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October 31st, 1984.
Pumpkin-spice and apple cider fills the cabin, mixing with the cold autumn draft as you prepare for the long night ahead. You had been getting ready for this day for some time now. Ever since El, Eleven, proposed the idea early on in the year, you had been hesitant to follow through. There were risks, after-all.
What if Hopper came back early and saw that you took her out of the cabin?
What if someone recognized Eleven?
What if Eleven happened to have a meltdown?
What if, what if, what if…
...But you could never say no to Eleven’s wide, pleading eyes.
Ever since Hopper asked you to watch over Eleven — after making the startling discovery that she had survived her fight with the Demogorgon — many of your days had been spent caring for the young girl; teaching her about life; watching Eleven like you would with Joyce’s kids, or Karen’s children. After almost a year of cabin-life with Eleven, you considered the girl the closest thing you could get to a younger sister.
You would do anything for her.
Every time.
No matter the fact that she had powers and you didn’t.
No matter the fact that you had only known her for a short time.
No matter what the cost.
Which is why, when she asked you to create a Halloween costume and chaperone her, you couldn’t resist.
The hardest part was convincing Hopper why you came back to the cabin after a long store-run with several bags full of fabrics and materials. (“It’s not like she’s going out,” you had explained to the chief. “Eleven just wants to dress up. Maybe eat some pumpkin pie or carve a jack-o’-lantern. What’s the harm in that?”)
After some ample reasoning, though, Hopper gave in and allowed you to continue your work. He had no idea that you were both planning to sneak out — breaking one of the three rules he laid out for Eleven: Never go outside, especially not in daylight.
At least it would be dark when you would be taking Eleven out.
Bounding up to your side, Eleven peeks past your arm and into the sauce-pan you were stirring.
“Smells good,” she murmurs with a slight pause, smiling. “...What is it?”
“Just to make the house smell like pumpkin.” You lower the heat, tilting the pan so that Eleven could see its contents. With a small smile, adored by her curiosity, you continue, “It’s just water, pumpkin spice, cinnamon sticks, and a few apple slices.”
Eleven nods before pointing at the small digital clock on the kitchen counter. “It’s almost time to go,” she says softly but with a firmness that was far too mature for a girl her age, furrowing her brows. “Six... Six-five-five.”
“Six fifty-five,” you correct, nodding. “You’re right, it’s getting dark out. I guess we should get dressed, huh?”
Taking that as permission to run and grab the costume you had made for her, Eleven runs over to her room with an excited spring in her step. Shutting off the heat and basking in the warm comfort of the Halloween scents, you set the pan over to the side and clean up the counter before grabbing your own costume, making your way to the restroom.
You were determined to make Eleven’s first Halloween the best one she could experience.
“How’s the dress? Not too loose or tight?”
The girl lifts the blue skirt slightly, inspecting each detail and frill etched into the design. “It’s perfect,” she replies in a breathless tone, completely awestruck by her complete change in appearance. With the strawberry blonde wig and fake blood you had splattered onto the dress after her outfit-fitting, she looked like a completely different child. No one would recognize her like this.
“And if anyone asks you anything, what do you say to them?” You ask.
Eleven furrows her brows again, “Red...” she pauses, “Red rum?”
“Mhm.”
“Sounds... weird.”
“It’s from the book and the film,” you reply with a chuckle. “Maybe Hop will let you watch it when you’re older.”
“And yours?” Eleven gives you another once-over. “Pretty.”
“You really think so? Thank you, El.”
“Where’s it from?”
“Just something I made on my own,” you grin. “Looks wicked cool, right?”
Eleven nods, still awestruck. She reaches a tentative hand out, commenting, “Like a spider.”
Your costume was a beautiful combination of black lace, satin and silk — adorned by black faux jewels that glimmered under low candlelight. The bust consisted of a corset-like material that clung to your body, with tulle sleeves that were open around the shoulders and upper chest. Lifting an arm, you analyzed the craftsmanship of your design, equally taken by your appearance. It was an outfit you wouldn’t be caught in public wearing, but with it being Halloween you could stave off your social fears for now.
“And with this,” you hold a small Masquerade mask — decorated with weblike patterns — up, “It’ll be hard to recognize me too.”
“Like a spy.”
Chuckling, you nod, “Like a spy.”
Thirty minutes into trick-or-treating you had begun to realize how much you underestimated Eleven’s determination to see Mike Wheeler. More intent on seeking her ‘crush’ you found yourself carrying Eleven’s candy pail as she made a line past all of the promising houses and towards the houses down on Maple Street.
“Hey, El,” you warn. “I don’t think you should—”
The girl stops mid-step, her costume making her appear intimidating. “I want to see Mike.”
“But if they see you, then Hop will find out and we’ll both be in trouble.”
