description: your parents are very strict and would never approve of your new college-aged boyfriend, darren. so, nancy comes up with the perfect solution: introduce them to your "boyfriend", eddie munson, first. compared to the town pariah, darren should look like prince charming... if only fake dating eddie was as easy as you thought it'd be.
pairing: "boyfriend"!eddie munson x you (fem!reader)
tags: eddie munson x you, soft! eddie munson, fake dating, fake relationship, autumn/fall vibes, friends to lovers, slow burn, fluff as fuck, holding hands and forehead kisses "for the bit", eddie is a gentleman, drive-in movie date, acts of service! eddie, matching halloween costumes, darren never stood a chance, SO FUCKING FLUFFY PREPARE FOR TEARS OF JOY :D
TW: just go ahead and make your dentist appointment now tbh
WC: 8.3k (i'm SORRY i really loved writing this one, okay!?)
A/N: AH HELLOOOO!!! It's been a while since I've had a fic that I feel this deeply for, but here we are nonetheless. I am also leaving on Sunday for a much, much, much-needed 9-day vacation, so I'm going to try to feed you all with one or two more fics.
reblogs are ssososososossoooo appreciated :) <3
enjoy my loves xoxo
"It's impossible, Nancy. Utterly and completely impossible."
You let your forehead fall dramatically against the cafeteria table with a soft thunk, your tray rattling beneath the impact. Across from you, Nancy barely looked up from the sad excuse for a school lunch she was methodically picking apart.
This wasn't the first time she'd listened to you spiral about your parents, and judging by the unimpressed look on her face, she doubted it'd be the last.
"Oh, will you stop whining?" she said, stabbing at a few peas with her plastic fork. "They cannot be that bad."
You lifted your head just enough to shoot her a look. "They're dictators."
"They're parents."
"They're prison wardens with a mortgage."
Nancy rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth twitched into a smile. "You are so dramatic."
"Says the girl whose mother once grounded her for getting a B-plus."
"That was one time."
"And she still brings it up."
Nancy couldn't exactly argue with that. With a sigh, she abandoned the mystery meat on her tray altogether and leaned back in her seat, folding her arms as she studied you.
You looked genuinely stressed, far more stressed than someone who'd only been dating a guy for a couple of months should've been.
"Darren's in college," you muttered, absentmindedly peeling the label off your milk carton. "He's already got one strike against him. Then there's the fact that he's older than me, which is strike two. By the time they actually meet him, they're going to have convinced themselves he's some twenty-five-year-old biker with a criminal record who's dragging me into a life of organized crime."
Nancy let out an amused snort. "You know that's not true."
"I know that's not true," you groaned. "But they don’t."
"You know what your issue is?"
You narrowed your eyes. "I've got several."
"You haven't given them anyone to compare Darren to."
"...What?"
"They've got nothing to measure him against." She gestured with her fork as if the answer were obvious. "You're terrified to introduce him because, in their minds, he's going to become the blueprint."
You blinked. "I don't follow."
Nancy leaned forward, lowering her voice despite the fact that nobody around you was paying the slightest bit of attention.
"You need to introduce them to someone worse first."
Your eyebrows knitted together. "...Worse?"
"Someone so unbelievably incompatible, so ridiculous, so catastrophically wrong for you..." A slow grin spread across her face. "That when they finally meet Darren, he'll look like the most respectable man on the planet."
You stared at her. "Nancy..."
"I'm serious."
"You want me to fake-date someone my parents would despise?"
"I want you to let them think you're dating someone they'd despise."
Silence. Then, almost against your own will, you felt the gears in your head begin to turn.
"...That's actually..."
"I know."
"...Kind of genius."
Nancy's smile widened. "I know."
Just as you were about to ask the far more important question: who on earth could possibly fit that description?...a familiar voice suddenly echoed across the cafeteria.
"Ladies and gentlemen!"
The two of you turned instinctively toward the source. "Oh, Christ," Nancy muttered.
Across the room, standing on top of one of the cafeteria benches as though he were addressing a crowd of thousands instead of a room full of teenagers trying to eat lunch, Eddie Munson threw his arms dramatically into the air.
"I would once again like to address the blatant discrimination against the Hawkins High Hellfire Club—"
You looked at Nancy, and Nancy looked at you, neither of you saying a word.
"...Him?" you asked slowly.
Nancy's grin returned. "Oh, definitely him."
“...Shit.” You mumbled under your breath. Before you could overthink it, you pushed your chair back from the table. The legs scraped loudly against the linoleum floor.
Taking one steadying breath, you squared your shoulders and started weaving your way through the maze of lunch tables toward the growing crowd surrounding Eddie's latest performance.
"Wait—" Nancy hurried after you. "I wasn't expecting you to do it right now."
"If I don't do it now," you muttered over your shoulder, "I'm going to lose my nerve."
"Right."
By the time the two of you reached the edge of the crowd, Eddie was still going strong.
"—and furthermore, if Hawkins High truly believes forcing Hellfire to relocate every other week is somehow constitutional—"
You exchanged one last glance with Nancy, so she gave you a tiny nod. Go.
Swallowing the lump that had suddenly formed in your throat, you carefully stepped through the cluster of students until you were standing close enough to reach him.
Then, before you could second-guess yourself…you gave the sleeve of his jacket a gentle tug. The effect was immediate, causing Eddie to stop midsentence.
"...constitutional ri—" His words died in his throat.
Slowly, almost cautiously, he looked down, and there you were. For a brief moment, he genuinely wondered if he'd imagined you. Because girls like you didn't usually interrupt his lunchtime speeches.
Hell, girls like you usually walked around him. He knew exactly who you were, of course. Everyone did.
You were one of those people whose name seemed to carry itself through the halls without any effort. Honor roll. Friends with Nancy Wheeler. Pretty enough that half the boys in school had, at one point or another, convinced themselves they had a chance before reality quickly corrected them.
You carried yourself with a quiet sort of confidence that made you seem untouchable. Not in a snobbish way, but in the way stars looked untouchable from Earth.
And now...you were standing in front of him. His brain, normally overflowing with smart remarks and sarcastic comebacks, came to a screeching halt. Eddie blinked once, then twice.
"...Uh..." He cleared his throat. "...Hi."
"Hi." You offered him a nervous smile, suddenly far less certain about marching over here than you'd been thirty seconds ago.
"Eddie," you began, tilting your head back slightly to meet his eyes. "Can we... uh... talk to you?"
His eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "...Me?"
"In private," you added quickly, gesturing toward the audience that had practically doubled in size now that the two of you had approached him. More than a few people had abandoned their lunches entirely in favor of shamelessly eavesdropping.
Eddie glanced over your shoulder at the crowd.
"...I..." He rubbed the back of his neck, still trying to process whatever bizarre alternate universe he'd apparently wandered into. "...Yeah."
A crooked grin finally found its way onto his face. "Yeah, I think I can pencil you in."
Without another word, he hopped down from the cafeteria bench with an exaggerated flourish, dusted imaginary dirt from his jeans, and threw a dramatic glance toward the rest of Hellfire.
"Boys," he announced solemnly, "the revolution will have to wait." He shot you an almost sheepish smile as he caught up beside you.
"So..." His curiosity was practically radiating off him now. "...Lead the way."
The three of you didn't stop walking until the cafeteria noise had faded into little more than a dull echo behind you. The hallway sat blissfully empty during lunch period, save for the occasional locker slamming shut somewhere in the distance.
Eddie rocked back on the heels of his sneakers, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans before glancing between the two of you.
"So..." he drawled, a crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Am I being recruited into a cult, or are you guys finally here to tell me I've won some sort of popularity contest?"
Nancy snorted. "Neither."
"Damn."
She exchanged a quick look with you before deciding to rip the bandage off.
"So, uh..." she started. "Eddie... how would you feel about being a fake boyfriend?"
Eddie blinked. "...Come again?"
"A fake boyfriend."
He frowned, eyes drifting toward Nancy. "...Wait."
"Aren't you and Byers still together?" His eyebrows knitted together in genuine confusion. "I mean..." He scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck. "Sure, you're cool and all, Wheeler, but I kinda respect the guy."
Nancy stared at him for exactly half a second before letting out an exasperated groan.
"Oh, my God." She smacked his shoulder with the back of her hand. "Not for me."
Eddie rubbed his arm dramatically. "Ow."
"For her," Nancy clarified, throwing both hands toward you like a game show host revealing the grand prize.
His head snapped in your direction so quickly you were surprised he didn't give himself whiplash. "...Her?"
You gave him an awkward little wave. "Hi."
"You..." he said slowly, pointing at you as if he needed to make absolutely certain everyone was talking about the same person. "...want me to pretend to be your boyfriend?"
"I know how insane that sounds."
"No, no." He held up both hands. "I'm just making sure I didn't hit my head getting off that cafeteria bench."
Nancy folded her arms. "Well?"
Eddie's bewildered expression slowly melted into one of pure curiosity. “I’m intrigued. What does this entail?”
You sigh, rocking on your heels. “Basically, I’ve been seeing this college boy, Darren. I’ve never ever been allowed to date, so I haven’t had a boyfriend yet. And considering he’s already in college, my parents would be uber pissed and never let it happen. So Nancy came up with this plan—”
“That you go out with me, your parents think he’s the golden boy, is that it?” He interrupts.
You pause abruptly, suddenly coming to the realization of how messed up and flat-out mean this all sounds.
“No— uh, shit, yeah, kinda. I’m sorry, this was such a bad idea. Forget I even asked—”
“Woah woah woah, I’m not saying no. I’m all for sticking it to the man or whatever. Just, what do I have to do? Movie dates and rides home?”
“I mean, yeah, kinda. We’d have to be together in every aspect. You know how people in this town love to talk. We have to sell it, y’know?”
Eddie's grin only grew wider.
"So..." He tilted his head. "We're talking the full boyfriend package."
You nodded sheepishly. "Pretty much."
He let out a low whistle. "Movie dates."
"Mhm."
"Walking you home."
"Probably."
"Holding your hand?"
You could feel warmth creeping into your cheeks. "...If people are around."
He hummed thoughtfully, stroking his chin like he was negotiating a business deal worth millions.
"...You realize," he said, unable to suppress the grin threatening to split his face in two, "if we're gonna sell this..."
He leaned in just a fraction. "...I'm gonna have to be the greatest fake boyfriend Hawkins has ever seen."
You couldn't help but laugh, shaking your head. "I don't think that'll be a problem."
"Oh?" Eddie asked, feigning offense. "You underestimate my dedication to the craft."
"I think I underestimate your ego."
"That's fair."
Nancy glanced between the two of you, already regretting how well you seemed to bounce off each other.
"So..." she interjected. "When exactly were you planning on starting this little social experiment?"
You looked back at Eddie. "Tomorrow."
His eyebrows shot up. "...Tomorrow?"
"My parents drop me off every morning."
"And?"
"And tomorrow..." A small smile tugged at your lips. "They won't have to."
The next morning started like any other. Alarm at 6:30 on the dot, shower, brush your hair and teeth, do your makeup, pick an outfit, and head downstairs for breakfast.
Your mother was in her usual spot in the kitchen, making the same eggs and whole-wheat toast. Your father sat at the head of the table, glasses low on his nose as he read the newspaper, mug of coffee steaming next to him.
“Morning, Hun,” he hummed. “We have to stop at the post office before school today. I gotta mail out my case notes.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Dad.” You said nervously. “I, uh, have a ride today.”
“Oh, did Nancy finally get her car fixed?” Your mother chimed in.
“Oh, uh, yeah, but…it’s not Nancy. Eddie’s actually picking me up.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Your father slowly folded up his newspaper and placed it on the counter. “Eddie? As in, Eddie Munson, Eddie?”
You winced. "...Yeah."
Your mother blinked. "The young man with the... leather?"
You almost laughed. "I think it's denim."
"The one with the chains?"
"...Probably."
"The long hair?"
"...Yes."
"The Hellfire Club?"
"...Yes."
"The one who's in detention every other Tuesday?"
You sighed. "...That's the one."
Your father leaned back in his chair, studying you with an expression that was somehow calmer than yelling would've been.
"And..." He clasped his hands together. "...Why, exactly, is Eddie Munson picking my daughter up for school?"
Your heart hammered against your ribs. “Because we’ve been…seeing eachother.”
Absolute, unwavering silence followed. Your mother and father exchanged looks before answering in unison:
"...What?"
You cleared your throat. "Eddie and I have been... seeing each other."
Your mother's wooden spatula slipped from her fingers, clattering against the stovetop. Your father stared at you as though you'd just announced you were dropping out of school to join the circus.
"I'm sorry," he said slowly. "I must've misheard you."
You forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. "You didn't."
"Since..." your mother began carefully, "...since when?"
"A little while."
"A little while?" your father echoed.
You nodded. "Mhm."
"And you neglected to mention this because..."
"I knew you'd react like this."
"We're reacting because you just informed us that you're dating Eddie Munson."
"I know."
You opened your mouth to argue more, but before you could, a loud, unmistakable rumble echoed from outside. It sounded like someone had awakened a dying dragon in your driveway.
All three of you turned toward the front window. The familiar roar of an aging engine settled into a rattling idle.
Your father slowly stood from the table. "...Is that him?"
As if on cue: Honk. One short beep, then another.
Your eyes squeezed shut. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
From somewhere outside came a voice that carried far too well through the quiet neighborhood. "Take your time, sweetheart!"
You whipped around toward the window in horror. "Oh, my God."
Your father walked over first, carefully pulling back the curtain with two fingers. Your mother joined him a second later.
"...Harold," she whispered.
"I see him."
"He brought flowers."
Your stomach dropped. Flowers? That wasn't part of the plan. Slowly, you walked toward the window yourself, peering over your father's shoulder. There, parked halfway into the driveway in the unmistakable rust-speckled Munson van, was Eddie.
He'd traded his usual leather jacket for his battle vest over a black T-shirt, his sunglasses perched on top of his head despite it barely being eight in the morning. And, resting casually against the side of the van like he'd rehearsed it in a mirror...
...was the single ugliest bouquet of flowers you had ever seen. Half of them looked dead, one of them might've been plastic. There was definitely baby's breath sticking out at an angle it wasn't meant to.
The second your eyes met his through the window, his face lit up. He flashed the biggest, cockiest grin imaginable before lifting the bouquet high into the air with an exaggerated little flourish. Then he gave you an enthusiastic wave.
Your father slowly let the curtain fall shut, and he turned to face you. "...He's brought you funeral flowers."
You pinched the bridge of your nose. "...I think they're supposed to be carnations."
You let out a slow, defeated sigh. "...I'll be home after school."
Neither of your parents responded. Your father simply stood with his arms folded across his chest, while your mother wore the same expression she'd had ever since the words Eddie Munson had left your mouth. It was somewhere between confusion and preparing for the worst.
Grabbing your backpack from beside the front door, you slipped your shoes on and reached for the handle. "Love you," you offered hopefully.
Your mother managed a weak smile. "...Love you too."
Your father nodded once. "We'll... talk tonight."
You swallowed. "...Sounds good."
The second the front door swung open, Eddie spotted you. He straightened from where he'd been leaning against the van, tucked the pitiful excuse for a bouquet behind his back with an almost comical flourish, and plastered on the biggest smile you'd ever seen.
"There she is!"
You had to physically stop yourself from laughing. He walked toward you with the confidence of someone arriving at prom instead of a suburban driveway at seven-thirty in the morning.
"Good morning, beautiful."
Beautiful? You'd known Eddie for less than twenty-four hours, and he was already improvising.
He stopped in front of you, producing the bouquet from behind his back like a magician revealing his greatest trick.
"For my lovely lady."
You looked down. They were somehow even uglier up close. One carnation had snapped clean in half.
"...You bought these?"
"I rescued them."
"From...?"
"The clearance bucket outside Melvald's."
You bit the inside of your cheek so hard it almost hurt.
"They were seventy-five percent off."
"How romantic."
"I know."
You accepted the bouquet, shaking your head. "They're hideous."
"I picked the worst ones."
"I can tell."
"Proud of me?"
"...A little."
His grin widened. "Excellent."
Then, before you had time to react, he reached out, brushed a stray strand of hair away from your face with surprising gentleness…and pressed a quick kiss to your forehead. It was quick, sweet, and almost innocent.
But if anyone happened to be watching from inside, it looked incredibly convincing. Your eyes widened ever so slightly. When he pulled away, he leaned in just enough to whisper:
"...Sorry."
You blinked. "For what?"
"I panicked."
"...You panic by kissing people?"
"Apparently."
Before you could answer, the front door creaked open behind you. Both of your parents stepped onto the porch.
Eddie immediately turned, the picture of charm. "Mr. and Mrs!," he called cheerfully, raising a hand in greeting. "Pleasure to finally meet you."
Your father looked him up and down. "...Is it?"
Eddie didn't miss a beat. "It certainly is for me, sir."
"So..." your father began slowly. "You're Eddie."
"The one and only."
"I've heard... things."
Eddie rested a hand dramatically over his heart. "I'm hoping only the good ones."
"I sincerely doubt they were."
"Oh." He nodded thoughtfully. "...Probably."
You could actually see your father's brain trying to determine whether Eddie was genuinely this odd or simply putting on a performance. Spoiler alert: it was both.
"So," your father continued, "you're driving my daughter to school."
"I am."
"You'll obey the speed limit."
"Absolutely."
"No reckless driving."
"Never."
"No funny business."
Eddie frowned slightly. "...Define funny."
You closed your eyes. "Eddie..."
"What?" he asked innocently. "I'm asking for clarification."
Your father's expression remained perfectly flat. "You know exactly what I mean."
Eddie's own smile softened. "I do."
Then, for the first time since he'd arrived, he answered without a trace of sarcasm. "I'll get her there safely, sir."
The sincerity in his voice caught everyone a little off guard; hell, even your father seemed surprised. After a moment, he gave one curt nod.
"I expect you will."
"I will."
With that, Eddie walked around to the passenger side of the van and pulled the door open with an exaggerated bow. "Your chariot awaits."
You rolled your eyes. "What a gentleman."
"I have my moments."
Climbing into the passenger seat, you waited until he rounded the front of the van and slid into the driver's seat before the two of you looked at one another. There was exactly half a second of silence, then you burst into laughter.
Eddie looked over, trying and failing to suppress his own smile. "...What's so funny?"
"You."
"Me?"
"You kissed my forehead!"
"You said we had to sell it."
"I did not say before eight in the morning!"
"You never specified business hours."
You laughed harder. "And those flowers?"
He gasped dramatically. "They cost me a dollar twenty-five."
"They looked like they'd already attended a funeral."
"They did."
You stared at him. "...What?"
"I may or may not have bought them from the cemetery."
Your jaw dropped. "Eddie!"
"I'm kidding!"
"...Were you?"
"...Mostly."
You groaned, burying your face in your hands. "I have made the biggest mistake of my entire life."
He shifted the van into gear, a smug grin settling onto his face. "Oh, sweetheart."
The engine rumbled to life. "We're only on day one."
The drive to school had only been the beginning. Once Eddie committed to something, it quickly became apparent that he didn't know how to do it halfway.
The second the first bell rang, he'd slung his backpack over one shoulder and casually fallen into step beside you as though the two of you had been doing it for years.
"History first?" he'd asked.
"Mhm."
"Excellent."
You'd expected him to walk you halfway there, maybe to the end of the hallway. Instead, he'd walked you all the way to your classroom, leaned casually against the doorframe while you gathered your books, and smiled down at you.
"I'll see you after second period."
"...You know my schedule?"
He'd pulled a folded piece of notebook paper from his pocket. "Made a copy."
You stared. "...When?"
"Nancy."
You looked over your shoulder at her, so Nancy simply shrugged. "He asked."
"You gave it to him?"
"He was very persuasive."
Eddie tucked the paper back into his vest. "I'm an actor, sweetheart. Continuity is everything."
Sure enough, the moment second period ended, he was already waiting outside your classroom. Then again after third. Then fourth. By lunchtime, the entire school had noticed.
Girls whispered when you walked past. Basketball players openly stared. Freshmen practically dove out of Eddie's way when he slipped an arm lazily over your shoulders while walking through the hallway.
If anyone had doubted the relationship that morning, they certainly didn't anymore. Which was exactly why you found yourself carrying your lunch tray toward the Hellfire table instead of your usual seat beside Nancy.
You stopped dead in your tracks. "...People are going to think I've lost my mind."
Eddie looked up from unwrapping his sandwich. "They already think that."
"...Helpful."
He scooted over and pulled up a chair for you. "C'mon."
With a resigned sigh, you slid in beside him. Almost immediately, the rest of Hellfire fell silent. Gareth looked at Jeff. Jeff looked at Mike. Mike looked at Dustin. Dustin's eyes darted between you and Eddie so fast you were surprised they didn't get stuck.
"...Holy shit," Gareth muttered.
"It's real," Jeff whispered.
Eddie looked offended. "You doubted me?"
"We doubted her."
You couldn't even blame them. A few minutes later, Nancy and Jonathan wandered over, trays in hand.
"Mind if we join?" Jonathan asked.
"Please do," you replied. "I need normal people."
Eddie gasped dramatically.
By the final bell, your social battery had all but evaporated. Being the center of attention all day was exhausting. You were halfway through stuffing books into your locker when Nancy appeared beside you.
"So..." she began.
You looked up.
"I think Phase One was a success."
"You think?"
"I've already heard three different people say they 'always knew' you and Eddie had chemistry."
You groaned. "People are unbelievable."
"They're bored."
"Fair."
Jonathan joined the two of you, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. "Speaking of bored..."
Nancy suddenly snapped her fingers. "Oh!"
She looked between you and Eddie. "I almost forgot."
"What?"
"The drive-in's doing a horror double feature tomorrow night."
Eddie perked up immediately. "...Seriously?"
Jonathan nodded. "I drove past this morning."
"They're showing The Evil Dead and A Nightmare on Elm Street."
Eddie's jaw practically hit the floor. "No way."
"Way."
"They never play good movies."
"I know."
Nancy smiled. "Jonathan wanted to go..."
Jonathan looked over at her. "...Did I?"
"You do now."
He chuckled. "I guess I do."
She turned back toward you and Eddie. "You guys should come."
You blinked.
"As..." She wiggled her eyebrows. "...A couple."
You looked instinctively toward Eddie.
"A public date," he mused. "Excellent for maintaining the illusion."
Nancy laughed. "See? He's getting it."
"Oh, he got it the second he showed up with cemetery flowers."
"They weren't cemetery flowers," Eddie defended.
"They were discount flowers."
"There's a difference."
Jonathan smiled, shaking his head. "So..."
He looked between the two of you. "Tomorrow night?"
You glanced at Eddie, and he gave a tiny shrug. "I'm free."
"...Yeah." You nodded. "I think we'd like that."
The following evening arrived far quicker than you would've liked. Somewhere between surviving an entire day of whispers at school and convincing your mother that, yes, you really were just going to the drive-in with "friends," the reality of the situation had begun to settle in.
You were going on your first date. Granted, it was fake. But somehow that only made your stomach twist even more.
After changing into a pair of jeans, one of your favorite sweaters, and throwing on a light coat for the chilly October air, you gave yourself one final look in the hallway mirror.
"Ready?" your mother called from downstairs.
"As I'll ever be."
The words had barely left your mouth when the doorbell rang. Your father looked up from his armchair.
"That'll be him." You exchanged a quick glance with your mother before making your way toward the front door, only for your father to beat you there. "I'll get it."
The door swung open, and standing on the porch was Eddie.
His curls had clearly been tamed…well, as much as Eddie Munson's curls could ever be tamed.
He'd swapped his usual ripped Hellfire shirt for a plain black waffle long-sleeved shirt. His jeans were still ripped, his boots still scuffed, and there were just as many rings decorating his fingers as always.
He'd made an effort, in the most Eddie way possible.
The moment he saw your father, he straightened. "Evening, sir."
Your father regarded him carefully. "...Munson."
"Eddie works."
Your father didn't smile. "I'm sure it does."
You quickly slipped between them before things could somehow become awkwarder than they already were. "Hi."
The second Eddie looked at you, his entire expression softened. "...Wow."
You felt heat creep into your cheeks. "What?"
"You..." He smiled to himself before shaking his head. "You look really nice."
"...Thanks."
Your father cleared his throat, and Eddie immediately remembered where he was.
"Right." He clasped his hands behind his back almost like a soldier awaiting inspection. "So..."
Your father folded his arms. "So."
"I understand we're going to the drive-in."
"We are."
"And I understand Jonathan Byers and Nancy Wheeler will be there."
"They will."
"Good."
"You'll have her home by eleven."
Eddie nodded immediately. "Absolutely."
"If plans change, she calls."
"Of course."
"If that van breaks down—"
"It won't."
Your father raised an eyebrow. "It might."
"...It might."
"And if it does?"
"I'll call."
"You won't let her walk home alone."
"I wouldn't let her walk across the parking lot alone."
Your father's posture eased... just a fraction. "Good."
He stepped aside. "You kids have fun."
"We will, sir."
As you stepped off the porch, Eddie quietly reached for your hand. You glanced down at your intertwined fingers before looking back up at him.
He leaned over just enough to murmur, "...Audience."
You looked back toward the front window, and sure enough, your parents were watching through the curtains. "...Right."
The drive itself was surprisingly easy. The windows were cracked just enough to let the cool autumn air drift through the van while some old rock station played quietly over the speakers.
You talked about school. About Gareth somehow managing to fail another chemistry quiz. About Dustin insisting he'd seen a UFO behind Family Video. By the time the glowing marquee for the Hawkins Drive-In appeared in the distance, you'd almost forgotten this wasn't real.
Eddie paid for both of your tickets before steering toward the back row.
You frowned. "...Shouldn't we park closer?"
"Nope."
"Why?"
"You'll see."
He killed the engine before hopping out of the driver's seat. "C'mere."
Curiosity getting the better of you, you followed him around to the back of the van. He swung the rear doors open with both hands.
"...Ta-da."
You stopped walking. "...Eddie."
The inside of the van looked nothing like you'd expected.
The back seats had been folded flat, replaced with what looked like every blanket he owned layered over an old mattress pad. Pillows were piled against the sides, making a little nest beneath a strand of warm white battery-powered string lights he'd somehow managed to drape across the ceiling.
There were even two lawn chairs folded neatly in the corner in case you wanted to sit outside instead.
"...What..."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "So..."
You climbed a little closer, running your hand across one of the impossibly soft blankets. "You did all this?"
He shrugged like it was no big deal. "I figured drive-ins are more fun when you're comfortable."
Your eyes wandered farther; a little cooler sat tucked against the wall. Curious, you opened it. Inside were glass bottles of Coke, your favorite cherry licorice, peanut M&M's, movie theater butter popcorn. Even the little strawberry candies you'd absentmindedly mentioned liking while sitting at lunch two days ago.
You looked back at him. "...How do you even know all of this?"
"You told Gareth those strawberry candies reminded you of your grandma."
You blinked. "...You remembered that?"
"Sure."
Still speechless, you reached into the back again.
"...Is this..." You pulled out a folded gray sweatshirt. "...Mine?"
"Nah." He laughed. "It's mine."
You looked at him, confused.
"It's supposed to get cold later."
"So?"
"So..." He looked at you like the answer was obvious. "You complained yesterday that you always underestimate how cold October gets."
"...I did."
"So I brought an extra sweatshirt."
You stared at him. "Eddie..."
For the first time since you'd met him, he actually looked a little shy. "What?"
"I thought this was supposed to be fake."
"It is."
