Dbf!Frank who’s got you reverse cowgirl, your arms pulled back so he can hold you to him as he thrusts up into you. You’re bouncing up and down on his thick and ample cock like a little bunny, whining and squirming in his grip as he pounds relentlessly into you. The position he has you in gives you no choice but to just let your head fall back, your pretty, wine red toes curling and calves tensing as he bucks up into you vigorously, his meaty thighs smacking against the backs of yours so much you can tell they’ll be chapped. He’s balls deep, and the lewd sounds of them slapping against your ass cheeks is only adding fuel to the flame burning low in your belly.
“Yeah? You like that baby? Like when your old man holds you still so he can fuck you dumb? - Fuck, love this fuckin’ juicy ass - like a goddamn peach - Nah, my baby isn’t dumb. She’s a good, smart girl huh?” He lets one arm go, and leans forward carefully while his grip remains firm on the one he’s still holding. He brings his free hand around and hooks his thick fingers into your mouth - shoving them down until you’re gagging around them. “Spit,” he orders gruffly. You do as he says, moaning while salivating onto them. He moves his hand down, ghosting it along the the plushy flesh of your hip - until finally he makes it to his destination and starts rubbing steady circles on your glistening pussy.
“Oh god, Frankie! Yes, yes, right there!” you squeal, eyes fluttering closed at the sensation of his cock repeatedly kissing your cervix as his fingers work eagerly to get you gushing on him. You lose any core strength you have, and you let yourself fall back against him completely. He releases your other arm and slides it around your front, holding your hips in place as he fucks up into you with a vigor and pace that has the corners of your vision darkening - static and stars bouncing around the insides of your eyelids.
“Never answered me,” he huffs and puffs between thrusts.
“You never - oh shit, daddy! - a-asked me anything,” you say breathlessly - unashamedly, selfishly not wanting to answer questions while being fucked so good that you’re blacking the fuck out at the present moment.
“I did - s-shit princess - I asked if you’re a good, smart girl.” His thrusts stutter and slow; his eyes squeeze tight, brows furrowed together as he waits for just the right moment to fill you with his cum. To fuck with you he’ll get extra ooey gooey and call it ‘frosting his cupcake,’ and you always roll your eyes because like what a cringey, old man thing to say??? But somehow super hot also???
“Yes! Yes Frank, I’m your good, smart girl!” Your hands are clutching his arms for dear life. He doesn’t care that your nails are digging into him - it only spurs him on. It motivates him. He loves that he’s making you feel that fucking good that you can’t help but accidentally mark him.
“Show me, baby. Go on. Show me by cummin’ on my cock. That’s it, atta girl. Oh f-fuck honey, gonna make me cum too. Shit.” He gives a low, guttural growl as he rides out his high by slamming your hips down onto him. You’re so blissed out all you can do is mewl and wiggle against his strong chest - your warm, weepy bundle of nerves overstimulated. “I know, I know honey. S’okay, you did so good.” He leans back against the couch, pulling you with him and just holding you like that while his cock’s still in you - softening but still leaving you with a cozy fullness. “Always do s’good for me. Always take it like a fuckin’ champ, baby. I fuckin’ love you, you know that?”
John had her spread open beneath him, one strong hand braced beside her head, the other gripping the back of her thigh and holding her wide as he fucked into her hard and deep. Every thrust dragged a broken, helpless sound from her throat. The wet slide of his dick filling her over and over made it impossible to think. His dark eyes never left hers, that low, rough voice telling her exactly how well she was taking him—how tight she felt, how good she looked stretched around him, how he could feel her trembling every time he bottomed out.
She was already close. Had been for minutes. Her nails dug into his shoulders as he rolled his hips and ground against her clit on every deep stroke, relentless and precise. The pressure built fast, sharp and overwhelming, until coherent thought scattered.
The word slipped out on a particularly hard thrust, half-moan, half-shock, like it had been waiting under her tongue the whole time.
“Daddy—”
His hips stuttered. Just for a second. His eyes flashed, dark and intense, and a low, dangerous sound rumbled in his chest. Then he drove into her harder, deeper, the rhythm turning punishing in the best way.
“Again,” he ordered, voice rough.
She gasped it this time, clinging to him as he fucked her through the aftershocks of the first accidental slip.
“Daddy—please—”
He didn’t slow down. If anything he went harder, one hand sliding up to wrap loosely around her throat, not squeezing, just holding, claiming. His thumb brushed the side of her neck as he watched her face.
“That’s it,” he murmured, almost darkly pleased. “Say it while I fuck you.”
She did. Over and over. Every broken “Daddy” earned her another deep, perfect stroke until she was shaking apart under him, moaning the word like a prayer as she came hard around his dick. He followed soon after, burying himself to the hilt and growling against her mouth, still holding her like he had no intention of letting go.
frank castle
In your apartment, late, the only light coming from the streetlamp bleeding through the half-open blinds. Frank had shown up without warning, blood still drying on his knuckles, that same quiet intensity in his eyes. He didn’t ask. He never did. One second you were standing in the doorway, the next he had you against the wall of your living room, mouth on yours like he’d been holding himself back for hours.
Your back hit the plaster hard. His hand found your throat—firm, controlled, not cutting air—while the other shoved your jeans and underwear down in one rough motion. He lifted you just enough, lined himself up, and thrust in deep. The sound you made was sharp, startled. He didn’t stop. He never stopped once he started.
Frank fucked you against the wall like he needed it more than air, hips snapping forward in hard, relentless strokes. His forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked on yours the entire time, dark and unblinking. No words. Just the wet sound of him driving into you, the creak of the wall, your broken breaths.
He angled deeper. Found the spot that made your vision white out. Then he stayed there, grinding into it with every thrust like he was trying to carve himself into you. Your legs shook. Your hands scrambled for purchase on his shoulders, his back, anything. Coherent thought slipped through your fingers.
You tried to plead.
“Please— Frank, please, I can’t— slower— fuck— please—”
But every time you opened your mouth, he drove back in harder, deeper, hitting that same perfect spot until the words shattered. All that came out was broken, helpless babble mixed with desperate pleas.
“Daddy— please— Daddy— please— Daddy—”
Frank’s entire body reacted. A low, broken growl rolled through his chest, almost like a moan. His rhythm faltered for half a second, forehead dropping harder against yours, breath shuddering like the word had hit him harder than any bullet ever had. His free hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise, fingers digging in, holding you tighter against him as if he was afraid you’d stop.
Then he fucked you harder. Deeper. He kept his eyes on yours the whole time, pupils blown, jaw clenched, every thrust a silent answer to every plea. Like he’d been starving for that word without even knowing it. Like hearing it spill out of you in broken, mindless pieces while you begged was the only thing that had ever made the noise in his head go quiet.
