nsfw content â sweaty sex, sweat kink yes, dex eating you out, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, grinding, nipple stimulation, riding, cream pie, messy, dex is clingy, there is a p!link hehe, do not be fooled by the word count cuz this is very porn without plot
1.4k words
the sun seemed to be in a particularly bad mood. it felt like you were on a free trial for hell. and to make your lucky day even better, the air conditioner wasnât working properly.
dex had really tried to fix it. heâd spent a good portion of the afternoon messing with it, checking everything he could think of, only to eventually admit defeat.
so your only option was to use the electric fans. which... werenât helping much either. they were moving the air around, but they couldnât actually make the room any cooler. youâd even turned one toward the window, hoping to push some of the trapped heat outside and get fresher air in. it was stupid. absolutely stupid.
your apartment was on a high floor, directly beneath a roof that had spent hours absorbing the afternoon sun. the heat had seeped through the ceiling and settled into the apartment, making every room feel stuffy and oppressive. the fan could only circulate that same warm air.
you were in hell.
your only savior was the little handheld fan in your palm, which was probably one exhausted motor away from dying. it wasnât cooling the apartment either. of course it wouldnât. it was only pushing enough air across your skin to make the heat slightly more bearable.
the heat also meant dex hadnât been getting much physical affection from you. in your defense, it was hot. cuddling would suffocate you. and apparently, dex took this personally.
âyou havenât touched me all day,â he complained from beside you. he sat there looking just as miserable, his skin damp with sweat.
you continued fanning yourself. âdex, itâs very hot.â
âyouâre avoiding me.â his eyebrows furrowed slightly.
âiâm avoiding your body heat,â you answered quickly.
âthatâs the same thing.â
âno, it isnât.â you shook your head.
âfeels like it.â he shrugged, stubbornly. âbaby, please. just sit close to me.â
you glanced at him from the corner of your eye. âand get hotter?â you gave him a sarcastic little nod.
dex only sighed. then he moved closer anyway. his skin touched yours. you immediately looked at him, ready to complain about how sweaty he was, but then your eyes wandered.
oh god.
his biceps were glistening with sweat, the sheen making every line of muscle look more defined. his white tank top was damp too, clinging to his chest and shoulders. it wasnât helping. neither was the way he smelled.
he was sweaty. warm. fresh from sitting in the oppressive heat for hours. and somehow, instead of pushing him away, you found yourself unconsciously pressing your thighs together.
dex rested his forehead against your shoulder. he placed a few small, lazy kisses against your skin, seemingly content now that heâd finally gotten what he wanted. his hand settled on your thigh. his fingers squeezed gently before relaxing again.
then he rested his nose against your warm skin for a moment, angling himself toward the little stream of cool air from your handheld fan.
you watched him quietly. it was so hot that you could feel everything. the fabric of your clothes against your skin. the damp strands of hair sticking to your neck. the warmth lingering beneath your skin. every little touch seemed magnified by the heat.
and dexâs hand was still resting on your thigh.
his eyes slowly drifted to your chest. you werenât wearing any bra under your tank top. he could very clearly see how sweaty your fucking tits are. the middle of them glistened with sweat. his mind got pretty much occupied with the thought of just licking that sweat off your skin. he stopped himself from those thoughts with a kiss moving up to your collarbones.
which wasnât enough. neither of you was particularly composed anymore.
his lips went higher and higher up your neck until they reached your jaw. and before you could even think further, before you could stop yourself from experiencing this moment, you turned off your hand fan and placed it down. his lips reached yours. you immediately kissed back. it was a messy, sloppy kiss.
his hands went to your hips, placing you on his lap. he pressed your body closer until you were pressed against him, controlling your hips to grind on him so he could feel your nipples rubbing against his chest.
he groaned into the kiss as he felt your hardened nipples. you started undressing each other until both of you were fully naked.
just like how he was thinking earlier, he licked a long strip from your chest down in between your tits, tasting the salty sweat off your body. his tongue didnât stop there. it kept going until he was kissing your sweaty pussy. oh, he absolutely loved that. you could very much tell from how he growled before putting his mouth over it, giving it a harsh suck that made your legs wrap around his neck.
he was eating you out really hungrily. the scent went straight to his brain. something that seemed to control him, making him eat you like it was the last meal on earth. add in your own wetness from the heat and the arousal, and heâs got a mess he can drown in. his nose rubbed against your slick skin while his tongue flicked against your cunt, licking long strips that earned loud gasps from you and a tug on his hair.
then, with just a few more strokes of his tongue, you finally came undone. soaked and trembling and slick with his spit, your own juices, and all that glorious sweat. his chin and lips came away soaked and shining. even then, he still couldnât stop. you had to whine and push his head away because he kept on licking you through it.
âdex- goshâŠ! dex- wait- â you panted hard as you closed your legs and moved his head away. he gave a few last gentle laps before completely pulling his mouth from your pussy to give you a break.
when you finally had enough breath, he ate you out some more, making you cum three times before he even fucked you.
youâre on top of him, letting you take the lead as... well... a little something for eating you out until your legs were shaking.
his cock was so hard and he hadnât been using it because he was too busy making you feel good.
he held his breath as you slowly slid his cock inside you. his thighs clenched and the grip he had on your hips tightened. a grip he was trying to loosen but couldnât. as soon as he fully entered you, âoh... fuckâŠâ he let out a deep exhale that heâd been holding back. his head fell back into the couch. he licked his lip as he closed his eyes. âyouâre so warm, baby.â
then you started bouncing up and down on him. slowly but deeply. your hands running down his body. both of you were sweaty because of the hot air the electric fan was still blowing. the back of your thighs were slippery against his skin.
when you got tired, he took care of you. really good care. adjusting his position to a better angle and widening his thighs to fuck you better. pulling you against him and kissing your forehead before slamming his hips up and down under you. fast and hard. it earned continuous wet slaps of your skin against his. you couldnât keep a sound from escaping your mouth. you kept on moaning, whining, cursing, whimpering, and whatever else you could let out.
dex was breathing hard and moaning deeply while still giving sweet kisses on your face and licking the sweat off your skin.
the orgasm builds slowly for both of you. your clit is swollen and sensitive, and every time he presses against it, the friction is almost too much but just right. he pulled you closer to him for a hot sloppy kiss. you breathe into each otherâs mouths, sharing the same air and moaning into each otherâs lips.
a few strokes later, his cum spilled inside you with a grunt. you came at the same time. whining against his skin as you buried your face in his neck. biting down on his skin as you clenched around him.
as you both calmed down, panting hard, his cock stayed buried inside you. just feeling each other throb while your walls clenched around him. both of you ended up much more sweaty and warm.
maybe sweaty hot sex is one way to cope with this hellish sun heat.
requested by anonymous <3
really enjoyed writing this especially since i live in a tropical country đ
đeter đarker đ f!reader âč â fratboy!peter doesn't do condoms or pulling out â đč.á 2.1k wc. mdni. unprotected p in v. lowk manipulative!peter. creampie/breeding + mentioned risk of impreg. dirty talk + pet names + praise. prone bone position. alluded situationship between peter & reader. lowkey dubcon but reader fucks w it.
You hadn't exactly woken up that morning with the intention of sliding into frat king Peter Parker's bed (for the fourth time in two months, mind you), but that's exactly where you are now.
And, fuck, you can't even say you hate it or regret itâthough you really wish you could say so.
You'd promised yourself after the third time that you'd stop. You wouldn't fall for his charming character, puppy-dog eyes, smooth words, or heaven-sent dick; actually, you'd ignore him, maybe even find someone else to help bite away at your sexual frustration for the remainder of your college years.
Someone safer, with far more respect for boundaries.
Because for as beautifully as Peter Parker fucked, for as skilled as he was with his hands, fingers, tongue, fucking everythingâhe had one glaring, impeding flaw.
He absolutely refused to use a condom.
"Don't have any," he'd murmured the first time you let him between your legs and asked the most obvious question of 'what about condoms?'
You almost shut it down there, but then he pinned you with those puppy-dog eyes, as if he knew what you were about to do, voice a husky whisper, "I'm sorry, I couldn't get any before you came over... is that okay?"
It wasn't. It shouldn't have been.
You should have made that crystal clear, or at least demanded he run to the nearest convenience store if he wanted to stick his cock in youâbut you didn't.
You simply nodded, let that stupidly attractive little half-smile he gave you twist your heart, and proceeded to let him fuck your brains out, completely raw and bare. Let him pump his cum inside you and squeeze your throat a little as he did so, feeling your eyes roll at the way his tip smeared against your sensitive cervix in the most pleasurable way.
And even though you were nearly incoherent by the end of it, you were still able to stress that next time, he better have a damn condom.
And Peter smirked, pleased at the confirmation of a next time, and promised that he would have one.
Really, you probably should have seen that for what it wasâa bold faced fucking lie. But he was a damn good liar, and they tend to twist even the most obvious of lies into something inherently believable.
Just as Peter had done the second time around.
On your back, legs splayed, lips locked with his and pussy positively buzzing from the promise of being stretched by that heavenly cock pressed against your cunt, you couldn't really register how faux it was when Peter leaned over and opened the bedside drawer, rummaging around inside it before popping up from your lips with a softly hissed, "shit."
"Wh-what is it?" you pressed breathlessly, eyes darting between Peter's tensed jaw and his hand still in the drawer. There was an ache where his lips had just been, an ache that begged to be soothed.
"The condoms," he half rushed, half groaned. "I swear to God I put them in here. They were there last night, I double checkedâshit, I'm sorry, babeâmaybe next time? I can't find themâ"
You were stupid. So, so stupid. But you were so horny, so worked up from his lips and hands, that when Peter tried to push away from you, your hand shot out and caught his bicep.
