odie

I have a tendency of writing mini essays on my writing and character justification and stuff LMAOASOCN (just to make myself feel better ab my writing cue the melancholy emoji idk where its at). If anybody wants me to post them pls lmk!! Likeeee heres an example theyre so chaotic help 

This is for my blurb, “Bingo Boy” → 

an exercise examining peter's character after nwh

The next time you saw him, it was in the library, and he was wearing these big headphones. It had been two weeks, and you found it peculiar how it seemed as though his jaw had sharpened as he looked down, eyelashes fluttering over his cheeks, pencil tapping rhythmically on the desk. 

You looked down at your book when he noticed you staring. You did not think he caught you, though. Daring another glance, you looked up, and Tom waved, biting back a laugh. He beckoned you over to the empty seat beside him, wordlessly, taking his headphones off. You ignored how you noticed the warm overhead fluorescent lights glinting off his chestnut brown hair. Pretending that you were not perturbed by Tom’s presence, you walked over, set your bag down, took out your laptop, and sat down. 

“You like that band?” Tom whispered, running a hand through his hair, watching you as you set up your study supplies. 

“What band?” you asked. 

“The band on your shirt.” 

“I like The Beatles, sure. It was on sale.” 

“They’re really small. I’m surprised you’ve heard of them.” 

“Why did you call me over here? Our assignment is due in two weeks. You have fourteen days.” 

“Sh. Don’t flirt with me so loudly, Y/N. The librarians will get you.” 

“Oh, be quiet. Why are you so keen on playing the jester?” 

“Listen. Economics is easy for me. And I don’t do well in group projects. Honestly,” he admitted. 

You bit your lip, pensive. Then let go of it when Tom’s eyes flickered towards your bottom lip. 

“Sure,” you conceded. “Should we meet on Thursday night before it’s due? Just so I can ensure your work will not get me expelled?” 

“What is your phone number? We need to communicate for the project, right?” 

You tossed his phone back into his palm after entering your line. A silence, quieter than the library, fell over you. You cleared your throat, grabbed your things, excused yourself, and left. 

* 

Then, when you saw him twelve days later, it was Thursday, and the burgers at the nearby pub were on sale. As you sat down into a lone chair by the bar, you scanned the room. Red, elaborate carpeted walls and smooth, amber countertops. You were so lost in thought you nearly did not feel a pair of hot palms squeezing your shoulders. With a frightened and subsequent sigh in relief when you whipped around to see Tom’s expression of genuine regret, you laughed and gestured for him to sit down. 

“It’s crowded, innit?” Tom asked, taking his cap off, and exposing unruly curls. Inexplicably, you imagined running your hands through them. You nodded and watched him as he took off his jacket, steadying himself on the unsteady hightop chair. He attempted to call the bartender over, wobbling in his chair. After the bartender had left, and Tom had gazed at you with flushed cheeks, you sipped your drink.

“A lot more crowded than I thought,” you told him. Quickly, the bartender arrived with a rum and coke. Tom inhaled it through his straw. 

“Thirsty?” you asked. 

“I walked here from my place. I forgot water.” 

“You should have some real water, then.” 

“Liquid is liquid.” 

“I suppose.” 

“Did you bring your laptop?” 

“Yeah. There’s not much room up here.” 

“Yeah. There’s nowhere else, either?” 

“No.” 

“Damn.” 

After you had eaten and Tom had forced you to let him pay for your meal, he began his walk home, and you felt a scary swell of appreciation for him on your tube ride home. The project was really good. 

*

And unfortunately and fortunately for you, the presentation went impeccably well. Tom did not stutter, nor did you. You tried not to think too much about how you had to use your acting chops to explain the concepts Tom had written about, so concisely and comprehensively. 

And when you saw him later that Friday night at some random afters at two a.m., dressed in someone’s pink lacy Juicy Couture crop-top and low-rise Juicy sweatpants; beside him, a pretty girl in the same outfit Tom wore today: baggy jeans, belt, dark green hoodie, beaten-up bomber jacket. Together, arms wrapped around each others’ waists, they staggered through the house. Music pounded your skull from where you sat on the couch in the corner, smushed beside a couple who was doing much more than snog. Tom caught your eye. Yet, in the bleary moment in between your thought and his movement, Tom was dragging her over towards you, and from under the low lights, his exposed torso moved with such fluid strength you nearly coughed your drink back up. 

*

“Project went well, huh?” Tom slurred, stumbling beside you. He fell onto the couple on the couch, dragging the girl with him as she squealed, and making the couple angrily get up and move. As Tom looked at you expectantly, awaiting your answer, the girl began to grind against him, and kiss his neck sloppily. Tom grabbed her hips and helped her move as he waited for you to talk. 

“You’re being weird,” you told Tom, accidentally spilling your drink onto him, and subsequently, the girl, a little bit. She screeched when a droplet hit her dress, flailing from the couch, and sprinting into the nearest bathroom for some water to clean it, you supposed. 

“I’m too fucked up for this,” he said, tiredly, rubbing his temples. The sticky beer in your cup made his temples look like they were glazed with sweat. You watched it dribble down his chest where it pooled above his v-line. 

“Where is that top from?” you asked him, sitting down beside him after dodging the pool of beer. 

“It’s hers,” he said woefully, sitting in the puddle. 

“How much was it?” 

“No idea.” 

“Looks expensive. We need to save it for her. Up. Fuck. Get up, Tom.” 

“Fuck off. I’m not that drunk, let me move.” 

It only took a miraculous ten minutes to get Tom’s shirt into the powder room sink. The sink was filled with cold water and you did not have to do all this for a random beer-stained Juicy Couture shirt you thought of potentially selling. Tom sat on the toilet, head in his hands, dozing off. You flicked some cold water at him and his eyes flicked open, like you had only blown air on his face, unphased. He smiled. 

“What?” he asked you. 

“Get up,” you said. Tom got up. The bathroom became smaller than you thought it was. The water had stopped running, the shirt was floating all sadly in the sink, and Tom was shirtless and pantless. He sucked in a slow breath as he leaned in and it was absurd. His lips smelled like Fireball and whisky when you drunkenly traced them with your own, curious, you shivered when they brushed against him. Tom smirked against your lips. You did not notice that his fingers thumbed your hipbones until he did. You were so drunk. You were never going to see him again. The project was over. You dodged him lazily as he tried to kiss you. 

His tongue tentatively prodded your lips. Weird. When you took his lips into your mouth, he laughed a little. 

You could not rationalize yourself into explaining why you enjoyed feeling his teeth and sighing into his mouth as he hoisted you up onto his bathroom counter, mouthing your tits through your sheer white t-shirt. 

“Tom,” you yelped, surprised as you accidentally arched into him. Behind a raspy, lazy laugh, he thumbed your tit as he kissed your neck. Before you could get too comfortable, you pushed him off of you, and swiftly pivoted in front of him, letting your hand rest against his warm dick as you sank to your knees. He only wore his plaid boxers, and they were wrinkled. The imprint of his cock sat parallel to your line of sight and with a satisfied hum, you licked it. 

“I knew you would look so fucking good like this,” Tom said quietly, holding your hair back as you pressed kisses to his thighs. You hummed in disbelief, in awe of what you were doing to him, and to yourself. 

“In the library,” he continued, voice removed as he watched you gracefully tug his boxers down, “I wanted you. Over the desk. So bad. Fuck. Use those gorgeous lips. Tell me how good I look like this. I wanna see you say it. With your mouth on my cock.”

“You’re so sexy when you talk about Keynesian economics,” you said. 

Tom laughed, he pulled away and pulled you up, holding you against him as you involuntarily wrapped your thighs around him, accidentally pressing yourself into him. You sucked in a breath and whimpered when he began to kiss your neck, moving your skirt and panties to the side. 

“Tom,” you said shakily, adrenaline rushing, unsure. A little overwhelmed at the size of him sliding against your core and at what you were doing with him, you shivered when his tip entered your folds, making both of you suck in a breath. Tom held you with one hand on the small of your back and the other on the nape of your neck. 

Music still rattled outside, yet you could care less—this bathroom lighting did an eerie job at mimicking that of the library’s. He took his time warming you up, tentatively sliding in and out, up and down, sitting halfway in your entrance, heavy and aching; Tom began to kiss you, and you could not believe how passionately he did it. 

Tom smiled and began to fuck you so relentlessly and softly at the same time that you accidentally began to whimper, resting your head on his bare shoulder as he held you close, moving with you. He said your name quietly, as if the whole house could listen as he watched you come undone. Your mouth was dry and your lips were parched and you reached out, pulling him closer to you, kissing him as he continued to hit a spot inside of you that made you speechless. It was so hot and roiling and bubbled pleasantly inside of you with a heat that made you tremble in his arms. 

You could not tease Tom about his blabbering, because you were not even coherent enough to speak. Then, it hit you—with a gasp, you recoiled, and Tom held you tightly to him. He kissed every inch of your face lustfully as he pulled out and finished with you. His cum dripped between your thighs and as he slowly pushed it back against you, he watched your lips part, your eyes rolling backwards, sleepy.  

“Can I see you outside of class?” he asked, breathless. 

“Can you teach me economics?” you asked with an incredulous laugh, kissing him. You could not believe what you had just done. 

“Is that even a question?” he murmured. 

-ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ-

“It was humiliating,” you said, deadpan. Peter stopped kissing you. His pensive expression caved into a grin, forehead warm as it rested against yours. His fingers were inside of you, now, and you smiled gratefully at him, brushing your lips over his neck, riding them.

“I still can’t tell when you’re supposed to be joking,” he whispered, watching your lips part in a pleasured sigh with curiosity and amazement; unbelievably, when you snorted at his admission, his fingers curled, and you gasped.

“Peter,” you whined, trying to be quiet.

