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Peter Parker was not a stalker.
Reconnaissance was crucial to his work as a hero. Criminals and villains could be sneaky, and sometimes the best way to get the leg up on someone was to observe. To watch. It applied to civilians too! Especially the ones nose-deep in their phones, oblivious to danger, and immersed in the sounds of New York.
Long story short–watching was a habit that Peter couldn’t seem to shake. Even when the world had forgotten him entirely, and kept turning. When the eyes that once watched him with awe and wonder shifted to blank disinterest, he never stopped watching back. Never stopped observing. It was his job. His duty to protect.
Which is exactly why he was on the fire escape, watching Stell sleep like a goddamn creep.
They were a thing. Sorta. Kinda. For the sake of his sanity and physical well-being, he tries not to think too hard about it. He’s not stupid enough to diminish whatever they had going on as a measly distraction. He wasn’t that type of person. Aunt May had raised him with so much love, had poured it into his heart until at times it felt like he was suffocating and he just had so much love to give. Ned had been his person first. Then MJ.
But things weren’t the same anymore.
“I don’t love you because I don’t even know you.”
Love was funny in its own cruel way. Peter was no stranger to mourning. No stranger to grieving things he had lost. Uncle Ben. Mr. Stark. Aunt May.
Yet, there was something different about mourning something that was still there. Alive and vibrant. Taunting him just out of his reach. It picked at those tiny pieces Peter tried so hard to hide. To shield those fragile pieces that reminded him that he was just as human as everyone else.
He was a person. Who had been seen and loved and adored.
Now he was just someone. The one you wouldn't spare a glance. Quiet and forgettable Peter Parker.
No—forgotten wasn't the right word.
He had been expunged from existence. Yet, Peter didn't care about his name erased from newspaper articles or tagged in social media captions. He didn't care about the blank space in his high school yearbook or the empty space between old classmates in the picture of the Midtown Decathlon Team.
No, Peter cared about the pictures of Aunt May beaming radiantly, standing next to someone that wasn't there. He cared about the memories that only he had of building Lego Sets with Ned and standing side by side with MJ.
He cared about the things that he took for granted. Things that were small but physical and his. Things stolen from him that he feared he'd one day forget too.
Peter was sure that his own cells that had made him what he was-who he was-had forgotten him too.
And then he met Stell.
She knew him. Bits of him. Broken fragments that he thought would no longer be seen the moment he had been erased from reality. Intricate pieces that made him vulnerable.
Which made this really, really, fucking weird.
The thing was, lately, Peter had been feeling a little iffy. Nothing too concerning. Barely even noticeable at first. In fact, a few weeks after being shot–thanks, Frank–Peter had been feeling great. The top of his game. His wrist only ached when he went too long without using his webs, and his teeth weren’t much of a problem either.
Things with Stell had been going steady. He showed up twice a week as promised—which notched up to three times a week. To four. To every day. Which was fine. Stell never minded. She seemed content to have him crawl into her bed or invade her space while on the couch. As long as he didn’t smell like outside and actually showered if he did.
Things had been fine. Great.
Except he started to think about her a lot. Not in a weird way. Just in a completely normal and perfectly healthy way. Like swinging while out on patrol, savoring the new autumn breeze and musing: Huh, I wonder what Stell is up to right now. Or getting squeezed in a crushing grip by a thankful civilian and thinking: Stell’s hugs are better.
Perfectly fine. Perfectly normal. Perfectly healthy.
Until he starts to wake up in her bed with zero recollection of how the fuck he got there.
One moment he’s falling asleep to Ned’s livestreams–now on the close friends, thank you–and the next he wakes up fifteen miles from his house, curled around Stell like a limpet and listening to the soft, steady sounds of Stell’s breathing.
Fortunately, Stell sleeps like the goddamn dead, and even when she does wake–the most she says is to make sure to use the door next time if he wanted to sneak in.
And of course, Peter laughs sheepishly and swears it wouldn’t happen again.
Except, somehow, every night when he curls up on his couch or conks out in his bed, he’d wake up with his cheek pressed against Stell’s pillow, and his nose buried in her hair. Sometimes, when he grocery shops, her favorite cereal ends up in his basket. Other times, after finishing patrol, it takes him fifteen minutes to realize that he’s been mindlessly circling her apartment instead of heading home.
It’s easier to shift the blame. First he pins it on the lack of sleep. Then, to stress from dealing with one too many villains in one week. Then a combination of all of the above.
But being around Stell just made him feel better. So, what if he sought her out? There was nothing wrong with that. A little oxytocin was good for the mind and the body.