Eleven’s eyes soften, her arm reaching up to pat your hand. “Go,” she instructs quietly, using her puppy-dog eyes on you like the little rascal that she was. She says your name in a slightly comforting tone. “Go have fun. Get candy. I will be fine. I will be careful.” And then, with a slight pause she adds on with reassurance, “I will not talk to him. I promise... I just want to see him, that’s all.”
No.
No.
No.
...Well, maybe just this once.
“Fine,” you give in with a slow nod, giving her a small smile. “I can’t stop you. Just if anything happens, you go straight back to me, okay?”
Eleven nods. “Where will you be?”
You motion your head towards a section of the street that was less populated. “I heard that some of my friends are going to be holding a secret party at one of the abandoned houses down there. I just wanted to check it out.”
“Okay... Stay safe.”
“You too, El. Happy Halloween.”
The Creel House, the haunt of Hawkins, was the one place you never dared to explore.
Looming at the edge of Morehead Street, it stands — covered in dried and decaying nature, with boarded windows and dark blue walls greyed over with dusty cobwebs. The white trim was equally dirty, so grimy that it could hardly be called ‘white’ at all. Broken bottles, glass, and wrappers covered the leaf-colored lawn, barely visible under the moonlight as you approach the building.
But for once, the house (empty for nearly twenty-five years) was alive and full of noise. You could make out others your age stumbling around the house with bright red solo cups with liquid sloshing over the lids; red and orange light filtered through the boarded-up windows, giving the manor an almost hellish look; and music could be heard thumping, rattling against the walls and the ground as if an earthquake had struck the normally-quiet street.
Oh, this was a party alright.
You don’t pay any mind to the soft whistles or the admiring remarks from your peers as you pass by them — none of them aware that it was you, who was beneath that mask or the seductively beautiful costume — approaching the front entrance. The inside was just as jam-packed with people as the outside, and you found yourself squeezing through the crowd to find a place to ‘relax’. With Eleven’s well-being still lingering on half of your mind, you preferred holding off on alcohol for the night.
You need to be sober and aware — because if anything, this place was the worst area to go to — a place that could easily be busted out by cops, which in turn, would lead back to Hopper.
Siouxsie and The Banshees and Duran Duran blast through hidden speakers beneath fake skulls oozing pale mist from their open maws, creating an ample background noise as you drink in the sight of the decorated abandoned home. The visibility was fairly low, with the electricity in the actual home not working fully, with the only source of light coming from lanterns brought by the party-hosts, and disco-lights hooked onto generators that lead out into the back of the house.
Fake bats and spiders cover the walls and ceiling, with dark streams hanging and swaying against a draft like thin, ghoulish figures that glow red and orange. Against the store-bought decorations, the house’s state of disrepair already matched the Halloween-theme, with the upper corners of each room being accented by thick globs of spiderwebs.
The home’s history also helped amp up the creep factor, even if the thought of it did bring a heavy chill down your spine. To know that a family had been murdered here senselessly; to know that an unspeakable horror had happened here...
“Are you not going to join everyone else?”
You bristle, surprised by the sudden voice at your side. Turning your head, you feel yourself burn hot with a blush as your eyes rest on a stranger — an admittedly attractive one at that. Not missing the sly smile that pulls at His plump lips, you respond quietly.
“Not really a dancer,” you continue cooly. You give him a once-over, the white of his outfit and hair standing out in a muted tone of colors. “And you? You’re not going to dance, either?”
“Like you said,” his smile widens, though you can’t help but notice how his smile doesn’t reach his eyes — holding a composure that was colder and calmer than your own. His hands are folded neatly in his lap, one leg crossed over the other, where you can make out the faint outline of sinewy limbs beneath. He adds on softly, “Not really a dancer.”
You give another glance at his costume, tilting your head. “Who... What are you supposed to be tonight?”
He mimics your expression, blue eyes twinkling with mirth.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“For Halloween. Are you a nurse, or something?”
There’s a pause.
“An orderly,” He replies.
You couldn’t tell if it was a trick of light and dark, but you swore you saw the corners of his lips twitch upwards as he takes a moment to look at your own costume. The warmth across your cheeks spreads down to your neck, his roaming gaze akin to a pack of spiders crawling over your skin — only, you welcomed the feeling. To have a handsome, charming stranger look at you made a small tremor in your chest grow.
Festering.
Aching.
“You’re beautiful.”
“O-Oh — I, uhm,” you stumble over your words like a ballerina off-kilter. You swallow a knot in your throat, surprised, the words barely registering in your mind as you shyly turn the other way. “Thank you.”
He hums, a rich, full sound that has your stomach churning with a delightful shudder.
“May I?” He asks, and you nod despite not knowing what he is asking for in the first place.
