wstcoastcoll3ctive

caye

18! DON’T FORGET ABOUT ME (Demos)

90 posts

Lost The Game

SUMMARY:The explanation your mind settled for was that whoever lived under that mask, also lived somewhere close by. It explained the first time you found him limping and bleeding on an alley, and it explains how you evolved into his personal caretaker for the wounds and afflictions of Spider-Man’s after battle consequences.

The only thing it doesn’t explain, however, is why through the thick and convoluted webs of your strange situationship, a certain tension has built between you two. Palpable. Physical. As electric as some of his tales, and as dangerous as he is.

The tension between you and Spidey grows, and it grows, and it grows. One day, it snaps.

⚠️ Minors DNI. Smut. | 🏷️ 3.2K , fluff, part two of three, reposting this ‘cause some people missed this one and asked for it.

• PART ONE •

“I really want you,” you confess.

Spider lets out a shaky breath. “Good.” He nods. The hand on your waist holds on tighter, and he pulls you closer. “I haven’t wanted anything this bad in a long, long time.”

When he kisses you again, you can feel that.

The words, the feelings behind them, the truth in it.

His lips start softly pressing against yours, and you're thankful for the late-night hour, the blanket of darkness washing over your room. Spidey kisses you like he wants you back just as much as you want him.

It's been so long since you've just kissed someone for the sake of kissing, and the realization dawns on you as his tongue meets yours in a delicious, filthy drag.

Spidey pulls your waist to him and slides both your bodies down so you're lying flat against the bed; through the fog that his kisses create on your mind, you realize how easily he moves you.

As if you weigh nothing. Then, it dawns on you—to him, you don't.

That pulls a groan from the pits of your gut.

Spidey's mouth on your swallows it down, and your fingers start grasping and holding on to whatever bits of hair it can reach underneath his mask.

Slowly, his body descents on yours and he lets you feel some of his on weight too. His tall, slender figure covers yours in the best way possible, and you lose yourself to the feeling of kissing him.

How long had it been since you wanted someone so bad to the point of just kissing, and feeling?

He seems to be in the same predicament if your judgment is not too cloudy. Spidey pulls back for air eventually and you whine, chasing the feeling of his lips.

His smile makes your heart do stupid, crazy things inside your chest.

"I've wanted to do this for a while," he breathes close to your mouth. Then, he kisses your jaw. "Didn't know if I could—if I deserved it," he mutters, trailing his mouth from your jawline to your neck. "You always smell so fucking good—why the hell d'you have to smell good?"

That makes you giggle. When pull back to answer him, though, the wide, white bug eyes make your words falter for a moment.

He senses it—Spidey's sense is something out of this world, and with you this close to him, you're sure there's nothing he would miss. "It's weird, right? Is it weird? We can stop—I don't want to, kissing you is the best thing that's happened to me in a while, but we—"

"Spidey," you interrupt. He shuts his mouth and adjusts himself on top of you with either one of his elbows resting on each side of your face. "Do you trust me?"

Without hesitation, he nods. "Yeah."

"Okay," you nod. With determination, you push his body away and he gets the hint, getting off from you. You crawl across the bed towards your double windows and thank the skies that you're the kind of person who's a night owl.

The black-out curtains were one of the first purchases you made when renting this loft and now, you feel blessed by them for more reasons than allowing you to sleep after long shifts and studying all night long.

When the two of them are closed, your room is blanketed with the darkness of the night-sky, and your vision goes blind.

It's crazy how much your other senses come forward when one of them is deprived.

You can hear perfectly your own breathing and the soft ruffling of your sheets. "Spidey?" You whisper.

"I'm here," he says on the opposite end of your bed.

"Can you see anything?" you ask, crawling back towards the direction of his voice, slowly.

"A little more than you, probably," there's soft laughter very close to you, then you feel a hand wrapping around your wrist. He pulls you to him and now Spidey's sitting with his back to the headboard of your bed, fitted between your pillows.

You crawl on top of him, straddling his lap, feeling your heart beating on your throat.

Your hands feel all the way up to his neck.

