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[sugugori]

𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟.

college! peter parker x fem reader.

18+ only !!! f! receiving oral sex. peter parker has an oral fixation i said what i said. in my spider-man era again.

peter was a weekly visitor at this point. sometimes, it was twice, but never more than three. three was pushing it.

Three said that Peter meant something to you, and you couldn’t have that. No, whatever this was between the pair of you was strictly transactional. It was Peter texting you late at night, the classic, you up? Gracing your screen, and every time, you would pretend to be annoyed.

As if Peter coming around to give you the greatest head of your life was an inconvenience. Tempted, the devil on your shoulder smirking, to type back, Jesus, again? but never doing it. Instead, you wrote: sure.

Still, it plagued your mind. He never asked for anything else.

It was as if he did this purely for himself.

“Oh fuck,” you mewled, clenching down tight. The hand that was wrapped around Peter’s brown curls clutched and tugged, and the unconscious movement earned you a chastised groan. It rumbled through your cunt, and the echo shot to your clit, making you close your eyes and lean back, wet mouth spilling his name into your dorm.

Peter liked hearing you.

Liked seeing you lose your mind with his head between your thighs, your pussy wet and throbbing from his mouth and fingers. It’s why he came around often. Sometimes, he wouldn’t even text, would just knock on your door -- looking sheepish from under his dark curls -- and just. Not. Say. Anything.

His silence was answer enough. You knew what he wanted. Or, needed, as you later figured out, as you saw how red he’d gotten when you told him he couldn’t come around for a bit. When you said something about focusing on exams, he’d come over anyway, whined, shuffled his feet and said, You can do your work, I just gotta…I’ll be quick.

The lack of explanation made your mind swirl. But regardless, you’d let him in and did your work with his head between your thighs. He’d tutored you, too, told you how to solve for x with his fingers inside of you. He’d said, if you let me make you come again, I’ll do your Maths work for the next week. After he’d left, you stared at the scene of the crime in pure silence.

Just…reflecting.

Peter fluttered his tongue over your swollen clit. Focused on swirling it around his tongue in sloppy, wet circles, and the thick desire that swelled between your thighs began to pool at your lower back, forcing you to arch up into it.

“Please,” you wept, even though he was giving you what you wanted. Flat on your back with his deft grip keeping your bare thighs open. It was 8 pm. He’d caught you just after your shower, so the smell of your shampoo and body wash wafted through the air – Lavender and pear.

Peter had spread you open and said you smelled like spring. You’d been far too turned on to comment on it. He grumbled into your cunt, and you managed to work out the word, more? You hummed, too drunk on him and wound tight to verbalise that yes, you wanted more. Wanted him to make you come, and come again, till all you could do was mumble his name and focus on your breathing.

He'd learnt how you liked it. Paid attention, and he was getting full scores as he pushed his tongue flat against your swollen clit and sucked. Your vision went white.

“Oh fuck – ohfuck, Peter—” you squirmed, but Peter was strong, and he held you to the bed with his vice-like grip, wordlessly saying take it take it take it.

He lapped at you, salvia drooling over your cunt and down his chin, soaking the sheets. He was always so careless. In moments like this, that nervous edge that always fluttered around him was gone, replaced by a visceral drive to either please you, or get what he wanted.

The two bled into each other.

His tempo was leisurely, but that didn’t stop the heat from washing over you all at once.

You clamped your thighs around his ears and moaned -- loud, so loud that you were sure the other students on your floor heard.

Still, the ache was erratic, “So good,” you sobbed, and you heard yourself, heard the near primal need in your voice, and the desperation made you embarrassed, made you cover your mouth with your palm and grip the sheets, willing yourself to cool it. 

“Move your hand, or I’ll stop,” he uttered against you, and your clit was so sore that the echo of his words made your eyes roll back. Peter must have seen, as he hummed a laugh, and kissed your inner thigh, “lemme hear you.”

Managing to gain some sense of sanity, you blearily blinked down at him, but all sense of stability you thought you had was wiped away when you saw Peter had his hand stuffed down his pants.

You dropped back onto the bed and sobbed.

You knew he got off on this, but Jesus Christ, you’d never seen that before.

“Gotta be kidding me,” you breathed, and Peter must have understood what you were referencing, as he buried his reddening face into your inner thigh. He let out a breathy chuckle, “’ M’sorry,” he mumbled, “usually I wait till I get home, but you’re just so hot.”

You had to stay completely still, or you’d burst. Usually, I wait till I get home?

Peter moved his face and began nuzzling the wet folds of your pussy. He bumped his nose against your clit, and you quietly choked.

Peter hummed, “couldn’t help myself.”

You figured he did something like that, but the admission made your thighs tense. You pictured him stumbling home – cheeks still wet with you – and tugging his pants down, quickly shoving his hands into his boxers and taking hold of his aching cock. Did he whimper when he came? Or was he silent, all tremors and low grunts? No. He definitely whimpered.

He was far too pretty to stay quiet.

The sudden desire to kiss him swept over you.

Reaching down, you tugged at his curls, wordlessly motioning him to move. When he did, you briefly saw the red of his cheeks and wet of his nose before you kissed him, all tongue, and tasted yourself on his pink lips.

Peter melted into you. Huffed your name like a sigh, and the sheer tenderness of it had you wrapping your legs around his back and pressing your bare cunt against his jeans.

He was rock-hard. Tentatively, you ran your nails over his chest, and dipped low, pressing between his thighs, cupping his bulge, and gently squeezing. Peter wept.

“Oh fuck,” he sobbed, as desperate as you imagined. With one hand in his hair and the other on his cock, you continued to kiss him, until the ache between your thighs became too much to bear.

“Make me come,” you whispered, “and I’ll put you in my mouth.”

Peter had never moved so fast in his life.

[sugugori]

PETER PARKER ANGST????❤️🫡🛬🤭😍🗣🙀🫡😀🫡🫶😀😟🫶😟❤️ (if you dont write it ill sob violently on the floor ☹️)

we could call it even

tasm!peter x fem!reader

summary:

"peter parker," she says, "you're like a legend around here."

warnings: unspecified angst, series, no fluff, no explanation

a/n: might i introduce a playlist entitled stupid boy which i listened to while writing this (and the other parts????)

*

there's a specific time of night that is appropriate to go to the market. 

or inappropriate, depending on how old you are. 

if you're in your sixties and sometimes feel like your joints are just notches that need to be oiled, midnight probably isn't your designed time for grocery shopping. seven in the morning is typically the best time for swollen lungs and--literal--broken hearts. 

but if you're you, exhausted from running around all day, unpleasant from all of the people you've talked to, and trying to avoid anyone (everyone) you might know--and secrets you don't feel like sharing--then midnight is a perfect time. and perfectly normal, thank you very much.

you're not even sure why meyer's is open this late. there's no way the owner, jerry, is staying up until midnight to check out the lowlifes or drunk teenagers stopping by, and you know that these aren't prime business hours--evident by the crickets you can hear behind the 'fresh produce' section. maybe he forgets that it's open, and that susan--the only person willing to work here--is still on the clock. or maybe he's just taking pity on you. you don’t think he’s ever there, but maybe he hides around corners, noting the new lines on your face so he can report it back to every person in town. gossip is like a disease, and you’re never alone in a place like this. never quite at peace. 

you look around the next shelf for jerry, or a gust of wind that follows him running away. there’s only silence. the echoes of your footsteps. 

it doesn't matter why meyer’s is open. you're thankful for this time alone. or at least by yourself.

it's a welcome change to have no one judge you for your selection of deli cheese and baked goods. or the three containers of instant coffee you've hidden underneath it all. just out of habit. 

tuesday nights are yours, and the market is your chosen domain. 

usually, that is. usually, you're all alone. usually, you can run around on the carts and pick up anything you accidentally knock over. you can spill an entire bottle of wine on the floor and no one will blink an eye. jerry wouldn’t even be able to hear it from three feet away.

but tonight--on this tuesday when your feet hurt a little bit more than necessary, and your eyes are twitching at all of the lights--apparently you're not alone. 

which you wished you would have realized before you started humming 'single ladies' a bit too loudly. 

you wished you would have skipped shopping at all, really, as soon as you see his face. 

his wide eyes--surprised and silvered by age, much like yours--and his open mouth.

in a different world, you would be shocked--shocked instead of scared--and you might run to him. you might ask him why he didn't tell you he was coming? what is he doing here? in a different world, you two would be the only people in the market and it would be fine. 

it might even be great. 

this subtle shift in autonomy wouldn’t hurt the peace you’re looking for on this tuesday night.

there wouldn't be this obvious horror story standing between the two of you, this looming presence. the history of a thousand lies, bruise after bruise, and scars so red that they could burn through the ground. glass shattered around your feet.

the lights might as well start flickering. you should probably call out "hello?" even though he's right in front of you, and if he was going to murder you, he probably wouldn't answer. a door should creak. 

you should probably go. 

you should probably run away before he can take a step closer. you don't look a threat in the eye and smile at it. you don't feed a stray cat. 

it always comes back. 

why is he here? 

you take a step away. as soon as you notice him--behind, between, all over you--silence ensues. you might as well be at a loss for words. you don't have much to say to him. 

not to that look in his eyes, or his receding hairline, or that peak on his mouth. 

because peter would be here. at this time. and he would be trying to hide a smile, a smirk, when he's not even supposed to be within a five-hundred-foot vicinity of you. 

actually, maybe you forgot to mail that restraining order. 

but the words come out anyway because your body has always betrayed you when it comes to him. 

"peter?" you blurt out, and just saying the word stirs the simmering feeling inside of you. just saying his name is enough of a warning. 

"hey," he whispers and takes a step closer. you step back. he leans away like he knows his proximity is toxic. "sorry, i didn't mean to scare you." 

i didn't mean to. 

and yet. 

you breathe and forget how to blink. he might disappear. "peter," you repeat, as a form of masochism. you don't breathe at all. 

"sorry," he says, again. he doesn't say what for. there could be a million things. 

"um," you choke out, looking around--away from him and his manipulative eyes. "what?" you laugh to yourself, hand running over your face. you roll your eyes back into your head and laugh again. you shake your head. 

you look at peter, at his furrowed brow and inward stance, and you snort. look away from him before it's too late. 

you're laughing like something is funny. it's not. 

it's really not. 

"are you..." peter is swallowing. you'd like to pretend that his voice is hollow and cold, much like that cave inside your chest, but it's not. you recognize that concern, that softness in his voice that used to be just yours. "are you okay?" 

you almost giggle at him. it comes out as more of a cough. 

you wonder if you look like a ghost. some remanent of who you used to be--the person that only peter used to know.

"peter," you sigh, and step away from your cart. into the shelf you've been backing yourself into. 

you step away from him, still shaking your head. 

"i've got to--" you trip as you turn around and say to mostly yourself, "i've got to go." 

groceries, and peter, be damned, you think, as you walk out of the building and prepare yourself to never ever come back. 

it wouldn't be the first time. 

