Chapter Text
Peter Parker wasn’t what you would call a kinky guy.
Okay. That bit could certainly be a lie, but it wasn’t as though he had intended it
You could say it had all started with his suit.
Spandex has always been one thing, a tight fit, teetering perfectly between overstimulating and just right. Peter had always had a thing for the snug things.
A cozy sweater in the dead of winter. A warm blanket lavished over his shivering form. Gloves, scarf, the cheapest and coziest winter coat he could find. The whole shebang. As prone to the cold as he was after all. Especially more so after his spider bite, his ability to thermoregulate had taken a drastic nosedive. Layers nowadays were devastatingly essential.
He had added much to his suit over the years in his vigilante occupation. Little tweaks. Adjustments here and there to cater toward his particular tastes, the seasons, or the weather raging around him. It wasn’t as though crime would cease just due to a measly storm.
Spider-Man was always a constant. A constant he couldn’t afford to falter.
But It had truly started with a suit cup.
Popping a stiffy in the midst of battle wasn’t one of his proudest moments. Often glad for the dark of alleys in the night to shield his woes (of unforeseen erection). Considering the mix of the high of adrenaline from a fight, blood coursing and pumping in ways he hadn't quite managed to understand as a teenager. Nor as an adult. One could question the outcome of that. Highly inappropriate, and rather not heroic.
Lest J.Jameson find a way to get that into his paper. Knowing that spite filled man, he certainly could and would.
It wasn’t that the cup's material was uncomfortable. A constant weight between his groin and spandex, the smooth texture. It rubbed in all the right ways. Now that. That was the issue. But who couldn’t fault him for getting a little bit turned on, it wasn’t as though Nerd-Throb Peter Parker got any action nowadays. Let alone that Spider-Man would have time to find that sort of action. He had more important priorities.
Between juggling work, college and spider-manning. Peter just simply didn’t have time for the luxuries of a little romp around. Nor the emotional strength to handle one. He wasn't a one and done sort of man, he preferred long term, loving caresses and shared secrets. Trust. Now after all that had happened in his past relationships. He didn't have the mental capacity to handle one, not with the thought of another untimely death hanging over his head.
He simply couldn't afford a lover, not money wise, with living paycheck to paycheck after all. As for his nightly occupation, not trust wise either. He would have to keep this secret from them, the very same secret that had killed so many he held dear. He simply wasn't strong enough.
Physical strength on the other hand, that he had more to go around. Even if in some cases it simply isn't enough, having to hold himself back. It took so much in him not to snap, to continue to stand for his morals. To not make the same mistake twice. It may not have been enough for others, but for him though, it was. So he did, as Spider-Man. No true proper way to release the woes of the day, the sickeningly seething rage held under wraps of good natured puns and comradery— Then to take it out on the no good individuals in the dead of the night.
Peter knew deep down that it was something he enjoyed, a guilty pleasure in taking out the stress on those who had done wrong. Something he would do until the day he died, the constricting freedom of being the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man had its perks after all. From simple car jackers to massive science-made creatures. Some spanning nearly the size of the skyscrapers that made out the city itself. Perfect for his stress relief.
Each touch of praise, each wrong-doer put to justice, it felt good. Sometimes it even felt good to make them hurt as well. He adored the adrenaline, the thrill, the fight. The heart-stopping sink of his stomach as he rose and fell between each web-sling.
For Peter Parker, it was living— and totally not weird or kinky. At all. He was a self proclaimed professional.
But as of now, he sat perched upon the roof, Deadpool at his side as he listened intently for a scuffle to unfold. He crouched hot in his core, and uncomfortably stuff under his cup. Clothed under his suit, secured just right in the tight fit of the stockings. Black nylon with just the hint of rose-lace at the top. Cupping his muscular thighs like soft satin dreams. The lace was scratchy enough for him to be reminded, and not too much for his spidey-senses, heightened always by textures. The tightness was leaving him lighter on his toes. And ever more thicker under his cup. Enthralled by the new thrill of his secret.
It had all started with an offhand comment, just a few weeks back.
“Whatta ‘bout stockings?” The words had broken the easy silence, muffled, through a mouth full of food. Deadpool happily munching away on the fast-food they often had indulged in many nights patrolling together. Peter titled his head toward him, sat rather stiffly, close to audibly shivering beside him. A cold front had begun to creep in from the waters as winter drew nearer each passing day.
