swear it's just right for ya
summary: At first it just seems like a normal New York heatwave, but the longer it lasts the more you realize that it might be a different kind of heat. prompt: threesome word count: 4.7k+ pairing: peter 1 x fem!reader x peter 3 notes: friendly reminder: peter 1 is tom's peter and peter 3 is andrew's peter!! anyways i hate this so much but here it is i guess... there's probably inconsistencies because i wrote this in a rush. also i hate the way this looks, the colors don't match but i just want this over withhhh. andrew garfield was my first celeb crush because of amazing spider-man 1, i think i was 8?, and the loml tom holland so i fear it was only right i did these two warnings/tags: porn no plot, sex pollen? kinda? something like it, dom!peter 3, needy!peter 1, mmf threesome, oral (f!receiving), fingering, lots of kissing, some marking, mentions of hands in hair, slight overstimulation? idk multiple orgasms, unprotected piv, creampie(s) because they have high stamina obvi, double vaginal penetration it's-tober! masterlist
It’s the hottest week in New York City in memory. Every inch of the city is a humid, shimmering fever dream; the kind of heat that seeps into your bones, prickling every inch of skin, sweat slicking your thighs. The apartment is no sanctuary: the window units gave out days ago, the oscillating fan just pushes hot air, and it’s far too late to find another place to crash. You’re not alone in your misery. Peter 1 and Peter 3—both dumped here by a multiversal accident, both too noble, and too obsessed, to leave you—are sprawled on opposite ends of your battered sofa, their shirts peeled off, hair damp, breathing heavy.
And something else is happening. The heat isn’t just heat. There’s a tight, magnetic pull between the three of you, something thick and electric in the air, like the buzzing tension before a thunderstorm. Maybe it’s the aftermath of last night’s weird, purple firework in the sky—alien, magic, who knows, New York is always crawling with it. But you can feel every movement of the two Peters, every swallow, every stretch of lean muscle, every glint of sweat trickling along a sharp collarbone. Their bodies seem to call to you, spider-sense humming in your blood, as if you’re tuned to the same dangerous frequency.
Peter 1 sits with his knees drawn up, curls flattened to his forehead, jaw working as he tries not to look at you—tries and fails. He keeps sneaking glances, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. His voice is almost hoarse when he finally says, “I think something’s… off with the air. Is anyone else—uh—feeling weird?”
Peter 3 has gone taut, his long legs stretched, head tipped back against the sofa’s arm, Adam’s apple bobbing as he chugs a bottle of water and tosses it aside. “Yeah. It’s not just the heat. I feel…” He breaks off, eyes cutting to you. His pupils are huge, nearly black, his skin flushed and glistening. “Never felt anything like it.”
You can’t take it anymore, your sundress sticking to your skin, thighs pressed together, arousal coiling low and hard in your stomach. You can see the way both Peters are looking at you—hungry, frustrated, as if holding themselves back is physically painful.
Maybe it’s the pheromones, maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s months of unspoken want coming to a rolling boil, but you feel bold, desperate, a little unhinged. You lean forward, the hem of your dress riding up, and just breathe, “why are you fighting it?” The words come out needy, almost a plea. “You both want this. So do I.”
For a split second, everything hangs suspended. Peter 1’s jaw drops. Peter 3 makes a low, hungry sound that’s more animal than human.
Peter 1 is the first to move—he slides across the battered cushions and cups your face in his hands, trembling, searching your eyes. “Are you sure? We can stop—”
You kiss him to shut him up. He groans, lips soft and eager, his hands shaking as they slide down your arms, trailing goosebumps. The heat is drowning, overwhelming; every touch is magnified, every sound louder, needier. You’re only half-aware of Peter 3 circling around, his hands ghosting up your thighs, pushing your knees apart as he kneels between your legs. He’s rougher, voice shredded with want, breath hot on your neck: “Tell us what you want, sweetheart. Anything—everything—you say, we’ll do it.”
Peter 1 breaks the kiss, panting, his gaze glazed and desperate. “Let us take care of you. Please.”
You nod, and suddenly you’re their center of gravity, their orbit, all that matters.
Peter 1 claims your lips again, hungry and adoring, while Peter 3’s hands slide up, pushing your dress over your hips, his calloused fingertips stroking over your thighs, your panties. You gasp, hips jerking. Peter 3 grins, cocky and gentle all at once, and leans in to press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your knee, dragging it higher.