"It's fine," you pushed out hurriedly. Peter's eyes snapped to you and his jaw unclenched, but his brows furrowed. "We can stillâfuck, just don't worry about the condom. It's okay."
Had you been a little more clear headed, you may have been able to realize that weird gleam in his eye was actually the shine of victory, and not the puddle of concern you originally took it for when he asked if you were sure.
The first two times could be written off as you maybe being too gullible, but in a way that was acceptable; after all, Peter was able to hide his disdain for condoms pretty well.
The third time around? He didn't even tryâmaybe because he knew that by now, you were so hooked to his dick and the way he fucked you that he could get away with it.
And he wasn't entirely wrong. No, actually, he wasn't wrong at all.
That was evident in the way you were bouncing on his raw cock, taking him all the way to the hilt and rocking forward subtly before pulling up again, pulling soft groans and hissed curses from his lips. Rinse and repeat.
And he's just watching you, eyes sharp like a hawk, reveling in the way you unravel for him, a small smirk on his lips because even though you'd been so adamant for 'protection' at the door, you folded so easy.
A few slick words, soft phrases, sultry touches, an easy lie of he 'can't feel anything through them and he really, really wants to feel you, baby', and one look at his dick and you went wild, forgetting all about pesky condoms in exchange for mind-numbing pleasure.
Thank every god in every universe that you weren't fertile during any of those hookups; otherwise you'd definitely be carrying a miniature Peter Parker right nowâwhich wasn't in your books, at all.
You couldn't say the same about this time. Which is why you shouldn't even be here, face down, hips lifted, moaning into a pillow that smells of Dior Sauvage and fresh linen fabric refreshner while you're railed into next week.
You hadn't even meant for it to happen; it wasn't on your agenda for the day.
But when you ran into Peter, his hair freshly trimmed, top shirt buttons popped to expose just enough of his chest, smelling of the same cologne you're currently huffing from his pillow nowâwell, your ovulating self couldn't fucking say no when he invited you to his place.
And, again, you can't even feel any regret. Because it's everything you'd been craving for the last few days; rough, feral sex, with your face pressed into fabric and your pussy fucked open so deliciously.
God, in this position, Peter feels even bigger than normal. His tip smashes into your cervix with every long, deep thrust, and the subtle upward curve of his cock allows him to slide right against that spot inside you over and over and overâholy fuck!
"Fuuck, Peterâmmmâeasyâ" you choke out, words slightly muffled by the pillow and nearly drowned out by harsh slaps of flesh. Your pussy is fluttering around him, so sloppy and drooly and that you can hear every single squelch of his cock splitting open your walls.
And Peter fucking loves it. Can't shut up about it, actually.
"Goddamn, jus' listen to that pussy," you can hear the smirk on his lips. "So fuckin' wet, isn't she? You been thinking about me, baby? I think you have been. Prolly been thinkin' about this dick messing you up since last Tuesday, huh?"
'Shut the fuck up,' is what you want to say, but all that comes out is a garbled, lewd moan when Peter thrusts just right, effectively clearing your head and crossing your eyes.
"Hah, shitâpussy's too fuckin' good today. So wet 'an tight, sucking me so fuckin' good... Damn, girlâyou might make me bust soon." Peter drawls, big hands grasping the globes of your ass and spreading them just so, so he can watch as his cock spears into your sweet cunny.
Sharp panic slices through your fucked-out head at his filthy words.
"No, don'tâ! Ahhây-you have to pull out, Peterâcan'tânot inside t-this time."
With your head down, you can't see the harsh scowl that mars Peter's face when you say the words 'pull out.' Peter's fingers dig ever so subtly into the flesh of your ass, almost as if he's giving you a small punishment for suggesting such a thing.
"Relax, babe, I ain't that close." Peter scoffs, though the sharp twinge in his balls tells him otherwise.
He wasn't lying when he said your pussy is too fucking good todayâwetter than usual, with fluid so sticky-slick that it forms strings that connect his smooth abdomen to your thighs and ass every time he pulls his hips back.
Not to mention how hot it was inside you, metaphorically and literally. It felt like Peter was fucking into the physical form of lava, sans the literal melting. And the way you clamped around his cock? Fuck, it was enough to have his head rolling back and eyes crossing.
Peter isn't some prebuscent, acne-addled fifteen year old with sub-par sex education; he knows exactly what your current state means.
And it is so fucking hot, knowing that every thrust of his leaking cock into your depths runs the risk of impregnating you with his spawn.
You, however, don't seem to share his enthusiasm for it. Your fingers twist in his sheets, and you nearly try to crawl from him, "'m serious, Peterây-you need to pull out, I fucking mean itâ"
His thrusts turn a little rougher, more pointed, slamming into your sweet spots with the sole intention of getting you to shut up.
"I get it. I'll pull out, Jesus." Peter hisses, and it's enough. You melt back into the pillow, eyes fluttering and moans spilling into the fabric, nearly drooling from the sudden abuse to your g-spot.
It feels so fucking good that you quickly lose yourself, your fertility completely melting from your brain in favor of jumbled thoughts of fuck, he's so big, he's fucking me up, harder, faster, fucking use me, I'm gonna comeâ
"Fuck, do you even know how fuckin' pretty you soundâmmmm, fuuuck!âsaying shit like that?" Peter suddenly cuts off your string of thoughtsâno, wordsâcock kicking up inside your mushy walls. "I'd swear you're tryin' to make me come with that shit."
You can't even be mortified by it. You feel too good, and there's that familiar knot building inside you. Every slide of his cock into you just tightens it, his grunts and groans just adding more pressure to something that's already almost too heavy.
Fuck, you just want to come. Scratch that. You need to come; all over his glorious fucking cock that's fucking you so good.
"Then do it, baby. Yeah, c'mon, you can do itâwanna feel you, sweetheart. Jus' give it t'me, fuckâ"
Peter re-positions, one hand planting itself on the bed beside your head for stability, and your muffled moans morph into something far more pornographic.
He's hitting you so impossibly deep now, like he's trying to break through to your wombâand when he slides his arm down and around your neck for the leverage to fuck you back on him, you lose it.
Your squeal of 'cooooominggâ' gets swallowed by praises from Peter when your pussy clenches around him, gushing up his cock and soaking your cum into his mattress.
"Yesyes, good girlâfuck, mhmmâkeep comin', baby, c'monâlet it out, pretty girl, I've got youâfuck, y'feel so good coming around my dick like that."
Normally, Peter would fuck you nice and deep through the waves, kiss your skin and lap the sweat, pepper you with praises and hold you until the high cleared out and you stopped tremblingâbut right now, he didn't have the patience for it.
Feeling you come was the catalyst for his own undoing, and his hips moved on their own. Fast, short strokes that put most of the friction around his sensitive tip, and before Peter knew it, his lips were next to your ear and he was almost thereâ
"Gonna come," he squeezes out, and when you start to sputter he tacks on, "fuck, I'll pull out, I rememberâhah, oh fuck, baby, s'good, almostâunghâshit, okay, I don't think I canâ'm'sorry, you're gonna have to take it, okay?"
Peter can't really decipher your little half hearted protests through the white static in his ears.
"Fuck, coming! Take it, baby, shhhhâno, noâs'okay, baby... yeah, fuck, milkin' me s'good... 'm fillin' up your pretty pussy, babyâyeah, it feels so good, doesn't it? Yeah, your body wants this, I know it does."
As always, Peter isn't even wrong. Your pussy is slurping up his cum gladly, practically wrenching it towards your womb; and the heat of it is enough to have your gut sparking with sharp arousal. You're really not even that concerned about the risk anymore. It feels too good to be concerned about it.
As for Peter? He wasn't even a little concerned to begin with. He was at peace with his decisionâafter all, there's a reason you're the only girl he's ever raw-dogged before in his life.
a/n: um, acc idk abt this one.. its my first attempt at like, putting more depth into my smut?? if that makes sense?? critiques would honestly be so so so appreciated bcs by golly i've never written smth like this and i feel outta my depth đ
tagđ”ist @mayhemi @triciawritesstuff @therealcap @vannyswims @fawnphile @she1983 @ynstark @emmiegirl @jaydennicole @meeemuirs @hyacinthusflowernymph @knowleeyo if i forgot to add u, or if u would like to be added/removed pls lmk! âĄ
Summary: Falling in love with your neighbour, Peter Parker, was easy. Accepting him as Spiderman? Still easy. Dealing with his change into arachnid Spiderman? Still easy. But dealing with the fact that he still loves MJ, that she still comes first? Not so easy. When he saves her over you, can you ever forgive him? (8.8k)
Pairing: BND!Peter Parker x fem!reader
TW: 18+ MDNI, NSFW; Sex scenes containing p-in-v, mentions of oral, the bed breaks;Angst; Some liberties taken with the Jean Grey possession thing; Peter has a choice between saving MJ and saving Reader and chooses MJ; Peter has to win the Reader back over; Covers their meeting, relationship and then the heartbreak just so it hurts more; dual POV; when Peter is arachnid Peter, the only one who breaks through is the Reader kind of like Natasha and the Hulk (or Cardan and Jude when he's the snake); Bruce Banner is a prof at NYU rather than Empire State for the sake of my narrative.
