summary : peter’s always been a little bit in love with you, it just took a difficult night and warm, ever comforting words for him to come to the realization. intelligent he may be, but he’s a clueless teenage boy before anything else.
word count : 2.5k
It was eleven o’clock at night and, as per usual, you were neglecting the sleep you desperately needed in order to finish up the notes on your assigned reading novel that were due in just a few short hours. You were never one to finish tasks, especially menial ones such as homework, in a timely fashion. This was just the tip of the iceberg. You briefly took off your glasses, rubbing your tired eyes that were now struggling to focus on the words in front of you properly. When you slipped them back over your nose, glancing up toward your bedroom window that lead out to the fire escape, you saw the familiar face of your best friend peering in through the glass in a way that was only slightly creepy.
Peter knocked rapidly on the glass, waving at you in the typical, hyperactive way that he always had about him. You jumped off your bed, reaching out to shut your bedroom door before walking over to the bay window and unlocking it. A rush of cold winter air nipped at your face the minute it swung open and Peter Parker shoved himself through. Visits from him in this particular manner were common, especially after a day’s work of fighting crime throughout various parts of New York, but not usually this late- and never without a text to alert you first.
“You must be freezing,” you shivered, closing the window quickly. “How long were you out there?” Making yourself comfortable on your bed once again, you propped open your book, ready to force him into helping you study. He didn’t answer. Instead, he drew his sweatshirt closer to his body, sliding to the floor beside your bed and leaning his head against the soft duvet. His curls were sticking up in every direction when he pulled his hood away, his cheeks and the tip of his nose a brilliant shade of red, but not from the bitter chill that was sweeping mercilessly over Queens.
You heard a distinct sniff, then another, then another. His breathing, already shallow from the frantic climbing he had done to reach your fire escape, became even more labored. He pulled his knees to his chest to hide his face. He felt you press yourself against him, your arms around his shoulders and across his chest before he could pull away in embarrassment. Your glasses creaked when they pushed too far into his shoulder. Neither of you moved. You clung to him and he sat there, silently shaking and leaning into your embrace as if it were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
“Hey, hey, shh, shh, Peter, you’re okay,” you whispered, rubbing his back. “I’ve got you, I promise. You’ve gotta breathe, though, okay?” He was always ashamed of his sensitivity, but he couldn’t help it. He was a sensitive boy and he cried easily and had an awful lot of anxiety sometimes. Today was one of those days, with good reason. He nodded stiffly, maneuvering himself to hug you back, face pressed into your shoulder this time.
“It’s… the anniversary,” he said, his voice broken. “One year.” Hollow. “One year since- since Ben. One year tomorrow.”
He pulled away, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his oversized sweatshirt. There were traces of tears still making their way down his cheeks, sliding across his nose and down to his lips. He tried to rub them away, too, but you caught his wrist in your hand.
“You’re not wrong or less of a dude for crying, Peter.” The way you looked at him, so lovely and caring and worried, made his heart cry out for the safety of your embrace again. “Were you at the cemetery?” You matched his stance and rested the side of your cheek on your knee, still carefully studying his face.
“Yeah,” he exhaled, placing his chin in his palm. “I’m gonna go again in the morning with May. Gonna miss school. I- I probably should’ve, um, stayed with her tonight but I…” he trailed off, “I needed you.” He said it as he said most things to you, with his soft tone of voice and his hesitance that made him, him. He never really noticed until now.
“What are best friends for, right?”
“Yeah. Best friends.”
Ignoring the odd way those two words slipped out of his mouth, you said, “I’m sorry, Peter. I know you loved Uncle Ben so much. I’m sorry, you don’t deserve this. You and May don’t deserve this.” You reached out to him, your hand gripping his without an ounce of doubt. You had small hands and he didn’t but he felt a thousand times better when yours found his. “I’m always here for you. Do you wanna talk about it?”
