The beautiful thing as you get older is that you realize so many “rules” are made up and you can just do whatever. Posters can go anywhere in the house not just my room. I can sit down while cooking a meal or taking a shower. I can make the same thing for breakfast lunch dinner for a week straight. I can roam around the house shirtless. I can wear a dress with jeans. The world is my oyster key word my and I can live as I please embracing little things such as this
the concept of civilian! peter parker (who’s one of professor banner’s students) being an obsessive fan for spidey! reader and does unsolicited stuff for her; creating suit designs, web fluid, etc… #needthat
he already put a tracker on her since senior year of high school
when fiona apple asked “how can i ask anyone to love me when all i do is beg to be left alone”. well i have not found an answer but if anyone else has lmk
JEALOUS TYPE — your sensitive boyfriends get overstimulated. it's only fair that you are too (in other ways).
pairing. peter parker x fem reader x clark kent / / tags. 18+ MDNI, f & m receiving oral, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, spit, squirting, fingering, pussy pronouns, backshots / mating press, eater peter & his gf + his gf's 6'4" overgrown kryptonian
you think peter might be trying to talk to "her" again
she's so pretty. inhaling at the junction between thigh and pelvis. she likes it when i do this. rough, pink tongue licking the pad of his thumb. presses the flat callus to your clit. just felt 'er twitch.
you know it's not for you, but for clark, who's painfully hard against your back. there's rhythm to his unsteady breaths, tight chest muscles expanding and contracting in long inhales, short exhales as he wrestles for self-control.
the sunset sprays you in pinks and blues, muddying together to shine off the sweat on your skin. peter glances up between the valley of your breasts, heavy gaze drinking in the tense line of your throat, the heave of your chest.
he begs something that's garbled and messy against your pussy, sclera just a slim ring of white as his pupils bloom beyond iris. fuck, you think, he's hungry for it.
you know this is almost soothing for them. peter is making no effort to spread your legs apart, content to press his face in and keep licking you open in the muffle of your sensitive thighs. clark just nuzzles into your neck, thick arms twisting around your waist, drowning out the scents of the city with the musk of your skin.
it's torture. it's therapy. two and a half orgasms in, and neither of them seem to want to stop.
clark must know that you're teetering close to the edge. he just slides his hand down, nudging peter's nose out of the way—an unpleased grumble vibrates against your pussy, to which you whimper softly—and sinks two fingers from behind into your fluttering heat with little resistance.
"fuck," you gasp. mindless, helpless, you rock into both of them. feeling the insistent press of clark's knuckles against your g-spot, the hot swipe of peter's tongue over your folds and clit. "fuck, i'm—"
you don't even make it past the phrase before you arch, pleasure taking you by surprise. ears ringing, colors blooming behind your eyelids, tears squeezing out at the corners.
you paw at peter's soft, damp curls, his name on your breath like a prayer: "peter, peter, i can't—"
clark sounds so far off when he mumbles, strained, "gosh, i think she just..."
peter makes a sound that's half-groan, half-sob, settling for tiny kitten licks that don't stop you from twitching. "babe, you were gushing."
the sound of their voices is so strange, gnarled with pleasure, hoarse with restraint. so different to the gentle way they usually speak.
clark draws his fingers out, finally lifting his head from your shoulder. he looks at your fucked-out, teary face with a bleary smile and a sharp glimmer in his eyes. brings his hand to his lips, sucks the shine off his skin.
you can't help the pitched moan that escapes you then.
peter's thumbs tack themselves to your outer lips. spreads them in a way that makes you burn. his lips purse, and he's spitting onto your pussy, all messy and dripping. smears it over your folds, presses his thumb against your oversensitive clit again just because he likes the way your hips jump.
"c'mon," clark near grumbles, tugging on a strand of peter's hair. "switch out."
"fine, fine," peter concedes with a pout, that still-boyish side of him peeking through.
they maneuver you around, chest pressing to warm sheets, ass exposed to the air. clark sits on his heels behind you; peter gathers your head to rest against his stomach, cock twitching before your eyes.
you kiss the tip, pretty and flushed to a dusky pink. he's thinner and longer than clark, and a hell of a lot more sensitive, which is why this works.
(clark gets a little line in his forehead whenever peter's in you and cums first. he can't help it, but peter can't help it either. they get a little heated over it sometimes.)
peter shudders, cupping your cheek, trying not to twitch too much as you continue to lavish his cock. you've just begun to make slow, light strokes at his base when clark stretches you raw.
unintentionally, you squeeze peter a little hard, making him hiss.
"shit, that's good," he slurs, brows drawn tight as he gazes down at you with ruddy cheeks. you pant, open-mouthed, as you tap the head against your slightly lolled tongue, getting him all sticky.
from behind, clark's girth keeps a steady rhythm. veins drag, flush to your sensitive, slick walls; balls slap to your clit, making you jolt and your breath hitch around peter's cock.
you don't know how your arms and legs can keep you propped like this, only that you're hanging on by a thread, that you have to keep yourself up only so you can rock back and meet clark's slow movements.
he's so fucking deep. one particularly devastating thrust has you arching deeper, desperate to feel more. feel me in your stomach, he hums, fingers gripping your hips tight.
there's a ridge along the underside of him that he blames on alien biology. whatever it is, it's always dragging you back toward the edge they never let you stray too far from.
your head is too hazy to tell that you're close again, and it's only when you're wracked with shivers and can barely mouth at peter do you realize you've come again.
"she liked that?" clark coos, rhythm gradually becoming sloppy. your whine is garbled, hand moving too fast over the scorching, slick length of peter.
he's whining too, adam's apple bobbing, pitched sounds breaking the unsteady slap of clark's pelvis against your ass. tendon in his thigh draws taut, abdomen flexes. "so good, so good," he chants, then he's twitching, spilling over your fingers, dribbling onto your lips.
you barely have the time to work him through it before clark is pulling out, practically manhandling you onto your back and pushing your knees to your chest.
he thrusts back in so hard that you skid up the mattress, that your eyes roll back and you can feel every inch trying to hold back until he can make you cum again.
"last one, okay?"
(you doubt it.)