Credit: GIF made by @manny-jacinto
The building is strangely quiet, thatâs the first thing you notice as you climb up the stairs, a stack of two cardboard boxes in your arms, chin resting on the very top of one, just enough that you can see the next stair. Because of course the elevator wasnât working on the day that you need to move in. Because life is just like that.Â
            âWoah, hey!â a voice calls out from behind you, deep and light in the same instance, the sound a shock from the previous silence, your body seizing, shaking, a slight jump, the top box sliding off your arms and falling, hitting the stair ahead of you with that peculiar thump of cardboard against, well, anything.Â
            âShit!â you hiss, looking down at the box on the step, at the one in your arms before glancing over your shoulder, looking for the owner of the voice, the one who startled you.Â
            âLet me help,â the voice says again, this time from beside you and you turn, startling again, breath hitching but not just from fear because there beside you is one of the single-handedly most attractive men youâve ever seen with dark curly hair, curls falling onto his forehead, partially obscuring the dark brown colour of his irises, the corner of his lips curled up into a half-smile. A kind of crooked grin that sets your heart alight.Â
            He bends down, lifting the box from the stair in front of you, your breaths ragged for a moment more before you blink, shaking off the daze and forcing yourself to smile, the kind of practiced smile that you learned long ago for school pictures and talks with older people who always want to tell you how to live your life.Â
            âThanks,â you tell him and he smiles at you, a full smile, one that sets your heart alight as the two of you climb the stairs, a comfortable silence descending. He seems like the type of guy who would never push for conversation, who is okay with silence, familiar with it.Â
            âWhat floor?â he asks you as the two of step onto the fifth floor landing.Â
            âThis one,â you tell him, stepping forwards, your back against the heavy metal door, pushing against it, pushing it back, swinging it open and holding it while he steps through. You step away from the door and out into the floor, stepping around him, shifting the box to one arm, reaching for your keychain in your pocket, pulling the bright, bedazzled SOURcharm from your hoodie, flipping it to grasp the key, stepping forwards and slipping it into the lock of 502.Â
            âWeâre neighbours,â he says from behind you and you turn towards him, pushing your door open, keys slid back into your hoodie pocket.Â
            âAre you new here?â you ask him, one eyebrow arching as you step backwards into your new apartment, him following you with the last of your boxes.Â
            âTo the building?â he asks you, his voice confused, eyebrows knitting together, nose crinkling and you canât help but roll your eyes as you step into your kitchen, setting the box down on the counter by the sink.Â
            âNo,â you call out as he follows you, setting the second box beside the first, âto New York. Because if so, youâre neighbours with the right person.â
            âWhy?â he asks, his voice growing suspicious. Like he suspects that youâre hitting on him, which objectively heâs attractive enough to be hit on, you are just not the kind of person to do said hitting on. âBecause youâll show me around?â
            âNo,â you reply, drawing out the word, making it as long and dramatic as possible, your eyes drifting around your crappy apartment, a true New York experience. âBecause Iâm new and havenât you always wanted a buddy to explore a new city with? You know, experience everything with someone who also has no experience with said things? Because, honestly, itâs scientific at its base. You experience one thing and the other experiences something else and youâll get the clearest picture of New York by comparing the two new experiences.â Your voice has risen and sped up in the way it does when you get excited, your hands moving with your words, gestures always arising when youâre interested in a topic, an experiment.Â
            But this guyâŠhe doesnât look annoyed by it, rather the way his lips are curved into a smile that seems soft if a smile can be such a thing, suggests that heâŠhe might like it.Â
            âYeah,â he whispers, one hand reaching up to brush his curls back from his forehead, showing eyes the colour of melted chocolate glimmering in the dim lighting of your apartment, âIâm new.â
            âSo,â you say, both eyebrows arching as you peer at him, âbuddies?â His smile widens, dimples showing in a way that makes your breath hitch, but you ignore it, simply reaching your hand forward for his. Youâre good at ignoring things especially when theyâre related to your feelings.Â
            âBuddies,â he agrees, taking your hand in his, the callouses on his skin rubbing against yours in a way that is strange, but not unpleasant. His grip is firm, his hand is warm and the smile he gives you bright. Heâs like sunshine in a person.Â
            âWell,â you tell him, letting go of his hand and walking towards your door, putting it between your body and him, using it as a shield against emotions youâre going to need to tamp down, ignore, shove past and aside. âThanks for your help.â He nods, stepping out of your apartment and turning, eyes narrowing as you begin to close the door.Â
            âPeter!â he calls out, the words loud and echoing in the hallway, his face flushing a deep red, face shifting into embarrassment as he continues, his voice barely audible, barely a whisper as he says, âmy nameâŠitâsâŠitâs Peter.â He sounds so nervous as he says it that a small smile blooms across your face as you look at him, at the way heâs glancing down and away from you, cheeks flushed bright red.Â
            âMy nameâs Y/n,â you tell him and he looks up, the motion abrupt and rapid, so fast you worry that heâs going to get whiplash.Â
            âNice name,â he whispers, his Adamâs apple bobbing as he waves, watching as you close the door, the sound of the latch clicking ominous and final. Not really, because no sooner have you closed it than have you wrenched it open again, seeing him still standing there, looking slightly frozen.Â
            âYou want to find a place to get hot dogs?â you ask him and he startles, like you did on the stairs, nodding and you nod once, back at him, ducking back to your kitchen, pulling your wallet from your bag and tucking it into your pocket before slipping out and closing your door, locking it behind. âLetâs go, buddy!â
            âSooo,â you say, your legs hooked over the fire escape ledge, your hot dog in one hand, the other pressed against the metal grate beneath you.Â
            âSooo what?â Peter asks, his mouth slightly full, the sounds of the words off and you glance over at him, a smile threatening to form on your face at the way mustard is smeared on his cheek.Â
            âUmâŠyou have a little something,â you say, taking the napkin from your lap and leaning forwards, wiping it away, his eyes locked on you, Adamâs apple bobbing as he swallows, hard. âAnyways,â you continue, looking away from him, back to the New York City skyline, the napkin set to the side, âI was going to ask what you do.â
            âI, um, Iâm going to NYU,â he says and you look back at him, a smile blossoming on your face, the kind of smile you have when youâre genuinely excited, when something has genuinely made you happy. A smile youâve kept smiling at Peter.Â
            âMe too,â you tell him, your voice light in a way that it rarely is, in a way it hasnât really since you packed up all your stuff to move alone to the city of your dreams. The city thatâs strange and rings with a hollow sort of loneliness, except for right now on a fire escape ledge, the skyline twinkling like stars. âWhat are you studying?â
            âEngineering,â he says, his voice quiet, unsteady, just a little unsure, his gaze turned away from you as he sets the wrapper from his hot dog down beside him, brushing his hands together, brushing crumbs off of them.Â
            âWhatâs your specialty?â you ask him and he glances back at you, surprise glimmering in his warm eyes, eyebrows knitting together, lips quirking up just a bit like heâs pleased that youâve surprised him.Â
            âHold up,â he says, âwhat are you studying?â
            âEngineering,â you tell him, your smile growing wider as the surprise shifts to a pleasant kind of shock in his eyes, like he didnât expect to have something in common with you. âSpecifically,â you continue, âbiomedical engineering focusing upon neuroengineering.â
            âA brain girl,â he says and you nod, the smile pleased as you turn away from him, back to the skyline of the city that never sleeps. The city you used to dream of as a kid. You lean back, your back slumping against the grated brick wall of the apartment building, your wrappers set aside, hands in your hoodie pockets, gaze trained on the blinking, twinkling lights of the city. âIâm in biotech,â he says and you let out a low whistle as he turns back to look at you, his body leaning forwards against the railing. âWhat?â
            âAnd I thought I was a nerd,â you tell him and he tosses a balled up napkin at you, one which you swat away with a laugh, one light and bright that has him pausing, just looking at you like one looks at an oasis in the desert. âWhat?â you ask, a familiar heat flooding your face the kind that comes from embarrassment. Or the fear of it. âDo I have something on my face?â
            âNo,â he whispers, scooting himself back over the grating to slump beside you. âI just havenât had something like this in a long time.â
            âWell,â you tell him, letting your head rock to the side, rock to face him, eyes blinking once before focusing on him, tiredness seeping into your bones, to your eyelids, âyou have it now.â The smile you give him is hesitant, but he returns it, taking your hand in his, palms against one another, his fingers closing around the sides of your hand, a slight, gentle squeeze given.Â
            âYeah,â he says. âI guess I do. We do.â
            âYeah,â you agree, your gaze darting away from him, flutters in your stomach that are unfamiliar, but also familiar. âWe do.â
            Peter knows that he should stay away from you, that he should avoid you if he knows whatâs good for him. That all knowing you will cause is danger, put you in harmâs way the way it did Ned and MJ, but he doesnât want to stay away from you. You, the girl who didnât look at him for a one-night stand, but a friend. Someone to experience New York City with for the first time.Â
            You were lonely, but braver than heâs ever been and you were soâŠenthusiastic about the comparing of experiences that how could he ever say no to you. He just couldnât. Thereâs just something about you that drew him in and the late night talks that keep happening, legs dangling over the fire escape, whispers carried to one another on the breeze, watching as New York lives on, gleaming and twinkling, just make him want to stay more.Â
            Like last night, when you fell asleep beside him and he lay you down, your head on his lap, his hand smoothing down your hair over and over while you slept on, safe and content beside him. Heâd whispered to you then, even though you couldnât hear him, that he should stay away, but he just couldnât seem to close the door on you.Â
            âYou know,â heâd said, âI should stay far away from you and keep you safe butâŠsomething about you keeps drawing me back. Like I canât stay away from you, pretty girl.â Thatâs what heâs called you in his head, pretty girl, because you are. Youâre pretty and youâre nice and youâre smart and you laugh too loud and too long and itâs just perfect and he knows in some way that heâs falling even when he wishes that he wasnât.Â
            Because heâll just bring harm to you. Thatâs the nature of his life, isnât it?