Surprisingly, he shook his head adamantly. “No, no.” He squeezed your hand. “I kind of, um, just wanna go to bed. Crying like a little baby really tires a guy out, you know?” He gave a weak laugh, a tiny grin, and you smiled right back at him before pulling him to his feet. “Can I use the bathroom?” He needed to wash the sticky feeling of dry tears off his face, rub the sadness out of his eyes. He wanted to be strong for May when he got back in the morning.
“Of course, just be quiet. Mom and dad are asleep.” You padded across your rug and opened your door a crack, holding it in a specific way so that it wouldn’t creak when you let Peter through. He gave you a grateful squeeze of the hand again before disappearing into the bathroom.
He splashed water on his face, staring up at his reflection, at the water dripping off his eyelashes and the curling ends of the hair that was plastered to his forehead. He rubbed at his face and took a deep breath. He wasn’t going to cry anymore. You had sufficiently comforted him for the night. Peter could breathe again.
Peter quietly walked back down the hallway and into your bedroom, watching for a second as you pulled spare blankets down from a shelf in your closet and arranged them on your bay window. You had cleared your bed of your school supplies and had left the covers open for Peter to crawl into without a second though. Which he did. Your covers smelled quite lovely, actually. It was the scent of your perfume that you wore often enough for him to recognize the scent, and he wanted to fall asleep under the inviting covers that were laid out for him. Then, he saw you sit atop your window, about to lie down.
“Wait, why are you doing that?” He got out of bed and took your hand for the third time that night, growing accustomed to the feeling of it. He pulled you over to your bed. “You’re not sleeping on a stupid window. That’s ridiculous. I’ll take the window.” He spun you around and ignored the protestant noise you made, gripping your shoulders and sitting you down on the bed.
“I’m not letting you take the window, either!” You argued, yanking him back down on the bed. He huffed, glaring at you in a teasing manner. “C’mon, just take the bed. You need it more than I do.” His glare dropped to his lap, an idea rolling around in his head. “What?”
“Y/N, how about we just both take the bed?” He said finally, lifting his eyes back to yours. He wasn’t sure what made him say it, why he didn’t just take the floor like he probably should have, but the words were out there in the world and there wasn’t a way to take them back now. You bit your lip, then shrugged, scooting over.
“It is big enough for the two of us.” You turned away from him, turning off your lamp and getting under the covers. You heard Peter slide in next to you, but your back was toward him until he poked you sharply. “What’s wrong, Peter?”
“Can you- um, well-”
You flipped over on your side, just barely making out his face in the darkness of your room. “Do you want me to cuddle you?” Though you said in a teasing sort of tone, you were silently quite pleased when he mumbled a reluctant yes. You moved closer, one arm going around his waist and the other underneath him. Your head was on his chest, listening to the resilient beating of his heart. He placed his chin atop your head. He focused on the sound of your steady breaths until you were sleeping peacefully beside him.
He was so grateful for you- the person who stood by his side throughout anything and everything. You, so strong and beautiful and brave and comforting in his times of distress. You, who never seemed to waver in your loyalty to him. You, the very picture of loveliness and a girl who he’d very much like to-
His eyes flew open, and he almost jumped away from you. He didn’t want to risk you awakening, though, so he stayed put, freaking out internally rather than externally the way he was prone to doing. He had been thinking of kissing you. That was what he was going to say. Kiss. The thought had come so simply to his brain it was like he already thought the same thing for years. Maybe he had. It wasn’t like he was blind. You were a stunning girl, even if you didn’t think so yourself, you were his best friend, you were practically perfect and Peter would be an idiot to not adore you the way that he did.
Adore, adore, adore. Oh, boy. Peter glanced down at you, sleeping in his arms, and confirmed what he had so stupidly never noticed before. His infinitesimal, brief affection for Liz Allen had absolutely nothing on his all encompassing love for you.