—
notes from june: back2back smuts like never put me back in school again im on fire... hope u enjoyed :))
SUMMARY. . . Peter has always been good at noticing things. Unfortunately, that now includes your habits, your routines, your secrets, and far too much of your life. The more he learns about you, the harder it becomes to convince himself he's still one of the good guys.
pairing: peter parker/spiderman x reader
content warnings: obsessive idiot peter parker, morally gray peter parker, stalking, surveillance, hacking, digital privacy invasion, peter parker knows way too much, unhealthy attachment, questionable coping mechanisms, trust issues, relationship tension, codependency if we're being honest, emotional angst, psychological thriller undertones, loneliness, pining, secret identity drama, poor life choices, love as a horror genre but not rlly, relationship paranoia, possessiveness, post brand new day, guys bear with me it's going somewhere good i promise </3. not betaread. lmk if i missed anything!!
comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡
— amazing support banners used are from @moonstoneandmoonlight !
w/c: 8.8k
a/n: peter parker support group starts here!! unfortunately, I'm not offering support.
I made him worse :p
Peter first noticed you because you dropped a pen.
Not in any interesting way. Not in slow motion, not with a dramatic little gasp, not the kind of thing anyone wrote poems about unless they were trying too hard. It slipped out from between your fingers halfway through Professor Menken’s lecture on genetic ethics, hit the edge of your desk, bounced once against the leg of the chair in front of you, and rolled beneath Peter’s sneaker.
He looked down at it because he heard it before anyone else did.
That was the thing about the new edges of him. The mutation hadn't settled cleanly after everything. It had sharpened in odd places, overcorrected in others. Sound arrived layered now: the scrape of chalk, someone’s gum clicking against a molar three rows back, the pulse in the throat of the guy beside him who had definitely not done the reading. The city beyond the lecture hall kept pressing itself into his skull in a dozen distant frequencies, sirens and pipes and pigeons beating frantic wings beneath the eaves.
And then there was your pen.
Cheap black ballpoint. Cap chewed, not recently. A faint crescent of teeth marks near the clip.
Peter picked it up before he thought better of it.
You turned in your seat, a little embarrassed but not enough to make a performance of it, your brows rising when you realized someone had retrieved it. “Oh. Thank you.”
Your voice did not do anything impossible. It didn't rearrange him. It just sat warmly in the air between you, lower than he expected, slightly hoarse like you had been up too late or had laughed too much the night before.
Peter gave you the pen. “No problem.”
You smiled, quick and polite, and turned back around.
That should have been the end of it.
Peter knew that. He knew it with the same blunt clarity he knew not to crawl across ceilings in public or listen through apartment walls just because he could. Some lines were simple because crossing them made everything else complicated. You were a person in one of his classes. He had handed you a pen. That was all.
For nearly four minutes, he managed to leave it there.
Then you tapped the pen twice against your notebook, paused, and wrote something in the margin instead of on the lecture line where everyone else had written CRISPR and informed consent and somatic inheritance. Peter saw the movement from the corner of his eye. His vision caught too much when he let it. A tilt, a shadow, a word half-formed before your hand covered it.
He should not have looked.
He still looked.
You had written: who decides what counts as damage?
Peter stared at the back of your head for one second too long.
The question stayed with him after class, needling under his skin while students packed laptops and shoved water bottles into canvas bags. You stood slowly, stretching your fingers once before sliding your notebook away. Someone called your name from the aisle. You glanced over your shoulder and gave a tired little laugh when a girl with chipped blue nail polish asked if you were coming to the library later.
“Maybe,” you said after you gave a few experimental blinks. “I have work first.”
Peter bent over his backpack, pretending he had not heard.
He had heard too much.
Your keys clinked inside the front pocket of your bag. Your phone buzzed twice. You smelled faintly of vanilla shampoo and rain-damp wool, though it had not rained since morning. Your heartbeat was steady, quicker when your friend mentioned a party, slower when you said, “I’ll see how dead I am after closing.”
Normal details. Human details. None of them belonged to him.
He walked out ten paces behind you anyway.
Only because the door was in that direction, he told himself. Only because everyone was leaving through the same narrow hall, shoulder to shoulder, voices bouncing off institutional beige walls. ESU’s biology building had bad ventilation and worse fluorescent lighting. It made everyone look slightly ill. You squinted against it, one eye narrowing more than the other.
Peter noticed that too.
He hated that he noticed that.
Outside, late autumn had made the campus restless. Leaves skittered over the pavement in dry little bursts, trapped briefly against bike racks before the wind worried them loose. The sky hung low and silver behind the brick buildings. You tucked your chin into your scarf and walked toward the Square with your friend still talking beside you, one hand moving as she described something, the other hooked around the strap of your bag.
Peter stopped at the stairs.
He could have gone the other way.
He had laundry. He had a chemistry problem set. He had a rent reminder folded under a magnet on his fridge and a suit stuffed behind a loose panel in his closet that still smelled faintly of smoke from a warehouse fire in Queens.
You crossed the quad and his senses followed before his body did.
Your laugh carried back once, loose and surprised, and Peter felt something in him lean toward it. Not physically. Worse than physically. Some quiet, starved part of him that had been living on memory and obligation and the bruised discipline of not needing anything.
He watched until the crowd took you.
Then he went home and searched your name.
He didn't call it that at first.
Peter called it checking. Curiosity. Normal curiosity. The kind people had when they met someone in class and wanted to know whether they had mutual friends or if they posted notes online or if maybe they were in a study group. He sat at his small desk with the radiator clanking beside him, his laptop open beneath the yellow cone of his lamp, and typed in the name he had heard your friend say.
The first result was an ESU page with your department listing: Undeclared concentration, biology track. A campus volunteer archive from last spring. A photo from a charity 5K where you stood at the edge of a group shot, squinting into the sun and holding a paper cup too tightly. Your social media accounts were not private enough.
Peter exhaled through his nose and sat back.
“No,” he spoke aloud to his empty apartment and the only response to his words was the radiator hissing.
He closed the browser.
For about eighteen seconds.
Then he opened it again.
By midnight, Peter knew you worked three evenings a week at a bookstore café two neighborhoods over. He knew you liked old horror films but hated jump scares. He knew you reposted stray cat videos when you were stressed. He knew you had once written, in a post from two years ago that made his stomach pull tight with secondhand tenderness, that you hated how easy it was to become background noise in other people’s lives.
Peter shut the laptop so hard the sound cracked through the room.
He stood, paced three steps, turned, paced back. His hands flexed at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling with leftover strength he had nowhere to put. The window showed him his own reflection layered over the city: too thin, too tired, hair still damp from a shower he barely remembered taking.
