#delaneysmarveloneshots!

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.”

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.”

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!

Going to shoot pool at the bar was Frank’s idea of a fun, relaxing fortieth birthday celebration. Peter tried to talk him into dinner, trying out the new reclining theatre seats at the cinema—literally anything other than having to surround himself with old, angry drunks who cared far too much about some numbered balls on a table. You didn’t have any qualms with it, though. It was just another excuse for you and your boyfriend, Peter, to get out of your stuffy apartment, still not quite over the way your brand new AC unit broke ten days into the New York summer heat. 

Plus, no one really had any complaints when they watched you bend over the pool table, aiming your pool stick with careless precision after one too many beers. Peter’s eyes were glued to your ass, desperate to find out the color of your panties every time your tight-fitting denim skirt lifted in the back. 

Frank did all he could to not let his gaze wander, forcing his attention to stray every time he saw your ass perked up in the air when you arched your back over the side of the table. But every time you turned to him, frowning up at him with your big, round eyes, after missing your shot, it took every ounce of his feeble self-restraint to not melt completely. 

He’d always had a soft spot for you, but seeing you like this—with a hazardous amount of liquid courage pumping through his system and your short skirt barely fitting over the curve of your ass—he couldn’t tame the twisted desires that penetrated his mind.

“Frank,” you whined innocently, growing irritated that you were losing, missing your target for the nth time.

The muscle in his jaw tensed at your pleading tone, but he forced a cheeky grin. “I told you, darling. You can’t beat me.”

He was positioned on a bar stool, one leg propped on the rod between the legs of the stool, and the other lazily spread. His hands were resting on top of his pool stick when you caught the slur in his cocky tone.

Your eyes rolled, gaze sluggishly moving to your boyfriend, who was taking up the stool on the other side of the table that split him and Frank, sipping on his beer and chuckling at you. 

Shoulders sagging, you glanced back at Frank. “Well, can you help me?”

He nearly choked on his drink. “Help you?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, frowning over at the pool table. “Help me aim better.” 

Frank’s gaze shot to Peter, not necessarily looking for approval, just curious to know what his reaction would be. Tilting back the rest of his beer, Peter just swirled the empty bottle.

“I’m gonna go get another,” he announced nonchalantly, placing his hand on the small of your back as he passed between you and Frank. He eyed you softly, like he always did. “You need one, angel?”

You shook your head. “No, I‘m good,” you told him, nodding over at your bottle on the table that was still full. 

He nodded, effortlessly kissing your temple with a quick peck before carrying on to the bar. 

For a moment, you just observed him. The way he had a lazy stride, like there was something weighing him down with each footstep. His hair was growing out, curling at the ends in a way that made you want to tangle your fingers in it, and the T-shirt he was wearing was a little too tight around his biceps, the fabric bunching over the ridges of his muscles.

When Peter left the area, shimmying through the thick crowd to the bar, your longing gaze danced back over to Frank. 

“So—” you rested your chin on the tip of your pool stick, smirking up at him “—you gonna help me, or what?”

Frank licked his lips, pushing himself off his stool with a huff. He took one last long gulp of his beer before closing the space between the two of you. 

“Let me see this thing,” he said, voice gruff and lazy from the number of beers he’d downed. You let him take the pool stick from you, your eyes glued on his profile as he studied it. “Your problem’s your focus. You can’t let your eyes off your target.” The front of your body grazed his, the sharp outline of his belt buckle scraping your stomach, as he repositioned himself. “Here. Let me show you.”

You chewed on your bottom lip to simmer the excitement that coursed through your veins when he offered his guidance. 

His hand slowly moved to your back, gently nudging for you to return to your position against the pool table, the same position that had become permanently engrained in the back of his dark mind. 

Holding the pool stick at your side, you slowly slid the tip of it onto the table, slipping it between your fingers. In order to get a better view of the path needed to hit the white ball onto your striped number seven, your top half lowered to the table. 

Frank was right there with you, a reluctant inch separating him from your arched back. 

A snicker spilled out of you, registering his hesitance, but he ignored it. His thoughts were too busy trying to strengthen his self-restraint. 

“You gotta lower the tip. If you hit the top of the ball, it’ll spin against you,” he explained, voice gruff and too close to your ear. 

You raised the hand that was balancing the hilt of the stick, your tongue grazing your bottom lip in concentration. “Like this?”

“Uh-uh,” he grunted, head shaking. 

Huffing in frustration, your muscles sagged. “Can you just show me? I don’t get what you mean.”

You knew exactly what he meant, but your body was writhing in nervous flutters with him close, but not close enough to satisfy the craving you had. 

He exhaled heavily, standing up and leaning down over top of you. Achingly slow, his hands slid down your arms to guide your grip in the correct position. “Just like—” his hips dug into your backside, hand forcing its way into the grip you had on the stick “—that.”

“Oh.” You stifled your smirk. 

The move you made next was careless. Beneath him, you arched your back further, ass sticking up to where his hips were. 

A ragged breath came out Frank, his jaw screwed tight enough to splinter. “Don’t do that,” he breathed, a fragile warning. 

You giggled, smirking at the power you suddenly had over him. He wasn’t making any move to shift away from you. The small motion you added with your hips, pressing harder against his growing bulge, was just a taunt. 

“I saw you watching me,” you told him, voice barely above a whisper. 

When his dark eyes flashed to yours, you blinked slowly. 

The way you batted your lashes was enough to break the mental chains holding him back. He didn’t respond. 

He wasn’t able to deny the way he’d been silently haunting the corner of the pool room, eyes transfixed on you each time you bent over the side of the table, imagining what it would feel like for him to bend you over in front of him, having his way with you.

You bought your lips up to his ear. “Don’t worry, Frank,” you whispered. “I won’t tell.”

Frank’s thoughts spiralled, frozen and glued to you despite how wrong it felt. 

You were his friend’s girlfriend. You were half your age. It was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, he repeated in his head like a pointless mantra. 

He shook his head, forcing himself out of his own head, and loosened the grip he had on you. With shaky steps, he slowly backed off of you. 

Your head followed him, the same smirk eating away at your full lips that he couldn’t take his eyes off of. 

“That’s fine.” You sighed, returning your attention to the pool stick and then down to your target. “I think I got it now.”

Your back was still arched in a way that felt illicit, the curve of your spine making a shape Frank knew would forever be stuck in his deepest, darkest thoughts. Your skirt had rode up from where he’d been pressed against you and when you sunk back, fixing your aim just before shooting, he saw it. The swollen mound between your legs that was clung with red, lacey panties, leaving little to the imagination. 

It was barely a glimpse, he thought he’d made it all up in his mind for a moment. 

When the tip of your chalked pool stick slammed into the white ball, you bit down on your lip with apprehension, hoping you wouldn’t miss again. 

Peter walked back through the crowd with a fresh beer when the striped number seven ball clattered into the corner pocket, his attention immediately falling on his overly-enthused girlfriend. 

Guilt immediately crashed through Frank’s chest. He could barely look at Peter, knowing he had just felt the outline of his girlfriend’s curvaceous figure on his body, felt the softness of your skin against his calloused hands, drowning in the worst thoughts about you. 

“You make it in?” Peter asked you with a proud look on his chiseled features. His tongue sunk into his jaw, coughing out a laugh.

You nodded, jumping up and down with excitement. “Frank helped me.”

Frank’s heart hammered in his chest when Peter’s gaze met his. The younger guy just smirked at him, though, raising a curious brow. “Good man.”

There wasn’t a good thing about himself, Frank thought. 

He suddenly had a desire to suppress the awful things he was feeling, knowing another Corona wouldn’t do the trick. 

He huffed and told you and Peter, “I’m gonna get a drink,” before exiting the pool room in quick strides. 

But you caught the way he adjusted his hardened length when his back turned to the two of you.

When Frank eventually returned to the pool room, nursing an old fashioned and grieving his shredded dignity, Peter was sitting back on his stool, legs spread, peering over at Frank while sipping his beer with his arm slung around you from your standing position next to him. 

You tilted your head up at your boyfriend, whispering something Frank couldn’t make out from his distance. It wasn’t until he returned to his side of the bar table, setting his drink down and stuffing his wadded dollar bills into his wallet from paying the bartender, that he heard your small voice tell Peter, “he wants it, trust me.”

Frank’s eyes twitched, curious gaze flashing up to you and Peter, whose lips were smirking around the rim of his glass beer bottle at whatever his girlfriend was telling him. 

You inched away from Peter so you could see his face better. Your brows raised inquisitively, searching for approval. He tilted his chin, nodding with a soft smile. 

Peter slid off his stool, adjusting his grip on his pool stick before going over to the table. He was aiming for the solid number two, back turned to you and Frank, when Frank slid back on his stool with uncertainty running through his thoughts. 

Frank understood something had shifted while he’d been at the bar, but he just couldn’t figure out what it was. 

You made your way around the table cautiously, slowly stepping closer to Frank. 

When those big, round, puppy dog eyes of yours flashed up to him again, his chest heaved. It wasn’t until your hands fell on his knees—slowly crawling their way up his thick, muscular, jean-clad thighs—that he felt the closest he’d ever been to a cardiac arrest. 

“Wha—What are you doin’?” Frank asked, leaning as far back in his seat that he could, as if that would somehow mark him safe from the way he craved your wondrous touch. 

You grinned up at him, finger nails digging into the impenetrable muscle of his thigh. “It’s okay, Frank. Peter doesn’t mind.”

His brows stitched together. “The hell you mean?”

Ignoring his confusion, you slid your petite frame between his spread legs, hands moving from the tops of his thighs to his rock-hard abdomen, feeling the outline of his rigid, toned stomach beneath his T-shirt. 

With your eyes exploring along with your touch, you could feel his shaky nerves, the invisible currents of electricity coursing the warmth of his skin. 

“Do you like this?” you whisper, eyes flicking up to his dark, dilated pupils. “You like me touching you?”

Your name spilled from his lips, caught somewhere between a plea and a warning. 

He should have backed off, politely told you that you were taking it too far, warned you of how much chaos could ensue because of your reckless actions. But he didn’t. Because he did like it. He liked it so much, he exhaled through gritted teeth when your hand snaked up his chest further, your head tilting so your nose brushed his sharp jaw, lips grazing the smooth skin of his neck.

“This isn’t right,” he managed to say, resisting the urge to grab your waist and bring you closer to him. 

You pulled away just enough to look at him. “If it feels good, it can’t be wrong, Frank.”

Your small hands moved to his much larger ones that were resting at his side, guiding them to where you knew he wanted them to be. One placed on your waist, the other on your chest. 

You maintained eye contact with him the whole time as his warm palm pressed against the exposed skin of your chest, right above the hem of your tank-top. 

“Do you feel that?” you asked, hoping he could feel the rushing rate of your heart—an example of how badly you wanted him. 

He brought his bottom lip between his teeth, exhaling through his nose. His hand subconsciously tightened around your waist, sinking deeper into your skin. 

“Yeah,” he muttered just as some newfound sense of bravery overcame him. 

He moved the hand that was pressed to your chest, gripping yours and moving it to the bulge forming in his suddenly too-tight jeans. 

He cocked a brow. “Do you feel that?”

Your eyes dropped to his lap splayed before you, hand moving along the outline of his hardened dick. A curious moan vibrated in your throat, sizing him up. 

There was always something about Frank that enticed you. Always so closed-off and angry with the world. But the more time you spent with him—thanks to his friendship with Peter—you saw there was much more to him than that. 

His guarded walls broke slowly. It took him time to realize you weren’t a threat. You often helped stitch up his cuts when you found yourself at his warehouse by the harbor with Peter, knowing all too well how the two of them avoided hospitals like the plague. His lifestyle would scare most people, but it didn’t phase you. If anything, it just worried you the same way it did with Peter. The threat of something going wrong, something hurting either one of them, kept you up at night. 

It wasn’t until a couple months ago that something changed. Frank no longer looked at you as Peter’s little girlfriend, a risk personified, that knew too much about them. Instead, he started seeing you for what you were. Tough, quick-witted, a little too reckless for your own good. Fucking gorgeous.

He would pretend not to be phased when he would barge into your shared apartment with Peter, finding you on the couch in nothing but a big T-shirt and shorts that were short enough to be classified as panties. When you would purposefully brush your ass against him when shimming past him in the slim hall of his kitchen, he’d have to teach himself how to breathe again. 

The night he accidentally walked in on you getting out of the shower when Peter told him the bathroom was free, not knowing, he nearly lost himself. The sight of your naked body, your curves perfectly shaped before him, and the way you didn’t immediately rush to grab your towel and scream at him to get out. All of it resided in the back of his mind. 

He would think about you often, especially at night when he was restless and tossing back and forth in bed. Sometimes, at a weak point, he’d touch himself to the thought of you. Thinking of what you’d look like with your hands on him. 

It was all wrong, though, he knew that. 

He would never do anything to purposefully hurt Peter, despite their constant bickering and bullshit. You belonged to Peter, not him. But a creative imagination didn’t harm anyone. 

However, now that he had you in front of him, palming his dick in a way that he never could have imagined in his wildest dreams, his resilience was wavering. 

Peter’s solid number two ball fell into the pocket with what felt like an ear-piercing crash. It really wasn’t anything but a soft thud, but it felt like sirens going off in the back of Frank’s mind. 

Straightening his posture, Peter’s eyes moved to where you were standing between Frank’s legs. Something in the air thickens, no one making any move to stop what was happening, but no one urging it on either. 

Your hand grips his bulge, lips pursed with needy anticipation. “Do you wanna come back to the apartment with us?”

Frank’s dick twitched beneath your touch. “Us?”

The realization dawned on him the minute his dark eyes trailed over to Peter, who was watching the two of you with an odd fixation. One hand was propped on the edge of the pool table, shouldering his weight, while a faint smirk spread on his lips.

“He likes it,” you whispered to Frank, noticing his apprehension.

That kinky bastard, Frank thought. Of course.

Frank’s jaw muscle ticked when he looked back down at you, riddled with confusion but suddenly incredibly intrigued. “What exactly is it that he likes, darling?”

With your back still turned to Peter, you carefully pull yourself up on your tip-toes, lips moving to the side of Frank’s neck. Before pressing a sloppy kiss on the skin, you breathe out a quick, “This.” Your hand continues working his erection, desperately wanting him to get over his hesitation and understand your need for him. For both of them.

Your free hand takes his, bringing it down to the hem of your skirt between the two of you. You push his big hand under the denim fabric, telling him exactly where you wanted him without having to utter a word.

The second his fingers grazed the outline of your warmth, a shudder rolled through your body. The soft movement—the sharp breath against his skin—caused a barely audible grunt to escape his tight throat. 

He took his time, lowering his fingers agonizingly slow, until they were met with the damp, puddled patch of your arousal between your quivering thighs. It was a miracle you were still standing, completely losing your strength with his touch. 

A shallow breath came from his parted lips when he allowed himself to rub a gentle circle around the wetness, wanting so badly to know what you felt like beneath your drenched panties.

For a moment, he forgot Peter was still standing a few feet away from the two of you. He forgot the two of you were at a bar. He forgot it was his turn at the table. He forgot his own fucking name. He forgot everything. 

The only thing he could think of was the feeling of you this close to him, the delicate shape of your folds beneath your panties, the firm grip you had on his dick.

“Come on,” you whispered, pulling away from him slightly. You were reaching your breaking point. Your desire to feel more—to have more—was eating you alive. “Come with us.”

Frank’s lethargic vision shot to Peter, who made slow strides over to the two of you. Completely unphased by what was unfolding before him, he set his pool stick against the wall with the row of others and picked up his beer off the table.

Peter took a swig of it, then another, and looked over at Frank. “Don’t be a pussy, Frank.”

“Yeah, Frank—” you drawled, backing away from him with a cheeky grin, “—don’t be a pussy.” It sounded like a teasing jest, but it was pure desperation in your voice. 

Earning a chuckle from Peter, who reached out to grab your hand and drag you towards him, you fell into his grasp like it was second nature. His arm held you in, wrapped around your waist as the both of you studied Frank.

Frank dragged a hand down his face, trying to think about how he got himself in this position. 

“This is so fucked up.” His eyes darted over at Peter. “You’re okay with this shit?” he asked, still reeling in disbelief.

Peter tilted his head with a taunting expression on his face. “You mean am I okay with you touching my girlfriend like that?” His voice was sharp, almost accusing, but you knew he was messing with Frank. He was always messing with Frank. As soon as Frank’s expression hardened, your boyfriend coughed out a laugh. “Yes, Frank. I’m okay with it.”

Still simmering in Frank’s silence, your boyfriend pulled his wallet out of his pocket without disengaging the way he was holding you. “Don’t leave her hanging, man.”

Your index finger’s nail was between your teeth, biting down with a sloppy little grin on your face when Frank raked you over once more with his dark eyes. 

For a long moment, the two of you just stared at each other. You knew Frank was still trying to figure out if the two of you were pulling some evil little trick on him, but the way your heart was thumping with enthusiastic anticipation, you didn’t care.

All you wanted was for him to agree, so the three of you could go home and you could find some relief from the agonizing desperation pooling between your legs. 

It took five minutes, if that, for Peter to close out his tab and for Frank to get his shit together long enough to leave the bar. 

By the time the three of you walked out into the warm, mid-August night air, you debated having one of them hail a taxi so you could get back home quicker. But Frank and Peter had a weird thing with public transportation. They didn’t trust anyone, let alone some potentially ill-intented taxi driver. 

Some nights, when the streets were quiet and there was no one around to question it, Peter would swing you home with his organic web, laughing every time you burrowed your head into the crook of his neck or screamed when he got a little too fast with it. 

You wondered what Frank did to get places quickly. He had some big, armored truck once, but Peter told you he wrecked that during some eventful run-in with a “bad guy.” His words, of course.

Walking home was seemingly Peter’s motive this evening. One of his arms was lazily draped over your shoulder, his other hand was stuffed in the front pocket of his jeans. 

