#peter drabble

[lucky-bucky-boy]

a little something based off this

had to make it fit techbro!peter tho 🤭

tw: fwb est relationship, no protection

"Fucking-god damn," Peter's breathless moans were fanning over you collarbone. "Feels- damn it, baby, you feel so good." His grip on your hips was bruising, keeping them tilted with your legs firmly wrapped around his waist to keep him from going anywhere, not that he was planning on it.

Not when it had been over a month since he's seen you, closer to 6-weeks since he's been buried between your thighs in any shape or form. He'd been constantly travelling for work, and even though you didn't believe him at first, his stuttering hips and inability to even try to keep his noises down was proving that he was right - there was no way he slept with anyone else while he was gone.

Something about that realization had your walls clenching down, core bearing down in raw desire. Peter wanted you so badly he waited, your beloved fuck boy waited for you.

"Shit-fuck, baby you- god I can't-" pure, utter desperation was dripping off of him, getting lost in the blinding pleasure only you could provide. His rhtymic thrusts were quickly turning to disorganized rutting, small whimpers leaving him.

Suddenly, without much more warning, with Peter's entire body stilling after burying to the hilt, the unmistakable warmth was flooding you. Your nails slowly raking down his back, drawing the smallest noises from his lips in between his incoherent mutters as he continued rutting out his high.

Peppering an array of wet kisses along your jaw and muttering "I'm sorry" in between each one, his embarrassment was evident. He pulled back, eyes meeting yours briefly before looking down to where you two were still connected, "Got me feeling like a god damn virgin," he mutters out, chest heaving and flushed a dark pink as he tries to regain his composure.

Peter slowly pulled out, gaze staying stuck on his cock leaving your weeping core, the mix of your arousal and his release stiring something inside him. His mesmerized look on his face making you lean up to see where he was tranfixed just in time to watch his once softening cock stir back to life, head still breaching you, and the oozing creaminess of his high coating the both of you.

Abruptly, successfully knocking the wind out of you with a high-pitched moan, Peter was slamming back into you with his own whimper from the overstimulation. His arms fell to either side of your head, caging your gaze and keeping your eyes fixed on his. The long lashes, the slight stubble, the faint scars from hundreds of patrols, and his scent - cinnamon sticks and pure musk - encapsulating you in every way your friend shouldn't.

"'m no where near done with you, baby, got lost time to make up for, yeah?" His tone pussy drunk, but mixed with someone else you couldn't quite place.

[fromdove]

you find him in your apartment. again. window cracked. boots still on. jacket slung over the back of your chair like it belongs there.

he’s sitting on your couch like he owns it, flipping through a half-read paperback he definitely didn’t bring. probably something you left lying around — some crime thriller he’s already tearing apart in his head.

“make yourself at home,” you say, dropping your keys.

he doesn’t look up. “already did. your lock’s still crap, by the way.”

“you say that every time you break in.”

“because it’s still true.” he finally glances at you, eyes tired but sharp. “what if i was someone else?”

“then you’d be bleeding on the floor right now.”

his mouth twitches. “cute.”

you toe off your shoes, drop your bag, move toward the kitchen. “what do you want, jason?”

“wow. straight to the point. no hi jay, how was patrol? want something to drink? here, take my couch and trample my boundaries some more?”

“you don’t drink anything that isn’t ninety percent caffeine or eighty proof.”

“true,” he says, stretching his legs out. “still rude.”

you eye him from the kitchen. his holsters are off, but the rest of the suit’s still there — the compression shirt, scuffed boots, scraped knuckles. he’s vibrating under the surface like he hasn’t slept in two days and isn’t planning to.

“you get hit again?” you ask, softer.

he lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “nothing important.”

“so yes.”

“do you want a play-by-play? i can act it out, real dramatic. throw myself against a wall. bleed on your furniture.”

“you already bled on my rug last month.”

“and it really tied the room together.”

you exhale through your nose. grab a glass of water, bring it over. he takes it without comment, drinks half in one go.

“why are you here, jason?”

this time, he doesn’t have a joke ready. his fingers tap the side of the glass, jaw tight.

“quiet,” he mutters. “it’s quiet here.”

you sit beside him. not close. not far.

“you ever gonna just ask to stay?” you ask.

“don’t need to.” he leans his head back, eyes closed now. “you always let me.”

“that’s not the same thing.”

“yeah,” he says, voice rough. “i know.”

the silence stretches. his foot nudges yours, casual, like he didn’t mean to. like he did.

“you gonna yell at me if i fall asleep here?”

“depends.”

“on what?”

“if you do that thing where you mutter weird half-words and twitch like you’re being electrocuted.”

he opens one eye. “that’s called trauma. look it up.”

“ever heard of therapy?”

“yeah. didn’t vibe with being psychoanalyzed by someone who’s never been shot in the face. weird, right?”

you huff a laugh. he shifts a little closer, not quite touching.

“you still smell like gunpowder,” you say.

“better than blood.”

“barely.”

he doesn’t look at you right away. just stares ahead like he’s watching something you can’t see. then, like it costs him, he says,

“couldn’t sleep.”

that’s all he gives you. not can I crash here? not I don’t want to be alone. just that.

but with jason, that’s enough.

you don’t ask. you just nod toward the blanket on the armrest.

“you want that, or are you gonna steal mine like last time?”

“wasn’t stealing. it was strategic heat distribution.”

“you’re unbelievable.”

“you say that a lot,” he murmurs, already leaning back into the cushions.

and still — he doesn’t leave.

not for hours.

