Anything marked with ‘+’ is not nsfw, also more will be added
Requests are: OPEN
Agatha Harkness
Magic Used (Aka Agatha Fucks a Fleshlight) ft. Rio Vidal - (1,088 words) | kinktober 2025
Finger Sucking - (1,069 words) | kinktober 2025
Anal - (3,353 words) | kinktober 2025
Agathario
(Anal) Fingering - (1,345 words) | kinktober 2025
Degradation + Body Writing - (1,388 words) | kinktober 2025
Rio Vidal
Pet Play - (1,387) | kinktober 2025
After Hours (1,341 words) | kinktober 2025
Kate Bishop
Natasha Romanoff
Wanda Maximoff
Carol Danvers
Yelena Belova
Bob Reynolds
Pegging - (842 words) | kinktober 2025
Peter Parker
Ava Starr/John Walker
SPH - (746 words) | kinktober 2025
John Walker
John Walker Req 1 (578 words) | R messing with John Walker by acting like his big cock is smol & cute, and he’s very confused but also surprised he enjoys it
summary — when wanda and natasha decide to add a third party their marriage, they don’t expect to form a romantic connection with you. they especially don’t expect for you to hate wanda.
warning(s) — essentially a sugar baby dynamic to start, enemies to lovers with wanda, dom/sub dynamics, daddy kink, eventual mommy kink, shameless smut, aftercare, fluff galore. additional warnings are provided in each chapter. men/minors dni
au — wanda and natasha are ceo’s to the most successful law firm in the world because who could ever argue with them
PARTS — completed.
(1) the one you reached for [ 8.6k ]
(2) lovelorn and nobody knows [ 13.3k ]
(3) linger like a tattoo kiss [ 12.2k ]
(4) it was never mine [ 13.4 ]
ONESHOTS — parts will be added as written
(a) my face in a red flush [ 7.1k ]
(b) burning brighter than the sun [ 6.4k ]
(c) see what’s under that attitude [ 7.1k ]
(d) two people understand each other [ 5k ]
(e) too in love to think straight [ 7.4k ]
(f) love is a ruthless game [ 10.8k ] +
(g) the best thing thats ever been mine [ 7.2k ] +
summary — when the ultimate arises of being allowed to orgasm or being allowed to relieve your bladder, the only thing you can do is hope to god that you can be the good girl she expects you to be
The weather was finally beginning to turn as October earned its keep in the festive beach town you resided within the borders of, no longer blisteringly hot, but rather soft and quaint as a breeze ruffled leaves and blew discarded litter down the streets of Westview. The aesthetic of the world had begun to shift with the incoming breeze of cool air as well, replacing vibrant pinks and muted blues with burnt orange shades and deep charcoal hues. Wanda herself had fallen into the fall frenzy, adding decorative pillows to the couch and styrofoam pumpkins to the mantle despite her mentality that decorating for single day holidays was pointless and a waste of hard earned money. You knew she adored the whimsical magic of Halloween, even if she rolled her eyes each time you suggested watching a film inspired by the spookiest month of the year. That’s just how she was. Pointedly difficult merely to get a rise out of you, and it worked each time you begged to watch Hocus Pocus only to receive an eye roll and an exaggerated huff of faux exasperation. She always caved, always cuddled up on the couch or in bed, but it was never easy to get her there, nor was it easy to keep her interest as her hands began to wander down your tantalizing body and mark its claim on your most sensitive areas.
Tonight, as you cuddled up close, beneath a thin throw blanket printed with jack-o-lanterns and the silhouettes of cartoon bats, it had been painfully easy. She hadn’t protested when you suggested a movie night, hadn’t rolled her eyes when you turned on a film from your childhood that was admittedly horrible at best and downright insulting at worst, and she hadn’t even huffed in overdramatic defeat when you’d turned the subtitles on because that made any viewing experience ten times better. In fact, she’d been nothing but pleasant and willing. She’d collected your drinks from the kitchen, gathered your chosen snacks from the pantry, and lit a candle on the coffee table that had the entire house smelling like sweet notes of subtle maple and addictive vanilla.
Cautiously, you peaked over your shoulder at her side profile illuminated by flickering auburn light from the three wick candle providing a gentle ambience of mood lighting around you, the dancing flame with the slightest twinges of blue and yellow embedded within its fiery existence reflected off of her emerald stare so peacefully that you nearly accepted the gentle nature of the night ahead of you without question, but you knew better. You’d been with Wanda for years, seen her through some of the most trying and difficult periods of her life, and subsequently some of the best and softest. You knew that whenever something was easy with her, then there was something else up her sleeve just waiting to be pulled. She kept things interesting, always had and always would, but you’d become rather perceptive to her motives after such a long game of cat and mouse.
She had you pinned against her chest as you lounged on the couch she’d affectionately decorated with throw blankets and decorative pillows, one arm looped around your waist while the other held onto her glass of chilled white wine, the stem carefully weaved between her fingers in intricate delicacy that you hadn’t quite mastered no matter the years you spent attempting to copy her mannerisms. She dripped with class and exquisite wealth, despite being brought up in a country suffering with poverty. There was an intoxicating energy to her, one that compelled even her most passionate haters to surrender to her spell and seek to know her personally. You’d never quite gotten over that alluring charm about her, but she’d made it painfully obvious that you were the only one she wanted to bring home and into bed each time you left the house, so you didn’t dwell much on the simple fact that Wanda Maximoff could have any man or woman she desired without so much as lifting a finger to flirtatiously wave.
