Dean's List ― Peter Parker part two | playlist | edit
Pairing: College!Peter Parker x Fem!Reader
Summary: Peter Parker and his arrogant charm thrive on the ability to get under your skin. When you reluctantly spend your Saturday night partying at his fraternity, he finds the perfect opportunity to torture you in all the ways he knew how to. However, you offer him a few new ways to not only get under your skin, but in it.
Warnings/Tags: cocky! peter parker, frat boy! peter parker, athlete! peter parker, light angst, reader can’t stand him, peter’s obsessed with reader, (lowkey) academic rivals, enemies to (something much worse than) lovers, smut, rough oral sex (m receiving), multiple sex positions, multiple orgasms (f), rough sex, bondage (belt), unprotected p in v, creampie, dirty talk, finger sucking (kind of), (a bit of) aftercare. read responsibly! mdni, 18+
Word Count: 9.3k
Author's Note: I had a little too much fun with this one. Frat boy!Peter is so hot, I’ve gotta write more of him immediately. Wrote based on this request (original was deleted, oops).
Inspiration: “Good Girls Go Bad” by Cobra Starship and Leighton Meester.
It was another lively Saturday night at Empire State University when your best friend convinced you to escape the solitude of your quiet dorm room and go out with her to some party at the Kappa Tau Zeta fraternity house. You had put up your best fight, like you always did. Telling her things like you needed to study for your upcoming psych exam, all of your going-out tops were dirty, you had a killer migraine. But she was persistent, like she always was.
Ten minutes into your battle, she fled the room long enough to fix all of your poor excuses. She returned to your dorm with some fruity seltzer beer that tasted like TV static, a skimpy little top of hers that you could borrow, and a bottle of Advil.
She sat cross-legged on your twin bed, droning on about the guy she had all intentions on bringing back to her dorm after the party. Every few minutes, while you sat in front of your desk, using the small mirror to fix your appearance, she would pause to answer your “does this look good?” every time you completed a step of your makeup routine.
“God, you’re sickening,” she gaped when you stood in front of your over-the-door, full-length mirror, analyzing your outfit and everything else about you that felt a little too different.
Your head craned back at her. “Like, sickening in a good way, or…”
“In a great way,” she urged, sliding off your slightly-lofted bed to stand next to you before the mirror.
Her eyes hung on the royal blue, cropped, tight-fitting baby-Tee that said “Stevie Knicks” in orange vinyl lettering. It was the shirt your best friend had made a few months ago when the New York Knicks were heading into the NBA Finals. She saw Taylor Swift in the same shirt and just had to recreate it for the Finals watch party she attended.
You didn’t know shit about basketball, and you didn’t really listen to Taylor Swift, but you didn’t entirely hate the way it clung to your curves. Plus, it paired nicely with your black, cut-off, denim shorts that were fraying at the hem from the number of wears and washes they’d been put through.
Your best friend smirked up at you in the mirror’s reflection. “Parker’s gonna lose his shit when he sees you.”
The sound of his name sent your eyes rolling, an agitated groan spilling from your glossed lips.
“Ew.” You feigned disgust, slamming your closet door shut. “Don’t speak that asshole into existence, please.”
She snickered in response, rolling up the bag of Doritos she’s been munching on and chugging the last few gulps of her black cherry-flavoured White Claw. “You know he’s gonna be there.”
“Why do you think I didn’t want to go?” you deadpanned, flattening your lips.
“It’s so obvious he wants to fuck you,” she countered with a sigh. “It’s kind of sad, actually.”
Your brows stitched together. “He does not want to fuck me—God, don’t even say that. I’m, like, actually gonna hurl,” you protested, feeling an odd sense of dread as you zipped up your makeup bag and flipped the switch on your lamp.
“No one—” she pulled open your dorm door “—and I mean no one, fucks with someone as much as Peter Parker fucks with you unless they have some ulterior motive.”
Slipping past her, you fumbled with your key, locking up and trying to find a reasonable response. But, for some reason, your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
“It’s called arrogance, babe,” you countered, shoving your keys into your front pocket. “That’s his motive. He does it with everyone.”
Falling into step next to you, she shrugged. “I don’t know…” her voice trailed, ending in a high-pitched tone, which told you she actually did know.
The walk across campus was gruesome. The late-spring mugginess combined with the complete and utter dread pumping through your veins made it nearly impossible to focus on anything your best friend was saying.
Your hands were clenched into fists at your side, your chipped, polished nails digging into the delicate skin of your palms. It hurt in just the right kind of way—just enough to distract you from the string of tainted memories that floated through your mind.
It came like a supercut of doom and despair, Peter Parker’s face at the center of them all.
That cocky bastard.
You met him in your first year seminar class. It was a course taught by people in the admissions building and its sole purpose was to help students become more acquainted with college life. But that wasn’t at all what it turned out to be.
The woman who led the class every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from 12:30 to 1:45 was barely twenty five. She had just graduated from grad school the summer before and she cared far too much about the freshly eighteen-year-old guys in your class. Peter, specifically.
He fucking loved it, too. He loved the attention anyone gave him, really—especially if they had what he wanted between their legs.
When he rushed Kappa Tau Zeta that September, no one was surprised. All guys like that joined posh fraternities, thinking the Greek letters they sported on their too-tight T-shirts and vinyl stickers on their car’s back glass somehow made them superior.
You hated it. You hated him even more so.
Ever since he claimed the seat next to you in that pointless, mind-numbing seminar class, it seemed as though his only passion in life became making yours miserable.
He would comment on your outfits, always hitting you with the same “did you wear all that just for me, baby” every time you walked into the lecture hall with more makeup than usual or wore something other than athleisure.
