#peter 3

His body was currently nestled between your spread legs, eyes roaming your body before fixing on your face. Your lower half is entirely exposed, the breeze from his open window nipping at your skin making you squirm. “This wasn't what I thought you meant when you asked for help, and I said yes Peter” you whine and buck your hips into his touch as his hands roam up your sides, rubbing and caressing your body. You can feel the cool metal of the singular web shooter strapped to his left wrist. “Oh this is fully what I intended when I asked baby, tug all you want, squirm all you want” he coos as he uncovers your breasts by pushing your shirt up to reveal them. “Need to test how strong the new formula is” he explains softly as his right hand falls between your open thighs, middle and ring fingers nudging open your slit and rubbing through your folds. Slick immediately collecting on the tips of his slender fingers.

With a sharp intake of breath you twist your body and try shifting your hips away from his hands. His free hand that has the web shooter aims towards your writhing leg and shoots webs that wrap your ankle tethering it to his foot board. “You sure this wasn’t what you intended, princess? You're so wet for me” he emphasizes his tease with a tilt of his head, smirking softly as his two fingers push at your hole.

You whine and push your hips back on his hand trying to get them inside you, your hole clenching at the small intrusion. “I missed you Pete, you've been so busy” you explain and look through your lashes at your boyfriend hovering over you, your eyes full of longing and love. “Awww well i'm here now baby” he leans down and presses his lips to yours just as his two fingers push knuckle deep inside you. You let out a short surprised moan against his lips as you kiss back greedily. You tug at the webs around your wrists, hands desperate and itching to touch Peter. “Keep tugging baby, try your hardest, you can do it” he mumbles into your mouth, his words both encouraging and mocking before humming when you whine in response. Goosebumps rise on your skin from the pleasure, his free hand coming to pin your hips down holding them still.

Pumping his fingers in and out of your leaking cunt, a sloppy squelching sound filling the room along with your muffled whimpers and moans. “Fuck!~” you let out a plaintive cry and pull away from peters mouth when his thumb is added in, stimulating your clit. Rubbing small circles on your bundle of nerves as his fingers speed up their movement, making your mouth fall open and your head fall back against his pillows. Your hands tug as well as your leg at his webbing, the action doing nothing to tear or unstick it. A heat spreading through your body, you liked this idea of him tying you up with his webs more than you could’ve guessed, the heat settling and growing in the pit of your stomach.

“Come on baby, i don't think your tryin’ hard enough to break out” he taunts as his long fingers find that spongy spot deep inside you and start abusing it, the rough pad of his tongue speeding up its circles. “Gonna have you cumming before you break the webs princess” he chuckles softly and leans down to kiss along the exposed column of your neck. Your head goes fuzzy from his mouth on you, his fingers ruthlessly thrusting inside you, the feeling of him all over you. “Can’t- I can’t do it Pete, i cant break em’ fuck- please baby im gonna cum!” you whine and cry out, your eyes squeezed shut as you teeter on the edge of your climax.

He grabs ahold of your chin and moves your head up the movement forces your eyes open, you stare into his deep brown eyes, his pupils blown.

“Not yet baby, the experiment hasn't gone on long enough, need to see if they break” his voice comes out sweet yet concedesing as he crashes his lips against yours to muffle your wanton moan.

Truthfully Peter had gotten enough information from all your squirming and pulling that he figured it was strong enough, he was just having far too much fun playing with his pretty girlfriend.

He watched countless videos, all for educational purposes — spending hours on pornsites just to acquire as much information as possible. He really wanted to make this an enjoyable experience for you both, so to him, research was the way to go. 

Peter took a considerably lengthy list of notes, jotting down tips and tricks and techniques to ensure he was confident in getting you off. Though it’s easier said and done. The tricky part was always putting it into practice, applying the knowledge when the time comes.

And so, now you lay on his bed, underwear discarded somewhere on the mattress, bare legs bent in the air as if to keep yourself exposed and available to him. It’s always frightening to present yourself to a new partner: worries of what they may think and say. 

But with Peter, not once did you have those doubts. The way he simply is, is enough to distract those thoughts.

He’d admit, it was rather intimidating. Seeing in person once again just how complicated the female form is. It was almost enough to completely discredit the confidence in all that he’s learnt. But he prevails. 

He itches himself closer, steady breath hot as it hits at your cunt. He’s slow, movements feeling calculated but really he’s just trying to remember the steps in the hazy panic.

He presses a kiss to the crease of your upper inner thigh, the soft, fluttery touch an effort to build you up slowly. His hands cup the backs of your thighs, wandering, needy fingers pawing and squeezing at the doughy flesh. 

And so he presses another kiss, seering the act of affection into the other side, giving both sides similar attention. But between either thigh, there was something else that awaited his attention. Your pussy growing antsy with anticipation, a slight ache forming as he attends to the other parts of you — giving your thighs and ass cheeks the attention your cunt so clearly wanted. 

Though you wait. You keep your hands clasped to your chest rather than the locks of his hair, not wanting to hasten or progress things too much, too soon.  

His kisses eventually circle inwards and he places one to the centre of your folds, the light, brief moment of contact having more of an effect on you than you’d have expected. It was the attention to detail that caught up to you, the slow, timely movements allowing things to build up naturally for you.

He halts with the kisses for now and lines the expanse of your cunt with his tongue, trailing your folds up and down with the flat of the muscle. Unpointed pressure showing his lack of haste in the matter. He reaches your clit and his lips wrap around it, pucking yet another faint kiss. 

But he doesn’t part from it. Instead it’s like he’s latched onto it, mouth covering the sensitive nub with gentle pressure. His tongue pokes out between his lips as he swipes at your clit, flat tongue flickering over it unrushed. 

You release your firm hold around your breasts and instead place your hands atop his head, unable to keep yourself from touching him. Your fingers slot into the messy strands of hair at the front, antsy fingers simply using him as something to hold onto. 

The silent act of tugging his hair is quite enough to egg him on further, to encourage him even. The way you seek him out was something he found rather endearing, erotic too. The way you sound is also quite the confidence booster, your airy deep full breaths wordlessly telling him that what he’s doing is working. That he’s doing something right. 

He parts from your clit for a brief moment to kiss back down the length of your slick cunt, lips halting at the very bottom of you. His tongue sharpens as he begins to lick up you, the slight point curling up against your entrance with the movement. Though that's all it is. Nothing more comes from that little teasing dip into you. 

He laps at your arousal only to spit it back onto your pussy, combining your juices with spit of his own. And it becomes apparent that he’s starting to grow lost in the act, freestyling and abandoning his intricate, mental step by step. Like a sense of pressure and worry leaves his shoulders as he listens to your pants, your bodily reactions continuing to tell him that he’s doing a good job.

Peter retracts a hand from the cheek of your ass, instead moving it towards your cunt. He lines over the mess of your folds with his index, trailing over the spit and juice and arousal as he itches it closer to your entrance. His lips and tongue resume their attention on your clit while his finger begins to guide into you. Easing in with no resistance at all. 

He locates what he guesses to be your g-spot, the ridges and bumps of it later telling him that he’s correct. And so he starts to rub the pad of his finger against it, mimicking a ‘come hither’ motion.

And once again, your reactions guide him: fingers gripping tighter in his hair, breaths growing ragged and strained, hips winding, chest rising and falling. Every single one of your bodily responses coming from a place of deep, unwavering pleasure. His research didn't need to tell him that you were beginning to near your end, he could just feel it.

Many minutes pass with Peter repeating those few movements, the combination seriously altering the ability to control your volume. You whine and pant against him, the hands that once laid atop his head now sit on his shoulders, your force trying to push him away from between your thighs. The feelings of it all growing too intense. 

But that’s not what you really wanted. You didn’t want him to stop and he knew that also.

You feel that pressure build in the pit of your stomach and without much time to prepare, you're writhing against him, an unfamiliar sense of tension accompanying. His finger acts as a plug inside you as he awaits the moment, only retracting when the time feels right. He pulls his index and lowers his mouth, relocating to the bottom half of your cunt — lining himself with you to swallow as much of your squirt as possible. 

And once your convulsing and spasming subsides, he’s pressing soft, reassuring kisses to the inners of your thighs, making conscious effort to help you down easily. He adjusts and repositions himself, moving up the length of your body to hover atop you, face now close with yours once again. His cheeks blushing with pride.

His lips ghost yours and you taste yourself. 

“That was so embarrassing,” you mutter against him, head turning away bashfully.

He maintains eye contact, his head tilting with yours as if to signify the importance of what he’s about to say.

“That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

There had been times when Harry resented you, feeling his father favoured you more. There were times you resented Harry, thinking he was a spoiled brat who couldn’t appreciate the silver spoon he was born with, wedged between his perfect teeth. 

But one day, during the summer after your first year of college, floating on a yacht in the middle of the Atlantic off the beautiful coast of Grenada, you grew up and realised you ate with the same silverware he did. And somewhere along the way, perhaps overlapping Harry’s bender backpacking trip across the Swiss Alps around the same time, he realised that you were the only person on the planet who knew what it was like to be the child of Norman Osborn. But anyone with siblings gets that. 

That summer, you guys met up in Italy. It was great, and you got to know each other once again. When Harry talked about his life of girls and booze and easy classes, he had a dazzling smile across his face and a glimmer in his eye. He also observed the way your face lit up when you told him where your studies had taken you and all the things you had seen. 

Neither of you brought up the past. It was a silent agreement you had come to at the realization that both of you were much happier now. Running away had worked out for you, so like true runaways, you let the past stay right where it was. 

But anyone who’s been on the run knows, the past doesn’t stay far behind; it’s always breathing down the side of your neck, catching up to you just as fast as you slow down. 

It was in the halls of Museo di Capodimonte that it suddenly caught up to the both of you. You had seen the picture a million times, but pixels on your screen did nothing compared to seeing the grand scale of vibrant oils stretched over old canvas covering the wall before you. Your eyes darted wildly, bouncing around every detail, in awe as you unravelled more. The piece seemed to breathe, and you could feel the rage of Judith in her tightly clenched fist, you felt Abra’s fiery judgement, and when gazing in the dying eyes of Holofernes, you felt a morsel of vindication. 

As you looked to Harry, you knew he felt it too. His chest was tight and unmoving, his fists clenched at his sides, and his jaw set so tight it filled out some of the stark hollows of his cheeks. His entire body had gone rigid. 

All but his eyes. His eyes glistened like stars, wide and round as they travelled between the faces. They had not yet begun to pool, but there was a glassy film there now that could not be denied. Then, it seemed the same wave that had rolled through you had finished washing over him. His glassy eyes met yours as he finally let out the air trapped in his lungs. 

No one said anything; it would almost be rude. This was not something anyone but an audacious poet would try to put words to. You both knew. His hurt matched yours. And for the past few years, you and Harry had been killing off the same man–or trying to at least–by chasing down all the things he hated and being all the things he said not to be. 

You took a step closer, then wrapped your arms around your brother. This sort of intimacy was usually reserved in your family for photos or curing cancer or other such accomplishments, but, despite the almost foreign approach, Harry met you quickly in the hug. 

When you broke away, Harry’s eyes met yours once again, and his heart tugged at the sight of your now glassy eyes.

“So,” Harry tried awkwardly, breaking the tension, “wanna try out those street waffle things we saw outside?”

You chuckled, the tears slowly dissipating from your water line. 

“Yeah,” you agreed, “glad to know we’re on the same page.”

He offered you a hand, and you took it as he led you away from the painting.

That trip humanized both of you, and now you were thick as thieves. You often talked on the phone and tried to hang out whenever your travels brought you close enough. For the past few years, you and your brother acted as long-distance besties, and you loved it. 

But mostly because your father was nowhere to be seen. No longer looming over you, but somehow silent. And much like any estranged family, nothing brings everyone together better than a wedding. Or a funeral. Which is what finally brought the Osborn children back to New York. 

You had received a call on the coast of Hvar summoning you, and when you came home, you saw Harry standing on the last step of the staircase, your father’s room just a few feet away. He seemed frozen there as if scared to take his hand from the railing. His eyes were glued to the brass handle that kept the room sealed, the ornate details woven into the metal. You understood his fear. You were never welcomed there. Or in this wing of the mansion. This was Norman’s space, and it was terrifying to enter it. 

You called out to your brother and he flew down the steps, with a speed that told you he was already looking for any excuse to turn back. 

The small talk was small. How’s life? Where are you now? Seeing anyone? Etc. You stood there awkwardly, delighted to see your oldest friend and brother, but terrified he wasn’t as ecstatic. At first, it was awkward seeing Harry again. He hadn’t changed much, but his face was sharper– the bags under his eyes were heavier. Harry immediately was jealous of your tanned, glowing skin, your time in Croatia obvious from one glance.

