naiya

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The steam from the hot tub coiled upward into the cool evening air, little tendrils of vapor that caught the glow of the rooftop string lights and turned them soft, hazy. You’d positioned the tub years ago so it faced west toward the city skyline, toward the Avengers compound in the distance if you squinted and tonight the view was doing its job. Manhattan glittered like a circuit board, all gold and white and flickering red from the tower beacons.

Your phone buzzed on the cedar decking beside the tub.

On my way. Ten minutes out. You have the files?

No emojis. No banter. Very on-mission energy from Peter Parker tonight.

You let the message sit for a full three minutes before responding, using the time to adjust the jets, to let the bubbling water massage the backs of your thighs, to touch up your lip combo in the reflection of your phone screen. The brown liner was still crisp.

The gloss sat perfect in the center of your bottom lip, catching light. Your wispy lashes fanned against your cheeks when you blinked down at the screen, and you smiled slow, private— before tapping out your reply.

I have what you need. Come to the roof. I’m in the hot tub.

Three dots immediately. Then they stopped. Then they started again.

The hot tub?? I’m coming about the Jean Grey intel. This is serious.

So am I, you typed back. And so is the intel. Door’s unlocked. Bring a towel if you’re shy.

You set the phone aside and sank a little deeper into the water, your shoulders kissed by steam, your curly flip-over grazing the nape of your neck. The water temperature sat at exactly one hundred and one degrees, perfect for loosening muscles, for softening tension, for making someone forget why they walked through the door in the first place.

Peter Parker had been in and out of your orbit for two years now. On and off, as you’d described it to your journal never quite dating, never quite strangers. A gravitational pull that kept yanking you back toward each other every few months when a case overlapped, when intel needed sharing, when he swung through your window at midnight with a gash on his ribs and that sheepish, I know I should’ve called first expression. He was brilliant.

He was maddening. He was twenty-three years old with the weight of the goddamn world strapped to his shoulders, and he still somehow found time to remember that you took your coffee with oat milk and two sugars.

But the on-and-off rhythm had tilted three weeks ago. A late-night argument about his recklessness.

Your refusal to hand over classified data without proper clearance. Words that cut deeper than either of you intended. He’d called you impossible. You’d called him a liability to himself. And then he’d disappeared into the city skyline, and you hadn’t heard from him since.

Until this morning.

I need your help. It’s about Jean Grey.

And now here you were. In the hot tub. Because if Peter Parker wanted to treat you like an information vending machine, he was going to have to work for every byte of data.

The door to the roof stairwell creaked open behind you.

You didn’t turn around.

“You’re not wearing a towel,” you said.

“I— no. I’m wearing the suit. I thought this was a business meeting.” Peter’s voice had that slightly strained quality it always got when he was trying not to sound flustered. Footsteps on cedar, careful and light. “You’re literally in a hot tub.”

“Literally.”

“With… is that a mimosa?”

The glass flute sat on the tub’s lip, condensation sliding down the stem. “Orange juice and prosecco. Want one?”

His silhouette moved into your peripheral vision. He was in the red-and-blue suit, mask and all, the web pattern catching the string lights in a way that made him look like something out of a fever dream, muscle definition that the spandex did nothing to hide, lean athletic lines from shoulders to hips to thighs. He’d gotten broader since you first met him. The boyish edges were sharpening into something harder. More capable.

The mask’s white eye lenses narrowed. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Doing what?”

“This.” He gestured at the hot tub. At you. At the mimosa and the city skyline and the slow, deliberate way you lifted the glass to your lips and took a sip without breaking eye contact.

“The whole… thing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You set the glass down. Trailed your fingers through the bubbling water. “You said you needed Jean Grey intel. I have it. We’re meeting.”

“We’re meeting in a hot tub.”

“Is there a problem?”

Peter exhaled, a sharp little sound that the mask’s speakers picked up and broadcast. He reached up, thumbs hooking under the edge of his mask, and peeled it off in one clean motion. Brown hair stuck up in seventeen different directions. His cheeks were flushed, and not from the steam. “You’re impossible.”

“You’ve mentioned that.”

“Three weeks ago.”

“I remember.”

His eyes met yours. Dark, warm, a little tired around the edges. He hadn’t been sleeping, you could tell, the faint purple smudges beneath his lashes telling stories he’d probably never volunteer. But there was something else there too. Something that flickered when his gaze dipped below the waterline, traced the silhouette of your body through the steam, and snapped back up to your face like he’d been burned.

“The intel,” he said.

“The intel,” you agreed.

Neither of you moved.

“There’s a protocol for information exchange between Avengers-adjacent operatives and independent intelligence contractors,” Peter said, and it was such a transparent attempt to regain control of the situation that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

“Standard Form 7-B. Digital transfer preferred. Encrypted channels. Not…this.”

