18+! boot riding & licking, mentions of blood, afab anatomy for reader
The leather is warm from wear, the dark material rough against your sensitive skin. The top of his boot is already shiny with your slick, residual grime and your juices mixing into something filthy, the sight nearly sinful. There are still visible red specs on the soles, streaks of the blood of someone unfortunate enough to get in his way tonight. It doesn't disgust you nearly as much as it should.
You're thrusting back and forth desperately, clit catching just the right angle with every rocking motion forward. There's enough wetness on the leather that it's making every grind squelch, the sound loud and echoing in your ears in the otherwise quiet room. You can feel how slippery the material has become; it makes your whole body feel like you're on fire. Dex is completely silent above you, only his deep, carefully measured breaths audible besides your pleading noises. His intense gaze is locked onto your face as you ride his boot, a mean little smirk stretched across his mouth. If you concentrate long enough you can see the bulge straining against the zipper of his pants, undeniably affected by this just as much as you are.
Still, he has all the control.
"Please!" a high-pitched plea escapes you, rhythm stuttering for a moment. You're already so close; it didn't take much to get you needy and squirming to come. A single glance at him stepping through the door, all covered up in his suit, loaded with weapons and stains of dark blood still drying on him was enough to make you get on your knees in barely contained desperation. He's almost terrifying like this, all lethal precision applied to such an intimate setting, and it makes the burning coil in your stomach stronger. He pretends to consider your begging for a moment, head tilting to the side in a condescending manner, then he finally nudges his boot against your core, signalling you to continue. Your hips pick up right where you left off at his permission, pace frantic and uncoordinated, the only thought left in your head coming all over his leg. It only takes a few more well-aimed thrusts after that and your body is locking up, muscles contracting and shaking with the force of your orgasm.
When your breathing settles into something more regular along with the beating of your heart, you lift your hips from where they've stopped moving against him. The sight left under you makes a broken whimper escape your throat. The black leather is glossy from your release, material glistening almost obscenely even in the low lighting of the room. When you manage to look up at Dex, his dark gaze is still fixed on your face, a single eyebrow cocked not in question, but rather as a command. With a body that's still trembling from the aftershocks, you lean down and tentatively lick along the wetness on his boot, trying to preserve at least some of your dignity. Your resistance doesn't last long: in seconds, you are moaning loudly around the bitter taste, tongue lapping enthusiastically to catch every drop. It's a heady mix, the tangy flavour of blood, the bitter leather and your much sweeter cum; it makes your head feel fuzzy all over again.
Once you're done thoroughly cleaning up your mess, the only smudge left on his shoe is your spit. You sit back down on the floor, shifting uncomfortably against the cold surface, head lifting to hazily blink up at him again. He is looking back at you with pure hunger, smirk still on his face and not any less mean than before.
"On the bed."
The low, commanding tone of his voice — the first thing he's said to you since coming home — has you immediately scrambling up on unsteady legs, hastily tumbling towards your bed. The shiver that runs across your back from feeling his gaze on you is enough to make you force your weak limbs to cooperate faster. The sound of his heavy belt clicking open has your pussy clenching, a fresh wave of slick already trying to drip down your thighs. As you hear him move towards you, deliberately making his footsteps louder to watch you shudder in anticipation, you know how the night is going to end: with you drained dry and head entirely empty, his name the only thing you can still remember.
shane maguire who hits doe!reader so hard during sex that there’s a red splotch on your cheek, you’re almost frozen in place if not for your violent shaking. you feel him throb inside you as he starts to pound faster, licking away at any tears that roll down your cheek as he clasps a hand on your throat.
two boys aggressively and bitey and they make out with each other and tug on each others clothes and theres also a bit of dry humping and lots of blood click post
stalker!dex sandwiching you between himself and the mattress when he finally manipulates his way into your bedroom,his broad chest pressed against your back so hard you can barely breath,fingers forcibly intertwined with your own as he pins them to the bed. you can’t move with his full body weight on top of you,can only feel his warm breath on your shoulder,his cock grinding into your pussy and the tears that are falling so freely from his eyes into the crook of your neck as he whimpers “don’t leave me, can’t leave me” under his breath over and over again
pairing: peter parker x fem!reader, set after brand new day
summary: it's been a long time coming and you want nothing more than to jump peter parker's bones. or in other words, as charlotte york from sex and the city once said, damn it! I just really wanna be fucked, you know? just really fucked!
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, no use of y/n, sweet (and spicy) lil. drabble, established relationship, fingering, light dom/sub undertones, leaving marks, peter fingers you from behind, cum eating, pussy slapping, peter being so gosh darn tooth rottingly cute ugh, not beta read
"This is what you wanted, isn't it? Just wanted to make a mess on my couch, get my fingers all filthy? For me to take it?"
