Denise

she//they/ black /23/ tasm spiderman enthusiast/ the pitt/ heated rivalry

[myinternetaddictworld]

𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥

Hii beautiful person!! welcome to this account. Here is my most up-to-date master list. Requests are open and I hope to begin writing about more characters in the future <;3

** indicates 18+ content

✿ indicates SFW/fluff

✧ indicates a personal favorite

☹ indicates angst

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Peter Parker

Indulge**

You Think You're Better Than Me? ✿✧

Smut Alphabet **

Drunk Confessions ✿

Room 210✿

Hedgehogs Dilemma (coming soon) ☹

So Good at Being Bad **

It’s Just a little Weed ✿

Twitch Streamer Boyfriend ✿

Kiss It Better** ☹

Expecting Dad✿

The Dress** ✧

All I Need**

The signs ✿ ✧

[myinternetaddictworld]

just saw Brand New Day and dare i say it’s the best spiderman movie ever 😳

[myinternetaddictworld]

Room 210 P.P

Science Teacher! Peter Parker x English Teacher Reader

Summary: It was your first-day teaching. Everything was new to you. The school, the students, the staff. One particular science teacher catches your eye.

CW: Peter is like 25-26 in this, fluffy teacher Peter

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The hallways were much more confusing than you had anticipated. Despite you showing up to work over an hour early, you still found it difficult to find your room so you could begin setting up your room. Today was Parent's day, meaning all the parents would be coming in to meet the teachers. You would be lying if you said you weren't terrified. Although you had great grades and recommendations from college, this was still your very first actual teaching job. You wanted to make a great impression on everyone; your peers, the parents, and most importantly your future students.

After walking in circles for what seemed like forever, you finally found your assigned room. Room 210. You quickly began unpacking the things you had in your bag. Some desk decor, some of the recommended summer reading books, and a picture of your dog now sat atop of your desk. As you began to survey the room, you heard a slight knock on the door. You jumped when you turned to see a tall, handsome man standing in the doorframe.

"Hi, you're the new grade 10 English teacher right?" the man said smiling. You nodded. The man couldn't have been any older than you. He was well-groomed, sporting a slight beard with his hair perfectly pushed back. He was wearing a light blue button-up with a loosely tied black tie.

"Where are my manners? I'm Peter. I teach grade 10 Chemistry and grade 11 Physics. I'm your neighbor." he said motioning to the door across the hall from your room; Room 211.

"Hi! I'm Y/F/N." You said excitedly reaching your hand out to shake his. His hand met yours for a brief handshake. His hands were soft but also near twice the size of yours. There was no way you could crush on on of your colleagues on the first day of work. You also didn't see a ring on his left hand. But no, you had to shake any of those thoughts. You just moved to this school. You had to let people get to know you.

"The students here are pretty great but fair warning, some of them are a handful" he said laughing.

"Oh really? Between you and I, this is my first official teaching job." you say shly.

"I know, I could smell it from a mile away," he said looking at you.

"You looked terrified when you walked into the building," he said smiling again.

"Really, is it that noticible" you groaned, pushing some of the hair out of your face.

"No, I'm just messing with you. You seem super sweet, I'm sure the kids will love you." he said making his way to the other side of your desk.

His hands traced some of the books laying on your desk.

"Great Gatsby huh?" he said picking the book out of the stack.

"Yeah...I loved reading it in high school and wanted to share it with my students."

"Really? I always preferred the movies to this type of thing," he said quickly flipping to the book.

"For me, nothing compares to reading the scene where we first meet Daisy," you say, your face lighting up. He flashed you a smile.

"So English is definitely your thing, I'll stick to the science and math stuff," he said placing the book back down.

You laugh at this statement.

"Please, I sucked at all that stuff in school, reading and writing came easy."

"And science came easy to me," he said now looking deep in your eyes. You were so immersed in the conversation, you failed to realize how pretty he was. His chocolate brown eyes glowed in the bright florescent lights of your classroom. A few wrinkles lined his face, you assumed from the stress of grading which you would soon have to face. Despite this, he still had this incredibly boyish charm about him. A charm that made you want to get to know him more.

"Is that yours?" he said breaking both the short silence that fell over the room as well as eye contact with you to point at the small framed picture you had on your desk. It was your dog, Milo. A small white maltese.

"Yep, my pride and joy. My favorite furbaby," you said glancing at the picture smiling.

"Cute. What's his or her name?" he said grinning.

"His name is Milo. I feel kinda bad for leaving him home alone for work nowadays." you say, your lips forming into a pout.

"Hey, now you have something to look forward to when you get home." he said placing the photo back down. You nodded.

"That is true," you said, agreeing with him.

"I actually have a dog myself...maybe we should plan a dog playdate one day...you know, outside of school." he said looking down at the floor.

"Really? I'd love that, a lot. I don't have any friends in the city yet...neither does Milo."

"Great!...okay, I lied about having a dog but I would still love to show you around the city one day." he said lightly.

You chuckled.

"I don't know if I want some nutty professor who lies about owning a dog to show me around the city," you say laughing.

"Look, I blanked, I'm sorry. I just haven't seen someone as pretty as you...ever," he said.

This statement caught you by surprise. You thought the guy was cute to but you had no idea he would say that.

"You think I'm pretty?" you say in a teasing voice.

"Yes," he says barely above a whisper.

"Help me through Parent's day and I'll see if I can make time..." you say readjusting the picture he moved.

"You know where to find me," he said smiling and slowly walking across the hallway.

"This is going to be a interesting year, Y/N," he said, standing against the doorframe of his classroom.

Interesting was an understatement, but Peter made everyday at your new school worthwhile. The students fell in love with you (you were almost convinced its because Peter threatened them with detention if they acted out in your class). You loved the staff and administration team and most of all, you grew to love your across the hall neighbor. By year 3 at your new school, you shared his last name and the two of you made a beautiful family of your own. A family that would soon end up in the frame sitting on your desk.

[myinternetaddictworld]

#wanted to run this one back

[groovyangelkisses]

dating jack means there is an unspoken rule that he always parallel parks for you. it doesn’t even matter what time you come home, because he’s always texting you “Call me when you’re here. I’ll park.😊”

pulling up in front of the house but he’s already in a light jog out the door, wearing his soft camo shorts and black tee, house loafers & backwards baseball cap. motioning for you to come out with his hand, a direct but gentle “get out, baby.” as he opens your door for you.

parallel parks with one hand on the wheel, veiny arm rotating it as the other hooks behind the passenger seat headrest. his jaw clenches and his sun-tanned neck straining as he looks back.

afterwards he hops out, jingling your shiny keychain and leaving a tap on your ass to signal you to head inside. “how was your day, pumpkin?”

[dreamedaboutitinthedark]

Doctor Husband

Summary: After you get back from your babymoon, you and Jack elope. When you get home from the courthouse, you get the idea to film your wedding night.

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Pregnant!Reader

Content warnings: MDNI, pregnancy, Jack has some grief over his first wife and deals with it appropriately (it would do his character a disservice to not mention it in this chapter plus it's very brief), amputee care performed by reader bc she loves Jack bad, mention of neglectful parents (patients at the Pitt), anti-Trump comment, elopement, spanking, humping, smut, wedding night sex, filming sex, pregnant sex, praise kink, Jack "Talks You Through It" Abbot

Word count: 5,141

Series Masterlist | Read on ao3 here | dividers by @/lariesographic

Author's note: first of all: Pittsburgh/PA natives, if I screwed up how courthouse elopements are done, I apologize. (I kind of felt like Jack wouldn't want to go the self-uniting route so we didn't do that.) second, feel free to imagine the rings as any metal and any stone as I didn't describe them and the pictures are purely for aesthetics. finally, Baby Abbot is making her appearance in the next installment, which I am posting tomorrow!! one last thing, the 1k followers milestone is near, so if you would like to tell me what you want to see for that in the comments of this post or this one, I'll love you forever <333 anyways let's get these guys married ty for reading I hope you enjoy pls don't be shy to tell me your thoughts! <3 reminder that fanfic writers write for free and reblogs are ALSO free

EDIT: READ THIS POST BEFORE CONTINUING

The day after you get back, you and Jack head to the Allegheny County Clerk’s Office to apply for your marriage license. You came straight from your 36-week appointment, so you’re a little tired.

You yawn about seven times throughout the process, but Jack decides against teasing you over it. At the end of it, you’re reminded of the three-day waiting period before you’re able to have a ceremony.

Back at home, the two of you eat takeout on the couch, then watch The Sopranos while Jack rubs your feet.

Halfway through the episode, you look over at Jack.

“Babe, what do you want in a wife?” you ask softly, mostly joking.

He shrugs, eyes fixed on the screen. “Just want you to use my cards. That’s it.”

You snort softly. “That’s it?”

Jack sighs and thinks about it for a second. “Yeah. We’ll set up a joint bank account. If you want to, you can keep your own personal account if that’ll help you feel more secure, but, like, when you go get your hair done or do grocery or clothes shopping, I want you to use my card. I want to take care of you.”

You smile and move your feet out of his lap so you can kiss his cheek. “I love you so much it makes me sick.”

He snorts at that. “I’m not worth getting sick over.”

“Sure you are,” you purr in his ear, pressing a soft kiss to his earlobe after nibbling on it.

You lean your head against his shoulder for a while, content to just watch TV with your fiancé for the time being. Eventually, you lean back again and shove your feet back in Jack’s lap for him to rub. Dutifully, he gets the hint, and you look on your phone for wedding bands for Jack.

As much as you liked his black wedding band he had for Helene, you don’t want him to have the same one twice, and you’d like the metals to match.

// 

In the morning, Jack goes back to work. You have one showing in the late afternoon, so after your late breakfast, you head to the jewelry store you looked into online to buy Jack’s wedding band.

When you get there, you’re floored by the fact that a simple band can cost as much as $4,000. Lucky for you, the one you’ve picked is $800, but still.

“Shotgun wedding?” the cashier asks as she rings you up.

You choose not to dignify her with an answer and instead just stare at her as she packages the ring up, which only serves to make the cashier uncomfortable, which, in your opinion, is a good thing.

Jack doesn’t get home until 8:30 tonight. Something about a trauma going long or whatever, but what matters is that he is home, and you get to show him his ring.

He’s not in the best spirits when he gets home. You call his name from the kitchen, and his response isn’t all that enthusiastic.

You’ve got his plate of dinner in the microwave when you hear him shuffle into the kitchen and sit down at the island, brow pinched.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He nods. “Just tired.”

He rests his head on his hands, both elbows on the counter.

When the microwave beeps, you take it out, quietly grab utensils from the drawer, and softly set the food down in front of him. You press a kiss to the back of his head, your fingers gently scratching over his shoulders through his scrub top.

Jack turns his head to kiss you, though with the angle of him sitting and how you’re leaning over him, he ends up kissing the side of your breast, his nose knocking into your armpit.

You chuckle softly and pat his back, then lean your head down to peck his lips.

“Got your ring today,” you say softly as you head over to the fridge to grab a beer.

“Oh, yeah?”

You nod and hand him the bottle.

“It’s simple, and it matches my ring,” you say, fiddling with your engagement ring. “It’s in the bedroom.”

He smiles, the bags under his eyes prominent while he eats.

“Can I do anything for you?” you ask softly.

Jack thinks about it, eyes fixed on the granite countertop. He’s probably too tired to ask for much, so you offer on your own.

“How about after your shower, I give you a massage and take care of all your leg stuff for you tonight?” you suggest, speaking softly.

His brow furrows slightly. “You’re 36 weeks pregnant; you shouldn’t be–”

You shake your head. “I feel good today; you don’t. You always take care of me, so I wanna take care of you tonight.”

He turns his head toward you and sees the sincerity in your expression, the love in your gaze.

“Okay,” he says softly.

