#emo peter x reader

Right. 

You and Peter slowly come together and intertwine – wires of yours wrapping, cords tangling, electricity passing through so together you become something new. 

Something great. Something you both need from each other. 

Ground and neutral – two circuit conductors for the electrical system of your relationship that has no name and is never explained to other people. 

The alternating current of your periodically reversing directions never leaving space for doubt, the magnitude of the emotion changing because Peter has never been all too good at keeping his feet on the ground and you have never had the chance to look for a saving line you can hold on to, instead grasping his hand. 

Peter slowly thaws, slowly warms up and slowly adjusts but from that point on he is everywhere and everything in your life – the electricity of his never going into the ground and always into you, clenching your grip on him involuntarily. 

You chose him, darling. You aren’t letting go now that he just got used to your presence in his life. 

To having someone who thinks him special and brilliant and attractive. 

To having a soulmate – the other half he has always hoped for and never believed he would actually get. 

Only you eye him in classes and draw him from memory and kiss him in the rain and Peter cannot fucking look away from you, the force of your gravity pulling him in and pulling him under. 

No way to get out from under your ice, no need to leave the comfortable darkness of your head when you share with him candy and second-hand nicotine exposure, revising school assignments under your breath. 

You slot into his life and suddenly the switch gets flipped, like someone above says “let there be light” and he can see again. 

It’s unnervingly easy – the way you act like he has always been there and you have always been something. 

It leaves him puzzled and greedy – how much will you let him do, while still breathing out in his ear “please behave, Dunbar” when his fingers sink in the plush of your side and he hunches over just to prop his chin on your shoulder and watch how you highlight the important parts for the upcoming English literature test. 

You kiss him behind the ear when he finishes his work before you, you hiss when his fingers pry too close to the hem of your skirt, you squeeze his hand back whenever he gets a hold of yours.

You always spoil him but you never let him off easy and Peter never thought he’d find it so addictive.

In all honesty, he is not sure that he is even in love, because he has never been, but Peter is absolutely sure that he wants you. 

The warmth, the company, the inside jokes and lightness that comes with your presence. The piling books on supernatural phenomena that you carry around, the lily-of-the-valley perfume seeping through his shirts, the rings of yours that he pries off your fingers and forgets to put back on, carrying them around in his pockets.

[Slipping them back on and always starting that ritual with your ring finger for no particular reason, of course.] 

Peter isn’t sure that he is in love because there are no butterflies in his stomach – only the heated feral pounding inside his skull, the starved animal of his own affection offering to swallow you whole just to be safe, just so you don’t choose your peace of mind and walk away while you still can. 

He half expects you to finally ask him about the kind of relationship you two share, to sputter some nonsense about being in love with him and wanting to be exclusive (like you aren’t already. It’s no coincidence that people stop approaching you altogether when Peter starts draping his arm over your shoulders).

He waits for you to finally whine about wanting him to conform to a certain box so he can satisfy your very apparent anxiety. 

Only you don’t ask him for a thing. 

Somehow it is even more unnerving than being asked for the moon, the stars and a poem (not that he will admit to already writing some about you).

“You ever wonder what we are?” he asks at some point, forgetting to bite his tongue, because your body stiffens and he can feel the tension coursing through you before you relax and continue with the writing for the test prep.

“Any particular reason you are asking?” The eerie levelness of your voice should not annoy him as much as it does, but here he fucking is, digging up the coffin he didn’t want to admit even exists. 

“Well, we are something, right? Can’t be a couple of strangers with things that we do.” Peter huffs out, hating the nervous fidgety feeling in his chest, the small weak part of him aching for your reassurance that he didn’t think too much of what was going on. 

“We are something.” You finally nod, clicking your pen a few times before continuing, “I am your soulmate, you are my best friend.” You pause before adding, tone almost shy. “I shall hope that I am your best friend too.” 

Peter can never admit but something in his chest blooms – achingly sweet and terribly innocent, entirely too pure for someone like him because no, he doesn’t do friends and doesn’t do connections and doesn’t do normalcy. 

But you two aren’t really normal, right. 

