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january 9, 2024

#new blog #navigation #masterlist

lilyetthefish

I like the sick look on him.

#guys i still like bsd dont unfollow #🌸🎀dazai🎀🌸#🌸🎀art🎀🌸

parkrsdoll

𝓟eter 𝓟arker × f!reader :: 0.35k wc. mdni. subbytop!peter. unprotected p in v + creampie. pathetic!peter. missionary. breeding kink if u squint.

Physically, he's got aaallll the control.

He's got your legs hiked up, knees bent over his shoulders, with your body nearly folded in half beneath him. Your pussy is swollen, fucked open, and achy around his thick cock, walls so gooey and slick and pliant, competely helpless to do much else than take the brutal, deep thrusts he abuses them with.

#peter parker smut #peter parker x reader #🌸🎀spiderman🎀🌸#🌸🎀nsfw🎀🌸

3racha-agustd

Every morning I open Tumblr like it's the newspaper, searching for fanfiction.

rosieriesz

𝐠𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐞 .ᐟ

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+, explicit sexual content — MDNI , graphic descriptions , excessive cum , kinda gentle to rough sex, oral sex (f receiving), overstimulation , creampie, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), porn with little plot, needy peter parker , love confessions , touch starvation , college au , post nwh , smut , fem!reader , pussy drunk peter , first time together , confessions , the L word !!

𝐰𝐜: 4.9k (i think. might be more, might be less. idk.)

𝐚/𝐧: i may have gone overboard with this but it’s my first smut fic. LOL! no spoilers for brand new day! this is semi proofread, so sorry in advance for mistakes. enjoy!!

the thing about Peter Parker is that he doesn't realize how tactile he is.

or maybe he does now, after four years of forcing himself not to be.

#peter parker x reader #peter parker smut #🌸🎀spiderman🎀🌸#🌸🎀nsfw🎀🌸#🌸🎀save for later🎀🌸

writrsblu

folded. peter parker x oc

pairing: peter parker (brand new day) x fem!reader

summary: you don't know why you kept the sweater. you don't know why the headaches come in the same place every time. you don't know the guy two floors down, not really — except your hands seem to, and that should probably scare you more than it does.

word count: ~4.5k

warnings: angst w a happy ending, canon-typical violence/injury description, blood, panic attack mention, referenced grief + memory loss, mutual pining , non-graphic mature content near the end

a/n: un-beta'd, we die like peter's civilian identity. happy birthday pete!

You'd been wearing the same sweater for three days before you noticed.

It was two in the morning and you were sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter because the chairs were all buried under laundry you hadn't gotten to, eating cereal dry out of the box because you were too tired to deal with milk, trying to get through a chapter on post-op cardiothoracic complications before your six a.m. rounds. You pulled at the sleeve without thinking about it — a habit, worrying the frayed cuff between two fingers while you read — and it was only when you looked down and registered the exact gray of it, the way it swallowed your hands whole, that you realized you'd had it on since Tuesday.

You didn't remember putting it on Tuesday. You didn't remember not having it on since. You frowned at it for maybe four seconds, in the specific dim way you frowned at things you'd learned not to chase too hard, and then your phone buzzed — an exam reminder, cardiac path in nine hours — and the sweater fell out of your head completely.

That was how normal it was to you. Not a mystery you turned over at night. Just a fact of your body, like your blood type, like the two moles on your left shoulder blade.

The headaches were the same way. You'd had them long enough that you'd built your whole life to accommodate them without ever really examining why they were there. You knew the tells — a tightening behind your right eye, a sudden oversensitivity to sound, like your skull was bracing for a hit you couldn't see coming. Your therapist knew. Your attendings knew, vaguely, enough that nobody blinked when you stepped out of a lecture hall for ten minutes and came back pale. You'd stopped asking why a long time ago. Asking why had never once gotten you an answer, and you had finals.

You met Peter on a Thursday, hauling the fourth of six boxes up a stairwell that had clearly been designed by someone who hated med students, when a guy came down two at a time and stopped dead at the sight of you like he'd walked into a door.

