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Aug 10

Dean's List, pt. 2 ― Peter Parker part one | playlist | edit

Pairing: College!Peter Parker x Fem!Reader

Summary: Returning to Empire State University, Peter Parker is ready to pick back up where the two of you left off after spending his summer groveling over the newfound power you have over him. When you make it clear you don’t want anything to do with him, he is determined to make you change your mind, finding new, maddening ways to get under that skin of yours.

Warnings/Tags: cocky! peter parker, frat boy! peter parker, athlete! peter parker, jealous! peter parker, reader can’t stand him, peter’s obsessed with reader, (lowkey) academic rivals, enemies to (something much worse than) lovers, angst, (a smidge of) fluff, smut, oral sex (f receiving), rough oral sex (m receiving), fingering, edging (kinda), multiple orgasms (f), rough sex, choking, unprotected p in v, creampie, dirty talk, finger sucking, (a bit of) aftercare. read responsibly! mdni, 18+

Word Count: 10.7k

Author's Note: You guys ate up the first part of this, so you know I had to give you another part. This one is actually my prized possession, and I hope it meets your expectations. Thank you so so so much for the support. Writing is fun because of you.

Inspiration: This request & “My Kink Is Karma” by Chappell Roan

Coming back to Empire State University was like willingly returning to war after barely surviving the first one.

It was nice to finally have your own single dorm room, though. Now that you were finally a senior, approaching your final year of undergrad, things like that were easier to come by. Move-in day was a few days earlier than the antsy freshman’s, your meal plan was a couple hundred dollars cheaper, and you no longer had to sprint across campus to the science building everyday since your dorm hall was closer to it than your old one.

The silence, however, was deafening.

Spending the summer at home in the city was fine. You were able to survive off more than Ramen noodles and Pedialyte since your mom cooked you real meals every night, and lifeguarding at the community pool helped you save up some extra cash, helping cover the hefty cost of textbooks.

But it just wasn’t the same anymore. Being home didn’t feel like it did that first summer after your freshman year. Maybe it was because you were growing up. College changes people, so that would make sense. You’re raised a certain way and then you’re given that taste of freedom—the chance to make your own decisions, forced to figure all the hard things out on your—and it changes you. Resilience builds character, that was what your mom always told you.

There was nothing character-building about the way you felt the morning of your first day of classes, though. In fact, it felt more like your character was being diminished.

Your best friend had roped you into going out to the local bar the night before to celebrate finally being seniors, somehow convincing you that taking a round of lemon drop shots wouldn’t impede on your 8:00 a.m. quantum mechanics lecture. But it did, of course. It didn’t just impede on it—it made you fifteen minutes late.

When you pushed through the doors of the science building, your backpack was slipping off your shoulders and your tired body was fighting to keep up with your rushed pace. The only thing you’d managed to accomplish before darting across the courtyard was brush your teeth. You couldn’t even remember checking your reflection, dreading the absolute mess of what you possibly looked like.

If you had given yourself a second to calm down—accepting your mistake, and thinking a single thought before you barged right into Dr. Banner’s lecture hall, it may have saved you from becoming the center of unwanted attention. But you hadn’t, which was why the door creaked closed behind you, causing the room to instantly become so silent that you could hear the clicking of someone’s pen in the back row.

“Our first late comer,” Dr. Banner mused, gesturing towards you with a cheeky smile on his wrinkling features.

Your jaw was trembling with tension when you met his amused expression.

This wasn’t your first class with Banner. The two of you were quite acquainted, actually. He was your academic advisor, ensuring you attained all the credits needed to graduate with your bachelor’s degree in physics, and he was also the head of the department at ESU. Throughout your time in his classes, nothing ever changed about him. He always showed up in a long-sleeve, button-down, the sleeves rolled up his forearms and paired with khaki slacks. On Fridays, though, he wore jeans.

Your best friend, despite being a graphic design major, had a wet dream about him once, forcing you to hear all about the filthy things she imagined your prof doing to her.

You hadn’t really been able to look at him the same since.

He clasped his hands together, smiling softly. “No worries. I was late all the time back in my day.” He held a hand out, urging you to find a seat.

You didn’t waste a second, quickly turning to walk up the aisle between desks, desperate to find an empty seat somewhere far in the back where no one had the chance to gawk at you.

Peter saw you the minute you walked in, just like everyone else in the class had. But while a few of your peers spared a chuckle under their breath at you, gossipping about your grim appearance, Peter’s airflow suddenly felt constricted.

He was sitting in the second row, like he always was. Too cool for the front, too desperate for academic validation to creep in the back. His knuckles whitened around his pen, lips parting as he watched you walk through the desks with such a precise stare that his peripheral vision blurred, only able to make out the shape of you.

Even as you climbed further up to reach the back row, passing him without even a side-eyed glance, his neck craned to watch you.

It wasn’t until you settled down in the last free seat along the back row, pulling your laptop out of your backpack and resting it on the desk before you as Dr. Banner continued his monologue about how crucial the syllabus was, that your eyes met his.

You halted mid-scooching your chair in, every sore and tired muscle in your body tightening the point of cramping when his dark-brown eyes glued to yours. His eyes twitched, unabashedly narrowing on you despite the seven rows that separated the two of you and the sea of your peers that had a penchant for taking things the wrong way and running with it.

His skin was tanner than you remembered and his chestnut-brown hair had grown out a bit, curling at the root. Summer break must have been kinder to him than it was to you.

Clenching your teeth, your hands gripped the sides of your chair and you continued scooting yourself up, forcefully prying your eyes away from him. Just seeing him was nauseating.

It had been nearly four months since Peter last saw you. It had been four long, gruesome, insufferable months since he had you in his bed—since he had himself inside you.

Following the Kappa Tau Zeta party in late May, it was finals week. Sitting in for exams would have been Peter’s last chance to see you before the two of you parted ways for summer break, but thanks to Dr. Banner’s affinity for assigning remote, online exams, he never got the chance. You had fled his bedroom not even ten minutes after he came inside you, refusing his offer to walk you back to your dorm, and hadn’t talked to him since.

It was absolutely vile, really.

He had spent his summer crammed up in his Queens apartment, wasting most of his days off from his posh tech internship laying in bed, thinking about you.

Sometimes he would think about the soft, high-pitched sounds you made when you came, remembering the way your hips bucked against him and your legs twitched around his waist as he drove himself deeper inside of you. That was his favorite thing to think about.

