#uni!peter

Peter Parker is not an asshole because he leaves you a note. One that’s scribbled hastily on a post-it note that he found in your desk drawer that reads, GTG, HARRY’S LOCKED OUT. TEXT ME WHEN YOU’RE UP.

It feels so fucking nonchalant that you feel shame in actually wanting to follow through with his request. Is it even a request? Does he really want you to text him? Because “text me when you’re up” can often be an empty message that lets the other person know that they care the barest minimum out of politeness. You’ve known Peter for long enough to perhaps gauge what he might be like in an intimate context, but now that you’re on the other end of it, you have no fucking idea what the norm is. So you crumple up the note in your palm, toss it into your wastebasket, and you try to breathe as best you can.

I slept with Peter Parker last night.

You ruminate about this statement over toast and a homemade matcha latte. Remnants of the night come back to you like vignettes and scrapbook clippings. The blurred image of an elbow. The sight of this boy who’s your friend who happens to be very talented at suckling on the tender spot on the inside of your thigh, which you now see has resulted in a purplish mark in the shape of a heart. By the time lunch comes, you can’t get the image of Peter’s body out of your head.

From the amount you drank last night, you had woken up thinking today was a Sunday, a day when you usually recharge and deep clean your apartment because that’s what the Korean vloggers you like on YouTube tend to do, and you’re just trying to survive your 20s in the neatest way possible.

But no. It’s fucking Friday.

And it’s nearly twenty minutes until your first class.

“Fuck,” you groan.

You’re too tired to keep the tension in your jaw, so you slacken and lean back in the plastic chair you’re sitting in, pausing the music blasting in your headphones to reassess your senses. You hear the bustling noises of the cafe. Your laptop screen taunts you, its blue light burning into your retinas. All the ice has melted in your brown sugar espresso latte, but you decide it tastes better that way.

Pulling out your phone from your pocket, you read your messages from last night once again, chuckling at the thought of Harry sleeping in the hallway of his apartment all because Peter happened to be sleeping in your room. You wonder what time he’d left. You wonder why he hasn’t texted you at all today.

Your finger hovers over his contact. It feels tempting to text him but you force yourself to lock your phone, frustrated by your newfound anxiety. You put your headphones on again and turn your volume as loud as you can handle, and you stare at your email inbox instead.

The door of the cafe opens and you briefly catch sight of a certain head of brown curls. It’s like the universe’s indifference is set out to taunt you, because despite you trying to get your mind off of Peter Parker, he happens to be the exact person who saunters in to take the seat directly across from you.

“Hey.”

You pretend not to hear him, instead scribbling in your notebook with a pen that’s about to die. You watch as the ink bleeds and runs thin, alternating based on how hard you push on the paper, and the boy’s voice drones on in the background. He repeats himself multiple times and you hold in your laughter as you ignore him until he taps on your nose with the pad of his finger. You wince.

“Are you ignoring me on purpose? That’s so mean,” he grumbles, his lips pouting like a child’s. It’s so adorable, the look on his face, that you want to kiss the grimace off of him. There’s an ounce of annoyance when you realize your adoration. You convince yourself that it’s just part of his charm.

“Hi, Peter.”

“I’m sorry for leaving before you woke up. Did you get my note?” he asks, his eyes slightly wider than usual. You notice his fidgeting.

“Yeah, I did. And I’m not actually mad at you or anything, I’m just messing.” He seems to appear relieved when you give him a teasing smile.

“Thank God. Otherwise, it’d be a rude awakening to find a girl giving me the silent treatment because I’m bad at sex or something.”

The comment makes you blush, so you duck your head slightly so that your laptop screen is covering the majority of your face. When Peter realizes you’re flustered, a grin creeps into his face.

“Why? Has that happened?” You raise your eyebrows in a taunting manner.

He stumbles over his words with some kind of excuse, ultimately deflecting the question.

“No. I mean, I don’t know. But I feel bad for leaving. Harry wasn’t even locked out by the time I got home. He wasn’t even home. And he hasn’t responded to my texts which is a little fucking troubling.”

“He’s definitely alive,” you murmur, scrolling through your phone. “He sent a meme in the group chat like an hour ago.”

“Great. I wonder which NYU student he was able to hook up with last night.”

“Does it matter? Let me guess. Hot and blonde. My money’s on a model, too,” you scoff bitterly. You toy with the hem of your sleeve and Peter notices the shift in your mood. Furrowing his brows, he takes your hand in his, massaging your slender fingers with the pads of his own.

“Should we… talk about last night…?” the brunette trails off as you shake your head.

“What about last night?” You play dumb. You’re rather good at it as well considering how much you hate confrontation.

“I just – I don’t wanna make things weird between us.”

“It doesn’t have to be weird. You’re my friend, Peter. I don’t regret it because I’m really comfortable with you,” you murmur slowly, watching his hands at work instead of the fixed gaze on his face. “Unless… you…?”

“No, no. I’m not uncomfortable with anything that happened at all. It was um, really good, actually. Better than I expected. Not like that was something I was planning on for a while! Or like, I didn’t have any expectations because I don’t usually just think about my friends in that way. But I’m not saying I haven’t thought about you in–”

Your attention is completely thrown off when your phone buzzes. Peter stops his babbling, rubbing his red-tinted face.

Caleb sent you a message

Caleb: Still on for drinks? 5 pm?

“Oh shit, I have a fucking date,” you groan, hurrying to gather your belongings while Peter watches you in perplexity.

“You– you do?” he exasperates.

“Yes, in like an hour. God, I haven’t even showered and I look like hell. I’ll see you later, okay Pete?”

