Top Posts Tagged with #spiderman brand new day

my spidey senses are tingling

pairing: mean! college peter parker x reader

w/c: 6.8k+

summary: you have no idea how your best friend harry puts up with his roommate, peter parker. hes loud. brash. annoying. a whore. you tried to avoid him. to leave the room when he arrives. but the universe has decided on the secret third option- forcing you to spend more time alone with him than youd ever have to when you just wanted your damn necklace. fuck. requested by anon

warnings/tags: mean! peter, college au peter, forced proximity, enemies to blowjobs, smut (oral- m receiving, dirty talk, praise), the juicy sweats make their grand appearance

masterlist // join the taglist

You were sprawled across the shitty dorm couch like you owned it, one leg hooked over the armrest, half-listening to your best friend complain about his organic chem midterm while the other half of your brain was already planning the fastest escape route if Peter Parker walked through the door.

The apartment smelled like cheap laundry detergent and the lingering ghost of last night’s takeout. Harry's textbooks were stacked in a precarious tower on the coffee table, and the TV was muted on some reality show neither of you were actually watching. You’d been here for almost two hours, which was roughly an hour and fifty-nine minutes longer than you preferred to risk running into his roommate.

“I’m just saying,” Harry continued, flipping a highlighter between his fingers, “he’s not that bad once you—”

The door clicked open.

You didn’t even look up at first. You just felt the shift in the air, the way the room suddenly got smaller.

Peter Parker stepped inside like the place had been waiting for him. Backpack slung over one shoulder, hair a little damp like he’d just come from the gym or a shower or someone else’s bed—hard to tell with him. He kicked the door shut with his heel and tossed his keys onto the counter without looking. His eyes landed on you almost immediately, and that familiar, lazy half-smile curved his mouth.

“Well, well,” he said, voice low and deliberately amused. “Look who finally crawled out of their hole. Didn’t think you still knew where this place was.”

You kept your gaze on the TV, even though nothing interesting was happening on it. “Didn’t think you’d be back so early. Figured you’d still be making your rounds through the second floor.”

Harry made a quiet, warning sound under his breath. Peter just laughed, soft and unbothered, and dropped his backpack by the wall.

“Second floor’s overrated,” he said, walking past the couch close enough that his shin brushed your ankle. He didn’t apologize. “Third floor’s where the real talent is this semester. You’d know if you ever left your room for anything other than this one and judging me.”

You finally turned your head to look at him. He was leaning against the kitchen counter now, arms crossed, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who’d just been called a campus-wide whore.

“Judgment’s free,” you said. “Unlike whatever STD panel you’re probably due for.”

Peter’s grin widened, all teeth and zero shame. “Ouch. That almost hurt. You practicing those lines in the mirror, or do they just come naturally when you’re this sexually frustrated?”

Harry closed his textbook with a soft thud. “Can we not—”

“No, it’s fine,” you cut in, still locked on Peter. “I’m just trying to figure out how someone who treats the entire dorm like a revolving door still has a roommate who defends him like he’s actually a person.”

Peter pushed off the counter and took a few slow steps closer, stopping just short of the couch. He looked down at you, head tilted, that cocky little spark in his eyes that made it very clear he was enjoying this.

“Maybe because I’m fun,” he said, voice dropping a fraction. “And you’re… what, exactly? The dorm’s resident wet blanket who keeps score of who I fuck like it’s a personal insult?”

You sat up straighter, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking away. “It’s not an insult. It’s a public service announcement. People should know the risks before they make the same mistake half the building already has.”

He laughed again—quiet, almost fond, which somehow made it worse. “You keep talking like you’ve got me all figured out. It’s cute. Really. But if you’re so disgusted, why do you keep showing up here?”

“Because some of us actually care about our friends,” you shot back. “Not just who we can get horizontal with before the weekend’s over.”

Peter’s gaze flicked, just for a second, to Harry—who looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him —then back to you. Something sharper settled behind his easy expression.

“Careful,” he said, softer now. “You’re starting to sound jealous.”

You scoffed, but the sound came out thinner than you wanted. “Of you? Please. I’d rather chew glass.”

