✧˚₊‧ down bad! peter parker who fucks like he’s mindless !
it’s not like he’s touch starved for any sort of real connection; everyone who he loves doesn’t know who he is, he doesn’t have anyone to go home to besides that red and blue stupid spider-man suit that mocks him from the hanger. he watches the news as people cheer for him but no one wants him.
truly wants him. peter parker, not spider-man.
peter parker is a man who is starved of touch. he can live with no connection— it was just him and his aunt for many years… but the feeling of another person’s hands on him that wasn’t some goon in manhattan trying to put him to early retirement… it was foreign to him.
it’s been four years since mj, and he hasn’t felt anything on his body… except now, his breaking point.
youre not quite sure how you ended up in his vicinity anyway, but you did. you were simply in professor banners class when he came running in at the last minute, completely sloppy looking and out of his mind to talk to the professor. you stayed back to watch him ramble to him, seeing how disgruntled he looked, the bruises on his jaw and his forearm peaking out under the empire state hoodie.
when he left, you left, and you asked for his number.
that’s how you ended up here; in his messy bed, his cock thrusting in and out of you like a piston. he’s rough with his thrusts but gentle with his hands, like his fingers are trying to mark every single inch of your body, his lips haven’t left your neck since he’s thrusted.
“o-oh god baby.” he whispers, voice cracking under the pressure of your pussy clenching down on him. your nails rake down his biceps,
you moan around him, listening to his chorus of whimpers and pleads as the wet sound of his cock forcing its way into your puffy folds fills his mundane apartment bedroom. “f-fuck peter! keep going! oh fuck!”
the apartment walls in this place may not be the thickest, but peter’s cock is, so you don’t care that your moans could probably be heard from top floor to basement.
he moans when your fingers create more markings into his body, his senses going haywire with each stroke of his dick. “feels good baby? pussy needing me s’so much, don’t you?” he whispers, sucking on his right thumb before bringing it down to your clit, rubbing tight circles on it. “never letting you go, swear to god, fucking christ…”
each one of his thrusts picks up with the speed and velocity only a man like peter parker could display. you couldn't describe it but you felt so full but so good at the time time. your eyes rolled back as he kisses your cheek, feeling his balls slap against your clit.
he kept thrusting like he had something to lose; his hands touched you like he was trying to keep a reminder to himself what a female body felt like, what another human's body felt like under his own callous palms.
he's never felt like this in four years, and now, he's a selfish man and who could blame him?
peter was a man suffering in silence, currently thrusting into you like he was personally trying to break your cervix— and you didn't mind it, feeling like heaven itself as his forearms cage your head, kissing your face even as the tears flow from overstimulation, his mouth catching each one.
he brings you closer and closer, groaning deep into your ear as you tighten around him. the bed was louder than you at some points but you didn't even try to be quiet.
if anyone truly knew what peter parker was suffering with for four years... they'd understand why he fucks like this. why he fucks like it's his last day on earth. why his cock ruins you like it's never done before... and you didn't quite understand the full extent of it...
you just understood peter parker making you cum, and feeling ropes of his hot and heavy cum filling your pussy.
and in the same night? he tucks you in and sneaks out the fire escape, because peter parker only gets temporary joy when the city needs spiderman all the time.
click here for main masterlist! 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃
AUTHOR'S NOTE: god, brand new day is gonna eat so hard. ive never written for peter, but he was so fucking fine in that trailer, so why not write for him. sadie, tom, and zendaya in the same movie + promotion is gonna be so funnnnn, I can’t fucking wait. I do not care; i will somehow get a sadie hot ones episode as well as a sadie vs tom hot ones episode because I said so.
thank you for all the support in every way possible! all support is very much appreciated! all content created on this blog is mine, do not copy or sent it through ai!
★ 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.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re very untrusting?” She raises a brow playfully.
Your eyes narrowed, already preparing another comeback when the heavy grated iron door groaned open from the other side of the room. Years of training settled over you before you even realized it had happened, your gaze snapping toward the entrance before flicking immediately to Yelena.
“Were you expecting company?”
She made an exaggerated show of thinking about it, lips pursed and finger tapping thoughtfully against her chin before her expression broke into an impossibly smug grin.
“Oh. Right.”
A figure in bright red stepped hesitantly through the haze, stopping just inside the doorway as though he wasn’t entirely convinced he’d walked into the correct room. Spider-Man looked between the two of you, then back toward the hallway as if debating on running. As if seeing two naked widows was the biggest threat he’d seen all day.
Yelena didn’t give him the chance. “Take off your clothes.”
“W-what?”
“You don't wear clothes in the banya, ditch the leotard.” She ordered.
“This is not a leotard.” He shuffled awkwardly, his arms moving around his sides aimlessly. “Uh, your tech told me this was your office?”
Yelena’s arms went up, “This is my office. Get in.”
His entire body tenses, “I’m fine thanks-“
“Waa, waa.” Yelena laughs, “My office, my rules.”
He’s not biting, which makes you stifle a laugh. The silence stretched just long enough that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing.
Yelena leaned forward conspiratorially, as though she were making him the deal of a lifetime.“You get to enjoy a very nice, relaxing soak..“
You finally took pity on him, and picked up where she intentionally left off. “And we get confirmation you aren’t carrying any weapons. Everybody wins.”
His masked head turned toward you, the eyes on his suit getting animatedly larger.
“…Seriously?”
You smiled sweetly. “Seriously. I’ve learned to stop fighting her on it, it’s very nice in here.”
His shoulders sagged in the unmistakable posture of someone realizing resistance was entirely pointless. With a defeated sigh, he shuffled toward one of the wooden stalls. The stall door clicked shut behind him, and almost immediately the muffled rustle of fabric echoed through the room. At the same time, Yelena lazily stirred the water with one hand, looking altogether too pleased with herself.
“He said it was some small potato problem,” she murmured, effortlessly slipping into Russian. “Figured two Avengers could help him with intel.”
You hum, “Why didn’t you tell me he was coming by?”
“I forgot.”
“I don’t believe you.” You rolled your eyes, earning another satisfied grin from her just as the wooden stall creaked open. Spider-Man stepped out clutching a white towel around his waist with both hands like it was a lifeline. His shoulders were tense enough to rival a man walking into an execution, his face hidden behind the mask he’d somehow insisted on keeping despite surrendering the rest of the suit.
You had expected him to be lean, scrawny almost.
Instead, you found yourself staring for half a second longer than intended.
The suit had done him absolutely no favors. Beneath it were years of relentless training, packed onto a frame that looked carved from stone, broad shoulders tapering into a narrow waist, every muscle defined by years of keeping the city safe. His arms alone looked capable of lifting a car without much effort, his biceps so absurdly large you were fairly certain one of them rivaled the size of his own head.
You caught Yelena watching your expression from the corner of your eye. The smug little smile spreading across her face told you she had noticed your momentary lapse immediately.
Yelena burst into laughter, which stopped abruptly when she realized he was in fact not actually going to take the mask off.
“Wait, you’re serious? You’re not going to take it off?”
He slips into the water, “It would defeat the whole anonymous thing.”
“Even for your girlfriend, or boyfriend, or whatever.” She trails off, “You know there’s fanart-“
You tuned her out almost immediately, letting the words fade into meaningless background noise while she enthusiastically listed the bizarre piece of online fan art she’d stumbled across. You had long ago accepted that Yelena somehow found herself on the strangest corners of the internet imaginable, usually against her own will and yet somehow always with enough curiosity to constantly send links to the group chat. Bucky had blocked her long ago.
The first night she downloaded Twitter, she had run into the common room, her tablet clutched in her hand her eyes searching for Bucky as he very innocently was eating his popcorn. “Barnes, have you ever heard of Sambucky? Or a website called AO3?”
You’re pulled out of the memory when Spider-Man speaks up again.
“- Look, I don’t have anyone. I kinda keep to myself.”
“All by yourself? All the time?” Her voice falls. “No wonder you’re so sad.”
“I’m not so sad.” He lies, his voice rising a pitch.
“A little bit.” She mumbles, then her shoulders straighten as if she just got the idea of a lifetime. “You know, my sister here is very lonely too. She says she is not, but yet every weekend she is with me or eating ice cream pretending we cannot hear her watching those horrible American movies through the walls.”
You turn your head to her, expression blank. “Yelena.”
“Can we talk about what I came here to talk about? The attack on Damage Control. ” Spider-Man buts in, making you nod in agreement.
“Yes, can we?”
“Right,” The shit-eating grin is still wide on her face, “So that is more your area. Like small potato, whereas the New Avengers are focusing on big potato stuff.”
“Right, there’s more to it than that.” He adds. Going on about what he had learned the past day and giving details of the incident that had not been made public yet.
The warmth of the water settled around you as you absentmindedly dragged your fingers across its surface, watching small ripples spread between the three of you while you pieced together everything he was saying. After a long moment, you glanced toward Yelena.
“So you think it’s something like what they used on us?” you asked quietly. “The conditioning. Whatever they did to the other widows.”
“That was my first thought,” Spider-Man admitted, looking toward Yelena.
“It’s not,” She replied without a second’s hesitation.
Spider-Man frowned beneath the mask. “You’re sure?”
”It is more like possession."
You hum, your hands still moving the water around in front of you as they talk, letting Yelena fill the two of you in on what she knew. Unfortunately, every road ended exactly where it had begun. The New Avengers had no additional intelligence, no active investigation, and no plans to divert resources toward Damage Control while larger threats occupied their attention.
Spider-Man didn’t argue, but disappointment settled visibly across his shoulders all the same. The hopeful energy he’d arrived with slowly disappeared beneath the weight of another dead end, and after sitting quietly for a moment, he let out a long sigh before pushing himself up from the water.
“Fine,” he muttered, reaching for the towel he’d left folded on the bench. “I’ll just go ask Damage Control myself.”
You very intentionally kept your eyes fixed somewhere above his shoulder, refusing to acknowledge the beads of water slowly tracing paths over abs that the suit had done an excellent job of concealing. Or the way the veins in his muscles flexed when he pulled himself up. Or the way his boxers clung to his thick thighs.
“You know,” Yelena said with far too much innocence to be trusted, “you’re not completely anonymous anymore.”
Spider-Man paused in the middle of grabbing his clothes. “What?”
“I’ve seen your belly button.”
All you could do was sigh, letting your body sink further into the water until your chin was covered.
“…Uh,” Spider-Man finally managed after several painfully long silent seconds, “okay.”
“Goodbye, Yelena,” he said, already halfway through the doorway before remembering to glance toward you. “And… goodbye, Y/N.”
The heavy iron door barely had time to swing shut behind him before he was gone, leaving a trail of wet footprints stretching down the hallway outside. You waited until the echo of his footsteps disappeared before leaning over and bumping your shoulder against Yelena’s.
”You’ve scared him off.”
“Hmm, something is telling me you’ll see him again.” She smirks.
Before you had the chance to ask what exactly that was supposed to mean, Yelena slipped beneath the surface without another word, disappearing completely beneath the rippling water while you were left staring after her, equal parts amused and unconvinced.
News of the attacks seemed impossible to escape days later. Every television hanging in an airport terminal, every radio crackling through military transports, every phone notification carried another version of the same story, each one somehow more unbelievable than the last.
The majority of your updates came from Yelena, whose texts arrived at all hours of the day with the urgency of someone who had remembered a detail halfway through another conversation. It was a lot of, “Just talked to Spider-Man;)))))) u wish this was u huh?????”
You and Bucky had spent the better part of the week chasing leads that dissolved into nothing before you could ever get close enough to investigate. Reconnaissance, surveillance, more reconnaissance, another anonymous tip that turned into an abandoned warehouse with little more than stale coffee cups and dust to show for it. By the time your transport finally touched back down stateside, you felt like you’d spent more time staring through binoculars than actually accomplishing anything.
“Remind me why people still choose to live in New York,” you muttered as you dropped a thick stack of mission reports onto Val’s desk with enough force to make the folders slide apart. “
“I’ve stopped wondering.” Bucky admitted, “It was nicer in the 40s.”
You sighed, rubbing absentmindedly at the side of your neck where the edge of your Kevlar vest had spent the last several days digging relentlessly into your skin. The movement earned an immediate wince as the irritated patch protested beneath your fingertips.
“You should put ice on that,” Bucky said, noticing before you’d even finished reaching for it. He shrugged off his own tactical vest with considerably more irritation than necessary before tossing it onto the chair beside him. “Couple more days in these things and it’s going to rub you raw. These vests are garbage.”
“They’re definitely not sized correctly.”
“They’re not sized correctly because procurement buys whatever’s cheapest.”
A tired laugh escaped you. “I think Val just hates us.”
“I’ll have her order us different sizes,” he continued, already looking toward her office despite knowing she was deliberately never here. “These are shit.”
You smiled despite yourself, unfastening the last strap before setting your own vest aside. “Thanks, Bucky.”
“So what’s next?”
“I think…” You stretched your shoulders until your back gave a satisfying pop. “I might stop by Yelena’s office.”
He raised an eyebrow knowingly. “Checking on your sister?”
“And Spider-Man.” You said casually, “Heard he got shot, she’d know how he’s doing”
“Oh? That’s it huh?”
“I just want to know how his Damage Control adventure went.” You defended yourself, despite there being no reason to.
Bucky laughed quietly through his nose. “Good luck with that.”
“Yelena?” you called as you nudged the heavy iron door open with your shoulder, expecting to be greeted by either an insult or something thrown in your general direction.
Instead, silence answered you.
The bath sat empty, steam lazily drifting through the room while the familiar scent of cedar, herbs, and eucalyptus lingered in the warm air. The water rippled softly beneath the lantern light, untouched except for the occasional drip falling from the ceiling into the pool below. You still wondered how this building managed to keep up with the humidity.
You frowned, pulling your phone from your pocket.
I’m at your office. Where are you?
The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.
running 2 get food
Another notification popped up before you could even lock your screen.
do u want blini
wait no dumplings
there's an ice cream cart do u want
of course u want why do i ask
Then another.
I'll get them all brb
there's new vodka stashed under the third bench, landlady got a new bottle from home country
You couldn’t help smiling.
thanks. I’ll warm the bath for you. bring me a tea
Her reply came so quickly you wondered if she’d been holding the phone the entire time.
yayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy girly time
Chuckling to yourself, you slipped your phone onto one of the dry benches before slipping your clothes off in an untidy pile until all that remained was the comforting humidity wrapping around your skin.
You eased yourself carefully down the stone steps until the water climbed past your ankles, your knees, your waist, every aching muscle loosening a little more with each inch. The heat seeped deep into your bones, unraveling tension you hadn’t even realized you’d been carrying since boarding the quinjet days earlier.
By the time the water reached your shoulders, the exhaustion finally caught up with you.
A quiet, involuntary moan escaped your lips as you leaned your head back against the smooth stone edge of the bath, your eyes slipping closed while the warmth wrapped around every sore joint and bruised muscle. For the first time in what felt like days, your breathing slowed, your shoulders finally relaxed.
So completely, in fact, that you never heard the heavy iron door slowly creak open behind you.
”Uh, Ms. Y/n?” A timid voice spoke, making the tension rise back in your shoulders as you jumped. The bright red suit made your heart race out of shock and a weird sense of nervousness at being here alone with him.
“G-God, I’m so sorry,” he blurted, spinning around so quickly he nearly lost his footing on the damp stone. His back was to you before you’d even managed to respond, his hands raised awkwardly as if surrendering. “I didn’t mean to walk in on you. Yelena said she’d be here today and I just… I thought…” He groaned quietly to himself.
You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you.
“It’s okay,” you said, your voice softer now as the adrenaline finally ebbed away. “Really. She’s just getting food. She should be back any minute.”
“I’ll just wait here.”
“Spidey,” You pout playfully, splashing the water to beckon him in, “Join me.”
“Are you sure?”
”Yes.”
“I was actually…” He hesitated, sounding almost embarrassed to admit it. “I was kind of looking forward to the soak.”
That pulled a genuine laugh from you. “Right?”
He glanced over his shoulder just enough that you caught the sheepish grin tugging beneath the edge of the mask.
“I wasn’t sure if it was weird that I was, I’ll just change.”
“It took me a while too,” you admitted, as he disappeared into the stall, “The first time Yelena dragged me down here I thought she’d finally lost her mind. Now I’m her after almost every mission.”
”Man,” He says through muffled fabric, equipment dropping on the wood bench, “I’d love to come and soak after a long day.”
“I’m sure Yelena would allow it, as long as you don’t throw a party in here or tell anyone or make a mess.” You drag on, smiling as he came into view. This time with no towel wrapped around him, just his boxers clinging expertly to him as he stepped inside the water.
He leaned back against the stone edge with a contented sigh, finally allowing his shoulders to drop. For the first time since you’d met him, he looked… peaceful.
It was then your eyes caught the scar.
Angry red tissue stretched across his side just beneath his ribs, the wound still fresh despite already being sealed shut. The edges remained inflamed, the skin surrounding it slightly pink from rapid healing that no ordinary body should have been capable of.
He followed your gaze and instinctively looked down at himself. “Oh, that.”
One hand brushed lightly across the mark before he flexed experimentally, watching the skin pull without discomfort.
”I was going to ask, how you were doing. Yelena was giving me updates.”
“Doctor’s said it will leave a nasty scar, but I heal faster than most.” His voice is quieter now, reflective as you stare at him. “I can barely feel it.”
“This was a gunshot that almost killed you, just days ago?”
He nodded, sensing your hesitation. “You can touch it.”