He just wanted to be close to her.
Which is why he was here. On the fire-escape in his pajamas at two am in the morning. Fingers pressed against the windowpane long enough to gather condensation and smudge it with his handprint.
“She said I can come over anytime I wanted to,” he reminds himself. A quiet justification for the tiny part of his mind that insisted that this–this–was odd. Even for him.
He swallows dryly, fingers hooking under the window and soundlessly tugging it open. A warm breeze tickles his skin when he vaults over the sill and lands quietly on his feet.
He’s done this a dozen times before. Has seen Stell in this exact state and at ease. Yet, he couldn’t explain the way he just stares. Heart in his throat and mind almost hazy.
Pretty, he thinks. The thought comes slowly. Pouring over his mind like honeyed ooze before he finally climbs into the spot beside her and settles. He breathes her in, and his mind hums with static.
Stell stirs in her sleep, just barely, and curls an arm around him. Whatever she murmurs to him goes unheard. He breathes in again. Her scent fills his nose. Never cloying. Never permeating like the suffocating perfumes or colognes that clung to civilians.
Peter turns to press closer. Right against her collarbone. This way, he could hear the steady thump of her pulse. The rush of blood.
His teeth ache.
He just needs to–
“Peter?” Stell’s voice abruptly shatters the haze that he had slipped into. The room floods with light when she leans over to flick on her lamp, her eyebrows pinched in concern.
A cool hand settles on his forehead. “Christ, Parker, you’re burning up. Did you climb up on the fire escape again? It’s fucking freezing out there. I literally gave you a key."
He frowns. “I feel fine.”
He just needed to be close.
She makes a disapproving noise when he nuzzles into her again. Tightening his arms around her waist while tangling their legs together. “I’m sleepy.”
“Yeah, I don’t doubt it, sweetheart.” Stell murmurs. “But I think you also have a fever.”
He knows he doesn’t. Peter couldn’t get sick or catch a measly cold. His immune system was top-notch, and he just wanted to sleep. Preferably with Stell not wiggling around so much.
She tries to move and huffs when his grip doesn’t so much as break. “Seriously?”
“I feel fine,” he insists, and if he wasn’t so exhausted, he would be a bit embarrassed at the way his voice was almost a whine. “Stell.”
“Alright, alright, okay,” she says quickly, carding her fingers through his hair. The familiar act immediately pulls the tension from his body with each tug. He breathes in. Slower. Stell's scent washes over him in a slow wave. Subtle warm notes that made it difficult to concentrate. He feels warm all over.
“You smell good,” he mumbles, voice muffled against her chest. It earns him a small huff of laughter. That familiar haze clouds his mind. Except, this time, he doesn’t have the energy to fight it.
He’s out within seconds.
By morning, he feels great.
Which is weird because Peter Parker doesn’t typically wake up feeling great. He’s used to feeling like he got hit by a truck, or a bus, or a train, or all of the above, but right now he feels refreshed. Like a million bucks.
Peter inhales.
Everything hits him at once. Her skin. Her shampoo. Her bodywash.
Stell. Stell. Stell.
“Pedro.”
He’s too tired to correct her. “Hm?”
“I need to pee.”
His arms around her tug her impossibly closer. “Five more minutes.”
An elbow promptly plants itself in his gut, and Stell takes advantage of his dramatic groan to wiggle out of his hold and out of the bed.
The warmth of her disappears, leaving the sheets too cold.
His eyes snap open the minute she’s out of the room, intently focusing on the wall. Just on the other side was the bathroom door. She was less than twenty feet away.
But there’s an itch beneath his skin.
Suddenly, Peter feels too warm. His teeth ache. The sheets are too scratchy.
The itch races along his spine. Bumping across every bone and setting his nerves alight. He doesn’t need a clock to know that one minute and thirty-seven seconds have passed. Peter tosses his legs over the edge of the bed and pads down the hallway, hooking a sharp left.
The door is right there. Stell is muttering to herself under her breath, and the sound of her voice loosens the tightness that had unknowingly gripped his chest just a little.
So he waits.
The toilet flushes. The sink flicks on and then off.
The door swings open, and Stell nearly jumps out of her skin. “Jesus–”
He blinks down at her and frowns. “What?”
“What do you mean what? Why are you hovering outside my bathroom door like a goddamn creep?”
His frown deepens. “I missed you.”
Stell stares.
He stares back.
What was the big deal? What else was he supposed to do for two minutes and thirteen seconds while she was–
“Peter, baby, hey look at me.” Stell frowns thoughtfully, gripping his chin to tilt his head down towards her. “Tell me how you're feeling.”