Peter 1’s mouth moves to your throat, whispering your name, pleading, his hands cradling your head, thumbing your jaw so you look at him. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice cracking, “wanted you for so long, couldn’t—couldn’t say it—”
Peter 3 is all heat and intention, sliding your panties down your legs, pressing kisses along your thigh. “Let us spoil you,” he says, the words a promise, a vow. “Let us make you feel so good you forget everything else.”
They work together—Peter 1’s lips on your mouth, then your neck, your collarbone, leaving wet, desperate trails. Peter 3 presses his face between your thighs, tongue flicking, tasting, devouring, making you cry out and arch. Peter 1 soothes you, murmuring praise, petting your hair, kissing away your gasps as Peter 3 pushes you to the edge, relentless, hungry, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady.
Peter 1 can’t keep still, one hand sliding down to toy with your nipples through your dress, the other stroking your hair, anchoring you. Peter 3 is single-minded, chasing your pleasure, his tongue working you open, his moans sending vibrations through your core.
It’s too much, too intense, their attention suffocating and perfect. The heat, the pheromones, the months of unsaid longing—everything crashes together as you break, shattering around their mouths and hands, their voices guiding you through every pulse and tremor.
The apartment’s air is syrup-thick, clinging to your skin as Peter 1 presses soft, frantic kisses to your jaw, your throat, murmuring your name like a prayer. He tastes salt and want on your skin; he trembles every time you moan. Peter 3’s hands trace upward, rough palms sliding over your hips, fingers splayed wide, reverent and greedy. For a moment, you can only feel—their hands, their mouths, the overwhelming ache blooming inside you, deep and unsatisfied.
You’re limp against the cushions, boneless from your first release, but they’re nowhere near sated. Peter 1’s lips brush your ear. “You still with us?” He nuzzles your cheek, breath hot, almost shy even as his palm finds your breast through your thin dress, thumb circling your nipple until it pebbles under the fabric.
Your breath stutters. “Yes. Don’t stop—”
Peter 3’s voice vibrates from between your legs, dark and rough. “Good girl. Didn’t plan to.” He nips the inside of your thigh and rises, planting kisses along your hip, up your side, pausing to drag his teeth along the waistband of your dress. His hands curl under you, lifting you just enough so Peter 1 can tug your dress over your head. For a split second, both boys go utterly still, drinking you in, wide-eyed and wrecked.
Peter 1’s pupils are huge, jaw tight, as if he’s holding himself back by sheer will. He cups your breast, thumb flicking your nipple, and leans down to kiss it, tongue circling, gentle at first, then greedier when you gasp and arch into him. Peter 3 kisses your ribs, up your sternum, hands sliding up your body, tracing every dip and curve as if to memorize you. His mouth finds the other breast, and the two of them worship you in tandem, lips and tongues and teeth, hands kneading your thighs, your waist, your ass.
“Touch her,” Peter 3 rasps, voice muffled against your skin. “Let her feel both of us.”
Peter 1’s hand slips between your legs, tentative and trembling, but the second he finds you slick and desperate, all his hesitance evaporates. He slides two fingers through your folds, gathering your wetness, his thumb stroking gentle circles over your clit while Peter 3’s mouth moves up, tongue flicking over the nipple Peter 1 just left wet and swollen. Their attention is total, a living thing—hungry, bright, competitive.
You whimper, back arching, thighs trembling. Peter 1’s free hand laces with yours, squeezing tight as his fingers curl inside you. Peter 3’s hand covers your other breast, squeezing, pinching, and then his mouth is right by your ear, whispering filthy promises. “Want you to come again,” he breathes. “Want to watch you fall apart. We won’t stop. Not until you’re begging us to.”
Peter 1’s breath hitches, cheeks burning, but his touch grows bolder, curling his fingers just right, stroking that spot inside you until your vision goes white. He keeps his eyes locked on yours, desperate to read every flicker of pleasure on your face, swallowing your every moan like it’s oxygen. Peter 3 kneels beside you, one hand sliding down your belly to join Peter 1’s, their fingers brushing, tangling, working together, two sets of hands and mouths and greedy need.
You’re shaking, helpless, pleasure building in endless waves. Their voices blur, urging, coaxing, both of them needing—no, aching—to see you shatter for them.
