As someone who has overcome substance abuse, I find this decade’s framing of addiction incredibly insulting.
Somewhere along the line, we decided that any repeated behavior, any source of pleasure, any coping mechanism, any habit that isn’t monk-like and productivity-optimized must be labeled an addiction. You like scrolling art before you create? Addiction. You watch comfort shows after work? Addiction. You check your phone in line at the grocery store? Addiction. You drink coffee with breakfast? Addiction. The word has been stretched so thin it barely means anything anymore, except “a behavior I personally disapprove of.”
Addiction is not “I enjoy stimulation.” It is not “I have habits.” It is not “I seek input before I produce output.” Addiction is a specific, devastating pattern of compulsion, harm, loss of control, and often self-destruction. It dismantles relationships. It corrodes trust. It hijacks the reward system so thoroughly that survival itself becomes secondary. It is not equivalent to liking Pinterest boards or needing music to focus.
When everything becomes addiction, nothing is. The language gets diluted, and with it, the gravity of what actual addiction is. People who have clawed their way out of substance abuse know the difference between compulsion and preference, between destructive dependence and deliberate engagement. Collapsing those distinctions into a trendy moral panic about “dopamine” is not enlightened. It’s sloppy. Unserious, even.
There’s also something deeply puritanical about it. The 2020s seem obsessed with pathologizing pleasure. If something feels good, it must be suspect. If it captures your attention, it must be hijacking your brain. If it isn’t explicitly productive, it must be rot. We’ve replaced older moral frameworks with neuroscience-flavored shame, but the tone is the same: you are wrong for enjoying things.
What bothers me most is how casually the word is thrown around in creative spaces. If you gather inspiration through music, images, movement, conversation, suddenly you’re “stimulus addicted.” If you can’t brute-force a novel in a silent white room with no input, you lack discipline. Never mind that many artists throughout history have relied on immersion, community, environment, and cross-media inspiration. Now it’s framed as weakness, as though the only legitimate art is produced under self-imposed sensory austerity.
This framing flattens nuance. There is a difference between avoidance and incubation. There is a difference between doomscrolling to numb out and deliberately engaging with material that fuels your imagination. There is a difference between compulsively chasing a hit and consciously choosing input that enriches your work. But nuance doesn’t trend. Alarmism does.
There’s also a strange individualizing move happening here. Instead of asking why people are exhausted, overstimulated, underpaid, isolated, or burnt out, we zoom in on their coping mechanisms and label them addictions. Instead of examining structural monotony, economic precarity, and social fragmentation, we scold individuals for having “bad dopamine habits.” It’s easier to diagnose people’s scrolling than to confront the conditions that make endless scrolling appealing.
Calling everything an addiction also erases agency. It suggests that people are perpetually hijacked by their brains, incapable of intentional choice unless they purge all sources of easy stimulation. That’s not empowering. It’s infantilizing. Adults are capable of enjoying things without being enslaved by them. Adults can have rituals, comforts, and creative processes without it being pathology.
When I hear the word “addiction” tossed around to describe normal human behavior, it doesn’t sound like insight. It sounds like moral grandstanding dressed up in pop psychology. And for those of us who have actually lived through the wreckage of substance abuse and fought to reclaim control, it feels like watching something serious get turned into a meme.
We deserve better language. We deserve distinctions. We deserve a culture that can tell the difference between compulsion and preference, between harm and habit, between numbing out and nourishing ourselves. Not everything that holds our attention is a disorder. Not everything pleasurable is a vice. And not everything repetitive is an addiction.
not using AI genuinely feels like the rest of the world is experiencing some kind of mass amnesia. if someone says they never use it, the immediate response is that can't be true because "everyone" uses it to write their emails or answer their questions. saw a comment suggesting that not using chatgpt to write an essay is "like the 90s". girl I graduated in 2021 and we weren't doing that! how is it that everyone has suddenly forgotten that they were entirely capable of doing these things all by themselves for their entire lives up until the past few years!! am I going crazy!!!