“It’s okay,” he reassured you, kissing you softly. His eyebrows furrowed so gently as he revered in the taste of your lips and he was so deep and incandescent and burning hot inside of you. You hung onto his shoulders and lips. Then, straddled him, abruptly. He laughed and traced haphazard circles over your hips, traced his tongue over his bottom lip. You held your breath. You pulled Peter’s dick out of his boxers and held it in your hand; it sank into your palm with a palpable heavy warmth, which made your mouth water. Your heart fell into your stomach. Yet, when he bypassed your mouth and held you up when you were prepared to go down, you could not help the way he held you over him, weightless. He watched you with the same focus as a hawk—-or spider—as Peter pulled your sleep shorts to the side, revealing your silken, saturated core. Peter’s chest rattled in a content groan when he dragged his tip against you. Your shoulders tingled and involuntarily, you shuddered, and rested your chin on his shoulders.

“That almost feel as good as the gaze of Nick Cage?” Peter asked with a huff. His chest glowed in the yellow-green tinge of the Wizard of Oz as it putted away in the background.

“Almost,” you responded, sagely; you held your breath as Peter entered you. It was decadent and sleepy and reminded you that tonight you had planned to have an easy evening with awful television and awful food. Peter fucked you with the same tension as a boat breaking the surface of the sea, laughing against your lips as some characters sung about following the Yellow Brick Road. When you laughed back, he made you squeak. He began to deliver moan-inducing thrusts. Your head lolled backwards.

“That’s it,” he cooed, teeth glinting as the light of his smile penetrated the darkness.

“Peter,” you moaned, again; presently, you felt like an idiot. He moved within the deepest, softest parts of you with such timid, strong ease. You could not form words. He lightly squeezed your ass as you slowly began to ride him—the fabric of your oversized shorts draped over your connected bodies and when you glanced downwards, you only saw the dark, glistening frenzy of his dick as it made you whole.

“I’m not going to let you fuck me to the fucking Wizard of Oz and I’m not going to let you throw me into Nick Cage, Peter,” you tried, as a last ditch attempt to prove to yourself that you were lucid. Yet, when Peter’s rosy lips quirked into a sexy, knowing grin, you gave up.

“It seems you’ve already let me do one of those things,” he said.

“Shut up,” you said.

“Gladly,” he said, kissing you.

-ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ-

He gulped down a large bite of bread and had the gall to look ashamed. It was such a petty thing. Yet, after dating for nine months since you met him in that godforsaken coffee shop you worked at, you had learned that, with him, he would keep conducting himself in blissful oblivion until you told him something. Sighing, you gave him a stern yet empathetic look, wrapping your arms around his side as he slowly ate his food. 

“My bad, Y/N. I’m sorry. I never realized it was this bad,” he looked down at you and wiped his crummy lips before kissing your forehead, “but I really never thought it was so bad you had to resort to your mom’s woo-woo stuff.” 

“Hey!” You flicked his side. “Take me seriously. And the thing works. Also, I can’t reach the hook. Put it on there for me? Please?” 

“Of course,” Peter said, walking to the kitchen sink, extending his arms and lifting up the base of his tshirt, exposing his absurdly defined back. 

That visual reminder of his athleticism made you add, “and what do you mean, woo-woo? Have you seen what you do for a living?” 

 With deft ease, Peter tied the knot over the hook, laughed, squeezed the bag for good measure - for some reason - and watched it bubble, then got down to face you. 

“Is that in the right spot?” he asked, standing at your side, admiring it with you. 

“Works for me,” you said. “Thank you.” 

After Peter had eaten his toast, apologized again, and apologized again, he proposed an idea. Thus, two hours later, you and Peter sat on your slightly cat-scratched Craigslist couch, already through a bottle and a half of some wine you had nipped from your work party. You lounged with your back on the side, legs over Peter’s lap, his hand absentmindedly gliding over your thigh. You were tipsy, and at this point in the evening, you had resorted to lazily gazing at Peter, just taking your partner in—yet, as you inspected, he looked tired. Too tired. His undereyes suddenly seemed too purple and his hair too mussed. Frowning, you sat up right when the vinyl transitioned into a new track, wine sloshing in your glass. 

“Woah, there, cowboy,” Peter said, trying not to smile as he steadied your hips. 

“Sorry, Parker,” you slurred. “How’s the Spidering going?” 

His lips tugged into a jokingly offended frown. 

“I told you, that is not what we are calling my, uh… arrangement.” 

“My arrangement,” you taunted, biting your lip to prevent them from widening into an amused and lovesick grin. “Like that’s any better.”

He thumbed your hips as you straddled him, wine still in hand, “and what do you propose?” 

“Spidering.” 

“Horrendous, love.” 

You laughed and kissed him and nearly spilled the wine onto his clean curls before he swiftly grabbed it from you, placing it on the coffee table with such agility you could hardly register the coolness of the glass leaving your warm palm. With both of your eyes still closed, he tongued your mouth, sitting up; heat soared through you, anticipation hot on your tongue. 

“I’m so happy we moved in together,” he admitted lustfully against your lips, brushing his hands over your back, “I’ve had such a fulfilling month.” 

“You only want me for one thing,” you teased, teeth accidentally grating his teeth as you held back a smile. 

“Yeah, your food and your woo-woo penny Ziplocs,” he said. And then, after a moment, his eyes gleamed impishly: “and how you suck my cock—hey!” 

You bit his bottom lip a little bit too hard before sinking to your knees, sighing when his hands automatically threaded through your hair. 

“It’s like you read my mind,” Peter said, lips pulled into a lazy grin. 

“It’s like you just said what you wanted out loud,” you said, smirking, undoing the tie on his gray sweatpants. Peter laughed breathlessly and shook his head as you pulled his pants down, feeling him twitch through his boxers. You regarded his throbbing length curiously, tilting your head. 

“It’s crazy how thick you are, y’know,” you told him, gently squeezing. He sucked in a breath as the record stuttered and his eyes darkened. You could see the faint outline of his abs heaving underneath his sheer shirt, and as you tugged his boxers down, you gazed up at him through your lashes when his dick bounced back against his chest, pink, hard, and getting bigger. You smoothed a hand over his stomach before closing your eyes and taking him into your mouth. You loved exploring the taste and feel of him; you had learned that whenever you took the time to look up at him and hollow your cheeks, he had to look at the ceiling, unable to watch, eyebrows furrowing—

So, you did that. And Peter reacted as you had predicted. 

“Fuck,” he groaned. The Ziploc penny bag jingled in the wind as it bustled through your open window, the midmorning light cascading onto his cheekbones as you dared a glance at him. You clenched your thighs as he clenched his jaw and lightly held the back of your head, not pushing you nor forcing you onto him. 

“I wanna feel you so bad,” he muttered slowly, suddenly pulling you off of him, grabbing you by the armpits and lifting you onto his thighs, making you burst into a fit of laughter. You bit your lip and pulled your hair behind your ears as you quickly got off on him, your sleepshorts slipping to the side, exposing your bare heat. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I laugh when I’m excited,” you said, already out of breath as his tip slid against you. 

“I know,” he said, pushing into you. He sat straight against the back of the couch as you rode him feverishly, frantically, eyes fluttered closed, noses smushed together, arms wrapped around his back. You gasped into his mouth and he helped quiet you, kissing you dirtily. 

“I love wine morning,” he said through a pleasured huff. 

“Me too,” you agreed. “We should do this more often.” 

Peter’s lips fell agape when he hit a particularly euphoric spot inside of you. You saw stars and moaned into his mouth and he rested his chin on top of your head, pulling you into his chest, fucking you impossibly hard yet slow. 

“Fuck, Pete,” you cried out, scraping your nails against his back, unable to deal with the sheer pleasure; you bounced on him so fast you were panting, kissing his neck, holding him close, “fuck wine night.” 

-ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ-

author's note:

hi!!! i hope u liked this lil blurb:)) im tryna focus more on cute lil domestic blurbs bc the intense dark ones make me sad LMAOOCJ fucc pisces moon..... anyways THOOO pls send me requests<3

and if you would like to be added to my taglist, comment here, or shoot me a message! good day/night folks love yousss<33

“I’m gonna die!” he yelled. His voice was muffled and you were thankful that whomever’s air vessel this was had microphones outside. What a strange feature to have. You snapped back into reality when Peter slammed a fist against the glass, hanging on for dear life. Begrudgingly, you put it on autopilot, strapped yourself against a metal thing you believed would hold you if the air pressure were to suck you out. As you scowled and tried to figure out how to unlatch the door, you scorned your father for failing to pass down the intelligence gene to you.   Before you had even opened it all the way, Peter had jumped inside and closed the door. 

“Y/N, what are you thinking? That harness is not doing anything against that external pressure,” he gasped, falling onto the co-pilot’s seat, back heaving beneath his webbed suit. “I was so high up. Oh my god. Why did it take you so long to hear me?” 

He ripped his mask off and turned. His face was flushed and bruised and bleeding and windburned. You tasted salt on your tongue. 

“Dad’s dead,” you said. 

“We don’t know for sure.” 

“Pepper closed his eyes.” 

“Maybe she’s—”

You sighed. Peter stopped talking, and looked up at you. Tears cut a path through the dirt and grime on Peter’s face. Wordlessly, you sat in the pilot’s chair beside him, eyeballed a lone Cheeto on the dusty dash, promptly popped it in your mouth, and earned a look of incredulous disgust from Peter. He shook his head. 

“Where are you going?” he asked. 

“I don’t know. There’s a full tank. Where do you want to go?” 

“I don’t know. We’re twenty minutes off the East Coast.” 

“I want to go home,” he said, tautly. 

“Let’s go to Crete.” 

“Greece?” 

“Yeah.” You typed it into the router. “It’ll take an hour.” 

Peter’s eyes widened. “How fast does this thing go?” 

“I’m going to nap. Get me when we’re there.” 