He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d offered. Maybe because it didn’t hurt anymore, or maybe because the concern written so plainly across your pretty face made something warm settle in his chest. There was something strangely comforting about it, enough that he found himself hoping you would say yes before he’d even realized he’d been hoping at all.
You held his gaze through the mask for a brief moment, silently asking if he was certain, and when he gave another small nod you pushed gently through the water until barely a foot separated the two of you. The movement sent soft ripples across the surface, brushing against his shoulders as you lifted your hand. Instead of pressing your palm directly against the wound, the backs of your knuckles grazed lightly across the newly healed skin, careful enough that it almost wasn’t a touch at all.
“I heal faster due to a diluted version of the serum they give us widows, but nothing like this.” Your fingertips traced lightly around the edge of the injury without putting pressure on it, fascinated by how smooth the tissue already felt. “But nothing like this. This shouldn’t even be closed yet.”
“Y-Yeah…”
The word caught somewhere in his throat.
A visible shiver rolled across his shoulders, one that had absolutely nothing to do with the temperature of the water. It was the realization that you were standing impossibly close now, naked underneath the murky water, and close enough that he could count the droplets of water clinging to your shoulders, close enough that every sensible thought he’d had moments earlier evaporated into steam.
His eyes betrayed him.
For only the briefest second, they dipped downward before he caught himself, snapping immediately back to your face with an expression that could only be described as horrified with himself.
“I’ve…” He cleared his throat a little too forcefully. “I’ve been having some issues with my DNA and the spider thing.”
“The spider thing.” You echo, urging him to continue.
He rubbed the back of his neck, grateful for the excuse to look anywhere but directly at you.
“It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud, but my arachnoid DNA started climbing way higher than it’s supposed to. I was acting… not exactly like myself for a while.” He gestured vaguely with one hand, struggling to summarize weeks of bizarre mutations. “I’ve started shooting webs out of my actual wrists instead of using web shooters, and apparently that’s only one of the side effects. Everything is stabilizing now, though. I’m… mostly normal again.”
Your expression shifted from amusement to fascination almost instantly. “Out of your wrists?”
Before he could answer, your hand had already slipped from his side to his forearm. Your fingers wrapped gently around his wrist, turning it over in the warm water until the small opening nestled against his skin came into view.
“I used to make web fluid, but now it’s all homegrown.” He jokes, but goes silent when you don’t laugh instead you’re too fascinated.
“Do you shoot webs from other places?”
“Oh, no. Absolutely not. No, no.” He shook his head so quickly a few damp curls escaped the edge of the mask. “Just… just the wrists. I’m very normal everywhere else.”
A small hum escaped you, thoughtful more than anything else.“That’s a shame.”
“…I’m sorry.”
“I said that’s a shame.”
“No, I heard you. You sound… disappointed.”
“I’m not disappointed,” you corrected with a sheepish smile, finally releasing his wrist. “I just think it would’ve been kind of interesting.”
For a long second he simply stared at you.
“What? I like spiders too, you know?”
Then a laugh escaped him, bright and completely unrestrained, echoing warmly off the cedar walls. He shook his head, still smiling to himself as he looked down at the water between you.
“You widows,” he shook his head, “You guys are something else.”
“Hmm, and what about you, Spidey? What are you?”
He pauses for a moment, his mind going back to the first night he officially met you in this bath, the towel clutched around him while Yelena spoke enough for the both of you.
“I am lonely,” he admitted at last, the confession coming softer than he’d intended. There wasn’t any self-pity in his voice, only a quiet sort of acceptance. “It’s… gotten better lately. A lot better, actually. But your sister was right.” He laughed weakly to himself, shaking his head. “I hate giving her that satisfaction.”
Your smile widened despite yourself. “So do I, but alas she keeps being right.”
He shifts a little closer, either consciously or subconsciously you don’t know. Close enough that you could make out the constellation of freckles scattered across his shoulders. Close enough to hear the steady rhythm of his breathing over the gentle splash of water against the stone. Close enough that every time either of you shifted even slightly, your knees threatened to brush.
For reasons neither of you could explain, the room suddenly felt much warmer than it had a moment before.
“I’m not very good at… this,” Peter admitted with a nervous smile, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Talking to people, getting close to people. I mean I think you’re the first person to touch me in years. Is that depressing?”
“A little.” You admit with a playful smile. “But I understand. Our lives, it’s impossible to have normal relationships.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” He breathes out, and neither of you move. You both just sit there, relaxing against the concrete wall. The tension between the two of you is electric, it’s like every drop of water is drawing you closer to him.
The silence is only broken when he decides to speak up, “She sure is taking a while.”
“She sure is…” You turn to him, “You really never take the mask off for anyone?”
He shakes his head, “I try not to.”
You watch the fabric strain against his lips, and you yearn to see how plump they are. What shade of pink, how they’d feel against your own. You wanna see his nose, feel it pressed against your skin, to watch his eyes as you touch him.
“Not even a little?” You ask, your palms moving up to cup his cheek.
“It’s easier this way.” He says and he’s not sure if he’s telling you, or trying to convince himself. His body ignites with each rub of your fingers against the fabric.
You sit up, your hands falling to his shoulders.
“Is this okay?”
“More than okay.” He whispers, in awe as you practically tangle yourself in his lap. He holds you gracefully, and respectfully as you straddle him. You can feel his boxers against your inner thigh as his hands hover respectfully on the outside of your ribcage to keep you balanced.
Your fingertips trace the outline of his face, trying to memorize the feel of his cheekbones.
“I’ve spent so long wondering what you look like under there,” you admitted, your voice barely louder than your own breathing.
“Just like anyone else.” He managed to get out, his mouth going dry as he all but melted underneath your touch.
“I find that,” You lean forward, pressing a kiss to his fabric-covered forehead, “Very hard to believe.”
He shivers, fingers digging into your skin as you press long kisses down his cheeks right to where the mask ends and his skin begins.
“Would you,” The warmth of your breath makes the hair on his neck stand up, “Be willing to move the mask up about, an inch or two?”
“I-“
“You don’t have to.” You remind him, leaning back to catch his eyes again. “I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable-“
One hand leaves your skin, pulling the mask up just enough to expose his plump and waiting lips. There’s barely enough time to stare at the new part of him before he's pulling your lips into his. It’s a little clumsy at first, awkward with the bunched-up mask rubbing against your nose, but you make it work. His lips were warm against yours, opening his mouth at the first swipe of your tongue against it.
He pulls away with a gasp, “Can I touch you?”
You’re nodding before he can get it out, letting his head drop down so his mouth could suck and bite at your chest. Your nipples are pebbled by being exposed to the cool air, only warming once he pulls one into his warm and waiting mouth.
One of his hands is already guiding your legs apart, his fingers slipping in between your folds.
“You’re so wet.” He whispered against your tits.
“We’re in water.” Your eyes were closed, relishing the feeling of the gentle circles he was rubbing into your aching clit.
“And I’ve been able to smell you since I walked in, you can’t hide from me.”
Your heart rate picks up, and he no doubt feels that too as he slips a finger inside of you. You’re all but grinding against his fingers, your clit brushing against the raised spot on his wrist.
“F-fuck,” You cry out, “Can feel your wrist throbbing against me.”
“It wants to shoot webs at you, wants to wrap you in them. Keep you all for myself,” He whispers, “You’d like that wouldn’t you? You want me to fuck my webs into you.”
There’s no shame to be had at the fire that licks in your lower belly at his words as you nod frantically.
In a split second you’re being pulled up from the water, and laid down on a towel. Your head propped up by his discarded suit bunched up as he hovers above you.
He leans down and licks a strip of water droplets from your tits, before his hand travels back down to your cunt.
There’s a soft hiss as his webs disperse onto you, they’re warm and sticky and practically dissolve into your wetness as he slides two fingers inside of you. With each brush of your clit against his wrist, he dribbles out fluid that only makes him fuck into you faster. His fingers curl expertly, and the sounds bouncing off the walls of the bath are lewd.
“You’re so dirty,” He growls against your skin, feeling every nerve on his body stand up. The inhibitor did little to quell just how feral he felt pressed against you. His cock was hard in his boxers, rutting against the soft skin of your leg to dull the ache. “You know, this is how spiders mate. They roll their sperm into webs and fuck them into the female.”
Your moan is broken off into confusion as you watch him, a small smile on his lips. “Yeah?”
“Sorry,” He whispered, his fingers still prying the nastiest sounds from your heat. “This is really hot.”
“You know, widows kill their mate after sex.” You manage to stutter out.
“Are you gonna kill me?” He asks, pressing harshly against your clit with another messy ooze of his webs.
“G-god no, I’m gonna cum.” You’re all but gasping as he pries an orgasm out of you
Your legs are shaking, chest heaving by the time you come to. He’s still sitting between your legs, boxers still on as he presses gentle kisses to your thigh.
You try to take him off guard by flipping him over onto his back, as gently as you could. He lands with a huff, and you pretend he didn’t see that coming. The view of you on top of him has him reeling, your tits bouncing as you tug briskly down at his boxers, pressing your lips to his.
“I can’t,” He pulls away from your lips reluctantly, “I can’t take the mask off.”
“I don’t care.” You sigh pressing your lips harshly against his again.
When he pulls away this time, a thread of spit connects your mouths. “I'm sorry, I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable if you can’t see me-“
”I don’t care,” You echo, “I just wanna feel you.”
“The mask stays on.” He asks, once more to confirm.
“The mask stays on.” You agree, digging your nails into his shoulder blades as you reach down to guide his aching cock to your entrance. You slide down on him with a satisfying hiss, gasping at the stretch of him. His cock is so thick, you have to pace yourself before your hips meet his.
“God.” He seethes through his clenched jaw, his eyes rolling back into his head. You wished so badly to see the pathetic, fucked out look on his face. “You feel so good.”
“You’re huge.” You sigh contentedly, rocking your hips lazily against his as his tip presses gently into your sweet spot each time.
You ride him slowly, relishing the moans leaving his glossy lips. Or the way his abs tense every few seconds as you bounce and grind against him. It’s frantic, but intimate as you fall apart above him.
“You’re so beautiful.” He pants, watching your thighs shake as the thick curve of his cock pressed against the deepest parts of you.
“Spidey.” You moaned, your palms heavy on his chest as you tried to keep up your rhythm, failing when the pleasure overtook you.
“Right there, baby. Fuck.” The term of endearment leaves his mouth recklessly as he leans up, the soles of his feet hitting the ground as he fucks up into you. His hands are on your tired hips, picking you up and fucking yourself on his cock as if you weigh nothing. He hit every single spot inside of you, the bulge of him pressing deep against your stomach as you cried out for him.
“I’m gonna- I’m gonna-“
“I got you,” He cooed, “Cum for me, let me feel you.”
He felt every second of it, as you spasmed and came around him. It wasn’t too long before he followed behind you, letting your cunt milk him for every drop of his cum. It was warm, and thick. You’ve never felt this full before, it felt like he was coating your insides, claiming you as his.
“Spidey,” You mumbled, “That was…”
“I know…” He sighed dreamily, rubbing gentle circles into your hips from where he still lazily held you.
You pull off of him with a lewd pop, his release dribbling down your inner thighs.
“It’s so thick.” You stare in amazement, a finger gliding through the thickened cum.
He sits up quickly, head tilting in confusion. “That’s- it’s not webbing.”
“Definitely not normal.” You giggle like a schoolgirl,. “Don't worry. I’m into it. Majorly.”
He shakes his head in disbelief, watching each sway of your hips as you slide into one of the shower stalls. He just lays there, chest still heaving in disbelief that the past twenty minutes have even happened.
“You not gonna clean me up, Spidey?” You speak through the haze of the shower spray and a smirk falls on your face when you hear his feet frantically slapping against the wet concrete.
That’s how Yelena finds the two of you, your back pressed against the metal of the stall door. The water long gone cold as Spider-Man had your eyes shut in pleasure while he fucks up into you harshly, blubbering out pathetic moans of your name.
You’re still sensitive and so full from his last release by the time he slides into you again. He leaves no stone unturned as he urges you to come apart around him again, and again.
“Yes, yes,” He grunted, “Is this okay?”
“Yes.” You cried out, your legs locking around his ass to prevent him from stopping, as if he’d ever dream of it, “Please don’t stop. I’m right there, right fucking there.”
The metal stall was shaking with the ferocity of it, the sound of his hips slapping against yours drowned out by your cries.
“Are you gonna cum?” He panted, his fingers already rubbing at your swollen clit, “I need you to cum for me.”
“I’m gonna cum,” You nod, “Just keep going. Yeah, like that fuck. Fuck, Spidey I’m cumming.”
“M’behind you.” His hips stuttered as your cunt suckled him in and drank in every drop of thick cum he released deep inside of you.
“Fuck.” You laughed lazily, pressing your sweaty temple against his shoulder. He shuddered when he tried to pull out, his cum plopping out of you and clinging to his cock like glue. “Guess you gotta stay inside of me.”
“There’s worse places to be.” He laughed, pressing a gentle kiss to your head.
The blissful afterglow was interrupted by a loud throat clearing, Yelena’s voice carrying through the steam.
↳ Warnings/Themes: Mature (🔞). Smut. PWP. Unprotected P in V. Spread Eagle. Not-proofread. Dry humping.
↳ Pairing: BND!Peter Parker x F!Reader
↳ Words: 2853
↳ Summary: Your boyfriend returns from patrol beaten and bloodied and with a new attitude.
☁️: Walked out of the movie wet as hell. The scene that this picture is from... yeahhhh. So, here we are. First time writing for Marvel / Spidey so be nice pleaseeee. There's no real spoiler warning, as the fic is based on the image from the trailer. ❤︎
General Masterlist here. Peter Masterlist here.
Through the noise of the New York night moving below, something hits your bedroom window hard enough to rattle the glass and drag you out of your sleep. Another loud tap follows before the room falls quiet again. The traffic outside carries on as though nothing happened, and the silence inside your room stretches on long enough that you being to wonder if you'd imagined it.
Still caught somewhere between sleep and consciousness, you instinctively reach for your phone. It takes a couple of seconds of blinking against the harsh glare of the phone before the numbers come into focus. 03:17. No missed calls or texts.
You let your head fall back against the pillow, your eyes already drifting closed as sleep begins to pull you back under again. It's only then, just as you're comfortable, that the next sound tears through your bedroom.
Your bedroom window, old and creaky, is slid open. The curtains stir as something, a big something, slips past them. There are no footsteps or creaks of the floorboards to prove it happens, just the rustle of the curtains as more breeze flies through.
"...P–Peter."
The name slips from your mouth before your mind has even fully caught up. It has to be him, he's the only person reckless enough to slip in at three in the morning, and the only one who would consider your fourteenth story window as a perfectly reasonable front door, despite having a key.
There's no response, so you reach for the lamp. A soft, yellow glow fills the bedroom, your eyes taking another second to adjust before immediately settling on the wall.
Peter's halfway up your bedroom wall, crouched close to the ceiling with his weight resting on his feet. He has one hand on the opposite wall, as if he needs it to keep him balanced.
He's still not turned to look at you, opting to watch the city through the gap the wind creates in the curtains. One shoulder in his suit has been ripped almost clean off, exposing bruised skin beneath streaks of drying blood. There's more dried blood along the side of his face, disappearing beneath his jaw and into the collar of his suit. Fresh crimson still trickles from a cut above his eyebrow, his curls clinging damply to his forehead.
You chew your bottom lip as you take him in. It's become the norm for him to crawl through your window at night after patrol, but never this late and never looking this banged up. Dating Spider-Man has its perks but now it brings you an uncomfortable swirl in your stomach.
"Pete?"
When he finally looks over to you, the breath in your throat catches. His eyes, usually so soft and brown when they look at you, are gone, replaced by darkness. You blink a few times, as if that will reset your sight and give you something more familiar.
It doesn't and your brow furrows. You've spent enough time looking into Peter's eyes to know every shade of brown that they could be in a different light. This wasn't that. The colour has been swallowed whole, replaced by a black glossy enough to catch the light from your bedside lamp.
Over time, you've learnt to just roll with the things that happen to and around Peter. Now, for the first time really, he's beaten, he's bloody, his eyes are pitch black, and he just stares at you.
It's probably one of the most unsettling things you've ever seen, which makes it deeply irritating that your first coherent thought is still 'God, he's attractive'.
"That's... new," you finally say.
His head tilts ever so slightly, the movement smooth enough that it reminds you he isn't entirely human, as if him clinging on your wall without a regard for gravity wasn't reminder enough.
"What happened, handsome?" You ask softly.
One corner of his mouth twitches at the nickname, it's barely a smile, but it's enough to loosen the knot that has been tightening in your chest from since you turned the light on.
"Suit yourself," you say.
The silence feels wrong on him. Usually, Peter feels silence the way other people breathe. He apologises, makes terrible jokes, and talks himself into circles until you have to interrupt him just to get a word in. Even after the worst patrols, he somehow finds the energy to ramble on about the criminal who threw a microwave at him or complain about New York's pigeons' vendetta against him.
Tonight, he just watches you. His gaze follows you as you kneel beside the bed and pull out the first-aid kit you stashed there for times like this. It tracks the movement of your hands while you sort through gauze and antiseptic, placing them on the bed.
"Come here."
This, he obeys immediately. Usually there's some sort of protest, "I'm fine." "You don't need to fuss." "It's not even my blood."
