This a bit of a soft thirsty thought (cause I’m not very thirsty at this time lol but feel free to add any more to this) but just making out with college!tasm!peter all over your shared apartment !!!!
Okay but I LOVE soft thirst and just some sexy-cute-sweet thoughts... Because we ALL know Peter is one hell of a kisser. So let's just take some time to appreciate that. Here ya go, sweets (and thank you for sending this!) I didn't make it a "shared" apartment, but wanted to do a bit of a meet-cute, if that's okay??
no warnings -- read away, just some spicey making out!
[PREDICTIVE TEXT -- tasm!peter parker x reader]
wc: 2.2k (HOW?) of misconstrued texts, stressful studying and the sweet realization of mutual ardor and a good, old-fashioned hollywood kiss
---
Some text messages, it seemed, were almost made to be misinterpreted. That's what you'd thought, anyway, when you'd received a message at 8:30 on a Friday night.
From none other than Peter Parker, the devastatingly cute boy from your chemlab.
"Wanna come over?" The text had read, "I'm stuck on these problems for Fuller's class, and I was hoping to pick your brain."
Your lips had quirked at the text. Due to the deep winter's evening, the sky outside of your dorm window was long-past pitch dark, fat snowflakes illuminated for a brief, luminescent moment in the beams of the campus streetlamps as they fluttered lazily to the ground, sticking wetly to the other amassed flakes along the sidewalk.
Said devastating boy was booty-texting you.
What other reason could there be to text after dark on a Friday night?
You'd waited the appropriate few minutes so as to not seem too eager before you texted back a thumbs-up emoji with a follow up, "Be there soon."
Okay, so maybe you liked Peter Parker.
You and Peter had been thick as thieves throughout the semester; paired up early on to perch atop uncomfortable lab chairs and ponder stoichiometry, balancing equations, and other hellish expectations that came with being a major in the sciences. He was a little absent-minded, sure, always seemed to be running late. But he was a good lab partner, leaning over to check your notes, gently erasing and re-jotting miscalculations in your margins. Always with a soft smile in your direction as you'd thanked him for the umpteenth time.
Not to mention the countless coffee "dates" the two of you had met at the corner coffeeshop for, sweetened coffee punctuated by even sweeter giggles from the boy at your side as you'd recounted the drama from the prior night's episode of "Drag Race" in between reading review. Soft brushes of your thigh against his beneath the table, hands meeting in small, clandestine touches as you both leaned in at the same time to turn the pages of your notebook.
So was it really any wonder that it would have come to this?
You were only minorly surprised, really. You hadn't thought that Peter Parker, the boy with the honeyed eyes and different-colored beanies stuffed into the back pockets of his jeans, would be the type to drop a "you-up" text before actually trying to take you out-out first. Was that arrogant of you?
But you'd wanted to make a good impression. So, up you got, swiping on your favorite peach-flavoured lipbalm and slipping into the jeans you knew made your butt look killer. On your way out the door, with a jacket and scarf wrapped around you to combat the cold, you'd slid your chem book into your bag as an afterthought.
Gotta sell the illusion, after all...
Then again, some text messages were drafted exactly as intended.
You'd knocked at Peter's door to be met with the sound of a minor thud from the other side that sounded suspiciously like the weight of a chemistry textbook meeting the floor, followed by a hurried:
"Shit! C-coming!"
You couldn't help the smile curving your lips at the commotion, of socked-feet sliding Risky Business-style on their way to the door, where Peter fumbled with the lock to open it, cracking it to smile at you through lightly-flushed cheeks, lips parted as he panted at the effort it had taken to here.
"You alright in there?" You queried gently, chuckling at his haphazard appearance.
"Thank GOD you're here," Peter blurted, mumbling about equations and, "... Almost ready to clean my ears through to the other side with the pointy end of this pencil," as he let you shuffle past him into his small but cozy apartment, absconding with your heavy coat and your bag as you made your way into his space --
... Only to be met with the very real sight of his textbook and notebook on the coffee table, a smattering of torn-out and balled-up papers littering the floor around his workspace, creeping beneath the couch to mingle with the dustbunnies.
Ah. So he really had been studying.
You silently admonished yourself for being a presumptuous idiot as Peter fluttered around you, offering you a soda, ushering you to the couch.
Forty minutes in, and you had the beginnings of a headache forming behind your eyes.