*

you are having your daily debate with mrs. brooke about the amount of calories in each pastry, in which you tell her that you only measure the amount of pleasure someone might get out of each one—which earns you a lovely sneer—and that she should try the blueberry scone. 

she always rolls her eyes at you, says something about watching her weight even though she’s looked the same since you were five years old and sneaking through her yard to catch the neighborhood cat. and then she leaves with a breakfast sandwich. 

it’s actually one of the most enjoyable parts of your day. 

here’s the thing about knowing every single person that comes into the shop: you know exactly what they’re going to order, and you know what type of conversation you’re going to have with them. 

mrs. brooke always stresses about her breakfast, her smile a tense sort of pleasant, but by the time she leaves her head is held a little higher. if she chooses the sandwich instead of the scone, then she’s started her day off right. you used to feel exasperated by her indecisive nature, but now you find it kind of adorable. 

mr. meyer—jerry—just comes in so he can complain about the surplus of options on your menu. he wants a black coffee, and he wants to complain. you always smile at him and ask if he’s sure he doesn’t want to try the raspberry green tea. he finds this less than humorous. 

every kid wants some kind of hot chocolate—which you actually have an excessive amount of—and no matter what their parents say, you sneak some extra marshmallows in. and everyone pretends otherwise. 

susan—your kindergarten teacher, now friend—asks if you’ve met anyone special lately. it doesn’t matter that the selection of single people your age is always the same. there’s got to be someone special, she says to you and leaves with a cider she tells everyone is a latte. 

there are the people who want their lattes and mochas, those who want some alternative milk that they complain about—even though you’ve tried every brand on earth—there are the people who don’t ever buy anything, and just come in to pretend they want something and talk to you. they gossip about the other people in town as if you aren’t well aware of everything that goes on.

you roll your eyes, but you appreciate the company. things get pretty boring when you can guess everyone’s schedule. 

but you like your tiny tea shop. you like the consistency. you enjoy the smiles you throw out, and the complaints you receive. it’s a routine, and nothing goes wrong. you're in control of this one thing, and that's just how you like it. 

in control, that is, of course, until you see him when mrs. brooke is walking away. 

“oh!” she says, pausing, her drink shaking in hand, her pink fingernails a smudge against the shadow suddenly coming from right in front of you. she is just a foot too close to him. “is that peter parker?” she asks, saying his voice like an omen, turning around so she can set her cup and bag down, and then hugging him so hard you can see her muscles working beneath her sleeve. 

“hey, mrs. brooke,” peter wheezes out, a strangled smile on his aged face. his same eyes.

he is just as surprised as you at her sudden outburst, the cooing noises she's making as she attempts to crumble him.

“look how handsome you’ve gotten! and so strong. what are those new yorkers doing with you?” 

“definitely not trying to squeeze me to death.” 

mrs. brooke laughs, somewhat vindictively, and she turns back around to look at you, with wide eyes. “did you know he was in town, dear? why didn’t you say anything? i almost had a heart attack.” 

peter clears his throat before you can throw any type of face on. any mask. “it’s a surprise,” he mock whispers, and his eyes dash to yours, then away, just as quick. “don’t tell anyone.” 

“it’s not like they’d believe me anyway,” she scoffs, “you’re a legend around here.” 

“i’m honored.” 

she laughs again, then grabs her cup. “oh,” she whispers, too loud. her eyes are tight, as if she’s intruded. “of course. i’ll leave and let you two talk.” 

and within a blink of an eye, she is running out of the shop, faster than you’ve ever seen anyone escape from here. 

and peter is there, standing in front of you. his face is smooth, calm, his eyes roaming over your face like he still has the privilege of knowing any of it. 

and your heart might be racing, if it was still there. 

"hi," he whispers. it is quiet enough for you to feel it in your chest. his voice and the memory of it. 

does he sound different? has he really changed that much in the last two years? is his face a bit worn? are his eyes a different color? 

but it doesn’t matter what rattles through your head—when you look at peter, you just see him. your peter. 

except that he’s completely different. 

you clear your throat, looking away and pushing off of the counter. “what can i get you?” 

peter blinks. “oh, um…” he looks at the menu above your head, back to you. “what—“ he swallows. “what would you recommend?” 

“it’s all good.” your voice is clipped. you should’ve said pure brewed black tea, no ice, no sweetener, no cup. just to get him out of here. you should've recommended the starbucks three towns over.

he swallows, again. a hand rakes through his hair. “i… just a sec.” 

there is a single second where you grant him the patience you would give every other customer—smile politely and let them know to ask if they have any questions. a single second where you treat him like anybody else. 

and then you say: “do you want a mocha, peter?” with an anger that shouldn’t—can’t—be contained inside of you. 

you wince at his name. the singe of his brand on you, going down your throat. 

peter seems to watch this on your face, because he’s even quieter when he answers, “sure, that’d be great.” 

at least some things haven’t changed.

so you grab a cup, writing his name on it, and move to grab the milk. 

you turn around and pretend like you’ve just forgotten he’s there. 

peter doesn’t take this hint. 

“so…” he says, his feet are loud as they tap on the ground. “you still work here, huh?” 

you barely grunt a response, spilling chocolate in the cup recklessly. if peter dies of a clogged artery it won’t be your fault. 

“that’s nice. felix always loved you. and you loved working here, back in highschool.” you have to face him as you steam the milk, and you try not to pointedly stare. not to roll your eyes or hiss at him. “it’s different though. the decor, i mean. but nice. i like it. did you do it?” 

“yes.” 

you grab his cup, pouring the milk and shoving the cap on it. “here,” your fingertips burn as you pass it to him, and you don’t think it’s because of the drink. 

“thank you.” 

you both stand there; peter blinks and doesn’t leave. 

he coughs. “i didn’t pay.”

“mrs. brooke would kill me if i made you pay for your first drink back home.” 

“well, she knows where you live,” his lip twitches, but he doesn’t laugh. 

and neither do you. 

“is it just you here?” he asks. “no felix?” 

“he sold me the shop a year ago.” 

his eyes widen. “oh. oh! that’s great. congrats.” 

“thank you.” 

you don’t move your eyes from his face, because it’s suddenly not fair that he’s here. that he’s allowed to intrude like this. 

“it’s good to see you,” peter relents, a fake smile playing on his lips. 

you falter. your heart turns in your chest, just so it doesn’t have to look at him anymore. “i’m working, okay?” you say, whispering. “i can't do this right now.” 

“right. yeah.” peter trips on a step back. his eyes are scanning your face again. ��i’m sorry. i shouldn’t—“ he blows out a breath. “i’m sorry.” 

you nod. watch the ground as he stumbles over it. 

“i mean it though,” he adds, like he hadn’t thought about it. “it’s good to see you.” 

and then peter swallows. you blink at him. 

when he turns around the bell rings as he pushes it. and peter doesn’t look back. 

he’s right about one thing, at least. it is nostalgic. 

*

"when were you going to tell me?" your mom asks, leaning against her kitchen counter--the same one you scribbled on as a kid, smiley faces still apparent. she's doing that fake smile thing. the one that makes you want to storm off and slam the door like some mistreated teenager. 

you don't, but both of you know that you think about it. for at least five seconds

"tell you what?" you ask, instead, setting the groceries you brought for her on the counter. 

"about peter." 

your eyes close. he would follow you around, wherever you go. he's probably hiding in some vent, smiling maliciously. 

there's that teasing voice in your head saying small town, small small town, but you just turn around, ignoring it, and her, and raise a brow. "peter parker?" you repeat, rhetorically. "twenty-six, new york. brown hair, brown eyes. lived here his whole life, has an aunt who lives next door, tried to steal our cat when he was nine..." you drawl off, making a point to smile. "ringing any bells?" 

she throws a dish towel at you. "you know thats not what i meant." 

"do i?" 

you wipe the counter with the towel, then fold it nicely on the counter, all the while avoiding your mother's eyes. 

but you know she won't leave it alone. the same way she hasnt left you alone once in the past four years, like she can dig your feelings up from whatever grave you buried them in.

there's a part of you that wants to crawl over to her and ask her to make you some hot chocolate, to watch some childrens movie on the couch with you. you want to be the little kid who would've depended on that knowing glance she's still giving you. the little kid who idolized her and wasn't afraid to admit the truth--even if you did steal that chocolate bar from under her sink.

but you're grown, and this doesn't matter. not in the long run, anyway. 

you look up, expectant eyes. she has your same eyes, and meets them.

"linda told nancy, who told jerry, who told me over the phone..." she shakes her head. "but may was here earlier." 

"yeah? how is she?" 

"good, busy, i'm guessing, because you know how she dotes over him." 

"yeah..." 

you fold the towel again, running your fingertips over the embrodered flowers. 

"have you seen him?" 

you swallow, and nod absentmindedly. you're not going to tell her about the grocery store. "yeah, he came into the shop yesterday." 

she taps your hand, and you let go of the rag. she hangs it back over the oven, the ebbing silence more like a threat, her hands falling to her hips. "why didn't you say anything?" 

"it's not a big deal. he came in, ordered, and then left." 

"and there were no words between the two of you?" she prods. "no wandering eyes? you just read his mind instead of taking his order?" 

you grit your teeth, rolling your eyes. "he asked for a mocha and i made it for him." 

"nothing else?" 

"he said it was nice to see me." 

she waves a hand at you. 

"and i said that i was working." you sigh, leaning against the counter. "that's all." 

"you're not freaking out?" your mom ducks her head so she can meet your eyes. her face is sullen, but her smile is genuine. 

it's like talking to a counselor. 

"why would i be freaking out? he had to come back sometime." 

she scoffs. the little necklace your dad gave her dangles from her neck, and you watch it. "i don't know," she says, using the same voice you do when she tells you not to take a tone with her. "maybe because you havent spoken to him in the last three years?" 

yeah, the same voice says, rough and patronizing, you haven't spoken to him in five years. why is that, again? 

but you snort at your mom, a defensive smile making its way to your lips as you look at her. "water under the bridge," you say, dismissing it. 

you don't want to talk about this with her. you don't want to talk about this with anyone. 

because the only person who might actually understand is the same person who left three years ago. who came back with no warning at all. 

"did may say when he got here?" you ask, voice escaping before you can stop it. 

"just a day or two ago, i think. why?" 

"is he here for the holidays?" 

"yes. she said he plans to stay until at least january. he's between jobs, i guess." 

"oh." you smack your lips and move away from her, back to the groceries, which is the reason you're here in the first place. you take out the milk jug, walking to the fridge, but a soft hand stops you. 

your mom is smiling when you turn towards her. "you don't have to talk about it," she's saying, her voice smooth and comforting. "i don't--i don't know what happened between the two of you. i just mentioned it because may said he was talking about you. it..." she drops off, wincing. 

"what?" 

"it might be good to talk to him. put the water under the bridge." 

you roll your eyes, nose twitching. you don't need to say anything, you won't. your mother is just another town gossip, and her opinion has no sway over you. 

even ask the words sink in. 

"now put the rest of those away," she says, ruffling your hair, "i know what happens when you take your 'breaks.'" 

you push her and put the milk in the fridge. 

*

you're mopping the floor when the bell rings, and a cold brush of air trails goosebumps up your skin. 

it's late enough in the season to no longer smell like the leaves falling onto the ground, or the grandesur pine needles showing off their lifespan. it's cold in the shop now, and you have three coats in the back. 

but the person who walks in is only wearing one. one you recognize from several years ago, with the holes in the sleeves from when he jumped over your fence and sprained his ankle. the stain on the front when may threw a plum soaked rag at him and you'd laughed so hard that you'd fallen to your knees on the floor and couldn't breathe. 

peter's face is wain. his eyes are cautious as they meet yours. 

you're not used to anyone coming in at 5:55. everyone knows you close at six, and the few people who'd dared to come in and order a drink a minute before you flipped your sign have learned their lesson. 

but peter hasn't learned anything. 

"i know," he says, like tracking your mind. "you close at six. may told me." 

"okay." 

you're still holding the mop, sure that his footprints would leave mud all over your floors. 

"i don't want to buy anything. or--" he breathes out, hands wringing at his sides, probably from the cold. "i will. if you want me to. but that's not why i came. i wanted to see if you..." 

he does a sweep over you, and his words fall in the air, as if he's just realized something. 

you look down at the snowflake apron your mom bought last year. it's not that dirty. 

you look back up, brows furrowed, and peter's expression matches yours. "yes?" you prod, feeling that anger simmer in the core of your chest. but you've been rude enough to him. 

your mom's words ring out in your head. 

it might be good to talk to him. 

peter swallows, whatever emotion on his face fading. "i wanted to see if you would go to dinner with me. or take a walk. or--or i'll buy you groceries, since you left yours the other night. it doesn't matter. i just want to... talk to you." 

