— say your stupid line.
Summary: His problem was this—that stupidly impossible and funny mouth of his. Peter Parker and his witty responses. Peter Parker and his clever quips. Peter and that mouth you'd love to shut so much. So you do.
OR; At a bar, you finally snap and give Peter Parker something better to do with those gorgeous lips than running it.
WC: 5,7k
A/n: I missed writing about my boyfriend, so here I am. Spidey enthusiasts, gather around, please! I love this Peter Parker playlist to set the mood. / read on ao3
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"Oh my goddess in fucking heaven, do you ever shut your goddamn mouth, Parker?!"
The whole bar goes quiet, and as soon as his name is out of your lips, it's a heartbeat too late.
The drink in your hand feels like a bomb as Peter turns around, a stupid smile already plastered on his stupidly gorgeous face.
Everything about him is so—so stupid. He said so himself in class once. "I'm the world's stupidest genius, professor," with a laugh, that smile, that easy shrugging shoulder.
His eyes are fixed on you, as chocolate as ever, as bright and sparkling as they were when you first met him, but with a glint of something unrecognizable. When he opens his mouth, your chest tightens and your breath stills, waiting for it, knowing something clever and smart will come out of it, dreading whatever it is.
"You said you want to shut my mouth, did I hear that correctly?"
There's sweat somewhere in the back of your neck, you're sure of it. "I didn't say that."
"No?" He props his chin on the backrest of his chair, eyes now fixed in your direction and glinting with something you have never seen before. "I could've sworn I heard you saying you wanna shut my mouth."
"Nope. Hearing things once again, Parker. All I did was question whether you have the capacity to ever shut that trap of yours."
The image is born without your permission at his words, though. You wanna shut my mouth.
They echo.
You wanna shut my mouth.
How would you go about that?
You shiver.
He pouts. Sometimes, Peter does that—one of his annoying habits that drives you up the wall, or simply drives you to stand up as you are right now. Standing up in the middle of your table because that boy can get under your skin, no matter where you are, no matter how sober or not, apparently.
"That's mean. Why are you so mean to me?" The question is delivered with a smile.
You roll your eyes and bat away the hand of your friend who's pulling on your jacket in a silent request for you to sit back down. "I don't know. You awaken that part of me like very few people do." It was the truth, and it also wasn't.
The truth—the embarrassing and mortifying truth came with a weight you had no desire to even think about right now, in the middle of the bar while surrounded by your friends and once again arguing you Peter. The overlying excuse, on the other hand, had its own truth—even before The Incident, Peter already got under your skin.
His existence meant danger before you knew about his stupidly witty mouth and his clever brain. Before you shared classes with him, only to discover how funny he was underneath all those clapbacks.
"How can I put it back to sleep, then?" He lifts both arms in mock surrender, dropping a bit of his drink on the friend next to him. "I didn't even—oh, shit, my bad Lia, wasn't paying attention. I didn't even do anything to you this time!" He redirects his attention to you after his apology, and there it is—the sweet, and yet cocky smile that drives you up the walls. "I was here, talking to my friends, having a nice time, and you decided to meddle in our conversation. What did I say this time that pissed you off so much?"
This time, the clapback belongs to you and it's at the tip of your tongue. "Ah, so you're the only one who can meddle in other people's businesses, is that it?" Even his friends laugh at it.
Peter winces a little through his smile, and there you are, smiling as you bicker with him once again.
How many times have you ended up here? Wanting his clever mouth to be shut while talking to him at the same time? Prodding and poking whenever you get the chance.
"Fine. I'm a meddler. I can admit to that, but can you admit that so are you?"
"I don't have to admit anything to you," you replied just for the sake and pleasure of being difficult.
Peter was still smiling. He did the nose scrunch thing once again, and you hated how your entire chest responded to that stupid habit of his. "You like being difficult."
"And you like being mouthy and loud about it."
"I'm seriously wondering what I said this time that was so wrong that it earned your rage." He gestures with the empty hand this time. "We're at a bar, milady! And although it seems our old married couple bickering seems to entertain the masses even here, I'm pretty sure you're as tipsy as me. You were supposed to be having fun."
I am right now. "Who said I'm not?" It was harder to keep your smile and facial features organized into something neutral or sarcastic with alcohol in your system.
Peter's smile widened. "I'm taking that as the admission, then."
"Admission to what?"
