Parings → Peter Parker x Reader
Warnings → Angst, jealousy, insecurity, miscommunication, emotional hurt, drunkenness, hangover, guilt, clingy behavior, comfort, vulnerability, soft moments, relationship imbalance, healing.
Summary → Peter messes up at a party over his past, you get hurt, but later he takes care of you and gets clingy.
A/N: This part is soft and a little spicy after the angst we got.
Like your brain was dragging itself through mud, every thought delayed, every sensation just a little too loud.
The first thing you felt was the headache.
A dull, heavy throb right behind your eyes, pulsing with every heartbeat.
“Mm—” you groaned softly, instinctively turning your face into the pillow.
“Okay—nope,” you muttered under your breath, squeezing your eyes shut.
Your mouth felt dry. Your body felt heavy. Your head—
You forced your eyes open, blinking against the faint morning light filtering through the curtains.
Your room. Your bed. Your clothes—
This wasn’t what you wore last night.
Your brows pulled together slightly.
Memory came in fragments.
Music. Crowd. Punch table. Drinking.
You pushed yourself up too quickly, immediately wincing as the headache spiked.
Your hand flew to your forehead, breathing uneven now.
Your mind started racing.
You didn’t remember leaving.
Didn’t remember finding Peter.
Didn’t remember anything after that stupid punch table.
Your heart started pounding.
What if I embarrassed him?
Because you knew how Peter was.
You dragged a hand through your hair, panic rising fast now.
What if I said something stupid?
Your stomach twisted sharply.
Ned. MJ—oh my god—what if I said something about Spider-Man—
A voice, soft and rough with sleep, cut through your spiraling thoughts.
Your head snapped to the side.
He was sitting up now, hair messy, eyes still half-lidded but already focused on you.
Concern hit his face instantly.
“Hey,” he said again, gentler this time, reaching for you. “Easy, easy—what’s wrong?”
You stared at him like he might have the answer to everything.
“I—” your voice came out shaky. “I don’t remember anything.”
Peter’s expression softened immediately.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “That’s okay.”
“No, it’s not,” you rushed out, panic still clawing at your chest. “Peter, I drank—I drank so much, and I don’t—what if I said something? What if I embarrassed you? What if I told them—”
His hands came up to your face.
Your eyes snapped to his.
“You didn’t,” he said firmly. “Okay? You didn’t tell anyone anything.”
Your breathing stuttered slightly.
“No,” he shook his head gently. “You’re good. I promise.”
You searched his face like you were trying to find any hint of doubt.
Your shoulders sagged slightly, relief mixing with lingering anxiety.
Peter’s thumbs brushed lightly against your cheeks.
“You’re okay,” he murmured. “You just—got really drunk.”
You let out a weak, embarrassed groan, dropping your forehead against his shoulder.
A quiet huff of amusement left him, one hand moving to the back of your head, holding you there gently.
“Tempting,” he murmured. “But I think I’ll keep you.”
You let out a small, tired breath against him.
The question came out quieter this time.
Because yeah, you had said things.
Things that had stuck in his head all night.
He tightened his hold on you instead.
“No,” he said softly. “You didn’t.”
You pulled back slightly, looking up at him.
Peter nodded, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face.
You studied him for another second.
The thing you both weren’t saying out loud.
“Yeah,” he admitted quietly.
“You got upset,” he said, voice gentle. “Which—makes sense.”
You let out a shaky breath.
“Did I… say anything stupid?”
“You said I left you alone,” he answered honestly.
Your face flushed immediately.
“And that I was a bad boyfriend,” he added, softer this time.
You covered your face with your hands.
“Stop. Stop talking. I’m actually going to die.”
Peter couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips.
“Hey,” he murmured, gently pulling your hands away from your face. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not,” you groaned. “That’s so embarrassing—”
“It’s not,” he cut in quietly.
“You weren’t wrong,” he added, voice lower now.
Your eyes flicked up to his.
“I did leave you alone,” he admitted. “And I shouldn’t have.”
The room felt quieter suddenly.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly.
The words landed differently.
You didn’t know what to say to that.
His hand lifted again, this time more carefully, thumb brushing lightly under your eye.
“You scared me last night,” he murmured.
“You passed out,” he said. “Like—completely. I had to carry you home.”
Your eyes widened slightly. “You did?”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, that was my reaction too.”
A small, embarrassed smile tugged at your lips before fading again.
Peter frowned immediately. “Why are you apologizing?”