Hacking and coughing interrupted the long silence between you, and you remembered that Harry was about to say goodbye to his father. 

You offered him a hug, and to your surprise, he accepted it. You were beginning to love this new family tradition.

He looked at you with a small smile, then at the door. You grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze before making your way in. Norman looked worse than you remembered, and you held back a gag at the smell of imminent death permeating the room. 

Norman called out to you first, which made your gut twist. He told you how proud he was of you, for overcoming so much despite your “bad blood.” You bit your tongue instead of blowing up on him. However, Harry didn’t. It seemed all twenty years of his anger was unleashed all at once. You watched in awe as Harry tore into the now decrepit man, listing his offences with ease, as spit flew from his lips like venom. Neither of you listened to his justification of how it made you better children. 

When you left, Harry slammed the door behind you. You took a breath, digging your sunglasses and a pack of cigarettes out of your purse. Harry's eyes landed on the familiar glint of silver in your palm. You had found that Dupont Lighter in a locked desk drawer, along with your confiscated lip gloss, and decided the stuffy nun wasn’t going to use either. You had held onto it ever since. 

In his moment of grief–no, maybe contempt was a better word–he had missed you placing your sunglasses upon your head. As always, you never stopped moving. 

His whole life, Harry felt like he was chasing you down. You never stayed in the same spot for ten minutes. You created such mischief in school, the feral Osborn. You chased anything you wanted with ardour. Many adults called you driven but Harry always saw it as something closer to fury, he could just never pin down what exactly pissed you off so much.

And even now, in the face of their changing future and dreadful pasts, you move forward; not even reaching the hall before moving on to the next thing. It made him chuckle. He’s not entirely sure why–the human brain is a great mystery after all–but seeing you so casually shake the pack at him in a silent question to join made him laugh. 

You walked down heretofore longer hallways to a set of French doors you had both trudged through often. There were many nights the “Osborn Twins” would meet here for a walk, sneaking out after a disastrous holiday. The wide, white archway marked a sort of physical truce. Once on the other side, they were somehow farther away from anywhere they’d ever been before. Harry remembers one particular Christmas in grade ten, you had stumbled upon him smoking a crudely rolled joint in the peony bushes.

You took a seat at the bench carved into those very bushes now, and lit a cig for Harry, passing it to him before sparking your own. Neither of you speak as you both sit in the wake of Norman’s words, soaking in the inquietude of walking these halls again. Harry occasionally takes a glimpse of your face as the tobacco crackles under flame and sees your brows furrow deeper and deeper in your thought. 

“Is it too soon to say ‘fuck that guy’?”

“Nah,” Harry laughed, a plume of smoke leaving his lips in broken clouds. “We should have said it sooner.”

You took another drag. There was so much you wanted to say, but you couldn’t find the words. The best you could settle on was, “I’m sorry your dad’s a dick.”

Harry laughed at that, too. 

“Hey,” he said, checking your shoulder lightly when you didn’t look at him, “I’m sorry both your dads are dicks.”

You grinned, and Harry did too. You felt better; he was joking with you again. Maybe you guys would be okay after all. You opened your mouth to say something else when you heard someone shout for Harry. 

Footsteps crunching in the grass grow closer, and both of you straighten up. It did not occur to you or your brother at that moment that you were both more than old enough to indulge, only that you were sure to be scolded by whoever your father had sent to find you. Harry coughed as he whipped to the side, snuffing out the ember of his cig on the pale concrete of the bench you sat on. You opt to let yours fall from your lip and stomp it once it hit the ground. 

“Harry?” The voice called out again, “You out here?”

The man was just around the corner, a shadow barely visible behind the hedges. You pull your foot back, kicking the evidence under the bench into the bushes, lost forever. 

A young man appeared through the leaves, his slender hands reaching to remove his hood. His eyes landed on you and your brother, running wildly between you, then he smiled. Even in the halo of the sun, you knew this man. Though you hadn’t seen him in years, you knew that smile well.

A similar beam spread across your face, delighted by the wonderful vision before you. 

“It’s like seeing a ghost,” Harry said softly. 

The man took a tentative step towards where you sat, but stopped his advance quickly, as if scared.

“Hey, Harry,” he smiled anyway. 

You couldn’t contain the joy you felt looking at the man above you, the warm brown eyes and soft laugh that filled your childhood. 

“Do my eyes deceive me, or is that you, Peter Parker?”

A laugh tumbled from his lips, and he drew closer, stopping just out of your reach. “Still as funny as ever, (Y/N). I’m glad your time away hasn’t changed that.”

He directed that ever-warm smile your way, and your heart melted a bit. 

“Yeah,” Harry said, looking to you with a similar look. “Me too.”

“What’s it been?” He now asked Peter, “Ten years?”

“Eight,” Peter said, His shoulders jumping up in a quick shrug, “But close.”

He said it like a joke, yet a dormant ball of guilt awakened in your stomach. It twitched at the memory of a teary-eyed boy begging you to stay. His chubby cheeks flushed, and clammy hands clinging to your shirt. 

“I Uh…” The muscles in his face pull awkwardly for a moment, but he pushes through it. “ I came to say I’m sorry…about your dad.”

Your tongue moved faster than you could think, jerking forward the same way your knee does when smacked in the right spot. 

“Not my father.”

The words came out cold, and the chill froze Peter, icing him over where he stood with his hands in his pockets. His eyes were wide, and his mouth flapped uselessly as he continued to stutter and trip. 

“Right,” He tried to correct, “I uh– I just meant, um–”

Harry smacked your arm very hard, and you let out a long, annoyed “ow.”

“She meant to say,” Harry piped up, saving Peter, “Thank you.”

You rolled your eyes, hating it when anyone spoke for you, but especially hating when your brother did so. 

“Yeah,” Peter said, unsure, “No problem.” 

As you looked at the man standing before you, your brain pulled forward many memories of laughter and blue skies and mischief. Memories of a bright, round boy with a sensitive heart that often brought him to tears. Memories of hideouts hidden from the scary world, and even more of kicking other little boys' assess for giving Peter a reason to hide. Now he stood before you, tall and trim– a fully realized Peter Parker, hewn and charming. 

“You lost your braces,” you observed, “And you’re tall.”

“Now there’s nothing to distract from his unibrow.” Harry teased. 

“Or his ears.” You quickly add. 

Peter let out a dry laugh, his head falling to the side slightly. 

“I’ll let that slide given the current situation, but any more teasing and I might have to retaliate.”

You stood up, stretching your back before pulling your bag further up your shoulder. “Yeah, right, you just snitched on us to May.”

Harry rose with you, his smile falling slightly as he looked to his old friend. “Please tell me she’s still around.”

“Oh yeah, she’s still kickin’,” Peter chuckled. “And spry enough to still whip both of your asses.”

You watched as the boys stood in front of each other, hands firmly placed in pockets and their weight shifting from their heels to the balls of their feet. You could feel the platonic tension in the air and rolled your eyes thinking, boys. 

“Oh my god, just hug already!”

They laughed at you, then slowly opened their arms to each other. Your heart warmed at the sight, and you didn’t wait long to join yourself to the outside. If you were still children, you could be expected to be thrown off and chided for your antics, but today they giggled. When you pulled away, you let out a relaxed sigh. 

“That feels better,” You said before walking off. 

Both men called out to you, wondering where you were going. 

“We are going.” You corrected, turning over your shoulder to shout, “Come on, boys!”

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You went on a walk through the park, catching up on anything and everything. Harry could now handle spicy foods, and Peter had learned to appreciate sour candies. Though he no longer liked peppermint, which you found appalling. Everyone was in school, but studying different things. Peter got better at skateboarding, and Harry now did his hair all on his own. 

When you got tired of walking, the boys claimed a space on the sidewalk. You couldn’t ride a skateboard, but you insisted that Peter let you. This led to a conversation held in an odd game of monkey-in-the-middle. You held your hands out to the side, legs firmly planted where he instructed, and the boys pushed you back and forth between them as you all spoke. 

“So, Harry,” Peter teased, “I saw you on a magazine the other day.”

Harry’s eyes were protected by his sunglasses, but you could sense the unseen eye roll. 

You teasingly ooooh’ed at your brother as you approached him. 

“Did you get caught with another model?”

“Shut up,” He replied lazily with no true anger, “You know, the whole model thing is so exhausting.”

Harry stopped you from slamming into him, face bored.

“I know,” Peter said, mimicking his tone, making you giggle. 

“Alright, alright!” Harry pushed you away from him with more force this time; his extended hand turned to flip you off before turning towards the water. “I can see I’m outnumbered by the poor people.”

You were sailing quickly and your eyes widened as your collision with Peter seemed imminent. He met your panicked expression with a small smile, a silent reassurance. You reached your arm out as far as it would go without tipping over. Peter caught it effortlessly, then intertwined your fingers. Your heart stuttered at the action, then stopped entirely when he pulled you closer, the skateboard picking up speed. 

Just a moment before impact, Peter’s toes raised to stop the board. You felt the moment it stopped and a small yelp left your lips as you clenched your eyes closed. You sailed into what felt like a solid wall, the side of your face landing against his chest with a thump. 

“Hey,” his lips brushed against your hair, his voice was barely above a whisper. “You alright?”

It had been a while since you had seen Peter. You had almost forgotten all about him in your years away. But as he held you, all the feelings you had forgotten came back. Suddenly, you felt like you were thirteen again, and it was hard to calm your quickening breath when he was being so gentle and kind. When his eyes twinkled at you fondly. When his thumb was stroking the back of your hand, and his other hand held you just above the tailbone, keeping you against his body. You nodded dumbly, and his smile stretched. 

Peter then turned away from you, and you felt his chest expand as he started to raise his voice. 

“I’m not entirely sure Os-bought here counts as poor.” 

Your brother laughed in the distance, and you playfully glared at Peter, which earned you a chuckle. 

“Whatever, Os-mooch.” You said it soft enough that only Peter heard, and his head reared towards you. His eyes widened, and a blinding grin covered his face at the long-forgotten nickname. 

“And what about you, Peter?” Harry asked, reaching the railing that protects civilians from the ocean. “You got a girl?”

At that, the man before you deflated a bit, dropping his hand from your back and stepping to the side so he stood beside you. You tried not to hope for any specific answer.

“I don’t think so,” he said, using your intertwined hands to steady you as you stepped off the skateboard.  “Maybe- I don’t know.”

You let go of Peter’s hand once on solid ground and raced to sit yourself on the railing Harry leaned against. 

“What does that mean?” Harry asked as Peter joined you both, resting his forearms against the metal, the same as Harry. 

Peter’s eyes found yours, but his gaze was calculating. You didn’t get to dwell on it long, as he just as quickly dropped his head with a sigh. His silence intrigued your brother enough to look his friend over. Peter straightened his arms a few times, rocking back and forth as a long, hushed groan left his lips. He raised his head once again, but this time his eyes looked sad as they locked with yours. You found your own face falling at the expression. 

He then turned to Harry with a shrug, “It means what it means.” 

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It was sufficient to say the gang was back together. You, Harry, and Peter picked up like nothing had changed. Obviously, a lot had. You had to schedule around work, school, and adult responsibilities now, but you scheduled nonetheless. You saw Harry plenty now that you had become neighbours. After Norman passed, you both decided to sell the manor. There was nothing there for either of you in that house. You instead spent the money on matching penthouses, having never broken the habit of “matching gifts” even in adulthood. You decided to transfer to ESU with Peter and stay in New York. Now that Harry ran Oscorp and Norman was gone, you had no reason to run away. 

Everyone was currently gathered in the living room of Harry’s lavish New York Penthouse. You had returned from the movies– a new thriller that terrified the three of you, though none of you admitted it– and somehow, some three hours later, you guys had gone through half a bottle of honey whiskey. It was late, and smiles were wide. 

Norman’s funeral was just a few days ago, and it had you feeling oddly reminiscent. You couldn’t say that you missed him, but the relationship was complicated. You were grateful for the life you had, and as you looked around the room, you felt immense gratitude. Because of him, you have met two of the best people in the world. 

Harry was walking awkwardly around the room, hunching his shoulders and bringing his knees high as he strutted, all while speaking in a high-pitched, gruff voice. 

“Ms Osborn!” he pointed a crooked finger your way, “If you insist on talking so much, maybe I should send you to the chapel so you can talk to God instead. Perhaps he might want to hear what you have to say.”

You were gripping your stomach, laughing so hard that tears came to your eyes. “Oh my god, Harry, she sounded just like that!”

His impression had Peter in shambles, although he never had the pleasure of meeting the retched Sister Nilsson. His back was against the couch and his feet kicked in the air. Harry laughed too, feeling a bit of pride in his wisecracking. 

