shortnfreaky

One day, he’s in the kitchen getting snacks for a movie night together. You’re laying on the couch, waiting for him to come back. He’s practically juggling all the snacks in his arms, you’re watching as the pretzels tucked under his arm comes dangerously close to spilling. “Johnny, do you want some help?” you ask your husband as he continues to struggle with the snacks. 

“No, you sit just sit there and look pretty,” he winks at you, to which you just look at him skeptically. “You don’t think I’m capable of spoiling my wife?” He reaches the coffee table in front of you, putting the assorted bowls down. 

“I know you’re more than capable of spoiling me, Jonathan,” you poke him with your toe as he joins you on the couch. He reaches out for you to pull you closer to him on the couch, your legs resting over his lap. 

“Good, I’d give you the world if I could,” he looks at you, a huge grin on his face, getting ready for his favorite phrase to roll off his tongue ― “Mrs. Storm.” You laugh, used to him calling you that, since it happens at least once a day. There’s something about referring to you with his last name that makes him so giddy, even after being married a year. 

Your new last name is not the only thing that makes him giddy, though. The ring that sits on your left ring finger does just the same thing. It’s not over-the-top, but knowing Johnny, it’s still a little flashy.

He loves when you’re resting your cheek on your hand, the diamond sparkling gently in the light as it rests on your skin. Or he loves when red carpet photos come back and everyone can see the ring on your finger. There’s a photo he loves from a gala thrown at the Baxter building ― you’re both beaming at each other, he’s hugging you into his side and you’ve got your hand on his chest, the diamond glinting from the camera’s flash. He has it framed and sitting on your bedside table. 

He also loves fidgeting with your ring when he’s nervous, which doesn’t happen often. He’s sitting in bed with you one morning, telling you that he’s going to go talk to Reed about an idea he’s had. He knows it shouldn’t be nerve-wracking, he’s a part of the team too, but sometimes people have a tendency to put his ideas aside, a nagging reminder that he’s not a genius like Reed or Sue, he starts to get it in his head that maybe he didn’t earn a spot on the team like Ben, he’s just Sue’s annoying little brother that’s tagging along. 

But, he has you to ground him. He’s going through these insecurities to you, and while he’s talking, he’s playing with your ring, his finger running over the diamond. “Johnny?” you snap him out of his rambling. You cup his face with your hands, “It’s going to be okay, you’re going to do great. And if Reed doesn’t listen, he’ll have to deal with me.” That gets a laugh out of Johnny. 

“Oh, he’ll be so scared,” Johnny teases, leaning in to kiss you.

He also loves when you remind him that you married him, that you both committed to this relationship. 

In the winter, being married to Johnny Storm is great. When the cold creeps in to the Baxter Building and the streets of New York fill with snow, it’s nice to know that you have your own personal heater waiting for you. 

But in the summer, sometimes ― even though you don’t want to ― you have to keep Johnny at a physical distance, which is excruciating for someone as clingy as him. 

It’s the middle of July, in the middle of a sweltering heat wave, and you’re trying to fall asleep. Johnny’s used to heat, so he’s snoring away beside you as you struggle. You’ve stripped off your sleep shorts and even in just your panties and cami, you’re still struggling. You throw your blanket off you, but it means nothing since Johnny has his arm slung around you, his whole body pressed up behind you doing nothing but radiating heat. 

You try again to struggle out of his grasp, but he just hugs you closer to him again. “Johnny,” you whine, starting to wiggle out of his arms again.

“What?” he mumbles out sleepily. 

“You’re boiling me alive,” you groan, trying to work his arms from around you. You feel him laugh against your back, pecking your shoulder before he loosens his grip a bit. 

“I don’t feel anything.”

“Johnny you literally can light yourself on fire,” you roll your eyes and continue your fight to get away from his body.

“I know, it’s fantastic,” he extends the last word, proud of his pun.

“I wouldn’t have married you if it wasn’t,” you laugh at his stupid joke, something that he loves. No matter how bad the joke he cracks is, you’ll laugh just because the words are coming from his pretty lips. 

“How lucky am I,” you’ve moved away from him on the bed, trying to cool off on the untouched side of your bed. He hates that he’s not wrapped around you right now, but he understands that you need to be comfortable. Nonetheless, he sneaks his hand over to where you are, making sure he can at least still touch you somewhere — it’s grounding for him. You smile as you feel his hand resting next to your arm, a reminder that your husband is so down bad for you. 

It’s the subtle things too, the silent reminders that you support him and incorporate him into your life. 

You’ve never looked hotter to him than right after you’ve brushed your teeth and your standing in the bathroom doorway in only your panties and an oversized, very visibly worn “I ❤︎ Human Torch” T-shirt. 

“Johnny?” you have to remind him to focus, “did you hear what I said? Can you believe he did that,” you start up your rant about something that happened at work that day. He’s trying to focus — really he is — but his eyes are so drawn to your bare thighs and his superhero name spread across your chest.

“I’ll just tell you tomorrow when I’m fully clothed, Johnny,” you laugh as you drop your engagement ring and wedding band in the jewelry tray on your dresser and then climb into bed next to Johnny. 

He’s also loved watching the way your closet has slowly turned more orange over the last couple of years. Orange and many, many shades of blue. 

He loves when he takes you to galas or events and you come out into the living room in an orange gown, a nod to his Human Torch persona. 

He gets giddy if he sees little flames around on your things — one time you got little flames on your nails, and when he saw them paired with your engagement ring he wanted to start crying.

It’s such a silly way to show you love him, he knows, but it makes him so happy. He knows that being in the Fantastic Four can be a lot. He knows how nervous you get when the FF have to fight these huge threats, and he gets worried that you’ll get annoyed when he tries to take you into the city and you’re ambushed by fans or paparazzi. He doesn’t want the Human Torch to get in the way of you loving Johnny Storm, but it doesn’t. You love him and everything that comes with loving him. 

You’ll let him take his time talking to a kid he meets in a restaurant who loves the Torch, you keep a Human Torch action figure on your desk at work, and you understand when he needs to run off and help the Fantastic Four with something. He can’t believe how lucky he is to have found you. 

And he can’t wait for the future that you’ll build together. The seed is planted in his head when Sue and Reed welcome Franklin into the world. 

Everyone in the Baxter Building pitches in to help, it takes a village — so they say. You and Johnny have offered to watch Franklin one night so that Reed and Sue can take some time to themselves and have a date night. 

“Let’s go see Uncle Johnny!” you say as you leave Franklin’s room, the toddler effortlessly sitting on your hip, a big smile on his face. 

“Uncle Johnny!” the little boy repeats your words, earning an excited gasp from you, he hears you praising Franklin as you enter the living room, where Johnny waits on the couch. 

“There you two are,” Johnny holds his arms out for Franklin so that you can get comfortable on the couch. 

“He wanted to match shirts,” you tell Johnny, which leads him to see that you must’ve helped Franklin find his Spider-Man shirt, which matches the same one you’re wearing. 

“Uncle Peter,” Franklin says, pointing at the shirt. 

“Yeah, bud — Uncle Peter,” Johnny rolls his eyes at Franklin’s preference for the web slinger over the Torch. 

“Aww, baby,” you coo at Johnny, “Maybe Franklin will find you cooler one day.” 

“We are not telling Peter about this,” he narrows his eyes at you. 

“He won’t hear about it from me,” you say, “But this one you might have to worry about,” you nod down at Franklin. 

“He’d never betray Uncle Johnny.”

“Never,” Franklin says, looking up at his Uncle with big eyes.

“Well, that settles it,” Johnny relaxes onto the couch, throwing his arm behind you and Franklin and grabbing the remote, “What are we watching?” 

Two hours later, the credits are rolling and you’re asleep. Franklin’s asleep too, cuddled into your side, his little cheek smushed up against your torso. Johnny knows he’ll have to move the two of you eventually, but he takes a moment to savor the image. You both look so at peace and Franklin is so comfortable around you, and you’re so good with him. 

He thinks about it a little longer — what if Franklin was your own little toddler? Maybe they’d be a little boy with the signature Storm blonde hair, or maybe a little girl with your eyes. Maybe she’d be hot headed like Johnny or she’d pick up on your patience. He could see it so clearly in his head it almost scared him. 

You’d broached the idea of kids before, both agreeing that it’s something you see in the future, but not elaborating on when that would be. But right now, looking at you and Franklin, he knew he’d want it to be soon.

Opening the door to the chambers of the only place in his hometown that could offer him privacy and comfort, he swiftly tossed the mask onto a piece of furniture, not caring where it landed.

Making his way through the smaller but accommodating flat, he quickly shed layers that clung to him with a little too much of sweat and exhaustion, leaving a snake’s trail of clothes behind him.

“Baby? You awake?” His words echoed to the until now, silent apartment as his footsteps got unnoticeable and lighter, sensing his other half had probably fell asleep in the process of waiting up for her boyfriend.

You’d always insisted and pressed on staying awake, claiming that if he came home either bruised or hurt—there wouldn’t be anyone that could help him besides you, that idea scaring you halfway to the grave.

He appreciated the obvious concern that laced your voice, even though deep down, he knew it would be against his nature to let himself be patched up and seeming weak in another person’s eyes.

The door was slightly ajar, letting soft moonlight spill through the windows.

As he pushed his palm against the white wood, the doorframe squaked—he promised he’d fix it a little over a month ago, and now he blamed himself for not remembering, not wanting to wake you.

Your soft body welcomed him, his appreciative eyes lingering on your familiar frame. His shirt, two times too big on you, your figure practically drowning in it, was slightly crumpled on the top of your hip, revealing that white lace thong.

You’d put it on in the hopes of welcoming him back home with an activity that involved him inside you and you begging for him to fuck you into next week. Unfortunately, exhaustion creeped up on you and took over the situation, leaving you unable to keep your eyelids upright.

Peter’s gaze darkened at the sight in front of him, a deep groan involuntarily leaving the back of his throat, the room filling with undeniable want forming.