            But canât he have a friend? Does he have to be alone? he wonders as he swings his legs over the edge of his bed, standing up on slightly shaky legs, tired from the fight yesterday and the classes he rushed to get to.Â
            âPETER!â he hears you call, your voice echoing through the thin door of his apartment, palm flat, slamming against the door and he sighs, an annoyed sounding sigh even when heâs not really annoyed, but happy, excited. Excited in the way you make him because you live and youâre dragging him along with you.Â
            âWhat?â he rasps as he pulls the door open, the clock reflecting 5:00 AM at him from its perch beside the door. Youâre fully dressed, jeans and boots and an Olivia Rodrigo t-shirt on, a trench coat thrown over, arms crossed.Â
            âItâs Saturday,â you tell him and he closes his eyes, sighing again, this time real as he leans his forehead against the door, tired and sore and so not in the mood for this.Â
            âIâm aware.â
            âThen youâre aware of the fact that weâre looking for the best place to get breakfast,â you say, one eyebrow arched in the way you have when youâre annoyed, your hips canting, weight resting on your left foot, right loose.Â
            âRight,â he sighs, pushing himself off the door and holding up four fingers to you, closing the door, saying, âfour minutes!â
            âIâll be waiting!â Maybe thatâs what keeps drawing Peter in, the fact that you wait, that you never push, that you plan. That youâre so different from MJ, the girl he still loves, canât entirely forget, canât entirely erase no matter how hard he tries. Most of the time he still remembers that goodbye, holding her tight, but when heâs with youâŠhe can see that there is a future. One where heâs okay.Â
            âWhy NYU?â he asks you, his hand wrapped around yours, the two of you walking on a path in Central Park, raincoats on, the sky grey and overcast, clouds hanging low, swollen with impending rain. âI mean,â he continues when you look back at him, your expression quizzical and so, so pretty that his breath catches in his throat, âwhy not MIT if you had the grades?â
            âI did have the grades,â you tell him, tipping your head up, eyes closing for a moment as you breathe in the smell of the rain. He knows that you do this often, that you like the stormy weather, has watched you climb out onto the fire escape when it rains to just stand there, arms wide, the rain soaking into your clothes. âI got into MIT, Yale, Stanford, Harvard, Columbia and Cornell, plus of course, NYU. But as a kid,â you pause, your head tipping back down, gaze falling on the cracked pathway, the lines of breaking. âAs a kid, I dreamed of New York and NYU becauseâŠI donât knowâŠI just felt that it was right.â
            âGotta say,â Peter says, squeezing your hand, breath hitching as you look over at him, lips curled into a soft smile, the kind you reserve for him, âthat Iâm glad you chose NYU.â
            âMe too, buddy,â you tell him, knocking your shoulder against his, his skin tingling, feeling alive in a way it hasnât really. Itâs felt like rubber stretched over bone and now it feels like skin, like heâs alive.Â
            But is it selfish to love you?
            âHey! Puppies!â you cry, tugging him along behind you, taking off towards the animal shelter set-up, puppies tumbling over one another and as he follows, as he watches you scoop a wriggling rottweiler mix into your arms, as he watches that puppy lick your face, eliciting a giggle, one that rings through the park and his heart, he finds he doesnât care if itâs selfish to love you because heâs fallen anyways.Â
            And he can love you from afar, be your friend. It doesnât change that.Â
            It wonât.Â
            It canât. Right?
            The stadium is packed full, your baseball cap pulled low, a newly bought Yankees jersey on, Peter beside you, his body radiating heat as the game goes on. You donât entirely understand whatâs going on having never been a baseball fan before, but itâs the Yankees and itâs iconically New York so you dragged Peter with you after saving up for the tickets.Â
            Itâs been six months of being buddies with Peter and itâs a sweet kind of torture because every minute that you spend with him, the more you learn about him, the more you feel for him. You donât know if itâs love, if it can be quantified as such but itâs something. Itâs something and you know you should stop hanging out with him, just give your heart a break, but something about him means that you canât stop.Â
            He just keeps drawing you back in. Youâve gone shopping with him, picking out books for one another based on vibes. Youâve spent hours together poring over engineering books and formulas, doing homework side-by-side and every time, thereâs that moment when he looks at you with pupil-blown eyes and you think maybe, just maybe but then the moment passes and you curse yourself every time.Â
            You curse the heart that just canât stop hoping. It hurts to hope yet it doesnât stop.Â
            âHOLY SHIT!â Peter yells, standing up and pulling you with him, a baseball flying up at you and you shriek, lifting your hands to bat it away from you, but rather your fist closes on it and youâre left staring at the baseball in your hand. âYOU CAUGHT IT!â he cries and then his arm is around your shoulder and for a moment you canât breathe because to breathe is to smell him, his uniquely Peter scent of vanilla and sandalwood and nutmeg.Â
            The casual touch is the worst part of this torture.Â
            âWhatâŠwhat do I do with it?â you ask him and he looks at you, face incredulous before he curls your fingers tighter over the ball, the fingers that had opened, holding the ball out to him like an offering.Â
            âYou keep it,â he tells you and thereâs another moment. Another one where you think maybe, just maybe, his gaze dropping to your lips, his lips parting, but then he blinks and turns away, neck muscles rigid and you can feel that deflating, that crushing. That loss of hope.Â
            âWill do,â you whisper, your eyes on him, on the line of his neck, of his jaw. Of him. You really hate hope.Â
            The street is lit by the streetlights, dark descended while you were still in the stadium watching a game you didnât really understand, holding a ball you didnât mean to catch in your hands.Â
            âLetâs go here,â you tell Peter, the two of you looking for a place to eat something sweet, a bakery just off to the side with lights blazing.Â
            âNo,â he says. âThey suck.â
            âYouâve been there?â you ask him, lips curving up as you look at him, watching as his expression blanches, eyes go wide, calculations occurring in that wonderful brain of his.Â
            âYeah,â he says and then he tugs on your arm, pulling you towards a dimly lit diner, an overhang in red and black obscuring a sign that glimmers, refracting at you. âAnd this place is good.â
            âAnd how would you know that?â you ask him, tone leading, high-pitched in the way it is when you know something and youâre trying to pry what you already know from someone.Â
            âUmâŠwellâŠuh,â he swallows hard, gaze focused solely on the diner as the two of you run across the street, rushing just as headlights come up to the side, the two of you stepping onto the cracked and falling apart sidewalk as the car rushes past, a breeze blowing by you.Â
            âYouâre from New York, right?â you ask him and he looks over at you, shock writ upon his features as he pulls the door open, the two of you stepping into the diner, knocking dust and street litter from your boots on the mat.Â
            âHowâd you know?â he asks and you roll your eyes, sighing as the two of you cross to a table, him sliding in on one side of the booth and you frozen for just a minute. A part of you wants to sit beside him, but you know you shouldnât, but as you go to slide in across from him, he pats the seat beside him and you slide in beside him, your side pressed against his, heart racing, racing, racing.Â
            âNo one just finds all of those places on the first try,â you tell him. âPlusâŠyou have this look about you, like the city isnât a marvel, but rather home. I donât have that.â
            âSo, you just knew?â he asks, his elbow on the table, cheek resting on his palm, attention locked upon you. âYou just knew?â
            âI told you Iâm smart,â you tell him and he smiles at you, your body alight with feelings and sensations and you look away from him, picking up one of the grease-covered plastic menus, the red binding fraying, plastic cracking in a way that tells you this place is good, well-loved.Â
            âWhat will it take to earn your forgiveness?â he asks and you glance up at him, eyebrows knitting together, your heart climbing into your throat as you look at him, at the way heâs looking at you. Looking at you like you matter.Â
            âYou donât have to earn it, Peter. Iâm not mad, just curious. Whyâd you lie?â
            âBecause you were soâŠenthusiastic and IâŠI was enamoured by it and didnât really want anyone else to be your buddy.â You swallow hard, your throat thick, tears stinging your eyes because of what can never be.Â
            âOh,â you whisper and he takes your hand in his, the one beside him, interlacing your fingers with his, resting the joined hands on his thigh.Â
            âDo you want to go out with me?â he asks you, stare intense and you can feel your skin heating up, flushing, heart racing and you swallow hard again, mouth just a little bit dry.Â
            âArenât we kind of already?â you ask him and you like how he ponders what youâve said, his stare changing, shifting as he considers.Â
            âI guess so,â he says. âI mean, we spend all our time together. We might as well just make it official.â
            âOfficial?â
            âWill you be my girlfriend?â he asks, his cheeks a bright red and you nod, the gesture fast and excited and then heâs letting go of your hand, shifting, hands coming to rest on your cheeks, pulling you to him and pressing a soft and lingering kiss against your lips.Â
            Itâs a kiss that tastes of first chances, of hope and promise.Â
            Itâs a kiss for the ages.Â
            âI donât want anything to really change between us, Peter,â you whisper one night, your body curled into him on the fire escape, the two of you watching the skyline of New York, entranced by it.Â
            âThen it wonât,â he whispers and you lift your head from his chest to look at him, at the way his face is relaxed, his body safe and warm and not tense like it sometimes is.Â
            âPromise?â you ask and he nods, leaning forwards, his lips pressing against yours, open-mouthed and hot, tongue sliding in like a promise, his grip tightening on you like he never wants to let you go. Never wants to lose you.Â
            âPromise,â he vows, breaking away from the kiss, his forehead pressing against yours, his eyes closing like youâre his safe space.Â
            You think you just might be.
