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MASTERLIST
who's the 𝙘𝙪𝙩𝙚 𝙗𝙤𝙮 with the 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐭 & the 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 ?! liiike ?!
✩ 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐞 - S C A R L E T T . "lottie" or "cara" . istj . s!her . fem . booklover . multifandom . trilingual (native language is english, fluent in filipino, learning russian! ). filipino . str8 . highkey a nerd . adhd !
✩ 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 (interests) - reading . cats . floppy books . music . PJO . fictional men . sabrina carpenter . laufey . olivia rodrigo . chappell roan . LUNA LOVEGOOD . ghibli . malcolm todd . math (im a nerd sorry). robotics . rubiks cube! . katseye
✩ 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐬 - percy jackson and hoo (books) . the walking dead (show) . saiki k (show) . harry potter (books and movies) . marauders . brooklyn nine nine (in progress!) . the middle . stranger things . the maze runner (books and movies) . modern family . abbot elementary . magisterium . the hunger games (books and movies, in progress!) . the naturals (in progress!) . inheritance games (in progress!) . a good girl's guide to murder (book) . mysterious benedict society . avatar (atla show) . school for good and evil (book) . series of unfortunate events (show) . the umbrella academy (show, in progress!) . marvel cinematic universe / mcu (in progress) . six of crows . shadow of bone (in progress!) . anne with an e (in progress!) . poppy war . mphfpc (books, in progress!) . caraval . the legend of zelda (botw, totk) . dead poets society! . teen wolf . IT . scream. fear street . enola holmes . heated rivalry
⋆˚꩜｡𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
✩ 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐬 categories - waterbender . cabin 6 or 10 . ravenclaw . district 3 . mage of soul . heartrender . tony stark’s daughter
✩ 𝐢 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 (and thirst for) - dylan o brien . mason thames . malcolm todd . andy samberg . percy jackson . leo valdez . jason grace . grover underwood . annabeth chase . piper mclean . harry potter . ron weasley . draco malfoy . james potter . remus lupin . sirius black . regulus black . minho (tmr) . thomas (tmr) . newt (tmr) . peeta mellark . micheal townsend . dean reddings . stiles stilinski . zuko . aang . spiderman / peter parker . captain america . rick grimes. glenn rhee . kaz brekker . yin nezha . link . mike wheeler. jonathan byers . jake peralta . ilya rozanov and shane hollander ..... and many, many more!
⋆˚꩜｡𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
𝐨𝐨𝐡 maybe it's all in my 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙙 ₊˚⊹౨ৎ
✩ notes!! - new to tumblr . if u'd like to help me out, give me tips, or the like, it'd be greatly appreciated ! . very open to making friends . feel free to recommend media or books for me to enjoy too, im not very picky !
✩ writing!! - requests are open! i write for any of my fandoms, any fictional (or real) men (or women), or anybody as long as i have the willpower .
thank u!
────୨ but i bet we'd have really good 𝐁𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐌 !ৎ────
───── ⊹ rivals to lovers! peter parker x f! reader . subbytop!peter . not proofread . language
enjoy!
˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✦
you'd known peter parker since the sixth grade, back when he was the kid who cried during the mitosis unit bc he felt bad for the cells splitting apart. you brought this up constantly. he still hadn't forgiven you for it.
what you hadn't expected, four years later, was for that same crying-over-mitosis boy to become the only person on earth capable of beating your gpa by a decimal point.
"point-oh-three," he said, sliding into the seat next to you in ap chem like it was a throne he'd earned. "i checked this morning."
"you checked the moment the grades posted. don't act casual about it."
"i am extremely casual about it."
"you have the printout in your bag right now."
he didn't answer that, which was answer enough.
it had been like this since sophomore year — a slow, dumb war fought across every quiz, every group project, every decathlon meet where you'd both stood at podiums glaring at each other over buzzers. nobody else really understood it. mj said you two were "one bad day away from either killing each other or making out," and you'd laughed it off both times she said it, because that was the correct response, and because thinking about it for longer than a second made your stomach do something unfamiliar and irritating.
"okay," you said, "so what do you want. you didn't sit here to gloat about point-oh-three."
"i want a rematch."
"everything is a rematch with you."
"the decathlon regional. next month. if i win—"
"you won't."
"if i win," he continued, undeterred, "you owe me one thing. no questions asked. whatever i want."
you turned to look at him properly then, and something about the way he said it — steady, a little reckless, like he'd been sitting on the idea longer than he wanted to admit — made the back of your neck go warm.
that part, at least, was true. you shook his hand across the lab table, and neither of you let go quite as fast as you should have.
—
you lost.
you'd like it on record that you lost by half a point, on a tiebreaker question about noble gases that peter answered a full two seconds faster than you, and that you have never in your life wanted to throw a podium microphone at someone's head so badly.
he found you outside afterward, blazer slung over one shoulder, entirely too pleased with himself.
"so," he said.
"don't."
"i'm just saying, a deal's a deal."
"i know what a deal is, peter."
"so what do i get."
you crossed your arms, mostly to keep from doing something stupid with your hands, and studied him for a second — the smug curve of his mouth, the way he was rocking back on his heels like he'd been waiting all night just to ask this question.
"depends what you want."
he went quiet at that, actually quiet, the confidence slipping for half a second before he caught it and put it back on.
"come over tonight," he said. "my aunt's out of town. we can watch something bad and you can lose gracefully for once in your life."
"that's it? that's the big prize?" you sneered
"that's the big prize."
it wasn't, and you both knew it wasn't, but neither of you said so.
—
his apartment smelled like dryer sheets and old paperbacks. you sat on his couch with your knees pulled up while he made popcorn badly in the kitchen, and by the time the movie actually started neither of you were watching it.
"you paused on the tiebreaker," you said, halfway through, apropos of nothing. "before you answered."
"i answered right."
"peter."
"i answered right, that's not the same as pausing."
"you've never once in four years let a question sit for two seconds if you had it. you had it. you paused anyway."
He didn't deny it that time.
"why," you said, quieter now, the movie forgotten completely, "would you almost throw the one thing you've been trying to beat me at since we were twelve."
"because i didn't want to win by that much," he said, and his voice had dropped into something unfamiliar, something that made your pulse pick up in a way that had nothing to do with academic rivalry at all. "i wanted it close enough that you'd still say yes to tonight. figured if i crushed you you'd be too pissed to come over."
"that's insane logic."
"it worked, didn't it."
you thought about it. thought about every deflection, every argument that was really just an excuse to be near him, four years of it stacked up so high you'd stopped being able to see the bottom.
"yeah," you admitted. “ i guess it did."
he was closer now, smhow, though you hadn't seen either of you move. the bowl of bad popcorn sat forgotten between you.
"so what do you want," you asked, echoing his own question back at him, "now that you've got me here."
peter looked at you for a long moment, like he was recalculating something, like the answer mattered more than any decathlon score ever had.
"i think you already know," he said.
you did.
you shifted, turning your body toward him, shuffling closer so taht you were situated between his legs. "peter," you started, your voice barely a whisper.
he didn’t interrupt. He just watched you, his breath hitching slightly as you closed the remaining inch of space.
the first kiss wasn’t dramatic. it wasn’t the desperate, hungry clash of lips you might have imagined after four years of academic warfare. it was tentative. shy. your lips brushed his, soft and questioning, and he let out a small, shaky breath that vibrated against your mouth.
then he melted.
it was like watching a dam break, but gently. peter made a soft noise in the back of his throat—a low, needy hum—and his hands came up to cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a reverence that made your heart ache. he kissed you back, slowly, deeply, tasting you with a sweetness that belied the intensity of his eyes.
you tangled your hands in his hair, pulling him closer, and he responded instantly, his body relaxing against yours as if he’d been holding his breath for years. the kiss deepened, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, lazy rhythm, exploring, learning. it was messy and sweet and utterly him.
when you finally pulled back for air, your lips were swollen, your chest heaving. peter’s eyes were dark, hazy with lust, but his cheeks were flushed a deep, adorable pink. he looked down, biting his lip, shy again, as if he couldn’t believe you’d actually kissed him back.
"you taste like popcorn," he whispered, a small, shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
you laughed, a breathless, happy sound, and pulled him in for another kiss, deeper this time, more confident. he moaned into your mouth, his hands sliding down your back to grip your waist, pulling you firmly against him. the friction of your bodies, the heat radiating off him, it was intoxicating.
this went on for what felt like both an eternity and a split second. you kissed until your lips were raw, until your hands were tangled in each other’s clothes, until the rest of the world ceased to exist. peter was surprisingly skilled, his kisses confident yet gentle, always checking in with a soft touch or a soft sound, as if he was afraid you’d vanish.
when you finally broke apart, breathless and dizzy, peter rested his forehead against yours. he was looking at you with those big, doe eyes, his cheeks already dusted pink. he looked so vulnerable, so eager, that it made your chest ache.
"is it okay if i..um?" he asked, his voice small, trembling slightly, voice trailing off. his hands were resting on his own thighs, fingers twisting in the fabric of his jeans. your gaze dropped lower and you could see how painfully hard he waas.
you nodded. "yes, pete. it’s okay."
a shaky breath escaped him, and he slowly pushed his jeans down, shuffling them off his hips until they pooled around his ankles. he kicked them off, leaving him in just his boxers. he hesitated, looking up at you through his lashes, waiting for your cue. you reached out, your fingers brushing against the waistband of his boxers.
"can i?" you asked softly.
he nodded, biting his lip, his eyes wide and trusting. "please."
you pulled his boxers down, freeing him. he was hard already, twitching in the cool air, and a soft whimper escaped his throat. he closed his eyes, his hands gripping the edge of the couch cushions, knuckles white. he looked so cute, so desperate, that you couldn’t resist.
you leaned forward, wrapping your lips around the head of his cock. it was warm, soft at the tip, and he let out a sharp gasp, his hips jerking forward instinctively. you pulled back, watching him with a soft smile, before taking him deeper into your mouth.
peter’s breath hitched. his hands came up to rest on your shoulders, his thumbs stroking your skin gently, as if he was afraid you might vanish. he didn’t move much, letting you set the pace, his body tense but yielding. every time you moved your head, he let out a soft, broken sound, his hips bucking slightly against your mouth.
you worked him with a gentleness that surprised even you, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head, your hand wrapping around the base to stroke him in time with your mouth. he was trembling now, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. he looked down at you, his eyes hazy with pleasure, and you saw the way his jaw clenched, the way his fingers tightened in your hair.
"you’re so good," he whispered, his voice rough. "so good for me."
you looked up at him, meeting his gaze, and saw the love there, raw and unfiltered. it made your heart swell. you increased the pace, taking him deeper, faster, your hand working the length of him with practiced ease. peter’s hips were moving now, meeting your thrusts, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. he was close, so close, and he was letting you decide when he could let go.
"i’m close," he breathed, his voice high and thin. "can i?"
you nodded, pulling off him just as his hips snapped forward. he came with a soft cry, his body shuddering, his eyes squeezing shut as he spilled into your mouth. you swallowed, keeping your eyes on his face, batting your lashes at him, watching the way his features softened in the aftermath, the way his cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink. he looked so beautiful, so satisfied, and you felt a surge of pride.
he stayed still for a moment, catching his breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly. then, slowly, he opened his eyes, looking at you with a mix of awe and shyness.
"thank you," he whispered, his voice still shaky.
you smiled, wiping a stray drop of him from your lip. "you’re welcome."
he shifted, puahing you down onto your back so that your back was against the couch, and he crawled into your lap, straddling your hips. he was soft now, but still hardening rapidly, and he leaned down to kiss you, his lips soft and tentative.
when he pulled back, he looked at you with those big, innocent eyes, his cheeks still flushed. "can i touch you?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "i want to feel you."
you nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. "yes."
he nodded, his hands trembling slightly as they moved to your shirt. he lifted it up, revealing your stomach, and then your breasts. his eyes widened, and he let out a soft, awed sound. he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, then another, lower, tracing the line of your sternum. his fingers were gentle, almost reverent, as they traced the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist.
when he reached your bra, he fumbled with the clasp, his fingers clumsy with nervousness. "sorry," he mumbled, looking up at you with wide, apologetic eyes. "i just... i really want to see you."
you laughed softly, helping him undo the clasp. as soon as your breasts were free, he let out a shaky exhale, his gaze dropping to your nipples, already pebbling in the cool air. he leaned in, his tongue darting out to taste the tip of one, a soft, wet sound that made you shiver.