At weak points, though, he would scroll through Instagram, find your best friend’s account and scour her posts for you. He never outrightly typed in your username, though, despite knowing that stupid little handle of yours like the back of his hand. It made it easier for him to keep tabs on you because your account wasn’t private.

Of course it wasn’t, he’d thought one day.

You probably wanted him to see all the fun you were having back home, hoping he’d catch the one post you made in that skimpy little bikini when you went down to the coast for the Fourth, or that selfie you posted with some guy he didn’t know.

He had stalked that guy’s account, too, wondering who he was to you—wondering if he had felt you in all the same ways he so desperately wanted to again.

By mid-July, Peter had changed his account from private to public, refreshing his story views every couple of hours to see if your name would pop up. He was desperate for it—for your attention, that was.

He posted everything he did. The coffees he’d get on the way to his way to his internship, thirst strap mirror selfies of him flexing just a little too hard, screenshots of song lyrics that he told himself were just songs he liked and that he didn’t replay them over and over again because they made him think of you.

But your name never came. Not even once. Even when he accidentally liked one of your posts from six years ago—nothing. Complete and total fucking nothingness.

His longing and envy slowly warped into frustration, like an itch he just couldn’t scratch. He was frustrated with you, yes, but he was more frustrated with himself. Because he’d had you. He’d had you right there in front of him, choking and squirming on his dick, leaving him completely lost in the satisfaction of finally winning with you, and then you just fucking… vanished.

The realization didn’t really hit him until he was on the subway, heading to campus with his overly-packed suitcase, ready to move back into his room at the frat house. With his wired headphones tangled up in his ears, The 1975’s “Heart Out” blaring over the noisy chatter around him, it was like a fuse had blown in the back of his mind.

He didn’t win with you. You had won with him.

Sure, you had lost your willpower, unable to continue denying how badly you wanted him. You had been the one screaming his name, biting down on his sheets, and sucking his cum off your fingers. But you were able to redeem yourself from it.

You had been able to confidently walk away from it, categorizing it as some stupid lapse in judgment—a mistake, that was what you’d told him it was before you left his room. You were fucking fine. You couldn’t care less.

It was him who was stuck in the throes of it, harping on filthy memories, and driving himself insane, trying to find ways to get you back where he wanted you.

Glancing over his shoulder at you now, all of those emotions came crashing back into him.

Part of him thoroughly enjoyed seeing you all disheveled and disorientated, subjected to snickering and the thing you hated most, which was unwanted attention. It made him feel better to see you struggling, too. Made him feel more righteous about his own.

The entire time Banner droned on about wave-particle duality, your eyes were trained on your laptop screen. There was an opened Google doc, your cursor flashing, ready for you to jot down a note, or literally anything, knowing full well that this was the most difficult class to pass. But every word that spilled out of him went in one ear and out the other.

When class was dismissed a little before 9:15, you slammed your laptop closed and didn’t even bother stuffing it back in your bag. You just grabbed it, standing and slinging your backpack over your shoulder before making a beeline for the exit.

Peter let you rush out. Backpack spilling open, all flustered and annoyed. He sat back in his chair, took his time packing up his belongings and even talked to a buddy about their upcoming lacrosse match.

When he finally walked out of the science building, his ESU Lacrosse sweatshirt clung to his frame despite the end-of-summer heat, he instantly found you. Standing by the fountain in your sweatpants and faded David Bowie graphic tee, you were deep in conversation with some guy who was smiling way too hard at the way you reared your head back in laughter.

He wasn’t the guy you had posted a picture with over the summer, Peter clocked that immediately. He had seen him maybe once or twice at a party. Didn’t know his name or why he was talking to you. All he knew was the way his blood boiled at the sight.

The moment you caught the sight of Peter nearing you in your periphery, you debated sprinting away. The sound of the guy’s voice talking to you became muffled background noise and you clenched your fists at your side.

“Hey—Dean’s List!” Peter called out, making determined strides over to you.

That stupid name rang through the air like emergency sirens, causing your stomach to knot and hives threatening to break out on your skin.

When he reached the two of you, he gripped the strap of his backpack and peered down at you. “Can I talk to you?”

“I’m busy,” you deadpanned, jaw tight enough to splinter as you refused to meet his gaze.

The guy in front of you seemed unphased, having no idea every ounce of your patience was being tested. “What’s up, Parker?” he greeted Peter, but the silently seething brunette didn’t initially respond to him, he was too busy glaring at you. “You good, man?”

The muscle in his chiseled, tanned jaw ticked. He glanced over at the oblivious guy. “Yeah, man. You mind if I talk to her for a sec? You know… TA stuff,” he lied through his pearly-white teeth, grinning.

Your brows furrowed up at him, reluctantly meeting his gaze. “I’m not a TA this sem—”

“That’s fine,” the guy replied, not hearing your feeble attempt. He glanced down at you. “I’ll catch you later, yeah?”

Nodding, you watched him walk off towards the dining hall and briefly pondered how much of a hindrance it would be to just transfer to a new school—somewhere far away where Peter Parker couldn’t find you.

Alone now, Peter glanced down at you and nudged his head to the side. “Walk with me?”

“Why?”

He narrowed his eyes, giving you that look.

You shifted in your stance. “We can talk right here just fine.”

“You sure?” His head spun around, glancing at the number of students all around us. “Somebody might hear us.”

You knew that was a dig. You remembered what you said that night before you walked yourself back to your dorm with his cum still dripping out of you, telling him that no one was to ever find out what they did. You could recall him agreeing with you, but still noticing the way his throat tightened.

“Just get it over with, Peter.”

He squinted down at you, stuffing his hands in his front sweatshirt pocket and trying not to show that the sound of his name rolling off your tongue made him want to melt. “Who was that guy?” he asked with very minimal thought put into it.

“A friend,” you quickly replied.

He frowned. “Never seen you talk to him before.”

“Well, you don’t know everything about me,” you countered, shrugging. “You don’t know what I do when I’m not around you.”

“You mean I don’t know who you do when you’re not around me?”

A toothy grin spread on your lips. “Oh, you’re, like, actually jealous?” You coughed out a laugh, tucking a strand of hair that’d gotten caught in your lipgloss from the wind behind your ear.

Peter’s tongue sunk into his jaw, shaking his head. “Are you fucking him?”

“No, Peter.” You rolled your eyes, hands going slack at your side. “I’m not fucking him.”

“Then I’m not jealous,” he quipped.

Your eyes slanted up at him, finding an odd sense of comfort in the fact that he hadn’t changed. He was still the same brash and arrogant Peter you’d unfortunately grown to know so well. Only this new Peter had something else to hold over your head.