The itch beneath his spine dissipates in an instant, and he sighs in relief. His head drops to rest against her shoulder, and he lasts a whopping total of three seconds before his teeth graze against the hollow of her throat.
“I feel fine.” He insists. Though, deep down, he knew something was a little off. He didn't have the courage to say that the short distance between them felt like miles. Like valleys and mountains between them. That every second she was away felt like hours of agony. That when she was gone, in that moment, it felt as if someone curled their fist around his heart and squeezed.
Huh.
Something may or may not be wrong.
“I think I need to go,” Peter says slowly, clarity jolting him into alertness. This was weird. He was being weird. Really, really weird.
He ignores that sensation that returns with a furious vengeance when he reluctantly steps back. Ignores the painfully confused look on Stell's face when he determinedly marches to her window because fuck the front door.
Should stay close to her. She might need help. She might need my protection. She—
“Peter, wait a second—”
“I'll text you later.” He promises quickly, nearly tripping over his feet and braining himself on the coffee table. He didn't want to go. He didn't want to be away from her. Every muscle, every cell, every fiber of his being despised the mere thought of distance between them.
The air is too warm when he climbs out onto the fire escape. He can hear the sound of Stell on his heels, but he forces himself to scale down the side of the fire escape with another half-assed excuse and promise shouted over his shoulder.
He needed to figure out what the hell was going on.
“The results of your body scan show a surge of hormones related to your arachnid DNA.”
That was not something Peter needed to hear again at the moment. Or ever.
“That—That doesn't make any sense.” Peter is pretty sure he's paced a hole into the floor within the last fifteen minutes. He scratches at the back of his neck aggressively. “I haven't had any issues in months. No prolonged isolation or—”
“Peter.” E.V. interrupts gently, her calming voice like acid injected into his veins. “We're in the middle of September.”
Like that was any help. “Yeah, so?”
His right monitor suddenly flickers with three different articles.
Typically, spider mating season is from late August to late October. Expect to see a surge of sightings in the autumn months as mature males leave their homes in search of a mate-
Peter stops reading.
“Spider mating season occurs from August to late October.”
Oh.
Oh, shit.
“It is a possibility that your recently developed romantic attachment has contributed to these hormonal changes.” E.V. continues, pleasantly oblivious to his heart falling directly to his ass. “I recommend staying near her during these times. It appears that separation from a potential mate can cause increased agitation, aggression, irritation, and—”
“Okay, okay, I got it, thanks, E.V.” Peter interrupts, digging the heel of his hands into his eyes. This could not be happening to him right now. He wanted to die. He wanted to be close to her. He needed to be near her. He wanted her.
He stares at his phone that he had tossed onto the couch. Stell had texted him five times, and he hadn't read a single one. What if she was upset that he left without an explanation? What if she never wanted to see him again? What if she blocked him on everything and then refused to talk to him and then filed a restraining order and then–
“I'm sensing an elevated heart rate and a rapid increase of cortisol levels.” E.V.'s voice dips slightly, ruining his spiral.
He shakes his head as if it'll magically gain him some semblance of control and not make him into some batshit lunatic.
He needed to be reasonable. Logical.
“This can mess me up on patrol.” Peter finally decides on. “There has to be something to suppress it or–or something, I don't know. Literally anything!”
“I'd advise against resistance.” E.V. intones helpfully. “It appears this conflict has your separate DNAs fighting against each other. Your body has resorted to mimicking a mammal in estrus to placate both.”
That made…no fucking sense.
“But I'm a dude.”
“Yes.” E.V. agrees. “And you were also bitten by a radioactive spider.”
He scowls. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“You're welcome, Peter,” E.V. says, and he deflates. “It appears your cycle has almost completed its course. To optimize your bodily health, I recommend returning and maintaining close physical contact. Additionally, it will be beneficial to engage in penetrative sex. A prostate orgasm will–”
“Alright!” Peter interrupts loudly. “I get your point.”
There was no way in hell he was going to do any of that.
He'd find a way to avoid it and suppress it because he was goddamn Spider-Man.
Peter does not find another way.
And E.V. is absolutely no help.
“It appears your body has developed a third bulbourethral gland near your–”
“Don't need that information, thanks.” Peter interrupts through gritted teeth while glaring at his couch. It was the shittiest resting place ever. Too small. Not enough room for all of Stell's shirts he's borrowed. Or the six pairs of socks, two pairs of sweatpants, and three sweaters. Hence, why he spent the last fifty minutes meticulously webbing up the dark corner of his apartment.