You tossed your pencil onto the coffee table, leaning back with a sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose and sighing at the large numbers of your phone's homescreen -- mocking the fact that you, at this late hour on a few-and-far-between Friday night, were actually doing chemistry homework with the boy you'd thought about naked a few times too frequently to be casual about it.
"You okay?" Peter asked gently from your side, nudging his thigh into yours from his maddeningly-close perch next to you on the couch.
"Yeah," you breathed, "just tired." Your voice was flat, but devoid -- you'd hoped -- of the disappointment you'd felt. Exhaling your minorly-hurt feelings at the boy who, despite being virtually on top of you on this couch, seemed always just out of your reach.
No. Don't think about him being on top of you. Not now. Not when it's clear he has no interest in you, ya know... like that.
While you were lost in the veritable blizzard of your own thoughts, Peter's dark eyes took you in, swirling, like the last dregs of a midnight cup of coffee, as he took in your hunched form, smirking at you between full lips as he fought to keep the tone light, teasing -- Did you know how difficult it was to maintain composure when you'd arrived at his apartment with snowflakes stuck to your hair, to your beanie? With your eyes bright from the briskness of winter's chill?
You'd readily agreed to studying with him. That was it, he'd told himself.
"Yeah,” Peter agreed. “You seem out of it today, you didn’t even bring your notebook,” he teased, plinking the eraser of his pencil gently against your temple.
“Oh,” you had been grateful that up until now Peter had had the good grace not to bring up, or maybe hadn’t noticed that in your haste to come over to what you thought was a text-based booty-call, you hadn’t actually brought your homework. Just your textbook. That you’d had to borrow sheets of paper from him to carry along.
But in your defense, it was a prop, for God’s sake! In the great laundry list of potential props you could have chosen, a chemistry book was probably the least sexy thing you could have picked, but it fit what you’d thought the setting was.
Lucky thing, too, for Peter really was intent on studying.
“Oh?” Peter, that devilishly smart boy -- nothing slipped past him, and he’d latched, like a spider spinning a fly in a web, onto the tone of disappointment in your voice. “Sorry,” he tossed his pencil onto the notebook resting on the coffee table with a gentle thwap, “I realize balancing equations isn’t exactly the most exciting way to spend a Friday night. Did you have other plans?”
No, you idiot, you thought, I thought you were the plan.
“Ah, no,” you huffed, “I, uhhh, well ...”
Just say it, girl. If he’d been watching you with the level of intent that he had all night and really hadn’t picked up on anything, maybe he wasn’t the sharp little spider you’d thought he was.
You did your best to inject some levity, some sunshine into your voice when you bumped your shoulder into Peter’s:
“Well, Pete, I’m not gonna lie -- I thought this was ... another kind of invite?” You lilted the end of your sentence like a question, hoping to ask your way into alleviating any awkwardness with a breezily-forced chuckle. You certainly didn’t want to ruin things between you and your caramel-eyed lab partner with the endearingly ratty band t-shirts.
And while fortune favors the bold ... Peter, surprisingly, beat you to the punch.
“Yeah ...” Peter scruffed the back of his neck, his eyes meeting yours -- the already-limited air on the couch was virtually zapped between the two of you. With only heat, unspoken words, and the vague aroma of microwaved noodles so prominent in any collegiate living setting ... All between the two of you. So much in so little space.
No wonder you couldn’t breathe.
“I, uh, I suppose a Friday night text might ... mean something else. But you ...” Peter trailed off, as if having his own lightbulb moment of realization.
Whatever playlist he’d had running on his phone whilst the two of you were studying had looped back to the beginning now. Peter’s eyes snapped to yours again, a dawning light behind them.
“You, you... didn’t bring your notebook,” Peter’s fingers now tip-tapping the side of his thigh nervously skittering, dangerously close to your own thigh. “So, you thought ... so you wanted ...?”
“Yes, Peter,” you had turned your body so it was fully facing his now, “I wanted.”
Peter wasted no time, then, gripping the sides of your face with both hands, pulling you to him, his lips, finally, fully meeting yours, embracing amorous intent.
Kissing Peter Parker was better than you had fantasized in the quieter moments of chem lab when you’d not-so-discreetly been watching the way his long fingers gently held his pencil during note-taking.
It was like breathing, while simultaneously knocking the breath from your very lungs. It was tender, yet punishing. Realization. Ardor.
Peter’s fingers travelled from the base of your jaw to cup the back of your head, his fingers resting in the hair at the nape of your neck, taking in a breath and allowing himself to indulge in the pillowy plushness of your lower lip, sucking it between his own.
