This a bit of a soft thirsty thought (cause I’m not very thirsty at this time lol but feel free to add any more to this) but just making out with college!tasm!peter all over your shared apartment !!!!
Okay but I LOVE soft thirst and just some sexy-cute-sweet thoughts... Because we ALL know Peter is one hell of a kisser. So let's just take some time to appreciate that. Here ya go, sweets (and thank you for sending this!) I didn't make it a "shared" apartment, but wanted to do a bit of a meet-cute, if that's okay??
no warnings -- read away, just some spicey making out!
[PREDICTIVE TEXT -- tasm!peter parker x reader]
wc: 2.2k (HOW?) of misconstrued texts, stressful studying and the sweet realization of mutual ardor and a good, old-fashioned hollywood kiss
---
Some text messages, it seemed, were almost made to be misinterpreted. That's what you'd thought, anyway, when you'd received a message at 8:30 on a Friday night.
From none other than Peter Parker, the devastatingly cute boy from your chemlab.
"Wanna come over?" The text had read, "I'm stuck on these problems for Fuller's class, and I was hoping to pick your brain."
Your lips had quirked at the text. Due to the deep winter's evening, the sky outside of your dorm window was long-past pitch dark, fat snowflakes illuminated for a brief, luminescent moment in the beams of the campus streetlamps as they fluttered lazily to the ground, sticking wetly to the other amassed flakes along the sidewalk.
Said devastating boy was booty-texting you.
What other reason could there be to text after dark on a Friday night?
You'd waited the appropriate few minutes so as to not seem too eager before you texted back a thumbs-up emoji with a follow up, "Be there soon."
Okay, so maybe you liked Peter Parker.
You and Peter had been thick as thieves throughout the semester; paired up early on to perch atop uncomfortable lab chairs and ponder stoichiometry, balancing equations, and other hellish expectations that came with being a major in the sciences. He was a little absent-minded, sure, always seemed to be running late. But he was a good lab partner, leaning over to check your notes, gently erasing and re-jotting miscalculations in your margins. Always with a soft smile in your direction as you'd thanked him for the umpteenth time.
Not to mention the countless coffee "dates" the two of you had met at the corner coffeeshop for, sweetened coffee punctuated by even sweeter giggles from the boy at your side as you'd recounted the drama from the prior night's episode of "Drag Race" in between reading review. Soft brushes of your thigh against his beneath the table, hands meeting in small, clandestine touches as you both leaned in at the same time to turn the pages of your notebook.
So was it really any wonder that it would have come to this?
You were only minorly surprised, really. You hadn't thought that Peter Parker, the boy with the honeyed eyes and different-colored beanies stuffed into the back pockets of his jeans, would be the type to drop a "you-up" text before actually trying to take you out-out first. Was that arrogant of you?
But you'd wanted to make a good impression. So, up you got, swiping on your favorite peach-flavoured lipbalm and slipping into the jeans you knew made your butt look killer. On your way out the door, with a jacket and scarf wrapped around you to combat the cold, you'd slid your chem book into your bag as an afterthought.
Gotta sell the illusion, after all...
Then again, some text messages were drafted exactly as intended.
You'd knocked at Peter's door to be met with the sound of a minor thud from the other side that sounded suspiciously like the weight of a chemistry textbook meeting the floor, followed by a hurried:
"Shit! C-coming!"
You couldn't help the smile curving your lips at the commotion, of socked-feet sliding Risky Business-style on their way to the door, where Peter fumbled with the lock to open it, cracking it to smile at you through lightly-flushed cheeks, lips parted as he panted at the effort it had taken to here.
"You alright in there?" You queried gently, chuckling at his haphazard appearance.
"Thank GOD you're here," Peter blurted, mumbling about equations and, "... Almost ready to clean my ears through to the other side with the pointy end of this pencil," as he let you shuffle past him into his small but cozy apartment, absconding with your heavy coat and your bag as you made your way into his space --
... Only to be met with the very real sight of his textbook and notebook on the coffee table, a smattering of torn-out and balled-up papers littering the floor around his workspace, creeping beneath the couch to mingle with the dustbunnies.