"you want to talk to me?" 

peter nods. "i can wait outside, while you finish." he waves a hand, like an explanation. "it doesn't have to be long. just five minutes?" 

you watch peter, his face a world of feeling that you can't recognize anymore. 

and maybe that hurts the most. not him being here, not the distance or the time you've let edge you apart, but the fact that it's changed things. peter has changed and you've just let that happen. he's got a life seperate from you and there's no one to blame. he'd reached out enough, initially. months of letting his calls go to voicemail and ignoring may when you saw her in the street. 

putting yourself back together in the misshaped way you are now. peter probably doesn't even recognize you--not like this.

maybe it's your fault. 

but you find yourself nodding anyway, ignoring the guilt seeping through the cracks of you. you nod, and peter's face changes. 

it's not the first time you've noticed his eyes, or watched relief ease into him, but it's just the same. 

"yes?" peter asks, his voice rough and dry. you look at that jacket again. 

"where's your coat?" 

"my..." peter looks down with you. "oh, my coat. all of the ones aunt may kept were too small, and i thought--" he scratches his neck. "well, i forgot how cold it gets." 

you nod, slowly. 

peter nods back. 

you stare at him a moment longer, and then break away from his unfamiliar gaze. 

"just give me five minutes. i just need to put this away, and grab my stuff, and..." you swallow. 

"okay. great. do you want to me wait outside, or should i?" he gestures around, looking as uncomfortable as you've ever seen him. 

"you can sit. just--don't get any dirt on the tablebases." 

"okay. thank you." 

you nod, one last time, and look away from him. 

your heart runs circles around peter as he sits at one of your tables, his long legs not fitting beneath it. it taunts you again and again as you try not to notice him breathing, try to ignore him completely. 

you dup the mop water, spilling it on your shoes. you wipe down the last counter, the syrup sticking to your hands like a scar. you walk around the shop trying to find something else to do so you can avoid this as long as possible. your feet are cold and your hands feel abnormally dry. maybe you need to go home and shower. maybe you shouldn't be doing this at all. 

you sit in the office for a moment, wishing you could watch peter without him knowing. scope him out before you hear what he has to say. 

and--

okay, maybe there's a part of you that's been waiting three years for this. 

that dream where he's there even though you don't want him; that moment when he apologizes and you forgive him automatically, because your heart has always been small and fragile around him; that fantasy where peter comes home and he's the same teenager you used to walk around town with at two in the morning, the same brown eyes laughing as you both slipped on ice and fell on top of eachother. 

you won't deny that you've thought about this before. what you might say to him if you got the chance. 

but as you grab your bag and hang your apron around the chair in the office, the words have gone some place else. what could you say to him to make any of this make sense? 

still, you clear your throat when you walk out, feet aching from standing all day. you blink at him as he struggles to get up, pushing your chair in, the legs scratching on the floor the only sound between the two of you. 

[sugugori]

could you write a really fluffy peter Parker fic for Valentine’s Day (with banter ofc)

valentine, oh mine

tasm!peter x reader

a/n: this is not cute or fun or any of the things i aspire to be. it is painful. peter dies (he doesn’t). don’t read this.

*

“will you be my valentine?”

“hello, peter,” you answer, through your toothbrush. the words are deadpan. “i’m doing well, thank you. how are you?”

“better if you answer the question.”

you laugh, letting his response linger for a moment as you try to discern where, exactly, he is. your mouth tastes like spearmint, and it would be perfect to kiss him with. even though it’s monday, and almost midnight, and he shouldn’t be here.

for a whole multitude of reasons (number one being that you know he’ll keep you awake for at least a couple of hours more).

“where are you?” you ask him, listening to ruffling and a whine from the other end.

a manly whine, he might tell you, if you could see his face and make fun of it.

“stop deflecting. you don’t wanna be my valentine?” you can hear the frown.

and then there’s a horn, signaling absolutely nothing.

you spit into the sink, and put him on speaker as you rinse.

“i’ve gotta say that this is one of the more underwhelming valentine proposals i’ve gotten. you’re not even here. instead you’re…” you drawl, “where, again?”

“this is just further proof that i’m always thinking about you,” peter tells you, recalling an argument you’d had the day prior.

about how he wasn’t paying attention to you—or the conversation you were trying to have with him about one of your coworkers—but instead, according to him, thinking about you.

which did not help his case, of course. instead you’d given him the silence treatment for three minutes while he groveled—poorly.

and you doubt that he was thinking about valentine’s day when his eyes were glued to your lips the entire time.

“again,” you tell him, trying to hide the sound of a smile in your voice, “i would rather you just listen to me. answer my question and i’ll answer yours,” you bargain.

“how’s that fair? i asked first.”

“i asked second.”

peter sighs, and there’s a brief pause where he breaks up. you mess with the sound settings to no avail. up or down, his voice is distorted.

“are you—“ his voice wonders. “i was gonna tell you—“ and then a pause. and then. “are you giving me the silent treatment again?”

“cant hear you,” you hum. “somethings wrong with your phone.”

“how do you know it’s mine?” his voice enters again, breaking back and forth. another honking, and silence as he puts himself on mute.

because you’re no fool, and you know that peter would’ve answered the question already—if only to get you to answer his—if he didn’t know that you’d scold him for it.

“cause i can hear the wind while you swing,” you tease, though swallow, your voice is aiding the anger you should feel—because your boyfriend is a liar, and a traitor and you kinda hate him.

but you’re not really angry. you haven’t seen him since he left your house at six in the morning, so that’s probably why.

“i—“ there’s a pause. and then his voice is clear again. “that’s my hairdryer.”

“are you lying to me, peter?”

“it might even be the connection,” he continues, idly. “may’s been complaining about the service but i’ve been too busy to check the box, so—“

“are you still lying to me?”

you can almost see him swallow. “…no?”

“i told you not to call me when you’re out.”

“so you never want me to call you?” he asks, mock hurt. “when i’m not out, i’m always with you. i thought you liked my phone calls, and my voice if my memory serves me. someone really liked it—“

“you know what i mean.”

“do i?”

“peter parker, unless you want me to hang up—“

“okay, okay,” there’s still no swinging. “i’m sorry.”

“no, you’re not,” you whine, sitting on your bed and listening closely so he can’t trick you again.

“i actually am this time,” he swears. “i won’t do it again. but this is a very important matter.”

“swinging while talking is basically like texting and driving, and if i was doing that i’d be getting an earful from you.”

“it’s so not the same thing. first of all, spider senses, please keep up,” he tells you, laughing. “and who am i going to hurt in the open air?”

“a pigeon,” you say, almost angrily. “they’re an endangered species, you idiot.”

“they’re definitely not.”

“okay, then, yourself. who’s going to be my valentine if you slam into a wall and crack your head open?”

peter would not look cute without his skull, you remain firm on this fact.

you can hear his smile. “i knew you wanted to be my valentine.”

“before i knew you were lying to me.”

“you lie to me all of the time,” peter argues.

your brows furrow. “when?”

“when you said that you don’t like it when i call you,” he murmurs, almost soft, still teasing. “i know you do. you miss me.”

“i miss my boyfriend,” you answer, biting back some other remark about how you don’t miss him at all—honestly, you’re trying to prove that you’re not lying. “but apparently i’m talking to a superhero.”

“oh, did i forget to mention that? must’ve slipped my mind.”

“where are you now?” you ask. “it’s quiet.”

and then there’s a tap on the wall to your right.

“peter…”

“yes?”

“is that you?”

“maybe.”

“are you kidding?” you grumble, crawling on your knees to push back the curtains and open the window. you frown as you unlatch it, hands interrupted by other ones, doing the same thing. “how long have you been sitting out here?”

“since ‘are you lying?’ i think.” he says, in a terrible impression of your voice. “it’s cold.”

you pull him in by his wrist, immediately pushing him off when he tries to land on your bed on top of you.

peter pulls his mask off, smiling at you. “hi.”

“i’m mad. go take a shower.”

his fingers tip-toe up your arm, trying to get you to shiver. “are you really?” he hums.

“yes.”

“how can i make it up to you?”

“find me a better, non-lying valentine,” you tell him, pouting as you look away.

“is this supposed to be an answer?”

“why didn’t you just wait?” you ask instead. “if you were going to come here anyway, why didn’t you ask me in person instead of being a disappointment, and breaking a rule?”

“i don’t recall signing a contract…”

you groan, sitting up and crossing your legs as you look at him. unfortunately for you, his hair has fallen over his eyes just right, and you still want to kiss him.

“take me seriously.”

“i take everything you say,” he leans in, “very seriously.”

you push his nose. “you don’t.”

“i do!” he swears, grabbing your hand. “i’m listening. tell me what’s wrong.”

he says this condescendingly, because you already told him—kind of—but he knows that if you have to repeat it, you’ll break.

“this is why they say familiarity breeds contempt.”

peter smiles. “are you feeling contemptful right now?”

you nod.

he leans again, and you cant push him away. “how can i help?”

“you can apologize.”

peter’s smile grows softer as you look at him with eyes of steel, like he finds this version of you cute. your pout and your false anger, all bundled up into one perfect package.

just for him, you suppose.

he leans in some more, “i’m sorry,” he says, softly, just brushing your lips. “i was excited.”

you purse your lips, even while his are soft and teasing against them. it feels kind of like a feather brushing your skin, like peters got his own secret form of tickling you.

teasing you, like he always does. familiarity breeds contempt, and comfort, and confusion, and…

he kisses you fully, this time. a gentle peck. “i wanted to hear your voice,” he admits. “i’m impatient. i should listen to you more.”

“right…” you whisper, with him, as your only form of acknowledgement.

“i won’t call you while i’m out, okay? or i’ll pause somewhere.”

your brows are permanently fixed together. “don’t pause. just… get some headphones, or something.” you let your lips relax, finally, and they fall against his just as a consequence. “i like your voice too,” you admit, quietly, as an afterthought.

peters smile is bashful. “like wireless ones? not sure how that would work under the mask…”

“you made the suit,” you tell him, leaning back. “you cant figure it out, genius?”

“i’ll do it for you, i guess,” he sighs, but his fingertips trace the skin on both of your arms, simply because he’s that close.

“thank you.”

“are we done fighting now?”

you frown, pushing his hands away so you can cross your arms. “no. you really asked me to be your valentine over the phone?”

peter sighs, shaking his head. “i knew i should’ve gone with the skywriting.”

“or,” you say, rhetorically, “i don’t know, maybe a box of chocolates? flowers? a quick ‘hey, will you be my valentine?’ before you left this morning?”

“that’s so lame.”

“so is asking me over the phone.”

“i was excited,” peter argues. “i wanted an answer.”

“well you didn’t get one.”

“yes i did,” he tells you, finally grabbing your arm so he can pull you on top of him (because seriously, this is unfair).

“no.”

“you said i was your valentine,” he reminds you, tilting your head up so you’re looking at him.

“you’re mine,” you tell him, rolling your eyes. “i never said i was yours.”

“wow,” peter murmurs. “that might be the worst thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“please. i called you a vermin to may the other day.”

he pouts, childishly.

“ask me nicely,” you say, after a moment.

“i did.”

“ask me nicely again.”

there’s a pause where two stubborn people meet at a head—literally, head to head—and consider the prospects of losing this battle.

but peter is softer than you are, when you tease a smile on your lips, he breaks. “will you be my valentine?”