“Mm.” You lifted one leg out of the water, propping your heel on the tub’s edge, letting the jets churn against your calf. His throat moved. You watched it happen. “See, the thing about Standard Form 7-B is that it’s tedious. And I’ve had a very tedious week. So I thought we might negotiate more… directly.”

“Negotiate.”

“You ask questions. I answer them. Every answer costs you something.”

Peter’s jaw tightened. “I’m not playing games with you.”

“Then you don’t get the intel.” You sank back into the water, arms spreading along the tub’s rim, head tilting to expose the line of your throat. The brown lip gloss shimmered. Your lashes caught the light.

“And Jean Grey remains a mystery because you don’t want to play games.”

Silence.

Then a sound, half groan, half laugh. Peter dragged a hand through his hair, and when he looked at you again, something had shifted in his expression. The tiredness was still there. But so was the recognition.

The understanding that this was happening whether he liked it or not.

“What kind of games?”

“Easy ones.” You crossed your legs beneath the water. “I’m not cruel.”

“You’re a tease.”

“That’s different.”

A beat. He knew it was different. You could see him recalibrating, his scientist-brain slotting variables into place, adjusting parameters. He’d come here expecting a transaction. He was realizing it was going to be something else entirely.

“Fine.” Peter set the mask down on a cedar bench.

“First question. Is Jean Grey the Phoenix?”

“Yes and no. She’s a host. The Phoenix is separate.

They’re… entangled.” You traced the rim of your mimosa glass with one wet finger and watched his eyes follow the movement. “That’s your first answer. Now you pay.”

“What’s the price?”

“Suit off. Join me.”

Peter looked at you for a long moment. Then he reached for the spider emblem on his chest and pressed the release mechanism. The suit slackened instantly, nanotech fibers loosening their grip, and the sight of him peeling spandex away from his collarbones, his chest, the ladder of his ribs was so familiar and so foreign all at once that your thighs pressed together beneath the water.

He’d changed in three weeks. More definition across the shoulders. A new scar on his left hip, thin and pink and still healing. His cock was soft against his thigh as he stepped out of the suit, and you didn’t let yourself stare, but you noticed. You always noticed. He was proportional and cut, and the water was going to do interesting things to your self control.

Peter climbed into the hot tub without grace. One leg, then the other, a splash that sent water sloshing over the side and sank onto the bench opposite you.

The jets churned between you. Steam rose. His chest was flushed pink from the heat already.

“Happy?” he asked.

“Getting there.” You lifted your mimosa. “Question two.”

“Where is Jean Grey now?”

“Westchester. Xavier’s school. She’s been there for six months under observation.” You sipped.

Swallowed. Set the glass down. “Price: you tell me why you really showed up tonight. And don’t say the intel. You could’ve gotten this from anyone else.”

Peter’s jaw flexed. His hands were beneath the water, and you could see his arms moving slow, restless motions, palms gliding over his own thighs maybe, or gripping the edge of the bench. “The intel was a reason.”

“Not the reason.”

“No.”

“So?”

He met your eyes. The steam was making his hair curl at the temples. “I missed you.”

The words landed somewhere in your chest and spread outward, warm and slow and dangerous.

You didn’t let your expression change. But your heartbeat had picked up, and you knew if he was paying attention. And he was always paying attention. He could probably sense it. Spider-sense or not.

“You missed me,” you repeated.

“Three weeks is a long time.”

“You could’ve called.”

“You could’ve called too.”

Fair point. You didn’t acknowledge it. Instead you reached for your mimosa and finished it in one long swallow, the prosecco bubbling against your tongue, and when you set the empty glass aside, Peter had shifted closer. Not by much. Maybe six inches. But six inches in a hot tub is a negotiation all its own.

“Third question,” you said.

“What’s the price this time?”

“Still negotiating.” You let your voice drop, let it go softer and smokier the way you knew he liked. “Ask.”

“Is Jean Grey dangerous?”

“Unbelievably. She could crack the planet in half if the Phoenix fully manifests. But she’s also the only person keeping it contained. So she’s dangerous the way a nuclear reactor is dangerous. Necessary. Volatile. Terrifying.” You paused. “That answer’s worth two prices.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I don’t make the rules.”

“You literally just made that rule.”

“And I stand by it.” You smiled, and Peter’s eyes dropped to your mouth, and the water suddenly felt ten degrees hotter. “First price: you tell me something true. Something you’ve never told anyone.”

He didn’t hesitate. “I’m scared all the time. Not of dying. Of failing. Of letting someone down because I wasn’t fast enough, smart enough, good enough. Tony used to say I had a hero complex. He was wrong. I have a—” He stopped. Swallowed. “I have a worth complex. Like if I’m not useful, I don’t deserve to be here.”