Peter bid you goodbye that morning at six thirty sharp, before either of your parents had woken up for work. Before he slipped out your window and into the cracks early morning sunlight, he had pressed a gentle, chaste kiss to your cheek. It was only the briefest touch of his lips to your face, but you had held your face, right in that spot, for practically the entire day. Ned had questioned why, but you brushed him off with an answer of exhaustion.
The day after that, Peter returned to school, dragging Ned off to the side as soon as he stepped off the train platform. He had waited for the other boy purposely, seeking advice.
“I have a huge, gigantic, terrible awful problem right now, Ned!” He exclaimed as soon as he saw him, throwing his hands up in the air. “I need help.”
“Psychiatric help,” Michelle supplied, appearing out of nowhere as she usually did before walking down the path to school.
Ned shrugged. “She’s not wrong.”
Peter, frantic, seized Ned’s shoulders and shook him. “This is not a roast Peter session! This a cry for help! Help me, Ned Leeds!”
“Am I your only hope?” Peter wanted to scream.
“This isn’t the time for Star Wars puns, either!” Not waiting for Ned to quip back that every time was Star Wars time, Peter said, loudly, “I’m in love with Y/N and I don’t know what to do!” He ran his hands in his hair, wanting to pull it out. “I just- I just realized the other night! Everything just kind of, like, clicked and I’ve been so stupid. I should’ve realized it before, but of course I didn’t and now I have no idea what to do!”
“Wait, dude, you seriously have never noticed this before? Are you kidding me? Peter, you’re supposed to be the genius of the school. I feel let down.” Ned shook his head solemnly. “Dude, everyone knows you love her. Even Flash. That’s why he picks on her all the time. He likes pissing you off and nothing gets under your skin more than someone messing with Y/N. She’s the first one you told about being Spider-Man, you go to her for all your problems, you practically pee yourself racing to be her partner for almost everything- not science because science is our subject, but still. I figured you knew you loved her and just didn’t wanna talk about it because she’s out of your league.”
“Hey! I am not-” He stopped. “So what if I am? That’s not even the point. The point is that I love her. Me realizing it was inevitable, even if it took me like eighty years to get there. Doesn’t matter. I’ve gotta tell her, right?”
“You totally should,” Ned encouraged. “She’s definitely in love with you, too.”
Hopefully, Peter grinned. “You really think so?”
“The reassurance you give me is suffocating, Ned. Stop before I die.”
That day in gym class, Ned and Peter went off to the side to pretend they were doing stretches while you sat with Michelle and conversed about literature for the first half of the period. Your conversation, however, soon led off into other directions.
“Hey, MJ, have you ever… I don’t know, been in love?”
Michelle raised her eyebrows. “Only with crushing the patriarchy. Why? Have you?” The intuitive girl already knew your answer, of course, but she was invested in you and Peter’s love story and was desperate to hear the truth from your own lips.
You played with the hem of your shirt, thinking. Peter and Ned casually inched closer, having been listening to the conversation for quite sometime now. They were unapologetically nosy. “I think I am.”
“With who?” Peter clasped his hands together, silently pleading with the universe to grant him this one wish. I promise, universe, I’ll never ask for anything ever again in my whole life if you just let this girl love me back I swear I’ll be the best Spider-Man there ever was and I’ll protect New York until I’m eighty five just please oh my god please-
The gasp he let out was involuntary, but you didn’t hear him. He turned to Ned, his expression of shock, as well as elation, mirroring Peter’s own. Suddenly, Ned stood, shouting for the entire gym class to hear, “Y/N! Peter loves you too!” You looked up, Michelle’s happy and knowing smirk going unnoticed by you because the only thing you could focus on was Peter and what Ned had just declared.
The gym fell silent, every student turning to stare at you and Peter. You were frozen in shock up until the bell rang and everyone filed out quickly, leaving you and Peter alone.
“Did he mean it?” You asked, your sneakers squeaking against the floor as you closed the distance between you and Peter, your head tilted to meet his.