When they're there, you cup his neck in your hands and caress the soft skin it finds there. "Hi," you mutter.

All you can feel is the heat of his body underneath you. "Hi," he whispers back. His head leans forward and your foreheads touch. "How the hell did I fall on your hands of all the hands in this hell-hole of a city?"

It comes out as a breathless whisper, but it makes your insides curl.

He speaks it in such a reverent way that it's impossible for you to not feel it. "I'm glad you did." You lean forward, giving him enough time to back away and when he doesn't, you press a soft, chaste kiss on his lips. "Can we—can we kiss more? The curtains—I just closed so you'd feel more comfortable," you confess. "You don't have to take the mask off, but I can't see you now."

"I know. I know," Spidey nods, and you feel another kiss pressed on your lips. "It's just—," he swallows thickly, and his hands on your waist pull you flushed against his chest. "Gimme a second."

You sit there, waiting.

Every movement of his body is now felt by you—every inch of his body is pressed against yours, and because you can, you wrap your legs around his waist, locking your heels together.

That's when you feel it—you're adjusting yourself on his lap when Spidey's left arm comes up to the back of his neck, and he grips the back of his mask.

The sound of the material being pulled off makes your heart beat faster.

He trusts me. Oh, god, he really, actually trusts me.

"This is better, right?" His voice sounds lower.

Raspier—more serious. His arm around your waist and underneath your ass secures its grip, and you nod. "I... thank you. For trusting me, Spidey-boy," you chuckle, feigning nonchalance to try and mask how much your heart is trying to beat out of your chest.

He laughs too, the same nervous undertone as yours in his mirth, and then kisses you. "I wish I could do this in the light of the day," his voice carries so much that you wonder if this is what you were both chasing when the hug turned into a kiss. Spidey almost sounds on the verge of tears underneath you, and you can tell these are words he's been holding back for a while now. "I wish—D'you get why I don't? I'm—It terrifies me. If I'm me and I meet you, and then someone who's Spider's enemy discovers my identity—it's you they'll go after, Y/n. I've been there before. They can't go after you. D'you get that?"

"I do," you kiss him quiet, and you both lose yourselves in it.

He worries. All those times thinking he didn't want to spend time with me—he just worries.

The thought multiples, and grows like a tree in your mind. It spills over in the kiss.

He wants you, and thought about it, too. He's been protecting you, guarding you against the fact that his double life comes with consequences.

When he pulls back again, you whine in protest. "No—get back here," now that you can, you grab a fistful of his hair.

Spidey groans against your lips, laughing. "Hold on."

"No," you protest, and smash your smiling lips on his again.

Spidey lets you, and the kiss is nothing but two smiles pressed together for the first moment. It takes a couple of pecks and the sweet drag of his bottom lip over your mouth to open you up.

The way he kisses is intoxicating.

It makes you feel like someone new—it sparks something inside of you. It takes so much to make you comfortable and willing, needy and receptive, but his touches all land in the right places.

The kiss builds up. More than touching, it senses like a delivery. All of his wounds are forgotten, and all of your worries dissipate. Nothing but the drag of his tongue against yours and his hands gripping your body tight resonate on your mind, and Spidey uses his hands to guide your arms up—he holds you by the elbow and guides your hands until they reach up, touching his face.

You gasp in his mouth.

"It's ok," he whispers. You feel his smile, and swallow the knot on your throat.

"You sure?"

"Uhum."

Tentatively, you let your hands explore over his face.

It's so real and terrifying to trace the outline of his jawline, the shape of his lips, and his full eyebrows that everything else becomes silent. Spidey lets you do it, allows your hands to draw his features in your mind, caresses over his closed eyelids.

The thought slips out of you in a breathless whisper,

"You're so pretty."

He chuckles, and his legs slide up higher, trapping you inside his hold. "Ah—thanks."

You bite your lip, feeling your mind go hazy.

Underneath you, he's not exactly soft anymore. Both of you must be highly aware of that fact, or at least, you are. It makes you burn, and the core between your legs feels twice hotter since the moment you sat down.