You couldn’t stop.
Couldn’t think.
Couldn’t say anything else.
Just “Daddy” and “please” on every thrust, every grind, every time he bottomed out and forced another broken sound from your throat. Over and over until your voice cracked and the only thing left in the room was the sound of him claiming every mindless, desperate plea like it belonged to him.
big daddy smoke
Smoke was in the kitchen when you arrived—black shirt, tattoos showing, gun on the counter beside him, that same strict, controlled quiet hanging off him like a second skin. He didn’t smile when he saw you. He just looked at you for a long moment, eyes dark and assessing, then nodded once toward the bedroom.
“Go. Now.”
You followed.
He didn’t rush. He never did. Smoke stripped you with the same precise focus he used for everything else—no wasted movement, just steady hands and the weight of his gaze. When he finally pushed you back onto the bed and settled between your thighs, he held your wrists by your head.
“Keep your eyes on me,” he said, voice low and firm. “Don’t look away.”
He pushed inside in one long thrust.
The air left your lungs. Making you gasp. Every thrust was deliberate, deep, exact—like he was teaching your body the rules and expecting perfect obedience. One of his hands came down and gripped your hip, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Take it. All of it. You’re doing so fucking good for me.”
He thrust deeper, grinding against the spot that made your vision blur. He kept talking in that same, quiet tone.
“Feel how deep I am? You’re gripping me so tight. Like you don’t want me to leave. Good girl. Just like that.”
You tried to stay quiet. Tried to keep whatever was building behind your teeth locked down. But he didn’t let up—pace steady, words steady, eyes locked on yours the entire time—until the word tore out of you raw and helpless
“Daddy—”
A low, rough sound left his chest. His grip on your hip tightened. His forehead dropped against yours, breath shuddering like the single word had cracked straight through every careful wall he kept around himself.
Then he started moving again—harder, deeper—voice dropping even lower, rougher.
“Say that again. Let me hear it. You’re taking your daddy so well. Look at you… dripping all over me, whining, still trying to take every inch. Perfect. So fucking perfect.”
Every thrust drove the air from your lungs and another broken whimper from your mouth. He never stopped talking. Never stopped telling you how good you felt around him, how proud he was of the way you whined for him, how he wanted to hear that title again and again.
“That’s my girl. Keep saying it. Don’t stop. You’re mine right now—taking daddy so deep, so good. Fuck… you were made for this.”
His strict control frayed just enough to show how much he needed it—like hearing that word in your voice while you clenched around him was the closest thing to peace a man like him was ever going to get.
You couldn’t stop after that.
Couldn’t think of anything else.
big daddy stack
The juke joint was loud. Stack had you laid out on the edge of the table, dress pushed up around your waist, one of your legs hooked over his shoulder. He was on his knees between your thighs like he belonged there, mouth already working your open with slow, deliberate strokes of his tongue.
You gasped, hips jerking. Your fingers flew to his head, pushing at him even as your body arched closer.
“Stack—wait—”
He didn’t wait. He licked deeper, tongue flat and wet, dragging over your clit before sucking it gently between his lips. The sound he made was filthy and satisfied. Your thighs trembled around his ears.
You pushed harder at his head, half-trying to escape the intensity, half-desperate for more. “It’s too much… fuck—”
Stack’s hands clamped down on your hips, pinning you in place. He looked up at you for just a second, mouth shiny, eyes dark and amused.
“You ain’t going nowhere,” he murmured against you. Then he dove back in, sucking harder, tongue circling your clit in tight, relentless strokes.
The pressure built fast. Your fingers gripped his head, pushing and pulling at the same time. You were shaking, breath coming in broken little sounds, trying to get away from how good it felt and failing completely.
“Daddy—”
The word ripped out of you, high and needy.
Stack groaned against you like he’d been waiting for it. The vibration shot straight through you. He ate you like a man starved, tongue fucking into you, then sealing his mouth over your clit and sucking until your vision blurred.
You shoved at his head again, legs shaking, voice cracking. “Daddy—please—it’s too much—”
He only held you tighter, growling low against your soaked flesh. One of his hands slid up to pin both of yours to the table, keeping you from pushing him away. The other stayed locked on your hip, forcing you to take every stroke of his tongue.
You came hard, thighs clamping around his head, crying out the word over and over like a prayer and a confession.
“Daddy—Daddy—oh god—”
Stack didn’t stop until you were twitching and oversensitive, trying to squirm away while still grinding against his mouth. Only then did he slow, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your trembling pussy, tasting every last pulse.
When he finally lifted his head, lips glistening, that wicked little smile was back.
“That’s it,” he said, voice rough. “Keep calling me that while you fall apart on my tongue.”
He kissed the inside of her thigh, eyes locked on yours.
“Again.”
an: im trying to convince myself that i like this, but eh, lowkey it's okay i did it with all my favorite unhinged men, so yeah bye......uh, why did i write these in different POVs? I'll fix it tomorrow i think.
CONTENT : obsessive!peter, making out, fluff with cute romance
SUMMARY : peters hormones spike and all he can do is think of you..
A/N :: to all the people that found me on tt, ily
Peter had always hung around you, whether it was in social spaces or at your apartment alone working on a project. You appreciated it deeply, usually thanking him with the brightest smile that could light up a room.
You’d never seen Peter as more than a close friend, someone who was always there for you no matter what. Sure, Ned would jab at you, smiling as he pointed at Peter staring before Peter immediately looked away, but it always went over your head.
Peter, nonetheless, was clumsy at hiding his affection for you yet grateful to whichever god made you oblivious to his growing fondness for you.
“If we take the subway down to South Ferry, there should be a cute café we can get matcha at!” You exclaim, nudging at Peter repeatedly as he instantly looks up at you with a pout, his hand still writing on the paper he’s been so focused on.
He smiles at you in return, now tapping his finger on the wooden table, the soft thuds drowning in the noise of people talking, yelling, and whispering. “Isn’t this the third time you’ve gotten matcha today?” He emphasises, holding your shoulder while putting on a fake worried expression.
You scoff at his attempt to act out his ‘worry’ for your health, mostly by the fact that it’s his wallet that’s funding your matcha craze, and it’s him following along watching you drink it with a smirk each time.
Yet Peter had a little spidey secret of his. You had a suspicion he was Spider-Man, but you never really called him out on it in worry that your little web friend would shy away. And that same secret was costing him a lot.
Recently, he had experienced a spike in his hormones. He figured out it was due to his arachnid DNA and a traumatic experience which may have caused it. And it would’ve been fine in any case. He was learning how to handle the webs shooting out of him and the loud pangs.
However, he was struggling not to obsess over you.