But even when you came to class bare-faced, hair tied up in some mess of an up-do, in sweatpants and a sweatshirt two sizes too big, he would still find ways to get under your skin.
You gave it right back to him, of course. Replying to his snarky remarks with something even more devious, just to watch the way he smirked back at you. Even when you would get one over on him, he fucking ate it up. It was like diesel to a flame.
The second semester of your first year, you found out he was majoring in the same thing as you, which meant his presence became agonizingly consistent.
He didn’t sit next to you in any other class, but he always made sure you were within earshot. He wanted you to hear the way he said all the same things to other, more naive, girls who folded under his smug charm, just like he had expected you to.
He liked getting under your skin the most, though. It wasn’t the same with the others. It was too easy, too predictable.
He liked that you kept him on his toes, constantly dodging his existence like the plague, and didn’t fall for the filthy things he’d whisper in your ear every time he found you alone or a little too close to him. He liked that you seemingly couldn’t care less about him.
Knowing all of this made walking through the fraternity house’s back door (because the front one was for “brothers only”) so much worse.
The chorus of Sammy Adams’ “All Night Longer” blared at max volume from an over-sized speaker resting on top of the make-shift bar in the center of what was supposed to be the house’s living room, but there wasn’t a couch or chair in sight. It was just sweaty bodies littering every square inch of the space, all nursing red Solo cups full of cheap-smelling vodka, and dancing to the rhythm of the bass-loaded song.
Your best friend wasted no time, letting the guy behind the bar who was sporting a T-shirt with Greek letters stitched on the front pour her some of the concoction everyone else was getting buzzed on into a cup.
“She needs one, too,” she shouted over the ear-piercing music, gesturing to you from where you stood next to her.
The guys scoffed. You knew him, of course. He played lacrosse and was the one who shared that video of one of the sorority presidents sucking off his teammate with the entire campus.
“Oh, is little miss Dean’s List gonna have some fun for once?” he jested, smirking up at you as he poured some pink-tinted liquid in the red Solo cups on the bar counter.
You sighed lamely at the use of that frustrating nickname. “If I wanted to have some fun, Harry, I’d go somewhere else,” you countered, tone calm and even despite having to shout so he could hear you.
He didn’t respond, just coughed out a laugh and handed over the cups.
Peter was the one who started the whole Dean’s List thing.
Despite his incredibly unfortunate attitude, he was pretty smart. No, he was a fucking genius, actually. Which made the way he acted really disappointing. All those brains and not a single good thing ever produced from them.
It was the end of your first year when he told you that the two of you were tied GPA-wise, both taking up the top of the Dean’s List, which was a literal list of students who had the highest academic achievement.
He wanted it, of course. He wanted his name to be posted in big, bold lettering. He wanted the dean himself to hand over that trophy, placing it in his sleazy hands just so he could brag about it, and flaunt it to the next girl he wanted to get in his bed.
But it was your hands the trophy went to. It was your name that ended up at the top of the list, his right under it.
He feigned indifference. Riffing off things like, “nobody cares about that stupid shit.” But you knew better than that. Unfortunately, you knew him better than that. You saw the way his mood soured when it was announced at the end-of-year award ceremony.
Beneath his subtle disappointment, though, he was still Peter Parker. Your win turned into just another one of his tricks to get under your skin.
There suddenly became a Dean’s List for anything. His Dean’s List for “best dick sucking” was his favorite though. You could still remember the way his breath felt on your skin when he whispered, “I bet you’d be at the top of that list, too.”
You took it on the chin, like you did with all of his sly taunts. “I bet you’d like to know, wouldn’t you,” is what you’d replied with.
The nickname caught on quickly, just like everything did at your small university—forcing you to remember his breath, his voice, his words, every time someone said it.
Peter was in what was supposed to be the house’s dining room, playing a game of beer pong with a few of his fraternity brothers and whatever girls they’d roped into joining their teams. There was a separate speaker set up in there, playing Cobra Starship and Leighton Meester’s “Good Girls Go Bad” at an even more mindnumbing volume.
His left hand was toting a half-empty cup of cheap vodka mixed dangerously with half of a strawberry-lemonade-flavoured Crystal Light packet. It tasted like poison, but the effects of it felt nice pumping through his system.
The short blonde girl next to him was taking her turn at tossing the ping-pong ball into the cups lined up accordingly at the other end of the painted, plywood table. They were winning, but it wasn’t anything to do with her persistence.
Every toss Peter made landed with a splash in his opponent’s cups, causing them to dreadfully chug its contents. His fraternity brother was rambling out taunts, trying to get under Peter’s skin, but it went in one ear and out the other.
He was immovable. Plus, he always won. No matter what it was—beer pong, lacrosse matches, fucking pop quizzes—he was always determined to win. Some people said he was just doing too damn much, but he called it charming competitiveness. Sounded less desperate that way.
The only thing he couldn’t beat, though, was you. Even after knowing you for three years now, in just about every single one of your classes since freshman year—he just couldn’t win with you.
The minute his eyes landed on you, catching the way you were being dragged by that girl you always kept around into the crowd of dancing bodies in the living room, the game of beer pong unfolding before him became an afterthought.
He turned his back to it, earning a few groans from his opponents and a pout from the blonde who had thought she had all of his attention. He took slow sips of his drink, eyeing you through the massive sea of people flooding his living room.
All bets were off then. Literally. He’d bet a lousy twenty bucks on winning against his frat brother. But he didn’t care if it was twenty dollars or a hundred that he lost. His favorite victim was here—fuck everything else.
