The diner parking lot is half-full, the colorful light from the neon sign casting color over the inside of Frank’s truck. His truck is parked way in the back, under the only tree that still has leaves, far enough from the entrance that no one walking out is going to notice you two.
You’re in the passenger seat, skirt shoved up around your hips, one of his big hands gripping your thigh to hold you open while the other works between your legs. Two thick fingers are already buried inside you, curling slow and deep, the wet sound of it obscenely loud in the quiet. Every time he drags them out, your cunt clenches around nothing, and he pushes back in like he’s got all the time in the world.
“Fuck, look at you,” he mutters, eyes fixed on where his fingers disappear into you. “Dripping all over my seats. Your old man would lose his mind if he knew what I was doing to his little girl.”
Your phone starts buzzing on the dash.
Dad.
You reach for it on instinct, but Frank catches your wrist and pins it down to the seat. He doesn’t even slow the rhythm of his fingers. If anything, he goes harder, scissoring them open so you feel every stretch.
“Leave it,” he says, voice low and rough. The phone keeps vibrating, screen lighting up as your dad kept calling. Frank glances at it, then back at your face, and a mean little smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “He’s probably wondering where you are. Wondering why you’re not home yet. Meanwhile you’re over here getting this pussy fucked by my fingers in my truck like a desperate little thing.”
“S-stop… hnn” You plead, a little embarrassed by his words.
The call goes to voicemail. The phone goes quiet for three seconds—then starts buzzing with texts. You can make them out from where you’re pinned.
Sweetheart where are you ?
When are you coming home ?
Call me I’m getting worried ?
Frank’s thumb finds your clit and starts rubbing tight, filthy circles. You bite your lip to suppress any moans from coming out, you didn’t want anyone to see you like this. Your hips jerking against his hand, grinding against his palm. He’s watching you fall apart and clearly loving every second of it.
“F-Frank… ah—” You bite your lip hard, but it doesn’t stop the next soft, broken sound. “Mmmph…”
“You gonna answer this time?” he asks, almost conversational, even as he stretches your pussy deeper with his fingers. The stretch punches a soft, broken sound out of you.
“Or you just gonna let him keep calling while I ruin this pretty cunt?”
You shake your head, another needy moan falls from your lips. Frank leans in, mouth brushing your ear, fingers never stopping.
“Good girl. Let him worry. Let him sit there wondering where his daughter is while she’s getting her pussy played with by the guy who’s supposed to look out for her.” His voice drops even lower, rougher.
“Bet he’d never guess you’re this wet for me. Bet he’d never guess how easy you open up when I get my hands on you.”
The phone buzzes again. Third call. Frank glances at it, then deliberately curls his fingers against that spot that makes your thighs shake. You’re dripping down his wrist now, soaking the seat, the wet sounds of him fingering you almost louder than the ringing.
“He’s worried,” Frank murmurs, amused. “Must really want to know where you are. Shame you’re a little busy right now.” He pumps his fingers faster, the wet squelch filthy and constant. “Busy trying not to come all over my hand in a public parking lot.”
Your head falls back against the seat. You’re so close it hurts. Frank knows it—he can feel you fluttering around his fingers—and he doesn’t let up for a second. His free hand slides up under your shirt, rough palm dragging up your stomach to cup your breast through your bra and squeeze.
“Ah— Frank…” Your voice is shaky, half-desperate already. “It feels… nnh…”
“That’s it,” he growls. “Ride my fingers. Show me how bad you need it. Your dad can leave as many voicemails as he wants. You’re not going anywhere until I say so.”
The phone finally goes silent. Frank doesn’t even glance at it this time. He’s too focused on the way your cunt is clenching around him, the way your hips are rocking to meet every thrust of his hand. He leans down and bites the side of your neck, just hard enough to mark, and then he’s talking right against your skin.
“Next time he calls, maybe I’ll answer. Tell him you’re with me. Tell him I’m taking real good care of you.” His fingers drive in deep and stay there, grinding against that perfect spot while his thumb works your clit mercilessly. He chuckles against your neck, “Wouldn’t even be a lie.”
You’re trembling, thighs locked around his forearm, so close you can barely breathe. Frank’s watching your face like it’s the only thing in the world that matters, eyes dark and hungry.
“Frank… m’gonna— Don’t stop, please don’t stop— ”
“Come on my fingers,” he orders, voice like gravel. “Right here in this parking lot. Let me feel it. And when you’re done, I’ll drive you to your dad and you can act like nothing happened.”
His fingers curl one more time, hard and precise, then you shatter.
You come with a broken little cry, clamping down around his fingers so tight he groans. He works you through it, slower now but just as deep, milking every last pulse out of you until you’re twitching and oversensitive. Only then does he ease his fingers out, shiny and soaked, and bring them up to your mouth.
“Clean them off,” he says quietly. You take his fingers in your mouth and whimper as he shoves his fingers deeper, making you gag slightly.
Your phone lights up one more time on the dash—Dad, again—but Frank just reaches over, silences it, and pockets it like it belongs to him.
“He can wait.” he says, starting his truck.
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you're... something with frank. you're not dating him, he doesn't take you out. you're not just fucking him, you've practically moved in. there's just not a word for you two, you pivot between hate and love every day.
today, in particular, leans closer to hate.
it's only because you've been talking to your friend- in your defense, it's so hard to coordinate a phone call with her, and in his defense, frank has so little time to relax that he likes to spend it in bed with you. he'll take no for an answer, of course, but he doesn't like taking busy for an answer, so when your call with your friend starts bordering on five hours long while you're lounging around his apartment in his shirt and your panties he's got blue balls and he starts getting pissed off.
you're just trying to talk to your friend on the phone and he's in a pissy mood, throwing shit around, slamming cabinet doors and muttering obscene curses under his breath every time you say something particularly vapid that could probably be a text or at least a phone call after he's gotten to blow his load in you. the noise is so disruptive that you snap at him to stop, 'jesus, frank, could you throw your temper tantrum a little quieter? I'm on the phone.'
you've struck a very sensitive chord here; you've made him feel like he's less important than your phone call. and the last thing he'd ever do was admit that, but you can't give him a nice long look at your ass in a thong beneath the hem of his shirt and expect him to sit quietly and wait for his turn- especially when your guys' conversation stopped being important hours ago and has turned into a useless rehashing of past drama. just the look he gives you, before he says anything at all, makes you realize that you might be in trouble.
'are you kidding me?' he asks, his voice a grating drawl, 'you're gonna lounge around my fuckin' place and tell me to shut up? If you don't like it, sweetheart, you can get out.'
You try cutting him off with a hasty 'Frank!' but he doesn't care, hands wildly waving as he gestures while he talks
'You two aren't even saying anything important anyways. You've been talking about old college drama for hours- you don't have anything better to talk about? You're gonna tell me to shut up- weren't saying that last night, were you? How 'bout you tell her about the way I made you fuckin' cream, huh? The way I grabbed you and tossed you on the couch before you could even turn the lights on. You wanna admit to her how loud you screamed? how the whole fuckin' block knows I was poundin' your pussy last night- you wanna talk about that?'
It doesn't matter how many times you try to stop him once he starts shouting, he's not going to. he's so loud the neighbors can probably hear it, but he's not wrong about them being able to hear you last night, too- they probably do know almost everything that goes on in frank's apartment.
all you can manage is mortified silence and he scoffs, that stupid smirk on his face, 'yeah, that's what i thought, princess'
he means it in a prissy way, and maybe he's right that you eat his food and lay on his couch in his shirt but won't look his way. but maybe he's mean too, and you should be able to talk to someone else for a few hours without him getting jealous and throwing a fit. and you two really don't work well together and you just get so angry at each other, but that's where you really thrive with frank. he gets on your nerves and you get on his and you guys fuck it out like animals. he definitely leaves bite marks on you that night, on your ass, on your shoulder, his hands rough and bruising as he manhandles you, murmuring against your mouth that you've gotta 'start behaving otherwise i'm kicking you out, baby'
Summary: Soldier Boy fucked Firecracker and you're not happy about it.
Warnings: Explicit Smut, Dub-Con/Consensual Non-Con, Rough Sex, Choking, Slapping, Degradation, Praise Kink, Possessive Ben, Toxic Relationship, Emotional Manipulation, Oral Sex (f + m receiving), Unprotected P in V, Orgasm Control, Overstimulation, Soldier Boy being Solider Boy, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
A/N: Been wanting to write this for forever. Also if it isn't obvious, reader has telekinesis.
Masterlist • Taglist
The door to your room at Vought shut with a click that made your jaw tighten. You'd been avoiding him for two days, ducking into conference rooms when you saw him coming, taking the stairs to bypass the common areas, eating meals in your room like some kind of hermit.
It was pathetic. You knew it was pathetic.
But you'd heard Firecracker echoing through the halls, that annoying twang bouncing off the walls. You heard her talking to someone about how she fucked Soldier Boy last night.
You'd walked away before you could hear the details. Before you could picture it. Before you could remember the way Ben's rough hands felt gripping your hips, the way he'd growled my girl against your neck like he had the right to claim you.
You weren't his girl. You weren't anything. You'd abandoned The Boys, abandoned Butcher's whole disaster of a plan to use Soldier Boy to take down Homelander, and crawled back to Vought because you had nowhere else to go and, honestly? It's all you knew from the start anyway.
Couple years later, when Homelander unthawed Soldier Boy, then introduced him as number two in The Seven, Ben wasn't surprised to still see you here.
"Guess there's one good thing about being on this team," he'd said and winked at you.
Fuck him. Fuck Firecracker. Fuck all of it.
You kicked off your boots and flopped onto your bed, staring at the ceiling.
The knock came a little before 11 PM. Three sharp raps. You knew it was him, who else would be knocking on your door this late?
"Go away," you called out.
"Open the door, doll." Ben's voice was muffled but unmistakable. That gravelly, deep tone that still made something stupid in your chest flutter.
"I said go away."
"And I said open the door." A pause. "Don't make me ask again."
You should have left it locked. You should have told him to fuck off. But your feet were moving before your brain could catch up, your fingers undoing the deadbolt with a resentful twist.
He looked good. Too good, all broad shoulders, the green undershirt of his uniform tight on his muscular form. He still smelled like tobacco and Old Spice and something uniquely him, maybe gunpowder, regrets, and memories you didn't want to have.
"You've been avoiding me," he said.
"Been busy."
"Busy." He stepped into your space, forcing you back into the room. "That's funny. Everyone said you didn't have anything scheduled today."
"Stalking me now, Benjamin?"
"Watching out for you." The door clicked shut behind him. "Like I always have."
You laughed, sharp and bitter. "Right. You watched out for me so well when I was the one keeping you from nuking Manhattan. When I was the one letting you—" You cut yourself off, cheeks heating.
"Letting me what, baby?" His voice dropped, that annoying smirk appeared. "Say it."
"Nothing. Whatever," you spat, "it's in the past. Doesn't matter."
"Is it?" He circled you like a shark, and you hated how your body responded, how your breath hitched when he stepped close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. "Because you sure are acting like a jealous little brat for someone who doesn't think it matters."
"I'm not jealous."
"No?" He grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. His green eyes were cold, "Then why've you been ignorin' me, doll, hm? Why've you been staring at Firecracker like you're contemplating throwin' her off the goddamn roof?"
"She's annoying."
"She's a good fuck," he said deliberately, watching your face. "Eager. Obedient. Knows how to take orders."
Your power flared, your books rattling on their shelves, the lamp flickering. "Get out."
"Make me."
You shoved him. Hard enough to crack concrete. Hard enough to send a normal man through the wall. Ben barely stumbled, his hand moving to grip your throat.
"That's it," he growled, and there was something almost proud in his voice. "There's my girl. Thought you'd gone soft on me, running back to Vought with your tail between your legs."
"Fuck you."
"That's the plan, doll."
He kissed you like he was trying to consume you, all teeth and tongue, pressing hard against you, his hand squeezing your neck with just enough pressure. You bit his lip and he laughed against your mouth, that dark, delighted sound that had haunted your dreams for months.
"You want to fight me?" He spun you around, shoving you face-first against the wall. Your cheek pressed against the cool surface, his body caging you in, that hard length grinding against your ass. "Go ahead. Give me your best shot."
You tried. You threw an elbow back with supe strength. He caught it, wrenched your arm behind your back, and you gasped at the stretch. Wincing from the pull.
"Pathetic," he breathed against your ear. "You used to be able to take me down. What happened? Got comfortable here in your ivory tower? Forgot how to be dangerous?"
"I hate you."
"No, you don't." He yanked your other arm back, pinning both wrists in one massive hand. "You hate that I fucked her. You hate that I fucked her before I fucked you since being out of the fuckin' box. And you really hate that you want me anyway."
"Let me go."
"Say please."
"Fuck you."
He laughed again, that deep, low chuckle, and dragged you backward toward your bed. You struggled against him, wriggling and trying to using your strength and telekinesis to get away from him. He loved it.
He threw you onto the mattress and you bounced, scrambling backward, but he was on you in an instant, those heavy thighs straddling your hips, his hands tearing at your clothes.
"Ben—"
"Shut up." He ripped your shirt off. "You don't get to talk. Not after a whole day of the silent treatment. Not after you made me chase you like some kind of bitch."
"I'm not—"
He slapped you. Not hard enough to bruise, he knew your durability, knew exactly how much force to use. The slap was sharp, stinging, enough to make your head snap to the side and your pussy clench around nothing.
"Did I say you could speak?"
You glared at him, defiant, and he slapped you again, his other hand roughly palming your breast through your bra, thumb dragging over your nipple until you couldn't suppress the moan.
"That's better," he murmured, leaning down to bite your neck, your collarbone, leaving marks that would fade but felt permanent in the moment. "Stop pretending you don't want this."
"I don't—"
He cut you off with a hand around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your vision spot. "Lie to me again and I'll gag you with my cock. Understand?"
You nodded, pulse hammering, and he released you only to tear your bra off completely, tossing it aside. He palmed your breasts roughly, pinching and pulling at your nipples until you were arching into his touch despite yourself, despite the anger still burning in your chest.
"Look at you," he sneered. "All that attitude and you're already aching for me. Is this what you wanted? For me to come find you? To remind you who you belong to?"
"I don't belong to anyone."
"No?" He shoved your legs open, palming you through your pants, and you bit your lip hard enough to bleed to keep from crying out. "Then why are you dripping through your pants, you little slut?"
"Stop calling me—"
He slapped you again, then gripped your jaw, forcing your mouth open. "You don't tell me what to do. I tell you. And you're going to take everything I give you, aren't you? Going to be a good girl and spread your legs and let me use you however I want."
"Ben—"
"Wrong answer."
He flipped you over like you weighed nothing, yanking your pants and underwear down in one rough motion, leaving you bare and exposed. You tried to push up on your hands and knees but he shoved you back down, his palm between your shoulder blades, pinning you to the mattress.
"Stay."
You struggled anyway, trying to move away, and he brought his hand down on your ass with a crack that echoed through the room. Then again. And again. Until you were gasping, your skin hot and sensitive, your pussy absolutely aching.
"Please," you whimpered, and you hated yourself for it.
"Please what?"
"Please—"
He spanked you again, harder, and you saw stars. "Please what, you stupid fucking slut? Use your words." He was already undressing himself.
"Please fuck me," you sobbed, the words tearing out of you like a confession. "Please, Ben, I need—"
"That's it." He pulled your hips up, pressing against you, his cock heavy and hot against your thigh. "That's my girl. Begging for it like the desperate little bitch you are."
He didn't prepare you. Didn't ease in. He shoved inside in one brutal thrust that made you scream into the pillow, your body stretching around him, your telekinesis flaring so hard that every loose object in the room lifted into the air and crashed down around you.
"Fuck," he groaned, gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises. "Still so fucking tight. Still mine, aren't you? Even when you pretend you're not."
"Not yours—" you gasped out, pushing back against him.
He laughed and started to move, setting a brutal pace that had the bed slamming against the wall, that had you clawing at the sheets. He wasn't gentle, he didn't do gentle, especially not with you, not when he knew that you could take it. That you wanted it.
"Say it," he demanded, yanking your head back by your hair, arching your spine. "Say you're mine while I fuck you. Say it or I'll stop."
"Don't...don't stop—"
"Then say it."
"I'm—" He angled his hips, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision white out, and you sobbed. "I'm yours, okay? I'm yours, I'm yours—"
"Louder."
"Yours!" you screamed as he pounded into you, as his free hand reached around to rub rough circles on your clit. "I'm yours, Ben, fuck, please—"
"Good girl." He released your hair only to grip your throat again, pulling you up against his chest, changing the angle so he was hitting even deeper. "Now take my dick like the good little whore you are. Take it and thank me."
You clenched around him helplessly, teetering on the edge but not quite there, but close. Very close.
"Ben, I'm gonna—"
"Did I say you could cum yet?" He pulled out and you whimpered at the loss, at the emptiness, at the way your arousal started to drip down your thighs. "Greedy little thing. You think you deserve it?"
"Please," you whispered, shaking.
"Please what?"
"Please let me cum. Please, Ben, I need—"
"Show me." He flipped you onto your back, shoving your legs wide, and stared down at where you were spread open for him. "Touch yourself. Let me see how desperate you are."
You reached down, embarrassed and aroused and hating how much you wanted this, and started to rub your clit. He watched, predatory and pleased, his cock stirring against his thigh.
"Faster," he ordered. "And look at me. Don't you dare close your eyes."
You obeyed, your fingers working yourself in tight circles, your hips bucking, your whole body flushed and overheated. He watched you like you were the only thing in the world, like he was memorizing every expression, every gasp.
He knew when you were close, just about to cum.
"Stop."
Your hand froze, trembling, right on the edge. "Ben—"
"I said stop." He grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand away, and you actually cried out in frustration. "You don't get to finish yet. You haven't earned it."
"I did everything you—"
"You ran," he interrupted, his voice going cold and dangerous. "You ran away from me. Now I'm back and you ignored me over one little fuck. You think this fixes that?"
You stared up at him, chest heaving, tears pricking your eyes. "I had to leave. Butcher was—"
"I don't give a fuck about Butcher." He climbed onto the bed, kneeling over your chest, his cock hard and heavy in front of your face. "Open."
"Ben—"
He slapped you, sharp enough to get your attention. "Open your mouth. Now."
You obeyed, hating yourself, loving it, and he pushed his cock between your lips, his hand gripping your hair to hold you still. He tasted like salt and your own arousal, and you gagged as he hit the back of your throat, your eyes watering, your hands coming up to push at his thighs.
He didn't let you pull back. He started to thrust, shallow at first, then deeper, using your mouth the way he'd used your pussy, rough and completely in control.
"Look at you," he murmured, his hips snapping forward. "Taking my cock like you were made for it. Is this what you wanted? To be on your back, dripping wet, while I fuck your throat?"
You couldn't answer, could barely breathe, but you moaned around him and he groaned in response, his grip tightening.
"That's it. Take it. Take all of it, you beautiful fucking brat."
He came down your throat with a groan, holding you still as you swallowed around him, as tears streamed down your cheeks onto your tits. He pulled out slowly, his cock still half-hard, glistening in the light, and you gasped for air, your chest heaving.
"Good girl," he said softly, almost tenderly, stroking your cheek with his thumb. "Such a good girl for me, hm, doll?"
You turned your face away, embarrassed by the praise, by how much you craved it, and he chuckled, low and knowing.
"Still fighting it?" He moved down your body, settling between your legs, and you tensed. "Relax, sweetheart. Let me take care of you."
"Ben—"
He buried his face between your thighs without warning, licking a stripe up your slit, gathering your juices on his tongue. You cried out, your back arching off the bed, your hands flying to his hair.
"Oh god—"
"Not God," he murmured against your skin, the vibration making you whine. "Just me."
He ate you like he was starving, his tongue rough and demanding on your clit, two fingers pushing back inside you, curling to find that spot that made you see stars. You were so sensitive, so overstimulated, your body trembling from the sensations.
"Please," you begged, not even sure what you were begging for anymore. "Please, Ben, I can't—"
"You can," he insisted, his fingers working you ruthlessly. "You will cum when I tell you to cum."
He licked and sucked at your clit, adding another finger to your hole, curling them at just the right spot.
"Cum," he said, the vibration of his voice sending you over the edge.
You shattered, screaming his name. He didn't stop, didn't let up, kept working you through it until you were trying to squirm away from his mouth, oversensitive and shaking.
"Stop—stop, I can't—"
He lifted his head, his mouth shining with you, his expression dark and satisfied. "One more."
"No—"
"Yes." He crawled up your body, his cock hard again already, pressing against your entrance. "One more, and you're going to take it. You're going to cum on my cock, understand?"
"Ben, it's too much—"
He silenced you with a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, and he pushed inside in one smooth thrust. You were so wet, so open, but still sensitive, and you gasped into his mouth, your nails digging into his shoulders.
"Ride me," he ordered, rolling onto his back and taking you with him, settling you on top. "Show me how sorry you are. Show me how much you want to make it up to me."
You planted your hands on his chest, your knees straddling his hips, and started to move. It was awkward at first, your muscles trembling, but he gripped your hips and guided you, setting a punishing pace.
"That's it. Fuck yourself on my cock. Use me, baby. Take what you need."
You rode him desperately, chasing the pleasure, your head falling back as you found the angle that hit just right. He watched you, his eyes dark and hungry, his hands roaming your body, pinching your nipples, slapping your thighs.
"Touch yourself," he commanded. "I want to feel you cum on my cock."
You reached down, your fingers finding your clit, and it was too much, the stretch of him inside you, the pressure of your own fingers, the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered.
"Ben—"
"Cum," he growled, his hips snapping up to meet yours, pounding into you from below. "Cum for me right now, squeeze my fuckin' cock."
You came with a scream, your whole body convulsing, your pussy clamping down on him so hard he groaned, his grip bruising on your hips. He sat up, wrapping his arms around you, holding you close as he thrust up into your spasming heat, chasing his own release.
He came hard, spilling inside you, filling you until it was leaking out around his cock.
"That's it," he panted against your neck. "That's my good girl. Taking my cum so good."
He held you there, pressed close, his heart hammering against yours, both of you gasping for breath.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then he softened, his grip loosening, his hands starting to stroke your back soothingly.
"You're an asshole," you mumbled into his shoulder.
"I know." He pressed a kiss to your temple. "And you're a jealous brat."
"Shut up."
He pulled back to look at you, his expression softer now, the dominance bleeding away into something gentler. "I didn't fuck her because I wanted to. I fucked her because I was trying to piss off Homelander."
You stared at him, surprised by the admission. "Ben—"
"Meant nothin' to me, doll," he said, brushing back your hair from your face.
You believed him. You shouldn't have found that romantic, probably, but something warm unfolded in your chest anyway.
He shifted, pulling out of you slowly, and you whimpered at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. He settled you beside him, tucking you against his side, his hand resting possessively on your hip. "You're mine. Even when you're being a pain in my ass. Even when you run. Understand?"
"You can't just—" You started to protest, but he cut you off with a look.
"I can," he said firmly. "And I am. You're mine, and I'm yours, and we're both stuck in this fucking tower, so we might as well be stuck together."
You stared at him, at this man who'd been frozen in time, who'd come back angry and broken and somehow capable of being a little tender beneath that rough exterior.
"Okay," you whispered.
"Okay?"
"Okay. I'm yours."
He nodded once. "Good. Now get some sleep. Homelander's got some bullshit conference tomorrow."
"You're staying?"
"Where else would I go?" He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. "Beats seeing anyone else in this shithole."
"Guess I'm special." You said, leaning back into him.
"Yeah, doll. You're somethin'," he murmued, wrapping his arm around your waist tighter.
You closed your eyes, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the warmth of him against your back. Outside, the city hummed with its usual chaos.
But here, in the dark, with Soldier Boy's cum drying on your thighs and his arm draped possessively over your waist, you felt something dangerously close to safe.
"Ben?"
"Yeah?"
"If you fuck Firecracker again, I'll crush your skull with my mind."
you’re obsessed with spider-man. spider-man is obsessed with you. neither of you realizes just how badly the other has crossed the line until he finally brings you through your bedroom window and finds an entire wall dedicated to hunting him down. apparently mutual stalking makes excellent foreplay. wc : 7.5k
cws .ᐟ no spoilers. bnd! peter, mentions of nwh memory spell, secret identity, stalker x stalker, mutual obsession, obsessive! reader, obsessed! peter, stalking, mutual stalking, voyeurism, attempted mugging, knife threat, gun threat, brief violence, possessiveness, masked kissing, oral fixation, scent kink, very brief cunnilingus, nipple play, teasing, rough sex, unprotected p in v, creampie, excessive cum, overstimulation, whiny! peter, memory loss / magical erasure, peter remembering a past relationship / familiarity reader cannot remember, identity reveal. minors dni 18+
The wet snap of webbing against brick is followed by a man shouting loud enough to wake half the block.
His wrist jerks above his head before the knife ever makes it close to you, silver disappearing from his grip and clattering behind a pile of garbage bags as another strand of web catches his shoulder and yanks him backward. His sneakers skid over damp pavement, his curse rises into something considerably less threatening, and Spider-Man drops from the fire escape above with enough force to send dirty rainwater jumping around his boots.
He lands in that annoyingly graceful crouch you have watched approximately four hundred times through blurry phone videos, rises slowly, and turns his masked face from the man stuck against the wall to you. The white lenses narrow immediately. “Seriously?” he asks, one hand lifting to gesture between you and tonight’s latest disaster. “Again?”
You pull your coat closed where the man had grabbed it and smooth the front with whatever dignity remains available, although the smile pulling at your mouth probably ruins the effect. “I didn’t invite him,” you point out as Spider-Man stoops to retrieve your purse from the pavement.
His shoulders stay tight beneath the suit when he hands it back, gaze sweeping over your face and arms before dipping toward your legs, checking for blood or bruises without ever admitting that is what he is doing.
“No, you just keep walking through places where guys like this hang around,” he mutters, and when the mugger chooses that exact time to spit another obscenity in his direction, Spider-Man casually fires another strip of webbing across the man’s mouth without even turning around.
Your laugh escapes before you can swallow it. “Was that really necessary?” you ask as he places one hand near your elbow and starts steering you toward the brighter street at the end of the alley.
Spider-Man glances back at his latest wall decoration and gives a small shrug. “For me? Yeah.”
Him rescuing you has become something dangerously close to routine, which sounds far worse once put into words.
Your fascination with him had started harmlessly enough, back when catching a streak of red and blue above Queens still made you stop whatever you were doing and crane your neck toward the sky.
The first time you saw him up close, you had been standing outside Delmar’s during your break with a paper cup of burnt coffee in one hand, watching him swing over the avenue while half the sidewalk pulled out their phones. Murphy, the deli owner’s fat cat and self-appointed ruler of everything behind the register, had slept through the whole spectacle with his stomach hanging over the edge of a chair.
You had laughed, gone back inside, and thought about Spider-Man for a perfectly reasonable amount of time.
Then you saw him again.
… And again.
Somewhere between following local sighting accounts, learning which videos were current and which assholes reposted year-old footage for engagement, and discovering that every publicly available patrol map seemed to have been put together by somebody who believed Queens was shaped like a rectangle, you decided you could do better.
One map turned into several. Several maps turned into a notebook. The notebook turned into a private folder containing hundreds of photographs, screenshots, timestamps, and little observations about a man whose actual name remained frustratingly out of reach.
You know which neighborhoods he tends to circle later in the evening, which nights draw him farther toward Manhattan, that he favors his right foot when landing despite half the internet insisting he is left-dominant, and that the terrifying thirty-something vigilante some forums insist lives beneath the mask is almost certainly closer to early-twenties.
His voice gives that away. So does the embarrassingly soft noise he makes whenever you kiss his cheek.
The first kiss had been accidental only in the sense that you had not spent the previous hour planning it.
He had caught you after a cab jumped the curb, carried you three blocks because your ankle hurt, and set you down outside your building with one arm still wrapped around your waist.
Adrenaline made everything feel bright and stupidly romantic, so you leaned forward and pressed your mouth against the warm fabric covering his cheek. Spider-Man had gone completely still. You apologized, though apparently not sincerely enough to keep yourself from repeating it two nights later after he interrupted three drunk men bothering you outside a bodega, and after that the kisses became a quiet reward neither of you formally acknowledged.
Tonight, Spider-Man walks beside you beneath a row of flickering storefront lights with his hands flexing restlessly at his sides, and you can tell he is still irritated enough that kissing him immediately might earn you another lecture. “You know there’s a main road twenty feet from that alley, right?” he asks, looking at you with the exhausted disbelief of somebody who has already had this conversation twice.
You tuck your purse higher over your shoulder and nod solemnly. “I’ve seen it before.”
His chest expands beneath a long breath, and when he speaks again, amusement has already begun softening the edge of his voice. “Good. I was worried.”
You grin at him and drift half a step closer until your sleeve brushes his arm. “You always find me anyway.” His stride catches so slightly anybody else might have missed it, but you’ve spent enough nights replaying grainy footage frame by frame to notice when Spider-Man makes a mistake.
The white lenses turn toward you, and whatever answer almost comes out gets replaced with a quieter, “You make yourself pretty easy to find.”
When you reach your apartment building, he’s recovered enough to resume pretending this is merely another rescue and not the increasingly strange little courtship it has become.
Spider-Man stops beneath the awning across from the entrance, using the same invisible boundary he always keeps between himself and your actual home, and you immediately step closer.
“You’re not taking that alley again,” he tells you, pointing one finger toward your chest with a sternness that would probably work better if you had not heard him whine the last time you kissed him.
You lift your brows and catch his wrist lightly. “Are you grounding me now?”
His lenses narrow, although his hand turns easily beneath yours instead of pulling away. “I’m thinking about it.” Your smile widens as you move close enough to feel the heat trapped beneath his suit.
“You’d have to know where I live for that.”
Something unreadable passes through the way he holds himself, disappearing too quickly for you to examine before you lean forward and press another kiss to his cheek.
The fabric is warm and slightly damp beneath your mouth, and the soft sound catching in his throat sends a pleased little flutter through your stomach. Spider-Man’s fingers curl at his sides as you draw back. “Thank you,” you murmur, letting your hand slip from his wrist as you start backing toward the entrance. He watches you reach the door before answering, voice rougher than it had been several minutes ago. “Yeah. Get upstairs safe.”
Peter waits until you disappear through the glass before moving.
Swinging directly to his own window would be faster, but it would also be spectacularly stupid considering you live across the hall, and three years of guarding a secret identity have at least taught him not to expose himself because a woman kissed his cheek.
He circles the building instead, drops behind the dumpsters beside the basement entrance, and slips through the window with his mask still covering his face. The laundry room is empty at this hour, filled only with the churn of two ancient dryers and the heavy detergent smell soaked permanently into the walls, giving Peter enough privacy to tug the suit down and wrestle himself back into the clothes stuffed inside the bag he had webbed beneath a pipe before patrol.
He changes quickly, shoving red-and-blue fabric into the bottom of the bag and pulling his sweatshirt over damp skin, and has barely gotten his jeans fastened when the elevator groans somewhere beyond the hallway. Peter pauses with one hand still at his belt as machinery drags upward through the building.
The elevator opens, your footsteps cross the hallway on the floor above him, and your lock clicks twice before the apartment door receives its familiar little shove against the frame. Peter closes his eyes and drops his forehead briefly against the cold metal locker in front of him.
This has become pathetic.
Not the superhero part. Peter has accepted most of the indignities attached to that by now. The pathetic part is how quickly one kiss through nylon can undo three years of hard-earned solitude.
Before the spell, you had never been some sweeping romance Peter lost, and he refuses to rewrite ordinary familiarity into something grander simply because almost nobody remembers sharing it with him.
You went to school together. You spoke when your paths crossed. You had seen him around Queens often enough that saying hello required no thought, and when you started working at Delmar’s, you became another part of the neighborhood Peter assumed would always be there.
He used to come in after school, sometimes with Ned and sometimes alone, and eventually you learned his order without asking. Murphy learned Peter too, though the cat’s loyalty was probably purchased with all the turkey Peter slipped him whenever nobody was looking.
After Strange’s spell erased Peter from everybody’s lives, Delmar’s became one of the places he avoided longest. When he finally returned, you smiled politely from behind the counter and asked what you could get him as though you had never wrapped his sandwich before he reached the register.
Peter might have handled that better if Murphy had not woken from a nap, jumped down from his chair, and trotted directly across the deli to rub against Peter’s ankle.
You laughed and leaned over the counter while the cat shoved his head insistently beneath Peter’s hand. “He usually ignores strangers,” you told him, amused when Murphy started purring almost immediately. “Guess he likes you.” Peter stood there petting a cat that apparently remembered his scent when nobody else remembered his name, and somehow that hurt worse than anything he had prepared himself for.
He kept going back anyway. Then, several months later, the universe decided subtle cruelty was boring and moved you into the apartment directly across from his.
You introduced yourself in the hallway with a cardboard box balanced against one hip, and Peter smiled, repeated the name he already knew, and pretended he had not heard it hundreds of times before.
Since then, he has learned you again in pieces. You still hate pickles. You still tap pens against your teeth when bored. You still tell stories that wander through three unrelated details before circling back to the original point.
Your coffee order is different now, your work schedule has changed, and somehow you have become catastrophically obsessed with Spider-Man. Peter discovered that last part when he started noticing how often you appeared along his patrol routes, then realized you were deliberately lingering in places where sightings had been reported.
He should have discouraged it, though the first time you kissed Spider-Man’s cheek, something hungry and lonely opened inside him so quickly that he has spent every night since pretending it is concern.
Nobody looks for Peter Parker anymore. Nobody waits for him, wonders why he is late, notices when he disappears. You, meanwhile, are actively searching for Spider-Man, and Peter has become increasingly willing to let you find him.
The gun pressed into your ribs three nights later strips every pleasant justification from his head.
You had gone three blocks farther from the subway after seeing a local account report Spider-Man nearby, expecting a glimpse overhead or maybe another conveniently timed encounter.
The man who grabs your bag strap is not part of the plan, nor is the cold barrel he shoves against your side when you turn too quickly. Every playful thrill attached to chasing a superhero through Queens drains out of you at once, and your hand has barely reached toward your purse when something red drops hard enough into the alley to scatter dirty rainwater beneath his feet.
Spider-Man hits the mugger with enough force to send the gun skidding away, webs it to the pavement, and has the man pinned against the brick before you finish dragging breath into your lungs. One forearm is pressed across the man’s chest as Peter leans close enough that his next words come out low and ugly. “Don’t touch her,” he warns, firing webbing across both wrists before shoving himself backward.
The mugger starts swearing, but Peter is already turning toward you, crossing the alley so quickly that both hands are on your arms before you can say anything. “Are you hurt?” he asks, palms sliding anxiously from your shoulders toward your elbows before one settles over your side where the gun had pressed.
You shake your head and force a small smile even though your heartbeat still feels lodged somewhere near your throat. “I’m okay. He didn’t get a chance to do anything.”
Spider-Man’s hand stays against your waist as he looks at you, and irritation finally cracks through the relief. “Because I got here. What were you thinking coming down here alone?”
The accusation lands close enough to the truth that your gaze drops toward the wet pavement. “I thought you were around,” you admit, and the way his fingers tighten faintly at your side tells you that answer did not help.
Spider-Man exhales through his nose and tips his head back toward the narrow strip of sky between the buildings as though patience might be stored somewhere above the fire escapes.
“That can’t be your plan every night,” he tells you when he looks down again, voice quieter but no less strained. “You can’t keep walking into bad situations because you think I’m gonna show up.”
You should probably feel chastised, but the warmth of his palm through your coat and the obvious fear underneath his irritation make something flutter low in your stomach.
“But you do,” you point out, lifting your hand until your fingertips brush the underside of his jaw.
The words leave him still, white lenses fixing on you as your fingers find the bottom edge of his mask. “You always do.”
His breathing changes when you hook your fingertips beneath the fabric, and months of curiosity surge forward all at once. You have stared at photographs until the pixels blurred, argued with strangers over jaw measurements, and filled pages with theories about a face you have never seen, and actual skin is suddenly less than an inch away.
He catches your wrist immediately, grip firm but careful as his thumb presses over your pulse. “Don’t,” he says, shaking his head, and your mouth turns downward before you can help it.
The pout seems to affect him more than anger would have because his fingers loosen almost instantly.
“I just want to know,” you murmur, letting your fingertips remain curled beneath the mask where he has trapped them. “You know what I look like. It’s only fair.”
Peter nearly laughs at the cruelty of that without finding anything funny about it. Once, you knew exactly what he looked like. You knew Peter Parker’s face without earning it, chasing it, or begging him to uncover himself beneath a flickering alley light. You had watched him stumble into the deli half asleep, seen him bruised after patrols he explained badly, rolled your eyes while Murphy claimed his lap. Now Peter cannot make himself risk seeing curiosity replace all that lost familiarity.
His free hand slips beneath the mask instead, slowly pushing it over his chin and mouth until it bunches beneath his nose.
Your eyes immediately drop to his lips, pink from the cold, faintly chapped, prettier than any blurry screenshot suggested. “Oh,” you breathe, staring openly enough that his mouth twitches.
“What?” Peter asks, visibly trying not to smile. You let your captured wrist relax in his hand and look back toward his mouth. “Nothing. I’m appreciating the research opportunity.” The laugh that leaves him is soft and startled, and you barely get to enjoy it before his hand slides around the back of your neck and pulls you in.
His mouth catches yours hard, one arm immediately circling your waist when you stumble forward, and the first stroke of his tongue between your lips pulls a startled sound from you that he seems to feel everywhere.
Your fingers bunch in the front of his suit, dragging him closer until the hard warmth of his body is pressed against yours, and Peter makes a small, helpless noise when you suck lightly on his tongue.
There’s that soft whine you’ve suspected for months, except hearing it directly against your mouth sends a sharper pulse of heat between your thighs. You kiss him harder just to hear it twice, and Peter gives you exactly what you want, breath breaking when your teeth catch his lower lip, both hands tightening around your waist while his hips shift unconsciously closer.
The sirens beginning several blocks away barely register until they grow louder, and he finally drags himself back with his chest rising quickly beneath the suit. “I have to go,” he breathes, mouth still close enough that the words brush your lips.
You stare at him in disbelief and hook one finger beneath the edge of his mask before he can pull it down. “Wait—” Is all you manage to splutter before he fires a web overhead and disappears.
And he stays away long enough afterward that your annoyance has plenty of time to ferment into obsession, while Peter Parker remains inconveniently present across the hall.
You see him the morning after the alley carrying a laundry basket toward the elevator, brown hair still damp from his shower and an old sweatshirt hanging loosely from his shoulders. He smiles when you step outside, shifting the basket against his hip as you lock your door.
“Morning,” he says, and you return it absently before noticing the little scrape near his jaw.
Your gaze lingers enough that Peter’s hand rises instinctively toward it. “Do I have something on my face?” he asks, rubbing the spot beneath his fingertips.
You shake your head and start toward the elevator beside him. “No, you just look exhausted.”
Peter lets out a quiet laugh and presses the button with his elbow. “Good morning to you too.”
Something about his height bothers you when the doors open, though not enough to become a serious thought. Spider-Man is somewhere around Peter’s height. So are probably several hundred thousand men in New York. You let it go and spend the elevator ride complaining about the broken ice machine at Delmar’s instead, while Peter listens with that strange attentiveness he always gives your stories, like he already knows which details will matter before you reach them.
Murphy betrays the rest of the deli staff the instant Peter walks in later that afternoon.
The cat unfolds himself from his sunny patch near the window and pads directly across the floor, winding around Peter’s ankles before he even reaches the counter. “There goes your boyfriend,” you mutter, watching Peter crouch to scratch beneath Murphy’s chin.
Peter looks up from the cat with a grin. “He has good taste.” You snort and reach for the bread you had already pulled out after spotting him through the window.
“Murphy loved you the first time you walked in here, which still makes no sense because he hates everybody.” Peter’s fingers pause briefly in the fur, and that odd expression crosses his face again, something quieter than embarrassment and too sad to fit such a stupid conversation. It disappears when Murphy bumps impatiently beneath his palm. “Maybe he could tell I’m trustworthy,” Peter says as he stands, and you point the bread knife toward him.
“I wouldn’t use him as a character reference.”
Peter laughs and leans against the counter while you make his sandwich without asking what he wants, neither of you commenting on the fact that you apparently learned his order already.
Your Spider-Man notes get considerably worse during the weeks he avoids you.
young.
good mouth.
whines when kissed.
That last observation receives two underlines because scientific rigor matters.
When Spider-Man finally appears again, your patience has thinned enough that seeing him feels less like encountering a superhero and more like catching somebody who has ignored your messages.
The rusted fire escape beneath your shoes shrieks as you lean over the railing, one bolt breaking free with a metallic crack that sends the platform pitching sideways. You barely manage to grab the rail before an arm wraps around your waist and lifts you clean away from the collapsing metal. The city turns beneath you in a blur of lit windows and streetlamps while Spider-Man swings upward, and your arms lock around his neck on instinct.
Relief makes you laugh breathlessly into his shoulder. “There you are,” you gasp, and Peter nearly misses the next web.
His arm tightens until your body presses firmly against his. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he groans as he swings toward the next building. You lift your face from his shoulder and glare at the side of the mask. “You disappeared for almost three weeks.”
Peter adjusts his grip beneath your thighs and fires another web. “I was busy.”
Your brows lift as wind tears at your coat. “Busy doing what, avoiding me?”
His masked face angles down toward you, and despite everything you can practically feel the embarrassment beneath it. “I’m a superhero. Things… happen.” You laugh and hook your arms more securely around his shoulders. “Very convincing.”
He usually leaves you downstairs, but tonight he carries you directly toward your apartment window. You realize where he’s headed with enough time to remember what your bedroom looks like and absolutely no time to fix it.
“Oh, shit,” you murmur against his shoulder, prompting Peter to glance down.
“What?” he asks as his hand sticks to the brick beside your window. You shake your head much too quickly and reach for the frame. “Nothing. Just get me inside.”
Peter slides the window open, helps you climb through, and follows with the easy sideways movement that still looks unreal no matter how many videos you have watched.
The bedroom light clicks on under your hand. His masked face turns toward the wall, and your dignity quietly expires.
“Before you say anything,” you begin, stepping between him and your desk despite knowing full well your body cannot conceal eight feet of obsessive research, “it looks worse because everything is grouped together.”
Peter says nothing immediately, which makes the humiliation grow teeth.
Your wall contains maps stabbed with colored pins, printed photographs, newspaper clippings, screenshots, handwritten notes, sketches comparing suit details, and one especially embarrassing attempt to calculate his height using a parking meter from an old photograph. A Spider-Man plush sits near your pillows, and Peter’s head turns slowly toward it until you snatch it off the bed and throw it behind you. “Don’t,” you warn, pointing when his shoulders begin to shake.
Peter lifts both hands innocently. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
His laugh finally escapes as he walks closer to the wall, and despite the embarrassment burning through you, there is something strangely familiar about watching him read your handwriting.
Spider-Man has existed at a distance for months, reduced to streaks between buildings and photographs enlarged until they turned grainy. Now he’s standing in your bedroom studying notes about himself.
Peter reaches toward one page before you slap his hand away.
“Absolutely not.”
He pulls back, still laughing beneath the mask. “What’s so bad on that one?”
Your entire face heats when his head angles around you enough to catch the words anyway.
“Does that say ‘whines when kissed’?” he asks, amusement cracking through every syllable as you rip the paper from the board and shove it behind your back.
“You have no respect for research ethics,” you mutter, and Peter’s laugh becomes loud enough that you shove at his chest, though he barely moves, and the reminder of his strength shifts something beneath your embarrassment—the atmosphere changes further when his gaze drops from your face toward your mouth.
You still have the paper hidden behind you as his gloved hand settles lightly around your wrist.
“You really wrote notes after kissing me?” he asks.
You tilt your chin and step closer. “You gave me data.” Peter’s head tilts slightly, white lenses fixed on you. “That’s what we’re calling it?” You let the paper flutter onto the floor and slide your fingers beneath the bottom edge of his mask.
“Depends. Are you planning on giving me more?”
This time Peter lets you uncover his mouth without resistance, and the kiss knocks the remaining humor out of both of you. He backs toward the bed beneath the pressure of your body, hands finding your waist just before the backs of his knees hit the mattress and he drops onto it.
You climb into his lap without breaking the kiss, knees settling on either side of his thighs as his mouth opens eagerly under yours.