"You didn't have to do..." You gestured helplessly toward the cozy little setup he'd somehow built in the back of the van. "...all of this."
A grin slowly spread across his face. "Oh."
He leaned casually against the open door. "...This?"
You nodded, and he shrugged. "Fake boyfriend package."
You laughed. "No."
"What?"
"This is way above the fake boyfriend package."
He feigned offense. "You wound me."
"Eddie."
"I'm serious."
He pointed into the van. "Blankets."
Another finger. "Snacks."
Another. "Emergency sweatshirt."
He spread both hands proudly. "I'm providing a premium service here."
You laughed so hard you had to grab the side of the van to steady yourself. "I'm going to have to leave you a five-star review."
"Damn right you are."
Then, quieter, his grin softening into something far less performative.
"I just..." He looked over the little setup. "...Figured if we're pretending to date..."
His shoulders lifted in a small shrug. "...You should get at least one really good date out of it."
The drive-in ended up being surprisingly perfect. Neither of you paid much attention to the first movie.
Instead, the two of you spent most of it making sarcastic commentary under your breath, sharing popcorn, and arguing over whether The Evil Dead was genuinely terrifying or just "creative low-budget filmmaking," as Eddie insisted.
By the second feature, the October air had turned considerably colder. Without saying a word, Eddie reached behind him, grabbed the sweatshirt he'd packed, and draped it over your shoulders before you even had the chance to complain.
You'd rolled your eyes as he'd simply grinned. "Premium service."
By the time the credits rolled, your cheeks hurt from smiling.
True to his word, Eddie pulled into your driveway at exactly 10:50, ten whole minutes before your curfew. Your father was already waiting on the porch, arms crossed, watching.
Eddie climbed out first, walking around to open your door before helping you step down from the van with an exaggerated flourish. "Milady."
You curtsied dramatically. "Thank you, kind sir."
He placed a hand over his heart. "My pleasure."
Your father watched the exchange carefully as the two of you walked toward the porch. "You made good time."
Eddie nodded. "Told you I would."
Your father checked his watch. "...You're early."
"I figured ten minutes was a safe buffer."
"...Smart."
It wasn't exactly praise. But coming from your father, it was pretty damn close.
"Goodnight, sir."
"Goodnight, Eddie."
You glanced between them. "...Goodnight."
As you headed inside, you couldn't help but notice your father watching Eddie climb back into the van.
Your mother appeared beside him. "So?"
He kept his eyes on the driveway. "...He was respectful."
You nearly tripped over your own feet. Respectful? From your father? Maybe hell really had frozen over.
One fake date somehow became two, then three. Then somewhere along the line, the lines started blurring.
Eddie still picked you up for school almost every morning. He still walked you to every class. He'd started carrying your books without asking. Holding doors open. Stealing fries off your lunch tray despite insisting he "didn't want any."
You'd retaliated by drinking half his chocolate milk whenever he looked away. A silent war had begun that neither of you intended to lose.
The town, of course, ate it up. Mrs. Thompson at Melvald's gave the two of you a knowing smile every time you stopped in after school. The librarian had started saving romance novels "for the young couple." Even Principal Higgins had caught Eddie kissing the top of your head outside English one afternoon.
Instead of detention, he'd simply sighed. "Keep it appropriate, Munson."
"Always do."
The moment Higgins rounded the corner, Eddie looked down at you. "...That counted, right?"
You laughed. "I think we sold it."
"Excellent."
The phone calls hadn't been part of the plan. It started because Eddie called one evening to ask if your father had "bought the hand-holding today."
That conversation lasted fifteen minutes. The next night became thirty. By Friday, the two of you had somehow spent nearly two hours talking about everything and absolutely nothing.
Favorite movies. Childhood stories. Music. Why Garfield was objectively the funniest comic strip ever printed.
You'd started waiting for the sound of your phone ringing around nine every night. And like clockwork, you’d always answered.
Before long, pretending started feeling easy and dangerously comfortable. Sometimes you'd catch yourself laughing before Eddie even finished the joke.
Sometimes he'd bring you your favorite soda without asking. Sometimes he'd absentmindedly reach for your hand crossing a parking lot before either of you remembered there wasn't actually anyone around to witness it.
Neither of you acknowledged those moments; you simply kept the "bit" going.
"So." Jonathan leaned back in his cafeteria chair one afternoon, looking around the table. "I heard something."
Nancy looked up from her sandwich. "...Should we be worried?"
"Probably."
Eddie nodded approvingly. "I like where this is going."
Jonathan ignored him. "My friend at community college said there's a party this Saturday."
That immediately caught everyone's attention. "A college party?" Nancy asked.
Jonathan nodded. "Apparently one of the fraternities is throwing a Halloween thing."
You, Nancy, and Eddie exchanged glances. None of you had been to a college party before. Jonathan noticed the exchange and smiled.
"I was thinking..." He pointed between the two of you. "You guys should come."
Nancy perked up immediately. "Oh my God, yes."
"It'd be fun," Jonathan continued. "Nobody there knows either of you, so there's no pressure. Just music, some booze..." He shrugged. "Besides, Darren goes there, doesn't he?"
Your stomach flipped. "...Yeah."
Jonathan smiled. "Perfect."
Nancy's eyes widened as the implications dawned on her. "Oh."
"Oh."
Nancy was the first one to put the pieces together. Her eyes widened as she looked between you and Eddie. "...Wait."
You glanced over.
"If your parents think Eddie's taking you..." She pointed toward Jonathan. "...Then they'll have absolutely no problem letting you go."
You nodded absentmindedly. "...I guess."
Jonathan shrugged. "And if Darren happens to be there..."
The name hit you like someone had dumped a bucket of cold water over your head.
Darren. Right.
For a brief, almost embarrassing moment, you'd forgotten. Not forgotten him, exactly. Just forgotten that he was the entire reason any of this had started.
Your mind flashed back to the phone call you'd had with him a few nights earlier. The conversation had been nice, comfortable even. He'd asked how school was going. You'd told him "good." He'd told you about a biology exam. You'd wished him luck.
Then, before hanging up, you'd mentioned you couldn't talk much longer because Eddie was supposed to call in a few minutes. Only after you'd said it had you realized how naturally the words had come out.
You blinked. "...Oh."
Eddie noticed the shift in your expression almost immediately. "What?"
You looked back at the table. "...Nothing."
Jonathan continued, oblivious. "He'll probably be there somewhere."
“Yeah…” You said, sinking into your seat. "Probably."
By the time the night of the party rolled around, you were equal parts nervous and excited. The excitement, however, had very little to do with the party itself. It had everything to do with the ridiculous argument you'd had with Eddie three nights prior.
"If we're going," he'd said over the phone, "we're wearing matching costumes."
You'd laughed. "No."
"Yes."
"Absolutely not."
"We're a couple."
"A fake couple."
"A distinction with very little importance."
You'd groaned into the receiver. "Eddie..."
"We have to sell it."
"We're already selling it."
"No, sweetheart." You could practically hear the grin in his voice. "We're raising the bar."
Which explained why you were currently standing in front of your bedroom mirror wearing a black, studded mini dress layered over a fishnet top, ripped tights, and heavy combat boots. A spiked choker sat snug around your neck.
Your hair had been teased and left wild, half-pinned back with a chain clip Eddie had insisted on adding himself earlier.
“Needs more attitude,” he’d said, concentrating like he was defusing a bomb.
You’d called it ridiculous; he’d called it perfect.
A knock sounded downstairs.
"He's here!" your mother called.
You grabbed your leather jacket, shrugging it on as you hurried downstairs. The second you rounded the corner into the foyer, Eddie looked up and promptly forgot how to speak.
Gone were the ripped jeans and Hellfire tee. Instead, he wore black skinny jeans, a sleeveless band tee layered under a distressed denim vest covered in patches, and heavy boots that looked like they’d seen more than one mosh pit.
Eddie had somehow managed to style his own hair into a wild, voluminous mess of teased curls and waves, half of it pulled back with a chain and leather wrap, the rest spilling around his face like he’d stepped straight out of a metal album cover.
A few strands fell into his eyes, but he didn’t brush them away. He just stared at you.
"...Holy shit."
You smiled. "What?"
"You..." He shook his head slowly, like he couldn’t quite process it. "You actually did it."
"You look like you belong in a band."
"I do belong in a band."
"You belong in a very loud band."
He grinned, stepping closer. "You look..." His voice softened just slightly. "...Really good."
You felt heat rise in your cheeks. "You don’t look so bad yourself."
Your father chose that exact moment to clear his throat. The two of you jumped apart as though you'd been caught committing a crime.
"Evening, Eddie."
"Sir..."
Your father looked him over. "...Interesting costume."
Eddie glanced down at himself. "Thanks."
"You know..." Your father folded his arms. "...People in bands tend to make questionable life choices."
Eddie nodded seriously. "Yeah, I’ve heard that. I’m trying to keep my record clean tonight, sir."
That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of your father’s mouth.
"So," your father continued, "college party."
"Yes, sir."
"You understand there’ll be drinking."
"There probably will be."
"You won’t be."
"No, sir."
"You’ll make sure she isn’t."
"I will."
"And if anything feels off..."
"We leave." He finishes.
Your father studied him for another second before nodding. "...Midnight."
"We’ll be back before then."
He looked toward you. "Phone?"
You held it up.
"Wallet?"
You patted your pocket.
"Keys?"
Eddie jingled them.
"...Have fun."
The fraternity house was impossible to miss. Music thumped loudly enough to rattle the windows while clusters of college students spilled across the front lawn, laughing beneath strings of orange lights and fake cobwebs. The moment the four of you stepped out of the van, heads turned.
Jonathan leaned toward Nancy. "...I think they win."
Nancy smiled. "They absolutely win."
One college girl walking past pointed excitedly. "Oh, my God!" She laughed. “Sharron and Ozzie!"
Eddie immediately slid an arm around your shoulders. "See?" he murmured. "Worth it."
"...Debatable."
Inside, the house was somehow even louder. A surprising number of people in ripped band tees and eyeliner that looked suspiciously rushed. You spent the first hour simply existing.
You danced exactly once, mostly because Eddie refused to accept no for an answer.
"You have two options," he'd informed you.
"Dance..." He held out one hand. "...Or I throw a fit in this living room."
"...Those aren't good options."
"They absolutely are."
You’d taken his hand before he embarrassed both of you. Nancy had laughed so hard she’d nearly spilled her drink. You were having genuine amounts of fun, almost enough to make you forget why you were there in the first place.
"I'm gonna find the bathroom," you announced after another song ended.
Finding the bathroom proved far easier than finding your way back. You’d barely stepped into the upstairs hallway before a familiar voice stopped you in your tracks.
"...Babe?"
Your heart skipped, and slowly, you turned around. "Darren?"
He smiled, equally surprised. "I thought Jonathan said you might be coming."
"I almost didn't."
He laughed. "I didn't think I'd actually run into you."
"So..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "You look nice."
You smiled politely. "Thanks. You too."
His eyes drifted over your costume. "...Metal?"
"Mhm."
"Cute."
"So..." he asked carefully. "How've you been?"
Meanwhile downstairs, Eddie checked his watch. "Huh."
Jonathan looked over. "What?"
"She's been gone a while."
Nancy frowned. "...You're right."
"I'll go find her."
"You know where the bathroom is?"
"I'll figure it out."
He checked one door, and then another.
Then, "...Oh."
His footsteps stopped because halfway down the hall stood you. Laughing, talking with a guy: college-aged, a little taller than him, and standing much closer than Eddie would've liked.
Darren. Of course. This was literally the entire reason any of this existed.
His grip around his cup tightened as he watched Darren smile at something you said and watched you smile back.
What had he expected? That you’d forget about the guy you’ve been trying so hard to introduce to your parents?
That this fake relationship had somehow...He cut the thought off before it finished. The cup slipped through his fingers, and it clinked softly against the floor.
Your head whipped toward the sound. "Eddie?"
Your eyes had met then, and he stared at you solemnly for a second before shaking his head and scurrying away.
"Eddie!"
You looked back at Darren only long enough to offer an apologetic smile. "I'm... I'm sorry. I have to go."
Before he could answer, you were already hurrying after the retreating figure, disappearing down the staircase.
“Eddie! Hey…Jesus Christ, you walk fast—Fuck, hey!”
You finally caught his wrist just as he pushed through the front door of the fraternity house; the October air hit both of you immediately.
"Eddie."
He stopped walking, and for a second, you swore he'd turn around. He didn't. Instead, he let out a slow breath through his nose, staring out at the sea of cars parked along the lawn.
"...You should go back inside."
"What?"
"You heard me."
"I was literally coming to find you."
"No." He laughed once, humorlessly. "You were talking to Darren."
"I was saying hello."
"Mhm."
"Eddie."
He finally turned around then, his eyes glossy. He wasn’t crying, not yet, but somewhere dangerously close. "You don't have to explain yourself."
"What?"
"You don't owe me an explanation."
"I wasn't trying to—"
"No." He shook his head. "Seriously."
He laughed a short and almost bitter laugh. "You don't."
You frowned. "You're my—"
He cut you off. "Fake boyfriend.
“You were talking to the guy you actually like." He shrugged. "I get it."
"No, you don't."
"I do."
"No—"
"I was just..." He rubbed both hands over his face before letting out another disbelieving laugh. "Jesus Christ."
His shoulders slumped. "What the hell did I think was gonna happen?"
"Eddie..."
"What?" he asked, throwing one hand into the air. "That I actually convinced myself the prettiest girl in Hawkins High was gonna wake up one morning and decide she wanted me?"
He wasn't looking at you anymore; his gaze was fixed beyond your shoulder, talking more to himself than to you.
"I'm the fucking freak."
"Eddie—"
"And somewhere along the way..." He shook his head. "I forgot."
You stepped closer. "You forgot what?"
"That this..." He gestured between the two of you. "...was never real. You know what the worst part is?"
"Eddie..."
"I started believing it. I started believing all the stupid little things."
He counted them off on his fingers. "The phone calls. The drive-in. You stealing my fries. You laughing at my dumb jokes."
He laughed again. "I started thinking..." He stopped himself. "No."
"Eddie, finish that sentence."
"I started thinking maybe..." His jaw tightened. "Maybe you actually enjoyed being around me."
"I do."
"You have to."
"No."
"You literally have to!" he exclaimed, his voice finally rising. "That's the whole deal!"
"I don't."
"You don't?"
"I don't have to."
He blinked as you took another step forward. "I call you because I want to."
He stared.
"I laugh because you're funny. I go to the record store with you because I like going. With you."
"Eddie..." You swallowed. "I would've kept talking to Darren for maybe another minute."
You gestured toward the house. "I chased after you. Like, I've barely thought about Darren this entire month."
Those words surprised both of you, mainly because you hadn't meant to say them out loud.
"I..." You frowned. "I don't know when that happened."
"Eddie..."
He looked away. "I really don't want you to say something just because you feel bad."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm not."
He let out another dry laugh, shaking his head. "You don't have to spare my feelings."
"I'm not trying to spare your feelings, you idiot!"
Your chest rose and fell rapidly as you searched for the right words. "I don't know how else to say this."
"You don't have to say anything."
"Yes, I do."
"Eddie..." Your voice softened. "I like you."
He smiled sadly. "I know."
"No." You shook your head. "I don't think you do."
He frowned.
"I like you. Like..."
You let out a nervous laugh, one hand coming up to rub the back of your neck. "Like, I genuinely like you."
He froze so much so that you could almost see the sentence replaying itself in his head. "...What?"
"I like you."
"No, you don't."
"I do."
"You don't."
"I really, really do."
He stared at you as though you'd started speaking another language. "You came up with this whole fake dating thing because of Darren."
"I know."
"You wanted me to make him look better."
"I know."
"You've been trying to introduce him to your parents for weeks."
"I know."
"So..." He gave another confused laugh. "How the hell does this happen?"
You laughed through the tears threatening to form. "I don't know."
"I think..." You looked down at your shoes before meeting his eyes again.
"I think it happened somewhere between you showing up with those horrible flowers..."
The corner of his mouth twitched.
"...And remembering my favorite candy."
You smiled weakly. "And the drive-in. And the phone calls. And you walking me to every class. You remembered all the little things I said without me ever asking you to."
"You made pretending feel so easy that..." You shook your head. "...I forgot we were pretending."
His lips parted. "I almost forgot Darren existed."
The admission hung in the cool night air.
"I went the entire time without thinking about him once." You laughed softly to yourself. "And then Jonathan mentioned the college party..."
You shrugged helplessly. "...And I realized I'd spent more time wondering what costume we would wear rather than seeing Darren."
"So..." You offered him the smallest, most nervous smile he'd ever seen.
"I guess somewhere along the way..."
You reached down and gently took his hand. "...I stopped fake dating you."
He looked down at your intertwined fingers, then back up at you. "...You're serious."
You nodded. "I've never been more serious."
He smiled so wide it almost looked painful. "...Guess I'm gonna have to start putting in some real boyfriend effort now, huh?"
“Should I be afraid to find out what that entails?”
“Oh yeah. Very much so.”
me giggling and kicking my feet at how cute ts is
since ik you all far too well and love adding more projects for myself...
“go on, baby,” he cooes, gazing up at you with those big, beautiful brown eyes. “finish the rest of the song.”
you shake your head, lids closing in a dramatic fashion as the tip of his cock brushes against that one spot deep inside of you. “i-i can’t,” you choke, small tear droplets prickling at the corner of your eyes.
“you can,” he demands softly, “and you will.”
when eddie came home that night, you hadn’t expected him to react the way he did to your little surprise. to the corroded coffin top you had made earlier that day. you figured he might’ve gotten emotional, probably just a little bit turned on even, but you didn’t expect this.
the rough, possessive side of him you had yet to see, showed itself fully. he took you right there on the couch, told you to put it on and nothing else, all while he buried his cock in your tight, wet little cunt and had you singing the lyrics to their most popular song — the one eddie had written about you.
the catch? if you stopped, he stopped.
while in the beginning it seemed fairly easy for you to get through, with each drag of his cock through your tight walls, and the filthy words of praise spilling from his plump lips, it became increasingly more difficult.
his thrusts slowed, waiting for you to start reciting the words again. the soft whine that clawed it’s way out of your throat made him smirk. “come on, pretty girl. finish those last few verses and you can cum. i know how badly you want to.”
that was all you needed to keep going. as you got closer to the end of the song, his thrusts sped up, hips pounding into you with fervor, chasing his own release.
with the last line rolling off of your tongue, eddie brings his hand to your cunt, rubbing harsh circles against your throbbing clit. “fuck, baby. cum for me. go on, it’s okay. let go. let go for me, baby.”
you cum right before you’re supposed to finish, the feeling so intense it has your vision blurring and hearing going fuzzy. eddie’s release soon follows yours, hot spurts of cum painting your spasming walls.
“jesus,” he pants, partially collapsing on top of you. “that was so hot.”
you giggle, entangling your fingers through his unruly hair. “i take it you really like the shirt, huh?”
“i love it,” eddie chuckles breathlessly, carefully pulling out of you to lay on his back, bringing you with him against his chest. “shit, if you wear that to our show on tuesday i’ll prolly fuck you on stage. wouldn’t be able to control myself, sweetheart.”
“oh yeah?” you look at him with a raised brow. “i don’t believe you.”
summary: youve always had this...problem when it comes to sex. youve never made it across the finish line like...ever. you intended on keeping this a secret. especially from your older coworker eddie but your best friend had to just open her stupid mouth and now hes on a personal mission to right the wrongs of the universe.
warnings/tags: 2002 au, age gap (15 years), bartender! eddie and reader, pining, smoking, smut (oral f receiving, squirting, multiple orgasms, breast worship, multiple positions, praise, big dick! eddie, aftercare)
masterlist // join the taglist
The bar was a goddamn ghost town at three in the afternoon. Half the stools still had yesterday’s coasters stuck to them. The jukebox was stuck on some early 2000s alternative bullshit that no one had the energy to change. You were wiping down the same stretch of sticky counter for the third time when Jess leaned her elbows on it, chin in her hands, eyes gleaming like she’d just gotten away with murder.
“I’m serious,” she said, voice low and conspiratorial even though the only other person in the place was Eddie, restocking the well bottles with his back to you both. “This guy. Last night. I don’t even remember his name. Doesn’t matter. He went down on me like it was a calling. Like he’d been training for it since puberty. I came so hard I thought I was gonna black out. Twice. In like twelve minutes.”
You snorted into the rag. “That’s disgusting. And also… congratulations?”
“Thank you.” Jess preened. “I’m glowing. Look at me. Post-orgasmic radiance.” She tilted her face toward the neon Bud Light sign like it was a mirror. Then her expression softened into something more pointed. “Speaking of which… you still having your little problem with men?”
You froze mid-wipe. “Jess—”
“What problem?”
Eddie’s voice cut across the bar, casual as anything. He didn’t even turn around at first, just kept lining up the Jack and the Jim like he hadn’t been listening the entire time. When he finally glanced over his shoulder, one dark brow was already arched high under the messy fall of his hair. He always looked unfairly good—black band tee stretched across his shoulders, silver rings flashing every time he moved, that perpetual half-smirk that made it hard to tell if he was about to roast you or flirt with you. Probably both.
Jess didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, you know. Her problem.” She jerked a thumb in your direction. “She’s never came from a dude before.”
The bottle of whiskey in Eddie’s hand paused halfway to the shelf.
You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. “Jesus Christ, Jess—”
“What?” she said, all wide-eyed innocence. “It’s not like it’s a secret. You’ve told me like six times. And he’s right there. He’s basically part of the furniture at this point.”
Eddie set the bottle down with deliberate care and turned fully, resting his forearms on the bar. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Never?” he repeated, voice low and amused and way too interested. “Like… ever? Not even the accidental ones? The ‘oops I moved wrong and something happened’ variety?”
Heat crawled up your neck. “Can we not—”
“Nope,” Jess said cheerfully. “We’re airing it out. Self-awareness is in bitch.”
Eddie tilted his head, studying you like you were a particularly fascinating puzzle. The long hair, the rings, the faint scar through his eyebrow—everything about him was unfairly magnetic, and he knew it. He’d always known it. The way his eyes lingered a half-second too long when you reached for the top-shelf bottles. The way yours did the same when he stretched to change the lights over the pool table.
“Huh,” he said eventually. “That’s… tragic. Actually tragic. Like Greek tragedy levels of tragic.”
You glared at him. “It’s not tragic.”
“It is,” he insisted, deadpan. “You’re twenty-one. Peak prime. And you’re walking around out here unsatisfied like it’s some kind of personality trait. That’s criminal. Someone should fix that.”
Jess grinned. “See? He gets it.”
“I get nothing,” you muttered, scrubbing harder at a non-existent spot on the wood. “And for the record, it’s not like guys haven’t tried. They’re just… bad at it. Or distracted. Or weirdly determined to go for the Olympic gold in thrusting while forgetting the rest of the body exists.”
Eddie made a soft, wounded sound. “Ouch. Collectively roasting half the male population. Bold.”
“Deserved,” you shot back.
He leaned in a little, elbows sliding closer across the bar. The metal of his rings clicked against the wood. “So what you’re saying is… every single guy who’s ever had the privilege has been mid at best.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“And none of them managed to, y’know—” he made a vague, elegant gesture with one hand, rings flashing, “—get the job done.”
Jess was delighted. “God, this is better than daytime TV.”
You pointed the rag at her. “You started this.”
“And I’m thriving.”
Eddie ignored her completely, eyes still locked on yours. There was something sharp and curious under the teasing now. Something that made your stomach pull tight.
“Interesting,” he murmured. “Very interesting.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me like that. Like you’re taking notes for later.”
His grin spread slow and wicked. “Baby, I’ve been taking notes for months. This is just the first time the subject’s come up in conversation.”
Jess actually clapped. “Oh my god.”
You felt your face go hot. “Eddie—”
He straightened up, palms raised in mock surrender, but the smirk never left. “Hey. Just saying. If the bar’s this dead every afternoon, maybe we should start a support group. I can lead the hands on portion of the presentation.”
You threw the wet rag at his chest. He caught it one-handed without even flinching, laughing under his breath as the damp fabric slapped against his shirt.
“You’re the worst,” you told him.
“And yet,” he said, tossing the rag back onto the bar between you, “you keep looking.”
Jess made a delighted little noise and stage-whispered, “I live for this shift.”
Eddie just winked at you—slow, deliberate—and turned back to the bottles like he hadn’t just set the entire afternoon on fire.
The next two hours crawled by in that special brand of dead-bar purgatory where every glass you washed felt like a personal insult. A couple of regulars drifted in, ordered cheap beer, and left again. Jess kept shooting you meaningful looks every time Eddie got within ten feet, which was constantly, because the universe had decided you two were stuck on the same side of the bar for the rest of the shift.
He waited until Jess disappeared into the back to change a keg before he started.
“Alright,” he said, voice low and conversational as he dried a pint glass with unnecessary care. “Pop quiz time. You ever come from oral? Like, someone actually knowing what they’re doing down there.”
You nearly dropped the bottle of vodka you were restocking. “Eddie.”
“What? Scientific inquiry. I like to learn.” He tapped his temple with one ringed finger. “Answer the question.”
You glanced toward the empty booths, then back at him. “No. Not really. It’s usually… fine. Then they get bored or their jaw starts hurting and they switch to something else.”
He made a soft, wounded sound like you’d just insulted his entire bloodline. “Christ. The bar is in hell. Next question—missionary. Ever gotten there that way?”
“No.”
“Doggy?”
“Eddie—”
“Answer.”
You exhaled through your nose. “Once I thought I was close. Then he asked if I was okay because I went quiet and the whole thing died.”
Eddie actually stopped drying the glass. He stared at you for a second, then set it down very carefully. “I’m going to need a list of names. Ban them from the bar. They're never allowed in your presence again.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m invested,” he corrected, leaning a hip against the counter. The afternoon light caught on the silver at his knuckles. “Okay, reverse cowgirl. Ever tried that one?”
You gave him a flat look. “You’re just listing positions now.”
“It’s a thorough survey. I’m a thorough guy.” His mouth curved. “What about when you’re on top and you actually get to control the angle?”
Heat crawled up the back of your neck. “Still no.”
“Against a wall?”
“No.”
“Bent over something?”
“Eddie, oh my god.”
He held up both hands, rings flashing, but he was grinning like a man who’d just found a new favorite hobby. “Okay, okay. Solo work. You can get yourself there, right?”
You hesitated, then nodded once. “Yeah. That’s… the only reliable method, honestly.”
Something shifted in his expression—still playful, still teasing, but there was a new sharpness underneath it. Like he’d just filed that particular answer into a mental drawer labeled Important.
“Interesting,” he murmured. “So the equipment works. The operators just suck.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
He reached past you for a clean stack of coasters, close enough that you caught the faint scent of leather and stale tobacco. His voice dropped even lower. “How do you do it, then? Fingers? Toys? Pillow humping like a teenager?”
You shoved a coaster into his chest. “I’m not answering that.”
“Coward.”
“Voyeur.”
“Guilty.” He caught the coaster before it fell and spun it between his fingers. “Fine. Keep your secrets. I’ll just have to hypothesize.” He tilted his head, studying you with that same intense focus he’d given the whiskey bottles earlier. “I’m guessing fingers. Two, maybe three. Slow at first, then faster when you get close. You go quiet. Bite your lip. That soft little sound you make when you’re frustrated with the register? Probably the same one.”
Your face went hot enough to fry an egg. “You are unbelievable.”