Frank walked a few steps behind you, matching your pace with precision.

You noticed him do that a lot. Whenever the three of you would walk the streets, Peter was always at your side, and Frank was always right behind you. 

Initially, you assumed it was his way of keeping you safe. It definitely was, but now you found yourself wondering if he just wanted to watch the way your ass shook when you walked. 

Frank had lit a cigarette from his crushed pack of Marlboro reds. He took a long drag, blowing a cloud of smoke that floated between you and Peter, causing your boyfriend to snap his head around with an annoyed expression. 

“Are you smoking?” he gaped, face scrunched. 

The older man shrugged, flicking ash on the concrete mid-stride.

Peter scoffed. “Since when do you smoke?” 

“Only do it in high-stress situations,” Frank told him with a comically calm tone.

You craned your neck to look back at him, laughing. “Awe, are you stressed, Frankie?” Your bottom lip poked out just to tease him, the streetlamp reflecting off your shiny lipgloss. 

Frank wanted to taste it. “A bit,” he grumbled. 

You slowly slipped yourself out of Peter’s grasp, causing both men to halt in their tracks. They always stayed extremely close when out in public. You never really thought about anything with them. What could possibly go wrong when New York’s beloved Spider-man and the man the news called The Punisher were at your side?

Turning on your heels, you reached out and grabbed Frank’s belt buckle. He was so tall compared to you, it was right within your reach. You intended to pull him into you, but he was completely immovable, the action only caused you to stumble forwards into him. 

Chuckling at your own actions, you peered up at Frank. “You don’t need to be stressed.”

“Yeah?” he tilted his head down at you, absolutely at a loss of willpower with you on him. “Why’s that?”

“Because—” laughter spilled out of you “—we’re gonna have so much fun.”

He blew out a cloud of smoke, angling it away from your face, and reeled.

He wanted to be hesitant. Hesitance would be a completely logical feeling. It would be entirely normal for him to feel a bit of apprehension about the plan you’d concocted to have them both, given that wasn’t something Frank had ever partook in.

But he wasn’t hesitant. Not anymore, at least.

Beyond his confusion regarding what exactly it was that he was getting himself into, it was complete and utter lust that coursed through him. Lust for you. 

He wanted you in all the ways he’d imagine when he was laying in bed at night, fucking himself with his own hand, or in the shower with his forehead pressed to the tile, picturing it was your pretty, glossy lips around his cock.

Peter could sense it. He wasn’t fucking stupid—he saw the way Frank always looked at you, like he wanted to devour you. He had just been waiting for it to all come to a head. 

He called it sharing. Sounded innocent and less vulgar that way. He liked sharing you, knowing it was him that you always chose. It was him that you were completely devoted to—always would be. 

You were hesitant when he’d talked about it one day, asking him, “Isn’t that cheating?” He’d laughed at you and countered with, “Not if I’m giving it to you, too, angel.”

There was some deep, dark part of him that sprung to life when you were being fucked by someone else, trembling with pleasure, and the only name you moaned was his. Because you were his.

Walking up the stairs to your apartment because the elevator was under maintenance for the third time this month, felt like a chore. But your footsteps were eager.

Both men were on your trail as you skipped up the echoing stairwell, their attention trained on the view they had up your skirt. 

“The red ones, angel?” Peter joked, playfully lifting the back of your skirt. “Must be a special occasion.”

Frank’s breath hitched in his throat at the sight, earning a taunting laugh from your boyfriend. Peter turned to the man next to him, smirking devilishly just as you swatted his hand away.

“You like what you see, old man?” Peter asked, nudging Frank’s side.

You briefly glanced back at him, curious to what his answer would be. He just rolled his eyes. 

“Playing hard to get, Frankie?” you probed, finally reaching your floor. 

He tilted his chin up, towering over you. “Never that, darling.”

Peter pulled the stairwell door wide and your gaze hung on Frank as you backed into the hallway. 

There wasn’t a single light on in the apartment when the three of you walked through. It was unbearably hot, very little airflow in the small place due to the broken AC failing to combat the summer heat. You kicked off your shoes, inching further into the apartment to flip on the lamp by the couch. 

Peter tossed his keys on the kitchen counter, raking a hand through his dark waves.

Frank had been inside your apartment countless times, but, for some reason, it all felt new to him. The colors on the thrifted rug in the living room seemed brighter, the humming of the refrigerator felt louder, and the smell was visceral. It smelled like the candle you always kept burning, the same one you’d bought Frank to keep at his place after stating it smelled “like death” one time.

But over all the vibrance, sounds, and smells, was the tension brewing. It was sharp enough to cut, weighing on your shoulders like a tangible object.

Peter rounded the couch, falling back on the center cushion. 

A second passed of more silence before he cocked his head up at Frank. He furrowed his brows. “You just gonna stand there like some creep?”

Frank rolled his eyes. “The fuck you want me to do, Pete? I just walked in the door.”

Your boyfriend shifted on the couch, finding a more comfortable view of you where you were standing in the center of the living room.

He tilted his head, ushering Frank to come closer. “Kiss her.”

Peter was a very matter-of-fact person. Usually, Frank was, too. There was a zero tolerance policy regarding bullshit in their friendship. 

But, for a moment, Frank genuinely thought Peter was bullshitting. 

“You just gonna watch, or some shit?” Frank asked him, unsure.

Your boyfriend’s head lulled back, laughter spilling out of him. “You think I’m just gonna sit back and watch you fuck my girl, like some cuck?”

Frank shrugged. “I don’t know what your freaky ass is into.”

The back and forth between the two of them was becoming unbearable. Your core was aching with an insatiable need. All the talk was causing you to fluster, growing desperate and needy.

It seemed Frank felt the same. In three quick strides, he was right up against you, peering down at you from his height.

“You want me to kiss you?” he asked you.

Your lips curled. “Amongst other things.”

It was like lightning. That was what it felt like when his lips crashed onto yours. It was soft at first, a slow, deep peck. He pulled away for half a second, studying your face, before colliding back with you. 

The second time his lips met yours, there was a newfound sense of hunger in his movements. 

His lips parted, tongue running along your lips, begging to get through so he could taste you. When you let him in, your tongues tangled around each other's. teeth grazing. 

It was a desperate kiss, sloppy and wet, but it had you completely folding. 

The minute your fruit-flavoured lipgloss met Frank’s tastebuds, he was lost. He was lost in the kiss, lost in you. God, he wanted to be in you. 

Your arms draped his shoulders, interlocking around his neck to force him down, keeping him as close to you as possible. His hands wandered about your body, reaching around to grip your ass. 

He pulled your skirt up without a thought, hands gripping the flesh of your ass with a throaty grunt. The skin was so soft and plump in his touch, he felt a shudder roll through his body.

His hands reached down to your thighs, picking you up off the floor with such effortless ease. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you to the couch without breaking the kiss. 

Peter’s jaw was taut with tension, watching every move you made with such precision, it was borderline obsession.

He stood up, giving Frank the space to lay you down on the cushions. But your legs were still so tightly bound around him, it forced him down on top of you. 

You reached down to the hem of his shirt, silently begging him to remove it. 

In response, he broke the kiss, standing up off the couch to shrug it off, while you situated yourself on the couch. 

“You, too,” you said to Peter between shaky breaths, gesturing to his shirt.

Your boyfriend tore off his T-shirt in one swift motion, kneeling down to crawl on top of you the same way Frank had. 

Propping himself up with hands next to your head, he peered down at you and smirked. “You, too, angel.”

You rolled your eyes at his show. “You do it.”

Peter obliged, digging his fingers under the hem of your tank-top and lifting it over your head, leaving your top half completely exposed. You never wore a bra, especially when it was as hot as it was outside. 

Neither of the two men admiring the way your perky tits sat seemed to have any qualms about it. 

You took a second to eye the two of them, reeling over their tanned, muscular chests. Your brain lapsed over the sight of the hair trailing down Frank’s prominent V-line. You wanted so badly to see what he had under his pants. Analyzing his hardened bulge, your heartrate quickened. 

Both of them stood over you on the couch, shirtless and writhing in anticipation. 

Peter unbuttoned his jeans first, prompting Frank to follow suit. 

Frank thought undressing himself next to Peter would have been more uncomfortable. But neither of them thought twice about it, coming to the joint understanding that this wasn’t about them. It was about you. 

“Come here, angel,” Peter mumbled to you.

You complied, sitting up on the couch, and folding your legs beneath yourself. 

Sitting back on your calves, you watched with eagerness as Peter stepped out of his boxers. His painfully hard dick slapped his lower stomach during the movement, causing a puddle of desire in your needy center. 

He took a step closer until his shins met the couch, his cock right in front of your face. Your hands trailed up his bare legs until they reached his length, stroking it once in your hand before bringing your tongue to the hilt, giving it one, long lick up to the tip. 

“Yeah, that’s good,” Peter moaned, gathering your hair in his fist. “Show Frank how good you can suck my dick, angel.” 

The deepness of his voice rattled your nerves as you took him in your mouth. Your throat tightened around his tip, a gag tearing from your throat as you tried to take as much of him as possible. You continued bobbing your head, saliva dripping down your chin. What you couldn’t fit in your mouth, you worked in a matching rhythm with your sticky, wet hand. 

Peter’s eyes were stuck on you, watching your eyes water when he pulled your hair and pumped himself in your mouth. His jaw went slack, breathing ragged at the absolute pleasure you were giving him. 

“Fuck…” he groaned, pulling your hair harder, just like he knew you wanted him to. 

You pulled away from him, panting heavily, but still working him with your hand. Swallowing hard, your eyes shifted to Frank who was completely lost in the performance you were giving. 

Peter laughed, but it came out more like a moan. “Your turn, old man.”

Frank moved closer to the couch, his erection begging to break free of his tight-fitting boxers. You continued working Peter with one hand while the other worked to get Frank undressed.

He noticed your intent, pushing them off until they fell at his ankles. When his dick finally broke free, a deep moan tore from his throat. 

Your breath hitched in your throat at the sight of it. 

Peter had a big dick, there was no denying that, but Frank’s was a devious competitor. It was girthy in a way that had you concerned, but just as formidable in length. 

You wasted no more time. You wanted to feel him in your mouth. Really, you wanted to see if you could fit him in your mouth. 

Peter pulled away from your grasp around his saturated cock, giving you the ability to focus completely on Frank.

He watched you try to take Frank in his entirety, gagging when you neared the base of him. His eyes fixed on the way your throat tightened, knowing exactly how it felt when you did that. 

Frank’s fingers ran coursed through your tangled mess of hair, gathering it all up in a fist so he could see your face while you choked on his dick.

It was the most perfect thing he'd ever seen. 

The thought dawned on him suddenly—the reason why Peter always called you his angel. That was what you were. Some heaven-sent creature. 

Your lips suctioned around his girthy shaft, gripping onto his hips as he pumped himself in your mouth. Your eyes fluttered closed, tongue running circles around his tip each time you could reach it. 

“Holy… fuck…” Frank panted, tugging on your hair.

His teeth chattered, his nervous system pumping with adrenaline and something akin to pure euphoria. 

He wasn’t going to last long with your mouth around him, he knew that. He had dreamt of this moment for so long, he could barely trust that this was his true reality. He must have been dreaming, he’d thought.

He felt his release coming, it was so fast, he pulled out of your mouth with a pop and drew in a sharp wince. He had to halt his breathing for the longest moment, chest caved, in order to hold himself back from cumming all over you. 

You brought the back of your hand to your mouth, wiping the mess you’d become away. 

“Lay down, angel,” Peter said, leading you to slip off your knees and situate yourself on the couch, your back flush with the soft cushions. 

He climbed onto the couch at your feet, dick throbbing with desperation. Your eyes noticed the bead of pre-cum at his pink tip, wanting so desperately to lick it up. 

His hands moved to the waist band of your denim skirt, undoing the button and pulling the zipper down. “Lift up,” he instructed. 

Your hips bucked, giving him the space he needed to pull your skirt down. He brought your panties with it, slipping both off in one quick stride and discarding them on the living room floor. 

“Mm,” Peter sounded, gaze fixed on your exposed pussy. “Look at how wet we got her, Frank.” 

You were growing irritable. “Please touch me,” you pleaded, hands wandering to your tits, massaging the plump muscle and pinching your pebbled nipples. “Please.”

Peter’s fingers trailed your folds, smirking down at just how drenched they became from your arousal. It was pitiful, really, the way you were squirming against the couch, panting and quivering under his touch. 

He noticed it. Hell, he could smell it. 

Ever since his arachnid DNA had started betraying him, attempting to dominate his human form, his senses had been heightened. In situations like this, it became worse. He could hear your heart beat like it was his own, make out the miniscule beads of sweat running down your temple, and smell your arousal. The sweet, salty scent had him folding under your intoxicating pleas. 

His fingers entered you unannounced. He gave your walls time to adjust around them, grunting at the wet sounds that filled the quiet room as your needy flesh suctioned him in. 

Frank moved to the couch, positioning himself on his knees above your head.

“Fuck, angel,” Peter moaned, pumping his fingers in and out of you. 

Your head tilted back, back arching off the couch at the all-consuming pleasure. Your hand reached up to Frank’s dick without thinking. You just needed to do something with your hands. 

He sat up on his knees, watching the faces you made as Peter fucked you with his fingers and the way you stroked his dick. 

“Yeah. Just like that, baby,” Frank muttered, gripping the back of the couch. “God, yes. Just… like that.”

Peter used one hand to continue pumping you, adding two fingers to your tight, drenched entrance. With the other, his thumb moved in gentle circles over your swollen clit. 

The overstimulation was too much. You felt your vision blurring, body twitching. Your legs clenched around Peter’s hand. 

“Uh-uh,” Peter warned. He moved his hand from your clit for less than a second, just long enough to drape one of your legs over his broad shoulder. “Keep those legs open for me.”

Your head dug into the couch cushion, your strokes on Frank’s cock becoming sloppy. 

“Oh, God,” you cried out, nails digging into the fabric of the couch. “I’m–I’m gonna—”

“Good girl,” Peter coaxed, not slowing his rhythm. “Cum for me. Show Frank how good you feel.”

His words were the last piece you needed to hit your release. Your jaw went slack, ragged pants escaping you. Your hips bucked against Peter’s hand as your orgasm flushed out of you. 

“Fuck—you look so good like that,” Frank mumbled, brows pinched together, teeth chewing at his bottom lip, as he watched you.

“So do you,” you chuckled, still quivering from your high that you were already to chase again. 

Peter pulled his fingers out of you slowly, immediately bringing them to his mouth. Watching him suck on your arousal like that was the most attractive thing you’d ever seen. You gasped at the sight.

“Fuck, Frank—” Peter sucked his finger once more “—you gotta taste her, man.”

Frank chuckled. “I got a better idea.” He sat back on his knees. “Turn my way, baby.”

Every muscle in your body felt like jelly. It was so soon after your orgasm, everything that touched your skin—the fabric of the couch, your hair falling down your back, Frank’s hands gripping your thigh—was enough to send you over the edge.

Turned around on the couch, Frank’s fingers dug into the skin of your exposed hips. With one swift movement, he pulled you closer to him. 

You didn’t give a second to adjust himself before your hand reached out and grabbed his throbbing cock as soon as you were close enough to do so. You aligned the tip of him to your quivering entrance. 

The second his sensitive tip touched the wetness of your folds, he sucked in a sharp breath.

“Let me see that mouth, angel,” Peter said, sitting up on his knees behind you. 

Your head fell back on the couch, chin tilting until his tip aligned with your swollen lips. You welcomed the way he slid through, immediately suctioning around him. You pumped the rest of him with one hand, the other gripped the couch. 

“Yeah, just like that,” he grunted.

Frank held your hips up, thrusting into you once. The movement tore a moan from your stuffed throat. 

“Fuck—You feel so good,” Frank stammered, reeling in the way your tight walls clung to him.

He pulled away slowly, but not entirely. He had just the tip in when he pounded into you again, reeling in the way you cried out in pleasure against Peter’s dick when he did it.

Peter watched the way Frank thrusted into you repeatedly. He couldn’t get enough of the way your body shook, squirming all over the place, with your mouth full of him. 

Your tits bounced the harder Frank pounded into you, each movement bringing you closer and closer to that high you so desperately wanted to reach again. You could tell he was there, too. You felt the way his thick length twitched inside of you. His head was lulled back, eyes screwed shut as he held you against him, angling and fucking you the exact way he always wanted to. 

You wanted so desperately to be able to see him. You wanted to see the way his chiseled chest was moving up and down with quick pants every time you clenched around his cock. You wanted to see the way he admired your swollen cunt every time he looked down, witnessing the wreckage he was giving you. 

“Faster,” Peter said, his tone gruff and eager from the way you were sucking him.

Frank’s eyes shot up to him. He didn’t stop his motions inside you when he tilted his head. “What?”

“Fuck her faster—rougher. It’s what she likes.”

You pulled your mouth off Peter’s dick, working him with your hand so you could finally get a glimpse of Frank. His eyes narrowed on your boyfriend, annoyed more than anything. 

“Come here,” Frank ordered, crooking his finger. 

He remained inside you as you sat up further on the couch. He reached out, grabbing you by the throat. It wasn’t a cruel grab. It was the most delicate way you’d ever been touched. You wanted it harder, though. 

The smirk that appeared on your mess of a face was a devilish one. 

Frank sat back on his calves, bringing you to straddle him with his hand still clung to your throat. 

“You like that?” Frank probed, squinting up at you as you grinded your hips. He was so deep inside you, you could feel the exact spot he was hitting in your core. “You like when I choke you like that?”

You nodded, biting down on your lip as your hips moved in circular motions on top of him. The friction it brought to your clit had you moaning incoherently, eyes rolling back in your head as squirmed in fast, desperate motions on top of him. 

“Say it. Say you like this shit,” Frank grunted through his gritted teeth, barely holding on.