“You’re holding me hostage, Y/N,” Peter said tiredly, raising his brow as you retreated into the bench off the side, connected to the wall. 

“You’re free to leave,” you said, mockingly raising your brow as you curled into a ball. “Why’d you follow me?” 

He looked down and fiddled with his suit fingers. “I don’t know. You had a weird look.” 

“Are you telling me I look weird?” 

“Exactly.” 

Against all your better judgement, you were able to let out a puny snort. Peter’s lip twitched and he turned back with a silent exhale, shoulders slumping, facing the purpley evening sky. 

“I set myself up for that one,” you said. 

“You should sleep,” Peter encouraged. “I’ve never been to Greece.” 

When you woke up, you nearly punched him in the face. You had forgotten where you were. When you remembered, you pushed Peter out of the way, then apologized, then landed the jet inside of a random ocean cave in an ordeal that was more tricky than you would have liked to admit.

The moon was incredibly bright. Blood and dirt made your skin itch as you blearily climbed out of the jet, still entirely unsure of why you were here, and why you decided to steal someone’s jet. The jet emitted plumes of heavy heat as you walked past it to join Peter, who stood on the cliff, looking at the sea. 

“It’s really dark,” he said. His voice was drowned out by the shrill hum of waves colliding. When you regarded his profile, your eyebrows drew into a pensive line, and the wind whipped through his curls. He pointed up at the moon and stars, then to the water. He extended a finger, grey and ghostly in the night, pointing to where the moonlight met the ocean in oscillating transitions of colour. You held his hand and pretended you could see the Orion constellation he was pointing out. You were cold. The jet probably had an emergency kit with an insulated blanket if it had external microphones. 

“You’re shivering,” Peter said, rubbing your shoulders. In the blackness, you saw Tony. 

“Why did you come, Peter?” you asked, harshly. Your stomach felt like it slipped out your ass and into the sea. You wanted Tony. You wanted your dad back. 

“Don’t be like that,” Peter said, softly. 

“Like what? Can’t I grieve?” 

His face hardened. “We both have some grieving to do, Y/N. We need to stay together. Especially now—” 

You scoffed. “Come on, Pete. It’s so unfair!” 

With an unstable step forward, you pushed a finger into his chest, your eyes burning. 

“Thanos thought he was doing the right thing. I thought I was doing the right thing. Everybody is dead. So, what’s right now? We’re the winners, right? We came out alive! Fuck! We made it! But it’s unfair! It’s so—”

Peter was already hugging you before your voice cracked. Together, you tried not to cry. 

“Do you feel like you did the right thing?” Peter asked quietly. His voice tickled your ear. 

“We’re not dust anymore,” you whispered. Your lip wobbled. “But my dad is dead.” 

Peter hugged you tighter. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said. 

“I’m sorry, too,” you told him. 

Peter let out a watery laugh. “Yeah. I guess I liked the guy.” 

You managed to crack a smile and pulled out of his embrace, nudging his shoulder. “I think he quite enjoyed your presence, too.” 

With a reminiscing, melancholy smile that held profound guilt crossed his face, you pulled him closer, wrapping your arm around his side. His warmth was relieving. You relaxed your shoulders and rested your head against his shoulder. For a while, you stood there.

After a few minutes, he had wrapped his arm around your side, and held you tight. When the moon was at its peak, you were sitting on top of the insulated blanket you had told Peter to fetch, and the cold stone cliff face made your ass tingle.

He laid on his side and you had just smoked a joint you had found hidden in the bathroom mirror as music blared uncontrollably over some hidden intercom after Peter accidentally pressed a button—obviously, this was Peter Quill’s plane; yet, that name means nothing to you as you inhaled, high on ignoring the matter at hand, high on the beach, high on the feeling of Peter’s fingers gently combing through your hair. 

With a less-tense sigh, you relaxed a little, blowing smoke through your lips. 

“Come here,” Peter said, tapping your thigh. You turned around, confused. With a relaxed yet determined gaze, he urged you to sit with your back towards him. Reluctantly, you listened to his touch, and reoriented yourself. His fingers pressed deftly into your shoulders and you tensed. 

“Why do you tense so much?” he asked. He had stolen a curious little hit and you subsequently realized that, while high, he quite enjoyed speaking his mind. You snaked a hand behind him and swatted his knee. Peter cleared his throat and you felt him straighten when your lips parted into a contented sigh. 

“Stupid question,” he whispered. 

“Yeah, but it was funny,” you said, smiling, beside yourself. Peter’s fingers dug a little deeper into your muscles. 

“Are you high?” you asked. 

Peter laughed, “Yeah. This is messed up, Y/N. We stole Mr. Quill’s jet. And his drugs. And his music tapes.” He paused. “Good music, though.” 

With a small inhale, he removed his hands from your waist, and laid on his side. You turned, facing him, and mirrored him. The wind tasted like brine and made your cheeks feel like it was sparkling with little salt crystals. 

You told him, “I don’t know this song.” 

He raised his eyebrows. “You should be arrested.” 

When you laughed and held your hands up in mock-surrender, you did not expect him to actually grab your wrists and play into your bit. When your lips parted, his eyes darted towards them, and you gulped. 

“I got a gnarly mosquito bite the other day,” you told him before he kissed you so gently you almost began to cry. 

“I know this is terrible timing,” Peter mumbled against your lips as your brows furrowed, back arching, pressing into him, tugging his hair, “but you look so—”

“Don’t tell me,” you gasped, kissing him harder, for some reason. Nervously, he held your hips, and your jaw. 

“You look so sad,” he said, anyway. 

“That is the most intelligent observation I have ever heard you make, Peter,” you said, sarcastically. Then, for some impulsive reason, you sank to your knees, crawling over him as he panted from your kiss, squeezing your hair.

You smiled and Peter tentatively slid his tongue against your parted lips, capturing your surprised, emotional exhale with a shake of his head. You had forgotten there was a beach. Your eyes closed as you kissed him. You remembered everything. You kissed him harder. He sighed and brushed his hands over your breasts. 

“Can I touch you?” he asked. 

“Yes,” you said breathlessly. You could not help the way your lips twitched into a pleased smile when he lifted your bloodied t-shirt up, exposing your bare torso. 

“You have such cool scars,” he said. He grabbed you by the waist and lifted you up onto his thighs, letting your body fall back, pressing his lips to your stomach, holding you as he kissed his way up your body. Then, he carefully laid you down on the blanket. 

“I’m a virgin,” you said, trying not to sound afraid. 

“I don’t care,” he said, rubbing your thigh. You tried not to seem too pleased. 

“Do you want to stop?” Peter asked. 

“No.”

“Y/N, I really like you,” Peter said. His eyes twinkled when he thumbed your jaw. 

“I like you, too,” you admitted, holding his hand there. You stared at him for a few seconds until he slowly leaned down to kiss you. You made out for a few minutes to the music, until it abruptly stopped, and the lights shut off. You did not jump apart. You both sat there, listening. Then: 

“Shit,” you said, sighing; you closed your eyes, exhausted. You rested your forehead against his. “That was the backup generator.” 

Peter spoke like he was trying to keep calm. “Is there a phone?” 

You felt his forehead against yours. His eyelashes flickered and tickled your browbone. 

“I don’t know,” you said, slowly. “But—Peter?” 

“It will be fine,” he said. 

“There will be a phone,” you said, electing not to worry. It was too soon to tell whether that was a foolish choice or not, so, in the meantime, you kissed him again. 

“This is so stupid,” he laughed against your lips. Within a few blissful careless minutes in Cretan oblivion,  Peter was shirtless and pantless, and his hardness pushed through his dirtied, checkered boxers.

You only wore your workout thong and Peter’s fingers slid against your core with a painful patience as warm wind billowed through you and Peter’s hair. 

“You’re so wet,” Peter said curiously, tilting his head as you pursed your lips, holding him tighter. His touch sent faint sparks of heat through your body and felt like anticipation—impatiently, you leaned down and kissed him as he began to finger you; you had only ever fingered yourself, and it was like he innately knew where to press and hold and curl and—

“Peter,” you moaned. It felt strange to say his name like that. He tasted like dust and wood. You were still speckled with the remnants of the battle.

Yet, uncontrollably, you smiled, knocking your teeth against Peter’s. He kissed you like he had made peace with regretting it a long time ago.

Sitting up, he knuckled the flesh of your back, kissing you passionately, feverishly, rutting his clothed dick against you, smirking. His eyes were dark in a way you had never seen before. You raised an eyebrow and tossed your hair over your shoulder.

In the darkness, without the dim lights of the ship, the moon streaked the water, illuminating it with striking intensity. When you felt the sensitive prod of a fleshy, hot, thick, tip, you gasped, and held onto Peter’s shoulders, lips parted, eyebrows strewn into a panicked yet pleased line. 

“Is this okay, Y/N?” Peter asked, eagerly squeezing your breast, kissing your bicep, your collarbone, your jaw, “can I?” 

You could not talk. You watched the glistening sheen of your wetness shine on Peter’s achingly hard cock as he teasingly slid against you, holding your thong to the side. 

“Oh my god Peter,” you whimpered. “That feels really good. That feels really, really, really, nice.” 

He smiled and it was so sexy your body began to move for you. With a lurch, you began to grind against him, his fingers dug into your ass, and you kissed, quietly, intensely, filthily—his tongue flicked against yours as he eased your panties from your hips, tossing them somewhere into the cave. 

“Just feeding the thong-monster in this cave,” Peter justified, hair mussed, eyes low, guiding you against him. 

You nodded and inhaled sharply. He slowly slipped his tip inside of your entrance and you gasped; he was already sitting deeper and deeper and before you could fathom it he was moving, your skin was slapping against his; your moans were melting into his, and Peter kissed your neck as you tugged his hair, whimpering. 

“Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god,” you spluttered, wincing. It felt incredibly good. Peter kissed your collarbone before resting his forehead against yours, holding your jaw, trying not to close his eyes in pleasure as he watched you crumble.

