can you write a fic that is sex pollen infected peter parker who is very scared to hurt reader/stark, they’ve been best friends with tension since childhood and are adults now. when they finally do the deed, peters senses are very strong because of the pollen. thank you!
You’d seen Peter shaken before—after battles, after near misses, after losses that still lived behind his eyes—but you had never seen him like this. His hands trembled against his knees, knuckles white, his breath coming in sharp bursts like he was fighting off an invisible storm.
“It’s—it’s in my system,” he rasped, almost panicked. “I can feel it. I can’t—God, I can’t trust myself around you right now—”
“Pete.” You crouched in front of him, forcing him to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, the barest brush of air between you making his throat work in a swallow. His whole body was tight, like a bowstring about to snap. “It’s not your fault. And you’re not going to hurt me.”
He laughed, raw and broken. “You don’t get it. I can smell you. It’s—everything is—louder. Closer. I can hear your heart beating like it’s inside me. If I lose control—” His voice cracked, the fear in it cutting deep. “You’ve been my best friend since we were kids. I can’t—if I ever—”
You didn’t let him spiral. You placed your hand against his cheek, steadying. He stilled instantly, like the world had gone silent just because you touched him. His breath hitched, and when he opened his eyes again, there was fire there—want and terror twined together.
“Peter,” you whispered, your thumb brushing his jaw. “You’ve never hurt me. Not once. And I trust you more than anyone in the world.”
The pollen buzzed between you, electric in the air. His hand lifted, hovering like he was afraid to make contact, but then your lips were on his before he could overthink it. The kiss was searing—familiar and foreign all at once—and you felt his whole body shudder like the dam had finally cracked.
He tried to pull back, breathing hard, muttering, “I shouldn’t—” but your hands tangled in his shirt, anchoring him.
“Don’t fight it,” you murmured against his lips. “Not with me.”
When he finally let himself give in, the difference was staggering. His senses, sharpened by the pollen, made every brush of skin, every sigh, every tiny shift of your heartbeat feel like a universe exploding behind his eyes. He gasped into your mouth, overwhelmed, whispering broken things against your skin—how soft, how warm, how much he’d wanted this for years but never let himself hope.
And when you whispered back that you wanted him too—that you always had—his whole frame seemed to unravel. Every move he made was still careful, trembling on the edge of restraint, but you could feel the reverence in it, the awe, like you were something sacred he’d been entrusted with.
For Peter, the world had always been too loud, too sharp, too much, but in that moment, even with the pollen amplifying everything, you weren’t overwhelming. You were home.
Peter’s breath stuttered when your mouth brushed his, the smallest spark setting him alight. He froze, every nerve in his body on edge, and then he let out the softest, strangled sound when you kissed him again—deeper this time, certain.
His lips parted against yours like he’d been waiting his whole life for it. The taste of him was familiar and new, dizzying in the way only Peter could be. His hands, which had been hovering helplessly at his sides, finally found you—one trembling as it slid up your arm, the other gripping the back of your shirt like he was afraid you’d vanish.
The pollen made everything sharper for him—your heartbeat thundering, the faint shiver in your breath, the warmth of your skin under his fingertips. He broke the kiss with a gasp, his forehead pressing to yours, voice hoarse. “I can’t—God, it’s so much. You’re so much.”
“You can,” you whispered, brushing your nose against his. Your hand guided his back to your waist, urging him closer. “It’s just me. Just us.”
Something in him cracked at that, and then he was kissing you like a man starved. His mouth moved against yours with growing hunger, his tongue sliding to taste you, drawing a shiver from your chest. The sound made him groan, deep and desperate, and he pulled you flush against him like restraint was slipping through his fingers.
You let yourself melt into it, tangling your fingers in his hair, tugging just enough to make him gasp into your mouth. His response was instant—his lips trailing to the corner of your jaw, down to your throat, each kiss hot and unsteady. He whispered your name there like a prayer, voice wrecked.
Every brush of his lips was frantic but reverent, like he was memorizing the shape of you, every heartbeat, every breath. When you pulled his face back up to kiss him again, the world seemed to narrow to nothing but the two of you—heat, breath, hands, lips. For Peter, whose senses had always been a burden, right now they only told him the truth: you were his anchor, his match, his forever.