"You need a hand with that?"

"I'm okay." You weren't. Your arms were shaking.

"You're not okay." He was already reaching for the box. "I live two floors down. I've basically got nothing better to do."

You gave it up because your shoulders were screaming, and he carried it like it weighed nothing, which — you'd learn, much later, for reasons that would make you furious — it kind of did.

He introduced himself on the landing, a little breathless even though the box clearly hadn't cost him anything. Peter. Just Peter, no last name volunteered, and something about the way he said it made you look at him a beat too long, like your mouth was trying to remember a second syllable it already knew. You didn't think anything of it. People's names did that sometimes. You said your own name back and he went very quiet for exactly one second too long, something moving behind his eyes that you had no context for and no reason to chase, and then he smiled, easy, a little crooked, and said it was nice to meet you, and helped you carry the rest of your life up four flights of stairs.

What you didn't see, because you had no way to, was him standing in his own doorway twenty minutes later with his back against the frame and his eyes shut, breathing like he'd just taken a hit clean to the chest. You didn't see him say your name out loud, once, quiet, to the empty apartment, like he was testing whether it would still hurt the same way it had every single time he'd said it to himself for the last four years. It did. It always did.

It became a thing, after that. You needed help with a leaking faucet; he showed up with a wrench and absolutely no idea what he was doing and fixed it anyway through sheer stubbornness. You made too much pasta one night and knocked on his door because it felt wasteful not to, and he ate two full plates like he hadn't had a real meal in a week, which, you'd learn, he mostly hadn't. He was always a little threadbare — same three hoodies in rotation, a phone with a spiderwebbed screen he never fixed, the kind of thin that wasn't about vanity. He told you once, dry, no self-pity in it, that he sold photos to a tabloid editor who screamed at him twice a week and paid him just enough to keep doing it. You asked why he didn't just quit. He said it was complicated. You didn't push. You got the sense, early, that it was a door better left shut, one of several.

You mentioned the gaps to him on a Tuesday, offhand, over coffee that had gone cold an hour ago because neither of you had noticed the conversation running long.

"It's stupid," you said, turning the mug in your hands. "I did this internship in high school — Stark Industries, if you can believe that, I basically patched up random employees who tripped over their own lab equipment — and I remember, like, the building. I remember the badge. I remember Tony Stark handing me a scholarship packet like it was a pizza menu. But there's whole stretches of it I can't get to. People. Faces. I know something happened there that mattered, I just can't—" You made a vague gesture at your own skull. "It's like reaching for a word that's right there and it's just gone."

Peter had gone very still across the table.

You didn't notice, because you were still looking at your coffee. "Anyway. My therapist thinks it's stress-related dissociation, whatever that means. I don't know. It's not, like, a big deal. I've had it my whole life."

"Yeah," Peter said, and his voice came out wrong, too careful, though you wouldn't clock that until much later, turning the memory over with everything you knew by then. "That sounds — that sounds hard."

He didn't tell you. He would think about that moment for weeks afterward, replaying the exact shape of your face while you talked about him like he was a stranger you'd misplaced, and he still wouldn't tell you. Not that day. Not for a long time after.

You started doing things around him you didn't examine. You took food off his plate without asking, and he never once complained, just pushed it toward you before you'd even reached. You fixed his collar once without thinking, straightening it in the middle of a sentence about something else entirely, and his whole body had gone rigid under your hands for a second before he relaxed into it like it was the easiest thing in the world. You fell asleep on his couch more than once, mid-conversation, and woke up with a blanket over you that you hadn't put there yourself.

He almost called you something once. You were half-asleep against his shoulder, his arm gone tense and careful around you, and he started to say a name that wasn't your name — something soft, something with an old shape to it — and caught himself so hard you felt him flinch.

"What?" you mumbled.

"Nothing." His voice was rough. "Go back to sleep."

You did. You didn't think to ask what he'd almost said. There was a version of you — an older, sharper version, one you didn't have access to yet — that would have caught it immediately. That version of you was still locked somewhere behind a door you didn't know existed.