“Still not over it are you?” you teased, frowning and feigning sympathy.

“Over what?”

“Fucking me,” you responded without a thought.

The corner of his mouth curled. “I don’t know.” He shrugged his broad shoulders lazily. “Depends.”

Your chin tilted up at him, interest slightly piqued. “On?”

“Can you still taste it?” he asked, wetting his bottom lip with that filthy little tongue of his.

“I don’t know… That’s a little too vague for me.” You inched half-a-step towards him, remembering when the same words spilled out of him all those months ago. “Taste what?’

He smirked devilishly. “My cum.” He took another step, leaving a dangerous few inches between the two of you. “Remember when it was dripping out of you, all sticky and wet. You licked it up so good, too.”

A rugged scoff tore from your throat, it was all you could do to combat the heat rushing to your face. “Yeah, I remember. Had to brush my teeth three times to get rid of that taste,” you countered. “Fucking gross.”

“You’re so hot when you’re mean,” he drawled, stifling a laugh with a groan.

“And you’re so pathetic when you’re desperate.”

He laughed. “You think I’m desperate?”

Shrugging, you squinted up at him under the bright sun. “You’re the one pining over a one night stand.”

“Baby, I’m not pining.” He shook his head, pretending the way you called his night with you a one night stand didn’t bother him. “This is just foreplay.”

“Foreplay,” you mumbled, coughing out a laugh when your gaze dropped to the pavement. When you glanced back up at him, you sighed. “You’re funny.”

“You want me.”

“I want you to leave me alone.”

He tilted his head, squinting. “I don’t have class until noon. We could get a quickie in.”

“Not happening.” Your heart hammered violently against your ribcage. “Ever again.”

“Right.” He smirked. “We’ll see about that.”

You rolled your eyes, gripping your backpack over your shoulder before taking a swift step past him. “Bye, Peter.”

It surprised you that he didn’t stop you. No, it bothered you.

Peter’s eyes trained on the way your ass shook as you walked away, yearning to have it back in his grasp. “See you around, Dean’s List.”

It wasn’t until Halloween weekend that you ran into Peter again.

He had seen you nearly everyday in class, of course, but he never got as close to you as he had on the first day of classes. You wouldn’t let him. The seat on the back row that you had laid claim to on day one had become your permanent one, knowing Peter wouldn’t dare jeopardize his ass-kissing relationship with Dr. Banner by joining you.

However, every time he saw you walking across campus, he would go in the opposite direction. When Banner assigned a partner project, he didn’t even try to weasel his way over to you. He partnered with the redheaded girl he sat next to, making sure when they gave their final presentation, he stared directly at you the whole time.

Leaving class one day, you had overheard that same redhead gushing to a friend about all the ways Peter was able to help her pass one of their quizzes, stating he had come to her dorm to help her study, giggling when she added, “amongst other things.”

That wasn’t the first time you’d heard girls on campus gossiping and giggling about sleeping with Peter, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last. But, for some inexplicable reason, you slowed your steps behind them, remaining in earshot to listen to what the girl was saying about him.

Did he tie her up, too?

Did he fuck her raw?

Did she let him cum in her?

It was disgusting. That was what it felt like, hanging onto the edge of everything she was saying while an unfamiliar knot tangled in your stomach, only finding a semblance relief when she said they only did “mouth stuff.”

What that girl failed to mention, though, was that while Peter had his hands knotted up in her hair, guiding her mouth up and down his dick, it was your name that slipped through his moans.

It was an accident, one that he found himself making not just once, but twice.

When he’d taken off his belt, he had made a joke to the girl, asking if she wanted to be tied up. She had said no, of course, so he didn’t. But the entire time she was sucking him, his eyes were on that brown leather belt. He forced himself to picture your wrists bound up by it, which was when your name came out the first time.

The redhead had immediately stopped working him, cocking her head up at him with a ferocious glare. He played it off, got real sweet with her so he could finish. But when he did finally finish, with your face clouding his thoughts, your name came out then, too, which was exactly why he hadn’t heard from her since and why she moved seats to the opposite side of the lecture hall.

His walk back home that night to the KTZ house was brutal. He passed your dorm hall in the dark, peering up at the various illuminated windows, wondering which one was yours and resisting the urge to go and beat on each and every door to find out on his own.

He physically wanted to slap himself. He could not cope with the way his brain warped around you. It sickened him.

At his lacrosse game the following weekend, he purposefully taunted the opposing team’s X-attackman just so he’d garner a few illegal checks. After the game, he sported a brutal black eye for a few days and a seriously bruised rib, but he had never felt better.

But nothing was more brutal than watching you waltz into the bar on Halloween night, dressed up as an angel in the shortest pair of white shorts he’d ever seen, fit with a fuzzy, party-store halo headband and wings to match. For a moment, Peter thought he may have actually gone to heaven. That was how devastatingly gorgeous you looked under the dim bar lights.

It turned out he had actually found himself deep in the darkest pits of hell, though. Because the moment you walked in, he realized soon after raking his gaze over your body that you were not alone.

That asshole you had told Peter was just a friend was wearing light-up, red devil horns, tight on your trail as you floated through your groups of friends with a careless smile on your face.

Peter was leaning up against the bar, no longer listening to his friend droning on about some girl’s costume that Peter just needed to see. His eyes stuck to you immediately, head moving with you as you moved further and further into the swarm of people all dressed in revealing costumes and buzzing off half-priced drinks.

Tame Impala’s “Dracula” was blaring from the bar’s surround-sound speaker system that had only been playing Halloween-esque music since Peter walked in half an hour ago. The menacing rhythm of the song matched the harsh, quaking beats of his heart. He couldn’t tell if it was the sight of you in that outfit, with that bent halo on top of your head, or if it was because there was a guy with you that wasn’t him.

He just understood that he felt fucking miserable and it was because of you. So, in his buzzing, dark mind, the only thing he wanted to do was to make you just as miserable.

His hand wrapped tighter around his plastic cup as he propped his elbows on the bartop, staring down the long, sleek, wood counter to where you had approached the other end.

“Can I get a vodka cran?” you asked the bartender with a smile, already pulling your ID out of your phone case wallet.

There was something freeing about finally being able to use your real ID for a change after three years of scamming every poor waitress, bouncer, and bartender with your fake one. The woman working behind the counter peered down at it and nodded.

