#sub!peter

sweat trickled down his forehead as his hand quickly found it’s way to his groin, palming himself through the seemingly thin material of his shorts as he kept his eyes locked on you. you watched him with a slight smirk on your face, it was very amusing watching The Spiderman stand in front of you, playing with himself as he was desperate for any kind of relief. you crossed your arms as you looked him up & down before grabbing his hand, leading him into your shared bedroom.

"you wanna cum?" you asked— teased him as you pushed him onto the bed, crawling on top of him & straddling his hips as you took off your shirt, your nipples hardening due to the cool contact of the air. his eyes immediately fell upon your perky breasts as he nodded quickly before answering, "yes, mommy!" he said, "i wanna cum, i wanna make you feel so fucking good.." he whimpered, his clothed cock twitching against your pussy, making you bite your lip as you started grinding down on him.

"let's see how fast mommy can make you nut, yeah?" you smirked, leaning down & placing a gentle kiss on his abnormally hot forehead. "god, baby, you’re burning up!" you said with faux surprise, your hand quickly making its away to his throat before giving it a firm squeeze. you continued to grind down on his crotch as you stared at his face twist with pleasure.

"mmn- fuck, mommy!" he moaned aloud, gripping at your hips as the tight grip around his neck & you grinding down on his hypersensitive cock made him see stars. "oh, that feels so good, doesn’t it?" you asked him, grinding faster on him as the pleasurable sensation on your clit started to grow. "m-mhm!" he hummed in delight as his cock started to throb violently. "mommy, i'm sooo close, please let me cum!" he said as he tried his best to look at you but the pleasure always sent his eyes back to his brain.

"you sure you wanna cum?" you asked, slowing down your pace which made his grip around your hips tighten more, "please, mommy, please don't stop!" he begged, bucking his hips upward which made you both moan out simultaneously. you tightened your grip around his neck which made a strangled whine come out his mouth as his cock started to twitch uncontrollably. he could barely breathe but it felt soo good. as he gasped for air, you continued to grind on him as you felt your orgasm building up.

he continued to hump you from underneath until one of his hands traveled to your breast, his fingers gently pinching one of your nipples which made you arch into his touch while you bite your lip. "look at you, so fucking pathetic." you laughed at him, smacking his face gently before letting go of his neck, making him immediately gasp for air but that’s not what he wanted.

"no!" he yelped, grabbing your hand & guiding it back to his neck, "more, please.." he said, looking up at you with those shiny bright eyes. "who knew friendly neighborhood spiderman was such a whore behind closed doors?" you laughed in his face before doing what he asked, choking him. "ohgodohgodohgod!" peter moaned, closing his eyes tightly as he tried to fight his orgasm, waiting for your command. "oh, you’re such a good boy!~" you coo’d, now slamming down on him as if you were riding him, "cmon, cum for mommy.." you groaned as your own orgasm started to build up.

with that command, he tensed up as came, his nut leaking through the thin material of his shorts & leaving a damp white spot. "good boy!~" you praised him but continued to keep your grip around his neck,

⟡

he’s late, but he’s always late.

and when he finally jogs up to you in front of the museum, hoodie half-zipped, camera bouncing against his chest and curls all windblown and ridiculous, you don’t say anything. you just raise your eyebrows. one hand on your hip. the other clutching your iced coffee like a weapon.

“before you say anything,” he pants, holding up a peace offering—a squished museum map that he probably crumpled in his back pocket three days ago—“i brought a coupon.”

you squint. “we’re both under twenty-five. it’s free.”

“okay,” he shrugs, “but it felt boyfriend-coded.”

you smile despite yourself.

he insists on doing the entire sculpture garden first.

you try to be patient, really. but peter’s in full nerd mode—taking photos from four different angles, crouching next to marble torsos like he’s interrogating them, saying things like “wow, look at the muscle tension here, that’s insane,” and “i just think it’s cool that this guy has better calves than me and he’s from like 300 B.C.”

you mostly just watch him.

you could look at the art. you’re trying to look at the art.

but your dork of a boyfriend is wearing a too-big tan jacket over his hoodie, his fingers smudged with sunscreen he clearly didn’t rub in all the way, and he keeps pushing his glasses up with the back of his wrist while talking about how hot it must’ve been in ancient greece.

and honestly?

it’s way more interesting.

⟡

inside, it gets worse.

every time you try to walk more than ten feet into a gallery, peter finds something else to comment on. or take a photo of. or pose next to like a chaotic tour guide who got fired for being too enthusiastic.

“okay, wait,” he says, catching your sleeve gently as you pass a huge oil painting of some saint bleeding dramatically into a bowl. “hold on. babe, you have to see this.”

“i’m looking at it,” you say, dry.

“no, like—look,” he points with his chin, adjusting his camera strap. “look at his hands. that’s crazy detail.”

you glance at him.

his expression is serious.

his cheeks a little pink, because he gets excited like a toddler.

he turns to you and grins.

“i wanna draw you like that.”

“bleeding into a bowl?”

“posed dramatically.”

you snort. “you’re so annoying.”

he bumps his shoulder into yours. “you love it.”

you don’t answer, but you reach for his hand anyway.

⟡ 

in the impressionist gallery, he tries to act normal.

you sit beside him on one of the little benches in front of a blurry monet, shoulder to shoulder, knees touching.

he’s bouncing his leg.

you glance at him.

he glances at you.

and then he breaks.

“so, like,” he says, very seriously, “are we gonna talk about how sexy these brushstrokes are, or—?”

you slap his thigh gently.

he bites a grin into the side of his hand.

“i’m serious,” he says. “this is very sensual.”

“you are literally the worst person here.”

“the second worst,” he nods. “the guy who took that selfie in front of the crucifixion has me beat.”

you’re trying not to laugh.

he notices. you feel him shift closer.

then, after a moment—

“you looked really pretty earlier. by the statue. with the light hitting your face like that.”

your breath catches a little.

he’s already pretending to examine the monet again.

you lean in, voice low.

“you gonna send me those pictures later?”

his ears go pink.

“i mean,” he shrugs, “if you want…”

you nudge his knee with yours.

“i always want.”

and then—just for a second—he turns his head, kisses your cheek, and lets his lips linger.

it’s quiet. safe. soft enough to settle in your bones.

⟡

when you stand up to move on, he tugs at your sleeve again.

“wait. one more.”

you glance down.

his camera’s already out, lens pointed toward you. he doesn’t even let you fix your hair.

click.

“perfect,” he murmurs.

and when you look at him again—

he’s not smiling like before.

he’s looking at you like a painting.

like you’re worth being framed.

like he still can’t believe you’re his.

⟡

you don’t even make it five feet outside before peter’s pulling his camera out again.

“babe,” you warn.

he’s already lifting the viewfinder. “no no no, wait—stand there, don’t move.”

you groan. “peter.”

“the light is literally insane right now, just let me—hold on—”

you’re halfway through rolling your eyes when the shutter clicks.

click. click click.

