✩ hi, i’m ely. my pronouns are she/her, i’m bisexual, and i’m definitely one of those people who asks what your sign is a few minutes into speaking for the first time.
✩ this account is a lover of all things horror & joe keery. you’ll probably see a lot of those two Universe’s here.
peter parker x reader | spider-man x reader | fwb | smut | fluff | happy ending
warnings: porn with little plot... but there's some plot, fwb spider-man, fingering, no protection, lots of kissing the mask... and making out, spit, creampie.... heh, post-brand new day. awkward peter, shy reader a little too... hehee SLIGHT spoilers but honestly nothing that would ruin the movie i don't think..
words: 5k
summary: you don't know your fwb spider-man, is your upstairs neighbor, peter parker
a/n: okay, so one thing: i don't know if spider-mans gloves are seperate from his suit but in this fic it's gonna be that way for purposes. thank you maya as always for stringing ideas together for this fic. i couldn't make it angsty im sorry everyone... peter has been through ENAWF
credit: sssilverblessings for the spider-man divider i found the ribbon divider on the interwebs (ha) if anyone knows who made lmk so i can give proper credit!!
In most cases, hearing a thump on your window and it sliding open should concern you, being that you live in New York City. Security isn't your landlord's biggest concern, and with the world you live in it could be anything from a burglar to some grotesque alien that wants to rule the universe and all its galaxies.
But tonight, it's the familiar arachnid superhero slipping through casually— wearing his red and blue suit. You watch as he slides the window shut, turning around to look at you while you sit on your couch watching a movie on your laptop because you lost your remote to the TV days ago and couldn't be bothered to look for it.
You can't see his face— the one rule: mask always stays on. But from the way his shoulders slouch and the muscles through his suit stay tense, you can tell he's had another stressful day.
Spider-Man and you have a very transactional relationship— if you would even call it that. One might call it friends with benefits, but you don't think either of you would consider yourselves friends. You two met by accident. He climbed through your window one night and passed out from exertion and wounds, or maybe he finally gave himself the time to rest. So you handed him a bottle of beer and the two of you sat on your balcony and stared at the wonderful view of the office building next to your apartment. You couldn't help but stare at his reflection in the glass.
You had no idea that Spider-Man— Peter Parker— lived above you and had been so exhausted he climbed through the wrong window. He wouldn't tell you that, of course, but he also didn't mind the company. Ever since reconnecting with MJ and Ned, there was still a piece of him that knew they were all different now. Peter never got to grow up with them. He wasn't there for their first college party or even when Ned got a stick-and-poke despite being afraid of needles. A part of Peter wondered who he'd be if he had told MJ the truth when he wanted to. Maybe he'd be less afraid and lonely now. Hell, maybe he'd have some cheap tattoo he could call a drunken mistake— if his abilities didn't make it nearly impossible for him to get drunk.
The superhero was a great listener. He always sat and nodded along, or gave his own two cents when you complained about work or friends or family. Occasionally, he told stories about his aunt, but there was always a particular tone in his voice that made clear he didn't want you asking further questions.
Neither of you quite knew how it began. You knew it happened the second time he paid a visit, when touches became more prevalent. Maybe it's because when one lonely person meets another lonely person, sometimes there are no words for that loneliness— only a kiss. Spider-Man had his mask lifted above his lips, taking a sip of his beer, when you cupped his face and kissed him. He didn't stop you. The two of you stumbled back into your apartment and ended up face down, the mask laying right next to you while he took care of you both. You were so lost in it that you tried to look back at him, but he gently pushed your head back into the pillow without a word.
It happened over and over for about three months now. It doesn't shock you that he's here tonight. You close your laptop and sit up, looking him up and down. He makes his way to your kitchen— right there in the living room space— opens your refrigerator, and takes out two beers, easily popping the caps off both. Without saying anything he walks over to the couch and you lift your legs for him to sit, dropping them into his lap as he simultaneously hands you a beer.