You tapped your fingers on the shilaque countertop to the beat of the music as you waited. You didn’t mean to turn your head to the right. You didn’t mean to lock eyes with Peter Parker at the other end of the bar top. But you could sense the fire on the side of your face from his prying gaze. It was a subconscious move, one that you regretted the minute he smirked over at you.

Even though you immediately looked away, training your eyes on the LED light fixture behind the bar, the purple and orange streamers slung across the overhead ceiling beams, the group of girls posing in front of the wall for a picture—literally anything other than him—he was already making his way over.

“This costume’s a little deceptive, don’t you think, Dean’s List?” he probed, flicking the tip of your faux-feathered angel wings before he came up right beside you, leaning his weight against the counter.

You slid to the side, ensuring to keep a safe distance between the two of you. “Isn’t that the point of the holiday? Pretending to be something you’re not?” You eyed his costume, which was nothing but black jeans, a white T-shirt, and some F1 jacket. “‘Cause you’re definitely not Charles Leclerc.”

“So you agree?” He sipped his drink, dodging your dig. “You agree there’s nothing angelic about you?”

You turned your head to the side, eyes falling to his black Converse, trailing all the way up to that stupid little smirk on his rose-tinted lips. “I don’t know, Peter. You tell me.” You sighed boredly. “Do you think I’m angelic?”

He glanced at your halo for a moment before shaking his head. “No, not at all. I think you should swap costumes with your little boyfriend.”

Laughter echoed out of you. “Boyfriend?”

“Is that not what he is?” Peter asked, gaze trailing over to the guy you’d brought with you, the same one he briefly imagined with a broken nose from his fist.

“No—” the bartender slid your drink over to you “—he’s not.”

The tension in his shoulders loosened slightly. His eyes watched your plump, glossed lips latch around the straw in your drink and nothing but filth ran through his mind.

“You look good, though,” he said, watching the way your cleavage nearly spilled out of your white corset top when you straightened your posture.

“Don’t compliment me,” you quipped between sips. “Makes it sadder.”

His eyes slanted down at you. “Sadder?”

“Mm-hmm.” You shifted in your stance. “The whole jealousy thing.”

“Baby, there’s no jealousy.”

You squinted up at him, frowning. “You sure about that?”

Peter’s eyes once again wandered over to the guy that had been roped into coming out with you. He was standing by the bathrooms, chatting up a few of your close friends that Peter was sure were quizzing him on things all about you. Probably asking him how you two met, what he was studying, what he thought about you, what his intentions were. You had really protective friends like that. Peter knew he was probably spewing bullshit back to them because there was no possible way anyone knew you like Peter did.

When Peter finally glanced back down at you, he nodded stiffly. “He can’t please you like I can.”

“How would you know?”

He shrugged. “Just do.”

You gave him an impressed frown. “Well…” you trailed, “he kind of does.” Peter’s features hardened, just like you wanted them to. “I showed him the whole belt thing the other night. God, he loved that.” You snickered. “He’s been begging to do it again. Wants to do it raw the next time, too.”

A wave of nausea coursed through Peter’s system as he tried his absolute hardest to tell whether or not you were bullshiting him. God, he hoped so. “You’re lying.”

You just shrugged, pushing yourself off the bar. “Maybe,” you took a few steps back. “Still pisses you off to think about, though, doesn’t it, baby?”

Peter remained frozen at the bar as you disappeared further into the crowd. Seething. That was the only word he could find to describe how was feeling.

Maybe that was why he went up to the blonde girl dressed as Lara Croft, fitted with the thigh straps and all, and asked her to dance with him. Perhaps that was also why he chugged his drink in four long gulps and then ordered another, requesting a double shot.

He just wanted something to clear his mind. But it was like an addiction. He was addicted to you in the most tragically intoxicating way. Even with the curvaceous blonde grinding her ass against his semi, the only thing clogging his mind was the thought of you fucking someone else. The thought of you letting someone else do things to you that only he had done before.

Of course, he couldn’t be certain any of that was a first for you, like some of it was for him. Anything that happened before he felt you, though, he didn’t care about. It was the after—the long, grueling months after—that he cared about. It felt like a betrayal. It felt like you betrayed him.

And all it did was fucking turn him on. He only wanted you more.

You didn’t let the guy you brought with you do any of those things to you, though. In fact, he hadn’t done anything but finger you in the backseat of his Honda Civic. You’d faked an orgasm three minutes into it—squeezing your thighs together and moaning just for the theatrics of it all—before letting him drive you home.

Honestly, you didn’t even know why you invited him out to the bar tonight. Two nights ago, when he’d asked to take you out to dinner, you told him you were busy with friends even though you spent the entire night alone in your dorm, watching movies on your laptop and eating microwavable popcorn.

But the way it drove Peter absolutely mad was more than enough reason to keep him around.

Peter always had the power, the ammunition, and the all-out boldness. He was always in the lead when it came to the twisted game the two of you played. He got under your skin with such ease that it almost made you hate yourself more than you hated him.

This newfound reversal, watching him spiral, self-destruct, and settle for whatever—or whoever—would take him, just because he couldn’t get you, was like a high. It was so intoxicating and addictive that you found it hard to focus on anything else.

Your neck craned up to the guy in devil horns next to you. “Do you wanna dance with me?”

“Sure, yeah,” he smiled, taking a few quick sips of his drink before letting you lead him to where people were dancing near the center of the bar.

A reverbed, bass-boosted remix of t.A.T.u.’s “All the Things She Said” was vibrating the sticky, wood floor as you twirled around to face him, draping your arms over his shoulders and bringing his head down to yours, moving your bodies to the rhythm.

Peter was only a few feet away, his hands on the waist of some blonde who had her back flush with his front, grinding her hips against him.

That was the whole reason you were out on the make-shift dance floor to begin with. That was the whole reason you dragged the guy who wasn’t your boyfriend as close to Peter as possible.

So he could watch.

“Kiss me,” you breathed, sucking in a sharp gasp when the guy’s lips crashed into yours.

Lips moving in sync with his, you waited for him to slip his tongue out and trace it against your lips like Peter did. But he never did.

Peter’s eyes were glued on your profile, watching the way your eyes fluttered closed, kissing the guy with heavy momentum. He wondered if it felt the same as when you kissed him, if it made your body shudder, craving that insatiable hunger. His heart was working so fast in his chest, his head dizzying. He thought he was going to be sick.

“Come here,” he said gruffly to the blonde.