"How much you adore pulling my pigtails." As if the words were not enough, Peter pretends to tug a chunk of his hair and feigns wincing in pain. Somehow, the smile's still there, in his eyes, in the corner of his mouth.
This time, you roll your eyes and sit back down, too bothered by how much his glee affects you. "You wish, Parker. Just—you could try keeping your shitty and wrong opinions to a low volume, at least."
From this distance — there are two tables filled with people between you and the object of your conversation — it's a bit hard to tell, but you're sure his friend makes a comment about you two under his breath.
Peter either misses it or chooses to ignore it. "I'm gonna have to insist, then. What was it that I said so wrong this time, milady, hm? Maybe I'll even apologize."
"Why don't you two stop half-screaming from across the bar and go talk somewhere else? Jesus fucking Christ, every Monday and Wednesday this shit." It's someone from one of the tables between you both.
The guy's friend says loud enough for you to listen. "Leave them to it. You know how they are."
And he replies with, "Of course I do! Everybody fucking does. Every week. Just fuck already, for fuck's sake. And stop talking over fifteen thousand other people!" He adds that last bit with a directed look at both of you.
Just fuck already.
It mixes in your brain with you wanna shut my mouth and suddenly—yeah. "I'm going outside," you announce to your friends.
"What?! Babe, no. We were in the middle of our ratings," she gives you puppy eyes, but you're already coming around the table.
Rating every Tolkien character from least to most fuckable would have to wait until after your freak out.
"I know. I'll be back. Keep on without me," you need air. Also water.
In the back of your neck, there's the prickly and distinct feeling of being observed as you wander to the bar and order a bottle of water. "Actually, make it two, please?"
He's observing you as you walk out of the bar to the back alley where all the smokers gather. Without a glance in his direction, you can confirm that Peter Parker has observed every step you take before you are out of his sight.
The air does you good, though.
It's chilly, and it smells like cigarettes instead of back alleys, and it's a trade you'd make any day.
None of the people smoking bother you.
Drinking the water does wonders for calming your nervous system down on any given day, but today, words are rolling around your head, and they are enough to turn your brain hostage.
You wanna shut my mouth.
Yes. Groaning, sipping bigger gulps from your bottle, you can admit to yourself, under the blanket of darkness and surrounded by complete strangers, you would love to shut Peter Parker's mouth.
Maybe the confession is too much for a brain without its usual filters because it breaks a dam.
It's a domino effect: one image of you shutting his mouth inside the bar created directly by his own words, melts and gets mixed, shuffling into another image.
In this one, both of you are in the classroom you share, and yet there you are, still shutting his mouth.
Suddenly, all the instances where you and Peter have ever shared the same place are flooded by those: shutting him up, quieting him, making him lose words, making Peter unlearn all the clever things he knows until he has nothing but blabber to say or whimpers to release, noises, gasps, your name, your name—
The prickly sensation on your nape returns, and you react as if being stung.
Tense. Waiting for it, knowing it's coming, there he is, your brain offers, but you're too much of a coward now to look.
He approaches anyway.
"Permission to come closer?" He asks.
What a fucking nerd. Not that you are far from one, but you snicker at the comment, curse yourself mentally and maybe under your breath, but allow it anyway. The side eye you give him tells him just as much.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
She's loud, mouthy, insanely clever, beautiful, and all the things Peter keeps telling himself he only observes.
It's easier said than done.
Easier in class when it can be pivoted towards something purely academical, or at work when he can pretend it's harmeless due to the distance, or at night as he swings from building to building and she's only in his mind, and not his life.
It's harder when he's been drinking with his friends and she looks even prettier without all the walls so hung up tight.
Alcohol makes people's filters go down.
Not his—Peter doesn't have a filter, never did, and ever since the bite his body responds to very little things, at the same time as it responds to absolutely everything.
His body responds to her.
Gods, if only bickering with her weren't so damned adictive.
When their little scene causes other people to complain and she leaves, Peter curses under his breath, leaves his glass on the table and gets up before he can even think about what he's doing.
His hearing picks up on Lia's 'oh, fucking finally' and the way Jorge responds with 'I know, if they don't get it out of their system I'm doing something insane like locking them inside a cupboard, I don't fucking know' and he thinks oh...
Maybe it's not 'easy', then.
Maybe it's been only 'obvious' and 'ridiculous' so far.
Too bad—Peter's got no other way of flirting. He can admit it as he navigates the sea of bodies to make his way outside now; they have been flirting.