“Mm.” He rocked back on his heels, studying you like he was deciding whether the argument was still entertaining. “Keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day you’ll even believe it.”

Harry finally stood up, hands raised in surrender. “Okay. Both of you. Enough. Peter, go shower or something. You smell like ass. And you—” he pointed at you—“stop poking the bear. He’s already insufferable when he’s in a good mood.”

Peter raised both hands in mock innocence, already backing toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. “Hey, I was just saying hi. Not my fault your friend can’t handle a little honesty.”

He disappeared around the corner, but not before throwing one last look over his shoulder — like he already knew this wasn’t over.

The bathroom door clicked shut a second later. The water started running.

Harry dropped back onto the couch with a long, exhausted sigh and muttered, “I genuinely don’t know why I let you two exist in the same space.”

You stared at the empty hallway, jaw tight, pulse a little too loud in your ears.

Neither did you.

The dorm hallway was quieter than you’d ever heard it. No bass thudding through walls, no laughter spilling out of open doors, no one arguing about whose turn it was to buy more Red Bull. Thanksgiving break had hollowed the whole building out. Most people had scattered home the second classes ended. You were supposed to be one of them. The ticket price had laughed in your face, so you’d stayed, claiming the silence like it was a prize.

You were already dressed when you remembered the necklace. Black dress that hit mid-thigh, the kind that made you feel like you had somewhere better to be than an empty campus. Heels that clicked too loud in the stairwell. Hair done. Makeup sharp. You’d left the necklace at Harry’s place weeks ago after the clasp snapped during a night that ended with too much cheap wine and you insisting it was fine, you’d just leave it. He'd fixed it the next morning and texted you to come grab it whenever. You never had.

Tonight felt like the perfect window. Peter would be gone. Everyone would be gone. In and out, necklace in hand, then you’d hit the one bar still open near campus and pretend the holiday didn’t sting.

You used the spare key Harry had given you months ago and pushed the door open without knocking.

The living room lights were on.

Peter Parker was in the kitchen, barefoot, leaning against the counter with a half-eaten protein bar in one hand and his phone in the other. He was wearing a tight black crop top that stopped just above the sharp cut of his hips and a pair of black Juicy Couture velour sweatpants that sat low on his waist. The fabric clung in places it had no business clinging. His stomach was flat, a faint trail of hair disappearing under the waistband, and the crop top left zero room for interpretation about how much time he spent in the gym when he wasn’t busy being a walking cautionary tale.

He looked up the second the door shut behind you.

For half a second he just stared. Then that slow, filthy little smile pulled at his mouth.

“Holy shit,” he said, voice low and delighted. “Did hell freeze over or did you actually get dressed up for once?”

You froze in the doorway, keys still in your hand. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Peter took another bite of the protein bar, chewed, and shrugged one shoulder. The crop top rode up a fraction higher. “Could ask you the same thing, princess. Thought you’d be halfway across the country by now, crying into your mom’s stuffing.”

“Ticket was too expensive.” You hated how defensive it sounded. “I came for my necklace. HarryHarry fixed it.”

“Ah.” He set the protein bar down and pushed off the counter, walking toward you with that lazy, cocky gait that always made it feel like he owned the floor. “The little silver one. Yeah, it’s in my room. I moved it so it wouldn’t get lost in the chaos of his packing.”

You stayed by the door. “Of course it’s in your room. Because nothing can just be simple with you.”

Peter stopped a few feet away, eyes dragging down your dress in a way that felt deliberate and completely unapologetic. “You’re the one who showed up looking like that. Don’t act shocked that I’m looking. Most of the dorm’s gone. Campus is a ghost town. And here you are, all done up, standing in my doorway like you expected the place to be empty.”

“I did expect it to be empty,” you shot back. “I expected the campus whore to be off somewhere, ruining someone else’s holiday.”

He laughed, soft and mean. “There she is. Miss High Horse. Miss I-Would-Rather-Chew-Glass. You keep talking about me like that and people might start thinking you care.”

“I don’t.”

“Sure.” He tilted his head, studying the way the dress sat on your body. “Where were you even going dressed like that? Don’t tell me you had plans. On Thanksgiving. Alone.”

You clenched your jaw. “None of your business.”