“I’m observant.” He flicked the coaster onto the bar with a soft clack. “And currently constructing a very detailed theory about what it would take to fix this tragic situation.”
You turned away to grab a new bottle of well tequila, mostly so he wouldn’t see the way your mouth wanted to smile. “You’re plotting.”
“Obviously.”
“You’re thirty-six. Shouldn’t you be plotting, I don’t know, retirement or something?”
Eddie barked a laugh. “Baby, I’m in my prime. And right now my prime is extremely focused on the fact that you’ve never been properly ruined by another person and that is a personal offense to me as a man who takes pride in his work.”
You glanced over your shoulder. “Your work.”
“I’m a multi-talented individual.” He winked, slow and filthy. “Bartending is just the day job.”
Jess chose that exact moment to reappear from the back, wiping her hands on her apron. She took one look at the two of you—Eddie’s smug expression, your flushed face—and grinned like Christmas had come early.
“Oh, this is gonna be a great closing shift,” she announced.
Eddie just hummed, turning back to the glasses with the air of a man who had all the time in the world and a very specific plan forming behind those dark eyes.
The night stretched on like it had a personal grudge.
By eight the place finally woke up—college kids with fake IDs, regulars who lived three stools down from alcoholism, a table of guys who kept trying to get Jess’s number and failing spectacularly. You and Eddie moved around each other like you’d been doing it for years, hips brushing when the space got tight, fingers grazing when you both reached for the same bottle. Every time it happened he shot you a look that said noted, and every time you pretended not to notice.
He waited until you were both stuck behind the bar during a rush to lean in close, voice low under the music.
“So when you’re alone,” he said, pouring three shots of Jameson without looking, “how long does it usually take?”
You nearly over-poured the vodka in your hand. “I’m not answering that while I’m making someone a vodka soda.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Eddie.”
He slid the shots down the bar with a practiced flick of his wrist and turned just enough that his mouth was near your ear. “I’m building a timeline. Important data. Is it a ten-minute situation or a ‘I’ve got the apartment to myself for an hour’ situation?”
You shouldered him back an inch. “You’re exhausting.”
“And yet you’re still answering.”
“I’m not.”
“You will.”
By eleven the crowd thinned enough that Jess could handle the floor alone. That left the two of you restocking the back bar, bodies close in the narrow space between the ice well and the speed rack. Eddie handed you bottles one by one, rings clicking against glass, and every time your fingers touched he held on a second longer than necessary.
“Okay, new category,” he said, passing you the triple sec. “Toys. Yes or no.”
You set the bottle down harder than you meant to. “I’m going to kill you.”
“That’s not a no.”
“It’s a none of your business.”
He grinned, slow and sharp. “So yes. What kind? The little bullet ones that die after six months or the fancy ones with remote controls that costs like two weeks pay?”
You stared at him. “How do you even know about those?”
“I have lived a full and varied life, sweetheart.” He leaned past you to grab a fresh stack of napkins, chest brushing your shoulder. “Also I have internet access. Shocking, I know.”
“You’re still this much of a menace. That’s actually impressive.”
“Thank you. I try.” He paused, then added, quieter, “You go quiet when you’re close, don’t you? Even by yourself. I’ve seen the way you bite the inside of your cheek when you’re concentrating on the register. Same energy.”
Your face went hot again. “Stop studying me like I’m a lab rat.”
“Can’t. You’re the most interesting thing in this entire shitty bar.”
Midnight came and went. The last wave of drunks stumbled out around one-thirty. Jess clocked out early with a pointed “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do” and a look that promised interrogation tomorrow. That left just the two of you closing—chairs up, floors mopped, registers counted in the weirdly intimate quiet of a bar after hours.
Eddie wiped down the last section of the counter while you counted the till. He waited until you were halfway through the twenties before he spoke again.
“Last question of the night. Promise.”
You didn’t look up. “You’re a liar.”
“Probably. But still.” He tossed the rag into the bin and came to lean against the register, arms crossed, watching you. “If someone actually knew what they were doing—knew exactly how to get you there and refused to stop until it happened—do you think you could?”
You paused with a stack of bills in your hand. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Somewhere in the back the ice machine kicked on with a loud clatter.
“I don’t know,” you said finally. “Maybe.”
Eddie’s mouth curved, soft and dangerous all at once. “Good answer.”
You finished the count in silence after that, the weight of his attention sitting warm against the side of your face. When the drawer finally balanced you locked it and straightened, rolling your shoulders. Your feet ached. Your lower back ached. It had been a long-ass day in every possible way.
Eddie was already shrugging into his leather jacket, hair a mess from running his hands through it all night. He held the door open for you as you both stepped out into the cool 2 a.m. air.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asked, like he hadn’t spent the last nine hours conducting a very public interrogation about your sex life.
You locked the door behind you and turned to face him under the streetlight. “You’re not done with the questions, are you?”
He smiled—slow, crooked, full of intent. “Not even close.”
The next day Eddie walked in looking like he’d made an actual effort, and it threw you off so hard you nearly dropped the stack of clean glasses you were carrying.
He’d clearly showered. The usual faint haze of cigarette smoke and bar soap that clung to him was gone, replaced by something warmer, cleaner—like cedar and maybe sage? underneath. His hair was still long and messy, but it looked deliberate this time, pushed back from his face like he’d actually run a comb through it. Black jeans, a soft worn black shirt that fit a little too well across the shoulders, and those same silver rings. He looked… intentional.
Jess noticed first. She mouthed what the fuck at you from across the bar the second his back was turned.
You just shook your head and tried not to stare.
He didn’t launch into the interrogation the second the shift started. That was the weirdest part. No pop quiz. No filthy little comments under his breath every time you bent down for a bottle. He just… worked. Smooth, quiet, efficient. When the bar got busy he moved around you like he’d memorized the shape of your body in the space, hand settling briefly at the small of your back when he needed to slip past, voice low and easy when he called out drink orders.
It should have been a relief.
It felt like standing too close to an open flame.
You floated through the night in a strange, charged quiet. Every time your eyes met across the bar something tight pulled low in your stomach. He caught you looking more than once and just smiled—small, private, like the two of you were sharing a secret no one else was in on.
Closing came faster than it should have.
Jess clocked out with a pointed look and a whispered “text me if you die” that made you want to throw a lime at her head. Then it was just the two of you again, stacking chairs in the low light, the jukebox finally silent.
Eddie wiped his hands on a towel and glanced over.
“You wanna come smoke?”
The question was casual. The way he said it wasn’t.
You usually said yes. Half the time after closing the two of you ended up on the back steps sharing a joint and talking shit about customers until the sky started getting light. Tonight the air between you felt thicker. Like the question meant something else entirely.
You still said, “Yeah. Okay.”
He nodded once, like he’d expected that answer, and grabbed his jacket.
You followed him out to the employee lot after locking up. His van was the same beat-up black thing it had always been, but even that felt different under the streetlights. He unlocked the passenger side for you without a word, then climbed in himself. The engine rumbled to life. Neither of you spoke for the first few minutes of the drive.
The silence wasn’t uncomfortable.
It was loaded.
Eddie’s place was a small rented home ten minutes from the bar, the kind of place that looked like it had seen better decades. He parked in the cracked driveway and killed the engine. For a second he just sat there, hands on the wheel, staring at the dark porch like he was deciding something.
Then he looked over at you.
“You good?”
You nodded. Your pulse was doing something stupid in your throat. “Yeah.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, almost to himself. “Cool. C’mon.”
You followed him up the steps. The porch light was out. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping aside so you could walk in first. The living room smelled like him—leather, weed, stale cigarettes. A couple of amps in the corner. Records stacked in uneven piles. A couch that had definitely seen better days.
Eddie tossed his keys on the side table and shrugged out of his jacket. The clean scent of whatever he’d put on earlier drifted toward you again.
He glanced over his shoulder, that same small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You wanna sit outside or in here?”
The question hung in the air between you, heavier than it should have been.
You met his eyes.
You nodded toward the dark backyard. “Outside.”
Eddie grinned like you’d given him the exact answer he wanted and jerked his head for you to follow. The backyard was small and overgrown, a couple of mismatched plastic chairs near the fence and a milk crate that clearly doubled as a table. He dropped into one of the chairs with a satisfied groan and pulled a little tin from his pocket.
“Got some really good shit tonight,” he said, already breaking up a dense little nug between his fingers. “Friend of a friend. Sticky. Smells like a forest fucked a skunk and they both loved it.”
You snorted and took the other chair. “Poetic.”
“I try.” He packed the bowl with practiced ease, silver rings flashing under the porch light that barely reached this far. When he lit it the first hit made him cough once, sharp, then he laughed and held it out to you. “Careful. This one sneaks up.”
You took it. The smoke was thick and sweet and immediately made your head feel softer around the edges. You passed it back and watched him take another hit, the way his throat moved when he held it in.
A few quiet exhales later you tipped your head, studying him.
“What’s up with the get-up today, by the way?”
Eddie blinked, all faux innocence. “What get-up?”
“Don’t play dumb. You smelled different. Looked different. Like you actually owned a bottle of real cologne instead of just rolling in whatever was on the floor of the van.”
He waved a hand, smoke curling around his fingers. “I showered. Revolutionary concept, I know. Sometimes the hair gets washed. Sometimes the shirt isn’t the same one I wore three days in a row. It’s called being a functional adult.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m serious. Zero effort. Pure coincidence.”
You took another hit and exhaled slowly, watching him over the rim of the bowl. “Well… I liked it.”
The change was instant. His whole posture shifted—shoulders loosening, that slow, pleased grin spreading across his face like you’d just handed him a trophy. He sat up a little straighter, eyes bright even in the dark.
“Yeah?” he said, voice warmer. “You noticed.”
“Hard not to. You walked in smelling like you had somewhere better to be.”
Eddie laughed under his breath, low and a little giddy, and ran a hand through his hair like he couldn’t help himself. “Shit. Okay. Noted. I’ll keep that in the rotation then.”
You passed the bowl back, lips curving. “I like normal you too, though. The regular version. The one who smells like your van and talks too much and leaves guitar picks in the tip jar.”
He went quiet for a second, turning the bowl between his fingers. When he looked at you again the playfulness was still there, but something heavier sat underneath it.
“Yeah, well,” he said, voice rougher now. “I just wanted you to notice the effort. Because if I ever get my hands on you…” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on yours. “I want you to know there’s gonna be full effort there too. No half-assing it. No getting bored halfway through. I’m talking dedicated. Thorough. The kind of focus that makes you forget your own name for a little while.”
The air between you went tight.
You raised an eyebrow, slow and deliberate, and let a small, challenging smile pull at your mouth.
“That a promise or just talk?”
Eddie stared at you for a long second. Then he laughed—quiet, almost disbelieving—and shook his head like you’d just dared him to jump off a roof.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice full of dark delight. “You’re gonna regret asking me that.”
Eddie set the bowl down on the milk crate with a soft clink, still grinning like you’d just handed him the best idea he’d ever heard. Before you could even process the shift in his expression he was out of the chair and in front of you, hands already sliding under your thighs.
“Wait—Eddie—”
Too late. He hauled you up in one smooth, practiced motion and tossed you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. The world tilted. Your hands flew to his back for balance as he started walking toward the house, one arm locked firm around the backs of your legs.
“Eddie, put me down—” you laughed, smacking the solid muscle of his shoulder. “You’re such an asshole, oh my god—”
“Mm. Keep talking. It’s cute.” His free hand settled on the back of your thigh, fingers spreading possessively as he carried you up the porch steps and through the open door. “Been thinking about doing this since you told me no one’s ever gotten you there properly. Figured I’d start with the logistics.”
You twisted, trying to push yourself up enough to see where you were going, still laughing. “Logistics? You’re manhandling me—”
The sharp, open-handed smack landed right across your ass.
The sound cracked through the quiet house.
You went completely still.
The laughter died in your throat. Heat flooded low and fast, a sudden, traitorous pulse between your legs that made your breath catch. Your fingers curled into the soft fabric of his shirt. You didn’t make a sound.
Eddie stopped walking.
You felt the way his whole body went alert underneath you—the slight pause, the way his hand stayed right where it had landed, palm warm against the sting he’d just left.
“…Oh,” he said, voice dropping into something darker and deeply pleased. “There it is.”
He adjusted his grip and kept walking, slower now, like he was savoring every step. You could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke again.
“You went quiet real fast, sweetheart. That little problem of yours just get a whole lot more interesting?”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your face was burning and the ache between your legs had gone from nothing to urgent in the span of one single slap.
Eddie carried you down the short hallway and into a bedroom that smelled like the real him. He bent and deposited you onto the mattress with surprising care, letting you slide down his body until you were sitting on the edge of the bed looking up at him.
He stayed close. Close enough that you had to tip your head back. One of his hands was still resting on your waist like he hadn’t fully decided to let go yet.
His eyes were darker than they’d been outside. The playful edge was still there, but it was sharper now. Focused.
“Yeah,” he murmured, thumb stroking once over your hip. “I saw that. Felt it too. You clenched up the second my hand landed.” He tilted his head, studying your face with open, hungry curiosity. “Interesting reaction for someone who’s never come with another person. Almost like your body already knows something your brain hasn’t caught up to yet.”
He leaned in just enough that his next words brushed warm against your mouth.
“We’re gonna fix that.”
Eddie stayed right there between your knees, looking down at you like he’d already decided how the rest of the night was going to go. His hand was still warm on your waist, thumb tracing idle little arcs against the fabric of your shirt.
“Alright,” he said, voice light but serious underneath. “Before I do anything irreversible—you got a safeword?”
You blinked up at him, then huffed a soft laugh. “Jesus. You’re old. I’ve never needed one.”
His mouth twitched. “Charming. Really making me feel great about the age gap right now.”
“I’m just saying. Never came up.”
“Well it’s coming up now.” He reached past you, grabbed a pillow, and tossed it further up the bed like he was already planning ahead. “Pineapple. That’s the word. You say pineapple, everything stops. No questions, no attitude, I back off immediately. Clear?”
You stared at him for a second, then broke into a genuine laugh. “Pineapple? That’s the best you could do?”
“It’s memorable. And you’re not gonna forget it when you’re—”
You didn’t get to hear the rest of the sentence.
His hand slid up the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, and he closed them in a firm, controlled fist. The pull wasn’t rough—just deliberate enough to tip your head back so you had no choice but to look straight at him. The sudden shift in control sent another low pulse of heat straight between your legs.
Eddie’s eyes dropped to your mouth, then back up. His voice came out quieter. Rougher.
“How do you like it?”
The question sat heavy between you. You swallowed. Your scalp tingled where he held you.
“I don’t know,” you admitted. Honest. A little breathless. “No one’s ever… asked. Or stuck around long enough to figure it out.”
Something dark and satisfied moved through his expression. He leaned in closer, the grip in your hair keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
“Then you’re getting the whole experience,” he murmured. “Every version. Hard. Slow. Filthy. Whatever makes that pretty little problem of yours finally give up.”
He closed the last inch and kissed you.
It wasn’t soft. It was deep and immediate, mouth open, the kind of kiss that felt like a claim. His free hand came up to cup your jaw, tilting you further into it while the one in your hair stayed locked, holding you in place as he licked into your mouth like he’d been thinking about it for weeks. You made a small sound against his lips and he answered it with a low hum, pressing closer until your knees had to part wider around his hips.
When he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, his voice was wrecked already.
“Yeah,” he said against your mouth. “We’re gonna take our time with this.”
Eddie kissed you down into the mattress like he’d been holding himself back and finally ran out of reasons to. The weight of him settled over you. His mouth never left yours for long, only breaking long enough for both of you to drag in air before he was back, deeper, hungrier.
Your hands found the hem of his shirt at the same time his found yours.
Fabric got shoved up between frantic kisses. You both laughed once against each other’s mouths when your arms got tangled, then the shirts were gone—his tossed somewhere toward the floor, yours pulled carefully over your head so he didn’t catch it on your hair. The second your bare skin met the cooler air of the room, Eddie went still.
His eyes dropped.
The tattoos you’d kept hidden under work shirts and bar aprons sat dark against your skin—delicate lines and soft shading that only showed when the fabric came off. He stared like he’d just been handed something private and important.
“Fuck,” he breathed. One hand hovered, then settled lightly over the ink on your ribs, thumb tracing the edge of a design. “You’ve been walking around with these under those little black tanks this whole time and never said a word?”
You felt heat climb your throat. “Didn’t come up.”
“It’s coming up now.” His voice had gone lower, almost reverent. He leaned down and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the center of your chest, right between your breasts, then another a little higher. The metal of his rings was cool against your side as his hand slid up.
He paused there, mouth still brushing your skin, and looked up at you through his lashes.
“Can I take this off?” His fingers rested at the back clasp of your bra, waiting. Not moving until you answered.
You nodded.
Eddie kissed the same spot on your chest once more—soft, almost grateful—before he reached behind you. The clasp gave easily under his fingers, like he’d done it a hundred times and still treated it like it mattered. He drew the straps down your arms slowly, letting the fabric fall away, and sat back just enough to look.
The way his expression changed was quiet and thorough. No teasing. No smirk. Just open, focused appreciation as his gaze moved over you.
“Look at you,” he murmured. One hand came up to cup the side of your breast, thumb stroking once beneath it like he was learning the shape. “Hiding all this under work clothes every night. Perfect fucking girl. Trying so hard not to let anyone see.”
He leaned back down and pressed a slower kiss to the soft curve of one breast, then the other, voice still gentle against your skin.
“Gonna take my time looking at every single thing you’ve been keeping to yourself.”
He stayed right there, mouth and hands devoted to your breasts like he had nowhere else in the world to be. Soft, open kisses trailed across the full curves, lingering under the weight of them where the skin was most sensitive. His tongue flicked once over a nipple before he closed his lips around it and sucked—gentle at first, then deeper when your back arched. The whole time he talked, voice low and warm against your skin.
“So responsive,” he murmured, switching to the other side. “Look at the way you push up into my mouth. You’ve been starving for someone to just… stay here and worship these for a while.” Another slow suck, a quiet hum of approval when you made a soft sound. “Perfect tits. So fucking perfect.”
You were soaked.
You could feel it—heat and slickness gathering between your legs until your underwear clung uncomfortably. You didn’t think you’d ever gotten this wet before. Not from kissing. Not from anything. Every drag of his tongue, every quiet, filthy-sweet word made the ache worse.
Eddie kissed lower, across the soft skin just beneath your breasts, then lifted his head. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, but his voice stayed careful.
“Can I take these off?” His fingers rested at the button of your jeans, waiting.
You nodded.
He popped the button and drew the zipper down slowly. You lifted your hips so he could work the denim down your legs and toss it aside. The second the cool air hit you, his gaze dropped—and locked onto the dark, obvious wet patch soaking through the center of your underwear.
His whole body went still.
You watched the thick outline of his cock twitch hard against the front of his jeans, straining against the fabric like it was trying to get to you on its own.
Eddie exhaled a rough, almost pained sound. “Jesus Christ.”
You swallowed, voice quieter than you meant it to be. “Fair is fair. Take yours off too.”
He didn’t argue. He stood just long enough to shove his jeans down and kick them away, leaving him in dark boxer briefs that did almost nothing to hide him. The outline was obscene—long, thick, heavy against his thigh, the head clearly defined where it pressed against the cotton. Even confined like that he looked massive.
Your mouth went a little dry.
“Holy shit,” you breathed before you could stop yourself.
Eddie glanced down at himself, then back at you, a slow, knowing smile tugging at his mouth even as his voice stayed soft.
“Yeah,” he said, climbing back over you. “We’re gonna take this real slow, sweetheart. I’m gonna need you nice and open for me.” His hand settled on your hip, thumb stroking the edge of your soaked underwear. “But first I’m gonna make sure this pretty little problem of yours never stands a chance.”
Eddie kissed you again—deeper this time, slower, like he was trying to pour every filthy intention he had into your mouth. You couldn’t help the way your hips rolled up against him, seeking friction, grinding the soaked center of your underwear against the hard line of his cock. The second you did it he groaned into the kiss, one hand sliding down to grip your thigh and hold you there for a second longer.
Then he pulled back.
“Greedy,” he murmured against your lips, almost fond. “Alright. I hear you.”
He started kissing down.
Your chest first—lingering again on the soft undersides of your breasts, tongue tracing the curves he’d already learned—then lower, across the plane of your stomach. Every open-mouthed press of his lips made your muscles jump. He nuzzled the soft skin just above the waistband of your underwear and exhaled like the scent of how wet you were was doing something to him.
You lifted your hips without being asked. Together you worked the soaked fabric down your legs until it was gone. The second you were bare, Eddie went quiet.
He sat back on his heels between your thighs and just looked.
His hands settled on the insides of your knees and slowly pushed them wider, eyes locked on the slick, flushed mess of your cunt. You were so wet it was almost embarrassing—glistening along your folds, dripping down toward the sheets. He stared like he was trying to memorize every detail.
“Fucking perfect,” he said, voice low and rough with sincerity. “Look at you. All pretty and shiny and soaked just from me playing with your tits. You’re beautiful like this.” His thumbs stroked higher along your inner thighs. “I’m gonna take such good care of you. Promise.”
Then he dove in.
No teasing. He flattened his tongue and dragged it through your center in one long, filthy stripe, collecting everything you’d made for him. The sound he made was almost pained—hungry and relieved all at once—before he sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked.
Your whole body arched.
Eddie hummed against you like the taste of you was exactly what he’d been after all night, and settled in like he planned to stay there for a very long time.
He started slow—long, flat strokes of his tongue from the bottom of your cunt all the way up to your clit, gathering every bit of slick that had already collected there. The sound was wet and filthy every time he dragged through you. He hummed low in his chest like the taste of you was something he wanted to memorize.
“Fuck, you taste sweet,” he murmured against your folds, voice already rough. “So wet for me already. Been dripping since I smacked that pretty ass, haven’t you?”
His hands stayed firm on your inner thighs, holding you open exactly how he wanted. When he focused on your clit he did it with devastating patience—soft, circling licks that barely gave you pressure, then firmer ones that made your hips twitch. Every time your thighs tried to close he just pressed them wider and kept going.
You were already shaking.
Eddie noticed. Of course he did. He lifted his mouth just enough to speak, lips shiny, eyes dark and focused.
“That’s it. Let me feel it. You’re allowed to get loud, sweetheart. Nobody’s here but me.” He dipped back down and sucked your clit between his lips, gentle at first, then harder when your back arched. “Good girl. So sensitive. I can feel you throbbing on my tongue.”
He worked you in waves. Soft and teasing until you were rolling your hips up against his mouth, then deeper—tongue pushing inside you in slow, filthy thrusts while his nose pressed against your clit. The wet sounds filled the room. Your hands found his hair and twisted, not sure if you were trying to pull him closer or survive it.
Eddie groaned like he loved the sting.
“There you go,” he praised, voice muffled against you. “Use me. Grind on my face if you need to. I’ve got you.” He sealed his mouth back over your clit and sucked in a steady, relentless rhythm while two fingers finally slid inside you—curving, searching, pressing up into that spot that made your vision blur. “Fuck, you’re squeezing me already. So tight. So needy. Gonna make this little cunt come so hard for me.”
He didn’t rush the build.
Every time you got close he eased off just enough to keep you hovering—switching to broad, messy licks, kissing the insides of your thighs, murmuring soft filthy things against your skin about how pretty you looked spread open and dripping for him. Then he’d return to your clit with single-minded focus, fingers working you open, tongue relentless.
Your stomach started tightening. The pleasure turned sharp and overwhelming. You could hear how wet you were—slick sounds every time his fingers moved, every time his mouth sealed over you again.
“Eddie—I can’t—”
“Yes you can,” he said immediately, voice low and certain. He doubled down, sucking harder, fingers curling in steady, perfect strokes. “You’re right there. I can feel it. Let it happen. Give it to me.”
The orgasm hit like a wave you couldn’t stop.
Your whole body locked. A broken, high sound tore out of you as the pleasure crashed through—your cunt pulsing hard around his fingers, slick gushing out of you in warm, uncontrollable pulses that coated his mouth and chin and dripped down onto the sheets. Eddie moaned like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted and kept going through it, licking you through every spurt, every tremor, drinking you down like he was starving for it.
He only slowed when your thighs started shaking too hard to stay open.
Even then he didn’t pull away completely. He pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to your oversensitive clit, your folds, the dripping mess he’d made of you, voice wrecked and reverent.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured against your cunt. “Look at that. Fucking beautiful. You came so hard you made a mess of me.” He licked a slow stripe through the wetness still dripping from you and groaned.
Eddie sat up just long enough to shove his boxer briefs down and kick them off the bed. His cock sprang free—a heavy thump against his stomach. After everything he’d just done to you, he looked almost painfully hard.
He crawled back over you and kissed you deep.
You tasted yourself on his mouth immediately—sharp and sweet and filthy. The knowledge that he’d just had his face buried between your legs made your stomach flip all over again. He licked into your mouth like he wanted you to taste how hard you’d come for him, one hand braced beside your head, the other stroking slowly along your side.
When he pulled back, his voice was quieter. Careful.
“Still sure you want this?” His eyes searched yours. “I already made you come. We can stop here if you need to. No pressure.”
You didn’t answer with words.
You reached up, grabbed the back of his neck, and pulled him down into another kiss—harder this time, open-mouthed and certain. Your other hand slid down between your bodies and wrapped around the thick length of him. He was so hot against your palm, so heavy, the skin soft over the rigid hardness underneath. Eddie groaned into your mouth like the simple touch of your hand almost undid him.
“Okay,” he rasped against your lips. “Okay. I’ve got you.”
He reached down and wrapped his own hand around his cock, guiding the broad head through the soaked mess of your cunt. The first drag of him against your oversensitive clit made your hips jerk. He did it again—slower—slicking himself up with everything you’d already given him, the fat head catching against your entrance every time he passed over it.
You were so wet the sound was obscene.
Eddie braced himself on one forearm and looked down between your bodies, watching the way the blunt head of his cock pressed against you. His breathing had gone uneven.
“Gonna go slow,” he promised, voice strained. “You’re tight as hell and I’m not exactly small. Tell me if it’s too much.”
He pushed.
The stretch was immediate and intense—thick pressure that forced you open around him inch by careful inch. You could feel every ridge, every vein, the way your body had to give to take him. Your mouth fell open on a broken sound. Eddie’s forehead dropped against yours, a low, punched-out groan spilling out of him as the head finally slipped inside.
“Fuck—look at that,” he breathed, hips trembling with the effort of holding still. “Taking me so well already. You’re soaking my cock baby girl.”
He gave you another inch. Then another. The burn of the stretch mixed with the leftover sensitivity from your orgasm until your thighs were shaking around his hips. You could feel how deep he was already getting, the heavy weight of him filling you in a way nothing else ever had.
Eddie kissed the corner of your mouth, sweet even as his voice went filthy.
“That’s it. Just like that. Let me in, sweetheart. Gonna fill this pretty cunt up until you forget anyone else ever tried.”
“Move,” you whispered.
Eddie exhaled like he’d been waiting for permission. He drew his hips back slowly—just an inch or two—then pushed back in just as carefully. The thick slide of him forced another soft sound out of your throat. You felt everything. Every ridge. Every subtle pulse of his cock as he sank deeper. The way your walls had to stretch and flutter around the heavy girth of him just to take it.
He kept the pace almost gentle.
Long, controlled strokes that let you feel the full drag of him pulling out and the slow, relentless push back in until he bottomed out against you. His forehead stayed pressed to yours. His voice never stopped.