As you reached for your glass of wine that had been thoughtlessly left abandoned on the coffee table besides the slowly burning candle, her arm pressed against your bladder just enough to make an uncomfortable feeling travel through your nerves. Willing to ignore it for a while longer, not wanting to leave her soothing company or risk your film being turning off due to her unrelenting boredom, you stayed against her chest, now gripping your own glass with delicacy, although you didn’t quite have the placement of your fingers right enough to have replicated her eloquence. You’d thought that Wanda was unaware of your subtle wince, however, she’d so easily detected the shift in your body language and the way you maneuvered within her hold to alleviate some of the pressure she was intentionally pressing into your bladder.
When her hand fell to your thigh, her wine glass set to the side as she had only a couple of sips left and didn’t particularly enjoy being drunk without your lighthearted energy to match her pace, you shivered with anticipation, knowing all too well where her soft touch would lead if you played your cards right. Well, you had thought you knew all the moves she was going to make, but when she dug her fingertips into the crevice of your thigh without warning or prior teasing, tickling the sensitive skin that she knew was a no-go zone on your best day, let alone your worst, you truly began to realize what you were in for. A soft whine slipped off of your lips as you wriggled against her, but all she did was tighten her hold on you and coax your whines with sweet kisses against the shell of your ear, her fingers still teasing and tickling your sensitive skin with passion.
“Wanda.” You gasped when one hand splayed firmly against your sensitive belly, and the other moved beneath your soft gingham print sleep shorts to cup your core beneath the frilly underwear you’d picked out that morning. Your attire was nothing special, nothing sexy nor new, but that’s what Wanda preferred. There were times when lingerie worked, where it brought a level of excitement and newness to your already exhilarating sexcapades, but Wanda was sweet, she preferred you as you were, with no reason to constantly be trying to change your comfortability and appearance. Her boldness had always been a turn on, and as you sat trapped between her chest and her possessive arms, you felt merely like a toy at her disposal.
“What’s wrong, my angel?” She cooed against your earlobe, teeth taking claim over that sensitive inch of skin that always provoked your desire to rise to uncontrollable levels. She knows what’s wrong though, it’s not the first time you’ve walked into this trap, but it’s been months since she’s laid it out, months since she’s been so cruel and condescending that you don’t know whether to plead for leniency or for her fingers to claim the sweetest softest spaces of your intimacy. “Hm, be a good girl and tell me.”
“I have to pee.” The words burned your pride as they slipped into the air, your cheeks twinging a flush shade of pink more aligned for the pallet of summertime than fresh autumn. You wriggled in her grasp, attempting to set yourself free, but all you accomplished was adding more pressure against your already sensitive bladder, intensifying the sensation of urgency within your nerves. “Wands, I have to pee.”
Your desperation did nothing to quell her cruelty, rather it feebly landed in the near silent room apart from the voices slipping out of the speakers in the ceiling. “Well that’s too bad, sweetheart. I like having you here. Surely you can wait a little while longer, can’t you? I’m not ready to let you go just yet.”
Her fingers slid through your folds, collecting warm, sticky arousal that pooled at your entrance. You whimpered in need, desperate need that turned your nerves cold with pleasure but warmed your skin deliciously to the touch. You writhed in her lap, torn between staying still, ignoring the pressure being applied to your belly, and squirming against her hold until you could sink onto those tantalizing digits and claim your pleasure. You didn’t have the luxury of choosing, she was already deciding your fate before you could strategize a game plan to secure dominance. You never won when you attempted to overpower her, but it was fun to have those unrefined moments of vicious pleasure while they lasted.
You gasped a broken whine of pleasure when her fingers dug themselves into your core with one finite movement, buried to the hilt if the chill of her rings laying heavily against your pulsating clit pebbled with anticipation was any indication. The pads of her fingers pressed against the softest section of your walls, sparkling sharp sparks of pleasure to shoot up your spine and reverberate off the lining of your sensitive bladder. You gasped again, a breathy, whiney sound that was entirely pathetic but lewdly sweet, as Wanda prodded and pressed against that spongy spot continuously, her fingers curling and scissoring apart within your slick velvety walls.
You writhed in intense pleasure, squirming against her tight, near clinical hold as she kept you confined and at her mercy, only able to take whatever she gave you when she felt like it. The sensations sparking to life in your bladder and core were unimaginable fireworks of pleasure that drowned you in their intensity, covering you in pleasure derived from her; her touch, her words, her eloquently dominant energy. She covered you in her effortlessly, and you surrendered to the flames of passion without hesitation.
“I can’t hold it! I can’t hold it! Wanda! I have to pee! Please let me cum!” As torn as your body was between remaining still and writhing in passionate movements, your mind was an even playing field of indecision. You had to pee, that was undeniable, it was steadily beneath the surface of pleasure, tethered to your orgasm in a terrifying way, but you need to cum, as her fingers scissors your pussy apart, massaged that spongy area within your walls, as her rings nudged and thumped against your clit, you were being driven closer and closer to that beautiful edge of vulnerability and pleasure.