Before the surrounding air could register it, Peter was softly dropping onto the white mattress where your deep asleep body lay, his knees forming two dents as he moved closer.

Your body instinctively reacted to his presence, rolling over to where he was, allowing him to see your face for the first time that day since early morning.

His eyes roamed over your shut eyes, taking notice of the furrowed brows you only ever had when you were either focused, or dreaming about things too complicated to voice.

Without any further ado, his scarred hand traveled to where your thong was hiding the treasure every man was after but only he got to see and thoroughly enjoy, hooking a thumb into it’s fabric.

As it slipped off of your hip, your head nuzzled closer to Peter’s heated body, eyelids scrunching under his delicate touch.

“Peter..? What time is it?” You barely mumbled, drifting in and out slumber.

“Quiet. Spread your legs f’me—wanna fuck you.” He commanded, slick gathering on his fingers as he dipped them into your mouth.

You didn’t question his actions, wanting to make him feel good. Pleased. Swirling your tongue over his digits in hope of him getting satisfied.

Pushing your legs open, you hid your face in the crook of his now sweaty neck, panting as his wet fingers found the most sensitive bud on your body, circling it with precision.

The feeling spread through your whole being, the sensation almost burning—reaching every corner of your mind and body.

His skilled digits pressed harder, making you whine and shamelessly beg for more. “Use your words, c’mon.”

“Please—“ You let out quietly, the word barely audible.

“What’d you say?” He shot back, his middle finger finding it’s way into your greedy pussy.

“Please, need more—Fuuuck.” Your voice broke, needy and hot with unmet need.

A grin spread across his face, discarding the fabric of his black boxers onto the ground, revealing his member to the innocent light of the night. Pressing the head against your opening, he positioned his body over yours with ease, maneuvering your delicate frame under him.

His hand braced beside your head on the pillow you’d been resting on before, the other forming a cup in front of your face, “You know what to do. Spit, baby.”

Barely opening your orbs, you gathered enough salive to spit into his palm with messy movements, the liquid connecting your lips to his palm—earning a satisfied grunt from him.

Wrapping the fingers around his heavy cock, he angled it perfectly to meet your already dripping cunt, pushing inside without thinking twice. Rough, hard. Like he wanted.

And you didn’t protest.

A soft moan escaped your lips, the length of his cock imprinting itself into your soft and so welcoming walls, as if marking his territory for others to see.

His thrusts began with the same roughness he started with, skin slapping against skin, forming almost pornographic sounds that bounced off the apartment’s borders.

“Gonna come inside, y’like that?” Peter forced out, his hips shifting to a better and a deeper angle, feeling up what you had to offer. And fuck, if he didn’t like it.

Your shaky hands dipped into his short strands of hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him down with force to get him closer to you, wanting him under your skin; inside you in ways even the devil himself wouldn’t understand.

He cheekily bit your shoulder, his breathing heaving with every creak of the headboard against the wall, with every unfiltered sigh you freed from your chest.

You could feel yourself getting closer, wanting to burst in places you didn’t know was merely even possible, clawing at his back with nails that would leave marks and wouldn’t dare to leave his skin for days.

“You like that, huh? The idea of—Oh. The idea of bein’ a mommy? ‘F course you do.” You grit your teeth, foaming at the mouth of the image. It wasn’t something you’d discussed into detail before, but something that floated in the air but never really got to settle in.

It settled in now.

When his cock was bruising the insides of your pussy.

When his hand was clutching your neck, on the verge of shutting your air off.

When his words made you wetter than you’ve ever been.

“Can feel you squeezing me. You’re so fuckin’ desperate for it,” his words were intoxicating, getting into your head like when perfume was sprayed, filling all of your senses at once.

Peter’s strokes got irregular and sloppy, pulling his cock out almost all the way out—before slamming back in with secret determination. Sneaking a finger between your bodies, he circles your sensitive and puffy clit, making ecstasy shoot through your veins.

“I’ll fill you up so good—gonna be full for days. Carryin’ my cum around like a trophy,” he said lowly, mouth pressing against your ear, whispering dirty secrets only meant for the bedroom, never for someone’s ears.

Feeling a thick rope snap, a known abyss took you under it’s spell, releasing all of the pent-up tension in one dark and utterly mindblowing stroke, making your back arch off the bed, pressing your chest to Peter’s body.

He followed right behind you, releasing his cum right inside you, painting your insides with his liquid.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” He praised, slapping your cheek lightly.

Your palms traveled to his bare chest, wiping the sweat gathered there everywhere, locking eyes with his, searching for tension that wasn’t there.

Once he pulled back, slipping out of you messily, your shared bliss staining the sheets immediately, he pushed a finger back in, making a gasp escape you in agony.

“Keep it in, yeah? Let my cum stay in your pussy until it remembers who it belongs to.” Peter said.

And you didn’t have any other choice than to obey. Not that you wanted to protest. He just made it easier to surrender to him. Made it so loving that you’d think he was talking about something completely different.

And maybe.. that’s why you didn’t pull away.

"sorry, I'm sorry," you whisper, words soft as you lower, leaning in close to him below — keeping the majority of his cock within you for the repositioning. "didn't mean to," you add, pressing your forehead against his.

he runs his hands up your back, palms gliding up your sides until they pause on the backside of your ribs. his finger pulse, tips squeezing into your skin in a way he can just about control. peter’s knee’s bend behind you just that much more, soles of his feet resting flat on the mattress — the new position elevating his groin, cock reaching into you fully like before.

"it's okay, I'm okay," he utters, voice soft between the close distance.

"yeah?"

"yeah," he assures, a slight nod motion of his head further emphasising his confirmation.

he chases after the feel of you and winds upwards, movement experimental and needy; cock desperate for more. you gasp against him, the pump taking you by surprise.

you run a thumb under his eye, pressure cautious along the dark bags of exhaustion that linger below. touch remains light, like you're trying to wipe the tired away. you adjust the placement of your hand and momentarily settle it on his forehead before pushing forwards — fingers raking through the soft curls at the top of his head.

moving your hips, you wind and grind against him below, slow easy movement aiding the way your cunt takes him.

it's all so timely, no sense of rush about anything. and when you feel him pant against your lips, your fingers in his hair the reason for such a response, you tighten your grasp — furthering your grip in his hair. furthering a vocal responce, also.

peter hugs at your back, holding you within an embrace he pretends not to need. you in turn hold at his face, at his hair, clasping him dearly as you each make timely effort in your dual winds.

you each stay close, tips of noses skimming with the repeated soft bounces, both desperate to prolong such a moment.

You stopped on another picture. “Maybe these.”

He leaned closer when you held the screen toward him. The nails were dark red this time, glossy enough to catch the light, with some kind of gold detail near the cuticles.

“Those are nice.”

“You said that about the last ones.”

“The last ones were nice too.”

“You have absolutely no standards.”

“I have plenty of standards.” His gaze dropped deliberately over you. “They’re just not about nail polish.”

You nudged his stomach with your foot, but you were smiling when you did it.

Bucky caught your ankle before you could pull away and pressed a kiss to the inside of it. “When’s the appointment?”

“Thursday.”

“Thought you said Tuesday.”

You laughed and locked your phone. “I moved it. I spent more than I meant to this month, so I pushed it back.”

Bucky frowned, and you recognized the expression immediately.

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was about to ask how much.”

“Exactly.”

His thumb continued tracing the same slow path over your ankle. “How much?”

“Bucky.”

“How much?”

You studied him for a second before naming the approximate cost.

He nodded once. “I’ll send it.”

“You don’t have to pay for my nails.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you saying it as if you’ve already decided?”

“Because I have.”

You sat up enough to pull your feet out from beneath him. “You can’t just pay for my things every time I mention wanting something.”

“I don’t.”

“You bought me that coat.”

“You were cold.”

“My old coat was perfectly fine.”

“It had a hole in it.”

“In the pocket.”

“Still a hole.”

“You replaced my headphones.”

“They only worked if you bent the wire.”

“They worked.”

Bucky stared at you.

You tried not to smile and failed.

“Fine,” you conceded. “Bad example.”

“Thank you.”

“You still don’t have to.”

“I want to.” His voice softened, losing the teasing edge without becoming serious enough to make the conversation heavier than it needed to be. “You like getting them done. I like you being happy. Seems straightforward.”

Arguing with Bucky about this particular form of affection was almost impossible. He could be stubborn and occasionally overprotective, but the things he gave you never seemed designed to create obligation. He noticed what made your life easier, what made you smile, what you lingered over before deciding you could do without it, and quietly made room for those things whenever he could.

You narrowed your eyes at him anyway. “Do you want something?”

His expression became suspiciously thoughtful.

“You do.”

“Wouldn’t say I want something.”

“You’re thinking about it.”

“Maybe I’ve got a request.”

You groaned. “I knew it.”

Bucky caught your hand when you reached for your phone again, turning it palm-down against his thigh. Your current manicure was nearly three weeks old, enough new growth showing at the cuticles that you’d spent the previous evening complaining about it.

His thumb passed across your nails one by one.

“Put a B on one.”

You blinked.

Bucky kept his attention on your hand, but there was a faint tension at the corner of his mouth that told you he wasn’t quite as casual about the request as he wanted to appear.

“A B.”

“Yeah.”

“For Barnes?”

His eyes lifted to yours. “Got another boyfriend I don’t know about?”

“I might.”

“Hope he’s tough.”

You laughed. “Are you threatening an imaginary man?”

“Depends how imaginary he is.”

You threaded your fingers through his. “You want your initial on my nails.”

“One nail.”

“That’s very possessive of you.”

“Could be worse.” Bucky brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles. “Could’ve asked for the whole name.”

“Think that might be difficult to fit.”

“Your nail lady seems talented.”

“She has a name.”

“I’m sure she does.”

“You’ve met her.”

“I remember.”

“You called her my nail lady after claiming you remember her.”

Bucky kissed another knuckle to hide his smile. “You gonna do it or not?”