"oh god," you breathed, your hands tangling in his hair.
peter hummed against your skin, the vibration sending waves of pleasure through you. he switched to the other breast, sucking lightly, rolling the sensitive peak between his lips. his hands slid down your sides, tracing the curve of your hips, before moving to your jeans. he knelt there for a moment, looking up at you with those big, doe eyes, waiting for your signal.
"help me," you whispered.
he nodded, his cheeks flushing darker as he pulled your jeans down, kicking them off along with your underwear. when you were bare before him, he let out a soft, awed sound, his eyes darkening with desire. he reached out, his fingertips grazing your inner thigh, moving slowly, teasingly, until he found your center. you were already wet, already ready for him, and he let out a shaky breath.
"can i touch you?" he asked again, that subby tone in his voice, so sweet and vulnerable.
you pulled him down by his hair, kissing him deeply, tasting yourself on his lips. when you pulled away, he looked dazed, his lips swollen, his eyes hazy. "yes. touch me. please."
he smiled, a small, shy thing, and slid two fingers inside you. it was slow, gentle, stretching you open with a care that made your heart ache. he watched your face intently, reading every expression, every twitch of your muscles, adjusting his pressure based on your reactions.
"does that feel good?" he murmured, adding a third finger, curling them slightly.
"yes," you gasped, your hands gripping his shoulders. "peter, yes."
he increased the pace, his fingers moving in and out, finding that sweet spot with an instinctual knowledge that belied his shyness. he leaned in, kissing your neck, your jaw, your lips, all while his fingers worked you into a frenzy. you were close, so close, but he wasn’t done yet. he pulled his fingers out, leaving you feeling empty, and stood up.
"look at me," he commanded, though his voice still had that soft, pleading edge.
you looked up at him, your eyes hazy with lust. he took of his shirt so that he was naked now, his cock hard and leaking at the tip. he positioned himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips, his thumbs digging into your skin. he was trembling, clearly nervous, but his eyes were fierce, determined.
"i want to be inside you," he whispered. "i want to feel you around me. please?"
he thrust in, slow and careful, letting you adjust to his size. he paused, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hot and ragged. "you're so tight," he breathed, his eyes fluttering shut. "god, you feel amazing."
he began to move, a slow, rhythmic pace that was almost shy. he watched your face, waiting for your reaction, seeking your approval. every thrust was gentle, tentative, as if he was afraid of breaking you. but then, a gasp from you, a roll of your hips, and something shifted.
his confidence grew, just a fraction. his thrusts became deeper, harder, though he still kept his eyes on yours, seeking connection. he leaned down, kissing you deeply, his tongue tangling with yours as his hips snapped against yours. the friction was incredible, the heat building with every movement.
"peter," you moaned, your nails digging into his back. "i'm close."
he nodded, increasing his pace, his breathing becoming ragged. "i want to feel you cum," he whispered, his voice rough. "let go for me."
he picked up the pace, his hips moving faster, harder, driving into you with a desperation that matched your own. the pleasure coiled tight in your belly, aching for release. you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and then it hit.
the orgasm crashed over you, wave after wave of pure bliss. you cried out, your body convulsing around him, your nails digging into his back. peter groaned, his body tensing, his thrusts becoming erratic as he followed you over the edge. he buried himself deep inside you, holding himself there as he came, his body shuddering with the force of his release.
for a long moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing, the heavy thud of your hearts beating in sync. peter collapsed forward, resting his head on your chest, his arms wrapping around you tightly. he let out a soft, contented sigh.
"thank you," he whispered, his voice muffled against your skin.
you ran your fingers through his hair, smiling. "for what?"
"for letting me win," he said, looking up at you with those big, innocent eyes. "and for letting me be yours."
you laughed, pulling him closer. "i’m yours too, pete."
he blushed, hiding his face in your neck, but you could feel the smile on his lips. and as he lay there, safe and content in your arms, you knew that this—this quiet, tender, perfect moment—was worth more than any trophy.
you sighed. well, you were definitely doing this again. hopefully.
───── ⊹ rivals to lovers! peter parker x f! reader . subbytop!peter . not proofread . language
enjoy!
˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✦
you'd known peter parker since the sixth grade, back when he was the kid who cried during the mitosis unit bc he felt bad for the cells splitting apart. you brought this up constantly. he still hadn't forgiven you for it.
what you hadn't expected, four years later, was for that same crying-over-mitosis boy to become the only person on earth capable of beating your gpa by a decimal point.
"point-oh-three," he said, sliding into the seat next to you in ap chem like it was a throne he'd earned. "i checked this morning."
"you checked the moment the grades posted. don't act casual about it."
"i am extremely casual about it."
"you have the printout in your bag right now."
he didn't answer that, which was answer enough.
it had been like this since sophomore year — a slow, dumb war fought across every quiz, every group project, every decathlon meet where you'd both stood at podiums glaring at each other over buzzers. nobody else really understood it. mj said you two were "one bad day away from either killing each other or making out," and you'd laughed it off both times she said it, because that was the correct response, and because thinking about it for longer than a second made your stomach do something unfamiliar and irritating.
"okay," you said, "so what do you want. you didn't sit here to gloat about point-oh-three."
"i want a rematch."
"everything is a rematch with you."
"the decathlon regional. next month. if i win—"
"you won't."
"if i win," he continued, undeterred, "you owe me one thing. no questions asked. whatever i want."
you turned to look at him properly then, and something about the way he said it — steady, a little reckless, like he'd been sitting on the idea longer than he wanted to admit — made the back of your neck go warm.
that part, at least, was true. you shook his hand across the lab table, and neither of you let go quite as fast as you should have.
—
you lost.
you'd like it on record that you lost by half a point, on a tiebreaker question about noble gases that peter answered a full two seconds faster than you, and that you have never in your life wanted to throw a podium microphone at someone's head so badly.
he found you outside afterward, blazer slung over one shoulder, entirely too pleased with himself.
"so," he said.
"don't."
"i'm just saying, a deal's a deal."
"i know what a deal is, peter."
"so what do i get."
you crossed your arms, mostly to keep from doing something stupid with your hands, and studied him for a second — the smug curve of his mouth, the way he was rocking back on his heels like he'd been waiting all night just to ask this question.
"depends what you want."
he went quiet at that, actually quiet, the confidence slipping for half a second before he caught it and put it back on.
"come over tonight," he said. "my aunt's out of town. we can watch something bad and you can lose gracefully for once in your life."
"that's it? that's the big prize?" you sneered
"that's the big prize."
it wasn't, and you both knew it wasn't, but neither of you said so.
—
his apartment smelled like dryer sheets and old paperbacks. you sat on his couch with your knees pulled up while he made popcorn badly in the kitchen, and by the time the movie actually started neither of you were watching it.
"you paused on the tiebreaker," you said, halfway through, apropos of nothing. "before you answered."
"i answered right."
"peter."
"i answered right, that's not the same as pausing."
"you've never once in four years let a question sit for two seconds if you had it. you had it. you paused anyway."
He didn't deny it that time.
"why," you said, quieter now, the movie forgotten completely, "would you almost throw the one thing you've been trying to beat me at since we were twelve."
"because i didn't want to win by that much," he said, and his voice had dropped into something unfamiliar, something that made your pulse pick up in a way that had nothing to do with academic rivalry at all. "i wanted it close enough that you'd still say yes to tonight. figured if i crushed you you'd be too pissed to come over."
"that's insane logic."
"it worked, didn't it."
you thought about it. thought about every deflection, every argument that was really just an excuse to be near him, four years of it stacked up so high you'd stopped being able to see the bottom.
"yeah," you admitted. “ i guess it did."
he was closer now, smhow, though you hadn't seen either of you move. the bowl of bad popcorn sat forgotten between you.
"so what do you want," you asked, echoing his own question back at him, "now that you've got me here."
peter looked at you for a long moment, like he was recalculating something, like the answer mattered more than any decathlon score ever had.
"i think you already know," he said.
you did.
you shifted, turning your body toward him, shuffling closer so taht you were situated between his legs. "peter," you started, your voice barely a whisper.
he didn’t interrupt. He just watched you, his breath hitching slightly as you closed the remaining inch of space.
the first kiss wasn’t dramatic. it wasn’t the desperate, hungry clash of lips you might have imagined after four years of academic warfare. it was tentative. shy. your lips brushed his, soft and questioning, and he let out a small, shaky breath that vibrated against your mouth.
then he melted.
it was like watching a dam break, but gently. peter made a soft noise in the back of his throat—a low, needy hum—and his hands came up to cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a reverence that made your heart ache. he kissed you back, slowly, deeply, tasting you with a sweetness that belied the intensity of his eyes.
you tangled your hands in his hair, pulling him closer, and he responded instantly, his body relaxing against yours as if he’d been holding his breath for years. the kiss deepened, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, lazy rhythm, exploring, learning. it was messy and sweet and utterly him.
when you finally pulled back for air, your lips were swollen, your chest heaving. peter’s eyes were dark, hazy with lust, but his cheeks were flushed a deep, adorable pink. he looked down, biting his lip, shy again, as if he couldn’t believe you’d actually kissed him back.
"you taste like popcorn," he whispered, a small, shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
you laughed, a breathless, happy sound, and pulled him in for another kiss, deeper this time, more confident. he moaned into your mouth, his hands sliding down your back to grip your waist, pulling you firmly against him. the friction of your bodies, the heat radiating off him, it was intoxicating.
this went on for what felt like both an eternity and a split second. you kissed until your lips were raw, until your hands were tangled in each other’s clothes, until the rest of the world ceased to exist. peter was surprisingly skilled, his kisses confident yet gentle, always checking in with a soft touch or a soft sound, as if he was afraid you’d vanish.
when you finally broke apart, breathless and dizzy, peter rested his forehead against yours. he was looking at you with those big, doe eyes, his cheeks already dusted pink. he looked so vulnerable, so eager, that it made your chest ache.
"is it okay if i..um?" he asked, his voice small, trembling slightly, voice trailing off. his hands were resting on his own thighs, fingers twisting in the fabric of his jeans. your gaze dropped lower and you could see how painfully hard he waas.
you nodded. "yes, pete. it’s okay."
a shaky breath escaped him, and he slowly pushed his jeans down, shuffling them off his hips until they pooled around his ankles. he kicked them off, leaving him in just his boxers. he hesitated, looking up at you through his lashes, waiting for your cue. you reached out, your fingers brushing against the waistband of his boxers.
"can i?" you asked softly.
he nodded, biting his lip, his eyes wide and trusting. "please."
you pulled his boxers down, freeing him. he was hard already, twitching in the cool air, and a soft whimper escaped his throat. he closed his eyes, his hands gripping the edge of the couch cushions, knuckles white. he looked so cute, so desperate, that you couldn’t resist.
you leaned forward, wrapping your lips around the head of his cock. it was warm, soft at the tip, and he let out a sharp gasp, his hips jerking forward instinctively. you pulled back, watching him with a soft smile, before taking him deeper into your mouth.
peter’s breath hitched. his hands came up to rest on your shoulders, his thumbs stroking your skin gently, as if he was afraid you might vanish. he didn’t move much, letting you set the pace, his body tense but yielding. every time you moved your head, he let out a soft, broken sound, his hips bucking slightly against your mouth.
you worked him with a gentleness that surprised even you, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head, your hand wrapping around the base to stroke him in time with your mouth. he was trembling now, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. he looked down at you, his eyes hazy with pleasure, and you saw the way his jaw clenched, the way his fingers tightened in your hair.
"you’re so good," he whispered, his voice rough. "so good for me."
you looked up at him, meeting his gaze, and saw the love there, raw and unfiltered. it made your heart swell. you increased the pace, taking him deeper, faster, your hand working the length of him with practiced ease. peter’s hips were moving now, meeting your thrusts, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. he was close, so close, and he was letting you decide when he could let go.