“gorgeous,” he says under his breath.

you blink.

he’s not talking about the sky.

you cross your arms. “what if I hate being your muse.”

he drops the camera a little, steps closer.

his voice goes quieter.

“what if I’m not giving you a choice?”

you stare at him.

his curls are all messed up from running his hands through them. there’s a tiny sunscreen smudge still near his temple. his thumb’s twitching over the shutter button like he wants to take one more.

your lips twitch. 

“you’re really pushing it, parker.”

“am I?” he says, eyes flicking to your mouth.

he’s wearing that look—the one that says I know you’re mad but I LOVE getting on your nerves!

and unfortunately, it’s true.

you take two steps toward him and pluck the camera from around his neck, letting it fall gently to your own chest.

then you kiss him.

just enough to get the smug off his face.

his breath catches.

his hands come up to your waist instantly, pulling you closer like you’re gonna disappear.

you smile against his mouth.

he sighs into the kiss, deep and soft and already a little needy.

“mm—thought you were mad at me,” he mumbles against your lip.

“shut up.”

you press your mouth to his again. slower this time.

you can feel the tension leave his shoulders. can feel the way his fingers flex at your sides, like he wants to touch more, but he’s still being good.

you’re in public. people are passing behind you.

and he doesn’t care.

⟡

you pull back after a few long seconds, breath uneven.

he’s blinking at you, dazed.

then—

“shit.”

you look down just in time to see his camera slipping off your neck.

you lunge. Peter lunges faster.

he catches it right before it hits the edge of the stone fountain.

you both freeze.

his mouth is open. your hands are still on his hoodie. a couple kids laugh behind you.

“…oops,” you murmur.

he glares at you, clutching the camera like it’s his firstborn.

“I just told you the light was perfect.”

you kiss his cheek. “you’ll live.”

“you almost dropped my soul in the fountain.”

“I almost dropped your camera, dramatic ass.”

“same thing.”

you laugh.

and when he’s not looking, you snap a photo of him.

crooked smile, ears flushed, camera strap clutched in his fist.

you tuck the camera back against your chest and say:

“I’m keeping that one.”

he narrows his eyes.

“that’s fine,” he mutters. “I already have a hundred of you in my drafts, so.”

you pause.

“…you what?”

he grabs your hand like he didn’t just say that.

“let’s go see the baroque room,” he says way too fast.

“peter.”

“you love religious trauma.”

“peter.”

“I’m buying you a keychain.”

⟡

he doesn’t stop taking pictures for the rest of the afternoon.

but you let him.

because you’ve never seen anyone look at you the way he does when his camera’s in his hands—

like he’s documenting something rare.

something holy.

something he can’t believe he gets to keep.

⟡

you sit on the grass just below the museum hill, the skyline glittering behind you, and peter’s picnic bag spread open like a survival kit for a couple lost in whole foods.

you eye the contents.

“…peter.”

he looks up from where he’s unfolding a floral blanket (may’s, obviously, it still smells like her detergent).

“hm?”

you hold up a single pre-sliced cucumber and a ziploc bag of… hot cheetos.

“what is this meal.”

he blinks. then shrugs. “balance.”

“you brought half a pack of turkey, one string cheese, four clementines and three drinks, but no bread?”

“okay,” he says, unbothered, “first of all, i panicked at the bodega. second of all, i love you.”

you raise a brow. “so you’re using affection as a distraction tactic now.”

he opens the bottle of apple juice and takes a long sip.

“yeah. and it’s working.”

⟡

you end up sitting between his legs, leaning back into his chest while he feeds you a medley of unfortunate snack combinations and random museum trivia.

he's warm behind you. hoodie soft. voice quiet against your ear.

“this hill’s my favorite part,” he murmurs after a while. “i used to come up here alone in high school and pretend i wasn’t stressed out of my mind.”

you tilt your head, looking at him sideways.

“and now you bring me.”

he meets your gaze. smile slow.

“yeah. figured if i was gonna spiral again, i’d rather do it with someone hot in my lap.”

you snort and elbow him lightly.

he laughs and holds you tighter.

you talk about everything and nothing.

you lean forward to reach the bag of chips and he whines until you lean back again.

you brush stray petals off the blanket while he hums some dumb jingle under his breath.

you eat a clementine in perfect silence, and he just watches you.

you glance over, peel dangling from your fingers.

“what.”

he blinks. “nothing.”

you narrow your eyes. “why are you looking at me like that.”

“i like your mouth.”

you choke a little. “peter.”

he sips more juice like he’s innocent.

you toss a chip at his head. he catches it in his mouth. grins like a fiend.

“still got it.”

you lunge for the bottle and take a sip.

he wipes your chin lazily with his thumb, then licks the pad of it without thinking.

your pulse stutters.

you look at him.

he looks at you.

“what,” he says again, too soft this time.

you shake your head.

“i like your mouth, too.”

⟡

five minutes later, you’re lying flat on your back and he’s on his side beside you, drawing little shapes on your stomach through your shirt.

you close your eyes. the sun’s warm on your eyelids.

“this is nice,” you say.

“mhm.”

“don’t feed the ducks, though.”

“babe, the ducks are five yards away.”

“i’m just saying. if you feed them hot cheetos, you’re gonna get cancelled.”

he laughs. and you smile.

because his laugh sounds better than the city does.

and his hand’s still on your stomach, and the grass is soft, and you’re so full of juice and snacks and him that it’s hard to breathe.

⟡

the museum gift shop is a war zone.

there’s a hundred people inside and only three aisles wide enough for one person at a time. children are screaming over art-themed plushies. someone knocks over a display of pocket-sized monet calendars. peter disappears within ten seconds of entering.

you find him by the postcards, spinning the rack like a contestant on wheel of fortune.

“okay,” he says, pulling one with a dramatic renaissance martyr bleeding into a cherub’s arms, “this one’s obviously for you.”

you take it, unimpressed.

“are you saying I’m dramatic?”

“I’m saying you’re a divine tragedy, baby.”

you roll your eyes, but keep the postcard anyway.

a few minutes later, he finds you holding a tiny notebook shaped like a bust.

“do you think this is funny?” you ask.

“I think if you don’t buy it I’ll cry.”

“you cried at the museum fountain.”

“you almost dropped my camera into the museum fountain.”

“you’re deflecting.”

he kisses your cheek quickly.

you put the notebook in the basket.

he smiles like you’ve forgiven him for every crime he hasn’t committed yet.

he keeps wandering away and then coming back to show you something else.

“okay but this water bottle says ‘hydrate and create’ and that’s a pretty solid life motto.”

“should we start collecting these little magnetic portrait frames? like, for our future fridge?”

you pause at that one.

he doesn’t notice.

you do.

you watch the way he handles the fridge magnet, carefully turning it over in his fingers, brows drawn, tongue poking out just slightly between his lips.

like he means it.

like it’s not a joke. like he wants your life to include a fridge. and magnets. and you.

“hey,” you say, suddenly soft.

he glances up.

you hold up a tiny enamel pin shaped like a camera.