“One or the other.” Wanda’s voice was level, calculated. She wasn’t bothered by your desperation, nor was she feeling generous. Your bones grew cold with anticipation as you shook your head, but it did nothing to win you sympathy. Her fingers that had already been hammering into you at an unforgiving pace took an even harsher approach, and the squelching sounds of pleasure and arousal filled the room and joined the existing symphony of a crackling flame and animated characters. “You can either cum on my fingers like a good girl, or you can go pee and not receive anything. And, I know this slutty cunt never misses an opportunity to cum, so stop acting like you can’t handle what I decide to do to your body, and sit still.”
Your body couldn’t help but oblige by her demand, and with muffled whimpers, your body stopped fighting against her hold. She laughed tauntingly, pressing harder against your bladder. You knew the moment you leaked even the slightest bit against her fingers, her touch would be withdrawn, whether you were in the middle of a blissful orgasm or just on the cusp of falling over the edge. She wouldn’t care. She wouldn’t show you even the slightest bit of moisture. She had made her ultimatum clear, there would be nothing that could change that.
“I’m close! I’m close!” As your orgasm built, so did that pressure in your bladder that was slowly becoming unbearable. You could only will your body to allow you control, but before you could slip off the edge, fall into a sea of butterflies and pleasure, her fingers were slowing down, her palm pressing harder against your bladder in return for the loss of pleasure.
“Hold it.” She demanded cruelly, voice level and dominating, only luring you further beneath her captivating spell that had you submitting unregretfully. You did as best as you could, your eyes pinched shut as you fought to fight off your orgasm, but eventually it all caught up to you, and your mindless babbling became indistinguishable pleas and desperate begging. “So pretty when you squirm for me.”
“I-I can’t! Please! Please! I need to cum! I need to pee! Let me cum! Please, Wanda! Please!” Finally forcing the words off of your tongue, you only hoped they were enough to convince her to be kind. Minutes passed until they became a blur of sensations that ripped you apart from the inside, and when you thought you were going to break, just as you were on the cusp of deteriorating, everything started up again and instead of being denied, instead of loitering on the edge of bliss, Wanda granted you permission. You came with a high pitched moan, squirming and writhing against her hold and the second she worked you down from that blissful edge, you were bolting toward the bathroom, followed by her footsteps and taunting laughter. “Three glasses of wine and you decide to pull this shit! Wanda, I am going to kill you one day!”
“That’s how you repay someone who just gave you the best orgasm of your life?! You threaten them?!” Wanda laughed menacingly, leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom as she watched you attempt to relieve your bladder, although that was slightly difficult in your post-orgasm state, which only made your frustration double.
“Second best! Nothing will beat last Christmas.” You threw her a nasty glare, finally able to pee as your muscles began to loosen and return to normal, although every nerve in your body was still alight with blissful pleasure.
“You’re only making me want to compete with myself here, darling.” She smirked, licking her fingers clean of your arousal in a tantalizing power move that had your cheeks flushing but your eyes rolling.
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
series masterlist // part two
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.
Four years of living next to Peter Parker had taught you the difference between him being clumsy and him being in trouble. You barely knew him after all this time living next to each other. You knew that you liked him. Knew that when you'd both come home late at night— meeting in the shared hallway— you always noticed the dark bags under his eyes and the slight tremor in his hand as he opened his apartment door.
You knew about the man behind the mask.
You didn’t bother knocking. The knob turned under your palm and the door swung open on a scene that made your stomach drop.
Webbing.
It coated everything. Thick, glistening strands stretched from ceiling to floor, across the kitchen counters, over the cracked television, wrapping the furniture like a cocoon spun by something frantic and enormous. The air was heavy with that sharp, organic scent of fresh silk and something darker underneath—sweat, adrenaline, the copper edge of blood.
Peter was on the far side of the living room, collapsed against the wall. His hands frantically covered his ears, hands trembling, chest rising and falling in an unnatural pattern. The familiar blue-and-red suit was shredded across his torso, torn open like something had clawed its way out from the inside. More webbing leaked from his wrists in uncontrolled pulses, sticking to the floor, the walls, his own skin. His fingers flexed and the strands thickened, twitching like living things.
“Peter—”
His head snapped toward you so fast it was almost inhuman.
The eyes that met yours weren’t fully his anymore.
The whites had darkened, pupils blown wide. When he spoke, his voice was rough, layered, like two people trying to use the same throat.
“Stay back.”
You didn’t.
You stepped carefully over a thick strand of webbing that still quivered on the floor. “What- What's happening to you?”
A humorless laugh scraped out of him. One hand mover to press against his temple, webbing still dripping from his wrist in lazy, involuntary strands. “Should've heard you come in. Everything is so fucking loud.”
His gaze flicked over you—hooded, assessing, too sharp. Something hungry and not entirely human lived behind those eyes now. You watched him fight it, jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped.
“You knew,” he said quietly. Not a question. “About the suit. And you didn't say anything? How long?”
“Long enough.” You kept your voice steady even as another thick strand of webbing shot from his wrist and slapped wetly against the wall beside your head. “Saw you swinging back into your place one night when I couldn't sleep. I never said anything because you clearly needed the secret. But this? This is different.”
Peter pushed off the wall. The movement was too fluid, too many joints working in ways human joints shouldn’t. He stopped a few feet from you, chest rising and falling hard. The torn suit hung off him, exposing pale skin.
