Appetizer - Tumblr Posts
SEX WITH JORDAN IS TWO VERY DIFFERENT EXPERIENCES.
Solely depending on which form they shift into during or before.
When they're in their female form, they’re a top with a touch of submission, like the minute you whisper in their ear what you want to do to them, they’re switching to that submissive side.
They’re letting you climb on top of them, letting you take complete control. Letting you kiss down their body, smiling down at you when your teeth bite into the flesh of their tits. Your tongue smoothing over the mark you’ve just made.
Sucking on the skin, knowing they’ll have to walk around for weeks with your mark on them. They'll complain about it, but you catch them smiling at in the mirror when they’re getting dressed.
Letting you make them come against your mouth twice before they can’t stand it anymore and they’re groaning, pulling you up by the cheeks to kiss you with passion, teeth, and tongue. Moaning at their own taste as they push your back into the mattress.
The roles quickly switched.
Jordan never passes up the chance to be in complete control. To have their fingers between your thighs, watching the way your body arches and rolls to the pleasure they’re giving you as their thumb rubs your clit and their fingers fuck your pussy, deep, and rhythm with the buck of your hips. Their mouth on your neck, moving across your chest to close their lips around your nipple.
They feel almost powerful with the knowledge—with seeing how they can make you feel—that they can bring out those weak-pleasure-fueled noises from you, that if they curl their fingers, you’ll be clinging to them, begging and pleading, breathing into their mouth like it’s your last one, like if they don’t let you come, you’ll go insane. Like you’re their saint, and you only need absolution from them.
And when they have their cunt pressed to yours, palm pressed under your chin, against your neck, to keep your eyes on them, their words come out heavy and heated, “it’s only me, right? Only I can make you feel like this? Can make you come this hard?”, your answer wrapped around a pretty moan, fingers digging into their hips to press them harder against you—they feel invincible.
But when they’re in their male form, it’s different. They’re different. They lose that dominant edge and shift into something more lenient. Something akin to a service top, with submission hanging at the cusp.
They’ll still lace their fingers with yours and press them into the mattress, making you feel like they’re the ones in control. Like they could do whatever they want to your body and know you’d love it and ask for more.
But deep down, you both know you’re the one in control.
You’re the one that’s driving them completely insane. That they want to please. Make come over and over until your thighs are wet and sticky, and they lap it up with their tongue. Use the head of their cock to gather the slick at your entrance and rub it against your clit. Make you come one more time just by using the tip of their cock.
Your begs for them to stick it in, “please, Jordan, please,” one of the prettiest things they’ve heard.
Making them smile against your lips as they squeeze your chin between your thumb and pointer to bring your mouth up to theirs.
“Anything for you,” they say against your open mouth as they slip their cock into your heat. The slow stretch makes your nails dig into the side of their arm.
The thrusts and speed of their hips all dependent on what you want. What you moan and whimper into their skin, mouth. How your body moves against there’s, underneath it, with it. How your pussy squeezes them.
“Come for me, one more time, I promise,” the wet squelch of their cock fucking you matched with the fingers drawing circles against your clit undoing you.
And when you switch positions, when you take the reigns and wrap your lips around the tip of their cock, letting your tongue lap up your own come, that’s when that submissive side comes out.
The whimpers heaved out of Jordan’s lungs, the push of their hips off the bed, driving their cock deeper into your throat. Their brows pinched together, eyes glossy, needy. Fingers on your cheek, your head, in the bed sheets.
It’s fucking beautiful.
They’re fucking beautiful.
“Let me fuck your throat. Can I–fuck–can I fuck your throat, baby?”
“Please.”
“Yes, please.”
Their fingers dig into the side of your skull, the closer they are to coming. But even that’s soft. The thrusts fucking up into your mouth are hurried, fast, and hard, but still softer than they could be. Still gentle in that careful way of Jordan wanting you to enjoy this just as much as they are.
When they come down your throat, they watch you swallow. Their eyes watching your throat move, lips twitching in a soft smile. A hand cupping the back of your neck to bring you against their chest to lay. A finger under your chin to lift your head far enough for them to lean down and kiss you.
hellooo!! im not sure if your requests are open so feel free to ignore this but i was wondering if you could write for tasm!peter where the reader just got her wisdom teeth removed and she’s all loopy on anesthetics and forgets peter is her boyfriend? i saw this video where this girl got her wisdom teeth pulled and forgot she was dating her boyfriend and fell in love with him all over again😭😭
https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZPR7sGQo5/
thank you for your request! ♡ fem, 1k
"Here she is," the nurse says gently, walking you out with his arm behind your back. "Alright, say hi to Peter."