“this is so you.”

he blinks. “what?”

“you should get it. it’s dorky. and it’s exactly your vibe.”

he stares at it in your hand.

then at you.

you reach forward and pin it to his hoodie without waiting.

he doesn’t breathe the whole time.

“perfect,” you say, smoothing it out.

and when you look back at him—

he’s already looking at you.

like you just kissed him. like you just said I love you out loud. like you just told him yes.

⟡

you’re halfway to the register when you glance over your shoulder and grin.

“hey, should we steal something?”

peter immediately drops the tote bag.

“what?”

“like, just a sticker. to feel alive.”

“I literally have superpowers and you wanna get your adrenaline rush from a $3 sticker?”

“don’t kink shame me, peter.”

“I—"

“you’re already an outlaw,” you say, waving the postcard, “let’s complete the arc.”

he stares at you for three full seconds.

then reaches for your hand.

“fine. but if we get caught, I’m telling them you seduced me.”

“they’ll believe you.”

“you are wearing those boots.”

⟡

you do not steal anything.

peter does buy you the little magnetic portrait frame though.

and he doesn’t stop looking at his new pin the whole subway ride home.

⟡

the subway ride home is too long.

‘’peter’s legs are too long. your skirt is too short. the plastic seats are way too hard. and yet—none of that matters. because he’s warm. and he smells like sunscreen and spearmint gum and the apple juice you shared under the sun. and you’re sitting in his lap.

his camera bag is squished under your thigh. one of his hands is wrapped around your waist and the other is barely holding onto the rail above your heads. you can feel his heartbeat in his palm.

you lean into his chest with a sigh.

“tired already?” he murmurs.

“you’re exhausting.”

“thank you.”

he kisses the top of your head.

you play with his hair idly.

he lets you.

head tilted back against the subway wall, lashes fluttering, mouth parted. he looks young like this. soft and flush-cheeked. worn out in the way boys only get when they feel safe.

you twist a little strand between your fingers.

“I love your hair like this.”

he hums.

“messy?”

“a hot, messy nerd.”

he chuckles under his breath.

“you like me for my brain.”

“I like your brain and… yep.”

his hand tightens on your hip.

“…noted.”

⟡

he taps your thigh lightly and nods toward the next stop.

“we gotta change lines here.”

“ugh.”

“I’ll carry you.”

“no you won’t.”

“no I won’t.”

you stand slowly, stretching. your legs feel like jelly.

he slaps your ass gently as you step off him.

“hey!”

“accident.”

“that’s not—!”

“momentum,” he grins.

“you’re so annoying.”

“you’re in love with me.”

you glare. he sticks his tongue out.

⟡

by the time you’re back on the bus, his legs are bouncing again.

you’re still tucked next to him, shoulder pressed to his chest.

he’s staring out the window, fidgeting with the zipper of his hoodie.

you glance up.

“what?”

“what time is dinner at May’s?”

you blink. “you invited me.”

“yeah but I forgot to ask her what time.”

“peter.”

he pulls out his phone and starts texting furiously.

you lean your head on his shoulder. watch his fingers fly.

“are we late?”

“maybe.”

“is she gonna kill us?”

“probably.”

“…oh. okay.”

he smiles.

his cheek presses against your hair. and you feel it again—that ache in your ribs. the good kind. the I love this boy so much it’s stupid kind.

you make it to May’s ten minutes late.

peter’s shirt is wrinkled. your lipstick is smudged. his pin is still clinging to the edge of his hoodie like a badge of honor.

may opens the door and looks at you both with the flat, unimpressed expression of someone who’s known peter since birth.

“you’re late.”

“traffic,” Peter lies.

“you took the subway.”

no response.

may rolls her eyes.

but when she hugs you, she squeezes you extra tight.

⟡

may’s kitchen smells like rosemary and caramelized onions and the softest, warmest kind of love.

peter sniffs dramatically.

“is that—” “meatloaf,” May says, already tired.

“meatloaf again?” he cries. “may. my body is a temple.”

“your body is 80% junk.”

you giggle and slide onto a chair at the kitchen table.

peter dramatically collapses into the one beside you, resting his head on your shoulder like he’s just been through war.

“you’re so brave.”

may sets the dish down.

it’s good.

of course it is. it’s may’s meatloaf. theres something sweet in the sauce and you’d honestly eat ten slabs of it if you didn’t have someone’s thigh pressed to yours under the table.

peter is a menace.

his socked foot finds yours.

you side-eye him.

he’s chewing with exaggerated innocence. blinking at you like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing.

“peter,” you hiss.

“what?” he says, mouth full. “I didn’t do anything.”

you nudge him hard with your elbow. he gasps, clutching his ribs.

“may,” he groans. “she hit me.”

“she’s allowed,” May says.

⟡

you help clear the table.

Peter tries to carry too many plates at once. may tells him not to drop anything. he drops a fork. blames gravity.

you rinse. he dries.

he keeps bumping your hip. you keep elbowing his side.

your fingers brush at the counter’s edge. his knuckles are warm.

he murmurs—

“thank you for coming.”

you glance up. he’s close.

soft-eyed. flushed cheeked. little bits of sun still tucked under his collarbones.

“I like seeing you here,” he says.

you smile.

may disappears to her room.

peter practically drags you down the hall.

“I just wanna show you something.”

“your penis?”

“ok, two things.”

his room is the same as always. cluttered. cozy. full of scraps of old tech and socks that don’t match and one too many textbooks shoved under the bed.

he tosses his hoodie into a chair. flops face-down onto his bed with a groan.

you climb in after him.

he rolls over and pulls you onto his chest like you’re the most natural thing in the world.

⟡

his fingers find your spine. trace lazy lines.

your nose nudges his jaw. he sighs into your hair.

“you’re warm,” he mumbles.

“you’re heavy.”

“you love me.”

you kiss the spot under his ear.

“I do.”

he squeezes your waist. buries his face in your neck.

you tangle your legs with his. his toes wiggle against your ankle.

his voice is barely a whisper.

“I don’t want this day to end.”

⟡

his room’s dark now.

just the bedside lamp on. the kind of golden glow that makes your skin look soft and warm and kissable.

he’s looking at you like you’re lit from the inside out.

“what?” you whisper.

“nothing,” he says. “just. you.”

you’re lying beside him, head on his pillow. he’s curled toward you, one arm tucked under his head, the other tracing your waist.

his fingers keep dipping under your shirt.

warm palm, light scratch of fingernails. a little higher each time.

you press your cheek to his shoulder.

“you always smell like that.”

he smiles.

“like what?”

“clean laundry and metal and… like a boy who runs too hot.”

he turns his head. nose brushing yours. breath warm.

“I smell like you now.”

⟡

his lips find your cheek. your jaw. the corner of your mouth.

you roll closer. your legs tangle. he slips his thigh between yours.

his kiss is gentle, then a little less.

you sigh into it. his hand slides up, under your shirt, across the curve of your back.

your hips shift.

you both breathe through it.

his lips ghost yours again.

