superloser

And, fuck, you can't even say you hate it or regret it—though you really wish you could say so.

You'd promised yourself after the third time that you'd stop. You wouldn't fall for his charming character, puppy-dog eyes, smooth words, or heaven-sent dick; actually, you'd ignore him, maybe even find someone else to help bite away at your sexual frustration for the remainder of your college years.

Someone safer, with far more respect for boundaries.

Because for as beautifully as Peter Parker fucked, for as skilled as he was with his hands, fingers, tongue, fucking everything—he had one glaring, impeding flaw.

He absolutely refused to use a condom.

"Don't have any," he'd murmured the first time you let him between your legs and asked the most obvious question of 'what about condoms?'

You almost shut it down there, but then he pinned you with those puppy-dog eyes, as if he knew what you were about to do, voice a husky whisper, "I'm sorry, I couldn't get any before you came over... is that okay?"

It wasn't. It shouldn't have been.

You should have made that crystal clear, or at least demanded he run to the nearest convenience store if he wanted to stick his cock in you—but you didn't.

You simply nodded, let that stupidly attractive little half-smile he gave you twist your heart, and proceeded to let him fuck your brains out, completely raw and bare. Let him pump his cum inside you and squeeze your throat a little as he did so, feeling your eyes roll at the way his tip smeared against your sensitive cervix in the most pleasurable way.

And even though you were nearly incoherent by the end of it, you were still able to stress that next time, he better have a damn condom.

And Peter smirked, pleased at the confirmation of a next time, and promised that he would have one.

Really, you probably should have seen that for what it was—a bold faced fucking lie. But he was a damn good liar, and they tend to twist even the most obvious of lies into something inherently believable.

Just as Peter had done the second time around.

On your back, legs splayed, lips locked with his and pussy positively buzzing from the promise of being stretched by that heavenly cock pressed against your cunt, you couldn't really register how faux it was when Peter leaned over and opened the bedside drawer, rummaging around inside it before popping up from your lips with a softly hissed, "shit."

"Wh-what is it?" you pressed breathlessly, eyes darting between Peter's tensed jaw and his hand still in the drawer. There was an ache where his lips had just been, an ache that begged to be soothed.

"The condoms," he half rushed, half groaned. "I swear to God I put them in here. They were there last night, I double checked—shit, I'm sorry, babe—maybe next time? I can't find them—"

You were stupid. So, so stupid. But you were so horny, so worked up from his lips and hands, that when Peter tried to push away from you, your hand shot out and caught his bicep.

"It's fine," you pushed out hurriedly. Peter's eyes snapped to you and his jaw unclenched, but his brows furrowed. "We can still—fuck, just don't worry about the condom. It's okay."

Had you been a little more clear headed, you may have been able to realize that weird gleam in his eye was actually the shine of victory, and not the puddle of concern you originally took it for when he asked if you were sure.

The first two times could be written off as you maybe being too gullible, but in a way that was acceptable; after all, Peter was able to hide his disdain for condoms pretty well.

The third time around? He didn't even try—maybe because he knew that by now, you were so hooked to his dick and the way he fucked you that he could get away with it.

And he wasn't entirely wrong. No, actually, he wasn't wrong at all.

That was evident in the way you were bouncing on his raw cock, taking him all the way to the hilt and rocking forward subtly before pulling up again, pulling soft groans and hissed curses from his lips. Rinse and repeat.

And he's just watching you, eyes sharp like a hawk, reveling in the way you unravel for him, a small smirk on his lips because even though you'd been so adamant for 'protection' at the door, you folded so easy.

A few slick words, soft phrases, sultry touches, an easy lie of he 'can't feel anything through them and he really, really wants to feel you, baby', and one look at his dick and you went wild, forgetting all about pesky condoms in exchange for mind-numbing pleasure.

Thank every god in every universe that you weren't fertile during any of those hookups; otherwise you'd definitely be carrying a miniature Peter Parker right now—which wasn't in your books, at all.

You couldn't say the same about this time. Which is why you shouldn't even be here, face down, hips lifted, moaning into a pillow that smells of Dior Sauvage and fresh linen fabric refreshner while you're railed into next week.

You hadn't even meant for it to happen; it wasn't on your agenda for the day.

But when you ran into Peter, his hair freshly trimmed, top shirt buttons popped to expose just enough of his chest, smelling of the same cologne you're currently huffing from his pillow now—well, your ovulating self couldn't fucking say no when he invited you to his place.

And, again, you can't even feel any regret. Because it's everything you'd been craving for the last few days; rough, feral sex, with your face pressed into fabric and your pussy fucked open so deliciously.

God, in this position, Peter feels even bigger than normal. His tip smashes into your cervix with every long, deep thrust, and the subtle upward curve of his cock allows him to slide right against that spot inside you over and over and over—holy fuck!

"Fuuck, Peter—mmm—easy—" you choke out, words slightly muffled by the pillow and nearly drowned out by harsh slaps of flesh. Your pussy is fluttering around him, so sloppy and drooly and that you can hear every single squelch of his cock splitting open your walls.

And Peter fucking loves it. Can't shut up about it, actually.

"Goddamn, jus' listen to that pussy," you can hear the smirk on his lips. "So fuckin' wet, isn't she? You been thinking about me, baby? I think you have been. Prolly been thinkin' about this dick messing you up since last Tuesday, huh?"

'Shut the fuck up,' is what you want to say, but all that comes out is a garbled, lewd moan when Peter thrusts just right, effectively clearing your head and crossing your eyes.

"Hah, shit—pussy's too fuckin' good today. So wet 'an tight, sucking me so fuckin' good... Damn, girl—you might make me bust soon." Peter drawls, big hands grasping the globes of your ass and spreading them just so, so he can watch as his cock spears into your sweet cunny.

Sharp panic slices through your fucked-out head at his filthy words.

"No, don't—! Ahh—y-you have to pull out, Peter—can't—not inside t-this time."

With your head down, you can't see the harsh scowl that mars Peter's face when you say the words 'pull out.' Peter's fingers dig ever so subtly into the flesh of your ass, almost as if he's giving you a small punishment for suggesting such a thing.

"Relax, babe, I ain't that close." Peter scoffs, though the sharp twinge in his balls tells him otherwise.

He wasn't lying when he said your pussy is too fucking good today—wetter than usual, with fluid so sticky-slick that it forms strings that connect his smooth abdomen to your thighs and ass every time he pulls his hips back.

Not to mention how hot it was inside you, metaphorically and literally. It felt like Peter was fucking into the physical form of lava, sans the literal melting. And the way you clamped around his cock? Fuck, it was enough to have his head rolling back and eyes crossing.

Peter isn't some prebuscent, acne-addled fifteen year old with sub-par sex education; he knows exactly what your current state means.

And it is so fucking hot, knowing that every thrust of his leaking cock into your depths runs the risk of impregnating you with his spawn.

You, however, don't seem to share his enthusiasm for it. Your fingers twist in his sheets, and you nearly try to crawl from him, "'m serious, Peter—y-you need to pull out, I fucking mean it—"

His thrusts turn a little rougher, more pointed, slamming into your sweet spots with the sole intention of getting you to shut up.

"I get it. I'll pull out, Jesus." Peter hisses, and it's enough. You melt back into the pillow, eyes fluttering and moans spilling into the fabric, nearly drooling from the sudden abuse to your g-spot.

It feels so fucking good that you quickly lose yourself, your fertility completely melting from your brain in favor of jumbled thoughts of fuck, he's so big, he's fucking me up, harder, faster, fucking use me, I'm gonna come—

"Fuck, do you even know how fuckin' pretty you sound—mmmm, fuuuck!—saying shit like that?" Peter suddenly cuts off your string of thoughts—no, words—cock kicking up inside your mushy walls. "I'd swear you're tryin' to make me come with that shit."

You can't even be mortified by it. You feel too good, and there's that familiar knot building inside you. Every slide of his cock into you just tightens it, his grunts and groans just adding more pressure to something that's already almost too heavy.

Fuck, you just want to come. Scratch that. You need to come; all over his glorious fucking cock that's fucking you so good.

"Then do it, baby. Yeah, c'mon, you can do it—wanna feel you, sweetheart. Jus' give it t'me, fuck—"

Peter re-positions, one hand planting itself on the bed beside your head for stability, and your muffled moans morph into something far more pornographic.

He's hitting you so impossibly deep now, like he's trying to break through to your womb—and when he slides his arm down and around your neck for the leverage to fuck you back on him, you lose it.

Your squeal of 'cooooomingg—' gets swallowed by praises from Peter when your pussy clenches around him, gushing up his cock and soaking your cum into his mattress.

"Yesyes, good girl—fuck, mhmm—keep comin', baby, c'mon—let it out, pretty girl, I've got you—fuck, y'feel so good coming around my dick like that."

Normally, Peter would fuck you nice and deep through the waves, kiss your skin and lap the sweat, pepper you with praises and hold you until the high cleared out and you stopped trembling—but right now, he didn't have the patience for it.

Feeling you come was the catalyst for his own undoing, and his hips moved on their own. Fast, short strokes that put most of the friction around his sensitive tip, and before Peter knew it, his lips were next to your ear and he was almost there—

"Gonna come," he squeezes out, and when you start to sputter he tacks on, "fuck, I'll pull out, I remember—hah, oh fuck, baby, s'good, almost—ungh—shit, okay, I don't think I can—'m'sorry, you're gonna have to take it, okay?"

Peter can't really decipher your little half hearted protests through the white static in his ears.

"Fuck, coming! Take it, baby, shhhh—no, no—s'okay, baby... yeah, fuck, milkin' me s'good... 'm fillin' up your pretty pussy, baby—yeah, it feels so good, doesn't it? Yeah, your body wants this, I know it does."

As always, Peter isn't even wrong. Your pussy is slurping up his cum gladly, practically wrenching it towards your womb; and the heat of it is enough to have your gut sparking with sharp arousal. You're really not even that concerned about the risk anymore. It feels too good to be concerned about it.

As for Peter? He wasn't even a little concerned to begin with. He was at peace with his decision—after all, there's a reason you're the only girl he's ever raw-dogged before in his life.

a/n: um, acc idk abt this one.. its my first attempt at like, putting more depth into my smut?? if that makes sense?? critiques would honestly be so so so appreciated bcs by golly i've never written smth like this and i feel outta my depth 😭

tag𝓵ist @mayhemi @triciawritesstuff @therealcap @vannyswims @fawnphile @she1983 @ynstark @emmiegirl @jaydennicole @meeemuirs @hyacinthusflowernymph @knowleeyo if i forgot to add u, or if u would like to be added/removed pls lmk! ♡

Peter’s been trying very hard not to think about how fucking strange this is, though strange probably isn’t the right word when nothing about sitting here feels particularly wrong. If anything, it feels a little too easy having his thigh pressed against Frank’s on the couch, his hand buried between his girlfriend’s legs while Frank calmly teaches him exactly how she likes to be touched.

You’re already soaked around Peter’s fingers, two of them pushed deep enough that every slow pull leaves his knuckles shining with thick, glossy slick, and he can feel every little clench of your pussy whenever Frank adjusts his wrist. Peter keeps telling himself to concentrate on you because you’re the one spread open between them with your shorts somewhere on the floor and your thighs trembling wider whenever he curls his fingers, but Frank’s hand is still wrapped around him, warm and steady and far too close to the aching line of Peter’s cock, and that is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

“There,” Frank says, pressing Peter’s wrist upward until the pads of his fingers drag over something soft inside you that makes your hips jerk hard against the couch.

His eyes stay fixed on your face when he adds, quieter, “Feel that?” Peter definitely feels it—the sudden flutter of your cunt around him the second he finds that swollen spot—and more importantly, he feels the way you squeeze around him immediately afterward, tight and greedy.

“Yeah,” he breathes, his face already embarrassingly warm as he repeats the motion on his own.

Peter has always been good at learning things quickly, whether it was school, fighting, or figuring out the exact point where somebody’s plan was about to fall apart, and supposedly the same miserable Parker trait applies here because after Frank shows him twice, he manages to find that spot again without help.

Your stomach tightens when he curls his fingers, your breath catching in a way that makes Peter’s mouth go dry, and Frank loosens his grip just enough to let him repeat it. “Keep hittin’ it,” he murmurs, and Peter does, watching your expression change with every careful press upward, feeling the way your cunt swallows the digits.

It’s almost hypnotic, feeling exactly what makes your breathing catch and then doing it again just to hear the sound twice, to feel the clench of you around him. Peter’s cock has been hard in his sweats since somewhere around the first minute of this, aching against his thigh while he pretends that having his fingers buried in you is not affecting him nearly as badly as it is, and then Frank reaches between your legs too.

Peter nearly stops when Frank’s thumb settles against your clit with an ease that makes something hot and hungry twist low in his stomach because there is no hesitation in the touch, no searching or uncertainty when Frank already knows exactly where to put his hand and how much pressure you like. Slow circles have your thighs twitching around both of their wrists, your slick making wet little sounds every time Frank’s thumb glides over the swollen bud, and Peter’s fingers falter despite himself.

“Don’t stop,” Frank tells him, closing his hand around Peter’s wrist again before he can pull away.

“I’m not,” Peter whispers, which would probably sound more convincing if his fingers were actually moving.

Frank shifts closer until their shoulders press together and guides Peter back into the same rhythm, curling his wrist while his thumb continues moving over you in those slow circles.

Their hands keep bumping between your thighs, Peter’s knuckles slipping wetly against Frank’s fingers whenever your hips grind down into them, your cunt so slick now that every push of Peter’s fingers makes a soft noise that seems to crawl straight beneath his skin. His cock throbs when you reach down and grab his forearm, nails digging in just enough to make him want to fuck into you properly, and somewhere between Frank showing him how to angle his fingers and you pulling Peter closer instead of pushing him away, something uncomfortable catches in his chest.

It has been years since touch meant anything other than somebody hitting him, grabbing him, knocking him through a wall or trying to drag Spider-Man out of the air, and now you’re holding onto him because you want his hand exactly where it is—two fingers buried deep in your soaked pussy—while Frank’s palm stays wrapped around his wrist because he wants the same thing.

Peter swallows hard when Frank presses two fingers over the back of his hand. “Curl ’em,” Frank murmurs beside him, making the movement for him again. “Little deeper.”

The words are meant for what Peter is doing to you, and Peter knows that perfectly well, but his body does not seem interested in the distinction when Frank leans closer, his chest brushing Peter’s shoulder as he physically curls Peter’s fingers deeper inside you.

Your cunt squeezes hard around them, and Peter has to clench his jaw to keep himself from making another noise. “Right there,” Frank says near his ear, low enough that Peter’s eyes nearly close, and the quiet “fuck” that slips out of him is impossible to take back.

You’re getting wetter by the second, slick coating his fingers and running toward his knuckles while he starts pumping them with more confidence, following exactly what Frank showed him as he watches your body respond—the way your hips start moving on their own, chasing the pressure from both hands.

Peter’s free palm settles over your thigh when it begins trembling. “You like that?” he asks softly, rubbing his thumb over your skin as your answer breaks apart around his name.

Peter watches Frank’s wrist flex before his gaze travels upward without permission, only to find Frank already looking at him. All Frank does is tighten his grip around Peter’s wrist and push his fingers deeper, earning a sharp clench from you that drags a groan straight from Peter’s throat.

The sound embarrasses him almost immediately, low and helpless in a way he cannot pretend Frank missed, but you only grab his forearm tighter as Frank says, “Keep going,” and Peter nods before he even thinks about it.

Something about being told what to do by Frank makes obedience embarrassingly easy, so Peter does exactly what he was shown, working his fingers faster and curling deliberately every time he presses deep while Frank continues touching you beside him. Whatever caution Peter had at the beginning disappears as your hips begin jerking against their hands, and the wet sounds between your thighs grow louder with every movement.

“Thaaat’s it,” Frank murmurs, and Peter cannot tell whether the praise is meant for you or him anymore, although judging by the way his stomach tightens and his cock throbs against his thigh, maybe it does not matter.

Your thighs squeeze around their wrists as your cunt begins fluttering around Peter’s fingers, and his entire expression changes when he feels it happen from inside you.

“Oh—fuck,” he breathes, staring between your legs. “Frank.”

Frank’s thumb presses more firmly against you and his hand folds over Peter’s wrist again. One final guided curl has your back arching off the couch, and Peter feels every tight pulse around his fingers when you come while he keeps moving just like he was told.

His free hand grips your thigh as a groan catches in his throat, and Frank’s quiet command to keep moving has Peter obeying immediately, his fingers continuing through every clench while Frank keeps touching you until your legs start trying to close around their wrists.

When your body finally begins relaxing into the couch, Peter is breathing as heavily as though he were the one who just got fucked, his face flushed and his cock painfully hard beneath his sweats, the head of it leaking enough that he can feel the damp spot spreading against the fabric. His fingers are still inside you because nobody has actually told him to take them out yet, and he hates how much that fact pleases him.

Frank eventually releases his wrist, giving Peter enough freedom to start withdrawing his hand, but he catches him before he can pull completely away. Frank’s thumb drags once over Peter’s wet knuckles, slow enough that Peter feels every inch of it.

Your slick still coats Peter’s hand half-curled from touching you, and whatever stupid little crush Peter had on Frank Castle’s girlfriend has very clearly stopped being his only problem.

© 2026 all rights reserved — flixpii.

“but i can’t, it feels t’ good!” you try to compromise, attempting to stifle your sweet moans and failing miserably — but how could you? how is it possible to quiet down whenever peter, himself is chasing that exact high that makes you both a little delirious in the feat of heat?

your toes curl, and hands claw down from his scalp to his shoulders making peter groan at the sting. “i know— hah- it feels it good…” he chokes, hips stammering in place. his cheeks are flushed, stray strands of hair glued to his forehead as sweat drips down every crevice of his sculpted muscles.

peter lifts his head, desperate eyes latched onto yours as his calloused hands snake up your waist to cradle your face in his hands.

his breathing is staggered — chest rising up and down at a quickened pace before dropping eye level, as if he were trying to tell you something telepathically before pressing his lips against yours. his mouth devouring every inch of your mouth as he repositions his hips while pulling away to replace his hand for his mouth.

“i’m so sorry, baby.” peter softens his voice, “i can’t stop because it feels too fuckin’ good to stop.” he whines.

and maybe that kiss alone was a telltale sign of what’s next to come as you feel the sensation of warmth spread across your mouth.

a stringy-like texture forming a tacky layer against your lips to silence any sound because as much as he loved your raw, sweet pathetic moans. he also knew that there’d be a neighborly complaint waiting just outside his door the next morning.

peter drives his hips forwards, thrusting straight to the hilt making your back arch off the mattress. your nails carving moon-shaped crescents into his flesh earning low grunts as a moan climbs through your throat with nowhere to go because your mouth is webbed shut, forcing you to swallow down a few muffled whimpers. “that’s better…” peter sighed, letting his subconscious thoughts slip past his lips.

this was the perfect solution. a little unethical? yes, but nonetheless perfect in his books because now — now, peter can finally immerse himself into pure lust that he’s strayed away from — the kind of lust where he doesn’t have to hold back, where he can completely lose his mind in pleasure without having to worry about a disturbance warning.

and it’s all thanks to his organically crafted webs.

“God… yes,” Peter gruffly moaned, his hands maintaining a firm grip on your ass from you were straddling his waist, grinding back and forth while he bucked his hips, forcing his dick deeper inside of you. “You ride me so good.”

You fell forward slightly, your hands pressing to his bare, muscular chest as your body became more limp due to the relentless pleasure coursing through your system. Peter’s gaze was cemented on you, admiring the way your hips rolled on top of him and your eyes fluttered shut when you parted your lips, moaning incoherently as your lustful movements quickly changed to a fit of whimpering squirms, barely able to hold yourself up. 

Based on the way your muscles trembled against him and the fact that you hissed, “Fuck, Peter—I’m so—I’m gonna,” repeatedly, unable to complete a single thought, he knew you were close. 

Your head lulled back, causing your tangled mess of hair to fall over your shoulders, your grinding sloppy and inconsistent. “I—I can’t…”

His hands moved to the sides of your hips, squeezing as he forcibly moved your hips back and forth against him, sending waves of intolerable pleasure throughout your entire body.

“What, is it too much for you, baby?” Peter taunted, jaw going slack in response to the wet sounds of your dripping core slipping on his dick. “Can’t ride my dick anymore?”

As much as you wanted to fight him back, it was far too early in the morning and you were too close to reaching your release to distract yourself. “Sh—shut up,” you stammered, sucking in a sharp breath when he bucked his hips up, forcing his tender tip to hit the exact spot you needed him. “Just… fuck me.”

Once those words left your lips, his right arm instinctively reached out, snaking around your waist and pulling you down flush against him. Feeling your tits pressing into his chest, he returned his grip to your ass as your head buried into the crook of his neck. 

“Lift up a little for me,” he grunted.

Complying with what little strength you had, you used your knees that were pressed into your twin-sized mattress to slightly raise yourself off him. The action sent Peter’s head back, digging into your pink, ruffled duvet when your walls clenched around his throbbing length. 

He quickly pulled himself together, though, ensuring he followed through with what you’d asked of him. 

His fingers dug deeper into your hips as he started hammering himself inside of you, triggering a sharp, high-pitched whimper to escape you. To muffle the sounds you couldn’t control, you bit down on the soft skin near his collarbone, screwing your eyes shut as your release washed over you like a life-altering ripcurrent.

Peter moaned, welcoming the sharp pain of your teeth clenching down on his skin and trying to hold himself back from the sudden urge to yell because of how good it felt when your slick walls squeezed against him. 

“Fuck… yeah. Cum on my dick again,” he grunted, lifting his hand to plant a sharp slap on your ass, like he was giving you some kind of reward for reaching your third orgasm this morning. “Good girl.”

Panting into the crook of his neck, he guided your ass up and down with a continuous, firm grip, letting you ride out your high. 

With sweat beading on your forehead and your mouth dry from becoming a panting, moaning mess, you lifted yourself back up, placing your hands back on his chest to steady yourself. 

“Are you… Are you close?” you managed to ask between pants, meeting his sensual gaze.

Peter had been close to cumming since you rolled over in bed next to him half an hour ago, purposefully teasing him by grinding your ass against the erection he woke up with. But over the past month-and-a-half, he had become quite skilled in the art of self-distracting while he fucked you, so that he could last longer and longer each time the two of you fell back into whatever it was that this impending catastrophe of a relationship had become. 

It definitely wasn’t that, you thought to yourself. It definitely wasn’t a relationship.

“Peter,” you said when he didn’t respond, but it came out as more of a moan. He glanced up at you, his jaw taut with tension as he worked you on top of him, never wanting the feeling of your pussy grinding on his dick to end. “Are you gonna cum?”

He loosened a ragged breath, continuing to help guide your movements while you rode him. “God, I hope not,” he mused, smirking up at you. But it wasn’t really a joke. There was absolutely nothing funny about the way he was feeling. “I don’t want… this shit to… end,” he grunted between pants.

“Well it needs to,” you countered, forcefully slowing your hips, digging your fingernails into the toned skin of his chest. “I have an exam in forty-five minutes, asshole.”

He sat up suddenly, forcing you to sink further in his lap, his dick drowning in you. Keeping an arm clung around your waist, he tilted his head to watch the way your hips rotated against him despite your verbal desire to wrap things up. 

Biting down on his bottom, he squeezed your ass. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll make sure you don’t miss it,” he told you, bringing his eyes back to yours. “Just shut up and let me make you feel good, yeah?”

And you knew he would. He had proven that to you countless times now. 

There was no denying the way he made you feel—the way he knew your body, what it liked, and what it didn’t. 

It was a nice distraction. Every time your phone screen lit up with his number, you told yourself “one more time won’t hurt.” Or when the two of you would go to the club alone with all intentions of remaining that way, but then leave together. Eventually, he started sneaking into your dorm, fucking you to sleep and then waking you up to do it again, which was the exact predicament you found yourself in this morning, only a few days before Christmas break. 

The closer break came, your shame over constantly letting him in and responding to his late night texts eased. You just told yourself that the two of you could continue… distracting each other until the holidays. Then, you would part ways again. By the time the new year rolled around and you returned, he would be over it—you would be over it—and the way he was able to make you orgasm countless times per session would just become an afterthought. 

Of course, every time you said it would be the last, Peter agreed with you.

He nodded along when you told him “this means nothing.” When you discussed how their situation would end when the semester did, he feigned indifference. “That’s fine, baby,” he would say, and then fucked you in new, tragically pleasing ways, desperately hoping you would change your mind.

Because he had no intention of parting ways with this—parting ways with you, the way you made him feel. Not a single fucking one. 

He pulled your face closer to his, lips moving in sloppy synchronicity with each other as you ground on top of him, embracing the overstimulating friction it gave your clit, when a knock pounded at your dorm door.

In a startled frenzy, you pulled away from him, head snapping in the direction of the door as your breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan.

“You better be awake!” your best friend shouted on the other side. “I want coffee.”

“Shit,” you whisper-hissed, turning back to Peter who was not at all phased by the interruption, nor the potential threat of being caught in your room. “You have to go,” you told him in a hushed tone, recalling the plans you’d made with her to grab coffee before exams before making a move to climb off him.

“Uh-uh,” he grunted, using the grip he had around your waist to keep you in place. “Tell her you can’t.”

Your brows snapped together. “What? No, I'm not—”

He cut you off by lifting you slightly, rolling the both of you over in one swift motion so that he was on top of you, thrusting himself inside you.

A muffled moan tore from your throat when he brought his lips to your ear. “Tell her,” he managed to say, tone sharp and gravelly.

Digging your nails into the rigidly muscular skin on his back, you inhaled a sharp breath and prayed your voice to even. “I can’t, I’m, uh…” your voice trailed lamely, head lulling back when he lifted your hips slightly off the bed, resting back on his calves to have complete control over the way he was fucking you. “I’m sick.”

“You’re sick?” she immediately countered, voice raised. “What’s wrong?”

“Food poisoning,” you quickly responded, screwing your eyes shut when one of Peter’s hands trailed down between the two of you, his fingers rubbing circles over your sensitive clit, getting off on you trying to talk while he pleased you. “I’ll call you later!”

“Are you sure? I can get you some—”

“I’m sure!” you nearly screamed, voice high-pitched and slurred. “Oh, God…” you moaned louder than you meant, head falling back on the bed.

Peter’s hand shot up to your mouth, clamping his palm and fingers that were drenched in your arousal over your mouth as he smirked down at you, loving the way you lost control because of him.

“Okay…” You heard your best friend sigh on the other side of the door. “Well, call me later.”

You didn’t even realize you didn’t respond, just hoped she had walked away by the time your release flooded your grim consciousness. 

Despite his best efforts, watching you convulse beneath him, gripping your striped bed sheets, and moaning into his hand brought him to his release. A deep, rattling moan tore from his throat as he slammed into you a final time before shakily rolling his hips, riding out both of your highs with soft, slow thrusts. 

The sudden urge to kiss you came over him when he pulled his hand away from your mouth, and not in the way the two of you always did. 

He didn’t want to give you a sloppy, desperate kiss, tangling his tongue with yours. No, he just wanted to… kiss you. He wanted to plant a small peck on your swollen, trembling lips, and watch your eyes flutter closed. 

But he didn’t. That wasn’t what you two did. You didn’t softly kiss each other. You just fucked each other. 

