seriously? you guys cant feel that?
pairing: mean!college! peter x reader
w/c: 9.7k+
summary: ever since that night-- peter cannot stop thinking about you. its bordering on obsessive. he needs to feel you again. needs the praise. needs anything that you will give him. but you? you act like you couldnt care less about him.
warnings/tags: dead dove?? enemies to something, college au, peters POV, smut (dubcon, oral m & f receiving, cum swallowing, fingering, rough sex, multiple positions, unprotected sex, cocky peter, so so much dirty talk, praise kink, degradation, cock worshipping, fight for the power & control)
a/n: you guys are feral and im living for this.
masterlist // join the taglist // part 1
The click of the front door shutting was soft. Final. Almost polite.
He waited for the sound of your heels turning back. For the key in the lock again. For your voice, sharp and mean, calling him an asshole one more time before you finished what you’d started.
Nothing.
Just the hollow quiet of an empty dorm on Thanksgiving break, and the wet spot cooling on the front of his ridiculous Juicy sweatpants.
“What the actual fuck,” he said to the room.
His voice came out wrecked. Hoarse. Like he’d been the one on his knees.
Peter shoved a hand through his hair, then down over his face. His thighs were still shaking. His cock gave a pathetic little twitch against his stomach, like it hadn’t gotten the memo that the best mouth of his entire life had just walked out without so much as a backward glance.
You’d deepthroated him like you were trying to crawl inside his ribcage. Called him a good boy in that ruined, spit-soaked voice while you choked yourself on his dick. Swallowed every drop like it was personal. And then you’d stood up, wiped your mouth, fixed your makeup, and left.
Like it was nothing.
Like he was nothing.
Peter’s laugh came out sharp and disbelieving. He dragged the sweatpants the rest of the way off, kicked them toward the laundry pile, and sat there half naked on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
Nobody did that to him.
He was the one who left. The one who rolled over, stretched, and said that was fun, text me if you want a repeat while already reaching for his phone. He was the one who made girls stay longer than they planned, who talked them into one more round, who left them messy and smiling and a little ruined for anyone else.
You had flipped the entire script in under twenty minutes and then vanished like a fucking magic trick.
He could still feel the exact shape of your throat.
Peter’s hand drifted down almost without permission. He wrapped his fingers around himself, still slick, and gave one slow stroke just to feel the residual ache. His head tipped back on a low groan.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered to the ceiling. “Who the hell are you?”
He didn’t have an answer.
All he had was the empty apartment, the taste of your mouth still ghosting across his tongue, and the sudden, humiliating realization that he was already hard again.
Three days later he had a sophomore from the third floor bent over his desk.
She was pretty in the generic way most of them were—long hair, soft thighs, the kind of eager little moans that usually did it for him. She was wet enough that the sounds filled the room every time he snapped his hips forward. Her nails scratched at the wood. She kept gasping his name like it meant something.
Peter’s mind was somewhere else entirely.
He was thinking about the exact shade of your eyes when you’d looked up at him from between his knees. The way your voice had gone low and wrecked when you’d called him a good boy. The filthy, rhythmic choke every time you’d forced yourself all the way down and stayed there.
His rhythm stuttered.
The girl under him made a confused little sound. “Peter—?”
“Shh.” He reached forward, tangled a hand in her hair, and pulled her head back so he didn’t have to look at her face. "Just come for me sweetheart."
She did. Enthusiastically. And still it felt like nothing.
He finished with a low, frustrated sound that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with the fact that the second he closed his eyes he saw you—mascara ruined, chin shiny, staring up at him like you’d just won something.
He pulled out, disposed of the condom, and barely waited for her to get dressed before walking her to the door with a distracted smile and a “text me.”
The second the lock clicked he dropped onto the couch, dragged both hands down his face, and muttered, “Fuck.”
His phone lit up with her number less than an hour later.
He left it on read.
By the second week of December he had a system.
Friday nights— someone from the third floor. Someone who wouldn’t ask questions. Someone who would let him fuck them hard and fast and then leave without lingering.
It never worked.
Every time a girl dropped to her knees he waited for the same electric jolt that had ripped through him when you did it. Every time a mouth closed around him he waited for the exact pressure, the exact depth, the exact filthy little sounds of someone who was trying to ruin him on purpose.
It never came.
One girl tried to deepthroat him the way you had. She made it halfway, gagged hard, pulled off with tears in her eyes, and laughed like it was cute.
Peter felt nothing except a sharp, irrational flash of irritation.
“Don’t,” he’d said, voice tighter than he meant it to be. “Just—use your hand.”
She’d looked confused. He’d finished her off with his fingers out of sheer muscle memory and sent her home with a polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
After she left he stood under the shower for twenty minutes with the water turned as hot as it would go, forehead pressed to the tile, cock in his hand, and let himself remember.
The way your throat had convulsed around him when he’d held you down. The broken little gag that had torn out of you every time he bottomed out. The way you’d looked up at him afterward—and then just… walked away.
He came hard against the shower wall with your name stuck behind his teeth like a secret he wasn’t ready to say out loud.
Harry noticed.
Of course he did.
They were sitting on the couch one Thursday night with the TV on mute and a half-empty bag of chips between them when Harry finally said, “You’ve been weird.”
Peter didn’t look away from the screen. “Define weird.”
“You turned down that girl from your calc class yesterday and she was very clear about what she wanted.” Harry paused. “And you keep checking your phone. Like obsessively.”
Peter’s jaw flexed. “I’m fine.”
“Is this about—”
“Don’t.”
Harry held up both hands. “Okay. Not saying the name. Just… you’ve been different since Thanksgiving. And whatever it is, the revolving door isn’t cutting it.”
Peter stood up too fast. The bag of chips tipped. “I’m going for a run.”
He didn’t come back for two hours.