He's been, at least. Despite his promises to himself that Peter Parker had no right to flirt with anybody, that he had no right to make anyone his anything ever again, that's what he's been doing — they've been doing? — and everyone's been watching, annoyed or amused, entirely aware of what's going on.
The alley is filled with smoke that come out of the three groups standing in their little circles, but his gaze fixes on a very specific body standing alone against the wall, chugging a half emtpy bottle of water.
Fuck it.
He approaches, shoving both hands inside his hoodie in hopes of maybe not being so flamboyant and expressive. Not flirting too much.
(Who is he still trying to fool?)
"Permission to approach?"
Her response is a snicker, and Peter notices her body language switches to straight up shoulders without even glancing in his direction.
"Hi, Parker."
"Hello, milady."
"What can I do for you?"
Shut my mouth, apparently. Peter holds the teasing for now and his eyes wide in surprise when he sees a bottle of water being lifted in his direction. He takes it. "Thank you." Does she think he's tipsy? Probably. "Sorry if I annoyed you in there."
"No, you're not."
He smiles before he takes the first sip. "Eh," he is sorry... a little bit. "I kinda am."
Another snicker. She finishes her bottle of water. "Hard to believe ya."
"Why is that?"
"I think you love pissing me the fuck off."
Peter laughs. He hasn't gotten used to how foul mouthed she is just yet. It's been more than a year but it still makes him laugh and think about what his uncle would've said if he heard how much such a pretty lady can curse.
Probably something old fashioned enough to make her say even more curse words.
"I..." he thinks carefully of his next words and feels the entirety of his neck tingling, then warming when her eyes set on his face. "... like how passionate you can get while arguing."
At that, she takes a second. Then, she answers with, "What the fuck does that mean?"
"Means that you get involved in arguments and discussions in nice ways."
"Nice ways? What we've been doing is nice?"
"It hasn't been?"
She stops, and Peter's seen enough to recognize when a smile is being held back. "You're crazy."
He smiles. "So are you."
"It seems that way." A sigh. "Peter..."
"Yeah?" His heart speeds up. She never says his name. That is the distance—his delusion about all of your exchanges being nothing... and the way you never say his name. He wants to hear it again. Desperately. One single time of his name out of your lips, and he already wants to hear it again.
God, what are you doing to him?
"I'm sorry," you say.
Peter stops in his tracks, his entire body still. "I—what?"
"You heard me, don't make me say it again."
"I know I did, I just—why? I don't get it. You've got nothing to apologize for."
Your eyes are not as glassy as they were inside the pub, and when you look at him, Peter feels something pull him a step closer.
There's a distinct vulnerability in the way you're staring that he's never seen before, or maybe never saw from this proximity to be able to identify.
"Don't I?" your voice is low and he misses the way you were speaking to him in there. He shakes his head, and takes one more step. He ignores the way this is the closest you two have ever been, and tells his speeding heart to shut the fuck up because it's too loud. You lick your lips and—fuck, maybe it's kind of impossible to tell his heart to do anything in your presence other than react to every miniscule action of yours. "I've been told I'm a... what's the term? Raging bitch, I believe, a few times."
His laughter is loud and honest, and it makes him happy when his eyes open and he sees that it pulled a smile out of you. "Oh—fuck, I'm sorry. That was hilarious."
"You think me being a raging bitch is hilarious?"
"No!" He's still laughing, but he's also warm enough to feel it in his face from the way you're staring at him from under your lasher. He mentally takes note that you made no comment on the proximity. He relishes in that fact. "No—I just think it's funny how much men are fucking crybabies nowadays." He chuckles when your eyes widen in surprise and your smile does too.
"Who said it was only men who called me that?"
He says your name in a tone that says 'please'. "I don't go to the same course as you but we do share two classes, remember?"
"Yup. We bicker in them every time."
"Exactly. I might've heard it once or twice when someone said something about people I know. About you." He might've also told them off every single time, but he keeps that part to himself—for now, at least. "They're raging bitches if you ask me."
The way you laugh should be printed and bottled. "They really are."
"Not me, though?" He's fishing, and from the way you look at him, you call it immediately.
"Parker."
"Oh, no!" He groans, hands flying out of his pockets straight to his face. "Back to Parker, fuck me!"
You laugh again, and Peter cannot get drunk, but he is. All your little 'fights' and arguments have never been real—you two enjoy playing the devil's advocate when in each other's presence but you've always been aware the other one is a decent person, he's aware of that. He knows you don't actually hate him because Peter's seen how you react around people you hate. Around men you hate, especifically.