You aimlessly clutched at his biceps and his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, and he smiled boyishly. Your stomach coiled into a ball as you watched him watch you, unable to take your eyes off of his, watching him glance towards your connected bodies with a lust and longing you needed to see again. 

“You feel so good,” he said, voice tight, shaking his head, sweat glistening like dewdrops on the crown of his head. He was thrusting so quickly and abruptly you could not keep your eyes open.

Some part of you wanted to tell him to be gentle. But, you liked this. You had never thought you would see Peter in this context. You fondly tangled your hands in his hair as he kissed your tits. 

“So gorgeous,” he continued. “Is this okay? Do you like it?” 

“Let me,” you said, overwhelmed with an idea. 

“What—oh!” 

You pushed his chest, and he was sweet enough to pretend like you had the strength to sway him. He raised a brow, impish, and traced your thighs. You bent down to kiss him, sensual. 

“I can’t believe Y/N Stark is riding my cock,” he said, letting out a tight laugh. 

You rode faster. His coy expression faded into one of vague distress. 

“That feels good,” he told you. “Y/N, I—oh—”

With a stroke of curiosity, you tried to swivel your hips, take him deeper, press yourself closer to him—

“Peter, this is—”

You could not finish your sentence because he fucked up into you like you were both dying in a second and Thanos was about to snap his fingers. You began to cry. Peter did not stop. You were grateful that he did not, so you kissed him sweetly. He kissed the tears from your cheeks as ocean spray salted his moonlit, freckled back. 

“Does this feel good for you?” he asked. 

“Slower, please.” 

He listened, and while he took your advice, he kissed you like you were going to fade away into the night. 

-ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ-

author's note:

hihi!! i hope you liked this:) im curious ab doing a recommended song for each fic, bc yk sometimes a song just completes it! if you are down for that, lmk!! also, my inbox is still empty, pls send more requests<3 have a good day/night ! byebye lov yaaaaa

“Summerween is crazy,” MJ said idly. Her glass clinked with ice as her lips pursed around it, and Betty’s backyard was blindingly hot—Peter and Betty continued to talk near the long, wooden family table and the sun glinted off the pink umbrella in searing white refractions. 

“How are you finding MIT?” Betty asked, sifting through locks of Peter’s brown hair. At this point, he had rid himself of his neon orange shirt, only donning his navy blue swim-shorts. She sat on his lap, facing the pool with her back to his face, squirting a thick dollop of white sunscreen into his expectant palm, which lay facing towards her, extended beyond her side. As he moved, you noticed how his arms tensed and untensed and hit reflections of the pale blue pool. 

“It’s been really fun,” Peter told her, smearing it all over her back with the same grace as a child in a kitchen. “I’ve made a bunch of new friends. The classes kinda suck but they’re not too hard.” 

Betty nodded and bit her lip. When MJ nudged your shoulder, you were already glancing at her through your sunglasses. The pair of you held back a giggle as you further inspected the amusing situation at hand. Literally. Betty’s back must have been well-protected from the sun after a near five-minute operation of Peter rubbing it into her skin, yet, she still encouraged him to put on some more. You adjusted the string of your gingham bikini and sipped your peach bellini. 

“Not too hard? Peter, you’re a genius,” Betty said, girlishly. She flipped her hair and looked over her shoulder back towards him, eyes low. “I only go to community college.” 

Awkwardly, Peter patted her bicep, and said, with unsure restraint, “everyone has their own journey.” 

“That’s the corniest shit I’ve ever heard,” MJ said. 

“Sh,” you told her. 

“That’s true,” Betty continued, finally stepping off of his lap. She stretched, revealing lines of toned abdomen. Peter noticeably tried not to steal a glance. In the distance, Ned must have jumped into the pool, because a big splash echoed across the water, catching your attention. You shifted on your lounge chair, watching Ned and Gwen. Ned had just thrown Gwen into the pool, and now, she was in his arms, being dragged across the pool, shrieking with laughter. You glanced back at Betty and Peter. Then to MJ. 

“Did you say that Betty and Ned broke up?” you whispered to her. 

 She inhaled the rest of her slushy through her straw. “I thought it was a rumour. I never thought Betty would go for Peter. So soon, too.” 

You nodded at MJ’s words as Betty stepped into the water. Peter stood beside her, hand-in-hers, taking her guidance down the steps. As they descended into the pool, their bodies turned ghostly pale. 

“Shall we go in the pool and continue this investigation?” 

“Should we do that and also get another drink?”

“You’re a genius.” 

After fashioning yourselves new peach bellinis in Betty’s wonderfully expensive blender, MJ walked ahead of you as you entered the water. You looked around at the crowd of drunken twenty-somethings dressed in whatever cheap Summerween attire they could afford—someone had poorly died a neon orange Halloween shirt (Peter had not even bothered to alter his), Flash donned a watermelon hat, and—

“Are you going to the afters tonight?” MJ asked you conversationally, twirling around in the water with ease, holding her drink above it. Her sunhat casted funky shadows onto the gently lapping waves. 

“There’s afters?” you asked, joining her in her twirling. 

“Yeah. Betty’s hosting. This thing’s supposed to be over in like, an hour.” 

“Are you going?”

“Yeah. Are you?” 

“Is it invite-only?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Free drinks?” 

“Probably.” 

A few hours later, you joined MJ on the couch as you and a group of maybe twenty people crowded into Betty’s basement. It smelled like stale beer, cheese, and ham. Flash stood in the corner, verbally sparring with some girl. You and MJ had nearly intervened, too, until Flash stepped away angrily, yelling to the group, “anybody want to play Spin the Bottle?” 

“Are we in middle school, Flash?” MJ yelled. She hoisted the strap of her tank top over her shoulders. Her hair was curly and damp; the basement felt humid, for some reason. You were not sure how MJ was not freezing. 

“Shut up, MJ,” Flash scoffed. “Anybody?” 

Betty sighed. “Gimme another shot.”

Although you were unsure and slightly surprised at how quickly Flash had managed to wrangle and gather and organize the group into a rough suggestion of a circle, you were all equipped with an empty Heineken bottle, sat in the center of the circle-suggestion. 

You shuddered and resented yourself for not bringing a hoodie, like MJ did. Your nipples ached as Flash spun the bottle first - obviously. After some anti-climactic waiting, the bottle landed on Peter. You laughed as Flash shuddered, refusing, and handing the bottle to the person beside him, which was Ned. Ned spun the bottle, and it landed on Betty. After a very restrained yet strangely passionate kiss, they parted, slightly dazed. This time, MJ spun the bottle. It landed on you. With a drunken giggle, she leaned forward, and placed a chaste kiss on your lips.

“That doesn’t count,” Flash scoffed. 

“You just want to see us make out,” MJ said, smugly. 

“What are the rules of this game, again?” you asked.

Flash sat back down, muttering. MJ passed the bottle to you, snickering to herself. You did not particularly have any feelings for anybody there, yet, as your hand slipped from the cold glass and sent the bottle into a spiral, your stomach felt weird when it landed on Peter. He sat criss-crossed from across the room, hair tousled, grey shirt slightly wet. Some people laughed, but it was teeth-grindingly quiet as you had to stumble across the room, bend down, fall awkwardly onto your ass, adjust onto your knees, put your arms on his shoulder, thumb the curls at the nape of his neck, and kiss him. 

MJ whooped when you closed your eyes, surprised, trying not to smile. You had not expected Peter to reciprocate, let alone run his hands through his hair, tongue the inside of your lower lip, bite it, and pull away. As you waddled back to your spot across the floor beside MJ, you wiped your lip, ignoring the eye contact and juvenile comments. And how your face felt like flushing. Yet, luckily, everyone else had moved on—Gwen was already spinning the bottle. Why did Peter kiss you like that? You were on the same Decathlon team as him in high school. That was it. He had barely talked to you. Unfortunately, before the game was officially over, you had to kiss a dude named Sven who smelled like damp rags and cologne. As the group settled into the low hum of conversation, Flash yelled, “what about seven minutes in heaven?” 

“Just watch porn, Flash,” Ned said, shaking his head. “We actually respect the people here, you know.” 

“I’m down,” Betty said. Ned looked at Betty. Then sighed. His shoulders slumped as he silently followed the group back over to the empty bottle, sitting back down like it was an ashamed routine. At this point, you were so tipsy that Flash’s words melted into a golden champagne haze. You followed everyone else and spinned the bottle first when MJ had encouraged you to get to it before Flash. You were too busy studying the string of fairy lights that illuminated Gwen’s blonde hair before MJ nudged your side. Hard. 

“Get up,” MJ whispered. 

“What?” you asked. 

“It landed on Peter.” 

“What?” 

“Get inside of that damn closet!” 

Confused, MJ hurried you up, and you stood on your legs like a drunken, baby deer. Flash came up behind you and grabbed your shoulders, facing you towards Peter, who was already standing by the door, staring at something on his knuckles. 

“Alright,” Flash sighed, “you both know the rules.” 

Flash opened the door and a wave of mildew and mothballs hit you before Flash promptly pushed you inside. You had barely registered the sensation of hard plastic beneath your fingertips before Peter was steadying you, pulling you away from the shelf. 

“Is there a light in here?” you asked, trying to open the doorknob. It was locked. 

Peter was feeling up the walls, but based on his defeated sigh, he had not found anything. 

“Do you have your phone?” he asked you.

“It’s in there.” 

“Me too.” 

“Well.” 

“Think we can feel for a chair?” 

You laughed. “I admire your wishful thinking.” 

The storage closet was more like a broom closet, and you wondered why, with Betty’s wealth, her family would construct a room so tiny. Your chest was barely brushing against Peter’s—you were still cold, and your bikini top was colder, so you had elected to take it off and toss it into a grocery bag. When your pearled nipples brushed against his damp chest, you inhaled and ignored the wave of heat that made your face pound. 