You watch closely as he lifts the mask up— a little higher than usual. This time the point of his nose is exposed and his cheeks. Your eyes fall on his neck and the brown hair peeking from under the mask, curling slightly where it hugs his skin. He always looks more and more familiar, but you brush it off. You only think that because he's been over so much.
His skin is decorated in bruises, his upper lip split open. You sigh, lean forward, and tilt his chin so he's facing you. "What did you get into this time?" you tease lightly.
A small smile tugs at his lips, and recently, whenever he does that, you can't help but wonder if it reaches his eyes. You also wonder what his eyes look like. You tried asking him once what color they were, but he never answered. He shrugs, taking another sip of beer. "Nothing I couldn't handle."
"Right," you draw out, unconvinced. "That's why you keep flinching every time you move your right side?"
As if on cue he snorts, his hand shooting to grab at his side. "Ah, you know… it'll heal in no time."
You look at him again, into the goggles of his mask, feeling his eyes looking right back. Sometimes you wish you knew his name just so you could use it for moments like this. "I could always take a look?" you suggest softly. Another thing you've noticed recently— even after months of hooking up, you've started getting shy with him.
You were in no way a doctor or even a nurse. You had no paramedic experience, and sometimes when you nicked yourself with a knife you barely did anything about it. And to be fair, both of you knew there was no other reason you had him strip the suit so it pooled at his waist than to sit in his lap and trace the different cuts and bruises painted across his fair skin. Your fingers run down his stomach, feeling him flex under your soft touch. They graze upward, circling a bruise right on his rib.
Sometimes he'll tell you the play-by-play, guessing exactly when he got punched or kicked or thrown against a wall. But this time he just watches you closely, his breath hitching— either from pain or desire, and maybe with you there isn't much difference.
You lean down and press a soft kiss to the bruise, the tip of your tongue circling. You smile against his skin when you feel him shift beneath you. You move up to his chest, taking in the old and new purples and blues speckled across it. You reward his nobility with open-mouthed kisses, eyes looking up at him through your lashes. The white goggles shift slightly, like he's pointedly looking at you underneath the mask. Heat travels through you, and you feel the ache between your legs, lightly grinding against his lap.
Your mouth finds his pec and your tongue swirls around his nipple, teeth grazing it. You finally receive a hiss from him, his head tipping back, his hands flying to your hips for support. You feel the heat of him underneath you, pressing against the fabric of his suit and briefs. Your fingers brush the larger bruise on his right side and he winces. None of that stops him from helping strip off your hoodie, or from the way he still stares at your chest like it's the first time he's seen your tits. His large palms— still gloved— cup your breasts, and you've never been more grateful for opting out of a bra that evening. His thumbs roll over your hardened nipples, sending a current of pleasure through your nerves, a small whimper falling from your lips. The fabric is soft, but the texture of the webs adds an extra sensation. You roll your hips and grip his waist.
"I thought about you all day," Spider-Man admits, helping push down your sleep shorts.
You look at him with a blank stare, blinking, mouth parted, ready to ask a million questions— all of which are quickly replaced with a gasp as he slips two fingers into your mouth. "Suck, please."
He gives his light chuckle when you bite down on the fabric, dragging it off. His mask is back down but you can make out the smirk as the glove dangles from your mouth. You let it go, hearing the soft plop when it hits the floor. Spider-Man then offers his other hand and you do the same thing, biting the glove off, watching it roll down his arm. The muscles in his biceps and forearms stretch the material as he flexes, a soft groan from his lips the moment your mouth wraps around his fingers once the other glove hits the ground.
Your tongue swirls and your cheeks hollow as you suck on his fingers. Your eyes stay focused on the white part of his goggles, trying to see through the mesh— hoping for even just a glimmer. You hear his breathless grunts as you start to rock yourself, your wet panties dragging over him. The crotch of his suit is surely soaked by now, and most of the time he's particular about keeping it clean. But this time he looks down and comments on how wet you are. How hot you are. Your pussy drenching his suit while he fucks his fingers into your mouth— squelching smacks filling the room— his entire torso bare, wearing nothing but his mask. Drool gathers at the corners of your mouth as your spit runs down his fingers and hand. His wrist drips with your saliva as you take them deeper, letting yourself gag on his digits.
