#he gets his feet wet because he thinks maybe he just has to brush it off but he starts trembling like a leaf and the others are like dude | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

osarina · 3 months ago

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ᡣ𐭩 IN A SKY FULL OF STARS, I SEE YOU

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: dazai is on the verge of falling apart. he can feel it happening, it's just a matter of whether or not he's going to be able to get out of your apartment before you come back and catch him like this. he has the opportunity for it—he does—but when he realizes that you might be in just as bad of a state as he's in, dazai decides to swallow his pride and put aside his own struggles to try to help you in the same way you've helped him in the past. {sfw, 3.2k}

AUTHOR'S NOTES: the first time fic stays hoarded for another week ... but i think this one is just as good eheheh. fun fact, when they're 22, reader acknowledges that this is probably the night she fell in love with dazai.

(warnings: fem!reader, pm!reader, in the beginning of the fic dazai is on the brink of a major depressive episode, reader is not in a good headspace when she shows up, reader has ambiguous injuries)

Dazai is not in a good headspace.

He arrives at your apartment in a whirlwind, not even your doorman dared to say anything to him on the way in. He’s wet and cold, his mind is in turmoil; he can’t stop the way his body is shaking no matter how hard he tries. The bandages on his wrist are fraying and the cool air conditioning of your apartment washing against his bare skin makes his body crawl uncomfortably. As he rushes into the bathroom, he nearly stumbles over his own feet, grateful that you’re not there to see the onset of what he knows is going to be a bad episode.

He doesn’t even know what triggered this one.

The air getting to his lungs feels thin and shallow like he’s on a mountain peak and not in the comfort of your apartment. His fingers tug at his button-up as he falls to his knees in your bathroom, rifling through the cabinet to find his bandages—he needs to replace the ones that are coming off and then he needs to leave because he thinks he would rather die than let you see him like this.

His vision spins as he unwinds the bandages around his forearm, leaning his shoulder against the cabinet as he tries to keep himself steady. His fingers are cold and clunky, he can hardly wrap the fresh bandages back around his scarred skin, can hardly breathe. He tilts his head back, trying to force himself to get more air to his lungs but it’s just so difficult.

Fuck.

He drags his knees to his chest trying to calm himself down, resting his forehead on his knees, rocking back and forth slowly. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. He needs to focus—for ten minutes, he needs to focus. He can’t let you see him like this, can’t go out of the apartment with his bandages coming apart; he has to finish his left arm and then he can drag himself out of your apartment and rush back to the shipping container and ride out the worst of the episode alone, without your lingering eyes to see him at his lowest.

But as he unwinds the bandages of his left arm and starts to rewrap it with the fresh bandages, he finds his chest caving in because he doesn’t want to go back to the shipping container. The thought of not being able to curl up in the soft sheets of the bed in your spare room makes Dazai’s stomach churn, waking up cold and alone on the metal floor of the shipping container… all of the dark claws tearing his brain apart get sharper at the mere thought.

Maybe he can just lock the door, he thinks desperately. He can lock the door to the spare bedroom and he won’t let you in until it’s passed. He’ll rot in bed for days until he can force himself out from beneath the covers and then he’ll pretend like it never happened, evade all of your questions and brush off your concerns until you get frustrated and stop asking him.

Yeah, he thinks, this could work. It could work, and it means he wouldn’t have to go back to that cold, damp, uncomfortable container.

No, he realizes, it won’t work, because you’re you and you’re frustratingly observant and have a quick mind to rival his own. More than that, you seem to actually care about him for whatever reason. You probably won’t let him rot there when you realize he’s not even coming out to eat and it just won’t work because he doesn’t want you to see him like this.

He doesn’t want you to see him weak. Doesn’t want to lash out at you while he’s too consumed by his own mind to control himself. Doesn’t want to lose one of his only friend. (Maybe his only friend—is Chuuya actually his friend? Dazai is never sure) Not for the first time, Dazai wishes he was anyone else in the world, wishes that he didn’t have to constantly be at war with his own brain, wishes that he was normal.

He’s tried so hard to keep up that facade around you even if he does know deep down that you know it’s a front. He’s been so careful, so meticulous in his efforts to act the way he thinks a normal sixteen-year-old would act and now it’s all going to be blown because what?

No, he can’t let that happen. He has to get out of here before you get home.

He doesn’t even know how this happened. Usually, he can feel a depressive episode coming from a mile away—he’s so used to them by now that it should be impossible for them to sneak up on him like this. The telltale signs are always glaring, always all-consuming; it’s impossible for him to ignore the way blackness edges at the corners of his vision, the way his chest becomes heavy with an indescribable weight, the way his feet become anchored to the ground, an effort to even just drag them against the ground.

It’s impossible for him to miss all of this, he doesn’t know how he managed to do it this time.

His nails scrape against the floor as he pushes himself to his feet after he tucks the edge of his bandage in to keep it in place. Even that takes an agonizing amount of energy, his lashes flutter as he tries to brace himself for the walk across the city. He steps out into your hallway, takes another deep breath of the familiar air of your apartment, trying to savor it before he leaves to deal with days of hell on the cold floor of the shipping container he used to live in.

And then-

And then the elevator up to your apartment slides right open and you walk out.

Dazai’s lips part in horror—he can’t even rush to his bedroom because he would have to get past you to do it. His mind races as he tries to figure out what to do, but it feels like the equivalent of wading through waist-deep water, his thoughts are slow and sluggish and stupid—he feels like Chuuya—and he desperately tries to mask his internal struggle with a smile, forcing his face to light up at the sight of you.

He can fake it—he can fake it and then he can make an excuse to leave and then-

You walk right past him.

It startles Dazai so bad that he finds himself freezing, head turning to follow you as you walk past him to sit right on the couch. There’s an empty expression on your face, distant and unreadable and entirely too familiar to Dazai—something that he sees in the mirror every night, something that he’s never seen on you.

This is his chance, he realizes. He can leave in the elevator you just came from, make a break for it before you notice he’s there, but�� his gaze lingers on how you sat so rigidly on the couch, staring at the black TV screen, hands folded in your lap, so lost in thought that you’re seemingly blind to your surroundings.

Instead of making his way toward the elevator, his feet move toward you and he finds himself sitting primly on the couch next to you. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, unsure what to say, and then glances back down at his lap.

You don’t even acknowledge his presence.

Finally, he clears his throat and asks, “Where were you?”

“A mission,” you say, voice bland and you still don’t look at him. “Had to get information.”

“Oh.”

Dazai has never felt uncomfortable in your presence before, but he feels uncomfortable now because he just doesn’t know what to say when you’re like this. A part of him still wants to flee but you wouldn’t flee if it was him and something isn’t settling right in his stomach about it.

He glances over at you, eyes catching on discolored marks staining your wrists and forearms. He pauses, reaching out hesitantly to grab one of your wrists—your skin is soft beneath his fingers and a spark shoots up his arm from the pads of his fingers. You don’t pull away as he gingerly pulls your arm into his lap, frowning when he sees the bruises on you.

“Who did this?” he asks quietly, jaw tightening. “Who-”

“It doesn’t matter,” you tell him.

Dazai gives you a sharp look, careful to not tighten his grip on your arm. “You’re hurt, it does matter. Tell-”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say, voice sharper this time. “Drop it, Dazai.”

Dazai falters at your tone—you’ve never spoken to him like that before. He doesn’t let go of your wrist but he does lower his gaze, unsure of what to do.

He doesn’t like this. He’s becoming increasingly more uncomfortable with each passing second. Doesn’t like the tight feeling in his chest. Doesn’t like seeing you like this. Doesn’t like the way he has no idea how to approach this. Doesn’t like that he doesn’t know how to help you. Doesn’t like that he wants to help you. He doesn’t like any of this.

Dazai stares down at your hand. It’s still resting in his lap, you haven’t pulled it back to you. You’re just staring ahead again, you’re sad, and he feels a bit lost. And Dazai never feels lost, he always knows what to do but he doesn’t know now when it matters. He can talk his way out of every situation, makes plans to win any battle, but he doesn’t know how to fix this.

“I-”

Dazai doesn’t even finish what he was going to say. Honestly, he doesn’t even know what he was going to say. He turns his head back to look at you, feeling increasingly more helpless, and he doesn’t even notice the way the dark claws that had been threatening to tear him open slowly start to recede, doesn’t notice how the emptiness in his chest starts to disappear the more he focuses on trying to help you.

How do you help him?

You sit with him sometimes when he starts to get lost in his own thoughts. You try to be casual about it so it doesn’t seem like you’re hovering. He figures it’s because you know he’ll get shifty and defensive if he knows you’re lingering because you’re worried about it, but Dazai knows, he just pretends like he doesn’t because everything feels less painful and lonely when you’re around even if he doesn’t understand why. And then that first time-

The first time.

“The roof!” Dazai suddenly says loudly, jumping to his feet. You twist your head to look up at him, a hint of curiosity in your eyes, and Dazai reaches down to snatch your hand, pulling you to your feet. He yanks you so hard that you stumble right into him but Dazai is unperturbed, dragging you forward to the elevator. “We’re going to the roof!”

“O-okay?”

Dazai doesn’t have to look back to see your confusion, but Dazai has tunnel vision now. He bounces on the balls of his feet impatiently as he waits for the elevator to come back up, staring as the numbers as they tick upward. His fingers entwine with yours, grip tightening on your hand as he swings your joined arms impatiently.

You don’t say anything, more proof of how in your own head you must be right now. You’re always usually the one leading the conversation with him until you get him talking about something he can ramble about, then you just sit and listen, but you’re always the one to get the ball rolling.

As the elevator arrives at your floor and he jerks you into the elevator with him, he can’t help the way his lips start to curl up, proud of himself for figuring out what to do with you. You’d found him up on the roof that night he’d nearly jumped, you had him lay down on a blanket with you and the two of you spent the night watching the stars.

You showed him your favorite constellations, and told him the story behind them. Cassiopeia, the vain queen in Greek mythology who angered the Sea God; Andromeda, the princess who was sacrificed because of her mother’s hubris, and Perseus, the hero who had saved her. You told him that one day you wanted to learn the stories behind all of the constellations, but you haven’t had the time to look into them at all.

You’d seemed sad about it—sad that you haven’t been able to look into it, sad because you probably won’t ever have the time for it with how busy you constantly are with mafia business. You’re busier than even Dazai is most days, always out and about working on something.

So, Dazai learned them all—memorized all eighty-eight of their positions in the sky, learned the stories word for word, learned the histories behind the stories so he could give you the whole picture.

He figured maybe one day he’d end up back on the roof with you and he’d be able to show off his newfound knowledge. You’d be impressed, you would simply have to admit that he’s better than Chuuya, because he’s been trying to get you to admit it from day one but you have yet to utter the words out loud. He thinks maybe it’ll also make you happy, but he’s definitely more concerned with getting you to vocally admit that he’s better with Chuuya so he can hold it over the other boy’s head.

Definitely.

He types in the keycode for the roof—he can feel your eyes on him, narrowed and suspicious, because he’s not supposed to know the keycode to the roof. He gives you a sweet smile, mourning the fact that you’re going to have the code changed again and he’s going to have to go through the process of figuring it out all over again.

It only takes a few moments for the elevator to reach the rooftop and Dazai is rushing out into the cool night immediately, dragging you behind him. His gaze darts around until it lands on where you folded the thick blanket underneath an overhang and he finally lets go of your arm so he can snatch it up and lay it out in the center of the roof. He plops down immediately and then motions for you to join him.

When you sit down, you sit so close to him that your thighs are brushing and it makes Dazai’s cheeks heat up a little so he’s grateful that the darkness masks it. He lays down against the blanket and stares up at the sky, you follow him down and Dazai’s steady heartbeat wavers when he realizes that your fingers are brushing each other’s—he could grab your hand again if he wanted, it would only take the smallest shift of his hand to slip his fingers between yours, but he can’t bring himself to now without the excuse of dragging you somewhere to shield him.

So, the two of you just lay there, shoulders pressed together, fingers brushing, Dazai’s heartbeat thuds in his chest and his mouth feels dry, all plans of telling you the stories of the constellations out the window because suddenly all of the stars look the same. All of his practice pinpointing them is gone, he’s too hyperaware of your skin against his, how close you are, how stupid he’ll look if he’s wrong.

“That one is called Cygnus,” he blurts out finally, lifting his hand to point to one of the first ones he can recognize. “It’s a swan. There are a bunch of stories, but I think you’d like the Roman one the most. It’s mostly about Phaethon—he was the son of the Sun God, and he wanted to ride the sun chariot for a day, but he couldn’t control it. Zeus had to destroy it while he was in it and it killed Phaethon, the chariot crashed into the river. Cygnus was Phaethon’s lover, he spent weeks diving into the river to collect all of Phaethon’s bones to give him a proper burial. The gods were so moved by his devotion that they turned him into a swan and placed him in the stars.”

All of the theatrical narration he thought he’d be able to give you is long gone. His words are short and stunted, awkward, he rambles in a way that’s painful to his own ears. He swallows thickly when he hears you shift to look at him, fumbling as he tries to find another constellation before you can say anything.

“That one is Draco,” he says, pointing to one that he knows is near Cygnus, heart rate calming as he slowly starts to pinpoint each of the constellations. “It’s another one with a bunch of stories, but I think the most fitting one is the one that has to do with the Twelve Labours of Heracles—Heracles is right next to Draco, see, it’s right there. The dragon was called Ladon, he guarded the golden apples in the garden of Hesperides…”

As he continues to talk, his voice becomes more animated, easing into the stories as he moves from constellation to constellation, each story flowing into the next. He spins you a tale of each of the Twelve Labors of Heracles before shifting into the myth of Ursa Major and Ursa Minor. He talks so much that his voice starts becoming hoarse but he clears his throat and pushes through it.

It’s at the end of the tale of the Gemini Twins, Castor and Pollux, that Dazai finally dares to glance over at you. There’s a soft smile on your lips, a lidded look to your eyes that makes it clear you’re on the verge of drifting off to sleep.

All of the tension and emptiness on your face is gone, you look ethereal beneath the moonbeams—so much so that Dazai stutters over the transition into the story of Orion. You’re prettier than any of the stars in the sky, more enchanting of any of the eighty-eight tales he learned for you. Your lashes flutter before looking up at him, eyes tired and sleepy and so full of emotion, and Dazai can barely breathe at the sight of it.

