description: a post-heartbreak Peter Parker trades his old hesitation for reckless, arrogant confidence—using it to easily get anyone he wants.
tabs/warnings: no plot, reader-insert, no use of y/n, fuckboy!Peter, arrogant behavior, explicit sexual content, nudity, oral sex, unprotected sex, choking, small dominance & submission, dirty talk, creampie, abrupt ending, emotional detachment, no aftercare. NSFW, 18+.
note: this was a request from an anon user before i set up the inbox for asks and collaborations. i hope you enjoy it as much as i did.
the party at Ned's was loud, packed, and easily forgotten, except for the way Peter Parker moved across the room. he was no longer that hesitant, guarded guy from months ago you'd heard stories about. once he accepted there was no going back to the girl he loved, something shifted—replacing yearning and heartache for a reckless, unshakeable confidence, learning just how easy it was to have anyone he wanted with nothing more than a single glance and an offhand compliment.
by the time you managed to unlock your apartment door, the alcohol was already burning a slow, hot trail through your veins. Peter didn't even give you time to breathe, let alone reach for the light switch. and before the door was fully open, he kicked it shut behind you with a heavy thud, the sound echoing through the pitch-black hallway. before your eyes could even adjust to the shadow-drenched entry, his hands clamped onto your waist, slamming you flush against the cold wall as he crowded into your space, dragging your hips hard into his.
"you spent the entire night staring at me," he murmured right against your ear. "thought you'd be faster at bringing me back here."
his mouth crashed against yours—heavy, demanding, and slick with the taste of whatever he'd been drinking, entirely stripped of hesitation. he parted your lips with a bruising pressure, claiming every breath before you could catch it, while his hands slid firmly down your waist, guiding you blindly toward the couch in your living room like he owned the place—leaving no room for sweet-talking or soft edges, just raw, unvarnished desire.
tossing his jacket aside, Peter dropped onto the edge of the couch, propping himself up on his elbows with an amused grin. he gave his own thigh a sharp, inviting slap, the sound cutting cleanly through the quiet room.
"kneel for me," he said, his voice dangerously low, almost conversational. "let's see if you're as good as you look."
you obeyed instantly, sinking down until you were on your knees on the living room rug, positioning yourself right between his spread thighs. you were so close that the intense heat radiating from his body hit your face before your fingers even made contact with his clothes. your hands went straight for his belt buckle, fingers fumbling slightly against the cool metal before working it loose. above you, Peter remained entirely silent—he simply rested his heavy, warm palm over your head, his thick fingers weaving lazily through your strands, silently anchoring you to the floor.
driven by a sudden, impatient heat, your hands grew quick, unfastening his pants and stripping his jeans and briefs down his thighs in one rough, fluid motion. the heavy denim hit the floor with a dull thud, pooling tightly around his calves. without a second thought—or even taking your eyes off him—you gave the messy pile a swift, dismissive kick, sending his clothes sliding into the shadows of the room. when the fabric settled, Peter sat there completely exposed to you from the waist down, the raw intensity of it contrasting sharply with the plain, dark t-shirt still clinging to his chest.
your fingers closed tightly around his thick length, the heavy, searing warmth of his skin sending a sharp jolt against your cool palm as your grip clamped down firmly. you held the motion right there for a suspended, agonizing second, feeling the quiet pulse beneath his skin while looking up at him like someone waiting for tacit confirmation or explicit permission to go ahead. Peter just gave a slow, crooked grin and pushed his hips forward into your hand, the blunt pressure and intense heat of the gesture sealing the invitation once and for all.
"that's it, just like that," Peter growled low the second you finally took him into your mouth and began a steady, deliberate motion, feeling his thick fingers tighten around the nape of your neck to dictate the pace. "God, look at you! so obedient."
as you worked on him, Peter rested his head back against the couch, a breathless, arrogant chuckle escaped his lips at the sight of you struggling, your eyes watering as he drove deep into the back of your mouth. he leaned down until his warm breath fanned unevenly against your wet cheeks, his heavy, possessive gaze pinning you in place while he soaked in the intoxicating high of watching you yield completely.
"fuck, you take it so well," he teased. "keep going."
and you kept going for a few more grueling minutes, swallowing every single inch of him down without backing down for a second. you maintained the relentless cadence even as the friction left your throat burning and your lungs tight for air, all while Peter’s low, heavy voice flooded the quiet room—talking dirty without a single pause, showering you in filthy praise with every slide and reminding you in dark, explicit detail just how badly you’d been aching for this since the night started.
but before he could claim complete control and dictate the ending on his terms, you snapped the pace without warning. you slowly rose to your feet, stepping back just enough to cut the connection entirely and leave the air between you cold. for a fraction of a second, a crease formed between Peter's brows—caught completely off guard by the abrupt shift—before his dark eyes tracked your body upward with sharp curiosity.
the advantage of the dress was obvious in how effortless the next step was: no need to take off a single thing. you just gathered the hem of the thin fabric, pulling it up to your waist, and used two fingers to hook aside the soft material of your panties—already completely soaked and hot from the night's built-up tension.
the sheer audacity of the gesture was enough to draw a low, amused whistle of pure approval from his lips.
without giving him a single second to clear his head or utter another word, you stepped right over his legs and mounted his lap all at once. you guided him in with urgent precision to your entrance, aligning your bodies. the drop was direct and absolute—you sank all the way down on him in one continuous, fluid motion. the sudden, overwhelming depth forced you a sharp, ragged gasp into the silent room as your hips crashed flush against his, leaving not a fraction of an inch between your skin and his while your cunt clenched tight around his cock.
"fuck, Peter," the groan tore out of you, raw and uneven, as the relentless width of his length forced you completely open. you hovered there motionless for a second, your heart hammering against your ribs while your body struggled to adjust to the suffocating fullness inside you.
Peter’s breath hitched violently in his chest, escaping his throat in a loud, uncontrolled rasp. you didn't wait for his permission—you took charge instantly, setting a fast, frantic pace that slammed your hips repeatedly down against his, flooding the room with the heavy, wet sounds of your cunt.
leaning into the heat of the movement, you pressed your palm against his neck and snapped your fingers tight, locking your grip around his throat with commanding force. you held him firmly in place, matching every slam of your hips with an unwavering pressure that stole his voice.
there was zero resistance from him—Peter just threw his head back into the cushions, a low, gravelly laugh rumbling under your hand. his dark eyes watched you through half-lidded lashes, utterly hooked on your audacity as he surrendered every last drop of his air to your grip.
"you’re enjoying every single second of putting on a show for me, aren’t you?" his voice broke into a low, strained grunt, the words fighting their way past the brutal grip around his throat. a shudder ran straight through him, his eyes heavy with pure desperation as he bucked up to meet you. "fuck, baby, don't stop. i’m so close—yes, just keep riding me like that. i’m so fucking close."
and you drove him straight over the edge, the fast, unyielding pace forcing a guttural roar from him as he finally gave in. he held you firm against his lap as his body surged, flooding you with heat and filling every last millimeter of space inside you until there was nothing left to give. that sudden, relentless pulse of him coming deep inside you was the final trigger—it dragged you right over the precipice behind him, your muscles clamping tight around his length in a devastating peak before you completely collapsed over him, trembling and breathless.
he let you catch your breath for only a heartbeat before distancing himself. and when it was all over, he didn't even bother trying to look vulnerable or search for any lingering affection. a quiet sound of amusement escaped him, low and almost unheard as he fixed his clothes with the same effortless ease you'd undone them, and flashed that arrogant look of a guy who knew precisely the hold he had over anyone he wanted. this was the version of him that no longer cared about connections: just a good-looking guy, fully aware of it, riding a wave of pure ego without a shred of remorse.
"see you around," he said, barely glancing back as he pulled the door shut behind him.
Dean's List, pt. 2 ― Peter Parker
part one | playlist | edit
Pairing: College!Peter Parker x Fem!Reader
Summary: Returning to Empire State University, Peter Parker is ready to pick back up where the two of you left off after spending his summer groveling over the newfound power you have over him. When you make it clear you don’t want anything to do with him, he is determined to make you change your mind, finding new, maddening ways to get under that skin of yours.
Warnings/Tags: cocky! peter parker, frat boy! peter parker, athlete! peter parker, jealous! peter parker, reader can’t stand him, peter’s obsessed with reader, (lowkey) academic rivals, enemies to (something much worse than) lovers, angst, (a smidge of) fluff, smut, oral sex (f receiving), rough oral sex (m receiving), fingering, edging (kinda), multiple orgasms (f), rough sex, choking, unprotected p in v, creampie, dirty talk, finger sucking, (a bit of) aftercare. read responsibly! mdni, 18+
Word Count: 10.7k
Author's Note: You guys ate up the first part of this, so you know I had to give you another part. This one is actually my prized possession, and I hope it meets your expectations. Thank you so so so much for the support. Writing is fun because of you.
Inspiration: This request & “My Kink Is Karma” by Chappell Roan
Coming back to Empire State University was like willingly returning to war after barely surviving the first one.
It was nice to finally have your own single dorm room, though. Now that you were finally a senior, approaching your final year of undergrad, things like that were easier to come by. Move-in day was a few days earlier than the antsy freshman’s, your meal plan was a couple hundred dollars cheaper, and you no longer had to sprint across campus to the science building everyday since your dorm hall was closer to it than your old one.
The silence, however, was deafening.
Spending the summer at home in the city was fine. You were able to survive off more than Ramen noodles and Pedialyte since your mom cooked you real meals every night, and lifeguarding at the community pool helped you save up some extra cash, helping cover the hefty cost of textbooks.
But it just wasn’t the same anymore. Being home didn’t feel like it did that first summer after your freshman year. Maybe it was because you were growing up. College changes people, so that would make sense. You’re raised a certain way and then you’re given that taste of freedom—the chance to make your own decisions, forced to figure all the hard things out on your—and it changes you. Resilience builds character, that was what your mom always told you.
There was nothing character-building about the way you felt the morning of your first day of classes, though. In fact, it felt more like your character was being diminished.
Your best friend had roped you into going out to the local bar the night before to celebrate finally being seniors, somehow convincing you that taking a round of lemon drop shots wouldn’t impede on your 8:00 a.m. quantum mechanics lecture. But it did, of course. It didn’t just impede on it—it made you fifteen minutes late.