You considered making him work harder for the answer, but the idea had already settled pleasantly beneath your ribs. It was a small thing, almost ridiculous in its simplicity, and that made you like it more. Anyone else looking at your manicure would see a decorative initial. Maybe they’d assume it belonged to you or meant nothing at all.

You would know better, and so would Bucky.

“I’ll think about it.”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s not a yes.”

“I know.”

“You enjoy making my life difficult.”

“Very much.”

Bucky sighed and reached for his phone.

A second later, yours buzzed on the couch.

You picked it up and stared at the payment notification. “You sent too much.”

“Tip.”

“That’s still too much.”

“Then get something fancy.”

“Something fancy.”

“Technical term.”

You leaned over and kissed him before he could say anything else. Bucky’s hand immediately came up to the back of your neck, keeping you close for another kiss when you started to withdraw.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmured against his mouth.

“Get the B.”

You laughed into the next kiss.

“I said I’d think about it.”

By Thursday afternoon, you’d thought about it. Quite extensively, actually.

You hadn’t told Bucky what you’d decided. He’d asked once the morning after your conversation, received the same vague answer, and apparently determined that pestering you would lower his chances. He hadn’t mentioned it again.

You’d gone with the dark red after all, although you’d changed the original inspiration enough to make it your own. The color was rich and glossy, the kind of red that looked nearly black in low light before catching bright crimson when you moved your hands.

Your nail artist had smiled when you finally explained that you wanted a tiny gold B on your left ring finger. She’d glanced from the finger you indicated to your face, visibly considering whether she should ask, but you’d only smiled.

By the time you got home, you’d already decided you wanted to see his reaction before telling him where you’d put the B.

Bucky was in the kitchen with his back to the apartment door. He’d changed out of whatever he’d worn that day into gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, his hair pulled loosely away from his face.

“Hey, doll.”

“Hi.”

He turned, and his gaze went directly to your hands. On impulse, you tucked them behind your back. Bucky stopped when you hid them, and you smiled sweetly.

“What’re you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Show me.”

“You don’t even know whether I got it.”

His brows lifted. “You hiding your hands because you didn’t?”

“Maybe I want you to appreciate the suspense.”

“I’ve been appreciating the suspense since Tuesday.”

“That sounds difficult.”

“Extremely.”

You stepped around him toward the refrigerator. Bucky moved with you.

You changed direction. So did he.

“James.”

“Show me your hands.”

“You’re being weird.”

“You made it weird when you walked in hiding them.”

“You’re the one who asked me to put your initial on my body.”

“On a nail.”

“Still part of my body.”

He almost smiled. “Show me.”

You let him suffer for another few seconds before finally lifting your right hand.

Bucky took it immediately. His attention moved over the new manicure as he turned your hand gently beneath the light. “Pretty.”

“Thank you.”

“Like the red.”

“I thought you might.”

His eyes flicked toward your other arm, still held behind your back. “Other one.”

“So demanding.”

“Please.”

You laughed softly. “Much better.”

Then you gave him your left hand.

Bucky took it with the same easy confidence. At first, he only looked at the manicure. Then he saw the gold.

His thumb stopped beneath your ring finger.

You watched the realization happen. It wasn’t dramatic. Bucky didn’t freeze completely or demand to know why you’d chosen that particular nail. His attention simply focused until it seemed to narrow around the tiny letter, his thumb sliding slowly upward until it rested against the pad of your finger.

“You picked this one.”

There was something different in his voice.

You pretended not to hear it. “You said one nail.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t specify.”

“No.”

“So I picked.”

Bucky looked up.

You’d expected amusement, maybe a possessive little smile that would tell you he’d understood your joke exactly as intended. Instead, the expression on his face made warmth climb much higher across your chest.

His gaze dropped to the B again. “You picked the left hand.”

“I did.”

His thumb moved slowly over your ring finger. “This finger.”

“You noticed.”

Bucky looked up at you. “Hard not to.”

His flesh hand closed gently around your wrist.

Anyone else might’ve thought the location was random. Bucky couldn’t; he’d been born in a time when that finger carried an implication that had survived nearly a century of everything else changing around it. You’d chosen it because you knew he would understand.

Bucky lifted your hand and pressed his mouth to the ring finger. The kiss lingered.

Your teasing softened before you could stop it. “You like it?”

“Yeah.”

“Worth paying for?”

His eyes remained on yours as he kissed the finger again. “Would’ve paid either way.”

“I know.”

That mattered, and something in Bucky’s expression told you he understood why. The B hadn’t been purchased or traded for anything; he’d asked, and you’d chosen.

His thumb rubbed lightly over the gold letter. “You did this on purpose.”

“Obviously.”

“You’ve been planning to come home and make me crazy.”

“I didn’t know it’d be this easy.”

Bucky’s gaze moved from your hand to your face. “Careful.”

You smiled. “Or what?”

His hand tightened around your wrist just enough to pull you closer.

The kiss he gave you wasn’t anything like the ones he’d pressed to your finger.

Bucky kissed you slowly at first, like he had every intention of proving how patient he could be, but his restraint lasted only until your freshly manicured hand settled against his chest. His mouth opened against yours as your nails scraped lightly over the cotton of his shirt, and the hand around your wrist shifted until he could thread his fingers through yours.

When he pulled back barely an inch, his eyes dropped immediately to your joined hands. Your left hand tangled with his, his initial gleaming from your ring finger.

“Jesus Christ.”

You laughed softly. “Really?”

“You knew.”

“I suspected.”

“That’s worse.”

Bucky kissed you again before you could answer.

Your back met the edge of the kitchen counter, his body settling between your thighs when you leaned against it. His metal hand braced beside your hip while the other stayed wrapped around yours, thumb repeatedly drifting over the nail like he couldn’t quite help himself.

“You gonna stare at it all night?”

“Maybe.”

“I did get nine other nails.”

“Don’t care about those right now.”

“That seems rude. They were expensive.”

“I know. I paid for ‘em.”

You caught his lower lip between your teeth. Bucky made a low sound in his throat.

“Oh, now you’re gonna use that against me?”

“You’re the one who brought up the price.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’ve got my initial on your ring finger.”

“You’ve mentioned.”

“Not enough.”

His mouth moved down your throat.

You tipped your head aside, giving him room as his lips found the spot beneath your ear that he already knew made your knees weaker than they had any right to be. Bucky’s hand finally released yours only because he wanted both hands on you, and he slid them beneath your thighs to lift you onto the counter.

Your fingers went immediately into his hair.

He groaned against your neck.

The response made you pause before you deliberately scratched your nails over his scalp.

Bucky’s head lifted. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“You know what.”

“I really don’t.”

His gaze dropped to your hand tangled in his hair.

The gold B caught the kitchen light.

“Oh.” You smiled.

Bucky stared at you for another second before pushing between your knees and kissing you hard enough to wipe the expression from your face.

You wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling him closer until the hard line of his cock pressed through his sweatpants against the inside of your thigh. Bucky’s metal hand settled at your waist while the other slipped beneath your shirt, warm fingers spreading over your skin.

“You’re already hard.”

“Very observant.”

“From my nails?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

You flexed your left hand against his shoulder. Bucky’s eyes narrowed.

“So they have nothing to do with it.”

“Didn’t say that.”

“I could take the B off.”

His flesh hand closed immediately around your wrist.

You laughed. “Thought so.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

His thumb stroked over the letter again. The tenderness of it didn’t match his expression.

Something about that made heat coil low in your stomach.

You slid from the counter before Bucky could stop you, keeping your body close enough to his that you felt the hitch in his breathing when your hands reached his waistband. Predictably, his gaze followed your left hand as you pushed his shirt up just enough to drag your fingertips over the strip of skin above his sweatpants.

Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose. “Doll.”

“Yes?”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I haven’t even done anything.”

Your fingers hooked into his waistband.

“That statement’s about to become a lie.”

You smiled up at him and pulled his sweatpants down far enough to free him. His cock sprang heavily against his lower abdomen. You’d touched him hundreds of times before, but with his initial gleaming from your ring finger, Bucky watched your hand approach as though he’d never seen it there before.

Your left hand curled around him. Bucky’s breath caught. The dark red polish looked striking against his skin. The gold initial gleamed from your ring fingernail, visible with every movement of your hand. You gave him one slow stroke, then another, and his eyes stayed fixed on your hand.

“You’re staring.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re not even pretending anymore.”

“Nope.”

You tightened your grip slightly on the next pass, thumb brushing over the head before smoothing the moisture down his shaft.

Bucky’s hips shifted toward you. His metal fingers curled against the edge of the counter hard enough to make it creak beneath his grip.

“Easy,” you murmured.

His eyes finally lifted to your face.

You smiled.

Then your hand moved again.

Bucky swore.

You kept the pace deliberately slow, enjoying every involuntary response he gave you: the flex of his stomach beneath his shirt, the way his thighs shifted when you twisted your wrist near the head, and the increasingly uneven rhythm of his breathing.

Most of all, you enjoyed the fact that his attention kept returning to your ring finger. “You really would watch my hand all night.”

“You gonna keep doing that all night?”

“Maybe.”

“Then yeah.”

You laughed, tightening your fingers again.

Bucky’s head tipped back.

Your free hand settled against his hip while you stroked him, and for several quiet seconds the only sound in the kitchen was his breathing and the slick slide of your palm.

Then his metal hand covered yours.

You looked down.

The metal fingers wrapped over your knuckles without restricting you, his palm guiding your hand into a firmer stroke. His metal thumb settled against your ring finger just beneath the nail, leaving the little gold B visible above it. Your stomach tightened at the sight, and Bucky noticed.

“Thought you were teasing me.”

“I was.”

“Don’t sound so smug now.”

“You put your initial on my hand and suddenly think you’re in charge?”

Something like satisfaction flickered across his face.

“I didn’t put anything anywhere.” Bucky lowered his head until his mouth brushed your ear. “You wanted it there.”

Your grip faltered, but his hand tightened over yours and maintained the rhythm.

“Left ring finger,” he murmured. “Could’ve picked any of the other nine.”

“You asked for a B.”