“I hated Nilsson; she was the worst.” You said between laughs, “Loved her class though.”

Harry barked more than laughed at the statement, straightening his back and letting his head fall to the side. 

“No, you didn’t,” He smirked, “You just liked Justin.”

You rolled your eyes, taking another swig from your glass. 

“Justin?” Peter asked, picking up on your embarrassment. He often had teamed up with Harry to get on your nerves, and it seemed like not much had changed. “Who’s Justin?”

Harry threw himself over the back of the couch, now only addressing Peter, though his eyes found yours, and you saw a mischievous glint resting in his irises. “Justin Meyers was a boy in Sister Nilsson’s class. My sister was completely infatuated with him.”

Peter sat up some, his interest piqued. “Well, what was so cool about Justin?”

You clocked Peter’s tone immediately. The way he said Justin’s name, as if this old crush had offended him somehow. But he tried to cover it under the guise of a joke. You took another sip of your glass, ready to fire back at the teasing.  

“He was smart and tall,” You said dreamily, “He was so cool. He had an electric guitar in his dorm room.”

You watched as Peter bristled a bit. “He doesn’t sound that cool.”

“He wasn’t,” Harry confirmed. 

“Shut up, Hares,” You warned, “He was much cooler than the girls you ran after.”

At that, Harry laughed, “Yeah, well, my goal was never ‘cool’. Just hot.”

You threw a pillow at him, and it knocked him off balance enough that he fell to the floor. Laughter filled the room again. 

Time passed, though you were too drunk to count the minutes. Everyone was lounging around and singing along to the music you had put on, or sometimes jumping up and singing a song word for word. 

After about six songs thumping through drunken limbs, the group had rearranged themselves. Peter now joined you on the carpet, parked directly in front of the sound system. He had asked to queue some music, so you passed him your phone. He took the opportunity to look through your music, noting the similarities, overlaps, and differences. 

“Wow,” he commented, “You’re quite the romantic.”

Your cheeks warmed, and you brought your hands up to cover them, shocked by the response.

“Nu-uh,” you weakly defended, making Peter chuckle. 

“It’s okay, it’s not a bad thing. I just wasn’t expecting it.”

You felt yourself enamoured by his easiness. His brown, doed eyes met yours, and his smile stretched politely. He looked beautiful in the soft light. Outside, New York was cold and dark, but here he was bathed in a light, goldenrod haze. And through the haze, Peter had never been more defined. As you gazed at him, your childhood friend, you realised he was no longer a child. Instead, he was a handsome young man. 

“I think you might be a bit of a freak too,” He joked. 

Your jaw dropped as he showed you the playlist he was now investigating. You reached quickly for your phone, not wanting Peter to see which songs you felt belonged in your “I’m sexy and horny” playlist. He laughed, switching the phone to the other hand, and you followed it, rolling on top of him. You straddled him, then used one arm to pin his down and the other to reach for the phone. It did nothing as he just switched it again with his free hand, laughing. 

“I mean, Super Freak by Rick James says it all.” His thumb pressed the song, and it blared through the sound system. 

“Pete,” You tried, reaching helplessly for the phone again, “Please don’t blare this with my brother in the room.”

At the mention of him, you both looked to see what Harry was doing. He had been quiet for a while now, you realised. Behind you, Harry was stretched out on the couch, his mouth hanging open as he drooled. 

“Uh-oh, guess Harry can’t stop me,” Peter snickered. “Let’s see what other goodies are on here.”

He started to scroll again, and you tried desperately to stop him, but it was too late. His face lit up as he gasped.

“Oh my god, you are a freak! A self-proclaimed one!”

Suddenly, “Freak” by Doja Cat began playing, and you collapsed in embarrassment. Your hands cradled your face as you folded yourself over, your head falling to Peter’s side, but your body flat against his. He let you hide for a moment, but then he began to poke you. You spazzed a bit as he tickled you, your laugh breaking free despite your best attempts. When you had had enough, you sat back up, swatting his hand away. Peter beamed at you while mouthing the chorus. 

You decided to call him out on it, saying, “You seem to be a freak too. You know the song pretty well.”

Peter made a face like he was thinking, before saying, “I guess you're right.”

There was a look in his eye that you wanted to pull forward and study under a microscope. His face was still as beautiful as ever, but it had changed ever so slightly, and the thought sent a shiver down your spine. Your shoulders rolled back, and you remembered that you had all but mounted Peter, and were still sitting atop him. 

You got up as gracefully as you could, hoping he didn’t notice how flustered you had grown in the silence. In an attempt to busy yourself, you cleaned up the glasses in the living room and walked them to the kitchen. You took your time away attempting to level your breathing. When you returned, Peter had turned off the music and was now standing awkwardly in the space, staring up at the ceiling with a hand in his curls, as if lost in his thoughts. You couldn’t help the adoring smile that crept onto your face. 

Then Harry snored. The bellow came from below you, and as you looked over the couch, there your brother lay, rolled over on top of himself, the drool now trailing from the side of his gaping mouth to a small pool on the cushion. A sigh left yours at the pitiful sight of the possible end of a good night.

“I think it’s time for bed,” you said, then turned to Peter, who had seemed to notice you in the shattered silence and had straightened at attention. “You’re not drunk, are you?”

Peter’s face flushed slightly, his hand returning to scratch at the base of his neck. “No, I didn’t drink that much. I can head out.”

“No, no,” You reassured. You immediately felt bad, thinking that he thought you wanted him gone. “It’s late. You should stay. You can crash with Harry if you like, or you’re welcome to stay at mine.” 

Pete threw his hand around like he was trying to brush away any awkwardness. “I don’t wanna put you out, it’s no big deal.”

“Peter,” You said in a warning tone that reminded him oddly of May. “It’s nearly midnight. There’s no reason for you to travel home this late. Besides, it’s always nice having you around. You’re never ‘putting us out’ by staying.”

Pete let out a laugh that was a little tense, “If you insist.”

“Oh, I do.” You confirmed. 

Peter’s smile was tender, bright, and kind. It made your heart melt, and you hoped he didn’t notice it oozing through your shirt. 

“Okay then, if the lady insists.” 

He moved to scoop Harry from the couch, and before you could stop him to tell him you were just gonna wake the sorry bastard up and make him take himself to bed, Harry was fully in Peter’s arms– bridal style. He picked him up as easily as you do your purse, and you felt your heart beat a little harder at the display.

“I’ll get this mess into bed.”

You led the way, flicking off switches and opening doors as Peter’s hands were full. Once Harry was tucked in– and he was, upon Peter’s insistence –you stepped back into the hallway, leaning your back against the wall. Your eyes wandered down the long expanse before you, towards the window at the very end of the hall. The only light came from wicked moonlight creeping through Harry’s drapes. The wind howled angrily as rain violently crashed against the pane. You hadn’t noticed how bad the storm had gotten downstairs, surrounded by light and laughter. 

Your heart pounded faster and faster in the still night, the shadows warping in the hall coming out to grab you. It felt exactly like that scene from the movie you watched today. The protagonist had to face a curse of sorts. There was an entity that existed only in darkness, following them through every moment of their life. And though you never saw the monster lurking in the darkness, you knew it was there, and felt its presence now. You could feel its piercing stare through the stale air. You could feel it drawing nearer and nearer. 

“Hey.”

It was a faint whisper, but your terrified mind mistook Peter for the lurching monster you were so sure was moments from seizing you. A gasp ripped from your throat as a small piece of your soul tried to leave with it, your hand flew up to your chest as if to hold it down. Peter’s eyes widened, though you didn’t notice, and he quickly leapt into action: closing Harry’s door and then grabbing your shoulders to shield you. He moved so quickly that it took your brain a moment to catch up. But once it did, it completely forgot about whatever creature might be lying in the deep, dark. Instead, it was focused on Peter’s cologne and how it might be the best thing you’ve ever smelled. 

“Are you good?”

“Yeah.” You tried your best to make your body match what you were saying– blinking back into consciousness– but you weren’t sure it was convincing. It came out faint, barely slipping off your tongue. Peter was giving you a look again, one you couldn’t read. It made you feel like he knew something you didn’t.

His head tilted down so that his eyes were closer to yours, inescapable. 

“Are you sure?” He asked gently, “You look a bit flushed.”

You laughed humourlessly, trying not to let his words or charm work on you. “Yeah, I’m sure. I was just thinking about the movie we saw tonight.”

Peter seemed to relax a bit then. His shoulders dropped, like he was holding a big breath and finally let it go. His hands slid down your arms as he took a few steps back, then fell back onto the wall opposite you. 

He chuckled lowly to himself, shaking his head at the floor before mumbling, “Yeah, it was a bit freaky.”

You felt an airy laugh leave your lips, “I’ll probably have to sleep with the lights on for the rest of my life.”

Peter’s head raised to meet your eyes in the darkness as he brought his arms across his chest, and you couldn’t help but marvel at the way his arms flexed to accommodate the motion. Surely, he was doing this on purpose. 

“Well, if you want, I can stay with you,” he offered, voice still soft in the quiet night. “Harry seems like he’ll be sleeping just fine tonight, but I don’t want you losing sleep over monsters.”

You chuckled lightly, and the dark hid the way Peter seemed to light up at the sound. 

“I don’t wanna put you between me and any of my monsters.” 

It was a warning, a gentle one said through a joke, but there all the same. You didn’t need Peter to fight your battles, and you wanted him to know that, now. You felt like things were still changing, your world still shifting into place. Whatever this was between you and Peter felt like a big piece of it. It scared you. Whatever this was, it would have consequences. You needed Peter to understand that you were not asking him to fix you. He seemed to understand the deeper meaning of your words (or at least some of it), and he considered them for a moment. 

“I’m not scared of monsters.” He finally declared, stepping away from the wall and bringing himself closer to you. You had to lift your chin to meet his eyes now. “But how about– just for tonight– we just focus on just the one?”

His smile was relaxed but oozing with sincerity, and it was all the convincing you needed. 

He let you lead, despite knowing the way well–you only lived across the hall–taking anything you picked up in your hands to carry as you both collected your things. Arguing with Peter over your ability to carry your own purse was something you stopped doing weeks ago, though you still felt the urge to every time. 

As you stepped inside your apartment, it was dark. The thunder rolled deafeningly through the skies, assaulting your eardrums. You flinched but felt much less afraid when Peter reached out to you, his palms lying against your biceps and his body heat radiating from behind you.

You took a deep breath, and he removed one hand to flick on a light. The kitchen to the right was illuminated, and the beams strayed into the living room, casting parts of it in bright light. 

“That better?” He asked, with no hint of teasing or malice.

You nodded and thanked him, though he noticed the way your eyes travelled to the darkness warily. He moved past you to the kitchen counter and emptied your purse. You would have scolded him if you had noticed, but you were much too busy trying to find a path to the stairs that stayed in the light. He pushed aside your cosmetics and receipts, his fingers scanning through the rubbish. He returned to you with a timid smile and his prize held high in his hand. 

“Would a little bedtime smoke help?”

You looked away from the inky black night to where Peter held your cigs and lighter, a smile spreading across your face. 

“I thought you didn’t like me smoking?” you teased.

“I don’t.” He said firmly, “But I hate your stressed face even more.”

You strolled up to him, smiling widely as you pinched the bulb of his nose between your fingers and wiggled it. His face scrunched as you did so, and you released him to grab the contents from his hand. 

“You’re a peach.” You said warmly as you walked towards your balcony. 

The wind was howling, shaking the door slightly with its might. You hesitated for a second, suddenly unsure of how covered your covered balcony was, before you felt a soft blanket being thrown over your shoulders. You smiled at Peter in thanks, and he nodded before opening the door for you. You tensed but released the hold on your muscles when you were not assaulted by anything but a slight chill. The concrete walls did well to protect you from the storm, and you stepped outside. 

The rain was coming down sideways, big, fat drops whizzing past you in the night. You could see the city lights catching in each one as they passed. You watched them as you leaned against the wall, then sank down to sit on the floor. Peter joined you there, casting his backpack to the side, and watched as you gracefully flicked open the carton and shook one out. 

You had wrapped yourself in a cocoon with your blanket, yet your cold fingers struggled with the lighter. Peter didn’t watch you fight for long before he gently guided it from your hands and lit your cig for you. The flame cast a warm glow over his face for just a moment before he moved his thumb away from the spark wheel. 

His eyes never left yours, even now as the cig crackled and the cherry ember began to glow. You held your first puff in your lungs for a few seconds before finally releasing it, welcoming the fuzzy feeling in your brain. 

“There you go,” Peter’s voice barely carried over the sounds of the storm swirling around you, and his thumb raised to coax out the tension carried in the wrinkles on your face. “Much better.”