When you pushed through the doors of the science building, your backpack was slipping off your shoulders and your tired body was fighting to keep up with your rushed pace. The only thing you’d managed to accomplish before darting across the courtyard was brush your teeth. You couldn’t even remember checking your reflection, dreading the absolute mess of what you possibly looked like.
If you had given yourself a second to calm down—accepting your mistake, and thinking a single thought before you barged right into Dr. Banner’s lecture hall, it may have saved you from becoming the center of unwanted attention. But you hadn’t, which was why the door creaked closed behind you, causing the room to instantly become so silent that you could hear the clicking of someone’s pen in the back row.
“Our first late comer,” Dr. Banner mused, gesturing towards you with a cheeky smile on his wrinkling features.
Your jaw was trembling with tension when you met his amused expression.
This wasn’t your first class with Banner. The two of you were quite acquainted, actually. He was your academic advisor, ensuring you attained all the credits needed to graduate with your bachelor’s degree in physics, and he was also the head of the department at ESU. Throughout your time in his classes, nothing ever changed about him. He always showed up in a long-sleeve, button-down, the sleeves rolled up his forearms and paired with khaki slacks. On Fridays, though, he wore jeans.
Your best friend, despite being a graphic design major, had a wet dream about him once, forcing you to hear all about the filthy things she imagined your prof doing to her.
You hadn’t really been able to look at him the same since.
He clasped his hands together, smiling softly. “No worries. I was late all the time back in my day.” He held a hand out, urging you to find a seat.
You didn’t waste a second, quickly turning to walk up the aisle between desks, desperate to find an empty seat somewhere far in the back where no one had the chance to gawk at you.
Peter saw you the minute you walked in, just like everyone else in the class had. But while a few of your peers spared a chuckle under their breath at you, gossipping about your grim appearance, Peter’s airflow suddenly felt constricted.
He was sitting in the second row, like he always was. Too cool for the front, too desperate for academic validation to creep in the back. His knuckles whitened around his pen, lips parting as he watched you walk through the desks with such a precise stare that his peripheral vision blurred, only able to make out the shape of you.
Even as you climbed further up to reach the back row, passing him without even a side-eyed glance, his neck craned to watch you.
It wasn’t until you settled down in the last free seat along the back row, pulling your laptop out of your backpack and resting it on the desk before you as Dr. Banner continued his monologue about how crucial the syllabus was, that your eyes met his.
You halted mid-scooching your chair in, every sore and tired muscle in your body tightening the point of cramping when his dark-brown eyes glued to yours. His eyes twitched, unabashedly narrowing on you despite the seven rows that separated the two of you and the sea of your peers that had a penchant for taking things the wrong way and running with it.
His skin was tanner than you remembered and his chestnut-brown hair had grown out a bit, curling at the root. Summer break must have been kinder to him than it was to you.
Clenching your teeth, your hands gripped the sides of your chair and you continued scooting yourself up, forcefully prying your eyes away from him. Just seeing him was nauseating.
It had been nearly four months since Peter last saw you. It had been four long, gruesome, insufferable months since he had you in his bed—since he had himself inside you.
Following the Kappa Tau Zeta party in late May, it was finals week. Sitting in for exams would have been Peter’s last chance to see you before the two of you parted ways for summer break, but thanks to Dr. Banner’s affinity for assigning remote, online exams, he never got the chance. You had fled his bedroom not even ten minutes after he came inside you, refusing his offer to walk you back to your dorm, and hadn’t talked to him since.
It was absolutely vile, really.
He had spent his summer crammed up in his Queens apartment, wasting most of his days off from his posh tech internship laying in bed, thinking about you.
Sometimes he would think about the soft, high-pitched sounds you made when you came, remembering the way your hips bucked against him and your legs twitched around his waist as he drove himself deeper inside of you. That was his favorite thing to think about.
At weak points, though, he would scroll through Instagram, find your best friend’s account and scour her posts for you. He never outrightly typed in your username, though, despite knowing that stupid little handle of yours like the back of his hand. It made it easier for him to keep tabs on you because your account wasn’t private.
Of course it wasn’t, he’d thought one day.
You probably wanted him to see all the fun you were having back home, hoping he’d catch the one post you made in that skimpy little bikini when you went down to the coast for the Fourth, or that selfie you posted with some guy he didn’t know.
He had stalked that guy’s account, too, wondering who he was to you—wondering if he had felt you in all the same ways he so desperately wanted to again.
By mid-July, Peter had changed his account from private to public, refreshing his story views every couple of hours to see if your name would pop up. He was desperate for it—for your attention, that was.
He posted everything he did. The coffees he’d get on the way to his way to his internship, thirst strap mirror selfies of him flexing just a little too hard, screenshots of song lyrics that he told himself were just songs he liked and that he didn’t replay them over and over again because they made him think of you.
But your name never came. Not even once. Even when he accidentally liked one of your posts from six years ago—nothing. Complete and total fucking nothingness.
His longing and envy slowly warped into frustration, like an itch he just couldn’t scratch. He was frustrated with you, yes, but he was more frustrated with himself. Because he’d had you. He’d had you right there in front of him, choking and squirming on his dick, leaving him completely lost in the satisfaction of finally winning with you, and then you just fucking… vanished.
The realization didn’t really hit him until he was on the subway, heading to campus with his overly-packed suitcase, ready to move back into his room at the frat house. With his wired headphones tangled up in his ears, The 1975’s “Heart Out” blaring over the noisy chatter around him, it was like a fuse had blown in the back of his mind.
He didn’t win with you. You had won with him.
Sure, you had lost your willpower, unable to continue denying how badly you wanted him. You had been the one screaming his name, biting down on his sheets, and sucking his cum off your fingers. But you were able to redeem yourself from it.
You had been able to confidently walk away from it, categorizing it as some stupid lapse in judgment—a mistake, that was what you’d told him it was before you left his room. You were fucking fine. You couldn’t care less.
It was him who was stuck in the throes of it, harping on filthy memories, and driving himself insane, trying to find ways to get you back where he wanted you.
Glancing over his shoulder at you now, all of those emotions came crashing back into him.
Part of him thoroughly enjoyed seeing you all disheveled and disorientated, subjected to snickering and the thing you hated most, which was unwanted attention. It made him feel better to see you struggling, too. Made him feel more righteous about his own.
The entire time Banner droned on about wave-particle duality, your eyes were trained on your laptop screen. There was an opened Google doc, your cursor flashing, ready for you to jot down a note, or literally anything, knowing full well that this was the most difficult class to pass. But every word that spilled out of him went in one ear and out the other.
When class was dismissed a little before 9:15, you slammed your laptop closed and didn’t even bother stuffing it back in your bag. You just grabbed it, standing and slinging your backpack over your shoulder before making a beeline for the exit.
Peter let you rush out. Backpack spilling open, all flustered and annoyed. He sat back in his chair, took his time packing up his belongings and even talked to a buddy about their upcoming lacrosse match.
When he finally walked out of the science building, his ESU Lacrosse sweatshirt clung to his frame despite the end-of-summer heat, he instantly found you. Standing by the fountain in your sweatpants and faded David Bowie graphic tee, you were deep in conversation with some guy who was smiling way too hard at the way you reared your head back in laughter.
He wasn’t the guy you had posted a picture with over the summer, Peter clocked that immediately. He had seen him maybe once or twice at a party. Didn’t know his name or why he was talking to you. All he knew was the way his blood boiled at the sight.
The moment you caught the sight of Peter nearing you in your periphery, you debated sprinting away. The sound of the guy’s voice talking to you became muffled background noise and you clenched your fists at your side.
“Hey—Dean’s List!” Peter called out, making determined strides over to you.
That stupid name rang through the air like emergency sirens, causing your stomach to knot and hives threatening to break out on your skin.
When he reached the two of you, he gripped the strap of his backpack and peered down at you. “Can I talk to you?”
“I’m busy,” you deadpanned, jaw tight enough to splinter as you refused to meet his gaze.
The guy in front of you seemed unphased, having no idea every ounce of your patience was being tested. “What’s up, Parker?” he greeted Peter, but the silently seething brunette didn’t initially respond to him, he was too busy glaring at you. “You good, man?”
The muscle in his chiseled, tanned jaw ticked. He glanced over at the oblivious guy. “Yeah, man. You mind if I talk to her for a sec? You know… TA stuff,” he lied through his pearly-white teeth, grinning.
Your brows furrowed up at him, reluctantly meeting his gaze. “I’m not a TA this sem—”
“That’s fine,” the guy replied, not hearing your feeble attempt. He glanced down at you. “I’ll catch you later, yeah?”
Nodding, you watched him walk off towards the dining hall and briefly pondered how much of a hindrance it would be to just transfer to a new school—somewhere far away where Peter Parker couldn’t find you.
Alone now, Peter glanced down at you and nudged his head to the side. “Walk with me?”
“Why?”
He narrowed his eyes, giving you that look.
You shifted in your stance. “We can talk right here just fine.”
“You sure?” His head spun around, glancing at the number of students all around us. “Somebody might hear us.”
You knew that was a dig. You remembered what you said that night before you walked yourself back to your dorm with his cum still dripping out of you, telling him that no one was to ever find out what they did. You could recall him agreeing with you, but still noticing the way his throat tightened.
“Just get it over with, Peter.”
He squinted down at you, stuffing his hands in his front sweatshirt pocket and trying not to show that the sound of his name rolling off your tongue made him want to melt. “Who was that guy?” he asked with very minimal thought put into it.
“A friend,” you quickly replied.
He frowned. “Never seen you talk to him before.”
“Well, you don’t know everything about me,” you countered, shrugging. “You don’t know what I do when I’m not around you.”
“You mean I don’t know who you do when you’re not around me?”
A toothy grin spread on your lips. “Oh, you’re, like, actually jealous?” You coughed out a laugh, tucking a strand of hair that’d gotten caught in your lipgloss from the wind behind your ear.
Peter’s tongue sunk into his jaw, shaking his head. “Are you fucking him?”
“No, Peter.” You rolled your eyes, hands going slack at your side. “I’m not fucking him.”
“Then I’m not jealous,” he quipped.
