#tasm peter

“i promise baby. don’t even worry about the camera okay? just focus on me.” you nodded, pushing yourself up to sit as he kneeled on the bed, lifting your pj shirt over your raised arms.

“such a pretty girl. you’re a movie star.” he whispered, staring down at you in awe, as if you were an angel who had blessed the earth with your presence. as if he hadn’t seen you naked a million times. your cheeks heated under his hungry gaze.

“m’not, you’re the film director… you know more than me.” you giggled, your words sealed with a soft kiss upon your lips, tasting of fresh mint. you fell back into the pillows, his lips never leaving yours as his strong arms engulfed you, shielding you from the outside world.

“yeah, eyes on me. it’s just you and me baby okay? gonna make you feel so good, just how you like it.” he praised, kiss trailing down to your neck, giving a little nip at the exposed flesh as you withered under him.

“mmm pete-“ you trailed off with a sigh as lips kissed your breasts, teeth grazing and nipping your nipples as he teased you. your hips bucked as his hands explored down past your mid drift, tugging off your sleep shorts. “we can’t get too crazy on the first video now can we?” he smirked, eyebrow raising as his knee slid up, pushing your legs wide open.

“m-more?” you asked. “hmm, some for my own personal collection. ya know, when you’re away and i’m all alone, missing you, with my hand wrapped around my cock…” he hummed, his dirty words making you groan.

“you’re so bad.”

“and you’re so pretty. pretty and wet f’me.” he tsked, his cock brushing past your folds.

“don’t tease.”

“don’t tell me what to do love.” he whispered, tossing your legs over each shoulder, making you yelp in surprise. he slid home, filling you right to the brim. you moaned, back arched and toes curled at the feeling.

“baby- fuck this never gets old. this pretty pussy never-“ he slid out, thrusting back in firmly. “-ever gets old. so-fuckin-tight.” your eyes widened, meeting his as he fucked you deeper into the mattress.

“gimme a kiss baby.” you obeyed, hands cupping his cheeks, teeth clashing as your lips meshed with his. not once did his pace falter. you moaned into his mouth, crying at the pleasure.

“yeah fuck baby. you do make a pretty picture.” he groaned, breaking the kiss to look over at his phone, watching the way he contoured you.

He knows you’re wary of him. Ever since, back at Midtown High, you had the same math class– he offered his calculator to you, because he heard you ask Gwen for one– and you looked at him in confusion, mouth slightly ajar, before accepting it.

He’s never known what he did wrong.

Then there was that time at Empire State University. He watched you climb up the stairs, slightly drunk after a frat party, and offered his hand so you wouldn’t stumble. Instead, you looked fearful– you backed away, gait slightly skewed by how inebriated you were.

Peter Parker knows you don’t have to be afraid of him.

His aunt has always said he’s a good, sweet boy. He’s not a threat, a nobody to everyone– but he wants to be somebody to you.

He’s what you need, he thinks. He sees you walking through your neighbourhood– you’re shy, you’re ducked down, wired headphones jammed in your ears, a wistfully, sad look upon your features. Peter thinks you’re too pretty to be so depressed.

Peter could make you so happy. He could make you a star, a model on all the magazines, eyes tantalizingly gazing at him, the eternal viewer– he has one creep shot he took while you were walking past the park, where he was sitting conveniently at the bench and aimed at the sky, catching your beauty, your bright, soulful eyes, your lips slightly parted.

You shouldn’t be working in a diner as a waitress.

Although you wear the uniform perfectly, with a girlish-yet-womanly cheer that isn’t overly offputting, unlike others who try too hard to be cute. Peter thinks you could really do anything and it would be right.

In the present, you turn slightly to talk to Cindy, the other waitress at the diner– her family owns the joint– and she slumps against you, laughing, and you smirk back, and Peter gets that sensation that tells him he’s been staring for too long, so he looks away before you see him.

He knows your shift ends in half an hour, so Peter reaches out of the seat, out of the booth, his laptop bag around his side.

No one seems to notice him.

/

Peter daydreams as he waits for you to commute home. He knows the bus route you take– he takes that one too, when he has the time to wait around your block.

He hopes you never see him, face to face, ever again, because you’re going to ruin his fantasies by calling the cops. He knows, he utters it everyday under his breath like a little, dirty secret, that no one can ever know how badly he craves you. Least of all you.

As he sits on the park bench, he thinks about you. He thinks you’d be a stunning girlfriend, or when his little daydreams get ahead of themselves– his wife. A perfect bride, shining in an ivory gown, all his to carry into the newlywed’s home, and lay down on the bed right then and there– no time to waste. Kissing you, stripping open that silken corset to reveal lacy lingerie, and the two of you tracing each other’s skin and becoming impossibly close, glowing with pleasure, until he’s kissing up your body, feeling up your chest, waist, hips; entering you as you wrap those firm, soft legs around him, hearing your normally sweet, clear voice in a hazy moan imbued with pleasure.

That’s not the only thing he’s interested in, but it is on his mind. How could it not be? Peter’s never been with anyone, and he’s decided he’s okay with saving himself for you.

He often lays in a sweaty, sticky hot mess in his own apartment at night, his hand tired from jerking off so aggressively. Something Peter is insecure about is just how badly he wants you– a proper man wouldn’t be so excitable, he thinks, and he hopes he would be enough to satisfy you. 

He would do anything for you.

Inevitably, as married couples do, you’d argue at some point. Peter isn’t stupid enough to believe everything would be happy– he admires your conviction. He’s seen you stand up for what’s right from afar, whether it be for a customer, a classmate, your friends.  

He’d say you’re right, no matter what the issue was. Just to keep you happy. What else could a girl want?

And then you could kiss Peter goodnight. A soft, languid kiss, in which he knows your anger isn’t real for him, that you’ll always forgive him.

Your bus arrives to the stop with a real groan, engine sputtering as it does so, and you exit, in a long coat that covers up your waitress outfit– but Peter knows where you’ve been and it gives him a thrill that he knows more than the average passerby, although he notices you don’t immediately step to your house.

