Aly's Outlet

He was never painfully slow. His pace was fast enough for your drooling pussy, thrusts delivered firmly to attack that soft, erogenous spot inside.

He'd come only after he was pleased with your releases, smirking silently when your overstimulated body trembled underneath him. When your thighs shook against his hips, and he unhurriedly buried his cum deep in you.

His nimble fingers would always find your puffy slit even after pulling out, making sure no drop slipped out while you cuddled post-sex.

You loved it.

The care.

The douceur.

Him.

Perhaps, it was time you made him feel just as worshipped.

"God, I missed you", he whispered against your neck, his hands finding your hips, pulling you closer like he could no longer handle any distance between you two. Your lips curled, head tilting to give him better access to the smooth skin, letting him plant kisses at the delicate slope.

"You were out for an hour."

"Mm, too much", he shot you a playful grin, turning you just enough to face you properly now. You looked gorgeous. Hair tied back to cook in peace. Skin glowing with whatever expensive moisturizer you used. 

His eyes gave you that look—requesting, looking for any hint of reciprocated desire. You only responded with a smile, hands sliding up his chest as you closed the distance. The muscles felt taut and warm beneath the sweat-stained shirt, your fingers curling around the fabric to pull him further.

Grabbing your waist, essentially hoisting you, he deepened the kiss. His tongue sought yours, beard scratching the skin around almost pleasantly. The raw food lay forgotten in the back.

Without breaking apart, he gently guided you around, finding a blind way to the bedroom. His arms tightened their grip as he finally stepped you both inside, his foot kicking the door shut behind.

But before he could try to lay you comfortably on the fluffy mattress and ravish you like he intended, you pulled back. He made an almost inaudible noise, chasing your mouth instinctively.

Your palm pressed itself against his midriff and he immediately quietened. His voice faltered mid-sentence, every muscle seeming to freeze as though someone had pressed pause. His brows knit together, his expression tightening and  eyes flicking downward to check you with panic.

"What's wrong, doll? Do you not—"

"I just..."

You sighed. Your cheeks tingled with the blood rushing there with embarrassing speed. So, instead of voicing your request, you pushed the hem of his shirt.

The moment he yanked the fabric off, you pressed a deep kiss at his chest. Satisfied with the hitch in his throat, you slowly descended, your lips trailing wet kisses in their wake. You ever so often licked away at his skin, your body tingling at the feel of his abs tense against your tongue.

Trusting your boyfriend's brain to understand your wordless want, you sank. Your knees hit the plush carpet with a thump, toes curling in anticipation.

Your eyes—wide with the need to study his expression and glossy with neediness—met his.

His breath stopped. His soul left his body. God knows what all happened to the poor man in a split of a second.

One moment he was simply hard. The next, he was about to come in his pants like a teenager at the very sight of you kneeling before him.

"Doll, you don't have to—"

You cut him off firmly, a hand gliding up to his thigh, "I want to, Sarge."

Your mouth hovered over the zip of his pants, lips tentatively—teasingly—brushing the hardness straining under. His head tipped back, chest heaving with uneven inhales.

Your nails dragged a slow path past his abdomen, nearing his belt but never hooking. His hips bucked over, chasing friction.

With a deliberate bat of your eyelashes, you finally unbuckled the leather from its loop, discarding it mindlessly on the floor. You unzipped the jean, the fabric sitting a little looser on his hips now.

Your teeth sunk into the waistband, dragging the easy fabric down. Eye level with his erection, it was your turn to swallow hard.

Months of dating Bucky and yet, you could never get used to the size.

Reverently, you removed the boxers along, gasping quietly at the sight. His cock sprang out, hard, throbbing, and very angry at the tip—leaking precum.

"It'll be okay."

You nod at the reassurance, leaning forward to pepper light kisses over the length. He hissed loudly, his right hand threading itself through your hair. His grip tightened with every teasing lick and swirl.

Having enough, he wrapped his metal fingers around the thick shaft, guiding it to your inviting plump lips. The salty taste greeted you first as you worked your jaw open, the stretch almost overworking.

The second your wet warmth enveloped him, he let out a groan, his head falling backward. He tried—he really did. But his hips moved out of his control, thrusting into the tight expanse mindlessly.

"Oh fuck. So—So tight. My perfect girl."

His cock sat heavy on your tongue, pushing its way to your throat despite your obscene gags. You slurped and choked around him, the vibrations of your pretty sounds only spurring him further.