[sugugori]

────୨ৎ────

I love very casual dominance. It’s always the smallest things, too. It’s one thing to be intentionally dominate in bed, but when they’re doing it out of pure instinct it’s almost sexier. They don’t even realize how attractive it is. Like today, for whatever reason you’re nervous and it’s obvious if not by the way your leg is shaking under the coffee table. And as always, he’s found his spot besides you- maybe his hair is messy because it’s early and you’ve slept in. He nurses a hot black coffee with one hand, and he may tell you twice to stop bouncing your leg but you won’t hear it a third time. He won’t even look away from whatever’s got his attention before you feel the pressure of his hand on your knee. Pressing down until your knee can no longer bounce back up, his grip almost bruising. But his thumb moves to rubs gentle circles on the area, a silent apology.

Other times, yeah, it does show up in bed. Like when he’s hitting that spot so good, too good, that you stop breathing for a few seconds. He’s literally taken your breath away, folded you in half and he’s nasty with it. You don’t even realize it’s happening but he’s so in tune with your body that he picks up on every little thing. He won’t stop his movements either, still feeding you deep strokes, hand behind your head to soften the blow of the headboard. And when he notices, he’ll place his hand on your cheek so gently - a stark contrast to how he’s fucking you- and say, “Breathe, baby.”

────୨ৎ────

[hanasnx]

“ BETTER FIND A MOP, IT’S GETTIN’ STICKY IN THIS BITCH ” — peter parker.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ NOTES: marvel rivals chad peter parker w yuri lowenthal’s legendary voice. a recipe for success. also this wouldn't be possible without this anon. WARNINGS: fem reader ノ established relationship ノ dirty talk ノ explicit sexual content ノ p in v ノ finger sucking ノ biting ノ long cock peter agenda ノ suit + mask sex but mask comes off halfway thru so you can see his pretty face <3

“Yeah? Mmph—you like that—hm—baby?” PETER PARKER speaks between his sheathes, evidently getting lost in the feeling of you wrapped around him. So much so that dirty talk for this silver tongue is interrupted by his own unfocus. It blurs in and out from the overload of sensation between his legs. You can’t respond, brows furrowing as he wetly slithers in and out of you, the head of him brushing that spongy spot inside you every time he bottoms out.

You try your best, murmuring a weak yet eager, “Mhm, mhm,” Nodding your head even while his fingers are hooked on your lower jaw over your chin.

“Couldn’t wait, huh?” Peter asks rhetorically, a slight snicker sprinkled in as he watches you with as much awe as a mask can have. “Was like I was ambushed.” he muses, reminiscing over his entrance met with such welcoming open legs. His cock bucks in at the memory, and you cry out through your occupied mouth. The knuckles between your teeth get a squeeze, a nip, and he releases a burst of air. “Trying to bite me, honey?” The tone conveys a sense of disbelief but it’s pleasantly surprised, and his pace quickens. Choked moans shoot out of you as he fucks into you, his body weight pinning you down while your suspended legs bob from the movement. Your lips enclose apologetically over his gloved fingers, the wet felt fabric is foreign against your tongue when you circle around them. In a bout of curiosity, your tip traces the embossed texture of the web design around his knuckle, maintaining eye contact with his mask while you do it.

Your cheeks hollow out, sucking on his two fingers and he groans from low in his throat. It’s the kind of purr that sends a shudder down your spine, eyes rolling back as he slots in your lulling body. The sheer length of him causes an ache inside your core that arches your back, clutching onto the sheets for purchase as you brace the sharp pain for the brain-melting feeling of pulling out only to fuck back in. His other hand comes to hook under the hem of his mask, peeling it off of him, and his brown hair explodes out in an endearing mess. You can finally see that crooked grin.

He pivots your head for you by your mouth, resting his wrist on the mattress to hover over you properly. Faithfully, you keep those fingers in, and he rewards you by shoving them in deeper, the tips of them making you lurch with a gag. Once again, he reacts audibly in euphoric relief like he was waiting for you to do that. “Baby.” he says in that voice, and it’s like a prize. You erupt in full-body tingles, curling your toes as he openly mouths at your neck. The pad of his tongue flattens against your pulse point, and ends it in a hard bite, scraping his teeth against your skin. You keen, that coil in your belly going taut.

Drool seeps out of the corner of your mouth while you desperately suck his spit-soaked glove, pitiful whimperings spilling out of you while he fucks you into the mattress.

[swtheartz]

absolutely obsessed with healer!reader rn because while healing is seen as something so pure and beautiful—you’re such a dick. more akin to an exhausted office worker on a 9 to 5 (though you schedule is much worse, and twice as grueling), and running off of three cups of expensive coffee and grumbling your answer.

girl boss in high heels?? no. sleep deprived asshole in combat boots that will kick someone’s teeth in, heal them, then do it again.

and some freak on your team that gushes over you and secretly crushes some villain that tried to kill you while you’re not looking, and tells you to ignore the blood on their suit before going back to harassing you. you hate his guts meanwhile he has to hide in the bathroom and jerk off to try and get some energy out of his system to try and behave himself around you.

i’m on my monthly no one say anything to me rn.

[iamgonnagetyouback]

curiousity glasses killed peter⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤ●ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ peter parker

the apartment is quiet, save for the hum of the city outside and the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. peter had left a little while ago, probably off to grab coffee or run an errand, leaving you curled up on his couch with one of his old textbooks in your lap.

your gaze drifts toward the small table beside his desk, where his glasses sit, slightly askew, as if he had taken them off in a hurry. a small smile tugs at your lips. you’ve seen him push them up the bridge of his nose a thousand times, seen the way he squints when he forgets them, how they somehow make him look both like the smartest and the cutest person in the room.

curiosity wins. you reach over and pick them up, slipping them onto your face.

everything is…a little off. the lenses make the room blur at the edges, and you blink rapidly, adjusting. a quiet giggle escapes you. “wow, how does he even see in these?” you murmur, tilting your head at your reflection in the window.

the door creaks open.