You don’t say anything, you don’t need to, Dazai thinks your eyes say it all. He watches as they finally droop shut, your head falling to the side as you drift off to sleep next to him. He can feel your forehead brushing his shoulder, but more than that, he feels the way your fingers slip between his, loosely holding his hand as your breath evens out.

The words of the next story freeze in the back of his throat, a type of emotion swelling in his chest that Dazai has never experienced before. As his fingers tighten just the slightest bit around your own and he shifts to see the peaceful expression on your face. He forgets all about his ulterior motives, content to just bask in your presence, knowing that he’s the reason for your smile tonight.

#dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai osamu x reader #dazai osamu x you #bsd x reader #bsd x you #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x you

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fourmoony · 7 months ago

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Just thinking about Sirius trusting reader enough to do his hair :,) or maybe she experiments with putting his hair in curlers/curling it. I could even imagine Sirius owning a Dyson airwrap to have the best blowouts 😭💀

Sirius would 100000% own the dyson air wrap!!! Thanks for requesting, babe!

cw: none

750 words, modern au

You're not sure where Sirius learned his money managing skills from (or if he even has any), but the pleased smile and child-like excitement over his brand new hair dryer is something you refuse to admonish. Though, you're sure even if you tried, you'd fail.

Your boyfriend bounces happily on the balls of his feet, hair sopping wet and plastered to his face. Water droplets seep into his grey shirt but Sirius doesn't seem to care. Not when he's too busy making bedroom eyes at the unopened box on the bathroom counter. He'd been so happy when John Lewis finally had the Dyson Air Wrap back in stock, had dragged you out of bed this morning to drop an easy five hundred quid on it. Your head had spun with the realisation of just how rich your boyfriend actually is.

He's not flashy with his money. Irresponsible, yes. But being there to witness a classic Sirius-Black-Irresponsible-Purchase had really solidified the knowledge that your boyfriend is filthy rich.

"Okay, I'll grab a stool and you set it up." He says, turning to make for the stool that sits under your dressing table.

"Wait, you want me to do it?" You yell after him.

Sirius makes noise everywhere he goes. He's loud and abrasive, jagged around the edges. He loves so loud that it only makes sense his entire personality is the same. There's thumps and grumbles as he bumps into things all the way along the hall, the tell tale sounds of the stool scraping along your freshly painted hallway. "Well who else would do it?" Sirius rounds the corner, flashes his teeth in a wide grin that he knows will make you fold.

"What makes you think I'm qualified?"

Sirius shrugs, "The fact that I'm one hundred percent not. You're good at everything, sweetness."

He knows flattery works like a charm, especially when he pairs it with his best flirty eyes. You sigh, reaching for the box and unravelling all of the corresponding pieces. It's high tech, incredibly high tech. Sirius fidgets on the stool as you watch a video on your phone, lips curled between your teeth in concentration.

It takes a while to get the hang of, and you're sure you'll get better in time. Sirius softens and relaxes as much as he ever allows himself to as your fingers work through his hair, as you brush and comb and dry it. He hums and sighs and even closes his eyes. It's peaceful and intimate and it allows you to come to a startling realisation that Sirius has never asked you to do his hair for him before.

He's not prissy about his hair. He'll let anyone touch it. He actually begs for people to play with his hair. But he's never outright asked you to fix it up for him, prefers to get it sitting perfect by himself because he believes it to be his best asset. You'd have to disagree with him on that. His eyes never fail to amaze you, nor his smile.

"All done." Your voice seems to pull him out of a daydream.

His eyes open and he smiles wide, turning in the stool in an instant until he can take your hands in his. "Bad news, sweetheart, you're going to have to do this every day." He informs you, standing until his hands can reach your hips.

He pulls you into him, a little roughly, but catches you with his own body, lips ducking down to press to your forehead. You resist the urge to tell him you'd be happy to do his hair every day, if only to feel the intimacy and pride of being the one person he trusts to style his hair.

"Such a travesty." You feign indifference, lips pressed to his collar bone where it peeks out of his shirt.

Sirius shivers at the contact. "Easy, sweetness. I know my hair is super hot and stuff, but we have dinner reservations with James and Remus. They'll get pissy if we cancel to have sex."

"Again." He adds after a second.

You scoff, pushing your boyfriend away whilst he barks with laughter. Heat creeps up your neck as you exit the bathroom, ignoring Sirius' shouts down the hallway that he could make an exception for a quickie.

"Thanks, baby!" He calls a moment later.

You can't fight the smile that toys at your lips as you pick out an outfit for dinner.

#marauders #sirius black #fourmoonys asks #sirius black fic #sirius black imagine #sirius black oneshot #sirius black x reader #sirius black x f!reader #sirius black fluff #sirius black comfort #marauders fic #marauders imagine #james potter #remus lupin #fourmoony

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peachesofteal · 5 months ago

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soap x cypher masterlist Soap/female reader - Cypher is neurodivergent - 18+ mdni

"What's goin' on?"

You whirl, eyes wide and tearful, taking him in. He didn't change, practically sprinted off the bird to your building, the ragged anxiety of being away for thirty six days bearing down on him like a god damn animal.

He felt like an animal. Tracking, hunting, killing, like an animal. Thirty six days of blood and bones and dirt in his nose. Carbine comfortable in his hands, eyes closed and still knows every detail.

Just like he knows you.

He hoped you'd be sleeping. Hoped maybe you'd be in bed, blissed out, nothing on but the sheets like always. It's the middle of the night, you should be sleeping.

"J-johnny." You look distraught. Lips bloodied and torn, nails chewed to the quick. The collar of his t shirt is stretched so wide he can see your collarbones and chest. You look like you haven't slept.

It turns his stomach. Drags memories to the forefront of his mind, things he's been trying to forget. The sound of your panicked scream, the shrill call of his name. Blood, splattered, dripping from your nose.

"What is it?" He steps closer, but you step back. "Cypher." He's stern, reverting back to Sergeant. You shake your head.

"Don't-" Your breathing is short, but controlled. You're not on the verge of an anxiety attack, but still, something is wrong.

"It's alright, wee sweet. Tell me what's goin' on."

"They moved the analyst center." He cocks his head. "They moved it, to another part of the building. There are no windows, and it only has overhead lighting. Fluorescent overhead lighting. Do you know what that's like? It's like... it's like... it's..." you tug at the collar, snapping your mouth shut. Pieces click together and paint a picture.

"Okay." He says softly, stepping closer. You don't seem to notice, because you don't draw away.

"They keep me up." You explain. "The lights, all day. And then- when I get back, and try to sleep... I can't turn off. And you're not here... to turn me off, and I-"

"I'm here now, Cy." He dares to reach, closing the gap, brushing against your shoulder, testing the waters. "Can we take this off?"

"What?" you blink.

"The shirt. Ye're stretchin' the collar, think ye might be more comfortable if we got rid of it." Your shoulders drop, a fraction, a tiny amount of tension slipping away.

"Yeah, okay." You lift your arms, and he smothers a laugh, pulling it up and over as quickly as possible. You glare at him. "Don't laugh at me."

"'m sorry, 'm not. Swear. Ye're jus' cute, is all. Genius analyst, could topple a country with the click of a button, but... puts her arms up so her Sergeant can take off her shirt." You scowl, and relief warms his heart. There you are. "Tell me about the new data room." He rubs your shoulders, and then sits you on the bed. Once you're settled, he begins the process of stripping his gear, keeping his focus on you.

"It's in the middle of the building. Second floor. I hate it. I guess they moved us because they've transferred some of our team-"

"What?"

"Yeah, like six. Seven? I don't know." His stomach flips. He'll need to talk to Laswell, make sure you're not on the transfer list. "But that's not the problem. It's the fucking... the lights! And the consoles are too close, now. I can practically hear the breathing." you huff, and he nods, pulling his shirt off and unzipping his pants. Your glaze flicks down, lips twitching.

"What can I do?" Your eyes go a little glassy, and then you look at your feet.

"I really missed you." There's a tremble in your voice, a wet choke, and he goes down on one knee, ducking into your line of sight.

"I missed you too, wee sweet." He pulls your hand into his. "'m gonna take care of ye now, alright? Give ye what ye need. Lay back." You were only wearing panties under that shirt, and he pats your thigh, instructing you to lift up so he can pull them down, rearranging your legs onto his shoulder. "Missed this bonnie pussy too." He thumbs your seam, licking his lips at how slick you already are. "Think she missed me?"

"I- I don't-"

"It's okay. She did, can tell. She's already cryin' for me. Poor wee thing. So neglected." You squirm, hips shivering, and he stills you with a wide hand to your lower belly. "Be still, Cy."

"Okay, sir." And just like that. Your voice is already an octave lower, relaxed-

and when he puts his mouth on you, you go boneless.

"Oh god." It's a choke as he spreads your folds, licking a long stripe from your clit and down. You moan, fingers twisted in his hair, and he sighs happily. This, this is where he belongs now. Face buried in your cunt.

He wrings your first orgasm out of you like water from the wash, quick and easy. You have been good, haven't touched yourself for thirty six days, making you malleable, lackadaisical, sweet. He gets another, and another, until your thighs are straight and tight around his head, muscles rock under his hands.

"Thank you." You practically slur, head lolling on his shoulder when he pulls you onto him in bed, hot as a furnace. He pats your ass, just once, just to feel it ripple, and then buries his face in your neck.

Sweet dreams.

#pure self indulgence #peaches writes #soap x cypher #soap x reader #john soap mactavish

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live-laugh-lenney · 9 months ago

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A little bit of smut please🫣

Lingerie reaction for Arthur and George

i don't think i've done any kind of mature content for either of them yet so... jeez, i hope this is okay... i'm gonna write this for arthur, right now, and then maybe we can discuss george and his missus in lingerie...

arthur loves lingerie.

for someone that portrays himself as awkward and shy and almost completely innocent and practically virginal, he had a side to him that always sprung out whenever he was home alone with his girlfriend. a side that only came when he knew she had something special that she wanted to show him. a side that made him seem like a menace, almost like he was a horny teenage boy who had been left alone with his female celebrity crush, becoming touchy and needy.

she teases him.

she'll wear the lingerie beneath an article of his clothing that she had chosen to wear for the evening as they wound down from their busy days. whether it be his adidas jumper (which she loves and definitely stole from his wardrobe) or one of his baggy tees, it would be all she used as a cover up... stretching the neck so it showed her bra strap to tease him a touch when they were sat on the sofa and having it rolled up at the hem so her knickers were on show as she reached up high for the snacks on the top shelf in his kitchen... and she could hear his breath hitching in his throat when he realised just what she was upto.

"can you come and grab the biscuits from the top shelf?"

"you can get them," he hums from the sofa and he really didn't want to stand to his feet because the bulge in his pants had become even more prominent than he had hoped it would be, "i like the view from here."

"you're just a little pervert," she rolled her eyes and she's glad she has her back to him so he can't see the smirk that's sitting on her lips, "i just need some help from my very tall, very handsome man who just has the advantage."

"what do i get out of it?"

"a happy girlfriend," she retorts and he scoffs and rolls his eyes, his gaze barely leaving the plump cheeks of her bum and the floral lace that clung to her flesh, "please?"

she can hear him stand up, she can hear his feet padding across the open plan living room slash kitchen and she shudders at the feeling of his hands cupping her waist as she regained her normal height and stood back on flat feet rather than her tiptoes, teasingly brushing her behind against his crotch and feeling the result that she expected.

"you knew what you were doing," he whispers lowly, almost growling in her ear, and he traps her between the kitchen counter and his body and she makes no attempt at making a move away from him, "you're just a tease. a bloody tease."

"it worked though," she states, his fingers digging into her hips as he held her figure still, his hips slowly rocking back and forth and she could feel the friction of their clothes rubbing together, "what are you going to do?"

he turns her around and she takes a look at his face; his cheeks are pink, his eyes are darker, his jaw is tense and his lips are damp and wet from his tongue. hoisting her up on the kitchen counter and she needed no encouragement in undoing the knot of his bottoms and using her heels to push them to the floor, pooling at his ankles. his boxers stretching to accommodate the boner he was sporting. his fingers slide across the crotch of her knickers and she feels the chill in the air against her damp folds and he wastes no time in teasing at the bundle of nerves between her thighs... enough to make his cock twitch in his pants and she felt bad for keeping him restrained... her own fingers hooking into the elastic of his boxer shorts and pulling them down to his knees, freeing him and letting the cool air hit his exposed skin.

"where did you get this from?" he asks, lips brushing against hers as he leaned in for a kiss, his warm breath washing over her face and her own catches in her throat, his fingers collecting the moisture that was forming and coating his digits, "it's a shame you couldn't show me the whole thing."

"you were just too eager," she informs him, arms wrapping around his shoulders and her fingers digging into his hair, tugging at the tufts at the nape of his neck, "too eager. that was the plan."

"the plan on being fucked on the counter?" he questions and she can feel her cheeks flushing at the words rolling off of his tongue, "that was what you wanted, huh?"

"need to leave a memory in every room for you to remember," she grins and his lips greet hers with a hungry smooch that involved his tongue leaving his mouth and fighting against hers, her arms pulling him close and his hands gripping at her waist, pulling her closer and allowing the glistening tip of his cock to brush against her inner thigh and silently informing her just how needy he was, "it's all yours, baby."

and he doesn't need coaxing. he gave himself a couple of pumps with the fingers he used to spread her juices across the heat between her legs and lines himself up, gulping thickly and maintaining deep eye contact with her as he pushes his hips forward and fills her up with his entirety. her head rolling back and a deep, guttural groan rolling of her tongue from deep within her, matching the whimper that left his mouth as he pauses for a moment to let her adjust around his girth.

her sleeve-covered hands remain on his shoulders, her fingers still holding onto his hair with a tight grip in each fist, and she shudders and the goosebumps rise upon her skin as he attaches his lips to her neck and covers her skin with the softest kisses, his hips rocking back and forth and back and forth as he filled her with pleasure. her begs for him to go deeper filling the room, their heavy breathing and their heavy panting filling the gaps, her name escaping his mouth as she cries out from the thrill happening in that moment.