Do I owe each kiss to lip and cheek? To the sparking truth of giving Peter so much “lip” that he’d finally, mercifully gotten the hint? To ...
You gasped as Peter gently nipped the your lower lip, the slight part of your mouth allowing Peter to slip his tongue into your mouth, licking his way into you like so-many small, pinpricking sparks, giving way to full flame. You could burn this way, if Peter weren’t there to anchor you, in the slight chill of his collegiate, underheated apartment.
A break, Peter pulling his lips ever-slightly from yours to gaze into your eyes, to gauge your reaction, to be met with the burning glimmer of falling stars, low and slow-burning embers behind your eyes, lips kiss-bitten, chest heaving with want.
Who knew that Peter Parker could kiss like that. Could kiss like promises, the swelling song at the end of a film, like the slip of something sweet across your tongue that made you crave ... more, more, more.
You stood, pacing away from the couch, tugging frantic fingers through the frazzled ends of your hair, goosebumps dancing across your skin like you’d so-often imagined of Peter’s fingers.
“Wha-- was that ...” Peter took in your pacing, your figure whirling to face him once more, “Was that ... okay?”
You laughed. A broken thing like shattered ice and cracking lighting, hitching like a desperate sob.
Or were you laughing at him? At the ridiculous situation in which you found yourselves? At the fact that he had been eating Flaming Hot Cheetos when you were studying, before he’d kissed you and he was realizing only now that you probably tasted the red powder on his tongue? At the forward way which he had gripped your jaw, dialing back his strength as though you were made of glass-- though he could veritably imagine pressing little fingertip bruises into the base of your jaw? The thought of marking you as his was a concept worth tucking into his back pocket for later.
If only you’d known how often he’d imagined it, through frantic tugs at the tips of your hair when you were frustrated in lab. The way you’d furrow your brow when you concentrated. How he’d imagined kissing said frustrated wrinkle away, kissing your worries away into washed, smooth skin, smiling, and happy to see only him... Sunshine.
But here you stood now, above him, a curl of your finger to beckon him. That same curled finger hooking into the torso of his loose band t-shirt when he was too slow to stand. That same grip that turned vicelike into his sides as Peter once again affixed his lips to you, rewarded with a little gasp when he kissed that spot on your neck.
You’d guided the two of you away from the couch and against the wall abutting the living room and into the kitchen.
And how had you ended up seated on the kitchen counter, Peter’s lips trailing along your collarbones through the top of your thin shirt, while your hands were fixed around his neck.
And how thereafter you had somehow found your way onto Peter’s bed, with him atop you, lightly rolling your hips and grinding into the denim-clad thigh that had found itself nested between your gently-parted legs.
Peter pulled back, panting through kiss-swollen lips. You could make him ill, achy with want, if you’d wanted to, and you didn’t even have to try. A sugar rush he’d let settle into his stomach, beneath his skin, anywhere you’d have him. You’d stopped studying sometime after nine, and who knows what time it was now?
"We could’ve done this the entire time?” Peter breathed into your neck, “Now that we've started, I don't think I'll ever be able to stop."
"Oh, loverboy," you croon, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth,"You have no idea.”
THIRSTY THURSDAY!!!! Getting dressed up all nice to go out and not even making it to the restaurant before Peter is fucking you in your nice dress and heels. Very partition by Beyoncé.
Veryyyy "Partition," but also, very "Green, Green, Dress?" Like the way he touches her in that dress... Just makes me feel a little crazyyyy -- Enjoy! (to me, this definitely takes place in the "predictive text" universe).
18+ ONLY please -- it’s a whole thing. Touching, biting, mirror sex, some absolute verbal filth. Probably stupid and slutty because I’m tired.
anything you say [tasm!peter parker x reader]
wc: 1.1k of absolute filth (i love blurbs. i’d love to write one someday).
--
"We’re going to be late ....” Peter rounded the corner to your room, halting at the dooraway. “Whoaaaa, where have you been hiding that?"
You glanced up into the standing, floor-length mirror to lock eyes with your boyfriend through your reflection. The flowy, satin-y redwine dress was soft to the touch as you smoothed it down the tops of your legs, rewarding Peter with a flashing glimpse of your bare thigh between your midnight stockings and the hem of your dress. Like the kind of devastating girl who would be the subject of a Hozier song, a perpetual muse leading to eventual, indescribable destruction.