“babe, i—” peter stops mid-sentence.

you turn toward him, wide-eyed, and his breath catches in his throat.

he blinks once. twice. his mouth opens, then closes again as if he’s buffering.

“pete?” you say, confused by his sudden speechlessness.

“oh my god,” he mutters under his breath, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “why—why do you look so cute right now? what is happening?”

you snort. “what?”

“no, seriously.” he steps closer, eyes locked on you like you’re a puzzle he’s desperate to solve. “that’s illegal. you can’t just—just put on my glasses and look like that.”

you grin, tilting your head. “like what?”

“like the most adorable human to ever exist?” he groans dramatically, dropping onto the couch beside you and burying his face in your shoulder. “this isn’t fair. i wasn’t prepared for this.”

you laugh, tugging the glasses off. “so what you’re saying is i should wear them all the time?”

peter lifts his head, eyes soft but full of mischief. “babe, if you do that, i’m never gonna be able to focus on anything else ever again.”

you smirk, slipping them back on. “guess you’ll just have to suffer, parker.”

and judging by the way he grins before pulling you into a kiss, you’re pretty sure he doesn’t mind one bit.

a/n. first peter fic omg?? was kinda gonna make a longer fic on the more angsty side but then i was like nah that’s too much effort so drabble it is. and honestly i love it so much ughhh enjoy!! ‹𝟹 also pls tell me it it's terrible

©iamgonnagetyouback౨ৎ please refrain from copying, translating, or reposting any of my work

[vacate-et-scire]

Jason Todd had always been built like a tank—broad shoulders, strong arms, a body shaped by years of fighting Gotham’s worst. But now, standing in front of the mirror, all he could see was how different he looked. The muscle was still there, buried under a softer layer that hadn't been there before. His shirts stretched a little tighter around his stomach, his jawline wasn’t as sharp, and—God—he could feel it every time he moved.

He let out a breath, rubbing a hand over his face. He'd known this was coming. Hanging up the helmet, giving up the fight—it meant letting go of the relentless training too. The bruises had faded, the broken ribs had healed, but his body had started changing in ways he wasn't prepared for.

The worst part was the guilt. Not just for what he used to do, but for caring so much about this now. He'd survived death. He'd clawed his way out of the grave, fought through pain most people couldn't imagine—and yet, a little weight was what was getting under his skin?

"Stupid," he muttered, gripping the sink.

The door creaked open behind him, and he barely caught your reflection in the mirror before you stepped into the room.

"Jay?" Your voice was soft, careful. "You've been in here for a while."

He exhaled through his nose, not turning around. "Yeah. Just thinking."

You leaned against the door frame, watching him. "What about?"

Jason hesitated. He didn't want to say it. It felt shallow. Weak. But you knew him too well, and he knew you weren't going to let it go.

"... I look different," he finally admitted. "And I don't know how..."

You stepped closer, your hands finding his waist from behind, fingers pressing into the soft fabric of his shirt. "Of course you do," you said simply. "You’ve spent years treating your body like a weapon. And now you don’t have to anymore."

He swallowed, his shoulders dropping just slightly. "Yeah, but—I don’t know, I used to be..." He gestured vaguely toward the mirror, frustrated.

"You used to be overworked, underfed, and running on fumes," you countered. "Jason, you didn’t just survive Gotham—you survived yourself."

He went quiet at that.

Your arms wrapped around his middle, and you rested your head against his back. "You're still you. And you're still hot, if you need to hear it."

A short, breathy chuckle escaped him despite himself. "That right?"

You squeezed him tighter. "Mm-hmm. And I’ll say it as many times as I need to."

Jason sighed, a small, tired smile creeping onto his face. He reached down, covering your hands with his. He didn’t know if he’d ever fully shake the feeling, the nagging voice in the back of his mind telling him he wasn’t what he used to be. But you were here. You weren’t letting him disappear into his own head.

[moonstruckme]

MAAAAEEEEE I was wondering if I could request a Peter Parker fic where he just kind of adopts shy!reader without her consent like “yeah we’re friends now, we spend time together and also we’re probably gonna fall in love and date but why don’t we just start with me walking you home from class” or some such nonsense. Also wondering if you could keep his spidey-powers; I love that little mutant freak

I hate you for doing this to me

Ugh our mutant freak <3 Thanks for the request babe!

tasm!Peter Parker x shy!reader ♡ 920 words

You’re never alone on the way home from class anymore. You’re not sure what changed at the start of the spring semester, if you just started putting out helpless-pedestrian energy or if it was something else, but soon after the start of classes your walks home from your night class on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Friday began being accompanied by none other than Spider-Man. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, it’s Peter. 

You and Peter have molecular biology together. On the first day of class, he rushed in just as your professor started lecturing. Every seat was full except the one next to you, and when you offered it to him silently with a nod of your head, Peter looked so relieved you’d think you handed him an A in the class. He’s been glommed onto your ever since; some days he asks you to stop for coffee after class, some days he offers to study with you in the library, and he always walks you home. You don’t know what you did to deserve the company, but you appreciate it. 

“You ever been there?” Peter asks, nodding to a stand advertising New York City’s Best Vegan Hot-Dogs. 

“No,” you say.

“Well, seems like we’ve gotta try them at some point. I mean, they’re the best in New York.” 

A smile tugs at your lips. Peter’s always doing that. Making plans, saying we. It’s like the idea of you two hanging out beyond the end of your class is a foregone conclusion in his head. You haven’t been able to figure out if that’s just the way Peter talks or if he means it. You hope it’s the latter. 

“You think so?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Peter says with affected certainty. “I mean, why would you doubt the sign? Everyone knows you have to get things like that certified.” 