“You’re not doing this,” he told himself with restriction, and even his reflection looked unconvincing.
You did not think about Peter Parker after class.
Not really.
You remembered the pen only because you found it later at work and noticed the cap had a little dent from where you always chewed it during exams. You remembered his face in the vague way you remembered classmates you saw twice a week: brown hair that looked like he had dragged a hand through it one too many times, gentle eyes, shoulders folded slightly inward like he was trying not to take up space.
Cute, maybe.
But cute in the background way. The kind of cute you acknowledged and then forgot because a customer had spilled oat milk on the pickup counter and your manager was muttering about inventory under her breath.
By eight-thirty, your feet hurt. The bookstore smelled of damp coats, burnt espresso, dust, and cinnamon syrup. Someone had abandoned a paperback facedown on the windowsill. Outside, people hurried past with collars lifted against the wind, their reflections smeared across the dark glass.
You were restocking the staff picks table when the bell above the door chimed.
You glanced up because it was habit and Peter stood just inside, shaking cold from his hair.
For a second, he looked as surprised to see you as you were to see him. Then his face softened into recognition, bashful and easy enough that you almost smiled before you realized you were already doing it.
“Hey,” he greeted and his voice hit your ears with a peaceful calm. “You’re in Menken’s class, right?”
You straightened, a book still in your hand. “Yeah. Peter, right?”
His smile widened a little, and it did something irritatingly pleasant to his whole face. “Yeah. And you’re…?”
You gave him your name and he repeated it, not too quickly, not too slowly. Like he cared about getting it right.
That was your first mistake, though you wouldn't know that for weeks. You noticed the care and mistook it for kindness. Maybe it was kindness, in part. That was the inconvenient thing about Peter. He wasn't lying every time he was gentle.
He bought a coffee he barely drank and a used copy of a short story collection you had placed on the staff picks table that morning. When you rang him up, he looked at the handwritten card tucked beneath the stack.
“Your pick?” he asked with his eyes moving over the loop of the script.
A small puff of air left you as your mouth twitched. “Yeah. It’s weird.”
“I like weird.”
“You say that now.”
He glanced up through his lashes, and there was an awkwardness to it that made him seem younger, more human than he had been in your mind. “Is that a warning or a recommendation?”
You huffed a laugh more visibly this time. “Both.”
Peter nodded as if that settled something important. “Then I’ll take it seriously.”
You liked that he didn't try too hard to stretch the conversation. He thanked you, dropped his change into the tip jar, and moved to a table near the window with the book and untouched coffee. He read for almost an hour.
At least, you thought he read.
Peter had read the same paragraph six times.
The book sat open beneath his hands, but you kept shifting around the café in the warm spill of overhead lights, and his attention kept betraying him. You wiped down the counter with economical movements, pushed loose hair back from your face with your wrist, nodded when customers spoke but went distant the second they turned away. You had a habit of pressing your tongue to the inside of your cheek when you were trying not to react to something. You disliked the register drawer because it stuck and made you use more force than you wanted. You hummed under your breath when the espresso grinder drowned out the room.
None of this was information anyone needed.
Peter collected it anyway.
He had promised himself he would only look. In person, that sounded even worse. He knew how it sounded. He could hear a familiar voice in his head, dry and unimpressed, though any real familiarity was gone from his life in all the ways that mattered now. He could hear May too, not in words, just in the old shape of disappointment.
But it had been a bad week.
That wasn’t an excuse, he hated that his mind reached for one so quickly.
It had been a bad year, or rather, years.
Worse.
The world had forgotten him in pieces so cleanly it felt surgical. He still had photographs where people stood beside him with no memory of the moment. Peter still knew birthdays no one invited him to, inside jokes that died the second he tried to speak them aloud. He still woke up some mornings with his hand reaching across the bed toward nothing because loneliness had become muscle memory.
And then there was you, chewing on a pen in class and writing questions that made the room seem less airless.
Peter watched you laugh with your coworker behind the counter, your head tilting back for half a second before you caught yourself. Not loud or careless, but real.
Something in him ached with it.
Peter should have left.
Instead, when you came by with a rag and asked, “Everything okay over here?” he looked up too fast.
“Yeah. Sorry. I’m probably overstaying.”
You waved him off without much thought. “No, you’re fine. We don’t close for another hour.”
“I can go if you need the table.”
You glanced around the mostly empty café with a ghost of a smile on your lips. “Peter, there are seven tables.”
He laughed, a little embarrassed, but not nearly as much as he should've felt. “Right. Good point.”
You smiled at him fully now. This time it lingered. His pulse kicked hard enough that he felt ashamed of it.
The second time he came in, you were not surprised.
The third time, you teased him about the coffee.
“You know you don’t have to keep ordering it if you hate it.”
Peter looked down at the cup like it had betrayed him. “I don’t hate it.”
You looked up at him through the table unsure. “You’ve taken two sips in forty minutes.”
“I’m pacing myself.”
“You ordered an iced coffee in November.”
“I can contain multitudes.”
You snorted before you could stop yourself, and he looked so pleased by it that you looked away first.
It was not instant. That mattered, later. You didn't fall into it without thought. You were busy, and careful in the way people became careful when they had learned affection could come with hidden invoices. You had classes, work, rent, a roommate who left wet towels on the bathroom floor, and a mother who texted at odd hours asking if you were eating enough.
Peter became familiar gradually.
A chair near the window. A brown jacket with a frayed cuff. Fingers stained faintly with ink because he wrote equations on his hand when he ran out of paper. A voice that went soft when he asked questions and quicker when he forgot to be nervous. He seemed to know when not to interrupt you. He remembered that you disliked caramel syrup but liked cinnamon. He started bringing you the extra banana from the convenience store near campus because you once said your blood sugar crashed during evening shifts and you always forgot to pack food.
“That’s weirdly thoughtful,” you made a face and said the first time.
Peter shrugged with his eyes lowering when he spoke. “It was two for one.”
You knew that was not the whole truth, but it was close enough to something charming that you let it pass.
From Peter’s side, every small success made him feel worse.
He really hadn't meant to learn your schedule exactly. Not at first. But once he knew the bookstore shifts, his brain filled in the blanks with humiliating efficiency: Menken’s class Monday and Wednesday. Lab on Thursday. Café Tuesday, Friday, Sunday. Library most Wednesdays after six, second floor if you were alone, basement if your friend came with you because she liked the vending machine down there.