"i’m close," he breathed, his voice high and thin. "can i?"
you nodded, pulling off him just as his hips snapped forward. he came with a soft cry, his body shuddering, his eyes squeezing shut as he spilled into your mouth. you swallowed, keeping your eyes on his face, batting your lashes at him, watching the way his features softened in the aftermath, the way his cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink. he looked so beautiful, so satisfied, and you felt a surge of pride.
he stayed still for a moment, catching his breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly. then, slowly, he opened his eyes, looking at you with a mix of awe and shyness.
"thank you," he whispered, his voice still shaky.
you smiled, wiping a stray drop of him from your lip. "you’re welcome."
he shifted, puahing you down onto your back so that your back was against the couch, and he crawled into your lap, straddling your hips. he was soft now, but still hardening rapidly, and he leaned down to kiss you, his lips soft and tentative.
when he pulled back, he looked at you with those big, innocent eyes, his cheeks still flushed. "can i touch you?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "i want to feel you."
you nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. "yes."
he nodded, his hands trembling slightly as they moved to your shirt. he lifted it up, revealing your stomach, and then your breasts. his eyes widened, and he let out a soft, awed sound. he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, then another, lower, tracing the line of your sternum. his fingers were gentle, almost reverent, as they traced the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist.
when he reached your bra, he fumbled with the clasp, his fingers clumsy with nervousness. "sorry," he mumbled, looking up at you with wide, apologetic eyes. "i just... i really want to see you."
you laughed softly, helping him undo the clasp. as soon as your breasts were free, he let out a shaky exhale, his gaze dropping to your nipples, already pebbling in the cool air. he leaned in, his tongue darting out to taste the tip of one, a soft, wet sound that made you shiver.
"oh god," you breathed, your hands tangling in his hair.
peter hummed against your skin, the vibration sending waves of pleasure through you. he switched to the other breast, sucking lightly, rolling the sensitive peak between his lips. his hands slid down your sides, tracing the curve of your hips, before moving to your jeans. he knelt there for a moment, looking up at you with those big, doe eyes, waiting for your signal.
"help me," you whispered.
he nodded, his cheeks flushing darker as he pulled your jeans down, kicking them off along with your underwear. when you were bare before him, he let out a soft, awed sound, his eyes darkening with desire. he reached out, his fingertips grazing your inner thigh, moving slowly, teasingly, until he found your center. you were already wet, already ready for him, and he let out a shaky breath.
"can i touch you?" he asked again, that subby tone in his voice, so sweet and vulnerable.
you pulled him down by his hair, kissing him deeply, tasting yourself on his lips. when you pulled away, he looked dazed, his lips swollen, his eyes hazy. "yes. touch me. please."
he smiled, a small, shy thing, and slid two fingers inside you. it was slow, gentle, stretching you open with a care that made your heart ache. he watched your face intently, reading every expression, every twitch of your muscles, adjusting his pressure based on your reactions.
"does that feel good?" he murmured, adding a third finger, curling them slightly.
"yes," you gasped, your hands gripping his shoulders. "peter, yes."
he increased the pace, his fingers moving in and out, finding that sweet spot with an instinctual knowledge that belied his shyness. he leaned in, kissing your neck, your jaw, your lips, all while his fingers worked you into a frenzy. you were close, so close, but he wasn’t done yet. he pulled his fingers out, leaving you feeling empty, and stood up.
"look at me," he commanded, though his voice still had that soft, pleading edge.
you looked up at him, your eyes hazy with lust. he took of his shirt so that he was naked now, his cock hard and leaking at the tip. he positioned himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips, his thumbs digging into your skin. he was trembling, clearly nervous, but his eyes were fierce, determined.
"i want to be inside you," he whispered. "i want to feel you around me. please?"
he thrust in, slow and careful, letting you adjust to his size. he paused, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hot and ragged. "you're so tight," he breathed, his eyes fluttering shut. "god, you feel amazing."
he began to move, a slow, rhythmic pace that was almost shy. he watched your face, waiting for your reaction, seeking your approval. every thrust was gentle, tentative, as if he was afraid of breaking you. but then, a gasp from you, a roll of your hips, and something shifted.
his confidence grew, just a fraction. his thrusts became deeper, harder, though he still kept his eyes on yours, seeking connection. he leaned down, kissing you deeply, his tongue tangling with yours as his hips snapped against yours. the friction was incredible, the heat building with every movement.
"peter," you moaned, your nails digging into his back. "i'm close."
he nodded, increasing his pace, his breathing becoming ragged. "i want to feel you cum," he whispered, his voice rough. "let go for me."
he picked up the pace, his hips moving faster, harder, driving into you with a desperation that matched your own. the pleasure coiled tight in your belly, aching for release. you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and then it hit.
the orgasm crashed over you, wave after wave of pure bliss. you cried out, your body convulsing around him, your nails digging into his back. peter groaned, his body tensing, his thrusts becoming erratic as he followed you over the edge. he buried himself deep inside you, holding himself there as he came, his body shuddering with the force of his release.
for a long moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing, the heavy thud of your hearts beating in sync. peter collapsed forward, resting his head on your chest, his arms wrapping around you tightly. he let out a soft, contented sigh.
"thank you," he whispered, his voice muffled against your skin.
you ran your fingers through his hair, smiling. "for what?"
"for letting me win," he said, looking up at you with those big, innocent eyes. "and for letting me be yours."
you laughed, pulling him closer. "i’m yours too, pete."
he blushed, hiding his face in your neck, but you could feel the smile on his lips. and as he lay there, safe and content in your arms, you knew that this—this quiet, tender, perfect moment—was worth more than any trophy.
you sighed. well, you were definitely doing this again. hopefully.
───── ⊹ rivals to lovers! peter parker x f! reader . subbytop!peter . not proofread . language
enjoy!
˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✦
you'd known peter parker since the sixth grade, back when he was the kid who cried during the mitosis unit bc he felt bad for the cells splitting apart. you brought this up constantly. he still hadn't forgiven you for it.
what you hadn't expected, four years later, was for that same crying-over-mitosis boy to become the only person on earth capable of beating your gpa by a decimal point.
"point-oh-three," he said, sliding into the seat next to you in ap chem like it was a throne he'd earned. "i checked this morning."
"you checked the moment the grades posted. don't act casual about it."
"i am extremely casual about it."
"you have the printout in your bag right now."
he didn't answer that, which was answer enough.
it had been like this since sophomore year — a slow, dumb war fought across every quiz, every group project, every decathlon meet where you'd both stood at podiums glaring at each other over buzzers. nobody else really understood it. mj said you two were "one bad day away from either killing each other or making out," and you'd laughed it off both times she said it, because that was the correct response, and because thinking about it for longer than a second made your stomach do something unfamiliar and irritating.
"okay," you said, "so what do you want. you didn't sit here to gloat about point-oh-three."
"i want a rematch."
"everything is a rematch with you."
"the decathlon regional. next month. if i win—"
"you won't."
"if i win," he continued, undeterred, "you owe me one thing. no questions asked. whatever i want."
you turned to look at him properly then, and something about the way he said it — steady, a little reckless, like he'd been sitting on the idea longer than he wanted to admit — made the back of your neck go warm.
that part, at least, was true. you shook his hand across the lab table, and neither of you let go quite as fast as you should have.
—
you lost.
you'd like it on record that you lost by half a point, on a tiebreaker question about noble gases that peter answered a full two seconds faster than you, and that you have never in your life wanted to throw a podium microphone at someone's head so badly.
he found you outside afterward, blazer slung over one shoulder, entirely too pleased with himself.
"so," he said.
"don't."
"i'm just saying, a deal's a deal."
"i know what a deal is, peter."
"so what do i get."
you crossed your arms, mostly to keep from doing something stupid with your hands, and studied him for a second — the smug curve of his mouth, the way he was rocking back on his heels like he'd been waiting all night just to ask this question.
"depends what you want."
he went quiet at that, actually quiet, the confidence slipping for half a second before he caught it and put it back on.
"come over tonight," he said. "my aunt's out of town. we can watch something bad and you can lose gracefully for once in your life."
"that's it? that's the big prize?" you sneered
"that's the big prize."
it wasn't, and you both knew it wasn't, but neither of you said so.
—
his apartment smelled like dryer sheets and old paperbacks. you sat on his couch with your knees pulled up while he made popcorn badly in the kitchen, and by the time the movie actually started neither of you were watching it.
"you paused on the tiebreaker," you said, halfway through, apropos of nothing. "before you answered."
"i answered right."
"peter."
"i answered right, that's not the same as pausing."
"you've never once in four years let a question sit for two seconds if you had it. you had it. you paused anyway."
He didn't deny it that time.
"why," you said, quieter now, the movie forgotten completely, "would you almost throw the one thing you've been trying to beat me at since we were twelve."
"because i didn't want to win by that much," he said, and his voice had dropped into something unfamiliar, something that made your pulse pick up in a way that had nothing to do with academic rivalry at all. "i wanted it close enough that you'd still say yes to tonight. figured if i crushed you you'd be too pissed to come over."
"that's insane logic."
"it worked, didn't it."
you thought about it. thought about every deflection, every argument that was really just an excuse to be near him, four years of it stacked up so high you'd stopped being able to see the bottom.
"yeah," you admitted. “ i guess it did."
he was closer now, smhow, though you hadn't seen either of you move. the bowl of bad popcorn sat forgotten between you.
"so what do you want," you asked, echoing his own question back at him, "now that you've got me here."
peter looked at you for a long moment, like he was recalculating something, like the answer mattered more than any decathlon score ever had.
"i think you already know," he said.
you did.
you shifted, turning your body toward him, shuffling closer so taht you were situated between his legs. "peter," you started, your voice barely a whisper.
he didn’t interrupt. He just watched you, his breath hitching slightly as you closed the remaining inch of space.
the first kiss wasn’t dramatic. it wasn’t the desperate, hungry clash of lips you might have imagined after four years of academic warfare. it was tentative. shy. your lips brushed his, soft and questioning, and he let out a small, shaky breath that vibrated against your mouth.
then he melted.
it was like watching a dam break, but gently. peter made a soft noise in the back of his throat—a low, needy hum—and his hands came up to cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a reverence that made your heart ache. he kissed you back, slowly, deeply, tasting you with a sweetness that belied the intensity of his eyes.
you tangled your hands in his hair, pulling him closer, and he responded instantly, his body relaxing against yours as if he’d been holding his breath for years. the kiss deepened, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, lazy rhythm, exploring, learning. it was messy and sweet and utterly him.
when you finally pulled back for air, your lips were swollen, your chest heaving. peter’s eyes were dark, hazy with lust, but his cheeks were flushed a deep, adorable pink. he looked down, biting his lip, shy again, as if he couldn’t believe you’d actually kissed him back.
"you taste like popcorn," he whispered, a small, shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
you laughed, a breathless, happy sound, and pulled him in for another kiss, deeper this time, more confident. he moaned into your mouth, his hands sliding down your back to grip your waist, pulling you firmly against him. the friction of your bodies, the heat radiating off him, it was intoxicating.
this went on for what felt like both an eternity and a split second. you kissed until your lips were raw, until your hands were tangled in each other’s clothes, until the rest of the world ceased to exist. peter was surprisingly skilled, his kisses confident yet gentle, always checking in with a soft touch or a soft sound, as if he was afraid you’d vanish.
when you finally broke apart, breathless and dizzy, peter rested his forehead against yours. he was looking at you with those big, doe eyes, his cheeks already dusted pink. he looked so vulnerable, so eager, that it made your chest ache.
"is it okay if i..um?" he asked, his voice small, trembling slightly, voice trailing off. his hands were resting on his own thighs, fingers twisting in the fabric of his jeans. your gaze dropped lower and you could see how painfully hard he waas.
you nodded. "yes, pete. it’s okay."
a shaky breath escaped him, and he slowly pushed his jeans down, shuffling them off his hips until they pooled around his ankles. he kicked them off, leaving him in just his boxers. he hesitated, looking up at you through his lashes, waiting for your cue. you reached out, your fingers brushing against the waistband of his boxers.