“The fuck, Parker,” the guy behind him cursed, tossing the ball right at his back out of irritation, but it missed him by a few inches, bouncing onto the sticky wood flooring and rolling under one of the other tables.
Peter laughed, glancing back at him for only a brief moment. “You weren’t winning shit anyway with a toss like that.”
His attention immediately flew back to you, desperate to figure out a way to get close to you.
There was not one good intention flowing through that mind of his when he walked through the doorway leading into the living room, ignoring the sound of someone shouting his name, and making a slow, calculated beeline to where you were moving around in the crowd.
The room was dark, the only light that illuminated your face was the cheap, party store strobe lights set up on various tabletops. Every second, your face would disappear in the darkness only to reappear a moment later, in a different position.
He watched you with a precise gaze, slipping through sloppy, drunk bodies to get to you.
As the color of the lights flashed different hues of blue, green, purple, and red on the soft outlines of your features, the music seemed to slow and distort, his vision tunneling in a way that felt intoxicating.
Your back was pressed against your best friend’s front, grinding on her to the beat of the music in a platonically seductive way that caused Peter’s gaze to drop to the shape the arch of your back was creating. His eyes twitched at the sight of your ass spilling out of the hem of your too-short shorts.
It pissed him off more than anything.
The song faded into the next, some other song about partying, sex, and drinking that he knew came straight from Harry’s endless Spotify playlist. It was a remix of 3OH!3’s “DONTTRUSTME,” he immediately clocked it based on the first note. He’d heard the same songs every weekend, the lyrics and rhythms were basically engraved in his mind.
The second the chorus hit, your eyes met his.
Your dancing halted abruptly, causing your best friend to frown, immediately clocking your shift.
“The hell?” she mumbled, stumbling back a bit, already too tipsy for her own good and desperate to find that guy she was supposed to meet up with.
You unintentionally ignored her, too distracted by the way Peter made his way in front of you, glaring down at you from his height.
“Lookin’ good, Dean’s List,” he smirked, his tongue running along his top row of teeth, taking his time to rake you over with his dark eyes.
The sight of him—the way he violated your body with his gaze—made you want to throw up. “What do you want, Parker?”
He sarcastically frowned down at you, his bottom lip pursing out. “I missed you.”
Your face became riddled with disgust, but the liquid courage pumping through your system had you feeling mouthy. “Oh, did you?”
“Mm-hmm,” he mumbled, sipping his drink. “Did you miss me?”
“No,” you deadpanned, giving him a phoney sympathetic look. “Not even a little.”
He scoffed, offering you a toothy grin. You pried your attention away from the way muscle in his chiseled jawline ticked when he did it, meeting his gaze with feeble confidence.
His eyes flashed to your tits, where “Stevie Knicks” was printed out on your borrowed T-shirt. Shamelessly, his fingers traced over the lettering.
The touch sent a shockwave through your system, something like white-hot lightning ricocheting in your nerves. It wasn’t an enticing feeling. It was the opposite, really. It was more like a big, red, flashing siren sounding in your ears, telling you to get away from him while you still stood a chance.
“God, does it ever get boring being so basic?” he sneered, hand moving away from your heaving chest. “The Taylor Swift shit? I expected more from you, baby.”
The way his voice sounded when he called you baby was like nails on a chalkboard. “But I thought you liked basic, Pete.” You batted your lashes up at him. “I did all this just for you,” you added, using an artificial high-pitched voice before hardening your features.
His lips curled again, fingers moving back to your chest. He tapped the fabric, feeling the outline of your bra. “Mm,” he hummed, sinking his tongue in his jaw. “You’re feisty this evening, aren’t you? Tequila’s got you needy?”
He liked you best like this. At some party in a tight-fitting outfit, buzzing off cheap alcohol, and willing to entertain his bullshit. He liked having your attention. He liked pissing you off to the point that you felt the need to slap him.
Hell, he wanted you to slap him.
“Maybe,” your voice trailed, peering up at him over your drink with your sharp eyes. “But not for you.”
The muscle in Peter’s jaw ticked. “Oh, you got your sights on someone else?”
You shrugged your shoulders, head turning to scan the party. There wasn’t anyone you were looking for. You just wanted to show Peter the number of options you had. “Maybe.”
He knew there were countless guys at the party who wanted their chance with you. He would hear them talk about you in the back of class, every time you would bend down to pick up something, your ass in the air. Sometimes they’d talk about you in the locker room at lacrosse practice, too. They would drone on about your recent sighting at some party, reeling in the way none of them could ever get you in their beds even after you drank too much to walk yourself back to your dorm.
Peter wouldn’t ever really entertain it. He’d tell them they were all idiots, warning them to stop trying with you because you were too “uptight” and didn’t “put out.” But he knew the reason you never gave into their attempts was because it didn’t excite you.
“You should put your sights on me,” he said with full confidence.
You coughed out a laugh, nearly choking on your drink, causing him to wonder if you would sound the same choking on his dick. “You fucking wish, you creep.”
“I’m a creep now?” he pried, narrowing his eyes on you as the two of you stood unusually still in the center of all the commotion.
“You’re something, that’s for sure.”
He liked that. “Something’s a little too vague for me, baby. Tell me what I am.”
“You’re disgusting,” you quipped, eyes betraying you when they fell to the rigid outline of his biceps that were being suffocated by the hem of his T-shirt sleeves. “And I don’t want to waste my night out standing here with you.”
“Disgusting?” Peter feigned hurt, cocking his head back. “Oh, come on. Now you’re just being mean.”
You rolled your eyes dramatically, turning your head to the side.
