Chapter Text
Lavender and rosemary.
Peter was familiar with lavender before he met you. It's one of those ubiquitous scents in bath and cleaning products. It elicits a sense of calm, acting as a sweet promise for better days ahead. It came as no surprise that the love of his life enjoyed the fragrance herself, but there was always something else in the mix that threw him for a loop. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t quite place it.
Tonight, though, after stringing your hair under his nose for almost a whole hour, he finally determined what it was: rosemary.
Peter sighs blissfully and buries his face into the nape of your neck. “Rosemary!” he whispers triumphantly. You don’t react; you never react. He makes sure of it. He switches your nightly melatonin with a lookalike filled with something much, much more potent. He wonders if he should use less considering how… well, dead you seem. He has to hold his own breath just to listen for yours. He doesn’t mind, though. He loves when your breathing synchronizes.
Tonight is not the first time he’s been with his darling Sleeping Beauty, but it is the first night he’s done so without any prior engagements forcing him to leave too soon for his liking. He’s been hesitant to give Daniel more duties since he hired him to help with editing, but he seems more than capable. It’ll be fine, Peter reminds himself. Daniel won’t leave duplicate clips in the middle of his videos. Daniel won’t add anything his advertisers won’t be happy with. Daniel is a professional, and Peter deserves to have the free time to do something he enjoys.
Like drug you and spoon you.
It’s innocent, Peter convinces himself. Just harmless cuddling with the woman he loves. It’s not like he’s raping you or anything—the thought alone makes him retch. He would never do something so egregious! So vile and evil! No, Peter is your knight in shining armor… your Prince Charming. He watches over you, protects you from those that may actually harm you. Lucy, for example, has stumbled into your bed on more than one occasion thanks to her cross-faded stupors. If you didn’t need her to pay half your rent, he would have already gutted her. He swears that as soon as she stops paying rent, she’s getting what’s coming to her. Knowing her spending habits, it’s only a matter of time.
Time…
Peter palms for his cell phone in the darkness, checking the time to find that it’s a little after two in the morning. He returns his phone to your nightstand and resumes his position against your back with a contented smile on his face.
Truly, life’s simplest pleasures are the most rewarding.
It took him a while to figure out the best position to spoon you from behind. Yes, one arm goes around your waist, but what was he to do with the other? He tried threading it under you, but it only made his arm fall asleep within minutes. Eventually he came to find that it’s best to slip his arm under your pillow, allowing him to get close to you and stay that way for as long as he wants.
His arm tightens around your belly in a comforting squeeze. God, he loves you. He loves holding you. You fit so fucking perfectly in his arms. You were made for him.
“Mine,” Peter whispers across your neck.
He wonders if you can still hear him. Obviously you won’t wake up even if you did, but did you have dreams about him? A mysterious stranger embracing you from behind, whispering sweet nothings into your skin?
He doesn’t realize as his index finger begins drawing idle patterns on your midriff while he’s lost in thought. You always wear some kind of revealing night shirt—an old tee, a crop top, and sometimes, during warmer nights, you wear nothing but a bra. Tonight it’s the crop top you fashioned from an old Nirvana shirt you got in high school. No matter what, though, you never seem to wear pants to bed. Not sweatpants, not shorts, not even a onesie! Panties… just panties. Tonight’s panties are indigo blue briefs patterned with white hearts.
Peter sighs and adjusts his erection again.
God, the things you do to him…
He grins and bites his lip when his finger drifts down to your bellybutton, dipping into it curiously. You don’t react, as bittersweet as it is. Peter is devilishly ticklish around his navel and he wonders if you are, too. He imagines your bubbly, hysterical laughter as he skitters his fingers all over your body in your waking moments. You beg him to stop, but he can’t—not when you’re just too fucking precious.
“I love you,” he murmurs with curled lips.
He flattens his hand at the deepest curve of your waist, one of his favorite things about you. Every part of you is beautiful, but your curves are absolutely obscene. He pins your waist under the crook of his thumb, sliding it along your side as he blindly maps your curves under the duvet. He flattens his hand as it reaches the swell of your lovely hips and continues to slide down your thigh until he runs out of arm length. He repeats the process several times, savoring the ability to commit your silhouette to memory without the burden of sight.