The spike in his hormones had led to him being needy, really needy. Almost so needy to the point he could not live without having you near him at all times, even if it meant keeping an eye on you when he shouldn’t be.
At first, it was the clinginess, always holding onto you wherever he could, your shoulder, your waist, or your arm. Then came the pangs of wanting to see you late at night, and it was the worst when he was fighting Scorpion yet all he could do was think about how pretty you looked in the blue top he picked out for you.
His teeth would clench in anger seeing you interact with other guys who only wanted one thing from you; he would later scare them using his Spider-Man suit into staying away.
Anything to keep you safe, right?
Your poor friend would hold in the urge to kiss the screen every time you sent a picture, the raspberry-flavoured lip gloss perfectly shining your lips like you had just made out with someone. He could only wish that it was him.
One night it became unbearable; he needed to see you.
Which led to you sitting in your chair staring at Spider-Man climb through your fire escape window, bewildered. The cinematic jaw drop you did was so priceless; Peter almost burst out into a laugh.
“Oh my god did I do something wrong—I swear I didn’t mean to smack the little kid. I was only trying to get my phone back!” You yell immediately, standing up and backing away.
Peter chuckles softly, gently taking off the mask while watching your shock turn into confusion, then excitement. “This isn’t something I should do, but I can’t—I need you.” He bubbles out, almost whispering towards the end of his sentence, his voice slightly cracking.
He walks towards you, placing his hands at your sides as he searches for acceptance, a sign that you don’t hate him for keeping this secret away from you for so long. Surprisingly, he is met with your ecstatic eyes.
You grin, laughing like a maniac as you try to piece everything together. It was awfully weird how happy you were about finding out your best friend is the friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man.
“Spider-Man…needs me?” You trail off, looking into his honey-dipped eyes, the frantic look making you giggle even more. “Peter, you need to learn how to stop overthinking things,” you reassure him with a wink.
Peter’s racing heart paces down, yet it isn’t enough. He needs to feel every inch of you, wants to have you to himself. And the only way he can is by expressing how much he cares.
His lips crash onto yours, pushing deeper chaotically. His tongue searches for yours in a rush as he roughens the kiss, hands cupping your plush cheek while rubbing the beauty spots.
Your eyes widen, taken aback by the sudden bravery and urge; however, you melt into the kiss shortly afterwards, arms resting at his waist as you let him guide you, your tongue colliding with his in a steady rhythm.
After what seems an eternity, you finally let go. Struggling to find the words to explain the adrenaline you just felt, the mask abandoned on the floor and the faint smell of blood on his suit all begin to register in your head.
“I want to be around you all the time. I want to be yours and—” You quickly shut him up with your finger on his lips, leaving you both in silence for a moment.
You let out a deep sigh, “If I’d known you felt this way, I could’ve reciprocated. I like you too, Peter, like like.” You mutter, hands sliding up to his cheek, placing a small peck on his lips.
He smiles in response, the weeks of obsessing over you finally simmering down. It was a start. He would still end up ‘keeping an eye’, but knowing this was the first step to having you was enough.
in dreams, i meet you in warm conversation (part one)
part two
pairing: peter parker x fem!reader
word count: 2k
warnings: brand new day spoilers (but it's genuinely the smallest one you ever did see)
summary: you're avoiding the party that mj and ned wanted to throw, but that doesn't stop you from being found by a stranger. why can't you shake the feeling that he's familiar?
a/n: umm it's been eight years since i posted on this account? we're so back? saw brand new day in theaters (twice) and felt teenage me gnawing on the bars of her enclosure this one is for her (and for y'all). potential for a part two...
You didn’t know exactly what it was. You didn’t mind the music or the alcohol; even being around so many people was fun sometimes. Before everyone got drunk and started spilling things and yelling, obviously. But every single party you’d been to at MIT had felt…wrong. Like you were missing something. Like someone was supposed to be there with you, and they weren’t.
Which didn’t make sense. Ned and MJ had gone to a majority of the parties you’d gone to throughout college, and they were your closest friends. How could you feel like something important was missing when everything important was already there with you?
Either way, you’d started trying to avoid that gnawing feeling in your chest. Besides, you were growing out of the phase where going to every party and meeting every person you could fascinated you. Maybe one day that deep, dreadful sinking would go away. Maybe it would stop appearing at parties, on every birthday you turned a year older, on the small amount of dates you’d gone on where the feeling got so strong it made you nauseous.
Today, though, was an exception. You’d graduated this past summer and moved back to New York with MJ and Ned, and they were determined to throw one last party with all the college friends that had wound up back in the city, too.
Well, Ned was determined. You and MJ were lukewarm about the whole thing.
Which is why you were in your—abysmally small—bedroom, working through this line of code that you were pretty sure was going to get you fired from your shiny new job if you didn’t figure out why it wasn’t working, with your door open to the noise beyond. It was to keep an eye on MJ and Ned, you told yourself, even as you eyed all the swaying people around the TV you’d just spent fifty dollars on from Facebook Marketplace. Ugh, you should have moved it before. If they broke it, you were totally making Ned buy you takeout for a week.
You went back to work, thankful everyone seemed to be too preoccupied with the party to worry about the weird girl staring at her computer screen on her bedroom floor. You couldn’t figure this out. It was driving you crazy. You were sure it had worked yesterday evening, and then when you’d come into work this morning it was all wrong and every single test you did didn’t fix it and you were going to throw your computer—
A knock on your open door. A cleared throat. “Um, hey.”
You looked up.
A guy around your age stood in your doorway. The first thing you noticed about him were his eyes, wide and expressive, looking at you as if you were the one who’d shown up in his bedroom. But…reverent too, almost in disbelief. He was looking at you like he’d never seen a girl before.
But he was cute. And something about him…
He seemed familiar.
“Are you okay?” he asks you. His gaze starts to bounce around the room the second you meet it, avoiding your eyes. “You looked, um, mad?”
“Oh!” You laugh a little at yourself. “I’m just doing some work. I’ve been told I look mad when I can’t figure something out. I don’t even realize it.” But who had told you that? It wasn’t your family, or Ned or MJ. But someone had told you. Who had it been?
The guy shifts on his feet. You realize he’s holding a bouquet of flowers, which is a weird thing to bring to a party, but you find it charming. He squints his eyes at you, but the corner of his mouth is lifting like he wants to smile. It makes something in your chest flutter. “You’re doing work during a party?”
He’s teasing you. You feel yourself smiling back. “Yes, I am. Super important work, I might add.”
“Oh, yeah?” He leans a shoulder against your doorframe, eyes on yours now.
You can’t look away.
