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warnings: oral sex (fem receiving). fingering with the suit on. dirty talk. flirting. light arguing. technically a pt 2 to this but can read as a standalone. not proof read.
“This is—”
“I’m sorry—I’m sorry!” Peter’s apologetic tone does little to outweigh your frustration, rooftop asphalt shifting under your wavering heel, gown balled into wound fists at your waist, keeping the delicate material from snagging on any stray metal.
“I’m at work—I’m doing important stuff—”
“I understand that—” you moan at his diligence in rapidly attempting to calm you, seating yourself on an AC vent with a disgruntled huff. The curls from your meticulously crafted updo stray more after an impromptu swing with Spider-Man, falling in your face as you squint at the irritating strap of your heel. Peter lingers idly, taking a brave step toward you after yet another huff when your fingers slip off the tiny doll-like clasp, “Uh, here, let me help.”
“I can take off my own shoe—thank you very much, Spider-Man,” you grumble, eyes shooting up to watch the way he backs off almost instantly, masked head hanging in an understanding nod. You focus on the small clasp of one ankle, moving to the next once the shoe is finally discarded on the roof.
“I, uh, hear clasps can be tricky,” Peter tries to note, your spiteful chuckle making him shrivel back.
“Oh, have you spent a lot of time wearing heels since the last time I saw you?”
“Don’t really have the legs for it—sorry—” he apologizes under your scrutinizing gaze, pretty painted lips pulled into an unmistakably irritated grimace. “I’m sorry, serious time, I know,” you sigh, finally ridding yourself of the other shoe, heels toppled over one another at your side. Your ex-boyfriend stares at your sleek dress, fabric draping over your figure beautifully under the moonlight, a white looming glow masking your figure like some kind of angel. It makes him swallow, “You look nice. Pretty—beautiful. I mean, not ‘pretty beautiful’, like pretty and beautiful.”
“Peter,” you exhale, sparing him a less irritated glance at the anxious praise. “What am I doing here?”
“I swear I’ll take you back—I just needed a minute—”
“So far it’s a bit more than a minute, my dates probably wondering where I am—”
“Date? You have a date?” you ignore the way he dissolves, the thought of someone else having you on their arm making him fall flat, white glaring eyes staring back at you with a surprising amount of contempt for an expressionless mask.
“Yes, Peter, I have a date, it’s a gala,” your gaze lifts up to the evening sky, stars speckled above, smudged into small clusters from the light pollution that swallows the city.
“I know that,” he replies indignantly, arms swinging at his sides. “Who is it?”
“Peter.”
“Someone I know?” he immediately starts in, head tilting to the side, the eyes of his mark honing in on you in a slim squint, “Can’t be someone you work with—unless you’re suddenly open to dating someone you work with—is it someone you work with?”
“Are you seriously doing this right now?” you scoff, gesturing to the secluded rooftop at least four blocks from the event that had previously occupied your evening.
“Is he taller than me?” you glare, watching Peter shake his head, as if rejecting the ungiven answer, like he knows he won’t like it. “No, no, sorry, sidetracked. I did bring you up here for a good reason, I swear.”
You watch him reach somewhere into his suit, browns furrowed when he pulled a small wire from some secret unknown compartment in his suit. You were grossly aware that the suit had no pockets—it had never occurred to you until now to ask where he carried certain things, but you were definitely not about to ask now.
You frowned at the small device hanging from the end of a frayed wire, taking it into your own hands as he offered it to you, “What is it?”
“I found it in our—your apartment,” your eyes flitted over his masked face, nose scrunching up as you processed his words.
“What were you doing at my apartment?”
“I was looking for you—you know you could have mentioned your ‘important plans’ was the mayor's ball,” he sighed as you spared him another unfriendly glance, the idea that some information on your life was no longer his business making him concede, even if he didn’t like it, “My system tagged it. An anomaly in the usual frequencies of the area.”
“How convenient." You tossed the device on the distant asphalt, standing upright to hold your dress at your hips, bare feet uncomfortably braced on the shifting material, “Are we done now?”
“This is serious, someone knows where you live, you can’t stay there.”
“Fine. I’ll figure it out,” you replied indignantly, moving to brush past him, not making it very far before his gloved hand wrapped around your upper arm. His hold was gentle, unyielding, but he had used a far tighter grip in the past. You attempted to shrug him off at the distant memory, sighing deeply when he refused to release you.
“Would you stop being so stubborn?” he loomed over you, masked chin tilted down to peer over your unheeled height, shrinking back down to the usual distance you held.