The injuries started small enough that you let them go. A split lip. A bruise blooming green-yellow along one forearm. He always had an explanation loaded and ready, delivered a beat too fast — fell down some stairs, walked into a door, got jumped outside a bodega — and you let him have them, because four years of clinical training had taught you that people confess on their own timeline or not at all, and pushing only ever taught someone to stop showing up.

But it kept happening. And it kept getting worse. A wound along his ribs that looked, under the antiseptic light of your bathroom, unmistakably like it had come from something with claws. A dislocated shoulder he tried to walk off. One night he showed up so pale you nearly called an ambulance before he begged you not to, said it would cause more problems than it solved, wouldn't explain what that meant, just sat on your bathroom floor sweating through his shirt while you set his shoulder back into socket with hands that were shaking worse than his.

"Bike accident," he said afterward, staring at the ceiling, breathing hard.

"Peter." You sat down across from him, worn through. "I'm not going to ask you to tell me something you're not ready to tell me. I've never once made you do that. But I need you to stop pretending you're not hurt. Just — stop doing that part. You don't have to give me the truth. Just don't hand me a lie and expect me not to notice."

Something in his face cracked open, fast and total, like you'd hit a nerve you didn't know was exposed. He didn't say anything for a long moment. When he did, his voice wasn't steady.

"You used to say that to me," he said. "Almost — almost exactly that. Word for word."

"When?"

He looked at you like the question cost him something enormous. "A long time ago."

You noticed, some weeks into all of it, that he got a specific look sometimes — jaw tight, two fingers pressed hard into his temple, gone still in a way that had nothing to do with the injury you were currently working on. You asked if he was okay. He said it was just a headache, said it like it happened often, said it like it wasn't worth the conversation. You let it go, filed it next to your own, and didn't think about how strange it was that you'd both apparently been carrying the same unexplained ache for years, on opposite sides of a door neither of you knew was locked.

You let it go, because you always let things go with him, and because some instinct you didn't have language for told you that this was a door he'd close the second you pushed on it. You didn't know yet that you'd spent years learning exactly how far you could push Peter Parker before he ran. You'd relearn it from scratch, slow, the way you'd once learned it the first time.

It stopped being just checking on him and started being something with your hands in it. Tilting his chin to check his pupils after a bad night, thumb along his jaw, close enough to feel his breath change. Him falling asleep sitting up while you changed a bandage, head tipping slow onto your shoulder, and you let it stay there instead of waking him. You started noticing the shape of his mouth when he was trying not to smile at something you'd said. He started noticing everything about you, though he'd been noticing everything about you for four years and simply never had anywhere to put it.

You heard him for the first time on a Wednesday, sitting beside him on your couch while you highlighted a pharm textbook and he scrolled his phone in silence.

She still bites the inside of her cheek when she's stressed.

You looked up. He hadn't said anything. His mouth was closed, eyes on his phone, but the thought had landed in your head with a weight and a texture that didn't belong to your own internal voice — clearer, warmer, unmistakably his.

"What?" you said.

Peter looked over, startled. "I didn't say anything."

"You—" You stopped, because there was nothing to finish the sentence with. You must have imagined it. Overtired, underslept, three cups of coffee deep. You went back to your highlighter and didn't mention it again, though your hand had gone to your jaw without meaning to, checking — and you realized, distantly, unsettlingly, that you had in fact been biting the inside of your cheek.

It kept happening after that, in small, deniable ways. A wash of someone else's grief when you brushed hands with a stranger on the subway, so total it left you gripping the pole to stay upright. A headache that arrived, sharp and specific, every single time Peter walked into a room — not before, not after, only when he was close enough to touch. You started to wonder, quietly, privately, if something in your brain was coming loose.

You went to his apartment on a night he'd taken the worst hit yet — something about his ribs that made you genuinely afraid to move him, so instead of dragging him upstairs you knelt on his floor and worked with what he had, and while you were digging through his bathroom cabinet for gauze you didn't find, you found a shoebox instead, half open on a shelf, spilling a thin silver bracelet out onto the wood.