When he was really lucky, though, he’d get to fall asleep next to you. Even when you told him you would rather die than cuddle or touch him, he’d wait until you were asleep to pull you in closer, even if you crawled right out of his grasp the minute you woke up.

God, he felt sick.

His jaw muscle ticked as he slowly pulled out of you, still—after months—taken aback by the sight of his cum oozing out of you. 

He didn’t make a comment about it, though. He just quickly grabbed your towel that was draped on your desk chair and wiped it up, laying it out beneath you to save you the hassle of having to wash your sheets again, since you’d griped about it for so long the last time. 

You steadied your breathing, propping yourself on your elbows to watch him. “What’s your problem?”

His head shot up to you from where he was hopping on one leg, trying to pull his boxers and jeans he’d worn over the night before back on. “What’d you mean?”

“You’re all… quiet.”

Shrugging, he zipped up his zipper, his abs flexing as he did so. “I don’t know. Got nothing to say, I guess.” His New York accent was thick like it always was early in the mornings.

You scoffed. “That’s a first.”

He shrugged again, searching around your dorm room for his sweatshirt. 

Slowly sitting up, you pointed to the corner of the room by the door, where it had been thrown off the second he’d walked in the door last night. 

“Thanks,” he mumbled, grabbing it and working it over his frame.

Your eyes were glued to him, an unknown feeling flooding your sluggish thoughts as he grabbed his house keys, wallet, and phone off your desk. “Did I do something?”

He forced out a chuckle, but it didn’t meet his eyes or the rest of his demeanor. “No. Why? You worried about me now, Dean’s List?”

“No,” you quickly replied. “You’re just being all… weird.”

“I’m fine. Just worn out,” he said, raking a hand through his curls.

“Yeah,” you drawled, brows raising. “I fucking bet.”

He ignored you, reaching down to grab your clothes off the floor. “Here.” He held them out. “Let me help—”

“I can dress myself, Peter,” you deadpanned, rolling your eyes as you grabbed your David Bowie graphic tee from him and turned the fabric right side out before shrugging it on. 

Suppressing his embarrassment, he held out your pajama shorts and panties for you, studying the floor for a moment. “Are you going out to the bar tonight?”

You shrugged, untucking your hair from the shirt collar. “I haven’t thought that far. Why?”

A nauseous feeling overcame him. He didn’t want to say what he said next, but he just couldn’t help himself. “You can come back to mine after. We can finally sleep in a bed meant for two instead of this—”

“Absolutely not,” you quipped, taking your Christmas-themed panties out of his grasp and pulling them up your legs. “I have one more exam tomorrow and then I’m leaving to go back to Brooklyn.”

“You’re leaving tomorrow?” he asked, hoping you didn’t see the way something inside him split in two. “What about the awards—”

“I’m not winning any awards this semester, Peter.”

He squinted. “You’re not?”

“No.” You sighed heavily, taking your shorts from him but not putting them on. “Kind of hard to be an academic weapon when you’re caught up in—” you gestured your hand between the two of you “—whatever this shit is.”

Although he knew that meant all of the rewards would go to him, it still made him feel bad, knowing he had unintentionally affected you in a way that wasn’t necessarily good when all he wanted was to make you feel good, even if admitting that would be his death sentence. 

The guilt hit him sharp in the gut, but you wouldn’t have known it.

It made you feel better to blame him for your misfortune of falling behind in class and letting your GPA slip instead of acknowledging the truth, which was that you had let yourself down tremendously. Truthfully, though, even without him, you weren’t sure if you would be taking home any awards this semester.

“Which is exactly why…” your voice trailed as you slid off your bed, falling on your feet right before him, “this ends now.”

Peering down at you, Peter nodded slowly. “You said that last time.”

“Well, I mean it for real this time,” you argued, stepping around him. “We can’t do it forever. Gotta, like, move on… ‘ya know? Plus, we’ll be gone for a month on break.”

“Move on?” he asked, turning and watching you rummage around for your shower caddy. 

“Mm-hmm,” you hummed, taking the tub full of your shower necessities off your closet shelf and setting it on the desk.

He reached the back of his neck, scratching the warm skin and glaring a hole through your bedroom floor. “Like with other people?”

“I mean, sure,” you said, shrugging with a nonchalant frown like he had just asked you if you were hungry, or something. “Move on in life, move on with other people who are actually good for us.”

“You don’t think I’m good for you?”

Your eyes flashed over to him, laughter spilling out of you. “Peter, I know you’re not good for me.” You shook your head, pulling out your top dresser drawer to find an outfit, knowing most of your things were already packed up in your suitcases. “We’re just fucking. It—”

“Means nothing,” he filled in, tone a little too sharp. “Yeah, I know.”

“Exactly.” You pulled out a big sweatshirt and leggings, already dreading having to walk through the remnants of last night's snow on your way to class.

He should have left then. He should have said goodbye, or, really, nothing at all, and just walked out. Because his frustration with your will to be done with him was quickly morphing into just pure anger.

Having to search your suitcase for a pair of winter-weather-approved socks, you glanced back up at him, oblivious to his seething interior. “So, are you gonna go back to that Stark internship over break?”

His eyes shot away from you. He scoffed, shaking his head. “Don’t ask me about my life, Dean’s List. We’re just fucking, ‘ya know.” His teeth were grinding in his tight jaw, fuming at the fact that he ever told you anything about himself and despising the fact that he knew just as much about you. “No reason to get into the personal shit.”

Catching his insolent tone, you narrowed your eyes up at him. “I was trying to make small talk. You don’t have to be a dick.”

“You know, I really don’t get you,” he snarled, feeling deeply wronged that he was still somehow the dick in this equation. His face was all scrunched with irritation, arms crossed over his chest when you glared back at him. “You talk all this shit about how awful I am, but—”

“Because you are,” you cut in piercingly.

“How? How am I any different than you?” He said, giving you a look that just made you feel like a kid again. Wrong and stupid. “Please, tell me.”

You straightened your spine, eager to match his attitude. “Because you’re a fucking asshole, Peter. You think with your ego and just use girls to get your dick wet. This—” you gestured to the two of you “—is no different.”

It was so much different, he heard himself think when he cocked his head to the side. “And what is it that you’re doing with me?”

“I don’t know,” you roared, hands flailing at your side. “I really don’t.”

“You keep crawling back for some reason.”

You shook your head, nostrils flaring. “Because I’m an idiot, that’s why.” You turned away. “You know, I used to think that the whole cocky thing—that persona you flaunted was just you being a shitty flirt, having a little too big of an ego. But I think I get it now, Peter,” you sneered, facing him with nothing but flaming fury crawling through your veins. “I think you’re just miserable and want everyone else you rope into your life to feel the same.”

His jaw muscle ticked, body eerily rigid and still. 

“Did I get it right?” You cocked a brow before shaking your head and turning your attention back to rummaging through your belongings. Although, you couldn’t really remember what it was you were searching for. “Yeah, I’m sure I did.”

“And what’s your excuse, huh?” he shot back, leaning back against the side of your lofted bed. “You act all high and mighty, but you know, deep down, you’re just like me. You want the same things. That’s why you’re here—that’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Because you feel comfortable being your worst self around me, knowing I’ll get it.”

“I am nothing like you, Peter.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe you’re not.” His eyes remained welded to yours. “Maybe you’re something worse, Dean’s List. ‘Cause at least I can be honest with myself. I know I’ve been shitty—I own up to my shit. But you—” he shook his head, lip trembling with rage “—you can’t even stomach yourself, can you? Being with me makes you feel dirty?”

Disgust riddled your expression, blending cruelly with something much sadder. “God,” you hissed, but your voice cracked. “You’re fucking demented. All this because I don’t want to fuck you anymore?” 

Peter caught the glossiness in your eyes, the tears threatening to slip out, and suddenly felt the urge to throw up, stuck in the crossfire of his own devastation. He thought, for a moment, what would have happened if he had gone about everything differently—if he had gone about you differently. 

He wondered if he wouldn’t have been so terrified of feeling anything other than baseline contentment, or if he would have just tried to be your friend. If he would have learned things about you organically and not when he was torturing you and fucking you. Maybe you wouldn’t have been looking at him right now, hurt and repulsed by just the sight of him, if he wasn’t who he was.

But he was who he was. 

He was no better than a dog, he thought all of a sudden, only knowing how to bite when someone gets too close.

You parted your lips to speak, but all that came out was a shaky breath as your emotions rolled through you like a shiver. Sucking in a sharp breath, you steadied yourself. “All of this—” your chest heaved “—was a mistake.”

“You’re right,” Peter replied, gaze dropping to the floor. His tongue sunk into his jaw as he took reluctant steps closer to you. 

“I should’ve never fucking touched you.” He saw the way your features softened, that flicker of hurt dancing across your eyes, and even though it made him want to collapse on the ground right in front of you, he was relentless. 

At the end of the day, all Peter Parker knew how to do was win. “Bet it feels worse right now with my cum still dripping out of you, doesn’t it?”

Without thinking, your hands raised to his chest, shoving him back. He stumbled back a step, stifling a chuckle. A fucking chuckle. You did it again, shoved his chest harder, not even noticing the tear that fell down your cheek when you did it again and again until his back was flush with your bed again.

“This make you feel better?” he snarled, reaching up and gripping your wrists to halt them. “Does hating me—taking it out on me—make it easier for you?”

You yanked your hands out his grasp, feeling the stinging sensation of where his fingers were when they curled into fists at your side. “Get out of my room.”

“Glad to.” He pushed himself off the bed, not breaking his seething gaze with you as he breezed past. 

You didn’t move until the door slammed shut behind him. And even then all you did was fall forward, kneeling down, and burying your head in your hands.

Peter stilled on the other side of your door. His hand kept a firm grip on your door handle as his chest rose and fell with such a ferocious rhythm, he felt a sharp pain in his heart. In the unsettling silence, all he could make out was the sound of his heartbeat in his ears and the single, muffled sob coming from inside your bedroom.

He screwed his eyes shut, tearing his sweaty palm away from the door handle and just knew. He knew he ruined it. The only real thing he’d ever had that never even belonged to him to begin with. 

He ended up taking the long way back to the Kappa Tau Zeta house, holding himself up in his bedroom with music blaring loud enough to drown out his own thoughts. When Miguel’s “damned” came on, wrongfully queued, he stumbled out of bed and threw up in his trash can. He didn’t go out that night and neither did you.

Showing up five minutes late to your linear algebra exam, you scored a 74 out of 100 and went back to your apartment to finish packing your shit, never remembering to call your best friend, and left for Brooklyn the following morning after your last exam.

Christmas break went by like an agonizing blur. 

Peter spent the majority of it with his Aunt May, doing all the little traditions they had with each other. But he wasn’t really there. His body was, but his head was somewhere far away. Probably crammed in some apartment in Brooklyn, or wherever it was you were spending your holidays. 

He had checked, of course. Scrolling through your best friend’s account like muscle memory, only to find you had blocked him. You’d blocked his number, too, which he found out on Christmas eve night when he got too drunk and tried to call you from the fire escape outside his bedroom, and debated jumping off when his text never delivered.

He should have expected it, though. It was his fault, after all.

With no way to contact you or see you, he spent the entire night out in the frigid cold, scrolling through the few text messages the two of you shared, and that one picture he took of you on his phone when he way laying next to you, sending someone a Snapchat and you decided to stick your head in the frame. 

It was so blurry, most wouldn’t be able to tell it was you. But he knew. He could hear your laugh when he looked at it, remembering the way you slapped his arm and begged him to delete it, saying you had a double chin, or some stupid shit.

A snowstorm hit the city a week after Christmas, causing his apartment building’s power to go out for a while, and he wondered if you were going through something similar, or if you were warm and enjoying your break. 

You told him once about the family you had in New Jersey, and he wondered if that was where you were. If you had gotten stuck trying to make it back to the city because of the traffic. 

It was obsessive and absolutely devastating. 

May had noticed his lapse. He hadn’t really been into their traditions since he hit puberty and had suddenly found decorating sugar cookies a little too childish, but he used to still at least try and make it entertainable. 

This year, though, he didn’t even come into the kitchen when his aunt brought out the dough and icing. 

When she had tried to get him to talk about it, he said the same three things: he was tired, it was a rough semester, lacrosse kicked his ass. Because he couldn’t say anything about you. Where would he even begin? Explaining who you were incriminated himself. That was how wrong he’d been.

You weren’t doing much better, though. 

Your holiday break had given your mom, and the rest of the family you visited, the perfect opportunity to pester you about your future, when you couldn’t even tolerate your present. Telling everyone what they wanted to hear, you couldn’t be honest with anyone when they asked about how your final year of college was going because you couldn’t really remember. 

Some sadistic part in your brain made it seem like the only thing you had done for six months at ESU was help sneak Peter Parker into your dorm, because that was all you could remember. You didn’t think to tell anyone about the scholarship you’d won in early-October for a research project and you didn’t tell anyone that you’d applied to grad school at MIT. You just told them it had been fun.

But it hadn’t been fun. It had been the worst couple months of your life.

Nothing about your outlook changed when you returned a few days after New Years’, learning the heating system was out in your dorm building and there was another snowstorm on its way. 

Your best friend, who lived at the other end of the hall, was in the same predicament. It was her idea to brave the elements and walk to the bar the Saturday before classes started again. She had heard from the guy she was talking to that that was everyone else’s plan, joking that alcohol would keep them warm if their school couldn’t afford to.

“I can’t feel my hands,” your best friend exclaimed when the two of you made it into the warm, overly-packed bar a little after eight o’clock. You had glanced over at her and laughed, but she had a deadly serious expression on her face. “Don’t laugh at me! I’m being serious. Oh, my God—” she sucked in a sharp gasp “—do you think I have frostbite? Will my fingers fall off?”

The tall, dark-haired guy she’d toted along took her hands and rubbed them with his. “You’re fine, babe,” he’d assured her with a toothy grin. “I won’t let your fingers fall off, I promise.”

You rolled your eyes, groaning. “You guys are sickening,” you jested, tearing off your beanie and stuffing it in your coat pocket. 

Making your way deeper into the bar, shimmying past numerous familiar faces all finding solace in what seemed like the last place with proper heating near ESU, your best friend nudged your arm. “You should have invited that guy,” she wiggled her brows.

Your eyebrows pinched together. “What guy?”

“The one you were messing around with before break,” she said, smirking freakishly when you settled down at a booth near the back.

“What?” Your heart skipped a beat unwittingly. “I wasn’t seeing anyone before break.”

She slid into the seat across from you, curly hair still freckled with melting snowflakes from the walk. “When you had—” she tossed up air quotes with her fingers “—food poisoning.”

A sudden weight fell on your chest, stripping your ability to breathe and leaving your heart racing. “I did have food poisoning,” you told her, but you couldn’t meet her eyes.

She snickered, tapping her almond-shaped nails on the table to the beat of the song. “Sure.”

“I’m serious.”

Shrugging, she replied, “Okay.” But she studied you a second longer. “Still, Dean’s friend would have come along. You know the cute one with the scar in his eyebrow?” 

You nodded reluctantly, not really giving a shit about Dean’s friend with the eyebrow scar. “Yeah.”

“He could’ve come with us, kept you company.”

You sighed, shrugging off your coat from the sudden rush of heat coursing through your system. “I don’t need any company.”

Well, you just didn’t want his company.

Her shoulders sagged when her talking stage, Dean, returned to the table from the bar with three beers, one for each of you. “If you say so.”

Thirty minutes later, though, Dean’s friend with the eyebrow scar did show up at the bar. Your best friend swore she had nothing to do with it, and you believed that.

You let him sit down in the booth next to you and drone on about the ski trip in Aspen he’d taken with his family. There was an air of entitlement in everything he said and it nearly bored you to death, but it was just enough to keep your mind busy enough. It forced the memory of Peter in your dorm the day before you left for break as far back in your mind as possible.

By the time Peter arrived at the KTZ house with his worn suitcase and shredded dignity in tow, his friends were already on their way out to the bar. He wasn’t going to go, he really wasn’t. He had all intentions of staying in and not chancing things, but he’d relented, dropping his stuff in his room and rushing to tag along.

He didn’t see you when he walked in, nor did he see you when he stationed himself at the table in the center of the bar with a few of his lacrosse teammates and fraternity brothers. 

It wasn’t until he was deep into his third beer, finally feeling a sliver of contentment, that you walked over to the bar.

At first he thought he was seeing things. It wouldn’t have been the first time since he last saw you that his mind played tricks on him like that. Plus, you had cut an inch or two off your hair and you usually always sat on the other side of the bar where the music was louder. 

But when you propped your elbows on the bartop, your oversized sweater falling down your hips, and turned to laugh at something your best friend was saying at the table you’d come from, Peter caught your profile and couldn’t pretend he didn’t know it was you.

Your laugh carried across the bar, even over the pitch of Hozier’s “Jackie and Wilson” that was being played on the bar’s surround-sound speaker system, and it was like you had physically slapped him in the face.

He thought about walking over to you. He thought about apologizing. He thought about teasing you just for the hell of it, desperately yearning to hear you mope and groan like you used to, and missing your witty little comebacks. He wondered what you would do when you saw him—if you would hurry and leave or if you would pretend he didn’t exist—because he knew that no matter what it was, you definitely were not going to talk to him.

His thoughts spiraled further when a familiar face came up beside you. Some guy in a Ralph Lauren quarter-zip who he only knew because they’d gone through rush together four years ago, but ended up in different fraternities.

You, however, had no business knowing a guy like him. If you thought Peter was bad, he loathed what you would think about that guy when his true colors prevailed.

Peter’s grip on his beer bottle tightened when the guy’s hand crept up your back. It was the softest movement, one no one else in the bar was paying attention to. Even your oblivious best friend wasn’t looking, too busy swapping spit with her most recent talking stage. Peter saw it, though. Of course, he did. His vision was cemented on you.

He saw the way you scooched away from the guy, politely dismissing the touch. He also noticed when the guy persistently inched closer, his hand returning. 

“Dude,” his friend nudged his arm. “You good?”

Peter blinked hard, glancing over at his teammate. “What’s up?”

He tilted his head towards you. “Still trying to get with Little Miss Dean’s List, huh?”

Instinctively, Peter looked back at you, following his friend’s gaze. Already had her, he wanted to respond, just fucked it all up. God, he wanted to scream it. “Nah, man.”

“What’s she doing with him?”

That was a great question, Peter thought. What were you doing with him?

He shrugged. “Who cares?” He did. He cared. He cared way too fucking much.

His chest rose as he took in a deep breath, resting back in his chair with his arm draped across the back of the empty one next to him, legs spread as he unabashedly watched every move you made. 

The bartender handed you a mixed drink that you’d ordered (probably a vodka cran, he thought), but the guy accompanying you took it, smiling. Peter desperately wanted to be able to hear the conversation, but he couldn’t. So, he resorted to lip-reading and his keen understanding of your body language.

Your hand reached up to take the drink back, smiling obliviously. “I can carry it,” you told him.

He shrugged, feigning sincerity. “Let me.”

His hand snuck to the small of your back again, gesturing for you to walk back to the booth ahead of him. “Okay,” you breathed.

Peter saw the exact moment he dug into his jean pocket. 

He could have been grabbing his phone, his hand could have been cold—there were a million reasons why a man puts his hand in his pants pocket. But that specific guy had a penchant for something Peter didn’t even want to imagine happening to you.

He was up and walking before he could think, abandoning his beer and the promise he’d made himself before coming back to ESU to give you your space. 

“Hey!” Peter called out, pacing quickly between the maze of tables and chairs.

Your entire frame went rigid when his voice carried across the bar, causing you to halt in your tracks. Some feeling that could only be related to that of mind-bending anxiety instantly overpowered you.

Slowly, you turned to see Peter approaching the guy walking behind you. He didn’t even pay you a single glance. He just gripped the guy’s arm, forcing him to spin around and face him. 

The expression covering Peter’s face was one you hadn’t seen before. His brows were creased, jaw bound tightly with tension, and you could physically feel the hammering currents of adrenaline oozing out of him. He was something much more than mad, you realized.

Dean’s friend with the eyebrow scar tore out of his grasp. “What the fuck, Parker?” 

Peter didn’t respond. His hand reached down and sunk into the guy’s jean pocket, causing a fit of commotion. 

Your brows furrowed, watching the scene unfold in what felt like slow motion. “Peter, what are you—”

He pulled his hand out suddenly, eyeing something that he’d brought out, holding it between his fingers. You couldn’t see what it was, but you could see the moment Peter’s entire body went rigid. 

Everything that ensued after that was a blur.

Without wasting a second, Peter yanked the drink out of the guy’s hand, and tossed its contents right back in his face, completely drenching him and his stupid Ralph Lauren quarter-zip. 

A gasp tore from your throat, unable to conjure a single word as Peter lunged at him, gripping him with one hand by the collar before sending his fist flying into his jaw not once, but twice. Stumbling into tables and chairs, everyone around suddenly began shouting and flooding the scene. 

“You’re fucking dead,” Peter roared, sending his fist flying once more, his knuckles colliding with the guy’s nose. 

But when Peter’s hand came back to repeat his punch, the guy quickly overtook him, socking him right in the eye. 

“Parker—Hey, chill out, man!” One of Peter’s friends shouted, breaking through the commotion to try and drag the two of them off each other.

Punches were flying and the sound of bone hitting bone ricocheted over the music and chatter. But you felt completely frozen in your stance. 

There was blood trickling out of Peter’s split lip when he was pulled back. One of his teammates grabbed him by the biceps, jerking him back. He bucked in the hold, absolutely writhing with unbridled rage.

“Get the fuck off me,” he roared, tugging against the restraint.

His opponent staggered back, bringing his hand to his nose where blood was streaming out. There was no doubt it was broken, you could tell by the split along the bridge and the cruel crookedness of it.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he seethed, fully prepared to give Peter another punch.

“You’re my goddamn problem,” Peter sneered. He jerked once more, causing his teammate’s hold to break. “I know what you were trying to do.” Loose, Peter quickly closed the space. 

For some reason, you took an urgent step forward, stepping right in front of him, as if you had a fighting chance. “Peter,” you forced out, peering up at him. “Peter—What are you—”

His arm effortlessly snaked around your waist, forcing you out of the way with a gentle push, not once looking at you. 

Stumbling back, your hands flew to your mouth, smothering your gasp as Peter got one last hit in. His final one had more force in it than all the others, causing the guy to stumble back between the chairs, falling flat on his back. 

A male bartender broke through the chaos, but Peter’s body was still thrumming with a fiery rage. His chest rose and fell frantically, shouting things that your muddled brain couldn’t make sense of. 

“Out!” the bartender bellowed. “Or I call the cops on all of you.”

“Call the cops,” Peter sneered, revealing the small pink pill he’d kept tucked in his clenched fist. “Tell ‘em there’s a fucking scumbag trying to drug girls,” he spit, slapping the pill into the bartender’s hand.

Your eyes went wide just as Peter turned and looked at you. His stance was feeble and off balance, his cheek was already purpling, and blood was dripping down his chin when he walked towards you. 

“Let’s go,” he snarled, still untamably raging as he gripped your wrist.

You yanked your arm away. “No, I’m not—”

“You’re coming with me.” He narrowed his eyes. “Let’s go.”

When you still made no move to comply, he gripped your wrist with even more force, giving you no choice but to stumble along as he marched towards the bar’s exit. 

“Peter—Stop,” you called out. “You’re hurting me.”

He didn’t stop until both of you were met with the brisk mid-Winter night air and pelted with snowflakes. 

The bar door swung shut and he finally loosened his grip, turning to you. “Are you okay?”

“No,” you hissed, rubbing the skin he’d had a hold of, “you hurt my wrist.”

“Other than that,” he urged, giving you a good look over. “Did he touch you? What’d he—Did he touch any of your other drinks?”

“Peter, calm down,” you exclaimed, dizzy by his rapid fire questioning.

“Answer me,” he demanded. “Did he touch any of your other drinks?”

You shook your head. “N–No—I don’t… I don’t think so.”

His eyes danced in yours, squinting to see better under the dim streetlamp. “Do you feel okay? Your head feel cloudy?”

“You’re making my head cloudy!”

He gripped your arms, steadying you before him. “I’m not fucking around. Do you feel okay?” He shook his head, blinking rapidly. “Fuck it—I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“What?” you gaped, squirming out of his hold. “No, Peter. I’m fine—Jesus Christ.”

“Are you sure?”

Chest heaving, you nodded. “Yes.”

Both of you went silent for what felt like the longest moment, neither of you entirely sure what to say or do next. You could see his breath in the air from the freezing temperature as he glared down at you, mixing with yours, and all you could think about was his face and the punches he’d taken. 

“Are you okay?” you heard yourself ask, eyes honing in on his wounds.

His tongue slipped out, tracing the gash in his bottom lip with a wince. “I’m fine.” A shaky breath escaped him. “Come on.”

“Peter,” you sighed, shoulders sagging. “I can’t—I’m not going with you.”

“You are,” he replied calmly. “Because if that prick walks out of the bar, I’m gonna kill him.” He exhaled in a way to calm himself. “And I don’t want him anywhere near you. So, come on.”

“I’m going back to my dorm,” you told him. “Alone.”

“That’s fine, bab—” He shook his head once, tossing that name far from his skull. “That’s fine,” he clarified. “I’ll walk you.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, shivering, and walked swiftly past him. 

He didn’t immediately follow. “Where’s your jacket?”

You turned on your heels, walking backwards. “In the bar.”

“Fuck,” he hissed.

“Do want me to go get—”

“Absolutely not.” He was already working his way out of his sweatshirt. Lifting it up over his head, causing his long-sleeve shirt to lift and reveal his rocky abdomen, he held it out to you. “Put it on.”

“I’m fine.”

“Please, just stop,” he said, tone exhausted. “I know, okay. I get it. Just take the fucking sweatshirt.”

Your mental block suffered a brief defeat. You sighed. “Fine.”

Standing beneath the flickering streetlamp, Peter watched you slide into his ESU Lacrosse sweatshirt, feeling the corner of his lips curl when it fell just above your knee.

You didn’t look back at him, nor did you bother pulling your hair out from it as tucked inside the neckline. You just started walking with such ferocious strides, you felt bad for the thin layer of slush coating the sidewalk. 

There were a million things running rampant in your thoughts, the one you couldn’t shake was just how differently your night could have gone if Peter wasn’t there. However, as soon as you thought about that, you remembered: Peter was there. The same Peter who had spewed those cruel things at you and the same Peter who you let fuck you raw.

Screwing your eyes shut for a short moment, you shook your head to clear those memories from your head and focused on your footsteps.

Peter walked behind you, eyes trained on your back as he watched your breath float up into the freezing cold air. 

He felt like crying.

If he wouldn’t have been watching—if he hadn’t seen that guy dig into his pocket… God, he couldn’t even think about it. It was splitting him in half from within, causing him to wince. 

The thought of what could have happened to you hurt far more than the bruise swelling up around his eye and the contusion on his lip. It also hurt worse than your eagerness to be rid of him. 

It wasn’t that he felt entitled to your company because he stepped in and helped you, it was just that being alone with you again made it feel like that morning before the semester ended never happened. 

It was just like the months leading up to that day when he would walk you back to your dorm after sneaking out of the bar together. But back then, his arm would be draped over your shoulder and you would be telling him things like your favorite Queen song (Fat Bottomed Girls, ironically enough) and the difference between Aladdin Sane and Ziggy Stardust. 