The vulnerability hit you like a blade between the ribs. You’d known Peter for two years. He’d never said that. Not to you. Not to anyone, you suspected.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Second price?”

You pushed off your bench and moved through the water, slowly, deliberately, letting the jets buffet your hips, your belly, your breasts. Your one-piece was black and cut low in the front and lower in the back, and you felt his gaze track the movement like a physical touch. When you were close enough to touch his knee with yours, you stopped.

“Kiss me.”

Peter’s breath caught. “That’s the price?”

“That’s the price.”

“I thought we were—” He gestured vaguely between your bodies. “On one of the off cycles.”

“We were. We’re not anymore.” You tilted your head.

“Unless you don’t want to.”

His hand came out of the water and found your jaw.

His fingers were wet and warm and slightly pruned from the steam, and they spread along the curve of your cheek with a gentleness that made your stomach clench. The calluses on his palm scraped lightly against your skin, webslinging calluses, rough and permanent. And when he drew you forward, the water seemed to part around you, offering no resistance, as if the universe itself was conspiring to close the distance.

The kiss started soft.

His lips brushed yours like a question, tentative, almost shy. Two years of on-and-off and Peter Parker still kissed like he was asking permission.

You answered by catching his lower lip between yours, drawing the kiss deeper, and the sound he made a low, helpless noise from somewhere in his chest. It sent heat cascading down your spine.

Tender, you thought. He’s always tender first.

And then he wasn’t.

Something unlocked behind the kiss. His free hand found your waist beneath the water, fingers splaying across the wet fabric of your swimsuit, and he pulled you forward until you were straddling his lap, thighs bracketing his hips, the heat of his chest pressing against your breasts. The kiss turned open-mouthed and urgent, tongues sliding, teeth grazing your lower lip. Your hands came up to grip his shoulders muscle and bone and slick-wet skin and the jets continued to churn around you, indifferent, mechanical, completely at odds with the way your pulse was hammering in your throat.

Peter pulled back just far enough to speak, his forehead pressed to yours. “More questions.”

“You haven’t earned them yet.”

“I kissed you.”

“One kiss. I need more.” Your fingers traced down his chest, following the center line of his sternum, nails scratching lightly through the sparse hair. His stomach contracted. His cock twitched against your inner thigh, half-hard now, growing, a weight and a warmth that you chose not to acknowledge yet. “Tell me what you want, Peter.”

“I want the Jean Grey intel.”

“Bullshit.”

“I want—” He stopped. Swallowed. His hands were on your hips now, thumbs rubbing circles into the jut of your pelvic bones through the swimsuit. “I want you to stop pretending this is a business transaction.”

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“You’re doing it right now.” His voice had gone lower, rougher, the way it always did when he was getting frustrated. Not angry. Just frustrated. Wound up.

“You’re sitting in my lap in a hot tub, and you’re acting like you’re handing me intel, but we both know you could’ve emailed me the file. You wanted this. You wanted me here. So stop.”

The words landed like a challenge.

You lifted your chin. “Make me.”

Peter’s expression shifted. Something flickered behind his eyes. Not anger, not exactly. Control. The kind of control he wore in the suit, facing down threats that would make lesser people crumble. But this wasn’t a threat. This was you. And he was looking at you like you were a puzzle he’d just figured out how to solve.

“Okay,” he said.

And then his hands were under your thighs, and he was standing.

The water sluiced off both of you in sheets, spilling over the edge of the tub, and you made a sound, half gasp, half laugh as Peter stepped out onto the cedar decking with you cradled against his chest.

The lift was effortless. Superhuman strength applied with surgical precision, one arm supporting your back, the other hooked beneath your knees, the classic bridal carry executed like he’d been planning it all evening.

“What are you doing?” You squirmed, not trying to escape, just registering surprise. Your legs kicked once, a token protest. “My apartment is downstairs.”

“I know.” He was already walking toward the stairwell door, the cedar cool under his bare feet, water dripping from both your bodies and leaving a trail across the decking. “You said make you. I’m making you.”

“This isn’t—”

“You wanted a negotiation.” Peter nudged the door open with his shoulder and carried you through into the dim stairwell, the motion-sensor lights flickering on overhead. Your body angled slightly toward his chest, thighs draped over one arm, your curly flip-over brushing against his bicep. “You set the terms. You set the prices. Now I’m changing the venue. That’s allowed.”

“I didn’t agree to that.”

“You’re not kicking.” His voice had a smile in it, even if his face stayed serious. “You’re not telling me to put you down. You’re gripping my shoulder like you’re afraid of falling, but you know I won’t drop you.” He descended the stairs, each step smooth and sure despite the slickness of his wet feet. “So you didn’t agree to it, but you’re not stopping it either. Which means you want to see where I’m taking this.”