Your head lulled back, eyes fluttering closed. “I like it, I lo—”

A gasp tore from your throat when his hands suddenly moved to your hips, lifting you and slamming you down on him unforgivingly. He had a desperate, hungry look on his face. 

“Holy… fucking… shit,” you panted, falling back on the couch, causing your back to arch and hips rise above your head level.

All of the blood was rushing to your head as he pounded into you relentlessly. 

He knew that Peter knew you better than anyone. Peter knew exactly what you liked, how you liked it, and where you liked it at. That was fine. 

Frank was just determined to give you more to like. 

He wanted to fuck you in a way that you were going to beg Peter to mimic the next time he had you all to himself. He wanted you to not be able to cum again without remembering the way he had you splayed out in front of him, becoming a flexible mess with his cock buried so deep inside you, it almost hurt. 

“Oh, fuck,” you moaned again the second Frank’s fingers started working on your clit. “Yes, Frank. Just like that—Please.”

The moment Frank’s name slipped off your tongue, Peter sprung off the couch. 

“My turn,” he said, but it came out aggressive. 

Frank slowed inside of you. Part of him wanted to keep going. He wanted to be the one to make you cum all over his dick, but he knew better than to fuck with Peter like that—not when it came to you, even if his thoughts contradicted him.

When Frank slid out of you, you winced. The sudden emptiness was agonizing. 

Your eyes fluttered up to Frank’s, immediately seeing the way his features hardened when Peter picked you up, twisting you around so that your back was flush with his. 

Peter sat on the couch the same place he’d been before, allowing you to face Frank as he slowly inserted his pulsating length inside you from behind. 

You knew what he was doing. You knew he wanted Frank to see him fuck you in all the ways he knew you liked. Peter wanted Frank to see you come apart for him, forcing Frank to remember who you belonged to when it was all said and done.

Peter’s fist clenched around your hair, pulling you flush to him as he pounded in you with just the right kind of force. Your head fell back on his shoulder, back arched in a deviously seductive way. Your ass slapped against his waist everytime he thrusted deep inside of you, incoherent and muffled cries of pleasure spewing out of you the quicker he got. 

Frank sat back on the couch, legs spread before him.

With a great deal of effort, you lifted your head off of your boyfriend’s shoulder so that you could see Frank, gasping when your eyes immediately met his. 

He wasn’t watching the way Peter was fucking you—he wasn’t entertained by the way your tits were bouncing, or the way your ass was clapping against his friend’s skin. He was entertained by you. 

Your eyes honed in on him. Peter’s moans echoed behind you, but you couldn’t look away from the way Frank’s hand moved to his still-saturated cock, stroking himself and looking at you in a way that made you want to crawl on top of him. 

His nostrils flared, chest rising and falling as he pumped himself at a relentless pace. 

You kept your attention on him as your hand wandered to your clit, moving in quick motions over the swollen flesh. 

His stare was so intense, it felt like he was seeing through you. Combined with the stimulation on your clit and the way Peter was pounding into you, your release came quick. It was an entirely new high, watching the way Frank’s face scrunched as yours did, his fingers digging into the back of the couch as his cum squirted from the tip of his throbbing, slick-sounding cock.

You were breathless, permanently engraving the sight in your memory.

“Fuck, yes,” Peter moaned. Sitting back further on the couch and letting you ride him with your back still turned to him. His hand collided with your ass, drawing a breathy moan from your throat. “Doing so good, angel.”

Even with his release littering his flexed stomach, Frank’s eyes stayed on you. It was just taunting at that point. 

Peter sat up on his knees, forcing you down on the couch in an attempt to drive his dick further inside you. You kept yourself up on your arms, realizing you’d fallen right over Frank’s semi-hard dick. 

His tongue ran along his top row of teeth, wondering what Peter’s little angel was going to do next. 

Arching your back, giving your boyfriend the perfect angle to thrust into you with vicious momentum, you bowed your head dangerously close to the small puddles of Frank’s white cum.

When your tongue shot out, lapping up the salty remnants of his release, he drew in a sharp, piercing breath. 

“Oh, shit…” he drawled, watching you lick up and swallow his seed. 

Peter gripped your hips, nails digging into your skin as his thrusts became sloppy and untimed. 

He knew what you were doing. There wasn’t a thing you did that Peter didn’t catch.

“Come here,” he grunted, pulling your hair and forcing your back to collide with his rigid front again. 

He was getting pissed off, you knew that. 

You liked that.

Your head fell back on his shoulder again, his lips pressing to your flushed ear. “You’re mine,” he hissed, thrusts becoming just cruel. 

A smirk spread on your face.

“Tell him,” Peter demanded, bringing his hand to your throat and squeezing. “Tell him who you belong to.”

“You,” you managed to get out despite Peter’s grip threatening your airways. “I… belong to… you.”

He gripped tighter. “Louder.”

“I belong… to… you,” you said, nearly shouting as your vision spotted and walls clenched around him.

“Mm,” Peter moaned in your ear. “You gonna cum for me again, aren’t you, angel?”

You couldn’t manage a response, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. 

Peter laughed. “Watch her, Frank—I know you want to,” he taunted. “Watch her cum all over my dick.”

Frank did, of course. But he wasn’t worried about whose dick she was coming on. In that creative imagination of his, it was his dick inside you. Now that he knew what it felt like, there wasn’t anything holding him back.

A pleasured cry spilled from your lips, your body convulsing in Peter’s grasp. 

“Good girl,” he cooed, never once relenting. “You want me to fill you up now, angel?”

You nodded, every nerve in your body frazzled. “Please.”

Peter’s head dug into the crook of your neck, his teeth biting down on the delicate skin there in an attempt to hold back the guttural screams threatening to depart from him. It was an absolute miracle he had lasted this long inside you. He wanted to finish the second he entered you, but he wanted Frank to sit and watch him work you in all the ways he wanted.

Sharing was a kind way of putting it, he thought back. It wasn’t exactly sharing, what he was doing. He just wanted to show you off. He wanted the third person in the room with the two of you to watch how he took control of you, making you become completely undone for him. He wanted them to see what he could do to you—the ways he could fuck you, the pleasure he could give you. 

He wanted to watch them try, just like he had let Frank try. Then, he wanted them to watch him do it even better.

His teeth sunk in deeper as he pounded in you one last time before his warmth spread inside you. 

You felt the exact moment he came. The feeling was almost as good as your own release. 

He rode out his high, his cock twitching inside of you until there was nothing more he could release inside you. 

When he pulled out of you with a squelching sound, his gaze fixed on the sight of his cum leaking out of you. 

“God, I love that shit,” he mumbled. 

He slowly fell back on his calves, repositioning himself to where you could lay back against him, giving you time to collect yourself before he helped clean you up.

Your gaze immediately flashed to Frank when you rested back against Peter’s chest, squeezing your thighs together to keep from leaking all over the couch.

Frank was sprawled on the couch, one leg hanging off the edge and the other bent up, spread out shamelessly before the two of you. 

“You okay, Frank?” Peter asked, his tone returning to his usual, calm self. 

Frank coughed out a laugh and shook his head. 

“What?” Peter countered, smirking. “That not a good enough birthday present for you?”

“A card will do good next year,” Frank jested, combing a hand through his dark hair.

Peter hummed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Your older brother hated it when you went out with friends. Not because he wanted to control you. God, that would be fucking impossible. No, he hated it because it was him you’d started to call after one, too-many vodka cranberries, slurring your speech, and begging him to come get you. 

For some inexplicable reason, though, Frank never once told you no. In fact, the moment his phone rang on Saturday night, he didn’t even bother himself with the pleasantries. He answered, asked what local haunt you were at this weekend, paused for a few moments to think how long it would take him to get there, and then told you he’d be there in ten minutes. But you knew it would be more like five, especially if he was driving.

Waiting outside the club, the muggy mid-August air barely affected you. Your internal temperature was already boiling from drinking more than you told yourself you would and dancing to whatever the mediocre DJ had been spinning all night. Leaning against the cold brick exterior, you dug into your purse, pulling out a pack of crushed Marlboro reds, the ones Frank couldn’t stand the smell of. 

Taking your lighter to the end, your sloppy brain welcomed the smoke, taking one long drag and then exhaling it slowly into the night air. 

Just as you tossed out your cigarette bud, stomping it out with the toe of your heel, a cherry-red Dodge Challenger came to a rolling halt on the side of the busy street that the nightclub was located on. Immediate recognition washed over you. 

You took four stumbling strides over to the shiny, reflective vehicle just as the passenger window rolled down. For a brief moment, you convinced yourself you were hallucinating, much more intoxicated than you’d originally thought. 

That was the only way you could make sense of the dark-haired guy taking up the passenger seat next to Frank. 

“You just gonna stand there?” your older brother asked, noticing the way you faltered under the passenger’s dominating gaze. 

It had been weeks—no, months—since you last saw Peter Parker. But seeing him now, it felt like no time had passed at all. His hair had grown out a bit, curling at the root, and he had a fresh bruise on his cheekbone, which raised the slightest bit of concern in your chest. However, Peter always had some kind of bruise.

He blinked slowly, offering you a lazy smile. “Hey.”

“Hey, Peter.”

Frank huffed. “Come on. We can’t be parked here. If I get a fucking parking ticket—”

“God, I’m coming, I’m coming,” you griped, taking a few more steps to close the space between you and the car.

Frank’s Challenger was a two-door vehicle, which meant the only way into the backseat was for Peter to climb out and lift his seat up for you. However, it seemed the two men had other, more illicit, plans.

“You’re gonna have to share the seat with Pete,” Frank mumbled absentmindedly, gesturing to the backseat behind him. 

Leaning forward, you searched the car’s interior, gaze falling on the pile of weapons stacked in the narrow backseat. 

Your brows stitched together. “What the fuck?” you barked, not entirely sure which part you were angry about—having to sit in Peter’s lap the entire way back to your apartment, or the contraband your brother was toting around like it was decor. “Frank, why are there guns in the backseat?”

Peter snorted, glancing over at his older friend he really had no business hanging out with. “Yeah, Frank. Why don’t you tell your sister why there’s guns in your backseat?”

Frank side-eyed the both of you, expression bored and already irritated. “Business,” he deadpanned, turning his attention back out the windshield, head on a swivel like any criminal’s would. Although, your brother wasn’t really a criminal. He just handled things a bit… differently. Some may say his actions were frowned upon, but never outrightly of ill-intent.

Feeling too tired to put up a fight you peered over at Peter and cocked a brow. “You gonna let me in?”

Peter smirked up at you before pushing the car door open. Tossing out one of his legs, he spread the other, giving you ample space to situate yourself in his lap. 

The long minute it took for you to climb in and position your petite frame to fit comfortably between his muscular legs, Frank didn’t look at you once. He was too busy watching Peter, jaw going taut when the brunette’s hands held onto your waist to steady you so he could work to close the door. 

“That okay?” Peter asked you, when he settled, light-brown eyes flicking up to yours. 

You nodded. “Mm-hmm.”

It took every ounce of his feeble self-restraint to not look down at the way your skirt was riding up your hips, and he had to hold his breath when you absentmindedly shifted your ass all over his crotch, trying to find a sense of comfort. He chanted silent pleas to himself, begging his twisted mind to not let his dick get hard. 

He thought about dead people, road kill—fucking anything—other than you. 

Your hands accidentally pressed on his thighs, drawing a wince from his parted lip. “Fuck…”

Flinching, your hands shot up in the air. “Oh, shit. I’m—I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

Peter’s throat felt raw when you turned back to him. “No, no. Just sore, is all.” His gaze drifted to the older man in the driver’s seat who was glaring back at him, dark eyes sharper than a dagger. “What?” Peter asked him. 

“Don’t touch her,” Frank warned.

“I’m not.”

You huffed, finally finding a sense of relief with your back pressed against the passenger door interior, your legs forcefully stretching across the center console, heels draping over into Frank’s lap. 

Your brother was nearly twice your age. He was just your half brother, really. It was a fucked-up, incarcerated, father that the two of you shared, who was already too old to father when you were born. Still, none of that caused his protectiveness to waiver. He didn’t mess around when it came to you, and he definitely wouldn’t like it if he knew the history you and his mentee, of sorts, shared. He’d probably have a damn heart attack.

“Chill out, Frank,” you deadpanned, rolling your eyes. “No one’s touching anybody.” Your eyes flicked up to Peters. “Right, Petey?”

Peter hated that stupid nickname you’d given him all those years ago, but, for some reason—even after the hellish day he’d endured and the sharp tension hanging like deadweight between the two of you—it still brought a smile out of him. 

“Right,” he quietly replied.

Frank peeled off a few moments later, starting down the one-way city street, and you tried to tame your spiraling thoughts.

You had sat in Peter’s lap before. Of course, you had. There wasn’t anything the two of you hadn’t done together. You knew every inch of him. Or, at least you did, before things changed. 

Letting people in–allowing them to learn all of the deep-rooted shit you never gave yourself the chance to work out—wasn’t ideal. The moment you felt Peter cracking away at your shell, even though it was in private, you did what you did best.

You bolted.

That must have been a paternal gene, you thought. Whenever shit got tough, that was what you and Frank both resorted to. Running.

But being this close to Peter again sent you reeling. It was comfortable, too comfortable. 

He had his elbow propped on the center console, his hand massaging his jaw that you knew had to be sore from whatever trouble he and Frank were fleeing from when they picked you up. Beneath you, his posture was lazy and effortless. His other hand was resting on your thigh like it was supposed to be there—like his touch wasn’t scorching the nerves beneath your skin. 

With Frank’s gaze locked on the terrain before him, knuckles whitening around the steering wheel, you registered the small circles Peter was tracing with his finger on the soft skin just an inch lower than where the hem of your tight-fighting skirt fell. 

You wondered if he even knew he was doing that, or if it was just muscle memory for him to show you any sign of affection possible without anyone noticing.

Peter knew exactly what he was doing, though. He always did. He was deliberate in that way—calculated and thoughtful. 

The time the two of you spent away from each other was plain misery for him. The only consolation he found was riding shotgun with your older brother, using his fists to express his anger, instead of dialing your number and contemplating the right thing to say for the millionth time since he walked out of your apartment all those months ago. 

Having you now, not just near him, but on him, was driving him absolutely mad. 

He didn’t have any control with you. Even after all this time, he felt himself caving to selfish desires, gaze flicking down to the curve of your waist when neither you or your brother were looking. 

Fifteen minutes into the drive to the other side of the city, Frank muttered a string of curses, realizing he was nearly out of gas. 

It was Peter’s idea for him to pull over to the filling station that ventured a little too far from their route to your apartment. He knew the pump’s tech was always faulty, requiring you to go inside to pay instead of paying at the pump. He also knew Frank would go take a piss, flirt with the cashier, and wander about the chip aisle for longer than intended, which would give him ample time to have you to yourself. Even if you chose to ignore him, he needed it. 

He had needed it for so long, the anticipation was killing him.

At the filling station, Frank slapped the screen on the gas pump as soon as it displayed some error code, just like Peter knew it would. Watching him waltz into the gas station, catching his dark hair float to the back, where the restrooms were located, was like a breath of fresh air.

You remained silent for the longest time, not daring to move away from Peter, but also not yet willing to strike up any form of conversation. 

Peter caught onto it quickly, shifting in his position so that he could see your face. 

“You really not gonna talk to me?”

Your nostrils flared as you huffed. “I don’t know.”

His brows knit together. “You don’t know?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” You shrugged helplessly.

“I don’t want you to say anything,” Peter countered, sighing. There was a pause, your eyes searching his. For what, you didn’t know. His jaw ticked, lips parting reluctantly, preparing to say the one thing he’d yearned to say since he woke up that morning without you. “I missed you.”

Your shoulders sagged, gaze falling to your lap. “Peter…”

“I know you miss me, too,” he replied, dismissing your hesitance. “Frank told me you haven’t been sleeping right.”

Fucking Frank, you thought to yourself. 

“That why you’ve been going out every night?” he asked, eyes squinting over at you. He already knew the answer, he just wanted to hear you say it.

You sighed. “I guess.”

“Look at me,” he coaxed.

When you complied, your soft gaze flicked up to his, something inside him sparked back to life. 

He sucked in a sharp breath. “Do you know what it’s been like,” he probed, his head tilting, “spending all my time with your fucking brother—having to hear him drone on about how miserable you are? Listening to how he couldn’t figure out what was going on with you, how he wanted to help you, but couldn’t—” he shook his head, “and knowing exactly why you felt that way and what was wrong with you, but not being able to do anything about it.”

Your eyes flicked between his. You expected tension, but this was something entirely different. 

“It fucking killed me,” Peter admitted, his voice deep and thickly laced with unease.

A wave of vulnerability washed over you. “It killed me, too.”

“Then why didn’t you call me?” Peter asked rather matter-of-factly. “Why’d you block my fucking number—erasing me like that?”

“Because—”

“Because why?”

Your chest caved. “Because it’s too much, Peter,” you roared. “This—” you gestured between the two of you, “whatever this is—it’s too much. I feel too much for you.”

The edge of sincerity in your tone, the pain desperate to slip out, caused him to pause, lips parting, but nothing coming out. 

He knew that. If you felt even an ounce of what he felt for you, he knew it would be too much. 

Something snapped inside him, something he couldn’t control. Something he didn’t want to control. 

His hand shot up to your face, cupping your cheek and dragging you to him with categorical desperation. The moment his lips met yours, nothing but white-hot adrenaline coursed through his wired nervous system. 

The taste of you in his mouth as his tongue swiped across your lips, begging to enter, was killing him. 

It had been so long, he had almost forgotten what your lips felt like when they were moving in sync with his. How soft and plump they were, how you liked to sink your teeth into his bottom lip, making it swell and tremble with a desire for more.

More. The word flashed in his mind and it was suddenly all he could think about. He wanted more.

He pulled away from the kiss, his heart melting as your long lashes fluttered open, the vibrant color of your irises shrinking as your pupils dilated on him. 