The topic came up as Peter sat chilled nearly to the bone beside the larger man, a few paces away on the roof. The duo dining on their burgers under the starless, but still strikingly bright New York skyline.
“Just think about it Webs— AND Oo!!— not only would it hug that ass—“
“I’m thinking more of an inter-layering situation,” Peter cut him off, rolling his eyes with an extra flick of his neck, knowing Deadpool would catch on. Peter was quick to cut off the tirade as he swallowed around his mouthful, the burger dripping grease into the folds of the branded wrapper taped tight around it. “My winter suit just isn’t holding me up this year. Considering the upgrades I made last year to the fabric. I was expecting better. Now if I can just find a new material, or even test a few, maybe even develop my own… I can work the kinks out to really get it warm enough to insulate—“
Peter took another bite, cutting himself off. Not prematurely, simply just not wanting to continue. He had a burger to finish after all. He could let Deadpool take it from here.
“No, no!” Deadpool raved his burger around dramatically, his other preoccupied digging into his greased bag's bottom for more fries. “You, my dear Spidey, KINKS and all!!” Wade made a nudging motion toward him, mask winking comically. “Are just simply not thinking hard enough—“ The mercenary cut himself off with a giggle, “Hehe— get it, hard enough.“
Peter let out a scandalized noise, truly trying to ignore the satisfaction that pooled in his gut at the thought. “Yeah, yeah, I get it, Just shut it. Stop harassing me— and!! Harassing my poor, poor burger.” Peter titled himself away from Wade, shifting a hand to hold it over his half-eaten meal, mocking protection. “She’s certainly far too young to be hearing about this.”
“Well she certainly ain’t gonna live long enough to remember this!!” Deadpool cackled back enthusiastically, tone singsongy as he continued. “But you sure will! Plus! It isn't harassment, it's a suggestion, totally different— ya can take it or leave it, Spidester.”
Another exaggerated roll of his eyes and another bite to his slowly vanishing meal. Maybe Deadpool had a point. Peter shifted, his swinging legs tingly with each movement, blood slowly flowing back into them. Damn he was cold.
Maybe stockings honestly weren’t a bad idea.
Fuck. He wasn’t paid enough for this. Scratch that, Peter wasn’t paid AT ALL for this.
Peter already went commando in his suit, not that he’d ever inform Wade of that. Which surely didn’t help with his lack of heat problem. But with the additive of stockings, his body may just regulate itself to a final and stable higher degree.
Peter had to physically shake himself off the thought, much to Deadpool’s cackling beside him, muffled only by the mouthful as he chewed. Peter cleared his throat, licking his lips for more than the reasoning of simply cleaning off the salt of his dinner. “Yes ‘Pool, I can get it, but can we be more serious—“
“Woah woah woah woah, Spid’s!!” Wade cut him off as he flailed his arms around, dramatically and all around comically. The bravado heavily cheerful, and downright warming, in the brisk chill. “NOW just who said I wasn’t being serious!!”
Deadpool’s voice was cut off, as the fist full of fries made it to his blabbering mouth. Peter's eyes flickered over, thankful for his top half of mask as he watched Wade chew, the bulge of his cheeks sending a spike of arousal down his spine. Peter desperately trying and failing to keep all and any inappropriate thoughts at bay. Ever struggling as Deadpool’s tongue poked out, licking at the salted residue coated there. Peter forced himself to cast his attention to his own food, swallowing thickly. Deadpool continued on, mouth full of fries to his distaste, and guiltily buzzing satisfaction. “I am being serious! A tight nice pair of thick stockings for your thick ass serious thighs. Perfection in a frame if I dare say so myself!!— Plus!! A toasty spider is a happy spider!!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Peter rolled his eyes under his mask, eyes trailing over the skyline, bright as always within the glow of New York. His home, his people, spread out before him, just like his dignity apparently. “Save it for someone who actually wants to hear your suggestions, Wade.”
Deadpool ignored him with little chagrin, the man blabbering without a proper go to. Appearing to notice what he presumed to be Peter’s discomfort and moving on. Such as usual. Picking a new topic to ease into with Peter, or to just rile him up as he went about it. The two bickering easily through the rest of their meal.
