#peter | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

flxttershyz · 2 days ago

Text

“nothing new” — “museums are sexy, right?”

(established-relationship!tasm peter x reader — soft dorky boyfriend hours, at the museum)

~5k words

cw: established relationship, soft pda, emotional intimacy, teasing, grinding, oral (f), protected p-in-v, crying during sex, aftercare, mutual love & worship. horny in a warm cozy boyfriend way. im not accountable for the content you want to consume!

an: hey guyth, ive missed you, its been so long... first time writing (and posting smut... hope its not cringe...)

⟡

he’s late, but he’s always late.

and when he finally jogs up to you in front of the museum, hoodie half-zipped, camera bouncing against his chest and curls all windblown and ridiculous, you don’t say anything. you just raise your eyebrows. one hand on your hip. the other clutching your iced coffee like a weapon.

“before you say anything,” he pants, holding up a peace offering—a squished museum map that he probably crumpled in his back pocket three days ago—“i brought a coupon.”

you squint. “we’re both under twenty-five. it’s free.”

“okay,” he shrugs, “but it felt boyfriend-coded.”

you smile despite yourself.

he insists on doing the entire sculpture garden first.

you try to be patient, really. but peter’s in full nerd mode—taking photos from four different angles, crouching next to marble torsos like he’s interrogating them, saying things like “wow, look at the muscle tension here, that’s insane,” and “i just think it’s cool that this guy has better calves than me and he’s from like 300 B.C.”

you mostly just watch him.

you could look at the art. you’re trying to look at the art.

but your dork of a boyfriend is wearing a too-big tan jacket over his hoodie, his fingers smudged with sunscreen he clearly didn’t rub in all the way, and he keeps pushing his glasses up with the back of his wrist while talking about how hot it must’ve been in ancient greece.

and honestly?

it’s way more interesting.

⟡

inside, it gets worse.

every time you try to walk more than ten feet into a gallery, peter finds something else to comment on. or take a photo of. or pose next to like a chaotic tour guide who got fired for being too enthusiastic.

“okay, wait,” he says, catching your sleeve gently as you pass a huge oil painting of some saint bleeding dramatically into a bowl. “hold on. babe, you have to see this.”

“i’m looking at it,” you say, dry.

“no, like—look,” he points with his chin, adjusting his camera strap. “look at his hands. that’s crazy detail.”

you glance at him.

his expression is serious.

his cheeks a little pink, because he gets excited like a toddler.

he turns to you and grins.

“i wanna draw you like that.”

“bleeding into a bowl?”

“posed dramatically.”

you snort. “you’re so annoying.”

he bumps his shoulder into yours. “you love it.”

you don’t answer, but you reach for his hand anyway.

⟡

in the impressionist gallery, he tries to act normal.

you sit beside him on one of the little benches in front of a blurry monet, shoulder to shoulder, knees touching.

he’s bouncing his leg.

you glance at him.

he glances at you.

and then he breaks.

“so, like,” he says, very seriously, “are we gonna talk about how sexy these brushstrokes are, or—?”

you slap his thigh gently.

he bites a grin into the side of his hand.

“i’m serious,” he says. “this is very sensual.”

“you are literally the worst person here.”

“the second worst,” he nods. “the guy who took that selfie in front of the crucifixion has me beat.”

you’re trying not to laugh.

he notices. you feel him shift closer.

then, after a moment—

“you looked really pretty earlier. by the statue. with the light hitting your face like that.”

your breath catches a little.

he’s already pretending to examine the monet again.

you lean in, voice low.

“you gonna send me those pictures later?”

his ears go pink.

“i mean,” he shrugs, “if you want…”

you nudge his knee with yours.

“i always want.”

and then—just for a second—he turns his head, kisses your cheek, and lets his lips linger.

it’s quiet. safe. soft enough to settle in your bones.

⟡

when you stand up to move on, he tugs at your sleeve again.

“wait. one more.”

you glance down.

his camera’s already out, lens pointed toward you. he doesn’t even let you fix your hair.

click.

“perfect,” he murmurs.

and when you look at him again—

he’s not smiling like before.

he’s looking at you like a painting.

like you’re worth being framed.

like he still can’t believe you’re his.

⟡

you don’t even make it five feet outside before peter’s pulling his camera out again.

“babe,” you warn.

he’s already lifting the viewfinder. “no no no, wait—stand there, don’t move.”

you groan. “peter.”