He would hang on to every word you said, asking questions and doing everything to just keep you talking. 

Now, he just felt like a vulture in the snow, picking at scraps of what he had ruined.

When the two of you approached your dorm hall, you stalled outside the entrance before using your Student ID to scan yourself in. “You can go now.”

“I’ll walk you up.”

Your eyes slanted up at him. “Peter.”

His nostrils flared, hands digging deeper in the front pocket of his jeans. “You always forget to lock your door.”

“I’ll lock it.”

“I’ll make sure,” he combatted.

You clenched your teeth, studying his expression to see if you could determine his intent since it was clear he wasn’t going to tell you. Coming up empty, you huffed. “Fine,” you said, pressing your ID to the scanner. “You’re not getting off the elevator, though.”

He nodded, pulling the door open for you when it buzzed, standing back to let you walk through. “That’s fine.”

You waited for him to add “baby” to the end of that, but he didn’t, and you mentally bullied yourself for feeling disappointed.

Stepping into the elevator, you moved to the far corner, letting Peter click your floor number. He stood still as a statue and didn’t even glance back at you. 

The whole time, he was just trying to conjure up some excuse to have to walk to your door. 

When the doors slid open on the fifth floor, he held his arm out to keep the doors from closing as you stepped out into the hallway.

Instinctively, you turned on your heels and peered up at him. In the light, his wounds looked so much more agonizing. He needed ice on his bruise and to clean his lip with some kind of antiseptic, and you wanted so badly to tell him that, but he didn’t deserve it. That’s what you told yourself. He didn’t deserve your care.

“You good?” he asked, pulling you from your thoughts and trance-like daze.

Nodding quickly, you forced a poor excuse of a smile. “Yeah. Fine.”

“Good.” He nodded.

“Good.”

Peter made no move to let the doors shut and even reached down to hold the open door button, although he already had a hand blocking them.

“I’ll, um—” you combed a hand through your hair. “Bye… Peter,” you said through a shaky breath.

He parted his lips and almost said it. He almost told you to wait. He almost told you to hold on, begging you to just let him apologize, if nothing else—just let him tell you how sorry he was. But, he didn’t. 

You turned and started walking down to your dorm room and he watched for a minute, tongue sunk in his jaw, using all forms of self-restraint he had not to scream your name and tell you to turn around. 

It wasn’t until you disappeared into your room that he stammered back inside the elevator, pressing the ground level button with such force, the plastic nearly cracked. 

“Fuck,” he mumbled under his breath, crouching down in the elevator and resting his elbows on his knees. Massaging his temples, he worked his hands into his hair and pulled. He pulled his hair so hard, it drew a sharp hiss from his throat, but it was the best pain he’d ever felt.

The elevator doors opened on the bottom floor and it took him a moment to gather the strength to walk out. Because that was what it took for him to not click the number five button and sprint down the hall to your bedroom. It took every ounce of strength he had.

He made it all the way to the door, knowing he wouldn’t be able to get in if he went out. 

His shaky, clammy palms were on the lever. They had pushed down on the metal—he cracked the door open. He was going to leave. He was going to leave you alone, he really was.

But then he took a step back, hands falling slack at his sides.

He didn’t bother taking the elevator back up, knowing a group of girls were standing by it, waiting to take it up to their rooms. Instead, he took a sharp right into the echoey stairwell and jogged up the stairs, skipping every other step with not a single thought other than getting to you as quickly as possible running through his aching head.

By the time he reached the fifth floor, he was winded and panting like a damn dog, but he didn’t pause. He yanked the door open and made a stumbling beeline down your hallways until he was standing right outside your door. Room 508. 

He sucked in a sharp, uncontrollable breath and tried to gather himself. His fist rose to knock, but he lapsed, starting to second-guess himself. But when his fist dropped, it accidentally hit your door handle, which turned.

His heart skipped a beat. The door handle turned and he realized you hadn’t locked your door.

Oh, my God, he thought. You didn’t lock your door.

Without another second, his hand gripped the metal handle and opened your door.

You were pacing back and forth in the dim light of your desk lamp when he walked through. Halting, your head snapped up to him.

“You didn’t… lock your door,” he said between pants, his entire body shaking uncontrollably. 

You nodded slowly, your heart pumping so wildly in your chest, you, too, felt winded. “I know.”

“Why?”

Swallowing hard, you couldn’t find any other reason than one. “I knew you would come.”

His features hardened, closing the door slowly behind him without breaking eye contact with you. “You did?”

“Well, I had a, um, feeling…” you said, voice so soft it was barely above a whisper, “I guess.”

He nodded slowly, staring at you from the other side of the room. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it. He did that a few times and you just watched him, waiting. Finally, he inhaled sharply and his muscles relaxed. “I, um,” he blinked, “I missed—I miss you.”

“You shouldn’t,” you quickly countered.

“I know,” he responded, his voice hoarse and shaky. “But I do. And I have, and I probably always will.”

You let his words hang in the air for a moment. Throughout the four years you’d known him, sincerity had never been something he was particularly skilled at. But you could tell he was trying, and it was taking everything you had to just let him try.

You glanced down at the floor. “We’re not good for each other, Peter.” 

“Not right now, no. We’re not,” he surprised you by agreeing. “But we could be.”

Peter felt his throat closing, every deeply suppressed emotion he had felt for you from the moment he sat down next to you in that stupid first year seminar class fighting to come back to him, as if they ever really left. 

You were a part of his life at ESU. He never once walked across campus without immediately finding you amongst the hoards of other students, nor did he ever sit down in a class with you and didn’t immediately search for your face. Every single move he made was decided based on how he thought you would react. Every person he slept with was a distraction from you.

You were a part of him. 

He hadn’t made one thought in four years that wasn’t somehow linked to you. But, for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out how to tell you that.

“I care about you,” he croaked, taking a step forward. 

“You—”

“Shouldn’t?” he filled in thoughtfully. He waited until your eyes met his again. “You’re wrong.”

You shook your head, matching his steps forward with steps backwards. “All we do is hurt each other, Peter. That’s all we know how to do.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he admitted. He continued stepping closer, not minding the fact that you were backing away from him. “I never meant to hurt you.”

Your back became flush with your loft bed, staring up at him with so many feelings that it all muddled into blatant confusion. “I never meant to hurt you, either,” you heard yourself say.

“You didn’t,” he countered, stopping when there were only a few dangerous inches separating the two of you. “I hurt myself, if anything. I was too scared to tell you how I felt and was too worried about you not feeling the same way that I just…”

“Made it all a game? Pushed me away?”

He nodded solemnly. “It’s all I knew how to do.”

“I know,” you said softly.

His shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry.”

You frowned up at him and repeated, “I know.”

“Can you forgive me?” he asked, his tone so delicate, it felt like glass.

“Can you be honest with me?”

He sucked in a sharp breath and said, “I can.”

“Then tell me,” you breathed, hands shaking frantically at your sides. “Tell me how you feel.”

He glanced down at the floor, realizing quickly that this was his last chance. “I feel like…” he let out a rugged breath, “I feel like I might die if I can’t have you—like I can’t function when you’re not around. And I, uh,” he peered back up at you, “I really don’t want to ever feel this way again. I just want—I just want you, and I want you to want me.”

Part of you wanted to not trust him. Somewhere, you knew it wasn’t a good idea. “Keep going,” you coaxed, pulling yourself up to sit on your bed due to the sudden lack of strength you had in your legs. 

He took a step forward, standing between your parted legs that were dangling over the edge of the bed. “I want to always protect you,” he said, slowly trailing his hands up your legs to rest on your thighs. Your eyes caught the purpling on his knuckles, causing your fingers to instinctively graze over them. “Even if I end up with more busted lips, black eyes, and bruised knuckles, I want to make sure nothing that happened tonight ever happens again.”

When his eyes flickered up to yours, there was a churning feeling in your gut. “Is that it?”

He sighed, hands slowly moving higher on your thighs. “And I really, really care about you.”

“What if that’s not enough?”

His brows snapped together. “What?”

You tilted your head, shrugging. “What if just because we care about each other, we still hurt one another?”

“I don’t know,” he quickly replied.

You nodded slowly, not knowing either. “We should leave each other alone. Find something healthier.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is toxic, Peter,” you told him. “Sneaking around, fighting, ignoring each other, just to do it all over again—I mean, look at you. You’re all… beat up. That’s not right—

“He was going to hurt you,” he cut in.

“Still,” you let out a shallow breath. “We deserve better.”

“You might,” he said, voice shaky as his hands found comfort in the crease of your hips, gripping slightly. “But all I want is you. There isn't anything better for me.”

Your gaze fell to your lap. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.” He tugged your closer using the grip he had on your hips. “I know what it feels like to suffer without you. I don’t want to do that shit again.”

“Are you just saying all of this because you want to fuck me?” you asked before you could think.

He shook his head. “No, I’m saying all this because it’s the truth—it’s how I feel. It’s how I’ve always fucking felt.”

You didn’t respond. Not because you didn’t want to, it was just that you couldn’t find anything to say. 

“Look at me,” Peter coaxed, tugging you close again until you could feel his toned core between your legs. Without a fuss, you did. His dark-brown eyes flashed back and forth in yours. “What’re you thinking?”

“That this is a bad idea,” you admitted. “That the only way this will end is in disaster.”

Something stung in his chest. “Do you want me to leave?”

It took you a long time to answer him. For a moment, you just stared at him, feeling his hands gripping your hips and the pulse of his heart that was ricocheting through his body. 

He bowed his head slightly, bringing your heads level with one anothers. “Do you want me to leave?”

You inhaled deeply. “No.” Your shoulders sagged, defeat flushing your senses. “I don’t.”

“Then, come here,” he said before his hand softly grazed the side of your face, forcing your lips on his. 

The minute the softness of his lips met yours, you felt every tense muscle in your body deflate. You melted entirely. He wasn’t kissing you with the ferociousness you were used to with him. His tongue wasn’t trailing out of his lips, desperate to tangle itself with yours.

He was just… kissing you, in the softest way he knew how. 

Feeling the scabbing prick of the gash on his bottom lip, though, you pulled away. “Your lip—”

“It’s fine,” he said, pulling your face back to his. “Just kiss me, please.”

Reluctantly, you brought your face close to his. For the longest time, you just let him kiss you. His hands trailed your entire body, gripping every inch he could, like he was checking to make sure you were real—that you were actually there with him and he wasn’t imagining it. 

Your mind was still racing when he pulled away. “Lay down,” he urged softly.

You laid back on the bed, kicking off your boots and letting them clatter down on the floor as he climbed on top of you. His knees nudged your legs apart as he slowly slipped in between them, hovering on top of you for less than a second before his lips came crashing down on you again. 

This time, it was hungrier, the way you always remembered.

When his tongue traced your lips, you could taste his blood from his wound, but it didn’t stop you. It didn’t even phase you.

Reaching down, you hooked your fingers under the hem of his long sleeve shirt, pulling it up. He broke free from the kiss, tearing it off and tossing it behind him on the floor. 

“Come here,” he whispered, sitting back on his calves as you slowly sat up. 

His hands slipped under the sweatshirt of his that you were still wearing, pulling it and your sweater off in one swift motion. 

The entire time he worked to unclasp your bra, you couldn’t stop feeling guilty. You felt deeply wrong in every way, letting him back in with such ease after everything. But deep down, there was an even more debilitating awareness, which was that the feeling of his touch—the sight of his body, the way he kissed you—was the rightest thing you’d ever felt.

“God,” he breathed, lowering you back down beneath him, “you’re so beautiful.”

Your arms draped over his broad shoulders, barely able to make out his sharp features in the dim lighting as you pulled him in closer. His head dipped into the crook of your neck, planting rough, sloppy kisses on the delicate skin. 

Without much thought, his hips ground against you, causing his hardened length to press into you. 

Your lips parted and eyes fluttered closed, gasping softly at the overwhelming friction. Hearing those noises come from you again, he felt all of the blood rush to the tip of his dick, no longer able to control the desperate way he wanted you. 

His hips rolled again. And again, and again, until you were panting and shaking beneath him. The sensation it was causing on your needy center beneath your pants was dangerous. But he just couldn’t stop. He never wanted the sound of you gasping and trembling every time his covered length rubbed your core to stop. 

“Peter,” you hissed, fingers tangling in his hair as he sucked on the skin just below your ear. “Peter, please.”

“What, baby?” His soft voice was muffled against your neck. “What is it?”

Your hips bucked against him. “I want you.”

“Yeah?” He slowly lifted, only to place his lips back on your skin, planting soft kisses down your exposed chest until he reached your pebbled nipple. His tongue slowly slipped between his swollen lips, tracing circles on the sensitive bud.

“Yes, please,” you squirmed, tugging at his hair now. 

He kept kissing down your body until he was bowing on his knees in front of you, kissing your lower stomach over your jeans. 

Even with the fabric separating the touch, you could feel the heat of him, and it was driving you mad. You squirmed, feeling him inch closer to where you wanted him the most. 

His nose dug against your core, planting a rough kiss on the damp spot in between your legs. Your head dug back into your mattress, unable to take it any longer. 

Whimpering, you bucked your hips. “Peter, stop… fucking teasing,” you pleaded, muscles tensed in such a desperately distraught way. 

He smirked up at you from where his face was buried between your legs. “Gotta be patient, baby.”

The sound of him calling you baby was enough to undo you completely. 

You understood what he was doing, though. You knew he was trying to prove a point. He wanted you to see how much you wanted him. He wanted you to feel just as desperate for him as he was for you.

When his hands slowly worked to unbutton your jeans, pulling them down your legs and taking your panties with them, his point was more than evident. 

You were absolutely soaked, trembling when he only touched your thigh, working his way slowly back.

He couldn’t take his eyes off of it, watching the way you squirmed and panted as he touched you everywhere except where he knew you wanted him.

With the softest, most taunting touch, he grazed your legs, the curve of your waist, the soft skin of your arms. He palmed your tits, biting down on his lip when you threw your head back again and moaned incoherently. You were doing all that and he hadn’t even touched you where you needed him yet.

“I can’t—” you panted, gripping his muscular forearms. “I can’t do it, Peter. I need you.”

“Can’t hear you,” he teased further, gripping the top of your thigh, his thumbs barely grazing the outer folds of your soaked center. 

“I need you,” you repeated, louder than before. “Please.”

“Where do you need me, baby?” he cooed. “Show me.”

Your hand clamped down where his was resting on your thigh, forcefully moving it to your drenched slit. “Right there,” you whispered, back arching off the bed when his fingers trailed along your folds.

He smirked down at his fingers, feeling them become coated in your sticky, perfect arousal. Tracing lines up and down your pussy, he resisted the urge to insert his fingers, wanting to watch you jerk wildly before him. 

“This what you want?” he asked, voice trembling with passion. “You want me to play with your pussy like this?”

When his fingers rubbed circles over your swollen clit, you couldn’t manage to use your words. You just moaned deeply, nodding your head quickly as your eyes fluttered closed. 

His chest was heaving when he asked, “Is that all you want?”

You shook your head, arms rising above your head as his fingers slowly moved down to your entrance. “More,” you managed to moan.

“Mm,” he sounded, pushing his fingers in with such devious slowness, it almost made you want to scream. “I know what my baby wants,” he mused, the pitch of his voice deepening in such a sensual way, your heart hammered. 

He pumped two of his fingers in you, exhaling shallowly when he heard the squelching sounds of your walls suctioning him further in. “Fuck…” he breathed, feeling his cock twitch in his jeans. 

“Harder,” you moaned, hips rolling against his hand intuitively.

His will to hold back slowly wavered, leading him to pump his fingers in you faster, bringing the pad of his warm thumb to press on your clit. 

“God, yes,” you cried out, overwhelmed by the way he fucked you with his fingers. “Oh, my—”

His free hand moved to your mouth suddenly, muffling your loud moans. He knew how crazy that made you. Made him even wilder.

“Shh,” he taunted, hooking his fingers in you. “Can’t let anyone hear you, baby.”

Your eyes rolled back and he could feel your walls clenching around his fingers, a tell of your release. 

You moved uncontrollably under his touch, chest rising and falling until you let out a loud, muffled moan into the palm of his hand. 

“Good girl.” He pumped you slower, watching your body twitch into the end of your orgasm.

When he slowly pulled his fingers out, your eyes slowly flickered open, catching the sight of him gazing down at you. Even with his swollen, purpled cheekbone and gash along his bottom lip, you thought he had never looked better. 

He climbed off the bed for a moment, undoing his belt and unbuttoning his jeans.

Your breathing was still untamed when you propped yourself up on your elbows. “Turn on… my speaker,” you instructed between pants, pointing to the pink, portable speaker on your desk hutch. “You can connect.”

A smirk spread across his bruised lips. “Okay.”

“Not too loud, though,” you told him, falling back on the bed with a pleasurable sigh. “Don’t need a noise complaint.”

He pressed the button, waiting for the Bluetooth logo to flicker before fumbling in his back pocket for his phone. “I know, baby.”

This exact string of events had happened countless times before. Before Christmas break. Before you both spewed those vile things at each other. When the only problem was trying to sneak him in your room without your friends knowing and not letting anyone catch the way you stared at each other across the bar, leaving five minutes before he did so no one could tell you were leaving together. 

You missed it, you realized. The comfort of something you knew was wrong—bad and unhealthy. It was like the first puff of a cigarette after drinking too many beers or hearing the first few notes of your favorite song being played on the dance floor at some party where no one was willing to dance with you. Contradicting and utterly overwhelming.

He scrolled through his Spotify, clicking shuffle before tossing his phone on your desk with his wallet and keys. 

Pulling out his belt, he laid it on the bed next to you and pulled down his jeans. Your gaze hung on the way his length was bricked in his black boxers, begging for release. 

Gorillaz and Kali Uchis’ “She’s My Collar” vibrated out of the speaker as he gripped your thighs, pulling you to the edge of the bed. 

“Come here,” he mumbled, hooking his arm under your arched back and pulling you up to him. 

But you shook your head, crawling back on the bed. “Uh-uh.” You smirked, folding your quivering legs beneath you. “You come here.”

His eyes narrowed, trying to read through your intent, but he couldn’t.

Your hand patted the bed next to you. “Lay down.”

He wasn’t used to you telling him what to do. Still, his dick throbbed in his boxers as he crawled on the bed, lying down next to you. 

You straddled his knees, hooking your fingers under his boxers and pulling them down. Lifting yourself to get them fully off, letting him kick them off the side of the bed, your eyes hung on his cock as it immediately sprung up, slapping his lower stomach. 

One of his arms was curled under his head, keeping it lifted slightly so he could watch you as you took him in your hand, working in slow strokes. His other hand grazed your arm, resisting the urge to overpower you and take control. 

You shifted, straddling only one of his legs as you bowed your head, mouth parting over his sensitive tip. 

He could feel your slick core on the skin above his knee, noticing the way you grinded against it as you took his entire cock down your throat. 

Sneaky, he thought. His jaw went slack, though, as you swallowed his length, your throat tightening around his tip. 

“Look at you,” he moaned, hands moving to your hair so he could move it away from your face, needing an unobstructing view. “Sucking my dick so good.”

Your lips suctioned around him, bobbing your head up and down in a seductively slow pace, working the hilt of him with your hand. The feeling of your clit rubbing against his thigh made you want to work harder—suck harder. 

He tugged at your hair, forcing you to match the rhythm he wanted you at. 

A gag tore from your throat as he bucked his hip, sending his dick further down your throat, feeling that familiar tightening. You rolled your hips once more, shuddering at the sensation and moaning against his shaft. 

“You that needy, baby?” he hummed, pulling your hair. “Riding my thigh.”

There was a wave of embarrassment that swept through you, but you just couldn’t stop. Your spit drooled down his dick, coating his balls the same way your pussy was coating his thigh. And you just couldn’t stop.

You sucked harder, faster. Your tongue swirled circles over his tip, grinding against his muscular thigh in such a primal way, you were moaning wildly with him so deep in your throat.

His jaw went slack, feeling the vibrations of your muffled sounds ricochet throughout his body. “You’re such a dirty girl,” he grunted, moving both hands to your hair, jerking your head up and down. 

Without warning, he slowly raised his knee off the bed, sending an unfathomably pleasurable shock through your system. 

“Mm, God… you’re gonna make me cum down your throat acting… like that, baby.”

You wanted him to, which is why you took him deeper, nose meeting the base of him as your throat clenched tighter around him. 

A hiss tore from his lips, head lulling back in your girly, pink pillows. “Stop,” he grunted, knowing he wasn’t going to be able to stop himself. You were going to have to do it. “Fuck, baby—I’m gonna—”

He tugged on your hair so hard, but you reached to grip his hips, forcing him deeper down in your throat. 

“F—Fuck,” he roared, legs spazzing beneath you as his dick twitched in your mouth. His warmth slowly oozed down the back of your throat. “Oh, my—”

His back arched off the bed as you kept sucking him through his high, swallowing every drop of cum that squirted from his tip as you went. 

Panting raggedly, his muscles slowly softened beneath you and you took him as far back as you could once more before pulling off him. 

His eyes were wide when you peered up at him, the remnants of his cum and your spit dripping down the corner of your mouth. 

You didn’t know what reaction you’d expected from him. You had never let him cum in your mouth before. He was panting and taut with tension, but he was still thrumming with a burning need. 

He sat up. “Come here,” he urged, gripping your arms and twisting you around on all fours on the bed before him. 

You were still trying to catch your breath when he sat up on his knees behind you. “What—What are you—”

“I wanna be inside you,” was all he managed to say, gripping his dick and aligning it with your entrance.

“But you already came,” you protested, a high-pitched gasp exiting you when he slowly inserted himself inside you from behind.

Your walls immediately suctioned around him, forcing him deeper, causing him to bite down hard on his already injured lip. “I’m still hard for you, baby.”

He didn’t know it was possible to feel as much as he felt in that moment. He didn’t know he could keep going like that, but he had to. That was how much he wanted you.

Deftones’ “Cherry Waves” began humming at a loud volume as he sat back on his calves, bringing you down with him. He lifted you off his tip for a moment, long enough for him to stretch his legs out beneath you. Then, he lowered you back down on him, causing you to ride his dick with your back turned to him—a position you’d never been in before.

“Oh, shit…” you hissed, rolling your hips against him.

His hands gripped your ass, watching the way you fell forward, gripping his thighs as you bounced up and down on top of him.

A moan tore from your throat just as your bleary-eyed gaze landed on his brown leather belt resting at the foot of the bed. Without putting much thought into your actions, you reached out and grabbed it. 

Peter immediately caught it, watching you hand it back to him. Twisting around like that with his dick so deep inside you nearly sent him over the edge again, but the excitement for what he was about to do to you muddled it.

“How do you want it, baby?” he grunted between deep-voiced moans, taking the leather in his grasp.

“Hit me,” was all you could say.

His brows immediately pinched together. “What?”

“Like…” you tossed your head back as he hit the spot deep inside you that no one else had ever been able to, “a whip.”

Oh, my God, he thought. He would never recover from this.

He folded the belt in half, watching with his mouth hung open as you sunk down further, gripping his knees with your back arched, ass grinding on top of him. He slapped the belt across the round of your ass once, and immediately felt a tinge of guilt. He didn’t want to hurt you.

A piercing moan escaped you and you immediately told him, “Harder.”

He wasn’t sure he could, but he still tried for you. He slapped the belt again—harder, and the sounds you made were so insanely sexy, he wanted to keep doing it. But he couldn’t stomach hurting you in that way, even if you liked it. 

So, he reached up and gripped your hair, forcing you to sit up straight on his dick, and conjured a better idea. One he knew you would enjoy just as much. 

“Let me try something, baby,” he mumbled when you glanced back at him with passionate confusion. “Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

“Mm-hmmm,” you moaned, grinding your sopping, wet pussy on his dick. 

Holding both ends of the leather, he slowly lifted the belt over your head, bringing the center of it to your throat. Then, he tugged.

Your back arched and a muffled moan escaping you as your entire body shuddered on top of him. 

He smirked. “You like that?”

Your hands fell back on his hard abdomen, thrusting your hips to feel him deeper with the belt around your throat. God, you loved it. 

“Yeah, I know you love that shit,” he grunted, feeling your walls tighten around him as you tried to cry out in pleasure. “Riding my dick like such a good girl while I choke you.”

You worked faster on top of him, feeling him in the deepest parts of you. “H—Har…der,” you pleaded. 

He pulled the belt a bit rougher, watching as you suddenly became like a ventriloquist on top of him when your back arched in such a way that shouldn’t have been possible. The sight of your spine flexing on top of him as your quivering pussy saturated his dick was all he needed to get off again.

“I’m gonna—”

“Me… too,” you groaned, rolling your hips in circular motions on his cock as you felt him reach a second climax inside of you—something you thought to be impossible. 

Your entire body convulsed against him, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“Holy…” He was right there with you, suddenly becoming completely numb as he shot what little cum he had left deep inside you. “F—Fuck me…” he hissed.

Your hips jerked, falling forward when his grip around the belt loosened, catching yourself by gripping onto his knees again. 

Riding out your high, your body twitched until you no longer had the strength to hold yourself up on top of him. 

He snaked his arm around your waist, slowly lifting you off of him with as much ease as possible, letting you collapse on top of him in a sweaty, trembling mess. His chest heaved in sync with yours. 

And, for the longest time, you both just laid there together as music played and you tried to control your breathing.

hope you enjoyed it! pls leave a comment/like/reblog. if you have a one shot request, you can send it through my “ask me.” ୨ৎ─ delaney!

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and, fuck, he's so sick for the way his cock twitches when you wince or sigh out in pain despite him being so gentle with you—but, to his pleasure, you aren't running.

no, you're pushing back into him, softly humping your cunt against his tongue, clenching around his fingers and suckling them like you can't get enough.

"feel's'good, peter," you mewl, slurred, whiny, pussy constricting when he presses his pads into the sweet spot at the top. "mmm—ah, fuck—please—a-ah, wait, careful—hurts a little—"

your body seems to be contradicting itself, tensing up when he strokes a particularly sore spot but yet releasing the most delicious sounds of pleasure, with whines for him to slow down peppered in between cries for more.

"i know, baby, i know. i know she's sore." he cuts off your next whimper softly, massaging gentle circles into your thigh with his free hand, fingers still sinking knuckle deep inside you rhythmically. "'m gonna go slow, okay? fuck, i'll make it up t'you... 'm'gonna make this pretty pussy feel better, hmm? y'want that?"

"yes, yes, please," you rush out on a breath, one that catches on a small whine and a jerk of your hips when his shoulder rubs against the sensitive flesh of your thigh. "wan-wanna feel better, pete, please—"

fuck, he's hard enough to cut steel right now. his boxers are tight and sticky, pools of pre spilling from his swollen tip. he aches so badly to simply bury himself inside your sweet cunt, replace his thick fingers with something even thicker and longer—but he knows he has to wait.

there's no way your poor, achy pussy could handle his cock right now. that would be far too much. she needs his tongue and fingers to bring her to orgasm first.

"fuck—a-ah—peter, i-i think 'm gonna cum."

oh, speak of the devil. peter suppresses a small smirk and starts to pump his fingers just a little harder—not faster, not higher, just harder. he flicks his tongue over your clit in tandem, and fuck, now your pussy is clenching so tight. your chest heaves and your moans are loud enough to shake the walls.