There are no sirens approaching, no mugger webbed fifteen feet away, and apparently no remaining portion of Peter’s self-control either. His hands slide beneath your shirt and span your waist, palms hot enough that your skin prickles beneath them, while you hook your fingers beneath the collar of his suit and peel it away from his throat. The scent trapped beneath reaches you immediately—clean soap buried beneath hours of sweat, cold air and something darker warmed against synthetic fabric—and you lean into the exposed skin before deciding whether doing so is strange.
Your nose brushes the side of his throat as you breathe deeply.
Peter shudders beneath you. “Are you smelling me?” he asks, disbelief mixing with something considerably more interested when you do it again.
Your mouth curves against the damp skin beneath his jaw. “Maybe.” His hips move against yours, giving him away much faster than his voice. “I’ve been sweating for hours.”
You drag your tongue slowly through the salty sheen along his neck, and Peter’s fingers clamp around your hips, and the whine he tries to swallow makes your grin widen.
The kissing grows quickly, lips wet and swollen as Peter seems determined to make up for three weeks of avoiding you with his mouth alone. Your shirt ends up on the floor near the dresser, his suit gets peeled down over his shoulders far enough to expose his chest, and Peter immediately attaches himself to your tits like he has been thinking about them for just as long as you have been thinking about him.
His mouth closes around one nipple and sucks until your back arches, tongue circling the hardened tip before his teeth scrape lightly enough to send a shiver down your spine. He switches sides with ridiculous enthusiasm, one hand squeezing the breast he abandoned while his lips work the other.
“You really do like using your mouth,” you tease, fingers curling around the edge of his mask as he drags his tongue slowly over your nipple.
Peter lifts his head, lips wet and the exposed half of his face flushed. “You wrote that down too?” he asks while his hands are already tugging impatiently at the waistband of your pants.
You push his shoulder until he rolls enough for you to kick them away. “Maybe I have a section.”
Peter lets out a suffering groan and lowers his mouth to your stomach, his lips moving lower before you can say anything else, dragging down your stomach until the tip of his nose brushes above your cunt.
You barely have time to lift yourself onto your elbows before Peter hooks his hands beneath your thighs and pushes them apart. “Really?” you breathe, staring down at the masked man between your legs.
The white lenses flick upward toward you, and then his mouth closes over your pussy without another word. His tongue drags from your entrance all the way to your clit in one broad, obscenely wet stripe that makes your hips jump against his face. “Fuck,” you gasp, hand grabbing his shoulder as Peter does it again, slower this time, tasting the slick already coating you before his lips close around your clit and suck once, the pressure sending a sharp pulse through your stomach.
He hums against you as though the reaction pleased him, tongue flicking twice over the swollen little bud before dipping back down to gather more of your wetness. Your cunt clenches uselessly around nothing when he presses the pointed tip just inside you, and the sound Peter makes against you is almost embarrassingly hungry.
You could very easily let him stay there until your legs stopped working, especially when his mouth returns to your clit and gives another slow suck, but you have spent months imagining something else.
Your fingers tighten on his shoulders and drag him upward, and Peter pulls away with your slick shining across his lips and chin, staring at you like you have personally offended him. “What?” he asks, breath warm against the inside of your thigh.
You grab the front of his suit and haul him back over you until his wet mouth meets yours.
Getting the rest of his suit down becomes a clumsy joint effort because Peter cannot seem to go more than several seconds without kissing you. He gets it bunched beneath his hips, you shove your underwear away somewhere near the foot of the bed, and then his cock finally springs free between you and your eyes drop immediately. Thick, flushed dark pink at the head and already leaking enough precum to make the slit shine, it rests heavy between his thighs until you wrap your fingers around it and feel him twitch in your hand.
Peter shifts beneath your stare, suddenly discovering modesty at an absurd stage of the evening. “Stop,” he mutters, one palm braced beside your head.
You laugh quietly and give him one slow stroke from root to tip, watching his abs jump beneath the movement. “I didn’t even say anything.” Peter’s head tips back as your thumb smears the bead of precum over the broad head.
“You were thinking very loudly.” You stroke him again, squeezing slightly beneath the tip, and his hips buck hard enough to fuck your fist once.
“Can your spider powers read minds now?” you ask, guiding his cock lower until it drags through the slick between your thighs. Peter lifts his head and catches your mouth before answering. “No, you just have a… face.”
He settles between your spread legs and his bare cock slides directly through your soaked folds, the sensitive underside dragging over your clit hard enough to make both of you inhale.
Peter freezes with his mouth still against yours, one hand gripping your thigh and the other planted into the mattress beside your head. His cock throbs where it rests against you, hot and slick and painfully close.
You hook one leg around his waist and pull him closer until the pressure increases, fingers tightening on the sweaty skin at the back of his neck. Peter searches your face through the mask, jaw tightening as you take his cock in your hand and guide him forward.
The first bare push knocks every remaining shred of composure out of him. His mouth falls open as the thick head stretches you, slipping inside slowly enough that you feel every inch as Peter works deeper. Your wet cunt gives around him with a slick drag that makes your thighs tremble, and by the time his hips finally press flush against yours, the whine leaving him is so helpless you almost laugh despite the fullness stealing half your breath.
Peter drops his forehead beside your temple, chest damp against yours while his cock throbs inside you. He breathes your name out against your ear, fingers curling hard into the sheet.
You deliberately squeeze around him, curious how sensitive he really is, and his whole body shudders. “That sensitive?” you tease, sliding your nails down his sweaty back. Peter lifts his head, white lenses narrowing in offended disbelief even as his cock twitches inside you.
Once he starts moving, restraint becomes mostly theoretical. His first several thrusts are controlled, drawing almost all the way out before pushing back inside with enough care that your body has time to adjust to the stretch, but the sound growing between your thighs makes the control feel increasingly fragile.
You can hear how soaked you are every time he buries himself, your pussy gripping him hard on the pullback before opening again around his cock. Peter’s mouth stays pressed near yours, breath turning heavier with every thrust as he stares down through the mask at the place where your faces nearly touch. When you tighten your legs around his waist and pull him deeper, something in him finally gives.
His hips snap forward hard enough to shove you farther up the mattress, and the groan tearing out of him goes straight into your mouth. “Fuck,” you gasp, grabbing his shoulders while Peter begins fucking you with an urgency that makes the bed squeak underneath you. Every thrust pushes his cock deeper, thick head rubbing over the spot that makes your stomach tighten as your slick starts coating the base of him and the soft hair above it.
The room fills with the wet slap of skin against skin, mattress springs protesting beneath you, and Peter’s increasingly broken breaths every time your cunt squeezes him.
The urgency of the thrusts makes it seem as though he’s somebody who has spent years holding too much inside himself and finally found somewhere to put it. You’d never know how long he’s been alone, but the way he cannot stand to pull all the way out gives you a clue. A clue you would definitely be writing down later.
One hand hooks beneath your thigh and pushes it higher, opening you enough that the next thrust lands so deep your mouth falls open against his. Peter feels your reaction instantly and does it again, harder, hips grinding against you at the end until his pubic bone drags over your swollen clit. “Yeah?” he pants, his lips brushing yours as another thrust knocks a moan from your throat.
You nod quickly, nails digging into the slick muscles of his shoulders. “Yes. Don’t change it.”
Peter makes a strangled, little noise and obeys, driving into the same spot until your legs begin shaking around his hips. His mouth stays everywhere he can reach—your lips, your jaw, the side of your throat where sweat has gathered—and every time he tastes the salt from your skin his cock seems to jerk harder inside you.
You return the favor shamelessly, pressing your face into his neck and inhaling until his scent feels lodged at the back of your throat. The smell of sweat thickens as the room heats, warm musk and soap mixed with the synthetic scent of the suit bunched around his hips.
His hand grips the underside of your thigh and pins it wider as his cock pounds through the slick gathering between you, every thrust making your cunt squelch around him. Sweat runs down the center of his chest and drips onto your skin. Your tits bounce beneath the force of each push, and Peter cannot stop looking at them when he pulls back enough to watch his body fuck into yours. His exposed mouth hangs open, lips swollen from kissing and shining with spit, and the small broken sounds escaping him grow more frequent the wetter you get.
“God,” he groans, staring down between you as his cock disappears all the way to the base again. Peter’s eyes squeeze shut beneath the mask and a moan tears from his throat. He lowers himself quickly enough that his chest crushes against yours and catches your mouth in a wet kiss.
His thumb finds your clit after several more rough thrusts, sliding down through the slick coating your folds before circling the swollen nub with two wet fingers. Your entire body jerks beneath him. Peter watches your face closely, slowing his hips just enough to grind against you while his thumb rubs tighter circles. “Is that it?” He murmurs, still breathless himself as your thighs begin trembling harder. “I knew that’d get you.”
You grab his jaw and pull his exposed mouth down into yours as his thumb keeps working while his cock drives into you bare, each thrust dragging through the slippery mess coating both of you, and the combination is making it difficult to hold onto anything beyond sensation. “You act like you know everything about me,” you gasp against his mouth, fingers catching on the sweat-damp edge of his mask when Peter groans and pushes even deeper.
His answer comes out without enough thought behind it, forehead nearly touching yours as he mutters, “You always do that when you’re close anyway.”
Your brows draw together, although Peter is still fucking you too hard for the realization to settle neatly. His cock grinds deep as your thighs tighten around him. “Always?” you manage, staring through the white lenses.
Peter goes still around the mouth before his hips betray him with another hungry thrust, and when he answers, the confession is vague enough to make your pulse jump harder than any elaborate explanation could have. “Your curtains don’t close all the way.”
A filthy little thrill tears through your stomach so sharply that your cunt clamps around him.
Peter’s mouth falls open, another pathetic sound spilling out as his forehead drops against yours.
“Oh my God,” you breathe, almost laughing because the information should probably concern you far more than it does, though your legs wrap tighter around his waist and tug him deeper. “You fucking creep.”
Peter lets out a wrecked groan and drives into you harder, thumb pressing more insistently against your swollen clit as though your reaction has burned through whatever shame he still had. “You’re one to talk,” he pants against your mouth, and that is all either of you says about it.
You kiss him hard enough to swallow whatever else might have come out, tongue pushing between his lips while Peter fucks you with a new rough desperation that makes the headboard knock against the wall.
The thought of that masked face somewhere beyond the glass while you changed, slept, stretched across these same sheets or wandered around your room without ever knowing he was there makes your pussy pulse greedily around him, and Peter feels every fucking contraction.
“Shit,” he whines, pulling back enough to look down at the wet place where his bare cock keeps disappearing into you. Your slick has spread everywhere now, glazing his shaft and shining across the dark curls at the base each time he bottoms out.
The next thrust is hard enough to knock the headboard into the wall, followed by another that makes you clamp around him, and then any careful rhythm he had left simply falls apart. He fucks into you in rough, desperate strokes, cock dragging almost all the way free before punching back inside as his mouth falls open against your shoulder. “Fuck—fuck, baby, I’m—” His warning disintegrates into a whine when you squeeze him again, and you hook both legs around his waist, refusing to give him anywhere to retreat.
Peter’s hands grab your hips. His cock jerks violently inside you once, twice, and then he buries himself as deep as your bodies will allow.
The first pulse of cum makes his entire body lock.
Peter comes with a strangled moan pressed into your neck, cock twitching hard inside your cunt while heat spills from him in thick, wet bursts. You can feel each one, deep and hot, coating you while he trembles above your body.
His hips keep giving small involuntary pushes as he empties himself, every shallow grind smearing the mess farther between you while his voice breaks into soft, wrecked little sounds against your sweaty skin. He whimpers out your name, almost sounding embarrassed by how badly he’s shaking.
You drag your mouth along his jaw and inhale the heavy scent of him again, cunt still fluttering greedily around his pulsing cock.
Peter groans when you tighten, oversensitive now but apparently incapable of making himself pull out, and another thin spurt of cum warms you before it starts leaking around his shaft. The first wet trickle slips from your entrance and spreads across your inner thigh, mixing with your own slick until everything below his hips feels indecently slippery.
Peter remains buried inside you as his cock gradually starts softening, still thick enough to keep most of his cum trapped while every small movement squeezes more around him.
You shift your hips just enough to feel it smear between your bodies and his mouth falls open in another strained whine.
Two fingers drag through the mess coating your cunt before his thumb settles directly over your clit, and you jolt hard enough that your cunt squeezes him.
Peter hisses through his teeth but does not move his hand away.
“Spider—,” you gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders as he starts rubbing tight, slick circles.
Peter’s forehead falls beside yours while his hips begin shallow little grinds, softened cock still dragging inside your oversensitive walls with every movement. Cum keeps leaking around him, wetting the base of his cock and making every grind sound dirty as his thumb presses harder when your thighs start shaking.
Your entire lower body feels swollen and slick, every rub of his thumb sending another sharp pulse through your stomach while the dull fullness of his cock keeps you stretched around him.
Peter kisses you between broken breaths, mouth still greedy even after coming hard enough to leave him trembling, and when your tongue slips against his he answers with another groan.
Your hand drifts upward toward the mask, fingers slipping beneath its wet lower edge almost without thought. Peter catches your wrist before you can pull. “No,” he pants, though the refusal lacks most of its earlier strength.
You stare through the white lenses, hips moving helplessly beneath him as his thumb continues circling your clit. “I still don’t get your face?” you ask breathlessly, tugging lightly against his grip.
Peter groans when your cunt squeezes his softening cock again, the overstimulation making his jaw tighten. “You can have everything else.”
You kiss him slowly enough that his hand begins to relax around your wrist.
Then you rip the mask off.
The fabric drags over damp skin and catches briefly around his ears before coming free in your fist, brown curls tumbling messily over his forehead where the mask had flattened them.
Peter’s uncovered eyes snap open, wide and terrified, and whatever filthy little victory you expected to feel disappears beneath recognition so violent your body reacts before your mind has time to arrange it.
Peter.
Your neighbor Peter.
Peter from across the hall, who carries laundry downstairs on Sunday mornings and holds the elevator when he sees you running for it. Peter who comes into Delmar’s often enough that you start his sandwich before he reaches the counter. Peter who Murphy adored the very first time you watched him walk through the door, winding around his legs like they had known each other forever.
Peter, still buried inside your cunt with his cum leaking around him.
The recognition hits your body almost brutally.
Your orgasm tears through you before you can form a single question, your back arching off the mattress as your thighs lock around Peter’s waist. Your cunt clamps around his softening cock in violent, pulsing contractions, milking the last slippery traces of cum from him and dragging a broken groan out of his throat.
His thumb keeps rubbing your clit through it, wet and relentless, until pleasure becomes almost too sharp to stand.
Your nails dig into his sweaty shoulders while another wave rolls through your stomach, your toes curling and your mouth falling open as your pussy spasms around him again. Warm slick squeezes out between your bodies with every contraction, and the sheer filth of feeling Peter Parker inside you while finally seeing Spider-Man’s face sends another hard pulse through your cunt.
Peter’s brown eyes never leave yours.
The quiet man you pass in the hallway. The customer who smiles at you over a deli counter. Spider-Man. Your stalker. Your neighbor.
Your vision blurs around his uncovered face as your orgasm keeps dragging through you, harder than anything you had expected, each contraction making Peter hiss from overstimulation while his hand stays between your thighs anyway. Your whole body trembles beneath him, thighs clamped tight, chest heaving against his sweaty one as pleasure finally begins cresting into something almost dizzying.
And with his face only inches from yours, the name finally tears out of you.
summary : i mean... its in the title. (basically frank is hung like a fkn horse and he's scared to hurt you)
word count : 11.3 k (mightve gotten carried away oops)
warnings : MINORS DNI please just don't, p in v, oral (m receiving) unprotected smut (wrap that shlong pls), swearing, reader uses she/her, praise, size diff kink if you squint, slight age gap, pet names, no use of y/n, pls lmk if i missed any :)
a/n : as usual my lovelies this is not proofread so please excuse any repetitions/inconsistencies or spelling mistakes ! also i loved writing this holy shit i'm nasty
It's clear to anyone dumb enough to spend time with you and frank that the two of you are completely enamored with each other.
I mean, it's hard not to tell when the man can hardly keep his hands to himself when you're near. It's like he's hardwired to constantly crave your touch, and that only gets worse when you're standing somewhere close and have the absolute gall to not sit on his lap.
Dating an older man has always scared you off. Until you met Frank. He's not much older than you, but enough for people to be skeptical when seeing the two of you together. But there's no denying that Frank loves you.
What started as a casual friendship because of Curtis, forcing the two of you to hang out a little bit more, and Frank showing up to Curtis's meetings just to see you, evolved into a soft understanding.
It wasn’t loud.
Nothing about you and Frank ever really was. Not at first.
It crept in—quiet, steady, almost invisible if you weren’t paying attention. The way he started sitting closer to you at Curtis’s meetings. The way his eyes would track you when you moved around the room, like he needed to know where you were at all times. The way his voice—usually rough, sharp, worn down to gravel—would soften just a fraction when he spoke to you. No one missed it. Not Curtis. Not Karen.
Hell, not even the guys who only saw Frank in passing.
Because Frank Castle—the man who didn’t linger, didn’t touch, didn’t stay—hovered around you like you were something he didn’t quite understand but couldn’t walk away from. And you… You let him. At first, it was small things. You’d patch him up without asking too many questions. He’d show up half-broken, blood soaking through whatever shirt he had left, and you wouldn’t flinch. Wouldn’t lecture. Wouldn’t ask him to stop. You’d just sigh softly, sit him down, and say,
“Take it off.”
And he would.
Every time. No fight. No attitude. No smart remark. Just quiet obedience in a way that didn’t make sense for a man like him. You were the only one he let see him like that. Not the Punisher. Not the weapon.
Just… Frank.
Bruised. Bleeding. Human. And somewhere along the way, that became your normal. You’d clean his wounds, your fingers gentle, careful—always careful—and he’d sit there watching you like you were doing something sacred instead of stitching him back together with shaking hands. Because you were different. You weren’t hardened. Not like the people he knew.
Not like him.
You still hesitated sometimes. Still winced when the cuts were deep. Still muttered soft apologies under your breath when he hissed in pain—even when it wasn’t your fault. And the first time he realized that?
It did something to him. Something quiet. Something dangerous. Because you weren’t used to this world. And he knew it. Knew it in the way your hands trembled just slightly the first time you had to dig a bullet out of his side. Knew it in the way you avoided looking at the scars that weren’t fresh. Knew it in the way you’d look at him sometimes—like you were trying to understand how someone could carry so much violence inside them and still sit so still for you. You weren’t untouched by life. But you were… soft. In a way he didn’t think existed anymore.
Frank Castle—impatient, relentless, brutal— Was impossibly gentle with you. Like he was afraid you’d break if he wasn’t. The first time he touched you—really touched you—it wasn’t greedy. Wasn’t desperate.
It was careful. A hand at your waist, slow, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn’t. Your breath caught instead. And that was all the permission he needed. Even then, he moved like he was learning you. Like you were something fragile and rare and completely unfamiliar.
Because you were. You weren’t like the women he’d known before. There was no practiced confidence. No ease. Just soft breaths, unsure hands, and wide eyes that flickered with something between fear and trust. Just Frank's soft voice as he bent you over your bed, and hoisted a pillow beneath your hips, muttering something about making it hurt less. All you could do was whine and crane your neck to try and look at him.
And God— The trust. That’s what got him. Because you trusted him.
Him.
Frank Castle. A man built from violence and loss and blood. And you let him hold you like he wasn’t. So he treated you like something sacred. Like something he didn’t deserve but couldn’t stop himself from keeping. He’d brush your hair back from your face like it mattered. Press his forehead to yours like it grounded him. Murmur soft, barely-there reassurances against your skin when you got overwhelmed—quiet “I got you”’s that sounded nothing like the man people feared. You brought something out of him no one else ever had.
As time went on Frank got my comfortable, slightly more rough in bed as he started to understand your body and it's needs, how that little shiver that passes through you means you're close. But the truth is-
You have never actually seen Frank's dick.
That sounds absurd.
I mean, after all, he's your boyfriend. Of course you've seen it.
Well, glimpses of it.
Pressing through his pants, the base of it as you crane your neck to try to look at him as he softly guides it through your folds.
Always the same thing. Your ass up in the air, facing him, a pillow wedged beneath your hips and then the inexplicable feeling of being so fucking full that you feel like you're floating until your knees start to shake and your pussy clenches around him- and then he's pulling out, kissing the backs of your thighs, murmuring praises as you come down from your high.
And then he vanishes into the bathroom- the sink turned on, not to be seen for another ten minutes- before emerging with his pants back on and a wet towel in hand to clean you up. Not to sound ungrateful- you loved Frank. You loved being intimate with him, grinding on his lap and feeling him go hard beneath you, his length pressed to your thigh. You knew he was big, I mean, he was inside of you almost every night. But you'd never actually seen just how big.
Everytime you dropped down to your knees in front of him, grabbing at his waist band, he'd tut and pull you up,
"Nah, don't wan' none o'that, sweetheart." Before splaying your thighs wide open and spending hours between your legs, beard tickling your thighs, tongue lapping at your cunt like a man starved, pulling orgasm after prgasm from you until his lips shine with the sheen of your juices. At first, you thought nothing of it. You thought it was sweet. He was so desperate to make you feel good.
But then your friend pointed it out.
“You’ve been with him this long and you’ve never actually… seen him?” your friend had said, brows raised in disbelief. You’d laughed it off at first. Shrugged.
“Of course I have,” you’d insisted, heat creeping up your neck. But even as you said it, something in your chest twisted.
Because… Had you? Really? You’d felt him. Knew the weight of him, the way your body reacted to him, the way he filled every inch of space until you couldn’t think straight. You knew how his hands felt, how his voice dropped when he got close, how he’d murmur soft praise against your skin like it was something private, something only meant for you. But seen him? Not properly. Not fully. And once the thought was there, it wouldn’t leave.
It replayed in your mind, over and over. The way he always guided you gently into position—always facing away, always careful, always focused on you. The way his hands would linger at your hips, grounding, steady. The way he’d press his forehead briefly to your shoulder sometimes, like he needed that contact before anything else.
And then after— He’d disappear. Like clockwork. Bathroom door. Running water. Silence. You never questioned it. Because it was Frank.
Because everything about him came with edges you didn’t push.
But now… Now it felt like something you couldn’t ignore.
Frank, who watched you like you were something worth memorizing. Frank, who traced your skin like he was learning it. Frank, who never once made you feel rushed, or used, or anything less than… cherished.
Why would he hide?
The question lingered. And it changed the way you noticed things.
The way his hand would stop yours if you reached too low, too curious. The way he’d redirect you—soft, gentle, but firm.
The way he always made it about you.
Always.
At first, it had felt like care. Like patience. Like love. And it still was.
But now there was something else underneath it.
------
You worry your bottom lip as you pace the length of your room, sighing annoyedly at the way your brain is running at a hundred miles an hour. You're convinced your feet have worn a dent in the hardwood floor, and your heart is racing so fast you can hear the blood rushing behind your ears.
Beyond the door, Frank is sat on the couch, legs spread wide, beer in hand- watching late night TV while waiting for you to come out of the "shower"- completely oblivious to what is really happening in the confines of your shared room.
Now or never.
It's now or never.
Determined, you tuck your hair behind your ears and make sure that the silk nightdress you slipped on is fitting you just right before tearing the door open and softly padding your way to the living room. Frank is lounging on the couch, shirtless and wearing a pair of gray sweats that hang deliciously low on his hips, legs spread apart like they're just begging for you to sink to your knees infront of him. The thought of feeling him, having the weight of his cock press against your tongue, feel the tip hit the back of your throat so hard tears fling to your eyes makes warmth pool in your belly and you clench your thighs at the thought. Frank's eyes snap up the second he hears you, sitting up properly.
"Hiya, sweet thing." He hums, grinning up at you as he pats his lap, an invitation for you to come sit on his lap.You can already see the hardening outline of his cock behind the sweatpants- meaning your night dress is doing it's job. "How was your shower, baby ?" he hums as you sit horizontally on his lap, curling into him. He kisses your forehead as he tucks you into him, his hand finding a familiar resting place on your thigh, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the inside. The TV casts a sheen glow over the two of you, and you sigh into his chest, running your fingers along the hard ridges of his muscles.
"Would've been better if you were there." You hum, and despite himself, Frank chuckles.
"I'm sure it woulda been," He hums, chest rumbling against your cheek. He takes a small sip of his beer and sets it aside, sighing contentedly ash he pulls you in closer. Your thoughts are running faster than they ever have, your brain a whirlwind. You barely hear Frank when he asks,
"Did'ya eat ?" You nod wordlessly against his chest.
Frank frowns at the lack of response.
That's not like you at all. Usually you'd quip back something snarky, or witty- something to make him laugh, or make him frown and force you to eat something other than an PB and J made in a rush at seven am.
"Baby ?"
"I ate." You manage. You clear your throat and pull away from him slightly, gearing to get off his lap when he grabs your arm. He twists you to face him, your body wedged between his thighs. He sits up straight- and it's almost absurd how he's your full standing height like this.
"What's wrong ?" He asks.
Despite your best effort, your bottom lip starts to wobble. Frank's chest squeezes in worry and he softly drags his hands down your sides, palming at your ribs and waist to ry to guide you back into his lap.
"Baby ? What happened-"
"Do you not like looking at me ?"
The air between the two of you hangs suspended, filled with electric tension. Frank can't help but laugh,
"What the hell are you talking about ?" he mutters, shaking his head as he brings his thumb up to wipe a tear away from your eye before it has the chance to fall fully down your face. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. You're fuckin' goregous baby. Matter of fact- this dress you got on has me fuckin' reelin-"
"But you don't like to look at me when you fuck me ?" You manage, arms crossing over your chest. Frank's hear feels like it's been ripped out of his chest, and he suddenly feels like he can't fucking breathe. He stares up at you, your teary eyes, the way you're biting at the inside of your cheek, leaning backwards despite being trapped between his thigh, as if you want to just get away from him. Frank's eyes blow open a fraction before narrowing as he frowns.
"Okay, now you're talkin' crazy." He huffs, shaking his head.
"Am i ?" You manage, your throat tight. You look down at your hands, toying with the satin hem of your dress. "You never let me look at you- you're always behind me when you fuck me. You never let me suck you off, it's always you eating me out and i-"
"Woah, woah." Frank leans forward, wrapping his hand around the back of your knees, dragging you forward towards him. He runs his hands over your thighs, sighing heavily. "Baby, that has nothing to do with how you look." he says, his voice dropping to the low, comforting octave he always takes with you when you're upset. His hand reaches up and cups the back of your neck, his thumb forcing under your jaw to make you look at him. "You get that ?" You sniffle, jerking away from him.
"I've never even seen you, Frank." You blubber, your words sounding more stupid as you go on- but you can't stop them now. "And you've seen every square inch of me. You only ever take me from the back-"
"Sweetheart." He rasps, head dropping. He sighs, his hands leaving you momentarily to drag down his face. "I do that so that it won't hurt you." You sniffle.
"I can take it. I'm not a baby." You rasp. He laughs, a short gentle thing. He shakes his head.
"I'm not saying you are." He sighs, his hands smoothing over your thighs. "Look, when I was with Maria- and other women before her- they always told me that certain positions hurt, that it was too much. That one was the only one that didn't." You look down, biting at your bottom lip.
"I can take it, Frank. I have before. All those other times-" He shakes his head, hiding a small smile.
"No, you ain't, baby." You frown.
"What do you mean ?" He groans, tilting his head back, clearly not wanting to have this conversation out of fear to upset you.
"I don't... fuck- i don't put all of it in." He says. Your throat goes dry.
"What do you mean ?" You repeat again, your breath wobbly. He sighs, looking up at you.
"It means the full thing doesn't fuckin' fit, baby."
Your breath stutters. For a second, you just… stare at him. Because the way he says it - flat, matter-of-fact, like it’s not even up for debate -knocks the wind right out of you.
“…What?” you whisper. Frank huffs out a quiet breath, dragging a hand over his face again like he regrets even opening his mouth.
“You heard me,” he mutters. But you don’t move on. You can’t. Your fingers curl tighter into your dress, your mind scrambling to catch up with what he just said—what it means.
“That doesn’t-" you shake your head slightly, brows pulling together. “That doesn’t make sense. I would know, Frank.” He looks at you then. Really looks at you. And there’s no teasing in his expression. No smugness. No exaggeration. Just… patience.
“You feel full, right? You feel good ?” he asks again, quieter this time, as he presses a hand to your stomach. You hesitate, but ultimately nod, the thought of having Frank buried inside you making your insides churn with deep need.
“Yeah…” He gives a small nod back, like that confirms it all over again.
“Yeah,” he repeats. “That’s you already at your limit.” Your stomach flips. Because now - now it does make sense. The way he always moves so carefully. The way he never rushes. The way he stops the second your body tightens too much, even if you haven’t said a word.
“…So you’ve just been…” you trail off, not even sure how to finish that sentence.
“Holdin’ back?” he fills in. You look up at him. He shrugs slightly, like it’s nothing. Like it hasn’t been a constant, conscious effort every single time he touches you. “Yeah.” Silence settles between you. Heavy. Different now. Not insecurity anymore—but something deeper. Something that sits right in your chest and refuses to move.
“You think I can’t handle you ?" you say after a moment, softer now. Frank’s expression tightens immediately.
“That ain’t what I said.”
“It’s what you mean.”
“No,” he says, firmer this time. His hand comes up, gripping your jaw just enough to make you look at him again. “What I mean is - I’m not willin’ to find out the hard way where your limit is.” That shuts you up. Because there’s something in his voice - something serious. “You don’t… always tell me when somethin’s too much,” he adds, quieter, sighing as he continues to run his hands over you. “You try to take it. Power through it.” Your throat tightens. Because again— He’s not wrong. “I don’t wanna be the reason you’re in pain and don’t say it,” he continues. “So yeah - I control it. I keep it where I know you’re okay.” You sniffle.
"So what you're saying - is that your dick's too big ? Wow, real small ego you got there, Frankie." Frank laughs out loud, shaking his head. You can't help it- a smile tugs at your lips too.
"Jesus, woman." He grumbles, shaking his head. Frank huffs, dragging a hand down his face like he’s trying not to laugh again, but it’s already there - low and rumbling in his chest. “Yeah, real funny,” he mutters, shooting you a look that’s more tired than anything, but there’s warmth in it. Always is with you. “That’s what you took from all that, huh?” You shrug a little, the corner of your mouth still twitching.
“I mean… kinda walked right into that one,” you mumble. He shakes his head again, but his hand comes back to your thigh, thumb brushing slow, absentminded circles like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
“Christ,” he exhales, softer now. “You’re unbelievable.” There’s no bite to it. Just… fondness. The kind he doesn’t give out to anyone else. The tension that had been coiled tight between your ribs loosens, just a little.
“…You could’ve just told me,” you say after a second, quieter now. “Instead of makin’ me think you didn’t wanna—look at me or whatever.” That lands. It always does when it comes from you like that—honest, not accusatory, just… a little hurt. Frank’s expression shifts, something heavier settling back in.
“Yeah,” he admits. “Probably should’ve.” His hand stills on your leg for a moment before sliding up to your waist, grounding you closer without forcing it. “I ain’t exactly good at explainin’ things,” he adds, glancing at you. “You might’ve noticed.” A small huff of laughter leaves you despite yourself.
“Little bit.” He nods once, like - fair enough.
Silence settles again, but it’s different now. Not sharp. Not confusing. Just… quiet. Your fingers drift to his shoulders, pressing the pads of them into his collarbone.
“…So,” you start, hesitant but still curious, “that’s the only reason?” Frank’s eyes narrow slightly.
“What d’you mean ‘only’?”
“I mean,” you shift a little where you’re still half in his lap, “you’re not, like… avoiding it for some other reason?” There’s a flicker of something in his expression—brief, almost gone before you catch it.
“Like what?” he asks. You hesitate.
“Like you don’t want me,” you admit softly. That one hits deeper than the joke did. Frank’s brows pull together immediately, his hand tightening just slightly at your waist.
“Hey,” he murmurs, firmer now. “Don’t start that.”
“I’m just asking - "
“And I’m tellin’ you, no,” he cuts in, not harsh, just certain. His other hand comes up, nudging your chin so you’re looking at him again. “Ain’t got nothin’ to do with wantin’ you. You got that?” Your eyes search his face. He doesn’t look away. Your hands drift on his bare chest, and he grabs you by the waist and pulls you to him. He guides you so that you straddle his lap, and he presses your pelvis to his. "Feel that ?" He hums. "That's because you walked in, in that lil' dress of yours." He says, his voice a stark contrast compared to the hard length pressed against your thigh. You whimper as your hips instinctively grind against him, your nails digging into his bare biceps. He kisses a few open mouthed kisses to your neck. "Don't ever say that I don't want ya'. Fuck, baby, you're all i fuckin' want. You're all I crave. Day in and day out." He mutters and you whine, fingers digging into his hair.
"Frank.." He nods against your skin, arms wrapping around you before lifting you as he stands, before dropping you on the couch and placing you face down , your arms pressed to the arm rest in front of you.
"I know, baby." He hums. "Gon' make you feel good, hm ?" You're about to nod- to give in, to let him take you like this when your body jerks in sudden realisation. You wiggle away from him, and slide to the floor, landing on your knees. Frank laughs, sitting down with his arms stretched out, ready to grab you. "Baby ? Whatcha' doin' ? C'mere-"
"Frank." You say, your voice stern. "I don't want to do it like that." You manage. Frank freezes.
Clearly he had misread the conversation.
"Baby, c'mon."
"No I mean it. What I said earlier, i-" You gulp, shaking your head as you crawl over to him and kneel between his parted legs. You reach up and latch your fingers around the hem of his sweats, staring up at him. "I don't want you to hold back anymore." You mutter, shaking your head. Frank is about to protest, but then your soft hands find the curve of his V-line, and he turns to pure putty in your hands, his chest heaving as he watches you through heavy lids as you pull his sweatpants down his legs, his boxers following suit. His dick springs up like a solider at attention, the tip red and leaking with pre-cum that drips onto his stomach. Frank groans, a deep, chested groan at the feel of the cool air on his dick.
And you... Wow. You can't stop staring.
Not only is he big- bigger than you've managed to sneak a peak at- he's thick. Veins running up the sides of it, and you tentatively reach out and grab a hold of him at the base. He twitches in your hand, and you have to keep yourself from letting your hand snake down to pinch at your clit. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, and Frank's hips buck involuntarily into your hand.
"Shit- mmph- okay, okay, fine. You win. You can jerk me off. Just please, fuckin' do something, baby, or i'm blowin' my load right now and it'll be embarassing for both of us."
But you don't want to jerk him off.
Softly, you reach up onto your knees and press a soft kiss to the base of him, and his eyes fly open at the contact.
"Sweetheart-" he barely has time to fully voice his protest before your tongue darts out to drag against his tip, gathering the precum and tasting it. God the taste makes you moan around his tip, and Frank's eyes screw shut again as his hand darts down to wrap in your hair, pulling it away from your face- and effectively keep ing your lips away from his throbbing dick. He shakes his head, ragged breaths tearing out of him as you continue to move your hand alone him, your hat breath fanning of his length and making him go dizzy.
"You can't- fuck- you can't do that again, mama." He hums. "I won't be able to control myself- I'll hurt you, and I don't- " He rasps, shaking his head. You pout, shaking your head.
"I don't want you to control yourself. I want you to fuck my throat, Frank." Frank chokes on air.
His girl.
Such dirty things, falling from her perfect lips.
Usually Frank was the one spewing dirty things in your ear until you were spent frofromriding the fuck out of his fingers, leaving a wet patch on his pants.
"Baby-" His grip in your hair has loosened, probably from shock of your words, and you surge forward again, sucking him into your mouth. Frank throws his head back, a ragged moan escaping his lips. Your lips barely fit around him, and you bob your head up and down, trying your best to take more and more of him as you go.
You hollow your cheeks and try again, this time flattening your tongue more, tasting salt and skin and something so Frank it makes you whimper around him, and god—he wasn’t kidding.
You feel the stretch at the corners of your mouth, the push against the roof, the impossible thickness, and there's something about struggling a little that makes you shudder. You blink back tears when he hits the soft part at the back of your throat. Frank’s hand tenses in your hair, not shoving, not guiding—just holding, steady and warm.
“Jesus Christ, honey,” he hisses and you hear it, the roughened edge of his voice, the way it sounded so close to breaking. You choke a bit, eyes watering, but you don't stop.
You wanted this.
There's a different kind of ache now, low in your belly, a need that makes you bold as you drewdraw him in again, saliva gathering fast.
Frank is going to die.
This is it.
This is the end of him, right here on his own couch - his sweet girl on her knees, spit-slicked lips stretched around him, and not a single thought in his head except how goddamn perfect you look.
Christ, your jaw is trembling with the effort, tears clinging to your lashes, but you don't stop. Not even when he swears, not when he pulls you hair tight enough to make you gasp, not when his thighs start to shake.
He wants to stop you.
He really does.
He knows his own size, knows the thickness was a fucking problem for a mouth that small. But every time he starts to say something, you moan or squeeze his base a little tighter, and he looses all conviction, his brain reduced to static.
"Fuck, baby-" he rasps, hips bucking up into your mouth. Whatever doesn't fit that far is wrapped in your fist, and you give him a little squeeze before popping him out of your mouth, panting. His eyes fly open, staring down at you. "Shit, shit-" He pushes himself up, taking in the dazed look in your eyes and the way your whole body is shaking. "Was it too much ? Baby, did I hurt you ?"
You shudder, wiping tears from you cheek with your wrist, and look up at Frank through your damp lashes. He looks panicked. His hand hovers an inch from your face like he’s afraid to touch you, as if the mere graze of his palm might finish the job and knock your jaw clean off. His other hand grips the farthest end of the couch cushion, knuckles bone-bright, the way a drowning man might clutch a lifeline.
“Didn’t hurt,” you manage, voice shredded, throat raw. your lips feel bruised, stretched wider than a smile ever had, but you mean it. You give him a grin, a little shaky, and that seems to make it worse. He makes a noise—half relief, half terror—and pulls you up by the underarms, settling you in his lap like he needs to reassemble you from the mess you’d made of yourself at his feet.
“Jesus Christ,” he says again, kissing his way to your body. “You did so good.” You roll your eyes.
“I didn’t even finish the job.” You hum.
“Later.” He rasps, shaking his head. You shake your head in reply, grinding down on him.
“No, Frank. Now.” To Frank's horror- or pleasure, he’s not sure, thetwo seem to have melded into one by now, he can feel your folds gliding against him.
Fuck, you’re not wearing fucking panties.
Frank’s hands come to your waist, but there’s a caution to them now, a tremor of restraint that makes your skin prickle with want and frustration.
“Easy, honey,” he says, voice split between gravel and velvet. “Let’s just- let’s take it slow, yeah? Play it safe.” But you’re already tilting your hips, already grinding down on him, making the leaking tip of his cock glide slick against your folds. You’re soaked, thighs sticky with it, and you want nothing more than to see how much you can take—if you can take all of him. The idea of it, the challenge, makes every nerve in your body light up with electricity.
"M' tired of playing it safe." You whimper, hand reaching up to trace Frank's chest. Frank’s grip tightens, but not enough to stop you. If anything, it feels like he’s holding you steady, like you’re a hurricane he’s volunteered to brace against.
“You don’t have to,” he says, barely above a whisper, and it sounds like a warning, but there is barely any resolve there. You’re about to answer when you roll your hips one more time, and the tip of him breaches your entrance with a squelch, and Frank has to physically lift you off of him to stop you from trying to take all of him in one fail swoop. Frank’s hands lock around your waist as if you’re glass and he’d just caught you mid-fall.
“Hey, hey,” he grunts, face going taut and white as bone. “That’s enough. That’s—fuck, that’s not playin’ around anymore, sweetheart.” You want to laugh. You want to say,
You think I’m playing? but the words stick somewhere in your throat, knotted up behind want so abject it leaves no room for anything else. It isn’t just the ache between your legs or the rubber-band tension up your spine. It’s the way he keeps looking at you, mouth hard and tight with need and worry, the way his thighs tense and twitch beneath you like your body alone makes him nervous.
If you weren’t so wet you might’ve been offended.
Truth is, Frank has dreamed of taking you like this. Being able to move your hips in sync with his, watching your sopping cunt sink down and struggle to swallow all of him up, the way you would writhe and whine. But having it, right now- when he wasn't prepared for it ?
He can't helo but feel a little terrified.
You lift your hips off of his, softly reaching down between the both of you and grabbing his cock in your hands. He hisses at the contact, one hand wraped flimsily over your throat and jaw. He looks up at you, his chest heaving.
“You’re sure, baby ?” He rasps. You nod, whimpering at the emptiness.
“I’m sure, Frank.” You whine. He nods, his eyes wide. He gathers your nightdress up in his hands, bunching it up near your waist so he can see what you’re doing.
“Alright.” He groans. “We go slow, kay, baby ? Slow.” You're barely braced above him before Frank’s got both hands at your hips, the pads of his fingers digging into the soft flesh there, like he’s expecting you to take off running. You feel it, the tremor in his grip—less a warning, more a reminder, like he’s still not sure if you’re going to change your mind. But you won’t. Not when he’s looking up at you like that, mouth parted, breath coming just a little ragged at the edges. Frank runs his hands up and down your sides, steadying you with slow, broad sweeps.
“You gotta promise me,” he murmurs, voice so low it barely vibrates the air, “if it hurts too much, you say it. Don’t try to tough it out for me. You get me?” His eyes are dark, serious, but there’s a worry in them that makes your chest ache.
“I promise,” you whisper, and it’s the only thing that soothes his fear. He holds you steady, big hands bracing at your waist, eyes on your face instead of the place you’re both so desperate to look.
“Breathe, baby,” he says. His voice is as rough as the pad of his thumb stroking your hip, and shit, there’s more care in it than you can stand. “Nice and slow. You lead, I follow.” You nod, even though your hands shake against his chest.
Hell, your knees shake, your insides shake, but you want this.
You want every inch of him, even if it means tears streaking down your face and your jaw locking up. Even if it means he has to see you ugly-cry your way through the best sex of your life. You hover with his tip pressed right at your entrance. The stretch is immediate, so much more than what you’re used to, enough to make your whole body tense. You barely start to sink down before you freeze, breath catching in you throat. He tips his head back, a lewd moan slipping from his lips.
“Jesus, baby.” The stretch is a white-hot ache, harsher than you’d dreamed, like someone’s hollowed you out with a blunt instrument. Your nails dig into the meat of Frank’s shoulders and he hisses, but his hands on your hips don’t budge, a steady anchor. You try to breathe through it, slow and shallow, but your thighs tremble, teeth gritting against a whimper. Frank’s voice is a low, shuddering growl.
“That’s it, baby,” he says, and there’s awe tangled in his filth, like he’s seeing something sacred. “You’re doin’ so good for me. So fuckin’ good.” His thumb rubs a circle on your hip bone, coaxing, and the pressure’s so gentle it almost hurts worse. “Let it stretch you, honey. I got you.” You force yourself to open your eyes. He’s watching your face, jaw tight, forehead furrowed, his own lips parted. “Look at you. My pretty girl, taking my cock so good.” He hums. You huff out a quiet laugh- he’s not even halfway in. Thighs shaking, you dig your palms into Frank’s shoulders and push yourself down a little more. It’s impossible, how much of him is left - how much you want to take, even as your vision blurs at the edges. Frank tracks every change in you, every twitch and stutter of your body. The way your lips wobble, brow crumpled in something between agony and pure want. He holds you steady, lets you set the pace, but you can feel him trembling under your hands, like it’s costing him everything not to just grab your hips and slam himself home.
"S'it to much ? You gotta tell me baby." He rasps, and you quickly shake your head.
"N-No. Can take more. Want more, Frankie." You whine. He groans, low and heavy, his chest heaving, his knuckles whitening.
"Alright, baby." You force yourself down another inch, then another. The pain and the pleasure are so wrapped up it’s impossible to tell them apart anymore. You’re already crying, little noises you didn’t even know you could make, and yet you can’t stop, can’t stop even as your thighs shake, moisture slicking his lap and your own skin. He’s so deep you swear he’s up in your guts.
“That’s it, fuck,” Frank groans, the sound ripped straight from his chest. “Ya got it, mama, you got it.” he hums. You throw your head back, spreading your thighs wide, and you slide down the other inch. An unabashed moan rips through you as your clit nestles against his pubic bone, and your body falls forward.