But today, he walks down the wall, each step carrying him lower until both feet settle quietly onto the carpet. He walks the short distance over to you, stopping close enough that you can smell the rain and city dust beneath the metallic tang of blood.
There's tiny cuts scattered across his jaw, already looking like they're healing. "You really got beat up, huh?"
He nods in response.
"The other guy look worse than you?"
Another nod.
"Good."
It's your turn to watch him, your eyes trailing down from where his hair is still damp to the way his muscles bulge out of his suit. A hum of approval slips past your lips, and the corner of Peter's mouth lifts again.
"Missed you." His voice is rough, quieter than usual, as though he hasn't spoken in hours. Knowing Peter, that is unlikely.
"I missed you too." You reach for the antiseptic. "Suit off, sit down."
It's a routine you've done time and time again. He's out of the suit in no time, then on your bed in only his boxers. His chest and stomach is no better than his face, scrapes and bruises littered across him.
You kneel between his open legs, soaking a cotton pad with antiseptic before lifting it towards the cut above his eyebrow. "This is going to sting."
Normally, he'd flinch before you'd enough touched him, already complaining about your bedside manner despite being the one who'd shown up at your window and begging you to take care of him with those puppy-dog eyes.
But, the antiseptic touches raw skin without so much as a wince or bad joke about how it hurts worse than anything he fought as an Avenger.
The furrow in your brow deepens for the second time today as you carefully clean his face. "Peter."
His black eyes flick briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. "What?"
"You've been staring at me for the past... I don't know. Like five minutes."
"I know." Is his simple response.
There's something in his voice that somehow manages to sound not quite like Peter but also entirely like Peter at the same time. A hint of brown peaks through his eyes as you study him.
You find yourself looking away first, pretending to concentrate on cleaning the cut along his jaw even though you've already wiped it clean.
When your thumb accidentally brushes against the corner of his mouth, any hint of brown disappears, replaced by pitch black again as there's a faint hitch in his breath.
The effects of his reaction rolls through your body in a way that you're not sure you can admit out loud. Although he doesn't show it, he's probably in pain, and the worry you'd had initially is very quickly being replaced by a burning desire.
"I think we're done."
You stand to throw the used cotton aside. The moment you try to leave, warm fingers close around your wrist. It's not tight enough to bruise, but it's enough to stop you in your tracks, to stop you from even thinking of pulling away.
The tug on your arm is done with hardly any force at all, but it still has you tumbling forward. Your hands land on his shoulders to steady yourself, and he lets go of your wrist only to settle one hand against your waist.
Lifting you with ease, he puts you on his lap.
For a brief second, he looks almost puzzled by the contact, as though some part of him is only catching up to what the rest of him decided several seconds ago.
As your fingers trace down the lines of his chest, over the faint bruising, his eyes drop to your chest, watching how your chest begins to rise and fall faster as your heart thuds in your chest.
His nipples are already erect, so perky and tempting and you can't help but slide your thumbs over them. It's as if the touch sparks something within him, his hands tighten on your waist, drawing you closer until there's barely any space between your bodies.
The streets of New York sound even more distant as the sounds of ragged breathing fills the room, it's all consuming and desire pools in your stomach without even being touched.
"Pete," you moan, and the restraint snaps.
Peter's hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you down to crash his lips to yours. It's not really a kiss, it's too messy and too desperate, and he groans in your mouth as your teeth accidentally catch the cut on his lip. Still, he doesn't pull away. In fact, he craves more.
His hands run over your back and then down to cup your ass, tilting your hips forward in an attempt to press you harder against him. He hums quietly against your mouth, the sound vibrating somewhere deep in his chest.
Somehow, he calms down enough that his lips move against yours in a way more resembling real kiss, his tongue sliding over yours. The motion has heat prickling under your skin and a throb blooming between your thighs. Your nails scratch at his back, adding to the collection of marks there.
Without breaking the kiss, Peter eases you both backwards. You barely notice you're being moved until you suddenly feel him, all of him, press against you. He arranges you so he's flat on his back, your knees on either side of his hips.
The thin fabric of your panties is damp in a way that you're sure he can feel through his boxers. He's done nothing so far to warrant that.
"Fuck," you groan against his mouth as you shift against him. The friction sending little sparks of pleasure through you, but not enough to satisfy the ache.
He pulls back just enough to look up at you. You could always tell what he was thinking through his eyes, but they're still black, probably darker than before if that's possible. But, the expression on his face gives you all the reassurances that his eyes can't.
"My senses are going crazy." It's the first sentence that was more than two words he's pulled together all night, so you sit up straight, looking down at him. He closes his eyes, drawing in a deep and ragged breath. "Fu-. You smell so..."
The praise went straight to your core, more wetness dampening your panties and Peter whimpered.
He didn't open his eyes immediately, taking another long, shuddering breath of air as if your scene was an intoxicant he couldn't get enough of.
Shifting in his lap, you grind down against him with as much pressure as you could manage. His hands on your hips twitched, his fingers digging into your skin with enough pressure that you knew it would bruise tomorrow. Good.
His eyes lock on to yours, the void in his gaze terrifying in a way that only made you ache more. "I can hear your blood rushing. I can feel... no, I can smell how warm and wet you are."
Leaning forward, you drag your chest against his bare skin until your noses almost brush.
"So, then you know I'm ready for you." You kissed the bottom of his jaw, where a bruise has formed. "I'm begging for it." Another kiss and shift against him. His full body tremors underneath you. "I need you."
Before you can blink, his hand flies up to wrap around the back of your neck, and then the room spins. Peter's over you in an instant, pressing his erection against your core.
There's a wet patch on his boxers where his precum has pooled and each roll of his hips coats his boxers as it glides over your damp panties.
"Fuck... Pete."
Your nails find their way to his back again, leaving him with marks that you know he'll appreciate in the mirror in the morning.
Peter whimpers, hair flopping over his face and eyes half-lidded as he moves faster against you. You reach up, thumb flicking over his nipples in time with his grinds against you. Electricity runs through his veins at every wipe.
"I-I'm not- I'm close already," he stutters, his dick twitching in his boxers.
"But I want you inside of me," you all but whined.
"Okay, yes."
If you weren't as aroused as you are now, you would have laughed at the unnecessary acrobatics as he jumps back to pull your panties off in one swoop. The cold air hits your soaked folds, and his throat bobs as he watches the way it glistens in the light.
"Hurry up," you begged, legs closing slightly. It was a silly thing to feel so self-conscious in front of the man who's been between your legs more times than you could count, but he's also not seen you this desperate before.
He stands to pull his boxers down, a soft moan escaping his lips as the fabric catches on his sensitive tip. He turns to look at you as you swallow hard. His dick is beautiful, slightly curved and thick in a way that fills you up completely every time. It's flushed a pretty pink at the tip. Your tongue moves in your throat, craving the feeling of how heavy it would feel on you.
Settling between your legs again, Peter spreads your legs wide. He rubs the tip of his length through your slick folds, his precum and your arousal mixing. He uses the tip to circle your clit with extra pressure, and you cannot help the grind of your hips.
Peter taps his dick on your clit once, then once again, running it through your folds again.
Your hands hook under the backs of your thighs, pulling them to your chest and exposing yourself to him. "Peter, please."
"I'm sorry, baby," he coos.
Just the tip is eased past your hole, and it's enough for your mouth to go slack, eyes rolling back as the stretch burns so well. He continues to push in slowly, face scrunched as your walls wrap around him like a specialised glove.
Every ridge, every vein, and every pulse drags hits against the walls of your pussy. He fills you up completely, thick and veiny, and neither of you move for a moment, too lost in the feeling.
"Won't last long," he grits out.
Sweat already beads at his forehead. Sex with Peter is usually a stamina war, he goes rounds and rounds before even tiring. But whatever's happened to him has heightened his senses in a way that he cannot yet control, the feelings overwhelming him to the point of almost overstimulation.
"That's okay, take what you need."
He begins to move, pulling out so just the tip is left in before pushing back forward. He finds the right angle immediately, hitting against your spot and making your toes curl.
Without missing a thrust, Peter grabs hold of your ankles, using them to spread your legs further. The new angle has you both sighing, moans mixing in the room with the sounds of his skin clapping against yours.
"Feels s'good, s'tight," he groans. "Touch... self."
Three of your fingers immediately find your clit, circling with the pressure that you know you like. It only takes a few tightly pressured circles for the first waves of your orgasm to shake through your body.
Peter watches your body arch as your orgasm hits you in full force. You clench around him and that combined with the pure ecstasy on your face has him burying himself deep inside of you, giving you a few more frantic thrusts before he's whimpering and groaning, his nerve endings going haywire.
Seconds later, he's shooting hot, ropey cum into you. He falls forward but keeps his body hovering over yours. Your hands cup his cheeks, pressing kisses to his face as you both come down from your highs. He mumbles praises to you between kisses, making your heart squeeze.
"Feeling better, Pete?" You ask.
"Yeah, thanks to you," he sighs. He sits back on his heels, still buried inside of you.
As you watch him, his eyes slowly clear of the black, his soft brown eyes finding yours.
If you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc. it means a lot x
tags: 18+ smut. heightened everything, he’s extra rough and desperate, just shows up, unprotected sex, rough sex, free use, hyperspermia, soooo much cum, cum eating, filthy filthy filthy
a/n: first time writing for peter, I couldn’t help it after watching brand new day… head empty only horny thots. no spoilers really just his senses going crazy
With the way Peter’s senses have tremendously heightened lately he found himself getting overwhelmed far too easily.
He hears even more things than before and he feels things so intensely when someone touches him.
It was all getting too much for him so he quickly calmed himself down and swung over to your place, beyond desperate for a distraction before his brain exploded.
You jumped when you heard the knock at your fire escape but you quickly walked over, opening it when you saw his familiar face.
You couldn’t even open your mouth to speak when Peter quickly went in, mask in hand, and smashed his lips onto yours.
You gasped as his hands pulled you towards him, keeping you as close as possible to his body. You didn’t have time to think so you kissed back making him moan and reach down to lift you.
Your legs wrapped around his waist as he made his way straight to your bedroom, as if he knew your place like the back of his hand.
His tongue slipped into your mouth expertly and fast, your hands reached up to his hair to tug on his curls. He groaned into your mouth and within seconds your back was met with your mattress.
You had never seen him this eager before, with his hands tearing through every item of clothing, and his teeth nipping at your skin.
There was no time to ask why the hurry as he got in between your legs and started eating your pussy like there was no tomorrow.
You moaned, letting your hands go down to run through his curls. Instead of taking his time and teasing you like he loved doing, he was the complete opposite.
His head was moving up and down as his mouth worked overtime, sucking and licking every crevice of your pussy.
Somehow with just those few seconds of excitement it was enough for you body to get wet for him.
Wouldn’t be the first nor last time that happened.
“Fuck Peter-“ you moan, instantly making him moan against you.
It sent a shiver down your spine and before you could blink, he was off and climbing on top of you. You sat up a bit as he moved towards you and you instinctively opened your mouth.
He didn’t hesitate and instantly thrusted his hard cock all the way then held your head to keep you there. His hairs tickled your nose and you felt your eyes well up with tears already before he let you go and his cock slipped out.
You took a deep breath only for him to thrust himself down your throat again. Right when you were about to move your head, he pulled out once again then got off the bed.
His strong arms then pulled you to the edge of the bed before lifting your legs up high. They were spread as he slapped his cock on your dripping cunt, the noises being more obscene than usual.
He looked down where your bodies were about to meet, damn near salivating before he locked up and locked eyes with you.
You could have sworn his eyes looked completely black but right when you were going to take a closer look, he slammed inside you.
You whimpered as he bottomed out, putting your legs on his shoulders before he started to move. His thrusts were instantly hard and fast, which caught you by surprise.
But you weren’t opposed to it.
Not when every inch of him was bullying its way inside you like never before.
He was grunting and groaning with every thrust as if you weren’t even there.
As if you were just a hole he needed to fuck and fill.
You always told him this was something you’d be up for but now that he was actually doing it, you felt so needy.
His eyes were rolled back as he held your legs up, the sounds of skin slapping filling the room. You moaned along with him as he continued his brutal pace, using your poor pussy like a toy.
You felt so dirty.
But couldn’t help getting wetter.
If this was how he was going to be then it was definitely something you could get used to.
And his dirty words were only making you worse with every passing second.
“Fits me so perfectly.”
“Take it like that, baby.”
“I love this fucking pussy.”
You whimpered out and he moaned your name, squeezing your skin — you decided to hold your legs for him so he pushed them down and he moved down as well.
You cried out when he thrusted his hips into yours, giving you no mercy whatsoever as he pounded his cock into you.
With the slight change his cock now reached deeper inside you and his thrusts didn’t slow down, no they were even worse.
It felt so good and you didn’t have words to say, his cock leaving you dumb and whiny.
You really did try to think of something smart to say but nothing came up besides broken sobs and pleas for more.
He listened and leaned down a little more, his head above yours as you locked eyes while he pounded into you. His curls were falling and some were already stuck to his forehead because of the sweat.
You let go of your legs and grab onto his arms which were by your side. You squeezed his arms as he kept his relentless pace, making you both moan at the same time.
Your eyes were fluttering but his were right on you, watching your every reaction and moaning louder.
Suddenly he slowed down, almost pulling all the way out before slamming right back in.
You whimpered and gave him a pout while he repeated the action again.
He had a devious grin on his face as he did it again, grunting your name under his breath.
Your nails dug into his skin making him groan and it was like activating a switch because he stopped. He pulled back and brought your legs down before just spreading them wide and hovering over you.
Your hands went up to the back of his neck, playing with his hair when he went back to his rough thrusts.
“God- you’re so tight.” He groans, making you whimper, “J-Just for y-you Peter.”
“Good girl.” He moans, bringing a hand to cup your jaw.
You bite your lip and his eyes go down to it, before leaning down and kissing you. You kissed back and he slipped his tongue inside, clearly impatient.
Your tongue glided against his messily and he gave the same beefy back. He moaned in your mouth which earned himself a needy whimper from you.
You were so focused on the kiss you almost forgot how he was fucking your brains out.
His hips were pressed flush against yours, with every deep push he felt himself getting closer and closer to his release.
And he could feel that you were the same.
You were clenching against him more, your walls entrapping his cock and almost throbbing in need.
He pulled back and pressed his forehead against yours, “tell me what you want.”
He rammed into you hard, making you cry out then whine, unable to think.
He was pleased with himself and whispered, “c’mon you can do it.”
You stubbornly shook your head making him groan, “fine.”
Right when you thought he was going to pull out his movements were somehow even faster than before.
“I’ll just take what I needed from you-“ he grunts instantly making you whimper.
He chuckles then murmurs, “Mm dirty girl.. fuck I needed you so bad baby.”
“Peter!”
“Tell me you want me to make this needy pussy come.” He whispers, his dark eyes on yours.
Your vision was so hazy but they were so clearly different but you couldn’t focus on that when you felt your orgasm being right there.
“Please make us cum. Please, please!” You plead, followed by a loud cry.
He groaned and with a final deep thrust he spilled his load and you felt yourself explode on his cock. Your body shook as you came with him and your lips collided with his as he tried to drown out both your cries and moans.
You lazily kissed him back as your legs shook and your poor pussy was clenching against him. But he wasn’t pulling out.
And he was still cumming.
You suddenly felt very full and tried to push him off but he didn’t budge and slid his tongue inside your mouth to distract you.
You whimpered, shivering as he just kept pumping more and more cum inside you. Never in your life have you ever felt so full and he just wasn’t stopping.
But it was like he couldn’t, not that he didn’t want to.
He pulled away from you, eyes tired as he pulled out and came on your clit. Two seconds later it finally stopped and his load was spilling out all at once, dripping down to your asshole and straight onto your bed cover.
You looked down and watched in shock as he did the same but he had a look in his eye that had you guessing what he wanted to do.
In a blink of an eye he dropped to his knees and he was slurping up his cum. He was eating it out of you, with no care if you were sensitive or not, just swallowing drop after drop.
When it finally felt like it all came out he slipped two fingers in and started fingering you slow.
Then the rest of the cum came out slowly but surely and he licked it all off you.
When he finished, he climbed up, and you joined him, quickly getting comfortable in his arms as he calmed his breathing and wiped his mouth.
You decided to rest with him instead of bombarding him with questions that you weren’t so sure you wanted answers to.
⭐︎ 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 the longer he speaks to you, that promise slowly begins to fray.
← previous fic | marvel masterlist
“Alright, Spiderman. There’s a bank robbery going on at 30th Avenue. Suspect is—uh, hello? Is this thing on?”
Peter laughs, already swinging through the tall buildings of New York City, zipping and flying through them faster than you can even say ‘Spiderman.’ While one arm is busy slinging out webs from building to building, his other arm holds onto a thick communications radio that looks like an amateur concoction of a walkie-talkie accompanied with old thick wires he found in a junkyard.
“Yep, I hear you loud and clear,” Peter says from his end. “I’m already a few blocks away. What does the suspect look like—”
“Spiderman? Hellooo?” Your voice cuts him off in a burst of static that makes his ears ring. “Ugh—is this radio even working? Are you still there?”
He needs to make a mental note to figure out a way for your voice to come through clearer—and preferably not through a brick of what feels like a tenth-century sad excuse for a cellphone that he has to clutch every time he wants to talk to you.
“I’m here!” Peter shouts through the mic, swinging around a corner.
“Ah! There you are!” you say, sounding like you’re smiling, if only Peter could picture what you looked like. “Missed your voice for a second.”
Peter’s face flushes under his mask.