When your shock wore off, you turned your head, unable to face his unyielding gaze, and replaced the soft chuckle leaving your lips with a filter. You took a few more puffs, both of you watching the storm pass in silence. Sometimes the clouds would ignite– bright light flashing– but what worried you was how much closer the thunder seemed now. It was loud before, but now you could feel it rumble through your bones. You shivered. 

“Aren’t you cold?” Peter’s only protection from the elements was his layered shirts and jeans; you were sure he was freezing. 

“I’m okay.” His smile was tight-lipped before it fell completely, now replaced by concern. “Why? Are you still cold? Do you want me to get you another blanket?”

“No, no need,” you chuckled, then scooted closer to wrap some of your blanket around him. His heart was pounding with the gentle gestures you gave him, readjusting the fabric so it enveloped him fully, as it did you. You gently tugged on the front, ensuring his neck and shoulders weren’t too exposed, then patted his chest. “I’m fine, but looking at you is making me cold.”

Under the blanket, your thighs and arms were right against each other. As you continued to puff on your cig, you started to consider that Peter really might not have been cold, as your cocoon began to feel rather toasty in mere minutes from his presence. You felt so cozy, despite the raging storm. A contented sigh left your lips as your head fell to rest on Peter’s shoulder. As you settled your head, Peter dropped his shoulder ever so slightly, so you didn’t have to strain as far to reach it.

The rain continued to pummel the concrete streets, and lightning cracked the sky. The thunder was right behind it now, barely letting the light shine before interrupting with its bellowing. You winced at the volume, curling a little deeper into Peter to hide, and closed your eyes. He let you stay there, no teasing words of how you seemed afraid of the rain, only a gentle hand resting on your thigh. 

You heard the sound of zippers but paid it no mind, that is, until you heard the familiar click of a lighter. You opened your eyes to find Peter’s hand barely peeking out of the blanket, a flame inches from his face. 

The ember caught, and he discarded the lighter, a plume of smoke leaving his lips around the cone in his mouth. The smoke was taken quickly by the wind, cutting up and down in the harsh breeze. It didn’t smell as harsh as your cigarette, but you recognised the herbal smell all the same. His hand slowly came up to remove the filter from his mouth as his head fell to rest against the wall. 

You moved your head to prop your chin on his shoulder, and only then did Peter seem to realise he had an audience. 

“I hope you don’t mind if I indulge.”

His face was so close to yours when he turned to look at you. It made it hard to think about anything else. 

The shadows cast made him look as if he were carved from marble. His jaw cut like stone, and his nose sharp, but soft-- politely rounded at the end. The apples of his cheeks were lost to you, but his amber eyes bore into yours. If he noticed the way you were admiring him, he said nothing. Instead, blowing out the smoke in a steady stream, then hitting it again.

“I thought smoking was bad for you?” You teased, reaching for the joint hanging from his lip.

He made no objections through his wide smile.

“Well, green,” He said as you puffed, “is carcinogen free.”

You chuckled at that, passing it back to him and returning to what was left of your cig.

You did that a few more times until your cig had died, then passed the joint back and forth. Peter had begun rambling about something, though you couldn’t remember what he had first begun rambling about, and you found yourself giggling every so often.

Somewhere between the time he sparked the joint and the seven minutes it lasted, you had stretched your legs to lie across him, and his free arm had moved around your waist. The wind continued to howl and the thunder shook the building, but you couldn’t care less, so safe and mellow here. Peter felt so nice in your arms, and there was an intimacy here that was not foreign, but definitely different. Suddenly, passing something between lips with Peter felt special, almost sacred. Like a ritual meant to bring you two closer, though you weren’t sure how much closer you could get.

His head turned to find that you were already looking at him. Peter hoped that the dark night could hide the rising rosy tint in his cheeks. Your eyes were a little glassy now, and your body felt so relaxed in his hold. But it was the small smile on your lips that was really doing him in. It seemed to glow in the darkness, the warmth you looked at him with. 

He wordlessly offered you the joint again, and you took two quick puffs before returning it. 

“You can have the rest,” you told him before wrapping both of your arms around him and laying your head back into the crook of his neck. 

He hoped you couldn’t feel the way his heart was beating. However, you were much too busy with the floaty feeling washing over you. Your brain seemed muddled in the best kind of way, and it told you that you needed to be fully attached to Peter. As the boys knew, you were rarely wrong, and so you listened to your stoned intuition. 

He pulled the blanket tighter around both of you, being careful to tuck some of your face but not your nose. 

“Are you still cold?” He whispered.

You shook your head no, and Peter struggled internally as you cuddled into him deeper, as your hand traced circles on his back.

This was all he had wanted since he was a kid. For her to look at him like that– to hold him like this. But she had never seen him. He was a dork, a fart-face, a total numb-knuckle. And she was beautiful and smart and never let anyone tell her anything. Her tongue was sharp, but her fists were fiercer, and she had used both against any kids she caught giving him strife. Many saw her as cruel and scary– even her own brother had once warned Peter of the dangers of stealing food from a “wild animal’s” plate– but she was only ever kind to him. 

Anytime he visited Harry, you were sure to see him and ask how he was. You asked about his family and school and whatever special project he was working on. You remembered his favourite colour and would bring him various things in that shade, just because you thought of him. While Harry’s gifts were always lavish, yours were thoughtful. And if he teased you, in the same manner as your brother, you were much less violent in your retaliation. 

That wasn’t to say you never fought. Peter often got on your nerves as children. He would tease and make faces. He would side with your brother in almost every argument. But worst of all, he would suck up to your father. Norman passed Peter compliments as easily as he swiped his Amex, but never you. On most occasions, he would praise Peter, then lock eyes with you and Harry, as if to say, “Be better. Be like him.” You had punched him many times as children. 

You were his whole world until you moved away. He can still remember how his heart broke when Harry told him you guys were going to boarding school in Europe. Before he left that day, he came to your room. You had been crying, and Peter’s pudgy fists balled at his side before he released them. You would punch anything that made Peter cry, but he wasn’t you. He couldn’t punch anything hard enough to make you feel better. 

He begged you not to leave him. And as a fellow orphan, you knew that this was the greatest crime you could commit. But his tears stopped nothing, and you were gone the next week. It took him years to get over it, and if May ever mentioned the Osborns, the grief would resurface. 

When you returned to his life, you had grown and changed. You had long since retired from fighting, but your wit was just as sharp. You had somehow become even more beautiful. So much so, Peter had to convince himself that you were a real person, and not some fucked up vison pulled from his imagination. And you were kind. Just as thoughtful in small ways. Ways that made Peter’s heart stutter and flip. 

You yawned, breaking his reminiscing. 

“We should go inside,” he whispered, “It’s late.”

You groaned into his throat like a petulant child. 

“I don’t wanna,” you whined, snuggling closer, “you’re warm.”

Peter chuckled, his heart swelling in his chest, and allowed you a moment more rest before moving to scoop you up. 

You yelped, not expecting to be lifted, and your arms wrapped tightly around his neck. 

“Don’t worry,” he chuckled, “I won’t drop you.”

Your heart was beating fast in your chest. He was so strong, and you could feel his muscles tensing underneath you. In your less-than-sober state, you had the urge to bite him, though you suppressed it. 

He carried you up the stairs and to the master bedroom, where once inside, he placed you gently on your bed. 

“Do you want me to leave a light on?” he asked.

You nodded, and he made his way to the bathroom, flicking on the light and cracking the door before returning. 

“Thanks, Pete,” you smiled at him, “for everything.”

The way you were looking up at him was too much for his heart to take, so he walked back out the door, just to peek at you from the door frame. 

“No problem,” his smile became more of a smirk in the moonlight, “Good night, Os-bought.”

You flipped him off, and he laughed, making his way to the guest room. Once you heard the door shut, you rose to your closet, undressed– throwing on a random T-shirt in the dark–, then crawled under the covers. Your mind continued to think of Peter. You couldn’t appreciate it then, but earlier, when you were straddling him on the living room floor, you could feel how solid his muscles were, almost like cable wire against you. His hands were big too. Nice and vascular, but soft and warm. Your side tingled from where he had laid one before, like it was calling out for him, asking for more gentle touches. And also less gentle touches.

You thought about how it might feel to have his hands on your waist, in a less friendly context than you’ve become accustomed to. You thought about how easily he carried you, and how he would probably have no trouble throwing you around. You thought of his lips and how they may taste. His lips always look so soft and plush. He must use Chapstick, and you wondered what flavour. Maybe just the regular kind, or perhaps cherry. 

And now you were stoned and thinking about the cherry pie in the fridge. You peeked your head out of the door, then crept through the hall and down the stairs into the kitchen. You tensed when the silverware rattled, selecting a fork. The fridge light blinds you temporarily, your eyes now fully adjusted to the darkness. When your retinas recover, you realise there is no pie in the fridge, so you were forced to scavenge for a new treat to satisfy your tastebuds, as you fear they would be the only thing satisfied tonight. 

Despite your best efforts, you weren’t quiet enough to keep from disturbing your guest. However, he had an unfair secret advantage of heightened hearing and an odd sort of sixth sense, which really wasn’t your fault. Peter heard you creeping down the hall, and at first, he thought he might just stay where he was. But his curious mind wouldn’t allow it. If you were awake, Peter wanted to see you. Plus, he could go for a snack. Really, it was a win-win. 

He was much quieter than you and followed the gentle sounds you were making in the kitchen. As he turned the corner, you opened the fridge. He could see the silhouette of your figure in the light and greedily traced over it, committing it to memory. You looked gorgeous, wrapped up in a baggy shirt with your hair strewn about. Peter appreciated the shirt more when you bent over to look deeper into the fridge. He appreciated even more that you weren’t wearing any sleep shorts. He felt bad, perverted even, for looking, but he couldn’t help but admire it. He could make out some lace trimming on the sides that perfectly framed your ass. Suddenly, his clothes felt a little tighter. 

There’s no pie, but there is a box of Crumble Cookies that you had tucked in the back where your brother couldn’t see. Harry would often come check your fridge when his left him bored. If you had to guess, that’s where your pie went. You grabbed the cookies with haste, then turned around. 

You gasped, throwing your hands up to cover your mouth, forgetting the box entirely. Luckily for you, Peter was quick. He moved across the floor to catch them. When he stood, he was a breath away. 

“Jesus, Parker, you scared me.” You exhaled. 

“Sorry, Os-bought,” he said shyly, “didn’t mean to.”

He absentmindedly scratched his pec, but when he tucked his hand under his shirt, the cotton rose with it, giving you just a glimpse of his abs. Your legs clenched at the sight, and you had to look away. You got your bearings, took a centring breath, then grabbed the box from him and closed the fridge. The kitchen returned to the shadows. 

“What are you doing up?” You asked, still whispering. 

He pointed at the box in your hands, “Same as you, I imagine.”

“Well, lucky you,” You chuckle, opening the box for him. “I have your favourite.”

He gasps, grabbing a sugar cookie with Pink Frosting.

“A Lemon sugar cookie!” He excitedly whispers, “You had these the whole time?”

“I got them when I was out earlier, but I had to hide them from Harry so he didn’t eat them all.” 

“Well, I’m glad you did.”

He puts it in his mouth, taking a bite and groaning. You feel your thighs clench at the sound and the way he chases the crumbs from his lips with his tongue. 

“You okay?”

You, again, try your best to act normal. To behave as if the distance between you, or lack thereof, wasn’t suffocating. As if everything he did didn’t make you want him more. As if you didn’t want him at all. 

“Yeah,” You tore your eyes away from his lips, “Yeah, I’m fine.

You take a step away, turning to the fridge again. You reach for the filtered water pitcher, then bring it to the counter, grabbing a glass before offering.

“Do you want any?”

“Nah, I’m alright”

You’ve known Peter Parker for a while, and even if you spent a lot of that time knowing each other apart, there were some fundamental truths about Peter that you knew would never change. Like how he drinks any beverage but his own. Peter won’t ever accept a drink, but he’ll ask for a sip of yours eventually. And he’ll take more than a sip, half of your water source depleted in one long gulp. He has always been this way, and you have adapted accordingly. You filled your glass nearly to the brim, then turned back. He smiled at you warmly, then tilted his head to the side. 

“Hey, is that my shirt?”

You looked down at the worn cotton and wanted to melt into the floor out of embarrassment. It was an inconspicuous brown shirt, but the print was very obviously not yours. It was the Foo Fighters' debut album promo poster, a band that you didn’t particularly follow or care about. But Peter loved them, and you knew that’s how you got the shirt. Of course– of course– you were wearing his old clothes right now, when it’s taking everything in you not to jump his bones. 

