Chapter Text
You can see him looking at you out of your peripheral vision, but you keep your face forward. There are still five minutes left of the lecture, and you’re not going to let him distract you. Not this time. Not when he’s distracted you plenty over the past few weeks. Stupid Parker. Stupid tall, handsome, soft-brown-eyed Parker.
You chew the end of your pencil, your eyes cast down to your notes. You’re pretty sure you’ll remember all of this without any problems. You’re planning to revise it anyway later tonight, when you get home and…
When the lecture’s done, and you can head back to…
When…
Oh, fuck it. You dart a quick look over your shoulder, just in time to see Parker’s gaze flick back down to his own hands. He was looking at you again. You know he was. His brows are vaguely furrowed as he studies some invisible speck of dust on the table in front of him, a muscle in his temple standing out as he clenches and unclenches his jaw.
You let your eyes drift lower, down to the neckline of his dark green shirt underneath an old black hoodie—some kind of band logo; the kind of geeky shirt guys from the science club typically wear. He doesn’t seem like the rest of the guys from the science club. He’s just a little too…solid-looking. He’s slim, sure, but there’s an oddly rangy, muscular tightness to his lean frame. Like a gymnast.
The girl beside you slams her textbook shut, and you nearly jump out of your skin. Around the room, people are packing up, Professor Harman already shutting down his laptop. Shit. You’ve completely spaced on the last part of the lecture; you have absolutely no idea what he said about the finals. And it’s all his fault. Again. Fucking Parker.
You shove your notebook into your bag with more vehemence than strictly necessary. This is getting out of hand. It was fine when it was just a silly crush. But now that he’s actually looking at you, drawing your attention away from what’s important…no. It’s just not going to work. You’ve worked too hard to make it here, and now you’re finally, finally getting close to graduation. You’re not going to lose your perfect average over some cute jerk. You need to sort this out—today.
The cute jerk in question is already out the door, and you sling your backpack over your shoulder as you march after him.
You nearly barrel into a pair of laughing girls leaning outside the door, and they give you a bewildered look as you slide past. The top of Parker’s thick brown hair is the only part of him that’s visible as he lopes away, disappearing into a small study lab up ahead. You barely make it to the end of the hallway by the time he has the door open, ready to close himself inside.
“Hey. Hey!”
He stops, half-turning awkwardly as though he’s considering shutting the door in your face. You cross your arms over your chest. Well. That’s embarrassing. You try very hard not to reveal your hurt at his apparent disinterest. “You’re Peter, right? We’ve got Harman’s Physics 3112 together.” It feels vaguely ridiculous pointing this out, considering you’ve both just walked out of the same door after stealing glances at each other for the past hour, but if he’s playing it nonchalant then you don’t see any reason you shouldn’t do the same.
“Uh. Yeah.” He grimaces, running a hand through his hair and glancing at something over your shoulder. His hair is just a little too long; flopping over his forehead. He has dark bruises across his knuckles, the second and third fingers of his left hand busted open as though he’s punched a brick wall. It’s such an unexpected thing to see on quiet, withdrawn Peter Parker that you stare for a moment, forgetting to speak.
But then he speaks for you. “Look, did you…want something? Not to be rude, but I have some work to do, so…”
Your face feels hot, but you’re not going to let this go quite so easily. So you give him a tight little smile. “That’s fine. It’ll just take a minute.” You brush past him into the lab, and he stares straight ahead, letting a beat pass before almost imperceptibly shaking his head. His lips are in a tight, unamused line as he closes the door and turns to face you.
He really is stupidly handsome, you think, standing across from him. All the more reason to get this over and done with. “You were staring at me.”
His mouth opens and then closes again, an eyebrow twitching upwards. “No, I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were. Don’t make this weirder than it needs to be.”
He exhales with a disbelieving little huff of laughter. “Don’t—make—what?”
“This.” You motion between yourself and him, hoping your hand isn’t shaking. You sound far braver than you feel. Which is heartening, considering there’s a flush creeping up his neck as his low, smooth voice dissolves into splutters.
“Look, I’m…sorry. I didn’t mean to—like, it’s not like I was trying to…” His teeth aren’t perfectly straight, you note, feeling warmer. It’s endearing; the incisors slightly crooked. He runs a hand across his face. “You…are very pretty. Okay? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, and I’m not gonna bother you or anything.”
You feel your lips lifting at the sides. “You think I’m pretty?”
He looks pained. “I don’t want…anything. I can’t, anyway, right now. It’s kind of beyond complicated.” He snorts at his own words and you feel a strange sort of sad settling in your chest. Okay. He doesn’t want anything. That’s fine, neither do you. Right? Doesn’t mean you can’t get this…thing out of your systems.
So you nod at him decisively. “I don’t want anything either. I just want to stop being so distracted. That’s why I’m here.” Darting a nervous glance to make sure the door is still firmly closed, you drop your bag to your feet and reach to pull your shirt over your head.
