symbiote petra parker

"The Car Door" angst

She forgets her own strength when she's scared.

They're arguing not even about anything big, dishes or a messy room and Petra's voice rises. Not yelling. Just loud. And she slams her palm against the wall to punctuate a point.

The drywall cracks. A six-inch split. Her hand goes through to the stud.

She freezes. Her partner freezes. The symbiote, coiled at her wrists, goes perfectly still.

"Oh god," she breathes. "Oh god, I'm sorry, I didn't-"

She's already pulling back, already shrinking herself smaller, already apologizing with her whole body curved inward like she can make herself less terrifying. But they've seen this before. They've seen her accidentally crumple car doors, bend silverware, leave fingerprints in steel.

"I'll fix it," she's saying, already reaching for spackle, for tools, for anything to undo the reminder that she's 7 feet of muscle and they're not. "I'll sleep on the couch, I'll-"

"Petra." you grab her wrist both hands around one thick forearm, fingers not even meeting and she stops. Looks down at them with eyes wide and scared. "It was an accident. We're okay."

But she's shaking. Because the last person she loved, she couldn't save. Because at 7 feet tall and strong enough to stop cars, she's still terrified of being too much.

"Size Difference" smut She's learned to be careful. They want her to stop.

The bed creaks always creaks, even with the reinforced frame Petra welded herself and she's hovering above her partner on all fours, 7 feet of naked muscle bracketing their smaller body like a shelter. She's trembling. Holding back.

"You're sure?" she asks, like she always asks, like she doesn't believe they could want this. All that strength 12 tons in her shoulders, enough to bend steel held in check because they're smaller and breakable.

"Stop being gentle," you tell her, and grab her hips, pull her down.

She gasps actually gasps, this giant of a woman and her control slips. She presses into them, heavy and warm and solid, and they feel the moment she stops treating them like glass. Her hips roll, strong and steady, and she's bracing herself on elbows that could crush concrete but instead just cage them in safety.

"You're so small," she breathes, wonder in her voice, not cruelty. She can cover their whole torso with one hand, thumb to pinky spanning their ribs. She does spreads her fingers, feels their heartbeat, their breathing. "I could-"

"You won't," you say, and arch up to meet her.

She doesn't. She makes love to them like they're precious and breakable and exactly what she wants, her 7-foot frame curled around their smaller one, her strength manifesting only in how long she can hold the position, how many times she can make them come before her arms shake from the plank.

After, she spoons them big spoon, obviously, always and her thigh draped over theirs is heavier than a blanket. They sleep pinned under 200 pounds of satisfied spider-woman and feel safer than anywhere else.

"The Suit Stays On" smut

The symbiote wants to feel everything.

Petra stands at the foot of the bed in full symbiote 7'1" of black gloss and violet highlights, the suit showing every defined muscle, every curve, nothing hidden. She's breathing hard. The suit is breathing with her, rising and falling across her abs.

"the symbiote wants to try something," she says, voice layered with the symbiote's harmonics. "It promises... control."

She climbs onto the bed no, onto her partner, straddling their hips with thighs thick and strong, and they feel the suit's texture. Warm. Slick. Alive. It moves under their hands when they touch her waist, rippling like a muscle flexing.

"Hands up," she orders, and webs shoot from her fingers not sticky, just strong wrapping their wrists, pulling them above their head, anchoring to the headboard. She does the same to their ankles, spreads them open, and they're held completely immobile by 7 feet of superhuman strength and alien biology.

"Now," she purrs, leaning down, her face inches from theirs, "I get to take my time."

She does. The suit extrudes tendrils thin, warm, prehensile that stroke their skin while she kisses them, while she grinds against them, while she uses that enhanced strength to hold positions that would cramp a human. She rides them for what feels like hours, changing angle, changing speed, the symbiote's sensitivity letting her feel exactly what they feel, adjusting in real-time.

