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beatlesbug · 8 months

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Somebody Else

Pairing: Peter Parker x fem!Reader

Synopsis: Peter can't stand to see you dance like that with somebody else.

CW: Fluff, angst, protective! peter, drinking, uhh reader has hair?

Author's Note: This is my first fic! So please leave me some feedback and requests! Also, I'm sorry if the grammar is trash, I'm working on it.

The bass from the speakers radiates in your chest as you chug another cup of whatever your best friend handed you.

"Babe, slow down!" She chuckles, watching you cringe at the taste and shake your head.

"No! I want to get so wasted I don't even remember his name," you hold her shoulders and say in her face excitedly. She laughs and wraps her arms around your waist before moving to the rhythm with you.

With every lyric you scream and move to on the dance floor, you can feel memories of Peter Parker leaving your mind.

It had only been three days since you'd broken up. Three days, and you saw him laughing with some girl from Biochemistry. A girl he told you not to worry about. Asshole. You should have seen it coming; it was so obvious. Peter had been hiding something from you. You had always been the cool girlfriend; you didn't care if he had female friends or went out with his friends. So when he started hiding something from you, you knew it was bad. You can't even count the number of times he'd lied to you about where he was or what he was doing. The final straw was three days ago when you'd entered his room and saw him throw some clothes out on his fire escape as he stood there in his boxers and a guilty expression.

"…Peter?" you questioned, standing in his doorway. He quickly slammed the window shut and came over to you, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

"Hey baby," he said sweetly, going over to his clothes that were lying on the floor.

You furrowed your eyebrows.

"Was someone just here?" You asked quietly, frozen in place. He looked back at you as he pulled his sweatpants on. He looked over to the window and then back at you, shaking his head nervously. "No, no, of course not. I knew you were coming over."

"Are you sure?" you crossed your arms over your chest. His eyes fell to your chest then back to your face. "Yeah?" He said, confused. You nodded your head and placed your bag against his desk.

"So you wouldn't mind if I took a look at your fire escape then," You said, heart thudding in your chest, walking over to said fire escape. Before you could reach it, Peter slid himself in between you and the window. You looked up at him and tilted your head.

"What?" He said, shifting his brown eyes away from yours. His face was inches away from yours now; usually, this position would make you want to reach up and kiss him, but what you currently feel is far from affection.

"I'm going to ask you again, one more time," You said steadily, trying not to let your voice crack as you asked the question you seem to have asked about a dozen times these last two weeks.

You tilted your head upwards, forcing him to keep eye contact with you despite the fact that you felt tears welling up in yours.

"What are you hiding from me?" You said slowly, the words feeling heavy in your mind.

"N-" He goes to reply before you interrupt him.

"I suggest you think about what you're about to say, Peter, because if you lie to me again, I'm done. We're done," You whispered to him, not breaking any eye contact. He opens his mouth to speak and then closes it before bowing his head in thought.

"Just tell me," You begged, lifting your hands to hold his face.

"Please baby, just tell me the truth," you whispered to him. He put his forehead against yours and went to speak. You held your breath in anticipation.

"I…I can't," his voice goes hoarse as he shakes his head, his nose brushing against yours. You inhaled sharply before pulling away.

You took a few steps back before looking at him, his head hung in shame. "I can't do this anymore, Pete. I just can't," you said, grabbing your bag from his desk and slinging it over your shoulder in a rush. You heard his voice call out to you as you ran down the stairs, out on the street, and away from him.

The memories of all of the hurt and the tears falling into nothing the more your hips moved with the beat. Nicki Minaj blasted from the speakers as you twirled around before screaming the lyrics and flipping your hair. You felt two hands wrap around your waist, holding you closer to them. You looked back over your shoulder and saw Caleb. Caleb was on your college basketball team; you tutored him last year in Psychology and became friends. You'd always suspected he had a bit of a thing for you, but you never really spoke to him out of respect for Peter. You smiled up at Caleb and turned to hug him, wrapping your arms around his neck and greeting him.

"Hey gorgeous, how are you?" He chuckled, leaning into your ear. You pulled away from him.

"I'm single and fantastic," you screamed over the music. He nodded, a wide smile spread across his face.

"Soo, that means I can dance with you, doesn't it?" You bit your lip as he said this and looked back at your best friend, who was now dancing with her partner. They both nodded at you encouragingly.

Looking back to Caleb, you nodded and started moving to the music with him. Just glancing at him, you could tell that he was attractive, with a short buzz cut and a sharp jawline, but he had nothing on Peter. As the Nicki song faded into the next, and the colored lights flashed in front of your eyes, you remembered how much you loved parties.

Peter hates parties. He's convinced this was the last thing he needed this week. He can't possibly stand here and be expected to have fun. Not three days after he had lost the love of his life. He felt like an idiot. The girl thought he was cheating on her as if any other woman in the world could compete with those eyes and that smile, he thought to himself. He was pulled into reality when a random guy ran past him to the kitchen sink before vomiting into it. He grimaced, deciding it's time to move to another room.

One hour. He just has to stay one hour, and Aunt May can't get mad. It's stupid to think that he still listened to his aunt at this age, but she insisted that going out would make him feel better, and he thought maybe she was right (and also there was a chance he'd finally get to see you, talk to you even). As he watched people covered in body glitter grind against each other, however, he questioned the validity of her solution. He weaved past as many people as he could, moving closer and closer to where he felt the music was coming from. There was only one place you'd be if you truly were here.

He stood next to the large archway leading to the dance floor, the steps allowing him the height to look over people's heads. The crowd screamed as the intro to the song "Gasolina" came on. He took a sip of his coke, scanning the crowd before he reached a familiar head of hair.

Fucking. Hell.

There was no possible way you had gotten ten times hotter in the past three days, was there? He watched as you lifted your arm to flip your

hair, a lock of it sticking to your lips. A bright smile graced your face as you circled your hips in the air.

