𝐏𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤

Rules We Never Meant To Keep*

Parings → Frat! Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings → Explicit sexual content, friends-to-lovers, frat house setting, rough sex, drunk sex (consensual), possessive behavior, language, jealousy, emotional vulnerability, cocky Peter Parker, mild angst, mutual pining.

Summary →Best friends cross lines in a frat house, juggling drunk sex, jealousy, and finally admitting love they’ve both been avoiding.

          ｡･:*:･ﾟ★｡･:*:･ﾟ☆  ｡･:*:･ﾟ★

The bass was thumping through the walls so hard it felt like the entire frat house had a heartbeat — loud, drunk, and way too confident. Someone yelled downstairs. Someone else definitely threw up, and Peter Parker had you pinned to his mattress like you were the last good thing left in the world.

His room smelled like cologne, beer, and him.

That stupid half-smirk hovered above you, curls falling into his eyes as he snapped his hips forward again — rough, deep, unrelenting. The kind of rhythm that knocked the air from your lungs and made your nails dig into his shoulders without asking permission.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and sticky-sweet against your ear. “Clinging to me like you’ve been waiting all fucking night.”

You didn’t even have the energy to deny it — not when he caught your wrists, shoved them above your head, and pinned them to the mattress like he owned you.

Your back arched helplessly when he rolled his hips deeper, earning tiny, helpless sounds out of your mouth. The ones he liked. The ones he chased.

Peter chuckled — that cocky, boyish sound that made your stomach flip every damn time.

“God, you’re so easy for me,” he whispered, lips dragging down your neck, teeth grazing just enough to make your breath hitch. “Always have been.”

Your breath came out shakier than you wanted. “You— you’re drunk.”

“So are you.”

He sucked a mark beneath your jaw, slow and possessive, before lifting his head.

“But that’s not why you’re letting me fuck you like this.”

His hand slid down your body, fingers pressing into your waist as he kept you exactly where he wanted. The bed creaked violently under both of you, drowning out the music for a moment.

“You want it,” he said, voice dropping lower. “You always want it.”

You hated how true that was.

“Look at me,” he breathed against your cheek, voice rough from the beer and the way he’d been saying your name like a prayer. “C’mon. Don’t hide from me.”

You dragged your eyes open — and God, that smirk.

Cocky. Sharp. Possessive.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing to you and took personal pride in it.

His thumb stroked your jaw, and he slowed his thrusts just enough to make you whine — deliberately, cruelly, like he enjoyed watching the need build in your eyes.

“There she is,” he teased, leaning in until his nose brushed yours. “My pretty girl.”

You’d been friends since high school. Friends who studied together, fought over stupid things, survived senior year together. Friends who went to the same uni. Friends who promised to never cross that line.

One drunken mistake — one messy, sloppy, too much in feels night — and suddenly you were here, letting your best friend-turned-frat-boy rail you like it was his actual calling in life.