Throwing Up.

throwing up.

shadow of a heart | luke castellan.

pairing: luke castellan x fem!reader

summary: luke’s last day at camp and everything that comes with it.

wc: 3.1k

warnings: book spoilers and (shocker) luke being a bit toxic but its all internally

a/n: this is based on cosmic love by florence and the machine !! aka one of my fave songs of all time. sorry ik i disappeared for a while :( i hope this fic is good enough as an apology <33 also i think it is impossible for me to not talk about the stars and sky in a fic …

Luke could swear his heart was about to burst out of his chest. The sound of unclaimed children snoring and the sight of his siblings peacefully sleeping didn’t seem to help him calm down, he ran a hand through his face before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He had to calm down. He couldn’t risk fucking this day up. After all, waking up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and with his heart running a marathon wasn’t the most pleasant way to kick off his last day at camp. His last day ever. 

“Don’t fail, Son of Hermes. Unless you’re a coward,” The Titan’s voice rang in his ears, causing his breathing to come out short and his chest to rise up and down at a fast pace. Luke gasped for air, pressing his free hand against his chest.

His body reacted faster than his brain. His mind blinding him with a fog of fear. Fear of not being strong enough for the Titan Lord. Fear of being too weak to take out the scorpion he currently had hidden under his bunk. Fear of losing his only family. Fear of losing you. 

Luke had to take a second to remember the reasoning behind his actions. Reminding himself to not be scared, because why should he be scared? The gods should be scared, not him. If they hadn’t neglected and abandoned their children he wouldn’t have to do this. How dare they make him feel scared? After everything they’ve done to him, after all his losses, after all the times he had to press his hand against his mouth in the shower to muffle his sobs… why should Luke be scared? 

His heart slowly returned to its normal pace and Luke took advantage of it to throw his bedsheets to the side and step out of his bunk, walking in careful steps towards the door, making sure to skip over the pieces of wood that always creaked under his feet. The six years he spent under the roof of the Hermes Cabin helping him learn the best ways to sneak out without getting caught.

 At least something good came out of it, he thought. 

And even if he got caught, what would the children do? They admired him. He was The Strong and Brave Luke Castellan, the most skilled swordsman in the last three hundred years. The campers would be too intimidated to rat out their counselor. 

The certainty of his dominance over the campers was enough to fuel his last steps and open the door. Luke was greeted with a starry sky and a quiet night, the wood nymphs not humming in their sleep for probably the first time ever. He thought this was fitting. Camp Half-Blood being quiet on his last day. It’s almost as if the Camp was silently begging him not to leave.

Look at us. Look at how quiet it will be. Look at how dark the safe haven of the demigods will become. You’ll take the stars with you when you leave. 

He shook his head, trying to get rid of the loud thoughts he was having. Luke had it all planned out, all he had to do was pack his things and leave. 

No.

All he had to do was pack his things, make sure the Son of Poseidon dies, betray his sweet and brave little sister, betray you.. and leave. 

Stay. Just stay. It won’t be dark if you stay. Don’t take the stars away from your family. 

Luke was sure he was going crazy. He probably has been for a long time but he became certain of it when he gave up everything just to prove his loyalty to The Titan Lord. 

But despite all the rage he had inside him, a part of him wanted to run straight to the Big House and tell Chiron all about his wrongdoings. He wanted to get on his knees and repent for stealing The Master Bolt and The Helm of Darkness. He wanted to cry into your arms and reassure you of all the love he held for you. 

How could a silent camp be so loud at the same time? 

Luke walked to the combat arena and took Backbiter out of its hilt. The weight of it not even coming close to the weight he felt on his shoulders. His hands shook as he stared at the blade, the mix of tempered steel and celestial bronze making him feel sick. A feeling of impending doom settling in his gut.

“It can kill mortals, demigods, and immortal divine beings,” He remembered his master’s words. Luke’s reflection on the blade stared back at him, his scar being more prominent than usual.