Your eyes slanted up at him, finding an odd sense of comfort in the fact that he hadn’t changed. He was still the same brash and arrogant Peter you’d unfortunately grown to know so well. Only this new Peter had something else to hold over your head.
“Still not over it are you?” you teased, frowning and feigning sympathy.
“Over what?”
“Fucking me,” you responded without a thought.
The corner of his mouth curled. “I don’t know.” He shrugged his broad shoulders lazily. “Depends.”
Your chin tilted up at him, interest slightly piqued. “On?”
“Can you still taste it?” he asked, wetting his bottom lip with that filthy little tongue of his.
“I don’t know… That’s a little too vague for me.” You inched half-a-step towards him, remembering when the same words spilled out of him all those months ago. “Taste what?’
He smirked devilishly. “My cum.” He took another step, leaving a dangerous few inches between the two of you. “Remember when it was dripping out of you, all sticky and wet. You licked it up so good, too.”
A rugged scoff tore from your throat, it was all you could do to combat the heat rushing to your face. “Yeah, I remember. Had to brush my teeth three times to get rid of that taste,” you countered. “Fucking gross.”
“You’re so hot when you’re mean,” he drawled, stifling a laugh with a groan.
“And you’re so pathetic when you’re desperate.”
He laughed. “You think I’m desperate?”
Shrugging, you squinted up at him under the bright sun. “You’re the one pining over a one night stand.”
“Baby, I’m not pining.” He shook his head, pretending the way you called his night with you a one night stand didn’t bother him. “This is just foreplay.”
“Foreplay,” you mumbled, coughing out a laugh when your gaze dropped to the pavement. When you glanced back up at him, you sighed. “You’re funny.”
“You want me.”
“I want you to leave me alone.”
He tilted his head, squinting. “I don’t have class until noon. We could get a quickie in.”
“Not happening.” Your heart hammered violently against your ribcage. “Ever again.”
“Right.” He smirked. “We’ll see about that.”
You rolled your eyes, gripping your backpack over your shoulder before taking a swift step past him. “Bye, Peter.”
It surprised you that he didn’t stop you. No, it bothered you.
Peter’s eyes trained on the way your ass shook as you walked away, yearning to have it back in his grasp. “See you around, Dean’s List.”
It wasn’t until Halloween weekend that you ran into Peter again.
He had seen you nearly everyday in class, of course, but he never got as close to you as he had on the first day of classes. You wouldn’t let him. The seat on the back row that you had laid claim to on day one had become your permanent one, knowing Peter wouldn’t dare jeopardize his ass-kissing relationship with Dr. Banner by joining you.
However, every time he saw you walking across campus, he would go in the opposite direction. When Banner assigned a partner project, he didn’t even try to weasel his way over to you. He partnered with the redheaded girl he sat next to, making sure when they gave their final presentation, he stared directly at you the whole time.
Leaving class one day, you had overheard that same redhead gushing to a friend about all the ways Peter was able to help her pass one of their quizzes, stating he had come to her dorm to help her study, giggling when she added, “amongst other things.”
That wasn’t the first time you’d heard girls on campus gossiping and giggling about sleeping with Peter, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last. But, for some inexplicable reason, you slowed your steps behind them, remaining in earshot to listen to what the girl was saying about him.
Did he tie her up, too?
Did he fuck her raw?
Did she let him cum in her?
It was disgusting. That was what it felt like, hanging onto the edge of everything she was saying while an unfamiliar knot tangled in your stomach, only finding a semblance relief when she said they only did “mouth stuff.”
What that girl failed to mention, though, was that while Peter had his hands knotted up in her hair, guiding her mouth up and down his dick, it was your name that slipped through his moans.
It was an accident, one that he found himself making not just once, but twice.
When he’d taken off his belt, he had made a joke to the girl, asking if she wanted to be tied up. She had said no, of course, so he didn’t. But the entire time she was sucking him, his eyes were on that brown leather belt. He forced himself to picture your wrists bound up by it, which was when your name came out the first time.
The redhead had immediately stopped working him, cocking her head up at him with a ferocious glare. He played it off, got real sweet with her so he could finish. But when he did finally finish, with your face clouding his thoughts, your name came out then, too, which was exactly why he hadn’t heard from her since and why she moved seats to the opposite side of the lecture hall.
His walk back home that night to the KTZ house was brutal. He passed your dorm hall in the dark, peering up at the various illuminated windows, wondering which one was yours and resisting the urge to go and beat on each and every door to find out on his own.
He physically wanted to slap himself. He could not cope with the way his brain warped around you. It sickened him.
At his lacrosse game the following weekend, he purposefully taunted the opposing team’s X-attackman just so he’d garner a few illegal checks. After the game, he sported a brutal black eye for a few days and a seriously bruised rib, but he had never felt better.
But nothing was more brutal than watching you waltz into the bar on Halloween night, dressed up as an angel in the shortest pair of white shorts he’d ever seen, fit with a fuzzy, party-store halo headband and wings to match. For a moment, Peter thought he may have actually gone to heaven. That was how devastatingly gorgeous you looked under the dim bar lights.
It turned out he had actually found himself deep in the darkest pits of hell, though. Because the moment you walked in, he realized soon after raking his gaze over your body that you were not alone.
That asshole you had told Peter was just a friend was wearing light-up, red devil horns, tight on your trail as you floated through your groups of friends with a careless smile on your face.
Peter was leaning up against the bar, no longer listening to his friend droning on about some girl’s costume that Peter just needed to see. His eyes stuck to you immediately, head moving with you as you moved further and further into the swarm of people all dressed in revealing costumes and buzzing off half-priced drinks.
Tame Impala’s “Dracula” was blaring from the bar’s surround-sound speaker system that had only been playing Halloween-esque music since Peter walked in half an hour ago. The menacing rhythm of the song matched the harsh, quaking beats of his heart. He couldn’t tell if it was the sight of you in that outfit, with that bent halo on top of your head, or if it was because there was a guy with you that wasn’t him.
He just understood that he felt fucking miserable and it was because of you. So, in his buzzing, dark mind, the only thing he wanted to do was to make you just as miserable.
His hand wrapped tighter around his plastic cup as he propped his elbows on the bartop, staring down the long, sleek, wood counter to where you had approached the other end.
“Can I get a vodka cran?” you asked the bartender with a smile, already pulling your ID out of your phone case wallet.
There was something freeing about finally being able to use your real ID for a change after three years of scamming every poor waitress, bouncer, and bartender with your fake one. The woman working behind the counter peered down at it and nodded.
You tapped your fingers on the shilaque countertop to the beat of the music as you waited. You didn’t mean to turn your head to the right. You didn’t mean to lock eyes with Peter Parker at the other end of the bar top. But you could sense the fire on the side of your face from his prying gaze. It was a subconscious move, one that you regretted the minute he smirked over at you.
Even though you immediately looked away, training your eyes on the LED light fixture behind the bar, the purple and orange streamers slung across the overhead ceiling beams, the group of girls posing in front of the wall for a picture—literally anything other than him—he was already making his way over.
“This costume’s a little deceptive, don’t you think, Dean’s List?” he probed, flicking the tip of your faux-feathered angel wings before he came up right beside you, leaning his weight against the counter.
You slid to the side, ensuring to keep a safe distance between the two of you. “Isn’t that the point of the holiday? Pretending to be something you’re not?” You eyed his costume, which was nothing but black jeans, a white T-shirt, and some F1 jacket. “‘Cause you’re definitely not Charles Leclerc.”
“So you agree?” He sipped his drink, dodging your dig. “You agree there’s nothing angelic about you?”
You turned your head to the side, eyes falling to his black Converse, trailing all the way up to that stupid little smirk on his rose-tinted lips. “I don’t know, Peter. You tell me.” You sighed boredly. “Do you think I’m angelic?”
He glanced at your halo for a moment before shaking his head. “No, not at all. I think you should swap costumes with your little boyfriend.”
Laughter echoed out of you. “Boyfriend?”
“Is that not what he is?” Peter asked, gaze trailing over to the guy you’d brought with you, the same one he briefly imagined with a broken nose from his fist.
“No—” the bartender slid your drink over to you “—he’s not.”
The tension in his shoulders loosened slightly. His eyes watched your plump, glossed lips latch around the straw in your drink and nothing but filth ran through his mind.
“You look good, though,” he said, watching the way your cleavage nearly spilled out of your white corset top when you straightened your posture.
“Don’t compliment me,” you quipped between sips. “Makes it sadder.”
His eyes slanted down at you. “Sadder?”
“Mm-hmm.” You shifted in your stance. “The whole jealousy thing.”
“Baby, there’s no jealousy.”
You squinted up at him, frowning. “You sure about that?”
Peter’s eyes once again wandered over to the guy that had been roped into coming out with you. He was standing by the bathrooms, chatting up a few of your close friends that Peter was sure were quizzing him on things all about you. Probably asking him how you two met, what he was studying, what he thought about you, what his intentions were. You had really protective friends like that. Peter knew he was probably spewing bullshit back to them because there was no possible way anyone knew you like Peter did.
When Peter finally glanced back down at you, he nodded stiffly. “He can’t please you like I can.”
“How would you know?”
He shrugged. “Just do.”
You gave him an impressed frown. “Well…” you trailed, “he kind of does.” Peter’s features hardened, just like you wanted them to. “I showed him the whole belt thing the other night. God, he loved that.” You snickered. “He’s been begging to do it again. Wants to do it raw the next time, too.”
A wave of nausea coursed through Peter’s system as he tried his absolute hardest to tell whether or not you were bullshiting him. God, he hoped so. “You’re lying.”
You just shrugged, pushing yourself off the bar. “Maybe,” you took a few steps back. “Still pisses you off to think about, though, doesn’t it, baby?”
Peter remained frozen at the bar as you disappeared further into the crowd. Seething. That was the only word he could find to describe how was feeling.
Maybe that was why he went up to the blonde girl dressed as Lara Croft, fitted with the thigh straps and all, and asked her to dance with him. Perhaps that was also why he chugged his drink in four long gulps and then ordered another, requesting a double shot.
He just wanted something to clear his mind. But it was like an addiction. He was addicted to you in the most tragically intoxicating way. Even with the curvaceous blonde grinding her ass against his semi, the only thing clogging his mind was the thought of you fucking someone else. The thought of you letting someone else do things to you that only he had done before.