No, if anything, you’re approaching the park bench– and Peter has played this out, so many times, that he’ll say hi, as a former classmate, and you’ll laugh in that nice, pleasant, slightly shocked way that you always do, and he’ll launch into a conversation, and it will end with making plans for a future date.

But you have those headphones jammed in, and Peter doesn’t know what to say, because you don’t seem to notice his presence at all when you sit down. 

Until you do. You turn slightly at him, and instead of looking alarmed like he’s expecting, you have a tentative smile.

He flushes a deep pink, and then smiles back. You smile for real, your eyes crinkling as you do so, lips plush and upturned, and Peter doesn’t know what to do with himself, until you get up and leave to walk to your small apartment, and now he’s sweating.

He wonders if you recognize him.

/

Peter waits on the corner until you leave your apartment again, for a midnight bodega run. He knows you do this every Tuesday without fail. He can’t help it, the fantasy is spiralling out of control– he needs to do something more tangible, something more scary.

He hasn’t gotten so close in months. The potential taste of you, the feeling of being physically close to you, it’s a high unlike anything else, and he needs to feel it again. He knows this is dangerous, but he settles for something that will settle his urges– your apartment.

Your daily setting. Where you live your life, carefree, cooking, cleaning, bathing, undressing– he relishes the idea to be the one to see where it happens. He knows you don’t have a boyfriend.

Peter finds it easy to get over the landing of the fire escape, and in through your bedroom window. He lands on his feet, and immediately inhales, feeling his heart pound as he smells your scent floating through the room.

It would be so tempting to lie across your bed, and breathe in everything about you, your peaceful dreams, to your eager awakenings, even terrible nightmares, in which Peter wishes he could comfort you, and perhaps the intimate moments when no one is around and your hand is between your legs, as you cry out in the quiet bliss of your room. 

Peter nearly quivers at the thought, and he knows he can’t be here, in this spot, or he’ll never leave.

He approaches the kitchen, feeling his stomach grumble. Perhaps Peter was being a little bad, and he felt like you were starting to form a connection with him, anyways– what would it matter if he took a snack? Soon he’d be feeding you, anyways. The favour would be returned.

He takes a smattering of crackers and cheese, and scarfs them over the garbage bin, feeling compulsive and disgusting, but feeling some visceral pleasure at the whole thing. Peter felt like a rat, like vermin that had no right to be in your presence, to be in this space, to eat your food so you would know someone had been here if you were really focused, and yet that made him feel all the more satisfied.

He doesn’t think pretty girls own the world, by any means– as much as he adores you, he also feels like you owe him. You owe him for seeing you truly as one could, as great as you are, unlike everyone else in the world. Who else has been there for every turn and tribulation, waiting, hoping, and praying that you’d be okay? Who else could love you so deeply, before even really knowing you?

It’s with this notion of ownership that Peter makes his riskiest move, his potential mistake– he left a calling card so you would know it was him.

That first photo of you he took all those months ago. A print that he carries in his wallet, tucked under a post card and magnet on the fridge. Something not easy to find, a surreptitious action that would have an unsteady origin, and be hard to trace back to him in a way– but definitely undeniably weird and would knock you out of the carefree sorrow you seemed to carry. 

His ego was getting to him. Peter leaves as quickly as he came.

/

It’s only when Peter’s got to his apartment that he feels an enormous amount of fear, guilt, worries that they’ll trace his fingerprints in your apartment. He knows, he knows he wants you to know it was him, but he misses that photo of you, and he wants you, more than ever– he just fears how your dynamic will change.

But there’s a sick satisfaction as he lies in his bed, picturing you entering your apartment, wearing your big t-shirt as your jammies, eating your midnight ramen.

Maybe you’ll find the picture today. Maybe you won’t. But knowing that he’s been there and left a voyeuristic treasure makes him exhale in bliss.

He doesn’t even mind being arrested. The cops’ll get him this time, the bail will be absurdly high, and all he can think about is you coming to visit him. Not unlike one of those true-crime chicks who get strangely obsessed with serial killers and send adoring letters. Is he Ted Bundy in this fucked up version of events? Not quite, but Peter knows he’s a criminal nevertheless.

Still, he pictures you deep in the throes of a Bonnie and Clyde syndrome-induced obsession, something that he knows would never happen– you’re normal, unlike him– and you’ve arrived to the jail, dressed in a veil as he requested, and you reach through the holding cell that they’ve got him captured in, and you hug him, and hug him, tightly weaving your arms around his neck, whispering that you believe in him and that he’ll get out and he hasn’t done anything wrong, and all he can do is smell you, your sweet, salty scent, and you kiss his neck, his jaw, up his face, and then onto his lips– and Peter shudders in real life, wishing you were here to pin him down and take advantage of his hard-on by riding him.

/

Peter goes back to the diner that morning.

He sees you working, wiping down the ordering counter– and you turn to greet him.

“Hi…” There’s mild recognition on your face, but not the panic he was bracing to see.

Or maybe anticipating. He’s almost disappointed.

But anyways, he gives you a nod, and sits in his usual booth.

Peter can’t even look at you as you ask what he’d like to order. He mumbles out “Small coffee, black.” And is glad that you walk away with ease. 

He starts to pen a letter, as he often does, things that he wants to say to you, but leaves unsent. It’s usually panic-driven, confessions of adoration and love that he knows you would understand if you were like him– but also loose rambles of his addled mind, where he voices his concerns about the world, about himself, venting in a way that he knows you would care about legitimately. If he could get close enough, he’d tell you in person what a loser Peter Parker really was– that this nerd grew up not touching a single girl, that he didn’t ever really connect to someone until he talked to you that one time, all those years ago– but he lets himself write it down.

You place the mug of coffee down, a clink of porcelain against the dull vinyl of the table, and Peter takes it, nodding his thanks while focusing on your hand, your wrist, unable to look at your face.