Your heart was beating in your throat. He wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t wrong about any of it.

“Where are you taking it?”

“Your bedroom.” Peter reached the bottom of the stairs and pushed through into your living room. It was dark, quiet, the city lights spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He navigated the furniture without hesitation, crossing toward the hallway that led to your bedroom, still carrying you like you weighed nothing. “Unless you have objections.”

You didn’t have objections.

The bedroom door swung open. The bed was made, with dark sheets, too many pillows, a throw blanket folded at the foot because you liked the texture.

Peter set you down on the edge of the mattress with unexpected care, your legs dangling, your feet barely touching the floor. He stood between your knees. Water dripped from his hair onto your thighs.

“Last chance,” he said. “Tell me to leave. Tell me to go back to the roof and get the rest of the intel like a professional. I’ll do it. I’ll walk out right now.”

You looked up at him. At his chest, rising and falling with breaths that were too controlled to be calm. At his cock, half-hard and hanging heavy, glistening with hot tub water. At his face… that face you’d missed for three weeks, the stubborn jaw, the tired eyes, the mouth that had kissed you soft and then urgent and then soft again.

“Ask me the fourth question,” you said.

Peter’s breath shuddered out of him. “How do we stop Jean Grey if the Phoenix takes over?”

“We can’t. Not yet. But there’s a containment protocol being developed by Doctor Strange. Mystic dampeners. They’re not ready, six months, maybe eight, and until then we monitor. We watch. We hope she stays in control.” You reached up and caught his wrist, tugging him closer. “That’s your answer. Now pay.”

“Price?”

“Touch me.”

His free hand found the strap of your swimsuit and dragged it down your shoulder. The fabric peeled away, wet and clinging, revealing the upper swell of your breast. He traced the newly exposed skin with one fingertip, light, circular, teasing and you shivered.

“Where?” he asked.

“Surprise me.”

Peter knelt.

The motion brought his face level with your chest, and his hands. Both of them now found the straps of your swimsuit and pulled them down your arms in tandem. The one-piece slid to your waist, then lower as he hooked his thumbs in the fabric and eased it over your hips, your thighs, your calves, until it pooled on the floor at your feet. You were naked on the edge of your bed, and he was kneeling between your legs, and the way he looked at your body. At your breasts, full and dark-nippled and tipped upward by the angle of your spine made your stomach clench.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. Not like a compliment.

Like a fact. Like he was naming something he’d always known and was finally allowed to say aloud.

“You’re so beautiful, and you know it, and you use it, and it drives me crazy.”

“Good crazy?”

“Insane crazy.” His palms settled on your thighs, spreading them wider. His thumbs stroked the soft skin of your inner thighs, close to where the heat was building, close but not close enough. “You showed up in the hot tub with that look on your face and those lips—god, your lips—and you knew exactly what you were doing. You knew I’d break.”

“You didn’t break.”

“I’m on my knees. I broke.”

You laughed, breathless. “That’s not breaking. That’s participating.”

“Then I’m participating.” His hands slid higher. His thumbs traced the crease where your thighs met your hips, and his gaze dropped to what he was about to touch, and you watched his expression change, soften, sharpen, focus as he really looked at you.

Your pussy was bare, clean-shaven, the skin smooth and brown and slightly darker than the surrounding flesh. The outer lips were full and closed, a seam that ran from the top of your cleft down toward the tighter pucker of your ass, and when Peter’s thumbs brushed either side of that seam, you felt yourself flush with heat. Your lips parted slightly under the pressure, revealing the first glimpse of pink inner flesh, glossy, already wet, not from the hot tub.

“You’re slick,” he murmured. “That’s not water.”

“I know what it is.”

“How long?”

“Since you took the mask off. Maybe before.”

His thumbs spread you wider, and the cool bedroom air kissed your inner lips, and your hips jerked involuntarily. He made a sound, low and appreciative and held you open, studying the architecture of your arousal like it was a scientific paper he needed to memorize.

“Your clit’s already swollen,” he said, and the clinical observation delivered in that hushed voice made you throb. “Right here. Peeking out.” One thumb moved upward, barely grazing the hood. “Does that feel good? When I talk about it?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.” His thumb circled, feather-light, nowhere near enough pressure. “Tell me what you like.”

“I like—” Your voice caught as he repeated the motion, clockwise this time, still too light. “I like when you describe things. What you’re seeing. What you’re going to do.”

“Okay.” Peter leaned closer, and his breath ghosted over your clit, and your fingers clenched in the sheets. “I’m looking at your pussy. It’s open now, your outer lips are dark and full, and your inner lips are pink and glistening, and there’s wetness pooling right at your entrance. I can see it. I can smell it.” He inhaled, and the sound was obscene. “You smell like sex and chlorine. You smell like you’ve been thinking about this all day.”