Of course, he couldn’t be certain any of that was a first for you, like some of it was for him. Anything that happened before he felt you, though, he didn’t care about. It was the after—the long, grueling months after—that he cared about. It felt like a betrayal. It felt like you betrayed him.
And all it did was fucking turn him on. He only wanted you more.
You didn’t let the guy you brought with you do any of those things to you, though. In fact, he hadn’t done anything but finger you in the backseat of his Honda Civic. You’d faked an orgasm three minutes into it—squeezing your thighs together and moaning just for the theatrics of it all—before letting him drive you home.
Honestly, you didn’t even know why you invited him out to the bar tonight. Two nights ago, when he’d asked to take you out to dinner, you told him you were busy with friends even though you spent the entire night alone in your dorm, watching movies on your laptop and eating microwavable popcorn.
But the way it drove Peter absolutely mad was more than enough reason to keep him around.
Peter always had the power, the ammunition, and the all-out boldness. He was always in the lead when it came to the twisted game the two of you played. He got under your skin with such ease that it almost made you hate yourself more than you hated him.
This newfound reversal, watching him spiral, self-destruct, and settle for whatever—or whoever—would take him, just because he couldn’t get you, was like a high. It was so intoxicating and addictive that you found it hard to focus on anything else.
Your neck craned up to the guy in devil horns next to you. “Do you wanna dance with me?”
“Sure, yeah,” he smiled, taking a few quick sips of his drink before letting you lead him to where people were dancing near the center of the bar.
A reverbed, bass-boosted remix of t.A.T.u.’s “All the Things She Said” was vibrating the sticky, wood floor as you twirled around to face him, draping your arms over his shoulders and bringing his head down to yours, moving your bodies to the rhythm.
Peter was only a few feet away, his hands on the waist of some blonde who had her back flush with his front, grinding her hips against him.
That was the whole reason you were out on the make-shift dance floor to begin with. That was the whole reason you dragged the guy who wasn’t your boyfriend as close to Peter as possible.
So he could watch.
“Kiss me,” you breathed, sucking in a sharp gasp when the guy’s lips crashed into yours.
Lips moving in sync with his, you waited for him to slip his tongue out and trace it against your lips like Peter did. But he never did.
Peter’s eyes were glued on your profile, watching the way your eyes fluttered closed, kissing the guy with heavy momentum. He wondered if it felt the same as when you kissed him, if it made your body shudder, craving that insatiable hunger. His heart was working so fast in his chest, his head dizzying. He thought he was going to be sick.
“Come here,” he said gruffly to the blonde.
He used his hands to twist her around, pulling her flush against him. She let out a soft gasp when his hand rushed to cup her cheek, bowing his head to collide his sloppy, tipsy lips with hers, but it didn’t sound like yours. Her lips didn’t feel like yours either. They weren’t sticky from your lip gloss and full like yours. They didn’t fit with his like yours did.
He pulled away for a second, long enough to see you peering over at him.
“Kiss my neck,” he coached the blonde, jaw slack as his eyes stayed on yours.
The blonde complied without a thought, planting sloppy, wet kisses down the toned skin of his neck. It felt good, of course. The hair on his arms stood up at the feeling of the girl’s warm breath on the crook of his neck.
His hand reached around the girl, palm planting on the round of her ass, fingers squeezing.
You watched him. You saw the devious look in his eye as he touched her, which was why you brought the guy’s hand down to the curve of your ass, letting him fondle you in the center of a bar. It was all a performance, though. The way you bit your lip, pretending to enjoy the way you were being touched and kissed.
Peter thought for a moment about going up to you and just pulling you away from that stupid prick with his hands all over you. He thought about taking you into one of the bathroom stalls and giving in to you completely.
But this chase—this… game—was so much better.
When the song ended, the blonde girl peered up at Peter with a smirk on her face. “Do you wanna go back to my apartment?”
He thought about it, he really did. He thought about the potential look on your face if he left with her. He thought about how pissed off you may or may not have been, and he wanted to agree.
But then he thought about what you would do—who you would go home with—if he left, and so it all went out the window. Because if you were leaving with someone tonight, it was going to be him.
“Not tonight,” Peter said, loosening the grip he had around his waist.
She frowned, brows furrowed. “Why not?”
He shrugged, eyes flicking to you without thinking. “Not in the mood.”
The blonde followed his gaze, landing on you with a scoff and a look of pure disgust. “Are you serious?” she snarled, yanking his hands off her. “God, you’re such a fucking dick,” she added before stomping away from him.
Maybe he was. Maybe that was a little cruel, using her to get back at you like that. But he would be lying if he said he cared.
Deserted on the dance floor, Peter idled, watching you grind yourself on the absolutely oblivious guy. You watched him, too. For the longest moment, the two of you just stared at each other, waiting to see who was going to break first, both of you honing an unhealthy relationship with competition.
Devastatingly slow, Peter tilted his head to the side, studying you in a way that made you feel like he could see something inside of you—something you didn’t want him to see. His eyes trailed down your body, analyzing every square inch of your frame, before slowly working their way back up to your face.
The stance he had, the sight of his rigid muscles under his white T-shirt, the way he completely garnered all of your attention, even with your supposed date’s lips sucking on the skin under your ear, made something spark to life inside of you. It was a dangerous spark. A hungry spark.
You suddenly couldn’t breathe.
“I’ve gotta pee,” you blurted out before you could think, pulling away from the arms that were holding you. You smiled up at him, forfeiting your staring game with Peter as your chest heaved. “I’ll, uh—I’ll be back in a minute.”
His lips were swollen, eyes glossy from the tension you’d allowed him to feel and the alcohol pumping through his system. “Okay.”
You didn’t go to the bathroom, though, and you didn’t really care if he noticed it.
You paced through the sweaty bodies littering the dance floor, not slowing down until you pushed through the bar’s entrance door. Swinging it open with a great deal of force, your chest rose as you sucked in a sharp inhale, finding a sense of relief in the cold, mid-autumn night air.
Walking down the sidewalk a bit, you roughly tore off your halo headband and raked a hand through your hair, pulling at the root to stabilize your overall mental wellbeing.
The bar’s door flew open a few feet away from you, but your back was turned to it.
“That was quite the show,” the deep voice rattled your bones.
You didn’t need to turn around to see who it was. A small part of you knew that you would know that unsettling voice anywhere. You could probably pick it out of a line up of hundreds.
Exhaling heavily, you crossed your arms over your chest and turned to face him. “Go away, Peter.”
“I don’t think you want me to,” Peter countered, moving closer to you with lazy strides, stuffing his hands in the front of his jeans. “I think this is exactly where you want me.”
You just shook your head. “That was wrong,” you said, voice suddenly hoarse, “what you did to that girl. Using her like that.”
“True,” he mused, taking a final step closer, mere inches from you. “Nothing different than what you were doing with that asshole, though.”
“I wasn’t using him,” you countered, face contorting.
Peter coughed out a laugh. “Oh, yeah? What the hell was it, then? ‘Cause you didn’t look too interested, keeping your eyes on me the whole time.”
You shrugged defensively. “I was—” you sucked in a sharp breath. “I was dancing.”
“So was I.”
“No, you were trying to piss me off. Making her kiss you and grabbing her ass like that,” you argued, voice sharp. “You were using her to get me all—all pissed off.”
The calmness of him was maddening. You were stammering over your words, dizzied, and flustered, while he just stood still—completely immovable.
“Well, are you?”
Your brows knitted together. “What?”
“Are you pissed off?” he clarified, studying you again with those dark eyes. “Are you mad about me touching her like that?”
You shook your head back and forth quickly, taking half a step back from him. “No.”
He closed the space you created. “Well, I am.” Your eyes flicked up at his. “I’m really fucking pissed off that he was touching you like that. Grabbing your ass, kissing you.”
There wasn’t a single coherent thought pulsing though your mind. You were trembling from head-to-toe and you couldn’t tell if it was because you were freezing or if you were losing your mind. Based on the way your lower stomach fluttered when Peter’s hand gripped your waist, you became more confident in the latter.
“Stop,” you whispered, barely audible, as he pulled you closer to him.
“Look at me,” he bit.
You refused, forcing him to move both hands to your hip, squeezing tight. You didn’t fight him off, though. Why weren’t you fighting him off?
“Look at me,” Peter repeated, tone sharp enough to slice.
Defeat and shame washed over you as you peered up at him, teeth chattering.
“That’s the last time someone touches you like that,” he snarled, eyes tracing yours, unsure which one to stay on.
“What? You think you have control over who touches me, now?” you managed to mumble. “Just because I let you fuck me once.”
He shook his head. It was a slow, calculated movement. “No,” he stated confidently, pulling you flush against him. The action caused the bulge forming in his pants to press up against your stomach. “I’m just gonna make it to where no one else’s touch will ever be good enough.”
It already wasn’t, you heard yourself think.
“No,” you heard yourself say, shaking your head. “I’m not letting you—”
“Win?” he interjected, causing your stomach to twist.
“That’s all this is to you,” you bit, arms moving to his biceps. You wanted to use the grip to push out of his grip, but you got too distracted by the feel of the muscle in your hands. “Just… some game.”
“It was,” he admitted, tone deep. “Now I’m just fucking miserable.”
God, he was still messing with you.
“You’re insufferable, you know that? You can’t treat people like this and think it’s fine, Peter. It’s wrong.”
“I’m being serious.” His grip softened.
You just shook your head, refusing to look at him.
“I’m fucking wrecked, okay? Is that what you want to hear? You want me to tell you how fucking mental you’ve made me? Ever since I had you—” he exhaled roughly, jaw muscle trembling “—I can’t get you out of my fucking head,” he roared. “And seeing you with someone else—with him… I can’t fucking take it.”
Your eyes locked on his, twitching at the eerily unfamiliar desperate tone and look on his face.
“Just stop,” you forced out, pushing against his arms, prying yourself out of his grip.
“Come back to the house with me,” he asked, chest heaving. “Let me show you how serious I am.”
“Are you messing with me?” You successfully fought out of his grasp.
“No,” he sighed, letting you go, “I’m really fucking not.”
You stared at him for a moment, waiting for him to crack. But he didn’t. Still, your trust was feeble. “Say it.”