Spider-Man retracts his fingers and you chase after them— needy and high on him. He's already onto the next thing, slipping his fingers under the fabric of your panties, teasing.
"You feel so good… already so wet. It's like you're ready for me." He glides his middle finger right between your folds, barely grazing your clit, and it makes you roll your hips— aching for him. "How bad do you want it?"
You let out a whimper, trying to grind on his hand, but the grip on your hip holds you in place.
"Tell me," he commands gently.
That was the funny thing about Spider-Man— he really did live up to the friendly neighborhood title. He always told you what to do, but there was always an endearing politeness behind it. Please. Can you? His tone kind and soft. You might take it as a lack of confidence in what he's doing, but it was the opposite. Somehow it worked with him. He made it sexy.
"Really bad, Spidey," you say.
His fingers are already inside you by the time you finish your sentence. A sharp, whiny breath escapes and your hands fly to his biceps for support as he thrusts his fingers inside you. He leans forward and his mouth is on your neck, still covered by the mask. But you can feel his hot breath and the sounds of his lips kissing your skin through the fabric. At one point you even feel the small pinch of teeth poking through, grazing your pulse point.
Spider-Man curls his fingers and you push him back against the couch, your grip on his biceps concerningly tight, nails digging into his skin. You hear him wince but your mouth falls on his throat, sucking and kissing any part not covered by the mask. You feel his Adam's apple bob, and the sound at the back of his throat makes you wetter, clenching around his fingers.
You pant into his neck as he pulls an orgasm out of you. Your eyes struggle to stay open as your vision blurs while you ride his hand, his thumb pressing on your clit. He's breathing heavily too, your chest flush against his as he works you through another wave of electricity. "That… I think that was a new record," he mumbles.
You laugh— if you would call it that. It's mostly a choked scoff. "You're timing my orgasms?"
You can practically hear and see the blush creeping up his face even under the mask. He starts slipping his hand under the waistband of his black briefs, pulling himself out with the hand that had been inside you. You suspect it's to distract you from your question. It works.
It's rare you actually get to see his cock fully like this. Most of your hookups are quick and rushed— foreplay not really a feature. The whole secret identity thing makes it hard to experience everything. But you've always been okay with it because he consistently brings you over the edge. He has a sixth sense for pleasure and orgasms. He always knows it's about to happen before you can tell yourself.
You two are already pushing many boundaries tonight. Him letting you see more than usual, being dangerously close to slipping the mask off completely. And Peter Parker would never tell you this, but if you ever asked him to take it off— he would. He trusted you. Maybe even more than he trusted himself.
You want to press your thighs together at the sight of his cock, slick with precum, his thumb running over another bead as he pumps himself. Schlick. Schlick. Schlick. He spreads your arousal all over his cock, making it shinier, wetter. You knew he was big from how he felt inside you, but seeing it is a whole new awakening— your eyes going wide from the confounded realization that he's ever been able to fit inside you.
You knew you needed him. Like it was in your DNA. Like something in you was made specifically for him— to want him, to ache for him. Even with these walls and him hiding behind the mask, you knew whoever was underneath it. Even without knowing his name.
You're about to climb off his lap and get on all fours like you normally do, but Spider-Man's hand stays on your hip, making no motion to move. You let out a shaky breath, your hands squeezing his shoulders.
"Condom?" he asks, his free hand roaming your skin again. He squeezes your ass before slipping his fingers under the waistband of your panties, teasing, running his finger along the band. He always tries to take them off carefully. But a hungry man with super strength sometimes results in ripped lingerie. Or blouses. Once, your favorite jeans— and every time it happens, you come home to a package webbed to your window.
