ᝰ.ᐟ rush
𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆ pietro was a man who could do anything in the blink of an eye, but he wanted to take his time unraveling you. smut. mdni. nsfw. afab reader.
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It started the way it always did with Pietro.. with a blur, a gust of air, and that smug grin that made heat coil low in your belly before he’d even touched you.
One blink and he was gone from the doorway. Another blinkand he was behind you, breath hot at your ear as his fingers skimmed down your arms with maddening patience, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He didn’t speak -- not yet -- just let the silence throb with all the things you both wanted, his touch lighter than a feather, calculated, as if he enjoyed watching you twitch beneath it, helpless to the anticipation he built with wicked precision.
"You always taste sweeter when you’re impatient," he whispered against your neck, voice velvety and thick with that Sokovian charm, and before you could snap back with something clever, he had you against the wall. It wasn't rough, it wasn't cruel, but with a swiftness that left you breathless, dress hitched around your thighs, his thigh already pressed between yours, rocking slow just to watch you unravel.
He didn’t need time. He could have had you undone in seconds if he wanted to -- he could move faster than your gasp, faster than the tremble in your legs -- but tonight, he chose to drag it out, to make every touch linger, every kiss slow and open-mouthed, every grind of his hips deliberate until you were shaking beneath him, clutching at his shirt like you needed it to survive.
"Tell me," he murmured as his fingers slipped beneath your waistband, teasing, stroking, and spreading you open like a promise of what he would do to you. “Tell me you want it slow this time.”
But you couldn’t speak -- not when his thumb circled just right, not when two fingers dipped inside you so effortlessly it left you gasping his name like it was a prayer -- and he laughed, low and hungry, pressing his forehead to yours as he curled his fingers again, again, until your knees buckled and your back arched and your breath came in broken, greedy little cries.
When he finally sank into you, he didn’t speed through it like you thought he might. Instead, he dragged it out, every thrust deep and controlled, one hand gripping your hip to keep you where he wanted you, the other tangled in your hair as he kissed you like he was starving and you were the last thing left in the world worth tasting.
And god, did he taste.
He tasted your whimpers, your shudders, your surrender, moving inside you with a rhythm that bordered on reverence, his speed held back only by the sheer will it took to watch you fall apart in real time.
You came with his name on your tongue and his teeth on your shoulder, and only then -- only after the tremors had faded and the world had slowed -- did he finally let go.
It was never quiet with Pietro, but in that moment, with his chest against your back and his breath still ragged in your ear, the silence felt like something sacred -- like the aftermath of a storm you never wanted to end.