“hmm,” you ponder, looking away. “i’ll think about it. i mean, there’s a lot of options to choose from.”

peter bites your nose in retaliation and the two of you laugh until you’re dizzy

*

[sugugori]

choso definitely cries when he cums, and not in the way everyone is thinking.

he’ll be so close to his climax he could taste it, sweat dripping of his forehead, his breathing so heavy he could barely breathe and your pussy gripping around him tight.

the overstimulation rushes through his body and to his eyes and once he releases tears will rush out.

dropping his head in between the crook of your neck so you won’t see him cry, and spilling out how much he loves you.

he only cried with you, he doesn’t know how or why it happens it just does.

a man who can’t handle his overwhelming amount of pleasure? that’s sexy

sometimes he won’t full out cry, just a little tear here and there dripping from his eyes but you just think it’s sweat.

when he thinks back on all the times he’s cum and cried, there’s a thought maybe it was tears of joy, there’s literally no other explanation.

but then his orgasms started to get more intense, crying out and telling you to stop bouncing on him because of how sensitive he was.

his pleads fell upon deaf ears and you continued, only for him to only cum inside you but tears rolling down his face.

the sight was something that aroused you, his cheeks flushed and the wet tears streaming down his face did something to you.

that’s besides the point though.

when he wasn’t grunting and moaning, he was crying and telling you how perfect you were and how you made him feel good.

[sugugori]

boss at work and lovers in private w hiromi? He was very strict with the user at work and acts a bit rude/mean sometimes with reader.

But once they got home he fucks her nice and slow in bed as an apology for being mean at work <3

❤︎ ໋𓈒 higuruma who’s strictly mean in the workplace but makes sure to make it up to you at home.

warnings. fem! reader, dirty talk, unprotected, doggystyle, praise.

higuruma was a man who always took work seriously…

a workaholic if you will.

you always found yourself trying to tease him sometimes whenever he’d be working, and he’d just give you a glare. oftentimes, he’d be a bit stern and perhaps rude. although you couldn’t deny the bass in his tone whenever he spoke to you with such seriousness made you feel a bit…tingly.

just the rough rasp in his tone whenever he spoke directly to you, withholding intimate eye contact and telling you to stop fooling around and focus at the job at hand.

nevertheless, he did feel a bit bad, in fear that feasibly he was a bit too mean to his pretty baby. so he promises to make it up to you once the two of you get home. and that’s exactly what he does.

you couldn’t wait and neither could he. higuruma remained with his work clothes on, long black slacks pulled down briefly and the only sounds you could make out was the clanking of his belt. letting off a choked whine, you were willingly taking him from behind, and his touch..

higuruma stretches you out continuously with such ease, he’s got both of your wrists pinned behind your back before muttering, “i’m sorry baby. was i annoying you earlier?”

“y-yeah.” you moaned, feeling his tip brush right against that spot.

amorously, he slides a tongue across his lips while drilling into your cunt—you’re a stuttering mess. with a low chuckle departing from his lips, he hums.

“good,” and you bite your lip, his thrusts fulfilling you entirely. each sloppy hit that went against you time and time again, it left your mind completely dumbfounded. a quite perfect synonym to define your current state after all. “oh, don't whine all cute like that, y’know ‘m just teasing..”

higuruma’s words were so smooth and his tone was wholly soft spoken.

for a second, he dips his hips against you and you whimper, running your restrained fingers against his.

“god, you’re so pretty from behind. you know that, sweetheart?” his words went straight towards your pussy, that never failed to twitch on constant repeat. “such a perfect view. wish you could see for yourself, my love.”

“h-hirooo,” you’d mewl out, the right side of your cheek pressed down against the plump mattress. he knew just where to strike you with his dick, not too rough and not too soft.

just right. immensely, your toes curled each time he’d run his tip against your g-spot for a good two seconds, eliciting a loud moan from you. “fuck, f-fuck.”

“baby, you’ve got quite the mouth on you, huh?” he pokes fun, and you shiver once you feel the cold band of his watch trail against your skin. he presses a hand down your back, making you arch for him just a bit more and your eyes roll back yet again. “you’ve been pestering me at work all day, ‘s this what you wanted hm? wanted some attention—?”

the pleasures that pierced through your body was indefinable.

all you knew was that it felt so good, the way he pivots and smacks his hips softly against your ass, rolling and rotating them to where your head’s spinning like a merri go round.

“no,” you lied, and he huffs out a breath, grinning at you still having some brat left within you. once he deepens his thrusts for a short second, your mind pauses—you’re dumb, cock dumb if that even was a correct term for it, and you moan out. “y-yes.. you’re right, you were just so m-mean.”

he groans, feeling your slick start to stick against him throughout each movement he makes by rutting in and out of your greedy pussy.

“if i make you cum one more time, will that make up for it then, sweetheart?”

“m-mhm,” you’d nod, strings of your own spit falling against the sheets — oh, how much of a mess you were for him. only higuruma could have you like this, in this position. face nearly pushed against the mattress yet he’s presenting you with soft gentle thrusts. “make me cum, please hiromi.”

“pretty girl, you know i will,” he murmurs, and you let off a muffled moan once you bite your teeth into the pillow that remained underneath your chest. it was just the way his thickness dragged so easily against your folds. you could never get enough, his size had you drooling with such lewdness. “relax, don’t wanna strain that cute voice with all that moaning do ya?”

he watches you shake your head, and he chortles.

“sweet thing,” and his hips were so sensual against you, it was unfathomable to how good it made you feel. how good he made you feel. in the pit of your stomach—you felt something stirring, brewing up inside. butterflies perhaps, you pulsed between your thighs before he feels your leg start to jitter in utter anticipation. “ooh. ‘s coming isn’t it? you feel it too, my love?”

“r-right there,” you’d squeal, and by this particular point, your legs grew limp. his movements were unpredictable. higuruma’s jaw tightens as he’s balls deep, gawking at you clawing your nails down the white silkened sheets before bawling it up into the palms of your hands. “gonna c-cum, hiro. hiro.”

he slides a thumb against the corner of your back, maintaining a gentle tip against your hips before uttering in a husky voice, “yeah you are. c’mon baby. just let go for me. ‘s okay to be a little messy, yeah?”

“okay,” you’d babble, such thick inches that remained inside of you. your knees grew weak, he had such a grip against your waist that the pads of his thumbs pressed lightly down before caressing. higuruma always knew your most tenderest bits, the spots to drive you crazy. “h-hiro, ‘m cumming..”

a gasp exits from your mouth once you felt it, your entire body paused and juddered as a response.

your lips parted and the feeling made you grow quiet for a moment — ears, the very tips of them reaching such warmth of heat before you moan out his name once more. “t-thank you, thank you.”

“don’t thank me yet, gorgeous.” he whispers, leaning in to press a kiss against your back. “we aren’t done,” he says, and your legs still shook, sensitive before he turns you over to face him, pressing a wet kiss against your mouth. “i need more of you, and you need to be reminded of your place,” and his words were filled with such flirtatiousness yet was delivered so sweet. “so, just lie back and let me fond over this body just a little while longer.”

[sugugori]

i'll fetch you anything you like.

featuring. aki hayakawa x gn!reader

content. MDNI, smut, riding, begging, crying, smoking, light masochism, burning (reader puts a cigarette out on aki), mild codependency, pet names (loverboy, darling), gender neutral reader, agab not mentioned, sub!aki + dom!reader, a little angst, pining, kissing, vague love confessions.

word count. 3.2k

synopsis. aki's smoking is a nasty habit, but you're certain you can get him to quit. also, aki pines.

notes. minors don’t interact. anyways how’s this for a first post ( totally normal abt aki hayakawa )

Aki Hayakawa is an orphan in every sense of the word.

Literally being the one most people associate him with, but—Aki comes to a realisation when he's maybe thirteen or fourteen that the word runs deeper than that. It's not as if your entire life is defined by your relationship with your parents, after all; even people who have ones that are alive become something other than offspring in their life. Husband, brother, uncle, father. But orphan sticks, no matter how many people you fill your life up with to replace the parents you lost. Aki thinks there is something in the word that rings of loneliness; he could father a hundred children, become grandfather to two hundred more, gain friends and a partner, and still he would be Aki Hayakawa, orphan.

Alone.

"That's a bad habit."

Aki's fingers don't pause in their ministrations, thumb pressing down on the jut of the lighter as it zips to life. The cherry of his menthol cigarette glows in the blue-dark of the office. The sky outside the thin window is pale with the gloaming, and he breathes a haze of gritty smoke over it, sullying the view.

You've made yourself at home on his desk, legs swinging leisurely. You must be cold in only his work-shirt and boxers that cling to your hips and thighs. You watch him passively, head cocked.

"One of my least dangerous ones," he intones, which is true enough for a man who has three years to live at most.

"Oh? What tops the list?"

Aki eyes you serenely. "I dunno if you've heard, but I work for this place called the Public Safety Division."

Your laughter breaks the delicate quiet like a flock of birds taking off from a tree. "Put it out. I hate the smell."

Aki's dark brows crinkle. "I'm not wasting a perfectly good cigarette. If it bothers you so much, eat it."

"Eat it? You freak."

"At least then someone's getting something out of it."

You hop from the desk, yawning. In the dim light that is starting to grow just a little brighter, Aki can see the beginnings of bruises on your throat and collarbone, vanishing in an ugly rainbow trail down to the hastily-down buttons of his work shirt. Your socked feet pad along the threadbare carpet on your way over to him, and Aki inhales deeply. Maybe if there's enough smoke in his lungs it will encourage him not to breathe; that way, he won't do that god-forsaken embarrassing thing he does when you get close. His heart stutters, and it makes his breath hitch audibly. The worst part is you seemed to be goddamn attuned to it—there seems to be little you like more than knowing you have an effect on him.

Aki doesn't stop you when your fingers come up to encircle his cigarette, brushing his as you pluck it gently from between his lips. He hates that even the smallest kiss of your skin against his still sends liquid lightning zipping through him, like he's that seventeen-year-old he was when he met you, the one full of spite and anger who hadn't been held since his mother died.

You pull the cigarette away, still lit; the butt glows red and angry between your delicate hold, gleams in the reflection of your eyes. When Aki meets them, he feels his mouth go dry; your pupils are large and black, engulfing iris, barely blinking as you look up at him.

"Bet I can make you quit," you say.

Aki snorts. "Better men than you have tried."

"Anything can be unlearned," you counter smoothly. "All bad habits go away with a little punishment."

Aki feels his heartbeat quicken, tries not to let the way that one word sets his blood alight show on his face. "Hm," he says noncommittally, but frustratingly, he doesn't think he's fooled you for a second.

Your serene smile curved into something sharp as easily as breathing. "Gimme your hand."

And Aki does, though he knows where this is going. You turn his hand over gently at the wrist, leaving it palm-up, fingers splayed in your grip. You hold him so gently it makes him shiver. Carefully, slowly—Aki thinks, giving him much time to pull away—you raise the burning end of the cigarette and plant it in the centre of his pale palm, a stinging kiss. Aki hisses, grits his teeth, but dutifully doesn't move even as his hand twitches involuntarily at the contact. Just as tears start to needle at his eyes, you twist the butt and pull away, leaving a shallow pool of grey ash, a black soot mark, and a stinging red welt like a patch of burning leaves.

His eyes are glued to the masterpiece you've made of his boring skin. The burn throbs unpleasantly, but something low and hot has come alive in his abdomen at the lingering kiss of pain. It satiates something inside him just smoking the thing could never hope to touch. He likes the futility of feeding himself his own death, sure—makes him feel like he has marginally more control over it, despite what the Curse Devil might have to say about it. This sort of pain is different; it goes straight for the gullet, and it makes it all the more sweet that it's you doing it.

