SWEET ★ HONEY ★ BUCKIIN’

Dom | Peter Parker x F!Black Reader. (Smut/NSFW)

˗ˏˋ While settling down for the night you received a text notification from the one and only, Peter Parker. The boy that usually only texts you about science and work. But this message was unexpected, a photo of his abs being the only thing sent to you.

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Very explicit & detailed. | Minors DNI! | A/N: I am so sorry I have been gone for months again! Work has been busy, but with me getting used to my schedule, I’m genuinely back. To keep it short, this is college Peter, 21. You are 20 in this. I love you guys, and I will continue uploading! | WC: 3,012

[btw: I had to look up all those scientific terms & etc because science is not my thing anymore and I wanted this story to be a bit nerdy.]

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Your phone buzzed against the nightstand, a stark, white flash in the dark room. You groaned, rolling over in your tangle of blankets, one hand fumbling blindly to silence the intrusion.

The glow lit up your face as you squinted at the screen. A text. From Peter.

That wasn’t unusual. Peter Parker, your lab partner for the recent project of Organic Chemistry, texted about data sets, conflicting results, and the existential dread of Professor Banner’s grading curve. You expected a question about the Fourier-transform infrared spectroscopy assignment, maybe a panicked emoji.

What loaded on your screen wasn’t a question.

It was a photograph. Dim, intimate lighting from what looked like a desk lamp. The focus was on a slice of toned stomach, the defined lines of abs cutting down toward the low-slung waistband of grey sweatpants. A faint trail of dark hair disappeared beneath the fabric. The skin glowed warm, a few faint, silvery lines, scars from some forgotten lab mishap, scattered like tiny constellations. No caption. Just the image.

You stared. The soft cotton of your boy shorts suddenly felt too tight. Your spaghetti strap tank top felt too thin. The silk bonnet on your head felt absurdly domestic. You were in your bed, in your safe space, and Peter Parker had just bombed it with a pixelated version of his abdomen.

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard. What did you say to that? ‘Nice abs’? ‘Wrong number’? Your heart was doing a weird, stuttering rhythm against your ribs. You typed, deleted, typed again.

You: Did you mean to send this to someone else?

The three dots appeared immediately. He’d been waiting.

Peter: No.

A beat. Then another message.

Peter: Couldn’t stop thinking about you after lab today. About the way you bite your pen when you’re concentrating.

Your breath stopped in your throat. That was… specific.

Personal. Not about science.

You: That’s a weird thing to fixate on, Parker.

Peter: Is it? I fixate on a lot of things about you.

The dots danced. Another photo loaded. This one was closer. His hand was splayed across his lower stomach, fingers dipping just below the sweatpants’ band, thumb hooking in it.

The muscles in his forearm were taut. The message that followed was simple.

Peter: I’m outside.

You shot up, the blankets pooling at your waist.

Outside? You scrambled to the window, peering through the blinds. The streetlamp painted the sidewalk in jaundiced yellow. And there he was, leaning against the brick facade of your apartment building, head tilted back, phone glow illuminating his face. He looked up, as if sensing you, and gave a small, almost nervous wave.

Your mind blanked. This was insane. It was nearly midnight.

You were in pajamas. He’d sent a photo of his stomach. Yet, a slow, heavy heat was pooling low in your belly, spreading outward. The academic, slightly awkward Peter from the lab was gone, replaced by something far more direct. Far more dangerous.

You typed, your fingers feeling clumsy.

You: It’s late.

Peter: I know. Let me in?

You stood there, torn. This was a line, once crossed, that would obliterate your carefully constructed lab-partner dynamic. You’d have to find a new partner.

You’d have to avoid him in the library. The practical part of your brain screamed a list of consequences.

The part of you that was now achingly aware of the dampening cotton between your thighs didn’t care.

You: 2nd floor. Door’s unlocked.

You didn’t wait to see his reply. You just stood in the middle of your studio apartment, listening to the frantic beat of your own heart. You heard the distant creak of the building’s main door, then footsteps on the stairs, quick, light. A soft knock.

You opened the door.

He filled the doorway, dressed down in a dark hoodie and those grey sweatpants. He smelled like cold night air and faint, clean soap. His eyes, usually hidden behind a hood or narrowed in thought, were dark and intent, scanning you from the silk bonnet down to your bare feet. A slow smile touched his lips, not his usual shy grin, but something sharper, more knowing.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

“Hey.” You sounded breathless. “You’re… here.”

“I am.” He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, closing the door softly behind him. His gaze was a physical weight. “I like the bonnet.”

You self-consciously touched it. “It’s for my hair.”

“I know what it’s for.” He took another step, reducing the space between you to nothing. You had to tilt your head back to look at him. “You look comfortable.”