"I can't call you by your name?" You ask, being difficult.
There it is. The thing you two do—be difficult with one another. "That's my surename."
"Which is part of your name."
"I know, but Peter sounds so much nicer."
"Hmmmm, I don't know. I'm quite fond of Parker."
His smile is wicked when hearing those words. "I'm printing that out and putting it on a T-shirt."
You try to fight a giggle and lose it. Peter had no clue what he was expecting out of tonight—frankly, he just wanted to please one of his friends by doing something he rarely does (or has the money to) and go out for a bit, and suddenly, there you were.
Suddenly, here he is. Laughing with you.
"You're actually ridiculous."
"But not a raging bitch?"
You punch his arm, laughing. "Stop!" Peter's heart spikes once again at the contact. "I hate it when you're funny."
"So what I'm hearing is that you hate me?"
Peter's cheeks hurt by now. He's been here for what? Two, three minutes tops, and his cheeks hurt because he's unable to stop smiling.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It's the smile that's doing it—your heart is attempting to murder you, or maybe Parker is, because he's been smiling non-stop and it's doing things to your insides that you're unable to stop now.
This might be flirting.
A part of you — the insecure girl who still lives somewhere in your subconscious — tells you there's no way Peter Parker is flirting with you.
The women who grew to have at least some confidence in reading basic signs and body language says his tilted head and side smile are more than enough.
You test the waters.
"You're not that funny, Peter," and there it is—his squirming when you say his name in a low voice.
He groans again. "God, you're such a shitty liar."
"So you're back to insulting me now?"
His laughter is so nice it's unfair. "Fine. Fine!" He throws both hands up and bites his lip and your brain's sirens go off, spinning in red, blue, and screaming. "I'll just leave then. I'm not funny and I'm clearly bothering you..."
The bait is so ridiculous you're able to reel the laughter in this time, watching as he spins on his heels with the precise smoothness of his moves that always baffled you, and he starts walking away slowly with his head and eyes still on you.
You manage to hold back the desire to reach and hold him by his clothes, too terrified of what you'll end up doing if you touch him again.
You felt a jolt of electricity at the simple touch, and you keep your hands to yourself this time.
"You need a compliment from me this badly, huh?"
He stops pretending to walk away. "I would like at least the admission that I'm the funniest guy you've ever met. It's the least you could give me for making you laugh so much tonight. Plus all those times I made you laugh in class inside your head but you held it in because you gotta keep up your appearances, milady."
It's only one compliment he's fishing for, but you decide to throw everything up in the air and—well, fuck everything.
Peter is flirting with you, and maybe you've been stupid all along to think that the biggest crush you've ever had was once sided.
So you decide, for once in your life, to be brave.
He's waiting patiently, a small smile still in the corner of his mouth as he waits to see if you'll yield, and you dive into it.
"Well... you're not only the funniest guy I've ever met, but..." you speak slowly, watching as his shoulders straighten and his face sombers at the realization something else is happening here. "Also... the smartest."
And there it is.
You've done it. You managed to shut Peter Parker's mouth.
Matter of factly, his mouth opens up slightly, gaping at your words and his eyes widen at the sincerity in your voice.
Without waiting for his brain to catch up with what just happened, you decide that since you're wet already, might as well swim in this accomplishment.
I managed to shut up smarty pants Peter Parker.
"You're also sweet," you add, smiling in victory when his eyes widen even more. "I mean—walking with arms linked with your aunt in the market? That's—god, I wanted to jump into the river when I saw that, and we don't even have rivers here! That was so sweet. She looked adorable, by the way. You two laughing, talking. You're also quite talented. I noticed all your seminars have pictures that you took, and they're really fucking good, y'know that?" He has no answer to your question, but you're flying high on how stunned he is. Too stunned to speak. "You've got a great sense of morality from what I've heard around campus. That's hard to come around in guys these days. I know that's one of those 'bare minimum' requirements, but—still. Hmmm..." you wonder how much more you can make his jaw fall, and decide to end on a high note. Pretending to just remember something, you go. "Oh! And..."
This time, it's you who steps closer.
There are only a few inches separating you two now, and you get to see that he's blushing from this distance — or lack thereof.
Even in the darkness you can see it, and if your heart was beating fast before, it's beating hard enough for you to feel it in your ears now.