He wanted you in a way that didn’t feel right. 

“Come here,” he whispered, falling back in his seat and spreading his legs wide enough that his knees physically couldn’t go any further. 

You repositioned yourself in his lap, your ass finding solace on his unabashed, hardening length bulging through his worn jeans. He raised a hand, bringing it to your throat, forcing you to fall back against him.

Sitting with your back now flush with Peter’s toned abdomen, knees pressed together, his legs framed yours. A shiver rolled through your desperate body as one of his hands slowly moved to your upper thigh, slipping under the sliver of your skirt that was barely covering anything at all, while the other remained around your throat. 

He wasn’t nearly choking you because he was scared you would jerk away from him. He was doing it because he wanted to show you just how much he missed you. He wanted you to know he wanted you as close to him as possible. He wanted your skin on his skin.

Peter exhaled shallowly, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. He wished so badly he could see your face in its entirety, hoping you had the same look of desperation that matched how he was feeling. 

Still, as his hands crept closer to your warmth, he clung to his stability. “Fuck—I shouldn’t—”

The feeling of him growing taut beneath you clouded your judgment, leading you to wrap your small hand around his much bigger one, pulling his hand closer to where you needed to be touched the most. You spread your knees further, legs draping over his thighs to give him plenty room to explore the exterior of your saturated, lace panties that left little to the imagination.

He slid his fingers down the outline of your slit, feeling the shape of your swollen flesh. The touch sent shockwaves of pleasure through your system, causing your head to lull back on his shoulder, teeth biting down on your bottom lip to stifle the whimper threatening to escape. 

“Fuck,” Peter hissed, repeating the motion with such slow precision, it made your legs shake. “You’re so wet for me, baby.”

Your eyes fluttered shit, back arching in his lap. “Mm-hmm.”

He knew it was a bad idea. He knew Frank could walk out the store any second, ready to use one of those AKs resting in the backseat on him without even batting an eye. But he just couldn’t help himself. 

He was desperate to feel you again, to know just how aroused you were for him even after all this time.

His fingers hooked under the damp fabric clinging to the flesh between your legs, moving it to the side. A gasp tore from your dry throat, feeling his skin on yours. 

Working in slow movements, he took his time exploring your needy center. His eyes were trained on it, chewing on his bottom lip as he studied the wet sounds your pussy made as he slid his fingers between your folds. 

His jeans suddenly became painful, constricting his throbbing length, and you could feel every inch of it. 

Your hands were gripping whatever they could reach when he pressed his lips to your ear. “You missed this, didn’t you? You missed me touching you like this?” Peter probed, fingers working in deliberate, circular motions over your achingly swollen clit. “Frank’ll kill me if he sees us, you know that?”

Something came over you. Perhaps it was pure lust, or maybe it was the thrill of potentially getting caught. But whatever it was made you hungrier, more needy for whatever it was Peter was willing to give you. 

“I don’t care,” you managed to say, hips rolling against his hand. “Just—Just touch me.”

Peter’s hand slowly moved up, reaching further under your skirt until he was no longer touching your dripping core. The lack of his touch made you want to cry. 

“Please, Peter,” you hissed, the back of your head weightless against the crook of his neck. 

“Mm.” He grunted, massaging every inch of your skin except where you wanted him. “Fuck. I like that,” he admitted shamelessly with a gruff tone. “Beg me.”

You were in no position to fight him on it. You didn’t care all too much about your dignity now that you had felt how his fingers felt against your clit again.

“Plea—Please, Peter. I want you—I want you to touch me,” you pleaded, voice high-pitched and shaky, squirming in his lap. 

Peter gave in immediately, just like you knew he would. His fingers trailed down your slit, covering his two dominant digits with your arousal before slowly entering them inside your tight pussy. A muffled moan escaped him as he felt your walls give way around his fingers, drawing them deeper inside you with a suction-like action. 

The wet, squelching sounds that filled the car when he slowly pumped his fingers in and out of you was the closest he’d been to losing control in a long time. His jaw went slack, falling apart completely at the sight of you panting and quivering in his lap. 

It was electric, he thought. The way you ground your ass over his hard dick, bringing your arm up to cradle his head as he fucked you with his fingers. He no longer worried himself with the repercussions of being caught or harping on the time they’d wasted apart. 

He could only think of what he remembered it feeling like for his cock to be buried in you. He briefly debated taking you right there in the front seat, making you bounce up and down on his shaft. He wanted to hear the sounds you made when you screamed his name, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you came all over him. 

God, just the picture he was painting in his twisted mind was enough to make him cum. 

“I’m s—I’m so close,” you moaned, nails digging into the leather of the center console as you attempted to steady yourself. 

Peter already knew that, though. He felt the way your walls clenched around his two fingers, your thick arousal coating his entire hand as he continued pumping into you at a rhythmic, mind-bending pace. 

“Cum,” he coaxed into your ear, causing your skin to prickle at the feeling of his warm breath. “Cum all over my fingers, baby.”

Your body tensed, teetering on the edge of something more powerful than you knew was possible. 

It was just in your reach. 

But Peter froze suddenly, head snapping to peer out the tinted car window. When his eyes landed on Frank, his body went rigid. “Oh, shit—Frank’s coming,” he gaped in horror. 

He prepared to pull his fingers out of you, but you rushed to move your hand to his, forcing him to stay inside you. 

His breath hitched at the action. “Wha–What are you—”

“Don’t stop,” you begged, eyes screwed shut as your head drooped forward.

Peter’s heart hammered violently against his ribcage. It was a matter of minutes before your older brother would reach the car, finding you cumming all over his friend’s hand. But your only concern was the latter, the other part didn’t phase you. Not right now. Not when Peter was pleasing you the way he was.  

“Oh, fuck,” Peter groaned, taken aback as your hand moved to work your clit as he slid his fingers in and out of you. “Yeah. Keep doing that, baby.”

A sudden fluttering sensation ricocheted throughout your nervous system, blinding you, and causing your back to arch in a way that shouldn’t be possible. “Yes, yes, yes,” you cried out, feeling yourself exploding from within. “Oh, I’m—I’m cumming.”

“Good girl,” Peter whispered, not slowing his movements. “God, you look so fucking good, finishing all over my hand.”

Your body twitched violently as you came down from your high, chest heaving as you tried to steady your breaths.

Although Peter’s attention was all on you, he still kept a watchful eye out for your brother, who was far too close for comfort. 

“I gotta come out, now, baby,” he told you softly, slowly pulling his hand away from your throbbing core and pressing a kiss on your cheek. 

You nodded absentmindedly, a sharp hiss drawing from your parted lips as he left you. The absence of him was painful.

Peter bucked his hips so that he could reach under you and pull your skirt back down. You didn’t have the energy left to do it yourself, it was difficult enough to just sit up straight. 

“Thanks,” you said to him, helping him straighten out the rest. 

He chuckled. “For which part?”

Rolling your eyes, you raked a hand through your hair. “All of it.”

Just as you shifted in his lap, silently begging your legs to stop shaking, Frank yanked the car door open and slipped back into the leather car seat. He glanced over at the two of you—not accusingly, just… thoughtfully. 

His eyes honed in on you, his baby sister. “You okay?”

You nodded, suppressing the smirk threatening to appear on your lips. “All good, Frankie.”

“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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The rain was pelting down as you dug your hands deeper into the pocket of the sweatshirt that didn’t belong to you, keeping your head down while making quick strides down the Queens city streets that were uneven and littered with puddles. 

It was like the ending of a movie, when all the action and drama was over, leaving the main character to reel in the stark, eerily quiet absence of what they had gone through. 

“You good?” Peter asked, matching your hurried pace on the sidewalk next to you.

You flinched instinctively, blinking up at him. His bleached curls that were growing out brunette at the root were drenched from the late-August storm and there heavy raindrops falling down the leather of his racing jacket. When your gaze flashed up to meet him, reeling over the way his cheekbone was bruised with a small gash and his bottom lip was swollen and scabbing, you quickly looked away.

Sucking in a sharp breath, you peered back over your shoulder to ensure there wasn’t anyone following. “I’m fine,” you told him, glaring back ahead.

Peter’s hands dug further in the front pockets of his damp jeans, sending a stinging sensation up his forearm when his bloodied and bruised knuckles scraped the material. Guilt stabbed at his conscience and pain ricocheted through his tattered body, but all he could think about was how grateful he was that the wounds were on him and not you.

“What do we do now?” you heard yourself ask.

He swallowed hard, feeling the pain in his bruised jaw when he did so. “We’ve gotta get out of the city.”

Glancing up at him, your shoulders tensed. “What if they find us?”

“They won’t,” he said in a bizarrely calm and even tone before looking over at you, knowing there was a good chance his rib was fractured based on the agonizing pain that thrummed in his side. “I won’t let them catch us.”

♯┆48   HOURS   EARLIER  .ᐟ 

This part of Queens always looked different after midnight. It felt dirtier, louder. There was an electric hum in the air from flickering streetlamps that the city never bothered to repair and the industrial stretch beneath the Kosciuszko Bridge was transformed by darkness into something that belonged only to the people who knew where to find it. 

Abandoned warehouses that lined the stretch of broken pavement were black and hulking on either side of the street. The few that were still open and operating had their loading bays chained shut for the weekend, graffiti crawling across corrugated metal and concrete barriers. 

Beyond the rooftops in the distance, the Manhattan skyline glittered, but nobody was really looking at all that. 

Everyone was too distracted by the cars that lined both sides of the road in uneven rows, parked halfway onto sidewalks and beneath “no parking” signs that nobody bothered pretending to respect. 

There were Hondas dropped so low that their bumpers nearly scraped pavement, and the few gleaming Toyota Supras and Nissan Skylines were a jarring sight next to battered old Mustangs with more money beneath their hoods than their bodies were worth. Somewhere in the commotion, a girl in a denim mini-skirt leaned over the hood of a candy-red Mazda RX-7, wiping the custom-built motor with a pink microfiber cloth, surrounded by a crowd three people deep. 

Hoods stood propped open beneath portable work lights and bass rattled through open windows. Someone had dragged speakers into the bed of a modded pickup truck, and the blaring rhythm of DJ Shadow and Mos Def’s “Six Days” was loud enough that you felt it deep in your ribs before you could make out the song. 

Cigarette smoke tangled with exhaust fumes in the humid, August air. A few girls sat on hoods in flattering streetwear paired with platform heels while guys shouted over engines and money passed from hand to hand. 

Every few seconds another car screamed down the makeshift strip, disappearing beneath the bridge before returning slowly through the crowd like some victorious fighter entering an arena, accompanied by the nauseating smell of burnt rubber.

Peter Parker belonged here in a way nobody who met him during daylight hours would've believed. Leaning against the driver's side of his black Nissan Skyline GT-R with his arms folded over his chest, he had one ankle crossed over the other, listening to one of his friends argue about twenty dollars like it was twenty thousand. 

His Skyline itself wasn't flashy by the standards of the cars surrounding it. Peter hated flashy things. The body was clean and almost entirely black save for the chrome wheels and the faint red lettering he'd painted onto one brake caliper because you'd complained that the car needed something interesting about it. 

There were no ridiculous decals—no neon glowing beneath the chassis, nothing advertising what Peter had built beneath the hood. That was the whole point, really. Your boyfriend liked watching people underestimate him. He liked it even more when they put money on it. 

His gray West Coast Choppers T-shirt clung to his skin slightly between his shoulder blades in the heat. His bleached mess of curls was growing out, returning to their natural shade of brunette at the root, and falling messily across his forehead every time he ducked his head. Your gaze, however, hung on the clasp of his thin, silver chain that disappeared beneath his collar.

Whenever somebody called his name from across the street, Peter lifted two fingers without bothering to look. Everything about his exterior read comfortable, cocky, and completely at home with his surroundings. But you knew Peter better than anyone. Therefore, you knew the cracks taking place within his tough interior. 

"You've checked your phone, like, six times," you said, peering down at him slipping his cellphone back into his pocket.

Peter looked down at you, his brows furrowed. "Have not."

You pointed at his hand that was working to hide his phone. "Seven."

"I was checking the time," he argued, returning to his nonchalant stance, but you saw the way the muscle in his jaw ticked.

"There's a clock in your car."

He shrugged his broad shoulders. "It's not accurate."

"You fixed it yesterday," you countered, scoffing.

Peter's mouth twitched. "Why are you keeping track of how many times I'm checking my phone?"

"Because,” you sighed, “you're being weird."

"I'm always weird," he combatted, turning his head to give you his full attention.

You frowned up at him, dismissing the way your insides felt all mushy when he looked at you like that. "This is a different weird."

That earned you the smile that you'd been fishing for. All crooked, smug, and infuriatingly effective. Peter caught you by the hips when you stepped between his knees, pulling you closer until the denim of your shorts brushed his jeans. "I like it when you’re worried about me."

"Well, I don’t," you told him. Still, your lips curled, hands instinctively draping over his shoulders. “Stop making me have to worry about you.”

He just shrugged, eyes fixed on the shape of your glossed lips and the mesh top you had on beneath one of his old leather jackets that showed the black color of your bra. "How long do I have?"

You glanced toward the starting line, where two cars were backing away after their run while a small army of people spilled into the street again. "Five minutes. Maybe ten."

"Plenty of time," he breathed, bowing his head down into the crook of your neck.

A shiver ran down your spine, feeling the warmth of his breath on the sensitive skin beneath your ear. "For what?"

Peter's hands slid up around your waist, pulling your frame flush against his. "I can think of something."

"You're disgusting." You laughed when his tongue slipped through his lips, running a stripe up the side of your neck. 

"Didn't hear you complaining last night," he replied confidently, squeezing your curves and forcing the impression of his hardened length growing in his jeans against your stomach

It was easy to get caught up in moments like this with him, when it felt as though every outside factor had vanished and the two of you were the only people on Earth. "Peter," you huffed, but you couldn’t help the way it came out more like a moan.

"What, baby?" He straightened his spine, returning back to his stance with his back pressed against his car. 

Your gaze anxiously wandered to the swarm of people around the two of you. "Your friends are right there."

"They know we fuck," he shrugged.

You reached up and slapped a hand over his mouth before he could say anything worse, causing Peter to laugh against your palm, his eyes creasing at the corners. "God,” you hissed, heat rushing to your face, “you're annoying."

He kissed the center of your palm and something about it made you hesitate, pulling your hand away from him.

It was too soft for him tonight. Not that Peter wasn't affectionate. The version of Peter that you had could be embarrassingly affectionate when he wanted to be. But there was something lingering in the way he looked at you afterward. His hands stayed at your waist and his thumb moved slowly beneath the hem of your shirt, brushing the bare strip of skin above your low-rise denim skirt. 

The noise and commotion ceased around you when you caught that look on his face. "What?" you asked.

"Nothing."

Your features hardened. "There it is again."

He cocked a brow. "What?"

"Nothing," you responded, mimicking the deep tone of his voice.

Peter sighed through his nose. "I'm fine."

"Something’s bothering you, Peter," you urged to say, desperate to know what was going on in that head of his. “I can tell. Why can’t you just talk to me?”

"You’re right," Peter said and for the briefest moment, you thought he was about to be open and honest. But then he pressed his bulge deeper into your stomach. “That’s bothering me.”

Your eyes rolled. "You’re fucking insufferable," you groaned. But you didn’t move away from the grip he had on you. That, you probably would have stayed in forever if he’d let you.

He laughed again, but his gaze immediately flashed behind you.

Unwittingly, you followed it. Your gaze hung on a dark SUV that was parked half a block away beneath a dead streetlight. There wasn’t anything remarkable about it. There were dozens of cars you didn't recognize tonight, but that one had caught his attention, so that immediately made it your business.

When you looked back, Peter was watching you. "What?"

"Nothing," he told you for the nth time.

You narrowed your gaze on him. "Peter."

He rolled his eyes a bit, leaning his head back. "Stop saying my name like that."

“Like what?”

A smirk returned to his lips, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Like you’re trying to scold me, or some stupid shit.”

Peter leaned forward and kissed you before you could respond. You made a startled sound against his mouth, more irritated by the obvious distraction tactic than the kiss itself, but Peter's hand slipped behind your neck and your annoyance lasted a mere three seconds. His lips were warm, tasting faintly of the cherry Coke he'd stolen from you on the drive over. You curled your fingers into his shirt. 

Somebody nearby wolf-whistled. Peter lifted his other hand without breaking the kiss and gave whoever it was the finger, making you laugh into his mouth.

"Classy," you murmured.

He flicked his gaze down at you when he pulled away. "Always."

The sudden shriek of a car horn blared twice behind you, forcing Peter’s attention to drift. 

"Parker!" someone bellowed.

He glanced over your shoulder again, greeting whoever it was that his gaze fell on with a toothy grin.

Mikey—who was your boyfriend’s loyal-to-a-fault best friend that had a penchant for stealing catalytic converters from broken down cars on the side of the street and ad-libbing rap songs in the back seat whenever he rode around with the two of you—stood in the middle of the street waving him forward. "You racing tonight or trying to get laid?"

Peter shouted back, "Why can't I do both?"

A chorus of laughter erupted around the cars, all too familiar with the cocky smugness that was Peter Parker. 

You pushed yourself away from him, unable to conceal the smile on your face despite the commotion. "Go," you whispered to him.

Peter caught your hand before you were able to get too far, causing you to snap your head back in his direction. For a second, he simply held it, eyeing every single one of your features. Then, he pulled you in again and kissed your forehead.

"See you at the finish line," he whispered.

Your eyebrows pulled together. "Where else would I be?"

Peter smiled, but that strange look was back. Before you could pry any further, like you so desperately wanted to, he opened the driver's door and climbed inside.

His Skyline came alive with a low, violent growl that immediately swallowed all the chatter around it. You stepped back automatically as Peter tapped the accelerator, the engine snapping upward before settling into an uneven purr. 