You smile and tell him about your day while he finishes eating. When he’s done, you send him off to the shower and take care of his dishes for him. 

After the kitchen is cleaned up, you check that everything’s locked and turned off, and once that’s taken care of, you head to the bedroom.

You listen to the water turn off and unmake the bed, then grab Jack’s lotions and wait on the bed, one hand mindlessly following the baby’s kicks.

He comes out a few minutes later, curls damp, boxers on his hips, elbow crutch in one hand, the prosthesis in the other. He sits down next to you, setting the prosthesis on the floor, the crutch leaning against his nightstand.

“C’mere,” you mumble, patting the space closer to you.

He shuffles over, and you squirt some lotion into your palm. You rub it together in your palms, then begin applying it to his stump, massaging gently and inspecting the skin in the way you’ve been learning to from all the articles you’ve read lately.

“Feel okay?” you ask softly, looking at him momentarily.

“Mhm, you’re doing good,” he says, his voice a little hoarse.

You smile, feeling a little proud of yourself. 

Slowly, your hands work their way up to his thigh, not wanton, just completely focused on making sure his leg is drained of any soreness or lingering pain from wearing the prosthesis for nearly 14 hours.

“Did anything go particularly bad today?” you ask after a few minutes of silence.

Jack’s a talker, chatty. You don’t often see him quiet after work.

He shrugs. “This kid. His parents were too busy fighting over whatever girl was in the dad’s DMs to notice their two-year-old falling down the stairs. He broke his leg, and his parents were still arguing. I had to call the social worker, and she called family services. It sucked.”

You frown and gently squeeze his thigh. “Is that what kept you late?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “A motorcycle accident kept me late. Nothing too sad, but definitely gross.”

“Mm.” You focus back on the massage. “Hope that little boy’s okay.”

Jack hums softly and reaches out to tuck your hair behind your ear.

“I love you,” he says. “I love that you like talking to me.”

You smile and swallow the lump in your throat. “I love talking to you. You’re my favorite person.” You look down at your belly. “You’re about to get bumped to second place, though.”

Jack huffs quietly at that. “That’s okay. She’s the priority.”

Once it seems like the lotion has fully set in, you slip off the bed and pull something out of your nightstand drawer. You turn back toward Jack and cuddle up next to him.

“My ring?” he asks.

“Mhm.” 

You open the box, revealing the simple band that perfectly matches the band of your engagement ring.

“It’s perfect,” he mutters softly. “Can I try it on?”

You nod excitedly and take his hand and slip the ring on his fourth finger.

“Perfect fit,” you whisper. “Does it feel good?”

“Yeah, it’s great, sweetheart. I love it, you did good.”

He turns his head to peck your lips. Then he reaches into his nightstand, pulls out another ring box, and opens it.

“This is your wedding band. I got them as a set, so they go together. You like it?” he asks softly as he holds the ring out to you.

“I do,” you say, a big grin on your face. “Put it on me.”

You hold out your left hand. Jack removes your engagement ring, slides your wedding band into place, then puts the engagement ring back on.

“Yeah,” you sigh. “That’s great.”

You slip the wedding band off and hand it back to Jack, and he does the same for you.

The two of you turn out the lights, and Jack holds his arm out to you. Once you’re secure against his side, he kisses your forehead, one hand slipping under the covers to rub your belly, the first time all day.

“Fuck, I missed her,” he mumbles softly.

Those words bring the biggest smile to your face. Your daughter’s daddy missed her. She has a daddy that misses her when he goes to work. She’s the luckiest girl in the world, and she’s not even born yet.

“She hasn’t stopped kicking since you got home.”

“Daddy’s girl,” he mumbles tiredly.

//

Jack only worked an eight-hour shift today. It’s 3:45, and instead of going home, he’s sitting on the grass in front of Helene Abbot’s headstone.

“She said yes to my proposal,” he says softly. “Gonna do it tomorrow. We’re probably gonna have a proper wedding later. Tomorrow’s just legal. We wanted to be married before the baby comes, and she joked about getting to be an Abbot before the baby.”

He chuckles softly and wipes a tear.

“I never thought I’d be anyone else’s husband, Helene. I thought you were it. I thought I’d be lucky if I found a consistent booty call.” He cringes at himself for the joke. “Anyway, I just… I got lucky with you once; I figured you don’t get lucky twice, but here I am.”

Jack stares at the letters of his first wife’s name and sighs. He rubs the tears from his eyes and shakes his head.

“Not totally sure what’s appropriate to say here, but what’s important is that you know that I love you both. You were everything at one time, and now you’re gone, and I’m kinda jealous of you for that, but mostly because you don’t have to live through a second Trump administration.” Jack purses his lips. The stupid jokes are really on fire today. “I’m sorry. I never thought I’d ever have to do this. Um… I miss you, but I’m happy. I’m finally happy again, and I know that would make you happy, so… Yeah, next time we talk, I’ll be a married man again.”

He looks at the bouquet of flowers he brought and adjusts them in the pot.

“I hope you like this bouquet. There wasn’t a great selection this week.” He stands. “Bye. I’ll talk to you soon.”

//

You and Jack talked for hours last night. About his first marriage, how he’s coping, how excited the both of you are for what’s ahead, for the marriage that almost no one besides the two of you knows about, the imminent birth of your first child, everything she has in store for the two of you.

The two of you wake in the late morning. Your wedding is at 3:30. You have time to laze before you have to get ready.

To pass the time, Jack eats your pussy twice and makes sure you’re well fed in anticipation of consummating the wedding later tonight.

Despite your growing belly, you were able to fit into an old white dress you bought for a vacation last year. Is it the most comfortable? No, but you’ve called a friend who takes pictures for real estate and asked him to take your wedding photos, so you’d like to get as much of the full effect as possible.

Jack watches the entirety of Top Gun while he waits for you to get ready. When you come out just before it’s time to leave, his jaw is practically on the floor. Your makeup is perfect, your hair is styled flawlessly, and he’s in fucking awe of the woman before him, beautiful, full of his baby, and wearing his ring.

“You’re fucking stunning,” he says from his spot on the couch before he stands and puts his hands on your waist to pull you in for a kiss.

“You got my ring?” he asks against your lips.

You nod and pull it out of your purse. “Wanna put mine in there?”

He nods and drops it in next to his.

The drive to the courthouse is filled with anticipation. Jack’s hand on your thigh is warm and loving.

When you’re finally on the Grand Staircase in Allegheny Courthouse in front of Judge Daniels, you and Jack both can feel your heartbeats in your throat.

Your hands are joined as Judge Daniels delivers a few quick words. Then he looks at Jack.

“Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, through sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, from this day forward until death do you part?”

Jack’s eyes fill with tears as he looks at you. He never thought the pretty neighbor who took her trash out at the same time he did every week would be his wife, but here he is, about to legally make you and that baby his, all because you really appreciated his medical advice. 

He nods and lets the tears fall because he could never be embarrassed about being moved by his love for you.

“I do,” he chokes out.

You swallow the lump in your throat and squeeze Jack’s hand before Judge Daniels turns to you.

“Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, through sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, from this day forward until death do you part?”

You nod and blink away your tears so you can see Jack clearly. You never want to forget how handsome he looks in this moment, and definitely not how much love you can see just in his eyes.

“I do,” you say softly.

Judge Daniels smiles. “Now for the exchanging of the rings.”

Jack had put the rings in his pocket for the ceremony. He takes yours out of his pocket and takes hold of your left hand.

“Alright, Jack, repeat after me,” Judge Daniels instructs. “With this ring, I thee wed, and pledge to you my love.”

Jack gently places your wedding band on your left ring finger as he says, “With this ring, I thee wed and pledge to you my love,” never looking away from you for even a second.

“Same thing,” Judge Daniels says to you with a smile as Jack hands you his ring. “With this ring, I thee wed, and pledge to you my love.”

You swallow the lump in your throat again and blink away more tears as you take Jack’s hand with your shaky one. 

“With this ring, I thee wed, and pledge to you my love,” you say as you place the ring on his finger.

Judge Daniels smiles at the two of you and says, “By the authority vested in me by the state of Pennsylvania, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

The judge might say something more; you’re not sure, because Jack cups your jaw and kisses you with such passion, you can’t take in anything else besides the feel of your husband on your skin.

Your friend, Mikey, takes a few photos for you outside the courthouse, but Jack heard your stomach growl in the car before the ceremony even started, so he tries to Zelle Mikey the money plus tip, but Mikey only has Cashapp and Venmo, so Jack ends up shoving the two hundred dollar bills in his wallet in Mikey’s hand before whisking you off to the parking lot.

$200 made in less than ten minutes on his day off. Not a bad day for Mikey Diaz.

“What do you want to eat?” Jack asks as he opens the passenger side door for you. “Sit down? Takeout? Fast food?”

You sigh and think about it as he shuts the door and rounds the hood to get in the driver’s seat. He buckles and starts the car and looks at you.

“Kinda want Dairy Queen,” you say.

So Jack drives to Dairy Queen, and that’s your wedding dinner.

When you get home and kick your shoes off, you look over at Jack while he puts his keys in the catch-all bowl.

“Would it be weird if we filmed it? Our wedding night?” you ask. “At least the first round.”

Jack’s brows raise slightly. He never thought you’d want to film your wedding night, but as he really considers it, he thinks maybe it’d be nice to always remember your first time as husband and wife.

“On one of our phones?” he asks, one brow cocked in curiosity.

You shake your head. “I have a camcorder.”

The corner of his mouth quirks just slightly at that. “Okay.”

You smile and pull him closer by his belt loops. “Yeah?”

He nods and leans in for a kiss. You moan against him, and his hands grab at your ass. Just before he pulls away, he delivers a gentle slap to your ass.

“Mm. Okay, the camera’s in our closet,” you say breathily.

Jack follows you to the bedroom and watches from the threshold of the closet as you search a box for the camcorder.

You stand up straight and present the camera to him.

“Think I’m gonna break this in while you’re recovering,” he mutters before nibbling at your earlobe.

You scoff and gently smack his chest. “Your spank bank is getting too fucking big, baby.”

“Never too big,” he says, walking over to the bed. “It’s like my shrine to you and your perfect body.”

You snort and set the camera up on the dresser.

“Angle good?” he asks. “I want the whole bed to be in frame.”

“Jesus, what have you got planned for me?” you giggle as you adjust the camera.

“Nothing’s planned, per se,” he says. “Just wanna make sure we don’t miss a second of this.”

When you’re both happy with the camera angle, you press record and walk over to Jack.

He kisses you, one hand in your hair, the other gently pulling the skirt of your dress up.

You step back, and Jack slowly pulls the skirt of your dress up your legs, over your bump and breasts and over your head, leaving you in white lace panties.

“Look so cute, sweetheart,” he says, fingers toying with the lacey fabric.

You smile and bring your hands to his white button-up, eyes fixed on the rolled-up sleeves stretching across his thick forearms. You undo the buttons while Jack pulls his belt through the loops.

He drops the belt and shrugs the open shirt off.

“So strong,” you mumble, fingertips grazing his sculpted chest to his softer abdomen.

Your fingers fiddle with the button of his slacks, then pull the zipper down. You push the pants down and let them pull at his feet. 

Jack’s hands go to your breasts to gently squeeze, pulling a pornographic moan from your lips, which he wasn’t expecting this early, but he’ll roll with it.

You sit down on the edge of the bed and direct him to stand in between your legs. You pull him closer, and with this angle, his half-hard cock rubs against your gravid stomach through his boxers.

He lets out a whimper and flexes his hands by his sides. Where the fuck did you even get the idea to make him grind against your bump? However you came up with it is irrelevant because Jack’s growing harder at a speed he didn’t think he was capable of anymore.

“Fuck, I’m gonna miss this when it’s gone,” Jack says, panting as he looks down at you.