            âJesus!â you cry out, your back arching off the bed as Peter thrusts in for the first time, sliding in with ease, but the stretch still burns a little bit no matter how long he spent with his face buried between your legs, wanting to make this first time with him the best. Itâs a good kind of burn though, a good kind of pain.Â
            ââm sorry,â he breathes out, hips rolling slow and steady, the rickety bed still creaking beneath him.Â
            âDonât be sorry,â you whisper, your nails digging into his back. âJust go harder.â He looks at you, concern etched upon his face before he nods and itâs like heâs had restraint and then just lets go, driving in and out of you with force you didnât really know he had.Â
            Itâs hard and fast and relentless, stimulating every part of you as he drives in and out, your body moving with the force, his lips hot on your neck and chest as he sucks hickeys into your skin, marking you, the bed creaking and creaking and creaking.Â
            Honestly, the warning signs were all there, but you were too fucked out to notice and Peter was too obsessed with the feel of your walls clinging to him, to the taste of you on his tongue and the way you cry out his name, but the bed creaks one more time as Peter thrusts in and then it feels like the ground has given way, the bed breaking, landing on the floor with force.Â
            âShit,â Peter whispers, pausing in his rhythm, hands running over your body, not to turn you on, not to make love to you, but to check for injury. âYou okay?â he asks and maybe itâs the way he asks, but you canât help but let out a small giggle, one that grows as he looks at you with such horror on his pretty face. âWhy are you laughing?â
            âWe broke the bed,â you tell him, your voice high, a giggle itself.Â
            âAnd thatâs funny? Because Iâm still inside of you and you laughing is not doing much for my confidence,â he tells you and youâre still giggling as you lift one hand to his cheek, his head moving into your hand, pressing in.Â
            âI just think itâs funny that we broke the bed, Peter. We were already going to get noise complaints,â you tell him and his expression darkens, but not in an angry way, rather a horny way.Â
            âWeâre gonna earn those noise complaints,â he tells you and thatâs all the warning you get before heâs thrusting back into you without abandon, your back arching up and into him again, the giggles turning to cries of his name.Â
            Itâs later, after, the two of you curled into each other on his broken bed when he rests his hand upon your cheek that he whispers, âI love you.â Itâs like the world has stopped, your heart in your throat, tears stinging your eyes, but the good kind of tears.Â
            âI love you too,â you whisper and he pulls you even closer against him like heâs trying to fuse the two of you together, just burrow into you.Â
            And itâs the best sleep youâve had in ages. The first time youâve ever felt safe.Â
            Peterâs tired as he swings into his apartment, ready to just peel his suit off and fall into his bed, the attic apartment better for his arrivals, better because it goes unnoticed, itâs not right next to your apartment. He canât drag you into this if you donât know.Â
            He lands in his bedroom, hands drifting to his mask, pulling it off and preparing to toss it onto his bed when he shrieks, a figure sitting on the bed, arms crossed.Â
            âWho the fuck are you?!â he yells, shooting a web at the figure only to hear your muffled groan of distaste. âPretty girl?! Is that you?!â
            âYeah, itâs me,â you tell him, voice flat with distaste, your figure pushing off the bed, rising and walking towards him, expression irritated, arms stuck to your torso by webs.
            âWhat are you doing here?â he asks, his voice gentle as he walks to you, pulling the webs from off your body, tossing them aside, his hands, still gloved in his costume, resting on your upper arms, grip warm and your expression softens.Â
            âI figured out that you were Spiderman weeks ago and Iâve been waiting for you to tell me, but you havenât and I was tired of waiting so IâŠyou know, broke in.â
            âYou broke into my apartment?â he asks and you nod, your hand coming to rest on his cheek where a bruise is forming from where the bad guy hit him. He hisses as you touch it, your touch achingly gentle but the skin so sensitive.Â
            âI wanted answers,â you tell him and he walks the two of you backwards towards his bed, pulling you onto his lap, your body curling into him, fitting to him in a way that makes his heart ache in good ways and bad, guilt seeping in.Â
            Itâs a guilt that made him write a letter weeks ago to MJ, one to never be sent. He feels this deep guilt because he worries that he moved on too soon. But when heâs with you like this, feeling alive, feeling loved when to the rest of the world heâs naught but a ghost, he doesnât feel guilty at all. He feels like heâs right where he belongs.Â
            âAre you mad?â he whispers and you look at him, shock and hurt on your face as you press a soft, gentle, tender kiss against his lips, the taste of your cherry lip gloss slipping into his mouth.
            âNever,â you whisper and he relaxes, your hand tracing shapes on his still suit covered chest. âItâs justâŠcan you tell me everything about Spiderman orâŠâ you trail off, your gaze falling away from him, brow furrowing and he lets go of your thigh to reach up, pulling your face to him, making you look at him, his lips pressing against yours in a harder kiss, one that says forever. That says everything he needs it to say.Â
            âI donât want to have secrets from you,â he whispers and then he tells you everything. He tells you about his parents, the spider bite, the first villain, the meeting of MJ and the Europe debacle; Aunt Mayâs death, the other Spidermen, the erasure of himself from everyoneâs memory.Â
            He doesnât know what he expected when he finished, but it wasnât this, the way you hold his cheek so tenderly, so preciously, like heâs everything, your eyes warms and glimmering, full of love.Â
            It wasnât you whispering, âI know you, Peter. Youâre not a ghost. Not to me. I didnât know you before but I know you now. I donât think thatâs nothing.â
            âItâs not,â he whispers, pressing his forehead against yours. âItâs everything because youâre right. Iâm a ghost to everyone, but you and I love you. More than that, Iâm in love with you.â
            âMe too, Peter. Iâm in love with you too,â you whisper and thatâs how the two of you fall asleep, curled into one another, his suit still on.Â
            And when he wakes in the morning, he doesnât move, doesnât shift, just pulls you closer. You, the only person in the world who knows him. All of him.Â
            He wouldnât trade that for the world.Â
            âPeter!â you squeal as he swings into his apartment, scooping you up and running to the bathroom. âPut me down! You need to shower!â
            âI know,â he says, closing the door behind, peeling his suit off, standing there in nothing but his boxers before you, a tent noticeable. âYou donât expect me to do this alone, do you?â You laugh as he strips entirely naked and pulls your clothes off, guiding you into the shower and under the spray.Â
            Itâs not rough sex or fevered sex. Itâs slow and gentle and full of kisses, lips gliding along skin, tongues against tongues. Him tracing the lines of your body with his mouth, whispering I love you against your body with every kiss.Â
            Itâs hot and sweet and perfect. Just like him.Â
            You didnât go looking for the letter, you went looking for your notebook that you left at Peterâs place two days ago, but you found the letter anyways. The letter written for the girl who forgot him, the girl he apparently never got over.Â
            And sometimes, Spider-Man has to do the hard thing. Even if it breaks Peter Parker's heart. Maybe I'll never read this to you. Maybe I'm just writing this for me. Maybe that's my responsibility, to live alone with the truth. But the truth is I love you.Â
            And I hope that deep down, something inside you remembers you love me too.
            You didnât go looking for the letter, but you found it anyways when it fluttered out of the pages of his favourite book. Almost four years of being with him, of knowing him, every piece of him and itâs not enough.Â
            Itâs not enough because someone else holds his heart and you are just the other woman. You are the one warming his bed until some miracle occurs and she remembers and they can live happily ever after together. And youâll be nothing but a footnote in his story.Â
            An adventure without her.Â
            The truth is I love you.Â
            How many times has he said that to you, you wonder, your tears soaking into your pillow, body shaking with your sobs, blankets pulled up to your chin.Â
            Logically, you know it could be old. That it doesnât matter, that things changed, but youâŠdonât believe that. You have spent nearly four years loving him and he hasnât loved you. Maybe he doesnât even now.Â
            Maybe heâs never loved you. How do you know? The problem is you donât.Â
            All you know is that your skin is seared with tears, throat thick, heart racing, chest constricting, lungs burning as you cry. As you cry everything out, sobs hurting your body, destroying you because you know that even after that, you will not leave him. Because you love him.Â
            Because how can you leave him when you donât know the truth of the letter? Maybe itâs old. Maybe he does love you.
            And life is good, isnât it?
            You just need to cry right now. Thatâs all.Â
            âPeter?â you call out, pushing his door open, stepping into his apartment in the attic, webs everywhere. Youâve been avoiding him for a week, the hurt of the letter still too fresh. Itâs why youâre here now, you want to talk to him about it, get the truth behind it, but the apartmentâŠit looks destroyed.Â
            Furniture knocked over, webs on every surface, over all the walls. Nail marks on the walls, deep gouges.Â
            âPeter?!â you call out, your voice urgent, worried, your heart beating a frantic rhythm as you step deeper into the apartment, hearing a strange sound from his room. âPETER!â
            âGo away!â you hear him yell, his voice hoarse, halfway between his voice and a deeper sound, a growl. âJust go away!â
            âNo,â you call out, heart beating both out of fear and anger because you are here because you need answers and youâre not just going to be turned away. âNo, come out here!â You hear him stand, shuffle out towards you and your breath hitches when you see him, eyes black, just black. âPeter? Whatâs wrong?â
            âIâm notâŠme,â he rasps, the black leaching away as he looks at you, body sweating, shaking, stumbling towards you. âIâm worried IâllâŠhurt you.â
            âYou wonât,â you whisper and then heâs there, pulling you against him, his body shaking as he holds you, his nose buried into the crook of your neck, breathing you in.Â
            âItâs likeâŠthe world is darkâŠâ he whispers. âLike I knowâŠnothing. Nothing but you. Always you.â And then heâs pulling you down onto the floor, his body holding yours, tight, tight, tight like he canât let you go. Like if he lets you go, heâll lose you.Â
            Like youâll leave him.Â
            And if he knows nothing but youâŠdoesnât that mean he loves you?