“Coming from the guy who relies on evasiveness—no, I won’t,” you yanked your arm from his hold, which this time he allowed. His fingers fell from the cusp of your arm back against his thigh which was remarkably thick in the sleek material of his suit. It looked new, not so worn at the joints, certain highpoints glimmering in the moonlight, like the wide swell of his bicep and the broad stretch of his shoulders.
The whites of the mask were unnervingly focused on your face, the steady rise and fall of his chest in the short silence making you shift uncomfortably. Noting as you glared off the edge of the seven story building that you would likely have to ask for a swing back to the gala, not willing to make the several block trek—with no heels nonetheless—a prospect he considered, you were sure.
“Did I do something?” His tone is accusing despite the nature of the question, hands gesturing between the not-so-far distance between your bodies, “To make you upset, did I do something that I’m just not remembering—because it feels like you’re mad at me.”
“Other than swinging me onto this roof?” you waved your arms out to emphasize the vacant roof, dress falling from your fingers to drape along the tops of your feet.
“Feels a bit disproportionate for that to be the only reason,” you scoffed, the cool evening breeze blowing fallen curls against your hot collar. “And you’ve been avoiding me.”
Your face fell, tone defensively pitching, “I’ve been working—”
“Is it because you had sex with me?” your face turns at the bluntness of his inquiry, the tilt of his webbed mask in your peripheral making you bite your tongue to keep yourself from scrounging up faulty excuses that he would undoubtedly see past. Folding your arms in front of your chest it's almost as though you can hear the lilt in his voice, picturing the tug pulling at the corners of his lips as he surveyed your wilting composure, “Or maybe…it’s how it made you feel. That’s why you’re mad.”
“I didn’t feel anything.”
Your annoyance seeps to coat the blatant lie. Your words hold no conviction despite the aggressive tone you take, hoping it’ll drive your point forward, like some insolent child. It doesn’t. You hate how his head tilts, disbelief drawn from the visible state of his body language, he couldn’t even pretend to believe you.
“Considering how I had you after the fact, I'm pretty certain that’s a lie,” you can see the way his eyes darted over your frame, white lenses pinching in to mock you. “Still sore?”
“You’re not funny,” you mutter, irritated that he found such amusement in this interaction.
“I’m a little funny,” he argued. You could hear the boyish grin he always sported with you in his voice. His posture straightened a bit after your lingering silence—a blatant tell that you wouldn’t join in your own teasing, “You could’ve asked me to be your date, you know.”
“Right, cause that’s just what we need. A night of more confusion.”
“Why not?” you sigh, brushing a stray piece of hair from your shoulder as you hold yourself on the windy rooftop. “You really do look beautiful.”
The genuineness of his voice made your stomach churn, his visors never leaving you as you shook your head.
“I have to go,” you turned around hastily, beelining for the distant rooftop door that surely led to a stairwell you could escape down.
“Wait—just hang on a second,” Peter pleaded, the sound of his own feet scuffling on the rooftop gravel making you walk faster.
“There’s a dozen people waiting for me to—oh!” a quick thwip cut your words off, your breathe whirling from your lungs as a sharp tug pulled at the waist of your dress, twirling you back until you collided with Peter’s hard chest. Your breathes fanned over the unmoving mask looming over your startled expression, hands wound into the ribbed material of his suit, “Peter.”
“Yeah?” he breathed, hands securely wrapped around your waist, fingers delving into the soft ripples of the expensive fabric of your gown.
“You’re getting web fluid all over my dress.”
Peter’s shoulders shrugged, uncaring as his visors flitted down the tight bodice of your dress, “It’ll come off.”
You cry out on the vacant city rooftop as Peter’s tongue swipes back and forth against your aching clit, head tucked under the mounds of fabric of your dress pooled at your hips, thighs propped onto that same ventilation system you had torn your heels off on before. The discomfort of his knees on the asphalt hardly crosses your mind at the feeling of his masked nose, fabric only tucked up just enough for his skilled mouth to be free, rubs against your wiry pubes, coated in the messy slick that sticks against your parted thighs. Your chest heaved as his lips suckled on your sensitive clit, tightly restricted in the corset bodice that had been too strenuous for Peter to remove—not that he hadn’t tried, but you reminded him the gown was a rental and under no circumstance could you afford for him to tear into the measly fabric.
“Oh—god, yes,” you chant, hands pushing back against the mask to shove his face further into your cunt, a muffled groan vibrating against your clit as he flattened his tongue, gloved fingers messily spreading your arousal before sinking one webbed finger into your heat. The rough drag of the material makes your body writhe and arch, his other palm pressed securely to the bundle of fabric above your cunt, pushing your hips back down with quick force to keep you where he could continue his assault on your weeping cunt.