"It doesn't hurt that you're also the most handsome guy I've ever seen. I know beauty's subjective, or whatever, but... to me. You're really pretty to me. I like when you're wearing your glasses, too."
The world spins and halts then, because Peter huffs out a single breath and the next thing you know, both of his hands are on your neck.
Then, his lips are on yours.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Your skin is feverish under his touch.
Peter knew it must be just his imagination, but your words drowned every thought he's had tonight—fuck it, it drowned every thought he's ever had in his whole life it seemed.
One of his hands slides through your side feeling every inch ofyour arm and then wraps around your waist, pulling you closer. As close as you can get.
He's rewarded by a groan, muffled against his mouth. Swallowed by his tongue.
There's your tongue, sliding with his with the precision and tempo of someone who's been doing that for years, despite it being only the first time. Peter moans when your hands squeeze him right back. He loves how strong you hold on to him. He loves how you fit your body inside his hold, squeezing yourself to push against him, grind against him, and he's whining into the kiss.
"Fuck—I did, I fuckin' did—oh." Your words are muffled by your sigh when he sucks on your earlobe.
"Did what?"
"I shut you up," your giggle is a little bit of a moan, and Peter manages to chuckle as he assaults your neck. "That feels good."
"You feel good," he grabs your waist tighter, being extra careful with his strength there, and then someone in the alley wolf whistles, reminding the both of you how not alone you are in here.
The realization hits you both at the same time, stopping the kiss, but not the desire.
Ignoring the taunting that comes next, he focuses on the way you stare at him with expectation.
Peter smiles and you beat him to it. "Your place or mine?"
He winces a little at the question, but then he's hit by those words that tattooed themselves all over his brain once again, the part where you went 'I mean—walking with arms linked with your aunt in the market? That's—god, I wanted to jump into the river when I saw that, and we don't even have rivers here! That was so sweet. She looked adorable, by the way. You two laughing, talking' and he realizes how much you got under his skin by blurting out everything that you seemed to be thinking regarding him.
His face relaxes back into a smile and you're waiting for it, patiently. "Ah—I live with her."
"Oh! Your aunt."
"Yeah." He'd leave it at that, but he feels the need to add: "I did have my place for a while, but when she fell at work—didn't feel right. Didn't wanna leave her alone after that."
"Of course not." As simple as that, and said with a smile that makes him want to burn everything down, or maybe build a whole fortress around you. "Mine, then?"
Peter nods, then drags you away.
In the cab, Peter watches as you text your friends to let you know that you're alive and won't be coming back. He does the same, and feels with a jolt of electricity running through him the second your hand comes to rest on his thigh.
As a result, he's half-hard by the time the ride is finished and you two make it to your apartment.
"I have a roomate, but she's still at the pub," you lock the door behind you and he nods, understanding he can do as he pleases.
Peter sort of wants to make you scream.
There's a second of silence when you two are alone in the dark, and you throw your keys in the table next to the door.
Slower than the first time, he glues himself to you once again.
This time, there's nobody around to stop either of you.
First, he starts by undressing you.
Piece by piece of clothing, Peter unwraps you with the same care he unwrapped the first gift he got from uncle Ben that he knew was expensive. None of the harsh and rushed tearing—he removes the clothes, leaving kisses on every new inch of exposed skin.
A part of him wants to shy away when you decide to do the same with the exact same care, but your gaze pins him to his spot, unable to move or do anything to stop it.
He's burning.
Peter feels exposed—worse yet, he feels seen, and wanted, and where there usually would be jokes there's nothing but silence.
He enjoys how you drag both you to your room without detaching your bodies.
Then, something happens to break the silence—when the back of his knees hit the edge of your bed and he sort of stumbles into it, his hands fly to his sides, dropping the picture on your side table on the floor.
"Oh, shit! Sorry, I'm sorry," he mumbles.
You laugh at him, picking the frame up and putting it back on its place. "It's fine." You sit on his lap earning a groan from him—there are only a pair of briefs and panties separating your bodies, and the way you grind and wiggle to feel his hard cock makes him whine, too. "Hmmm."
"What?" you ask in a low voice. The silence spell was broken, and Peter's hands are all over you again.
His brain keeps screaming for him to be careful all the time, but that voice has to swim with all of the want and need he's feeling. "Such a baby."
Condescending tone—and he whines louder. Huh. "Shut up."
You chuckle, wiggling your hips slower, making a mess of his neck and chest with your mouth. "You want me to?"