Deft fingers cautiously wrap around your wrist, bringing your attention back to Him. You’re thankful for the dim lighting because if the house had been doused in full illumination, you were sure that your skin would’ve looked rich with heat. With wide eyes, you watch as The Orderly brings your hand up to his face, inspecting the intricately-woven weblike patterns on the glove-sleeve portion of your costume. You feel the pad of his smooth fingers run over your knuckles and your palm, skin meeting skin in the spaces in-between.
As another shudder runs through you, you inhale sharply.
Focus. Focus. Focus.
This night wasn’t going to last forever.
Sooner or later, you’d have to retrieve Eleven and take her back to Hopper’s cabin—
But then, His fingers trail a bit higher — his thumb, pressing against your pulse along your inner elbow in a way that causes all sense of rationality and logic to leave your mind. The rest of his fingers curl behind your arm, pressing (feeling) but not hurting. His touch is so gentle, you would’ve mistaken him for a lover admiring his beloved.
“May I ask, what inspired you to dress up this way? Most people loathe and hold a phobia over spiders.”
You swallow again, internally trying to shake off the radiant heat that swells all around your body — making a home in a place low in your gut: where desire and lust begins to mix in a dangerous concoction of urgency. Rubbing your thighs together, hearing the fabric of your outfit slide and crinkle against itself, you reply with a strained voice.
“I’ve always wanted to make something like this.”
You pause, distracted by the way his hand trails higher, higher, higher — all the way up until he’s drawing your body closer to his. Any other sane person would’ve had their fill of mystery and leave, but you were not like everyone else. In fact, you found yourself drawn to the mystery that was The Orderly. Your right hand twists the fabric of your half-skirt, your knuckles and bones pushing against your skin from how tight you were holding onto yourself.
“Go on,” He continues coyly, giving you a seemingly shy (devious) smile. “I’m listening, darling.”
Your stomach bursts to life with butterflies that spread through every inch of flesh on your body, fluttering incessantly like little angels that giggle and murmur sweet nothings into your thoughts.
“Spiders are cool too,” you add on shakily. The intensity of his focused eyes made it far too difficult to even breathe now. You felt as if a metaphorical snake was slowly constricting around your chest, trying to squeeze more butterflies out of you. “...I’m a bit squeamish around them, but they’re beautiful creatures. And y-y’know... Spiders... Halloween. It just seemed fitting.”
“I’ve never seen such an outfit before in my life,” he compliments, blue eyes still twinkling. “It suits your body quite well.”
It suits your body quite well.
That simple — not so simple — line has your hands grasping at his, your fingers tightly wrapping over the ironed-down fabric of his dress shirt. You open your mouth to speak but words fail you, and so does your thought process. What were you going to say again? Stop? Keep going? I have someplace to be? I’m supposed to be babysitting a child with psionic abilities right now?
The Orderly pauses as well, tilting his head once more, as if to say, “Well?”
Finally, unable to quell the need inside of you, you murmur your name under your breath.
“Could you repeat that for me, please?”
You do, watching His grin widen — like a predator observing a new prey enter its territory — as you speak.
“What a lovely name,” He says, bringing you even closer to him. Close enough that the nose of your mask brushes against his, those crystalline blue irises jotting down every flit, blink, and nervous flicker in your own eyes. There was just something so enrapturing about this man’s entire being. The epitome of perfection.
“My name is Peter.”
Peter, like the Apostle of Jesus. The first one.
A name befitting of a man who stood out like a biblical wonder against the fake gore, cheap costumes, and dusty furniture.
“Pretty name,” you murmur.
Your shaken voice has quieted off into something delicate.
Something yearning.
Something that Peter could see as well, as he leans even closer, your lips brushing against each other — but he doesn’t press forward. Instead, his eyes search yours for an answer that you give by meeting him halfway.
You had always thought that it was cliché for someone to describe their first kiss with ‘fireworks’ but as your lips met with Peter’s, it almost felt as if Halloween had slipped a bit of magic into your night. Coupled with the giddy jitters in your abdomen, and the primal hunger building in your lower abdomen, you feel yourself falling into a mushy state that has your mind drunk with adoration. You had many ideas and scenarios of having your first kiss, wondering if it would’ve been with someone you knew, but nothing came close to the kiss you were having right now.
You open your eyes, flustered and comforted at Peter’s own expression — with his brows raised, his eyes closed peacefully, and a delighted sigh escaping him. You break away far too quickly for your liking, and Peter’s, who’s already leaning forward to steal another kiss from your lips. Kiss after kiss, you begin to understand how to move against Peter to quell the heat in your gut, drawing noises of delight and low pleasure from the blonde in the process.
You let out a noise of surprise when you feel Peter’s hand trail from your shoulder, over to your back, letting his fingers rest along the nape of your neck. Pulling away, you can’t help but pause to stare at Peter, whose blue eyes light up like little stars in the night sky.