"let me know when," he insists, his hands trailing underneath the hem of the jumper on her body, his fingertips brushing over her bare skin, "let me know."

she nods and he drops his forehead to hers, eyes looking deeply into hers, and she can feel her toes beginning to curl. her thighs clench and she brings him closer by digging her heels into the base of his back, her hands cupping his cheeks and her mouth drop further and further open with each thrust he pushes into her, twitching between her walls and she swears, every single time, that he always knows the right spot and hits it every time.

"so good," she pants and she can feel the ache beginning to form in her belly, a burning sensation as she feels herself getting closer and closer to a release, "i'm so close, baby."

"so close," he repeats for himself and the sounds of his thrust start sounding sloppy and wet and he grunts out with a rasp in his throat and feels himself start to get weak at the knees, "c'mon, lovie. cum for me."

and it's all she needs to feel herself tense and clench down on his cock, their releases mixing together, and his rhythm becomes almost unrhythmic and each thrust is sporadic and almost like a burst of energy urges his hips forward. his head dropping to her shoulder, slowing his hips down, as she drops her cheek to the top of his head and squeezes her eyes shut.

"you're the best," he whispers into the cotton, sniffling before he lifts his head to look at her. his entire face glistening with sweat, his lips swollen from their kisses, his cheeks pink and his eyes no longer dark but full of lust and post-sex that always made him look heavenly, "the best."

he slowly pulls himself from within her and reaches down to pull his boxers back to his hips, followed by his bottoms, and she covers up by adjusting her knickers, knowing everything they were wearing was going to need to go in the next days wash. his arms wrap around her waist and her legs hook around his, her arms sitting on his shoulders, and he lifts her from the counter. koala-clinging to his front as he makes his way back to the sofa, making a mental reminder to give the kitchen counter a proper deep-clean before they went to bed... before anyone came back from their saturday night on the town... before george and arthur and chris had any inclination as to what had just happened.

"you'll wear that for me again, right?" he asks her and she yawns, nodding softly, "good."

"what did you think of it?"

"it's the sexiest one yet," he hums into her hair, pressing a kiss to her head before he closed his eyes, the feeling of her tucking the blanket around them making him feel cosy, "you can choose the movie. i'm too knackered to even think about those decisions right now."

"how about we just... go to bed?"

"i can't go again," he laughs softly and she scoffs and pushes his chest with her hands, "it's only half nine. we've got ages before the lads are back." xx

#arthurtv #arthurtv x reader #arthurtv smut #arthurtv imagines #arthurtv fics #arthurtv headcannons #arthurtv x reader smut #arthur frederick smut #arthur frederick imagines #arthur frederick fics #arthur frederick headcannons #chaos crew

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jujutsutrash · 1 year ago

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NSFW (minors leave). cw: face fucking, gagging, throatpie/cum swallowing, piv, creampie, unprotected sex

Thinking of loser boyfriend Yuta. Poor guy can barely get by in social interactions, has a hard time speaking to people he doesn't know, shakes whenever he is in the spotlight for anything. He is smart, and kind but is very much the type that needs you to order for him at a fast food. He stutters for anything, forgets his words whenever people make eye contact, stumbles on his own feet often and looks like he is about to cry whenever he is perceived for anything. He really needs you to help him get through the day, terrified eyes looking around like a prey animal, he clings to your arm like a panicked child.

Your friends sometimes wonder why the hell you are with that guy, and you always say he is the sweetest soul. And he is, but what none of them imagine is that your loser boyfriend is also a fuck machine. Sure, he may not be a smooth dom, but he more than makes up for it with a massive sex drive and even more massive cock. Maybe, the reason he stumbles on his own feet so much is because he has a third leg on the way. If Yuta wasn't so awkward he'd probably be the most cocksure fuckboy around. Good thing he is awkward as hell.

Though, maybe it's because of all the awkwardness that he is always so desperate to fuck, always so desperate to get some release from his daily life. Yuta almost skull fucks you on a daily basis, hips thrusting uncontrollably while his large hands hold your head, thumbs brushing your cheeks while he bobs you up and down his shaft. He makes you gag on his thick erection, head touching the back of your throat all the while he continually apologizes, voice trembling profusely. It goes on like this until he cums, spit and precum spilling down your face as he slams himself into your mouth. When his orgasm hits, Yuta pulls you flush to his hips, nose buried in his skin as he pumps his big thick load straight down your throat - still apologizing all the while.

It's rare that Yuta is satisfied cumming just once though. He can go for a couple rounds, leaving you satisfied and, more of the not, utterly exhausted. He likes fucking your pussy a little too much, whispering his praises and gratitudes as he hammers into your cunt mercilessly. It's rough, it's animalistic and it's violent, his thick length stretching your walls thin as he slams into you like a fleshlight. The 'I love you's spilling from his mouth being almost drowned by the sounds of your wet pussy being ravaged by his massive cock, his hands roaming and groping all over your body. Yuta fucks you in every which way he can think of, always looking to go deeper, to hit your sweet spot and feel you even tighter around his cock. When he cums it's deep inside your pussy, and he still rides you until the white, sticky liquid comes pouring out of your abused hole.

So maybe it is fitting that whenever you go outside, Yuta looks like a terrified creature, ready to jump at any minute. Cause, after all, he does fuck like an animal who's desperate to breed and who doesn't know if he will be alive the next day to to that once more.

#yuta okkotsu x reader #yuta x reader #yuuta okkotsu x reader #yuuta x reader

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nishikiace · 1 year ago

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omg YES bottom ranpo!!!! can I request more for him but as ftm!ranpo✨️💚✨️💚✨️💚✨️💚✨️? if you could make him maybe a bit chubby too because he definitely is with those snacks and it'd be so cute 🥰

anon i love your mind, you're so right

chubby! ftm! bottom! ranpo edogawa

Warnings: top!male!reader, dom!reader - amab anatomy, ftm!character - afab anatomy, chubby!character, cunnilingus, fingering, squirting, office sex, thigh fucking

[masterlist]

you are so incredibly lucky and blessed to see this side of ranpo.

this side being between his spread legs, at his cute panties, with the wet spot that's growing bigger the longer he feels you staring. if you lightly touch that spot with your fingertip and press into his hole through the fabric, ranpo will jolt and squeeze his thighs around your hand with a desperate whine

he likes to think he can predict you with his ability, but it doesn't help him when you are making out with his cunt so hungrily and suckling his pulsing clit between your lips. every fuck of your tongue has him arching his back and wailing and scrambling to grip his hands in your hair to push you closer

he's addicted to having you eat him out, spending hours with his feet twitching in the air as you wring orgasm after orgasm out of his soft body

the lack of refractory period leaves his cunt regularly puffy, bright red and swollen. ranpo's needy and spoiled like that - he wants your attention on him and his mouth and his pussy

if you spend time with the ada, prepare to be fucked with and teased for hours. ranpo can and WILL get away with riling you up when you're at work. his hands lingering on your torso, thighs brushing when he walks by, and whispers in your ear about how wet he is for you

that's why you have to fingerfuck him on his desk in the ada office, after hours. maybe even during day breaks in the bathroom. the only sounds in the room should be his breathless moans and high-pitched squeaks and the loud squelching of his fat pussy around your fingers

make a slip and slide out of his desk

honestly don't even undress him, just fuck him in his cute little detective uniform with his trousers down his ankles and shirt ripped open to give you lip access to his puffy nipples

hold him tightly around his soft tummy and fuck his thighs to get revenge for his teasing. refuse to stuff him full unless he squirts from your cockhead rubbing his clit with every thrust

and when you do fuck him, make sure to grab his thick thighs and jiggling ass to leave some bruises, so he feels and sees the aftermath of your cock for days

#top male reader #dom reader #male reader #chubby character #ftm character #bottom character #anime x reader #x reader #bsd x reader #bsd #bungou stray dogs #ranpo edogawa #nishikiace s #nishikiace replies #nishikiace writes

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poppy-metal · 3 months ago

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quick someone revive the pretty woman!au I am thinking of her - reader on the phone with her ex!husband who never fails to make her feel small and undesirable as a woman with his cutting words and his reminder that he left her for a younger hotter piece of ass. she does what she never does, and she drinks. her secret stash of wine she hides from patrick because he's a recovering alcoholic and she wouldn't be a good friend if she had accessible bottles of alcohol when he was around. but she drinks the whole bottle. is nursing another one by the time patrick comes around - and she's somewhere far away, that she shouldn't be.

patrick notices the empty bottle. sees your flushed cheeks and red rimmed eyes and is all to familiar with the look someone drunk off their ass. seen it a million times in the mirror.

hes ready to help you to bed, tuck you in and make sure you drink some water, make a joke about you getting rowdy without him around - all things you've done for him at his lowest - but as soon as he's close enough you're on your knees in front of him. looking up at him with sudden hunger that knocks the breath out of him.

your hands coming up to his jeans - "you don't - you don't bring anyone over cause of me. n'thats not - that's not right..." you slur, sounding genuinely upset.

patrick is confused. his hands hovering in the air by your head - "you're a man." you continue. "a man with -" you hiccup. " - with needs."

at this, he flushes. not in embarrassment as much as in realizing what this is. why you got to your knees. and he's wanted you there for a long time. longer than he cares to admit, but. not like this. not when you're so out of it you can barely finish your sentences.

he grabs your hands as you fumble with his belt buckle. gentle but firm.

"im fine." he tells you slowly. he might make a joke if he thought it'd lighten the situation, but he's learned you're a fragile thing - and sometimes his jokes hurt you when the timing is shit. the timing would be shit here. "you're drunk, baby. let's get you to bed, yeah?"

the endearment fills you with warmth. you've never been anyone's baby. not even your husband called you that, when you were together.

"no." you free your hands from his grip. shuffle closer and fan your hands out over his thighs. your chin nearly brushing against his jean clad crotch as you crane your neck to look up at him like he's a god. he has the body of one. you've thought about worshipping him from this angle alot. it's just now that you have the confidence to do it. liquid courage. your ex husbands words from earlier about how stiff and unyielding you are echo in your head, and maybe with him you were that way, but with patrick - you want nothing more than to be yielding to him. "let me suck your cock."

patrick has to look at the ceiling.

what the fuck? he thinks. half crazed, half pained. why did you have to pull this sultry shit now - of all times? when slotting your mouth open and feeding you his dick was absolutely out of the cards for the night. god was testing him. he wasn't religious, but god was fucking testing him, goddammit.

he swallows and looks back down, shudders out a breath at how soft and open you look. and because he really can't help himself, he lets himself reach down to brush his knuckles across your cheek. soft skin - you lean into it like a kitten - he could so easily slide his hand around to the back of your neck - wind his fingers in your hair, guide you to his -

no. fuck, no.

he steps away from you. shakes his head. scrubs a hand over his jaw.

"can't let you do that. not tonight -"

"is it because you've already gotten your dick wet?"

your voice is high and shrill all the sudden. he blinks at you, suprised.

"no? this has nothing to do with that."

you sniff. shuffle back to your feet and when you wobble he reaches out to steady you and you slap his hands away. he draws back, hurt.

"you sleep with anything that moves except for me, then? is that it? my ass isn't tight enough for you? my tits are starting to sag and it kills your libido? I disgust you so much?"

patrick just kinda stares at you, stunned silent. you shake your head, like that in itself is an answer and begin to walk away, to your room.

alot of emotions go through patrick - worry, for the state you're in and why, though he assumes it's something to do with that limp dicked ex husband. shock, because you've never spoken to him like that before, even been that vulgar. hurt - your words about him sleeping with anything that walks cutting deeper than he'd like to admit. but what he settles on is this - anger.

hes pissed the fuck off.

you're at your door by the time he gets to you - doorknob in hand, twisting it open - and then his hand is in the crook of your elbow and he's yanking you around. he slams your back against your door, hard enough that you gasp.

your open your mouth to - to tell him off - you dont know but before you can do anything he's suddenly in your space, his nose bumping yours he's so close. he's breathing heavy and you have to go near cross eyed to meet his burning gaze.

you realize he's furious. with you.

"is that what we're doing then?" he bites out. his fingers dig into your arm hard enough to make you wince. "throwing a fucking tantrum and lashing out like a brat. all because what? your pathetic excuse for an ex husband whispered some shit in your ear? you know -" he laughs, but you know patrick well enough to know when he laughs at times like this - it's because he's so angry it just bursts out of him like that - because if he didn't laugh, he might scream - "for someone who likes to bitch about how old she is you sure do know how to act like a goddamned kid. you want to suck my cock? ask me like an adult when you're sober enough to not drool down your fucking chin."

he knocks said chin with his fingers, indeed wet with your drool.

you have no words for him. you simply stare in shock as he glares at you for another few heated moments and then let's you go.

you wobble, unsteady, bracing yourself against your door.

"im going out." he tells you, turning. "I'll find somewhere else to sleep tonight." he yanks his keys from the counter he'd left them on.

hes gone before your brain has caught up to your mouth.

still you say, "wait." to the empty air, anyway.

you don't feel drunk anymore.

you just feel like shit.

#poppy speaks #angry patrick save me.....#pretty woman!au #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig

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escapingrealtiylovinginsanity · 12 days ago

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Ur Buck story was really good so can I request a part 2?

Sure, thing love. I got a lot of requests for a part 2. So, I hope this doesn't disappoint. I wanted to do a little bit of a trend. Enjoy!!! <3

Evan Buckley: Door Lean

“Okay, what is this book doorframe lean thing?” Javi sounds exasperated. You smile to yourself as you turn to face him. You raise an eyebrow at him tilting your head.

“She liked the belt trick, huh?” Javi looked up shaking his head with a sigh. A huge grin took over his face as his eyes met yours.

“She loved it.” He took your I told you so with minimal kickback, mostly because he couldn’t deny the amazing night he had experienced with your assistance. He planned on profiting from your book girl knowledge and training for his technique. He really liked this girl and he wanted to continue to impress her. She didn’t need to know where he had got this mastery from. “Would you mind helping me again?”

“Hmm, I don’t know-” You cut off abruptly as he held up his other hand to show the bag of sweet treats from one of the busy and best bakeries in town. “You want to start now or?” He set the bag down on the table.

“I was hoping you would say that,” He started towards the stairs, “I’ll just go get Buck.” Your eyebrows furrow and your heart slams in your chest, a pleasant warmth flooding through your chest.

“Wait-what? Why do you need Buck?”