It was almost midnight when he finally cracked.
He was lying in bed in the dark, one arm folded under his head, staring at the ceiling while his mind replayed the same thirty-second loop on infinite repeat— the second you’d taken him all the way down for the first time. The way your nose had pressed against his stomach. The wet, helpless sound of your throat accepting every inch like it was made for it.
His cock was aching. He’d already gotten off once that night and it hadn’t helped.
Peter reached for his phone.
He scrolled to your contact—he'd stolen your number from Harry one night under the guise of a psych question— and opened a new message.
Typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Peter: You left your necklace.
He stared at the screen.
It was a lie. The necklace was still around your neck the last time he’d seen you. He’d fastened it himself. He could still feel the exact heat of your skin under his knuckles.
But it was something. A reason. An opening.
He hit send before he could talk himself out of it.
The three dots appeared almost immediately.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
You: I’m wearing it.
Peter’s pulse kicked hard against his throat.
Peter: Come get the rest of your shit then. Harry’s still got that charger you left.
Another long pause.
You: It’s midnight.
Peter: And?
You: And I’m not walking across campus at midnight so you can try to make me your booty call. No thanks.
His cock twitched so hard it almost hurt.
Peter: Who said anything about a booty call?
You: Your entire personality.
Peter grinned into the dark despite himself. The first real one in weeks.
Peter: Come over.
You: No.
Peter: Scared?
You: Of you? Still rather chew glass.
Peter: Then prove it. Door’s unlocked. You already know what happens when we’re alone in an empty dorm.
He waited.
One minute.
Two.
Five.
Peter stared at the three dots on his screen like they might suddenly rearrange themselves into the answer he actually wanted.
They vanished.
A second later your reply lit up the dark.
You: No.
He huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, already typing.
Peter: Come on. Building’s empty. Harry’s gone. You already know how good it felt.
You: And you already know how good it felt to walk away after. I’m keeping that win.
Peter: You’re really gonna leave me like this?
You: You’ve got an entire dorm full of options. Use one.
Peter: None of them choke on it the way you do.
A longer pause this time. He could almost hear you rolling your eyes through the phone.
You: Goodnight, Peter.
Peter: You’re seriously just going to leave me hanging?
You: Goodnight.
The screen went quiet.
Peter tossed the phone onto the mattress harder than necessary and dragged both hands down his face. His cock was still hard against his stomach, aching with the same restless, unfinished need that had been riding him since Thanksgiving.
And now you were just… gone again. Texting goodnight like you hadn’t ruined him for every other mouth on campus.
He got himself off in the shower ten minutes later with one hand braced against the tile and your name locked behind his teeth. It barely took the edge off.
Two days later he pushed the apartment door open with his shoulder, backpack half-unzipped, keys already spinning around one finger. The smell of Harry’s leftover takeout hit him first. Then the low murmur of voices from the living room.
Harry on the couch. Textbook open. And you—curled into the opposite corner like you belonged there, legs tucked under you, one of Harry’s hoodies swallowing your frame. You looked comfortable. Relaxed. Like the last time you’d been in this apartment you hadn’t left him dripping and speechless on his own bed.
Peter’s pulse kicked once, hard, against his throat.
He shut the door harder than he needed to.
Harry glanced up first. “Hey. Thought you had lab until—”
“Got out early.” Peter’s eyes never left you. He dropped his backpack by the wall, kicked his shoes off, and let the keys land on the counter with a deliberate clatter. “Didn’t realize we were hosting.”
You didn’t even look up from your phone. “We’re not. I’m hanging out with my friend. You’re just the roommate who happens to live here.”
Peter’s mouth curved, slow and sharp. He walked past the couch close enough that his shin nearly brushed your knee, the same way he had the first time you’d ever traded insults in this exact spot. “Still got that necklace on, I see. Cute.”
Your eyes flicked up then—cool, unimpressed. “It’s mine. You just happened to be the one who put it on me.”
Harry made a quiet sound of warning under his breath. Peter ignored it.
He leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, studying the way the oversized hoodie slipped off one of your shoulders. “You know, most people would’ve at least texted after that night. Common courtesy. Especially after they decided to deepthroat someone like they were trying to set a personal record and then vanish.”
You set your phone down with careful precision. “Most people also don’t act like the entire dorm owes them a thank-you note for existing. I already gave you everything I planned to. The rest is your problem.”
Peter’s grin widened, all teeth. He pushed off the counter and took two slow steps closer, stopping just short of the arm of the couch. “My problem? Baby, you’ve been my problem since you walked out of my room looking like you’d just won something. I’ve been trying to recreate that exact throat for weeks. None of them even come close. You ruined the rotation.”
Harry closed his textbook with a soft thud. “Jesus Christ. This is why you've been so weird lately? Her?”
You didn’t flinch. You just tilted your head, that same sharp little spark in your eyes that always made him want to push harder. “Then maybe the rotation needs better standards. Or maybe you’re just not as memorable as you think you are once the lights come back on.”
Peter laughed under his breath, low and mean. He dropped into the armchair across from you, sprawling like he owned the furniture, one ankle hooked over the opposite knee. “Keep talking. I like it when you pretend you’re not still thinking about how hard I came down your throat.”
Your expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind your eyes—too fast for him to catch. “I think about a lot of things, Peter. Your ego isn’t one of them.”
“Liar.” He let his gaze drag down the line of your throat, slow and deliberate, remembering exactly how it had looked stretched around him. “You’re sitting in my living room wearing my roommate’s hoodie and still you can’t stop looking at my mouth. You want another round. You’re just too proud to ask for it.”
You stood up in one smooth motion, already reaching for your bag. “I’m leaving before your self-esteem starts needing medical attention.”