“It’s the truest thing anyone has ever said.” His lips met yours, and the slant of his mouth against your own was a feeling you could definitely come to adore more than you already did after just one kiss.
when we were seven years old and red-cheeked at the sunrise of our lives, i wrote you a letter and slipped it in your schoolbag when no one was looking. catholic school nuns taught us that god is always watching and maybe god saw me do it. back then i didn’t care. now i’m not sure if he even exists. still i believe that if god did exist, he wouldn’t give a damn about a love letter a girl wrote for another girl.
it wasn’t exactly a letter.
it was a poem i stole from a book i can no longer name because i didn’t write poetry yet and i wouldn’t until much, much later. i was the first person you showed it to. i swallowed my heart and framed a boy classmate who liked you.
i thought i’d gotten away with it.
we were alone after class as always when you said, “you wrote it, didn’t you?” for the first time, i became acquainted with the sensation of crashing. scrambled insides. a soul inverted. i still don’t know how i managed to laugh like it was a joke. i denied everything. i think you believed me.
i kind of wish you hadn’t.
time led us to different places and different lives. i dropped the sketchpad and picked up the textbooks, traded the dream of artist for neurosurgeon. i misplaced pieces of myself. i found new parts. i wrote a poem for the very first time. i lost myself in the lips of people who don’t even know your name and wrote poetry about them.
i forgot about you.
we are seventeen years old on the cusp of the midday of our lives when i see you again. it’s seven-thirty in the morning by the old school. your classes have already started and yet there you are, strolling like you can stop time at any moment. you don’t even look at me but the snapshot of you mid-step, framed by the early morning sunlight, rushes at me like a sucker punch and i find that i can barely breathe.
you grew up.
your beauty once crept on people. soft and gentle. moonlight. now it turns stranger’s heads. glittering and dangerous. you are the sun trapped in a vessel. your light might blind me but i want to keep looking at you.
i want to greet you good morning and ask you how you’re doing. i keep walking.
it’s shallow but i fall in love with pretty strangers all the time and you’re no exception. you were my best friend once but now you might as well be anyone, and anyone is easy to forget. so i almost forget you again but it seems like something out there doesn’t want me to, because you find me on instagram, of all places. i can only feed on so many glimpses of a life that has nothing to do with me until the urge to hear your voice again overwhelms the fear in my veins.
concept: i am holding your hand as you lie next to me, your hair spread over the pillows and illuminated by the early morning sunlight that filters in from the window. we are in comfortable silence and i am content
sterek, "the guy i fucked last night woke up this morning, disoriented and looked at me, and said "oh, you're hot." and went back to sleep."
Stiles scrubs his hands over his face. It’s still awfully early, too early to be awake, but his brain decided to snap out if a peaceful slumber, and now he’s sitting up in a bed that isn’t his, covered in light green sheets. There’s a guy lying next to him, on his stomach, hugging the pillow, and Stiles lets his eyes wander of the wide planes of his back, the tattoo between his shoulder blades, the dimples on his lower back. His face is turned away from Stiles, but Stiles still remembers: the sharp cheekbones with the impeccable stubble, a chiseled jaw, strong eyebrows and a set of eyes that stripped Stiles bare in a way that was both scary and hot.
All things considered, last night was a success.
Still, Stiles doesn’t usually fall asleep in the beds of his one-night-stands, never stays over, and he can’t believe he did last night. But the guy–Derek, his name’s Derek–asked him, softly, between open-mouthed, hot kisses to Stiles’ throat, and Stiles forgot the word no even existed. Which–what. This hasn’t ever happened before. Usually, it’s easy to say no; Stiles doesn’t like the awkward morning afters.
So he looks at Derek one last time, and sighs. Derek is something like a walking wet dream, and the sex was mind-blowing. Stiles wouldn’t mind another round, or ten, but Derek’s still sleeping, and Stiles broke one of his principles already. He won’t be the creeper who stared at Derek while he slept, which would probably reduce the chances of a repeat performance. If they ever ran into each other again, that is.