"can i?" you asked softly.
he nodded, biting his lip, his eyes wide and trusting. "please."
you pulled his boxers down, freeing him. he was hard already, twitching in the cool air, and a soft whimper escaped his throat. he closed his eyes, his hands gripping the edge of the couch cushions, knuckles white. he looked so cute, so desperate, that you couldn’t resist.
you leaned forward, wrapping your lips around the head of his cock. it was warm, soft at the tip, and he let out a sharp gasp, his hips jerking forward instinctively. you pulled back, watching him with a soft smile, before taking him deeper into your mouth.
peter’s breath hitched. his hands came up to rest on your shoulders, his thumbs stroking your skin gently, as if he was afraid you might vanish. he didn’t move much, letting you set the pace, his body tense but yielding. every time you moved your head, he let out a soft, broken sound, his hips bucking slightly against your mouth.
you worked him with a gentleness that surprised even you, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head, your hand wrapping around the base to stroke him in time with your mouth. he was trembling now, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. he looked down at you, his eyes hazy with pleasure, and you saw the way his jaw clenched, the way his fingers tightened in your hair.
"you’re so good," he whispered, his voice rough. "so good for me."
you looked up at him, meeting his gaze, and saw the love there, raw and unfiltered. it made your heart swell. you increased the pace, taking him deeper, faster, your hand working the length of him with practiced ease. peter’s hips were moving now, meeting your thrusts, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. he was close, so close, and he was letting you decide when he could let go.
"i’m close," he breathed, his voice high and thin. "can i?"
you nodded, pulling off him just as his hips snapped forward. he came with a soft cry, his body shuddering, his eyes squeezing shut as he spilled into your mouth. you swallowed, keeping your eyes on his face, batting your lashes at him, watching the way his features softened in the aftermath, the way his cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink. he looked so beautiful, so satisfied, and you felt a surge of pride.
he stayed still for a moment, catching his breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly. then, slowly, he opened his eyes, looking at you with a mix of awe and shyness.
"thank you," he whispered, his voice still shaky.
you smiled, wiping a stray drop of him from your lip. "you’re welcome."
he shifted, puahing you down onto your back so that your back was against the couch, and he crawled into your lap, straddling your hips. he was soft now, but still hardening rapidly, and he leaned down to kiss you, his lips soft and tentative.
when he pulled back, he looked at you with those big, innocent eyes, his cheeks still flushed. "can i touch you?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "i want to feel you."
you nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. "yes."
he nodded, his hands trembling slightly as they moved to your shirt. he lifted it up, revealing your stomach, and then your breasts. his eyes widened, and he let out a soft, awed sound. he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, then another, lower, tracing the line of your sternum. his fingers were gentle, almost reverent, as they traced the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist.
when he reached your bra, he fumbled with the clasp, his fingers clumsy with nervousness. "sorry," he mumbled, looking up at you with wide, apologetic eyes. "i just... i really want to see you."
you laughed softly, helping him undo the clasp. as soon as your breasts were free, he let out a shaky exhale, his gaze dropping to your nipples, already pebbling in the cool air. he leaned in, his tongue darting out to taste the tip of one, a soft, wet sound that made you shiver.
"oh god," you breathed, your hands tangling in his hair.
peter hummed against your skin, the vibration sending waves of pleasure through you. he switched to the other breast, sucking lightly, rolling the sensitive peak between his lips. his hands slid down your sides, tracing the curve of your hips, before moving to your jeans. he knelt there for a moment, looking up at you with those big, doe eyes, waiting for your signal.
"help me," you whispered.
he nodded, his cheeks flushing darker as he pulled your jeans down, kicking them off along with your underwear. when you were bare before him, he let out a soft, awed sound, his eyes darkening with desire. he reached out, his fingertips grazing your inner thigh, moving slowly, teasingly, until he found your center. you were already wet, already ready for him, and he let out a shaky breath.
"can i touch you?" he asked again, that subby tone in his voice, so sweet and vulnerable.
you pulled him down by his hair, kissing him deeply, tasting yourself on his lips. when you pulled away, he looked dazed, his lips swollen, his eyes hazy. "yes. touch me. please."
he smiled, a small, shy thing, and slid two fingers inside you. it was slow, gentle, stretching you open with a care that made your heart ache. he watched your face intently, reading every expression, every twitch of your muscles, adjusting his pressure based on your reactions.
"does that feel good?" he murmured, adding a third finger, curling them slightly.
"yes," you gasped, your hands gripping his shoulders. "peter, yes."
he increased the pace, his fingers moving in and out, finding that sweet spot with an instinctual knowledge that belied his shyness. he leaned in, kissing your neck, your jaw, your lips, all while his fingers worked you into a frenzy. you were close, so close, but he wasn’t done yet. he pulled his fingers out, leaving you feeling empty, and stood up.
"look at me," he commanded, though his voice still had that soft, pleading edge.
you looked up at him, your eyes hazy with lust. he took of his shirt so that he was naked now, his cock hard and leaking at the tip. he positioned himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips, his thumbs digging into your skin. he was trembling, clearly nervous, but his eyes were fierce, determined.
"i want to be inside you," he whispered. "i want to feel you around me. please?"
he thrust in, slow and careful, letting you adjust to his size. he paused, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hot and ragged. "you're so tight," he breathed, his eyes fluttering shut. "god, you feel amazing."
he began to move, a slow, rhythmic pace that was almost shy. he watched your face, waiting for your reaction, seeking your approval. every thrust was gentle, tentative, as if he was afraid of breaking you. but then, a gasp from you, a roll of your hips, and something shifted.
his confidence grew, just a fraction. his thrusts became deeper, harder, though he still kept his eyes on yours, seeking connection. he leaned down, kissing you deeply, his tongue tangling with yours as his hips snapped against yours. the friction was incredible, the heat building with every movement.
"peter," you moaned, your nails digging into his back. "i'm close."
he nodded, increasing his pace, his breathing becoming ragged. "i want to feel you cum," he whispered, his voice rough. "let go for me."
he picked up the pace, his hips moving faster, harder, driving into you with a desperation that matched your own. the pleasure coiled tight in your belly, aching for release. you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and then it hit.
the orgasm crashed over you, wave after wave of pure bliss. you cried out, your body convulsing around him, your nails digging into his back. peter groaned, his body tensing, his thrusts becoming erratic as he followed you over the edge. he buried himself deep inside you, holding himself there as he came, his body shuddering with the force of his release.
for a long moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing, the heavy thud of your hearts beating in sync. peter collapsed forward, resting his head on your chest, his arms wrapping around you tightly. he let out a soft, contented sigh.
"thank you," he whispered, his voice muffled against your skin.
you ran your fingers through his hair, smiling. "for what?"
"for letting me win," he said, looking up at you with those big, innocent eyes. "and for letting me be yours."
you laughed, pulling him closer. "i’m yours too, pete."
he blushed, hiding his face in your neck, but you could feel the smile on his lips. and as he lay there, safe and content in your arms, you knew that this—this quiet, tender, perfect moment—was worth more than any trophy.
you sighed. well, you were definitely doing this again. hopefully.
───── your sweet, sweet peter is suuuuch a gentleman with you, but in bed, he’s the biggest freak !
───── freak bf!peter parker x fem!reader — MDNI !!! , spicy, praise kink, cockwarmimg, not proofread, dom!peter, petey fucking reader dumb 🥴, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before u tap it), language!
(smutty smut smut! if ur a minor pls dont interact ! but to the rest of u freaks, enjoyyy !! )
at first, you couldn’t choose what your favorite perk of being peter parker’s girlfriend was. i mean, how could you when he was suuuuuch a gentleman? he would tie your shoes for you, would brush your hair, would cuddle you to sleep, and all that.
but as of now, you decided your favorite perk of being his girlfriend was how he was such a gentleman in public but the biggest freak in bed ! you just adoreeeed how he fucked you like tomorrow would never come.
“a-ah oh fuuuuuuck, that’s it baby ! “ he groaned into your ear, and you felt your heartbeat jump to your throat as his tip kissed his cervix.
“fuck, s’to much pete..” you whimper, as his hands come up and tangle into your hair, pulling your head back just enough so he can bury his face in the crook of your neck. his teeth graze the sensitive skin there, not quite biting, not quite kissing, just that teasing, maddening friction that makes your toes curl and your thighs clamp around his hips instinctively.
“shh, it’s okay baby, you can take it for me right? take it for me like the good- ahh fuck ! like the good girl you are,”
you didn’t understand a word he was saying, too lost in the way he was fucking you like there was no tomorrow. in your dazed state, you could only focus on his lips, his dick, your throbbing clit, and the banging of the headboard against the wall (your neighbors have been desensitized due to…this…. being you and peter’s favorite daily pastime!)
“baby.”
“hmmm?” you manage to make your lips form a word.
“awww is my baby too cockdrunk to speak? it’s ok, my love. i asked if you can take it or do you want me to stop,”
you shook your head. “i can take it- a-ah- petey,” you manage to whimper, that phrase taking 90% of your brain.
“good girl.”
his hand comes up to play with your clit, rubbing the bud in smooth motions, and it multiplies your feelings by ten fold.
he moves with a rhythm that is both frantic and precise, every thrust hitting that sweet spot deep inside you. every nerve in your body feels like it’s been set on fire.
you arch your back, meeting his thrusts, gasping his name like a prayer. he answers with a low, guttural sound, his hips snapping forward with renewed vigor. the sound of skin on skin, the wet slickness, the ragged breathing—it’s all music to your ears. he’s whispering things in your ear, dirty, sweet, desperate things that make your heart race even faster.
“you feel so good,” he pants, his voice rough. “i love you baby. taking me so well.”
he’s close, you can tell by the change in his breathing, by the way his thrusts become shallower, faster, more erratic. he whimpers into your air, trying to hold on, trying to make it last, but it’s hard when you’re reacting to every inch of him with such enthusiasm. you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him on. “just like that baby,” you groan as he ruts into you, impossibly deep.
you let out a moan as you finally teetered over the edge of bliss, seeing stars. you can feel your gummy walls squeezing around the head of his cock.
apparently, that’s all it takes. with a final, powerful thrust, peter buries himself to the hilt and stills. His body goes rigid, every muscle tensed, as he empties himself into you. you both groan at the feeling of his warm, sticky seed filling you up. he sighs, a long, drawn-out sound of pure ecstasy, and you feel the warm pulses of his release deep inside you. he stays there, buried to the root, his breath hitching in his throat as he continues thrusting into you, making sure none of his seed goes to waste. for a moment, there is only the sound of your combined breathing, the silence of the room, and the warmth of his body pressing against yours.
he doesn’t pull out immediately. he stays there, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes closed, his chest heaving.
he lifts his head, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, and looks at you with a mix of adoration and lingering lust. “you okay, baby?” he asks, his voice a husky whisper. you nod, smiling up at him, your hand reaching up to stroke his cheek. he leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a second before opening again, brighter now, more focused.
he presses his hand to your stomach, feeling the bulge of his cock deep in you, and he adjusts his hips, slowly pulling out.
but just when his tip is the only part left in, your legs come up around his waist snd tighten, restricting his movements.
“don’t pull out, wanna feel you pete,” you whimper, angling your hips to pull his cock back, feeling the delightful burn of his wide dick again.
“why, baby?” peter asks, though he’s not so opposed to the idea of fucking his sweet girl for the fourth time that night.
“because i’m not done with you,” you simply, rolling your hips slightly, which makes him gasp.
───── your sweet, sweet peter is suuuuch a gentleman with you, but in bed, he’s the biggest freak !
───── freak bf!peter parker x fem!reader — MDNI !!! , spicy, praise kink, cockwarmimg, not proofread, dom!peter, petey fucking reader dumb 🥴, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before u tap it), language!
(smutty smut smut! if ur a minor pls dont interact ! but to the rest of u freaks, enjoyyy !! )
at first, you couldn’t choose what your favorite perk of being peter parker’s girlfriend was. i mean, how could you when he was suuuuuch a gentleman? he would tie your shoes for you, would brush your hair, would cuddle you to sleep, and all that.
but as of now, you decided your favorite perk of being his girlfriend was how he was such a gentleman in public but the biggest freak in bed ! you just adoreeeed how he fucked you like tomorrow would never come.