Peter didn't need to know that.
He especially did not need to know that you always took the longer route home when the weather was mild because you liked passing the laundromat with the orange cat in the window.
The first time Peter followed you all the way back to your building, he almost turned around six times.
Almost was becoming a dangerous word.
He stayed across the street, hood up, hands in his pockets, moving with the practiced absence Spider-Man had perfected. He told himself it was only because the neighborhood had been rough lately. Two muggings near the park. A stolen car three blocks away. He had reasons. Responsible reasons. Hero reasons.
Then you stopped beneath the awning of your building and turned suddenly, looking back down the sidewalk.
Peter froze behind the corner of a closed bodega.
For one wild second, he thought you had felt him there. Not heard, not seen. Felt. The way people sometimes sensed weather changing in their bones.
But you only searched your bag, found your keys, and went inside.
Peter waited until the lobby light swallowed you.
His hands were shaking when he got home.
He stripped off the mask he had not needed and sat on the floor beside his bed, suit half-unzipped, chest rising too fast. The room smelled of dust, old laundry, cold takeout. Somewhere upstairs, a couple argued about dishes and somewhere outside, a siren split the night and faded.
Peter pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, the pressure doing little to relieve him.
“You’re scaring yourself,” he whispered and that should have helped.
It did not.
Because the next morning you came into class with tired eyes and a bandage wrapped around one finger, and Peter noticed before you even sat down.
Paper cut, he guessed.
No. Too clean. Knife slip. Cooking? No, the angle was wrong. Box cutter at work.
He started hating the part of him that solved you like a problem.
During lecture, Professor Menken asked a question no one wanted to answer. You lifted your hand after three seconds of silence.
Peter watched you speak with intent.
You were not perfectly confident. Your voice caught often and you glanced at your notes too often. But you had a way of thinking aloud that made uncertainty seem active instead of weak, like you were willing to stand inside the unfinished part of an idea and invite everyone else to look at it with you.
Peter stared at his notebook and wrote nothing. After class, he found you outside the building, wrestling with the zipper of your bag.
“Hey,” he said when you came into view casually enough for him to do the same.
You looked up with no real hurry. “Hey, coffee multitudes.”
Peter laughed, surprised by the nickname. “That’s going to stick, huh?”
“It might.”
“Then I should probably earn it.”
You raised an eyebrow and looked him over. “By drinking coffee?”
“By asking if you want to get some. Somewhere I actually finish it.”
There it was. The moment Peter had arranged too carefully to pretend it was spontaneous. He had known your next class had been canceled because he had seen the department email reflected faintly on your laptop screen the day before. He had chosen this window. He had planned the route. He had checked the café he suggested to make sure it had the tea you liked, the kind you mentioned once in a post from eight months ago and again at work when you complained your roommate stole the last bag.
He was disgusting.
Peter smiled anyway, small and nervous because he was also still himself.
You hesitated, it wasn't long enough to be cruel, but it was long enough to be honest.
“Now?” you asked and your hand twitched to a still around your bag
“Only if you’re free.”
“I am.” You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. A small twitch of your brows came and went when the familiar phantom of a smile touched your face. “Actually, yeah. That sounds nice.”
Nice.
The word landed in him with such undeserved warmth he nearly forgot to breathe.
The café was crowded, too narrow and overbright near the counter, with little tables pressed close enough that everyone became part of everyone else’s conversation. You ordered tea. Peter ordered coffee and drank half of it out of sheer determination.
You talked about class first because that was safe. Menken’s refusal to upload slides. The guy in the front row who treated lectures like a personal podcast interview. Your mutual dread of the upcoming exam.
Then, the conversation loosened.
You told him about the bookstore café and the regular who came in every Sunday to rearrange the mystery section “by vibes.” Peter told you about taking photos for the Bugle, then stumbled when you asked if he liked it.
“Sometimes,” he settled for after fumbling for his words.
“Only sometimes?”
He turned the paper sleeve around his cup. “It’s hard to like something that mostly pays you to be hated.”
You frowned and it was so genuine it made Peter feel disgusting all over again. “That sounds miserable.”
“It builds character. Probably. Or joint pain.”
You laughed, but softer this time and he looked up for it.
You were watching him with a kind of attention he hadn't expected. Not the polite attention people gave when waiting for their turn to speak. You were actually looking, as if you had noticed some seam in him and were deciding whether to touch it.
Peter felt the old panic start. The instinct to deflect. To become funny, harmless, and too quick to pin down.
Instead, he took a breath and decided for, “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”
You didn’t ask what else he was used to.
He liked you more for that.
Your first date was not officially a date until halfway through, when your knees bumped beneath the table and neither of you moved immediately.
After that, things gathered speed without feeling rushed.
A walk through campus after class. His jacket over your shoulders when the wind turned sharp, even though you protested you were fine. A late-night diner where he stole fries from your plate only after asking and still looked guilty each time. A movie at your apartment with your roommate passing through twice and giving you looks so obvious you threatened to throw a pillow at her.
Peter was almost unbearable in his thoughtfulness.
Not grand, that would have made you suspicious sooner. He didn't flood you with flowers or declarations. He learned the small things and acted on them with quiet precision. He sent you a picture of the familiar street cat when you were stuck at work. He remembered which movie sequel you thought ruined the original. He ordered your food without onions after you mentioned once that you hated the texture, then looked genuinely confused when you stared at him.
“What?” Peter asked when you stared at him so openly in surprise.
“You remembered.”
His fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Was I not supposed to?”
“No. It’s just…” You looked down, smiling despite yourself. The words came out quieter than, like they weren't for him. “Most people don’t.”
Peter smiled too, but something flickered beneath it. Not guilt, exactly. Not anything you knew how to name.
You reached for your drink and let the moment pass.
From his side, the flicker had been a wound reopening.
Most people don’t.
He should have been most people.
He should have learned you at the pace you gave yourself. Through conversations, through mistakes, through the natural awkwardness of two lives coming carefully closer. He should not have known about the onion thing because you had complained in a forgotten comment thread under a photo of takeout from last winter. He should not have known your favorite seat in the library because he had followed your location once after convincing himself it was only to make sure you got home. Peter should not have known your ex’s name, your rent split, the brand of melatonin in your bathroom cabinet because your roommate posted a mirror selfie with the bottle blurred but readable.
He was not always hacking.