I'll turn out the lights to comfort your eyes
I can see my death on the street in front of your house
You're inside laughing the way you only do
When I'm not around
So get, get me to a hospital
So get, get me to a church
I wanna be bandaged and blessed
So I can see the country from a hearse
I’ll keep running and then when my feet bleed
Then I will crawl
I’ll keep running and then when my feet bleed
Then I will crawl (know what's up in your room)
Inside jokes made outside of these headphones
Play repeat is our salvation
I'll turn out the lights to comfort your eyes
So get, get me to a hospital
So get, get me to a church
I wanna be bandaged and blessed
so I can see the country in a hearse
I’ll keep running and then when my feet bleed
then I will crawl
I’ll keep running and then when my feet bleed
then I will crawl (know what's up in your room)
Hang up the phone
Drive, crash your car
If you fall asleep
Just dream of me
Hang up the phone
Drive, crash your car
If you can fall asleep
just dream of me
Hang up the phone (know what's up in your room)
Drive, crash your car (know what's up in your room)
If you can fall asleep (know what's up in your room)
just dream of me (know what's up in your room)
Hang up the phone (know what's up in your room)
Drive, crash your car (know what's up in your room)
If you can fall asleep (know what's up in your room)
just dream of me (know what's up in your room)
Hang up the phone (know what's up in your room)
Drive, crash your car (know what's up in your room)
If you can fall asleep (know what's up in your room)
just dream…
Your stepbrother seems different after a year on the field, but the attraction between you remains the same.
Pairing: afab!reader x stepbrother! Spencer
Contents: smut + mild hurt/comfort, 2.4k words, DDDNE, stepcest, s1! Spencer, slight perv! Spencer, jealous and dominant!reader, voyeurism, panty sniffing, mentions of Lila Archer and what happened in ep 1x18, male masturbation and male receiving oral, Spencer comes prematurely.
Notes: Request here and partially inspired by some of @spenceloria's headcanon post. We are starting this marathon strong with stepcest. As usual, just scroll if you don’t like the contents.
Spencer Reid comes back gaunt.
You did not think it’s possible; he didn’t have much weight to begin with, slender and delicate as he is.
But he’s there one random weekend at the behest of his father, cheekbones sharper, twin purple blooms beneath his eyes, and hair slightly less scraggly. You think it’s adorable, out of all things to thrive, that it’s his hair, glossy brown and parted to one side.
He is despondent during dinner. Head down, elbows tucked into his sides, and only answers questions when asked.
William attributes the silence to his son’s disdain for him. Your mother thinks he’s simply overworked from his job, and keeps fussing over him the way mothers do. Her actions inescapable and always laced with guilt, like refusing her attention is an unforgivable mistake.
It’s probably both of those things. At least, you hope it is.
You aren’t sure which is more delusional: thinking he’s forgotten about what happened between the two of you, or thinking he is completely, mind numbingly affected by it.
You want to ask. You don't want anything to do with him. You want to mount him the same way you did the last time he was here, but this time without the clothes to separate. You mostly stay away from him, too. He seems miserable enough as it is.
After dinner, your mom tells you to talk to him and bond a little, you guys are around the same age. You don't have the heart to tell her you've already bonded, just not in the way she probably wants.
But you nod, ever the dutiful daughter, promising to speak with him later that day.
What you weren’t expecting is the sounds coming from the guest bedroom as you approach. Soft, muffled. You press your ear to the door, brows knit in worry. He sounds like he’s in pain.
Your hand lifts, poised to knock, as the sounds continue. You’re about to yell for William, who’s downstairs with your mother, already half into a bottle of red, when you hear a soft whimper.
A word. Syllables tripping over each other, wrapped in desperation and desire.
It takes a moment, but you realize he’s saying your name.
No, not saying. Moaning.
Your hand tries the doorknob. The sounds from the room halt, comically quick, followed by shuffling. You wiggle the handle again, and then say, “I know what you’re doing.”
Minutes pass. Or it doesn’t. You can’t tell. Spencer is quiet for a long while, no denial, no fluster, just silence that makes your heart jump to your throat.
“Open the door.” you call out, gentle as a morning mist, like you’re trying to keep an animal from getting spooked. “Spencer, it’s fine.”
It takes three more breaths before you hear movement. The door opens to his face, all wobbling lips, eyes glassy with tears. Of what? Guilt? Pleasure? Both? The rest of him is rumpled, sweater askew, a very clear bulge straining against his jeans. His left hand is clamped around something tightly, knuckles white, red lace peeking through the slits of his fingers.
“That’s mine, isn’t it?”
He nods. “I’m sorry.”
“Now you’re sorry?”
“I am. I was sorry then, too.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not.”
You huff, eyes narrowing. “Then why are you still jerking off to me like this?”