“I... liked that,” Peter blinks, and it’s there you notice the pink that dusts his angular cheeks. “A lot. It was... nice. I-I’ve never...”
You nod, stammering out a flustered, “Yeah, m-me too.”
There’s a look in his eyes there that you can’t quite decipher. A look teetering on the edge of melancholy and a yearning so intense that it completely beats over your own swirling feelings. You stare at each other for a moment, the seconds passing between the two of you before he stands up, smoothening out his orderly attire.
“Come with me,” he holds out a hand, languid and well-mannered.
Of course, that little nervous strike within you begins to beat its little war-drum, singing along with the caution inside of you telling you that you mustn’t follow strangers. It was a valid warning, but you were far too excited to back down — nor did you want to leave Peter’s company so soon. He seemed reasonable enough, maybe a bit strange that he chose you out of everyone else in the room to speak to (and kiss), and you felt more than welcomed by his charismatic mannerisms.
“W-Where—? Where are we going?”
“There’s an attic in this house,” Peter explains smoothly, standing much taller than you. Tall enough that you find yourself looking up at him to meet his fervent gaze. “Everyone’s too scared to go up there. It’ll give us a little moment of privacy while...”
The pause that fills the air sends another rush of endorphins to your brain; another clench of pleasure and want throughout your body. His stare doesn’t help either — so full of mirth, mischief, and something else that has you stumbling on your feet with anticipation as he guides you through the sea of people partying in the Creel House. Up the stairs and down the hall, your heart begins to beat faster as he unfastens a latch on the attic, pushing the creaky door open with a heavy huff.
You cover your face to block out the cloud of dust that silts the still air.
How Peter knew that the attic would be completely barren of human life, and how to access it, you had no idea. You didn’t take him for the type to barge in random, abandoned areas. It was as if the orderly persona he had presented himself with was his true ‘skin’ — and you found it nearly impossible to see him as anything other than that.
The moment Peter shuts the attic door behind you, you feel his hands rest against your face, fingers spreading across your cheeks and against your head. It’s even darker in here, slivers of moonlight barely slipping through the seams of the wooden boards over the windows. There’s another pause between you two, hanging thick with uncertainty. Staring back up at him, you tentatively reach a hand up to caress his cheek, watching the sly look in his eyes melt into something soft and delicate. Neither of you make the first move, tension rising, as you both bask in each other’s company.
Two strangers, together alone in the dark.
As Peter leans into your touch, you furrow your brows.
“Are you...” You trail off, “Are you alright? It’s alright if you don’t want to do this—”
“No. I—”
Peter matches your expression, only there’s more frustration in his cerulean gaze. His hands shift, resting against your neck now, his thumbs just shy of pressing against your jugular veins. He presses a kiss against your cheekbone, his nose brushing against your forehead as he pulls away slowly. You feel your hands occupied with his as he holds you close to him, his knuckled fingers lacing with your own.
“I still want this,” he murmurs, closing his eyes. “Please, don’t go. I... I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
Your heart cracked and crumbled into a million pieces, hearing his words. Losing yourself in Peter’s adoring gaze, you realize that you’ve never seen such sadness in anyone’s eyes before — not even your own.
Just who was this man exactly?
“It’s okay,” you reassure. “You’re not alone. I’m here.”
His gaze zones in on you, seemingly searching for something before he takes the plunge and kisses you once more. You let out a noise of approval and pleasure, kissing back with a passion that has your mind spinning. With another kiss, you feel him tug your gloves off of your arms, his large hands wrapping around your forearms as he swallows your whimpers and moans kiss-by-kiss. Lip-locked, he walks you backwards until your back is flush against a web-covered beam.
Gasping for air, you part from him — surprised to see his eyes clouded with lust, but composed with a calm breath.
In fact, he looked so still that you could’ve mistaken him for some sort of apparition.
A ghost—
The thought gets pushed away the moment Peter leans into the crook of your neck, pressing open-mouth kisses against your skin. Your mouth opens in a silent cry, your hands immediately curling into Peter’s hair — eliciting a deep groan from his chest. Hands dig into your waist, pulling your hips flush against Peter’s, where your gut swarms with heat and desire. A firm hardness tents the orderly’s white slacks, pressing against your stomach. You could only imagine what it would be like to have it inside of y—
You gasp, tightening your grip on Peter’s feathery locks, as teeth sink into your neck, biting the sensitive flesh there. You breathe out his name, eyes fluttering shut as he begins to suck, lips wrapping over the bite-area. Blood rushes throughout your body, settling between your thighs where the ache grows worse.
You let out a noise of surprise as he leaves another love-bite along your neck, your skin prickling with both pleasure and pain. Beneath you, several floors down, the party continues, unaware of sinful things happening in the attic. Peter lets out a chuckle, his lips resting against the dip of your shoulder and collarbones, breathing you in.