Stiles grips the sheet to throw it back and climb out of bed when Derek snuffles–he snuffles, Stiles is going to die–shifts, head turning to Stiles. He blinks against the early morning sunlight, eyes small. His hair is a mess, there’s the imprint of the pillow’s creases on his cheek: Stiles is sure he’s pretty much ruined forever. This is it. He’s wrecked. This shouldn’t be happening. It was just a one-night-stand.
Derek squints at him sleepily. “God,” he says, voice sleep-rough. “You’re hot.”
Stiles is pretty sure his brain can’t quite decide where to send all his blood: to his face or to his cock.
“Um,” Stiles says intelligently, fighting the urge to card a hand through Derek’s hair.
Derek nuzzles into his pillow again, eyes drooping shut. “Mhm,” he hums. “Thought the alcohol induced an obscene fantasy ‘bout your eyes. And your mouth. And just–you.”
Stiles stares at him, helplessly.
“Not a fantasy,” Derek points out, soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He blinks his eyes open again, reaches out to grab Stiles’ hand. Derek twines the fingers together, rubs his thumb over Stiles’ skin, and it feels perfect; feels like something he’s done before, like it’s natural.
“I don’t like to be objectified,” Stiles says, because that’s the first thing his brain supplies.
Derek laughs softly, closing his eyes again, as he brings their joined hands to his lips, presses a tender kiss on Stiles’ knuckles.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, lips grazing the skin of Stiles’ hand. It sends shivers down Stiles’ vertebrae.
Stiles lies back down, on his back, their hands in the space between them, and he turns his head to look at Derek, whose features have relaxed again, peaceful, as he drifts off to sleep one more time.
“Stay,” Derek asks quietly, voice petering out into a sleepy slur.
So Stiles stays, because apparently, he can’t say no to Derek.
Dean walks by the bookstore every single day on his way to work and looks for the stranger who works there. The town is small, and Dean thought he knew everyone who lived here, until this place opened up. For five months now, Dean has walked by this bookstore. And for five months, he has wondered about the dark haired man inside. The one he’s never seen around town before.
Sometimes the man is on the computer at the large counter, sometimes helping a customer, sometimes straightening and restocking the shelves. No matter what he’s doing, he’s always gorgeous. His hair is long enough to be messy when he runs his hands through it, and Dean loves the days when it’s sticking everywhere, like maybe the store was too busy or too boring and the man has a nervous habit of pulling at it. He has broad shoulders, and is taller than most people around him, though still a couple of inches shorter than Dean. His jeans always cling tight to his thighs and his ass, like they’re a little too big for his small waist. He’s perfect.
genre: the fluffiest fluff i could manage + smut ; tv host! hoseok + hoseok can build stuff idk what the title it would be
summary: hoseok is a host for a show that renovates old school buses into dream vans/rvs. you’ve brought him a project and over time, you’ve developed a crush for the charismatic man, wanting to take him along for the long ride you’ve dreamt up; as does he, you come to learn.
dedicated to: my wife @honeyheonie bc she deserves some tooth-rotting wonho fluff. also one word to you mi amor: diddle
a/n: this is based off an actual tv show that i literally saw half of an episode of with my mom and i instantly thought of this prompt and just had to write it
Prompt: Can you write something where Phil is overstimulating Dan, and Dan keeps letting out little whimpers, and at one point he tries to close his legs, but Phil pulls them back open, and fUCK I can’t get this out of my head.
Authors Note: So like, I am aware i havent posted in forever so I hope you guys still read this and like it :) I plan to post at least once a month or so, maybe more, so send in prompts and ideas you wanna read! <33 (2k words)
It was another seven years before you heard anything about Kim Junmyeon. You lived life happily, you enjoyed being alone for a while before you decided at thirty-two that if you didn’t marry anyone, your parents might kill you.
You’d stopped working at the bar a week after Junmyeon came to see you. You couldn’t handle him knowing where you were. You wanted to have complete isolation from him. You still thought about him, even fourteen years later. Your first and only heartbreak had clearly taken a toll on you.