Whatever unease you had initially felt disappeared beneath the familiar thrill of hearing that car run. You'd spent enough nights lying underneath it beside Peter to know exactly what lived beneath that hood. You had watched him rebuild half the engine on the floor of his garage, watched him spend money he didn't have on parts he absolutely did not need, watched him tune and retune and retune again because apparently almost perfect was a personal insult. 

Most people here thought Peter was lucky. But you knew better. Peter was fucking terrifying behind a wheel.

He eased the Skyline into the street, people moving aside to let him through. The other car rolled forward beside him—a cobalt-blue Supra belonging to Dante Ruiz, who'd spent the better part of the evening telling anybody willing to listen that tonight was the night he would finally put Parker in his place. 

Dante leaned across his passenger seat and shouted something through the open window, enticing Peter to glance over.

Even from where you stood, you saw the shit-eating grin. That was where Peter belonged. That was where the real Peter—your Peter—felt the most alive.

You followed the crowd toward the start, slipping between shoulders until you reached the front. Some idiot dull enough to talk to you shoved a wad of bills toward you.

"Your boy?" his thick New York accent drawled. 

Your brows snapped together, peering down in the man’s dirty palm.

"Two hundred on Parker," he told you.

You snorted. "That's it?"

The guy grinned and pulled another hundred from his pocket.

"Better."

You handed the money to the girl taking bets and moved toward the finish line instead. You didn't need to stand at the start. You'd seen Peter launch a hundred times. You much preferred watching him arrive back to you in one piece.

The crowd gradually pulled away from the asphalt. Music was lowered slowly and conversations became shouting before shifting into scattered whistles as the starter walked between the two cars. She was tall and curvaceous with long, beautiful boho braids, sporting the shortest mini-skirt you’d ever seen. Your eyes hung on her as she raised her hands in the air, toting some red fabric in each hand.

Peter revved once, his knuckles whitening around his custom steering wheel. Dante answered, leading Peter to rev again, higher this time, the sound bouncing violently between warehouses.

You folded your arms over your chest, standing amongst the hordes of people who only wanted to see chaos. 

As soon as the starter dropped her hands, it felt as though the street exploded.

Tires screamed against the pavement, smoke billowed behind both cars. The Supra jumped ahead by half a hood, but Peter caught it before second gear, the Skyline surging forward with that brutal acceleration you'd felt enough times from the passenger seat to know exactly how hard it shoved you backward. 

The crowd erupted around you. Peter shifted into third. The Supra hung beside him as he shifted again into fourth gear, causing Peter to pull ahead.

You smiled to yourself. Of course he did, you thought.

The cars tore toward you beneath the yellow wash of streetlights, engines climbing into a mechanical scream. Dante was good—better than most of the guys Peter raced. But Peter knew this road. He knew his car. And more importantly, Peter knew exactly how much he could ask from it before physics started asking questions back. 

Fifty yards from the line, he had nearly half a car on Dante and people were already shouting his name, itching to receive their payment when he ran again.

You cupped your hands around your mouth in reluctant anticipation.

Peter's headlights flashed across you and for one impossibly slow second, you could've sworn he looked directly at you.

You blinked hard just before his Skyline abruptly slowed. Nobody unfamiliar with the car would have noticed the change, but you did. You noticed. You noticed the way he shifted too early, which caused the engine note to drop and the Supra to gain several feet.

It felt as though your heart had plummeted into your stomach. "What the fuck?"

Peter had the room. He had the speed. You knew his boost hadn't dropped because you could hear it. You knew he hadn't missed the gear because Peter Parker hadn't missed that shift since he'd installed the transmission himself six months ago.

Dante pulled even and despite everything, Peter didn’t correct.

Your stomach tightened. "No." The Supra nosed ahead, nearing the finish line with such ease. Peter stayed behind him. "No, no, no—"

The blue car crossed first, Peter followed less than a second later.

The crowd erupted into a mind-numbing pitch.

Dante's people screamed like he'd just won the Monaco Grand Prix. Money flew between hands and someone beside you cursed loudly and kicked an empty beer bottle across the sidewalk. Dante shot past before braking farther down the road, drifting into a circle as rubber squealed, horn blaring triumphantly.

Unlike everyone else, you weren't watching him. You were watching Peter as his Skyline slowed.

Peter turned around at the end of the strip and drove back toward the crowd. Nobody else could understand, assuming he’d screwed up, or that Dante had finally forced him to meet his match.

They hadn't spent hundreds of hours in Peter's passenger seat. They hadn't listened to him explain gear ratios until they threatened to walk into traffic. They hadn't watched him drive that exact stretch of asphalt at speeds that made the hairs on your arm stand up.

Your boyfriend hadn't lost. He had let Dante win.

Peter’s Nissan Skyline rolled to a stop and you immediately started towards him with your hands clenched into fists at your side.

He kicked open the door, climbing out slowly.

Dante was already running toward him, laughing and shouting something about Peter owing him five grand. Peter barely acknowledged him, though.

His eyes instantly found yours, cementing his gaze on your features.

The crowd forcefully moved between the two of you, making it nearly impossible to make it over to him. But neither of you looked away.

You stopped, feeling the familiar sensation of your nails digging into the fragile skin of your palm. Finding a name for the way you were feeling felt unattainable. You weren’t angry, but you weren’t content. All you did know was that you were spiraling and something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. 

Peter's expression changed, something akin to guilt washing over him as he watched you lose sight of him in the chaotic flow of the crowd. He felt something splinter inside of him, but there was nothing he could do.

A cold feeling slid down your spine as you pushed past a few drunk guys barking insults at each other over a lost bet. "Peter?" you called out.

But everything—the world, your thoughts—shifted drastically when red and blue light exploded from down the make-shift strip.

For half a heartbeat, nobody moved. 

Unmarked SUVs lurched away from curbs. Doors flew open as men and women in tactical vests poured into the street from both directions, badges flashing beneath the streetlights.

The entire race detonated into chaos. 

People ran, all sprinting to their cars or hurdling themselves into others’. Someone dropped a stack of cash, bills scattered beneath pounding feet. A car mounted the curb trying to turn around while another slammed backward into a parked Civic. 

Music continued pounding stupidly from the pickup as people shoved past one another, engines roaring to life all at once. You stumbled when someone crashed into your shoulder.

"Move!"

You ignored them, though. You weren’t running away. There was no where for you to fucking go without him.

When your eyes finally found him again, he was still standing next to his Skyline. His head was working on a swivel, chaotically searching the pure mania for your face.

You knew that he wouldn’t run—he wouldn’t flee. Not without you. But he wasn’t even trying. He hadn’t even moved to look for you. He was just standing, moving in frantic circles

“Peter!” you screamed, forcing your way through a mess of people all running against you.

Mikey disappeared between two cars. Dante dove back into the Supra before tearing off and a girl in silver heels abandoned them entirely and sprinted barefoot toward the warehouses.

Peter didn't move.

Your hands flew to your mouth, a panicked gasp becoming caught in your windpipe when an officer approached him with his weapon drawn.

No, no, no, no, no.

"Hands where I can see them!" the officer roared, gripping the back of his collar and slamming his body down on the hood of his car.

Peter didn’t fight back. He didn’t even fucking squirm. He let the officer drive his upper body into the steel of his car’s hood, raising his hands above his head.

You stared, tears swelling in your eyes. "No."

"Hands behind your back!" The officer grabbed his wrist, fumbling for the cuffs on his belt. And Peter still wasn’t fighting.

Something inside you dropped as the realization dawned on you like the weight of the world itself crashing down on your shoulders. The phone, the SUV, the way he’d been looking over his shoulder all night, the kiss. “See you at the finish line.” He threw the race. He knew.

You pushed through the crowd. "Peter!"

His head snapped toward you just as the officer yanked Peter's arm behind his back.

Stopping dead in your tracks, your body trembled when Peter’s face changed when he registered you standing only a few feet away from him in the center of all the commotion.

Your voice barely made it through the noise. "You knew."

Peter shook his head. But he wasn’t denying it, he was trying to warn you. That was what they had told him—if he complied, no harm would be done to you. That was the only reason he had agreed to it. 

"You fucking knew," your lip trembled, watching him be forcefully jerked around against the hood of his car by the cop with a badge and too much authority for one man.

"Baby—"

A handcuff snapped around his wrist and you took a reluctant step backwards, your vision tunneling and thoughts reeling. The one person who always vowed to be truthful—the one person who swore to protect you—had lied to your face and done the unthinkable.

Peter saw it happen. He caught the realization settling across your face. He saw you understand exactly what everybody else was about to understand too.

His voice broke through the chaos. "Run!" You stared at him. "Baby, go!"

The first gunshot echoed. It cracked through the street loudly enough to silence everything for one surreal fraction of a second.

Peter's expression changed and another shot rang through the air. The sound ricocheted off the vacant buildings making it impossible to find the source. Glass shattered somewhere behind you and the sound of someone screaming forced you to drop to the ground, not knowing if the next bullet was going to go through you.

Three black SUVs came roaring around the corner at the far end of the street, one smashing directly through a police barricade. Officers spun toward them with their weapons raised. 

Some voice shouted, “Everyone get the fuck down!”

Peter's eyes weren't on the SUVs, or too worried about the officer manhandling him. They were fixed somewhere behind you as you fell to the ground, flinching every time a shot rippled through the air. 

His face went white with fear as he saw the familiar face pushing through the fleeing crowd, coming straight for you with nothing but ill-intent littered on his expression.

The cruel recognition hit you before the fear did. It was Nico Velez. You had known Nico long enough to know he wasn't somebody Rivas, the man who called the shots in your world, sent to ask questions. 

He was big without being bulky, built like somebody who had learned a long time ago that intimidation worked better when you didn't have to advertise it, dressed in black jeans and a black button-down with the sleeves pushed to his elbows. 

You'd eaten pizza with him in the back room of Rivas's shop after watching him put a gun to someone’s temple. He'd once driven forty minutes out of his way to bring Peter a transmission he'd needed before a race. Three months ago, he'd sat across from the two of you at a diner at four in the morning and stolen half the fries off your plate while telling you about the time he set a car on fire in the Vegas desert. 

Right now, though, he was pushing against the stream of people running in the opposite direction, his eyes locked directly onto you. There was no confusion on his face, no panic over the police flooding the street. He knew exactly where he was going.

You swallowed hard. "Fuck,” you panted before staggering up onto your feet and running into the opposite direction. 

Another gunshot cracked somewhere behind you, followed by three more in rapid succession. You ducked instinctively, hands coming over your head as somebody slammed into your shoulder hard enough to send you stumbling sideways into the hood of a parked Honda. Its alarm started shrieking. You shoved yourself upright and kept moving, sneakers skidding across loose gravel as you tried to disappear into the mass of bodies pouring toward the warehouses. Police were shouting commands nobody was listening to and a helicopter had appeared overhead, its searchlight sweeping across rooftops and washing the street in brief flashes of white. 

One of the black SUVs had stopped sideways across the intersection, doors hanging open with two masked men crouched behind it while officers took cover behind cruisers. The race had ceased to exist. There was only noise now—sirens, engines, gunfire, screaming, shattering glass, tires squealing—and somewhere beneath all of it, Peter shouting your name.

Peter jerked his cuffed wrist forward so violently that the officer holding him nearly lost his footing. "That's my girlfriend!"

The officer was adamant, kicking his foot into the back of Peter’s knew. "On the ground!"

The hit caused Peter’s knees to crash with the pavement. Pain ricocheted up his spine, but he couldn’t even think about it. "He's going after her," he told the officer.

"Get on the fucking ground!"

"Nico!" Peter shouted, already knowing how badly he had fucked up.

You heard him. Your head snapped in his direction, barely able to make out his position on the ground. Unfortunately, so did Nico.

His head snapped toward Peter for half a second, and that was all the confirmation Peter needed.

"Don't you fucking touch her!" Peter shouted, spit flying from his mouth as he tried and failed to climb up to his own two feet. 

The officer grabbed the back of Peter's shirt and tried to force him downward. Peter twisted. "Listen to me, that guy… He’s the one you’re looking—"

"I said down!" the officer roared, sending a swift kick into his ribs.

Peter hit the pavement hard, unable to brace himself due to the grip the officer had on his wrists.

You made the mistake of looking back once more, realizing Nico was closer. Peter noticed it, too. 

Later, you wouldn't remember exactly how Peter got free. You'd only be able to remember small pieces of it. The officer reached for his other wrist, so he could handcuff them both together, Peter suddenly twisting beneath his arm, somebody shouting, Peter driving his shoulder backward, the officer staggering into the Skyline. You'd remember the metallic flash of the handcuff still hanging from Peter's left wrist as he vaulted over the hood of another car. 

He, however, would remember thinking, distantly and absurdly, that Detective Torres—the woman who had put him in this position—was probably going to fucking kill him.

Mostly, though, you would remember Peter running toward you.

"Nico!" Your boyfriend’s voice carried over the chaos.

Nico naively turned, allowing Peter to hit him at full speed.

Both men crashed into the side of a parked Challenger hard enough to dent the passenger door. Nico recovered first, driving an elbow into Peter's ribs. Peter doubled slightly and Nico caught the front of his shirt, slamming him backward against the car.

"Fucking rat," Nico seethed.

Maybe he was, Peter thought to himself. Perhaps he was a dirty, no-good rat. But if Nico loved someone the way Peter loved you, he would have also clutched onto the possibility of having a freedom just as hard as Peter had. Because that was all Peter wanted out of this. He wanted the two of you to be able to start over somewhere safe, where you were no longer in harm’s way.

That was all he could think about when he was sitting in the interrogation room at the 105th Precinct last week, being threatened with some serious prison time after being pulled over in a routine traffic stop. 

He wondered for a moment if going away, being caged, would be what was best for you. Maybe, without him, you would be able to move on and finally find a life away from crime where you could be safe. Perhaps you would find someone who could protect you from the mundane things in life, like your fear of spiders and the everyday pickpocket, instead of the way he had to hold your head down in his passenger seat when bullets flew through the car window. 

But Detective Elena Torres had a way with her words and, in the grand scheme of her case, Peter was the least of her concerns. The only person she wanted to pin was Victor Rivas, who you and Peter had only started working for a few months earlier. Becoming more of his pawns, the life that the two of you shared had shifted dangerously from your relatively small-time car thieving and contraband trafficking into guns, drugs, and violent highway robberies. 

It was nothing that you and Peter couldn’t handle. It was just the understanding of knowing that the only way it would ever end was in pure destruction and peril that kept him up at night. He didn’t know what he would do with himself if something ever happened to you. 

Detective Torres had laid it out to Peter plainly: cooperate with an investigation into Rivas and receive immunity, or face serious charges and the risk of spending the rest of his life behind bars.

“If I do this,” Peter had responded, eyeing the two-page rapsheet of all the charges he would be put away for if he didn’t, “I want immunity for her, too.”

The second Torres negotiated a deal with him to wipe not only his record, but your record, too, and provide enough funding to get the two of you somewhere far away, he took the deal without hesitation. 

He knew the risk. There was an unfathomable price to pay in his world when you worked with the Feds. If he did what she wanted, there would be no way he could ever return. The only way to reclaim his dignity and get by unscathed would be to completely reinvent himself far away from the people who would undoubtedly want to get him back for all of it. 

And he was fine with that. He wanted that for you.

Peter drove his forehead into Nico's nose, knowing no one would understand what he did.

Nico reeled, lulling his head back and clutching the bridge as bright-red blood oozed down his mustache and into his mouth.

Peter’s fist reared back, crashing forward into his jaw. He did it once, then again, and again. The third punch sent Nico stumbling into the Mustang's side mirror, snapping it backward. Peter rushed over the curb and grabbed your wrist, his chest heaving up and down with frantic breathing.

"Move," he told you through gritted teeth as blood trickled down the side of his face from the gash above his eyebrow.

You ripped yourself away. "Don't touch me."

Peter stared at you like you'd slapped him. "Are you fucking serious right now?"

"Completely," you snarled.

A bullet struck the Mustang and Peter’s hand shot to your head, forcing you down to kneel on the ground next to him. He tucked your upper body beneath his. 

Peter looked at the spiderweb of fractured glass above his head, then back at you. "Can you hate me somewhere else?"

You shoved him off you. "I can hate you right here." Another shot punched through the rear window, like it was taunting you. "Shit,” you screeched, instinctively clutching onto him.

Peter took your wrist in his grasp again and, this time, you let him. Still crouched, he scrambled up to his feet and started sprinting down the sidewalk with you right on his trail.

There wasn't time to decide where to go. Peter pulled you between two parked cars as officers rushed toward the gunfight at the intersection, then through a gap in a chain-link fence somebody had cut open earlier in the night. You stumbled into an alley running behind the warehouses, Peter immediately changing direction when headlights appeared at the far end. 

His hand stayed locked around yours. The loose half of the handcuff slapped against his wrist with every stride.

Racing down the alleyway, your heart was beating loud enough to hear and you jerked away your hand. "Peter!"

"I know," was all he said, not bothering to slow his pace.

"You knew."

You saw the way his shoulders tensed. "I know," he repeated.

"You set—” your voice cracked, forced to stare at the back of his head. “You set everyone up"

He shook his head. "No."

"Cops show up thirty seconds after you throw a race,” you scoffed, “and that's your answer?"

You heard his rugged sigh. "It's complicated."

"I swear to God—"

He gripped your hand, silently urging you to hurry and match his pace. "Can we do this when people aren't trying to kill us?"

"They’re only trying to kill us because of you!" you roared, trying to pry your hand away from him once more, but you nearly collided with him when he stopped suddenly.

A steel gate blocked the alley. "Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me," Peter groaned before looking right and then left. He peered up and your heart sunk.

"Peter." He let go of your hand, ignoring you, and gripped onto the gate, hoisting himself up. His biceps flexed, a dim, distant light reflecting off his sweat-slicked skin. "Peter, what are you doing?"

"Helping," he grunted, planting one of sneakers against the brick wall and hauled himself upward, catching the top of the gate. "Come on."