“That’s it, sweetheart—”
“You’re doing so good for us, so pretty—”
“Let go. We’ve got you. We won’t let you fall.”
It’s too much—their words, their fingers, the wicked drag of teeth and tongue, the way they’re touching you like you’re a miracle. You break again, your body spasming, a rush of heat and light, pleasure so sharp you sob, clutching at Peter 1’s hair, Peter 3’s arm, clinging to both of them as you fall apart in their hands.
But they don’t stop. They slow, letting you catch your breath, Peter 1 kissing tears from your cheeks, Peter 3 stroking your thigh, his lips soft and gentle now. “Still with us?” Peter 3 asks, voice gentle, gaze hot with something like worship.
You nod, dazed, every nerve ending alight, skin tingling. “Please. I want—more. I want you both—”
Peter 3 kisses the inside of your knee, teeth grazing your skin, his hands anchoring you, possessive. “Let me,” he mutters, voice a low rasp that vibrates straight through you, “let me feel you now. Need to be inside you.” His cock presses hot and hard against your thigh, and there’s nothing gentle in his hunger now—his restraint has snapped, the last edge of self-control burned away by the heat and the wild need spinning between you.
Peter 1, still trembling, brushes damp hair from your face, eyes glassy with awe and lust. “Is this okay?” His voice cracks, and it’s so tender, so full of wonder you could weep. When you nod—more than ready, more than desperate—he kisses you, pouring his adoration and need into you, tongue stroking yours, sweet and worshipful.
Peter 3 shifts, lining himself up, his hands guiding your hips, and you gasp as he pushes inside, thick and slow and overwhelming, stretching you until you’re panting, nails digging into Peter 1’s forearm. Peter 3 groans, head tipping back, jaw clenching as he sinks all the way in, shuddering, breath ragged. “Fuck, you feel—so good, so perfect. Been dreaming of this—” He pulls back, thrusts in again, deeper this time, hips snapping, the friction dizzying.
Peter 1 strokes your face, grounding you, his voice a shaky whisper against your lips. “You’re amazing. So beautiful. So perfect like this.” His mouth traces your jaw, your throat, his hands trailing down your body, gentle and reverent, making you feel worshipped even as Peter 3 fucks you hard, his thrusts going ragged, desperate.
Peter 1’s thumb brushes over your lower lip, then he leans down, voice dropping to a sultry hush. “Let me make you feel even better.” And before you can beg, he slides down, shifting beneath you, wedging his shoulders between the cushions and your back, lips parting as he presses his mouth to your clit.
You sob, every muscle in your body going tight, sensation doubling—tripling—as Peter 1’s tongue flicks and circles, gentle at first, then greedy, matching the rhythm of Peter 3’s thrusts. Peter 3’s hands grip your hips, holding you steady, pounding into you with slow, deep strokes, every inch of him burning, wild, desperate to drive you higher.
It’s overwhelming—Peter 3 thick inside you, grinding deep, his pelvis grinding against you with every thrust; Peter 1’s mouth sucking and licking, his hands stroking your thighs, holding you open so he can feast. Every nerve is alight, body stretched between them, filled and adored, the only thing in their world.
Peter 3’s voice is a guttural growl as he leans in, biting your shoulder, the words almost a plea: “Come for us. Want to feel you—want to see you lose it. Let us ruin you, sweetheart.” His rhythm stutters, hips snapping harder, desperate, sweat-slicked skin slapping against yours.
Peter 1’s mouth is relentless, tongue flicking, lips sealing around your clit, humming your name like it’s the only thing he knows. His fingers press into your thighs, spreading you wider, demanding more, giving you everything.
You shatter, the pleasure a blinding, consuming wave. You cry out, helpless, body locking tight as you come, walls clenching around Peter 3, who groans, curses, thrusts hard and deep, chasing your high. Peter 1 doesn’t stop, licking you through every aftershock, drawing it out, turning your pleasure into something endless, unbearable.
Peter 3 loses it with a strangled gasp, hips jerking, spilling inside you, his grip bruising, forehead pressed to your shoulder. He groans your name, broken, worshipful, undone.