“Everything in this dorm is my business when you’re standing in it looking like that.” He took another step closer. The sweatpants shifted with the movement, the soft fabric doing absolutely nothing to hide the outline of him. “You came here thinking I’d be gone. You wanted the place to yourself. Necklace, quiet, maybe a little victory dance that you didn’t have to deal with me. And instead you get this.” He gestured vaguely at his own torso, at the crop top, at the ridiculous Juicy pants. “Disappointed?”

“Disgusted, mostly.”

Peter’s smile widened, all sharp edges and zero shame. “Liar. You’re staring.”

You forced your eyes back up to his face. “I’m staring because I can’t believe you own Juicy Couture sweatpants.”

“Laundry day” he said easily. “Found them in the clean basket. Thought they were yours honestly.” He reached out and plucked the keys from your hand before you could react, tossing them onto the counter behind him. “Necklace’s on my desk. You can come get it, or you can stand there in that dress pretending you don’t want to know why I’m still here either.”

You crossed your arms. “Why are you still here?”

Peter’s expression flickered—just for a second—before the cocky mask slid back into place. “Same reason as you, probably. Money. Or lack of it. Or maybe I just didn’t feel like explaining to my aunt why I wasn’t coming home this year.” He shrugged again, but it was tighter this time. “Doesn’t matter. Point is, you’re here. I’m here. The building’s empty.”

You opened your mouth to tell him to go fuck himself.

He beat you to it.

“Necklace’s this way,” he said, already turning toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. The crop top rode up again when he lifted one arm to push his hair back. “Try not to trip over your own judgment on the way.”

You hesitated for exactly three seconds.

Then you followed him.

Peter’s room was… normal.

You stopped just inside the doorway, the words dying in your throat. You’d expected a mess—empty condom wrappers, a rotating door of half-forgotten names written on a whiteboard, the smell of sex and cheap cologne baked into the walls. Instead the bed was made. The desk was organized. A few textbooks were stacked neatly beside a closed laptop. There was a framed photo of an older woman who had to be his aunt, a poster of some indie band you’d never heard of, and a single hoodie draped over the back of the desk chair. It looked like he was actually put together. Not the lair of the dorm’s most prolific problem.

He noticed you staring.

“What?” he asked, already moving toward the desk. “Expecting a red room and a list of conquests on the wall?”

“Honestly? Yeah.”

Peter huffed a quiet laugh and opened the top drawer. “Sorry to disappoint. I keep the list on my phone.” He pulled out the silver necklace, the clasp fixed and gleaming, and held it up between two fingers. “Here. All yours.”

You stepped closer to take it. That was your first mistake.

The crop top left his arms completely exposed, and under the soft overhead light they looked unfairly good—hard muscle, the kind that came from actual work instead of just showing up at the gym for the mirror. Veins faintly visible when he flexed to reach something. Your eyes dragged over them before your brain could stop it, and something low and traitorous in your stomach twisted.

Peter went still.

You looked up and found him watching you, that slow, knowing smile already spreading across his face.

“There it is,” he said softly. “Knew it was only a matter of time.”

You snatched the necklace out of his hand a little too fast. “I was looking at the room.”

“No you weren’t.” He leaned back against the desk, arms crossing over his chest in a way that only made the muscles in his biceps stand out more. The crop top rode higher. “You were looking at me. Specifically at these.” He flexed once, deliberately, just enough to be an asshole about it. “Don’t worry. Happens a lot. Usually people are better at hiding it, though.”

Heat crawled up the back of your neck. “You’re delusional.”

“Am I?” Peter’s voice dropped into something smoother, warmer, the cocky edge still there but now wrapped in deliberate charm. “Because you’ve been throwing insults at me for months, but the second you see a little skin you’re staring like you’ve never seen arms before. It’s cute. Really. All that judgment and you’re still human underneath it.”

You turned the necklace over in your fingers, refusing to meet his eyes. “I came for this. That’s it.”

“Then why are you still standing there?” He pushed off the desk and took one slow step closer. Then another. The Juicy sweatpants sat low enough that the cut of his hips was impossible to ignore. “You could’ve grabbed the necklace and left. Instead you’re lingering in my room looking at me like that. So either you’re about to call me a whore again for sport, or you’re starting to realize the problem isn’t that I’ve slept with half the dorm.”