"You cannot seriously—"

His neck craned to look back at you. "Baby."

"Don't baby me," you snarled.

"Fine.” He huffed, reaching his hand out towards you. “My girlfriend who currently hates me, climb."

You would've laughed if you weren't considering murder. “Crazy of you to think I’d still want to be your girlfriend after this.”

Peter got himself over first, dropping onto the other side and pretending like that threat of yours didn’t make him want to run in the middle of all the crossfire on purpose. You found footholds in the metal and hauled yourself upward. Peter reached up and caught you around the waist when you reached the top.

"I've got you."

You swatted his hands away "I don't need—"

"I know," he cut in, glaring up at you. “Just shut up, okay?”

You did, only long enough for Peter to lower you down. You landed against him, his arms tightening automatically around you. For a moment neither of you moved.

When shouting echoed from the alley, he released you.  "Come on."

You emerged onto another street two blocks from the race. The chaos was slightly muffled here, though red and blue lights still pulsed against windows and the helicopter remained circling overhead. People who had escaped the raid were scattering in every direction and cars tore through intersections without stopping. Somewhere nearby, somebody had crashed into a fire hydrant and water geysered twenty feet into the air.

"We need a car," Peter said, trying to keep his head down as the two of you made hurried steps down a new sidewalk.

"My car's a block away at the garage," you told him.

He shook his head once, peering over his shoulder. "Not anymore."

"What the hell does that mean?" you asked, furrowing your brows at him.

"It means—” he exhaled heavily “—the cops know your plates."

You stopped in your tracks, feeling another sting in your chest. Peter took only two more steps before realizing you weren't beside him.

He turned, slowly, features softening.

"You gave them my plates?"

His face did something deeply unhelpful for his case.

Your jaw went slack with disgust. "Oh my God."

"Technically—"

You took a step backwards. "Peter, who even are you?"

"They already had your plates," he explained, closing the space.

"Oh, well,” you coughed out a laugh, “that's so much better." But nothing—not a single fucking thing about this—was funny.

His shoulders tensed. "They had a whole lot more than your plates."

You stared at him, which made Peter immediately regret speaking in the first place.

"What does that mean?" you pried, glaring up at him with nothing but rage coursing through your veins.

"Not now," he countered, dragging a hand down his face, looking at it with a puzzled expression when he realized the handcuff was still clasped around his hand.

"No, we’re not doing this shit, Peter," you barked. “What does that mean?”

Before you could register the engine roaring around the corner, Peter grabbed you and pulled you behind a parked van as a black Charger shot through the intersection. You recognized it immediately. It was Victor Rivas.

Peter swore under his breath, clutching you harder when the Charger slowed. You could feel his heartbeat against you and the way every muscle in his body was shaking with something much more than fear.

He took in a sharp breath before pushing you up. "Run."

You both took off again, not daring to look back when the Charger reversed.

It was just pure luck that the driver's door of a silver Acura parked along the curb was unlocked, which you only discovered by yanking it open.

Peter stared at you.

"What?"

He squinted up at you. "That's not our car."

You tilted your head to the side. "And?"

Without giving him the time to argue with you further, you ducked inside and reached beneath the steering column. Peter climbed into the passenger seat. "You're stealing a car."

You ripped the plastic panel loose. "Would you prefer to call an Uber?"

"I don't think our passenger rating could survive this one, baby."

"Peter," you deadpanned.

"Right. Sorry. It’s just…" he watched you with precision, waiting for you to make a mistake, but you never did, “that’s kind of my thing.”

Your fingers worked quickly through the wiring. “I had a good teacher.”

Peter glanced through the rear window, smirking at your comment. He instantly found the Charger again, realizing it was turning around. His heartbeat quickened when he turned back to you. "Any chance you could go a little faster?"

"You've got a lot of opinions for a fucking snitch," you bit.

Peter went quiet, not knowing how to escape the validity of that one.

Tugging at another cord, you heard the engine spark to life. “Yes,” you hissed, a smug grin spread across your face. "Got it."

You scrambled up into the driver’s seat and slammed the Acura’s shifter into drive. The Charger was thirty yards behind you when you floored it.

The Acura lurched forward hard enough to throw Peter backward. You shot through the intersection, narrowly missing a taxi coming from the opposite direction. Its horn blared behind you.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Peter shouted, reaching up to the grab handle, clutching onto it for dear life.

You peered over at him, coughing out a laugh. "You scared?"

"A bit," he managed to say, peering over his shoulder. 

An ironically ill-timed chuckle spilled out of you. “I can drive, Peter.”

“I know that.” He nodded stiffly, fixing his gaze back out the windshield. “I was the one who taught you.”

Your mind betrayed you, forcing you to look over at your boyfriend just as the Charger slammed into your rear bumper.

The Acura jerked sideways and every muscle in your body tensed. "Fuck!"

You corrected hard, tires squealing as you fought the steering wheel. Peter twisted around in his seat. "They're coming again."

"I can see that," you replied through gritted teeth.

He pointed at the rearview mirror. "Mirror."

"I know what a fucking mirror is, Peter," you barked.

The Charger accelerated, plenty ready to smash into your rear again. Peter grabbed the dashboard as you tightened your muscles, bracing yourself for the impending impact.

The second hit was harder. Metal crunched behind you and the Acura fishtailed across two lanes. An oncoming truck blasted its horn and the headlights blinded you as you yanked the wheel right, missing it by inches.

Peter's hand shot across your body instinctively despite the seat belt being already locked against your chest. "Are you okay?"

You nudged your elbow, forcing his hand away. "I'm fine."

"You're sure?" he pressed, raking you over with his gaze.

Exhaling frantically, you roared, "Stop asking me if I'm okay!"

"I care about you!" your boyfriend quickly countered.

"You—” you turned to him for a brief moment “—got me raided!"

His brows scrunched. "I did not get you raided!"

"No, worse,” you said, flattening your lips. “You got everybody raided!"

"Technically,” Peter sighed, gripping the grab handle again, “the NYPD got everybody raided."

You whipped your head toward him, scowling.

"Bad time," Peter admitted.

The Charger appeared beside you and the minute Peter saw the passenger window lowering, he shouted, "Down!" before reaching over and grabbing the back of your neck.

You complied, ducking and not being able to control the fearful shriek that escaped you when gunshots exploded beside the car, causing the passenger window shattered.

Glass sprayed across Peter's lap and you inhaled in a sharp breath, swerving violently as the Acura clipped the Charger and sent both cars grinding together. Sparks erupted between them and Peter shoved himself upright, trying to not get caught in the crossfire.

"Drive!" he yelled at the top of his lungs.

"What the fuck do you think I'm doing?" you countered, matching his tone as the man in the Charger raised the gun again.

Peter reached over and grabbed the steering wheel.

"What are you—"

He tore your hands off it. "Trust me."

You laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. "Not exactly your strongest pitch right now!"

He twisted the wheel to the right, completely dismissing you.

Pushing your back as far as it could go in the driver’s seat, you gasped and told him, "There's no road!"

He was biting down on his busted bottom lip. "Exactly!"

You saw the opening in the loading entrance and helped him by jerking the wheel, sensing his struggle from the other side of the car. The Acura shot across the sidewalk and through the entrance of an abandoned distribution yard. 

Peter braced one hand against the dashboard as the car bounced violently over cracked concrete. He immediately clocked in your rearview mirror that the Charger had followed. "Shit," he hissed.

"You sound surprised," you quipped, keeping deep focus on the terrain before you.

He shrugged despite the impending disaster. "I was hoping they valued their suspension."

"Apparently not.”

Shipping containers formed narrow corridors ahead of you, stacked two and three high beneath skeletal loading cranes. You threaded between them, headlights bouncing across rusted steel.

Peter barked out orders, instructing where to turn and which direction to turn in. “Left!” he screamed, followed by another sharp, “Right!” a few minutes later. He continued that for a while before you glanced at him in the passenger seat.

"Peter, do you know where you're going?"

He nodded quickly. "Absolutely."

Peter had no fucking idea where he was going. He just knew that there had to be an opening somewhere in this godforsaken place and he was just hoping he’d be able to help you find it.

"Left!" he shouted again, forcing you to swing the car in a sharp left turn.

You immediately slammed on the brakes when you realized it was a dead end. Both of you stared at the concrete barrier ahead, before you slowly turned to look at your boyfriend.

He winced. “Okay. So…”

Your jaw went tight. "I'm going to fucking kill you."

"That’s understandable," he mumbled, jerking around in his seat when headlights appeared behind you once again. 

You exhaled through your nose, throwing the car into reverse. “Later."

The Charger accelerated toward you and Peter’s foot instinctively jerked downwards in the floorboard of the passenger seat. But there was no brake pedal there and he was not the one driving. "Baby," he warned.

"I see it," you told him.

He gasped, watching the Challenger rolling towards the two of you at a horrifying speed. "Baby!"

"I fucking see it!" you repeated, flooring the Acura backward despite the way the Charger kept coming.

At the last second you wrenched the wheel. The Acura spun nearly one hundred eighty degrees, tires screaming across the concrete as you slid back in between two shipping containers. The Charger's driver tried to brake when they realized, but it was too late.

The Charger slammed headfirst into the barrier, airbags immediately exploded inside. You didn’t waste a second before peeling out.

For several blocks neither of you spoke.

Queens streaked past outside the windows. You kept to side streets, avoiding the distant pulse of police lights. Your breathing slowly stopped feeling like it was trying to tear through your chest. Peter checked the rearview mirror every few seconds.

In the newfound, eerie silence, the sound of JAY-Z and Beyonce’s “03’ Bonnie & Clyde” hummed at a low volume from the stolen car’s stereo. With your jaw tight enough to splinter, you reached to the dial and turned it all the way down.

When you finally spoke up, your voice was hoarse. "How long?" Peter didn't answer at first, so your grip tightened around the steering wheel. "How long have you been talking to them?"

He exhaled through his nose, sinking further into the passenger seat. "Three weeks."

Your head snapped toward him. "Three weeks?"

His hand instinctively flew to the steering wheel when you swerved. "Watch the road."

"Don't tell me where to fucking look,” you argued, slapping his hand away.

"I'm not trying to piss you off." Peter rubbed his face.

You thought for a moment, glaring out at the dimly lit backroad. "So every time you said you were staying late at the garage—"

"Not every time," he cut in, peering over at you.

Glaring over at him, you deadpanned, "Peter."

He huffed. "Most times."

You laughed, but there wasn't anything funny in it. "You lied to me."

"I had to."

“You didn’t have to do anything!” you yelled at him, feeling your heart crack in places you didn’t know possible. “You could have told me.”

He shook his head. "I couldn't tell you." He ran a hand through his bleached hair. "If I'd told you, you would've been involved."

A scoff came out of you. "I am involved."

"Not legally, you’re not," he quickly countered.

You stared at him, eyes twitching from unending stress, fear, and utter disbelief that someone you have loved your entire life could do something like this. Peter just looked out the window.

"What did you do?" you asked, voice bizarrely quiet and calm. He refused to respond again, so you increased your pitch. "What did you do, Peter?" He clenched his fists in his lap and screwed his eyes shut. Your stomach dropped. "Peter."

"They had evidence," he finally broke by saying.

"On you?"

“No,” he exhaled a ragged breath. "On both of us."

The road suddenly seemed very quiet. "What kind of evidence?"

"Enough," he explained vaguely.

"That's not an answer," you argued.

He held up his hand, counting on his fingers. "Grand theft. Conspiracy. The warehouse job in Jersey. They had photographs from the docks. They had your phone connecting to two towers near the—"

"Jesus Christ," you breathed, cutting him off.

"I know.”

You glanced at him once more. "And you knew?"

Solemnly, he nodded. "I found out three weeks ago."

"When they arrested you," you filled in thoughtfully.

Peter looked at you.

You remembered that night. Peter arrived home after sunrise with a bruise along his jaw, telling you he'd gotten into a fight outside of a bar. You had put ice against his face while sitting on the bathroom counter. He had kissed your knee and complained that you were pressing too hard.

Your throat tightened. "You weren't in a fight." A dull ache reappeared in your gut. "You were arrested."

"Yeah." He had to look away.

"And you came home and you—you lied to my fucking face."

Peter's jaw flexed. "I came home."

You turned to him again, analyzing the weight in his words and the way the streetlights illuminated the bruises and scrapes that tattered his entire face. "That supposed to make it better?"

He shrugged helplessly. "No."

"Then why say it?" you spat.

"Because,” he exclaimed, a sudden rush of tension in his demeanor, “for about six hours I didn't know if I was going to." The anger in your chest shifted, just slightly, while Peter kept staring through the windshield. 

"They had me, okay?” he admitted, chest heaving. “They had enough to put me away. Torres showed me everything. Pictures. Transactions. Cars. Names. They knew about Rivas. They knew about the shipments. They knew about you."

Your voice went achingly quiet. "So you made a deal."

Peter nodded.

"For yourself," you scoffed, the deepest, sharpest pain shooting right up to the heart that he had betrayed.

"No," he quickly countered, flashing his gaze over to you. "For you."

Something cold settled beneath your ribs. "What?"

"They wanted Rivas,” he explained, “I told Torres I'd give ‘em Rivas."

Your eyes slanted at him. "In exchange for what?"

"Immunity." The Acura drifted slightly before you corrected it when he turned to look out the windshield again. “Freedom and safety for the both of us.”

Your foot pressed down hard on the brake. “Get out.”

His face contorted. "What?"

You reached across his body, pushing the passenger door open wide with force. “Get the fuck out, Peter.”

"Come on," he sighed, pressing his head back against the leather headrest.

"You made a fucking deal with the police about my life without telling me?" you yelled at him, pointing to your chest and ignoring the tears threatening to stream out of your eyes when you peered up at him.

"They were going to arrest you—they were going to take you down with them!"

You shook your head once. "So?"

"I wasn't going to let that fucking happen!" he roared, sitting up straighter in his seat.

Silence crept its way between to the of you as his chest rose and fell at a frantic pace, ragged pants exiting both of you. You just stared at him, eyes dancing between his two dark ones, unable to come to terms with all that he’d done.

Peter looked away first. "I wasn't going to sit there while Torres showed me pictures of you and talked about eight years like she was discussing the fucking weather,” he continued, dragging two hands down his face. “I wasn't going to let Rivas keep dragging us deeper until one of us ended up dead or locked away. So, yeah, I made the fucking deal."

"Without me."

He sighed. "Without you."

"You didn't trust me."

"No." Peter turned toward you again. "I didn't trust you to choose yourself."

It pained you to admit that that hurt. You swallowed hard, watching Peter immediately soften in your peripheral vision. "That's not—"

"Fuck you," you croaked, eyes fixed on your lap. 

"Baby—"

"Don't," you sneered. “Just fucking don’t, Peter.”

He reached across to touch you—to hold you, to do fucking something. He was so desperate to make this right, he didn’t know what to do with himself. "I'm sorry.”

Your pain was vibrating through you. "You thought I'd stay." Peter didn't respond, which was all the answer you needed. "You thought if you told me Rivas was going down, I'd warn everybody."

"I thought you'd try to save people," he clarified.

You shook your head. "Our friends."

"Those people stopped being our friends a long time ago," he told you.

You knew he was right. You had sat back and watched how many times they had thrown the two of you under the bus, having no qualms about the hell you both had to endure as long as they got by scott-free. "That's easy for you to say," you said anyway.

"No, it isn't." His hand fell on your arm and his voice cracked just enough to make you glance at him.

He looked something more than exhausted. There was blood dried beneath his nose from the fight with Nico and a scabbing cut crossed his cheek accompanied by dozens of other minor contusions. His shirt was torn at the collar and the handcuff around his wrist looked almost absurd now.

"I love those people, too," he said quietly. "But I love you more."

You looked back at the road, unable to give him the reply he needed right now. The Acura's engine whined as you accelerated onto another empty stretch. "She's not going to give me much more," you said, eyeing the check engine light that was lit-up on the dash.

Peter noticed it, too, and despite the visceral sting in his chest when you didn’t tell him you loved him back, he still said, "Take the next right."

"Why?"

He pointed ahead at the street. "Garage."

You knew what he meant, so you just drove. At the last intersection before reaching his uncle’s old autobody garage, you found yourself flicking your turn signal. Despite everything, you laughed at yourself. The car that you had hotwired was missing a bumper, littered with gunshot holes, the glass was shattered, and the two of you were no longer just criminals, but criminals on the run. And you still signalled your turn.

The minute the neon-lit sign jutting out from the side shop, reading “Parker Auto & Body,” your muscles relaxed. That old ass sign above the bay door had never looked so beautiful.

You swung into the alley beside it.

Peter pulled a key from his pocket. "Back."

Not bothering to ask him to clarify, you just followed the alley to the backside of the shop.

Peter hit the button on his remote keychain and the garage door began crawling upward.

The Acura rolled over the threshold and you forced it into a slow stop inside the dark garage. He hit the button again and the door descended. Quietness came back between the two of you, but it was entirely silent. Your ears rang and the both of you were breathing too hard.

“They’ll find us here,” you told him, watching as glass fell and scattered all around him as he pushed the passenger door open and climbed out.

Peter stood outside of the car, swiping shards of glass off his jeans and plucking the fabric of his shirt, not caring about the hundreds of tiny little pieces embedding themselves in his palm. “I know.”

You followed his actions, climbing out of the car. You were barely able to stand on your own, though. Your knees were shaking so violently and there was a stinging sensation in your back from the earlier impacts and how hard you had been tensed. 

“What’s the plan?” you asked him.

The overhead fluorescents flickered weakly above the garage, illuminating familiar workbenches, tool cabinets, hydraulic lifts and half-finished cars. Home, or as close to one as the two of you had. There was a small apartment on the second floor that didn’t have working AC, but had a damn good window unit that did a good enough job. The best part was the garage itself, though. 