Peter felt his dick twitch at the sight despite himself, that imagination of his working tirelessly to picture the way he could make you do that—make you roll your eyes to the back of your head.
He would never admit—even to himself—but he wanted you in a way that bordered obsession. He wanted to see what the fuss was all about. He wanted to be the one to break down those impenetrable walls of yours, spreading you open and learning his way around those venomous curves of yours.
“I’m bored,” you sneered, taking a quick step away from him, realizing your best friend was long gone.
Peter blinked, knocking himself out of his stupid thoughts long enough to reach out and grab your wrist. It was a firm grasp. The tips of his fingers dug into your soft skin, forcing you to stumble back in front of him.
“Don’t walk away from me,” he bit, but his voice was unusually soft and vindictive. “I’m not done with you.”
Knocked off balance from the tug, he shifted his free hand from your wrist to your waist in an attempt to steady you. The fact that he didn’t let you fall flat on your ass was even more dizzying.
“You’re not done with me?” Your brows pinched. “Oh, come on, Peter. Don’t be desperate.”
He smirked devilishly. “You think I’m desperate for you?”
Narrowing your eyes on his, you refused to respond.
“That’s cute,” he went on to say anyway. “You think I want you?” His head bowed slowly, his hand still tight on the curve of your waist. “You think that’s what this is, baby—” his nose nudged the line of your jaw, causing your head to tilt up “—that I’m all needy for you, falling to pieces every time you walk away?”
Your body went rigid, feeling his warm breath on the crook of your neck. The way your skin prickled, a shudder coursing through you as the hairs on your arm stood straight, irritated you far more than his words. The feeling was so distracting, you couldn’t manage another snarky response.
The two of you had been in this position before. It was common—second nature, even. That didn’t make it any easier, though.
“What?” Peter snarled in your ear, soft lips grazing the delicate cartilage. “Can’t speak?”
Your teeth ground, jaw taut with tension as you used your free hand to shove him off you.
He let go of your hip, taking a stuttering half-step back. That smug, toothy little smirk spread on his face.
The people behind him shouted a string of obscenities at him, pissed that his movement had caused one of the girls to spill her drink. But Peter didn’t offer them a single glance. His eyes were glued to you.
The second your small hand had shoved him—that touch, that force—he keeled. There was a newfound hunger in the way he was looking at you. Once he regained his stability, he was right back flush against you.
“What do you want from me, Parker?” you snarled, glaring up at him. His eyes flicked back and forth, not able to choose one to hone in on. “If you don’t want me—what is it that you’re trying to do?”
Peter shrugged, but it didn’t meet his eyes. “Just want to see how long you can take it.”
“Take what?”
“That puddle forming in your panties,” he stated in such a calm tone, it made your skin crawl.
You scoffed, not necessarily surprised but just as shocked. “You’re fucking sick.”
His head tilted slightly to the side. “I bet you’re soaked right now, aren’t you? Putting your hands on me like that get your panties all wet?” His eyes dropped to your shorts. “What color are they, I wonder.” You inhaled sharply, growing restless. His head lowered slightly, your foreheads a dangerous inch apart. “Probably something skimpy.”
Your eyes flashed up to his. “Guess.”
The corner of his lip rose, nodding slowly. “You could show me.”
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Your head was spinning when you inched closer to him, the hand you’d had at your side slowly moving to graze the bulge forming in his suddenly too-tight jeans. You stood on the tips of your toes, mimicking his early actions by digging your nose into the chiseled line of his jaw.
“You’re all hard and desperate and I haven’t even touched you,” you whispered before quickly ripping your hand away and falling back on your heels. “So pathetic.”
It took Peter a moment to get control of himself. You noticed it, relishing in the power you’d taken over him. But—like all accomplishments pertaining to Peter—it was a short-lived win.
His tongue slipped out between his lips, wetting them with a slow graze. “Disgusting… pathetic…” he talked slowly, a lazy sigh escaping him. “God, I love it when you talk dirty to me.”
You tilted your head. “Oh, that’s what you want, huh?” You coughed out another laugh. “You want me to be mean to you, Parker? That your kink, or something? You like when girls degrade you. That’s what gets you off?”
“No.” He shook his head nonchalantly. “I just like when you do it.”
You hated how bold he was. You hated even more that you couldn’t ever tell when he was being serious or messing with you. The lines between his truths and his teases was a fine one. One that you refused to fall for.
But there was no denying the way it made you feel. There was no denying that knowing how hard he was after just talking to you wasn’t driving you absolutely crazy. And there was definitely no way to deny the arousal puddling at your core, the warm flutters aching in your lower stomach.
It was a dangerous curiosity, wondering what it would feel like for him to be on top of you—inside you. You had thought about it before, of course. But the two of you had never been this close before.
You had never been caught before him like this, suffering the consequences of too much cheap vodka with music muddling the outside world. The bass was so loud, vibrating the floor beneath your feet and ricocheting through your bones, that it drowned out the sound of your heart racing. It drowned out the sound of everything around the two of you.
For a moment, you forgot where you were. You forgot you were surrounded by a bunch of your peers, not caring about any lingering glares.
The only thing you could think about was the way Peter was standing before you, smirking down at you in a way you couldn’t hide from.
“Where’s your head at, baby?” Peter probed, noticing your trance-like state as you were so deep in thought. “You're thinking about it, aren’t you?” He grinned pridefully. “Now that you’ve touched it, you want it, don’t you?”
You blinked hard, eyes dropping to the floor in defeat. Your thoughts were becoming a tangled mess. Lust and desire was meshing with your reluctance and hatred.