He feels growing shame and anger when you keep staring, as if you see him a bit better now that you’re closer. You walk away a little more quickly, and Peter chugs his coffee down, having an eerie sense about what’s going on.

As he exits the diner, having slammed some change on the table to avoid paying upfront– around the corner, the cops are waiting, and they stop him from continuing to walk.

“Stay down, sir.” The man tells him, but Peter is terrified, now, that you’ll see him, that you know, and some sense of indignation causes him to try and bolt.

They pin him down to the ground, his glasses knocking off onto the pavement, and he sees in blurry eyes that one of the cops has your picture in a plastic bag. That was his gift to you, and that’s how you treated it?

You’re more sly than Peter realized. Acting like everything was fine, and then pulling the rug from under his feet. And if he made the mistake of coming too close, of thinking you’d get it, he wouldn’t make that mistake now, and it’s with this anger that he clenches his teeth, swearing as he enters the back of the cop car. His teeth are gnashing together.

In his blurry, teary vision, Peter thinks he sees your silhouette kneeling by the pavement.

/

You’re only slightly surprised. The mildly cute, brunette nerdy guy had been on your radar for a few months. Always a fleeting glance, a nervous disposition. You’d try and smile at him, but to no avail– you know you know him from high school, but the guy was a scaredy cat.

You wondered if he hated you. Why else would he linger, be around when no one else was?

But the last thing you expected was for the strange energy in your house, that you chalked up to an accidental break-in, to actually be taken seriously by the police, and now the guy was arrested. Yes, there was a photo he took– but you got the vibe that maybe he was waiting to talk to you, maybe he got scared, maybe you’re so lacking in attention that you’re looking for it in the wrong places.

You don’t care. He was probably harmless– and yes, you know you’re attaching a reputation to a guy you don’t know, but you can’t help but feel sorry. Feel worried that you didn’t get to talk to him first, before he bolted.

You call the number of the penitentiary he’s in. You’ve read it so many times online, debating if you should call, you’ve practically got it memorized. The woman on the phone says you may call when you please in a day, as Peter Parker needs to be processed properly before he can take calls.

You feel sick. You know his name, you know him– you never properly bothered to address him, and now look at what you’ve done. More than anything, you wish you could take it back, the call to the police. You would have pushed harder for Peter, asked him what was going on in his life, ignoring the red flags– because what are red flags if not just the cries of help of a poor soul?

God knows you have enough of them. People have never really seemed to like you, not in the way you hoped you would have been noticed as a young girl. Unnoticed, until now.

You see that the letter he wrote is still on the table, forgotten in his haste. His penmanship is difficult to make out, long sprawling loops and scribbles making his words a little incomprehensible. But you understand one thing.

He cares for you. He's seen you, as you are, for so many years– he thinks you're beautiful, he thinks you deserve the world. Peter feels awful about himself, though, and you feel a pang of pity, mixed with some kind of intrigue, upon reading his words.

Cindy tuts from the counter, placing a red velvet cake into the display. “That was scary. You think that guy was out to get you?”

You shake your head, and Cindy raises her eyebrows. “No. I think I gotta help him.”

/

Peter thought about ending it all, the two hours he was in that cell. The guard is sleeping– he can’t even go to the washroom and hang himself there.

He’s back up on his feet now, but he can’t see very well. Without his glasses, all he can do is shut his eyes, and stew in shame and agony.

More than anything, there’s this oppressive urge to come and see you. Or for you to see him. You were the last comfort in his increasingly lonely, isolated lifestyle, and now you were gone too.

Until he hears your voice.

“Peter?” You knock on the bar of the holding cell, and he gets up from the floor, alert– he’s afraid that he’s lost it now, that he’s hallucinating you, and this crack in his psyche is going to make him a madman.

But you’re here, and you’re breathing, and you look real. So he takes a step forward. He sees that you don’t even really look disgusted, just… curious.

“Hey.” He says, staring at the ground, and then the collar of your jacket.

“Hey.” You attempt to smile, but he’s not meeting your eyes, so you drop it. “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to, well…”

You trail off, unsure what to say now, because it feels rather heinous to send someone to jail, and just show up and apologize as if this isn’t a serious crime.

“Wait. I can ask them not to press charges–” You turn, but you feel him tug on your wrist through the bars, and you turn back to him.

Peter finally looks into your eyes. There’s deep undereye circles that tell you he’s wrought with anger, terror, but underneath it all– some level of hurt. His mouth is ajar, as he struggles to speak.

“Why? Do you just feel sorry for me? You were supposed to…” Peter shakes his head and then groans. “If you’re thinking your stupid act of goodness is supposed to stop me, supposed to keep me from thinking about you, inspire me into being some… noble, loveable idiot, you’re mistaken. I want you, and I don’t ever want you to think you can do something to stop that.”

Peter expects this to go over poorly with you, but everything hasn’t gone to plan so far– so he doesn’t care. He’s setting it all on fire.

But in your eyes, he sees glee, he sees that same fire, those sick urges reflected in you. You’re smiling sheepishly, even giggling, and Peter wonders if he’s dreaming. You’re just as messed up as he is.

You like this stalker of yours. 

“I just… I wanted to talk. I called the people here but they wouldn’t let me talk to you yet.” You swallow, as if you’re saying something difficult, but Peter has never felt more of a kinship with you. He squeezes your hand, compelling you to continue, and you meet his eyes again, feeling reassured.

“I read your letter.” You pull it out of your bag, and Peter stills, but you quickly move to assuage his feelings. “Don’t worry, please– I’m not afraid. I saw what you said, about me, about… yourself–”

You’re trying to be delicate but his face falls. His eyes look to the floor.

“I know how you feel. I’ve felt it my whole life, and it means so much to me that you feel it too.” You smile at him, trying to catch his eyes again– wanting so badly for this sad, mad boy to just trust you.

If you could gain his trust, you could gain anyone’s. And then, maybe, you wouldn’t be so lonely.

But even just one lonely soul by your side– one that apparently saw “the stars in your eyes” – it was worth it to you to be close to Peter.