Peter stayed exactly where he was, smiling up at you like he had all the time in the world. “Running again? Cute. Same exit strategy as last time. Door’s right there whenever you decide you’re done pretending this is over.”
You paused at the threshold, hand on the knob, and glanced back over your shoulder. The look you gave him was pure challenge—cool, unbothered, and just sharp enough to land.
“It’s been over since the second I swallowed and walked out,” you said. “Try to keep up.”
The door clicked shut behind you.
Peter sat there for a long moment, the smile still fixed on his face even as his pulse hammered against his ribs. Harry was staring at him like he’d grown a second head.
“Dude— what the fuck. Her? My best friend? Who— may I remind you… hates your guts?” Harry said quietly.
"Shut the fuck up."
Peter had tried the usual route for two solid weeks after you’d walked out of his apartment for the second time.
Texts that were ignored. Casual run-ins in the hallway that turned into the same old verbal sparring. One deliberate appearance at the library when he knew your study group was there, just so he could lean against the table and watch your jaw tighten.
None of it worked.
You stayed ice. Cool, unimpressed, already halfway out the door before he finished a sentence.
So he switched tactics.
He started showing up without the cocky edge.
“Your hair looks good like that,” he said one afternoon when he passed you near the elevators, voice almost soft. You’d just glanced at him like he was something stuck to the bottom of your shoe and kept walking.
“That color’s perfect on you,” he tried two days later in the dining hall, sliding into the seat across from Harry like he belonged there. You’d looked up from your tray, unimpressed, and answered, “It’s the same color I always wear, Parker.”
Even the compliments came out wrong. Too smooth. Too knowing. Like he was still trying to get under your skin instead of just… saying something decent. Every attempt landed like another cocky remark, and you’d shut him down just as fast.
By the time the last day of classes rolled around, Peter was done pretending patience was working.
Winter break started tomorrow. Most of the building was already half-packed. Suitcases in the hallways. Parents’ cars idling downstairs. He had one night left before you disappeared for three weeks, and the thought of letting you leave without getting even a fraction of your attention back made something restless and ugly twist under his ribs.
He bought the journal that afternoon.
Leather-bound. Dark brown, almost black, with thick cream pages that felt expensive under his fingers. Just clean lines and a small silver clasp. He’d stood in the stationary aisle of the campus bookstore longer than he wanted to admit, turning it over in his hands, imagining the exact look on your face when you realized he’d actually put thought into something.
He walked across the quad with it tucked under his arm, pulse already climbing.
Your door was at the end of the third-floor hallway. The one door he never dared to knock on before. He stopped in front of it, flexed his fingers once around the journal, and knocked.
Three solid raps.
Silence for a beat too long.
Then the lock turned and the door cracked open just enough for you to look out.
Suspicion hit your face immediately. You scanned him from messy hair to the scuffed sneakers, then down to the brown paper bag in his hand.
“What.”
Not a question. A demand.
Peter’s mouth curved despite himself. “Merry almost-Christmas.”
You didn’t move. “I’m not in the mood for whatever this is.”
“It’s a present,” he said, holding the bag up a little. “Not a trick. Just… something.” He paused, then added quieter, “Can I come in for a second?”
You stared at him like you were weighing the odds of him trying something. The hallway was empty. Distant music thumped from someone’s open door two units down. Finally you stepped back and opened the door wider, expression still guarded.
“Two minutes.”
Peter stepped inside.
Your room was smaller than he’d expected. Neat in a controlled way—bed made, desk clear except for a laptop and a half-empty water bottle, one suitcase already half-packed against the wall. It smelled like clean laundry and whatever perfume you wore. He took it in without commenting, because the second he opened his mouth to say something nice it would probably come out wrong again.
He held the bag out.
You didn’t take it right away.
“What is it?”
“Open it and find out.”
You exhaled through your nose, took the bag, and pulled the journal free. The leather caught the overhead light. You turned it over once, then again, thumb brushing the clasp.
Something flickered across your face—surprise, carefully masked.
Peter leaned a shoulder against the wall near the door, watching you. “Figured you might actually use it. You’re always writing something down when no one’s looking. Thought it should be something better than the cheap notebooks they sell in the campus store.”
You glanced up at him, eyes narrowed. “You bought me a journal.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
The honest answer sat heavy on his tongue. Because I can’t stop thinking about the way you looked on your knees. Because none of the other girls even come close. Because you’re leaving tomorrow and I needed a reason to stand in your doorway without it turning into another fight.
What came out instead was smoother. Too smooth.
“Because I can be nice when I feel like it. Shocking, I know.”
You closed the journal with a soft snap. “There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The part where it stops being a present and starts being another performance.” You set the journal on your desk, already half-turned away from him. “You don’t do nice, Peter. You do calculated. And this—” you gestured at the leather-bound book “—still feels like you’re trying to get something.”
Peter pushed off the wall. One step closer. Not enough to crowd, but enough that the air between you shifted.
“Maybe I am,” he said, voice lower. “Maybe I’m tired of you walking away every time I get close. Maybe I wanted to give you something that didn’t come with a smart-ass comment attached. For once.”
You looked at him for a long second. The suspicion hadn’t left your face, but something quieter sat underneath it now.
“You’re still talking like you expect me to fold,” you said. “Like one decent gift is going to make me forget every single thing that’s already happened.”
Peter’s jaw flexed. He could feel the old cocky instinct rising—the urge to push, to bait, to turn this into the same sharp game they always played. He swallowed it down as best he could.
“I’m not asking you to forget,” he said. “I’m asking you to take the journal. That’s it. No strings. No expectations. Just… take it.”
You glanced at the desk again. The leather looked expensive against the cheap dorm wood.
Outside, someone yelled down the hallway about packing tape. A door slammed. The building felt like it was already emptying out around both of you.
Peter waited, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, pulse loud in his ears.