Peter 1 pulls back, face flushed, lips slick, eyes dazed with awe and need. He strokes your thigh, gentle and grounding. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, voice thick. “So fucking perfect. Let me—please, can I—”
He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. Peter 3, still trembling, pulls out and collapses beside you, breathless, sweat-soaked, but his hand never leaves your skin. Peter 1 is already shifting, needy and hard and reverent, guiding himself to your entrance, pausing only to search your eyes for consent, desperate to be inside you now.
You nod, voice broken and pleading. “Yes. Please. Want you—need you, both of you—”
He slides in, slow and aching, head tipped back, lips parted in a silent moan. Peter 3 leans in, kissing your throat, your jaw, his hands stroking your skin, worshipful and greedy. Peter 1 starts to move, deep and sweet, and you realize there’s no end to this, no limit—just pleasure, worship, and their desperate need to give you everything you can take.
Peter 1 moves inside you with slow, aching care, hips rocking in deep, gentle thrusts that feel like worship. The air in the apartment is thick with heat, with the scent of sweat and sex, your skin sticky where it slides against his, his chest flush against yours, his curls damp and unruly, falling into his eyes as he looks down at you like you’re the only thing that matters in the universe. His hands shake as they frame your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks, fingertips trembling with the force of everything he feels.
He presses his forehead to yours, breath fanning hot over your lips, his eyes so wide and honest you almost can’t stand it. “God, you feel so good,” he whispers, voice wrecked and high, each word vibrating with want and gratitude, “so perfect—wanted you forever, didn’t know it could feel like this.”
You arch beneath him, wrapping your legs around his waist, drawing him deeper. He moans, biting his lip, struggling to keep his movements slow, savoring every inch, every clench of your walls around him. His hips stutter, a shaky exhale escaping as he tries not to lose himself too fast. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, almost reverent, “so—so good to me, to us. Let me take care of you, please. Want to make you feel everything.”
Peter 3, still catching his breath, props himself beside you, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder and throat, his hand wandering over your breasts, squeezing and teasing, never letting you come down fully from your last orgasm. He watches Peter 1 with a soft, crooked smile, a hint of approval, pride, and arousal all tangled together. “Look at you,” Peter 3 murmurs, voice honey-thick, rough and fond, “knew you’d be a sweetheart. She loves it when you go slow, don’t you, baby?”
You can only gasp and nod, the words stolen by Peter 1’s slow, deep roll of his hips, the way every movement fills you, stretches you, makes you ache for more. Peter 1 bends down to kiss you, soft and lingering, his lips trembling, his tongue gentle, coaxing, begging for more of your taste, your sounds, your pleasure. His hands roam everywhere—down your sides, over your hips, back up to cradle your head, never still, always worshipping.
“You’re perfect,” Peter 1 mumbles, breath catching as he tries to hold back, his own pleasure building unbearably slow, “want to see you come again, can you? Please, let me—want to feel you—”
Peter 3’s mouth finds your nipple, sucking, tongue flicking, his fingers pinching the other, and the double stimulation makes your hips jerk, a broken moan tumbling from your lips. Peter 1 groans, losing the last bit of his control, his thrusts turning a fraction faster, deeper, never rough, just needy, desperate, everything about him open and adoring. “That’s it,” he pants, “just like that, wanna feel you—come for me, come with me—”
Peter 3’s teeth graze your nipple and Peter 1’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow, perfect circles that wind you tighter and tighter, pleasure building again, no room to breathe, no room to think. Peter 1’s face is inches from yours, eyes glassy, lips parted, voice barely more than a whimper as he begs, “Please, I need you—please, let go, let me feel it—”
You shatter, pleasure ripping through you, clenching around him so tight you pull a cry from his throat, his hips snapping hard once, twice, before he’s spilling inside you, trembling, mouth pressed to your shoulder as he rides it out, still whispering how good you are, how beautiful, how he can’t believe you’re real.
He collapses over you, body shaking, arms wrapping you up, holding you close as if he could fuse you together. Peter 3 shifts closer, wrapping around both of you, one hand tangled in your hair, the other stroking Peter 1’s back in lazy, soothing circles.
For a long, golden moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your breathing, the heat of three bodies tangled together, the aftershocks still humming through your limbs. Peter 1 lifts his head, eyes blown wide and glassy, smile so shy and soft it hurts. He presses a kiss to your lips, your cheek, your nose, everywhere he can reach.
But the air hasn’t cooled—it only grows heavier, slicker with anticipation as both Peters stir, their stamina legendary, hunger a bottomless, greedy thing.