“can I—” “mmhm,” you hum.

his hand finds the underside of your thigh. your shirt rides up.

his knee nudges yours apart just a little. not enough. too much.

your hand slides up his chest. over his ribs.

he shivers.

“you okay?” you whisper.

he nods.

“just—just nervous. I always get nervous when I really, really like someone.”

your heart aches.

you kiss him, soft.

“me too.”

he pulls back to look at you.

his pupils are blown wide. his lashes are fluttering. he looks—

god, he looks gone.

“you’re so pretty,” he says, breathless.

you smile against his neck.

“you’re such a dork.”

his hand cups your waist. anchors you. your knee hitches over his hip.

“still like me?” he whispers.

⟡

you’re not even naked yet.

your shirt’s still half on. your bra too. his hoodie’s long gone but his jeans are just unbuttoned, not even off, and your skirt’s bunched around your waist like it’s scared to go.

you’re both breathless. flushed. his forehead rests against yours like he needs the contact to stay grounded.

his hips rock into yours slow.

grinding.

it’s barely anything. just pressure and the slow ache of almost.

his voice is all breath when he says—

“don’t look at me like that.”

your brows furrow.

“like what?”

he kisses you. shaky. your lips part for him without thinking.

when he pulls back, his voice cracks.

“like you mean it.”

⟡

his hands are everywhere.

your ribs, your back, the curve of your stomach. he treats you like you’re art. like he’s worried he’ll mess you up by holding too tight.

you grab his hand. press his palm to your chest.

“I want you to mean it.”

he stares at you like he can’t breathe.

“I do,” he whispers.

“then look at me.”

he does.

oh he does.

his eyes don’t leave yours after he kisses you again.

he keeps whispering your name.

his mouth on your cheek, your throat, your shoulder, your collarbone.

you squirm underneath him, soft whines in your throat, your bodies grinding harder now. your panties soaked. his cock twitching, pressed against you through his briefs.

he groans when you roll your hips up.

“god—”

“I want you,” you whisper.

“I want you so bad I feel sick.”

he chokes on a laugh. kisses your chin, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

“you have me.”

he slides down. kisses your stomach. whispers your name again like a prayer.

his hands curl under your thighs.

“can I?”

you nod.

his thumbs hook under your panties.

he’s slow. reverent. like he’s unwrapping something sacred.

when he gets them down your legs and tosses them aside, he just—

stares.

he presses a kiss to the inside of your knee.

“fuck,” he whispers.

“I’m gonna die.”

⟡

he’s between your thighs now.

kneeling at the edge of the bed like he’s about to pray.

his hands are shaking. not nervous—overwhelmed. like he’s not sure if this is real. if you’re real. if you’ll disappear if he touches too hard.

“is this okay?” he asks, voice barely there.

“yes,” you breathe. “yes, peter. please.”

he kisses the inside of your knee again. your thigh. your hip.

his hair tickles your skin.

his hands spread your legs like you’re delicate—but not fragile.he can’t stop staring.

“you’re so pretty,” he whispers. “every part of you. I didn’t know— I didn’t know I could want someone this much.”

you nod, breath hitching.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” you whisper.

he swallows hard.

then he lowers his mouth to you.

it’s—

soft at first.

a slow kiss to your clit. a gasp against it.

he whimpers.

like the taste of you hurts.

his hands slide under your thighs, pulling you closer, anchoring you. your hips jerk and he moans—like you just did something to him.

“peter—”

he shakes his head, mouth still on you, eyes wide.

you see it in them.

the awe. the desperation. the little bit of ruin.

his tongue flattens. licks a stripe.

then he sucks—gentle, wet, noisy.

your breath shudders.

he watches your face. watches every twitch and flutter and gasp like it’s the only thing that matters.

his eyes start to water.

“you okay?” you pant.

he nods against you. clutches your hips tighter.

“just— I’m okay. I just—” “you feel like everything.”

you try to sit up. to reach for him.

but he moans again and sucks harder.

you fall back, thighs twitching, hands gripping his hair.

“oh my god—”

you’re panting now.

he’s whining.

you feel his mouth tremble.

like maybe he’s crying just a little.

but he doesn’t stop.

he doesn’t stop.

⟡

after, 

you climb into his lap slow.

your thighs still sticky from his mouth, from your slick, from the heat of it all. his hands find your hips instantly—like they were made for it. like you were made for this.

he’s so hard it’s almost painful. cock flushed, thick, twitching where it rests against his stomach.

“do you have—?” you whisper.

he nods fast. fumbles for the drawer. his fingers tremble so bad he nearly drops the foil.

“you okay?”

“yeah— yeah,” he breathes. “just— I want this to be good. for you.”

you kiss him soft.

“it already is.”

you roll the condom down him with shaking hands.

he gasps when you touch him—like just your fingers make him weak.

you brace yourself with your hands on his chest and lower down slow.

he’s thick.

you sink onto him inch by inch, his cock stretching you open, and the second you’re seated fully, both of you still—just breathing.

his head falls back.

“fuck,” he whispers.

“you feel— you feel so—”

he can’t finish.

you press your forehead to his.

you move slow.

the tiniest rock of your hips makes him whimper.

he grips your waist like he’ll fall apart without it.

his eyes flicker open. his voice is soft.

“you love me?”

you nod.

“I love you.”

“say it again.”

“I love you, peter.”

“again.”

“I love you.”

“again—please—”

you’re grinding harder now.

“I love you.”

his breath shatters.

“I love you too,” he gasps. “I love you. I love you. I—fuck—don’t stop saying it—”

⟡

you’re bouncing now. soft and sloppy. your bodies soaked and trembling and desperate.

his arms wrap around your back.

his head presses to your chest.

“don’t leave,” he whispers.

“never,” you breathe.

“I won’t ever let you go.”

“good.”

your moans mix together.

you clench around him.

his cock twitches.

and he—

“baby— baby, I’m—”

you kiss him as he comes.

he sobs when he does.

you hold him until the trembling stops.

⟡

it’s hot under the covers.

his chest is flushed and sticky, arms wrapped around your waist, nose buried in your hair. you can still feel him twitching inside the condom, can still taste his shaky moans on your tongue.

you’re both so out of breath. so warm. so stupidly, incredibly in love.

“you okay?” he whispers.

“mhm,” you breathe. “my thighs are sore.”

he grins, lazy and smug, kissing the swell of your shoulder.

“good sore or bad sore?”

“shut up.”

⟡

you’re not supposed to be here.

may thinks you were both sleeping on the couch. you were. until peter pulled you into his room with that pouty little please like he couldn’t sleep without you. (he can’t.)

now you’re buried under a blanket in his childhood bed, still panting, trying to keep your voice down like it wasn’t the creak of his old bedframe that probably gave you away already.

“do you think she heard?”

“yes,” you whisper.

“god—”

“you were so loud, peter—”

“me?! you were—”

“shhh!”

he clamps his hand over your mouth, wide-eyed, grinning.