“Detecting a sudden increase in body heat—specifically around the facial region—and a spike in heart rate despite no intense physical activity being performed—”
“Shut up, Evie,” Peter mumbles, hoping you didn’t hear him from the other end of the line.
He hadn’t gotten around to fixing the background noise integration yet, so the shitty microphone attached to the radio picks up almost everything. He hears you laugh on the other end, and he has to force down the rapid thumping of his heart before Evie calls him out on it again.
“Are you blushing, Spiderman?”
“What—no!” Peter immediately interjects, landing on top of a tall building on 30th Avenue. His eyes scan the windows of the bank directly across the street. “Just tell me what the suspect looks like, alright?”
You chuckle again. “Okay, the suspect is tall, wearing dark clothing, and probably handsome—if it weren’t for the ski mask covering his face.”
Peter rolls his eyes underneath his goggles.
“Now’s not the time to play around,” he says, already swinging through the entrance as innocent bystanders and employees run out in a panic.
He swings above the crowd in a perfectly prone position mid-air until he lands on his feet in the center of the bank. He doesn’t need your comms in here—he can handle whatever gets thrown at him at this point. His ears tingle with a warning that tells him the enemy is to his left. He turns his head to that direction, and…
“Spiderman!” A tall man in dark clothing and a ski mask holds up a rifle, pointing it directly at Peter. “You’re dead, kid!”
“Oh, jeez,” Peter says, slowly raising his hands in surrender.
“Oh, and I forgot to mention,” your voice statics through. “He’s heavily armed.”
“Yeah, good comms,” Peter scoffs sarcastically.
“Who the hell are you talking to?” the man shouts, pointing at the radio in Peter's hand. “Is that a bomb? Drop it!”
Peter furrows his brows, glancing at the object in his hand. A bomb? Seriously? The radio really looks that bad?
The man’s grip on the gun tightens, holding it in a way that lets Peter know he has clearly never held a gun before in his life. The panic among the people remaining in the building surges at the sight of the weapon, everyone shoving past each other toward the entrance.
“Come on, man. Don’t shoot—there are innocent people in here!” he tries to interject.
“Innocent dead people soon, if you don’t put that weapon away!” the man barks back.
“The police are on their way,” you explain, serious this time, through the radio. “Take care of that gun now, or he’ll start shooting like a madman once he sees the sirens. You have less than two minutes.”
“Okay,” Peter says. “Time me.”
“Starting now?”
“Starting now,” he confirms before switching off the radio’s microphone input.
The man takes the loud clicking sound as a threat, his finger hovering over the trigger with every intention to shoot—but Peter moves faster.
Extending his left hand, a thick layer of web covers the muzzle, trapping any potential bullet in the barrel. The poor man doesn’t even have time to react before Peter webs the gun, yanked it out of his hands, and tosses it aside. Just as the man turns to make a run for it, Peter pins his ankles together with a thick strip of webbing, sending him face first onto the floor before securing his wrists behind his back with another band of webs.
From where he still stands in the center of the room, Peter unclicks the microphone. “You got it, Static?”
He can practically feel you rolling your eyes at the stupid nickname. “That was fifteen seconds. Good job,” you applaud. “And are you seriously still sticking with Static? I hate that nickname.”
Peter chuckles, scanning the area for any signs of injuries, but finds none. The police finally arrive, pulling up with sirens blaring as they assess the crowd and begin scouting the area with weapons drawn. Seeing the suspect already bound by webs on the floor, they immediately move in with handcuffs.
Knowing the police will take it from here, Peter zips out of the building as if the entire fight—if you would even call it that—was just a quick pit stop.
“Well, that’s just what I’m gonna have to keep calling you, because your voice always comes through staticky,” he says, the wind picking up through the microphone and making it harder for you to hear him. “Unless… you wanna give me your actual name. Then maybe I can call you that instead.”
You pause at the other end of the radio, the silence between you filled only by the harsh wind and the snap of spiderwebs on his end.
As Peter swings his way back to his apartment, his heart pounds wildly in his chest with anticipation.
This isn’t the first time he’s teased you to get you to give up your name, and you’ve asked for his name more times than he can count on his fingers.
“Very funny,” you muse from the other end, your voice drawing out with a teasing tilt. “I could say the same thing to you.”
Peter smiles, landing on his apartment rooftop with a huff. “I don’t know—I think I like the way Spiderman rolls off your tongue.”
For the very first time since you two found each other through a stroke of pure luck—when Peter spent a night building a radio to hijack police comms and accidentally connected to you, a woman doing the exact same thing—you find yourself completely at a loss for words.
He doesn’t even know where the sudden boost of confidence came from to blurt out a flirtatious comment like that. Maybe it’s the suit, or maybe it’s that flutter of excitement he gets every single time he talks to you.
But that confidence slowly teeters away the longer you stay quiet. He grimaces, feeling like he overshot his mark big time.
Finally, he hears a slow draw of breath from the other end.
“That’s a shame,” you tease. “I would’ve loved to hear the sound of my name in your voice.”
Peter sucks in a sharp breath, his body tensing as your words travel down his spine and straight to his heart. It was the way you said it—that sultry little rasp that even the static couldn’t mask. An awkward silence takes over the both of you, and for once, Peter is grateful for how poorly he configured this radio, since he can use it as an excuse for a faulty mic.
“Dramatic increase in heart rate detected. Body heat has increased an additional two degrees, and your suit—specifically around the groin region—appears to be tighter. I am also detecting a heightened state of arousal—”
“Evie!” Peter barks suddenly. He hears your laugh come through the other end, and the sound definitely doesn’t help his situation at all.
“Got you to blush twice today.” You taunt. “I think that’s a record, Spidey.”
“I wasn’t blushing,” Peter lies. “Anyway—enough of that. Are you seeing any other criminal activity in the area?”
You hum, and he hears a faint clicking noise on your end. “Nothing,” you say. “But what’s the rush? You’re given the opportunity to relax. You should take it, considering how hard you’ve been pushing yourself.”
Peter hops onto the ledge of his building and starts idly pacing back and forth, smiling under his mask as he holds the radio close to his ear. “Aw, you don’t have to worry about me. I have Evie for that.”
You blow a raspberry, and Peter’s smile widens.
“Yeah—well, Evie is an artificial intelligence. She can only care so much. Plus, she can’t make as many good jokes as I can.”
Peter’s tongue pokes the inside of his cheek as he kicks a tiny stray pebble off the ledge, watching it fall ten stories to the ground. “Are you getting jealous of my assistant now?”
A garbled noise leaves your lips, and he chuckles as you stammer over your own words.
“God—you’re so full of yourself, aren't you?” you huff. “I’m your partner—so it’s only natural for me to look out for you.”
“We’re partners?”
“Haven’t we been this entire time?”
Peter pauses, glancing up at the sky, where the orange sun is starting to set behind several towers of buildings.
Partners. He hasn’t had anyone he could call a partner since everything happened—since he made the whole world forget who he was. He hasn’t had a real, caring partner since… them. Ned and MJ.
And now, after all that time spent in solitude, he’s finally found someone to call his partner again. Someone he’s never even seen, whose name he doesn’t even know. All he knows about you is that you’re smart—smart enough to build a radio and link up to his frequency—and that you live in New York. He could’ve passed you on his way to buy groceries, or seen you on the subway. Hell, you might even live in his building. Maybe you’re even that girl he accidentally swapped laundry with the other night.
“Spiderman? You still there?” you ask, snapping him out of his daze.
Despite your usual spunky attitude, in that moment, you sound so… small. Like you don’t want to hang up, even if there aren’t any crimes to report.
“I’m here,” he breathes, his voice coming out softer than he expected. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You smile at that. He can hear it. “Okay. Good.”
The microphone picks up shuffling noises on your end—judging by the sound, he pictures you rolling over in bed and getting comfortable.
“How about we play a game?” you ask before the radio falls into silence again.
Peter raises a brow under his mask. “A game?”
“Yeah—every time you complete a successful mission, we trade a fun fact about each other.”
He hums, taking a seat on the ledge and letting his feet dangle over the edge. “Okay, sure. And since I just finished one—does that mean the game starts now?”
You chuckle softly at his enthusiasm to play along. “Sure. Want to go first?”
Peter cranes his neck back to look at the sky. Although neither of you has ever brought it up, he has a feeling you’re both on the exact same page when it comes to secrecy. Neither of you wants to give away too much and blow your identity, but you share just enough to keep things interesting.
And by letting him go first, it feels like you’re giving him the chance to set the tone.
“Hm. Let me think.” He rubs his chin through his mask. “Okay—I’m ready. My favorite coffee is a hot Americano.”
You snort. “The first fun fact you want to share is your coffee order?”
“Hey—coffee can be fun!” Peter interjects. “Now tell me yours.”
A little laugh escapes you, and he can hear you shaking your head. “Fine. I get an extra-hot almond milk latte, with one pump of sugar-free vanilla, one pump of regular hazelnut, and two scoops of vanilla bean powder.”
The white lenses of Peter’s goggles widen, and he lets out a brief, disbelieving laugh. “Oh—so you’re pulling my leg because I started us off with a lame fun fact? Is that it?”
“What?” You giggle along. “I’m not! That’s my actual order—especially on chilly days. You should try it sometime.”
Peter imagines it: a girl—a pretty one, judging by your voice and personality—ordering that ridiculous concoction at a coffee shop while the barista rolls their eyes at how long it takes to recite. For some reason, the visual warms his chest.
“Sure. And I’d tell you to try a hot Americano—but based on the order you just gave me, I don’t think you’d like it very much,” he jokes.
You chuckle. “No, probably not.”
Silence fills the space again, and Peter kicks his legs over the edge of the ledge, trying to think of something to say before he loses you.
He clears his throat. “So, uh—”
“Can I ask you something?”
You both talk over each other, and his face warms with embarrassment. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
“Okay,” you continue. You let out a shaky breath, and he instinctively braces himself for whatever you’re about to ask. “I’ve noticed that your receiver is always on. Do you forget to turn it off?”
Peter pauses, confused by the question. “No. It’s on twenty-four seven—just in case something happens, you know?”
You hum softly. “I get that. But I guess what I’m trying to ask is… don’t you have other things in your life to worry about, instead of fighting crime behind a mask?”
Peter stays quiet for a moment.
In truth, there’s a bigger reason he keeps the radio on besides his duties as Spiderman. He could easily listen in on reported crimes just fine without your help, but he keeps it on twenty-four seven in the hopes of hearing your voice ring through—just in case you might… need him.
There have been several nights since meeting you where he tosses and turns in bed, reaching for the radio to see if your receiver is on. It usually isn’t during consistent parts of the day—meaning you’re either at work or in class. It’s usually off at night, but sometimes around three in the morning, he’ll see your receiver light up and you’ll call in, your voice completely wide awake, proving you can be a real night owl.
Ever since meeting you, it feels like he finally has a friend to talk to. The worst part of it all is that he doesn’t even know your name. And he can never meet you, no matter how badly he wants to.
Peter finally found someone he cares about—and he isn’t going to risk losing you.
“I… I guess I do,” Peter says, trying his best to tread carefully. “I always keep an earpiece in, just in case something happens. You can never be too careful.”
You hum again, and Peter knows that answer wasn’t enough to buy it.
“And I guess I also keep it on… just in case you ever want to talk.”
Shit, Peter curses to himself. If his half-assed answer just now wasn’t enough to make you switch off the line, this one definitely takes the cake. You’re quiet on the other end, and each passing second makes him want to do you both a favor and turn it off himself.
“In that case,” you speak softly, “I’ll keep my receiver on in case you want to talk to me.”
His heart stutters in his chest, feeling as though all the air has been sucked straight out of his lungs.
Peter hasn’t felt this way since high school. He’s grinning ear to ear—a smile so wide it hurts the muscles in his cheeks. He lets out a chuckle, a raspy, disbelieving sound at the realization that there’s a chance you might feel the exact same way about him.
“Don’t say that,” he says before he can stop himself, trying to inject some humor to cover up his flustered state. “You’re gonna get annoyed with me.”
“Who’s to say I’m not already?” you joke back.
And for the first time in a long time, Peter feels like the happiest man on Earth.
He looks up at the sky, watching birds fly across the orange hues as he kicks his feet like a high schooler who just scored a date with the prettiest girl in class. His heart is racing so fast in his chest and he feels so giddy that he’s actually surprised Evie hasn’t called him out on it yet.
He wants to make this last—to say something, anything, to keep this moment from ending.
Suddenly, a series of sharp beeps emits from your end of the radio. It's a sound he knows all too well, a reminder that duty calls before anything else.
“Oh, God,” you mutter quietly.
Every hair on Peter’s arms stands on end. He leaps to his feet, ready to launch himself toward whatever is happening. “What is it, Static?”
“There’s an alarm triggered at Grand Central Terminal,” you explain. “NYPD comms just flagged it—there are a bunch of hostages. It looks bad, Spiderman. Multiple armed men have barricaded the main concourse.”
Peter wastes no time, shooting a thick web line toward the nearest building and flinging himself into the sky. “How many hostages are we talking?”
“At least fifty. Commuters, staff—they were trapped during rush hour,” you answer, the clack of your keyboard clattering over the staticky connection. “I’m tapping into the security feed right now. They’re holding guns, and… it looks like there’s a heavy grade explosive right in the center, attached to the information booth.”
The wind roars through Peter’s mic as he accelerates through the air. “How much time is on the clock?”
“I’m trying to zoom in—eight minutes,” you say. “They’ve blocked all the major exits with deadbolts and wired the perimeter. It looks pretty half-assed, Spidey. If SWAT breaches the doors, or if even a piece of rubble hits that rig, the whole thing will blow.”
“Alright, no breaches,” Peter takes a mental note, his mind racing through entry points as the massive arched roof of Grand Central comes into view. “You’re my eyes in there, Static. Find me an entry point that skips the doors.”
“The skylight above the west balcony has an old grate,” you reply instantly. “It leads directly into the ventilations—high enough to keep you out of sight, but close enough to drop in.”
“Got it,” Peter replies, landing silently on the glass roof. He peers through the skylight, his eyes adjusting to the interior where dozens of terrified people are huddling on the floor, held at gunpoint by masked men with automatic rifles.
Right in the center, duct-taped to the information booth and blinking with a harsh red timer, sits the bomb.
“Okay, I’m in position,” Peter breathes through the radio. “Time me?”
He hears a soft click on your end, signaling that your timer is already running.
“Be careful, Spiderman.”
He tucks the radio against his thigh, securing it with a thick band of web.
Peter moves exactly in the direction you tell him to—he wedges his body into the dusty vents, moving with the practiced speed of an arachnid that takes him from point A to point B in the blink of an eye. He slowly lifts the grate, the poor thing held up by only a flimsy screw, and sets it down softly beside him to avoid any loud noises.
He lands gently right in the center of the terminal—but his plans for discretion don’t last when a hostage looks up and yells, “We’re saved, everyone! It’s Spiderman!”
Immediately, all the armed threats spin around, several barrels abandoning the hostages to point straight at the man in the red-and-blue suit.
“Oh,” Peter smiles. “Making my job a lot easier. Thanks.”
Before giving them the chance to shoot, Peter fires off thick strings of web into every single barrel, clogging up the firearms. With every weapon bound, he tangles the web lines together into one big knot and yanks them all out of their hands.
The guns crash into each other in a tangled mass of spiderwebs and steel. With the firearms rendered completely useless, he tosses the mess aside to focus on the men—who are now charging at him with combat knives and sidearms.
Peter quickly makes short work of the pistols, disarming the men with his webs before a stray bullet can even graze the bomb. One by one, he takes them down, firing webs with every intention of keeping them bound and completely immovable.
When Peter gets down to the last guy, slinging a thick web to pin him flat against the wall, your voice rings out from where the radio sits tucked against his thigh.
“SWAT is moving in—mind the doors and tripwires!”
“Shit,” Peter curses, whipping his head toward the exits—but it’s already too late.
The SWAT team breaches fast, shouting and gesturing for the hostages to run. Panic surges through the crowd, and every frantic step from the civilians echoes like thunder in Peter’s ears. One misstep, even one piece of falling debris, could set this entire place off. Peter snaps his head back to the bomb. Four minutes remain on the digital clock, but suddenly the numbers freeze—and a sharp high pitched frequency fills the room.
It’s quiet to everyone else, but to Peter's heightened senses, it might as well be an air siren.
“Wait!” Peter shouts, turning to vault himself away before the bomb sets off.
But it’s too late.
“Spiderman! Get out of there!” you cry out through the radio—right before a brilliant flash of red and white blinds the entire building.
Pressure and heat slam right into Peter’s chest, throwing him backward through the air and showering him in flying stone like a ragdoll. Glass shatters overhead, raining down thousands of sparkling fragments as the information booth detonates into a massive cloud of fire and smoke.
Peter crashes hard against the far wall, the impact knocking every last drop of air from his lungs. He coughs up blood, staining the inside of his mask, before sliding down a broken slab of marble. He wheezes violently as dense gray smoke fills the room. His ears ring loudly, drowning out the shouting SWAT officers, the screaming crowd, and the creaking support beams above.
Evie’s voice sings in his ear like a taunt.
“Detecting bone fractures near the lower hip. Internal bleeding. Labored breathing—”
Then, your voice comes cutting through the static.
“Spiderman! Answer me!” Your voice cuts in and out, and despite being crushed under rubble with smoke filling his lungs, he reaches for the radio at his thigh.