“Keep your voice d–”
“I don’t think you get to tell me that when you’re right there, holding one of my goddamned panties like a pervert.”
He shrinks like a tower collapsing in on itself. Panicked brown eyes flicker past you, and look down the hallway, like he’s waiting for one of your parents to come walking by.
"They won't be coming up, Saturday nights, they like to indulge and pass out on the couch." You mumble, frowning.
"Why are you even up here?" he tries to deflect, but you're having none of it. Not now, when he's clearly been doing something deeply perverse. Something you had been thinking of, during sleepless nights alone.
"I was headed to the bathroom when I heard you." you lie, "Didn't even have the decency to keep it down, huh?" You watch, triumphant, as his cheeks turn bright red.
"I'm so—"
"God, stop apologizing." you push past him and let yourself into his room. The door closes with a click and you glare up at him, challenging and, beneath that, wanting. "I want to watch."
"What?"
"I want to watch. I think it's fair—you steal my underwear, I watch what you do with it."
He stares at you, dumbfounded to silence, looking like he's waiting for the ball to drop. But you're completely serious. It's not like you haven't crossed a line before. Who cares what happens now, right? You press your back to the door, locking it without looking.
He gulps, realizing there's no way out of this, and stumbles back to his bed. Slumps like he's been defeated.. Spencer glances at you questioningly, like he's waiting for a change. You only raise your brows at him, as if to say what are you waiting for?
He fumbles with his zipper again, avoiding your eyes as he pushes those pants low enough to free his length.
You haven’t actually seen him before. Wasn’t expecting a shaft as long as that, flushed red and slim like the rest of him. You wonder how he’d feel inside you, and immediately, guilt churns fresh in your chest. You swallow it down, and keep your eyes on him.
“You can start.” you murmur. A plea. An order.
Spencer moves like he’s made to obey. Maybe he is. Soft croaks spill from his lips, embarrassed, turned on, desperate to show off. He wraps a large hand around himself, white knuckled and pathetic, face tilted down like he’s trying to hide from you.
Up, down, slow, jerky strokes, his hand too large to properly tighten around the slenderness of his cock. Strands of hair fall over his forehead as his rhythm becomes steadier. With shaking hands, he brings your underwear to his nose and sniffs deeply.
“Spencer,” you say, transfixed. “Look at me.”
He whines.
“Look at me, please.”
His falters for a moment, large hand pausing midstroke, as if he’s calculating what the price you’d make him pay if he remains obstinately looking down.
There’s none, really, but you thread your voice with authority like you’d make him regret disobeying. “Look at me.”
Molten gold. His eyes look like molten gold, black pupils dilated and melting into clear brown irises. He lets out a choked moan, strokes growing faster, sloppier. Even from the distance, you can see the tip glistening with precum, and it’s that sight that makes your body move, quick strides to cross the distance between you.
He gasps, mouth going slack when you sink to your knees in front of him.
“What–what’re you–”
“Let me help.” you whisper, wrapping your palm around the base and easing his hand off. You squeeze as you stroke up, twist your wrist slightly, and something like a choked cough falls past his lips.
“God,” he doesn’t bother with pretense anymore. Doesn’t bother with the song and dance of coyness and deflection. Instead, Spencer’s hips buck up into your hand, eager for more, finally yielding to his baser desires. Lust winning over decency. He keeps your panties to his nose and moans. “That feels good.”
“Yeah?” your voice lowers, soaking in patronizing concern. “How long has it been since someone took care of you, huh?”
“T-too long.”
“Poor baby. Nobody since me? Is that why you’re so wound up?”
He blinks, then looks away like he’s guilty, whining, brows knit in distress. His hands fall beside him, limp. An ugly feeling curls in your chest, tight and burning with something you refuse to name right now. With your free hand, you cup his jaw and force him to meet your gaze again.
There, shining in those brown eyes, clear as day. Contrition. Shame.
“There was someone.” You try to make it sound less like an accusation, but it still lands that way.
He jerks, face twisting in pain. Your hand tightens around his cock, nails digging lightly into the sensitive skin.
“What’s her name?”
"Ow."
"What's her name?"
“Lila.” he folds like dirty linen and spits the name out as if it poisons, lower lip quivering. “It was Lila, please, it didn’t mean anything–”
“And this does?”