"Hi, Peter," you mumble, eyes on the floor.
Peter grins at you, worry warm at the back of his throat. "Hey. Is that everything?" he asks, nodding at the nurses paper bag of aftercare.
"Everything you'll need." The nurse helps Peter take over, hoisting your arm over his shoulders before stepping away. "Alright, feel better, okay? And don't hesitate to call if something comes up. We're here to look after you."
You seem appreciative in your fog, but it's hard to tell. Peter curls his arm around your hip and gives it a soft rub as he leads you to the stairs. Whoever devised the floor plan here had murder on their mind —the second floor is completely inaccessible. Luckily, Peter has a lot of strength at his disposal.
You can feel it. "Woh, you're strong," you murmur.
"You know that already." His grip on you tightens, pretty much carrying you down the tight staircase.
"Do I?" you ask. You make a sound like you're hurting, a squeak.
"I'd hope so." At the end of the staircase, he sits you down, worried you're not feeling well. "You okay? I can princess carry you if you need me to."
You look at him with wide eyes. He turns to check there's no one standing behind him, but you're really looking at him. "What?" he asks, touching your knee, imploring. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"You're Peter?" you ask.
Ah, the amnesiac effect of anaesthetic. His touch turns comforting, stroking your thigh with as much care as he can drive into his palm alone. "That's me. Hey, if you're forgetting me, does that mean you're not mad at me for last Friday anymore? 'Cos I know you said you forgive me but I can tell it still pisses you off–"
Your eyes fall to his hand. "Why would I be mad at you?" you ask.
"I finished the milk and put the carton back in the fridge, even though I promised I'd stop doing it. You see the jug and think there's milk left. We were gonna have macaroni and cheese..." He nudges your fingers with his. "Are you okay? You don't look like yourself."
"What do I usually look like?"
"Not so, you know. Daunted."
"You're really handsome," you whisper, refusing to meet his eye.
"Oh, you think so?"
You nod like your head is too heavy. You're embarrassed, you sweetheart, oh my god Peter could cry into your lap.
"Let's get you to the car, baby."
"Where are we going?" The gauze gives you the world's most adorable lisp, and it turns your gasp into a hum as Peter stands you up.
"Home."
"Together?"
"Yeah, we live together. It's a nice place, and you're a great decorator, you know? It's cozy."
"Thank you," you say shyly.
You're not not shy with him, but it's been a long time since you got so quiet over a practically innocuous comment. He wants to see how you'll react to real compliments, over the top stuff that he one hundred percent means. It's a little mean, but when will you ever be like this again?
He helps you out past the desk and onto the street to your car where it's parked a half a block down. "Don't worry about all this, okay? I'm gonna take such good care of you, sweetheart. There's an ice pack and a brand new comforter with your name on it waiting at home." Peter smiles at your starry eyes as they flash to his, amazed at his simple plans. "How does that sound, beautiful? Is there anything you want before we head home? Anything that would make you feel better?"
"You're gonna take care of me?" you ask breathlessly.
"That's my job. That's my number one boyfriend duty."
"You're my boyfriend?"
"I am!" he says happily, laughing as he speaks. "For a while. I've been trying to take things further but you're always really shy about getting married–"
"You want to get married? To me?"
Peter presses a soft kiss to your cheek. "You're the only person I'd ever want to get married to. We already picked the flowers–"
"We did?"
He laughs again, all your questions. He loves regular you but loopy you is especially endearing. "Last time I got super drunk, yeah. You never let me forget it."
"So you love me?" you ask, stopping short.
"I love you so much," he says immediately, hugging you into his side. He dots another kiss against the top of your head. "You should remember that even if you don't remember me."
"I love you," you say quietly.
Peter doesn't know if that's your memory returning, or if you've fallen in love with him in the last fifteen minutes. He could easily fall in love with you that quickly, and yet he's still amazed at your confession.
"That's good. That's great. Thank you, sweetheart," he says, desperate to hold your face in his hands but weary of causing you future pain. "There's your car," —he points, lowering his head to yours to make sure you can see it, hand now protectively held between your shoulder blades— "let's go home now. Yeah?"