Peter kissed you like he was starving, and you matched him kiss for kiss, heat curling through your veins. His hands slid beneath your shirt, spreading across your bare skin, calloused fingertips brushing your ribs and making you shiver. He froze, groaning softly.
“You feel so good,” he muttered, voice cracked with need. His forehead pressed to yours like he was trying to ground himself, but his thumbs kept stroking your skin, unable to stop.
“Then don’t stop,” you whispered, tugging at his hair until his mouth was on yours again.
It grew messy fast—teeth clashing, lips swollen, breath stolen from each other. He pressed you harder into the wall, his body flush against yours, and you could feel him trembling with restraint. His hips rocked just slightly against yours before he yanked himself back with a hiss.
“I shouldn’t—I can’t lose it with you—”
“You won’t,” you breathed, catching his mouth again. “It’s me, Peter. I want this. I want you.”
The sound that left him was half-groan, half-plea, and then he was kissing down your throat, open-mouthed and wet, dragging his teeth along your skin. Your gasp made him shudder. His hands slid higher under your shirt, palms flattening against your back, dragging you closer.
“God, I’ve dreamed about this,” he whispered against your collarbone, voice wrecked. “About you. About touching you.”
You tugged at the hem of his shirt, desperate. He yanked it over his head in one frantic motion, and your hands mapped the lines of muscle beneath his skin, his body trembling under your touch. His mouth returned to yours, hungrier than ever, tongue sliding against yours, groan rumbling deep in his chest when you pressed your hips to his.
The pollen made every movement unbearable in its intensity—your warmth, your taste, your heartbeat hammering against his own. His senses drowned him in you, every gasp and sigh carving into him. He pulled your shirt off, hands roaming reverently, lips following—kissing across your shoulder, down the slope of your chest, back up to your throat, like he couldn’t stop worshiping every inch.
“Tell me to stop,” he begged against your mouth, even as his hands dragged you closer, even as his hips ground into yours with desperate friction.
“Don’t you dare stop,” you whispered back, biting his lip.
He groaned, ragged and low, and then you were both lost in the fever of it—hands tangled in hair, clothes tugged away in frantic touches, your bodies pressed tighter and tighter until there was no space left between you, only heat and want and years of tension snapping at last.
When you gasped his name again, Peter’s restraint shattered, and the world narrowed to nothing but you, him, and the inevitable.
Peter kissed you like he couldn’t get enough, like every second was a lifetime lost. His hands trembled as they slid beneath the hem of your shirt, fingertips tracing reverent lines up your spine before he tugged the fabric over your head and tossed it aside.
He stilled, eyes wide, chest heaving. For a moment, he didn’t move—just stared, drinking you in like you were something holy. “God,” he whispered, voice raw, “you’re… you’re perfect.”
You tugged his shirt off in return, letting your hands explore the planes of muscle beneath his skin, feeling every shiver that ran through him. His body was wound tight, vibrating with restraint, and when your palms brushed low on his stomach, he groaned into your mouth, clutching your hips harder.
Then he was everywhere—his lips trailing down your throat, dragging over the curve of your shoulder, hot open-mouthed kisses marking your skin. His tongue traced along your collarbone, and when you gasped, his groan vibrated against your chest.
“I can taste your heartbeat,” he murmured, half-delirious, lips dragging lower. “Every part of you—God, it’s too much and not enough.”
You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging him closer, guiding his mouth wherever you wanted him. He obeyed without hesitation, kissing across your skin like he was worshiping, whispering broken confessions between kisses.
“Been dreaming about this—about you—for years.” His hands slid down your sides, thumbs brushing the edge of your waistband. He lifted his head just long enough to meet your eyes, pupils blown wide, desperate and reverent all at once. “Tell me if I go too far.”
“You won’t,” you promised, breathless, pulling him back down. “You couldn’t.”
That was all he needed. His mouth found you again, hotter, hungrier, leaving a trail of kisses that made your whole body arch into him. The pollen made every sound you made echo inside him, every shiver of your skin beneath his lips searing into his senses. He was unraveling under it, but instead of fighting, he clung tighter—worshipping, tasting, memorizing.
He whispered your name like it was both a prayer and a plea, forehead pressed to yours as though grounding himself in you alone. The pollen still made his senses scream, every sound, every heartbeat, every shiver magnified until he could barely breathe.