Half a soulmate is a rare occasion.

“Right.” He mumbles, leaning back on you, chin propped on your shoulder to watch how you spin the pen in your trembling fingers, fierce tenderness spreading through him. No one ever was so nervous to be something for him. 

He is glad that you are the one who gets to be the first one.

“You think it’s fine that we are like this as friends?” he asks after a beat, breathing in your perfume, head clouding with the hunger he can never sate without stepping over his own cowardice. 

“I think it’s no one’s business but ours, Dunbar.” You hum, much calmer this time, slotted against his body like the perfect puzzle piece. “As long as we are both happy everyone else can fuck off.” 

Peter eases a grip he did not realise he had on you this whole time and nods, his heart rate slowing down, something wounded and anxious in him stretching out to give you access to pet him behind the ears.

“Right.” Peter murmurs, closing his eyes, long fingers tracing the pattern of your blue knitted sweater, warming up on the heat of your body. “You are, by the way.” He adds after a full minute, tone almost gentle. Practically shy. “I am what?” Your voice is a little lower when you tilt your head so he can press his nose to your neck and the gesture itself is enough to make him delirious with want. “My best friend.” Peter still says, smiling to himself when you pause and then press into him a little harder. Almost nuzzling into him with your whole body. “Okay.” you nod, a little shaky and a little too happy, your tone brighter when he hugs you tighter and nods in return. 

Maybe the two of you don’t need to be in a specific box, he thinks. Maybe being just together as you are now can be enough.

He does not remember when he falls asleep, wrapped around you like that, face nuzzled in the comfortable warmth of the crook of your neck, palms tucked against your tummy. 

Guarding his treasure or preparing to eat his dinner, you joke to yourself, when you notice how his breath evens out. 

There is never a way to actually tell with Peter who he is going to be – hunter or protector, predator or companion. At times you aren’t sure yourself whether he himself can tell. 

Hurt people hurt people, you heard somewhere a lifetime ago and never took it close to heart because that doesn’t have to be the rule. 

Things can be different with the two of you. You and Peter can be different. 

Broken people save broken people, you share at some point, his head resting in your lap as he naps after the last class of the day, a glimmer of his irises when he looks at you through the sharp array of his eyelashes letting you know that he is listening. 

There is something in that moment, that will make you think back to it later, that will keep you up at night, that will come back to haunt you again and again. Because in that moment Peter is impossibly young and impossibly fragile – he is the prettiest rose of every garden and the sharpest shard of every mirror you have ever looked in. 

He is what you are a half of and he is what you have never been. 

You don’t continue your thought, don’t add anything other than what you have said already and for some reason, that day he has no cutting remark either. 

No sarcastic tidbit he can throw in to dilute the tension of your shared moment. 

Maybe, you think late at night, because that was one of the few times he really wanted to believe that you were right. 

Maybe, because in that exact moment, part of him actually did.

Weeks pass by in a blink with him, fruits of your labour swelling and ripening when Peter stops flinching away and starts looking at you expectantly when you don’t immediately give him your hand first thing after school. 

Like he finally comes to terms with you staying around and staying with him, now latching onto your affection and licking it off your bones, no longer afraid that you will take it away when he is still starving.

He finally stops glaring at people who assume what kind of relationship you two share and just shrugs when the most curious ones ask who are you to him, simply responding with “mine”. 

Peter never elaborates, but three fights and a split brow of his down the line people stop being too curious. 

You think that things actually change when Sarah approaches you during lunch – tall and saccharine pretty she grins at you, plopping in Peter’s seat, her arm draping over your shoulders, her eyes laughing when she notices her brother making a 180 and starts walking to the table. 

“Hope he’s not being too mean to ya, is he, senpai?” Sarah croons in your ear, lips sticky with strawberry lipgloss and the butterflies she invokes with just one question are entirely unfamiliar to you. “You can tell me, I promise, I can keep a secret.” She adds, corners of her eyes creasing when she notices your reaction. 

“I can handle him.” You murmur, suddenly shy under her eyes, the exact same shade Peter has. “Thank you for asking though.” 

