, the only logic that mattered was the physical proximity of your skin to his. He began to murmur against your neck, a low, buzzing litany of everything he loved about you the way you frowned when you were thinking, the specific pitch of your laugh, the way you smelled of vanilla and old library books.

He eventually pulled away, but only far enough to look you in the eyes. The vulnerability was back, that wide-eyed, puppy-like longing that had always been his most effective weapon. He reached for a silk robe on the nightstand and draped it over your shoulders, his fingers lingering on the knot of the fabric. He was treating you with a tenderness that felt like a reward for your submission, a soft gold star for the way you had stopped fighting the current.

"I know you're sad," he whispered, his voice dripping with a sincerity that made your heart ache despite your brain's warnings. "But the sadness will fade. Eventually, you'll realize that the world out there doesn't deserve you. They don't see you the way I do. They don't know how to protect you." He kissed your forehead one last time, a lingering, proprietary press of his lips that felt like a seal on a contract you had never signed.

He stood up, the muscles in his back rippling under the dim light, and walked toward the door. For a fleeting second, you thought he might actually leave it unlocked, or perhaps hand you the key he kept tucked into the waistband of his trousers. You watched him, your breath hitching, your fingers clutching the silk of the robe. But Peter didn't reach for the lock. He simply glanced back at you, his expression serene, almost triumphant.

A muffled chime echoed from the foyer the distinct sound of the building's secure delivery portal signaling a visitor. Peter’s face lit up with a genuine, boyish warmth, the kind of smile that belonged to the Peter Parker who used to stumble through your doorway with a nervous grin and a handful of textbooks. He leaned over and pressed a final, lingering kiss to your temple, his eyes shimmering with a terrifyingly pure contentment.

“Pizza’s here!” Peter beamed, the words popping with a lightness that felt jarring against the backdrop of your captivity. He looked entirely too cheerful, his expression shifting instantly from the possessive intensity of the bedroom to the boyish enthusiasm of a college student. It was as if he had simply flipped a switch, compartmentalizing the horror of the situation into a neat little drawer labeled Necessary Logistics.

[80sfilmclub]

A JOURNALIST'S (LACK OF) INTEGRITY.

summary. desperate to make it ahead (and establish yourself as an actual journalist) at the daily bugle, you tell your boss that you scored an exclusive interview with spider-man when you definitely did not. while you scramble to make good on your lie, peter parker hears your plight. content warnings. BRAND NEW DAY SPOILERS !! this takes place right after the events of the movie. fluff and comedy. reader's definitely based on lois lane, i can't lie... (BND!peter parker x journalist!reader.) word count. 3.6k

You bite back a hiss when your quick steps up the front to the Daily Bugle has the coffee tray jostling in your hand, droplets spilling out to burn your knuckles. Swallowing down a string of expletives, you just hold the tray out to avoid anymore getting onto your blouse.

You place a cup on the receptionist's desk. "Morning, Betty—" you call over your shoulder as you drag the heavy door towards you, slipping through before it shuts. You're quick, a hurricane of efficiency as you glide through the open space desks and cubicles of The Daily Bugle to drop off the good coffee. Ever since the coffee machine had oozed its final shitty drop, you — the intern — had been placed on coffee duty.

It's grueling and demeaning — you had been editor in chief for ESU's collegiate newspaper, for fuck's sake! Your pride is shot every time Jameson turns you aside to give some old money hotshot undergrad a chance just to kiss ass to his daddy. But you're resilient and stubborn to a fault; you won't be pushed aside easily.

Like right now, you toss the brown coffee tray with terrifying aim and bring the largest cup to Jameson's desk as your way in. "Good morning, I got your usual."

He puffs on a cigar, the end lighting up amber as a sickly trail of smoke clouds around his head. You fight the urge to wince. "Good. Now get out."

"Wait, Mr. Jameson—"

The man lets out a low huff but he looks away from his computer screen enough to spare you a glance. You don't waste a second.

"I wanted to ask if I could take over for Eddie's workload for the weekend? I know he's away for—"

J.J. Jameson lets out a cackle of a laugh. It isn't malicious, it's genuine amusement and you don't know if that's worse. "Absolutely not, kid. Stick to the coffee runs, see if the actual writers here need help—"

"I landed a Spider-man interview."

Now that gets his attention, a shark sniffing blood in the water as your boss' eyes gleam with potential prey. Meanwhile, you force your spine to stiffen, live with the lie you just spouted.