You glance up at Peter, but one look into his smiling eyes is too much for you. You have to turn your face away. “I’m pretty sure there are three #1 Indian Restaurants in my neighborhood.” 

“Oof. Must make for some brutal decisions when you’re craving Indian.” 

Two weeks ago, you offered to buy Spider-Man dinner for walking you home. It was stupid—he can’t eat through the mask, which he told you kindly and which you could have figured out if you thought about it for more than a second before opening your mouth—but you were feeling guilty about stopping to pick up takeout and indebted for all the time he spends walking you home instead of preventing mob activity or whatever Spider-Man does. He professed, upon smelling your takeout, that Indian food is one of his favorites, too. 

You haven’t told Peter about your vigilante escort. Spider-Man never comes to you while Peter’s around—presumably because you don’t need his help if you’ve already got a companion—and it’s the sort of ridiculous story you know will sound made up out loud. Why do you know that Spider-Man likes matar paneer? What makes you so special? They’re unanswerable questions, and you’d never be able to look at Peter again if he laughed at you. 

“Hey.” Peter bumps your hip with his. You go stiff at the contact. “You okay?” 

“Hm?” You look up, and he’s watching you with concern. “Yeah, sorry.” 

“You seem a little quiet,” he says. And when your face heats, “Well, quieter than usual.” 

“Sorry,” you say again, embarrassed. “I think I’m just tired.” 

“Oh, yeah? Class was a long one, huh?” 

“Yeah.” 

“That makes sense.” Peter sounds disappointed. You blink at him in confusion, and he almost winces. “I don’t suppose…I mean, if you just want to get home I get that, but I was wondering if you wanted to grab food? With me?” 

Your steps stutter. It’s not that you and Peter have never hung out before. Or even that all the time you’ve spent together centers wholly around class—there have been coffees, chats in the hallway, walks in the park near your university building—but it’s something about the way he asks, like it’s important this time, like it means something. You want for it to mean something. 

“I could still grab food.” You’re not quite looking at him, fiddling with the contents of your jacket pocket. Popping the lid to your chapstick on and off. 

“Yeah?” Peter asks hopefully. 

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Mhm.” 

His voice softens, a smile in it. “Could you look at me, maybe?” 

You glance up, regretting it instantly as always. Peter is resplendent. Dimples framing his smile like parenthesis, hair mussed by the wind that beats at you while crossing every street, he’s the sort of handsome that’s only just starting to figure out how handsome he is. You think you probably make it easier for him. To figure it out. 

“Do you really want to,” he asks in a sincere tone, “or are you just appeasing me? If you’re tired I can take you straight to your place.” 

Your heart thudders. If you have to look at him for much longer you worry you’ll melt into the cracks of the pavement. “I want to,” you say. “I’m sort of hungry, too.” 

“Okay, awesome.” He sounds happy again. You think if you were lucky, that’d be the only thing you were put on Earth to do, make Peter happy. “Maybe we could try one of those Indian places near yours? See who’s really number one.” 

“Sure.” You smile up at him, brain buzzing when Peter beams back. 

“Sick! I could really go for some matar paneer.” 

[4m0r1m]

The Grin He Waited For

SUMMARY: Everyone just wanted to see her smile. He falls donw and gets a whole laugh out of her. How's that even possible??

PAIRING: james potter x reader

A/N: I'm really sorry foir making you guys wait so much foor another fic but I'm really getting stressed because of my finals. This is gonna be a little short but anyways I hope you like it!!

There was a certain type of warmth that clung to James Potter like a second skin—relentless, golden, loud. It was in his laugh, in the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, in how he practically bounced with energy when he walked into a room. James Potter didn’t enter places. He arrived. And whether you wanted to or not, you noticed.

You, however, were the opposite. Reserved. Quiet. Often mistaken for being rude, when in truth, you just didn���t see the need to exhaust energy on everyone. The Marauders, in particular, were always exhausting. Endearing, sure. But exhausting.

Sirius was chaos incarnate. Remus was observant and gentle, though a bit too fond of offering unsolicited advice. Peter tried too hard to be funny. And James—James was infuriatingly delightful. You didn’t like how easily he drew people in. You didn’t like how your chest warmed around him. But most of all, you didn’t like that no one could seem to make you smile… yet he managed to make you feel lighter just by being in the same room.

It had become a bit of a game. The others tried it all—Sirius with his pranks, Remus with his kindness, even Peter with his bumbling commentary. Each attempt to crack your stony demeanour ended in failure.

James never tried. Not once. He just carried on, laughing with Sirius, throwing apples at Peter’s head in the Great Hall, launching into Quidditch monologues that made absolutely no sense to you. And somehow, that made him more charming.

You had grown used to their presence in your orbit. Somehow, you were part of their strange little group, even if you didn’t speak much. You were the one who didn’t laugh. The one who rolled their eyes. The one who, by all accounts, simply existed alongside them.

Until the day James fell.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a Wednesday evening. Rain battered against the windows of the Gryffindor common room. A fire crackled gently in the hearth, filling the room with a low amber glow. You were curled up in an armchair, a blanket draped over your lap, eyes flicking across the pages of a thick book.

Sirius was doing impressions. Remus was half-listening, scribbling notes for an assignment. James and Peter were arguing over who would win in a broomstick race through the Forbidden Forest—James was, as usual, full of confidence.

“I’m telling you,” James was saying, hopping onto the arm of the sofa with one leg swung over, “if I’d had my broom that day, I’d have made it through that thicket in under a minute. Easy.”

Peter snorted. “You’d have flown straight into a tree.”

James puffed out his chest. “I’m nimble.”

You didn’t look up, but you were listening. You always listened when James talked, even if you pretended not to.

“I could do a flip right now and land on my feet,” James announced proudly.