Peter had seen you in all of your forms, sick, sleepy, tired, naked, yet he didn't think he'd ever seen you look sexier than when you moved your hair from your mouth and bit your lip looking at someone. The soft smirk and loving eyes immediately vanished from his face when he realized who you were looking at.

You're not mine. He remembered suddenly, feeling anger bloom and ache in his chest. He couldn't stand you looking at Caleb that way. You were his… even when you weren't.

As if sensing his presence in the room, you suddenly snapped your head over to him. Your eyes locked as your chest heaved slightly, damp from sweat. You wished you could ignore him. You wished you could see him and have no trouble turning away. You almost had the urge to smile at him.

Peter held the eye contact. Even from across the room, he could feel the string that tethered you together pulling him from his chest toward you. He didn't fight it. His jaw clenched, and eyes sharp, he walked almost seamlessly through the crowd of people on the dance floor and straight to you. When he stood about a foot away from you, you froze in place, not knowing what was coming next. He looked over at Caleb.

Caleb had his hand hooked around your body, way too close to your chest. Way too close to you. There were not many things Peter felt possessive over, but one of those things was you.

"Hey Pete! What's up, man?" Caleb said mockingly. Peter clenched his jaw, not even looking at you. He knew if he did, he would become a mess of tears, any and all confidence falling away.

"Get your hands off of her." He demanded at Caleb, acting way ruder than he’s ever been. Caleb removed his hand from your waist, squaring up to Peter.

"She ain't your bitch anymore, Parker, she's free game now,"

Feeling insulted, you took a step back, drawing the attention of your best friend and a few other people in the crowd.

"Don't fucking talk about her like that," Peter gritted his teeth. Just looking at him now, you were scared. Not of him, but for Caleb. In your months of dating, you'd never seen Peter this angry, and though he didn't look it, you knew he was much stronger than he led people to believe.

"You're just fucking mad because you know I'm going to have her bent over my desk tonight, not you." Caleb sneered at Peter, egging him on. Your jaw dropped at his words.

"Excu-" Before you could even get a word out, Peter's fist came crashing into Caleb's face. The music suddenly halted, and Caleb landed on the grimy floor. Suddenly, Caleb was on his feet and stalking towards Peter. Caleb's friends grabbed him from behind and stopped him from coming any closer. Instinctively, Peter's arm came in front of you, pushing you behind him so he could act as a shield. Caleb screamed and spat at Peter. Peter went forward to continue to fight when you grabbed his arm.

"Peter! No!" At the sound of your voice saying his name, he turned toward you, seeing the pleading look in your eye.

"Let's just go. Please. Let's go." He looked at you hesitantly before looking back at Caleb. Knowing you were more important than his pride, he held onto your hand tightly and dragged you away from the chaos of the dance floor, away from the frat house, and onto the front yard.

It's only when you're both standing in the driveway, the music cranking up again inside, that you finally get a good look at him. He's wearing a loose t-shirt, a flannel, and his regular black jeans. You stare at each other in silence, feeling protective of yourself you hug your body.

"Were you really gonna go home with him?" Peter mutters.

A completely cold laugh comes out of your mouth, putting your palms over your eyes.

"I can't fucking believe you,"

He frowns at your words, "What?"

"What if I went home with him, Peter! We're done! Go back to fucking Lyla or whoever the fuck she is," you say, referring to the girl you'd seen him hanging around with, the one he'd probably been cheating on you with.

"What?" He says again, this time slightly angrier. "Who the fuck is Lyla?!"

Your eyes widen as you spread your arms out, "Fucking Lily or whoever she is you're sleeping with, Peter! I don't give a fuck!"

He runs his hand through his hair, turning around before looking at you again.

"I'm not fucking anyone." He says calmly, hands in a prayer motion at his mouth.

You roll your eyes, "Peter, it's over, you don't have to lie anymore. I know you were cheating on me. It's fine, whatever, just fuck off please!"

"Ch- Cheating? What are you talking about?" He asks, confused. You go to respond but get interrupted by your friend running up to you, putting her arm on your shoulder. She asks if you're okay, you nod at her and tell her not to worry. Peter interjects and says he'll get you home safe and she should enjoy her night. She looks over at you for confirmation, and you nod, not wanting to ruin her night as well.

"Call me when you get home, please!" You yell after her as she runs into the arms of her partner on the porch. You and Peter walk down the street, away from your college campus and into the city streets. Neither of you say a word apart from muttering a small thank you when he drapes his jacket.

"I wasn't cheating on you,” He says suddenly when you turn onto a quieter street.

“I would never, ever." He continued strongly. You swallow and shrug under the weight of his jacket.

"What was I supposed to think, Peter? You don't answer your phone, you disappear in the middle of the day, you lie to me…" You say, much calmer than before, but looking at the ground instead of him.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. I just- If I could tell you I would, but if something happened to you and it was my fault? If you got hurt and I couldn’t save you that would be on me and I can’t see you hurt. I can’t.” He cries desperately.

You furrow your eyebrows in confusion, “Got hurt? Peter, what are you talking about?” He walks towards you slowly, testing to see if you would move away. You don’t. Peter moves forward to wrap his arm around your torso, “Peter, what are you-?”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” You say, hesitating, despite everything.

He tightens his grip around you before moving your hands around his neck.

“Peter if you want me to hug you or something I-” You’re cut off by your own screams as you soar through the air. You bury your face into Peter's neck and hold onto him tighter, terrified and confused. Your stomach rises and drops as you soar through the city. So terrified of falling that you can't think or speak. In a flash, you feel your feet hit concrete, and you notice you're on the terrace of your apartment building.

Peter releases you and is about to say something when you run to the ledge and throw up. He cusses behind before lifting all of your hair away from your face and lifting his jacket so he can rub your back soothingly. You stand up straight when you’re done, probably reeking of sweat and vomit.

You both stare at each other unmoving.

"What the fuck?!" You yelp as you hit his chest. Angrily you growled at him.