His lips parted to respond, then they snapped shut again. He dragged a hand down his face.
Peter Parker didn’t like to lose. But if getting you again—feeling you, touching you, having you all to himself—was the loss, he no longer had the strength to want to win.
His eyes locked on yours. “I need you.”
There it was. The white flag waving.
He took a careful step towards you, returning his big hands to the curve of your waist. You stood still, letting him move you closer to him again until you felt the throbbing pulse of his erection pushing against your stomach.
“Come home with me,” he coaxed, bowing his head and using his nose to nudge at his jaw, smelling the scent of your perfume and causing a chill to creep down your spine when his soft lips grazed the delicate skin. “You know I can make you feel good,” he whispered into the crook of your neck.
“This…” your voice trailed, taking in a sharp breath when his teeth pinched the skin with such gentleness, “is the last time.”
“Fine,” he mumbled, kissing the skin.
“I’m serious,” you managed to say despite the pleasure ricocheting from where his lips concentrated. “Never again after this, okay?”
He nodded into your shoulder. “That’s fine, baby.”
“What about the guy that came out with me?” you asked, wishing you felt worse.
Peter chuckled. “What about him?”
The ten minute walk back to the Kappa Tau Zeta house was the fastest you had ever walked anywhere in your life, and it was also the quietest. Neither one of you were able to make a single sound, so utterly lost in what you were doing—what you were going to do.
Peter had taken off his F1 jacket as soon as the walk started, draping the oversized material over your shoulders, and by the time the two of you made it into the eerily quiet frat house you were thrumming with so much adrenaline, you nearly tripped up the staircase to his bedroom.
“Careful,” Peter chuckled, watching you stumble, barely catching yourself. “Too excited, hm?”
“Shut up,” you groaned, stabilizing yourself and hurrying up the rest of the creaking wood steps.
Trailing behind you, he followed you into his bedroom, closing the door and locking it in one swift movement.
His bedroom looked the same as it did in May, if anything it was just messier.
“Turn that on,” he said, pointing to the portable speaker resting on top of his dresser that had clothes spilling out of the drawers.
You arched a brow. “Music?”
“I don’t want anyone to hear you,” he said plainly, fumbling in his pants pocket for his phone to connect it to the speaker as you went to turn it on. “Those sounds are for me only,” he added, smirking.
You rolled your eyes, moving over to the bed and crouching down to sit on the edge. Every move felt oddly familiar and comfortable. Still, every inch of your body was shaking frantically with anxious nerves.
“Bluetooth device is connected,” the speaker blared, while Peter scrolled through his Spotify.
“Please don’t tell me you have a sex playlist,” you jested from across the room, propping yourself back with your hands on the unmade bed.
He chuckled. “Nah.”
Although, he wished he had a sex playlist all of a sudden. All he had were a bunch of pointless, disorganized “vibes” playlists. But he had one that he hadn’t listened to since he returned to ESU, titled “Dean’s List.”
He had honestly forgotten he’d made it. It was over the summer when he was drowning in his own self-pity. It was full of all the song lyrics he’d post, thinking about you, hoping it would somehow translate.
Ironic, he thought.
He pressed shuffle and tossed the phone down on his dresser, peeling off his T-shirt before moving to you.
“Come here, baby,” he urged, gesturing for you to stand up off the bed.
The first few hammering notes of Miguel’s “damned” began blaring from the speaker, filling the silence in the room as you complied, standing before him. Your eyes immediately hung on the way his tanned, muscular chest looked beneath the dim lighting of his bedroom. It was just wrong and cruel really, how devastatingly attractive he was.
“This sounds like a sex playlist,” you noted, listening to the lyrics as a way to distract yourself.
“It’s not.”
He took off the jacket he’d draped over you, which had bent your costume wings, stifling a laugh at the sight.
“I take back what I said. You are kind of angelic,” he admitted, barely audible over the volume of the music.
You worked with him, shrugging off the angel wings, tearing the halo off again with it. “Don’t ever say that again.”
Peter just shook his head, suppressing a smirk as he twisted you around, working to unlace your corset top that you’d bought off Amazon. “This shit right here is ridiculously hot, by the way.”
“I know,” you quipped, your body jolting every time he tugged at the strings. “Why do you think I wore it?”
“I kinda want to leave it on,” he mumbled, hooking his fingers in the lace strings and yanking you towards him, causing your ass to crash into his bricked bulge.
You shrugged with your back turned to him, purposefully pushing you ass out. “That’s fine.”
He thought about it for a second before saying, “Nah, your tits are way too nice for that.” He then finished removing it, letting it fall to the floor before twisting you around to face him again.
“Fuck me…” he breathed, biting down on his bottom lip as he took a step back to stare at you, taking in the curve of your waist and the perkiness of your exposed tits. His hand moved instinctively to his erection, palming it at the sight of you.
Your glossed lips curled as you fell back on the bed, propping yourself up on your elbows. “That’s the plan… baby.”
“Uh-uh.” He shook his head, wasting no time to crawl on top of you, planting his hands on either side of your head to hold himself up. “That’s what I call you.”
You moaned quietly when his mouth immediately moved to your tits, his tongue trailing over your pebbled nipple before he suctioned his lips around it, gently nibbling at the sensitive bud.
“What do I call you, then?”
He forced himself between your legs, grinding his hips against your core with an achingly slow thrust. A muffled moan vibrated your nipple as he massaged the other with his hand. He shrugged, breaking free only long enough to say, “I just want to hear you say my name.”
He ground himself against you again, his hardened length rubbing right where you needed him the most. His tongue stuck back out, trailing over your nipple once more before working his way all the way down to the hem of your white shorts, leaving a path of his wet spit as he went, sliding off the bed.
His teeth toyed with the thin waistband as he held himself up with one hand, using the other to slide your shorts off.
The sight itself, combined with the electrifying feeling of his touch so close to where your arousal was puddling, caused a soft moan to slip from your throat.
Growing desperate, you fell flat on your back and reached down to help him, needing to feel him. His hand quickly stopped you, though, his bleary-eyed gaze flashing up.
“You’re so needy, aren’t you, baby?” he teased, standing up off the bed and gripping your thighs. “Not going fast enough for you?”
His fingers dug into the soft skin as he yanked you towards the edge of the bed, gripping the waistband of your shorts and pulling them down in one swift movement.
“Mm. No panties, too?” He smirked up at you. “Goddamn, baby.”
“Peter,” you groaned, back arching up off the bed as shockwaves fluttered in your desperate core. “Please… stop fucking talking.”
His tongue slid out of his mouth, wetting his lips as he smirked down at you before he slowly knelt down on the floor just off the side of the bed, sitting up on his knees.
“What—What are you—”
“Shh,” he sounded, using his grip on your thighs to drape your legs over his shoulders. “I wanna taste you.”
His lips moved to your inner thigh, planting soft kisses every few seconds as he trailed further and further down to your dripping, quivering center. Eager to see what he looked like going down on you, knowing it would be utterly tragic, you propped yourself back up on your elbows and peered down.
He stuck his tongue out, pressing it directly on your dripping entrance before slowly trailing up to your swollen clit. A shuddering breath escaped you, your jaw going slack when his eyes fluttered up to you.
He pulled away momentarily, licking your arousal off his lips. “Fucking delicious, baby,” he muttered before going back to repeat the motion over and over again, spreading your sticky arousal with such teasing ease, your legs started quivering around his head.
His lips moved to work your clit, tongue lapping over the tender flesh once before sucking it. He spread your legs further with one hand, using the other to insert two fingers into your dripping entrance. The sensation caused your head to fall back, lips parted as a sultry moan slipped out.
You fell back flush with the mattress, losing the strength it took to keep yourself propped up. Your now free hands unwittingly reached down to his head, fingers lacing into his thick curls as he continued pumping his fingers in a synchronous rhythm with the licking and sucking he was inflicting on your clit.
His fingers hooked slightly inside you, drawing a sharp gasp from your throat and leading you to pull at his hair. The subtle stinging sensation on his scalp caused him to moan against you, sending a vibrating shudder through your body.
“Fuck,” you hissed, chest heaving with frantic pants as he continued working his tongue, mouth, and fingers. “You’re s—so good at… this.”
He smirked against your sopping clit, pulling away slightly. “Don’t be sweet now, baby.”
You peered down at him, watching him gaze at the way he was pumping his two fingers in you. “You’re still so tight,” he muttered, feeling your walls clenching around his digits. He glanced up at you, slowly standing so he was towering over you, his jaw slack and brows furrowed. “Gotta spread you out a little more, don’t you think?”
He didn’t wait for your response. You watched him bow his head, spitting on your entrance before inserting a third finger.
Your head fell back, digging into his ruffled bed sheets as a loud, throaty moan tore from your lips just as the song playing faded. As he pumped three fingers in you, he brought his other hand to your mouth, clamping his big palm over your parted lips to muffle the echoing sounds coming out of you.
Panting into his hand, your eyes screwed shut as your hips bucked wildly, your release coming powerfully quick when he brought the pad of his thumb to your throbbing, swollen clit.
“I know it feels good, baby,” he cooed, gazing down at the squirming mess you’d become. “Just gotta be quiet for a sec.”
Your eyes rolled back in your head and he quickened his pace just as Arctic Monkeys’ “R U Mine?” began blasting from the speaker. When the volume of the music picked back up, he removed his hand from your mouth, but you reached out to catch it before he moved it too far away.
Gripping his wrist, his eyes snapped down to watch what you were trying to do. You brought your bottom lip between your teeth, resisting your sudden urge to scream when you brought his hand to your throat, pressing it down.
A devious-looking smirk spread on his face. “Oh, I know what you want,” he muttered, wrapping his hand firmly around your throat. “My dirty girl,” he grunted, admiring the way you let him choke you. It wasn’t hard enough to block your airways, but tight enough for you to reach your release.
Your entire body shook beneath him, watching him stand between your spread legs, pumping his drenched fingers into your quivering pussy, massaging your clit as he kept a firm handle on your throat.
“Yeah, cum on my fingers, baby,” he grunted, not changing his pace, letting you ride out your orgasm with pathetically eager pants, convulsing against his bed. “God, I can’t wait to be in you again.”