He used his hands to twist her around, pulling her flush against him. She let out a soft gasp when his hand rushed to cup her cheek, bowing his head to collide his sloppy, tipsy lips with hers, but it didn’t sound like yours. Her lips didn’t feel like yours either. They weren’t sticky from your lip gloss and full like yours. They didn’t fit with his like yours did.

He pulled away for a second, long enough to see you peering over at him.

“Kiss my neck,” he coached the blonde, jaw slack as his eyes stayed on yours.

The blonde complied without a thought, planting sloppy, wet kisses down the toned skin of his neck. It felt good, of course. The hair on his arms stood up at the feeling of the girl’s warm breath on the crook of his neck.

His hand reached around the girl, palm planting on the round of her ass, fingers squeezing.

You watched him. You saw the devious look in his eye as he touched her, which was why you brought the guy’s hand down to the curve of your ass, letting him fondle you in the center of a bar. It was all a performance, though. The way you bit your lip, pretending to enjoy the way you were being touched and kissed.

Peter thought for a moment about going up to you and just pulling you away from that stupid prick with his hands all over you. He thought about taking you into one of the bathroom stalls and giving in to you completely.

But this chase—this… game—was so much better.

When the song ended, the blonde girl peered up at Peter with a smirk on her face. “Do you wanna go back to my apartment?”

He thought about it, he really did. He thought about the potential look on your face if he left with her. He thought about how pissed off you may or may not have been, and he wanted to agree.

But then he thought about what you would do—who you would go home with—if he left, and so it all went out the window. Because if you were leaving with someone tonight, it was going to be him.

“Not tonight,” Peter said, loosening the grip he had around his waist.

She frowned, brows furrowed. “Why not?”

He shrugged, eyes flicking to you without thinking. “Not in the mood.”

The blonde followed his gaze, landing on you with a scoff and a look of pure disgust. “Are you serious?” she snarled, yanking his hands off her. “God, you’re such a fucking dick,” she added before stomping away from him.

Maybe he was. Maybe that was a little cruel, using her to get back at you like that. But he would be lying if he said he cared.

Deserted on the dance floor, Peter idled, watching you grind yourself on the absolutely oblivious guy. You watched him, too. For the longest moment, the two of you just stared at each other, waiting to see who was going to break first, both of you honing an unhealthy relationship with competition.

Devastatingly slow, Peter tilted his head to the side, studying you in a way that made you feel like he could see something inside of you—something you didn’t want him to see. His eyes trailed down your body, analyzing every square inch of your frame, before slowly working their way back up to your face.

The stance he had, the sight of his rigid muscles under his white T-shirt, the way he completely garnered all of your attention, even with your supposed date’s lips sucking on the skin under your ear, made something spark to life inside of you. It was a dangerous spark. A hungry spark.

You suddenly couldn’t breathe.

“I’ve gotta pee,” you blurted out before you could think, pulling away from the arms that were holding you. You smiled up at him, forfeiting your staring game with Peter as your chest heaved. “I’ll, uh—I’ll be back in a minute.”

His lips were swollen, eyes glossy from the tension you’d allowed him to feel and the alcohol pumping through his system. “Okay.”

You didn’t go to the bathroom, though, and you didn’t really care if he noticed it.

You paced through the sweaty bodies littering the dance floor, not slowing down until you pushed through the bar’s entrance door. Swinging it open with a great deal of force, your chest rose as you sucked in a sharp inhale, finding a sense of relief in the cold, mid-autumn night air.

Walking down the sidewalk a bit, you roughly tore off your halo headband and raked a hand through your hair, pulling at the root to stabilize your overall mental wellbeing.

The bar’s door flew open a few feet away from you, but your back was turned to it.

“That was quite the show,” the deep voice rattled your bones.

You didn’t need to turn around to see who it was. A small part of you knew that you would know that unsettling voice anywhere. You could probably pick it out of a line up of hundreds.

Exhaling heavily, you crossed your arms over your chest and turned to face him. “Go away, Peter.”

“I don’t think you want me to,” Peter countered, moving closer to you with lazy strides, stuffing his hands in the front of his jeans. “I think this is exactly where you want me.”

You just shook your head. “That was wrong,” you said, voice suddenly hoarse, “what you did to that girl. Using her like that.”

“True,” he mused, taking a final step closer, mere inches from you. “Nothing different than what you were doing with that asshole, though.”

“I wasn’t using him,” you countered, face contorting.

Peter coughed out a laugh. “Oh, yeah? What the hell was it, then? ‘Cause you didn’t look too interested, keeping your eyes on me the whole time.”

You shrugged defensively. “I was—” you sucked in a sharp breath. “I was dancing.”

“So was I.”

“No, you were trying to piss me off. Making her kiss you and grabbing her ass like that,” you argued, voice sharp. “You were using her to get me all—all pissed off.”

The calmness of him was maddening. You were stammering over your words, dizzied, and flustered, while he just stood still—completely immovable.

“Well, are you?”

Your brows knitted together. “What?”

“Are you pissed off?” he clarified, studying you again with those dark eyes. “Are you mad about me touching her like that?”

You shook your head back and forth quickly, taking half a step back from him. “No.”

He closed the space you created. “Well, I am.” Your eyes flicked up at his. “I’m really fucking pissed off that he was touching you like that. Grabbing your ass, kissing you.”

There wasn’t a single coherent thought pulsing though your mind. You were trembling from head-to-toe and you couldn’t tell if it was because you were freezing or if you were losing your mind. Based on the way your lower stomach fluttered when Peter’s hand gripped your waist, you became more confident in the latter.

“Stop,” you whispered, barely audible, as he pulled you closer to him.

“Look at me,” he bit.

You refused, forcing him to move both hands to your hip, squeezing tight. You didn’t fight him off, though. Why weren’t you fighting him off?

“Look at me,” Peter repeated, tone sharp enough to slice.

Defeat and shame washed over you as you peered up at him, teeth chattering.

“That’s the last time someone touches you like that,” he snarled, eyes tracing yours, unsure which one to stay on.

“What? You think you have control over who touches me, now?” you managed to mumble. “Just because I let you fuck me once.”

He shook his head. It was a slow, calculated movement. “No,” he stated confidently, pulling you flush against him. The action caused the bulge forming in his pants to press up against your stomach. “I’m just gonna make it to where no one else’s touch will ever be good enough.”

It already wasn’t, you heard yourself think.

“No,” you heard yourself say, shaking your head. “I’m not letting you—”

“Win?” he interjected, causing your stomach to twist.

“That’s all this is to you,” you bit, arms moving to his biceps. You wanted to use the grip to push out of his grip, but you got too distracted by the feel of the muscle in your hands. “Just… some game.”