He lifts it with a trembling hand, and his heart stops. It’s broken, snapped open with electricity sparking near the wires.
“Please—are you there? Spiderman! Check in!”
“Time, Static,” he manages to croak out.
Even through the static, the sheer panic in your voice is unmistakable. “The ambulances are on their way. Just hold on for a little longer—”
“What’s the time, Static?” he repeats with a wet cough.
You suck in a sharp breath. “Four minutes and twenty-three seconds. Now save your breath and stop talking!”
“Peter,” he croaks, coughing up more blood.
“W-what?” you stammer through tears. The sound makes his chest hurt more than the slab of concrete resting heavy on his ribs. “You’re breaking out.”
“Our little game—remember? Every successful mission, we exchange a fun fact,” he wheezes, fighting for air. “My name is Peter Parker.”
A broken, sobbing gasp escapes you. He glances down at the radio, watching the little light that indicates his microphone is working flicker in and out.
“Static? Are you still there?”
“I can’t hear you, Spiderman.”
The blue glow of your television screen is the only source of light in your dim apartment. Outside your window, New York City keeps moving, but inside, time feels like it has been frozen for seven agonizing days.
On the screen, a news anchor stands outside Queens Hospital Center, her face grave under the studio-lit broadcast.
“…we return to our top story tonight regarding Spiderman,” the reporter’s voice echoes through your quiet room. “It has been one week since the explosive incident at Grand Central Terminal that left the vigilante in critical condition. Authorities and medical staff at Queens Hospital Center have kept tight-lipped about his recovery.”
You pull your knees tighter into your chest, your fingers trembling as they wrap around a lukewarm mug of tea you haven’t touched.
“In a shocking turn of events earlier this morning, hospital administrators confirmed that Spiderman is no longer in their care,” the reporter continues. “According to sources, when attending nurses entered his private room to adjust his IVs and monitor his severe injuries, they found the hospital bed empty. There is no security footage explaining how or when the injured hero managed to slip past guards, leaving NYPD officials baffled—and deeply concerned given the extent of his internal trauma.”
Your eyes widen, and you press a hand over your mouth as a shaky exhale spills past your lips.
He woke up.
He survived.
You keep watching, waiting to see if the reporter will expose his identity. A part of you is already annoyed that these attention-hungry journalists would stoop so low now that he’s been admitted to a hospital. But another part of you desperately wants to know—because you felt like that might’ve been what he was trying to tell you over the radio right before the line cut out.
A heavy breath escapes you when the reporter doesn’t mention a name, and the broadcast switches to a story about local stray animals. You’re not even sure if the sigh you let out is one of relief or frustration.
You glance over at the radio resting on the couch beside you.
Your receiver light blinks green—it has been on this entire time.
For the past seven days, you’ve been sleeping with the radio clutched in your hands in hopes that you’ll hear his voice one more time. Even as you walk through the hallways of your university, moving from lecture to lecture, you keep an earpiece tucked in your ear so you won’t miss him if he calls.
A few more days pass, and you’re sitting at your desk with heavy eyes. A lamp at the corner of your desk emits a warm glow over the pages of your notebook. You feel like you’ve been awake for days, running on far too little sleep and not nearly enough caffeine to keep you going.
Your head rests heavily in your palm. A quick glance at the clock tells you it’s 3:41 in the morning.
With a tired sigh, you start to push your chair back—but the sudden sound of familiar static stops you in your tracks.
A sound that is usually so grating to your ears suddenly sounds like heaven.
You quickly scramble back to your desk, your hand swiping up the radio and lifting it to your ear.
“Hello?” you say, your heart racing. “Hello? Is someone there?”
The static cuts out for a second, and you pull the radio back to check the lights. Both indicator lights are glowing green, showing that you—and whoever is on the other line—are connected. The static crackles through again, and you press the receiver tight against your ear, holding your breath as you wait for them to speak first.
“—atic?”
That voice—so familiar, so gentle—rings out. You feel your heart leap straight into your throat. You’ve been waiting for days to hear him again, but you aren't prepared for what to say now that he's actually here.
“Sta—t—ic,” Peter’s voice cuts in and out before suddenly coming through crystal clear—clearer than the very first time you ever connected with him. “This is Spiderman. Are you there?”
Your heart swells with a profound wave of relief. Tears prick at your eyes, spilling down your cheeks before you can even stop them.
“Oh my God,” you breathe, your hand trembling as you press the radio against your forehead. “You’re okay. You’re here. Thank God. I—I thought I lost you. I was keeping up with the news, and when they said you fled the hospital—I hoped you were okay. I’ve been waiting for your call all week. I—”
“Hey, hey,” Peter coos softly on the other end. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve been here the whole time. I’m not going anywhere.”
You hear him rustling around on the other line, the soft friction of sheets sounding like he’s lying in bed. The thought of him resting comfortably in his own room rather than trapped in a sterile hospital bed makes your heart melt.
“Where have you been?” you ask, your voice cracking as you wipe a stray tear from your cheek. “Why didn’t you call sooner?”
“I know, I know… I’m sorry,” Peter says softly, his breath catching in a faint, painful wince that he tries to cover up with a dry laugh. “My suit was pretty much trashed, and the radio got crushed in the blast. It took everything in me just to crawl over to my workbench, and a few more days to rebuild the transmitter from scratch.”
A shaky breath leaves his lips. “With the radio broken, I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to find you again. I spent all this time rebuilding it—I even fixed the signal integration so both our voices would come through clearer.”
You let out a wet, teary laugh. “So that’s why you sound like that.”
You can picture him grinning on the other end. “A lot better, huh?”
That familiar, teasing tilt in his voice sends a wave of butterflies straight to your stomach. A soft laugh escapes you, and he chuckles in return. Then, as if savoring the sound of your joy, he breathes out softly.
“I missed hearing your voice.”
Your feet carry you over to the comfort of your mattress, and before you even realize it, you’re collapsing onto your bed, kicking your feet like a giddy, hopeless romantic.
“I missed hearing you, too. You’d better not let that happen again. If I can barely handle losing you for a week, I definitely can’t bear losing you forever,” you say, trying to pass it off as a joke, but the tremble in your voice betrays you.
Peter’s grin widens where he lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I’ll make sure to be extra careful from here on out, just so you don’t lose me.”
You smile into your pillow. “Good.”
A comfortable silence settles between you two—not the awkward kind from when you first met, but a warm one, wrapping around you both like a blanket despite the distance. You set the radio down on the empty space beside your pillow, and he does the same. With the microphone improvements, you can hear his steady breathing on your end, and he can hear yours.
“Were you able to hear anything I said... the last time we spoke?” Peter asks softly.
You shake your head, the friction against your pillow rustling over the mic. “You were cutting out too much.”
He pauses, the soft sound of sheets shifting as he pulls his blanket up over his shoulders.
“It was about our game—the fun facts one,” he says, his voice careful, like he’s walking on eggshells.
You couldn’t catch much before the line broke down completely. Pet... That was all you had managed to hear. But a deep feeling in your gut tells you that whatever he said was a precious piece of himself—a piece he wanted you to have in case he didn’t make it.
You hold your breath, waiting to see if he’ll offer it up again.
“And since I completed a successful mission,” he continues, swallowing hard. “I thought I’d continue with that trade.”
You brace yourself, your heart clawing in your chest as you wait for the confession—for him to finally drop his guard and lay his identity on the line, just like you plan to do with yours.
Peter draws a slow, quiet breath.
“Do you… have a boyfriend?”
You blink.
The silence stretches for a long second, the sudden change in direction catching you so off guard that your mind does a hard reset. Of all the things you expected him to say—a big secret, a superhero revelation, a tender confession about his life—that was not on your bingo card.
“What?” you squeeze out, your voice squeaking slightly.
Over the line, Peter clears his throat awkwardly, a sudden rustle of sheets betraying how fast he just sat up to bury his face in his hands.
“O-or girlfriend! Sorry—I shouldn’t have assumed! I mean, you don’t have to answer! It’s just—it’s a fun fact! A personal fact! That’s how the game works, right? You tell me something, I tell you something… or—”
A helpless, snickering laugh bubbles up from your chest, breaking off his ramble.
“Spiderman,” you giggle, burying your blushing face deeper into your mattress.
“Yeah?” he yelps, sounding like a man standing on trial.
“No,” you answer, a wide grin spreading across your face. “No boyfriend. No girlfriend.”
A long, almost dramatic exhale breezes through the speaker, followed by the soft thud of Peter flopping back down onto his mattress.
“Oh, thank God,” he mutters, trying to keep it quiet enough so the microphone doesn’t catch it—but you hear it anyway. “I mean… cool. That’s cool.”
You snort. “Okay. You know how the game goes. Now it’s my turn to ask.”
“Do I have a girlfriend?” he prompts.
You shrug, taking the opportunity to tease him. “Or boyfriend. I don’t judge.”
A playful scoff leaves his lips, and you can already imagine him rolling his eyes. He’s quiet for a few seconds, making you think he’s just too flustered to answer. But when his voice comes through shaky, almost hesitant, you feel an unfamiliar tug at your heart.
“I—um… I used to have this girl,” he murmurs. “We were dating for a while—but it didn’t work out.”
The tone of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. He speaks like a man who’s been broken again and again, carrying a profound heartache you couldn’t even begin to measure. A small, selfish twinge of jealousy tugs at you, but you know it’s not your place.
“What happened?” The words spill out before you can stop them.
Peter sucks in a sharp breath, and you wince with regret for pushing too far.
“Well, that’s something you’re gonna have to ask the next time I complete a successful mission,” he says, trying to ease the tension with a playful tone, and you’re more than happy to fall right back into it.
You roll onto your back, looking up at your bedroom ceiling. Across the city, Peter does the exact same thing.
“Deal. But let’s not jump back into all that too soon, okay? Whatever crime happens out there, let the police handle it,” you say, pulling your blanket up to your chin. “I just want to keep you all to myself tonight.”
You want to slap yourself for how ridiculous you sound. He just opened up about a painful past relationship, and you immediately turn around and sound like a clingy girlfriend.
But Peter laughs—a full, rich sound that doesn't sound at all like he just survived a traumatic experience a week ago. It’s a laugh that never fails to make you smile.
“Usually, I’d oppose the idea of ignoring crime,” he says softly. “But for you? I’ll stay. For as long as you want me to.”
You smile, nuzzling your nose into the soft fabric of your blanket. “Good. Goodnight, Spiderman.”
“Goodnight, Static.”
And for the remainder of the night, neither of you switches the radio off, letting the quiet and comforting sound of each other’s breathing lull you to sleep.
It’s a brand new day, and Peter is running around New York getting his errands done. Laundry run, check. Grocery run, check. The last thing on his list is to pick up some flowers for Aunt May.
Right next to the small bodega where he always buys his flowers sits a busy coffee shop.
The front window is large enough to see everything and everyone inside—which is exactly why he has to do a double take at the person standing near the cashier.
He stops dead in his tracks, causing a hurried pedestrian to bump into his shoulder.
“Sorry,” Peter mumbles, but the man just shoots him a dirty look and keeps walking.
Standing inside the coffee shop is a face that’s all too familiar—someone he hasn’t seen in a long, long time.
Ned.
Peter’s feet are moving before he even realizes it. He hovers near the entrance, stepping aside for a few exiting customers before pushing the door open. Slipping into an empty seat near the front, he watches Ned chat with the barista. But Ned isn’t alone.
He’s standing next to a girl—a pretty girl, at that. And one he doesn’t recognize.
Peter smiles to himself, a swell of pride washing over him seeing his best friend doing well, and scoring a pretty girlfriend to date.
“And for the missus?” The barista holds up a paper cup, pen hovering over the cardboard as she waits.
You glance up at the menu board, though you don’t really need to. You know your order like the back of your hand.
“Can I get an extra-hot almond milk latte with one pump of sugar-free vanilla—”
Peter’s heart stops.
“—one pump of regular hazelnut…”
That voice. That familiar, sing-song cadence he hears every night through a staticky radio. The last voice he listened to when he nearly died just a few weeks ago.
“And two scoops of vanilla bean powder,” Peter mumbles to himself like a mantra.
“…and two scoops of vanilla bean powder?” you finish, flashing the barista a harmless, innocent smile.
The barista gives you a disbelieving look, and you chuckle awkwardly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The movement gives Peter a clear view of a small earpiece nestled right inside. Everything playing out before his eyes matches the picture he’d built in his head—except for you. You being this stunning was far beyond anything he could have imagined.
The barista finally finishes jotting your order down, and you and Ned turn to search for an open table. Peter holds his breath, watching your easy smile and the natural way you interact with his once best friend.
The pang in his chest is a feeling he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. Two people he cares about more than anything... so close, yet entirely out of reach.
His heightened spider-sense gives him the ability to hear almost anything, even from across the room. Yet right now, the ringing in his ears and the heavy thumping of his heart drown out every other sound. You and Ned approach an empty table with only a single chair, but you glance around and spot the unused chair across from Peter.
“Hey,” you smile politely—a soft, courteous tone reserved strictly for strangers, not your partner in crime. “Are you using this chair?”
This is it.
Finally, for the first time, he can introduce himself to you properly. He could bring both you and Ned back into his life with a single, simple greeting.
Hi, I’m Peter. Peter Parker. The guy you’ve been talking to over a flimsy radio these past few months.
Peter looks up at you, completely frozen where he sits. Your smile fades into a faint frown when he hesitates. Then, your eyes flicker briefly to the earpiece resting in his ear—identical to yours, worn for the exact same reason.
Just in case either of you calls in.
Before he loses you, Peter clears his throat. His hand subtly moves up to scratch his ear, hiding the earpiece with his knuckles before slipping it into his palm. When he finally speaks, he deliberately drops his voice a few pitches deeper—adding a slight rasp for good measure.
“No, go ahead.”
That polite smile returns, and you pull the chair away from his table. “Cool, thanks.”
You slide the chair up to the table you’re sharing with Ned, and just like that—unaware that you’ve completely flipped his world upside down and inside out—you fall right back into conversation with him.
The barista calls out your order with your name, and the sound of it is like music to his ears.
He repeats it quietly under his breath. It sounds natural, like a name that was always meant to be spoken in his voice.
Peter squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t reveal his identity to you. Telling you his real name that night—when he was trapped under rubble and bleeding out—was just a lapse in judgment brought on by desperation. But now that he’s here, looking at you and his best friend in broad daylight, he knows he can’t risk letting you into his world.
Anyone who knows Peter Parker is Spiderman is a person bound to be lost. And Peter can’t afford to lose you.
Yet as he watches you sit across from him, tossing your head back with a laugh that is painfully familiar, it feels like he’s already lost you anyway.
“So, tell me more about this party.”
“Well, it’s a housewarming party,” you explain, tucking your hands into your pockets as you walk through the night streets of Queens. “Two of my friends moved into an apartment recently—so we’re celebrating tonight.”
Peter hums, leaning back in his chair and staring mindlessly at his screens. He folds a piece of paper, fiddling with it as his mind wanders to who those friends could be. Ned? And if so, he wonders who else he could be moving in with—if not him.
“That’s… cool,” he finally answers in an indifferent tone.
You round the corner, the sounds of the bustling city nightlife picking up on your microphone. “Yeah. And since I’ll be busy socializing, I won’t have my receiver on all night. But I’ll try my best to check in with you.”
Peter huffs a laugh through his nose. “I’m a big boy. You don’t need to check up on me.” He glances at the window. “I’m more worried about you, though.”
You step aside for a pedestrian who’s rushing past. “What for?”
Peter pushes himself out of his chair with a grunt, stepping up to the small window and looking down at the city street below. “Well, you’re a woman walking all by yourself at night. I hope your friends at least know where you’re at.”
You chuckle, pulling open the door of the small corner grocery store and being welcomed by a soft bell jingle.
“Don’t worry your head, Spiderman. If I constantly worry about my well-being just because I’m a woman, then I’ll never get anything done in this city.”
You’re greeted by a frail, older lady behind the counter, and you offer her a polite smile as you walk past. Making your way to the coolers in the back, you weigh your options between beer and seltzers.
“Do you think two cases of Budweiser is enough?” You ask Peter.
The bell chimes again, and a large man with a dark hoodie pulled over his face enters. You glance at him, and he holds your stare. You look back down.
Peter’s cackle draws you back in. “And you’re drinking?”
You can’t help but grin at the worry in his voice. Grabbing two cases—one in each hand—and shutting the refrigerator door, you head to the front counter. “Yes, because I’m an adult and should be enjoying myself. And you should be, too, Spiderman. It’s Friday night.”
A bitter smile dances on his lips. He should be enjoying himself—a night out with you, instead of being cooped up in his apartment, worrying about you getting wasted at a house party surrounded by men your age with grimy hands and bad intentions.
You set the cases on the counter, and the lady begins to ring you up. The man in the dark hoodie falls in line right behind you, holding just a pack of gum in his hand.
“Okay, I gotta head out. I’ll check in with you later tonight—”
The lady at the front counter has her attention locked on the man behind you, and she sharply gasps, ducking down immediately. Your head whips around, and you find yourself face to face with the black metal of a handgun.
“You know Spiderman?” the man before you asks in a deep gravelly voice, finger poised right above the trigger.
A pathetic, broken sound escapes you. You still have Peter on the line, and you hear the sudden panic in his voice the minute your microphone picks up your heavy breathing and whimper.
“Static? Who is that? What’s happening?”