You picked it up without deciding to. Small chain, a crooked little spider charm hanging off one link, cheap in the specific way of something bought by a teenager with a teenager's budget. The second the metal touched your palm, the pressure behind your right eye detonated into something total, a white flash and then — hands. Someone's hands, younger, clumsy, fastening a clasp around a thinner wrist than the one you had now. Laughter, yours, high and unguarded in a way you hadn't heard your own voice sound in years. Gone, before you could hold onto any of it, the door slamming shut again the same seamless way it always had, leaving you on your knees on a stranger's bathroom floor with your heart going too fast and no idea why.

"Hey." Peter's voice, close, worried, from the doorway where he'd dragged himself to check on you. "Hey, are you okay—"

"Where did you get this?" Your voice didn't sound like yours.

He looked at the bracelet in your hand and something in his face went through about four different kinds of devastated before it settled on careful. "You gave it to me."

"I don't even know you." It came out sharper than you meant it to, panic dressed as anger. "I've known you for eight months, Peter. I would remember giving you jewelry."

"I know," he said, quiet. "I know you would. That's — that's kind of the problem."

You didn't understand him. You didn't push, because pushing had never once worked on him, but you left that night with the bracelet still clutched in your fist without either of you commenting on it, and you didn't sleep, and every time you closed your eyes you heard your own laugh in a voice that felt older than you and younger than you at the same time.

You started noticing everything after that, the way you notice a single loose thread and can't stop pulling at the sweater it's attached to. The way Peter flinched, minutely, every time you called something "stupid" the way you apparently used to. The way he knew you took your coffee with too much sugar before you'd ever told him. The way he sometimes looked at you like he was checking you were still there, a full-body kind of relief that made no sense for someone who saw you nearly every day.

"Have we met before?" you asked him one night, point blank, no runway. "Before the stairs. Before any of this."

He didn't lie to you, not outright. That was almost worse. "Yes."

"How long have you known me?"

He was quiet long enough that you felt the answer before you heard it, some old animal part of you bracing.

"A long time," he said finally. "Longer than you'd believe."

"Peter."

"I can't," he said, and his voice broke on it, actually broke, and you'd never heard him sound like that, not even bleeding on your bathroom floor. "Not because I don't want to tell you. Because I don't think you'd survive it the way I'd be telling it. I need — I need to figure out how to do this right."

You left angry that night, angrier than you'd been in longer than you could remember, and you didn't talk for eleven days. You counted them. You told yourself you weren't counting them and counted them anyway.

The call came at three in the morning from a number you didn't recognize, a stranger telling you there was a man down on the corner of your block, that he'd asked them, barely conscious, to get you, only you, described your apartment number before he passed out. You ran four blocks in scrub pants and no coat and found him in the mouth of an alley in a suit you'd never seen — red and blue, torn open across one side, mask half pulled from his face — and every single injury you'd patched over the last eight months rearranged itself in your head into a shape that finally, sickeningly, made sense.

"You're—" You were on your knees beside him, hands already moving, already doing the only thing you knew how to do with the terror that had swallowed you whole. "You're Spider-Man. You've been — this whole time, every bruise, every — Peter, oh my god—"

"'M sorry," he slurred, eyes not quite focusing. "Didn' want you t' know like this."

"Shut up. Stay awake. Look at me—" Your hands found the worst of the wound, pressing hard, and under your palms you felt something that had nothing to do with anatomy — his pulse, but also something under the pulse, some current that reached for you the second you touched him, raw and unguarded because he was too far gone to keep his walls up. Fragments came through, not words, just weight: don't leave, don't let this be it, not before she knows, she has to know—

Something in your chest answered without your permission. You felt it happen — a kind of pressure building behind your sternum and pouring outward, instinctive, ancient, like a muscle you didn't know you had flexing for the first time in years. It wrapped around him. You couldn't have described it if someone had asked. It felt like your own hands, except bigger than your hands, holding the frayed edges of him together while his mind slipped.