“Yep. Keep an eye out because I’m gonna dethrone Spider-Man from the first page of the Daily Bugle tomorrow with my amazing work on debugging this finance app that only has three hundred downloads. Really groundbreaking stuff.”
He smiles fully, now. It makes you feel triumphant, nervous, and warm. “That’s awesome because I love—What’s the name of the app?”
“Financipply” Stupid name. From the doubtful look he sends you, he agrees.
“That’s perfect because I love Finacnipply. Can’t wait to see you on the front page.” You roll your eyes, but you laugh. You both do, his shy and small, as if he hasn’t done it in a long, long time. As if he shouldn’t be laughing at all. But his eyes are bright. They turn towards the floor as your laughter dies, shy. “So what can’t you figure out?”
And you just can’t stop looking at him. You motion towards your computer screen vaguely. “Just this code. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. It’s just not working.”
He takes a small step forward. “Do you think…Can I…look at it?”
“For real? You code?”
He shrugs, one hand in his pocket. Adorable. “I…dabble?”
“Are you sure about that?”
Another flash of a smile. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“Alright then. Knock yourself out.”
He comes to sit next to you on the rug you found at the thrift store a couple blocks away, rubbing his palms over his jeans and looking intently at your computer screen. He smells like clean laundry and the rain the city had earlier in the day, and he’s looking at your code like he actually understands it. “Oh wow. Cool.” He scrolls through it a couple times, up, down. You’re entranced by his profile, so close. He stops to type. “Did you try this?”
You blink. Look at the screen. “Oh my gosh, no.” A simple line edit. You know when you see it that it’ll work. “Holy shit. You did it. Holy crap. Thank you. You’re, like, awesome.”
“It was nothing.” But he's ducking his head with a blush. “Seriously.”
“What’s your name, anyway? Since you saved me from getting fired.”
“Um, May..nard.”
“Maynard.” It sounds wrong. You’ve never had that thought before—that someone’s name is wrong. But it’s a sure feeling in your chest. The one you have when you know your code tests are going to work, and when you decided you wanted to move back to the city. It’s really the only feeling you trust anymore.
“Yep.” He leans back on his palms, and your eyes run down his arms unconsciously, tracking muscles and veins. You have a brief, overwhelming urge to curl closer to him, to run your hands down his biceps, to take his hands into yours and trace the lines of his palms. And it feels normal, to have that feeling. So normal, your body almost starts moving on its own accord. But his voice breaks you out of it. “So, is this what you want to do? Program apps?”
You tell him that your dream is to work on developing video games, and he nods like it makes complete sense and gets you to tell him that you’d love to make a game based off of Star Wars, which makes his eyes light up in a way that has your breath catching.
And that’s how you end up talking to a cute boy on the floor of your bedroom for an hour, about Star Wars and your favorite video games and what got you into them in the first place. He makes you laugh, and talking to him is so easy. It’s hard to believe you just met him now and not in high school. He would fit right in with MJ and Ned. You can almost see it for a moment; the four of you hanging around the diner MJ used to work at before college, laughing and teasing and studying. The image is so visceral that for a moment it feels real.
You’re just about to invite him over sometime because you’re so sure that they’d love him and that you want to get to know him better, when there’s a crash from the living room.
Both of you turn, and your face immediately drops. That better not have been your TV.
You sigh. “I need to go make sure nothing important is broken.” You almost add on a desperate wait for me, but he’s already standing up and holding out a hand for you.
That would have been too weird to ask for, anyway. Right?
You let him pull you up. When your hands touch, it’s almost as if the warmth radiates from his calloused fingers, grips your heart, and drags it all the way down to your toes. He lets go quickly, as soon as you’re on your feet, but you stand there for a moment, disoriented. Feeling like…feeling like you’re right where you need to be. But also like you’ve forgotten to do something. It pulls at your brain like a grocery item list you know you were thinking about five minutes ago, but no matter how far you reach, you can never remember what it was.
It shouldn’t bother you this much—you’ve been feeling it since you went to college. It hung over you during orientation, and move-in day, and every visit home. It reaches you in dreams, and weirdly, whenever Ned shows you the thousands of videos he gets of Spider-Man swinging across the city.
But you’d never felt this close to grasping it before. You can almost see an image in your brain, faded around the edges like an old photograph, a word floating just on the edge of your consciousness.
“You okay?” He’s asking you. Maynard. God, why does that name sound so wrong to think?
He looks about a second away from grabbing your hand again.
You want to let him.
But you hear MJ’s voice from the living room, firm in the way she only uses when she’s annoyed, and you know that your TV is probably done for. Maynard seems to be able to sense it too, because he urges you to go.
And your TV is broken, thanks to some idiot and his friend who decided to start play-fighting for no reason. He gives you a twenty from his pocket, but you can’t even focus. Your mind is too busy playing back your night. Warm brown eyes, messy curls, soft smiles. You end up just waving it off—but you keep that twenty—and rushing back to your room to find Maynard.
Only, he’s not there when you return.
Your laptop is closed and placed at the foot of your bed. On top, the bouquet he showed up with.
You stand there, in the middle of your tiny room, touching your fingertips to the carnations and grieving.
Grieving for what? You keep asking yourself. Why do I feel this way?
But you can’t figure it out. It stays, stays, stays.
Later that night, his face comes to you in your dreams. It’s younger, unburdened with the sadness you’d seen lying underneath. He’s laughing, bright and beautiful, and he’s looking at you. You’re on a rooftop somewhere, both of you golden in the sun, and he’s saying your name with a fondness that notches into your spine.
I love you, he says, and he means it. It’s in his eyes, in the way his expression melts into softness, in the way he traces his fingers across your shoulder and pulls you into him.
Peter, your voice sounds just as yours does now, weighed down by adulthood. You run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and there’s a peacefulness in your body that you know you haven’t felt in years, even through the haze of the dream. I’ll always love you.
You feel the press of his lips to your hair, the curve of them as he smiles.
You wake up. Gasping, gripping the thin sheets of your bed, sweat gleaming on your collarbone.
Peter, your mind whispers to you in the dark.
“Peter.” You murmur it into the moonlight shining across your floor, to your heart beating against your ribcage, to the knot in your stomach that finally releases.
“Peter.” You say again. Taste it on your tongue, certain you’ve said it a thousand times, in a million different ways.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+, explicit sexual content — MDNI , graphic descriptions , excessive cum , kinda gentle to rough sex, oral sex (f receiving), overstimulation , creampie, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), porn with little plot, needy peter parker , love confessions , touch starvation , college au , post nwh , smut , fem!reader , pussy drunk peter , first time together , confessions , the L word !!
𝐰𝐜: 4.9k (i think. might be more, might be less. idk.)