“You must be mistaken,” you raise your hands in surrender, shoulders timid, as a bead of sweat rolls down your temple. “I—I don’t know Spiderman—”
“Bullshit!” the man shouts, backhanding you with the grip of the gun.
You cry out in pain, your body collapsing hard onto the floor as your hand flies to your cheek. Your earpiece falls out, Peter’s voice ringing out loudly in sheer panic. The man huffs an incredulous laugh as he crouches down to pick it up and lift it to his ear.
“Tell me your location—where are you? I’m coming—!”
“103rd Street,” the man answers with a grin. “That’s where your little lady is at—on the floor, bleeding outta her lip.”
The wind whips loudly through the earpiece, audible even from where you’re prone on the ground.
“Don’t lay a fucking hand on her,” Peter’s voice crackles through the wind and speaker. “What do you want from me?”
The man only chuckles, turning the small earpiece in his fingers, unfazed by the threat of a friendly neighborhood superhero.
“That’s the thing with people like you who try to play hero,” the man says, his tone dripping with bitter resentment. “You stop guys like us, but what you fail to realize is that we aren’t the bad guys at all, Spiderman. While you sit in your fancy little apartment, the rest of us are out here fighting for scraps just to survive—and it’s people like you who keep stopping us.”
He looks down at you, lying on the cold floor with a trembling hand pressed against your bleeding lip.
“We’re just trying to eat,” the man spits into the receiver. “So if a guy like me has to take a little collateral to get your attention, or to get a quick payday—that’s not evil. That’s just survival. There’s a lot of money on your head, Spiderman. Money that can help an average person like me tremendously.”
The sharp thwip of a web fires through the speaker, followed by the harsh gust of the open night sky.
If it were anyone else being held hostage, maybe Peter would extend the courtesy of hearing him out. But he’s not holding just any person. He’s holding you—the only person Peter has opened his heart to in years. The only voice he looks forward to, the one that gives him hope to push through to a brand-new day. Right now, there isn’t a single shred of restraint left in Peter’s mind—not when your life is on the line because of him.
“I don’t give a shit about your excuse,” Peter spits, whipping around a sharp corner as he flies onto 103rd Street. “If you hurt her again before I get there, I swear to God—”
“It’s too late, Spiderman.”
From high above, Peter spots the grocery store below. The white lenses of his mask widen as he peers through the large front windows, catching sight of you scrambling backward in fear, hands raised in surrender.
The man above you stands straight and lifts the gun. Peter’s eyes lock onto the finger resting against the trigger. With one launch off the side of a building, he catapults himself straight through the glass windows.
The explosion of glass shatters in time with the gunshot. As the bullet travels through the barrel of the gun, Peter collides into the man, sending him flying sideways and the gun tilting upwards. The bullet hits the ceiling, the fluorescent lights exploding with electricity as the roof panel falls. You quickly scramble away so it doesn’t hit you.
Peter sends the man flying from one window to another, rolling around on the pavement outside until he lands on top. There is no amount of webs he can use to convey his anger—so he settles with his fists.
One punch after another, one hit after brutal hit. Blood flies out of the man’s face, tainting Peter’s suit with red. It splatters across his knuckles, and he delivers a hit so violent that it sprays right over the white lenses of his mask.
“Spiderman, stop!”
You shout, but the ringing in his ears is louder.
Tears prick at his eyes behind the mask as he continues raining down punches. The man lost consciousness long ago, but Peter isn’t done. He can’t rest knowing anyone who threatens to hurt you is free to walk these streets.
He can’t rest until he knows, for certain, that you’re safe from danger.
He cocks his fist back one last time, with every intention of putting this guy down for good—until your body crashes into his, your arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders. His arm freezes mid-air, suddenly weighing a ton.
“Stop! It’s over—it’s done,” you try to reassure him but your voice comes in a panicked and rushed tone. Sirens sound in the distance. “The police are coming.”
Peter looks around, his chest heaving.
Several bystanders have stopped to stare, hands covering their mouths after witnessing such a brutal act by a man who was supposed to be a savior to all.
He curses under his breath, one arm wrapping tightly around your body.
“Hold on,” he says, before slinging a web to the highest point of the building next to you and launching you both into the night sky.
You bury your face in his chest, legs wrapped tightly around his waist as you hold on to him for dear life. You’re too terrified to look down. So instead, you glance up at the man holding you—the very man you’ve dedicated your life to assisting these past few months.
He doesn’t look like the friendly Spiderman you see on television or in the newspapers.
Blood lays over his mask like a veil, and you can feel his heart racing against yours from how tightly you’re holding him.
He doesn’t say a word until he finds a discreet alleyway. Then, finally, he sets you down gently.
Your eyes don’t leave his face even as you release your grip on him. You stand in front of him, eyes wide and lips parted as you stare at the man you’ve been dying to meet for what feels like years. But while this is your first time seeing him, it isn’t his first time seeing you.
There are so many things you wanted to say, but none of them come out. You never expected your first meeting to be like this—under circumstances where he tarnishes his reputation and your face bloodied and bruised.
“I…” your voice wavers, desperate to say anything, terrified he might swing away at any second.
Peter swipes his bloodied hand against his thigh to clean it before stepping forward, gently cupping your face in both hands. The lenses of his mask are so expressive, shifting with every furrow of his brow. Even behind it, his expression is wrecked.
“Look at what he did to you,” his voice cracks, sounding so broken, like it’s all his fault.
You huff a soft laugh, resting your palm over his knuckles as you lean into his touch. “If I’d known I was going to see you tonight, I probably would’ve worn more makeup.”
You try to joke, but he doesn’t laugh. His thumb gently brushes over the torn skin at your cheekbone, then down to your busted lip.
“I can’t believe you’re right here,” he breathes. “And I’m holding you.”
Peter should get your injuries fixed up, take you somewhere safe, or even take you home, but doing that means he’ll have to say goodbye—and he doesn’t know when he’ll give himself the chance to be this selfish again.
For the first time in years, it feels like he’s found salvation. After everything, he tries to convince himself he deserves this—even if it's just for a few minutes.
“You know what I look like,” you smile painfully. “Yet, I still don’t know a single thing about you.”
Peter bites the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking down. “I’m sorry.”
You step closer, your hands slowly finding the hem of his mask resting around his neck. With trembling fingers, you slowly lift it up—giving him every opportunity to pull away if he wants to—holding your breath as you raise it over his nose. Brown curly hair decorates the nape of his neck.
As you try to tug it up higher, his hands find your wrists, gently stopping you. “I can’t.”
With a quiet nod, your hands fall back down to his cheeks, cupping them softly. Your thumb traces the curve of his cheekbone, his jawline, and the plump of his bottom lip.
The press of your thumb against his lower lip makes his breath hitch. He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch—the first grace of warmth he’s felt in forever.
His white lenses open again, and his gaze drops to your lips—bruised, bleeding, and parting softly. The tension between you two suffocates him, and without waiting another impatient second, Peter tilts his head down and kisses you.
His lips press against yours, gentle and soft. And when you return the kiss, he feels like he’s in heaven. He takes his time with you, his lips exploring yours and savoring the quiet sweetness of the moment. Your hands are warm against his cheeks, and his hand finds your waist, respectfully holding you close as his heart beats as one with yours.
You kiss until you both run out of breath, finally pulling away to rest your foreheads against each other.
Peter shuts his eyes, breathing in your scent. “I wanted to do that from the moment I first laid eyes on you.”
“I am detecting a sudden increase in heart-rate and body warmth—”
“Shut up, Evie.”
You chuckle, your teeth catching your bottom lip while heart beats wildly in your chest.
“A successful mission,” you smile up at him. “You know what that means.”
He chuckles at that, the sound sending butterflies to your stomach now that you’re hearing it up close for the first time.
“You’re right. You go first.” He prompts.
You tell him your name, but he doesn’t react the way you thought he would after hearing it for the first time. He smiles—almost boyish, with kiss-swollen lips. It feels as though he’s known your name all along.
Peter repeats it softly. “It’s beautiful,” he says.
Warmth fills you from head to toe. You were right. You loved hearing the sound of your name in his voice.
You tilt your head, leaning in until your nose grazes against his. “What’s yours—”
Frantic footsteps echo just outside the alleyway.
Peter’s senses tingle and reverberate through his entire frame. Everything in his body is screaming at him to do one thing: run.
Two people turn the corner, and he freezes at the sight.
“Oh my god, there you are!” Ned shouts frantically, catching his breath. “We were wondering why you weren’t answering our calls—then someone at the party said there was an accident happening on 103rd Street—which is where you were going—and wait, is that Spiderman?”
Standing right behind him is MJ.
“You scared us!” she yelps, running to you with a hug. You turn around with a weary smile and a relieved sigh.
“I’m okay, you guys shouldn’t have left to come find me. It was dangerous back there, and yes,” you motion behind you, “this is—”
Peter doesn’t even let you finish. He pulls his mask down and, without another word, zips up and out, moving through the dark like a ghost in the night. All the warmth vanishes like the gust of wind he leaves behind as he disappears into the air.
“God,” Ned breathes, the three of you standing dumbfounded in the alleyway as you watch him disappear around the corner. “See! It’s like I told you, MJ! He’s like Peter Pan—if you really believe in him, he’ll show up!”
“Okay—you know, your fanboying really freaks me out,” MJ says, making a face. She looks back at you. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re okay—”
A shudder passes through your body.
My name is Peter Parker.
“Peter,” you whisper with a sudden realization.
📝 first time writing for peter parker kinda nervous !! "all these things that i've done" by the killers was on repeat while writing this. for the first time in a while, i've had a lot of fun and passion writing a marvel fic again, and i hope you can feel it when you read this fic.
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
Pairings: Peter Parker x fem!reader
Wordcount: 3k+
Summary: When your quiet neighbor collapses outside your door one night, a dangerous side of him emerges that neither of you saw coming.
Warnings: MDNI,Non-Con/Grape, Explicit Sexual Content, Non-Consensual Bondage, Web Restraints, Forced Silencing, Loss of Control, Feral Behavior, Forced Orgasm, Overstimulation, Monster Fluids, Rough Handling, Fear/Panic, Body Betrayal
A/N: I watched the movie the other day and my goodness he’s so fine esp with the black eyes. Had ya girl hungry up in there. So Ofcourse I had to write this ,that was on my mind. First time writing for Spider-Man and I write smut😂Enjoy this filth I guess😭😭
The top floor of this particular tenement building in the sprawling, unforgiving heart of the city possessed exactly one redeeming quality: it was quiet.When you moved in a year ago, the landlord had warned you about the water pressure, the radiator that clanked like a dying engine, and the five-story walk-up. But he hadn't lied about the solitude. You were the only tenant on the top floor—until a few months ago, when a quiet, perpetually exhausted-looking guy named Peter moved into the unit at the end of the hall.Most of the time, the silence held. But on certain nights, when the city traffic lulled, you could hear the muffled cadence of his voice bleeding through the cheap drywall. He spoke in hushed, hurried tones, sometimes accompanied by a female voice with a clipped, slightly synthetic accent. You had assumed she was a girlfriend or a demanding long-distance relative. They seemed to bicker endlessly about obscure things—mostly about a "suit," its structural integrity, and the cost of polymer webbing. You had half-convinced yourself he was a dedicated cosplayer trying to make it big at conventions.
Despite the weirdness, Peter was harmless. Endearing, even. You recalled your only real interaction with him with a faint smile. It had been a dreary Tuesday in the basement laundry room—a claustrophobic concrete bunker smelling of mildew and cheap floral detergent. You had been loading your darks when he shuffled in, carrying a plastic basket with the sheepish posture of someone who perpetually felt in the way."Hey," he had mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. His brown hair was a messy, chaotic mop, and he looked like he hadn't slept in a decade. "Is the machine on the left...?"
"Eats quarters and spits out soggy clothes," you had warned him, leaning against the humming dryer. "Stick to the middle one."He sighed, dropping his basket. "Great. My apartment washer just broke because of... well, a mechanical issue."You laughed, the sound echoing in the damp space. "Welcome to the broke part of the building. I’ve been praying for an in-unit washer and dryer since I signed the lease."A small, genuine chuckle escaped him, lifting the heavy exhaustion from his features for a brief second. "The public one isn't so bad, is it?"
"It's great," you replied dryly, "Right up until someone steals your clothes. I once had to sleep on that very folding table over there just to guard my work shirts because they kept vanishing. A raccoon got in once. It was a whole thing."He had laughed at that—a bright, warm sound that reached his tired eyes. He was cute, in a frantic, bruised sort of way. You noticed a fresh scrape along his jawline, but politely ignored it. That was New York. Everyone had their battles.That brief, pleasant memory was violently shoved out of your mind the moment you reached the top of the stairs after a grueling fourteen-hour shift.It was past 2:00 AM. Your feet throbbed in rhythm with your heartbeat, your uniform smelled faintly of stale coffee and industrial cleaner, and your brain was running on fumes. You rounded the corner, fishing your keys from your purse, eager for nothing but a hot shower and your mattress.
Instead, you found Peter.
He was lying face-down directly in front of your door, motionless. And he was completely naked, save for a pair of tight black briefs.You froze, a spike of pure, unadulterated adrenaline slicing through your exhaustion. Your keys nearly slipped from your numb fingers. "Peter?" you whispered into the dim, flickering fluorescent light of the hallway. Silence. He didn't twitch.
Your mind raced through a rolodex of horrifying possibilities. Is he dead? Did he get mugged in his own hallway? Is he drunk? Why is he outside MY door? You took a cautious step forward, your heart hammering against your ribs. You glanced nervously over your shoulder, suddenly profoundly grateful that you two were the only residents on this floor. Explaining a nearly nude, unconscious man face-down at your doorstep to a nosy neighbor was not on your bingo card for the night. Gingerly, you extended a foot and nudged his thigh with the toe of your sneaker.
Nothing. He was out cold. But as your foot made contact, you noticed the terrifying heat radiating off his skin, even through the fabric of your shoe, and the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his back. Okay. Not dead. Breathing. Thank God. You stepped carefully over his prone form, mindful not to step on his fingers, and jammed your key into the lock. You shoved the door open, practically tossing your purse and phone onto the entryway console table. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself, and marched back out into the hallway. You couldn't just leave him out here. Crouching down, you grabbed him by both of his upper arms, intending to hoist him up by his shoulders and drag him inside.The moment your hands clamped down on his skin, your brain stuttered. How have I never noticed he was this big? Under baggy thrift-store sweaters and flannels, Peter looked lean, maybe even lanky. But gripping his arms now felt like gripping sculpted marble. He was incredibly dense, packed with lean, corded muscle that felt entirely disproportionate to his unassuming demeanor.
You shook your head, dismissing the intrusive thought, and pulled with all your might.
"Ghhk—" you choked out, dropping him immediately.
He didn't budge. It was like trying to deadlift an anvil. He was impossibly, gravitationally heavy. You rubbed your lower back, panting softly. "What do you eat for breakfast, dude? Lead?" you muttered under your breath. This was a problem. You couldn't lift him, and you certainly couldn't carry him. Resigning yourself to a complete loss of dignity for both of you, you crouched down and placed your hands on his hip and shoulder. "Sorry about this, neighbor," you grunted. With a monumental heave, you rolled him over. He flopped onto his back with a heavy thud. You pushed, rolled, and nudged his dead weight across the threshold, inch by agonizing inch, sweating profusely by the time you finally managed to clear his feet past the doorframe. You kicked your apartment door shut, locking it with a satisfying click, and collapsed against the wood, catching your breath. It was a hell of a late-night workout. Peter lay sprawled on your living room rug, a testament to physical exhaustion. In the better lighting of your apartment, you could see the faint scattering of fading bruises on his ribs and the distinct pallor of his face. He was breathing steadily, but when you brushed the back of your hand against his forehead to check his temperature, you yanked it back with a hiss.
He was burning up. It felt like a furnace was raging beneath his skin.
You grabbed a throw blanket from the back of your couch, intending to cover him up for decency's sake, but hesitated. With him running a fever that high, trapping the heat might make it worse. You opted to drape a small towel over his midsection instead, just to preserve some modesty. Sighing, you sank into the cushions of your cheap couch, your aching legs finally getting a reprieve. You stared down at him. Who exactly was Peter? Your mind drifted back to the accented voice you'd heard through the walls. A girlfriend? A roommate? Cosplay, you reminded yourself. He’s just a really intense, really heavy nerd who maybe drank too much or got sick. You decided you would just wait for him to wake up. Just an hour. Once he roused, you could get him a glass of water, walk him the ten feet back to his own apartment, and finally go to sleep. You leaned your head back against the couch, your heavy eyelids drooping. The rhythmic, slightly labored sound of his breathing became a bizarre lullaby.
Just ten minutes of resting my eyes, you promised yourself.
The darkness took you instantly.
You woke up with a sharp gasp, your consciousness snapping back to reality like a stretched rubber band.You didn't know how many hours had passed, but the ambient light filtering into the room was the bruised purple-gray of pre-dawn. Your brain was foggy, struggling to piece together the sequence of events.The first realization hit you like a physical blow: you were no longer on your couch.The second realization was infinitely worse: you couldn't move.Panic, cold and sharp, flooded your veins. You tried to sit up, to thrash, to throw your arms out, but your body was locked in place. You were encased from the neck down in something tight, yielding, and impossibly strong. You strained your neck upward, your eyes widening in horror as you took in your predicament.You were wrapped in a cocoon of stark white material, suspended a few inches off the floor. It looked like some sort of industrial-grade silly string, woven in a complex, overlapping pattern that bound your arms to your sides and your legs tightly together. Was he a killer? The thought slammed into your mind. Did I just invite a serial killer into my apartment?Adrenaline roared in your ears. You began to squirm violently, testing the tensile strength of the bindings. The material was incredibly bizarre—it felt sticky, yet dry to the touch, and it stretched slightly when you pulled against it, only to snap back tighter. You wriggled your fingers, finding a small gap near your hip. Digging your nails into the fibrous material, you pulled. It was like tearing through Kevlar.