“Stay with me,” he begged against your lips, his voice breaking.
“Always,” you whispered back, pulling him down to you.
And when the last barrier between you fell away, when he finally surrendered to everything he’d been holding back for years, the world blurred—heat and touch and breath and whispered confessions lost in the dark.
I see your 'sonar has an oral fixation' and raise you; sonar would die if you sat on his face. Please sit on his face. Put your whole weight onto it too he can handle it he promises-
This ask has been eyeing me every time I check my inbox 👁
warnings: sonar’s oral fixation, sonar's various substance additions, now including pussy!, face sitting, oral sex, sonar being a nasty little freak about it 😌, lots of food metaphors
word count: 1k
Sonar’s never been sure what it is about sucking really anything between his lips that soothes the itch, but there’s nothing like a mouthful of something to take the edge off. It used to be cigs. They came along with a sweet rush of nicotine, the satisfying click of the lighter striking and the lingering glances he’d get, glowing cherry between his lips and a leg kicked up against the midtown high rise. But he’s inside or on the job now more often than not.
And he can't smoke in the office anymore. It’s ‘frowned upon’ and ‘has been illegal for years’ according to Blazer.
He tries going back to an old favorite. A classic from grade school. Then Robert gets pissed real quick when all his pencils are chewed down to nibs after the first week, so Sonar’s back on the prowl for something to curb that particular craving. He doesn’t exactly have teeth for chewing which means gum’s out of the question, and the nice filed square cut of his nails is too good to ruin.
Fortunately for him, there's a certain someone who keeps a little candy bowl on their desk.
It never interested him before. Sonar's not so big on chocolate, call it a hunch, but he's always thought it might kill him. So he steers clear, even though the hand drawn sign's got hearts in sharpie next to the words , "Please take one!" in tempting print. After that it’s mints, but they taste like mouthwash and he’s not got anybody he’s kissing in the breakroom these days, so what’s the use?
Then one day after the holiday you come back with this big ass bag perched on your hip the size of a small child.
Or Beef, maybe.
There’s a glassy jingle as the bowl is refilled and he reads the text on the packaging after it's stuffed under your cubicle.
Some 400 fucking flavors of those tiny dum-dum lollipops ranging from root beer, to blue raspberry, to your pants, my floor c'mon baby—
Alright, so maybe he always thought you were kinda cute. Not in any intentional way, just like how you see an Armani tie bar in the windows downtown and think "well that looks nice, but I can do better."
Although, honesty's never really been in his wheelhouse.
And you do look nice.
He's starting think maybe you're tryin' to classically condition him or some shit, cause he took a psych class once at Harvard and it's a little suspicious how he can't walk by without you holding out your crystal bowl—smirk on your face that's growing more striking by the day—saying:
"Hey Sonar, want some?"
In a voice that swiftly works its way into his nightly 'alone time', if you catch his drift.
Now he's not clueless, he knows what kind of guy he is. The guys at his old office had some words for it, followed by manly slaps on the back. He thought he knew what kinda person you were too, but maybe not.
Even Homer sometimes nods.
It's gotten to the point he can't even enter the bullpen without taking the path that leads right by your desk, ears pricked to attention and his fingers itching to dip inside the smooth cut glass and take a sweet. Pop it between his teeth right away, so he can watch the way your eyes trace his tongue.
Shit, he's really rolling the dice on this one. Taking a gamble for big time winnings. Pulling out the Trump card for his biggest investor.
"Which flavor would you be?" he asks after weeks of torture, like he's offered you the deal of the century, ten times back in returns.
And then you do the last thing he ever expected.
Flip the script. Hit him with a counter pitch of your own.
"I'm really not sure," you've got the top three buttons of your blouse undone, a smart little tease of the goods on offer. "Why don't you tell me?"
And, fuck if he doesn't sign his name on that dotted line right then and there.
You're in Sonar's bed that night, all unwrapped and ready for him to finally get a taste. Get that sweet little treat you've been hiding all this time between his lips until he's finally satisfied the craving.
If only you’d stop holding out on him.
"Quit hovering," he's bitching, but he doesn't care. You've been teasing him with this too long, priming and prepping him to want it so bad he's gonna fucking scream.