Peter 1 is the first to move. He kisses you—slow, lingering, pouring every soft, sweet ache into the drag of his lips over yours, letting his weight pin you for a moment longer, savoring you, adoring you. His hand finds your jaw, thumb stroking tenderly, then drifting down to your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers, coaxing a gasp from your swollen lips.
Beside you, Peter 3 is already shifting, his breath rough in your ear. “Turn over for me,” he murmurs, voice low and ragged, “let me see you—let me fuck you from behind.” His hands are all command and care as he helps roll you gently, guiding you until you’re half on your side, Peter 1 sitting up, drawing you to rest in his lap, his arms braced around your waist, holding you open for Peter 3.
Peter 1’s thighs are warm beneath you, his face flushed, curls plastered to his forehead, pupils blown wide with adoration and lust. He brings you in for another kiss, this one filthier, needier, tongue sliding into your mouth as he cradles your head, pulling you close. “You’re amazing,” he murmurs between kisses, “so beautiful—so fucking perfect.” His voice cracks, needy and awestruck, as his other hand drifts down your stomach, over your mound, spreading you open for Peter 3, who’s kneeling behind, his hands already gripping your hips, lining himself up.
The anticipation is maddening—Peter 3’s cock nudging at your entrance, the burn and stretch as he presses in, slow and relentless, groaning as your body yields for him again. He slides deep, hips flush against your ass, his breath hot against your shoulder. “God, you’re so tight—still so wet for us, can’t believe how good you feel,” he growls, his hands splayed over your hips, holding you steady as he starts to move, rolling his hips in long, smooth thrusts that send shockwaves through your body.
Peter 1 holds you open for him, kissing you, tasting every gasp and moan. His thumb circles your clit, light at first, then more insistent, his fingers slick with your arousal. “Let us make you feel good, yeah?” he breathes, eyes locked on yours, hungry and tender all at once. “Want to see you fall apart again, right here—just for us.”
Peter 3 sets the pace, thrusting deep and slow, grinding against that perfect spot, while Peter 1 lavishes your breasts with his mouth, tongue swirling over your nipples, his other hand never leaving your clit. The sensations are dizzying, the two of them working in perfect sync, every movement designed to ruin you, to drive you higher.
Peter 1 catches your hand, lacing your fingers together, holding you anchored in his lap as Peter 3 drives into you from behind, his thrusts getting sharper, harder, every snap of his hips sending you into Peter 1’s chest. Peter 1 grins, all flushed cheeks and glazed eyes, letting go of your hand to slip two fingers down, pressing them in alongside Peter 3’s cock, stretching you even wider, fuller, the pressure sending you spinning.
You sob, the pleasure overwhelming—Peter 3’s cock pounding into you, Peter 1’s fingers twisting inside, stroking your walls, thumb relentless on your clit. Peter 1 is breathless, voice a reverent litany of praise, kissing away every sound you make, whispering filth in your ear. “You’re so good for us—taking us both, letting us fuck you like this—so fucking perfect, so beautiful, let go for us, let us feel you—”
Peter 3 groans, hips snapping faster, his hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back to bare your throat for Peter 1’s mouth. “God, look at you—so fucking pretty, so tight, can feel your pussy clenching, want you to come for us, wanna feel you soak us, sweetheart—”
You’re wrecked, split wide, drowning in their touch—Peter 1’s mouth sealed over your nipple, fingers working in time with Peter 3’s thrusts, Peter 3’s cock grinding deep, filling you up, every movement engineered to break you apart. Your body tenses, pleasure winding tight, tighter—then you’re shattering again, clenching down around both of them, sobbing, shaking, light and heat and Peter’s voice in your ear, Peter 3’s body pressed flush behind you.
Peter 3 doesn’t let himself go, though you feel him pulse, his self-control superhuman, cock twitching as he grits his teeth, slowing his hips, still hard, still throbbing inside you. Peter 1 doesn’t stop touching you, soothing you through every aftershock, peppering kisses along your jaw, your throat, his arms holding you together while you shake and sob with overstimulation.
Peter 1 kisses you, needy and reverent, whispering praise into your mouth. “You want us both?” His eyes are glassy, pupils blown, voice rough with disbelief and hunger. “Want to take us together? Can you do that, sweetheart?”