That was another excuse, and he hated it because it was technically true. Most of the time, people gave themselves away without needing to be broken into. Public accounts, careless apps, tagged photos, reused usernames, browser autofill flashing in reflections, notifications blooming on lock screens. The city was full of open windows, and Peter had become very good at looking through them.
But sometimes, he did more.
The first time he accessed one of your accounts, he threw up afterward.
It was not dramatic. There was no thunder outside, no cinematic collapse. Just Peter hunched over the tiny sink in his bathroom, one hand braced against cracked porcelain, breathing through nausea while the laptop sat open in the other room.
He told himself he had only wanted to know why you had gone quiet.
That was how Peter framed it at first. You had canceled plans with a too-bright apology and then stopped answering texts for five hours. Five hours was nothing. People had lives. You had work. You had friends. You had the right to be unreachable.
His body did not understand that.
His senses had made emergencies out of smaller things. A skipped heartbeat, a distant scream, glass breaking four blocks away. Absence became data. Silence became threat. He tried cleaning. He tried going on patrol. He stopped a bike theft, webbed up a drunk man trying to punch a parking meter, helped a kid find her mother outside a pharmacy, and still your unread text sat in his head like a lit match.
So, he checked.
Not with tools he would ever have explained to you. Not in steps he let himself think about for long. A shortcut here, an old breach there, one soft digital door after another until the screen opened on enough of your life to make him feel both relieved and monstrous.
You were not ignoring him because of him.
You were in a group chat with your friend, talking about a fight with your mother. Nothing catastrophic. Nothing he needed to know. Your last message had been: I just don’t want to be a person today.
Peter read it three times.
Then he closed the laptop and hated himself with a clarity that should have changed him.
The next morning, he brought you soup from a place you liked but rarely ordered from because it was overpriced. He stood outside your building in a gray hoodie, hair damp from the rain, holding the paper bag awkwardly when you came downstairs.
“You said you didn’t feel great,” he greeted with that comfortable thread of familiar concern and composure.
You hadn't said that to him.
Not exactly.
But you were tired, and the soup was warm against your hands, and Peter looked so quietly worried that the difference dissolved before your could examine any holes in his story accurately.
“You’re kind of insane,” you scoffed, but gently when your eyes softened at him.
Peter cleared at his throat. “Bad insane?”
You looked at him for a moment. Rain gathered in the ends of his hair. A drop slipped down his temple, and he did not seem to notice.
“No,” you said after a moment, and his mind latched into that with great energy. “Good insane.”
His smile hurt to look at.
Peter stayed in your life.
That was how it felt from your side. Not that he entered suddenly, but that he remained. Peter was there in the margins of your days until the margins felt less empty. You started expecting his texts. You started saving little stories for him because you liked the way his face changed when he listened. He had a habit of going very still when you spoke, like he was afraid to miss a word.
You had dated people who made you feel edited. Too loud here, too sensitive there, too difficult when you asked for basic decency. Peter made you feel observed, and at first you mistook that for being understood.
Maybe part of it was understanding.
He didn’t push when you were quiet. He made jokes when you needed room to laugh and went serious when the joke would have landed wrong. He was late sometimes, often with flimsy excuses and a bruise hidden badly beneath his collar, but he apologized like he meant it. He washed dishes at your apartment without making a performance of helping. He made friends with your roommate by fixing the kitchen cabinet hinge and pretending it had been easy.
Still, there were moments.
A book you never remembered mentioning appearing in his backpack.
A song you had listened to alone showing up in a playlist he sent you “randomly.”
His face changing before you told him bad news, as if he had sensed it through the phone.
Once, while walking back from dinner, you stopped outside a bodega because the smell of oranges by the door reminded you of your grandmother’s house. You hadn’t said that to him yet. You had barely said it to anyone.
Peter bought two oranges without asking and handed one to you.
“You looked like you wanted one,” he had told you.
You held it in your palm, thumb brushing the textured peel. “You notice too much.”
He went quiet.
Only for a breath, but you felt it.
Then he smiled, crooked and a little sad. “Occupational hazard.”
You laughed because you thought he meant photography.
Peter loved that about you and hated himself for loving it. The way you filled in the blanks with something better than the truth.
By December, the city had gone hard with cold.
Snow came early in thin, dirty gusts that melted along curbs and froze again overnight. ESU students moved in bundled clusters across campus, hunched over coffee cups and exam notes. The bookstore café hung paper snowflakes in the window that curled at the edges from the heater. Your apartment radiator screamed every morning at six.
Peter spent more nights at your place, never officially staying over at first. He would fall asleep on the couch after a movie, wake at two, apologize, and kiss your forehead before leaving. You began telling him he could stay. He began pretending to refuse before giving in.
The first time he slept in your bed, you woke to him sitting upright in the dark.
You blinked at the shape of him, bare shoulders tense, head turned toward the window.
“Peter?”
He didn't answer immediately.
Outside, a truck rolled over a pothole and hit Peter's ear drum loudly. Somewhere down the block, glass clinked in a recycling bag. Your room was cold beyond the blanket, the air smelling faintly of your body wash and the laundry detergent your roommate bought in bulk.
“Sorry,” he rasped out finally. His voice was rough. “I heard something.”
You pushed yourself up on one elbow, still half asleep. You gave a few hard blinks to try and even out your blurry vision, your fingers moved without instruction to thee side of his bare arm. “In here?”
Peter's voice was still rough with sleep, and something else you couldn't grasp. “No. Outside.”
You listened in a pause, your fingers stilling on his forearm.
Nothing.
Peter looked embarrassed, almost boyish in the dim light. “I’m a light sleeper.”
You believed him because there was no reason not to.
You tugged gently at his wrist, your skin meeting his. An exhale escaped you as the disruption did little to drain you off your drowsiness. “Come back.”
For a second, he didn't move. Then, he let you pull him down beside you. His skin was cool where the air had touched it. You pressed your face against his shoulder and felt him go very still before he carefully settled his arm around you.
“You’re safe,” you murmured after a moments still, barely awake, because you decided it was needed.
His hand tightened once at your back and you pressed into his side deeper at the action.
The words should have comforted him.
Instead, they ruined him.
Because he knew exactly what kind of safety he had made. A curated one. A watched one. A version of closeness built from stolen context and real affection tangled so tightly he no longer knew where one ended and the other began. Peter knew the quickest route from your apartment to the hospital. He knew which neighbor left his door unlocked. He knew your roommate’s schedule, the building’s fire escape pattern, the loose latch on the roof door, and even the dead zone in the security camera by the mailboxes.