You start walking again at his requests. He can pretty much see the steam rising off of your face, giddy with happiness at these revelations. You're together, you're in love, and you think he's handsome. He wonders what you'll have to say about his biceps in this state of delirium; you go crazy for his arms sober.
Which reminds him.
"I totally have another secret to tell you," he says, unlocking the car as you approach and helping you into the passenger seat.
"What is it?" you ask.
Peter closes you in and skirts around the door, climbing into the driver's seat. He's glad that New York is as ridiculously loud as ever, because not even the closed doors or your sodden gauze can smother the way you shriek.
"My boyfriend is Spider-Man?!"
Hi hun! I just love love love your pieces <3
As for Carmy prompts - could we have some hurt to comfort when Carmen doesn't show up for a date? It's ok if you dont wanna do it or i requested incorrectly, but if you do, i cant wait to read!!!!! Thank you so much mwah mwah mwah
I’m not thaaaaaat sure how I feel about this and it’s so long but your request was so sweet I had to!!! Ily <3333
wc:1.1k
There’s so fucking much in his ear. Fak’s screaming whatever bullshit he’s sure will help absolutely nothing, Richie’s harassing Sydney and Tina’s trying to keep them all in line and will of that goddamn chaos, he shouldn’t be able to make out anything.
Prepping this whole thing, the opening, Richie biting his head off for fucking sending him to the best kitchen in the city- it’s all a bit fucking much.
He barely hears the door open (she has a key, because of course she does) and he doesn’t even look over his shoulder as he calls out her name.
“Hey, baby,” he yells back towards the entrance. It feels good, chopping the vegetables. It’s actually one of her favorite dishes that he’s making, and something inside him preens that he gets to feed her tonight. Everything feels illustrious under her gaze. He remembers the first time he’d cooked for her, how her watchful gaze felt a bit like sunlight; equal parts burning and doused in light.
She’d said she liked his hands, then. Said he looked pretty with a knife and a cutting board. “Will you try this sauce for me?”
He hears her heels click, the soft thud of her purse landing on the couch. It’s a slow saunter she does to him, but he’s razor focused- what does it need, garlic? Oregano?
It only breaks when he sees her. And she looks gorgeous. Wearing a black dress with a cowl neck, shimmery eyeshadow that catches and dances in the low light of the kitchen, a crimson lipstick neatly applied to her beautiful pout.
She smells like vanilla, and Carmen has the privilege of knowing what real, rich, Madagascar vanilla smells like. He’d loved the scent so much that he’d bought her a perfume made from it, and there’s a warmth blooming in his chest when he realizes that she’s wearing it.
Wordlessly, she opens her mouth and leans forward to try the sauce covered wooden spoon he’d raised to her lips.
Even when she’s in front of him, he can’t believe she’s someone he knows. That she’s wasting her time with someone like him.
“Jesus Christ you look beautiful,” he says without thinking, and he kisses her quick. It’s true. She’s a vision, plucked out of an old movie shot on grainy film, warm to the touch film.
He abandons the spoon and the sauce without much fanfare, a rough, calloused hand meeting her soft warm cheek.
“Thanks, Carmen.” she says, but her doe-eyes deny the joy she typically exudes in his presence. It’s his proudest achievement, how she glows around him. She’s tight lipped, smile betraying her words.
“What’s wrong? Is it the sauce? I know it’s a mess in here, I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d see it-“
“No! No, seriously, it’s okay, honey.” She tries to insist but it really doesn’t work. He moves the pot off the burner and twists himself completely to face her, placing a gentle hand at the small of her back, pulling her closer to him. He tries not to let it sting, how she stiffens for a moment before softening again.
“What happened?” He asks again.
“It’s the first,” she says, a rueful grin on her pretty lips, before gesturing down at her outfit, and oh.
The dinner. The fucking dinner that he’d promised her. His sweet girl, who waited up every night, who dutifully tasted every recipe, who soothed him on nights where nightmares stole his sleep-
“Fuck,” he says, more to himself than her, but god, he can’t stop looking at her, “Fuck! God, I’m such an asshole, I’m so sorry-“ he insists, suddenly so grateful that she’s letting him touch her, even more aware of every point of contact with the sudden fear that it could escape in a moment’s notice.
“Y’know, Carm, if you could’ve just told me that would’ve been one thing? But I left the reservation, and this was the one night we both had off!”
“I know, baby, fuck, I forgot-“
She backs away from him, and there’s a sick feeling in his stomach. Sitting on the chair he keeps by the stove (he put it there for her, because she loved watching him) she pinches the bridge of her nose.