            âPeter,â you whisper, âis this because Iâve been avoiding you?â His grip tightens, a growl sounding deep in his throat.Â
            âMine,â he whispers and you swallow hard, guilt leaching into your bones as you shift, your hands brushing his hair back from his face, the black in his eyes leaching back to the warm, soft brown. âI thinkâŠmaybeâŠit was a trigger. For myâŠchange.â
            âPeter,â you whisper and he looks at you, warm brown eyes filled with tears. âIâm not leaving you. Iâm not. I was dealing with some stuff and didnât know what to do, but Iâm not leaving you. I love you.â And thatâs your truthâyou love him. Deeply, like itâs a piece of you.Â
            âDonât leave,â he whispers and you press your forehead against his, hands still smoothing his hair back, his body shuddering beneath you.Â
            âNever,â you whisper and thatâs how you stay, held tight by him all night. Because he needs you.Â
            And you need him too.
            âWhat if weâŠinhibit whatever is changing you?â you ask him the next morning, seated on the only intact chair in his apartment, pencil moving on the scrap piece of paper, formulas spilling out, a design sketching across the paper. âLikeâŠProfessor Banner did one. If we could inhibit this change in you, chemical or biological and prevent it from controlling youâŠthat would be good right?â
            He turns from where heâs been struggling to make coffee around all the webs and destruction. âGod, I love you,â he says and you roll your eyes, a pleased smile growing on your lips nonetheless.Â
            âWell come on, biotech engineer! Canât do this without you!â
            Peter knows nothing when the arachnid comes over him, takes over. Itâs like the world is dark and everything is strange and foreign and so much. Too loud, too strong, too bright. Itâs like heâs possessed, the real him shoved down, but one thing he does know.Â
            You, always you. Itâs like heâs engineered to know you, designed to love you.Â
            He always knows you.Â
            The arachnid in him always whispers mine and when Peter wakes upâŠhe canât argue with it. Because heâs never loved anyone like heâs loved you.Â
            Peter doesnât know how Jean Grey got into his apartment, but she did. She found the letter he wrote three years ago to MJ, back when he was feeling guilty, back before heâd spilled everything to you. Back before you became his everything.Â
            But Jean Grey found the letter to MJ and once again heâs put her in danger. Because he loved her once, because he knew her. Because he misses her, not as a girlfriend, but a friend. The person he used to know. And he feels so guilty over putting her in danger again.
            Which is why heâs here, at MJâs apartment, bursting in only to see you there too, sitting and talking with her, that soft smile on your face, the one he fell in love with all those years ago.
            âBabe?â he calls out and you turn, a question in your eyes.Â
            âWhyâd you ask me here?â you ask him and he can feel the ground shift underneath his feet as he looks at MJ, a smile on her face that he doesnât know. One thatâs wholly not her.Â
            âYouâre in MJ arenât you, Jean?â he asks and the grin only widens as she nods, stepping around the kitchen counter, a knife in her hand. âCome on! Stab me, I can take it.â
            âItâs not for you, Peter,â Jean says, but itâs MJâs voice and it hurts, hearing her voice say his name. âItâs for your girlfriend.â He barely has time to breathe, to speak before heâs watching MJ (Jean) plunge the knife into your stomach, your body bending into the gesture, folding in, a silent scream leaving your lips.Â
            âNO!â he yells and he can feel the arachnid claw up into him, the inhibitor not yet finished as he crosses the room to you, your body falling into his arms.Â
            âPeter, Peter. Peter,â Jean says, her words in a parody of MJâs voice, dark and cruel and unrelenting, teasing and taunting.Â
            âWHAT?!â he roars, turning, his arms still holding you, tears slipping down his cheeks.Â
            âIâm giving you a choice,â she says and he realizes just how close MJ stands to the open window, the one that if she fell out of would kill her. âYou choose one of them to save. Thereâs a right choice and a wrong choice, Peter. The right choice saves them both, the wrong choice has one die. Whoâs it gonna be, Peter?â He watches as she climbs onto the window ledge, turning, preparing to jump, that cruel smile on her face.Â
            âPeter,â you whisper, your hand reaching for him, your blood soaking your shirt, soaking the floor and he feels his body hitch, fold in on itself because he wants to stay with you, call the ambulance and save you, but he knows that MJ is the right choice. Because he failed her once and he canât fail her again.Â
            âIâm sorry,â he whispers and he lays you down on the floor, gentle and takes off, jumping out the window, arms wrapped around MJ, webs shooting up and out, carrying her away, carrying her to safety in Castleâs hideout.Â
            âWrong choice, Peter,â Jean whispers and then sheâs gone and in her place is MJ, scared and terrified MJ who he explains some things to and she relaxes, going with him. He drops her off and then heâs rushing back, his heart feeling like itâs breaking as he races against time back to MJâs apartment, hurrying and breaking, bursting back into the window, your body unconscious, the blade removed, a giant pool of blood beneath you.Â
            âNO!â he cries, falling to his knees beside you, shooting webs into your stomach, using them to hold you together, the sound of the ambulance roaring, the webs soaking with blood and he holds you against him, crying, your pulse so weak. âNO! STAY! I LOVE YOU!âÂ
            And he stays with you until the EMTs take you away and then he leaves the apartment, needing justice. Needing to finish this.Â
            For you.Â
            âWhyâd you do that to me, Jean?â you ask, your body lying flat in the meadow. A memory of yours that youâre in, that sheâs in too.Â
            âTo show Peter the truth,â she says and you sit up, turning to look at her, a redheaded girl no older than you are, her face worried and tear-stained. âThat sometimes you make the wrong choice and you have to live with that. With what it does.â
            âSo, you killed me for that?â
            âNo,â she says, sinking down beside you in the swaying grass. âNo one was ever going to die. I called the ambulance as soon as he made his choice. I just need him to understand.â
            âWhy Jean?â She looks at you, utterly broken.Â
            âBecause I have answers that I need and I keep making wrong choices. And I have no one.â
            âNot true,â you tell her and she looks at you, brows knitting as you reach for her hand, taking it in yours. âYou have me.â
            âI almost killed you.â
            âBut you were never going to let me die,â you tell her and watch as a single tear slips down her cheek. âYou know, thereâs this story I read once about sisters forged in blood. And I donât know your story, Jean. But I can be that if you need it.â
            âWhy?â she asks you, her voice not breaking so much as already broken.Â
            âBecause everyone needs someone. And youâre not evil, Jean. Youâre justâŠyou need someone and that can be me.â
            âIâd like that,â she says and the two of you lay back into the meadow, the ring of ambulance sirens just cutting through along with the echo of someone yelling stay. âIâll see you later.â
            âYeah,â you tell her. âLater.â And she disappears and youâre left with the knowledge that Peter didnât choose you ringing in your heart, tears slipping down your cheeks until the light flares bright and pain flares stronger and the meadow winks out and the hospital lights wink in.Â
            âSheâs back!â
            But back to what, you wonder. Whatâs there for you now in a city where youâve only really found pain?
            When you got discharged from the hospital, the first thing you did was pack up all your stuff, the acceptance to Oxford for your Ph.D finally chosen. Two weeks before you fly out. Two weeks before you leave New York behind for good.Â
            You took your stuff to your best friend, Gwenâs house where youâve been ever since, camping on her couch, alternating between crying your eyes out and going out only when you know that Peter will be busy with work. The times where youâll never cross paths.Â
            He didnât choose you. He chose MJ. He had the chance to save you both and he saved her because he didnât see the fact that he could have caught her with a web while staunching the flow of blood from your wound. Choosing you was the right choice but he didnât think at all. He just said sorry and took her to safety.Â
            He left you to die.Â
            He left you to die like you were nothing.Â
            You canât stay around him because when you look at him, how will you ever see anything but the man who left you to bleed out? How can you forgive him?
            You canât.Â
            You just canât.Â
            So, youâll bide your time before you fly out, before you leave New York, leave the fucking country behind, finding safety at Oxford, at the hallowed halls youâve always wanted to be at.Â
            Youâll leave Peter behind and move on with your life.Â
            Because you deserve that.