He paused turning on his heels to say. “I figured out why I was having such a hard time learning that belt trick. I’m a more visual learner!” Before you can form a response, he has made it to the bottom and is calling Buck’s name.

You try to contain the butterflies fluttering around in your stomach. Last time Buck had helped you show Javi how to do a Booktok trend it had sent you to the bathroom for fifteen minutes afterward in an attempt to control your rising libido. You wish you could have just blamed being single for so long or even Buck’s noticeably good looks but that wasn’t it.

Or at least not entirely.

Evan Buckley had sex appeal in spades. Foreplay and setting a mood? They were his bitch. It was a toe-curling effortlessness that left heat in your lower stomach and made your panties embarrassingly wet. You take a deep breath trying to prepare and psych yourself up. Maybe it had been a fluke. Or maybe you had just been extra horny that day. I mean it really had been a long time since you had any sort of action. Your body was practically begging for some attention.

You turn at the sound of feet on the steel stairs. Buck’s long toned legs flexed deliciously as he took each step. You wished you were at the bottom of the stairs instead of the top so you could see the show that his ass was no doubt putting on. You are jerked from your daydream by Buck’s sheepish whisper. “I actually don’t know how to do this one. I never even heard of it- Javi was just so excited and sure I would know how to do it.” You follow his eyes to see Javi finding the key to unlock the cleaning closet door so the door frame is usable.

You give him a smile and meet his vivid green gaze. “I’m sure you will manage.” You tease your hand digging into your back pocket for your phone. “Here I will show you- but honestly it's pretty typical stuff.” He moves closer to get a better view of the video. You feel the warmth of his body heat as his tall frame angled over top of you. You unconsciously lean back into brushing against him before straightening.

“All ready for you guys!” You look up at Buck and he nods, muttering a soft ‘I think I got it.” You tap his chest playfully with your fingertips before strutting over to the doorframe and draping yourself against it.

“Wow me,” You challenge knowing it would light another fire in Buck- he was too competitive for it not to. You watched a mischievous smile cover his face and you knew it had worked. His long strides ate up the distance between you. He paused just a foot away from you. You felt the air between the two of you already start to heat up.

Buck closes the space between you. His right hand comes over your head to rest on the frame. His body heat and musky smell wash over you making your body flush pleasantly. Then he starts to lean in. You feel his chest just barely brush yours. Your body arches and you feel your nipples hardening. It is overwhelming in all the right ways. His left hand cups your cheek. Your body melts back against the doorframe. He follows you his head tilting down forehead brushing yours. His fingers curl under your jaw easing your head back. Your lips part with an audible gasp.

Your hand catches your forearm for something to hold onto as your breath stutters. It flexes under your touch and you feel the strength he possesses. The thought of pulling his hand down so it was around your throat made you press your thighs together. You are just about to say screw it and press on your toes for a kiss when you hear a catcall. It breaks Buck’s tension as he lifts his head to see Chim. You try not to feel disappointed as he pulls away. Your body instinctively follows his.

Chim is teasing him and Javi as they both try to explain what is going on. You sneak away to the bathroom to once again try to gain control of your body. You splash water on your face but it is nothing compared to the wetness between your thighs. Looks like you were going to have to go home to take care of it yourself…again.

Damn Evan Buckley.

#911 abc #evan buckley #evan buck buckley #evan buckley x you #evan buckley x reader #evan buckley imagine

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softshuji · 2 months ago

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CW: NSFW, ptv, daddy kink mentions, reader wears makeup and a dress, marking and lots of pet names. this is pure smut that's literally it, just pure filth I am so sorry I had to get this out, I'm pretty sure I blushed writing this, extremely self indulgent bye.

Hanma's been eyeing you for a while.

You think maybe he'd know that you knew how often his eyes are shifting from the mirror to you in front of the vanity as you apply a light coat of blush to your cheeks. You're leaning forward to see yourself better in the mirror, rocking back on your feet when you turn to look at the makeup and find a complimentary shade of lipstick.

He's done and undone his own tie so many times, a little excessive maybe, but he likes to watch you - and it's even better to him that you don't mind and will let him for as long as he wants to.

You do like an audience after all, he knows that first hand. And he's yet to shrug on his jacket when you feel his hands, creeping along your sides as you hold up a hand mirror to inspect your handiwork more closely. To him, the waiting is unbearable, and of course it is, when you look so delicious so effortlessly and he can't simply be content to just watch you and wait till you notice and turn around.

"New dress?" He says, lips dropping down to where your hair meets your ear, a soft trail of kisses and a light brush of his lips against your soft and open hair.

You cast a glance back, a smile inlaying your now coated lips before you pop them experimentally, a little internal relish at how his Adams apple bobs and his eyes drop to the matted sheen of them. "Mhm, yeah, you like it?" You know he does.

"Yeah," he says, muffled and whispered as his warm breath falls and dances further down with a caress and gentle trail along your skin. "Real pretty sweetheart, you look perfect. Looks nice with your pretty hair too." He knows you know that he thinks that already, because he makes it known often just how pretty he thinks you are. And oh how often he reminds you, as you know he wants to do now.

"Yeah?" And you can tell, so easily. When he bites his lip, and his teeth are grazing along the juncture of your neck and shoulder, big and rough but assured hands now coming around your hips to pull you flush to him, it's almost too easy to tell. "I got it cos I thought you'd like it."

"oh you did it for me? That's sweet and I do like it princess. How'd you know?"

"It's easy to tell. You like the ones with easy access." You grin at him in the mirror, slightly pushing your hips back against him and he laughs, pulls his hand up to your throat to tilt you back till the back of your head rests against his chest, a firm but confident grip on your neck that has your thighs twitching- a visceral reaction you know he can feel from where he's pressed up against you from behind.

"mhm, yeah I do. Got me rock hard so early in the morning, I should punish you." And with that he grinds his now hard cock against you- hips fully flush to yours as his breath ghosts and curls over your lips.

Your chest trips, eyes flitting up and then down to where his other hand creeps and dances over the hem of the white dress. "You'll be late, I'll be late too," you say, without conviction, tongue swiping at your bottom lip to wet it in anticipation, your hips still meeting his in tandem, a heat pooling between your legs.

"I'll be quick pretty girl." Although he knows you don't need any convincing when your eyes are clouding with lust, that familiar glassy shine glimmering in them as you - expectedly, press your lips to his. "Five minutes princess, just wanna feel you."

You always start off soft- a little push and pull, him pressing himself into you with a needy and eager bite, and you curling your tongue along his from the underside, soft breaths and gasps as you try to drink him in entirely. You push, press yourself further against him, an unmeasured whimper against his mouth when he drops his hands to massage and squeeze your thighs, fingers dancing and stroking at the soft inner sides. Back and then forth, and back again.

"You always say that, and then you make us late," you whisper as you pull away for air, a thin string of saliva now pooling on your lips. It never lasts and he knows your rebuttals are half-hearted, that the wetness now dampening your underwear says enough.

He chuckles, a hot breath curling along your skin when he flips you around, his size and shape and the entirety of him backing you against the dresser. "Oh you don't wanna? How wet you are says otherwise pretty girl. You think I can't tell? You're dripping."

"That's your fault," you say even as you lift a leg to hook it around his waist, ankles locking around the lower end of his back to keep him in place and pressed firm to your hips, as his thumb lightly circles your clit over the seat of your panties- a sharp and broken whimper lost against his lips as he bites and nips at you.

"oh my fault huh? So shall I stop then pretty girl? Want me to leave you dripping and wet and aching?" And he pulls your panties to the side now sticky and hot, thumb pressed to your clit to draw firm and measured circles against the achy bundle of nerves.

Your eyes flutter, teeth biting down on your lips as you twitch and your thighs squeeze together. "No please, please, I need you." And oh how he draws it out from you easily, with so much need, an eager rock of your hips to feel him more, the rough pad of his thumb and then his fingers slipping inside you.

"yeah? What do you need sweetheart? Use your words for me. Tell daddy what you want." Middle and ring finger curling inside you, slow and drawn out and perfectly punctuated against the soft and twitchy sensitive spot, thumb still caressing your hot and wet clit, arousal now drooling down his wrist.

A broken whine escapes your lips. "I need- need you inside me, please please? It hurts. Need you to cum in me."

And be laughs, giggles in fact, with a grin that you can feel against your neck from where his lips are sucking harsh deep and purpling marks into your skin. "Good girl, that's My girl. Don't worry, I'll give you what you want." And then, as his nose nudges against your collarbones, scent of your perfume on his tongue, "Gonna cum in that pretty pussy of yours. You feeling good? Like having my fingers In you?"

Saliva pools on the edge of your lips as his fingers repeatedly curl and press against that soft and swollen spot, thighs clenching and lifting to meet him more, till his knuckles brush absently against your clit. And then deeper still, broken and gasped choked moans pressed to his shirt from your saliva now dribbles onto the white linen- too much for you to form a response in return.

He coos at you, soft and teasing, till that tight wire of heat and tension simmers in your tummy, moans and breathy broken whines getting quicker and sharper and you tightening around his fingers with every curl of them against your soft, warm walls.

"shuji- fuck, oh, I think I'm-" you try, and it comes out as a heavy breath, you panting and gasping against his shoulder where your cheek is pressed until suddenly, he pulls them out, cool air now pulling your orgasm further away from you as cry in protest.

"shhh, relax princess, I got you," he says, undulated under the sound of metal as his belt comes undone. "You trust me right?" And he lifts your hips, easily, your thighs now resting on the dresser as his aching hard cock springs free, now dripping and drooling with precum.

You stifle a gasp, tongue pooling in anticipation as your eyes trail, unashamedly from his darkened gaze to where his cock now twitches with need.

"I- I trust you baby, promise. But please, I Need- need to cum so bad." And as if to enunciate your point, your hips lift and jerk, an eager shuffle that has his tip pressing against your clit.

"I know, I know Doll, take a deep breath for me yeah? Relax, let me make you feel good," he says, a slow and measured press of his cock further into your pussy, loud moans from the both of you now whined and broken against each other's lips.

"I- I can't, it's too much-" quick and sharp gasps now lost in the wet and sticky sound of your arousal spreading further along your thighs and you're clenching still, sucking him in, ankles now tightening around his waist, a hand coming up to his hair to tug at and the other bunching his shirt between your shaking fingers.

His hands find your hips, smooth and reassuring circles rubbed into the skin even as he sinks deeper and deeper still. "Shhh you can do it sweetheart, just relax and ease up a little- look at how much you're sucking me in." And then, somehow, his hips press flush to yours, buried in you to the hilt and his tip now kissing lightly at your cervix.

You take sharp breaths between the broken whimpers, the pitch of your sweet voice rising as he begins a languid grind of his hips, his hands now bruising at your skin gripped tight between his fingers. He drops his forehead to the crown of your head, hips snapping as the dresser shakes behind you.

"shit that's it pretty girl- so warm and tight and perfect for me, so fuckin soft and pretty." He slurs, half lost in the clouded daze, lips parted and reddened, sweat clinging to the nape of his neck as you pull and tug at his soft curls.

"fuck, oh my god, sh- shuji-" you whine and whimper, moan and whisper, loud and broken and it's all lost under the wet sound of his hips snapping against yours, the repeated slapping sound punctuated by the rock of the dresser against the wall.

"I got you, I got you pretty doll,- hah, you feel like heaven, pretty princess pussy was made for me huh?"

Your lashes flutter, lips grazing his neck as you pull and tug and tighten your fingers in his curls, the one scratching down his shirt that clings with to the shifting muscles in his back. "I was, I promise," you babble, tears forming in your eyes as the mascara runs and smudges on the white linen. "I'm yours- I'm yours- I'm yours, all yours."

His cock twitches, pulses and stutters, hips stilling momentarily. "You're mine?" And then. "All mine? Only mine?"

You shuffle and grind up against him, that all too familiar wire of pleasure bubbling in your tummy. "Only yours, forever. Please, let me cum, can I cum?"

He lifts your chin then, a soft and tender kiss to your forehead, cheeks now tinted pink, a rosy sheen to his skin as his lips press softly to the crown of your head and you almost keen, a fluttery beat that only increases tenfold when his thumb finds your clit again to run smooth circles into it.

"Cum for me then sweetheart, cum for daddy and let me feel you," he says, and your lips part, hips rocking as you spasm and twitch with the orgasm that has your vision clouding white. You choke out his name and it feels reverential, feels tender and intimate and delicious coming from your swollen lips now wet and smudged with lipstick and he loves you dearly, loves you in a way that's terrifying and otherworldly.

He thrusts messily, a few pumps of his cock till he's spilling into you, warm and hot and sinking his forehead to yours, your name chanted and sweet on his lips till he slows his hips down and your breath softens as the heady pleasure carries the both of you into bliss.

"I love you," you say, mumbled against his shoulder as your breath evens out, hands running softly up and down his back as he pulls out.

"I know sweetheart, I know you do." And he presses an extra kiss to your cheek, hands now smoothing reassuring and loving circles into your hips as you both come down together.

It's overwhelming in the moments like this, somehow more intimate than the sex, when he looks on you and your reflection shimmers in his pupils blown wide with love and an adoration that borders on worship and he waits and kisses you softly, small little murmurs of your name on his lips.

"we're late, you made us late," you say with a hazy smile as your hands trail along his forearms, finding the veins and junctures, small scars and fissures in the skin that are silvery and pink in the light.

"such a greedy needy little thing aren't you? Came on my cock and now it's my fault we're late?" And it makes you laugh - so unreservedly, that the tension and pressure of the moment slips and peels away.

"you're the one who liked the dress a little too much."

He grins, thumb and forefinger taking your chin between them. "Well it is a nice dress isn't it? My pretty girl is just too pretty." And you love him entirely, so big and beautiful in all that he is, all the bad and the good that comes with him that maybe, being late is worth it.

You know he's worth it all and more.

I am not proofreading, I'm too embarrassed to go back and read it, take what you're given.