“My legs hurt,” he said. 

“Why?” 

“I dunno.” 

You found yourself smiling. “I wish we could sit down.” 

In the darkness, you heard and felt Peter shuffle around. You barely had enough space to do a full turn. 

“We could sit with our legs crossed if we angle it right,” he said. 

“Let’s do it,” you said. After what felt like the whole of seven minutes - yet was not, clearly, as you two had not yet been fetched - you were sitting on your knees with your back pressing into what felt like a dollhouse, and Peter was sitting cross-legged beneath you, awkwardly trying to rest his back against the wall of what felt like old toys. You smiled. 

“Think our time’s almost up?” 

“I had hoped figuring this out would take up most of it,” Peter admitted. 

“Me too.” 

Now, your arms were resting over his head, fingers curling over the shelf ledge. If you were to get up, you may step on him. If he were to adjust, he would send you falling. 

“This is a little more uncomfortable,” you told him. 

“I agree,” he said, sadly. Your nipples still hurt from how cold you were. The thought of your hardened nipples so close to his face, to his mouth, made your grip slip—you gasped and Peter grabbed your waist, holding you until you could feel out the ledge again. 

“Sorry,” you breathed. 

“It’s fine,” he said, still holding your waist. His fingers were hot. 

“Your skin is freezing,” he said. Then, as if he was completely unaware of what he was doing, he traced his thumb over the goosebumps on your hipbone. The lace of your thong had ridden up and over the waistband of your low-rise shorts, and as he slowly felt the extent of your coldness, you shivered when his thumb ran over it. 

“It’s cold down here,” you said, trying not to sound winded. 

“Do you want my hoodie?” he offered. 

“Do you have it on?” 

He quieted. “It’s out there.” 

You laughed, softly. He was tapping your hip, now, and you liked it. It was soothing. 

“I’ll warm up eventually,” you whispered. Boldly, you remembered how he kissed you with a little more teeth than something casual. You extended your leg, accidentally kicking his stomach. 

“Watch out,” he said, steadying your hips as you figured out how to sit on his thighs. You were expecting his body temperature to be hot. You were not expecting him to be hard. Involuntarily, you pressed down onto him, and he sucked in a breath. You swore you could see the gleam in his eye, looking up at you, when you sighed and slowly began to grind against him. He squeezed your waist, feeling his way up your body in the cold darkness until he reached your jaw, holding it. 

“What if they walk in? What if we run out of time?” you asked. The faint yellow outline of light seeping in through the cracks in the door made the highlights on Peter’s hair shine when he shook his head slowly. 

“Do you hear that?” he suggested, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. 

“What?” 

“They forgot about us.” 

“What?” 

“Be quiet.” 

You nibbled on your lower lip as heat rushed to your cheeks. You listened. No music. No people. A splash in the distance. Everyone had re-joined the pool. Peter tentatively brushed his lips against your neck. Suddenly, you were too hot. With a deep inhale, you pushed him away. He stared at you as you held his shoulders and rode him over his swim trunks. Slowly, he lifted his chin, and you felt the distance close—heat built up on static before you kissed, a push-pull, a tickling of lips—with your heavy sigh. You had never kissed somebody like this before. All of your one-night-stands were people you had never met. Yet, as you choked down a pleased, tipsy hum, you remembered all the times you had studied together. 

“How’s school been, Pete?” you asked, sighing when he kissed your neck. 

“Been good,” he said, squeezing your hip. “You?” 

“Also good.” 

“That’s good.” 

“Yeah. Try a little more to the left—yes. That feels nice.” 

You felt his teeth graze your skin for a moment as he held back a smile. He was growing harder by the second, and you could not tell if the dampness between you was the swimwear, or you—were you seriously going to sleep with him? In a closet? 

“I can’t hook up with you in a closet, Peter,” you said. Yet, as you spoke, Peter gingerly slid his warm palm beneath your shirt, sending shivers through your spine. When his thumb touched your nipple, experimenting, you began to second-guess it. 

“You’re really pretty,” Peter said, lifting your shirt up—before you could slap him and tell him to pull it down, he suckled on your tits, and your defensively raised hand faltered into a debauched, frantic extension into Peter’s hair, pulling on it. 

“Oh my god,” you whispered, lips parting. He reached a hand between you and thumbed your clit through your jeans. Of course he knew where it was—he was a science nerd. The concept of Peter Parker doing research on a clit was enough to make you laugh, yet, as he unbuttoned your jeans for you and somehow managed to help you hold yourself up enough to take them off, you felt your breath being truly taken away. He slipped a finger beneath the string of your thong and let it snap back against your skin before lifting his thighs to shimmy his trunks down. At this point, you had long forgotten about the crowd of partygoers swimming just a few feet away outside. The godawful yellow light made Peter’s knuckles gleam when he lifted you up, slipping his dick beneath the soft lace. 

“You’re so wet,” he murmured, shaking his head in disbelief; you watched his brow darken in concentration and sucked in a moan. 

“I just showered,” you said, unsure. When Peter laughed and kissed you, pushing your thong to the side, you grinned into his mouth, riding his fingers. 

“No, I think you’re just wet,” he said jokingly when you let out an uncontrolled whimper into his neck. 

“Don’t joke,” you gasped, biting your lip. The pressure of his fingers curling inside of you made your body feel numb. Your hips rolled against his as if it were a routine dance. He thumbed the swell of your ass with one hand and touched you so deeply with the other. Peter then, while still touching you, sucked on your tits. You felt delirious and hot and sweaty and like you smelled like mildew. 

“Peter,” you said; it was all you could say. With your other hand that was not holding onto Peter’s hair for dear life, you spat into it, and began to smear it into his tip. A low, withholding noise came from his chest as you gracefully jerked him off, sliding your fingers over his cock as if it were a fretboard, listening to every minor overtone and chord—when you took your time rubbing his pink tip, he seemed to slow down, and kiss you; when you frantically tugged, he tried not to moan, and had to kiss your neck—

“Can I fuck you, Y/N?” he asked. Your thumbs rested against his forehead, wiping away beads of sweat. He sounded breathless and you could feel his heart hammering. You nodded coyly. You had already decided that he could in high school. You lifted your thighs and held his dick, lining him up. It took all the restraint you had not to sink down onto him. Instead, you lightly run him over your folds, feeling light-headed. 

Peter gripped your hips so hard, you wanted him to do it more. 

“I need to hear you say it,” he said. You could tell his jaw was tense in his voice. 

“I nodded,” you said, sinking down halfway. 

“It’s dark,” he moaned. “I won’t unless you say it to me.” 

“Fuck me, Peter, I want you. Does that get you off—”

He slipped inside of you, catching you off guard. His dick felt like it sat somewhere comfortable yet slightly stuffed in your belly as he took his time, letting you accommodate his girth. Unwillingly, you moaned, arched your back, and rested your hands on his shoulders, tentatively riding him, testing out the swell in your stomach, the pit of pleasure that knotted in your chest; he entered and exited you, slow and wet and decadent. 

“Fuck, Happy Summerween,” he said, through a breathless laugh. 

“You’re such a nerd,” you said fondly, kissing him as he wrapped his arms around your back, fucking up into you at a pace you had never experienced, encouraging long, drawn-out moans from your glossed lips. He held you so tightly you could feel his hammering heartbeat matching yours, his hands shaking with every frantic thrust. 

“You feel so fucking good,” he praised through clenched teeth. You sighed and rolled your head back, tangling your fingers in his hair, indulging in the feeling. You fucked him for what felt like hours—yet, you felt so inebriated around him, it could have only been seven minutes, after all. 

-ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ-

author's note:

hope you enjoyed! i have run out of requests in my inbox, so please send some more over to help me get my puny lil brain going!! thank uu:))) bye bye love u!!

The title card swooped into the middle of the screen amid the low hum of electricity thrumming from the box. When your lips uncontrollably twitched into a confused frown, you tilted your head to look at Peter, who was meeting your expression where you were.

“Hot Tub City Chicks?” You asked, as some absurdly gauche synths assaulted your senses.

“Hot Tub City Chicks, I guess,” Peter said, laughing. He looked up at you and his brown eyes still had bright flecks of white in them. “Want to watch it?”

A few minutes later, you and Peter had quickly learned that Hot Tub City Chicks was certainly authentic tape. You sat still on the couch, back straight, brows furrowed.

“Do you think he waxes?” You asked, resting your bottom lip against your thumb.

Peter intently watched as The Boss rammed into some pool attendant. His chest gleamed with oil, and the grainy film and searingly hot stage lights seemed to make it sparkle.

“I can’t tell,” Peter said. “This is insane porn.”

“You have an extensive repertoire, Peter?”

“Oh, I’ve been compiling since I was twelve.”

You laughed and rested your palm on his thigh and snorted, “You’re disgusting.”

“You can’t tell me that you’ve never watched porn!”

“I’m not saying that I’m not guilty of it,” you said, sagely, patting his shoulder patiently.

“Don’t tease me. This is important history you’re witnessing.”

Softly, you told him, “I’d rather just fuck you than watch some seventy-year old randos do it."

Peter broke into a grin.

“What did you do?” he shrieked, jumping from toe-to-toe. 

You shrugged, safe and suspended in your strange, silky cocoon. “I don’t know. That’s probably the stuff I’m supposed to be taking. Is it just me, or does it smell weird?” 

“Don’t inhale it,” Spider-Man warned, who now was leaping from concrete pillar to concrete pillar, inspecting the mess that easily melted through maybe - what, four stories? 

“Why did you do that? You could have killed me!” he asked. 

“Figured I could get away. My bad, man. If I had known it would’ve melted your shit off, I would’ve chosen a much… uh, merciful method. Of slaughter. You know.” 

“I’m going to have to report this,” Spider-Man said. 

You gasped. “Oh, no!” 