“Does that feel good, little spider?”
You nod, a shaky moan falling from your lips at the strange nickname.
Right, of course: your Halloween costume.
Peter pulls away for a brief moment, full lips glistening. “Oh, you lovely, lovely thing, that’s so good to hear.”
A dark, knowing look veils his soft features — more and more layers of the unsure, shy orderly leaving your view in place of something sly and devious. The reprieve only lasts for a short moment, marked by the way Peter rests his hands against your ass, squeezing the flesh there until his fingers dig against the bottom of your pelvis, pulling you even closer to his erection.
He sucks in a breath through his teeth, hissing with closed eyes and labored breath. You moan in tandem with his little sighs and grunts, wantonly scrambling to remove the layers of your arachnid costume, all the while Peter continues to pepper kisses along your face; your lips; your neck; and your exposed collarbones. Hungry eyes roam over your form with each article of clothing that falls to the floor, sparking more embers of desire inside of you. You stop once you’re left in a pair of black lingerie — nylon on your legs, wet panties, and the bodice of your costume retaining the last of your modesty.
Peter follows soon after, an uncomfortable void settling where his hands used to be against your skin, your own mind distracted by the sight of the man revealing himself to you. Pale, lean skin — marked with little moles, beauty marks, and all sorts of tiny little scars — is a sight for your inexperienced, hungry mind. You bite your lip, pressing your thighs together at the sight of the veins that protrude against Peter’s skin; against the sinewy muscles that flex with each movement that Peter makes to rid himself of his slacks now.
The belt comes off first, the leather sliding through the loops. Then came his white slacks, your throat going dry with imagination, as he slides them down slim, long legs: thin wisps of blonde hair trail from his abs down to where the head of his cock barely peeks out of one of the loops of his underwear. In the dim dark, you can make out the flushed, deep color and the pre-cum that pools at the tip.
The thick silence, accentuated by the bass from the music that plays downstairs, makes its return.
“You’re beautiful,” Peter says once again, his voice a thin, wondrous whisper. His fingers rest against the ties of your corset, a look of hesitance and sincerity in his eyes. “May I?”
You nod, your arms locked at your sides, afraid that if you lifted one of them, that you’d mess up the entire thing. The way Peter slowly unloops and makes the strands of your bodice undone feels like an art display: a creator showing attentive care to his latest creation. You’ve never felt so admired by another in your life — so completely taken by another.
“Like a work of art indeed,” Peter hums, kissing the center of your chest. “Far better than art, I’d say.”
Had you said that out loud?
You were sure that you hadn’t said a word since...
“Everything about you is so beautiful,” he sighs, interrupting your thoughts, undoing another lace. “Beautiful and mine.”
Mine. Mine. Mine.
You knew nothing about Peter, and he about you, but you would gladly be his. Just for tonight.
Though, a part of you secretly wished for more.
Exposed to the chilly air, you press your chest against Peter’s — seeking out his warmth; his beating heart, and his blood-pumping veins. Quiet moans slip past your lips, feeling Peter slide his underwear down before hooking his fingers into your panties, sliding them down enough to reveal that sacred part of yourself.
“I’ve never done this before,” Peter murmurs against your chest.
You smile, eyes softening. “Me neither. We’ll take it slow, okay? Tell me if you ever want to stop.”
“Never. I’d never want to stop with you.”
You find yourself laying over the pile of your and Peter’s clothes, caged in by Peter’s arms and legs as he looms over you. He brings a finger up to your lips, his gaze lidded with wide pupils.
“Suck,” he instructs gently — like all things about him.
You comply, feeling the blush on your cheeks grow as your lips close over his finger, licking him with your tongue. At that moment, you wanted nothing more than to please this man, and to be pleased in return. To be loved and be held, and looked at like you were the most precious, rare thing that the universe could possibly hope to offer. Being seen was something you weren’t used to, and to have a handsome, considerate man like Peter to be the one to do that left a trail of lingering butterflies in your stomach.
His finger leaves your mouth with a wet ‘pop’, shiny with spit and brings it down between your legs. Instinctively, you close your legs together, only to flush even deeper with heat when your thighs make contact with Peter’s bare skin. A small smile appears on Peter’s lips, his gaze reassuring and comforting like a warm blanket on a cold storm.
“I’ve got you,” Peter murmurs. “You can relax.”
You nod, shyly hooking your legs around Peter’s hips at his words, only allowing him easier access to you.
“Have you ever...” As Peter speaks you watch with adoration and warmth as he turns his face the other way, seemingly flushed and nervous to finish his question. His eyes glance at you for a brief moment, “...Have you ever, ah — t-touched yourself before?”
You give him a timid shake of your head.