“Huh?” You attempted ignorance and nonchalance, “Oh yeah, I think you left it here forever ago.”

“I haven’t seen that since middle school.” He noted.

“Heh, yeah. Harry and I used to fight over it all the time.”

Peter made a face. “Harry likes the Foo Fighters?”

You snorted at that, “No, it just pissed off Dad.”

Peter smiled at that, then let his eyes roam over your figure again. You had turned to return the pitcher to the fridge, placing it back on the lower shelf. 

“Well, I’m glad you got it. You look good in it.”

He’s wearing a cheeky smile when you turn around to look over your shoulder. You notice him not so subtly checking out your ass. You smirk, growing confident and standing tall.

“Are you just saying that because my ass is out?”

“No,” Peter says, then shrugs, “but it certainly helps.”

You didn't expect him to be so forward, to admit to looking at your ass or liking that it was out. You expected a much more “sibling” response, assuming that was how he saw you. Your jaw dropped, unable to keep the surprise off your face. 

“Peter!” You gasp. 

“What?”

The amusement on his face is obvious, and you hate that it makes you want to smile. Especially when you know it’s at your expense. But you refuse to indulge in it and pass him the water, being sure to return to his space. The room is nearly pitch black again, so you place your arm out and squeeze his bicep so you can feel where he is. 

“Sorry, it’s dark in here”

He rests his hand just under your shoulder blade, pulling you closer while guiding your cup to his free one.

“It’s alright, I got ya.”

Your knees feel weak when he says that in the Queens accent, and you're suddenly glad he’s holding you close. He finally tears his gaze away, and you watch his Adam’s apple bob as he sips from the cup, biting your lip.

He looks back down at you and smiles.

“What?” He asks, setting the glass down on the counter beside him.

“What?” You repeat.

“You’re lookin' at me funny,” He says with that same mischievous glint in his eye. 

“No, ’m not,” You lied. 

His now free hand moves the hair that had fallen in front of your eyes and pushes it behind your ear. You feel a jolt of electricity course through you at the contact of his gentle fingers on your skin. 

“Yeah, you are.” He all but whispers.

You look for a retort but find none, because he’s right. You want him to fuck you, and you’re sure your face says the same. The air is getting thicker, and it’s harder to breathe. Or maybe it’s just the way he’s looking at you. 

“You okay?” He teases, “Your heart’s beating pretty fast.”

You shift your weight so your pelvis is pressed up against him, adding pressure to where you were already touching. He takes a sharp breath, his hands instinctively grabbing your sides to keep you there. The hold is firm, and you feel your body respond to this new touch. You feel a bit of pride in the way he’s holding you close, in knowing that he seems to want you, too. Maybe you weren’t stupid, maybe you were a genius. His eyes are trained on you, and you decide to do a little teasing of your own. 

“I’m fine.” You bring a cookie to your lips, humming as you take a bite.

His fingers are tracing circles where they lie. 

“What flavour is that?” He asks, though he sounds distracted. 

“Snickerdoodle,” You offer. “Wanna taste?

You hold out your bite of cookie, but Peter ignores it, instead putting his lips on yours. You melt into the kiss instantly. 

His hands trail from your sides until they rest just above the curve of your ass, bunching up the worn cotton covering it. You shiver at the newly exposed skin. Time is lost as his lips meld to yours with a firm pressure that isn’t too aggressive, but just enough. You turn your head, deepening the kiss, your hands moving from his arms to tangle in his hair. The groan he lets out goes straight to your core. You feel his tongue swipe across your lips, and though it’s tempting, you don’t allow him entrance. Peter had no problem teasing, and you wanted to pay it forward. 

He pulls away, slowly separating his lips from yours. His forehead rests against yours as your breathing levels. 

“Delicious.” He concluded. 

You can’t help the small laugh that bubbles up at the comment. And when you look up, Peter is smiling down at you. Not smiling with you, but because of you, and that’s a feeling you could get used to. 

One of his hands comes up to smooth your hair, and you nearly swoon. 

“I think I may have to go in for seconds.”

You smirk, giving his hair a little tug, which he groans at. “You better.”

Peter has never been one to disobey a pretty woman. He kisses you again, this time a little sweeter. You play a game of cat and mouse with his lips, taking turns pulling away and chasing. Peter gets frustrated with the game, though, and pinches your side. You gasp, and he takes the opportunity to invade. You can feel the desperation–the desire–and taste the lemony, ginger notes on his tongue. It’s intoxicating. 

One of his hands trails lower and lower, skating down your thigh, leaving goosebumps in the wake of his fingertips. He guided your leg up, and you hooked it on his hip. 

Your skin was burning hot as he continued to steal your breath. You could feel a stiffness against your core, and you testedly rolled your hips. Peter’s breath hitched at the contact, and you did it again. This time, you were rewarded with the opportunity to catch his moan in your mouth. Peter pulled you closer by your raised leg, eliminating space you didn’t think could even be there. He rolled his hips into you and it felt amazing, the little bit of friction you got from his boxers (You hadn’t realised until then that he too was walking around in his underwear). The weed in your system made you extra sensitive. Every touch was a tidal wave, and it didn’t take much to wind you up. 

Peter’s lips pulled away to kiss his way down your throat as your hands freely roamed his body. Hands skate over lovers by the oven light to the sounds of heavy breathing. A song and dance familiar to both, but never like this. You felt life in his lips. His teeth dig into your flesh, and you realise that you would be completely content if you died there. Your life was in his hands, and you would let him do whatever he deemed fit.

Soon, he was picking you up. He lifted you off the ground and guided your legs around him. From this new angle, you could gaze down at the man your heart beat for. You couldn’t stop your fingers from tracing shapes on his soft skin.

“What?” He breathed between kiss-bitten lips stretched into a small smile. 

“What?” You repeated. 

“You’re looking at me funny again.”

You weren’t sure why you said it. You had a strict rule against complementing the men you fucked. Most of them didn’t need the ego boost. They knew they were hot, which is why they shot their shot at an Osborn. But Peter was different. 

He was your friend, a trusted confidante. He was light, he was warmth. He was comfort, he was strength against all odds. He was everything and more. 

“You’re just so beautiful,” you whispered, voice full of awe. 

Peter tried not to show how your words affected him. The way you looked at him like some precious thing, like you cared for him. 

“You’re stealing my lines, gorgeous.”

He kissed you again, so he wouldn’t drown in your fervid gaze. Your fingers remained on his face, trailing down his throat, and he hoped your touch would never leave. 

He spins you around and sets you down on the island, all without his lips stumbling against yours. His hands begin to explore your body, trailing up your legs and stomach. 

You're beginning to get a little frustrated. Kissing Peter is nice, for sure, but you want more. Your fingers dig into his shirt, trying to pull him closer, and he follows. Soon he’s rolling his hips into you again, with a hand skating under your shirt and the other tangled in the hair at the base of your neck, swallowing every noise you make for him. 

He pulls on your hair, moving your head farther to the side so he can begin sucking on your jaw and neck. His teeth graze across your skin, and your eyes roll back in pleasure. But still, it’s not enough. Your hands worm their way under his shirt, your fingers tracing over the abs you all but drooled over earlier. You feel the muscles twitch under your touch and continue to work your way down. Your hand grips the band of his boxers, and your fingers brush the head of his cock. 

A low hum that resembles a growl comes from his throat. 

“Baby, if you touch me right now,” he warns, “I will cum.”

His words tickle your neck, but the gruffness of his voice, the way “baby” tumbled from his desperate lips, makes you tremble. It was intoxicating, just his lips had you transfixed, you wanted desperately to know what else he could do to you.

“What if I want you to?”

Peter pulls away from your neck, and your hands move back up towards his sternum. He looks at you with shock that he can’t hide, and you're about to pull away, worried you had said something wrong, but then he shakes his head with a small laugh. 

“Oh, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

Soon he’s on top of you again, his lips on yours and his thumbs rubbing over the swell of your breasts. The way his tongue flicks around your mouth leaves you dizzy. Then he pulls away, and you bite your lip to keep from whining. His eyes never leave yours as he slowly pulls his shirt from his body, allowing you to see him completely. Your eyes hungrily look him over, drinking in every bulge and divot. 

You begin to follow his lead, your hands coming to the hem of your worn t-shirt before his hands stop you. Your brows furrow in confusion. 

“No, no,” he says softly. “The shirt stays on.”

“Then what comes off?” You ask.

You giggle a little, the dopey look on his face warming you. 

“I got a feeling there’s not many other options.”

His finger pulls on the waist of your panties, the elastic snapping loudly against your skin. You suck your teeth, the jolt exciting you more than you care to admit. 

“Peter parker,” Your tone sounds offended, but the grin across your lips hides nothing, “are you calling me a slut?”

“Not at all, sweetheart.” You watch as he slowly sinks to his knees, his gaze unwavering as he places sweet kisses on your thighs. You shudder, and you can feel him smirk against your plush skin. His fingers trace the path he makes, feather-soft. “Not, unless you want me to.”

Your body trembles with anticipation as he comes closer and closer to where you need him most. But just as you think he’s about to end his teasing, he skips over your panties and kisses your stomach. You whine as his head slowly enters your shirt, and he chuckles. 

“Lay down for me, baby.” He’s using his nose to raise the cotton of your shirt and his words to melt you into pliable goo.

You follow his instructions, a small gasp leaving your chest as the cold marble hits your back. You're quickly distracted though, as Peter wraps his lips around one of your perked nipples. Your hand flies to his hair, your hips buck in pleasure. You were so distracted that you didn’t even notice his hands slipping your panties to the side. He moaned as he flicked his tongue around you, then grazed his teeth over the sensitive bud. 

Your breath hitched at the action and the noise went straight to his cock. Peter would have loved to tease you like this for hours, but he didn’t think he could hold out that long. He needed you. God, how he needed you. 

He trailed a finger through your slit and you moaned, so close to relief. He made a few passes as you squirmed before landing on your clit. He began moving his fingers in slow circles before switching boobs. Your chest rose into his mouth, your back arching from his touch. You looked heavenly, all splayed out for him, lost in your pleasure. 

It wasn’t long until his fingers moved to insert a single digit into your cunt. You gasped and he groaned as your walls squeezed him tightly. 

“Fuck, babygirl,” You preened at the nickname, “You’re so tight.”

He worked his finger slowly, until he felt you relax some, being sure to distract you with other pleasures. Soon you were bucking your hips into him and the sight of you fucking yourself on his finger made him feral. His chest heaved as he watched, trying to convince himself not to fuck you senceless then and there. Instead, he added another finger, watching you squirm in pleasure at the intrusion. 

He could barely fit two, and worried for a moment that he might hurt you, but soon you were moaning his name, a soft please leaving your lips. He thought he might burst then and there. 

“What is it, hmm?” He asked, keeping his steady pace, “What do you need?”

Your eyes met his, all glassy and shot with pleasure. It was a good look on you. 

“Faster,” you panted. “Please, faster.”

Peter grinned before setting a brutal pace. Your hand came to cover your mouth as you shrieked. He was hitting you deeper, faster; the spongy part of your walls brutalized in the best way. You felt so sensitive from the weed before, your brain still pleasantly foggy. It didn’t take long for your legs to start shaking. As soon as Peter noticed, he brought his other hand down to rub at your clit. You came with a shout, eyes rolling back as you arched against the counter. Peter doesn’t think he’s ever seen a more beautiful sight than that. 

Your hand fell gently on the one moving your clit and Peter begrudgenly stopped, though he wanted nothing more than to watch you keep twitching. The other raised to rest on his cheek, and he followed it as you brought him closer. 

You crushed your lips together. It was messy and passionate, and Peter wouldn’t have had it any other way, but he needed more. After a few moments, he pulled away, his brows furrowed and eyes closed like he was focusing hard. 

“What’s wrong?” You found yourself asking, insecurity slipping in between the syllables. 

At that, his eyes snapped open, guilt washing over his features as his eyes landed on yours. 

“Nothing,” he rushed out, kissing you on the cheek, then all over your face. “Absolutely nothing.”

His kisses tickled and you couldn’t help the giggle rising from your chest. 

“I was just thinking about eating you out,” Suddenly the laughter dies, and he feels your legs begin to close around him, “and I was trying really hard not to cum from the thought of it.”

Any witty comeback is lost to you when Peter’s hands begin to massage your thighs. It had never occurred to you that Peter was a munch, but the idea of him getting off to you getting off was extremely hot. 

“I uh, well,” you found yourself stammering, “you’re welcome to, if you want.”

Peter laughed, kissing your cheek again before trailing down your throat. Once he reaches your shirt collar, he gathers the material under your chin, his hands then working off your panties. 

“Don’t mind if I do,” he jokes as his kisses continue to trail down your body. 