“you’re gonna get us caught,” he whispers.

⟡

you sneak to the kitchen an hour later.

you’re in his hoodie, in underwear. he’s in boxers and socks, looking ridiculous with bed hair and bite marks down his neck.

you both raid the fridge like kids. leftover meatloaf. cold pizza. oreos. he feeds you one like you’re royalty.

“you think she’s gonna be mad?”

“i think we should run away.”

“you and me?”

“mmhm. far away. a loft with bad plumbing and big windows.”

“ooh. sexy.”

“and a cat.”

“you’re allergic.”

“i’ll suffer.”

you eat sitting on the floor.

you, between his legs, leaning back against his chest. his arms wrap around your middle, soft fingertips tracing lazy lines across your tummy.

“you ever think about the future?” he mumbles.

you hum.

“sometimes.”

“like… moving in? waking up next to each other? cooking together? real adult shit.”

“you’d eat all the cereal.”

“you’d never do the dishes.”

you smack his chest lightly.

“you’d never do the laundry!”

he huffs, once more.

you look up at him. he’s already looking at you.

“i want it to be you,” he says softly. “all of it.”

your heart aches in that perfect, full kind of way.

“me too.”

⟡

you fall asleep in his arms, in again that night. to the sound of rain. to the softness of his breath. to the rhythm of your heartbeat against his.

quiet. loved. home.

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-

⟡ made by @flxttershyz , please do not copy or repost without consent!!⟡

taglist: @seraphibunni @nolita-fairytale ^^

so sorry for disappearing for like for ever i got like triple whammey(ed?) by life these past weeks but i havent forgot u guys trust

Peter tries his hardest to focus on unpacking his stuff but his ears keep returning to the sounds of items of your clothing hitting the ground. His mind following suit in wandering to you slowly undressing. Revealing more and more of your soft body.

“I’m in now, Pete,” you call, pulling him from the thoughts he definitely shouldn’t be having about his best friend and team member.

“Okay,” his voice cracks. Peter mentally face-palms.

He hears the water running and his mind slips back into his thoughts of you; the water cascading down your body, the way the soap will flow from your hair down your spine, or how the body wash would look after you ran it all over your—

Thud. “Shit!”

You dropped a bottle, bringing him back to reality.

Stop thinking about your friend like this, Peter. Be real with yourself, man.

ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+

You finish washing all the soap off your body and reach past the curtain, grabbing your towel and begin drying yourself. Attempting to get as much water off of your person as possible.

Once you’re dry, you wrap the towel around your body and step out of the shower.

You look up, eyes landing on Peter’s bare back.

He’s looking into the sink while brushing his teeth - wearing only his black sweats that you love so much.

Feeling a wanton throb between your legs and a small burst of confidence - you walk up to him, wrapping your arms around his torso.

Peter continues bushing his teeth while he moves his free hand down to yours, lightly rubbing his thumb over your knuckles.

You both smile.

It’s clear Peter doesn’t understand the energy you’re trying to set. So, you help him get there a little faster.

You glide the hand he’s not holding down his chest. Using just your middle finger to make a path to the waistband of his sweatpants.

Your finger trails from side to side, following the line of his pants seam, lightly brushing over the small patch of hair that disappears beyond his sweats.

You can feel his breathing faltering and hear his heart pounding in his chest. Though; you’re not sure if that’s due to your ear being pressed to his back or the fact that his heart is just beating that loud.

You let your finger dip just beneath his waistband, loving the way his breath hitches in response.

You keep moving your finger back and forth, teasing the poor boy.

Feeling satisfied with how flustered he is - you back away and Peter tries his best to focus back on brushing his teeth.

“Pete?” You call softly.

He glances up, looking at you through the mirror right as you let your towel drop to the floor. Peter flips his head around to look at you - unobscured by the foggy bathroom mirror.

He lets out a breath, letting his eyes rake over your entire body.

“Well? Are you just gonna stand there and gawk or are you going to come over here and touch me, Parker?” You tease.

“Right,” Peter shakes his head, pulling the toothbrush out of his mouth and quickly moving to you. He stands tentatively in front of you, unsure of what to do first. He looks down at you questioningly.

You giggle and grab his wrists. “Have you ever done this before?” The question is genuine.

Peter’s face goes red. “Uhm... no," his response barely audible. He tilts his head down in shame.

You smile while you move his hands to your breasts. “That’s okay. Let me teach you.”

His hands gently caress your chest and you let out a soft noise that makes Peter’s knees go weak.

“Please?” He begs, feeling a pull on his groin as you arch your back into him. He massages your breasts, attempting to - and succeeding in getting more noises from you.

He slowly slides his unoccupied hand between your thighs, rubbing between the folds, finding your clit with such ease you have to wonder if he lied about his inexperience.

Any coherent thoughts you had left the moment he pressed his finger into you and started rubbing at an amazing and yet still agonizingly slow pace.

You glide your hands up his arms and to his face. Bringing it down to yours. You kiss him softly, moving your mouth in an easy rhythm for Peter to follow along with.

Peter moves his middle finger to your entrance and pauses for your permission. You grind yourself against his hand, hoping that’s enough of a yes.

He takes it and slides his fingers in with ease, surprised at how wet you already are.

“Fuck, y/n,” he moans into your mouth. His sweats tighten as he starts to pump his fingers in and out of you, lewd noises already making their way out of your mouth.

He’s lost in the feeling of you. It’s all he’s ever wanted and more. Just you and him. Melding together in such a beautiful way.

The hand on your breast moves to your hip where he rubs his thumb over the bone lovingly.

You move one of your hands to the side of his throat as you start to kiss his neck, leaving marks everywhere while grinding your hips back and fourth on his hand.

Pete’s breath leaves him almost completely, knowing anyone could see what you’ve done to him turns him on more than he thinks you could know.

You pull away abruptly. Peter feels as though he's missing a piece of himself as he watches you walk away.

You're at the bed, beckoning Peter over with a finger.

He wastes no time. Quickly walking to you and smashing his lips into yours.

Your hand trails down Peter’s chest and beneath his sweatpants. You massage him through his boxers and he groans into your mouth.

If he hadn’t already told you, it would have been an easy guess that he’s only ever touched himself.

“You’re so responsive,” you tell him as you part from his kiss to catch your breath. “I love it.”

Your hand moves out of his pants to his hair, tugging lightly on the soft brown locks. He groans again.

You smile.

“Lay down on the bed for me?” you ask softly.

He nods his head, eager to oblige any command you give to him.

He spreads out on the bed, propping his head on the pillows and making sure to get exactly how he thinks you want him.

“Good boy.”

Peter can’t explain the pride that swells in his chest at the praise. All he knows is that he’ll do anything to get you to say it again.

You crawl on top of him, straddling his waist as you lean in to kiss his neck again. Peter’s hands grip at the sheets as he attempts to hold himself back.

You move your mouth down to his collar bone, sucking on sensitive spots. You feel peter writhe and moan beneath you

You slowly move down his chest, taking your time the lower you get.