"No."
"Thought so." The way you whine your hips makes your pussy fit along his cock and Peter hasn't felt this lightheaded in years. "Wanna ride you, Peter."
"Oh, fuck."
"You like it when I say your name, don't you?"
"I really do," and it sounds like a confession even to his ears.
"Hm. Maybe I'll have to make you earn that, then."
Peter refuses to admit he's a whining mess underneath you, but there's probably a stain in his briefs already and the desperate way he's bucking his hips into you while his hands grip your hips strong enough to maybe leave bruises says enough.
"You're mean," he sounds wrecked and you barely started.
Peter opens his eyes to see you smiling in delight.
"I think you like it," it might be the way your condescending tone is just right or maybe it's just you, but he does. Peter nods, defeated and desperate, and grinds harder. "Fuck."
"Yes, please."
"Patience."
"Okay," he yields in the same second. He'd allow you to hang him upside down right now. "Whatever you want."
"Oh, god." He's thankful for this, at least. He's not the only one wrecked in this room. "You're so good."
Peter has some objections to that, but they get lost when you get up for a second and then remove the last items of clothing separating both of you. He has to bite his lip when he sees you grabbing a condom because as much as his brain is screaming at him to fill you up until you're dripping down your thighs with his cum, there's no safe way to tell you he's unable to transmit any diseases.
"I wanted to give you a mindblowing blowjob, but I'll be honest—"
"Please sit on me," he begs.
The smile you offer him is the brightest thing he's seen in months. There's a laugh, too, and Peter's too high on your touch to even manage a smile.
The next two hours pass in a blur of limbs, sweat, tongue, slick, and muffled words tangled in moans, screams, whines.
Peter has to hold his strength and he loses that battle a few moments.
The second he snaps his hips up to meet your thrusts and is rewarded with a scream and a cry of his name, he moans even louder.
You moan so pretty, baby, you tell him.
That only makes him moan louder.
Don't do that, wanna hear you, you say when you catch him biting his lips, and he cries out at that.
"Oh god, god, please, Peter," you beg at one point, and that's when he first snaps.
He's been good—Peter's allowed you to sit on him at the speed you desire, torturing him by going as slow and as fast as you like, teasing him with smirks and playing with the head of his cock against your clit during a few moments, but when your thighs start to lose their strength and your knees weaken, you beg and that's all it takes before he flips you on your back and climbs on top of you.
Slides inside you again with so much ease.
Both of you are wet enough to make your whole sheets wet.
You're dripping enough to ruin every night of sleep he'll have for the following month, at least.
Then, there's the filth spilled back and forth between you two.
It turns out the sass and clever replies are worse in the dark and between four walls.
Peter whispers everything you seem to love hearing it, and it turns out, he does love being talked down by you—just a little.
You just do it so well.
"That's it—no. Slow down. That's it. Don't be greedy. Fuck—you wanted—oh, you want to please me so much, hm? So eager to obey. I like that. Don't go faster—don't cry, baby, I don't care—FUCK, just like that, Peter. Fuck me slow and I'll let you use me however you want, baby."
It gets to his head.
Peter's human — well, most of him is, anyway, and you seem to have the key to his guts.
All he can do is obey because he wants to obey.
Peter fits so well inside of you he grunts with the effort to not bury himself deep enough to live there.
Your voice whispering filthy, sweet nothings make a home in his brain, and he's almost crying by the time you grab his by the neck, strong enough to make him wonder if he will have bruises the next day, and say, "Fuck, I'm so close, let it go, Peter, fuck me, fuck me, it's okay."
He's almost sure he actually cries at that.
And then he does as he's told.
He lets go, and fucks you the way he secretly desired to every time you two exchanged looks. He fucks you while holding you by the neck, while holding onto your waist for dear life, while moaning and chanting your name over and over the same way you're screaming his.
Both of you get so lost in the pleasure that when you both cum, Peter thinks you two black out for a second.
He sort of wishes he could go to sleep inside of you, and that thought is the one that brings him back to life for long enough to eventually slip out and realize he'll have to be the one with the strength to clean you both up into enough shape that you can slide under a sheet and get some sleep, but he does all that on shaky legs and a foggy brain.
Peter's fucked.
Both of you are, and it goes beyond the mindblowing sex that just happened.
He pulls you into his arms and sleeps with that knowledge. That's a problem for when the sun is in the sky.
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