He couldn't hold back.

"Just like that, doll."

Both palms—large and tepid over your head—held it in place as he sped up. With every stuttering thrust, his heavy balls slapped against your chin, saliva pooling there alongside his own precum.

He dared make the mistake of fluttering his eyes open to look at you. Because fuck—

You were brimming with tears at the strain, lashes damp as they blinked at him. Your cheeks, flushed with a beautiful shade of rose, were hollowed, struggling to take all of him in.

"Oh baby, those eyes—shit—gonna be the death of me."

His flesh hand left your hair, dropping as he instead flexed his fingers. Your gaze caught the movement, your own hand moving over to hold his. Such a sap.

You would smile if you could.

His cock had started pulsing at the back of your mouth now. Insistent. Signaling.

With a broken moan, he abruptly pulled out. Fisting himself, he finally let go. Hot liquid spurted over your face, sticky globs painting your cheeks. Your lips. Your forehead.

Your tongue darted out to lick some off the corner of your mouth, watery eyes glancing at him.

"Shh doll, you okay?", he murmured into your ear, strong, steady arms easily carrying you to the bathroom.

You made a tiny noise of discomfort, jaw evidently sore. He gave you a small pat on the head, gingerly settling you on the marble counter.

"Let's clean you up, yeah?"

He reached for the washcloth hanging neatly beside the sink, the faucet hissing softly as warm water rushed into the basin.

He worked slowly.

One careful swipe beneath your chin.

Another across your cheek.

Every few moments he'd pull back to inspect your skin with heightened concentration, scared of bruising your skin with the water temperature.

His thumb brushed your chin lightly, turning your face just enough to catch a stubborn little smear near your jaw.

"There."

He smiled faintly.

"Much better."

You tilted your head to look in the mirror. Still disheveled. Still messy.

But....taken care of.

"I love you."

Your eyes flew back to his. The startled sound that escaped you wavered, slowly dissolving into an airy, weak laugh.

"Love you more, Buck."

『••✎••』

You found the letter by accident, tucked against a ventilation duct on the rooftop of a six-story brick building on the edge of the Lower East Side, a place you’d climbed for the unobstructed view of the Williamsburg Bridge catching the morning light. The golden hour was your favorite—a brief window when the city looked less like a concrete jungle and more like a carefully constructed model, all sharp edges and soft shadows.

Your camera was heavy against your shoulder, the strap digging in. You’d already got the shot—a lone cyclist on the bridge, a silhouette against the rising sun—but you lingered, inhaling the scent of damp concrete and last night’s rain. That was when you saw it: a single, creased piece of paper, folded into a tight square and pinned by a loose bit of wire.

Curiosity, an old friend you could never quite shake, got the better of you. You crouched, the worn knees of your pants pressing against the gravel-strewn tar. The paper looked as if it had been folded and unfolded a hundred times, the corners soft and frayed.

When you opened it, the ink was slightly smudged in places, as if from a hesitant hand or maybe a few drops of something you couldn’t quite place. The handwriting was a messy, hurried scrawl, all sharp angles and leaning letters. It didn’t look like a love letter, not really. It looked more like a confession.

And that was exactly what it was.

"Hi, my name is Peter Parker, and you don’t remember me, but I have something to tell you that’s going to sound crazy. But it’s the truth, and I know you’re going to believe me, because you’re very good at telling when I’m lying…"

The letter went on, a rambling, disjointed explanation that spoke of loss so profound it felt physical. It didn’t go into detail, didn’t name names or events, but you didn’t need them. The feeling was unmistakable. It was the ache of being a ghost in your own life, of watching people you love live on as if you never existed.

That was the part that hooked you, that lodged itself somewhere deep behind your ribs. You’d felt it yourself—walking through crowded streets, sitting in bustling cafes, a silent observer in a world that felt perpetually just out of reach. You’d spent years capturing the city through a lens, always a step removed, a voyeur of other people’s lives. This letter was a reflection of that feeling, written from the other side.

You looked up from the page, the camera suddenly feeling impossibly heavy. The sun was higher now, the magic of the golden hour fading. The city was awake, the hum of traffic a distant thrum. You thought about the person who wrote this—this Peter Parker who claimed not only to be forgotten but to have been the masked hero swinging through these very streets.

It was absurd. It was the stuff of comic books. You could hardly believe it, but you somehow knew that the pain on the page was real. You knew real when you saw it. I mean, you’d built a career on it.