“It was,” he admitted, tone deep. “Now I’m just fucking miserable.”

God, he was still messing with you.

“You’re insufferable, you know that? You can’t treat people like this and think it’s fine, Peter. It’s wrong.”

“I’m being serious.” His grip softened.

You just shook your head, refusing to look at him.

“I’m fucking wrecked, okay? Is that what you want to hear? You want me to tell you how fucking mental you’ve made me? Ever since I had you—” he exhaled roughly, jaw muscle trembling “—I can’t get you out of my fucking head,” he roared. “And seeing you with someone else—with him… I can’t fucking take it.”

Your eyes locked on his, twitching at the eerily unfamiliar desperate tone and look on his face.

“Just stop,” you forced out, pushing against his arms, prying yourself out of his grip.

“Come back to the house with me,” he asked, chest heaving. “Let me show you how serious I am.”

“Are you messing with me?” You successfully fought out of his grasp.

“No,” he sighed, letting you go, “I’m really fucking not.”

You stared at him for a moment, waiting for him to crack. But he didn’t. Still, your trust was feeble. “Say it.”

His lips parted to respond, then they snapped shut again. He dragged a hand down his face.

Peter Parker didn’t like to lose. But if getting you again—feeling you, touching you, having you all to himself—was the loss, he no longer had the strength to want to win.

His eyes locked on yours. “I need you.”

There it was. The white flag waving.

He took a careful step towards you, returning his big hands to the curve of your waist. You stood still, letting him move you closer to him again until you felt the throbbing pulse of his erection pushing against your stomach.

“Come home with me,” he coaxed, bowing his head and using his nose to nudge at his jaw, smelling the scent of your perfume and causing a chill to creep down your spine when his soft lips grazed the delicate skin. “You know I can make you feel good,” he whispered into the crook of your neck.

“This…” your voice trailed, taking in a sharp breath when his teeth pinched the skin with such gentleness, “is the last time.”

“Fine,” he mumbled, kissing the skin.

“I’m serious,” you managed to say despite the pleasure ricocheting from where his lips concentrated. “Never again after this, okay?”

He nodded into your shoulder. “That’s fine, baby.”

“What about the guy that came out with me?” you asked, wishing you felt worse.

Peter chuckled. “What about him?”

The ten minute walk back to the Kappa Tau Zeta house was the fastest you had ever walked anywhere in your life, and it was also the quietest. Neither one of you were able to make a single sound, so utterly lost in what you were doing—what you were going to do.

Peter had taken off his F1 jacket as soon as the walk started, draping the oversized material over your shoulders, and by the time the two of you made it into the eerily quiet frat house you were thrumming with so much adrenaline, you nearly tripped up the staircase to his bedroom.

“Careful,” Peter chuckled, watching you stumble, barely catching yourself. “Too excited, hm?”

“Shut up,” you groaned, stabilizing yourself and hurrying up the rest of the creaking wood steps.

Trailing behind you, he followed you into his bedroom, closing the door and locking it in one swift movement.

His bedroom looked the same as it did in May, if anything it was just messier.

“Turn that on,” he said, pointing to the portable speaker resting on top of his dresser that had clothes spilling out of the drawers.

You arched a brow. “Music?”

“I don’t want anyone to hear you,” he said plainly, fumbling in his pants pocket for his phone to connect it to the speaker as you went to turn it on. “Those sounds are for me only,” he added, smirking.

You rolled your eyes, moving over to the bed and crouching down to sit on the edge. Every move felt oddly familiar and comfortable. Still, every inch of your body was shaking frantically with anxious nerves.

“Bluetooth device is connected,” the speaker blared, while Peter scrolled through his Spotify.

“Please don’t tell me you have a sex playlist,” you jested from across the room, propping yourself back with your hands on the unmade bed.

He chuckled. “Nah.”

Although, he wished he had a sex playlist all of a sudden. All he had were a bunch of pointless, disorganized “vibes” playlists. But he had one that he hadn’t listened to since he returned to ESU, titled “Dean’s List.”

He had honestly forgotten he’d made it. It was over the summer when he was drowning in his own self-pity. It was full of all the song lyrics he’d post, thinking about you, hoping it would somehow translate.

Ironic, he thought.

He pressed shuffle and tossed the phone down on his dresser, peeling off his T-shirt before moving to you.

“Come here, baby,” he urged, gesturing for you to stand up off the bed.

The first few hammering notes of Miguel’s “damned” began blaring from the speaker, filling the silence in the room as you complied, standing before him. Your eyes immediately hung on the way his tanned, muscular chest looked beneath the dim lighting of his bedroom. It was just wrong and cruel really, how devastatingly attractive he was.

“This sounds like a sex playlist,” you noted, listening to the lyrics as a way to distract yourself.

“It’s not.”

He took off the jacket he’d draped over you, which had bent your costume wings, stifling a laugh at the sight.

“I take back what I said. You are kind of angelic,” he admitted, barely audible over the volume of the music.

You worked with him, shrugging off the angel wings, tearing the halo off again with it. “Don’t ever say that again.”

Peter just shook his head, suppressing a smirk as he twisted you around, working to unlace your corset top that you’d bought off Amazon. “This shit right here is ridiculously hot, by the way.”

“I know,” you quipped, your body jolting every time he tugged at the strings. “Why do you think I wore it?”

“I kinda want to leave it on,” he mumbled, hooking his fingers in the lace strings and yanking you towards him, causing your ass to crash into his bricked bulge.

You shrugged with your back turned to him, purposefully pushing you ass out. “That’s fine.”

He thought about it for a second before saying, “Nah, your tits are way too nice for that.” He then finished removing it, letting it fall to the floor before twisting you around to face him again.

“Fuck me…” he breathed, biting down on his bottom lip as he took a step back to stare at you, taking in the curve of your waist and the perkiness of your exposed tits. His hand moved instinctively to his erection, palming it at the sight of you.

Your glossed lips curled as you fell back on the bed, propping yourself up on your elbows. “That’s the plan… baby.”

“Uh-uh.” He shook his head, wasting no time to crawl on top of you, planting his hands on either side of your head to hold himself up. “That’s what I call you.”

You moaned quietly when his mouth immediately moved to your tits, his tongue trailing over your pebbled nipple before he suctioned his lips around it, gently nibbling at the sensitive bud.

“What do I call you, then?”

He forced himself between your legs, grinding his hips against your core with an achingly slow thrust. A muffled moan vibrated your nipple as he massaged the other with his hand. He shrugged, breaking free only long enough to say, “I just want to hear you say my name.”