He knew too much.
You fell asleep against him after a few more breaths and smooths of his hand at your back and Peter stared into the dark until dawn diluted the room.
Later that week, you fought.
It was small at first, which immediately made it worse. He canceled on you again, this time fifteen minutes before you were supposed to meet. Something about work. Something about a last-minute assignment. The lie was poorly built because Peter was tired and bleeding under his shirt from a fight with a guy in a mechanized suit who had tried to rob an armored truck in Midtown.
You heard the strain in his voice and assumed the wrong thing.
“Do you actually want to see me tonight?” you asked into your phone and frowned so visibly you saw it in the mirror that reflected you all ready for your now cancelled evening.
Silence.
Then, “Of course I do.”
Your voice felt smaller than it was. “Because it’s fine if you don’t.”
“It’s not that—”
“You keep saying that.”
Peter closed his eyes on the rooftop where he crouched behind a water tower, one hand pressed against his ribs. His spider-sense still fizzed faintly from leftover adrenaline. Snow blew sideways across the tar paper and some of it landed cooly on his shoulders
“I’m sorry,” he only apologized after a tired noise escaped him.
You hated how sincere he sounded. It made anger harder to hold cleanly. “I’m not asking you to be available all the time. I just need you to stop disappearing and then acting like I’m supposed to understand without you telling me anything.”
Peter breathed in sharply, and for a moment you thought he might finally say something real. Instead, he said, “You’re right.”
The answer was too neat. Too controlled.
You laughed once, humorless. “That’s not a conversation, Peter.”
“I know.”
Your voice came more pointed now. “Then have one.”
He looked out over the city. A siren wailed far below. Three blocks away, someone screamed, but it was laughter. Six blocks away, not laughter. His body turned toward it before his mind caught up.
“I can’t right now,” he immediately winced at how it sounded coming out
Your voice went immediately quiet. “Okay.”
That one word did more damage than shouting would have.
Peter heard you hang up.
He should have let you be angry. He should have shown up the next day with honesty or at least enough humility to deserve your attention.
Instead, fear did what fear had been doing to him for months. It found a door and opened it.
He checked your messages again.
You were texting your friend. Not cruelly or even dramatically, but so visibly tired.
I like him, you had written. I really do. But sometimes it feels like he’s already decided what I need before I say it. I don't know how to feel about that.
Peter sat on the edge of a rooftop while snow collected in his hair and read the sentence until the screen dimmed.
It was the closest you had come to seeing him.
Not the suit. Not the powers. Him. The shape of the thing he was doing.
He wanted, suddenly and violently, to confess. To climb through your window, kneel on your worn rug, and hand you every ugly piece. To say he had been lonely in a way that made him dangerous. To say he had turned care into surveillance and called it love when he was too ashamed to name it properly. To say you could hate him if you needed to, but please, please do it with your own voice.
Then, another message appeared.
He’s also really good to me though. Like scary good. He knows me better than anyone has in a long time.
Peter’s breath caught.
The city kept moving beneath him. Traffic lights changed. Steam rose from a manhole cover. A woman tugged a child across the street by one mittened hand. Somewhere, somebody needed him.
Peter put the phone away amd he went to help.
He came to your apartment the next night with a split lip and flowers from a deli bucket, the cheap kind wrapped in crinkly plastic with one stem already bent.
You opened the door and stared at him with the expectation of clear cut annoyance but it stuttered when you saw him.
He looked awful. Pale beneath the bruising, hair flattened by weather, and eyes rimmed red from no sleep. The flowers trembled slightly in his hand.
“I’m sorry,” Peter only said what you needed to hear.
You crossed your arms, the indentation of where you bit at the inside of your cheek had his eyes fluttering across your face. “For which part?”
He flinched, and you hated that it softened you.
“For making you feel like you were asking for too much.” He swallowed then went on. “You weren’t—you aren’t. I’m bad at explaining where I go. That’s on me. Not you.”
It was not enough, everything in you knew it was not enough.
But he didn't make excuses. He did not tell you that you were overreacting. He didn't punish you for being upset. He stood there in the hallway looking like someone who expected the door to close and thought he deserved it.
You sighed, and it sounded tired all the way through. “Come in before my neighbor starts listening.”
“She already is,” Peter said before he could stop himself.
Your eyes narrowed and he blinked at his abruptness. “I mean—the door across the hall. It opened earlier.”
You glanced past him. Mrs. Alvarez’s door was indeed cracked half an inch. Despite yourself, you laughed.
Peter smiled faintly, relieved and ashamed.
The flowers went into a chipped vase on your desk. You ordered takeout and ate sitting on the floor because your small table was buried under textbooks. The apology became a conversation, halting but real enough around the edges. He told you he had trouble letting people worry about him. You told him that was not noble, just annoying. He laughed into his noodles, then winced because of his lip.
You touched his chin lightly, your face softened by several degrees and you made sure to be careful with your pressure. “Who did that?”
The reply came instantaneous. “Work thing.”
“Peter.”
He looked at you and your frown made is way back to your face, doing that horrible thing to his heart.
For one second, the room thinned around the truth. Then he exhaled, “I promise I’ll tell you someday.”
You should have pushed.
Instead, you let your thumb skim once beneath the bruise, gentler than either of you deserved.
“Someday better not be a scam,” you said and the frustration in your words were poorly hidden.
“It isn’t.” Peter meant it, which was almost worse.
By Christmas break, you were not officially in love with him.
You avoided the word because it felt too large and too easy to misuse. But you missed him when he left. You saved the corner of your blanket for him without thinking. You caught yourself looking at his hands when he talked, the long nervous fingers, the faint scars, the way he touched things carefully despite being strong enough to break them.
Peter was strange. Sweet. Frighteningly perceptive. Too private. Too self-sacrificing in ways that made you want to shake him. He apologized too much and withheld too much and kissed you like he was grateful and guilty in the same breath.
On New Year’s Eve, you took him to a party he clearly did not want to attend.
It was in someone’s too-small apartment near campus, crowded with students wearing glitter and cheap cologne, the kitchen floor sticky with spilled drinks. Music pulsed through the walls. Someone had taped tinsel around a bookshelf. Someone else had brought a dog wearing a bow tie, and the dog looked more composed than anyone else there.