Reblogs appreciated though

#tokyo revengers #tokyo rev #hanma shuji #hanma x reader #tokyorev x reader

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etherealyoungk · 1 year ago

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━☆ first kiss with seventeen: joshua

♡ first kiss with seventeen series ♡ masterlist ♡

pairing: joshua x reader

warnings: kissing, fluff

wordcount: 655

it was raining, not too light, not too heavy, just moderately but it still was enough to pull you out from your desk where you were working, making you walk towards the window to see the rain fall down. the smell of the rain always calmed you down. the sun was still shining and you take a peek up at the sky from the window, letting out a small gasp of surprise when you spot the colorful patch of colors of a rainbow decorating the sky.

your feet walk on its own and you find yourself on the terrace, wanting to get a better view of the rainbow. you smile to yourself as you look up at the rainbow and oh how you wish joshua could see this too. you're about to head down and grab your phone to call joshua to call him when you hear the familiar beep of your door opening.

"joshua! shuaa!", you yell, catching his attention. "babe? y/n?", he asks. "come to the terrace! hurry", you shout out and joshua runs upstairs because the urgency in your voice had him worried. but when he finds you on the terrace smiling in the rain, he's a little confused.

"baby, you're getting wet, come here", he says. you shake your head. "look!", you say pointing to the rainbow and his eyes find the colors in the sky and he smiles too. "it's so pretty!", you tell. "just like you", joshua remarks, making you giggle at the comment.

the rain has slowed down now, only falling in a light drizzle. joshua makes his way to you in the rain and you look at him, holding your hand out to him, which he gladly takes, pulling you closer to him. and as you look at him, his hair getting damp and wet from the rain, the desire for something you've always wanted creeps up.

"what are you thinking?", he asks softly as he looks at you, tucking a strand of loose hair behind your ear. you shake your head, shy. because admitting it out loud sounded silly. joshua chuckles at your sudden shyness. "what is it love?", he asks again and you look up at him, biting your lip as you try to form the words to tell him.

"it's silly", you tell him and he tilts his head to the side cutely. "nothing's ever silly", he reassures. "i just...i've always wanted to kiss someone in the rain", you tell, whispering the last words but joshua heard you loud and clear. "that's not silly baby, i actually think that's a quite a cute and romantic idea", he tells you, making you smile softly.

"can i...can you kiss me...maybe?", you ask, the gentle drizzle of the rain still falling down. by now both of your shirts are wet and your hair is damp, but neither of you cares anymore. he smiles, warmth and endearment radiating from his eyes. he gently cups your cheeks and leans in slightly. your breath hitches and your eyes flutter close as you feel his lips softly press against yours. he slowly moves his lips against yours and your fingers clutch the collar of his shirt as you kiss him back.

he kisses you softly and sweetly like you're the most precious thing in the world. he kisses you like he cherishes you and it makes your head fuzzy and you don't want to stop. joshua finally pulls away, but still close enough that his lips brush against yours. your chest rises and falls as your catch your breath because he quite literally kissed you breathless.

you shyly smile at him. "that was amazing", you whisper and he kisses your cheek in response. "don't want you getting a cold now, let's go inside?", he asks and you whisper a small yeah before you both head back inside the house. you and joshua end up cuddling on the couch and maybe share a few more sweet kisses.

taglist: @daisycheols @naaaaafla @joshuaahong @rubywonu @slytherinshua @wheeboo @fairyhaos @minhui896 @musingsofananxiouspotato @thehao8 @cheiyoma @keiyx @icyminghao @fallingforshua29 @txtandroll @bhavyoon @nishloves @kokoiinuts @writingsbybirdie @hauvitis @jennimisu @dahliatopia @prpldahy @ryujineebae @onedumbho3

drop an ask if you want to be added to the taglist for this series!

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osarina · 7 months ago

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ᡣ𐭩 OFFICE ESCAPADES

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: dazai decides to take advantage of everyone leaving the office for lunch to get some much needed time with you. you know it's a mistake, and that you're going to get caught, but you can't bring yourself to deny him—you never can. (wordcount: 1kish; nsfw)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: i was going to give you guys a long one shot today but i got cold feet unfortunately </3 maybe next week i'll have the balls to post it. for now, take a lil drabble i wrote

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, public ??? not sex but it was getting heated

“They’ll all be back any minute,” you whisper, voice breathless as you feel Dazai’s lips drag down your neck, soft and wet as he sucks and nips at your skin.

He only responds with a hum, and you know your words probably aren't even even registering through his head. You think that you should be more insistent—push him back and get off of his lap, because Kunikida will be livid if he comes back to the office to find the two of you in a compromising position, and Yosano and Ranpo will never let you hear the end of it. But it’s hard to focus with Dazai’s tongue tracing patterns on your neck, with his fingers digging into your hips as he grinds you down on his cock.

His touch is dizzying, fogging your mind of all common sense, and he’s been testing your limits all morning so really, how can you blame yourself for finally giving in to a little release?

It started with subtle brushes and lingering touches that set your skin aflame, then came the lidded stares as he watched you instead of doing his work, and finally, just before lunch break, when you went into the kitchen to grab some water, he followed you right in under the guise of grabbing a snack from one of the upper cabinets. He caged you against the counter and pressed his body against yours as he reached above you, the outline of his cock pressing into your ass for a few seconds too long before Kunikida started yelling for Dazai to hurry up.

“It’s fine, bella,” he finally murmurs against your skin, acknowledging your words. “Relax.”

“It’s not-“ You try to say, but Dazai doesn’t even give you the chance to finish the sentence, lifting his head from your neck to capture your lips with his.

And if his touches are dizzying, his kisses are addicting. Your eyes flutter shut when you feel his lips moving against yours, painfully slow but you feel like you can’t even breathe, tongue brushing along your lower lip to get you to part them for him. You think you could kiss him forever and never get enough of it.

His hands slip beneath your shirt, warm palms sliding up and down your sides as if to try to calm you down.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, breath hot against your lips as his eyes trace yours, lidded and hazy. “Heaven-sent.”

“Osamu,” you protest, a bit flustered. Dazai is always poetic and flowery with his compliments but heaven-sent?

Dazai lets out a soft noise, you can’t tell if it’s a moan or a shaky breath as his hips jerk up enough to make your body shudder. God, this is so bad, you know it and you know he knows it even if he won't admit it. This needs to stop before anyone walks in but neither of you can drag yourself away from the other.

“It’s the truth,” he replies, reverence dripping from his tone as he stares up at you, dark eyes wide with an emotion so intense that it has your breath catching. “You’re divine, utterly angelic. You’re not meant to be with someone like me. I’ll ruin you.”

You can’t tell if it’s a warning, a threat or a promise—maybe a combination of all three. Your fingers trace his cheekbones as you cup his face, eyes searching his as you ask with a teasing smile, “What if I want you to?”

The reaction is instantaneous—Dazai’s eyes darken, pupils dilating as he stares up at you. His grip on your hips tightens just a bit.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Dazai rasps, his voice is a bit lower, a far cry from the loud dramatic tone he usually took—heat pools in your lower stomach as you let out a soft puff of air.

“I do,” you reply, leaning down to nip his jaw, relishing in the way he instinctively lets his head fall back, baring his throat for you. You kiss down to where his bandages peek out from under his shirt, before trailing back up to the spot behind his ear that makes him writhe, smiling against his skin when you hear the soft, pitched moan that spills from his lips. “I want you to ruin me, Osamu. In every possible way you can.”

Dazai’s lips part to respond, but he doesn’t get the chance. The office doors slam open and Kunikida is shouting: “You two have no decency!”

You throw yourself off of Dazai’s lap, flustered and hot as you fix your shirt and make your way back over to your own desk, ignoring Yosano’s cat calls and Ranpo’s snickering.

Your fingers tremble as you log back into your computer, but it’s hard to concentrate when you can feel Dazai’s gaze on you even as Kunikida shouts at him.

You peek over one last time—he’s resting his head on on his hand as he stares in your direction, gaze lidded and so intense that you can barely bring yourself to imagine the thoughts that might be running through his head.

When he catches you looking, the corner of his lip quirks up into a smirk, and you think, balefully, that there’s no way you’re going to last another six hours of work with him looking at you like this.

And more importantly, there’s no way you’re going to survive the night with him now that he's being given six hours to come up with countless ways to ruin you.

#ᡣ𐭩 carina’s archives #dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai smut #dazai osamu x reader #dazai osamu x you #dazai osamu smut #bsd x reader #bsd x you #bsd smut #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x you #bungo stray dogs smut

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sensei-venus · 9 months ago

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@gemini-sensei

This is just random and I don’t think I will keep it as a main going idea, but what if Robby ends up shearing a birthday with his tiny little daughter?

Maybe everyone is so excited about Robby’s birthday, mainly Reader who is so excited to be throwing him a party. Technically it’s not only just his normal birthday but also his last “I’m not a dad” birthday. Their daughter is due in a little less than a month. She’s so excited to be throwing him a birthday party because she knows he never really had them as a kid.

She spends all day getting things set up for his party. She makes a cake, blows up a few balloons, orders a really nice gift that she knows he will love. Something he has been eyeing for a while now but never bought.

Though out the day she is so busy that she just brushes off the occasional pains that come up. Every once in a while a pain goes up her belly and back but it’s nothing to worrying about. Their baby tends to move a lot now so it’s not a surprise that she’s might be stepping on a sensitive area like she sometimes does. She just waits and lets the pain pass before going back to what she was doing.

At the end of the day she makes a delicious dinner she knows Robby will love. She makes all of his favorites. Setting everything up on the kitchen table before he gets home. She makes it all nice for him.

She stands in the kitchen with his birthday cake in her hands, a simple “Happy Birthday Robby!” Written on top in pretty cursive. A smile rolling onto her lips as she hears a car pull into the driveway. She’s so giddy, giggles spill out as she waits.

The door handle tunes to the front door and Robby walks in with wide eyes.

“Happy birthday Robby!” Reader yells while holding up the cake. Robby is in shock but a grin plasters on his face. Seeing his pretty little wife all dolled up, carrying his baby, smile on her face and a birthday cake in her hands. It all so much just for him. He walks over to her with a grin and the pretty little laugh she makes has him cooing on the inside.

But before he can get a few steps in front of her, a very loud splash is heard. It echos around the room making both of them look around. It isn’t until Reader feels her feet getting wet that she lets out a small gasp. This makes Robby look at her with question. She takes a step back and sets the cake on the table.

She slowly holds her belly, cradling it. Looking at the floor and then Robby she gives a half hearted smile.

“Well um maybe happy birthday to you and your daughter? Looks like someone couldn’t wait another two weeks to meet you.” Her voice is telling that this was definitely not something she wanted to be happening.

Robby is quick to realize the puddle and slowly dripping fluid on the floor is actually Reader’s water breaking.

He try’s to avoid the small mess of fluid and hugs his wife as gently as he can. He chuckles a little trying to get her a bit more relaxed.

“Hey it’s okay, you and her are just giving me an extra special present this birthday, aren’t you?” Reader laughs a little into his shoulder while they hug.

Robby was right when he said this birthday present was special.

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literaila · 2 years ago

Text

listening ears

tasm!peter x fem!reader

summary: in which peter is terrible at keeping secrets. and socks.

warnings: idiots to friends to lovers, no angst just pining, arguments, fluff, ahhhh

a/n: heres the link to the playlist. for a real time experience, listen. (this makes it sound like an amusement park which i think is funny)

word count: 10k

the first time you meet him, you're listening to sad music.

it's unclear which song--being that it's late enough that they've begun to blur together, instrumental shifting to piano and soft sullen voices and heartbeats you can't hear but feel--but it rings in your ears as he walks by.

as spider-man is suddenly in front of you, suddenly right in front of your bench, flashing blue and red and ego and playing with some weird white string between his fingers.

you're also fairly certain that he's cursing.

so, quietly, you hit pause on your phone, taking out an earbud. you watch him, hoping that he's already noticed your presence.

hoping that maybe he'll leave and there will be no questioning--from either of you--about what you're doing out this late on a night like this.

the snow on your head has melted, turning your hair several different forms of wet.

and when spider-man has not looked up, or any other place he might be mugged, you, graciously, clear your throat.

alerting him of your presence and beginning an attempt to beg him to leave.

spider-man, unsurprisingly, jumps back.

his white eyes are wide, but that might just be the costume.

you smile and wave.

"wha--" he looks around, behind himself, like you might be waving at someone else. "when did you get there?" he asks.

his voice is quieter than you've heard it before. less animated. maybe a bit rough, or sore.

you tilt your head, lifting a brow. "about an hour ago."

spider-man stares blankly at you. "no."

you contemplate laughing, or maybe tripping him with your leg as he peers closer at you, but ultimately hum. "okay." you drawl, "maybe i didn't."

your smile is soft. your voice is abundantly sweet.

you do not doubt that if spider-man wanted to, he could make both of you disappear in an instant.

not that you're afraid, of course. you've seen the news. and experienced an average day in new york.

spider-man tries again to pull his hands apart. fails.

"sticky?" you ask him, swinging your legs.

you think--but really just know--that spider-man glares at you.

and then, with the subtleness of a child, he leans up again, straightening his back. clears his throat like he's got a lot to say. "what are you doing out so late?"

his voice might be even deeper now, as some method of intimidation.

unfortunately for him, you got over your fear of spiders a couple of months ago.

"i could ask you the same thing," you respond.

spider-man does not find this amusing, apparently, because he just stares at you. waiting and watching.

eventually, maybe just to evade some awkward silence approaching, you sigh and relent. "i was drawing," you say, gesturing to the notebook you set aside.

you don't tell him about the music, or your sore eyes.

or about how when he first showed up you almost fell off the bench.

these are things he probably doesn't need to know, you think.

spider-man must frown or something because he grumbles out his next question. "drawing?" he repeats. "at three in the morning? in the dark?"

"there's a light right there," you point to the streetlight above your head, the picture of innocence.

you continue to smile at this man, if only because he seems to find it immensely irritating.

"aren't you cold?"

"the weather?" you furrow your brows, criticizing him. "c'mon, i thought you were better than that."

"it's snowing."

"i hadn't noticed."

"your paper is getting wet--" he points to your notebook, to the soiled edges.

it's the first thing to make you frown since he's shown up.

"shit," you whisper, brushing some snow and lead off of the paper. "i liked this one."

"sorry." spider-man clears his throat again. he bounces between feet like he's freezing.

"is spandex warm?" you ask him, leaning forward.

"i'm fine."

you frown. "are you always this grumpy? or is it just cause i scared ya?"

"you didn't scare me."