"that's it, pretty baby," peter murmurs, breath hot and fanning over your slopped up pussy. "c'mon, let it go. mmhmm, jus' like that. let go f'me, cum on my fingers—oh, yes, that's a goooood girl—"

peter can't really tell if the whine that escapes your throat is one of pain or pleasure; maybe it's a bit of both. but what he can tell is that you are coming on his fingers, slick gushing and clit pulsing, so swollen and cute and sensitive when he sucks on it gently.

and now that you have cum, maybe you'd be willing to let him make you just a little more sore...

note. so acc idk entirely how i feel abt this one bcs i'm expirementing a lil with a more dominant peter, so pls lmk how you guys feel about it or if i did a decent job of it or if u like it yeah u get it lol. anyway luv yas xoxo!! ♡

It was the most convenient resolution, upon finding a bug hidden in your apartment among you and Peter's ongoing investigation of morally bankrupt individuals dominating the hierarchy of New York City. You narrowly possessed the cash to burn on a hotel, much less the resources to safe house your livelihood for the better part of the week. It was, more or less, your only option.

“Is that my apartment?” you ask, pointing to the familiar lineage of streets and corners you recognized on the glowing bright computer screen at the not-so-far end of Peter's apartment. Four red dots pinpointed the buildings surrounding your place, blowing bright on the screen, a fifth blue dot marking your actual apartment.

“Uh, yeah,” his steps march up behind you, body brushing up to your side to use a long finger to trace the spots marked on the screen, “I set up a few sensors around your place. The idea is that if whoever bugged your apartment shows up again, these will triangulate the signal from whatever devices they’re using to tag the frequencies and help me figure out where to find them from anywhere in the city,” he flashes you a cautious eye from your side, a looming position he took often, “That’s…okay, right?”

You nod,, stepping back to let the back of your legs bump the low table ledge, only providing an inch of difference in space between you and Peter.

“How long will it take for you to find them?”

“Well, quick if they show up soon. By now they’ll realize the first bug is unresponsive and will probably try and plant a new one,” he explained, finger coming off the screen to tap on the table, a rhythmic habit he’d had for years.

“And you can’t use the original to find them because,” your voice trails off, head tilting as his lip pulled between his teeth.

“It sort of broke when you chucked it on the floor the other night.”

“Oh,” you shrink. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. They probably would have deactivated it once they realized I wasn’t the female reporter they were looking for—given that I am a man,” your lips curl into an easy smile, his eyes glinting with the pride that comes with amusing you, “And it gives me an excuse to show off how incredibly tech savvy your ex-boyfriend is.”

“Cause it wasn’t obvious enough,” you hum, your gazes meeting. His shoulders pull up into a shrug, lips curled into a lopsided grin.

“Yeah, well, the reminder doesn’t hurt.”

His shift in tone makes you swallow, weary of the way he easily manages to lull you into this back and forth. You side step him as he goes to speak again, pointing back to the general direction of the bathroom.

“I’m gonna shower, if that’s okay,” Peter’s startled expression at your sudden departure from his side makes him falter briefly.

“Now?” you shift on either heel, watching him clear his throat, gesturing vaguely to the wall opposite you both, “Yeah—yeah, that’s fine, towels are, uh, in that closet.”

You step out of the bathroom in a mist of steam, towel squeezing out the excess water from your hair. Your sleep top brushed the tops of your thighs where the hem of your shorts cusped the plush of fat at the seam of your hip. Your clean skin shuddered at the sudden briskly cool air outside of the progressively hot bathroom, eyes lured across the subtly changed scene of the living room.

The pullout bed took up the left side of the apartment, all neatly tucked together with sheets and two soft down pillows, and a familiar blue blanket. Peter’s broad shoulders were pulled up, seated in the chair that had often been tucked under the desk. His hands clasped behind his head, the swell of his biceps accentuated by the position, muscle rippling in the fluorescent beam of his table side lamps, the room cast in a yellow-white halo.

You swallowed, eyes trailing from his arms to the unchanged screen, “Anything?”

“No, not—” Peter sighed, head turning to look at you. His eyes set on your face, and quickly trailed down your bare thighs, lips parted in a subconscious buffer, “Yet. Uh, but, it’s only been a few hours. The system will alert us if anything changes.” You walked up to the table, whirring machinery masking the creaking sound of your steps, your hip jutted as you propped yourself on one leg, eyes peeling over the screen, arms coming to cross over your chest. Peter's eyes lingered on the sliver of skin that revealed at the raise of your arms. You looked down at him.

“What?”

“Nothing. You look cozy,” his lips curled up, looking back at the screen as it shone across his sharp features, “Cute shorts.”

Scoffing, you roll your eyes, seating yourself on the table edge, the fat of your thighs pushing wide with the cool metal pressing to the backs.

“Are you planning to sit there all night? Are you really that much of a workaholic?”

“You know what they say, do what your love never work a day in your life,” he jokes, but his plan is clear by the low settled position he has in the remarkably uncomfortable looking chair.

“Right. Can see that still holds true,” you note, head tilting to meet his resistant gaze. “Do you plan on getting any sleep?”

Peter's eyes meet yours at the brisk concern you exhibit, nodding a bit as his palm comes to cusp the back of his neck, eyes flickering back to the made bed.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll set myself up in a little bit. Got some blankets I can throw on the floor—get a few hours of sleep in case something comes up later tonight.”

Your eyes narrow at the implication.

“Seriously?”

“What?”

“Peter, we can share a bed, it’s fine,” you explain as though it’s obvious. Peter’s expression turns up amused, head tilting to look at you with a teasing lilt to his voice.

“I thought you were Miss ‘avoiding confusion’?”

“Well then keep your hands to yourself and save the trouble,” you leaned over as you said it, Peter's lips parting in a sheepish scoff, eyes trailing down to the scantily clad fold of your shorts riding up to bite between your thighs.

“Right. You do know how I like to stay away from trouble.”

The soft haze of light from the dimmed computer screen is all that casts over the room as you and Peter settle into bed. It’s a low hue of light, barely casting enough light to hold a shadow over Peters features as he shifts and turns at your side. You tuck yourself under the sheets, shifting a few times as Peter stills beside you, settling into a comfortable position.

“Comfortable?” he asks, voice hardly above a whisper. You nod, a soft hum rumbling in your throat, Peter's own breath exhales softly through his nose, “Well, don’t let the…” his words trailed off, the verbal implications catching on his tongue as the words died out in his throat, “Uh, goodnight.”

It’s strange to lay beside Peter. You remain still as the mixture of your soft breaths travel between you both in the vacant room, the soft cast of moonlight shining in across the opposite wall just below the window is the main fixture your open eyes focus on. After a long while you sigh softly, sheets rustling beneath your body as you turn onto your side, hands coming up to rest under your head as you face Peter, his own head turning toward you at the sudden shift.

“Hi,” you murmur quietly, like someone might hear you if you spoke any louder. Peter’s body shifts to move onto his own side, pushing the edge of his pillow down to see you.

“Hey.”

“Thank you for letting me stay here,” you whisper, your fingers plucking the seam of your pillow case, lashing fluttering across your cheek. “I know I gave you a hard time about it the other night.”

“Yeah, of course,” his gentle voice rasps. “Makes me feel better to know you’re somewhere safe. Somewhere where I can…” he swallows, your heart racing at the vulnerability of his words. “In case anything happened.”

“It makes me feel better too,” you admit, eyes lowering to his hand as it moves to push the hair at your temple back behind your ear. You sigh at the touch of his warm skin grazing yours, his palm moved to hold under your jaw, thumb pressed to stroke the apple of your cheek.

“This is nice,” he hums, thumb pulling down the soft plush of your bottom lip, “Having you here.”

“Peter,” you sigh, his broad hands caressing down the soft arch of your throat. You breathe heavily at the feeling of his fingers dragging down the neck of your shirt, dancing down along the soft curve of your hip, fingers balling up the fabric of your shirt hem in his hands.

“This is soft,” he breathes, nose nudging yours, tongue coming out to wet his lips as he urged your body closer, “You smell nice.”

“We should sleep,” you tried, eyes closed to the feeling of his breath against your lips, chin tilting up to feel the brush of his lips on yours.

“Yeah,” he huffs, fingers peeling off your hip to curl around the back of your throat, surging forward to slot his lips with yours. You moan openly into his mouth, fingers coming to clutch the loose fabric of his own shirt, tongue slipping against his with impatient breathes, bodies slotting together, his hot hand tugging your thigh over his before wrapping his hand back against the back of your skull to wind into the tufts of hair splayed across your pillow.

“Peter,” you part briefly, eyes fluttering as he licked at your parted lips, “We can’t.”

“Shh, we're sleeping,” you smiled against his mouth as he pulled you into another open mouth kiss, panting as your tongues swirled, spit seeping to the corners of your mouths, the obscene sounds of your mouths smacking filling the room.

“Yeah—yeah, just like that, god,” Peters nose nudges with yours as he pants against the swell of your cheek, eyes darting down to the vague shape of your hands pushed past the seam of his boxers, the achingly hard outline of his cock morphed by the shape of your small hand stroking the twitching length. His own fingers plunge into your eager cunt with measured strokes, palm slapping your puffy clit to spread the slick over your cunt. Your thighs clam down on either side of his wrist, hips rolling into his open palm as he fucks his fingers up into you, methodical in the way he curls and strokes your insides.

“Feels so good, oh—fuck, Peter,” you moan, fingers stroking the blushing tip of his leaking cock, licking the open parting of his lips, sighing when he surges forward to push his tongue into your mouth, hips stuttering into your closed fist as you mangle spit between your messily open and closed kiss. The tip of his tongue slips behind your teeth, moaning when your lips wrap around the muscle to suck on it, fingers curling up into your cunt in a way that has you body lurching against him, taut forearm tensed as his fingers make a slick squelching sound as they piston in and out of your pussy. “Oh—my god.”

“Have dreams—mm—just like this,” Peter groans, cock pulsing in your palm, rumbling in his throat as he pants against you, cum spilling out into your eager hand. He shakes his head, hips moving to fuck against your palm, “Can’t beat the real thing. S’too good—you’re too good.”

Coming back to Empire State University was like willingly returning to war after barely surviving the first one. 

It was nice to finally have your own single dorm room, though. Now that you were finally a senior, approaching your final year of undergrad, things like that were easier to come by. Move-in day was a few days earlier than the antsy freshman’s, your meal plan was a couple hundred dollars cheaper, and you no longer had to sprint across campus to the science building everyday since your dorm hall was closer to it than your old one. 

The silence, however, was deafening.

Spending the summer at home in the city was fine. You were able to survive off more than Ramen noodles and Pedialyte since your mom cooked you real meals every night, and lifeguarding at the community pool helped you save up some extra cash, helping cover the hefty cost of textbooks. 

But it just wasn’t the same anymore. Being home didn’t feel like it did that first summer after your freshman year. Maybe it was because you were growing up. College changes people, so that would make sense. You’re raised a certain way and then you’re given that taste of freedom—the chance to make your own decisions, forced to figure all the hard things out on your—and it changes you. Resilience builds character, that was what your mom always told you. 

There was nothing character-building about the way you felt the morning of your first day of classes, though. In fact, it felt more like your character was being diminished. 

Your best friend had roped you into going out to the local bar the night before to celebrate finally being seniors, somehow convincing you that taking a round of lemon drop shots wouldn’t impede on your 8:00 a.m. quantum mechanics lecture. But it did, of course. It didn’t just impede on it—it made you fifteen minutes late.

When you pushed through the doors of the science building, your backpack was slipping off your shoulders and your tired body was fighting to keep up with your rushed pace. The only thing you’d managed to accomplish before darting across the courtyard was brush your teeth. You couldn’t even remember checking your reflection, dreading the absolute mess of what you possibly looked like. 

If you had given yourself a second to calm down—accepting your mistake, and thinking a single thought before you barged right into Dr. Banner’s lecture hall, it may have saved you from becoming the center of unwanted attention. But you hadn’t, which was why the door creaked closed behind you, causing the room to instantly become so silent that you could hear the clicking of someone’s pen in the back row. 

“Our first late comer,” Dr. Banner mused, gesturing towards you with a cheeky smile on his wrinkling features. 

Your jaw was trembling with tension when you met his amused expression. 

This wasn’t your first class with Banner. The two of you were quite acquainted, actually. He was your academic advisor, ensuring you attained all the credits needed to graduate with your bachelor’s degree in physics, and he was also the head of the department at ESU. Throughout your time in his classes, nothing ever changed about him. He always showed up in a long-sleeve, button-down, the sleeves rolled up his forearms and paired with khaki slacks. On Fridays, though, he wore jeans. 

Your best friend, despite being a graphic design major, had a wet dream about him once, forcing you to hear all about the filthy things she imagined your prof doing to her. 

You hadn’t really been able to look at him the same since.

He clasped his hands together, smiling softly. “No worries. I was late all the time back in my day.” He held a hand out, urging you to find a seat.

You didn’t waste a second, quickly turning to walk up the aisle between desks, desperate to find an empty seat somewhere far in the back where no one had the chance to gawk at you. 

Peter saw you the minute you walked in, just like everyone else in the class had. But while a few of your peers spared a chuckle under their breath at you, gossipping about your grim appearance, Peter’s airflow suddenly felt constricted.

He was sitting in the second row, like he always was. Too cool for the front, too desperate for academic validation to creep in the back. His knuckles whitened around his pen, lips parting as he watched you walk through the desks with such a precise stare that his peripheral vision blurred, only able to make out the shape of you. 

Even as you climbed further up to reach the back row, passing him without even a side-eyed glance, his neck craned to watch you. 

It wasn’t until you settled down in the last free seat along the back row, pulling your laptop out of your backpack and resting it on the desk before you as Dr. Banner continued his monologue about how crucial the syllabus was, that your eyes met his. 

You halted mid-scooching your chair in, every sore and tired muscle in your body tightening the point of cramping when his dark-brown eyes glued to yours. His eyes twitched, unabashedly narrowing on you despite the seven rows that separated the two of you and the sea of your peers that had a penchant for taking things the wrong way and running with it. 

His skin was tanner than you remembered and his chestnut-brown hair had grown out a bit, curling at the root. Summer break must have been kinder to him than it was to you. 

Clenching your teeth, your hands gripped the sides of your chair and you continued scooting yourself up, forcefully prying your eyes away from him. Just seeing him was nauseating. 

It had been nearly four months since Peter last saw you. It had been four long, gruesome, insufferable months since he had you in his bed—since he had himself inside you. 

Following the Kappa Tau Zeta party in late May, it was finals week. Sitting in for exams would have been Peter’s last chance to see you before the two of you parted ways for summer break, but thanks to Dr. Banner’s affinity for assigning remote, online exams, he never got the chance. You had fled his bedroom not even ten minutes after he came inside you, refusing his offer to walk you back to your dorm, and hadn’t talked to him since. 

It was absolutely vile, really. 

He had spent his summer crammed up in his Queens apartment, wasting most of his days off from his posh tech internship laying in bed, thinking about you. 

Sometimes he would think about the soft, high-pitched sounds you made when you came, remembering the way your hips bucked against him and your legs twitched around his waist as he drove himself deeper inside of you. That was his favorite thing to think about. 

At weak points, though, he would scroll through Instagram, find your best friend’s account and scour her posts for you. He never outrightly typed in your username, though, despite knowing that stupid little handle of yours like the back of his hand. It made it easier for him to keep tabs on you because your account wasn’t private. 

Of course it wasn’t, he’d thought one day. 

You probably wanted him to see all the fun you were having back home, hoping he’d catch the one post you made in that skimpy little bikini when you went down to the coast for the Fourth, or that selfie you posted with some guy he didn’t know. 

He had stalked that guy’s account, too, wondering who he was to you—wondering if he had felt you in all the same ways he so desperately wanted to again. 

By mid-July, Peter had changed his account from private to public, refreshing his story views every couple of hours to see if your name would pop up. He was desperate for it—for your attention, that was. 

He posted everything he did. The coffees he’d get on the way to his way to his internship, thirst strap mirror selfies of him flexing just a little too hard, screenshots of song lyrics that he told himself were just songs he liked and that he didn’t replay them over and over again because they made him think of you.

But your name never came. Not even once. Even when he accidentally liked one of your posts from six years ago—nothing. Complete and total fucking nothingness.

His longing and envy slowly warped into frustration, like an itch he just couldn’t scratch. He was frustrated with you, yes, but he was more frustrated with himself. Because he’d had you. He’d had you right there in front of him, choking and squirming on his dick, leaving him completely lost in the satisfaction of finally winning with you, and then you just fucking… vanished. 

The realization didn’t really hit him until he was on the subway, heading to campus with his overly-packed suitcase, ready to move back into his room at the frat house. With his wired headphones tangled up in his ears, The 1975’s “Heart Out” blaring over the noisy chatter around him, it was like a fuse had blown in the back of his mind. 

He didn’t win with you. You had won with him. 

Sure, you had lost your willpower, unable to continue denying how badly you wanted him. You had been the one screaming his name, biting down on his sheets, and sucking his cum off your fingers. But you were able to redeem yourself from it. 

You had been able to confidently walk away from it, categorizing it as some stupid lapse in judgment—a mistake, that was what you’d told him it was before you left his room. You were fucking fine. You couldn’t care less.

It was him who was stuck in the throes of it, harping on filthy memories, and driving himself insane, trying to find ways to get you back where he wanted you.

Glancing over his shoulder at you now, all of those emotions came crashing back into him. 

Part of him thoroughly enjoyed seeing you all disheveled and disorientated, subjected to snickering and the thing you hated most, which was unwanted attention. It made him feel better to see you struggling, too. Made him feel more righteous about his own.

The entire time Banner droned on about wave-particle duality, your eyes were trained on your laptop screen. There was an opened Google doc, your cursor flashing, ready for you to jot down a note, or literally anything, knowing full well that this was the most difficult class to pass. But every word that spilled out of him went in one ear and out the other. 

When class was dismissed a little before 9:15, you slammed your laptop closed and didn’t even bother stuffing it back in your bag. You just grabbed it, standing and slinging your backpack over your shoulder before making a beeline for the exit.

Peter let you rush out. Backpack spilling open, all flustered and annoyed. He sat back in his chair, took his time packing up his belongings and even talked to a buddy about their upcoming lacrosse match.

When he finally walked out of the science building, his ESU Lacrosse sweatshirt clung to his frame despite the end-of-summer heat, he instantly found you. Standing by the fountain in your sweatpants and faded David Bowie graphic tee, you were deep in conversation with some guy who was smiling way too hard at the way you reared your head back in laughter. 

He wasn’t the guy you had posted a picture with over the summer, Peter clocked that immediately. He had seen him maybe once or twice at a party. Didn’t know his name or why he was talking to you. All he knew was the way his blood boiled at the sight. 

The moment you caught the sight of Peter nearing you in your periphery, you debated sprinting away. The sound of the guy’s voice talking to you became muffled background noise and you clenched your fists at your side.

“Hey—Dean’s List!” Peter called out, making determined strides over to you. 

That stupid name rang through the air like emergency sirens, causing your stomach to knot and hives threatening to break out on your skin.

When he reached the two of you, he gripped the strap of his backpack and peered down at you. “Can I talk to you?”

“I’m busy,” you deadpanned, jaw tight enough to splinter as you refused to meet his gaze.

The guy in front of you seemed unphased, having no idea every ounce of your patience was being tested. “What’s up, Parker?” he greeted Peter, but the silently seething brunette didn’t initially respond to him, he was too busy glaring at you. “You good, man?”

The muscle in his chiseled, tanned jaw ticked. He glanced over at the oblivious guy. “Yeah, man. You mind if I talk to her for a sec? You know… TA stuff,” he lied through his pearly-white teeth, grinning. 

Your brows furrowed up at him, reluctantly meeting his gaze. “I’m not a TA this sem—”

“That’s fine,” the guy replied, not hearing your feeble attempt. He glanced down at you. “I’ll catch you later, yeah?”

Nodding, you watched him walk off towards the dining hall and briefly pondered how much of a hindrance it would be to just transfer to a new school—somewhere far away where Peter Parker couldn’t find you.

Alone now, Peter glanced down at you and nudged his head to the side. “Walk with me?”

“Why?”

He narrowed his eyes, giving you that look. 

You shifted in your stance. “We can talk right here just fine.”

“You sure?” His head spun around, glancing at the number of students all around us. “Somebody might hear us.”

You knew that was a dig. You remembered what you said that night before you walked yourself back to your dorm with his cum still dripping out of you, telling him that no one was to ever find out what they did. You could recall him agreeing with you, but still noticing the way his throat tightened. 

“Just get it over with, Peter.”

He squinted down at you, stuffing his hands in his front sweatshirt pocket and trying not to show that the sound of his name rolling off your tongue made him want to melt. “Who was that guy?” he asked with very minimal thought put into it. 

“A friend,” you quickly replied.

He frowned. “Never seen you talk to him before.”

“Well, you don’t know everything about me,” you countered, shrugging. “You don’t know what I do when I’m not around you.”

“You mean I don’t know who you do when you’re not around me?”

A toothy grin spread on your lips. “Oh, you’re, like, actually jealous?” You coughed out a laugh, tucking a strand of hair that’d gotten caught in your lipgloss from the wind behind your ear.

Peter’s tongue sunk into his jaw, shaking his head. “Are you fucking him?”

“No, Peter.” You rolled your eyes, hands going slack at your side. “I’m not fucking him.”

“Then I’m not jealous,” he quipped. 

Your eyes slanted up at him, finding an odd sense of comfort in the fact that he hadn’t changed. He was still the same brash and arrogant Peter you’d unfortunately grown to know so well. Only this new Peter had something else to hold over your head. 

“Still not over it are you?” you teased, frowning and feigning sympathy.

“Over what?”

“Fucking me,” you responded without a thought. 

The corner of his mouth curled. “I don’t know.” He shrugged his broad shoulders lazily. “Depends.”

Your chin tilted up at him, interest slightly piqued. “On?”

“Can you still taste it?” he asked, wetting his bottom lip with that filthy little tongue of his.

“I don’t know… That’s a little too vague for me.” You inched half-a-step towards him, remembering when the same words spilled out of him all those months ago. “Taste what?’

He smirked devilishly. “My cum.” He took another step, leaving a dangerous few inches between the two of you. “Remember when it was dripping out of you, all sticky and wet. You licked it up so good, too.”

A rugged scoff tore from your throat, it was all you could do to combat the heat rushing to your face. “Yeah, I remember. Had to brush my teeth three times to get rid of that taste,” you countered. “Fucking gross.”

“You’re so hot when you’re mean,” he drawled, stifling a laugh with a groan.

“And you’re so pathetic when you’re desperate.”

He laughed. “You think I’m desperate?”

Shrugging, you squinted up at him under the bright sun. “You’re the one pining over a one night stand.”

“Baby, I’m not pining.” He shook his head, pretending the way you called his night with you a one night stand didn’t bother him. “This is just foreplay.”

“Foreplay,” you mumbled, coughing out a laugh when your gaze dropped to the pavement. When you glanced back up at him, you sighed. “You’re funny.”

“You want me.”

“I want you to leave me alone.”

He tilted his head, squinting. “I don’t have class until noon. We could get a quickie in.”

“Not happening.” Your heart hammered violently against your ribcage. “Ever again.”

“Right.” He smirked. “We’ll see about that.”

You rolled your eyes, gripping your backpack over your shoulder before taking a swift step past him. “Bye, Peter.”

It surprised you that he didn’t stop you. No, it bothered you.

Peter’s eyes trained on the way your ass shook as you walked away, yearning to have it back in his grasp. “See you around, Dean’s List.”

It wasn’t until Halloween weekend that you ran into Peter again. 

He had seen you nearly everyday in class, of course, but he never got as close to you as he had on the first day of classes. You wouldn’t let him. The seat on the back row that you had laid claim to on day one had become your permanent one, knowing Peter wouldn’t dare jeopardize his ass-kissing relationship with Dr. Banner by joining you. 

However, every time he saw you walking across campus, he would go in the opposite direction. When Banner assigned a partner project, he didn’t even try to weasel his way over to you. He partnered with the redheaded girl he sat next to, making sure when they gave their final presentation, he stared directly at you the whole time. 

Leaving class one day, you had overheard that same redhead gushing to a friend about all the ways Peter was able to help her pass one of their quizzes, stating he had come to her dorm to help her study, giggling when she added, “amongst other things.”

That wasn’t the first time you’d heard girls on campus gossiping and giggling about sleeping with Peter, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last. But, for some inexplicable reason, you slowed your steps behind them, remaining in earshot to listen to what the girl was saying about him.

Did he tie her up, too?

Did he fuck her raw?

Did she let him cum in her?

It was disgusting. That was what it felt like, hanging onto the edge of everything she was saying while an unfamiliar knot tangled in your stomach, only finding a semblance relief when she said they only did “mouth stuff.”

What that girl failed to mention, though, was that while Peter had his hands knotted up in her hair, guiding her mouth up and down his dick, it was your name that slipped through his moans.

It was an accident, one that he found himself making not just once, but twice. 

When he’d taken off his belt, he had made a joke to the girl, asking if she wanted to be tied up. She had said no, of course, so he didn’t. But the entire time she was sucking him, his eyes were on that brown leather belt. He forced himself to picture your wrists bound up by it, which was when your name came out the first time. 

The redhead had immediately stopped working him, cocking her head up at him with a ferocious glare. He played it off, got real sweet with her so he could finish. But when he did finally finish, with your face clouding his thoughts, your name came out then, too, which was exactly why he hadn’t heard from her since and why she moved seats to the opposite side of the lecture hall.

His walk back home that night to the KTZ house was brutal. He passed your dorm hall in the dark, peering up at the various illuminated windows, wondering which one was yours and resisting the urge to go and beat on each and every door to find out on his own. 

He physically wanted to slap himself. He could not cope with the way his brain warped around you. It sickened him.

At his lacrosse game the following weekend, he purposefully taunted the opposing team’s X-attackman just so he’d garner a few illegal checks. After the game, he sported a brutal black eye for a few days and a seriously bruised rib, but he had never felt better. 

But nothing was more brutal than watching you waltz into the bar on Halloween night, dressed up as an angel in the shortest pair of white shorts he’d ever seen, fit with a fuzzy, party-store halo headband and wings to match. For a moment, Peter thought he may have actually gone to heaven. That was how devastatingly gorgeous you looked under the dim bar lights.

It turned out he had actually found himself deep in the darkest pits of hell, though. Because the moment you walked in, he realized soon after raking his gaze over your body that you were not alone. 

That asshole you had told Peter was just a friend was wearing light-up, red devil horns, tight on your trail as you floated through your groups of friends with a careless smile on your face.

Peter was leaning up against the bar, no longer listening to his friend droning on about some girl’s costume that Peter just needed to see. His eyes stuck to you immediately, head moving with you as you moved further and further into the swarm of people all dressed in revealing costumes and buzzing off half-priced drinks. 

Tame Impala’s “Dracula” was blaring from the bar’s surround-sound speaker system that had only been playing Halloween-esque music since Peter walked in half an hour ago. The menacing rhythm of the song matched the harsh, quaking beats of his heart. He couldn’t tell if it was the sight of you in that outfit, with that bent halo on top of your head, or if it was because there was a guy with you that wasn’t him. 