You smile and lean back a little to play with your nipples, which has Jack grunting and rutting against your stomach.

“So pretty, sweetheart,” he rasps.

He takes your left hand and kisses over your ring.

“My gorgeous wife,” he pants against your hand.

You beam up at him and scoot farther back on the bed.

“Want my husband to eat my pussy,” you purr.

Jack smiles and sits down on the bed to remove his prosthesis.

“I love you, Jack,” you sigh contentedly while you watch his fingers move.

“I love you, too, sweetheart.”

When it’s off, Jack helps you get propped up by the pillows, then lies on his stomach between your open legs. He presses an overly wet kiss to your soaking cunt through the lace of your panties, then hooks his fingers through them and pulls them down your legs, tossing them to the side.

Jack doesn’t waste time teasing you; he wants you to feel good as much as possible.

He licks a long stripe from your hole to your clit, then delivers concentrated circling licks to your clit while one finger teases your hole before it pushes inside.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart, you’re already fucking soaked,” he mumbles into your cunt. 

“Mm, becoming a wife is a turn-on,” you sigh, your hands burying themselves in his hair.

He groans against you, and the sound reverberates through your entire body, causing your grip on his hair to tighten.

“So pretty,” he mumbles, licking up and down, side to side, just focusing on your clit like it’s all that matters.

“Fuck, I’m coming,” you mutter softly. 

“Good girl,” Jack mumbles, his finger moving in and out of you quicker, tongue moving quicker against your clit until he’s slurping up your arousal.

“Did so good,” he says, leaning over your bump to kiss you.

When he pulls away, he pushes his finger in your mouth to make you taste yourself. He gets a little greedy and fucks your mouth for a few seconds, pumping his finger in and out of your mouth, his heavy cock twitching in his boxers against your bump.

“Fuck,” he growls as he pulls away.

You reach out and pull at his boxers, and he pulls them off as fast as he can.

Once he’s fully nude, Jack lies down next to you and helps you turn on your side. He lies behind you, his back to your chest. Slowly, he inches inside of you, hands on your breasts, flicking your nipples while you get used to the stretch.

“You’re so beautiful,” Jack whispers in your ear. “So gorgeous, growing our baby. Such pretty eyes, sweetest laugh, brightest smile. I fucking love you, sweetheart.”

You whine softly and cover his hands on your breasts. 

“Love you, too, baby,” you whine softly.

He kisses the back of your neck and starts slowly grinding into you.

“Fuck, you’re all mine now,” he mumbles into your hair. “My gorgeous wife. Fuck, you feel so good, sweetheart.”

His hands knead softly at your swollen breasts, and his hips move slowly but with purpose. It’s possibly the most sensual experience you’ll ever have. 

“I’m so happy,” you say as Jack’s hand starts rubbing your clit. “I gave up on this; I never thought I’d have it.”

Jack leans over your body and kisses the corner of your lips.

“I know,” he whispers. “You deserve it, though. I love you so much. I wanna spend the rest of my life making you happy. You’re amazing, beautiful, intelligent, and confident. I love you. I’m in awe of you.”

You’re truly the most incredible woman in the world. You didn’t like your office job, so you got your real estate license, and after years of hard work, you have your ideal hours and make huge commissions. You wanted a baby, and you were done waiting, so you made it happen all on your own. You wanted sex, so you flirted with Jack, and that spiraled into this, and he couldn’t be happier.

You kiss him again and moan into him.

“You’re so sweet,” you whisper. “You take such good care of your family. You make me feel like an angel.”

Jack kisses your cheek and picks up the pace of his thrusts.

“You are an angel; you’re my angel. You and our girl. You’re both perfect,” he babbles in your ear.

A tear slips down your face, and you bring Jack’s left hand to your lips, the metal of his ring cold against your skin.

“I love you. You’re an incredible human being,” you sniff.

Jack kisses you again.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he asks softly.

You nod and smile over your shoulder. 

“You just make me so happy,” you explain. “You’re so good at fucking me, and cooking for me, and listening to me, and talking to me, and spending time with me, and touching me, and so sweet when you talk to the baby, and you fold her onesies just right, and you built all her furniture, and…”

You wipe your eyes and reach your hand behind you to bury a hand in Jack’s hair.

“You’re a fucking dream, and I’m hormonal,” you say.

Jack chuckles softly and kisses your shoulder. 

“Do you need to stop, or should I just make you come?” he asks.

“No, I need to come; I’m throbbing through the tears,” you say, laughing at yourself.

Jack chuckles into your hair and picks the pace back up.

“I’m gonna make my wife come on her husband’s cock,” he rasps in your ear, hands groping your body, from your breasts to your belly to your clit to your thighs. “That sound good, sweetheart?”

You moan and clench around Jack’s cock.

“Sounds perfect,” you practically slur.

His fingers move deftly against your clit, and it’s not long before you’re a moaning mess.

“Shit,” you gasp. “Fuck, Jack, I’m gonna come, fuck.”

You come with a shudder, gushing around his cock as he fucks you through it.

“There you go, sweetheart. Good girl, taking your husband’s cock, huh?” he coos in your ear. “Look so pretty when you come, even from behind.”

You let out a tired sigh, and Jack kisses your neck.

“Fill me up, Jack,” you mumble.

That’s all he needs to hear. He growls in your ear, and his cock starts pistoning in and out of you at an almost selfish pace, but you asked him to fill you up, so that’s what he’ll do.

With a choked moan, Jack’s fingers tighten on your body, and he shoots rope after rope of his cum inside of your fucked out cunt, eliciting tiny moans from the back of your throat.

He comes down, panting, his arms still secure around you. The camcorder is completely forgotten at this point. Right now, you’re just newlyweds on their wedding night, happy to be in each other’s embrace.

//

The next day, Jack calls his parents to tell them about the wedding. They’re ecstatic and ask again when the time will be right to visit and meet you and the baby.

Meanwhile, you have brunch with your mother the next day and explain the situation to her.

“We’ll have an actual proper wedding with everyone later, I promise,” you tell her.

You can tell she’s not happy, but she doesn’t say anything about it.

“As long as you’re happy, babybug,” she says, flashing you a tight smile.

//

The last few weeks of your otherwise amazing pregnancy can only be described as not fun.

The only remotely fun thing is that the paperwork you filed to change your last name to Abbot cleared quicker than you thought it would. 

However, it’s still hot out, you’ve finally started to notice Braxton-Hicks contractions, and the baby has decided to grow rapidly over the last few weeks. 

At 37 weeks, you officially start your indefinite maternity leave, but that leaves you bored and alone around the house half the time.

What’s worse is that you’ve stopped having sex. It’s not that you don’t want to; you’re just too big to sustain it anymore.

Jack still eats you out almost every day, and you’ve blown him here and there, but his cock hasn’t been inside your pussy in what feels like forever.

You spend most of your time cleaning the house so you stay busy, do laundry here and there, and prepare meals for the freezer for when the baby comes.

When you’re not being productive, you sit on the couch watching movies while you compile a list of baby names you think might suit the baby.

At 39 weeks and five days, Jack sends you off to get a mani-pedi, a prenatal massage, and to get your hair done, all with the card that says you’re an Abbot now. 

At your 40-week appointment, the doctor tells you you’re still only one centimeter dilated and 20% effaced.

You insist that Jack continues working even after you go overdue.

“You said it yourself: it’s perfectly normal to go overdue with your first baby, and it’s usually the case that your first labor and delivery is long, so you can go to work, and if it starts happening while you’re there, I’ll call you, and Al-Hashimi will cover for you until another doctor comes to cover the rest of your shift. We talked about this two months ago, Jack,” you remind him.

Jack chews on his bottom lip and stares at the floor when you finish speaking, clearly debating if arguing with you is even worth it. He could very easily call the hospital and claim he’s got the flu and go change out of these scrubs you practically forced him into.

“Jack, we’re about to spend two months together, every day, all day. As much as I love you, I’m going to get sick of you, so please go to work in the meantime,” you add.

He sighs, and you cup his face to pull him in for a kiss. 

“All you’ll do is sit here and worry about me. Go take your mind off me with some lacerations and concussions, yeah?”

He sighs again and pecks your lips two more times. 

“Yeah. Okay, sweetheart,” he agrees before bending at the waist to kiss your bump. “I love you,” he says as he straightens up.

“I love you, too. Now go make yourself useful,” you say, half-joking.

With one more kiss to your lips, Jack gathers his things and heads out the door.

hi! reminder that reblogs from those on a taglist are very much appreciated <333

All works taglist:  @person-005 @madpanda75 @tearsweetenedtea @canonisoptional @xoxoloverb @saralovesjoelmiller @youknowiloveyou-so

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Jack Abbot taglist: @michasia24 @its--fandom--darling @staygoldsquatchling02 @starstruckl @overthyme24 @hoziersguitarr @thehockeynerd30 @louisbelongstome28

Doctor Google taglist: @itsmycorneroftheinternet @myhopefulcollectionqueenfan-blog @karleyyyjaeee @laughsandlivia @babyspiceeeeeeee @merlin-288 @cari87 @kidd3ath @agamayayayaya @nyxmoretti @ubiquitous-corvids @bookluver14 @thehockeynerd30 @cafereads @sukunasnumberoneslut @imaginesnnerd @whatliesaheadmatters

p.s. if you would like to be removed from any taglist, just let me know! and if you would like to join a taglist or change your current preferences, click here! <3

[myinternetaddictworld]

The Signs [P.P]

reader x boyfriend peter parker!

"What has gotten into you, Peter?”

CW: Peter being an absolute HORN DOG & reader realizing Peter may have been hiding a serious secret

fluff and mentions of light smut ahead

again i’m writing at like 2am so sorry for any grammatical mistakes or typos!! <3

2 years, 5 months, 3 weeks, and 3 days.

That's how long you and Peter had been dating. Not that you were keeping count or anything. You had fallen for Peter, hard. He was your first serious boyfriend.

Peter was equally in love with you. He basically worshipped the ground you walked on. If the two of you didn’t have school and work, he’d probably spend every waking moment with you.

Recently, however, you noticed Peter being a little weird. His sleeping habits became sporadic, he began eating three times what was needed to sustain his rather thin frame, and most of all his sex drive was through the roof. You knew male puberty was rough but you could’ve sworn that part of puberty was over seeing as Peter had just turned 21.

Nevertheless, you found yourself being woken to the familiar grasp of your boyfriend

“Good morning, baby.” you felt him whisper into your ear.

You let out a small yawn, smacking your lips.

“What time is it?” you cried trying to shove your head further into your pillow.

"Early," he said, his arms tightening around your waist.

"10 more minutes," you whined, before feeling a slight bulge resting on your thigh.

"Peter...are you hard?" you said fully opening your eyes and turning to face the man who was holding you.

He let out an awkward chuckle.

"He just has a mind of his own," Peter joked.

You playfully rolled your eyes and turned your body to face his.

“Does the morning breath do it for you?” you joked. Peter nodded his head.

“Everything about you does it for me baby,” he said seductively leaning in for a kiss.

You smile, turning your face so he kisses your cheek rather than your lips.

“Let me at least get the crusties out of my eyes and brush my teeth sir” you say untangling yourself from his body and standing up.

“Damn, so you’re just gonna leave him hanging?” he says as you walk to the bathroom connected to your room. You laugh, answering his question .

He kisses his teeth. Soon you reemerge with your toothbrush in your mouth.

“Peter, we’ve had sex almost everyday…more than once actually,” you say trying not to spit any toothpaste out of your mouth.

“Like I said…he’s got a mind of his own” Peter blushes.

You roll your eyes. You walk back into the bathroom to finish brushing your teeth. You soon feel the silhouette of your boyfriend press behind you, forcing your body into the sink.