You'd spent countless nights here with him—eating takeout on overturned buckets, sleeping on the ancient couch in his office while Peter worked until sunrise, and having your way with each other against that exact workbench when he was supposed to be changing somebody's brake pads.

Tonight it felt different, though.

Peter walked over to a toolbox, rummaging through the drawer for a flathead screwdriver and began working to get those damn handcuffs off his wrist. The sound of metal clashing with metal filled the quiet space until the cuffs clattered on the ground.

He took two steps away from the work station, rubbing the skin around his wrist, before his knees nearly buckled. 

You raced around to catch him. "Whoa."

"I've got it," he told you, gripping onto the dented hood of the Acura.

Your eyes peered down at the blood seeping through his shirt from the gash he’d taken at some point through the night. "You clearly don't."

"Little dizzy," he admitted, blinking slowly.

"No shit." You wrapped his arm around your shoulders and Peter leaned against you despite himself. "Workbench."

"I'm ruining your shirt," he mumbled.

You helped him onto the edge of the workbench. “I don’t give a shit right now.”

Peter sat and, for the first time all night, he wasn't thinking the worst things about himself. He was just here, with you, in the stark silence.

“Baby,” he breathed, leaning back against the cool, cinderblock wall behind the bench. You weren’t looking at him, you were too busy working to find the source of all the blood. “Look at me.”

You stood between his knees, staring at the blood spreading slowly across his shirt before finally glancing up at him. Your anger was still there, he knew that. Hell, he could feel that. But there was also fear radiating from you.

His features softened. “I did it for you.”

Your shoulders sagged when you lifted his shirt, spotting the cut just to the right of his naval, right between the two ridges of his abdominal muscles. It wouldn’t require stitches, but it—on top of everything else he’d endured—was enough to need a good pain killer.

“I know,” you admitted.

“I couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to you,” he continued. His lips were quivering as he breathed raggedly through the excruciating pain that was only now hitting him now that the two of you were temporarily safe. “I never wanted to lie to you, baby. I just wanted—I just wanted—”

“For us to be safe,” you filled in thoughtfully, smiling softly up at him. “I know, Peter.”

“I…” his entire body shuddered as he reached out and grabbed your hand, forcing you to drop the fabric of his shirt. He pulled you slowly. “Come here,” he urged, spreading his legs further with all the strength he had left.

Despite the amalgamation of contradicting emotions pumping in and out of your twisted mind, you slowly stepped further between his legs until your body knees hit the workbench. His hands shot out, touching your thighs and slowly working up to your hips as he slowly sat up, keeping his eyes focused on yours.

“I love you,” he said, voice so quiet it felt like a miniscule shard of glass falling on the ground, but it shattered you all the same. “I did this for you—for us.”

Your hands gripped his, inhaling slowly. “I know.”

“Please say it back,” he croaked. “I can’t live with myself if you don’t say it back.”

Blinking hard in an attempt to stifle the tears, you nodded slowly. “You know that I love you, Peter.”

His chest heaved with relief. “Yeah?” 

You glanced down at him. “Always.”

“Then come here,” he coaxed, pulling slightly from the grip he had on your hips. 

You shook your head. “I don’t wanna hurt—”

He pulled harder, forcing you down to straddle his lap. “You’re not gonna hurt me, baby.” His cut-up hand reached to cup your jaw, forcing your head down to his. When his lips crashed back against yours, it felt like the only right thing in the world. 

Everything about your life was thrown into the flames, it felt like. There was nothing you had to crawl back to. You didn’t have any family and your friends weren’t ever really your friends to begin with. The vast majority of the people you knew were probably plotting your downfall because of him. But him—but Peter—you would always be able to crawl back to. He would always be there.

Your lips worked in sync. When your tongue slipped out of your mouth, desperate to tangle itself with his, you felt the scabbing slash along his bottom lip and thought about pulling away, not wanting to inflict any more pain on him. But you needed this. He needed it, too.

His hands moved to the curve of your ass, pulling you tighter against him and helping you grind against the way his dick was growing taut in his jeans. It was slightly comforting, you thought to yourself, that even after everything, he was still hard for you.

Pulling away for only a second, his head burrowed into the curve of your neck, planting a string of soft kisses on your skin as one of his hands slipped under the hem of your shirt, working to pull it off.

You broke from the kiss, tearing your shirt off in one swift motion before immediately crashing your lips back to his, working in much more ferocious, insatiably hungry movements.

“I need you so bad right now,” he muttered into the kiss, gripping your ass and rocking your hips against his once more. You kept kissing him, though. “Please.”

“What do you need, Peter?” you asked him, moving your head slowly down the nape of his neck, pressing rough kisses on his warm skin. 

He lulled his head back, a deep-voiced moan spilling out of him. “You, baby,” he whispered, tangling his hand in the back of your hair. “I need you.”

Your hand tugged at the fabric of his shirt. “Take it off,” you told him, climbing off his lap and standing before him.

Tearing off the shirt, he stood, too. 

With both of your shirts deserted on the garage floor, you watched him work with the button on his jeans, unzipping and pushing them off in one swift motion.

“You’re rushing,” you commented, stifling a smug smirk. 

He nodded confidently, stepping out of his jeans before reaching out and pulling you flush against him with a tug at your wrist. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

His lips found there was back to yours as he undid your jean skirt, pulling it down and bringing your panties with it. 

It wasn’t your first time being naked in the garage with him. However, a part of you splintered at the realization that it would probably be the last.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, picking you up in one swift motion without breaking the kiss. Turning around, he walked back to the bench and slowly lowered you down on it, wasting no time to crawl on top of you.

Instinctively, your hips bucked up against him, desperately needing the friction on your needy center.

“I know, baby,” he moaned against your lips.

He kept himself up on top of you with one hand while the other snaked down to his waist, pulling his boxers down just as far as they needed to be.

Usually, Peter liked to take things slow with you. He thoroughly enjoyed the build up, making you squirm and pant and beg for him to hurry up and be inside of you. And even though it was only a matter of time before the NYPD and Detective Torres came banging on the garage door, he still wanted to give that to you.

His fingers trailed your folds, sending a pleasurable shudder up your spine. But, just as his thumb began working your swollen clit and his fingers threatened to slip into your drenched entrance, you shook your head.

“Just fuck me,” you slurred, peering up at him, immediately met with his bleary-eyed gaze.

He kept his hand between the two of you, gripping his dick and aligning it where you needed him most. “Are you sure?” he asked.

You nodded quickly, draping your arms over his shoulders and pulling his head closer to yours. “I just need to feel you,” you told him. 

When the sensitive skin on his tip slowly worked itself inside you, his jaw went slack at the feeling of your walls squeezing around him, suctioning him in deeper.

Your head tilted back against the workbench as a sloppy moan spilled out of you. 

Peter’s head fell in the crook of your neck as he slid in you as far as he could. “God, you feel so fucking good,” he grunted, his heavy breath causing your toes to curl.

“Faster,” you hissed, followed by a mindless moan that sent your eyes rolling to the back of your head when he picked up his pace inside you. “F—Fuck, Peter,” you moaned, nails digging into the rigidly muscular skin of his back. 

He picked his head up, screwing his eyes shut as he felt you clench around him. Your legs tightened around his waist and he moved one of his hands to your thigh, forcing them to spread further. “Uh-uh,” he grunted, digging his fingers into the plump skin. “Keep ‘em open, baby.”

“It—It feels…” your body shook beneath him. “It feels so good.”

“I know,” he moaned, reeling in the way your arousal saturated his length and the wet sounds that echoed off the walls of the garage. “So… fucking good.”

You could feel your release coming, but you didn’t want any of this to end. “Peter,” you whispered, working your hands up to his head, tangling one finger in his hair while the other hooked around the silver chain swinging in your face each time he pounded into you. “Peter,” you repeated when he didn’t respond.

“What is it, baby?” he grunted through gritted teeth, barely able to contain himself.

“Are we—Are we gonna be okay?” you reluctantly asked him, knowing this wasn’t necessarily the time, nor the place.

His eyes fluttered open, peering down at you with such softness that it physically pained you. “Of course,” he assured you. “Nothing else… is okay,” he trailed, his cock twitching deep inside you. “But we are.”

“I love you,” you told him again, bucking your hips without thinking as your high washed over you.

His head fell into your neck once more. “I know, baby,” he grunted, feeling your body tighten in his hold. “I love you, too.”

“Oh, God,” you moaned, your entire body convulsing beneath him. “I’m—I’m gonna—”

Peter didn’t have the strength to tell you that he was, too. Instead, he gently bit down on the skin near your collarbone, grunting and panting against your skin as your orgasm crashed through your body, accompanied by his cum pooling inside you. 

Neither of you made any move to stop, though. He kept a slow pace inside you as you trembled uncontrollably beneath him and he reeled in his own thoughts. 

Deep down, the fear and doomed understanding that this could be the last time he was inside you for a while rotted in Peter’s conscience. He knew that whatever came after this wasn’t going to be good and it definitely wasn’t going to be fucking easy. 

He knew that he had not only betrayed the people he worked for and his friends, but he also double-crossed Detective Torres and the entire NYPD that were counting on him to put the right people behind bars for once.

In hindsight, though, they should have known not to trust someone like Peter Parker. 

Still, his out—his freedom from the dangerous life he lived and forced you to stay in—was right there. But he knew he would never be truly free if you weren’t, too. If he had to go back to the moment he sprinted after you, evading the faux detainment, he would do it again. He would jeopardize everything for you.

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 late into his first Saturday night off in a while when the incessant sound of his phone ringing woke him up. Still half asleep and sore all over, he tore the phone off his bedside table, squinting at the harsh light of the screen and ignoring the pile of mess he’d sent falling to the ground due to the abrasive movement. 

Frank blinked a few times, attempting to get his vision to adjust on the contact name floating across the top of the phone screen. However, his heart nearly stopped when he realized it was her, calling him at half-past two in the morning.

Wasting no time, he yanked the charger cord out and sprung up in bed, pressing the phone to his ear. 

“Mallory?” 

Loud music came blaring in from the other end of the line. “Franky,” the girl sang into the phone, slurring and giggling. “Hey.”

Dragging a hand down his tired face, he sighed. “Mal, it’s two in the morning. What’re you doing?”

He knew what she was doing—she was partying. It was the same thing her father, his best friend, had droned on about when the two went to dinner the other night. His long-time friend was worried about his daughter’s so-called newfound lifestyle since coming home from college a semester early, concerned she was hanging around all the wrong people, getting into all the wrong places.

“I’m at some bar—Rachel, Rachel,” she called out to a friend, one Frank hadn’t heard her mention before. “What’s the name of this place? Huh? Oh, The Twilight Zone. I’m at The Twilight Zone, Frank.”

“That’s great, Mal,” Frank said, nearly falling asleep sitting up. “Why’re you calling me, sweetheart?”

She giggled down the line. Even over the sound of rock music playing in her background, he heard it. “Say that again.”

“What?” Frank’s brows furrowed.

“Call me sweetheart again,” she laughed. “I like it.”

His chest rose, inhaling sharply. “Mal…”

It was obvious she was drunk and out with friends. She only ever called him when she was. Still, Frank found himself worried about her safety, wondering if she had a sober ride home, or if she was being looked out for. 

“Can you—Can you come get me?” Mallory said down the line, slurring and stumbling over her words in a way that made Frank’s stomach knot up. “I miss you.”

Dropping his head, the muscle in his tight jaw ticked.

Presumably noticing his apprehension, even in her state, Mallory added a sweet, “Pretty please.”

He imagined her standing at the bar with her phone pressed to her ear, pushing out her glossy bottom lip with those big, round, brown eyes of hers and that familiar ache warmed his chest. 

“Not a good idea,” Frank stated plainly because it wasn’t. 

“Please, Frank,” the girl on the other end of the line pleaded. “I don’t have a ride home and you know Dad’s gonna be pissed at me if he finds out I took a taxi,” she whined.

Her father worked with Frank in the homicide unit. No one in their right mind—after seeing all the things they’d seen—would let a woman, of any age, take a taxi home alone late at night. 

“He’d be much more pleased if you drove me home,” Mallory added and he could hear her smirk through the phone.

If he could read the thoughts that plagued Frank’s mind regarding his daughter, he wouldn’t.

Frank’s shoulders sagged, exhaling slowly. “What’s the name of the bar again?”

Mallory giggled. “The Twilight Zone.”

Swinging his legs off the side of his bed, he told her, “I’ll be there in five.”

When Frank pulled off to the side of the quiet city street, the neon lights littering the exterior of the bar filled the dark interior of his truck. His eyes scanned his surroundings, analyzing the group of young people jaywalking across the road and made sure to check his rearview mirrors twice before hopping out.

He didn’t waste time calling Mallory back to alert her of his arrival. He knew she wouldn’t answer.

She never did.

Slamming his truck door closed, he took one last drag of his cigarette before tossing it and stomping it out with his boot. Stepping up on the curb, he made his way through the bar’s entry door.

It was a dark place, reeking of smoke and cheap tequila. With each determined footstep, his boots clung to the sticky flooring and he kept his head on a swivel, searching for any sign of the girl who’d brought him all the way across Queens to this bar.

The Killers’ “Somebody Told Me” was blaring from the surround-sound speaker system and there were a few girls dancing on top of the lively bar in short leather shorts and cropped tops.

Frank knew this wasn’t a place where he’d ever willingly show his face, but it was right up Mallory’s ally. 

He searched for her blonde hair in the ocean of unknown faces, forcing himself through sweaty bodies and ignoring odd glances from people who must have caught on to his incongruous presence. 

She was seemingly nowhere to be found. As usual, he thought.

Nostrils flaring, he inhaled sharply and made a beeline for the bar.

He didn’t know why he thought it would be a quick and easy pick up this time. Mallory never did anything quick and easy. Perhaps that’s what he liked about their situation—the twisted little game of cat and mouse. 

Propping himself up on the last empty barstool, he caught the attention of a bartender and then proceeded to finish what she'd made him all within just a few minutes. He asked for another, knowing he would regret it the next day, and kept his back to the bar, scanning the vivacious crowd for any sight of Mallory.

It wasn’t until he was nearly finished with his second drink that he finally saw her.

It was nothing more than a glimpse, really. He second-guessed himself at first, wondering if he’d just mistook one girl for another. However, when she took her friend's hand and twirled herself around to the rhythm of the song, making direct eye contact with Frank through the slight opening in the horde of people between them, something akin to a chill crept down his spine.

The corner of his lip tugged up at the sight of her, dressed in barely anything at all. Her denim shorts were tight around her curves and her white tank top was nearly transparent, putting the red, lace bra she had on beneath it on full display.

For some reason, the sight of it pissed Frank off.

His jaw ticked as he went to finish his drink in one final gulp, slamming it back down on the counter behind him.

Mallory had a sloppy grin on her face, watching Frank as he pulled some cash out of his wallet and handed it over to the overworked bartender without breaking eye contact with her. 

He didn’t make his way over to her like he usually did, though. No, Frank wasn’t going to do that tonight. 

She was going to have to come to him for a change.

Finishing the drink in her hand—some fruity little thing, Frank assumed—her smile slowly faded into something a tad more sinister when she realized his intentions. However, she seemingly didn’t mind it, Frank noticed, because she made her way over to him without much of a fight.

“You came,” she said once she reached him, raising her voice to combat the loud music.

She stood between his legs like it was nothing, toying with the uneven strings of his hooded sweatshirt. He glanced down at her fingers, the way she twirled the fabric around them, before flicking his dark eyes up to hers. Even sitting, she was so much shorter than him. Her neck craned up to him. 

“You called,” Frank replied, tone even despite the heat coursing through his veins.

His eyes fell again, but this time to the red lace poking out from beneath her top. His finger traced it, causing goosebumps to appear on her smooth skin. “What’d I tell you about wearing shit like this?”

She frowned up at him. “You don’t like it?”

“That’s not the problem, sweetheart,” he told her. “Problem is other people liking it.”

A smug grin spread across her full lips. “Are you jealous, Franky?”

He rubbed his jaw, concealing his smirk before moving to grip the hem of his sweatshirt. “Here,” he mumbled, bringing it up over his body. “Put this on. It’s freezing outside.”

She backed up a bit, giving him the space to partially undress, but Frank caught the way her sluggish brain lapsed on the brief view of his stomach when his T-shirt raised. 

When he handed her his sweatshirt, she pushed her arms through and tugged it over, laughing sloppily when she noticed it nearly reached her knees like all of his clothes did on her. 

“Come on,” Frank coaxed her. “Let’s go.”

By the time Frank helped Mallory into the passenger seat of his truck and they started off down the one-way city street, his mind was already reeling. It didn’t help when Mallory reached over and began messing with his stereo.

“Ah,” she breathed, falling back in her seat and smiling to herself as Bruce Springsteen’s “I’m On Fire” echoed from the radio. “I love this song.”

Frank kept his eyes trained on the terrain before him, but his ponderous brain hung on to every one of Springsteen’s lyrics. He’d heard the song a million times; it was one of his favorites. But, for the first time, he actually understood it because he, too, felt completely on fire.

He was burning with emotions he couldn’t yet name. Guilt, shame, desire, pain.

The young blonde girl next to him rolled the passenger window down, eager to drape her arm out of it. As the brisk night air came through, blowing her long hair all over the place, he felt something like a dagger press to his chest.

Rolling to a halt at the stoplight, Mallory glanced over at him, brows furrowed at the fact that he’d flicked his turn signal to the left, towards her dad’s place, and not the right, to Frank’s.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

Frank sighed. “I’m taking you home, Mal.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?” he countered, scoffing as the song drifted into the next.

She frowned. “You don’t want to spend time with me?”

Head turning in her direction, the sadness on the girl’s face immediately registered in his brain. Like some sleeper cell spy, the look awoke something inside of him. His chest caved. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” She was quick to reply.

“We can’t keep doing this, baby,” Frank said without much thought. “It’s not right.”

“You weren’t worried about what was right two weeks ago when your dick was—”

“Mallory,” he cut in, narrowing his eyes on her, but the visions still came flashing back to him.