“And, well, no one’s ever said such kind, sweet things about me. I’m the last thing on anybody’s mind.” You scoff lightly, and then laugh. “I just… Is it all true? Did you really mean it?”

He grabs your hands, both of them, looking into his eyes. “Are you nuts? Of course I meant it. I, I’ve adored you since the ninth grade. I know you’re special. You’re beautiful, and perfect, and best of all– you’re mine. I’m the only one who knows it, and I’m gonna show the world someday.”

Peter’s so excited, he feels maybe double the high he did from sitting next to you. He can hardly contain the smile spreading across his face, he’s in such shock.

You laugh again, giddy with relief, excitement– sudden tears spring to your eyes, happy ones, and Peter wipes them away– and you wordlessly lean into his hands, through the bars, and then you reach into your bag, to take out his glasses.

But, who needs Jake-ass when there's vodka sodas and friends? Surely, not you.

“Come on,” Harry’s hand softly hit the table as Gwen continued recounting the next bullet on her list of everything that was wrong with Jake. The relationship was over, which meant a round of roasting the fateful ex with all cards being left on the table. His voice cut Gwen off, staring at you intently from his spot further in the booth. “Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on a man who- who,” his hands flailed some, his disbelief evident in the way his mouth was gaping.

“Who wouldn’t wash his hands after shitting? Didn’t believe in climate change? Had shit stains on his underwear?” MJ piped in from her spot in-between Harry and Peter. 

Peter’s shock resulted in a snort of a laugh that drew your attention to the man next to you, his hand coming to cover his face as he shook his head. 

“Or, that you spent over a thousand dollars in less than three months? Who’s family you didn’t meet even after two years of dating?” Gwen added, her tone a little more sharp as she reminded you of the more concerning things of the questionable relationship. 

“Who couldn’t make you cum?” MJ added one last note before the table erupted in laughter, your skin burning hot at the admission that didn’t even leave your own lips that night. 

The thought immediately had you grimacing the moment it conjured a hint of a memory. “I could strangle the both of you,” your words coming out as a mutter before bringing your straw to your lips and downing what was left of your drink. You had only planned to drink two vodka sodas before switching to water, but that was being thrown out the window as the heat of embarrassment still warmed your ears. 

Harry must’ve sensed your discomfort because he was sliding you the rest of his beer before waving down the waitress. In a blur of a few moments, the table was cleared and fresh drinks were being sat in front of you, feeling like an oasis in a desert of your messy mind.

Peter clicked his tongue, drawing all the attention to him. His hand held the top of his beer mug, his frosted tips from his previously bleached hair falling into his face as he shook his head in disbelief. “You three really know how to pick ‘em,” he sighed out, his hand flexing down around his mug as he brought it to his lips.

Your eyes caught a glimpse of the way the light bounced off his rings, an accessory he’s been wearing more since he started working at Oscorp full time last year. The observation was cut short as MJ’s disbelief cut through, “Might I remind you, that you and Gwen date-”

“In high school.” The two in question rang out in unison. 

“Besides, it would have never worked out long term.” Gwen finished, hand reaching out for her own drink. Despite the friend group being close, that subject was always a bit convoluted. There were days you wondered if what-if’s filled them, or if they were both satisfied with the friendship they had.

Peter let out an amused scoff, “We’d be so boring if it did.”

There was a moment of laughter, but the second it died down the aforementioned memory threatened to plague your thoughts, Harry’s question repeating itself in your mind. You looked over to him, taking a quick sip of your drink and relishing in the way it warmed you before speaking, “It’s not that I’m hung up on Jake. It’s just that-”

“You need to get laid.” MJ quickly quipped, “Girl, I am telling you once you get laid, you won’t even think about that prick.”

The scoff that left Gwen had you laughing, “No, she does not need to get laid,” she all but exclaimed, “She needs to process that loss of the relationship she wasted two years on.”

There was a burst of bickering between the two girls, going back and forth with their logic. Admittedly, they both had points, but they were points you weren’t currently interested in processing. The back and forth pulled the attention from you, and without much thought you found yourself opening up your phone gallery. 

However, the moment your fingertip lifted from the phone after pressing on a photo you definitely should have, a ringed hand reached out, slender fingers wrapping around your phone and swiping it away. “You’re not gonna be a party pooper when it’s our first time seeing you in weeks. You’ll get your phone back when we leave.” Peter said firmly, pulling your gaze to him.

You couldn’t stop the rolling of your eyes as you held your hand out to him, expecting him to immediately cave and give you your phone back. Instead, he doubled-down in his efforts, slipping the device into his pocket. You really should have known better. Peter was never one to bend, not easily at least. If anything, you’ve learned he was as stubborn as a mule and the biggest tease you’ve ever met. 

All he did was grab his mug and take a long swig, gaze holding yours over the rim as he did. For the first time in months, there was an echo of heat that ran through you, subtle enough that it definitely had to be from the vodka, right?

There was a sudden vibration, pulling your attention from Peter over to Gwen who let out a sigh before putting her phone away. Her demeanor shifted, slumping back against the booth seat. “This is the last round. I need to be in the office by 7 am tomorrow now.”

~

The door of the bar closed behind you, creating a barrier to the warmth inside as the wind of the city hit you. The evening had been nice, but the fully dark sky paved the way for the cooler temperatures. As much as you had been dreading coming out originally, it felt like your legs wanted to take you right back into the bar. 

The alcohol made it easier to feel normal. Weeks of constant limbo, constant questioning years of your life, constant critiquing every square inch of your appearance, put on pause. It was a relief, one that felt miles away with each step you were taking since leaving the table. There was an itch to tell them you were going to stay later, but you knew that wouldn’t fly. 

Gwen was always especially pressed about the rule that if you all went together, you left together. Over a decade of being Peter’s friend had made her even more gravely aware of what could happen, and even though her overbearing concern could be frustrating, all she wanted was for everyone to be safe. 