Soon, he’s on his knees again, and you prop yourself up on your elbows to see him better. He carefully guides your legs over his shoulders as his nose trails the skin of your inner thighs. The sound of him drawing your scent through his nose makes you nervous for a moment, but any insecurity is squashed at the resounding groan he emits. 

His eyes flash up to yours, and even in the darkness, you can see how lost he’s become. His eyes look glazed as his mouth lazily hangs open. You swallow, almost nervous for what’s to come. 

In a flash, his tongue darts out, planted flatly against your hole, then moves up to your clit. His moan is almost drowned out by the sharp gasp that rips from your throat. He felt so warm against you. He made a few more passes, his eyes drooping closed as he began to lose himself in your taste. It was intoxicating. The tip of his tongue caught on the edge of your hole, penetrating for just a moment, a ghost of a promise, and his name fell from your lips in a beg. 

Suddenly, his eyes shot open, a look of determination on his face. 

He laid is tongue flat against your clit, whipping it back and forth with a sure pressure. The jump from such gentle touches to rough depravity stole your breath in a shriek. Your nails raked uselessly against the polished marble countertop as he began to suckle on your sensitive bud. He broke off of it with a gentle kiss, before pointing his tongue and flicking over it quickly. Your back arched, shoving you deeper into his face, and his hands around your thighs tightened in response. A string of expletives fell from your lips as he alternated between his movements, as you squirmed more and more, he pulled you closer and closer. 

You wanted desperately to pull at his hair, but the thought of hurting him pulled you back. You could barely breathe, the world around you blurring as you approached your second orgasm. You grasped at your chest, twisting and pulling at your nipples, then massaging the flesh when that too became too much. 

“That’s right,” Peter praised, making you squirm all the more as he spoke into your sensitive cunt. “Play with those pretty tits.”

Your back arched as you continued your ministrations, and soon his fingers carried on simulating your clit so that he could fuck you with his tounge. You were shaking in no time, incoherent babbling leaving your lips. Peter couldn’t help but groan into you. A small pool was forming on the counter where he had artfully laid you out, and his tongue had been swallowed by your walls, sucking him in further as they pulse around him. His tongue twisted and twirled, collecting everything he could on his taste buds, before he found that ridged spot deep within you. 

A shout came from your panting chest, and Peter could see tears leaking from your eyes. Your head whipped frantically, and he could feel your shaking legs instinctively pulling away, overwhelmed by pleasure. He knew you were close. Hell, he was close himself. But he had to keep going. He wanted to give you everything and more. He’d eat you out till dawn if you let him. 

“Cum for me baby.” He spoke in a near whisper, and you were barely coherent enough to catch it. You whined, unable to form words, and he felt as you pushed yourself deeper into his hands, grinning widely through the slick that now covered his face. “That’s it, atta girl.”

His praise sent you over the edge. You came with a cry, your body jolting as your high hit you, before it cut off into a silent scream. Peter’s tongue was quick to enter you again, catching everything he could on his greedy face. It was like a dam broke, and Peter revelled in the pride of having made you squirt, bathing himself in it. 

You’re panting, barely present on this planet, when you feel his lips on yours again. You grasp him desperately, your hands almost painfully gripping at his curls. You can taste yourself on his lips, and he moans into your mouth as your tongue dives deeper. You can feel the way his chest rises and falls against yours, and the hard bugle pressed against you. You reach for his boxers again, and this time he doesn’t stop you. 

You feel him in your hands, and he captures your gasp in your mouth. Your fingers strain to wrap around him, and you throb at the thought. Your thumb comes to nudge at his slit, wetting it with pre-cum. He groans, the sound coming deep from his chest, and suddenly, the rooms run out of oxygen. You slowly angle it down, so he’s perfectly in line. He wastes no time thrusting forward. 

You nearly fold in half, a mix of pain and immense pleasure overtaking you as he fills you. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” He breathes, “I’m sorry baby, I’m trynna go slow.”

His brows are knitted tightly, and there are beads of sweat brewing at his hairline. Your hand reaches up to hold his cheek, and his eyes snap back to yours. 

“Don’t care,” You managed. “Want you.”

He buried his head in your neck, unable to control himself if he gazed into your fucked out gaze filled with adoration. He huffed and puffed as he forced himself to push forward slowly. You squirmed and wriggled as he moved, and his grip on your hips was painful as he held you still. He was only about halfway before he felt the wall of your cervix, and stilled for a moment to let you adjust. 

You were just as breathless, having never felt so full before. Your brain wasn’t running as it usually did, and you had to fight for any form of lucidity, but one thought flittered across your mind: You had officially been ruined for any other man. Peter had eaten you out enough to make you squirt, and now, just having him inside you was enough to almost make you do it again. 

He gave a shaky breath as he slowly pulled back, leaving only his tip inside you. He counted to three, then pushed slowly back in, watching as your head fell back. He did this a few more times, until it felt like you had relaxed some. It was hard to gauge as your walls were so tightly surrounding him, he was afraid he might rip you in half. You didn’t seem very concerned though, babbling as your jaw hung open. 

He carefully lifted a leg to his shoulder, opening you up just a little more, and then pushed in further. The moan he recieved went straight to his cock. He found himself moving at a much faster pace, no longer able to control himself with the way your body was begging him for more. 

Your hands flew to his arms, where he felt your nails digging into his flesh. Your back was arched so far only your head and ass remained on the counter, before you fell back down, no longer having the strength to do more than lie there. He moved a hand from your waist to your cheek in an attempt to ground you, like you had for him before. 

“Doing so good for me,” he cooed. 

He felt you tighten around him as he spoke, and hissed as he did his best not to cum. You nuzzled your face deeper into his hand, your eyes unfocused as they searched for him. Your lips gently brushed his thumb, and to his amazement, your tongue came forward to pull it into your mouth. 

“God,” Your tongue swirled around his digit before you began drawing it further into your lips. Peter had to tear his eyes away from the display, listing every state and capital in his head so he could keep going. “Fuck, baby.”

As his focus shifted, he was no longer thinking about speed and began thrusting into you at a brutal pace. You cried out, another orgasm coming forth, and drool dripped down the side of your mouth, gathering around his fingers. 

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” You babbled, and Peter was never one to deny a pretty woman. 

He watched as your eyes scrunched closed and your mouth continued to slacken. He leaned forward, greedily swallowing your beautiful moans. As you came, a hand came down on the muscled plains of his back, and your nails raked up them. He hissed as you shook beneath him, the leg over his shoulder locking at the knee. He slowed his pace while your breathing began to level out, until eventually he stilled. 

His hand rubbed soothingly at your thigh, while the other wiped sweat and loose hair from your eyes. You blinked dumbly, finally finding him. Once you did, your hands grasped desperately at his face, bringing it to yours. It was messy, teeth and tongues knocking against each other. You devoured him, and Peter felt his cock twitching inside you at the thought. 

“Need you to come,” You muttered across his lips. “Please, need you.”

Peter rubbed a soothing hand up your side, shushing you. 

“It’s okay, baby.” He spoke so softly, like you were an avalanche waiting to happen. “Just take it easy.”

“No,” You whined. “Want you, want all of you. Please, please, want you.”

You bucked your hips, and you both groaned at the movement. Peter laid a hand on the base of your stomach, trying to still you. 

“I won’t fit, baby.” He tried to reason, “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Tears of frustration began to pool in your eyes. If you hadn’t just had your brains fucked out three ways from Sunday, you might have been ashamed of your behaviour. But for now, all you could think about was more: more Peter, more pleasure, more, more, more. 

You tried to sit up, but your arms began to give. Peter was quick to catch you, helping you the rest of the way up. Your hands rested on his shoulders, moving up his neck and then back down. 

“Please,” you pleaded, “I’ll be good.”

You pulled him in for a kiss, trying to suck the very soul from his being, and you could feel Peter nudge forward, pushing into you a bit more. You gasped into his mouth, your hands pawing at him to bring him closer still. 

“I’ll be so good,” You promised. “Please, please; need you.”

Peter looked into your eyes and knew he was doomed. He would do anything you asked of him, and anything you wouldn’t. He’d march into battle in boxers. He’d swim the whole English Channel. He would assassinate a senator if you asked.  Anything your heart desired, he’d serve to you on a silver platter. And what you were asking of him now, how could he deny you?

“Okay, baby, okay.” He cooed, “Come ‘ere.”

He slowly pulled out of you, and you whined. He placed gentle kisses on your cheeks as an apology as he pulled you forward. You slid across the counter and he held you up as your useless legs came to stand. He had one arm wrapped around your waist, holding you up, while the other rubbed circles on your back. You pawed at him, and he kissed away your tears. 

“It’s okay,” he murmured, “I got you.”

He turned you around, guiding your hands to the counter and lifting your hips up with his forearm. 

“You have to tell me if it hurts, okay?”

You nodded your head fast enough to make you dizzy, your ass wiggling towards him. He pressed soft kisses across your spine, then you felt his bulbous tip prodding at your folds. You bit your lip to contain a whine, then all at once, he entered you again. You jostled forward with the force, the act knocking the wind out of you. 

“You okay?” He asked, his voice shaking. 

“Fuck, Peter!” You cried, your head bobbing, “Yes, yes, please.”

You shoved yourself back, trying to take him yourself. At this angle, you felt him go deeper, and your body melted in the pleasure, your cheek hitting the cold marble as you gasped. Peter hissed, his body trembling against you. He gained his composure and ripped your arms from the counter, pulling them behind your back, then leaned down into your ear. 

“Don’t do that, I don’t wanna hurt you.” He warned, his warm breath fanning across the shell of your ear. “Now, be good.”

You preened against him, trying your best not to wiggle as he arched your back. He moved slowly, dragging himself out to the tip then back in, getting deeper and deeper each time. You hummed and panted, trying your best to relax so you could take more. Soon enough, you felt Peter’s pelvis brush against your ass and you felt a pressure in your stomach. Satisfied moans filled the room, and your body trembled in anticipation. Peter stilled for a moment, gathering himself. 

He had sex before, a few times even. He had gotten some pretty good reviews, but he was no sex god. But this, with you, was something else entirely. Maybe it was the fact that he knew you, trusted you. Maybe it was because you had always been so kind to him, a true friend he always needed. Maybe it had been that he had loved you for as long as he could remember. Maybe it was that he had never bottomed out in anyone before, but he was on a high he wasn’t sure he would ever get again. 

He pulled out again, then thrust back in quickly. You whimpered, and he did it again. By the third time, you were crying out his name. He continued thrusting, slowly getting lost in the feeling of your walls closing around him. You were a moaning mess, and Peter loved the sound. He also rather enjoyed the view of your ass bouncing against him with each thrust. 

He spreads your legs farther, giving himself more room to work, and in a moment, you're practically screaming in pleasure, expletives and pleas leaving your lips. He released your hands, gathering your shirt in his hands before gently stuffing it in your mouth. You took it easily, a look of relief softening your brows. 

“You’re gonna wake up the whole damn neighborhood,” he chuckled to himself. 

His hands trailed down slowly, grasping your breasts in his big hands, and using the leverage to meet his thrusts. Your hands desperately gripped the counter’s edge, trying to find purchase as you felt your soul being rearranged. Peter was panting as you babbled around the cotton, drool staining the fabric darker. Your brain melted away as your high continued to rise. Your eyes rolled back in your skull, and your body began to shake. Peter felt this and almost laughed, full of euphoria. 

“Take it, yeah, there you go.” He barely recognised his own voice. In you, he was discovering things about himself, things you seemed to enjoy. “Such a good girl.”

He began thrusting faster, watching you tremble and shake bellow him. He knew you were close, and he wasn’t far behind. He focused hard, letting himself revel in your pulsing velvet walls. He felt a small hand cover the one on your breast and let you guide it to your throat. 

He placed it gently, unsure, but you warped his fingers around it and squeezed. As he applied pleasure, he felt how tightly you squeezed around him, how your muscles tensed. 

“Oh, fuck, omigod!” He was practically breathless. 

In his frenzy, he continued to fuck you on his cock, a bruising grip on your hip and another on your throat. You felt him wrap around you to massage your clit, his fingers lubed with your slick, cum, and spit. You let out a final cry, muffled through your shirt but loud enough that anyone awake at this late hour would hear it. He was overwhelmed by the vision of your slick spewing around him. He gulped, then felt his resolve crumble as he came with a shout of his own. 

You began to crumble forward and he scooped you up, bringing your back to his chest. Neither of you seemed to mind the sweat as you worked hard to steady your breaths. You were limp in his arms, your head lolling to the side as he held you close. You looked beautiful. You always did, but the lazy smile across your lax face was a wonder to behold.