“I have.”

“I’m going to touch you now. Not with my tongue. Not yet.” His thumb returned to your clit, tracing the hood with slightly more pressure, and your back arched. “With my finger. Right here. And you’re going to tell me question five, where Cyclops fits into the Phoenix equation.”

You laughed, strangled. “You’re negotiating during—”

“You started it.” His thumb circled again, and your thighs trembled. “Answer the question.”

“He—Scott—he’s her anchor. Their bond is what keeps her tethered to her humanity. If he dies, she loses control. If they’re separated for more than a few months, she gets unstable. He’s her weakness and her strength.”

“Good.” Peter’s thumb pressed down, finally, and your clit pulsed under the attention, and the moan that escaped you was louder than you’d intended.

“Good girl. That’s what I needed to know.”

The praise hit you like a drug. Your hand flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the damp curls, and he hummed approval against your thigh.

“You like that,” he said. “Being called good.”

“Yes.”

“Even when you’re being a brat. Even when you’re teasing me and making me jump through hoops. You still want to hear that you’re good.” He pressed another kiss to your inner thigh, wetter this time, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin.

“That’s okay. You can be both. You can be a tease and still be my good girl.”

The words vibrated against your skin, and your hips rolled forward, seeking more pressure, more contact, more. Peter obliged by replacing his thumb with his mouth—one long, flat-tongued lick up the seam of your pussy that ended at your clit and sent electricity arcing through your nervous system.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Mm.” He did it again, slower this time, his tongue parting your inner lips and curling into your entrance just barely. “Question six. What’s the Phoenix’s ultimate goal?”

“I can’t… I can’t think when you’re—”

“Can’t think, or don’t want to?” His tongue circled your clit, and your vision blurred at the edges.

“Answer the question, and I’ll give you something to really lose your mind over.”

“Rebirth,” you gasped. “The Phoenix wants cosmic rebirth. Burn the old universe, seed a new one. Jean is fighting that impulse constantly.”

“Good job.” Peter’s mouth sealed over your clit, and he sucked gentle, rhythmic, devastating and your orgasm built out of nowhere like a storm front rolling over the horizon. Your thighs clamped around his head. Your fingers pulled his hair. He didn’t stop, didn’t ease up, just kept sucking with that steady, patient pressure until you shattered against his tongue.

The climax rolled through you in waves, each one triggered by another flick of his tongue, another gentle suction, until you were trembling and gasping and pushing weakly at his forehead because it was too much and not enough simultaneously.

“There,” Peter said, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips wet and shining. “There’s one.”

“One?”

“One orgasm. I’ve got more for you.” He rose from his knees, and his cock was fully hard now, jutting upward toward his belly, the head flushed dark and glossy with the first bead of pre-cum. “But I want to be inside you for the next one. Any objections?”

You shook your head, still catching your breath.

“Words. I need words.”

“No objections. Yes. Please.”

Peter smiled, and it was warm and kind and still slightly wicked, the smile of someone who had discovered a new favorite hobby and intended to pursue it with dedication. “Good girl. Lie back.”

You scooted up the bed, and he followed, positioning himself between your thighs. His cock hung heavy, the tip grazing your belly as he leaned down to kiss you, soft again, reassuring, his tongue sliding against yours and sharing the taste of your own arousal.

“I’m going to tease you first,” he whispered against your mouth. “You teased me all evening. It’s my turn.”

“That seems fair.”

“I’m a fair guy.” His hips shifted, and the head of his cock dragged through your wetness, sliding up between your pussy lips without penetrating. The sensation was electric, smooth, hot, the ridge of his head bumping against your clit with each pass.

“Feel that? That’s what you do to me. I’m dripping already. Look.”

You looked. His cock was slick with your combined arousal, pre-cum mixing with your wetness, the head glistening every time it appeared from between your folds. He repeated the motion up, down, up, down,and the sound it made was obscene. Wet. Slick. Shlick-shlick-shlick with every stroke.

“Hear that?” Peter’s voice was strained now, the first cracks showing in his composure. “That sound. Your pussy is making music for me.”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please put it in.”

“Not yet.” He rubbed the head of his cock against your clit deliberate circles, bumping and massaging in rhythm and your hips bucked. “I want to watch you squirm a little more. You had me negotiating. Now I get to take my time.”

The head of his cock dragged lower, pressing against your entrance barely, just a suggestion of pressure before sliding away. Your inner lips clung to him, reluctant to let go, and the emptiness when he pulled back was a physical ache.

“Peter.”

“I’m right here.” Another pass. Another bump against your clit. “Ask me a question. Your turn.”