"Mmph- Frank !" Frank’s gripping onto your thighs, sitting up properly to kiss your cheeks. Frank kisses the salty streaks off your cheeks, his calloused hands steadying you, one on your lower back and one splayed across your thigh, thumb tracing the soft inner seam. You can hear his heart pounding, a frantic, drumline thrum right beneath your sternum, your ribs nearly pressed together with his. The world’s closed down to just the two of you: your thighs quivering around his, your hands clawed into the sweat-slicked muscle of his shoulders, the sharp, dizzy ache of being ripped and made new around the kind of cock you’d never believed possible.
“Fucking - goddamn,” he rasps, his voice so low it crackles. “There you go, there you go, baby. C’mon, that’s it. Fuckin’ take it, just like that.” The praise is a hot, electric wire down your spine. You can barely catch your breath, mouth open wide, gulping air with each new surge of pleasure. Your hips give a tentative roll, and the pain that shoots up your thighs and ricochets into your pussy is like never before. You bite your lip to keep the whine from escaping, but you can’t help it. It tumbles past your lips, and Frank gives your ass a small slap.
“Hey. Hey, look at me, baby.” He kisses your forehead. “Take your time.” You whine, rolling your hips again, the pain subsiding.
“Feels so good, Frankie.” You whimper. “M’so full. So fuckin’ big.” Your hips jerk and the movement sends another slither of pain up your spine, but this time it feels… better. Not all the way good yet, but on the right side of addictive. You can feel yourself stretching to fit him, the way every tiny shift sends him deeper, fuller. You cling to his shoulders, forehead pressed to the crook of his neck, panting through the burn.
“Christ, that’s it,” he breathes, hands splayed wide on your hips, not moving, not pushing, just holding you steady while your body learns what to do with him. “You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good, sweetheart. Didn’t think it was possible, but look at you. My girl.” The way he says it makes a jolt of pleasure rush up your spine. Frank rocks his hips up, buried deep, and it’s a punch to both your lungs and your ego that you can even take his whole length. Your walls clamp around him, and the sweet, mean stretch lands somewhere between a cramp and a revelation. Sweat beads along the curve of his neck, his breath gone ragged. The hand at your hip slides up, spans your ribs, steadying you as you circle your hips again, chasing whatever sensation comes next.
“Christ, listen to you,” he mutters. “Sound so fuckin’ pretty when you whimper.” He slides a palm up your spine, fingers kneading at the handful of your back until it’s not clear if he’s holding you up or holding you together. “Never seen anyone take it like you do, baby. Shit, you’re perfect.” You want to laugh, to tell him you’re a mess—sweat-slick, trembling, nearly sobbing as he works you open. But what comes out is wordless, a string of broken syllables that might be his name or might be just a sound, a plea, a warning. You don’t know anymore. You don’t think you care. Frank holds you there, his breath ragged against your temple, his hands so big around your hips that you could almost believe he’s the only thing keeping your insides from spilling out. You’re still adjusting, still shaking, but the burn’s gone gold at the edges—sharp at first, then molten, then a kind of desperate, addictive ache. It’s hunger. It’s grief. It’s a craving that lives in the marrow, not just the skin.
“Never thought you’d take it like this,” he says, voice rough, barely more than a growl. The words crack against your ear, and you shudder all the way down. “Fuck, baby, you’re squeezin’ the life outta me.” You can’t stop shaking. Your knees are spread wide, bracketing his hips, the insides of your thighs slick with sweat and slick with everything Frank’s ever dragged out of you. You thinks you'll never get used to the feeling of him, never stop being wrecked by the way he stretches you open—fuller than full, the kind of full that scrapes at yout sanity and sends sparks arcing up her spine. You try to move again, to work him deeper, but your body stutters, shudders, clamps up so tight you're afraid you'll never let him go. Frank’s hands slide beneath your ass, rough and steady, and he’s whispering again.
“Still good, baby? Still with me?” You hear herself answer before you've even thought about it.
“Yeah. Oh, fuck—”
“That’s my girl,” he growls, and his hands flex, digging into the meat of your ass, helping you find a rhythm. His hands force your ass up, switching from slow rolls to you bouncing up and down on his cock, the length splitting you open every time you fall back down. You whine, nails raking down his chest as he sets a cruelly slow pace. You nod wordlessly, as if saying, yes this is what i wanted, yout nails digging into his chest. He keeps his pace slow, hands bracing you, letting you ride out every inch.
The way you move is desperate, hips frantic, but you're still so fucking tight it’s like every thrust stretches you all over again. Frank can feel it in the way you shake, the way your nails score frantic down his chest, each movement another little gasp from you.
“That’s it, baby,” He says, rough and low. “You’re doing so good. You’re perfect.” IHe yanks down the top of your dress and softly coaxes your breast into his palm, rolling your nipple between his fingers and it makes you arch, your head falling back, mouth open in a silent moan.
“Fuck, you like that? You like being full like this?” He can’t help it, he want you to know, he wants you to hear yourself and know how fucking hot you are right now.
He reaches for your face, brushes the hair out of your eyes, and maks you look at him.
“Look at you. So pretty riding my cock.” You gasp, your body rocking forward.
“Fuck, Frank-” A desperate whine pulls from your lips, pussy clenching around his impossibly hard length. "Mmph- I need-" Your words are cut off by a whine, and your head falls back as Frank runs his lips over the plane of your neck.
"What is it, sweet girl ? What d'ya need, hmm ?" He asks, catching your face in his heads and tilting it down to force you to look at him. "Ya need me t'stop ?" You shake your head, slamming your hips down to accentuate your point.
"N-No ! Don-Don't you dare fucking stop." You whine, leaning in to press your lips to his. Frank’s mouth finds yours, heat and need and all the things he never says out loud, and he kisses you with a rough, desperate edge that’s never come out this way before. His hand tangles in your hair, holding you there, letting you bite and gasp and moan against his lips. You pull away, fingers tangled in his hair as you look up at him. You roll your hips again, and Frank’s head falls back, groaning as your pussy clenches around his thick length- buried inside you to the hilt.
“Need- Need to go harder, Frankie.” You whine. Frank’s hands squeeze your hips, bruising, and his voice unspools in a low, dangerous note:
“You sure about that, baby? I don’t wanna hurt you.” You dig your nails in harder, clinging to his shoulders like a life raft, and shake your head so he’ll quit asking, quit holding back, and just—fuck, just let go.
“Need it. Please, Frankie. Please.” That’s all it takes. Something in him snaps. A groan wrenches out of his chest, and his hands slide down, rough palms spanning your ass, and he’s pistoning up into you, hips snapping so hard you see stars behind your eyes. You yelp, then moan, shock and pleasure shooting through your body in a white-hot flash. He’s relentless, slamming into you, hitting so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat.He’s all breath and teeth now, his resolve snapping with every desperate roll of your hips.
He bucks up, his cock splitting you open even wider—impossible, you think, but then you feel it: the way he bottoms out, the edge of his blunt head pressing so deep it’s like he’s rearranging every nerve ending you have. You cry out, the sound ugly and perfect, but Frank’s hand is at the back of your head, his mouth over your mouth, swallowing the noise.He loses the last of his restraint and plants his feet, his thighs up and hips off the couch, and now every grind is harder, meaner, his cock punching into you until all you can do is sob and clamp tight around him. The sound is obscene: the wet slap of skin, the ragged gasps, the squeal of couch springs. Frank hauls you in, his mouth at your ear, his voice nothing but a ragged scrape.
“Fuck, you’re a mess for me,” he growls, each word a brand against your skin. “All that attitude, and you’re fuckin’ sobbing on my cock. So fuckin' tight f'me, huh ? Such a good girl.” His hand slides up, fingers digging into the back of your neck, holding you steady as he rams up into you, relentless, and the pain is gone now, replaced by something blinding—a pleasure so sharp it makes your vision white out, your whole body hollowing and clutching around him.You rock in rhythm with him and it’s obscene, the squelch of where you’re joined, the slap of skin on skin as he pounds up into you, the guttural noises you can’t keep inside.
“Fuck, you’re so wet for me, baby. Been dreamin’ about this, you taking all of me. Didn’t think you’d—I mean, Jesus, look at you.” He grabs your ass, kneading it and pulling you down, forcing you to take every last millimeter. “You’re squeezing so tight, you’re milkin’ me, fuck—” He grits his teeth, eyes half-lidded and hungry. “You wanna come? Wanna let go for me?”
“Yes. God, yes, please.” You whine. “M’s close, Frank-mmph.” Frank’s voice shudders into your ear, all rough pride and awe:
“Yeah? Gonna come for me, sweet thing? C’mon. Give it to me. I wanna feel you .” He doesn’t let up, hips slamming up so hard the world blurs at the edges, the couch frame groaning beneath both of you. You can’t move, you can barely breathe, his hand fisted in your hair and the thick length of him splitting you open again and again. The pleasure builds in your spine, a searing hot pressure that crests and breaks with each brutal thrust, and you’re babbling, words running together,
“Frank, fuck, Frankie, please—” He’s greedy for it now, for your noises, for the way your body clenches around him. His hand slides between your bodies, finds your clit with thick, callused fingers, and rubs it raw and fast. The touch is too much,paired with the rough upwards pistoning of his hips, and your thighs fly closed to clench together as your orgasm crashes over you, desperate spasms taking over your whole body. You can’t hear anything except the sound of your own heartbeat, pounding in your ears, synced up with the steady, brutal pace Frank sets. His cock drags out of you slow, then slams up so hard your vision goes black at the edges, every shockwave through your pelvis making your toes curl.
“Attagirl. That’s it baby, ride through it. Attagirl.” He’s making noises he’s never let you hear before—deep, raw, hungry things that sound like they’re being torn out of his chest. The look he gives you is wild, desperate, like he’s not sure if he wants to devour you or worship you. He pulls you down until your foreheads touch, the sweat on his brow mixing with yours.
“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he rasps, and something hot and dangerous sparks in your belly. You’re clawing at his shoulders, leaving half-moon imprints in the flesh, riding the edge of pain and pleasure so sharp you can’t find the difference anymore. Frank’s hand clamps around your throat to keep you steady, his other hand still clenched at your waist.
"Shit, baby, i'm close." He rasps, and you whimper as you try to move your hips along with his, but the overstimulation wracks up your spine and you tense, letting him drive his cock up into you. You feel Frank’s cock twitch inside you, the urgent pulse of it syncing with your own rapid heartbeat, and you know he’s close even before his hips stutter and the muscles in his thighs go taut beneath you. The fingers at your waist grip tighter—near bruising—and his other hand comes up, thumb tracing a line along your jaw, anchoring you. You want the mess, the loss of control. You want him to stop speaking in careful half-steps and just fucking let go.
“Where d’ya want me sweet girl ?” He rasps, his restraint showing, his hand already drifting down towards where the two of you are conjoined to get ready to pull out. The question wobbles in your throat, half-swallowed by the slick heat and the way Frank’s fingers press into the curve of your jaw. He looks you dead in the eye, searching your face like he can find a map to this, too. Some secret code in the way you blink, the way you sway and curl tighter around him.
“Want it inside,” you gasp before he can break the stare, before self-doubt or good sense or whatever kept him guarded can muscle in. “Please, Frank. Please.” For a half-breath, it seems he might refuse you anyway—might white-knuckle that last scrap of control for the sake of gentleness, for your own good.
“Yeah? Want me to fill you up?” His voice is unsure, his eyes searching yours for confirmation. You nod wordlessly and he shakes his head, the gentleness he showed earlier resurfacing. “Baby, i need ya to tell me, kay ? Use your words.” Frank watches your face like its a code he can finally solve. Sweat tickes along his brow, not just fatigue, but the kind of focus he reserves for dismantling bombs and patching artery bleeds—urgent, precise, a little terrified. The request hits different coming from your mouth: raw, pleading, no filter. He gets it in his bones, even if his brain lags behind.
Inside. You want it inside.
His girl.
He wants to tell you no. Not because he doesn’t want it, but because he’d convinced himself he’d break you if he let go—like every inch of himself he held back was the difference between love and violence. But your face, flushed and wet and so fucking sure, said you’d survive it. Would probably haunt him if he didn’t.
“I mean it, Frankie.” Your voice cracks, the words sticking. “I want to feel you. All of it.” He doesn’t answer, just locks his hands tighter around your waist, and for one split second you see all the war in him: the need to protect, the need to ruin, the need to have you in every way. Then he grips your hips, braces his thighs, and surges up into you with a force that makes your vision shatter. Everything in you clamps around him, every nerve ending you have going off at once—pain, pleasure, something between the two that has no name, no anchor. You’ve never felt anything like it in your life. You think you might die from the stretch alone, but when the heat of him floods you, pulsing in hot, deep shocks, it’s like being electrocuted from the inside out.
“Shit, shit, fuck-!” Frank cries out, his pinned to yours as you feel him twitch and empty himself inside of you. You slump against him and his arms come around you immediately, his breath ragged as he thrusts lazily a few times, just to make sure he's all spent. His lips press to the crown of your head, kissing the area there softly as he runs his hands down the small of your back. Your breathing is ragged, a statcatto rythym as you bury your face in the crook of Frank's neck, hand resting on the other side of his neck, craving the gentle closeness.
"Jesus- fucking - Christ." He rasps, shaking his head. "You're fucking crazy, yknow that ?" He hums. You giggle- a shirt thing interrupted by hiccups, and you lick at your dry lips. He kisse your forehead again. "Lemme go get ya some water, baby." He hums. His hands settle at your waist, and the sound that follows is so insanely obscene that you almost want to go again. The sound that your bodies make when they disconnect, squelching and liquid squirting as he slolwy pulls his length out of you wakes you clit hum with anticipation.
That hum though is quickly replaced with the sharp pain of emptiness.
Frank stills the moment you make that soft, broken sound. Not the kind you’d made before - not the desperate ones, not the breathless ones - but something smaller. Quieter. It catches in your throat when he carefully, carefully slips the last of his length out of you, hands firm at your hips like he’s handling something fragile.
“Hey—hey,” he mutters immediately, all the air knocked out of his lungs. “Shit—did I—?” You cling to him before he can even finish the thought. Your arms wrap tight around his shoulders, your face pressed into his neck, a small whimper slipping out as your body adjusts to the sudden emptiness. Your fingers curl into his skin like you’re trying to anchor yourself, like letting go might send you drifting somewhere you can’t quite follow yet. Frank freezes. Actually freezes.
Every muscle in his body locks up, his hands hovering for half a second like he doesn’t know where to touch you without making it worse.
“Baby,” he says, rough, bordering on panicked now. “Talk to me. Did I hurt you? I told you—fuck, I told you—”
“No—” your voice comes out soft, a little shaky, but not distressed. You nuzzle closer instead of pulling away, tightening your grip around him. “No, no… it’s not that.” He doesn’t relax. Not yet. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pressing you gently into his shoulder like he’s trying to shield you from something—even if that something is himself.
“Then what was that?” he presses, quieter now, but there’s an edge to it. Worry. Real worry. You huff out a tiny, breathless laugh against his skin.
“It just—” you shift slightly, wincing just a little, and his grip tightens instantly again, like he’s ready to stop the world for you. “It just feels weird when you’re not there anymore,” you admit. “I was… really stretched out, Frank.”There’s a pause. A long one.
“…Good weird?” he asks finally, cautious, like he’s stepping across thin ice. You nod against him, then realize he can’t see it and mumble,
“Yeah. Good weird.” That’s when he exhales. Not a small breath—no, it’s deep. Heavy. Like he’s been holding it in his chest this whole time and only now feels allowed to let it go.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, pressing his lips to your temple. “You scared the shit outta me.” Your arms loosen just enough to look at him, your expression soft, a little dazed but warm.
“I’m okay,” you promise. He searches your face like he doesn’t quite believe you yet. Like he’s cataloguing every little detail—your eyes, your mouth, the way your breathing’s evening out. Then, finally, he nods.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, I know you are.”
But he still pulls you closer. Carefully, he shifts the two of you, easing you down against the couch so you’re not straining, making sure you’re comfortable before he even thinks about anything else. One of his hands stays firm at your waist, the other brushing your hair back from your face, slower now. Grounding.
“You sore?” he asks.
“A little,” you admit, voice soft. He hums, like he expected that.
“Yeah… figured.” His thumb traces along your side in slow, steady strokes. “That was… more than we usually—”
“I wanted it,” you cut in gently.
“I know,” he says immediately. No hesitation. No doubt. “I know you did.” That’s not the issue. His jaw tightens slightly, and his gaze drops for a second before coming back to you. “But next time,” he adds, quieter now, “you don’t just decide that on your own, alright?” You blink at him.
“Frank—”
“I mean it.” Not harsh. Just firm. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing just under your eye. “You tell me. Before. So I can take my time with you. Get you ready proper. Stretch you out properly so that it don't hurt when we're done.” There’s something in his voice—something protective, but not controlling. Careful. Thoughtful. “I don’t ever wanna be guessin’ with you,” he continues. “Don’t wanna be sittin’ here after wonderin’ if I pushed you too far.” Your chest tightens a little at that.
“I wasn’t too far,” you say softly.
“I know,” he murmurs. “But I need to know know. Not just hope.” That lands.
“Okay,” you agree. His shoulders loosen just a fraction.
“Okay,” he echoes. He shifts you so that your in his arms, he carries you into your bedroom. He sets you down on the bed, sighing sofltly. He brushes your hair away from your face, humming. "Don't fall asleep, baby. I'll be right back." You make a small noise of protest immediately, your fingers catching weakly at his wrist before he can pull away.
“Don’t go far,” you mumble, already half-melting into the mattress. He huffs out a quiet breath—something between a laugh and a sigh—and leans down, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.
“Ain’t goin’ anywhere,” he mutters. “Just gimme a second.” You squint up at him suspiciously, even as your eyes threaten to close.
“You better not be doing your disappearing act again.” That earns you a proper huff.
“Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head. “One time I clean up and suddenly I’m a flight risk.”
“Every time,” you correct sleepily. He pauses at the edge of the bed, glancing back at you, one brow raised.
“…You keep trackin’ that?”
“Mm,” you hum. “Suspicious behavior.” He lets out a low, amused exhale through his nose.
“Yeah, real suspicious,” he murmurs. “Man takes care of his girl, real criminal.”
“Debatable,” you mumble, already sinking deeper into the pillows. That pulls a quiet laugh out of him.
“Don’t fall asleep,” he reminds you again.
“Frank…”
“I’ll be back in two seconds,” he promises, already easing out from under you despite the way you try to follow him. “Don’t go passin’ out on me yet.” You squint up at him, unimpressed.
“Bossy,” you mumble again, voice thick with sleep. He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he leans down, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.
“Yeah, yeah. Says the one who nearly killed me ten minutes ago.” Your lips twitch.
“I did great,” you mumble. He pauses mid-step, glancing back at you with a look that’s half disbelief, half reluctant amusement.
“‘Did great,’” he repeats under his breath. “Jesus.” He disappears into the bathroom, and you can hear the sink running, cabinets opening—familiar sounds, but slower now. Less routine. Like he’s still thinking about you, even when he’s not in the room. He’s not gone long. When he comes back, he’s got that same warm cloth in hand, and a glass of water balanced carefully between his fingers. The second he sees your eyes drooping, he clicks his tongue.
“Hey—hey. Don’t you do that.” You groan quietly as he sets the glass down on the nightstand and sits beside you again.
“M’tired…”
“I know,” he murmurs. “C’mon, up a little.” He slides an arm behind your shoulders, lifting you just enough so you can lean against him. You go willingly this time, head lolling against his chest as he brings the glass to your lips.
“Drink,” he says. You take a few slow sips, then pull back, already trying to sink into him again.
“That’s enough,” you mumble.
“Few more.”
“Frank—”
“Few more,” he repeats, softer, but there’s no budging him. You sigh dramatically, but you listen, taking another couple of sips before he finally nods, satisfied.
“Good girl.” You hum at that, eyes fluttering shut again.
“See? Not so bossy now.”
“Don’t push it,” he mutters, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth. He sets the glass aside and reaches for you again, guiding you back down onto the bed properly this time. The cloth in his hand is warm, and he’s careful—extra careful now, his touch light, attentive. You twitch a little at the sensitivity, and his brow furrows immediately.
“Still okay?” he asks.
“Mm,” you nod sleepily. “Just… sensitive.” He grunts softly.
“Yeah. That tracks.” There’s a pause, then—more teasing, but quieter— “Maybe next time you don’t try to prove a point all at once, huh?” You crack one eye open at him.
“I wasn’t proving a point.”
“Oh yeah?” he raises a brow. You shrug lazily.
“…Maybe a little.” He snorts.
“Unbelievable.” But his hand smooths over your thigh right after, gentle, reassuring. “You hurt anywhere?” he asks, trying to sound casual and failing just a little. You shift slightly, testing, then shake your head.
“Just… sore.” His jaw tightens for a second.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s on me.”
“No, it’s not,” you say immediately, reaching out to catch his hand before he can pull it away. “Frank.” He stills. You tug his hand gently, making him look at you.
“I liked it,” you say, quieter now. “All of it.” His eyes search yours again—that same careful, thorough look.
“…Yeah?” he asks. You nod.
“Yeah.” A small pause. Then you add, a little teasing— “Even the part where you looked like you were about to pass out.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “I was not—”
“You were,” you insist, smiling now. “Little bit.”
“Was not.”
“Little bit,” you repeat. He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no heat in it. He finishes up, then pulls the blankets over you, tucking them in. You immediately reach for him. He doesn’t make you ask twice. He climbs back into bed, settling behind you this time, pulling you into his chest so your back is pressed against him. One arm wraps around your middle, anchoring you there, his hand splayed warm against your stomach. For a minute, he just holds you.
Then— “You really okay?” he murmurs, voice low near your ear. There it is again. That thread of worry he can’t quite shake. You shift slightly, turning your head just enough to glance back at him.
“I said I am.”
“I know what you said.” You huff softly.
“I’m good, Frank. Promise.” He studies you for a second longer, like he’s debating whether to push it again. Then he exhales.
“Alright.” But his hand tightens just a little around you anyway. Your fingers drift down, resting over his where it’s spread across your stomach.
“…You were kinda panicking,” you mumble, a hint of teasing slipping back in. He scoffs quietly.
“I was not.”
“You were,” you insist, smiling a little. “You looked like I broke something.”
“Well,” he mutters, “you were lookin’ at me like you just went twelve rounds with a truck, so forgive me for bein’ concerned.” You laugh softly at that, the sound muffled by the pillow.
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah,” he says, nudging his nose lightly against your hair. “You keep sayin’ that.” There’s a pause. Then, quieter— “…Still gonna worry.” Your chest softens at that. You turn aroun and curl into him, head tucked beneath his chin.
“I know.” That seems to settle something in him. His thumb starts moving again—slow, absent circles against your hip, the same steady rhythm from before.
“Next time,” he murmurs, softer now, “we do it my way first.”
You groan softly.
“Frank.”
“I’m serious,” he insists, though there’s a hint of amusement in his voice now. “We doin’ that again, I’m takin’ my time with you.”
“You always take your time,” you mumble.
“Not like that,” he says. “I mean really takin’ my time." You tilt your head just enough to look up at him.
“…How much time are we talking?” His mouth twitches slightly.
“Enough that you ain’t givin’ me that look like you’re about to pick a fight with physics.” You blink.
“…That’s not what I was doing.”
“That’s exactly what you were doin’.”
“I was being adventurous.”
“You were bein’ reckless,” he corrects. You smile, nudging your nose against his jaw.
“And you loved it.” He goes quiet for a second.
“…Yeah,” he admits, softer this time. Then, after a beat— “Doesn’t mean I ain’t gonna do it right next time.” You hum, satisfied, your eyes finally slipping closed for real.
“Okay, Frankie.” His hand starts moving again along your back, slow, steady, grounding.
“And you tell me,” he adds quietly, more serious now, pressing a light kiss to your hair. “Before you go doin’ somethin’ like that again.” You nod faintly against him.
“I will.”
“Good.” A pause. Then, softer— "Ya did real good, baby,” he murmurs. You yawn, nodding against his chest.
"Told you I could take it." Frank rolls his eyes, peppering your face with kisses. You crack open an eye at him. "The only thing too big about you is your ego." You hum.
Frank lets out a quiet, offended huff at that, pulling back just enough to look down at you properly.
“Yeah?” he mutters, one brow ticking up. “That what we’re goin’ with?” You give him a sleepy, satisfied little nod, clearly pleased with yourself.
“Mmhm.” He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no bite to it—just that familiar, rough-edged fondness.
“Alright,” he says slowly. “Careful now.” You smile, eyes already drifting shut again.
“Why?” you mumble. “Gonna prove me wrong?” He snorts softly, shaking his head as his hand slides back into its place on your back, steady and warm.
“Nah,” he murmurs. “Already tried that tonight.” That pulls the faintest little laugh out of you.
“Didn’t go so well, huh?” you mumble. He leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple.
“Debatable,” he says. You hum, too tired to argue, curling further into him. There’s a quiet beat before he adds, softer now—
“…And for the record—” You make a small noise, somewhere between a groan and a hum.
“Frank…”
“—ain’t my ego you gotta worry about,” he finishes anyway, voice low and teasing. You crack one eye open just enough to squint up at him.
“Oh yeah?” His mouth twitches.
“Yeah." A pause. Then, with the faintest hint of a grin in his voice— “Pretty sure we already established what’s actually too big.”
“you’re makin’ a habit out of this, kid.” frank’s voice is a low, rough rumble through the speaker of your phone, heavy with the gravel of a man who was already halfway asleep before you rang him. you can hear the faint rustle of his bedsheets, the heavy, deliberate sigh he lets out into the receiver. he’s your dad’s oldest friend — the man who practically watched you grow up — and he knows damn well he shouldn't be answering the phone at two in the morning just to hear you breathe like this. but he did.
you whimper into the line, the sound small and completely desperate as your fingers work frantically beneath the waistband of your shorts. you’re so slick, so entirely consumed by the ache between your thighs, and no matter what you do, you can't seem to touch the spot right. “frank, please… i can’t— i need you. i tried, but it’s not working. please.”
there’s a long, heavy beat of silence on his end. you can practically feel the weight of his gaze through the network, the sheer gravity of his restraint cracking. he knows the power he has over you. he knows he’s the only man alive who can actually fix this for you, the only one big enough, rough enough, to make the noise in your head stop.
“you touchin’ at yourself right now?” he rasps, his tone shifting into something darker, a command that makes your stomach flip. you hear the thud of his boots hitting the floor on his end. he’s getting up. “tell me what you’re doing to yourself while you’re callin’ your daddy’s best friend, hm? say it for me.”
“i’m… i’m touchin’ myself, frank. for you. it’s only for you,” you sob out, your hips arching off your mattress as you rub against your own fingers, pretending they’re his heavy, calloused hands instead. “i’m so needy… please come over. he’s out of town, he won’t know. just come fix it. please.”
a dark, rough chuckle vibrates through the phone, sending a wave of heat straight to your core. “you’re a bad girl, you know that? a real brat.” you hear his truck keys jingle on the counter, the heavy front door of his place creaking open. he’s not even trying to fight it anymore. “keep your hand right there. don’t you dare stop until I get my hands on you."
summary : an argument doesn't stop, not even in the most comprimising positions.
warnings : MDNI, smut, size kink, angst, soft dom!frank, praise kink, p in v, unprotected sex, missionary , cowgirl , little to no comfort, pregnancy, mentions of loss
word count : 8.6 k
a/n: im SO SORRY for being MIA guys...... ANYWAYSSSSSS based on this rq and not proofread ! (also this is considered a prequel to "New Beginnings")
Frank knows he's in trouble the second you slam the cupboard a little harder than necessary.
Not angry enough to break it.
Just angry enough to make a point.
He frowns at the back of your head.
Everything was fine when he came home, you smiled at him, jumped up to kiss him- the usual. But now you're slamming cupboards.
"Woah, baby." He saunters up to you, hands barely reaching your waist before you slap them away.
"Don't fucking touch me right now, Frank." You spit, moving out of his grasp. You don't even look at him. You yank another mug out of the cabinet.
Frank blinks.
The words hit harder than the shove.
He drops his hands immediately, palms lifting in surrender.
"…Okay." You don't answer. You yank another pan out of the cupboard with far more force than necessary. Metal clangs against the countertop. Frank watches you for another second.
"…You wanna tell me what I did?"
"No."
"…Can't fix it if I don't know."
"You can start by leaving me alone."
That… That stings. He studies you carefully. Your shoulders are tight. Your jaw is locked. You're not looking at him. Whatever this is… It's real. He nods once.
"Alright." He backs off. Not because he wants to. Because you asked him to. For all his faults, Frank Castle has never been good at ignoring what you need. Even when it hurts him. He busies himself making coffee instead. The apartment is painfully quiet.
Usually one of you fills the silence.
Today… Nothing.
The kettle whistles. He pours himself a mug. Waits.
You don't come steal the first sip like you always do. You don't even look at him.
"…You eat today?" Silence. He tries again. "…Baby?" The cabinet door slams.
"I said leave me alone." Frank exhales slowly through his nose.
"Alright." Five more minutes pass. He's halfway through his coffee when you mutter something under your breath.
"…Unbelievable."
"What?"
"I wasn't talking to you."
"You definitely were."
"I definitely wasn't."
"You looked right at me."
"I was looking through you."
"…That's kinda mean."
"So was what you did." Frank sets his mug down.
"There it is."
"What?"
"Whatever I did." You whirl around.
"I cannot believe you!"
"I still don't know what I did."
"You seriously don't?"
"No."
"Jesus Christ." You laugh. Not because it's funny. Because you're so irritated you're bordering on delirious. "You forgot."
"…Forgot?"
"The appointment, Frank." You say, crossing your arms.
He stares at you.
"…Appointment?"
You make a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan.
"You're kidding."
"I'm askin'."
"My fertility appointment." Silence. "The one I reminded you about three times." His brow furrows as he searches his memory. Then—
"…Shit." You throw your hands into the air.
"There it is!"
"I—"
"You forgot."
"I didn't forget— You literally just said 'appointment? I forgot what day it was."
"Frank."
"I did."
"You promised you'd come."
"I know."
"I rearranged it because you said you'd be there."
"I know."
"I sat in that waiting room for forty minutes." Every word makes him wince. "Looking at the damn door every time it opened." His chest caves in.
"Baby…"
"And every single time…" Your voice cracks despite your best effort. "…it wasn't you." Frank drops his head.
"…I'm sorry."
"You didn't even call."
"I couldn't."
"You could've."
"I was pinned down."
"You could've called after."
"I know."
"You didn't."
"I know."
"You forgot."
"I know." You point an accusing finger at him.
"And don't you dare keep saying 'I know.'"
"…Okay."
"'Okay?'"
"…Sorry?"
"'Sorry?'" He rubs both hands over his face.
"I am runnin' outta words here."
"Good."
"You want me to grovel?"
"I want you to have remembered." That one… That one lands. Hard. Because there's nothing clever he can say. Nothing funny. Nothing to argue. He simply forgot. And it hurt you.
"I'm sorry," he says again, quieter this time.
"I know."
"No, I mean it."
"I know."
"I hate that I hurt you."
"I know."
"I would've been there."
"I know."
"If I could redo yesterday—"
"You can't."
"I know." You huff loudly and turn back toward the sink.
"I'm still mad."
"You got every right."
"I know I do." Frank stands there awkwardly for a moment. Watching you aggressively rinse a coffee mug that is already clean.
"…Can I stand over here?"
"I don't care."
"So that's not a no."
"It's barely a yes."
"I'll take barely." He shuffles closer. Carefully. Like approaching a wild animal. You continue scrubbing the mug with enough force to remove the glaze.
"…You're gonna wear a hole through that."
"Mind your business."
"It is my mug."
"It was."
"…Was?"
"I might smash it."
"…Fair." You hear him shifting beside you. Then… Nothing. No talking. No apologizing. Just… Warmth. His shoulder is close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him. You ignore it.
Very deliberately.
Another minute passes.
Then you feel it.
The lightest brush of lips…Against your shoulder. You stop scrubbing.
"…Frank."
"Hm?"
"…What are you doing?"
"Kissin' you."
"I told you not to touch me."
"You did."
"…So?"
"I kissed you." You slowly turn your head. He looks entirely unapologetic.
"I noticed."
"I couldn't help it."
"You absolutely could've."
"Probably." Your glare intensifies.
"I'm still mad."
"I know." Another tiny kiss. Same shoulder. You sigh.
"…You're unbelievable."
"I've heard."
"You think kissing me is gonna fix this?"
"No." Another kiss.
"But it makes me feel a little better."
"Frank."
"Hm?"
"…You're irritating."
"I know." He leans in again. This time your jaw. Barely a peck. You keep talking anyway.
"You embarrassed me."
"Mhm."
"I had to explain why my husband forgot."
"Mhm."
"And then I had to drive home alone." Another kiss. The side of your neck. You close your eyes for exactly half a second before remembering you're angry.
"…Don't." He immediately pulls back.
"Sorry.'" You body tense at the lack of warmth.
"…Why'd you stop?" He blinks.
"…You told me to."
"I know. …Don't stop." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"You sure?"
"No."
"No?"
"I'm still furious."
"I know."
"But…" You refuse to look at him. "…don't stop." He smiles properly now. Soft. Relieved. He steps closer again. This kiss lands on your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth. You keep ranting through every single one.
"…You have the organizational skills of a raccoon."
"Mhm."
"You'd lose your own head if it wasn't attached."
"Probably."
"I had to eat hospital vending machine crackers." His body wraps around you from behind, his hands venturing to your waist band.
"Gruesome." He hums.
"You're the worst," you whisper, even as you feel his hands slip under your t-shirt, palms rough and cold and good. His thumbs press along the elastic of your sweatpants, a steady knead that says: Let me make it up to you. It's infuriating. It's tender. It's everything Frank is and you hate him for it.
"My eternal punishment," he says, and bites your earlobe, so gently it's almost nothing, while his hands slip even lower. He likes to go slow, torturously slow, and you make a strangled noise in your throat, wrenching another mug from the drying rack just to have something to do.
"You don't get to touch me," you hiss, but your hips betray you, rolling back into him, seeking out the heat, the pressure, the presence that only Frank can provide. He grins against your neck, the bastard.
"I don't?" His hand is already halfway in, two fingers pressed exactly where you need them, all the more infuriating because he knows your body better than he remembers his own fucking schedule. He moves his fingers in slow, rhythmic circles, and you suck in a breath, still determined to out-stubborn him.
"You're not forgiven," you gasp, shoving the mug back into the rack with a clatter. He curls his fingers and you see stars.
"I know," he says, voice low. "Figured I could at least help you relax." The pads of his fingers are so thick and blunt, callused from years of violence and penance, and you hate how your body is already yielding, already trembling, wanting more. You grip the counter so hard it creaks. You will not moan. You bite your own lip, desperate to stifle the sound, but Frank knows. He always knows. He pumps his fingers, slow, relentless, and then uses his other hand to grab your jaw, tilting your head back so he can lick a stripe up your neck.
"You think you can distract me with sex," you say, and your voice is all gravel and tremor, but you manage to make it sound like an accusation.
"Can I?" Frank asks, curling his fingers again, harder this time. Your knees buckle. He catches you, the bastard, and pins you to the counter. "You tell me." The edge of the counter presses into your belly as he works you, your back arching against him, your anger dissolving into something more raw and primal. He doesn't stop, not even when your thighs shake, not even when you turn your head to bite his shoulder through his t-shirt. He fucks you with his hand like nothing else exists in the world, like your pleasure is the only thing that matters, and you hate him so much for it you could die.
“You’re so self centered. I needed you at that fucking appointment, Frank. You promised me.” You whine. His mouth is right at your ear, his breath thick and sweet.
“I know, baby,” he rumbles, his fingers never slowing. “I shoulda been there. Shoulda held your hand and sat in those shit plastic chairs, waited for you, carried you home.” You want to tell him to go to hell but all that comes out is a high, pleading whine. You hate the way your thighs open for him, how your body melts and reforms against his chest, how you want to fuck yourself on his hand just to spite him. “Always so wet for me, even when you’re pissed.” His thumb finds your clit and you nearly jump out of your skin. He’s not gentle with you, not ever, but this is different: he’s punishing you for being right, and you’re punishing him right back by refusing to give in.
“I hope your hand falls off,” you spit, your voice trembling, your ass grinding hard against his cock—already swelling, already pressing into the small of your back. “I hope you get carpal tunnel, you absolute—” He slides his fingers out, drags them up your stomach, and shoves them into your mouth before you can finish. The taste of yourself is sharp and electric. You bite his knuckles for good measure. He groans, a deep animal sound.
“You got a smart mouth, baby,” he growls. One-handed, he spins you, hauls you right off the goddamn ground, and deposits you on the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing. He stands between your knees, palms splayed on either side of your thighs, his chest heaving under the gray t-shirt. His eyes are so dark now they’re almost all pupil. “You want me to say it?” he asks, his gaze never leaving yours. “You want me to beg?” You scowl, arms crossed, legs dangling.
“You couldn’t beg if your life depended on it.” He smiles, slow and dangerous.
“Bet you a hundred bucks I could beg better than you could come.”
“Fuck you, Frank.” He tips his head so his mouth grazes yours.
“Yeah, i'm gettin' to that baby.” He peels off your sweatpants, your underwear, tugging them over your hips and down your legs with a gentle patience that only makes you angrier. You want to keep yelling, but he’s already spreading you open, kissing down your jaw, your neck, your chest, his hands so big they bracket your torso. He’s too tall for this, too broad, and the fit is wrong and perfect all at once. He gets on his knees, like a fucking knight or a sinner, and puts his mouth on you. The heat of him, the scratch of his stubble, the obscene, greedy noises he makes—it’s enough to make you dizzy. You try to push him away, but your fingers curl in his hair, dragging him closer instead. He licks you like he’s starving, like you’re the only meal he’s ever wanted, his nose pressed to the soft skin just above your clit. His hands pin your thighs open, wide, wider, until your legs shake and your toes curl and you want to scream at him, for him, about how fucking much you hate him and how much you need him and how much you need to win. But he’s already got you, and you know it. Your whole body bows off the counter, heels digging into the drawers, one hand in his hair the other scrabbling at the slick Formica. He works you with tongue and fingers and goddamn persistence, not giving you a single second to catch your breath, until you break apart and shudder so hard you almost knock a plate off the rack. Even then, he keeps going. You have to push his head away, hard, to get him to stop. He looks up at you, lips wet, a savage kind of pride burning in his eyes.
“Feel a little better?” he asks, smug as hell. You glare at him, panting.
“No. You’re still a fucking moron.” He stands, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and grins.
“Lucky for you, morons got a lot of time for making up.” He hauls you off the counter and into his arms before you can say another word, and you beat your fist against his shoulder, but it doesn’t slow him for a second. He carries you straight to the bedroom, not even pretending to be gentle with the door, and dumps you on the mattress like a sack of flour. You land sprawled, half-naked and still flushed from the last round, but you refuse to look anything but defiant. He peels off his own shirt, then his sweats, slow and deliberate, like he knows you want to look away and refuses to let you. And, Jesus, the man is so fucking big you want to scream. It’s not just his arms or his chest, or the tan lines on his hips or the scars scattered like confetti over every inch of his skin—it’s the cock too, hanging thick and heavy between his thighs, already flushed dark at the tip, almost comically oversized. You want to snark something about it, but all that comes out is a hot, involuntary noise. He hears it. He grins even wider.
“Something on your mind?” He kneels on the edge of the bed, crowding you with his sheer mass.
“I still haven’t forgiven you,” you rasp, and try to slide away, but it’s pointless. He brackets your hips with his hands and yanks you down the mattress, until his cock is pressed right up against your cunt, the heat of it making you dizzy all over again.
“Not askin’ for forgiveness,” he rumbles, voice almost gentle. “Just wanna make you feel good.” You want to say something biting, but he pushes in, slow, and the words die in your throat. You never get used to it; the stretch, the pressure, the way he splits you open inch by inch, like you were built just to take him. He holds your legs open, lets you feel every second as he bottoms out, and the ache is so good you almost forget to be mad.
“You’re such an asshole,” you gasp, wrapping your ankles around his back. He drives in deep, then deeper, folding you almost in half, the weight of him crushing you to the mattress. You’re still mad and you tell him so, every word punctuated by the slap of his hips.
“Asshole,” you snarl. “You’re such a fucking—” He cuts you off with a kiss, open-mouthed and messy.
“Say it,” he demands, “c’mon, tell me.”
“Dick!” you gasp, and he laughs, a genuine huff against your cheek. “Piece of shit—fuck—Frank!” He pounds into you, unforgiving, and you can’t help the way your nails score his back, or the way your words get softer, wetter, more desperate the longer he goes.
“Is that all you got for me?” he grunts, and your teeth chatter as he slams into you again, his huge hand bracketing your throat, just enough to remind you that he could end you, could shatter you, but he never does. He never would. You want to tell him to fuck off, but all that comes out is a broken little moan.
“God, you’re so full of yourself,” you spit, “you—” but he angles his hips, grinding deep in a way that makes your words dissolve into a long, shuddering “oh fuck—” He’s so big you can’t even think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but claw at the sheets and feel yourself open, stretch, throb around him. He’s dragging you right to the edge, inching you closer with every merciless thrust, and you know he won’t stop until you’re wrecked for him, until you can barely remember why you were mad in the first place.
“Gonna make you come so hard you forget your own name,” Frank promises, and he bites your jaw, sucking a bruise right into the skin, and you arch under him, desperate, furious, wanting more, always more. Your mind is a white-hot blank, your body all sensation, and you’re so close it’s almost painful. He pistons his hips, the bedframe squealing under the force, his hand sliding down to rub your clit in tight, cruel circles. You can’t hold back now. You wail for him, legs wrapped around his waist, nails carving angry little lines across his back. You want to hurt him, want to make him pay for missing the appointment, but this was always how you punished each other: taking and taking and never letting go. He slows, inches out just enough to make you clench down around the head of his cock, then slams in again, so deep you swear you feel him in your lungs. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, the smug bastard, and he’s not going to let you forget it.
“Look at you,” he growls, “—fuckin’ perfect, takin’ every inch. That’s my girl.” He slaps your ass hard enough to make you yelp, and you can’t decide if you hate him or want to keep him in your bed forever.
“Love you like this,” he mutters, “so goddamn tight, so good for me.”
You glare up at him, both of you panting, and then he laughs, huge and bright and dangerous, and kisses you like he’s never going to let you go.
He keeps fucking you, harder, meaner, using your body like it’s his, and you know it is, it always has been. He shoves your knees up over his shoulders, folding you in half, exposing you, filling you to the point of breaking. The stretch is unbearable. It’s perfect.
“Oh, god- I hate you.” You whine, eyes rolling back. “You left me on that fucking chair on my own. We were- mmph, fuck- we were supposed to be there together, you ass.” His hand finds your cheek, holding you steady as his cock splits you wider than you thought you could go
. "I know, I know, baby," he growls into your mouth, still working you with brute, measured force. "I'm a fuckin' mess, but I'm yours." He kisses you again, tongue hot and possessive, and you taste salt—tears? sweat? rage?—and realize it doesn't matter, you're keening into him, giving back everything he throws at you. He drives into you so hard the headboard rattles. You can barely breathe, but you throw the words in his face anyway, every syllable slurred with pleasure and pain.
"You think—f-fuck—you can just fix this…with your dick?" He smiles, big and wolfish and unrepentant.
"I think you like my dick," he says, rolling his hips, making you feel every obscene inch, every vein and pulse. "Think you fuckin' love it." He’s not wrong. You're so split open around him you can feel yourself flutter, desperate, ungodly stretched, the ache so good it almost makes you cry. But you refuse to give him the satisfaction, so you hold your glare and grind back, matching him thrust for thrust. He lets you, lets you set the pace for half a second, then slams back in to remind you who’s on top.
“You are so self-entitled, Castle.” You whimper, “I needed you and you weren’t there, like fucking always-”
"You done ?” He rasps.
“No, you- fuck- i’m nowhere near done, you fucker.”
“Okay, baby.” He hums, kissing your jaw. He leans over you, his body crowding yours, cock still buried in your cunt so deep you feel like he’s behind your fucking ribcage, and it’s so wrong and so right you could die. He cages your face with his hands, spreads your cheeks open, and moves his hips in small, mean circles.You buck up into him, fighting for leverage, but he just pins you harder, lets you thrash under him and doesn’t slow for a second.