Spider-Man’s head whipped towards you, body taut and alert. Then, he webbed your mouth. You swept your blade over your mouth again. 

“You know, you haven’t even tried to have a conversation,” you said, disapprovingly, still wriggling around. “You wouldn’t have had to report this to damage control if you were able to control your impulses. Shame.” 

Spider-Man snickered and launched himself beside you, curiously watching parking stall forty-four dissolve.

“I’m assuming you haven’t practiced your villain lines in the mirror, yet?” he asked.

At this point, you had long forgone the desperate kicking of your feet—Spider-Man’s webs had pinned you to the wall, only allowing your arms and hands to be free. He knew all you could do with your exposed limbs was wield your puny little blade that could only cut through thin layers of whatever gunk it was that he expelled. 

“Bold of you to assume that I practice whatever this is,” you said, coolly. “I don’t think anybody willingly chooses this line of work.” 

“So why are you here?” 

If you were not wearing a thrifted ski-mask, he would be able to see your brows raise.

"At least untie me before getting into all the personal stuff,” you said, pointedly. 

But, Spider-Man shook his head. “I can’t do that. Sorry. You’ll have to wait for Damage Control.” 

You snorted. “Damage Control. You’re really in with the people, aren’t you?”

“I guess I know how things work,” he said, jumping off the wall, and landing gracefully beside the puddle. Or at least, what was a puddle. Now, it was a gaping hole of molten steel and concrete. Spider-Man whipped out his phone from somewhere - did he have pockets in that thing? - and began to type, frantically. 

“Texting the mayor?” you said, sharply, albeit immaturely. Your lips were open and poised in another juvenile retort before, suddenly, you were hit with a wave of nausea. And strangely, like a cat, Spider-Man seemed to bristle. 

“Do you smell that?” he asked, tucking his phone into some hidden pocket. His tone was inexplicably concerned and you slightly hated how that made you nervous. He stared intensely at the puddle, at its black fumes, at you, back to the puddle, to the fumes, to you—

“I usually don’t do this, but we gotta get outta here,” Spider-Man said, panicked. Before you could say anything, he had somehow dissolved your cocoon with some weird thing in his wrist, letting you crumple to the floor. Your calves ached and your shins began to sting. 

“At least warn me! I’m like, six feet up over here!” 

“Shut up! This is toxic, I think. Unless you want radiation poisoning and a decaying jaw, I suggest you get out. I won’t tell anyone. This is the only time.” 

A cold blustering wind tousled Spider-Man’s slightly loose spandex as he sauntered over to the ledge of the garage. He glanced at you over his shoulder, all mysterious-like, stuck his wrist out, shot the webs—and then, passed out. You watched. You smelled. The poison thing smelled like chocolate and roses with an undertone of something metallic. As it continued to sizzle, with a sigh and with more effort than you expected, you heaved Spider-Man over your shoulder, lugging him through the stairwell and to the roof with exhaustive effort. One day, you were in shit with the Kingpin, gained some powers, whatever, trained to enhance them, did weight training, whatever. Yet, Spider-Man was the heaviest deadweight yet. 

Once you had finally pushed open the heavy metal door, wind chilled your flaming cheeks, sweat dripped down your brow, and you threw Spider-Man over your shoulder, dropping him. You approached the ledge and had intentions of seeing if you could parkour your way down the building, before a pained, throaty groan echoed from behind you. There was no composure in this groan. Usually, you played with your food. For some reason, Spider-Man did too—yet, he let you go; you seldom ignored your intuition, but as you carefully approached him and stood beside him, you quieted the incessant panging of your gut. You toed his side. 

“You alive?” you asked, reluctantly. 

Spider-Man groaned. “Why did you throw that at me? I can hardly breathe.” 

With every breath his chest rattled and you felt an inkling of guilt. 

“Sorry,” you said. “I didn’t know it would do that.” 

“Go figure,” Spider-Man said sarcastically, trying to stand up, regardless of how his legs wobbled. As he brushed the dust on his thighs, a waft of that chocolate and rose and metallic smell drifted towards you, and that wave of nausea punched you in the stomach. Unable to hide it, you doubled over, wincing. 

Spider-Man did not waste a second before standing at your side, alert. “Are you okay? Do you feel sick?” 

You nodded and your vision began to waver. Your chest hurt and it hurt to breathe. 

“Do you smell that?” you asked, gasping. 

Spider-Man stiffened. “Uh, I forgot to shower this morning.” 

“Not that! Did you get any of that shit on you?” 

Spider-Man looked surprised. And stupidly, smelled his armpit, before promptly gagging into his mask; which, helpfully, aided you in your own near-spewing of stomach contents. As you retched, Spider-Man whipped off his mask and turned away, running behind the stairwell alcove. 

He spoke, panicked: “It smells like—-oh my god I swear I’m not this stinky—” and threw up. If only it weren’t for the aching, painful stinging in your chest—this would be somewhat amusing. 

“I don’t think it’s you,” you said, trying to focus on the wind. “That shit’s particles must have stuck to you.” 

“Shit. And you, man. I thought it was just me who smelled bad.” 

“Hey! Let me smell. It’s not me.” 

Spider-Man laughed raspily, harshly. “Are you really prioritizing your ego over your own life right now?” 

“Yes, I am,” you retorted. The sickness had vanished as Spider-Man’s voice vibrated inside of your ears. It was nice. “Come here. Put your puke-mask on, or not. I don’t care.” 

As the words fluttered out of your mouth, a strange silence came over the city, and a man with deep brown eyes appeared, a spandex-covered hand covering the lower half of his face. 

“I don’t care who you are,” you said. “That smell is definitely you.” 

Spider-Man’s forehead wrinkled and his hand stayed put. “No, it’s you.”

“How old are you, again?” you asked. 

Spider-Man laughed and the sound went directly to the heat between your thighs. Then, panic—your lungs seized, your chest ached, and before you could think, your hand was tightly wrapped around his bicep, searching for reassurance, for anything—now, your vision was spinning, colours and spirals popped from Spider-Man’s head, and his eyes were wide as your nails dug into his arm. 

“Do you feel that too? I think it’s poison,” you said; tears pricked at the corners of your eyes yet you willed them back. You may have just caused your own demise by throwing some stupid bottle at some stupid guy. Fear spun your mind in circles as Spider-Man’s eyes lowered, watching your hand on his suit, clutching so hard your knuckles paled. Spider-Man did not answer and instead stumbled where he stood, peering back and forth between your hand on his arm and your eyes on his eyes as if everything moved in so quickly it was in slow-motion. 

“It’s probably laced,” Spider-Man said, taut. “We need to go to poison control.” 

“No,” you said, sharply. “You can. I’ll wait it out. I can’t afford that. Oh, fuck. Fuck! I knew this job was stupid but I didn’t think I’d die so soon!” 

As your trip began to commence, your train of thought went offroading, the navy night was suddenly black and purple and pink, and you could feel and see the heat emanating from Spider-Man in curly-cue waves. You watched your hand melt into his skin, you watched his eyes watch you, you watched his hair tousle in the wind, you watched him as the hand covering his identity lowered slowly, resting on the back of your neck. Orange and red and blue burst behind his eyes when he kissed you and right when you gained enough composure to slap him, you had understood. 

“It’s some hallucinogen and aphrodisiac,” you said, frantic, as Spider-Man rubbed his cheek and apologized profusely in what sounded like drunken slurs. 

“I’m so sorry,” Spider-Man said, rubbing his face, “I never do that, I am so sorry, are you okay? Shit, I am so sorry—”

“You usually stay around Queens, right?” you asked, suddenly wrought with an idea. 

Spider-Man was just a boy now, no hand or mask, just a boy. And when he nodded, eyebrows drawing together in restraint, you had thought that in any other context, he would be rather cute. But you were not denying that he was already. 

“Yeah. Why?” he asked. 

“What if we just had a little quickie on the roof and never saw each other again?” 

“What?” 

“You heard me. Fuck it. We’ve been poisoned. We might die. I would like to go out with a bang. Literally.” 

“We aren’t going to die.” 

“Then why do you sound stressed?” 

Spider-Man chewed on his bottom lip for a moment and you had no time to ponder on how direct you were being until he kissed you. 

“I’m usually more respectful,” he began against your lips, squeezing your ass and pressing your front against him, “but if we’re doing this, how do you like it?”

“What a saint,” you sighed, as he began kissing your neck. The pain in your gut subsided and was instead replaced with a new kind of pain—longing. A faint yearning that tugged on your ribs and directed all your energy towards him. 

Suddenly, he smacked your ass, and, against yourself, you moaned. 

“I never said I liked it rough,” you gasped against his lips. 

“I just inferred,” he said, smiling. 

“Intelligent, you are.” 

“Okay, Yoda.” 

You kissed him harder. “You’re awfully competent for a poisoned guy.” 

“I’ve been poisoned a lot,” he said, kissing your neck, again. 

“Peculiar.”

“Yeah.”

As you kissed this random yet inexplicably devastatingly attractive boy who was also incredibly muscular and hot and tongued the inside of your mouth, smirking against your lips, handling your hips with the same gentleness as one of his criminals, you faded deeper into the trip, into him—then, as images of blue and black poison flashed behind your eyelids, Spider-Man lifted you into his arms, tapping your ass, urging you to wrap your legs around his waist—which you did. Somehow, he gracefully yet clumsily stumbled towards the concrete alcove, slamming your back against it as you winced, inhaling into him, arching your back. His fingertips tapped your lower spine as if he had forgotten that he had, and you shivered. 