"What was that? Why did you just fling me across-" and then realization hit you.

"Oh my god. Oh my god, you're Spid-. Oh my god, this isn't happening. I am not that drunk," you say laughing sarcastically and putting a hand against your forehead.

“Even if you were drunk I think you got it all out now.” Peter chuckles awkwardly, gesturing to the throw-up on the ground.

You snap your gaze to him, reprimanding him, and he smiles softly. That smile. That smile that you're sure could heal the world if he tried.

“I wasn’t cheating on you, y/n. I’m Spiderman, that's why I disappear, that's why I’m late, that's why I lie. And I’m not going to apologize for being him because it’s the second greatest thing to ever happen to me, but I will say I’m sorry for lying. I’m so so sorry for lying to you, bug. I really am. I got scared and nervous that something would happen to you, I couldn’t take that risk but I can't lose you either.” He professed sincerely.

You nod your head slowly. “I get it,” you whisper. Tears pricking at your eyes, all the feelings you’ve been trying to suppress bubbling over with how much you love the man in front of you. You take quick paces to him and wrap your arms around him, holding him so tight you’re not sure he can breathe. Sniffling through your tears, “I get it, I’m so sorry I got mad. I love you,” you say into his chest. You feel his arms wrap around you making you cry even harder.

“I love you,” He says back, placing a kiss on your head.

“And I’m sure you have questions,” He whispers.

“So many questions,” You laugh into him, refusing to let go. But he pulls away from you and holds your head in his hands.

“How about we shower and get ready for bed and you can ask me anything you want,” He asks while stroking your hair. You nod at his words. He takes your hand and leads you to the stairwell into the building.

As you walk through the door you ask, “So where else do the webs come out from?”

#peter parker x reader #tasm!peter parker x reader #peter parker fluff #peter parker #tasm peter parker #the amazing spiderman 2 #peter 3 #college!peter parker #spiderman #peter parker/reader #peter

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indouloureux · 2 years

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scratching : countertops¡ (stargirl interlude)

"I had a vision A vision of my nails in the kitchen Scratching counter tops, I was screaming My back arched like a cat, my position couldn't stop you were hitting it And I shouldn't cry, but I love it, Starboy..."

༻✦༺ . ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧

summary: peter's been your roommate for years, and you know that the rooms are filled with thrifted furniture and unsolved tension. when you find yourself eating pineapples beside him one night, you don't expect to be bent over the counter with his (sticky, dexterous) hands.

word count: 6,482

warnings: graphic writings of smut (MINORS DNI), mentions of blood, fluff, maybe a little angst (extended warnings below the cut)

a/n: hi. hope you all like this unholy smut. hope we're all forgiven. here's you being peter's pretzel with three holes lol

MASTERLIST

༻✦༺ . ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧

extended warnings: face-fucking, oral (m and fem receiving), ass/anal play. degradation and praise kink. unprotected sex, (don't be silly, wrap your willy), creampie. toy usage (vibrator wand), rough sex, man handling, biting, body-guard/doggy position, cum-dumpster!reader, and poorly written smut :)

༻✦༺ . ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ . ༻✧༺

This was all Harry’s fault.

I hope Oscorp burns to the ground and you lose all your money so you’re forced to live with me, you bastard.

Rationally, Harry had offered to help Peter pay for the apartment (without malice; he knows Peter’s not that poor). But ever the independent, he refused. So he couldn’t possibly understand why he was so upset that his friend was leaving to get his own apartment that he found was better than the one they used to live in.

Guaranteed, it wasn’t the type Osborn had grown into – waking up right to ruckus outside the building, bird shit sometimes reeking from the fire escape, a slim shower rather than a tub – and Peter was forever thankful Harry never complained and had adjusted to the type of lifestyle Peter grew up into.

But he wanted to move out. Move into an apartment near Oscorp and campus. Because he’s not the one swinging there within three minutes.

(Peter had offered swinging together with Harry. He refused. Says he’s afraid of heights and makes him…question. Peter doesn’t know what he means. Unless-)

So now here he was, on the internet lately advertising on some dodgy website that he's seeking for a new roommate. He doesn’t mind, though. If he ends up with a murderer, they’ll most likely be in jail the second they step in.

But he’s set up some rules. Peter liked boundaries, and he most certainly liked people who knows how to properly clean the bathroom, remembers their keys, doesn’t bring random people in without permission, doesn’t put marijuana in brownies when baking, and doesn’t produce the nastiest smell around the apartment.

He hesitates on the brownies portion. While he certainly relishes eating chocolate-flavored cannabis, Harry is the only one he knows how to prepare the baked confection. So Peter wouldn’t mind if his new roommate knew how to make them, as well.

Behind him, Harry grunts as he places the last box on the coffee table. It’s labeled ‘The Den equipment’ in a deep red marker written on top of masking tape. He frowns because it’s not the cardboard type, but rather a black box with stripes of metal on its corners. It rattles when Harry places the box on the table, like something heavy fills the chest.

“What’s that?” Peter points at the black chest, his arm resting on the wooden back of his chair. His other hand taps on the keys of his keyboard, but never pressing out to type a letter. “That’s new.”

“It’s not,” Harry chuckles, running a hand through his thin hair. Peter thinks his hairline’s receding due to the lack of thickness in Harry’s hair, other than the fact that Norman Osborn’s on the verge of balding. “I’ve had this since freshman year.”

“High school?”

“College,” snorting, he unlatches the black chest, the soft clicking reverberating in Peter’s ears. “Can you imagine high school me with these things? I’d be an absolute klutz with these things.”

Peter pushes his chair out, sauntering his way towards his friend. He curiously peeks over Harry’s head, seeing folded silk at the upper left corner, followed by a cluster of pink, purple, and black items in weird shapes and curves that hits familiarity in the deep depths of his risqué mind.