You leave the cafe in such haste that Peter’s convinced that you disappeared the way cartoon characters vanish in little tornados. He wonders why the pit of his stomach is so much more present, and why his mouth feels so uncomfortably dry. The taste of you is still on his tongue.

Despite moving to New York City for school, you aren’t sure if you just haven’t adapted to the ways of New York men, or if you just happen to pick up the biggest losers on the planet. Scarfing down mozzarella sticks at the bar seems grotesque from the way that your date eyes you, so you take meager bites like a Victorian woman, sipping your cocktail with gentle, superficial elegance. It’s fucking ironic how your date’s judging you silently when he’d picked out a dive bar that seemed to be exclusively reserved for people who looked like they were rushing for Greek life.

He sits across from you with a look of slight boredom on his face, which is ironic considering you hadn’t been able to get a word into the conversation for the past fifteen minutes. Since your appetizer came, you had managed to mindlessly pick at your food while his voice drones on. You’ve got no idea what he’s talking about, nor do you care, until he pauses completely.

“Sorry, zoned out just a bit. Been a long day,” you apologize, attempting a feeble smile. “What was that?”

“I’ve been getting into crypto recently.”

You’re fucking joking.

You want to look at the audience right in the camera like in Fleabag, but your gaze of disgust naturally falls on the man in front of you, quickly turning up the corners of your mouth in a mock smile so that he can feel more comfortable. You don’t love to be palatable for men, but it often feels easier this way so that you can give your polite goodbyes at the end of the night and promptly unmatch the bastard. By the time you do that, you’re usually sinking in your bathtub with a glass of red to wash away the day entirely. You down the rest of your gin and juice like it’s a magic potion that might promise your escape.

You listen to him spout on about the mundanities of bitcoin, negative commentary on Elon Musk that you find yourself agreeing with until he mentions the billionaire’s “innovative projects that will help mankind’s conception of transportation as we know it”, and now your foot is tapping impatiently to the tune of “Tom’s Diner” playing over the speakers.

“Women like you are so fascinating. I feel like I keep dating girls that are kind of… airheads, you know? Always trying to please people, but you… you’re not afraid to be a little offputting and abrasive. I think that’s really cool,” Caleb recites as if he’s monologuing about the date within the confines of his journal instead of having a conversation with you. You imagine that he fucking loves Bukowski. Not to mention, he splits the bill because he’s “pretty much a feminist.” You kind of want to die at the moment.

Eventually, you decline his offer to walk you home while the words offputting and abrasive echo through your mind. You go through hoops wondering about the semantic variations of the statement, suddenly subconscious about your resting bitch face. Ultimately, if the dude thinks you’re a cunt, you accept it. You’ve unmatched him before you’re able to open the door of your apartment anyway.

peter parker [7:02 pm]

hey

i know you’re on that date but i just realized i left my wallet in your room. mind if i get it when you’re free?

you [7:05 pm]

come on over parker

peter parker [7:10 pm]

damn, quick date

you [7:12 pm]

yeah, turns out he had like four sets of eyes and wanted to drink my blood. not really my type

peter parker [7:13 pm]

or maybe you weren’t HIS type

you [7:14 pm]

gee thanks

peter parker [7:15 pm]

no i mean like BLOOD type

you [7:15 pm]

*crickets*

peter parker [7:16 pm]

okay jeez tough crowd

im omw

You wonder briefly if he’s lying, making excuses just to come over and see you alone, but you do happen to see his battered leather wallet on the floor of your bedroom. It’s torn and skinny, decorated in children’s Spider-Man stickers, containing nothing more than eleven bucks, a debit card, and a Metro Card that looks like it’s gone through hell. When you pick it up, a polaroid falls out. You don’t recognize when the image was taken, but it’s a candid of you, Harry, MJ, and Ned laughing in Central Park at night. How awfully tender of Peter to keep it in his wallet. So tender it’s making your heart a little sick.

Before you know it, there’s a knock on your door. When you open it, you catch a whiff of cologne, which you raise your brows at, but Peter doesn’t catch your gesture. He merely lets himself in and takes off his shoes, suggesting he’s here to stay instead of just stopping by.

“Hey, rabbit,” he chirps.

“Hey,” you blink. “Why do you always call me that?”

“Because you’re timid,” he shrugs. “Remember when I first made you go out with everyone? It took you so long to open up.”

“I’m just introverted. And I’m not nearly as shy as I was before!”

“Yeah, now you’re a menace,” he rolls his eyes, grinning.

You don’t know why your blood seems to heat up like you’re entering a sauna. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours, and yet the mere presence of Peter Parker is something that you grow more attuned to, like you’re seeing him through a clearer set of glasses. You notice the veins on his hands and the freckles on his nose. He’s pretty. You almost tell him but you know that he’d never let you live it down.

You zone out with a glass of red wine in your hand, eyes fixed on your laptop screen but your mind going absolutely nowhere. Someone clears their throat in front of you. Your attention turns back to Peter, who takes a seat next to you on your kitchen island.

“We’re having a thing at ours tonight. You should come?”

“By ‘thing’, you mean getting wasted while Ned drunkenly tries to set up YouTube karaoke on the flatscreen?”

“Precisely,” Peter deadpans.

Awkward beat. Have you gotten worse at socializing with your best friend since you’d slept with him? A more glaring question: does Peter know you consider him your best friend?

“Who’s your best friend?”

“Ned,” he answers without a beat. You figured as such. “Why?”

“Are… are we best friends?” you ask curiously.

“I… yeah, I’d say so.”

“Cool.”

The tension in the room could be cut with a knife. You imagine one slicing through the air like butter. You think briefly about those TikTok videos where things get cut into and you find out it’s cake.