The night continued as such, until a quick flick of Spider-Man’s head, his senses blaring. Without any prompt, Deadpool knew him far too well enough now. Wade jumped to his feet. After roughly over a year or so working together, the two had become quite the team. Working rapidly, the two cleaned up, Spider-Man too much of an environmentalist to ever litter, even in the state of an emergency.
Then two were off, webs and grappling hook, the trash bag dropped into an abandoned alley dumpster. Forgotten. Hopefully as well as their previous discussion, left to linger into nothing though the chilling winds they rode through.
o0o0o0o0o0o
Gods, he was going to regret this.
Peter had caved after a week after the conversation. The cold getting under his skin, and the idea of the thrill of it getting him on ever further.
Peter, in the comfort of his own home, had opened up his web browser. Far too ashamed to ever go to a department store to search out these items himself. It didn’t matter if the clerks would ask and more than likely assume it was for a girlfriend or a partner.
It was simply the principle itself.
He had sat down, crouched over his laptop for hours at his small rickety desk, shifting back and forth on his crooked chair. The constant rhythm helpful in distracting him against the unyielding tightness in his jeans. In ignoring his bordering painful embarrassment of an issue trapped away under the table. His nails were now bitten to fine stubs. Tied with the low flush that ran over his cheeks, trailing high to the tips of his ears. He was a bit of a wreck.
Peter in his research had settled on two pairs, for now. He didn’t just want to throw his money away after all. He was never so frugal with it. The risk of damage in suit was far too high for anything pricey enough to barter with.
The first pair of stockings had been a statement in itself, a tight black semi see-through mesh between each of his thick thighs. Bands he was sure would hug the meat of his muscles flawlessly.
And the second, downright sexier pair— if he did say so himself. Still a tight black nylon, but instead of pertaining to the same material all the way as the plain black pair did. These ones melded into lace at the top, pristine little black roses decorated the fragile fabric at its peak. Regarding the pictures, hopefully a touch too tight around his muscular thighs.
Now. Five to ten business days later, as advertised— the box had made its way to his apartment's doorstep. Peter had been quick to tear the package open, shredding through cardboard and crinkling tissue paper. Casted aside to admire the fabric openly. Thrilled at finally being able to touch what had been plaguing his mind for weeks. He was deft to throw off his pants and shirt, sliding the silky rose embroidered material up each of his thighs. Hugging his legs so well in that lacey goodness. He couldn’t help the lull of arousal at the feeling itself. The rub of his thighs against soft nylon and prickly lace as he walked through his dimly lit room. It had him shaking in just mere moments. Cock hardening steadfast and crudely on display, jutting against the cotton of his gray boxers.
Thank god for his suit cup to nullify that particular issue in the near future.
Peter couldn’t help but audibly moan at the display he made in his full length mirror. He often had trouble feeling truly irresistibly attractive in his downright nerdish demeanor. Next to quaint, passable. Though now, Peter ran his eyes over his form, stirring in his gut something enticing, This was getting to him, Peter— he, he felt divine.
The gentle warm glow of his table side lamp was perfect in highlighting his tousled brown hair, unruly as ever, his matching eyes dark as they sank in the sight before him. Hard planes of sleek sloping muscle, offset by the softness of the material hugging silky snug from his feet to his thighs. Soft in all the right places, with pressure just perfect enough to boot. His dick certainly agreed, having filled out not long after the material clung enticingly to his peachy trembling skin.
He trailed a hand down his chest, long slopes downward to tease over the fray of his hard cock, head just barely jutting from the confines of his boxers. The gray material suffocating, already coated a shade darker with sticky pre, dick jerking insistently at the ploy touch. He skirted past, lean fingers trailing down and bypassing his dick for his real prize.
His hand met his stocking, toying at the lacey snug band. Peter shivered at the sensation it brought him, touch deliciously heightened by his superhuman powers. Fingertips tracing petals and intricate leaf patterns alike. The setae on his fingertips clinging briefly in his clouded mind. Arousal toying with his control over his abilities. They gave way to irresistible hypersensitive jolts, sparking up his hands and forearms. Peter dared to slip further, his pointer finger teasing under the band. The chill of his fingertips causing shivers against the heat emanating from his thighs. He gave the material a tug, pulling it back and letting it go with a snap.