“If you ever make me sit in a waiting room by myself again, I’m leaving your sorry ass.” You try to sound brave, but he’s milking the words out of you, every syllable wrung from a body that’s way too full, way too desperate. He laughs, low and rough, and bites your shoulder, hard enough to leave teeth marks.
"Never again,” he promises, and grabs your hand, lacing your fingers together before pinning it above your head. “You believe me?” You’re going to say no, going to make him work for it, but right then he pulls out almost all the way, just the fat head of his cock stretching you, and slams back in so perfect that you sob. Your walls spasm, clenching down, and you can’t believe how fucking huge he is, how you take him anyway, how you always want more even when you hate him. He sees it all in your eyes, the way you try to hide it, the tears threatening to spill over. He kisses them away, one by one, and you’re so furious you could bite him again but instead you just pull his mouth down to yours, devour him like you’ve needed to for weeks.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and you arch up, hips rolling, chasing the friction. He praises you like it’s a habit, like it’s the only trick he knows, and it works every single time. “Look at you—so tight, so greedy for me, takin’ every inch. You want that? You want more?” You shake your head, but your cunt spasms around him like your body’s begging for everything he’s got. He fucks you a little slower now, letting the drag of his cock set you on fire, making you feel every pulse, every push. You can’t help the noises you make, can’t help the way your thighs tremble, or the way you arch your back so he can get even deeper. He’s got you open, split wide, and you want to scream at him but all that comes out is his name, over and over, like a prayer you never meant to say. He grins down at you, wipes a thumb over your spit-slick bottom lip.
“You’re so goddamn pretty like this,” he says, “when you’re mad, when you’re fucked out, when you’re both.” He slams in harder, and your vision whites out, stars crowding the edges. “Gonna come for me, baby?” He pounds into you, greedy and relentless, pinning your wrists to the bed so you can't even pretend to fight him off. You bare your teeth, arching into his grip.
“I hope you die of blue balls,” you snarl, but it’s all a lie and he knows it. He breathes a laugh right against your mouth, thrusts deeper, almost showing off.
“You think you can put a hex on me?” he grits out.
“I hope your cock falls off.” He snorts, but there’s pride in the way he stretches you, the way he makes you gasp and whimper.
“Not with you around, baby. You fuckin’ love this.”
“I’ve had better,” you say, right before he changes the angle and your vision whites out at the edges. He grins, a wicked curve of his lips, and fucks you harder.
“Liar,” he says. You want to spew more venom, but he presses your knees into your chest again, folding you so tight you can barely breathe. You feel him everywhere, the scraping stretch inside you, the weight of his body, the bruising grip on your wrists. He’s not gentle. He never is when you’re like this. But you need it. You crave the way he pushes you to the edge and holds you there, makes you say things you’d never admit in daylight.
“You’re such a big fuckin’ show-off,” you spit, and he laughs again, but there’s strain in it. He’s close. You can feel the stutter in his hips, the way his breath comes ragged.
“All for you, sweetheart.” He lets go of your wrists, grabs your jaw instead. Forces you to look at him as he grinds you down into the mattress. “No one else gets me like this.” You hate the way your body shudders at those words. You hate the way your cunt clamps down, greedy and desperate. Your hands find his shoulders, digging in, nails dragging red tracks down his back. He fucks you through it, unrelenting, and you want to break him apart but you're the one unraveling.
“Gonna come for me?” He asks it low, like a secret. “Gonna let me feel you?”
“Fuck you,” you say, but your hips are already bucking, your whole body going taut under his. He slows, just enough to drag it out, to keep you from your release.
“Say it,” he growls again, rutting into you with a force that’s nearly punishing, and the world contracts to the thick, obscene stretch inside you and the taste of his sweat on your tongue. Your body’s trembling, every muscle taut, and you’re barely holding it together even as you snarl at him, even as you spit venom between your teeth. He wants to break you down. You want to make him bleed for it. You bare your teeth.
“You wish,” you hiss, but your cunt pulses so hard around him it almost hurts. He pumps in, slow and heavy, all the way to the hilt, then holds, grinding his hips in tight circles.
“Look at you,” he breathes, voice gone. “You’re so fuckin’ close.” You glare at him, blinking away the tears that threaten, and fight the urge to sob. You won’t give him the satisfaction, but you can’t stop your body from getting there, from bucking up, from chasing after the pleasure with every ruined, raw nerve. You shove at Frank’s chest, mostly for show. He doesn’t budge; the man’s a boulder, and you’re a wet sock. He fucks you through the aftershocks, relentless as a tide, and you want to slap him but instead drag your nails down his back until he flinches. Frank’s face is pure wolf now—cheekbones sharp, hair stuck to his forehead, a wildness in his gaze that you’ve missed.
“Go ahead,” he pants, “let it out. Scream if you gotta.” You bare your teeth.
“I’d scream if you could do anything right for once.”
“You keep sayin’ you want me to stop,” he pants, “but you keep clenching up like you’re tryin’ to milk me dry.”
“Somebody’s gotta do it.” Your thighs start to ache, but you’re not tapping out, not ever. “You’re useless at everything else.” You mean to sound brutal, but your voice thins out and you hate yourself for it.
“You could always get yourself a smarter husband,” he says, grinning. You push at his chest, harder this time, and out of pure surprise, Frank falls backwards. You climb onto him, and sink down in one fluid motion. You straddle him with a glare that could kill. The stretch is instant and obscene and so, so good, your knees slamming the mattress on either side of his hips. You brace both hands on his chest and rock forward, and the first bounce nearly knocks the air from your lungs—he’s so fucking deep it’s like he’s built to destroy you. Frank’s hands fly to your thighs, squeezing hard enough to bruise, but you bat them off, digging your own fingers into his ribs so he knows who’s in charge.
“This doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,” you spit. You’re breathless and shaking, every nerve ending on fire, but you’re not about to let him see you weak. “You’re gonna pay for this for weeks, you know.” Frank just grins and tilts his head, all wolf and hunger, and you hate him for not even pretending to defend himself. He’s not talking now—too busy watching you, soaking up every move, every glare, every flex of your cunt around his cock. You ride him hard, mean, like you’re working out every grudge you’ve ever nursed. Every time you slam your hips down, he throbs deeper, and you swear you can feel him in your fucking spine. You want him to break, to beg, to lose that smug look, but he just lies there, arms behind his head, letting you ruin yourself on him. You lean forward, get right in his face.
“You’re not even sorry, are you?” He looks up at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters, and a little smirk tugs at the edge of his mouth.
“Not if this is what I get for fucking up,” he says, all gravel and dare. You want to slap him, wipe that smile off, but your hands are too busy clutching his shoulders as you bounce, as you fuck yourself silly on his cock. The stretch burns. The pressure is perfect. Your thighs start to shake, but you ride it out, never slowing, never letting up, determined to win even if it kills you. You claw at his chest, leave angry red trails just to make sure he remembers this later. He’s watching you. Always watching you. Sweat beads on his brow, his knuckles white where they grip the sheets, but he won’t move, won’t touch you unless you let him. That’s the game, and you know it. You grind down, circle your hips, try to wring him out. You’re so close, the fire in your belly wound so tight you could scream. But you’re not giving in first.
“You’re so full of yourself,” you pant, grinding harder. “You think you can just fuck things better?” He doesn’t answer, but his eyes are molten, and you know he’s close too, know he loves it when you take control, when you use him for your own pleasure. You bite his bottom lip, suck it into your mouth, punish him with teeth and tongue. He groans, deep and broken, and you feel him twitch inside you, thick and hot and perfect. “Go to hell,” you choke, but arch your back, pushing onto his cock even though you’re barely holding together. Frank’s hand flies to your jaw, wrenching your head so you’re forced to look at him. You half expect him to snarl, to spit something back, but instead he grins, lazy and mean, like he’s got all day and all the patience in the world. His big palm fits your face so perfectly you hate him even more. You jerk your chin away, try to glare, but he just holds you tighter, thumb paint-streaking your cheek.
“Goddamn, you’re beautiful ,” he rasps, eyes locked on yours. “Even fuckin’ better when you’re riding me like this.” The praise makes you flinch, makes your whole chest clench up and burn. You want to call him a liar, but your hips are already pistoning, your thighs already shaking with the effort of giving yourself over to the pleasure, the friction, the need to win. His cock hits something inside you and you yelp, slam a fist against his chest. He just takes it, lets you punch him again, and again, like he’s drinking it up. You slow, just enough to torture yourself, rolling your hips in a tight, mean circle. He throbs inside you, every inch carved into your skin, your memory, your fucking future. You want to outlast him; you want to watch him snap. He’s letting you think you’re in charge, but you know he’s just waiting for the right moment, the moment when he’ll flip you over and pound you into the mattress until you can’t even say your own name.
“Frank, you absolute bastard,” you pant, digging fingers into his jaw, hard. “You think this gets you off the hook? You think you’re forgiven just cause you—fuck—just cause you’re good at this?” He nods, solemn, as if he’s on trial, but his hands drift to your waist, then your ass, kneading like you’re bread dough and he’s starving. You hate how it makes you want to whimper.
“Not forgiven,” he says, voice like a dare. “Just want to see you fall apart.” He holds you still, impaled and trembling, then lifts his hips to meet you, a deep, bruising grind that makes your whole spine light up. You try to fight it, try to stay composed, but your pussy is already spasming, already desperate, and you can feel your own slick running down your thighs. You clench down, hard, determined to milk him dry before he gets what he wants. But he’s so fucking big and so fucking deep you can barely hold it together; you start to shake, thighs quivering, hands clawing at his chest for leverage. He gasps, the sound raw and ragged, and his eyes go nearly black. You grit your teeth, refusing to blink. The bastard isn’t going to get the satisfaction of seeing you break, not even as your hips lose their rhythm and start to stutter. You can feel it building—hot, mean, and sharp, like a storm caught in your chest. You rock forward, brace both palms on his shoulders, and grind down, determined to ride him until you wring every last ounce of regret out of him. Frank’s grip tightens on your hips. You can feel the marks already forming, pressure blooming under his fingertips. He meets your glare with one of his own, chin up, like he’s daring you to finish what you started. His thighs flex under you, pushing up to meet every savage roll of your cunt around him, and when you slap his chest, just for the hell of it, he bares his teeth.
“You could say thank you,” he rasps, out of breath and out of excuses. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, nails carving semicircles into his pecs.
“Thank you for what, Castle? For forgetting? For making me look like an idiot in front of an entire waiting room?” He thrusts up, hard enough to rattle your bones, and you almost lose it—have to steady yourself with both hands splayed over his heart. “
Thank you for this,” he growls, voice thick, “for letting me make it up to you, even when you wanna cut my fuckin’ head off.” You hate him. You hate the way your body pulls toward him anyway, greedy for every inch, every word, every apology he’ll never say out loud. You bounce harder, the wet slap of skin enough to drown out the snarl in your throat.
“You’re full of shit,” you hiss, but it comes out as a gasp, a plea. Your vision blurs, heat crawling up your spine. “You are such a dick.” He grins, sweat shining on his forehead, and lets go of your hips just long enough to run a thumb along your lower lip, smear the spit and sweat already gathering there. He holds it there, thumb resting right on your mouth, until you bite at it, hard. He doesn’t even flinch. He just laughs, soft and broken.
“That’s my girl,” he says, gentle as a funeral. You want to scream at him, want to smash a plate over his skull, but your thighs are shaking and all you can do is keep moving, keep riding, keep yourself from sobbing into the hollow at his neck. Pleasure builds, builds, builds until your vision goes white at the edges. You try to pace yourself, try to keep the upper hand, but he’s so fucking thick and so fucking deep you can’t stop, can’t breathe, can’t think straight. The room narrows to the place where your bodies join, to the pulse of his cock inside you, to the way your own cunt clenches and flutters, desperate for something you refuse to name. Frank is close. You can hear it in his breath, in the way his hands shake when he finally lets them rest on your ass, kneading you like he owns you.You squeeze his ribs with your knees, harder than you need to, riding him like you could grind the guilt straight out of his bones. His cock feels like it’s battering your fucking cervix and you want to tell him to go softer but you’d rather eat a bullet than let him know he’s hitting the perfect angle. Your hands find themselves tangled in his hair, then his throat, then fists to his chest as he works you in counterpoint—like he’s taking turns with you, giving you all the power just to see how fast you’ll lose control. He’s got that look again, the one that says you’re his favorite thing in the world and also the only thing that could possibly kill him. You want to spit in his face and make him beg for it, but all you can manage is a strangled groan. The muscles in your thighs burn. Sweat beads at your temples. The pleasure comes in shocks, sharp and mean, and you want to chase it until you’re both dust.
You’re meaner than you thought you could be, slapping his chest, pinching his nipples till he hisses, choking him just for effect. He lets you, lets you do anything, and it makes you crazier, hungrier, like if you just ruin him enough you might actually feel better about how much you hate him for missing that appointment.
“You think you’re so fucking clever,” you snarl, the words shaking, “but I know what you’re doing. You’re not gonna guilt-fuck your way out of this one, Castle. I want you to remember how you fucked up every time you look at my face.” His hands slide up your back, try to be gentle, but you bite at his fingers so he’ll stop. You brace on his shoulder, roll your hips slow and mean, keeping your glare locked to his. He grins, a flash of teeth and tongue, and you hate how handsome he is, hate how much you want to make him say your name with the same reverence you hear in his voice when he’s holding you after a nightmare. You slam down again, and again, and the pain is almost as good as the pleasure. Your legs start to shake. You feel the orgasm coming, low and tight, and you don’t want to give it to him but you can’t help it, can’t stop your own body from doing exactly what he wants. He sees it in your face, the way your jaw clenches, and he sits up, wraps his arms around you so tight you can barely breathe. His hips piston upwards.
His arms are a steel band around your ribs, trapping you, holding you together as his hips piston upwards. The new angle is devastating. He's impossibly deeper, the thick head of his cock battering against that spot that makes your vision blur. Your angry rhythm shatters, dissolving into helpless, jerky motions as he takes over completely.
"That's it," he grits out against your ear, his voice a wrecked, triumphant rasp. "There she is. My fuckin' girl." The praise is a lit match to gasoline. You hate it. You crave it. Your body betrays you, clenching down around him like a fist. "Come on. Give it to me. Wanna feel you soak my fuckin' cock, mama." You try to hold on, to bite it back, to deny him the satisfaction. But his hand slides down your spine, over the curve of your ass, and his thumb presses hard against your asshole. The pressure is unexpected, electric. It's the final straw. Your orgasm rips through you, violent and absolute. It's not a wave; it's a detonation. Your back arches into a painful bow, a silent scream tearing from your throat as your cunt clamps down on him, rhythmic, unforgiving pulses. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your body shaking apart in his arms. The world dissolves into white-hot static and the overwhelming, possessive feeling of him flooding you, his own release a hot, deep pulse that seems to go on forever.
For a long moment, you're both motionless, tangled together, the only sounds in the room are your ragged gasps for air. The anger is gone, burned away, leaving behind bone-deep exhaustion and the lingering ache of a fight well-fought. Frank's grip on you loosens, just enough to be gentle. He shifts, carefully maneuvering you both to collapse onto the pile of blankets in the back, his weight a familiar, grounding blanket over you. He doesn't pull out right away. He stays inside you, softening slowly, as if reluctant to break the connection. His face is buried in your neck, his breath hot and damp against your skin. You can feel the frantic beat of his heart against your back, a frantic drum that's slowly, surely, finding a steadier rhythm. You're a mess. Sweat and tears and God knows what else are drying on your skin. The carpet has left angry red imprints on your knees. Your thighs tremble with aftershocks. And you feel... empty. The rage that was fueling you has evaporated, leaving a hollow space in its chest. Frank shifts again, this time slipping out of you with a wet sound that makes you flinch. The loss is immediate, a sudden cold emptiness. He must feel you tense, because he presses a soft, apologetic kiss to your shoulder.
But instead of rolling towards him... You slide off him and curl up into a ball, turning yourself away from him.
The silence that follows is heavier than any argument. Frank lies down beside you, the warmth of his body a stark contrast to the cold wall you’re facing. The air in the room is thick with the scent of sex and sweat and something else, something acrid and sad. He can feel the distance you’ve put between you, not just in inches, but in a whole damn universe. He’s coming down from the high, the adrenaline and endorphins bleeding out of him, leaving behind a raw, gaping hole where the rage used to be. And in that hole, the guilt rushes in, cold and sharp. He kisses your shoulder over and over, and you can feel him grinning against your skin. He shifts behind you, the sheets rustling.
"You hurt anywhere ?" You don't move. You don't answer. You just keep your eyes squeezed shut, focusing on the pattern of the wallpaper you can't even see. He tries again, his voice a little clearer this time. "Baby." He pokes at your side playfully. "What did i fuck you into silence ?" You shake your head, a small, sharp movement against the pillow.
"Don't." You manage.
"Baby ?" He pushes himself up on one elbow, looming over you, a shadow in the dim light of the bedroom. "Hey, look at me," he says, and it's not a command, not really. It's a plea. You refuse.
"Just leave it, Frank."
"I can't," he says, his voice cracking. "I can't leave it like this." He reaches out, his fingers hovering over your shoulder, afraid to touch, afraid you'll flinch away again. "Did i hurt you ? Are you sore ?"
The dam breaks. A sob tears from your throat, raw and ragged. It's not the angry, crying-from-fury kind of sob from before. This is something deeper, a gut-wrenching sound of pure, unadulterated hurt. You press the heels of your hands to your eyes, but it's useless. The tears just keep coming, pouring out of you, years of wanting and hoping and fearing all coalescing into this one moment. Frank stares at you, and the last vestiges of his post-fight, post-sex haze evaporate instantly. The high is gone. The smugness is gone. All that's left is a man who has just realized the true depth of the wound he's inflicted. He looks utterly shattered. He thought he was in trouble before. He had no idea.
"Jesus," he breathes, the sound barely audible. "Oh, Jesus, baby." He moves, carefully, deliberately, closing the small distance between you. You shudder away from him, shaking your head.
God, he's so clueless.
He really thought sex would fix it.
"I hate you so much, Frank Castle." You whisper into the darkness. Frank's body tenses.
"No.. No, baby- Don't say that, mama." You shake your head.
"But it's true. Never in our whole six years of marriage have I ever hated you like this."
"Sweetheart.." You turn to face him.
"You don't know what it felt like when they called my name." His shoulders slump. "You don't know what it felt like when they asked where my husband was." Every sentence is quieter than the last."I had to smile. I had to pretend it didn't matter." Your voice cracks completely.
Frank lowers his head into his hands.
"I'm so sorry."
"I didn't want to hear 'I'm sorry.' I wanted you beside me." He nods.
"I know."
"So when you came home..." You wipe angrily at your face. "...I kept waiting for you to remember." Silence. "I thought maybe you'd left flowers in the truck. Or hidden a card somewhere. Or that dinner was going to be some surprise because you wanted to make up for being late." A humorless laugh escapes you "But you asked me if I'd had a good day. You completely forgot." Frank flinches like he's been struck.
"...Jesus."
"I looked at you. I waited. I even gave you another chance." His breathing becomes uneven. "And you still didn't remember." He finally looks up at you, eyes shining.
"I failed you, mama." he says softly. The words hang in the room. You stare at him for a long time. Then, just as quietly, you answer.
"You did." The words hang in the air between you, a final, brutal judgment.Frank doesn't argue. He doesn't try to defend himself. He just sits there, his shoulders slumped, his head bowed, the picture of a man utterly defeated. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. You've won the argument, but it feels like you've both lost. After a long moment, he shifts, moving with a slow, deliberate heaviness. He doesn't try to touch you again. He doesn't try to pull you into his arms. He just slides off the bed, his bare feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. He stands there for a second, a massive silhouette in the gloom, before turning and walking out of the bedroom. You listen, your breath held tight in your chest. You hear his footsteps padding down the hall. You hear the faint creak of the bathroom door opening. You expect the sound of the shower, the familiar rush of water that would signal him washing the day, and the fight, away. But there's nothing. Just silence.
A minute later, he comes back. He's not holding a towel or his clothes. In his hands are two things: a glass of water and the bottle of extra-strength ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet. He approaches the bed slowly, like he's navigating a minefield, and sets the glass and the pills down on the nightstand on your side of the bed. The one you're facing.
"Here," he says, his voice rough and quiet. "For your head. And… everything else." He doesn't wait for a response. He just turns and walks to the other side of the bed, pulling back the covers with a quiet rustle. He gets in, moving carefully so as not to jostle the mattress too much, and lies down on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He doesn't try to get close. He leaves a careful foot of empty space between you, a no-man's-land of cooling sheets and unspoken apologies. You lie there, curled in on yourself, the dampness of your tears cooling on your cheeks. You can feel the phantom ache between your legs, a lingering echo of his rough apology. You hate him. You love him. You want him to hold you. You want him to disappear. The contradictions are tearing you apart. You can hear his breathing, slow and even in the dark. He's not asleep. You know the sound of his sleep, and this isn't it. This is the sound of a man waiting, a man giving you space, a man who knows he has no right to ask for anything more.
After a few minutes of silence, Frank speaks.
"What did he say ?" He asks. You frown.
"Who ?"
"The doctor. When you-" He clears his throat. "When you went to the appointment."
Your heart aches.
He's asking because he wants to know how badly he's failed you.
If the news was bad...
He'll spend the rest of his life wondering if he stole the moment you needed him most.
If the news was good...
He'll spend the rest of his life wondering why you had to hear it alone.
You stare at the back of his head.
He still isn't looking at you.
Like he doesn't deserve to.
"...You really wanna know?" His answer comes immediately.
"I wanna know everything I missed." His voice is so quiet it barely reaches you. "I wanna know what they said. What they asked. What you said. What you were feelin'." He swallows. "I wanna know all of it." You close your eyes. Fear crawls up your spine and into your throat. You never spoke about this before. You know how traumatized he is when it comes to families.
To losing them.
"I'm not sure you'll like it."
"I already don't."
"Frank..." Your fingers tighten around the blanket. "You won't look at me the same." He nods anyway.
" I don't care. I'd rather hear it from you." Silence settles again. Finally, you let out a slow breath.
"I'm eight weeks pregnant."
"You're.. what ?"
The words I'm eight weeks pregnant seem to echo around the room, refusing to settle. He stares at you. Then your stomach. Then back to your face. His lips part. Close. Open again.
His breathing suddenly goes shallow.
Fast. Almost panicked.
He shakes his head once, like he's trying to wake himself up.
His eyes dart back to your stomach.
The image crashes into him with brutal force.
Maria.
Lisa.
Frank Jr.
Tiny hands.
A pink backpack.
A toy soldier.
Those fucking carousel ponies.
Blood.
Gunshots.
The smell of cordite. The silence afterward.
His vision blurs so suddenly he has to squeeze his eyes shut.
"I'm pregnant, Frankie."
He doesn't say anything after that. He just settles himself down beside you and stares at your back, his chest heaving.
summary : when frank comes home late from a mission after being hit by a suspicious powder, he wonders why he can't bring himself to take his hands off of you.
warnings : SMUTTTT !!!!!, minors please dni, somnophilia (oops), size kink, praise kink, needy!frank, desperate!frank, rough!frank (the list goes on honestly), p in v, unprotected sex, overstimulation, some angst. (both characters in this fic are fully consensual)
word count : 16 k (oops ?)
a/n : based off this gem of a rq and not proofread (as always what do yall expect) also yes this is an au where frank alr works with the avengers sue me
The warehouse is quiet.
Too quiet.
Frank knows better than to trust quiet.
He moves through the darkness with practiced efficiency, boots barely making a sound against the cracked concrete floor. His pistol hangs low at his side. Every muscle in his body is loose, ready.
Three men. One on the catwalk. Two below. He counts them automatically. A fourth steps out from behind a stack of shipping crates.
Frank doesn't hesitate. The first shot echoes through the building. Then everything explodes. Gunfire ricochets off steel beams. Someone shouts. Another body hits the ground.
Frank ducks behind a forklift as bullets tear through the rusted metal above his head.
"He's over there!"
"Move!" One comes around the corner too fast. Frank catches his wrist, twists until something snaps, and drives the man into the wall hard enough to leave a crack in the drywall before finishing the fight with brutal efficiency. Another rushes him with a knife. Too slow. A sharp elbow. A disarm. Done. The warehouse falls quiet again. Frank scans the room.
One…
Two…
Three…
Four.
All down.
His breathing is steady as he steps over the bodies toward the office overlooking the floor. Whoever had been running tonight's operation had been smart enough to stay hidden. Until now. The office door bursts open. An older man stumbles out, coughing violently, clutching something metallic in his hand. Not a gun. A canister. Frank raises his pistol.
"Don't." The man smiles. Not afraid. Almost… relieved.
"You should've stayed away." Frank fires. The man jerks backward. But not before his thumb slams the button. The canister hisses. A burst of fine crimson powder erupts into the air. Frank instinctively turns his face away.
Too late.
The cloud engulfs him. It coats his jacket. His neck. His face.
He coughs once. Twice. The powder tastes metallic. Bitter. Like copper and ash.
"What the hell…" The old man collapses before he can answer. Silence settles over the warehouse once more.
Frank waits.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Nothing.
He wipes the red dust from his cheek onto his glove.
"…Weird." He holsters his weapon. Checks the room one final time. Collects the drive he'd come for. Then heads for the exit. Halfway across the parking lot… Something feels wrong. At first it's subtle. His collar suddenly feels too tight. His jacket heavier than usual. He unzips it. The cold November air should help.
It doesn't. By the time he reaches the van, heat is blooming beneath his skin. Not outside. Inside. Like someone lit a match behind his ribs. He frowns.
"Jesus.." He slides into the driver's seat. Starts the engine. The heater is off. The windows are down. Still… He's sweating.
His pulse pounds in his ears. His shirt sticks to his back. The skin along his neck prickles. Burns. The drive home becomes a blur of red lights and clenched teeth. By the time he parks outside the house, he's gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles ache. His vision swims. His breathing comes too fast. Every inch of him feels feverishly hot. Like his blood has been replaced with molten metal. He nearly stumbles climbing the porch steps. The key misses the lock twice before he finally gets the door open. The house is dark. Quiet. Safe. He closes the door behind him and leans against it, breathing hard.
The familiar scent of home hits him immediately. Lavender detergent. Fresh coffee lingering from that morning. And you.
Somewhere upstairs. As if pulled by instinct alone, Frank starts climbing. Each step feels heavier than the last. His skin burns. His heartbeat refuses to slow. His wedding ring feels too hot against his finger. The hallway swims in and out of focus. He reaches your bedroom door. Pushes it open. Moonlight spills through the curtains. There you are. Curled beneath the blankets. Fast asleep. One of his old black T-shirts hangs from your shoulders, slipping enough to reveal one bare shoulder against the pillow. Your hair is spread across the sheets. One hand tucked beneath your cheek.
Completely unaware that your husband is standing in the doorway.
The heat that was solid in his chest spreads down and down to rest between his legs.
You grumble in your sleep, shifting your hips upward. The duvet slips off, revealing the soft curve of your naked thigh, and the soft pink lace of the panties laying beneath the shirt.
The sight of you, so soft and vulnerable in the moonlight, is like a physical blow. The heat that was simmering in his groin explodes into a full-blown inferno. His cock, already half-hard from the fever, thickens and strains against the confines of his jeans, a sudden, urgent ache that steals his breath. He grits his teeth, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
He should go to the bathroom.
Turn on a cold shower.
Stick his head under the water until this… this thing passes. It has to be the powder. A delayed reaction. Some kind of chemical weapon designed to incapacitate.
He knows this, logically. He knows it.
But his body doesn't care about logic.
His feet move of their own accord, carrying him silently across the room. He tells himself he's just checking on you. Making sure you're okay. Making sure the house is secure. It's a lie, and he knows it. He's drawn to you like a moth to a flame, and he's terrified he's about to get burned. He stops at the edge of the bed, his shadow falling over you. You shift again in your sleep, a soft sigh escaping your lips, and the sound goes straight to his cock. It's agony. It's the sweetest sound he's ever heard. He reaches out, his hand trembling, his fingers hovering just above your shoulder. He just wants to touch you. Just a little. Just to feel the warmth of your skin, to ground himself.
His fingertips make contact.
It's a mistake.
A jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure shoots up his arm, so intense it's almost painful. Your skin is so soft, so warm, and the contact sends another wave of heat crashing through him. He can't stop the low groan that rumbles in his chest. He snatches his hand back as if he's been burned, his breathing ragged.
'"Fuck." he rasps, hand going for his jeans, palming himself shamelessly.
He should go.
Go sleep on the couch, wait for this to pass.
But then you shift again, turning your back to him fully, the shirt riding up your waist and god- Frank almost comes in his pants. The heat threatens to consume his whole body, and he falls forward, fingers tangling in the mess of sheets as he tries to reign in his self control.
But the thin thread that usually is his self control is a mere scrap tonight, and it breaks in the span of an instant. Before Frank can even realise what he's doing, he's shedding his outer layer of clothes, leaving him in his boxers, and he slides into the bed with you, his body seeking your warmth.
You shift again, and the scent of your hair, your skin, it hits him like a drug. The need is immediate, primal, and so sharp it drowns out the last of his thoughts. He curls around you from behind, the mattress dipping under his weight, his arm heavy and hot as it wraps around your waist and anchors you to him. You make a soft, sleepy noise—surprised, but not afraid—just as his hand slips beneath the taut hem of the black T-shirt. He palms your stomach, sliding up to cup your breast, and you arch into his touch out of instinct. A silent plea for more. Frank presses his face into your hair, breathing you in, jaw clenching against the urge to rut like an animal right then and there. He wants to be gentle, slow, but the heat inside him is so pure, so urgent, it takes everything just to keep from tearing the panties from your hips and driving himself into you. His cock is hard, hot, and leaking, pinned between you and the sheets. You squirm back against him, a wordless encouragement, and the friction is a mercy and a torment. You groan in your sleep as Frank softly peels the fabric of your panties to the side, a sleepy huff leaving your lips. Frank can’t resist.
He pulls his boxers down and without a second thought, grabs his cock in one hand and pushes it towards your folds. Frank pushes the head of his cock through your folds, dragging it through the slick heat, and the sensation is so overwhelming he almost blacks out. He can feel the precum leaking, painting your skin, and he wants—fuck, he needs—to be inside you. But you’re so soft underneath him, breathing slow and deep, eyelashes trembling against your cheek, that he hesitates at the last second. Your body is so warm, so inviting, and the urge to just take is a living thing in his blood. He lines himself up, gripping the meat of your hip so tight he’ll leave bruises.
The first push steals his breath. You’re so wet, so impossibly tight, the resistance making him groan into your shoulder. Your body wakes in slow motion, hips shifting unconsciously, a low whine leaking from your lips as he pushes in, stretching you inch by impossible inch. He’s big, always has been, but tonight he’s swollen, almost angry in his hardness, and the way you squeeze him is enough to make him see stars.
“God, baby,” he grunts, voice all gravel and hunger. He’s halfway in when you wake, startled, breath catching and body tensing in his arms.
“Frank?” It’s a question, sleepy and confused. He buries his face in your hair, his breath shuddering through your roots.
“Sorry,” he mutters, but there’s nothing sorry in the way he grinds against you, pushing deeper. “Need you so bad. Can’t—can’t fuckin’—” He groans, the sound guttural, primal. You writhe, caught between sleep and the sudden, aching fullness inside you.
“Frank, what—” You cut yourself off with a gasp as he bottoms out, the head of his cock kissing your cervix, the heat of him splitting you open. The stretch is so much, so sudden, your body clamps down, trembling. He holds you tight, one hand splayed over your belly, thumb rubbing circles just below the hem of your shirt.
“Shh, that’s it, you take it so good,” he says, voice low in your ear. He starts to move, shallow thrusts at first, testing your give, your grip. Every time he pulls back, your walls try to drag him in, greedy for more. Your hand scrabbles for the sheets, hips arching back helplessly, and Frank loses whatever fragile grip he has on self-control. He thrusts hard, burying himself inside you over and over, each slide slicker, hotter, more desperate.
“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so tight—squeezing me so fuckin’ good—look at you, taking every inch. My girl.” The praise slips out like a confession, rough and needy. You shudder, the words hitting you somewhere deep.
“Frank—oh, god, Frank, it’s—” He finds your hand and laces his fingers through yours, anchoring you as his pace picks up. His cock fills you, stretches you, and every thrust knocks the air from your lungs. Frank feels his heart hammering inside his chest, a booming drum against your spine. The grip he has on your hip is vice-like, holding you in place while he fucks into you with a pace that would shame him in the morning, but right now he’s too far gone to care. There’s only the velvet clutch of your heat, the way your body yields and draws him in, and the choked, breathless sounds you make every time he bottoms out. You’re whimpering now, the little noises you usually try to swallow down coming out bright and desperate. The sound of it is like gasoline on fire. He feels every inch of you, every pulse, every tremor, and he can’t—not for the life of him—slow down. His cock is thick, splitting you open, and you clamp around him so tight his vision goes white at the edges. He can’t tell if he’s drooling or if it’s sweat slicking his lips, but he’s got his mouth buried in your neck and he grinds his teeth together, trying not to lose it in the first minute.
“Jesus Christ—fuck, baby, you’re so fuckin’ perfect—” He bites the words into your hair, his lungs on fire. “Can’t stop, need to fill you up, need—” You just moan and buck back against him, your body greedy for every inch he gives you. Frank can feel you trembling, the way your thighs strain and your ass rocks against his hip, seeking out every thrust. He keeps telling himself to be gentle, to ease up, but every drag of your heat over his cock is ecstasy. He hammers into you, chasing the buzz building at the base of his spine, rolling his hips so deep you whine his name into the mattress.Frank can’t get enough. The words burned into the meat of his brain, pulsing there with the same desperate, animal rhythm he’s using to fuck you. He’s not even thinking about the mission anymore, about the canister, about the city he probably just infected with whatever the hell this is. He’s thinking about you, the shape your body makes under him, how you cling to him like you know exactly how close he is to breaking.
He’s close. So close it hurts. Every time your pussy milks him he wants to howl, wants to make you scream his name so loud the neighbors call the cops, wants to rut so deep into you it fucks the fever right out of his bloodstream.
You’re gasping now, not even trying to muffle it. The sound is everything. It’s everything. He grinds his cock into you, one hand tangled in your hair, the other clamped over your hip, using you to chase his own high. You’re so wet he can hear it, obscene and messy, every slam of his hips into yours punctuated by the filthy slap of skin on skin. He can feel you getting close, your muscles spasming around him, and he wants to drag it out, wants to make you come so hard you see stars, but he’s losing it. He’s never felt this out of control, like something in that powder rewired every nerve in his body, lit up every one of his instincts. He’s not just thinking with his cock—he is his cock, every fiber of him tuned to your body and the way you fuckin’ tremble underneath him.There’s no way you’re going to last. Not at this pace. Not with the way his cock fills you, the way his words break over your skin and pool in your belly, thick and sweet and filthy. You’re awake now, fully awake, and every inch of you is burning. The heat radiates off Frank like a fever, a wet, hungry furnace clamped to your back, and you never want it to end. He doesn’t slow down, not even when you’re keening his name into the pillow, not even when your body jerks and tightens and you come so hard you see black behind your eyelids. Frank just holds you tighter, shushing you, telling you how fucking good you are, how perfect, how you’re made for him, and the words turn your bones to water.
He doesn’t stop.
He’s not going to stop.
You can feel it—he’s close, he’s shaking, and the hand he has on your hip digs in hard enough to bruise. His thrusts grow ragged, desperate, and you know he’s about to— He curses, voice thick and hot in your ear.
“Fuck, fuck—sweetheart, can’t—can’t stop—” The heat in your belly doesn’t fade. If anything, it intensifies. You’re high on it, delirious, and still you want more. Frank doesn’t let up. He pulls you tighter, shifts your hips up just so, and starts to move again, slower this time, but just as deep. You whine, nails digging into the sheets, but he just pets your thigh, soothing and rough all at once.
“That’s it, baby. Take it. Take all of me.” He sounds ruined, but there’s a pride in it—a marvel at how much he can give you, how much you can take. You can barely think, every inch of your skin stretched taut with need. He sets a rhythm, brutal and sweet, and his fingers find your clit, rubbing circles that make you shake. You lose track of time. There’s nothing but Frank and the feel of him inside you, the sound of your bodies and his breath and the words he can’t keep to himself:
“so fucking tight—so good—my girl—my perfect girl—” and it never ends. He loses it first.
He’s never come this fast, not even as a dumb teenager, but tonight it’s like every nerve in his body is wired straight to his cock. He slams in, buried to the hilt, and lets out a groan that’s half agony, half worship. The first spurt of cum is so intense he shudders, vision blurring. His body stills, and his breath is so heavy on your neck. Your whole body is shaking and you whine as you pull yourself off him and turn to face him.
His whole body is covered in sweat, and his brows are pinched in pain.
The joke you were going to make about him missing you too much dies in your throat as concern spikes up through your chest.
“Frankie ?” You ask, trying to reach out to touch him. The second your hand touches his bare bicep, his hips rut towards you and a loud unabashed moan leaves his lips. His large hand comes down and wraps around his cock, his fist pumping around his length as he pants.
“Frank, what-”
“Shit, shit, baby- I think - I think- I think somethin’s wrong with me.” He writhes on the bed, clearly uncomfortable. “I thought- maybe if i- i thought it’d go away-” He moans, his eyes flying open to stare at you.
Yeah. It’s defintely not gone away.
The tension in his jaw is visible, the way his hand moves over himself so desperate, so unlike the usual Frank. Not controlled, not careful—just raw and frantic. You’ve seen him after missions, shaking with adrenaline, but never like this. His cock is flushed, almost angry, the head slicked and red, and he’s rutting into his fist with a single-mindedness that makes your mouth go dry.
You try to reach for him again.
“Sweetheart—don’t. I can’t—” His voice is all gravel, unsteady. He looks at your hand like it’s fire. “If you touch me, I swear to god—” He shakes his head, but it’s a threat with no teeth, because the next second he grabs your wrist, the grip almost bruising, and yanks you into his lap. The world goes sideways, your thighs splayed over his, the shirt riding up to your hips. His mouth is on you, not soft or sweet but open and desperate, biting at your collarbone, dragging his teeth down the slope of your shoulder. You giggle, delirious.
“Is this a new kink I don’t know about?”
“Fuck.” He’s red in the face, hair stuck to his forehead, pupils dilated so wide it swallows the blue. “I shouldn’t touch you. I’m— I’m fucked up. I should go.” But he doesn’t go. He’s already got you pinned a, his cock rutting against the crease of your thigh, leaving smears of precum all over your skin. He’s shaking so hard it vibrates through the bed. You try to wriggle out of his grip, but it’s like moving under a sandbag.
“Babe, maybe we should—” Frank just grunts, He pants into your skin like he’s drowning and you’re the only air.
“Need you,” he mumbles, the words slurred and low. “Need to fuck you, please, I—” He cuts off with another moan, huge hands hauling you up so the head of his cock slips between your folds. You’re already aching, slick from the first round, but now you feel an answering heat, an insistent, hungry want that’s not entirely your own. He doesn’t guide himself inside—he lifts you and drops you down, and the stretch is so sudden you yelp.
“Oh my god- Frank-” He buries his face in your neck, breath ragged.
“God, baby, so fucking tight,” he breathes, hips bucking up, driving you down to the hilt. It’s a lot, more than usual, and you have to cling to his shoulders just to keep from being fucked straight off him. Frank sets a brutal rhythm, all upward thrusts, his thighs flexing beneath you. He mutters into your skin, endless filthy praise—
“so good, so fucking good for me, made to take me, you’re perfect, fuck, my perfect girl”—and your body can’t help but respond, the words turning to liquid heat in your belly. You ride him, helpless to do anything but take and take, the pleasure almost overwhelming. He’s relentless, fucking up into you so hard you see white at the edges of your vision.
“Can’t stop,” he grits out, voice nearly gone. “Can’t—fuck—can’t stop unless you want me to—” He makes it a question, somehow, but you just dig your nails into his back and rock into him, letting him know you want more, need it as bad as he does. You’re so full you can barely breathe, every inch of your insides stretched around him. It’s more than you can remember, somehow, thicker, longer, and when you look down you see the way he’s split you open, the obscene bulge where his cock seats itself deep inside. The sight of it thrills you, makes you want to be ruined. Makes you want to take all of it, every frantic thrust.
You start to break — the way you always do when he gets like this, when the praise pours out like it’s the truth of him, when the thick hot weight of him pounds you open and the world narrows to the sound of your bodies slapping together and the hunger in his voice. You dig harder into his shoulders, nails scoring lines down his back, and his grip on your hips is bruising, anchoring you in place, and all you can do is hang on. The whole bed rocks under the violence of it, and your breath shatters, every exhale coming out as a broken whimper or a plea. Frank’s head tips back, his neck corded and slick with sweat, face gone slack with animal need, and you see the wildness burning bright behind his eyes. It’s too much, and it’s not enough, and you can feel the orgasm rising, savage and relentless, the friction of him inside so hot it verges on pain. You can’t think, can barely remember your own name, and Frank’s hand stays splayed flat on your back, fingers digging in, holding you down as his hips jackhammer up, merciless and perfect. You lose track of how many times you come, the edge blurred into a single long frantic wave, your staring eyes and raw throat and overheating skin all proof that you’re still alive, still tethered to this earth by the iron will of the man fucking you apart.
You collapse against his chest and he doesn’t slow, not even when you start to cry, the tears hot on your cheeks, the sobs punched out by each new thrust. He fucks you through it, each new climax wringing your insides tighter, until you’re trembling, clinging, babbling his name over and over. And he matches you, each time you squeeze down his cock he shudders, the veins in his neck standing out. Frank drags you higher on his lap and fucks up into you, hard enough you see stars. You sob, nails digging bloody half-moons into his shoulders, but the pain is good, it’s grounding, it’s proof that this is real and happening and not some fever dream. He’s soaked in sweat, skin slick and burning hot, and you feel him pulsing inside, the head of his cock battering places you didn’t know you had. He won’t stop. He can’t. His hands grip your waist and throttle you down, using you as leverage, rutting in single desperate slams that make your vision flicker white. You think you’re going to pass out. You want to. But he fucks you alive.
“M’sorry-” He rasps, his chest tense. “M’so sorry, mama-” He rasps, mouth grazing over your collarbones. His hips piston up, his cock splitting you on every thrust, and you’re so oversensitive it’s a miracle you don’t faint. Frank’s got you held up like a rag doll, hands locked around your waist, flexor tendons standing out in relief under his skin, and he’s making these animal noises deep in his chest, almost a whine, like even the shame can’t touch the need that’s got him by the throat. You try to say his name but it comes out as a wail, your body wrung dry, so full of him it feels like he’s rearranged your ribs. He thrusts up again, hard, and you see black behind your eyelids, a hot flash of white that rips through the mush of your brain and leaves you blank except for the feeling of him, the heat of him, the words he pours into your ear in a frantic, hungry spill.
“So good, baby, so—fuck—never felt you like this, you’re fucking perfect, so perfect, fuck, mama, look at you, taking all of me.” You do. You force your eyes open, and the sight of where your bodies meet should be obscene, but it’s gorgeous, it’s art, the way he disappears into you, the way you clamp down on him, shuddering and limp at the same time.
He can’t stop. It’s not just that he doesn’t want to — his body won’t let him. You see the panic in his face, the way he tries to slow, but every time he bottoms out, every time your heat milks him, it’s like he’s possessed.
He comes again, the heat of it flooding you, and you yelp, the sensation so much you spasm around him, another little aftershock wringing through your pelvis. Frank doesn’t even have enough air to groan — he just shivers, teeth grit and eyes squeezed shut, and then he slumps, just barely, his grip loosening a little. Your whole body slumps forward, and you grip onto his hair, whimpering at the soreness between your thighs. Frank groans, shaking his head. You gulp, looking up at him.
“Are you- Are you okay ?” You ask. You’re limp on his chest, so full you’re leaking down his balls, but even that spills more want into his bloodstream. He lifts you, and your cunt makes a wet, lewd pop as his cock drags out, thick and purple and smeared with both your releases. Frank is still hard. Still leaking. Still burning under every inch of skin. He tries to slow his breath, the drag of air through his lungs, but it’s like trying to wrangle a livewire with his bare hands. The need doesn’t fade. It only coils tighter, meaner, sharper against the base of his spine. He’d always prided himself on self-control, on discipline, but whatever was in that powder, it’s bending him backwards over his own rules, turning every nerve ending into a live fuse. You’re sprawled across his chest, boneless and slick, but the scent of you is gasoline in the furnace. He looks down, watches the way his cock stands, angry and thick and still twitching above the mess he’s made of you. He thinks: he could die this way. He’d be fine with it. You nuzzle your face into his neck and laugh, lightheaded.