Your body went slack beneath him, your pants slowing as you came down from your high. “Holy shit,” you breathed when he let go of your throat, slowly sliding his fingers out of you.
He didn’t even blink. As soon as his fingers came out of you, he immediately brought them to his mouth, licking and sucking up your release with a smug expression on his face.
Watching him do that was almost enough to make you cum again.
“Now… we’re even,” he mused, licking the remnants off his lips with a smooth swipe before unclasping his belt buckle, tearing it off.
Your eyes rolled, managing to sit up on the edge of the bed, folding your legs underneath you to sit back on your calves. “Shut up and come here.”
He took a slow stride towards you. “I love it when you tell me to shut up.” He smirked down at you, watching you work to undo the button and zipper on his jeans. “Makes me want to talk more.”
You dug your fingers into his waistband at his hips, pushing his jeans down with a tug, happy that his tight boxers went down with them. The second his pants hit the floor, his pulsating cock slapped his lower stomach, pre-cum beading out of the tip.
Even though you had seen it before, the size still shocked you. Made you wonder if his cocky attitude was validated.
Your hands moved to his length, working him in rough strokes as he stepped out of his jeans, kicking them to the side. When he steadied himself before you, you brought your tongue underneath him, making sure to glare up at him as you trailed your tongue from the hilt of his sturdy cock all the way up to his delicate, pink tip, lapping up his pre-cum and swallowing.
His hands moved instinctively to your hair, beyond grateful it was finally you with your sticky, glossy, swollen lips around his cock as you bobbed your head forward, taking him as deep as possible.
When your throat tightened around his tip, a soft gag echoing, he sucked in a sharp breath, followed by a deep, vibrating moan. “You suck my dick so good, it’s fucking insane—you’re fucking insane.”
You moaned into your sucking, bobbing your head back and forth, tongue working in circles. The sudden desire to give him your all came over you, leading you to use your free hand to massage his balls.
The touch sent his head falling back, a menacing grunt slipping from his throat. “Oh… Sh—shit—Fuck, yes, baby. Keep… doing that.”
Your confidence and eagerness to show him just how good you were had you moving at a pace and rhythm you didn’t know you were capable of.
He tightened his grip on your hair, forcing you to halt as he peered down at you, meeting your seductive, glossed-over gaze. “Hands off,” he forced out, eyes heavy from the pleasure thrumming through his veins. The sight caused you to unintentionally ignore his demand.
“Hands off,” he repeated, tone sharper. You finally complied, tucking your hands under your legs. “Good girl. Let me fuck that pretty throat.”
He gathered all of your hair up in his fists before thrusting his hips. Your lips suctioned around him, welcoming the way he fucked himself into your mouth. Every time you gagged, moaning incoherently against his cock, he just thrusted faster.
“Mm,” he grunted through his gritted teeth. “Yeah, take this dick, baby. Fuck you’re doing… so good,” he continued on, praising you through deep-toned pants.
He could feel his release quickly rushing down to his length, forcing his thrusts to become sloppy and untimed. His hands started working your head up and down his shaft, controlling your pace until he just couldn’t take it anymore.
“Shhh…. Shit,” he hissed, pulling out of your mouth with an abrupt motion, leaving you drooling and dripping with your own spit. He bit down on his bottom lip, every muscle in his body seizing as he held back his threatening urge to bust all over you.
You giggled. “Edging yourself is another kind of kinky, baby,” you taunted.
He rolled his eyes, taking careful breaths until the urge deflated. It wasn’t until he saw you bring your hand up to try and wipe the mess on your mouth and chin that he came rushing back over to you.
“Uh-uh,” he grunted, swatting your hand away and leaning over to crash his lips on your, his tongue entering your mouth without warning. He slowly pushed you back down on the bed, his lips moving in sync with yours, the mess he’d caused spreading between the two of you.
Hovering on top of you, he nudged your legs open with his knee. Shouldering his weight on one hand perched next to your head on the mattress, he used the other to align his dick with your pulsing entrance.
He broke from the kiss as the tip slid in, both of you gasping at the same time as he slowly entered into you entirely. “Oh, F—Fuck,” you moaned, tensing under the sudden fullness.
Peter grunted when the movement caused you to clench around him, suctioning him in as deep as possible. He pressed his forehead to yours, peering down as he slowly slid out, only to thrust harder into you.
When you cried out a moan, his head snapped up to you, admiring the way your eyes screwed shut and your lips pursed at the pleasure.
“Open… your eyes, baby,” he mumbled, quickening his pace between your quivering legs. “Look at me while I fuck you.”
Your eyes fluttered open, jaw going slack as you gazed up at him, watching the way he bit down on his lip, stifling his rugged groans.
“D—Don’t do that,” you croaked, reaching up to pull his lip out from between his teeth. “I wanna… hear you.”
“Oh, fuck…” he groaned, head falling into the crook of your neck as he got rougher with his thrusts, “you’re so hot.”
The wet sounds of your arousal oozing out between thrusts, coating his balls as he hammered himself deeper and deeper inside you echoed throughout the room, muffled slightly by the music blaring.
Your legs shook around him, alerting him you were going to reach another orgasm soon. He loved knowing that—knowing how your body reacted to him. It made fucking you even better.
“Peter,” you cried out, head digging back into the mattress. “I’m gonna—”
He sat up, gripping your hips as he sat back on his calves, bringing you with him. “I know, baby.”
The movement caused your ass to lift off the bed, leaving him to hold you up, pounding deep into you with loud smacks. The angle was something you’d never felt before. He was so deep inside you, it felt like there would be internal damage. But it felt so good.
You couldn’t control the way your back arched, hands flying to grip his hands, desperate to hold onto something as your orgasm came crashing down on you.
“Cum for me,” he grunted, breathing raggedly.
Your jaw went slack, eyes rolling to the back of your head as everything tightened in his grasp. Your vision spotted as you came so hard, it stole the air from your lungs.
“Mm,” Peter moaned. “That’s right, baby. Good… fucking… girl,” he drawled, not slowing down even a little.
His head reared back, his fingers tightening around your hips hard enough to bruise as he pummeled his dick inside you.
“Fill me up,” you moaned, watching the way his abs flexed and feeling the way his cock twitched deep inside your overly sensitive pussy. “Cum inside me, please,” you said, voice high-pitched and illicitly seductive.
“I am, baby,” he panted, biceps twitching as he gripped even harder, moving your body against his. “I… am.”
He fell forward, holding himself up on top of you as he curled his hips up into you a few more times. His body shuddered as his release washed over him, a wince tearing through his gritted teeth.
The both of you moaned softly as his warmth shot inside you. Your hips bucked against him as he worked through his high. When there was nothing else for him to give you, he stilled, his head drooping into the crook of your neck just for a second, long enough for him to tame his breathing.
When he regained a sliver of his strength back, he slowly sat up, inching out of you, ensuring he kept his eyes on the way his seed poured out of you as he did so.
“I will never… get over that shit,” he mumbled between pants. His chest heaved. “You are so fucking perfect like this.”
Tauntingly, your hand crept down to your entrance. He smirked at the sight, watching as you smeared his cum all over your fingers before bringing them between your lips, maintaining eye contact with him as you swallowed his salty sweetness.
He shook his head, grinning. “Thought it was gross.”
You shrugged, licking the remnants off your lips. “I lied.”
“I know,” he quipped, going to grab the towel draped over the back of his desk chair.
When he came back over, wiping up his mess with gentle pats and chuckling when you winced at the sensitivity, you smirked up at him. “I didn’t let that guy do all that stuff, by the way. I didn’t even let him fuck me.”
His eyes flicked over to yours. “You didn’t?”
You shook your head. “Nah, that’s our thing.”
Giving you a toothy grin, he tossed the towel to his hamper. “We didn’t use the belt this time, though. Guess we’ll have to do that next time.”
“There’s no next time,” you reminded him.
He shrugged.
hope you enjoyed it!
pls leave a comment/like/reblog. if you have a one shot request, you can send it through my “ask me.”
୨ৎ─ delaney!
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!
peter parker's spotify playlist:
"empire state university" #2
frat boy!Peter who has been obsessed with you ever since he met you his first year at ESU. he lives at his frat house and plays lacrosse, always hoping you'll show at their parties so he can tease you and get under your skin, waiting for the day you finally fold and let him in. when you eventually do, he makes it worth your while.
Loved your writing!! Would you be up for writing Peter Parker (Tom Holland) in a fuckboy phase? Like he's given up on the idea of getting back to the girl he loves, so he's just enjoying being hot and desired and getting whatever he wants with ease. Reader is just his latest conquest. Nothing romantic. She doesn't change him. She just gets to suck him off, choke for him, and experience cocky fuckboy Peter in all his glory. Including lots of cocky dirty talk from Peter.
In his web 🕸
Pairing: Dark!Peter Parker x Female!Reader
Synpopsis: It's been a few years since MJ. Peter battles with the arachid monster inside him, and finds that there is one simple way of controlling it. Tonight, it's your turn to help tame the beast. You aren't complaining.
Tags: Mature Content 18+ in a way that is concerning for feminism, degradation, oral (male receiving), unprotected sex, slight exhibitionism (someone walks in), choking, Peter is lowkey an asshole but still hot af
Word count: 2.8k
Notes: Thanks for all the love on my previous fic, it absolutely blew me away!! And thank you for your request and kind words! I actually don't have a lot of experience writing ~smut~ on this level so this was a nice challenge. I hope it lives up to your vision! I need this man in a biblical way he is tewwww fine!!!
Peter has you wrapped around his little finger.
He can see it in the way your demeanor shifts when he leans in closer, pretending that he can't hear you that well over the booming music of whatever sleazy night club he's found you in. He hears it in the way your heart beat speeds up, the way you try to subtly touch him anywhere you can.
Fuck, he can smell it on you. Every time you move, crossing and uncrossing your legs on the bar stool, the tangy scent of your arousal makes his dick twitch in his pants.
He smirks, calls the bartender over to order another round of drinks. It's almost time for the grand finale.
See, Peter considers himself a bit of an...artist, for lack of a better word, in the art of hooking up. It's been a few years since the whole liberty statue debacle and
(don't think her Peter don't think about MJ and Ned and all you've lost don't think don't-)
since then he's developed a science for picking up beautiful girls.