“a-ah oh fuuuuuuck, that’s it baby ! “ he groaned into your ear, and you felt your heartbeat jump to your throat as his tip kissed his cervix.
“fuck, s’to much pete..” you whimper, as his hands come up and tangle into your hair, pulling your head back just enough so he can bury his face in the crook of your neck. his teeth graze the sensitive skin there, not quite biting, not quite kissing, just that teasing, maddening friction that makes your toes curl and your thighs clamp around his hips instinctively.
“shh, it’s okay baby, you can take it for me right? take it for me like the good- ahh fuck ! like the good girl you are,”
you didn’t understand a word he was saying, too lost in the way he was fucking you like there was no tomorrow. in your dazed state, you could only focus on his lips, his dick, your throbbing clit, and the banging of the headboard against the wall (your neighbors have been desensitized due to…this…. being you and peter’s favorite daily pastime!)
“baby.”
“hmmm?” you manage to make your lips form a word.
“awww is my baby too cockdrunk to speak? it’s ok, my love. i asked if you can take it or do you want me to stop,”
you shook your head. “i can take it- a-ah- petey,” you manage to whimper, that phrase taking 90% of your brain.
“good girl.”
his hand comes up to play with your clit, rubbing the bud in smooth motions, and it multiplies your feelings by ten fold.
he moves with a rhythm that is both frantic and precise, every thrust hitting that sweet spot deep inside you. every nerve in your body feels like it’s been set on fire.
you arch your back, meeting his thrusts, gasping his name like a prayer. he answers with a low, guttural sound, his hips snapping forward with renewed vigor. the sound of skin on skin, the wet slickness, the ragged breathing—it’s all music to your ears. he’s whispering things in your ear, dirty, sweet, desperate things that make your heart race even faster.
“you feel so good,” he pants, his voice rough. “i love you baby. taking me so well.”
he’s close, you can tell by the change in his breathing, by the way his thrusts become shallower, faster, more erratic. he whimpers into your air, trying to hold on, trying to make it last, but it’s hard when you’re reacting to every inch of him with such enthusiasm. you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him on. “just like that baby,” you groan as he ruts into you, impossibly deep.
you let out a moan as you finally teetered over the edge of bliss, seeing stars. you can feel your gummy walls squeezing around the head of his cock.
apparently, that’s all it takes. with a final, powerful thrust, peter buries himself to the hilt and stills. His body goes rigid, every muscle tensed, as he empties himself into you. you both groan at the feeling of his warm, sticky seed filling you up. he sighs, a long, drawn-out sound of pure ecstasy, and you feel the warm pulses of his release deep inside you. he stays there, buried to the root, his breath hitching in his throat as he continues thrusting into you, making sure none of his seed goes to waste. for a moment, there is only the sound of your combined breathing, the silence of the room, and the warmth of his body pressing against yours.
he doesn’t pull out immediately. he stays there, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes closed, his chest heaving.
he lifts his head, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, and looks at you with a mix of adoration and lingering lust. “you okay, baby?” he asks, his voice a husky whisper. you nod, smiling up at him, your hand reaching up to stroke his cheek. he leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a second before opening again, brighter now, more focused.
he presses his hand to your stomach, feeling the bulge of his cock deep in you, and he adjusts his hips, slowly pulling out.
but just when his tip is the only part left in, your legs come up around his waist snd tighten, restricting his movements.
“don’t pull out, wanna feel you pete,” you whimper, angling your hips to pull his cock back, feeling the delightful burn of his wide dick again.
“why, baby?” peter asks, though he’s not so opposed to the idea of fucking his sweet girl for the fourth time that night.
“because i’m not done with you,” you simply, rolling your hips slightly, which makes him gasp.
𝓟eter 𝓟arker 𝒙 f!reader ⊹ ❛ fratboy!peter doesn't do condoms or pulling out ❜ 𖹭.ᐟ 2.1k wc. mdni. unprotected p in v. lowk manipulative!peter. creampie/breeding + mentioned risk of impreg. dirty talk + pet names + praise. prone bone position. alluded situationship between peter & reader. lowkey dubcon but reader fucks w it.
You hadn't exactly woken up that morning with the intention of sliding into frat king Peter Parker's bed (for the fourth time in two months, mind you), but that's exactly where you are now.
And, fuck, you can't even say you hate it or regret it—though you really wish you could say so.
You'd promised yourself after the third time that you'd stop. You wouldn't fall for his charming character, puppy-dog eyes, smooth words, or heaven-sent dick; actually, you'd ignore him, maybe even find someone else to help bite away at your sexual frustration for the remainder of your college years.
Someone safer, with far more respect for boundaries.
Because for as beautifully as Peter Parker fucked, for as skilled as he was with his hands, fingers, tongue, fucking everything—he had one glaring, impeding flaw.
He absolutely refused to use a condom.
"Don't have any," he'd murmured the first time you let him between your legs and asked the most obvious question of 'what about condoms?'
You almost shut it down there, but then he pinned you with those puppy-dog eyes, as if he knew what you were about to do, voice a husky whisper, "I'm sorry, I couldn't get any before you came over... is that okay?"
It wasn't. It shouldn't have been.
You should have made that crystal clear, or at least demanded he run to the nearest convenience store if he wanted to stick his cock in you—but you didn't.
You simply nodded, let that stupidly attractive little half-smile he gave you twist your heart, and proceeded to let him fuck your brains out, completely raw and bare. Let him pump his cum inside you and squeeze your throat a little as he did so, feeling your eyes roll at the way his tip smeared against your sensitive cervix in the most pleasurable way.
And even though you were nearly incoherent by the end of it, you were still able to stress that next time, he better have a damn condom.
And Peter smirked, pleased at the confirmation of a next time, and promised that he would have one.
Really, you probably should have seen that for what it was—a bold faced fucking lie. But he was a damn good liar, and they tend to twist even the most obvious of lies into something inherently believable.
Just as Peter had done the second time around.
On your back, legs splayed, lips locked with his and pussy positively buzzing from the promise of being stretched by that heavenly cock pressed against your cunt, you couldn't really register how faux it was when Peter leaned over and opened the bedside drawer, rummaging around inside it before popping up from your lips with a softly hissed, "shit."
"Wh-what is it?" you pressed breathlessly, eyes darting between Peter's tensed jaw and his hand still in the drawer. There was an ache where his lips had just been, an ache that begged to be soothed.
"The condoms," he half rushed, half groaned. "I swear to God I put them in here. They were there last night, I double checked—shit, I'm sorry, babe—maybe next time? I can't find them—"
You were stupid. So, so stupid. But you were so horny, so worked up from his lips and hands, that when Peter tried to push away from you, your hand shot out and caught his bicep.
"It's fine," you pushed out hurriedly. Peter's eyes snapped to you and his jaw unclenched, but his brows furrowed. "We can still—fuck, just don't worry about the condom. It's okay."
Had you been a little more clear headed, you may have been able to realize that weird gleam in his eye was actually the shine of victory, and not the puddle of concern you originally took it for when he asked if you were sure.
The first two times could be written off as you maybe being too gullible, but in a way that was acceptable; after all, Peter was able to hide his disdain for condoms pretty well.
The third time around? He didn't even try—maybe because he knew that by now, you were so hooked to his dick and the way he fucked you that he could get away with it.
And he wasn't entirely wrong. No, actually, he wasn't wrong at all.
That was evident in the way you were bouncing on his raw cock, taking him all the way to the hilt and rocking forward subtly before pulling up again, pulling soft groans and hissed curses from his lips. Rinse and repeat.
And he's just watching you, eyes sharp like a hawk, reveling in the way you unravel for him, a small smirk on his lips because even though you'd been so adamant for 'protection' at the door, you folded so easy.
A few slick words, soft phrases, sultry touches, an easy lie of he 'can't feel anything through them and he really, really wants to feel you, baby', and one look at his dick and you went wild, forgetting all about pesky condoms in exchange for mind-numbing pleasure.
Thank every god in every universe that you weren't fertile during any of those hookups; otherwise you'd definitely be carrying a miniature Peter Parker right now—which wasn't in your books, at all.
You couldn't say the same about this time. Which is why you shouldn't even be here, face down, hips lifted, moaning into a pillow that smells of Dior Sauvage and fresh linen fabric refreshner while you're railed into next week.
You hadn't even meant for it to happen; it wasn't on your agenda for the day.
But when you ran into Peter, his hair freshly trimmed, top shirt buttons popped to expose just enough of his chest, smelling of the same cologne you're currently huffing from his pillow now—well, your ovulating self couldn't fucking say no when he invited you to his place.
And, again, you can't even feel any regret. Because it's everything you'd been craving for the last few days; rough, feral sex, with your face pressed into fabric and your pussy fucked open so deliciously.
God, in this position, Peter feels even bigger than normal. His tip smashes into your cervix with every long, deep thrust, and the subtle upward curve of his cock allows him to slide right against that spot inside you over and over and over—holy fuck!
"Fuuck, Peter—mmm—easy—" you choke out, words slightly muffled by the pillow and nearly drowned out by harsh slaps of flesh. Your pussy is fluttering around him, so sloppy and drooly and that you can hear every single squelch of his cock splitting open your walls.
And Peter fucking loves it. Can't shut up about it, actually.
"Goddamn, jus' listen to that pussy," you can hear the smirk on his lips. "So fuckin' wet, isn't she? You been thinking about me, baby? I think you have been. Prolly been thinkin' about this dick messing you up since last Tuesday, huh?"
'Shut the fuck up,' is what you want to say, but all that comes out is a garbled, lewd moan when Peter thrusts just right, effectively clearing your head and crossing your eyes.
"Hah, shit—pussy's too fuckin' good today. So wet 'an tight, sucking me so fuckin' good... Damn, girl—you might make me bust soon." Peter drawls, big hands grasping the globes of your ass and spreading them just so, so he can watch as his cock spears into your sweet cunny.
Sharp panic slices through your fucked-out head at his filthy words.
"No, don't—! Ahh—y-you have to pull out, Peter—can't—not inside t-this time."
With your head down, you can't see the harsh scowl that mars Peter's face when you say the words 'pull out.' Peter's fingers dig ever so subtly into the flesh of your ass, almost as if he's giving you a small punishment for suggesting such a thing.
"Relax, babe, I ain't that close." Peter scoffs, though the sharp twinge in his balls tells him otherwise.
He wasn't lying when he said your pussy is too fucking good today—wetter than usual, with fluid so sticky-slick that it forms strings that connect his smooth abdomen to your thighs and ass every time he pulls his hips back.
Not to mention how hot it was inside you, metaphorically and literally. It felt like Peter was fucking into the physical form of lava, sans the literal melting. And the way you clamped around his cock? Fuck, it was enough to have his head rolling back and eyes crossing.
Peter isn't some prebuscent, acne-addled fifteen year old with sub-par sex education; he knows exactly what your current state means.
And it is so fucking hot, knowing that every thrust of his leaking cock into your depths runs the risk of impregnating you with his spawn.
You, however, don't seem to share his enthusiasm for it. Your fingers twist in his sheets, and you nearly try to crawl from him, "'m serious, Peter—y-you need to pull out, I fucking mean it—"
His thrusts turn a little rougher, more pointed, slamming into your sweet spots with the sole intention of getting you to shut up.
"I get it. I'll pull out, Jesus." Peter hisses, and it's enough. You melt back into the pillow, eyes fluttering and moans spilling into the fabric, nearly drooling from the sudden abuse to your g-spot.
It feels so fucking good that you quickly lose yourself, your fertility completely melting from your brain in favor of jumbled thoughts of fuck, he's so big, he's fucking me up, harder, faster, fucking use me, I'm gonna come—
"Fuck, do you even know how fuckin' pretty you sound—mmmm, fuuuck!—saying shit like that?" Peter suddenly cuts off your string of thoughts—no, words—cock kicking up inside your mushy walls. "I'd swear you're tryin' to make me come with that shit."
You can't even be mortified by it. You feel too good, and there's that familiar knot building inside you. Every slide of his cock into you just tightens it, his grunts and groans just adding more pressure to something that's already almost too heavy.