“Are you seriously still—” He grunts.
“Don’t—don’t look at it.” You do. Both of you. Your hand drags down his chest, tracing the ridges of his body—slick with sweat, shuddering in the aftershocks, so alive it’s almost painful. You move to touch his cock and he flinches, a sharp inhalation, but he doesn’t stop you.
“Frank, you’re—oh my god.” You squeeze your hand around the shaft, thumb swiping over the slit, and Frank’s whole body seizes. He nearly throws you off in the spasm, but you’re still locked around his hips, and the movement only grinds you down over his lap, cock slipping between your folds in a slick, obscene slide.
“Fuck—” He’s biting down on his own knuckles to keep from making noise, but it’s helpless. You’re laughing, delirious with the power of it, and the sound is a hook in his ribs. He wants to be embarrassed, but it’s gone, burned out of him by the liquid hunger that soaks every thought. He needs to be inside you again. He needs it like air. All you want is to collapse, to melt into the mattress. Frank doesn’t give you the chance. Not even a full breath later, he’s up on his knees, cock still rock-hard and glistening. He drags you by the hips until you’re on your back, knees crooked open, and spears himself in one brutal thrust, splitting you apart again.
“Fuck- I’m sorry-” He rasps. The sensation is so sharp you see stars, a shriek punched out of your chest when he bottoms out, rutting into you like he’s never going to stop.The pressure is so much, all at once, Frank’s vision tunnels. He can’t even hear above the roar of blood in his ears. The bed rattles. The whole goddamn planet could rattle apart and he wouldn’t stop. He’s fucking you through the mattress, through the next dimension. He can’t catch a full breath. He gasps for air and tastes your sweat, your scent, the ozone tang of the fever now churning through him like black fire. You’re screaming. The raw, high sound of it rips the last discipline out of him. Some part of him tries to be gentle, tries to hold back, but his body goes on autopilot, rutting harder, faster, every thrust shoving his cock deeper into you, until it feels like he’s turned you inside out. You go limp, then rigid, then limp again. The only thing holding you together is his hands. He braces his forearm across the small of your back and folds you in half, his weight crushing you into the ruined tangle of sheets. He’s got you locked in, locked down, and the only thing you can do is take it, over and over, every stroke. Your sobs go silent, lungs emptied, and you’re reduced to shuddering and twitching, a gooseflesh wreck. It should scare him, and somewhere, deep behind the thick fog of want, it does. But your body milks him, clings to him, wants him just as much.
You’re still trying to crawl up his cock, even as it’s too much, even as you whimper “please—please—Frank—” and he loses the thread of what you’re even asking for. You come again, your pussy clamping so tight he almost blacks out. The bedframe slams against the wall, a steady drumbeat to the obscene, wet slap of your bodies. Frank’s not sure there’s anything left to give, but his balls ache and his cock throbs and he’s still not done, not even close. He’s barely human, all muscle and bone and nerve endings, and he’s so deep in the need it’s like swimming blind. The pulsing heat should fade, but it doesn’t. His cock stays hard, the ridge of it throbbing against your walls, and you can taste the panic in the way he looks at you, eyes wild, brow shiny with sweat. You’re so full it feels like you’ll split, like he’s pounding straight through your core. He fucks you with a single-minded desperation, every thrust a promise he can’t break, and you ride each wave with him, helpless to do anything but take and take until your mind blanks out and your body remembers nothing but the shape of him inside you.
Frank’s world is the inside of your cunt. He’s got no purchase outside it. Every time he tries to slow, just breathe, it’s like the fever burns hotter, pushes him right back to rutting into you like he’ll die if he stops. You’re not even crying anymore; the sound you make is a dull, broken gasp at every shove into your center, and still you’re so fucking good for him, you take it, you take him, you always do. He’s never been rough with you like this, never let himself, but there’s no pulling back, nothing but the thick slap of skin and the way your body folds around him, greedier than anything Frank’s ever known. Sweat pours off him, mouth gone dry, every muscle in his arms and gut straining to keep you locked onto his cock.
You shudder your way through three orgasms. Four. He loses count, can only track the relentless pulse at the base of his cock, the way every new wave of your desperation clenches him tighter, tries to milk him dry. He wants to say he’s sorry, wants to fucking stop, but if he stops he’ll die right here, naked and empty with nothing but want. He crushes you to his chest, presses his brow to yours, and his voice shreds in his throat.
“Honey—fuck—don’t know what’s wrong—can’t—” He can’t finish. He reaches down, grabs your thighs, and pushes them up, your knees by your ears, so he can watch his cock disappearing into your ruined cunt. The sight turns his brain to static. He fucks you through his own softening, the rawness of it sending his balls tight, a pulsing ache so deep it’s like punishment. You blink up at him, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted in a soundless plea. Frank heaves in ragged breaths. He wipes the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his hand, but it’s useless, just keeps coming. You try to touch his face, but your hand falls limply to the pillow.
“Can’t—” you try, voice so hoarse it’s a rasp, “Frank, too much—”
“I know, baby, I know,” he chokes, but he doesn’t stop, can’t stop, the rhythm just slows, each push in and out a new kind of agony. You’re so full you’re leaking, the pale mess of him painting your thighs, every thrust making a fresh drip down to the sheets. He can’t get enough of it. He can’t get enough of you. He thinks—maybe, if he comes again, this will break. Maybe it’s just a matter of getting it all out of his system. Frank’s hips keep going, chasing something neither of you can name, deeper and harder, until even the friction starts to blur into a numb, syrupy ache. You’re not sure your body can take another orgasm, but Frank’s cock doesn’t slow, doesn’t even twitch toward softening inside you. He’s still diamond-hard, still rutting in mindless, ragged thrusts, the tip of his dick punching against your cervix so sharp you nearly sob. You want to stop, want to tap out, but you can’t say the words, not with the way his body cages yours, his forearm braced above your head. Every time you so much as gasp for air, he hushes you, whispers more praise into your skin.
“Good girl, fuck, you’re such a good girl, baby—so tight, squeezing me, you wanna make me come again? Huh? Want me to fill you all the way up?” His voice cracks, goes thin and desperate, and you almost come just from the sound. The praise is a wire wrapped around your spine, drawing you tighter, tighter, until the next orgasm hits like a rubber bullet and rips a wail out of your chest. Frank’s cock doesn’t give you a break to even register the aftershocks before he’s already pounding you through another. Your thighs shake, your calves spasm, even your toes curl up tight. You’re crying again, you think, but it’s not from pain, not really. It’s because your body’s hit max capacity and refused to let go, and Frank’s not slowing down, not even to catch his breath. The bed frame is a lost cause, the cheap wood splintering against each slam of Frank’s hips. You grip the pillow, face buried in the wet cotton, and try to ride it out.
You want to tell him to stop, to check if he’s okay, but every time you try, you just get another mouthful of “Frank, fuck, Frank—”
He’s panting so loud his breath sounds like a threat. His hand finds the back of your neck, palm warm and damp with sweat, and holds you down, grinding his cock so deep you shiver. The sound that comes out of him isn’t human: a full-body groan, like coming is the only relief left in the world. His cock throbs, thick and pulsing, and you feel the heat spill inside you, a flood that has you clenching, wringing every drop out of him. He collapses on top of you, and you shudder in pain, your body begging for a break. Frank groans, his shoulders shaking. He peels himself away from you, shaking his head, his chest heaving.
He’s in pain. You can tell.
He faces the wall as he tries his hardest to settle his breathing, and you can see his cock, pressed against his stomach- still red and hard and bulging. Your insides churn with ache, and you whine.
“Frankie-”
“N-No, baby, i gotta- I gotta stop.” He rasps, shaking his head. But his body disagrees. Frank’s hand finds the headboard and he grinds the heel of his palm into his brow, eyes clenched, like that might squeeze the need out of his skull by force. He tries to turn away, but your hand is there, cupping his jaw, so gentle he almost sobs from it.
“It’s okay.” Your voice is thin, spent, but there’s not a trace of fear in it. Only worry. Only the same devotion he’s always known, the kind that makes his chest ache on a normal day, and now it’s a knife. You look up at him, lashes stuck together with tears and sweat, and he sees it—what he’s done to you. The red handprints on your thighs, the way your lips are bruised from your own teeth. He’s never hated himself more. He tries to say your name but his throat seizes, a dry, animal noise spilling out, and it takes everything not to punch a hole through the fucking drywall just to have something to break. You crawl into his lap, soft and warm and so goddamn patient, and rest your head on his shoulder. The touch is an IV drip straight to what’s left of his self-control. He wraps his arms around you, desperate to keep you safe, but the second your cunt grazes his cock he’s hard again—no pause, no mercy. Your body folds around him, open and wrecked and beautiful, and the urge to fuck you into the floorboards is so strong it’s all he can do not to bite your shoulder until it bruises. He’d always thought himself a man of limits. Rules. But this is new country. This is past the boundary of pain and into the realm of need that’s got no words. He wants to stop, but his cock is already rutting against your heat, and you’re slick, still so wet he can feel the mess soaking his thighs. You ease back, the weight of you on his lap, and thread your hand through his hair.
“Frankie, you’re burning up,” you whisper. Your palm settles on his chest, like you could press the fever out of him with enough pressure. But it’s not just fever. It’s a bomb—ticking. He can’t remember the last time he felt this powerless.
“God, it’s that fuckin’ red powder- I don’t- I don’t know what was in it-”
“It’s okay, Frankie.” You huff.
“No, it’s not fucking okay !” He yells, whining as his hips rut up, chasing the feel of your pussy clamped on him. His eyes fly open, and he takes you in. “Baby, look what i’ve fuckin’ done to ya.” He rasps, shaking his head.
“Frankie-”
“Please- get- get off me, mama, please- I don’t wanna hurt you anymore, i-” You see Frank’s resolve start to buckle. The panic in his eyes crashes up against the tidal wave of need that’s got him rutting into you even as he begs for distance, for mercy, for anything to keep you safe from his own treacherous body. You shift in his lap and he moans, the sound so raw and petulant it threatens to break your heart. You bury your face into his neck, lips pressed to the salt and heat there, and you try to anchor him with your words.
“I’m not afraid of you, Frankie. You’re not gonna hurt me. I want to help—” You’re cut off by a shudder as his cock twitches, fat and fever-hot, pressing up against your drenched folds. Even through the haze of soreness, you can’t help but want him, the way he fills you, the way he worships every inch of you with his eyes and hands and words. He tries to scoot back, but you wrap your arms around his shoulders, locking him in place.
“Frank. Look at me.” He tries to obey, but the shame is a physical force, tethering his chin to his chest. You take his face in both hands and lift it, so he’s forced to see you—your ruined makeup, your puffy lips, the tears still drying in sticky trails down your face. He trembles, and the glassy, pleading look in his eyes is almost more than you can bear. You force yourself to smile. “It’s not you, Frankie. It’s whatever they hit you with. You’re not going to break me. I know you.” You guide his hand so it cups your hip, thumb stroking over the place where his fingerprints are already bruising your skin. “Let me help you. Please.” A sob racks his chest, but you don’t let go. You shift your hips, the soreness blooming into a fierce ache, but the sharp stretch of him splitting you open is its own kind of mercy, a reminder that you’re real, that he’s real, that everything that has you gasping and groaning and crying is because the man you love can’t stop loving you back, even when it shreds him to the bone. He mutters something—could be your name, could be some broken apology—but you cut him off by grinding down, forcing the thick head of his cock inside again. You both moan, the sound a harmonized exhale of pain and relief and want. You ride him slow, savoring the way his hands grip your ass, the way his mouth stutters against the hollow of your neck.
“Baby—fuck—don’t wanna—don’t wanna ruin you—” he whimpers. You’ve never seen him lose it like this. The red powder’s got him raw, desperate, every boundary burned away by the chemical fire in his veins. His face shines with sweat and tears, and his voice is so cracked and pleading it makes you want to cry for him. You whine as you overstimulated clit bumps against his pubic bone and you shake your head.
"Just- ah shit, wanna help-" You manage, your face drawn up in pain.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck-" Before you can understand what's going on, you're ripped off of him, and your cheek meets the pillow as your ass is propped up. Frank’s got you on your stomach, ass in the air, and the whole world narrows to pressure, his hands locked around your hips so hard you can taste the bruise forming. He’s inside you before your brain catches up—a single mean thrust, bottoming out, and your mouth opens but nothing comes out except a stuttered gasp. He doesn’t move at first, just holds you there, cock throbbing so deep you can feel it behind your navel.
His voice is a raw scrape: “Sorry, sorry—can’t—” and then he fucks down, fucks through you, every stroke hard enough to punch the air from your lungs. You try to brace your hands but your shoulder gives out, leaving you cheek-down on the pillow, drool pooling in the crook of your mouth. You think you might cry, but it turns to a wail instead, a high desperate sound muffled by the bed. Frank’s not slow, not at all—he’s relentless, hips snapping, spine bowed over your back, the heat of him rolling off in waves. He mutters your name into your hair, worship and apology in every syllable, but he doesn’t stop, not even when your thighs seize up and your body starts to shake.
It’s like he’s in a race to fuck the poison out of himself, a self-punishment as much as a need. He doesn’t just pound, he grinds, the fat ridge of his cock scraping every hypersensitive spot and making you see colors behind your eyelids. He gets a rhythm going, a brutal, unyielding cadence that’s all force and no mercy, the wet slap of skin so loud it drowns out your own whimpers. He’s saying something—maybe a prayer, maybe a curse—but your ears ring too loud to tell. Frank’s rhythm shudders, then redoubles, each thrust a new promise he can’t keep—he’s sorry, he’s trying, but his body won’t even let him lie. All you can do is take it. Your hips knock forward with every impact, your knees gone numb, your hands scrabbling at the sheets. He’s a furnace at your back, sweat dripping from his jaw onto the nape of your neck. Your cunt is raw, fluttering, so full of him you feel like his cock is splitting your spine in half, pulse after pulse hammering your insides. The praise keeps coming, wrecked and hoarse, every word scraping the meat of your brain:
“That’s it, mama, god, you’re so good for me, fucking perfect, fuck, fuck, look at how you take it—” His hands bracket your waist, thumbs pressing so hard you’re sure you’ll wear his fingerprints for days. The bed gives a death rattle under the both of you, and for a second you’re sure you might break through the floor. It’s not just the pain, it’s the stretch, the impossible misshape of him inside you, the friction grinding against nerves you didn’t know you had. Each time he bottoms out, your whole body spasms, jaw slack, and your eyes roll up until all you see is white. You want to say it’s too much, you need to say it’s too much, but your throat can’t find the air. All you can manage is a strangled sob and a whimper, the sound burrowing straight into Frank’s brain. He’s so loud you barely hear yourself. He can’t stop moaning, every inhale a curse, every exhale a plea for you to hold on, to keep going, to save him from this. His cock throbs inside you, thick as a goddamn fist, and you feel every vein, every twitch.
You can’t even squeeze him now; you’re so open, so obliterated, but he uses you anyway, cocking his hips to make sure he grinds against every raw inch of your walls. It’s a mercy when you come again—your pussy fluttering, a helpless, shivery clamp that wrings a keening noise out of both of you. He feels it, all of it, the heat and the pulse and the way your body tries to milk him dry, and it snaps something vital in him.
He shoves forward, so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach, and he grunts a broken “fuck—” as he spills inside you again, so much it leaks out the second he starts to move. He doesn’t soften. Not even a little. He leans over, body caging you in, his huge hand coming to cradle your head, gentle and sweet and so at fucking odds with the way he rails you from behind, over and over and over. You think you might faint. You hope you do, but Frank won’t give you the out. He drags you up onto your knees, keeping you impaled, your ass flush against his hips. His chest is a solid wall at your back, every breath a ragged hurricane. You lean into him, and the only thing keeping you from sliding forward is the white-knuckle grip he’s got on your hip. Every muscle in his arm is bunched and trembling, and you can’t see his face, but you can hear him, every breath a broken, bruised whimper. The pressure inside you is so intense it feels like he’s going to split you, and the wet mess leaking out onto your thighs is obscene, but you can’t stop clenching, can’t stop reaching for every last inch he gives, even when it knocks a raw scream out of you.
He’s not talking anymore; he’s just animal, all want and motion, the drag of his cock so deep it makes your vision rattle. He’s fucking through every stop sign his brain tries to throw up. It’s not anger—he’s not rough, not really, not even when the thrusts get mean. He’s wounded, desperate, every snap of his hips a white flag of surrender to whatever’s in his blood. There’s a low, guttural moan in the back of his throat that never quite makes it out—just a vibration that crackles down his spine and into yours.
The only words he manages are yours: your name, and then sorry, then your name again, and then “please, please, please,” like there’s a finish line he can barely see.
You try to push up, to arch back into him, and he groans like he’s in pain. The new angle gives him enough to work with that he slams in even deeper, punching the air out of your lungs. The slap of your bodies is filthy, echoing off the drywall. You’re not sure you can take it, but every time you think you’ll fall apart, he tightens his fingers and pulls you closer and you break in a new way, shattered and made again in the space of a heartbeat. His cock is so hard it feels like a weapon, the head swelling every time your pussy convulses around it. You’re so full it’s like he’s rearranging your guts, and the ache is a raw, sweet line from your cervix to your clit, every stroke against that spot another quicksilver jolt.
He keeps muttering—“fuck, fuck, fuck, baby, good, that’s it, take it, take it, please”—each phrase more frantic than the last. His balls slap your clit with every thrust, a wet, brutal rhythm that leaves you shaking. You can’t move, not really, just grip the sheets and let him fuck you through the next dimension. Your body responds with a will of its own, cunt fluttering, greedy, and he all but howls, the pitch of his voice climbing as you milk him. He wraps a hand over your mouth, not to silence you, but to keep himself from biting into your shoulder. Your vision blurs at the edges, black stars exploding behind your eyes with every brutal slap of Frank’s hips. You don’t remember the last time you took a breath that wasn’t torn from your lungs; you don’t remember the last time you wanted anything as bad as you want him to finish—just finish—so you can collapse and glue your bones back together.
He holds you locked against his chest, your knees straining and your hands scrabbling for the headboard, but your arms are noodles, your muscles shaking with nothing left to give. He fucks you like he’s trying to get through to the other side, like if he just goes hard enough, deep enough, the chemicals will burn themselves out and he’ll stop being an animal. The sounds coming out of him are wild, nothing you’ve ever heard in your own bed—raw, grunting, half-sobbed apologies and broken praise.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, please, baby, need you to take it, need—can’t—” Frank’s voice is a rasp, a snapped wire, and you can feel his cock twitching, so hard you think he could split you in half with it. Each time he bottoms out, it punches a fresh scream out of you, but you clamp your jaw down, try to muffle the madness of it. He’s never rough with you, not like this, never so greedy, but you get it. Something is wrong, and you want to help—want to be the answer, the antidote, the safe place for him to burn out and come back to himself. He holds your waist so tight you can feel each ridge of his fingerprints, bruising you into memory. You want to say it hurts, but the words won’t come. Your pussy is on fire—raw, stretched, so abused it’s gone numb and then come back to life even sharper. The mess is everywhere: leaking out around him, slicking your thighs, running down to stain the sheets. All you can do is ride the waves and hope you don’t drown.
The only noise in the room is the animal rhythm of bodies and Frank’s voice, disbelieving and desperate: “So fucking tight, fuck, mama, so good, can’t stop, can’t—please don’t make me stop—” He thrusts so hard your hips jar forward, your face mashed into the bed. You start to sob, not from pain, not really, but because it’s too much, because you’ve never seen him like this, never heard him cry out with so little control. You want to help, that’s what matters—help him, take all of it, prove you’re strong enough. You push back into him, arching your ass higher, and the noise he makes is so grateful it breaks your heart.
“Good girl,” he says, voice shredded and hoarse. “Perfect, you’re perfect, fuck, sweetheart, doing so good, just gotta—” He loses the thread, ruts into you so deep your vision whites out. His cock pulses, and you feel a new rush of heat inside, and that does it. You clench down, body wracked by the kind of orgasm that hurts, hurts so good you see stars.
He lets you drop back down against the mattress, and you struggle to keep yourself upright. You scream yourself hoarse, your pussy clamped down vice-tight. You feel everything, every pulse and stretch and starburst, and Frank howls against your shoulder. The noise doesn’t even sound like him—it’s wounded and messy, his breath burning loud in your ear. You can’t move, can’t breathe, can only let him use you, rail you, like he’ll die if he doesn’t get it all out. The aftershocks won’t stop, not for you, not for him. He stutters through another frantic thrust, and you feel his cock jerk, another hot wave of come flooding you, and you go limp in his hands, deadweight against his chest. He keeps moving, barely half a second between one orgasm and the next, and you’re sobbing into the pillow, your senses so blown you can’t tell if you’re still coming or if the world just feels that sharp now. You want to beg for mercy, but Frank doesn’t have any to give. His grip shakes. His whole body shakes. He clings to you like he’ll fall apart if he lets go, every inch of him slick and hot, pressing you into the mattress until you’re shaped to it. You can hear the edge-of-panic in his voice, the way he repeats your name and sorry and “baby, I can’t—can’t stop, can’t stop.” He’s terrified of himself. You know it, and it makes you want him more, want to fix it, take the ache out of him even if it means breaking yourself in the process.
He lifts you higher, knees scrabbling to keep you upright, and then he’s fucking up into you again, as frantic as the first time. It’s a miracle you’re still wet, still open, but the heat between your legs is unreal—slippery, raw, your clit throbbing with every slap of his body. You don’t think you’re meant to come this many times; it’s like your nerves are fried, but every time his cock grinds against that spot inside you, you jolt and seize and scream. The room smells like sex, thick and musky and everywhere. You’re distantly aware of how filthy it is, how you both sound like animals, how you must look wrecked beyond repair—but Frank won’t even let you hide your face. He grabs your jaw, turns your head so you’re looking at him, his eyes wild and glassy and pleading.
“Need you,” he says, and it sounds like a confession. “Can’t—please, baby, don’t let go—” You nod, tears streaming down your cheeks, because you can’t talk, and the way he looks at you—like you’re the last thing tethering him to the planet—makes you want to endure a thousand more hours of this, if it’ll help. You squeeze around him, even though you’re not sure you can take any more; you brace your arms against his, let him rut into you until you both lose track of time.
Frank’s hand slides up the back of your neck, fingers in your hair, not pulling, just holding. Like if he lets go, he’ll float away. You feel his lips at your skin, a blur of kisses and apologies, but it’s not enough to gentle the pace. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t soften, just fucks you through every last bit of resistance. You can’t even squeeze him, but he doesn’t need it—he’s so big you’re stretched taut, every vein and ridge inside you, scraping against a spot that makes your eyes roll up. He leans over, flush against your back, and you feel the tremble in his chest—like he’s sobbing, too. His whole body shakes, and you realize with a lurch that he’s crying.
You turn your head, try to see him, but all you get is the hot rush of his breath in your hair, the way he chokes on another “sorry, sorry, baby, fuck—” before slamming in so deep you swear he’s fucking your soul out of your body. He doesn’t stop. Not even when you start to tremble, then seize up, body clamped so tight around him you think it might snap him in two. He keeps moving, relentless, grinding you to dust on the inside and the outside, and the sounds coming out of his mouth break open something raw in your chest—a wet, hiccupping sob choked down between every thrust. He feels everything too much, all at once, and it hurts, you can see it in the way his hands shake against your skin, the way he buries his face in your neck like he’s trying to hide from himself.
You want to tell him it’s okay, that you want it, that you want him, but your tongue is heavy, glued to the roof of your mouth. All you can do is take it, take him, every brutal inch, and hope it helps. The room is a blur: lamp tipped on its side, blood pounding in your ears, the hot animal stink of sweat and sex and desperate, chemical need. You’re so full it hurts, but you keep clenching, greedy for more, even as your muscles threaten to give out.
He pins your wrists to the mattress, fingers threaded through yours, so tight it burns. You twist under him, searching for leverage, but he flattens you, cages you, and there’s no air left in your lungs. His cock pistons in, then out, a punishing, friction-sharp rhythm that makes you see strobing white. You feel it all: the stretch, the obscene wet slap, the pulse of blood behind your clit, the way your body tries to force him out but can’t. For a second, you wonder if it’s permanent, if you’ll ever be able to close again without the imprint of him inside you. He keeps his hand on your throat, not squeezing, just holding, grounding himself with your pulse as he chases that feeling through you. The pressure behind your eyes is unbearable; you can’t tell if you’re lightheaded from the lack of air, or from the way he pounds you, relentless even as your body goes limp.
“Ah shit, ah shit- baby- He rasps. You can feel his body burning so unbelievably hot that it burns your skin.
“Shit, baby, i think i’m gonna come-” He rasps, and his hips pick up speed. You’re not sure if you’re even conscious when it happens; your body is numb but your brain is a live wire, the noise in your skull too loud to parse. He moves again, humping at you in little, frantic jerks, already hard, never soft. He sounds panicked, desperate, like he’s drowning and needs you to save him.
“Please, baby, fuck, please,” he gasps, and you push back into him, let him set the new rhythm, not even thinking. You’re beyond pain, beyond thought; just animal, just wet and open and clenching down because you have nothing else to give. You feel every inch, every vein, every frantic stutter of his cock, and it’s like you were made for this, for him, for the way he fills you up and burns you clean from the inside out.
Frank’s cock jerks inside you and the heat floods out in a wave, so much come you can feel it forcing its way out past the seal of you both, drooling down your thighs and pooling under your knees. He collapses against your back, and the world goes silent except for the crash of his heartbeat and the rasp of his breathing. He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t move at all, not even to loosen the grip he’s got on your wrists. For a second, you think he’s passed out. Then you hear it—a soft, broken noise in the hollow of your shoulder, the kind of sound that only comes out when the body runs out of things to burn. He shudders, the shift of his body smearing sweat and spit and tears down your back. You’re both shaking, but his is an aftershock, yours is still the quake. He buries his nose in your hair, inhaling like it might save him. A minute passes. Then another. He’s still inside you, and you can feel every twitch, every minute pulse, like your walls are mapped to his heartbeat.
“Baby,” he croaks, and his voice is so small you almost don’t hear it. “Jesus. Fuck. Are you—” He can’t finish. He’s breathing like he’s been sprinting for miles. You can’t breathe right. Every inch of skin feels flayed, body spasming around the thickness of him still buried in you. Frank is nothing but heat and bone and the low, sick whimper echoing in your ear. You don’t know if you’re crying, but your face is wet and your teeth ache from clenching. You’re glad you didn’t say no—glad you could take it, for him, whatever this is. You’re glad to be the thing he needs, even if you don’t understand the why of it. He doesn’t move. Not one millimeter. You try to flex around him, a weak squeeze, and he makes a soft, torn sound. There’s shame in it. You don’t have to see his face—you can feel it in the way he goes slack against your back, the way his arms drop away from you like he’s afraid of his own hands. He pulls out so slow you want to scream, cock dragging against your swollen, battered walls, and the afterrush of everything floods out between your thighs. You collapse onto the wet, ruined sheets, legs so dead you couldn’t move if you tried.
“Shit, shit !” He rasps, gently reaching for you and flipping you over to your back. The haze that filled his eyes is gone now, and he looks at your body in pure horror.
Bruises.
Bite marks.
The indentation of his fingers.
You blink into the light. You’re vibrating apart, every nerve raw and humming. Frank’s hands hover, then drop. He’s kneeling above you, shaking, looking down like he’s a monster who’s just drawn a bloodline in the sand and crossed it. Frank stares at the marks on your hips in horror, mouth open but no words coming out, breath rattling. He drags a hand over his face and looks at you, really looks, and his eyes go wide and dark like he’s seeing you for the first time.
“Jesus, baby, I—fuck, I’m—” He can’t even say it. His hands flutter, wanting to reach, not daring. You’re splayed open, cold now that he’s not filling you, the wet between your legs turning sticky against your skin. It’s obscene, the way your body wants him even now, the ache in your cunt still a live wire, pulsing. You press your legs together but he’s left you so stretched there’s nothing to squeeze. Frank scrambles off the bed and almost falls, legs shaking, cock slapping wet against his thigh. He’s pale and sweating, haunted, retreating from you like you’re radioactive. In the bathroom you hear him gag, then the faucet running, then another low, choked noise that’s all guilt and fear.
You lie in the mess and wait. The ceiling is just a white blur, your blood humming in your ears.
You could sleep forever.
Or die.
Either would be a mercy. You roll to your side, wince at the wet slap between your thighs, the way your body won’t hold you together. Your hand comes away sticky, smeared with both of you. You wipe it on the sheets, a halfhearted gesture, and laugh—quiet, ugly, edged with hysteria.
Frank comes back in, eyes rimmed red. He’s holding a towel and a bottle of water, both with the same careful gentleness that he used to carry your favorite takeout after a long shift. He doesn’t look at you while he presses the towel between your legs, mopping up the worst of the mess. His hands are shaking so bad he can’t get it right, so you grab the towel, dig it in yourself. The rough scrape hurts and you do it anyway.
He sits on the edge of the bed, as far from you as he can get without falling off, and stares at the wall.
“I don’t know what the fuck—” he starts, but his voice cracks. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. I’m so fucking sorry.” Frank's voice cracks on the last word, the sound swallowed by the thick, oppressive silence of the room. He can't look at you. His gaze is fixed on the wall, but he's not seeing the paint or the framed photo of your wedding day. He's seeing the imprint of his hands on your skin, the way your body went limp under his, the sounds you made that were half pleasure, half pain. He's seeing a monster wearing his face.
"Frankie," you start, your own voice a raspy whisper. You push yourself up, ignoring the screaming protest of every muscle. The sheet sticks to you, damp and cold. "Frankie, look at me." He flinches like you've struck him. He doesn't turn.
"Don't. Don't… don't be nice to me right now. I don't deserve it."
"Deserve's got nothing to do with it," you manage, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. The world tilts, and you brace a hand on the nightstand. "What happened? The powder. You said something about red powder." His shoulders hunch. He runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair, the gesture sharp and agitated.
"It was during my stupid mission. In the warehouse. Some old bastard… thought he was carrying a piece but he wasn't. Had a canister. I shot him, but he… he popped it. Red dust. Got all over me." He finally turns his head, and the devastation in his eyes makes your chest ache. "It was nothing at first. Just… weird. Then driving home… it was like a fire got lit inside me. A fever. And then… and then I saw you."He says it like a confession. Like seeing you, safe and asleep in your bed, was the catalyst that turned a chemical reaction into an act of violence. To him, it was.
"Okay," you say slowly, trying to piece it together through the fog of exhaustion and lingering arousal. "So it was a drug. Something that made you… like this."
"I didn't want to hurt you," he says, the words rushing out, thick with unshed tears. "I swear to god, I tried to stop. I tried to leave the room. I tried to… fuck, I don't know what I tried. Every second I was fighting it, but my body… it wasn't mine anymore. It was just… need. And you were there." You reach for his hand, and he lets you take it, his fingers cold and limp in yours.
"We need to figure out what it was. What it's doing to you." Your mind races, sifting through the limited options. The fever, the relentless… need. It's beyond anything you understand. "Frank… we should call Bruce. He knows this stuff. Chemicals, weird science, biological reactions. He could help." The reaction is instantaneous and violent. Frank snatches his hand back as if you've offered him poison. He's on his feet, pacing the small space at the end of the bed like a caged animal. The movement is jerky, still fueled by a residual tremor in his limbs.
"No. No fucking way."
"Frank, be reasonable," you plead, trying to stand, but your legs give out and you sink back onto the mattress. "You were burning up for almost three hours. We don't know if this is… if it's actually over, or if it's going to cause damage to you long term. He's the smartest guy we know. He could probably identify it over the phone."
"I said no!" he snaps, the voice of the Punisher cutting through the raw, wounded man from a moment ago. He stops pacing and glares at you, but the anger is all directed inward. "You think I'm gonna call that green freak and tell him I lost control? That I drugged myself and used my wife like a goddamn fleshlight until she passed out? You think I want him to know what I did to you?" The words are ugly, brutal, and they hang in the air between you. But you hear the fear underneath. The shame.
"Frank, it wasn't you," you insist, your voice gaining a little strength. "It was whatever was in that canister. Bruce would understand that."
"I don't care !" he shouts, running both hands through his hair in frustration. "I'm not telling him! I'm not telling anybody! The last thing I need is… is a lab coat poking at me while I explain how I couldn't keep my dick in my pants!" He stops, his chest heaving. He looks at the mess on the bed, at the marks on your skin visible even in the dim light, and the anger drains out of him, replaced by a crushing wave of self-loathing. He sinks to his knees at the foot of the bed, far enough away that he can't touch you, close enough that he can see the damage.
"Forget fucking Banner right now," he says, his voice quiet now, broken. "Forget everybody. Just… just let me take care of you. Please. We can call whoever the hell you want in the morning, sweetheart, i just-" He looks up at you, his eyes pleading. He rests his forehead against the mattress, his whole body trembling with the force of his regret. "I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry." You run your fingers through his hair.
"It's okay, Frank." He shakes his head so hard it almost looks painful.
"No." His voice is barely audible. "No, don't…" Another shake. "Don't say that." You frown.
"Frank—"
"I hurt you." The words come out flat. Certain. Like a verdict that's already been handed down. "I've spent years making damn sure I never did." He laughs once. It's a horrible sound. Empty.
"You know…" His eyes stay fixed on the floor. "I've broken bones with these hands." He holds them out in front of him. They won't stop trembling. "I've killed with these hands." His fingers curl into fists. "But every time I came home…" His voice cracks. "…I left all that outside." He looks up at you then, eyes red and swollen. "I never wanted you to be scared of me."
"I'm not."
"You should be."
"I'm not."
"I left bruises on you." You instinctively glance down. Finger-shaped marks are already darkening across your wrists and hips. Frank follows your gaze. Whatever composure he'd managed to hold together shatters.
"Oh, God…" He covers his face. "I did that."
"You were drugged."
"I did that."
"It wasn't your choice."
"It was my hands." His breathing starts to hitch. Not panicked. Not angry. Just… broken.
"I've spent every day since we got married trying to be gentle with you." He laughs bitterly through tears. "Remember the first time I helped you out of the shower after you sprained your ankle?" You nod. "You kept telling me I was holding you like you were made of glass."
"You were."
"'Cause I was scared I'd hurt you." Another tear slips down his face. "I've always been scared I'd hurt you." His shoulders begin to shake. "I know what I am."
"No."
"I do."
"Frank."
"I know what I've done." He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. "I can live with what I've done to people who deserved it." His voice drops to almost nothing. "I don't know how to live with doing it to you." You slide carefully off the bed. Every muscle protests. Your legs are unsteady. Frank notices immediately. His head snaps up.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm coming here."
"No." He backs away on instinct. "Don't."
"Frank."
"I'm filthy."
"No."
"I don't deserve—" You ignore him. You kneel in front of him anyway. It hurts. He notices that too. His face crumples.
"Baby…" You take his face in your hands. He tries to pull away. You don't let him.
"You have never once hurt me on purpose." He closes his eyes.
"That doesn't make this disappear."
"No. It doesn't." You rest your forehead against his. "But neither does you punishing yourself." His breath catches. "I married a man who checks the water temperature before I get into the shower." A tiny smile threatens at the corner of your mouth. "The man who apologizes if he bumps into me in the kitchen." He lets out a watery laugh."The man who still asks before touching me if he thinks I've had a bad day." Another tear rolls down his cheek. "That's my husband." You squeeze his hand. "Not whatever you think that powder turned you into." For a long time he doesn't answer.
Then, finally.... He leans forward. Just enough to rest his forehead against your shoulder. His entire body starts shaking.
Years of discipline. Years of control. Years of refusing himself the luxury of falling apart.
Gone.
He cries. Quietly. Like he's ashamed to even make noise. You hold him. Running slow circles across his back. Neither of you knows how long you stay like that. Eventually, his breathing evens out.
"I'm so tired," he whispers.
"I know."
"I'm scared to sleep." You pull back enough to look at him.
"Why?"
"What if it isn't over?" The fear in his eyes is raw. "What if I wake up like that again?"
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"No." You brush damp hair back from his forehead. "I don't." A beat. "But if something's wrong…" You lace your fingers through his. "…we'll face it together." He nods once. Reluctantly.
You convince him into a hot shower—not together, just enough to wash the chemical residue and sweat away. He insists on checking the water temperature for you before you step in, a habit so familiar it almost makes you cry. Afterwards he helps you into one of his old T-shirts and fresh pajamas with painstaking care, asking every few seconds if you're hurting, if you're dizzy, if he's moving too fast. When you finally crawl back into bed, he doesn't touch you. He lies on his back, rigid, leaving almost a foot of space between you. As though he's afraid his own skin might betray him again.
You reach across the mattress. Find his hand. He startles.
"It's okay," you whisper.
He hesitates before turning his hand over and intertwining your fingers. Neither of you says anything else. Exhaustion eventually wins.
-------
Morning arrives gray and quiet. You wake first. Frank is wrapped around you so tightly you fear he might actually suffocate you.
One arm is around your waist.
The other is tucked protectively beneath your neck.
One leg is hooked over yours.
You're fairly certain if someone tried to kidnap you, they'd have to take Frank with you. You blink up at the ceiling.
"…Frank." A sleepy grunt. "You are crushing me." Another grunt.
"No, I'm not."
"You absolutely are."
"I'm protecting you."
"From oxygen?" His eyes stay closed.
"…Maybe." You smile despite yourself.
"Frankie."
"Hm?"
"I need circulation."
"You've got circulation."
"My left arm is completely numb." He cracks one eye open.
"That's because you're dramatic."
"Oh, I'm dramatic?"
"Very." You wiggle experimentally. Every muscle below your waist immediately protests. You hiss through your teeth. Frank is fully awake before the sound has even finished leaving your mouth. His entire body goes rigid.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"What hurts?" You sigh.
"My everything." His face falls. Immediately.
"Oh…" He sits up so fast the mattress bounces. "I'm sorry."
"Frank."
"I'm so—"
"Frank."
"I shouldn't have—" You reach over and flick him lightly on the forehead.
"Ow."
"Good." He rubs the spot with exaggerated offense.
"You flicked me."
"You were spiraling."
"I wasn't."
"You apologized three times in six seconds."
"I could've hit seven." You can't help laughing. The sound makes his shoulders loosen just a fraction. "There's my girl."
He reaches toward you automatically. Then hesitates halfway. His hand hangs awkwardly in the air. You notice. Without saying anything, you take it yourself. His fingers close around yours immediately.
"I'm sore," you admit.
"I know."
"But I'm okay."
"I know."
"You look like you're about to throw up."
"I might." You roll your eyes.
"If you pass out before breakfast, I'm divorcing you." That earns the tiniest smile.
"You'd miss me."
"I would."
"You love me."
"Unfortunately."
"Hm." He nods once. "Still marrying me again."
"Maybe."
"Definitely."
"Depends."
"On?"
"Whether you make coffee." Without another word, Frank stands.
"I'll make coffee."
"And pancakes."
"I'll make pancakes."
"And bacon."
"I'll make bacon."
"And you're doing dishes." He points at you.
"Now you're pushing it." You grin.
"There he is."
"Who?"
"My grumpy husband."
"I was always here."
"You disappeared for a bit." His smile fades.
"I know." The room grows quiet again. You squeeze his hand.
"We're still here." He nods.
"We're still here." An hour later, the kitchen smells like coffee and burnt toast. Frank glares at the toaster.
"It betrayed me."
"You forgot to push it down."
"I was distracted."
"By?" He glances at you.
"You walked funny." You freeze halfway to your chair.
"…Excuse me?"
"You winced."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"I tripped."
"You tripped while standing still."
"I was thinking."
"You were limping."
"I was not limping." Frank raises one eyebrow. You sigh dramatically.
"I was… walking thoughtfully." He snorts into his coffee.
"Thoughtfully."
"Exactly."
"You've got a hitch in your step."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"No." You smile into your mug. "I really don't." His expression softens again.
"I'm sorry." You point your fork at him.
"That's apology number… honestly, I've lost count."
"I'm serious."
"So am I." You reach across the table.
"I know you are." He looks at your joined hands. Then down at his plate.
"I've never…" His voice trails off.
"I know."
"I've always worried…" He swallows. "…about bringing that part of my life home."
"You never did."
"I almost did."
"You came home because you trusted me."
"I came home because I didn't know where else to go."
"And that's okay." He nods slowly.
"Still hate that you're hurting."
"I'll survive."
"I know."
"I've survived your cooking."
"The toast wasn't that bad."
"It achieved a level of carbon previously unknown to science."
"It was artisanal."
"It was charcoal." He chuckles quietly. The sound feels like sunlight. After breakfast, Frank disappears into the laundry room. A minute later you hear,
"…Sweetheart?"
"What?"
"Where're the freezer bags?" You blink.
"The… freezer bags?"
"Yeah." You find him standing over yesterday's discarded clothes with a pair of barbecue tongs.
"…Frank."
"What?"
"Why are you holding my kitchen tongs?"
"I'm not touching that stuff."
"You literally fought an entire warehouse."
"Bullets don't usually come covered in mystery chemicals." Fair point. You hand him a box of large zip-top storage bags. He carefully picks up his shirt with the tongs.
"You know," you say, leaning against the doorway, "Bruce is never going to let you live this down." Frank stuffs the shirt into the bag.
"He says one word—"
"He'll say at least twelve."
"I'll leave."
"You can't."
"I absolutely can."
"You need him."
"I know." He seals the bag with excessive force. "I'm just not happy about it." You laugh.
"I'm putting money on Tony finding out within the hour." Frank looks horrified.
"…Don't even joke."
"I'm serious."
"He'll make a PowerPoint."
"He'll make merch."
"He'll name the chemical after me."
"'Castle Syndrome.'"
"'Frank's Bad Decision Dust.'"
"'Horny Powder.'" You burst out laughing. Frank pinches the bridge of his nose.
"I hate all of you."
"You haven't even left the house yet."
"I'm getting a headache in advance." You tuck the sealed evidence bag into another airtight container.
"There." You smile up at him. "Ready?" Frank takes a long breath. His eyes drift briefly to you, checking—again—that you're steady on your feet.
"You sure you're okay to go?"
"I'm sure."
"You'll tell me if you're hurting?"
"I will."
"You promise?"
"I promise." He studies you for another second before nodding. Then he picks up the container with the contaminated clothes as though it contains a live grenade.
"Let's go." You slip your hand into his free one.
"And maybe," you add, "let's not open the conversation with 'Hi, Bruce, I accidentally got dusted by horny cocaine.'" Frank groans.
"…I'm driving."
"You say that like it solves the problem."
"It solves my problem."
The drive to the Avengers Compound is unusually quiet. Normally, Tony would have received at least three sarcastic voice messages by now. Today, Frank's hands stay locked around the steering wheel. Every few minutes, he glances sideways.
"You okay?" You nod.
"I'm okay." Five minutes later—
"You sure?" You smile faintly.
"I'm still okay." Another red light.
"You dizzy?"
"No."
"You nauseous?"
"A little." His grip tightens.
"Frank."
"What?"
"You've asked me twenty-three questions."
"I have not."
"You absolutely have."
"…Twenty-two." You snort. He doesn't. He's serious. Painfully serious. You reach across the center console and squeeze his forearm.
"I'm fine." His eyes remain on the road.
"I know."
"No." You shake your head. "You don't." He finally looks at you for half a second.
"I don't know anything right now." Bruce is already waiting when the two of you arrive. He takes one look at Frank's expression and immediately frowns.
"…Frank."
"Banner." Bruce's eyes move to you.
"You alright?" You answer before Frank can.
"I'm sore." Frank visibly winces. Bruce notices.
"So… why don't we start from the beginning?" Frank sets the airtight container on the lab bench like it's an unexploded bomb.
"I brought the clothes." Bruce blinks.
"…Good?"
"I wasn't touching 'em."
"You carried them with barbecue tongs," you add. Bruce looks between the two of you.
"…You carried contaminated evidence with kitchen utensils?" Frank crosses his arms.
"They're stainless steel." Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose.