Was he cursed? Maybe he was doomed from the moment he was born. 

He was fourteen years old when he stopped believing in salvation. The thought of there being a paradise where he’d end up happy and in peace seemed impossible to him, almost unimaginable. He had been fighting his entire life, not ever knowing peace or unconditional love a day of it. Sure, he assumed his mother loved him before she turned into... whatever she was now. But he stopped believing in the goodness of the world when he packed his bags at just nine years old and ran away from his house. After all, that’s what it always was: a house, not ever really a home. 

He was sixteen when he found his home. After two years of grieving Thalia’s death and sobbing silently in the showers—not ever daring to let Annabeth see him as weak, he found his home. He met you. Someone who would listen when he’d ramble about his mother’s homemade sandwiches and cookies, the ones he always claimed were “Kinda bad and didn’t miss at all,” never forgetting to mention that his mentally unstable mother is probably so far gone by now and probably doesn’t even remember the recipe. 

Luke twirled the sword with his right hand, trying to get comfortable with the newfound weight. He stared at Backbiter, noticing how it even made him feel scared, the darkness it held made him want to sneak into the Forge and melt it down. 

He tried to calm himself down by remembering one of the thousand times he shared stories about his mother while you silently listened. 

“I mean it, she thought those sandwiches were the peak of cuisine and yeah, I was nine so I guess it probably was, but... really? She could’ve done so much better. I suppose I can’t blame her for it, I would be a mediocre parent if someone like Hermes was co-parenting with me,” He explained while playing with your hair, his slender fingers moving in a delicate way while he kept his eyes on the campers risking their lives as they flew higher than they should with their pegasi. 

You didn’t miss the way he laced his tone with disgust when he said his father’s name, but you knew better than to reprimand him for it. “Beckendorf is totally going to fall off that damned horse,” You chose the safe answer, changing the direction of the conversation to something more lighthearted. 

Luke snorted next to you before poking your side with his free hand, “You’ve been in this camp for three years and you’re still calling them horses? Gods, what would Zeus say?” You could hear his smile even though he tried to mask it in his faux angry statement. 

“What would Zeus say? I’m sure you would love to know, Castellan. You should ask him in two weeks,” You replied, turning your head to the left to face him and poking him in the chest. You took notice of Luke rolling his eyes when you reminded him of the most dreaded time of the year: The annual winter solstice visit to Mount Olympus. 

“Don’t tempt me, angel. I’ll even tell him my sweet girlfriend was the one who ordered me to ask him about it,” He said, before leaning closer to you and pressing a soft kiss against your forehead, his hand moving from your hair to your jaw, caressing it in the tender way he always did. 

“Alright, alright. I get it, you win.” 

A bright smile made its way to Luke’s face, “Just another day on the job.”

“Just another day of you being a huge—” Your statement was interrupted by a loud thud and the sound of campers screaming, begging for a medic. The two of you were quick to stand up and run to the stables just to be greeted with the sight of a group of campers surrounding a clearly injured Charlie Beckendorf. 

“Fuck, Beckendorf. I’ll go check if there is a free spot in the infirmary for you but you need to be more careful when you play around with that horse.” You turned around, trying to ignore how worried you felt for your Son-of-Hephaestus friend, ready to sprint all the way to the Apollo Cabin. 

You were a few feet away from the stables when you heard a yell coming from behind you, “It’s a Pegasus, baby!”

You screamed back a “Shut the fuck up, Castellan!” and tried to ignore the wide eyes you got from the younger campers who heard the not so pleasant word come out of your mouth. 

Luke didn’t know how long he spent in the combat arena trying to get comfortable with the weight and darkness Backbiter had, but the sun was out and shining its bright rays down on Camp Half-Blood by the time he finally got tired. He panted and closed his eyes as he felt a wave of exhaustion take all over his body. 

He just didn’t know if he was exhausted from training or exhausted from keeping secrets from you. 