“My turn,” he says leaning over you to grab his red and blue toothbrush. You slide over, giving him space to use the sink. In doing so, your arm accidentally brushes the caddy that holds your makeup brushes in it. Before you even have time to process that the caddy is about hit the ground, your boyfriend quickly slides his hands underneath it, not only catching the caddy but also catching any spare brushes that found their way out.

You sigh in relief.

“Talk about lightning reflexes, babe,” you say impressed. Peter lets out a nervous laugh. You slipped out of the bathroom to begin getting dressed for the day. You slipped one one your socks and began to think about breakfast.

“Oh babe! you know what would be really good right now?” you said excitedly.

“Hmm, blueberry pancakes from Martha’s?” Peter said, almost reading your mind.

“No—wait yes…how did you know that?” you asked surprised. After almost three years together you could admit Peter did know you almost better than you knew yourself, however he was still a man at the end of the day. He had never guessed your craving on the first try like that.

“Lucky guess,” he shrugs.

The two of you finished getting dressed and made your way to car to get breakfast.

While at breakfast, you and Peter shared a plate of blueberry pancakes and some eggs.

“How is everything?” your waitress asked making her rounds. She was clearly stressed as Martha’s seemed to be packed this morning. The waitress was balancing four glasses on a tray.

The two of you nodded and gave your thanks. She smiled and began to walk to the table behind you. As she stepped, she tripped over her foot flinging both herself and the tray towards the ground. In the blink of an eye, your boyfriend who was once in front of you was now standing behind the waitress. Peter had caught both the waitress and her tray and somehow managed to keep all the glasses steady.

“Oh my goodness, thank you!” the waitress exclaimed. Peter rubbed her shoulder and took his seat in front of you. Your jaw was still agape.

“Okay Peter, what the actual fuck is going on right now?” you said.

Peter pensively pursed his lips. “Let’s finish breakfast first,”

The two of you quickly finished breakfast and Peter guided you out to the car.

He began pacing in front of it.

“Okay, what are the odds that you’ll believe me right now?” he started.

“Well given the stuff I’ve seen today, I’ll believe anything,” you reply.

He takes a deep breath before he explains.

“Okay so a few weeks ago when my professor and I went to Oscorp for our research project…I kinda wandered off and ended up in this really weird room..”

“Okay and?”

“…and the room was full of this equipment and spider webs. I think I got bit by some kind of experimental spider and ever since then I’ve had like spider powers.” he finishes

“…Spider powers?” you say in complete disbelief.

“This is like the funniest thing I’ve heard all week Pete” you laugh. His face remains completely still.

“I’m not joking babe.” he says in a monotone voice.

“I know it sounds unreal, I didn’t believe either until I started getting this tingly feeling before something happens—like your makeup brushes or the waitress falling, or even knowing what your wanted to eat for once!”

You scrunched your face.

“and I’m a lot stronger now babe, I’m so hungry all the time, and i’m sure you’ve noticed my libido…”

You couldn’t deny his last statements.

“Okay, show me.” you said quietly.

“Show you what?” he said confused.

“Show me your ‘spider powers”

Peter sighed and walked over to the car and picked it up. You stood there with your jaw on the ground.

“Believe me now?” Peter said in a snarky tone. You nodded.

“So…what now?” you whispered.

“I don’t really know…I haven’t thought that far yet. I couldn’t even figure out how to tell you until now.” he says, his gaze focused on the ground.

“Well…I guess we’ll figure it out together then, Spiderman” you said reaching for his hand.

“Spiderman…I like the sound of that,” he said smiling

~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•

Hii!! I’m lowkey thinking of writing a prologue to this with smut so lmk what you think!! likes, reblogs, and comments are always much appreciated <3

[myinternetaddictworld]

All I Need [P.P]

18+ MINORS DNI

CW: Dilf! Peter, Slight praise kink (and worship kink if you squint), backshots, shower sex, domestic house husband Peter lol

kinda proof read, kinda not

You sigh as you put your car in park. You run your fingers through your hair. Your mascara is slightly smudged and the bags of your eyes are showing a bit more today. Things have been incredibly busy at the office since one of your coworkers left for maternity leave. Although you couldn't be any happier for her, her absence also meant you filling in for her. This was causing you to constantly be at work, often working overtime. Today was no different.

You made your way to the door, carefully unlocking it. You walk into the house and close the door behind you. Placing your purse on the coat rack, you announce your presence.

"Peter, Luca; I'm home~" you say in a sing-song voice.

Your announcement was met with silence. You kick off your heels and walk slowly through the corridor. You could have sworn you saw Peter's car in the driveway but he also could have just taken your four-year-old son, Luca on a walk around the neighborhood.

As you approach the kitchen, you are quickly pulled into the arms of your husband. You yelp but his hands come over your mouth.

"Shh--Luca and I are in the middle of a very important game of hide and seek right now. I'm trying to find the little shit so don't blow my cover." Peter snickers into your ear.

You laugh. Luca took after Peter in a lot of ways, his playful nature being one of the qualities. He was smart too--sometimes a little smart for his own good. Nevertheless, you loved your son and your husband alike.

"Gotcha," you whisper. Peter loosens his grip, allowing you to make your way out of the kitchen.

"Wow, I wonder where my baby boy is..." you say loudly into the living room.

"I think he disappeared...Oh no! We won't get to eat cookies anymore!" you fake cry as you walk toward the couch.

Your fake cries are only met with even more silence.

"Damn, this kid is good," you mumble under your breath.

Just as you finish that thought you hear faint laughter coming from under the TV stand. Your lips make their way into smirk.

"I wonder where he could be..." you say, your voice wavering as you make your way over to the TV stand. You flag Peter down, urging him to make his way over to where you're standing.

"He's under here," you mouth. Peter smiles.

"Yeah, I don't know where he is either, guess we'll just have eat cookies without him..." Peter joins in your teasing.

"Hey!" you finally hear your four-year-old let out.

"Aha!" Peter yells, opening the cabinet below your TV stand, revealing Luca sitting with his knees to his chest.

"Found you," Peter said reaching in and picking up your son.

"That's not fair, Daddy!" the four-year-old cried.

"Yes, it is," Peter laughed, tickling him.

"Mommy, help!" he cried out between laughs.

You smile, watching your two favorite people stand in front of you.

"Okay, okay. Mommy's stepping in," you say reaching your arms out. Luca quickly lunges his body towards you. He eventually finds his way into your arms.

"You played a good game little man," Peter says placing a small kiss on Luca's cheek.

"Mommy, tell Daddy I won the game," Luca says with a small pout.

"Daddy, Luca won the game," you repeated with a smile.

Peter fakes offense.

"Cmon!! What?" he says in a high pitched voice.

Luca laughs nodding his head.

"Fine, you win Luca but I'm gonna get you next time," Peter says ruffling Luca's hair.

You smile placing your son back on the ground. He wastes no time running to his playroom right up the stairs.

You let out a content sigh watching your son slip just out of view.

"Welcome home baby, how was work?" Peter says, softly, wrapping his arms around your waist.

"Long," you say, half-joking.

"I know, we miss you when you're at work."

"I miss you guys too--so much,"

Peter leans down, placing a kiss on your lips. You moan lightly into the kiss. Your arms come up around his neck.

He's the first to break the kiss, his forehead resting against yours.

"I can make dinner tonight, you need the break."

"Peter, you don't have to do tha--"

"Sweetheart, I want to."

You laughed at his sudden serious tone. Peter took great care of you but you'd be lying if you said you made it easy. You were so independent sometimes that you refused to let Peter do anything. He knew how important some things were to you like making the house up and cooking but sometimes you did need a break. He always cherished the moments you let him cater to you and spoil you.

You sigh, giving in to his demand.

"Go and rest. Put on your favorite show or mindlessly scroll through Twitter, I don’t care. Just rest—please, baby.” he says motioning for you to go upstairs.

His lips found their way to yours again before ushering you up the stairs.

"Okay Luca, it's bath time~~" Peter said as you made your way down the upstairs hallway.

“Noooo,” you hear his tiny voice from your bedroom.

You smile as hear the two of them make their way to the bathroom.

You stretch out across the bed and turn the television on. As soon as you put your show on, you feel yourself drift off to sleep.

“Hey, love.” you feel yourself being shaken awake. Your eyes flutter open to reveal your husband standing above you.

“Didn’t realize you were so tired,” he says taking a seat next to you.

“I hope you don’t mind, I made May's pasta recipe again. Luca was going on and on about how he wanted dinosaur nuggets so I made him that with some carrots."

You smile. You knew how much your son loved his dinosaur-shaped foods.

"Thank you, Pete," you say sitting up and pushing your hair out of your face.

"You know you looked really pretty sleeping..." Peter said looking at you.

This makes you blush. Even after being married for five years and being parents for four of those five, Peter never missed an opportunity to compliment you.

“Shut up,” you laugh

“What?! I can’t compliment my beautiful wife?” he says leaning in and placing a peck on your lips.

You smile.

“Have you eaten today?”

You let out a hard sigh.

"I had a bagel for breakfast..." you admit. The day had been so hectic that you didn't really have a moment to eat lunch.

He narrowed his eyes.

"Baby-- you know this isn't good for you," he said, sounding hurt almost.

You looked at him sympathetic look.

"...Come downstairs and eat." Peter scoffs as he begins to make his way downstairs. He seems angrier than normal. You quickly scurry behind him.

Once you turn the corner of the hallway, you spot him at the microwave, reheating leftovers.

He turns slightly to see if you were still behind him. You give him an awkward smile. He rolls his eyes.

"Okay--it's not like I didn't eat on purpose," you say walking up behind him. You place your head on his shoulder.

He turns his body completely towards you and wraps his arms around you.

"Please try to eat from now on...seriously. If not, Luca and I are gonna start paying you daily lunch visits." he said, a hint of a smile in his voice.

"I wouldn't hate that..." you say looking up at him.

He lets out a chuckle and places a small kiss on your forehead. The microwave beeps notifying him that your food is ready. He carefully picks it up and places it on the counter. He picks up a spoonful and lightly blows on it to cool it.

"Here--ahhh," he says motioning you to open your mouth.

You oblige and take the spoon into your mouth. The savory flavors of cheese and tomatoes fill your tastebuds. You loved when Peter cooked May's recipes and this one was secretly your favorite.

"Mmm good girl," he says as he pulls the spoon from your mouth.

Good Girl. A term you hadn't heard in a while. It almost sends a hitter down your back.

"It's good right?" he added as you continued to chew.

"Mm so good, babe!" you say excitedly.

"Sit and eat," he laughs, wiping down the counter.

You take a seat at the table and continue eating the pasta that your husband made for you. Peter takes a seat across from you, watching you eat.

"God--I really missed you today," he says abruptly.

You give him a haphazard smile and playfully roll your eyes.

“I mean it” he laughs out. He leans toward you.

You understand what he means now. Peter wanted you—needed you.

You quietly finished dinner and Peter takes your bowl and rinses it off in the sink.

“You should take a nice warm shower too babe, it’ll help you go back to sleep easier.” He said guiding you to the upstairs bathroom. He turns the faucet on and tugs at the fabric of your shirt. You smile lifting your arms, allowing him to pull it off. He continues until your body is bare. Then, his attention returns to himself. He begins pulling off his shirt, shorts, and socks until the two of you are naked.

“Hey, I thought this nice warm shower was for me?” you snicker.

“It is but I’m not gonna let you have all the fun by yourself,”

He guides you into the shower, climbing in behind you. The warm water instantly relaxes your muscles. Your husband lathers a rag and begins to clean you. You allow the water to wash the suds away. You lather a rag and begin to do the same for Peter.

The more your hands graze his skin, Peter tries harder and harder to manage his growing boner. You’re quick to notice.

“Thank you for taking such good care of me, baby…”

“Let me take care of you now.” you finish. You slide him agains the wall of the shower and press your lips against his.