Fuck, you just want to come. Scratch that. You need to come; all over his glorious fucking cock that's fucking you so good.
"Then do it, baby. Yeah, c'mon, you can do it—wanna feel you, sweetheart. Jus' give it t'me, fuck—"
Peter re-positions, one hand planting itself on the bed beside your head for stability, and your muffled moans morph into something far more pornographic.
He's hitting you so impossibly deep now, like he's trying to break through to your womb—and when he slides his arm down and around your neck for the leverage to fuck you back on him, you lose it.
Your squeal of 'cooooomingg—' gets swallowed by praises from Peter when your pussy clenches around him, gushing up his cock and soaking your cum into his mattress.
"Yesyes, good girl—fuck, mhmm—keep comin', baby, c'mon—let it out, pretty girl, I've got you—fuck, y'feel so good coming around my dick like that."
Normally, Peter would fuck you nice and deep through the waves, kiss your skin and lap the sweat, pepper you with praises and hold you until the high cleared out and you stopped trembling—but right now, he didn't have the patience for it.
Feeling you come was the catalyst for his own undoing, and his hips moved on their own. Fast, short strokes that put most of the friction around his sensitive tip, and before Peter knew it, his lips were next to your ear and he was almost there—
"Gonna come," he squeezes out, and when you start to sputter he tacks on, "fuck, I'll pull out, I remember—hah, oh fuck, baby, s'good, almost—ungh—shit, okay, I don't think I can—'m'sorry, you're gonna have to take it, okay?"
Peter can't really decipher your little half hearted protests through the white static in his ears.
"Fuck, coming! Take it, baby, shhhh—no, no—s'okay, baby... yeah, fuck, milkin' me s'good... 'm fillin' up your pretty pussy, baby—yeah, it feels so good, doesn't it? Yeah, your body wants this, I know it does."
As always, Peter isn't even wrong. Your pussy is slurping up his cum gladly, practically wrenching it towards your womb; and the heat of it is enough to have your gut sparking with sharp arousal. You're really not even that concerned about the risk anymore. It feels too good to be concerned about it.
As for Peter? He wasn't even a little concerned to begin with. He was at peace with his decision—after all, there's a reason you're the only girl he's ever raw-dogged before in his life.
a/n: um, acc idk abt this one.. its my first attempt at like, putting more depth into my smut?? if that makes sense?? critiques would honestly be so so so appreciated bcs by golly i've never written smth like this and i feel outta my depth 😭
tag𝓵ist @mayhemi @triciawritesstuff @therealcap @vannyswims @fawnphile @she1983 @ynstark @emmiegirl @jaydennicole @meeemuirs @hyacinthusflowernymph @knowleeyo if i forgot to add u, or if u would like to be added/removed pls lmk! ♡
PETER HAS BEEN QUIET FOR THE LAST TWENTY MINUTES, which is how you know something's actually wrong, because with you, peter parker does not do quiet. peter narrates his own thoughts out loud as a matter of habit. peter fills silences the way other people fill out forms — automatically, compulsively, sometimes with information nobody asked for.
so the fact that he's been leaning against the kitchen counter at flash's party for the last twenty minutes, arms crossed, jaw tight, barely responding when ned tries to pull him into a conversation about some new movie trailer called “brand new day,” is more than a little concerning.
you find him there after finally extracting yourself from a conversation you'd gotten cornered into near the drinks table — some guy from your chem class, a group project partner from last semester, who'd been friendly enough but had also, you now realize, been standing slightly closer than the conversation strictly required.
"hey baby," you say, sliding up next to peter, bumping his shoulder gently with yours and planting your usual greeting kiss on his lips. you furrow your brow when he doesn’t reciprocate, because peter usually is excited to receive every inch of your attention. "you good? you've been over here a while."
"i'm fine."
"you don't sound fine."
"i'm great, actually." he says it too fast, too flat, staring resolutely at some point across the room that you're now fairly sure is the exact spot you'd just been standing in. "having a genuinely wonderful time."
you follow his gaze, and it clicks all at once — the tight jaw, the crossed arms, the twenty minutes of uncharacteristic silence.
"peter, baby.”
"what."
"are you jealous of ethan from chem class."
"i don't know who that is."
"you literally just scowled at his name, i can see it on your face."
"i did no such thing." he finally looks at you, and there it is, plain as day, something tight and a little wounded behind the forced casualness. "i just noticed he was standing pretty close to you for a group-project-partner-from-last-semester. that's all. purely an observation."
"peter."
"it's fine. you can talk to whoever you want. i'm not — i'm not being weird about it." he is, very clearly, being weird about it, arms still crossed, gaze already drifting back toward the spot across the room like he can't quite help himself. "i just think it's interesting that he apparently needed to stand that close to discuss a project that ended four months ago."
you can't help the small, fond smile that creeps onto your face, watching him try so hard to sound unbothered while failing spectacularly at it. "you're actually jealous."
"i'm observant."
"you're jealous, and it's kind of adorable."
"i'm not — " he stops, deflating slightly, some of the forced casualness finally cracking. "okay, maybe a little. he laughed at something you said and you did that thing where your whole face lights up, and i was standing all the way over here, and it was, admittedly, not a great few minutes for me, emotionally."
"peter parker, are you telling me you've been standing here sulking because a guy from my chem class made me laugh."
"i wasn't sulking. i was contemplating."
"contemplating what."
"whether i should go say something or punch him. i decided against it. mostly because ned physically blocked the path when i tried to move."
you laugh — you can't help it, the image of ned bodily intercepting peter mid-jealous-march is too good not to — and he goes slightly pink, embarrassed now on top of everything else.
"it's not funny."
"it's a little funny."
"you're laughing at my emotional turmoil."
"i'm laughing because you're being ridiculous, and also because it's genuinely sooo cute that you got worked up over ethan, of all people, who i have spoken to a grand total of maybe three times in my entire life, every single one of them about a chemistry project."
"he stood close."
"he always stands close, he doesn't have a great sense of personal space, it's not a me thing." you step in front of him properly now, effectively blocking his view of the rest of the party, forcing his attention fully onto you instead. "you know there's no one else i'd rather be standing next to right now, right?"
"i know that. logically." he still looks a little sheepish, a little unconvinced despite himself. "it's not really a logic thing, though. it's more of a — watching-someone-else-make-you-laugh thing. i don't love it. i'm allowed to not love it a little."
"you are allowed to not love it a little," you agree, gently. "but for the record, nothing about tonight has changed anything. i promise."
"i know."
"do you, though."
he hesitates, just for a second, and that small hesitation is answer enough — so you reach up, cup his jaw, and kiss him properly, slowly, deeply, and a little hungrily, right there in flash's crowded kitchen, slow and deliberate, meant less as a public statement and more as proof, the kind he clearly needs more than he'd ever admit to needing out loud.
he makes a small, surprised sound against your mouth, but melts into you as fast, hands finding your waist almost immediately, and whatever tension had been sitting in his shoulders for the last twenty minutes visibly starts melting away the longer the kiss goes on.
"okay," he murmurs, when you finally pull back, looking considerably more like himself again — a little dazed, very pleased, the sulky edge from earlier entirely gone. "okay, i believe you now."
"just needed the visual confirmation?"
"apparently, yeah. very effective methodology. i'd recommend it for future jealousy-related incidents." he's grinning now, some of his usual chattiness creeping back in, and you feel a rush of fondness at how quickly he bounces back once he's actually reassured. "for the record, though — i really wasn't trying to be dramatic about it."
"you crossed your arms and stared at a wall for twenty minutes."
"i was being subtle."
"you were being extremely obvious. ned noticed. i'm pretty sure flash noticed, and flash notices nothing."
"flash notices things when it's convenient for him to mock me about it later, which is different." he tugs you a little closer, resting his forehead against yours, voice dropping quieter now, more sincere. "i really am sorry. i know it's not a big deal. i just — i really like you. probably more than is normal for someone who's known you since freshman year. it makes me a little insane sometimes, watching someone else get your attention, even for something as boring as a chem project."
"you don't have anything to worry about, peter. genuinely."
"i'm working on believing that faster next time. give me a little grace, i'm new to having something worth being nervous about losing."
something in your chest goes soft and warm at that, and instead of responding you just kiss him again, slower this time, one hand curling into the front of his shirt, and he responds immediately, easily, any last traces of the earlier jealousy dissolving completely under the attention.
"you know," he says, a little breathless when you finally break apart again, "if this is the reward system for jealousy, i might start getting jealous a lot more often."
"don't push it."
"no promises." he kisses you again anyway, quick and easy this time, grinning against your mouth. "worth the risk, honestly."
"peter."
"i'm kidding. mostly."
you lace his fingers through yours, tugging him gently away from the kitchen and back toward a hidden corner from the rest of the party, and you grin to see that his usual easy confidence fully restored now. "come on. want me to make it up to you?”
"the day i say no to that, i want you to push me off the tallest building without my web shooters.”
you laugh, and if you catch him shooting one last, faintly smug look toward ethan across the room on the way — well. you decide, generously, not to comment on it.
“GET A FUCKING ROOM!” someone shouts at the both of you
“ON IT!” peter yells back, raising a middle finger at them.
───── tysm 🦋for this cutieee req! ( req r opennn )
˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✦
THE HISTORY MIDTERM IS IN FOUR DAYS, and peter parker — genuine actual genius, a boy who is smart enough to create his own high-tech suits with almost no external help — currently cannot tell you a single fact about the treaty of versailles beyond "it happened after a war, i think."
"you think."
"i know it happened after a war. i'm fairly confident about the war part."
you close the textbook with more force than strictly necessary. "peter. you are failing the one class that requires zero lab equipment and zero math. how."
"in my defense, i have been slightly busy lately."
"with what."
he gives you a look — the specific, loaded look that means you know exactly what, since you're one of maybe four people who actually knows why his grades have been sliding all semester, why he shows up to your apartment for tutoring sessions with faint bruises he explains away as "gym stuff," when your parents ask, why he sometimes falls asleep mid-sentence over his notes because he was out until three am the night before doing something that absolutely was not gym stuff.
"okay, fair," you concede. "but the exam doesn't care about your extracurriculars. we have four days. we're doing this properly."
"we're doing it properly," he agrees, entirely unconvincingly, already sliding closer on the couch under the guise of getting a better look at your notes.
"you're already cheating and we haven't even started."
"i haven't done anything yet."
"you're radiating intent, peter."
"that's not a real crime."
˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✦
it starts fine, technically. you get through the causes of the war well enough, peter actually retaining information for once, dutifully repeating dates back at you when prompted, right up until you shift positions to grab your highlighter off the coffee table and he apparently decides that's the perfect moment to rest his chin on your shoulder instead of looking at the actual notes.
"peter."
"i'm reading."
"you're reading my shoulder."
"the notes are right there. i'm very close to the notes." he doesn't move. if anything, he settles in more, arm coming to rest loosely around your waist like this is a completely normal, standard tutoring position. "this is a good study position. very efficient. maximum note visibility."
"you have your eyes closed."
"i'm processing the information. internally." his voice drops slightly, low and warm right against your ear, and you feel it more than hear it. "you smell really good, by the way. is that a new perfume?"
"we are studying."
"we can multitask. i'm an excellent multitasker."
"you cannot tell me one fact about the league of nations."
"i can tell you several facts about how good your hair smells right now, though, if that counts for extra credit."
"it does not count for extra credit."
"worth a shot." he presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your neck, just below your ear, and you feel your resolve wobble embarrassingly fast. "extra credit opportunities, maybe."
"peter parker, are you trying to seduce your way out of a history exam."
"is it working?"
"absolutely not."
"you're smiling. i can literally feel you smiling against my face."
he presses another kiss, closer to your heartbeat this time, and when you finally turn to argue the point properly you immediately regret it, because turning puts your face about four inches from his, close enough that his eyes open again, close enough that whatever he was about to say gets lost somewhere between his mouth and actual words.
"you're supposed to be learning about the treaty of versailles."
"i am learning things," he says, entirely unbothered, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth before flicking back up. "just not about the treaty of versailles, specifically."
"the exam is in four days."