That’s when he realizes that they’re “Vibrators,” Peter says out loud, blushing. Though, given the few women he's been with, he can ensure that he's no stranger to such titillating forms of intimacy. His expertise is kept entombed; locked away not out of shame, but the key’s saved for someone he desires to show the doors to.

“Not just vibrators,” Harry’s tongue makes an amused click, his finger tracing the lid. “I’ve got a whole lot of shit here. Bought it all when I turned twenty-one, remember?”

“I don’t think I do,”

“Of course you didn’t. We were drunk out of our minds,” he pats Peter’s back, looking up at him. His smile is proud, like he’s feeling triumphant about the fact he’s being all Christian Grey at the age of twenty-one. “Explored so much with this, I’m proud to say I orgasmed at the fuckin’ Bermuda Triangle.”

Peter shakes his head, a boyish laugh leaving him. “That’s a lie.”

“Obviously,” he turns to look back at the hedonistic pursuits that fills the chest. Harry’s hand digs deep between the vibrant toys, and Peter wonders how unsanitary that must be, regardless if Harry’s ever cleaned them. He pulls out something Peter’s familiar on:

The wand’s body was a rich shade of crimson, similar to the one on his suit. However, its bulbous head dons itself in black rather than blue that matches his renowned attire. The colors match, nonetheless, and he does see that the buttons are round in baby blue.

“Tell you what,” Harry places the wand in Peter’s palm, and god does he hope it’s cleaned. “Take this as an apology. For leaving you. And a gift, because you deserve it.”

With burning cheeks, Peter scratches the back of his ear with his vacant hand. “I always thought this stuff happens in older women’s birthdays.”

“Vibrators are for all!” He roars, pleased with his erotic manifesto.. “Nothing wrong with wanting something to make you squirt, am I right?”

“Now that I think about it, I think I’m pretty glad you’re moving out,”

“Now now, brother. It’s time you face independency,” Harry smacks the chest shut, securing the latch before carrying it in his enormous palm, followed by the quiet jingle of his keys from his pockets.. “I’ll miss you, my best friend.”

He walks Harry out with an arm around his friend’s shoulders, opening the door for him. Peter rolls his eyes at the dramatic pout he gives him. “You’re only ten minutes away.”

Peter hears a small ping in his laptop when Harry leaves. With his receding footsteps, Peter sits back at the chair in front of his old laptop, seeing a message had popped up out of the corner of the screen. The circular icon is accompanied with a red dot on the side, and a blurry picture of a girl with their dog.

Hi! Heard you were looking for a new flat mate?

⋆

This was all Harry’s fault.

Peter can feel his heartbeat in every part of his body: his legs, his ears, his eyes, his hands, and his fucking dick. It's making him feel unsettled, perhaps moreso than Harry's expedition yesterday. Overstimulation is something he was never grateful for when he got bitten, and it had picked out the worst times to throw a tantrum.

You’re expected to be arriving in a few minutes, and he looks like a wreck. His jeans now have a damp spot on his thighs from constantly wiping his sweaty palms. Neophyte limbs forgetting their decorum, Peter walks around his apartment like a lost child, tugging on his unruly hair. His nerves are forming a connivance against its paladin, spasmodic nervousness ticking him off every minute that passes by.

Anamnesis, you weren’t the first to text Peter about the vacant room adjacent to his. Between your icon were two other guys – a man, seemingly in his 40’s with a beard like Seneca Crane’s with a fashion style like a hiker’s, and a guy his age with a badly bleached blonde hair and the mustiest mustache he’s ever seen. It was obvious his choice was you: not because of the ambiance he’s felt from the two other guys, or the fact that you’re a girl, but because…well…

He’s just about to find out.

Think of the stars. Count them in the darkness from the back of your eyes. There’s Alpha caeli, zeta arae, gamma camelopardalis –

The stars are far from their constellations. Peter panics at the fragmented dulcification, clenches and unclenches his trembling fists. Forsooth he blames the sudden overstimulation. And for the third time that week, he curses the radioactive spider.

Peter jumps when he hears the doorbell ring, louder than it should have. He shakes his head to push the erratic beating away from his eyes, walking careful steps to the door that further awaits being opened.

The door opens, and you look at him with an innocent smile.

Like a beautiful, tragic calamity, the star in his heart bursts into a supernova. Galactical seas of purple, blue, and yellow mercurially imbue him before it’s overtaken by the destructive inferno of the ultraviolet star. It swells his throbbing organ, embers withering off into the galaxy.

“Hi,” your voice blows the supernova away, and he returns back to earth where he’s physically in. Peter blinks, patting his hands on the back of his thighs before he remembers he looks like absolute shit. But you don’t seem to mind.

“Um.”

“I’m (y/n),” you don’t give him your hand to shake, but the nervous smile on your face indicates you’ve got the same sweaty hands as he does. “I’m here for-…for the interview?”

Peter nods, too rapid that he shakes his brain. He steps aside with a smile that mimics yours as you gladly step in after you wipe your shoes on the rug.

You take in the apartment well. It’s cleaned – the lack of dust shows he might have cleaned before you arrived. The three-seater couch fits well in the living room, the TV large enough to not strain your eyes. The décor contrasts well to the alabaster walls, and the fact that Peter had decorated this himself seemed surprising because you should definitely see his room back at Aunt May’s.

The whole apartment smells nice. Like freshly baked cookies that makes your mouth water. You don’t realize Peter’s still got his eyes on you until you sit down on the chair placed randomly in front of the couch.

“So,” he speaks out, a waver in his voice as he sits on the couch. He forgets to tell you he’s supposed to be the one on the chair, but all his thoughts dissipate into a blubbering mess. You don’t mind the chair, anyway. “Why are you looking for an apartment?”

That was not the first question.

You answer him, either way. “I wanted to move out of the dorm I stay in at campus,” he can hear the sound your nail makes when you chip them. “I guess, out of some sudden urge to move deeper into independence?”

“Okay,” he drags out his ‘y’, remembering the next question. “How are you with bathrooms?”