“Don’t get mad but that new sword looks kinda..” Your voice had him snapping his eyes open, the sight of you walking towards him making his body feel lighter. Luke felt so relieved to see you that he considered dropping down to his knees and breaking down crying over the weight he was carrying. If he hadn’t been in a public space he might as well have done it.

“It looks kinda?” He answered, running the back of his hand through his forehead, trying to get rid of the sweat trickling down from his hair.

“Kinda shit,” You continued. “I think the sword being double edged is cool but it’s stupid to have that. When would we ever maim a mortal? The tempered steel is useless.” 

Luke gave you a small smile before looking away from you. When would we ever maim a mortal? You’d be surprised, he thought. He looked up again to meet your eyes, a frown taking over your features. Luke’s heart sank when he saw your worried demeanor. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” You whispered, walking closer to him and cupping his cheeks, running your thumb under his scar before leaning closer to him and kissing it. 

Luke hummed at the sensation, he always felt less ashamed of himself and his actions whenever you kissed his scar or caressed it. He didn’t understand why but he liked having the knowledge of someone not seeing the scar as proof of his blatant failure, he liked knowing you saw the scar as another beautiful part of him—a part you loved. 

He turned his head to the left, kissing the palm of your hand and replying with a low, “Don’t worry about it. You know how I always get when it’s the last day of Camp for the summer campers.” 

It wasn’t a complete lie. Luke always felt sick whenever this day arrived because he knew half of the campers he met this year wouldn’t be coming back. They’d be lucky if they even survived all the way to December. 

“No, Castellan. I will worry about it. If it’s important to you then it is important to me,” you answered, matching his low tone as you stared into his eyes, feeling captivated by the light they held inside of them. You were sure a star fell straight into them and that’s why they always reflected light and love.

Luke sighed and took your hand that was cupping his cheek, intertwining it with his.  “Fuck, I’m going to miss you so much,” he whispered, almost as if he was talking to himself. 

“You do know I’ll come back to camp for Christmas, right? Plus, we can Iris Message whenever you want. You don’t have to miss me, Luke,” you reminded him. Luke almost keeled over and vomited at the knowledge of you thinking you’ll see him again in Camp. 

“I always miss you, angel. I’m even missing you right now,” Luke answered, leaning down to steal a quick kiss just to be stopped by a hand pressed to his chest. “What the fuck?”

“You’re sweaty as shit, Castellan. Go take a shower and maybe I’ll let you kiss me when you’re done.” That was enough motivation for Luke to mutter an annoyed “Fine,” and walk to the showers. 

Luke spent more time under the showerhead than usual. It was his last day at camp, he reminded himself. He deserved to take a long cold shower without the worry of Mr. D getting mad at him for “Wasting the cold water on just himself.” He could use all the water he wanted because he was never going to step a foot inside this place ever again. 

Plus, he could use this alone time to think. Think about the finality today will bring. An end to his years at camp. An end to his loyalty to the gods. An end to his bond with Annabeth. An end to his relationship with you.

That’s probably what scares him the most–the thought of you deciding to go against him. He doesn't know if he should let you know about the things that were bound to happen tonight or if he should just keep you in the dark. 

Two frightening options: Bringing you to the light and showing his true self to you or keeping you in the shadows.. never fully knowing how broken and rotten he truly is. 

He tried to not think about the second option for too long. Because even if you did find out and he went through with Kronos’s plan causing the sky to remain starless forever, he knew you would choose to stay in the shadows for him. He trusted you and knew you would rather stay in the darkness than go against him.

The rest of his day went by faster than he wanted. He sparred with a few campers, got used to Backbiter’s weight by fighting some training dummies in the combat arena, spent time with his siblings, and sat next to you in the dining pavilion. It all seemed like a normal day at Camp Half-Blood. 

Well, at least that’s how it felt until Percy Jackson came back from his visit to Mount Olympus. 