            Because he didnât choose you. Heâll never choose you. You were just the Other Woman.Â
            Peter didnât want to meet with Ned, but heâs spent weeks moping over you, over the fact that everywhere he looks youâre not there. The arachnid is not happy, but it canât do anything, not now that Peter can control it. Not now that he knows that itâs him.Â
            He went because he just wanted to know if he could remember him and he wasnât expecting that spark, the handshake or the way Ned cried after he said Peter. He wasnât expecting him to remember.Â
            âYou really love her?â Ned asks now, the two of them in his attic apartment, piecing Legos together to form the Millenium Falcon.Â
            âI really do,â he answers, pressing a block down and Ned sighs, leaning back in his chair and shaking his head at him.Â
            âThen dude! You have to get her back.â Peter looks at Ned, red just tinging his vision, the urge to smash the work of several weeks still there, the darker side always going to be there.Â
            âHow, Ned? I chose MJ and she thinks I left her to die! I doubt sheâll believe anything I have to say.â
            âIf you really love her,â Ned says, leaning forwards in his chair, arms resting on his knees, hands folded under his chin, âthen show her. Put everything on the line for her and tell her everything. Even if it means leaving it all behind.â
            âBut what if she still says no?â Peter whispers.Â
            âBut what if she says yes, man?â
            The airport is far too loud for this early in the morning and youâre still sad, that particular sadness of leaving your life behind swirling in your gut, the sight of Gwenâs teary face as she waved goodbye still eating at you now while you sit, waiting for the time to board. Waiting for the time to leave it all behind.Â
            At least that was until you heard your name being called in a voice you never wanted to hear again. You turn in your chair, taking in the sight of Peter, his curls brushed out of his face, hooded jacket on, dark blue jeans and the Rolling Stones shirt you bought him one Christmas on his frame.Â
            He looks good. And that hurts. You turn back around, ignoring him, hoping he doesnât come closer, but of course you arenât that lucky, his footsteps, his unique rhythm echoing behind you as he steps around to sit down beside you, his hands folded in his lap, attention focused on the large windows exposing the planes.Â
            âWhen Harry Met Sally,â he says and you glance at him, surprise etching on your face, throat thickening and lungs burning as you look at him.Â
            âWhat?â you ask, your voice thick in that way a voice is when youâre holding back tears, that image of his masked face whispering sorry still too strong.Â
            âHardy-Weinberg equilibrium, blue, popcorn and milk duds. You hate coding but you love calculating. You love watching sunrises but hate watching sunsets. You like the moon more than the sun but the sun more than the stars. You hate sleeping with the windows open. You love sleeping with your arms out of the covers. You love when we cuddle. You love coffee, so much so that if we cut you open, you always say that youâd bleed caffeine.â
            âPeter,â you whisper and he looks over at you, his face creased with pain, tears slipping down his cheeks over and over again, his face carved with the rivulets of grief. âPeter, you didnât choose me. You left me to die. How canâŠHow can I-I forgive you?â Tears are slipping down your cheeks now and he sighs, reaching for your hand, fingers interlacing through yours.Â
            âI chose wrong,â he whispers. âI know that now. I could have saved you both, but all I thought in that moment was that I had already failed MJ and that I didnât want her to die because I felt guilty. But I went right back for you. I must have broken a thousand speed records to get back to you.Â
            âI held you as you bled. It were my webs that saved you, staunching the blood flow. I held you until the EMTs arrived. I yelled and begged and pleaded for you to stay, but you were unconscious, you didnât hear me. But I was there.â He looks at you with such pain that you reach forwards, hands cupping his cheeks, thumbs wiping away his tears.Â
            You look at him and in his eyes, you see the truth there. You know heâs not lying. You know he loves you. That he would do anything for you. That he loves you. That it wasnât fake.Â
            You werenât the other woman after all.Â
            âPeter,â you whisper, your voice still hitching with the tears, âI forgive youâŠbut I canât stay here. I canât stay in New York.â
            âI know,â he whispers and then a figure steps up beside him, two carry-on bags on his shoulders.Â
            âIâm Ned,â he says and you can feel a bit of shock in your system, this man, Peterâs best friend. The one who forgot him. âAnd yeah, I remember.â
            âIâm coming with you,â Peter says.Â
            âWhile, actually,â Ned says. âWeâre coming with you because heâs following you and Iâm following him because Iâve gone four years without my best friend and not any more. Also, Iâm mission control so⊠you know. He needs me.â He sits down beside Peter and Peter elbows him, a choked giggle escaping from your throat as you wave at Ned. Peter whispers, âShut upâ at Ned and it only makes you laugh harder.Â
            âBut what about Spiderman?â you whisper and he looks at you with such love as he pulls you against him that it feels for a moment like youâre complete.Â
            âIâm always gonna be him,â he says. âItâs not the city that matters. Itâs you. I can be Spiderman anywhere so long as my home is there. As long as youâre there, because, pretty girl. Youâre all that matters to me. Where you go, I go.â
            âI hope you like rain,â you whisper and he pulls back, pressing his forehead against yours.Â
            âI love it,â he whispers and then heâs kissing you, hard and deep and fast and you were wrong before. Your first kiss wasnât a kiss for the ages.Â
            This is.Â
            Because this is the moment that you became real.Â
summary: cuddling with Dex and finding his spinal scar
wc: 1.2K
pairing: ddba!dex + gn!reader (fem!reader tag for reach)
cw: mentions of death, mentiones of injury, mentions of surgery, gender neutral reader, no physical description of reader, no use of y/n
a/n: this one was requested by anon, first half is their prompt (we're basically co-writers yuppie), enjoyâš
You're sprawled on the couch with Dex on top, full from lunch, warm, sleepy. It's your first time fully cuddling with him, it took a bit of adjusting to find a comfortable position but now you're both in heaven.
One of your hands is on his shoulder, the other running through his hair. Everything is going great, he's relaxed enough to melt, until the hand that was in his hair brushes too low and finds the start of the scar along his spine and he freezes. Full on, body locked stiff, eyes wide, suddenly very awake and aware of your hand and what it touched.
His brain starts doing what it does, running laps around all the different scenarios in which you find out about his scar and feel disgusted that you ever even touched him or looked his way. He starts panicking internally, trying very hard to not break down on top of you, trying to keep himself from hyperventilating or uncontrollably crying.
While that happens, you've noticed the shift and are trying to check on him.
"Dex?"
"Are you ok?"
"Sweetheart, can you hear me?"
It takes you holding his face in your hands, lifting it up until your eyes are level, and you calling his name two more times to get a reaction. And what you get is the most heartbreaking sound you've ever heard. A mix between a whine and a sob. His breath is short, his eyes glassy. He's waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the rejection, but he really doesn't want it to come.
He didn't think it would get that far, so fast. He didn't have time to come up with reasons, excuses, stories. All he has is his scars and his frozen brain refusing to dig him out of the ditch.
You don't even know what's wrong yet, all you know is that you were caressing his hair and his neck... and then you remember the odd texture you felt, and it clicks. It wasn't the tag of his shirt.
You ask if you hurt him, start apologizing, and he blurts out "you're ok with it?" As if a scar was optional, or gross, or embarrassing. And all you want to do is reassure him, hold him close, tell him that his painful experience isn't something that should push people away just by sight or touch.
âAm I okay with what, love?â you ask carefully, wanting to gently nudge him towards the answer rather than just assume things. He huffs, hiding his face into your shoulder. The words come out muffled as he nuzzles deeper. âYou know whatâŠâ he replies in a sheepish, teary sound, clenching the fabric of your shirt between his fingers.
Poor thing, you thought to yourself, can't even bring himself to tell you what's bothering him.
âHeyâŠâ you coo, treading through his hair with gentle fingers, your other hand stays on the small of his back, steady and grounding. âTell me, baby, what's wrong?â
âIt's th- the s- the scarâŠâ he stutters out, trailing off on the last syllable. His body is tense with embarrassment, breath shaky and uneven. You snake your arms tighter around him as you press him closer to your chest, letting your warmth seep into him through your skin and clothes.
You feel your shirt dampening and the wet fabric clinging to your collarbone but you pay it no mind. Right about now your thoughts were occupied with your big strong boyfriend sobbing into your shoulder because of some mysterious scar? âWhat scar, sweetheartâŠ? Please, tell me, I- I really wanna helpâŠâ you murmur into his hair, pressing your lips to his head between words.
Dex sighs and finally manages to gather some courage to mumble: âThe one⊠mhm⊠on my backâŠâ Your eyebrows fly up in realisation. Ah, there it is. âCan I see?â you probe carefully, still hugging him tight, as if letting your grip loose even slightly would lead to Dex disappearing into thin air. After receiving a weak nod from him you hook your thumb under the collar of the simple gray tee he was wearing and lift the fabric enough to expose the skin of his back to your sight.
There it was. The long-ass scar which started at the nape of his neck, going down his spine and ending at the tailbone. Straight line right through the middle of his back, obviously from a surgery, an old one, but still more pinkish that the surrounding skin, with tiny bumps on either side, where the sutures had been.
Oh. That's the scar. Your breath must've hitched at the sight because Dex tensed up even more in your hold with a pitiful whimper. You let go of the fabric and pull him closer.
âHey, it's alright⊠it's alrightâŠâ you continue to coo at him like one would at a stray kitten. âIt's just a scar⊠Wanna tell me how you got this one? Hm?â You still cradle him like he's fragile, still murmur reassurances into his ear, still donât run away in disgust.
At that Dex's sobs get louder, body shaking in embarrassment. Is he supposed to tell you the truth? How he, the best sniper of the FBI SWAT squad, excelling every test including intellectual ones, got fooled by a stupid obese crime boss, whose life he so foolishly saved just doing his job well, into being his pawn assassin? That the said crime boss got the person, whose proximity was keeping him sane, killed off? And that when Dex tried to get revenge on that boar-sized fucker, he broke Dex's spine like a twig, instantly paralyzing him? Tell you that he was laying there in the puddle of his own piss and shit the whole time before the ambulance arrived, not sure if heâll be able to walk again? Maybe he should tell you how the general anesthesia didn't work well and how he woke up in panic on the table, face down, with surgeons fussing over his vertebrae while the only thing he could see was the OR floor?
The flood of memories washed over Dex's mind, bringing a new load of tears to his eyes. His broad frame shaking in your arms while he hides his face shamefully in the crook of your neck. He can't help it. The pain. The wreckage. He never mourned his past before, never felt the need to. Or maybe didn't want to be seen as less strong or brave by you. But here, in the safety of your embrace⊠all pretence is stripped away, leaving him a wailing, trembling mess.