“Is everything okay?” Peter murmurs. He’s treading on uncharted territory. He’s fought aliens and thieves and the police, and yet, asking you about your feelings right now is just a tad harder than all those things.

You look at him and you wonder if he’s about to cry or if the fluorescents are just making his eyes a little glossy. It doesn’t help that Peter always has a perpetual look of something on his face, pupils wide in either shock, wonder, admiration, or every emotion under the sun. If Peter Parker was anything, it was emotive. This made him a terrible liar.

“Yeah, everything’s good,” you say quietly.

“H-how was the date?”

You’re grateful that he changes the subject. You aren’t quite sure what you think of everything yet. If there was any more awkward silence you might’ve done the reckless thing and kissed Peter on the mouth. You reflect back on the horrid two hours you had at the dive bar and feel the irritation set lines in your face.

“Kind of terrible, and not even in an entertaining way. He was so far up his ass that I didn’t get any room to speak. Men think that women want to hear them talk on and on about their likes and dislikes like we’re fucking taking notes instead of just being normal fucking human beings and engaging in a genuine conversation. He also called me offputting. And abrasive! Am I fucking abrasive?” you seethe, groaning dramatically as you take a gulp of your wine.

Peter’s expression showcases his brows raised, his pink mouth curled up in a teasing smirk at your exasperation. You want to be annoyed because you just proved your Tinder date’s point, but you can’t help but laugh under Peter’s gaze. You feel relaxed again when he smiles.

“No offense, but you kind of have terrible taste in men.”

“That’s no way to talk about your good friend and roommate.”

“Harry’s great,” Peter defends, shrugging. “He’s also just a fucking idiot. You could do better.”

You frown, chewing on your lip. You wonder what Peter means by that.

“You really think that?”

“Of course. But he’d be lucky to have you, too.”

You acknowledge his statement for a moment, repeating it in your head. You can barely picture yourself with Harry, you realize, and that thought alone was incredibly depressing to you. The strange spark between you and Peter was also a difficult thing to ignore. Biting the inside of your lip, you contemplate.

“What if– what if we kept going with this?” you mumble.

“With…”

You make a wild gesture with your hands, waving them around vaguely. Peter watches the way your throat contracts when you loudly sigh. He smiles at the sight of you flustered. He thinks about a few other ways he could rile you up.

“This. You know. We’re young, hormonal, and we both have unrequited crushes. It feels nice to have that… physical release,” you admit. Your eyes are closed when you say it. As if looking into Peter’s face makes it real. “And, like, I– I trust you, I guess, and we’re pretty compatible–”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, I’m down,” Peter shrugs.

“I didn’t realize casual sex was such a nonchalant thing with you,” you narrow your eyes.

“How do you want me to react? With disgust? Also, I think it’s cute how much you’re struggling to tell me that you had a good time last night. I was watching your face do mental gymnastics.”

Your brows are furrowed at Peter’s casual demeanor, and you hate how embarrassed you feel for this arrangement even if it’s what you want. You suppose you haven’t done anything like this before, especially not with someone so close to you. And here Peter is, watching you emotionally flail around while he leans on your kitchen counter looking completely entertained.

Without a warning, your mouth is on his and he grips the back of your head naturally with his large hands, and soon enough, they’re snaked around your waist. His lips are soft and moving with yours like a blooming flower. You want to blame the buzz in your head on the alcohol but you know it’s because of the boy holding you right now. You nibble on his lip slightly before pulling back.

“Sorry, that was really abrupt,” you whisper, eyes raking over the roseate blush adorning Peter’s cheeks.

“No worries. Sometimes messy is kind of hot,” he breathes.

“How’d you like it?”

“I think the answer to that is obvious,” Peter replies, the lower register of his voice coming out between a rasp and a chuckle as he adjusts his lower half.

“Okay, yeah, this works,” you nod.

“Wait, did you just kiss me to confirm this like a business deal?”

“No, I just… wanted to make sure. And I am sure.”

Peter swallows thickly and looks you up and down. He resists the urge to take a finger to a loose strand of your hair that’s fallen over your collarbone. He isn’t sure how casual this was supposed to be – when he was comfortable with someone, one could describe him as touchy, and you were… unprecedented. The fact that he even slept with you makes something reel in Peter’s mind like he’d uncovered something secret. He looks at your mouth. He wants to kiss it again.

Before he can get an inch closer to your frame, you both jump at the sound of his phone ringing. You notice the clench of his jaw when he picks it up.

“Hey, man. Nothing, just at Y/N’s.” He grimaces.

“Okay, yeah, I know. No, yeah, we’ll be there soon. Don’t blackout at the pregame, Oz.”

“What’s up?” you quip, sucking air through your teeth.

“As much as I want to continue this further, the prince is awaiting our arrival.”

You, a glass bottle of Icelandic vodka, and the passing glances of Peter Parker are a rather maladjusted trio throughout the night at the Osborn manor. Harry likes to call it that because the ceilings are still ornate from when a previous tenant, some rumored duchess slash witch, had the apartment renovated during the 1950s. MJ likes to threaten Harry with the possibility of the witch’s ghost coming to haunt everyone in the room if they don’t hand her the aux.

In defense of Harry and Betty’s belligerent drunkenness and shared brain cell, you’re thankful that neither of them has yet to propose a game that would involve chugging any satanic concoctions (the glistening green bottle of Jagermeister keeps taunting you) or shooting a roulette of who would be blessed to make out with them.

At the moment, MJ and Ned are arguing about whether to put on a video game or karaoke, while you stare at the flatscreen as one of the Scream movies plays. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up when you feel a figure plop down next to you, a bony hand resting on your knee. It’s weird how you automatically expect it to be Peter. It’s weirder when you realize it’s actually Harry.