You hold no illusions regarding Sarah’s involvement – the two of you have never been friends and you doubt you will become any, but she hugs you, her lipgloss-shiny smile blinding you for a moment and you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks faster. 

“You are sooo kawai.” She singsongs, entirely too gleeful, smooching your cheek before Peter manages to get to the table. “I will see you around, senpai. Don’t be a stranger.” She manages to dive under Peter’s arm, maneuvering around him with the agility of a sibling that grew up side by side with someone whose limbs are so long and blows you a goodbye kiss before returning to her table. 

“The hell was that?” Peter hisses, plopping down next to you, hunching over so he can look in your hot face. “Your sister.” You muse automatically and steal an apple from his tray, ignoring his irritated huff. “Go ask her if you wanna, Dunbar, I am hungry.” 

He mumbles something under his breath but still presses his side into yours, his coarse thumb suddenly swiping over the apple of your cheek when you start chewing.

When you look up at him, his eyes are dark and hollow with the need you do not recognise, something in your lower abdomen pulsating when he leans down and presses the kiss of his own to your cheek. His lips stay on your skin for too long of a time – cool and gentle, pausing when he presses another kiss to the corner of your lips, covering you from the mass of people with his back. 

“Here.” Peter murmurs, suddenly so calm like he wasn’t ready to rip someone’s head off a few moments before. “Much better now. Keep eating, darling, you’ll need your strength.”

You don’t ask him what it even means and ignore Sarah’s amused glance from across the cafeteria. 

Dunbar siblings are weird and you are not playing games with them. Not when there is no way to win with both of them at once.

Winter break comes even quicker once you get to midterm exams and unending amount of prep that forces you and by definition Peter into the library, locking you in there until the closing hours. Because not even his ill temper or occasional “kitten, let’s go home, im fucking tired” can make you stop studying. 

You are not failing these tests and you are not staying behind an entire year just because your pretty soulmate is a genius that doesn’t really need to study to pass. 

So when the librarian kicks the two of you out before the closing, wishing “happy holidays” in a tired patient voice developed in years of dealing with unruly teens, Peter almost kneels right then and there for a quick prayer to god, earning himself a silent glare from you.

Winter howls with winds and incoming blizzard, snow slapping him in the face when you walk out of the library and it is already fucking dark outside and you are squinting at the iced out slippery sidewalk, clearly unsure whether it is so wise for you both to walk that path to doom. 

“I told you not to s-stay this long in the fuckin’ library, kitten.” Peter hisses, trying his best to hide the chatter of his teeth, big palm gripping yours when you almost slip on the pavement. “Fucking careful!” 

“S-stop yelling at me, Dunbar.” You hiss right back, gripping his palm tighter – stubborn and cold, you make some tender aching part of him fucking melt when you wobble to the bus stop with him in hand. Refusing to let go and anchoring on him. “H-how are you not s-slipping on th-this fucking ice?” Your tone is almost accusatory when you whine and Peter can’t help but crack a grin. 

Cute as fuck, darling, cute as fuck. “What? You mad I’m n-not falling on my ass? Maybe you sh-shouldn’t have worn these furry heeled f-fuckin’ boots when you s-saw the damn forecast.” 

The pause between you stretches and he slowly turns his head to you, grin widening when you just turn away and keep going, towing him after you to the cover of the bus stop. 

Flushed and pouting, visibly cold and a little mad at him, you make Peter want to nuzzle into you and get some more reactions, something sick in him wagging it’s tail to see you whine when he grips the fat of your thighs and leaves some bites in places where no one can see them but you will always feel. 

“You d-didn’t look at the f-forecast, did ya? Wanted to get all d-dolled up and forgot.” He stretches out despite the chatter of his teeth, and cruel cold winds and your pouting lips, his whole face litting up like a Christmas tree when you grip his hand tighter and huff out “fuck off”. 

That’s just precious. 

“You are s-so annoying.” You finally say, fingers still intertwined with his despite your faux exasperation and jutted out lower lip. 