“I don't know what's happening,” he admitted, voice dropping. “Instincts. Hunger. Everything feels… louder. Stronger. I almost put my fist through the wall earlier because the neighbor’s music was too much. And the webbing—” He lifted his hand— more silk poured out, wrapping around his own forearm in tight, pulsing coils. “I can’t stop it. It’s like my body is rewriting the rules without asking me first.”
You took another step closer. The air between you felt charged, thick with the scent of him.
“Then let me help,” you said. “You’re not doing this alone. Not anymore.”
Peter’s eyes narrowed, the reflective sheen catching the light. For a second the man you knew was still there—the awkward, brilliant, exhausting friend who’d spent years pretending he was just a guy with bad luck and worse timing. Then something deeper stirred, and the look he gave you turned heavier, more intent.
“You barely know me. You shouldn’t be this close,” he warned, but he didn’t move away. “I don’t know what I’m becoming. And right now every instinct I’ve got is telling me to—”
He cut himself off, throat working.
Peter moved.
Not the familiar, slightly awkward steps you’d watched from afar for years. This was something else entirely—low, fluid, predatory. He circled you in a slow arc, bare feet silent on the web-slick floor, head tilted just a fraction too far. Those dark, reflective eyes never left your face. The torn suit clung to him in ruined strips, and every step made fresh silk drip from his wrists in lazy, glistening threads that stuck to the hardwood like living things.
“Get out.”
The words came out layered, rough, almost a snarl. He stopped a few feet away, shoulders rolling like he was fighting the urge to drop lower. “I’m serious. Walk out that door right now.”
You stayed exactly where you were.
“I’m not scared of you.”
A sharp, humorless sound left his throat. He stepped closer. The air between you thickened with the scent of him. His nostrils flared once, deliberate.
“Liar.”
Another step. He was inside your space now, close enough that you could see every vein, every scar, every time one of his muscles twitched. When he spoke again, the voice was quieter, meaner.
“I can feel it. Your heart’s hammering. Pulse jumping right there—” His eyes dropped to the side of your throat. “And that smell.” He inhaled again, slower this time, and a low sound rumbled in his chest. “You’re getting wet. Standing in the middle of my apartment like a defiant brat while I turn into a monster. You’re fucking dripping for it.”
Heat flooded your face. You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. The longer he circled, the worse it got—every predatory shift of his body, every dark glance, every warning he threw at you only made the ache between your legs sharper.
Peter’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t a smile.
“Look at you. So much time of being the careful, quiet neighbor and the second I start turning into something that wants to eat you, your body decides it’s the hottest thing it’s ever seen.” He leaned in just enough that his breath ghosted over your ear. “You’re not scared of me. You’re desperate for me. That’s so fucking pathetic. And so fucking hot.”
You swallowed. “I still want you. Not just this— the real you.”
The admission landed heavy between you.
For half a second the familiar Peter flickered back into his eyes—the one who you could hear through the walls tinkering away at two in the morning. Then the arachnid thing surged again and his expression went sharp, almost cruel.
“You want this?” He gestured at himself with a web-slick hand—the torn suit, the dark eyes, the silk still pulsing from his wrists in uncontrolled strands. “You want this version of me that looks at you and only sees prey? That wants to wrap you up and keep you?”
He took another step. You backed up on instinct and your shoulders hit the wall. He didn’t give you space. One hand planted beside your head. The other hovered near your hip, fingers twitching like he was fighting the urge to grab.
“I can smell how bad you want it,” he murmured, voice dropping into something filthy and low. “Your cunt’s practically begging. All that wetness just sitting there, waiting for something dangerous to notice. And I’m noticing, sweetheart. I’m noticing real fucking hard.”
His free hand finally settled at your waist, not quite gripping, just resting there with dangerous weight.
“I’m trying,” he said, and for a moment the struggle was clear in his face—jaw clenched, eyes flickering between human and something darker. “I’m trying so hard not to take what you’re offering. Because once I start, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop. And you—” His gaze dragged down your body, lingering openly between your legs. “You’re standing here like you want me to fail.”
He leaned in until his mouth was almost against yours, breath hot, voice pure filth.
“So tell me again you’re not scared. Tell me while your thighs are pressing together and your pulse is screaming for me to pin you to this wall and find out just how wet you can get for the monster next door.”
The webbing under his hand pulsed once, tightening against the plaster.
Peter’s control was slipping by the second.
And he was still right there, waiting to see if you’d push him over the edge.
“I’m not scared of you.”
Peter’s eyes flashed. The words had barely left your mouth before thick, warm webbing shot from both his wrists. It hit the wall on either side of your head with a wet slap, then snapped tight around your wrists, pinning them high and wide. The silk was hot, almost feverish, and it contracted once—deliberate—pulling your arms taut until your shoulders burned.
He stepped in close, chest nearly brushing yours, and tipped your chin up with two sticky fingers.
“Say it again.”
“Nope.” Your voice came out steadier than you felt. “Still not scared.”
Something dark and delighted flickered across his face. Then his hands dropped to the waistband of your sweatpants. He didn’t bother with the drawstring. He just ripped. The fabric gave like paper under that unnatural strength, the sound loud and final in the quiet apartment. Cool air hit your bare thighs. Your underwear was left behind—plain, nothing special—except for the very obvious dark, soaked patch right in the center.