The campers celebrated his return by lighting up fireworks and cheering his name every two seconds. It all made Luke feel sick. Why didn’t he get treated like that when he came back from his quest? All he got was a scar, looks of pity, and dead quest companions.

 No heroic welcome and no fireworks. Just burnt shrouds, mourners, and a feeling of self-loathing taking all over him. 

“Hey,” your voice made him drag his gaze away from the green fireworks lighting up the night sky. He turned his head to the right, meeting your eyes and raising a brow.

“I am pretty sure you owe me a kiss,” he said in a playful tone, taking notice of how the light of the fireworks illuminated your face just right, making the light look like a halo around you. 

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it is impossible for there to be no light and for the sky to be starless. There will always be light as long as your heart is beating and your eyes are set on him.  

“Huh, do I? I don’t think I do,” you replied, biting your lip trying to prevent a smile from taking over your face. 

“Oh, shut up,” Luke answered, finally taking your face in his hands and kissing you. He almost fell to his knees at the feeling of your lips moving against his. The kiss was like a comet’s trail, leaving behind luminous particles of Luke’s hidden secrets and unspoken desires. 

You pulled away first, trying to catch your breath as you kept your eyes closed and your forehead pressed against his. “What’s wrong?” you whispered, asking him the same question you did in the morning.

“Why do you ask?” Luke answered in between pants, his breathing uneven due to the intensity of the kiss you shared. 

“You were.. somewhere else when I walked here. Lost inside your pretty little mind,” you explained. Luke hummed when he heard your answer. 

“I just,” he sighed, pulling his forehead away from yours by raising his head. “What would you–” he cut himself off. “Never mind.”

“No, it’s fine. I want to hear it.” 

“What would you do if you woke up one day and the earth was consumed by darkness? And I mean complete darkness, no sun and no stars.” 

“Holy shit. Did you hang out with the Apollo and Athena cabin?” you held back an amused laugh.

“Just humor me for a second, please.”

“Alright, um..” you looked down, trying to formulate an answer to Luke’s strangely philosophical question. “I guess I wouldn’t mind as long as I could find you. I know I’d be able to find my way to you so I wouldn’t really worry too much.”

And that answer was everything Luke ever needed. 

He spent some more time talking to you, memorizing the way you looked under the lights of the amphitheater in your Camp shirt and necklace. Trying to enjoy it because he will never have this sight again. 

Luke excused himself with an “I have a gift for Percy, but I’ll come back to you. Just give me some time,” before walking all the way to the cabins and taking out the Pit Scorpion he had hidden under his bunk. 

There was no fear in his actions this time. His heart was beating in a steady rhythm and his hands weren't shaking anymore. The weight of Backbiter in its hilt felt perfect against his hip. 

There would be no fear in any of his actions anymore. Because he knows if he keeps you in the shadows you’ll eventually become a dark starless sky just like him.

{Marya Hornbacher from Wasted: A Memoir of Anorexia and Bulimia//stay away but come closer via Altusboy on Tumblr}

"Poetrusic", by Charlie Dalton

Laughing, crying, tumbling, mumbling,

Gotta do more, gotta be more

Chaos screaming, chaos dreaming

Gotta do more, gotta be more!

If they kill off Hobie in the next movie I'm going to fall to pieces

If they introduce Hobie's MJ in the next movie I'm going to become a danger to society and Sony Studios and let it be known I am not above arson

Lost The Game

SUMMARY:The explanation your mind settled for was that whoever lived under that mask, also lived somewhere close by. It explained the first time you found him limping and bleeding on an alley, and it explains how you evolved into his personal caretaker for the wounds and afflictions of Spider-Man’s after battle consequences.

The only thing it doesn’t explain, however, is why through the thick and convoluted webs of your strange situationship, a certain tension has built between you two. Palpable. Physical. As electric as some of his tales, and as dangerous as he is.

The tension between you and Spidey grows, and it grows, and it grows. One day, it snaps.