“Why did you really miss me?”

The question surprised him. His rhythm faltered, and for a moment he was just Peter again, vulnerable, unguarded, his cock sliding to rest between your folds with no intent behind it.

“Because you see me,” he said quietly. “Not Spider-Man. Not the suit. Me. Peter. When I’m with you, I don’t have to be anything except what I am.”

You pulled him down into a kiss before he could say more, and he sank into it, and the head of his cock nudged against your entrance and this time—this time—it stayed.

“Now?” he whispered.

“Now.”

He pushed inside.

The penetration was slow, deliberate, a centimeters-at-a-time advance that let you feel every ridge, every vein, every pulse of his heartbeat transmitted through the flesh currently claiming space inside your body. Your pussy stretched to accommodate him, tight, wet, welcoming and he watched your face the whole time, cataloguing every flutter of your lashes, every parting of your lips, every gasp.

“You feel—” He stopped. Swallowed. Started again.

“You feel like coming home. I know that’s cheesy. I don’t care. You do.”

“Deeper.”

He pushed deeper, and your inner walls fluttered around him. The fit was perfect, full without pain, stretching you in a way that made your toes curl against his calves.

“Look at you,” Peter breathed. “Taking all of me. You’re so good at this. So good for me. Your pussy was made for my cock, you know that?”

The words—the degradation wrapped in praise, the crude language in that gentle voice sent an electric shock straight to your clit. You clenched around him, and his eyes fluttered shut, and his hips jerked forward involuntarily.

“Say it again.”

“Your pussy was made for my cock.” His hips drew back, then thrust forward slow, deep. “You take it so perfectly. Like you’ve been waiting for it.”

“I have.”

“Three weeks?”

“Three weeks.”

He thrust again, harder, and the sound your bodies made when they met was a wet slap that echoed off the bedroom walls. His pace picked up, but it wasn’t frantic it was controlled, measured, a rhythm designed to keep you on the edge without pushing you over.

“Question seven,” he said, and you stared at him in disbelief.

“You’re still—oh—” He’d angled his hips differently, and the new position rubbed his pubic bone against your clit with every stroke. “You’re still doing the intel thing.”

“Multitasking. What’s Jean Grey’s connection to the Shi’ar Empire?”

“She—god—she destroyed one of their galaxies. They’ve got a kill order on her. Xavier’s been protecting her from—from—”

“From?”

“Assassination attempts. Three in the last year.”

“Good.” His rhythm increased, and your second orgasm was building, coiling tight at the base of your spine. “Good girl. You’re doing so well. Come for me.”

“Not until you—”

“Come for me,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a register that vibrated in your chest. “Right now. On my cock. I want to feel it.”

The command tipped you over.

Your second climax hit harder than the first, deeper, a full-body convulsion that started in your pussy and radiated outward until your fingers were numb and your vision was white at the edges and all you could hear was the sound of your own voice crying out his name. Peter didn’t stop thrusting, working you through it with steady, even strokes that milked every last spasm from your body.

When you came back to yourself, he was still hard inside you. Still in control.

“There’s my good girl,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Now let’s try the mating press. I want to see how deep I can get.”

His hands found the backs of your thighs and pushed them upward, folding you in half, your knees approaching your shoulders. The shift in angle pressed his cock impossibly deeper, and your gasp was swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you and thrust simultaneously.

“Ready for question eight?” he asked.

You were never going to survive this man.

His grip on your thighs tightened, not painful, just present, a grounding pressure that reminded you exactly who was holding you in place. The mating press folded you in ways your yoga instructor would approve of, knees bracketing your ears, your calves draped over his shoulders, and Peter above you like a promise he intended to keep.

“Actually, no more questions,” he said.

The words landed somewhere in your chest and spread hot. You blinked up at him, sweat-damp curls, flushed cheekbones, eyes dark and focused and tried to summon something clever. Something teasing. The part of your brain responsible for banter had short-circuited somewhere around the second orgasm.

“No more intel?” Your voice came out breathier than you intended.

“I have enough for now.” He drew his hips back, nearly withdrawing, and the emptiness made your inner walls clench around nothing. “Everyone and thing can wait.” A pause. His cockhead rested against your entrance, not pushing, just there, a blunt pressure that made your toes curl. “Right now, the only thing I care about is this.”

He thrust back in.

Deep. Deeper than before, the new angle from the mating press sent him grinding against your cervix, a sensation that teetered between discomfort and ecstasy and landed somewhere in the yes-please-don’t-stop category. Your mouth opened. No sound came out. The breath had been punched clean from your lungs.

“There it is,” Peter murmured, and his hips rolled in a slow circle, his cock stirring inside you like he was testing the fit. “That spot. You feel how tight you are right there? How your pussy clutches when I hit the end of you?”