Peter went still.
Then he laughed. Low, mean, almost delighted.
“Jesus Christ.” He dragged two fingers slowly over the wet spot, pressing just hard enough to feel how the fabric clung. “Look at that. You’re soaked through. Standing here being a lying brat, telling me you’re not scared while your cunt is making a mess of itself.”
He rubbed again, slower, watching your face as the damp cotton dragged over your clit. “This isn’t the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man anymore, sweetheart. This is the version that will treat you like the prey you are. And you’re dripping for it like a desperate little bug.”
His voice cracked for half a second. The mean edge faltered. His eyes flashed back to those rich browns you always got yourself lost in.
“Fuck—I’m sorry. You should still leave. I mean it. I don’t… I don’t know how much longer I can—”
The arachnid thing surged back. His fingers pressed harder against the soaked fabric, tracing the outline of your folds through the thin cotton.
“But you won’t leave, will you? You’re standing here getting wetter every time I open my mouth. Look at you. Thighs already shaking and I haven’t even touched skin yet.”
You felt it happen—the sharp, helpless clench deep inside you, the fresh rush of wetness that soaked through the fabric under his fingers. A soft, involuntary sound escaped your throat.
Peter’s eyes went completely black.
“Oh,” he breathed. “You liked that?”
He dropped to his knees so fast it was almost a fall. Both hands hooked into the sides of your underwear. One sharp pull and the fabric tore straight down the middle, the ruined scraps falling to the floor. Cool air hit your bare, dripping cunt. For one heartbeat he just stared, chest heaving, silk still leaking from his wrists and sticking to your thighs.
Then the last thread of control snapped with an almost audible crack.
A low, animal sound ripped out of him. He shoved your thighs apart with both hands, gripped hard enough to bruise, and buried his face between your legs like a man starving. There was no careful exploration, no soft start. His tongue dragged flat and filthy from your entrance all the way up to your clit in one long, greedy stroke, and the sound he made against you was pure hunger.
“Fuck—taste that,” he growled into your folds, voice muffled and wrecked. “So fucking wet. Dripping down my chin already.” He licked again, deeper this time, tongue pushing inside you just to feel how easily you opened for him. “Gonna eat this pretty cunt until you forget how to speak. Until the only thing you can do is come on my tongue while I decide whether to keep you or ruin you.”
His mouth sealed over your clit and sucked hard, no mercy, while two sticky fingers pushed into you without warning and curled. The webbing around your wrists pulsed tighter as your body jerked.
Peter Parker was gone.
What was left between your thighs only wanted to devour.
He ate you like he’d been starving for days—tongue flat and relentless, dragging over every sensitive inch before pushing deep inside you just to fuck you with it. The wet heat of his mouth sealed over your cunt completely, and the sounds that filled the apartment were filthy and constant— the soft, slick noise of his tongue working you open, the wet suck each time he pulled back just enough to breathe, the low, broken groans that vibrated straight against your clit.
Two fingers joined almost immediately, thick enough that it made the stretch burn in the best way. He curled them hard against that spot that made your vision white out and sucked your clit between his lips at the same time, the combination brutal and perfect. Your thighs trembled on either side of his head. The webbing around your wrists pulsed tighter every time your body jerked. He didn’t give you any time to breathe—just kept going, tongue fucking into you in deep, greedy strokes while his fingers worked faster, wetter, the slick sounds of it getting louder the more you dripped for him.
“That’s it,” he growled against your folds, voice rough and muffled. “Let me feel it. You’re so fucking close I can taste it.”
The pressure built in waves. First a sharp, coiling heat low in your belly, then a deeper ache that made your hips try to roll against his face even as he held you open. He chased every tiny shift, adjusting the angle of his tongue, the pressure of his fingers, until the only thing you could do was take it. Your cunt clenched around him. A broken sound tore out of your throat. The second the orgasm hit, it hit hard—your whole body locking up as you squirted, a hard, pulsing rush of wetness that hit his mouth and chin and dripped down his throat in messy streaks. He didn’t pull back. He just groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted and kept licking through it, messy and greedy, chasing every drop until your legs were shaking and you were whimpering from the overstimulation.
When the last tremor left you, Peter finally leaned back on his heels.
Your release was dripping off his chin, shining on his lips, streaking down his neck. He looked at the mess you’d made of him and laughed—low, mean, delighted.
“Oh, sweetheart.” He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and then licked that clean too. “You just fucking squirted on me. Look at that. One little push and you made a mess all over my face.” His eyes were almost pure black now, pupils blown wide with hunger and amusement. “I’ve heard you, you know. Through the wall. Late at night when you think no one’s listening. The soft little sounds you make when you’re getting yourself off alone in your apartment. Always wondered what it would take to make you get loud. Turns out all it took was me on my knees with my tongue in your cunt.”
He stood in one fluid motion. The remaining scraps of the suit came off with two sharp rips—fabric tearing like it was nothing. Then he was naked in front of you, cock hard and heavy between his legs, the head already shiny with precum. Every muscle in his body looked coiled and ready.
He didn’t give you time to catch your breath.
Why would he?