“I was trying to sleep.”

“Were you?” His hand came up, not touching you, just hovering near the strap of your tank top. “After I sent that picture?”

You had no clever retort. The truth was too obvious in the way your skin prickled under his near-touch. “No,” you admitted, the word barely a whisper.

“Good.” His fingers finally made contact, tracing the line of the strap from your shoulder down to where it met the thin fabric over your breast. The touch was feather-light, devastating.

“Because I haven’t been able to think about anything else all night. Just you. In that lab coat. Out of it.”

His other hand came up, mimicking the first on your other strap. He pushed them both down your shoulders in one slow, deliberate motion. The cool air hit your skin, pebbling your nipples instantly under the thin cotton. You didn’t move to stop him.

“Peter…” you started, but the protest died.

“Tell me to leave,” he murmured, his lips close to your ear. His

His breath was warm. “Tell me this is a mistake, that we have a lab report due on Tuesday, and I should go home and review the chiral chromatography data.”

You swallowed. “Fuck the data.”

A low sound escaped him, almost a growl. “That’s what I wanted to hear.” His hands slid from the straps to cup your face, tilting it up to his. The kiss wasn’t tentative. It was hungry, deep, and claiming from the first second. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you met it with your own, a spark igniting into a wildfire. Your hands came up, clutching at his hoodie, dragging him closer. The soft fabric of his sweatpants brushed against your bare thighs.

He walked you backward, his mouth never leaving yours, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of your bed.

You collapsed onto it, pulling him down on top of you. The weight of him, solid and real, was a shock after weeks of imagined glances. He braced himself on his elbows, looking down at you, his hair messy where your fingers had plowed through it.

“I have fantasies,” he said, his voice rough. “About you. Detailed, fucking specific fantasies. And tonight, I’m making them real.”

“What kind of fantasies?” you asked, your own voice unfamiliar to you, thick with want.

He didn’t answer with words. He kissed you again, harder, then his mouth left yours, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, to the hollow of your throat. His teeth grazed your collarbone, a gentle, testing bite that made you jerk beneath him. Gentle biting. He soothed the spot with his tongue, then bit again, a little lower, a little harder, on the swell of your breast above your tank top.

“Off,” he ordered, tugging at the hem of your shirt.

You sat up enough to pull it over your head, your bonnet getting knocked askew. You yanked it off, tossing it aside, your hair tumbling free. His eyes drank in the sight of your bare breasts, the dark nipples already tight and eager.

“Fuck,” he breathed, a reverence in the curse. He lowered his head, but didn’t take a nipple into his mouth. Instead, he nuzzled the soft underside of your breast, his nose and lips brushing the sensitive skin. He breathed in deeply. “You smell incredible. Like sleep and skin and… you.”

Then his mouth closed over your nipple, hot and wet, his tongue swirling around the peak before sucking firmly. A jolt of pure, electric pleasure arrowed straight to your cunt, and you cried out, your back arching off the bed. He hummed against you, the vibration making your toes curl.

He switched to the other breast, lavishing it with the same attentive, devouring focus, his hand coming up to knead and tease the one he’d just left.

“Peter… oh, god…”

“Not god,” he mumbled against your skin, moving downward.

“Just me. Just your lab partner who’s about to fucking ruin you for anyone else.”

His kisses burned a path down your stomach, his tongue dipping into your navel. His hands hooked into the waistband of your boy shorts and dragged them down your legs, taking your panties with them in one motion. You were naked now, exposed under his dark, heated gaze. He settled between your legs, pushing your thighs apart with his shoulders.

The first cool breath of air against your wet folds made you tremble.

“Look at this,” he said, his voice full of awe. “Look how fucking wet you are for me. And I haven’t even touched you here yet.”

He leaned in, but again, he didn’t do what you expected.

“Please,” you whimpered, your hips lifting off the mattress.

“Please what?” He lifted his head, his eyes glinting. “Use your words mama. Tell me what you want my mouth to do.”

“I want you to taste me,” you begged, the vulgarity falling from your lips without shame. “Lick my pussy, Peter. Please.”

A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face.

“Since you asked so nicely.”

His mouth descended, and the first flat stroke of his tongue from your entrance to your clit was so intense, so perfectly aimed, you saw stars. He didn’t just lick- he explored. He licked into your opening, tasting your juices, humming his approval. He circled your clit with the tip of his tongue, lazy and teasing, before sucking the stiff bud gently between his lips. Your hands flew to his head, fingers tangling in his curls, holding him there. He ate you with a single-minded intensity that was utterly mesmerizing, like a complex problem he was determined to solve. His nose pressed against your clit as his tongue fucked deep into your cunt, then he’d pull back to lap at your sensitive folds, over and over.