“Go on, then,” Sirius egged, his grin wicked.

With the kind of misplaced confidence only James Potter possessed, he launched himself off the armrest with a ridiculous twist—

—and faceplanted directly into the carpet.

There was a thump, followed by a sharp “oof!” as he groaned into the floor.

The room fell silent.

You looked up.

And for the first time in a very long while… you snorted. Not a polite giggle. Not a stifled chuckle. A full, unfiltered snort.

Everyone’s heads whipped around.

“Did you just—?” Sirius blinked.

“Oh my god,” Remus murmured, eyes wide.

Peter looked like he’d seen a ghost.

But James… James was still lying flat on the rug. Slowly, he lifted his head, cheeks squashed and hair sticking out in all directions.

He met your gaze.

And then he smiled. That smile. Soft, genuine, adoring.

“There it is,” he breathed, as though he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment. “The laugh.”

You felt heat crawl up your neck, eyes dropping to your lap. You tried to hide it—too late. The room erupted into laughter, but James’s voice was the only one that lingered in your ears.

That night, the teasing was relentless. Sirius looked ready to throw a party. Remus gave you a smug little nod. Peter kept whispering, “I thought you were incapable.”

But James didn’t say a word.

Not until later.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You were heading back down to the common room for a forgotten quill when you saw him sitting by the fire alone, glasses skewed, legs stretched out, a book open but unread in his lap.

He looked up as you entered.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You paused, unsure. “Hey.”

A beat passed. The fire crackled.

“I wasn’t trying to make you laugh,” James said, voice low and sincere.

“I know.”

“I mean—Sirius has a bet going, and the others are obsessed with seeing you smile, but me? I just wanted… I dunno. For you to want to laugh. For yourself.”

You looked at him, surprised. “You’ve really been waiting for that?”

He shrugged. “Not like… obsessively. But yeah. Kinda. It’s a good sound. Worth the wait.”

Your chest tightened in a way that was unfamiliar. Warm and aching and sweet all at once.

“James?” you asked.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for falling on your face.”

He laughed. “Anytime.”

You turned to leave, but then paused. You glanced over your shoulder, met his eyes, and let a small smile tug at the corner of your mouth.

Not a snort. Not a laugh.

But a smile.

And James Potter lit up like the sun was rising just for him.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, Sirius tried three times to prank Filch just to impress you. Remus offered you a muffin he definitely hadn’t baked himself. Peter knocked over a goblet of pumpkin juice onto Snape’s robes.

You didn’t laugh.

But across the room, James caught your eye.

You smirked.

And he smiled back like it was a secret only the two of you shared.

You supposed, in a way, it was.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[alwaysmoncheri]

hello! I hope you’re doing good! I would like to request a fic with tasm!peter parker or james potter if you prefer, but something where they’re making out and the reader ends up breaking his glasses? If that makes sense🫣

hi, my darling, i’m am doing very well! thank you for requesting, that makes complete sense! I’m totally watching tasm again after writing this <3

cw: fem!reader, making out, slightly suggestive (but not really), aunt may walking in, established relationship, fluff, 1.2k

<3

Peter’s mouth is on your neck while the bridge of his glasses rubs against the skin just an inch higher than his mouth. His hands stay firmly planted on your hips as you sit in his lap on his swivel chair. Your textbook and computer lay abandoned next to his on his desk in front of you.

“Peter, I have to study,” you mumble, but the sigh that escapes your lips makes your excuse less believable, “We have to study.” you add, trying you best to get yourself and peter back on track for a big exam tomorrow. Crazy for Peter or not, this test is important and you need to get a little studying in, but you can’t get Peter to keep his hands off you.

“No, we don’t.” Peter replies quickly, before biting your neck, causing you to let out squeak.

“Peter,” you practically whine, and the chuckle that falls from Peter’s mouth vibrates onto your neck, causing you to squirm in his lap. When Peter lifts his head from your neck, you’re pouting. Lips jutted out and eyebrows pinched together with pleading eyes. Oh, Peter could die right here with you in his arms. He pulls you closer, biceps and hands pressed into your sides and forearms into your stomach.

“You’re going to be fine,” Peter offers gently, pressing a much softer kiss to your cheek, allowing you to release the tension from your face, “You’ve studied plenty already.”

“But–”

“No, buts,” Peter shuts you down, gently rubbing your sides in an attempt to silence your worries. He wants to kiss you so bad, but he would never do it without your permission. And if you want to study, he’ll let you, but he doesn’t think you really do, “Kiss me?”

Peter hears you release a long, dramatic, sigh before shifting yourself in his lap so that you’re straddling him, his hands now stabilizing you by your waist. For a moment your face is expressionless and Peter can’t read you. He worries that you’re unhappy with him but when he sees a giddy smile creep onto your face, he instantly reciprocates and his worries melt away.

You lock your hands around Peter’s neck before leaning in to kiss him. At first, you kiss him softly, tenderly just because you love him. But when you lightly tug on Peter’s hair at the nape of his neck, he takes it as a sign to tug on your hips, pulling you flush against his chest and deepen the kiss. But when the bridge of you nose knocks into Peter’s glasses, you groan in momentary pain, causing his eyes to widen, hand reaching up to gently hold your cheek, the action asking if you’re okay. When you nod your head and meet his gaze, you notice his concern before it’s quickly replaced with frustration. Peter quickly tears his glasses on his face and tosses them towards his bed without sparing a glance in that direction. But when a soft crack echos from across the room, you snap your gaze towards the glasses that now lay broken at the bridge on the floor.

“Peter!” You gasp, shifting your gaze between him and the broken glasses, but no concern seems to be etched on his face.

“Don’t worry, I can get new ones,” Peter assures you, kissing the corners of your lips while his nose delicately brushes the apples of your cheeks, “I just wanna kiss you.” Peter whispers and you feel a rush of warmth spread across your face at his tone.