“That’s it,” he murmured, breath warm against your mouth. “Feel how full you are. Taking all of me like you were made for it. S' tight. S' perfect around my cock.” Another slow thrust. Your fingers dug into his shoulders. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. Letting me open you up.”
The sweetness of it almost undid you more than the stretch.
Every praise landed low in your stomach. Every careful roll of his hips sent sparks up your spine. You could feel how wet you still were—slick sounds filling the quiet room every time he sank back in. But the longer he stayed that measured and deep, the more something restless started building under your skin.
You needed more.
Deeper. Harder. Something that matched the ache he’d already put in you.
Eddie must have felt the way your hips started chasing him, because he pulled back just enough to look at your face. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, but his voice stayed soft.
“I know,” he said. “I can feel you getting greedy again sweetheart.”
He sat back on his knees, still buried inside you, and hooked his hands behind your knees. In one smooth motion he pushed your legs up and open, folding you nearly in half until your thighs pressed against your own chest. The new angle made him sink impossibly deeper on the next slow thrust. You gasped—sharp and high—as the thick head of him pressed against something that made your vision spark.
Eddie groaned low in his throat and held the position, hips rolling in the same unhurried rhythm, only now every stroke dragged against that deeper, more intense place inside you.
“There we go,” he praised, voice rough with restraint. “That’s what you needed, huh? Deeper?” He thrust in again—slow, deliberate, grinding against the end of you. “All folded up and still sucking me in. Perfect girl. Just keep breathing for me. I’ve got you.”
He never sped up.
He just kept fucking you deep and steady, sweet words spilling out of him the entire time, like he had no intention of stopping until he’d ruined you completely.
Your voice broke on a high, frustrated sound.
“Eddie—please—harder. I need it harder, I can’t—”
He didn’t make you beg twice.
The second the plea left your mouth his whole demeanor shifted. The careful restraint he’d been holding onto snapped. His grip on the backs of your thighs tightened and he started fucking you properly—long, powerful strokes that drove him deep enough to punch the air out of your lungs every time his hips met yours. The wet, filthy sound of it filled the room. Your body jolted up the mattress with every thrust until he dragged you back down by the hips and kept going.
“Anything,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Anything you want. You need it harder? It’s yours. Need me deeper? Take it.” He snapped his hips in harder, the thick length of him dragging against that spot inside you on every stroke until your eyes rolled. “Fuck—listen to you. Whining for my cock like you were made for it. I’ve got you. Gonna give you everything.”
The intensity crashed over you too fast to stop.
Your second orgasm hit with almost no warning—sharp and overwhelming, your cunt clamping down around him in hard, rhythmic pulses as pleasure ripped through you. You cried out, nails digging into his arms, thighs shaking violently in his grip while you came on his cock alone. The wet rush of it made every thrust louder, messier. Eddie groaned like he could feel every flutter and kept fucking you through it, never slowing, praising you the whole time in a broken stream of words.
“That’s it—come on my cock, just like that. Fucking beautiful. You’re soaking me. Squeezing me so tight I can barely move. Good girl. Perfect fucking girl.”
He only eased up when the aftershocks left you trembling and oversensitive.
You could still feel how hard he was inside you—thick and throbbing, nowhere near finished. The realization made something determined spark low in your stomach. You reached up and pushed weakly at his chest.
“Want to ride you,” you managed, voice hoarse. “Please. Let me.”
Eddie went still. His eyes searched your face, dark and concerned even as his cock twitched deep inside you.
“You sure?” he asked, already breathing hard. “You just came twice. You’re shaking. We can slow down—”
“I’m sure.” You held his gaze, stubborn and flushed and still pulsing around him. “I want to. Let me.”
Something hungry and soft moved through his expression all at once. He carefully pulled out of you—both of you hissing at the sudden emptiness—then rolled onto his back in one smooth motion. His cock lay heavy and glistening against his stomach— pulsing.
He looked up at you, hands already settling on your waist as you straddled him.
“Alright, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and rough with restraint. “It’s yours. Take whatever you need.”
You braced one hand on his chest and reached down between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around the thick base of him. He was still soaked from you—slick and hot against your palm. You lined him up and sank down slowly.
The stretch punched a broken sound out of your throat. Even after everything, taking him from this angle felt deeper, heavier. You had to work yourself down inch by inch, thighs trembling, until you were finally seated flush against him with his cock buried to the hilt. Your head dropped forward. Eddie’s hands settled on your hips, thumbs stroking soft circles like he was grounding you.
You swallowed, voice already shaky.
“What do you like?”
His eyes were almost black looking up at you. A breathless little laugh left him.
“Anything that makes this pretty cunt of yours cream all over me,” he said, rough and honest. “You want to grind slow and deep until you’re shaking? I’ll lie here and take every second of it. You want to bounce on my cock like a desperate little slut until your legs give out? I’ll hold you up and thank you for the privilege. Use me. Ruin yourself on me. I’m yours.”
So you did.
You started rolling your hips—slow at first, grinding him deep so every movement dragged against that spot inside you that made your stomach tighten. The wet sound of it was filthy. Eddie groaned under you, head tipping back against the pillow, hands sliding up to cup your breasts as you moved. You found a rhythm and stuck to it, lifting up until only the thick head remained inside you before sinking back down and taking every inch again.
“Fuck—look at you,” he growled, voice strained and filthy. “Stretching that tight little hole around my cock. I can feel you fluttering every time you bottom out. So wet you’re dripping down my balls. That’s it. Fuck yourself on me. Show me how badly you needed to get filled.”
Your thighs started burning sooner than you wanted. The deeper angle made every bounce more intense, the stretch relentless, pleasure building sharp and overwhelming all over again. You kept going anyway—determined—until your legs began to shake so hard you could barely lift yourself. A frustrated little sound slipped out of you.
Eddie felt it immediately.
“I’ve got you,” he rasped.
His hands locked hard around your waist. In the next breath he planted his feet on the mattress and started fucking up into you—powerful, upward thrusts that drove his cock deep enough to punch broken moans out of your mouth every time. The new rhythm was relentless. Wet, filthy sounds filled the room as he slammed up into your soaked cunt, using his grip on your hips to pull you down to meet every stroke.
“That’s it—take every fucking inch,” he snarled, eyes locked on where he disappeared inside you. “Sit on my cock and let me ruin you. This greedy little cunt is sucking me in so deep I can feel it in my spine. Dripping down my stomach like a slut who finally got what she needed.” He thrust up harder, the force of it making your tits bounce. “You feel that? That’s me splitting you open. This is what was missing every time some useless asshole couldn’t make you come. A real cock. A man who knows how to use it.”
Your arms gave out. You collapsed forward onto his chest, face buried against his neck, while he kept pounding up into you without mercy—praise and filthy encouragement spilling out of him in a continuous, wrecked stream.
“Come on. Squeeze me. Cream all over this cock while I fuck you stupid. You’re taking me so well I can barely think. Perfect fucking girl. My perfect fucking girl. Gonna keep this up until you forget how to walk straight.”
Eddie kept fucking up into you in hard, relentless strokes, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. Your body jolted with every thrust. He was so deep it felt like he was rearranging you from the inside.
His voice came out rough against your ear.
“Touch yourself. Play with that pretty clit while I fuck you. I want to feel you gush on my cock again.”
Your hand slid down between your bodies without hesitation. The second your fingers found your clit—swollen and oversensitive—you cried out. The dual sensation was almost too much: the thick, brutal drag of his cock splitting you open on every upward thrust and the tight circles you rubbed over your clit. Slick coated your fingers immediately. You were so wet it was obscene.
Eddie groaned like he could feel the way your cunt fluttered harder around him the second you started touching yourself.
“That’s it. Good girl. Rub that clit for me. Make a mess. I want to feel you soak my cock.” He snapped his hips up harder, the force of it punching broken, high sounds out of your throat. “Fuck—you’re gripping me so tight. This greedy little cunt doesn’t want to let me go. Come on. Give it to me. Third time’s the charm, sweetheart. Ruin yourself.”
The orgasm tore through you violently.
Your whole body locked up. A broken sob left your mouth as you came hard—cunt clamping down in strong, rhythmic pulses while a fresh gush of wetness flooded out of you around his cock. It was messy, uncontrollable, soaking his stomach, his hips, the sheets beneath you in a warm rush that just kept coming with every thrust he forced through it. The wet sounds turned filthy and loud. You shook apart on top of him, fingers still moving weakly over your clit as the pleasure dragged on and on.
Eddie cursed low and filthy, fucking you through every spurt until your thighs were trembling too hard to stay upright.
He didn’t stop moving, but his rhythm turned slightly more erratic—hips stuttering as he chased his own edge. His hands gripped your waist hard enough to bruise.
“Where do you want it?” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Tell me. Mouth, tits, stomach—where?”
You lifted your head just enough to meet his eyes, still pulsing around him, still dripping.
“Inside me.”
Something raw and hungry flashed across his face.
“Fuck—okay. Anything you want.”
He pulled you down flush against him and buried himself to the hilt, grinding deep as he finally let go. A long, guttural groan tore out of his chest as he came—hot, thick pulses flooding your cunt in heavy spurts. You could feel every throb, every rope of it painting you deep inside. He kept you locked there, hips pressed tight, cock twitching as he emptied everything he had into you with broken, filthy praise spilling from his mouth.
“Take it—take every drop. Filling this perfect cunt up. Made for this. Made to take my cum.” His forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. “Fucking perfect. You’re perfect.”
He stayed buried deep as the last aftershocks faded, still pulsing weakly inside you, holding you like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.
You collapsed onto his chest like every bone in your body had given up at once.
Eddie stayed inside you for a few more long seconds, one hand stroking slowly up and down your back while the other cradled the back of your head. His heartbeat hammered under your ear. When he finally moved, he did it carefully—rolling you both onto your sides, then easing out of you with a soft, wet sound that made you flinch. You felt the immediate rush of his cum starting to leak out of you and made a small, incoherent noise against the pillow.
“I know,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
He pressed a kiss to your shoulder and slipped out of bed. You heard the soft sounds of him moving around the dark room—drawer opening, water running in the bathroom—before he came back with a warm washcloth. The mattress dipped as he climbed back in.
Eddie was gentle about it. He wiped between your legs with slow, careful strokes, cleaning up the mess the two of you had made without any teasing. When he finished he tossed the cloth toward the hamper and stretched out beside you, pulling you in until your head was on his chest and one of his arms was locked securely around your waist.
You were barely able to form words. Your body felt heavy and loose and thoroughly used. Every muscle hummed with leftover sparks. You managed a soft, exhausted sound against his skin and that was about it.
Eddie let the quiet sit for a while, fingers tracing idle patterns along your spine. Then, eventually, the familiar edge of amusement crept back into his voice.
“…So.”
You made a questioning noise that didn’t quite become a word.
“I’m just saying,” he continued, clearly trying and failing to sound casual, “for someone who claimed she’d never come from a dude before, you just came two times on my cock and gushed all over my face like it was your job. I’m feeling pretty fucking proud of myself right now.”
You managed a weak, breathless little laugh against his chest.
“There she is,” he said, sounding deeply satisfied. “Thought I broke you for a second.” His hand slid up to cup the back of your head, thumb stroking behind your ear. “You good? Need water? A trophy? I’m open to suggestions.”
You pinched his side weakly. Your voice came out rough and quiet.
“Shut up.”
“Can’t. I’m having a moment. Do you understand the historical significance of what just happened in this bed? I should call Jess. Let her know the little problem has been thoroughly, scientifically solved.”
You groaned into his chest. “If you call Jess I will actually kill you.”
Eddie laughed—low and warm and completely unrepentant—and pulled you closer, tucking the blankets up around both of you.
“Fine. No phone calls. But I reserve the right to be unbearably smug about this for at least a week.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, voice dropping softer even as the teasing stayed. “You did so good for me. Seriously.”
You didn’t have the energy to argue.
You just let him hold you, the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek, while the last of the aftershocks faded and the witty, insufferable version of him settled back in like he’d never left.
Two days later the bar was dead again—same sticky counters, same half-hearted jukebox, same mid-afternoon quiet that made the whole place feel like it was holding its breath.
Eddie had been insufferable since the second he walked in.
He didn’t say anything outright. He didn’t have to. It was in the way he moved around you—closer than usual, hand lingering at the small of your back every time he slipped past, that permanent little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he was replaying the entire night on a loop. Every time you caught his eye across the bar he just raised an eyebrow, slow and filthy, and went back to polishing a glass like he hadn’t just rearranged your entire understanding of sex in his shitty little bungalow.
Jess lasted maybe forty minutes before she cracked.
She leaned across the bar while Eddie was restocking the back, voice low and delighted. “Okay. What the fuck happened.”
You kept wiping the same clean section of counter. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit. He’s been floating around like he invented the orgasm and you keep turning the color of a stop sign every time he looks at you. Spill.”
“There’s nothing to spill.”
Eddie chose that exact moment to reappear, carrying a case of beer like it weighed nothing. He set it down, glanced between the two of you, and the smirk widened.
“Talking about me?” he asked, all faux innocence.
Jess pointed at him. “You. Explain why you’re walking around like— like that."
Eddie leaned his elbows on the bar right next to you, close enough that his arm brushed yours. He smelled like the same cologne from the other night. “No idea what you’re talking about. I’m just in a good mood. Weather’s nice. Tips were decent yesterday. Life is beautiful.”
You shot him a warning look. He ignored it completely.
Jess’s eyes narrowed, bouncing between the two of you. Then something clicked. Her mouth fell open.
“Oh my god.”
“Jess—” you started.
“You didn’t.”
Eddie examined his rings like they were suddenly fascinating. “Didn’t what?”
“You fixed the little problem,” she said, voice climbing with glee. “You actually fixed it. Look at her face. Look at your face. Holy shit.”
You dropped the rag and pointed at both of them. “We are not talking about this.”
Jess clasped her hands under her chin. “I need every detail. Immediately. Was it good? Was it life-changing? How many times did you—”
“I will quit,” you said flatly.
Eddie made a thoughtful sound, tilting his head. “Y’know, I’m happy to provide a full report if she’s too shy. In the interest of science. And friendship. And the betterment of women everywhere who’ve been suffering under subpar—”
You shoved his shoulder hard enough that he laughed and had to catch himself on the bar.
“Do not.”
He held up both hands, still grinning like the cat that got everything it ever wanted. “Offer stands. Jess, you just say the word and I’ll give you the entire play by play. ”
Jess looked like Christmas had come early. “I’m listening.”
You grabbed the rag again and turned away, face burning, but you couldn’t quite hide the smile pulling at your mouth.
“Just so we’re clear,” he said, loud enough for only you to catch the undertone, “I’m available for follow-up research whenever you want.”
summary: ever since that night-- peter cannot stop thinking about you. its bordering on obsessive. he needs to feel you again. needs the praise. needs anything that you will give him. but you? you act like you couldnt care less about him.
warnings/tags: dead dove?? enemies to something, college au, peters POV, smut (dubcon, oral m & f receiving, cum swallowing, fingering, rough sex, multiple positions, unprotected sex, cocky peter, so so much dirty talk, praise kink, degradation, cock worshipping, fight for the power & control)
a/n: you guys are feral and im living for this.
masterlist // join the taglist // part 1
The click of the front door shutting was soft. Final. Almost polite.
He waited for the sound of your heels turning back. For the key in the lock again. For your voice, sharp and mean, calling him an asshole one more time before you finished what you’d started.
Nothing.
Just the hollow quiet of an empty dorm on Thanksgiving break, and the wet spot cooling on the front of his ridiculous Juicy sweatpants.
“What the actual fuck,” he said to the room.
His voice came out wrecked. Hoarse. Like he’d been the one on his knees.
Peter shoved a hand through his hair, then down over his face. His thighs were still shaking. His cock gave a pathetic little twitch against his stomach, like it hadn’t gotten the memo that the best mouth of his entire life had just walked out without so much as a backward glance.
You’d deepthroated him like you were trying to crawl inside his ribcage. Called him a good boy in that ruined, spit-soaked voice while you choked yourself on his dick. Swallowed every drop like it was personal. And then you’d stood up, wiped your mouth, fixed your makeup, and left.
Like it was nothing.
Like he was nothing.
Peter’s laugh came out sharp and disbelieving. He dragged the sweatpants the rest of the way off, kicked them toward the laundry pile, and sat there half naked on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
Nobody did that to him.
He was the one who left. The one who rolled over, stretched, and said that was fun, text me if you want a repeat while already reaching for his phone. He was the one who made girls stay longer than they planned, who talked them into one more round, who left them messy and smiling and a little ruined for anyone else.
You had flipped the entire script in under twenty minutes and then vanished like a fucking magic trick.
He could still feel the exact shape of your throat.
Peter’s hand drifted down almost without permission. He wrapped his fingers around himself, still slick, and gave one slow stroke just to feel the residual ache. His head tipped back on a low groan.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered to the ceiling. “Who the hell are you?”
He didn’t have an answer.
All he had was the empty apartment, the taste of your mouth still ghosting across his tongue, and the sudden, humiliating realization that he was already hard again.
Three days later he had a sophomore from the third floor bent over his desk.
She was pretty in the generic way most of them were—long hair, soft thighs, the kind of eager little moans that usually did it for him. She was wet enough that the sounds filled the room every time he snapped his hips forward. Her nails scratched at the wood. She kept gasping his name like it meant something.
Peter’s mind was somewhere else entirely.
He was thinking about the exact shade of your eyes when you’d looked up at him from between his knees. The way your voice had gone low and wrecked when you’d called him a good boy. The filthy, rhythmic choke every time you’d forced yourself all the way down and stayed there.
His rhythm stuttered.
The girl under him made a confused little sound. “Peter—?”
“Shh.” He reached forward, tangled a hand in her hair, and pulled her head back so he didn’t have to look at her face. "Just come for me sweetheart."
She did. Enthusiastically. And still it felt like nothing.
He finished with a low, frustrated sound that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with the fact that the second he closed his eyes he saw you—mascara ruined, chin shiny, staring up at him like you’d just won something.
He pulled out, disposed of the condom, and barely waited for her to get dressed before walking her to the door with a distracted smile and a “text me.”
The second the lock clicked he dropped onto the couch, dragged both hands down his face, and muttered, “Fuck.”
His phone lit up with her number less than an hour later.
He left it on read.
By the second week of December he had a system.
Friday nights— someone from the third floor. Someone who wouldn’t ask questions. Someone who would let him fuck them hard and fast and then leave without lingering.
It never worked.
Every time a girl dropped to her knees he waited for the same electric jolt that had ripped through him when you did it. Every time a mouth closed around him he waited for the exact pressure, the exact depth, the exact filthy little sounds of someone who was trying to ruin him on purpose.
It never came.
One girl tried to deepthroat him the way you had. She made it halfway, gagged hard, pulled off with tears in her eyes, and laughed like it was cute.
Peter felt nothing except a sharp, irrational flash of irritation.
“Don’t,” he’d said, voice tighter than he meant it to be. “Just—use your hand.”
She’d looked confused. He’d finished her off with his fingers out of sheer muscle memory and sent her home with a polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
After she left he stood under the shower for twenty minutes with the water turned as hot as it would go, forehead pressed to the tile, cock in his hand, and let himself remember.
The way your throat had convulsed around him when he’d held you down. The broken little gag that had torn out of you every time he bottomed out. The way you’d looked up at him afterward—and then just… walked away.
He came hard against the shower wall with your name stuck behind his teeth like a secret he wasn’t ready to say out loud.
Harry noticed.
Of course he did.
They were sitting on the couch one Thursday night with the TV on mute and a half-empty bag of chips between them when Harry finally said, “You’ve been weird.”
Peter didn’t look away from the screen. “Define weird.”
“You turned down that girl from your calc class yesterday and she was very clear about what she wanted.” Harry paused. “And you keep checking your phone. Like obsessively.”
Peter’s jaw flexed. “I’m fine.”
“Is this about—”
“Don’t.”
Harry held up both hands. “Okay. Not saying the name. Just… you’ve been different since Thanksgiving. And whatever it is, the revolving door isn’t cutting it.”
Peter stood up too fast. The bag of chips tipped. “I’m going for a run.”
He didn’t come back for two hours.
It was almost midnight when he finally cracked.
He was lying in bed in the dark, one arm folded under his head, staring at the ceiling while his mind replayed the same thirty-second loop on infinite repeat— the second you’d taken him all the way down for the first time. The way your nose had pressed against his stomach. The wet, helpless sound of your throat accepting every inch like it was made for it.
His cock was aching. He’d already gotten off once that night and it hadn’t helped.
Peter reached for his phone.
He scrolled to your contact—he'd stolen your number from Harry one night under the guise of a psych question— and opened a new message.
Typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Peter: You left your necklace.
He stared at the screen.
It was a lie. The necklace was still around your neck the last time he’d seen you. He’d fastened it himself. He could still feel the exact heat of your skin under his knuckles.
But it was something. A reason. An opening.
He hit send before he could talk himself out of it.
The three dots appeared almost immediately.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
You: I’m wearing it.
Peter’s pulse kicked hard against his throat.
Peter: Come get the rest of your shit then. Harry’s still got that charger you left.
Another long pause.
You: It’s midnight.
Peter: And?
You: And I’m not walking across campus at midnight so you can try to make me your booty call. No thanks.
His cock twitched so hard it almost hurt.
Peter: Who said anything about a booty call?
You: Your entire personality.
Peter grinned into the dark despite himself. The first real one in weeks.
Peter: Come over.
You: No.
Peter: Scared?
You: Of you? Still rather chew glass.
Peter: Then prove it. Door’s unlocked. You already know what happens when we’re alone in an empty dorm.
He waited.
One minute.
Two.
Five.
Peter stared at the three dots on his screen like they might suddenly rearrange themselves into the answer he actually wanted.
They vanished.
A second later your reply lit up the dark.
You: No.
He huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, already typing.
Peter: Come on. Building’s empty. Harry’s gone. You already know how good it felt.
You: And you already know how good it felt to walk away after. I’m keeping that win.
Peter: You’re really gonna leave me like this?
You: You’ve got an entire dorm full of options. Use one.
Peter: None of them choke on it the way you do.
A longer pause this time. He could almost hear you rolling your eyes through the phone.
You: Goodnight, Peter.
Peter: You’re seriously just going to leave me hanging?
You: Goodnight.
The screen went quiet.
Peter tossed the phone onto the mattress harder than necessary and dragged both hands down his face. His cock was still hard against his stomach, aching with the same restless, unfinished need that had been riding him since Thanksgiving.
And now you were just… gone again. Texting goodnight like you hadn’t ruined him for every other mouth on campus.
He got himself off in the shower ten minutes later with one hand braced against the tile and your name locked behind his teeth. It barely took the edge off.
Two days later he pushed the apartment door open with his shoulder, backpack half-unzipped, keys already spinning around one finger. The smell of Harry’s leftover takeout hit him first. Then the low murmur of voices from the living room.
Harry on the couch. Textbook open. And you—curled into the opposite corner like you belonged there, legs tucked under you, one of Harry’s hoodies swallowing your frame. You looked comfortable. Relaxed. Like the last time you’d been in this apartment you hadn’t left him dripping and speechless on his own bed.
Peter’s pulse kicked once, hard, against his throat.
He shut the door harder than he needed to.
Harry glanced up first. “Hey. Thought you had lab until—”
“Got out early.” Peter’s eyes never left you. He dropped his backpack by the wall, kicked his shoes off, and let the keys land on the counter with a deliberate clatter. “Didn’t realize we were hosting.”
You didn’t even look up from your phone. “We’re not. I’m hanging out with my friend. You’re just the roommate who happens to live here.”
Peter’s mouth curved, slow and sharp. He walked past the couch close enough that his shin nearly brushed your knee, the same way he had the first time you’d ever traded insults in this exact spot. “Still got that necklace on, I see. Cute.”
Your eyes flicked up then—cool, unimpressed. “It’s mine. You just happened to be the one who put it on me.”
Harry made a quiet sound of warning under his breath. Peter ignored it.
He leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, studying the way the oversized hoodie slipped off one of your shoulders. “You know, most people would’ve at least texted after that night. Common courtesy. Especially after they decided to deepthroat someone like they were trying to set a personal record and then vanish.”
You set your phone down with careful precision. “Most people also don’t act like the entire dorm owes them a thank-you note for existing. I already gave you everything I planned to. The rest is your problem.”
Peter’s grin widened, all teeth. He pushed off the counter and took two slow steps closer, stopping just short of the arm of the couch. “My problem? Baby, you’ve been my problem since you walked out of my room looking like you’d just won something. I’ve been trying to recreate that exact throat for weeks. None of them even come close. You ruined the rotation.”
Harry closed his textbook with a soft thud. “Jesus Christ. This is why you've been so weird lately? Her?”
You didn’t flinch. You just tilted your head, that same sharp little spark in your eyes that always made him want to push harder. “Then maybe the rotation needs better standards. Or maybe you’re just not as memorable as you think you are once the lights come back on.”
Peter laughed under his breath, low and mean. He dropped into the armchair across from you, sprawling like he owned the furniture, one ankle hooked over the opposite knee. “Keep talking. I like it when you pretend you’re not still thinking about how hard I came down your throat.”
Your expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind your eyes—too fast for him to catch. “I think about a lot of things, Peter. Your ego isn’t one of them.”
“Liar.” He let his gaze drag down the line of your throat, slow and deliberate, remembering exactly how it had looked stretched around him. “You’re sitting in my living room wearing my roommate’s hoodie and still you can’t stop looking at my mouth. You want another round. You’re just too proud to ask for it.”
You stood up in one smooth motion, already reaching for your bag. “I’m leaving before your self-esteem starts needing medical attention.”
Peter stayed exactly where he was, smiling up at you like he had all the time in the world. “Running again? Cute. Same exit strategy as last time. Door’s right there whenever you decide you’re done pretending this is over.”
You paused at the threshold, hand on the knob, and glanced back over your shoulder. The look you gave him was pure challenge—cool, unbothered, and just sharp enough to land.
“It’s been over since the second I swallowed and walked out,” you said. “Try to keep up.”
The door clicked shut behind you.
Peter sat there for a long moment, the smile still fixed on his face even as his pulse hammered against his ribs. Harry was staring at him like he’d grown a second head.
“Dude— what the fuck. Her? My best friend? Who— may I remind you… hates your guts?” Harry said quietly.
"Shut the fuck up."
Peter had tried the usual route for two solid weeks after you’d walked out of his apartment for the second time.
Texts that were ignored. Casual run-ins in the hallway that turned into the same old verbal sparring. One deliberate appearance at the library when he knew your study group was there, just so he could lean against the table and watch your jaw tighten.
None of it worked.
You stayed ice. Cool, unimpressed, already halfway out the door before he finished a sentence.
So he switched tactics.
He started showing up without the cocky edge.
“Your hair looks good like that,” he said one afternoon when he passed you near the elevators, voice almost soft. You’d just glanced at him like he was something stuck to the bottom of your shoe and kept walking.
“That color’s perfect on you,” he tried two days later in the dining hall, sliding into the seat across from Harry like he belonged there. You’d looked up from your tray, unimpressed, and answered, “It’s the same color I always wear, Parker.”
Even the compliments came out wrong. Too smooth. Too knowing. Like he was still trying to get under your skin instead of just… saying something decent. Every attempt landed like another cocky remark, and you’d shut him down just as fast.
By the time the last day of classes rolled around, Peter was done pretending patience was working.