“You taste so fucking good,” he groaned against you, the words vibrating through your very bones.

“Better than I dreamed. I’m gonna dream about this taste now. About how your cunt feels on my tongue.”

He added fingers, sliding two inside you with ease, crooking them to rub that sweet, spongy spot deep inside. The combined assault, his mouth on your clit, his fingers filling and stroking you, coiled the tension in your belly impossibly tight. You were babbling, half-words, half-moans, your thighs shaking against his head.

“I’m gonna… Peter, I’m gonna come…”

“Come,” he commanded, his voice muffled against you.

“Come in my mouth baby. Let me feel it.”

The permission shattered you. Your orgasm ripped through you, a convulsive, blinding wave that made your entire body seize. You cried out, back bowing, your cunt clamping down rhythmically on his fingers as he kept licking, gentler now, drawing out every last pulse. He didn’t stop until you were a twitching, oversensitive mess, pushing weakly at his head.

He crawled back up your body, kissing your stomach, your breasts, your neck, letting you taste yourself on his lips. He was hard, the length of his cock a thick, insistent pressure against your thigh through his sweatpants.

“My turn,” you whispered, your hands going to his waistband.

He helped you, shoving the sweatpants and his boxers down just enough to free his cock. It sprang out, thick and veined, the head flushed dark and already glistening with a bead of pre-cum. You wrapped your hand around him, and he hissed, his hips jerking.

“Fuck, your hand…”

You stroked him, once, twice, marveling at the silken heat of his skin over the rigid core. “I want to taste you, too.”

He didn’t argue. He shifted, kneeling over your face, one hand braced on the headboard. You didn’t need any more invitation. You leaned up and took the head into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the crown, lapping up the salty, bitter pre-cum. He groaned, a deep, ragged sound that fueled you. You took him deeper, relaxing your throat, your mouth stretched wide around his girth. Your hand worked the base as you sucked, using the flat of your tongue on the sensitive underside.

“Just like that… oh, fuck, just like that baby…” he chanted, his fingers threading into your hair, not forcing, just holding. His hips began a shallow, helpless thrust.

“Your mouth is so fucking perfect. I’ve wanted this. Wanted to fuck this smart mouth of yours.”

The dirty talk, the reality of him in your mouth, the weight of his cock on your tongue, it was overwhelming. You sucked him with a greed that surprised you, wanting to pull those same sounds from him, to make him lose the control he’d so carefully wielded over you.

He pulled back suddenly, breathless. “Enough. I want to be inside you. I need to be inside you.”

He rolled off, lying beside you, his chest heaving.

You turned to face him, and he captured your mouth in another searing kiss. His hand slid between your legs, fingers sliding through your slick folds, rubbing your clit in slow, firm circles. The hypersensitivity from your first orgasm was fading, replaced by a fresh, demanding ache.

“How do you want me?” you asked.

“On top,” he said. “I want to watch you. I want to see your face when I fill you up.”

You moved, straddling his hips. His hands came to your waist, holding you steady. You reached between you, guiding the blunt, wet head of his cock to your entrance. You paused, letting it just rest there, a teasing pressure against your swollen lips.

“Fucking tease,” he gritted out, his knuckles white where he gripped your hips.

You smiled, a slow, deliberate smile you’d never dared give him in the lab. You rubbed the slick tip up and down your slit, coating him in your wetness, smearing it over your clit with each pass. A soft, slick shhhick sound accompanied each movement. His pre-cum mixed with your juices, making everything glisten.

“You like that?” you breathed, rocking gently, letting the head nudge your opening but not penetrate.

“You like feeling how wet you made me?”

“Yes,” he gasped. “Now stop playing and sit on my cock.”

“Or what?” You gave a little roll of your hips, letting the head pop softly against your clit, a tiny, delicious shock.

“Or I’ll flip you over and fuck you so hard you’ll forget your own name,” he said, but there was a desperate plea underneath the threat.

You decided to take mercy. You positioned him again, and slowly, so slowly, you began to sink down. The stretch was immense, breathtaking. Your eyes locked with his as his thick cockhead pushed past your tight entrance, then steadily filled you, inch by incredible inch. A low, guttural moan tore from your throat. His eyes were wide, dark pools of pure lust, watching your face contort with the feeling of being split open.

“Oh my god… Peter… you’re so big…”

“You’re taking me so fucking well,” he grunted, his hips lifting slightly to meet your descent. “Your cunt is swallowing me whole. Fuck, look at you.”

You settled fully, impaled, feeling him buried to the hilt.