You picked the journal back up.
Turned it over once more under your fingers.
And didn’t tell him to leave.
Peter watched the way your fingers traced the edge of the leather like you were still deciding whether to keep it or throw it at his head.
The silence stretched just long enough to make his pulse kick harder against his throat.
You looked up at him, eyes flat and unimpressed.
“Why,” you said. Not soft. Not curious. Just the single word, sharp enough to cut. “The real answer. Not the bullshit one.”
Peter’s mouth opened. Closed. The easy deflection he’d been ready to throw died in his throat.
He could have lied. Could have smirked and said something about wanting to get under your skin one last time before break. Could have kept the game going the way he always did.
Instead he exhaled, slow, and let the truth out before he could talk himself out of it.
“Because I like you,” he said. Quiet. Direct. No smile attached. “Have for a while. Longer than I’m proud of. And I’m tired of pretending the only reason I keep showing up is to piss you off.”
You stared at him.
Then you laughed.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t surprised. It was sharp and mean and completely dismissive, the kind of sound that landed right in the center of his chest and stayed there.
“You like me,” you repeated, still laughing under your breath like he’d just told the best joke you’d heard all semester. “Peter Parker. Campus revolving door. The guy who treats entire floors like a buffet. You like me.”
Something hot and ugly twisted low in his stomach.
Not anger.
Worse.
The sound of you mocking him went straight to his cock. The same way your insults always did. The same way your voice had gone mean and wrecked when you’d called him a good boy on your knees and then walked out like he was disposable.
Peter’s jaw flexed. He took one step closer, voice dropping into something colder.
“Yeah,” he said. “I do. And you’re still the same judgmental little bitch who’s been keeping score of every person I’ve fucked since the semester started like it personally offended you.”
Your eyes flashed.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He didn’t back up. “You’ve spent months acting like you’re above it. Above me. And the second I say something real you laugh in my face like I just confessed to a crime. Classic.”
You stepped forward too, journal still clenched in one hand, voice rising fast.
“You don’t get to call me a bitch after you just stood here and tried to play the soft-boy card with a fucking journal—”
“And you don’t get to act shocked when I stop being polite—”
“Polite? You’ve never been polite a day in your life—”
“—because every time I try you twist it into another reason to hate me—”
“I don’t need more reasons, Parker, you hand them out for free—”
Peter moved.
One hand caught the side of your jaw, the other braced against the wall beside your head, and he kissed you hard enough to cut the rest of the sentence clean out of your mouth. It wasn’t gentle.It was pure frustration and heat and the same restless need that had been eating at him for weeks—lips claiming, teeth grazing, tongue sliding against yours the second you made a startled sound against his mouth.
You shoved at his chest.
He let the kiss break just enough for you to suck in a breath.
“Nope,” you snapped, already trying to turn your face away. “Not happening again. Get the fuck—”
Peter’s arm locked around your waist and hauled you flush against him before you could finish. He held you there, chest to chest, one hand still firm at the back of your neck so you couldn’t put space between you. His mouth found the shell of your ear, voice low and rough and so fucking cocky it bordered on cruel.
“You can keep saying that,” he murmured, breath hot against your skin. “Keep pretending you’re done. But we both know the second I get mean you light up like a fucking fuse.” His fingers flexed at your waist, dragging you in tighter so you could feel exactly how hard he already was. “I could tell the first time you called me a whore. Felt it again when you laughed in my face just now. Being an asshole does it for you, doesn’t it? Gets you wet every single time.”
He nosed along the hinge of your jaw, still holding you locked against him, smile sharp against your skin.
“So go ahead,” he whispered. “Yell at me some more. Tell me to leave. I’ll wait. I’ve got all night.”
Peter felt the exact second the fight left your body and something hotter took its place.
You didn’t shove him off.
Didn’t tell him to leave.
You kissed him back.
Hard.
Your mouth opened under his like you’d been waiting for the excuse, teeth catching his bottom lip, tongue sliding against his with zero hesitation. The sound that left him was pure satisfaction—low, rough, almost a growl—as both of his hands found your waist and walked you backward until your shoulders hit the wall with a soft thud.
He crowded in immediately, one thigh sliding between yours, pinning you there while he kissed you like he was trying to rewrite every single time you’d walked out on him. The journal dropped somewhere near your feet. Neither of you cared.
Peter broke the kiss just long enough to drag his mouth along your jaw, voice already wrecked and filthy against your skin.
“There she is,” he murmured, lips brushing the hinge of your jaw. “Knew you wouldn’t last. All that attitude and the second I get mean you melt.” His hand slid up your side, under the hem of your shirt, palm hot against bare skin. “Been thinking about this mouth for weeks. You always that enthusiastic? Or was that all just for little ol' me?”
He kissed you again—slower this time, deliberate, tongue stroking against yours like he was already imagining it somewhere else. When he pulled back his eyes were dark, pupils blown, that cocky little spark burning brighter than ever.
“You’re gonna get on your knees for me again,” he said, quiet and absolute. “Right here. Against this wall if I have to. I don’t give a fuck that you walked out last time like you owned me. I need that throat again. Need to feel you choke on it the way you did when you decided to ruin me on purpose.”
His hips rolled once, slow and filthy, letting you feel exactly how hard he already was against your stomach. The friction made his breath hitch.
“You had all the power last time,” he continued, voice dropping lower, almost reverent with how filthy it was. “On your knees calling me a good boy while you swallowed every inch like you were trying to crawl inside me. I know. I remember every second. And I still don’t care.” His fingers flexed at your waist, holding you pinned. “I’ll let you wreck me again if that’s what it takes. I’ll stand here and take every single mean little thing you want to say while you choke yourself on my cock. Just—fuck—get on your knees, baby. Please. I need it.”