“Didn’t ask for that.”

You turned your head enough that your lips almost touched his. “Maybe I wanted people to wonder.”

Bucky went very still as you stroked him once without his help.

“Maybe I wanted only you to know.”

His metal hand left yours, and for half a second, you wondered if you’d pushed too hard at the implication neither of you had quite said aloud.

Then he stepped out of his sweatpants, both hands catching your waist before he picked you up off the floor. You barely had time to laugh before he carried you toward the bedroom.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You started this.”

“You paid for it.”

“Best money I’ve spent all month.”

He put you on the mattress and followed you down before you could argue.

Your shirt disappeared first. His landed somewhere near the foot of the bed. The rest followed with considerably less care, your new manicure momentarily forgotten beneath the much more immediate pleasure of Bucky’s mouth moving across your chest and his hands spreading your thighs apart.

By the time he pushed two fingers inside you, you were already wet enough that the stretch came easily.

Your head fell back against the pillow. “Bucky.”

“Yeah, doll?”

“Stop looking at my hand.”

His mouth curved against your breast.

You lifted your left hand deliberately into his line of sight.

Bucky’s fingers curled inside you.

The sudden pressure dragged a moan from your throat.

“Cheater.”

“You’re the one waving it around.”

“I moved my hand six inches.”

“Six dangerous inches.”

You laughed breathlessly, but the sound broke when his thumb found your clit.

Bucky knew you too well to need much experimentation. His fingers worked inside you with the easy confidence of familiarity, pressing where he knew you needed them while his thumb rubbed slow circles that made your thighs tighten around his wrist.

Your hand caught his shoulder, your nails leaving faint red lines when you dragged them down his skin. Bucky’s breathing hitched beneath your touch.

“You like this too?”

“Everything about these is becoming a problem.”

“You’re very dramatic for someone who fought aliens.”

“Aliens didn’t put my initial on their ring finger.”

“That you know of.”

He stopped moving.

You burst out laughing.

Bucky stared at you with offended disbelief for half a second before his expression shifted into something much more dangerous.

“Funny?”

“Very.”

He curled his fingers. Your laughter disappeared into a broken gasp.

“Still funny?”

“You’re proving my point.”

“What point?”

“Don’t remember.”

“That’s what I thought.”

He bent and kissed you while his hand continued working between your thighs.

The orgasm built quickly after that, pleasure gathering until your teasing became impossible to maintain. Your nails dug into his shoulder as your body tightened around his fingers, and Bucky stayed exactly where you needed him until the tension finally snapped.

You came with his name against his mouth. He kissed you through it, slower now, his fingers easing you down rather than pulling away immediately.

When your breathing steadied, Bucky lifted your left hand from his shoulder.

“You’re checking the polish?”

“Making sure I didn’t ruin it.”

“You’d have to pay for another appointment.”

“Tragic.”

You smiled as he kissed your palm, then your ring finger. “Bucky.”

His eyes met yours. There was something almost unbearably fond beneath all the heat.

You touched his face. “I meant it.”

His brow furrowed slightly.

“The finger,” you clarified. “I picked it because I wanted to.”

Bucky’s expression softened. “I know.”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“Know you pretty well.”

“Apparently not well enough to predict which nail I’d choose.”

“I was hoping.”

That caught you. “You were?”

His thumb stroked over the B.

Bucky looked almost sheepish for the first time that evening. “Didn’t wanna ask.”

“Why?”

“Felt like too much.”

You knew he meant the finger rather than the initial itself.

Bucky had encouraged you to wear his jacket, let you steal his shirts, and made room for your things in his apartment until separating your belongings became nearly impossible.

The initial itself could’ve been teasing. Putting it on your left ring finger made it harder to pretend there wasn’t something more beneath it.

You curled your fingers around his. “So you asked for the B and hoped I’d do the rest.”

“Something like that.”

“Coward.”

Bucky laughed softly. “Yeah, maybe.”

You pulled him down for a kiss. This one was gentler than the others had been, but it didn’t stay gentle for long.

Bucky settled between your thighs, and you felt the hard length of him press against you. Your legs opened instinctively around his hips.

He broke the kiss. “You good?”

You nodded and drew him closer.

Bucky pushed inside you slowly. The stretch made your breath catch, your body still sensitive from the orgasm he’d already given you. He paused long enough to let you adjust before moving again, filling you until his hips settled flush against yours.

Your nails pressed into his back.

“Christ.”

“You better not complain about scratches after all this.”

“Not complaining.”

He proved it by rolling his hips, sending your head deeper into the pillow.

Bucky kept the first few thrusts slow, but there was nothing tentative about them. Each one pressed deep enough to make your toes curl against the backs of his thighs, his flesh hand gripping your hip while his metal forearm supported his weight beside your head.

You lifted your left hand and touched his face.

His gaze shifted automatically. You saw the exact moment he noticed the B again.

“Oh, come on.”

Bucky laughed against your mouth. “Can’t help it.”

“You’ve seen it.”

“Not like this.”

“Like what?”

His hips drove forward harder.

Your question dissolved into a moan.

Bucky caught your hand and pushed it into the mattress beside your head, interlacing your fingers while keeping the B visible between them. “Like this.”

Heat rushed through you.

He kissed you before you could find something clever to say, thrusting into you with enough force to make the bed shift beneath you. Your free hand moved over his back, nails dragging down muscle every time he pushed deep.

Bucky’s fingers tightened around yours.

“You gonna keep it?”

“The manicure?”

“The B.”

You smiled despite the way your breathing kept breaking apart. “Until it grows out.”

His mouth brushed your jaw. “Then what?”

“You gonna pay for the next set?”

“Absolutely.”

You laughed.

Bucky thrust harder.

“Then maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“You’re getting demanding again.”

His metal hand slipped between your bodies.

The first pass of his thumb over your clit made your thighs clench around him.

“Bucky.”

“Maybe?”

“You’re bribing me with orgasms now?”

“Working?”

His thumb circled again.

You moaned and tightened around his cock.

Bucky’s forehead dropped against yours. “Fuck.”

You could feel his control slipping in the increasing force of his thrusts, each one driving you closer to the edge while his thumb maintained the rhythm against your clit.

Your left hand remained pinned beneath his, the little gold B still visible between their interlaced fingers. Bucky looked at it once more, and you felt his cock twitch inside you.

“You really like having your name on me.”

“Yeah.”

The answer came without hesitation.

You turned your hand beneath his until your palm pressed against his. “Good.”

Bucky groaned.

His next thrust hit exactly right.

Pleasure tightened through you so quickly that you barely had time to gasp his name before it broke. Your body clenched around him, thighs trembling at his hips while he kept moving through the contractions.

Bucky lasted only a little longer. His face disappeared against your neck, his hand squeezing yours as his rhythm finally broke and he came deep inside you, his hips pressing flush against yours through the last few uneven thrusts.

Afterward, the apartment went quiet.

Bucky stayed over you until your breathing slowed, then eased out of you and shifted onto his side, pulling you against his chest. His metal hand moved lazily along your back while you rested your cheek over his heartbeat.

For several minutes, neither of you said anything. Then his flesh hand slid down your arm until his fingers found your left hand where it rested against his chest. He turned it gently in his palm, and the little gold B immediately caught his attention again.

“You’re obsessed.”

“Little bit.”

“You know these only last a few weeks.”

“I know.”

“They grow out.”

“I know.”

“I’ll have to get them redone.”

His thumb rubbed gently across the tiny gold B. “I know.”

You lifted your head. Bucky’s expression was suspiciously innocent.

“Is this your way of saying you’re paying for all my manicures now?”

“Only the ones with good design choices.”

You smacked his chest. He caught your hand before you could pull it away and kissed the ring finger again.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered.

Bucky settled your hand against his chest, keeping it there beneath his. “Appointment in two weeks?”

You tried to sound annoyed. “Three.”

“Two and a half.”

“Bucky.”

“Fine. Three.”

You rested your head against him again.

His thumb continued moving over your finger.

After a moment, you smiled into his chest. “Maybe next time I’ll skip the initial.”

Bucky went silent.

You started laughing before he could even answer.

“Don’t you dare.”

credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider ❤️💛

One second, you’re in control. The next, his hands slip from your hold like they were never trapped at all, his fingers digging into your waist with a bruising grip that has you gasping. And oh God the way he lifts you, like you weigh nothing, like he’s been dying to do this. Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, your back hitting the mattress a second later, Peter following you down without breaking the kiss for even a breath. His hips settle between your thighs, his weight pressing you into the sheets, and you arch into him with a moan, because fuck—the way he’s suddenly taking what he wants is obscene.

His hands slide up, rough and calloused from years of gripping webs and brick walls, to grip your thighs, prying them open wider, and you whimper into his mouth. The sound seems to snap something in him—his kiss turns hungrier, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’s starving for you, his hips rolling down— and then, just like that, the confidence is gone.

His body goes still. His lips pull back just enough to breathe, his forehead pressing against yours, his chest heaving like he’s just run a marathon. His fingers, still tangled in the hem of your shirt, tremble.

“D-Do you—uh—mind if I—?” His voice is wrecked, rough and uncertain, his eyes darting between your face and the fabric he’s this close to ruining. The contrast is maddening—this boy who just manhandled you onto the bed like it was nothing, now stammering like a virgin.

You smile, slow and sinful, your fingers tangling in his hair to pull him back down. “Yes, Pete,” you purr, your voice dripping with amusement and need. “You can take it off.”

His eyes darken at the permission, his hands finally move, his fingers curling into the fabric before yanking it up, up, over your head.

The second your shirt hits the floor, Peter’s lips leave yours like he’s been starved of the taste of your skin. His mouth trails down your jaw, hot and wet, his breath hitching as he presses open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear—the one that makes your toes curl every damn time. His hands follow, sliding up your sides with a reverence that has your pulse spiking, his calloused fingers trembling as they hover just millimeters from your breasts.

Of course he hesitates.

Of course this boy—man, now, though he still doesn’t see it—freezes like he’s afraid he’ll break you.