His fingers reached up to your hairline, brushing some strands off your sweat-soaked forehead, then began leaving kisses along the side of your neck. 

You giggled, and Peter found himself chuckling too. Your arms came around to wrap around the ones that held you, and Peter felt his heart swell in the hug. 

“How you feeling, beautiful?”

You sighed whistlefully, rolling your head onto his shoulder. 

“Greaaaat,” you sighed. 

Peter chuckled again. 

“Good, good.” He said softly, “Me too.”

He pulled his hips back, slowly pulling out of you, and grimaced when you winced. 

“Are you sure I didn’t hurt you?”

You attempted to turn around, and Peter caught you when you stumbled. Your arms hung loosely around his neck, your fingers absent-mindedly playing with his hair. 

“It’s okay,” You smiled with heavy eyelids, “You jus’ have to carry me to bed again.”

Peter smiled a boyish grin, picking you up with ease and guiding your legs around his waist. You clung to him easily as Peter carried you back to your room, laying you down on the sheets before disappearing into the bathroom. You gazed at him in the light, the way he seemed to glow. 

“Hey Pete?” you asked. He looked at you as he ran a rag under the sink. “When’d you get all buff?”

He let out a hearty chuckle, returning to you and gently opening your legs. You winced again as he wiped, and he placed a gentle kiss on your thigh as an apology. 

“That’s something I only tell girlfriends,” He said with a smirk, holding out his pinky, “So, you’d have to say yes to breakfast tomorrow before I could tell you.”

You giggled at the man, then linked your pinky with his. “I would love to go to breakfast tomorrow as your girlfriend.”

He pulled your linked fingers to his chest, smiling as he leaned down to kiss you. It was gentle, a soft peck that held the promise of something more. He pulled away, sitting on the edge of your bed, and just looked at you. There was a look in his eye, one so raw and gleeful that you almost couldn’t take it. 

“Okay, then,” You said, shuffling to pull the covers back, “Go turn off the light, and come to bed.”

Peter obeyed, and you felt a great relief when his body pressed against yours, his arms coming to cradle you. You forgot all about the monster in the dark. And you could face the others later. For now, there was none in his radiant light. 

A/N: cute little happy ending for y'all. I hope you enjoyed! Please refrain from flooding my ask box with questions about when I'm finishing/updating a series. I'm mentally ill and stubborn. Every time I see one, all progress gets delayed at least another month :))

Peter 1 sits with his knees drawn up, curls flattened to his forehead, jaw working as he tries not to look at you—tries and fails. He keeps sneaking glances, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. His voice is almost hoarse when he finally says, “I think something’s… off with the air. Is anyone else—uh—feeling weird?”

Peter 3 has gone taut, his long legs stretched, head tipped back against the sofa’s arm, Adam’s apple bobbing as he chugs a bottle of water and tosses it aside. “Yeah. It’s not just the heat. I feel…” He breaks off, eyes cutting to you. His pupils are huge, nearly black, his skin flushed and glistening. “Never felt anything like it.”

You can’t take it anymore, your sundress sticking to your skin, thighs pressed together, arousal coiling low and hard in your stomach. You can see the way both Peters are looking at you—hungry, frustrated, as if holding themselves back is physically painful.

Maybe it’s the pheromones, maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s months of unspoken want coming to a rolling boil, but you feel bold, desperate, a little unhinged. You lean forward, the hem of your dress riding up, and just breathe, “why are you fighting it?” The words come out needy, almost a plea. “You both want this. So do I.”

For a split second, everything hangs suspended. Peter 1’s jaw drops. Peter 3 makes a low, hungry sound that’s more animal than human.

Peter 1 is the first to move—he slides across the battered cushions and cups your face in his hands, trembling, searching your eyes. “Are you sure? We can stop—”

You kiss him to shut him up. He groans, lips soft and eager, his hands shaking as they slide down your arms, trailing goosebumps. The heat is drowning, overwhelming; every touch is magnified, every sound louder, needier. You’re only half-aware of Peter 3 circling around, his hands ghosting up your thighs, pushing your knees apart as he kneels between your legs. He’s rougher, voice shredded with want, breath hot on your neck: “Tell us what you want, sweetheart. Anything—everything—you say, we’ll do it.”

Peter 1 breaks the kiss, panting, his gaze glazed and desperate. “Let us take care of you. Please.”

You nod, and suddenly you’re their center of gravity, their orbit, all that matters.

Peter 1 claims your lips again, hungry and adoring, while Peter 3’s hands slide up, pushing your dress over your hips, his calloused fingertips stroking over your thighs, your panties. You gasp, hips jerking. Peter 3 grins, cocky and gentle all at once, and leans in to press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your knee, dragging it higher.

Peter 1’s mouth moves to your throat, whispering your name, pleading, his hands cradling your head, thumbing your jaw so you look at him. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice cracking, “wanted you for so long, couldn’t—couldn’t say it—”

Peter 3 is all heat and intention, sliding your panties down your legs, pressing kisses along your thigh. “Let us spoil you,” he says, the words a promise, a vow. “Let us make you feel so good you forget everything else.”

They work together—Peter 1’s lips on your mouth, then your neck, your collarbone, leaving wet, desperate trails. Peter 3 presses his face between your thighs, tongue flicking, tasting, devouring, making you cry out and arch. Peter 1 soothes you, murmuring praise, petting your hair, kissing away your gasps as Peter 3 pushes you to the edge, relentless, hungry, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady.

Peter 1 can’t keep still, one hand sliding down to toy with your nipples through your dress, the other stroking your hair, anchoring you. Peter 3 is single-minded, chasing your pleasure, his tongue working you open, his moans sending vibrations through your core.

It’s too much, too intense, their attention suffocating and perfect. The heat, the pheromones, the months of unsaid longing—everything crashes together as you break, shattering around their mouths and hands, their voices guiding you through every pulse and tremor.

The apartment’s air is syrup-thick, clinging to your skin as Peter 1 presses soft, frantic kisses to your jaw, your throat, murmuring your name like a prayer. He tastes salt and want on your skin; he trembles every time you moan. Peter 3’s hands trace upward, rough palms sliding over your hips, fingers splayed wide, reverent and greedy. For a moment, you can only feel—their hands, their mouths, the overwhelming ache blooming inside you, deep and unsatisfied.

You’re limp against the cushions, boneless from your first release, but they’re nowhere near sated. Peter 1’s lips brush your ear. “You still with us?” He nuzzles your cheek, breath hot, almost shy even as his palm finds your breast through your thin dress, thumb circling your nipple until it pebbles under the fabric.

Your breath stutters. “Yes. Don’t stop—”

Peter 3’s voice vibrates from between your legs, dark and rough. “Good girl. Didn’t plan to.” He nips the inside of your thigh and rises, planting kisses along your hip, up your side, pausing to drag his teeth along the waistband of your dress. His hands curl under you, lifting you just enough so Peter 1 can tug your dress over your head. For a split second, both boys go utterly still, drinking you in, wide-eyed and wrecked.

Peter 1’s pupils are huge, jaw tight, as if he’s holding himself back by sheer will. He cups your breast, thumb flicking your nipple, and leans down to kiss it, tongue circling, gentle at first, then greedier when you gasp and arch into him. Peter 3 kisses your ribs, up your sternum, hands sliding up your body, tracing every dip and curve as if to memorize you. His mouth finds the other breast, and the two of them worship you in tandem, lips and tongues and teeth, hands kneading your thighs, your waist, your ass.

“Touch her,” Peter 3 rasps, voice muffled against your skin. “Let her feel both of us.”

Peter 1’s hand slips between your legs, tentative and trembling, but the second he finds you slick and desperate, all his hesitance evaporates. He slides two fingers through your folds, gathering your wetness, his thumb stroking gentle circles over your clit while Peter 3’s mouth moves up, tongue flicking over the nipple Peter 1 just left wet and swollen. Their attention is total, a living thing—hungry, bright, competitive.

You whimper, back arching, thighs trembling. Peter 1’s free hand laces with yours, squeezing tight as his fingers curl inside you. Peter 3’s hand covers your other breast, squeezing, pinching, and then his mouth is right by your ear, whispering filthy promises. “Want you to come again,” he breathes. “Want to watch you fall apart. We won’t stop. Not until you’re begging us to.”

Peter 1’s breath hitches, cheeks burning, but his touch grows bolder, curling his fingers just right, stroking that spot inside you until your vision goes white. He keeps his eyes locked on yours, desperate to read every flicker of pleasure on your face, swallowing your every moan like it’s oxygen. Peter 3 kneels beside you, one hand sliding down your belly to join Peter 1’s, their fingers brushing, tangling, working together, two sets of hands and mouths and greedy need.

You’re shaking, helpless, pleasure building in endless waves. Their voices blur, urging, coaxing, both of them needing—no, aching—to see you shatter for them.

“That’s it, sweetheart—”

“You’re doing so good for us, so pretty—”

“Let go. We’ve got you. We won’t let you fall.”

It’s too much—their words, their fingers, the wicked drag of teeth and tongue, the way they’re touching you like you’re a miracle. You break again, your body spasming, a rush of heat and light, pleasure so sharp you sob, clutching at Peter 1’s hair, Peter 3’s arm, clinging to both of them as you fall apart in their hands.

But they don’t stop. They slow, letting you catch your breath, Peter 1 kissing tears from your cheeks, Peter 3 stroking your thigh, his lips soft and gentle now. “Still with us?” Peter 3 asks, voice gentle, gaze hot with something like worship.

You nod, dazed, every nerve ending alight, skin tingling. “Please. I want—more. I want you both—”

Peter 3 kisses the inside of your knee, teeth grazing your skin, his hands anchoring you, possessive. “Let me,” he mutters, voice a low rasp that vibrates straight through you, “let me feel you now. Need to be inside you.” His cock presses hot and hard against your thigh, and there’s nothing gentle in his hunger now—his restraint has snapped, the last edge of self-control burned away by the heat and the wild need spinning between you.

Peter 1, still trembling, brushes damp hair from your face, eyes glassy with awe and lust. “Is this okay?” His voice cracks, and it’s so tender, so full of wonder you could weep. When you nod—more than ready, more than desperate—he kisses you, pouring his adoration and need into you, tongue stroking yours, sweet and worshipful.

Peter 3 shifts, lining himself up, his hands guiding your hips, and you gasp as he pushes inside, thick and slow and overwhelming, stretching you until you’re panting, nails digging into Peter 1’s forearm. Peter 3 groans, head tipping back, jaw clenching as he sinks all the way in, shuddering, breath ragged. “Fuck, you feel—so good, so perfect. Been dreaming of this—” He pulls back, thrusts in again, deeper this time, hips snapping, the friction dizzying.

Peter 1 strokes your face, grounding you, his voice a shaky whisper against your lips. “You’re amazing. So beautiful. So perfect like this.” His mouth traces your jaw, your throat, his hands trailing down your body, gentle and reverent, making you feel worshipped even as Peter 3 fucks you hard, his thrusts going ragged, desperate.

Peter 1’s thumb brushes over your lower lip, then he leans down, voice dropping to a sultry hush. “Let me make you feel even better.” And before you can beg, he slides down, shifting beneath you, wedging his shoulders between the cushions and your back, lips parting as he presses his mouth to your clit.

You sob, every muscle in your body going tight, sensation doubling—tripling—as Peter 1’s tongue flicks and circles, gentle at first, then greedy, matching the rhythm of Peter 3’s thrusts. Peter 3’s hands grip your hips, holding you steady, pounding into you with slow, deep strokes, every inch of him burning, wild, desperate to drive you higher.

It’s overwhelming—Peter 3 thick inside you, grinding deep, his pelvis grinding against you with every thrust; Peter 1’s mouth sucking and licking, his hands stroking your thighs, holding you open so he can feast. Every nerve is alight, body stretched between them, filled and adored, the only thing in their world.

Peter 3’s voice is a guttural growl as he leans in, biting your shoulder, the words almost a plea: “Come for us. Want to feel you—want to see you lose it. Let us ruin you, sweetheart.” His rhythm stutters, hips snapping harder, desperate, sweat-slicked skin slapping against yours.

Peter 1’s mouth is relentless, tongue flicking, lips sealing around your clit, humming your name like it’s the only thing he knows. His fingers press into your thighs, spreading you wider, demanding more, giving you everything.

You shatter, the pleasure a blinding, consuming wave. You cry out, helpless, body locking tight as you come, walls clenching around Peter 3, who groans, curses, thrusts hard and deep, chasing your high. Peter 1 doesn’t stop, licking you through every aftershock, drawing it out, turning your pleasure into something endless, unbearable.

Peter 3 loses it with a strangled gasp, hips jerking, spilling inside you, his grip bruising, forehead pressed to your shoulder. He groans your name, broken, worshipful, undone.