And then you weren't in the alley anymore.

You were sixteen, in a lab bay that smelled like antiseptic and burnt solder, watching a scrawny kid with a split lip laugh so hard at something you'd said that he nearly fell off the exam table. You were sixteen and seventeen and looking at that same boy on a rooftop with his mask pushed up to his hairline, both of you too nervous to move first, and then moving first anyway. You were the one who put the spider charm on his wrist because he'd said, quiet, almost embarrassed, that he liked knowing something of yours was always with him, and you'd laughed and said that was the single dorkiest thing you'd ever heard and done it anyway. You were sixteen in a stairwell with an alarm going off somewhere above you, Peter thrown sideways into a wall by something you never saw clearly, blood at his temple, and you remembered — really remembered, whole and total — the exact moment something tore open inside your own chest and threw itself between him and whatever was coming, a shield made of nothing but sheer refusal, the first time you understood your body could do something like that at all. You saw every year after. Fights. Reconciliations. An apartment with two toothbrushes. His hand in yours at a funeral neither of you had the strength to stand through alone. You felt him loving you in a hundred ordinary ways you'd never gotten the chance to remember losing. And then — the spell. A gold light and Peter's face wrecked with a decision he was making for both of you, and the last thing that reached you before the door slammed down for a second time was Peter, four years later, standing outside your building in the rain with his hand raised to knock, and lowering it again, and walking away, because he'd promised himself he wouldn't make you carry something you never agreed to carry. Dozens of nights like that one. Dozens of times he chose your ignorance over his own loneliness because he thought it was the kinder thing.

You came back into your own body on your knees on concrete with his blood on your hands and his heartbeat, faint but steady, under your palms, and you were sobbing before you'd even fully surfaced — the kind of crying that comes from somewhere with no name, heaving, your whole body shaking with it, four years of unexplained grief finally handed a face and a name and a decade of history to go with it.

"You're alive," you managed, barely, "you're alive, you're alive, don't you dare—"

His eyes found yours, glassy, barely there. "You remember."

"I remember everything." Your voice broke apart completely. "I remember you."

He was in your care for two days before he could stand without your hands under his arms, and you didn't leave, and you didn't talk about it until he could, because some habits — apparently — went back further than either of you had access to.

When he finally could, sitting up against your headboard with color back in his face, you sat across from him with your knees pulled to your chest and asked him the only question that mattered.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I already took one thing from you," he said, and his voice was raw in a way that told you he'd rehearsed this a thousand times and it still wasn't enough. "The spell — that was my choice. I asked for it. May was already gone by then, and I was about to lose everyone else too, so I asked for it, and it worked, and it took you and Ned and MJ and every stranger who ever knew my name, all in one go. I didn't ask you first. I didn't ask anyone first. I just took your whole memory of me because I thought it would keep you safer, and it did, probably, but I never got to find out what you would've chosen for yourself. I still watch MJ's posts sometimes, from an account she doesn't know is mine. I write Ned letters I never send. And then I found you again, living two floors up like the universe had a sense of humor, and I thought — if I tell her, I'm doing the exact same thing all over again. Deciding what you can handle instead of letting you decide it yourself."

"So instead you decided for me that I couldn't handle the truth," you said, and it came out sharper than you meant, four years of unexplained grief finding somewhere to land. "You decided I couldn't handle missing you, so you let me miss you anyway, just without a name for it. Do you have any idea what that did to me? I thought I was losing my mind, Peter. I kept a stranger's sweater for four years because some part of me knew, and I never got to ask it anything."

"I know." He didn't defend himself. "I know, and I'm sorry, and I don't have a version of this where I did it right. I just — I wanted you happy. That was the whole thing. That was always the whole thing."

"I don't need you deciding what my happy looks like." Your voice cracked. "I needed you to let me choose. That's all I ever needed from you, apparently, both times."

He was quiet for a long moment, and when he spoke again his voice had gone very small. "So what do you want now?"