When they finally come screaming, shaking, pulling against the webs that don't give she swallows the sound with her mouth and follows them over the edge, 200 pounds of muscle and alien collapsing onto them with enough care to not crush them, but enough weight to feel like being claimed.

"Grocery Store" fluff

She's a menace in the produce section.

Petra pushes the cart one of the extra-large ones, because a normal cart looks like a toy in her hands and her partner walks beside her, their head at her shoulder, watching her reach top-shelf items without stretching.

"Olive oil," they say.

She grabs it. Also the backup olive oil. Also the industrial size because "it's more economical, look at the unit price."

She's wearing their hoodie stretched tight across her shoulders, sleeves ending mid-forearm, but she loves it because it smells like them. Her hair's in a messy bun because most hair ties snap on her thick hair. She's wearing leggings that cost $80 because that's what it takes to fit 35-inch thighs.

"Petra," you say, as she puts a fifth tub of Greek yogurt in the cart (she eats 4,000 calories a day), "we don't need-"

"Protein," she says, solemnly, then grins down at them with a smile that transforms her face from intimidating to adorable. "Want me to get the high cereal? You like the one on the top shelf."

She lifts them. Just scoops them under the arms and raises them to 7 feet in the air like they're weightless. They grab the cereal. She lowers them slow, lets them slide down her front, kisses them in the middle of aisle 4 while an old lady clucks disapprovingly.

"The Mirror" NSFW

She wants them to see what she sees.

Petra's set up the full-length mirror the one she had to special order, 8 feet tall, because normal mirrors cut her off at the shoulders. She's standing in front of it in just her underwear, sports bra and briefs, and she's pulled her partner in front of her.

"Look," she commands.

you look. you see yourself smaller, softer in places she's hard. And behind them, towering, Petra. 7 feet of defined muscle, broad shoulders tapering to waist, long legs that go on forever, arms that could bench press a car wrapped around their smaller frame.

"See how small you are?" she whispers, chin on their head, hands spanning their waist. "See how big I am?"

She's hard against their back they can feel her, even through the fabric and she's rolling her hips slow, grinding against them while they watch in the mirror. It's obscene, the size difference, the power imbalance made literal.

"I could break you," she breathes, and one hand slides up to their throat not squeezing, just holding, feeling their pulse. "I could do anything I want. And you trust me anyway."

"Yes," you gasp, arching back against her.

She takes them there, standing, watching in the mirror, her 7 foot frame curled around them like she's consuming them. When they finish, she holds them up because their legs don't work and carries them to bed, whispering how perfect they are, how safe, how hers.

"Third Wheel" neglect hahahahhaha

They're competing with something that shares her skin.

It starts with the little things. Her hand finding the symbiote's pulse instead of her partner's. Her eyes going distant mid-conversation, listening to voices they can't hear. She stops sleeping says the symbiote doesn't need rest, says she's "optimizing."

"Come to bed," you say, at 2 AM. She's standing at the window, suited, 7'1" of black gloss and violet light.

"Can't," the symbiote answers, using her mouth. "Crime pattern. We're tracking."

"Petra-"

"She's not here," it interrupts, and turns to look at them with eyes that glow wrong. "You want her weak. Tired. Human. We don't need sleep. We don't need food. We don't need-"

"Stop." Petra's voice, fighting through. She blinks, and her eyes clear for a moment. "I'm here. I'm... I'm here."

But she's not. She's checking the window again, muscles tense, ready to leap. The symbiote wraps around her neck like a collar, like ownership.

"One hour," she promises. Doesn't look at them. "Then I'll... I'll try."

She doesn't come. They sleep alone. Wake up to find her on the fire escape at dawn, still suited, still watching, and when they touch her shoulder, the symbiote hisses actually hisses and she flinches away.

"Don't," she whispers. "It's... it's sensitive right now. We're fused. I can't... I can't come back yet."

She's 7 feet away, standing right in front of them, and they can't reach her.