“You are welcome to s-stop holding my hand any t-time you want, kitten.” Peter singsongs, grin morphing into an entirely gleeful one when you try to follow his advice just for him to squeeze your palm in a death grip, cackling at your yelp. 

Trick offer, darling, should have known that by now. Did he not teach you a thing while hanging out around you and poisoning your air and kissing every sliver of skin you leave uncovered for his lips to find and familiarise themselves with?

Seems like he needs to put in some extra work, really drive the last nail in this coffin so he can keep you nice and snug with him, six feet under him and a hundred yards around empty with no motherfucker staring at your ass or asking for directions.

Who the fuck would even need directions with you looking like the sweetest treat in the street? 

Other than directions to your bedroom, maybe, the voice in his head chimes in and Peter has to force it deeper, ignoring the familiar aching building up in his belly. Wrong time AND place, he absolutely cannot maul you in the snow.

He pulls you into the bus stop right when you look like you are ready to knock him into the bushes, consequences of falling down there with him be damned. Peter instead is shamelessly warming up on you, pushing his ice cold palms under your sweater and laughing when you screech, trying to wiggle out of his embrace. 

Just became even more annoying than he was and yet you are still here, aren’t you?

He smiles, still laughing when he catches you looking at him awestruck and still a little annoyed, his chest hurting from how much he wants to kiss you. 

A person should not be so impossibly lovely, not to him, not when he is being an ass and you still stick around, holding onto his hand and warming him up. 

“So good for me, darling.” Peter breathes out in your ear and feels the heat roll up to his head when you flush, your eyes half-lidded and a little dazed and oh, someone has a little thing for praise, huh?

The street is empty so he leans lower and actually sinks his teeth in the apple of your cheek, ignoring your breathless “Dunbar, what the fuck” and the way your body just slopes against his – every bone in you melting when he does that. 

A little bit of pressure, a hint of his teeth and you become all pliant and needy. 

Always works. “That’s what I love about you.” Peter murmurs, lips trailing to your ear and lower, littering a hundred feather-light kisses all over your skin so he can soak up some of that warmth you seem to be radiating. 

So he can soak you in himself and you never again want to let go of his hand because you will never want to let go of him. 

He can always be yours if you’d let him.

“It's a little cold to be making out outside.” You say, flushed and no longer stuttering, hands wrapped around his waist to hold on close, to keep him with you, so your Peter can give you a hundred more kisses all over. 

“I know, darling.” Peter kisses your cheek, gums itching to bite you again, to leave his mark, to take a bite out of you so he can keep a piece of you always with him. “Want to come over to my place? Mother’s away, Sarah’s in her stupid anime club and we have a group project together.”

You give him a slow dazed blink before what he said finally sinks into you and Peter has the pleasure to watch you get flustered again, burrowing your face in his chest and groaning before you are able to look at him again. 

“So what, we are gonna study at your place today?” you inquire, a little suspicious and the hopeful shine in your eyes just makes the next phrase so much sweeter. “Oh, we're gonna study alright, kitten.” Peter drawls out, his embrace around you tightening when you squeak and the tail he never had wags harder. “And then I will pull off your stupid cute sweater and warm you up proper if you get cold.” You roll your eyes, only the heat in your cheeks speaks for itself when he pecks them again, almost purring in satisfaction. “At least you think my sweater is cute.” You say after a pause and Peter pretends to look at the beaming winter sun because he absolutely needs to go blind. “Stupid cute.” He corrects you and bites the inside of his cheek when you grin, pressing yourself closer to his body. “Yeah-yeah, tomato tomahto, Dunbar. We all heard you loud and clear.” You grin like the devil and smooch his jaw, all resistance bleeding out of him on the crunchy snow under your boots.

Little devil, you purposefully ignore his “who are you even talking to, kitten” and instead you press another kiss in the hollow of his throat, conveniently spotting the approaching bus when he starts contemplating actually dragging you off into the bushes.

But your palm is in his when you nestle next to the window – looking a lot like a bird in your puff jacket – and Peter doesn’t know what to do with the absolute foreign feeling of safety he gets when you squeeze his hand and pull him a little closer.