His eyes close and his body tips over, bending forward until you’re afraid he’ll collapse. But he only moves to press into you, forehead to forehead, nose to nose. He’s warm. Burning with guilt and desire and desperation, and you thrive off of all of it.
“I don’t know. I don’t know, god, after everything. I don’t know what this is. It’s all so scary. The job, all the fieldwork, it wasn't what I thought—” His face shifts, lips brushing against yours clumsily, like he’s trying it out for the first time. “She was so pretty and she kissed me first and I–”
You cut him off with a kiss, soothing and slow. He returns it hungrily, tongue pushing past your lips and licking into you like he wants to fill your mouth. Your hand leaves his length, both palms pressing into his thighs for balance as he kisses you with everything he’s got.
“And you what,” you mumble between kisses, lips muffled and slippery with saliva, “You liked it? Liked making out with her?”
You’re not sure why you’re doing this. It seems like torture, to even ask. Why you so desperately want the answer to be no.
“I did,” he admits, pulling away breathlessly. That burning in your chest grows white hot, threatening to erupt out of you like lava, “I did. But only because…”
“Because?” it comes clipped and impatient, and Spencer flinches like he’s been struck.
“It reminded me of you.”
You pull away from him in surprise. You hadn't even realized you were bracing for rejection, until his confession eases the weight off your shoulders. You're still for several beats, staring into him, waiting—praying—for an ounce of guilt to flood through your body. A hint of disgust at his words. Anything to pull you away from him.
The relief simply stays. Settles like a boat being anchored, and you know you're both ruined.
You kiss him again, because it feels good. Because he tastes like mint and sin. Because he kisses back just as fervently, like he misses your mouth, like he wants to remember what it's like forever so he'll never have to settle for the cheap approximation of it from other women.
"Tell me what else she did." you mumble, trailing kisses down his jaw. You nip at the skin right at the juncture of his jaw and neck, just to hear him whine. "Did she touch you like this too?"
Your hand returns to where it had been previously wrapped around him, making quick, insistent pumps, so good he can't answer for a good minute. Just soft rattles of breath and hips trying to buck up into your touch.
"Spencer?"
"No," he hisses finally, "No, it was just—ah—just kisses."
"Good." you say, feeling slightly better from his admission. You kiss him again, slow and sweet this time, taking the lead and forcing him to follow, your tongue moving in tandem with your hand. When you part, he follows, glassy eyed and slick-lipped, moaning when you push him away.
"What—"
"Shh. Keep your voice down." you whisper, adjusting your stance before him, lips licking teasingly over his bony thighs, before pressing a sloppy kiss to the tip of his cock.
He bucks. Cries out.
"Fuck's sake, Spencer, quiet down!" you repeat.
He nods, teeth clamping on his lower lip. You resume your movements, alternating between licks and gentle, open mouthed kisses, all lavished at his oversensitive tip, while your hand takes care of the rest of him. Slow, measured glides that have him twisting on his bed, thighs quivering like he's fighting against every instinct to close his legs around your head and curl up.
"So, nobody else besides this Lila?" you ask between every kiss, looking up at him through your lashes, deceptively, devastatingly innocent.
"N-no. I didn't kiss anyone else." he mumbles, "God, can I touch you?"
You nod, satisfied, humming when his fingers card through your hair, long digits tangling with the strands. He contents himself with just holding you there, occasionally brushing loose tendrils back to keep you free from distractions.
You reward him by taking him into your mouth, lips stretching around the bulbous tip, jaw relaxed as you slide him deeper, slowly guiding him with your hand.
Spencer lets out a sound that would sound pained if you didn't know what was happening. Your head bobs gently, retreating to the tip and sucking hard. He brings his free fist to his mouth and bites until you're sure he'll draw blood.
You hum around the weight of him, pushing back to take more of him into your mouth. Your hand takes care of what you can't fit, squeezing up gently while you suck. He's throbbing atop your tongue, and with once twist of your wrist, something warm and salty explodes and coats your senses.
He curses, hands gripping your hair in surprise, before immediately loosening.
"Shit! Oh no, oh no, I—ah!" he tries to push you away, apologetic and sweet as sin, but you stay put stubbornly, swallowing around every pulse, letting him finish inside your mouth. You stay on your knees, even as he sobs tearlessly, stay until he softens. Only then do you pull off, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
"I'm so—"
"Told you to stop apologizing." you mumble, settling now at his feet.