“Please stop talking about my ass.” Peter actually cannot believe his luck right now.
He was well aware that his ass had its own lubricant now. Thinking of Stell in varying states of undress last night helped him discover that very quickly.
He hasn't seen her in three days, and he's been absolutely fucking miserable. He couldn't see her. Not when he was like this. God, what the hell would he even say?
“Hey, so I know we've been in a situationship for like five months, but it turns out I'm like part spider and going through a mating season; could you please come fuck me?”
Yeah, as if.
The biggest issue wasn't even the coitus part. Peter Parker wasn't some goddamn virgin–not that there was anything wrong with that–he was sorta experienced. He knew a thing or two. He had sticky hands.
He also had seen a suspiciously long velvet box at the top of Stell's closet, and they've had some conversations, so, yeah, fucking wasn't the issue.
It was the whole being part spider and having a self-lubricating ass that he wouldn't be able to explain that was the issue.
Also, he's never had anything up his ass before, but that was at the bottom of the list when it came to Peter's Concerns at the moment.
“I should text her.” He mutters to himself. He crouches down and plucks at the string of the webbing. It gives a reassuring, resounding twang.
Strong. Perfect for her.
Some of the tension works from his shoulders. Stell would like it, right? He even had her favorite clothes and socks so she could spend the night if she wanted to!
Yes, that was an excellent idea; he just needed to–
“No!” Peter interrupts his train of thought. He was losing it. He was actually losing it. He couldn't invite Stell over when he was two seconds away from jumping her bones, and begging her to fuck him because it was spider mating season.
Also, having to explain the fact that he was Spider-Man but that was also the least of his concerns at the moment.
His apartment was a mess. It wasn't clean. It wasn't suitable for her, unlike the stabilimenta he spent nearly an hour building. He could picture Stell walking in and taking in the take-out and protein powder, and dirty cups, and hitting him with:
Damn, bitch, you live like this?
And then she'd walk away, and he'd never see her again because Stell explicitly told him she didn't date dirty bums and his apartment made him look like the mayor of bumville right now. Not even the mayor—the president!
Suddenly his chest hurts.
“Oh, my god.” Peter squeezes his eyes shut, gripping the strands of his hair with harsh fingers and tugging. “Oh my god, I'm actually losing my mind. I'm losing it. E.V. Am I dying? Run a scan to see if I'm dying.”
“You are not dying, Peter.” E.V. soothes him gently. “You are processing the possibility of rejection from a potential mate.” A pause. “And it is causing you significant distress.”
Peter was pretty sure he was going crazy.
“I can't go to her. Not–not when I'm like this.” Peter says to himself and then to E.V. “Put my phone on lockdown and do not let me go to her.” He hesitates.
“Peter–”
“Please.” His voice wavers. “I can't let Stell see me like this.”
“Very well.” E.V. agrees softly. “I'd advise keeping yourself isolated until further notice for your safety, and the safety of others.”
Peter could definitely do that. He'd barricade himself indoors if he had to, and he would not go see Stell.
Easy.
Unfortunately, Stell ends up coming to him.
Peter wakes up to the very aggressive sound of knocking on his door.
Clarity comes in hazy, fragmented pieces, and it feels like that moment where he's lingering between two states of consciousness and unconsciousness after a bad fight. Except the only thing kicking his ass was existing, so there's that.
“E.V., who's at the door?” He slurs out.
“Interstellar.”
His eyes snap open. “What?”
Peter's feet hit the floor, and briefly the world spins on its axis. Vaguely, he can process E.V's voice as he stumbles to the door.
“...125 messages in the last…”
“Parker, I swear if you don't open this goddamn door I'm picking the fucking lock!”
The door nearly rattles on its hinges when he scrambles to yank it open. Only just a smidge for him to peek his head through the crack and see the furious look on Stell's pretty face. Very pretty, he thinks. Super pretty. Gorgeous. Did he ever mention that she smelled good? She smelled like-
"Are you even listening to me?" Stell demands.
He was not.
“Yeah,” he winces for multiple reasons. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I–” Stell's voice climbs impressively in volume. Her hands curl in the air as if to mime choking him. “You texted me in the middle of the night like one billion times after ghosting me for nearly a week.”
She pulls out her phone and shoves it in his face.
Peter does…not remember sending that message. In fact, he recalled webbing his phone to the wall and ordering E.V. to not let him send any messages until he was in the right frame of mind again.
Which he also could not tell Stell.
His eyebrows furrow. “You have my contact name saved as Pedro?”