𝐚/𝐧: i may have gone overboard with this but it’s my first smut fic. LOL! no spoilers for brand new day! this is semi proofread, so sorry in advance for mistakes. enjoy!!
the thing about Peter Parker is that he doesn't realize how tactile he is.
or maybe he does now, after four years of forcing himself not to be.
you’re sprawled across his dorm room floor, textbooks and notes scattered around you like academic shrapnel. your Organic Chemistry problem set is due tomorrow, and Peter's trying to explain electron orbital hybridization for the third time while you're trying not to notice the way his hands move when he talks.
"okay, so—wait, are you even listening?" he glances up from the molecular model he's been gesturing at, catching you staring.
"yes," you lie. "orbitals. hybridization. very sexy stuff."
Peter's ears go pink. they always do. "it’s actually kind of cool if you think about it. like, the atoms are literally reshaping themselves to form stronger bonds—"
"Peter."
"—which is sort of romantic in a way? no? okay, yeah, I hear how that sounds."
you grin, nudging his knee with your foot. "you’re such a nerd."
the contact makes him freeze for just a second—so brief you almost miss it. but you've been Peter's best friend since freshman orientation, when you found him eating lunch alone in the dining hall, and you've gotten good at reading him. the way his breath catches. how his eyes track the movement of your leg as you pull it back.
"takes one to know one," he manages, but his voice is slightly rough.
you’ve been noticing things like this more lately. the way he leans into your touch when you grab his arm. how he finds excuses to be close—sitting next to you even when there's a whole empty couch, walking you home when your dorm is barely three buildings away. the looks that last a fraction too long.
at first, you thought you were imagining it. Peter Parker, who spent freshman year obviously pining after someone he wouldn't talk about, who kept a careful distance from everyone like he was afraid of breaking something. but somewhere between late-night study sessions and 2 AM bodega runs and him falling asleep on your shoulder during movie nights, something shifted.
now he's watching you chew on your pen cap, and there's heat in his gaze that makes your stomach flip.
"we should take a break," you suggest. "my brain is melting."
"yeah, okay." Peter runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up adorably. "i’ve got—uh, i think there's some leftover pizza? and definitely Red Bull, which is probably not great to mix with the coffee we already had, but—"
"Peter."
"hmm?"
you’re not sure what you were going to say. something about how he's rambling, maybe, or how cute he looks when he's nervous. but you're sitting close enough now that you can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, and the words dissolve on your tongue.
he swallows hard. "you’re looking at me weird."
"weird how?"
"i don't know! like..." he trails off, and you watch his gaze drop to your mouth before snapping back up. "never mind."
the air feels thick suddenly, charged with something that's been building for months. you think about all the almost-moments—hands brushing when passing coffee cups, the time he caught you when you slipped on ice and held on longer than necessary, the way he said your name last week, soft and wondering, like he was testing how it felt.
"Peter," you say again, and this time his name sounds different. heavier.
"yes?" it comes out barely above a whisper.
you lean in slowly, giving him time to pull away. he doesn't. instead, he tilts forward like you're gravity and he's been in orbit too long, and when your lips finally meet, the small sound he makes goes straight through you.
the kiss is soft for maybe two seconds before Peter's hand comes up to cup your face and it turns desperate. he kisses like he's starving, like you're air and he's been underwater for years. his other hand finds your waist, gripping tight enough that you can feel the tremor in his fingers.
"sorry," he gasps against your mouth. "sorry, i just—"
"don’t apologize." you thread your fingers through his hair and tug gently. the noise he makes is almost pained.
"i’ve wanted—" he breaks off, kissing you again, harder. "god, i’ve wanted this for so long."
you end up in his lap somehow, textbooks scattering as he pulls you closer. Peter's hands are everywhere—your hips, your back, sliding under the hem of your shirt to touch bare skin. when you roll your hips experimentally, he actually whimpers.
"fuck," he breathes. "fuck, you can't—i’m trying to—"
"trying to what?" you do it again, feeling him harden beneath you.
his head falls back against the bed frame. "be good. go slow. not just—" his hips buck up involuntarily. "not just maul you like some kind of—oh fuck, are you taking off your shirt?"
you are, in fact, pulling your shirt over your head. "is that okay?"
Peter's eyes go wide and dark. "is that—are you seriously asking if—yeah. yeah, it’s okay. are you kidding?" he reaches for you with shaking hands, then stops himself. "i need you to tell me this is real."
"it’s real." you guide his hands to your waist. "i’m real. touch me, Peter."
he surges up to kiss you, lifting you and gently laying you back against the bed, he follows you down—his weight pressing you into the mattress. he’s kissing the spot behind your ear now, your neck, your jawline, your collarbone, working his way down with single-minded focus. all he can think about is you. you, you you you you.
"you’re so soft," he murmurs against your skin. "so fucking soft, i can't get enough. so soft, and smooth.”
his hands shake as he reaches for your bra clasp. it takes him two tries, and he laughs breathlessly against your shoulder. "sorry, i’m—it's been a while.”
your heart clenches. you know Peter has secrets—everyone does—but sometimes he lets things slip that make you wonder what he's been through. "we can slow down if you want."
"no." it comes out fierce. "no, i don't want slow. i want—" he drags his hands down your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. "i want to touch every part of you. want to taste you. want to—fuck, i want so many things."
he gets your bra off and just stares for a moment, reverent. when’s the last time he’s seen tits up close? then he's ducking his head to take your nipple in his mouth, and the feeling shoots straight between your legs. his tongue works in circles while his hand palms your other breast, and you arch into him with a gasp.
"Peter—"
he’s grinding against your thigh now, seemingly unconscious of it, completely focused on mapping your body with his mouth. when he kisses down your stomach, just above your navel, your muscles jump under his lips.
"can i?" his fingers are on the button of your shorts. "please. pleasepleaseplease."
"yes." you lift your hips to help him, and he drags your shorts and underwear down in one motion like he can't wait another second.
Peter sits back on his heels, just looking, and the expression on his face makes you feel like the most beautiful thing in the world. "holy shit," he breathes. "you’re so—i can't believe you're letting me—fuck.”
"Peter." you reach for him. "come here."
but he shakes his head, lowering himself between your thighs instead. "i need to taste you first. i’ve been thinking about this for months—i felt like a pervert but.. i just couldn’t stop thinking about you. shit, baby.”
the first broad lick of his tongue through your folds makes you both moan. Peter grips your thighs hard enough to bruise, spreading you open obscenely as he buries his face between your legs like a man starving. there’s no technique to it at first, just raw desperate hunger—he's licking and sucking messily, his tongue exploring every fold, every inch of you like he needs to memorize the taste.