"must be the hands then," you say, leaning over so you can try and see the hands he's kept hidden behind his back.

but spider-man pulls them out--two of them--wiggling his fingers.

you frown. "how'd you do that?"

spider-man doesn't answer. instead, he looks around, probably for someone to rescue him.

unfortunately, everyone else went to bed hours ago.

you grin at him, suddenly and smoothly, holding your notebook out to him. "wanna see?"

spider-man is definitely judging the mess of a journal you have, but he takes it from you anyway, if a bit hesitantly. "whoa--" he says, turning it over. and then he pauses.

he looks back to you.

you smile.

"this is a penis."

you and maturity have never gotten along.

you make an effort to keep a blank face--snickering internally at the dry way he says it--and shake your head. "no," you say, "if you turn it over it's a smile."

spider-man does so.

and surely behind the mask, he's doing a slow blink, probably scowling at you.

"do you like it?" you ask him, keeping your voice soft and sincere.

he hands it back to you, sighing. "you should head home."

"so, no?"

"really," he says, almost gently. "you'll get frostbite. there's a reason no one else is out."

you blink, leaning back. "except you?"

spider-man swings his arms back and forth. he looks away. "except me."

"you can't get frostbite?" you guess.

and spider-man, despite himself, tries to smother a laugh with a cough. but you hear it clearly enough.

you furrow your brows as you peer at him.

and so he points a finger at you, stern. "get packing."

"what if i live on this bench?"

he doesn't laugh this time. he just starts to walk away, eyes still on you. "if you're not gone in five minutes i'm swinging you home."

"you don't know where i live," you say, calling his bluff.

but he turns around, waving nonchalantly.

you watch him, maybe surprised or irritated.

either way, you call after him.

and he spares you a glance.

"maybe i'll draw you next time," you say.

and then he's gone, and you're switching playlists.

when peter runs into the bathroom he's not really thinking about germs.

or toilet seats or washing his hands, or, obviously, checking the stalls for anyone else in there.

the fire alarm went off two minutes ago; anyone who remains, peter thinks, is probably not going to connect any dots between him and spider-man.

and when he unzips his backpack, digging his suit out of one of the pockets and cursing as pencils and pens fall onto the ground, he wonders why he didn't iron it this morning.

why he even tried to do laundry yesterday, considering that he's not very good at it and may has definitely noticed.

still, he kicks his shoes off.

the floor isn't wet this time, peter's thinking, so thank god for that.

he swings his jacket off of his shoulders and hurries to unbutton his pants.

there's a gentle buzzing of a fan in the corner, only slightly drowned out by the siren that is giving peter a headache. and flashing lights. and people running by.

and lots of chances to get caught, but not enough care in the world.

and if peter focuses enough, he can hear some type of music playing, somewhere close.

loud bass, quick rhythm.

he almost pauses to think about it, and then decides against it.

he flings his pants onto the floor, folding his shirt over his head.

it is very cold in this bathroom.

still, peter slides his socks off, hating the tiled floors, and internally screaming when one of the socks falls under the stall, disappearing to places that peter does not have time to look in.

and then he's squeezing into a very irritating suit.

trying to remind himself what the greater good is and blah blah blah. . .

but his arms are sore as he tries to zip it up, jumping to reach.

peter is insanely grateful for doors and peace and quiet and advil, of course.

and finally--finally--when he has the suit on, he scrambles to pick up everything he left on the floor while also putting his web-slingers on.

a good effort, really.

he sticks his backpack to the wall, promising himself that he's not going to forget it.

and then he unlocks his stall, beginning to step out when he catches a glance of you.

standing right in front of him, white earbud dangling toward the ground, proud smirk as you hold his sock up.

peter pauses. he stares at you.

you tap an innocent finger on your chin. "aren't you supposed to check the bathroom before you change?"

peter's first move is to try and grab the sock from your hand. but you, swift on your feet, duck away, humming to yourself.

"you're gonna go save a bunch of people with a sock in your hand?" you ask him.

peter thinks for a moment--not about socks, thank god--if you were standing in there when he walked in.

if you had paused when he burst through the door, not thinking about what bathroom this was or any person who might've stuck around. if your eyes were wide and mischievous--as they are now--when he quickly ducked into a stall.

but he knows, really, that you weren't there.

because, peter recognizes, he wouldn't have been able to miss you.

still, you're smirking at him.

"better get out there, spider-man," you say, gesturing towards the door.

and peter doesn't have the time to curse at you because you're right.

he doesn't bother to try and grab his sock again.

and when peter opens the door he can hear it--

your laugh.

and a gentle throbbing of another one bites the dust coming from your headphones.

you're trying not to laugh.

really, it's an extreme effort as you store the snort deep inside your chest, trying to melt the smile off of your face.

you are squirming in your seat as your sternum begs for some sort of relief.

and you contemplate leaving the library before this goes too far. before you start cackling in his face, unable to hold back--even if he gives you a weird look and everyone else around you starts complaining.

there's not much you can do to stop it, honestly, not when you've been sitting here, studying, for the last hour, music lulling you almost to sleep. and not when the boy who is now sitting in the cubicle next to you kicked his feet out, revealing some scruffed up converse.

and of course, some mismatched socks.

when you looked down--in a moment of weakness, dropping some type of pencil--you had to do a double take.

not that you can judge this boy, who you've been studying for the last five minutes and his choice of attire. you lose your own socks all of the time.

but there's a grey sock, plain and casual and not unlike your own. and then, just a couple of inches over, there's another sock. this one with a striped, colorful pattern, and words on the other side that you can't really read--for lack of view--but recognize almost immediately.

because, coincidently, you have the same sock in your backpack, awaiting a certain visitor.

and so, as soon as you looked up at this boy, the amusement crowded your not-so-subtle eyes.

he's got brown hair, a frown on his face as he reads a textbook that looks much more than dreadful. his chin is jutted out, his teeth idly munching on the lip between them. a headphone in one ear.

and, of course, this boy doesn't look over. he seems almost unaware of your presence.

and maybe that's what makes this so funny.

being that you've experienced this a couple of times now, and it's getting really hard to not say anything about it.

synchronicities, you know, can only go on for so long.

and this boy--this strange, somewhat attractive boy--is blissfully ignorant.

and you can't believe that he's wearing those socks in public.

you clear your throat, smile unstoppable now.

but he doesn't look over.

and you cover your mouth, shaking your head and turning yourself completely so that when he finally does decide to look over, he will know that you've been staring at him.

he will know that there's no avoiding this interaction.

which, for some strange reason, you're getting immense pleasure out of.

if you listen close enough you can hear the music he's playing.

some melancholy guitar music, completely what you would've assumed from him.

it makes you smile even wider.

you clear your throat again, leaning forward, legs crossed on your chair.

you kind of want to make him jump.

"excuse me," you say, softly. good enough to not draw any attention in this library.

though, your smile might be enough to raise some eyebrows.

the boy looks over, eyes wide and attentive.

you note his face as he takes you in.

"i was just wondering," you continue, innocently, "where you got your socks?"

you have rendered this boy speechless. which you seem to do a lot of.

you cough. "i mean, sock."

he looks down, to his feet, and then to you, seeming to understand. you catch a smudge of panic in his eyes, carefully glazed over as he opens his mouth, trying to say something.

he scratches his neck. blinking, with his mouth open, like he's trying to make sure that you're actually there.

and, to be honest, this is exactly what you imagined of him.

"lose all of your other pairs, too? or do you just like the look of clashing colors?" you blink at him, leaning back.

he takes a deep breath. "i'm sorry?"

"i mean," you shrug, turning back to your desk, "if it were me, i probably wouldn't wear those. especially when someone might have the exact same sock. but, to each their own."

"you--" he awkwardly laughs. "i just, um, found this. in the bathroom."

"was it in a backpack stuck to the wall?" you look back to him--his wide, scared, doe eyes--polite smile on your face.

"actually, i bought them yesterday. they came like this."

"interesting design choice," you respond.

and the boy, who is still staring at you, though not quite as breathless now, ducks down, leaning closer to you. "what do you want?" he whispers, eyes glaring.

"excuse me?" you whisper back.

"i'll--whatever it is, i'll try and get it. just don't--please don't tell anyone."

you frown, resting your head on a hand. "tell anyone what?"

"what you--" he looks around for anyone who might be listening. "what you know."

you tilt your head, questioning, and amused eyes.

"about me," he clarifies, almost hissing.

you lean back, studying him. "we just met," you say, with a hand to your chest.

he glares back.

"i won't spread your questionable fashion choices around the school if that's what you mean."

this boy still doesn't laugh. just like the first time, and the second, he seems to find you distasteful. almost annoying.

and honestly, that might be the only thing fueling this fire in your veins. this want to mess with him until he drops.

"seriously," he says, angry, "what do you want from me?"

"just to know where you bought those."

and then, as quietly and quickly as possible, you bend down to dig into your backpack, smiling in satisfaction as you find it, and then leaning back up, handing it to him.

"i wouldn't leave those around," you whisper. "you never know who might try and copy you."

you are almost threatening him.

the boy glowers. "i don't know what you're talking about."

you shrug, turning away again.

but he grabs your arm. "what?" he demands, again and again.

his eyes are angry, his face is hard and he's leaning away from you like you might reach out and turn him to dust.

but you only smile, asking sweetly "what's your name?"

he stares for a moment, blinking. "what?"

"i think maybe we have met before," you answer. "you seem familiar."

the boy grinds his teeth together.

but you wait, shoving that chuckling down your chest.

"peter," he says, the word mad and tough.

"peter," you repeat, looking away from him. "nice to meet you. i'm y/n."

you reach to shake his hand, and he stares at it like it's poison.

you roll your eyes. "don't worry," you add, softly. "i haven't forgotten. i still have to draw you."

his frown increases.

and you laugh as you turn away, thinking about secrets.

and listening to the music in peter's ears, still drifting over.

peter is not really paying attention tonight.

he roamed around all day--because there was nothing else to do--talking to strangers and not having to smile for pictures, just hoping for something to pop up.

and it did, and then it didn't.

when the problems are easy to fix, peter knows, they're less enjoyable.

still, the distraction was nice.

and you are not as you sit on a bench in front of him, smiling.

you've got that look on your face--the one that makes peter want to run away.

especially because you know who he is.

because he's been especially reckless the past couple of weeks, and as a consequence, you have shown up. you have smiled at him, whispering gentle words and even gentler promises.

and you've got a pencil in your hands.

a glint in your eyes that peter's seen somewhere before.

"fancy seeing you here," you say, amused. this is the same bench he passed by on the first night--when he was thinking about going home but didn't.

peter curses his own stupid decisions; the difference that they could've made.

"are you going to threaten me again?" peter asks, not really joking, though his voice gives nothing away.

"i don't know what you're talking about."

you're shrugging, looking away from him as your lips curl at the corners.

and then you look back up. "you never did answer my question about the socks, though."

peter rolls his eyes, though he doesn't miss the way he moves forward, trying to catch a glance at the surely explicit picture you're drawing.

curiosity is a curse.

"aren't you cold?" peter merely repeats.

"it's not snowing. so, no."

peter grunts. "another body part?" he nods toward the picture you're drawing, the thing you've chosen to look at instead of him.

"a foot," you grin up at him, eyebrows raise. "though, if you wanted. . . i could get started on my picture of you."

peter wishes you could see his frown.

still, he takes another step towards you. "how much?"

"hmm?"

"how much are you charging for it?"

peter watches you stifle a laugh, feels the pin-prick of pleasure in his chest. "only a smile," you say, head tilted.

"no thanks, then."

"c'mon, spider-man," you complain. "you're so much nicer to everyone else."

"everyone else hasn't threatened me."

you pout. "i won't tell anyone," you tell him, eyes wide, "if that's what you're worried about."

peter doesn't answer, just stares at you. looking for any tells.

"i mean," you continue, shrugging. "not that anyone would believe me. you've got enough frown lines to put me to shame."

as if to prove your point, peter frowns. "what's that supposed to mean?"

"well, i don't think anyone else has ever heard spider-man so much as grumble. so you. . ." you scrutinize him, nose wrinkled. "you couldn't be him."

peter narrows his eyes.

but you smile again, patting the bench next to you. "sit."

"i can't. i'm working."

you roll your eyes, sighing. "i'm the only one here. wouldn't you be better off watching me? just to make sure i don't do anything."

you smile at him, and it's more vicious than kind.

peter notes your eyes and the secretive glances you're giving him.

you might be right.

so he shrugs and moves to sit down next to you.

he's been closer, anyway.

you flip to another page, looking up at him, then down.

and so it begins.

you hum as you draw him, and peter taps his fingers on the bench, feeling nervous and uncomfortable, and mostly, hating that he's allowed himself to do this.

maybe just to keep in your good graces.

"what classes are you taking?" you ask him after a couple of minutes go by.

"what?"

"last week," you say, head tilting. erasing something on the paper. you've tilted it up on your knees, leaning against the arm of the bench, so peter can't see. "you were studying. that textbook looked horrible."

peter lets his lip perk up.

"what were you studying for?"

"a chemistry midterm."

you look at him, eyes just a bit tired. "you're into science?" you ask, almost doubtful.

peter crosses his arms.

"i mean, no offense or anything--" you smile as you say it. "--but i would've picked you for a music major. or business."

peter understands the implication. he doesn't say anything.

"gym major?" you ask, stealing a glance at his arms, laughing to yourself.

"what about you?" he asks, suddenly leaning forward. "i didn't realize there were classes on how to manipulate someone."

"that's called law," you respond, dryly. "and i'm an art major."

peter is sure you can feel his raised brow.

you roll your eyes, sighing as you relent. "fine. undecided. but i'm figuring it out."

you smile again like you know something he doesn't.

another minute passes, peter listening to the wind and your pencil as you scribble against the page.

"how long is this going to take?" peter asks, looking up, wondering how long he's been here.

"you can't rush art."

"i can when it's annoying me."

you don't look at him, but peter watches as you tense. he almost catches himself--the words he's just spoken and accidentally let out--and decides not to say anything.

maybe you'll forget about it.

"so," you drawl, after thirty seconds of awkward silence. "you're a chemist."

"engineer."

you scoff. "sorry, but that means the same thing to me."

peter snorts back.

"how old are you?" you ask him, brow furrowed as you concentrate.

"i'm not telling you."

you raise a brow, but don't look at him. "why not?"