Winter break started tomorrow. Most of the building was already half-packed. Suitcases in the hallways. Parents’ cars idling downstairs. He had one night left before you disappeared for three weeks, and the thought of letting you leave without getting even a fraction of your attention back made something restless and ugly twist under his ribs.
He bought the journal that afternoon.
Leather-bound. Dark brown, almost black, with thick cream pages that felt expensive under his fingers. Just clean lines and a small silver clasp. He’d stood in the stationary aisle of the campus bookstore longer than he wanted to admit, turning it over in his hands, imagining the exact look on your face when you realized he’d actually put thought into something.
He walked across the quad with it tucked under his arm, pulse already climbing.
Your door was at the end of the third-floor hallway. The one door he never dared to knock on before. He stopped in front of it, flexed his fingers once around the journal, and knocked.
Three solid raps.
Silence for a beat too long.
Then the lock turned and the door cracked open just enough for you to look out.
Suspicion hit your face immediately. You scanned him from messy hair to the scuffed sneakers, then down to the brown paper bag in his hand.
You didn’t move. “I’m not in the mood for whatever this is.”
“It’s a present,” he said, holding the bag up a little. “Not a trick. Just… something.” He paused, then added quieter, “Can I come in for a second?”
You stared at him like you were weighing the odds of him trying something. The hallway was empty. Distant music thumped from someone’s open door two units down. Finally you stepped back and opened the door wider, expression still guarded.
“Two minutes.”
Peter stepped inside.
Your room was smaller than he’d expected. Neat in a controlled way—bed made, desk clear except for a laptop and a half-empty water bottle, one suitcase already half-packed against the wall. It smelled like clean laundry and whatever perfume you wore. He took it in without commenting, because the second he opened his mouth to say something nice it would probably come out wrong again.
He held the bag out.
You didn’t take it right away.
“What is it?”
“Open it and find out.”
You exhaled through your nose, took the bag, and pulled the journal free. The leather caught the overhead light. You turned it over once, then again, thumb brushing the clasp.
Something flickered across your face—surprise, carefully masked.
Peter leaned a shoulder against the wall near the door, watching you. “Figured you might actually use it. You’re always writing something down when no one’s looking. Thought it should be something better than the cheap notebooks they sell in the campus store.”
You glanced up at him, eyes narrowed. “You bought me a journal.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
The honest answer sat heavy on his tongue. Because I can’t stop thinking about the way you looked on your knees. Because none of the other girls even come close. Because you’re leaving tomorrow and I needed a reason to stand in your doorway without it turning into another fight.
What came out instead was smoother. Too smooth.
“Because I can be nice when I feel like it. Shocking, I know.”
You closed the journal with a soft snap. “There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The part where it stops being a present and starts being another performance.” You set the journal on your desk, already half-turned away from him. “You don’t do nice, Peter. You do calculated. And this—” you gestured at the leather-bound book “—still feels like you’re trying to get something.”
Peter pushed off the wall. One step closer. Not enough to crowd, but enough that the air between you shifted.
“Maybe I am,” he said, voice lower. “Maybe I’m tired of you walking away every time I get close. Maybe I wanted to give you something that didn’t come with a smart-ass comment attached. For once.”
You looked at him for a long second. The suspicion hadn’t left your face, but something quieter sat underneath it now.
“You’re still talking like you expect me to fold,” you said. “Like one decent gift is going to make me forget every single thing that’s already happened.”
Peter’s jaw flexed. He could feel the old cocky instinct rising—the urge to push, to bait, to turn this into the same sharp game they always played. He swallowed it down as best he could.
“I’m not asking you to forget,” he said. “I’m asking you to take the journal. That’s it. No strings. No expectations. Just… take it.”
You glanced at the desk again. The leather looked expensive against the cheap dorm wood.
Outside, someone yelled down the hallway about packing tape. A door slammed. The building felt like it was already emptying out around both of you.
Peter waited, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, pulse loud in his ears.
You picked the journal back up.
Turned it over once more under your fingers.
And didn’t tell him to leave.
Peter watched the way your fingers traced the edge of the leather like you were still deciding whether to keep it or throw it at his head.
The silence stretched just long enough to make his pulse kick harder against his throat.
You looked up at him, eyes flat and unimpressed.
“Why,” you said. Not soft. Not curious. Just the single word, sharp enough to cut. “The real answer. Not the bullshit one.”
Peter’s mouth opened. Closed. The easy deflection he’d been ready to throw died in his throat.
He could have lied. Could have smirked and said something about wanting to get under your skin one last time before break. Could have kept the game going the way he always did.
Instead he exhaled, slow, and let the truth out before he could talk himself out of it.
“Because I like you,” he said. Quiet. Direct. No smile attached. “Have for a while. Longer than I’m proud of. And I’m tired of pretending the only reason I keep showing up is to piss you off.”
You stared at him.
Then you laughed.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t surprised. It was sharp and mean and completely dismissive, the kind of sound that landed right in the center of his chest and stayed there.
“You like me,” you repeated, still laughing under your breath like he’d just told the best joke you’d heard all semester. “Peter Parker. Campus revolving door. The guy who treats entire floors like a buffet. You like me.”
Something hot and ugly twisted low in his stomach.
Not anger.
Worse.
The sound of you mocking him went straight to his cock. The same way your insults always did. The same way your voice had gone mean and wrecked when you’d called him a good boy on your knees and then walked out like he was disposable.
Peter’s jaw flexed. He took one step closer, voice dropping into something colder.
“Yeah,” he said. “I do. And you’re still the same judgmental little bitch who’s been keeping score of every person I’ve fucked since the semester started like it personally offended you.”
Your eyes flashed.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He didn’t back up. “You’ve spent months acting like you’re above it. Above me. And the second I say something real you laugh in my face like I just confessed to a crime. Classic.”
You stepped forward too, journal still clenched in one hand, voice rising fast.
“You don’t get to call me a bitch after you just stood here and tried to play the soft-boy card with a fucking journal—”
“And you don’t get to act shocked when I stop being polite—”
“Polite? You’ve never been polite a day in your life—”
“—because every time I try you twist it into another reason to hate me—”
“I don’t need more reasons, Parker, you hand them out for free—”
Peter moved.
One hand caught the side of your jaw, the other braced against the wall beside your head, and he kissed you hard enough to cut the rest of the sentence clean out of your mouth. It wasn’t gentle.It was pure frustration and heat and the same restless need that had been eating at him for weeks—lips claiming, teeth grazing, tongue sliding against yours the second you made a startled sound against his mouth.
You shoved at his chest.
He let the kiss break just enough for you to suck in a breath.
“Nope,” you snapped, already trying to turn your face away. “Not happening again. Get the fuck—”
Peter’s arm locked around your waist and hauled you flush against him before you could finish. He held you there, chest to chest, one hand still firm at the back of your neck so you couldn’t put space between you. His mouth found the shell of your ear, voice low and rough and so fucking cocky it bordered on cruel.
“You can keep saying that,” he murmured, breath hot against your skin. “Keep pretending you’re done. But we both know the second I get mean you light up like a fucking fuse.” His fingers flexed at your waist, dragging you in tighter so you could feel exactly how hard he already was. “I could tell the first time you called me a whore. Felt it again when you laughed in my face just now. Being an asshole does it for you, doesn’t it? Gets you wet every single time.”
He nosed along the hinge of your jaw, still holding you locked against him, smile sharp against your skin.
“So go ahead,” he whispered. “Yell at me some more. Tell me to leave. I’ll wait. I’ve got all night.”
Peter felt the exact second the fight left your body and something hotter took its place.
You didn’t shove him off.
Didn’t tell him to leave.
You kissed him back.
Hard.
Your mouth opened under his like you’d been waiting for the excuse, teeth catching his bottom lip, tongue sliding against his with zero hesitation. The sound that left him was pure satisfaction—low, rough, almost a growl—as both of his hands found your waist and walked you backward until your shoulders hit the wall with a soft thud.
He crowded in immediately, one thigh sliding between yours, pinning you there while he kissed you like he was trying to rewrite every single time you’d walked out on him. The journal dropped somewhere near your feet. Neither of you cared.
Peter broke the kiss just long enough to drag his mouth along your jaw, voice already wrecked and filthy against your skin.
“There she is,” he murmured, lips brushing the hinge of your jaw. “Knew you wouldn’t last. All that attitude and the second I get mean you melt.” His hand slid up your side, under the hem of your shirt, palm hot against bare skin. “Been thinking about this mouth for weeks. You always that enthusiastic? Or was that all just for little ol' me?”
He kissed you again—slower this time, deliberate, tongue stroking against yours like he was already imagining it somewhere else. When he pulled back his eyes were dark, pupils blown, that cocky little spark burning brighter than ever.
“You’re gonna get on your knees for me again,” he said, quiet and absolute. “Right here. Against this wall if I have to. I don’t give a fuck that you walked out last time like you owned me. I need that throat again. Need to feel you choke on it the way you did when you decided to ruin me on purpose.”
His hips rolled once, slow and filthy, letting you feel exactly how hard he already was against your stomach. The friction made his breath hitch.
“You had all the power last time,” he continued, voice dropping lower, almost reverent with how filthy it was. “On your knees calling me a good boy while you swallowed every inch like you were trying to crawl inside me. I know. I remember every second. And I still don’t care.” His fingers flexed at your waist, holding you pinned. “I’ll let you wreck me again if that’s what it takes. I’ll stand here and take every single mean little thing you want to say while you choke yourself on my cock. Just—fuck—get on your knees, baby. Please. I need it.”
Peter’s forehead dropped against yours for half a second, breathing hard, the cocky mask cracked just enough to show the raw desperate need underneath.
Then he kissed you again—hungry, demanding, already guiding one of your hands down between your bodies so you could feel how badly he meant it.
Peter felt the soft, surrendered sigh leave your mouth and slide straight into his.
Then you were dropping.
No hesitation. No bitchy comment. Just the quiet shift of your weight as you sank to your knees right there against the wall of your own dorm room, hands already reaching for the front of his jeans.
He didn’t waste a single second.
The button came free under his fingers, zipper dragged down hard, and he shoved the fabric low enough to free himself in one rough motion. His cock sprang out heavy and impossibly hard, the thick vein along the underside pulsing in time with his heartbeat. The cool air of the room hit him for half a second—
—then your mouth was on him.
No teasing. No slow build. You took him straight to the back of your throat in one smooth, ruthless push, and Peter’s knees nearly gave out completely.
“Fuck—jesus—”
His hand shot out to the wall above your head for balance, the other fisting in your hair as the wet, tight heat of your throat closed around him all the way to the base. The sudden stretch of your lips, the flutter of your muscles trying to adjust, the wet gag that tore out of you the second he bottomed out—every sensation slammed into him at once. His thighs shook. A broken, punched-out sound left his chest.
You didn’t pull off.
You stayed buried, nose pressed to his skin, and started swallowing around him on purpose. The rhythmic squeeze of your throat milked the head of his cock while spit flooded past your lips and ran down his shaft in warm rivulets. Another wet gag spilled out of you, louder this time, and the vibration of it traveled straight up his spine.
Peter’s head dropped forward. His voice came out wrecked and already fishing.
“That’s it—fuck, just like that. Look at you. Taking every inch again like you were made for it. Tell me how good it feels. Tell me I’m the only one who gets this throat.”
You pulled back just far enough to breathe, a thick string of spit still connecting your swollen lips to the flushed head of his cock. Your voice came out hoarse and filthy.
“That what you wanna hear Parker?,” you rasped, stroking the slick length once before sinking back down. “You're the only one who gets this throat.”
Peter’s hips jerked. His free hand tightened in your hair, just holding on like he might fall without it.
“Again,” he demanded, voice cracking into something cocky and desperate at the same time. “Say it again. Tell me this is the best cock you’ve ever had in your mouth—fuck—tell me you missed it.”
You hummed around him instead of answering right away, the vibration making his knees buckle a second time. He had to lock them or risk dropping. Spit was flowing freely. Every time you forced yourself all the way down another wet, helpless gag tore out of you, and every time you came up for air you gave him exactly what he was chasing.
“My good boy,” you praised, lips brushing the sensitive ridge as you spoke. “You're being s' good while I suck your big cock. Such a pretty cock you have. You know that Peter? Such a pretty. Big. Cock.”
Peter’s forehead pressed to the wall above you. His breathing had gone short and ragged. The cocky edge never fully left his voice even as it broke apart.
“Yeah? You like that? Like having me all to yourself? Keep talking. Tell me how much you love choking on it. Tell me I’m the only one who gets to fuck this throat this deep—god—say it. Worship it. I need to hear it.”
You sank down again, slower this time, letting him feel every inch of tight, wet heat as your throat opened and accepted him. The wet sounds filled the quiet room—obscene, rhythmic, mixed with the soft choked gasps you made every time he bottomed out. Your eyes watered. Mascara started to run. Spit poured down his balls.
And still you praised him between every deep, ruthless stroke, giving him exactly the worship he was begging for while his thighs trembled under your hands and his cock throbbed harder against your tongue with every filthy word.
You didn’t let up.
You pulled off just long enough to drag a slow, filthy stripe up the underside of him with your tongue, gathering the fresh precome that had beaded at the tip, then took him deep again— letting the thick head push past the soft palate and lodge in the tight warmth of your throat. The wet, constricting squeeze made his breath leave him in a sharp hiss.
“Fuck, look at that,” he rasped, voice low and arrogant even as it cracked. “You’re making a mess of yourself already. Wonder how wet you are under those sweatpants. Fuck— you're so hot. Fuckin' ruined me for anyone else. Goddamn succubus.”
You swallowed around him on purpose, the muscles of your throat fluttering and working in tight pulses that dragged a broken sound out of his chest. When you finally needed air you pulled back only far enough to speak, lips still brushing the sensitive ridge.
“You’re leaking so much,” you murmured, voice wrecked and low. “Can’t even stay quiet while I take it. You're getting close and you’ve barely been in my mouth five minutes.”
Peter’s hand flexed hard in your hair. The cocky edge never left his voice.
“Because it feels that good and you know it. Keep going. Tell me no one else has ever taken me this deep. Tell me this is the only cock that makes you choke like that. I want to hear it while you gag on me.”
You sank down again without warning, forcing yourself all the way until your nose pressed flat against his skin and a wet, helpless gag tore out of you. The sound was filthy—raw and involuntary—and the vibration of it made his hips jerk. He held you there for a second longer than necessary, watching the way your throat visibly worked around the intrusion, before letting you pull up just enough to breathe.
Tears were tracking freely down your cheeks now. Your chin was a complete mess. Still you kept praising him between every deep, ruthless stroke—quiet, filthy observations about how hard he was throbbing, how pretty he looked when he tried to stay in control, how obvious it was that he needed this.
Peter’s breathing had gone ragged. The arrogant drawl stayed locked in place even as his control started to slip.
“That’s it—stay down. Let me feel that throat squeeze. You’re gonna make me come and you’re going to swallow every drop like the greedy thing you are. Don’t you dare pull off when I start. I want to feel you take it all.”
You hummed in answer and took him deeper still, one hand braced on his thigh, the other stroking what little of him wasn’t buried in your mouth. The wet sounds were constant now—obscene, rhythmic, mixed with the soft choked gasps you made every time he bottomed out.
Peter’s rhythm finally broke.
His grip in your hair shifted from holding to using. He held you in place and started fucking up into your throat in short, filthy thrusts—shallow at first, then deeper, using the tight wet heat of you like it belonged to him. The cocky stream of orders never stopped even as his voice went strained and mean.
“Take it. Every fucking inch. You’re gonna stay open for me and you’re going to swallow. Look at you—ruined. Best throat I’ve ever fucked and you know it. Keep that mouth busy. Don’t stop.”
His hips snapped harder. His cock swelled thicker against your tongue. The hand in your hair locked you in place as his rhythm stuttered and then broke completely.
Peter came with a low, punched-out groan that sounded almost angry with how good it felt.
Hot, thick pulses flooded your throat in heavy spurts. He held you down through every one of them, hips pressed tight to your face, cock twitching hard as he emptied himself as deep as he could get. You swallowed around him instinctively, the muscles of your throat working to take it while more spilled past the seal of your lips and ran down his shaft in warm, messy streaks. His thighs shook violently under your hands. A second, weaker pulse followed, then another, until he was spent and still twitching against your tongue.
He kept you there for several long seconds after the last pulse faded, breathing hard, forehead pressed to the wall above you, the cocky mask cracked wide open by the force of it.
When he finally loosened his grip you pulled off slowly, gasping, a thick string of come and spit still connecting your swollen lips to the head of his cock. Your voice was completely destroyed. Your chin and chest were a mess.
Peter looked down at you like he’d just been robbed and rewarded at the same time—eyes dark, chest heaving, the arrogant tilt of his mouth already trying to find its way back into place.
“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, thumb dragging through the mess on your bottom lip. “You really just let me do that again.”
He should have let the moment settle. Should have given you the space to stand up, wipe your mouth, and tell him to leave the way you always did.
Instead the thought hit him clean and sharp: if he let you walk away again he would lose this. Whatever the fuck this was. The only way to keep you in the room—keep you looking at him like that—was to make sure you came just as hard as he had.
His mouth curved, slow and filthy.
“You’re not walking out of your own room this time,” he said, voice still rough. “Cute little exit strategy’s off the table when this is your room.”
You wiped the back of your hand across your chin, eyes narrowing. “Get out. You got what you wanted.”
Peter’s laugh was low and completely unbothered. He tucked himself back into his jeans just enough to move, then reached down, hooked both hands under your arms, and hauled you up in one smooth, unapologetic motion.
“Nope.”
You made a sharp sound of protest. He ignored it completely.
“I’m not done,” he said, already walking you backward toward the bed. “Not this time. You don’t get to choke on my cock, swallow everything I give you, and then decide the night’s over. Not in your own room. Not when I still haven’t felt you come.”
He spun you the last half-step and tossed you onto the mattress hard enough that you bounced once. The second your back hit the sheets he was already climbing after you, knees bracketing your hips, one hand planted beside your head so you couldn’t sit up without pushing through him.
Peter looked down at you with that same cocky, satisfied spark—messy hair, flushed mouth, eyes dark with leftover heat and fresh intent.
“You’re staying right here,” he murmured, leaning in close enough that his breath brushed your lips. “And you’re going to come on my fingers or my tongue or whatever the fuck I decide to give you. Then maybe I’ll think about letting you kick me out.”
His free hand settled on your thigh, already sliding higher, the arrogance in his voice never once cracking.
“Your move, Either way I’m not leaving until I feel it.”
Your thighs parted for him without a single push. No sharp remark. No last attempt to kick him out. Just the quiet, deliberate open of your legs that made something dark and satisfied settle low in his gut.
He didn’t waste the invitation.
Peter shifted down the mattress in one smooth motion, hands sliding under your thighs to drag you closer to the edge. He pulled off your sweats and shoved the fabric of your underwear aside with zero ceremony, already leaning in, the cocky little curve still fixed at the corner of his mouth even as he stayed silent.
The first long, flat stroke of his tongue dragged through you slow and deliberate. He tasted heat and salt and a sweetness behind it all. A low sound left his chest—pure satisfaction—before he sealed his mouth over you and started working in earnest.
He kept every comment locked behind his teeth.
No running mouth. No arrogant play-by-play. Just focused, filthy precision— the broad flat of his tongue working over your clit in steady pressure, two fingers sliding into you without warning and curling exactly where he wanted them, the wet, rhythmic sound of him eating you filling the quiet room. His free hand pinned one of your thighs open wider so he could get deeper. Every time your hips tried to lift he held them down and kept going, completely locked in on the goal.
You, however, could not shut up.
The second his tongue pressed harder you started talking again—voice still ruined from his cock, low and continuous and completely shameless.
“Fuck, your mouth—” A sharp inhale when he sucked. “You’re so good at this. Of course you are. F-fucking whore—god—look at you. Still hard, aren’t you? I can see it. You’re dripping on my sheets from eating me out and you just came down my throat.”
Peter’s cock twitched heavily against the mattress at the words. He didn’t answer. He just pressed two fingers deeper and flicked his tongue faster, determined to make you fall apart before he let himself react.
You kept going, praise spilling out between every broken sound he dragged out of you.
“Y-you're so fucking hot. It's unfair. Fucking- jesus. You’re going to get hard again just from this, aren’t you? Going to need my throat a second time before you leave.”
His jaw flexed. Still he stayed quiet, doubling down—tongue working in tight, focused circles while his fingers fucked into you in short, relentless strokes that made the wet sounds louder. Your thighs started trembling against his shoulders. He felt the exact moment your body began to tighten around his fingers and locked his mouth over your clit, sucking hard.
You broke into another stream of filthy, breathless praise, every word circling straight back to his cock like you couldn’t help it.
“That’s it—just like that. You know you're being such a good boy right now. Fuck—Peter—Don't fucking stop— please—”
He felt you start to shatter.
Your thighs clamped around his head. Your hips jerked against his mouth. A broken, high sound tore out of you as you came hard around his fingers, pulsing and wet and completely unrestrained. He stayed right there through every wave of it—tongue working, fingers curling, drinking down every bit of the mess he was pulling out of you—until your body finally started to go soft and shaking under him.
Only then did Peter lift his head.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looked down at the wreck he’d made of you, and finally let the smirk settle fully into place.
He crawled up your body in one slow, deliberate motion, knees bracketing your hips, the weight of him settling over you until the heat of his chest nearly touched yours. His cock—already hard again, because he couldn't fucking help it with you—dragged once along the inside of your thigh before he shifted his hips and tapped the heavy head against your clit.
A soft, wet sound. Once. Twice. The blunt pressure of him sliding over the sensitive, overstimulated flesh he’d just made come.
He watched your face the whole time, silent, that same dark little spark still burning in his eyes.
You reached down between your bodies without hesitation.
Your fingers closed around him—still sticky from your mouth, still throbbing—and guided the head of his cock straight to your entrance. You notched him there, the thick tip nestled against the wet heat of you, and held him steady. A clear dare. No words. Just the quiet challenge of your hand and the way your hips lifted the smallest fraction to press against him.
Peter’s mouth curved, slow and filthy.
“There it is,” he murmured, voice low and thick with fresh arrogance. “Couldn’t even wait for me to do it myself. You’re that desperate to feel it stretch you open.”
He didn’t give you time to answer.
One hand braced beside your head. The other locked around your wrist and pinned it to the mattress above your shoulder. Then he rolled his hips forward in one long, controlled push.
The head of him breached you first—thick, blunt, forcing you open around the widest part of him. He felt every inch of the stretch as he kept going, slow enough that you felt the full drag of his cock filling you, the wet heat of you taking him deeper and deeper until his hips finally met yours and he was buried to the hilt.
A low, satisfied sound left his chest.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he rasped, already pulling back just far enough to thrust in again—harder this time, the force of it making the mattress dip. “Still so wet from my mouth. Dripping down my balls. Look at you. Taking every inch like you were made for it.”
He set a ruthless pace almost immediately.
Deep, steady thrusts that forced the air out of your lungs every time he bottomed out. His free hand stayed locked around your wrist. The other slid under your thigh and hauled it higher against his hip so he could get even deeper. Every stroke dragged the thick ridge of him over the same spot inside you until your body started tightening around him again.
You tried to speak.
The first attempt at praise came out broken and breathless—“You’re so—fuck—so good at—” but the next hard snap of his hips cut the rest of the sentence off into a sharp, helpless sound.
Peter’s grin was pure sin.
“Can’t even finish a sentence,” he said, voice low and mocking and completely in control. “All that pretty praise and the second I start fucking you properly you forget how to talk. Keep trying, baby. I want to hear you struggle.”
He drove into you harder, the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin filling the room. Your free hand scratched at his shoulder. Another half-formed scrap of praise left your mouth—“God, your cock is—” only to dissolve into a broken moan when he angled his hips and ground deep, staying buried for a long, deliberate second before pulling back and slamming in again.
Then your voice cut through, clear and sharp despite how wrecked it already sounded.
He stayed buried to the hilt, chest heaving, the cocky mask flickering with genuine surprise. Even with the arrogance still sitting on his tongue, some stubborn gentleman instinct under all the asshole behavior made him freeze the second the word left your mouth. He didn’t pull out. He just held still, forehead nearly touching yours, waiting.
“You good?” he asked, voice rough, the edge of concern almost buried under leftover heat.
You didn’t answer with words.
You used the pause.
One sharp shift of your weight, a shove against his chest that he wasn’t braced for, and Peter found himself rolled onto his back with you straddling his hips before he could fully process the movement. His cock—still buried deep—shifted with the new angle, the sudden change making a low, punched-out sound leave his throat.
You didn’t give him time to recover.
You planted both hands on his chest, rolled your hips once in a slow, deliberate circle that dragged every inch of him against the tight heat of you, and started riding him properly.
Peter’s head dropped back against the mattress for half a second before he forced himself to look up at you. His hands found your hips automatically, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, the cocky spark already trying to claw its way back into place even as his voice came out broken and filthy.
“Fuck—look at you,” he rasped, eyes locked on the way you moved. “I like this game you think you're winning. 'S got you taking every inch like my cock was made for you. You’re so fucking wet I can hear it every time you sink down. Keep going. Show me how good you look when you’re using me.”
You answered with another slow, deep roll of your hips that made his abs flex hard under your palms, then started a steady rhythm—lifting almost all the way off before dropping back down and taking him to the base. The wet sound of it was shameless. His cock throbbed inside you with every descent.
And you praised him right back, voice low and continuous while you rode.
“You’re being so good for me,” you murmured, one hand sliding up to brace against his shoulder as you ground down harder. “Letting me take what I want. Such a good— perfect boy. Look how deep you are. You’re throbbing so much I can feel it.”
Peter’s grip on your hips tightened. A broken, arrogant laugh left him even as his thighs tensed under you.
“Yeah? You like that? Like feeling how hard I am for you? Keep talking princess. Tell me how good this cock feels while you’re bouncing on it. Tell me it’s the best you’ve ever had in this tight little cunt. I need to hear you.”
You leaned forward, changing the angle so every downward stroke dragged him against the exact spot that made your breath hitch. The two of you fighting for control that neither of you really have.
“Fuck princess—,” he rasped, eyes fixed on the way you moved. “Sitting on my cock like you’ve been waiting all semester for it. So fucking greedy. You’re dripping down my balls and still you can’t get enough, huh? You were just pissed you didn't get to me first.”
You answered without missing a beat, voice low and mean as you rolled your hips in a slow, deliberate circle that made his abs flex hard under your palms.
“And you've been begging for me ever since you got a taste. Can’t even stay quiet while I use you. Such a needy little thing when someone’s actually on top of you.”
Peter’s laugh came out broken and filthy. One hand slid up your side, rough and possessive.
“Keep talking shit. It only makes me harder. I'm the best you're ever gonna get baby. Tell me it’s stretching you open better than anything else you’ve taken.”
You leaned forward, changing the angle so every downward stroke dragged him against the spot that made your breath hitch, and gave it right back.
“You’re leaking so much I can feel it. S' warm. Not gonna last much longer are you? Poor baby. Can’t even keep ahold of yourself when I’m the one setting the pace.”
"F-fuck you."
"Already am pretty boy."
Peter felt the exact moment things started to change. The way your walls fluttered and clenched around him. The way your thighs began to tremble against his hips. The soft, broken sound that slipped out of you.
He didn’t need you to say it.
His hand left your hip and slid between your bodies without hesitation. Two fingers found your clit—slick, swollen, oversensitive—and pressed in tight, focused circles that matched the pace you were already setting. The second the pressure landed your rhythm stuttered.