"I'm… not sure that's the issue." Frank shrugs.
"They were clean."
"They're definitely not anymore."
"They're in the dishwasher." Bruce sighs.
"I'm suddenly very concerned about your dishwasher." Despite everything, you laugh. Frank looks relieved just to hear it. Bruce pulls on gloves and carefully removes Frank's shirt from the bag. The fabric still carries faint reddish stains near the collar.
"Hm." He transfers tiny samples into a glass dish. The lab falls quiet except for the hum of machines. Frank paces. You sit on one of the stools, trying very hard not to shift your weight. Every muscle in your hips protests. You ignore it. Frank notices anyway.
"You alright?"
"Yep."
"You just made a face."
"I was… thinking." Bruce looks over his shoulder.
"Thoughtfully?" You glare.
"He's infected everyone." Frank almost smiles. Almost. Bruce spends another several minutes scanning the residue, and taking a blood sample from Frank. Then he pauses.
"…Well." Neither of you likes that tone.
"What?" Frank asks immediately. Bruce adjusts the image on the monitor.
"It's… not exactly what I expected."
"What is it?" Bruce folds his arms.
"The compound appears to be an engineered biochemical aerosol." Frank stares.
"In English." Bruce sighs.
"It hijacks several neurochemical pathways simultaneously."
"…English."
"It artificially stimulates areas of the brain associated with sexual arousal, reward, impulse suppression, and temperature regulation." You blink.
"So…" Bruce clears his throat.
"It's… essentially a weaponized aphrodisiac." Frank looks horrified. Bruce continues, almost apologetically. "An extremely aggressive one."
"…You're telling me I got hit with sex pollen?" Bruce hesitates.
"…Scientifically speaking…Yes. Your sex drive went into overdrive."
Silence.
Frank rubs both hands over his face.
"Fuck's sake. I got taken out by horny fairy dust." The lab doors slide open.
"Please tell me somebody said 'horny fairy dust.'"
Tony.
Of course.
He strolls in carrying a coffee the size of a flower vase.
"I leave for one meeting…" His eyes land on Frank. "…and somehow Castle has managed to invent a brand-new category of workplace incident." Frank groans.
"I knew it." Tony points dramatically.
"I called it!"
"You weren't here."
"I psychically called it." Bruce mutters,
"I absolutely did not tell him."
"I have ears."
"You have surveillance software."
"I have excellent surveillance software." Tony finally notices you.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine." He nods. Then his eyes catch something near your shoulder where your oversized T-shirt has slipped. A dark bite mark. He winces.
"…Wow." Frank immediately turns.
"What?" You instinctively pull the collar up.
"Nothing." Frank's face drains of color. He'd seen the bruises. He hadn't seen that. Tony opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
"I'm gonna make exactly one joke." Bruce sighs.
"Tony."
"I'm exercising tremendous restraint."
Bruce looks back toward the monitor.
"Based on your blood sample, i'd say the toxin has been cleared from your system." He says. He looks back up at Frank. "Do you have any idea how ?" Frank freezes beside you. His ears go bright red.
"Uh.. Well.." he starts, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor tiles. "There was… a lot of… liquid intake." Tony’s coffee freezes halfway to his lips. His eyes widen in dawning, gleeful comprehension. Bruce, bless him, just looks confused.
"Liquid intake?" Bruce asks, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Hydration is good, but I'm not sure how that would metabolize a complex neurotoxin this quickly. We're talking about a half-life of—"
"He doesn't mean he drank a lot of water, Bruce," Tony cuts in, his voice dripping with suppressed laughter. "He means Mrs Castle here had a lot of liquid intake." He makes a vague gesture towards Frank's groin. Frank’s entire face is now the color of a stop sign.
"Stark, I swear to God—"
"What ? You gonna hit me because you came in your wife ?"
"Tony !" You hiss, stepping between them before Frank can actually make good on the promise in his eyes. "He's not the only one who came, you know. It was a team effort." Tony blinks. Frank, who had been coiled to strike, freezes so completely you can hear the blood rushing in your ears. He slowly lowers his fists, turning his head to look at you with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock. Tony, however, recovers instantly. His grin becomes a thing of legend.
"A team effort," he repeats, savoring the words. "I like that. Collaborative problem-solving. Very Avengers of you. So, just to be clear for my notes, was this a… simultaneous deployment, or a series of controlled bursts?" Bruce finally catches on, and a horrified blush creeps up his neck.
"Tony, for the love of God, stop."
"No, no, this is a legitimate scientific inquiry!" Tony insists, pointing a finger at Frank. "Because, and I'm just spitballing here, you didn't know this would work, did you, Castle? You just went for it. You looked at a situation involving a weaponized aphrodisiac and your solution was… what? More sex? Rougher sex? Did you have a hypothesis? 'If I just rail her into next week, maybe the chemical bonds will break from sheer force of will?'" Frank's jaw works, but the rage is being replaced by a deep, soul-crushing mortification. He looks at Tony, then at you, then at the floor.
"It… seemed like a good idea at the time, I couldn't exactly control it." he mumbles, the words barely audible.
"It seemed like a good idea," Tony crows, delighted. "The man's entire tactical genius boils down to 'it seemed like a good idea at the time'! I'm putting that on your tombstone. 'Frank Castle: He Had A Good Idea Once.'" You can't help it. A small, helpless laugh escapes you. Frank shoots you a wounded look, but you just pat his arm.
"He's not wrong," you whisper. 'You did come home quite charged and didn't really think." Bruce, desperate to regain control of his lab, clears his throat loudly.
"Okay. Fascinating as this… post-op analysis is, we should discuss the aftereffects." He looks at you, his expression professional but tinged with concern. "The chemical was designed to lower inhibitions and increase physical endurance. The… physical activity… would have been intense. You should be checked over. Just to make sure there are no… internal injuries." Frank's head snaps up, his face a mask of renewed horror. He looks at you, his eyes wide with a fresh wave of guilt.
"Jesus," he breathes. You feel your own cheeks heat up. You wave a dismissive hand, trying for nonchalance and probably failing.
"Oh, I'm… I'm fine. Really. Just… a little tender."
"Tender?" Tony jumps on the word. "Tender is for steak! Jesus, sweetheart, you have a bite mark on your shoulder ! I frankly don't even want to see what you're hidin' under them clothes."
"Tony, I swear to God—" Frank starts, but you cut him off.
"I'm fine. I swear." you manage, your throat dry.
"Listen, i know this is awkward but-"
"Seriously, Bruce. I'm fine." You say. Bruce pushes his glasses up his nose, his expression shifting from concerned to deeply uncomfortable.
"I know you are, but I need to be sure. We don't have enough data on the transmission vector of this compound. Frank's blood is clear, but we only tested his. The toxin was primarily absorbed through his respiratory system and skin. However, the… fluid transfer… creates a new variable." You frown.
"What variable?" Bruce sighs, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else on earth.
"We don't know if the compound can be passed between hosts like a sexually transmitted disease. Frank's system may have flushed it out, but if there's any residual trace in his semen, and if it's still viable… it could reinfect you. Or worse, it could mutate. We have no precedent for this." The lab goes dead silent. Tony, who had been smirking with self-satisfaction, slowly lowers his coffee mug. The humor drains from his face, replaced by a dawning, clinical curiosity that's somehow even more unnerving.
"Whoa," he says softly. "Reinfection. Mutation. So, what you're saying is, Castle's… cure… might actually be the carrier for round two?" Frank looks like he's been physically struck. He stares at Bruce, his face a mask of horror, all the blood having drained from it. He glances at you, his eyes wide with a fresh, sickening wave of guilt. It's one thing to have lost control in the heat of the moment; it's another thing entirely to have potentially poisoned you with it.
"So… what?" Frank asks, his voice a hoarse rasp. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Bruce says, choosing his words with extreme care, "that until I can run more simulations and analyze the data, you should… abstain. From any and all sexual intercourse. Just to be safe. We need a clean baseline to make sure she's not carrying it either."
"Abstain," Frank repeats, the word sounding foreign and wrong in his mouth. Tony, ever the helpful one, chimes in.
"Yeah, you know. No more 'collaborative problem-solving.' No more 'controlled bursts.' You're on a mandatory dry run, Castle. For science." You can't help it. A small, hysterical bubble of laughter escapes your lips. It's either that or cry. Frank looks at you like you've grown a second head.
"Sorry," you choke out, waving a hand. "It's just… the timing." Frank just stares at you, then at Bruce, then at the floor. He looks utterly defeated. He came here for answers, for a clean slate, and instead, he's been handed a life sentence. He nods, a short, sharp, jerky motion.
"Right. No… that. Right." He turns to you, his expression a mixture of apology and profound misery. "Let's… let's go." He doesn't wait for a reply. He just turns and walks out of the lab, his shoulders hunched, his steps heavy. You shoot a helpless look at Bruce, who just gives you a sympathetic shrug, and then at Tony, who has the decency to look at least a little bit ashamed. You hurry after Frank, catching up to him just as he reaches the elevator. The doors slide shut, enclosing you in the small, silent space. He doesn't look at you. He just stares at the numbers counting down, his jaw clenched so tight you're surprised his teeth don't crack.
"Frank," you say softly. He doesn't respond. "Frank, it's okay."
"It's not okay," he says, his voice low and rough. "I… I hurt you. And now… now I can't even… touch you."
"You can touch me," you say, reaching out and placing a hand on his arm. "Just not… that." He lets out a short, bitter laugh.
"Might as well be the same thing." The elevator doors open, and he walks out into the garage, heading straight for the car. He's quiet on the drive home, staring out the window, his jaw working. You can almost hear the gears turning in his head, replaying every humiliating moment. When you get back to the apartment, he heads straight for the kitchen, pulling a beer from the fridge. He twists the cap off and takes a long swallow, leaning against the counter.
"He's never gonna let it live it down, is he?" Frank asks, his voice low and rough.
"No," you say gently, moving to stand in front of him. You take the beer from his hand and set it aside, then wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his chest. "He's going to have PowerPoint presentations. There might be merch. He's probably already designing a logo for 'Frank's Bad Decision Dust.'" Frank's arms come around you, holding you tight. You feel him let out a long, shuddering breath.
"I'm sorry," he says, his voice muffled in your hair. "For all of it. For… last night. For this morning. For… all of it." You pull back just enough to look up at him.
"Hey. Look at me." He meets your gaze, his eyes filled with a familiar, weary self-loathing. "We're okay. You hear me? We're okay."
"I hurt you."
"And I'm sore," you admit. "But I'm not broken. And you didn't mean to. It wasn't you."
"It felt like me," he says quietly.
"It wasn't," you say, your voice firm. "It was the… fairy dust." You can't help but smile a little. "The horny fairy dust." A tiny smile touches his lips, so faint you almost miss it.
"Horny fairy dust," he repeats, shaking his head. "Jesus."
Dbf!Frank who’s got you reverse cowgirl, your arms pulled back so he can hold you to him as he thrusts up into you. You’re bouncing up and down on his thick and ample cock like a little bunny, whining and squirming in his grip as he pounds relentlessly into you. The position he has you in gives you no choice but to just let your head fall back, your pretty, wine red toes curling and calves tensing as he bucks up into you vigorously, his meaty thighs smacking against the backs of yours so much you can tell they’ll be chapped. He’s balls deep, and the lewd sounds of them slapping against your ass cheeks is only adding fuel to the flame burning low in your belly.
“Yeah? You like that baby? Like when your old man holds you still so he can fuck you dumb? - Fuck, love this fuckin’ juicy ass - like a goddamn peach - Nah, my baby isn’t dumb. She’s a good, smart girl huh?” He lets one arm go, and leans forward carefully while his grip remains firm on the one he’s still holding. He brings his free hand around and hooks his thick fingers into your mouth - shoving them down until you’re gagging around them. “Spit,” he orders gruffly. You do as he says, moaning while salivating onto them. He moves his hand down, ghosting it along the the plushy flesh of your hip - until finally he makes it to his destination and starts rubbing steady circles on your glistening pussy.
“Oh god, Frankie! Yes, yes, right there!” you squeal, eyes fluttering closed at the sensation of his cock repeatedly kissing your cervix as his fingers work eagerly to get you gushing on him. You lose any core strength you have, and you let yourself fall back against him completely. He releases your other arm and slides it around your front, holding your hips in place as he fucks up into you with a vigor and pace that has the corners of your vision darkening - static and stars bouncing around the insides of your eyelids.
“Never answered me,” he huffs and puffs between thrusts.
“You never - oh shit, daddy! - a-asked me anything,” you say breathlessly - unashamedly, selfishly not wanting to answer questions while being fucked so good that you’re blacking the fuck out at the present moment.
“I did - s-shit princess - I asked if you’re a good, smart girl.” His thrusts stutter and slow; his eyes squeeze tight, brows furrowed together as he waits for just the right moment to fill you with his cum. To fuck with you he’ll get extra ooey gooey and call it ‘frosting his cupcake,’ and you always roll your eyes because like what a cringey, old man thing to say??? But somehow super hot also???
“Yes! Yes Frank, I’m your good, smart girl!” Your hands are clutching his arms for dear life. He doesn’t care that your nails are digging into him - it only spurs him on. It motivates him. He loves that he’s making you feel that fucking good that you can’t help but accidentally mark him.
“Show me, baby. Go on. Show me by cummin’ on my cock. That’s it, atta girl. Oh f-fuck honey, gonna make me cum too. Shit.” He gives a low, guttural growl as he rides out his high by slamming your hips down onto him. You’re so blissed out all you can do is mewl and wiggle against his strong chest - your warm, weepy bundle of nerves overstimulated. “I know, I know honey. S’okay, you did so good.” He leans back against the couch, pulling you with him and just holding you like that while his cock’s still in you - softening but still leaving you with a cozy fullness. “Always do s’good for me. Always take it like a fuckin’ champ, baby. I fuckin’ love you, you know that?”
౨ৎ — subby!top!peter... mmmm . . . 18+! (yes I'm spreading my subby!top!peter agenda i hope that's okay)
physically, he's got aaallll the control. he's got your legs hiked up, knees bent over his shoulders, body nearly folded in half beneath him. your pussy is swollen, fucked open, and achy around his thick cock, walls gooey and slick and pliant, helpless to do much else than take the brutal, deep thrusts he abuses them with.
effectively, he fucks you completely senseless, with precise snaps of his hips that have your eyes rolling back into your skull.
but verbally? fuck, you'd think you were the one fucking him dumb.
he whines, groans, moans, and whimpers, desperate little pleas falling from his throat while he uses your cunt to milk himself.
"ohhh, fuck, yesyes—fuck baby, just like that. don't stop, please don't stop! s'fuckin' perfect, fuck me s'good—!" between wet, loud plaps! and creaking wood with a voice that's broken and fucked out.
and when he's about to cum? oh, he begs for it. despite having the upper hand, despite being in control of the pace, he begs you to let him cum—"f-fuck, please, m'gonna cum. please lemme cum—i-inside, can i—fu-huuuck—please make me cum, please—!"
and he actually waits; he waits until you give him permission, pace never faltering, still fucking you so fast and hard that it rattles your brain, toned abdomen slamming into your puffy clit every time he bottoms out.
and you're so close yourself that all you can do is nod and chant, "yes, yes, fuck, yes." while your cunt slurps and flutters around him, moans crescendoing as he fucks you even harder, in fast, short thrusts that quickly bring you—and himself—to orgasm.
"o-ohmygod, baby—'m coming—fuck, please, stay still, please baby—need you to take it, please—" his words cut off into moans that morph into near sobs as he starts to release, cock spurting thick, sticky ropes of cum against your walls.
thick cum that squelches lewdly from your convulsing pussy as he sloppily fucks himself through the waves, eyes watering from the way he throws himself into near overstimulation just to ensure that he squeezes out every last drop into your warm womb ♡.
Description: You’re spider-man’s closest thing to a friend since the world forgot his name. Helping him with gadgets, cleaning his wounds…all without him ever taking the mask off. His true identity has always been a barrier between you two, but what happens when he gets hit with the pollen, and not only him, but the creature lurking inside him fixates on the only person he gets to call home?
Tags/warnings: sex pollen smut, fem!reader, porn with plot, whiny desperate peter >>>, dry humping, piv, riding, oral fem!rec, fingering, dark!peter taking over for a bit, orgasm denial, prone bone, so much yearning, mask stays on…or does it?
Note: You have no idea how giddy it makes me to write him again. He had NO business looking that good in the movie so I had to get this out of my system. Enjoy 🤍
Masterlist
You've seen spiderman hurt many times. When you signed the lease of the first apartment you could afford as a recent graduate, you never thought that would become your new normal.
The first time it happened was completely accidental. He’d arrived at the building in the middle of the night, bruised, bleeding and too disoriented to realize that the window he’d come through was not his.
That night, the noise of a heavy body collapsing onto the floor woke you up. For one terrifying moment, you believed someone had broken into your apartment, only to switch on the lamp and find the city’s superhero groaning and pressing his hands to his side. His suit was torn there, and blood soaked through the ruined fabric onto your rug.
He barely lifted his head when he heard you gasp, the lens of his mask focusing on your figure standing there with wide eyes, wearing only an oversized shirt.
“Wrong window,” he choked, then tried to hold himself up but immediately collapsed again. “Dammit,” he cursed, waiting for you to freak out any second now.
You could have, but instead you rushed to him and knelt beside him.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” Your hands hovered helplessly over his body, trying to see how bad the damage was in the dark. “You need a hospital–”
“No!” He snapped, trying to turn away but failing miserably. “I’ll be fine, I heal quickly.”
“You still need to stop the bleeding,” you countered, folding your knees under your body so you could rest on your calves. “Listen, I can help you. I took some medical courses last year and I have a kit somewhere.”
You looked at him with pleading eyes. He’d saved the city so many times, the fucking world, it was the least you could do to give something back.
He considered his options for a second, and to be honest he didn’t have many. His body was betraying him, and he couldn’t even get up to fix it himself like usual.
The blood loss made him nod, and you wasted no time in getting up and finding said kit. The blood loss also made him drift in and out of consciousness as you tended to the wounds on his ribs as much as you could.
It did not make him less cautious of you though. When you noticed the rip on his mask over a nasty gash on his neck and reached for it, his hand closed around your wrist and even half conscious, his grip was strong.
“Please,” he whispered. Pleaded. “Keep it on.”
The fear in his voice made you promise you would. Even if you couldn’t get to that gash properly. Even when he fell asleep on your floor and didn’t wake up for six whole hours.
The next morning, he opened his eyes and found you sitting on your bed, still staring at him.
His hands patted his chest, and confirmed his arachnid powers had done its job and healed him mostly. But most importantly, his mask was still in place. With no warning from E.V of it being removed. He learned that you’d spent the night making sure he was still breathing without seeing his face.
That had been one year ago.
After thanking you profoundly for helping him, he’d repaired your window, apologized several times, and disappeared into the apartment next door. He then considered moving into another building, but the thought was brushed away very quickly when he remembered the balance in his bank account.
So he acted more careful instead. For a while, he only turned back home when your curtains were already closed, or he only left the apartment when you had already left for your job (because yes, he absolutely researched the hell out of you after that night.)
Then he moved to the attic of the building. Bigger space, no neighbors, no risks. No you. Or at least he thought.
Because some nights…some delirious nights he still found your window a few stories down, and the accidental visits became less accidental. When he was too badly injured to care for himself, he came to you, even after you confessed your degree had nothing to do with medicine.
When he noticed you understood about his equipment malfunctioning, he’d bring it for you to inspect. When he became too reckless with himself you talked his ear off about how being difficult to kill did not make him immortal.
Somewhere along the way, you became spiderman’s friend.
Spiderman was safer. With you, spiderman was the only part of him he could let you see. Because that was the thing, you only knew the masked superhero.
He’d spent so much time blocking away his identity, making peace with the fact that there was no longer anyone in the world who would call him Peter and know exactly who that person was. That name only belonged to the people that once knew him, and no longer existed, so he never gave it to you.
Never showed you more than a sliver of skin when his mask rode up or glimpses of his abdomen when you tended to his wounds. He always kept that barrier and you respected it, even on those nights he was too weak to stop you. Even if sometimes not knowing the color of his eyes kept you up at night.
A promise was a promise.
Maybe that’s why he kept coming. Why he trusted you with a certainty he couldn’t understand. Why he eventually showed you his new living quarters in the attic and let you spend time with him. Why half a year ago, he added another chair next to his desk so you could work together, or help him when he was out patrolling and needed an extra set of eyes.
“I’m officially the girl in the chair, spidey,” you joked that time as you sat next to him, spinning around in your chair.
He’d gone quiet immediately, his body tensing up enough to make you frown, but then managed a small smile and said you were. You pretended you didn’t notice him being too quiet as he worked on his inhibitor after that.
He was wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and the mask. Always the mask that didn’t quite let you see through him. After a moment of quiet, you rolled your chair closer to his and nudged his arm playfully.
“You know I can’t keep calling you spidey forever, right?”
He snapped out of his trance, and the chuckle that came from under the fabric was unmistakable.
“Why not?” He nudged your arm back, but still focused on the device he was hunched over. “I like spidey.”
You put your elbow on the desk, resting your cheek on your hand so you could lean a little closer.
“I like it too, but it feels ridiculous after having my hands all over your body almost every night.”
The moment the words left your lips, you realized how bad that sounded. He straightened up, turning toward you.
“Wow.” Even if you couldn’t see the smile on his face, the lenses of his mask were quite expressive sometimes. He was amused.
“That came out very wrong,” you said immediately, before he bursted into laughter. He had been laughing more since you entered his life. “You know what I meant,” you whined, laughing too with heat flooding your cheeks.
“I think I know,” he chuckled, making you roll your eyes.
“I’m being serious though,” you added, a little more quietly. “You don’t have to say your real name. Just give me something.”
“Mmm…” he acted like has considering it, going back to tinkering with the piece of metal between his fingers, but then his eyes drifted to the flowers he’d bought that morning, and the name came out of his lips before he could think twice about it. “You can call me Maynard.”
“Maynard?” You repeated, suppressing a chuckle. “You don’t sound like a Maynard. That’s like an 80 year old man’s name.”
“That’s all I can give you,” he shrugged playfully.
You had a feeling it went deeper than that, but you’d also learned not to push it with him.
“Alright. Maynard,” you nodded, “but don’t expect me to use that name unless you’re dying. Guess I’ll stick to spidey for now,” you chuckled, going back to your own work as he hummed in agreement.
The conversation ended there. With him trying not to think about your hands all over his body in…different conditions.
Peter didn’t know exactly when his gratitude became longing. He could not identify the moment the friendship, the closeness, or just your smile, shifted into something he craved everyday.
Despite the mask and the fake name, he knew that after years of being no one to everyone, he had become someone to you. And you had become everything to him. Even if it was behind walls he’d built, you were the person who knew him better than anyone alive.
Which is why, the night he lost control of himself after an unknown dust was thrown at him in a fight, he chose not to crash land into your room.
Peter hit the floor of the dark attic with a loud thud, as his senses went overboard. His suit was sticking to his body uncomfortably due to the sweat coating his feverish skin. The fabric was intact, with no visible wounds in his body, just that burning sensation of something running through his veins.
And that dark part of him he’d managed to lock down with the inhibitor, trying to claw its way out.
“What the…what the fuck is going on,” he cursed, clutching his heaving chest as he panted against the worn wood floors. “I can’t–I can’t breathe…”
The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence.
“You have arrived injured. I’m letting her know–”
“NO!” He cut the AI off, “EV, don’t tell her–”
“Message already sent.”
He glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. 2:18 am.
He groaned, grabbing his head when a wave of migraine hit him. He knew what came after that. The black eyes. The desire to break. To take. But this time something felt different. It was like a pull, looking for something or someone…for…for you?
Oh fuck.
You were going to come in and you were going to see him like this. No, no–
“Spidey?” You asked from behind the door, knocking exactly twice before opening it anyways.
The air changed the exact moment you walked in, and that something inside him shifted too. It became aware that the only thing it craved to survive was in the room now.
He needed to get to you. He needed to pin you down and–
“Don’t!” He managed to scream, holding his hand up weakly when you scrambled toward him.
You stopped right in your tracks, eyes wide and running all over him, searching for torn fabric, blood, or anything that would explain why he looked like every breath was painful.
“What happened?” You frowned, when you couldn’t find any source. “Did you get hurt?”
You instinctively stepped forward, but he waved his hand in front of him again.
“Stop, stop, stop,” he said quickly, “don’t come any closer.”
The harshness in his voice caught you off guard, but what sealed the deal was him dragging himself further away from you. It was barely more than a clumsy, desperate crawl, but he managed to put a decent distance between you before collapsing against the side of his thrifted couch.
He avoided looking at you. The oversized shirt covering your body, the comfy shorts you were probably wearing, the way your hair looked messy from rolling out of bed as soon as you got EV’s warning even if you had work the next morning.
You stayed right where you were, watching him. His suit had always fit him like it was painted on his skin, but every pant made his chest rise and fall beneath the fabric so violently that you wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped at the seams.
This reminded you too much of the changes that happened in him months ago.
It started with a sharpened temper, then the heightened sensitivity to everything, the black covering his eyes, and moments during patrol when his reactions became simply frightening for someone who had as much strength as he did. But you were supposed to have stopped it.
“Is it the inhibitor?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, “is it failing?”
“I–I don’t know…I was hit with some dust out there,” he breathed. “I think it’s tampering with it…my head is killing me. Everything is too much.”
You nodded, turning toward the workstation.
“I will check the programming. Just hold on.” Not your best attempt at reassuring him, but he groaned in acknowledgment.
“EV?”
The computer woke when you touched the keyboard, illuminating the dark attic in a wash of blue light.
“Online.”
“Please run a diagnostic on the inhibitor and any possible interference.”
“Beginning diagnostic.”
You waited impatiently for the results, tapping your fingers on the desk while you watched him from the corner of your eye.
Over there, he…he was doing his best trying to breathe.
This obviously wasn't his first time having sensory overload. When the animal tried to take over the human part of him, everything in the city became impossible to escape. Not a single movement, or sound, or simple existence within miles was unnoticed by him.
But this time? The rest of the city had disappeared. There were no sirens in the distance, or voices coming through the walls, or every heartbeat in the building pounding in his head.
There was only you.
Your rapid heartbeat echoing inside him. He felt every tap of your fingers against the wood, every slight catch in your breathing each time he made another involuntary and pathetic sound from his spot on the floor.
Your scent…God, your scent filled the entire apartment.
The scent he found himself coming back to so often that it scared him. He didn’t want the attachment. The possibility of having someone again only to risk losing them again.
That same scent was making every muscle in his body react in a way he didn’t understand. It made him, and the other him, wanna do things to you he had only dreamed of in his wildest fantasies. Things he wasn’t proud of, things he wouldn’t dare to say out loud, even if he looked at you through the lenses of his mask and you couldn’t see the black in his eyes.
He pressed the back of his head against the couch harshly.
This was wrong. So wrong.
His senses were supposed to consume everything when the change came. Instead, they had fixed themselves entirely on you.
He could feel the heat of your body from across the room as though you were still in front of him. Could remember with sickening detail how soft your hands looked when they reached for him. Could almost feel the burn of the touch that had never landed because he stopped you.
What if he’d let you? What if he’d felt the way your hands ran all over his body? What if you’d moved them lower, and lower, as your mouth–
“Diagnostic complete.”
Your heads snapped toward the screen.
“There’s no external damage affecting the integrity of the device. I detected a foreign biotoxin in the bloodstream that may be bypassing the inhibitor, activating the suppressed arachnid hormones.”
“What biotoxin?” You frowned.
“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.”
Great. He thought. He had no time to take a bath with Yelena Belova to find out what the stupid dust was.
The screen changed, displaying a model of his nervous system. There were yellow bright lines pulsing quickly, running all the way from the base of his brain down the length of his spine. Something unknown was moving through his blood, altering the part of him he had spent months forcing into submission.
He sucked in a breath as he watched you read the screen. Your eyes were focused, and a bead of sweat made its way down the side of your forehead.
He suddenly felt the need to lick it off.
Wanted to run his tongue from the base of your neck to the back of your ear. Wanted to fist your hair and make your heart beat out of your chest from how good he knew he could make you feel–
“The effects remain within his enhanced tolerance. However, prolonged exposure to certain hormones can cause extreme distress without relief.”
“What hormones?” Your voice, worried and unknowing of his thoughts only made him feel guiltier.
It took him a second to realize what you asked, but EV threw him under the bus before he could say anything.
“There’s a significant rise in reproductive hormones. The unknown toxin is inducing a strong mating response in him.”
Mating response. He stopped breathing.
Your eyes slowly moved from the monitor to him, and he saw the moment your attention dropped lower to the tent of his pants.
That suit concealed nothing on a good day. On one like this? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck–
He shifted almost immediately, but the movement only worsened the pressure, pulling a helpless groan from his throat that made your pulse jump. You looked away at once, turning back to the computer.
“Is there a way we can…umm…stop it?” You asked hesitantly.
“The subject is experiencing severe sexual arousal with a fixation on a nearby individual,” she explained, because fuck him if he wasn’t the unluckiest individual on earth. “Acting upon it can be a positive option to relieve sexual tension.”
He wished the floor would open beneath him, swallow him, and never ever EVER spit him back out again.
Your pulse was absolutely hammering after that. He caught the sudden change in your scent. There was a sharp spark of surprise, nervousness, and something else beneath it that his altered senses fed on immediately.
You kept your eyes fixed on the monitor, although the data had stopped meaning anything the moment you heard fixation on a nearby individual.
“Is that what you really feel?” You asked softly after a moment.
His head fell forward, catching it between his gloved hands. He didn’t know how to answer without making everything worse.
Although, after what EV said, could it really be worse?
“…Yes.” The word came out rougher than he expected. Yet still not enough for what was happening inside him. “It’s like…I can only feel you. All of you.”
Heat rose to your face once again.
“What does that mean?”
Don’t say anything, don’t–
“I can smell you.” Great start, idiot. He cleared his dry throat before continuing. “I can smell your shampoo…the lotion you use…the ink on your hands from your favorite pen.”
He chose not to mention he could also smell the adrenaline on you. The heat gathering slowly beneath your skin.
Your eyes dropped to your hands, and under the dim light of the computer, you caught the blue stains in them from your journaling session before bed.
“I can hear your heartbeat changing every time I speak,” he added. Okay, that one slipped out.
You swallowed. And god, he felt that in his own throat.
The suit was suffocating him at this point. He wanted to rip it off as much as he wanted to rip off the fabric covering the goosebumps on your skin.
“Is it only because I’m nearby?” You asked, gathering the courage to turn your chair to him.
White lenses met you across the room. He dragged in another shaky breath of oxygen made of you as he thought about his next words. He could’ve lied. He should’ve lied. But instead, chemically overwhelmed and stripped of every defense he possessed, he gave you the truth.
“No.”
His voice was firmer this time. No hesitation in it despite the thousand red alarms pounding in his head telling him to shut up.
“It picked you–no, I picked you for a reason,” he added. “And it’s not just me. The other…the other me wants you too.”
His voice went lower on the last part, that told you how much it cost him to admit that.
The silence following his confession was heavy. For a moment he wished he could read your mind. For all he could feel of you, your thoughts were unreachable.
His own mind was a mess. The impulses didn’t feel like thoughts anymore, just his body feeding him instructions.
Get up. Cross the room. Touch her. Breathe her in.
His palms shook with the urge to close around you. His teeth ached with the need to graze your skin. His eyes burned with the desire to see beyond fabric.
Every part of him seemed convinced that the small distance between you was a mistake he needed to correct. That he needed to breathe you in until his lungs burned. Drag his mouth along the inside of your wrist and taste the pulse there.
He hated it.
He hated that something inside him could look at the person he cared for the most and reduce her to an answer for his pain.
“EV, how long is this state going to last?” He asked the computer, followed by a weak cough as he clutched his side.
“Your enhanced physiology is struggling to break down the toxin’s structure. I estimate a time between ten to twelve hours before it’s metabolized. However, neurological collapse is expected before that timeframe.”
“What?” You looked at him. “There’s no way we’re letting that happen. Maybe I can–”
“Don’t even start,” he cut you off, shaking his head profusely.
“So what? I’m supposed to sit here betting on whether your body collapses on hour three or hour six?”
“I’ll just pass out, big deal. I’m not putting you in danger because of this. I can handle it.”
“You’re barely handling it now. There’s no danger in trying–”
“You don’t understand what’s happening inside me right now,” he argued, raising his voice. “This other thing, the one the inhibitor controls it’s…awake. That part of me doesn’t think like I do. It doesn’t care if you're scared, or hurting–”
“You wouldn’t hurt me–”
“You don’t know that!” He snapped, his fist struck the floor next to him, hard enough to make the worn wood crack beneath his knuckles.
The sudden noise made you flinch. He smelled the flash of fear moving through your body for only a second.
One second enough.
“Fuck–that is what I mean,” he cursed, covering his lenses with his hands. “I don’t…I don’t know if I’d be gentle. I can’t risk this, I can't…shit, I can’t risk you.”
The words, said with so much pain, and honesty, seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest.
“Okay,” you nodded, settling deeper in your chair. “But I’m not leaving you like this. I can’t risk you either.”
He shuddered a painful exhale. His head dropped to the couch again, shutting his eyes in preparation of what the next hours of torture would be.
Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes.
The suit was killing him, so he decided he’d be better without it. He reached desperately behind his back, clumsily undoing the zippers that tied the suit together.
He could feel your wide eyes on him as he tugged the fabric off his shoulders, peeling it off his sweaty arms. He groaned when he lifted his hips and the suit grazed his swollen crotch. In a matter of seconds that felt like eternity he managed to break free from the spandex, and threw it away somewhere in the room. He’d undressed down to his dark boxers, mask still in place, revealing the marble sculpture of his body.
You let out a shaky breath from your spot, eyes raking over a body you’d only seen partially. He was covered in wounds most of the time, but this time, he only had faint bruises from the night before decorating his chiseled abs.
His tight muscles flexed with every rise of his chest, his bulge straining harder the more you devoured him, pressing against his pants, making him curse quietly.
You noticed, and returned your eyes to the screen to track his vitals.
He felt grateful that you’d given him that grace, but just you being in that room made it very hard for him to think of anything other than your existence.
Too hard.
Before he knew his hand drifted down the growing ache in his crotch, trying to feel some relief, but every rub he made over the fabric of his boxers sent a jolt of pain through his body instead of pleasure.
It only made it worse when he realized you were tense at the desk, trying very hard to keep your focus on the screen and not on the whines he was letting out.
“…I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly, breathlessly, moving his hand away. “I didn’t–”
“Don’t apologize,” you shook your head quickly, eyes still on the screen. “You…you can do whatever you need.”
He didn’t say anything, just whined in pain again, so you took it as a chance to say it before you regretted it.
“But my offer still stands, spidey.”
What a polite way of saying ‘I’d let you fuck me into next week so you can control your horny arachnid hormones, spidey.’
Fucking hell.
“I’m okay I just–God I didn’t–I didn’t think it would feel this way…” He laughed humorlessly, staring at the ceiling. “But I–I got this. Yes.”
You kept quiet, hearing him mumble to himself about a hundred times about how he had this.
“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…”
He wasn’t.
“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”
For God’s sake.
“I think I can help.”
By the time he registered the words and looked back at you, you had already moved from your chair and shortened the distance between you, kneeling in front of him.
His senses went from one thousand to one million. He forced his hands behind his back, trying to keep the animal from grabbing you and getting it over with.
“What–what are you doing?” He stammered nervously, the lenses of his mask going wide.
“Maynard,” you said quietly, ignoring the way his body tensed up at that name. “Would it make you feel better if I put my hand here?”
You placed your hand right in the center of his chest, and your cold palm met his overheated skin. He gasped, feeling every individual fingerprint on his skin. He wanted them marked on him. Tattooed.
His back arched from the couch, with a strangled gasp breaking from beneath the mask. The relief hit him all at once, through a simple contact that felt like salvation.
Your hand steadied him for only a glorious second, but now that you had touched him, his body knew precisely what it had been denied.
It wanted more.
His own hand closed around yours so suddenly that you almost pulled back, but he loosened his grip the instant he realized how tightly he was holding you.
“Sorry–”
“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder.
He was burning.
The heat beneath your palm scared you, but what scared you more was the violent pounding of his heart beating against your hand so so quickly.
“Better?” You asked quietly, trying not to bite your bottom lip at the image of him crumbling under your palm.
“So fucking better,” he said breathlessly, pressing your hand tighter against his chest. “I…dammit–”
“Breathe,” you reminded.
His head fell back against the couch. Chest rising up and down, up and down, up and down.
Just take her, man, she’s right there–
Your free hand accidentally brushed his neck, right where the border of the mask started, snapping him right back. He grabbed your hand, not harshly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch.
“Please.” Was all he said.
Leave it on.
It brought you back to that first night he’d crashed into your life.
“I wasn’t planning on removing it,” you whispered, leaning closer. “You can keep it on. But let me help you…I really want to.”
See? She wants it. She needs it so bad.
He hated that the other guy was right. He knew you meant what you said because he could smell the proof pooling between your thighs.
Fuck it.
In a sudden movement he reached for your waist, dragging you forward so you were straddling his lap. The bulge you landed on made you gasp, hands instinctively grabbing onto his sweaty biceps for balance when he let out a broken groan that vibrated against your core.
His hand cupped your jaw, bringing it closer to his face, and your dilated pupils reflected on the white of his lenses.
“I can feel that you want this,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. “Please, say it again…”
You shifted your hips, barely, so minimal yet he felt it travel through his whole body. He hissed, tightening the grip on your jaw.
“I want this,” you repeated firmly, moving your head closer to his ear. “You can take whatever you need…”
You moved your hips again, more deliberate this time, pulling a broken whine from him. The toxin made every contact feel like electricity racing down his spine, straight to the heavy, aching weight of his cock under you.
“Yes…yeah just like that…” he panted. “Just let me…”
His hands landed on your waist, moving you back and forth at a quicker pace over his bulge. You gasped at the friction, fingers digging into his shoulders, while he let out a collection of muffled words you could barely understand.
“...M–more…” he whined, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t–I need…”
“What do you need? More what?”
“More contact.”
His hands left your waist to grab the hem of your shirt.
“Can I?” He whispered.
You nodded eagerly, gasping when his hands shifted to the collar of your shirt instead, ripping it off your body with a sharp pull.
“Oh fuck,” he cursed when he realized there was nothing under that shirt, and saw your nipples hardening instantly under the cold air.
He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask.
His hands, however, wasted no time to cup your breasts with a broken whine. His thumbs played with your nipples, tugging at them as hard as he could allow himself to without hurting you.
“Fuck you’re perfect…you’re so perfect…” he whispered, more to himself than you, pulling some soft whimpers out of you when he tugged a little harder. His hands drifted to your lower half, to the hem of the last piece keeping your body from his greedy eyes. “These too,” he said, “please, can I? I want to feel you.”
“Yes,” you nodded, already out of air.
You didn’t even know why you tried to get off his lap to take the shorts off properly, when he just did the same as the shirt: ripped it in half where it rested on your hips, yanked it off from your body and threw the ruined pieces far away.
You weren’t wearing anything underneath.
“I can smell you. God, I can smell you. You’re so–oh God…”
Now he could feel your wetness drenching his boxers, dripping onto the fabric. He could almost taste it in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to drown in it for hours.
“Can–can I–?”
You didn’t even let him finish, you grabbed his hand and placed it right between your legs.
Water. He found water in the middle of the dessert.
His hand moved carefully through your wet folds once, twice, delighting in your warmth, the way you felt, the way you let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard in his miserable life.
“Fuck…” you cursed softly, moving your hips eagerly when he kept stroking slow. Too slow. “Touch me, please.”
He obliged, fingers finding your clit in movements that had you gripping his shoulders tighter, eyes fluttering shut so beautifully he had to bite his lip to not let out a pathetic sound.
“Been wanting this,” he mumbled. “Longer than today. Longer than tonight.”
His finger slid inside of you, making you moan when he curled it just right.
“There were…there were nights I thought about you riding my hand,” he kept going, voice cracking as he added a second finger, stretching you more. “I’ve wanted you for so long–not just because of this shit in my blood. Because it’s you.”
Every word made you clench around his fingers. Every admission pulled another shaky moan out of your throat. You were a mess already, breathless, hips rolling down to meet the thrust of his fingers.
“Oh my God–don’t stop, please don’t stop–”
“Not stopping, baby.”
He kept working you open, the white lenses of the mask never leaving your face. His free hand slid up your chest, settling between your breasts.
“I’m–I’m close,” you managed. “I’m so close–”
“Come on…you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”
The heel of his palm lifted to press against your clit. You were right there, right on the edge, about to come on his hand and drip down his boxers–
“Please,” he begged, unable to keep it in. “Let me fuck you after this…please. I need to be inside you. I’ve needed it for so long–just let me, after you come, please, please–”
The plea undid you.
You came with a broken cry, stopping your movements as your walls pulsed around him. The sound you made against his shoulder nearly finished him right there.
It took you a second to just breathe again, your chest synching up with his in the search of oxygen. He kept rocking his hand slowly, not just to work you through the aftershocks, but because the friction of your pussy in his hand brought the tiniest relief to him.
You just stayed there as the last soft waves rolled through you.
Once you were able to see clearly again, you let out a breathless chuckle and straightened back up.
He needed you. He needed you so badly you really thought he was going to die if you didn’t help him.
You placed one hand on his chest as the other reached under you, slipping inside the fabric of his boxers without breaking eye contact.
The second your bare fingers brushed him, his hips jerked hard under you.
“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly.
You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.
His cock sprang out, heavy and flushed between your bodies, so thick and hard and painful. The head was red and shiny, with precum dripping down the vein that ran along his length. The tip brushed the skin of your stomach, leaving a warm, wet patch that made the hair on your arms go up. He could smell the small flicker of intimidation sparking inside you, but the want that followed was stronger.
You stroked him a few times, slowly just as he’d touched you at first.
“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”
Another thick bead of precum welled up and spilled over your fingers. Whether it was the toxin or just his enhanced physiology, he was dripping for you.
Flustered wasn’t enough of a word when you had his leaking cock in your hand.
His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tighter, guiding you up as if he was about to lift you then pulling you back down immediately.
Fuck her. Fuck her right now.
“Please, I need–I need to feel you…” he cried out. “Let me…let me…”
You nodded just as desperately, lifting yourself up as he helped, steadying you with shaking hands until the thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance. You both exhaled hard at the same time when you started to sink down, taking him inch by inch.
He was big. Almost too much. The burn of it made your breath hitch, but the way he cursed under his breath multiple times, completely at your mercy, made you keep going until he was buried balls deep.
You sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, and so full of him.
When the initial sting faded away, you started moving. He let you set the pace as you adjusted, holding back his need of thrusting up. His fingers dug on your skin, not lifting just holding you, but the more that you moved, the more that control started to waver.
He could feel it coming. The change.
You kept moaning, bouncing on top of him, completely unaware of his self restraint crumbling away.
His grip slowly tightened when his eyes began turning completely black under his mask. That careful, pathetic boy who’d been begging disappeared beneath something more…primal.
Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.
The next thing he knew, his hands slid under your thighs with sudden strength. He lifted you up in one motion until only the thick head of him remained inside you, held you there for a second as the last part of him tried to remember how to be gentle–then snapped his hips up hard.
That first thrust pulled a sharp moan out of you, but there was no chance to adjust this time. He set a relentless pace almost immediately, using pure strength to bounce you on his cock while he drove up to meet every drop of your body, buried so deep it stole your breath every time he bottomed out.
“Oh my–May…Maynard–” the name you barely used on him slipped out in the middle of the frenzy, but his hand reached behind your head to pull your hair back slightly as he kept thrusting up.
“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, his voice so different from just minutes earlier. “It’s Peter. Call me Peter when I’m inside you.”
He didn’t even give you time to process, still lifting and dropping you onto his cock at the exact hard rhythm he wanted. The only one that satisfied the need inside of him. Your hands instinctively reached for the edge of the arm of the couch he was leaning against, fingers digging into the worn fabric as he hit that spot inside you over and over again.
“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”
“That’s better,” he approved. “I was right, you’re so so perfect…taking every inch like you need it as bad as I do…”
A desperate sound slipped out of you at the praise, he could feel your walls clenching tight around him as your body went for that second orgasm, your eyes were fluttering shut, almost there–
“Nuh–uh,” he denied immediately, stopping mid thrust, holding you pressed against him as you gasped, surprised and confused.