You let out a defeated sigh, laughing incredulously, your forehead falling on his shoulder. "They're all the way in my room…" you trail off, kissing his collarbone. You have no intention of getting up, and from his grip on your hip and the way he's groaning into your neck, he has no intention of moving either. "I'm on the pill," you mutter, and you know he hears you because he takes a moment to absorb it.
"Y-you sure?" His voice goes higher and it only makes you more curious about who he is. How can someone with such great power be so soft and careful?
You nod, leaning back to look at him. "Yeah… unless you have like superhuman sperm or something."
You remember the first time you hooked up, when you asked if he came webs, and he quickly assured you he didn't. But that didn't mean things couldn't be different or unusual.
He opens his mouth, goggle eyes widening at the remark. He shakes his head. "No! No… it's totally normal. At least I think so… I mean when I'm alone it's normal and—"
You grab him by the face and kiss him through the mask. "You gonna fuck me or not, Spider-Man?"
It's like the boy morphs into someone different. He's broader, his motions led with more purpose. He guides you up, hovering over his cock. A light chuckle leaves his lips as he gives your pussy a few light taps, then teases your clit. The two of you letting out a sound in unison as he enters you, stretching you open.
"It's okay. I've got you…" he whispers assuringly, rubbing circles on your hip. "You're doing so good." He praises you— or maybe your cunt, for taking him almost all the way. More. More. And more. He finally bottoms out and you waste no time starting to move.
You can feel all of him in a way you've never been able to before. Every single previous time, you'd been bent over so you couldn't see his face.
But there's a different kind of bareness between you tonight. Feeling the veins of his cock inside you, feeling his tip brush nerves this new angle offers. You're in blissful ecstasy, each thrust pulling wanton moans from your lips. You rock back and forth. His hand slips to your lower back, splaying wide, pushing you closer. His fingers grip the skin there and it's sure to leave a mark with how lost in you he seems.
You lift yourself nearly all the way off him, the chill of the air against your wet cunt, and Spider-Man pulls you back down, both of you crying out. He grows more relentless, no longer letting you take the lead. With one hand he lifts you and brings you back down, over and over. The wet, sticky slaps of your skin meeting, the damp thatch of pubic hair brushing your clit. You're already fucked stupid enough that you collapse your bare chest against his, wrapping your arms around him. You clutch the back of his mask, feeling strands of hair through the mesh, tugging lightly.
You hear his moan and it only encourages you to grip the hair at the nape of his neck peeking from under the mask. It's damp with sweat, but you still run your fingers through it and pull. He thrusts harder and faster, panting into your neck, his grip on your back tightening. Spider-Man moves his hand up into your own hair. He doesn't pull it, but he digs his fingers into your scalp. "You always make me feel so good," he whispers in your ear. "You're so beautiful, you know that?" He kisses your cheek— again, through the mask.
Your body responds in a multitude of ways. Your pussy tightens around him, your legs want to close, and he pushes them back apart. The pit of your stomach fizzing, ready to pop. And now your heart flips, butterflies spreading through you, and if you knew his real name you'd probably moan it loud and clear so he'd know he was yours and you were his.
All you can do is kiss him through the mask, the mesh rubbing against your lips as you tilt your head. He kisses you back and you have no idea how it's working, but the two of you are in sync—your tongues pressing through the fabric, running against one another.
Spider-Man's hands roam your back, squeezing everywhere, occasionally moving you up and down in rhythm with his thrusts. You need more. You kiss down his jawline, his throat, down to the seam of the mask. You bite down, dragging it up with your teeth, using your hands to roll it above his lips. Your palms on either side of his face, you look into the goggles intently, trying to see anything.
He's the one who hungrily pulls you into a kiss. Already open-mouthed and desperate. He's relentless as he fucks you and licks into your mouth. His hand moves back into your hair, the other squeezing your hip. You nip his bottom lip and he sucks on it, letting it go with a pop. He kisses and sucks and nips your neck, leaving small marks. His mouth finds your tits and it feels like worship—like he's denied himself this for too long and is making every second count. Saliva runs down your sternum, a string of spit stretching from his lips to your nipple before he comes back and kisses you again.