Peter stood close to you without crowding, his hand resting at your lower back only when you leaned into it first. He watched the room the way he watched everything: lightly, and constantly. You saw his eyes track exits, open windows, and even drunk strangers moving too quickly.
“You okay?” you asked with a small tilt of your head.
He looked down at you, refocusing. “Yeah.”
You weren't easily convinced. “You look like you’re planning seventeen escape routes.”
“Only twelve.”
You smiled. “Progress.”
Peter leaned closer so you could hear him over the music. His voice didn't reach you louder, it came as soft as it always tried to land. “I’m not great at parties.”
“I noticed.”
“But you wanted to come.”
“I wanted you to come with me.”
That landed somewhere visible in his face. A small astonishment, gone quickly but not before you caught it.
“Well,” he paused, cleared his throat, and his voice softened, “then I’m good.”
You believed him.
At midnight, everyone shouted too early, then corrected themselves, then shouted again. The countdown dissolved into laughter. A stranger bumped your shoulder. Confetti popped weakly from a tube and scattered over the floor.
Peter kissed you at twelve.
Not like a movie. Someone’s elbow knocked his arm and you laughed into his mouth because the dog started barking. His nose was cold from where you had stood near the window. The kiss started awkward and turned warm, one of his hands lifting to your cheek, and his thumb careful near your jaw.
When he pulled back, you exhaled, “You know me so well it’s kind of unfair.”
You meant it lightly.
A little intoxicated by the room, by the year turning over, by his mouth and his attention and the fact that he had come even though crowds made him tense.
Peter went still.
Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you to feel the pause beneath your palm where your hand rested against his chest.
Then he smiled, but it took work. “Is that a complaint?”
You shook your head. “No.”
“Good.” He kissed you again before you could see his face too clearly.
Later, walking you home through streets rinsed blue-black with cold, Peter listened to your steps beside his and tried not to come apart.
You know me so well.
The words looped, soft and damning.
Snow had begun to fall again, thin flakes catching in your eyelashes. You tucked your hands into your sleeves and complained about your toes going numb. Peter offered you his gloves. You refused. He only offered again. You took one glove and made him wear the other, which was impractical and ridiculous and somehow made his chest hurt more than anything else.
At your building, you lingered beneath the awning.
You looked tired, happy, and a little wind-burned. Real in a way his stolen images of you had never been. The glow from the lobby light turned one side of your face gold.
“Do you want to come up?” you asked and you smiled up at him with an expression that did little to help his constantly spiking pulse.
He did.
God, he wanted to badly.
But Peter also knew what waited inside him if he did. The lie beneath every comfortable silence. The stolen knowledge under every thoughtful gesture. The way wanting had taught itself to wear the face of care.
“I should head home,” he forced the words out and they felt beyind wrong exiting him. Your expression shifted, just a little.
Peter felt it like a physical blow.
“Okay,” you whispered in the night air, and even you seemed surprised at how small it seemed.
He needed the clarification to stick desperately. “I had a good time.”
“Me too.”
Peter touched your hand, his own reddening fingertips grabbing your own cold ones. “Text me when you’re inside?”
You gave him a look that made him feel stupid and wanted all at once. “I’m literally going upstairs.”
“Humor me?”
“You’re ridiculous.”
The chuckle that escaped him camd freely at just how accurate you were. “Historically, yes.”
You smiled, leaned up, and kissed him once. You lingered there for a moment, suddenly turning to nervous to face him, then repeated the action once more and pulled away. “Goodnight, Peter.”
“Goodnight.”
He waited on the sidewalk until your apartment light came on.
Then he waited another minute.
Then, another.
His phone buzzed.
inside. still alive. tragically glove-deficient.
Peter laughed under his breath, alone in the snow. He typed: I’ll survive with one cold hand.
Your reply came quickly.
brave little toaster.
He stared at it until his fingers hurt from the cold. Then, the little typing bubble disappeared.
He should have gone home.
He didn't, that had become an unsavory pattern for him.
Peter climbed.
Not to your window, not this time. He told himself that mattered somehow. He went up the side of the building with practiced silence, fingers finding brick, and his shoes sticking lightly where they touched. The city dropped away beneath him in a wash of headlights and wet pavement. He reached the roof and crouched near the ledge, close enough for his senses to map your apartment in fragments.
Water running..Your shower. A cabinet opening. Your roommate not home. A towel drawer sticking. You humming the chorus of a song from the party, off-key and sleepy.
Peter closed his eyes and exhaled a cloud of air into the cold night.
The right thing was to leave.
He stayed until the shower shut off.
He stayed while you moved through your room, while fabric whispered over skin, while your phone clicked against your nightstand. He didn't look through the window, he kept his eyes on the roof gravel beneath his hands. That restraint felt obscene because he wanted credit for not doing the worst thing while doing something terrible.
His breath fogged faintly in the cold.
“I’m done,” Peter whispered out loud and the city did not answer.
“I mean it.”
He didn't really know who he was promising. You. Himself. The ghost of every person who had loved him before the world forgot how.
Below, you laughed softly at something on your phone and Peter’s head lifted before he could stop it.
That sound.
It moved through him with humiliating force. Warm, private, and entirely unguarded. He thought of you in the café, in class, in his jacket, on your floor eating noodles, under party lights with confetti caught in your hair. He thought of all the ways he had already ruined the clean thing he wanted.
Peter stood abruptly.
He crossed the roof, dropped into the alley, and landed soundlessly beside a stack of abandoned boxes dusted with snow. His ribs ached. His hand throbbed from where he had split the knuckles earlier that week. He pulled his hood up and walked away without looking back.
For almost three blocks, Peter believed he could really stop.
Upstairs, you finished drying your hair with an old towel that had gone rough from too many washes.
Your apartment was quiet except for the radiator knocking beneath the window and the muffled bass of someone’s music two floors down. The party had left glitter along your collarbone, one stubborn fleck near your wrist, and a faint headache tucked behind your eyes. Your skin still held the clean heat of the shower. You wore an oversized shirt and sleep shorts, your damp hair brushed the back of your neck as you climbed onto your bed and tucked one leg beneath you.
You checked Peter’s text again.
I’ll survive with one cold hand.
You smiled to yourself, biting lazily at the edge of your thumbnail.
Sweet, impossible Peter.
He was always saying things like that. Small things. Harmless things. Little jokes that sounded clumsy enough to be real. You liked that about him, the way he made awkwardness feel almost deliberate, the way he carried tenderness like something he had stolen and still wasn’t sure he was allowed to keep.