"Really," Jameson questions anyway. "We're no friend to Spider-man, why would he say yes?"

To you, he must be latching onto the lie but still possessing enough sense to be careful not to piss off the one person who might be telling the truth. A Spidey interview is a rarity in and of itself for any journalist working at the Bugle — even moreso after the hero's closest brush to death just a couple weeks ago. Spider-man hasn't been seen much since his little show at the hospital window, only patrolling for NYPD and calling it in before disappearing.

You force yourself to shrug. "I don't know. He saved me the other day, asked if he could do an interview. The guy said yes and y'know…" you awkwardly mimicked that web-thwipping movement, "… swung away. Didn't ask why."

Your boss' eyes narrow but he nods. "Fine. We'll give you a slot for the next issue. Don't deliver and you're fired."

The smile you give him is effortless. "You got it, boss."

•┈┈┈••✦

Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

Jameson had let you leave early to work on that interview, to prep questions away from the chaos of the bullpen, a reprieve that any journalist may wholly welcome but a death sentence to you. You jostle your papers and notes as you rush down the streets of New York, barely muttering apologies to everyone you bump into as your impractical kitten heels click against the gummy sidewalks.

Your shoulder shoves the door open to your favorite deli, the bell ringing above your head. Shoving the scraps of paper and notes into your leather bag, you huff and lean against the counter with a pathetic groan. The man behind it gives you a loud, booming laugh.

"Don't fuckin' laugh, I had the worst day," you warn as you jab a finger at Delmar who raises his hands in playful surrender. "Gimme my usual."

"You got it, boss," Delmar chuckles as he watches you drop your head pathetically against the counter with a low thud, your whines muffled by the glass. "Wanna talk about it, sweetheart?"

"Told Jameson I got an interview with New York's finest."

"No shit? You got an interview with Spider-man?"

A rustling could be heard behind you, a man coughing into his coffee cup. You pay it no mind. "Of course I didn't—! That's the problem! I lied 'cause this is the one time Jameson saw me as more than a coffee grunt. God, I'm screwed…"

Another flurry of movement before the bell above the door rings. You finally glance over your shoulder, see a glimpse of a backpack and the back of some curly hair. "Here you go, kid." Delmar hands you a wrapped package, smelling of your favorite. "On the house, yeah? Just for today. Maybe if you're lucky, Spidey'll save your lying ass for an interview."

"I might just walk into traffic for it."

"Har har— you're kiddin' right?"

•┈┈┈••✦

Fortunately for you, you didn't have to walk into the busy streets of the city to get everyone's favorite webhead's attention. No, all it took was a burst fire hydrant, damaged in a three car pile-up. The metal debris had been heading straight towards your head if it hadn't been for Spider-man sweeping you off your feet. Literally.

He had moved so quickly; one minute you hear the sound of burst metal, the hub of the hydrant flying straight to you, and the next, you're tucked into the nylon spandex embrace of Spider-man and swinging between the buildings of New York.

Your stomach drops with gravity while your body catapults forward, ripping out a terrified shriek as your limbs lock around Spider-man. Your face is immediately tucked into his neck with a string of 'ohmygodohmygodohmygod—' each time he releases a web to swing forward.

"Hey, you're fine, I gotcha," he promises and that familiar Queens cadence soothes your raw nerves as you feel the slight jolt of his landing. Your eyes are still shut, legs hook around his waist and arms around his neck like a frozen koala. He gently pats your thigh. "You okay, miss?"

You crack an eye open to find yourself on an abandoned rooftop, safely away from the edge. The view that greets you nearly takes your breath away. It isn't until you realize that you're still wrapped around Spider-man that you quickly let go, nearly toppling onto your ass if it hadn't been for his gloved hands gripping your waist. "Sorry—!" You squeak out.

"Whoa, whoa— hey!" Spider-man reaches out for your waist when you try to step out of his space, keeping you from slipping into the puddle just a few paces behind. "You alright?"

His hands hover for a moment as you find your balance. When you give a nod, he steps away, watches your hands swipe down your coat before attempting to fix your windswept hair.

You're pretty.

The thought nearly runs him down and he hops away from your space to crouch upon the edge of the rooftop, hands resting between his knees. Spider-like, Frank had commented with a slight drawl of disgust. He blinks behind his HUD as he watches you try to take account of your items in your pocket, heart stuttering in his chest when you glance up to meet his eyes.

"Your heartrate is abnormally high," EV's robotic voice (that's been veering towards maternal lately) breaks through the silence and Peter nearly falls over in his rush to turn around.