Relief fills Peter’s eyes before it’s quickly snuffed out by a mimicry of self-confidence. “It’s alright,” he coos softly, his voice wavering with uncertainty and suspense. “I won’t hurt you. Tell me if it hurts, and I’ll stop, okay?”
The intrusion of his finger surprises you at first as you adjust to him, the length of his finger already filling your insides. Slowly, he moves his finger in and out, sliding against your heated warmth. It feels delicious, especially with one of his knuckles brushing against a particular spot inside of you that draws out a buzz of blissful pleasure — but it wasn’t enough. His erection feels hot and heavy against you, his pre-cum smearing against your inner thigh, mixing with your own wetness: enticing ancient, primal instincts inside of you.
“More,” you plead. “More. More, Peter, please? Please?”
Peter rests his face in the crook of your neck again, a shuddering breath leaving him.
“When you say it like that,” he presses another digit against you, “How could I ever say no to you?”
The second one brings a stretch that has your face wincing with slight pain as you accommodate him, but you hold your composure — more keen on not letting that building pressure inside of you slip away. Once your face settles, Peter begins to slide his fingers again, curling them against that same spot: your eyes growing wide, brimming with tears at the pleasure. Right there. Right there. Silent pants fall from an open mouth, your back arching in an attempt to draw more pleasure from Peter’s fingers.
His cock twitches against your abs, yearning for equal attention that you return by wrapping a hand around the base. Peter’s fingers jut into you as this happens, prodding your sensitive spot even further, the palm of his hand brushing against your thighs and skin — where the two of you moan and gasp all at once. With eyes screwed shut, Peter momentarily stops his fingering, causing you to wiggle your hips for more friction.
“Sorry,” Peter lets out a shaky laugh, drawing another silent whimper from you as he returns back to his usual pace. “T-That—” He swallows a knot in his throat, sweat covering the expanse of his skin, giving him a glossy, glowing appearance. “...That feels good.”
You murmur a strained “Mhm?” while stroking his cock, feeling the ridge along the underside, and the thick veins that protrude along the sides. His length twitches in your hold, throbbing with each slow stroke and tug — all the while he adds a third finger, stretching you beyond what you’ve ever experienced. Your knees buckle, tightening around Peter’s waist as an ache pools in your gut: a constricting sensation that has your nerves jittery with pleasure as Peter moans softly in your ear, murmuring a stream of praises entangled with your name.
“God, you’re so t-tight, ah, and... Hah, a-and I’m not even inside you yet.”
“I-I — I’m going to c-cum soon. A-Are you close too?”
“Oh, that’s s-so good. Keep s-s — s-s-stroking me like, ah, that... P-Please? Please, it feels so good.”
His words shepherd you into a blissful, white-hot orgasm that has your eyes closing shut. When you climax, it’s with your legs wrapped tightly around Peter’s body; his fingers knuckle-deep inside of you, curling against your g-spot; and his name falling from your lips. Pleasure snaps all over your body, throbbing around your crotch and your thighs that quiver and shake — seeing the dust in the attic float and dance like little stars in a constellation of spiderwebs that hang from the ceiling boards.
And Peter—
Oh, Peter, with his head tilted over, his own teeth biting into his shoulder to mask the whimpering moan that leaves him. You feel his cock throb in your jerking hand, spurting lines of warm semen onto the valley of your chest. His climax is almost a near replica of your own: quivering thighs, clenching muscles, eyes screwed shut, with your name spilling from his lips with each twitch of his hard cock. You continue stroking Peter through his orgasm as he continues drawing out your own with his torturous fingers — a hazy, rose-tinted glow filling your vision in the cold darkness, filling every void in your lonely heart.
You release Peter, snaking your hands up to brush a few sweaty strands that hang in front of his face, tenderly touching every dip and curve of his angular, angelic face. Beauty incarnate. You sigh, tilting your head to the side when Peter slides his fingers out of you, briefly wiping them against the pile of clothes before returning your gesture — bending down to steal another kiss from your lips, pressing his body flush against yours.
For a moment, you forget where you are, who you are, and what you’ve done.
For a moment, you forget that the man on top of you — the same one who captured your first kiss and your first moans — was a stranger.
For a moment, it feels like you and Peter are one.
“I—” Peter licks his lips, pressing his forehead against yours. “I-I need a moment, please. That — h-h-hah,” he huffs, kissing your cheek with a boyish smile on his face, “That felt good. Better than good. Better than a-a — ah, anything I’ve ever experienced.”
You nod, too dizzy and exhausted from your orgasm. Unsure what to do, feeling bone-tired, you shift under Peter, only to feel him lay a hand over your shoulder. Once again, you find yourself staring up at a pair of teary, blue eyes, full of conflicting emotions.
“Stay,” he pleads. “Just for a little longer. Please?”