“the light is literally insane right now, just let me—hold on—”

you’re halfway through rolling your eyes when the shutter clicks.

click. click click.

“gorgeous,” he says under his breath.

you blink.

he’s not talking about the sky.

you cross your arms. “what if I hate being your muse.”

he drops the camera a little, steps closer.

his voice goes quieter.

“what if I’m not giving you a choice?”

you stare at him.

his curls are all messed up from running his hands through them. there’s a tiny sunscreen smudge still near his temple. his thumb’s twitching over the shutter button like he wants to take one more.

your lips twitch.

“you’re really pushing it, parker.”

“am I?” he says, eyes flicking to your mouth.

he’s wearing that look—the one that says I know you’re mad but I LOVE getting on your nerves!

and unfortunately, it’s true.

you take two steps toward him and pluck the camera from around his neck, letting it fall gently to your own chest.

then you kiss him.

just enough to get the smug off his face.

his breath catches.

his hands come up to your waist instantly, pulling you closer like you’re gonna disappear.

you smile against his mouth.

he sighs into the kiss, deep and soft and already a little needy.

“mm—thought you were mad at me,” he mumbles against your lip.

“shut up.”

you press your mouth to his again. slower this time.

you can feel the tension leave his shoulders. can feel the way his fingers flex at your sides, like he wants to touch more, but he’s still being good.

you’re in public. people are passing behind you.

and he doesn’t care.

⟡

you pull back after a few long seconds, breath uneven.

he’s blinking at you, dazed.

then—

“shit.”

you look down just in time to see his camera slipping off your neck.

you lunge. Peter lunges faster.

he catches it right before it hits the edge of the stone fountain.

you both freeze.

his mouth is open. your hands are still on his hoodie. a couple kids laugh behind you.

“…oops,” you murmur.

he glares at you, clutching the camera like it’s his firstborn.

“I just told you the light was perfect.”

you kiss his cheek. “you’ll live.”

“you almost dropped my soul in the fountain.”

“I almost dropped your camera, dramatic ass.”

“same thing.”

you laugh.

and when he’s not looking, you snap a photo of him.

crooked smile, ears flushed, camera strap clutched in his fist.

you tuck the camera back against your chest and say:

“I’m keeping that one.”

he narrows his eyes.

“that’s fine,” he mutters. “I already have a hundred of you in my drafts, so.”

you pause.

“…you what?”

he grabs your hand like he didn’t just say that.

“let’s go see the baroque room,” he says way too fast.

“peter.”

“you love religious trauma.”

“peter.”

“I’m buying you a keychain.”

⟡

he doesn’t stop taking pictures for the rest of the afternoon.

but you let him.

because you’ve never seen anyone look at you the way he does when his camera’s in his hands—

like he’s documenting something rare.

something holy.

something he can’t believe he gets to keep.

⟡

you sit on the grass just below the museum hill, the skyline glittering behind you, and peter’s picnic bag spread open like a survival kit for a couple lost in whole foods.

you eye the contents.

“…peter.”

he looks up from where he’s unfolding a floral blanket (may’s, obviously, it still smells like her detergent).

“hm?”

you hold up a single pre-sliced cucumber and a ziploc bag of… hot cheetos.

“what is this meal.”

he blinks. then shrugs. “balance.”

“you brought half a pack of turkey, one string cheese, four clementines and three drinks, but no bread?”

“okay,” he says, unbothered, “first of all, i panicked at the bodega. second of all, i love you.”

you raise a brow. “so you’re using affection as a distraction tactic now.”

he opens the bottle of apple juice and takes a long sip.

“yeah. and it’s working.”

⟡

you end up sitting between his legs, leaning back into his chest while he feeds you a medley of unfortunate snack combinations and random museum trivia.

he's warm behind you. hoodie soft. voice quiet against your ear.

“this hill’s my favorite part,” he murmurs after a while. “i used to come up here alone in high school and pretend i wasn’t stressed out of my mind.”

you tilt your head, looking at him sideways.

“and now you bring me.”

he meets your gaze. smile slow.

“yeah. figured if i was gonna spiral again, i’d rather do it with someone hot in my lap.”

you snort and elbow him lightly.

he laughs and holds you tighter.

you talk about everything and nothing.

you lean forward to reach the bag of chips and he whines until you lean back again.

you brush stray petals off the blanket while he hums some dumb jingle under his breath.

you eat a clementine in perfect silence, and he just watches you.

you glance over, peel dangling from your fingers.