You smile up at him and pull on the elastic with your teeth, releasing it and letting the material pop back down on his skin. You tease him more by lightly trailing your finger around his lower stomach.

Peter makes a strangled noise. “Y/N... please,” he begs breathlessly.

“Please, what, Pete?”

“T-touch me. Please. I don’t think I can take it anymore,” he’s on the verge of whining.

“Since you asked so nicely...”

You pull his sweats down at an agonizingly slow pace, then doing the same with his boxers.Savoring every inch of new skin being revealed to you.

Once Peter’s dick is free, it springs up and lays flat on his stomach.

You feel heat rush to your core, along with a familiar wetness.

You bite your lip and take it in your hand, rubbing your thumb over the head.

Peter’s own head falls back against the pillow as his hips and legs shake.

“I’ve barely touched you, baby,” you note and peter could probably cum just from the sultry tone in your voice.

He whines and grips the sheets.

You use his eyes squeezed shut to your advantage and surprise him with your tongue licking up his cock.

Peter gasps and looks down at you. You smile back as you take him in your mouth, moving your lips all the way down to the hilt.

The noise that comes from the man beneath you is divinity. You to moan around him. His legs shake and he can’t help but thrust into your mouth.

You gag, which only causes him more pleasure and a small mmph noise makes it’s way out of him.

He grabs a light fist full of your hair, pulling you away from his cock.

"y/n, if you keep going I'll finish now," he's out of breath, sweat starting to form on his chest.

"That's the plan," the deep tone and tantalizing wink you give him as go go back down have chills running all across his body.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Peter's while lower half convulses and you wrap you mouth back around him, grabbing a handful of his balls.

You wrap your free hand around the base of his cock. "You wanna cum peter?" You slowly pump his cock.

"'Wanna cum inside you... please," he struggles.

"Oh, baby. There's plenty of time for that," Peter feels like his heart is gonna explode from the leisurely pace you're stroking him at. "I'm asking you if you want to cum in my mouth."

He throws his head back and says through gritted teeth; "Fuck... yes, god, please..."

"Yes, what?" You prompt.

Peter's mind swirls with every possible word he could respond with in a matter of milliseconds. And, without thinking, he mistakenly says the one he's only thought about in his most intimate fantasies.

"Yes... mommy."

Fuck.

Peter looks down to see you smiling at him with mischievous grin.

"Mommy?"

His blood runs cold. Fear holing him still.

"I could get used to that," you wrap your mouth around Peter's balls, sucking hard as you go back to pumping his cock. Languid movements driving peter crazy as his mind swirls.

"Uh, fuck. Oh my-- shit, y/n..." he's loud, almost enough to make you worry about any residents in neighboring rooms.

You take your time, moving from sucking his balls to his cock, using any movement necessary to make him feel good. Completely focusing on pleasing the man beneath you. And you're doing an amazing job, you can tell by the noises. The occasional curse word surrounded by your name, blasphemous words, and a lot of whimpering.

He's close. The way his knuckles turn white as he grips the bed sheets. His thighs tightening, muscles flexing. His lips are pressed together and his whole body is stiff.

You bring your mouth down on his dick, taking all of him and squeezing his balls up to his shaft. You bring your pace up as fast as you can, relentless.

"H-holy, oh fuck- y/n."

Warm ropes of cum shoot down your throat, coating your esophagus in him. You swallow it all, continuing to suck at him until his whole body is shaking violently.

You pull off him with a pop, smiling like the devil.

Peter's out of breath, looking like a shell of a man and yet, so fucking hot. He's covered in sweat, chest, face, and thighs glistening. His cheeks are a rosy red you haven't seen from him before. His chest is heaving for air.

You kiss him so hard it steals any oxygen he might have gotten straight out of him. He grabs the back of your head, tangling his fingers in your hair and pulling you harder into him.

He's the one to break the kiss, still attempting to breathe. "You're amazing."

You smile. "C'mere," you lay on your back, pulling him on top of you. He props an arm on either side of your head, leaning down to kiss you as you place your arms around his neck.

You wrap your legs around Peter's waist, rubbing your soaked core against his cock. He whines for you in return.

His legs shake at the sensation, due to his sensitivity and a near-feral need for you. You pull away from the kiss, biting your lip.

"Peter," you breathe, almost a moan. "I want you inside me."

Words Peter Parker never believed he'd hear except when dreaming. He feels his cock start to harden again.

You feel it as well. Taking it as a sign to keep on.

"Peter... please," you pull his ear next to your mouth and whisper low; "i wanna feel your cock inside me."

He shudders, fully erect by now. Peter quickly grabs his dick, lining himself up with your entrance, waiting on your consent. He looks at you, the question in his eyes.

"Yes, peter. Fuck me," he needs no more reassurance. He slowly pushes into you, both yours and Peter's legs shaking from the pleasure.

"Ffffuck-" you interrupt yourself with a moan. One that makes Pete's brain go foggy, the only thought being fucking you.

He grabs your hips, expertly sliding himself in and out of you at a pace near divinity. Your mind is wiped of any coherent thought that could've ever been there except for the question of how he is do good at this.

"Fuck, shit. 'So tight." Peter rests his head on your shoulder as he fucks harder into you.

It's beautiful, in the most obscene way. The way your warm bodies are practically glued together, moving in a rhythm only your souls know. The noises flowing from your lips already have Peter rocking on the edge of release, and the groans from him are doing the same to you.

You place your fingernails at the tops of Peter's shoulders, dragging them down his back then around his ribs.

He takes in a breath, shuddering. "Fuck, fuck, y/n. I'm close. So close..."

"Cum inside me, Peter. Please," your walls clench hard around him and the sounds of his whines.

The feeling of your warmth wrapped around his cock, mixed with your sounds are the purest form of ecstasy for Peter.

He reaches between your bodies, pressing his fingers against your clit and circling fast.

"Oh fuck, oh my god," you moan loud, your whole body tensing as you cum harder than you ever have in your life around Peter's cock.

You look down, seeing you've squirted all over his lower half. Fuck. There's no time to think about it because Peter is following behind you.

He grabs your hips tighter, pulling your body as close to his as possible. Peter cums deep inside you, filling you with hot, thick ropes of his seed.

The way he looks in this millisecond of a moment will forever stay in your brain. Toned abs covered in sweat and glistening. Chocolate curls a mess, falling in his face. Face towards the sky, screwed up from a pleasure he's never felt before.

The way the light falls around his face illuminates him beautifully. Angelically even.

Peter pulls out of you slowly, both of you too sensitive. He walks to the bathroom, bringing back a damp rag.

"Here," he gently helps clean you up. Afterwards he cleans himself, tossing the rag and putting a new pair of boxers on. He hands you one of his shirts.

"Thank you," you pull the shirt over your head, feeling incredibly loved by Peter. Which prompts you to say; "Peter, I love you."

He smiles and looks so giddy he might float away. He crawls into bed, cuddling up to you. "I love you, too."