"I'm… shit—I'm so close, baby," he mutters into your mouth.
You rarely hear him swear. But you've never heard him call you baby before. You push his shoulders back so his head hits the back of the couch. His pink lips shiny and swollen, parted slightly as he watches you roll your hips and bounce on his cock. He reaches down and starts rubbing your clit with his thumb, his smile widening because he can already tell. "Come on, give it to me," he says, tilting his head, biting his lip, voice low and pleading. "Please cum for me baby, please."
Your pussy flutters, the feeling in your stomach popping open, and you cum— gasping, high-pitched, gripping his shoulders.
Almost immediately after, he follows, moaning your name. The veins in his neck standing out, sweat running down his chest. The muscles across his body flex as he releases inside you, hot and thick and a lot of it. You feel it dripping from your pussy onto his cock. Your body involuntarily locks your hips, rolling, soaking in it, as Spider-Man gives you a few lazy thrusts like he wants it inside you as badly as you do.
The two of you stay in silence, taking in each other's heavy breathing. Your hands rest on his chest, thumbs moving back and forth while he absentmindedly runs a hand up and down your hip and waist. You both laugh softly as you slip off him, still sitting in his lap.
Spider-Man brushes his knuckles against your cheek and you melt into the touch. "You're amazing, you know that, right?" you say to him. And you hope he knows you're not just talking about sex. You hope he knows— mask or no mask— he's a good guy.
He doesn't respond. But he doesn't push you away either. You turn your attention back to his right side, changing the subject. "How does it feel?"
He chuckles awkwardly. "Never better."
You swallow and look at him, the high of arousal fading, more sober thoughts settling in. You look down, then back up. "If we knew each other in real life, would we be doing this?"
His goggle eyes narrow like he's thinking. "Is this not real life?"
"No— I mean yes. I meant… would the guy behind the mask be doing this— never mind, I'm sorry. I know you have to keep the secret identity and I'm not supposed to ask questions… but can you blame me for being a little curious?"
He looks at you a moment. You wish you could see his eyes. His lip tugs up briefly. "Do you want to know?"
You furrow your brows. "Know what?"
"Who I am," he says. Casually.
You freeze. You're not sure if it's a test, because of course you want to know. You've wanted to know since the second he climbed through your window the first time. Spider-Man slowly takes your hands and places them on the mask, then lets go, setting them back on your thighs. "It's your call," he says.
Every time Peter has been found out by people important to him, it was always an accident. Always walked in on, or caught on surveillance, or guessed. But with you— not only could he trust you, it was through his own choice that made it mean something. He wanted you to know Peter Parker as much as you knew Spider-Man.
So he feels a small pang of disappointment when you slowly roll the mask back over his mouth. He assumes you never want to know— that you only want him as Spider-Man. But then he sees the playful smile on your face and his stomach flips the way it does when he's swinging between buildings.
You tilt your head, eyes gleaming. "How about this? If I meet you— like on the street, or at the market, or the subway— well, I guess maybe not the subway since you can swing around the city… whatever, not important. If I meet you, you have to ask me on a date. And if I think it's you, I'll say yes."
Spider-Man laughs. Your face doesn't change. You're looking at him with complete seriousness. And it's funnier to him because you two are much closer than you think. When he does see you in the building, he goes the other way— for exactly this reason, that you might recognize him. "And what if some random person asks you on a date and it's not me and you think it is them?"
He didn't know someone's smile could get bigger.
"Believe me. I'll know when it's you," you say confidently.
"But what if you don't?" he presses.
You kiss his cheek and whisper in his ear, "Trust me. I'll know."
You sigh heavily as you step out of the elevator onto the top floor of your apartment building. Your upstairs neighbor's mail found its way into your box again. Like all the times before, you head up to his apartment and leave it outside his door. You don't know anything about him, only that he lives above you and seems like a recluse.
He's also loud— thumping around at night and during the day. It doesn't bother you that much. You've started using it as background noise on your most irritable evenings. He probably doesn't even realize it.