One sticky hand closed around your waist, the other around the back of your neck. He ripped you off the wall, your wrists aching at their release and spun you, marched you the few steps to the webbed kitchen counter, and bent you over it hard enough that your chest hit the cool surface with a soft grunt. Your cheek pressed to the webs, sticking you in place. Your ass was up, completely exposed, still dripping from the orgasm he’d forced out of you.
Peter stepped in behind you. The thick, hot length of his cock dragged through the mess between your thighs, slow and deliberate, smearing your own wetness up and down your folds.
“Look at this,” he murmured, voice pure filth. One hand spread you open so he could watch the way his cock slid through your slick. “So fucking wet. You came all over my face and your cunt’s still greedy for more. Is this what you wanted when you walked in here? To get bent over my counter like a little toy? Is this what you think about in bed?”
He leaned over your back, mouth near your ear, the head of his cock catching on your entrance with every slow roll of his hips.
“I can feel how bad you want it. You’re dripping down my cock. Such a messy, desperate little thing.” A soft, mean laugh brushed your skin. “I’m gonna fuck you until you squirt again. Until the only thing you can do is take it and thank me for not webbing you to the ceiling while I do it. And you’re gonna love every second of it, aren’t you?”
The blunt head of him pressed against you, not quite pushing in, just resting there—hot, heavy, promising.
Peter’s voice dropped even lower, rough with the last scraps of the man fighting the hunger.
“Tell me you still want this.”
“I want you.”
The words were barely out of your mouth before Peter drove into you in one hard, unbroken thrust.
The stretch was brutal—thick and sudden and so deep it punched the air from your lungs. Your cheek stuck against the webbed laminate as he bottomed out and stayed there for half a second, just breathing, just feeling the way your cunt clenched around him like it was trying to keep him.
Then he moved.
He fucked you hard and fast, hips snapping forward with a force that made the counter creak under you. Every thrust was deep, relentless, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet apartment. His hands locked around your hips hard enough that you already knew there would be bruises tomorrow—dark fingerprints where his fingers dug into soft flesh and held you exactly where he wanted you.
“Fuck—look at you,” he gritted out, voice rough and mean. “Taking it like you were made for this. I didn’t even think you could handle getting fucked this hard.” Another sharp snap of his hips drove a broken sound out of your throat. “But you’re dripping down my cock every time I bury it in you. So fucking greedy.”
You hadn’t known either. The pace was almost too much—too deep, too fast, the stretch burning in the best way with every drag of his cock. His blunt head kissing your cervix with every thrust. Your body still hadn’t fully come down from the last orgasm and already the pressure was coiling again, sharp and overwhelming. Peter didn’t slow. He just kept slamming into you, one hand sliding up your spine to fist in your hair and pull your head back so he could watch your face.
“That’s it. Let me feel it. You’re gonna squirt on my cock this time, aren’t you?” His voice dropped into something filthy and delighted. “I can already feel you getting tighter. Do it. Make a mess of me again.”
The second orgasm hit harder than the first. Your cunt locked down around him as you squirted again, a hot, pulsing rush that soaked his cock and thighs and dripped onto the floor between your feet. Peter groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever felt and fucked you through it, chasing every flutter and clench until your legs were shaking and you were gasping against the counter.
Strong hands hauled you up and carried you the few steps to the couch. He dropped onto the cushions and pulled you with him in the same motion, settling you over his lap so you straddled him. Your knees sank into the cushions on either side of his hips. Before you could even try to find your balance he planted both hands on your waist and started fucking up into you.
There was no pretense that you were in control.
Peter used you like a toy, lifting you just enough to drop you back down onto his cock while he thrust up to meet every fall. The angle was devastatingly deep. Every upward snap of his hips forced a wet, broken sound out of you. His grip never eased. Fresh bruises bloomed under his fingers as he held you exactly where he wanted and took what he needed.
“Oh sweetheart,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded and dark with hunger. “Sitting on my cock like a perfect little fucktoy. Can’t even move unless I let you.” He thrust up harder, watching the way your body took every inch. “You’re so wet it’s running down my balls. Still gushing for me like you can’t help it. Such a messy, desperate thing.”
One hand left your hip to wrap lightly around your throat—while the other kept you steady for the relentless pace of his hips. The look in his eyes was pure predator.
Peter’s grip on your hips never eased. He kept fucking up into you in deep, relentless strokes, using your body exactly the way he wanted while his voice stayed low and filthy against your ear.
“That’s it—take it. Look at how easy you open up for me. Sitting on my cock like you were made to get used.” Another hard thrust forced a broken sound out of your throat. “You’re shaking again. I can feel it. That pretty cunt’s about to soak me one more time, isn’t it? Go on. Squirt on me again. Make a mess while I fuck you through it.”
The pressure built too fast, too sharp. Your thighs trembled on either side of his hips. Every upward snap of his cock dragged over that perfect spot until the only thing you could do was just take it. When it hit, it hit hard—your whole body locking up as you squirted around him for the third time, a hot, pulsing rush that soaked his cock and the skin of his stomach. Peter groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever felt and kept thrusting through it, chasing every flutter and clench.
“Fuck—yes. Just like that. So fucking messy for me.”
His rhythm finally stuttered. The mean edge in his voice cracked into something rawer as his hips snapped up once, twice more, burying himself as deep as he could go. A low, guttural sound tore out of him when he came—hot, thick pulses spilling into you. He held you down through every spurt, grinding up into the mess he’d made of you until the last tremor left him.