You set your phone down, and then after a few paused moments, you picked it back up.
For a moment, you sat still, listening.
Not to anything specific. The building settling. Pipes clicking in the walls. A car passing below, tires hissing through dirty snow. The soft ordinary life of the city stacking itself around you. You could still feel the ghost of his glove on your hand, the warmth he had given up without making it a whole noble thing.
You opened your phone again.
The screen lit your face in the dark. Peter’s last message sat at the top of your conversation, sweet and plain, but you swiped away from it and opened the app folder buried between weather, notes, and a language app you hadn't used since September.
His location refreshed after half a second.
A small blue dot moved underground, following the subway line away from your neighborhood.
You watched it for longer than you needed to.
There you go, you thought, something soft and fond turning over in your chest. Going home like he'd promised.
Your thumb hovered near the map. The little dot stuttered once, then continued. Queens-bound. Alone. Probably standing instead of sitting because he always did that, always gave up seats without looking around to see if anyone noticed.
You smiled again.
Then you opened the second page.
Recent searches loaded beneath a synced browser tab.
Your name. Your bookstore café. Your old campus volunteer archive.
Your social media username with two letters transposed from the first time he had guessed wrong.
A search about whether ESU library study rooms had exterior cameras.
Another about the laundromat near your apartment.
Another about the orange cat in the window, which made you press your lips together to keep from laughing because that one was so painfully, pathetically cute you almost wanted to forgive him on the spot.
Almost.
You scrolled slowly, thumbnail caught between your teeth.
Peter had tried to be careful. That was the adorable part. He deleted things late, never immediately. He cleared histories in batches. He used different browsers for different kinds of guilt. But he was tired too often, distracted too easily by whatever terrible, secret life kept putting bruises beneath his clothes, and sometimes he left little openings behind him.
You'd only needed one.
After a minute, you reached for your laptop in your bedside table.
The screen woke too bright in the dim room. You lowered the brightness, entered your password, and opened a folder hidden two layers beneath a boring label from last semester’s statistics course.
No full name sat at the top.
That had been one of the first strange things you had found out.
There should have been more. A student record with a clean history. Tagged photos. Old classmates. Family posts. Some trail of a boy becoming himself in public, even if it was messy, even if it was private, even if most of it had been half-abandoned and badly archived.
Instead, there were gaps.
Not empty, exactly. Emptiness had a shape. This was far stranger, a life with the identifying edges rubbed raw. Campus systems recognized him enough to place him in classrooms, but old references thinned out when you pulled too hard. Public databases returned fragments. Security logs showed a face without a stable story attached. Search results curved away from certainty.
So you had named the folder yourself.
coffee boy.
You clicked it with familiarity and the profile unfolded across the screen with neat, patient organization: screenshots, timestamps, saved browser activity, transit pings, campus camera stills, bookstore security clips, location trails, and blurry street footage collected from public-facing feeds he probably assumed no one would bother checking. There were no tidy records calling him anything with a true name. No clean archive of a life before you. No easy explanation for why the boy in your biology class seemed to appear out of nowhere with old grief in his eyes and no one behind him looking for him.
But, there were patterns.
A brown jacket crossing ESU’s north quad at 8:12 a.m.
The same jacket outside your café at 6:47 p.m., eight minutes after your shift started.
A hooded figure lingering across the street from your apartment on the night you had closed alone.
A campus camera catching him turning his head before anyone else reacted to a car backfiring near the curb.
A security feed from three weeks ago, grainy with snow and bad lighting, showing someone dropping from a brick wall into an alley with impossible ease before pulling on that same brown jacket and walking into the street with his head down.
You dragged the timeline forward a few seconds.
There.
His face turned toward the camera.
Half-shadowed. Bruised. Undeniably him.
Your room reflected faintly in the laptop screen. You didn't look frightened in the reflection.
You looked tired. Curious, almost fond.
Because really, what were you supposed to do with him?
Poor Peter, watching you from corners and rooftops and café tables, thinking his wanting made him monstrous because he had not yet understood that wanting was only ugly when it lacked imagination. He had searched your name like a confession. He had tracked your schedule like a prayer. He had learned your tea order, your walk home, even the little pauses in your texts.
He knew you so well.
It was sweet.
Not good, not harmless.
But sweet, in that sad, crooked way he was sweet when he brought soup and pretended it had been a normal thing to do.
Your phone buzzed.
Peter: Sleep well.
You glanced at it, and your smile came slowly, private enough that no one else would have known what to call it.
For a few seconds, you only sat there in the blue-white wash of the screen, hair damp against your shirt, thumbnail resting between your teeth.
Then, you looked back at the laptop.
His location dot kept moving. His searches waited beneath your cursor. And the paused footage held his face in the alley, caught between who he pretended to be and whatever he became when no one was meant to see remained awaiting you.
have you ever tried this one? | 0.4k - @sluvaffair
hurts, but i know how to hide it. kinda like it | 5.3k - @uhhhj13iguess (neighbors, spider-like descriptors, lowkey scary, dubcon bc he's not in a clear state of mind)
brand new spidey | 2.8k - @sluvaffair
inhibitor off | 0.4k - @makeyoumine69
sensory overload | 0.4k - @cherrywineisawaltz
mask on, fuck it, mask of | 8.4k - @dearwalker (sex pollen)
✩ general smut ✩
peter cumming in his pants when you sit on his face! | 0.5k - @nobodys-s0n
down bad! peter parker who fucks like he’s mindless! | 0.7k - @nobodys-s0n
headlock | 0.3k - @carmysdoll (biceps good lord)
cumming in his pants while making out | 0.5k - @drvnkinlov
STICKY….. peter finds some solace in his neighbour | 0.4k - @herodrip (touch starved!peter & overstimulation)
small vivid memories | 1.1k - @snowynns (filming sex)
peter fucking his college gf with the mask on! | 0.4k - @glossiercheek
every day of the week | 0.8k - @pittsick
buntanteen note: peter parker, how i've missed you…i wanted to dip back into the peter parker x reader tag after years and it did not disappoint. hilariously, this account started because i wanted to read spider-man fanfiction, so this is quite full circle.
anyways, i'm just a lil kpop account now, so please don’t expect any more mcu related stuff in the future. if you enjoyed these works, please give the authors some love!! <3
★ 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
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.