"EV, shush—!" He mutters as he pats the side of his head, a physical attempt to literally silence the voices in his mask.

Your giggle breaks through his mutterings and he looks over his shoulder to see you, hiding a smile behind your hand. "Funny, is your AI assistant supposed to be heard through the suit?"

"Not really, only when I'm swinging. Wind gets pretty loud," he shrugs as he attempts nonchalance. Thank god you can't see the flush creeping up his cheeks.

He notices your finger twitch towards the small device peeking out of your pocket. Before he can focus on it, discern exactly what it is, you're pulling it out and crossing the distance on the roof to stand in front of him.

"Can I interview you?"

You have a recorder in your hand, a hopeful smile dancing upon your lips. His phone beeps in his pocket and he digs into the hidden, sewn pocket of his suit to pull it out. A robbery just a few blocks away. He sees your gaze drop to his phone, sees the way your face falls.

"How about we set up an appointment?" He says instead, puts his phone away and cherishes the way your smile returns. "Tomorrow night?"

You nod, racing to replace your recorder with your phone to thumb it into your calendar. "Yes—! You're a literal lifesaver, Spidey. Um… where can we meet?"

He opens his arms, gestures to the space around you. "How about this rooftop?"

A blaring siren, a dog barking, two nonas arguing in rapid fire Italian… you grimace. "How about my rooftop?" You suggest instead. "My apartment building is quieter." When he nods, you're digging into your pockets again to pull out a scrap of paper (a napkin from Delmar's) and a sharpie. You bite off the cap as you walk right into his space.

Your shampoo holds a hint of vanilla, maybe a touch of cherry blossoms, and his eyes flutter shut behind the mask.

"Here," you recap the marker, tucking it behind your ear as you hand him the napkin. "My address. We can meet on the rooftop maybe… tomorrow night at 8?"

Peter's nodding, tucks the napkin in the same hidden pocket where his phone lives. "I'll be there." He turns and climbs the ledge of the roof, raising his wrist to expel a sturdy web that attaches itself to a building across the street. Before he grasps with both hands, he turns to you. "What newspaper do you work for again?"

"Daily Bugle."

•┈┈┈••✦

Although he knows he'll be seeing you again in less than twenty four hours, he can't stop thinking about you.

It's odd, to say the least, when he's spent the last four years mourning a life he never had. Letting people in had felt too easy after all that time alone, like waiting for the hammer to drop. (That horrible rooftop with MJ that night still haunts him, although he doesn't blame Jean for it — not completely, at least.)

But maybe that had been his closure, a painful chapter of his life closing to begin a brand new day. He just didn't expect to latch on to a pretty girl so quickly.

His mind continues to wander as he swings through New York, attempting to brace himself for an interview that he has no way of prepping for. The last time he let his mouth run away from him, he ruined Dr. Strange's spell. No, this time — this time he's ready to be as media-trained as he could possibly be.

Peter's worked himself up to something more competent when he finally lands on your roof but all of it flies out the window when he sees you, hair up and gnawing on the end of a pen as the light of your laptop illuminates your pretty face.

"Spider-man, your heartrate is elevated once again—" EV warns and he yelps, smacking the side of his HUD goggles. Fortunately for him, you had only caught the tail end of his undignified shout and had peeked up just in time for him to land right in front of you.

You're sitting upon a lumpy couch, something abandoned by a tenant living below, and your laptop is sitting on a wobbly coffee table that has stains he doesn't want to begin to identify. "Spidey," you smile around the pen before you gesture to the rickety lawn chair across from you. "Welcome to my office. You want something to drink?"

Beside your laptop are two coffee cups, both still steaming. "Yeah, I could use a cup," he nods. Your eyes never leave his when he lifts his mask just enough to uncover his lips.

White male. Soft lips. Slight bruising along the jaw.

Your fingers fly across the keyboard and he tugs the mask down with an uneasy chuckle. "I haven't said anything."

"I know." You slide a hand-recorder over, hit the red button. "This is me, interviewing for the Daily Bugle, with Spider-man. You ready?"

He gives a nod then startles, leaning over to make sure your device catches his voice. Thickens the accent just in case. "Ready."

You giggle and tap something on your laptop. "You don't have to lean in so much, the recorder can hear you just fine. So— let's start from the beginning. What's your name?"

He smirks behind his mask. "Spider-man."

You don't waste a second. "How long have you been a superhero?"

"'Bout a few years now?"