Your strength gave out all at once.
You collapsed forward against his chest, forehead pressing to the damp skin of his shoulder, body still trembling with aftershocks. His cock twitched inside you one last time. For a long moment the only sound in the apartment was the two of you trying to breathe.
Then the change happened.
You felt it in the way his hands loosened. The bruising grip softened into something almost careful. When you managed to lift your head, his eyes were no longer that dark, reflective black. The familiar warm brown was fully back—wide, stunned, and filling fast with horror as the full weight of what he’d done settled over him.
Peter stared at you like he was seeing you for the first time.
His gaze dropped to the dark fingerprint shaped bruises already developing across your hips and thighs, to the torn scraps of clothing on the floor, to the mess of webbing and come and your own release still slick between your bodies. A shaky breath left him.
“Oh my god.”
His voice was his own again—quiet, wrecked, and already cracking with guilt.
“I—what did I just do to you?”
Peter’s hands were careful now.
He eased out of you slowly, like he was afraid even that small movement might hurt. A soft, broken sound left him at the loss of heat, but he didn’t linger on it. Instead he reached for the nearest blanket—one of the soft ones from the back of his couch—and wrapped it around both of you, tucking the edges in so your bare skin was shielded from the cool air. His arms slid under your thighs and back without asking. He lifted you like you weighed nothing.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured against your hair. “Just hold on to me.”
He carried you out of his apartment and the few steps across the hall to yours. The door was still unlocked from earlier. Inside, the quiet of your place felt almost surreal after everything. Peter walked straight to your bedroom and lowered you onto the bed with a gentleness that made your throat tight. He pulled the covers up over your still-trembling body, then brushed a strand of hair away from your face with the backs of his fingers.
“I’m going to take care of a few things next door,” he said softly. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”
You nodded, too wrung out to speak. The door clicked shut behind him.
For a little while you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, body heavy and aching in places that hadn’t hurt an hour ago. The bruises on your hips already throbbed in time with your heartbeat. Between your legs you were sore and slick and still faintly pulsing with aftershocks. Your mind kept drifting—back to the way he’d looked at you when the black had first flooded his eyes, the mean, hungry things he’d said, the way he’d used your body like it belonged to him. And then the moment those eyes had cleared and pure horror had replaced the hunger.
You could hear him through the shared wall. The soft scrape of furniture being moved. Water running. The quiet, almost frantic sounds of someone trying to clean up evidence of something they couldn’t quite believe had happened.
When the door to your apartment opened again, Peter stepped inside carrying a small bag and wearing only a pair of soft gray sweatpants. His chest and shoulders were still bare, sweat dripped down and cooled along his muscles. He set the bag down and came straight to the bed, kneeling beside it so his face was level with yours.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “I’m going to run you a bath, okay? You’re… you’re covered in me. And I want to make sure you’re not hurt anywhere I can’t see.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He disappeared into your bathroom. The sound of water filling the tub was steady and soft. A few minutes later he returned, scooped you up again—blanket and all—and carried you into the steam-filled room.
The water was perfect, just on the edge of too warm. Peter eased you down into it first, then stepped out of his sweatpants and climbed in behind you. The tub wasn’t really big enough for two, but he made it work, stretching his legs on either side of yours and gently pulling you back until your spine rested against his chest. His arms came around your waist, loose and careful, like he was still afraid of holding too tight.
For a long moment he didn’t speak. He just reached for the washcloth, wet it, and began slowly cleaning the dried mess from your skin—your thighs, your stomach, the places where his hands had left marks. Every touch was deliberate. Tender.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper against the side of your neck.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I lost control. Completely. And I hurt you. I can see the bruises already and I… I hate that I did that.” His forehead pressed to your shoulder. “But I’m here now. I’ve got you. Just let me take care of you for a little while, okay?”
The water stayed warm around you both. Peter kept the washcloth moving in slow, careful strokes—down your arms, across your collarbones, along the tender insides of your thighs where the evidence of everything they’d done still lingered. He never rushed. Every pass of the cloth felt like an apology and a promise at the same time.
When he finally set it aside, he reached for the shampoo instead. Gentle fingers worked it through your hair, massaging your scalp with a tenderness that made your eyes sting. He rinsed it just as carefully, cupping water in his palm so none of it ran into your face. Then his arms slid back around your waist and he simply held you, chest rising and falling against your spine.
“It’s been getting worse for weeks,” he said eventually, voice low against the side of your neck. “The webs I can’t control. The strength that comes out of nowhere. The way every sound and smell is suddenly too much. But the instincts… those are the scariest part. There’s this constant pull to claim things. To protect. To take. And it’s getting harder to tell where the spider ends and I begin.”
His thumb traced absent circles against your stomach under the water.
“I’ve liked you for a long time,” he admitted, quieter now. “Longer than I probably should’ve. Four years of living next door, not saying anything to you because frankly— I'm an idiot. And this… whatever’s happening to me… it made all of that louder. Like the part of me that already wanted you suddenly had permission to stop being careful about it.”
You turned your head just enough to catch the edge of his profile. Steam curled around both of you.
“I’ve liked you too,” you said softly. “For a while now.”
Peter went still behind you. Then a shaky breath left him, warm against your damp skin. One hand lifted to brush a wet strand of hair behind your ear, the touch lingering.
