THIRSTY THURSDAY!!!! Getting dressed up all nice to go out and not even making it to the restaurant before Peter is fucking you in your nice dress and heels. Very partition by Beyoncé.
Veryyyy "Partition," but also, very "Green, Green, Dress?" Like the way he touches her in that dress... Just makes me feel a little crazyyyy -- Enjoy! (to me, this definitely takes place in the "predictive text" universe).
18+ ONLY please -- it’s a whole thing. Touching, biting, mirror sex, some absolute verbal filth. Probably stupid and slutty because I’m tired.
anything you say [tasm!peter parker x reader]
wc: 1.1k of absolute filth (i love blurbs. i’d love to write one someday).
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"We’re going to be late ....” Peter rounded the corner to your room, halting at the dooraway. “Whoaaaa, where have you been hiding that?"
You glanced up into the standing, floor-length mirror to lock eyes with your boyfriend through your reflection. The flowy, satin-y redwine dress was soft to the touch as you smoothed it down the tops of your legs, rewarding Peter with a flashing glimpse of your bare thigh between your midnight stockings and the hem of your dress. Like the kind of devastating girl who would be the subject of a Hozier song, a perpetual muse leading to eventual, indescribable destruction.
“You’re not so bad yourself, Pete,” you acknowledged, appreciatively noting the crisp white dress shirt he had donned, sleeves rolled up his sculpted forearms to rest at the elbow. “Bared forearms?” You quirked a brow at your boyfriend in jest, “You harlot.”
Peter snorted at that, though his heated, honeyed eyes hadn’t left your form, roving the curves bedecked by the flattering cut of a sweetheart neckline, smooth long sleeves, and a decently-short hemline. You smirked at Peter in the mirror, pleased at his reaction, his assessment of you, and turning your attention back to fixing your stockings into place.
You felt, rather than heard, your boyfriend breeze into place behind you, felt the warmth of his arms coming to encase you, his electrifying touch grazing the satin sheen along the curve of your hips.
“Baby,” he breathed into your ear, “this is fucking cruel of you -- to make me sit through dinner when you look good enough to fucking eat. How could any man focus?”
You made a show of rolling your eyes, your voice taking on a flirtatious lilt and doing your best to ignore the feeling of Peter’s palms skating over your hips and up your sides,
“But Peter,” you gasped, teasing him for his earlier concern, “We’re going to be late.”
“That depends,” Peter’s mouth was skating up your neck, coming to rest along the shell of your ear, all heated whispers and filthy fucking promises. “How fast do you think I can make you cum before we go?”
If Peter’s handsy little tête-à-tête wasn’t making the heat rush through you, his words sure did the trick, feeling wetness begin to pool at your core at the weight of his words.
“I’ll bet ...” One of Peter’s hands roved up the front of your dress to cup the fullness of your tit before dragging firmly up to your throat, the other hand traipsing a teasing, spidersilk trail up the hem of your skirt and along the exposed skin of your upper thigh, “I’ll just fucking bet I can wreck you properly in time.”
Peter gripped, pulling you back by the bare skin of your hip into his front, rolling the very obvious effect your dress had on him into your backside.
You sighed, eyes rolling slightly back at his words, the feel of a firm hand around your throat and the promise of Peter, Peter, Peter driving the very thought of a months-long dinner reservation out of your mind. Sure, date-nights with your vigilante boyfriend were few and far between, thanks to the nocturnal nature of his unpaid hero gig. But some things were worth weighing. Like the very real weight of Peter’s erection against you. Or the fact that his hands were everywhere at once, all of a sudden. Running beneath your skirt to feel what you had hoped would be a surprise later, but may as well be discovered now -- your very real lack of underwear beneath said red dress.
Your ears were met with the breathy moan of your boyfriend at his discovery, something for your ears to cherish, as he trailed a long finger firmly through your slit, gathering it’s wetness.
“Oh, honey,” Peter’s voice had taken on a hint of what you might mistake for meanness if you didn’t know better, a condescending clip met with nipping teeth and the trace of tongue along your ear, molten words melting their way into your brain, “Fuck.”
You felt one of Peter’s hands abscond from its rightful resting place along your hip to unzip his pants.
“I-I’m just not good with self-control,” Peter groaned, taking himself in his hand and rolling a teasing stroke of his cock along your folds, causing you to buck your hips at the very promise of the weight of him inside of you. “I’m going to fuck you now, okay?”
Your gasping breath became baited, awaiting Peter,’s next move. Which, apparently, was waiting on you. His grip had returned to your neck, traveling to grip the hair gathered at the nape of your neck and pulling until you opened your eyes with a shrill gasp.
“Okay?” Peter demanded again, locking eyes with your starry ones in the mirror.
“Yes,” you sighed, allowing your eyes to slip closed again at the feel of Peter finally, mercifully, sliding inside of you from behind, your silken heat gripping him as he began to fuck you in earnest.
“Mayyyybe,” Peter gritted, relishing in the sound of his hips meeting your flesh, pushing into you with a pleasurable, punishing pace that made starry tears prickle at the corner of your eyes. “Maybe I’ll make you cum again in the cab on the way there. Fuck your pretty little pussy with my fingers until you just can’t stay quiet?”
Oh, God. The thought, Peter’s words, spurring you closer, closer, as a particularly brutal thrust knocked you forward enough that you had to clutch the sides of the standing mirror with shaky fingers, undone and wrecked by the sight of Peter behind you.
The kind of girl you like is right here with me...
“Maybe I’ll take you in the bathroom, taste your sweet cunt for dessert?” Peter’s clever fingers you adored so well now playing a well-loved tune, circling over, along, against your clit, causing you to see stars, the heat ever-climbing. “If I do that, you’d have to be good all through dinner. Can you do that? Hmmm?”
Peter’s thrusts were brutal, punishing and choppy as you could feel him nearing his end. A particularly clever strum of his fingers against your clit had you toppling over the edge, a gasping
“Yes,” leaving your lips in answer to Peter’s filthy queries, relishing in the heavy drag of his final thrusts within you, of the feeling of his release inside of you, and the ache you loved to hate, that you knew that was soon to follow when he pulled out, leaving you desperate for him again.