Peter quickly wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you closer. It takes no time for the kiss to become passionate and heated, the water still running over the two. Your hand creeps to his throbbing erection, stroking it carefully. Peter moans into your lips.

His grip tightens around your hips. He begins to buck his own hips into your hand. You’re the first to break the kiss, quickly sliding down so that you’re eye level with his member.

You slowly lick from the base to the tip, knowing it drives his crazy. He throws his head back and his member twitches.

“Please—” he whimpers out. You smile before taking the tip into your mouth. You hollow your cheeks and begin taking as much of the shaft into your mouth as you can. The bathroom becomes filled with lewd and wet noises as you bob your head up and down.

“Fuck, you’re so good at that baby” he whines.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to be a quick shot.

“Shit babe, I don’t want to finish like this. Get up.” he said, sliding himself out of your mouth.

You stand up only to be forced into the wall. Peter forces you to arch your back. His hand reaches between your legs and his fingers slowly making their way to your clit. You sigh out in relief when he finally lands on it.

“You’re so wet for me already, angel. Did you miss me too?” he teases. You don’t answer.

“That’s okay, just be a good girl and take this dick for me okay?” he says as he aligns himself with your entrance and slides himself in.

This earns an audible moan from the both of you. Peter, eager as ever, doesn’t waste time moving himself in and out of you. The pace starts steady but his movements soon become erratic.

“Are you gonna cum baby?” you say to mask your own pleasure.

“I wanna cum with you, angel” he groans out. His hand finds its way to your clit again and continues in patterns that make you see stars. Your moans become louder as you begin to reach your climax. Your walls squeeze him tighter and tighter each stroke.

Soon, neither of you can contain the release. You finish first, your body convulsing. Peter finishes right after you, painting your walls. He pulls you closer and whispers your name followed by a string of ‘i love you’s’

After a moment he finally pulls out and begins to clean the two of you up…again.

Nights like this remind you how lucky you are to have a husband that takes such good care of you.

───୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Hii I haven’t written in SO long!! this is a really old WIP that I found in my drafts. I want to start writing again so hopefully this is me just getting started <3 i wanna write for the Pitt and Heated Rivalty as well!!

[westybby]

Gen z shows about young adults are peak

[pittsick]

ִ ࣪ ⋆ 𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐑 avocados.

( +18 ) mdni / small plot smut. afab!reader. fwb!roommate!dennis. slightly sub!dennis. sex without romantic feelings. praise. begging. light dirty-talking. bantering. cowgirl position. slight hair pulling. unprotected piv (reader on the pill). overstimulation. creampie & squirting. non-romantic intimacy.

reblog is a creator's best-friend, thank you!!

It had all truly started when you asked Dennis if he wanted to become your roommate a few months ago.

The poor guy was new to the city, secretly sleeping on a higher floor of the hospital and God, you had pitied him. Now… not so much anymore; he left his dirty clothes everywhere, ate all your avocados, fell asleep with the tv and the lights on like bills were free. It pisses you off so much that you are often grumpy in his presence.

But Dennis isn’t a bad person, no—he has a big heart, he is a great listener and God, he knows how to make you come like no one else before.

The first time it happened, you were both stressed out from a long shift and didn’t think much of it. Clothes flew in the air, the room got humid and the smell of sex was charged. And after that, instead of ignoring each other, you spoke; of how it could help with stress, how it didn’t mean anything romantically wise, how it was only from time to time.

And that’s how Dennis because your friend slash roommate with benefits. But the title didn’t mean that he suddenly stopped eating your avocados or turned the lights off before going to bed, no. It was as if nothing had changed between the two of you; so you had to make him understand that he should be a little bit more considerate toward you. But if Dennis couldn’t understand that with words, maybe he could during your not-so-friendly activities. 

That’s how you found yourself riding his cock after dinner—the TV was on, playing a random movie that he had chosen for you both to watch.

Moans and whines echoed from both of your mouths, making the movie unable to truly be heard, but it wasn’t like Dennis cared at that moment. Juices from your sloppy pussy had dripped all the way down to his length just to stick at his balls. “Dennis, fuck… So good, your cock’s so good.” His hands, a tad timid, tried to search the fat of your hips to grab on it and pull you down on his hard shaft. The angry red mushroom tip of his was already kissing the velvety walls of your cunt.

Dennis’ head rolled onto the leather fabric of the couch, his body resting against the backrest. “Mhhfph, please… Please, go faster.” You heard him say, voice not the usual confidence he now used at work, so different from when he started out last year. You weren’t sure if you truly wanted to give him what he wanted; after all, this was a lesson for him. But your pleasure mattered more at the moment, and you nodded. “M’okay, wait…” You voiced at him, hands moving to his shoulders to keep yourself steady.

Your hips started to roll and bounce faster on his cock—cock that seemed to go so much deeper inside your warmth, tip hitting at your cervix as you changed to angle. “Fuck, yes! Right there!” You gasped, pain and pleasure mixed before you started to drag his fat cock against your inner wall just to feel his tip hit that sweet spot of yours.

Your hips rolled and lowered, his balls sticking to the skin of your ass at the movements due to the amount of wetness there. Loud squelching noises echoed from your pussy as his cock filled you again and again.

Dennis’ hands moved then, now grabbing at the fat of your thighs, his lips parted and pupils blown out. “Ah! Yes, please… Your pussy feels so good. Need more, please.” He begged you, making your walls clench around his shaft at the tone of his words. A gasp escaped him at the feeling and his blue eyes looked up to your face. His forehead was sweat-covered, curls resting there and sticking to his skin due to the efforts and activity. 

His hips started to thrust up to meet your own when it lowered, his cock slamming inside your sloppy hole and nuzzling inside. You moaned at the feeling before harshly meeting him to bring them down. “No, no, Dennis. I told you not to move before, didn’t I?” Your words made him whine and squirm under the weight of your body, like his cock would explode if he didn’t move in the next three seconds.

His eyes were all teary as he nodded at you. “Yes—I know, but please… I promise to be good. I’ll wash my dirty clothes, and—I’ll stop eating your food.”

You very slowly rolled your hips against his own at the promise, your slick clit brush and rubbing against the hair above his penis. His grip tightened on your thighs like he wanted to move you faster, but he did nothing of the sort. “Promise to be a good boy?” You asked him, suddenly picking up the pace so his cock would be stimulated once more. It dragged all the way up and down to your gummy walls, his tip catching against the g-spot of your pussy with each thrust of your hips. Dennis gasped, his own hips jerking up to meet yours, slotting himself like he belonged there.

The nod of his head was frantic and a whine escaped him again. “Yeah, I… Fuck! Yes, I swear. I’ll be a good boy. Please, I just want to come.” He said, his voice all whiny and pathetic. You hummed, one of your hands moved between your thighs just so you could rub at your clit. It was all slick with wetness, a mess that had also migrated to your inner-thighs and around your puffy folds.

Dennis’ cock made a shlick noise each time it pushed back inside your wet pussy and his balls slapped to your ass, sticking there. 

You rolled your fingers against your clit, hips moving uncoordinately now as you tried to bring yourself to climax. It was messy, fingers playing with your cunt, Dennis’ cock deep inside your gummy hole and your moans mixing in the space. His hips thrusted up after a moment to help you out and you pushed the fat of your pubic area against his own so your clit would rub there with each thrust. Your free hand moved to the back of Dennis’ head just to tug on the short hair there, making him moan at you.

“Please, I need to come… Please let me, ah!” He cried out and your pussy clenched around his fat, wet-slick cock.

Just like that, your orgasm coursed through your body, making you breathless. Moving your hips quite literally overstimulated you but you kept going, even though your muscles were now twitching. “Dennis, fuck! Right there, don’t stop!” You cried out at him, your fingers now back against your clit to rub it fast and Dennis’ hips jerked up faster, cock slamming inside you.

Your eyebrows furrowed as the pleasure ran throughout your entire body just to finish inside your cunt; making you squirt. A gasp left your mouth and Dennis cursed as hot juices from your pussy splashed onto his lower stomach and chest, leaking from his body to the leather couch. “Fuck, yes! Yes, yes, mhhpfh!” You cried out as squirt flowed out of you a bit more before Dennis gasped too, hips stilling with his cock deep inside you. His hips tugged you down so you wouldn’t move as he filled you up with his semen.

The both of you were now messy, sticky and way too tired to move. His hands moved from your hips to wrap around your sweat-covered back so you would lay on his chest. You hummed with contentment, not minding the mess at all; even though globs of his thick, creamy white come dripped out of your hole to finish on his balls and down to the couch. 

The room was now filled with loud breathing and the smell of sex and sweat hit your noise. Dennis’ voice pulled you out of your thoughts. “Sorry, I… I came inside you. I didn’t even think, I—” You stopped him, shaking your head so he would stop worrying so much. “Don’t worry, I’m on the pill. I wouldn’t have let you come inside, otherwise.” He simply hummed at your words and a silence took over the humid, sex smelling room.

Then he spoke again, quieter. “It was… so fucking good. Really good.” You nodded your head at his words, nodding your head before lifting it to see his expression.

“You promised to not eat my food again, though, I remember that.” You voiced back at him and he chuckled, his eyes closed to relax. His cock was still in your sloppy hole, now softening slowly, though you felt him pulsate and twitch a few times.

“I say a lot of things during sex.”

“Stop eating my fucking avocados, Dennis.”

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[kill3ill]

using him as your dildo ⦂ 18+

yes, the idea of reader getting used as a fleshlight is fantastic, but what about reader using him as a dildo? not worried about his pleasure. you're only fucking him because he's a loser with a huge cock.

you're stuffing your panties (lacy, soaked through, reeking of your perfect pussy) into his face in a failed attempt to stifle his loud, unabashed moans. he definitely hasn't been fucked before, if so, not like this. due to his inexperience, he's probably came way too many times already inside you, and so you're bouncing on his fat, slimy cock with cum sloshing inside you and leaking with every bounce onto his pelvis.

"oh fuck- shut up, will you? i'm t-trying... mmnh... to focus," you manage out. trying to sound stern is basically an impossibility when you've got his cock smushed inside you to the hilt.

his hands are fisted in the sheets, knuckles white, thighs trembling beneath you as you sink down on him and then rock your hips back and forth while completely stuffed. this method doesn't give him as much pleasure as it does for you, but you don't care. this isn't for his pleasure, or your connection. all you care about is how deep he hits when you sink all the way, how your cunt's clenching so tight he can't stop shaking.

"f-fuck-!" he whines again pathetically through the lace in his mouth, drool soaking the crotch of your panties where they're pressed over his mouth and nose. his eyes are wide, glassy, fixed on the place where you meet him. it's humiliating how desperate he looks.

"you like getting used, huh?" you pant, beginning to bounce again so the overstimulation hits once more. you let his big, drooling cock drag and catch with each rough bounce. it makes that slick, wet sound every time you move.

"ah- ye-yeah, like it soooo much," he moans so loud it vibrates through your soaked panties, tries to say something, but you shove your panties harder into his face so you don't hear what shit he has to say. his cock pulses again and you can feel more warmth spill out of you, overflowing from the tip, dripping down to his balls in glooping heaps. "such a -shit- big fucking cock wasted on a nobody like ngh! you. y-you don't deserve it."

your voice cracks halfway through but you don't stop or pretend this is anything but using him like he's just a toy that happens to twitch and moan and cum without your permission. your hands are braced on his chest for balance, his skin hot and slick under your palms from how hard he's sweating, poor thing.

you push the underwear just enough to see his eyes, which are teary and rolled back. his eyes clamp shut when you drop down especially hard, and his whole body jerks like he's seizing. his stomach tightens under your hands but the second you grind down again deep, slow and mean, he lets out a strangled sob into your panties, soaked through with spit and the sharp scent of your cunt.