Ah. So he really had been studying.
You silently admonished yourself for being a presumptuous idiot as Peter fluttered around you, offering you a soda, ushering you to the couch.
Forty minutes in, and you had the beginnings of a headache forming behind your eyes.
You tossed your pencil onto the coffee table, leaning back with a sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose and sighing at the large numbers of your phone's homescreen -- mocking the fact that you, at this late hour on a few-and-far-between Friday night, were actually doing chemistry homework with the boy you'd thought about naked a few times too frequently to be casual about it.
"You okay?" Peter asked gently from your side, nudging his thigh into yours from his maddeningly-close perch next to you on the couch.
"Yeah," you breathed, "just tired." Your voice was flat, but devoid -- you'd hoped -- of the disappointment you'd felt. Exhaling your minorly-hurt feelings at the boy who, despite being virtually on top of you on this couch, seemed always just out of your reach.
No. Don't think about him being on top of you. Not now. Not when it's clear he has no interest in you, ya know... like that.
While you were lost in the veritable blizzard of your own thoughts, Peter's dark eyes took you in, swirling, like the last dregs of a midnight cup of coffee, as he took in your hunched form, smirking at you between full lips as he fought to keep the tone light, teasing -- Did you know how difficult it was to maintain composure when you'd arrived at his apartment with snowflakes stuck to your hair, to your beanie? With your eyes bright from the briskness of winter's chill?
You'd readily agreed to studying with him. That was it, he'd told himself.
"Yeah,” Peter agreed. “You seem out of it today, you didn’t even bring your notebook,” he teased, plinking the eraser of his pencil gently against your temple.
“Oh,” you had been grateful that up until now Peter had had the good grace not to bring up, or maybe hadn’t noticed that in your haste to come over to what you thought was a text-based booty-call, you hadn’t actually brought your homework. Just your textbook. That you’d had to borrow sheets of paper from him to carry along.
But in your defense, it was a prop, for God’s sake! In the great laundry list of potential props you could have chosen, a chemistry book was probably the least sexy thing you could have picked, but it fit what you’d thought the setting was.
Lucky thing, too, for Peter really was intent on studying.
“Oh?” Peter, that devilishly smart boy -- nothing slipped past him, and he’d latched, like a spider spinning a fly in a web, onto the tone of disappointment in your voice. “Sorry,” he tossed his pencil onto the notebook resting on the coffee table with a gentle thwap, “I realize balancing equations isn’t exactly the most exciting way to spend a Friday night. Did you have other plans?”
No, you idiot, you thought, I thought you were the plan.
“Ah, no,” you huffed, “I, uhhh, well ...”
Just say it, girl. If he’d been watching you with the level of intent that he had all night and really hadn’t picked up on anything, maybe he wasn’t the sharp little spider you’d thought he was.
You did your best to inject some levity, some sunshine into your voice when you bumped your shoulder into Peter’s:
“Well, Pete, I’m not gonna lie -- I thought this was ... another kind of invite?” You lilted the end of your sentence like a question, hoping to ask your way into alleviating any awkwardness with a breezily-forced chuckle. You certainly didn’t want to ruin things between you and your caramel-eyed lab partner with the endearingly ratty band t-shirts.
And while fortune favors the bold ... Peter, surprisingly, beat you to the punch.
“Yeah ...” Peter scruffed the back of his neck, his eyes meeting yours -- the already-limited air on the couch was virtually zapped between the two of you. With only heat, unspoken words, and the vague aroma of microwaved noodles so prominent in any collegiate living setting ... All between the two of you. So much in so little space.
No wonder you couldn’t breathe.
“I, uh, I suppose a Friday night text might ... mean something else. But you ...” Peter trailed off, as if having his own lightbulb moment of realization.
Whatever playlist he’d had running on his phone whilst the two of you were studying had looped back to the beginning now. Peter’s eyes snapped to yours again, a dawning light behind them.