“You’re not so bad yourself, Pete,” you acknowledged, appreciatively noting the crisp white dress shirt he had donned, sleeves rolled up his sculpted forearms to rest at the elbow. “Bared forearms?” You quirked a brow at your boyfriend in jest, “You harlot.”
Peter snorted at that, though his heated, honeyed eyes hadn’t left your form, roving the curves bedecked by the flattering cut of a sweetheart neckline, smooth long sleeves, and a decently-short hemline. You smirked at Peter in the mirror, pleased at his reaction, his assessment of you, and turning your attention back to fixing your stockings into place.
You felt, rather than heard, your boyfriend breeze into place behind you, felt the warmth of his arms coming to encase you, his electrifying touch grazing the satin sheen along the curve of your hips.
“Baby,” he breathed into your ear, “this is fucking cruel of you -- to make me sit through dinner when you look good enough to fucking eat. How could any man focus?”
You made a show of rolling your eyes, your voice taking on a flirtatious lilt and doing your best to ignore the feeling of Peter’s palms skating over your hips and up your sides,
“But Peter,” you gasped, teasing him for his earlier concern, “We’re going to be late.”
“That depends,” Peter’s mouth was skating up your neck, coming to rest along the shell of your ear, all heated whispers and filthy fucking promises. “How fast do you think I can make you cum before we go?”
If Peter’s handsy little tête-à-tête wasn’t making the heat rush through you, his words sure did the trick, feeling wetness begin to pool at your core at the weight of his words.
“I’ll bet ...” One of Peter’s hands roved up the front of your dress to cup the fullness of your tit before dragging firmly up to your throat, the other hand traipsing a teasing, spidersilk trail up the hem of your skirt and along the exposed skin of your upper thigh, “I’ll just fucking bet I can wreck you properly in time.”
Peter gripped, pulling you back by the bare skin of your hip into his front, rolling the very obvious effect your dress had on him into your backside.
You sighed, eyes rolling slightly back at his words, the feel of a firm hand around your throat and the promise of Peter, Peter, Peter driving the very thought of a months-long dinner reservation out of your mind. Sure, date-nights with your vigilante boyfriend were few and far between, thanks to the nocturnal nature of his unpaid hero gig. But some things were worth weighing. Like the very real weight of Peter’s erection against you. Or the fact that his hands were everywhere at once, all of a sudden. Running beneath your skirt to feel what you had hoped would be a surprise later, but may as well be discovered now -- your very real lack of underwear beneath said red dress.
Your ears were met with the breathy moan of your boyfriend at his discovery, something for your ears to cherish, as he trailed a long finger firmly through your slit, gathering it’s wetness.
“Oh, honey,” Peter’s voice had taken on a hint of what you might mistake for meanness if you didn’t know better, a condescending clip met with nipping teeth and the trace of tongue along your ear, molten words melting their way into your brain, “Fuck.”
You felt one of Peter’s hands abscond from its rightful resting place along your hip to unzip his pants.
“I-I’m just not good with self-control,” Peter groaned, taking himself in his hand and rolling a teasing stroke of his cock along your folds, causing you to buck your hips at the very promise of the weight of him inside of you. “I’m going to fuck you now, okay?”
Your gasping breath became baited, awaiting Peter,’s next move. Which, apparently, was waiting on you. His grip had returned to your neck, traveling to grip the hair gathered at the nape of your neck and pulling until you opened your eyes with a shrill gasp.
“Okay?” Peter demanded again, locking eyes with your starry ones in the mirror.
“Yes,” you sighed, allowing your eyes to slip closed again at the feel of Peter finally, mercifully, sliding inside of you from behind, your silken heat gripping him as he began to fuck you in earnest.
“Mayyyybe,” Peter gritted, relishing in the sound of his hips meeting your flesh, pushing into you with a pleasurable, punishing pace that made starry tears prickle at the corner of your eyes. “Maybe I’ll make you cum again in the cab on the way there. Fuck your pretty little pussy with my fingers until you just can’t stay quiet?”
Oh, God. The thought, Peter’s words, spurring you closer, closer, as a particularly brutal thrust knocked you forward enough that you had to clutch the sides of the standing mirror with shaky fingers, undone and wrecked by the sight of Peter behind you.
The kind of girl you like is right here with me...
“Maybe I’ll take you in the bathroom, taste your sweet cunt for dessert?” Peter’s clever fingers you adored so well now playing a well-loved tune, circling over, along, against your clit, causing you to see stars, the heat ever-climbing. “If I do that, you’d have to be good all through dinner. Can you do that? Hmmm?”