His hand slowly raised to your face. The pad of his thumb grazed your glossed bottom lip while his fingers slipped the side of your jaw, tugging slightly to force your gaze up at him.
The sticky feeling of your lip gloss on his thumb caused him to bite down on his lip. He wanted to taste it. He wanted it around his throbbing dick, becoming a sticky mess with your spit.
A wave of confidence coursed through you, thrumming with newfound adrenaline with his hand on you. “Is that what you want?” You parted your lips, tongue slowly creeping out to graze the tip of his thumb. “You want me to want you?”
“Oh, I know you want me,” Peter quickly countered, his dick painfully hard in his pants.
He wanted so desperately to move closer to you. He wanted to grind his hips against you so you could feel how much he wanted you, but he didn’t want you to have that power yet, nor did he want to corrupt the way your plump lips were closing around his thumb.
What you did next was just cruel, really. You bobbed your head forward slowly, welcoming the way his thumb slid right into your mouth. You suctioned your lips around it, tongue swirling over the skin. The salty taste flooded your taste buds as your lashes fluttered up at him.
His jaw went slack, his chest rising as he sucked in a sharp breath at the sight.
You repeated the motion once more, showing him exactly what you were capable of before pulling away.
You reeled in it for a moment. The way you had Peter Parker folding in front of you just by sucking his stupid thumb. The guy who thrived on having the power over you was biting down on his lip hard enough to cause injury, absolutely lost in the shape of your lips.
The thought entered your mind before you could brace yourself.
You liked it.
Peter’s hand dropped to the waistband of your shorts, slipping two fingers in the gap and tugged you flush against him. A gasp tore from your tight throat when you felt his length press against your stomach.
God, he could’ve came just by the sound you made.
His head bowed down once more, his lips returning to the place he loved for them to be—right at your ear. “We’re gonna go up to my room,” he hissed, his arm creeping around your waist to keep you from moving away from them, “and you’re gonna do that to my dick.”
You chuckled, placing your hand on his shoulder to shove him off, but it only led him to squeeze you tighter.
“Uh-uh,” he warned in a devastatingly deep tone. “Stop fighting it, baby.”
He reared his head back, immediately making eye contact with you. Something had shifted, you realized. He wasn’t fucking around with you anymore.
“Go upstairs,” he whispered. “First door on the right.”
You swallowed hard, rethinking every single decision that had led you to this moment, wondering if you would regret any of it.
He released you, causing you to fall back on your heels with a stutter, unable to find a single coherent thought in your dizzied, lust-clouded mind.
You both remained dangerously still for a moment. His eyes were staring into you with such viciousness, it felt like a dagger to the heart.
The muscle in his jaw ticked. “Go.”
You reeled in your defeat, feeling an overwhelming sense of disgust with yourself when you walked through Peter Parker’s bedroom door.
His room, however, was exactly how you thought it would be. His bed was unmade, pushed into the corner of the small room. It was the cleanest disaster you’d ever seen. There wasn’t enough stuff to categorize it as messy, but the stuff that was there was all disorganized.
His navy-blue comforter was tangled up on the mattress, paired with his grey sheets. On the wall above the headboard was a Star Wars poster and it smelled the same as the rest of the frat house did—like they tried to smother the filth with a can of Febreze.
You closed the door behind you, more afraid of someone catching you in his room than what you were getting yourself into.
Inching further into his room, your eyes danced around, analyzing the open Altoids tin with a few pre-rolled joints in them. There were a few crushed beer cans littering his desk, where he had a mountain of books and a lamp draped with a red T-shirt, casting an ambient maroon lighting on the room.
Sucking in a sharp, weighted breath, you sat down on the edge of his bed and combed a hand through your hair, tugging slightly at the root in a feeble attempt to bring you back to reality.
But every time you thought about how poor of a decision you were making, you recalled the feeling of him up against you—the size of his bulge and the way his breath felt on your skin.
But it was Peter fucking Parker.
You couldn’t let him win.
You were about to stand up and walk out when his bedroom door creaked open. Your eyes shot up, jolting at the sudden sound. Peter walked in nonchalantly, closing the door behind him and locking it.
When he saw you sitting on the edge of his bed, your curves illuminated under the soft glow, he couldn’t conceal the sly smirk on his face.
You stood up, the regret washing over you as soon as that cocky expression of his reappeared.
“This was a mistake,” you mumbled, taking a step towards the door.
He side-stepped, blocking your path. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” you snapped, glaring up at him.
“Don’t act like you don’t want this.”
“I don’t.”
He tilted his chin up slightly, features hardening. “Then why’d you come up here?”
“Because…” You shook your head, not able to obtain a single viable reason. “I wasn’t—I wasn’t thinking.”
“I think you were,” he whispered. “I think you were doing a whole lot of thinking, actually.”
Your nostrils flared when you peered up at him.
His hands snuck to your waist, gripping the skin with just the right amount of pressure. “I think you were wondering what this would be like,” he added, taking a step forward, which caused you to take one backwards. “I think you were wondering what it would feel like to have me completely to yourself. No, I know it—I know you want me all to yourself like this. You’re fucking crazy for it, aren’t you?”
Your eyes remained glued to his as he continued forcing you to walk backwards until the back of your legs hit the edge of his bed.
“Say it,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Tell me you want me.”
You scoffed. “I’m not entertaining your ego.”
“Fine.” His hands gripped tighter. “Then just say stop when you want me to,” he said so quickly, you barely had time to realize what he was doing.
The moment you fell back on the bed, Peter climbed on top of you. He used his knee to spread your legs so he could fit himself between them. His lips immediately crashed onto yours. It was the roughest kiss you’d ever had. It was like he couldn’t get enough of it.