He just understood that he felt fucking miserable and it was because of you. So, in his buzzing, dark mind, the only thing he wanted to do was to make you just as miserable. 

His hand wrapped tighter around his plastic cup as he propped his elbows on the bartop, staring down the long, sleek, wood counter to where you had approached the other end. 

“Can I get a vodka cran?” you asked the bartender with a smile, already pulling your ID out of your phone case wallet. 

There was something freeing about finally being able to use your real ID for a change after three years of scamming every poor waitress, bouncer, and bartender with your fake one. The woman working behind the counter peered down at it and nodded.

You tapped your fingers on the shilaque countertop to the beat of the music as you waited. You didn’t mean to turn your head to the right. You didn’t mean to lock eyes with Peter Parker at the other end of the bar top. But you could sense the fire on the side of your face from his prying gaze. It was a subconscious move, one that you regretted the minute he smirked over at you.

Even though you immediately looked away, training your eyes on the LED light fixture behind the bar, the purple and orange streamers slung across the overhead ceiling beams, the group of girls posing in front of the wall for a picture—literally anything other than him—he was already making his way over.

“This costume’s a little deceptive, don’t you think, Dean’s List?” he probed, flicking the tip of your faux-feathered angel wings before he came up right beside you, leaning his weight against the counter. 

You slid to the side, ensuring to keep a safe distance between the two of you. “Isn’t that the point of the holiday? Pretending to be something you’re not?” You eyed his costume, which was nothing but black jeans, a white T-shirt, and some F1 jacket. “‘Cause you’re definitely not Charles Leclerc.”

“So you agree?” He sipped his drink, dodging your dig. “You agree there’s nothing angelic about you?”

You turned your head to the side, eyes falling to his black Converse, trailing all the way up to that stupid little smirk on his rose-tinted lips. “I don’t know, Peter. You tell me.” You sighed boredly. “Do you think I’m angelic?”

He glanced at your halo for a moment before shaking his head. “No, not at all. I think you should swap costumes with your little boyfriend.”

Laughter echoed out of you. “Boyfriend?”

“Is that not what he is?” Peter asked, gaze trailing over to the guy you’d brought with you, the same one he briefly imagined with a broken nose from his fist. 

“No—” the bartender slid your drink over to you “—he’s not.”

The tension in his shoulders loosened slightly. His eyes watched your plump, glossed lips latch around the straw in your drink and nothing but filth ran through his mind. 

“You look good, though,” he said, watching the way your cleavage nearly spilled out of your white corset top when you straightened your posture.

“Don’t compliment me,” you quipped between sips. “Makes it sadder.”

His eyes slanted down at you. “Sadder?”

“Mm-hmm.” You shifted in your stance. “The whole jealousy thing.”

“Baby, there’s no jealousy.”

You squinted up at him, frowning. “You sure about that?”

Peter’s eyes once again wandered over to the guy that had been roped into coming out with you. He was standing by the bathrooms, chatting up a few of your close friends that Peter was sure were quizzing him on things all about you. Probably asking him how you two met, what he was studying, what he thought about you, what his intentions were. You had really protective friends like that. Peter knew he was probably spewing bullshit back to them because there was no possible way anyone knew you like Peter did.

When Peter finally glanced back down at you, he nodded stiffly. “He can’t please you like I can.”

“How would you know?”

He shrugged. “Just do.”

You gave him an impressed frown. “Well…” you trailed, “he kind of does.” Peter’s features hardened, just like you wanted them to. “I showed him the whole belt thing the other night. God, he loved that.” You snickered. “He’s been begging to do it again. Wants to do it raw the next time, too.”

A wave of nausea coursed through Peter’s system as he tried his absolute hardest to tell whether or not you were bullshiting him. God, he hoped so. “You’re lying.”

You just shrugged, pushing yourself off the bar. “Maybe,” you took a few steps back. “Still pisses you off to think about, though, doesn’t it, baby?”

Peter remained frozen at the bar as you disappeared further into the crowd. Seething. That was the only word he could find to describe how was feeling.

Maybe that was why he went up to the blonde girl dressed as Lara Croft, fitted with the thigh straps and all, and asked her to dance with him. Perhaps that was also why he chugged his drink in four long gulps and then ordered another, requesting a double shot. 

He just wanted something to clear his mind. But it was like an addiction. He was addicted to you in the most tragically intoxicating way. Even with the curvaceous blonde grinding her ass against his semi, the only thing clogging his mind was the thought of you fucking someone else. The thought of you letting someone else do things to you that only he had done before. 

Of course, he couldn’t be certain any of that was a first for you, like some of it was for him. Anything that happened before he felt you, though, he didn’t care about. It was the after—the long, grueling months after—that he cared about. It felt like a betrayal. It felt like you betrayed him.

And all it did was fucking turn him on. He only wanted you more.

You didn’t let the guy you brought with you do any of those things to you, though. In fact, he hadn’t done anything but finger you in the backseat of his Honda Civic. You’d faked an orgasm three minutes into it—squeezing your thighs together and moaning just for the theatrics of it all—before letting him drive you home. 

Honestly, you didn’t even know why you invited him out to the bar tonight. Two nights ago, when he’d asked to take you out to dinner, you told him you were busy with friends even though you spent the entire night alone in your dorm, watching movies on your laptop and eating microwavable popcorn. 

But the way it drove Peter absolutely mad was more than enough reason to keep him around. 

Peter always had the power, the ammunition, and the all-out boldness. He was always in the lead when it came to the twisted game the two of you played. He got under your skin with such ease that it almost made you hate yourself more than you hated him.

This newfound reversal, watching him spiral, self-destruct, and settle for whatever—or whoever—would take him, just because he couldn’t get you, was like a high. It was so intoxicating and addictive that you found it hard to focus on anything else.

Your neck craned up to the guy in devil horns next to you. “Do you wanna dance with me?” 

“Sure, yeah,” he smiled, taking a few quick sips of his drink before letting you lead him to where people were dancing near the center of the bar. 

A reverbed, bass-boosted remix of t.A.T.u.’s “All the Things She Said” was vibrating the sticky, wood floor as you twirled around to face him, draping your arms over his shoulders and bringing his head down to yours, moving your bodies to the rhythm.

Peter was only a few feet away, his hands on the waist of some blonde who had her back flush with his front, grinding her hips against him. 

That was the whole reason you were out on the make-shift dance floor to begin with. That was the whole reason you dragged the guy who wasn’t your boyfriend as close to Peter as possible. 

So he could watch.

“Kiss me,” you breathed, sucking in a sharp gasp when the guy’s lips crashed into yours. 

Lips moving in sync with his, you waited for him to slip his tongue out and trace it against your lips like Peter did. But he never did. 

Peter’s eyes were glued on your profile, watching the way your eyes fluttered closed, kissing the guy with heavy momentum. He wondered if it felt the same as when you kissed him, if it made your body shudder, craving that insatiable hunger. His heart was working so fast in his chest, his head dizzying. He thought he was going to be sick.

“Come here,” he said gruffly to the blonde.

He used his hands to twist her around, pulling her flush against him. She let out a soft gasp when his hand rushed to cup her cheek, bowing his head to collide his sloppy, tipsy lips with hers, but it didn’t sound like yours. Her lips didn’t feel like yours either. They weren’t sticky from your lip gloss and full like yours. They didn’t fit with his like yours did.

He pulled away for a second, long enough to see you peering over at him. 

“Kiss my neck,” he coached the blonde, jaw slack as his eyes stayed on yours.

The blonde complied without a thought, planting sloppy, wet kisses down the toned skin of his neck. It felt good, of course. The hair on his arms stood up at the feeling of the girl’s warm breath on the crook of his neck. 

His hand reached around the girl, palm planting on the round of her ass, fingers squeezing. 

You watched him. You saw the devious look in his eye as he touched her, which was why you brought the guy’s hand down to the curve of your ass, letting him fondle you in the center of a bar. It was all a performance, though. The way you bit your lip, pretending to enjoy the way you were being touched and kissed. 

Peter thought for a moment about going up to you and just pulling you away from that stupid prick with his hands all over you. He thought about taking you into one of the bathroom stalls and giving in to you completely. 

But this chase—this… game—was so much better.

When the song ended, the blonde girl peered up at Peter with a smirk on her face. “Do you wanna go back to my apartment?”

He thought about it, he really did. He thought about the potential look on your face if he left with her. He thought about how pissed off you may or may not have been, and he wanted to agree. 

But then he thought about what you would do—who you would go home with—if he left, and so it all went out the window. Because if you were leaving with someone tonight, it was going to be him.

“Not tonight,” Peter said, loosening the grip he had around his waist.

She frowned, brows furrowed. “Why not?”

He shrugged, eyes flicking to you without thinking. “Not in the mood.”

The blonde followed his gaze, landing on you with a scoff and a look of pure disgust. “Are you serious?” she snarled, yanking his hands off her. “God, you’re such a fucking dick,” she added before stomping away from him.

Maybe he was. Maybe that was a little cruel, using her to get back at you like that. But he would be lying if he said he cared. 

Deserted on the dance floor, Peter idled, watching you grind yourself on the absolutely oblivious guy. You watched him, too. For the longest moment, the two of you just stared at each other, waiting to see who was going to break first, both of you honing an unhealthy relationship with competition. 

Devastatingly slow, Peter tilted his head to the side, studying you in a way that made you feel like he could see something inside of you—something you didn’t want him to see. His eyes trailed down your body, analyzing every square inch of your frame, before slowly working their way back up to your face. 

The stance he had, the sight of his rigid muscles under his white T-shirt, the way he completely garnered all of your attention, even with your supposed date’s lips sucking on the skin under your ear, made something spark to life inside of you. It was a dangerous spark. A hungry spark. 

You suddenly couldn’t breathe.

“I’ve gotta pee,” you blurted out before you could think, pulling away from the arms that were holding you. You smiled up at him, forfeiting your staring game with Peter as your chest heaved. “I’ll, uh—I’ll be back in a minute.”

His lips were swollen, eyes glossy from the tension you’d allowed him to feel and the alcohol pumping through his system. “Okay.”

You didn’t go to the bathroom, though, and you didn’t really care if he noticed it. 

You paced through the sweaty bodies littering the dance floor, not slowing down until you pushed through the bar’s entrance door. Swinging it open with a great deal of force, your chest rose as you sucked in a sharp inhale, finding a sense of relief in the cold, mid-autumn night air.

Walking down the sidewalk a bit, you roughly tore off your halo headband and raked a hand through your hair, pulling at the root to stabilize your overall mental wellbeing. 

The bar’s door flew open a few feet away from you, but your back was turned to it. 

“That was quite the show,” the deep voice rattled your bones. 

You didn’t need to turn around to see who it was. A small part of you knew that you would know that unsettling voice anywhere. You could probably pick it out of a line up of hundreds. 

Exhaling heavily, you crossed your arms over your chest and turned to face him. “Go away, Peter.”

“I don’t think you want me to,” Peter countered, moving closer to you with lazy strides, stuffing his hands in the front of his jeans. “I think this is exactly where you want me.”

You just shook your head. “That was wrong,” you said, voice suddenly hoarse, “what you did to that girl. Using her like that.”

“True,” he mused, taking a final step closer, mere inches from you. “Nothing different than what you were doing with that asshole, though.”

“I wasn’t using him,” you countered, face contorting. 

Peter coughed out a laugh. “Oh, yeah? What the hell was it, then? ‘Cause you didn’t look too interested, keeping your eyes on me the whole time.”

You shrugged defensively. “I was—” you sucked in a sharp breath. “I was dancing.”

“So was I.”

“No, you were trying to piss me off. Making her kiss you and grabbing her ass like that,” you argued, voice sharp. “You were using her to get me all—all pissed off.”

The calmness of him was maddening. You were stammering over your words, dizzied, and flustered, while he just stood still—completely immovable.

“Well, are you?”

Your brows knitted together. “What?”

“Are you pissed off?” he clarified, studying you again with those dark eyes. “Are you mad about me touching her like that?”

You shook your head back and forth quickly, taking half a step back from him. “No.”

He closed the space you created. “Well, I am.” Your eyes flicked up at his. “I’m really fucking pissed off that he was touching you like that. Grabbing your ass, kissing you.”

There wasn’t a single coherent thought pulsing though your mind. You were trembling from head-to-toe and you couldn’t tell if it was because you were freezing or if you were losing your mind. Based on the way your lower stomach fluttered when Peter’s hand gripped your waist, you became more confident in the latter.

“Stop,” you whispered, barely audible, as he pulled you closer to him.

“Look at me,” he bit. 

You refused, forcing him to move both hands to your hip, squeezing tight. You didn’t fight him off, though. Why weren’t you fighting him off?

“Look at me,” Peter repeated, tone sharp enough to slice. 

Defeat and shame washed over you as you peered up at him, teeth chattering. 

“That’s the last time someone touches you like that,” he snarled, eyes tracing yours, unsure which one to stay on.

“What? You think you have control over who touches me, now?” you managed to mumble. “Just because I let you fuck me once.”

He shook his head. It was a slow, calculated movement. “No,” he stated confidently, pulling you flush against him. The action caused the bulge forming in his pants to press up against your stomach. “I’m just gonna make it to where no one else’s touch will ever be good enough.”

It already wasn’t, you heard yourself think.

“No,” you heard yourself say, shaking your head. “I’m not letting you—”

“Win?” he interjected, causing your stomach to twist. 

“That’s all this is to you,” you bit, arms moving to his biceps. You wanted to use the grip to push out of his grip, but you got too distracted by the feel of the muscle in your hands. “Just… some game.”

“It was,” he admitted, tone deep. “Now I’m just fucking miserable.”

God, he was still messing with you. 

“You’re insufferable, you know that? You can’t treat people like this and think it’s fine, Peter. It’s wrong.”

“I’m being serious.” His grip softened. 

You just shook your head, refusing to look at him.

“I’m fucking wrecked, okay? Is that what you want to hear? You want me to tell you how fucking mental you’ve made me? Ever since I had you—” he exhaled roughly, jaw muscle trembling “—I can’t get you out of my fucking head,” he roared. “And seeing you with someone else—with him… I can’t fucking take it.”

Your eyes locked on his, twitching at the eerily unfamiliar desperate tone and look on his face. 

“Just stop,” you forced out, pushing against his arms, prying yourself out of his grip.

“Come back to the house with me,” he asked, chest heaving. “Let me show you how serious I am.”

“Are you messing with me?” You successfully fought out of his grasp.

“No,” he sighed, letting you go, “I’m really fucking not.”

You stared at him for a moment, waiting for him to crack. But he didn’t. Still, your trust was feeble. “Say it.”

His lips parted to respond, then they snapped shut again. He dragged a hand down his face. 

Peter Parker didn’t like to lose. But if getting you again—feeling you, touching you, having you all to himself—was the loss, he no longer had the strength to want to win. 

His eyes locked on yours. “I need you.”

There it was. The white flag waving. 

He took a careful step towards you, returning his big hands to the curve of your waist. You stood still, letting him move you closer to him again until you felt the throbbing pulse of his erection pushing against your stomach.

“Come home with me,” he coaxed, bowing his head and using his nose to nudge at his jaw, smelling the scent of your perfume and causing a chill to creep down your spine when his soft lips grazed the delicate skin. “You know I can make you feel good,” he whispered into the crook of your neck.

“This…” your voice trailed, taking in a sharp breath when his teeth pinched the skin with such gentleness, “is the last time.”

“Fine,” he mumbled, kissing the skin.

“I’m serious,” you managed to say despite the pleasure ricocheting from where his lips concentrated. “Never again after this, okay?”

He nodded into your shoulder. “That’s fine, baby.”

“What about the guy that came out with me?” you asked, wishing you felt worse.

Peter chuckled. “What about him?”

The ten minute walk back to the Kappa Tau Zeta house was the fastest you had ever walked anywhere in your life, and it was also the quietest. Neither one of you were able to make a single sound, so utterly lost in what you were doing—what you were going to do. 

Peter had taken off his F1 jacket as soon as the walk started, draping the oversized material over your shoulders, and by the time the two of you made it into the eerily quiet frat house you were thrumming with so much adrenaline, you nearly tripped up the staircase to his bedroom.

“Careful,” Peter chuckled, watching you stumble, barely catching yourself. “Too excited, hm?”

“Shut up,” you groaned, stabilizing yourself and hurrying up the rest of the creaking wood steps.

Trailing behind you, he followed you into his bedroom, closing the door and locking it in one swift movement. 

His bedroom looked the same as it did in May, if anything it was just messier.

“Turn that on,” he said, pointing to the portable speaker resting on top of his dresser that had clothes spilling out of the drawers. 

You arched a brow. “Music?”

“I don’t want anyone to hear you,” he said plainly, fumbling in his pants pocket for his phone to connect it to the speaker as you went to turn it on. “Those sounds are for me only,” he added, smirking.

You rolled your eyes, moving over to the bed and crouching down to sit on the edge. Every move felt oddly familiar and comfortable. Still, every inch of your body was shaking frantically with anxious nerves. 

“Bluetooth device is connected,” the speaker blared, while Peter scrolled through his Spotify. 

“Please don’t tell me you have a sex playlist,” you jested from across the room, propping yourself back with your hands on the unmade bed.

He chuckled. “Nah.” 

Although, he wished he had a sex playlist all of a sudden. All he had were a bunch of pointless, disorganized “vibes” playlists. But he had one that he hadn’t listened to since he returned to ESU, titled “Dean’s List.” 

He had honestly forgotten he’d made it. It was over the summer when he was drowning in his own self-pity. It was full of all the song lyrics he’d post, thinking about you, hoping it would somehow translate.

Ironic, he thought.

He pressed shuffle and tossed the phone down on his dresser, peeling off his T-shirt before moving to you.

“Come here, baby,” he urged, gesturing for you to stand up off the bed. 

The first few hammering notes of Miguel’s “damned” began blaring from the speaker, filling the silence in the room as you complied, standing before him. Your eyes immediately hung on the way his tanned, muscular chest looked beneath the dim lighting of his bedroom. It was just wrong and cruel really, how devastatingly attractive he was.

“This sounds like a sex playlist,” you noted, listening to the lyrics as a way to distract yourself.

“It’s not.”

He took off the jacket he’d draped over you, which had bent your costume wings, stifling a laugh at the sight. 

“I take back what I said. You are kind of angelic,” he admitted, barely audible over the volume of the music.

You worked with him, shrugging off the angel wings, tearing the halo off again with it. “Don’t ever say that again.”

Peter just shook his head, suppressing a smirk as he twisted you around, working to unlace your corset top that you’d bought off Amazon. “This shit right here is ridiculously hot, by the way.”

“I know,” you quipped, your body jolting every time he tugged at the strings. “Why do you think I wore it?”

“I kinda want to leave it on,” he mumbled, hooking his fingers in the lace strings and yanking you towards him, causing your ass to crash into his bricked bulge. 

You shrugged with your back turned to him, purposefully pushing you ass out. “That’s fine.”

He thought about it for a second before saying, “Nah, your tits are way too nice for that.” He then finished removing it, letting it fall to the floor before twisting you around to face him again.

“Fuck me…” he breathed, biting down on his bottom lip as he took a step back to stare at you, taking in the curve of your waist and the perkiness of your exposed tits. His hand moved instinctively to his erection, palming it at the sight of you.

Your glossed lips curled as you fell back on the bed, propping yourself up on your elbows. “That’s the plan… baby.”

“Uh-uh.” He shook his head, wasting no time to crawl on top of you, planting his hands on either side of your head to hold himself up. “That’s what I call you.”

You moaned quietly when his mouth immediately moved to your tits, his tongue trailing over your pebbled nipple before he suctioned his lips around it, gently nibbling at the sensitive bud. 

“What do I call you, then?”

He forced himself between your legs, grinding his hips against your core with an achingly slow thrust. A muffled moan vibrated your nipple as he massaged the other with his hand. He shrugged, breaking free only long enough to say, “I just want to hear you say my name.”

He ground himself against you again, his hardened length rubbing right where you needed him the most. His tongue stuck back out, trailing over your nipple once more before working his way all the way down to the hem of your white shorts, leaving a path of his wet spit as he went, sliding off the bed. 

His teeth toyed with the thin waistband as he held himself up with one hand, using the other to slide your shorts off. 

The sight itself, combined with the electrifying feeling of his touch so close to where your arousal was puddling, caused a soft moan to slip from your throat.

Growing desperate, you fell flat on your back and reached down to help him, needing to feel him. His hand quickly stopped you, though, his bleary-eyed gaze flashing up. 

“You’re so needy, aren’t you, baby?” he teased, standing up off the bed and gripping your thighs. “Not going fast enough for you?” 

His fingers dug into the soft skin as he yanked you towards the edge of the bed, gripping the waistband of your shorts and pulling them down in one swift movement. 

“Mm. No panties, too?” He smirked up at you. “Goddamn, baby.” 

“Peter,” you groaned, back arching up off the bed as shockwaves fluttered in your desperate core. “Please… stop fucking talking.”

His tongue slid out of his mouth, wetting his lips as he smirked down at you before he slowly knelt down on the floor just off the side of the bed, sitting up on his knees. 

“What—What are you—”

“Shh,” he sounded, using his grip on your thighs to drape your legs over his shoulders. “I wanna taste you.”

His lips moved to your inner thigh, planting soft kisses every few seconds as he trailed further and further down to your dripping, quivering center. Eager to see what he looked like going down on you, knowing it would be utterly tragic, you propped yourself back up on your elbows and peered down.

He stuck his tongue out, pressing it directly on your dripping entrance before slowly trailing up to your swollen clit. A shuddering breath escaped you, your jaw going slack when his eyes fluttered up to you. 

He pulled away momentarily, licking your arousal off his lips. “Fucking delicious, baby,” he muttered before going back to repeat the motion over and over again, spreading your sticky arousal with such teasing ease, your legs started quivering around his head. 

His lips moved to work your clit, tongue lapping over the tender flesh once before sucking it. He spread your legs further with one hand, using the other to insert two fingers into your dripping entrance. The sensation caused your head to fall back, lips parted as a sultry moan slipped out.

You fell back flush with the mattress, losing the strength it took to keep yourself propped up. Your now free hands unwittingly reached down to his head, fingers lacing into his thick curls as he continued pumping his fingers in a synchronous rhythm with the licking and sucking he was inflicting on your clit. 

His fingers hooked slightly inside you, drawing a sharp gasp from your throat and leading you to pull at his hair. The subtle stinging sensation on his scalp caused him to moan against you, sending a vibrating shudder through your body. 

“Fuck,” you hissed, chest heaving with frantic pants as he continued working his tongue, mouth, and fingers. “You’re s—so good at… this.”

He smirked against your sopping clit, pulling away slightly. “Don’t be sweet now, baby.”

You peered down at him, watching him gaze at the way he was pumping his two fingers in you. “You’re still so tight,” he muttered, feeling your walls clenching around his digits. He glanced up at you, slowly standing so he was towering over you, his jaw slack and brows furrowed. “Gotta spread you out a little more, don’t you think?”

He didn’t wait for your response. You watched him bow his head, spitting on your entrance before inserting a third finger.

Your head fell back, digging into his ruffled bed sheets as a loud, throaty moan tore from your lips just as the song playing faded. As he pumped three fingers in you, he brought his other hand to your mouth, clamping his big palm over your parted lips to muffle the echoing sounds coming out of you. 

Panting into his hand, your eyes screwed shut as your hips bucked wildly, your release coming powerfully quick when he brought the pad of his thumb to your throbbing, swollen clit.

“I know it feels good, baby,” he cooed, gazing down at the squirming mess you’d become. “Just gotta be quiet for a sec.”

Your eyes rolled back in your head and he quickened his pace just as Arctic Monkeys’ “R U Mine?” began blasting from the speaker. When the volume of the music picked back up, he removed his hand from your mouth, but you reached out to catch it before he moved it too far away.

Gripping his wrist, his eyes snapped down to watch what you were trying to do. You brought your bottom lip between your teeth, resisting your sudden urge to scream when you brought his hand to your throat, pressing it down. 

A devious-looking smirk spread on his face. “Oh, I know what you want,” he muttered, wrapping his hand firmly around your throat. “My dirty girl,” he grunted, admiring the way you let him choke you. It wasn’t hard enough to block your airways, but tight enough for you to reach your release.

Your entire body shook beneath him, watching him stand between your spread legs, pumping his drenched fingers into your quivering pussy, massaging your clit as he kept a firm handle on your throat.

“Yeah, cum on my fingers, baby,” he grunted, not changing his pace, letting you ride out your orgasm with pathetically eager pants, convulsing against his bed. “God, I can’t wait to be in you again.”

Your body went slack beneath him, your pants slowing as you came down from your high. “Holy shit,” you breathed when he let go of your throat, slowly sliding his fingers out of you.

He didn’t even blink. As soon as his fingers came out of you, he immediately brought them to his mouth, licking and sucking up your release with a smug expression on his face.

Watching him do that was almost enough to make you cum again. 

“Now… we’re even,” he mused, licking the remnants off his lips with a smooth swipe before unclasping his belt buckle, tearing it off. 

Your eyes rolled, managing to sit up on the edge of the bed, folding your legs underneath you to sit back on your calves. “Shut up and come here.”

He took a slow stride towards you. “I love it when you tell me to shut up.” He smirked down at you, watching you work to undo the button and zipper on his jeans. “Makes me want to talk more.”

You dug your fingers into his waistband at his hips, pushing his jeans down with a tug, happy that his tight boxers went down with them. The second his pants hit the floor, his pulsating cock slapped his lower stomach, pre-cum beading out of the tip. 

Even though you had seen it before, the size still shocked you. Made you wonder if his cocky attitude was validated.

Your hands moved to his length, working him in rough strokes as he stepped out of his jeans, kicking them to the side. When he steadied himself before you, you brought your tongue underneath him, making sure to glare up at him as you trailed your tongue from the hilt of his sturdy cock all the way up to his delicate, pink tip, lapping up his pre-cum and swallowing.

His hands moved instinctively to your hair, beyond grateful it was finally you with your sticky, glossy, swollen lips around his cock as you bobbed your head forward, taking him as deep as possible.

When your throat tightened around his tip, a soft gag echoing, he sucked in a sharp breath, followed by a deep, vibrating moan. “You suck my dick so good, it’s fucking insane—you’re fucking insane.”

You moaned into your sucking, bobbing your head back and forth, tongue working in circles. The sudden desire to give him your all came over you, leading you to use your free hand to massage his balls.

The touch sent his head falling back, a menacing grunt slipping from his throat. “Oh… Sh—shit—Fuck, yes, baby. Keep… doing that.”

Your confidence and eagerness to show him just how good you were had you moving at a pace and rhythm you didn’t know you were capable of.

He tightened his grip on your hair, forcing you to halt as he peered down at you, meeting your seductive, glossed-over gaze. “Hands off,” he forced out, eyes heavy from the pleasure thrumming through his veins. The sight caused you to unintentionally ignore his demand. 

“Hands off,” he repeated, tone sharper. You finally complied, tucking your hands under your legs. “Good girl. Let me fuck that pretty throat.”

He gathered all of your hair up in his fists before thrusting his hips. Your lips suctioned around him, welcoming the way he fucked himself into your mouth. Every time you gagged, moaning incoherently against his cock, he just thrusted faster. 

“Mm,” he grunted through his gritted teeth. “Yeah, take this dick, baby. Fuck you’re doing… so good,” he continued on, praising you through deep-toned pants.