"mmnh, fuck, look at you," you breathe out, "you're crying, sweetheart. is it too much?" you coo mockingly, dragging your hips up until just his swollen tip is nestled at the edge of your cunt, nearly pulling out. the area where his cockhead enters you is smeared in cum and slick. he scrabbles at your arms, needing to be back inside you. then, without warning, you slam back down, clamping hard on him.

he screams behind the fabric. legs kicking. you begin grinding down hard as punishment until you feel another twitch inside you, his cock thickening, spurting another weak, creamy load. his fifth? sixth? doesn't matter.

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[gifchive]

Heartbreak High (2022-2026) S2 E07 'The Grapes of Voss'

[miunicornfluff]

coming back on here 2 say this

fuck I.C.E

fuck tr*mp

fuck ep*tein

fuck shitrael

fuck sexism

fuck k*rk

fuck pro-life

fuck white supremacy

fuck racism

everything is political.

no one is illegal on stolen land

arrest everyone mentioned in the files

i love immigrants

free palestine, cogo, venezuela, etc

abortion is healthcare

blame the predator, not the victims clothes.

no uterus no opinion

love is love

trans woman = woman

trans man = man

mental health matters

all addictions matter

[spider-stark]

Sweat & Spandex

PETER PARKER X READER

Summary - You tell Peter about an idea you had, he makes it a reality.

Warnings - idk, just poorly written smut about getting fucked by spider-man i think?? mentions of him breaking into ur room? i’m bad at warnings i’m so sorry pls tell me if i should add something here

// masterlist // send me your thoughts //

WHEN YOU first approached him with your little idea, Peter hadn't been sure of it.

Actually, to be perfectly honest, when you first decided to swallow your pride and bring it up to him, he immediately began to worry about your well-being; a response that only furthered your pre-existing embarrassment.

"Are you sure you're feeling alright?" He asked with a nervous chuckle, leaning back against your headboard and jokingly moving his hand to your forehead, pretending to check for a fever. "You sick or something?"

You quickly flopped over onto your stomach, evading his touch as you buried your face into the pillow, trying to hide your mortification. It took every ounce of confidence you had to share the thought with him, and his sarcasm wasn't making it much easier. "I just think it would be nice!"

The innocent wording only made him laugh harder. "Okay, so you think it would be nice if I fucked you as Spider-Man?" Confusion laced his voice, and you only groaned in response, frustrated by his teasing. He continued, "I mean, you're kinda already fucking Spider-Man, right?"

Another cry fell from your lips. "It's different!" You stated matter-of-factly, the words slightly muffled against the cotton fabric of your pillowcase. "I just think you look hot in the suit, alright? Sue me!"

Peter shook his head, amusement still reverberating through his chest. "So it's about the suit?" He knew it was about the suit, but he wasn't quite done teasing you yet. "Men in spandex just really get you off, huh? So I just put the suit on and thats it?"

Silence suddenly swept through the room, an unusual reaction. Peter quirked a brow at you as you lifted your head, just a few inches, but enough that he could see the red-hot blush spreading across your cheeks. "Yeah." You confirmed sheepishly, "And maybe, sorta, ya know—break into my room and fuck me when I'm not expecting it!"

The last bit of your sentence essentially blurred together, the words spilling out of your mouth at a record pace before you shoved your face back down into your cotton refuge.

Peter's jaw dropped, shooting up from his relaxed position as the words registered in his head. "You want me to do what?!"

Luckily for you, the conversation didn't last much longer than that. After a few minutes of relentless teasing, Peter let you off the hook and changed the conversation, letting your humiliation at your admission fade into the background until eventually you forgot all about it.

Peter, however, couldn't forget about it.

Despite his initial reaction of concern and hilarity, he couldn't help but become intrigued by the thought. In the past he had never considered bringing his vigilante identity into the bedroom, yet now the more he thought about it, the more he started to like the thought.

There was a certain thrilling factor to it all, of sneaking into your house and having his way with you as Spider-Man. He liked the concept of not having to be a hero, of not having to do anything but use you in whatever way he wanted—and more than that, he liked that you wanted that too. And so, he eventually decided to take you up on the idea.

Your heart nearly stopped beating as you suddenly collided against your bedroom wall, your hand instinctively reaching for your pocket so you could call Peter, but it was pinned in place before you could even get close.

When you looked towards your wrist you were comforted by the sight of a familiar red fabric covering the strangers fingers, your breathing beginning to even back-out now that you realized who the intruder was. "What the fuck are you doing, Pete?" You asked him gruffly, attempting to pull your hand from his grip. You expected him to let go, but he didn't, keeping you pressed firmly against the wall.

You almost spoke again, almost told him that whatever joke he was playing wasn't funny and to let you go—but then he leaned in close, his breath tickling your ear through the thin material of his mask. "Should've locked your window."

From there, things escalated much faster than you had anticipated. In a matter of minutes the two of you had moved from the wall to the bed, your clothes already discarded on the floor as he mercilessly stripped you down to nothing, likely tearing the fabric as he pulled it from your body.

You had always thought Peter was hot, but seeing him like this? Was downright pornographic.

His hands were rooted on either side of your hips, the mask lifted just above the tip of his nose, his gorgeous dark eyes still covered by the whites of the fabric. His sweet lips were latched to your neck, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin, leaving little bruises in his wake.

"Tell me what you want, baby." It burned as his dug his nails into your flesh, his hips moving painfully slow as his cock pressed up against your already soaked pussy.

He refused to fuck you, not until you asked, and so you desperately tried to move your hips against his, finding some pleasure in the feeling of the tip of his dick rubbing against your clit. "Want me to fuck you?" He asked again, more specific this time, "Want your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man to fuck this pretty little pussy?"

You could only whimper in response, nodding along in a state of pure delirium. His grip on your hips tightened enough to leave a bruise, the sensation eliciting a lewd gasp. Peter moved to your ear, leaving a trail of wet kisses as he traveled up your neck. "I asked you a question, sweetheart." He purred.

"Yes!" You cried out, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as your frustration built. He was holding you in place, refusing to let you move against him, not letting you find the friction you needed to quell the burning feeling building in your stomach.

You'd never experienced this side of Peter before; having gotten used to the slow and passionate version of him that you loved so much. Under the 'guise of his secret identity, though, he seemed to gain an unfamiliar sort of confidence, a roughness he had never unleashed on you before. And you liked it.

"Good girl." Peter praised, and with super-human agility he quickly flipped you over, taking your place against the mattress as he placed you on top of him.

He didn't give you any time to adjust, a single hand sliding down your thighs to forcefully shove your knees further apart, burying his full length inside of you with one swift movement.

You could barely hold up any of your own weight, falling against his chest as pathetic whimpers poured from your mouth as he bounced you up and down on his cock, his hips sloppily meeting yours as he attempted to drive himself even deeper.

"So good," he murmured against slick, salty skin, drunk on the feeling of your pussy squeezing him, "feels so fucking good."

He was definitely gonna do this again.

a/n - this is some seriously poorly written smut that i 100% didn’t proof read and i wrote in like less than half an hour because it popped in my head and just UGh i could definitely make it better, more detailed, etc. but i have better and more important ideas to work on and i don't want this in my drafts so please just take it thank you

[andrew-garfielld]

ANDREW GARFIELD 82nd Annual Golden Globe Awards (Jan 05, 2025)

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

the pro

Pairing: Art Donaldson x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ only. minors, please get off my lawn.

Notes: My brain chose violence this morning. Not beta-read because when is it ever.

Length: 4.8K

Warnings: Slow burn; unhappily married reader; divorced Art Donaldson; infidelity; oral sex (female receiving); vaginal sex; unsafe sex

Summary: Every lesson becomes an exercise in self-control. You force yourself to try, really try, and not make silly mistakes for the sake of Art coming closer, grasping your arm or elbow, pressing close and redirecting your swing. You don’t know what you crave more these days: his praise or his touch.

He's the biggest men's tennis star since Andy Roddick.

That’s what your husband says, as if it’ll entice you. As if you know anything about tennis, about the pro that your husband says will be coming to the house to teach you to play.

It’ll be good for you. You need a hobby. 

You don’t gripe or argue. You don’t tell him that five months into your marriage shouldn’t have you looking for a new hobby. You should still be in the honeymoon stage, spending all of your time with him, hanging off of his arm, off of his every word. But he works so much and he’s away so often—

I don’t want you to get bored. 

It’s a sweet gesture. The maid handles the housework; you have a chef that handles most of the grocery shopping and cooking, unless you insist on making something yourself; you have a housekeeper that arranges for anything you need—dry cleaning, maintenance. And it’s no wonder that with all of his money, his power, he can just order a retired pro tennis player up to your house, like you’d order a pizza. There’s a tennis court in the back of the mansion, a few feet from the pool. You’ll get some new outfits, the best sneakers, the nicest rackets. You’ll finally have something to do to fill your days. 

Art Donaldson. 

You know his name before the lean, fair-skinned patrician man turns up at your front door. He trails you through the house, politely declines your offer of a beverage. 

“You ever played tennis before?” He asks. 

You haven’t. Before your husband arranged this for you, you hadn’t so much as given the sport more than a passing thought. You don’t have the heart or confidence to tell that to a man that’s made tennis his whole life, so you just give him a small, guilty smile and say no, you haven’t. He nods, waves you off, insists that it’s fine. 

“We’ll start with the basics.” 

-- 

Two months of lessons on the basics make your arms tired, and your hands sore. But where your swings are clumsy and your grip is weak at first, you can see improvement in the way that you move. Your steps are less clumsy when you go after a ball; you’re more aware of the service line and the base line; your forehand stroke from contact to your left shoulder is smoother; your rotation and follow-through on your backhand is coming along, but has a long way to go. 

Art’s instruction is calm and steady. He explains technique as much as he demonstrates it. When you get something wrong, he doesn’t scold, just lightly corrects. When you do something well, his encouragement is constant and free-flowing. Every accurate move and motion is met with, “Nice,” or, “Perfect,” or, “That’s it.” 

On the days when you don’t have a lesson with Art, you practice. You order a tennis ball machine to work on your forehand and backhand. You attempt (and fail) to learn how to slice on your own. You try anyway—you can only imagine the way his eyes might light up if you manage to surprise him. 

You’ve tried to ignore the rising interest that you have in Art, but you can’t help the little…Crush that’s developed. He’s just so attentive, and kind. When you find yourself smiling these days, it’s often because of something that he said, or did. You can’t remember the last time your husband made you feel giddy this way. It was probably when you started dating—before you’d made the decision to marry for comfort, rather than love. Your husband is practical, rarely physically affectionate, more heavily involved in his job and social circles than with you. 

But you’ll have to find a way to thank him. He’s given you a hobby, and a man that grins at you like you just painted the goddamn Mona Lisa when you serve your first ace. 

-- 

“So, tell me about the Mark Rebellato Academy.” 

Art smiles, dipping his head as he reaches for his coffee. It’s taken a few months, but you finally convince him to have something to drink with you after practice. Your chef is blessedly out shopping for ingredients for dinner, so you have the kitchen all to yourself. Art has watched you putter around, seeming surprised that you know where everything is. You can’t blame him; the kitchen is chef-grade, and you don’t cook much these days. 

“Did your husband tell you that’s where I went?” 

“No.” 

“Then how do you know?” 

You’re too embarrassed to admit that you’ve done some googling, and watched a couple of clips of him interviewing before and after his matches. 

“I’ve just heard,” You fib. “Tell me about it?” 

He leans back in his seat, eyes skating across your face as he seems to consider something. 

“What do you wanna know?” 

“Did you enjoy it? I mean—” It feels like a dumb question once it’s out, and you hurry to redirect, “With what you know now, if you had the choice, would you have learned how to play tennis somewhere else?” 