A stupid, lonely part of Aki—orphan—wants to believe you're doing this because you care for him. Because you want him to live as long as possible. The grown, cynical man he supposes he's become thinks you must be just as fucked up as he is. It doesn't really matter either way; Aki's loved you for years, and he's astonished he's even gotten this far with you, and he'll take anything you deign to give him, pleasure or pain because it's all sort of the same to him anyway.

You unscrew a bottle of drinking water and hold it over your discarded blazer, soaking the lapel before pressing it to the burn. Aki grunts, eyebrows knitting up as a strange cocktail of relief and pain throbs slowly through his body. Your hands holds the wet fabric over his one, like a ribcage encasing a beating heart. Oh, Aki would let you hold his heart in your hands, and who cares what you decided to do with it? It's hardly his business; it belongs to you anyway.

He leans in to kiss you, gets close enough to brush his lips against yours and feel his pupils dilate before you turn your head, ducking. Aki feels his heart stutter anxiously as you turn your serene face up to him.

"Hate the taste," you say.

Aki frowns. "I barely smoked it for thirty seconds."

"It lingers."

Aki isn't stupid; this is part of the punishment. And the goddamn annoying part is that it's working. Even as you take his other hand to hold the soaking blazer against his burn and turn away, every fibre in his body wants to stop you. Turn you back around, pin you against the wall, swallow any complaints with his lips. He wants to make you melt against him, wants to melt himself under you in that way you always manage to do to him. He likes feeling like he doesn't have to think with you; just await whatever comes next, pain or pleasure, and he'll take it because it's you.

But Aki doesn't move. He's not a problem dog. He stands quietly and nurses his burn, tracking you with his eyes as you re-dress yourself, his shirt tucked into your slacks, tie wound through the collar, work boots laced up to the ankle.

"I gotta run home and shower," you say, tugging your blazer on. "I'll see you back here in, like, an hour."

Aki nods. "Okay."

The grin you flash him is little more than poisonous; it makes it heart skip a beat. "How's your burn?"

He swallows around a dry throat, holding your stare with a touch of timidity. "What burn?"

Delight shivers over your expression like wind ruffling a field of grass, and you stride the length of the cramped office and kiss him. Aki grunts, rendered thoughtless the moment your mouth touches his, your hands in his collar and his hair; his hands go slack, blazer fluttering to the ground, and the welt on his palm stings horribly when his hands come up to latch around your shoulders and neck. He pulls you closer, a little frantic, and he has barely a moment to reflect on how worrying it is that he's this desperate for your touch after being denied only once, but before he can think to dwell on it you're parting your lips and he's tugged your body flush against his own. He's so close he could drown in you. For a moment, he wants to.

Far too soon, you pull away. You're delighted. "Good," you murmur, and he hates how his heart leaps into his throat. "You're so good, Aki."

His face is on fire. "I'm not a dog," he manages.

"Sure you are," you say matter-of-factly. "And I'm Pavlov. I'll break that nasty habit of yours if it's the last thing I do. Give you something else to focus on. Okay?"

Aki licks his dry lips. "You can try," he says hoarsely, hoping it doesn't sound as much like an invitation as he thinks it does. The impish smile you give him implies he's shit out of luck.

Aki is in hell.

He knows this, because every time the two of you have hooked up since your little conversation in his office, he hasn't been allowed to kiss you if you detect even a whiff of smoke on his breath. It's killing him a little, to be honest. Fucking without kissing just feels wrong. It makes him forget it's you, sometimes, his vision of you sliding out of focus 'till you could be just anyone. And Aki doesn't fuck just anyone. He fucks people he loves.

He loves you. But he can't have you. And he can't even kiss you so he can pretend he has you, if only for a minute. It's just fucking, a tumble of sweating limbs and gasps and grunts, of a thrilling cocktail of pleasure and pain and almost-confessions bitten back at the last second, hidden in the crook of your neck.

Your shitty wooden headboard creaks into the shitty thin bedroom wall, and Aki spends a moment in lucidity to send a silent apology to your neighbours. One arm braces against the wood, flexing with every fast jerk of his hips, and you're under him, eyes clenched shut and meeting his thrusts in a way that has Aki wondering why anyone could think being on top had to mean being in control. He's oiled to your machine, matching the rhythm of your hips and trying not to drown as your back arches up from the sweat-damp sheets, stomach curving into his, one arm holding fast around his neck.

You feel so good he could cry. Not that that would be an irregular occurrence, or anything—he'd practically sobbed the first time you fucked, and back then you'd been all fluttering concern, stopping even though he tried to sputter please, Christ, don't stop, I'll die if you stop, please. He supposes you're kind, in your own way. You'd stroked away his tears and kissed his damp face.

"Aki," you groan, bringing him forcefully back to the present; his dark bangs dangle in his eyes as he looks down at you, mouth agape and head cloudy. "Wh-what's got you so wound up?"

As if you don't know. Aki grits his teeth.

Your hand makes patterns on the damp nape of his neck as his rolling hips slow, as he breathes deep to try and regain a semblance of his dignity. "Loverboooy," you croon up at him, your free hand gripping at the junction between his hip and thigh. Aki grimaces; he hates that nickname. "Talk to me."

Aki glares at you. "You know—I want—you know. St-stop it."

He whimpers somewhere high in his throat as your body tightens around him, free hand coming up to scrub down his face. "D-don't!"

"Sorry, sorry," you laugh. "I'm sorry. Why don't you tell me what you want? Maybe I'm feeling nice."

It feels like a trap, like luring his feelings into the light just to snap a bear trap over them. But Aki wants, he yearns so deeply and desperately that he's just about willing to risk it. "Want to kiss you."

Your eyes gleam. "Do you?" you ask, as if this is news to you.

His arms shake. "Please."

God, he's pathetic. He's so used to being in control, to tailoring every facet of his life meticulously, grooming and tidying and cleaning. He knows the exact amount of calories he should eat per day. He puts his shoes on a rack so he never tracks mud onto the tatami mats. His shower utensils are organised in the order he uses them—shampoo, conditioner, face-wash, scented gel. He likes being in control. He thinks, anyway. You make him reevaluate. You make him reevaluate an awful lot.

You toss your head back against the pillows; you have the audacity to laugh. "Saw you smoking earlier," you tell him, and Aki's stomach goes cold. "Mm... full pack, too. A new one? When'd you buy that."

"Th-that was hours ago." And it's true; when Aki learns you're coming over, he puts his cigarettes in a locked draw and puts the key somewhere difficult to reach. "It won't still taste. I've eaten. I brushed my teeth."

That's just good manners.

"It's the principle of the thing, loverboy," you say, and your hand comes up to his chest and rolls him over. Aki gapes, whining at the loss of contact only to choke on his own voice as you sling a leg over his hips and slide him back into you. Your nails scrape red railroads down the pale skin of his sternum at the stretch, and Aki watches, mesmerised as you start to move, the flex of the muscles in your thighs, the vein bulging in your throat as you toss your head back. He wants to be all over you, a hand on your neck feeling your pulse go berserk for him, his teeth in your skin as proof he was there, nose buried in your hair, dirty and rough and the exact opposite of the way he usually wants you. That is—soft and kind, romantic, slow and heady as syrup.

He wants kisses that taste like tears, whispered confessions into bedsheets. He wants, painfully, the constant assurance he can never ask for. I love you. I love you. Oh, Aki, I love you.

"Kiss me," he gasps instead, writhing against the bedsheets, head thrown back at the brutal pace you set him. He's so close, teeth gritting and muscles locking up but without a kiss it feels cold and incomplete. "Please, please, kiss me, please—"

"You're a brat, Aki," you hiss, and Aki's heart twitches in his chest; he can hear his pulse in his skull. "You ignore the one rule I gave you, and you still think you get to ask for what you want?"

"It's a bullshit rule," he snaps. "I—I can't just, hah, I can't j-just turn it, off, oh, fuck—"

"You okay?" you ask in a fleeting moment of mercy. Aki's eyebrows knit up. "Am I—is it too much?"

Aki shakes his head. "I'm okay," he mumbles pitifully. "I'm close."

"I know, darling," you murmur. "It's okay. I'm gonna give you what you want. And you're gonna give me what I want. Deal?"

"I—I..." Aki chews the inside of his cheek till copper floods his mouth. "I'll try? I'll try, I swear."

You still for a moment. "You mean that?"

Aki nods frantically. "Yes, I—if that's what you want, anything, anything you want, please..."

The beam that breaks out on your face is a million watts. "Aki," you breathe, and finally you lean forward 'till your chest brushes his. Aki can't breathe, transfixed by every swoop of your eyelash and chap in your lip as you lean close. When you speak, you're so close that your lips brush his, and he has to keep every muscle taut to stop himself leaning forward and closing the gap. "Aki, I want you to live a long, happy life. You get that, right? Why I'm doing this?"

He feels his stomach flip, can barely comprehend the words through his dazed mind. His glazed eyes follow you, thunderstruck. "What—what d'you mean?"

"I care about you," you murmur. "I want you to live as long as possible. Want you to stick around with me."

With you? It's a wonder his heart doesn't explode. For a fleeting moment, there exists a future beyond the Gun Fiend, beyond Denji and Power and Nyako, one where he can love you freely. Tears needle at his eyes. It all seems so impossible.

Aki forgets himself, surges up to capture your mouth, but you turn at the last second, planting a kiss to his cheek before focusing on his jaw, his ear, capturing the lobe between your teeth and sucking gently as your hips resume their rhythm. You're faster now, gasping for breath, Aki's hands sliding over the skin of your hips and torso for a lifeline. You tongue at the cords in his neck, the shell of his ear and the sensitive divot just underneath till he's squirming.

Your hands are everywhere—scraping nails across his twitching abdomen, running up the valley between his pecs, tweaking a nipple and pulling. And Aki groans and gasps, every hint of pain from your lovely hands sending him rocketing closer towards the edge. Tears bead at his lashline.

"'M close," he gasps again.

"That's okay, loverboy," you say sweetly, words buzzing against the skin of his throat, and Aki shudders, arching impossibly closer to you. He can feel every nerve in his body sawed open and set alight, impossibly sensitive, boiling with love, and as he comes he buries his face into the crook of your neck with a hoarse cry. Two lone tears streak down his flushed cheeks.

You're not far behind, and Aki wouldn't dream of pulling out, so he squirms and gasps and whines with the prickling of overstimulation as you chase your own high. "Sorry—fuck—you okay?"

"I'm, I'm good," Aki whines. He cracks one steely blue eye open. It stands out against his red skin; he's so flushed as to look sunburnt.

"'M almost, fuck, almost there. Hang on for me?"

Aki raises shaking hands to grip your hips in answer. You laugh between pants, baring down at him.

"That's my boy."

You don't kiss him when you finish, but it's alright. You flop down beside him, taking in deep lungfuls of air, nuzzling your lips to the salt-sweat cooling on his chest. Usually, round about now, Aki would roll to reach his bedside cabinet where his open pack of cigs lay in wait. The lighter is right beside him, open and tempting. He can almost hear the flick of it, the zip of the flame bursting to life, the sizzle of the cherry scorching beneath that controlled flame. The grit of smoke in his mouth and down his throat, emptying his lungs of fresh air.

The pack goes untouched. Aki winds an arm around your shoulders and holds you close, your cheek against his thudding heart.

You don’t kiss him, but it’s alright.

Aki’s not a problem dog.

He's going to earn it.

if you enjoyed this, request something.

[sugugori]

i’ll take one of everything ෆ (⸝⸝o̴̶̷᷄ o̴̶̷̥᷅⸝⸝ ྀི)

[sugugori]

hi! you’re writings amazing, ily (i reblog everything i read from u, you’re fics are so- just so perfect)

can i request more of peter parker x mean! reader i thoroughly enjoyed that one, maybe just peter reassuring her that he’s not going to her hurt her and he’s not going anywhere (their in an established relationship but she’s afraid of getting hurt because she likes him so much- abandonment issues and all that 🫣)

involved

tasm!peter x reader

summary:

“i don’t know how serious this is for you.”