"oh my god," you manage, watching him devour you. watching his messy curls between your legs. “Peter, that's—fuuuuck!”
he moans against your cunt, the vibration making your legs shake. his tongue finds your clit and circles it sloppily before dipping lower, the tip of his tongue pushing into your entrance. "fuck," he gasps, pulling back just enough to speak, his chin already shiny with your arousal. "jesus, you're so wet. you’re dripping—all for me?” he dives back in, licking into you deeper, his nose pressed against your clit as he tries to fuck you with his tongue.
you can feel how soaked you are, can hear the obscene wet sounds as he works you over. Peter's completely lost in it, grinding his hard cock against the mattress as he eats you out like it's the best thing he's ever tasted. because you are. if he knew, he would’ve confessed long ago.
"you taste so fucking good," he mumbles against your pussy, words muffled and desperate. "could do this forever. could just live between your legs—fuck, you're getting wetter. fuck, honey."
he slides two fingers into you without warning, and you cry out at the stretch. your walls clench around the intrusion, and Peter whimpers at the feeling. "oh god, you're so tight. so fucking tight and warm. holy fuck.” he curls his fingers, searching, and when he finds that spot inside you, your back arches off the bed.
“there!" you gasp. "right there, Peter, don't stop—"
"here?" he does it again, his fingers pumping in and out while his mouth seals around your clit. he sucks hard, tongue flicking rapidly, and the dual sensation has you climbing fast. you can see him grinding desperately against the mattress, seeking friction, his hips rolling in time with his fingers fucking into you.
"Peter, i’m gonna—"
"please," he begs against your clit, the word vibrating through you. "please cum for me, wanna feel your pussy squeeze my fingers, wanna taste you cumming on my tongue. please? will you cum for me, baby? please, i need it. i need you.”
his encouragements and the fullness combined with his mouth on your clit sends you over the edge. your orgasm crashes through you, and Peter moans like he's the one cumming as your walls clench rhythmically around his fingers. he works you through it, fingers still pumping, tongue still lapping at your clit until you're shaking and oversensitive and have to physically push his head away.
when he lifts his head, his face is a mess—lips swollen and shiny, chin glistening with your arousal, eyes absolutely blown black with lust. he kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “that was the hottest thing i’ve ever done," he says, voice completely wrecked. he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean, moaning at the taste. "you’re the hottest thing i’ve ever seen. i can’t—i need to be inside you right now or i’m gonna lose my mind."
you reach for his shirt with shaking hands. "off. please."
he strips so fast he nearly falls over, hopping on one foot as he shoves his jeans and boxers down. it’s almost comical, if you weren’t so desperate right now. when he's finally naked, you take a moment to appreciate him—lean muscle, the cut of his hipbones, his cock hard and flushed, curving up toward his stomach. the head is already leaking precum, and as you watch, another bead forms at the tip.
"come here," you say, and he practically lunges back onto the bed.
the first touch of skin on skin makes him shudder violently. "oh shit," he breathes, his cock sliding against your wet pussy. "ah fuck, you feel so good. jesus. your skin. fuckfuckfuck.”
your wrap your hand around him, and his hips jerk forward involuntarily, fucking into your fist. he’s hot and hard and silky in your palm, and when you stroke him once, experimentally, precum leaks over your fingers. the sound he makes is almost pained. he bites his lip so hard, you’re afraid he’ll break skin.
"i’m not gonna last," he warns, voice breaking. "i’m already so close, i’ve been so close just from tasting you, from feeling you cum on my face.”
"it’s okay." you guide him to your entrance, notching the head of his cock against your opening. you’re so wet that he slides through your folds easily. "i want you inside me. want to feel you cum inside me.”
Peter’s hand shakes as he reaches between you, gripping his cock to line himself up properly. "i don't—do you have a—"
"pill," you manage. "i’m on the pill. clean. are you—
"of course i am. i—i mean. yes.”
you’d normally never do this raw. but right now, all you care about is the way he's looking at you like you're everything, as he slowly pushes inside.
the stretch is intense—he's thick and the angle is deep and you're so sensitive from your first orgasm that every inch feels like too much and not enough all at once. you both groan as he sinks in, and you can feel your walls fluttering around him, trying to accommodate the intrusion.
"oh my god," Peter gasps, his whole body trembling. "oh my god, you're so tight, i can feel—fuck, i can feel everything—" his arms are shaking with the effort of going slow, his face buried in your neck. "you’re squeezing me so tight, oh, fuuuuck.”
when he's fully seated, buried to the hilt inside you, he stops, breathing hard against your skin. you can feel him pulsing inside you, can feel how close he already is. "need a second," he pants. "just need a second or i’m gonna cum right now.”
you run your hands down his back, feeling the tension in his muscles, the way he's holding himself perfectly still. "it’s okay. take your time."
"don’t want it to be over." he lifts his head to look at you, and his eyes are almost desperate, pupils blown so wide there's barely any brown left. "feels too good. you feel too good. like—like you were made for me, like your pussy was made to take my cock.”
you rock your hips slightly, and his eyes nearly roll back. "Peter, you can move. please move. i need you to fuck me."
he does, pulling out slowly—agonizingly slowly—and you can feel everything. every ridge, every vein, the way his cock drags against your walls, the way you're stretched around him. the sensation is so intense it makes your toes curl, makes you whimper at the loss of fullness.
"oh, fuck," Peter breathes, watching where you're joined, watching himself slide out of you. "you look so good taking my cock. so fucking good.”
then he slides back in, just as slowly, and you both moan at the same time. the sound he makes is broken, almost pained, like it feels too good to bear. his whole body shudders as he bottoms out again, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. he does it again, pulling out painfully slow—before sliding back in. the feeling is so perfect. yet, your body craves more. he sets a rhythm that's deep and steady, but you can feel him holding back, trying to maintain control, his jaw clenched with the effort.
"can’t—" he gasps. "can’t believe how good you feel. so tight and wet and warm. how are you so tight, baby? god.”
he sets a rhythm that's deep and steady, his cock plunging deep inside of your pussy, over and over. each thrust is deliberate, controlled, like he's trying to memorize every sensation. but you can see the effort it's taking him—his jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping, his arms trembling where they're braced on either side of you, sweat already beading on his forehead.
"ah—yes!" you encourage, running your hands up his back. "you feel so good inside me."
his hips stutter slightly at your words, the rhythm faltering for just a second before he regains control. "yeah? you like feeling me fuck you?"
"yes, pete! love it! love feeling you stretch me open—!”
"fuck—" his next thrust is slightly harder, slightly faster, and he immediately tries to slow down again. "sorry, sorry, i’m trying to—trying to go slow but you feel so fucking good.”
"let go," you tell him, wrapping your legs around his waist. "i want to feel you lose control. want you to fuck me like you've been dreaming about."
he groans as he feels your walls clench around him. “i’m sorry, honey. m’sorry. i’m too rough, aren’t i? m’so sorry.”