Stell’s mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. Her eye twitches.
“Don't piss me off,” Stell finally says, shoving her way into his apartment despite his adamant protest. He doesn't even process the bag that lands near his feet. “Seriously, you ghost me for days and for what?!”
“Look, Stell,” he nearly trips over his feet again in an effort to catch her. His mind is a mess of conflicting feelings. Pure elation at the fact that she was right here, in his apartment, where she belonged, and pure unadulterated terror at the realization that she was in his apartment surrounded by every indicator that he was Spider-Man. The monitors tracking crime levels, and all of the fancy-advanced technology he hand-built from old abandoned Stark Industries tech he found dumpster diving. What little parts of Peter Parker remained were right here in this apartment.
And, of course, the webs that were everywhere.
“I didn't mean to text you–” Woah, that sounded even worse said aloud. “I–I mean I don't remember texting you–”
Peter was pretty sure he was on strike two.
“I mean–shit–Stell, you shouldn't be here right now.”
Except he kinda wanted her to be. Preferably complimenting the webs he had made for her, and the ten boxes of her favorite cereal he had stocked in his pantry for when she got hungry.
“Fuck that,” Stell shouts, whirling around to face him. “You begged me to come here, and I'm not fucking leaving. Sit down.”
“Stell–”
“I'm not playing with you right now, Parker. Sit down. Now.”
He's sitting on the couch before his brain can catch up with the rest of his body. Stell stares at him intensely, arms folded across her chest. Her leg is bouncing, and she seems far too intently focused on him than anything else.
Not the monitors or the tech, or his rumpled suit tossed across his chair.
Only on him.
And not for the first time, Peter doesn’t know what to do.
He knows that he couldn’t be alone anymore. He knows that he promised Aunt May's grave that he’d try again, and Peter has been lately. God, he wanted to let Stell in so bad, but he didn’t want it to be like this.
An uncomfortable silence settles. One that usually Peter would scramble to fill with a whole bunch of nothing, but finds his mind painfully blank.
“I know your secret, Parker.” Stell finally says.
His mouth goes dry. “Huh?”
“Your secret,” she repeats. “That you've been hiding from me.”
His heart rate kicks up. “Wait, Stell, I can explain–”
“I know you're a mutant!” Stell finally says, throwing her hands up. “It's pretty obvious.”
His brain freezes.
“What.” It reboots. “You think I'm—What do you mean it's obvious?”
She stares at him as if he's the stupid one. “You get sticky in your sleep.”
“What the hell does that even mean?”
“You cling!” Stell exclaims. “Literally. You ripped like two of my shirts with your sticky fucking fingers, and I caught you sleepwalking on the wall, and you know who also walks on walls? Spider-Man, and you know what Spider-Man is a mutant!”
His head hurts. She wasn't wrong, but she wasn't right either.
“So you think I'm a mutant.”
“I know you're a mutant,” she corrects. “A spider mutant with a praise kink.”
“Those two things don't even correlate,” he sputters while standing up, and then immediately sitting back down when she gives him a pointed look. “Sticking on walls doesn't mean I'm a spider mutant,” he mumbles sourly, you know, like a liar.
“Cumming web fluid when I touch your wrists does.”
“Stell!”
“I'm just saying–it's really, really hard to ignore that shit. It gets to a point where I start to wonder if you think I'm a dumbass.” Stell says defensively, dropping down beside him. She glares at him for a total of three seconds before she sighs. "I'm not stupid, and you're like really bad at keeping secrets."
"Am not."
"Are too!" Stell shoots back, and this time her hand curls around the base of his neck to squeeze gently. He deflates like a sad balloon, slumping into her hold. "It's why I watched like a billion spider documentaries."
Despite himself, he snorts. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.” Her thumb rubs against his nape, and he shudders. “It's September.” The pressure increases, and a whine almost crawls up his throat. “You need me, don't you, sweetheart?”
Yes. Yes, he did.
“Stell–”
“Clearly, I have a thing for you if I’m willing to put up with your freaky spider shit and the sleepwalking.” She continues evenly, holding his gaze. “But if you tell me to go, I’ll leave.”
“No!” Peter immediately blurts out in a panic at the thought. “No, no, Stell, you have to stay. Please, I just–” He swallows, looking at her with wide eyes. “I’m just in a really weird headspace, and everything has been so crazy, but I know I want you to stay and fuck me.”
Wait, shit, he wasn’t supposed to say that last part. He was pretty sure this was supposed to be romantic, but honestly, he hasn’t been able to concentrate for the last fifteen minutes because Stell smelled really, really good.