“what.”

he blinks. “nothing.”

you narrow your eyes. “why are you looking at me like that.”

“i like your mouth.”

you choke a little. “peter.”

he sips more juice like he’s innocent.

you toss a chip at his head. he catches it in his mouth. grins like a fiend.

“still got it.”

you lunge for the bottle and take a sip.

he wipes your chin lazily with his thumb, then licks the pad of it without thinking.

your pulse stutters.

you look at him.

he looks at you.

“what,” he says again, too soft this time.

you shake your head.

“i like your mouth, too.”

⟡

five minutes later, you’re lying flat on your back and he’s on his side beside you, drawing little shapes on your stomach through your shirt.

you close your eyes. the sun’s warm on your eyelids.

“this is nice,” you say.

“mhm.”

“don’t feed the ducks, though.”

“babe, the ducks are five yards away.”

“i’m just saying. if you feed them hot cheetos, you’re gonna get cancelled.”

he laughs. and you smile.

because his laugh sounds better than the city does.

and his hand’s still on your stomach, and the grass is soft, and you’re so full of juice and snacks and him that it’s hard to breathe.

⟡

the museum gift shop is a war zone.

there’s a hundred people inside and only three aisles wide enough for one person at a time. children are screaming over art-themed plushies. someone knocks over a display of pocket-sized monet calendars. peter disappears within ten seconds of entering.

you find him by the postcards, spinning the rack like a contestant on wheel of fortune.

“okay,” he says, pulling one with a dramatic renaissance martyr bleeding into a cherub’s arms, “this one’s obviously for you.”

you take it, unimpressed.

“are you saying I’m dramatic?”

“I’m saying you’re a divine tragedy, baby.”

you roll your eyes, but keep the postcard anyway.

a few minutes later, he finds you holding a tiny notebook shaped like a bust.

“do you think this is funny?” you ask.

“I think if you don’t buy it I’ll cry.”

“you cried at the museum fountain.”

“you almost dropped my camera into the museum fountain.”

“you’re deflecting.”

he kisses your cheek quickly.

you put the notebook in the basket.

he smiles like you’ve forgiven him for every crime he hasn’t committed yet.

he keeps wandering away and then coming back to show you something else.

“okay but this water bottle says ‘hydrate and create’ and that’s a pretty solid life motto.”

“should we start collecting these little magnetic portrait frames? like, for our future fridge?”

you pause at that one.

he doesn’t notice.

you do.

you watch the way he handles the fridge magnet, carefully turning it over in his fingers, brows drawn, tongue poking out just slightly between his lips.

like he means it.

like it’s not a joke. like he wants your life to include a fridge. and magnets. and you.

“hey,” you say, suddenly soft.

he glances up.

you hold up a tiny enamel pin shaped like a camera.

“this is so you.”

he blinks. “what?”

“you should get it. it’s dorky. and it’s exactly your vibe.”

he stares at it in your hand.

then at you.

you reach forward and pin it to his hoodie without waiting.

he doesn’t breathe the whole time.

“perfect,” you say, smoothing it out.

and when you look back at him—

he’s already looking at you.

like you just kissed him. like you just said I love you out loud. like you just told him yes.

⟡

you’re halfway to the register when you glance over your shoulder and grin.

“hey, should we steal something?”

peter immediately drops the tote bag.

“what?”

“like, just a sticker. to feel alive.”

“I literally have superpowers and you wanna get your adrenaline rush from a $3 sticker?”

“don’t kink shame me, peter.”

“I—"

“you’re already an outlaw,” you say, waving the postcard, “let’s complete the arc.”

he stares at you for three full seconds.

then reaches for your hand.

“fine. but if we get caught, I’m telling them you seduced me.”

“they’ll believe you.”

“you are wearing those boots.”

⟡

you do not steal anything.

peter does buy you the little magnetic portrait frame though.

and he doesn’t stop looking at his new pin the whole subway ride home.

⟡

the subway ride home is too long.