“There it is,” he murmured, voice low and arrogant even as his own control started to fray. “I can feel you getting close. Squeezing me so tight. Keep riding. Don’t you dare stop. Come on my cock while I rub this pretty clit.”
You tried to keep the mean praise going. The words came out fractured and breathless—“Fuck—you—cocky asshole—” but the dual stimulation of his thick length filling you and the precise, relentless circles of his fingers cut every sentence short.
Peter’s hips started lifting to meet every downward stroke, fucking up into you in short, hard thrusts while his fingers never left your clit. The wet sounds grew louder. Your walls clamped down harder. He felt the first strong pulse of your orgasm start to roll through you and locked his free arm around your waist so you couldn’t pull away.
“That’s it—come. Let me feel it. Squeeze this cock like you mean it.”
You shattered around him with a broken, high sound, thighs shaking, body pulsing in tight, rhythmic waves that milked him from base to tip. The sudden, perfect pressure of you coming undone on top of him dragged Peter over the edge right with you.
His hips snapped up hard one last time and stayed there, buried to the hilt as he came with a low, punched-out groan. Hot, thick pulses flooded you in heavy spurts while your walls kept fluttering and clenching around him, dragging every drop deeper. His fingers stayed pressed to your clit through the entire thing, working you through the aftershocks even as his own thighs shook and his breath left him in ragged, broken sounds.
For several long seconds neither of you moved.
You stayed collapsed forward against his chest, both of you still twitching, still joined, the mess of come and sweat cooling between your bodies while the quiet of the empty dorm settled back in around the sound of your breathing.
Peter stayed still for several long seconds after the last aftershock faded, your weight still heavy across his chest, his cock softening inside you. The quiet of the dorm felt louder than it had any right to. Somewhere down the hall a door slammed. Someone laughed.
Reality landed all at once.
He was still inside you. Your journal was on the floor near the wall. His jeans were shoved halfway down his thighs. Your mascara was a complete disaster. And the only reason either of you had ended up here was because he’d shown up with a leather-bound notebook and a half-baked plan to stop you from leaving for three weeks without looking at him again.
Peter’s mouth curved slowly.
“Well,” he said, voice still rough. “That escalated.”
You made a quiet, annoyed sound against his shoulder and pushed yourself up just enough to look at him. The irritation was real. So was the faint, reluctant spark underneath it—the same one that had been there each time the two of you crossed the line and then pretended you hadn’t.
“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered.
“And yet.” He gestured vaguely between your bodies, still joined, still messy. “Here we are. Again. In your bed this time. You’re welcome.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it was almost impressive, then carefully lifted off him. The wet sound of it made his stomach tighten all over again. He watched you reach for the nearest discarded shirt—his, apparently—and dragged it through the mess between your legs without looking at him.
Peter finally sat up, dragging a hand through his ruined hair. He found his jeans, stood, and started pulling them back up with zero urgency, like he had every right to take his time in your room.
“You know,” he said, zipping them, “for someone who keeps telling me to get out, you have a real talent for ending up on top of my cock.”
“Shut up.”
“Just observing.” He tugged his hoodie back on, the fabric catching for a second on still-damp skin. “Merry almost-Christmas to me, I guess.”
You shot him a look that was pure warning, but the corner of your mouth threatened to give you away. The game was still on. Both of you knew it.
“Get out, Peter.”
He paused at the edge of the bed, keys already in hand, and let the full smug tilt of his mouth settle into place.
“Sure. Door’s right there.” He stepped closer just long enough to brush his thumb once across your bottom lip, like he couldn’t help himself. “Try not to miss me too hard over break.”
You held his gaze, chin tipped up, and delivered the last word with perfect, cutting sweetness.
“Merry early Christmas. Now leave.”
Peter’s grin widened.
He walked to the door, pulled it open, and stepped out into the empty hallway without looking back. The second the latch clicked behind him the smug expression dropped like a stone.
The hallway was quiet. Christmas lights hummed. Somewhere below, a car alarm went off.
Peter stood there for a long moment with his keys digging into his palm, the taste of you still in his mouth, the phantom pressure of your body still branded across his skin. The high of winning the round sat right next to something heavier and far less convenient—something that felt dangerously close to not wanting this to stay a game.
He exhaled once, sharp, and started walking toward the stairwell before he could do something stupid like turn around and knock again.
Three weeks.
He already knew they were going to feel longer than they should.
summary: you have no idea how your best friend harry puts up with his roommate, peter parker. hes loud. brash. annoying. a whore. you tried to avoid him. to leave the room when he arrives. but the universe has decided on the secret third option- forcing you to spend more time alone with him than youd ever have to when you just wanted your damn necklace. fuck. requested by anon
warnings/tags: mean! peter, college au peter, forced proximity, enemies to blowjobs, smut (oral- m receiving, dirty talk, praise), the juicy sweats make their grand appearance
masterlist // join the taglist // part 2
You were sprawled across the shitty dorm couch like you owned it, one leg hooked over the armrest, half-listening to your best friend complain about his organic chem midterm while the other half of your brain was already planning the fastest escape route if Peter Parker walked through the door.
The apartment smelled like cheap laundry detergent and the lingering ghost of last night’s takeout. Harry's textbooks were stacked in a precarious tower on the coffee table, and the TV was muted on some reality show neither of you were actually watching. You’d been here for almost two hours, which was roughly an hour and fifty-nine minutes longer than you preferred to risk running into his roommate.
“I’m just saying,” Harry continued, flipping a highlighter between his fingers, “he’s not that bad once you—”
The door clicked open.
You didn’t even look up at first. You just felt the shift in the air, the way the room suddenly got smaller.
Peter Parker stepped inside like the place had been waiting for him. Backpack slung over one shoulder, hair a little damp like he’d just come from the gym or a shower or someone else’s bed—hard to tell with him. He kicked the door shut with his heel and tossed his keys onto the counter without looking. His eyes landed on you almost immediately, and that familiar, lazy half-smile curved his mouth.
“Well, well,” he said, voice low and deliberately amused. “Look who finally crawled out of their hole. Didn’t think you still knew where this place was.”
You kept your gaze on the TV, even though nothing interesting was happening on it. “Didn’t think you’d be back so early. Figured you’d still be making your rounds through the second floor.”
Harry made a quiet, warning sound under his breath. Peter just laughed, soft and unbothered, and dropped his backpack by the wall.
“Second floor’s overrated,” he said, walking past the couch close enough that his shin brushed your ankle. He didn’t apologize. “Third floor’s where the real talent is this semester. You’d know if you ever left your room for anything other than this one and judging me.”
You finally turned your head to look at him. He was leaning against the kitchen counter now, arms crossed, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who’d just been called a campus-wide whore.
“Judgment’s free,” you said. “Unlike whatever STD panel you’re probably due for.”
Peter’s grin widened, all teeth and zero shame. “Ouch. That almost hurt. You practicing those lines in the mirror, or do they just come naturally when you’re this sexually frustrated?”
Harry closed his textbook with a soft thud. “Can we not—”
“No, it’s fine,” you cut in, still locked on Peter. “I’m just trying to figure out how someone who treats the entire dorm like a revolving door still has a roommate who defends him like he’s actually a person.”
Peter pushed off the counter and took a few slow steps closer, stopping just short of the couch. He looked down at you, head tilted, that cocky little spark in his eyes that made it very clear he was enjoying this.
“Maybe because I’m fun,” he said, voice dropping a fraction. “And you’re… what, exactly? The dorm’s resident wet blanket who keeps score of who I fuck like it’s a personal insult?”
You sat up straighter, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking away. “It’s not an insult. It’s a public service announcement. People should know the risks before they make the same mistake half the building already has.”
He laughed again—quiet, almost fond, which somehow made it worse. “You keep talking like you’ve got me all figured out. It’s cute. Really. But if you’re so disgusted, why do you keep showing up here?”
“Because some of us actually care about our friends,” you shot back. “Not just who we can get horizontal with before the weekend’s over.”
Peter’s gaze flicked, just for a second, to Harry—who looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him —then back to you. Something sharper settled behind his easy expression.
“Careful,” he said, softer now. “You’re starting to sound jealous.”
You scoffed, but the sound came out thinner than you wanted. “Of you? Please. I’d rather chew glass.”
“Mm.” He rocked back on his heels, studying you like he was deciding whether the argument was still entertaining. “Keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day you’ll even believe it.”
Harry finally stood up, hands raised in surrender. “Okay. Both of you. Enough. Peter, go shower or something. You smell like ass. And you—” he pointed at you—“stop poking the bear. He’s already insufferable when he’s in a good mood.”
Peter raised both hands in mock innocence, already backing toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. “Hey, I was just saying hi. Not my fault your friend can’t handle a little honesty.”
He disappeared around the corner, but not before throwing one last look over his shoulder — like he already knew this wasn’t over.
The bathroom door clicked shut a second later. The water started running.
Harry dropped back onto the couch with a long, exhausted sigh and muttered, “I genuinely don’t know why I let you two exist in the same space.”
You stared at the empty hallway, jaw tight, pulse a little too loud in your ears.
Neither did you.
The dorm hallway was quieter than you’d ever heard it. No bass thudding through walls, no laughter spilling out of open doors, no one arguing about whose turn it was to buy more Red Bull. Thanksgiving break had hollowed the whole building out. Most people had scattered home the second classes ended. You were supposed to be one of them. The ticket price had laughed in your face, so you’d stayed, claiming the silence like it was a prize.
You were already dressed when you remembered the necklace. Black dress that hit mid-thigh, the kind that made you feel like you had somewhere better to be than an empty campus. Heels that clicked too loud in the stairwell. Hair done. Makeup sharp. You’d left the necklace at Harry’s place weeks ago after the clasp snapped during a night that ended with too much cheap wine and you insisting it was fine, you’d just leave it. He'd fixed it the next morning and texted you to come grab it whenever. You never had.
Tonight felt like the perfect window. Peter would be gone. Everyone would be gone. In and out, necklace in hand, then you’d hit the one bar still open near campus and pretend the holiday didn’t sting.
You used the spare key Harry had given you months ago and pushed the door open without knocking.
The living room lights were on.
Peter Parker was in the kitchen, barefoot, leaning against the counter with a half-eaten protein bar in one hand and his phone in the other. He was wearing a tight black crop top that stopped just above the sharp cut of his hips and a pair of black Juicy Couture velour sweatpants that sat low on his waist. The fabric clung in places it had no business clinging. His stomach was flat, a faint trail of hair disappearing under the waistband, and the crop top left zero room for interpretation about how much time he spent in the gym when he wasn’t busy being a walking cautionary tale.
He looked up the second the door shut behind you.
For half a second he just stared. Then that slow, filthy little smile pulled at his mouth.
“Holy shit,” he said, voice low and delighted. “Did hell freeze over or did you actually get dressed up for once?”
You froze in the doorway, keys still in your hand. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Peter took another bite of the protein bar, chewed, and shrugged one shoulder. The crop top rode up a fraction higher. “Could ask you the same thing, princess. Thought you’d be halfway across the country by now, crying into your mom’s stuffing.”
“Ticket was too expensive.” You hated how defensive it sounded. “I came for my necklace. HarryHarry fixed it.”
“Ah.” He set the protein bar down and pushed off the counter, walking toward you with that lazy, cocky gait that always made it feel like he owned the floor. “The little silver one. Yeah, it’s in my room. I moved it so it wouldn’t get lost in the chaos of his packing.”
You stayed by the door. “Of course it’s in your room. Because nothing can just be simple with you.”
Peter stopped a few feet away, eyes dragging down your dress in a way that felt deliberate and completely unapologetic. “You’re the one who showed up looking like that. Don’t act shocked that I’m looking. Most of the dorm’s gone. Campus is a ghost town. And here you are, all done up, standing in my doorway like you expected the place to be empty.”
“I did expect it to be empty,” you shot back. “I expected the campus whore to be off somewhere, ruining someone else’s holiday.”
He laughed, soft and mean. “There she is. Miss High Horse. Miss I-Would-Rather-Chew-Glass. You keep talking about me like that and people might start thinking you care.”
“I don’t.”
“Sure.” He tilted his head, studying the way the dress sat on your body. “Where were you even going dressed like that? Don’t tell me you had plans. On Thanksgiving. Alone.”
You clenched your jaw. “None of your business.”
“Everything in this dorm is my business when you’re standing in it looking like that.” He took another step closer. The sweatpants shifted with the movement, the soft fabric doing absolutely nothing to hide the outline of him. “You came here thinking I’d be gone. You wanted the place to yourself. Necklace, quiet, maybe a little victory dance that you didn’t have to deal with me. And instead you get this.” He gestured vaguely at his own torso, at the crop top, at the ridiculous Juicy pants. “Disappointed?”
“Disgusted, mostly.”
Peter’s smile widened, all sharp edges and zero shame. “Liar. You’re staring.”
You forced your eyes back up to his face. “I’m staring because I can’t believe you own Juicy Couture sweatpants.”
“Laundry day” he said easily. “Found them in the clean basket. Thought they were yours honestly.” He reached out and plucked the keys from your hand before you could react, tossing them onto the counter behind him. “Necklace’s on my desk. You can come get it, or you can stand there in that dress pretending you don’t want to know why I’m still here either.”
You crossed your arms. “Why are you still here?”
Peter’s expression flickered—just for a second—before the cocky mask slid back into place. “Same reason as you, probably. Money. Or lack of it. Or maybe I just didn’t feel like explaining to my aunt why I wasn’t coming home this year.” He shrugged again, but it was tighter this time. “Doesn’t matter. Point is, you’re here. I’m here. The building’s empty.”
You opened your mouth to tell him to go fuck himself.
He beat you to it.
“Necklace’s this way,” he said, already turning toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. The crop top rode up again when he lifted one arm to push his hair back. “Try not to trip over your own judgment on the way.”
You hesitated for exactly three seconds.
Then you followed him.
Peter’s room was… normal.
You stopped just inside the doorway, the words dying in your throat. You’d expected a mess—empty condom wrappers, a rotating door of half-forgotten names written on a whiteboard, the smell of sex and cheap cologne baked into the walls. Instead the bed was made. The desk was organized. A few textbooks were stacked neatly beside a closed laptop. There was a framed photo of an older woman who had to be his aunt, a poster of some indie band you’d never heard of, and a single hoodie draped over the back of the desk chair. It looked like he was actually put together. Not the lair of the dorm’s most prolific problem.
He noticed you staring.
“What?” he asked, already moving toward the desk. “Expecting a red room and a list of conquests on the wall?”
“Honestly? Yeah.”
Peter huffed a quiet laugh and opened the top drawer. “Sorry to disappoint. I keep the list on my phone.” He pulled out the silver necklace, the clasp fixed and gleaming, and held it up between two fingers. “Here. All yours.”
You stepped closer to take it. That was your first mistake.
The crop top left his arms completely exposed, and under the soft overhead light they looked unfairly good—hard muscle, the kind that came from actual work instead of just showing up at the gym for the mirror. Veins faintly visible when he flexed to reach something. Your eyes dragged over them before your brain could stop it, and something low and traitorous in your stomach twisted.
Peter went still.
You looked up and found him watching you, that slow, knowing smile already spreading across his face.
“There it is,” he said softly. “Knew it was only a matter of time.”
You snatched the necklace out of his hand a little too fast. “I was looking at the room.”
“No you weren’t.” He leaned back against the desk, arms crossing over his chest in a way that only made the muscles in his biceps stand out more. The crop top rode higher. “You were looking at me. Specifically at these.” He flexed once, deliberately, just enough to be an asshole about it. “Don’t worry. Happens a lot. Usually people are better at hiding it, though.”
Heat crawled up the back of your neck. “You’re delusional.”
“Am I?” Peter’s voice dropped into something smoother, warmer, the cocky edge still there but now wrapped in deliberate charm. “Because you’ve been throwing insults at me for months, but the second you see a little skin you’re staring like you’ve never seen arms before. It’s cute. Really. All that judgment and you’re still human underneath it.”
You turned the necklace over in your fingers, refusing to meet his eyes. “I came for this. That’s it.”
“Then why are you still standing there?” He pushed off the desk and took one slow step closer. Then another. The Juicy sweatpants sat low enough that the cut of his hips was impossible to ignore. “You could’ve grabbed the necklace and left. Instead you’re lingering in my room looking at me like that. So either you’re about to call me a whore again for sport, or you’re starting to realize the problem isn’t that I’ve slept with half the dorm.”
Your pulse was too loud. “What’s the problem, then?”
Peter’s smile turned sharper, almost fond. “The problem is you want to know what all the fuss is about.”
“I don’t—”
“You do.” He reached out and gently took the necklace from your hand again, fingers brushing yours longer than necessary. “You’ve spent so much time deciding I’m disgusting that you never let yourself admit you like what you see.” He stepped into your space, close enough that you could smell whatever clean, expensive soap he’d used. “Say it.”
You swallowed. “No.”
“Coward.” The word was soft, almost teasing. He lifted the necklace and, without asking, reached around your neck to clasp it himself. His knuckles brushed the side of your throat. Warm. Steady. “You’ve got that hungry look on your face. And still you won’t just say you think I look good.”
His hands lingered at the back of your neck after the clasp clicked shut. You could feel the heat of his palms, the quiet strength in his fingers.
“I don’t think you look good,” you managed.
Peter leaned in just enough that his mouth was near your ear. “Liar. Your eyes already told on you the second you walked in here. So either keep lying and leave, or stay right here and admit it.” His voice dropped lower, velvet and filthy at the edges. “Tell me you like what you see, and maybe I’ll stop being such an asshole about it.”
You should have shoved him back. Should have taken the necklace and walked out while you still could.
Instead you stayed exactly where you were, pulse hammering, the quiet of the empty dorm pressing in around both of you.
Peter waited, patient and infuriatingly sure of himself, thumbs brushing once along the sides of your neck like he already knew the answer.
“You look good,” he said, quiet enough that it felt private. “Really fucking good. That dress is doing things it has no right to do on a night like this. And the heels? Dangerous. You walked in here looking like you were ready to ruin someone’s entire holiday, and I’m starting to think that someone was supposed to be me.”
You stayed silent. Admitting anything felt like handing him the win on a silver platter, and you refused to give him that satisfaction.
He noticed. Of course he did.
“Still nothing?” His mouth curved, soft and wicked. “Alright. Let’s try again.” He shifted closer, the heat of his body seeping through the thin fabric of the crop top. “You’re beautiful when you’re trying this hard not to want me. All that fire, all that attitude… and still you can’t stop staring at my mouth.”
Your breath hitched. Traitorous.
Peter’s hands slid from your neck to your jaw, tilting your face up with careful, deliberate pressure. “There it is. That little crack. You hate that you like how I look in this shirt. You hate that the sweatpants are doing it for you. You hate that I’m standing this close— your pulse is going crazy under my fingers.” His voice dropped lower, coaxing, almost gentle. “Just say it. One sentence. ‘You look good, Peter.’ That’s all. I’ll even pretend I didn’t already know.”
You clenched your teeth. “I’m not giving you that.”
“Then I’ll keep talking until you do.” He leaned in another inch. His breath brushed your lips. “You smell expensive tonight. Like you actually tried. For who? Some stranger at a half-empty bar? Or did some part of you hope I’d still be here to see it?”
Your hands had somehow found the soft fabric of his sweatpants at his hips, fingers curling without permission. He felt it. His smile turned sharper.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Hold on to me if you need to. I don’t mind.” Another step closer and your chests nearly touched. The crop top left almost nothing between you. “You’re shaking a little. Did you notice? Because I did. Your body’s already answering for you. It’s just waiting for your mouth to catch up.”
He was so close now that every word brushed against your lips. His hands tightened just enough to keep you exactly where he wanted you—tilted up, open, trapped in the quiet gravity of him.
“Say it,” he whispered, the words a soft command against your mouth. “Tell me you like what you see. Tell me the judgment was bullshit. Tell me you’ve been thinking about this longer than you’ll ever admit.”
You tried to form a denial. Something sharp. Something safe.
What came out instead was a broken little sound—half protest, half surrender—as your body finally betrayed you completely. A quiet, helpless whine slipped past your lips and straight into his.
Peter’s control snapped.
He closed the last fraction of space and kissed you like he’d been waiting months for the exact sound you just made. His mouth was hot, sure, and filthy with intent—lips parting yours immediately, tongue sliding against yours in a slow, claiming stroke that made your knees weak. One hand stayed locked on your jaw, the other sliding down to the small of your back to haul you flush against him. The hard line of his body pressed into yours and he kissed you deeper, hungrier, like he was determined to swallow every last scrap of resistance you still had.
When he finally pulled back just enough to speak, his voice was rough and satisfied.
“There she is,” he breathed against your mouth. “Knew you’d taste as mean as you talk.”
Peter didn’t pull away after the words left his mouth. He stayed right there, lips brushing yours, breathing you in like he’d already won something. The hard line of his cock pressed against your lower stomach through the thin fabric of the velour sweatpants, thick and unmistakable, and the second you felt it your brain short-circuited.
He kissed that good. Filthy and controlled and just a little mean, like he knew exactly how to make you melt and was doing it on purpose. Your hands tightened on his hips without thinking. Your body moved before your pride could catch up. You rolled your hips once, slow and deliberate, grinding against the heavy length of him, and the quiet, punched-out sound he made against your mouth went straight between your legs.
Peter’s grin was pure sin when he pulled back just enough to speak.
“There it is,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Knew you’d start rubbing on it the second you felt how hard I got for you. Look at you. All that talk and now you’re grinding on my cock like you’ve been waiting for permission.”
Heat flooded your face. “Shut up.”
“Make me.” He rolled his hips back into yours, dragging the thick ridge of his cock against you, letting you feel every inch. “Go on. Tell me you don’t want it. Tell me that little grind was an accident. I dare you.”
You hated how easily he got under your skin. Hated that your stupid brain had flipped from get out of here to please him in the span of one kiss. You shoved at his chest—hard enough to make him take a step back—and he went willingly, still smiling that cocky, knowing smile like this was exactly the reaction he’d been angling for.
The back of his knees hit the edge of the bed. You pushed again and he dropped down onto the mattress, catching himself on his elbows, crop top riding up to show the sharp cut of his abs and the dark trail of hair disappearing under the waistband of those ridiculous sweatpants. His cock strained against the soft fabric, thick and obvious, the head of it already leaving an impression near the waistband.
You dropped to your knees between his spread legs before you could talk yourself out of it.
Peter’s eyes went dark and hungry. He looked down at you like you were the best Thanksgiving present he could’ve asked for.
“Oh, fuck,” he breathed, voice thick with satisfaction. “Look at that. On your knees already. Didn’t even have to ask.” He reached down and brushed his thumb across your bottom lip, slow and lazy. “You gonna keep glaring at me while you do it, or are you finally gonna admit you want my cock in your mouth?”
You glared up at him, hands already sliding up his thighs. “I want you to shut the fuck up.”
Peter laughed, low and filthy, and leaned back on one hand so he could watch you better. The other hand stayed on your face, thumb pressing gently against your mouth.
“Not a chance, baby. You’re about to put that pretty mouth to work and I’m gonna talk the entire time. You’re gonna hear every single filthy thing I think while you suck me. That’s the deal.” His fingers slid into your hair, not pulling yet—just resting there, possessive. “Now take it out. Show me how bad you’ve actually wanted this.”
The air in the room felt thicker. Your heart was slamming against your ribs. And still, kneeling between Peter Parker’s legs with his cock hard and waiting inches from your face, all your brain wanted was to make him sound as wrecked as he was making you feel.
You tugged the soft waistband of the Juicy sweatpants down just enough to free him. His cock sprang out with a soft thud against his stomach. Heavy and flushed, the thick head already shiny at the tip. The scent of clean skin and arousal hit you immediately. You wrapped your fingers around the base and felt him throb against your palm, hot and solid.
Peter’s breath left him in a low, satisfied sound.
“Look at that,” he murmured, eyes locked on your face. “Finally got your hands on it. You gonna keep staring or are you actually gonna do something?”
You ignored the dig and leaned in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the underside of the head. Slow. Deliberate. You dragged your tongue in a lazy circle around the ridge, tasting the faint salt of precome that had already gathered there. His thighs tensed under your free hand.
“Fuck—” His voice had gone rougher. “Cute. Real cute. You think taking your time is gonna make me lose it?”
You hummed against the sensitive skin just beneath the head and felt the vibration travel through him. Another slow lick, this time from the base all the way up, flattening your tongue so you could feel every ridge and vein. His cock twitched hard against your mouth.
Peter’s hand shot into your hair.
He didn’t ask. He just gripped a fistful and guided the swollen tip past your lips in one smooth push. The head of him filled the front of your mouth—hot, smooth, already leaking. You tasted more of that salt-sweet precome the second it hit your tongue.
“That’s better,” he said, voice low and smug. “Just the tip for now. Look at you. Mouth stretched around me and still trying to pretend you’re in control.” His fingers flexed in your hair, holding you exactly where he wanted. “Suck. Nice and slow. I want to feel that tongue working.”
You hollowed your cheeks around the head, sucking gently, swirling your tongue under the sensitive ridge the way you knew would make him react. He exhaled hard through his nose, the muscle in his jaw jumping.
“Fuck, that’s good. Messy little thing already.” He rocked his hips the smallest amount, pushing the tip a fraction deeper before easing back. “You look filthy like this. On your knees in that dress with my cock in your mouth. All that attitude and here you are, letting me use your face.”
You glared up at him, the expression ruined by the stretch of your lips and the wet shine already coating the head of his cock every time he pulled back. He just smirked down at you, completely unbothered.
“Don’t give me that look. You started grinding on me first. You dropped to your knees. Now you’re sucking the tip like you've dreamed about this before.” His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth where it was stretched around him. “Tell me how it tastes.”
The constant stream of cocky, filthy commentary was starting to get under your skin in the worst way. Every smug word made the heat between your legs worse. You wanted him quiet. You wanted him wrecked.
So you stopped teasing.
You braced both hands on his thighs, took a breath through your nose, and sank down.
The thick head pushed past your tongue, over the soft palate, and kept going. Inch after hot, heavy inch filled your mouth until your lips met the base and your nose brushed the soft skin of his lower stomach. Your throat fluttered hard around him. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes from the stretch. Spit welled up and spilled past your lips, dripping down his shaft and onto the waistband of the sweatpants still shoved low on his hips.
Peter’s entire body went rigid.
“Jesus—fuck—” The cocky drawl cracked for the first time. His hand tightened almost painfully in your hair, but he didn’t pull you off. He held you there, buried to the hilt, while your throat worked around the thick intrusion. “Oh my god. You just—took all of it. Look at you. F-fucking look at you.”
You stayed down, swallowing around him on purpose, letting your throat ripple and squeeze. The wet, filthy sound of it filled the quiet room. When you finally needed air you pulled back only far enough to breathe, spit connecting your lips to his cock in a shiny string, then immediately sank down again—slower this time, dragging every inch along your tongue until he was lodged deep once more.
Peter’s head dropped back for half a second before he forced himself to look down again. His voice had gone wrecked and mean at the same time.
“Best fucking mouth I’ve ever had. You hear me? Best. A-and you’re still trying to shut me up by deepthroating me like a professional.” He rolled his hips up in a short, controlled thrust, fucking into the tight heat of your throat. “Not gonna work, baby. Gonna tell you exactly how perfect your throat feels while you choke on me.”
You moaned around the thick length of him, the sound vibrating straight up his cock, and watched his abs flex hard under the crop top. Spit was everywhere now—your chin, his shaft, the soft black velour of the sweatpants. Your eyes watered freely. Your jaw ached in the best way. And still you kept taking him to the base, determined to turn every smug word into a broken sound.