Peter bodily lurched at the notion, senses blaring at the slight sting. A gasp slipped past his lips, his hard-on following the motion in similar fashion. It giving a shiver of a tremble, precum spurting another thick glob to the mess already correlating in his boxers. Peter couldn’t help but moan in delight.
Deadpool was right, of course (not that he would ever voice this to him). He looked delicious in the snug fabric.
Wade—
Fuck. He was always going on about his ass, but he for sure never believed him. Deadpool had no idea what he looked like under his costume, they were close of course, but not that close.
Though ‘Pool had always seemed interested, flirting up a storm, after years of knowing one another they had hung out countless times, trading secrets as easily as breathing. Each show of trust though a new lungful of air for the other. Ever consistent. Though he knew Wade didn’t want him like this, Peter had heard the man flirt with any living thing he could possibly fuck. Sure, Peter was subjected to the brunt of it, but that was simply due to the amount of time they spent together. Peter honestly figured it was how he showed affection. Otherwise, Wade surely would have advanced on him already.
Fuck— but if he could, if he would.
He titled himself gentle on the balls of his feet, trying to see just as Wade saw. Gasping softly and ogling just how the fabric cupped him. Accentuating the curve of his thighs to ass.
Oh wow.
Peter skimmed his hands over the planes of his hips and down his backside, cupping his cheeks as he gave them a jiggle.
Oh wow. Ok. Maybe Wade was onto something.
He gulped harshly, heart pounding in his throat. Trailing his hand facing the mirror downward, he skirted over the fray of fabric on his thighs again. Quickly abandoning that path back upward to free himself from the confines of the soaked cotton that shielded his weeping cock. He rid himself of the offending fabric swiftly, cold air almost too much on the throbbing skin. Peter was swift to chuck the boxers across the room. Landing skillfully in his nearly overflowing hamper. Dammit, he really needed to do his laundry.
Turning his attention back again into his figure in the mirror. He eyed his absolute monster of an erection that he was sporting, red and bulging, wet and needy. Having seeped across his lower abdomen, a thin sheen of slick visible in the lowlight.
Peter swallowed dryly and took himself in hand, the action bordering shameful. Calloused and chilled digits breaking him out in shivers. Goosebumps broke out over his sensitized frame, thighs quaking in chagrin. He rubbed his thighs together. The feeling euphoric against the cool fabric. Startling another moan out of him.
The thought of Wade was on his mind, and on his tongue. Oh— how Peter wanted him on his tongue, anything the older man would give him. He would take it willingly. He wanted to be on his knees for him, harsh floor bruising against the tender of his knees. Grounding him bodily while he lapped him down– Peter had never sucked cock before. Never even thought of sucking cock before, but that of course had been long before Wade came into his life.
An enigma, something he wanted so badly, so desperately. He had let his mind wander a few times. Wade’s teasing touches, wistful looks and lewd commentary, leading to a handful of embarrassing masturbation sessions. Bordering on desperation. He had forced himself to stop, that was his dearest friend after all. Peter couldn’t handle that guilt, thus he hadn’t thought of Wade in this manner for months. Alas, this was his breaking point. These stupid fucking irresistible stockings. That Wade himself had been the one to recommend he buy in the first place.
Peter’s eyes glazed as he trailed over his trembling form in the mirror. Chest flushed and body quaking to his misdeeds. Embarrassment leaking into his being, nearly as so as his dick, precum making a steady supply of slick to help spur on his hazy movements. The back and forth—Touch calm and collected, practiced, against the tidal wave of buzzing arousal clinging to his form. Peter’s lashes fluttered, falling willingly into the fantasy. Imagining Wade's textured hands on him. With his own calloused fingers, setae adding that extra grip, he could faintly imagine them as the man’s. Though he knew it still not to be a close enough replica, a man could dream— or imagine in this case. The only time he had ever felt them was between brief recons, where Deadpool had helped him stitch or bandage himself up more than once. Those hard to reach places are a perfect excuse for lingering touches, which Wade seemed to favor above all else.