‘’peter’s legs are too long. your skirt is too short. the plastic seats are way too hard. and yet—none of that matters. because he’s warm. and he smells like sunscreen and spearmint gum and the apple juice you shared under the sun. and you’re sitting in his lap.

his camera bag is squished under your thigh. one of his hands is wrapped around your waist and the other is barely holding onto the rail above your heads. you can feel his heartbeat in his palm.

you lean into his chest with a sigh.

“tired already?” he murmurs.

“you’re exhausting.”

“thank you.”

he kisses the top of your head.

you play with his hair idly.

he lets you.

head tilted back against the subway wall, lashes fluttering, mouth parted. he looks young like this. soft and flush-cheeked. worn out in the way boys only get when they feel safe.

you twist a little strand between your fingers.

“I love your hair like this.”

he hums.

“messy?”

“a hot, messy nerd.”

he chuckles under his breath.

“you like me for my brain.”

“I like your brain and… yep.”

his hand tightens on your hip.

“…noted.”

⟡

he taps your thigh lightly and nods toward the next stop.

“we gotta change lines here.”

“ugh.”

“I’ll carry you.”

“no you won’t.”

“no I won’t.”

you stand slowly, stretching. your legs feel like jelly.

he slaps your ass gently as you step off him.

“hey!”

“accident.”

“that’s not—!”

“momentum,” he grins.

“you’re so annoying.”

“you’re in love with me.”

you glare. he sticks his tongue out.

⟡

by the time you’re back on the bus, his legs are bouncing again.

you’re still tucked next to him, shoulder pressed to his chest.

he’s staring out the window, fidgeting with the zipper of his hoodie.

you glance up.

“what?”

“what time is dinner at May’s?”

you blink. “you invited me.”

“yeah but I forgot to ask her what time.”

“peter.”

he pulls out his phone and starts texting furiously.

you lean your head on his shoulder. watch his fingers fly.

“are we late?”

“maybe.”

“is she gonna kill us?”

“probably.”

“…oh. okay.”

he smiles.

his cheek presses against your hair. and you feel it again—that ache in your ribs. the good kind. the I love this boy so much it’s stupid kind.

you make it to May’s ten minutes late.

peter’s shirt is wrinkled. your lipstick is smudged. his pin is still clinging to the edge of his hoodie like a badge of honor.

may opens the door and looks at you both with the flat, unimpressed expression of someone who’s known peter since birth.

“you’re late.”

“traffic,” Peter lies.

“you took the subway.”

no response.

may rolls her eyes.

but when she hugs you, she squeezes you extra tight.

⟡

may’s kitchen smells like rosemary and caramelized onions and the softest, warmest kind of love.

peter sniffs dramatically.

“is that—” “meatloaf,” May says, already tired.

“meatloaf again?” he cries. “may. my body is a temple.”

“your body is 80% junk.”

you giggle and slide onto a chair at the kitchen table.

peter dramatically collapses into the one beside you, resting his head on your shoulder like he’s just been through war.

“you’re so brave.”

may sets the dish down.

it’s good.

of course it is. it’s may’s meatloaf. theres something sweet in the sauce and you’d honestly eat ten slabs of it if you didn’t have someone’s thigh pressed to yours under the table.

peter is a menace.

his socked foot finds yours.

you side-eye him.

he’s chewing with exaggerated innocence. blinking at you like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing.

“peter,” you hiss.

“what?” he says, mouth full. “I didn’t do anything.”

you nudge him hard with your elbow. he gasps, clutching his ribs.

“may,” he groans. “she hit me.”

“she’s allowed,” May says.

⟡

you help clear the table.

Peter tries to carry too many plates at once. may tells him not to drop anything. he drops a fork. blames gravity.

you rinse. he dries.

he keeps bumping your hip. you keep elbowing his side.

your fingers brush at the counter’s edge. his knuckles are warm.

he murmurs—

“thank you for coming.”

you glance up. he’s close.

soft-eyed. flushed cheeked. little bits of sun still tucked under his collarbones.

“I like seeing you here,” he says.

you smile.

may disappears to her room.

peter practically drags you down the hall.

“I just wanna show you something.”

“your penis?”

“ok, two things.”

his room is the same as always. cluttered. cozy. full of scraps of old tech and socks that don’t match and one too many textbooks shoved under the bed.

he tosses his hoodie into a chair. flops face-down onto his bed with a groan.

you climb in after him.

he rolls over and pulls you onto his chest like you’re the most natural thing in the world.

⟡

his fingers find your spine. trace lazy lines.

your nose nudges his jaw. he sighs into your hair.