You're gonna be in serious trouble, you think. Peter's fingers curl upwards, and your whines break off, broken and wanton and so delightfully needed. You can feel stray tears dripping down your cheeks, lashes wet from all the different sensations Peter's taking out of your body. "I–I think I'm gonna come."
"Yeah?" He leans back in, not quite kissing her, eyes dilated in the dark of his apartment. "You think you deserve it?"
Nodding, head shaking up and down frantically. Why yes, absolutely, Peter Parker, you do deserve it.
You had been on a total of three dates with one Peter Parker so far. Far too impatient for your own good, so you'd suggested his place this time, low-key, no pressure, you'll bring the wine, and he'd said yes fast, too fast, in a way you'd have found suspicious from anyone else. But not Peter.
You wanted, so badly, horrifically, to get your hands on him. You had wanted this since date one, technically, possibly since before date one, and you had spent the intervening weeks channeling that want into research and preparation, the same way you channeled everything, because if you were going to lose your mind over a boy you were at least going to do it efficiently.
First, you wore kitten heels for the occasion even though this is definitely not the right occasion, but you couldn't help yourself. They were the ones that made your ass perk up just-so and led to three seconds of Peter eyeing your legs up and down as you passed him into the elevator, and you even wore perfume that a very reputable and frankly life-changing article on The Cut described as the closest thing to a pharmaceutical aphrodisiac you can legally buy at Sephora. He had leaned over in the cramped elevator car and looked at you, wonderstruck and in that low, boyish voice of his, "You smell really good."
And you were, as of nine-forty-two p.m., extremely fucking frustrated, because none of it, not one single thing you've done, had resulted in the guy making a move.
The movie's some spin-off Star Wars movie that Peter had frantically explained before chucking it into his bootleg streaming site, laptop flickering slightly as he plopped next to you on his couch. God yeah, Rogue One was just so severely underrated, he says as one hand brushes against your shoulder, and you'd nodded along like you had any context for what he was talking about, and you'd had to press your knees together like that would help. You've already decided you're going to watch the other seven (eight? nine? you should probably know this) before you see him again, so that next time you can argue back instead of just making the interested noise you've been perfecting for the last twenty minutes.
You end up abandoning the heels.
That was his idea, technically, a stammered offer somewhere around minute fifteen—you can, um, if your feet hurt, I don't know if they hurt, forget I said anything—that you'd accepted with a swiftness that surprised you both, unbuckling the little metal straps and easing your feet into his lap like you'd been waiting all night for permission.
Now his hand's on your ankle. His thumb does this thing, tracing little spiderwebs around your lateral malleolus, and you're so fine. So okay with this progression, totally.
"You can talk during it," he says ten minutes later when your feet, have decidedly fallen asleep, not looking away from the screen. "I know people say you're not supposed to talk during movies, but I like—I mean, only if you want. You don't have to. I just talk during movies, but not in like, a mean, dickish way like some people do in theaters, not that there's anything wrong with that, it's just a little disrespectful, but not in my apartment, so if you were gonna say something you don't have to feel—"
His thumb then drags one slow line up along your instep, absent, unthinking, entirely unaware of what it's doing to the rest of you, and something in your chest pulls taut like a wire about to snap.
"Peter, that's not it. That's not—it's just—I've never done this," you say, quieter now, and it costs you something to say it, you can feel it cost you something. "Any of it. I don't have a… single fucking clue. I don't know how this part goes."
"Neither do I."
"I know you don't, that's the problem, we're both just sitting here being—" You cut yourself off. Start over. "I'm not gonna say it. You have to do it."
"Do what?"
"Peter."
"I don't know what you—"
"Take what you want," you say, and it comes out low, and a little wrecked, and entirely unlike you. "For the love of God. Just—take it. Please. I'm not saying it again."
That's how he ends up fingering you over the arm of his couch, half-suspended and scrambling for purchase. A mean, relentless lover is most definitely not what you pegged Peter Parker to be. The boy who was flustered and uncertain just a mere ten minutes ago shouldn't be wrapping a stray arm around your waist to pull you closer, practically making you fuck yourself against his fingers. The boy who's now making embarrassing huffs of breath escape your lipgloss-stained lips and wrenching the oxygen out of you.
You know, for a fact, that Peter would never, ever let you drop, but the look on his face when you turn your head over your shoulder makes you think that the ground might be a bit safer for you.
God, you've never even been fingered from behind before but the angle of it, the relentlessness, it makes you feel so thoroughly used, dizzy from the speed and the sheer force of him taking you. Combined with him dipping his head down, sucking harsh love bites into the swell of your ass, and you think you may as well have just lost your mind.