Peter 1 pulls back, face flushed, lips slick, eyes dazed with awe and need. He strokes your thigh, gentle and grounding. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, voice thick. “So fucking perfect. Let me—please, can I—”

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. Peter 3, still trembling, pulls out and collapses beside you, breathless, sweat-soaked, but his hand never leaves your skin. Peter 1 is already shifting, needy and hard and reverent, guiding himself to your entrance, pausing only to search your eyes for consent, desperate to be inside you now.

You nod, voice broken and pleading. “Yes. Please. Want you—need you, both of you—”

He slides in, slow and aching, head tipped back, lips parted in a silent moan. Peter 3 leans in, kissing your throat, your jaw, his hands stroking your skin, worshipful and greedy. Peter 1 starts to move, deep and sweet, and you realize there’s no end to this, no limit—just pleasure, worship, and their desperate need to give you everything you can take.

Peter 1 moves inside you with slow, aching care, hips rocking in deep, gentle thrusts that feel like worship. The air in the apartment is thick with heat, with the scent of sweat and sex, your skin sticky where it slides against his, his chest flush against yours, his curls damp and unruly, falling into his eyes as he looks down at you like you’re the only thing that matters in the universe. His hands shake as they frame your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks, fingertips trembling with the force of everything he feels.

He presses his forehead to yours, breath fanning hot over your lips, his eyes so wide and honest you almost can’t stand it. “God, you feel so good,” he whispers, voice wrecked and high, each word vibrating with want and gratitude, “so perfect—wanted you forever, didn’t know it could feel like this.”

You arch beneath him, wrapping your legs around his waist, drawing him deeper. He moans, biting his lip, struggling to keep his movements slow, savoring every inch, every clench of your walls around him. His hips stutter, a shaky exhale escaping as he tries not to lose himself too fast. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, almost reverent, “so—so good to me, to us. Let me take care of you, please. Want to make you feel everything.”

Peter 3, still catching his breath, props himself beside you, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder and throat, his hand wandering over your breasts, squeezing and teasing, never letting you come down fully from your last orgasm. He watches Peter 1 with a soft, crooked smile, a hint of approval, pride, and arousal all tangled together. “Look at you,” Peter 3 murmurs, voice honey-thick, rough and fond, “knew you’d be a sweetheart. She loves it when you go slow, don’t you, baby?”

You can only gasp and nod, the words stolen by Peter 1’s slow, deep roll of his hips, the way every movement fills you, stretches you, makes you ache for more. Peter 1 bends down to kiss you, soft and lingering, his lips trembling, his tongue gentle, coaxing, begging for more of your taste, your sounds, your pleasure. His hands roam everywhere—down your sides, over your hips, back up to cradle your head, never still, always worshipping.

“You’re perfect,” Peter 1 mumbles, breath catching as he tries to hold back, his own pleasure building unbearably slow, “want to see you come again, can you? Please, let me—want to feel you—”

Peter 3’s mouth finds your nipple, sucking, tongue flicking, his fingers pinching the other, and the double stimulation makes your hips jerk, a broken moan tumbling from your lips. Peter 1 groans, losing the last bit of his control, his thrusts turning a fraction faster, deeper, never rough, just needy, desperate, everything about him open and adoring. “That’s it,” he pants, “just like that, wanna feel you—come for me, come with me—”

Peter 3’s teeth graze your nipple and Peter 1’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow, perfect circles that wind you tighter and tighter, pleasure building again, no room to breathe, no room to think. Peter 1’s face is inches from yours, eyes glassy, lips parted, voice barely more than a whimper as he begs, “Please, I need you—please, let go, let me feel it—”

You shatter, pleasure ripping through you, clenching around him so tight you pull a cry from his throat, his hips snapping hard once, twice, before he’s spilling inside you, trembling, mouth pressed to your shoulder as he rides it out, still whispering how good you are, how beautiful, how he can’t believe you’re real.

He collapses over you, body shaking, arms wrapping you up, holding you close as if he could fuse you together. Peter 3 shifts closer, wrapping around both of you, one hand tangled in your hair, the other stroking Peter 1’s back in lazy, soothing circles.

For a long, golden moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your breathing, the heat of three bodies tangled together, the aftershocks still humming through your limbs. Peter 1 lifts his head, eyes blown wide and glassy, smile so shy and soft it hurts. He presses a kiss to your lips, your cheek, your nose, everywhere he can reach.

But the air hasn’t cooled—it only grows heavier, slicker with anticipation as both Peters stir, their stamina legendary, hunger a bottomless, greedy thing.

Peter 1 is the first to move. He kisses you—slow, lingering, pouring every soft, sweet ache into the drag of his lips over yours, letting his weight pin you for a moment longer, savoring you, adoring you. His hand finds your jaw, thumb stroking tenderly, then drifting down to your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers, coaxing a gasp from your swollen lips.

Beside you, Peter 3 is already shifting, his breath rough in your ear. “Turn over for me,” he murmurs, voice low and ragged, “let me see you—let me fuck you from behind.” His hands are all command and care as he helps roll you gently, guiding you until you’re half on your side, Peter 1 sitting up, drawing you to rest in his lap, his arms braced around your waist, holding you open for Peter 3.

Peter 1’s thighs are warm beneath you, his face flushed, curls plastered to his forehead, pupils blown wide with adoration and lust. He brings you in for another kiss, this one filthier, needier, tongue sliding into your mouth as he cradles your head, pulling you close. “You’re amazing,” he murmurs between kisses, “so beautiful—so fucking perfect.” His voice cracks, needy and awestruck, as his other hand drifts down your stomach, over your mound, spreading you open for Peter 3, who’s kneeling behind, his hands already gripping your hips, lining himself up.

The anticipation is maddening—Peter 3’s cock nudging at your entrance, the burn and stretch as he presses in, slow and relentless, groaning as your body yields for him again. He slides deep, hips flush against your ass, his breath hot against your shoulder. “God, you’re so tight—still so wet for us, can’t believe how good you feel,” he growls, his hands splayed over your hips, holding you steady as he starts to move, rolling his hips in long, smooth thrusts that send shockwaves through your body.

Peter 1 holds you open for him, kissing you, tasting every gasp and moan. His thumb circles your clit, light at first, then more insistent, his fingers slick with your arousal. “Let us make you feel good, yeah?” he breathes, eyes locked on yours, hungry and tender all at once. “Want to see you fall apart again, right here—just for us.”

Peter 3 sets the pace, thrusting deep and slow, grinding against that perfect spot, while Peter 1 lavishes your breasts with his mouth, tongue swirling over your nipples, his other hand never leaving your clit. The sensations are dizzying, the two of them working in perfect sync, every movement designed to ruin you, to drive you higher.

Peter 1 catches your hand, lacing your fingers together, holding you anchored in his lap as Peter 3 drives into you from behind, his thrusts getting sharper, harder, every snap of his hips sending you into Peter 1’s chest. Peter 1 grins, all flushed cheeks and glazed eyes, letting go of your hand to slip two fingers down, pressing them in alongside Peter 3’s cock, stretching you even wider, fuller, the pressure sending you spinning.

You sob, the pleasure overwhelming—Peter 3’s cock pounding into you, Peter 1’s fingers twisting inside, stroking your walls, thumb relentless on your clit. Peter 1 is breathless, voice a reverent litany of praise, kissing away every sound you make, whispering filth in your ear. “You’re so good for us—taking us both, letting us fuck you like this—so fucking perfect, so beautiful, let go for us, let us feel you—”

Peter 3 groans, hips snapping faster, his hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back to bare your throat for Peter 1’s mouth. “God, look at you—so fucking pretty, so tight, can feel your pussy clenching, want you to come for us, wanna feel you soak us, sweetheart—”

You’re wrecked, split wide, drowning in their touch—Peter 1’s mouth sealed over your nipple, fingers working in time with Peter 3’s thrusts, Peter 3’s cock grinding deep, filling you up, every movement engineered to break you apart. Your body tenses, pleasure winding tight, tighter—then you’re shattering again, clenching down around both of them, sobbing, shaking, light and heat and Peter’s voice in your ear, Peter 3’s body pressed flush behind you.

Peter 3 doesn’t let himself go, though you feel him pulse, his self-control superhuman, cock twitching as he grits his teeth, slowing his hips, still hard, still throbbing inside you. Peter 1 doesn’t stop touching you, soothing you through every aftershock, peppering kisses along your jaw, your throat, his arms holding you together while you shake and sob with overstimulation.

Peter 1 kisses you, needy and reverent, whispering praise into your mouth. “You want us both?” His eyes are glassy, pupils blown, voice rough with disbelief and hunger. “Want to take us together? Can you do that, sweetheart?”

Peter 3 groans, hips pressing forward, cock twitching as he watches the anticipation build in your face. “Let us—let us fuck you together, wanna feel you take all of us, wanna fill you up, both of us, at the same time.” He nips your ear, breath coming in ragged bursts. “You can do it. You’re perfect. Always so good for us.”

You nod, wordless, dizzy with need, and they move in tandem, bodies pressed close, hands everywhere—steadying, worshipping, greedy. Peter 3’s grip on your hips is iron as he shifts back, just far enough for Peter 1 to angle his cock against your entrance, thick head sliding through your soaked folds. Peter 3 doesn’t pull out completely, his cock still stretching you open, the ache deep and perfect.

Peter 1 watches your face, reading every gasp, every tremor. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he breathes, voice reverent, “tell me if you want to stop.” But you don’t want to stop—you want everything, all of them, want to be split open, filled until you can’t remember your own name.

He presses in slow, the stretch burning, overwhelming, as you open for both of them, Peter 3’s cock still buried deep, Peter 1’s sliding in beside, the pressure excruciating and perfect. They move with infinite care, every inch a tight, molten shock, until both cocks are inside you, pressed together, impossibly deep, your body straining to take it all.

You sob, the fullness brutal, exquisite, shaking between them. Peter 1’s hand finds your jaw, pulling you into a desperate, shaking kiss, swallowing every sound you make. “You’re doing so good,” he whispers, voice shaking with awe, “taking us both, fuck—look at you, look how perfect you are—”

Peter 3’s breath is hot on your neck, voice a broken rasp. “Feel you squeezing us—so fucking tight, never felt anything like this—”

They start to move, slow at first, their hips rocking in a matched rhythm, cocks sliding against each other inside you, every thrust making you see stars. Peter 1 holds your thighs open, his other hand toying with your clit, his lips never leaving yours. Peter 3’s arms band around your waist, anchoring you, one hand sliding up to your throat, thumb stroking gentle warning there, his other tangled in your hair.

Every inch of you is overwhelmed—overfull, over-loved, every nerve strung tight, every movement pushing you higher. Peter 1 breaks the kiss, forehead pressed to yours, his voice a hoarse plea. “Want you to come like this, want to feel you—need you to let go, need to feel you lose it around us—”

Peter 3 is panting, mouth dragging wet kisses down your neck, voice dark and possessive. “Let go for us, sweetheart—come on, wanna feel you milk us both, wanna make you scream.”

They fuck you together, thrusts perfectly synced, bodies shuddering against yours, every movement a wave of raw pleasure—Peter 1’s cock pressing deep and thick, Peter 3 grinding in, both cocks filling you so perfectly there’s no space left for thought. You’re a mess of moans and broken pleas, sobbing for more, begging for release.

Peter 1’s thumb circles your clit, faster, relentless, his other hand squeezing your breast, pinching your nipple as he fucks into you, every word pouring from him a stream of praise and love. “So good, so beautiful, taking us so well, can’t believe how perfect you are—”

Peter 3 fucks up into you from behind, hips snapping, cock grinding beside Peter 1’s inside your cunt, his grip bruising, desperate, his mouth all filth and worship in your ear. “Gonna fill you up, gonna come so deep, want to see you fall apart, wanna feel you clamp down, come on, baby—let go, give it to us, let us ruin you.”

The pleasure spikes, blinding and violent, and you break with a cry, your whole body seizing, clenching around both of them, milking them, shuddering as the orgasm tears through you. You can feel them losing it with you—Peter 1’s voice going high and desperate, hips jerking as he comes, hot and thick, filling you, Peter 3 grinding in hard, groaning your name as he empties himself, both of them buried to the hilt, locked tight, holding you between them as you ride out the aftershocks.

You’re wrecked, limp, trembling, sandwiched between their sweat-slick bodies, legs shaking, cunt fluttering around their softening cocks, filled and ruined and adored. Peter 1 peppers kisses along your jaw, your cheek, your mouth, mumbling praise and I love you’s, his hands petting you everywhere. Peter 3’s arms cradle your waist, his lips pressed to your shoulder, his breathing ragged, voice soft with awe.