Gritting your teeth, you ripped and clawed at the strange webbing. It took agonizing minutes of frantic, hyperventilating effort, pulling at the sides until the structural integrity of the cocoon finally gave way. With a sickening riiiiip, the casing tore down the middle.
Gravity claimed you instantly. You tumbled out of the suspension, hitting the hardwood floor hard on your shoulder.
"Ow, fuck!" you hissed, scrambling backward like a cornered animal until your back hit the nearest wall. You looked around, your chest heaving. This wasn't your apartment. The layout was a mirror image of yours, but the similarities ended there. The room was sparsely furnished, littered with mechanical parts, soldering irons, and blueprints. But dominating the far wall was a wildly expensive, hyper-advanced computer setup. Multiple monitors cast a faint, blue glow across the room, displaying rapidly scrolling lines of code and complex molecular diagrams.
You had been dragged into his apartment. You had been dragged into his lair.
"What the fuck... what the fuck is going on?" you whispered, your voice shaking as you frantically patted yourself down, looking for your phone. It was gone. Left in your apartment, no doubt.
"Heart rate elevated. Please attempt to remain calm." You shrieked, pressing yourself harder against the wall. The voice was female, crisp, and carried that exact synthetic accent you had heard through the walls. But there was no woman in the room. The voice was emanating from the computer terminal. "Who's there?! Where is he?!" you demanded, your eyes darting toward the shadows.
"I am currently alerting Peter to your awakened state," the AI responded placidly. "His vital signs indicate he is in transit and approaching rapidly. Please, refrain from sudden movements."
"Alerting him?!" you cried out, scrambling to your feet. You needed to leave. You needed to run. Before you could even take a step toward the front door, a heavy thud echoed from outside the window.You whipped your head around just in time to see the window slide open. Peter climbed through—from the outside. The five-story drop outside.He was no longer in his briefs. He was wearing baggy sweatpants and a worn hoodie, and in his hands, absurdly, he held a brown paper grocery bag and a small bouquet of bodega flowers.He froze the second his feet hit the floor, his messy hair blowing in the cold wind from the open window. His brown eyes widened in absolute shock as he looked at you, then at the shredded remnants of the web-cocoon on the floor.
The flowers slipped from his grasp, hitting the floorboards with a soft thud.
"Oh my god," he breathed out, panic lacing his tone. He carefully set the groceries down on the windowsill, raising both of his hands in a placating gesture. "Hey, hey, it’s okay. Everything is fine. You're safe."
"Don't come any closer!" you screamed, your voice cracking with absolute terror. "How did you get up here?! What the hell did you put me in?!"
"I know how this looks," Peter said quickly, taking a slow, agonizingly cautious step forward. His face was pale, his eyes pleading. "I didn't mean to scare you. When I woke up in your apartment, I was disoriented—I didn't want you to wake up and see... I panicked. I just wanted to keep you safe while I went to get something to explain—"
"Stay back!" you shrieked, abandoning all reason. You lunged toward the hallway, desperate to reach the front door.Peter's reaction was instantaneous, a blur of motion too fast for the human eye to track. He threw his hand out instinctively.
THWIP.
A thick, blindingly fast rope of white webbing shot from his wrist, striking you squarely in the chest and slamming you back against the wall with enough force to knock the wind out of your lungs. The webbing spread over your torso, pinning you instantly to the plaster.You gasped for air, struggling uselessly against the immovable binding."No, no, no, shit!" Peter cursed loudly, grabbing his own hair in frustration. "That wasn't supposed to happen! The webs are shooting from my boy weirdly again, I’m sorry!"
"Let me go!" you sobbed, genuine tears of terror spilling hot down your cheeks. You trashed against the wall, but it was like being glued to concrete. "What are you?! Let me go right now or so help me God I will hurt you!"
"I am so sorry, just listen to me for one second!" he begged, stepping closer, his hands outstretched. "I'm not going to hurt you, I swear on my life I'm not a killer, I’m just—"
He stopped abruptly.A loud, guttural groan tore from his throat. He staggered backward as if he’d been struck by an invisible blow."Peter?" you choked out, your threats dying on your lips as you watched him fold in on himself.He stumbled wildly over his own feet, crashing into the heavy oak desk. Keyboards, tools, and spare parts clattered loudly to the floor. He gripped the edge of the desk with white-knuckled intensity, his knuckles popping as the wood audibly groaned under his grip."R-run..." he tried to say, his voice strained, a deep, raspy struggle that sounded nothing like the awkward boy from the laundry room. He squeezed his eyes shut, his entire body trembling violently as heat seemed to roll off him in visible waves in the cold room.
When he opened his eyes again, the warm, pleading brown irises were gone.His pupils had dilated so massively, so instantly, that his eyes appeared entirely pitch black, devoid of humanity. The erratic, apologetic posture vanished, replaced by an unnerving, predatory stillness. He slowly tilted his head, his black, depthless eyes locking onto you pinned against the wall. The silence in the room became suffocating.
The AI's voice sliced through the tension, devoid of any panic.
"Warning," the female voice announced clearly. "Arachnid hormone levels have spiked to critical capacity."
Peter’s breath came in ragged, animal pulls. The black of his eyes swallowed every scrap of light in the room. He didn’t speak. The last shred of the awkward, apologetic neighbor was gone, burned away by the heat rolling off his skin in visible waves. Your heart slammed against the webbing hard enough that you felt the vibration travel up into his wrist. He closed the distance in two strides. The webbing that held you war ripped in a warm rush. You dropped forward an inch before his arms locked around you. One hand splayed wide between your shoulder blades; the other gripped the back of your thigh and hauled you up so your feet left the floor. He was burning. Every place his bare skin touched yours felt like fever. He carried you three steps and dropped you onto the unmade bed without gentleness. The second your back hit the sheets he was over you, knees forcing your legs apart, mouth open against the side of your neck. His teeth scraped, not quite biting, tasting the rapid flutter of your pulse. You shoved at his shoulders, twisting hard. “Get the fuck off me—Peter, stop, what the hell is wrong with you—”
He ignored every word. Fabric tore more than it unfastened as he stripped what was left of your clothes with single-minded focus. The moment you were bare under him he sat back on his heels, chest heaving, staring down at you like prey that had finally stopped running. The sweatpants he still wore were tented obscenely. He shoved them down just far enough. His cock sprang free, flushed dark, already leaking.
You tried to scramble backward. He caught both of your wrists in one hand, pinned them above your head, and thwipped—two thick strands shot from his wrists and locked your arms to the headboard in a tight figure-eight. Another pair of strands snapped around your thighs, yanking them wide and anchoring them to the mattress so you couldn’t close them. You thrashed, cursing him in a furious stream of every filthy word you knew.His head tilted. The black eyes fixed on your moving mouth. One more precise shot from his wrist and a thick band of webbing sealed over your lips, stretching tight across your cheeks. The rest of your curses died in a muffled, furious growl. You could still breathe through your nose, but you couldn’t form a single coherent threat.
He dropped forward again, one hand shoving your thigh even higher. There was no preamble. The blunt head of him dragged once through the slick that had gathered between your legs—your body reacting even while your mind still spun—and then he thrust in to the hilt in a single, ruthless stroke.Your eyes flew wide. A broken, muffled sound tore out of you. He didn’t give you time to adjust. His hips snapped back and drove forward again, deep, relentless, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the quiet apartment. Every thrust forced the air from your lungs in short, punched-out gasps against the webbing over your mouth. He fucked you like he was trying to crawl inside your body and stay there. The bedframe slammed the wall in a steady, brutal rhythm. Your bound wrists flexed uselessly above your head. The stretch was so intense your vision blurred; your eyes crossed for a second every time he bottomed out, the overstimulated pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain. You hated how good it felt. Hated the way your body clenched around him like it was starving for exactly this. Hated the wet, helpless sounds that kept slipping past the webbing every time he dragged over that spot inside you.
One of his hands slid between your bodies. Two fingers found your clit and rubbed in rough, perfect circles timed to his thrusts. The dual sensation ripped a broken, muffled cry out of you. Your back bowed hard against the mattress. He watched your face the entire time, black eyes fixed, drinking in every flicker of expression as the orgasm tore through you hard enough that your eyes crossed again and stayed that way for a long, helpless second. You came with a strangled noise against the webbing, walls pulsing tight around him. He didn’t stop. If anything the clenching only drove him harder. His pace turned almost frantic, hips snapping, the wet sound of him sliding in and out of your still-fluttering body obscenely loud.His rhythm finally stuttered. A guttural, almost pained noise ripped from his chest. He buried himself to the root and stayed there, cock pulsing hard as he came. It wasn’t normal. The release that flooded you was thicker, stickier—liquid enough to spill but with the same clinging, elastic quality as his webbing. It coated every inch of him inside you, binding the two of you together in a hot, gluey mess.
When he finally pulled out, the withdrawal was slow and reluctant. Long, glistening strands of that sticky, web-like cum stretched between the flushed head of his cock and your abused, fluttering hole, snapping only when he pulled far enough away. More of it leaked out of you in thick, clinging ropes that stuck to your thighs and the sheets, shiny and viscous, refusing to drip the way ordinary come would.
He stayed kneeling between your spread, webbed legs, chest heaving, black eyes still locked on the mess he’d made of you. The webbing over your mouth and the strands holding your wrists and thighs stayed exactly where they were. For a long minute the only sounds were the two of you breathing and the soft creak of cooling silk.Only when the last violent tremor left his muscles did the pure black of his eyes begin to recede, brown slowly bleeding back in at the edges. The primal stillness fractured. His breath hitched. For the first time since the change, something like recognition flickered across his face.
“Oh Shit.”
Hope you enjoyed, you beautiful freaked out human. Likes, comments and Reblogs are greatly appreciated.
A/N: im not even joking i saw bnd and immediately opened tumblr bc it is that serious. expect more from me...
WARNINGS: NSFW, mdni, drunk f!reader, drunk hookup (all is consensual), no BND spoilers included! (js talks a little about his heightened abilities), p in v, unprotected rough sex, arachnid sensory overload... him using his senses to fuck you 🤤
WC: 2.4k
SUMMARY: Meeting a stranger at your friend's party, you decided to go out on a limb and do something you never do: casually hookup. Peter's amidst discovering his new abilities, and dealing with these bodily changes– he's searching for his own relief outside of Advil.
You never go home with strangers. People who go to clubs or parties purely for spontaneous hookups with no real meaning are stupid. You vowed to never be one of those people. After an unexpected invite to MJ and Ned's housewarming party, you find yourself pacing past huddled bodies, head overwhelmed by the mix of chatter and soft music. There should be a limit to how many people can be in an apartment, this is ridiculous. The drinks are fun, there should be less people, more drinks.
You raise a blue plastic cup to your lips when you see a random guy stumble past a group of people ranting and raving about something you can't make out. They're talking too fast anyway. He rubs his head as though a headache is seriously taking over his brain, and he huddles into a corner for protection from the chaos.
You're bored and drunk, what's the harm?
Everyone says you need to get back out there anyway, and he's cute... In an abandoned-puppy-at-a-shelter kind of way. He smiled weakly at passerbys, clutched his cup too tightly, like he's expecting someone to snatch it from him at any given moment. You straighten your posture, fix a dress you stole from your roommate, and muster up the courage to go over and speak to him. He looks distracted, and he is.
Peter's life is so scrambled, he doesn't know who or what he is anymore. He only came here to try and recollect what he'd lost four years ago. His best friends. Now he's not so sure, it's too crowded, and he feels everything too deeply now.
Then you came up.
His breath hitched, his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, backed up as if there was no more space behind him. "Hi." You simply stated.
"H-Hi?"
You give him your hand to shake, telling him your name. He just stands there. Stares at you blankly before his lips stutter out: "Peter." Wow, he hadn't told anyone his name in so long, it felt wrong. No one was supposed to know him, Peter's just another face in the crowd, a nobody to everybody.
"Nice to meet you, Peter." You smile.
"Y-You too." He hides his flush behind the cup as he practically chugs the rest.
"You okay?"
"Fine! I'm fine, I just came to give N-Ned and MJ a housewarming gift, I- I was gonna leave... I have a headache so..."
"Ohh, I see. Migraine?"
"Something like that." He murmurs. He shifts on his feet quietly, Peter's restless where he stands, his hands trembling at his sides. His head was pounding so hard, he could feel his brain shaking around and ricocheting against his skull. He can hear your heart beating, and he's not sure if he likes that or not.
You tilt your head, the alcohol's fogging your brain, and you just let loose. "Look, I think you're really cute." You say slowly, slightly slurred. "You want to get out of here?"
Peter stands as still as a statue. Get out of here. Go where? He didn't know you, couldn't take you home with him, his place isn't... 'Guest material.' That and the fact all of his tech is there, including clues that would reveal his identity as Spider-Man to you. Would a drunk girl go blabbering to J. Jonah Jameson like Mysterio had those years ago? He certainly hoped not! He couldn't afford to do that again. Not that he could, Strange wouldn't remember Peter anyways. "Sure." He shrugs.
The two of you make your way out of the apartment, to the elevator, then down. You loop your arm around Peter's which you notice is pretty muscular. He guides you quietly and calmly through the streets, he wasn't too sure on what you guys were doing, where you were going, but you were going. You don't think much of it, too giddy and tipsy for your own good. Most of the time you knew better than this, but hey! It's cool to get out of your comfort zone.
Hopefully this guy wasn't a killer.
Worse! He's a masked vigilante who saves the neighborhood.
Thankfully Peter's a good guy, he makes sure you cross the street safely, he keeps you close by to ensure your safety. Despite his inner battles that it was a bad idea, he brought you to his apartment complex. You hang patiently by his side as the elevator descends up.
He creaks the door open; his apartment is kind of sad. You pay no mind to the monitors or any of his technological stuff across the room. Instead? You skip over to the couch and flop down, letting out a content sigh. Peter watches you curiously. "Can I get you anything?" Not that he had much to offer, you shake your head.
"I'm okay. Thanks, Pete!" You smile. A smile. Something sweet and genuine that he hasn't seen in a while. A smile that isn't fake or laced with the sinking weight of guilt and pain and trauma of the past nine or ten years beating your ass every day. Peter gently sinks onto the couch next to your feet, he glances over as the skirt of your dress rides up your thighs, and he bites his inner lip. Genuinely, the second he sat down, you popped up and leaned near him. The alcohol is catching up slowly but surely as you inspect Peter. closely. He is cute.
"How old're you anyway?" You question.
"Um, 22. You?"
Not too young, not too old, is he just perfect? "Same: 22. What do you do for work?"
Ah shit. "Uh, I'm.. a student?"
"Where?"
"ESU..." He clears his throat, praying you'll believe his fib.
"Oh cool!" You exclaim, not interested enough to continue prying on his supposed education. "You single?"
He stops, just stares at his shoes. Is he? Technically, yes, mentally? He's not so sure. "Sort of."
"What does 'sort of' mean?" You chuckle.
"I had someone."
"Oh, nasty break up or something?"
"Or something."
"You know," you sigh, pressing against his side, "you're too cute to be alone like this. Do you even have friends?"
"No, I don't need them."
"Everyone needs friends! Hmm, okay, I'll be your new best friend!"
"You're drunk, you don't know what you're saying."
"Um, I know exactly what I'm saying. Or I wouldn't be saying it."
Can't argue with that logic.
"Do you ever get drunk?"
"I try not to." Bummer.
So he's cute, non-alcoholic and single. Win win, you move over, gently straddling his lap with your legs. Peter freezes, he hasn't had this kind of contact in who knows how long. Maybe never. He doesn't stop you when you lean in halfway, and he closes the distance by allowing your lips to meet and melt into a kiss, slowly deepening as the seconds pass. One of his hands rests at your waist, the other comes up to your cheek steadying himself as the two of you make out. It's passionate, heated, needy, and a bit sloppy as tongues intercept and teeth accidentally click against each other. Peter lets out a shaky exhale through his nose as you move against his lap, maybe it's just his newfound senses but he swore he could hear your heart thumping in your chest, he can practically feel your need in his own body.
His hand slides back into your hair, gently fisting it. Dammit, he was so screwed.
One thing seemed to lead to another, he found himself carrying you to his small bedroom, gently laying you on his bed as he tossed his coat on the floor with his shirt. You would've never guessed this shy guy was beautifully ripped. Your heart skips a beat. Peter senses the shift in your body, how your breath hitches, the flutter of your eyes, he's been able to feel things on a deeper level recently. Apparently he's developed heightened arachnid hormones. For him, it's been a struggle, but right now? It's an advantage over you. He assists you in taking off your dress, he kicks off his pants and tugs you to the edge of the bed, his boner pressing against your heat as he leans down to capture your lips once again. He'd hoped to get his mind stress-free, it seemed to be working because all of his duties as Spider-Man, the spell, the guilt, it all disappeared for the time being. His head fogged with desperation to get inside of you.