“you don’t?”

warnings: self doubt, undiscussed relationship stuff, peter obv.

*

you hear your name before you catch it on the edge of a breath. because you only know one person who would call out to you, and only one person who’s voice you would listen for.

and then peter parker’s hand is wrapping around your arm, and he’s smiling down at you like the world is slow enough for this moment to pass right by.

but it doesn’t. and you frown back. “hey,” you say, but what you really meant was—can’t you tell i’m avoiding you?

“where are you?” he asks, none the wise to your grump brows or hesitance to touch him back,

“walking by the mess hall?”

peter tilts his head at you, bumping into you with his elbow. “no, i mean, where are you all of the time? i haven’t seen you in, like, a week. i’m withdrawaling.”

“i’ve been studying.”

“for what?”

“my class?”

he snorts at you, hand trailing down your wrist to intertwine with yours. which you let happen, reluctantly. “not feeling very explanatory today, huh?”

“i don’t like answering dumb questions.”

“not even mine?” he pouts, though breaking almost immediately, and going back to his signature smirk.

you look away. stupid peter and his stupid smiles.

“want to hang out tonight?” he asks, flowing with this irritated version of you immediately. because he’s so understanding. “we could watch a movie, or something. grab take-out?”

“i have a test tomorrow,” you gently try to pull away from him, which peter doesn’t notice in the slightest. “so i probably shouldn’t.”

shouldn’t, you think, not can’t, or won’t. you probably shouldn’t be spending anymore time with peter parker and his short attention span. his long reputation.

“it’s friday.”

“correct, peter. good job.”

he snorts, again. “no, i mean, it’s saturday tomorrow. how do you have a test?”

“it’s a mental test. how long can i sleep in after going to bed at seven?” you say this without skipping a beat, trying to keep the wince off of your face.

because, despite all else, you’ve really been trying not to hurt his feelings. you don’t want to tell him that you don’t think this is working out, or that you don’t want to be alone with him for any amount of time in the foreseeable future.

no, ghosting is much preferred.

“so you don’t want to hang out,” peter drawls, casually. “that’s okay. if you’re tired, i get it.”

he’s being sweet. still smiling if just a bit dimmer than before. he takes rejection like it’s a suggestion.

something about it irritates you. if he were less cool, or more direct, or any other thing than the perfect person he is—

“i’ve got to go,” you snap out, before your mouth can even open.

you shake your hand from his and try not to linger on the remaining sparks flying through it.

you turn away from peter, walking the opposite direction of home, and not caring even a bit. each step further away from him is some relief—disappointment—curling up inside of you. crawling to your chest and staying there.

but peter follows, because of course he does.

“woah,” he tries to reach out for you, but yoh jump away from him, like he’s some type of poison. “what’s wrong?”

“nothing, peter.”

he takes a step closer, but doesn’t try to touch you.

you hadn’t even realized that you’d stopped.

“you’re upset,” he says slowly. “did i do something?”

“no.”

“did something happen?”

“no.”

“are you feeling alright?”

“no!”

you sigh and look away from him. his eyes are unbearable to look at. his easy-going nature and his inquisitiveness are irritating. he’s too nice for his own good. too nice for you, especially.

“okay, sweetheart, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” he suggests this like suggesting something for dinner. “i might not be able to help, but i can listen. i like the sound of your voice.”

“ugh,” you get out, before you can think better of it.

“what?”

“don’t flirt with me. it’s disgusting.”

peter laughs. “havent we gotten past that? i’ve seen your—“

“don’t finish that sentence.”

“i was going to say bedroom.”

“yeah, right.”

“serious, baby. let’s talk. i’ve missed you.”

“talk,” you raise your brows. “right here?”

“well we can go to your place, or mine, but i don’t really feel like walking in awkward silence, so—“

but you’re not listening to peter. you’re watching his eyes dart around, and wondering how much you should be memorizing right now.

“for how long?” you blurt out, interrupting him and whatever he was saying.

“hmm?”

“you said you missed me. for how long?”

peter glances at you, quizzically. “since i last saw you, obviously.”

“no, i mean…” you kick at a rock with your shoe, unsure what to say, or how to say it. or how to do any of this without finding out the truth. “i mean, how much longer?”

“how much what, bub?”

“how much longer will you miss me?”

peter pauses. he’s staring down at you, biting on his lip. his eyes are questioning, and frozen, like he hasn’t heard a word you said. but he must have, because he says: “what?”

almost shocked like. almost like any of this is a surprise.

you shake your head, looking away from him.

“no,” peter tilts your head back to him, hand warm around your face. “what do you mean?”

“i just…” you feel lost for words. like you’re preparing yourself for the loss of something else. “i don’t know what you want, peter. i don’t… i don’t want you to say you like me for a few weeks, and then move on to someone else. i—“ you shake your head again, angry because it doesn’t make sense, and because peter is literally the only person you would say any of that too.

the only person you would want to.

“what? you think— you think i’m leading you on, or something?”

he sounds offended, so your eyes go to his, trying to read his face but there’s nothing there.

you sigh. “i don’t know how serious this is for you.”

“you don’t?”

“it’s not… i mean, it’s not like we’ve talked about it and i didn’t want to seem, um, too involved.”

“involved?”

“dedicated.”

“you didn’t want to seem too dedicated to me?”

your brows furrow at him. “you’re making me sound really lame.”

at that, peter finally cracks a small smile. “you said it, not me.”

“yeah, i know.” and then you roll your eyes at yourself.

“is this why you haven’t called me back in a week?”

“was it that obvious?” you say, voice dripped with sarcasm.

peters hand has dropped between the two of you. and his fingers graze against yours. in a moment of weakness.

“how long have you been worried about this?”

you think for a moment, making sure to keep your eyes off of him. “since the second time you asked me to dinner.”

his brows furrow. “that was last semester. like, a week in.”

“yeah.”

you peek up at him. his eyes are wide like he’s surprised. but there’s a hint of a smile on his face, a ghost of the humor he usually has.

so your head snaps up, and you frown. “are you laughing at me?”

peters lip twitches. “no, i mean—“ you step back from him. “i’m not laughing at you,” he swears, and then does just that.

you scowl, continuing to pull back.

“i’m not, really,” he shakes his head. “it’s just…”

“just what?”

peter looks up, praying to something that you don’t understand. you almost look with him. “i’ve spent the last six months just trying to get you to go out with me.” he says, finally.

you’re still frowning.

“honestly, i’m just a little shocked. i thought—“ he breaks off, wincing a bit. “well i assumed it would be obvious. that i was serious about this. us.”

“you—you’re like that with everyone.”

“i’m not the way i am with you around anyone else.”

you swallow. “really?”

“you make me actually insane,” he steps closer. “and that’s okay. i like it. but why would i spend all that time getting to know you, suffering from your abuse, or helping you out just to leave as soon as you started to reciprocate?”

“you like a challenge?”

“not that much.” his voice is loud, but his face is blown away. like you’ve shocked him enough to ruin any concern he had just minutes before.

“oh,” you whisper, feeling incredibly small.

he’s saying all of the right things, like he usually does, but you don’t have anything to say back. he still hasn’t managed to dislodge that fear from the pit in your chest.

peter must know this, the way he just knows things about you, because he grabs your hand, and leans down toward you. “i like you,” he says, so simply. a shrug to emphasize this point. like he’s already worked this thought out in his brain.

“i know you like me—“ you start, unprepared to lay yourself on the line with him, to care for him like he’s the only person in the world. even if you’ve already started

but peter stops you.

“i’m in love with you.” his voice breaks on the word.

just like your heart.

you stare at him, shocked, and bewildered, and lost in the whole idea of keeping him. coveting him like a prized possession.

peter is never serious. but he says this like it’s the only real thing in the world. like he believes it, wholeheartedly.

“okay?” peter whispers, like he’s repeating it. making sure you understand. you’re staring at him. “i love you.”

“you do?”

“more than i should,” he promises, smiling at the end.

“really?”

he laughs again and bends down to kiss you, his lips sweet and possessive. a signature at the bottom of the contract. when he pulls back, just slightly, he’s rolling his eyes. “i stalked outside your class so i could pretend to run into you.”

you frown. “that’s creepy. how’d you know what class i had?”

“you think i don’t know your schedule by now?”

“i—“ he interrupts you by kissing you again, hands wrapped around your face. “peter,” you whisper, when he breaks free.

“don’t avoid me, okay? i couldn’t think all week. i almost set myself on fire in the lab, because i thought every notification i got might’ve been you.”

you blink, looking away. “sorry.”

peter smiles, stepping back and taking the strap of your bag before you can protest. “you can make it up to me by buying me dinner.”

you scowl, looking back at his adoring face. “please.”

peter grabs your hand and begins to walk, and this time you don’t even mind.

“i also accept cash.”

“i kissed you. that’s worth, like, seven dinners. you’re lucky.”

he looks down at you, smirking once again. “damn right.”

*

[sugugori]

c’mere 

tasm!peter x reader 

summary: peter accidentally takes a picture of you with the flash on. 

warnings: fluff. 

a/n: i have no clue whats going on with my series at the moment so take this instead :)

*

Keep reading

[sugugori]

Tough men who get whiny and pliant while just making out. What started off as sweet kisses here and there, turns into something much more primal. Him pulling you closer, getting more and more desperate and needy, doesn’t know where to put his hands. Bucking his hips and panting because he’s already close from a little tongue. Pulling little pitchy “mhm”’s from them and whispering quiet pleases. He’s got that glassy, far away look in his eyes and his cheeks are flushed a pretty pink. Just a few kisses from you turns him into a virgin again. And if you keep kissing his neck like that, he might cum in his pants - he’s so sensitive

[sugugori]

you know that tweet that goes "my bf fucks me until I get shy around him again" i need yuuta to do that to me pls i'm begging he looks so good😭😭😭

𐑺 ˖ ࣪࿐ྂ TWO HALVES OF A WHOLE, OKKOTSU YŪTA

sometimes you swear you have two boyfriends, the one that loves you and the one that fucks you.

summary. fem reader. yandere yūta. jealousy. possessiveness. obsession. reader is oblivious but also enjoys it. threats. spitting. promise ring mention. aged up characters. marking. wc, 2k.

note. anime yūta debut FINALLY, thank you anon for this !! it just fuelled my brain to keep going TvT

you swear you have two boyfriends, you must.. because this yuuta— the one that’s fucking you now, rutting you into the mattress with such carnal desire because he didn’t like the way that dude who served you both your coffee this morning was looking at you, is obscenely different to the one that still blushes when you answer his i love you with a sweetened one of your own and a kiss.

“do you know him?” he’d asked as he took his seat across from you at the table, right after he’d chosen to pull out your own for you like the loving boyfriend he was. the perfect boyfriend. you want to ask who he’s talking about but you’d be an idiot not to know— you can basically feel the poor barista’s nerves from your table.

“he’s staring,” yuuta continues and you want to say that he’s staring as he holds his gaze, but you’re pretty sure he knows that already— the veins on his hands are prominent with how tightly he’s gripping the cup in his palms and you’re surprised it hasn’t smashed yet. it’s like the hostility is radiating off of him in waves despite the kindhearted smile he’s showing you.

“yuuta it’s fine,” you try to reason with him and it only makes him breathe out a soft chuckle before he’s taking a sip of his drink— the words seem to calm him, albeit temporarily as he shifts in his seat. “it’s customer service, he’s paid to be nice.” he offers the barista behind you another glance and then his eyes are back on you as he scratches cutely at the back of his neck.