“It’s just not fair, Carm. To either of us. If you don’t have time for this-“
“I have time for this! I have time. Don’t say things like that.”
“Carmy, I’m not trying to hurt you. You know that’s the last thing I want.”
And it is. It’s the last thing she wants, and Carmen fucking knows it. Knows that three months in he’s supposed to have brought her flowers and taken her out and done more than cook for her and spend hours in his shitty apartment, and lately she’s been asking if he has time for being in a relationship.
And maybe he doesn’t, but fuck it if he doesn’t feel like he can breathe around her. This was the point of the dinner- take her out, be a boyfriend. Have her wait a little while on him. Show her he’s worth it.
Instead he fucking missed it, stayed home and made sauce no one would even eat.
“I’m sorry,” he says, grabbing her hand and lacing it through his own. It always shocks him, how it fits his own. “Okay? I’m so, so fuckin’ sorry. Tell me what I can do. Tell me, cos I’ll do just about fuckin’ anything to get you to stop saying shit like that.”
Her voice comes out small.
“I was alone, Carm. They kept trying to take my order and you weren’t there, and eventually I had to leave.“
She looks up at him, eyes sparkling and kind and Carmen. She looks beautiful, and if he wasn’t with her, he’d see her in the street and hate whatever fuck was lucky enough to be who she got dressed up for.
“I am so, so sorry. It’s just with the stove, and Fak, and Richie fucking calling me to bitch me out every thirty seconds,” she reaches her delicate fingers to brush his cheek with concern, “I should’ve remembered. It’s just about the only thing this week worth remembering. And you look…stunning, I should’ve been there. I should’ve. Please.”
Her expression softens and he loves the sight of her, warm and kind and lovely in both form and temperance. She’s so patient with him, responds with kindness- a gift.
She brushes her soft lips on his cheek and he tries to savor the sensation, note how warm and wonderful it is to have her form pressed against his, how her arms knot themselves around his waist.
“I know you’re stressed, babe,” she murmurs against his cheek, eyes shut, “tell you what. Why don’t you make me something better than what that place could’ve, huh?”
After he kisses her for so long that excess is no longer the right terminology, he makes her the best pasta she’s ever had in her goddamn life.
It’s better this way, anyway. She’s gorgeous in a way that’s just his to look at tonight.
double vision in a rose blush -s.r.
a/n: first fic in like a year and my first spencer fic! please let me know what you think!
summary: she is the best part of his days, his life, these days, really. the only problem is she never touches him. s/o to @bitesizedgremlin for writing the most adorable touch starved spence fic that got me 🥰
wc: 1.6k
He loves looking at her.
It feels hedonistic, like drinking a too-expensive wine. Looking at her brings a warmth that spreads all throughout him, like threaded gold embedded in her movements. It’s a lovely kind of ache, how she can bring the most open, the most raw parts of him to the surface. She is captivating, the way she laughs, the way she moves, the slightest intonation of affection she offers him in her tone.
Tonight, she sits across from him at the team’s favorite bar. She’s wearing a deep emerald green top, the kind of thing that makes her look like something out of a dream.
It’s not like it shows how much he likes her. He hopes it doesn’t.
Sure, people tease them. She’s a consultant with their teams, one with a desk right next to his one. He initially thought he’d hate the company, but even on their first meeting, she was relentlessly kind. She had sat next to him, wearing a beautiful periwinkle sweater, and somehow he was talking for far too long about how the original blue pigments were sometimes made from toxic materials and how much modern effort it took to make a sweater that color.
He’d felt a familiar humiliation, the knowledge that a beautiful woman had sat down next to him and offered him kindness, and he’d met her with his own personal brand of anti-charisma.
But she hadn’t interrupted him. In fact, she granted him maybe the most welcoming, kind smile that he’s ever seen in his life.
And she’d asked more about the pigment.
Spencer- he’d never known the kind of affection she offers so freely. It almost reminds him of Penelope- how open she is, how kind. Objectively, he knows she likes him at least a little bit. He’s a profiler, and he can tell at least that much.
The hitch is, he’s the only one she doesn’t touch.
Morgan gets shoulder brushes. Penelope hugs, and he even remembers her once giving Rossi a warm squeeze of her hand. But not him. Even now, she sits across from him after having held Morgan in a long hug of greeting.
