trixie

“R-Right there,” you gasp, fingers curling into the fabric stretched across his shoulders as his cock sinks back inside you, thick enough to pull another breathless sound from your throat. The ridge of him drags against sensitive places you didn’t know you had until he started fucking them regularly.

The white lenses of his mask narrow slightly at the reaction, which still manages to bother you after four months of this because you have absolutely no idea how the damn things do that.

Four months of letting Spider-Man climb through your apartment window, and you still don’t know what he looks like underneath it.

You know he's somewhere around your age, know he lives in Queens, know he hates olives, and apparently carries condoms in one of the compartments built into his suit.

You know how his cock feels—know the way it twitches when you’re tight around him, how the veins along the shaft pulse against your walls, how the swollen tip presses deep enough to make your stomach flutter.

Priorities.

The mask has never come off—not when he kisses you through it, not when you’ve ridden him on this very couch, and certainly not when he’s buried between your thighs beneath the blanket, the covers pulled high enough to hide his face even after he rolls the mask up just far enough to free his mouth. You never get more than the faintest suggestion of skin before he disappears under there, leaving you with nothing but the pressure of his hands, the drag of his tongue, and your fingers curling uselessly into the covered shape of his head while he works you open.

You stopped asking about it weeks ago, mostly because anonymity turned out to be obscenely hot.

What you do know about him has accumulated in considerably less innocent ways…

You know patrol leaves him absurdly worked up, particularly on nights when he spends hours swinging through the city and arrives with restless energy still thrumming beneath his skin.

You know the head of his cock becomes flushed and painfully sensitive near orgasm, the slit wet and shiny, and that rubbing your thumb along the underside can make every muscle in his stomach tighten until he is shaking.

You know he likes your hand around his throat as long as your fingers stay below the mask, that slow oral turns his smart mouth into muffled little whines as he tries not to fuck up into your throat, and that whoever designed his suit clearly did not anticipate anyone spending this much time studying the shape of his erection through it.

You also know he is much bigger than you expected, which became painfully obvious during your first hookup when he eased into you on this same couch and both of you discovered halfway through that enthusiasm had caused a severe failure in practical judgment.

His name remains a mystery.

Maybe he’s Michael, David, Christopher, or some other perfectly ordinary twenty-something man who buys laundry detergent and forgets to charge his phone. Maybe his mother saddled him with something terrible. Maybe it really is something painfully average like Peter.

You have no idea, because the only version of him you know is Spider-Man, and Spider-Man is currently fucking you hard enough that the couch has started migrating several inches closer to the wall with every thrust.

“Somebody’s impatient tonight,” he murmurs through the mask, voice roughened beneath the fabric as he pulls nearly free before rolling his hips forward again.

Your nails scrape down his back when his cock fills you, the sudden stretch making your cunt clench greedily around the intrusion, and you mutter, “Somebody disappeared for five days,” while deliberately tightening around him.

He had been halfway through reminding you that he was busy saving New York when the squeeze steals the rest of his sentence, his masked head dropping toward your shoulder with a muffled groan as his cock twitches hard inside you.

“Congratulations,” you tease, dragging your hands down to his waist as he starts fucking you harder, the wet slap of his hips against yours louder now. “You want a medal?” His fingers tighten around your thigh in response.

You open your mouth to tease more when his free hand slips between your bodies and finds your clit, wiping the amusement from your face almost immediately. Two fingers part your folds so his gloved thumb can press directly against the swollen, slick little nub, circling with slow pressure while his cock keeps driving into you.

He has unfair advantages in bed. He can keep your leg folded nearly against your chest without tiring, hold your entire weight as though it means nothing, and whatever enhanced senses come bundled with the wall-crawling nonsense supposedly make it impossible to hide when you’re getting close.

His thumb works slow circles against you while his hips continue pushing deep between your thighs, and you can practically feel the smugness radiating from behind the mask when your breathing starts coming faster. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your jaw, increasing the pressure of his thumb as your hips lift helplessly into him. “I can tell you’re close.”