A part of you would’ve said No, you’ve had your fill, go home — but you were also terribly, terribly lonely: something Peter seemed to understand wholeheartedly and empathize with. A trait that overpowered his already-attractive looks and sweet words. Another part of you feared that you’d never find or see Peter again, so with a beating heart, you lean up to kiss Peter on the lips. And just like before, the kisses would spark new flames of desire, ones that were much stronger than the previous ones.
Touching turns to groping; sighs turn into moans; innocence turns into lust.
Peter rests his hands against the back of your thighs, hoisting your lower half up so that your legs were hooked over his shoulders — your knees pressing against your chest, and his cock pressed against you: hard and heavy again. Your heart beats faster than a runner on a marathon as you anxiously reach out to lace your fingers with Peter’s.
“W-Wait,” you murmur, almost forgetting your words as Peter devotes his full attention to you. “D-Do you—?” You continue, feeling a blush return to your cheeks, “Do you have a c-condom? I-I don’t want to—”
“I understand,” Peter interrupts, voice calm to the point that it almost breaks you from your blissed-out reverie. For some reason, you can’t help but note how ghoulish and gaunt his features look as he hovers over you — the shadows of the dust particles in the air casting over his face in a way that almost made it seem like his skin was stained with dried blood.
He grins, a small expression that pushes away all of your doubts.
“You needn’t worry about that, little spider. It’s not like any of this is real.”
It’s not like—
...What?
[Nothing, little spider.]
It was nothing.
It was fine.
This was Peter, not some... random lunatic off the street.
You had nothing to worry about.
Your brief confusion at Peter’s strange words quickly drifts away as he seals his lips against yours, his tongue darting out to lap at your bottom lip with dire urgency. You allow him entrance, moaning at the way his tongue darts out to explore your mouth — running over your teeth, your gums, and your own tongue as if he was imagining the action happening somewhere else along your body. Sloppy, wet kisses leave you breathless as you feel the firm, slick head of his cock prod against you.
You tighten your conjoined hands, tightly grasping against Peter — so tight, you fear that you’d accidentally pop one of his fingers from his hand — as he murmurs small words of encouragement and reassurance. As he enters you, completely filling your wet heat with his cock, you feel a shudder trail like lightning against skin: from your thighs, all the way up to the back of your neck. His fingers had done well to prepare you, but having him inside of you, throbbing every other second, was a completely different feel.
You felt complete.
Whole.
“You take me so well,” Peter hums, a dreamy look in his eyes. “But I want to have you too. All of you.”
...Something happens. Something changes.
A pressure, different from the pleasure you’ve felt, shoots into your brain without warning — like glass against raw skin, the pain startles you without warning or reason to comprehend it — leaving as quickly as it appeared, and then.
And then...?
[—and then, you’re standing in a field of flowers, wearing your Halloween costume; only, your clothes feel much... richer than you remember them to be. Instead of cheap lace, satin and silk, you find that your black, webbed attire is made of the finest threads you’ve ever seen in your life. As if real spider silk was made to cover your body and skin. The bodice of your costume hugs your frame tightly, but not enough to constrict you from movement and breathing. Confused, half of your mind lost (Where were you? What were you doing again?), you turn on your heel to find a large temple a few steps away.]
You feel Peter bottom out into you, his hips pressed against yours as you adjust to his size. You clench around him, another shudder running through you as Peter grinds his hips down — his cock sliding out of you in slow, languid thrusts. In place of his kisses, Peter releases breathy groans and gasps, a half-growl lilting his wanton sounds.
But against that blissful pleasure, the feeling of being stretched and pleasured, you can see things. Like a second voice, running a living daydream through your mind as Peter fucks you into oblivion.
[Approaching the temple, supported by marble columns with spider-engravings sculpted into them, you let out a noise of surprise as you feel hands on your waist, turning you around. It’s Peter, Peter and his orderly uniform that looks obviously out-of-place (like you), who no longer holds a shy expression on his face — but a hungry, yearning look riddled with confidence and sureness.]
Peter’s hands find a grip at your waist again, his thumbs digging into your hip-bones to secure you as he slams himself into you. Wet, slick sounds fill the air — barely noticeable by the party that, still, continues downstairs. Your moans die off into soft, hiccuping cries with each thrust: a babble of please and thank yous filling the dusty air.
Above you, Peter’s grin widens, his eyes lidded and hungry for more.
[Peter lowers you onto a long, marble slab that’s surrounded by a countless array of potted plants. Sunflowers, orchids, roses, and lavenders (and more) paint the luxurious marble walls with splotches of vibrant color. With a smile, you wrap your arms around Peter’s neck as he drags you to the edge of the slab, slotting himself between your legs.]
“You f-f — fffeel,” Peter gasps, throwing his head back. “Oh, little spider you feel. So. Good.”