He doesn’t want to pull his hand away to adjust his erection again. He rolls his hips into you to try to make it less uncomfortable, but he only succeeds in making it even harder to ignore.
“Fuck…”
You didn’t move, didn’t react… He doesn’t have to hold his breath to know that your breathing is still deep and languid. You were dead weight. Knocked out cold. You would never even know if he—
No, no, no!
Peter swore he wouldn’t touch you anywhere too inappropriate. Hips and thighs were the furthest he allowed himself to go, but…
He gingerly removes his hand from your body and sits up, looking down at you with hesitant curiosity. Your hair is splayed around your head like a halo, and your limp fist curled near your lips makes it seem as though you’re playing an angelic fanfare. He brushes your hair behind your ear, smiling down at your beauty with unconditional admiration.
And then his gaze drifts down to your breasts. Even under your shirt and the punishment of gravity, they make his mouth water. His fingers twitch as that intrusive urge rears its ugly head again. He’d had to say goodbye before he got too handsy every other night he spent with you, but now…
No, I can’t. I can’t. It’s not right.
I just…
Well…
It’s fine to look, isn’t it?
I just…
Peter delicately guides your arm up to rest over your head, giving him a better view of your chest.
…want a better look…
His eyes glow under the moonlight trickling in through your window, but his thoughts grow darker by the second.
Underboob.
Peter sinks his teeth into his knuckle. Your shirt is so short that it only barely covers your nipple with how you’re lying. He swears he can see a bit of pink near the edge, but more than anything, he can’t stop looking at the swell of plump flesh as it meets at your ribs.
Underboob. Underboob. I want to lick it I want to kiss lick suck I want to bite bite bite—
The taste of copper snaps him out of his feedback loop.
…Look, but don’t touch, he reminds himself.
His hand is already reaching for the hem of your shirt. He hooks his finger under your shirt and slowly lifts it over the breast closest to him, his eyes fixated on your pink, succulent nipples. They harden once their warmth is stripped away, and Peter’s breathing comes exclusively through his mouth. He again undulates his hips into you, chasing relief, but his eyes widen when he recognizes how your breasts jiggle slightly with the movement.
Jesus fucking Christ.
This was a mistake. Now he just wants to touch you even more, and he… he could never do that to you. No, not in a million years, no, no, no, no…
The more times he says ‘no’, the less sure he is of himself.
He runs his fingers along your shoulder, allowing the soft warmth of your skin to rekindle his respect for you. He tries to remind himself of who you are and what you mean to him, how much he cares about developing a blossoming, organic love that cannot be tarnished by such hasty, abusive(!) actions.
I’m a good person. I have my flaws, but I’m a decent man. I won’t hurt you, darling. It’s the last thing I would ever want to do...
Peter’s eyes fall to your nipples, peaked and ready to be suckled into his mouth.
And yet...
Everything feels hot—his face, his hands, his groin. His heart won’t stop hammering against his chest.
God, they’re fucking perfect.
Peter bites his lip as he considers just touching a fingertip to your nipple, just to feel it. He hopes you moan, even through your sleep, but deep down, he knows you won’t. You won’t feel a thing because you’re dead asleep. You won’t feel anything and you won’t remember anything.
She… won’t know. No one will know…
Peter feels his resolve weaken.
It’s not hurting her. If she was awake, it would even feel good, but… she’s not, so… So she won’t even feel a thing… It’ll be like I was never even here.
He gulps his morality down his parched throat.
So what’s the harm in just a little fondling…? I’ll be gentle, my love…
Peter’s palm caresses up the middle of your belly, dragging up to the softness of your closer breast. His breath hitches when he takes hold of it, feeling its weight in his grasp. He squeezes gently, amazed by the give that he finds. He had never touched a woman’s breast before, but he was convinced that yours was the best set of tits that ever existed.
Again, he squeezes, perhaps a bit rougher this time. He knows you like playing with your breasts when you masturbate, and you’re never gentle with yourself, so why should he be gentle? It’s what you would want.
“So soft,” Peter sighs. “Fuck…”
Your tits are the perfect size to fit in his hand—the perfect handful. He testifies to this over and over, kneading and squeezing and fondling each breast in his broad hand. He ghosts the pad of his thumb across your pink nipple, standing erect as if to ask him not to forget about it. I would never, my love! The flesh is warm and stiff, but still just as voluptuously soft. He thumbs it back and forth, watching it get caressed under his curious touch. His index finger joins to pinch at the sensitive nub, and soon he’s mercilessly tugging and rolling it.