He clicks his tongue, watching the TV with you for a moment before meeting your gaze and flashing his pearly whites in a wolf smile.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” he muses.

“I’m trying to drink slow. I’m in Grandma mode. Spent my pregame at a shitty bar with a shitty Tinder date and then drowning my sorrows with Peter,” you smile casually, gnawing on your lip when you feel Harry stretch his arm to lay on the back of the couch behind you.

“Aww, lighten up, chicken. Fucker’s missing out.”

From the kitchen, Peter’s pouring himself another shot, watching as Harry gets closer to you. He frowns for no reason that he can admit to himself other than the acidity currently burning his throat.

“Y/N! Puh-lease do a Taylor Swift duet with me!” Betty screeches, lighting up the room like the Energizer Bunny.

“Oh, here we fucking go,” Michelle mumbles.

“You like Taylor Swift,” the blonde shoves her gently with a teasing smile on her face. Michelle reciprocates one that’s shamelessly plastic.

“Okay, fine, but not ‘All Too Well.’ I beg of you.”

Within the whirlwind of a few seconds – since when did the boys own a spinning disco lamp? – you’re caught in the middle of the living room as the speakers blast “Blank Space.” For some reason, there’s a glorious revelation you have that could be blamed on the vodka and Betty Brant’s infectious energy, but your chest fills with something warm when you notice your friends cheering the two of you on. Your voice cracks into a giggle when you see Harry filming you with flash on his phone, to which you nearly climb on top of him to snatch the evidence. You slightly fall towards Peter, who’s watching you with equal amusement.

“So hey, let’s be friends, I’m dying to see how this one ends,” you sing into the microphone, towering over Peter on the couch. You brush off the tiny stumble that nearly causes you to fall into his lap. A quick hand to the small of your back sends a shiver down your spine.

“SO IT’S GONNA BE FOREVER… OR IT’S GONNA GO DOWN IN FLAMES!”

“Betty, not on the coffee table, please!”

“Boys… only… want… love… if it’s—” The blonde makes a noise that sounds close to a retch. Or a burp. Either way, the horror that slowly creeps up on everyone’s faces is borderline comical.

“Don’t say I didn’t, say I didn’t, warn ya!” you sing, exploding in a fit of laughter along with Harry and Peter as Ned picks up Betty over his shoulder and makes beeline for the bathroom.

“Ned, hold her hair back!” MJ seethes.

“Dude, did you give her the Jager?” Harry asks Peter incredulously.

“Yeah, mixed with like, Sprite or something…”

“You know how she gets!”

“I thought you meant to make sure she doesn’t have too much.”

Violent retching echoes from the bathroom down the hall. You feel like you’re on an episode of reality television.

“I love her so much,” you murmur, cradling the bottle of vodka like a newborn baby. “She’s like a sorority girl.”

You hold your hands up in surrender when the boys look at you like you have three heads.

You weren’t much of a partier, nowhere near to what your friends were like, which is why it isn’t unusual for you to simply fall asleep at the function. When you blink awake, your eyes squint as you adjust your blurry vision to the coffee table scattered with empty glasses and cans. What alarms you is the sound of high-pitched hissing, causing you to jolt up.

The hissing stops as you hear the sound of a knob cranking. A kettle.

Peter emerges from the kitchen with a mug of tea in hand. You can’t help but look him up in down, cheeks warming as you notice the tight fit of his black t-shirt and the fact that he’s in a pair of Calvins.

“Oh, hey, you’re up.”

“What time is it?” you mumble, tucking your legs into your arms as you blink up at the brunette.

“Almost two. Do you wanna crash here or should I call you an Uber?”

“Where’d everyone go?”

“Ned and Betty went home. Then we started watching Shrek, but MJ and Harry wanted to go to bed. You fell asleep during the movie.”

“MJ and Harry,” you echo. Your confused expression meets Peter’s defeated one. “Are they…”

“Dunno. It’s funny, she usually hates sleeping in other people’s beds,” Peter shrugs, the look of disdain on his face fading into a quiet melancholy.

You feel like you’re in a dream sequence. Your stomach aches with nausea. You hate the way how heavy your head feels and how eerily still and uncomfortable the atmosphere is. Even the mild exhale of your breath feels too loud. There’s a sudden need to leave, retreat into a fetal position, or burrow into a hole like a small animal. There’s also that strange glow, a gravitational pull that you’re trying to ignore between your body and Peter’s.

Eventually graduating towards your nightly ritual, you wordlessly leave to go to the bathroom to rinse the makeup off your face and brush your teeth with the pad of your finger. Like hell were you going to be left alone in your apartment at two in the morning right now. When you turn to shut the light off, you hear the hint of a voice or a murmur. The ghost of a hushed whisper, and then a grunt. You take a step forward and glance at Harry’s closed door. Your eyes widen.

Quickly, you speedwalk as quietly as you can back to Peter in the living room. He looks up from his mug of tea with a puzzled expression on his face. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.

“Let’s watch a movie,” you relay to Peter, your voice monotonous and your figure slumped. He wonders about your change in temperament because within the three minutes you were gone, you somehow came back looking more distraught and dismal. He has the urge to do something to lighten your mood but he doesn’t know what, and he realizes how much he wants to touch you, to hold your face in his hands. The somber look on your face makes his stomach sink.

“Okay?” he frowns, eyebrows pinching together in worry in reaction to your despondence. He doesn’t bother to pry and follows you to his bedroom.

You’re quick to discard your clothes with your back turned from Peter’s prying eyes, which you can feel burning into your shoulder blades. He’d seen you naked before, so you don’t know why you feel a certain heat permeating your body. Quickly, you put on a pair of his boxers and an oversized hoodie.