“Aunt May isn’t going to be happy.” You state, nervously glancing towards the door that Peter probably forgot to lock again.

“Shush, less talking, baby,” Oh god, you melt completely at the way his says baby and presses his finger to your mouth, before replacing it with his lips, “More kissing.” He adds in between a few quick, hard, presses of his lips on yours.

“Oh whatev—hmph!”

Peter kisses you long and hard, successfully getting you to stop talking. You feel hot all over when he kisses you again and again. And when you rank your fingers through his hair, lightly tugging on the ends, while simultaneously gently biting his bottom lip, Peter makes a sound between a gasp and a groan that makes you want to do it again just so you can hear the sound once more. There’s a kiss, another, and another, you’re so caught up in the feeling of his mouth against yours, carefully sliding your hands up and down his chest before lightly gripping a fist full of his shirt to keep him near you.

The way Peter touches you is like muscle memory, he knows how to make you gasp and what makes you shiver. When, his hands slip under the material of your shirt and caress your skin, your body reacts exactly how he knows it always does. Then, he lifts you up, your legs wrap around his waist, and with his lips still on yours, he gently lowers the both of you onto his bed. He seems so far away now and you can’t handle it. Before he even has the chance to lower himself further down onto the bed, you grab his biceps, which are tensed from holding himself up, and tug him towards you. Peter practically falls and suddenly the weight of his whole body is on top of you, Peter worries for a moment, breaking the kiss, but you make a noise, reminiscent to a childish whine before grabbing his jaw with both of you hands and pulling him back. With his lips on yours, his tongue slides into your mouth while your thumbs trace the outline of his jaw and his hand slides behind you back and into your shirt.

“Hey, do you two know where—Oh my goodness!” You and Peter are quickly pulled apart, turning your heads in the direction of Aunt May’s loud gasp. She stands just outside the bedroom with one hand still on the doorknob, her expression loudly displaying her shock. Peter stays on top of you for a split second, before May’s gaze shifts between his hand in your shirt and both of your disheveled appearances, “Peter Benjamin Parker!”

With that, Peter immediately jumps up from on top of you, quickly grabbing your hand to stand next to him. Both of your faces are flushed red from being caught, even if all you were doing was kissing. Aunt May stands by the door, both of her hands placed firmly on her hips, presumably awaiting a reasonable response while you and Peter glance at each other in search of something to say. When Peter’s gaze returns to his aunt, he finally opens his mouth to speak.

“Aunt May—We were just—” Peter pauses as he stumbles over his words, feeling pathetic under the eyes of both you and his aunt.

“Studying.” You finish with a somewhat convincing smile and when Aunt May turns to you, her gaze softens, but when she notices the broken glasses laying forgotten on the floor behind you, her questioning expression returns.

“And what happened to your glasses?” Aunt May asks, a triumphant smile crossing her face as she knows she’s caught the two of you red-handed in your obvious lie, “Were you studying when that happened?”

You and Peter hesitate, he sends you a nervous smile and the both of you bite your tongues, not trusting yourselves to speak. After a moment, the two of you nod, heads hanging low.

“Mhm, right,” May hums before sending Peter a look that says, ‘we’ll talk later.’ Then, she takes a few steps into the room, causing you and Peter’s eyes to widen, but May only steps around you to pick up the broken glasses before walking back towards the door, “Well, dinner is almost ready, you two better behave.”

“Okay, yeah, thank you, May.” Peter says, and you can tell he’s beyond flustered by the situation as he runs a hand through his hair, then brushes a finger along his bottom lip, “We’ll be down soon.”

May nods before sending the both of you one final look, this one a little more playful than the rest. She exits the bedroom and closes the door behind her, leaving you and Peter alone once again.

The both of you share a glance before breaking out in a fit of laughter. Peter falls back onto the bed, tugging you down with his so that you’re laying on his chest.

“I told you she’d be mad.” You tease, running your hand up his chest, eventually reaching the back of his neck, while leaving a gentle kiss on his jaw.

“It was so worth it.” Peter smirks before flipping you over and kissing your face

<3

masterlist . tasm!peter parker masterlist . taglist

thank you for reading, my darling! remember to like! reblog! and comment! i’ll give you a smooch if you do, ily! send requests to my inbox!

tags: @googie-jeon, @Kevia1000, @annoyingmidgetwhowrites, @averyhotchner, @marauderswhxre, @vixparker

alwaysmoncheri © ─ all rights reserved. please do not repost/translate/copy any of my work.

[lucky-bucky-boy]

Fluffy newlywedd Peter (Tom or andrew) x reader 🥺

The warm, twinkling string lights provided enough light to illuminate the dance floor, the surroundings tables finally empty and the sound of the music echoing off the walls. The last bit of excitement could be heard distantly as the last few guests made their way to their cars.

Your first dance song played again, much lower and soft, as you and Peter shared one more dance together. Your arms around his neck, his around your waist, essentially just hugging tightly as you swayed to the music.

"Mrs. Parker," her whispered, lips practically on your neck with how close he needed wanted to be to you.

"Mr. Parker," you hummed back softly, giggling immediately after the formality left your lips.

This was a long time coming, decades of being friends, years of dating, and what felt like an eternity of engagement and wedding planning. It truly could have been any better though, beyond thrilled with how every little detail and quirk of the night had went.

"Can't believe I get to spend the rest of my life with you," he whispered, almost to himself more than you, "Childhood dream come true."

You couldn't help but feel your body warm at his words, "Peter, you had me before we were even married."

"I know," he pressed a kiss to the skin of your neck before moving so he could look you in the eye, "But now, no one can deny it, and you never have to doubt if I'm yours or not."

