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The thing about it is, Peter has beautiful hands.
They’re long, softer than they had any right to be. They’re soft everywhere; on her face and on arms, down her back and gripping at her hips. There’s a scar on the knuckle of his left thumb, a curved crescent, and Peter tells her that he can’t remember where it came from. Natasha doesn’t understand that, how he could forget something so important, something that had left a mark on him potentially forever. She had let him search out all of her scars that night, told him their stories, and let him kiss every one until she’s was shuddering and had talked herself hoarse.
He’s so gentle with them too, the way he brushes the pads of his fingertips just light enough to tickle. Those hands held more power than she was truly comfortable with, and he touched her like she was the most precious thing in the universe.
Peter had pretty wrists too, thin and boyish like the rest of him, veins a soft blue-green just under his skin. They fit perfectly in the grip of her hand.
Peter was beautiful as a whole, sitting in her old t-shirt, hair splayed out over her stomach like a halo. He’s tracing patterns on her thighs, eyelashes fluttering closed like butterfly kisses. There’s a tiny curl behind his left ear, soft and golden, and she cards her hand through it, twirling the strands and watching them bounce back. He practically purrs, pushing up into her and the hand that isn’t touching her tightens where it’s resting on the blankets.
He writes nonsense words and draws flowers into her skin, or at least that’s what he tells her.
They’re supposed to be forget-me-not’s, or that’s what I’m going for. My Mom used to have some out in her garden when I was little. They represented true love she said, but I think she only had them cuz’ Dad thought they were pretty. I dunno, I guess I just like them. Doesn’t need to mean anything. Mom always thought everything had to mean something special.
She’s sure he’s drawing forget-me-not’s now, or running equations or writing poetry, not that it really matters.
His hands creep higher, still soft as velvet and smoother than silk, and a warm feeling spreads from her chest down a little lower.
“Peter.”
“Hm?” His eyes are glassy around the edges, half asleep when he looks up at her, all adoring honesty and unfiltered happiness.
His fingers go higher, coming up to brush the juncture of her thighs. Natasha can feel her own wetness, and she can tell when he feels it too. She runs her hand through his hair again, cradling his head to push him down, his face so close to her body that his eyelashes brush against the curve of her belly. She guides him lower still, until he’s resting over her legs on the bed, hands on her hips. He’s hovering over her cunt, looking up at her, asking permission like he always does, no matter how many times she tells him the answer will always be yes.
In the end she doesn’t have to tug him the last little bit of the way, instead he pushes up and forward of his own accord, pressing up into her with his tongue. Her back arches like a cat, sighing and leaning back against the pillows. He hadn’t always been so good at this, but months of practice had definitely helped, and she doesn’t need to tell him to use his fingers anymore.
She’s not loud, never had been and never would be, but her hands grip tighter in his hair the closer she gets. It’s not a big show when she comes, but Peter knows how to read her better than anyone, and relishes in the tiny moan that escapes her when she shudders under his tongue, going just a bit softer and pliant in his arms.
He crawls up towards her, nuzzles against her jaw while she comes back, presses kisses to the column of her throat and just waits. She can feels the hardness of him against her hip, and she presses a hand down over his sweatpants, just firm enough to make him whimper into her skin.
Peter’s so open for her, and she cherishes it like nothing else, tries to take care of him the best she can. Those hands of his are gripping at the material of her pyjamas, just a shirt and nothing else, not quite hard enough to rip.
He bucks up into the circle of her fingers, warm and flushed in her hand. He doesn’t last long, but neither did she, and the warm, happy look on his face is better than anything else she could ever want. They’re both sweaty and sticky and kind of gross, but Natasha presses a kiss into his hair, curling up tighter around him. She smiles against him when he looks up to kiss her properly, and laughs around his tongue when his finger brush against the ticklish skin of her ribs.
They don’t move until the sun rises the next morning, tangled together under the blankets. Peter has such pretty hands, and they don’t stop gripping the hem of her shirt until dawn, and even then they don’t end up going very far.