“What do you want to watch?” he mumbles, attempting to distract himself away from your figure and onto his laptop screen.

“Anything. Star Wars?” you shrug.

“You’re voluntarily suggesting we watch Star Wars?” he raises an eyebrow.

“I could’ve said something way more violent considering what I’m feeling,” you mutter darkly, rushing through your words.

“Why are you–” A thump. The sound of a squeaking bedframe reverberates from the other side of the wall. Peter blinks with understanding.

He settles on The Force Awakens, even though he thinks it’s the worst one for ripping off the plot of Episode Four, but you liked it enough to be fixated for a good two weeks when you were a teenager. It’s comforting. You need all the comfort you can get right now.

You’re grateful when you lean into Peter’s shoulder, embracing his warmth as he gets closer to you. It feels as easy as breathing. You don’t notice the way he’s peering at you, the blue light of his laptop dancing around your features as you watch the movie with a cat-like stare.

Peter’s seen this movie too many times, but he didn’t want to argue with you about picking another movie at this hour of the night. He didn’t even really want to watch a movie at all, but suggesting another activity while he was alone with you made him feel like he was treading on dangerous waters. Even despite the agreement the two of you had made earlier, it felt wrong to engage in it and make it such a recurring proclivity already. Not when you’re sulking in his bed and trying your best to get your mind off of the boy in the next room.

Peter thinks that maybe he should be just as upset as you, but ultimately, he feels kind of numb. Michelle is his best friend, and despite his years of pining, she is so herself that Peter doesn’t want to make a dent in the glass bubble she stays in; he just wants to polish it and make it all pretty for her. And then there was Harry, whose charisma he’d always admired since the day he met him, and he doesn’t feel contempt thinking about Harry being with Michelle. He doesn’t feel angry. But he does feel… disappointment.

The expression on your face is pallid. Smudged eyeliner adorns your bottom lash line – you weren’t the most thorough when you’d washed your face – which gives you the appearance of a worn, cool-girl punk rocker, lips sewed together in a permanent pout. Peter blinks at the curve of your lips. He craves them, wanting desperately to close the gap.

A twinge of guilt. He chooses not to.

Instead, he shifts closer to you in his bed and rests his hand in between your bodies nonchalantly. His fingers land on the curve of your hip and rubs circles into the skin. You turn to look at him and he gulps, wondering what gears are turning in your head and what they might mean. He doesn’t expect you to give in first.

A rough kiss to the mouth and the laptop slides off of Peter’s lap. He discards it, kicking it gently towards the foot of the bed. You attempt to catch your breath when he hovers over you, straddling your body as his hands roam your lower half. His fingers trail from your hip down to your inner thigh. God, you’re so embarrassingly wet and it’s only been two minutes.

Your gasp expels from your mouth and into his. His hand tucks itself under the waistband of your – his – boxers to circle the pad of his finger to your clit. He pulls back from kissing you so that he can watch your face shift in tandem with bouts of pleasure, your sweet sighs hanging in the air. His jaw drops slightly at the sight of you taking off your hoodie, only clad in his boxers.

“You should wear my underwear more often, you look really hot,” he murmurs, the low register of his voice resembling a purr.

You grin in response. You’re eager to tug his sweatpants down to his ankles, smirking in delight when you’ve got him exposed. He blushes profusely.

“Someone’s happy.”

“You are making this so hard,” he grumbles under his breath.

“Oh, I’m definitely making something hard,” you giggle. Before you can come up with another comeback, he shuts you up with a kiss and proceeds to rub your clit. The act elicits a moan that’s a bit too loud for your liking, but when you feel the need to keep in, you think about the next room out of spite. It feels evil. But then again, you think you deserve to get off after the shit day you had.

Peter feels like he’s been kissing you for a decade straight, and the ache in his stomach reminds him that his body begs for your touch. He caresses the slope of your jaw, then your nose with the pad of his finger as if verifying that you’re real. When he reaches the corner of your mouth, you take his digits onto your tongue and suck.

“Fuck,” Peter breathes. You’re more than delighted to hear his reaction to your actions, but you’re too impatient to let this drag out for another minute. As is he, even if he does want to watch you suck on his fingers for the rest of his life.

Two fingers tease the folds of your pussy before sliding in – the way his fingers stretch you out feels like heaven. He glazes over your sweet spot, rubbing gently. You feel slightly flustered at the fact that you’re so, so fucking close, and from your mental timekeeping, it’s been… what? Less than ten minutes?

“Just… fuck,” you hiss, taking the effort to switch positions with Peter. You straddle him to gain dominance and take pleasure in pulling off his t-shirt, clawing at him desperately.

Peter thinks briefly about how his hands don’t feel connected to his brain, because his senses and his body are so attuned to you that he wants to touch every crevice of you – it feels primal, natural. When he hears you beg, he thinks he might combust.

“Fuck, fuck me,” you gasp. “Please, please.”

“Okay,” Peter breathes, being as gentle as possible in the way he grips your hips and slips inside of you. He’s encouraged by the way you moan at the impact, your face warm to the touch as you screw your eyes shut and pull your arms around the boy.

“Faster, faster” comes out of your mouth like a mantra. You can’t think of anything else except Peter’s body slamming into yours and how the color of his eyes would look lovely under the sunrise.

He buries his face into your neck, the desperate groans from his mouth to kiss your jaw. Peter grits his teeth in an attempt to be quieter, but the way that he thrusts in and out from your cunt makes him feel like he’s seeing stars to the point where he can’t even grasp how loud he might be. All he knows is that he wants to swallow up your moans with his tongue in your mouth, and he’s desperate to make you cum around his cock.