The first few times were awkward, and he felt guilty and ashamed for how he conducted himself. It's like he loses control, and the world goes dark and he can only focus on one thing and thing only: his dick, sliding into a warm, wet hole.
But the shame and guilt has long left him. He has a monster inside him, a dark creature full of lust that wants and wants and wants, and who is he to say no? Surely he's earned this, earned a bit of pleasure. If a good fuck a few times a week keeps him sane, keeps his arachnid hormones down and the spider hidden, surely it's not a bad thing.
Enough philosophy. Peter followed the steps, and tonight he's got a very pretty prey caught in his web. He's bought the drinks, he listened to all your stories, feigned interest in all the right places and laughed at your lackluster jokes.
It's time to get what he's here for.
“Here's what we're gonna do,” he says, leaning in real close, hand sneaking up your thigh. “I'm going to go to the bathroom. In a few minutes, you're going to stand up and follow me. You got that, baby?”
He watches your pupils dilate and how your heart rate shoots up when he calls you baby. You like pet names. Noted. He waits for your nod, before pulling back and giving you a smirk. He squeezes your thigh before standing up and heading towards the one stall bathroom.
This really was too easy.
☆ミ☆ミ☆ミ☆ミ
Holy shit. You don't think you've ever been this turned on in your life.
You didn't come out tonight looking for anything. It was supposed to be a fun girls night out, but when your friends decided they had better things to do than spend the night getting drunk in a back alley club– well. You didn't. So there you were, sitting pretty nursing your drink of choice, when you felt a warm body sit next to you.
He was charming and smiled at you and paid for your drinks. He laughed when you pulled out your best jokes and sounded like he meant it.
And fuck, he was the most handsome man you've ever laid your eyes on. Floppy curls, big puppy brown eyes, strong muscled arms that flexed with every movement. You want those delicious arms wrapped around your neck.
You were getting steadily aroused, heat building between your legs. And somehow…it seemed like he knew. Which just increased your arousal further. Sick cycle, truly.
Which brings us to the present. The man, who skillfully dodged every question of his name, walking towards the bathroom, fully confident you'll follow. And you couldn't even pretend to consider the idea of staying behind.
You wait a minute or two, glancing at the clock behind the bar. Nervously, you stand up, frantically adjusting the dress you put on for tonight. You silently make your way to the bathroom. Are you imagining things, or is everyone's eyes on you? Do they know what you're about to walk into?
You stop in front of the bathroom door. Right. This is cool. So cool. Going into the bathroom with a man whose name you don't know. Well, you amend, a hot as fuck man whose name you don't know.
With shaky hands you turn the handle and step inside before you can talk yourself out of it. You click the door shut, taking note of the fact that the door doesn't have a lock.
You glance up and see he's leaning against the sink, arms crossed and staring at you with hooded eyes. His legs are spread out, which draws your gaze to the big bulge smack dab in the middle.
He notices your gaze drifting downwards and lets out a breath. “Well,” he says, eyeing you up and down with an intensity that makes you squirm. “Are you just going to stand there all night or come and make yourself useful?”
You let out a nervous chuckle but fall silent when you notice that he wasn't laughing with you. Oh. He wasn't joking. What does it say about your mental state that his words make heat shoot straight down to your core?
You take slow steps forward, maintaining eye contact all the while. You stop in front of him and slowly, so very slowly, sink down to your knees. The cold tile beneath your knees compared with his fiery gaze is making your head spin.
You reach for his belt before a firm hand grabs your wrist.
“No,” he says firmly. “Hands behind your back. Use your mouth.”
You gape at him. His behavior has totally changed from the man who bought you drinks and listened to your stories. And the worst part is, you like it. You like it a lot.
You grasp your hands behind the small of your back. You mouth at his belt, trying to undo the buckle but suprise suprise, doing it with just your teeth and tongue is proving to be quite the challenge.
You hear a mocking laugh above you, before feeling a hand in your hair yanking you back.
“It's okay, sweetheart. I should have realised your mouth is only good for one thing,” he croons, pulling his pants off and yanking his cock out with one hand, the other tangled in your hair.
He releases your hair, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look up at him. He taps your cheek, and you open your mouth on instinct.
He spits into your mouth, a long chain that lands squarely on your tongue and the pure filth of it makes you moan, your clit pulsing with the need to be touched.
"Go on. Make me feel good.”
You turn your gaze to his cock. He's long and thick, the tip leaking pre-cum that you immediately start to lick up with soft kitten licks, mouthing and kissing up and down his shaft. He's breathing hard above you, and you swirl your tongue around his head, hands gripping his thick thighs.
“Come on, baby. I know you can do better than that,” he says, which is the only warning you get before he slams his hips forward, forcing you to take his entire length down his throat.
You choke and immediately try to pull back, but his hand is placed firmly behind your head, keeping you locked in place.
“Just relax. Breathe through your nose. There you go, see it's not so bad,” he groans, hand gripping your hair. “You can take it, I know you can. Saw you the moment I entered this shitty club, knew you were a little slut. Knew you would take this dick.” He gasps, and begins moving your head up and down his cock, setting a rhythm you have no control over.
You breathe through your nose, tears building at the corner of your eyes as you try to fight your gag reflex. Fuck. Have you ever been more turned on in your life? You never thought of yourself as the type to be into this type of talk, but your cunt pulsing and dripping with his words and actions has you thinking twice.
You use your hands to fondle and squeeze at his balls, trying your best to follow the rhythm he's set for you. You can feel your mascara running down your cheeks and know you must look a mess. You start rocking back and forth, unconsciously seeking some type of stimulation against your pussy.
“You're taking me so well. Look at you,” he says, hand pushing your head up and down. “It's barely fitting but you're trying your best, aren't you sweetheart? Poor girl, probably the first proper dick you've ever experienced and it's got you crying,” his laugh turns into a grunt, speeding his thrusts up.
“Don't you dare spit. I want to see you swallow everything,” he hisses, tilting his head back. You try to say you won't, you'll be good, but you can't get any sound out.
You hear him let out a final groan before your mouth fills with the salty taste of his cum. True to your word, you swallow every drop that comes out, sucking him dry.
As soon as he pulls out you drop on your heels, taking in big gulps of air. You feel your arousal dripping down your thighs, and if you don't get some proper friction you might die. You look up, and find him staring at you. And he's still hard.
He pulls you up by your arms, swiftly pushing you against the sink, your breasts pressed against the counter top where he slots himself in between your legs.
“Please, please touch me. I want you so bad,” you whimper, pushing your ass up against his groin. You watch his reflection in the mirror glance down at you, drinking in the sight of you ready and willing beneath him.
His hand squeezes your throat once, before trailing down, down, down until he finally, finally, reaches down to where you want his hands most. He pushes your dress up, exposing the lacy red pair of panties you put on for tonight.
He lets out a wolf whistle, fondling your ass.
“Who'd you dress up for? All this for lil ol’ me?” He chuckles, his mocking tone making you let out a small moan.
You feel air against your bare pussy before you hear the ripping sound. He just tore your panties off. He just tore your panties off. Holy shit.
He traces a finger up your folds, before circling your clit ever so lightly. Still, it's enough to make you whine, bucking up against him.
“You're telling me you're this wet from sucking my dick? You love having me in your mouth that much, baby?” He's leaning against your back, whispering in your ears and shit, this alone might be enough to make you cum and you're so close, so close to the edge and–
He tuts, removing his fingers. You whine at the loss of contact, but he shoves his fingers in your mouth, forcing you to taste yourself.
“The only way you're coming tonight is on my dick,” he says darkly, watching you lick his fingers clean. “And even that depends on how good you make me feel.”
He pulls you back against him, lining his cock up with your entrance. He stops just before he enters, shushing you when you whine. His eyes are closed, and the hands on your hip tighten almost painfully.
“Close your eyes,” he grits out, brows furrowing as if he's in pain.
“Wha-what?”
“Close them. Don't ask questions,” he repeats. “Don't open them until I say you can. Say you understand.”
“I understand. Please just fuck me,” you plead, eyes squeezed shut.
“Good girl,” you hear him say, right before he thrusts himself into you, his full length inside you in one smooth stroke.
You moan so loud for a moment you think the entire club can hear you. That's the last proper thought you have for a while, because he starts moving in and out, setting a hard, fast rhythm that has you clutching at the corners of the counter.
You hear moans that sound like they are straight from a bad porno movie, little uh-uhs that steadily increase in volume. It takes you a second to realise it's you making that noise.
“Fuck, your pussy's taking me so well. Just look at her,” he marvels, the filthy squelching sounds proving his point. “You're never going to have anyone make you feel this good again. You're ruined.”
He laughs, as if he's taking some sort of sick pleasure in it. And the worst part is, he's right. He's the best you've ever had and you don't think you will have better.
“Go on, say it,” he grunts out, hand reaching around to thumb at your clit. The extra stimulation makes you cry out, your brain going fuzzy.
You try to be good, you try to tell him you're never going to find better, but all the air in your lungs have been fucked out, and your lips can't seem to form any syllables. All the while, the pressure is building inside you, and you know it's not long before you're going to be tumbling over the edge.
He chuckles breathlessly behind you, as if he can hear your inner struggle. “I'm sorry, baby, that was mean of me to ask. You can't talk right now, can you? Fucking you so good that all the thoughts just left your pretty little head, hmm?”
The combination of his dick hitting every spot within you, his thumb on your clit and his dirty words sends you crashing over the edge, cumming so hard you swear you black out for a second.
When you become aware of your surroundings, you feel him still thrusting behind you, the same deep, hard strokes that leaves your toes curling and the pressure is building up inside you again, and it's too good too much too soon–
Click.
The door swings open. Your eyes shoot open, panicked gaze meeting his in the reflection and oh fuck his eyes are pitch black, no light reflecting of them and it scares you a little, which makes your arousal sharper and heavier and he doesn't slow down, doesn't stop fucking you even when the unfortunate man at the door exclaims loudly and shuts the door again.
Fuck. Fuck. He's looking at you with those pitch black eyes, his mouth open in an almost inhuman snarl. His hand flies to your throat, squeezing.
“When did I say you could open your eyes, huh?” He demands, tightening his grip. “Can't even listen to one simple instruction. The only thing you're good at is taking my cock.”