“You, you... didn’t bring your notebook,” Peter’s fingers now tip-tapping the side of his thigh nervously skittering, dangerously close to your own thigh. “So, you thought ... so you wanted ...?”
“Yes, Peter,” you had turned your body so it was fully facing his now, “I wanted.”
Peter wasted no time, then, gripping the sides of your face with both hands, pulling you to him, his lips, finally, fully meeting yours, embracing amorous intent.
Kissing Peter Parker was better than you had fantasized in the quieter moments of chem lab when you’d not-so-discreetly been watching the way his long fingers gently held his pencil during note-taking.
It was like breathing, while simultaneously knocking the breath from your very lungs. It was tender, yet punishing. Realization. Ardor.
Peter’s fingers travelled from the base of your jaw to cup the back of your head, his fingers resting in the hair at the nape of your neck, taking in a breath and allowing himself to indulge in the pillowy plushness of your lower lip, sucking it between his own.
Do I owe each kiss to lip and cheek? To the sparking truth of giving Peter so much “lip” that he’d finally, mercifully gotten the hint? To ...
You gasped as Peter gently nipped the your lower lip, the slight part of your mouth allowing Peter to slip his tongue into your mouth, licking his way into you like so-many small, pinpricking sparks, giving way to full flame. You could burn this way, if Peter weren’t there to anchor you, in the slight chill of his collegiate, underheated apartment.
A break, Peter pulling his lips ever-slightly from yours to gaze into your eyes, to gauge your reaction, to be met with the burning glimmer of falling stars, low and slow-burning embers behind your eyes, lips kiss-bitten, chest heaving with want.
Who knew that Peter Parker could kiss like that. Could kiss like promises, the swelling song at the end of a film, like the slip of something sweet across your tongue that made you crave ... more, more, more.
You stood, pacing away from the couch, tugging frantic fingers through the frazzled ends of your hair, goosebumps dancing across your skin like you’d so-often imagined of Peter’s fingers.
“Wha-- was that ...” Peter took in your pacing, your figure whirling to face him once more, “Was that ... okay?”
You laughed. A broken thing like shattered ice and cracking lighting, hitching like a desperate sob.
Or were you laughing at him? At the ridiculous situation in which you found yourselves? At the fact that he had been eating Flaming Hot Cheetos when you were studying, before he’d kissed you and he was realizing only now that you probably tasted the red powder on his tongue? At the forward way which he had gripped your jaw, dialing back his strength as though you were made of glass-- though he could veritably imagine pressing little fingertip bruises into the base of your jaw? The thought of marking you as his was a concept worth tucking into his back pocket for later.
If only you’d known how often he’d imagined it, through frantic tugs at the tips of your hair when you were frustrated in lab. The way you’d furrow your brow when you concentrated. How he’d imagined kissing said frustrated wrinkle away, kissing your worries away into washed, smooth skin, smiling, and happy to see only him... Sunshine.
But here you stood now, above him, a curl of your finger to beckon him. That same curled finger hooking into the torso of his loose band t-shirt when he was too slow to stand. That same grip that turned vicelike into his sides as Peter once again affixed his lips to you, rewarded with a little gasp when he kissed that spot on your neck.
You’d guided the two of you away from the couch and against the wall abutting the living room and into the kitchen.
And how had you ended up seated on the kitchen counter, Peter’s lips trailing along your collarbones through the top of your thin shirt, while your hands were fixed around his neck.
And how thereafter you had somehow found your way onto Peter’s bed, with him atop you, lightly rolling your hips and grinding into the denim-clad thigh that had found itself nested between your gently-parted legs.
Peter pulled back, panting through kiss-swollen lips. You could make him ill, achy with want, if you’d wanted to, and you didn’t even have to try. A sugar rush he’d let settle into his stomach, beneath his skin, anywhere you’d have him. You’d stopped studying sometime after nine, and who knows what time it was now?
"We could’ve done this the entire time?” Peter breathed into your neck, “Now that we've started, I don't think I'll ever be able to stop."
"Oh, loverboy," you croon, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth,"You have no idea.”