Peter’s thrusts were brutal, punishing and choppy as you could feel him nearing his end. A particularly clever strum of his fingers against your clit had you toppling over the edge, a gasping
“Yes,” leaving your lips in answer to Peter’s filthy queries, relishing in the heavy drag of his final thrusts within you, of the feeling of his release inside of you, and the ache you loved to hate, that you knew that was soon to follow when he pulled out, leaving you desperate for him again.
Reader walking out in a Spider-Man towel. Hair dripping down to her cleavage while Peter accidentally walks into her place while she walks out to her kitchen or something…
OOOH! I like this, mi amor. It's so CUTE!! I made it a lil dirty? Happy thirst! I hope this isn't terrible....
18+ please!
--
It had been a joke, really, meant for a bit of humor.
You'd seen the red-and-blue emblazoned beach towel hanging over a makeshift clothesline in Times Square, and had bought it without a second thought. You hadn't really intended to use it. But if Peter thought it was funny, then mission accomplished?
Except it was laundry day. Your bath towels were all downstairs in the machine, swirling away while you had absent-mindedly jumped into the shower to rinse after a long morning of chores while Peter was out on early-morning patrol.
Didn't really think that one through, did you?
It wasn't until you were halfway through rinsing your hair that you realized the only towel left in your apartment was the Spidey-printed monstrosity at the back of your hall closet.
Quickly, you finished rinsing, darting to your hall closet to retrieve the Spidertowel, hoping to dry off and get changed before Peter could see it.
But luck wasn't really on your side, was it?
Just as you had finished wrapping the towel around yourself, you tiptoed, hair still dripping, into the kitchen to see if Peter was home yet, only to be met with the wide, honeyed eyes of your boyfriend, jotting something in his notepad, glasses sliding down his nose. Clearly he had come home and long-since changed from his suit since you had jumped in the shower.
"Whoaaaaaa," Peter chuckled. "Look at that thing."
Okay, sure, the fact that his girlfriend was dripping wet in front of him while he perused what she was wrapped in was maybe a bit different than his usual reaction to you. But you had bought the towel to get a reaction out of him. So, mission accomplished after all?
Peter closed the gap through the kitchen to the sitting area where you stood, taking a corner of the towel between his thumb and forefinger, frowning slightly.
"What?" you asked, "Don't you like it? I ... thought it was kinda funny."
Peter shook his head, nonplussed, taking your shoulders and gently nudging you to spin in a circle before him, noting how the large-scale eyes of his mask settled across your back.
"I mean," Peter tugged a hand through his hair. "Should I be getting paid for this?"
"Peter!" you chuckled, your tone filled with mock-offense, "Your girlfriend is standing in front of you in nothing but a towel, and you're worried about royalty checks for your vigilantism?" You scoffed sarcastically, making to brush past him to change.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry --" Peter scrambled after you, catching your waist and twirling you back toward him, into his waiting arms. Where he deftly undid the top-tuck of the towel, holding it open and exposing your naked form to him. "I just gotta see if the inside matches the outside."
Cheeky. Well if he wasn't going to take the initiative, you would.
You leaned forward, pressing your body into Peter's, kissing him deeply, rewarded with a groan from somewhere in Peter's throat as you slipped your tongue past his lips.
"Well, I had meant to check out the entire thing," Peter's lips broke from yours, panting lightly.
The liar, you thought, noting how his eyes never left your form as he let the towel flutter to the floor, decidedly not looking at it as he opted instead to rove the tempting curves before him. "But, wouldn't you know? I got distracted."
He scooped you by the backs of your thighs, lifting your form like nothing with his enhanced strength, laying you gently along the length of the couch as he latched his lips to your neck in a teasing, cloying kiss.
"Pete," you sighed, tilting your head into the couch cushions, paying no mind to the fact that your damp hair was most definitely soaking the cushions as your boyfriend peppered kisses along every part of you that he could reach.
Peter was a man of single-minded purpose, chasing the slight rivulets of water that had skated down your breasts, swirling his tongue dutifully over your nipple to ensure no droplets were left. It was his duty, really.
And if the gasps you were emitting were anything to go by, he was very good at his job.
He made his way down your body, peppering kisses over the ridges of your ribs, like petals skating along your sides, abandoning his grip on your thigh in favor of tracing his fingers through your now-slick folds.