If Junmyeon broke your heart for the first time at eighteen, he broke it the second time at thirty-two. Who knew that someone you’d let walk away would be able to break your heart again. You never returned to that bar, or any for that matter.
Hello lovelies! I am here to grace your dashboard with some smutty goodness! Here is the request 99% of you voted that you wanted to read first. Hope you enjoy :-)
sun was just starting to peek over the horizon, signaling the start of the day,
but I had been up for almost an hour. I was always and early riser, very rarely
sleeping past eight o'clock. Even though it had been late when I fell asleep
the night before, I felt rested and content. Zoe was still sleeping, lying on
her side facing me. I gently ran my fingers through her hair and down her back,
watching her shoulders rise slightly with each steady breath she took. I took
my time, memorizing every inch of her beautiful face in the gray, early morning
night had been… unbelievable. She had been mine and I had been hers
emotionally for over a year, but we were now each other’s physically as well.
It had been one of the most terrifying, exciting, and beautiful moments of my
life. Connecting with her that way made me feel powerful and made me fall in
love with her even more, if that was possible. It was as if we were two puzzle
pieces, fitting together perfectly.
Pairing: Taehyung x Reader (ft. Jungkook, Hoseok and Yoongi)
Summary//Request: You and Taehyung are in love with each other, but have never made your relationship official. Taehyung gets too drunk and ends up making out with another girl - and Jungkook lets you know everything the next morning.
A/N: This scenario contains text message imagines ^_^
“Can you two get a room already? Jeez!”
You sat with Taehyung and your friends at the back on the
bus – you currently nestled in between Taehyung’s legs in the corner seat as he
rested his hands on your thighs with his head in the crook of your neck, softly
blowing raspberries on to your skin and making you giggle in delight.
“Seriously…you guys aren’t even dating and you can’t keep
your hands off each other, just hurry up and make it official already” Hoseok
playfully smacked Taehyung on the shoulder as you felt your cheeks becoming
more rosy by the second. Every word that came out of Hoseok’s mouth was true –
you and Taehyung were constantly being overly affectionate no matter if you
were in private or public, however; you weren’t actually dating each other. You’d
never confessed your feeling towards him, and neither had he. Even though you
both hugged, snuggled and cuddled while holding hands and brushing cheeks,
neither of you had even shared a proper kiss – much to your disappointment. Taehyung
couldn’t quite put his finger on when he fell in love with you, but he knew
that he was just too scared to tell you his true feelings – and you felt the
same. Alas, here the two of you were, happily stuck between being best friends
and lovers; not knowing when or if your relationship with each other would ever
amount to something more.
Viktor waking up before Yuuri and just admiring him in the early morning sunlight :3c
This is so soft and warm akjsdkahk thank you!
Viktor has never really thought much about being an early riser. He’s just become used to waking up not long after the sun over the years; a mixture of getting up to take Makkachin for morning walks and a desire to get on the ice early in the day. It’s just the way that he’s always functioned. Morning are, for the most part, easy for him.
But he didn’t really start to appreciate mornings until he was blessed with the privilege of getting to wake up next to a certain Katsuki Yuuri every day.
He wakes in a pool of soft warmth, the room coming alive around him in pieces; blankets pulled up to his chin, the sticky staleness of morning breath on his tongue, sturdy, warm legs tangled with his own, the rosy-gold morning light filtering in through the window. Each fragment comes together with a familiar, leisurely slowness as he blinks his eyes open and arches his back in a stretch.
His first coherent thought of the day: Yuuri.
He rolls over onto his side and the corners of his mouth curve in a small, gentle smile, his chest fills with the lightness of contentment. Yuuri is curled up on his side, facing Viktor, one hand resting on the pillow beside his face, mouth opened slightly to let out the sound of his soft breathing. His hair is disheveled and hanging messily over his forehead, sticking out around his ears.