“Cold?” Spider-Man asked, biting your neck, now. Your head lolled back and you faintly tasted the word ‘lovebites’ on your tongue but you had forgotten what it was. His back was warm and hot and you could not tell if your eyes were open or closed. When he spoke, his mouth opened and his throat tensed, but only wobbly, silvery circles made their way back to you in the form of watery, distorted vibrations—he seemed to be speaking, yet you could not hear—and before you could further interrogate your fear, Spider-Man was kneading your tits, drawing far-away sighs from you. He stared into you with a terror you recognized, and since you recognized it, you did not mention it. He nibbled your collarbone and pushed back your waistband, tracing his thumb over your hipbone that simmered with the bruise he had given you earlier. Then, his lips formed into a voice: “Are you cold?” 

“No,” you muttered, agitated at his voice for shattering your bliss, then elated to see him speak his voice all over again. You palmed him through his suit and his dick was throbbing and hot and instinctively, you sank to your knees, pulling at the suit. 

“How do I get this off?” you asked, blearily. 

Spider-Man looked down at you through heavily-lidded eyes, resting a hand on top of your hair as he pressed a button in the middle of his chest, sending the suit falling to the dirty ground in a heap. The contrast between his macho suit and simple light blue boxers had a laugh issuing from your throat, which was soon swallowed by the sweet silence of your tongue swiping over his pink tip. When had you pulled his boxers down? You did not care. The sight of him helped. You hummed and took him further into your mouth. 

“I don’t even know your name,” he moaned, holding your hair like it was a lifeline. 

“It’s Y/N,” you said onto his dick. 

“I’m Peter,” he said as you spat on him and rubbed it around a little. 

“You better hope that I forget that,” you told him through a small grin, sucking him off lazily. Peter. When you said it, red sparks came out of his eyes and Peter’s lip quirked and his abs tensed as he slowly moved in and out, making your jaw sore. 

“And what are you going to do with that knowledge?” Peter asked lowly, pulling you away. As you stared up at him, rubbing circles into his thighs, you then understood why he was a formidable vigilante. He was strong. He picked you up, pinned you against the wall, and kissed you. Hard. Your teeth knocked together and in his haze, he had somehow located the zipper of your hoodie, drawing it down, exposing your bra. Your sheer bra did not attempt to nor did it do any work in covering the aroused pearl of your nipples, and as Peter deftly undid the clasp and worked his mouth over them, you whimpered. 

“Are you blackmailing me?” you asked. Peter was a black and blue blob of light as he tapped his pointer finger over your core; you shuddered as Peter smirked. 

“I don’t think you understand how crime rings work,” he said, sliding your sweatpants to the ground, sliding his hot cock over your folds. Still, you felt nauseated—but this was manageable. You clung to his shoulders as he teased you on top of what felt like New York City’s tallest parkade, silently hoping no one could see, silencing your whimpers into Peter’s neck as he lifted you up and pressed you into the wall, entering you slowly, prepping your entrance with his surprisingly fat tip, which made your eyes roll backwards. You forgot everything except for his face as he pinned you, tucking your head into his shoulder to muffle your whispery moans as he began to move. 

“I know what I’m doing,” you said, trying yet failing to fill your lungs with air, uncontrollably grinding against him. “I know how these things work.” 

“Yeah?” he asked, tracing a finger over your throat, making you shiver. “And what are you doing now?” 

“You,” you said. 

A mix of surprise and amusement and arousal tainted Peter’s laugh as his fingers tightened, taking your breath away in a delicious way that made you forget about your fear of death. 

“Do you like it when I do this?” he asked, entering you slowly, breath hitched. His fingers tightened around your throat. “You have quite a mouth, huh?” 

You nodded deliriously. “I get myself into situations,” you told him. 

He looked at you in a way you could not place before pressing his forearms against the wall, kissing you, setting a punishing pace that made your toes curl. His biceps squeezed the edges of your throat and that combined with the poison and the lack of oxygen in your chest and the vision of him biting his lip and staring at the obscene visual of his dick sliding in and out of you, jaw tight, making you gasp and utter out a moan, hardly able to fathom the sensation of absolute euphoria; he brushed the deepest point of you, sometimes sitting there just to watch you squirm, sometimes deliberately ramming into it with a sexy grin as you sit there and do nothing else but take it, crying out into his forearm as he braced you against the concrete wall, shielding you from the whipping winds. His thumb prodded your lower lip, victoriously watching you take him with a boyish gleam in his eye. Then, he kissed you. 

“You feel so good,” Peter said into your mouth, praisingly. All you could do in response was suck in a breath and kiss him harder. He gasped into it and pulled you closer, hammering into you—if it weren’t winter and if the wind wasn’t so loud and screaming in everybody’s ears, you would worry that passerby could hear. But rational thought got pushed further and further away into the recesses of your brain as you easily let Peter glide in and out of you. 

“This is so embarrassing, Peter,” you said, torn between moaning and crying. He felt good. He was hot. You felt disgusting, yet so good. So good. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Peter said, kissing your neck as your fingers tangled in his hair for grounding, “it’s not your fault, it’s almost over, I promise, I’m so sorry—”

“You’re so deep,” you moaned, unable to stop the tears pricking your eyes. 

Peter groaned and squeezed your hip. “You’re doing so well. That’s it,” he encouraged. “I promise, while I’m at it, I’m going to make you come the hardest you’ve ever come—” 

“You’re so sweet,” you murmured, kissing him feverishly; furrowing your brows, you moaned into his mouth when he held you against his chest. Your vision tinged black as his biceps squeezed your throat with just enough pressure to make you keen eagerly, rolling your hips down onto him. His lips gleamed with your combined spit, eyes dark. 

“You feel so good,” he said, brushing your hair behind your ears as your eyes glazed over, “I swear, we never have to see each other again once this is over, but you just feel so fucking good—”

“Oh, Peter,” you sighed, arching into him, seeing stars. 

“That’s it,” he coaxed soothingly, kissing your neck, your jaw, your wrist, your tits, your lips as you came, riding it out with parted lips and drawled sighs, staring up into him with the pressure of suns on top of your eyes, impeding your vision—he was yellow, now, thrusting inside of you slowly, making time to press against the wetness that dribbled down onto him. Peter shook his head and his chest began to heave, thrusts becoming sporadic. Sensing his come up, you grabbed his face and kissed him, holding it there as he groaned against your lips, holding your hip so tightly you worried it would snap; yet, you did not, because his eyelashes were long and he had a wonky eyebrow and you kissed him and he squeaked. 

“I’m cumming,” he said, urgently, debauched, voice thrumming against your lips. 

“Cum inside of me,” you told him, breathlessly, watching him fall apart because of you. 

He groaned. “Y/N—”

“I’m on the pill.” 

“Oh, fuck,” he said, closing his eyes, resting his forehead against your collarbone, “fuck. You have such a good fucking pussy.” 

His eyes were so dark and glassy and his voice cut through the steady hum of the night as if it were an ocean wave and his words were a sailing ship. You could not help but smile a little and hold him to your chest as he messily sucked on your tits, hot rivulets of cum between your legs. 

“Should we do this again?” Peter asked, once he had emptied himself. He stood with you pressed against the wall, holding you up - still - as if it were nothing to him. You weren’t sure if the city had gotten louder because you were still high, or if it was because you were sobering up. Yet, you found yourself answering: “Maybe.” 

***

a/n: omgg this was so so so fun to write i banged this out in literally an hour or so!! i love these requests, i seriously cannot thank yall enough for taking the time out of your day to send me these :)) if you enjoyed this, you might like bingo boy pt i and ii too <3 also if u wanna be added to me taglist comment here or shoot me a message!! ok byeee love ya

“Are you okay, Peter?” you asked, smoothing a hand over his arm. 

“I’m fine,” he choked. 

“Have some water,” you suggested. 

“On it,” Peter said, already gulping down from your massive, comically large water bottle. 

“Oh, so you like Miss Pinkie now?” 

“It’s abhorrent that you’ve named it,” Peter said, taking a deep breath of air after filling most of his body with water. “How are you not coughing?” He asked, red-eyed and voice cracking. Tears streamed down his face as he sipped, gazing into the distance. Wrought with affection, you laughed in amusement and kissed his cheek. 

“I don’t know,” you said. 

Peter nodded and watched you as you inhaled again. 

“Did you inhale?” you asked. He looked down at you so softly, and in the late evening light, he looked like a ghostly pale blue. 

Peter rested his head on top of yours and you felt his chest rumble in a chuckle. “I think I inhaled, alright.” 

About an hour later, Peter recovered enough to take some more hits. And at this point, you had smoked nearly the whole joint, and found Peter awfully funny. He was high and cute and rambling and you had no clue he was so intelligent. 

Your portable speaker played some fuzzy old song Peter had queued, and you had changed positions—now, the sun scattered the sky in the form of its absence, and stars glittered through the moonroof with such ferocity you could almost feel them thrumming. After Peter had smoked nearly half the joint on accident, he had subsequently insisted on moving into the backseat, closing the trunk and windows, in case any spiders had gotten inside. He shifted against you as you curled beside him with a sigh, staring into space. 

“Are you feeling better?” you asked, tentatively. 

His head whipped towards you, eyes low and bleary. “What do you mean?” 

“I didn’t know you had a fear of bugs.” 

“It’s not a fear.” 

“Okay.” 

“It’s an annoyance.” 

“Okay.” 

“Seriously. They get everywhere. All the places you don’t want them. Yet, somehow, never in the places you need them. Huh.” 

Attributing Peter’s sudden paranoia to the weed you had accidentally let him smoke too much of - his side profile was so distracting - you offered him a soft smile, and kissed his neck. Frowning at his sudden seriousness, you crawled into his lap, and held his face. Unbeknownst to Peter and the strong facade he was attempting to convey, the way his eyebrows pinched together molded into such a shape of sadness—suddenly, his lips looked too chapped, his nose crooked, and you decided that you liked him more. Your lips pursed into an empathetic pout. 

“Sorry,” Peter said. “I don’t know what I’m thinking.” 

“It’s okay. Let’s try to relax, yeah? Are you into any new bands?” 