Flipping you onto your back, he circles his finger on your bud as he rams into you with a pace that’s unrelenting. You suspend all of your beliefs – you think that you can sink into his bed like it’s the ocean and disappear once he’s done with you.

You know this because he’s about to finish, and he’s looking you straight in the eye, and for a brief moment, he wonders if it’s as real for you as it is for him. Peter is your best friend, you think, but when you linger on the thought for too long, you feel shameful with paranoia that he agreed to sleep with you out of pity. In reality, Peter is so enamored that the more he sees of you, the more he’s convinced you aren’t real. He wants you to know but he can’t get the words off his tongue.

“Gonna cum,” you whisper. Your eyes are closed.

“Hey, look at me,” Peter murmurs after taking his face out of the hollow of your neck. You’re too afraid to open your eyes. He knows this. And yet, he’s able to coax you out of the fantasy. You’re looking right at his dark brown eyes, appearing almost black in the dimness of his bedroom, but the upturned smile on his features and the light dancing around his pupils make you want to cry in the most wholesome way possible.

“I’m… I’m gonna–”

“Yes, fuck, feel so good around me…”

You forget to tell him when you cum, but he knows exactly when you do. It’s when your body shakes right under him, small hands grasping at the shoulders of his back as if you’re trying to take ahold of his wings. He looks upon you in awe through your orgasm, your eyes shut with your mouth agape in pink bliss. God, you’re so fucking pretty. He wishes he could let you know in a way that lets you see yourself exactly as he does.

After your highs have dipped over the peak of your orgasms, the two of you lay in silence with only your breaths filling the air. You mentally trace the slope of Peter’s slightly crooked nose over and over until you can close your eyes and envision nothing.

You fall asleep first. Peter is up an extra hour or two because of the different ways he imagines your face, the way you talk, and if he’s going to ruin you for other people. He knows this is temporary but he has trouble thinking about you with anyone else.

i. ykwim? ← / → iii. saying your names

You squint at him, facial expression challenging his statement. Peter Parker is probably the sweetest boy you’ve ever met, the kind of person that would apologize to a rock for tripping on it on the sidewalk. You, on the other hand, can be a wittingly sarcastic brat. The mix of both of your personalities obviously resulted in many playful fights and wrestling matches. It was what you’ve always done as kids. And of course, Peter got the upper hand despite his height, because for someone who spent most weekends watching Star Wars nonstop, he was built rather… well. You don’t remember him ever going to the gym, but looking at him lately reminds you that he isn’t the scrawny kid you grew up with anymore. He has an allure — hell, he always has based on your longtime crush on him — but now it’s way more obvious. Your jaw clenches whenever you see girls talking to him at school. Right now, the thought of winning a fight against him, or anyone at the moment rather, was appealing to you given your emotional state.

“Are you inferring that I wouldn’t be able to win a fight with you?” you scoff.

Peter’s eyes are apologetic but his mouth quirks up into a smirk. He crosses his arms in a somewhat chauvinist manner. “Babe, I’m literally Spider-man.”

“And I’ve literally made you cry.”

“That was like a year ago! You were being a dick and I was like, incredibly depressed, probably. I’m a sensitive boy!”

You purse your lips and shrug, which Peter knows is a sign of apology, though it's always difficult for you to admit out loud. He knew you could be harsh but he never really minded it. Usually, he actually liked it, found it refreshing and a little hot. After all, the comment that had pushed him over the edge a year ago was about his dick being small. Which was just playful banter. Also a lie.

“Do you think I’m evil?” you fake-pout, voice syrupy-sweet but laced with venom.

“No, but there’s definitely something wrong in there.“

You roll your eyes. Before Peter can even process what’s happening, you’ve gotten up to your feet and you’re already straddling his lap, pinning him down to the bed. He attempts to raise his head slightly to reach your lips but his pretty face is met with a harsh slap.

“Ow! Y/N!” The boy clutches his cheek in a stupor, eyes widening at you. “What the fuck?”

“What? You said I could punch you in the face,” you grin mockingly.

“I need a warning first, Jesus fucking Christ.”

“That’s not how the real world works, babe. You always gotta keep your guard up no matter what. And I thought you weren’t susceptible to my girlish violence. My weak little girl hands. I didn’t even hit you that hard.”

Peter won’t admit it but there’s adrenaline to getting hit by you. It emits something twisted inside of him and now his chest aches with something he doesn’t have a name for. His face isn’t stinging but he notices how your demeanor has changed. Your eyes seem to be lighting up, although maybe he’s imagining things. He tries something.

“Do it again.”

Your gaze bores into his eyes and something inside you shifts once your palm hits his cheek again with another thwack, this time hard enough for Peter’s cheek to turn red. Additionally, he knows this is his flushed form, the blushing mess he can be when he’s around you even without any violence. He groans and shifts his body, involuntary raising his hips under you and gripping your sides. His head falls back with a lull. The rosy hue in his cheeks gives him away.

Self-consciousness transitions to cockiness. He raises his eyebrows as his face settles into a sneer. You want to wipe it off his face.

“That all you got?” he quips.

“Something’s telling me you really want this, don’t you?” You stroke his hair lovingly. He’s practically purring into your touch, turning his head into the curl of your palm like the way a kitten rubs its head into your hand. Your hand turns to squish his cheeks slightly, then settles to his jaw, where he rests himself obediently between your thumb and your pointer finger.

“You want something, rabbit?” you coo, taking your other hand to twirl a strand of his chestnut brown hair in between your fingers.

“Mmmm,” Peter mumbles, grimacing slightly. His hooded eyes tell you he’s already drunk under your touch, and you’ve barely even touched him.