You thought about it, actually thought about it, because you owed both of you that much honesty. "I don't want the years back. I can't have them back, and I don't think I'd know what to do with them if I could. I don't want you handing me the girl you lost like she's still in here somewhere waiting to take over." You pressed a hand, briefly, to your own chest. "I want to know you. Now. Whoever you turned into while I wasn't looking. I already know I loved you once. I'd like the chance to find out if I still do, as myself, not as some memory you've been keeping alive for four years by yourself."

Something in his face came apart, gentler this time, more relief than grief. "Yeah," he said, rough. "Yeah, okay. I can do that."

"Good," you said, and closed the distance between you before either of you could talk yourselves back into caution.

It wasn't the same as whatever you'd had before — you'd made sure of that, out loud, deliberately, because you'd meant what you said about not wanting to be handed someone else's memory of you. It was slower in some places and faster in others, careful in a way that first love rarely bothers to be, both of you relearning each other's hands like the shape was familiar and the details weren't. H

e asked before he did anything, every time, like the asking itself mattered more than the answer, and you understood, without either of you saying it, that this was its own kind of apology — the choosing, given back to you, over and over, until neither of you could tell the difference between tenderness and repair.

Somewhere in the middle of it you stopped being able to separate the ache from the relief, and you cried again, harder this time, and he stopped instantly, always, checking, and you pulled him back down every time and told him this was the good kind, the kind that meant something was finally being let back in instead of walled off. He held you like a held breath finally released.

You held him back the same way.

You woke before he did, gray early light through a window that still didn't have curtains, and found the sweater where you must have dropped it the night before, folded now — he must have done that at some point, in the dark, without waking you, the same careful hands that used to fix your collar in a life you didn't remember yet.

You knew exactly whose it was now. You picked it up, held it a moment, and folded it properly, corners squared, the way you'd apparently done a hundred times before in a decade you were only just getting back — and set it down next to the rest of his clothes, where it belonged, where it had always been trying to get back to.

#peter parker x reader #🌸🎀spiderman🎀🌸#🌸🎀save for later🎀🌸

liliesonthego

Peter Parker / Want me to teach you? ── 18+ (MDNI)

Summary ⟅ You discover that Peter has never given head before, and being the kind, generous friend you are, you offer to teach him.

Sub!Peter Parker x Best friend!Reader / ⟣ SMUT / 2.9k ⟢

Warnings: no spoilers, peter uses his spidey-sense to eat you out (walk with me), cunnilingus, oral (fem receiving), praise, sub!peter, pussy drunk!peter, he cums his pants, overstimulation, virgin!peter, mutual pining

Lily's note — 🪷 i can't believe im on my third fic RELEASE ME FROM THE CHOKEHOLD

"Wait... what did you just say?"

#ts had me giggling and kicking my feet #🌸🎀nsfw🎀🌸#🌸🎀spiderman🎀🌸#peter parker x reader #peter parker smut

rosesaints

sue me, i wanna be wanted!

pairing: peter parker x fem!reader, set after brand new day summary: it's been a long time coming and you want nothing more than to jump peter parker's bones. or in other words, as charlotte york from sex and the city once said, damn it! I just really wanna be fucked, you know? just really fucked! content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, no use of y/n, sweet (and spicy) lil. drabble, established relationship, fingering, light dom/sub undertones, leaving marks, peter fingers you from behind, cum eating, pussy slapping, peter being so gosh darn tooth rottingly cute ugh, not beta read

"This is what you wanted, isn't it? Just wanted to make a mess on my couch, get my fingers all filthy? For me to take it?"

You're gonna be in serious trouble, you think. Peter's fingers curl upwards, and your whines break off, broken and wanton and so delightfully needed. You can feel stray tears dripping down your cheeks, lashes wet from all the different sensations Peter's taking out of your body. "I–I think I'm gonna come."

"Yeah?" He leans back in, not quite kissing her, eyes dilated in the dark of his apartment. "You think you deserve it?"

Nodding, head shaking up and down frantically. Why yes, absolutely, Peter Parker, you do deserve it.