⚠️ Minors DNI. Smut. | 🏷️ 3.2K , fluff, part two of three, reposting this ‘cause some people missed this one and asked for it.

• PART ONE •

“I really want you,” you confess.

Spider lets out a shaky breath. “Good.” He nods. The hand on your waist holds on tighter, and he pulls you closer. “I haven’t wanted anything this bad in a long, long time.”

When he kisses you again, you can feel that.

The words, the feelings behind them, the truth in it.

His lips start softly pressing against yours, and you're thankful for the late-night hour, the blanket of darkness washing over your room. Spidey kisses you like he wants you back just as much as you want him.

It's been so long since you've just kissed someone for the sake of kissing, and the realization dawns on you as his tongue meets yours in a delicious, filthy drag.

Spidey pulls your waist to him and slides both your bodies down so you're lying flat against the bed; through the fog that his kisses create on your mind, you realize how easily he moves you.

As if you weigh nothing. Then, it dawns on you—to him, you don't.

That pulls a groan from the pits of your gut.

Spidey's mouth on your swallows it down, and your fingers start grasping and holding on to whatever bits of hair it can reach underneath his mask.

Slowly, his body descents on yours and he lets you feel some of his on weight too. His tall, slender figure covers yours in the best way possible, and you lose yourself to the feeling of kissing him.

How long had it been since you wanted someone so bad to the point of just kissing, and feeling?

He seems to be in the same predicament if your judgment is not too cloudy. Spidey pulls back for air eventually and you whine, chasing the feeling of his lips.

His smile makes your heart do stupid, crazy things inside your chest.

"I've wanted to do this for a while," he breathes close to your mouth. Then, he kisses your jaw. "Didn't know if I could—if I deserved it," he mutters, trailing his mouth from your jawline to your neck. "You always smell so fucking good—why the hell d'you have to smell good?"

That makes you giggle. When pull back to answer him, though, the wide, white bug eyes make your words falter for a moment.

He senses it—Spidey's sense is something out of this world, and with you this close to him, you're sure there's nothing he would miss. "It's weird, right? Is it weird? We can stop—I don't want to, kissing you is the best thing that's happened to me in a while, but we—"

"Spidey," you interrupt. He shuts his mouth and adjusts himself on top of you with either one of his elbows resting on each side of your face. "Do you trust me?"

Without hesitation, he nods. "Yeah."

"Okay," you nod. With determination, you push his body away and he gets the hint, getting off from you. You crawl across the bed towards your double windows and thank the skies that you're the kind of person who's a night owl.

The black-out curtains were one of the first purchases you made when renting this loft and now, you feel blessed by them for more reasons than allowing you to sleep after long shifts and studying all night long.

When the two of them are closed, your room is blanketed with the darkness of the night-sky, and your vision goes blind.

It's crazy how much your other senses come forward when one of them is deprived.

You can hear perfectly your own breathing and the soft ruffling of your sheets. "Spidey?" You whisper.

"I'm here," he says on the opposite end of your bed.

"Can you see anything?" you ask, crawling back towards the direction of his voice, slowly.

"A little more than you, probably," there's soft laughter very close to you, then you feel a hand wrapping around your wrist. He pulls you to him and now Spidey's sitting with his back to the headboard of your bed, fitted between your pillows.

You crawl on top of him, straddling his lap, feeling your heart beating on your throat.

Your hands feel all the way up to his neck.

When they're there, you cup his neck in your hands and caress the soft skin it finds there. "Hi," you mutter.

All you can feel is the heat of his body underneath you. "Hi," he whispers back. His head leans forward and your foreheads touch. "How the hell did I fall on your hands of all the hands in this hell-hole of a city?"

It comes out as a breathless whisper, but it makes your insides curl.

He speaks it in such a reverent way that it's impossible for you to not feel it. "I'm glad you did." You lean forward, giving him enough time to back away and when he doesn't, you press a soft, chaste kiss on his lips. "Can we—can we kiss more? The curtains—I just closed so you'd feel more comfortable," you confess. "You don't have to take the mask off, but I can't see you now."