Your hands cover his, your fingers lacing through his as you guide them upward, pressing his palms against the weight of your breasts. His breath stutters against your collarbone, his thumbs twitching like he’s not sure he’s allowed to move. But he eventually does. His fingers flex, his grip tightening just enough to make you whimper, his touch gentle but firm, kneading you like he’s memorizing the shape of you. A low, needy sound rumbles in his chest, and you can feel the way his cock jerks against your thigh, like even that part of him is surprised by his own audacity.

You let go of his hands, finally trusting him to keep touching you, and slide your palms up his arms instead. God. The muscle beneath your fingers is ridiculous—thick, hard, earned. Every swing through the city, every near-death experience, every second of his double life has carved him into something new, something stronger. And fuck if it isn’t the hottest thing you’ve ever felt.

You’re so distracted by the way his biceps flex under your touch, by the way his skin burns beneath your fingertips, that you don’t even notice the way his other hand has slipped behind your back…

Until the clasp of your bra gives.

The fabric loosens, the straps sliding down your shoulders, and then his hand is underneath, his palm cupping your bare breast, his thumb circling your nipple with a precision that has your back arching off the bed. The first brush of his skin against yours is electric, and when his thumb flicks over the sensitive peak, you gasp, your hips bucking up into him like your body’s begging for more.

Peter groans, the sound raw, his mouth latching onto your neck like he’s trying to drink you in. His hips roll down, his cock grinding against you through his jeans, and you can feel the way he’s shaking—not from nerves, this time, but from restraint. Because fuck if he doesn’t want to pin you down, to devour you, to ruin you.

But this is Peter.

So instead, he whispers against your skin, his voice rough with need: “Fuck—you’re—is this okay?”

And you laugh, breathless and desperate, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Harder,” you demand.

“Harder—yeah, okay yeah,” he whispers, his voice rough like gravel under your fingertips, then his thumb and forefinger close around your nipple, pinching just shy of pain. The sensation shoots straight between your legs, and the sound that tears out of you is obscene—a broken, needy mewl that Peter swallows like he’s been starving for it. His lips crash back onto yours, his kiss bruising, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’s claiming you, like he’s finally remembering he’s allowed to.

And just like that, the tables have turned.

Because you—you, who had him pinned against the wall not five minutes ago—are now the one struggling to keep up. His fingers are everywhere, his touch relentless, and your brain short-circuits as his free hand slides down, lower, his fingers deftly undoing the buttons of your shorts like he’s been dying to do it. The fabric parts, his palm cupping you over your panties, and fuck—the way he groans into your mouth when he feels how wet you are, how desperate you are.

“P-Peter—” Your voice is a whine, your hips jerking up into his touch like your body’s begging for more.

“Yeah?” His breath is hot against your lips, his voice a sinful mix of cocky and sweet, like he’s proud of himself for making you fall apart but still terrified he’s doing it wrong. His fingers press against your clit through the damp fabric, circling, teasing, and your nails dig into his shoulders. “This okay? Feel good?”

You nod, your throat too tight to form words, your vision blurring as his touch intensifies, his thumb grinding down just right.

“Words, baby.” His voice is firm, but there’s a tremor in it, like he’s holding on by a thread. And fuck—the way he says it, like he’s earned the right to demand them from you, like he’s finally stepping into the man he’s becoming—destroys you.

“Y-Yes—fuck—” The words stumble out of you, broken and breathless, and Peter rewards you by increasing the pressure, his fingers rolling over your clit in slow, deliberate circles. His lips trail down to your jaw, his teeth grazing your skin as he murmurs, “That’s my girl. Gonna make you feel so good—”

And oh god—you believe him.

This is the Peter you’ve been wanting—the one who takes what he wants, who owns his strength, who drowns you in pleasure until you forget your own name. His fingers hook into the wet fabric of your panties, his touch burning as he slides them aside, and his skin finally meets yours.

“Fuck.” The word is a prayer, a curse, torn from both of your lips at the same time.

His fingers are rough from years of gripping webs, of clinging to life by a thread, and the contrast of his callouses against your soaked, sensitive skin is heaven. He explores you like he’s mapping you, his touch hesitant at first—of course it is—but then his confidence surges, his fingers parting you, stroking you, learning you in a way that has your back archingoff the bed.

“P-Peter, please—” You’re begging now, your voice raw, your body aching for more.

And god—the way he smirks against your skin, the way his breath hitches like he’s just as undone as you are.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice dark with promise.

Two of his fingers sink into you in one smooth motion, and your head snaps back into the pillows, a broken moan spilling from your lips. Fuck—his fingers are thick, his digits stretching you just enough to make your toes curl, and when his palm grinds against your clit, the dual sensation has your vision whiting out for a second.

Because God, Peter knows what he’s doing.

His fingers curl inside you, dragging against that spot—the one that makes your breath hitch, your back arch, your nails rake down his shoulders like you’re trying to anchor yourself to reality. His thumb circles your clit in slow, maddening strokes, his touch firm but gentle, like he’s memorizing the way your body reacts to him. And his eyes are glued to your face, searching, studying, like he’s desperate to know if he’s doing this right.

And oh, he is.

“F-Fuck, Peter—” Your voice is a whimper, a plea, your hips rolling up into his touch like you’re chasing something just out of reach. “Need you—please—” The words tumble out of you, broken and breathless, and Peter swallows them like they’re the only thing keeping him alive.

Because fuck—how is he supposed to say no to that?

His fingers slide out of you with a wet, obscene sound, your body clenching around nothing, aching for him to fill you back up. He brings his hand to his lips, his tongue darting out to lick every last drop of you from his fingers, his groan vibrating against his skin as he tastes you. His lashes flutter, his pupils blowing wide, and for a second, he looks drunk—high even—on you, like he’s never tasted anything so good, so addictive.

“Fuck—” The word is torn from his throat, raw and desperate, as he shoves himself off the bed, his hands fumbling with the button of his jeans like he’s forgotten how to undress. You whine at the loss of his touch, your body thrumming with need, but the sight of him—flustered, desperate, stripping for you like his life depends on it—has you biting your lip so hard you taste blood.

Your own hands hook into the waistband of your shorts, shimmying them down your hips along with your panties, the fabric sticking to your soaked skin before you kick them off. The cool air hits your bare, aching flesh, and you spread your thighs wider, inviting, daring him to look—to see what he’s done to you.

His jeans and boxers pool around his ankles, his cock springing free, hard and throbbing, the tip already glistening with precum. His breath hitches, his eyes locked on the way your hand slides down yourself, your fingers circling your clit, teasing yourself because you can’t wait anymore. The sight of you—spread for him, touching yourself, needy for him—has his cock jerking, a bead of precum dripping onto the sheets.

Peter crawls back onto the bed, kicking his pants off properly, his movements clumsy with need. “You look—fuck—so pretty,” he whispers, his voice rough, like he’s barely holding on. And then his lips are back on yours, his kiss hungry, desperate, like he’s starving for you.

His hand slips between your bodies, his fingers wrapping around his throbbing length, and you feel the heat of him, the pulse of his cock as he runs his tip up and down your slit, collecting all of your wetness. The sensation is teasing—torturous—and when he presses just the tip inside you, testing, waiting…

“Peter,” Your voice is a warning, a beg, your nails digging into his back.

When he finally sinks into you—all of him, deep, stretching you in a way that has your breath catching in your throat, your nails digging into his back—Peter freezes.

His entire body goes still, his muscles locked like he’s afraid to even breathe. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps, his skin burning against yours. For you, he tells himself. It’s for you—so you can adjust, so you can breathe, so you can—

Fuck.

Fuck, he’s lying to himself.

Because the real reason he’s not moving is because if he does—if he so much as twitches—he’s going to cum in two seconds flat. And Lord, would that be embarrassing. But the way you clench around him, the way your walls pulse and squeeze like they’re begging for more, like they’re trying to drag him deeper—it’s torture.

And worse—he can feel it. All of it. His spider-sense is screaming, every nerve in his body alight with the heat of you, the tightness of you, the way you fit around him like you were made for him. It’s too much—overwhelming—and he’s drowning in it.

“Peter, move.” Your voice is a whisper, a plea, your hips rolling up just a fraction, testing, teasing.

His entire body shudders, a broken sound escaping him into your neck. “J-Just—give me a second—” he mumbles, his voice muffled against your skin, his fingers digging into your hip like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

But you’re done waiting.

With that, you lift your hips, fucking yourself on him since he clearly won’t do it. The movement drags him deeper, and the sound that rips from his throat is obscene—a whimper, a moan, something raw and needy. His grip on your hip tightens to the point of pain, his fingers bruising your skin, and fuck it hurts so good.

That hand drags downward, his touch rough as he trails down your thigh, his callouses scraping against your skin. And then his palm slides under your knee, pressing your leg upward, opening you wider for him. His hips push forward, driving himself deeper, and the angle—fuck—the angle makes it feel like he’s hitting something new, something impossibly deep, like he’s fucking you into your soul.

The way he’s manhandling you again, the way he’s taking what he wants, the way his control is shattering—it has you clenching around him, your walls pulsing, milking him, begging for more.

His breath hitches, his hips stuttering as he finally—finally—starts to move. “Fuck—” The word is a curse, torn from his lips as he pulls back, slamming into you again, his rhythm erratic, desperate. “Y-You—fuck—you’re gonna—”

His voice breaks, his words lost as his hips snap forward, his cock hitting that spot inside you that has your vision whiting out. And oh—the way he groans, the way his forehead presses against yours, his eyes squeezed shut like he’s fighting for control—he’s gone.

Like he’s really gone.

The last remnants of his shyness, his hesitation, his Peter-ness—shattered. Like a dam breaking, like a switch flipping, like the boy you knew has been replaced by something feral, something hungry, something desperate to claim you. And definitely you’re here for it.