His tongue can reach, can swirl and slide through your folds, get a hint of that flavor he's guessing at. But he didn't get you here for just a lick. Sonar wants your pretty candy clit in his fucking mouth, pressed against the smooth edges of his teeth. Wants your pussy gushing sugary slick that gets matted in his fur so the scent stays with him long after you're gone.
"Are you, mmm—sure?"
Oh where’d all that confidence go now, huh? He’s grinning just staring up at his shiny new chew toy. Shouldn’t have played the game if you couldn’t take the heat.
Sonar is not one to half-ass anything, and you’re not gonna ruin that reputation just cause you don’t wanna sit.
You've got your knees on either side of his head, and he can feel them shaking with the effort of staying upright. He works his arms up around your thighs, grabs two fistfuls of flesh and tugs. Pulls and presses until you pitch forward, hands braced in the hair on his chest and thighs against his ears with your weight fully bearing down on him.
God, if that first suck at your folds isn't the best hit he's ever taken.
He'd do a line of you cut on the counter of any shitty bar bathroom.
"Good," he groans, muffled against your ass, reaching a palm up high enough to get a handful of tit. The air is heavy and perfumed with nothing but pure concentrated you, hot and clinging inside his lungs. "Now, fucking stay there till I'm done."
Which won't be anytime soon, but you should have known what you were asking for.
‘Please take one!’
Yeah well, Sonar knows himself. He's a greedy little motherfucker.
So I was thinking about Cat and her pseudo kids, and I love the idea of cat forcing a weekly “family dinner” with her NHL kids. So curious if you have any thoughts on how a family dinner with WillMack + SaMisa + Cat and Toff might go. It’s been bouncing around my brain lol
i love that idea too! and i can definitely imagine her enforcing that, especially if none of them are living with her next year 🥺
in terms of how it plays out, i can see misa & will getting there early — misa helps set the table & makes the salad, while will helps her cook the actual meal. misa asks a million questions, no matter how many times he’s done these things: where do the forks go again? should i add the dressing to the salad now? do you think i could use ketchup to make my own dressing? will also brings a new dessert item he’s been testing out, each time.
mack arrives mid-cooking & proceeds to get in the way at every turn, until will asks him to please take stella for a walk (get that man out of the damn kitchen!!). stella gives up after 5 minutes and mack proceeds to carry her around the block, so will doesn’t get upset w him for coming back too soon.
sam arrives last, right before the meal is ready — he opens his trunk and a six-pack of beer falls out, causing a can to explode on the ground (#iykyk, see below the cut). he brings the rest in & has to warn everyone to take a beer at their own risk. toff forces him to powerwash their entire driveway at a later date.
assuming everyone in this scenario is legitimately coupled up (or, honestly, even if not), willmack sweetly plays footsie under the table during dinner, while sam constantly eats off of misa’s plate without him realizing it, until misa is finally like, “hey, where did all my pasta go?!”. there is much idiotic banter to be had amongst the young guns. cat watches everything unfold fondly & toff spends the entire evening ruefully shaking his head & losing years off his life. will & misa sneak food to stella the whole time (between sam & stella, does misa get to eat any of his own food?? the world may never know). they cap the night off with wine & catan 💕
Hey, excuse me, do you know where i can find your queen?
@baldwin-the-protector
The bee at the entrance of the Hive sits chewing on some much needed Fluke. It had been seared over a grill he and some fellow guards had made from their needles and a fireplace.
"With what business do you seek the Queen?" he asks, noticeably suspicious. The Hive and Hallownest were only neutral to each other, and the warriors of the Hive are fiercely protective of their queen.
Sorry if this is a strange question, but how did you animate the waving of your artfight banners? What’s that process like?
I animated them in Adobe After Effects! That I definitely paid for and didn't just find a ripped copy of AE 2020 online. Totally. Ahem.
It's just a 5 second animation I did using the puppet motion pin tool to give the banners some bend.
The yellow dots are the pin points, the two at the top corners hold the top of the banner in place so it doesn't flex, and then the middle and bottom ones just sway side to side. :]
It's all exported as a PNG sequence so I end up with like. 120 individual frames that I can put together in a gif with EZGif (it's an online gif making tool), it lets me preserve a lot of the quality of the banners and their colors and transparency and stuff. I have this all just as a template that I can put the banners on to make sure they all wave the same.
It's kind of roundabout but it makes the banners look nice and keep their quality when I convert them to gifs :]