He could feel his release quickly rushing down to his length, forcing his thrusts to become sloppy and untimed. His hands started working your head up and down his shaft, controlling your pace until he just couldn’t take it anymore.

“Shhh…. Shit,” he hissed, pulling out of your mouth with an abrupt motion, leaving you drooling and dripping with your own spit. He bit down on his bottom lip, every muscle in his body seizing as he held back his threatening urge to bust all over you. 

You giggled. “Edging yourself is another kind of kinky, baby,” you taunted.

He rolled his eyes, taking careful breaths until the urge deflated. It wasn’t until he saw you bring your hand up to try and wipe the mess on your mouth and chin that he came rushing back over to you. 

“Uh-uh,” he grunted, swatting your hand away and leaning over to crash his lips on your, his tongue entering your mouth without warning. He slowly pushed you back down on the bed, his lips moving in sync with yours, the mess he’d caused spreading between the two of you. 

Hovering on top of you, he nudged your legs open with his knee. Shouldering his weight on one hand perched next to your head on the mattress, he used the other to align his dick with your pulsing entrance. 

He broke from the kiss as the tip slid in, both of you gasping at the same time as he slowly entered into you entirely. “Oh, F—Fuck,” you moaned, tensing under the sudden fullness. 

Peter grunted when the movement caused you to clench around him, suctioning him in as deep as possible. He pressed his forehead to yours, peering down as he slowly slid out, only to thrust harder into you. 

When you cried out a moan, his head snapped up to you, admiring the way your eyes screwed shut and your lips pursed at the pleasure.

“Open… your eyes, baby,” he mumbled, quickening his pace between your quivering legs. “Look at me while I fuck you.”

Your eyes fluttered open, jaw going slack as you gazed up at him, watching the way he bit down on his lip, stifling his rugged groans.

“D—Don’t do that,” you croaked, reaching up to pull his lip out from between his teeth. “I wanna… hear you.”

“Oh, fuck…” he groaned, head falling into the crook of your neck as he got rougher with his thrusts, “you’re so hot.”

The wet sounds of your arousal oozing out between thrusts, coating his balls as he hammered himself deeper and deeper inside you echoed throughout the room, muffled slightly by the music blaring. 

Your legs shook around him, alerting him you were going to reach another orgasm soon. He loved knowing that—knowing how your body reacted to him. It made fucking you even better.

“Peter,” you cried out, head digging back into the mattress. “I’m gonna—”

He sat up, gripping your hips as he sat back on his calves, bringing you with him. “I know, baby.”

The movement caused your ass to lift off the bed, leaving him to hold you up, pounding deep into you with loud smacks. The angle was something you’d never felt before. He was so deep inside you, it felt like there would be internal damage. But it felt so good. 

You couldn’t control the way your back arched, hands flying to grip his hands, desperate to hold onto something as your orgasm came crashing down on you.

“Cum for me,” he grunted, breathing raggedly.

Your jaw went slack, eyes rolling to the back of your head as everything tightened in his grasp. Your vision spotted as you came so hard, it stole the air from your lungs.

“Mm,” Peter moaned. “That’s right, baby. Good… fucking… girl,” he drawled, not slowing down even a little.

His head reared back, his fingers tightening around your hips hard enough to bruise as he pummeled his dick inside you.

“Fill me up,” you moaned, watching the way his abs flexed and feeling the way his cock twitched deep inside your overly sensitive pussy. “Cum inside me, please,” you said, voice high-pitched and illicitly seductive.

“I am, baby,” he panted, biceps twitching as he gripped even harder, moving your body against his. “I… am.”

He fell forward, holding himself up on top of you as he curled his hips up into you a few more times. His body shuddered as his release washed over him, a wince tearing through his gritted teeth. 

The both of you moaned softly as his warmth shot inside you. Your hips bucked against him as he worked through his high. When there was nothing else for him to give you, he stilled, his head drooping into the crook of your neck just for a second, long enough for him to tame his breathing.

When he regained a sliver of his strength back, he slowly sat up, inching out of you, ensuring he kept his eyes on the way his seed poured out of you as he did so. 

“I will never… get over that shit,” he mumbled between pants. His chest heaved. “You are so fucking perfect like this.”

Tauntingly, your hand crept down to your entrance. He smirked at the sight, watching as you smeared his cum all over your fingers before bringing them between your lips, maintaining eye contact with him as you swallowed his salty sweetness.

He shook his head, grinning. “Thought it was gross.”

You shrugged, licking the remnants off your lips. “I lied.”

“I know,” he quipped, going to grab the towel draped over the back of his desk chair.

When he came back over, wiping up his mess with gentle pats and chuckling when you winced at the sensitivity, you smirked up at him. “I didn’t let that guy do all that stuff, by the way. I didn’t even let him fuck me.”

His eyes flicked over to yours. “You didn’t?”

You shook your head. “Nah, that’s our thing.”

Giving you a toothy grin, he tossed the towel to his hamper. “We didn’t use the belt this time, though. Guess we’ll have to do that next time.”

“There’s no next time,” you reminded him.

He shrugged.

hope you enjoyed it! pls leave a comment/like/reblog. if you have a one shot request, you can send it through my “ask me.” ୨ৎ─ delaney!

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It was another lively Saturday night at Empire State University when your best friend convinced you to escape the solitude of your quiet dorm room and go out with her to some party at the Kappa Tau Zeta fraternity house. You had put up your best fight, like you always did. Telling her things like you needed to study for your upcoming psych exam, all of your going-out tops were dirty, you had a killer migraine. But she was persistent, like she always was. 

Ten minutes into your battle, she fled the room long enough to fix all of your poor excuses. She returned to your dorm with some fruity seltzer beer that tasted like TV static, a skimpy little top of hers that you could borrow, and a bottle of Advil. 

She sat cross-legged on your twin bed, droning on about the guy she had all intentions on bringing back to her dorm after the party. Every few minutes, while you sat in front of your desk, using the small mirror to fix your appearance, she would pause to answer your “does this look good?” every time you completed a step of your makeup routine. 

“God, you’re sickening,” she gaped when you stood in front of your over-the-door, full-length mirror, analyzing your outfit and everything else about you that felt a little too different.

Your head craned back at her. “Like, sickening in a good way, or…”

“In a great way,” she urged, sliding off your slightly-lofted bed to stand next to you before the mirror. 

Her eyes hung on the royal blue, cropped, tight-fitting baby-Tee that said “Stevie Knicks” in orange vinyl lettering. It was the shirt your best friend had made a few months ago when the New York Knicks were heading into the NBA Finals. She saw Taylor Swift in the same shirt and just had to recreate it for the Finals watch party she attended.

You didn’t know shit about basketball, and you didn’t really listen to Taylor Swift, but you didn’t entirely hate the way it clung to your curves. Plus, it paired nicely with your black, cut-off, denim shorts that were fraying at the hem from the number of wears and washes they’d been put through.

Your best friend smirked up at you in the mirror’s reflection. “Parker’s gonna lose his shit when he sees you.”

The sound of his name sent your eyes rolling, an agitated groan spilling from your glossed lips. 

“Ew.” You feigned disgust, slamming your closet door shut. “Don’t speak that asshole into existence, please.”

She snickered in response, rolling up the bag of Doritos she’s been munching on and chugging the last few gulps of her black cherry-flavoured White Claw. “You know he’s gonna be there.”

“Why do you think I didn’t want to go?” you deadpanned, flattening your lips.

“It’s so obvious he wants to fuck you,” she countered with a sigh. “It’s kind of sad, actually.”

Your brows stitched together. “He does not want to fuck me—God, don’t even say that. I’m, like, actually gonna hurl,” you protested, feeling an odd sense of dread as you zipped up your makeup bag and flipped the switch on your lamp. 

“No one—” she pulled open your dorm door “—and I mean no one, fucks with someone as much as Peter Parker fucks with you unless they have some ulterior motive.”

Slipping past her, you fumbled with your key, locking up and trying to find a reasonable response. But, for some reason, your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

“It’s called arrogance, babe,” you countered, shoving your keys into your front pocket. “That’s his motive. He does it with everyone.”

Falling into step next to you, she shrugged. “I don’t know…” her voice trailed, ending in a high-pitched tone, which told you she actually did know.

The walk across campus was gruesome. The late-spring mugginess combined with the complete and utter dread pumping through your veins made it nearly impossible to focus on anything your best friend was saying. 

Your hands were clenched into fists at your side, your chipped, polished nails digging into the delicate skin of your palms. It hurt in just the right kind of way—just enough to distract you from the string of tainted memories that floated through your mind. 

It came like a supercut of doom and despair, Peter Parker’s face at the center of them all. 

That cocky bastard.

You met him in your first year seminar class. It was a course taught by people in the admissions building and its sole purpose was to help students become more acquainted with college life. But that wasn’t at all what it turned out to be. 

The woman who led the class every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from 12:30 to 1:45 was barely twenty five. She had just graduated from grad school the summer before and she cared far too much about the freshly eighteen-year-old guys in your class. Peter, specifically. 

He fucking loved it, too. He loved the attention anyone gave him, really—especially if they had what he wanted between their legs. 

When he rushed Kappa Tau Zeta that September, no one was surprised. All guys like that joined posh fraternities, thinking the Greek letters they sported on their too-tight T-shirts and vinyl stickers on their car’s back glass somehow made them superior. 

You hated it. You hated him even more so. 

Ever since he claimed the seat next to you in that pointless, mind-numbing seminar class, it seemed as though his only passion in life became making yours miserable. 

He would comment on your outfits, always hitting you with the same “did you wear all that just for me, baby” every time you walked into the lecture hall with more makeup than usual or wore something other than athleisure. 

But even when you came to class bare-faced, hair tied up in some mess of an up-do, in sweatpants and a sweatshirt two sizes too big, he would still find ways to get under your skin.

You gave it right back to him, of course. Replying to his snarky remarks with something even more devious, just to watch the way he smirked back at you. Even when you would get one over on him, he fucking ate it up. It was like diesel to a flame. 

The second semester of your first year, you found out he was majoring in the same thing as you, which meant his presence became agonizingly consistent. 

He didn’t sit next to you in any other class, but he always made sure you were within earshot. He wanted you to hear the way he said all the same things to other, more naive, girls who folded under his smug charm, just like he had expected you to. 

He liked getting under your skin the most, though. It wasn’t the same with the others. It was too easy, too predictable. 

He liked that you kept him on his toes, constantly dodging his existence like the plague, and didn’t fall for the filthy things he’d whisper in your ear every time he found you alone or a little too close to him. He liked that you seemingly couldn’t care less about him. 

Knowing all of this made walking through the fraternity house’s back door (because the front one was for “brothers only”) so much worse. 

The chorus of Sammy Adams’ “All Night Longer” blared at max volume from an over-sized speaker resting on top of the make-shift bar in the center of what was supposed to be the house’s living room, but there wasn’t a couch or chair in sight. It was just sweaty bodies littering every square inch of the space, all nursing red Solo cups full of cheap-smelling vodka, and dancing to the rhythm of the bass-loaded song. 

Your best friend wasted no time, letting the guy behind the bar who was sporting a T-shirt with Greek letters stitched on the front pour her some of the concoction everyone else was getting buzzed on into a cup. 

“She needs one, too,” she shouted over the ear-piercing music, gesturing to you from where you stood next to her.

The guys scoffed. You knew him, of course. He played lacrosse and was the one who shared that video of one of the sorority presidents sucking off his teammate with the entire campus. 

“Oh, is little miss Dean’s List gonna have some fun for once?” he jested, smirking up at you as he poured some pink-tinted liquid in the red Solo cups on the bar counter.

You sighed lamely at the use of that frustrating nickname. “If I wanted to have some fun, Harry, I’d go somewhere else,” you countered, tone calm and even despite having to shout so he could hear you.

He didn’t respond, just coughed out a laugh and handed over the cups. 

Peter was the one who started the whole Dean’s List thing. 

Despite his incredibly unfortunate attitude, he was pretty smart. No, he was a fucking genius, actually. Which made the way he acted really disappointing. All those brains and not a single good thing ever produced from them. 

It was the end of your first year when he told you that the two of you were tied GPA-wise, both taking up the top of the Dean’s List, which was a literal list of students who had the highest academic achievement. 

He wanted it, of course. He wanted his name to be posted in big, bold lettering. He wanted the dean himself to hand over that trophy, placing it in his sleazy hands just so he could brag about it, and flaunt it to the next girl he wanted to get in his bed.

But it was your hands the trophy went to. It was your name that ended up at the top of the list, his right under it. 

He feigned indifference. Riffing off things like, “nobody cares about that stupid shit.” But you knew better than that. Unfortunately, you knew him better than that. You saw the way his mood soured when it was announced at the end-of-year award ceremony. 

Beneath his subtle disappointment, though, he was still Peter Parker. Your win turned into just another one of his tricks to get under your skin. 

There suddenly became a Dean’s List for anything. His Dean’s List for “best dick sucking” was his favorite though. You could still remember the way his breath felt on your skin when he whispered, “I bet you’d be at the top of that list, too.”

You took it on the chin, like you did with all of his sly taunts. “I bet you’d like to know, wouldn’t you,” is what you’d replied with.

The nickname caught on quickly, just like everything did at your small university—forcing you to remember his breath, his voice, his words, every time someone said it. 

Peter was in what was supposed to be the house’s dining room, playing a game of beer pong with a few of his fraternity brothers and whatever girls they’d roped into joining their teams. There was a separate speaker set up in there, playing Cobra Starship and Leighton Meester’s “Good Girls Go Bad” at an even more mindnumbing volume. 

His left hand was toting a half-empty cup of cheap vodka mixed dangerously with half of a strawberry-lemonade-flavoured Crystal Light packet. It tasted like poison, but the effects of it felt nice pumping through his system.

The short blonde girl next to him was taking her turn at tossing the ping-pong ball into the cups lined up accordingly at the other end of the painted, plywood table. They were winning, but it wasn’t anything to do with her persistence. 

Every toss Peter made landed with a splash in his opponent’s cups, causing them to dreadfully chug its contents. His fraternity brother was rambling out taunts, trying to get under Peter’s skin, but it went in one ear and out the other. 

He was immovable. Plus, he always won. No matter what it was—beer pong, lacrosse matches, fucking pop quizzes—he was always determined to win. Some people said he was just doing too damn much, but he called it charming competitiveness. Sounded less desperate that way.

The only thing he couldn’t beat, though, was you. Even after knowing you for three years now, in just about every single one of your classes since freshman year—he just couldn’t win with you.

The minute his eyes landed on you, catching the way you were being dragged by that girl you always kept around into the crowd of dancing bodies in the living room, the game of beer pong unfolding before him became an afterthought. 

He turned his back to it, earning a few groans from his opponents and a pout from the blonde who had thought she had all of his attention. He took slow sips of his drink, eyeing you through the massive sea of people flooding his living room. 

All bets were off then. Literally. He’d bet a lousy twenty bucks on winning against his frat brother. But he didn’t care if it was twenty dollars or a hundred that he lost. His favorite victim was here—fuck everything else. 

“The fuck, Parker,” the guy behind him cursed, tossing the ball right at his back out of irritation, but it missed him by a few inches, bouncing onto the sticky wood flooring and rolling under one of the other tables.

Peter laughed, glancing back at him for only a brief moment. “You weren’t winning shit anyway with a toss like that.”

His attention immediately flew back to you, desperate to figure out a way to get close to you. 

There was not one good intention flowing through that mind of his when he walked through the doorway leading into the living room, ignoring the sound of someone shouting his name, and making a slow, calculated beeline to where you were moving around in the crowd. 

The room was dark, the only light that illuminated your face was the cheap, party store strobe lights set up on various tabletops. Every second, your face would disappear in the darkness only to reappear a moment later, in a different position.

He watched you with a precise gaze, slipping through sloppy, drunk bodies to get to you. 

As the color of the lights flashed different hues of blue, green, purple, and red on the soft outlines of your features, the music seemed to slow and distort, his vision tunneling in a way that felt intoxicating. 

Your back was pressed against your best friend’s front, grinding on her to the beat of the music in a platonically seductive way that caused Peter’s gaze to drop to the shape the arch of your back was creating. His eyes twitched at the sight of your ass spilling out of the hem of your too-short shorts. 

It pissed him off more than anything. 

The song faded into the next, some other song about partying, sex, and drinking that he knew came straight from Harry’s endless Spotify playlist. It was a remix of 3OH!3’s “DONTTRUSTME,” he immediately clocked it based on the first note. He’d heard the same songs every weekend, the lyrics and rhythms were basically engraved in his mind. 

The second the chorus hit, your eyes met his. 

Your dancing halted abruptly, causing your best friend to frown, immediately clocking your shift. 

“The hell?” she mumbled, stumbling back a bit, already too tipsy for her own good and desperate to find that guy she was supposed to meet up with. 

You unintentionally ignored her, too distracted by the way Peter made his way in front of you, glaring down at you from his height. 

“Lookin’ good, Dean’s List,” he smirked, his tongue running along his top row of teeth, taking his time to rake you over with his dark eyes. 

The sight of him—the way he violated your body with his gaze—made you want to throw up. “What do you want, Parker?”

He sarcastically frowned down at you, his bottom lip pursing out. “I missed you.”

Your face became riddled with disgust, but the liquid courage pumping through your system had you feeling mouthy. “Oh, did you?”

“Mm-hmm,” he mumbled, sipping his drink. “Did you miss me?”

“No,” you deadpanned, giving him a phoney sympathetic look. “Not even a little.”

He scoffed, offering you a toothy grin. You pried your attention away from the way muscle in his chiseled jawline ticked when he did it, meeting his gaze with feeble confidence.

His eyes flashed to your tits, where “Stevie Knicks” was printed out on your borrowed T-shirt. Shamelessly, his fingers traced over the lettering. 

The touch sent a shockwave through your system, something like white-hot lightning ricocheting in your nerves. It wasn’t an enticing feeling. It was the opposite, really. It was more like a big, red, flashing siren sounding in your ears, telling you to get away from him while you still stood a chance. 

“God, does it ever get boring being so basic?” he sneered, hand moving away from your heaving chest. “The Taylor Swift shit? I expected more from you, baby.”

The way his voice sounded when he called you baby was like nails on a chalkboard. “But I thought you liked basic, Pete.” You batted your lashes up at him. “I did all this just for you,” you added, using an artificial high-pitched voice before hardening your features. 

His lips curled again, fingers moving back to your chest. He tapped the fabric, feeling the outline of your bra. “Mm,” he hummed, sinking his tongue in his jaw. “You’re feisty this evening, aren’t you? Tequila’s got you needy?”

He liked you best like this. At some party in a tight-fitting outfit, buzzing off cheap alcohol, and willing to entertain his bullshit. He liked having your attention. He liked pissing you off to the point that you felt the need to slap him. 

Hell, he wanted you to slap him. 

“Maybe,” your voice trailed, peering up at him over your drink with your sharp eyes. “But not for you.”

The muscle in Peter’s jaw ticked. “Oh, you got your sights on someone else?”

You shrugged your shoulders, head turning to scan the party. There wasn’t anyone you were looking for. You just wanted to show Peter the number of options you had. “Maybe.”

He knew there were countless guys at the party who wanted their chance with you. He would hear them talk about you in the back of class, every time you would bend down to pick up something, your ass in the air. Sometimes they’d talk about you in the locker room at lacrosse practice, too. They would drone on about your recent sighting at some party, reeling in the way none of them could ever get you in their beds even after you drank too much to walk yourself back to your dorm. 

Peter wouldn’t ever really entertain it. He’d tell them they were all idiots, warning them to stop trying with you because you were too “uptight” and didn’t “put out.” But he knew the reason you never gave into their attempts was because it didn’t excite you.

“You should put your sights on me,” he said with full confidence. 

You coughed out a laugh, nearly choking on your drink, causing him to wonder if you would sound the same choking on his dick. “You fucking wish, you creep.”

“I’m a creep now?” he pried, narrowing his eyes on you as the two of you stood unusually still in the center of all the commotion.

“You’re something, that’s for sure.”

He liked that. “Something’s a little too vague for me, baby. Tell me what I am.”

“You’re disgusting,” you quipped, eyes betraying you when they fell to the rigid outline of his biceps that were being suffocated by the hem of his T-shirt sleeves. “And I don’t want to waste my night out standing here with you.”

“Disgusting?” Peter feigned hurt, cocking his head back. “Oh, come on. Now you’re just being mean.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically, turning your head to the side. 

Peter felt his dick twitch at the sight despite himself, that imagination of his working tirelessly to picture the way he could make you do that—make you roll your eyes to the back of your head. 

He would never admit—even to himself—but he wanted you in a way that bordered obsession. He wanted to see what the fuss was all about. He wanted to be the one to break down those impenetrable walls of yours, spreading you open and learning his way around those venomous curves of yours.

“I’m bored,” you sneered, taking a quick step away from him, realizing your best friend was long gone.

Peter blinked, knocking himself out of his stupid thoughts long enough to reach out and grab your wrist. It was a firm grasp. The tips of his fingers dug into your soft skin, forcing you to stumble back in front of him. 

“Don’t walk away from me,” he bit, but his voice was unusually soft and vindictive. “I’m not done with you.”

Knocked off balance from the tug, he shifted his free hand from your wrist to your waist in an attempt to steady you. The fact that he didn’t let you fall flat on your ass was even more dizzying. 

“You’re not done with me?” Your brows pinched. “Oh, come on, Peter. Don’t be desperate.”

He smirked devilishly. “You think I’m desperate for you?”

Narrowing your eyes on his, you refused to respond.

“That’s cute,” he went on to say anyway. “You think I want you?” His head bowed slowly, his hand still tight on the curve of your waist. “You think that’s what this is, baby—” his nose nudged the line of your jaw, causing your head to tilt up “—that I’m all needy for you, falling to pieces every time you walk away?”

Your body went rigid, feeling his warm breath on the crook of your neck. The way your skin prickled, a shudder coursing through you as the hairs on your arm stood straight, irritated you far more than his words. The feeling was so distracting, you couldn’t manage another snarky response.

The two of you had been in this position before. It was common—second nature, even. That didn’t make it any easier, though. 

“What?” Peter snarled in your ear, soft lips grazing the delicate cartilage. “Can’t speak?”

Your teeth ground, jaw taut with tension as you used your free hand to shove him off you. 

He let go of your hip, taking a stuttering half-step back. That smug, toothy little smirk spread on his face. 

The people behind him shouted a string of obscenities at him, pissed that his movement had caused one of the girls to spill her drink. But Peter didn’t offer them a single glance. His eyes were glued to you. 

The second your small hand had shoved him—that touch, that force—he keeled. There was a newfound hunger in the way he was looking at you. Once he regained his stability, he was right back flush against you. 

“What do you want from me, Parker?” you snarled, glaring up at him. His eyes flicked back and forth, not able to choose one to hone in on. “If you don’t want me—what is it that you’re trying to do?”

Peter shrugged, but it didn’t meet his eyes. “Just want to see how long you can take it.”

“Take what?”

“That puddle forming in your panties,” he stated in such a calm tone, it made your skin crawl.

You scoffed, not necessarily surprised but just as shocked. “You’re fucking sick.”

His head tilted slightly to the side. “I bet you’re soaked right now, aren’t you? Putting your hands on me like that get your panties all wet?” His eyes dropped to your shorts. “What color are they, I wonder.” You inhaled sharply, growing restless. His head lowered slightly, your foreheads a dangerous inch apart. “Probably something skimpy.”

Your eyes flashed up to his. “Guess.”

The corner of his lip rose, nodding slowly. “You could show me.”

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Your head was spinning when you inched closer to him, the hand you’d had at your side slowly moving to graze the bulge forming in his suddenly too-tight jeans. You stood on the tips of your toes, mimicking his early actions by digging your nose into the chiseled line of his jaw. 

“You’re all hard and desperate and I haven’t even touched you,” you whispered before quickly ripping your hand away and falling back on your heels. “So pathetic.”

It took Peter a moment to get control of himself. You noticed it, relishing in the power you’d taken over him. But—like all accomplishments pertaining to Peter—it was a short-lived win.

His tongue slipped out between his lips, wetting them with a slow graze. “Disgusting… pathetic…” he talked slowly, a lazy sigh escaping him. “God, I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

You tilted your head. “Oh, that’s what you want, huh?” You coughed out another laugh. “You want me to be mean to you, Parker? That your kink, or something? You like when girls degrade you. That’s what gets you off?”

“No.” He shook his head nonchalantly. “I just like when you do it.”

You hated how bold he was. You hated even more that you couldn’t ever tell when he was being serious or messing with you. The lines between his truths and his teases was a fine one. One that you refused to fall for. 

But there was no denying the way it made you feel. There was no denying that knowing how hard he was after just talking to you wasn’t driving you absolutely crazy. And there was definitely no way to deny the arousal puddling at your core, the warm flutters aching in your lower stomach.

It was a dangerous curiosity, wondering what it would feel like for him to be on top of you—inside you. You had thought about it before, of course. But the two of you had never been this close before. 

You had never been caught before him like this, suffering the consequences of too much cheap vodka with music muddling the outside world. The bass was so loud, vibrating the floor beneath your feet and ricocheting through your bones, that it drowned out the sound of your heart racing. It drowned out the sound of everything around the two of you. 

For a moment, you forgot where you were. You forgot you were surrounded by a bunch of your peers, not caring about any lingering glares. 

The only thing you could think about was the way Peter was standing before you, smirking down at you in a way you couldn’t hide from. 

“Where’s your head at, baby?” Peter probed, noticing your trance-like state as you were so deep in thought. “You're thinking about it, aren’t you?” He grinned pridefully. “Now that you’ve touched it, you want it, don’t you?”

You blinked hard, eyes dropping to the floor in defeat. Your thoughts were becoming a tangled mess. Lust and desire was meshing with your reluctance and hatred. 

His hand slowly raised to your face. The pad of his thumb grazed your glossed bottom lip while his fingers slipped the side of your jaw, tugging slightly to force your gaze up at him.

The sticky feeling of your lip gloss on his thumb caused him to bite down on his lip. He wanted to taste it. He wanted it around his throbbing dick, becoming a sticky mess with your spit. 

A wave of confidence coursed through you, thrumming with newfound adrenaline with his hand on you. “Is that what you want?” You parted your lips, tongue slowly creeping out to graze the tip of his thumb. “You want me to want you?”

“Oh, I know you want me,” Peter quickly countered, his dick painfully hard in his pants. 

He wanted so desperately to move closer to you. He wanted to grind his hips against you so you could feel how much he wanted you, but he didn’t want you to have that power yet, nor did he want to corrupt the way your plump lips were closing around his thumb.

What you did next was just cruel, really. You bobbed your head forward slowly, welcoming the way his thumb slid right into your mouth. You suctioned your lips around it, tongue swirling over the skin. The salty taste flooded your taste buds as your lashes fluttered up at him. 

His jaw went slack, his chest rising as he sucked in a sharp breath at the sight. 

You repeated the motion once more, showing him exactly what you were capable of before pulling away. 

You reeled in it for a moment. The way you had Peter Parker folding in front of you just by sucking his stupid thumb. The guy who thrived on having the power over you was biting down on his lip hard enough to cause injury, absolutely lost in the shape of your lips. 

The thought entered your mind before you could brace yourself. 

You liked it.