“Whoa. Whoa, hang on, wait—“
“I think you’re pretty, too. Or hot. Handsome. Whatever.” His eyes dart down to your chest, and you silently thank your past self for choosing one of your nicer bras this morning. He’s red all the way to his ears now, his lips parted. You forge ahead before he can respond. “I am not failing this semester because of you. So I think we should just…get it out. And then we can move on with our lives.”
His eyes are so wide you can see your own silhouette reflected back at yourself. He swallows, his throat bobbing. And then he nods, once, apparently thinking hard.
“Yeah. That’s a good idea, actually. Just a…just this. Easy. Nobody else needs to know.”
You make a little sound in the back of your throat, your heart plummeting. "Wow. Thanks.”
“No! No, no no. It’s not like that. I mean, oh man, I’d love everyone to know. But it’s better for you if they don’t. Trust me, you don’t wanna be publicly associated with me.” It’s the most nonsensical excuse you’ve ever heard, but you try very hard not to show him how much it hurts.
“Sure. Fine by me. Let’s get this over with.”
He nods again, reaching to unzip his hoodie, then he pauses. “Um. This is going to sound weird, but…could you turn around?
You scoff. “Are you serious? We’re about to—“
“Yeah, I know. It’s just. I have, um, embarrassing underwear on.”
Your eyebrows feel like they’re about to disappear into your hair, but you comply. Turning your back to him, you kick off your shoes before you bend to step out of your jeans. You fold your arms, staring at the rows of labelled containers in the cabinet in front of you. There’s the sound of his bag unzipping behind you as he shoves his clothes inside. The room is tiny, cold and windowless. The least romantic place you could have possibly chosen. That’s good, you tell yourself. This isn’t about romance.
He clears his throat behind you, and you turn.
You stare, stupidly silent. He’s absolutely ripped. Like, Olympian-ripped. His lean, long torso is lined with muscle, clearly defined and beautifully carved all the way down to his narrow hips. His hands are cupped in front of his crotch, but you can see the lines of muscle in his thighs, across the tops of his shoulders, God, even in his forearms.
“You look like a model,” you blurt, instantly wishing you could disappear. He exhales a shaky, nervous-sounding laugh.
“I guess I just…keep active. I skate. And…uh, run. Parkour sometimes.”
No amount of skateboarding in the world produces a body like that, you don’t say. You step closer, reaching a tentative hand out to run over a harsh-looking scar on his ribs. There are more bruises on his upper arms; one at his elbow stretching down toward his wrist.
“Jesus, Parker. You in the campus fight club or something?”
He gives you a crooked smile. “Well, if I was I couldn’t tell you, right? First rule is—“
“Yeah, no, I get it.” The geeky joke had come out sounding breathy and shy, unbelievably incongruous coming from a guy with a body like this. He makes no sense. You watch as goosebumps raise on his skin, even without touching him. Your fingers hover an inch away from his nipple as he reacts to your proximity.
Then he lifts a hand to your shoulder, his thumb resting beside your neck. “Is it alright if I kiss you?”
You’re not breathing as you nod your assent. He has to duck his neck to meet your lips; his own slightly dry. He kisses you hesitantly, almost chastely. You open your mouth under him, trying to encourage him to deepen the kiss, and he complies, his arm sliding around your shoulders to hold you closer. His teeth test your lower lip, a quiet groan escaping from somewhere in his chest.
The lower half of your body feels unbearably hot, and you shift your thighs together as you lean against him, pressing your tongue against his. He’s not a great kisser. But that’s fine; that isn’t why you’re here. As though reminding you why you are here, you feel something bump into your hip, and he shifts his body sideways.
“Sorry,” he breathes, breaking the kiss. “It’s…been a while.”
“That’s okay,” you murmur back. “This feels good,” hoping you sound encouraging. He reaches down between your bodies, his fingers clumsily finding the edge of your panties and pushing them to one side. You whimper as he brushes his index finger between your lips, testing. You feel slick already, and you shift your hips forward, closer to his hand.
“Is this—I mean, is it okay if I—?” His voice comes out in a whisper, and you shiver.
“Yes,” your lips move against the side of his mouth, and he dips his middle finger inside you, making you suck in a sharp breath and clench hard around him. He withdraws and glides the arousal-coated finger higher, between your folds.
It’s clumsy at first; he misses your clit on the first few passes, but he’s watching you closely, gauging every twitch and jerk of your body. It only takes him a few moments to find his target, and when he does, he doesn’t miss again.
You let your head fall limply against his chest, your eyes fluttering shut. Circling tighter, zeroing in on the place that makes you gasp, he begins a steady, focused movement. He holds you upright, his chin tucked to your dampening temple as you start to tremble, your legs weakening.