Peter doesn’t want to admit it, but he wishes that you would feel this more than anything. He wishes you would wake up in rapt pleasure, your consciousness brought forth by the sheer volume of ecstasy he brings you. He wishes for it, but he knows it would be the worst thing to happen. No, this will have to stay his little secret with the walls themselves.
He can’t stop staring at your nipples.
He subconsciously gulps down the drool threatening to stream down the corner of his lips. His tongue feels thick like cotton. Butterflies are in his gut, flapping around and stirring his blood into a hot, frothy mess.
God, what is wrong with me? This is the person I’ve become… I just can’t help myself, darling. The way your body feels against mine… It’s enough to drive a man mad.
Even under the light of the waning moon, he can see your nipples in crystal clarity. He thumbs across it again, feeling the subtle bumps around the areola. He can see the feathering edge where your nipple fades into the creamy skin of your breast. When he squints, he can see—
Tiny.
Little.
Holes.
Milk ducts.
His tongue is already lolling out.
It's what they’re for.
Their only purpose is to be sucked.
She won’t feel it.
Peter’s hot breath bounces off your skin as he approaches.
She’s made for me.
Mine.
His eyes scan your face as the tip of his tongue brushes across your nipple. Finding no reaction, he does it again, a little firmer this time. Again, no reaction.
Peter closes his eyes and suctions his lips around your stiff nipple. You taste warm and salty, like the rest of your skin does, but there’s something sweeter about your breast. Maybe it’s just in his head. You taste divine nonetheless.
He moans as he suckles deeply from your breast. His tongue incessantly prods against the erect flesh, rolling it over his tongue repeatedly. It’s simultaneously entertaining and arousing—he could easily see himself doing this every day once you finally let him. And your reactions would make it even better! It would become as routine as brushing his teeth.
His hand cups under the breast he lavishes with attention, hefting it up to meet his mouth. He plays with your nipple curiously. He traps it between his lips, then encircles it thrice over with his serpentine tongue. He provides the same treatment to the other breast. Now becoming so intimately acquainted with your body, Peter can finally confirm one of his previous observations—one of your breasts is slightly larger than the other. He first noticed it in your bikini last summer, but that’s only because he was watching you through binoculars. It’s adorable, really. You’re just so fucking unique and beautiful and he fucking loves you.
He spends a long, long time just sucking from your nipples. He changes up his technique, experimenting with how to best pleasure you. He lightly scrapes his pointed teeth over the little nub, though if it was painful, you were too unconscious to tell him so. He pretends that he’s kissing your mouth, moving his lips and tongue together to make out with your breast. Peter is surprised that he’s not close to coming already, but your skin is so soft, and his drool is fucking everywhere, so there likely isn’t enough friction on his tongue to build up his release.
It still feels fucking amazing.
Peter crushes your breasts together and draws both nipples into his mouth at once. He bucks his hips involuntarily as the realization that he can even do that hits him like a ton of bricks. He wants to see your reaction when he gets to show you how good he is at pleasing you.
That’s what this is, right? A practice run? For the real thing, when it really matters. He may be a virgin, but he wants to impress you so badly.
‘Oh, Peter, that feels so good!’ you’ll mewl. ‘K-Keep going! I’m close to… a-ah!’
Peter withdraws from your breast as the thought arises: I should be practicing between her legs.
The voice in his head that was once screaming at him to stop is nothing but white noise at this point.
“I know I shouldn’t,” he murmurs aloud. It’s a statement meant to stop himself from going further, but he’s careening into the depths of hell with so much momentum that it’s a moot point to fight it anymore. So why should he? Why should he deny himself the opportunity to explore your body unhindered? A student wouldn’t forgo studying for his all-important final exam, would he? No, he would cram until the very last second.
Peter’s fingers twitch.
He’s recalling every article, every diagram about female anatomy he’s ever read. It’s daunting, but you’re not awake to judge him if he can’t find your clitoris.
He turns to your sleeping visage, admiring your slightly parted lips. He tenderly kisses your cheek.
“You’ll understand, won’t you?” he whispers. “It’s for you. It’s always for you…”
She won’t even know.