“What–what happened? I was about to–”
“I want you to hold it for me. I know you can.”
That twisted part of him enjoyed the slow realization on your face.
Even if you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew the same spiderman he’d been without the inhibitor, was the one with your body at his mercy now.
Good.
He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, breathing hard behind the mask. When your breathing finally slowed down and accepted that the high never came, he stood up. Still inside you, he walked you to the bed in the corner of the room.
His bed.
He pulled out with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then laid you down roughly near the edge of the mattress. He kneeled down, strong hands hooking behind your knees and dragging your legs over his shoulders, folding you open for him completely.
“Look at the ceiling,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me.”
You obeyed, staring up at the wood beams high above you while he tugged the bottom of the mask just high enough to free his mouth.
Peter leaned down and pressed a few soft kisses to your swollen folds. He wasn’t necessarily eating you out, just giving a few loud smooches that felt good enough to make you grip the sheets.
“M’sorry, you were so perfect there…” he mumbled condescendingly against your most sensitive spots. “But I need you to hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”
You nodded, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Maybe too eager. Maybe too pathetic. Just like he’d been. Had he pumped that toxin into you?
Either way, you didn’t care. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this version of him.
He laughed right over your clit when you moaned loudly, after he moved his tongue in a slow, torturous swipe over it.
“Was back there too much?” He cooed. “Maybe I just need to stretch you more...”
Two fingers slid inside you, so easily, but the sudden stretch still dragged a whine out of your throat. He curled them immediately, finding the spot that made your hips jerk.
“Peter…”
“Huh?” He acted coy, pumping his fingers with a rhythm that kept you right on the edge without letting you tip over. He added a third finger, making your back arch from the mattress. “Keep holding it in.”
Every shake of your body fed the stupid toxin inside him. Having you like this…really trying to keep your body from coming apart because he said so.
God. He was never going back.
“You just took my cock. I think you can take three fingers with no problem.”
He kept the same relentless pace, chuckling when your body started twitching again.
“Shhh, you’re perfect, absolutely perfect…”
“Peter…” you called out again, hand dropping the sheet to find his shoulder instead. “I need…need…”
“Need what?”
“Need you inside me…please I won’t–I won’t hold for much longer just–fuck me.”
He stopped altogether, a smirk you couldn’t see stretching the corner of his mouth. He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, licking them clean before tugging his mask back in place and standing up.
“Yeah?”
Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed for a moment before his hands gripped your hips and turned you over. He moved you higher up the bed, grabbing one of the pillows, and shoving it under your hips, tilting your lower body up for him.
He then climbed onto the bed behind you and knelt between your spread thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight as one hand stroked down the length of your spine.
But something made him stop.
“This fucking mask–” he cursed under his breath. “It’s suffocating me.”
The sweat on his forehead had pooled under the mask, making it so sticky over his eyebrows that it was affecting the lenses he was trying to see you through.
“I need you to be a good girl for me,” he added breathlessly, yet still commanding enough. “Keep your head on the mattress. Ass up. Don’t turn around.”
You nodded. Too eagerly again. Couldn’t care any less again.
He didn’t think twice, just yanked the mask off and tossed it aside. It landed near you, making you bury half your face on the sheets as if staring at the mask alone would be disobeying his commands.
The sound he made when the cool air hit his face was pure relief. He swiped the sweat off with his forearm, finally seeing you clearly. Face down. Eyes squeezed shut. Already clutching the sheets.
“You look so pretty like this,” he mumbled. “All spread out for me…waiting.”
“Peter…” you whined, lifting your ass slightly from the pillow.
“I know, I know. You’re okay.” He couldn’t keep the smirk away when he added, “you said please.”
He reached between you, guiding the thick head of his cock between your thighs until it nudged against your entrance. You were still soft and ready and perfect.
Peter pushed in slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank deep and deep and deeper.
He braced one hand beside your head and kept the other on your hip, pushing you into the mattress as his thighs hit the back of yours. Slap. Slap. Slap. The position left almost no space between your bodies, with Peter pressing his chest against your back.
“Fuck…you feel so good like this…so pretty taking me.”
He kept going, making the mattress creak and the base of the bed hit the brick wall repeatedly. Your desperate moans ran through his body like electricity, making something inside him crack open again.
What? What is–
The moment his rhythm stuttered, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Beads of sweat flew from his hair to your back.
“God–you…you’re making me–” The roughness of his thrusts slowed down immediately, inhaling a sharp intake of air as he felt the change again. “I can’t, I can’t…”
He lifted his gaze to the window behind the bed and noticed his eyes had turned back to its original color.
“Oh my god,” he gasped, stopping altogether. He straightened up, still kneeling and inside you, but panicking. “I’m…I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened I–“
“Peter!” You cut him off, pushing yourself back, closer to him, without turning around. “Shut up and fuck me.”
The order left your mouth breathless, pushing back against him even more to make the point clear. His hands twitched when they gripped your hips again.
“Okay, okay…” he panted, groaning when you dropped back on the bed and his cock almost left the warmth of your pussy. “I’m sorry–if I was too rough, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
He picked up the pace again, but the words tumbling out of him now were pure pleading Peter again.
“Don’t turn around–don’t turn around–fuck, fuck…” slap, slap, slap. “You can come now. Please. Please, I want to feel it–you’d come apart so pretty on me, I know you would…pleasepleaseplease–”
His final permission and the desperate way he said it made you crash harder than the first time, crying out into the mattress. The second he felt you coming around him, he knew he couldn’t last much longer either.
“Can I–inside…please, can I??…let me fill you up–”
“Yes–inside, Peter, do it inside me…”
He buried himself to the hilt with a strained groan and finally came. The orgasm tearing out of him was harder and longer than anything he’d ever felt, holding you there, filling you up.
You gasped against the sheets, breathless, as the waves of cum seemed to go on forever, flooding you with warm and thick ropes in every spurt as he emptied himself inside you.
“Thank you…thank you…” His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, sending broken gasps against your skin as he kept coming. “You are so perfect–fuck…so perfect…thank you…”
The pollen wrung him dry until he could barely breathe, and even then he kept rolling his hips weakly, chasing the last of it while he slowly softened inside you.
When it finally eased, the pain, the need, the hunger…he pulled out slowly with a whine, and half collapsed over you. His arms held most of his weight as he planked above you, but you could feel every ridge of his muscles brushing your sweaty skin.
Peter’s eyes fluttered shut, feeling exhausted and aching in the best way, almost lulled by the sounds of your agitated breaths.
You both felt the warm trail of liquid leaking out between your bodies and neither of you moved or said anything for a while. He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With your naked body under him, no masks, no barriers, just your swollen pussy leaking out his seed–
“Successful ejaculation brought down the arachnid hormone levels immediately. Inhibitor working within regular parameters now. Congratulations, Peter.”
EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence.
It took two seconds of shock before you both broke into breathless laughter. His teeth grazed your back as your bodies vibrated in sync from the amusement and overall flustering after everything that happened.
“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered.
“You’re welcome. I gathered data and the released semen volume exceeds standard parameters by two hundred and twenty six percent due to the high hormonal concentration. Hydration, clean up and rest are advised.”
“For fucks sake…” Peter cursed under his breath.
“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets.
That was your call back to reality.
Peter felt you move under him, reaching blindly to the side until your hand found the mask. You lifted it over your shoulder, offering it to him without looking.
“I don’t want to,” he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I…I don’t want to put it back on.”
“Then I’ll close my eyes,” you offered instead.
“No–I mean…you don’t have to. I don’t want to wear it around you anymore. Not after…all of this,” he admitted sheepishly.
“But you told me to not turn around,” you reminded him, dropping the mask on the mattress again. “And that was you, not the darker you.”
He chuckled, nodding even if you couldn’t see him yet.
“Yeah, because if I saw your face while I was balls deep inside you I would’ve busted before you came.”
There it was. He said it. No turning back now.
At least it got a chuckle from you too.
“Listen I…I meant everything I said. Everything. The wanting, the nights I thought about you,” he confessed. “I don’t want you to feel like I just used you when…when there was always a reason why I needed you like oxygen tonight.”
Your breath hitched, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him, and when you didn’t push away…he exhaled in relief behind you.
“So maybe…you can turn around now. If–if you want to. Know the real me.”
“I would really like that,” you whispered without hesitation.
You tried lifting yourself up to turn around, but he did most of the job, moving away the pillow he had placed under you and helping you roll onto your back. You closed your eyes, at least until you were facing him completely, and took a deep breath. Holding onto his biceps for moral support, you finally opened them again.
Seeing his face for the first time felt so intimate, even after everything you just did.
There he was. The same guy who just fucked you into next week, looking more shy and boyish than you could’ve ever imagined.
Brown eyes. Dark, curly hair sticking to his forehead. A nervous smile tugging at the corner of his gorgeous mouth.
So young. So earnest. So yours.
Not spidey anymore. Just Peter.
Your Peter.
Thank you so much for reading 🤍 I used to write Peter so much back in the day (shoutout to my starktonyx era) and I’ve missed him dearly.
Hiiii again... I was thinking maybe tony wanting to talk to peter on the phone while him and reader are having sex, he begs her to stop but she just finds it so hot when he's trying to stay quiet.😗
-⭐
⭐️ anon with the banger 🫡
Quiet - Peter Parker x Fem!Reader (18+)
Note: 18+ as per usual around here 🤷🏻♀️😈
He can’t stop whining. He doesn’t mean to. You just feel so fucking good. You always do.
His hands lay open-palmed against your thighs, scared to grasp and leave bruises. He desperately wants to keep his eyes open to look at you straddling his waist, bouncing up and down on his hard cock, but he can’t help but squeeze them shut, overwhelmed with how good everything is.
Your skin on his is sending him into overdrive. His senses are usually at 100% thanks to that spider that bit him, but with you, he feels like he’s computing at 200.
Your hands rest on his chest, grasping for leverage as you ride him. He’s filling you perfectly, almost too big (again, thanks to that spider bite). On every thrust, his tip kisses your cervix, emitting a moan from him.
“You feel so good,” you can’t help but say, grinding your clit down on his pelvis when he’s fully sheathed.
Your wetness gathers on his skin and he moans at the smell of it swarming his nose. “Oh my god, keep doing that, please.”
You grind down again, warming his cock. Every jolt of your hips has his mouth agape. And you keep soaking his skin… god, he’s overwhelmed in the best way.
He’s getting close. You’re so warm and wet and you’re making those soft little sounds that tell him how good he’s doing.
“Baby,” he whimpers. “I’m close-“
Ring, ring, ring.
You stop moving, and Peter nearly lunges forward to get you to keep going. “Is that- who’s calling you?”
“Nobody. Don’t worry about it,” he shakes his head, hands grasping at your hips.
You look over, his ringtone still blaring. The name Mr. Stark 🤖 pops up on his screen.
“Okay, Peter, you gotta get that.”
“What? No, I’m not answering that. Please, keep going baby. I was so close!” He whines.
“Peter, it’s Tony.”
His eyes widen slightly, but for the first time, he doesn’t seem to care. “I’ll call back later.”
By this point, the first call dropped, a voicemail was left, and now Tony’s calling again.
“Peter, it must be important if he’s calling a second time.”
He throws his head back on the pillow, whining loudly. “Please, come on, please! I’ll call back later.”
You pick up his phone and hold it out to him. “Peter, answer it. Now.”
He stares at you. Eyes glancing down to where his cock is still throbbing inside of you. Then back up to you. He’s too scared to ask it - ‘are you gonna make me pull out?’
But you don’t move. Just relax on his lap, as if you aren’t stuffed full of Peter’s dick.
He takes the phone, sighs, and answers with a very high pitched, “Mr. Stark?”
“Hey kid, listen, some new upgrades to your suit coming in. I wouldn’t put the nano on until tomorrow. I don’t need you getting accidentally fried by a Bluetooth update-“
Peter looks like he wants to die. He’s too polite to hang up or to even interrupt, so he lays there, face scrunched up in frustration as he listens, using all of his strength not to thrust up into you.
He grabs at your hips with one hand, silently begging you to do something because he’s going crazy just being sucked into your heat like this.
He doesn’t expect you to actually do it.
You start grinding on him again, torturously slow, and he chokes on his breath. He coughs into the phone and you hear Tony on the other side: “you getting sick? If so, don’t come to the lab tomorrow. I don’t need that. I’ll send Happy instead.”
“No, Mr. Stark, I’m okay, promise,” he rasps out.
“Uh-huh, you sound like a chainsmoker. You better not be getting into all that. I don’t need to see headlines about SpiderMan smoking. Bad press for the company.”
You begin to bounce on him again, and he stifles a moan with another cough. His eyes are wide and begging, pleading for you to stop. His wish came true and now he’s seriously regretting it.
“No, Mr. Stark I’m not smoking. Just… swallowed some water wrong.”
“Oh… well, about that update-“
“Mr. Stark, sir, can we please talk about this later by any chance?” He interrupts, and you stop in surprise. Peter would never do that. But this Peter seems to be a little too cock drunk to think straight.
“Uh, no. It’s already 10. You’ve got class in the morning.”
“I know, Mr. Stark, but-“
“Don’t interrupt me kid, I’m trying to save your life. Don’t put the nano on while the suit is updating. Got it?”
You take Peter’s free hand and bring it to your clit. He can’t help it. The whine leaves his mouth as soon as he touches you.
There’s silence as Peter’s eyes shoot wide. As Tony goes silent on his end.
“Pete, what was that-“
Peter presses the ‘end call’ button and throws his phone across the room in an instant.
“Did you just hang up on him?” You can’t help your surprise, mouth gaping open.
“I don’t think I’m ever answering a call from him again.”
“I don’t think he’ll ever call again after what he just heard.”
“Don’t say that,” he whines before lunging forward to sit up.
You yelp as his arms wrap around your waist. He immediately uses his strength to pull you up off his cock before lowering you back down.
“I couldn’t think straight,” he admits, panting. “All I could smell was you. And you’re sitting on top of me, looking at me like that. Fuck, and you’re so tight.”
He pistons into you, fast and hard, desperate for his release that’s been pushed away for too long. His mouth attaches to your shoulder, sucking and licking marks into your skin to stop his incessant moaning.
“Fuck, I’m close, I’m close. I swear to god if you stop again,” he whines.
The room fills with the sounds of sex - skin slapping skin, Peter’s high pitched moans and your soft sighs.
His breath fans hot across your face as his hips stutter. His abs clench against your stomach, and he moans loud as he cums. His whole body tenses and then quickly relaxes under your soft touch. Your fingers rake through his curls, scratching at the nape of his neck.
He finally pulls away enough to look up at you. “That was insane. I came so hard.”
“Maybe holding you off for a little bit helped,” you tease, tucking his hair out of his face.
Then realization strikes. His face pales. Eyes widen. “Oh my god. Oh my god! Mr. Stark heard me moan over the phone!”
Summary: When Spider-Man offers a surprisingly unconventional alternative to an ice pack, you find yourself agreeing, only to discover there's more to his touch than just superhuman strength.
CONTENT WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI!! This fic is intended for adult audiences. Mentions of bruising. Dry humping, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms (f!receiving), mask kink, just the tip, bondage (with his webs), squirting, unprotected P in V (haha don't do that irl pls!!), creampie (still hate that word help), anddd I think that's it but of course please feel free to let me know if I missed anything :)
Pairing: TASM!Peter Parker x fem!reader/afab!reader (but honestly, you can imagine any Peter)
A/N: First kinktober fic YAYYYYY (after being almost two weeks late I'm so sorry LMAOOO)!!! I've missed you guys and I've missed writing so much, but my brain has been actual soup sooo again I do apologize for the hiatus but I'm back now :) I hope you guys enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it, and of course if you DO enjoy it please feel free to give it a like, reblog, drop a comment, whatever your little heart desires because I'm not picky and I love to see what you guys think <3 Next Kinktober fic will be posted either tomorrow night or the next okay I love you all so much MWAHHH <3
Becoming Spider-Man’s favorite person was… an adjustment.
It only took one wrong turn down a sketchy alley after a girl’s night filled with too many drinks for things to go sideways. That is, until the masked vigilante swooped and beat the absolute shit out of a group of wannabe muggers before they could even lay a finger on you. Once the last guy was webbed to a dumpster, Spider-Man took a look at your flushed cheeks and dazed eyes and decided without hesitation that it was now his personal mission to keep you safe.
He walked you home, steadying you as you clung to his arm (not that he was complaining—physical affection was in short supply for him), and even tucked you into bed with the patience of a saint after you somehow managed to trip three times on your way into the bedroom.
After that night, sightings of the hero became more and more frequent until he eventually dropped the pretense of subtlety and started showing up whenever he felt like it.
At first, he’d walk you home—waiting outside after your shifts like it was the most normal thing in the world, insisting that he’d feel better knowing you made it home safe, or popping up after a girl’s night out and teasing that he couldn’t risk another alleyway incident. Then he started showing up on your fire-escape after patrols, secretly preening under his mask at the attention you’d give him while patching up his cuts and icing his bruises. Finally, nights of playing the role of Spider-Man’s personal nurse melted into nights of sharing secrets with the masked man until you couldn’t keep your eyes open anymore.
Over the next few months, the two of you learned almost everything about each other—everything except for his name and what he looked like under the suit, that is. But honestly, that only made it easier for both of you to be so open with each other. There wasn’t another soul alive that knows you as well as he does, and vice versa.
Which is exactly what led to your current argument.
“Seriously, I’m fine!” A huff leaves your lips as you cross your arms and lean back against the armrest, glaring at the exasperated man throwing his hands up at the other end of the couch.
You were not fine and he knew that.
“Fine? You call a massive bruise across your hip and thigh fine?” He scoffs from behind his mask. “One that you wouldn’t even have had you just waited for me to get here and help you!”
Okay… maybe trying to put together your new bookshelf on your own was a bad idea. So what? You were bored and he was patrolling later than usual. How were you supposed to know turning around for half a second to grab the screwdriver would mean the entire shelf tilting forward and falling onto your leg?
“It’s not my fault that you decided to show up late,” you counter, rolling your eyes. “Besides, it’s not even that big.”
That was a lie.
It was actually one of the biggest bruises you’d ever gotten and it hurt like a bitch. But did he need to know that? No. Because then he’d never shut up about being right.
“Oh really?”
A yelp flies out of your mouth as his gloved hand grips your ankle, yanking you towards him until your thighs sprawl across his.
“Not that big, huh?” He quips. Before you can respond he leans forward, placing his forearm onto your exposed skin and lining it up beside the bruise.
You’d changed into shorts and a tank top earlier, needing easy access to the bruise so you could ice it. However, you’d barely had the chance to shut the freezer before Spider-Man—the silent bastard that he was—had waltzed in unannounced (you knew giving him unlimited window access would bite you in the ass one day) and startled you so badly the makeshift ice pack you’d made flew into the air, smacked the ceiling, then splattered onto the floor. That’s how you ended up on the couch being lectured by a grown man in a spandex suit. A skin tight, incredibly distracting spandex suit.
His fingertips graze your waist, barely slipping underneath the fabric of your top, reminding you of the compromising position you now found yourself in.
“Y-yeah.” You swallow, eyes locked on the hand now pressing lightly into the edges of the purpling skin. “Not that big. Maybe you need to get your eyes checked, bug boy.”
A chuckle rumbles low in his throat, his head cocking to the side as his thumb gently swipes across the tender mark, a hiss falling from your lips at the pressure. He straightens, humming before responding. “Maybe you need to get your eyes checked, sweetheart. Because that bruise is almost as big as your mouth.”
His cackle fills the room as you swat at him, grumbling under your breath about him being the one with the big mouth before you shift, pulling your legs back with a “hmph” and crossing your arms. The movement causes a twinge of pain to shoot through you, and Spider-Man immediately clocks the wince you tried (and clearly failed) to conceal. His entire demeanor softens, and with an exaggerated sigh he stands, making his way into your kitchen.
“Wait—what are you doing?”
“Making an ice pack so I can ice your gigantic bruise. Duh.”
Your heart flutters even as your eyes roll. Smart-ass.
“Y’know… I kind of like the idea of you being my nurse for once,” you muse, turning to watch him over the edge of the couch.
His back muscles flex as he shuts the freezer door, a pang of heat shooting through you at the sight. Shaking his head with a chuckle, he glances back briefly.
“Keep thinking you’re Miss Independent and I’ll be doing it every week.”
“If I could aim, this pillow would be smacking the back of your stupid head right now. Just thought I’d let you know.”
He laughs loudly at that, sealing the Ziploc bag he’d packed with ice before wrapping it in a small towel. He makes his way over to you, sitting back down and pulling your legs across his lap. But he doesn’t place the ice pack on you yet, instead holding it just out of reach.
“Say I don’t have a stupid head and I’ll ice your boo boo.”
An indignant scoff leaves your lips as you arch a brow. “My boo boo? Seriously? Am I five now?”
Spider-Man doubles down, putting on an exaggerated baby voice. “Does the princess not want me to make her boo boo feel better?”
You laugh despite yourself, biting your lower lip to stifle it as you shake your head. “Shut the fuck up,” you giggle, shoving his arm playfully. “Fine. You don’t have a stupid head. Fix my boo boo.”
“Throw a please in there.”
With an annoyed groan, you toss your head back against the arm rest before sitting up and pointing an accusatory finger at him.
“You’re insufferable.”
“I’ll help you sound it out. Puhhh leaseee. C’mon, put it together now—“
Both of you are cackling now, unable to hold it in any longer. Your shoulders shake as you wipe a tear from your eye, grinning like a madman.
“Puhhh leaseee ice my boo boo, oh mighty Spider-Nurse.”
Finally, he relents. His hand rubs up and down your thigh once in a soothing gesture, pushing the fabric of your shorts higher before placing the ice pack over the tender mark. A small moan falls from your lips at the feeling of the ice pressing into your bruise, immediately providing relief for the throbbing you’d been trying to ignore since he got there.
Spider-Man stiffens at the sound, the ice in the bag crunching together as his hand lightly clenches it.
Your eyes dart down at the sound, your lower lip tucked behind your teeth as the cold slowly eases the soreness. The sight of his hand practically engulfing the makeshift ice pack has you squirming, pressing your legs harder into his lap unintentionally. Since when were his hands so big?
He clears his throat, moving the ice pack higher up your thigh.
"Does that feel good?"
You're so distracted by the sight of his hand that you don't hear him. It isn't until his fingers grip your chin, lightly tilting your head up to face him, that you realize he'd even spoken. Heat floods your cheeks, a nervous laugh bubbling out as his thumb strokes your jaw.
"I uh… I'm sorry, what did you say?"
You can practically feel his eyes boring into yours through the mask's expressionless lenses. The feeling of his gloved hand cupping the side of your neck has your pulse racing—something you're sure he's more than aware of with his advanced senses. The ice pack lays forgotten on your thigh, numbing the sore flesh underneath.
"I asked if it feels good, sweetheart."
Something about his voice has your breath hitching. Gone was the teasing lilt from earlier, replaced with something low and laced with hunger.
You nod, leaning instinctively into his touch. "Mhm."
His restraint was already hanging on by a thread at the sight of you in those pajamas, but now? With you melting into his touch like some spoiled house cat? Yeah, he's done for.
Before he can stop himself, he's gravitating forward until his forehead presses against yours.
"Can I make you feel even better?"
The question hangs in the air between you, thick and heavy, like a held breath. His thumb is tracing slow, rhythmic circles just beneath your ear, making your skin prickle. Every inch of you is buzzing, alert and aching in the best possible way.
"Please do."
That's all it takes for the last shred of his restraint to crumble.
He pulls away just enough to lift his mask below his nose, going to remove it completely before your hand shoots up to grab his wrist.
"Wait! Can you—uh, can you keep it on for now?"
Embarrassment crashes into you like a wave the second the words leave your mouth. It wasn't that you didn't want to see him. God, no. You'd been dying to finally see New York's very own hero without the mask. But something about the idea of it staying on, at least for a little while longer, had heat pooling in your lower stomach.
His lips quirk into an amused grin, his brows twitching beneath the mask with the faintest flicker of surprise at the request.
"What? You think I'm ugly under here or something?" He teases, chuckling softly.
Your annoyed groan catches in your throat as his nose brushes against yours, taunting you with what was to come. "The ugliest," you tease back before your voice lowers. "I just… I don't want it to feel different. Not yet."
"And you think the mask is hot."
Of course he'd pick up on that. You should've never indulged him when he pestered you about the last book you were reading (one that just happened to include a masked character).
"…And if I do?"
He studies you for a beat before leaning in again, his voice a breath against your lips.
"Whatever you want, princess."
Then he kisses you.
It starts slow—exploratory, reverent as you familiarize yourselves with the taste and feel of each other. His lips are warm and slightly chapped, moving over yours with a dizzying mix of hunger and tenderness like he's trying to savor your first kiss and hold himself back at the same time. His hand glides from your neck to the small of your back, hefting you into his lap with an ease that leaves you whimpering against his lips.
The forgotten icepack tumbles to the floor with a soft thud, though neither of you flinch. Right now, all that exists is you, him, and the molten tension threatening to consume you both.
You shift, settling into his lap with your thighs bracketing his hips while your fingers curl into the fabric of his suit. The feeling of him pressing against you—hard and deliciously thick through the thin cotton of your shorts—has you grinding down, chasing friction to ease the throbbing between your legs.
His resulting groan has you sighing into his mouth, his tongue brushing your bottom lip in a silent plea for more. You grant his wish, the kiss turning from tentative to ravenous in a heartbeat. He grips your waist with one hand, letting the other drift across your bare (uninjured) thigh towards the hem of your shorts. The movement is careful, deliberate, like he's still giving you time to change your mind.
As if that would ever happen.
Your hips rock down into his, needing to be closer to him. Needing to feel him. More of him. All of him.
“Spidey–”
“Peter,” he exhales against your lips, pressing another bruising kiss to your mouth before resting his forehead against yours. “Call me Peter.”
“Peter…”
The name settles on your tongue, and when you repeat it he groans before crushing his mouth back to yours.
"'M not—" He breaks the kiss once more, his hands slipping beneath your thighs the only warning you get before he rises from the couch. "I'm not doing this on your couch. Not for the first time."
The promise of a next time—even though you already knew it was inevitable—sends a thrill rushing through you. A breathless smile plays on your lips as your legs tighten around his waist, your bodies pressed close as he carries you through the dim hallway. His hands are firm beneath you, the tension almost palpable as your bedroom door comes into view. The warm glow of your lamp spills out from under the door, casting a golden trail across the floor.
He keeps you hoisted up with one hand while his other reaches for the doorknob, his effortless show of strength making you duck your head into the crook of his neck. The door pops open with a soft click, the sound punctuating the surreal silence. This was real. After months of longing and fantasizing, it was actually happening.
Once inside, he kicks the door shut with his heel before pressing his mouth to yours in a gentle peck. His forehead rests against yours again, grounding you both as you breathe each other in.
"Still want this?" He murmurs, his thumb stroking the skin of your thigh while he waits for an answer.
Your nod is immediate, the motion small but certain. "Of course I do. Do you?"
The hint of insecurity creeping into your tone shatters him. How could he not want you? You were everything he didn't know he was still allowed to hope for after being used as the Universe's personal punching bag for the past several years. He wanted this and so, so much more with you. He has from the moment he met you.
"I've never wanted anything more than I want you, sweetheart."
Gently, he lowers you onto the bed, his mouth finding yours as soon as your head hits the pillows. His fingers skim your sides, like he's comitting the shape of you to memory. Like he can't go more than a few seconds without touching you in some way.
Mindful of your bruise, he hikes your legs further up around his waist before he's pressing his hips down, letting out the most delicious grunt into your mouth at the friction the movement provides. The two of you stay exactly like that for a few minutes—trapped in a searing push and pull of grinding hips and open-mouthed kisses as your hands roam the span of his suit-clad back.
Hands tug at your shorts, managing to push them down despite his weight on top of you. He huffs out a laugh when you wriggle around, breaking the kiss long enough to help you slip out of them before tossing them carelessly to the floor. Without the barrier of your shorts in the way (not that they were blocking much anyways), the friction of his aching length grinding against you feels even more intense, the rough fabric of his suit rubbing against your clit in just the right way.
Finally, after your airy sighs have escalated to helpless moans against his lips, he pulls away to drop his head into the crook of your neck with a soft groan of your name.
“You trust me?”
His breath is warm where it pants over your ear, his voice a low rumble.
“You know I do.”
Your reply came out breathier than you’d intended, causing him to chuckle as his lips trailed down your neck before he leaned back.
“Then put your arms up for me, baby.”
Your brows furrow as you follow his instructions, letting him guide your hands exactly where he wanted them—wrists crossed and in line with one of the posts of your headboard. A sharp thwip cuts through the air before you can even think to ask what he’s doing.
“Peter!”
Webbing binds your hands to the post, leaving you lying exposed for him in nothing but a thin tank top and the lacy panties you’d picked out in the delusional hopes that he’d be seeing them (and somehow, that delusion paid off). Something about it felt exhilarating. You were quite literally the spider’s prey—tied up and held at his mercy until he decides it’s time to devour you.
“Shh,” Peter murmurs, smirking as he glides a gloved hand up the side of your thigh, causing goosebumps to form in its wake. “I’m just… providing a little pain relief. That’s all. Remember?”
He says it so casually, as though he’s simply running you a candlelit bubble bath or popping a cap of lotion open to massage you instead of planning to make you cum so hard you forget your own name. That coy nonchalance sends a shiver up your spine and heat curling in your lower belly, anticipation gnawing at you as you wait on his next move.
Your eyes linger on the outline of his face—the part of it that you can see, anyways—mirroring his gaze as he does the same. His jawline is defined, dusted with a hint of stubble. His upper lip is thin, the lower fuller, both kissed raw and glistening with traces of your lip gloss. And as much as you craved to see the rest of him, you had to admit it was exhilarating only being able to see a fraction of the man behind the mask.
“God, you’re so beautiful, sweetheart,” Peter breathes, finally breaking the heavy silence as he shuffles forward to wrap your legs around his waist once more.
Heat spreads across your cheeks as you try to turn your face into your arm, your teeth digging into your bottom lip to fight off a nervous grin. His fingers curl around your chin, gently coaxing you to face him again. The soft sound of a “tsk” escapes his lips before he tilts his head.
“Why’re you hiding from me, pretty girl? Huh?” His thumb drags over your lip, tugging it free before tapping it once. "Let me see you."
A shiver runs through you at that as you nod, your hips arching towards his whenever his mouth begins tracing up and down your throat. Kisses trail down your body until his chin is resting on your hip, the glint in his lenses almost taunting you as he keeps his gaze locked on your face. His stubble is prickly against your skin, heightening your already sensitive nerves.
"Why'd you stop?"
It's petulant and needy, but you can't find it in yourself to care. You wanted him to touch you. To taste you. To make you forget all about the bruise that led to this very moment.
Peter chuckles, tilting his head to nip gently at your hip. "Such a spoiled thing already," he murmurs before dragging his lips across your skin, lingering just below your belly button. "Do you want the mask on or off, sweetheart?"
That was a good question.
On one hand, it felt exhilarating watching him look up at you with the mask on, like you were some dirty little secret the vigilante kept tucked away from the world. But on the other, you really wanted to look into his eyes while he simultaneously took you apart and put you back together again.
The desire to see the man between your thighs won, your curiosity getting the best of you.
"Off, please."
You felt his wolfish grin against your skin before he pulled back just enough to tug the mask completely off, tossing it to the ground with a muted thump.
The man before you is… impossibly handsome.
Peter has the kind of beauty that leaves you momentarily stunned, your jaw dropping before you can catch yourself. His cheekbones are sharp, his dark hair tousled with an effortless charm that's somehow sexy and disarmingly endearing all at once. And then there are his eyes—a deep, rich amber, layered as though he's carrying a weight he never talks about but never quite puts down either.
You manage to find your voice, though it comes out quieter than you expect. "You are… ridiculously attractive." It's not poetic by any means, and you know he deserves a better compliment, but the sight of him paired with the feeling of his breath fanning across your core has your brain scrambled.
His gaze flickers with something unreadable—disbelief, maybe? There's hesitance in his posture, like he's not used to being truly seen. Then his lips turn up into a small, almost bashful smile.
"You think so, pretty girl?"
Your heart skips at the nickname and the way it effortlessly rolls off his tongue. A smile tugs at your lips. "Duh. I thought it even before the mask came off, too." You giggle at the exaggerated eye-roll he gives you before continuing. "Honestly, it's kind of rude Spider… looking like that while being the funniest vigilante I know? You're lethal."
He laughs, dropping his forehead to rest against your thigh before glancing up at you through his lashes. "I'm the only vigilante you know, sweetheart."
"Doesn't matter," you scoff playfully, nudging his shoulder with your knee. "You've ruined all future vigilantes for me. You set a very high bar."
Peter hums, the sound vibrating faintly against your skin. "Good," he murmurs, peppering kisses across your pelvis. "Can't have someone else swooping in and saving my girl. I don't share."
Your pulse quickens at the subtle shift in his tone. His girl. You were his girl.
"Your girl, huh?"
"Yeah. My girl, my sweetheart… and, without question, the most stubborn pain in my ass," he smirks, pressing a kiss to your bruise as you squawk indignantly.
Your hips shift in his hold as his fingers trace up and down your waist, drawing his attention back to where you were aching for him.
"Now, if you don't mind, princess, I'm going to take care of you like I promised."
Peter's gaze drops as he speaks, and his eyes darken at the sight of the damp patch on your panties, tracing it with his index finger before tugging the fabric down. Once the lace has joined the growing pile of clothes, he presses another gentle kiss to your bruise with a whispered "poor baby" before easing your legs over his shoulders. His hands caress your waist for a moment, admiring the sight of you spread out for him.
"Take a picture, it'll last longer," you tease, trying to sound confident even though you're squirming underneath his gaze. Your breath hitches as he nips your inner thigh in retaliation.
"Why take a picture when I can have the real thing whenever I want, hm?"
A gasp spills from your lips as he leans forward, not giving you time to respond as he latches his mouth over you. His tongue laves up and down your folds, circling your clit before he groans, burying his face impossibly closer as he begins lapping at you like a man starved.
His nose bumps against your clit as he licks greedily into you, causing a desperate whimper to fall from your lips at the spark of pleasure it sends coursing through you. A groan rumbles low in his throat, his hands pressing you down into the bed to keep you still as he devours you. It's obscene—your noises blending with his to create an explicit symphony, reverberating off the walls as the coil in your stomach grows tighter and tighter with each feverish lick.
"Taste so fucking good, sweetheart," he rasps against you, his words muffled as he dives right back in, his tongue fucking into you as you cry out.
Your thighs clamp down around his head, letting out a shaky moan as he moves to suckle gently at your clit. You were embarrassingly close already, your thighs trembling as he worked you over relentlessly with his mouth.
"You can take it," Peter mumbles into your slick skin, dipping his tongue down into your entrance once more. "Cum on my face, baby. Please—"
His words push you over the edge, your climax ripping through you so hard no sound leaves your open mouth, your back arching off the bed and hands yanking uselessly at the webbing despite him holding you down to coax you through it. It was as though all of the air had been knocked from your lungs, but you didn't need to breathe if it meant Peter would keep touching you. Finally, a soft cry fills the air as your hips jerk against his face, your thighs trembling on his shoulders as he presses one last kiss to your clit.
Your chest heaves as Peter lowers your legs back down to the mattress, your face flushed as you gawk at him. His hands rub soothingly up and down your legs, pushing them open wide enough so that he can slot himself between them. His lips brush against your forehead, then your nose, then your cheeks, until they finally reach yours, hungry but gentle.
The taste of yourself on his tongue sends a shiver down your spine, your body twisting as you tug helplessly at the webs binding your wrists. You wanted to touch him—to thread your fingers through his hair, to trace the lines of the muscles that had been tempting you beneath his suit for months. But he wasn't done with you yet.
"Still good, sweetheart?"
The words vibrate against your lips before he pulls back, lifting his head to search your eyes. His hand comes up to cup your face, his thumb stroking your jawline. At your nod, his lips curve into a crooked, teasing grin.
"Use your words, baby."
An annoyed groan rumbles in your throat before his lips trail down your neck, effectively halting your complaining.
"I'm fine, Peter," you whine petulantly, arching into him as his body settles above yours. "Please just—touch me, fuck me. Anything. I need you."
Something inside of him snaps at your pleading. He swallows, breath warm against the hollow of your neck, then nips softly beneath your ear before pulling away. He rises from the bed, and the sudden absence of his heat prickles along your skin. A soft pout tugs at your lips, the chill of the room settling around you like a quiet ache.
Your gaze fixes on him as he unzips his suit, eyes hungrily tracing each inch of skin that's revealed as the fabric slips lower and lower. Finally, it settles in a heap around his ankles that he kicks away. His brow arches as he notices your staring, a smirk making its way onto his face as he realizes exactly what you're staring at.
The tent in his boxers is… intimidating, to say the least—long and deliciously thick against navy cotton. You'd felt him earlier when he was grinding against you, but clearly you'd underestimated just how big he actually was without his suit compressing him.
"Jesus, Peter."
Your whisper has his cheeks reddening, his cock twitching in its confines as he kneels back onto the bed. He takes his place above you once more, his elbows digging into the mattress beside your ribs as he lowers himself until your chests are pressed together. A broken sigh leaves your lips as his hips rock against yours, the fabric dampening almost immediately with your arousal.
"You think you can take it?"
His question isn't laced with cockiness—only quiet, genuine concern.
"Make me take it."
A guttural groan fills the air, a strained laugh making its way into the space between you as he grinds against you harder. "Yeah? Want me to make you take it, pretty girl?" he murmurs, gripping your waist before pressing a feverish kiss to your mouth. "I'll make you take it."
He shoves a hand between your bodies, attempting to push his boxers off without having to detach from you. Once they're off, he breaks away, panting softly as he rubs the head of his aching cock up and down your soaking folds. His eyes lock on the sight, pupils blown as he watches your arousal coat him.
A whine escapes your lips as he finally starts to push in, the burning stretch making your toes curl. He sinks in one, two, three inches and then… stops? Your hips buck impatiently, but his hands keep you pinned to the bed as he grins darkly above you.
"Peter—"
He cuts off your protest, easing out of you before rocking forward again. "Shhh, sweetheart. Let me make you feel good, huh? You gonna let me take care of you?"
Your eyes flutter shut at the movement, your breath catching in your throat as he repeats it. His touch, his taste, his smell… all of it had your mind reeling. You couldn't think—only feel. And God, it all felt so unbearably good.
"Fuck, Peter— feels so good," you whimper, tipping your head back against the pillows as his lips found your neck, sucking small, possessive marks into your skin.
Peter’s teeth nip gently at your pulse point as he continues his movements, teasing you with tiny, barely there thrusts that pushed just past your entrance and a thumb circling your clit until tears brimmed in your eyes.
Breathy moans flow from your lips as your thighs begin to tremble uncontrollably, the pleasure coiling in your lower stomach so tight it felt like you were about to combust into a thousand tiny pieces. There was just enough of a stretch to make your toes curl while he continued his torture against your clit, sparks of pleasure zipping up your spine until you were crying out and arching into him.
You’ve had intense orgasms before, sure. But none of them had ever felt as intense as this.
White flashes behind your eyelids as you writhe beneath him, your hands desperately clawing at the webbing because you need something to hold onto. Sobs fill the room as your legs kick helplessly around his waist, pleasure wracking your entire frame in waves.
“Holy shit,” Peter breathes, working you through your climax with wide, reverent eyes and feather-light kisses against your collarbones.
When you finally feel your soul come back into your body, your eyes blink open, glancing down between the two of you in confusion. Why were you so wet—
Oh.
Oh.
He’d made you squirt. Spider-Man himself had made you squirt.
“I-I’m so sor—“
Before you could finish stammering out an apology, Peter was sinking into you fully with one smooth thrust.
“Don’t you ever—” Peter panted, dropping his head into the crook of your neck with a whimper as he bottoms out. “—ever apologize for that, sweetheart.”
He rocks forward once, the two of you groaning in synchronicity. He repeats the movement, squeezing your hips so harshly you knew there’d be fingerprint shaped bruises the next day, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. In fact, you secretly loved the idea that there would be physical proof of just how well Peter had fucked you.
“God, your pussy feels incredible. You feel incredible. Did so good for me, baby.”
His hips begin rutting into yours; hard, deep strokes that have your eyes squeezed shut and your mouth gaped open while he pants divinely against your temple. His hands are roaming your body, alternating between squeezing your hips and pulling you into his thrusts to groping at your breasts, pinching your nipples as his cock drives into your G-spot over and over again until you're seeing stars.
"So deep, Peter—" you pant, crying out as he drills into you.
It's all so intense, and a frustrated whine rumbles low in your throat as you tug at your bindings for the umpteenth time.
"I want—Peter, I wanna touch you. Please?"
He nods instantly, sitting back on his haunches and reaching up with one hand to rip the webbing from your wrists. The way it shreds as easily as paper from his unintentional show of strength has you moaning, your hands sliding into his dark strands and tugging his mouth to yours, desperate to be as close to him as physically possible.
His tongue swipes against yours in languid strokes, a dizzying contradiction to the blur of his hips between yours. His hands slide down to grip your thighs, hauling your legs up to rest in the bends of his elbows before he leans forward, effectively folding you in half as his hips continue plowing into you.
"You're clenching me so hard, sweetheart—fuck—" Peter grunts against your lips as your nails rake down his back, the sting only driving him to move harder. "—taking me so well. So fucking good for me."
His words have your head falling back into the pillow, cries filling the room as you writhe underneath him. Your hands come up to push weakly at his chest, his brows furrowing as he instantly slows his pace to a crawl.
"Hey, hey—you okay?" He murmurs, bringing a hand up to caress your face.
You swallow hard, nodding as you nuzzle into his touch. "Y-yeah, yeah I'm fine I just—I want—" you stammer, struggling to find the words.
"What do you want, princess? Hm? Tell me and it's yours."
The way he's practically cooing the words has you clenching around him, a move that has both of you groaning at the sensation. Even while he was ruining you, he was still sweet. Still putting you first, just like he always did.
"Wanna ride you… please?"
Peter's hips stutter at that, letting out a sharp exhale as he fights to not cum inside you right then and there.
"God, yes."
You hiss as he eases out of you, the emptiness leaving you dizzy as he maneuvers the two of you around. He props up against the headboard, pulling you into his lap. His eyes dart down to your bruise, a line forming between his brows as he frowns slightly.
"You sure this isn't going to hurt you, baby?"
"I'll be fine," you insist, pecking his nose.
Was the bruise sore? Absolutely. Did it sting when your muscles flexed? Maybe a little. But the sight of him beneath you—staring up at you like you were his entire universe—made it easy to ignore it. You wanted to make him feel as good as he'd been making you feel the entire night, bruise be damned.
You shift, kneeling above him as you reach down to line him back up with your entrance. A shudder runs through him as you slowly sink down, your name falling from his lips like a prayer. From this angle, he somehow manages to go even deeper, the feeling causing your breath to catch in your throat as your hips finally meet his.
Peter's hands glide from your hips down to your ass, kneading the flesh gently as you begin to move. His head thumps back against the headboard, his eyes half-lidded but trained on you as you rock against him.
"Love watching you use my cock to get yourself off," he murmurs, leaning forward to take your left nipple into his mouth.
Your gasp has him chuckling against your skin, his tongue swirling around the peak until your nails dig into his shoulders. Your hips move earnestly now, his own coming up to meet yours in deep, hard thrusts that have your eyes rolling back into your head.
A guttural moan rumbles in his chest as he switches to your neglected breast, biting down gently as you clench around him. Your clit brushed against his pelvis with each thrust, driving you closer and closer towards your orgasm. His hands were gripping your ass tightly now, dragging you up and down his cock as he panted against your skin.
"'M not—not gonna last much longer, sweetheart," Peter groans against your skin, trailing his tongue up the column of your throat before pressing a heated kiss to your lips.
You couldn't even answer with words anymore—just wrecked little noises that had Peter's mind reeling. You were close too, just on the brink of your third climax of the night. But you wanted to see him fall apart first.
With a determined sigh, your hips rolled down into his, your walls squeezing his cock. Your head tips forward, resting on his shoulder for a moment before you whisper in his ear.
"Cum inside me, Peter. Please… wanna feel you—"
That's all it takes.