"don’t apologize." you roll your hips to meet his next thrust, and the angle makes him hit deeper. "want to feel you."
the pleasure is building steadily, a warm coil tightening in your belly with each stroke. Peter's breathing is getting heavier, his control visibly slipping. his thrusts are getting incrementally faster, harder, like his body is moving on instinct despite his attempts to hold back.
"you’re so—ah!—perfect," he pants against your neck, his hips snapping forward a little harder. "so fucking perfect, taking my cock so well—" another thrust, faster this time. "been dreaming about this, about being inside you, about feeling you on my cock.”
his rhythm is getting less controlled now, more erratic. you can feel him starting to lose it, his careful restraint crumbling with each thrust. he’s sweating more, his skin slick against yours, his breathing ragged and desperate.
"Peter—" you dig your nails into his back. "more. need more."
he shakes his head. “can’t—if i go harder i won't be able to stop—" but even as he says it, his hips are moving faster, driving into you with more force. "what are you doing to me? fuuuck, i can't—i’m trying to be gentle but you feel too good.”
“then don't be gentle." you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "want you to fuck me harder."
he makes a sound that's almost a whimper, his hips stuttering before he slams into you harder than before. "like that? you want it like that?"
"yes!—fuck, yes—"
his control is slipping faster now. each thrust is harder, faster, more desperate. he tries to slow down, you can feel him trying, but his body won't listen. his hips keep moving, keep driving into you with increasing intensity.
"can’t stop," he gasps, his voice breaking. "can’t fucking stop, you feel too good, your pussy is so tight—" he’s babbling now, his face pressed into the curve of your neck. "want to fuck you so hard, want to make you feel so good, want to hear you scream my name.”
"m’trying to—trying to hold back—" but his hips are moving faster, pounding into you with a force that makes the bed shake. "don’t want to hurt you—"
"you won't. please, Peter, i need it.”
his next thrust makes you both cry out. he’s completely losing it now, his rhythm getting faster and more erratic, his body taking over despite his attempts at control. you can feel him shaking, trembling with the effort of holding himself back even as his hips betray him.
"i’ll hurt you—i’m stronger than i look—“
"shut up, Peter." you pull him deeper with your legs, and the angle makes you both gasp. "stop—fucking—ah!, stop apologizing. i want all of you. want you to use me, fuck me as hard as you need.”
his eyes roll back at the depth and his fragile restraint snaps. he eyes go dark and feral, and suddenly he's pounding into you, his hips snapping against yours with force that would probably hurt if you weren't so turned on. the bed frame slams against the wall with each thrust, and Peter's completely gone, his filter destroyed.
"fuckfuck, shit, your pussy feels so good," he babbles against your neck, his voice broken and desperate. he reaches up, his hand palming your breast, squeezing the weight in his hand. his thumb circling over your nipple as he moans into your neck. "so tight and wet and perfect—can't believe i get to have this, have you. been wanting to fuck you for so long..” he changes the angle slightly and hits that spot inside you that makes you see stars. "there? can you feel me there? can you feel how deep i am?"
"yes!" you’re clinging to him, nails digging into his back. "Peter, oh my god!”
"shit—! wanted to bend you over the library table," he confesses, words tumbling out in a rush as he fucks into you relentlessly. "wanted to pull you into the bathroom at that party last month and fuck you against the sink. wanted to wake up with my face between your legs, wanted to fall asleep with my cock still inside you—" he’s rambling now, completely unfiltered, telling you every desperate fantasy as his hips piston. "used to jerk off thinking about this, about how you'd feel, how you'd sound, what your pussy would look like stretched around my cock.”
the world outside his dorm room falls away, all you can feel is his cock pumping in and out of you. you can barely think, he’s barely giving you time to think. all you can hear is his moans, your own desperate cries and the wet slap! of his skin against yours.
you can feel another orgasm building, the angle hitting perfectly with every brutal thrust. your walls are fluttering around him, and you know he can feel it because he moans and somehow speeds up even more. like he’s superhuman.
"Peter, i’m close—"
"i know, sweet girl. i can feel it." he reaches between you, his thumb finding your swollen clit. the touch is almost too much on your oversensitive flesh, but then he's rubbing tight circles and you're flying. "cum on my cock. please baby, need to feel it, need to feel your pussy cumming on my cock. just like you did on my fingers.”
tne combination of his thumb and the relentless thrust of his hips and his desperate words sends you over the edge. your second orgasm hits even harder than the first, your whole body seizing as pleasure whites out your vision. you clench around him rhythmically, and Peter makes a sound like he's been punched, his rhythm faltering.
“oh shit, shitshitshit, you're squeezing me so tight, i can't—i’m gonna cum—where? tell me where. please.”
"inside," you gasp, still riding the waves. "cum inside me, Peter, want to feel it.”
he buries himself as deep as possible and comes with a broken moan of your name.
you can feel it immediately—the first hot pulse of cum flooding into you, but it doesn't stop. it keeps coming, wave after wave, his cock jerking violently inside you as he empties himself. there’s so much—more than should be possible—each pulse filling you fuller, the warmth spreading deep inside as he shakes apart above you.
"oh god, oh god.” his voice is completely destroyed, words slurring together as another massive wave hits him. "i’m sorry, baby. i know it’s a lot—fuuuuck. imsorryimsorryimsorry.”
another pulse, his hips jerking involuntarily, grinding deeper like he's trying to fuck his cum even further inside you.
his arms are shaking so badly he can barely hold himself up. you can see tears gathering at the corners of his eyes from the overwhelming intensity, his face twisted in almost painful pleasure.
when his orgasm finally, finally starts to subside, he collapses on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress because he literally cannot hold himself up anymore. he’s shaking like a leaf, gasping against your neck, and you can feel the obscene amount of cum leaking out of you.
"holy shit," he finally says, voice absolutely destroyed. "that was—i mean, i knew it would be good, but that was—i think i saw the heavens. god, i feel like i’m gonna pass out.”
"that was so hot," you manage, because words are hard right now and your limbs feel like jelly.
he lifts his head to look at you, and his expression is soft and wondering and a little hungry. "i love you," he says. "i know that's probably too soon to say, and we should probably talk about what this means, but i love you. i’ve been in love with you for months, maybe longer, and i thought i’d never get over—someone else—but then you smiled at me in the dining hall freshman year and i just.. i don’t know. you definitely don’t have to say it back, because i sound insane, but i just want you to know that—“
you kiss him, cutting off the ramble. "i know. i think i love you too.”
his answering smile is bright enough to power the sun. "yeah?"