He looks up at her, her pretty fingers wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. She moves with such grace, no matter what the action. The way she tops her head back, how a lovely grin spreads across her face. He’d give anything not to be her exception. To be one of the people she touches.
“What you thinking there, wonder kid?” She says, and somehow her voice carries across the crowded bar. He thinks he could pick her voice out anywhere.
“Nothing really,” he says back. He never likes the way his voice sounds around her. He wants to be confident, smooth, like Morgan. She leaves him too weak for it. “How are you feeling?”
“I am wondrous, Spencer.” She’s leaning into his space. Her tone is just a little shaky, influenced by the alcohol. He’s near enough to smell the lily-scented perfume she wears, and it’s everything in him not to bury his face in the crook of her neck. He’d gotten it for her for Christmas.
He remembers her reaction to it, unwrapping the bow and wrapping he’d sent an hour trying to make perfect. It was one of the few times she touched him, however brief- a squeeze of his hand and that earnestly grateful look- the image kept him warm all year. She’d worn it to work more often than not. It brought him a shameful sense of satisfaction.
She carries me with her. She has a piece of me with her wherever she goes.
I want to be touched by you, he thinks, I want to be the one doing the touching. What is it about him? He knows his limbs are a little spindle-y, and he’s not exactly experienced in most forms of physical expression. But he could be, if he was given the chance. If it was with her. It’s not something he could say, though.
“You look lovely,” he says, unprompted. “I love that shirt on you.”
She flushes, and almost, almost, touches his knee in thanks. He preens at the praise, even though it’s not verbal. She’s just so beautiful. It’s always been about more than beauty for him, the mind behind the doe eyes and sweet smile.
Still, it’s hard to deny how much of an effect she has on him- how she can glance at him with that honey sweet look, how the red on her lips has him wondering what it would taste like. If there could ever be anything better. Without thinking, he grabs one of her hands; it looks just so pretty in his own. He runs his thumb over her knuckles. It’s like electricity, passing through them.
There has to be something he’s done. There has to be, if she touches everyone but him. He always notices, but tonight, with liquor and courage in his chest, he wants to ask. If he knows, if there’s something- maybe he can fix it. Maybe then she’ll put her pretty hands on him just like this. Touch him in any way she wants.
It wouldn’t be close to what he wants. But it would be something.
“Hey,” his voice comes out uneven and shaky, but his eyes are locked on hers, “I-I’m sorry if I’ve done something.”
Her face blooms into an adorably confused expression.
“I-,” His stutter jumps out but he’s still holding her hand, and it’s so soft and his stomach just won’t stop that flipping feeling and he just cannot let go, “I know you like to touch people. I don’t know if I-I’ve done something, but you- you never touch me.”
Suddenly, the bar feels a good bit quieter, and her eyes feel like they can see right through him. Her hands are the only thing tethering him here.
“I don’t touch you?”
“Touch is actually one of the most well-regarded indicators of closeness and geniality in personal relationship.”
“Spencer-“
“It stands to reason that if you touch everyone but me, there should be a reason and it’s like something that I would have done to offend you.”
“Hey-“
“I just want you to like me.”
Her face, the most beautiful face he’d ever seen- softens into a delicate expression of fondness.
“Spence,” and god, doesn’t that sound lovely, “I thought you didn’t like touching.”
He pouts without thinking, and all thoughts leave his mind when her other hand reaches out to hold his face, her fingers on the junction of his chin and neck, stroking the side of his cheek.
The truth of it is he thinks of her hands on him in every way. Pictures hands laced together, her graceful fingers running through his hair as they lay on his couch.
He’s imagined kissing her way too many times.
“Not with you. You’re different.”
He’s too honest. But it’s overwhelming. Her hand in his, the other brushing delicately over his face. He leans into it, a little too eager, but the sensation of it is just too much not to.
“Remember the second day of me being with the team? You told Garcia she’s the only one allowed to touch you?”
“I think so?”
“Well, I like to repeat your boundaries.”
“I like you to touch me.”
She tips her head back, laughing, and she looks ethereal, the kind of smile gracing her face that’d have you believe everything you’ve every worried about in your god-forsaken life was worth it to witness this.
“I’d like to touch you too, Reid.”
“You can call me Spencer,” he says, realizing how close they are. Lilies. He’s overplaying his hand. He’s a friend at work, he wants to remind himself. He’s the guy who bought her perfume and hands her files and gets her coffee and that does not mean the same thing as a partner. He’s not even the kind of person someone like her would want.
It’s just hard to remember that.