"Aw, baby," he cooed, "What'd you buy that towel for? You're still so wet." He was met with nothing but thankful sighs and gasps as he slipped two fingers inside of you, stroking you in the way he knew you'd liked best, basking in your pretty little moans.
"Eyes on me, pretty," Peter removed his fingers, making sure to make a lewd show of licking his fingers clean before tilting forward to lick a stripe up your cunt. "Still wet. Guess it doesn't do as good a job as the real Spidey."
there's something so powerful about how he looks down so um... maybe give him a reason to? 😏
BOY HOWDY, do I have feelings about THIS... I'm gonna keep this in the same 'verse as my sun summoner!reader, "the things we left behind." Enjoy, beloved 😘😘
18+ please!
--
The Darkling was powerful. He was formidable. He was feared amongst men and grisha alike. In the interests of self-preservation, soldiers were respectfully deferential to their General, lest shadows swiftly overtake them.
He was commanding, with a steeled will and an iron fist. Addressing crowds and bending those to his will as easily as he bent shadows was second nature to him.
How exactly had it come to pass, then, that the most feared man in Ravka had found himself subordinate to only one? -- You. The Sun Summoner. His goddess of spun gold and sunlight, of platinum and pearls. One beaming smile from you, and he was weak in the knees.
So there he sat, behind his desk, pretty as a picture and the very embodiment of refinement. And you knew -- you would ruin him.
Kneeling before him, all fluttered lids and kiss-bitten lips, you were sent to tempt, to confound, to destroy... As sweet and heated a destruction as only you were capable.
"I'm so tired of it, Aleksander," you murmured against the skin of his thighs, lips trailing open-mouthed kisses there, up and up and up, your tongue following lightly just behind, a dragging little tease. You held his length in your palm, stroking along the curve of his shaft, maddeningly even-keel about the whole thing, really.
"T-tired of what, moya tsaritsa?" You could see it behind his eyes of obsidian, his usually-steely countenance melting at the heated weight of your attentions pressing into his very skin, his very self.
You smiled, lips curling, Cheshire like against the skin of his hip, where you'd rested your head, eyes following the movements of your own hand. He felt the curve of your grin, hardly the most maddening thing your mouth could do, but devastating nonetheless.
"Hmmm ... Of them," Your voice held false condescension, dripping with disdain he knew you weren't truly capable of, a honeyed falsehood falling from idolatrous lips. Your hand never pausing in its movements, heated strokes to signify your repeated, endless worship of your beloved. Not-so-secretly pleased with Aleksander's pitched, uneven breaths at your efforts. Barely-lidded control.
"They praise me as Sankta, the Sun Summoner, a savior..."
You'd paused your speech and your movements, selfishly savoring the sharp intake of shuddered breath from the man seated before you, usually so pristine, calculated.
Looking up at your Darkling, your General, your Aleksander, through eyes heavy-lidded with lust and fluttering lashes of coquettish coyness.
“But who’s left to worship you,” you breathed, a piteous hmm escaping your lips as you finally, graciously took his length into your mouth, nails scratching up his thighs, keening at the way your Darkling’s hands flew from the arms of his chair to clasp together, tangled, through your hair -- held in a sacreligious prayer.
And worship you did (though you would never deign to pretend you didn’t enjoy your beloved’s pitched gasps at your attentions), lips and tongue mouthing along his shaft as though murmuring a sinful hymn.
“I will; I’ll pray to you, Aleks,” you broke from him, a strand of saliva connecting your lips to where he wanted you the most.
“And I you, sunshine,” the Darking leant forward to appreciate the piteous picture, of his Sun Summoner, of Ravka’s Sankta, knelt before him. He gripped your wrist to pull you up, settling you into his lap. “We can pray together,” he growled, connecting your lips once more.
#Thurstday on #Kaldisrooftop . Get a better view. Tag a friend #MangoBrown #Photography #SilverSpring #MD (at Kaldis Rooftop) https://www.instagram.com/p/CiNYVPArjg3/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
#Thurstday on #Kaldisrooftop . Get a better view. Tag a friend #MangoBrown #Photography #SilverSpring #MD (at Kaldis Rooftop) https://www.instagram.com/p/CiNYP3VrBuS/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
#Thurstday on #Kaldisrooftop . Get a better view. Tag a friend #MangoBrown #Photography #SilverSpring #MD (at Kaldis Rooftop) https://www.instagram.com/p/CiNYHBhLA4X/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