You look around at the clutter on the floor, almost certainly from your landlord. You grimace at the spiderweb in the corner of the doorframe, a large brown spider resting there like it owns the place.
You shake your head and go to set the mail in the usual spot. The door swings open.
You jump back, eyes wide, looking up at the figure in front of you. "I'm so sorry!" The inside of his apartment is dim and it takes a few seconds for your eyes to adjust.
Your mouth falls open when you see him clearly. He's wearing an NYU hoodie and jeans, and even through them you can make out the muscles in his broad shoulders and thighs. Your eyes trail up to his chin, where a yellow bruise has settled. You glance up to his eyes— worried he can see you gawking— and nearly melt. They're brown, but right around the pupil the irises look almost amber. There's a butterfly band-aid on his eyebrow. His brown hair is mussed, curling at the ends.
"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," he says softly, with a slight panic behind it— like he was the one in the wrong.
Your body reacts immediately, your brain working overtime at the sound of his voice. The gentleness of it, so distinct. Your heart starts thudding against your chest. "No— I mean… mail," you stutter, and sigh at your own nervousness. You shoot your hand out, holding the envelopes toward him. You look at him, then at your hand, then at the wall.
Peter looks at you endearingly. And in his own particular awkwardness, he stares at you while you stare at the wall, still holding the mail. It isn't until your eyes dart back to him and you clear your throat, motioning toward the envelopes, that it registers. "Oh! Yeah… thanks," he says. He takes the mail and your breath hitches when his fingers graze yours.
Another beat of silence. You standing there not entirely looking at him and him rocking back and forth on his heels, probably looking at you too long. "Right… I should go." You point back with your thumb.
"Oh, yeah, of course. Thanks for uh… the mail." He scratches the back of his neck. His hoodie rides up slightly, and underneath it he isn't wearing a shirt. A sliver of his stomach shows— his bellybutton, and a faint bruise on his right side. Your eyes flick to his. Your throat goes dry.
It would be insane to think that all this time—
Your gaze falls slowly to his lips, and you realize you've been avoiding looking at them until now.
You were being delusional. There was no way.
"Uh… hey." His voice cracks.
"Yes?" you ask, a little too eagerly.
His mouth opens and closes a few times, nervous sounds that aren't quite words falling out. He finally sighs. "I really like your shoes."
Your face falls. Right. Silly to think it was him. You give him a half-hearted smile, nod, turn away, and walk back toward the elevator. You feel lucky you don't have to wait long for it to ding, the doors sliding open for you.
It's been a week since you last saw Spider-Man anyway. Maybe you scared him off with the whole date thing. Or maybe he didn't want you to know who he was. Or—
"Wait!"
The elevator doors stop closing, sliding back open. Peter Parker stands there, eyes dancing frantically, chest heaving in a way that has nothing to do with sprinting down the hall. Both hands grip the sides of the elevator doors and he looks at you with purpose.
Then, softly, he says your name. "I know you don't know me… but I kind of know you. Not in a weird way. I just see you around the building. Not because I'm stalking you or anything like—I just wanted to know if you'd like to go out sometime? Like… like a date, you know?"
The more he rambles, the more your lips curl. You're not even sure you hear all of it properly, too caught up watching his eyes dart nervously everywhere.
You giggle.
"Yeah. I'd like that, Peter." His name sounds foreign but like it was made for you to say it.
Peter's entire body relaxes. Even as the elevator starts buzzing from the doors being held open too long, he has a dopey smile on his face and looks two seconds away from pumping his fist in the air. Maybe once the doors close he'll actually do a celebratory backflip.
"Cool. Yeah, cool. How's tomorrow night at seven?" He steps back so the doors can close again.
"Sounds great," you answer. "I'll leave the window open."
His eyes soften, and he grins wider, something warm and private moving across his face— like a secret finally finding its way home.
As the doors slide shut between you, Peter waves shyly, and you wave back. The last thing you see is your reflection in the steel, smiling. At nothing and everything all at once.