“Missed this,” he mutters to himself, a wet smacking kiss placed on your clit, hips stuttering up into his mouth as he pushed two fingers into your waiting hole, “Think my girl still has some trick, hm?”
Your ankles arch against his clothed back, thighs seated on either shoulder, masked by darkness on the empty rooftop, pleasure too blinding to care for any of the buildings surrounding you managing to catch Spider-Man's gloved fingers fucking into you. Your puffy clit secures all the reactions he’s searching for, stalky bicep disappearing to curl his fingers into your clenching cunt to feel that familiar tug of you trying to suck him back in. He buries himself to the knuckle, suit material making your cunt feel raw and sensitive as it drags along your insides, massaging that spongy spot that has your thighs tightening around Peter’s head.
A sharp moan rattles through your chest, Peter's flushed face coming up from between your thighs, cheek mushed up against your inner thigh as his palm smacks your clit with each sheathe of his fingers inside of you, “That’s it, you know what I want, come on,” he spurs, teeth bared to nip the expanse of your trembling thigh, your wrecked moans coming out shaky and ragged as you attempt to push him away, crying out through the overstimulation of his fingers relentlessly sinking in and out of your messy cunt. Your pleas become pitchy and desperate, knees knocking together behind Peter’s head, his outstretched palm keeping you spread open, before a familiar mindnumbing pleasure blankets your body with a quivering moan. Your hips kick up as you spray down Peter’s forearm, kicking up when he curls his fingers once more before placing a loving kiss on your fucked out cunt, “How longs it been since you did that?”
“Shut up,” you gasp, legs like jelly as he shrugs your thighs off, wet fingers wrapping around your ankle. You blink back the image of him holding up one of your heels.
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warnings: p in v sex. ex!reader. dirty talk. flirting. was initially wrote with bnd!peter in mind but fits insomniac better.
“Well this is,” the cluttered disarray of the dingy small apartment filled your sight beyond the door, hinges screeching to a close as you stepped inside on the uneven floorboards. “Cozy.”
You had never known Peter to be particularly neat, when you had dated his work spaces always including a wide variety of unimaginably small delicate tools and scrawled notes tossed haphazardly around a vacant bin, this particular space being no different. It had been a few months of moving into his new apartment—out of yours—a space he rented with little to no cost, a storage unit more likely of a word to use for the top cropping of an old rundown building with dwindling residents.
“Well, you know, busy mind busy—uh—station,” Peter's lips curled anxiously as he gathered up loose trash, old takeout boxes he meekly shoved into a waste basket tucked into his arm, gaze drifting along the ruined nature of his work desk, technology whirring. “A bit too busy, maybe.”
“Old habits,” you grinned, an inside joke to the old work station he kept at Otto's lab. A strand of hair swept over Peter's forehead as he leaned down to set the bin under his desk, a sheepish chuckle spilling from his mouth at the sudden memory.
“I’m not that much of a mess, am I?” your hands clung to your sides as he gestured vaguely to the space surrounding you both, “There’s a sort of…organized chaos thing I have going on.”
“Yeah, sure, if it was lacking the organized part,” your boots made the floorboards uneasy with your weight, coming to stand at the highly technical desk that whirred and moved its wired parts mechanically all on their own. Old bandaged parts and more high profile bits that you wouldn’t ask where he found. You recalled the scraps of old computers you had helped him find in dumpsters and second hand stores back in highschool, when he could hardly scrounge up enough pennies for a CD. Even after all these years Peter's own genius never ceased to impress you.
“Well, I mostly cleaned up when we were dating so I wouldn’t gross you out,” he admitted, arms crossing smoothly across his board chest. You did your part in ignoring the taut stretch of his t-shirt creating a cusp around the swell of his stalky bicep.
“Yeah, I was undoubtedly hot for your ability to keep a clean work space,” you joked, watching the way he picks himself up at the thought, table rumbling as his foot kicked the humble leg.
“Wait, seriously?” he cleared his throat, deflating at the curl of your girlish grin. Attempting to look unphased he spared a glance to the opposite wall, “No, right, joke, obviously. Totally not regretting not cleaning up before having you over.”
“Peter,” you called, his head whipping back to stare at you the moment you uttered his name. “The flash drive?”
“Yes, right, the whole reason you’re here,” his brows pinch, faux seriousness as turns toward the desk, “Look at me, putting pleasure before business—not like that! I mean, I know we’re not—I wasn’t planning on,” he swallows thickly as he tucks his hand under a hardly secured mint tin, “It’s, uh, over here.”