Your pulse was too loud. “What’s the problem, then?”

Peter’s smile turned sharper, almost fond. “The problem is you want to know what all the fuss is about.”

“I don’t—”

“You do.” He reached out and gently took the necklace from your hand again, fingers brushing yours longer than necessary. “You’ve spent so much time deciding I’m disgusting that you never let yourself admit you like what you see.” He stepped into your space, close enough that you could smell whatever clean, expensive soap he’d used. “Say it.”

You swallowed. “No.”

“Coward.” The word was soft, almost teasing. He lifted the necklace and, without asking, reached around your neck to clasp it himself. His knuckles brushed the side of your throat. Warm. Steady. “You’ve got that hungry look on your face. And still you won’t just say you think I look good.”

His hands lingered at the back of your neck after the clasp clicked shut. You could feel the heat of his palms, the quiet strength in his fingers.

“I don’t think you look good,” you managed.

Peter leaned in just enough that his mouth was near your ear. “Liar. Your eyes already told on you the second you walked in here. So either keep lying and leave, or stay right here and admit it.” His voice dropped lower, velvet and filthy at the edges. “Tell me you like what you see, and maybe I’ll stop being such an asshole about it.”

You should have shoved him back. Should have taken the necklace and walked out while you still could.

Instead you stayed exactly where you were, pulse hammering, the quiet of the empty dorm pressing in around both of you.

Peter waited, patient and infuriatingly sure of himself, thumbs brushing once along the sides of your neck like he already knew the answer.

“You look good,” he said, quiet enough that it felt private. “Really fucking good. That dress is doing things it has no right to do on a night like this. And the heels? Dangerous. You walked in here looking like you were ready to ruin someone’s entire holiday, and I’m starting to think that someone was supposed to be me.”

You stayed silent. Admitting anything felt like handing him the win on a silver platter, and you refused to give him that satisfaction.

He noticed. Of course he did.

“Still nothing?” His mouth curved, soft and wicked. “Alright. Let’s try again.” He shifted closer, the heat of his body seeping through the thin fabric of the crop top. “You’re beautiful when you’re trying this hard not to want me. All that fire, all that attitude… and still you can’t stop staring at my mouth.”

Your breath hitched. Traitorous.

Peter’s hands slid from your neck to your jaw, tilting your face up with careful, deliberate pressure. “There it is. That little crack. You hate that you like how I look in this shirt. You hate that the sweatpants are doing it for you. You hate that I’m standing this close— your pulse is going crazy under my fingers.” His voice dropped lower, coaxing, almost gentle. “Just say it. One sentence. ‘You look good, Peter.’ That’s all. I’ll even pretend I didn’t already know.”

You clenched your teeth. “I’m not giving you that.”

“Then I’ll keep talking until you do.” He leaned in another inch. His breath brushed your lips. “You smell expensive tonight. Like you actually tried. For who? Some stranger at a half-empty bar? Or did some part of you hope I’d still be here to see it?”

Your hands had somehow found the soft fabric of his sweatpants at his hips, fingers curling without permission. He felt it. His smile turned sharper.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Hold on to me if you need to. I don’t mind.” Another step closer and your chests nearly touched. The crop top left almost nothing between you. “You’re shaking a little. Did you notice? Because I did. Your body’s already answering for you. It’s just waiting for your mouth to catch up.”

He was so close now that every word brushed against your lips. His hands tightened just enough to keep you exactly where he wanted you—tilted up, open, trapped in the quiet gravity of him.

“Say it,” he whispered, the words a soft command against your mouth. “Tell me you like what you see. Tell me the judgment was bullshit. Tell me you’ve been thinking about this longer than you’ll ever admit.”

You tried to form a denial. Something sharp. Something safe.

What came out instead was a broken little sound—half protest, half surrender—as your body finally betrayed you completely. A quiet, helpless whine slipped past your lips and straight into his.

Peter’s control snapped.