"you'll just add it to the file."

you don't say anything.

"the file of things you know about me."

there's a quirk on your face, the clearing of your throat. "i was serious," you tell him, again. "i'm not going to tell anyone. i respect your privacy."

peter gives you a dubious look.

"i respect your anonymity," you revise, giving him a grin. "and if you keep moving your face i'm going to mess up your portrait."

"are you actually an artist?" peter asks, "or is this a ploy to get unsuspecting strangers to stop?"

"guess," you say.

"i'm going with the latter."

you shrug, not looking at him. "i've been told worse. but i think you're really going to like this."

peter doubts that, but he doesn't say anything.

and another tens minutes pass--in which you scrutinize everything about the suit he designed, snorting when he argues back--and then you're tearing out a page, smiling at him.

"i mean it," you tell him, "next time i see you i want a smile."

"i could be smiling right now."

you stare at him.

"just give it to me."

you laugh, putting your notebook in the bag next to you. "just don't look until i'm gone, okay?"

"you don't want to watch my reaction?"

"i don't think i need to."

and peter watches as you put everything else away--pencils and erasers and stick of charcoal. he pauses when he finally notices the headphones you tuck into your bag.

"you were listening to something before i got here?"

you just nod, zipping up your bag.

"what?"

you look up at him, eyes daring. "guess," you say.

"kanye?"

you scoff. "please."

"miley cyrus?"

you tilt your head, "i would be more likely to listen to the hannah montana soundtrack."

"metallica?"

you nod, lips pursing. "you got it, spider-man. i'm a metal kinda girl."

peter could've told you that.

but you're smirking before he can respond, pulling the pencil back out, flipping over the paper, and concealing it with your hand so that he can't see.

"there," you say, after forty-five seconds of scribbling. "now it's finished."

you put the pencil away, standing up.

"i'll see you soon," you say to him, nodding. "and that smile."

peter snorts.

and then you're walking away, waving an idle hand goodbye as you turn the corner. peter watches until you're gone, making sure that you're not going to pop back out when he least suspects it, and then he slides over on the bench, finally grabbing the paper.

he flips it over to find a black-and-white picture of himself, every slope and curve of his suit that he recognizes in the mirror.

and he knows, for sure, that you lied to him. or he lied to you.

it wasn't the latter.

still, somewhat amazed, smiling under his mask, his eyes drift down to the words you've written at the corner of the page.

you are a call to motion, it says. there, all of you, a verb in perfect view.

and then another foul "smiley face." peter almost laughs.

when you move, you've written, i move.

and your number at the very bottom, scribbled a bit recklessly.

peter memorizes the numbers before he swings home.

you get the first text three days later.

your phone vibrates in your pocket as you're waiting in line at a coffee shop, watching the people around you move with creases in their brows.

your fingers itch for the notebook in your bag.

and when you read the screen, you're a bit confused.

a text from an unknown number, and all it says is:

you lied.

you frown, thinking of who you might've irritated in the past couple of days.

it only takes a couple of seconds to recall the boy who you've messed with the most.

peter and the scowls he's given you.

you smile, knowing what he means.

and then you send him the spotify link to enter sandman.

peter rolls his eyes when he gets the message. still, he clicks on the link, plugging his headphones into the jack.

he walks while he listens, wincing at the words.

and when it's finished--when peter officially decides that he's finished with you--he sends back another link.

one to the song you wrote out for him, the song you happened to lie about.

are you flirting with me? he asks, trying not to let himself regret it.

or smile as he sees the little bubble at the bottom of the screen, letting him know that you're still there.

you send an emoji of a spider back and peter's smile fades.

you're laughing as you type, you still owe me a smile.

you move up in the line, trying not to stumble over the shoes of the person in front of you, scowling when peter sends you a scowl back.

not literally, of course. but it's been two minutes since he read the text, and he has not answered.

which, you think, is very rude.

is that a no? you type out.

peter merely says: you owe me a song.

so you send him knee socks, by arctic monkeys.

and you forget what to order when you get up to the counter.

peter begins to look for you before he walks around any corner.

he's avoided that bench, thinking that if he gets too close, too soon, you will get bored.

that you might've already after you sent him that song and he had nothing good to send you back.

he's been thinking about it for the past couple of days.

while he studies, and showers, goes to class, and swings from building to building, staring down at tiny people and thinking that one of them might be you.

but you haven't shown up. peter thinks maybe you've been hiding out too.

maybe worried because he hasn't texted back.

but then he corrects himself; he can't imagine you worried about anything.

still, he peeks around the corner before he moves, waiting for your cheeky smile and irritating laughter.

instead, he finds a crowd of people that he doesn't know, and who don't know him.

not that you do either.

peter is listening to music as he walks. trying to pretend that there is no correlation between you and this song.

he moves around the people, keeping his eyes low. he says hello to anyone who says anything to him. he smiles at strangers and reminds himself how to be polite.

he thinks about how mean he's been to you, and wonders if it just comes naturally.

and when he gets home, kissing may on the cheek and walking up to his room, happy to finally put down his backpack and all of the books in it, he's still thinking about you.

thinking about the picture he's put on his wall, and your simple handwriting underneath it. neat and smooth, nothing like he'd expected it to be.

he's thinking about you as he gets undressed, sliding on his suit and staring at the socks he's left on the floor.

when you know who's callin' even though the number is blocked. . .

peter shakes his head, kicking them under his bed.

but, right before he leaves, he grabs his phone from his bed, angrily clicking on a playlist.

and then he sends you another link, about a week later.

and he doesn't have it in him to question it.

you awake from your nap to a text.

the name at the top of your screen just says "itsy bitsy," because you were a little bit delirious and thought it was hilarious when you put him in your contacts a week and two days ago.

you almost smile at the notification, and then catch yourself.

spider-man, peter, has sent you a link to love grows (where my rosemary goes).

you click on it, smirking as you do so.

and then two minutes and fifty-four seconds later, you finally text him again.

are you busy tomorrow?

"you're my muse now," you say to him, pointing to a stool.

you sent peter the directions to an art studio, about three minutes off campus, and told him to come at noon.

it is 12:23 and you haven't stopped smiling at peter since he walked in.

"any song suggestions?" you ask him, wide eyes and tilted head and that devious smile that runs goosebumps up his arms.

peter clears his throat.

"no," he says. "pick whatever,"

you asked him to pose for you. told him that he owed you at least that, if not some laughter.

and peter disagreed, but didn't argue.

and now he's not quite sure why.

you put on some soft guitar music, going to a shelf in the corner of the room to grab something.

"how's my bench?" you ask him as you move back over to him and sit on the ground.

peter frowns. "i don't know."

you pull out a notebook, scoffing. "you're telling me that you haven't checked it once in the past week?"

"nope."

"aren't you supposed to be like the protector of new york city, or whatever?" you blow some hair out of your eyes as you say it.

"that typically applies to people."

"except me," you grumble, under your breath.

peter's lip twitches.

"what are you doing, again?" he asks.

"well, i figured since i drew spider-man, the least i can do is also draw peter."

"you said i was a terrible statue."

"you are," you laugh at him, "but you've got a nice face."

peter pretends not to feel it as he flushes.

"i won't show anyone," you tell him, "if you don't want me to. but it would be nice for my still art class."

"so you are an artist," peter says, attempting to evade your subtle question.

"only in my dreams. i'm also taking algebra, economics, and philosophy 101."

peter frowns.

"i'll declare next year," you tell him, frowning as you erase something.

"as an art major?"

you grin at him, but the peter that's on the paper. "wouldn't you like to know?"

peter doesn't answer that.

he watches you as you draw him, peeking an eye on the side of his face every couple of moments, and smiling when you catch him staring at you.

"what's your last name?" you ask him, breaking the silence.

another song plays, and peter still doesn't recognize it.

"parker."

you snort. "figures."

his brows furrow. "what does that mean?"

"of course, you would have a superhero-ey name."

"what's yours?"

"y/l/n."

peter laughs.

you frown. "what?"

"of course, you would have an annoying-sounding name."

you glare at him, but peter doesn't miss the twitch of your lip. "don't copy me, parker."

"don't make it so easy."

and you don't say anything back, instead choosing to focus down at the paper, but peter notices the little chuckle that falls from your mouth. the silent sneer in your eyes.

"what?" he asks after it doesn't go away.

"i think that was the first time you've actually teased me."

you don't say the rest of it. and peter doesn't acknowledge how comfortable he feels, sitting on this stool as you stare up at him, watching you as you look back.

"you can use it," he says, suddenly.

"what?"

"the picture. for your class."

you don't say anything, but nod in acknowledgment.

and peter feels like an idiot as the silence drifts. feels like he shouldn't have said anything, shouldn't have agreed to this.

and the song changes again, a soft, melodic sound.

peter almost smiles.

"is this opera?" he asks, heavily judging you.

you grin, dropping your notebook on the ground and standing up. you take a step closer to him, leaning in.

"shut your mouth and see," you whisper to him.

peter is almost offended, brows furrowed as he stares at you and how close you are.

but then someone else echoes the words back, and you begin to dance, holding a hand out to invite him to join.

peter does, memorizing the slow movement of your hips as he stands up, feeling like his limbs are heavier than they were only four minutes ago.

and the two of you dance to only angel like no one's watching.

peter listens to you sing the words under your breath.

i must admit i thought i'd like to make you mine.

you are humming to yourself when you get the phone call.

when your hand stumbles, pencil creating a harsh line over the drawing you've spent the last twenty minutes hating. you scowl at your hand, and then your phone, for interrupting.

until you see peter's face on the screen.

the picture you took of the picture you drew of him, scowling at you like he seems to do a lot of.

you don't smile, but bite your lip as you press the little green button.

"hello?"

"hey," peter says, voice soft. he clears his throat. "what're you up to?" his voice is suddenly louder like he's using a microphone.

you smile, glad that he can't see it.

"just laughing at this picture of you."

"from last week?"

"yup."

"really?"

you roll your eyes, hoping he can feel it. "no," you drawl. "i was just working on something new. what's up?"

"do you like movies?"

after that, peter doesn't have to avoid you.

he doesn't look for you around any corners, because you've already leaned forward, already allowed him to see your smile and guess what you might be thinking about.

"hey," you say to him as you match his stride. "how was class?"

"boring," peter answers, accepting the earbud you hold out to him.

"of course, it was," you grin at him, "i wasn't there."

and peter just barely laughs, feeling a bit light when you smile back, face full of some sort of victory.

you play a song about being cold, and peter completely understands.

"i can't believe you got me to agree to this," you say to him as you open the door.

you're wearing a dress. pretty and flowing and completely surprising peter, if his face says anything.

"wow," he says, coughing. then clearing his throat. then coughing again. "it's--you look nice."

you scowl. "i look terrible."

peter just chuckles, looking down again, then at your eyes like he's forgotten something.

you just glare at him, waiting for him to tell you that you don't have to come.

but peter holds his hand out to you. "ready?" he asks.

"no. because i'm not going." you try and close the door in his face.

peter pushes it back, just smiling softly at you.

finally, you understand why he's been so irritated and cruel to you. if your smile is anything like his, then his reaction is completely rational.

"it'll be fine," peter coos, reaching a hand out to comfortingly--and condescendingly--rub your shoulder.

"it's a banquet," you say, just barely getting the words out. "for science."

"it's a party for engineering majors. i invited you a week ago and you didn't say anything--"

"all of your teachers will be there," you correct him, staring daggers. "if there are adults there, then it's not a party. and you made it sound fun."

"we're adults."

"i'm an adult, peter. you are a child. you are childish for tricking me into this."

"tricking you?" peter laughs, eyes gleaming. "i don't remember that part of the conversation."

you, suddenly, smile sweetly at him. "i don't know if you've heard," you whisper, smoothly, "but this is going to be terrible."

he grabs your hand, rolling his eyes. "it'll be boring, maybe, but not terrible. i'll stay with you the whole time."

you frown. then say again, in the same, all-knowing tone, "i don't know if you knew this about me, peter parker, but i'm terrible at boring. or being serious. or talking to people."

"you talk to me just fine--"

"as soon as anyone says anything i'll start laughing. it's a nervous reaction, i can't control it."

"i'll put a hand over your mouth."

"that's a violation of my boundaries."

peter snorts, "look, not that i'm not enjoying this--"

you pinch his arm, shaking your hand out of his.

"--but we're going to be late. we can talk about your chortling on the way there--"

"chortling?!"

"witch cackle, guffaw, whatever," peter corrects.

"you are not making me want to go with you."

"c'mon," peter whines, catching your hand again. "you're my plus one. everyone will think i'm a loser if i show up without you."

"they already think that," you hiss at him, moving back again. "and anyway, i can't walk in these."

you gesture down to the heels you dug out of your closet.

it took you two hours to get ready, simply because you were stressed out enough to absolutely ruin every outfit you put on.

"i'll die, peter," you say, staring at him desperately. "die."

he raises a brow. "you can put on different shoes."

"you're a man." you wave a hand, scoffing at him. "what do you know about fashion?"

peter shakes his head. "okay, if your feet get sore, i'll carry you."

you stare at him blankly. "i highly doubt that, noodle arms."

the smile that appears on your face is one of satisfaction.

but peter rolls his eyes and doesn't bother to correct you.

"look," he says, pulling his phone out. "i brought my phone so we can listen to music. i'll let you pick."

you look away from his eyes to the strand between his fingers. then back to him. "you promise?"

"sure," peter says, almost snorting. "and anyway, i heard that there might be karaoke and you know that--"

as soon as he says the words, you're turning around, grabbing your purse from the table by your door, and locking it. you shut it, reaching for peter's hand.

"alright," you smile, easily. "let's go."

peter laughs as you begin to drag him along.

you sing along to sexy silk while you walk with him, just to keep the smile on his face.

"hey," you say to him as you pick up the camera on his desk. "you didn't tell me about this."

peter looks over, noting your frown and the furrow between your brows. he's sitting on your bed while you canvas his room, making fun of everything he's got in there.

not to mention the way you almost died of laughter when you saw your drawing on his wall, telling him that he's a dirty little liar, then smiling a secretive smile at it.

not that peter noticed.

still, he sits up, watching as you click on some button.

"there are lots of things i don't tell you about," he says, smoothly, and smiles at you.

your scowl grows. "you've got a camera?" you ask.

and then, after peter doesn't bother answering that and another moment passes, your jaw drops.