Peter’s eyes don’t leave your own as his hand drifts down your belly again, his fingernails nudging under the lacy elastic of your panties. His breath shudders as he comes in contact with your fuzzy mound. He has a collection of your pubic hair from when he’s lucky enough to find them in your panties every once in a blue moon, but now he can caress every single follicle while they’re still attached. He glides his hand over their softness, allowing the hairs to wisp between his fingers. He likens them to a fluffy cloud of fairy floss, and he knows you’ll taste just as sweet.
He drifts his fingers down further to find the cleavage of your slit. Peter pauses as temptation yields to trepidation for a single, fleeting moment, but pushes onward. The pad of his middle finger glides down the entire length of your slit, mapping out your labia in his touch. He wishes he could see these perfect, pouty lips before he delves his tongue into your sweet nectar, but it’s important to take things slow. He wants to ease himself into this. It’s his first time touching a girl. Baby steps.
He caresses your lips under a curious touch, but remains gentle nonetheless. He pushes his fingers between the lips themselves to feel their plush, almost fatty characteristic. He imagines what they look like when he brings them flush against his pelvis, his cock bulging through your abdomen.
His breathing is becoming shallow and rushed, and his excitement rushes out in coarse shudders and groans.
Peter’s middle finger carefully dips between your lips as he holds his breath. He finds a supple warmth between them. He searches first and foremost for your clitoris, that little button that controls every one of your orgasms. Peter is determined to become just as well acquainted with her as you are (if not more so).
He pushes between your lips, keeping his aim centered right at the apex of your vulva. He’s blessed by a sticky wetness lubricating his probing. He massages broad circles into your vulva and recognizes a subtle mound therein, no bigger than a small pea.
That’s gotta be it, he thinks to himself. It’s so small… cute.
Peter inspects your face for any reaction, but again finds none.
He can’t help himself as he shamelessly caresses it with the soft pad of his finger.
“Feel that, darling?” he murmurs into your ear. His voice is thick with desire. “Does my finger on your perfect little clit feel good?” He bites his lip as he drags the length of his finger back and forth over your clit. “I can’t wait to know how it feels when you’re awake. I want to make you feel so good.”
Peter laments that you’re unable to react to his touch. Part of him wants you to stir and moan your sleepy moans while he pleases you, but that only risks him getting caught. Finding that it’s becoming less slick with every circle he rubs into your body, he brings his hand up to his face. He closes his eyes and sharply inhales the musky scent clinging to his digits. It’s so potent when it’s fresh and warm, so much different from the scent he’s grown accustomed to in your panties.
When your taste hits his tongue, Peter has to bite down into his knuckles to keep himself from coming on the spot.
Holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck.
Peter feels like crying from euphoria. He sucks on his fingers with a shuddering moan. He’s never tasted anything so delicious, so sweet and clean and slightly tangy and so you. He would kneel between your legs every hour of every day if he had his way. He would give up food for the rest of his life if he could sustain himself on only the ambrosia that slicks between your thighs.
He eagerly returns his hand into your panties for more.
Upon circling your little clit again, Peter swears that it doesn’t seem as… little as before. Has it grown? Is Peter imagining things? He rubs it without mercy, distracted by his chugging memory.
And then it hits him. Are you… becoming aroused?
Peter’s giddy smile reflects the moonlight.
Oh, my God. Horny little slut… Even when you’re asleep, you want me to touch you… I knew you’d like this. I can make you feel so good, darling, if you just give me a chance…
Peter continues stroking your engorging clit until he can feel it practically throbbing under his touch when he stops. He imagines you whining for him, whining his name, begging him to keep going so you can come.
…Could you come in your sleep?
A gush of moisture trickles against his fingers. He grins, following it to the source until he finds a spot so slick that he can hardly even feel friction anymore.
Your vaginal opening.
He groans and bites down into the pillow.
She’s so fucking wet for me so fucking wet just for me she wants it she wants me.
Peter struggles to stay grounded as he shallowly pads his fingertips across your drooling hole. He can’t insert anything because that’s… not right. Like, really not right. Penetration is…
She has to want me to put it in, even if it is just a finger. I want to hear her say it… Say she wants me…
Peter’s elated grin has dissolved into a lovelorn frown. He looks at your face wistfully, imagining the alluring movement of your lips as you tell him that you accept him.