“ah, i’m not worried.” yuuta’s tone is lighthearted, it’s sweet and soft in the way that you’re used to before both his hands are back on the table to clasp one of yours. his grip is a little too tight, but it’s nothing you’re not used to before his words taker a lower, deeper drawl. “because you’re all mine. right?”

two personalities wrapped up in one pretty boy, you think. but then your thoughts are cut off with the next languid roll of his hips as he deliberately slows his pace to a deep rock. you feel his fingers trace up your jaw before they’re pressing against your parted lips, prying them further open “open, baby.”

and you do, catching the glimmer of something twisted in his gaze at the way you listen so eagerly. your tongue swipes along his fingers before you watch a glob of spit drip slow from between his lips, making you moan when you feel the taste of him drench and ignite your taste buds.

“are you mine?” yuuta asks and the gentle, careful tone is such a contrast to the look in his eyes— it’s like a hunters gaze, rooting you in place, daring you to run— it’s like a promise that he’ll catch you even if you did.

“mhm, i’m yours, yuuta. please. only y-yours—ah.” his fingers press down on your tongue as he pushes them in a little more and you can feel the cool press of the promise ring on his finger. it’s one identical to yours. it’s the same one he’d gifted you six weeks into officially being your boyfriend after he’d assured you that time doesn’t matter, only your love for eachother does.

although if you asked him now, he still doesn’t think it’s enough to show the world you’re his. even though he’d prefer to keep you locked away with only him forever. you think it’s cute when he jokes like that.

it’s so twisted, maybe a little worrying for anyone else that you can’t help but like when yuuta gets like this. the way it makes you nervous again, butterflies in your gut like it’s the first time he’s been above you and suddenly you feel even warmer to touch. you feel shy despite the way he’s had you like this more times than you can count.

it’s lewd, animalistic but then you’ll get a peek of the other part of him when the next heavy rock of his hips is accompanied with a sweet, gentle kiss smeared across your forehead with his next breath as he pulls back his fingers from your mouth, weaving them with yours instead and squeezing tight.

“h-how, how does it feel?” yuuta’s words tremble with his next thrust as your pussy squeezes around him and your lips part to moan at the sweet question, body clenching and eyes fluttering closed as he grinds into your pussy. he’s rutting you into the mattress like a wild fucking animal before his blown gaze is scanning over you, drinking you up with a satisfied, adoring look.

“good, yuu~ s-so good!” he’s so pretty, fucking you so well you can barely find your words and it’s filthy the way he knows where to press, where to palm and kiss until you’re arching into him— like he’s studied the very way you play with your own pussy up close. like he’d torn you apart and put you back together himself.

he’s fucking you into a puddle of desire and need for only him.

you’re vaguely aware, although barely over the sounds of your own weak whimpers and long, needy moans, that he’s whispering under his breath, panting and growling softly.

“he probably wishes he could see you like this,” another slow rock of yuuta’s hips and he deliberately presses against that saccharine, sweet spot inside of your walls, making your thighs squeeze tight around his hips as he breathes deep.

“you’re pretty, so pretty,” you can’t help the physical reaction you have to his words, cunt clutching tight and your hips thrusting up to meet his own movements. you both gasp and his pace stutters but he continues. “but you’re mine, all of you.. it’s mine.” his words go buried in your skin— in your walls when they’re accompanied by a particularly sharp thrust. it’s like his love fills and swells within you in turn, until your lungs are tight, as if you can’t quite get enough air with each breath.

“i know, yuu~ i love you so much,” yuuta’s kisses smear over your cheek, hot breaths panting against your skin as he takes a pace that has your tits jolting with every clap of his hips into yours.

“s-say it again.” you hear him gulp on his next words and your pussy squeezes even tighter, “i need to know you mean it.” the soft slap of your pussy meets his pelvis and it makes your insides curl and ache, the feeling of his balls smacking your ass leaving you breathless with every connection.

“i love you,”

“show me.” you’re more than eager to give him when he asks you like that, hissed through clenched teeth and you whine long and wordless for him as bliss washes over you. you feel him tremble over you as you do, smearing messy kisses and spit over your cheek and neck— mumbling praises and i love yous against your jaw and lips as he looks at you.

you’re vaguely aware of how broken and weak your moans sound, but the rush in your head while you cum is a little too loud and delightful for you to really care about anything else except the man who made you feel exactly that. your thighs struggle to close, instinctively, as you shy away from the pleasure but yuuta shifts on purpose to keep them spread, his fingers withdrawing to rub softly through the swollen petals of your pussy so he can prolong your pliant state.

“i knew i didnt have anything to worry about,”

it doesn’t take long for him to follow after you. his cock flexes, thickening in a way that feels as if it grows with each greedy coax of your twitching cunt, until he pauses, followed by a breathier croon of your name as he spills hot inside you.

yuuta’s chest presses against yours, lips suckling into the crook of your neck, nails dragging gently down your hips as he presses his load into you until you whimper. you twitch and he uses the movement to hug you closer, stilling inside of you when he’s got his face buried into your shoulder and you both catch your breath.

you lie there for a long time, or so it feels until he’s leaving you quickly to grab you some water and a warm cloth. he returns in what feels like seconds, but now that you’re orgasm has finally worn off, you can barely look at him.

you’re not sure if it’s because of how hard and good he’s just made you cum or the pleasure he’d pulled from you so easily, leaving you in bite marks and bruises. but you feel so nervous suddenly as you twist nervously at the promise ring on your finger.

“are you okay?” yuuta asks quickly, a soft tone to his voice as the mattress dips when he sits next to you. he leans forward when he does, smearing a kiss against your cheek before he’s handing you the cool glass of water, which you take with shaking hands.

hes gorgeous, dark hair mused through the day from his hands gliding through it and now yours, falling forward around his face from being swept back to frame his flushed features now.

you meet his gaze and you’d think it burned you as you shy away, feeling heat creep to your cheeks when his fingers stroke gently at your arm. “i’m sorry, did i hurt you?” there’s a soft nervousness to his eyes despite his usual haunting gaze. he bites on his lower lip as he looks over you.

“ah.. sorry.” you try to keep your own bashfulness aside as you take a sip of water, letting it cool the scratchiness in your throat as you swallow.

“no, it’s..” he looks at you so intently, but there was always something in his gaze that made you feel cold despite the sweat across your body. but still you grin, before petting your hand across his.

“it’s cute seeing you all protective, that’s all.”

“is it weird?”

“no! not at all, it’s hot—“

“oh, ah— thanks.” he nods, a little shy and back to his kindhearted, sweet demeanour when you share a kiss, sighing with the content press of your bodies.

“did you know him?” yuuta kisses your forehead despite the way he presses the topic again. “i can find you another cafe if you want,” he breathes, another kiss to your skin following. he curls his arm around you as he looks over you and it’s with so much adoration that it makes your toes curl in the same way your body had a few minutes ago.

“maybe he’s new, i’ve never seen him. i like that cafe though.” you shrug, not seeing any real issue with it. but his dark eyes flash towards you and you giggle when he suddenly presses you down against the bed to kiss you passionately.

“i just don’t want anyone making you uncomfortable, i’ll kill them.” yuuta kisses you hungrily, making you sigh as you melt beneath him— you’re like gum, bending to his will with every flick of his tongue.

“i know, yuuta. you always joke about that. i still want to keep going to that cafe though,” his hand cups your cheek and you smile. he leans in to kiss you firmly with his next breath.

“we can go together. i don’t think we’ll see him again anyway.”

“what, why not?”

“because i want you to be happy.” your chest jumps when yuuta’s words urge you to curl closer— making something warm bloom in your chest at the love he makes you feel. you can feel him smile into the next kiss he smears along your temple, and he makes sure the kiss after is against the promise ring on your finger when he gives you another smile.

it’s hours later when yuuta leaves you, kissing your forehead before he’s slinging his katana over his shoulder and leaving you asleep. he’ll make it home before you realise he’s gone. the shift at the cafe is just finishing, and this won’t take long.

maybe his two personalities aren’t as far apart as he let you believe.

© gojoath. do not copy, repost, modify or translate my works. please refrain from copying my layouts / themes.

[sugugori]

Helluu, congrats!!!

I would like to request STAR TRIPPING, blurbs— “i don’t have time for distractions” and (if it’s okay to choose two prompts, if not you can choose the one you want to write:)) “you look so pretty right now” with tasm!pete<3

another old 4k celly request!! sorry this is so late angel. I went with the second prompt, hope this is okay!

tasm!peter parker x gn!reader

Peter’s bleeding out on your bed. Again.

You can’t say you’re very surprised.

“Pete, would you please just stay still? I cant focus when you keep touching me like that.”

Peter isn’t a very good patient. At least not when you’re nursing him. He wants to touch you and look at your face and basically find any way to distract you from the task at hand. Which just so happens to be patching him up.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling his hands away from where they’d been resting in your shoulders, his thumbs tracing your collarbones through your shirt. His shirt, really. But who’s paying attention to that?

You huff. He doesn’t sound very sorry at all. He sounds like he’s smiling. You look up from where your eyes had been trained on his bruised and bloodied chest and find you’re right. He’s smirking.

You glare. Peter balks.

“What?” He says, dripping in fake innocence. “I just— you look so pretty right now.” His eyes go all melty and soft and so does his voice. He reaches up with one hand to cup your burning cheek. “I can’t help it, dove.”

You groan. He’s lovely. And he’s a total menace. You hate him, you swear.

“I can’t believe you,” you say, nudging his hand away with your cheek. “I just got out of bed. I look so gross.”

“You don’t,” Peter says, sounding way more offended than he needs to be. His hand finds your waist and you can feel it’s warmth through the soft fabric of your (his) t-shirt. You very secretly wish he’d dip his hand under the hem like he always does. “You’re beautiful.”

You drop the cloth you’re dabbing his wounds with and climb out of his lap with a huff.

“Y/N—!”

“I’m going back to bed,” you say grumpily, walking away without looking back.

Despite his wounds, Peter catches up with you within an instant, promising to keep his hands to himself until you’re finished cleaning him up. He doesn’t keep his promise. You find you don’t mind as much as you should.

[sugugori]

⌗︙・jealous gojo cumming in your panties ⸜⸜・

gojo eyes you as you pounce around the room, calling with your middle school classmate. it's a good thing to finally get in contact with someone you haven't seen for a decade. although, judging by gojo's expression, he's not happy at all.

"bye, sugar." you say, hanging up the phone. a small giggle of excitement leave your mouth, making gojo raise an eyebrow at you.

"you call him sugar now?" gojo asks from the door, making you jump. of course he was listening behind door.

"it was his nickname in middle school. we have meeting in 10." gojo grits his teeth. he can't believe you. you were always the ideal girlfriend, obedient even, and now you're acting like a slut.

"come here, sweetheart." he tells you, his finger doing come here notion. you giggle at him. you step closer to him, swinging your arms around his neck.

"i have to get ready." you whine, placing a kiss to his cheek. he grips your chin to crash his lips against yours. he's hungry for your mouth, his tongue swiping over your lips to get permission to enter your mouth. you try to pull away, you're already running late, but he's holding you tight in his arms.

you yelp when he pushes your pants down along with your underwear. a part of you is a little annoyed because you seriously don't have time for this right now. he pulls his cock out of his pants, jerking it right above your panties.

he's panting in your mouth and you feel jealous that he's the only one receiving pleasure. as if he could read your mind, gojo pushes his cock into your panties. his cock brushes against your clit as he thrusts in your panties. the way you're grinding on his cock feels heavenly for both of you, but he doesn't plan on making you cum right now.

gojo is still pissed at you and he's gonna show the guy that you're his. he pushes his cock inside your panties harder, chasing his orgasm. he can feel the heat of your pussy on his cock and it's temping to just push inside, but he has to remind himself that this is a punishment.

he groans, feeling the orgasm coming. his body tenses as white ropes of his cum fill your panties. he always cums a lot but this time, it's more than usually. you have no time to react before gojo pulls the panties on. you cringe at the wet feeling bit he shushes you with a kiss.