You manage to call him a show-off before another thrust punches the rest of the insult out of you, earning a breathless laugh against your neck.

Your fingers eventually wander toward the seam beneath his jaw, brushing beneath the very edge of the mask without actually lifting it, and his entire body tenses above you.

His cock twitches inside you hard enough to make your brows rise. “You like this stupid mask way too much,” he groans, catching your wrist loosely without removing your hand.

It feels filthy about knowing this much of somebody while knowing almost nothing at all; he has watched you come, has had his mouth on you, and could still pass you tomorrow on the sidewalk without you recognizing him.

“You’re the one fucking me without telling me your name,” you remind him, tracing the mask’s edge again until another twitch gives him away. He mutters something about secret identities, and your smile grows when you ask, “Maybe you’re ugly.”

Spider-Man actually stops thrusting.

The offended silence radiating from him makes you bite your lip, especially when he finally insists, “I am not ugly,” with enough conviction to make you laugh beneath him.

You point out that you’ve been given absolutely no evidence, and he begins arguing that there is plenty before you casually tell him his mom’s opinion doesn’t count.

“My aunt would—” The words die underneath the mask as his body stills again, and your smile spreads when he realizes what he has just said.

“You don’t know anything,” he mutters suspiciously, tightening his grip on your thigh when you tell him that you do now.

Apparently being tricked into revealing personal information while balls-deep inside someone is where Spider-Man draws the line, because he accuses you of interrogating him during sex while you wrap your ankle tighter behind his back and point out that it worked perfectly well.

The next thrust wipes the smugness from your face. His hips drive harder between your thighs, couch springs squeaking underneath both of you while the frame bumps rhythmically against the wall, and whatever irritation you managed to spark apparently convinces him that your security deposit is no longer his concern.

His thumb returns to your clit as his masked face presses beside yours, every deep stroke making your body shift farther into the cushions until your hands have nowhere to settle except around his shoulders.

You probably ought to care more about who he is underneath there, but it becomes increasingly difficult to worry about secret identities when the anonymous superhero in your living room has memorized exactly how to make your legs shake—how hard to press your clit, how deep to fuck you, how to angle his hips so the thick ridge of his cockhead keeps catching that same perfect spot.

When your cunt tightens around him again, the groan that leaves him sounds almost helpless. “Jesus,” he chokes against your neck, his rhythm finally losing some of its practiced control as you squeeze harder.

Your own orgasm makes answering impossible, pleasure rolling through you until your thighs clamp around his waist and your nails dig into his shoulders. He keeps moving through it, fucking you steadily while your body clenches around him, though every contraction drags another strained sound from underneath his mask until his hips eventually falter too.

He buries himself deep as he comes into the condom, forehead sinking against your shoulder while the hand beneath your thigh squeezes hard enough to remind you exactly how much strength he normally keeps tucked away.

The couch finally stops knocking against the wall once his body settles over yours, although the silence lasts until two heavy bangs rise from your downstairs neighbor’s ceiling.

Your laugh comes out against the side of his mask, and he slowly lifts his head as though personally betrayed by both you and the building. “Don’t,” he warns, still catching his breath as your laughter gets worse, and when he complains that he hates your apartment, you remind him that he says the same thing every week without ever actually staying away.

His eyes—or lenses, technically—drift toward the window when you ask whether he’s leaving, then return to you as his cock gives a faint twitch inside you, softening and sensitive, nestled deep in the wet heat of your cunt. “No,” he admits, settling more comfortably between your legs as your fingers lazily trace the spider stretched across his chest.

But soon, he’ll slip through your window without showing you so much as the corner of his face, leaving you to spend another day wondering whether you’ve passed him on the street, stood beside him in a coffee shop, or squeezed onto the same subway car without realizing it. Then, sometime after midnight, three familiar taps will land against your glass again, and you’ll open the window for Spider-Man exactly as you always do.

Whoever the hell he is underneath the mask can stay a mystery.

You’ve already learned the important parts.

© 2026 all rights reserved — flixpii.