You smiled softly, pressing a kiss to his lips, "Peter, my sweet, we have always been each others."

[fromdove]

Jason had always been too much.

Too loud, too fast, too stubborn. He could never just be in the way that people seemed to want him to. Even now, years after resurrection, after countless fights and the League’s brutal remaking of his body, after the Pit had burned away all softness, he still caught himself moving like that scrawny, half-starved kid from Crime Alley — slipping between shadows, ducking his head to avoid attention, bracing for the next blow.

But he wasn’t small anymore.

He could see it in the way people looked at him — sidelong glances, half-hidden wariness. He towered now, broad-shouldered and heavy with muscle. A wall of a man. Built like a weapon.

And sometimes he hated it.

There were nights when his body felt like a costume he couldn't take off — too large, too loud even in stillness. He’d lie awake with his hand curled against his ribs, willing his heart to slow, not even sure why he felt so wrong in his own skin.

But not with you.

You didn’t flinch when he brushed past you in tight hallways. You didn’t shrink from his size, or his moods, or his silences. You had a way of just… existing beside him, calm and steady, like the eye of a hurricane.

It was late when it happened. A long patrol, a bruised shoulder, dirt still under his fingernails. He didn’t say much when he walked in, just stripped off the Red Hood armor piece by piece, until he was bare and quiet and aching.

You were already in bed, curled in loose sheets, and when he sank into the mattress beside you, something in him gave out. All that strength, all that careful control — gone in an instant. He reached for you instinctively, spooning behind you like muscle memory, tucking his face against your neck.

But then you turned in his arms.

“No,” you whispered gently, not unkind. Your hands were warm against his chest, guiding him, shifting him — and before he could ask what you were doing, he was the one being cradled.

You pulled him in, let him rest his head on your chest, your arm curling over his wide back like you could hold all of him — and the strangest thing was, you did.

No one had ever held him like that.

Not Bruce. Not Alfred. Not anyone.

He wasn’t a weapon here. Not a soldier, not a ghost, not a lost Robin who had clawed his way back from death. He was just Jason. He was your Jason.

You carded your fingers through his hair, slow and unhurried, and asked softly, “Wanna take a bath with me in the morning?”

He nodded against your collarbone, eyes closed. His breath evened out.

It was the best night of sleep he’d had in months.

He didn’t say it out loud — not yet — but he was possessive. Fiercely, utterly yours. But not in the way people might assume.

He didn’t need to own you.

He needed to belong to you.

Every night he came home and saw the light still on, your smile still waiting, he felt the weight in his chest ease just a little more. He could live with the monster in his mirror, the blood on his gloves, the ache in his bones — if it meant this. If it meant you.

He didn’t care if he was your first. Didn’t care about perfect love stories.

He just wanted to be your last.

And if you’d let him, he’d be yours forever.

[pipedreame]

I am such a slut for Danny having supernatural strength and being able to kill someone with a single slap because he’s used to fighting ghosts who are built Sturdy (and literally can’t die, that is very helpful in a sparing partner) so he has to learn such meticulous control when he moves to Gotham where he starts regularly getting into scuffles with humans who think he’s an easy target (he looks like he has the sturdiness of a wet newspaper) and the whole time he’s more stressed about not drawing the Bats attention by being too good or accidentally killing someone so he has to walk that fine line of acting like a scrawny loser and dipping out at his first chance without being clocked as a meta.

Danny, laying on the ground and getting kicked repeatedly by a thug: *tries to angle himself so the guy can kick out a knot in his back*

Danny: *deadpan* oh, ow, stop that hurts, oof

Robin, watching from the rooftop and recognizing the dramatics from the Supers: father there is a meta

Batman, also watching and having flashbacks to Clark’s earlier days: *so so tired and already mentally getting the adoption paperwork ready*

[hanasnx]

Hop hop 🐇 hiya :). I like the thought that the first time reader really got a hint of Peter's strength is when he ate her pussy for the first time. He spread her legs and locked em down with his forearms and hands on her waist. For all her squirming and bucking with pleasure his muscles didn't budge a single millimeter, he didn't even notice her trying. It's not like he meant to, he was just losing himself a little, overeager, a pleaser, and that morsel of strength that peaked through was enough to tip her off that he's not normal. She doesn't know he can lift a bus. 🐇 Hop hop

“ SWEET KIWI, YOUR JUICE’S DRIPPIN’ DOWN MY CHIN ” — peter parker.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ NOTES: this shit made me bite my fucking finger. eyes rolling into the back of my head type shit. melting in my seat i’m liquid. bcos this is exactly it. WARNINGS: not proofread, barely correct grammar/punctuation bcos i wrote this in a goddamn fevered rush. i’m not usually like this. established relationship. smut via fem receiving oral.

you look at PETER PARKER and you know he’s got a sleeper build, he may be tall and lanky but you’ve seen what he looks like flexed. but there are limits, you’re not kidding yourself here.

so when you finally get over it and let him go down on you, all nestled up into some pillows, real comfy, watching him get your legs undressed, your suspicions are at an all time low. you feel the excited pool into your core, the anticipation making you a little bubbly and nervous. he starts off small, lets you get used to things, tries to gauge your reactions to delicate sensations. he knows he’s prone to overstimulation, last thing he wants to do rn is give you too much too fast. he doesn’t know you that well, so he wants this to be a learning experience for him while you relax.

you sink further into the mattress while he licks at your clit, a fragile and unstable pace, looking up and over the mound of your pussy to gauge your reactions—both in expression and audible. when he starts sucking on it between his silky lips you cry out, throwing your head back instinctually. the way he’s restraining himself is more torture than it is pleasant, and all he’s done so far is kiss on your little clit you feel like a virgin.