This one's been in the works for a while but holy shit, even I'm all hot and bothered from this lmao.

i’ll be right back.” said your boyfriend, spider-man (or also known as peter parker, but lets not get into that at the moment), as he swung off into the distance after dropping you off. He usually gives you a ride (swing) home after you get off work. It’s a perk of being spider-mans girlfriend.

He was never “right back”, and you were fine with that. You know he had a job to do so you let him do it. However, it did include him coming home beaten up, which worried you. Of course, he assured you that “everything was fine now that you and the city were safe.”

Of course, nonetheless, even though he was protecting you (and the city) (oh and Aunt May), you still chided him for letting himself get bloodied and beaten.

 “I want you home safe and preferably in once piece, Parker.”

He waived your comment off and promised he’d try his best as he snuggled onto your lap on the couch.

The best part about him coming home after a big fight was, he was really really really tired and cuddly.

You cant stay mad at him.

You never can.

But you still chide him for it. Again and again and again.

And he listens to your pleas of “I fucking swear if I have to stitch you up again…” because he knows you don’t like the idea of watching the needle go through his skin and get your hands bloodied.

Even the idea of seeing his skin get pierced by the needle makes you want to puke. So he does it himself. Well. Most of the time. He does the ones he can reach, and you do the ones he can’t.

It’s a good enough compromise you suppose.

Besides the stitching, the washing-other-peoples-and-might-be-actually-probably-monster-gut-and-or-blood off of him, its fine.

Yep.

Just.

fine.

And it really is all fine and dandy, until he comes home half beaten to death. Blood dripping from his nose and mouth, copious amounts of bruises left on his face and chest as you peel him out from his suit from his latest excursion.

“What’d I tell you Peter? I mean, fuck i love you but i hate to see you like this! Its just- I’m- I can’t- I’m speechless right now with how upset I am with you, Parker.” And despite being speechless, You gave him a longer lecture than probably needed.

Of course he nodded and listened to you, half acknowledging what you’re saying despite being beaten within an inch of his life.

Once you bandaged and got him into clean clothes, you helped him lay on the couch with you. His body taking up most of it while his head was in your lap, while you sat at the end and rested your feet on the coffee table ridden with clutter.

You turned on the tv as background noise, turning the volume way down.

“M’sorry I broke my promise.” Peter said half awake.

You sighed, “it’s fine Pete, it’s just… I worry about you.”

“I know you do, your lectures prove that. Almost as bad as Aunt May.”

You gave him a soft chuckle. “Well I try not to worry that much.”

***

The next morning you tell Peter to take off of work.

Something something “you need rest” something something.

He doesn’t complain, he gets pampered all day and all the snuggles he wants. He practically has hung onto your side all day like a koala.

“Pete, c’mon, I gotta do the dishes sometime today. If you just go back and lay in bed I promise I’ll be back to snuggle.”

But, Peter was not having it.

“No, don’t wanna”

You sigh, facing him now instead of the looming sink with ever piling dishes.

“ Peter, go lay down. Now .”

Peter whimpers in protest.

“Do not make this harder on me than it has to be.”

That brat.

Peter isn’t usually clingy like this. But you figured it’s just because he broke his promise to you about being safe.

Peter detaches from your side with only minimal protest, and slowly trudges back to the bed. You feel bad for him. You don’t want to see him sad. This was the whole reason you had him take off.

You go back to the bedroom to check on him, just in case, you say to yourself. Before starting on the dishes.

You peer into the shared bedroom and see Peter tucked under the covers, his back facing the door. But it doesn’t seem right. You can hear him panting.

“Peter, you ok?”

Peter almost seems as if he flew out of bed. The mess of blankets covered most of him, strewn over his head and his body. His cheeks were flushed and his pupils blown wide.

“Yes! Yep! Perfect! Great actually! I thought you were doing dishes?”

“I was just about to start, but you seemed kind of upset- are you sure you’re ok? You’re cheeks are all flushed— do you have a fever?”

“Nope! All good!”

something definitely seemed off.

Now, of course, you are ever so slightly dense, but you’re not stupid.

“Peter, were you jerking off?”

Peters breath hitched.

“What? Me? Nooo, never.” He gave a coy smile.

“You were , weren’t you?”

Peter looks down, ashamed.

“Hey, no, none of that. Eyes on me”

I guess those dishes were going to be sitting a little while longer. (maybe a day or so longer.)

Peter sat up and you pushed the blankets off of him and climbed into his lap on the bed. his sweat pants hung a little low on his hip, his hair askew.

“Theres something telling me that you like me ordering you around” you stated confidently.

“Really? And thats not just because the writer was specifically asked to write me as a bratty bottom right?”

“What…?” You gave him a confused look. You had no idea what on earth peter was talking about. But something told you Peter did. But, miraculously, you didn't really care.

“Nothing, don’t worry about it, sugar.”

And with that you gave him a gentle push to lay fully down on the bed. “Riiiiight…. How about you just lay down for me and —like I’ve been telling you, rest, relax, let me do the work for you baby.”

His body slowly loosened, then you got off of his lap and made your way down his body, your face in line with his crotch. You slowly, agonizingly , pulled his sweatpants down.

peters dick hit his stomach as soon as you pulled his sweatpants down, and you kissed the tip. peter immediately started squirming and fidgeting where he laid and you pushed him down further into the mattress.

”quit your squirming, Parker. Or i wont do anything to help you get off at all.” You set your tone to “demanding and cruel, but i don’t really mean it”

Peter quit his squirming soon enough, and you got right back to giving his dick the attention it needed. licking long stripes from base to tip, you could tell Peter was trying his hardest not to move, especially with you making eye contact with him.

You teased him for a little while longer before you decided you’d put him out of his misery and wrapped your mouth around the tip of his dick, slowly taking it in your mouth inch by inch. paying special attention to the spot under the tip of his dick, making him groan.

His hand flew to grab your hair and tugged on it mercilessly. You held his hip down with one hand and your other hand on the rest of his dick that you couldn’t fit into your mouth.

As you slowly worked your way down his dick, not wanting to choke yourself, drool began to pool around the base of his dick.

Fuck was it messy, and making the most obscene noises that made you wet. Peter like the brat he was, just wouldn’t stop squirming, so you pulled off of his dick with a resounding pop.

As soon as you pulled off, peter knew what was wrong. You knew he just couldnt help himself. Your eyes glassy, you look up at him and he gave you a whimper. He knew he had disobeyed you, again.

With your hand on his hip and another keeping hold of his dick and your daggering glare up at him, pre-cum started to drool from his tip and down over your hand.

Peter knew he was fucked. Well. In a sense. He threw his head back on the pillows under him that were askew on the bed. He knew at any moment you would get up, wipe away the drool pooling at the corner of your mouth, and just walk away.

What he didn’t expect, Was you going back down on him with unexpected vigor. From tip to hilt. Making obscene slurping noises and all.

Peter lifted his head up to look at you only to throw his head back down again on the pillows, gripping your hair and the sheets in a vice. moaning at the attention you were giving him. and his dick.