He considers for a moment, trailing his finger over the side of his cup. Your gaze flits to his fingers, and your own flex around your mug handle. You’ve spent far too much time looking at and thinking about Art’s fingers—their length and quickness; the slight roughness of his calloused hands; the lingering tan line from where his wedding band used to sit. 

“Yeah,” He admits, drawing your full attention back to his face. “I would. It was foundational, you know. I’ve been thinking of sending Lily there.” 

“Lily?” 

A bittersweet smile twists his lips. “My daughter.” 

“Oh!” It catches you off-guard.  

“Tashi, uh—” He clears his throat, “Lily’s mother, my ex-wife. She and I are thinking about schools.” 

“I’m sure they’d be glad to have her. Does she play tennis?” 

“Little bit. She didn’t start until last year, but she's a natural.” He clears his throat again, presses, “Are you and your husband planning on having kids?” 

“Oh god no.” You blurt it out, and realize as he raises his brows that you’ve spoken too quickly. You lean back in your seat, stirring your coffee quickly to distract yourself from your growing embarrassment. “He actually has kids already. Two girls, seven and ten. They’re at boarding school and they stay with their mother when they're on vacation. I haven’t gotten to spend much time with them.” 

“...He seems to be pretty busy.” 

“He is.” 

“So it’s just you in this big house?” He tips his head to the side, brows knitting with curiosity. “What do you do all day?” 

“Play tennis.”

He grins, chuckling, and your stomach flips at the sound. 

“It shows, you know,” He says. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I can tell you’re practicing without me. And,” He leans across the table, running his fingers lightly over the exposed skin of your bicep, “You’re getting stronger.” 

You wonder if he can see or feel the goosebumps that break out across your skin at the gentle sweep, his gaze heavy on yours.

“I have a good teacher,” You murmur. Art’s lips twitch with a soft smile, his hand gently cupping your arm. 

“Just good?” He plies. 

“The best. A real pro.” 

His smile widens, and the flash of his tongue sweeping across his lower lip makes your face go hot. You know that you’re caught when Art’s touch becomes firmer, pulling your arm toward him just a little. 

The sound of approaching footsteps startles you, and you hurriedly tug your arm away. The sight of your husband makes your heart leap into your throat. 

“There you are,” He smiles. “Art, how’s she doin’?” 

“She’s killing it.” 

You don’t dare look at him, but you can feel the weight of his attention lingering on you still. You just give your husband a smile, tipping your cheek up obligingly as he leans down to kiss it. 

“Actually, Art,” Your husband straightens up, hands resting on your shoulders. “I’m glad I caught you. There’s a charity event for a local club this month. It’s for uh…What is it?” He squeezes your shoulders for answers, and you have to keep from rolling your eyes. 

“It’s a charity tennis match to raise funds to fix up the local courts. They need resurfacing and they’re raising funding to keep the fees down.” 

“We could use a sponsorship from the foundation,” Your husband adds. 

“Honey,” You glance back, wary of insulting Art. But—

“I’ll do it,” Art agrees. “Send me the details.” 

“Excellent,” Your husband grins. “Maybe we could coax you into a match or two.” 

You don’t chastise him this time—not when you see something light up in Art.

“Maybe.” 

--  

You haven’t seen Art play before. You’ve specifically avoided it. You’ve known that when you saw it, you would be too intimidated to do a damn thing on the court with him. But now, you can’t stop watching him. You don’t even care that you probably look so out of place—where everyone else is watching the ball, you’re just watching him. 

His movements are so neat, so precise. It’s like watching a dance. He’s running the poor guy on the other side of the net up and down the court. And the sounds that he’s making—god. Every little grunt and groan is weaving increasingly filthy thoughts in your mind. You already know that you’ll seek out the memory of those sounds, as you reach between your legs later. His shirt clings to his chest, showcasing the muscles that you’ve always suspected he has. Strands of hair plaster to his forehead as sweat drips over his cheekbones, down the bridge of his nose, over his jaw. 

When he scores a match point and he looks toward the cheering crowd—when his eyes land on you instantly, without having to search—it’s like you’ve been hit by a bolt of lightning. You can’t think, or move. You barely have the focus to applaud, but you manage to raise your hands and clap. 

-- 

Every lesson becomes an exercise in self-control. You force yourself to try, really try, and not make silly mistakes for the sake of Art coming closer, grasping your arm or elbow, pressing close and redirecting your swing. You don’t know what you crave more these days: his praise or his touch. 

Coffee becomes a post-lesson ritual. He starts to stick closer and closer to you as he follows you into the house until he begins to rest his hand on your lower back, guiding you to your door. He keeps nearby when you’re making it, brushes droplets of sweat off of your forehead or neck. Every touch is electrifying; you have to make a concentrated effort to keep your hands steady, your face neutral as your heart pounds and your stomach floods with butterflies. 

He pushes you harder on the court, and you force yourself to meet the level that he sets for you, even when you don’t feel confident in it. But you want to make him proud. 

It spurs you to lunge a little too far. 

The sharp stabbing pain in your left ankle makes you shriek, and you tumble to the ground, dropping the racket with a clatter. You hear the pounding of his feet, glance up just in time to see him clear the net before he’s on the ground at your side. 

“What hurts?” 

“My ankle,” You grit out, hissing softly as he helps you straighten your leg out. He smooths his hands over your calf, leaning over you and gently guiding your foot in a few different directions. You whimper as he starts to guide your foot to the left. 

“Okay, okay,” He soothes, “Let’s get you inside.” 

For as much as you damn the throbbing in your ankle, you thank it a little, too. You lean heavily against Art, making the slow, arduous journey back to the house with his arm wrapped tightly around your middle. 

When your husband comes home, he finds you with on the couch with Art coming back in from the kitchen, an ice pack in your hand. 

You’d hope for concern, but your husband frowns, glances at the swelling knob of your ankle, and simply asks: “What did you do?” 

“She lost her balance.” Art sits down on the other end of the couch, soothing you as the chill of the ice pack makes you shift with discomfort. 

“Are you going to be able to walk tomorrow?” Your husband presses. “We have dinner at the Fineman’s.”

“I'm still going, don't worry about that."

“...Tomorrow might be a bit soon,” Art warns. 

“I’ll be okay. It’s just a sprain, right?” You tip your brows up, hoping, praying that he’ll agree for your sake. His fingers flex around the ice pack, jaw ticking as he clenches it. He doesn’t say a word as your husband sighs heavily, grumbles, “I hope so. Still, we should put a pause on the lessons until she’s fighting fit again.” 

Art finally tears his eyes from yours, a tight smile on his lips. 

“Of course.” 

-- 

“How’s the ankle?” 

It takes you a moment to scrounge up an answer. You can’t believe that he called. You knew that Art had gotten your number when you started taking lessons with him, but he’s never used it beyond texting to confirm a lesson time now and again. 

You look down at the still-swollen flesh as it strains against the thin strap of your slingbacks. 

“Fine,” You lie, “It’s um—” You glance over your shoulder, listening for your husband. “It’s not that bad.” 

“Good enough to walk on?” 

Hardly. 

“Yes.” You think you’ve gotten away with it, but when you hear Art sigh and chastise, “You should rest,” You know that you haven’t.

“I have,” You insist, “All day.” 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” 

“Yes.” 

“You can tell him no, you know.”

Your mouth works wordlessly, body going hot with indignation. You can’t think of a thing to say. You can’t tell him that he’s wrong, that your husband’s connections are the lifeblood of his business. You can’t tell him that if your husband’s business falls apart, you won't be able to afford those tennis lessons, and then how the hell are you supposed to see Art again? 

You just yank your phone away from your ear and hang up. 

-- 

I invited Art. 

It shouldn’t be a surprise, but your husband’s statement makes you feel like you’ve swallowed your tongue. You haven’t seen or spoken to Art in nearly two weeks. Your doctor recommended putting off any physical activity, which your husband surely relayed to him. He was the one whose name was on Art’s checks, after all. 

Your husband has always thrown a massive party to kick off the summer. Every year, 150 of your husband’s closest family, friends, and business associates flooded into the house. It shouldn’t be such a surprise that your husband invited Art after the performance he had given at the fundraiser—$25,000 from the foundation, and ticket sales went through the roof when it had been announced that the Art Donaldson would be making an appearance. Your husband owed Art a lot, and probably saw this as an opportunity for him to network, to take on more clients. He had been evangelizing Art’s training to any of your friends that would listen—how good you are on the court, how engaged and energetic you seem to be these days. 

It’s one thing to know that you’ll have to put on a happy face for the crowd, but to know that Art will be among them makes your insides twist with nerves. You can’t stop thinking about the way that he had spoken to you when you were hurt; his calm, steadying demeanor as he’d gotten you inside; the careful coaxing and gentle touch that he’d used as he’d taken your shoe off and examined your ankle more closely. 

You think about it now, as you strap on another pair of heels. Your ankle really is doing well, though you have a little lingering pain in shoes like these. You’ll likely be on your feet for the length of the party; it’s going to be a long night. You look over yourself in the mirror, self consciously tipping your ankle from side to side for anything that he may spot or catch out. But there’s nothing, you reassure yourself. You slide your hands over the skirt, plastering on a smile as your husband pokes his head into your dressing room. 

“Almost ready in here?” He asks. 

“All set!” 

-- 

He doesn’t come over to you. On the crowded patio, you can feel him watching you—you’ve gotten so used to seeking out the sensation that you can’t ignore it now. The first true look at him is agony. He watches you from just a few feet away, a glass of champagne in hand as he speaks with your husband and the Finemans. He openly looks you over, eyes drifting over your body to the flash of ankle revealed by the slit in your dress. He tips his head to the side just a little, squinting before his eyes flit back up to your face, lips twitching with a small smile. 

You want to hate how good it feels; you want to be angry with him for his smug knowing, his insistence of You can tell him no, you know. But it feels so goddamn good to have his attention again that you can’t bring yourself to be annoyed. You know that you’re staring—that you both are—and you force yourself to turn away and excuse yourself from the conversation you’re in. You go inside, murmuring your thanks for the waitstaff that pass you along the way.

The house isn’t nearly as busy as the patio, and you're able to slip into your darkened study unnoticed. You leave the lights off, certain that if you turn them on, people will be drawn in to bug you, like moths to a flame. The party’s lights and music filter in through the partially-closed blinds. 

You lean against the desk, circling your ankle and wincing a little. You’ll hide for a few minutes, let it rest—

Your breath catches in your throat as the door opens. You expect your husband, ready to scold and usher you back to the guests. 

You only have a second to get a look at Art before he shuts the door behind himself, plunging the room back into darkness. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the desk as you use it to ground yourself. 

“...Do you need something?” You ask, voice wobbling with nerves. 

“Wanted to come say hi.” 

“Well. Hi.” 

You hear him chuckle, his footsteps muted by the carpet. 

“Thanks for the invite.” 

“It wasn’t my idea.” It’s not polite to admit, but you want it to sting him, just a little. Maybe it does; in the dim of the room, you can’t see Art’s expression as he comes to a stop just a couple of feet from you. 

“Do you want me to go?” He asks. You know what you should say, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. 

“No,” You whisper. You feel the heat of him as he comes closer, his hands resting on the desk and caging you in. You bite your lip as gently brushes his nose against yours. 

“He isn’t taking care of you.” 

“My ankle is fine.” 

“I’m not talking about your ankle.” He lifts a hand, smoothing it over your hip as your breath mingles. Art’s fingers drift from your hip to stroke over the apex of your dress’s slit. His fingers slip further down, and you nod as he palms your thigh. Before you can say or do a thing, Art sinks to his knees. He curls his hand around your left calf, lifting it. You shiver as his lips press a gentle kiss to your ankle. His hand and lips travel up, easing the fabric of your dress higher with each second. The first brush of his knuckles against your panty-covered clit makes you jolt. Your hands dig into the wood of the desk as his fingers hook between the fabric and your skin. You lift your hips without a word, allowing him to draw them down. 