You don't know how far he wants to take this, but stopping kissing him is out of the question. "Hey, Spidey—"

"Peter."

It's a whisper.

It catches you, like a trap in the woods.

Peter.

"I imagine there are enough around there for me to let you have at least this," he whispers, and when his lips are on yours again, they tremble.

Peter.

You kiss him, and melt in his arms in the process. When he pulls apart for air again, you whisper. "Hey, Peter."

"Yeah?"

"Please, don't stop."

Peter takes a deep breath underneath you.

"You don't want me to stop?" He asks, his arms squeezing around you.

Not to stop what, you're unsure. Whatever it is, you're sure of the answer. Shaking your head, you whisper. "No."

Don't stop kissing me.

Don't stop touching me.

Don't leave. Don't go anywhere. Don't leave. Please, don't leave.

Whatever part of your thoughts he hears, he takes it to heart, and pushes all the answers from his lips to yours.

His name is Peter.

That's the first thing you catalog now, and they start webbing one into the other.

Number one, Peter's an excellent kisser.

He knows when to grab you by the hair and guide you where he wants you to be, and knows when to let you take control. He allows you to play with his hair, to grab his face, scratch his nape—all that you have to offer, he's willing to take. Peter lets you bite and nibble on his bottom lip, and in return, he sucks your tongue inside his mouth. It's like a push and pull, a game of wits that one of you is winning, and so is the other one.

Number two, Peter's got a mouth on him.

You discover it the first time he pulls back for much needed air and takes his breaths hiding in the cusp of your neck, with his hands getting bolder and learning the outlines of other parts of your body now—like your stomach, your ribs and your breats. He holds the new parts he finds, and grips the one he likes the most. It pulls mewls and whines out of you, and that's when he first chuckles against your skin, all malice and desire.

"You're sensitive here?" He asks, grabbing your sides. "Or here?" His hands run up to your boobs, cupping them in his hands. "Fuck. D'you know how many times I had to think about the vilest things I've ever seen to distract myself from these right on my face? My line of sight? Fuck, Y/n, they're so soft."

His mouth goes from its trail on your shoulders to your collarbones, pulling on your sleeping shirt to get more access to the space between your tits.

"Wanna kiss them so bad—can I kiss them, pretty?"

"Peter."

"God—teaching you my name's the best idea I've ever fucking had," Peter laughs, with more genuinity and happiness than you've ever heard. "Was that a yes? Can I? Say 'yeah, Peter'."

"Peter."

"Alright, I can take a hint." Peter's hands were quick.

That was Number Three: Peter was quick.

It was an easy fact to forget or overlook, but impossible to let it go once you felt it. Peter had agile fingers and a lot more dexterity in his pinky than most men would ever dream to accomplish with their whole bodies, their entire goddamn lives.

"Peter."

It's your winning word of the night, and the one that rings in your ears when the realization of how hard he already is underneath you hits.

Number four: Peter's not little anywhere.

It's the last fact you're able to register before your notion to count, think, or do anything other than whine and beg come to play.

"Y/n," his hands get a grip on your waist.

The waist that's grinding on him, chasing the outline of his cock and how good it feels fitted between your folds. There's only your your baby doll between you and his sweatpants, and the state his kisses left you is already leaving a spot of wetness on his clothes.

"It's too hot," you whine, and Peter nods on your neck.

"Can I take it off? Our clothes?"

"Yeah."

Your mind swims as he relocates you to his side to undress you. The darkness and Peter start to mingle as one, and this all might as well be a dream.

It feels like one, and tastes like one, too.

He takes off your clothes slowly, and you lay with your back on the bed as your ears pick up him removing his own clothes. Yours, technically, but with his smell. Images of you with the sweater he's wearing tonight over the course of the week flash on your mind—sniffing the material to get a sense of him when he's away. Pathetic, and yet true.

When he lays his body over yours this time, it's only your skin against his.

You swallow thickly, embracing the heat. Your lower back's starting to sweat, as is your temple, but you gladly take it, because the heat Peter brings warms you from the inside out.

He kisses you again, and your legs come up to wrap around his thighs. "Peter."