He supposes he’s fortunate enough that Stell seems almost as far gone as he was. “You sure?”
His head nods frantically. “Yeah,” he breathes out. “I’m sure.”
Stell is insistent that they do this properly, which means doing things right and leaving Peter Parker utterly miserable in the shower, his cock aching, and Stell’s explicit instructions to not touch himself.
He wants Stell so bad it hurts.
As certain as Peter is that he can take a strap-on-because he was Spider-Man, thank you-Stell had put her foot down about preparation and blah, blah, blah; she was in charge, and all he had to do was listen and be pretty. The distance between them makes his body burn too hot even with the water cranked to its coldest setting.
He showers quickly, cleans himself thoroughly, and tries very hard not to hump against his sheets when he crawls against his bed and rolls onto his back.
The bed dips when Stell joins him, her hand tracing up his inner thighs. "Ready?"
He breathes out short and shaky. "Yeah."
Stell is a really good kisser.
All sense of coherence narrows to the heat of her mouth meeting his over and over. She presses a hand against the muscle of his thigh and gently presses him down against his bed.
He tugs her down insistently, nails dragging across her shoulders and earning a soft groan. Her tongue drags across the points of his teeth, and she hums when he surges forward and bites.
Blood immediately wells into his mouth, and he sighs in relief. Stell tugs his hair in retaliation, and he almost keens.
“Fucking freak,” she huffs, and leans down to kiss him again. Sweeter. Slower. Peter's brain effectively shuts off as he falls into it. Into her. His mind a haze of Stell, Stell, Stell.
Her hand closes around the base of his cock and his entire body spasms. He didn't even know it was possible to be this sensitive, but the slick movement of Stell's hand is nothing short of euphoric.
Her hand strokes root to tip, before her thumb gently digs into the slit of his cock in a way that’s mean yet sets every nerve in his body alight. Peter is sure when he drags himself into some semblance of sanity later, he'll be embarrassed about the shameless evidence of his arousal. For now, all he can focus on is fucking his drooling cock into the tight circle of Stell's fist.
Her hand presses down against his hips and holds him there. “Stay still.”
A protest works its way up his throat, but one sharp look from Stell has him falling silent. All of the strength in the world, and he can only do nothing but obey. Her grip around his cock disappears, leaving it drooling from where it curved up against his belly.
“Stell,” he complains.
“Hush.” There’s a quiet strength in her hands when it slides to trace the contours of his body. A familiar pattern that makes him shiver and twitch with the warmth of arousal pooling dangerously low in his stomach. “Don’t I always take care of you?”
Before he can respond, her hand presses down against that divot in his wrist, right where his spinneret sat, and he cries out. Stell doesn’t relent even when his body arches of its own volition. The pressure she maintains is constant. Steady. Deep circles that only make his cock leak pathetically.
Peter was going to cum just like this.
He could feel it. That dangerous pressure that was beginning to build up in his veins. Climbing, and climbing, and climbing–
–and Stell stops.
This time he does whine, at the complete and utter betrayal. “Why did–why did you–”
“That was for avoiding me,” Stell says gently, as if she didn’t just completely ruin his life and wanted him to die. “Next time you come to me, and we talk like regular adults, understood?”
Peter nods his head frantically. “Yes, yes, I won’t do it again, Stell, please–”
This time when her thumb bears down, it’s to rub up and down instead of in circles. He’s sensitive, but it feels good, and Peter likes that all his strength doesn’t matter when he’s pinned right here beneath her.
“So good for me,” Stell praises, and the dam finally, finally breaks.
A rush of heat and electricity that makes him unravel. Silk unspools and flows from his wrist, and Stell can’t help but watch the sight in fascination. She swallows dryly.
“Beautiful.”
The praise makes him feel like he’s flying. Soaring.
And he’s still hard.
Stell sits back on her heels and huffs. Her eyes scan over him critically.
“You and your goddamn stamina,” she says, sounding far from put off. Her fingers hook under the hem of her shirt before she tugs it off, and he eagerly tugs her down towards him, hands skimming the expanse of her exposed skin.
He’s too desperate to take his time to admire.
Stell sucks in a sharp breath when his mouth seals around one of her breasts and gently bites. “Next time I’m going to gag you,” she mutters, breath faltering when he swirls his tongue around her nipple.
His grin is hazy but pleased when he pulls back to look up at her. A thin string of saliva follows before it snaps. “Promise?”
Her eyes narrow. “Cheeky bastard. Spread your legs.”