His tongue slipped through his lips as they moved in sync with yours, fighting for a way into your mouth. You let him continue doing that for a few moments, enjoying the way his hand trailed down to your thigh that was hiked up against his waist.
He squeezed, nails digging into the skin, until you parted your lips and let him in.
When his tongue finally tangled itself with yours, a rugged moan broke from his throat. It vibrated your entire body, ricocheting all the way down to your needy center.
He pulled away from the kiss, leaving you a panting mess beneath him. But he didn’t stay away for long. His head dug into the crook of your neck, using his nose to push your head to the side so he could suck on the sensitive skin just below your ear.
Your jaw went slack as a shudder rolled down your spine, causing your hips to buck against his bricked erection. The friction it induced against your clit drew a soft moan from your throat that Peter desperately wanted to hear again.
“You want me to stop?” he asked, voice muffled against your neck and gruff from his rugged breathing.
In absolutely pitiful desperation, you shook your head.
He pulled away from your neck, holding himself over you with his hands pressed into the mattress on either side of your head. When he ground his hips against your pulsating center again, his bulge rubbing the outline of your slit beneath your shorts, he smirked at the sounds you made.
“I need to hear you say it, baby,” he whispered, repeating his rough humps. “You gotta tell me you want it—gotta use your words.”
You knew the potential threat of admitting it—the way you’d never be able to return from it—but you just couldn’t help yourself. It was too consuming, too good. He felt too good.
Your eyes screwed shut, jaw going slack at the sensation building beneath your shorts.
“I want it,” you hissed, bringing your arms over his shoulders, interlocking your hands to pull his face closer to yours so you could taste his lips again.
Fuck, you thought. You actually wanted it.
“Come here” he ordered, crawling off of you.
He stood up off the bed, crooking two fingers, gesturing for you to sit up. When you complied, sitting up straight on the bed with your legs falling off the side, he looped his fingers under your T-shirt. In one swift motion, he brought it up over your head, discarding it on his bedroom floor.
Your bra came off next. He urged you to lean forward, reaching behind you to unclasp it. The entire time he worked with the hooks, your eyes were trained on the pulsating length suffocating in his jeans.
“Fuck…” he groaned, watching you shrug off the black bra. “You look so good.”
“Shut up,” you mumbled, reaching out and gripping him by the waistband of his jeans, using all the strength you had to pull him closer to you.
You were working to undo the button and unzip them when he ran a hand through your hair. “Oh, you want it rough—that it?”
Your eyes flicked up to him, pulling his jeans down over his muscular hips. “Take your shirt off.”
He chuckled, taking a half step back, tearing out of his T-shirt.
You took a second to rake your gaze over his tanned, rigid abdomen, analyzing the way his muscles flexed in the soft light every time he moved. When your eyes moved back to the jeans barely holding on, you sat up further on the bed, bringing your ass to the very edge.
His words replayed in the back of your mind. “We’re gonna go up to my room, and you’re gonna do that to my dick.” All of your hesitance went out the window, knowing how eager you had him.
He stepped forward until his shins met the bed, his erection inches from your face.
By the time you worked to get his boxers off, letting them fall around his ankles, you could barely think straight. The only thing on your mind was the way his throbbing cock slapped his lower stomach when it sprung out of its confines.
It was exactly like you thought it would be. Girthy in a way that matched the rigid muscles of his toned build, and just as formidable in length.
Peter smirked down at you, hands working to gather your hair as your hand wrapped around the base of it. “You nervous?” he probed, clenching his fist around your strands. “Too big for you? Don’t think you can take it?”
You worked him in your hand for a minute, eyes fluttering up to where he was towering over you. In one slow movement, you leaned forward, sticking your wet tongue out, leaving a sopping wet trail of your spit at the base of him, all the way up to his sensitive, pink tip without breaking eye contact.
He brought his bottom lip between his teeth, biting down hard as a grunt vibrated from his throat when your tongue swirled his tip, licking up the bead of pre-cum dripping out.
“Stop… fucking… teasing,” he grunted, hips bucking against the hold you had on him. Your nails dug into the skin of his thighs, managing to keep him still. He gritted his teeth, feeling you lick his tip again.
“Open your fucking mouth,” he ordered.
Complying, you parted your lips and welcomed the way he slid into your mouth as you leaned forward. You wanted so badly to be able to take all of him, pushing yourself until your nose came flush with his base. A gag tore from your throat, causing your throat to squeeze tight around him.
“Mm,” he sounded, watching you bob your head along his throbbing cock in all the ways he once dreamed of. Your lips suctioned around him, tongue swirling around his dripping tip every time you moved away before pushing him back down your throat.
“Yeah, look at you—talking all that shit just to have my dick down your throat,” he grunted.
His words, combined with the way he tugged your hair, forcing your head to move at the rhythm of his choosing, was enough to cause a shallow moan to escape you, vibrating against his dick as you intentionally swallowed, keeping him deep in your throat.
“Fuck…” he moaned, growing more rough with the way he was forcing your head to move on him.
Your spit, combined with the salty taste of his pre-cum, was dripping down your chin when he suddenly let go of your hair, grabbing your hands from where they were gripping his thigh.
The sudden movement caused you to push away from him, his dick coming out of your mouth with a wet pop.
Panting, you eyed him. “What are you—”
“Put your hands behind your back,” he demanded, an air of aggression in his voice that awoke something inside you.
Your hands moved behind your back, interlocking with one another. His dick throbbed in front of you as he reached over to his bedside table, grabbing the belt that was rolled up.
Something akin to pure fire sparked inside of you, understanding his attention. “Oh, you want to tie me up?”