His mouth moves against yours as he snakes his hands under your back to get to your bra, unclasping and yanking it off. His eyes glisten, he licks his lips and bends down to press a kiss on both of your breasts. You left out a soft hum, toying with his curls around your finger as he sucks your tit, massaging the other with his large hand. He loses himself in your soft moans, enjoying the way your fingers thread through his hair. Only then does his head move across to the other, then trails down your tummy, stopping right above the waistband of your panties.
You huff, “C’mon… Please don’t stop.”
“What’s next is better. You trust me?” He bats his lashes.
"Only because I'm drunk." Peter cannot help but laugh. He sits up and pulls your panties down. He lets out a shaky breath when he sees your wetness. His index and middle finger lightly trace your pussy lips, making you shiver. Peter straightens himself, gently pushing his boxers down and lifting your legs on his hips. His eyes search yours, you look so beautiful like this, he almost forgets MJ completely.
He gently slides his tip along your wetness, making you whimper. He hated these new arachnid senses, everything was twice as intense. Jerking off was a fucking chore, he can’t believe he’s having sex when he’s like this, he's a monster. A monster who can absolutely ruin you sexually.
With one long, deep breath, he pushes himself inside you carefully, just the tip, for now. Peter's jaw clenches, the feeling is overwhelmingly euphoric. Your tightness is like heaven on Earth, he swallows. Gently he pulls out, then pushes back in- but only the tip, he wants to tease you.
Your moans escape, shaky and breathless and Peter extends this torture of teasing. He watches the way your pussy grips onto him as he pulls out; as if trying to keep him in and pull him deeper. It's oddly satisfying. At some point something snapped in Peter and he buried himself in you without warning, he wasn't sure what came over him but oh God did it practically kill him to have you like this, around him, squeezing him, making him see stars. He almost stopped entirely, it was so overwhelming to his entire nervous-system that he thought he might cry, not because it hurt– no, it felt fucking amazing. Because it felt too good. It's the best thing he's felt in four long years.
"You're okay?" He asks softly, leaning beside your ear as he finds his confidence in actual thrusts. You nod.
"I'm great." A smile spreads over your lips, as well as a small blush. Peter can't help but smile back, it's cute seeing your nose scrunch as you force a smile while he's ruining you. His hips continue to meet yours every other second, intently watching your expressions, trying to understand what makes you arch, what makes you moan louder, what truly pleases you. He's trying to ignore his senses, the way every movement feels like a tank running over every individual nerve in his body, how your sounds echo in his mind like someone is whacking his head with a metal bat. He isn't complaining, it's sexy knowing he has total control to make you have the best orgasm of your life because he senses what's good to you and what isn't.
When you don't whine or tighten on his cock, he angles differently, his body is on autopilot with the arachnid hormones, he's on a new level of weirdness. "Fuck," he whispers breathlessly near your ear before softly nipping it, making you gasp. "Sorry." He quickly murmurs, pressing completely against you as though he's trying to melt your bodies together. He starts fucking faster, it's diabolical.
"Fuck, fuck." He repeats it like a mantra trying to ground himself in the words as he physically cannot control himself anymore. It's like someone has him on puppet strings and is controlling his hips. Your hands come to his shoulders, brows knitted together with a sad puppyish expression that makes his cock twitch inside you. Finally, he hikes your legs a bit higher and breathing in, he starts fucking faster. Your brain fogs with pleasure, "Tell me if it's too much," he says softly, reminding you: he will stop if you want. He doesn't want to hurt you.
"Oh, my god, Pete, that's it." You moaned.
Something in Peter's brain lagged, like a broken computer. He smelt it, he could feel it under his fingertips, and around his dick, it's precious and it's dirty. You're close. Right now, his hips pistoned quicker, no one else could achieve this, only him. Because of what he is. You don't need to know that, he hopes you think he has really good stamina. Peter's fingers dig into your thighs as he grips them for balance, a sharp thrill runs up his spine because fuck he's close too. And with all of that: he blanks for a moment.
Your eyes had squished close when he started thrusting at this new pace, you almost tapped out. It's too much, but it's too good to give up. This is a train you can't get off of. Amidst the very moment you find yourself gasping for more, pleading Peter that he doesn't stop, your eyes open. His head is hung, sweat dotted on his forehead as his curls stick to his skin. His muscles flexed and abs tensed.
"Peter..." You whispered in a whiny tone.
"M-mhm??" His eyes flicker up to you.
"I'm gonna..." You trail off, with a moan because it's already happening before you can forewarn him. And holy shit, he wasn't expecting it- he groans as your cunt tightens impossibly around him. Every breath catches in his throat, and his stomach knots. "Oh my God." He pants.
You're overstimulated by the feelings, him pounding you through your orgasm, then... His face scrunches, he moans out, eyes snapping shut, his hip thrusts go sloppy and he whines when his own orgasm hits him. When his eyes open as he's thrusting his cum into you, you find yourself staring into pure black eyes, like his body had been possessed by something other-worldly, he doesn't even realize it. "P-Pete... Your eyes!"
summary: the tiny little (big fat) crush you have on your roommate comes to a head when you find him on the living room floor at midnight. he’s not hurt, but he definitely needs your help.
aka yet another sex pollen fic
content warnings: 18+ EXPLICIT SMUT MDNI!!! I mean it ok, SEX POLLEN/aprodisiac, roommate!peter, explicit language, probably post bnd but there’s not a whole lot of plot/exposition so don’t worry about the specifics, reader is afab but not really described otherwise I don’t think, fingering f-receiving, making out, unprotected p-in-v DO NOT DO THIS, handjob m-receiving, author felt really awkward writing about genitalia and it shows, both are down baddd, questionable dirty talk, I think that’s everything but if I missed anything PLEASE let me know I’ve never done this before, title from so hot you’re hurting my feelings by caroline polachek (literally me)
wc: 2.4k
author’s note: as mentioned before this is my first smut fic I’m actually genuinely terrified to be posting this. I DONT KNOW IF ITS GOOD but good lord brand new day did things to me. also my first time writing for pp since my wattpad days and I don’t know if I got his characterisation right. BUT ITS SMUT WHO CARES. I just hope someone enjoys this
Peter comes home sometime in the early hours of the morning. You hear him clattering in the living room, hear the slam of the window and a grunt and the thuds of uneven footsteps. Even in your half-asleep state, it registers that something is wrong. Usually, he’s quiet coming in, kind enough to not disturb your sleep. It’s only when something has happened that he’s careless and noisy.
You slither reluctantly from the sheets you’ve brewed perfectly warm throughout the night and pull a jumper over your head as you pad out into the hallway. “Peter?” you call softly. “You OK?”
There’s a groan from the living room. You flick the light on as you enter and find your roommate on the floor, knelt on all fours and whimpering. You swear and scramble to his side. “Fucking hell, Peter, what happened?” In the dim light, you can’t see any blood. He’s breathing heavily, though, and mumbling as he claws at his mask. You help him pull it off and he gasps for air.
“You have to go,” he manages to wheeze out. “Please. Please, go.”
“No fucking way,” you tell him fiercely, panic putting an edge in your voice. “What the hell happened?” You’re running your hands over him, checking for injuries as he sobs, and he’s burning hot even through the suit but you can’t find anything except—
That.
That’s not normal.
Big, hard and heavy, like every cliche ever in all the books you read. He hisses when you nearly touch it, swears when you lurch backwards before you make contact. “I’m so sorry,” he sobs again, teeth gritted. “It hurts. Sorry, sorry, fuck, you have to go. Please,” he begs, “you have to go.”
He looks absolutely miserable, soaked in sweat as his whole body shudders with aggressive spasms. You should back away like he’s told you, call someone who can help. Maybe it’s contagious, whatever he’s clearly come into contact with. But you can’t. He’s your best friend and you’re not leaving him like this.
“Peter,” you tell him softly but urgently, “look at me. You have to let me help you.”
Even in the distress he’s in, he laughs. Quietly, strained, under his ragged breath. “No. No, I can’t do this to you.”
“What do you mean?” He doesn’t answer, just chokes on a whimper, and you poke his shoulder. “Peter, what happened?”
He swears again, drops his forehead to the carpet. “Stupid drug I’ve been hearing about. Tried to catch some dealers. They sprayed me. It’s…”
He swallows, hisses out a pained breath. You watch him closely and wait. Finally, he grits out, “It’s an aphrodisiac, but, like, a hundred times worse.”
Oh. That explains the monumental boner he’s sporting. You take a shaky breath in, nod like he’s just told you he can’t make it to Sunday brunch anymore. “OK. Yeah, OK. Right. Uh, treatment is?”
He turns his head just enough to meet your eye, offering a wry grin. His pupils are blown so wide you can barely see the brown of his eyes. “What do you think?” he quips dryly before his whole body shudders again and he drops to his elbows, gasping raggedly. Sweat glistens on the back of his neck and mats the dark curls of his hair. “You should really go,” he croaks. “It’s not safe for you.”
Typical Peter, always thinking of others even when he’s visibly in pain. But you’ve already decided. “I’m not going to,” you tell him.
He shakes his head. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers, voice hoarse.
Hesitantly, like you’re worried about what something like a hand on his shoulder might do to him, you reach out and touch him. He tenses at the contact like he’s been shot; a strangled noise dies somewhere in his throat. He bows his head again, back heaving as he pants, refusing to make eye contact. Ashamed, maybe, of the state he’s in.
“Peter,” you say very quietly and very surely, “I’m not leaving.”
Slowly, he looks up at you, absolutely wrecked. His face is flushed and gleaming with perspiration. He watches you for a long moment like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. You don’t, even as you feel your whole body start to burn under his gaze.
“You have to say something if you don’t want to anymore,” he whispers finally. “Swear it.” You cross your heart. He manages half a smile. “Swear,” you murmur, and then you’re helping him onto the couch, and he’s making sounds that go straight to your core.
You peel the suit off him quickly. Ideally, you’d be savouring the moment, relishing in every muscled bit of skin you reveal, but you’re not trying to drag out his suffering longer than necessary. He helps you get the suit off fully, groaning and panting as he fumbles with the thick fabric, until he’s just in boxers beneath you and you’re trying not to drool at the sight of his bare skin all laid out for you.
“I have to—“ he cuts himself off, squeezing his eyes shut and tipping his head back as his jaw clenches. He balls his hands into fists and rests them on his thighs, his whole body taut as a bowstring. “Fuck, it hurts.”
“Tell me what to do.” You hover over him with a growing feeling of helplessness that you’re desperate to get rid of.
He’s pawing at the bulge in his boxers now, jaw clenched. “I can’t,” he whispers. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”
You freeze. “What do you mean?”
He shakes his head again. A keening whine spills from his lips and he winces like it physically pains him to hear it. “I was going to ask you properly,” he mumbles so quietly you have to strain to hear him. “Wanted to take you out. I’ve liked you for ages.”
It’s news to you. For the past three years you’ve known him, you’ve firmly believed that all Peter will ever be is your best friend who happens to be a boy. Of course you liked him as more than that; look at him. You just never thought the feeling was mutual. Never even dared to hope, because you were sure you’d just end up disappointed.
“Oh,” you whisper now.
“Yeah, oh.” Peter groans. “I’m so sorry, really, this is so wrong—“
“Peter,” you say softly. When he keeps rambling about how sorry he is, you lean down to put your face right in front of his. “Peter, fucking shut up already.” And then you kiss him. He moans into your mouth, his hands gripping your hips like a lifeline. You let out your own muffled noise when he squeezes the soft curve of them. “Please,” he mumbles into your mouth. “Please.”
“Please what,” you breathe right back.
“Fucking please,” is all he says and then his mouth leaves your’s, starts moving down your neck, while his hands fumble with the hem of your jumper and the pyjama top underneath. “Shirt off,” he pleads.
“Manners,” you murmur but you oblige anyway and quickly too, pulling your jumper over your head and your top with it. When Peter sees you haven’t got a bra on underneath, he practically malfunctions, hands hovering over your waist like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
“Fuck,” he sighs. “I’m going to die.”
“You’re not.” You reach down to plant his hands firmly on your hips, then grip the waistband of his shorts and watch his face as you push them down. His eyes stay fixed on your chest for a long moment until his hips jump upwards and his dick springs free into the cold apartment air. Now it’s your turn to stare in blatant awe; he is huge.
“Fuck me, Peter,” you whisper and he groans.
“I’m trying!”
When you wrap a hand around him, his whole body jerks and he lets out a string of breathy curses. “Oh, fuck,” he breathes shakily. “Fuck, fuck.” You watch him in awe as your hand works, cataloguing every little noise that he makes and the way he looks at you, desperate and adoring. “Won’t last,” he whispers and you nod.
“I know.” But you don’t stop. Peter arches off the couch, chest heaving, and you watch as he comes undone beneath you. He’s still hard, afterward. You don’t care that it was quick, you don’t really care about anything but his hand which has managed to find its way into your shorts. He slips his fingers into your underwear, pushing them aside with unsurprising deftness; the guy is good at almost anything, so you wouldn’t expect any different. When his fingertips dip between your folds, your own hips stutter and you bite back a whimper.
“So wet,” he whispers almost to himself. “Holy fuck.”
“Peter,” you beg, core aching as you roll your hips over his in search of some relief. “Come on, please.”
Before you even know what’s happening, he lurches up to flip both your bodies around. In a second, you’re under him and his whole heavy body is pressing you into the couch. The movement has your head spinning.
Your shorts and undies are off now too, disposed of mindblowingly quickly as Peter works a finger into you. You cry out at the feeling, hands flying to grip his wrist. You can feel the muscles of his forearm flexing beneath your fingers as he crooks his own, another one slipping into you. He lowers his head to your chest as you gasp for breath, and when you feel him sucking marks into the valley between your breasts you nearly come right then and there.
“Fuck, Peter, fuck,” you swear. A hand goes to his hair, dripping wet and tousled from the sweat, the other hand still gripping onto his arm for dear life.
“I know,” he groans into your chest. “Just want you to be OK.”
“I will be, Pete, I will,” you promise frantically. “Please, Peter, please I need you, I need you now, please.”
Funny how he was the one in tears on the floor mere minutes ago, and now here you are begging for more beneath him. He’s nodding furiously, sucking marks on your skin as he moves back up to your lips, and when he reaches down to position himself against you, you hook your arms around his neck and pull him down to kiss you.
“Ready?” he murmurs when you break apart, and you feel the tip of him skimming through your folds. You can tell he’s restraining himself, can see it in the way he clenches his jaw and sucks in short, sharp breaths that he’s trying with all his might not just to take what he needs.
But you don’t want him to hold back. You pull him down for a kiss again and nod. “I trust you.”
His hips judder at that and he swears under his breath. When he starts to press into you, the stretch feels impossible. You hiss out, digging your nails into his shoulders for dear life. If it hurts him, he doesn’t react. He just watches your face, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, his whole body shaking with the effort it takes to hold himself back.
“You OK?” he asks and you nod.
“Keep going. Please.”
So he does. Inch by inch, he presses his hips closer to your’s. When the stretch feels unbearable, he whispers in your ear for you to breathe. Before you know it, he closes the gap and there he is, buried inside you up to the hilt. And you wonder how you’ve gone so long without this, how something so new can feel so insanely right.
“Like you were made for me,” he whispers into your neck and you nod.
“I was,” you mumble. “Please move, Peter, please.” You can smell the sweat on his skin, can feel it all through his hair as you bury your fingers in his curls.
He moves. Hips rolling against your’s, steadily speeding up. You try to keep up with him, you really do, but your legs have given up on working and Peter’s got the whole super strength thing on his side. He makes little noises as he fucks into you, breathy whimpers and almost pained groans, but the look on his face is as far from pain as it gets. You let him do the work while you scatter errant kisses across his chest and shoulders, and the tightness in you swells and swells until you think you can’t take it anymore, but it keeps going and Peter moans out loud when you clench around him.
“Please,” you just about sob, gripping his back for dear life. “Please, Peter, please.”
“I know,” he mumbles against your skin, dropping his head to mouth at your neck. He pulls almost all the way out and then pushes back in, one smooth movement, and you cry out. “I’m so close.”
“I know, I know.” He presses his face against the crook of your neck and grunts, hips still pistoning like machinery. “Me too. Feels insane.”
“Please,” you whimper, feeling frankly out of your mind too as you clutch at the muscles of his back and arms. “Please. So close.”
He gets you there. One hand snaked between your two bodies, the press of a calloused thumb against your clit, and you’re tumbling over the edge, eyes squeezed shut. Peter follows soon after, still working you through it, practically sobbing into your chest. The aftershocks last for a while and he’s there through it all, gasping for breath against your skin. When the haze clears, he pulls out gingerly and lifts his head to meet your gaze.
“You OK?” he asks, face scrunched in concern. “I didn’t hurt you?”
You grin at him. “I feel like jelly.”
“Good jelly?”
“Fucking amazing jelly.”
He laughs, the sound ragged. “I’m sorry, anyway.”
“I know you’re not apologising right now,” you retort, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. “That was, like, the best sex I’ve ever had. Are you, um, OK, though?”
He smiles bashfully. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m OK.”
He brings you a wet cloth and a glass of water. The sweat has dried on his skin and he looks far better than he did when you found him on the floor.
Later, he crawls into bed with you. The lamp flicks off and the room plunges back into darkness. You wriggle closer to him until his arms find you and pull you tight to his chest.
“As good as that was,” you whisper, “please don’t scare me like that again. I thought you were dying or something.”
He laughs softly and presses his lips to the top of your head. “OK. I’ll try.”
You drift off before him. When he sleeps a while later, it’s the best night’s rest he’s had in a long time.