Peter’s hand dropped to the waistband of your shorts, slipping two fingers in the gap and tugged you flush against him. A gasp tore from your tight throat when you felt his length press against your stomach. 

God, he could’ve came just by the sound you made.

His head bowed down once more, his lips returning to the place he loved for them to be—right at your ear. “We’re gonna go up to my room,” he hissed, his arm creeping around your waist to keep you from moving away from them, “and you’re gonna do that to my dick.”

You chuckled, placing your hand on his shoulder to shove him off, but it only led him to squeeze you tighter. 

“Uh-uh,” he warned in a devastatingly deep tone. “Stop fighting it, baby.”

He reared his head back, immediately making eye contact with you. Something had shifted, you realized. He wasn’t fucking around with you anymore. 

“Go upstairs,” he whispered. “First door on the right.”

You swallowed hard, rethinking every single decision that had led you to this moment, wondering if you would regret any of it. 

He released you, causing you to fall back on your heels with a stutter, unable to find a single coherent thought in your dizzied, lust-clouded mind.

You both remained dangerously still for a moment. His eyes were staring into you with such viciousness, it felt like a dagger to the heart. 

The muscle in his jaw ticked. “Go.”

You reeled in your defeat, feeling an overwhelming sense of disgust with yourself when you walked through Peter Parker’s bedroom door. 

His room, however, was exactly how you thought it would be. His bed was unmade, pushed into the corner of the small room. It was the cleanest disaster you’d ever seen. There wasn’t enough stuff to categorize it as messy, but the stuff that was there was all disorganized. 

His navy-blue comforter was tangled up on the mattress, paired with his grey sheets. On the wall above the headboard was a Star Wars poster and it smelled the same as the rest of the frat house did—like they tried to smother the filth with a can of Febreze. 

You closed the door behind you, more afraid of someone catching you in his room than what you were getting yourself into. 

Inching further into his room, your eyes danced around, analyzing the open Altoids tin with a few pre-rolled joints in them. There were a few crushed beer cans littering his desk, where he had a mountain of books and a lamp draped with a red T-shirt, casting an ambient maroon lighting on the room. 

Sucking in a sharp, weighted breath, you sat down on the edge of his bed and combed a hand through your hair, tugging slightly at the root in a feeble attempt to bring you back to reality.

But every time you thought about how poor of a decision you were making, you recalled the feeling of him up against you—the size of his bulge and the way his breath felt on your skin.

But it was Peter fucking Parker.

You couldn’t let him win.

You were about to stand up and walk out when his bedroom door creaked open. Your eyes shot up, jolting at the sudden sound. Peter walked in nonchalantly, closing the door behind him and locking it. 

When he saw you sitting on the edge of his bed, your curves illuminated under the soft glow, he couldn’t conceal the sly smirk on his face. 

You stood up, the regret washing over you as soon as that cocky expression of his reappeared. 

“This was a mistake,” you mumbled, taking a step towards the door.

He side-stepped, blocking your path. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” you snapped, glaring up at him.

“Don’t act like you don’t want this.”

“I don’t.”

He tilted his chin up slightly, features hardening. “Then why’d you come up here?”

“Because…” You shook your head, not able to obtain a single viable reason. “I wasn’t—I wasn’t thinking.”

“I think you were,” he whispered. “I think you were doing a whole lot of thinking, actually.”

Your nostrils flared when you peered up at him. 

His hands snuck to your waist, gripping the skin with just the right amount of pressure. “I think you were wondering what this would be like,” he added, taking a step forward, which caused you to take one backwards. “I think you were wondering what it would feel like to have me completely to yourself. No, I know it—I know you want me all to yourself like this. You’re fucking crazy for it, aren’t you?” 

Your eyes remained glued to his as he continued forcing you to walk backwards until the back of your legs hit the edge of his bed. 

“Say it,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Tell me you want me.”

You scoffed. “I’m not entertaining your ego.”

“Fine.” His hands gripped tighter. “Then just say stop when you want me to,” he said so quickly, you barely had time to realize what he was doing.

The moment you fell back on the bed, Peter climbed on top of you. He used his knee to spread your legs so he could fit himself between them. His lips immediately crashed onto yours. It was the roughest kiss you’d ever had. It was like he couldn’t get enough of it. 

His tongue slipped through his lips as they moved in sync with yours, fighting for a way into your mouth. You let him continue doing that for a few moments, enjoying the way his hand trailed down to your thigh that was hiked up against his waist. 

He squeezed, nails digging into the skin, until you parted your lips and let him in. 

When his tongue finally tangled itself with yours, a rugged moan broke from his throat. It vibrated your entire body, ricocheting all the way down to your needy center. 

He pulled away from the kiss, leaving you a panting mess beneath him. But he didn’t stay away for long. His head dug into the crook of your neck, using his nose to push your head to the side so he could suck on the sensitive skin just below your ear. 

Your jaw went slack as a shudder rolled down your spine, causing your hips to buck against his bricked erection. The friction it induced against your clit drew a soft moan from your throat that Peter desperately wanted to hear again.

“You want me to stop?” he asked, voice muffled against your neck and gruff from his rugged breathing. 

In absolutely pitiful desperation, you shook your head. 

He pulled away from your neck, holding himself over you with his hands pressed into the mattress on either side of your head. When he ground his hips against your pulsating center again, his bulge rubbing the outline of your slit beneath your shorts, he smirked at the sounds you made. 

“I need to hear you say it, baby,” he whispered, repeating his rough humps. “You gotta tell me you want it—gotta use your words.”

You knew the potential threat of admitting it—the way you’d never be able to return from it—but you just couldn’t help yourself. It was too consuming, too good. He felt too good.

Your eyes screwed shut, jaw going slack at the sensation building beneath your shorts.

“I want it,” you hissed, bringing your arms over his shoulders, interlocking your hands to pull his face closer to yours so you could taste his lips again. 

Fuck, you thought. You actually wanted it.

“Come here” he ordered, crawling off of you. 

He stood up off the bed, crooking two fingers, gesturing for you to sit up. When you complied, sitting up straight on the bed with your legs falling off the side, he looped his fingers under your T-shirt. In one swift motion, he brought it up over your head, discarding it on his bedroom floor. 

Your bra came off next. He urged you to lean forward, reaching behind you to unclasp it. The entire time he worked with the hooks, your eyes were trained on the pulsating length suffocating in his jeans. 

“Fuck…” he groaned, watching you shrug off the black bra. “You look so good.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled, reaching out and gripping him by the waistband of his jeans, using all the strength you had to pull him closer to you. 

You were working to undo the button and unzip them when he ran a hand through your hair. “Oh, you want it rough—that it?”

Your eyes flicked up to him, pulling his jeans down over his muscular hips. “Take your shirt off.”

He chuckled, taking a half step back, tearing out of his T-shirt. 

You took a second to rake your gaze over his tanned, rigid abdomen, analyzing the way his muscles flexed in the soft light every time he moved. When your eyes moved back to the jeans barely holding on, you sat up further on the bed, bringing your ass to the very edge.

His words replayed in the back of your mind. “We’re gonna go up to my room, and you’re gonna do that to my dick.” All of your hesitance went out the window, knowing how eager you had him. 

He stepped forward until his shins met the bed, his erection inches from your face. 

By the time you worked to get his boxers off, letting them fall around his ankles, you could barely think straight. The only thing on your mind was the way his throbbing cock slapped his lower stomach when it sprung out of its confines. 

It was exactly like you thought it would be. Girthy in a way that matched the rigid muscles of his toned build, and just as formidable in length. 

Peter smirked down at you, hands working to gather your hair as your hand wrapped around the base of it. “You nervous?” he probed, clenching his fist around your strands. “Too big for you? Don’t think you can take it?”

You worked him in your hand for a minute, eyes fluttering up to where he was towering over you. In one slow movement, you leaned forward, sticking your wet tongue out, leaving a sopping wet trail of your spit at the base of him, all the way up to his sensitive, pink tip without breaking eye contact. 

He brought his bottom lip between his teeth, biting down hard as a grunt vibrated from his throat when your tongue swirled his tip, licking up the bead of pre-cum dripping out. 

“Stop… fucking… teasing,” he grunted, hips bucking against the hold you had on him. Your nails dug into the skin of his thighs, managing to keep him still. He gritted his teeth, feeling you lick his tip again. 

“Open your fucking mouth,” he ordered.

Complying, you parted your lips and welcomed the way he slid into your mouth as you leaned forward. You wanted so badly to be able to take all of him, pushing yourself until your nose came flush with his base. A gag tore from your throat, causing your throat to squeeze tight around him. 

“Mm,” he sounded, watching you bob your head along his throbbing cock in all the ways he once dreamed of. Your lips suctioned around him, tongue swirling around his dripping tip every time you moved away before pushing him back down your throat. 

“Yeah, look at you—talking all that shit just to have my dick down your throat,” he grunted.

His words, combined with the way he tugged your hair, forcing your head to move at the rhythm of his choosing, was enough to cause a shallow moan to escape you, vibrating against his dick as you intentionally swallowed, keeping him deep in your throat.

“Fuck…” he moaned, growing more rough with the way he was forcing your head to move on him. 

Your spit, combined with the salty taste of his pre-cum, was dripping down your chin when he suddenly let go of your hair, grabbing your hands from where they were gripping his thigh. 

The sudden movement caused you to push away from him, his dick coming out of your mouth with a wet pop. 

Panting, you eyed him. “What are you—” 

“Put your hands behind your back,” he demanded, an air of aggression in his voice that awoke something inside you. 

Your hands moved behind your back, interlocking with one another. His dick throbbed in front of you as he reached over to his bedside table, grabbing the belt that was rolled up. 

Something akin to pure fire sparked inside of you, understanding his attention. “Oh, you want to tie me up?”

His jaw was taut with tension as he reached behind you, wrapping the brown leather around your wrists, tightening it until it almost hurt.

“You’re such a freak, Parker,” you laughed, your chin glistening with the remnants of your spit. 

He knotted the leather, binding you before bringing his hands back to your hair. “You like it,” he snarled, clenching his fist back around your strands, tugging. “Now—” he breathed, taking a hold of himself, aligning his tip back with your dripping, swollen lips “—shut up and let me fuck that throat, baby.”

And that was exactly what he did. 

Unable to tame his movements due to your hands being tightly bound behind you, he was the one to control his thrusts into your mouth, causing your jaw to grow sore. 

He worked quicker the more you moaned against his shaft, feeling the tightness of your throat every time he pumped himself deep.

His biceps flexed from how hard he was tensing. When he lulled his head back, your name rolling off his tongue in the form of a deep grunt as you gagged on his length. 

He let his head fall forward, watching the way you took him so perfectly. 

His eyes were glued to your face, watching the way your eyes rolled back the harder he thrusted into your tight throat, admiring the way the wetness was leaking down your chin, dripping into your lap where your legs were trembling, desperate to be touched. 

“Yeah,” he moaned, moving your falling strands of hair away from your face, ensuring he always kept a perfect view of you taking him. “You’re gonna think about this the next time you call me pathetic, baby—you’re gonna think about the way I fucked your tight little throat, aren’t you?”

Your response came as muffled moans against his flesh that he couldn’t get enough of.

His release was coming quickly, like an atomic bomb readying to detonate within him. You could tell based on the way his thrusts got sloppy, going back to using your head instead of bucking his own hips.

But, as much as he craved the feeling of shooting his warm release down your precious throat, he didn’t want to do it yet. Not until he explored the rest of you.

He pulled out of you slowly, taking half a step back while panting raggedly. 

It took every sliver of self-restraint he had to keep himself from busting all over you when he saw the way your jaw went slack, panting with soft, pretty little breaths, and blinking slow, completely drunk off the way he’s been working you. 

“You good?” he asked you without thinking.

Your eyes sharpened up at him, reverting back to your soured self despite the way he’d numbed your mind with his cock.

A smile broke through your defeat. “What? You worried about me, Parker?”

Fine, he thought, be that way. “Stand up.”

You tried to, you really did. But with your hands tied up behind you, it was impossible. Peter knew that would happen, of course. 

When he snickered, you glared up at him. 

“You struggling, baby?”

You refused to respond, not giving him anymore verbal ammunition. 

He reached around you, undoing the belt in one quick motion. “Try now.”

Finally able to rise on your own two feet, you rolled your wrists at your side, already secretly missing the constriction. 

Peter took a second to admire you. His eyes traced a devious glare down your entire frame, stopping where your shorts were. His jaw ticked. “Take ‘em off.”

You tilted your head. “Gonna make me do it all by myself?” you pouted teasingly, meeting his gaze. “Where’s the fun in that, Peter?”

Beneath your sly taunts, he read right through your intentions. He knew that was your way of begging him to undress you. So, he did. He did it all with one hand, actually. 

Pulling you closer with his finger hooked around the denim waistband, he undid the button and lowered the zipper, shoving them down your legs. He brought your black panties with it, spending a little too much time eyeing the drenched spot in them.

“Lay down,” he urged, taking a step forward that forced you to back up. 

“Uh-uh,” you mumbled, shaking your head and stopping yourself when the back of your legs met the edge of the bed once again. 

Peter’s brows furrowed, his saturated, throbbing dick pressed between the two of you.

Your eyes fell to the belt on the bed, then back up to him. 

A despicable expression formed on his face as the realization dawned on him. “That what you want?”

Reluctantly, you nodded.

“Words, baby,” he grumbled.

“Yes.” You huffed. “That’s what I want.”

By the time the belt returned around your wrists—tighter this time—your back was flush with his front. The sticky wetness of his dick was pressed against your ass when he put his lips close to your ear, coaching you into slowly lowering down on the bed.

“I got you,” he whispered, gripping your arms to help you down slowly, even if he really wanted to throw you down and watch you squirm. “Yeah… just like that. Good girl,” he added when you laid flat on the mattress, ass arched up in the air.

You turned your head to the side, catching him reaching over into the top drawer of his nightstand, returning behind you with a condom in his grasp. 

“No.” The word came out of you before you could think.

Peter’s eyes flashed to yours. “You want it raw?”

“Don’t make me fucking say it,” you groaned, pushing your ass up against him, desperate to relieve the neediness at your core. 

“I’m clean, just so you—”

“I know,” you interjected, growing irritably restless. “So am I.” You exhaled heavily. “Just put it in. I wanna feel you—please.”

The desperate sound of your voice was enough to drive Peter mad. He had never heard that side of you before. 

He wanted to hear more of it. A lot more.

One of his hands fell to his pulsating length, the other planted a firm grip on your ass as he guided his tender tip to your swollen, needy entrance. His teeth ground together as he slowly inserted himself inside you. 

Your walls immediately clenched around his size, a high-pitched moan tearing from your throat as he spread you open more and more the deeper he went. 

“Fuck…” he hissed, watching the way your slippery cunt suctioned him in. “You’re so tight, baby. And so… wet—Oh, fuck…”

He drew out of your partially, not taking his eyes off the way your pussy gripped him as he made another slow thrust deeper inside of you.

You could feel the exact spot his tip was hitting deep in your core. It was the exact spot you needed him to be. 

“Oh… my God,” you cried out as he picked up the pace, driving himself into you with ferocious thrusts. “It’s so deep.”

That only made him want to fuck you harder. He moved his grip on your ass to where the belt was fastened around your wrists, tugging at the leather as he bullied his cock into your tight pussy. 

“Has anyone ever fucked you this good, baby?” he taunted, watching the way your body dug deeper into his bed as he slammed into you over and over and over again. The sound of your ass clapping against him was almost too loud, but he didn’t care. 

He wasn’t going to give up his rhythm for anything. “Anybody ever been this deep inside your pussy?”

Your teeth bit down on the bundle of sheets beneath you to keep the screams that threatened to escape you in. “N—No,” you cried out through your gritted teeth. “Ne—Never.”

He couldn’t cope with the way you were squirming in front of him, back arched in a way that shouldn’t have been possible. 

“Peter,” you moaned out, your entire body shaking violently, toes curling. “I can’t—I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby,” he grunted out, reaching to grab your hair and pull you off the bed. 

The stinging sensation on your scalp was mind-bending. But when he brought your back flush with him, still deep inside you as he wrapped one arm around your waist to brace you before moving his other hand to your clit, you just couldn’t fucking take it. 

Your head lulled back on his shoulder, back arched as he bucked his hips up into you faster and faster while working his fingers in circles over your swollen clit. 

“Oh, God, yes,” you nearly screamed.

He gripped you tighter, feeling the way you clenched around him, your arousal dripping down his balls. 

“Not God, baby,” he breathed into your ear. “Just Peter.”

“Shut up,” you tried to jest, but it just came out as a pathetically high-pitched moan. 

With your arms fastened behind you, your release came quick.

Peter held you as tight as possible, his muscles flexing as you convulsed against him, trembling from head-to-toe. “Look at you, cumming all over my dick like that.”

You could barely feel anything. Every single nerve in your body was coursing with an all-consuming pleasure unlike anything you’d ever felt before. You became completely slack in his big arms, like a rag doll, as his pumps became sloppier. 

“Your turn,” you managed to say, feeling how close he was to his release. 

His breathing was uneven and deep when he asked, “Where, baby?”

“In me,” you replied.

His heart nearly stopped beating, but he played it off. “Want me to fill you up?”

He had never done that before, but he was more than willing to do that for you if it was what you wanted. He was highly certain he’d do just about anything for you—and to you—as long as it was what you wanted.

“Mm-hmm.” Your head nodded sloppily, unable to lift it on your own. “IUD,” you added, already knowing where his thoughts went.

The last thing this world needed was another Peter fucking Parker.

“Hold on.”

He pulled out of you so fast, it caused you to wince. The sudden emptiness felt disparaging, but it didn’t last long. In one gentle move, he turned you around, quickly tore off the belt around your wrists, and pushed you back on the bed.

Your breath was caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan when he climbed on top of you. He wasted absolutely no time, aligning himself with your slick entrance and pushing in as deep as he could. 

“Hands,” he grunted.

He remained deep inside you as he took your hands, forcing them down on the bed above your head. Squeezing your wrists with his big, tough hands, he started thrusting himself into you.

“I wanna look… at your face while I fill you up,” he bit out through pants.

“Mm,” you smirked, hearing the squelching sounds echoing off the walls of his bedroom every time he pounded himself inside you. “You’re such a fucking freak.”

“Only for you, baby,” he grinned devilishly down at you, eyes staying glued to yours as he continued hammering into you. “Only… f—for you.”

He was so close, he could taste it. It was a fucking miracle he’d lasted this long, only able to do so because of the dangerous levels of adrenaline pumping through his system. 

Peering up at the grip he had on your hands, he let one go.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered, holding himself up with only one hand as he eagerly brought your other one down to your clit. “Cum with me.”

You were going to cum even if you hadn’t started rubbing your clit as he worked himself into you. But as soon your fingers touched your swollen flesh, your head tilted back against the mattress, digging into the fabric as a moan escaped you. 

“That’s it,” Peter coaxed. “Doing s—so good.”

Your legs clenched around him as you met your second release. His thrusts became sloppy and slow, telling you he was right there with you.

His head fell into the crook of your neck, lips parting to bite the skin as he pounded his hips against you one last time.

The minute his warmth shot inside you, you gasped. 

A shudder rolled through him, all the way down to his cock still inside of you, as he filled you with his sticky seed. 

He rode out his high with slow, quivering pumps until there was nothing else to empty out of him. 

Forcing himself up, he slowly pulled himself out of you. The second his tip popped out of you and his eyes fixed on his white cum seeping out of your throbbing pussy, he moaned.

“Shit,” he mumbled, bringing his fingers to touch the puddle oozing out. “I like that.”

You watched him with illicit precision, smirking. “You never done that before?”

He shook his head, unable to look away. “No.”

When your hand trailed down your body, reaching to where you felt his seed dripping out of you, you spread the thick liquid on your fingers. 

Peter watched you with a slack jaw as you brought your fingers to your mouth, sucking the remnants of his release. 

“F—fuck…” he gaped, eyes wide at your actions. “You’re gonna make me bust again, acting like that, baby.”

You snickered, swallowing the salty sweetness of him. “Tastes good.”

He shook his head, coughing out a laugh. “You’re fucking sick.”

When he could finally stand again, you watched as he walked over to his door, grabbing the white towel that was hanging on the over-the-door hook. He brought it back over to you, wiping up the mess he’d left inside you.

After he cleaned you up, he fell back on the bed next to you with a thud.

You turned your head to the side, chest heaving as your breathing slowed. “So…” you trailed, exhaling raggedly. “Did I make it to the top of your fucking Dean’s List?”

“Something like that.”

Peter liked it best when you were on your knees. The sight of you resting back on your calves, gazing up at him with those big, round puppy dog eyes of yours, revived something inside of him. You were completely helpless, chewing on your swollen, trembling bottom lip with your hands pressed together between your clenched thighs. 

There was something religious about the way he admired you, carving the shape of your curves somewhere in the depths of his mind. 

It had been less than a week since the two of you decided to take what you titled a “break.” Peter called it “fucking stupid.” 

The five days the two of you spent apart was all it took to remind you how much you actually needed him. However, he’d never forgotten where his desires resided.

His gaze traced your entire frame, tongue slipping out to slowly wet his parted lips as he did so. 

Angelic, he suddenly thought to himself. That was what you looked like. An angel in baby pink, frilly little lace panties. Despite how heavenly you looked, he knew that if he really wanted to, he could have taken you right where you sat between his spread legs. He could have sprung up off the bed, wrapped his big arms around your figure and done all of the filthy things he was picturing in his head. But he didn’t—not yet, anyway. 

That wasn’t what he wanted. 

What he wanted was to watch you come undone for him. 

When your hands moved from where they were squeezed between your quivering thighs, he bit back a gasp. The sudden movement was too much for him. 

Your knees slowly spread before him, causing his jaw to nearly splinter from how hard he was clenching. His self-restraint was faltering, just like he knew you wanted it to. 

His sharp gaze was trained on you, watching your every move with careful precision. Moving sluggishly, you placed one hand behind you, on the mess of tangled-up sheets atop the king-size mattress. The other hand was his newest fixation as it moved to your tits, massaging the perky flesh and softly pinching your pebbled nipple. An electric shock-like feeling coursed through your veins, causing the careful gaze you kept on his hardened features to wander, drawing a soft, whimpering sound from your parted lips. 

That was almost enough to undo him entirely, but his muscles tensed with restraint. 

You moved your busy hand down your stomach slowly, eyes trained on his dark irises as they followed your hand with relentless desperation. Reaching the thin hem of your panties, you sat back further on your knees and let your hand wander deeper into the place where you craved his touch the most. 

Feeling your own arousal was enough to make your eyes roll to the back of your head, knowing how desperate you were. 

In the silence of the dark room, the wet sounds of your fingers working slow circles over your needy clit felt like alarm bells ringing in his ears. His chest rose at the sound, sucking in a sharp breath as you amazed him with your seductive motions. 

“Do you hear that?” you spoke into the suffocating silence, voice small and shaky from the satisfaction you were providing yourself. “That’s how much I want you.” 

His nostrils flared, something akin to insatiable hunger came over him. He was absolutely ravished, you becoming his only craving—the only thing able to tame the storm brewing inside him. 

“Thought it was a bad idea,” he forced out, still finding the strength to taunt you despite the shackles on his brain.

You ignored him, only pumping yourself faster.

Growing miserable in his own cage of desire, his hand moved from where he’d had it resting behind his head, creeping slowly down to the waistband of his boxers. Realizing what he was going to do was already enough to send you over the edge, but witnessing it was enough to desert you from all of your senses. 

He knew trying to take his boxers off would interrupt your pleasure and he was far too desperate to waste any more time, so when he slipped his throbbing cock through the slit in the fabric, he loosened a groan of overwhelming pleasure. 

Slipping your trembling fingers deeper into your dripping folds, you bit down on your lip hard enough to cause injury to stifle the scream that threatened to escape you. 

Even in the dim light of the lamp on the bedside table, your sluggish gaze caught the beads of precum oozing from the tip of his unduly lengthy dick. Grazing the pad of his thumb over it, you slowly slid a single finger inside your pulsating entrance. 

Even with your panties obstructing his view, he knew what you were doing. He could hear the sloshing sounds every time you slithered your digit in and out of your needy core. 

Propping himself up on one elbow, his hand shot out towards you. His eyes flashed from his upward facing palm to your face. 

“Spit,” he ordered, his voice gruff and raw from the energy he had exerted from holding himself back. 

You complied effortlessly, gathering your saliva in your mouth and bowing your head to his palm, spitting into his shaking hand. 

His tongue sunk into his jaw, lips parted, as he brought his damp hand to his hardened length, taking himself in a firm grasp and working in slow movements, mimicking the pace of your fingers slipping in and out of your needy cunt. 

A deep grunt spilled out of him as he imagined his wet strokes were your quivering walls, relishing in the memory of what he knew your flesh felt like on his. 

His attention honed in on your wondrous hand while yours watched the way he worked himself with such aggression, stroking himself from the hilt of his sturdy cock to the dribbling tip, the soft light reflecting off the saturated skin. 

He was so hard, it was painful. The veins of his dick pumped blood to his pink tip that your eyes couldn’t get enough of. 

“Another one, baby,” he muttered between heavy pants. “Two fingers.” 

You pulled your finger out, only for a second—only long enough to press two fingers inside yourself, barely giving your sopping walls time to adapt. 

You were breathing so hard, the skin on your exposed chest blotched as sweat beaded on your forehead. That was the proof of pleasure, you thought. 

He continued working himself, groaning at the sight of you taking more. 

“Yeah, baby,” he moaned through gritted teeth. “Just like that. Fuck—you’re so perfect like this.” 

A smile slipped through your slacked jaw, your head rolling back as you grinded your hips on your own hand, your palm massaging your sensitive clit. 

“Uh-uh,” he grunted. “Eyes on me, baby girl.” 

With a great deal of effort, you lulled your forward to face him. 

His breathing suddenly shifted. It wasn’t just ragged, it was nearing hyperventilation. His teeth clenched together, nostril flaring as he tugged on his dick with unrelenting force. His head fell back on the pillow, digging into the material as his back arched off the bed slightly. The veins in his throat thrummed as his chest rose and fell at a frantic rate. 

When he finally seemed to have regained control of himself, his neck craned to look at you. 

Every one of his senses were suddenly heightened. No, they weren’t just heightened, he thought, they were hyperstimulated. He could suddenly make out the rhythm of your racing heart, see the beads of sweat rolling down your temple. He could hear the sounds of your flesh suctioning your fingers and could smell your arousal. 

It was something he’d never felt before. The craving he suddenly had for you was unlike anything he had ever felt before. It was an untamable, insatiable desire to have you in all of the worst ways.

He couldn’t think straight.

Once your gaze finally met his, you gasped. 

His eyes were suddenly so dark—dark enough that there was seemingly no light left in them, like the whites had been blown out. 

You sucked in another sharp breath, the air hitching in your tight throat. “Peter, your—your eyes…” you gasped, unable to stop moving yourself over your hand despite the concern swelling in your overworked mind. “They’re black,” you forced out. 

You barely had time to register what happened next, your breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan when he sat up in bed, his arm slipping around your waist, forcing you down on your back. 

“Peter,” you breathed, but he barely regarded it. 

He stood off the side of the bed, working in rushed movements to remove his boxers, causing his achingly hard cock to slap against his toned abdomen. The alleviation drew a groan from him, shoulders sagging in relief now that there was nothing left to constrict him. 