Peter’s forehead dropped against yours for half a second, breathing hard, the cocky mask cracked just enough to show the raw desperate need underneath.
Then he kissed you again—hungry, demanding, already guiding one of your hands down between your bodies so you could feel how badly he meant it.
Peter felt the soft, surrendered sigh leave your mouth and slide straight into his.
Then you were dropping.
No hesitation. No bitchy comment. Just the quiet shift of your weight as you sank to your knees right there against the wall of your own dorm room, hands already reaching for the front of his jeans.
He didn’t waste a single second.
The button came free under his fingers, zipper dragged down hard, and he shoved the fabric low enough to free himself in one rough motion. His cock sprang out heavy and impossibly hard, the thick vein along the underside pulsing in time with his heartbeat. The cool air of the room hit him for half a second—
—then your mouth was on him.
No teasing. No slow build. You took him straight to the back of your throat in one smooth, ruthless push, and Peter’s knees nearly gave out completely.
“Fuck—jesus—”
His hand shot out to the wall above your head for balance, the other fisting in your hair as the wet, tight heat of your throat closed around him all the way to the base. The sudden stretch of your lips, the flutter of your muscles trying to adjust, the wet gag that tore out of you the second he bottomed out—every sensation slammed into him at once. His thighs shook. A broken, punched-out sound left his chest.
You didn’t pull off.
You stayed buried, nose pressed to his skin, and started swallowing around him on purpose. The rhythmic squeeze of your throat milked the head of his cock while spit flooded past your lips and ran down his shaft in warm rivulets. Another wet gag spilled out of you, louder this time, and the vibration of it traveled straight up his spine.
Peter’s head dropped forward. His voice came out wrecked and already fishing.
“That’s it—fuck, just like that. Look at you. Taking every inch again like you were made for it. Tell me how good it feels. Tell me I’m the only one who gets this throat.”
You pulled back just far enough to breathe, a thick string of spit still connecting your swollen lips to the flushed head of his cock. Your voice came out hoarse and filthy.
“That what you wanna hear Parker?,” you rasped, stroking the slick length once before sinking back down. “You're the only one who gets this throat.”
Peter’s hips jerked. His free hand tightened in your hair, just holding on like he might fall without it.
“Again,” he demanded, voice cracking into something cocky and desperate at the same time. “Say it again. Tell me this is the best cock you’ve ever had in your mouth—fuck—tell me you missed it.”
You hummed around him instead of answering right away, the vibration making his knees buckle a second time. He had to lock them or risk dropping. Spit was flowing freely. Every time you forced yourself all the way down another wet, helpless gag tore out of you, and every time you came up for air you gave him exactly what he was chasing.
“My good boy,” you praised, lips brushing the sensitive ridge as you spoke. “You're being s' good while I suck your big cock. Such a pretty cock you have. You know that Peter? Such a pretty. Big. Cock.”
Peter’s forehead pressed to the wall above you. His breathing had gone short and ragged. The cocky edge never fully left his voice even as it broke apart.
“Yeah? You like that? Like having me all to yourself? Keep talking. Tell me how much you love choking on it. Tell me I’m the only one who gets to fuck this throat this deep—god—say it. Worship it. I need to hear it.”
You sank down again, slower this time, letting him feel every inch of tight, wet heat as your throat opened and accepted him. The wet sounds filled the quiet room—obscene, rhythmic, mixed with the soft choked gasps you made every time he bottomed out. Your eyes watered. Mascara started to run. Spit poured down his balls.
And still you praised him between every deep, ruthless stroke, giving him exactly the worship he was begging for while his thighs trembled under your hands and his cock throbbed harder against your tongue with every filthy word.
You didn’t let up.
You pulled off just long enough to drag a slow, filthy stripe up the underside of him with your tongue, gathering the fresh precome that had beaded at the tip, then took him deep again— letting the thick head push past the soft palate and lodge in the tight warmth of your throat. The wet, constricting squeeze made his breath leave him in a sharp hiss.
“Fuck, look at that,” he rasped, voice low and arrogant even as it cracked. “You’re making a mess of yourself already. Wonder how wet you are under those sweatpants. Fuck— you're so hot. Fuckin' ruined me for anyone else. Goddamn succubus.”
You swallowed around him on purpose, the muscles of your throat fluttering and working in tight pulses that dragged a broken sound out of his chest. When you finally needed air you pulled back only far enough to speak, lips still brushing the sensitive ridge.
“You’re leaking so much,” you murmured, voice wrecked and low. “Can’t even stay quiet while I take it. You're getting close and you’ve barely been in my mouth five minutes.”
Peter’s hand flexed hard in your hair. The cocky edge never left his voice.
“Because it feels that good and you know it. Keep going. Tell me no one else has ever taken me this deep. Tell me this is the only cock that makes you choke like that. I want to hear it while you gag on me.”
You sank down again without warning, forcing yourself all the way until your nose pressed flat against his skin and a wet, helpless gag tore out of you. The sound was filthy—raw and involuntary—and the vibration of it made his hips jerk. He held you there for a second longer than necessary, watching the way your throat visibly worked around the intrusion, before letting you pull up just enough to breathe.
Tears were tracking freely down your cheeks now. Your chin was a complete mess. Still you kept praising him between every deep, ruthless stroke—quiet, filthy observations about how hard he was throbbing, how pretty he looked when he tried to stay in control, how obvious it was that he needed this.
Peter’s breathing had gone ragged. The arrogant drawl stayed locked in place even as his control started to slip.
“That’s it—stay down. Let me feel that throat squeeze. You’re gonna make me come and you’re going to swallow every drop like the greedy thing you are. Don’t you dare pull off when I start. I want to feel you take it all.”
You hummed in answer and took him deeper still, one hand braced on his thigh, the other stroking what little of him wasn’t buried in your mouth. The wet sounds were constant now—obscene, rhythmic, mixed with the soft choked gasps you made every time he bottomed out.