your feet pick up, your hand comes to palm the back of his head, get all up in his hair. he hums against you, and your hips buck. toes pointed and back arched, you try to grind his face into your cunt. he takes the hint, and ups the fervor. sweeping his face side to side, he digs in further, and when he dips down to lick the moisture up your slit you can barely take the suspense. your hand draws him in to keep attention on your clit. you don’t want penetration, you need friction. you crave it.

it’s the kind of feeling that has you literally fighting to fuck his face. your entire body is moving as you’re keeping him pinned there and using him to get off.

when your hips start to stutter, and a shudder locks up your spine, peter doesn’t get the gist. you’re close but he’s not done. he starts putting in place some key features while you’re occupied. one arm scoops under your leg, wrapping your thigh with his bicep and the crook of his elbow. the other does the same one after another. his hands, big and warm, rest on your stomach and lace together, locking you in. the weight of them press down on your lower abdomen while he eats you out. all in the name of getting you as close as possible while your body writhes.

you’ve released his hair, jelly-like arms falling to your sides while your hips chase your release. peter’s eyes fall closed while he gets lost in it, taking in the taste of you, taking in what you smell like, what you sound like. it’s the kind of sensory overload he can get carried away with, a symphony of chemicals in his brain whisking him away while you’re left with the exhilarating and torturous reality. your body is screaming. you can’t shut the fuck up either. he’s locked you in while your little hands futilely grab at whatever they can reach to try and make him let up. if you just had a break or a second to breathe then things would be different, but even if peter were conscious he’d know better anyway.

while you’re squirming, you can’t help but feel like there should be more budge. there’s a give that’s missing when you jerk your body. it’s an odd discovery. perfectly flexed muscles don’t move a single millimeter when you try to wiggle your hips out of his grasp. his laced fingers stay intact when you try to ground your feet and pick yourself up. and when you try to crawl out from under him there’s not spare room to slip your thighs under. you’re trapped. and peter’s warm mouth envelopes your pussy with spit sodden lips while his tongue flicks at your clit. the kind of shit that makes you clutch at his wrists and beg, “peter, peter!” bcos you’re about to flood his face.

[prongsinrevolt]

one thing about remus is he will sleep. room kinda warm? sleeping. watching a movie? sleeping. sitting with sirius? sleeping.

[cinnamongrl2006]

what if…. English Major nerd!jason tutoring bimbo!reader… and reader’s entire mission is to just annoy him / flirt with him so he’ll do her course work so she doesn’t have to

* ⊹₊⟡⋆ mdni 18+ * ⊹₊⟡⋆

a/n: My queen @ditzydoe444 has some stuff about this that are soo scrumptious, so defo check her blog out, THAT BEING SAID— here’s my interpretation of it, enjoyy. Also, do we like the new format or was the three picture banner thing cuter? Also, this gave me war flashbacks from my uni lit class, that was WAR *

Warnings: fingering (idk, nothing else happens, guys)

When you were assigned Jason as a tutor for your English lit course you thought it'd be easy to get him to do all the work, a bat of your eyes and an empty promise and he'd be scrambling behind you like a lost puppy; however, you soon found it wasn't like that.

At first he didn't think much of the lingering touches and fleeting glances, of the way you'd rest your hand on his thigh and leaned over his hips to see the glowing laptop screen better, or how you’d chew on your lip, looking up at him with wide eyes; but then came the bolder touches, the flirting and pouting your glossed lips at him when you didn’t want to do the coursework.

And Jason, sweet and doting, smiled back with his cheeks and ears red and a boner in his jeans.

You prided yourself in the fact that you could get him hard nearly as quick as he got you soaked, you’d always had a thing for nerdy guys.

Jason was anything but stupid, and he quickly realized you were trying to lure him to do all the work, so when you put your hand over his clothed cock that day— running it up and down his half hard shaft while you spoke about the reading with feigned innocence— he didn’t stop you, instead he angled his hips up into your palm and groaned, smiling at your flustered look.

You recovered quickly, manicured hand gripping his clothed cock harder, complaining about how you just didnt get the coursework.

“Come on…you do get it, we’ve gone over it before. It’s just— metaphors.” His voice came out strained, breathy.

“No, Jay, I swear I don’t— can’t you just…do it so I can see what it is?” You whined, body angled towards him, buzzing at the proximity; your tits pushed up enticingly close to his face.

He could give in easily, reach out and—no. He’d voluteered to tutor you, not fuck you (no matter how much he wanted to do the latter).

All his resolve came crumbling when you spread your legs slightly and placed his hand on your inner thigh.

“You can at least explain it again, no?” Your fingers wrapped around his wrist, pulling his hand closer to where you wanted it.

That’s how you ended up with his thick fingers playing with your clit as he quizzed you. Whenever you’d get a question wrong his movements would halt, if you staggered or didn’t know the answer, he’d slow down.

“I don’t know, Jay, I swear!” You whined, hips pushing up against his hand.

“Babe, you do know. Come on, I told you less than an hour ago.” His tone didn’t have that usual veil of stoicism you’d once confused with shyness, he was almost patronizing.

“Let’s do this,” He ripped his hand off your panties, his fingers glistened with your arousal when he pushed them past your lips. “If you get the question right, I’ll put a finger in.”

You whined, sucking his fingers clean. “Fine.”

“Okay, use your pretty little head, what do you think?” His words were sweet, calming as he snaked his hand up your skirt and under your panties again.

“It’s…lady Macbeth?” You whined, his hand now so close to where you needed him.

“Such a smart girl,” He pushed a finger in. “See? You just needed an incentive, didn’t you?”

────୨ৎ────

* I’m sooo considering doing a part two for this of just smut because I lovedd writing it, so if the anon who sent this wants it lmkkk!!

masterlist