"yeah.”
he kisses you again, soft and sweet this time, and you can feel him starting to harden inside you again, his cock thickening and lengthening where it's still buried in your pussy.
"Peter," you say, mock-stern even as your body responds.
he grins, sheepish and hungry all at once, and rolls his hips experimentally. the slide is easy, slick with cum and arousal. "i have months to make up for. hope you didn't have plans tomorrow."
you definitely don't have plans. and when he starts moving again—slow and deep and perfect, his cum making obscene wet sounds as he fucks it back into you—you can't think of anywhere else you'd rather be than here, in his messy dorm room, with the boy who's been touch-starved for too long finally letting himself feel everything.
the Organic Chemistry homework can wait.
authors note: whewww.. hi guys… yes.. yes.. i’ve been gone for a few weeks but IM HERE NOW! and here with a smut.. wooo!! baby’s first smutfic yum yum. i saw bnd on the 29th and holy fan service.. any who i have a love hate relationship with this. i’m SCARED to post this and i will delete if it doesn’t do well (kidding). i just get embarrassed writing smut so.. hope you love it.. and if you do, i might make more !! bye loves <3
I love how in Daredevil, Frank Castle is like this intimidating guy who's a well matched threat to the hero but in Spiderman he's still the same character but Peter just... does not treat him with the same amount of gravity. He webs Frank's mouth shut for swearing and tells him to go home after breaking his van. He argues with the man who's whole deal is he has a lot of weapons and WILL use them like two New Yorkers who got into a fender bender. Peter Parker and Frank Castle see each other coming and they both go "This fucking guy again." I love it.
frank’s rough and and calloused hands grip your hips so tight he’s probably leaving little red marks, pulling you flush against him. "missed this," he growls, his voice a low rumble against your throat. he hasn’t shaved in two days so his stubble scrape your skin as he mouths a trail up to your ear. "missed you."
oh you know peter's in the next room, probably hunched over his laptop, but frank doesn't seem to give a fuck or maybe he does. his fingers work their way under your shirt, tracing the waistband of your jeans before popping the button open.
"frank," you breathe out, a half-hearted protest. "peter's..."
"then you better be quiet, baby," he murmurs, nipping at your earlobe. "you don't want him to hear you, do you?"
he doesn't wait for an answer, just walks you backward into the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. his shirt is off in one fluid motion, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the scattered scars you've traced with your tongue a hundred times. he strips you until you’re fully naked, his hands knowing every curve of your body.
he pushes you onto the bed, following you down. his mouth is on yours, hungry and so demanding, one hand pinning your wrists above your head while the other traces the line of your thigh, higher and higher until his fingers find your pussy, wet and ready.
"soaked already," he grunts against your lips. "all this for me?" his thumb circles your clit, a deliberate torture that has your hips bucking up to meet his hand. "or you thinking about our guest in the other room?"
you shake your head, but a whimper escapes your lips as he slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right. he works you open, scissoring his fingers, stretching you, preparing you for what's to come. his mouth finds your nipple, teeth grazing the sensitive peak before soothing it with his tongue.
"frank, please," you gasp, arching into his touch.
"please what, baby? use your words."
you can't form a coherent response as he withdraws his fingers, positioning himself between your legs. he runs the head of his cock through your folds, teasing, coating himself in your arousal before pressing against your entrance.
he pushes in slowly, letting you feel every thick inch as he stretches you open. the burn is a mix of pleasure and pain as he fills you completely. when he's fully seated, he pauses, giving you a moment to adjust before pulling out almost completely and thrusting back in. you can't help the loud moan that escapes your lips. frank immediately covers your mouth with his hand, his eyes dark with warning.
"shhh," he commands, his hips beginning to move in a steady rhythm. "what did i tell you about being quiet?"
but you really can't help it—every thrust draws another sound from your throat, muffled by his palm. when a particularly loud whimper escapes, frank's eyes narrow. "dirty girl," he grunts, pushing your head into the pillow with his other hand. "getting off on the thought of peter hearing us, aren't you? you want him to know what we're doing in here?"
you shake your head, but your body betrays you, clenching around him at his words. frank chuckles darkly. "liar. should we invite him next time? let him watch how you fall apart when i'm inside you? maybe that's what you really want."
his words send a fresh wave of arousal through you, and despite yourself, you moan louder against his hand. he adjusts his angle, hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust, and you see stars behind your closed eyes. the sounds of skin against skin fill the room, mixed with your muffled cries and frank's grunts. just as you're reaching your peak, a knock sounds at the bedroom door.
"hey—everything okay in there?" peter's voice calls through the wood. "i heard... noises."
frank doesn't stop, if anything, his hips snap harder. he’s smirking down at you as he whispers, "answer him. be a good girl and tell your friend you're fine."
you try, you really do. you attempt to form the words but all that comes out is a muffled, high-pitched keen as he grinds his hips, the coarse hair at his base rubbing against your sensitive clit. the sound is pathetic and utterly betraying.
frank's smile is sharp against your skin. he chuckles, a sound that vibrates through his chest and into yours. "yeah, he's not buying that.” he shifts his weight, grabbing your thigh and hitching it higher on his hip, changing the angle. the new position has him impossibly deeper, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with every thrust.
"one more chance," frank says, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. he leans down, his lips brushing your ear. "or i'll open the door myself and show him exactly why you can't speak right now."
"we're fine!" you manage to call out.
frank stills for a fraction of a second, a mocking chuckle rumbling in his chest as he feels your walls pulse around him. he pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze amused. "oh, you liked that, didn't you?" he murmurs, his voice low. "almost got caught. got your little pussy all tight around me."
there's a beat of silence from the other side of the door.
"oh. okay," peter says, his voice suddenly little awkward. "sorry to bother you."
you hear his footsteps retreat, the floorboards creaking as he walks away down the hall. the moment he's gone, frank's smirk widens. "so responsive," he growls, his hips starting to move again, slower this time, more deliberate. "getting off on almost getting caught. what a dirty girl you are."
he picks up the pace again, his thrusts becoming harder. frank's hand moves from your hip to your clit, his fingers rubbing tight circles, pushing you closer to the edge.
"that's it, baby," he growls, his voice strained with effort. "let go."
your body arches, a silent scream tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you. your walls clamp down around him, a rhythmic pulsing that you can't control. your body shakes, waves of pleasure so intense they border on pain.
"fuck," frank groans, feeling you spasm around him. he buries his face in your neck, his own rhythm becoming erratic, his thrusts shallow and fast. with a guttural groan, he follows you over the edge, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you. he collapses on top of you, his heavy weight pinning you to the mattress, both of you panting and slick with sweat.
"next time," frank murmurs against your skin after a moment. "we invite him to watch or to join us."