Peter's hips jerk hard, thrusting up harshly into you as he manages a choked "oh, fuck" before spilling inside of you in warm spurts. His arms wrap around you, pulling you into him as he whimpers into your neck. His orgasm triggers yours, your hips moving erratically against his as you cry out his name.
Your hips move against his until the overstimulation has you both groaning. With one last kiss, he helps to lift you from his lap, easing you off of his cock with a small grunt. The feeling of his cum dripping down your thigh has your nose wrinkling, and he chuckles, propping you against the pillows before rolling out of the bed.
Panic rises in your chest as you watch him stand, your brows pinching together as you quickly sit back up. "Wait—are you leaving?" Your words are rushed, slurred from exhaustion.
"What?" Peter blinks at you incredulously, like you've just said the most absurd thing he's ever heard. His expression softens before he continues. "Baby—no. No. I would never. I'm just going to grab a few things to take care of you, okay? I'll be right back. Promise"
Relief sags your shoulders as you let out the breath you were holding, smiling sheepishly. Right. He's not a dickhead like your ex's and actually believes in aftercare. "Oh, okay... thank you."
He bends down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. "Always, princess. Now lay back down."
It doesn't take him long before he's returning with a warm washcloth, two water bottles, and another makeshift ice pack. He wipes you gently, pressing a kiss to your knee when you squirm at the feeling of the rag wiping between your thighs.
"Alright, pretty girl. You're all clean. Now go pee," Peter instructs, giving your ass a playful smack and chuckling as you grumble about having to get out of the bed.
Once you come back from the bathroom, he's sprawled across your bed in his boxers, chugging a water bottle. He pats the space beside him, waiting for you to nestle into his side before he hands you the other bottle.
"I still can't believe you managed to topple an entire bookshelf onto yourself," he murmurs as he places the ice pack against your bruise. "Seriously, next time just wait for me. Okay?"
You roll your eyes but the hint of a smile betrays you as you lean in closer, resting your head against his shoulder with a quiet, contented sigh.
"Noted, Spider-Nurse."
For a while, the room holds only the soft rhythm of your breathing and the steady beat of your heart slowing beside his. Then, his voice cuts through the silence,
"You okay? Was that… too much?"
A lazy grin makes its way onto your face as you tilt your head to look at him, catching his eyes in the low light. "Better than okay, bug boy. That was perfect," you murmur. Your lips find his—light, reassuring, and full of something unsaid. He hums against your lips, arm tightening around your waist.
Neither of you says much after that. The room settles into a quiet hush—the AC whirring, the muffled noise of the city through the window—and it all feels distant. Small. Unimportant. Right now, it's just the two of you, suspended in a moment that doesn't ask for anything more than just you two existing.
His fingers move in slow, absent strokes along your arm. The steady motion makes your body heavier, like sleep is wrapping itself around you before you're ready to notice. Peter notices the way your eyelids begin to droop, grinning to himself before pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. "Get some rest, my beautiful girl," he whispers before you can drift off completely. Your eyes slip shut as you nod against him, burying your face into his chest with a yawn before letting sleep pull you under.
And if Peter admires you for a while longer before sleep takes him too—well, that's a secret he'll just keep to himself.
"i don't know what kind of losers you've been with, but i'm not about to get off to some middle school level action, okay?"
"care to be proven wrong?"
wc: just shy of 2k!
cw: dry humping, heavy making out, teasing, alcohol consumption (so ig kinda dubcon but them being drunk is not the focus of this at all), starts kinda cocky!peter and then sub!peter comes out 😈
blond frat!peter makes me feral!!!! happy first day of kinktober sluts!!!
masterlist, taglist, and kinktober 2025 masterlist!
"ugh, that's disgusting! they're literally getting off ten feet from us, hello?!" gwen yelled over the music, beer sloshing from the solo cup in her hand as she stumbled over to where you and the rest of your friends were sitting.
you looked to where she was pointing, noticing a girl you'd seen in passing on one of the brothers' laps — going to fucking town. to say they were dry humping was an understatement, and you weren't sure if either of them knew which was their own tongue anymore.
you shook your head with a chuckle, taking a sip from your own cup. "wouldn't be the first time i've seen someone cum at a frat party. you guys are fucking freaks."
gwen shared a knowing laugh with you as peter whipped his head towards you, a mixture between a frown and bewilderment sloppily lacing his features.
"what the hell are you on about?"
"come on, you remember last year when-"
"no, no i remember vividly, please don't remind me," peter sat up taller, scooting closer on the couch and looking down at you. "them, over there. they're just making out, that is nothing like last year."
you rolled your eyes at him, chugging the rest of the beer in your hands and setting your cup to the side. "yeah, but look at her hips. no way he's lasting much longer at that speed."
"oh whatever, like anyone's ever cum from a little dry humping." peter took a sip of his drink and cringed slightly as he watched the couple continue.
you rose to sit up higher, crossing your arms and matching the defensive energy he was putting up. "there's no way you're serious right now, parker."
"what?" he met you with a shrug, looking to gwen for backup. she held her hands up and walked away, not looking to get involved in the argument.
"you may be cocky, but you're not that stupid, right? i'm pretty sure anyone could finish from that. i don't even know how she hasn't cramped yet." you looked towards the couple who hadn't slowed once. it made you wince, the ghost ache in your hips.
"i don't know what kind of losers you've been with, but i'm not about to get off to some middle school level action, okay?" it was said playfully, but you couldn't help but feel like rising to a challenge that wasn't even proposed.
"fine then. let's go upstairs, parker."
you watched peter's eyes widen, his cocky and egotistical resolve cracking for a moment. he regained it quickly, though, leaning dangerously close towards you.
"what, think you're so special over here? got some moves you think i haven't seen before?"
you gave him a smirk and watched as the crack in his demeanor expanded just slightly. "maybe you just don't know what you're in for."
peter's lips mirrored yours as his eyes fixated on the words that fell from them. it had been months of this cat-and-mouse game with you, a flirtatious, more than friendship that was aching to go somewhere. peter didn't know where that somewhere was, but he was hoping tonight might give him an idea.
he didn't say another word as he grabbed your hand as led you up the stairs to his room, shaking his head in dismissal at the hoots and hollers from the other frat brothers. if they only knew.
he opened the door and rushed you inside, mentally face-palming at just how eager he was. you hadn't even touched him yet, and he was painfully hard — something that was not helping his case.
he regained his composure, strutting to his bed before falling back on it and leaning against the headboard. peter intertwined his hands behind his head, his soft blond hair messy on his forehead as he stared at you with wild and amused eyes.
"well? i'm clearly waiting."
you rolled your eyes as you sauntered towards him, the look in your eyes sure to give off your nefarious intentions.
you let a playful smile dance on your lips as you crawled towards him on the bed, ensuring your shirt had gaped just enough to give him a view. you celebrated the reward of watching his adam's apple bob hesitantly in his throat, his eyes lingering all across your body. the build up was part of it — that was your entire point. that build-up could be sexy and enough on its own when done right.
you finally reached peter's lap and swung a leg over, carefully planting yourself down onto him. it wasn't intentional that you were in a short, loose skirt, but it was a serendipitous aid in your argument right now.
you lifted slightly to readjust, to position yourself precisely along the outline of peter's impressive bulge through his slacks. the minor movement alone was enough to elicit an involuntary hiss to fall sharply from his lips, a blush accompanying the betraying noise.
peter shook his head as he laughed, his hands snaking their way to the curves of your hips with a soft squeeze. "whatever. i said i wouldn't cum, i never said i wouldn't like it."
you flashed him a smile as you placed your hands on his chest, taking the opportunity to soak in just how good he looked tonight. you didn't know what was in the air that made tonight different, but all the times you'd dreamed of tugging at that bleached-blond hair had left you hungry, and tonight you weren't backing down.
you rolled your hips forward slowly, testing the waters as you watched the way his face contorted in pleasure. peter's hands tightened on your hips, and a deep growl echoed in his chest. you gave him a smirk as you did it again, and you decided to leap right into the deep end.
your lips were quick to attack the open space on his neck, his warm skin in between your teeth as you began to set a slow but firm pace with your hips. it wasn't long before peter was helping you, his hands dragging you along him as he fought the urge to buck up into you.
"s-shit. that's good."
you kissed the love bites left behind on his neck and trailed your way up to his cheeks, meeting his eyes as you picked up your pace.
"yeah, pete? sure it doesn't feel a little too good?" you teased, hands making their way up to the only place they've wanted to be since you met him.
the moan in his throat cut off the weak "no" peter had prepared as you tangled your fingers in his locks, tugging harshly and whipping his head backwards. you never lost pace as you did so, sloppily kissing your way around his exposed neck. your fingers stayed in his hair, scratching at his scalp and tugging the loose curls, and peter parker was officially putty in your hands.
you thought the moment the two of you finally collided, peter would be the one in control. he'd be the one narrating the scene, controlling your body with the strings of a marionette. what an insatiable discovery it was to be wrong.
peter was so much more vocal than you'd anticipated, whines and groans echoing throughout his room so loud he was drowning out the speaker blaring trashy music downstairs. now, there was a new symphony in your ears, and you couldn't get enough of it.
your hips kept in rhythm with what he gave you through song, a dance only the two of you could've known.
"f-fuck, baby. i didn't know it could feel like this." peter groaned into your ear, his head fully resting on your shoulder now as your pace got him breathless.
peter had lost all self-control, all sense of humility as he tried to match your pace and chase you with his hips. through the thin material of his pants, he could feel your wetness spreading across the fabric, the slick only adding to the friction against his painfully hard cock.
"please," he whimpered, barely audible as the once cocky, egocentric peter parker was wrapped around your finger. "kiss me."
your hips stuttered for a moment, the intimate request taking you aback. you weren't shy, clearly, but the genuine tone behind his innocent plea shook something in your core.
you kissed him for the first time, unable to shut out the fireworks in your stomach as his needy lips nipped at yours, his tongue fighting not for dominance, but out of necessity.
you had lost yourself before remembering your place, determination to prove a point outweighing months of pent-up feelings. you resumed the movement of your hips, hard and fast as you continued to consume his plump lips.
peter groaned into the kiss, hips twitching underneath you. "fuck, s'too much."
you tugged his head up by his hair, forcing eye contact with him as you held the brutal tempo of the song peter was losing track of. he'd started it, and you were determined to finish it.
"what was that, baby?" you teased, slowing your hips momentarily.
"fuck, don't stop. please, need you." he begged.
begged. peter parker was begging you to let him finish. never had you thought you'd see the day.
"admit it," you growled, grinding harshly but ever so slowly against him. "admit that you can cum from just this first."
peter was a shade of desperation you'd never seen before, need hanging from his every expression.
"please, baby. i'm sorry, i was wrong," he thrusted up into you, holding your hips down firmly against the movement.
the strength he had came out of nowhere, lanky peter parker holding you firmly in place as he continued to rut up into you, eyes pinched shut in pleasure.
"you can make me cum just like this, please. please, let me. let me cum, please."
you can. it was possessive, in a way you hadn't expected from peter. he was at your complete mercy, and the thought alone was enough to push you over the edge.
"peter, cum for me, god please." you moaned as you tried your best to move your hips, trembling in his grasp as you came undone yourself.
watching you fall apart on top of him was exactly what did it for peter, the sight releasing a dam holding on by a singular thread. he gave one more sharp thrust as he came, a strangled groan leaving his throat as he felt his cock twitch violently against the soft fabric of his briefs.
warmth flooded underneath you as you soaked your own underwear, leaking onto his slacks and bleeding with the mess left behind by hs own leaking cock.
you were both left breathless as you collapsed on top his chest, heavy panting echoing throughout his room.
peter choked out a chuckle as he reached his arms around you, wrapping you in a tight hug. it was genuine, and the same butterflies from the kiss earlier came back with a vengeance.
you looked up at him, his laughter contagious. "what's up with you?"
"i've just never been so happy to be proven wrong."
summary: peter 'friendly neighborhood spider-man' parker drooling at the sight of you when picking you up for the stark gala, and though he tries, peter is just unable to behave himself when you look that good
wc: ~6.7k
cw: jesus, okay. 18+! MNDI! alcohol consumption, heavy making out, unprotected p in v (don't do this! wrap it!), fingering, oral sex (fem receiving), multiple positions, praise kink, cocky peter, also softdom!peter, multiple orgasms, creamp!e (hot but we HAVE to find a different word), just a lot of hot and heavy pining
an: hello! this is my impossible to behave around series combined into one fic for those who prefer to read longer writing! this was the first multi-part i ever wrote, and my part three just hit 1000 notes 🥹 hope you enjoy!
masterlist and taglist!
peter put the finishing touches on his curls, doing his best to follow the instructions tony had given him. he wasn’t used to putting any effort into his hair, let alone the rest of his get-up for the evening. peter couldn't remember the last time he'd worn a three-piece suit to something. he had never been to a stark gala before, but he knew it was a bigger deal than anything he could even imagine.
he shot himself one last look in the mirror, running his hands over the custom-tailored jacket tony had gifted him. he’d never admit it, but he understood cashmere now.
peter threw his final belongings in his pocket as he did one last sweep of his room, and he made a hasty exit down the hallway towards your room in the stark compound.
he was beyond anxious; every one of peter's senses was on edge (even more than the normal 1000%). he stood in front of your door, hands shaking as he brought his fist up to knock gently. he rapped in a succession of five knocks, signaling it was him on the other side.
peter rocked on his heels as he awaited your answer, his impatient mind going a thousand miles an hour.
and suddenly, it was going zero. as soon as peter caught sight of you opening the door, it was the only thing on his mind: past, present, future.
he couldn’t help but let his eyes trail down your figure, taking in the entirety of the grace and elegance that adorned you. you stood in front of him, a gorgeous red silk dress ornamenting your body in the best way possible.
his color. you were wearing his color.
and you had your hair down, which he rarely ever saw, and suddenly he had a preferred hairstyle on you. everything about you made his breath catch in his throat, and he felt like he was under a spell.
“… peter?”
“oh my god, you, y-you look stunning,” peter responded in practically a moan, mouth hanging agape like the dog you had turned him into.
your face flushed, a smirk creeping on your lips as you reached over to grab your purse.
“you don’t look so bad yourself, pete.” you stepped out of your doorway, nearly having to push him backwards to leave your room.
you laughed, “are you ready to head out?”
peter nodded his head eagerly, bowing his arm out for you to link. you did so with content, and the two of you made your way to the elevator, nerves overpowering as you walked with him.
the tension between the two of you was palpable, both walking through the compound with aching silence. your heels echoed against the tile as you made your way to the main entrance, where happy was waiting with a car. you looked up at peter as you made your way into the lobby, his head turning immediately to look at you as he caught your glance in his peripheral. the moment your eyes locked, every last bit of air was vacuumed from your lungs. you could tell he felt the same way, his adam's apple bobbing as he took a heavy swallow. you gave him a smile, but not an innocent one at that. no, he knew the smile was filled with intention. he only hoped he was right about what said intention was.
happy's loud clap snapped them out of their trance. "okay! you two are not the only ones i have to pick up, so if we could just, pause the weird horny moment and get in the car, that would be awesome."
peter's cheeks flushed immediately, shocked with himself at how easily he was completely and utterly distracted by you. you had him under a spell, he was sure of it, but he couldn't seem to care.
you laughed and apologized to happy, rushing peter towards the limo. he ran ahead of you to grab the door, holding your hand as you lowered yourself into the vehicle. you looked up at your hand in his, the feeling of his skin on yours burning your senses. he looked so good in his suit, so strong and big. you shook yourself free from the trance, scooting further in to allow peter room on the seat.
he slid in after you, shutting the door behind him and never breaking eye contact. he let out a shaky breath and chewed on the inside of his lip, forcing himself to take deep breaths even just looking at you.
he was snapped out of it, jumping in his seat at the sound of a door slamming, signaling happy in the driver's seat. he looked up to make eye contact with him in the rearview mirror and let out a huff of air at seeing the older man wink at him before rolling up the privacy screen.
he stopped it an inch before closing, "sam and bucky will be in that backseat in less than five minutes. behave yourselves."
after sam and bucky got into the car, all tension quickly dissolved. between you and peter, that is. the second they made eye contact with the two of you, it was like they knew.
sam let out a chuckle, "well i was going to lend a compliment and say how nice you guys look, but something tells me you're both well aware already."
bucky barked out laughing at the comment, earning nothing but blushing cheeks from the two of you. you shifted slightly apart, glaring at the men in front of you. peter quickly went to start a conversation, hoping he could do anything to take the attention off of how obviously whipped he was coming off. jesus, this was going to be a long night.
after an agonizing car ride, you arrived at the venue and shuffled out of the far too cramped back seat. bucky clapped peter on the shoulder, throwing him a wink before heading up the walkway with sam.
peter took a deep breath and extended his arm out to you with a smile, beginning to lead you inside. once at the doorway, though, he hesitated. you looked up at him with your eyebrows furrowed slightly, "nervous?"
he almost jumped at your words, turning to look down at you. he let out a breathy laugh, "y-yeah, actually. kind of. i've never been to anything t-this, this nice before."
you smiled and gave him a nod, "yeah, honestly me neither,"
you took a deep breath, moving your arm off of his and going to intertwine your fingers instead. the action, simple as it may be, ignited something in the both of you. "i think it'll be fun, pete. we got this."
he took a deep breath as well, smiling at you once more with a squeeze of your hand before opening the door.
yeah, he had every right to be nervous. the venue was gorgeous and huge. everyone was dressed to the nines, and despite wearing what the tony stark had picked for him, he somehow felt underdressed. the ceilings were adorned with the most intricate chandeliers he'd ever seen, the entire venue decked out in the latest nanobot technology stark enterprises was showing off to the world. it didn't feel real.
a man walked past them with a platter of champagne flutes and peter took his chance, using his left hand to snag two glasses off as the man made his way around, his right hand never letting go of yours. he turned to you to offer you a flute, a smile creeping on his face with pride at how fluid the action was.
"wow pete, how smooth." you smirked up at him, bringing the glass to your lips. he swallowed hard, having to look away from how you were looking up at him. calm down, peter. it's not even 8pm.
he took a large swig from his own glass, his ears perking up as he heard his name from across the room. he looked over to see sam, bucky, and tony bantering and looking in his direction. they all laughed as he made eye contact, tony giving him a soft wink with the raise of his glass.
peter cleared his throat, "hey, i uh, i think i'm going to go check in with mr. stark, y-you know, thank him, for all of this, i mean,"
you giggled at how nervous he was, squeezing his hand once more before letting go. "that's okay, i'm going to go find nat. i'll see you in a bit pete, don't have too much fun without me."
he let out a shaky breath as you parted from him, downing the rest of his flute before grabbing another and heading towards the man of the hour.
you made your way through the crowd to where nat and wanda were standing, both adorned in the most gorgeous gowns you've ever seen.
"jesus guys, save some men for the rest of us!" they both turned to you, laughing at your comment as they reached out for you.
"holy shit, (y/n), you look stunning!" wanda exclaimed, her eyes raking up and down your figure. you smirked.
"so i've heard. i can't remember the last time i wore something this expensive, honestly probably never." you let out a chuckle, finishing off the glass of champagne peter had given you. nat handed you another.
you all small-talked for a while, chatting about how excessively gorgeous the event was and how put together everyone looked. it didn't take long for the conversation to turn to you and peter.
nat took a swig of her flask. "i mean, come on (y/n). i can't believe neither of you have made a move yet. i can practically see the two of you undressing each other with your eyes"
you blushed at the comment, looking across the room to where peter was. "i don't know nat, he's never actually... said anything, or, i don't know. i'm worried i'm reading things wrong, and i don't want to be bold if i'm not one hundred percent, you know?"
"trust me, i do know. and i'll be a hundred percent for you: that man over there has already planned out at least ten different ways he's going to fuck you. not wants to, is going to."
you let out a breath, ripping the flask out of her hand and taking an impressively long drink. "let's hope so."
peter stood on the other end of the event space, initially to thank tony for the invite, and now cornered by sam and bucky, who were absolutely dogging on him for the car ride over. peter was an absolute flustered mess, eyes entirely focused on the remaining bubbles in his glass.
"i mean jesus, pete. if you don't make a move on her tonight, i think i'm going to have to." bucky let out a hardy laugh.
the thought of bucky's hands on you caused peter's skin to boil. he grit his teeth, making eye contact with him and tightening his grip on his glass. foreign feelings of jealousy flooded his veins, and it wasn't until a hand hit his shoulder that he was knocked out of his haze.
"that's the energy i'm looking for. go get her, kid."
peter let out a huff, a nervous and airy laugh escaping his lips as he shakes himself out. he nodded to the guys, handing sam his now empty champagne glass and striding in your direction. he grabbed his now third flute, chugging it quickly while practically marching towards you.
you looked up to see peter bounding towards you, the urgency in his step making your legs go weak. you handed nat her flask back with a deep breath, the girls giving you smirks before turning and leaving you alone. not for long though, as the moment you turned around, you practically bumped your nose against peter's. jesus, when did he get over here so quick?
the proximity forced you to stand taller, willing your shaky knees to cooperate with you and begging yourself to maintain composure.
"hey pete, how's your night going?"
"good, yours?" he tapped his foot anxiously, summoning every ounce of courage he had in his body. he was spider-man, goddammit, he could do this.
"better now," you smiled at him with that devilish look in your eyes that made his summoned bravery obsolete, along with the air in his lungs. back under your trance, his eyes raked down your figure, lingering longer than he meant to at your cleavage. this earned a smirk from you.
"do you want to grab some air? i'm feeling a little… warm."
his eyes widened and he began to nod a little too feverishly, clearing his throat to collect himself. he knew what you meant. he could smell what you meant.
"yeah, y-uh, yeah of course," he breathed out, grabbing your hand and pulling you towards the exit of the venue. you gasped as the cool night air hit your body, practically sizzling against your hot skin.
peter looked at you, your hands still intertwined. this was it. he'd been dreaming of a moment like this for longer than he could remember, and it was finally happening. parker, don't fuck this up.
you ran down the stairs, pulling him along behind you. peter had to summon every bit of strength in his body to not stare at the way your chest was moving as you strung him along. he lost the battle, looking down and letting his jaw drop at the sight of your plush skin. he felt his whole body tense, his pants growing painfully tight. his focus was ripped off the view as he heard an "oh god".
he looked up to see happy staring at the two of you, obviously picking up on the vibe. he let out a defeated sigh. "headed back to the compound so soon?"
the two of you blushed, beyond flustered as he let out a stronger sigh.
"jesus fuck, tony's going to kill me. yeah, get in."
peter let out a laugh, pulling you towards the backseat of the car. you both scramble in, panting at the anticipation of the entire situation. he stared at you with wonder in his eyes, slowly leaning over you. okay parker, this is it. just kiss her. holyshitholyshitholyshit ho-
the driver's door slammed shut and happy turned around to look at you. you both whipped your heads in his direction, eyes wide.
"i'm keeping the privacy divider down. i'm not condoning this, i just don't want you driving yourselves. i can fucking smell the alcohol on the two of you. keep it pg back there or i'm calling tony myself."
while the drive itself was less than ten minutes, peter was sure hours had passed by. not being able to touch you was physically painful at this point. the moment he felt the car stop, he was out before he was even certain where he was. he didn't care. he just needed to be alone with you again.
you laughed at how needy peter was being as he practically dragged you from the car, thanking happy for the ride on your way out. he grumbled something about safe sex, driving off and leaving you alone with peter once again. peter turned to you and held out his hand, really really hoping he wasn't either reading this wrong or dreaming.
he pulled you inside and stopped to stare at you again, bringing his hand up to your face. he grazed your cheek slightly and his touch made you feel high.
you bit your lip and he was hard all over again. you weren't able to stay in your trance for long, hearing footsteps down the hall from you. you grabbed him harshly, pulling him to the elevator and pressing the buttons rapidly as you both stifled your laughs, trying to get inside before you were caught by someone. finally, the doors opened, and something in peter snapped.
all the inhibition peter had was gone in an instant, grabbing your shoulders and pushing you backward into the elevator. he pushed your back against the wall with more strength than he intended, panting as the elevator door closed, and his brain was flooded with possibilities. he couldn't help it, he couldn't control himself anymore.
he moved his hands from your shoulders, leaning back to hit your floor number, not once averting eye contact.
he leaned back into you, placing his hands on either side of your head against the elevator wall. he leaned his body ever so slightly against yours, his forehead just grazing your own.
"please tell me i'm not reading this wrong before i really fuck up our friendship."
you smiled at him, your hands snaking up to back of his head and pulling him in eagerly. your lips smashed against his and peter moaned into the kiss, any reservations he had melting away at your touch.
peter reached towards either side of your face, holding you tightly. kissing you was something he only dared to dream of, and now that it was happening, he never wanted it to stop. he kissed you harder, his body pressing even further into yours. he was a moaning mess against your lips, but you weren’t much better. everything about his lips on yours was better than you could’ve hoped for. you tugged at his curls, forcing a groan from him and you used it to your advantage as you slid your tongue into his mouth, exploring freely.
the elevator let out a soft ding!, signaling the door was opening. peter pulled away, much to your dismay, and he stared at you in awe. as sexy as he was trying to be, his heart was absolutely swelling at the thought of him finally getting to kiss you. he couldn’t help but give you a shit-eating grin, hoping it wouldn’t detract from the confidence he hoped he was exuding.
but then you smiled at him, clearly expressing the same feeling, and the rush it gave him darkened his eyes instantly.
peter had a tight grip on your hand as he practically ran with you down the hallways of the complex, reaching his door in record speed. he nearly slammed his way through the wood, pulling you in behind him and shutting the door loudly. he clicked the lock shut and whipped around to face you, back to the wall and out of breath.
he took a moment to just stare at you, still absolutely wonderstruck from your first kiss. it was everything he could have wanted and more, and even now, he could feel his lips tingling from the sensation. he pressed his lips together and took a deep breath, a rush flushing through his system.
he took a step towards you, still hesitant. still unconvinced this wasn't just a dream.
"c-can i, i mean, can... we do that, again?" he let out in nearly a whisper.
you let out an exasperated huff of air in response, his courtesy towards you turning you on even more. you let out a whine, "god, please peter,"
peter didn't wait another second before grabbing the sides of your face and smashing his lips against yours, pulling your body flush to his against the door. his lips were hot on yours, only letting up from their attack for gasps of air, groans escaping from his throat as he kissed you harder than ever thought possible. you ghosted your hands over his chest and he was a moaning mess against you, his hands sliding down to your waist and holding you tight.
the feeling of your body was unimaginable, his hands grazing your curves over the silk draping your body. he was doing his best to keep his hands PG-13, not wanting to lose control and scare you away, but realizing just how thin your dress's fabric was made him ache for more.
he used his back to the door to his advantage, his hands on your waist pulling you even closer — so close that you could feel him hard against your thigh. the thought of you making him this hard elicited a moan to escape from your throat and directly into your kiss, sending a shiver down his spine.
the noises you let out gave him more confidence, allowing his large hands to wander around your sides more. he ran them up and down, spreading his fingers as he did so that each time he trailed up, the tips of his fingers would tease at the underneath of your chest, giving you goosebumps all over your body.
he was keen to the effect on you, smirking into the kiss as he used his thumbpads to lightly trace around the curves of your breasts. it was meant to tease you, however, he regretted the action almost immediately. his movements brought to his attention that not only were you not wearing a bra underneath the dress, but he now knew just how thin the material between him and your tits was. he let out a shaky moan, pained at the thought of your bare chest millimeters away from him. his fingers swiped upward, tracing softly over the outline of your hard nipples, earning a desperate moan from your lips.
and the sound to peter was earth-shattering.
he threw his head back as his fingers continued to graze your chest, relishing in the feeling of you in his hands. this new position grew quickly in your favor, using his exposed neck to press hot, sloppy kisses. he let out a filthy moan, and you reached your hands up to push past his own and take dominance, opening his suit jacket and finding his top button.
you worked them slowly, pulling away from his neck as you both watched your movements, whimpers flowing freely from peter's lips.
"god, (y/n), you have no idea what you're doing to me," he whined, the remnants of a pout traced on his features.
you popped his last button, not wasting a single second to place your hands on his bare chest, lightly tracing your nails up and down his torso.
at this point, peter was fighting for his life. your touch against him ignited his senses, and it felt as though he had electricity coursing through his veins. he's never felt this way before, and he was beginning to feel like he couldn't ever live without it. you were all-consuming to him, and he was losing control.
he grabbed your hips tightly, turning you around and swapping places with you pinned against the door. he kissed you hard, pressing himself against you so that you could feel just how crazy you were driving him. you groaned, allowing your fingers to hook on his belt loops, holding him just close enough to make him ache.
he pulled you back sharply, dragging you to the bed where he promptly sat down, pulling you in between his legs.
his hands rested firmly on your ass, kneading your plush curves through the dress as he pulled you into him and began planting soft kisses against your stomach. you felt his hot breath through the chilly fabric of the silk, goosebumps covering you as tangled your fingers through his lush curls.
"your hair looked so fucking good tonight, pete" you whined out, his kisses growing more sloppy against you as you praised him.
"i love these curls, y'know that? it's been so hard keeping my hands out of your hair, i just, i just want to—"
you tugged harshly, earning a low groan from peter, and he threw his head back, looking up at you with a smirk. the smirk sent more arousal south, and the look in his eyes made you the wettest you're sure you've ever been.
he latched back to your torso, beginning to trail his way down and kiss lower and lower on your stomach. you writhed against him and he took it as encouragement, slowly releasing his hands from your ass and lowering them to the hem of your dress down at your calves. he snaked his hands underneath the material, grazing his fingertips lightly up your bare legs and he hovered his lips over your core, heavily panting over the fabric as his hands reached their destination.
his fingers hooked your thong and you gasped, causing him to look up. he was trying to maintain composure, but he still could not believe he was in this situation. your legs began to tremble, the gratefulness in his eyes shining through and only turning you on more. the reaction he gained from you nearly short-circuited him.
holyshitholyshitholyshit — peter! focus!
he took a deep breath and winked at you, finally diving his head down where he wanted it to begin with. his lips wasted no time attacking your cunt through the silk, his hot breath against your core nearly dropping you to your knees. you let out another gasp as his fingers began to tug your thong down your legs under the dress, so slowly it was tormenting.
once he'd gotten the underwear to your ankles, he focused back on placing a kiss to your core, noticing your growing wetness through your dress with the new lack of garments. he pulled back and let out a breathy chuckle, skimming his fingertips over the forming wet patch on your dress.
"you want this so fucking bad, don't you?"
peter's words mere inches from your cunt caused you to clench around nothing, your entire body hot and needy. you whined a response to him, words already lost as he continued to practically eat you out through your dress.
your daze was quickly cut off, though, as peter pulled away sharply. he stood up to reconnect your lips, and you groaned into him as you could faintly taste yourself on him.
"i, fuck, i-i can't do this,"
you pulled back and stared at him, increasingly growing concerned as to where you started to misread the signals.
"what? i mean, no that's okay, i just—"
"if you don't want to go any further, that's fine. but we have to stop now before i can't control myself anymore."
you don't know if it's the words themselves or the way he said it, but you were throbbing. and by the look on his face, you were sure he knew it too.
a smirk graced his features, and suddenly it was as though all air had been vacuumed from the room.
he took a step closer.
"i mean, honestly. that dress? baby, you've got to be kidding me,"
another step, and his hand was on your neck.
"you like this, don't you?"
a measly whine escaped your throat as you failed to find words. it didn't matter. peters lips were back on yours, heavier and hungrier than they'd been yet that evening. but he wasn't done teasing you yet.
a kiss. "you're fucking impossible,"
another, "to behave around,"
a final, "when all i can do is fucking. smell you."
your eyes matched his darkness as you gasped at his words, his lips sucking the skin on your neck with no forgiveness. "please, i need you."
his hot mouth was attacking yours once again, and through the haze, you heard a faint ripping noise followed by a rush of cold air on your back. peter mumbled an apology and you realized he'd ripped your dress straight down the back.
"fucking zipper,"
his strength surprised you, and peter used your shock to his advantage as he strips you of the remaining fabric, leaving you in just a thong before him.
you grew shy momentarily, your vulnerable state reminding you it was peter you were standing in front of — a dream unfolding, but the implications daunting. you flustered, hands reaching up to cover you body.
peter immediately stepped in, grabbing your hands and pulling them back down to your side.
"baby, don't hide..."
he stood back to admire you fully, slack-jawed and in awe. he pulled you in for a kiss, one much sweeter than the rest. one full of limerence.
"you look like heaven,"
he kissed you again, desperation once again taking the main stage. he brought his hands to your bare breasts, a growl rumbling in his throat as he felt your flesh for the first time. he'd had enough playing around.
"i bet you taste like heaven too."
he pounced on you, pushing you onto the bed and straddling your frame. you used the position to your advantage, reaching down to palm him through his dress pants, and he was hard as a fucking rock.
peter was a moaning mess on top of you, the feeling of your hand on him sending him to another world.
you fumbled around to undo his belt, missing substantially one-handed. he grew impatient, leaving to take his pants off himself and standing before you in just in briefs. it was in this moment you got your first decent look at peter, and it's in this moment you took notice of just how big he was. he was straining in his blue briefs, a wet spot forming where his angry tip wouldn't stop leaking. the sight alone almost made you cum.
he smirked at your reaction and climbed over you again, not bothering to reach your mouth for a kiss this time. instead, he attacked you through your underwear, lips messy around your dripping cunt. he was quick to lose his composure as soon as he could taste you again, tearing the thong down your legs and licking a stripe up your heat.
you writhed underneath him, the heat of his breath on you driving pleasure through your whole body. he continued his work, getting absolutely lost in the way you tasted. with his tongue wrapped around your clit, he slid a hand in between your thighs, fingertips tracing lightly around your slick folds. you let out a pathetic moan and felt peter smile against your cunt, the vibrations from his chuckle sending your senses into overdrive.
he cautiously slipped one finger in, groaning desperately at the feeling of you warm and tight around him. he slid in with ease, your eager cunt ready and welcoming.
he took his time, drawing out your pleasure as he felt you shake underneath him. he added another finger, sensing your orgasm was close.
he increased his pace, fucking you senselessly with his fingers as his tongue attacked your clit, and you were right at the edge. you let out soft pleas, begging him to keep going. he curled his fingers suddenly, and it was enough to have you sent over the edge.
you felt nothing but pure, hot white power coursing through you as peter carried you through your orgasm. you took deep breaths to ground yourself, head still spinning as peter removed his fingers but continued the pace with his mouth. you gained enough consciousness to look down at the man between your legs, and you almost wish you hadn't, the sight bringing you over the edge once more.
between you, peter was eating you out with no care in the world, like a man starved. while doing so, his hips ground mercilessly into the mattress below him. he rutted himself down as his mouth slowed and stalled, his hips following suit as he let out a deep breath and chuckle, making eye contact with you for the first time in a while. his eyes were wide, a smile overpowering his cheeks as though he was a kid trying candy for the first time. the innocence of it all warmed your heart.
there was an emotion in the room neither of you could describe, but you both felt it. and it was strong.
after what felt like a lifetime of lingering, peter flashed you a toothy smile, nothing but love adorning his features. you were both still breathless as he climbed his way back up you, soft kisses planting themselves along your torso as he made his way finally to your lips.
he let out a chuckle, a blush apparent on his cheeks.
"what is it, pete?"
he sat up over you for a second, face bright red as he glanced downwards. you followed his gaze, a blush creeping on your own face as you noticed what he was referring to. the wet spot on his briefs had grown much larger, but he was still hard as ever.
"i um, i-i came as soon as i started cleaning you up. you just tasted so good,"
another wave of slick was sent to your cunt, the thought alone having you ready all over again. you gulped in anticipation and he let his shoulders fall as he noticed he had no reason to be embarrassed.
"spider-man has given me quite the refractory period, though, so,"
he began to pull his briefs down, his achingly hard cock springing free to let out a dirty slap against his stomach. he groaned at the sensation, throwing the garments across the room. "so, if you'll still have me..."
you whined soft pleas and he was on you before you could think about anything else, his kisses still messy on your skin. he hovered over you again, and you felt his cock hot on your stomach. you moaned at the feeling, desperately clenching around nothing as you begged for him to fuck you.
he sat up enough to grab hold of his length, using his burning red tip to slide through your slick folds and spread your wetness. the feeling was too much for you, peter towing a thin line between pleasure and overstimulation. you begged for more still, needing to feel him inside you. he harmonized with your moans as he continued.
"baby, if this is how good you feel on the outside, i've got absolutely no clue how i'm going to last inside of you."
you couldn't find words as he kept going, your nails digging sharply into his back. he smirked at your desperation, lining himself up with your dripping entrance.
“peter, please.”
an anguished sigh raked through his body as he began to push into you. he looked like he was at war with himself, torn between going slow for your comfort and wanting to absolutely ravish your body. though trying to go slow, he slid in with much more ease than he anticipated, growling at the sensation of your walls around him.
holyshitholyshitholyshit
he bottomed out, holding where he was as you both caught your breath. he locked eyes with you, hoping to find and ground you back to the moment. the second he had slid into you, you were washed in a wave of pleasure. meeting peter’s gaze, you held yourself back down on earth best you could.
“baby, you feel fucking sinful.”
clearly, he was not helping. you whined at his praise, feeling his cock twitch deep inside of you as he said it. he was driving you insane.
“pete, please. move.”
he chuckled at you, darkness flooding irises once again. “if you insist,”
he started thrusting into you, his pace steady and relentless. now that he knew this feeling, he was certain your cunt was all he’d ever think about again. he didn't mean to be going as fast as was, but he couldn't help it, the sounds coming from your mouth encouraging him like his own personal symphony. he looked down between the two of you, entranced in the way he was disappearing inside of you. and the noises coming from the two of you down there were downright filthy.
he grew restless, if that was even possible.
"god baby, please, flip over for me,"
"i need to feel more of you."
you started to sit up, gaging your surroundings as you did, but peter wasn’t patient enough for that. he grabbed your hips and flipped you over as though you weighed absolutely nothing. he gave you the generosity of situating yourself, digging your hands into the mattress as you steadied yourself on your knees before him. you stuck yourself out towards him, giving him a full view of everything he’d ever dreamed of. he almost came at the sight.
he lined himself back up and wasted no time, ramming himself into you even deeper than before. your arms trembled, causing you to fall and arch your back even more, a sharp cry escaping your throat as peter fucked you with no forgiveness.
he used one hand to steady himself on your hips, the other snaking its way around you to latch his fingers on your abused clit. another cry fell from your lips, tears pricking your eyes as you praised him.
“fuck, you feel so good inside of me, peter,”
your core was burning, build-up from a third orgasm igniting a fire in you as you tried to hold on.
"peter please, holy shit i'm going to cum, i can't— i can't hold it any longer."
peter felt you clenching around him hard, your pulse on his cock driving him to closer to the edge and much quicker than he'd hoped. a growl escaped from deep in his throat. "(y/n), i— fuck, i need to switch out. if— mm'ugh, shit,"
his hips didn't match the words he spoke, the merciless pace making your vision fade around the edges.
"fuck, no, i-i'm serious, i need— ah, fuck— my f-fingers. please. if i feel you finish around my cock, i-i'm not going to able to pull out in time."
the thought alone almost drove you off the edge.
"do it." you panted, pushing your hips further back to meet his thrusts.
"no, (y/n), i'm serious."
"no please, peter, stay,"
"please, i need you, i... i need to feel you finish inside of me."
and who was peter to deny you of something you needed?
"fuck it,"
he grabbed onto your hips and started fucking you with such force, you were positive you wouldn't be able to walk out of this room when he was done.
and that's when he felt it. he felt you snap and cum around his cock. the feeling was better than anything he'd ever imagined, a heaven he didn't know could possibly exist. it made him cum in an instant. he'd never felt such an amazing sensation before and holy shit he could stay here forever.
he came hard, holding your hips tight as spurt after spurt of the hot, thick ropes of his cum flooded inside of you. the feeling was indescribable, his cum filling you to the brink and then some. the sensation of his cock twitching in you was overwhelming, your insides hot and full. he pulled out, watching his cum drip out of your abused cunt with a glimmer in his eyes.
you collapsed from under him and peter followed, nearly falling on top of you from exhaustion. you both laid together, breathless as you tried to regain your composure.
"holy shit, that was—"
"—crazy,"
laughter filled the air around you, a comforting blanket that made your heart warm.
a beat of silence passed and you both sat and smiled at each other, almost in an air of reverence. he grabbed your hands in his and got quiet, a sheepish look overtaking his features. as if he hadn't just fucked you senseless.
"(y/n), i-i wanted to tell you that i really like you. like, really, really like you"
nsfw one-shot in which your boyfriend Peter Parker just can’t get enough… horny, handsy, hot and bothered Peter *chef’s kiss*
One thing about Peter Parker was that he loved eating pussy. Like, borderline obsessed. You learned this very quickly once you started dating him, and it made your head spin. He could go on for hours, overstimulating you to the point you lost count of how many orgasms you had, begging him to stop because you were so sensitive, and he just kept eating you out anyways. It didn’t matter what time of day it was or where you were. He would wake you up with it sometimes. Or tug you into a bathroom and get on his knees and stick his head up your skirt. He would set you up on the kitchen counter or the dining table and feast between your legs. Or follow you to bed and ever so casually do it while you read a book or scrolled through your phone. He was good at cunnilingus. Like really good. He was the first boyfriend to ever make you squirt. Or cum ten times in a row. It was almost legendary.
“You just taste so delicious,” is what he would protest. “So sweet.”
“I want to make you feel good,” he’d insist.
“I just need to taste you, baby,” he would plead after he got home from work.
There was a stark contrast in the ratio of your blowjobs to him going down on you. But you didn’t mind. He did make you feel so good, and it was the perfect way for you to unwind after a stressful day of work or a sensual surprise to wake up to in the morning.
“You have such a pretty pussy,” he would moan softly.
“I fucking love being in between your legs,” he said breathlessly.
“Wanna eat you out every day of the week,” he’d wish.
Peter treated fucking you as if it was his own personal religion. He was insanely devout and took zero excuses when it came to worshipping you and your body. He made you feel like an absolute goddess. He would rub your feet and give you back massages after a long week of work. He would run his hands through your hair and carefully comb out the knots with a brush and braid your hair before bed. He would kiss you from the top of your head down to your neck, all over your arms, into your stomach, inside your thighs, trailing down to your feet. He was always so intentional. You would study his face as he fingered you or rubbed your clit, his eyes darkened with lust and determination, able to watch him focus on you and your pleasure alone. But your favorite time to look into his eyes was when his tongue was inside you.
You fucking daydreamed about it. While you were at work, at the grocery store, at home watching television, alone in the shower, when you went to bed… Peter’s face buried in between your legs, his hands leaving fingerprint bruises gripping your thighs, your fingers intertwined in locs of his fluffy brown hair, his dark eyes looking up at you as his tongue delved between your folds and made you wetter than ever. He was right. You did taste really good. And you knew because he would make you taste yourself.
“Taste how fucking good you are, love,” he would whisper, crawling back up your body to give you an open mouthed kiss. “Taste your cum on my tongue.”
You were also intentional in providing optimal pleasure, going out of your way to procure extra pineapple juice when you went grocery shopping or a pack of blueberries. The diet made your cum taste sweet, almost like greek yogurt and peaches, and it drove Peter wild. He truly could not get enough. He loved the way you would cum on his tongue, squirt all over his face, squeeze his head with your thighs, screaming out his name. It only turned him on more and more. And you’d insist on taking care of him afterwards, offering a blowjob or sex, and he would just smile and shake his head, telling you he was too tired or already satisfied. He genuinely loved the art of oral sex simply just for the sake of it. Unlike other men you had dated in the past, he was just truly wired different.
“Sit on my face,” he begged one night.
“Let’s 69,” he proposed another time.
“I want you to cum all over my face,” he confessed.
You never got bored of his wishes and desires, especially when they were in your favor. The sight of him in between your legs made your thighs tremble and shake. You loved the way his tongue slides up and down and in and out of your folds, how his tongue fucks you slow and sensual, how he sucks on your clit, how he kisses the insides of your thighs…
“You know,” he began in bed the other night, lazily tracing shapes on your shoulder. “I would die a happy man suffocated to death in between your thighs. I would love to die with my face buried in your pussy. Fuck breathing, I don’t need to breathe. I just need you.”
“Peter!” you squealed as he enveloped you in his arms.
“It’s true,” he insisted. “All I need is you and that perfect pussy of yours.”
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