Peter’s rhythm finally broke.
His grip in your hair shifted from holding to using. He held you in place and started fucking up into your throat in short, filthy thrusts—shallow at first, then deeper, using the tight wet heat of you like it belonged to him. The cocky stream of orders never stopped even as his voice went strained and mean.
“Take it. Every fucking inch. You’re gonna stay open for me and you’re going to swallow. Look at you—ruined. Best throat I’ve ever fucked and you know it. Keep that mouth busy. Don’t stop.”
His hips snapped harder. His cock swelled thicker against your tongue. The hand in your hair locked you in place as his rhythm stuttered and then broke completely.
Peter came with a low, punched-out groan that sounded almost angry with how good it felt.
Hot, thick pulses flooded your throat in heavy spurts. He held you down through every one of them, hips pressed tight to your face, cock twitching hard as he emptied himself as deep as he could get. You swallowed around him instinctively, the muscles of your throat working to take it while more spilled past the seal of your lips and ran down his shaft in warm, messy streaks. His thighs shook violently under your hands. A second, weaker pulse followed, then another, until he was spent and still twitching against your tongue.
He kept you there for several long seconds after the last pulse faded, breathing hard, forehead pressed to the wall above you, the cocky mask cracked wide open by the force of it.
When he finally loosened his grip you pulled off slowly, gasping, a thick string of come and spit still connecting your swollen lips to the head of his cock. Your voice was completely destroyed. Your chin and chest were a mess.
Peter looked down at you like he’d just been robbed and rewarded at the same time—eyes dark, chest heaving, the arrogant tilt of his mouth already trying to find its way back into place.
“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, thumb dragging through the mess on your bottom lip. “You really just let me do that again.”
He should have let the moment settle. Should have given you the space to stand up, wipe your mouth, and tell him to leave the way you always did.
Instead the thought hit him clean and sharp: if he let you walk away again he would lose this. Whatever the fuck this was. The only way to keep you in the room—keep you looking at him like that—was to make sure you came just as hard as he had.
His mouth curved, slow and filthy.
“You’re not walking out of your own room this time,” he said, voice still rough. “Cute little exit strategy’s off the table when this is your room.”
You wiped the back of your hand across your chin, eyes narrowing. “Get out. You got what you wanted.”
Peter’s laugh was low and completely unbothered. He tucked himself back into his jeans just enough to move, then reached down, hooked both hands under your arms, and hauled you up in one smooth, unapologetic motion.
“Nope.”
You made a sharp sound of protest. He ignored it completely.
“I’m not done,” he said, already walking you backward toward the bed. “Not this time. You don’t get to choke on my cock, swallow everything I give you, and then decide the night’s over. Not in your own room. Not when I still haven’t felt you come.”
He spun you the last half-step and tossed you onto the mattress hard enough that you bounced once. The second your back hit the sheets he was already climbing after you, knees bracketing your hips, one hand planted beside your head so you couldn’t sit up without pushing through him.
Peter looked down at you with that same cocky, satisfied spark—messy hair, flushed mouth, eyes dark with leftover heat and fresh intent.
“You’re staying right here,” he murmured, leaning in close enough that his breath brushed your lips. “And you’re going to come on my fingers or my tongue or whatever the fuck I decide to give you. Then maybe I’ll think about letting you kick me out.”
His free hand settled on your thigh, already sliding higher, the arrogance in his voice never once cracking.
“Your move, Either way I’m not leaving until I feel it.”
Your thighs parted for him without a single push. No sharp remark. No last attempt to kick him out. Just the quiet, deliberate open of your legs that made something dark and satisfied settle low in his gut.
He didn’t waste the invitation.
Peter shifted down the mattress in one smooth motion, hands sliding under your thighs to drag you closer to the edge. He pulled off your sweats and shoved the fabric of your underwear aside with zero ceremony, already leaning in, the cocky little curve still fixed at the corner of his mouth even as he stayed silent.
The first long, flat stroke of his tongue dragged through you slow and deliberate. He tasted heat and salt and a sweetness behind it all. A low sound left his chest—pure satisfaction—before he sealed his mouth over you and started working in earnest.
He kept every comment locked behind his teeth.
No running mouth. No arrogant play-by-play. Just focused, filthy precision— the broad flat of his tongue working over your clit in steady pressure, two fingers sliding into you without warning and curling exactly where he wanted them, the wet, rhythmic sound of him eating you filling the quiet room. His free hand pinned one of your thighs open wider so he could get deeper. Every time your hips tried to lift he held them down and kept going, completely locked in on the goal.
You, however, could not shut up.
The second his tongue pressed harder you started talking again—voice still ruined from his cock, low and continuous and completely shameless.
“Fuck, your mouth—” A sharp inhale when he sucked. “You’re so good at this. Of course you are. F-fucking whore—god—look at you. Still hard, aren’t you? I can see it. You’re dripping on my sheets from eating me out and you just came down my throat.”
Peter’s cock twitched heavily against the mattress at the words. He didn’t answer. He just pressed two fingers deeper and flicked his tongue faster, determined to make you fall apart before he let himself react.
You kept going, praise spilling out between every broken sound he dragged out of you.
“Y-you're so fucking hot. It's unfair. Fucking- jesus. You’re going to get hard again just from this, aren’t you? Going to need my throat a second time before you leave.”
His jaw flexed. Still he stayed quiet, doubling down—tongue working in tight, focused circles while his fingers fucked into you in short, relentless strokes that made the wet sounds louder. Your thighs started trembling against his shoulders. He felt the exact moment your body began to tighten around his fingers and locked his mouth over your clit, sucking hard.
You broke into another stream of filthy, breathless praise, every word circling straight back to his cock like you couldn’t help it.