"I know. I know," Spidey nods, and you feel another kiss pressed on your lips. "It's just—," he swallows thickly, and his hands on your waist pull you flushed against his chest. "Gimme a second."

You sit there, waiting.

Every movement of his body is now felt by you—every inch of his body is pressed against yours, and because you can, you wrap your legs around his waist, locking your heels together.

That's when you feel it—you're adjusting yourself on his lap when Spidey's left arm comes up to the back of his neck, and he grips the back of his mask.

The sound of the material being pulled off makes your heart beat faster.

He trusts me. Oh, god, he really, actually trusts me.

"This is better, right?" His voice sounds lower.

Raspier—more serious. His arm around your waist and underneath your ass secures its grip, and you nod. "I... thank you. For trusting me, Spidey-boy," you chuckle, feigning nonchalance to try and mask how much your heart is trying to beat out of your chest.

He laughs too, the same nervous undertone as yours in his mirth, and then kisses you. "I wish I could do this in the light of the day," his voice carries so much that you wonder if this is what you were both chasing when the hug turned into a kiss. Spidey almost sounds on the verge of tears underneath you, and you can tell these are words he's been holding back for a while now. "I wish—D'you get why I don't? I'm—It terrifies me. If I'm me and I meet you, and then someone who's Spider's enemy discovers my identity—it's you they'll go after, Y/n. I've been there before. They can't go after you. D'you get that?"

"I do," you kiss him quiet, and you both lose yourselves in it.

He worries. All those times thinking he didn't want to spend time with me—he just worries.

The thought multiples, and grows like a tree in your mind. It spills over in the kiss.

He wants you, and thought about it, too. He's been protecting you, guarding you against the fact that his double life comes with consequences.

When he pulls back again, you whine in protest. "No—get back here," now that you can, you grab a fistful of his hair.

Spidey groans against your lips, laughing. "Hold on."

"No," you protest, and smash your smiling lips on his again.

Spidey lets you, and the kiss is nothing but two smiles pressed together for the first moment. It takes a couple of pecks and the sweet drag of his bottom lip over your mouth to open you up.

The way he kisses is intoxicating.

It makes you feel like someone new—it sparks something inside of you. It takes so much to make you comfortable and willing, needy and receptive, but his touches all land in the right places.

The kiss builds up. More than touching, it senses like a delivery. All of his wounds are forgotten, and all of your worries dissipate. Nothing but the drag of his tongue against yours and his hands gripping your body tight resonate on your mind, and Spidey uses his hands to guide your arms up—he holds you by the elbow and guides your hands until they reach up, touching his face.

You gasp in his mouth.

"It's ok," he whispers. You feel his smile, and swallow the knot on your throat.

"You sure?"

"Uhum."

Tentatively, you let your hands explore over his face.

It's so real and terrifying to trace the outline of his jawline, the shape of his lips, and his full eyebrows that everything else becomes silent. Spidey lets you do it, allows your hands to draw his features in your mind, caresses over his closed eyelids.

The thought slips out of you in a breathless whisper,

"You're so pretty."

He chuckles, and his legs slide up higher, trapping you inside his hold. "Ah—thanks."

You bite your lip, feeling your mind go hazy.

Underneath you, he's not exactly soft anymore. Both of you must be highly aware of that fact, or at least, you are. It makes you burn, and the core between your legs feels twice hotter since the moment you sat down.

You don't know how far he wants to take this, but stopping kissing him is out of the question. "Hey, Spidey—"

"Peter."

It's a whisper.

It catches you, like a trap in the woods.

Peter.

"I imagine there are enough around there for me to let you have at least this," he whispers, and when his lips are on yours again, they tremble.

Peter.

You kiss him, and melt in his arms in the process. When he pulls apart for air again, you whisper. "Hey, Peter."

"Yeah?"

"Please, don't stop."