He hopes it’s soon.
His attention is drawn back to the slickness now coating the entirety of his hand. It’s insane how much there is at this point, but Peter isn’t complaining. He was about to bring the nectar stringing between his fingers back to his mouth to savor it, but another thought crosses his mind.
A much, much better thought.
Peter rolls onto his back to one-handedly yank out his own throbbing cock. He’s so erect that it stands nearly perpendicular to his body.
Gripping his shaft in his slicked hand, he shudders violently. He smacks his dry hand over his mouth as his other hand smears your essence all over his prick.
Her cum is on my dick her cum is on my dick her cum is on my f u c k i n g d i c k.
It’s like he’s indirectly fucking you, and the thought alone sends him spiraling. He jerks his cock like he didn’t just jerk out a load before he climbed through your window. He whimpers through his fingers as you lubricate him, slathering him in your liquid, and it feels so much fucking better than that shitty KY jelly he has at home. The silky feeling of your own body’s arousal is inimitable, and he knows that anything else will pale in comparison.
Up and down, up and down, his knuckles gliding over his shiny, purple glans. He’s so hard it almost hurts, but that only makes it more enjoyable. Your bed shakes with the rhythmic movement of his pumping fist, but he knows it won’t wake you. Nor will the filthy squelching noises of your slick getting squeezed between his fingers.
He retracts his hand from his mouth so he can shakily moan your name into the silence of your room. He moans it because he loves you, because you’re the reason why he feels so fucking good. He rolls over and buries his face into your hair, inhaling like it would be the last breath he ever took. How can anyone be this perfect? This sexy? This fucking… God!
He whines and curses into your neck, but he knows he needs to muffle his pathetic noises so that slutty roommate in the next room over doesn’t hear anything. He chomps into the junction of your neck and shoulder, and he meant to do it so much more gently, but he can’t control himself anymore.
You do this to him, make him lose control and force his lewd desires to take the reins. When he smells you, every rational thought goes out the window. His schemes, his preparations, his contingencies—none of them fucking matter when he’s with you. Self control becomes an abstract concept, and he knows it’s bad and he knows he could ruin everything, but this… this is fucking worth it.
“I can’t wait to fuck you, Y/N,” he wheezes between moans. “F-Finally make you mine, penetrate you, mark you. Can I do that? Can I breed you? Fill you with my cum until you’re just a weak little mess on my bed? Our bed…?”
His hand finds your vulva again, this time caressing it from behind, through the fabric of your panties.
“I know you’ll let me. Won’t you?”
He gropes the soft flesh of your ass before peeling your panties down to your mid thigh. His fingers are eager to delve back into your soaked cunt.
He crushes his penis against your ass and prays for his sensitivity to die down. He feels like he could come undone any second now, but focuses on learning your biology from this angle, too.
“You have such a pretty pussy,” he whispers into the bite mark blushing into a deep maroon bruise. “A pretty little cunt. Warm, sloppy, and it’s all mine. You’re all mine. You were made for me.”
His middle finger saws between your lips, gliding through the flushed petals to reach your center point. Your thighs become slicked as he sloshes your nectar in every direction with his greedy fingers. Every time he drags over your opening, he resists the urge to dip his finger inside, but it’s becoming harder and harder with every pass.
His cock aches to be touched. It’s drooling pre all over your ass, and suddenly Peter realizes that he’s been rutting himself against your ass. His mouth runs dry and he swallows thickly as an idea comes to mind.
He would never penetrate you. Not your vagina, not your ass, not even your mouth—not without your consent. He required a verbal confirmation, ‘yes,’ preferably followed by, ‘please fuck me!’
Peter fantasizes about the day you scream those words as he slowly slots his cock between your slippery thighs. He can feel the lips of your pussy kissing his head, dragging across the top of the shaft as he pushes through.
‘I want your cock, Peter,’ you’ll purr. Peter shivers.
His hips draw back and thrust forward again just as slowly as before. He savors every nerve ending that comes in contact with you. You’re burning hot between your thighs, all that heat radiating from your core.