He closed the last fraction of space and kissed you like he’d been waiting months for the exact sound you just made. His mouth was hot, sure, and filthy with intent—lips parting yours immediately, tongue sliding against yours in a slow, claiming stroke that made your knees weak. One hand stayed locked on your jaw, the other sliding down to the small of your back to haul you flush against him. The hard line of his body pressed into yours and he kissed you deeper, hungrier, like he was determined to swallow every last scrap of resistance you still had.

When he finally pulled back just enough to speak, his voice was rough and satisfied.

“There she is,” he breathed against your mouth. “Knew you’d taste as mean as you talk.”

Peter didn’t pull away after the words left his mouth. He stayed right there, lips brushing yours, breathing you in like he’d already won something. The hard line of his cock pressed against your lower stomach through the thin fabric of the velour sweatpants, thick and unmistakable, and the second you felt it your brain short-circuited.

He kissed that good. Filthy and controlled and just a little mean, like he knew exactly how to make you melt and was doing it on purpose. Your hands tightened on his hips without thinking. Your body moved before your pride could catch up. You rolled your hips once, slow and deliberate, grinding against the heavy length of him, and the quiet, punched-out sound he made against your mouth went straight between your legs.

Peter’s grin was pure sin when he pulled back just enough to speak.

“There it is,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Knew you’d start rubbing on it the second you felt how hard I got for you. Look at you. All that talk and now you’re grinding on my cock like you’ve been waiting for permission.”

Heat flooded your face. “Shut up.”

“Make me.” He rolled his hips back into yours, dragging the thick ridge of his cock against you, letting you feel every inch. “Go on. Tell me you don’t want it. Tell me that little grind was an accident. I dare you.”

You hated how easily he got under your skin. Hated that your stupid brain had flipped from get out of here to please him in the span of one kiss. You shoved at his chest—hard enough to make him take a step back—and he went willingly, still smiling that cocky, knowing smile like this was exactly the reaction he’d been angling for.

The back of his knees hit the edge of the bed. You pushed again and he dropped down onto the mattress, catching himself on his elbows, crop top riding up to show the sharp cut of his abs and the dark trail of hair disappearing under the waistband of those ridiculous sweatpants. His cock strained against the soft fabric, thick and obvious, the head of it already leaving an impression near the waistband.

You dropped to your knees between his spread legs before you could talk yourself out of it.

Peter’s eyes went dark and hungry. He looked down at you like you were the best Thanksgiving present he could’ve asked for.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathed, voice thick with satisfaction. “Look at that. On your knees already. Didn’t even have to ask.” He reached down and brushed his thumb across your bottom lip, slow and lazy. “You gonna keep glaring at me while you do it, or are you finally gonna admit you want my cock in your mouth?”

You glared up at him, hands already sliding up his thighs. “I want you to shut the fuck up.”

Peter laughed, low and filthy, and leaned back on one hand so he could watch you better. The other hand stayed on your face, thumb pressing gently against your mouth.

“Not a chance, baby. You’re about to put that pretty mouth to work and I’m gonna talk the entire time. You’re gonna hear every single filthy thing I think while you suck me. That’s the deal.” His fingers slid into your hair, not pulling yet—just resting there, possessive. “Now take it out. Show me how bad you’ve actually wanted this.”

The air in the room felt thicker. Your heart was slamming against your ribs. And still, kneeling between Peter Parker’s legs with his cock hard and waiting inches from your face, all your brain wanted was to make him sound as wrecked as he was making you feel.

You tugged the soft waistband of the Juicy sweatpants down just enough to free him. His cock sprang out with a soft thud against his stomach. Heavy and flushed, the thick head already shiny at the tip. The scent of clean skin and arousal hit you immediately. You wrapped your fingers around the base and felt him throb against your palm, hot and solid.

Peter’s breath left him in a low, satisfied sound.

“Look at that,” he murmured, eyes locked on your face. “Finally got your hands on it. You gonna keep staring or are you actually gonna do something?”

You ignored the dig and leaned in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the underside of the head. Slow. Deliberate. You dragged your tongue in a lazy circle around the ridge, tasting the faint salt of precome that had already gathered there. His thighs tensed under your free hand.

“Fuck—” His voice had gone rougher. “Cute. Real cute. You think taking your time is gonna make me lose it?”