It’s obvious his question confuses you, because it confuses him too. “Hm?”

“I’ve never done a good job cleaning the bathroom. So I was wondering if you’re…any good…at cleaning them?” he feels stupid, like he’d asked a sexist question. Peter’s unsure if he did, because your expression is unreadable.

(“Is this guy serious?”)

“I do good, I guess. I’ve never been a fan of dirty bathrooms so I’m very fastidious when it comes to cleaning them.”

He nods. “And smoking?”

“I smoke.” You smile a little. “A lot. Like, my friends had to make an intervention for me with a big poster that had two versions of lungs, the other was what my lungs were going to look like if I didn’t stop smoking. I- sorry. I talk too much.”

“’s all right,” he chuckles. “I smoke a lot too.”

Your shirt exemplifies the contours of your breasts while emphasizing their size. He attempts to pull his gaze away, but instead finds himself tracking his gaze down to the button of your jeans to your thighs, calves swinging and almost brushing his. Peter swallows deeply.

“Do you, uh, not mind living with a guy?”

Incredulous, you let out an angelic laugh. “Well, I’m here, aren’t I? Look…Peter-” you remember his name from the ad; remember how you repeat his name in your head like a mantra. “- I don’t mind if you take home girls, or guys. I just need a place to stay. I can’t promise I’ll pick up dirty laundry all the time, and I can’t cook for shit nor can I make this place squeaky clean. But I can give you a hell of a good time—God, that sounded prostitute-y.”

Your nervousness sedates him tremendously, and he laughs heartily at your ramble. Peter shakes his head, sitting back to sink into the couch with crossed arms and an endearing smile that makes your heart skip a beat.

“Not prostitute-y, just...a twinge of an innuendo,” he reassures. “Well. I’ve got a few flaws myself. Like, I can’t explain why I have sudden bruises in my face.”

“What? Are you like, in a mob or something?”

He shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not,” Peter blushes when you laugh. “I can’t promise you I’ll be clean. This apartment you’re seeing? This is only to persuade you. And you don’t need to worry, I know how to cook, and I don’t bring home random people at night.”

“Just random people’s blood?”

A violent question that he founds oh-so-funny. “Yes. Not dead people’s blood. So you don’t have to worry about that.” Peter watches you sink onto the wooden chair. You pick at the lpse thread of your jeans, twirling it around your fingers before you pull it off.

“As long as I don’t hear loud moaning, I’m fine.”

Your smile is teasing, curved like the Eastern Veil Nebula that’s vibrant and pretty. Dimples apodictic like Peter’s deep laugh that bequeaths you happily silly.

Peter’s unbridled with scrawny handsomeness. His half-lidded gaze has your cheeks burning like the sun, hot enough to render you queasy and yet again nervous. But when he wipes his hands on his thighs and stands up with his hand raised for you to shake, your nervousness ebbs away.

“Feel free to move in whenever you like.”

⋆

899 days pass.

This was all Harry’s fault.

Peter stands outside your open, desolated bedroom. Your bed is made, the LED's on your vanity are switched off, and your make-up is adroitly piled on the edge. It's sanguinely clean, in contrast to his bedroom, which has his filthy clothing placed on top of a chair that has yet to be cleaned.

He likes that even if you’re gone, your room still smells like you – tobacco, vanilla, and the faint scent of wet leaves from the plants by your window. Peter did you a favor and watered them, after being dry for almost three days because you were in too deep into your school works.

He takes one final glance, particularly at the frame mounted beside the window: it was you and Peter at some Halloween party around a year ago. And while you were clad in a skin-tight black outfit with cat ears, he came as Spider-Man (oh, the irony). He donned a store-bought suit, but had pondered wearing his authentic suit since everyone would be too drunk to notice.

With Harry at the far left in a police costume and a fake mustache (and his chest sweaty and exposed), Peter has his arm around your shoulders, hugging you tightly to his chest with his mask in his hand, smiling drunkenly. You held a cup in your hand, nails long and lithe, head on his shoulder with a scrunched nose and an inebriated, slanted grin.

Pallid at the longing for you, he finally descends your bedroom and closes the door behind him. Peter sighs, scratching the spot behind his ear, half-expecting for his phone to ping at any sign of you.

He's bored out of his mind and decides to have a look about. The flat has altered; it no longer exhibits Harry's bachelor nature, but rather an amalgamation of things you both adore that fit together like a constellation, with furnishings thrifted and adapted to meet the selected ethos.

It's pretty and optimistic, much like you. Peter enjoys being immersed by you, yet he still can't get enough and craves more.

Living with you was easier. You never brought home people, and if you were with one, you’d be gone ‘till the next day, respecting Peter. He’d do the same, however his dates had become a once in a blue moon; something felt missing and it just wasn’t it.

He likes how caring and pristine you are, how you’re comfortable with being a mess around him. And he likes how he feels around you, too. Peter doesn’t need to worry about going home late at night because, tl;dr, you already knew, and you didn’t mind patching him up ever-so often with all your dexterity.

You don’t mind his nightly throes, you don’t mind his blood between your fingers that he washes away, you don’t mind his cheeky smile, or his flirty jokes, or his past, or who he is.

And Peter likes that.

(He also likes the fact that you’re so fucking hot he feels like he’s floating happily in space when you wear those tight mid-riffs and above the knee skirts. Even when your shirt is stained with your agitated tears and your loose sweatpants.)

Startling him, his phone pings loudly in his pockets. Peter groans when he reaches for it, fingers still trembling from the tremendous ache he still feels from the previous night. Clumsily, he pulls his battered phone out, seeing a text from you.

(y/n): coming home in ten xx

Peter smiles in excitement, maybe even almost jumping in his place like a giddy little child. He takes on the liberty to fix the place a bit, and patiently waits for you on the couch, scrolling mindlessly on his phone.