You stall at his side as he places a simple black hard drive into his computer, the machine buzzing to life with a bypassed encryption Peter had surely gotten past before he had called you over, knowing you had been reporting on a case linked to the information detailed in the onslaught of files. A heavy stacked list of file names and hidden agendas and data breach plans filled the screen under the guise of a business mock up. Big names and their small attributes contribute to a long list of crimes circulating through the city for weeks.
“These are all the files you found?” you asked, hips jutting back as you leaned down to look at the screen, propped on your left leg to keep yourself steady against the desk as you leant over.
Peter’s body shuffled sideways to allow you more room, never truly taking that step back to allow any real sort of personal space, but enough to let you close in on the computer to scroll and search yourself, much more familiar to the aliases used in the files than he had been.
“Yeah. Some of them were scrubbed but I figured they didn’t have enough time to dump everything,” he murmured, short of breath as his gaze trailed down the soft arch of your spine, the glow of the computer screen shadowing the dip of your blouse between your breasts, “Did I…do good?”
“They’re definitely incriminating," you murmured, eyes flitting across the plans, some expunged but most still containing most of their set details and workarounds.
“Did you switch shampoos?”
The question is so sudden and out of the blue it completely removes you from the task at hand, head turning off to the side where he stood far too close. His long fingers stretched across the edge of the desk, forearm tensed under his weight as he leaned to look at you better, head tilted down to look at the tufts of hair that furled behind your ear.
“You’re hovering,” you told him, watching the glint in his eye as his eyes flickered to the soft hinted smile at the corner of your mouth.
“Yeah, right, sorry.”
“Peter,” you scold when his demeanor remains unchanged, statuesque body still looming over yours.
“It’s eucalyptus, isn’t it? Smells fresh, nice, you smell,” his lips curl up when you turn to face him completely. “Good.”
The white computer light casts a soft halo over your profile, his eyes shamelessly surveying your curling smile, all too used to this familiar game to pretend it was anything else.
“We said last time was the last time,” you voice with no real conviction.
“It’s always the last time,” he argued, snuffing out the weak excuse with a boyish shrug. “Atleast, you know, until the next time.”
Your laugh is airy as you step back.
“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of saying ‘last time’?”
“Maybe just a little bit,” he says, stepping forward to close the brief distance. “I guess I should really stop inviting you over then, huh?”
It’s dangerous how easily he can reel you back in, open mouth pants passed over a swiped clear desk, conveniently worn dress bunched up around your hips to accommodate the thickness of his body settled between your parted legs as his cock drags in and out of your eager cunt. His broad hands yank your hips to the edge of the desk, ricketing legs trembling under the weight of your bodies meeting with each sharp thrust of his hips—cock ramming into you as sheathes to the hilt before pulling back, a relentless pace that has you lurching forward to grasp onto him.
“Oh—fuck—Peter, feels so good—oh my god,” you mewl, pitchy and loud. If neighbors were an issue in this apartment like they had been in yours, it didn’t cross your mind. Your fingers dragged against the bare muscle of his shoulders, thighs hiked up high on his hips, face hot and flushed as you panted and mewled into his open mouth, desperate pleas and chants of his name to spur him on. There’s a distant silence that follows your begging and moaning, the brief space where an ‘I love you’ had been in the months prior. You and Peter make no mention of it, enraptured by the feelings of pleasure you so easily bring one another.
“Look at you—god. Take me so good, always take me so good,” he groans, eyes darting down to where your raw sexes meet, the rhythmic slapping of skin and the soft plaps of your cunt sucking him in with each drive of his hips making him shudder under your clawing hands. “You really missed me, huh? Hardly had to work for it—came over just for this too, didn’t you?” he inquired huskily, voice rasping as he felt you clench around his aching cock, “Just had to tease me for it first. Make me work for it?”
Your lips curled up, guilty in his own conscience of using a case for a good fuck. Inviting your ex over for sex is too easy for a guy like Peter, “Don’t—mm—tell me Spider-Man’s afraid of a little effort?”
“S’ that what I look like to you? Afraid?” he smirks, a squeal echoing in the apartment as Peter hoisted you up off the desk entirely, cock still buried deep inside your cunt as he held you up with both hands on the swell of your ass. Your own hands clutched the muscle of his thick frame, a sharp moan leaving your throat as he brought you down flush against him, cock pushed to the hilt, a lump in your throat as he kept you up in the air, completely at his mercy, “Remember how this left you the last time we tried it?” he hummed, brute strength unwavering as he stood at the middle of the room with you in his arms, “Gotten stronger since then. Could probably get you to say you love me again by the time I’m done with you.”