"Oh, so you do consider yourself to be a hero. Not a vigilante."

He sits up at the rapid—fire response. "What's your question?"

"Do you agree with what the critiques of being called a spider menace?"

"You askin' me if I agree with your boss?"

That has you pausing, tilting your head as you regard the hero in front of you. "I'm interviewing you, Spider-man, not the other way around."

He shifts where he sits but he doesn't feign casualness. "No, I don't agree with your boss. I'm just tryin' to do good, that's all."

Your eyes narrow. "You're faking an accent."

Now it's his turn to laugh incredulously. "What— no, lady, I'm a New Yorker, born and raised."

"I know you are," you wave your hand dismissively before you're leaning over to pause the recording. "You're just… exaggerating it. Interesting. Don't worry, Spidey, that'll be just for me. I'm not trying to unmask you."

"You aren't?"

"No, that's not what I'm here for. I want to know you and what you stand for. Your goals. Your code." You press the play button and the recording continues. "So. Spider-man. How did you get your powers?"

"Pass."

"Wha— That's an easy one, isn't it?" The professionalism you wear like a fitted glove nearly disappears at the sudden refusal and Peter is grateful you can't see his grin as his hand darts out to pause the recording.

"It is but that can endanger me. My identity. There's a lot of anti-enhanced and anti-mutants rhetoric going on and—" He shakes his head, reclines back in the lawn chair with a tilt of his head. "I'd rather not get into that, especially with the break-ins at the Damage Control Centers."

You hit the play button again. "Alright, let's focus on you. Why do you do what you do? Fame? Recognition? The New Avengerz are wracking up brand deals like crazy."

"What— no. No, definitely not that. Me getting famous? That defeats the whole purpose of the mask," he chuckles. "No, someone important told me that having great power comes with a great responsibility."

"Sounds like a wise person," you hum. "And is that your code then? Something you live by?"

"I just want to do good, and not just for the big planetary monsters… but for the little people. Keep my nose to the ground, be everyone's favorite neighborhood Spider-man."

"Hm." You gnaw again at the tip of your pen before you're biting the cap, scrawling a few extra notes on a notepad beside you. You hold up the paper: QUEENS?

He chuckles. "Yeah, sure. I'll give that to you."

It doesn't narrow it down, Queens is the largest borough. "Anything you want to say? Something you've always wanted to share with the world?"

"Just… do good. Be good, you know? Look out for your neighbors," he shrugs. "Maybe leave out a churro for your favorite webhead once in awhile."

You laugh quietly to yourself and tuck the pen behind your ear. "I think I got some good stuff, thanks." After turning off the recording, you pocket the device and finish writing up a few notes on your laptop. "Do you think I can bother you for another interview someday?"

"Yeah— Yeah, I think you can. Already looking for a promotion?"

"Absolutely. Would it be too much of an ask if I could go exclusive—"

"Are you asking me out?"

You can't see his face but you'd bet everything in your bank account that he's probably smirking under there. Unfortunately for you, you don't have the luxury of a mask to disguise the blush that creeps up your neck and cheeks. "Exclusive interviews, webhead. Not— Not dating. I don't date."

"That's good. Neither do I," he shrugs before he gets to his feet, stretches to at least make himself feel as cool as he's hoping he's coming off as. "But… sure. Exclusive interviews for my favorite journalist."

"Still an intern. Technically."

"Hopefully that'll change after this interview." He flicks his wrist, a thick web attaching itself to the building beside yours. "See you 'round."

You nod and give an awkward wave that has both of you chuckling. "See you later, Spider-man."

•┈┈┈••✦

The bass has the walls pounding, a playlist that Ned's perfected in his final year at MIT and something that has MJ retreating to another room just to get a break. Regardless, it draws in a crowd larger than the original people they've invited, guests spilling out into the hallways and congregating near the kitchen for refills.

Peter wanders through the crowd, takes the cup from a stranger, and nods his head at MJ who gives him a half-smile. It's almost nice, learning how to be friends with the two most important people in his life. While neither of them have made any allusions to their life before the spell, no one has a rush to bring back those memories.

Ned's surrounded by guests but he manages to break away enough to greet Peter with their handshake. Right as they clap their hands onto each other's back, his friend perks up and waves at someone over his shoulder.

"Hey, you made it!"

"Barely. Jameson tried to get me to skew Spidey's answers but he finally approved my final draft," you huff. Peter freezes and when he looks over his shoulder, it's to see you.