You hummed against the sensitive skin just beneath the head and felt the vibration travel through him. Another slow lick, this time from the base all the way up, flattening your tongue so you could feel every ridge and vein. His cock twitched hard against your mouth.

Peter’s hand shot into your hair.

He didn’t ask. He just gripped a fistful and guided the swollen tip past your lips in one smooth push. The head of him filled the front of your mouth—hot, smooth, already leaking. You tasted more of that salt-sweet precome the second it hit your tongue.

“That’s better,” he said, voice low and smug. “Just the tip for now. Look at you. Mouth stretched around me and still trying to pretend you’re in control.” His fingers flexed in your hair, holding you exactly where he wanted. “Suck. Nice and slow. I want to feel that tongue working.”

You hollowed your cheeks around the head, sucking gently, swirling your tongue under the sensitive ridge the way you knew would make him react. He exhaled hard through his nose, the muscle in his jaw jumping.

“Fuck, that’s good. Messy little thing already.” He rocked his hips the smallest amount, pushing the tip a fraction deeper before easing back. “You look filthy like this. On your knees in that dress with my cock in your mouth. All that attitude and here you are, letting me use your face.”

You glared up at him, the expression ruined by the stretch of your lips and the wet shine already coating the head of his cock every time he pulled back. He just smirked down at you, completely unbothered.

“Don’t give me that look. You started grinding on me first. You dropped to your knees. Now you’re sucking the tip like you've dreamed about this before.” His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth where it was stretched around him. “Tell me how it tastes.”

The constant stream of cocky, filthy commentary was starting to get under your skin in the worst way. Every smug word made the heat between your legs worse. You wanted him quiet. You wanted him wrecked.

So you stopped teasing.

You braced both hands on his thighs, took a breath through your nose, and sank down.

The thick head pushed past your tongue, over the soft palate, and kept going. Inch after hot, heavy inch filled your mouth until your lips met the base and your nose brushed the soft skin of his lower stomach. Your throat fluttered hard around him. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes from the stretch. Spit welled up and spilled past your lips, dripping down his shaft and onto the waistband of the sweatpants still shoved low on his hips.

Peter’s entire body went rigid.

“Jesus—fuck—” The cocky drawl cracked for the first time. His hand tightened almost painfully in your hair, but he didn’t pull you off. He held you there, buried to the hilt, while your throat worked around the thick intrusion. “Oh my god. You just—took all of it. Look at you. F-fucking look at you.”

You stayed down, swallowing around him on purpose, letting your throat ripple and squeeze. The wet, filthy sound of it filled the quiet room. When you finally needed air you pulled back only far enough to breathe, spit connecting your lips to his cock in a shiny string, then immediately sank down again—slower this time, dragging every inch along your tongue until he was lodged deep once more.

Peter’s head dropped back for half a second before he forced himself to look down again. His voice had gone wrecked and mean at the same time.

“Best fucking mouth I’ve ever had. You hear me? Best. A-and you’re still trying to shut me up by deepthroating me like a professional.” He rolled his hips up in a short, controlled thrust, fucking into the tight heat of your throat. “Not gonna work, baby. Gonna tell you exactly how perfect your throat feels while you choke on me.”

You moaned around the thick length of him, the sound vibrating straight up his cock, and watched his abs flex hard under the crop top. Spit was everywhere now—your chin, his shaft, the soft black velour of the sweatpants. Your eyes watered freely. Your jaw ached in the best way. And still you kept taking him to the base, determined to turn every smug word into a broken sound.

Peter’s grip in your hair stayed firm, guiding the pace just enough to remind you who was actually in charge even while you tried to ruin him.

“That’s it,” he groaned, voice thick and filthy. “Take it. Show me how bad you wanted this cock. Swallow around it again—yeah, just like that. Fuck, you’re gonna make me come down your throat if you keep being such a good girl.”

You pulled off him with a wet, filthy gasp, a thick string of spit still connecting your bottom lip to the flushed head of his cock. Your voice came out ruined already—hoarse and low from how deep you’d taken him.

“Look at you,” you rasped, stroking the slick length with one hand while you caught your breath. “Sitting there being such a good boy for me.”