His jaw was taut with tension as he reached behind you, wrapping the brown leather around your wrists, tightening it until it almost hurt.
“You’re such a freak, Parker,” you laughed, your chin glistening with the remnants of your spit.
He knotted the leather, binding you before bringing his hands back to your hair. “You like it,” he snarled, clenching his fist back around your strands, tugging. “Now—” he breathed, taking a hold of himself, aligning his tip back with your dripping, swollen lips “—shut up and let me fuck that throat, baby.”
And that was exactly what he did.
Unable to tame his movements due to your hands being tightly bound behind you, he was the one to control his thrusts into your mouth, causing your jaw to grow sore.
He worked quicker the more you moaned against his shaft, feeling the tightness of your throat every time he pumped himself deep.
His biceps flexed from how hard he was tensing. When he lulled his head back, your name rolling off his tongue in the form of a deep grunt as you gagged on his length.
He let his head fall forward, watching the way you took him so perfectly.
His eyes were glued to your face, watching the way your eyes rolled back the harder he thrusted into your tight throat, admiring the way the wetness was leaking down your chin, dripping into your lap where your legs were trembling, desperate to be touched.
“Yeah,” he moaned, moving your falling strands of hair away from your face, ensuring he always kept a perfect view of you taking him. “You’re gonna think about this the next time you call me pathetic, baby—you’re gonna think about the way I fucked your tight little throat, aren’t you?”
Your response came as muffled moans against his flesh that he couldn’t get enough of.
His release was coming quickly, like an atomic bomb readying to detonate within him. You could tell based on the way his thrusts got sloppy, going back to using your head instead of bucking his own hips.
But, as much as he craved the feeling of shooting his warm release down your precious throat, he didn’t want to do it yet. Not until he explored the rest of you.
He pulled out of you slowly, taking half a step back while panting raggedly.
It took every sliver of self-restraint he had to keep himself from busting all over you when he saw the way your jaw went slack, panting with soft, pretty little breaths, and blinking slow, completely drunk off the way he’s been working you.
“You good?” he asked you without thinking.
Your eyes sharpened up at him, reverting back to your soured self despite the way he’d numbed your mind with his cock.
A smile broke through your defeat. “What? You worried about me, Parker?”
Fine, he thought, be that way. “Stand up.”
You tried to, you really did. But with your hands tied up behind you, it was impossible. Peter knew that would happen, of course.
When he snickered, you glared up at him.
“You struggling, baby?”
You refused to respond, not giving him anymore verbal ammunition.
He reached around you, undoing the belt in one quick motion. “Try now.”
Finally able to rise on your own two feet, you rolled your wrists at your side, already secretly missing the constriction.
Peter took a second to admire you. His eyes traced a devious glare down your entire frame, stopping where your shorts were. His jaw ticked. “Take ‘em off.”
You tilted your head. “Gonna make me do it all by myself?” you pouted teasingly, meeting his gaze. “Where’s the fun in that, Peter?”
Beneath your sly taunts, he read right through your intentions. He knew that was your way of begging him to undress you. So, he did. He did it all with one hand, actually.
Pulling you closer with his finger hooked around the denim waistband, he undid the button and lowered the zipper, shoving them down your legs. He brought your black panties with it, spending a little too much time eyeing the drenched spot in them.
“Lay down,” he urged, taking a step forward that forced you to back up.
“Uh-uh,” you mumbled, shaking your head and stopping yourself when the back of your legs met the edge of the bed once again.
Peter’s brows furrowed, his saturated, throbbing dick pressed between the two of you.
Your eyes fell to the belt on the bed, then back up to him.
A despicable expression formed on his face as the realization dawned on him. “That what you want?”
Reluctantly, you nodded.
“Words, baby,” he grumbled.
“Yes.” You huffed. “That’s what I want.”
By the time the belt returned around your wrists—tighter this time—your back was flush with his front. The sticky wetness of his dick was pressed against your ass when he put his lips close to your ear, coaching you into slowly lowering down on the bed.
“I got you,” he whispered, gripping your arms to help you down slowly, even if he really wanted to throw you down and watch you squirm. “Yeah… just like that. Good girl,” he added when you laid flat on the mattress, ass arched up in the air.
You turned your head to the side, catching him reaching over into the top drawer of his nightstand, returning behind you with a condom in his grasp.
“No.” The word came out of you before you could think.
Peter’s eyes flashed to yours. “You want it raw?”
“Don’t make me fucking say it,” you groaned, pushing your ass up against him, desperate to relieve the neediness at your core.
“I’m clean, just so you—”
“I know,” you interjected, growing irritably restless. “So am I.” You exhaled heavily. “Just put it in. I wanna feel you—please.”
The desperate sound of your voice was enough to drive Peter mad. He had never heard that side of you before.
He wanted to hear more of it. A lot more.
One of his hands fell to his pulsating length, the other planted a firm grip on your ass as he guided his tender tip to your swollen, needy entrance. His teeth ground together as he slowly inserted himself inside you.
Your walls immediately clenched around his size, a high-pitched moan tearing from your throat as he spread you open more and more the deeper he went.
“Fuck…” he hissed, watching the way your slippery cunt suctioned him in. “You’re so tight, baby. And so… wet—Oh, fuck…”
He drew out of your partially, not taking his eyes off the way your pussy gripped him as he made another slow thrust deeper inside of you.
You could feel the exact spot his tip was hitting deep in your core. It was the exact spot you needed him to be.
“Oh… my God,” you cried out as he picked up the pace, driving himself into you with ferocious thrusts. “It’s so deep.”