#went to reblog and got a zendaya jumpscare omg #🌸🎀spiderman🎀🌸#peter parker x reader #peter parker smut #🌸🎀nsfw🎀🌸

minimafioso

Been thinking about what Corruption markings might look like on Chuuya's torso since it's usually hidden

#🌸🎀chuuya🎀🌸#🌸🎀art🎀🌸

camilleflyingrotten

In its right place

#🌸🎀spiderman🎀🌸#🌸🎀art🎀🌸

kryptidfiles

the ways that you say my name

Pairing - wc: BND!Peter Parker x Gf!Reader - 2.3k Summary: The sound of being known after years being forgotten makes Peter lose every careful piece of himself Tags: NO SPOILERS, 18+, emotional smut, mdni, p with little plot, p in v, first time (established relationship), name kink, praise kink, needy!Peter, reader is down bad horrendous, use of petnames (baby, one Tiger), kinda proofread

My first time writing for Peter. Pretty rusty after a month not posting. Please be kind! I got a pretty angsty fic in the works 😉

P. Parker masterlist

"Peter!"

The first time you said his name like that, he stopped moving.

You were on top of him, knees sunk into the rumpled sheets on either side of his hips, hands braced against his beating chest as the last hard waves of your orgasm rolled through you.

#this is so hot and sweet at the same time #🌸🎀faves🎀🌸#🌸🎀spiderman🎀🌸#🌸🎀nsfw🎀🌸#peter parker x reader #peter parker smut

superbassbuck

call me if you get lost | peter parker (18+)

⤷ pre-brand new day!peter parker x fem!reader

⭐︎ warnings: pre-brand new day canon compliant, fluff, huge idiots in love, hurt/comfort, typical depictions of violence (fighting, blood, guns, injury), near death experience, angst, light banter, suggestive themes, abandonment issues, touch-starvation

⭐︎ word count: 9.6k

⭐︎ a/n: there are no major spoilers for bnd in this fic !! i've only mentioned/alluded to things that were already shown in the trailers, so you do not need to watch the movie to understand.

synopsis: You have been Spiderman’s communicator—his eyes for crime and the voice on the other end of a staticky little radio that took him less than an hour to build. He doesn’t know your name, or what you look like. And you don’t know a single thing about him. Peter tells himself it’s better this way, that keeping you at arm’s length is the only way he can keep you safe. But that promise slowly frays the longer he speaks to you.

← previous fic | marvel masterlist

#🌸🎀spiderman🎀🌸#peter parker x reader #🌸🎀save for later🎀🌸

barnesonfilm

the mask stays on

★ summary: when spider-man comes to yelena for help, he doesn’t expect you to be there. you don’t expect for him to be so hot

★ pairing: spider-man x widow!reader

★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, unprotected sex, fingering, public sex, accidental vouyerism, web kink, web play?, enhanced!sperm, cum play, cream pie, mask stays on during sex (but reader is into it)

★ word count: 5.7k words

★ notes: putting myself in horny jail for this one idk i feel like i can’t write anymore this prob sucks

The steam curling on top of the water was thick enough to blur the edges of the room, hot enough that every inhale burned pleasantly at the back of your throat. It clung to your skin in a permanent sheen, damp strands of hair sticking stubbornly to your temples while eucalyptus hung heavy in the air. Next to you, Yelena dissolved into another fit of laughter, the movement of her shoulders sending a wave across the pool that splashed directly into your face and soaked the hair you’d spent the last ten minutes trying to keep dry.

“Сестра,” you hissed through a laugh of your own, swatting uselessly at the water before shoving her shoulder. “I told you to stop doing that.”

“Your hair,” She droned on, eyes rolling dangerously hard. “You look fine, hair will be fine there’s good essential oils in the water.”

“I find that very hard to believe.”