Peter’s eyes flashed. His fingers flexed hard in your hair, but the next cocky remark never made it out of his mouth.

You didn’t give him time to recover. You sank back down in one smooth motion, taking him straight to the base again until your throat closed tight around the head and your nose pressed into his skin. The wet sounds of it was obscenely loud in the quiet room. Spit flooded past your lips and ran down his shaft in warm rivulets. Your eyes watered instantly from the stretch. You held there, swallowing hard around him on purpose, letting your throat flutter and squeeze.

When you pulled up again it was only far enough to speak, lips still brushing the shiny head.

“That’s it,” you breathed, voice thick with spit. “Just like that. Letting me choke on this thick cock like a good boy. You’re being so fucking patient for me.”

You dove back down before he could answer. Deeper this time. Your throat convulsed around the intrusion and a broken gag tore out of you, wet and raw. Tears slipped free and tracked down your cheeks. You didn’t stop. You stayed buried, swallowing repeatedly, the muscles of your throat working him in tight, rhythmic pulses while more spit dripped onto the soft black fabric of his sweatpants.

Peter’s free hand had fisted in the sheets. His abs were clenched hard under the crop top. The only sound he managed was a low, punched-out groan.

You pulled off again, panting, chin shiny and dripping. Your hand kept stroking him in long, tight twists, spreading the mess you’d made.

“Fuck, you’re taking it so well,” you praised, voice wrecked and filthy. “Letting me use your cock like this. Sitting there all pretty while I gag on it. Such a good boy for me, Peter. Look how hard you are. Look how much you’re leaking just from my mouth.”

You licked a slow stripe up the underside, gathering the fresh precome that had beaded at the tip, then took him deep once more. The stretch burned in the best way. Your throat bulged visibly for a second before you forced yourself farther, until your lips were sealed tight around the base again. Another wet gag spilled out of you, the sound filthy and helpless. Spit poured down his balls. Your mascara was definitely ruined.

Peter’s hips jerked once—short, controlled, like he was fighting not to fuck up into your throat. His breathing had gone ragged. The constant stream of smug commentary had dried up into broken little sounds he couldn’t quite swallow.

You pulled back just enough to speak against the head of him, lips dragging over the sensitive ridge with every word.

“That’s my good boy,” you murmured, the praise low and dirty. “Staying so still while I choke myself on this cock. Letting me take every inch. You’re doing so well for me. So fucking well.”

You sank down again, slower this time, letting him feel every inch of tight, wet heat as your throat opened and accepted him. The wet sounds were constant now—obscene, rhythmic, mixed with the soft wet gasps you made every time he bottomed out. Your jaw ached. Your eyes kept watering. Spit soaked the front of his sweatpants. The insides of your thighs were damp where you’d started shifting restlessly against nothing.

Peter’s hand in your hair had gone almost tender despite the firm grip, guiding you in short, shallow rocks while you kept him buried. He wasn’t talking anymore. Just breathing hard and watching you with dark, blown-out eyes like he couldn’t quite believe what you were doing to him.

You moaned around the thick length of him on purpose, the vibration making his thighs tense under your palms, and kept going—choking, gagging, praising him in wrecked little scraps of voice every time you came up for air.

You felt it the second his control started to slip.

Peter’s thighs were shaking under your hands. His cock throbbed harder against your tongue, the thick vein along the underside pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Precome was leaking steadily now, salty and constant, mixing with the spit that already coated everything. His breathing had gone short and rough. The hand in your hair tightened until it bordered on painful.

He was close.

You doubled down.

Instead of pulling up to breathe you stayed buried, nose pressed to his skin, and forced your throat to relax around him. The stretch burned. Tears kept slipping down your cheeks. Spit poured freely past your lips. You swallowed hard around the head of him—once, twice—then moaned low and long so the vibration traveled straight through his cock.

Peter’s hips jerked.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—” His voice cracked back into existence, rough and mean and desperate all at once. “You’re gonna make me come. Look at you. Throat stuffed full and still trying to milk it out of me. Such a greedy little mouth.”

You didn’t pull off. You let him take over.