Peter takes a deep breath underneath you.

"You don't want me to stop?" He asks, his arms squeezing around you.

Not to stop what, you're unsure. Whatever it is, you're sure of the answer. Shaking your head, you whisper. "No."

Don't stop kissing me.

Don't stop touching me.

Don't leave. Don't go anywhere. Don't leave. Please, don't leave.

Whatever part of your thoughts he hears, he takes it to heart, and pushes all the answers from his lips to yours.

His name is Peter.

That's the first thing you catalog now, and they start webbing one into the other.

Number one, Peter's an excellent kisser.

He knows when to grab you by the hair and guide you where he wants you to be, and knows when to let you take control. He allows you to play with his hair, to grab his face, scratch his nape—all that you have to offer, he's willing to take. Peter lets you bite and nibble on his bottom lip, and in return, he sucks your tongue inside his mouth. It's like a push and pull, a game of wits that one of you is winning, and so is the other one.

Number two, Peter's got a mouth on him.

You discover it the first time he pulls back for much needed air and takes his breaths hiding in the cusp of your neck, with his hands getting bolder and learning the outlines of other parts of your body now—like your stomach, your ribs and your breats. He holds the new parts he finds, and grips the one he likes the most. It pulls mewls and whines out of you, and that's when he first chuckles against your skin, all malice and desire.

"You're sensitive here?" He asks, grabbing your sides. "Or here?" His hands run up to your boobs, cupping them in his hands. "Fuck. D'you know how many times I had to think about the vilest things I've ever seen to distract myself from these right on my face? My line of sight? Fuck, Y/n, they're so soft."

His mouth goes from its trail on your shoulders to your collarbones, pulling on your sleeping shirt to get more access to the space between your tits.

"Wanna kiss them so bad—can I kiss them, pretty?"

"Peter."

"God—teaching you my name's the best idea I've ever fucking had," Peter laughs, with more genuinity and happiness than you've ever heard. "Was that a yes? Can I? Say 'yeah, Peter'."

"Peter."

"Alright, I can take a hint." Peter's hands were quick.

That was Number Three: Peter was quick.

It was an easy fact to forget or overlook, but impossible to let it go once you felt it. Peter had agile fingers and a lot more dexterity in his pinky than most men would ever dream to accomplish with their whole bodies, their entire goddamn lives.

"Peter."

It's your winning word of the night, and the one that rings in your ears when the realization of how hard he already is underneath you hits.

Number four: Peter's not little anywhere.

It's the last fact you're able to register before your notion to count, think, or do anything other than whine and beg come to play.

"Y/n," his hands get a grip on your waist.

The waist that's grinding on him, chasing the outline of his cock and how good it feels fitted between your folds. There's only your your baby doll between you and his sweatpants, and the state his kisses left you is already leaving a spot of wetness on his clothes.

"It's too hot," you whine, and Peter nods on your neck.

"Can I take it off? Our clothes?"

"Yeah."

Your mind swims as he relocates you to his side to undress you. The darkness and Peter start to mingle as one, and this all might as well be a dream.

It feels like one, and tastes like one, too.

He takes off your clothes slowly, and you lay with your back on the bed as your ears pick up him removing his own clothes. Yours, technically, but with his smell. Images of you with the sweater he's wearing tonight over the course of the week flash on your mind—sniffing the material to get a sense of him when he's away. Pathetic, and yet true.

When he lays his body over yours this time, it's only your skin against his.

You swallow thickly, embracing the heat. Your lower back's starting to sweat, as is your temple, but you gladly take it, because the heat Peter brings warms you from the inside out.

He kisses you again, and your legs come up to wrap around his thighs. "Peter."

"Yeah, pretty?"

"Want more."

"You want more?" His waist grinds down. Peter's tall enough to cover your body with his, and his pelvis fits right on yours. The outline of his cock brushing with your folds makes you ever wetter, even needier. "D'you have condoms? I can't carry diseases, but I think you don't want the mess."