It wasn’t until Peter was invading your space, his lanky frame leaning closer as he threw an arm around your shoulder and pulled you closer to his side, that lopsided grin you had grown to know him for pulling at his lips had you realizing they had all been talking about something while you mind wandered. “You all know who I am,” the statement earned groans from the other girls, Harry snickering at them. There was a moment of confusion in you before he continued, “I’ll get Ms. Heartbreak home safely.”

The nickname immediately made your eyes roll, nudging his side just slightly and pulling a chuckle from him. Your eyes glancing back at Gwen and M.J. “I can get home fine,” You offered, smiling softly at them. Gwen’s concern was written on her face. “And I’ll text you when I do, assuming someone doesn’t kill me with his antics.” You narrowed your eyes up at Peter, his hands coming up in faux defence as he backed away.

The dramatics didn’t stop there as Peter moved his hand to his heart, falling against a lamppost and slowly collapsing to the ground, all while wearing a pained look on his face. “Oh, how you wound me, fair maiden.”

Harry snorted out a laugh, M.J. following suit with her own giggles, and Gwen sighing. This was how it always was with them, ever since you joined their unorthodox friend group a few years ago. ”Fine, fine! Text me when you get home, and MJ and I will see you Sunday for brunch.” Gwen conceded, a small smiling gracing her lips, “Keep her safe, Parker. Please.”

“I will, I will.” He jumped up from the ground, dusting himself off. “You say that every time.” He commented, “As if we don’t live in the same direction and I don’t walk her home every time we come to this bar.”

MJ nodded, her face contorting as she held back laughter at her friend’s annoyance, “He’s got a point, Gwen. Just like Harry always gives us a ride to our apartment.”

“Yeah, I would just feel better if (Y/N) would finally cave and get an apartment with us.” Gwen muttered, ensuing another round of lighthearted bickering between them.

There was a comment that quickly died on your tongue as Peter’s arm wrapped around your shoulders again, turning you around towards the direction of your apartment. “Alright, love you dorks, have a goodnight.” He called back as your steps fell into a comfortable stride and his arm fell from his place on you. 

The walk was comfortable, a quiet routine set into place after countless times of taking the same route home. Cars bustling by, muffled conversations, the occasional street cat and comically chasing a cat down an alleyway. A train or cab would definitely be quick this time of night, but there was something nice about walking off the alcohol and bar food that felt refreshing. 

Cool air prickled your skin, the cars throwing additional gusts of wind at you, only briefly blocked by Peter’s frame. It had been so warm and nice out, but the current temperature had you regretting your disregard for a jacket, missing the warmth of the bar from just 20 minutes ago. Another 10 minute walk, your apartment building finally coming into view a few blocks down as you two crossed the street and rounded a corner. 

Peter moved from your right side, falling a pace behind you before reappearing on his left. The sight of his bare arms in your peripheral making you do a double take before his was maneuvering his hoodie onto your shoulders. The suddenness had you pausing in your steps, the scent of his cinnamon and woodsy cologne enveloping your senses as he lips pulled, adam’s apple bobbing in amusement at your slightly bewilderment.

“Put the damn thing on properly,” he laughed out, “Don’t say you don’t need it. You’ve been rubbing your arms that past two blocks.”

Had you really been rubbing your arms that much? You slipped your arms into their designated space, adjusting the fabric some. The gray material fell against you, immediately enveloping you in warmth and sending a wave of heat that amplified the echo from earlier through you. 

Once he was seemingly satisfied with your obligingness, he turned to continue his stride, nodding for you to continue on with him. “So, what did John do to make you finally leave him?” Peter’s hummed out.

The sigh you left out was quickly met with a soft chuckle. He hadn’t arrived yet when you had been recounting to Harry the scene that played out, and by the time he did get there the conversation was already in full swing that the only explanation he was given was “They finally broke up.” 

“Jake cheated,” the shrug you gave did nothing to ease the anxiety that was swimming in your chest, filling your lungs with smoke and your throat with discomfort. “Found out while studying for my midterms. And, he left me, by the way.”

Peter tripped over your admission, glancing at you with furrowed brows before recovering, “So, let me get this straight, you found out but he left you?” The click of your tongue was enough of a confirmation for Peter to let out his own sigh, “Babe,” the pet name, albeit common in his vocabulary, sent a rush of heat through you, singeing the anxiety in is path to sitting lowly in you, “He was a grade a piece of shit. Couldn’t even be honest with what he wanted and you wanted to stay?”

“Coming from the resident fuck boy of the friend group?” The words came out more acrimoniously than you anticipated, but they did nothing to Peter but make him shrug and laugh. It was oddly comforting to see how much he’d grown, how words seemingly rolled off his back now when they used to all pierce him.

“At least the people I see know what I want. I don’t expect to have my cake and eat it too,” he offered, never faltering from it’s normal lackadaisical tone. It never came off as disinterest or indifferent with Peter, but in the way that you could tell he was confident with himself. Other people’s opinions didn’t matter.

“Is that how you did it?” Your question was seeming incomplete, but the indication was still there. It always was whenever someone brought up exes.

“Did what?” There was a dryness to his tone that was serving as a warning. Clarify, or turn away from the can of worms that everyone looked at but never opened.

But, if you had to spend the entire night recounting your past relationships, someone else should too. “Got over Gwen.” You clarified, hands tucking into the front pocket of the hoodie.

Peter came to a stop, turning to look at you fully. The streetlight hand overhead, bright and yellow, washing him in an angelic like brightness while the bulb on your doorstep flickered softly. “MJ is right. You need to get laid.”

The deflection was answer enough. Yes, and no, and no he wouldn’t be talking about it. His gaze never left yours, waiting and anticipating your next move.

His breath of relief wasn’t lost on you as you turned to your lobby door, pulling your keys out to let the two of you in. Gwen wouldn’t be satisfied unless Peter watched you go into your apartment, and Peter wouldn’t be satisfied until he heard the lock of your deadbolt.