His hips snap forward, driving into you with a force that has the bed creaking beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall. His tip hammers against your g-spot repeatedly, each thrust hitting that spot inside you that has your toes curling, your back arching, your vision blurring at the edges. And his hand is holding your leg up, pressing it to your chest, opening you wider, going deeper, like he’s trying to fuse you together.

His lips crash onto yours, his kiss sloppy, desperate, his words spilling out of him like he can’t contain them, like he needs you to hear them, to know them. “You—fuck—you feel so good—” His voice is rough, raw, his breath hot against your mouth. “So good—do you—do you feel good?” His hips stutter, his cock twitching inside you as he waits for an answer, like your pleasure is the only thing that matters.

And you do. You feel amazing. But your brain is mush, your body alight with need, and the only thing you can manage is a nod, a whimper, a broken sound that has him groaning into your mouth.

“You look like you do—” His voice is wondering, awed, like he can’t believe he’s the one doing this to you. “Yeah you do—so pretty—so fucking pretty—” His hand tightens on your leg, his fingers digging into your skin as he pulls back, slamming into you again, his cock dragging against that spot that has you seeing stars. “And so tight—so fucking tight—good God—”

The words tumble out of him, unfiltered, like he’s drowning in you and the only thing keeping him afloat is the sound of his own voice, the feel of your body clenching around him.

It’s intoxicating.

You can’t speak. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but feel—the heat of him, the weight of him, the way he’s fucking you like he’s trying to brand you from the inside out. Your fingers tangle in his hair, your nails scraping against his scalp as you pull him closer, deeper, harder. And oh—the way he responds, the way his hips stutter, the way his cock jerks inside you.

It’s madness.

Pure, delicious madness, you never want it to end.

Because this? This is the Peter you crave—the one who takes what he wants, who manhandles you into the perfect position, his hands rough and possessive as he bends you to his will. The way he grips your thigh, yanking it up to your chest, opening you wider for him—it’s perfect. The way his hips slam into you, driving deep, hitting that spot over and over until your mind is blank and your body is singing—it’s addictive.

And even now, even as he fucks you like he’s starving for you, even as his breath comes in ragged gasps and his skin burns against yours—he still checks in. His lips brush against your ear, his voice rough but tender, “You okay?” like your pleasure is the only thing that matters. His eyes flick to your face, searching, studying, like he’s memorizing every whimper, every gasps, every shudder of your body beneath his.

It’s too much—this boy, this man, this perfect mix of ferocity and care—and fuck if it doesn’t make you ache for him even more.

Good lord—you want to fuck this man forever.

© 𝕭𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐎𝐍𝐃. 2026 all rights reserved. Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai.

"you're a lifesaver," you said, as you reached into your bag and pulled out a small wax paper bag that smelled overwhelmingly of sweet sugar and dark espresso. "i brought you two of those cinnamon pastries from the italian bakery down the block. they're still warm."

the landlord's stern, lined face melted into absolute, unadulterated delight. he snatched the bag with a booming laugh that rattled the apartment doors further down the hall, holding it like a prized trophy.

"you see? you are an angel!" he waved a dismissive, heavy hand toward the open apartment door, the hinges groaning in protest. "go, go inside. sit down. tell that foolish boy if he misses rent this month, i will have to kick him out, unless you bring more of these pastries!"

"deal," you smirked, stepping past him into the cramped attic space as he clicked the door shut behind you, leaving you alone in the quiet, dusty room.

you and peter weren't officially dating yet—a frustrating, agonizing fact that you both spent an absurd amount of time dancing around. you had met when he stumbled into your place of work three months ago trying to sell a stack of vintage camera manuals for pocket money.

since then, you had become an inseparable, addicting habit.

he would walk you back to your dorm after late-night study sessions at esu and you would trade easy banter that somehow made the crushing noise of new york city feel quiet.

but neither of you had made the first real move. you were stuck in this charged, comfortable orbit, circling each other like two planets terrified of the crash, both waiting for the other to blink first.

you took three steps into peter's tiny attic apartment—mindful of the steeply sloped ceiling that cut low across one side of the room—and let out a slow, heavy breath.

it wasn't necessarily filthy but it was just extremely chaotic.

a radiator clunked rhythmically in the corner like a dying clock. the tiny makeshift kitchenette tucked beneath the angled rafters held a half-disassembled camera sensor alongside three empty coffee mugs. a faded, mustard-yellow armchair was piled high with clean, unfolded laundry.

"jesus christ, parker," you muttered under your breath, a faint, helpless smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. "what am i going to do with you.”

you walked over to the narrow counter, set your heavy tote bag down with a thud, and pulled a fresh cigarette from your pack. leaning against the low window sill, you lit it with a sharp, satisfying flick of your silver zippo. the metallic clink echoed in the small space.

you took a slow, deep drag, filling your lungs with nicotine as you looked around the crowded studio. blowing a lazy plume of smoke toward the peeling wallpaper, you walked over to his mattress—which sat directly on the floorboards in the lowest corner of the eaves with no bed frame. its gray sheets were tangled in a messy knot from a restless night's sleep.

you used the toe of your leather boot to nudge aside a stack of engineering textbooks on the floor, clearing a path before sitting down on the edge of the mattress. pulling out a heavy reading assignment from your tote bag, you settled in to catch up while you waited for him to show up.

twenty-five minutes passed in quiet, domestic peace.

you were midway through a dense chapter, absently twirling a braid around your index finger, completely lost in the academic jargon, when the small skylight window tucked high into the angled roof suddenly rattled violently in its wooden frame.

you barely had time to look up from your book before the skylight slammed open. a shower of dust and loose paint chips rained down from the rafters as a muscle-bound figure tumbled awkwardly through the tight frame, landing hard against the warped floorboards with a heavy, painful crash that shook the entire roof.

"man... note to self," a painfully familiar voice grunted, thick and heavy with raw exhaustion and deep pain, followed by a wet, hacking cough. "swinging with an injured rib is an absolute, top-tier nightmare—"

the figure hauled himself up into a kneeling position under the sloped ceiling, pulling at his full-face mask, dragging the thick, tight fabric up and off his head with a suction-like sound.

messy, sweat-slicked brown hair stuck wildly to his forehead. he panted heavily, his broad chest heaving as he rubbed a dark purple bruise forming along his left ribcage, before casually tossing the red-and-black fabric onto the floorboards—where it landed right at the toe of your boot.

peter looked up.

you were sitting squarely on his bed, holding a burning cigarette between two silver-ringed fingers, completely caught off guard.

peter froze instantly. the color drained from his face in a terrifying flash, leaving him paler than a blank sheet of printer paper.

the silence in the cramped room stretched out—suffocating and so loud you could hear the ash from your cigarette gently dropping onto the floorboards.

you stared at his face—at his wide, panicked brown eyes and the cut along his lip—and then down at the form-fitting, red-and-blue suit stretched tightly across a broad chest and heavy shoulders slick with sweat and alley grime. the spider emblem on his chest was scuffed and stained with soot, but it was glaringly obvious.

you blinked once.

twice.

then three times.

your mind, usually so quick with a sharp, sarcastic bite, completely short-circuited. you sat there, frozen, staring at peter parker—the guy who stuttered over his words when you caught him staring across the table—dressed head-to-toe as... spider-man.

"i—" peter stuttered, his voice jumping an entire octave into panic. he scrambled backward so fast he knocked his knee violently against his desk, sending a tower of metal film canisters tumbling across the floor in a loud, chaotic cascade. "hey. hi. what—how did—how are you—what are you doing here?!"

you opened your mouth to say anything but no words came out.

your brain was frantically trying to connect the dots, running at warp speed: peter. spider-man. spider-man is peter. peter is spider-man. you just sat there completely dumbfounded by the sheer impossibility of the man kneeling before you.

"it's—it's a costume." peter squeaked frantically, his hands flying up to cover his bare, muscular chest like a scandalized victorian maiden caught without her corset.

he stumbled backward over a stack of books on the floor, waving an arm wildly in the tight space, nearly clocking his head on the low ceiling beam. "for... halloween. early halloween. for a kid's party. yeah. i do kid's parties on the weekend. spider-man was sick today, so i filled in—"

you stared at him, your brain slowly creeping back online as the sheer ridiculousness of his words hit you, breaking through the wall of shock. "a... kid's party?" you finally managed to rasp out, your voice flat, bewildered, and genuinely lost for words.

"yes! kid's parties!" peter rambled on, his words tumbling out at a hundred miles an hour, his face turning bright, scorching red as he gestured wildly under the angled roof. "i do entertainment. i do flips. it's totally a normal new york gig thing. you know how hard it is to pay rent these days.”

"peter..." you said, blinking slowly, still trying to process the sheer absurdity of the lie and the staggering reality standing in front of you. you lowered the cigarette, your eyes locked entirely on his panicked face. "it's... it's august."

peter stopped dead in his tracks. his arms slowly lowered to his sides. his mouth hung open in a silent 'oh'. he looked down at the bright red chest piece unzipped to his navel, then back at you, the frantic energy slowly draining out of him until he just looked utterly, completely exposed.

"right," he muttered, running a shaky, sweat-damp hand through his messy hair. he stared at the floorboards, looking like a man walking to his own execution. "august. yeah."

you took a long, slow drag of your cigarette, letting the nicotine settle your racing pulse and steady your hands, before turning around to stub it out in a chipped, empty mug on his nightstand.

you stood up from the bed, your boots clicking softly against the floorboards as you stepped over the scattered film canisters, walking slowly over to him.

the closer you got, the more you realized just how large he really was—how the spandex clung to dense, hard muscle you never knew he had hiding beneath his oversized thrift-store sweaters.

"your landlord let me in, by the way," you said softly, your voice finally catching its usual steady rhythm. you kept your gaze locked on his, refusing to let him look away. "he likes cinnamon pastries. and he said you're running late on payments because you keep forgetting what day of the week it is."

peter let out a ragged, trembling exhale. he didn't move an inch; instead, he just stood there, bare-chested where the suit was unzipped to his waist, bruised, dirty, and breathing heavily.

he looked at you with wide eyes—vulnerable and completely exposed, waiting for the inevitable moment you would turn around and walk out the door forever.