You're dressed in casual office wear, dark circles hanging beneath your eyes but nonetheless pretty. That same damn pen is still sitting behind your ear. "Hi. Who's this?"

"I'm Peter," he manages to say, offering his hand. You give your own name, shake his hand, and pluck a cup from the counter, pour yourself a drink before taking a swig. He realizes he's staring, he knows this, but he can't help but drink you in. "You're… a journalist?"

"Now I am." Your smile is beatific and the cheers from Ned and the few guys that linger are just background noise. "Jameson finally promoted me. No more coffee runs, thank god."

"Congratulations," he smiles and clinks your plastic red cups together.

The music bleeds through the conversation, an easy wave to surf along as you and Peter migrate over to the open window. You lean against it, grateful for the cool breeze that soothes your heating skin. Your cup is long empty now but you don't let go, refusing to break this flow of conversation with this new guy that's completely stolen your attention.

"Careful—" Peter's hand shoots out to grip your waist when you nearly lose your balance, tipping out of the window and onto the fire escape. You hold onto his bicep to steady yourself. "You alright?"

"Yeah, yeah. Shit, I've been talking about myself the whole night," you laugh as you tip your head back against the window. "Tell me about you. What do you do?"

"I'm… a consultant."

You bite back a smirk. "That sounds like a nicer way of saying you're unemployed, Peter."

"Ah, well. I make do. Little jobs here and there," he shrugs. His own cup is empty but he'd rather eat the damn thing than interrupt whatever flow he has going on with you. When was the last time since he had actually engaged in a conversation?

"The Daily Bugle has a photographer position that just opened up." You can feel his eyes snap to you but you keep yours fixed on the view outside, maintaining a nonchalant exterior that's fooling nobody. "If you want, I can put in a good word for you."

"You'd do that for me?"

"Sure. A favorite hero of mine said to look out for your neighbor, so… that's what I'm doing. Don't make me regret this, Parker, I'm sticking my neck out for you." Despite your gruff tone, he catches the shine in your eye and the smile you're fighting to hide behind the rim of your red solo cup.

"No, no, I'll be good," he grins before his phone beeps. Much to your chagrin, Peter starts to rise, picking up some trash in his vicinity. "Didn't know Spider-man was your favorite hero, though. You gave me more of a Daredevil follower."

Your eyes roll, knock back the rest of your shitty beer until your brain rewinds the last of his reply. Your mind is racing as he starts to meander through the waning crowds but before you could stop him, the door shuts.

"Holy shit."

Ned takes up Peter's spot, hands you a water bottle while you dig into his pocket to lift another sharkfire energy. At least he has the good sense to not fight you on it this time around. "What's up?"

You shake your head, your eyes fixed on the door that Peter had just closed behind him. Ned turns his head, wondering what you're staring at.. "I… I think I know who Spider-man is."

•┈┈┈••✦

thank you for readinggg! this was my first time writing for peter, i hope i did him justice! let me know if you'd like to see more of him or if you want more of bnd!peter x journalist!reader !!

[pasukiyo]

TIED UP!

spiderman/peter parker x female silk!reader warnings: SMUT! reader is silk but not cindy moon, p in v sex, technically unprotected sex, some violence in the beginning, SPIDER-SENSES! some romantic tension word count: 2k summary: turns out peter parker doesn't really have any respect for boundaries. nor do you.

 Great. 

 She’s in the middle of fighting a pack of thugs and she’s horny. Like, unbelievably, maddeningly, insatiably horny.

 Don’t get it twisted: she may enjoy kicking the asses of a few street-level lowlifes more than she probably should, but not to this extent. She never felt like this before she started changing. 

 To be fair, it wasn’t always like this with Peter. Sure, he’s cute. Sure, he’s so dorky that it’s actually really charming. Sure, he looks really good in literally anything he wears. But she never felt like this, like a damn dog in heat, until their arachnid DNA started changing. Evolving. 

 Her hunger for Peter Parker has grown insatiable ever since. They can’t be within a three mile radius of one another without wanting to tear the other’s suit in half just to get themselves off. It’s irritating, a little frightening, and so inconvenient. Especially when she’s, you know, actually trying to do some good by ridding the streets of a few bad guys. 

 Her ringtone blares from her earpiece and she groans, knowing exactly who’s calling. One of the thugs flicks his wrist and tendrils of blue electricity crackle from his baton. 

 “Woah, it’s so big. And long,” she taunts. “What ever am I to do with such a thing?”