He frowns, easing from the bed to join you on the floor. "I know. I was—I came too soon."
"Seems like a recurring thing." you tease, smiling when it earns you a chuckle. A pause settles, heavy and loaded. "What did you mean, when you said it wasn't like you thought?"
He's quiet. Traces the carpet with a spindly finger as he thinks. "It just isn't. I don't know. It's all I've ever studied for, but nothing really prepares you for… for all of it. The stench of the bodies. The tiring interrogations. Taking a life."
"You've…" your voice trails off, suddenly understanding. Assuming his moodiness was all due to you had been a little presumptuous, if he's grappling with something as serious as this. "I'm sorry. I was making fun of you for being wound up."
"You didn't know." he smiles, even though it doesn't reach his eyes. "So there's no need to apologize."
"That's my line." you say weakly.
He laughs, brighter this time. The silence that hovers after is gentle, filled with awkwardness and hope. No guilt. No more. Not after this. Not when you both know there'll be more to come.
part of my BLOODY VALENTINE MARATHON | Main masterlist.
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.
It’s so funny because I KNOW you’re locked out of your account rn on accident but I’m reblogging for when you remember your password bbg. THIS HAD ME GIGGLING!!!!
LIKE PRINCESS???? Me???
Your writing is ALWAYS stunning and just leaves me feeling so warm (I’m horny)
content warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+ content, unholy use of bible verses, inaccurate use of religious themes, oral (f), fingering (f), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it folks!!), p in v sex, creampie, please let me know if I missed anything!
a/n:this has been a LONG time coming but I finally finished it!! Huge huge thank you to @minswriting for helping motivate me and coming up with the title (again) (lyrics from Church by Chase Atlantic). Also thank you to my beloved @alsofoundinpeas for being supportive af
thank you to @cafekitsune for the MDNI divider and @saradika-graphics for the stained glass divider
word count: 1.7k
Back at the station, you tried your hardest to focus on the task at hand, but your mind kept drifting back to the way Spencer’s lips felt on your skin, the way his fingers felt deep inside you, and the sounds he made when your mouth was wrapped around his cock. Each time you made eye contact with him, Spencer gave you a knowing smirk before shifting his attention back to his work. The day seemed to drag on, each minute feeling like an hour as you watched the clock. You almost jumped for joy when the team decided to call it quits for the day.
After finally getting back to the hotel for the night, you made a beeline to your room, desperate to find a way to pass the time until the coast would be clear to head to Spencer’s room. You intended to use the time to get ready, not wanting to look like a mess after the long work day. But instead you found yourself on the bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the previous encounter yet again.
You knocked on his door, shifting between your feet as you waited for him to open it. The door swung open almost instantly, as if he were standing right there waiting for your arrival. He was still dressed, but his tie and cardigan have both been discarded on a chair in the room; his hair a mess. You could practically feel the desire behind his eyes.
“You made it impossible for me to get work done today,” you say as you walk past him into the room.
“My bad?” he responds, unsure if he should apologize.
"I mean it, Spencer. You've taken over my thoughts. I stared at that stupid map for hours, but couldn't think of anything but you," you say as you turn to face him, watching as he shuts the door and moves closer to you.
"And what do you suggest we do about that?" he teases, leaning in towards you.
“Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth- for your love is more delightful than wine. Song of Songs 1:2” you whisper before brushing your lips against his.
Spencer doesn’t hesitate, kissing you greedily.
You wanted to take your time, finding the act of kissing him much more enjoyable than you anticipated, but you were still a little pent up from earlier and needed to hurry things along; judging by the tent in his pants, Spencer was feeling the same way. Without breaking the kiss, you nimbly unbutton his shirt; pushing it off his shoulders as he shrugs out of it. You run your hands down his bare torso, sending a shiver down his spine and a shaky breath slips from his mouth. His hands slide under your shirt, his fingers trailing up your sides. You pull back for a moment- just long enough to take off your shirt before capturing his lips with yours again in a needy kiss. You can feel him fumble with the hook of your bra, struggling to undo the clasp as you unbuckled his belt with ease, the proximity of your hands to his hard cock making it difficult for him to focus.
His lips move from yours to your jawline, trailing kisses from the spot where your jawline meets your neck just below your ear down to your collarbone. He finally manages to unhook your bra, pushing the straps off your shoulder until the garment slips off, landing on the growing pile of discarded clothing.