“Hmm? Can’t hear you, Parker.” A small shove to this chest emits another groan that he tries to hide under a heavy breath and a light cough. You shift your weight on his lap knowingly. “Use your words, loser.”

“You know you can do anything you want to me right? I’d let you,” he murmurs, his voice just a touch above a whisper. Your lips part. You’ve never seen him this… desperate. And even now, he’s too shy to really ask for what he wants. His tongue juts out to lick his bottom lip. His brown eyes look glassy as if he’s silently begging you to touch him, hit him, kiss him, ruin him. Anything. You think you could eat him if you could.

“You haven’t even put up a good fight yet,” you tease, hitting his shoulder lightly. Suddenly he sits up with his arms wrapped around your waist, closing the gap between the both of you. He wants his mouth anywhere, everywhere — as long as it’s your body his lips are on. His hot mouth is against yours and the fire inside you is now burning, flames permeating your organs and igniting your lust. You can already feel the slight pressure beneath you. Your eyelashes flutter once Peter reaches his mouth to your jaw and then your neck, nipping at the skin with his canines. You pull his hair far enough to release him and his head bobs back. A whine rolls from his throat and out of his mouth.

“Peter fucking Parker, did you just whine?”

“Wanna keep kissing you,” he mumbles. He looks withered and gentle and innocent like a puppy. You adore him like this — the blush suits his youthful face. He can’t look you in the eye right now because he feels as though he might combust. Instead, he fixes his gaze on your collarbone, licking his lips again.

“You’re cute,” you think out loud and pull his hair so that he’s an arm’s length from your face now. He bites back another whimper. “C’mon, take what you want, pretty boy. Aren’t you Spider-man? Kicking the asses of all the bastards in New York, yeah? Where’s that superhero assertiveness, rabbit?”

He hums at the nickname and exhales at the sensation of you pulling his hair. He manages to gain the upper hand, flipping you over, pinning you down, and sliding his hands underneath your shirt. It has the same force as his surprise bear hugs after being without you for a while; it’s like he’s trying to knock the wind out of you. You feel his knee inch closer to your crotch and it makes you puff out an exclamation of both longing and disdain.

You feel him grin against your skin when he makes you moan. Wetness pools under you as you sigh into his touch, but the fucker has another thing coming for you. Of course. Exhales fall out of your mouth in a slight panic when Peter caresses his fingers to your belly in a feather-like embrace, like he’s spinning an invisible gossamer web around your body and it makes you squirm.

“Ugh, you are so fucking annoying,” you huff. You can’t even be truly pissed at Peter for too long because you’re laughing and sighing into his mouth as he tickles you. Enough energy riles you up to take the lead again by palming his hard-on as he hovers above you. He curses quietly at the feeling. He whines your name, pleading.

You watch his eyes scrunch up and his Adam’s apple vibrate with a moan once you take him in your hand, slipping your fingers beneath the band of his sweatpants. Grabbing him by the shaft, you slide your hand up and down using the wetness at his tip for lubrication. He moans shamelessly, bucking his hips up automatically. You retract just as you feel his breathing pick up and he buries his face in your shoulder. “Please. You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me,” he mewls.

You’re able to take advantage of his weakness by shoving him towards the wall and onto his back so that you can move to your original straddling position. Your left hand pins his above his head while your right is to his throat, fingers squeezing slightly.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, honeyed eyes blinking at you with voracious want.

“Tickle me again and I slap you. But you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

He smiles at you with utmost adoration. He wonders if you know how completely and irrevocably tightly he’s wrapped around your finger. He’s begging to be devoured.

“Yeah,” he whispers.

“Yeah? Who’s making you all wet like this, Parker?” you taunt, sliding your hips forward to grind on his clothed dick. You can feel the wetness of his pre-come and it’s agonizing for him that he’s not even inside you yet.

“You,” he slurs, head warm and fuzzy from your teasing. You move a stray curl from his forehead. “Think ‘m gonna drop dead if I don’t fuck you.”

His breathing hitches when you squeeze your fingers around his throat even harder. His mouth is slack. You rub a thumb to his bottom lip and he reaches forward and takes it whole in his mouth. You gasp at the action. He’s never been this needy before.

You pull your thumb back before inserting two fingers into his mouth, prompting Peter to make a guttural sound as you move deeper towards his throat. The dim lamp besides his bed casts shadows on his face, delicate eyelashes fluttering like the ghost of a butterfly among his high cheekbones.

“Aww, I can feel how hard you are. So pathetic,” you smirk as his hips flex upwards again. He needs any kind of contact with your body but he doesn’t dare flip you over so that you’re under him. Instead, he mumbles curses dreamily with your fingers subduing his mouth.

He breathes a sigh of relief once you pull your fingers out, a slick of saliva attached between them and his mouth. It stays open when he feels your teeth on his neck. He doesn’t hide his wanton desire this time and you have to cover his mouth to muffle his moans. Taking your time marking up his neck, you grind harder to his lap in a sloppy rhythm and he feels as though he’s going to melt before he can make you come.

“Tell me what’s on your mind, Peter.” Your face lifts and it’s an inch above his. Your smile makes his heartbeat ten thousand times faster, he thinks. You pet his hair.

“I need you so bad. Please? Pleasepleaseplease,” he pants. His hands settle on your back, pulling your top off in desperation. He looks at you in awe, stripped to your black bralette yet there isn’t a vulnerable thing about you right now. Your eye makeup is a bit smudged from your impromptu wrestling match but it makes you look fucking hot. He loves the way there are still sparkly bits of makeup glistening on your eyelids. He thinks about how he wants to fuck it off of you, tears streaming with black mascara running down your cheeks.