You arrive in less than 10 minutes. The rush in your footfall, which he could hear from distance, gave the impression that you were eager to see him, and your quick heartbeat indicated your excitement. You open the door with a tired smile, your outfit a little askew and your purse half-zipped.

Then he remembers you just came from a date and he probably wasn’t the reason behind your smile.

“Hey doll,” your heartbeat quickens at the sobriquet. “How was your date?”

Peter ignores the ache in his heart that his words gave; tries to hide the jealousy his question bore as you answer him. “Fucking sucked. He’s like Harry, but with little to no respect.”

“Harry’s not that bad,” he chuckles, standing up abruptly. His wounds open a little, and Peter tries to hide the discomfort through his smile, not wanting to worry you.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. He just really sucked,” you throw your purse on the couch with a sigh. “Bet you heard how fast my footsteps were, though. Couldn’t wait to get home.”

Smiling, he teases you. “I’m flattered, (y/n).”

“Yeah yeah,” you smack his chest lightly with the back of your hand. He follows you to the kitchen, watching you remove your shoes as you walk through, throwing it aside and decided to clean it later, maybe the next day.

The floor is cold beneath your bare feet, sending shivers up your spine. Your dress shines beneath the dim luminescence of the kitchen light, a star desolated in the middle of the galaxy that Peter’s got his eye on. The white glow of the refrigerator light reflects on your face, bending over to take out a bowl of pineapples.

Even still, Peter follows you as you take a seat on the countertop, swinging your feet as you take the cling wrap off the glass bowl and take the fruit between your fingers, taking a bite.

Peter takes one too, standing in front of you with his back resting against the wall adjacent to you. “Tell me about the date,”

You look at Peter. There’s a side of you that hopes he can show just how jealous he is through his curious gaze, and the other aching for you to just call him out. “Like I said, it was bad,” you shrug, chewing on the fruit. “First, he was ten minutes late.”

He makes a hiss out of judgement. “One point taken.”

“Then he wore the most absurd thing ever. Well, not absurd, but he made me look like I was too overdressed. He wore short khakis, Peter,” your eyes widen. “Short khakis. And, I don’t know, a nyan cat shirt.”

“A nyan cat?”

Peter reaches out for another pineapple, and you hand him the bowl. “A fucking nyan cat. Who wears that to a date?”

He chuckles at your agitation despite the fact that he shouldn't. When Peter says he's thrilled about how poorly your date went, it sounds awful. He doesn't love the sadness, but he does appreciate the fact that you're still open.

He hopes you know what he means.

“I’m sorry your date went bad, (y/n),” his heel kicks him off the wall, his vacant hand reaching out to rub the tense muscle on your right shoulder. Peter smiles when he sees you visibly relax beneath his touch.

“No you’re not,” you smirk, closing your eyes for a moment. “You’re not sorry.”

“You’re right,” he pulls his hand back. “I’m not.”

A meteor of unforeseen confidence, Peter steps closer and stands between your legs. Your dress rides up, set halfway on your thigh. He still chews on his pineapple, his eyes on yours as you gradually peel your eyes open.

Irises like Ara, his knees weaken at your unsanctified eyes. You know the place is filled with thrifted furniture and unresolved, salacious tension that fills your head with ribald imaginations you think will Peter never let you go for. It’s wrong to imagine him take you anywhere in your shared apartment, bending you over and take you from behind, spitting out such unholy things that get you wetter and sweeter at each dulcet word he releases in your ear.

“Why’d you go on that date, anyway?” he murmurs, lips wet from his tongue that licks the delectable taste of pineapple.

You pop the last piece in your mouth. “Thought I could find a good fuck,” Peter’s unsurprised by your bawdy confession, getting used to conversations like these. “It’s been a month and I need to release my stress.”

The bowl is behind you. Peter reaches for the dish, his chest meeting yours and his nose just by your eyes. You smell him – cigarettes, faint blood, cinnamon; it brings a hot pool between your legs, and you clench your thighs together.

You shouldn’t be that horny. It’s just cinnamon. And cigarettes. And blood.

He pulls back with a pineapple between his lips. Peter bites, chews and swallows, and says, “Couldn’t you have approached me?”

Well, cat’s out of the bag. No take backs.

Peter perceives you fluster beneath his gaze from the Freudian slip, an abdication between bravado and modesty. Your body tries to acclimate at his raunchy reply, uncertain of how to react. When you opt to unwind and shrug, drawing closer, the tension crescendos into a pinnacle.

“Wouldn’t have been appropriate,”

“How so?”

“Well, we’re flat mates,” you take a bite. “We live together. We’re practically like siblings.”

He deflates, a wave of un-comfort and humor. “Please don’t say that. It’s gross.”

“I’m sorry,” you chuckle, placing a hand on his bicep. You feel his scar through the thin fabric of his shirt, puzzling in just right on your palm. “I’m saying, flat mates don’t fuck.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Says who?”

“The principles of sex and love,”

“And who made that?”

“I did,” you smile up at him, cheeky. “I made it ever since I hooked up with my roommate back at campus.”

“Is that why you moved out?”

Hesitance halters your words, but you give in a second later. “Yes. Because I wanted to be with her and she didn’t. And I made it awkward and I couldn’t handle it so I moved out.”

Your finger traces the crevices of his biceps, dipping in the curves of his scars of heroism. Peter’s eyes never leave your curious face. “Do these principles count to a guy?”

A shrug. “I don’t know,” you murmur.

The boy is enamored by the taunting, tempting glance you give him. You're a sui generis edgier force in your own right. A burgeoning stargirl in the creation. A woman who is eclectically spurred by autonomy and utilizes confidence as your new power. You're valiant, and your origins are vast.

“You want to try it out?”

You take a bite of your pineapple, and release the sweet fruit with the gentle sound of your suckle. Peter's sense of sight dials up even higher, watching the visual that makes him lick his lips unconsciously.

(And to you, the sight of the thick muscle escaping his unholy mouth sends heat to the altar between your legs, kneeling before you with a mouth that begs atonement; a mouth that aches to taste you.)