Peter’s grip in your hair stayed firm, guiding the pace just enough to remind you who was actually in charge even while you tried to ruin him.
“That’s it,” he groaned, voice thick and filthy. “Take it. Show me how bad you wanted this cock. Swallow around it again—yeah, just like that. Fuck, you’re gonna make me come down your throat if you keep being such a good girl.”
You pulled off him with a wet, filthy gasp, a thick string of spit still connecting your bottom lip to the flushed head of his cock. Your voice came out ruined already—hoarse and low from how deep you’d taken him.
“Look at you,” you rasped, stroking the slick length with one hand while you caught your breath. “Sitting there being such a good boy for me.”
Peter’s eyes flashed. His fingers flexed hard in your hair, but the next cocky remark never made it out of his mouth.
You didn’t give him time to recover. You sank back down in one smooth motion, taking him straight to the base again until your throat closed tight around the head and your nose pressed into his skin. The wet sounds of it was obscenely loud in the quiet room. Spit flooded past your lips and ran down his shaft in warm rivulets. Your eyes watered instantly from the stretch. You held there, swallowing hard around him on purpose, letting your throat flutter and squeeze.
When you pulled up again it was only far enough to speak, lips still brushing the shiny head.
“That’s it,” you breathed, voice thick with spit. “Just like that. Letting me choke on this thick cock like a good boy. You’re being so fucking patient for me.”
You dove back down before he could answer. Deeper this time. Your throat convulsed around the intrusion and a broken gag tore out of you, wet and raw. Tears slipped free and tracked down your cheeks. You didn’t stop. You stayed buried, swallowing repeatedly, the muscles of your throat working him in tight, rhythmic pulses while more spit dripped onto the soft black fabric of his sweatpants.
Peter’s free hand had fisted in the sheets. His abs were clenched hard under the crop top. The only sound he managed was a low, punched-out groan.
You pulled off again, panting, chin shiny and dripping. Your hand kept stroking him in long, tight twists, spreading the mess you’d made.
“Fuck, you’re taking it so well,” you praised, voice wrecked and filthy. “Letting me use your cock like this. Sitting there all pretty while I gag on it. Such a good boy for me, Peter. Look how hard you are. Look how much you’re leaking just from my mouth.”
You licked a slow stripe up the underside, gathering the fresh precome that had beaded at the tip, then took him deep once more. The stretch burned in the best way. Your throat bulged visibly for a second before you forced yourself farther, until your lips were sealed tight around the base again. Another wet gag spilled out of you, the sound filthy and helpless. Spit poured down his balls. Your mascara was definitely ruined.
Peter’s hips jerked once—short, controlled, like he was fighting not to fuck up into your throat. His breathing had gone ragged. The constant stream of smug commentary had dried up into broken little sounds he couldn’t quite swallow.
You pulled back just enough to speak against the head of him, lips dragging over the sensitive ridge with every word.
“That’s my good boy,” you murmured, the praise low and dirty. “Staying so still while I choke myself on this cock. Letting me take every inch. You’re doing so well for me. So fucking well.”
You sank down again, slower this time, letting him feel every inch of tight, wet heat as your throat opened and accepted him. The wet sounds were constant now—obscene, rhythmic, mixed with the soft wet gasps you made every time he bottomed out. Your jaw ached. Your eyes kept watering. Spit soaked the front of his sweatpants. The insides of your thighs were damp where you’d started shifting restlessly against nothing.
Peter’s hand in your hair had gone almost tender despite the firm grip, guiding you in short, shallow rocks while you kept him buried. He wasn’t talking anymore. Just breathing hard and watching you with dark, blown-out eyes like he couldn’t quite believe what you were doing to him.
You moaned around the thick length of him on purpose, the vibration making his thighs tense under your palms, and kept going—choking, gagging, praising him in wrecked little scraps of voice every time you came up for air.
You felt it the second his control started to slip.
Peter’s thighs were shaking under your hands. His cock throbbed harder against your tongue, the thick vein along the underside pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Precome was leaking steadily now, salty and constant, mixing with the spit that already coated everything. His breathing had gone short and rough. The hand in your hair tightened until it bordered on painful.
He was close.
You doubled down.
Instead of pulling up to breathe you stayed buried, nose pressed to his skin, and forced your throat to relax around him. The stretch burned. Tears kept slipping down your cheeks. Spit poured freely past your lips. You swallowed hard around the head of him—once, twice—then moaned low and long so the vibration traveled straight through his cock.
Peter’s hips jerked.
“Fuck—fuck, baby—” His voice cracked back into existence, rough and mean and desperate all at once. “You’re gonna make me come. Look at you. Throat stuffed full and still trying to milk it out of me. Such a greedy little mouth.”
You didn’t pull off. You let him take over.
Peter’s grip in your hair shifted from guiding to outright using. He held you down and started fucking up into your throat in short, filthy thrusts—shallow at first, then deeper, using your mouth like it belonged to him. The wet, choked sounds you made every time he bottomed out were obscene. Your eyes watered freely. Your mascara was a complete disaster. Spit and precome ran down your chin in shiny strings and dripped onto the floor between your knees.
“That’s it,” he growled, voice wrecked and cocky even as his rhythm got more frantic. “Take it. Take every fucking inch. You’re gonna swallow all of it, aren’t you? Gonna let me pump this throat full.” His hips snapped up harder. “Fuck, you feel perfect. Best throat I’ve ever fucked. Knew you’d be this good the second you dropped to your knees.”
You didn’t care anymore. The constant stream of filthy praise and arrogance only made you wetter. You kept your hands braced on his thighs and let him use you, throat fluttering and convulsing around every thrust. When he pushed especially deep a broken gag tore out of you, wet and helpless, and Peter groaned like the sound alone was going to finish him.
“Gonna come,” he warned, voice low and strained. “Gonna come right down this pretty throat. Stay open for me—fuck—just like that. Don’t you dare pull off.”
His rhythm stuttered. His cock swelled even thicker against your tongue. The hand in your hair locked you in place as his hips snapped up one last time and stayed there, buried to the hilt.
Peter came hard.
Hot, thick pulses flooded your throat in heavy spurts. You swallowed instinctively around him, the muscles working to take every drop while he kept you pinned. More came—another strong pulse, then another—until your throat felt coated and warm and full. Some of it still managed to spill past the tight seal of your lips, mixing with the spit already dripping down his shaft. His thighs shook violently under your hands. A low, punched-out groan tore out of him as the last weaker pulses spilled across your tongue.
He held you there through every second of it, hips pressed tight to your face, cock still twitching in the back of your throat while he rode it out.
When he finally loosened his grip you pulled off slowly, gasping, a thick string of come and spit connecting your swollen lips to the head of his cock. Your voice was completely destroyed. Your chin and chest were a mess. Tears and mascara streaked your cheeks.
Peter looked down at you like he’d just found religion and lost it in the same breath—eyes dark, chest heaving, cock softening against his stomach.
“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, thumb dragging through the mess on your bottom lip. “You really just let me do that.”
You stayed on your knees for a few more seconds, just long enough to watch Peter’s chest rise and fall like he’d run a marathon. His eyes were hazy. His mouth hung open just a little. For once, the constant stream of cocky commentary had been fucked right out of him.
You wiped the back of your hand across your mouth, smearing the mess of spit and come, and stood up on slightly unsteady legs.
Peter’s gaze tracked you slowly, like his brain was still buffering.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he rasped.
You didn’t answer. You smoothed the bottom of your dress once, then turned and walked out of his room without another word.
The bathroom was right across the hall. You flicked the light on, locked the door, and finally looked at yourself in the mirror.
Mascara streaked down your cheeks. Your lips were swollen and shiny. You looked thoroughly used and completely unbothered about it. You turned on the faucet, wet a clean washcloth, and methodically wiped your face clean—chin, cheeks, the corner of your mouth. You fixed your smudged liner as best you could, smoothed your dress back into place, and stepped back out into the quiet apartment.
Peter was still on the bed when you passed his open doorway. He’d managed to shove himself up onto his elbows, sweatpants still tugged low. He looked wrecked and confused and a little pissed that you were no longer on your knees.
“Hey.” His voice was still rough. “What the fuck? You’re just leaving?”
You paused in the living room long enough to slip your heels back on and grab your keys from the counter.
“Yep.”
Peter pushed himself fully upright, running a hand through his messy hair. “You can’t be serious. You just—come back here.”
You glanced over your shoulder, one hand already on the front door. The necklace sat cool and perfect against your collarbone. Your voice came out light, almost sweet.
“Bye, Peter.”
You opened the door, stepped into the empty hallway, and let it click shut behind you before he could get another word out.
The silence of the dorm building swallowed the sound of your heels as you walked toward the stairwell, the faint taste of him still lingering on your tongue and a small, private smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
spiderman will return in "my spidey senses are tingling pt 2"
summary: you had long accepted that eddie was just a part of your family now. your parents loved him. your brother loved him. you pretended you didnt love him.
warnings/tags: dead dove ish?, dubcon, oral (m receiving), unprotected sex, outdoor sex, jealous possessive! eddie, drunk sex, dirty talk, spanking, claiming, brat tamer! eddie, reader is 21 eddies like 28ish
masterlist // join the taglist
The van smelled like old weed, motor oil, and the faint ghost of every summer you’d ever spent in it.
Eddie slammed the back doors shut with a metallic thunk that echoed across the driveway, then turned to look at you over the roof, one eyebrow already arched like he was preparing for combat.
“You bring the good snacks or the sad ones?” he asked.
You hiked the strap of your duffel higher on your shoulder. “I brought what I always bring. You’re the one who always steals them.”
“I don’t steal. I redistribute. Big difference.” He pointed a long finger at you. “And if those are the weird sour-cream-and-onion pretzels again, I’m leaving you on the side of the highway.”
“You threaten that every year.”
“And one day I’ll mean it.”
"Fuck off Munson."
"Make me."
Your older brother just laughed from the passenger seat, already half-reclined with his boots on the dash like the years hadn’t changed a damn thing. The three of you had done this dance since you were kids—your parents driving the family car, Eddie’s van trailing behind loaded with tents and coolers and that ridiculous boombox he refused to retire. Your brother and Eddie had moved out to Chicago last year and missed the trip. This year the parents had finally waved the white flag. We’re too old for this, they’d said. You three can keep the tradition if you want.
So here you were.
Four hours of highway, two gas-station pit stops, and one argument about whether Dio or Iron Maiden was the superior soundtrack later, the van rattled off the paved road onto the familiar dirt track that led into the state park. The trees closed in overhead, filtering the late-afternoon light into green-gold shafts. You felt the same low thrum in your chest you’d always felt when the campground came into view—half nostalgia, half something sharper that had only started humming under your skin three years ago.
Eddie killed the engine. Silence rushed in, broken only by the tick of cooling metal and the distant cry of a hawk.
He twisted in the driver’s seat to look at you in the back. His hair was longer than last summer, curls escaping the bandana he’d tied around his head. A thin silver chain glinted at his throat. He still looked like trouble. He still looked like the boy who’d once dared you to eat a raw cricket and then laughed until he cried when you actually did it.
“Home sweet temporary home,” he said, voice low. “You gonna help set up or are you gonna stand there looking at me like I owe you money?”
You shoved the side door open harder than necessary. “You do owe me money, idiot.”
“Oh don't worry. I'll pay you back— with interest.”
Your brother was already out and stretching, cracking his back with a groan. “You two are exhausting. I’m grabbing the cooler before one of you starts the inevitable screaming match.”
Eddie hopped out after him, landing lightly despite the height. He caught your eye across the open doors as you both reached for the same folded tarp. His fingers brushed yours. Neither of you pulled away immediately.
The air between you felt charged the way it always did now—like static before a storm, like the second before someone said something they couldn’t take back. You’d spent years pretending the dislike was pure. It was easier that way. Easier than admitting that every time he smirked at you or called you by that stupid nickname he’d invented when you were fourteen, something low and hot twisted in your stomach.
Eddie tilted his head, studying you the way he studied guitar tabs—slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing something he already knew by heart.
“You're quieter,” he said.
“You're louder.”
“Fair.” He tugged the tarp free and slung it over one shoulder. “C’mon. Sun’s gonna drop soon. Last thing I need is you bitching at me in the dark because we can’t find the tent poles.”
You followed him into the clearing you’d claimed for years, boots crunching over pine needles. Your brother was already staking out the flatter ground near the fire ring, whistling off-key. Eddie dropped the tarp and started unfolding the bigger tent with the easy efficiency of someone who’d done this a hundred times. You worked opposite him, feeding poles through sleeves, the familiar rhythm settling between you even as the unfamiliar tension hummed underneath.
Every so often your hands would meet again—passing a stake, smoothing a corner of fabric—and you’d both pause for half a second too long before pretending it hadn’t happened.
The sky was turning the color of bruised peaches by the time the tents were up and the cooler was cracked open. Your brother claimed the smaller tent without argument, already disappearing inside with a book and a beer. That left the bigger one for you and Eddie. Funny how life works out.
Eddie stood at the open flap, looking in at the two sleeping bags rolled side by side, then glanced over his shoulder at you. The fading light caught on the rings stacked on his fingers.
“You still snore?” he asked.
“You still talk in your sleep?”
A slow, crooked grin spread across his face. “Guess we’ll find out.”
He ducked inside without waiting for an answer, and the undercurrent between you pulsed once—hot, quiet, and very much awake.
The tent was dark and warm, the kind of close heat that only came from two bodies breathing the same recycled air. You’d fallen asleep facing the wall, sleeping bag zipped to your chin, determined to ignore the fact that Eddie was only a few feet away on the other side of the nylon floor.
Sometime past midnight you woke to the soft, rough sound of his voice.
Low. Thick with sleep. Your name. Almost a whisper.
“…not supposed to look at you like that… fuck… you're… goddamn…”
Your eyes snapped open. The words dissolved into an unintelligible mumble, then silence. You held perfectly still, heart thudding against your ribs, waiting to see if he’d say anything else. He didn’t. Just a quiet shift of fabric as he rolled over.
You stared at the dark ceiling for a long time after that, pulse still elevated, before forcing your eyes shut again and pretending you hadn’t heard a thing.
Morning came too bright and too early.
Your brother was already up and making noise outside, clattering the little propane stove. Eddie emerged from the tent looking like he’d lost a fight with his own hair, bandana shoved in his back pocket, last night’s black T-shirt wrinkled and riding up just enough to flash a strip of pale stomach when he stretched. He caught you looking and immediately smirked.
“Morning, princess. Sleep okay or did the spooky forest keep you up?”
You shoved past him toward the cooler. “Your talking kept me up.”
“I— I was talking last night?” Eddie looked like he'd seen a ghost— the color draining from his already pale face.
"Mhm. Big talk last night Munson."
"Unconscious me is not the same person as conscious me."
"Keep telling yourself that."
Your brother popped out of his tent looking just as rough as Eddie. "What'd he say this time?"
"This time?"
"Nothing. Fuck you guys— let's go do something."
The day unfolded the way these days always did with the three of you—sunlight, river, the easy rhythm of people who’d known each other too long. Kayaking came first. The three of you dragged the rented boats down to the water, your brother claiming the single and leaving you and Eddie to share the double. Of course.
Eddie took the back seat without asking, which meant he controlled the rudder and got the better view of everything in front of him. Including you.
“Try not to tip us,” he called as you pushed off. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
“Your reputation is already trash.”
“Rude. Chicago doesn't know my Hawkins reputation so… I'm like recycled trash now.”
"They should be warned."
The river was slow and glassy, edged with overhanging branches that scraped soft green fingers across the surface. You paddled in sync more out of muscle memory than cooperation, the kayak cutting clean lines through the current. Every so often Eddie would dig his paddle in harder on one side just to make the boat rock, laughing under his breath when you twisted around to glare at him. Water droplets clung to the dark curls escaping his bandana. His arms flexed with every stroke, veins standing out along the insides of his forearms. You hated that you noticed.
At one point he leaned forward, voice dropping so your brother—paddling ahead—couldn’t hear.
“You still do that thing where you bite your lip when you’re concentrating?”
You didn’t answer. Just paddled harder.
His quiet chuckle followed you down the river.
Softball happened in the open field near the campground after lunch. Your brother and Eddie claimed folding chairs and a cooler full of cheap beer like it was their sacred duty, while you ended up on a pickup team with a bunch of other campers. Eddie watched the entire time with the lazy intensity of a cat watching a bird. Every time you connected with the ball he’d holler something deliberately embarrassing—“That’s my girl!” or “Show ‘em how it’s done!”—loud enough that half the field turned to look. Your brother just shook his head and kept drinking.
By the time the game wrapped, the sun was sliding toward the treeline and the air had that golden, late-summer weight to it. People were already drifting toward the rec center at the far end of the campground. Strings of lights were being tested. A DJ was doing sound check.
You wiped sweat from your forehead with the hem of your shirt and found Eddie watching you again, beer bottle dangling from loose fingers.
“You gonna clean up for the dance or just show up looking like you lost a fight with a river?” he asked.
“You planning on actually dancing or just leaning against a post looking pretentious all night?”
He tipped the bottle toward you in a mock toast. “Depends. You planning on asking me?”
The words landed heavier than the teasing tone suggested. For a second neither of you looked away. The undercurrent that had been humming all day—ever since you’d woken up to the sound of your name in his sleeping mouth—tightened into something almost tangible.
Your brother clapped Eddie on the shoulder hard enough to make him sway. “If you two are done with the foreplay, I’m starving. Rec center’s got those shitty hot dogs and I want at least four before the music starts.”
Eddie finally broke the stare, flashing that crooked, dangerous grin.
“Yeah,” he said, eyes still half on you. “Wouldn’t want to miss the main event.”
The three of you headed back toward the tents to change as the first real notes of music drifted through the trees. The night was just getting started.
You changed in the tent with the flap zipped tight, the skimpy little dress clinging to your skin the second you pulled it over the bathing suit. The material was thin and soft, the kind that moved when you did, neckline low enough to make the heat feel intentional. Practical, you told yourself. If the night went the way these nights sometimes did—too many drinks, someone daring someone else—you could strip the dress and hit the water without a second thought. You’d done it before.
When you stepped out, the campground lights were already glowing through the trees.
Eddie was leaning against the side of the van with a fresh beer, one boot kicked up behind him. He took a long drink, eyes tracking you from the moment the tent flap opened. He didn’t even try to hide it. The look dragged slow—over the bare stretch of your thighs, the way the dress sat on your hips, the line of your collarbones—before he finally dragged his gaze up to your face and smirked like he’d caught you doing something illegal.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, voice low. “You trying to start a riot or just ruin my night?”
Your brother snorted from where he was tying his shoes on the picnic table. “She always looks like that. You’re just dramatic.”
Eddie didn’t look away from you. “I’m observant. There’s a difference.” He pushed off the van and circled you once, slow, like he was inspecting merchandise. "You’re gonna make the soccer moms clutch their pearls.”
“You’re one to talk,” you shot back, adjusting the thin strap on your shoulder. “You look like you got dressed in a thrift store during a blackout.”
He grinned, all teeth. “And yet here you are, still looking.”
Your brother stood, clapping his hands together like the world’s most oblivious referee. “Alright, children. Rec center. Hot dogs. Bad music. Try not to kill each other before we get there.” He was already walking, completely missing the way Eddie’s eyes kept dropping to your mouth, your legs, the place where the dress ended.
The three of you cut through the trees toward the glow of the gazebo. Strings of bulb lights crisscrossed overhead, casting everything in warm gold. A DJ booth had been set up under the roof, speakers already thumping something upbeat and slightly too loud. Picnic tables had been pushed aside to make a dance floor, and the bar was stocked with drinks. The smell of grilled hotdogs and firewood permeated the air.
Eddie kept pace beside you, still talking.
“I’m just saying, if you trip in those shoes I’m not carrying you. I’ll point and laugh. Publicly.”
“You’ve carried me before.”
“That was different. You were twelve and had a scraped knee. Now you’re—” He gestured vaguely at all of you, words failing him for half a second. “Anyway. Don’t expect chivalry.”
Your brother laughed, already peeling off toward the bar. “He’s so full of shit. He once carried a drunk girl two miles because she lost a shoe. Remember that, Eds?”
“I remember you never shutting up about it,” Eddie muttered, but his eyes were still on you.
You reached the bar first. Ordered something with a fancy fruity name, and took a long swallow. The burn settled low in your stomach. Perfect.
Eddie opened his mouth—probably to say something else annoying, something that would sound like an insult and land like a touch—but you were already turning away.
“I’m dancing,” you said over your shoulder. “Try not to miss me too hard.”
You didn’t wait for an answer. Just slipped into the growing crowd under the lights, drink in hand, the skimpy dress brushing against your thighs with every step. Behind you, you could feel the weight of his stare like a hand on the back of your neck.
Your brother was already laughing about something. Eddie wasn’t saying a word.
You danced alone at first, letting the music pull you under the string lights. The beat was heavy enough to feel in your ribs, the kind of song that made hips move without permission. Your drink was already half gone. The skimpy dress clung and shifted with every turn, the bathing suit underneath a thin secret against your skin. People watched. You didn’t care.
Then a pair of hands settled lightly at your waist.
You glanced back. Tall. Broad shoulders. Easy smile. Dark hair falling into his eyes. Attractive in that clean, summer-camp way—nothing like the chaos you were used to. He didn’t ask. Just matched your rhythm, body slotting in behind yours like he’d been waiting for the invitation.
You let him.
It started casual. Then it wasn’t.
His hands slid lower, fingers spreading over your hips, guiding you back against him. You rolled with it, spine arching, the thin fabric of the dress the only thing between his chest and your back. The music thumped louder. Someone whooped nearby. His breath brushed the shell of your ear when he leaned in, and you tipped your head just enough to give him more space. Your bodies moved together—slow, dirty, deliberate. Thighs brushing. Ass grinding back against the hard line of him. Every shift of your hips made the hem of the dress ride a little higher.
Across the open floor, past the shifting bodies and the glow of the lights, Eddie stood frozen near the bar.
Your brother was already three drinks past functional, leaning heavily against the table and laughing at nothing, plastic cup waving in the air as he tried to tell a story to some poor stranger who kept nodding politely. He hadn’t even noticed you yet.
Eddie had.
His jaw was locked so tight the muscle jumped under the skin. One hand crushed the neck of his beer bottle; the other was shoved deep in the pocket of his jeans like he needed to keep it contained. He watched the stranger’s hands on your waist, watched the way you moved against him, watched the flush climbing your throat. His eyes were dark, almost black under the string lights, and the easy, mocking expression he usually wore had been scraped clean off his face.
He looked like he wanted to put his fist through something. Or someone.
You caught the stare over the random guy’s shoulder and held it for a second too long—just long enough to see the pure, boiling jealousy flash across Eddie’s features before you turned back into the dance. The stranger’s hand slid higher under the side of your dress, fingertips grazing the edge of your bathing suit bottoms, and you didn’t stop him.
Eddie’s bottle hit the bar top hard enough that your brother finally glanced over, still grinning drunk and clueless.
“Dude, you good?”
Eddie didn’t answer. He just kept staring at you like he was two seconds from crossing the floor and starting a fight.
Your brother swayed hard enough that he had to plant a hand on the nearest picnic table to stay upright.
“I’m done,” he announced, voice thick and cheerful. “Gonna pass out before I embarrass myself more. You two… don’t kill each other.” He pointed vaguely between you and Eddie, already turning toward the path that led back to the tents. “Love you, mean it, goodnight.”
Eddie moved before you could answer.
His hand locked around your upper arm—hard, fingers digging in just shy of bruising—and he yanked you away from the stranger mid-song. The guy made a confused noise, but Eddie didn’t even glance at him. He was already hauling you across the grass after your brother, jaw tight, boots loud against the packed dirt.
“Let go—”
“Shut up and walk,” he bit out.
You twisted in his grip. “Eddie—”
“Your brother’s hammered. We’re making sure he doesn’t face-plant in a ditch. Move.”
The walk back was silent except for your brother’s off-key humming and the occasional stumble that made Eddie’s grip on you tighten even more. By the time the tents came into view, your arm was throbbing under his fingers. Your brother crawled into the smaller tent without protest, mumbled something about breakfast, and was snoring within minutes.
The second the zipper closed, Eddie’s hand slid from your arm to your wrist. He didn’t let go. Instead he turned and started walking—fast, purposeful—toward the river path instead of the tent you were supposed to share.
“Where the hell are you—”
“Quiet.”
You dug your heels in. “Eddie, what the fuck is your problem?”
He spun on you so fast you nearly collided with his chest. Up close his eyes were wild, the jealousy still burning hot behind them. “My problem? My problem is watching some random asshole put his hands all over you like he had the right. My problem is you letting him.”
“I can dance with whoever I want—”
“Get in the kayak.”
You blinked. He’d already dragged one of the rental doubles halfway into the water, the plastic hull scraping against the pebbles. The river stretched black and quiet under the moonlight, the current lapping against the bank.
“Are you insane? It’s the middle of the night—”
“Get. In.”
You should have said no. You should have turned around, walked back to the tent, zipped yourself in and pretended none of this was happening. But the anger rolling off him was magnetic, thick enough to taste, and the curiosity that had been coiling low in your stomach all day flared hot. You’d never been good at smart decisions where Eddie Munson was concerned.
You stepped into the kayak.
He pushed off hard, climbing in behind you in one smooth motion, paddle already in his hands. The boat rocked once, then settled as the current caught it. Trees closed in on either side, blocking out the last of the campground lights. The only sound left was the soft dip of the paddle and Eddie’s heavy breathing at your back.
He didn’t speak again until the music and the lights were far behind you.
When he finally did, his voice was low and rough and right against your ear.
“You and me are gonna have a conversation. And you’re not getting out of this boat until I say so.”
The paddle cut through the black water in hard, angry strokes. You could feel every one of them in the way the kayak jerked forward.
“You’re being a fucking child,” you snapped over your shoulder, arms crossed tight under your chest. The dress stuck to your skin in the humid night air. “Dragging me out here like some jealous boyfriend when you’re not even—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.” Eddie’s voice was low and sharp. “You don’t get to decide what I am right now.”
“Oh my God.” You twisted further, nearly tipping the boat. “You don’t get to manhandle me in front of half the campground because some guy danced with me. I can do whatever I want.”
“You were grinding on him.”
“So?”
“So I wanted to break his fucking hands.”
The words hung there, raw and honest. You faced forward again, jaw clenched, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction even as something hot twisted low in your stomach. The river narrowed. Trees leaned in closer on both sides, their branches forming a dark tunnel overhead. The current slowed. Up ahead the water opened into a small, secluded pool half-hidden by a curve of rock and thick underbrush—a private little grotto the three of you had found years ago and somehow never told anyone else about.
Eddie drove the kayak onto the muddy bank hard enough that the hull scraped loud in the quiet. He was out first, boots splashing, then turning to offer a hand you deliberately ignored. You climbed out on your own, nearly slipping, and stalked over to the old fallen log that had served as a bench for years. The wood was cool and damp under your thighs when you sat, arms still crossed, staring hard at the dark water instead of him.
Eddie dragged the kayak further up so it wouldn’t float away, then planted himself directly in front of you. Close. Blocking the moonlight.
“Look at me.”
You didn’t.
“I said look at me.”
You tipped your head back just enough to give him the most unimpressed stare you could manage. “What, Eddie? You dragged me all the way out here to lecture me about dancing? Congratulations. Message received. Can we go back now?”