Your hands scrabbled for something to hold— his biceps, the sheets, anything solid—and settled on his forearms. The muscles there were corded steel under velvet skin. “Peter.”

“I know.” Another slow withdrawal. Another deep thrust. “I know, sweetheart. You can take it.”

The rhythm he set was merciless. Not fast, not yet but thorough, each stroke a full retreat followed by an advance that bottomed out with a wet slap of skin on skin. The sound filled the bedroom: slick, rhythmic, punctuated by the creak of the mattress and the hitch of your breathing. The city lights through the window painted stripes across his shoulders, across your thighs, across the place where your bodies joined.

Your breasts bounced with each thrust, the movement constrained by the press of your own thighs against your chest. Peter noticed. His gaze dropped to watch the jiggle, your dark nipples pebbled tight, the full weight of your tits shifting with every impact and his rhythm stuttered.

“You have no idea what you look like right now.” His voice had gone ragged, the controlled tone fraying at the edges. “Folded up under me. Taking my cock. Your tits bouncing every time I move.”

“Tell me.”

“You want the narration?”

“I want you.” Your nails dug into his forearms. “Stop holding back.”

Something flickered in his expression— surprise, maybe, or the realization that you could see through the Pleasure Dom act to the strain underneath. He’d been controlling himself since the hot tub. Keeping the rhythm measured. Keeping the questions coming. Keeping his own need banked like a fire he wasn’t ready to feed.

But you’d had two orgasms. He’d had none. And his cock was rock-hard inside you, throbbing with every heartbeat, the head swollen and sensitive and leaking pre-cum that slickened your channel with each stroke.

“You want me to let go?” he asked.

“I want you to fuck me like you mean it.”

Peter’s jaw tightened. His hips snapped forward, harder this time, a thrust that shoved you up the mattress half an inch and knocked a gasp from your throat. “Like that?”

“Yes. Yes.”

The next thrust was harder. Then harder again. The controlled pace dissolved into something more urgent, more honest, the rhythm of a man who’d been patient long enough and was done pretending he didn’t need this. His cock drove into you with a force that made the headboard knock against the wall—thump-thump-thump—and you grabbed for the slats behind you, bracing yourself against the onslaught.

“This what you wanted?” His breath was hot against your ear now, his chest pressed to the backs of your thighs, folding you even deeper into the press.

“Wanted me to stop being nice? Stop asking permission?”

“I wanted—oh fuck—” He’d angled his hips and the new trajectory dragged his cockhead across your G-spot with every stroke. The sensation was electric, a live wire sparking somewhere behind your pubic bone. “I wanted you to stop thinking.”

“Thinking’s what I do.”

“Not tonight.” Your hand found the back of his neck, fingers tangling in sweat-damp curls. “Tonight you’re not Spider-Man.

You’re just Peter. And Peter gets to feel good. Peter gets to come. Peter gets to fuck me until he can’t think anymore.”

The words hit him like a physical blow. His rhythm faltered. His forehead dropped to yours, and for three heartbeats he was completely still, buried to the hilt, breathing like he’d run a marathon.

“Say that again,” he whispered.

“You get to feel good.”

His hips jerked. “Again.”

“You get to come inside me.”

A groan tore from his chest, low, and desperate, completely unguarded. He started moving again, but it was different now: less controlled, more instinctive, the rhythm of a body chasing sensation rather than orchestrating it. His cock pistoned into you with abandoned precision, each thrust driving deep and fast and god, the sound of it, the wet obscene slap of his balls against your ass, the creak of the mattress, the headboard knocking a staccato against the wall.

You clung to him, your hands on his shoulders, his back, his ass, anywhere you could reach and let yourself be fucked. There was no other word for it. He wasn’t making love. He wasn’t performing. He was fucking, raw and urgent and completely absorbed in the feeling of your pussy gripping his cock.

“You feel—” Peter’s voice cracked. “You feel so good. So wet. So tight. I can feel every inch of you.

Every time you clench. Every time you—” He thrust again, and your inner walls spasmed around him.

“yeah, like that. Just like that.”

“Close,” you managed. The word was barely a syllable. A warning and a plea.

“Me too.” His hand slid between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, swollen now, slick with your combined arousal, so sensitive that the first touch made you flinch. “No. Don’t pull away. Take it. Take what I give you.”

The pressure of his thumb circled your clit in counterpoint to his thrusts—down when he pushed in, up when he pulled out—and the dual stimulation was too much and not enough and exactly right.

Your third orgasm built differently from the first two. Slower. Deeper. A pressure that started in your toes and climbed your spine and settled somewhere in the base of your skull, white noise and static and the distant roar of blood in your ears.