Oh god. No no no. Your heart is clenching at the sight of your boyfriend spiralling because of some stupid scar. You feel your own eyes well up with tears. Poor baby. You hug him even tighter, tilting your head to nuzzle your face into his hair. You were pressing frantic kisses all over the top of his head, crying silently with him and murmuring something between kisses. âIt's okay, baby, it- shhhh, it's okay⊠I love you, love you so much⊠I love all of you, with all your scars and wounds and whatnot⊠I have scars too, y'know? I'll show you⊠we can be bruised and broken together⊠I promise, it's okayâŠâ
Dex's sobs finally subsided and he carefully lifted his head to look at you with wet red-rimmed eyes.
nsfw content â sweaty sex, sweat kink yes, dex eating you out, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, grinding, nipple stimulation, riding, cream pie, messy, dex is clingy, there is a p!link hehe, do not be fooled by the word count cuz this is very porn without plot
1.4k words
the sun seemed to be in a particularly bad mood. it felt like you were on a free trial for hell. and to make your lucky day even better, the air conditioner wasnât working properly.
dex had really tried to fix it. heâd spent a good portion of the afternoon messing with it, checking everything he could think of, only to eventually admit defeat.
so your only option was to use the electric fans. which... werenât helping much either. they were moving the air around, but they couldnât actually make the room any cooler. youâd even turned one toward the window, hoping to push some of the trapped heat outside and get fresher air in. it was stupid. absolutely stupid.
your apartment was on a high floor, directly beneath a roof that had spent hours absorbing the afternoon sun. the heat had seeped through the ceiling and settled into the apartment, making every room feel stuffy and oppressive. the fan could only circulate that same warm air.
you were in hell.
your only savior was the little handheld fan in your palm, which was probably one exhausted motor away from dying. it wasnât cooling the apartment either. of course it wouldnât. it was only pushing enough air across your skin to make the heat slightly more bearable.
the heat also meant dex hadnât been getting much physical affection from you. in your defense, it was hot. cuddling would suffocate you. and apparently, dex took this personally.
âyou havenât touched me all day,â he complained from beside you. he sat there looking just as miserable, his skin damp with sweat.
you continued fanning yourself. âdex, itâs very hot.â
âyouâre avoiding me.â his eyebrows furrowed slightly.
âiâm avoiding your body heat,â you answered quickly.
âthatâs the same thing.â
âno, it isnât.â you shook your head.
âfeels like it.â he shrugged, stubbornly. âbaby, please. just sit close to me.â
you glanced at him from the corner of your eye. âand get hotter?â you gave him a sarcastic little nod.
dex only sighed. then he moved closer anyway. his skin touched yours. you immediately looked at him, ready to complain about how sweaty he was, but then your eyes wandered.
oh god.
his biceps were glistening with sweat, the sheen making every line of muscle look more defined. his white tank top was damp too, clinging to his chest and shoulders. it wasnât helping. neither was the way he smelled.
he was sweaty. warm. fresh from sitting in the oppressive heat for hours. and somehow, instead of pushing him away, you found yourself unconsciously pressing your thighs together.
dex rested his forehead against your shoulder. he placed a few small, lazy kisses against your skin, seemingly content now that heâd finally gotten what he wanted. his hand settled on your thigh. his fingers squeezed gently before relaxing again.
then he rested his nose against your warm skin for a moment, angling himself toward the little stream of cool air from your handheld fan.
you watched him quietly. it was so hot that you could feel everything. the fabric of your clothes against your skin. the damp strands of hair sticking to your neck. the warmth lingering beneath your skin. every little touch seemed magnified by the heat.
and dexâs hand was still resting on your thigh.
his eyes slowly drifted to your chest. you werenât wearing any bra under your tank top. he could very clearly see how sweaty your fucking tits are. the middle of them glistened with sweat. his mind got pretty much occupied with the thought of just licking that sweat off your skin. he stopped himself from those thoughts with a kiss moving up to your collarbones.
which wasnât enough. neither of you was particularly composed anymore.
his lips went higher and higher up your neck until they reached your jaw. and before you could even think further, before you could stop yourself from experiencing this moment, you turned off your hand fan and placed it down. his lips reached yours. you immediately kissed back. it was a messy, sloppy kiss.
his hands went to your hips, placing you on his lap. he pressed your body closer until you were pressed against him, controlling your hips to grind on him so he could feel your nipples rubbing against his chest.
he groaned into the kiss as he felt your hardened nipples. you started undressing each other until both of you were fully naked.
just like how he was thinking earlier, he licked a long strip from your chest down in between your tits, tasting the salty sweat off your body. his tongue didnât stop there. it kept going until he was kissing your sweaty pussy. oh, he absolutely loved that. you could very much tell from how he growled before putting his mouth over it, giving it a harsh suck that made your legs wrap around his neck.
he was eating you out really hungrily. the scent went straight to his brain. something that seemed to control him, making him eat you like it was the last meal on earth. add in your own wetness from the heat and the arousal, and heâs got a mess he can drown in. his nose rubbed against your slick skin while his tongue flicked against your cunt, licking long strips that earned loud gasps from you and a tug on his hair.
then, with just a few more strokes of his tongue, you finally came undone. soaked and trembling and slick with his spit, your own juices, and all that glorious sweat. his chin and lips came away soaked and shining. even then, he still couldnât stop. you had to whine and push his head away because he kept on licking you through it.
âdex- goshâŠ! dex- wait- â you panted hard as you closed your legs and moved his head away. he gave a few last gentle laps before completely pulling his mouth from your pussy to give you a break.
when you finally had enough breath, he ate you out some more, making you cum three times before he even fucked you.
youâre on top of him, letting you take the lead as... well... a little something for eating you out until your legs were shaking.
his cock was so hard and he hadnât been using it because he was too busy making you feel good.
he held his breath as you slowly slid his cock inside you. his thighs clenched and the grip he had on your hips tightened. a grip he was trying to loosen but couldnât. as soon as he fully entered you, âoh... fuckâŠâ he let out a deep exhale that heâd been holding back. his head fell back into the couch. he licked his lip as he closed his eyes. âyouâre so warm, baby.â
then you started bouncing up and down on him. slowly but deeply. your hands running down his body. both of you were sweaty because of the hot air the electric fan was still blowing. the back of your thighs were slippery against his skin.
when you got tired, he took care of you. really good care. adjusting his position to a better angle and widening his thighs to fuck you better. pulling you against him and kissing your forehead before slamming his hips up and down under you. fast and hard. it earned continuous wet slaps of your skin against his. you couldnât keep a sound from escaping your mouth. you kept on moaning, whining, cursing, whimpering, and whatever else you could let out.
dex was breathing hard and moaning deeply while still giving sweet kisses on your face and licking the sweat off your skin.
the orgasm builds slowly for both of you. your clit is swollen and sensitive, and every time he presses against it, the friction is almost too much but just right. he pulled you closer to him for a hot sloppy kiss. you breathe into each otherâs mouths, sharing the same air and moaning into each otherâs lips.
a few strokes later, his cum spilled inside you with a grunt. you came at the same time. whining against his skin as you buried your face in his neck. biting down on his skin as you clenched around him.
as you both calmed down, panting hard, his cock stayed buried inside you. just feeling each other throb while your walls clenched around him. both of you ended up much more sweaty and warm.
maybe sweaty hot sex is one way to cope with this hellish sun heat.
requested by anonymous <3
really enjoyed writing this especially since i live in a tropical country đ
Kinda spoilers for bnd so if you havenât watched it come back later
This is really really silly but i couldnât stop giggling when i thought of it⊠anyways wow what a movie.
Also I knew sheâd be there cus if youâve seen my other posts then you know I made it happen, but i was still so shocked when she was actually there it was funny.
wait this is lowk kinda a random request but I hope you know the sound on tiktok âyou gonna argue with me and get your đ± ateâ
pretty please could we get a dex fic about thatđđđ
the apartment is dark except for the single lamp you left on in the living room. youâve been pacing for two hours, arms crossed, jaw tight. he should have called you. he always calls you.
when the door finally clicks open, dex steps inside like nothingâs wrong, tactical gear still on, blood on his knuckles.
"where the fuck have you been?" you snap at him.
he shuts the door behind him, his eyes flickering over you in a flat yet assessing way. "sorry, was working late."
"you said youâd be home by ten. itâs almost two."
dex shrugs off his jacket, hanging it behind the door. "i know. m'sorry, things ran long."
"thatâs not an answer." you step closer, voice rising. "you canât just disappear and expect me to sit here waiting like some--"
he moves fast. one second youâre talking, the next heâs crowding you back against the kitchen counter, hands gripping your hips. "keep going, babe." he says quietly.
you open your mouth again but his fingers are already working the waistband of your sleep shorts, trailing lazy kisses down your neck. yanking your shorts down, he hoists you up onto the counter, your snarks and remarks falling onto deaf ears. he drops to his knees on the tile, peeling your half damp panties down your thighs to meet your shorts pooled at your ankles. "i know, i know, baby. i said i'm sorry." he kisses up your inner thighs, nipping and sucking soft bruises to your plush skin. "fuck, you're so wet." he pries sticky folds open with two fingers strings of arousal keeping them connected. "not mad enough for this, huh?"
"dex--"
he doesnât answer. just seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, a finger gently circling the give. his tongue swirls against your clit, and your knees buckle. his free hand pins your hip to the counter while his tongue works in tight, relentless circles.
your hands grab the edge of the counter when he finally slides a finger in, mouth never leaving your clit. every time you try to speak he sucks harder, tongue flicking faster until your thighs start shaking around his head. relentless, you still try to pry him off your cunt, despite your rocks and moans.
"iâm--fuck.."
he keeps going, finger pumping, tongue relentless, until you come with a choked cry, pussy clenching around his fingers. he guides you through it, a hand comfortably rubbing up and down your side. slow and thorough, only pulling back when your grip on the counter loosens and your breathing evens out. a string of saliva between his lips and your pussy keeping him connected to you.
dex places soft kisses against your skin once again, making his way up to your lips, not before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. holding a smug look on his face when he asks "still mad?" he taps the side of your thigh.
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