That only made him want to fuck you harder. He moved his grip on your ass to where the belt was fastened around your wrists, tugging at the leather as he bullied his cock into your tight pussy.
“Has anyone ever fucked you this good, baby?” he taunted, watching the way your body dug deeper into his bed as he slammed into you over and over and over again. The sound of your ass clapping against him was almost too loud, but he didn’t care.
He wasn’t going to give up his rhythm for anything. “Anybody ever been this deep inside your pussy?”
Your teeth bit down on the bundle of sheets beneath you to keep the screams that threatened to escape you in. “N—No,” you cried out through your gritted teeth. “Ne—Never.”
He couldn’t cope with the way you were squirming in front of him, back arched in a way that shouldn’t have been possible.
“Peter,” you moaned out, your entire body shaking violently, toes curling. “I can’t—I’m gonna—”
“I know, baby,” he grunted out, reaching to grab your hair and pull you off the bed.
The stinging sensation on your scalp was mind-bending. But when he brought your back flush with him, still deep inside you as he wrapped one arm around your waist to brace you before moving his other hand to your clit, you just couldn’t fucking take it.
Your head lulled back on his shoulder, back arched as he bucked his hips up into you faster and faster while working his fingers in circles over your swollen clit.
“Oh, God, yes,” you nearly screamed.
He gripped you tighter, feeling the way you clenched around him, your arousal dripping down his balls.
“Not God, baby,” he breathed into your ear. “Just Peter.”
“Shut up,” you tried to jest, but it just came out as a pathetically high-pitched moan.
With your arms fastened behind you, your release came quick.
Peter held you as tight as possible, his muscles flexing as you convulsed against him, trembling from head-to-toe. “Look at you, cumming all over my dick like that.”
You could barely feel anything. Every single nerve in your body was coursing with an all-consuming pleasure unlike anything you’d ever felt before. You became completely slack in his big arms, like a rag doll, as his pumps became sloppier.
“Your turn,” you managed to say, feeling how close he was to his release.
His breathing was uneven and deep when he asked, “Where, baby?”
“In me,” you replied.
His heart nearly stopped beating, but he played it off. “Want me to fill you up?”
He had never done that before, but he was more than willing to do that for you if it was what you wanted. He was highly certain he’d do just about anything for you—and to you—as long as it was what you wanted.
“Mm-hmm.” Your head nodded sloppily, unable to lift it on your own. “IUD,” you added, already knowing where his thoughts went.
The last thing this world needed was another Peter fucking Parker.
“Hold on.”
He pulled out of you so fast, it caused you to wince. The sudden emptiness felt disparaging, but it didn’t last long. In one gentle move, he turned you around, quickly tore off the belt around your wrists, and pushed you back on the bed.
Your breath was caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan when he climbed on top of you. He wasted absolutely no time, aligning himself with your slick entrance and pushing in as deep as he could.
“Hands,” he grunted.
He remained deep inside you as he took your hands, forcing them down on the bed above your head. Squeezing your wrists with his big, tough hands, he started thrusting himself into you.
“I wanna look… at your face while I fill you up,” he bit out through pants.
“Mm,” you smirked, hearing the squelching sounds echoing off the walls of his bedroom every time he pounded himself inside you. “You’re such a fucking freak.”
“Only for you, baby,” he grinned devilishly down at you, eyes staying glued to yours as he continued hammering into you. “Only… f—for you.”
He was so close, he could taste it. It was a fucking miracle he’d lasted this long, only able to do so because of the dangerous levels of adrenaline pumping through his system.
Peering up at the grip he had on your hands, he let one go.
“Touch yourself,” he ordered, holding himself up with only one hand as he eagerly brought your other one down to your clit. “Cum with me.”
You were going to cum even if you hadn’t started rubbing your clit as he worked himself into you. But as soon your fingers touched your swollen flesh, your head tilted back against the mattress, digging into the fabric as a moan escaped you.
“That’s it,” Peter coaxed. “Doing s—so good.”
Your legs clenched around him as you met your second release. His thrusts became sloppy and slow, telling you he was right there with you.
His head fell into the crook of your neck, lips parting to bite the skin as he pounded his hips against you one last time.
The minute his warmth shot inside you, you gasped.
A shudder rolled through him, all the way down to his cock still inside of you, as he filled you with his sticky seed.
He rode out his high with slow, quivering pumps until there was nothing else to empty out of him.
Forcing himself up, he slowly pulled himself out of you. The second his tip popped out of you and his eyes fixed on his white cum seeping out of your throbbing pussy, he moaned.
“Shit,” he mumbled, bringing his fingers to touch the puddle oozing out. “I like that.”
You watched him with illicit precision, smirking. “You never done that before?”
He shook his head, unable to look away. “No.”
When your hand trailed down your body, reaching to where you felt his seed dripping out of you, you spread the thick liquid on your fingers.
Peter watched you with a slack jaw as you brought your fingers to your mouth, sucking the remnants of his release.
“F—fuck…” he gaped, eyes wide at your actions. “You’re gonna make me bust again, acting like that, baby.”
You snickered, swallowing the salty sweetness of him. “Tastes good.”
He shook his head, coughing out a laugh. “You’re fucking sick.”
When he could finally stand again, you watched as he walked over to his door, grabbing the white towel that was hanging on the over-the-door hook. He brought it back over to you, wiping up the mess he’d left inside you.
After he cleaned you up, he fell back on the bed next to you with a thud.
You turned your head to the side, chest heaving as your breathing slowed. “So…” you trailed, exhaling raggedly. “Did I make it to the top of your fucking Dean’s List?”
“Something like that.”
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!
