spider swap 2

sexy sexy spider swap

A sharp, metallic taste filled his mouth—copper and adrenaline. Peter Parker’s eyes snapped open, not to the familiar, perpetually dusty ceiling of his Queens apartment, but to a smooth, gunmetal grey expanse. The air was cool, sterile. Not my room. He tried to sit up, and the movement felt… wrong. A strange, liquid grace to it, but with a weight on his chest that pulled him forward. He looked down.
Oh.
Oh, God.
The sight that greeted him was not his own lean, wiry torso in a faded science pun t-shirt. It was a swell of pale, freckled skin, rising and falling rapidly, barely contained by the delicate, black lace of a camisole. The straps were thin, the neckline plunging. He could feel the soft, expensive fabric against skin that was not his own. He brought a hand—a slender hand, with elegant fingers and short, practical nails painted a deep crimson—up to his face. Her face.
A jolt, pure and electric, shot through him. Natasha’s face.
He scrambled out of the bed, his—her—body moving with a predator’s silence he’d never possessed. He stumbled to the full-length mirror mounted on the far wall of the sleek, minimalist bedroom. The reflection that stared back, wide-eyed with panic, was Black Widow.
But it’s me inside.
Natasha Romanoff’s famous features were slack with his own shock. The fiery red hair was tousled from sleep, falling over one startlingly green eye. He saw the curve of her jaw, the fullness of her lips, currently parted in a silent ‘O’. His gaze traveled down, a slow, disbelieving inventory. The lace camisole clung to generous curves, the matching shorts riding high on powerful, sculpted thighs. A heat, unfamiliar and intense, began to pool low in her belly. My belly. Hers. Ours.
The panic began to recede, washed away by a tidal wave of sheer, illicit curiosity. This is a fever dream. A weird, multiversal glitch. I should… I should find Dr. Strange. But his feet, clad in the softest silk, carried him not to the door, but to the walk-in wardrobe.
It was a arsenal of elegance. Rows of tactical gear hung beside designer dresses. His fingers, her fingers, trailed over the fabrics. Then he saw it. The lingerie drawer. A part of him screamed that this was a violation, but the heat in his core was a louder, more insistent voice. He pulled the drawer open.
Silks, satins, lace in blacks, deep purples, and navies. And then… there. A set of scarlet-red lace, so vivid it seemed to glow. It matched the red of her Avengers insignia perfectly. He stopped, staring, his breath catching in her throat. He lifted the delicate bralette. The cups were sheer lace, the underwire promising fierce support. The matching panties were a mere scrap of fabric. The desire to feel it against this skin, to see it on this body, was overwhelming.
He shed the black sleepwear, letting it puddle on the floor. The cool air of the room pebbled her nipples, and a shiver that was half-chill, half-arousal raced through him. He fastened the bralette. The fit was perfect, the red lace a shocking contrast against the pale skin, lifting and framing her breasts. He hooked the panties, the lace a whisper against a new, fascinating sensitivity. He turned to the mirror.
The woman in the reflection was a vision of controlled, vibrant sexuality. I am that vision. The thought was dizzying. He ran his hands over the lace-covered hips, the flat stomach, cupped the weight of her breasts. A soft, involuntary gasp escaped her lips. It was Natasha’s voice, but the tone was all Peter’s wonder.
The leather suit called next. He needed to feel its power. He shimmied into the skintight black bodysuit, the material clinging to every inch like a second skin. The zipper’s pull was a satisfying sound. He was sealed in. He flexed, and the suit moved with him, amplifying the feeling of contained, deadly strength. He struck a pose in the mirror, a poor imitation of one of Natasha’s ready stances. The suit compressed him, hugged him, and the pressure against the sensitive lace underneath was maddening. Every movement sent a ripple of sensation straight to his core.
He couldn’t ignore it anymore. The throbbing between her legs was a persistent, demanding pulse. He leaned back against the cool wall beside the mirror, one hand bracing himself, the other drifting down, over the sleek leather of the suit, finding the seam at the apex of her thighs. Even through the thick material, he could feel the heat.
With a trembling hand, he found the hidden zipper there, a small, utilitarian pull. He tugged it down, just enough. His fingers slipped beneath the leather, past the waistband of the red lace panties. He encountered wetness, shocking in its intensity. She’s so… ready.
His first touch was tentative. A brush of fingertips over a bundle of nerves that was not his own, yet now felt utterly central to his existence. A jolt, white-hot and blinding, shot up his spine. Her spine. A choked moan, feminine and desperate, filled the room. That was me.
He began to explore, learning the new geography of pleasure. The pad of his middle finger circled the swollen clit, and his knees nearly buckled. The sensations were more. Sharper, deeper, radiating out in waves that made her toes curl inside the leather boots. He added a second finger, sliding them lower, finding an entrance that was slick and welcoming. He pushed inside, and the feeling of tight, velvety heat swallowing her own fingers was so profoundly alien and erotic he cried out.
He set a rhythm, his hips beginning to rock against his own hand. His eyes were locked on the mirror. On her face. Natasha’s face was flushed, lips parted, eyes glazed with a pleasure she’d never shown in the briefing room. But it was hispleasure painting her features. The duality was destroying him. He watched her—himself—panting, watched the muscles in her neck cord with tension.
He drove his fingers deeper, curled them, searching. When he found that spot, a rough, guttural sound was torn from herthroat. Yes. There. Right there. His pace became frantic, desperate. The coil in her belly wound tighter and tighter, a spring of pure need. The world narrowed to the mirror, to the slap of leather against the wall, to the wet, obscene sound of his fingers moving in her.
He was chasing it, that peak, and he saw it approaching in the reflection. Her eyes were wide, seeing nothing and everything. Her breath hitched. And in that final, suspended second before the fall, the face in the mirror… shifted. It was no longer just his consciousness in her body. It was her. Natasha. Her green eyes locked with his/hers, a knowing, fierce intensity in them, as if she were feeling this too, from wherever she was, and she was right on the brink.
That image—her face, consumed by the orgasm he was giving them—was the final trigger.
The coil snapped.
Pleasure detonated, not as a single wave but as a series of relentless, shattering convulsions. It ripped through her body, arching her back against the wall. A scream, raw and unfiltered, tore from her lungs. Her inner muscles clenched rhythmically around his buried fingers, milking them as the climax seemed to go on and on, draining every thought, every ounce of tension. He slumped, boneless, against the wall, breathing in ragged, sobbing gulps. The aftershocks were gentle pulses, slowly fading. He pulled his fingers out, glistening, and stared at them in the dim light, then back at the utterly spent, satisfied woman in the mirror.