Art presses a kiss to your mound before he lowers his head, giving your lips a sweet, sucking kiss. You gasp softly as his tongue swipes across your clit. You look down despite the fact that you can’t see him well. You can just make out his blissful expression, his eyes closed as his laps broadly across your aching cunt. You lower your hand to his neat hair, winding your fingers through it, unable to help grasping it. His heady moan vibrates against you and you nearly cry out at the sensation. You manage to just catch it, the sound dying in your throat as Art buries his tongue inside you. He sweeps his thumb over your clit in rush, harried circles, panting against your heated flesh. You rock your hips down against his lips, tightening your grip on his hair as you guide him. He lets you do as you please, whining against your skin as your movements become less controlled.

“Art,” You warn, “I—Oh, oh god—” 

He hums in encouragement, sucking your clit back between his lips and lashing it with his tongue. Your jaw drops open, your hand shoving Art even more tightly against your skin as you cum suddenly. A stunned, breathy moan slips from your lips as Art leans back, smearing his lips against the inside of your thigh. 

You use your grasp on Art’s hair to draw him back up off of his knees, giving him a crushing kiss as he catches his balance. You swipe your tongue across his lips, whining against his lips as you taste yourself on him. He presses close, his hard cock straining against the fabric of his pants. You reach down, palming and squeezing his length as you trade slick, messy kisses. He steers you back onto the desk as you fumble to undo his belt, button, and zip. 

“Condom?” He asks. 

“Pill,” You reassure, shoving his pants down. You lap broadly across your palm, grasping Art’s length and guiding him closer. He brushes the tip of his cock against your still-throbbing clit, smiling as you whine. You’re going to ache tomorrow, but you’ve never been so happy to be sore.

“Art.” 

“Sssh.” 

“Please—” It’s hardly out of your mouth before he shoves his hips forward, seating himself fully with a single thrust. You bite down on your lip to quiet your moan, curling your arms around your shoulders. He rocks into you with firm, quick strokes, his mouth covering yours. You can hear things on the desk rattling with each thrust, kisses growing less controlled as he hoists your thigh up around his hip. 

“Oh, god,” You breathe, “We have to be quick—He’ll come looking—” 

“Not until you cum for me again,” He urges. “I need to feel it, sweetheart.” 

“Art—” 

“When’s the last time he did this? Hmm?” He presses, “When’s the last time he made you cum? When’s the last time he tasted you?” 

“Never,” You admit with a shiver. It seems to renew Art’s passion, his thrusts and hold growing more intense. You squeeze your eyes shut, hands hooking tightly in the fabric of his jacket. He yanks the front of your dress down, bowing over you and drawing one of your nipples between his lips. You whimper as he toys with the bud, tugging it gently with his teeth before swiping across it. You arch into the slick heat, using your leg to tug him even closer as you chased the swelling curl of your orgasm. 

“Just like that,” You urge, “Ffffuck—yes, yesyesyesyes—”

Your eyes squeeze shut as your hips buck down against his, pussy pulsing as he spills into you. Your heart pounds in your chest as the two of you slow and still. Art rests his forehead heavily against your neck, peppering gentle kisses across the exposed skin. You have to move—now. You don’t know if anyone heard you, but if someone did, you’re screwed. If no one did, your husband will probably be looking for you anyway, ready with a scold for neglecting your hostess duties. 

“...I have to go,” You warn softly. It takes Art a moment to move, but he does, gently drawing himself back from his still-throbbing cunt. You hear the clanking of his belt buckle as he tucks himself away, and you reach down, righting your dress where it’s been pulled away. You take up your panties from where they’d been discarded on the floor, tugging them on before you straighten your skirt and hurry out of the room. 

--  

“Can I see you?” 

It’s only been an hour since the last guest has left, and you are so, so fucking tired. You glance toward the bathroom door. You know that you locked it, and you’re certain that your husband can’t hear you over the shower running, but you can’t help but be paranoid.

“You just saw me,” You remind him. 

“Tomorrow,” Art clarifies. 

“Where?” 

“I’ll send an address.” 

You bite your lip, toying with your earring. Your pussy is still aching from the stretch of him, your ass sore from getting fucked on the desk. 

“...You regret it?” He asks. 

“No,” You don't give your answer a second thought.

“I’ll send an address. Whether or not you see me is up to you. Just…think about it. Okay?” 

“Okay.” 

You lower your phone, hanging it up and watching his contact information blink away. It’s only a moment before a text with an address lights up your phone. You don’t have to think about it. You already know what you’re going to do. 

--  

You know that you’re staring, but you can’t bring yourself to stop. Art has spent so much time in your home, so you feel entitled to look around a little bit. You eye the row of trophies on his mantle, photos of him playing when he was young. You come to a stop at a picture of him with a young girl, a racket in her hand and a medal around her neck. 

“Is this Lily?” You ask. 

“Yeah,” He nods. “First competition.” 

“Already getting gold,” You smile. “The Mark Rebellato Academy isn’t ready for her.” 

Art chuckles, nodding as he steps around you.

“You, uh…You want something to eat, or drink, or…?” He trails off, tucking his hands into his pockets as he takes a couple of steps back toward his kitchen. You turn to face him, taking him in more fully. 

“Art?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Why am I here?” 

He doesn’t answer for a few moments. You can see him weighing his options before he comes closer. 

“I…I’ve been thinking about last night.” 

Fear shoots through you, but you force yourself to stand tall. “Okay.”

“I could lie and tell you that it should be a one-time thing, but I can’t remember the last time I got through a day without thinking about you. And I think you’ve been thinking about me, too.” Art stops as the tip of his shoes brush against yours, and you let your eyes slip closed as he rests his forehead against yours. 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” He pleads. “Tell me to fuck off right now and I will never say another non-tennis related thing to you again.” 

-- 

When he fucks you, he curls close, chest pressing against yours as he catches your lips in a kiss. You sink back against his pillows, your head cradled by his broad palm as he rolls his hips achingly slowly. You don’t bother to hide your whines and moans, and you revel in his. Every grunt and whimper and groan that Art lets out lights you up. 

And when you cum, you don't have to quiet yourself. His name tumbles out of your mouth, cushioned between expletives as your nails dig into his shoulders.

--

"What time is he home tonight?"

You don't want to think about it. You want to stay in this cozy little bubble, trailing your fingers over his muscled chest as he massages your nape and kisses your forehead.

But you know that you'll have to let the world back in sometime.

"I don't know," You admit. "Late."

"...Could stay."

"He'll be suspicious if I'm not home when he gets there."

Art sighs softly, running his hand down to rub between your shoulder blades.

"This isn't going to be easy, is it."

"What?"

"Letting you go every day."

"Every day?" You tease, pushing yourself up to get a better look at him. "Don't get greedy, Mr. Donaldson."

He smiles, raising his hand and cupping your cheek. "Is it greedy to know what I want?"

You shake your head a little, lowering your lips to brush against his.

"Not when I want it, too."

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @amneris21

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage​​​ ;  @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity

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[myinternetaddictworld]

this is perfection like omg 😱

[myinternetaddictworld]

I really want to start writing again so i’m gonna force myself to finish all my WIPs!! 🫶🏾

[webslingingslasher]

thinking about nerdy!peter getting reader a gift for national girlfriend day and feeling shy bc he doesn't know how to give it to her or if she'll like what he got her🥹🥵

it was a dumb gift and a dumb idea. it sounded better in his head, but knowing you were minutes away he was sent into a panic and told himself the flowers would be enough. and they were. you thought they were beautiful.

three days later and you're drumming pencils against his desk. peter let out a groan of your name, you had no regard for his desperate attempt to finish his tiny bit of homework.

'nope, don't care. you promised me ten minutes, twenty minutes ago.'

peter scoffed, your attempts won't work on him. 'the one time i encourage you to go on a deep dive of youtube shorts, you suddenly hate your phone.'

you drum out a solo, peter's clenching his jaw at the god awful wacks. 'i love my phone, i just love annoying you more.' he allows it for another minute, then it starts to hurt his ears.

'baby, please.' it's his 'i'm being nice, but i'm done playing' voice. you drop the pencils in a second, choosing to blow horse breaths and spin slowly in his chair.

you mumble out a song stuck in your head, your spins come to a stop. hidden, underneath the tiny shelf of his desk, a wrapped box. the hiding space is so uniuque you wouldn't have seen it unless you were in this circumstance, bored and looking for something to do.

your head tilts, you assume peter had forgotten about it too. your socks glide over his floor as you scooch in closer, it's a skinny box and only about five inches long.

'oh, c'mon. i was really enjoying your rendition of billie jean.'

you grab the box, it's light. it's not as dusty as you expected, it looked newly placed. you spin towards him, 'what's this?'

peter slowly looks up from his textbook, his eyes stare at the box in your hand. he's quiet for a bit too long, 'um, a gift.' you break into a smile, 'for who? for you?' you shove it out, 'open it!'

he looks at it like it's poison, but carefully grabs it and sets it next to him on the other side of his leg. your shoulders drop, 'open it, petey!' peter shakes his head, 'i will later, let me finish this first.'

you boo at him, 'c'mon, nerd. you can spare two minutes, i'm curious!' peter ignores you and it doesn't sit right, 'who's it from?' suddenly you're thinking it's from someone he doesn't want you to know about.

'no one.' you don't like how he's brushing you off, or lying.

'really? you got yourself a gift, wrapped it and hid it? from yourself?'

your boyfriend shuts his textbook and looks at you carefully. peter grabs the gift box and runs his thumbs across a seam.

'it's for you.'

your eyes soften. 'i got it for national girlfriend's day but it's dumb so i didn't give it to you.' your heart melts for him, 'why do you think it's dumb?'

he shrugs, you hate when peter's unconfident. 'i don't know. i just don't want you to not like it so, i guess i took away that option.' it hurts to know he thinks you wouldn't like a gift from him. it's not about what it was, it was the thought that mattered most.

'well,' you rest into the back of the chair. 'if you don't want to give it to me that's fine, just make sure you get your money back.' it was too understanding for peter's comfort.

'i want to give it to you, i just don't want you to hate it.'

you frown at him, 'why would i hate it?' he could explain it to you, or you could just see for yourself. peter hands over the box, you take it with caution to make sure he could stop the transaction at any moment.

'open it.'

you're weary, you don't want to force him. 'are you sure?'

peter seems more confident, 'it's for you.' you slowly start to unwrap it, before you can get far you stop and look back up. 'if i don't like it do you want me to be honest?'

'i don't think you'd be able to hide it.'

you tear open the paper, a gift box stops you. when you peer up, peter looks away, you pull the top off and gaze at the gift. your chest swells, you can't do anything but gasp.

'peter, oh my god.' you can't speak, it's beautiful, you have no idea how he could think you'd hate it. you've always wanted something like it, you think you've mentioned it to him before too.

your lower lip wobbles, 'i love it, thank you.' peter stills, 'really?' you nod, you can feel tears blot at your eyes, they're nothing but admiration for the boy in front of you.

'i told you i wanted one.' you cry because you feel seen.

peter smiles in relief, 'you did.' you take a sharp inhale, 'and you listened.' he laughs, he doesn't know why he was so scared, 'i did.'

you peer at the box again, a silver necklace with a pendant. It had a 'P' engraved. you hide your face, you feel like sobbing. you've never had anything so nice.

you hear peter move around, then he's hugging you. you jump up and wrap your hands around his neck, keeping a tight hold on the necklace. 'i love it. i love you.'

peter's warm and soft, 'i love you, too.' you push him away to wipe your nose, before handing him the box of understandment.

'put it on me?'