 The man sneers and sprints forward. She accepts Peter’s call, huffing. 

 “This is so irritating, P,” she exhales as she springs into action: threads of silk spring from her fingertips, latching onto the handle of the baton. She leaps into the air, tugging back on the strings, throwing the baton back into the man as she comes back down. “I’m busy.”

 “I hear that,” Peter replies. “And please for the love of God, I thought we agreed you wouldn’t call me P anymore. I’d rather not be called a bodily fluid if at all possible.”

 Another guy comes at her. She jumps backwards, landing sideways on the building to her right and springing off the brick. She locks her legs around his neck and spins, taking him down face-first into the pavement. 

 “And I thought we agreed we wouldn’t get near each other while we were working.” 

 A guy a few paces ahead of her fires a round of gunshots towards her face and she flips backwards, bullets whisking by her stomach. Peter calls her name and asks if everything’s alright in her earpiece, but she presses her lips together in focus, firing a web at the man’s face, and another at his weapon, swiftly disarming him. 

 “God, I think guns have gotta be my least favorite weapon,” she says, webbing the handgun out of reach on the side of a building. “So noisy. And messy. Among many other things.”

 “Don’t ever repeat that to Frank,” Peter says in her ear. 

 She scoffs as she runs forward, using the guy’s chest as leverage to flip backwards, shooting a web at his chest to pull her forward, just enough momentum to knock him out with a punch. She exhales as she touches the ground, peering around at the fallen bodies surrounding her. 

 “And drugs have gotta be one of my most disliked criminal activities,” she says. “Like top five. Or…”

 “Bottom five?” 

 “However that works.”

 A small moment of silence ensues. She cards her fingers through her hair before resting her hands on her hips, drawing in a breath of fresh air. 

 “Well, there’s my cardio for the day,” she sighs, cracking her neck.

 Peter huffs on the other end. “I hope you don’t mean that. I’ve been so worked up for the past, like, well…five minutes.”

 She feels the tug at her core again. He’s close. 

 She clears her throat. “Yeah? Well, who set that system up, Pete?”

 “Look, I swear I didn’t mean to get near you or anything. I was in the neighborhood, you know, friendly neighborhood-ing, and then I…”

 He trails off and she hears footsteps behind her so she turns to find him standing there in his full suit, phone in one hand, the other waving awkwardly at her. 

 “…just ended up here.”

 The desire in the pit of her belly for him makes her ache. It’s like a serpentine of flame coiling up the length of her spine, setting her chest ablaze, consuming her with its heat. Her stomach rumbles with an animalistic hunger she still hasn’t been able to control. Her spider-senses pierce every inch of her insides: her skull, her chest, her belly, her core. 

 Their DNA is like a magnet and metal, like the core of the earth and gravity. Her feet step towards him before she can even register that she’s moving. 

 Peter meets her halfway. 

 She shoves her mask off her nose as Peter rips off his, just in time for their mouths to seal over one another. His palms are impossibly warm against her back and she wraps her arms around his neck with more strength than necessary. 

 But it is. Her spider-senses are overloaded, and she can’t get enough of Peter Parker, and no amount—or rather, lack of amount—of distance away from him is enough to satisfy her. She doesn’t even think crawling inside of him would sate her. 

 Their tongues swirl around the other with impeccable force. Her hands dance in his hair, fingers gripping fistfuls of tendrils of brown curls. His hips buck into hers and she moans into his mouth, grinding hers back against him. 

 “Damn it Pete,” she mewls as he kisses down the column of her neck, his tongue swirling over her skin. “Here I was thinking I’d ended the day as a good, law-abiding citizen. Now I’m committing public indecency in the middle of NYC.”

 Peter huffs amusedly, his kisses trailing back up her throat, lips wrapping around her chin as he licks mindlessly at her jaw. “Then I guess we’d better go up.”

 He outstretches an arm above his head and a web fires from his wrist, sticking to the top of the building to their right. Her mouth finds his again as he slings them to the roof and when they land, she pushes him down to the cement, rolling on top of him. 

 “Always forget you’ve joined the organic webs club,” she chuckles as she works his suit off of him, kissing down his chest. “How’s it feel?”

 Peter moans beneath her as she kisses around the tent in his underwear, completely pulling off his suit. 

 “God,” he groans. “Don’t ask me that right now.”

 She laughs as she sits up, working her own suit off her body. Peter pulls himself up to help, kissing her arms, elbows, collarbone, anywhere he can get his lips on. His hands are on her breasts in an instant, his mouth around her nipple just as fast, tongue swirling around it over and over again. Her head tips back, hands back on his skull to shove his face even closer to her chest. 