Your throat is warm when he nuzzles into it, tip of his nose cold after the long walk to the bus stop. 

Your hair is ticking his face and he may not be in love, but he wants to have this feeling forever more. 

And maybe he should have said it outloud so you knew it meant something, that it has always meant something even if it didn’t often look like it. But he didn’t.

Instead Peter just grumbles “lemme sleep a little bit”, some hungry part of him licking its teeth to bite your neck and hold you in place. 

Just because he wants you to stay still or because he wants to feel like no one can take you away when he needs you, he hasn’t decided yet. You don’t realise it right away, but somewhere along the way Peter hits the downwards spiral and you don’t manage to grip him by the collar in time to pull him out of it, to keep his head above water so he doesn’t start drowning a little too eagerly. 

A new therapist, a bit of an adjustment, i’m fucking fine, he says, waving off your questions and bristling at your prying because god forbid he lets you in on what seems to be the fucking issue and is he flinching away from your touch again.

So you stop sitting in the library until closing and start following him around, now a haunting shadow for his existence – watching him from the corner of your eye and accompanying him to the rooftops so you don’t miss out on him looking down for a little too long. 

It’s nerve wrecking in the worst possible way because he seems to revel in someone finally seeing how rough the shape that he is in is. Because Peter, for once, has never been afraid of death and was always looking forward to it and as much as you hate it, having a soulmate did not change it. 

At this point, you are not sure what could, other than some proper medication and therapy that does not leave him a bigger mess than he is.

"Well, life's a bitch and then you die." Peter grimly breathes out with the gray smoke, something in you growing hot and defiant at his tone. It has been a long day and you are so behind on your preparation that even thinking about the amount of reading you need to catch up on makes your head hurt. 

You know that Peter has always had things that never really live up to his expectations and were never enough for him.

Standardizes tests, for once. Or people. Or normalcy.

You know that very well - you have known it all along from his mournful "If i hear another 'good morning' I will kill myself”, to his edgy poetry and beautiful cruel twist of his lips when he sees kids sobbing in the arms of their parents. 

But it has been a tiring fucking day and you are in no mood to listen to Peter dip even deeper into his emo mindset.

“Sometimes life’s a bitch and you keep on living.” You reply even knowing that he doesn’t really require it to continue wallowing in his misery. 

Peter has always been content to stay silent and stew inside of his head.

And as much as you like him, nowadays it becomes fucking exhausting to be around that more often than not.

"You know, it's a common cliche that only misery is interesting and only suffering is noble and only darkness is alluring. I honestly think that choosing to push through and find meaning is always more interesting than quitting right out the gate." You continue for some reason, thoughts just spilling over because you want him to stop dreaming of ends.

You want him to get better. You want him to keep going.

"Putting all that library visits to good use, are we?" he snickers, but there is no actual bite in his voice, "So what, being emo's a cliche now?"

"Giving up is cliche." You reply without thinking, "Being a fucking martyr is a cliche too, Dunbar." you continue, forgetting that for anything even remotely similar a different person would have already gotten pushed off a roof and Peter would have made it look like an accident. (I haven’t seen anything, officer. I was just smoking nearby, officer. It’s so unfortunate when kids jump off the roofs, but you know the school and the tests and the pressure, officer.)

But Peter likes your company and Peter likes when you call him out on his bullshit.

You never try to mock him, you never use what he gives to humiliate him. 

You are refreshingly grounded and excitingly brilliant, and you don’t even realise that. 

Always telling him things he should have realised on his own, yet somehow never had.

Not until you. 

“Miracle you survived this long on your own, Dunbar.” Your voice in his head teases and he blows out the smoke sideways before leaning closer to the real you.

“Trying to say you're gonna kick my ass if I try to slit my veins in the school bathroom, kitten?” Sarcasm coats his tongue, part of him glad that you are looking at the trees below and not at him – content to feel the warmth of his side against yours instead of staring him down.

Part of him is glad you aren’t looking to see the shameful traitorous hope in his eyes when he drapes an arm over your shoulders and presses a smooch to your soft cheek, still half-expecting you to joke.