The movie's still playing when his hands force your legs wider apart, his hushed "that's right, hips up for me," lining up at the same time as Vader chokes and dismisses Director Krennic, breath hitching. You're so proud of Peter, he had mentioned how cool this scene was, and he's so focused—your cunt squeezing tight like a vice grip on his fingers. Your whole world is spinning, just an endless cacophony of Peter, Peter, Peter, Peter—and oh, oh god, when his thumb swipes over your clit, you realize that that that's all you've been saying.
"What is it? What do you need, sweet girl?" He bites harder at your neck, filing the way you twitch and heartbeat flutters uselessly. You're gonna be all marked up tomorrow, but you couldn't care less. The pleasure and pain felt like an electric current through your body, sending phantom shocks down your spine.
"M–More, please—Peter, oh, Peter—"
"Pretty girl needed someone to take care of her, huh?" His brows furrow in mock concern, even though his hands make no move to slow down. Your thoughts trail off, wondering if Peter could take care of you just like this forever. You think he might, he could, he should. You wouldn't mind. You'd let him keep fucking you until your voice ran raw, keep his fingers wet and pretty for as long as he wanted, just one orgasm into another.
"Someone to spoil you," his tongue drags from your cheek, up to your lower back, "someone to give it to you every day," up, and up, and up your spine until his breath bears down on your neck. "I can be that for you, right, baby?"
Your whining hits a fever pitch, blissed out and on the edge of your orgasm. "Yes, of course, mmm—just don't stop."
Peter slaps your clit once, twice—fuck, and your cunt squeezes one final time around his fingers, and you're coming, your hand closing into a fist on the chenille fabric. It feels like the rest of the room is just pure nothingness, just static and buzzing and the feeling of Peter's hand coaxing you through each wave.
"You got my hand so wet, honey," He tuts, and oh. There was no reason for that to be as hot as it was, and you're sure he can feel it too, the way you clench down on his hand and pull him further into you. You've always been told you respond like a dream. "Such a good pussy. You're going to feel so good around my cock."
You turn onto your back when Peter gently pulls his fingers out of your cunt, still breathless and heaving from the attack on your senses and nothing ever could've prepared you from the sight before you. He examines his fingers in the light, the way they glisten–god, did you really get that wet—a small smile playing at his lips—and sucks those very fingers into his mouth.
Maybe it's only been seconds, or maybe it's an eternity, but you sit there like that, watching him in that entranced way of yours. He doesn't break eye contact with you once. It's filthy. You think you could be raring up to go again just from the way he looks at you.
Peter hums contentedly. The sound goes straight to your cunt. This boy's gonna be the death of you.
The laptop stirs back to life at some accidental brush of the trackpad many, many moments later, Rogue One resuming exactly where you left it, some spaceship still doing something important that neither of you had ever actually been watching.
"Oh man, we missed the ending," Peter says, squinting at the screen and dragging his mouse down to try and wind it back.
"Really, Peter? You just made me come and you'd rather I care about the ending?"
"You're gonna care. I'm gonna make you care. I have so many more things to explain to you."
"I'm sure you do."
"Is that—was that sarcastic? I can't always tell with you."
"Fine, we can watch the movie," you say, and press your smile into his shoulder so he can't see it, and he does, mostly, in between turning to look at you every ninety seconds like he still can't quite believe you're still there, and you let him check, again and again, all night, because you're checking too. "Go ahead, play it back."
+ from mara
this was short and sweet! i haven't written anything in over a year, but after seeing tom holland's rock hard abs grace my screen, i simply had to dip my toes back in. it's been hard getting back on the horse (that is, the metaphorical writing horse) and i fear you guys will most definitely be able to tell but i hope you guys like it! IM SO SCARED but okay stream audrey hobert and support your local nurses <3
ᨳଓ Frank loves to push down on your stomach when he’s inside of you. He says it’s so you can feel all of him, and yeah he’s right, but you know it’s for him too. To know how he fills you up, so much that he can feel himself from outside. He keeps his hand pressed down while he pounds into you. Your moans are blended with heavy breaths, tears in the corners of your eyes. “Fuck baby, you like it hard?” His sweet voice suppressed by his guttural moans. He makes sure he gives your clit attention all while he abuses your g-spot. His pelvis smacking into you and forcing your legs open even further. “Baby look at that.” He says, reaching over to grab the back of your head and lift it to watch his cock move inside you. “Look at how I stretch you from inside. ‘m gonna ruin you so good” Pulling out completely before thrusting his whole length back in, palm still pushing down on your lower abdomen. It helps you feel all of him, every vein, each inch, and especially his release being spread inside you.