“How beautiful you are, my darling. Oh how beautiful. Song of Songs 1:15,” he mumbles, admiring the sight of your bare chest.
“I thought quoting scripture was my thing,” you tease
“You aren’t the only one who knows the Bible, sweet girl," he murmurs as he presses open-mouth kisses to your breasts.
He wraps his mouth around one of your nipples, tongue flicking against the sensitive peak. You moan and arch into him, one of your hands tangling in his hair as a whimper escapes your lips. He smirks against your skin as he unzips your skirt, letting it slide down your legs. You step out of it as he continues kissing down your torso. He trails one of his hands between your thighs until his fingers brush against the soaked fabric of your panties.
He groans, "you're already so wet for me, baby."
"I told you- mmm- been thinking about you all day," you mumble, bucking your hips against his hand.
He hooks his fingers into the sides of your panties, pulling them down your legs and exposing your soaked core. He gently pushes you onto the bed, making quick work of removing his pants and boxers before climbing over you. You buck your hips when you feel his cock between your legs, whining for him to give you what you've been craving. He lines himself up with your entrance, teasing just the tip inside. He moans as you grind against him in need of friction. He makes eye contact with you as he finally starts to move his hips.
“Jesus Christ,” you gasp when he pushes inside, his big cock stretching you out
He laughs breathlessly “Nope, still me”
You open your mouth to reply but your response is cut off with a moan as he bottoms out.
“Fuck, angel, you feel so good,” he groans as he tries to give you time to adjust.
After a moment of getting used to the stretch, you mumble, “Need you to move, Spence.”
He groans and slowly rocks his hips against yours, his cock slowly going in and out of your tight cunt. You can see in his face that he’s struggling to pace himself- desperate to lose himself in you. With every little whimper and moan that comes from you, his confidence seems to grow. His thrusts come faster and harder. You move your hands to his back, digging your nails into the skin as he slammed into you.
He slides one of his hands down to your thigh, moving your leg from its position around his waist and lifting it so it rests on his shoulder. The new angle allows him to hit your g-spot with every thrust, causing you to let out a string of curses under your breath. He smirks and kisses along your jawline, stopping by your ear to whisper, “Right there, huh?”
“Uh-huh,” you answer, unable to form a proper sentence- too lost in pleasure to think of anything other than the way his cock is pounding into you.
He groans when he feels your walls clench around his length. He slides his hand down to rub figure-8s on your clit, “Cum for me, angel. I want to feel you cum around me."
You arch up into him, crying out his name as your orgasm hits you,, wave after wave of pleasure wracking your body as he keeps moving his hips. You can feel his cock stiffen as he gets close, his thrusts increasing in speed and force. He gripped your leg tightly as he pressed himself into you and filled your sinful cunt with his cum as he chanted your name- unable to think of anything other than the pleasantly overwhelming sensation of his cock buried in your pussy.
You both lie there panting heavily as you try to come down. Spencer lazily kisses along your shoulder as he catches his breath. He carefully pulls out of you, causing a whine to slip from your mouth at the loss.
He kisses his way down your body, mumbling between kisses, "Gonna clean you up, sweet girl.
“Let my beloved come into his garden and taste its choice fruits Song of Songs 4:16,” you mumble, the verse falling from your lips without a second thought. You see Spencer smirk as he spreads your legs further and settles between them, his face level with your sensitive cunt.
You can hear the sharp intake of his breath as he catches sight of his cum leaking from you.
You shiver in anticipation when you feel his breath on your core. He chuckles and looks up at you, making eye contact before his tongue darts out and he tentatively licks a stripe up your folds causing you to gasp. Your hands instinctively reach for him, tangling your fingers in his curls. He moans against your core when you tug on his hair, eliciting a whimper from you. He gently sucks on your sensitive clit, savoring the needy sounds you were making. Spencer gathers some of the combination of your wetness and his cum on his fingers. He shifts and holds his glistening fingers up to your lips, "Have a taste."
You lick his fingers clean, maintaining eye contact, moaning as the taste hits your tongue. His mouth was instantly back on you, his eyes fluttering shut as he started to devour you. He hummed against you as you whined and moaned with each movement of his tongue. He pushed his fingers into your wet cunt, pumping them in and out to bring you closer to release. Your thighs clamped around him and you held him in place by his hair, desperate for more.