“Will have to slit mine first just to get me out of your way, Dunbar.” Your reply is eerily calm, blood rushing to Peter’s head when he turns to you fully and you are already looking at him.

Of course you are, the feeling hits, curling the corners of his lips up. Spreading warmth through his body, blooming in his chest with something fierce that he has no name for, lodging your fierce protective affection in between his ribs so you can fuse it with his skeleton. 

So you can always stay with him.

“These are loud words for someone who’s afraid of needles and blood.” Peter tries to play it down, blowing off a stray lock of hair that falls over his eyes and gets in the way of looking back in your big serious eyes.

“True.” you nod, still staring at him, eyes wide and the look that you give him is heavy enough to make him shiver. You aren’t smiling back when he tries to grin at you to lighten up the mood. “In my defence, I like having you around. You are my best friend, I need you to stay around cause I need you around, you know?”

“That’s some selfish fucking reasons, darling.” he murmurs, tone softer than he wanted, affection bleeding into his voice when he tucks a lock of yours behind your ear, trying not to vibrate with pure excitement. 

But you say that you need him out loud and his blood sings, face heating up under the weight of your stare.

“Gonna use my soulmate privilege for this one, babe.” You finally crack a grin in response, cuddling up to his side, eyes crinkling in the corners when you look back at him like he is everything.

He can never admit to you how much it means to hear you say that.

Peter will never tell you that it was the moment that became his anchor in the following years.

You, needing him. You, wanting him around.

You, telling him you are going to stay in his life.

Forever and always, just like he has always wanted someone to.

“What was that?”

“I-I d-don-” Slam!

“Peter, I don-” Slam!

“M-Meow…” You stuttered out embarrassedly. You were truly going to be the death of him. His hands trailed up your face before landing on your cat ears. Rubbing the material between his fingers.

“Sometimes I want to rip these ears off of you. You’re just too fucking cute for your own good, and I bet you don’t even notice how every fucker on the street’s eyes linger on you when you walk by.” Peter began picking up the speed, his cock pushing into you with more force as a sour look took over his face “I really wanna gouge their eyes out, but not before fucking you in front of them, just so they know you’re mine and they can’t have you. Claim you just like this.”

“P-Peter, please. A little slower.” your whined, tears streaming down your face. He leaned down, his long tongue creeping out of his mouth and licking the salty drops off of your cheeks.

“Sorry, kitten. Just a little longer.” He forced himself to calm down, and return to his previous pace. Groaning when he did, you were clenching around him as your life depended on it. You were close, but he was too. So he decided to give you a choice. He stopped moving his cock, it took all the self-control he had, but he stopped, looking at you with a sadistic look in his eyes.

“My cock too much for you? Can’t take anymore?”

You moved your head before correcting yourself, using your voice instead. “N-No. I can’t. It’s too much.”

“Want me to finish? Put my poor kitten out of her misery. Is that what you want?”

“Yes!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, please! Peter, I can’t take anymore.”

“Okay, I’m a good boyfriend, so I’ll be quick, but just remember you begged for this.”

Without warning, he rammed his cock into you as deep as your body allowed him. He fucked you at a pace so fast you were crying out in pain and pleasure, your thighs shaking and your tits bouncing with each thrust. The pleasure was erupting through your entire body as he abused your hole. He didn’t stop for a moment, not even as you begged him to slow down. He couldn’t. Not now. And it was you who asked for this.

He kept hammering himself into you without mercy, each thrust rocking your body and rattling your mind. You felt every thought slip away as you went blank before an indescribable pleasure spread from your core throughout you. Leaving you a drooling mess. Petter pumped a few more times before he followed, releasing every last drop of his hot cum into you, chills erupting on your skin at the sensation. Your pussy spasming around him.

Peter is forced to remove his dick from inside you, even though he really loves the feeling of you around him, he knows if he stays inside you much longer he’s just gonna get hard again, and from the looks of it, he really didn’t think you could handle another round. So he slowly removes his dick, the now-empty feeling leaving you whimpering as your pussy clenches around nothing. You missed the sensation of him filling you up.