The sound of flesh smacking flesh, an obscene, lewd sound, has you covering your mouth with a shaky hand. Peter’s thrusts quicken until he’s practically pounding into you, those little sighs turning into grunts and growls — his soft voice becoming gritty with lust.
[Within the blink of an eye, both of you are nude. Peter’s skin was pale, marbled with gossamer, shining under the cold blue moonlight like a god of an underground abyss with a crown of tangled, blonde hair. Yours was blushing with heat, glistening with sweat — your gut clenching and releasing wave-after-wave of pleasure that you couldn’t find the source of.]
“Oh, Peter,” you moan, your voice a pitch higher.
[In a different vision, you see yourself at the mercy of Peter — who keeps you in place with flowering vines as he teases you with soft kisses and gentle caresses; touching but never enough to fully satisfy you.]
Every sensation within you was heightened, and dialed beyond what you could handle.
It was all becoming too much.
[The vision fades, blurring and changing into a sight that has every part of you gasping with shock and surprise. Your face is suddenly being pressed against a silk pillow — your ass facing up with Peter’s thick cock sliding into you.]
“Just hold on a little longer, love,” Peter replies, accentuating his words with a particularly heavy thrust. “I want you to see it all.”
[Now, you’re sitting on top of Peter, your dripping wetness swallowing Peter’s cock with each bounce and lift of your hips. You watch as Peter takes one of your hands, accidentally brushing it against a rose thorn. You hiss, eyes blown wide as Peter brings the cut up to his lips and sucks, lapping up your blood like a hungry, vicious animal — never breaking eye-contact with you.]
A noise between a cry and a gasp slips from your lips as you climax for the second time, this one feeling much more intense than the one before. You writhe and squirm against Peter’s incessant thrusts, his cock pleasuring you even as your thighs began to shake again and your insides were screaming for more. More. More. M—
“More,” Peter pants.
[“—More,” Peter grins from above, watching with delight as you take his cock in your mouth now — his blue eyes full of a burning flame as you take his entire length; the head of his cock pressing against the back of your throat.]
The pornographic, filthy sights that flash across your innocent eyes brings you past the brink of ecstasy again. Tears slip out of your eyes as you moan for Peter, who bends over to lick your tears away with his tongue, a chuckle leaving him. The last orgasm you feel leaves you limp with a blissful smile on your face, allowing Peter to chase his pleasure through your tight, inviting warmth as his thrusts grow erratic and uncoordinated. Feral, choppy groans hiss from clenched teeth as Peter bottoms out, his hips jutting into you for the last time.
He stares.
His cock twitches inside of you, spilling his seed that flows out of you, pooling against your ass where it settles. The headache slowly begins to leave you, as do the visions where you can finally see yourself back in the attic with Peter on top of you. You both remain still, with you furrowing your brows as you weakly lift a hand up.
“You’re bleeding,” you murmur quietly, brushing a nosebleed from Peter’s face.
He stares.
“T-That was...” You take a deep breath, letting your head fall and rest against the floor. “That was...”
He stares.
You blink, tilting your head. “Peter?”
A noise from all around groans in your ears, like wood that was in the process of rotting and decaying. Feeling your heart race for an entirely different reason now, a primal fear entering your system, you wrap your arm around Peter’s bicep — urging him to pull out of you. “Peter,” you try again, finding his calm, blue stare to be unnerving now.
“Peter, it’s done. Y-You can—”
“You know her.”
Frowning at the coldness of his tone, you give him a nervous chuckle. “Peter, I-I don’t—”
“You know her.” Peter’s gaze hardens, causing another migraine to pierce your brain. “I see her. In your mind.”
Sputtering, a vision flashes across your eyes without warning.
That girl.
The one with curly brown hair, and wide eyes, laughs — her heart full of joy.
Eleven. El. Your friend.
“H-How—?”
“I should’ve looked in your mind sooner.”
Blood drips onto your face from Peter’s nose, cascading down your cheek like an iron-scented tear.
“—because now, I see her. And I see that you know her.”
“P-Peter, please.”
“And you, my precious little spider, were unfortunate enough to have caught my eye.”
“I-I-I—”
"Your lonely soul called to me the moment you stepped foot in my home.”
“I don’t u-understand—”
“I only ever intended to grow close to you. But, there are... other ways I can use you.”
The silence that follows is deafening, chased by a roar that plunges your vision in an eternal, blue darkness — leaving you alone and cold in the dark. You only get glimpses from there after that.
Hopper, finding you in the empty, abandoned Creel House.
Joyce, looming over you with horrified eyes.
Will, laying beside you in a hospital bed — his eyes dark and cold.
Peter, smiling against your head, holding you close; murmuring a soft song in your ear.
A burnt, skinless creature, hanging above you — his eyes eerily similar to Peter’s.
A monster, a spider, a shadow digging deep into your mind.
You, the little spider, flayed.