 “Touch me,” she pants, bucking her hips against him. “It hurts.”

 And it does. Her need for Peter feels just as essential as breath in her lungs, or blood in her veins. Her ache for him is so vast, it truly feels like she’d die if she went even a second without touching him. 

 “I know, I know. It hurts me too. I’m sorry, let me give you what you need, I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his mouth hovering over her other nipple, his hand cupping her mound. “Let me give you what you need.”

 Her head dips back again and she blinks into the dark abyss of night overhead. When the pads of his middle and forefinger brush her clit, she screws her eyelids closed, mouth falling agape in a loud moan. 

 “Oh my god, Peter,” she mewls, grinding her hips down onto his fingers, desperate for more friction. 

 “I know,” he coos, kissing back up to her face, pressing his mouth to her cheek, the side of her nose, her eyelid. “You’re so pretty when you moan like that for me. You’re so, so, so pretty.”

 “Peter,” she moans again, digging her nails deep enough into his shoulders to leave marks. “Don’t… don’t say things like that.”

 He kisses her eyelid again and nudges her chin with his, urging her to open her eyes. When she does, she finds two dark pools of soil staring back at her, his brow dark and creased with lust. 

 “Why not?” He asks, working two of his fingers into her hole, thumbing at her clit. She hisses between her teeth but moans at the pleasure, rolling her hips down into his digits. 

 “Because.”

 “Because why?”

 She cuts her eyes at him, though it’s hard to maintain her glare when he’s adding a third finger to the mix, pumping and curling them inside of her. 

 “I said it because it’s true, you know” Peter says when she fails to reply. “Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

 “You’re just saying that,” she replies, heart pounding as she lifts herself up and down over his fingers. Peter shakes his head, rolling his forehead against hers, their sweat making their skin cling to one another. 

 “Nuh-uh.”

 “Mhm,” she hums, sinking her teeth so far down into her bottom lip, she can taste iron. “S’ just the pheromones talking.”

 He shakes his head again. “Always thought it. Would’ve always thought it with… fuck… with or without radioactive spider bites and DNA or…fuuuuuuucking… pheromones.”

 Her heart pulses in her chest and her mind swirls, storing that sentiment somewhere in the back of it for later. For now, all she wants is to feel him, more of him, inside of her. 

 “Just…” His fingers are practically digging her orgasm out of her. Her bones quake, muscles taut, her body acting of its own accord. “…fuck fuck fuck. Stop and just fuck me already.”

 It’s like he thought she’d never ask. 

 He moves so quickly, she hardly even registers the time between him pulling his fingers out of her pussy and shoving his cock in. She lets out a startled scream and tightens her arms around his shoulders as he pumps himself inside of her. His mouth crashes back into hers, swallowing her sounds as he bucks his hips furiously up into hers. 

 She’s already coming undone. And it’s still not enough, at least not until he unravels inside her. 

 Her senses are bursting. Every single one of them is full of Peter. She literally can’t even think a thought that doesn’t have to do with him. Each thrust is like a needle through thread, and it’s like he’s weaving his way into the fabric of her existence, becoming a part of her. It’s so bad that threads of silk are literally unraveling from her fingertips, swirling around them, tying them to one another. It’s so bad that she thinks he’s doing the same. 

 “Oh god, oh shit, you’re so fucking hot, I can’t…” Peter squeezes his eyes shut, pistoning his hips harder up into her and she feels his cock twitch inside her. “You’re coming so much, I’m gonna…”

 “Give it to me, Peter,” she moans, cupping the back of his skull, drawing him in for another kiss. “I need it so bad. Just give it to me baby…”

 He mouths pathetically at hers, whimpering as his thrusts become sloppier and sloppier until he’s finally spilling inside of her. Her back arches, though there isn’t much give to the webs they’ve both spun around each other. Peter’s arms are wound impossibly tight around her back, thrusting up irregularly, dick pumping hot loads of cum that warm her belly. 

 And even then, it’s not enough. 

 But for the moment, they simply hold each other, Peter still buried to the hilt inside of her, her chin resting on his shoulder. He turns his head and rests his lips on the crown of her head, the pads of his thumbs rubbing patterns into her skin. His heart beats against her chest, and hers against his and it truly feels like they’re one: more than the arachnid DNA, more than Silk and Spider-Man. Simply one, together.