“Ooohhh…” Peter moans your name, but shudders through the drawn out syllables. “You feel so go-od.” His hand reaches around to feel the head of his cock popping out between your legs. He thrusts into his palm, a wave of pleasure shooting up his spine. “My darling, my beautiful, perfect girl…”
He lifts your closer nipple to his mouth. He sucks at your body tenderly, lovingly, as he imagines your first time together. If your thighs feel this wonderful, how would your pussy feel? To finally breed you? Claim you as his own?
“Nhhh… God… Fuck…”
Peter grapples your hip, the plump flesh squeezed between his fingers, and pulls you back as he thrusts forward. Your slick thighs are so fucking warm, and the pressure between them is so fucking perfect. You wrap around him like a tight, squishy glove.
“Feel that, baby? That’s what… ngh, what you do to me. God, I’m already close.” He kisses your neck, then your cheek. “Is that okay? Can I come? C-Can I come for you, darling?”
Peter picks up his pace, deciding your answer for you. He slams his hips forward at the same time he brings you against him, fucking between your thighs in the best damn loophole (pun not intended) he’s ever found. He can feel your labia drooling on his cock, stroking his sensitive head as he plunges past them again. He can feel the heat building in his balls. He starts wondering where he should come to avoid having to clean up the mess, but he’s trying to hold off on coming for as long as possible. He wants to build his stamina for you so he can satisfy you, and he—
“…Mhhnuhnnn...”
Peter comes the instant he hears your sleepy sigh.
He grinds his hips against your ass and keeps his cock buried as deep as it will go as semen spurts in hot ropes under your duvet. His hips stutter and jerk, and his mouth hangs open in a half-silent cry. His mind is blank. White space accompanies white noise ringing in his ears.
Several minutes pass. Peter listens for your deep, quiet breathing to confirm you’re still asleep, and you are. He keeps his sweaty forehead pressed between your shoulder blades as he waits for his own labored breathing to return to normal. Your thighs remain squeezed around his cock with no change in pressure. He whines like a pathetic bitch when he has to withdraw from between the tight crevice, his prick entirely overstimulated from that single stroke. You milked him of his last few dribbles of cum, at least. He rolls over onto his back and scrubs his hands into his eyes.
“I fucked your thighs,” he shakily admits into the darkness. Post-nut clarity hit him too little too late. “I can’t believe I…”
Peter groans. He didn’t mean for it to go this far. He’s so pathetic. He’s a weak, weak man. He’s a garbage human being. A garbage boyfriend.
But God, he wants to do it again.
His hand makes its way back to the scene of the crime, his chest returning to your back. Thick globules of cum—his cum—remain splattered on your thighs. Even from under the duvet, the scent of his spunk is thick and heady. He finds himself dipping his fingers into it just to bring it to your clit. He bites his bottom lip as he massages his own semen into your clit, so close to where it really shouldn’t be.
His eyes roam to the violet hues of his love bite on your shoulder. His lips tenderly caress the wound, even flicking his tongue over the skin.
“You don’t mind, do you…?”
Peter holds you in his arms until the moon yields to the first light of daybreak. He fights hard to stay awake, knowing that if he did fall asleep, he wouldn’t wake up before you. He plays with your hair, idly talking to you about his upcoming videos and projects between heavy yawns. He tells you about Daniel. He tells you about Rat. His fingers lace between yours. So small and fragile.
He had never known happiness until he met you.
When your first alarm is about an hour out, he somehow manages to peel himself away from your warm, soft body. He replaces your panties around your hips and your shirt over your chest, just as they were when he found you.
He sneaks over to your bedside table and finds the small tube of hand lotion you use every night. Also lavender, he muses with a smile. He pops the cap open and places it under your duvet, next to the mess that had soaked into your bedsheets. He squeezes some out for good measure, hoping it masks the smell, too. The mark on your neck… Well, maybe you’ll just think you did something in your sleep. And that’s not too far from the truth, is it?
Peter kneels on the floor next to the bed, his head resting on his forearm while he pets your hair. “I love you,” he whispers softly. He can feel your breath tickling his cheek. “I love you and one day, you’ll feel as good as you make me feel. I promise.”
He admires your perfect features for only a few moments longer before standing to his feet. Just before he turns to leave, he bends down to bury his nose into your hair one last time and laughs. It’s curt but genuine. He shakes his head. “Rosemary...”
Peter swings his legs over your window sill, already planning to come back that very same evening.