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Toying with the idea of Peter having a sensory overload while you’re fucking. He had been so careful around you, an arms length while his arachnid senses were haywire, promising it was only until he could find a way to handle the surge of emotions that overwhelmed his nervous system. A moment of weakness resulted in the current position, your palms splayed out across Peter’s ridged back as his hips drove into yours, groans rumbling through his heaving chest as you pulled him close, having missed this proximity in the few days he denied you. He had swallowed when you took cautious steps close to him, lip twitching at the familiar yet now unavoidable scent of your arousal clouding his judgement, letting you paw at his achingly hard cock and press open mouth kisses to the sensitive junction of his throat, skin on fire with each graze of your touch. Your pretty moans echo against his ear, pulsing to his cock with each sheathe of his hips, a sensation more pronounced than usual, every fiber of his being exposed to you, every scent and sound and touch tugging his mind in all different directions. He can feel it swallow him whole as he pushes to the hilt once again, a guttural groan shakily reverberating through his chest, vision darting to your bare skin, the sheen of sweat that gathered at your collar down to your tits.
“Peter?” You had feebly called, shaky breath catching on the last syllable as his deep black eyes swallowed you up, the vision of your languid body staring back at you. Your lips peeled into a yelp, palms pulling your knees to yank your body down underneath him, pressing your knees tight to your tits, contorting your body in half with a sharp punctuation of his hips slapping against yours. The taut muscle of your thighs stretched under the weight of his chest pressing you down, ankles bobbing up by his ears as he sunk into your pussy, aching cunt swallowing him whole at the new angle, a tinge of pain spiraling through your abdomen with the tip of his cock punching against your cervix. You cried out, helpless pants of his name as he drove into you relentlessly, unabiding strength keeping you completely at his mercy, snatching up your pawing hands as you pushing against his flexed abdomen for some sort of relief, “Don’t,” he rasped. “Don’t run from it. You wanted this—right? Then take it,” your toes curled as his thighs slapped against the back of your ass, fingers clawing into the stalky strain of his forearms holding your knees to your chest. “All that crying for what? Acting like you can’t take it,” his voice rumbled, pitch black eyes blinking down at your eager cunt swallowing him up over and over, “You’ll take what I give you. Isn’t that right? Whatever I want?”
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Toying with the idea of Peter having a sensory overload while you’re fucking. He had been so careful around you, an arms length while his arachnid senses were haywire, promising it was only until he could find a way to handle the surge of emotions that overwhelmed his nervous system. A moment of weakness resulted in the current position, your palms splayed out across Peter’s ridged back as his hips drove into yours, groans rumbling through his heaving chest as you pulled him close, having missed this proximity in the few days he denied you. He had swallowed when you took cautious steps close to him, lip twitching at the familiar yet now unavoidable scent of your arousal clouding his judgement, letting you paw at his achingly hard cock and press open mouth kisses to the sensitive junction of his throat, skin on fire with each graze of your touch. Your pretty moans echo against his ear, pulsing to his cock with each sheathe of his hips, a sensation more pronounced than usual, every fiber of his being exposed to you, every scent and sound and touch tugging his mind in all different directions. He can feel it swallow him whole as he pushes to the hilt once again, a guttural groan shakily reverberating through his chest, vision darting to your bare skin, the sheen of sweat that gathered at your collar down to your tits.
“Peter?” You had feebly called, shaky breath catching on the last syllable as his deep black eyes swallowed you up, the vision of your languid body staring back at you. Your lips peeled into a yelp, palms pulling your knees to yank your body down underneath him, pressing your knees tight to your tits, contorting your body in half with a sharp punctuation of his hips slapping against yours. The taut muscle of your thighs stretched under the weight of his chest pressing you down, ankles bobbing up by his ears as he sunk into your pussy, aching cunt swallowing him whole at the new angle, a tinge of pain spiraling through your abdomen with the tip of his cock punching against your cervix. You cried out, helpless pants of his name as he drove into you relentlessly, unabiding strength keeping you completely at his mercy, snatching up your pawing hands as you pushing against his flexed abdomen for some sort of relief, “Don’t,” he rasped. “Don’t run from it. You wanted this—right? Then take it,” your toes curled as his thighs slapped against the back of your ass, fingers clawing into the stalky strain of his forearms holding your knees to your chest. “All that crying for what? Acting like you can’t take it,” his voice rumbled, pitch black eyes blinking down at your eager cunt swallowing him up over and over, “You’ll take what I give you. Isn’t that right? Whatever I want?”
so what’d you think of yearning, thicked up, recluse Peter Parker because I’m so down bad
anon u don’t even know. I was in that theatre gripping the damn seats it was so serious. Rock hard start to finish the body on the guy omfg it’s going to kill me
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