Peter’s grip in your hair shifted from guiding to outright using. He held you down and started fucking up into your throat in short, filthy thrusts—shallow at first, then deeper, using your mouth like it belonged to him. The wet, choked sounds you made every time he bottomed out were obscene. Your eyes watered freely. Your mascara was a complete disaster. Spit and precome ran down your chin in shiny strings and dripped onto the floor between your knees.

“That’s it,” he growled, voice wrecked and cocky even as his rhythm got more frantic. “Take it. Take every fucking inch. You’re gonna swallow all of it, aren’t you? Gonna let me pump this throat full.” His hips snapped up harder. “Fuck, you feel perfect. Best throat I’ve ever fucked. Knew you’d be this good the second you dropped to your knees.”

You didn’t care anymore. The constant stream of filthy praise and arrogance only made you wetter. You kept your hands braced on his thighs and let him use you, throat fluttering and convulsing around every thrust. When he pushed especially deep a broken gag tore out of you, wet and helpless, and Peter groaned like the sound alone was going to finish him.

“Gonna come,” he warned, voice low and strained. “Gonna come right down this pretty throat. Stay open for me—fuck—just like that. Don’t you dare pull off.”

His rhythm stuttered. His cock swelled even thicker against your tongue. The hand in your hair locked you in place as his hips snapped up one last time and stayed there, buried to the hilt.

Peter came hard.

Hot, thick pulses flooded your throat in heavy spurts. You swallowed instinctively around him, the muscles working to take every drop while he kept you pinned. More came—another strong pulse, then another—until your throat felt coated and warm and full. Some of it still managed to spill past the tight seal of your lips, mixing with the spit already dripping down his shaft. His thighs shook violently under your hands. A low, punched-out groan tore out of him as the last weaker pulses spilled across your tongue.

He held you there through every second of it, hips pressed tight to your face, cock still twitching in the back of your throat while he rode it out.

When he finally loosened his grip you pulled off slowly, gasping, a thick string of come and spit connecting your swollen lips to the head of his cock. Your voice was completely destroyed. Your chin and chest were a mess. Tears and mascara streaked your cheeks.

Peter looked down at you like he’d just found religion and lost it in the same breath—eyes dark, chest heaving, cock softening against his stomach.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, thumb dragging through the mess on your bottom lip. “You really just let me do that.”

You stayed on your knees for a few more seconds, just long enough to watch Peter’s chest rise and fall like he’d run a marathon. His eyes were hazy. His mouth hung open just a little. For once, the constant stream of cocky commentary had been fucked right out of him.

You wiped the back of your hand across your mouth, smearing the mess of spit and come, and stood up on slightly unsteady legs.

Peter’s gaze tracked you slowly, like his brain was still buffering.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he rasped.

You didn’t answer. You smoothed the bottom of your dress once, then turned and walked out of his room without another word.

The bathroom was right across the hall. You flicked the light on, locked the door, and finally looked at yourself in the mirror.

Mascara streaked down your cheeks. Your lips were swollen and shiny. You looked thoroughly used and completely unbothered about it. You turned on the faucet, wet a clean washcloth, and methodically wiped your face clean—chin, cheeks, the corner of your mouth. You fixed your smudged liner as best you could, smoothed your dress back into place, and stepped back out into the quiet apartment.

Peter was still on the bed when you passed his open doorway. He’d managed to shove himself up onto his elbows, sweatpants still tugged low. He looked wrecked and confused and a little pissed that you were no longer on your knees.

“Hey.” His voice was still rough. “What the fuck? You’re just leaving?”

You paused in the living room long enough to slip your heels back on and grab your keys from the counter.

“Yep.”

Peter pushed himself fully upright, running a hand through his messy hair. “You can’t be serious. You just—come back here.”

You glanced over your shoulder, one hand already on the front door. The necklace sat cool and perfect against your collarbone. Your voice came out light, almost sweet.

“Bye, Peter.”

You opened the door, stepped into the empty hallway, and let it click shut behind you before he could get another word out.

The silence of the dorm building swallowed the sound of your heels as you walked toward the stairwell, the faint taste of him still lingering on your tongue and a small, private smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

spiderman will return in "my spidey senses are tingling pt 2"

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