"i'm aware." he doesn't move away. if anything, he leans in slightly, voice dropping lower, almost teasing, almost pleading all at once. "can we take a five minute break. i'll be so, so, so good for you for the rest of the session, i promise. i just really want to kiss you and i've been sitting here thinking about it since paragraph two."
"paragraph two was fifteen minutes ago."
"i have excellent focus, actually, just apparently not for treaties."
you should say no. you fully intend to say no, several notes of protest already forming, right up until he looks at you like that — a little hopeful, a little sheepish, entirely too endearing for someone who is objectively failing a class right now — and you cave completely, closing the last few inches between you instead of finishing the sentence.
he makes a small, pleased sound against your mouth, like he genuinely hadn't been sure you'd actually say yes, and the textbook slides off your lap entirely, forgotten, as one slow kiss turns easily into several. his hand finds your jaw, careful and warm, thumb tracing along your cheek while he kisses you slower, deeper, clearly in absolutely no hurry to get back to the league of nations any time soon.
"five minutes," you murmur, mostly for your own benefit, already losing track of the actual time.
"mm-hm," he agrees, not stopping.
it is, by any reasonable measure, significantly longer than five minutes — you lose track somewhere between him tugging you gently closer and the two of you sinking further into the couch cushions, his mouth trailing slow along your jaw before finding yours again, unhurried and warm, one of his hands settling at your waist like he's got nowhere else in the world he'd rather be. by the time you finally pull back to catch your breath, both of you a little flushed, peter's got a soft, dazed sort of grin on his face that makes it very hard to muster any real annoyance about the wasted study time.
"okay," you say, breathless, trying and failing to sound stern. "okay, we actually need to get back to the treaty now."
"do we, though."
"peter."
"fine, fine." he pulls back properly this time, though he keeps one hand loosely laced with yours, thumb tracing idle circles against your knuckles as you fish the textbook back up off the floor. "i'm focused. laser focused. hit me with the reparations clause."
"you say that like you know what a reparations clause is."
"i have context clues. it's probably about money. wars are usually about money at the end."
"that's shockingly accurate, actually."
"see. i'm basically already an expert." he leans over your shoulder again to look at the notes, and for a while, genuinely, it works — he stays reasonably focused, actually asking real questions, actually retaining a fact or two, while you work through the chapter, his hand still loosely on your thigh the entire time like he can't quite bring himself to fully let go now that he's had a taste of being allowed to be distracting.
you're halfway through re-explaining the war guilt clause — peter nodding along with what looks like genuine focus, for once — when his phone goes off. not a normal notification. the specific, sharp alert tone you've come to recognize immediately, the one that means something's happening somewhere in the city and it's about to become his problem.
he goes still. checks it. swears under his breath.
"you have got to be kidding me," you say, watching his whole posture shift, the soft, focused version of him from a minute ago already dissolving into something more alert, more braced. "right now?"
"i'm sorry. i really am. it's a whole — there's a thing." he's already up, grabbing his bag, digging for the suit he keeps stashed in the bottom of it for exactly these occasions. "i'll be back. i'll finish the chapter tonight, i swear."
"peter, the exam is in four days." you say, but it doesn’t stop you from ogling him when he takes off his shirt and pants and stuffs it into his bag.
"i know."
he's already pulling the suit on, quick and practiced, and you watch, half-exasperated, half-fond, as he presses a goodbye kiss to your lips, and tugs the mask down over his face, muffling his voice slightly.
"for what it's worth," he says, pausing at the window, "i really was starting to understand the reparations clause. genuinely. i think you're a great tutor."
"you kissed me for twenty minutes instead of studying."
"multitasking. i stand by it as a legitimate educational strategy." he grins under the mask — you can hear it in his voice even if you can't see it — and blows you a quick kiss before swinging out the window. "i love you! i'll text you the second it's handled! guard the textbook with your life, i have a feeling i'm gonna need it!"
and then he's gone, out into the fading evening light, leaving you alone on the couch with an abandoned textbook, a badly organized set of notes, and the growing, absolute certainty that he is going to fail this exam.
you pick the highlighter back up, stare at the treaty of versailles chapter for a long moment, and sigh.
"he's going to fail," you say out loud, to no one, mostly just to make it official. "he's actually going to fail."
your phone buzzes half an hour later. a text from peter: handled it!! only slightly late for dinner. also i spent the entire fight thinking about the war guilt clause (and you. mostly you) , which i think proves i WAS listening, so.
you laugh despite yourself, despite the looming exam, despite everything, and text back: we are reviewing the treaty of versailles the SECOND you get here. no distractions this time. no kissing until you can name three provisions.
that's an insane bargaining position and you know it, he writes back. you're killing the mood before i even get there.
peter.
fine. three provisions. i'm already thinking about them. very focused. extremely studious.
you set your phone down, look at the abandoned textbook, and accept, with real and growing resignation, that you have exactly zero chance of getting through the rest of this study session without at least one more interruption — crime-related, or otherwise, entirely of your own making.
You tell Spider-Man about your crush on an oblivious Peter Parker. Spider-Man recommends giving Peter a signal—a sign, so he knows what you want. [4k words, shy!fem!reader/tasm!peter]
˚₊𓆩༺ 🕷༻𓆪₊˚
The night is sweet and warm.
The sun is setting, and the bakery at the end of the street is closing. You watch from your rooftop as one of their workers smokes a cigarette out back, smoke drifting upward, a sight at odds with the smell of powdered sugar ever-present on the breeze.
You pull your knees up toward you and rub your face with a sleeve-covered hand. The hoodie Peter got you is soft to the touch, smelling of detergent against your nose. You stretch it over your knees and peer down at your socks, black with little flowers on the sole. Peter said they looked Minecraft-y, and then he asked if he could borrow a pair from the pack that you never saw again.
You like thinking of him wearing them. Maybe he thinks of you when he does, or maybe they’re rolled up and forgotten under his bed.
You loose a depressed sigh and lean back in your summer chair. There wasn’t much heat for sunbathing today, but the roof makes for a good place to rest in the agreeable evenings. Less so when it rains, which is often. You eye a grey cloud on the horizon but your reluctance to move nor gather your stuff leaves you frowning. You are trying quite hard to stay away from your apartment and, as a consequence, your evil phone. If you have your phone, you’ll check over and over if Peter has replied to your message, but he hasn’t. He doesn’t, really, reply very often.
The sun goes and goes, presenting a miserable dark sky with little in the way of stars, but there are lights in the distance, buildings and cars, all now flocked in artificial white. It’s no soft glow.
You lay down, sit back up, lay down again. You reach for your book and discard it with a sigh. You count the planes that fly overhead, searching for the next whenever the former flies from view. You think about Peter and his big hands, how hot they’d felt pressed to your waist. How brown his eyes are, how soft his lashes must be when touched.
The swip and thwip of spiderwebs being thrown catches your attention immediately. Spider-Man. He must be near—you’ve seen him in person more times than you can remember, and the sound puts you at ease, that delicate snap and stick as he ejects, lets his weight pull, then cuts the line. You lean over the edge of your chair to look for him–
And almost lose your nose as a suit of red and blue comes flying up toward your rooftop.
“Holy–”
“Fuck!” you say, throwing yourself backward with a shout. You bring your hand to your chest, pressing your heart back behind your ribs as the blur of colour comes to a stop on the edge of the roof.
“Sorry!” Spider-Man says. “Jesus, you didn’t see me? I’m kind of, you know, brightly coloured?”
“You came out of nowhere! You’re going sixty miles an hour!”
Spider-Man rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I got places to be. Well, most of the time.”
You feel your heart jumping under your palm. Spider-Man shifts, his head tilting down as though he’s squinting at you assessingly.
“Hey, are you okay? I didn’t mean to scare you.”
You swallow your nerves. “Yeah. Yes, I’m fine. You scared me, s’all. Sorry for cussing. And yelling.”
He giggles brightly, plonking down on a creaky lawn chair, unperturbed by its green moss. “Yeah, you should be sorry, potty-mouth. Kiss your ma with that mouth?”
You laugh without thinking. “Sometimes.”
Spider-Man lays back in the chair and folds his arms over his stomach. It strikes you that you wouldn’t know if his eyes were open or closed, he looks relaxed, like he could doze. He looks tired, actually. He gives a long sigh and sits up some. Eyes open, decidedly.
“What are you doing up here?” he asks.
“Oh, I’m reading.”
“Reading what?”
You refuse to tell him that it’s a silky sweet romance with a besotted leading man and a beautiful girl, but struggle to think of a lie. The silence lingers until it’s awkward.
Finally, Spider-Man waves a hand at you, his voice genial as he says, “Keep your secrets.”
“Are you okay?” you ask.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
It might be more apt to ask him what it is that he’s doing up here. Surely Spider-Man has more important things to get too than sitting in a rinky-dink chair waiting to snap beneath any weight at all on your dreary rooftop in the cold weather. And more that he doesn’t know you, hasn’t ever spoken to you, no matter how many times you’ve seen him around the city.
“You look tired,” you say softly.
“I’m okay. But, hey, thanks for asking.”
“Sure.”
Awkward silence lingers again. Your blatant confusion as to his presence becomes obvious, and Spider-Man looks away, rubbing at his neck again with that same nervous hand.
“You looked lonely,” he says. “I guess I wondered if you wanted company, or– or a shoulder to cry on, or something. Anything.”
“Is that something you do often?”
“What good is looking after the neighbourhood if everybody in it goes home sad?” Spider-Man shrugs. “You don’t have to tell me anything, I’ll only sit here if that’s cool.”
“Don’t let me stop you.”
You’re thinking about Peter again. It’s ridiculous, there’s a superhero on your roof and you’re thinking about Pete, but you can’t help it. Spider-Man reminds you of him, his height and build, even his voice, though Spider-Man is all bravado and gruffness where Peter’s a tiny bit shy. It’s what made becoming his friend possible—he’s shy and you’re worse, you’re immovable, you struggle to talk half the time. If Spider-Man hadn’t scared the fuck out of you scaling up the building, you wouldn’t have been able to open your mouth.
“I have a friend,” you say, buckling under the pressure of the quiet. “And I like him. And I don’t know what to do, so. That’s why I’m all messed up.”
“You don’t look messed up,” he says, bringing a hand to his chin to hold like he’s pondering something deeply. “You like someone? That’s a good thing.”
“I don’t think he likes me back.”
“That sucks, but– okay, sorry if this is weird, but you’re beautiful.” Spider-Man straightens in his chair. “Like, you’re really beautiful. And your voice is so nice, I’ve barely heard it and I already know it’s addictive.”
You laugh again without meaning to, a sputter of sound.
“You’re really pretty. If he doesn’t like you back, I’m sure you can find somebody else.”
“Thank you, Spider-Man, but I don’t want anybody else,” you say softly. “He’s really perfect. Have you ever–” You clear your throat, picking at a scagged thread on your pajama bottoms and avoiding his gaze. “It’s stupid.”
“I bet it’s not.”
Nobody’s ever called you beautiful before. Nobody’s ever…
Peter makes you feel beautiful. Tips your chin up with his pinky finger to get your eyes, takes a good look at you when he’s seeing you for the first time in a while, but he never says anything about it. He smiles and he's sweet, but he doesn’t call you beautiful.
“He makes me feel like the only person in the world,” you confess. “He’s not perfect, like I said. He lashes out, and he forgets all the time, he’s late constantly, but he always says sorry, and you know he really means it? He’s the most genuine person. And he’s–” pretty, you want to say, but you look sideways at Spider-Man and can’t bring yourself to say it. “I want more of him than he wants to give me, is all, but I don’t mind. I like being his friend.”
“You want more,” he says, as though turning the words over in his mouth.
“That’s the hard part.”
“That’s a nice love story.” He exhales slowly. “Lucky guy.”
“It’s not a love story,” you say, trying for happy acceptance and sounding weak.
“It could be. Have you told him how you feel? I don’t see how a guy could hear all that from a girl like you and not at least try to make it work?”
You bring your knee up and rest your nose on the fabric there. “I don’t usually talk to people like this. I find it really hard.”
“Oh, so I’m special?”
“You’re an exception.”
“You don’t talk to this guy?”