He ground himself against you again, his hardened length rubbing right where you needed him the most. His tongue stuck back out, trailing over your nipple once more before working his way all the way down to the hem of your white shorts, leaving a path of his wet spit as he went, sliding off the bed.

His teeth toyed with the thin waistband as he held himself up with one hand, using the other to slide your shorts off.

The sight itself, combined with the electrifying feeling of his touch so close to where your arousal was puddling, caused a soft moan to slip from your throat.

Growing desperate, you fell flat on your back and reached down to help him, needing to feel him. His hand quickly stopped you, though, his bleary-eyed gaze flashing up.

“You’re so needy, aren’t you, baby?” he teased, standing up off the bed and gripping your thighs. “Not going fast enough for you?”

His fingers dug into the soft skin as he yanked you towards the edge of the bed, gripping the waistband of your shorts and pulling them down in one swift movement.

“Mm. No panties, too?” He smirked up at you. “Goddamn, baby.”

“Peter,” you groaned, back arching up off the bed as shockwaves fluttered in your desperate core. “Please… stop fucking talking.”

His tongue slid out of his mouth, wetting his lips as he smirked down at you before he slowly knelt down on the floor just off the side of the bed, sitting up on his knees.

“What—What are you—”

“Shh,” he sounded, using his grip on your thighs to drape your legs over his shoulders. “I wanna taste you.”

His lips moved to your inner thigh, planting soft kisses every few seconds as he trailed further and further down to your dripping, quivering center. Eager to see what he looked like going down on you, knowing it would be utterly tragic, you propped yourself back up on your elbows and peered down.

He stuck his tongue out, pressing it directly on your dripping entrance before slowly trailing up to your swollen clit. A shuddering breath escaped you, your jaw going slack when his eyes fluttered up to you.

He pulled away momentarily, licking your arousal off his lips. “Fucking delicious, baby,” he muttered before going back to repeat the motion over and over again, spreading your sticky arousal with such teasing ease, your legs started quivering around his head.

His lips moved to work your clit, tongue lapping over the tender flesh once before sucking it. He spread your legs further with one hand, using the other to insert two fingers into your dripping entrance. The sensation caused your head to fall back, lips parted as a sultry moan slipped out.

You fell back flush with the mattress, losing the strength it took to keep yourself propped up. Your now free hands unwittingly reached down to his head, fingers lacing into his thick curls as he continued pumping his fingers in a synchronous rhythm with the licking and sucking he was inflicting on your clit.

His fingers hooked slightly inside you, drawing a sharp gasp from your throat and leading you to pull at his hair. The subtle stinging sensation on his scalp caused him to moan against you, sending a vibrating shudder through your body.

“Fuck,” you hissed, chest heaving with frantic pants as he continued working his tongue, mouth, and fingers. “You’re s—so good at… this.”

He smirked against your sopping clit, pulling away slightly. “Don’t be sweet now, baby.”

You peered down at him, watching him gaze at the way he was pumping his two fingers in you. “You’re still so tight,” he muttered, feeling your walls clenching around his digits. He glanced up at you, slowly standing so he was towering over you, his jaw slack and brows furrowed. “Gotta spread you out a little more, don’t you think?”

He didn’t wait for your response. You watched him bow his head, spitting on your entrance before inserting a third finger.

Your head fell back, digging into his ruffled bed sheets as a loud, throaty moan tore from your lips just as the song playing faded. As he pumped three fingers in you, he brought his other hand to your mouth, clamping his big palm over your parted lips to muffle the echoing sounds coming out of you.

Panting into his hand, your eyes screwed shut as your hips bucked wildly, your release coming powerfully quick when he brought the pad of his thumb to your throbbing, swollen clit.

“I know it feels good, baby,” he cooed, gazing down at the squirming mess you’d become. “Just gotta be quiet for a sec.”

Your eyes rolled back in your head and he quickened his pace just as Arctic Monkeys’ “R U Mine?” began blasting from the speaker. When the volume of the music picked back up, he removed his hand from your mouth, but you reached out to catch it before he moved it too far away.

Gripping his wrist, his eyes snapped down to watch what you were trying to do. You brought your bottom lip between your teeth, resisting your sudden urge to scream when you brought his hand to your throat, pressing it down.

A devious-looking smirk spread on his face. “Oh, I know what you want,” he muttered, wrapping his hand firmly around your throat. “My dirty girl,” he grunted, admiring the way you let him choke you. It wasn’t hard enough to block your airways, but tight enough for you to reach your release.

Your entire body shook beneath him, watching him stand between your spread legs, pumping his drenched fingers into your quivering pussy, massaging your clit as he kept a firm handle on your throat.

“Yeah, cum on my fingers, baby,” he grunted, not changing his pace, letting you ride out your orgasm with pathetically eager pants, convulsing against his bed. “God, I can’t wait to be in you again.”

Your body went slack beneath him, your pants slowing as you came down from your high. “Holy shit,” you breathed when he let go of your throat, slowly sliding his fingers out of you.

He didn’t even blink. As soon as his fingers came out of you, he immediately brought them to his mouth, licking and sucking up your release with a smug expression on his face.

Watching him do that was almost enough to make you cum again.

“Now… we’re even,” he mused, licking the remnants off his lips with a smooth swipe before unclasping his belt buckle, tearing it off.

Your eyes rolled, managing to sit up on the edge of the bed, folding your legs underneath you to sit back on your calves. “Shut up and come here.”

He took a slow stride towards you. “I love it when you tell me to shut up.” He smirked down at you, watching you work to undo the button and zipper on his jeans. “Makes me want to talk more.”

You dug your fingers into his waistband at his hips, pushing his jeans down with a tug, happy that his tight boxers went down with them. The second his pants hit the floor, his pulsating cock slapped his lower stomach, pre-cum beading out of the tip.

Even though you had seen it before, the size still shocked you. Made you wonder if his cocky attitude was validated.

Your hands moved to his length, working him in rough strokes as he stepped out of his jeans, kicking them to the side. When he steadied himself before you, you brought your tongue underneath him, making sure to glare up at him as you trailed your tongue from the hilt of his sturdy cock all the way up to his delicate, pink tip, lapping up his pre-cum and swallowing.

His hands moved instinctively to your hair, beyond grateful it was finally you with your sticky, glossy, swollen lips around his cock as you bobbed your head forward, taking him as deep as possible.