“you’re warm,” he mumbles.

“you’re heavy.”

“you love me.”

you kiss the spot under his ear.

“I do.”

he squeezes your waist. buries his face in your neck.

you tangle your legs with his. his toes wiggle against your ankle.

his voice is barely a whisper.

“I don’t want this day to end.”

⟡

his room’s dark now.

just the bedside lamp on. the kind of golden glow that makes your skin look soft and warm and kissable.

he’s looking at you like you’re lit from the inside out.

“what?” you whisper.

“nothing,” he says. “just. you.”

you’re lying beside him, head on his pillow. he’s curled toward you, one arm tucked under his head, the other tracing your waist.

his fingers keep dipping under your shirt.

warm palm, light scratch of fingernails. a little higher each time.

you press your cheek to his shoulder.

“you always smell like that.”

he smiles.

“like what?”

“clean laundry and metal and… like a boy who runs too hot.”

he turns his head. nose brushing yours. breath warm.

“I smell like you now.”

⟡

his lips find your cheek. your jaw. the corner of your mouth.

you roll closer. your legs tangle. he slips his thigh between yours.

his kiss is gentle, then a little less.

you sigh into it. his hand slides up, under your shirt, across the curve of your back.

your hips shift.

you both breathe through it.

his lips ghost yours again.

“can I—” “mmhm,” you hum.

his hand finds the underside of your thigh. your shirt rides up.

his knee nudges yours apart just a little. not enough. too much.

your hand slides up his chest. over his ribs.

he shivers.

“you okay?” you whisper.

he nods.

“just—just nervous. I always get nervous when I really, really like someone.”

your heart aches.

you kiss him, soft.

“me too.”

he pulls back to look at you.

his pupils are blown wide. his lashes are fluttering. he looks—

god, he looks gone.

“you’re so pretty,” he says, breathless.

you smile against his neck.

“you’re such a dork.”

his hand cups your waist. anchors you. your knee hitches over his hip.

“still like me?” he whispers.

⟡

you’re not even naked yet.

your shirt’s still half on. your bra too. his hoodie’s long gone but his jeans are just unbuttoned, not even off, and your skirt’s bunched around your waist like it’s scared to go.

you’re both breathless. flushed. his forehead rests against yours like he needs the contact to stay grounded.

his hips rock into yours slow.

grinding.

it’s barely anything. just pressure and the slow ache of almost.

his voice is all breath when he says—

“don’t look at me like that.”

your brows furrow.

“like what?”

he kisses you. shaky. your lips part for him without thinking.

when he pulls back, his voice cracks.

“like you mean it.”

⟡

his hands are everywhere.

your ribs, your back, the curve of your stomach. he treats you like you’re art. like he’s worried he’ll mess you up by holding too tight.

you grab his hand. press his palm to your chest.

“I want you to mean it.”

he stares at you like he can’t breathe.

“I do,” he whispers.

“then look at me.”

he does.

oh he does.

his eyes don’t leave yours after he kisses you again.

he keeps whispering your name.

his mouth on your cheek, your throat, your shoulder, your collarbone.

you squirm underneath him, soft whines in your throat, your bodies grinding harder now. your panties soaked. his cock twitching, pressed against you through his briefs.

he groans when you roll your hips up.

“god—”

“I want you,” you whisper.

“I want you so bad I feel sick.”

he chokes on a laugh. kisses your chin, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

“you have me.”

he slides down. kisses your stomach. whispers your name again like a prayer.

his hands curl under your thighs.

“can I?”

you nod.

his thumbs hook under your panties.

he’s slow. reverent. like he’s unwrapping something sacred.

when he gets them down your legs and tosses them aside, he just—

stares.

he presses a kiss to the inside of your knee.

“fuck,” he whispers.

“I’m gonna die.”

⟡

he’s between your thighs now.

kneeling at the edge of the bed like he’s about to pray.

his hands are shaking. not nervous—overwhelmed. like he’s not sure if this is real. if you’re real. if you’ll disappear if he touches too hard.

“is this okay?” he asks, voice barely there.

“yes,” you breathe. “yes, peter. please.”

he kisses the inside of your knee again. your thigh. your hip.

his hair tickles your skin.

his hands spread your legs like you’re delicate—but not fragile.he can’t stop staring.

