Brazilian brainrot for yall

battle-damaged boy. mutant lizard fight. torn suit. barely-there bravery. and you? in your reading glasses, oversized tee, legs folded up with textbooks —

until you hear the tap on your window.

the knock is sharp this time — not gentle like the first. urgent.

you were already half-asleep in your desk chair, notebook slipped to your lap, highlighter dried against the edge of a sentence. you blink awake and hears it again. two taps. then silence.

you turn.

and there he is.

peter.

perched on the fire escape like a wounded cat, one hand pressed to his side, suit torn open and soaked in deep crimson.

you're up in a second. the window flies open.

“oh my god— peter.”

he winces as he climbs through, collapsing half-onto the couch you keeps by your window. it’s small. worn. full of throw pillows. but it’s you guys couch now. it’s where you patched him up the first time.

peter groans. “you should see the other guy.”

“the other guy, in this instance,” he mutters, dragging off his mask, “being a giant mutant lizard.”

“what— shut up and lie down.”

you move quickly. tying your hair up. you pull your first aid kit out of the drawer where you keep it now — because of him. you grab a towel, a bottle of water, the antiseptic you know he hates.

peter watching you the whole time. dazed. smiling. bleeding.

you kneels by the couch, settling into the tiny sliver of space beside him, your thighs pressed against his. your hands hover above the gash along his stomach. the suit’s torn wide open, revealing skin that's flushed, scraped, already bruising.

“pete…” you whispers, breath catching. “this is worse than last time.”

he lifts his hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. his fingers tremble. “but i came back, didn’t i?”

she bites her lip, blinking fast. “as you should.”

the silence stretches as you cleans the wound. he hisses once, but doesn't pull away. your fingers are steady now — practiced. gentle. your touch like a balm.

when you're done, you rest your hand on his chest — just above his heart — and feels it pounding.

you look up.

peter staring at you like he doesn’t know how he got this lucky. like you're the miracle.

his eyes flick to your lips. linger.

he speaks barely above a breath:

“…can i kiss you?”

you don't answer right away. you just lean in slowly — soft, sure — and presses your lips to his.

it’s quiet and warm and perfect. like a sigh. like a promise.

peter lets out a soft, helpless “mm” against your mouth, and when you starts to pull away—

—he chases your lips, eyebrows drawn like he’s not ready to let go.

not yet.

not ever.

you smiles against him. “easy, bug boy. you’re injured.”

he grins, lips brushing yours. “worth it.”

battle-damaged boy. mutant lizard fight. torn suit. barely-there bravery. and you? in your reading glasses, oversized tee, legs folded up with textbooks —

until you hear the tap on your window.

the knock is sharp this time — not gentle like the first. urgent.

you were already half-asleep in your desk chair, notebook slipped to your lap, highlighter dried against the edge of a sentence. you blink awake and hears it again. two taps. then silence.

you turn.

and there he is.

peter.

perched on the fire escape like a wounded cat, one hand pressed to his side, suit torn open and soaked in deep crimson.

you're up in a second. the window flies open.

“oh my god— peter.”

he winces as he climbs through, collapsing half-onto the couch you keeps by your window. it’s small. worn. full of throw pillows. but it’s you guys couch now. it’s where you patched him up the first time.

peter groans. “you should see the other guy.”

“the other guy, in this instance,” he mutters, dragging off his mask, “being a giant mutant lizard.”

“what— shut up and lie down.”

you move quickly. tying your hair up. you pull your first aid kit out of the drawer where you keep it now — because of him. you grab a towel, a bottle of water, the antiseptic you know he hates.

peter watching you the whole time. dazed. smiling. bleeding.

you kneels by the couch, settling into the tiny sliver of space beside him, your thighs pressed against his. your hands hover above the gash along his stomach. the suit’s torn wide open, revealing skin that's flushed, scraped, already bruising.

“pete…” you whispers, breath catching. “this is worse than last time.”

he lifts his hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. his fingers tremble. “but i came back, didn’t i?”

she bites her lip, blinking fast. “as you should.”

the silence stretches as you cleans the wound. he hisses once, but doesn't pull away. your fingers are steady now — practiced. gentle. your touch like a balm.

when you're done, you rest your hand on his chest — just above his heart — and feels it pounding.

you look up.

peter staring at you like he doesn’t know how he got this lucky. like you're the miracle.

his eyes flick to your lips. linger.

he speaks barely above a breath:

“…can i kiss you?”

you don't answer right away. you just lean in slowly — soft, sure — and presses your lips to his.

it’s quiet and warm and perfect. like a sigh. like a promise.

peter lets out a soft, helpless “mm” against your mouth, and when you starts to pull away—

—he chases your lips, eyebrows drawn like he’s not ready to let go.

not yet.

not ever.

you smiles against him. “easy, bug boy. you’re injured.”

he grins, lips brushing yours. “worth it.”

sweet angel girl with the most disgusting unspeakable kinks

cigarettes after sex sounds like an angel's embrace. like watching the rain. like dried tears and diary entries on old paper. like loving a ghost.

i feel like a victorian man seeing an ankle for the first time

sending patrick pics of bunnies so much that he starts comparing you to them and then you both make comments like “haha no that’s so weird”. then he starts calling you bunny but follows it up with something corny to make you think he’s joking. that’s until one day he’s got you on his stomach with you kind of in a headlock and he’s mumbling incoherent sentences while he’s on his third round of breeding you and the only thing you can make out is “fuck, bunny”

no? okay i tried

kissing spencer reid till his glasses fog up and he’s giggling into your mouth when you press his cheeks together to leave tiny pecks. he’s rushing into the briefing with bright red cheeks, stained lips, his tie a slight crooked, but his glasses? are the ones that give him away; they’re clearing up on the fog.

between hidden kisses he selfishly keeps you as his though he knows nothing escapes the bright minds of his team.

saying “i know baby” while she’s having an orgasm

✦ very proud glasses reid stan. (i wanna hear him whimper.)

White boy gets dicked down by black cock