The fluorescent red of the stoplight illuminated the rather serious expression on her face. She didn’t flinch when she countered, “Frank.”

He shook his head, knuckles whitening around his leather steering wheel. 

Taking her home was the right thing to do. 

Frank Castle never did the right thing, but, for some inexplicable reason, he wanted to now. He wanted to do right by her. She didn’t deserve secret hook ups with a man twice her age. She didn’t deserve any of him. She was too good for him—too innocent compared to the pure filth that filled his mind when he thought of her.

When Mallory’s hand fell on his thigh, triggering an electric shock kind of reaction to the skin beneath his jeans, he was pulled from his thoughts.

“Please, Frank,” she begged in a soft tone. “Just for tonight?”

Her hand grazed further up his thigh, causing his entire frame to go rigid. Once the softness of her touch met the bulge forming between his legs, he exhaled roughly.

“I know you want to,” Mallory purred, voice barely above a whisper, but just as sharp.

Frank sucked in a sharp breath, nearly wincing at her touch as he gripped her hand that was moving in tauntingly slow motions along his suffocating length. “Fuck, baby,” he breathed.

She cocked a brow. “See?”

He chuckled under his breath despite himself, letting go of her wondrous hand. The control she had over him was lethal, her touch even more so. Beneath the pleasure consuming him, he still clung to his clarity. 

“You’re drunk, Mal,” he said, attempting to reason with her. “I need to take you home.”

The sound of her unbuckling her seat belt rang like an alarm in his tired ears. Folding her legs beneath herself, she sat up further on her knees to reach him better over the center console that separated them. 

“Frank,” she whispered, her hand moving to the buckle of his belt, tugging slightly. Her lips were mere inches from his ear, prickling the skin with her warm breath. “Please.” Her cold hand ran up his core, nails digging into his tense abdominal muscles. “I need you.”

Turning to her, causing their lips to graze one another's, Frank’s features softened.

“Please,” she pleaded once more, eyes searching the darkness of his. 

Slightly frustrated but writhing with tension, Frank reached for his turn signal, flicking it the opposing direction before swerving into the other lane just as the stoplight flashed from red to green. 

Pleased with herself, Mallory grinned ear-to-ear and fell back in her seat.

Frank’s jaw ticked when he glanced over at her once more, eyes scanning her sitting with his sweatshirt draped over her frame. “Buckle your seat belt,” he instructed.

She giggled, complying without a fuss. “Yes, sir.”

Frank fumbled with his keys when they made it to his townhouse. 

Mallory was shivering and stumbling over her own feet, her soft features illuminated by the lone lamppost on his street. Her hand was intertwined with his free one, keeping her body pressed to his as they entered the dark interior of his home.

Dropping his keys on the entryway table, Mallory shut the door behind them.

Her eyes wandered about the place while she kicked off her shoes. “You cleaned up,” she noted.

Frank turned to her. “Mm-hmm.”

“Why?”

He frowned. “Why, what?”

“Why’d you clean up?” she clarified, her plucked brows knitting together as her neck craned to look up at him.

He coughed out a laugh, slowly closing the space between them. “I don’t know…” he trailed, shrugging his shoulders. “Got tired of the mess, I suppose.”

She side-stepped him, twirling around to switch places with him. “Did you have someone over? Wanted to impress them?”

“What?” Frank laughed again, shaking his head.

“Did you have a girl over, or something? Is that why you cleaned?” Mallory pried, analyzing the lack of dust on the tabletops and dishes piled up in the sink in the kitchen a few feet away. 

“Mallory…”

Her eyes shot back to him, still a bit lagged due to her intoxication. “Did you?”

He took a slow step toward her, hands slipping around her slim waist. “No, baby. I didn’t have anyone over.”

She squinted up at him, searching for the lie that wasn’t there. “You promise?”

Tilting his head, he asked, “What? You the jealous type now?”

Her hands pressed to his chest in an attempt to shove him back, but he didn’t even budge. “I’m not jealous.”

“Right.” He smiled down at her. “Well, now you see how I felt when you brought that little prick to dinner last month.”

She couldn’t help the smug smirk that appeared on her glossed lips.

“I had to sit there and watch you,” he stated, reaching down to grip the hem of the sweatshirt he’d given her to wear. Lifting it, Mallory worked with him to get out of it. 

Tossing it on the floor at their feet, fire coursed through Frank’s veins. “While he touched your thigh under the table,” Frank whispered, his hand grazing up her arm. “While he kissed you.” His hand cupped the side of her face.

Her brown eyes peered up at his. “You didn’t seem to care,” she countered, pulling him closer to her by the buckle of his belt.  

“Because I shouldn’t,” he told her, thumb moving to trace the softness of her bottom lip.

She let out a shaky breath. “But you do.”

“I do.”

She chewed on her bottom lip, breathing faltering as she reached her arms around his neck, forcing his head closer to hers. “Show me, then.”

“Show you I care?” Frank asked.

“Mm-hmm,” she replied, nodding.

With little-to-no effort needed, he picked her up, hands gripping the bare skin of her thighs as her legs tightened around her waist.

They had been in this exact position so many times before, it almost felt normal. It didn’t feel wrong, nor did it feel like something worth hiding. But it was—it was both of those things.

Her lips crashed on his, the taste of her strawberry lipgloss tainting his mouth as they worked in sync with one another. 

Frank walked her to the living room, slowly lowering her down on the couch without breaking their kiss. She kept her arms around his neck, forcing his face as close to hers as possible.

He held himself over her, grinding his hips into hers like it were muscle memory. His erection pressed to her needy core, causing her to moan into the kiss, which only sent a shockwave through his already-fried nervous system. 

Using one hand to hold himself up, the other reached down to her thigh, lifting her leg higher so he could feel more of her. 

Her hands moved to his back, tugging at the hem of his T-shirt, silently begging him to remove it.

Breaking the kiss, he sat up for barely a second, just long enough to pull his shirt over his head before he crashed back down on top of her, lips moving the crook of her neck this time. 

Head tilting back, digging into the pillow beneath her, Mallory’s lips parted as soft pants escaped her. 

The sounds she made were always his favorite. The softness, the innocence. It drove him absolutely mad.

“Frank,” she breathed, nails digging into the bare skin of his back as she continued to grind her hips against his bulge. “I want you.”

His lips planted kisses down her neck, working towards her chest, fingers pulling down the strap of her tank top and red, lace bra. Panting, he glanced up at her, barely registering her words through the thunderous rhythm of his own heart. “What’s that, baby?”

Her legs wrapped tightly around his waist. He knew she was close already.

“I want you—I want more,” she slurred, her tone pleading and desperate.

“I know, I know,” he repeated, lifting himself back onto his knees. “Not here, though.”

She peered up at him, her lips swollen and trembling.

“Go upstairs,” he instructed her as she slowly sat herself up on the couch before him. He smiled softly, finger looping around the strap of her tank top and bra. “And take this off,” he added, snapping them against her skin.

Smirking, she climbed off the couch, not bothering to fix the way her denim shorts had rode up her hips. Before running off, she leaned down to press another kiss on his lips. “Five minutes?”

When she pulled away, he nodded. “Five minutes.”

Frank idled on the couch for a few minutes, listening to the soft sounds of Mallory’s footsteps up his staircase and taking his belt off, letting out a shallow breath at the slight relief. 

He was so hard, it was painful. 

When he finally made it upstairs, inching towards his bedroom door, he hesitated for a moment. A multitude of thoughts and feelings flooded him when he peered through the crack between the door, spotting Mallory’s naked frame already tangled up in his bedsheets.

He wondered how long he would do this for. How long he would neglect his morals for her—how long he would risk everything for her. However, it only took a second or two for him to realize he would do it forever, if she allowed it.

He would do just about anything to her—and for her—as long as she allowed it.

Pushing open the bedroom door, he took strides towards the bed, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans as he went. 

Mallory flicked her gaze up to him, which he only caught through the dim outdoor lighting shining through his bedroom window.

“Are you okay?” she asked quietly.

Stepping out of his jeans, he felt the blood rushing to his dick just due to the sheer thought of what she looked like beneath the sheets wrapped around her body.

“I’m okay, baby,” he told her, crawling on the bed towards her. “Come here,” he coaxed, rolling flat on his back and pulling her on top of him.

She complied, straddling his waist, causing the sheets to fall and leaving her bare body exposed.

His hands moved from her thighs all the way up to her perky tits, cupping each of them with his hands that covered them entirely. “God, you’re so perfect,” Frank whispered, grazing his thumb over her pebbled nipples.

By way of a response, she leaned down, bringing her face to his and grinding her hips over his erecting through his boxers as she went. She kissed his lips, his cheek, and then his neck as she slowly worked her way down him, pressing soft kisses to his skin all the way to the waistband of his boxers. 

Frank ran his fingers through her hair, moving it away from her face so he could watch her work to remove his boxers.

His chest rose as she slid his boxers down his leg. He helped her by kicking them off, spreading his legs slighting as she sat back on her knees between them.

With her eyes trained on his hardened length, she chewed on her bottom lip as she worked her hand on it, gripping and twisting in all the right ways.

Watching every move she made, Frank grunted with each one of her gentle strokes. 

She was always so gentle. He liked that.

After glancing up at him for a brief second, she brought her mouth down to his shaft, sticking her tongue out as she licked from the hilt of it to the tip, sending shocks of electricity through Frank’s core.

“Fuck,” he breathed raggedly, tangling his hands in her hair as she took as much as she could in her mouth, saliva dripping down as she worked what she couldn’t fit with her hand. Moving quicker, she suctioned her mouth around him, tongue drawing circles as she went. 

“Fuck, yes, baby. Just like that,” Frank moaned.

He wanted to move her hand. He wanted to work his dick in her mouth, fucking her tight throat. But he wouldn’t. 

He didn’t want to be rough with her. Not with her.

The combination of watching her gag as she tried to take more of him and the overwhelming sense of pleasure coming over him was forcing him on the edge, but he didn’t want to finish yet. He wanted to feel her.

Tugging on her hair, he instructed, “Come here, baby.”

She sat back up on her knees, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she returned to straddling his waist. 

He wrapped his arm around her, flipping the both of them over in one swift motion so he would be on top of her. 

Lips moving back to hers, he moved his hand down to her core. Just the gentle touch had her moaning incoherently against his lips. 

He took himself in his grasp, positioning his tip with her soaking entrance. 

As soon as he slowly entered her, her lips broke from his. Her head tilted back, lips parting as she sucked in a sharp inhale. 

“Does it hurt?” Frank asked, making one slow thrust in her. 

She bit down on her lip, shaking her head. “No. It–It feels good,” she muttered, nails digging into his biceps. “So good.”

“God, you’re so wet,” Frank whispered into her ear as he continued making slow thrusts, gripping the sheets beneath them in an attempt to tame himself. Head drooping into the crook of her neck, he placed a kiss on her shoulder.

“Frank,” Mallory said, but it came out like a moan. When he didn’t respond to her, she repeated, “Frank.”

His head shot up, motions halting. “You okay?”

She nodded assuringly. “I, um,” her words trailed and he did his best to ignore the way she twitched around him.

“What is it, baby?” Frank said, voice gruff and hoarse.

“I want it, um—” she exhaled roughly, hesitant, “I want it… rough this time.”

“Are you sure?” he asked because he surely wasn’t.

She chewed on her bottom lip and nodded. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

“I don’t wanna—”

“Hurt me,” she filled in, already too-knowing. “I know.” She shook her head. “You won’t.”

Frank remained still for a moment, eyes searching hers as he thought over what she was asking for.

Pulling out of her slowly, he moved his hand to the back of her neck, forcing her to sit up. 

Once she was on her knees, chest rising and falling frantically, he let go of her and twirled his finger. “Roll over on all fours.”

A sly grin spread on her face as she followed his orders, positioning herself on the bed before him on her hands and knees. 

Frank sat up on his knees, aligning himself back with her dripping entrance. 

Holding his hand out before him, he spit on his fingers and smeared it on her swollen clit, spreading her arousal where she needed it the most. 

In response, Mallory’s back arched just as he slipped himself back inside her. 

Sliding in deep, he gave her a second to adjust to him again before sliding out and repeating the motions repeatedly.

With every thrust, her upper body melted deeper into the mattress, moaning incoherently as her ass clapped against him. His hands gripped her hips, cursing under his breath as he slammed himself deeper. 

“Oh, fuck,” she moaned, back curved in a way that drove him mad. “Harder. Harder, please.”

He complied, thrusting himself in her with more force, causing the bedframe to hit the wall. 

Hand sliding up her back, he clenched his fist around a chunk of her hair, pulling hard. Her head lifted off the mattress in response, but that wasn’t enough. He wanted to see her. He wanted to see her face—the faces she made when he was fucking her. 

His hand moved to her throat, forcefully bringing her to him. As her back became flush with his, still arched in a way to move her hips on his shaft, her head fell back on his shoulder.

“Oh, my God,” she panted, doing most of the work herself as Frank kept his hand tight on her throat. “It’s so—it feels so fucking good,” she cried out, rotating her hips on his length in a desperate way. 

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he muttered in her ear, watching her ragged pants with her body nearly limp under his touch. “God, you feel so good around my dick.”

“I’m so—fuck,” she stammered, reaching for his hand that was gripped her neck. “Harder,” she begged, pushing his hand tighter against her airways. “Choke me, please.”

Thrusting his throbbing dick deeper inside her, his fingers dug into the skin around her neck as he did just as she asked. 

Anything she wanted, he was willing to give. 

Frank completely lost control with her. But, this—being rough with her—was a new kind of high he didn’t know was attainable. 

His free hand came around her front, connecting with her aroused clit, fingers working in circles.

He nearly came at the sight of her eyes rolling to the back of her head.

“Oh, fuck, Frank,” she moaned loudly, “I’m cumming,” she cried out, her voice hoarse from the hand still tightly gripping her neck. “Yes, please. Just like that, Frank. Please, don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

Her entire body vibrated against his, neither of them able to mutter a single sound other than moans of pure pleasure. He felt her walls clench around him as he maintained a steady pace, but he didn’t want it to be over just yet. 

Pulling out, Mallory’s breath hitched in her throat. “Wha—”

Falling to sit on the bed, his back against the too-noisy headboard, he crooked a finger, gesturing her towards him. 

She smirked softly, drunk off something much more dangerous than liquor as she crawled over to him in such a primal, seductive way that the hairs on his arm stood up. 

Climbing on top of him, she gripped his dick, aligning him with her entrance before slowly lowering himself down on him. 

“Like this?” Mallory asked, biting down on her bottom lip to stifle a moan as she rocked her hips back and forth on top of him. 

Frank grunted in approval, gripping her ass with both hands as she ground herself against him, taking his full length. “Just like that, babygirl.”

She bit her lip harder, arching her back and placing her hands back on his thigh as she moved faster against him. 

He wrapped his arm around her, using his free hand to stabilize himself. “Don’t do that,” he muttered, working with her. “Let me hear you, baby. I want to hear you moan my name while I fuck you.”

She lifted herself slightly, allowing him to thrust up into her with rhythmic pounds.

Even if she wanted to be quiet, it would be impossible to do so when he was giving it to her like he was. 

“Fuck, Frank,” she cried out, eyes screwed shut as a whimper left her. She fell forward, hands pressed on his chest as she continued rocking against him. 

Frank’s hand collided with her ass, causing her to cry out in pleasure. 

“You like that, baby?” he moaned. “You like when I slap your ass?”

“Yes,” she panted. “Yes. Oh, I’m gonna—I’m cumming again.”

Frank was close, too. As her body twitched against him, he wrapped his arms around her as her chest fell flush with his, pounding his hips up into her as she went slack against him. 

“I can’t—I can’t take any—”

“You got it, baby,” Frank coaxed her. “Come here,” he said, cupping her cheeks and forcing her lips on his. 

Her lips moved against his as he went to flip them over once more. 

On top of her, Frank continued thrusting deeper and quicker inside her. “One more time, baby,” he muttered into her lips. “I want you to come for me one more time. I want to look at you while you come all over my dick one more time.”

Sitting back, he moved his hand underneath her right thigh, hoisting her leg over his shoulder so he could drive himself deeper inside her. 

Her head dug into the strewn-about pillows beneath her. “Holy fucking shit, Frank,” she cursed breathlessly, squirming against him. “Oh, fuck.”

“You like that, baby?” he cooed, nostrils flaring as he thrusts harder. “You like when I fuck you deep like this?”

“Yes,” she cried out. “Fuck, yes, Frank. I love it.”

He felt like a ticking timebomb, capable of exploding within her at any given moment. He knew she was there, too, twitching and squirming against him. When her leg fell from his shoulder, he took it as an opportunity to grab her hips, lifting them up and forcefully pounding her small frame against his. 

“Fuck, baby,” he grunted, fingers digging into her delicate skin. “You’re gonna make me cum.”

She moaned loud, knees begging to close as her entire body shook against him. “Frank,” she called out, her voice echoing off the walls and sending his body shuddering. 

His release came fast and hard, nearly paralyzing him as he never once stopped his rhythmic motions inside her. He didn’t bother pulling out. Mallory was on birth control and he liked it better knowing he filled her up. 

“Did you—Did you cum?” Mallory asked quietly as his thrusts became slow and sloppy. 

Achingly slow, he pulled out of her, causing his cum to pool out of her. He smirked at the sight. 

“Yeah, baby,” he breathed, falling down on the bed next to her. “I came.”

Her chest rose and fell as she turned on her side, facing him. “That was so good,” she commented, laughing to herself.

Frank smiled, fingers grazing her soft skin for a moment before he sat up in bed. 

“Come on,” he said to her, patting her shaking thigh gently. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Ooh,” Mallory sounded, smirking up at him as he climbed off the bed. “Shower sex, too? God, I’m the luckiest girl alive.”

He narrowed his eyes on her. “Don’t tempt me, baby.”