"you're... you're not yelling," peter whispered, his voice dropping into a low, shaky quiet. "you're not screaming or running out the door."

"i don't even know what i'm supposed to say to you right now," you admitted, stopping right in front of him. you looked up at his face, taking in the smudge of soot on his high cheekbone, the small, fresh cut near his jawline that was still bleeding sluggishly, and the sheer intensity in his eyes. "i mean... spider-man? really? i thought you were just really clumsy."

a breathless laugh escaped peter's throat, though his hands were trembling slightly at his sides, curling into tight fists. "i am really clumsy."

"no," you corrected softly, reaching out. your fingers gently touched the dark purple bruise blooming over his ribs, feeling the heavy, rigid muscle beneath the slick suit. "clumsy people trip about or drop accidentally drop things. you get thrown through brick walls."

peter flinched at the touch, a low hiss escaping his teeth, but he didn't pull away. instead, he leaned into your hand, watching your face with a sudden, desperate stillness.

"does it hurt?" you asked gently, dropping any lingering shock for a moment of quiet concern, your thumb lightly brushing the edge of the swelling.

"only when i breathe," peter muttered, his voice dropping into a rough rasp. he looked down at your face, his gaze lingering on your lips, tracking every detail of you like a man dying of thirst looking at water.

the proximity was driving him insane. "i was so scared," he admitted softly, his walls finally crumbling as his hands instinctively reached out to rest heavy on your hips, tentative at first, then firming their grip. "i thought if you found out... you would look at me like i was a freak. or that you would walk away and never speak to me again."

you looked up at him, taking in the defined lines of his chest and the dangerous strength radiating off him—the same guy who spent hours drinking terrible gas-station coffee at the record store just to talk to you about vintage camera lenses.

it was impossible to reconcile the two halves, but standing here with his hands burning through your clothes, it all made a terrifying kind of sense.

"peter," you murmured, letting your hands slide up his chest, feeling the intense heat of his skin beneath your palms and the heavy thud of his enhanced heartbeat against your wrists. "you run around the city in spandex fighting crime. you're completely out of your mind. but i'm not going anywhere."

"and for the record," you added, your sarcastic edge returning just enough to break the suffocating tension in the room, "you look like you just went three rounds with a wrecking ball. you're covered in queens’ alley grime, parker. turn the shower on before you bleed on your floorboards."

a soft laugh huffed out of peter's chest—a sound of pure, unadulterated relief.

"shower's through there," he rasped, gesturing vaguely toward the narrow adjacent bathroom.

"i know where it is," you said smoothly, taking his broad hand and pulling him along. "and i'm not leaving you to pass out under the stream."

the bathroom was tight—just about big enough for two people to stand in. you reached into the shower, twisting the brass handles. the plumbing groaned through the plaster walls before hot water burst from the showerhead, instantly filling the space with a thick wall of white steam.

you kicked off your boots before stripping off your jacket and settling it carefully on the dry counter outside the door. you pulled your t-shirt over your head and stepped out of your trousers, leaving you down to your underwear in the humid heat.

peter watched you with a blown-out, helpless intensity. his hands trembled slightly as he peeled off the remnants of his torn suit, kicking it into the corner until he stood entirely exposed and exhausted before you.

you grabbed his hand, leading him beneath the cascading spray.

the impact was immediate.

the steaming water hit your skin, washing away the tension of the reveal. peter closed his eyes with a low, aching groan as the hot water hit his overworked muscles, his head tipping back against the damp tiles.

you reached for the bar of soap, working up a rich, thick lather between your palms. "hold still."

peter opened his eyes, watching you with a quiet, fierce reverence as you stepped up close.

you raised your hands, gently rubbing the soapy lather into his neck and around his jawline, carefully washing the soot away.

when your fingers brushed near the small cut on his temple, peter flinched instinctively, a soft hiss catching in his throat.

"sorry," you whispered, softening your touch, using your thumb to rinse the soap away with warm water.

"it... it feels really good," peter rasped, his voice thick with emotion. he didn't care about the sting; he was staring down at you, his shoulders blocking out the harsh light of the tiny bathroom, mesmerized by the way water glistened against your collarbones. "usually i just collapse on the floorboards and hope i wake up in time for class."

"well, you're an idiot," you hummed softly, sliding your hands down over the dense, hard muscle of his back.

you mapped out the flex of his spine, feeling the incredible, dangerous strength humming just beneath his skin despite the deep purple bruising over his ribs.

peter leaned heavily into your touch, letting out a ragged exhale, resting his wet forehead against your shoulder as you rinsed the suds from his chest. he breathed in the warm scent of your skin, mixing with the steam.

"thank you," he whispered into your neck, his voice rough.

"shut up, parker," you murmured, your cool composure softening completely. you smoothed his wet hair back from his face, cupping his jaw with your damp palm. "i've got you."

peter raised his head, looking down into your eyes. the unbothered, grounding reality of you standing there—treating his rough edges with such effortless ease—completely broke whatever remaining thread of restraint he had left.

his hands slid down your back, wet and burning hot, gripping your waist tight enough to pull you against him under the thundering spray.

before you could fire back a witty remark, his mouth crashed down on yours.

the kiss was desperate and electric. gone was the hesitation. this was a man claiming your mouth with a needy, starved intensity that set your entire nervous system on fire.

you tangled your fingers into his wet brown hair, tugging him closer as his tongue slid past your lips, drinking you in like he had been starving for months.

he tasted like hot rain and mint, moving against you with dizzying urgency.

peter let out a low groan deep in his chest. with terrifying, effortless ease, he hooked his hands under your thighs and lifted you completely off the slick tile floor.

you let out a breathless gasp, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist, pinning yourself against him.

peter backed you straight against the tiled wall of the shower, the cool porcelain against your back contrasting sharply with the searing heat of his body pressed against yours.

his chest heaved violently against yours, his muscles flexed with the agonizing effort of holding himself back. you wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, pulling his head back down. "don't stop."

peter let out a rough, breathless laugh against your skin. "okay."

he hooked his fingers into the damp fabric of your underwear, sliding them down your wet skin and tossing them out of the shower stall, leaving nothing between you.

when he aligned himself and slid slowly, deeply inside you, a sharp, loud gasp was pulled straight from your lungs. your eyes flew open, your back arching off the wall as the sheer, overwhelming fullness of him filled you completely.

peter closed his eyes, burying his face in the crook of your wet neck with a ragged, trembling sigh of pure relief. his arms wrapped securely around your back, holding you effortlessly up against the wall so you wouldn't slip on the wet tile.

he moved slowly at first—a sweet rhythm that made your toes curl against his calves. every slide of his hips was deliberate, heavy, and intense, dragging low whimpers from your lips that were almost drowned out by the thundering rush of the showerhead above.

"god..." he choked out, his hips driving forward with a steady, punishing force. the heavy spray of hot water and the cramped space were maddening, building a pressure low in your stomach that threatened to spill over. "tell me if it's too much..."

"it's not too much," you panted, your hands sliding down his wet back, feeling his muscle flex with every deep roll of his hips. "peter... don’t slow down. please."

your cool demeanor shattered completely into breathless pleasure. you arched up to meet every thrust, your fingernails digging into his shoulders as the hot water poured over both your faces.

hearing you unravel under him broke him, and the gentle rhythm evaporated. his pace turned urgent and utterly desperate.

he pinned one of your hands beside your head, lacing his fingers through yours, his grip both warm and crushing. his other hand cupped your hip, angling you to take him even deeper.

"hey, look at me," peter asked softly, pulling back just enough to look into your glazed eyes through the mist.

you forced your eyes open, meeting his brown ones.

"you're mine," he panted, setting a ruthless rhythm that hit that deep spot inside you over and over again, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your limbs. "say it. please tell me you're mine."

"yours, peter," you whimpered, your voice cracking as your head rolled back against the tile, white-hot pleasure crashing over you in terrifying, glorious waves. "fuck, peter... yours—"

the sound of your voice calling his name pushed peter over the edge. he let out a low, guttural groan from the depths of his chest, his hips driving deep one last time as his entire body shuddered violently against you.

he buried his face against your neck, holding you so tightly to his chest under the hot stream of water that you could barely expand your lungs, his muscles locking up rock-solid as he completely undid himself inside you.

you held him close, riding out the trailing, blissful waves of your own release as the shower continued to pour down around you both.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

peter's mattress was a chaotic disaster of blankets and discarded clothes.

he was lying on his back, completely naked under the thin, faded gray sheet, with your head resting comfortably over his heart.

his skin was still incredibly warm, smelling faintly of soap and clean water. his hand was lazily tracing mindless, soothing patterns on your bare shoulder.

you reached out toward the nightstand, grabbing your pack of cigarettes and your zippo. you pulled one out, popping it between your lips, and flicked the lighter open.

before the flame could even touch the tip, peter's hand reached up, gently but swiftly snatching the cigarette right out of your mouth with reflexes that still slightly startled you.

"hey," you protested softly, turning your head to glare at him with a sleepy, satisfied smirk. "give that back."

"no smoking in bed," peter said softly, a smitten, incredibly lopsided grin tugging at the corner of his lips as he tossed the unlit cigarette onto his nightstand, entirely unapologetic. "it's a fire hazard. plus, my attic doesn't need smoke added to the mix."

"your apartment is an obstacle course, parker," you hummed, resting your chin on his bare chest, watching his stomach muscles reflexively twitch under your touch. "how do you function up here? there are camera parts on your eating counter and three different open notebooks on the floor."

peter groaned playfully, throwing his arm over his eyes as a bright flush spread across his cheeks. "i've been busy. saving the city doesn't leave a lot of time for organizational systems. plus, web fluid is notoriously hard to get out of the floorboards."

"i'm bringing a toolbox and some actual shelving next time i come up here," you teased, trailing a finger down his sternum. "it's embarrassing. spider-man defeated by basic storage."

peter snorted, pulling his arm away from his face to look down at you. his eyes were so soft and so ridiculously smitten that it made your throat feel tight.