Within the next hour, Peter had chilled out, and you had returned to your previous spot in the trunk, putting the back seats down for additional room. You laid with your head tucked beneath his armpit as he played with your hair, rambling about the color red. 

“It’s a noble colour,” you agreed fondly, staring up at the sky. 

“What colors do you like?” 

“I don’t know.” You looked at him. “Brown.” 

“Brown? Boring. Red is much cooler.” 

“But brown binds everything together. It’s the colour of trees and shit. Red is the colour of fire ants, or something. Some evil shit.” 

Peter laughed, and hitched his leg over your hip before laying softly on top of you, kissing you deeply. His body was sturdy yet lithe. You really enjoyed kissing him. He was a great kisser. At first, you had thought that young men who attended bingo matches would be relatively inexperienced in bed, to put it kindly (which was rather hypocritical, but you would rather not dwell on it). Your teeth clashed when he smiled, lightly rutting against you—he was hard and his back was hot beneath your fingertips. Eagerly, Peter sat back on his knees, and grinned.  

“So hot,” he murmured, lips searing against your stomach, pushing your top over your breasts, kneading them. He sank downwards and you sighed, ruffling his hair. 

“Let me, Peter,” you told him, pushing his head back, as hard as it was—you wanted to taste him. You were so high, and so was Peter, and you could not stop the delighted twitch of your lips and the clanking of your teeth with Peter’s as he kissed you - again - before he let you flip him over, raking your fingers his gleaming stomach with the same softness as a wisp of winter breath. 

“I—I’ve never been sucked off before,” Peter admitted, sucking in a breath. Genuinely surprised, you laughed. The A/C crackled. You looked up. Peter’s curls swirled so gently around his temples; as you undid his jeans, you felt a faint flash of tender envy for the way his hair cooperated for him with minimal effort. Uttering your name, Peter inhaled as you guided his boxers down, and you bit your lip in excitement. His dick sprung upwards, thick, engorged, dribbling with precum. 

“You’re so cute,” you murmured before taking him into your mouth, grabbing his other hand that wasn’t tangled in your hair, “and you’re so hard.” 

“Fuck, don’t talk like that.” 

“Why?” Tears dotted the inner corners of your eyes as you tried not to gag. Peter’s eyebrows furrowed into a decadent, obscene expression. You clenched your thighs and he moaned, throwing his head backwards, slowly pushing in and out of your mouth. 

“Just like that,” Peter said softly, breathlessly. 

“Hypocrite,” you whispered, licking a long stripe up his base. Your hair cloaked your vision as you suckled on his pink tip. 

“Hey,” Peter said tersely, tugging your hair. A white-hot surge of energy shot to your clit and you lightly tapped your own fingers against yourself, pushing your loose pajama shorts to the side. Hot air smoothed over your aching core as you touched yourself; the heat between your legs was unbearable. As you dipped your fingers in and out, Peter watched, thumbing your hair as he gazed, eyes low and glazed. 

He gulped and Peter’s lips parted, desperate.  

“Y/N,” he shuddered. You looked up through your lashes and curled your fingers and it felt like you had smoked a pound—sweat beaded on his chest, ropes of lithe muscle rippling with every shallow, heaving breath. “I can’t cum.” 

You couldn’t help but snort. “Yes, you can.” 

“No, Y/N, I want—oh, fuck. Don’t stop.” 

“You just asked me—”

“I want to fuck you, Y/N. Please. Sorry if it’s corny or unprofessional or whatever you say but you know this is a new thing and I would hate to fuck it up—oh, you’re cruel.”

You hummed against his aching cock. “Do you want me to stop? Truly? Are you okay?” 

In response, Peter managed to muster enough self-control to pull you from him, rendering you breathless as he lifted you onto his lap, dipping himself in and out of your sopping folds, back and forth, back and forth, lulling and slow, gentle, decadent—

“Peter go deeper,” you gasped quickly, trying to push yourself onto him. Yet, he held you hovering over him, teasing you—although it looked difficult enough for him to restrain himself, too. He bit his lower lip and glanced downwards, expression crumpling into ecstasy as he watched your pussy slide against his cock, bare and wet. 

“You’re never this slow,” you reprimanded. The sharpness in your tone caved into pleading, shrill want as the words fell from your lips, because he took them into his mouth. Wrapping his arms around your waist, he dipped you halfway down, and kept you there. The stretch made your head loll backwards, and Peter took your exposed neck as a chance to rest his lips there. Then, by some literal stroke of mercy, Peter gently guided your hips to meet his; he sat deep inside of you and you had never felt so full. 

“Peter,” you said, suddenly overwhelmed—you held his head against your chest, shaking against him as he moved slowly, too slow, too slow, too deep. You shuddered, daring a glance at the sight of his glistening dick sheathing in and out of you. So obscene. “Peter,” you said, again. 

“Is that okay?” 

His words sank into your stomach and met his sex that also sat there, tying into a knot. 

You nodded profusely. “Yes, yes, ye—oh, Peter!” 

Peter grinned, impishly.

-ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ-

author's note:

ahh i hope you enjoyed this! please send more requests in my inbox, it is so fun seeing all of your ideas :) you give me so much inspiration!! i alsoooo have some more blurbs coming soon :)) if you enjoy this as a cute lil oneshot series, pls lmk and ill gladly write some more <3 this is the second part to bingo boy, which you can find here. if you want to be added to my taglist, reply here, or shoot me a message! <3

tysm for reading friends bye bye love ya!!! <33

“Tastes good.” 

“We should run to the bathroom really quickly. There’s a big empty handicapped one.” 

Peter choked on his drink. “And what if we see four wheels pull up to the door?” 

“We leave! And it’s a closed door, so no one can see inside.” 

“What if someone needs it?” 

“I don’t believe I see anybody here who looks like they will need to take a bathroom break for five minutes.” 

“You’re bold if you think we would only take five minutes,” Peter snorted against the rim of his drink. 

You groaned and pouted, crossing your arms over your chest. Your tits slightly spilled over the hem of your tight sheer white t-shirt, and your skin glowed purple. 

“It would be fun," you tried.

“And unsanitary.”

“Probably that as well.” 

Peter raised a brow. “Y/N. We took the subway here. Let’s just go home.”

Your face glimmered with delight and a little guilt. “Are you sure you want to leave now?” 

“Are you kidding me?” 

With another wide smile, you kissed him. You kissed him a few more times on the subway. You kissed him when you stumbled into the elevator. You kissed him when, surprisingly, he pinned you against the inside of his front door. Victoriously, you pulled his hair, and wrapped your legs around his waist when he tapped your ass urgently.

“Let me ride you,” you gasped when he set you down onto the sheets of his bedroom after deftly navigating the hallway, “I want to try something.” 

Peter shook his head in disbelief as you quickly began undressing. Biting your lip, you shimmied your shorts downwards and took off your top. Peter hurriedly sat down, throwing his shirt and jeans off, leaving him bare other than his boxers. He sat with his back against the headboard and squeezed your thighs as you crawled on top of him, slowly  grinding against him. 

“Shit, Y/N,” he said, kissing your neck hurriedly, holding your jaw; you closed your eyes, palming him as he tugged his boxers down. As usual, you forgot how big he was—you remembered (exceptionally well) every time you had had sex with Peter, and remembered that he ached and touched you so deeply—but every time, you still were surprised.

Your chest heaved as your heart pounded and your lungs begged for his air as you slid your panties to the side, feeling his tip. With a sudden jolt, Peter’s breath hitched, and he squeezed your ass—hard. Unable to swallow it down, you whimpered in pain. He stopped. 

“Sorry,” he breathed against your lips, “I forgot."

He began to groan as you realized that you liked it. His dick sat somewhere sweet and soft and full inside of you as you bounced on his dick for him, tits spilling over your bra, panties pushed to the side, soaking wet.

“Go harder, Pete,” you sighed, throwing your hair over your shoulder as it fell across your face. “I can take it. I want to take it. Please.” 

He groaned and watched you, reaching up to thumb your pearled nipples. “I’m strong, Y/N. Not in a cocky way or arrogant way but I’ve literally killed people—” 

You laughed and Peter threw his head back, gulping, holding your hips so tightly his knuckles paled. 

“I trust that you won’t accidentally kill me while fucking me,” you told him, a smirk playing on the corners of your cherry lips, barely kissing him, “you don’t seem like that kind of person, Spider-Man.”

Peter’s eyes darkened as you trailed your fingers up his biceps, remembering all the girls you had seen do the same to Peter at the club. You hummed when he dipped his tongue into your mouth, holding your face. He touched you so well. He was yours. Then, Peter flipped you over, pinning you beneath him in one of the most agile movements you had ever seen from him. His lips parted and his cheeks were red like his suit and your heart could not stop hammering through your ribcage; you swore its intensity made your eyes rattle. Peter’s eyes were dark when he began to slowly fuck into you. 

“I have the sexiest girlfriend,” Peter moaned. A hot, lazy smile wove its way across his face as he grabbed your legs, putting them over his shoulders, standing over the edge of the bed, ramming into you with deceptively tender thrusts that you felt in your stomach. He rendered you speechless, only kissing your calf in the pale moonlight that streamed in through his window—the delicacy made you shudder. 

“Come closer,” you begged, tugging him on top of you so you could reach his lips and make out with them as he fucked you. He caged you beneath him in missionary, the bed rattling, Peter’s voice hitching on choked moans. 

“Such a good fucking pussy, Y/N,” Peter admitted, shaking his head. 

“Oh my god,” you said, drunk on him and the shots and coolers Peter had paid for, cumming all over his dick. You had never cum this much so quickly. 

“Can you go again?” Peter kissed you with a lopsided grin, hair mussed, looking between your legs as he slipped in and out your dripping core, riding out your orgasm. 

You could have cum again by the mention alone. Luckily, Peter was there to coax you through another only ten minutes later. 

***