“That’s it—just like that. You know you're being such a good boy right now. Fuck—Peter—Don't fucking stop— please—”
He felt you start to shatter.
Your thighs clamped around his head. Your hips jerked against his mouth. A broken, high sound tore out of you as you came hard around his fingers, pulsing and wet and completely unrestrained. He stayed right there through every wave of it—tongue working, fingers curling, drinking down every bit of the mess he was pulling out of you—until your body finally started to go soft and shaking under him.
Only then did Peter lift his head.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looked down at the wreck he’d made of you, and finally let the smirk settle fully into place.
He crawled up your body in one slow, deliberate motion, knees bracketing your hips, the weight of him settling over you until the heat of his chest nearly touched yours. His cock—already hard again, because he couldn't fucking help it with you—dragged once along the inside of your thigh before he shifted his hips and tapped the heavy head against your clit.
A soft, wet sound. Once. Twice. The blunt pressure of him sliding over the sensitive, overstimulated flesh he’d just made come.
He watched your face the whole time, silent, that same dark little spark still burning in his eyes.
You reached down between your bodies without hesitation.
Your fingers closed around him—still sticky from your mouth, still throbbing—and guided the head of his cock straight to your entrance. You notched him there, the thick tip nestled against the wet heat of you, and held him steady. A clear dare. No words. Just the quiet challenge of your hand and the way your hips lifted the smallest fraction to press against him.
Peter’s mouth curved, slow and filthy.
“There it is,” he murmured, voice low and thick with fresh arrogance. “Couldn’t even wait for me to do it myself. You’re that desperate to feel it stretch you open.”
He didn’t give you time to answer.
One hand braced beside your head. The other locked around your wrist and pinned it to the mattress above your shoulder. Then he rolled his hips forward in one long, controlled push.
The head of him breached you first—thick, blunt, forcing you open around the widest part of him. He felt every inch of the stretch as he kept going, slow enough that you felt the full drag of his cock filling you, the wet heat of you taking him deeper and deeper until his hips finally met yours and he was buried to the hilt.
A low, satisfied sound left his chest.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he rasped, already pulling back just far enough to thrust in again—harder this time, the force of it making the mattress dip. “Still so wet from my mouth. Dripping down my balls. Look at you. Taking every inch like you were made for it.”
He set a ruthless pace almost immediately.
Deep, steady thrusts that forced the air out of your lungs every time he bottomed out. His free hand stayed locked around your wrist. The other slid under your thigh and hauled it higher against his hip so he could get even deeper. Every stroke dragged the thick ridge of him over the same spot inside you until your body started tightening around him again.
You tried to speak.
The first attempt at praise came out broken and breathless—“You’re so—fuck—so good at—” but the next hard snap of his hips cut the rest of the sentence off into a sharp, helpless sound.
Peter’s grin was pure sin.
“Can’t even finish a sentence,” he said, voice low and mocking and completely in control. “All that pretty praise and the second I start fucking you properly you forget how to talk. Keep trying, baby. I want to hear you struggle.”
He drove into you harder, the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin filling the room. Your free hand scratched at his shoulder. Another half-formed scrap of praise left your mouth—“God, your cock is—” only to dissolve into a broken moan when he angled his hips and ground deep, staying buried for a long, deliberate second before pulling back and slamming in again.
Then your voice cut through, clear and sharp despite how wrecked it already sounded.
“S—slow down.”
Peter’s hips stuttered once—then stopped completely.
He stayed buried to the hilt, chest heaving, the cocky mask flickering with genuine surprise. Even with the arrogance still sitting on his tongue, some stubborn gentleman instinct under all the asshole behavior made him freeze the second the word left your mouth. He didn’t pull out. He just held still, forehead nearly touching yours, waiting.
“You good?” he asked, voice rough, the edge of concern almost buried under leftover heat.
You didn’t answer with words.
You used the pause.
One sharp shift of your weight, a shove against his chest that he wasn’t braced for, and Peter found himself rolled onto his back with you straddling his hips before he could fully process the movement. His cock—still buried deep—shifted with the new angle, the sudden change making a low, punched-out sound leave his throat.
You didn’t give him time to recover.
You planted both hands on his chest, rolled your hips once in a slow, deliberate circle that dragged every inch of him against the tight heat of you, and started riding him properly.
Peter’s head dropped back against the mattress for half a second before he forced himself to look up at you. His hands found your hips automatically, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, the cocky spark already trying to claw its way back into place even as his voice came out broken and filthy.
“Fuck—look at you,” he rasped, eyes locked on the way you moved. “I like this game you think you're winning. 'S got you taking every inch like my cock was made for you. You’re so fucking wet I can hear it every time you sink down. Keep going. Show me how good you look when you’re using me.”
You answered with another slow, deep roll of your hips that made his abs flex hard under your palms, then started a steady rhythm—lifting almost all the way off before dropping back down and taking him to the base. The wet sound of it was shameless. His cock throbbed inside you with every descent.
And you praised him right back, voice low and continuous while you rode.
“You’re being so good for me,” you murmured, one hand sliding up to brace against his shoulder as you ground down harder. “Letting me take what I want. Such a good— perfect boy. Look how deep you are. You’re throbbing so much I can feel it.”
Peter’s grip on your hips tightened. A broken, arrogant laugh left him even as his thighs tensed under you.
“Yeah? You like that? Like feeling how hard I am for you? Keep talking princess. Tell me how good this cock feels while you’re bouncing on it. Tell me it’s the best you’ve ever had in this tight little cunt. I need to hear you.”
You leaned forward, changing the angle so every downward stroke dragged him against the exact spot that made your breath hitch. The two of you fighting for control that neither of you really have.