Peter 3 groans, hips pressing forward, cock twitching as he watches the anticipation build in your face. “Let us—let us fuck you together, wanna feel you take all of us, wanna fill you up, both of us, at the same time.” He nips your ear, breath coming in ragged bursts. “You can do it. You’re perfect. Always so good for us.”
You nod, wordless, dizzy with need, and they move in tandem, bodies pressed close, hands everywhere—steadying, worshipping, greedy. Peter 3’s grip on your hips is iron as he shifts back, just far enough for Peter 1 to angle his cock against your entrance, thick head sliding through your soaked folds. Peter 3 doesn’t pull out completely, his cock still stretching you open, the ache deep and perfect.
Peter 1 watches your face, reading every gasp, every tremor. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he breathes, voice reverent, “tell me if you want to stop.” But you don’t want to stop—you want everything, all of them, want to be split open, filled until you can’t remember your own name.
He presses in slow, the stretch burning, overwhelming, as you open for both of them, Peter 3’s cock still buried deep, Peter 1’s sliding in beside, the pressure excruciating and perfect. They move with infinite care, every inch a tight, molten shock, until both cocks are inside you, pressed together, impossibly deep, your body straining to take it all.
You sob, the fullness brutal, exquisite, shaking between them. Peter 1’s hand finds your jaw, pulling you into a desperate, shaking kiss, swallowing every sound you make. “You’re doing so good,” he whispers, voice shaking with awe, “taking us both, fuck—look at you, look how perfect you are—”
Peter 3’s breath is hot on your neck, voice a broken rasp. “Feel you squeezing us—so fucking tight, never felt anything like this—”
They start to move, slow at first, their hips rocking in a matched rhythm, cocks sliding against each other inside you, every thrust making you see stars. Peter 1 holds your thighs open, his other hand toying with your clit, his lips never leaving yours. Peter 3’s arms band around your waist, anchoring you, one hand sliding up to your throat, thumb stroking gentle warning there, his other tangled in your hair.
Every inch of you is overwhelmed—overfull, over-loved, every nerve strung tight, every movement pushing you higher. Peter 1 breaks the kiss, forehead pressed to yours, his voice a hoarse plea. “Want you to come like this, want to feel you—need you to let go, need to feel you lose it around us—”
Peter 3 is panting, mouth dragging wet kisses down your neck, voice dark and possessive. “Let go for us, sweetheart—come on, wanna feel you milk us both, wanna make you scream.”
They fuck you together, thrusts perfectly synced, bodies shuddering against yours, every movement a wave of raw pleasure—Peter 1’s cock pressing deep and thick, Peter 3 grinding in, both cocks filling you so perfectly there’s no space left for thought. You’re a mess of moans and broken pleas, sobbing for more, begging for release.
Peter 1’s thumb circles your clit, faster, relentless, his other hand squeezing your breast, pinching your nipple as he fucks into you, every word pouring from him a stream of praise and love. “So good, so beautiful, taking us so well, can’t believe how perfect you are—”
Peter 3 fucks up into you from behind, hips snapping, cock grinding beside Peter 1’s inside your cunt, his grip bruising, desperate, his mouth all filth and worship in your ear. “Gonna fill you up, gonna come so deep, want to see you fall apart, wanna feel you clamp down, come on, baby—let go, give it to us, let us ruin you.”
The pleasure spikes, blinding and violent, and you break with a cry, your whole body seizing, clenching around both of them, milking them, shuddering as the orgasm tears through you. You can feel them losing it with you—Peter 1’s voice going high and desperate, hips jerking as he comes, hot and thick, filling you, Peter 3 grinding in hard, groaning your name as he empties himself, both of them buried to the hilt, locked tight, holding you between them as you ride out the aftershocks.
You’re wrecked, limp, trembling, sandwiched between their sweat-slick bodies, legs shaking, cunt fluttering around their softening cocks, filled and ruined and adored. Peter 1 peppers kisses along your jaw, your cheek, your mouth, mumbling praise and I love you’s, his hands petting you everywhere. Peter 3’s arms cradle your waist, his lips pressed to your shoulder, his breathing ragged, voice soft with awe.
They don’t let you go, not for a long, drifting moment—bodies tangled, the air heavy with heat and love, the world reduced to the sound of their hearts, the feeling of their arms around you, the pleasure still echoing in your bones.