“you’re so pretty,” he whispers. “every part of you. I didn’t know— I didn’t know I could want someone this much.”

you nod, breath hitching.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” you whisper.

he swallows hard.

then he lowers his mouth to you.

it’s—

soft at first.

a slow kiss to your clit. a gasp against it.

he whimpers.

like the taste of you hurts.

his hands slide under your thighs, pulling you closer, anchoring you. your hips jerk and he moans—like you just did something to him.

“peter—”

he shakes his head, mouth still on you, eyes wide.

you see it in them.

the awe. the desperation. the little bit of ruin.

his tongue flattens. licks a stripe.

then he sucks—gentle, wet, noisy.

your breath shudders.

he watches your face. watches every twitch and flutter and gasp like it’s the only thing that matters.

his eyes start to water.

“you okay?” you pant.

he nods against you. clutches your hips tighter.

“just— I’m okay. I just—” “you feel like everything.”

you try to sit up. to reach for him.

but he moans again and sucks harder.

you fall back, thighs twitching, hands gripping his hair.

“oh my god—”

you’re panting now.

he’s whining.

you feel his mouth tremble.

like maybe he’s crying just a little.

but he doesn’t stop.

he doesn’t stop.

⟡

after,

you climb into his lap slow.

your thighs still sticky from his mouth, from your slick, from the heat of it all. his hands find your hips instantly—like they were made for it. like you were made for this.

he’s so hard it’s almost painful. cock flushed, thick, twitching where it rests against his stomach.

“do you have—?” you whisper.

he nods fast. fumbles for the drawer. his fingers tremble so bad he nearly drops the foil.

“you okay?”

“yeah— yeah,” he breathes. “just— I want this to be good. for you.”

you kiss him soft.

“it already is.”

you roll the condom down him with shaking hands.

he gasps when you touch him—like just your fingers make him weak.

you brace yourself with your hands on his chest and lower down slow.

he’s thick.

you sink onto him inch by inch, his cock stretching you open, and the second you’re seated fully, both of you still—just breathing.

his head falls back.

“fuck,” he whispers.

“you feel— you feel so—”

he can’t finish.

you press your forehead to his.

you move slow.

the tiniest rock of your hips makes him whimper.

he grips your waist like he’ll fall apart without it.

his eyes flicker open. his voice is soft.

“you love me?”

you nod.

“I love you.”

“say it again.”

“I love you, peter.”

“again.”

“I love you.”

“again—please—”

you’re grinding harder now.

“I love you.”

his breath shatters.

“I love you too,” he gasps. “I love you. I love you. I—fuck—don’t stop saying it—”

⟡

you’re bouncing now. soft and sloppy. your bodies soaked and trembling and desperate.

his arms wrap around your back.

his head presses to your chest.

“don’t leave,” he whispers.

“never,” you breathe.

“I won’t ever let you go.”

“good.”

your moans mix together.

you clench around him.

his cock twitches.

and he—

“baby— baby, I’m—”

you kiss him as he comes.

he sobs when he does.

you hold him until the trembling stops.

⟡

it’s hot under the covers.

his chest is flushed and sticky, arms wrapped around your waist, nose buried in your hair. you can still feel him twitching inside the condom, can still taste his shaky moans on your tongue.

you’re both so out of breath. so warm. so stupidly, incredibly in love.

“you okay?” he whispers.

“mhm,” you breathe. “my thighs are sore.”

he grins, lazy and smug, kissing the swell of your shoulder.

“good sore or bad sore?”

“shut up.”

⟡

you’re not supposed to be here.

may thinks you were both sleeping on the couch. you were. until peter pulled you into his room with that pouty little please like he couldn’t sleep without you. (he can’t.)

now you’re buried under a blanket in his childhood bed, still panting, trying to keep your voice down like it wasn’t the creak of his old bedframe that probably gave you away already.

“do you think she heard?”

“yes,” you whisper.

“god—”

“you were so loud, peter—”

“me?! you were—”

“shhh!”

he clamps his hand over your mouth, wide-eyed, grinning.

“you’re gonna get us caught,” he whispers.

⟡

you sneak to the kitchen an hour later.

you’re in his hoodie, in underwear. he’s in boxers and socks, looking ridiculous with bed hair and bite marks down his neck.

you both raid the fridge like kids. leftover meatloaf. cold pizza. oreos. he feeds you one like you’re royalty.