“Are you scared of me?” he asked. The question was barely more than a whisper. “After everything I just did… after what I might keep becoming… are you scared?”
You shifted carefully in the water until you could look at him properly. His eyes were so clear again—familiar brown, open and uncertain and so painfully human. You reached up and rested your palm against his cheek.
“No,” you said, and meant every word. “I’m not scared of you. I’m here. For all of it. Whatever this turns into, I’m not going anywhere. We'll figure this out together.”
Something in his expression cracked open—relief and wonder and leftover guilt all tangled together. He leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to your forehead, then another to your temple, before guiding you back against his chest. His arms settled around you again, secure without being tight.
The water lapped gently at your skin. The bathroom was quiet and warm and safe. Peter’s heartbeat was steady under your ear. You let your eyes drift closed, the last of the tension finally leaving your body as the heat and the solid presence of him pulled you under.
You started to doze off right there in the bath, wrapped in his arms, at peace.
R messing with John Walker by acting like his big cock is smol & cute, and he’s very confused but also surprised he enjoys it
i changed it up a little bit but lskjdgnskjdg hope you enjoy <33
pairing: john walker x gn reader
warnings/tags: sph, very under-negotiated kink (reader springs sph onto john but john ends up being very much into it), handjob, one cock slap, light begging, drabble.
Also made a marvel sideblog lol @mrvlslvt
John sat up in your shared bed, scrolling through his phone as you continued to read a book you were almost finished with. Well, you were trying to read at least. Reading the third line of the page you were on five times before giving up. You closed the book, setting it on the nightstand on your side of the bed before turning onto your side. Putting your hand on John’s stomach, you tried to contain the smirk on your face when you noticed that he paused what he was doing. He was still looking at his phone, pretending as if you hadn’t just distracted him. After a couple of moments, he continued to scroll as you began to move your hand underneath his sweatpants.
“It always surprises me when I feel how small your cock is,” you laughed, shaking your head in faux disbelief. “Pull your pants down for me.”
John did as he was told, pulling them down, along with his boxers, right down to his knees so you had more room to work. You watched as he put his phone down, leaning his head back and closing his eyes as he waited for you to do something—anything. You looked down, running your tongue against your bottom lip. He wasn’t fully hard yet; hell, he wasn’t even halfway hard.
“Your cock’s so small, I actually think it’s the cutest little thing I’ve ever seen!” You laughed, looking up at him to study his face.
The two of you had never brought this up to either one of the other, so you wanted to make sure that even though he’s not saying anything, he was comfortable. Normally, you would discuss things before trying something new, but this time you didn’t. You spat on your hand and grabbed his cock all in one go, slowly moving your hand up and down on his length. He whimpered, and in that moment, you had almost lost it.
Obviously, you had been with him long enough to know that his cock was anything but small, but the idea of teasing him always ran through your head. You were always telling him how big he was (considering he loved to hear it), so when you read about the idea, you knew from that moment on you were going to have to try it.
“It’s a good thing you’re good with your mouth and hands or I’d be very disappointed every single time you and I fuck.” You laughed, watching as he bucked his hips upward. “You’re so small, I’m doing you a favor by letting you fuck me. Can barely feel you when you’re all the way inside me.”
“Please,” John whined.
“Please what?”
You held your hand still as you waited for an answer as he continued fucking up into it. You allowed him to continue for a few minutes, wanting nothing more than for him to get as close to the edge as possible without spilling over.
“Please keep going.”
Although you had a feeling John would be into it, it took you by surprise with how fast he broke.
Which made you almost feel bad for pulling your hand away and slapping his hard cock.
Almost.
“You want me to continue?” You asked, continuing when he began to nod frantically. “Then fucking beg.”
So, I was looking through my old prompts and I haven’t done this in 2 years, so I thought I’d do an update! Some of you have requested smut prompts as well, so here you are~ I would say that this post is 18+, but I know that there will be people younger than that reading this, therefore there is no age limit, but this is adult content.
This is an explicit post.
As usual, this is a smut-based prompt list, SO PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION. This is not for the faint of heart and it might be trash because I’m not someone who usually writes smut~
2) sex in front of a big window where anyone could glance up and spot them
3) fully clothed x stark naked
4) slow sex while one or both are injured (bonus points if it’s after a battle or after they’ve patched up each other’s wounds)
5) body worshipping
6) marathon session (they just fucking keep going, babyyyy)
7) finding a somewhat private area at a fancy party to fuck (coat closet, empty office, secluded corner on the big balcony, hedge maze if we wanna get dramatic, etc)
8) oops, we were just hiding in this closet, but then the close proximity get us too turned on not to fuck
9) revenge sex
10) finding their partner’s sex toy/toys and making them play with it in front of them
11) quickie where you don’t take any clothes off, just tug and pull and expose the essentials
12) fucking, but one is still trying to keep all of their attention on the game they are playing
13) getting a little too handsy on the dancefloor
14) library sex for those dark academia vibes
15) jealous sex in the alleyway behind the bar
16) accidental i love you’s during sex
17) seeing the love marks they left on their partner later and getting turned on all over again remember how it got there in the first place
18) a/b/o
19) getting turned on by their partner’s new uniform for work and then roleplaying a bit
izzy806
titsay
jimmyeatworldofficial
prguitarman
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