“Peter, I’m going to—”

“I know. I can feel it. Your pussy’s fluttering around me. You’re going to come on my cock again. Third time tonight. My good girl.” His thumb pressed harder, circles smaller and faster. “Come for me. Let go. I’ve got you.”

The orgasm detonated.

Not a wave this time, a detonation, a bomb blast that started in your core and radiated outward until your fingers were numb and your vision was white and the only sound in the universe was your own voice keening his name. Your pussy clamped around his cock in rhythmic convulsions, squeeze-release-squeeze, milking him, and Peter’s answering groan was the most honest sound you’d ever heard him make.

“Fuck. Fuck. Your pussy is—you’re gripping me so tight—I’m going to—”

“Inside,” you gasped. “Come inside me. I want to feel it.”

His control snapped.

Peter’s hips slammed forward one last time, burying himself to the root, and his whole body went rigid above you. His cock pulsed, once, twice, a third time, and you felt each jet of cum paint your inner walls in hot, thick spurts. His face was buried in your neck. His breath was ragged. His hips kept twitching, tiny involuntary thrusts that milked the last drops of his release deeper into your pussy.

Time stretched.

You floated somewhere outside yourself, aware of your heartbeat slowing, of Peter’s weight settling more heavily on your folded body, of the wetness between your thighs that was both of you combined. His cock was still inside you, softening now but still present, still connected.

“I can feel it,” you whispered. “Your cum. It’s warm.”

Peter made a sound—half laugh, half groan—against your neck. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Worth it?”

He lifted his head. His eyes were hazy, post-coital, the sharp edges dulled by endorphins and exhaustion. But underneath the haze was something softer. Something that looked a lot like the vulnerability he’d shown in the hot tub, multiplied by a hundred.

“Worth it,” he said. “Worth everything. Worth three weeks of silence and every fight we’ve ever had and every fight we’re going to have. You’re worth all of it.”

Your heart did something complicated in your chest.

You ignored it in favor of practicality. “You’re heavy.”

“Sorry.” He untangled himself with exaggerated care, easing your legs down from his shoulders, slipping out of you with a wet sound that made both of you wince. His cum followed, a slow trickle that slid down your inner thigh and onto the dark sheets. Peter watched it happen. His expression flickered. “I should—do you want me to get a towel?”

“In a minute.” You caught his wrist before he could pull away. “Stay.”

He stayed.

Peter lowered himself onto the mattress beside you, and you turned onto your side to face him. The sheets were a disaster. The room smelled like sex and chlorine and the faint citrus of your diffuser still puffing away on the nightstand. Outside, the city carried on without you, sirens in the distance, the drone of late-night traffic, the glitter of lights that never went dark.

None of it mattered.

His hand found your hip, thumb tracing idle circles over the jut of bone. “I meant what I said. In the hot tub. I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

“Then why do we keep doing this? The on-and-off thing. The fights. The three weeks of silence.”

You considered the question. Considered the answer—the real answer, not the deflection you normally reached for. “Because we’re both terrified.”

Peter’s thumb stilled. “Of what?”

“Of this.” You gestured between your bodies, the inches of space, the tangled sheets, the shared warmth. “Of something that actually matters. It’s easier to walk away when things get hard than to stay and risk losing it for real.”

Silence. Then a slow exhale, warm against your collarbone.

“You’re terrifyingly smart,” he said.

“I know.”

“And you’re right. I’m scared. I’m scared all the time.

But I’m more scared of…” He stopped. Swallowed. Started again. “I’m more scared of not having this. Of waking up one day and realizing I let the best thing in my life slip away because I was too scared to hold on.”

Your throat tightened. “Peter.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I just—I wanted you to know. No more off cycles. No more three-week silences. If we fight, we fight. But we don’t disappear. Deal?”

“Deal.”

His smile was small and tired and the most beautiful thing you’d seen all night. He leaned forward and kissed you, soft, closed-mouth, impossibly tender given everything your bodies had just done to each other—and you kissed him back with the same gentleness.

When he pulled away, his eyes had sharpened slightly. The post-coital haze was lifting. The scientist-brain was rebooting.

“I have one more question,” he said.

“You said no more questions.”

“This one’s not about Jean Grey.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Then what?”

“How do you feel about round two?”

The laugh that burst out of you was startled and genuine and so loud it probably woke your downstairs neighbor. Peter grinned—that boyish grin you’d fallen for two years ago, the one that made him look nineteen again instead of twenty-three going on ancient.

“You just came,” you pointed out.

“I’m twenty-three. I have superhuman metabolism. Give me ten minutes.”

“You’re insufferable.”

..

OH LA LA LAAAA- I’m so happy that I’m back writing. Here’s to better times and newer stories 💋.

[Edit Credits: m9stics on TikTok]