“C-can I touch you?” You nod, grazing him with your mouth. He moans immediately and raises the palms of his hands to your chest. Underneath you he feels light and gauzy, lapping up the sweetness of your mouth like it’s honey. Your cunt palpitates as you rock your hips forward.

His mouth goes dry when you tug on his hair harshly, separating you from his mouth once again, but you’re still grinding down on him. It’s unbearable for him and he swallows hard, but it doesn’t help him hide the needy crack of his voice when he begs for you again.

“You’re being mean,” he gripes, clutching you in his hands like you’re about to drift away.

“You’re being mean,” you mock in an exaggerated tone, jeering at his babyish whines. “You like it. Looks like I’m winning this fight. You made it too easy, baby.”

He pouts, amber-brown eyes gazing at you with rapture. It feels somehow worse to verbally reply to you than to moan at the feeling of every synapse that fires when you touch him, even when you’re just lightly stroking his cheek. He’s obsessed with your hands wrapped around his neck. He didn’t realize how much he loves it until tonight.

You coax him with a smile at the swift tilt of your legs so that you can pull off your shorts. Without a warning, you slip a finger to your own center and he groans. “That’s my job,” he stammers, watching you sullenly.

“Dunno if you can do it as good as me,” you hum. “I’m a pro.”

“C’mere,” Peter says with manic possession, aggressively pulling your hips as he lays down. You settle to his face and your cunt drips its wetness to his warm mouth. Your stomach is turbulent with raging pleasure. The feeling of his tongue on your clit has your spine shuddering to the point where you need to balance yourself by holding onto the bed frame in front of you. He moans into your pussy, loves ravishing you as best he can. You can feel the buildup to your climax, your blood rising to your cheeks as you slide against his tongue.

“Oh god,” you exhale, clutching the bedsheets as you arch forwards to ride out your orgasm. “Fuck!”

You pant and pull off of Peter’s face despite his attempts at keeping you on him, clutching your ass.

“Did I do good?” he blinks at you with wide eyes. Rather than answering, you hunt down your own taste out of his mouth and bite down on his lip, which makes him groan loudly. You shove him down when he tries to sit up. Peter hisses when he realizes that you’ve lowered yourself onto his length. He doesn’t even remember you pulling out his dick because of how caught up he was with his tongue down your throat.

“Oh, fuck, yes,” Peter rasps, mouth hanging open with a slack jaw as he feels himself all the way inside you, hitting the spot you love. His legs embarrassingly shake with a tremor from the sensitivity of feeling your pussy. He gulps with how easily he’s about to come undone, eyes half-lidded and hair clutched underneath your fingertips.

“You feel so good, Peter,” you breathe. The look in your eyes is carnal while your mouth curls up into a wolf-like grin, canines and all. In another world, Peter swears he can imagine fangs in between your lips.

“I like you so fucking much. Fucking… love you,” he groans under his breath, kneading your hips with his hands as he stretches you out. Your hands are on his neck again and he loves it, can’t get enough of you squeezing his pulse when he tries to kiss you with his raw, crimson mouth. The choked whimper you hear from him has you borderline ballistic. You thrust your hips harder and you feel him twitch inside of you. He gags under you and then cries out, eyebrows scrunched in ecstatic bliss while his head slumps backward.

“Fuck, you feel so good, I don’t think… I can…” he pants. You shamelessly rock forward and back on his cock even faster now and shut him up with a kiss. He mumbles obscenities into you, dirty mouth on dirty mouth. “Fuck, oh my god, y/n I’m gonna—“

You can feel his legs vibrate within the next beat and his hands are nearly bruising your ass from holding on too hard. Peter comes and it feels like an asteroid is colliding into his face because at the moment he can’t feel a goddamn thing except for the manic intensity of your pussy and nothing else, not even his fucking arms or hands.

At the same time, his cock hits you at the right angle. It feels perfect. It gets even better when you grind to stimulate your clit, and before you know it, your entire body twitches as you detonate, sparks flying out of your eyes.

You collapse on top of him as his body grows sluggish. He’s sweating a little, face red with mussed-up hair. In the dim light, you swear he looks like an angel just fallen from heaven. You figure that you coaxed him out, beguiling him like the darkness that waits upon his shoulder. You wonder if his eyes are actually glowing or if Peter just happens to be radiating light from his climax. You wouldn’t be surprised if he was actually supernatural. Then again, he’s the human spider.

“Oh my god, I just came so hard. I— I’m so sorry, I didn’t even say it when it happened, it was so fast,” Peter rambles. He realizes he’s still inside of you and pulls out, heat flushing his face at how weakly he could control himself. His dick leaks as he pulls out of you “Fuck, I’m…”

“I just got on the pill, baby,” you cradle his cheek, smiling softly. “Forgot to tell you. Don’t be embarrassed.”

“But I can usually last longer and do more positions! And I wanted to do more but your teasing made it so I… I couldn’t last but I should’ve—“ he continues, running a hand through his hair.

“Shut up,” you lightly shove him. “I’m flattered I made you come so quick. Was really fucking hot, actually. You filling me up like that.”

Peter averts his gaze and tugs at his bedsheet shyly as if he didn’t just make you come… twice. “You’re laughing at me.”

“You’re just fucking adorable, Parker,” you chuckle, kissing his neck gently. He beams at you with ardor, returning the favor with a passionate kiss back and a hand on your cheek.

“I am not adorable. I’m an Avenger,” he lilts, laying back on his pillow.

“An Avenger who’s whipped for me. Didn’t know you could be so needy.”

He groans in embarrassment, covering his face. “Next time you piss me off, you’re gonna get a taste of your own medicine.”