You gasp, the lack of air enhancing every other sensation you're experiencing. You try to apologize, closing your eyes again. You'll be good. You'll be good for him.
He grunts and you can see he's close. He speeds up, with his hand on your throat, and you can feel yourself close to coming undone.
His hips stutter, movement turning messy as he nears his orgasm. With a final loud groan, he releases the pressure on your neck and shoots his cum deep inside you.
The sudden rush of oxygen and the feeling of his cum being pumped inside triggers your own orgasm, somehow bigger and better than your first one.
For a few moments, the bathroom is filled with heavy panting as you both try to catch your breath. You feel him pull out, and the sudden emptiness makes you wince.
You're still bent over the counter as you hear him pull his pants up and buckle his belt.
You slowly push yourself up, feeling his cum dry between your legs. You turn around, and you see his eyes are back to normal. He's fully dressed again, and ruffling through his…wallet?
He pulls out some cash, and places it down on the counter next to you.
“For your panties,” he explains, as if it's the most logical explanation in the world. “Buy yourself a new pair, on me.”
You gape at him, looking at the cash and then him. Surely he isn't serious. That's it? He's just going to give you the best orgasms of your life and leave? You still don't even know his name!
He gives you a wink, as if reading your thoughts, and turns around to leave. You stare in stunned silence as he walks out.
Shit. You're going to be thinking of this night for a while.
☆ミ☆ミ☆ミ
Peter steps out into the cool summer air, wind lazily drifting along the streets of New York. The stars are glittering above him, and he feels like a brand new man. The thing inside him is quiet, satiated after laying claim to his prey.
He jauntily whistles a tune as he walks down the sidewalk, already thinking where he could get his next fix from.
After all, the night is still young. Plenty of time to ensnare another catch in his web.
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.
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.
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.
the party had barely begun and peter parker was already gliding through the hallways with this cocky, arrogant confidence. the guy was wearing tight black pants with the word "JUICY" shining across his ass and a cropped top, clearly feminine, clearly borrowed from some girl he'd probably hooked up with earlier, showing off his stupidly defined abs. his friends were practically doubled over, pointing and yelling sarcastic compliments. "parker, you're a genius!" "who's the lucky girl who lost her shirt?"
god, it seemed like every one of those idiots wanted to suck him off too. peter was so adored by everyone, even with all that arrogance, that it honestly made you sick.
you were leaning against the wall near the stairs, arms crossed, giving him that judgmental look. "trying to show off even more, parker?" your voice came out sharper than you expected, cutting through the noise. he stopped, turned around slowly, and his friends went quiet. "I thought you already got enough attention. or is your latest victim's pants your trophy for the night?"
his friends let out nervous giggles. but peter didn't flinch. he took two steps toward you, and the smell of cheap perfume and alcohol hit you before he did. his dark eyes scanned you, and his smirk widened.
"you think you're so smart, don't you?" he murmured.
you tried to hold his gaze, but something about his stance made your stomach twist.
"come on, i'll give you a little attention too."
you tried to resist, but his fingers were like iron, and he was already pulling you up the stairs.
the room he opened was a mess, covered in clothes and empty cans, but he didn't even bother closing the door properly.
he sat on the bed and slowly pushed his pants down. you held your breath when he grabbed your hair, pushing you down until you were on your knees in front of him.
“show me what your little mouth can do besides talking shit.”
you should have spat, pushed back, screamed. but your body moved before your brain could catch up, and when your lips met his warm, tense skin, a choked sound escaped your throat. he moaned, low, and his hand tightened in your hair.
"yeah," he said, his voice shaky with pleasure. "tell me, tell me how good i look in this outfit."
you tried to protest, but he thrust his hips forward, and his tip hit the back of your throat. you gagged, eyes watering, struggling to breathe through your nose. he didn't stop. every movement was deliberate, every thrust making you sob around him.
"say it, come on," he demanded, yanking your hair back so you had to look up at him. his face was flushed, his eyes dark and wild, the girl's top riding up to show even more of his defined stomach. "say i look good in these pants and this top."
"y-you..." you tried, your voice failing, spit running down your chin. "you l-look... good..."
he smiled and pushed in again, deeper. the sound of you choking filled the room, and he let out a soft moan, his fingers tangled in your hair.
"didn't quite catch that," he teased, his pace quickening. "say it again."
you could barely form words, but he didn't stop until you stammered out, between sobs and ragged breaths, that he was perfect, that the outfit was amazing, that he deserved all the attention in the world. every word came out like a surrender, and he accepted each one with a satisfied groan.
when he finally pulled away, you were gasping, slumped on the bed, that bitter taste lingering in your mouth. he stood up, adjusted his pants with a lazy tug, and glanced back at you over his shoulder.
"good girl."
he left, leaving the door wide open, and the sound of the party flooded back into the room. you stayed there, heart pounding, mouth numb, and you hated the fact that, for just a second, you almost liked all of it.
𐐪𐑂 this was inspired both by his new album and the bts of his gq photoshoot 😩 gif creds: @niallhoranhasthat1thing
𐐪𐑂 content → smut, oral (m!receiving), praise, degradation, facefucking, facial, dom!niall, impact play (he slaps her a few times), no aftercare written but it happens, 18+ BLOG! MDNI!
Niall is a good dominant… at least that’s what he likes to think. He’s slow to anger but quick to discipline. He knows when to let his sub push and when enough is enough. He knows how to keep her in check and she never leaves a night dissatisfied. She knows better than to brat and he knows just where to hit with his belt to make it hurt. Niall’s a good Dom in every sense of the word…
But, everyone has their shortcomings, and Niall’s lies in his ability to say “no.” When his good girl is down on her knees between his spread thighs, cock shoved dutifully down her throat. A symphony of gags and moans spilling from her mouth, finding her pleasure in the pure fact that she’s getting him off. His toes curl and thighs clench while the only sound in the room is the wet little gargles of the pretty girl poking her tongue out to lathe over his balls as the tip of his cock presses deeper into the back of her throat.
He can feel himself getting close, cock tensing, balls swelling, back arching as his calloused fingers tangle in her hair, giving one harsh tug to alert her to come off. Not because she wasn’t doing a good job… in fact quite the opposite; he was going to cum—and as much as Niall loved to paint a pretty girl’s throat with his seed, he needed to be inside of you—desperately. He spent all day inside a stuffy studio with a bunch of producers, and all he could think about for the last seven hours was your hot, sopping cunt wrapping around his cock.
In response to his tug, Niall is met with a grumble of displeasure from his girl, her hands batting his away as she whined quietly. “Oi… ease off, would ya, Pet?” He muttered softly, tugging once more, though his efforts proved fruitless against his girl’s desire to feel his cum spilling down her throat. He chuckles then, realizing that she had no intention of being nice tonight. It’s then that Niall decides he’ll give his girl what she wants and then some.
Niall groans quietly, pulling her hair back just enough for him to stand with her kneeled at his feet. “That’s how you want to play tonight, baby?” He smirked darkly, tugging her hair harder. His fingers tangled in her roots pulling her head back to force her gaze on him, his cock just out of reach of her lips. She whines quietly, a pathetic pout painting her wet lips as she tried to force herself forward.
“Niall, please…” she whines quietly, squirming uselessly under his tight grip. The minute the words leave her lips, Niall’s palm is connecting to her cheek in a rough slap. The action stuns her, even more so when he repeats it twice more. She’s all doe-eyed and pouty-lipped as she stares up at him in shock, and a chuckle forces its way up from Niall’s throat.
“Oh don’t gimme that look, Pet” he mocks a pout as his hand comes to grip her jaw. “I’m only goin’ t’give you what ya want” he mutters softly, slowly leaning over her and spitting in her open mouth. “At least *pretend* to be a little grateful” he mutters quietly. That’s the only warning she gets before Niall’s holding his thick cock in his hand and forcing it into her mouth, pressing against the back of her throat in one go.
She gags harshly, and her hands come flying to his hips in an attempt to bat him away. He only tuts softly, using his free hand to push her’s off of him. “Put them behind your back. I won’t ask twice.” Niall was angry now… and although it was just what she’d hoped for, now she was afraid. At least… afraid enough to obey his commands. Her hands lock in place behind her back.
She was still between his legs, gagging uselessly as she stared up at him with tear-filled eyes. Niall sighed in near exasperation, though his fingers gently scratched her scalp. “Breathe through your nose, Petal” he muttered, tone harsh but eyes softening just enough for her to notice. “Just relax. You can take it… You’re a good little whore” he smirked softly, nodding as he saw the color come back to her cheeks. “There’s my girl” he whispered, holding her hair tight in one hand, keeping her in face as he slowly began to fuck her face.
Her eyes rolled back, and with every press of his balls to her chin, she sputtered over her breaths. Niall let lout lewd moans above her, holding her head still and forcing eye contact as he pressed his cock as far into her mouth as he could. “Tell me what you are” Niall cooed tauntingly, the smirk playing on his lips evil as he knew she could do no such thing.
She made a frivolous attempt to respond, only being allowed a muffled sound accompanied by a sputter, and Niall’s moan as her throat flexed around the head of his cock. “What was that, Pet?” He pouted, pulling back just enough for
her to breathe, and then forcing her head down on his cock once more as his hips came to meet her face. “I couldn’t hear you, baby” Niall moaned as he picked up the pace of his cock’s torment of her overworked mouth. “If you can manage to tell me what you are before you make me cum” he panted, her eyes rolling back as his balls tensed once more. “I might even let you taste it.”
He laughed darkly, slapping her cheeks once more as he held her head in both hands. He was relentless as he fucked her face, uncaring for her comfort as he chased an orgasm. Her weak sputters and pathetic attempts at speaking only spurred Niall on, making his cock harder as he got closer and closer to a release. “Fuck ‘m gonna cum” he breathed, holding her down on his cock and grinding his hips against her face. “Take it… Fucking take it…” he moaned, pulling his cock from her mouth after the first twitch. He held her in place, letting his dick rest against her face, thrusting slowly as he began to paint her face with his seed.
“Fuck…” Niall breathed softly, watching the last few bursts of his cum slide down her forehead and onto her cheeks. “Good girl… So pretty with my cum all over your face” he smirked softly.