Considering he’s never had anything up his ass, Peter is sure he should be a little nervous. A little put off and wary, but all doubt leaves his mind at the slick finger circling his perineum before pressing inside his hole.
“Fuck–”
“Relax.” Stell’s voice is a soothing thing, and everything in his brain just tells him to listen. To obey, and be good for her. It feels…not bad. Just different. An odd pressure eased by the generous amount of lube Stell had coated her fingers and the fact that within the last ten minutes Peter’s ass had turned into a fucking leaky faucet.
God bless his arachnid DNA.
A second finger slips in with far too much ease, and he clenches down with a shuddered breath. Stell’s fingers do not pause in their careful movements–in and out, in and out–but her gaze is intent in the way they absorb his expression. The flush that spreads from his face all the way down to his chest. The way his nose scrunches when she scisccors her fingers. Her movements are deliberate. Searching.
His eyebrows furrow.
“It feels–”
“-Yeah, I know, just give me a sec–”
Her fingers crook and press against something.
Peter’s entire spine arches. “Oh, my god.”
“Found it.” Stell’s mouth curves up into a wicked grin as her fingers rub against his prostate again, and again, and again. His cock is weeping from the cruel treatment, and Peter feels another orgasm build in his stomach in a way that is vicious.
“Holy shit,” Peter wheezes, desperately rocking his hips against her fingers. This orgasm is more intense than the last. Spreading from his head all the way to the tips of his toes. Cums spurts from his cock, coating his belly, and leaving him spent.
Stell doesn’t withdraw her fingers.
“You still with me, pretty boy?”
His face flushes when he mumbles. “Hate it when you call me that.”
“Why? It’s true.” Her fingers brush against that sweet spot again, and her mouth presses against his to swallow his pathetic whimper. When she pulls away, her eyes are half-lidded. “And if you’re still talking, then I clearly didn’t do a good job. Get on your hands and knees.”
Peter’s brain doesn’t even fully process the order before he obeys, shifting to roll onto his stomach and propping himself up on his hands and knees like clockwork. It’s a vulnerable position–one that Peter doesn’t particularly relish until he feels the heat of Stell’s body behind him.
“You’re perfect,” she murmurs, hooking a chin over his shoulder. “Have I ever told you that?”
“Once or twice,” Peter agrees, shivering when her hand idly pets down his abdomen. His arms tremble.
She makes him feel so small.
Her mouth presses against the nape of his neck. “Think you can take some more?”
The question is poised gently, and yet he feels cracked open and raw. He didn’t know how much more he could take. If there was more he could take.
But, God, for Stell, he was more than willing to break if it kept her eyes on him and him alone.
“Please,” he chokes out. “I need you.”
“I know.” Her lips brush against anywhere she can reach. From his nape, to his shoulders, to his back. Her hands slide to his hips, and her thumbs rub gently. “I got you, sweetheart.”
The first press of Stell’s cock against his entrance makes him bite his lip hard enough to bleed. He does bleed. The sting of his split lip barely even registers. Barely a single drop into the well of pain he has molded his body to.
Peter’s fingers twist into the sheets, and he buries his groan into the pillow, and Stell sinks into him inch by inch. Eased by the wetness of his own arousal.
“Fuck,” Stell hisses under her breath. She pulls back before carefully sliding back in, giving him no choice but to accommodate the intrusion.
He feels so fucking full.
Stell’s hips are still from where they’re flush against his ass. Allowing Peter to adjust to the sensation of being stretched to the brim. She doesn’t move an inch. Merely gently murmuring soft words he can barely process as her hand pet along his spine.
The heat that builds in his stomach is gradual this time.
Stell’s hips move infuriatingly slow. Nothing like the desperate, frenzied fucking that Peter’s helpful little imagination conjured up. Or the occasional videos he shamefully watched when he was curious and time was something he was allowed to take for granted.
“Hey, baby, talk to me. You good?”
Peter was great. “I’m good,” he promises. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple, and he lets his forehead drop against his pillow when Stell tentatively rolls her hips forward. He fits her so perfectly. “Fuck me.”
One of her hands tilts his head back to kiss him open-mouthed and filthy, as she fucks into him oh so gently. His lungs burn, and it takes all his brain power to focus on kissing back. It’s less of a proper kiss and more of the slick slide of their tongues meeting.
Peter wishes that he could see her face, but the pleasure and wet slide of their bodies meeting makes it more than a little difficult to voice his minute complaint. It’s all so much. Too much. The bed creaks from the force of Stell’s thrusts, and Peter feels the humiliating sting of tears burn at the corner of his eyes.