You didn’t have a pen, which, honestly, you never did, but you did have a fine-point Sharpie in your camera bag for all those times of writing labels on memory cards. So, using what limited supplies you had, you pulled it out, its black cap tight between your teeth. You turned the letter over to the blank, slightly grimy backside. For a moment, your mind was blank. What did you say to a ghost?

What did you say to someone who had lost everyone? You couldn’t promise to remember him. You didn’t even know him.

You settled on the truth. Your own small, quiet truth.

"Dear Peter Parker,"

As you wrote, you believed you were writing to an anonymous stranger, one of the eight million stories in the naked city. A story that had, for one reason or another, landed at your feet. You knew the odds of him ever seeing your reply were slim to none. It was a message in a bottle tossed into a sea of steel and glass, and you told yourself it wasn’t about the response. Because it couldn’t be.

And yet..

If you had stayed just an hour longer, you would have discovered that the ghost you’d written to was real. And that the ghost would be standing exactly where you were, reading your words in the same dawning light as you’d just read his.

The letter was never forgotten. In fact, it singlehandedly became the most important object in Peter Parker’s apartment. He had returned home after a grueling patrol—a twelve-hour shift that had left him with a sprained wrist, a black eye, and a profound sense of isolation that was becoming more and more familiar as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months.

He hadn’t slept in almost two days. And other than the overwhelming sorrow that seemed to be swallowing him whole, he didn’t know if it was the exhaustion, or the reminders of how much he missed his Aunt May, or if he was just… broken. But whatever it was, it was a bad combination.

He had the letter in his pocket. And after this specific patrol, he had nearly burned it to a crisp with a cheap lighter he’d found in a junk drawer. He had held the paper over the sink, the flame almost licking at the edges, the words about to be erased forever. But then he couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Because even though no one remembered him, he remembered them.

Instead, he left it on that rooftop. A last-ditch effort to purge himself of the one thing that was tethering him to a life that no longer existed. He didn’t expect a response. He didn’t expect anything. He just wanted it gone.

And so, of course, he didn’t last more than a day in that state. He told himself he was going on another quick patrol to clear his head, to burn off the restless energy that was humming under his skin. But he knew he was lying to himself. He was going back to that rooftop.

Needless to say, seeing the words—your words—on the back of that letter was a shock. He hadn’t even expected the letter to still be there. And yet not only was it there, but it had a new addition. A response addressed to him.

"Dear Peter Parker," the neat, looping script began. "I’m sorry I’m not the person you wanted this letter to reach, but in a way, I’m glad it was me. Because reading this, I felt the city get a little less lonely for a second. I don’t know you. I don’t know the person you lost, and I don’t know the full weight of the story you’re carrying. But I do know, for what it’s worth, from one ghost to another, you’re not as alone as you think you are. Someone saw your letter. Someone read it. And someone, somewhere, is hoping you get a second chance at happiness. Even if you don’t think you deserve it…"

"And if you are who you say you are," it continued, the ink growing a little bolder, as if the writer had found their conviction, "the city needs its ghosts. Even the ones no one can see."

He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until the world started to tilt, the edges of the rooftop blurring into a hazy gray. He sank to his knees, the gravel biting through the thin fabric of his suit, the letter clutched in his hand. The paper trembled against his palm as he read it again. And then a third time, his eyes tracing each curve and line of your handwriting.

In all the months since the spell, since he’d become a walking, talking, breathing paradox, this was the first time he felt anything other than the crushing weight of his own invisibility. It wasn’t relief. It wasn’t joy. It was a strange, aching warmth that spread through his chest, almost like a flicker of light in a room that had been dark for so long he’d forgotten what illumination felt like.

The city needed its ghosts.

He folded the letter carefully, the creases now permanently etched into the paper, a new set of lines added to its history. It felt different now—heavier, more significant. It was no longer a relic of a life lost, but a reminder of why he should fight for the one he still had.

And that night, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he didn’t find himself tossing and turning on a lumpy mattress, staring at a water-stained ceiling. He didn’t find himself listening to the symphony of sirens and shouting matches that were the soundtrack to his Lower Manhattan apartment. That night, he had the best sleep he’d had in months. A deep, dreamless, and—most importantly—restorative sleep. He woke up feeling lighter, the ever-present tension in his shoulders a little less severe, the ever-growing migraine in his mind a little quieter.