Peter wipes the juice from the corner of your lips with his thumb, then raises it to his mouth and sucks the exquisite ambrosia from his skin, and he swears he can taste you. You all but moan, biting your lip. “You fucking drive me insane," he murmurs as he traces your wet lips with his thumb. Your mouth ajar, following his movements before he presses his thumb onto the pad of your tongue.

You suddenly forget the stupid principle in your head, too driven by the arousal that agitates your skin. Peter pushes his thumb deeper until you gag around him, and he pulls his thumb out when you look up at him lustfully.

Leaning in to graze your lips on the lobe of his right ear, you card your fingers through his thick hair, tugging slightly. You smirk when he moans quietly. “Fuck me good then maybe I’ll change my mind.”

The mood switches. Like the warm light turns scarlet red, darkening the dusk in your physiques, Peter plants a hard kiss on your lips. The flavor of pineapple exchanged through heavy breaths and explored tongues, probing his muscle in your mouth. His hands wander up to hold you small face in his large palms, yours pulling on his neck.

His lips are soft in juxtaposition to his rough handling, pulling you closer to his chest. Peter’s hands pull on the zipper at the back of your dress, almost ripping it off out of eagerness. You gasp when he does so, calloused skin caressing your soft back.

“Taste so fucking good,” he growls against your lips. “Had to wait two years for this. Why’d you make me wait, princess?”

Your clothed crotch grinds on the prominent bulge aching to pop out, smirking when he moans again. “Mm, but you liked it, right? Thought you liked waiting? The tension?”

“Fucking tease,” he chuckles, biting your bottom lip. “You feel that baby? Feel how hard you made me? Got me feelin’ like a fuckin’ virgin; like I’ve got a goddamn rock inside my sweats. I’m aching for you."

Hungry hands palm him, pumping him through his sweatpanrs. “I can fucking feel it,” you purr. You feel it go slightly damp, and when he feels it, too, Peter tugs your hand away. His other hand pulls on your hair, a moan escaping your lips when he does so. “Looks like you’re not the only one who’s wet.”

Peter’s eyes darken, his supernova turns into a black hole of lust and starvation. His hands roughly palm your right breast, rolling his thumb over your hardened nipple through your dress. Finally, he pulls the strap down your shoulder, leaning in to bite on your collarbone.

“You want a taste?” he taunts you as you pull on the strings of his sweats. “Get on your knees, then.”

It’s amusing how quick you obliged, letting your dress fall down to the ground. Peter’s eyes land on your exposed chest, lips wanting to wrap themselves on your pebbled buds, but unable to because you sink to the ground, your knees holding you up.

Peter pulls his sweats down, followed by his shirt, smelling the arousal that ruins your underwear. You gasp quietly at the lack of briefs he’s wearing, cock springing up to slap on his stomach.

He is achingly hard, with the tip swell and red, leaking of pre cum. You lick your lips, nails scraping against his thighs before you boldly lick a stripe from his shaft to the tip, sucking on the head.

Effervescently, Peter lets out a sound between a groan and a whimper, the sound ricocheting between the kitchen walls and the marble countertop. You sink your mouth deeper, tongue beneath his cock and his tip hitting the back of your throat when your nose hits his pelvis.

“Fuck,” he moans. “You’re taking me so good.”

His girth is almost unbearable in your mouth when you drag up, enclosing your cheeks around his cock before you sink down in a swift motion. You gag around him, tears swelling your eyes.

Peter thinks the mascara down your cheeks is a masterpiece, beautiful like Andromeda in the sky. You look up at him, eyes wide, wild, sultry yet innocent at the same time. Like the fucking tease you were, your lips wrap around his tip before sinking down halfway, pumping the bottom with your right hand, the left fondling with his balls beneath.

You pull out, pumping him still. “Want to fuck my face, Pete?”

He groans, pulling your hair into a makeshift ponytail. You don’t need his confirmation, because soon his hips are thrusting in your mouth, rougher than you expected but you don’t care. Peter’s cock disappears in your mouth, whimpering when you gag around him.

“That’s it,” a hearty groan. “Fuck. Bet you love this, don’t you? On your knees?” you hum around his shaft, pulling out to kitten-lick his tip before sinking back in. Both his hands are on the back of your head, fucking your face like he’s always wanted to do. Your mouth is full of him, your scent is full of him, and your eyesight is full of him; nonetheless you don’t complain, because being on your knees for him gets you cock drunk enough.

He goes deeper, his cock almost right at your throat. You breathe through your nose, exhaling heavily. “That’s it. Take it like a good fucking girl. Ah – fuck.”

Merciless. His muscles retract at every thrust, and your eyes water at every gag. Peter cries out when your hands squeeze a little around his cock, feeling him get closer on edge at every push. You squeeze at his balls before you twist your hands around his shaft, following his thrusts.

You moan around him, vibrating his dick that draws out a loud groan from the man above you. You can feel his bulging veins against your tongue, saliva and arousal dripping down your chin to your exposed breasts.

Finally, he cums harder than he ever has before, voice loud and vocally thankful of your service. With a loud, scandalous groan, he releases his seed into the back of your throat. The luscious rye gets you inebriated on the delectable wine that tastes of sweet and salty.

Peter pulls you up to your feet, gathering up the spit you made and pushing it back into your mouth with his thumb, popping it out with a smile. “Fucking amazing, doll. Did so good for me.”

He kisses you like it’s the last time, your hands scraping on his chest, feeling the sweat stick to your palm. Peter moves down to bite your neck, doesn’t stop until he’s sure it’ll leave a mark. He lifts you up until you sit on the counter, bare ass meeting the cold marble.

“Think you can return the favor?” you pant, tugging on the roots of his hair. “My mind’s still isn’t changed, Pete.”

Peter kisses his way down – leaving generous sucks to your breasts and pleasurable bites on your pebbled buds, licking down to your pelvis that he bites petulantly. His fingers trail up to your calves until they trace the lace of your underwear, hooking them around his fingers before ever so slowly pulling them down to your ankles.