He remembered the confident touch, stitching him up expertly quick with a dissolving stitching. Practiced hands dutifully careful, wandering between each wound. A hand always clasping comfortingly to Peter, grounding him. Possibly more so for Wade, ever aware of Peter's mortality. The touches, even if meant for his ease—oh so deliciously teasing him. Peter having to will every muscle, every reaction, not to give himself away in his ever growing arousal. His need. Peter craved more of Wade, who had always seemed to linger, maybe with such an intent himself. Peter would always willingly go along with no qualms, aching for more.
But even then, he never allowed his mind to wander too far, the cup could only do so much if he was given away by his own flush—- his heavy breathing, the haze of his eyes. Begging the older man to just do something, to disregard his injuries. To just take. Thank fuck for those injuries to mask it within the boundaries of pain.
Now, in the comfort of his room, he was allowing himself to indulge again.
Peter quickly sunk to his knees, wooden boards bruising and cold beneath his muscular legs. He moaned audibly at the fabric that slid against his sensitive skin at the motion. Settling snuggly, he made such a pretty picture in the mirror before him. Flushed and needy, he gave a gentle tug of his wrist, falling quickly into his usual rhythm of things.
—No, that wasn’t right. How would Wade do it?
Peter inhaled sharply, eyes going wide at the very thought. He had been so good, sticking to touching himself strictly to pornography. Getting hot and bothered in the traditional sense, rather than off the man he called his best friend. At this point though, knowing just who wanted this, who would want him in the taunt material of stockings. Peter let his eyes slip closed, free hand making way to play with the fabric on his thighs once again. Fingering dutifully over lace meeting flushed skin.
Peter always assumed Wade would be quick, tempered by his needy want for a piece of Spider-Man. His hands quickly sped up to match the idea, Peter had always touched himself slowly. Enthralled by the build up as he lost himself. Savoring the feeling of a slow turn to peak. But his mind was enraptured by the idea of strong thick arms and chiseled muscles. A husky voice in his ear, a skilled tongue trailing down his neck, his spine, perhaps ever downward to meet his aching cock.
His hips began to jerk, meeting up into the tight heat of his fist. The room filled steadily with the sound of slapping skin on skin. His pace was frantic now, close to painful. Cock hard and weeping in his grasp. His tip begging for release with each spout of precum smoothing the way. Peter felt ready to burst any second.
Peter brought his free hand away from the lovely smooth texture of his thighs, slapping it over his mouth to conceal his heavy breaths, needy whines cresting between mouthfuls. His walls weren’t the thickest after all.
Peter wondered how the texture of Wade’s skin would feel upon his cock. Peter was always a touch so overstimulated, even without touching himself. Would he lose it at a moment's notice from the new sensations?
Oh shit— would Wade fuck him?
Peter had never been fucked, had never even fingered himself. Far too fearful of such an exploration, something so foreign to him. He whimpered, biting his lip as he drew his hand away. With shaky shame, and morbid curiosity— he brought his hand back, lifting himself just barely so from his collapsed position.
His empty hand met his ass, grasping the skin, kneading the warm flesh below his palm and finger tips. Peter wondered if Wade would pay close attention to his ass, worship it as the other man had always appeared to crave. With a muffled whine, bottom lip still stuck fast between his teeth. Curious hands continued downward, just barely so as he leaned himself forward. Hand trailed down, he spread his cheek— just barely pressing the pads down, ghosting his touches warily to finger experimentally over his hole.
Peter threw his head back with a moan, the thought itself— the just so touch, followed by the erratic movements on his cock. Images flashing through his head as he teased delicately over his hole. Finger pressing into the rim in teasing kneading circles. The thought of Wade being the one to press over his rim, press into him, fuck him open on his thick scared fingers—It was just enough to push him over. His orgasm hit harshly, eyes squeezing shut, they rolled back into his head, that too being thrown back. Peter bit down hard, enough so to draw blood, efficiently silencing himself to mere muffled whimpers. Peter painted his fist, and most of his hardwood floor in this new angle with ropes of cum. His lashes fluttered, body quaking with each pulse as he continued to jerk himself through completion, thighs quivering and body shaking in the glow of his aftermath. He slouched forward, knees dredging forward into the mess as he collapsed, hand jutting forward to catch himself. The cooling cum soiling into the silky material along his thighs—
Oh god dammit. Now he had to wash these.