“That's it. Let me take care of you, angel,” he mumbled, feeling your walls flutter around his fingers
He continues his ministrations, pumping his fingers into your wet cunt as he teases your clit with his tongue. He hooks his fingers just right and it's enough to send you over the edge. You arch into him, tugging on his hair as he works you through your orgasm, not stopping until you're writhing from the overstimulation. He slips his fingers from you, looking up at you as he sucks them clean with a satisfied moan. He smirks at the small noise you make in response before kissing his way up your torso until he's eye level with you.
“I might be your Jesus, but you’re my personal Aphrodite,” he murmurs as he brushes a stray hair out of your face.
“Wrong pantheon, Spence," you retort with a breathless laugh
“Actually, there's a lot of parallels between Greek myths and biblical stories, likely because of the shared culture of those creating each mythos. For example, the miracles performed by Jesus are similar to those said to have been performed by Asclepius, the Greek god of medicine," he explains, wrapping an arm around you to pull you close.
You settle against him, resting your head on his chest. He presses a light kiss to your forehead, mumbling "you did so good, angel. Get some rest now."
You hum in acknowledgment as you close your eyes, drifting off in his arms.
My ancestors would have wanted pasteurization, vaccines, antibiotics, disinfectants, birth control, psychiatric medications, pain management, anesthesia. My ancestors would have wanted to be able to keep their loved ones around longer, and not lose them too early/too soon to childbirths, injuries, bacterial infections, mental illnesses, and diseases that are curable and/or preventable in our modern day life.
In fact, we know they did want these things, because they invented them. They gave them to us out of generations of struggling to understand and make use of nature itself. "Ancestral knowledge" includes the unglamorous things like germ theory, the functioning of the immune system, and how to manufacture lifesaving vaccines. It's not just magical or mystical or remote, it's present in our lives at every moment. It's the reward of human connection: the sum total of human discovery and the boundless ingenuity of human invention, surrounding us at all times with absolute miracles made banal by their familiarity.
If we reject modern medicine, then we reject all the labors and trials our ancestors went through for us; we reject our very nature.
Please, for your ancestors' sake: vaccinate your kids, and take your goddamn medicine.
Do you think that Trump will do what he says and achieve peace in the world and end wars, especially the Gaza war?
Yes
no
Voting ended onAug 28, 2025
Trump is a man who claims peace, while he threatens to open the gates of hell on Gaza if the Israeli hostages are not handed over, ignoring the suffering of 2 million Gazans, the killing of 70,000, the destruction of an entire city, and the annihilation of all means of life there. In addition, there are more than 12,000 Palestinians imprisoned in Israeli occupation prisons.
In addition to all this, the Israeli occupation has denied the famine many times (while thousands of photos and videos came out from the heart of the Gaza Strip of people dying from famine, and I personally and my family are suffering from severe shortages and malnutrition).
Israel denies killing civilians, health and civil defense crews, ambulances, journalists and children in Gaza (yesterday 4 journalists, one civil defense member and more than 12 civilians were killed live on air in front of the whole world).
While all the sons of the Gaza Strip are dying publicly, secretly and live on air, where are the international laws, where are human rights, where are those who claim peace in the world, where is Trump regarding what is happening in us live on air? Please do not ignore the suffering of innocent civilians who are calling on you for help, asking you to extend a helping hand to us and to donate to us, please.
We are living under bombardment, amidst hunger, deprivation, and skyr… Nader Family needs your support for Help us overcome all this loss an
“Truthers, flat-earthers, anti-vaxxers… when we leave people behind, we leave bright minds to mutate and stagnate. These folks are potential scientists gone completely wrong. Their natural inquisitiveness and rejection of norms could be beneficial to science if they were more scientifically-literate.”
Quote by Dr SPIROS MICHALAKIS:
“The problem I see is actually not from the side of the conspiracy theorists. It is actually from our side, from the side of science. Very often it is difficult not to look down. My friend said: “Sometimes, the way to change someone’s mind is to shame them”. And I say, I don’t think that’s the last resort, ever. This is the same as saying that, if a kid doesn’t get a particular subject, it’s not your fault as the teacher, it is their own fault. I do not believe that. It is you haven’t developed your empathy to see from their point of view where they’re getting stuck. The worst case scenario is you just completely push these individuals at the fringe of society, and then society just lost them.“
Hi, I'm Emme @thegloryofliterature - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
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