It’s slow but deep. Like Stell wants him to feel her all the way up to his fucking throat. Drawing out needy gasps and mewls Peter didn’t even know he was capable of making. The orgasm that had been gradually creeping was suddenly there, and he can’t choke out his own warning before he’s cumming again for the third time that night.
But Stell doesn’t stop.
She’s ruthless. Nailing his prostate again, and again, and again.
Peter feels like he’s soaring, but it’s all too much. The pleasure melts into a unique kind of pain he was not accustomed to. Another orgasm was beginning to build, but he couldn’t do it. He knew he couldn’t do it.
“Stell, I can’t,” he sobs. “Please, I–I–”
“I know–fuck–you can,” her voice comes out a low rasp. “Just one more, pretty boy. Do it for me.”
Peter shakes his head frantically, his hand shooting out to grasp desperately at his bedframe to steady himself. He feels desperate. Like it’s all too much and not enough. His lungs burn. He can barely breathe.
The angle shifts, and Peter sobs as he cums dry.
The railing beneath his hand groans and then shrieks when it dents, and Peter immediately goes limp. Peter could run for miles without getting tired. He could fight for hours without slowing.
Yet, here, in this moment, he feels exhausted. Like his brain has turned into ooze and has reduced his thoughts to straight mush. Stell is saying something, but he can’t hear shit over the sound of his ears ringing.
His tongue feels too heavy in his mouth to even move.
Stell pulls out, and the devastating loss of her doesn’t even register when she rolls him onto his back and cups his face. He stares up at her in a daze. Her thumb swipes away the tears that dampen his cheeks.
“You smell like cocoa butter,” he slurs out.
Stell stares at him blankly before her mouth curves up into a small grin. “You are so fucking hot it pisses me off.” She kisses the corner of his mouth. The tip of his nose. The scar above his eyebrow. “C’mon, let’s get cleaned up, yeah?’
Aftercare with Stell means cramming together in his tiny shower and letting her crank the shower up to hell (it's highest setting).
Peter feels exhausted in a way he can’t describe. Not in a bone-tired way, but just warm and weighted. Floaty, if that was the right word. With Stell’s voice keeping him tethered to reality. Her fingers are careful when they scrub through his hair. Reverent when they trace the slope of his chest and graze over bruises that still healed too slow.
“Tilt your head back.” Stell orders, and he closes his eyes and obeys. Her fingers scrub at the base of his scalp, and Peter almost purrs. “You know,” she begins, her voice conversational. “I’m really surprised you don’t have three-in-one soap.”
Peter drops his head to rest against the crook of her shoulder, and mumbles, “I stole your shampoo because it smells like you.”
There’s a pause as Stell inspects the shampoo bottle, and then snorts. “You’re so fucking lucky I have a huge fucking crush on you, Parker, or I’d kick your ass.”
His hands slide around her waist. “You like me?”
“Yes, loser, I do. Now rinse.”
Stell only has to steal a pair of boxers since she rather quickly learns that Peter had gotten into the habit of hoarding a great deal of her stuff. He’s still loopy when Stell wrestles him into bed and cards her fingers through his hair.
He feels good. Sated.
And his ass was also pretty sore. Awesome.
“Hey,” Stell says, brushing a thumb across his cheekbone. “Talk to me.”
Peter presses his cheek against her chest and exhales slowly. “I’m a mutate.”
Her fingers still. “What?”
“Earlier, you called me a mutant.” He says, voice quiet. “But I’m not. I wasn’t always like…this.” His grip around her waist tightens. “Different.”
Peter goes silent. Listens to her heartbeat. Waits for the revelation to dawn.
Yet, her heartbeat remains steady.
“We live in New York.” Is all she says. “Weird shit happens all of the time. People change. Things change. You learn to live with it.” Her sigh is quiet but contemplative. “You aren’t gonna scare me away.”
“Even if I’m the mayor of Bumville?” He asks, voice small.
Stell snorts. “Yes, sweetheart, now go to sleep.”
For once, sleep is something that comes easy. Peter doesn’t feel the need to fight or cling to remaining remnants of consciousness. He didn’t feel that gnawing, encompassing pit that yearned to swallow whatever was left of him whole.
“You’ll be here when I wake up, right?” He asks, and allows that foolish emotion he once thought lost blossom in his chest. It feels like sunlight.
“Yeah.” Stell intertwines their hands and squeezes. “I promise.”
And, just this once, Peter lets himself believe in something he knows he doesn't deserve.
The feeling of not being forgotten.