You’re leaking onto the countertop, and he wastes no time in pushing you backwards so that he’s got a better view of your exposed cunt. Peter grows hard again, looking up at your begging eyes before he gives you what you want.

From your ass to your clit, his tongue journeys up to your bud, sucking at the engorged clit before he laps up your sweetness through your folds, going down to teasingly prod his tongue at your puckered hole before going up to your clit again.

“Shit, Peter,” you throw your head back, hands on his brown locks. Honey-brown eyes meet yours between your legs, and you can feel his smirk against you when you moan loudly as his fingers sink inside you, clenching around his limbs. “Fuck,”

“That’s it,” he feels the spongey spot inside you, finding out it’s your g-spot when you cry out loud, biting your lip out of embarrassment. “Take it baby.” His other hand goes up to pull your bottom lip off your teeth, tugging it down. "What? Don't go shy on me now. You don't think I hear you? You're pretty loud, especially when you use your toy. Rubbing that thing up your greedy fucking pussy. God, you don't even know how hard I get when I hear you moan my name."

You chuckle at his confession. “These walls aren’t paper thin, Peter. If you think you heard those by accident, you’re so fucking wrong.”

He continues to suck on your clit, continues to fuck you with his fingers, continues teasing both your clenching holes. Because Peter enjoys watching your cunt spasm at his touch. He lets his tongue fuck you, moaning when you clench tightly around his thick muscle.

“I’m close,” you breathe out. “I’m so fucking wet Peter. I’m already close.”

Capriciously, Peter stops. You whimper as he stands up, and he’s unpleased by your reaction as a frown settles between his eyebrows. He slaps the tip of his cock on your clit. “Why’re you whining, (y/n). Greedy girl. Wait here for a bit, will you?”

He’s quick to his feet when he disappears into the bedroom. Waiting for at least ten seconds, he reappears with his webshooter on his left hand, and a toy in his right– scarlet head, black body, blue buttons. The wand makes your mouth water, and he places it beside you as Peter gives you a hungry kiss.

In a swift motion, he turns you around. Peter places the wand in front of where your clit is, webs the toy on the countertop before he bends you over, the head hitting your clit as he calculated. You moan at his handling, his hand on the back of your neck.

“You still on the pill?” Peter whispers in her ear. “You feel too fucking good for me to just wear a condom, doll.”

“Yeah,” you nod, eyes closing when his nose rubs on your cheek. Peter holds his cock in his hand, penetrating your hole with his tip before finally pushing in.

Divine. Like angels had come down and taken you with them, but your soul falls down into the deep depths of hell from the unholy act of his bare cock pushing in your tight walls. His hands grasp tightly at your waist, moaning loudly together the neighbors would file a complaint the next day.

It's not his powers healing him - it's you. It's your touch that mends his soul with the mere act of immorality. Your runes mending his skin as it burns itself on his pearlescent body. “So tight, baby,” he breathes out. “So amazing. Feel so amazing. Gonna let me fuck you hard like the whore you are?”

“Yes,” you moan. “Give it to me.”

Ever the obedient, Peter slams himself onto you. His other hand turns the vibrator on, and you practically scream with the intense pleasure. Peter fucks you into oblivion, slamming at a pace unrecoverable.

A feeling that takes him to Caelum; your eyes as round and beautiful as Callisto, bright like the moon. His skin on yours is euphorically amorous; mind nebulous. “You’re such a good cocksleeve, doll. So fucking amazing. My whore, getting what she wants, making me prove her stupid principles wrong.”

You meretriciously reach behind you to grasp at his forearm, hand choking you from behind. His cock opens you up, stretches you out as Peter continues to pound from behind you. You feel his cold spit dribble down your neglected hole, his thumb tracing before pushing it inside your ass.

It’s painful but bearable, because you like the pain that he gives you. Greedily taking all that he gives as his cock goes deep that his tip bulges out your pelvis. The vibrator never hinders down, abusing your swollen clit while his thumb fucks your ass. And you’re scratching: countertops. Your back arched like a cat as his position lets him keep on hitting it, crying because you love him the feeling of his cock too much.

Peter lets go of your neck, hands caressing your back in an act of care. It’s what alleviates the heavy feeling of abhorrent fornication. His scandalous words are gloriously poisonous, but with mithridatism in your veins, you handle the sweet hemlock. Then he pulls your back to his chest leaving the vibrator buzzing and coated with your arousal, bodies paralleled as he fucks you into another universe by a force unfathomably powerful.

But he pulls the vibrator off the counter, despite the sticky webbing. With his balls slamming on yours from behind, with his thumb leaving your hole, he puts the vibrator against your clit, overstimulating you more.

“That’s it,” he moans when he hits your spot, squeezing him. “I’m close. You close baby?”

Lost of words, you nod. He slams with a couple of more thrusts, before he shoots his warm cum inside you. You follow obediently, cumming on his cock. He doesn’t pull out yet, slowly fucking you still.

Peter is as magnificent as the veil nebula in the constellation Cygnus. You soar in cosmos, admiring Peter's blue and purple glories being as the remnant of the beautiful catastrophe of a supernova. You admire the glacial haze, too infatuated with his splendor.

⋆

Peter wipes the drag on the mess between your legs, apologizing when he touches your stinging cunt from the stimulation. He plants a small kiss on your naked collarbone, then a sweet kiss on your tired, puffy lips.

“Are your principles changed?” he murmurs against your lips, looking at you. Peter thinks you’re the most beautiful star in all galaxies, beaming boldly beneath him.

You giggle, finger tracing his jawline. “I guess.”

You hide your face in his chest, Peter plants a soft kiss on your forehead. The fucking wore him out, resting his head on top of yours. And you’re still naked on the countertop.

This was definitely all Harry’s fault.

༻✦༺ . ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ . ༻✧༺