“Spencer,” she says, more tender than anyone else had ever been with him., “I could be reading this wrong, but-“
It’s actually a small distance, kissing her. If she’d been more than a few inches from his face then he wouldn’t have done it. But she was so close, and she smiles into him, open and warm and his arms are around her waist, hers cradling his face, and it’s more touch than he knows what to do with, far less than anything he’d be willing to give up.
It lasts a languid second and then ends too soon, her gorgeous eyes meeting his own, her basically in his lap. He knows that this is basically a bar-kiss between two coworkers, and that it is unlikely to be anything but that, but he kind of needs it to not be. Needs it to be more.
“I don’t-I don’t know if you wanted to do that or if you want me to stop, but I really, really like you, and I know we work together and you might not like me back, I mean, probably not, right? But-“
“Spencer.” Her soft fingers are still brushing against his face, and he can’t help but be grateful for it. “I’m free tomorrow night.”
He’s not usually good at deciphering social cues that don’t relate to serial killers, but this one- it seems intentional. Her hands move from his cheek (and he winces, visibly) before wrapping both arms around his neck. It’s awfully romantic to be anything else.
“Do you want to be my plans?”
“Yes.”
Out of Focus, Eye to Eye
she's always been his favorite what if. friends to lovers, jealous!peter. italics is flashbacks!
NOTE: this is a response to the prompt "we're not just friends. you know that." from this prompt list. i hope you enjoy, it's a bit of a longer one!
He can’t stop looking at her.
It’s an affliction that isn’t entirely uncommon for him, and tonight it’s almost impossible for him to resist the sight of her. She’s stunning, the picture of grace in her floor length black gown, and he can already see that she’s nervous, biting her lower lip and looking around the crowded space, and all Peter wants to do is stand by her, to hold her by the small of her waist, whisper that she’s okay.
Her boyfriend’’s a big shot at Oscorp, and so she’s here as arm candy.
Peter begged Harry for the invite, and he’s not even sure why. She’s there with her boyfriend, and very few things can hamper the joy Peter feels in her presence, but that prick is close to it.
But he’s here, drinking overpriced champagne in a glass flute, looking at the love of his life stand next to a guy who’s not even looking at her.
They’d met when he’d been apartment hopping after his college graduation, and Harry said he had a place, (because of course he does, rich bastard) but his friend was staying in it, and they’d need to share.
Peter didn’t mind roommates, but a warning would have been nice when Harry’s friend, who he’d be sharing an apartment with, was just about the most beautiful woman he’d ever set eyes on.
He still remembers how he stumbled over his words when they met, how when she asked his name, he forgot to say his last and barely remembered his first, and the first time he heard her laugh, the sound he keeps chasing ever since.
They got on well, better than he had with anyone he’d ever known. She was easy to like, the kind of lovely it’s easy to lose hours to. She laughed at his jokes, a really, truly honest kind of laughter, head tipped back and his silly little thoughts, watching TV on a hand-me-down couch. He wants to say they were friends, and in a way, she became his best friend.
But they were never friends.
Because he never made it that hidden how he felt about her. She wasn’t the kind of person he knew how to want halfway.
It happened too fast, the way he fell in love with her. It was all it once, a domino crash from the moment she first smiled at him tucking a bit of her hair behind her ear with that warm disposition. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful (but she was, so beautiful that it was distracting, even if she wasn’t present), but more her kindness, a warmth that followed her every step. She made him coffee, even on the early mornings she didn’t have to be up, and watched TV with him, even if she’s seen every episode before.
She had to have known how he felt. Because he remembers it, the way they would sit together on that damn couch, the way she wouldn’t even hide it. She’d curl into his side and he’d have his arm around her, and Peter would think over, and over that if he would just ask, he could be her person.
He’d be able to kiss her.
It was all so stupid, because he thought he’d seen the look in her eye, thought she also felt it, the way they fit together.
He can’t keep thinking about this,
Her boyfriend’s an asshole. Peter would think that even if the only thing he wanted in this godforsaken world was the guys’ girlfriend. He’s watched it, how Brad (the guy’s fucking name is Brad) is always late for dates, cancels last minute, and never looks at her. Never tells her she’s beautiful. Never holds her hand when they’re out. She thinks no one sees, but Peter does. He sees how she’ll reach her pretty fingers out to be held, only to be told it’s not the time.
She doesn’t complain, of course.