He flounders for a second, turning his head sharply on the pillow to look at you. You're in no better state, perhaps worse. Your hair is a mess; his fingers had been all over you—and if he squints, there may just be a bit of web fluid in there. He won't mention that until you have to wash it out. You're glistening too, not just with sweat but his own spit, Jesus Christ.

"W-What?" His voice is a little wrecked, a side effect of grunting like a caveman, apparently. He tries to clear it.

"Yeah. When male spiders moult, they reach maturity and have to find a mate. Sometimes they survive after, but the female always tries to eat them. For dominance or protection, maybe."

Peter grimaces at the memory of his own moult. You're not even looking at him as you ramble off about male spiders, how their pedipalps look like big boxing gloves to help subdue the female into mating. He doesn't miss how your hands flick down to his own large hands.

"So you're going to eat me?"

The silence that follows shouldn't be as long as it is. It shouldn't make him squirm when you glance at him, the flat expression to your face—are you joking around? Are you serious? Are you about to knock him out, wrap him up in some foil and shove him in the oven? He can win that fight, right? He can fight back against a woman trying to eat him-

Your laugh is like light at the end of the tunnel. His shoulders immediately unbunch, and his eyebrows relax. You're grinning, laughing in a way that makes his heart flutter in his sweat-ridden chest.

"'Course I'm not going to eat you." You roll onto your side to face him, he matches you. "My oven's not big enough anyway."

His face falls, and it's nearly impossible to not crack into a wider grin at the expression on his face.

"Not funny, by the way."

"It's a little funny."

He lunges, not in the way Spider-Man might with a villain, but the way a boyfriend would when he's wrapped in a small warm bubble with his girlfriend. His arms are around you before you can squirm away, muffling your indignant squeak into the plushness of his pectorals. He's holding back despite having an ironclad grasp on you; you know that too, apparently, when you suddenly go lax in his arms.

Peter nuzzles his nose into your hair, taking in a deep breath in and letting his body relax now that he's got you all wrapped up in his arms. Nice and quiet. As it should be after he just essentially fucked you through the bed, he's not even sure where you got the energy after all that.

"Is this the part where you try and mate after subduing me?"

Peter groans, long and loud to the point where you're giggling in his arms at the vibrations. "Stop using the word mate."

Wrong thing to say, seemingly, as you're pulling your head out from under his chin so fast that it actually causes his teeth to clack. His eyes blink at the sharp pain in his mouth before readjusting onto you... aaaand you're pissed.

"You don't see me as a mate?" You're pouting now, and Peter hates that because it works on him every time. He's already melting, using those big hands to smooth down your hair and pull you in closer. You try to resist, but you somehow end up nose-to-nose with him.

"I mean, in the sense of relationships and my own biology, yeah I guess you're my mate. But when you say it like that, it sounds so barbaric and primal and a little silly, if I'm honest. What ever happened to boyfriend and girlfriend?"

He doesn't notice at first, with how close you are, how your smile grows the more he rambles nonsense about his spider hormones, how he's not entirely an arachnid. It's a kiss on the lips that has him falling silent, chasing after your lips when you break away.

"I'm just messing with you, Peter."

"I know." His voice softens when you smile at him again, naturally falling into you to lay another delicate kiss on your lips. He loves you, perhaps more than anything he's ever loved before. You get him in a way that no one else does; you question things he's not thought of yet and support his nighttime activities.

His tongue is still gentle when it invades your mouth, a large hand angling your head just-so, giving him the room he needs to work. You're pliant under his hands, soft in a way that maybe Spider-Man doesn't deserve but soft for him regardless. Your quiet moans are enough to stir that feeling back up in his stomach, to have him rolling over until he's between your legs and his body caging you in once again.

You both break for air, just enough space between you that Peter can see every speck of colour in your eyes.

"You can't cum out of your hands, right?"

If he was a stronger man, he might've rolled off of you and went to sulk in his corner with all his computers—but he's not. He's weak, especially for you, because he drops his head down into your neck with an amused groan.

"Shut up." There's no bite to it, not when your laugh fills his stomach with the butterflies he always gets when he's around you.