 “Bit of a sticky situation we’re in,” Peter says, breaking the silence. It’s so stupid that she can’t help but to laugh, nudging his chin playfully with the top of her head. 

 “Shut up,” she chuckles. “God, you’re so corny.”

 She feels the crescent of his smile against her skin, and her heart skips several beats. 

 “Well, seeing as though we’re already a bit tied up…” 

 “You’re already in my pussy Pete. Just move, dude.”

a/n; i feel like i'm always coming back after a ridiculously long period of time with a random fic and being like "omg hey! it's been so long guys! here's this hope you enjoy!" so i'm trying not to do that again but like... it has been quite awhile lol. life has just completely blown up in my face lately and i've been working on other writing projects + managing college so i've sort of been neglecting tumblr, ao3, and fanfiction in general. BUUUUUUT i went to go see brand new day for the fourth time today and i've had a few ideas circulating my brain for awhile now so, here you go. i loooooooooove silk/cindy moon so i thought it'd be fun to do a little silk!reader and explore the dynamic with spider-man. it lowkey makes me want to work on the silk x spider-man series i abandoned on my wattpad like six years ago 😭 but anyways, i really do hope you all enjoyed this one :') i know i disappear for long periods of time from this account but i still love popping on here a couple times a week to read your comments and see all the love you've all given me over the years. it truly always makes my day 💓

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Part 3 Fandom: Spider-Man: No Way Home / Brand New Day AU Mature Warnings: Yandere/obsessive behavior, stalking, memory erasure, kidnapping, touch starvation, psychological manipulation, dark themes, possessive behavior, morally gray protagonist.

The night you walked home with Marcus, the city was quiet.

You had felt guilty about it, in a strange way. Peter had been kind to you, buying you coffee, checking on you, making sure you were okay. But you had not seen him in days, and the man in the mask had been getting more intense with his watching. You needed to feel safe, and Marcus was safe.

Marcus was your coworker at the diner. He was tall, friendly, and completely uncomplicated. He told bad jokes. He laughed at your stories. He made you feel normal, which was something you desperately needed after months of inexplicable sadness.

"Thanks for walking me home," you said as you reached your apartment building. "I know it is out of your way."

"Not at all." Marcus grinned. "I like the company. And you should not be walking alone this late. The city is weird lately."

"Tell me about it."

He touched your shoulder lightly, a friendly gesture, nothing more. "Get some rest, okay? You look tired."

"I will." You smiled. "See you tomorrow, Marcus."

"See you."

You turned, unlocked the door, and went inside. You did not look back. You did not see the way Marcus paused at the corner, glancing up at the rooftops with a puzzled expression, as if he felt something watching him.

You did not see the figure on the rooftop across the street.

He was perched on the ledge, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs. He was completely still. Completely silent. His white lenses stared down at the scene below, unblinking.

He watched Marcus touch your shoulder.

He watched you smile at Marcus.

He watched Marcus walk away, disappearing around the corner with a casual wave.

The figure did not move for a long time. He did not clench his fists. He did not narrow his eyes. He simply sat there, processing what he had seen, cataloguing the details with a methodical patience that was almost unsettling.

Touch. Smile. Laughter. Familiarity.

He tilted his head slightly, the gesture of a predator studying its prey.

Noted.

Then he was gone, a silent blur against the night sky, leaving nothing behind but the whisper of wind.

The next morning, you woke to a text from Marcus.

Hey, I know this is weird, but I fell last night and twisted my ankle pretty bad. Won't be at work for a few days. Can you tell the boss for me?

You frowned, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

Did you see a doctor?

His reply came almost instantly.

Yeah, they said it is a bad sprain. Happened right after I left your place. Tripped on nothing. Weird, right?

A cold feeling settled in your stomach.

Right after I left your place.

You stared at the text for a long time, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. You wanted to ask more questions. You wanted to ask if he saw anything, if he heard anything, if he felt anything strange.

But you did not.

Because something told you that you did not want to know the answer.

You typed instead: Get some rest. I will tell the boss.

He replied: Thanks. See you when I am back.

You set the phone down and looked out the window. The morning sun was bright. The sky was clear. The rooftops were empty.

But you could not shake the feeling that someone was still watching.

Peter showed up at the diner that afternoon.

You were surprised to see him. He had been absent for days, and you had started to think he had given up on his strange little visits. But there he was, sliding into a booth near the window, a tired smile on his face.

"Hey," you said, walking over with a menu. "I was starting to think you vanished."

"I have been around."