"you're free to go now, love. have a good time."

[sugugori]

your boyfriend sleeps on the couch after an argument you both had earlier that day. after calming your nerves and taking time for yourself, you realise that you might have been a bit too harsh on him.

☀︎｜tags. older bf!gojo satoru x female reader. fluff / angst / hurt + comfort. age gap (reader early 20’s & satoru early 30’s). nicknames used; ‘(little) baby’. he’s honestly just the perfect combination of gentle and teasing. subtle mentions of size difference.

satoru shifts on the couch whilst letting out an inaudible yawn. he was tired after an entire day at work and finally had the chance to settle down in the comfort of his apartment.

though, he couldn’t really relax just yet. the reason why being the undeniable tension hanging in the air. he was in fact home, but it didn’t feel like it. not when you were missing.

you had holed yourself up in the master bedroom after an earlier argument the two of you had. it wasn’t a big fight — just a little squabble between lovers. satoru didn’t rush after you when you had decided to walk away midst argument. you clearly weren’t in the right headspace to properly articulate nor communicate your feelings.

he figured that you just needed some time alone and thus decided to leave you be. he didn’t want to risk losing you by annoying you any further.

satoru scrolls on his phone out of boredom. the light radiating off the screen starts to bother his already sensitive eyes. with a sigh, he shuts off the device and puts it down on the coffee table.

it was dead silent in the apartment that was usually filled with your lively chatter. the sorcerer wants nothing more than to cuddle up with you under the covers and fall asleep. but, you needed space and he wasn’t going to disturb you.

he drapes an arm over his eyes and pulls the thin blanket over his chest. his breaths were steady and his thoughts were surprisingly calm. satoru almost drifts off to sleep, however his body lightly jolts awake once he hears the creaking of a door.

careful footsteps echo throughout the hallway and stop right at the doorstep of the living room.

satoru moves his arm to the side so his vision wouldn’t be obstructed. his eyes land on the figure standing at the doorframe — one he could recognise instantly.

it was you, standing there with your head held low and your fingers curled around the hem of your nightgown. you didn’t take another step forwards and just lingered in your spot for a few seconds without saying anything.

“hey, baby.” satoru breaks the silence. his voice was as soft as it could be, not an ounce of annoyance or frustration in it. even if he had all the reason to be upset according to you.

you remember just how childish you acted earlier; you had lost all rationality, shouted at your boyfriend out of frustration and ran off mid sentence instead of properly addressing the issue at hand. the way you handled that situation was wrong and immature.

in contrast to your immature behaviour, satoru had stayed calm and collected throughout the entirety of your argument. he hadn’t raised his voice at you even once nor did he blame you for anything. you felt bad for acting like a bratty kid who didn’t get her way.

you eventually move towards the couch, still not making eye contact with your boyfriend. he sits up and simply watches you with a raised eyebrow—curious as to what you were about to do.

you knew you had to apologise for your behaviour, but what you needed first was his validation. you wordlessly climb onto the couch and under the blanket satoru was using.

your arms wrap around his torso and you hug him tightly to your body, face buried in his shirt to cover your embarrassed and remorseful expression.

satoru’s eyes widen a bit at the sudden show of affection, though he wasn’t complaining. he reciprocates the gesture and nuzzles his cheek against the top of your head.

“my little baby.” he chuckles, hands rubbing your back in attempt to reassure you that everything was and will be fine, “i’m happy you decided to come back to me — thank you.”

again. that tender tone satoru uses only with you and for you. the guilt from earlier hits you like a truck and your eyes well up with tears before you could stop the process.

“sorry,” your voice cracks once you finally muster out an apology. the warmth engulfing your cold body was enough to make you sob in his comforting embrace. satoru sighs and closes his eyes. he rests his chin on top of your head whilst holding you like his life depended on it.

no words were exchanged between you two for a good minute. satoru silently encourages you to cry it out and so you do. after calming down, you sniffle and pull your head away from his chest. your eyes were watery and a bit red.

the pad of his thumb sweeps the stray tears away from your cheeks, his touch precise and careful. he smiles softly at the sight of his teary-eyed girlfriend. you were so adorable and precious to him. even when you looked like a mess — a pretty mess.

“i just..” you start off, small hiccups interrupting your sentence, “i wanted to apologise for acting so childish. i shouldn’t have said nor did any of those hurtful things. i apologise for that as well.”

your lover nods along to your words. he hums in delight and kisses your forehead, his lips lingering there for longer than intended, “don’t worry, baby. i understand. thank you for apologising, though.”

you mutter a small ‘of course’ in-between sniffles. that was all the reassurance you had needed to hear from your boyfriend. though, you still felt bad and the guilt of your immature actions seemed to linger in the back of your mind.

you lay your head back on satoru’s chest and listen to his heartbeat — hoping that the constant sound would drown out any other thoughts. your lover lays on his back and pulls you down on top of him. his hands rub your sides, slender fingers toying with the silky material of your nightgown.

“i’m sorry for being immature sometimes. i’m sure it must be troubling to deal with.” you whisper as you enjoy the feeling of being back in satoru’s arms.

he grins and shakes his head in response. he loves every side of yours — even your immature one. if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be here right now. he truly loves all of you.

the older man places another soft kiss on top of your head and closes his eyes afterwards, “heh, i’d be lying if i said that you trying to act all tough earlier wasn’t cute.”

satoru snickers at the memory. he remembers how you pointed that little finger of yours in front of his face and how you tried to subtly stand on the tips of your toes so you could look him in the eyes properly. your attempts at looking intimidating were quite endearing.

it’s not like he was invalidating your feelings with that comment — he was genuinely trying to lighten your mood. and it wasn’t like it didn’t work.

“whatever.” you huff, playfully swatting his biceps and gaining an over exaggerated ‘ow!’ in response. you’re glad that things have gone back to normal between you two. if the situation had continued for any longer, you’d have lost your mind.

you aren’t the only one who is extremely relieved. satoru is beaming with joy because he gets to hold and talk to you again. that small period of silence between the both of you felt like an eternity to him.

no matter how many times you have those little arguments, satoru will still love you all the same.

[sugugori]

[sugugori]

inhibitions. || tasm!peter parker x f!reader.

Having high sex with Peter Parker has fast become one of your favourite past-times.

Based on this ask.

Explicit Sexual Content. Drabble. Recreational Drug Use.

WARNINGS: 18+ ONLY. Explicit Sexual Content. Cannabis Use. Vaginal Sex. Use of Pet Names. Not Beta-Read. Minorly Edited.

MASTERLIST || TAGLIST

Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!

Keep reading

[sugugori]

ok but satoru would actually know you were pregnant before you did. he wakes up one morning and sees the new cursed energy flowing off you 🥺👉👈

✦°. THERE IS NO WAY. - gojo satoru

there are a lot of things satoru sees with his six eyes.

he sees the soul in all its glory, pure and raw; a kaleidoscope of emotions and thoughts all interlaced to make up a person's nature. he sees, documents, the energy of all the people he holds dear to better keep them safe, to recognize them at a glance.

satoru knows you arguably better than he knows himself. he's well acquainted with every crevice of your body and knows your cursed energy like the back of his hand. you're the other half of his soul and he'd be damned if he didn't treat you that way.

he's confident that he knows everything about you, but when he wakes on a sunday morning and he picks up on something that is neither you or him, he can't believe his eyes.

there's a slight tremor in his hands as he sweeps the hair out of your face, watching in silent awe as you snuggle deeper into his embrace.

there's a new kind of energy radiating from you, akin to a gentle brush stroke capable of painting a million colours onto a blank canvas. it's smooth and slow like the waves, somehow a perfect mix of you and him.

the recognition kicks any remaining tiredness out of his system with ease. he sits up, jaw slackening. he's looking over you meticulously, double and triple checking that he's seeing this correctly.

fuck sleeping, honestly, because satoru is already wide awake, cerulean coloured irises already as round as dinner plates as he stares down at you.

his six eyes are not seeing things wrong. there are not one but two sources of cursed energy coming from you, who is only a single person.

the cogs turn at impressive speed inside his head, a beaming smile etching onto his porcelain-like face as the pieces begin to fit together.

pregnant.

the word makes him feel all giddy inside. the mere thought of becoming a father gets his heart pumping at laughable speeds.

you, him, and now a baby. a real, breathing, living child who is sure to be the perfect balance of you and him.

(he hopes the baby has your face and eyes. he doesn't want the burden of his god-like ability to interfere with the lives of any of his children.)

satoru shakes you from your slumber with vigour he shouldn't have in the early hours of the morning, half trembling with badly restrained excitement.

you're awake within seconds, a plethora of curses spilling from your lips as your slumber is rudely interrupted.

"satoru," you say threatningly, but it does nothing to dent your boyfriend's ridiculously large smile, "you better have a good reason for waking me up," you turn to look at the clock. "it's seven in the fucking morning."

little do you know, satoru can't even hear you. he's tuning everything out, focusing on nothing but how beautiful you look with the white sheets draped elegantly over your form, golden rays of light seeping into your already glowing figure as you press your face into the pillow with a groan.

"you're pregnant." satoru blurts, unable to keep it to himself for any longer. (it had been approximately 2 minutes).

he snorts at the way you look up at him, eyebrow raised skeptically. you hold his gaze for what feels like forever, searching for any truth in his statement. the statement that you, of course, did not believe.

"oh yeah?" satoru's heart thumps widely in his chest as the sound of your laughter infiltrates his ears. "how do you know?"

he can tell from your tone of voice that you don't buy it. typical.

satoru grins lazily, throwing his form on top of you and affectionately nosing your cheek. you make no move to stop him, you're far too tired.

(you subconsciously take note of the way his weight doesn't crush you as much as it usually does. he seems to be holding back for some reason.)

"i can see it!" he exclaims gleefully. there's so much sincerity in his manner that you almost think he's not fucking with you.

"righhhhhtttt." you say as you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "because you have x-ray vision or something, huh?"

in a way, he did actually have x-ray vision. when it came to cursed energy at least.

"nah, i can just see our kids cursed energy on you, babe," he speaks, hand coming to rest on your stomach.

there's something in the way that his smile softens and his shoulders relax as he gently massages your stomach that leads you to believe him.

"are you for real?" you ask breathlessly. it still isn't sinking in.

"yes ma'am." satoru confirms with a blinding grin.

he cackles at your awestruck face. his arms encircle your waist, pulling you ever closer so he can feel the comforting beat of your heart.

"i'm really happy, baby- ow!" satoru yelps as you kick him in the shin, leaping up from the bed with the widest grin he's ever seen.

"what the fuck are we here for, then? let's go ask shoko to do a scan or whatever and check everything's okay!"

he's not sure it's because you're his lover or something else entirely, but your enthusiasm rubs off on him and he springs to his feet, following you to the bathroom.

satoru doesn't even need to ask if you're happy, he can tell from the kiss full of passion, love and silent thanks you give him in the bathroom that you're as overjoyed as he is.

BONUS:

"what kind of devil spawn did you birth, babe?" satoru whines, mushed carrot smeared across his face.

you laugh, picking your son up from his highchair. the baby babbles happily, nuzzling his messy white hair into the crook of your neck.

"i think he's adorable," you retort sweetly as you carefully stroke your son's back.

"well you would, ‘cause he likes you more!” your husband complains, "all i get is a slap in the face and baby food down my shirt!"

"that's the way he shows love, honey."

"no one sane shows love like that!"

taggin: @sad-darksoul