It’s when he’s stewing over this, the ugly jealousy brewing in his chest like an unabating ache, when she walks in his direction. It’s a rooftop party, and he was in the quiet section, looking over the city.
She’s a welcome presence.
“Hey stranger,” her voice is a low drawl, and she looks at him with a kind smile. She’s got such a pretty voice, and he’d give anything to get back to those nights where he was laying in her lap, her fingers combing through his hair. Her lips are painted a deep red, and he has a hard time remembering that she’s not his girl.
She’s his the what-if that won’t stop haunting him.
“You look beautiful,” Peter says, instead of a greeting. It’s only half-conscious, and the satisfaction of seeing her preen, watching the flattery bloom into that beautiful smile, is worth every bit of social faux pas.
“Thank you,” she replies, a half giggle, “You clean up nice.”
He spent an hour picking his suit jacket because she’d see it.
“Not as well as you, sweetheart.”
He’s not supposed to be saying that to a taken woman, but the selfish part of him wants her to be taken by him. Besides, when they were supposed ‘friends’, he’d call her that all the time.
She scoffs, and then props herself on the railing.
“Careful with that, smooth talker.”
“What, Brad getting protective now?”
Her face falls and his heart drops to his shoes. He hates the guy, but Peter- he’s weak for her happiness, would sacrifice his own a million times for it.
He doesn’t know if he’s pushed it lately, standing too close to her at bars, when Harry and him go out with her and Brad, or when he still grabs her hand to pull her somewhere. She’s always reacted positively to him.
“Why do you do that?”
She sounds heartbroken.
And he can’t- he can’t have hurt her. It’s the last thing he ever wants to do, the thing he tries to avoid more than anything.
“Honey,” and there it is again, him talking to her like he’s got a right to use endearments, “Do what?”
She looks down, wordless, with a bitter smile, and horrible taste hits the back of his throat.
“I think me and Brad broke up.”
The world stops spinning for a moment. The globe falls off its’ axis.
“You could pretend to be upset.” she says, “He had a lot of good traits!”
She’s smiling, and so he doesn’t feel like he needs to not laugh. And he wants to laugh, feels light as air, like the idea of hope is no longer frivolous, but overwhelmingly present.
“He’s got fuckin’ impeccable timing, I’ll give you that.”
She quirks her head, and it’s so fucking cute, and he’s drunk on the knowledge of possibility. She smells like rose perfume, the one he bought her for her birthday, and he wonders if she called him hers in her head too.
He’d give anything for that to be true.
“What do you mean?”
The asshole did have good timing.
“The night you told me about you two,” he closes his eyes, because the memory is pressing, “I had this whole plan laid out.”
He did have a plan. Bought flowers, her favorites. The lease was about to end, and he knew she was going to bring it up, what they wanted to do about it. He practiced the speech over, and over, and he was going to tell her about Spider-Man, where he goes those nights he comes home at 3 in the morning.
He was going to kiss her on the top of the Chrysler building. She deserved that kind of magic.
“Honey, I’m home!” He sing-sang as he walked through the door, looking out for her. The flowers were damp in his hand, and his heart rate was incredibly high, but he was determined.
“Hey Peter,” she replied from the living room.
“I made plans for us tonight, you’re gonna love em’, just wait-“
He didn’t actually know what made him stop in his tracks. It might’ve been the look on her face, or the way her folded hands were fidgeting, nervous energy pulsing in her form.
“Sweetheart, is everything okay?”
“Yeah! Totally good. I just wanted to tell you something.”
Fuck.
“I’ve been seeing this guy, the last few weeks, and well- it’s official! He asked me to be his girlfriend!”
Fuck.
“I was gonna ask you out, that night.”
“No you weren’t.” She says back, deadpan.
“Yes I was,” He repeats slowly, “Why do you think I brought flowers?”
“I don’t know? Maybe for one of the girls you kept coming home late from, but you were not going to ask me out.”
And- what the hell? He hasn’t talked to anyone but her since they met. Not even when she had Brad. She doesn’t sound mad, just- frustrated, and now, now it’s clicking.
She thought he was- out, when he was patrolling.
She thought he came to her, came home to her embrace, to movie nights and almost-kisses, to inside jokes and the first place that’s ever felt like home since he was a little kid, after being with other girls.
Can he even blame her? It’s not like oh, he’s Spider-Man, is the logical conclusion.
“I was,” he whispers, and he’s way too close to her to be anything but someone who wants her, far too inappropriate for the setting, “I bought flowers, I had a whole night planned, I-“ a sharp inhale, “I never wanted anyone but you.”