“That’s…really good,” you whimper.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Come on, that’s it…”
Your orgasm shatters up from the centre of your body, and you see white. If he hadn’t been holding you so close, you’re sure you would’ve melted into a heap on the floor. He’s still touching you, his fingers slower but not quite still yet, feeling the pulse of your cunt between your legs.
When you manage to drag your eyes open again, he’s staring at your face, looking awed.
“Hey,” he mouths, one side of his lips quirking up.
You blink at him dazedly, panting. Who would’ve thought? Parker works fast. But then there’s another nudge at your side, and before you can glance back down, his lips are on yours again.
He kisses you harder this time, stepping forward, and you stumble with him until your lower back hits the cold metal edge of a bench. Blindly, you reach down, feeling until your fingers meet the hot shape of his cock, straining toward you.
He groans a shapeless word into your mouth as you wrap your fingers around his length, testing. He feels big in your palm; heavy and hard, and you stroke your fist loosely down to the nest of hair at the base.
His hips roll forward into your touch, and you gasp against his open mouth as his fingers find the backs of your thighs, lifting you bodily onto the edge of the bench as though you weigh nothing.
“You’re so strong,” you hear yourself saying numbly, your head spinning. He makes a noncommittal noise, his hands running down to your breasts, cupping you gently over your bra.
You part your thighs around his body, your ankles hooking together behind his back and urging him forward. You want him—somehow, impossibly—even more now. He’s odd, and gentle, and awkward, and fuck, his hands feel good.
“Did you bring condoms? Anything?” he murmurs, his lips against your ear.
You shake your head, frustrated at the implication that you've initiated this so recklessly. How the hell were you supposed to know this was going to happen? How were you supposed to know he was going to be sitting there in his stupid old green shirt, looking like that?
“I’m on the pill,” you tell him, still stroking his thickness in your fist and enjoying the way his eyes roll closed. “And I’m clean. Are you?”
He nods, his eyes still closed. “Yeah, I am. You sure you still wanna do this?”
In answer, you draw his hips closer with your joined ankles. Your underwear is still gathered to one side; tangled thin. You scoot yourself forward until you’re on the edge of the bench, and you feel the blunt head of his cock nudge at your opening.
His eyes open, and he looks at you, his nostrils flaring as he breathes in and out. Gently, carefully, he pushes forward. The head of his cock breaches your entrance and you both hitch your breaths. His hands come up to cup your face, his thumb against your jawline.
He sinks another inch deeper, and you huff weakly, your brows pinching together. His lips are parted as he watches your face, his hair standing up messily around his head.
You need him; deeper, fuller, and you pull him closer, your head tipping backward in pleasure as he bottoms out.
He hisses something that might be your name, withdrawing his hips and driving forward again. You can feel the tautness of his buttocks flexing against your feet. Your nails sink into his biceps as you hold onto him like an anchor; relishing the fullness of him as he begins to roll into a rhythm.
The push-pull of every ridge of him inside you, dragging against your walls, feels beautiful—it’s completion, and abandon, and you don’t want it to end. It’s not a peaking pleasure; it’s a steadiness, constant and surging and endless.
But his breaths are labouring, harsher against your head, and you feel his rhythm beginning to fall out of time. His hips snap forward messily, and you let your hands slide higher, up into his hair, holding onto him as his movements stutter.
“Shiiiii—“ he groans weakly, his open lips against your temple. You can feel the twitch of his cock, and he drives himself inside you to the hilt, the hot pulse of cum painting your insides.
You can feel sweat cooling between your breasts, and you let your nails rake gently against his scalp as he pants into your hair. You don’t want him to move. You want to keep him here, inside you, between your spread thighs, even as you feel the warm runnel of his semen leaking out around his softening cock.
“You okay?” he asks, his hand under your chin. You look up at him, your chest twinging with something hard and painful.
“Yeah. You?”
He nods, pressing his lips together. He ducks his head as he withdraws from you, stepping back and bending to grab your clothes. He hands them to you, and you accept them wordlessly, pressing your legs together. It’s back to awkwardness again, and as you slip down to your feet, he raises an eyebrow.
You sigh, turning your back to him. You slip off your panties; now with a wet patch at the front, and use them to clean yourself up before tossing them into your backpack. The fabric of your jeans feels rough against your bare skin as you slip them back on, and by the time you turn back to him, he’s fully dressed.
“I. Uh. Guess I’ll see you around,” he says, grimacing, his hand in his hair.
You exhale. This should have helped. You did it; you got Peter Parker out of your system; and it wasn’t even particularly good. Sure, his hands were…something else, but as for the rest? Fumbling, breathless, grasping?
There’s no reason for it to make you want him even more.
But as he half-raises a hand in a strange little wave, turning to leave, you find yourself frowning, your lips turning down. You’re smart. Without undue arrogance, you know this to be a fact. And yet you know now with a rush of realisation that you’ve made a really, really dumb mistake.