OH, god. Your mind blanks, resets, then restarts.

"Get inside me. Right. Now."

Your assertiveness is met with laughter, but is dies on his throat when he lines himself up with you.

The thrust is mutual, and with only a few movements of his waist, there he is.

It's more than just fucking.

There's no rush. No despair.

Peter's vocal with how good you feel—so tight, so good around me, so good, pretty. He's patient, and too damn attentive to every twitch of your body on his.

Peter's strong, and the difference between any previous hook-ups to him is made obvious when he stays there, holding himself with his forearms over you, his hips thrusting inside with no struggle. He eventually moves you on top of him again to let you take control, and holds your whole weight when it gets too much.

He wants you to feel good, and wants you to know that he's feeling good, too.

It may be the continuous, rhythmic movement of your bodies together, grinding on one another and holding tight on your arms and whatever part your hands can reach, or the way he alternates between kissing you and whispering the filthiest compliments to you and how good it feels, your pussy feels so fucking good, pretty.

It may be all that or the fact that it's intimate, it's needed.

Peter builds your orgasm up from the inside—knits the whole thing with his hands and his patience, because all he wants is to feel you all around him.

When it comes, it's a waves washing over a shore.

"Peter—feels too good, too good." Reasoning and stringing sentences together was an ability lost when he sat you on his lap and bounced you up and down for the first time, hitting every single spot inside of you.

He understands you just fine. His sweaty locks between your fingers feel almost as good as his grunts and whines pressed right on the middle of your chest. "I know, baby, I know." God, his whines are fucking music. "Oh my god, you're a sap," he laughs.

And oh—, "I said it?"

"You did," he groans. "You're gonna make me cum like this, pretty." Peter grabs your nape and crashes your mouths together, changing the angle of his legs.

With his feet planted on the bed and the headboard as leverage, he can thrust upwards and hit right on your G spot. By your scream, he figures that out pretty quickly.

"Oh my god."

"Oh, you're clenching on me—you gonna cum, pretty?" Peter smacks your ass, and his hand on your nape glides down through the sweat, lower and lower. It wraps on your neck lightly, as if testing the waters, and when you bend your neck backward, Peter's thrusts become erratic.

His hand grips your neck just right.

"Do it. Lemme see, c'mon. Cum on me, baby. Can I cum in you? You want that?" Peter's words are met with incoherent babbles, and you're officially cock drunk now—the bouncing gets louder, the sounds filling up the walls of your room and the heat emanating from your bodies could power up the whole block, probably.

"Please."

"Please what?" He growls.

"Please cum in me," you cry, feeling your legs starting to weaken.

It's okay because he's got you—Peter holds your waist and pounds into you. "Who d'you want to cum in you, pretty? Say it. Say my name, please—"

"PETER, please! Please cum in me. Please, please—"

"Oh my fucking god," Peter cries, and his thumb comes up to rub on your clit at the same time as you feel the heat and the twitching inside of you.

When Peter cums, a part of you blacks out.

Your orgasm is pulled from you in a crashing wave, and he rides it with his mouth on your ear, whispering words that flow in the background.

"You did so good. ... Oh, god. So perfect—you're fucking perfect, baby."

It takes you a while to come back from it.

Everything is still, and his breathing underneath yours connects your chests.

"Peter?"

He shifts his head, resting his chin on your shoulder. "Hm? You okay?"

"... You'll stay, right?"

Peter takes one heartbeat, and then presses a kiss on the juncture of your neck and your shoulder. "'Course." He kisses your cheek. "I've got morning lectures, but—I'll stay. You want me to stay, right?"

"Yes. Please."

"Then I'll stay."

Peter keeps his promise, and you wonder how something you've dreamt of before is the reality that you fall asleep in.

You wonder which will be the reality you wake up to.

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• PART THREE •

Have some more Hobie (and spider-gang) GIFs cause I can't get enough of this guy <3