“Fuck princess—,” he rasped, eyes fixed on the way you moved. “Sitting on my cock like you’ve been waiting all semester for it. So fucking greedy. You’re dripping down my balls and still you can’t get enough, huh? You were just pissed you didn't get to me first.”
You answered without missing a beat, voice low and mean as you rolled your hips in a slow, deliberate circle that made his abs flex hard under your palms.
“And you've been begging for me ever since you got a taste. Can’t even stay quiet while I use you. Such a needy little thing when someone’s actually on top of you.”
Peter’s laugh came out broken and filthy. One hand slid up your side, rough and possessive.
“Keep talking shit. It only makes me harder. I'm the best you're ever gonna get baby. Tell me it’s stretching you open better than anything else you’ve taken.”
You leaned forward, changing the angle so every downward stroke dragged him against the spot that made your breath hitch, and gave it right back.
“You’re leaking so much I can feel it. S' warm. Not gonna last much longer are you? Poor baby. Can’t even keep ahold of yourself when I’m the one setting the pace.”
"F-fuck you."
"Already am pretty boy."
Peter felt the exact moment things started to change. The way your walls fluttered and clenched around him. The way your thighs began to tremble against his hips. The soft, broken sound that slipped out of you.
He didn’t need you to say it.
His hand left your hip and slid between your bodies without hesitation. Two fingers found your clit—slick, swollen, oversensitive—and pressed in tight, focused circles that matched the pace you were already setting. The second the pressure landed your rhythm stuttered.
“There it is,” he murmured, voice low and arrogant even as his own control started to fray. “I can feel you getting close. Squeezing me so tight. Keep riding. Don’t you dare stop. Come on my cock while I rub this pretty clit.”
You tried to keep the mean praise going. The words came out fractured and breathless—“Fuck—you—cocky asshole—” but the dual stimulation of his thick length filling you and the precise, relentless circles of his fingers cut every sentence short.
Peter’s hips started lifting to meet every downward stroke, fucking up into you in short, hard thrusts while his fingers never left your clit. The wet sounds grew louder. Your walls clamped down harder. He felt the first strong pulse of your orgasm start to roll through you and locked his free arm around your waist so you couldn’t pull away.
“That’s it—come. Let me feel it. Squeeze this cock like you mean it.”
You shattered around him with a broken, high sound, thighs shaking, body pulsing in tight, rhythmic waves that milked him from base to tip. The sudden, perfect pressure of you coming undone on top of him dragged Peter over the edge right with you.
His hips snapped up hard one last time and stayed there, buried to the hilt as he came with a low, punched-out groan. Hot, thick pulses flooded you in heavy spurts while your walls kept fluttering and clenching around him, dragging every drop deeper. His fingers stayed pressed to your clit through the entire thing, working you through the aftershocks even as his own thighs shook and his breath left him in ragged, broken sounds.
For several long seconds neither of you moved.
You stayed collapsed forward against his chest, both of you still twitching, still joined, the mess of come and sweat cooling between your bodies while the quiet of the empty dorm settled back in around the sound of your breathing.
Peter stayed still for several long seconds after the last aftershock faded, your weight still heavy across his chest, his cock softening inside you. The quiet of the dorm felt louder than it had any right to. Somewhere down the hall a door slammed. Someone laughed.
Reality landed all at once.
He was still inside you. Your journal was on the floor near the wall. His jeans were shoved halfway down his thighs. Your mascara was a complete disaster. And the only reason either of you had ended up here was because he’d shown up with a leather-bound notebook and a half-baked plan to stop you from leaving for three weeks without looking at him again.
Peter’s mouth curved slowly.
“Well,” he said, voice still rough. “That escalated.”
You made a quiet, annoyed sound against his shoulder and pushed yourself up just enough to look at him. The irritation was real. So was the faint, reluctant spark underneath it—the same one that had been there each time the two of you crossed the line and then pretended you hadn’t.
“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered.
“And yet.” He gestured vaguely between your bodies, still joined, still messy. “Here we are. Again. In your bed this time. You’re welcome.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it was almost impressive, then carefully lifted off him. The wet sound of it made his stomach tighten all over again. He watched you reach for the nearest discarded shirt—his, apparently—and dragged it through the mess between your legs without looking at him.
Peter finally sat up, dragging a hand through his ruined hair. He found his jeans, stood, and started pulling them back up with zero urgency, like he had every right to take his time in your room.
“You know,” he said, zipping them, “for someone who keeps telling me to get out, you have a real talent for ending up on top of my cock.”
“Shut up.”
“Just observing.” He tugged his hoodie back on, the fabric catching for a second on still-damp skin. “Merry almost-Christmas to me, I guess.”
You shot him a look that was pure warning, but the corner of your mouth threatened to give you away. The game was still on. Both of you knew it.
“Get out, Peter.”
He paused at the edge of the bed, keys already in hand, and let the full smug tilt of his mouth settle into place.
“Sure. Door’s right there.” He stepped closer just long enough to brush his thumb once across your bottom lip, like he couldn’t help himself. “Try not to miss me too hard over break.”
You held his gaze, chin tipped up, and delivered the last word with perfect, cutting sweetness.
“Merry early Christmas. Now leave.”
Peter’s grin widened.
He walked to the door, pulled it open, and stepped out into the empty hallway without looking back. The second the latch clicked behind him the smug expression dropped like a stone.
The hallway was quiet. Christmas lights hummed. Somewhere below, a car alarm went off.
Peter stood there for a long moment with his keys digging into his palm, the taste of you still in his mouth, the phantom pressure of your body still branded across his skin. The high of winning the round sat right next to something heavier and far less convenient—something that felt dangerously close to not wanting this to stay a game.
He exhaled once, sharp, and started walking toward the stairwell before he could do something stupid like turn around and knock again.
Three weeks.
He already knew they were going to feel longer than they should.
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