The ascent up the stairs was quiet, the sense of something looming heavy on you. Peter’s steps were in line behind you as you climbed. First floor, second, then third, your apartment door coming into view as you reached the landing. The gimmicky Spiderman doormat he’d gifted during a white elephant exchange was like a beam against the dingy floor, the ‘go away’ sticker above your peephole making you smile softly with the relief of home being so close. 

Just as you unlocked your door and started turning the handle, Peter’s voice broke the silence, “Shit wait-” as you were turning to look at him, he pulled your phone out of his pocket and held it out to you. “Here.”

Something about the exchange cracked a piece of you. Your phone acting as a token to remembering the way he looked at you over his mug. Reaching out to grab it, your fingertips brushing along his and the coolness of his rings, inhibitions died. “You said I need to get laid, right?”

Your movements were quick, shoving your phone into your jean pocket and preparing to flee at the first sign of rejection, eyes looking anywhere but Peter’s face. The package in front of your neighbors door, Peter’s untied shoe, the suggestion of a bulge twitching underneath his zipper.

Was it desire or anxiety that was making your mouth water, skin warming with anticipation, breath short and halted as you waited for his response. “Look me in the eye and ask that again.” 

Peter’s tone was firm in a way you had never heard before. Commanding but warm and inviting, the type of tone to have your eyes shooting up to meet his to make sure you heard it correctly. He was otherwise emotionless, his own gaze studying you as if he was assessing the pros and cons of the situation being presented. “You said I need to get laid.”

He nodded curtly, foot bouncing incrementally. It was subtle, other than the sound of his jeans moving against the fabric of his shoe. “That, I did.”

“Do you want to do something about that?” You weren’t even sure your voice made it above a whisper, hands becoming clammy as they flexed at your sides.

“Do you want me to?” He countered. 

It felt like a chess match, each of you moving a pawn on the board as you figured out what was worth sacrificing. One of you should forfeit, call bluff and turn away, but neither of you made the indication that backing down was an option. 

“I asked you fir-” You were cut off by Peter lips, hands moving to cup your jaw as all space between you two disappeared. 

Feverish. That’s the only word that could come close to describing the way he was moving. Slightly chapped lips from the cold, the taste of rich beer and the minty gum he always chewed, one hand moving to hold the back of your neck to keep you against him while the other was reaching for the door handle. 

He moved you two inside like he’d done it a million times, or at least thought of it million times. Your back was pressed against the wall, his foot kicking your door closing and reaching for the deadbolt. His hand waved a few times before he pulled away with a displeased grunt, reaching over to lock the metal into place with it’s infamous screech. 

Peter looked back at you, mouth slightly parted and tongue swiping along his lip as if he was trying to taste your own against his still. “Tell me this is what you want.” His voice was breathless, quiet, but something lay beneath it. It was a type of yearning you hadn’t felt in months, maybe even years if you were being honest.

“Well, obviously.” You offered, baffled that he would even ask. 

As you reached up to grab at his shirt, he stopped you, his own hands holding your wrists in place between the two of you. “No. I need to hear you say it. Tell me this is what you want. Tell me you want me to fuck you or I’m leaving.”

It didn’t sound like a threat, but your heart still started beating like it was one. Your ears burned hot, feet becoming clammy and the mere thought that he could be trying to find a way out, that he actually wanted to leave. Eyes wide and lips puckered out in a pout, trying to process his words.

Your hesitation broke something in Peter, the look on his face softening as his grip let go of your hands. One hand cupped your chin, palm spreading wide and cold rings cooling your heated skin, the other wrapping around your waist as he pulled you from the wall and closed some of the space again. 

“I want to get on my knees while you lay on your bed, legs spread wide for me while I eat your pussy until you’ve cum on my tongue. Then, I want to fuck you nice and deep until your legs are shaking and you’ve cum again. Does that sound good to you, baby? Can I do that for you?” Peter's voice was raspy, scratching an itch you didn’t know you had.

Once you nodded, Peter smiled, placing the softest of kisses to your cheek, then your nose, then your other cheek, and finally your forehead. His breath came out fanning against your skin, eyes fluttering closed. “Then, you are going to look me in the eye and tell me you want this, that you want me. Yeah?”

With another soft nod from you, Peter pulled back, your eyes opened, voice feeling lost in your body as you breathed out, “I want you to fuck me, Peter. I want you,” he didn’t need to know for how long, you weren’t even sure for how long you’ve craved him. That was a conversation for later.

“Good fucking girl,” he purred out before pressing his lips to yours again. This time, with a soft fervor, more exploratory as his tongue slid between your lips, hands moving to your hips and his thumbs rubbing soft circles against your jeans. 

Everything about Peter, about this moment was dizzying. It was more dizzying than the vodka earlier, his touch lighting every inch of skin in his wake ablaze. Between his heady scent and the beer you could still taste on him, you questioned if you had ever actually been drunk, ever actually knew what intoxication felt like. The drinks you shared, joints you’ve passed back and forth, nothing could quite touch the way his kiss alone was making you feel.

Peter’s lips left yours, trailing along your jawline and down your neck, soft kisses becoming little nips as he began guiding you backwards throughout your apartment. It wasn’t hard to get to your room, the small space working in your favor for the first time since moving in. Somewhere along the way, he had toed off his shoes, his hands already deftly unbuttoning your jeans the moment the back of your legs his the edge of your bed.

He pulled back, much to your dismay, a small laugh leaving him as he felt you trying to chase after his lips once they left your skin. “So needy,” he hummed, a hand coming up to hold your chin, lidded eyes darting from your lips to your eyes, “Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?”

The question sent a wave of heat through you, almost reminiscent of embarrassment as your thighs clenched tightly, seeking any sort of friction. “Okay,” you breathed out, an unexpected whine leaving you at the sound of how breathy you were. 

The noise that left you had Peter’s jaw clenching, his lip pulling between his teeth for a moment while he gathered himself. “Lay down for me, pretty girl,” Peter commanded, eyes holding your gaze as he slowly knelt down in front of you. 