"Yeah, pretty?"

"Want more."

"You want more?" His waist grinds down. Peter's tall enough to cover your body with his, and his pelvis fits right on yours. The outline of his cock brushing with your folds makes you ever wetter, even needier. "D'you have condoms? I can't carry diseases, but I think you don't want the mess."

OH, god. Your mind blanks, resets, then restarts.

"Get inside me. Right. Now."

Your assertiveness is met with laughter, but is dies on his throat when he lines himself up with you.

The thrust is mutual, and with only a few movements of his waist, there he is.

It's more than just fucking.

There's no rush. No despair.

Peter's vocal with how good you feel—so tight, so good around me, so good, pretty. He's patient, and too damn attentive to every twitch of your body on his.

Peter's strong, and the difference between any previous hook-ups to him is made obvious when he stays there, holding himself with his forearms over you, his hips thrusting inside with no struggle. He eventually moves you on top of him again to let you take control, and holds your whole weight when it gets too much.

He wants you to feel good, and wants you to know that he's feeling good, too.

It may be the continuous, rhythmic movement of your bodies together, grinding on one another and holding tight on your arms and whatever part your hands can reach, or the way he alternates between kissing you and whispering the filthiest compliments to you and how good it feels, your pussy feels so fucking good, pretty.

It may be all that or the fact that it's intimate, it's needed.

Peter builds your orgasm up from the inside—knits the whole thing with his hands and his patience, because all he wants is to feel you all around him.

When it comes, it's a waves washing over a shore.

"Peter—feels too good, too good." Reasoning and stringing sentences together was an ability lost when he sat you on his lap and bounced you up and down for the first time, hitting every single spot inside of you.

He understands you just fine. His sweaty locks between your fingers feel almost as good as his grunts and whines pressed right on the middle of your chest. "I know, baby, I know." God, his whines are fucking music. "Oh my god, you're a sap," he laughs.

And oh—, "I said it?"

"You did," he groans. "You're gonna make me cum like this, pretty." Peter grabs your nape and crashes your mouths together, changing the angle of his legs.

With his feet planted on the bed and the headboard as leverage, he can thrust upwards and hit right on your G spot. By your scream, he figures that out pretty quickly.

"Oh my god."

"Oh, you're clenching on me—you gonna cum, pretty?" Peter smacks your ass, and his hand on your nape glides down through the sweat, lower and lower. It wraps on your neck lightly, as if testing the waters, and when you bend your neck backward, Peter's thrusts become erratic.

His hand grips your neck just right.

"Do it. Lemme see, c'mon. Cum on me, baby. Can I cum in you? You want that?" Peter's words are met with incoherent babbles, and you're officially cock drunk now—the bouncing gets louder, the sounds filling up the walls of your room and the heat emanating from your bodies could power up the whole block, probably.

"Please."

"Please what?" He growls.

"Please cum in me," you cry, feeling your legs starting to weaken.

It's okay because he's got you—Peter holds your waist and pounds into you. "Who d'you want to cum in you, pretty? Say it. Say my name, please—"

"PETER, please! Please cum in me. Please, please—"

"Oh my fucking god," Peter cries, and his thumb comes up to rub on your clit at the same time as you feel the heat and the twitching inside of you.

When Peter cums, a part of you blacks out.

Your orgasm is pulled from you in a crashing wave, and he rides it with his mouth on your ear, whispering words that flow in the background.

"You did so good. ... Oh, god. So perfect—you're fucking perfect, baby."

It takes you a while to come back from it.

Everything is still, and his breathing underneath yours connects your chests.

"Peter?"

He shifts his head, resting his chin on your shoulder. "Hm? You okay?"

"... You'll stay, right?"

Peter takes one heartbeat, and then presses a kiss on the juncture of your neck and your shoulder. "'Course." He kisses your cheek. "I've got morning lectures, but—I'll stay. You want me to stay, right?"

"Yes. Please."

"Then I'll stay."

Peter keeps his promise, and you wonder how something you've dreamt of before is the reality that you fall asleep in.

You wonder which will be the reality you wake up to.

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• PART THREE •