"you've taken pictures of me?" you demand, pointing to a moment he got a week ago, minutes before he met you for lunch.

"that's not you," peter lies, and goes to take it from your hands.

but you pull away.

"when did you do this?"

peter hesitates for a moment, but he sees the look on your face. "last week."

"why didn't i notice?"

peter smiles. "because you are particularly unobservant."

you glare.

". . . and because i was about twenty feet away, and ten minutes early."

"peter," you complain and whine. "why wouldn't you tell me about this?"

"didn't want to steal your thing."

"i don't have a camera."

he shakes his head. "no, art, or something."

"you're lying," you say, peering at him. "that's your lying face."

he holds a hand to his chest, mock offended.

but you don't say anything as you put the camera back on his desk, frowning at the window and avoiding his eyes.

peter watches for a moment, at the pout on your face and how soft and smooth your skin looks.

he thinks about you dancing and almost forgets that you're mad at him.

"hey," he whispers to you, hand reaching out. "i'm sorry i didn't tell you. i didn't realize that you'd want to know."

"of course, i want to know," you mumble. peter thinks you might be saying something else.

"well, now you do."

"i also know about your ninja turtle underwear," you say, with a hint of a smile on your face.

"yeah," peter says, standing up. "and you can hold it against me forever. i won't even complain."

you look over at him, raising your brows. "really?"

"mhmm."

and then you purse your lips, pretending to consider it. "okay, i guess," you say, as a means to forgive him.

and peter is glad about that. glad when you walk over to him, pushing his shoulder.

"but don't do that again," you tell him, almost as a threat.

"do what?"

"keep a secret from me."

peter almost winces, but decides to smile instead. "you already know all of them," he says, simply.

and you smile back.

he doesn't quite let himself believe that it's a lie. doesn't think about you being mad, or what you might do if you found out.

he just sighs, reaching over you to pick up the camera.

"do you want to see more pictures?" he asks you.

and then delights in the eager way you nod back.

you are humming along to the song playing from peter's phone as you doodle on the piece of paper in front of you.

you don't know the name, but peter's played it often enough that you know the words.

and, coincidentally, he's laying his head in your lap--claiming a headache--as you play with his hair.

he is almost distracting you as you attempt to draw a pretty little spider on his bedside table.

peter hums back, but it's not to the song.

"what?" you ask him, pausing your hand.

peter reaches up, moving it for you, and you snort.

"okay, okay," you say to him, and scratch his scalp some more.

"are you ruining my table?"

"no more than you already have."

peter groans, but doesn't bother to look up. you know that he knows that you're not drawing anything on it.

you smile down at him, then get back to the tiny sticky note you found in his drawer.

the pen you stole from the dining table downstairs.

you sing to him, to yourself, and minutes pass, and the song changes.

but you picked this one, and peter doesn't complain.

"do you feel any better?" you whisper to him, refraining from calling him a big baby.

"no. keep going," peter grunts.

you scoff but listen.

"look," you tell him, holding the drawing in front of his face. "do you like it?"

"pretty," peter mumbles.

but he doesn't even open his eyes.

so you flick him in the nose, raising a brow. "you didn't even look, you idiot."

"don't be mean to me," peter whines, "i'm in pain."

"you refuse to take any medicine."

"you're close enough," he whispers, and you try not to feel anything at the words.

"just one eye," you say to him, pulling at his skin.

and peter relents, staring at the picture you've drawn for him. "are you trying to be funny?"

it's a spider, sure, but a very hilarious interpretation of it swinging and falling off a building, and then, a couple of feet away, a picture of it being smooshed.

you grin. "i think you should put it on your next suit."

"i'll think about it," peter says, and closes his eyes again.

you laugh at him and hope he can feel it.

sing along to the song until peter falls asleep.

i wouldn't fall for someone i thought couldn't misbehave.

when peter wakes up, he's alone.

he wonders when you disappeared and where you went. he aches for the feeling of your hands in his hair and your smile and laughter as he wakes up.

it's dark outside though, so peter's glad that you're at home, at least, hopefully sleeping.

he looks at the clock, frowning at the numbers.

he sits up, head buzzing and blinking until he can see.

and then he walks over to the bathroom, figuring that he should probably brush his teeth.

and when he goes back to his bed, back aching and thinking about you, he notices the sticky note you've put on his wall, right next to the picture you drew of him.

he smiles at it, glad you put it there, where he probably would've put it anyway.

and there's another one, right next to your bed.

you're lame and you fell asleep, it says, don't worry, you didn't drool.

peter smiles, appreciating your handwriting. he puts it on his wall, right next to the other one.

and then he texts you.

when did you leave?

you answer almost immediately: about an hour ago.

it's one in the morning, and peter frowns.

did you walk home alone?

yup!

he scowls, immediately dialing you.

"hello?" you say, singing it.

peter wonders how you have so much energy, but doesn't give himself the time to dwell on it.

"you walked home alone?" he asks again.

"yes, peter."

"in the dark?"

you hum.

he's scowling, wishing you were there so you could see how serious he is. "don't do that," he says.

"peter," you sigh, snorting a bit.

"you shouldn't be walking home by yourself."

"might i remind you that you fell asleep? who else was i going to ask at midnight? may?"

"you could've woken me up."

peter hears you laugh.

"aw," you say, "but, baby, you just looked so peaceful."

peter almost flinches at the words, because you're not being serious and still--

"promise me that you will, next time."

you laugh again. "okay, peter. i'll uber home next time."

"you'll wake me up."

"please," you tell him, "i don't have a death wish."

you are frowning as he sits in front of you, but trying not to.

you're trying to keep a calm face and a smooth mind and repair peter without him figuring out a single thing about you.

without getting into another fight with him.

but he knows you, much better than you'd like.

"what?" he whispers to you, the words soft on your cheek.

he's got bruises sprinkled over his abdomen. a bright red cut on his cheek. a black eye and fingers that look more like pens than limbs.

still, you're trying not to be too rough with him.

trying to clean these wounds without opening up any others.

"nothing."

"you're frowning."

"you've got a big cut on your face."

he grabs your hand, stopping your movement as you dab at it. "you're frowning," he repeats, a bit louder.

you sigh and look away. "peter. . ."

"you're mad at me?" he asks, tilting your head back to him.

you're three inches away from him, staring.

and you don't even need to answer, because it takes one look from you, and peter nods.

"okay," he says, turning his cheek so you can clean the cut again.

you do.

and you listen to his breathing, hearing your own heart pound in your ear, staying silent.

there's not much you can say to him without wanting to scream.

"are you going to tell me why?" he asks you, minutes later, when you've had to replace the water so it's not so cold.

you hum. rub some ointment on the wound, apologizing when peter winces.

"y/n," he says, tilting his head. he's smiling at you like it might get you to break.

"you're not taking this seriously," you complain, closing your eyes. you move back, just for peter to move forward.

"hey," he says, grabbing your hand again. his eyes meet yours. "i'm okay."

"you're hurt," you argue, frowning, concern piercing your brows. "you had to come here so i could patch you up."

peter swallows. "i wanted to see you."

"no," you shake your head at him. "you can barely move that arm. you limped in here."

"it'll be fine by tomorrow."

you scoff. "but it's not fine now peter!" you whisper the words, but with enough force that he moves back, his eyes wide and his brow furrowing, as if he's just realized how serious you are.

"you're really mad?"

you shake your head, looking away from him. "i'm scared for you, and i'm mad because you don't even care. every time," you say, "you just brush it off. tell me that it'll be fine."

"because i will," peter swears, trying to catch your eyes.

"but what if you're not?" you ask him, just whispering the words, your voice breaking. "what if you come here," you look back to him, tears evident. "and i can't do anything to help you?"

peter starts to say something, tries to brush the liquid away, but you flinch back.

"no. what if someone else has to move the mask? what if they see you, but you're already--" you stop, not wanting to say the words.

and before you can blink or breathe, peter has wrapped an arm around you, crushing you to his skin.

he apologizes and holds you close, breathing slowly as you try to catch your breath.

he whispers in your ear, rubbing your back.

"i'm sorry," he says, "i didn't realize."

and you know that. and you know that this argument isn't quite fair.

"i promise i'll be careful. i promise, okay?"

you nod against his neck, breathing him in.

and a moment passes, and you try to memorize the feeling of being this close to him.

and then you whisper, "you're my best friend, peter. i don't know what i would do without you."

and it's only partly a lie.

"i know," peter says, moving back so that he can look you in the eye. "i know."

you try and smile at him, and he tries and smiles back.

"okay," you whisper.

and then you notice the small wince on peter's face.

you frown. "what?"

peter looks down to where your stomach has brushed against the cuts on his and clears his throat. "ouch," he says.

you meet his eyes and laugh.

peter knocks on your door, waiting.

he hasn't seen you in a couple of days, and you haven't been answering the phone.

he hears someone move around. hears a lurking at the door.

"y/n?" he calls. "i can hear you."

but you don't answer.

so peter knocks again, checking his phone for any sign of you, and staring at the door.

all he gets is a quick "read" message, and then silence.

he sighs.

"c'mon," he calls again. "just open the door, or text me, and i'll leave."

but you do neither.

peter scowls. "i'm not gonna go," he tells you. "i'll be out here until you are, and when i freeze to death you're going to feel really bad."

he might hear a scoff, but the only thing that follows is some silence.

he says your name again, leaning against the door.

and then he scrolls on your phone, sending you another text.

he hears your phone ring on the other side of the door.

and he can hear you sighing because he's just sent you a link to door.

there's a moment that passes, where peter is just a bit proud, and then you open the door.

"that's not even what that song means," you tell him, glowering, but you let him in.

peter just smiles at you.

you're drawing him again. laughing as he teases you and listening to a playlist that he's made for the two of you--promising that it was great and that you'd enjoy it very much.

this time, though, it's a bit different.

you haven't asked to draw him since that day when he met you in the studio and finally looked comfortable enough to sit still. you haven't wanted to push that line, again, because you knew that it would be different.

and that last picture of him, well. . .

it's not the same as now. not the same as peter is when he's smiling at you.

when he's singing along to a song that he's chosen and rolling his eyes when you say something, or make fun of him.

it's not the same, you know, because last time, it was merely some strange sort of attraction to him. some want, or need, or crazy, fantasy thing.

but now. god.

now you know peter. now you know what he looks like when he's upset, how he acts when he's scared, or what he cares about, or who he truly is, behind the mask.

now you're in love with him and trying to hide it.

unsuccessfully, you're sure.

"how much longer?" peter asks you, spinning around in your chair as you sit on your bed.

it's also different because he's in your room, messing with your things.

"i've already told you, peter, that you can't rush art."

"you're probably not even drawing me."

you grin down at the paper.

peter continues to sing, continues to flip through an old notebook of drawings.

"you know," you tell him, just glancing up to meet his brown eyes. "i don't like this song very much."

peter raises a brow. "really?"

you nod, pursing your lips.

and so he sings even louder.

"a zero, zero," peter says to you, laughing. "now he's a--"

you throw a pillow at him, smirking.

peter frowns. "that's going to ruin the drawing."

"so is your singing," you tell him. "stay still, peter."

"can i at least see?" he asks.

"not till i'm done."

and then the song changes, and suddenly, you're grinning at him.

just like that first day.

as soon as peter hears the opening chords, he's cursing himself for putting this song on the playlist.

for letting himself be manipulated at the thought of your smile, and funny laugh as you danced around to this one the first time. for allowing himself to give in to it.

because your smile is nothing but evil.

and suddenly, you're not drawing, but standing up, biting your lip.

"hey, good lookin'," you croon. moving your hips and your shoulders and smiling at him because you just know. "whatcha got cookin'?"

peter throws his head back and groans.

but you're singing along, dancing around him, and whispering the words in his ear.

"there's soda pop and the dancing's free," you whisper, the goosebumps much more than a physical reaction.

and, really, peter's trying not to smile as he watches you dance. as he watches your smile ebb and flow and listens to your voice, to your accent as--

"--so we can go steady," you gesture at him, smiling sweetly. "how's about saving all your time for me?"

you are a monster, an absolute devil as you pull peter up, as he goes so willingly, and begins to dance with you.

his hands around your waist and yours wrapped around his neck and that goddamn smile.

and your voice, and every single thing that you mean to him.

"c'mon," you say to him, giggling. "dance."

and he does. he can't stop.

then, when the song begins to fade, and you whisper a last "how's about cooking something up with me?" he pulls you down to your bed.

he's almost breathless and laughing at you as you try to squirm away.

he's absolutely gone as you still against him, suddenly realizing where you are.

that he's pulled you so that you're laying right against him. and, peter is three inches away from you, and he can feel your breath against him.

he can see your smile as it almost fades.

as you watch his eyes, but falter, and look down.

down and down and peter's eyes follow.

he's staring at your lips, and he almost doesn't notice it as he leans in, as your breath hitches.

and he kisses you.

finally. finally.

he pulls you as close as he can get you, hand wrapped around your neck, and at the base of your head, and digging into you, and your hands are on his face, they are still and alive as you grip onto him just as tight as he's got you.

as you pull him, push and pull his lips, and breathe into his mouth.

as he finally feels all of you, and thanks god that you're there.

and when he pulls back, almost disassociating, eyes wide, he's staring at you.

he's listening to a song in the background but he doesn't know the words.

he can't think at all, can't breathe with you right there.

"i'm sorry," he whispers, as he suddenly remembers who you are and what you mean to him.

but you--you smile at him. you laugh like you can't believe it.

you look into peter's eyes and you see all of him.

you shake your head, one hand drifting to your lips like you can feel something new.

you laugh again.

"peter," you whisper to him, and he's staring back. "do it again."

if you were a waiting room, i would never see the doctor.

more of them.

my masterlist here.

tags:@moonlarking-blog @v1ci0us @preciousbabypeter @alexxavicry @directioner5life @inthegetawaycarwithtaylah @localrockstargf @thestudiouswanderer @take-my-hand-time-boy @thoughtsofagodlovingsunflower @nyomjoon @moo-b1tch @raindropstearsandtea @rqmanoff @hollandweather @wetcoldnoodle @urlocalavenderhazestan @valvlry @imthatcoolmom @spideysimpossiblegirl invisibletrolleyson-jeremy @sharkswaters

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