The image was worth committing to memory. Peter’s fluffy hair was slightly disheveled, lips glistening and kiss swollen, eyes lidded and dark with desire, sitting back on his calves with his hands clasped in his lap, waiting patiently. There was something so intimate in the way he was sitting before you, a subtle desperation with how his fingers were twitching to touch you again. 

You couldn’t look away from him if you tried, couldn’t bring yourself to deprive him even if you wanted to. “Do you wa-”

“Just lay down,” his resolve broke a little, hands reaching up to grip your thighs, massaging softly. “I’ll do the work this time, baby.”

This time. He said it like he was already planning on their being a next time, like he’d been waiting for this time.

Peter’s hands gripped a little tighter as you sat down on the edge of your bed, leaning back on your elbows to keep your gaze connected with his. It felt like a million years as his hands worked their way up your thighs, gripping the top of your jeans and pulling them down, leaving your panties in place as he helped you out of the restrictive material. 

“Fuck,” he let out a heavy breath as he settled himself better between your spread legs, “So wet and all I’ve done is kiss you.” His hands returned back to your thighs, squeezing at the fat of them softly and relishing in the way you squirmed. 

His hands reached for the band of your underwear, eyes taking in the way you looked in his hoodie with your underwear soaked through. The coolness of his rings was a stark contrast to the heat of your skin as his fingers hooked around the fabric. “Can I take these off?” He asked, eyes flicking back up to yours.

There was something about the way he was constantly checking in, the slight restraint in his movements as he made sure you were still wanting this. “Yes,” tilting your hips up some, Peter pulled them down, maneuvering your legs until your panties had been tossed somewhere and your thighs had been sat atop his shoulders.

That was the last big of resolve Peter had though, hands gripping your hips again and pulling you towards him. His hands wrapped underneath you, hands gripping at your ass as he held you up to his mouth, just slightly off the bed, and the perfect height for him to close the space between the two of you. He wasted no time, tongue swiping from your weeping core to your aching clit, a pleased noise vibrating against you as he messily licked up everything you were offering to him. 

From where you laid, Peter looked like he was experiencing heaven on Earth. His eyes had fluttered close, hand gripping you like if he loosened up even the slightest you’d squirm away. In his defense, it was damn near impossible to stay still, his contentment to be knelt between your thighs having your hips jutting in pure desire. 

“Peter,” his name tumbling out of your lips, had his eyes open, looking up at you just as his lips wrapped around your clit. The moan that left you sounding exaggerated even to your own ears and your hand reaching down to card through his hair. 

He hummed against you as your nails scratched his scalp softly, sending vibrations through you that somersaulted you closer to the edge. It was humiliating how quickly you felt that high coming, especially when you were admittedly doubting his ability to make you cum with his mouth. It had never happened before, but here Peter was feasting on you like you were his last meal, like a man who just walked days in the Sahara and you were his first drink. 

“Peter- I-” your words were lost between moans, the glance down to him revealing his intent gaze still locked on your face. Even with him still buried between your thighs, you could see the sheen of arousal coating his nose and cheeks that poked out from between your folds. 

There was no other warning as pleasure ripped through you, washing over you like a tsunami as you reached your high. Peter didn’t let up, moans ripping from your in breathy pitches, broken with squeaks and almost giggles as his ministrations bordered on overstimulating you. It wasn’t until you were pulling his hair in an attempt to pull him away that he stopped. 

Peter pulled away, sucking in a deep breath that fanned across your soaked skin as he breathed out. The entire bottom half of his face was slick with your arousal, lips puffy from sucking and kissing at you. He gently sat you down, pressing light kisses to your thighs as he did. “You taste so fucking good,” he suddenly wrapped and suctioned his lips to the sensitive part of your inner thighs, sucking roughly and nibbling, instantly pulling a shocked gasp from his lips. 

The moment he felt you tug at his hair he stopped, his eyes glancing over the mark he left on your skin - faint now but sure to blossom into a bruise to remind you for days to come. “Couldn’t help myself,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to the spot before glancing up at you, “‘m sorry.”

It was obvious by his lidded gaze that he was, in fact, not sorry. Not that you could care at the moment. It was quick after that, Peter standing from his kneeling position as he discarded his shirt and jeans, his boxer briefs leaving little to the imagination as his dick struggled against the fabric, a darkened stain where precum leaked from him. He shuffled you back, helping you to take off his hoodie and your shirt, fingers making quick work of your break the second he could and tossing it along with the other forgotten clothing. 

“Look at you,” he hummed out as his hands started trailing along your sides, his body moving to hover over yours as he settled atop you on the bed. “Might actually need to thank Justin if I ever see that bastard again.” 

You weren’t going to correct Peter this time, you didn’t even want to be thinking about that asshole. Not when Peter was in your bed, and especially not when he just made you cum in a matter of minutes. Reaching up to card your fingers through hair and pulling him close to shut him up with a kiss.

Peter didn’t complain, lips and tongue kissing back with messy need. He tasted like you, cheeks sticky with the remnants of your release. One arm planted next to your head, his free hand roaming along your side. As he trailed it upward, his thumb bruised along your breast, tentative and experimental. His touch moved inward with each motion until he was brushing your nipple, flicking the hardened nub softly. 

The soft touch sent waves of pleasure, lighting a whole new level of desire in you. It was making you nearly insatiable, like every touch was making you spiral further from wanting and closer to needing him. It wasn’t until you were squirming and whimpering against his lips that he pulled back some, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Sound so pretty and I haven’t even fucked you yet,” the kiss he pressed to your nose was a drastic juxtaposition to the filthy words leaving his mouth, “You gonna let me, hm?” He asked, kissing your cheek and lips moving towards your ear, “Gonna let me stretch you out?”

Your nod was instant, eyes opening to stare at him as he pulled off of you. Your complaint died on your lips as he reached for his jeans, watching as he pulled out his wallet and the subsequent metallic wrapper of a condom. His eyes glanced at you, your chest heaving, thighs glistening with your own arousal, the image causing his cock to strain and twitch in the confines of his boxers. 