"you're coming back next time?" he asked quietly, the teasing entirely dropping from his voice, replaced by a vulnerable edge that touched your heart all over again.

you let out a genuine laugh, reaching up to lightly pinch his chin, forcing him to look at you. "obviously, parker. who else is going to keep you from running yourself into the ground?"

peter smiled—a real, breathtaking smile that lit up his entire face. he shifted, pulling you higher up his chest until your lips were just inches apart under the low, shadowed roofline.

"so," you murmured, your voice dropping low, tracing the line of his jaw. "spider-man, huh? you still owe me an explanation for the kid's party thing. because that was the worst lie i have ever heard in my entire life."

"i panicked!" peter whined softly, though his hands smoothed over your waist, holding you close and completely contradicting his defensive tone. "i thought you were going to panic and tell everyone or... i don't know, never look at me again. you're the coolest person i know, and i'm... i'm just me."

"i considered throwing my book at your head," you admitted smoothly, ignoring his self-deprecation. "it's heavy enough to give a superhero a concussion. you're lucky i have restraint."

"i'm glad you held back," peter whispered, leaning in to press a warm, lingering kiss to your lips. he pulled back just far enough to brush a stray braid away from your temple, his thumb tracing your jawline with infinite, worshipping gentleness. "i'll clean the desk up. i swear. i'll even buy real furniture so you have somewhere proper to sit."

"start with buying a bed frame, parker," you smirked against his mouth, shifting your weight slightly on the unforgiving floorboards. "my back is going to kill me tomorrow."

peter laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated straight through your chest and made you smile into the kiss. "deal. right after i buy my landlord more cinnamon pastries to keep him from kicking me out of here."

he wrapped his arms securely around you, pulling the blanket up over your shoulders, burying his nose in your hair with a long, deeply contented sigh. he held you like he was never going to let you go.

"stay tonight," peter whispered into your neck, his grip tightening just a little bit, completely sincere. "please."

you smiled into the dark room, letting your eyes drift shut as his heavy heartbeat set a comforting rhythm beneath your cheek.

"i'm not going anywhere, peter," you murmured softly, letting sleep finally pull at your edges. "now go to sleep. you look like you got hit by a truck."

You had been on a total of three dates with one Peter Parker so far. Far too impatient for your own good, so you'd suggested his place this time, low-key, no pressure, you'll bring the wine, and he'd said yes fast, too fast, in a way you'd have found suspicious from anyone else. But not Peter.

You wanted, so badly, horrifically, to get your hands on him. You had wanted this since date one, technically, possibly since before date one, and you had spent the intervening weeks channeling that want into research and preparation, the same way you channeled everything, because if you were going to lose your mind over a boy you were at least going to do it efficiently.

First, you wore kitten heels for the occasion even though this is definitely not the right occasion, but you couldn't help yourself. They were the ones that made your ass perk up just-so and led to three seconds of Peter eyeing your legs up and down as you passed him into the elevator, and you even wore perfume that a very reputable and frankly life-changing article on The Cut described as the closest thing to a pharmaceutical aphrodisiac you can legally buy at Sephora. He had leaned over in the cramped elevator car and looked at you, wonderstruck and in that low, boyish voice of his, "You smell really good."

And you were, as of nine-forty-two p.m., extremely fucking frustrated, because none of it, not one single thing you've done, had resulted in the guy making a move.

The movie's some spin-off Star Wars movie that Peter had frantically explained before chucking it into his bootleg streaming site, laptop flickering slightly as he plopped next to you on his couch. God yeah, Rogue One was just so severely underrated, he says as one hand brushes against your shoulder, and you'd nodded along like you had any context for what he was talking about, and you'd had to press your knees together like that would help. You've already decided you're going to watch the other seven (eight? nine? you should probably know this) before you see him again, so that next time you can argue back instead of just making the interested noise you've been perfecting for the last twenty minutes.

You end up abandoning the heels. 

That was his idea, technically, a stammered offer somewhere around minute fifteen—you can, um, if your feet hurt, I don't know if they hurt, forget I said anything—that you'd accepted with a swiftness that surprised you both, unbuckling the little metal straps and easing your feet into his lap like you'd been waiting all night for permission.

Now his hand's on your ankle. His thumb does this thing, tracing little spiderwebs around your lateral malleolus, and you're so fine. So okay with this progression, totally.

"You can talk during it," he says ten minutes later when your feet, have decidedly fallen asleep, not looking away from the screen. "I know people say you're not supposed to talk during movies, but I like—I mean, only if you want. You don't have to. I just talk during movies, but not in like, a mean, dickish way like some people do in theaters, not that there's anything wrong with that, it's just a little disrespectful, but not in my apartment, so if you were gonna say something you don't have to feel—"

His thumb then drags one slow line up along your instep, absent, unthinking, entirely unaware of what it's doing to the rest of you, and something in your chest pulls taut like a wire about to snap.

"Peter, that's not it. That's not—it's just—I've never done this," you say, quieter now, and it costs you something to say it, you can feel it cost you something. "Any of it. I don't have a… single fucking clue. I don't know how this part goes."

"Neither do I."

"I know you don't, that's the problem, we're both just sitting here being—" You cut yourself off. Start over. "I'm not gonna say it. You have to do it."

"Do what?"

"Peter."

"I don't know what you—"

"Take what you want," you say, and it comes out low, and a little wrecked, and entirely unlike you. "For the love of God. Just—take it. Please. I'm not saying it again."

That's how he ends up fingering you over the arm of his couch, half-suspended and scrambling for purchase. A mean, relentless lover is most definitely not what you pegged Peter Parker to be. The boy who was flustered and uncertain just a mere ten minutes ago shouldn't be wrapping a stray arm around your waist to pull you closer, practically making you fuck yourself against his fingers. The boy who's now making embarrassing huffs of breath escape your lipgloss-stained lips and wrenching the oxygen out of you. 

You know, for a fact, that Peter would never, ever let you drop, but the look on his face when you turn your head over your shoulder makes you think that the ground might be a bit safer for you.

God, you've never even been fingered from behind before but the angle of it, the relentlessness, it makes you feel so thoroughly used, dizzy from the speed and the sheer force of him taking you. Combined with him dipping his head down, sucking harsh love bites into the swell of your ass, and you think you may as well have just lost your mind.

The movie's still playing when his hands force your legs wider apart, his hushed "that's right, hips up for me," lining up at the same time as Vader chokes and dismisses Director Krennic, breath hitching. You're so proud of Peter, he had mentioned how cool this scene was, and he's so focused—your cunt squeezing tight like a vice grip on his fingers. Your whole world is spinning, just an endless cacophony of Peter, Peter, Peter, Peter—and oh, oh god, when his thumb swipes over your clit, you realize that that that's all you've been saying.

"What is it? What do you need, sweet girl?" He bites harder at your neck, filing the way you twitch and heartbeat flutters uselessly. You're gonna be all marked up tomorrow, but you couldn't care less. The pleasure and pain felt like an electric current through your body, sending phantom shocks down your spine.

"M–More, please—Peter, oh, Peter—"

"Pretty girl needed someone to take care of her, huh?" His brows furrow in mock concern, even though his hands make no move to slow down. Your thoughts trail off, wondering if Peter could take care of you just like this forever. You think he might, he could, he should. You wouldn't mind. You'd let him keep fucking you until your voice ran raw, keep his fingers wet and pretty for as long as he wanted, just one orgasm into another. 

"Someone to spoil you," his tongue drags from your cheek, up to your lower back, "someone to give it to you every day," up, and up, and up your spine until his breath bears down on your neck. "I can be that for you, right, baby?"

Your whining hits a fever pitch, blissed out and on the edge of your orgasm. "Yes, of course, mmm—just don't stop."

Peter slaps your clit once, twice—fuck, and your cunt squeezes one final time around his fingers, and you're coming, your hand closing into a fist on the chenille fabric. It feels like the rest of the room is just pure nothingness, just static and buzzing and the feeling of Peter's hand coaxing you through each wave. 

"You got my hand so wet, honey," He tuts, and oh. There was no reason for that to be as hot as it was, and you're sure he can feel it too, the way you clench down on his hand and pull him further into you. You've always been told you respond like a dream.  "Such a good pussy. You're going to feel so good around my cock."

You turn onto your back when Peter gently pulls his fingers out of your cunt, still breathless and heaving from the attack on your senses and nothing ever could've prepared you from the sight before you. He examines his fingers in the light, the way they glisten–god, did you really get that wet—a small smile playing at his lips—and sucks those very fingers into his mouth.

Maybe it's only been seconds, or maybe it's an eternity, but you sit there like that, watching him in that entranced way of yours. He doesn't break eye contact with you once. It's filthy. You think you could be raring up to go again just from the way he looks at you. 

Peter hums contentedly. The sound goes straight to your cunt. This boy's gonna be the death of you.

The laptop stirs back to life at some accidental brush of the trackpad many, many moments later, Rogue One resuming exactly where you left it, some spaceship still doing something important that neither of you had ever actually been watching. 

"Oh man, we missed the ending," Peter says, squinting at the screen and dragging his mouse down to try and wind it back. 

"Really, Peter? You just made me come and you'd rather I care about the ending?"

"You're gonna care. I'm gonna make you care. I have so many more things to explain to you."

"I'm sure you do."

"Is that—was that sarcastic? I can't always tell with you."

"Fine, we can watch the movie," you say, and press your smile into his shoulder so he can't see it, and he does, mostly, in between turning to look at you every ninety seconds like he still can't quite believe you're still there, and you let him check, again and again, all night, because you're checking too. "Go ahead, play it back."

+ from mara

this was short and sweet! i haven't written anything in over a year, but after seeing tom holland's rock hard abs grace my screen, i simply had to dip my toes back in. it's been hard getting back on the horse (that is, the metaphorical writing horse) and i fear you guys will most definitely be able to tell but i hope you guys like it! IM SO SCARED but okay stream audrey hobert and support your local nurses <3