You press your face fully to your knee, thighs aching.
“Peter doesn’t answer the phone,” you mumble, hoping Spider-Man won’t hear you. “Can’t talk to him about anything. And what would I even say? I know we’ve been friends for years and all but I like you now, and I’m prepared to make things awkward between us forever?” You whine quietly. “Everything’s so hard.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
Spider-Man sounds flustered. Sounds like he took a long plunge from a tall skyscraper. You look up, perplexed, and he’s facing you completely still. It’s like he’s been turned to stone.
“You–” He swallows. “This Peter guy, you really like him?”
“I’ve had a crush on him since forever! And he never notices me, ever!” You scrub at your face. “I know it’s stupid and childish and high school, I know I should tell him how I feel even if there’s not the slightest chance that he’d ever want me back–”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
You squint at him. “You don’t know Peter.”
He laughs, still sounding all flustered and weak. “Okay.”
“Sorry. I guess I’m being really corny, huh?”
“No.” His voice is higher, too, almost like he’s holding his breath. “It’s not corny, it’s nice.”
“He’s really pretty,” you say, lamenting your sad lonely life without him. And now you’ve made a mess all over Spider-Man’s generous listening. If there was a chance he’d come to see you again, you have surely ruined it.
Spider-Man squeaks.
You stare at him. He’s pulling at the edge of his mask, fanning himself, giving you rare glimpses of his pale skin.
“Are you okay?” you ask.
“I’m sorry, I’m– super warm.”
“Oh. Is the suit hot?”
“It can be, yeah.”
“I guess I don’t know how to move on,” you say, breaking your gaze to stare at the gravelly rooftop instead. “He’s a great friend, and I didn't always want it so badly. I don’t know why… why it got so much worse lately. I see him and I wish he’d grab me and– and kiss me–” You bite your tongue. “Sorry, Spider-Man. That’s too much information."
“Kiss you how?” he asks.
You jolt a little. “Uh, you know. Just kiss me. A real kiss. He’s kind of affectionate, like, sometimes he tries to hold my hand before we cross the street, and one time he did kiss my cheek, but it was, like, a bit. I want a real kiss.”
“Huh.”
“It’s lame.”
“Love is kinda lame. Corny and cheesy,” Spider-Man sounds oddly pleased. “But maybe he’s got all these lame feelings too, and didn’t want to push you. You seem kinda shy. Maybe he’s worried he’s not reading things right. If you’re the kind of girl who’s easily flustered, how can he know if it’s because of him or not?”
“But what do I do?”
“I don’t know.”
You laugh. “Thanks.”
“I’m sorry, but whatever you do, if he gets the signal, he’ll reciprocate.”
“How do you know?”
“Girl as pretty as you?” Spider-Man’s voice goes soft as butter. “He’d be an idiot not to.”
—
By the time you’d made it back inside that night, Peter had replied to your message.
In fact, Peter had spammed you. Answered everything you said with detail and then launched into an apology for not responding, cos he had a bunch of stuff to do and Aunt May had the car and his phone died on the subway home, yada yada.
He then asked you out.
Alright, he didn’t. He asked if you wanted to come over and watch a movie the next day, which is pretty standard Peter friendship activity, but has you smiling like a loser at your phone.
Yes, you’d texted him, would love to, I’ll bring dinner?
Do not!!!! I will order in for us when you get here :D
You’re standing in your nicest skirt, a pretty pink thing that ends at the knees and, and your newest converse, which aren’t all that new. Your cardigan is charcoal wool and buttoned all the way up to fight the sudden chill. It’s later than you realised; you spent an hour panic-changing your clothes and lamenting your response Spider-Man’s advice. You have to give Peter a signal, right?
You are dressed very cute for a movie at his place, and you smell delicious. You’re gonna give him a wide-eyed flirty stare and who knows, maybe he’ll finally get the message.
Or he’ll wonder why you’re so overdressed.
The door finally opens, and Peter’s already smiling. His cheeks are red like spring cherries with a flush that crawls down his neck and probably stains his broad chest, too, his hair in order for once, his usual hoodie and jacket traded in for a plain white t-shirt that’s a little tight. Shows the indents of his chest, the lines of firm muscle there.
“Hey, beautiful,” he says.
You want him to call you beautiful forever. “Don’t,” you say instead. He should know better. You fluster at anything.
Peter stands aside to let you in. You’ve been to the Parker house a ton of times, but it’s noticeably clean, and dimly lit. There are a couple of candles lit in the living room and a bowl of popcorn stands on the coffee table, filling the room with the smells of toffee and butter.
“Was it cold?” he asks.
You nod hurriedly. “So cold. I thought it was supposed to be summer.”
“We’re not that lucky. Make yourself comfy, okay? I gotta grab your drink.”
You unlace your shoes and leave them by the doorway, padding into the living room in your socks. The couch is fitted with enough throw pillows to turn a three-seater into a two-seater. You’re forced to plop yourself somewhat in the middle, but you’re too tempted by the popcorn to worry. You sneak a piece while Peter’s gone, humming as the sweetness breaks out across your tongue.
“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he calls.
“For what?”
“For not answering you!” His voice echoes nearer, and he grimaces his way through the hall into the living room, two glasses of your favourite in his hands. “I’m awful. I’m an idiot, and I never check my phone. I’m sorry.”
“Peter, it’s fine.”
“You sure?”
Your eyes widen of their own accord as he sits down next to you, thigh to thigh, so close you can see the little bits of amber that swim in his irises, all that brown fragmented by shards of sunlight.
“I–” You nod oddly. “Am sure. Of course. I don’t expect you to drop everything–”
“I know you don’t, but still. I have my phone with me. I can answer you more, and you’re important to me. I get distracted.”
“Did you get all your errands done?”
“Sure.” He hands you your glass and puts his own on the coffee table. “Thanks. You’re an angel.”
“You’re not so bad,” you say.
You relax. Peter lets you choose the movie, and you feel warm sitting there pointing his remote at the TV, flicking unsurely through everything, but he’s Peter. You put on Cado Lake and hand him the remote, sure he’ll enjoy a sc-fi flick, and are instantly gratified when the movie hooks his attention. Not too much, though. He’s clear of mind enough to put the popcorn bowl in your lap and nip you with little questions. Who’s that again? Hey, she looks like May. Wow, you smell good, what is that?
You’re about an hour into the movie when Peter’s hand sews itself behind your back.
It’s warm, and big. His fingertips skate over the mall of your back until he’s found your side, where it curls, and he pulls you gently toward him. Your head drops into the space between his shoulder and head, the TV a colourful blur in front of you, your hand paused dead in the nearly empty popcorn like you’ve been frozen.
“Okay?” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” you say. You’re fine.
He’s warm. He’s solid beside you.
“You’re letting me eat all the popcorn…”
His laugh is a huff against your head. “I’ll make some more.”
“No.” You rest your cheek on his arm. Bliss flits through your entire body like a wave. “It’s okay. I won’t eat your share.”
“You do what you want,” he says, and you wonder if he’s relaxing beneath you, too, heat of his body seeping through his clothes and into your skin as his fingers rub gently into your side. “Get you a sack of popcorn, if you want me to.”
“This is nice.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. This is good.”
You struggle to pay attention to the movie for the next few minutes, wondering if this is really what you think. It’s not exactly friendship-level affection to wrap your arm around someone, is it? But Peter’s so lovely, it could be nothing. Why would it mean anything? What could Peter want with you? Of course you have a crush on him, he’s gorgeous, but Peter has no such motivations about you. Does he?
He’s quiet for a while. You think the movie might’ve really snagged him, but then he turns to you with a shy smile that brightens exponentially when you sneak a glance at him and end up smiling back.
He doesn’t look away.
It gets so hot you wish you could peel out of your cardigan, but you don’t wanna move and displace the moment.
“You’re missing the movie,” you whisper.
“I’ve missed so much of it,” he says.
“What?”
“Look.” He swallows. “Look, I don’t know if I’m– maybe I’m way off base here, and all, but,” —his hand climbs your side, folding over your, pulling you even closer— “maybe I’m not? I don’t know.”
“Off base about what?”
“You know.”
“Do I?” you ask. You can hardly speak above a breath, but Peter hears it.
Peter’s gaze darts down.
You lift your chin. Spider-Man, you think, watching as Peter’s brows knit like he’s in pain and his pupils turn to dimes, sunshot brown melding dark, this better work.
Peter inches his face down until your noses are touching, your eyelashes forced shut in a flutter at his proximity.
He lingers there, in the quiet, breathing the air your exhale and holding his tongue as he raises his hand to cup your cheek tenderly. His fingers slip beneath your ear and his thumb drags over your cheek, distending your lips, and his lips brush against yours so softly you aren’t sure if he really has kissed you, or if you want it bad enough to conjure the sensation. But then he presses in for a proper kiss, and the quiet in the room gets replaced by the pounding of your heart in your own ears.
He tips your head a little and kisses upward, parting his lips to encourage you to let him in. You suck in a breath as he wades in for a real kiss, the heat of tongue and the soft plush give of his lips on yours. He encourages your head back quick, your eyes squinting ever so slightly, but he’s only moving you to wade in for the same kissing at a new angle. His nose tip scrunches into yours.
Your thoughts are electric. Your hand vies for a place to anchor, grasping tightly at his shirt, screwing the fabric over his chest into a ball.
“Holy crap,” he says, pulling back a touch.
His eyes are shining. His mouth is damp with spit, but you aren’t certain if it’s yours or his.
“I can’t believe I had the willpower to wait this long for that,” he says, running his thumb over your bottom lip. “Shit, you're just as perfect as I thought.”
You laugh in a tangle. “What?” you ask breathlessly.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long. Wow, you taste like toffee.”
“I’m sorry–”
Peter gets his thumb under your chin to tip your face up. “For what? For being perfect?”
“For tasting like popcorn.”
“That is the least of my worries.” He does a one-eyed squint at you, stroking your chin and cheek with his thumb, a caress that makes your stomach ache as much as the kisses had. “Sorry it took me so long to kiss you. You’re a hard girl to read.”
“I know,” you mumble.
He kisses your cheek and ducks his face into the side of your head, gathering you in for a hug that’s strong but careful, too, your thigh curving into his lap. He doesn’t seem to notice the way he’s dragging you onto him as he breathes in your hair.
“Pete?”
“Yeah?”
You struggle out of his arms. “Can you kiss me again?” you ask.
“Yes. Yeah. Oh my god, absolutely.”
Your laugh as he bends your backwards into the mountain of throw cushions is ecstatic. Then smushed, quickly, but it’s fine. The kiss is worth getting cut off.
—
(One month later.)
“I was going to tell you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Seriously, I was! But I didn’t want you to be embarrassed."
“Right.”
“And I didn’t want you to be mad.”
You stare at Spider-Man in your boyfriend’s bedroom, unmasked, Peter Parker with hair like a dandelion and eyes so sorry he’s almost winning you over, the mask clasped in hand.
“You knew who I was talking about,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, “and you still made me give you a signal? Do you know how hard that was for me?”
“You can do hard things!”
“Peter.”
“I wanted to be sure. I have a huge crush on you, you know that? It was just as scary for me as it was for you.”
You sniff indignantly. Spider-Man drags himself from his window to take your hands, pouting like a loser for your forgiveness.
“Can you please forgive me?” he asks. “Don’t you think it would’ve given my secret away if I turned up at your door and planted one on you? You do not understand the strength it took to wait.”
“Peter, it wasn’t even twenty four hours.”
“You’re really pretty,” he mumbles.
You forgive him already, not that he needs to know that. You have more important questions to ask.
“So, what’s with the webs?”
“D’you like ‘em?”
“I didn’t say that.”
He whines.
You plant a little kiss on his jaw and make for the bed you’d been planning on napping in before his impromptu return through the open window. “Come hold me while I nap,” you say, moving back his sheets, “please. And maybe I’ll think about forgiving you.” You’re too tired to think about this in depth.
Peter throws himself into the mattress. You crawl into his arms.
“You kinda smell like street,” you mumble, nuzzling his neck, a hint of forgiveness to settle his bad nerves.
His head falls back as he lets out a relieved sigh. “You smell perfect,” he says.