This time. He managed to keep still. Knowing if he started to move or twitch or squirm again you probably would leave. For real that time.

Bobbing your head at a fast pace, it was almost a surprise when peter came. Not a single warning that he was going to come all over your face and some splatters of come managing to get in your mouth.

“Imsorryimsorryimsorryimsorry” was all you could hear Peter say for a while. Fuck you hoped you didn't get cum where it wasn’t supposed to be.

“No, no, no, no. Shh, c’mere. Its ok. You dont need to be sorry.” You got up and pulled your shirt off to wipe the come off of your face and peter. Tossing the shirt somewhere in the room, you cuddled peter, carding your fingers through his hair.

Sooner or later you hear a soft snoring coming from peter.

You smile to yourself and let your eyes flutter closed while still carding your hands through his hair.

while he begins suckling your clit, your hands drift up to his curly locks, pulling slightly. peter lets out a very loud whine at the gentle sensation of you tugging his hair, and shifts his hips faster against your foot, bucking up when you continue pulling his hair.

“fuck, you’re really desperate from doing this? huh, baby?” you can’t help but tease the blushing boy between your legs.

he lets out a little whine and nods, pressing kisses to your clit. you let out a whimper, and arch your back, pressing your cunt closer to him. peter can feel himself leaking precum into his boxers, and you throw your head back, tugging his hair even harder.

peter can’t resist anymore, reaching a hand down to his pants, rubbing himself through the material. you see his movements, but can’t bring yourself to stop him when his eyes flutter shut in pleasure.

“baby, does that feel good!” you chuckle, pushing his hair off his forehead.

peter slowly opens his eyes to you looking down at him with a small smile. he returns it, but then his eyes drift down to your neglected cunt in front of him, dripping just for him.

his eyes widen, and he removes the hand playing with his clothed cock, letting it fall on your thigh, while his other hand grips your other thigh, keeping them apart.

“gotta make you cum,” his eyebrows are furrowed, and you can’t resist tugging his hair to pull him towards you.

his tongue pushes inside you, and you find yourself arching towards him. his hands move to cup your ass, pushing you further off the edge of the counter, almost sitting you on his tongue.

“baby, what’s gotten into you?” a few seconds ago he was touching himself, and you were more than happy to help him out.

“i’m already…close…you know?…” he trailed off, embarrassed that he admitted he was getting himself off to eating you out.

you can’t help but let out a small moan at the fact that he can feel like this because of you. your legs clench around his head when his tongue enters you while his nose bumps against your clit.

your toes start curling from the pleasure, and you let out moans and whines that go straight to peter’s cock. he shifts his legs together to release some of the tension, and looks up at you.

he can almost see your hard nipples through your shirt, and can see your head thrown back in pleasure. your thighs are clenching around his head, suffocating him, and peter can feel himself getting so close to cumming.

you’re harshly rolling your hips against his face, chasing your impending orgasm. peter has taken to humping your leg again, moaning against your cunt when he can breathe.

you look down at him, at his chestnut curls splayed out on your thighs, and give them a sharp tug as your head falls back, and you cum with a shout if his name.

peter moans out into your cunt, vibrations helping you through your orgasm, and he cums in his pants.

you’re both panting as you come down from your respective highs. peter can barely keep his head up, and drops it onto your thigh. his eyes slide shut in bliss, and you notice the wet patch on his pants.

you run your fingers through his hair, pulling a smile from the boy.

“hi,” you softly say.

“mmm hi,” he mumbles out, grinning at you.

“think i’m gonna half to carry you to bed, honey,” you motion down to his collapsed legs on the floor.

both pairs of eyes narrow in on the cum patch on his pants, and you chuckle to yourself.

“didn’t know you liked having your hair pulled,” you tease.

——

peter is on his back, legs wrapped loosely around your torso. a small grin is plastered onto your face as you watch peter grip the sheets so tight that they might rip.

the both of you were taking advantage of the only alone time you’d gotten in two weeks, and to say you missed each other would be an understatement.

the slow grind of your hips into his has him moaning out, breathing harshly and closing his eyes tight. he’s begging softly, underneath the incoherent mumbles of his hoarse moaning.

the pleads fall onto deaf ears, you want to hear peter say it. “c’mon parker, tell me what you want,” you urge, pressing into him deeply. “i-“ he begins, although his words are cut off by his phone ringing.

you pause, and peter’s eyes go wide. he groans softly and reaches for his phone, eyes going even wider once he sees the contact. he chews on his bottom lip, hesitating on making a decision.

“go on, peter, answer the phone.” you tell him, using a hand to reach down and tease his neglected cock. he whimpers, mischievousness twinkling within his eyes.

“h-hello?” he calls, pressing the phone to his ear and eyeing you. smiling coyly, you continue your teasing and drag a calloused fingertip up his length. he shivers, still trying to listen to whatever it was tony was telling him.

“yes mr. stark, the documents should be with-“ peter gasps, caught off guard by the abrupt snap of your hips. “i-i’m fine… just- swinging around!” he remedies, glaring at you with no actual intent as you continue fucking into him.

a hand comes up to cup his mouth, and he prays that tony couldn’t hear the squelching sounds of the obscene amount of lube. you speed up, completely ignoring your plan to tease him. you grab hold of his hips, pressing him down into the bed.

he presses mute on his phone, looking up at you as tears wet his eyes. “sir please, i-i can’t,” he pants, thighs quivering around your waist. his pleads fall onto deaf ears, though.

he unmutes himself, “s-sorry, mr. stark,” you hear him apologize and speed up the pace of your hips. he inhales sharply, fighting the moans that want to escape his lips.

he's practically shaking, cock twitching underneath your palm. "i-i'm sorry-!" he apologizes once again, breathing heavily. "we- we'll continue this later, mr. s-stark!" he rushes out, hanging up and tossing his phone to the side.

"what's the matter parker? don't want your boss to hear how slutty you can be after hours?" you mutter, pumping his cock quickly. he sputters, eyes shutting tight.

“only yours,” he drags, “‘m only ‘ur slut,” he whines, body tensing up as he reaches his limit. you groan, head falling forward and dropping. you’re reaching your peak too, and the way peter is clenching round you isn’t helping at all.

he’s pleading by now, begging for permission to cum. “go on pretty boy, let me see you make a mess for me,” you mutter, and he says thank you immediately, strings of the phrase falling from his lips like a prayer.

“sir!” he gasps as his mouth parts in a silent scream, breathing heavily as he cums in quick spurts that cover his lower abdomen and your hand. you’re not far behind him at all. muttering curse after curse, your still inside of him and the tight knot of pleasure erupts within your stomach.

peter sighs at the feeling and whines softly when you pull out. he fades in and out as you tend to cleaning him up, and the next time he comes to completely, he’s laying on you, within fresh sheets.

“you’re evil,” he mutters, groaning softly as he stretches. “oh whatever have i done to deserve that title?” you question, smiling teasingly at the growing pout on his face.