Her ex-boyfriend of about five minutes is here. It’s a business party for his best friend’s dad’s company. It’s totally inappropriate.
She’s about three inches from him, and he’s holding her, and everything in him is desperate. Desperate for the moment to last, for the opportunity to hold. To not lose her again.
“I didn’t know that.” She says, so low it’s almost a whisper.
He can smell the champagne on her breath, and he well and truly cannot help himself, he reaches out and holds the side of her face, drawing her in by her jawbone.
“What would you have said?”
She’s always got this grip on him, this draw to her that keeps him near, that he makes him want.
“I would’ve said that we’re friends-“
“We’re not just friends and you know that,” it’s a whisper, eyes fluttering from the proximity. It’d taken nothing, the tiniest push to kiss her. It’s intoxicating.
“And that I loved you.”
“Loved?”
“Love.”
There will be time to tell her where he goes on his nights away, nights where he explains how he spends his time. Right now, his hands on her waist, her whole being curving into his, feeling whole for the first time since he knew to crave her. All Peter can manage is to kiss her, the kind of kiss that’s a fucking lifetime in the making, the kind of thing you wait your whole god-forsaken life for.
Orbitational Pull
peter is disastrously bad at talking about how he feels. friends to lovers!
NOTE: tysm @gotkindabored for helping me post this, and also being all-around lovely! pls go easy on me, im VERY rusty :)
“Hey you,”
She hears it from the familiar corner of her bedroom, one that she’s used to. He sounds hoarse and out of breath, and his suit is slick with rainwater. She looks beautiful, of course. There isn’t a moment of the day she doesn’t steal his breath.
“Peter,” she says, voice low and careful, but even still- he can hear the honey-sweet affection his name is spoken through, “You’re early tonight, huh?”
He cracks a smile, and looks her over- he can’t help it.
He fell on her fire escape, one night. Her crappy college apartment, a shared place with her own room. It was months ago, feels like decades now. Of course, he knew who she was before that night. He knew she was the kind girl, who smiled at him every time she passed him in the hallways. He’s had a crush on her since was ten, when she offered him a chocolate bar the day after Halloween, when Aunt May had just packed a granola bar.
Keep reading
I cant get over soft sex with Soobin… I just think he would be so gentle and quiet, but loud enough to know he’s enjoying it probably an unbearable amount.
You would probably be able to hear both of your hearts pounding out of your chest, lips meshed together and soft whimpers shared between your teeth. Every noise he makes, a pool of warmth erupts within you… which is often because he’s whimpering every other thrust, sensitive boy.
I think he would kiss you during the act, at least as much as he can because his eyes are closed tightly and he’s having trouble forming a pout since his mouth keeps falling open. He would be the type to sink his head into you when he can’t kiss you, his breath fanning across your neck as he releases moans and whines.
You already know he would be leaving hickeys on your skin there, too. he tries to be soft, but during certain motions he might suck a little too hard.
His hair tickles your skin :)
He would check in on you, soft whispers of:
“You okay, baby?”
“Does it feel good?”
“I love you so much”
I’m crying just thinking about it.
I think the most special moments are when he finds a bit of strength to lift his head, looking at you directly in your eyes as he moves back and forth on top of you. His hair dangling in front of his own eyes, and his dimples show when he smiles softly. Every so often he’ll laugh so quietly, as if he can’t believe what’s happening (which most of the time breaks off into a moan, followed by his strength leaving him as he closes his eyes and rests softly back into your neck).
It’s the face that you can’t see when he’s hiding in your neck. It’s when his eyebrows cinch, his nose scrunches, his teeth grit and you can hear a small high-pitched whimper as he thrusts into you — truthfully, he’s holding back a loud groan and you know it — before he releases it through a shaky exhale against your skin.
When he finally moans loudly, along with breathless “i love you’s” and strings of whimpers in between, you know he’s finished.
After-glow Soobin… I can see him collapsing down softly and going limp… but I also think that would last for two seconds before his head is lifting back up, kissing your face and breathing against your cheek to catch his breath.
If he didn’t feel you finish too— it’s a time game for him. The sooner he catches his breath, the better, because he’s pulling out and moving his face downwards fast so he doesn’t let you lose your proximity to your high.
I just see Soobin as a softie in bed, everything is intentional, and he takes care of you and shows you that he loves you in every way he possibly can.
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