#🌸🎀save for later🎀🌸#🌸🎀spiderman🎀🌸#peter parker x reader

mystixx-xoxo

The wolf inside me has awoken…

dearwalker

mask on, fuck it, mask off | sex pollen

Pairing: Peter Parker x reader Word Count: 8.4k

Contains Brand New Day spoilers 🕸️

Description: You’re spider-man’s closest thing to a friend since the world forgot his name. Helping him with gadgets, cleaning his wounds…all without him ever taking the mask off. His true identity has always been a barrier between you two, but what happens when he gets hit with the pollen, and not only him, but the creature lurking inside him fixates on the only person he gets to call home?

Tags/warnings: sex pollen smut, fem!reader, porn with plot, whiny desperate peter >>>, dry humping, piv, riding, oral fem!rec, fingering, dark!peter taking over for a bit, orgasm denial, prone bone, so much yearning, mask stays on…or does it?

Note: You have no idea how giddy it makes me to write him again. He had NO business looking that good in the movie so I had to get this out of my system. Enjoy 🤍

Masterlist

You've seen spiderman hurt many times. When you signed the lease of the first apartment you could afford as a recent graduate, you never thought that would become your new normal.

The first time it happened was completely accidental. He’d arrived at the building in the middle of the night, bruised, bleeding and too disoriented to realize that the window he’d come through was not his.

That night, the noise of a heavy body collapsing onto the floor woke you up. For one terrifying moment, you believed someone had broken into your apartment, only to switch on the lamp and find the city’s superhero groaning and pressing his hands to his side. His suit was torn there, and blood soaked through the ruined fabric onto your rug.

#🌸🎀nsfw🎀🌸#peter parker x reader #peter parker smut

spacejjunk

(not so) friendly neighborhood spiderman

pairing: peter parker x reader

w/c: 5.4k

summary: you've been observing your neighbor peter ever since he moved in 4 years ago. hes quiet. smart. painfully nice. oh and hes also spiderman- not that you were going to let on that you knew. not until the noises of a man in pain next door got too much for you to ignore.

warnings/tags: porn w some plot, brand new day era peter!, spoilers equivalent to watching the trailer, smut (oral f receiving, being tied webbed up, rough sex, very much dom! mean! peter, multiple orgasms, squirting, bruising, aftercare) neighbors to something

a/n: zendaya pls dont fight me for this

masterlist // join the taglist

You were stretched out on the couch in a pair of old shorts and a hoodie that you couldn't remember where it'd came from. The TV murmured some mindless afternoon show you weren’t really watching. Outside, Queens hummed its usual Sunday quiet—distant traffic, a dog barking two streets over, the low thrum of the city that never fully slept.

Then the noise hit.

A sharp, wet crack followed by something heavy slamming into a wall hard enough to rattle the shared plaster between your apartments. Glass shattered. A low, guttural sound that didn’t belong to any human throat bled through the wall, half-growl, half-pain.

You were on your feet before the last echo died.

#🌸🎀save for later🎀🌸#peter parker smut #peter parker x reader #🌸🎀nsfw🎀🌸

liliesonthego

Peter Parker / I'm here for you ── 18+ (MDNI)

Summary ⟅ When it comes time for you to finally admit your feelings for Peter, you meet a version of him you've never seen before.

Requested: yes

Peter Parker x Reader / ⟣ SMUT / 3.6k ⟢

Warnings: BND peter, no spoilers that aren't in the trailer, light angst if you squint, virgin!peter (is this canon...?), peter is SENSITIVE, some yearning, grinding, dry humping (everyone cheered), dirty talk, peter is losing control, p in v, dacryphilia, nipple sucking, peter cums A LOT, creampie, slight praise, he whines and whimpers a bunch, he overstimulates himself, kinda sub space, I think that's it?

Lily's note — 🪷 well this is clearly not my niche but i got that request and needy peter? you don't have to ask me twice. IF YOU ENJOY PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT LETTING ME KNOW :D

It had taken you a while to break through to Peter. But ever since you bumped into him that first day of moving into your new apartment, there was something about his eyes—something that eerily reflected the pain you'd felt through the past years—that made you want to know him.

#🌸🎀nsfw🎀🌸#peter parker x reader #peter parker smut

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