You settled fully, impaled, feeling him buried to the hilt. The fullness was almost too much, a delicious, overwhelming pressure. You stayed there for a moment, letting your body adjust, letting him feel the hot, tight clasp of you around him.

Then you began to move.

You rose up, almost letting him slip out, then sank back down, setting a slow, deep rhythm. His hands slid from your waist to your breasts, thumbing your nipples as you rode him. The angle was perfect, his cock grinding against that deep, sweet spot with every downward stroke. Pleasure built again, a steady, rising tide.

“Faster mama.” he urged, his own hips meeting your thrusts.

You obeyed, picking up the pace, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room, mingled with your ragged breaths and his choked curses. One of his hands left your breast and found your hand beside his head. His fingers laced tightly with yours, pinning it to the mattress. The gesture was unexpectedly intimate, an anchor in the frantic, physical storm. You squeezed his hand, holding on as the world narrowed to the place where your bodies joined.

“I’m not gonna last,” he warned, his thrusts becoming more erratic, driving up into you. “Come with me. I want to feel you come on my cock.”

You were right on the edge. The coil snapped. Your second orgasm was different—deeper, more consuming, a rolling quake that started in your cunt and radiated outwards until your very fingertips tingled. You clenched around him, milking his length, a broken cry escaping your lips.

That was all it took. With a final, brutal thrust, he held himself deep and still. A hot, pulsing flood filled you as he came, his own shout muffled against your shoulder. You collapsed forward onto his chest, both of you slick with sweat, hearts hammering a frantic, syncopated rhythm.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your breathing. His softened cock was still nestled inside you, a tender, intimate connection. His hand, still laced with yours, gave a gentle squeeze.

“So,” he said, his voice hoarse. “About that lab report…”

Tell me you missed me because I missed you 😝 ALSO HAVE YALL SEEN THE TRAILER FOR THE NEW MOVIE??? It had me LEVITATING!!/$:

[Edit Credits: cherry.editorz on TikTok]

𐔌 cw: age gap but it's not specified, innocent reader with low honor arthur, mild corruption thoughts, he eats his own cum out your hole, breeding and very mild pregnancy .ᐟ

the gang knew arthur was hiding something, something they had no right to see, touch, or sniff across the western plains. it wasn't a grand mansion ripe for a robbery or a score that would net them a pretty dollar. instead, it was a secret that kept him absent for long hours and busy days, forcing him to ride out at dawn before the fires were even stoked and return long after the kettles went cold.

by then, everyone was too occupied to interrogate, and the air in the camp no longer carried the warm scent of stew and beer. he would arrive humming softly under his breath, smelling like clean linen, homemade roast, and floral perfumes. the sinews of his shoulders no longer bunched in tension beneath pristine, clean blouse, but melted away.

he had a pretty thing out there who cared for him, it was impossible to miss. they could see it written all over his weathered face, in the defensive scowl he slipped the second anyone teased if he’d found himself a fancy lady.

the house lay tucked in a valley where flowers bloomed in full season and grass grew long and unconstrained, a sanctuary where no horses passed with thundering hooves that dragged rattling wagons, and no loud voices shattered the peace. travelers passed the other way, drawn toward a weathered wooden sign welcoming them to strawberry, a town nestled between towering pines and lush, emerald meadows.

yet it stood apart where timber walls looked in silence, adorned with lacy curtains and a fence rails mended by arthur’s own gritty hands, splashed with fresh white paint. kitchen hot with working stove, slow roasting the choice cuts of an elk he’d brought down on his ride back, wild sage and lavender bundled to hang from the rafters, the crisp scent filling every corner.

gathering into a heavy, fragrant trail that seeped through the propped open window panes and drifting out to timber line, teasing the hungry bellies of wolves and foxes that lurked behind. it was a place he could find blindly, as no matter how many hundreds of miles of trail lay between you, his horse would always find the way back.

he comes to the porch where you stood waiting, framed by the flower pots lining the wooden windowsill, the dress hemline caressed by the summer breeze in the very same way it stirred the petals. he dismounted his horse, offering an ever so gentle pat to its mane. his guns rattled softly within their leather holsters with the heavy, rolling sway to his broad hips, spurs catching slightly on the grass below.

you threw your arms around his strong neck the moment he came within reach, finding his sun bronzed skin still warm and rich with the scent of woodsmoke. chestnut brown beard prickling your plump lips as you pressed a kiss to his mole dotted cheek. that high pitched squeak escaping you when his large palms found their familiar place upon your tempting ass, fingers kneading into the pert globe with a tight, shameless grip.

he flashed a dopey, affectionate grin that depeened his crows feet when you chastised him with a flustered “arthur!” yet made no attempt to escape his embrace, choosing instead to lean deeper into the solid weight of his brawny chest.