His hands flexed at his sides. “You’re being a fucking brat.”
“And you’re being a controlling asshole. We’re even.”
He let out a short, disbelieving laugh that had zero humor in it. “You let him put his hands under your dress.”
“Barely.”
“I watched him.”
“Then maybe you should’ve danced with me instead of standing there looking at me like you had some moronic invisible claim over me.”
That landed. His eyes flashed. He took one step closer so his boots nearly touched yours, looming over where you sat on the log. The air between you felt thick, charged, like the second before lightning.
“You want me to dance with you?” he asked, voice dropping into something quieter and more dangerous. “That what this is about?”
You rolled your eyes and looked away again, pure brat, even as your pulse hammered in your throat. “I want you to stop acting like you own me when you don’t. That’s what this is about.”
Eddie exhaled hard through his nose. He didn’t move back. If anything he leaned in another inch, the scent of beer and sweat and the metal of his jewelry filling the small space between you.
“Keep pushing, sweetheart,” he murmured. “See what happens.”
You stood up from the log like he hadn’t just threatened you, like the air between you wasn’t thick enough to choke on.
“I’m swimming back,” you said flatly, already reaching for the hem of the dress. “You can sit here and be pissed by yourself.”
The thin fabric peeled up and over your head in one motion. You balled it up and tossed it into the kayak without looking, left standing in nothing but the little bikini you’d worn underneath. The night air kissed every newly bare inch of skin. You took one step toward the water.
Eddie moved faster.
“No the fuck you’re not.”
His hand shot out and caught you by the upper arm again—harder this time, fingers digging in as he yanked you back against him. The motion was rough, careless with anger, and his studded bracelet snagged the loose string at the back of your neck. The bow came undone with a soft, final slip. The triangle cups of the top fell forward instantly, baring your tits to the cool air and to him.
Everything stopped.
Eddie’s breath left him in a punched-out sound. His eyes dropped and stayed there, locked on the soft weight of your breasts, the tight peaks of your nipples already tightening under the sudden exposure and the heat of his stare. For one suspended second he just looked—hungry, furious, wrecked—before the last of his restraint snapped clean in half.
He hauled you fully against him and crushed his mouth to yours.
The kiss was all teeth and heat and years of denial. His tongue shoved past your lips like he was trying to punish you with it, one hand fisting in your hair to tilt your head exactly where he wanted while the other arm banded tight around your waist, pinning your bare chest to the front of his shirt. You could feel the metal of his rings cold against your spine, the hard line of his cock already pressing against your stomach through his jeans. He kissed like he hated how much he wanted it—deep, messy, wet—nipping at your bottom lip hard enough to sting before sucking it into his mouth.
“Fucking knew it,” he growled against your lips between kisses, voice wrecked. “Knew you’d taste like this. Knew you’d be this soft. Goddamn tease—”
His hand left your hair only long enough to shove the ruined bikini top the rest of the way off your arms, then he was back, palm dragging up your side to cup one bare breast, thumb scraping roughly over the nipple. The sound he made when you arched into the touch was pure filth, low and broken.
He walked you backward until your calves hit the log again, never breaking the kiss, never letting more than an inch of space exist between your bodies. When he finally tore his mouth away it was only to drag it down your jaw, teeth scraping the sensitive skin beneath your ear as he spoke right against it.
“You let that asshole put his hands on what’s been driving me crazy for three fucking years. You’re lucky I didn’t bend you over the bar right there.” His fingers pinched your nipple, sharp enough to make you gasp. “Still might bend you over. Keep being a brat and find out.”
You shoved at his chest even as your back hit the log again, still trying to keep the upper hand.
“Get off me—”
Eddie only laughed, low and mean, and used the grip he already had on you to force you down. One hard push at your shoulders and your knees hit the damp earth with a soft thud. He stepped in close, boots bracketing your thighs, and the sound of his belt buckle coming undone was obscenely loud in the quiet grotto. Zipper next. Then he shoved his jeans and boxers just low enough to free his cock.
It was already hard, thick, the head flushed dark and shining at the tip. He wrapped one hand around the base and tapped the heavy weight of it against your cheek, smearing a streak of precum across your skin.
“Open.”
You tipped your chin up and gave him the most venomous look you could manage from your knees. “I swear to God if you shove that in my mouth I’m biting it off.”
Eddie’s eyes flashed. His free hand tangled in your hair and yanked your head back just enough to make your scalp sting. “Do it. See what happens when you try.”
He didn’t wait for another threat. The blunt head of his cock dragged across your lips once, twice, then he pushed forward. You opened on a sharp inhale—half protest, half something hungier—and he slid over your tongue in one long, relentless stroke until the head bumped the back of your throat.
“Fuck—there it is,” he groaned, both hands now fisted in your hair. “Knew that smart mouth would feel perfect wrapped around me.”
He didn’t ease in. He fucked your throat like he’d been thinking about it for years—short, punishing thrusts that made wet, filthy sounds every time he bottomed out. Spit slicked down your chin. Your eyes watered. Every time you tried to pull back even an inch he held you tighter and pushed deeper, hips rolling with zero patience.
“Look at you,” he panted, staring down with dark, glassy eyes. “On your knees in the dirt for me after all that attitude. Letting some random fucker put his hands on you and now you’re choking on my cock like a good little slut. That what you needed? Someone to shut you up properly?”
You glared up at him through wet lashes, still trying to be defiant even with your lips stretched wide around him. The threat of your teeth was still there; he felt it, and it only made him groan louder and thrust harder.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” he warned, voice rough. “You bite me and I’ll bend you over that log and spank your ass red before I fuck you. Try me. Please. I’ve been dying to.”
His hips snapped forward again, burying every inch. The wet heat of your mouth, the way your throat fluttered around him, the bratty fire still burning in your eyes—it all pulled a broken, filthy stream of words out of him as he used your mouth without mercy.
“God, you’re soaking the front of those little bottoms already, aren’t you? I can smell how wet you are from here. Fucking hate how bad I want you. Hate that I’ve jerked off thinking about this exact view for three goddamn years. Take it. Take every inch like the mouthy little bitch you are.”
Eddie’s rhythm turned short and brutal, hips snapping forward with no more pretense of control. His fingers tightened hard in your hair as the first pulse of his orgasm hit, thick and hot, flooding your tongue and the back of your throat.
“Fuck—swallow it—take it—”
You didn’t.
The second he started to pull back you dragged your teeth along the sensitive underside of his cock—not hard enough to break skin, but sharp enough to make him hiss and jerk. Then you shoved him the rest of the way out with your tongue and spit.
Everything he’d just pumped into your mouth landed wet and messy across the front of his jeans and the base of his still-twitching cock. A long, shiny strand connected your bottom lip to him for a second before it broke. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and looked up at him, eyes pure challenge.
“Oops.”
The sound Eddie made was almost a snarl.
He hauled you up by the hair and the arm so fast your knees left the ground. In two strides he was sitting on the log and you were face-down across his lap, the rough denim of his jeans scraping your bare stomach and the soft insides of your thighs. One of his hands pinned both of your wrists at the small of your back; the other yanked the soaking bikini bottoms down to mid-thigh, baring your ass completely to the night air.
“You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” His voice was low, shaking with leftover pleasure and fresh fury. “Had to push. Had to spit my come all over me like a spoiled little brat who wants to get punished.”
The first slap cracked across your right cheek hard enough to make the sound echo off the water. The sting bloomed hot and immediate. You jerked, but his grip on your wrists only tightened.
“Count.”
You stayed silent on pure principle.
The second slap landed harder, lower, catching the sensitive crease where ass met thigh. Your breath punched out of you.
“I said count, sweetheart.”
“One,” you forced out through gritted teeth, still trying to sound defiant even as heat flooded between your legs.
“Good girl.” Another sharp crack. “That’s two. You’re gonna feel every single one of these when I finally fuck you. Going to remind you what happens when you act like you don’t belong to me.”
His palm came down again and again—steady, deliberate, spreading the burn across both cheeks until the skin felt swollen and throbbing. Between strikes he dragged his fingers through the mess of slick already coating your inner thighs, collecting it and smearing it higher, teasing your entrance without giving you anything.
“Look at this,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Dripping down my leg already. You did this on purpose. Wanted me to lose it. Wanted me to bend you over and make it hurt.”
Another slap, harder than the ones before. You couldn’t stop the broken sound that left your throat.
Eddie leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear while his hand soothed roughly over the hot, stinging skin he’d just punished.
“We’re not even close to done. You’re going to take everything I give you tonight. And you’re going to say thank you when I’m finished. You're mine now. Thought I didn't notice your little crush on me? Made it fuckin' obvious you brat.”
You twisted against the iron grip he still had on your wrists, cheek pressed to the rough bark of the log, ass burning. The words came out sharp and breathless.
“I don’t belong to you.”
Eddie’s hand stilled for half a second on the hot skin of your cheek.
“You’re just my brother’s annoying best friend. That’s all you’ve ever been. Some loud, chaotic asshole who made fun of me for years. Why the fuck do you think you get to act like you have some claim?”
He didn’t answer with words at first.
Two fingers slid between your thighs from behind, parting the slick folds of your pussy with zero warning. You were soaked—embarrassingly, shamelessly wet—and the sound his fingers made dragging through it was filthy in the quiet. He stroked slow, deliberate, gathering your wetness and spreading it up to circle your clit without ever giving you real pressure.
“You want to know why?” His voice was low, almost conversational, even as his fingers kept teasing—gliding, pressing, never quite pushing inside. “Because I’ve watched you grow up into the exact kind of trouble I can’t stay away from. Because every time I saw you, you got louder and meaner and hotter and I had to sit there pretending I didn’t want to bend you over the nearest flat surface.”
He finally pushed one finger into you, just to the first knuckle, then pulled it back out to smear more slick over your clit. Your hips jerked despite yourself.
“Because three years ago you turned eighteen and started looking at me like you wanted me to ruin you, and I started jerking off to the idea of it every single night. Because I hate how bad I want you. Hate that some random guy got to put his hands on you tonight while I stood there hard and furious. Hate that you’re still trying to pretend this—” he pushed two fingers into you in one smooth stroke, curling them just right, “—isn’t already mine.”
He fucked the fingers into you slow and deep while he talked, the wet sounds loud between every sentence. His thumb stayed on your clit, rubbing tight, mean circles that made your thighs shake.
“You’re my best friend’s little sister. You’re a fucking brat. You’re the last person I should want. And I still can’t stop. So yeah—I think I get to claim you. Because the second you opened that smart mouth for my cock you stopped being just his sister. You became mine to punish. Mine to tease. Mine to fuck until you stop lying about how much you want it.”
He scissored his fingers inside you, stretching, then curled them hard against that spot that made your whole body jolt.
“Keep telling yourself I’m just the annoying best friend. I’ll keep proving you wrong with every dripping inch of this pussy.”
“Fuck you.”
The words came out rough and breathless, half muffled against the bark.
Eddie laughed—low, dark, delighted.
“Already planning on it, sweetheart. Thanks for the invitation.”
He hauled you up off his lap like you weighed nothing. One second you were face-down across his thighs; the next he had you bent over the log proper, chest and cheek pressed to the cool wood, ass in the air, bikini bottoms still tangled around one thigh. He kicked your feet wider with his boot, shoved his jeans lower, and notched the thick head of his cock against your soaked entrance.
No more teasing.
He slammed in to the hilt in one brutal thrust.
The stretch burned—perfect, overwhelming—and the sound that tore out of you was pure punched-out need. Eddie groaned like he’d been stabbed, hands clamping hard on your hips hard enough to bruise.
“Jesus—fuck— so goddamn tight.” He pulled almost all the way out and drove back in harder. “This what you needed? My cock splitting you open after you spent all night acting like you didn’t want it?”
He set a relentless pace immediately, hips snapping forward with wet, filthy slaps that echoed off the water. Every thrust shoved you further up the log; every retreat left you clenching around nothing for half a second before he filled you again. His rings dug into the soft flesh of your hips. The metal of his belt buckle slapped against the back of your thigh with every stroke.
“Look at you taking it,” he snarled, one hand sliding up your spine to fist in your hair and yank your head back. “Bent over a log in the middle of nowhere, dripping down your thighs for your brother’s best friend. You hate me so fucking much, don’t you? Hate that I’m the one who gets to wreck this pussy.”
He changed the angle, folding over your back so his mouth was right at your ear, breath hot and ragged while he kept pounding into you.
“Feel how deep I am? That’s three years of wanting to shut you up just like this. Three years of watching you strut around in those little outfits, mouthing off, pretending the tension wasn’t eating us both alive. Now you’re stuffed full of me and still trying to act tough. Doesn’t work when you’re this wet, baby. Doesn’t work when your cunt keeps sucking me back in like it never wants me to leave.”
His free hand snaked around your hip and found your clit, rubbing tight, mean circles in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation made your knees buckle; only the log and his grip kept you upright.
“That’s it—take it. Take every fucking inch. Gonna fill this bratty little pussy up so full you feel me dripping out of you the whole ride back. Gonna make sure every time you sit down tomorrow you remember exactly who you belong to when you stop lying.”
He fucked you harder, faster, the wet sounds of your body taking him almost obscene. His voice never stopped—filthy, continuous, pouring into your ear while he used you like he’d been dying to for years.
“Fucking perfect. Fucking mine. Say it or don’t, I don’t care—your cunt already did.”
“I’m not—fuck—I’m not yours,” you managed between broken breaths, the words barely coherent with every brutal thrust still punching them out of you.
Eddie snarled and brought his open palm down hard across your already stinging ass.
“Say it.”
Another sharp slap. Then another. The wet sound of his hand meeting your skin mixed with the filthy slap of his hips.
“Say you’re mine.”
“No—”
He spanked you again, harder, the burn blooming white-hot just as he drove particularly deep. Your whole body clenched around him and he felt it—felt how close you were, how your cunt was starting to flutter and seize.
He pulled out completely.
The sudden emptiness made you cry out in pure frustrated rage, hips pushing back chasing him, empty and throbbing.
“What the fuck—”
“You don’t get to come yet.” Eddie’s voice was wrecked but steady, almost cruel with control. He stepped back just far enough to sit on the log, jeans still shoved down his thighs, cock slick and shining with your wetness, standing hard against his stomach. He looked at you like he had all the time in the world. “Not until I say. Not until I’m looking at your face while you fall apart on me.”
He patted his thigh once.
“Get over here and sit on it.”
You stayed where you were for a defiant second, chest heaving, ass burning, pussy aching and neglected. The refusal was still on your tongue.
Eddie raised an eyebrow, completely unimpressed by the brat act now.
“I wasn’t asking. Climb on my cock and ride it until you come. I want to watch every second of it. Want to see exactly what you look like when you finally stop pretending you hate this.”
He wrapped a hand around the base of himself and stroked once, slow, showing you how wet you’d left him.
“Now, sweetheart. Before I change my mind and leave you empty for the rest of the night.”
You glared at him for one more stubborn second, then gave in.
Climbing into his lap felt like surrender and you hated how much your body wanted it. You straddled his thighs, one hand on his shoulder for balance, and reached between you to line him up. The second the thick head of his cock nudged your entrance you sank down in one long, shaky slide until he was buried to the hilt again.
Eddie’s head tipped back on a deep, satisfied groan.
“There she is,” he murmured, hands settling on your waist like they’d always belonged there. “Knew you’d give in. Look at you—sitting on my cock like you were made for it after all that ‘I’m not yours’ bullshit.”
He didn’t give you time to adjust or to sass him. His boots dug into the dirt for leverage and he thrust up hard, burying himself even deeper from this new angle. The shift dragged the head of his cock directly across that perfect spot inside you and white sparks exploded behind your eyes. A broken, helpless sound tore out of your throat.
Eddie grinned like the devil.
“Ohhh. There it is.” He did it again—short, powerful upward snaps of his hips that punched the air out of your lungs every time. “Found the spot that makes the brat shut up, huh? Look at your face. You’re fucking melting.”
He kept the pace merciless, hands gripping your hips to pull you down to meet every thrust so you took him to the base again and again. The new angle was devastating. Every upward drive rubbed relentlessly against the place that made your thighs shake and your thoughts scatter. You tried to stay upright, tried to keep some scrap of defiance, but he could feel every flutter and clench of your cunt and he used it against you without mercy.
“That’s it—ride it. Use me. You’re soaking my jeans, dripping down my balls, and still trying to look pissed. Adorable.” His voice was pure smug heat. “You’re putty. Completely fucking ruined for anyone else after this. Gonna feel empty every time something that isn’t my cock tries to fill you.”
One hand slid up your spine and fisted in your hair, forcing your back to arch so he could watch your tits bounce with every hard thrust. His eyes were dark and triumphant, locked on your face, drinking in every broken expression he dragged out of you.
“Go on. Keep glaring at me while your cunt milks my cock like it never wants me to stop. I can do this all night. Can keep you right here, full and shaking, until you finally admit what we both already know.”
He thrust up particularly deep and ground against that spot until your vision went white at the edges.
“You’re mine when you’re on my cock, sweetheart. And right now you’re exactly where you belong.”
Eddie never slowed.
He kept driving up into you with that same punishing rhythm, the thick drag of his cock hitting that devastating spot over and over until your thighs trembled on either side of his hips. One hand left your waist and shoved between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen clit immediately. He rubbed tight, relentless circles—no teasing, no mercy—while the other hand slid up your chest and wrapped around your throat.
Not gentle.
His fingers flexed, cutting off just enough air to make every thrust feel sharper, deeper, more overwhelming. The pressure at your neck, the relentless friction on your clit, the heavy stretch of him filling you again and again—it all crashed together into something white-hot and unbearable.
“That’s it,” he growled, eyes locked on your face as your mouth fell open. “Take it princess."
Your body seized.
The orgasm ripped through you so hard your vision blanked. You clenched around him like a fist and then you were squirting—hot, uncontrollable pulses of wetness that soaked his cock, his jeans, his thighs. The sound was filthy, wet, unmistakable. You shook through it, choking on the air he allowed you, cunt spasming wildly around every deep thrust he kept forcing into you.
Eddie laughed, low and utterly wrecked with triumph.
“Holy shit—look at you. Fucking squirting all over me. Knew this bratty little cunt would make a mess the second I choked you properly.” He fucked you straight through it, never letting up, dragging the climax out until you were sobbing for breath and still clenching around him in helpless aftershocks. “So pretty when you come. So fucking loud. Everyone downriver probably heard what I do to you.”
His hand stayed on your throat, the other still working your oversensitive clit in mean little circles that made you jerk and whimper. He was close—you could feel it in the way his thrusts turned short and brutal, in the way his cock swelled even thicker inside you.
“Gonna fill you up,” he panted against your mouth, forehead pressed to yours. “Gonna pump you so full of me you’ll feel it leaking down your legs the whole way back to camp. Marking what’s mine. Every time you move tomorrow you’ll remember exactly who owned this pussy tonight.”
He slammed up one final time and came with a broken, guttural sound, burying himself to the hilt as he pulsed deep inside you. Hot, thick ropes of come flooded your cunt, overflowing around his cock with every residual throb. He kept you pinned there, hand still loosely around your throat, hips grinding in slow circles like he was trying to push it even deeper.
“Fuck… yes. Take it. Every drop.” His voice was pure satisfied filth. “That’s my come inside you now. No one else’s. Just mine.”
He didn’t pull out. Just stayed buried, breathing hard, thumb stroking almost absently over the side of your neck where his fingers had pressed while he watched your face with dark, cocky satisfaction.
Your legs barely held you when you pushed off his lap.
The second you stood, everything between your thighs felt swollen and oversensitive and wet—his come already starting to slip out of you and trickle down the inside of one leg. Your knees wobbled hard. You took one unsteady step and nearly pitched forward into the dirt.
Eddie caught you by the waist before you could fall, hauling you back against his chest with an arm banded tight around your middle.
“Get off me—”
“You’re gonna face-plant, genius—”
“I said get off.” You shoved at his arm until he let go, then spun on him, still half-naked, hair a mess, lips swollen, the evidence of everything he’d just done to you streaked down your thighs. The anger hit all at once, sharp and shaky and too big for the quiet little grotto.
“If you liked me for that long—three fucking years—why did it have to be like this?” Your voice cracked on the last word and you hated it. “Why couldn’t you just be normal about it? Talk to me like a person instead of acting like a jealous asshole and dragging me out here to—to punish me? You didn’t have to be mean. You didn’t have to be so fucking—”
Eddie stayed seated on the log, jeans still open, watching you with that same dark, unreadable expression. He didn’t look sorry. If anything he looked like he was fighting a smirk.
“You liked it.”
The simple, cocky certainty in his voice made your face burn hotter than the spanking had.
“I—yeah, but—” You stammered, caught between the truth and the residual fury still sparking under your skin. “That’s not the point, you dickhead. You didn’t have to do it like that. You could’ve just… said something. Instead of losing your shit and treating me like some toy you finally got to break.”
Eddie leaned forward, elbows on his knees, still looking up at you with that infuriating half-smile. A bead of sweat tracked down his temple. His voice came out quieter, but no less certain.
“You’re right. I could’ve been normal. Could’ve asked you out like a gentleman and taken you to dinner and held your hand.” He tilted his head. “But that’s not what either of us wanted, is it? You didn’t melt for polite. You melted when I was mean. When I made you take it. When I refused to let you keep pretending there was nothing here.”
He stood slowly, towering over you again, and reached out to tuck a tangled strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness.
“I was jealous. I was angry. And you came so hard you soaked me to the skin. So maybe stop yelling at me for giving you exactly what you’ve been begging for with every look and every smart-ass comment for three years.”
“Just take me back to camp.”
Eddie looked at you for a long second, then simply nodded.
You both dressed in silence—your dress pulled back on over the still-damp bikini, his jeans tugged up and zipped with a wince. The kayak rocked as you climbed in first, settling on the front seat without looking at him. He pushed off the bank and started paddling, the only sounds the soft drip of water from the blade and the distant chorus of frogs.
He didn’t speak.
Neither did you.
Halfway back the river widened again, the current slow and glassy under a sky packed with stars. The campground lights were still a distant glow around the next bend. Eddie lifted the paddle out of the water and let the kayak drift. The sudden quiet felt heavier than the arguing had.
You glanced over your shoulder. He was staring up at the sky, profile silvered by moonlight, curls messy from your hands. When he finally spoke his voice was quieter than you’d heard it all night.
“Were you really mad at me?”
The question sat between you, stripped of the earlier swagger and heat.
You turned back around, watching the dark water slide past. “Kinda.”
Eddie exhaled. The paddle rested across his thighs. For a while the only movement was the gentle rock of the boat.
“I tried being nice,” he said eventually. “More than once. You never looked at me twice.”
You stayed quiet, letting him talk.
“First time was the summer you turned eighteen. I asked if you wanted to come with me to the record store in town. You said you already had plans and walked off. Called me a jackass. Next year I tried again—offered you the aux cord on the drive up, told you to put on whatever you wanted. You handed it straight to your brother and put your headphones in.” His laugh was soft and self-deprecating. “Every summer I found some stupid little way to be less of an asshole around you. And every summer you treated me exactly the same. Annoying. Loud. Your brother’s best friend. Background noise.”
He dipped the paddle once to keep the boat from spinning, then let it rest again.
“So yeah. I stopped trying to be normal. Being mean at least made you look at me. Made you fight back. Made you feel something. Even if it was just wanting to punch me in the face.” The water lapped quietly against the hull. “Guess I figured if I couldn’t get you to like me the regular way, I’d take whatever version of your attention I could get.”
The stars above the treeline were absurdly bright. The night air smelled like wet earth and pine. Somewhere far behind you the rec center music still thumped faintly, a whole different world.
Eddie waited, paddle still, giving you the space to answer or not.
You stared at the dark water for a long time before the words finally came out.
“I’ve liked you forever.”
The admission felt huge in the quiet. Behind you, Eddie went completely still.
“I just… always thought you were only being nice because of my brother. Like it was some obligation. Keep the little sister from feeling left out so everything was easy. You were always around, always loud, always there, and every time you did something decent I told myself it didn’t mean anything. That you were just stuck with me.” You let out a short, disbelieving breath. “So I kept you at arm’s length on purpose. Acted like I couldn’t stand you so it wouldn’t hurt when I was right.”
The kayak drifted another few feet. A soft breeze moved through the trees on the bank.
Eddie set the paddle down across the hull with a quiet clatter.
“Jesus Christ.”
You risked a glance over your shoulder. He was staring at you like you’d just rewritten the last several years of his life in one sentence. The cocky mask was gone. What was left looked almost young.
“You’ve liked me,” he repeated, slow, testing the words. “This whole time.”
“Yeah.”
“And I thought you couldn’t stand me.”
“I wanted to not stand you.”
Eddie dragged both hands down his face and let out a laugh that was half groan. “We’re idiots.”
“Complete idiots,” you agreed.
“I spent years being an asshole on purpose because I thought it was the only way you’d notice me, and you spent the same years freezing me out because you thought I was only nice out of pity.” He shook his head, curls bouncing. “Do you understand how stupid that is? We could’ve been doing this—” he gestured vaguely between the two of you, at the kayak, the river, the lingering ache between your legs, “—years ago.”
You turned fully on the seat so you could face him. The boat rocked. Moonlight caught the silver of his rings and the still-flushed look on his face.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “We really could’ve.”
Eddie held your gaze for a long moment. The anger and the heat from earlier were still there under the surface, but something softer sat on top of them now—wonder, maybe. Relief. A little bit of awe.
He picked the paddle back up, but he didn’t start rowing yet.
“For the record,” he said, voice low, “it was never because of your brother. Not once.”
The night felt different after that. Quieter. Fuller. The stars overhead seemed closer somehow, and the water carried you both forward without either of you needing to fill the silence right away.
The kayak scraped onto the shore near the campground docks. Eddie hopped out first and offered a hand; this time you took it. Your legs still felt a little unsteady, and the evidence of everything that had happened at the grotto was a secret, sticky reminder with every step.
The walk back through the trees started quiet, then cracked open into something lighter.
You bumped his shoulder with yours. “You’re still an asshole, for the record.”
“Yeah, but I’m your asshole now. Big promotion.”
You snorted. “Don’t push it.”
Eddie grinned sideways at you, the same crooked, troublemaking smile he’d worn for years, only now it landed differently. “I’m just saying. For someone who spent the whole night insisting she didn’t belong to me, you came awfully hard when I treated you like you did.”
“Shut up.”
“Made a mess all over me and everything. Very convincing ‘I hate you’ performance.”
You shoved him lightly in the ribs. He caught your wrist and didn’t let go, threading his fingers through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. His rings were cool against your skin.
“I’m serious,” he said, voice dropping into that lower register again as the tents came into view. The smaller one was still zipped tight; your brother was clearly dead to the world. “We’re doing that again. Maybe not the dragging-you-into-the-woods part… or maybe exactly that part. Haven’t decided yet.”
You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t pull your hand away. “You’re impossible.”
“And you like it.” He lifted your joined hands and pressed a quick, smug kiss to your knuckles. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”
The campground was quiet except for the distant leftover music from the rec center and the soft rush of the river behind you. Somewhere in the big tent your sleeping bags still waited on opposite sides of the floor.
Eddie glanced at them, then back at you, eyes warm and wicked under the string lights.
“C’mon,” he said, tugging you forward. “We’ve got a whole tradition to keep ruining.”
You followed him into the dark, still holding his hand, the night air cool against your flushed skin and the future suddenly looking a lot less like an argument and a lot more like trouble you actually wanted.
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