There was silence as he ripped open the condom, pulling down his boxers to finally reveal his cock. It was embarrassing the way your mouth watered at the sight. He was easily the longest you’ve had, a drastic difference to the last one, bright red and leaking pre-cum, a strong vein running along the underside, curved up just slightly. 

He was on you again before you could protest, wanting to admire him just a little longer. He was quick, hands gripping your hips and pulling you down to where he was kneeling, pulling the tiniest squeak from you. He watched as you trying to instinctively wrap your legs around him, but he stopped you, moving your legs until your calves rested against his shoulders, legs encasing his face like a picture frame. 

“Please,” you whined, squirming slightly as you felt his tip grazing your sopping folds.

“Such a quick learner, but you’re gonna have to be more specific than that.” His tone was dripping with tease, the slightest thrust of his hips forcing his tip to just barely nudge inside you.

“Please fuck me,” you whined, “Please , Peter, I-”

The moment you said his name he was thrusting inside of you with one push.Thick cock pushing inside, tight walls squeezing him, the lubricated condom and sheer wetness between your legs allowing him the ability to spear himself in. He didn’t wait, a loud groaning leaving him before he was pulling all the way out and pushing right back in.

His pace was brutal. Sharp thrusts causing his thighs to slam against yours with a slap, the loud, wet squelching noise every time he pulled out indication of just how much you fucking loved it. There was no denying it even if you wanted to, back arching each time he hit a spot you honestly didn’t believe existed, loud moans leaving your parted lips as you eyes threatened to leave his gaze and roll back into your skull.

Peter leaned forward some, the new angle allowing him to go even deeper as his thrusts were starting to turn into a deep grind. His hand moved one of your legs to wrap around his waist, leaning down even more until you could feel his weight being held up by partly your leg still against his chest.

“I can feel it,” his voice was more gravelly than you’ve ever heard it before, his palm sitting against your lower abdomen now and pushing, the pressure sending your mind whirling. “Can you, baby? Can you feel how deep I am?”

His words made a whine leave your lips but when you didn’t answer, he started pressing even harder, “Answer me, and I’ll rub your pretty little clit until you're cumming on me.”

The thought had a choked noise leaving you, desire like a hot iron rod piercing through you with his every move. You were so close, and his offer would be the thing to undoubtedly unravel you. “Y-yes- So deep, Pe-Peter. So fucking deep,” your hands reached under your thighs, desperate to touch any part of him, nails digging softly into his skin and trailing down towards his knees, leaving angry marks in their wake.

Peter groaned, his own eyes fluttering at the scratches and head tilting back some. The hand on you ventured lower, thumb parting between your folds and rubbing figure eights on the sensitive bundle. Four, maybe five goes before the breath was stuck in your lungs, body seizing up as pleasure wreaked havoc on every nerve in your body. 

His hips faltered at the way your walls were starting to grip him, sucking him in impossibly more. Moans were falling past your lips with stuttering breath, broken and loud. Your nails anchoring into his skin for something to hold onto once your hips begin rocking against his, riding out your own orgasm with the intensity of a storm. 

The scene alone with your mouth parted, a sheen of sweat on your skin, and watching you rock against him pushed Peter towards his own high. You could feel the way his cock pulsed inside the condom, a strangled whimper and moan leaving his own lips. 

With a shaky breath, he moved your other leg to wrap around his thigh, collapsing softly on top of you with his cock still buried deep. Immediately, a soft giggle left your lips, baffled and amused once reality finally hit. Your best friend just fucked you.

Peter glanced up at you, his eyebrows furrowing and lips twitching to fight his own laughter, “What’s so funny?”

“This,” you shrugged, suddenly feeling bashful despite what just transpired. “Never in a million years did I think this would happen.”

There was a ghost of concern on his face, one of his arms moving to hold himself up so he could get a better look at you. “Do you regret it?”

The softness of his words sent a pang of guilt through you. Do you regret it? Could you regret it? “No,” you answered softly, “Though I- I’m just- What do we do after this?”

Your answer seemed to relieve him, a breath leaving him  before he pressed a quick kiss to your nose and was moving again. Peter softly pulled himself out, standing and tying the condom up before tossing it in your trash bin by your desk. “Depends on what you want. We can never talk about it again, or keep it casual if you’re looking for something low risk,” he shrugged as he offered.

It wasn’t lost on you that he wasn’t looking at you as you spoke. “What does casual entail?” You found yourself asking a little too quickly. 

Peter looked at you for a moment before turning to leave the room, his sudden, and naked, departure confusing until he returned a minute later with a washcloth. He came back over to you, spreading your legs and moving you like some doll as he wiped you clean, not missing your thighs as he did before doing the same to himself. “Casual is exactly as it sounds. You’re one of my best friends, but we can fuck every now an then, whenever you need it or the mood strikes. Could be next week, could be months.”

You found yourself sitting up, throwing the blanket over yourself as you watched him start getting dressed. “And I’m assuming we tell no one?”

Peter chuckled softly, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks, “Not no one, necessarily, just not our friends, ya know? Don’t want it to make the friend group messy.” It made sense, and it would be nice to have someone competent to scratch the occasional itch without needing to put your safety or sanity at risk. Peter pulled his shirt on before looking back at you, “So, choice is yours, babe.”

You let out a shaky breath, pushing down the cloud of anxiety that was threatening to swirl a storm in you. “Casual it is then.”

Peter smiled, something closer to a smirk but softer, and like it was meant only for you. “Casual.” He nodded in agreement. He grabbed your pajamas that had been sitting on your desk from the previous night, tossing them to you. “Come let me out so you can lock the door,” he requested, heading out of your bedroom. From where you sat you could see him toeing his shoes back one.

Pulling your pajamas on, you followed behind him, offering him a hushed goodbye that he gave in turn with a kiss to your hairline before making his way out your door. Once he heard the noise of your deadbolt twisting into place he was gone, leaving you to wander back to your bed as you began processing what just happened.