When your throat tightened around his tip, a soft gag echoing, he sucked in a sharp breath, followed by a deep, vibrating moan. “You suck my dick so good, it’s fucking insane—you’re fucking insane.”

You moaned into your sucking, bobbing your head back and forth, tongue working in circles. The sudden desire to give him your all came over you, leading you to use your free hand to massage his balls.

The touch sent his head falling back, a menacing grunt slipping from his throat. “Oh… Sh—shit—Fuck, yes, baby. Keep… doing that.”

Your confidence and eagerness to show him just how good you were had you moving at a pace and rhythm you didn’t know you were capable of.

He tightened his grip on your hair, forcing you to halt as he peered down at you, meeting your seductive, glossed-over gaze. “Hands off,” he forced out, eyes heavy from the pleasure thrumming through his veins. The sight caused you to unintentionally ignore his demand.

“Hands off,” he repeated, tone sharper. You finally complied, tucking your hands under your legs. “Good girl. Let me fuck that pretty throat.”

He gathered all of your hair up in his fists before thrusting his hips. Your lips suctioned around him, welcoming the way he fucked himself into your mouth. Every time you gagged, moaning incoherently against his cock, he just thrusted faster.

“Mm,” he grunted through his gritted teeth. “Yeah, take this dick, baby. Fuck you’re doing… so good,” he continued on, praising you through deep-toned pants.

He could feel his release quickly rushing down to his length, forcing his thrusts to become sloppy and untimed. His hands started working your head up and down his shaft, controlling your pace until he just couldn’t take it anymore.

“Shhh…. Shit,” he hissed, pulling out of your mouth with an abrupt motion, leaving you drooling and dripping with your own spit. He bit down on his bottom lip, every muscle in his body seizing as he held back his threatening urge to bust all over you.

You giggled. “Edging yourself is another kind of kinky, baby,” you taunted.

He rolled his eyes, taking careful breaths until the urge deflated. It wasn’t until he saw you bring your hand up to try and wipe the mess on your mouth and chin that he came rushing back over to you.

“Uh-uh,” he grunted, swatting your hand away and leaning over to crash his lips on your, his tongue entering your mouth without warning. He slowly pushed you back down on the bed, his lips moving in sync with yours, the mess he’d caused spreading between the two of you.

Hovering on top of you, he nudged your legs open with his knee. Shouldering his weight on one hand perched next to your head on the mattress, he used the other to align his dick with your pulsing entrance.

He broke from the kiss as the tip slid in, both of you gasping at the same time as he slowly entered into you entirely. “Oh, F—Fuck,” you moaned, tensing under the sudden fullness.

Peter grunted when the movement caused you to clench around him, suctioning him in as deep as possible. He pressed his forehead to yours, peering down as he slowly slid out, only to thrust harder into you.

When you cried out a moan, his head snapped up to you, admiring the way your eyes screwed shut and your lips pursed at the pleasure.

“Open… your eyes, baby,” he mumbled, quickening his pace between your quivering legs. “Look at me while I fuck you.”

Your eyes fluttered open, jaw going slack as you gazed up at him, watching the way he bit down on his lip, stifling his rugged groans.

“D—Don’t do that,” you croaked, reaching up to pull his lip out from between his teeth. “I wanna… hear you.”

“Oh, fuck…” he groaned, head falling into the crook of your neck as he got rougher with his thrusts, “you’re so hot.”

The wet sounds of your arousal oozing out between thrusts, coating his balls as he hammered himself deeper and deeper inside you echoed throughout the room, muffled slightly by the music blaring.

Your legs shook around him, alerting him you were going to reach another orgasm soon. He loved knowing that—knowing how your body reacted to him. It made fucking you even better.

“Peter,” you cried out, head digging back into the mattress. “I’m gonna—”

He sat up, gripping your hips as he sat back on his calves, bringing you with him. “I know, baby.”

The movement caused your ass to lift off the bed, leaving him to hold you up, pounding deep into you with loud smacks. The angle was something you’d never felt before. He was so deep inside you, it felt like there would be internal damage. But it felt so good.

You couldn’t control the way your back arched, hands flying to grip his hands, desperate to hold onto something as your orgasm came crashing down on you.

“Cum for me,” he grunted, breathing raggedly.

Your jaw went slack, eyes rolling to the back of your head as everything tightened in his grasp. Your vision spotted as you came so hard, it stole the air from your lungs.

“Mm,” Peter moaned. “That’s right, baby. Good… fucking… girl,” he drawled, not slowing down even a little.

His head reared back, his fingers tightening around your hips hard enough to bruise as he pummeled his dick inside you.

“Fill me up,” you moaned, watching the way his abs flexed and feeling the way his cock twitched deep inside your overly sensitive pussy. “Cum inside me, please,” you said, voice high-pitched and illicitly seductive.

“I am, baby,” he panted, biceps twitching as he gripped even harder, moving your body against his. “I… am.”

He fell forward, holding himself up on top of you as he curled his hips up into you a few more times. His body shuddered as his release washed over him, a wince tearing through his gritted teeth.

The both of you moaned softly as his warmth shot inside you. Your hips bucked against him as he worked through his high. When there was nothing else for him to give you, he stilled, his head drooping into the crook of your neck just for a second, long enough for him to tame his breathing.

When he regained a sliver of his strength back, he slowly sat up, inching out of you, ensuring he kept his eyes on the way his seed poured out of you as he did so.

“I will never… get over that shit,” he mumbled between pants. His chest heaved. “You are so fucking perfect like this.”

Tauntingly, your hand crept down to your entrance. He smirked at the sight, watching as you smeared his cum all over your fingers before bringing them between your lips, maintaining eye contact with him as you swallowed his salty sweetness.

He shook his head, grinning. “Thought it was gross.”

You shrugged, licking the remnants off your lips. “I lied.”

“I know,” he quipped, going to grab the towel draped over the back of his desk chair.

When he came back over, wiping up his mess with gentle pats and chuckling when you winced at the sensitivity, you smirked up at him. “I didn’t let that guy do all that stuff, by the way. I didn’t even let him fuck me.”

His eyes flicked over to yours. “You didn’t?”

You shook your head. “Nah, that’s our thing.”

Giving you a toothy grin, he tossed the towel to his hamper. “We didn’t use the belt this time, though. Guess we’ll have to do that next time.”

“There’s no next time,” you reminded him.

He shrugged.

hope you enjoyed it! pls leave a comment/like/reblog. if you have a one shot request, you can send it through my “ask me.” ୨ৎ─ delaney!

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