You remained on your back, watching him with a newfound eagerness about you. 

His eyes, the way he spit in his hand and covered his length with his own saliva before climbing back onto the bed—it was all too much. But the only thought clouding your mind was just how badly you wanted it. No, you thought, needed it. You needed him in a way that teetered on the fine line between sanity and a complete desertion of your morals. It was a carnal desire, one that would never be satisfied by touching yourself, fucking yourself with your own fingers. 

Training your attention on him as he centered himself between your legs, an insurmountable flutter occurred in your lower stomach as his calloused hands gripped your thighs. He pulled you towards him with such force, the oxygen in your lungs vanished. It was barely anything for him, though, like he’d just picked up a stray feather. 

Your panties were still clung to your flesh, a wet patch spreading where he needed to be the most. For a fleeting second, you thought about pushing them off, but it was a wasted deliberation because he crooked two fingers through the material between your legs, tearing the fabric in one swift tug. 

“Fuck…” he moaned, eyeing your swollen core. 

The muscle in his jaw flared with nothing but disgraceful ideas coursing through his twisted, mutated brain. 

You bit down on your bottom lip as he gripped his shaft, aligning himself where you needed him the most. Lowering himself over you, he placed one hand down on the mattress next to your head and lifted your leg with the other. 

With just the pulsating tip of him slipping inside you, your chest rose, lips parting due to the overstimulating sensation of him attempting to fit his length inside you. But every grasp you had left of your senses abruptly abandoned you when he slammed himself deep inside you without warning, the flesh around your unprepared cunt slamming against the base of his cock. 

“Oh, God,” you cried out. 

Your head shot back, sinking deep into the mattress as he grunted at the feeling of you clenching around him. 

The sudden burning sensation sent shockwaves of pleasure through your quaking body, one hand balled into a fist, clenching around the soft fabric of the bedsheets. Your free hand clung to his muscular back, nails digging into his sweltering skin that felt hot to the touch. 

With agonizingly slow movements, he pulled himself partially out of you, savouring the feeling of your warmth suctioning him back in. A shiver rolled through him, breathing hard through his flared nostrils as he buried his head into the crook of your neck, clenching his jaw shut as he forced his hips forward, slamming into you again. 

The sound you made was enough for the neighbors to concern themselves with, but you didn’t think twice about it. The only thing you could think about was the overwhelming sensation of pleasure pumping through your system, causing your body to vibrate with frequencies that left him shuddering against you. 

He continued thrusting his cock in and out of you, finding a rhythm that drove you closer and closer to the edge each time his tip reached that spot so deep inside of you that no one else had ever successfully attained. 

The deep, bone rattling sounds that drew from his throat only made you want more. 

You didn’t understand what had come over him, what had made his eyes shift to pitch-blankness, or why he had given into his desires so easily, but you couldn’t formulate a single complaint. Your body coursed with tension as your orgasm built up deep in your abdomen. You couldn’t control your movements. Constricted beneath him, you moaned into the heavy air and jolted your hips against him every time he buried himself as deep as he could. 

The feeling of your clit rubbing against his base was all you needed. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, body twitching. His head shot up, feeling your walls clench around him, his hilt becoming saturated with the remnants of your pleasure. 

But he wasn’t done. He could have come—he wanted to. But he wanted more. He wanted to give you more. 

He sat up on his knees, still keeping himself inside you, barely able to register the way you cried out in pleasure when he moved inside of you. You were so sensitive, fidgeting at the slightest touch, and completely deserted of your sanity, becoming nothing but a mess beneath him. 

Sitting back on his flexed calves, his hands gripped your bare hips, fingers digging into the flesh. He forced your hips up, holding you with a firm grasp above his knees so he could rock you up and down his shaft on his own. 

He wanted his way with you and you were more than willing to let him have it all, completely lost in the darkness of his eyes and the way his bicep muscles flared every time he pounded you against him. 

His eyes became trained on where the two of you were connected, enthralled by the sight of his cock sliding in and out of your sloshing pussy. He could watch it for hours, completely lost in it. 

Your arms fell back on the mattress, no longer having the strength to keep them idle. While your toes curled in pleasure, your head lulled with each forceful slam you made against him. 

“Oh, Peter,” you managed to moan, eyes screwed shut as you felt yourself nearing another release. “Fuck—yes. Oh, God, yes. Just like that,” you begged, body tensing and squirming against his hold. 

His cock twitched inside you, alerting you that he, too, was coming close, but you wouldn’t have known it based on the way he was still so tightly bound with aggression. 

His jaw was slack, panting heavily as he continued watching the way he moved inside you. A sudden urge came over you, eyes flashing from his face down to your red, swollen cunt. Somehow, he noticed you looking.

“Yeah. Watch me, baby,” he mumbled, lips quivering. “Watch me fuck you. You like that, huh?” 

That was all it took for you, hearing the deep rattle of his voice. Your legs seized around him, shaking as every muscle in your body clenched. 

“That’s right,” he bit, picking up the pace. “Cum all over my dick, baby.” 

And you did, harder than you ever had before. It wasn’t a simple release. No, it was something much more powerful. It ricocheted through your entire body, emptying your mind and clearing your sinuses. It was something you couldn’t name. and as soon as it slowly came to an end, you already desperately wanted it again. 

His hands dug into the skin of your hips, fingernails piercing the soft skin as his head fell back. 

“Oh, fuck,” he roared, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. His sweat-slick skin glistened in the soft lighting and as you were riding out the end of your high, he was reaching his. “I’m gonna—Fuck,” his dark eyes screwed shut and his rhythm became sloppy.

“Cum for me,” you urged, working your hips against him. 

He let out a throaty sound, his body pulsating. The sudden warmth filled your insides, the feeling becoming a close second to whatever otherworldly orgasm he’d given you only seconds ago. 

He moaned incoherently as he thrusted sluggishly in and out of you, his release slowly oozing out with each lazy movement, and you selfishly wished the feeling could go on for an eternity. 

When his head fell forward, shoulders sagging in overwhelming relief, your eyes flicked up to his. Where the devilish darkness had once taken over, the whites of his eyes had returned, the soft brown of his irises immediately finding the result of his mangled DNA. 

His chest caved, immediately looking up at you. “Are you okay?” 

His expression was riddled with worry, absolutely maddened with the fear of what he may have done to you when he wasn’t himself. However, you couldn’t help the pathetic smile that took form on your swollen lips, nor could you stifle the exhausted chuckle that came after it. 

“I’m great,” you confessed. 

Slowly, he pulled himself out of you, eyes trained on the white puddle oozing out of you. His tongue grazed his bottom lip. 

He exhaled raggedly. “That’s great.”

You shook your head when his troubled gaze met yours. “We weren’t supposed to do that, ‘ya know.” 

A smirk appeared on his lips. He cocked a brow, refraining from telling you how infatuated he had suddenly become with the thought of his seed seeping out of you. 

“Shut up.” 

With what sliver of strength you had left, you smirked. “Make me.”

“This is goin’ in the end scenes,” Remmick announces from behind the camera, his voice carrying through the cramped upstairs bedroom as the lens follows you across the faded floral wallpaper. “Show everybody how serious our little actress takes her craft.”

You turn toward him with one false eyelash already glued into place and the other pinched between your fingers, rolling your eyes dramatically. The yellow sundress they picked for you hangs open at the back, its halter ties dangling against your bare shoulders as you lean closer to the vanity mirror and carefully press the strip of lashes along your lid.

“Keep talkin’, farmer boy,” you murmur, smoothing the lash down with one painted nail. “You’re the one who forgot his line six times last week.”

Remmick lowers the camera enough for you to catch his crooked smile above it. He’s already dressed for the scene, though calling it dressed seems generous when his faded overalls are hanging from his hips without a shirt underneath. A red handkerchief sits loosely around his neck, his boots are dusty from walking around the property earlier, and somebody—Stack—has rubbed a little dirt across his chest to make him look like he has spent the morning pitching hay instead of helping you arrange camera angles.

“That scene required concentration,” he says, adjusting the focus as you reach behind yourself to fasten the sundress. “Hard to remember dialogue when you’ve got your mouth full.”

“You weren’t the one with your mouth full,” you remind him, catching his reflection in the mirror.

“That was the concentration problem.”

Remmick has been unbearable since Stack bought the Super 8 from a man outside Memphis and declared that enough lonely perverts owned projectors for the three of you to build a business around them. Stack handles the advertisements, the mailing list, and the plain brown packaging meant to keep curious postmen from learning what is hidden inside. Remmick develops every reel in a washroom he converted himself, spending long nights hunched beneath red light while the films dry from lines stretched above the basin. You provide the pretty face stamped across the catalogues and the body responsible for nearly every repeat customer they have.

Honey Belle is supposed to be your most ambitious picture yet, complete with costumes, an actual plot, and a title card Stack painted by hand after three beers. 

You play the sweet farmer’s daughter left alone after her daddy drives into town. Remmick plays the quiet farmhand who has spent all summer watching you carry baskets across the yard in your little dresses. Stack arrives in a pearl-snap shirt with a story about car trouble, and Honey Belle’s understanding of Southern hospitality becomes increasingly indecent after she invites him inside for lemonade.

By the time Remmick carries the camera downstairs, Stack is waiting beside the front door with his hat tilted low and his shirt unbuttoned just enough to expose the chain resting against his chest. He glances up when you descend the stairs, his gaze sweeping from the ribbons tied into your hair to the way the sundress clings to the soft give of your hips.

“Well, damn,” Stack drawls, reaching beneath the brim of his hat to scratch his temple. “Ain’t you just precious.”

You spread the skirt of your dress and give him a small curtsy, keeping your smile sugary enough to suit Honey Belle even as his eyes settle shamelessly on the tops of your breasts. 

The costume department consists entirely of the three of you and a closet full of things purchased from yard sales, though Stack has treated his cowboy role with the seriousness of a Hollywood leading man. He even polished his belt buckle.

Remmick checks the film, points the camera toward the front door, and gives Stack a lazy signal with two fingers. Stack steps outside, waits until you have taken your place in the parlor, then knocks three times against the screen door.

You open it with your hands folded sweetly over your skirt, blinking up at him beneath your heavy lashes as the camera rolls from across the room.

“Afternoon, miss,” Stack says, removing his hat and pressing it over his chest. His other hand hooks through his belt, the pose practiced enough that you know he tried it in the mirror before coming downstairs. “Hate to trouble you, but my car gave out a ways down the road. Reckon I could use your telephone?”

Your character does not have a telephone, though she does have a pitcher of lemonade and very little sense when a handsome stranger smiles at her. You invite him inside, take his hat, and guide him toward the kitchen with your fingers wrapped around his wrist. Remmick follows with the camera, capturing Stack’s eyes drifting toward your ass each time the dress sways above your thighs.

The first part goes nearly according to plan: you pour lemonade, Stack asks whether your father is home, you tell him Daddy has gone into town and will not return until supper, pausing to suck a drop of sugar from your thumb as Stack watches your mouth.

Then you lean across the table to refill his glass and give the camera a perfect view down your dress.

Stack clears his throat before setting his glass aside. “That farmhand of yours always lurk around?” he asks, gesturing toward the window where Remmick’s character is supposedly spying from the yard. 

“He’s sweet on me,” you explain, slipping fully into a breathy little voice as you move around the table. “Daddy says Remmick’s got more muscle than brains, but I think he’s awful handsome.”

Remmick makes a quiet, offended noise from behind the camera. 

Stack catches your wrist when you pass his chair, drawing you between his spread knees with an ease that makes the lemonade tremble inside the glasses. “Maybe you oughta quit teasin’ that poor boy,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumb across the soft underside of your wrist. “Fellow might get ideas.”

Honey Belle only giggles, resting one hand against his shoulder as his other palm travels beneath your skirt. The flimsy cotton lifts around his forearm, hiding what he is doing from the camera until your knees part and your expression goes pleasantly vacant. His rough fingers find the soaked crotch of your panties, pressing the fabric up between your plump lips so the wet heat coats his skin.

“Mister,” you breathe, gripping his shirt as his fingers slide beneath the white panties chosen specifically because they show up well on film.

Stack angles his body so the camera can catch his hand moving between your thighs, two fingers stroking through the slick gathering there. Your clit is swollen and sensitive under the pads of his fingers, and every slow circle makes your hips twitch. “All this hospitality for a stranger,” he says, tugging you closer until your legs press against the chair. “Your daddy know how friendly you are?”

You shake your head, lips parting when his fingers find your clit. 

Remmick circles the table, lowering the camera toward the place where Stack’s wrist disappears beneath your skirt before raising it again to capture your expression. The ribbons make you look especially soft and oblivious, which only becomes more convincing when two rough fingers sink into your cunt, walls soft and greedy as they suck at his knuckles, and the line you were supposed to say dissolves into a breathless little moan. 

“Thought you said you were a good girl,” Stack remarks, glancing toward the camera as he curls his fingers inside you. “You’re drippin’ all over my hand.”

Stack works you until the heel of his palm is slick, then removes his fingers and holds them apart for the camera, thin strands of your arousal shining between them. 

Remmick keeps the lens trained on his hand before cutting.

When it resumes, you’re bent over the kitchen table with your dress bunched around your waist and your panties hooked around one ankle. Stack stands behind you with his jeans pushed beneath his hips, his shirt hanging open and his cock jutting thickly from the shadow of his belt. The head is already wet by the time he takes himself in hand, rubbing it between your folds until your slick coats the flushed skin. 

“Make sure you get how wet she is,” Stack tells Remmick, slipping briefly out of character as he spreads you open with his thumb.

“Oh, I’ve got it,” Remmick answers from near your face, and the low amusement in his voice makes your cunt clench before Stack has even entered you.

He angles the head against your entrance and pushes, letting the swollen ridge stretch you gradually until it slips inside. Your mouth falls open toward the camera as the rest follows, each thick inch forcing your cunt wider until his hips finally settle against the soft curve of your ass. 

Stack had joked earlier that a stranger with a broken car ought to fuck like he has somewhere else to be, and he commits to that idea with enough enthusiasm to send the table grinding across the kitchen floor. His belt buckle knocks against the back of your thigh each time his hips meet your ass, the sharp clink joining the filthy sounds spilling from where his cock disappears into you, the dark hair at the root of his cock already shiny.

“Thought farmer’s daughters were supposed to be shy,” he pants, curling one hand around the back of your neck as your cheek presses against the tablecloth. “Look at you, takin’ a stranger’s dick before the lemonade’s even warm.”

You attempt to answer in Honey Belle’s breathless voice, though Stack drives into you harder and turns the words into a moan. Your tits are mashed against the table, the soft flesh spreading under your own weight, nipples dragging against the rough cloth with every thrust.

Remmick zooms in on the wet mess coating Stack’s shaft—cream already frothing white around the thick base—then slowly moves the camera along your body until the lens settles on your dazed expression.

“Tell the folks watchin’ what happened,” Remmick whispers, amusement roughening his accent as Stack holds you still for the shot.

“M-Mister Stack’s car broke down,” you manage, your lashes fluttering as Stack grinds deep and makes your voice climb. “So I’m helpin’ him.”

“Helping me plenty,” Stack groans, resuming his pace as he pulls your hips back against him. “Sweet little thing’s squeezin’ me like she wants me stranded here all summer.”

Remmick sets the camera on the tripod, grabs the prop, and swings the door open on cue. He pauses in the doorway with a feed sack thrown over one shoulder, staring at you folded over the table beneath the stranger who arrived less than half an hour earlier. 

You gasp and try to push yourself upright, though Stack’s hand returns to the back of your neck and keeps your cheek planted against the cloth.

“Remmick,” you whine, reaching toward him as if the devoted farmhand might rescue you. “It ain’t what it looks like.”

Remmick drops the sack near the door and crosses the kitchen slowly. “Looks like Daddy left his sweet girl alone,” he says, stopping beside the table as Stack continues fucking you. “And she went spreadin’ her legs for the first stray that wandered onto the property.”

Your eyes widen at the accusation, though the offended little pout you offer him disappears when Stack lands a firm smack against your ass, the sharp crack echoing. Remmick cups your chin, turning your face toward him as the table rocks beneath you.

“I was bein’ hospitable,” you insist, your voice growing softer when Remmick’s thumb presses between your lips. You suck it in without thinking, tasting salt and dirt and the faint metallic tang of the camera gear he’s been handling.

“Course you were, honey,” he murmurs, watching you suck the dirt from the pad of his thumb. “That empty little head couldn’t think of another way to help him.”

Stack laughs behind you, slowing into deep grinds that force his cock against every sensitive place at once. “You gonna stand there sulkin’, farm boy, or help me teach her how to entertain company?” 

Remmick glances toward the camera to ensure all three of you remain in frame, then unhooks one strap of his overalls. The other follows, denim falling to his boots before he steps free and moves around the table. You stare at his cock with theatrical amazement, though the expression becomes considerably more genuine when he wraps his hand around himself and taps the flushed head against your lips.

“Been watchin’ you prance around this farm all summer,” Remmick says, smearing precum across your mouth. “Reckon it’s time you did somethin’ useful.”

You open for him obediently, letting his cock slide over your tongue as Stack begins fucking you harder. The thick head pushes past your lips and the salty taste floods your mouth. Remmick keeps one hand beneath your jaw and uses the other to gather your hair, holding it away from your face so the camera catches every inch disappearing between your lips.

Your throat works around him as he feeds himself deeper, the stretch making your eyes water and your cunt clench hard around Stack’s cock. The coarse hair at the base of Remmick’s cock brushes your nose when he bottoms out, and his balls rest warm against your chin.

The rhythm settles quickly, Stack driving you forward onto Remmick before Remmick eases back and gives you enough air to moan. Your lipstick stains the base of his cock, spit gathering beneath your chin as he feeds himself deeper.

When you gag, Stack groans and tightens his hands around your hips, clearly feeling the way your pussy clenches around him. The wet sound of your throat taking Remmick is continuous, mixed with the wet slap of Stack’s hips against your ass.

“There she goes,” Remmick praises, pulling out until only the tip rests against your tongue, a thick strand of spit connects your lip to the head of his cock. “Pretty thing can’t remember her daddy’s rules, but she knows how to take cock.”

You try to protest around him, though Remmick pushes back into your mouth and turns it into a muffled whine. Stack leans over you, his open shirt brushing your back as he whispers against your ear, “Ain’t enough room left in that head for talkin’, sweetheart. We’re fuckin’ every useful thought right out of you.”

The camera catches your eyes rolling upward as Remmick’s cock slides down your throat and Stack pounds into your swollen cunt. Your hands scrabble uselessly across the tablecloth before finding Remmick’s thighs, nails pressing into his skin whenever both men thrust at once.

They keep you there until your mascara begins to run. Stack pulls out before he comes, leaving your cunt stretched and shining as Remmick guides you down onto the kitchen floor. Honey Belle kneels between his boots with her dress gathered at her waist, lips swollen and face streaked, looking considerably less innocent than she did when she answered the door.

Stack stretches out on his back beneath you, sliding between your spread thighs so his face is right under your dripping cunt. He grips the soft backs of your legs and pulls you down onto his mouth, exposing everything to the camera as his tongue drags slowly from your entrance to your clit, collecting the slick he fucked out of you. Remmick groans when you whimper around his cock.

The flat of Stack’s tongue is hot and rough, lapping up every drop before he pushes it inside you, fucking you with it the same way he just fucked you with his cock while your thighs frame his head.

“Got the farmer’s girl leakin’ all over the floor,” Stack mutters against you, pushing two fingers inside as his mouth closes around your clit. 

Your hips jerk against his face, though his forearms pin them down as he eats you with no concern for keeping the scene pretty. His tongue presses inside you, his nose grinding against your clit while Remmick continues using your mouth. Spit runs over your lower lip and down his shaft, mingling with the lipstick already smeared across his skin. Your clit is swollen and hypersensitive under the suction of Stack’s mouth, and every time he curls his fingers you feel another rush of wetness spill out of you and onto his chin.

The orgasm catches you hard enough to make the ribbons slip loose from your hair. Your pussy tightens around Stack’s tongue as your thighs tremble on either side of his head, and Remmick pulls out just in time for your cry to reach the microphone. The sound is raw and broken, your cunt pulsing so hard that Stack has to hold you open with both hands to keep licking through it.

Stack holds your hips against his mouth and licks through every helpless pulse, groaning as you soak his chin. Remmick crouches beside you, brushing damp hair from your forehead before guiding your hand to his cock.

“Think Honey Belle learned her lesson?” Stack asks, lifting his head with his mouth shining.

Remmick studies your unfocused eyes and the drool clinging to your chin. “Don’t look like she learned a damn thing.”

Between the two of them, they ease you forward onto your hands and knees on the kitchen floor. Stack slides underneath you on his back, positioning himself between your spread thighs so the head of his cock presses up against your soaked entrance while Remmick settles into a half-crouch behind you, one knee down, the other braced so he can thrust. 

It took several attempts during rehearsal to arrange everyone correctly.

Stack had complained about Remmick’s knee digging into his side. Remmick had accused Stack of taking up the entire floor. You had laughed so hard during the first test that neither man stayed hard, and the three of you eventually abandoned the camera to practice properly on the bedroom rug.

Remmick’s thumb presses against the smaller, slick opening above your cunt. The muscle gives gently beneath him, already softened by the careful preparation he insisted upon yesterday and repeated before filming. He had spent both mornings bending you over the edge of the bed, working oil into you with one finger, then two, then three, refusing to hurry even after you began begging him to. 

“Farmhand’s been savin’ somethin’ special for you,” Stack says, tapping his cock against your inner thigh as Remmick opens you slowly. His fingers slide in with almost no resistance now, the slick heat of the earlier oil and your own arousal making the tight ring of muscle flutter and accept him easily. “You gonna let him have it?”

You nod, leaning forward to kiss Stack as Remmick adds another finger. “Wanna make him happy.”

“That’s our good girl,” Stack praises, sliding his fingers beneath your chin. “Always so eager, even when she ain’t got the brains to know what she’s askin’ for.”

Remmick removes his fingers and positions himself behind you, his slick cock pressing carefully against your ass, and when he pushes forward the muscle yields for him the way it was trained to, familiar and overwhelming all at once. Stack enters your pussy from below first, letting your wet entrance swallow him until your body remembers his size, and Remmick follows, pushing into the prepared muscle.

The stretch makes your arms buckle.

Stack reaches up and catches you beneath the shoulders before you can collapse, drawing your chest down against his as Remmick pushes deeper. Your mouth falls open against Stack’s neck, your face tightening at the overwhelming pressure of both men filling you until there seems to be no space left between their bodies and yours. The thin wall between them is pressed so tight you can feel them moving against each other inside you.

“Christ above,” Remmick groans, his hands trembling where they grip your waist. “Can feel him through you.”

Stack’s breath leaves him in a strained laugh as he rolls his hips carefully upward. “Knew our girl could take us both.”

They begin slowly, learning the angle even though the three of you already practiced it without costumes or cameras. Stack thrusts up as Remmick presses in, their cocks sliding against each other through the thin wall inside you, keeping you stretched without granting any relief from the fullness. Every movement is a deep, continuous grind that makes your belly feel tight and full, the pressure so intense that your thighs shake and your cunt and ass both flutter helplessly around the thick shafts splitting you open.

Your head drops against Stack’s shoulder, mouth open and wet as the men work you between them.

The camera waits in front of you three, its reel turning steadily as your tits bounce and sway with every hard thrust, the soft flesh jiggling between your bodies.

“Look at the camera, honey,” Remmick urges, one hand sliding around your throat to lift your face. “Show all those perverts what happens when Daddy leaves his dumb girl home alone.”

You attempt to focus on the lens, though Stack drives up into you and your eyes cross instead. 

His mouth catches yours before another moan can escape, kissing you messily as Remmick pounds into you from behind. Their pace grows rougher, the careful rhythm giving way to something greedy once your body softens around them. The wet, filthy sound of both cocks working your holes is continuous—slick, rhythmic, the slap of Remmick’s hips against your ass and the soft, wet suction of your cunt and ass taking them both.

When Stack’s thumb finds your clit, you’re crying without noticing. 

Remmick wipes the tears from your cheek with two fingers and pushes them between your lips, letting you suck them clean as both men keep fucking you. The pressure on your clit is almost too much on top of the relentless stretch, every circle of his thumb making your walls clamp down harder around both of them.

“Too much?” Stack asks against your mouth.

You shake your head quickly, tightening your arms around his shoulders. “More.”

Remmick’s laugh breaks into a groan as he thrusts deep. “Empty-headed thing still wants more.”

They give it to you until your legs no longer hold you. Stack supports most of your weight from below, keeping your body upright so the camera captures your ruined expression, and Remmick grips your hips from behind with enough force to leave handprints beneath the yellow dress.

Your ass and cunt are both stretched wide and shiny, the lips of your pussy puffy around Stack’s shaft, the tight ring of your asshole gripping the base of Remmick’s cock so hard that the rim follows his cock outward whenever he withdraws before swallowing him again.

Words have become breathless pieces that never assemble properly. Your mouth rests open near Stack’s throat, saliva dampening his skin as both men work you toward another climax. 

Your cunt clamps around Stack as your ass tightens around Remmick, drawing broken sounds from them while your body shakes helplessly between their chests. 

The climax is deep and continuous, wave after wave of pure pressure that makes your vision white out and your voice crack into something wordless and raw.

Stack comes first, burying himself deep as warmth spills into your cunt. Remmick follows after several rough thrusts, holding you still while his release fills you from behind. The sensation of both men pulsing inside you sends another smaller climax shuddering through your already exhausted body, leaving your head tucked beneath Stack’s chin and your mouth moving around words that never become anything intelligible.

They remain joined long enough for the camera to capture the aftermath. 

Remmick withdraws carefully, watching cum begin to slide from your ass before Stack eases out from below. Your holes stay open for a moment, soft and used, the pink insides visible and glossy with their combined release before the muscle slowly begins to close. 

You sink onto the floor with your knees spread, dress bunched around your waist and their release dripping together over your swollen cunt and across Stack’s skin.

Stack reaches down and gathers some of the mess onto two fingers, bringing them toward your lips. You accept them with a vacant smile, sucking slowly until his fingers are clean.

Remmick moves behind the camera again, zooming in on your flushed face before following the trail of cum running down your thigh. “Give us one last line, darlin’,” he says, his breathing still uneven as he steadies the lens. “Tell everybody whether you enjoyed showin’ our traveler some Southern hospitality.”

You look directly into the camera, mascara smudged beneath your eyes and one ribbon hanging loose beside your cheek. Stack’s hat sits crooked on your head, placed there sometime after your second orgasm, and the smile spreading across your face is too pleased to belong to any respectable farmer’s daughter.

“His car can break down here anytime.”

Remmick’s laughter shakes the camera so badly that the final few seconds will be nearly unusable, though he insists on keeping them when the film is developed.

HONEY BELLE : FARMER’S DAUGHTER SHOWS A STRANGER SOME SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY !

First printing : sold out in three weeks.

Second printing : ordered before the first month ends.

Stack spends the next several days answering letters from men who want to know whether Honey Belle has any sisters.

Remmick keeps one copy of the final reel hidden in the converted washroom, tucked behind the developing chemicals where Stack will never think to look.

You catch him watching it alone less than a week later.

He doesn’t even pretend he was studying the camera angles.

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