“Because I made things difficult,” you said quietly. “Because I—”
The word came out firmer than expected.
Peter shifted closer, his hands finding yours, holding them gently.
“You don’t get to take the blame for that,” he said.
Your brows pulled together slightly. “Peter—”
“I mean it,” he continued, softer now but no less serious. “You were upset. You had a reason to be upset.”
“And I didn’t notice,” he added, his voice dipping slightly. “That’s on me.”
Silence settled between you.
Your fingers curled slightly in his hold.
“…You took care of me?” You asked after a moment, quieter now.
Peter’s expression softened again.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Got your makeup off. Changed you into this.”
Your eyes dropped to your t-shirt.
A small, almost shy smile appeared.
He huffed lightly. “Of course I did.”
Something warm flickered in your chest.
Peter’s grip on your hands tightened slightly.
His gaze was different now.
“You don’t have to… try so hard with me,” he said.
“You don’t have to drink to deal with stuff like that,” he continued. “Or pretend you’re okay when you’re not.”
“I’m not… asking you to be perfect,” he added quietly. “I just—”
Like he was choosing his words carefully.
“I don’t want to lose you too.”
Your heart stuttered slightly.
“You’re…” he exhaled softly. “You’re the only person I have right now.”
Your eyes widened just a little.
“And I know that’s not fair to you,” he added quickly. “I know it’s a lot, but—”
“No, just—let me say this,” he said, his voice soft but steady.
“I feel… safe with you,” he admitted. “Like I don’t have to pretend all the time. Like I can just—be me.”
Your chest ached at that.
“And I don’t want to mess that up,” he said.
His thumb brushed over your knuckles unconsciously.
“So… don’t pull away, okay?”
“Don’t decide for me that you’re not worth it.”
Your breath hitched slightly.
That’s what you’d been doing.
Protecting your own heart.
The way he was holding onto you like you might disappear.
“…You won’t lose me that easily,” you said softly.
Peter let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
His shoulders relaxed slightly.
His hand lifted, cupping your cheek gently.
“Hey,” he murmured, softer now. “How’s your head?”
You groaned immediately. “Feels like I got hit by a truck.”
You leaned into his touch without thinking.
“Already on it,” he said.
His thumb brushed lightly across your cheek again.
His voice dropped, softer, warmer.
Your heart did something stupid in your chest.
Every small sound felt louder than it should—cupboards opening, plates clinking, the faint sizzle from the stove.
You sat at the small kitchen table, head resting in your hand, eyes half-lidded as you tried not to move too much.
“Water,” Peter said, sliding a glass toward you.
You grabbed it like your life depended on it, taking a long sip before setting it down carefully.
“…I hate everything,” you muttered.
“Yeah,” Peter replied from the stove. “That’s usually how hangovers work.”
You shot him a weak glare. “Don’t be logical. I’m suffering.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, flipping something in the pan.
“…They’re supposed to be.”
You narrowed your eyes further, trying to focus.
One was slightly too dark.
One looked okay. Suspiciously okay.
“You made pancakes,” you repeated slowly, like you were trying to process it.
“Yeah,” Peter said, a little defensive now. “You need food before meds. And I figured—pancakes are safe.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Safe for who?”
He turned to look at you, spatula in hand. “Wow. Okay. Rude.”
“I’m just asking questions,” you said weakly.
“I am judging,” you admitted, slumping slightly in your chair. “But in my defense, I feel like death.”
Peter rolled his eyes lightly, but there was no real annoyance in it.
He turned back to the stove, focusing a little harder this time.
The way his hair was still messy.
The way he kept glancing back at you every few seconds without realizing it.
“…You don’t have to do all this, you know,” you said after a moment, your voice quieter now.
Peter didn’t turn around immediately.
Then he added, a little softer—
That made something in your chest tighten.
Didn’t trust your voice to come out normal.
Peter plated the pancakes after a moment, hesitating for a second before grabbing a fork and bringing the plate over to you.
He set it down carefully.
“Okay,” he said. “Be honest.”
A little too brown in places.
You picked up the fork slowly, cutting off a piece like you were handling something dangerous.
Peter watched you like his life depended on your reaction.
“…Okay?” He asked cautiously.
You squinted slightly, considering.
Peter’s face immediately dropped. “Edible?”
You looked up at him, completely serious. “That’s a compliment. Don’t push it.”
“Edible is not a compliment,” he argued.
“It is when I feel like I’m dying,” you shot back. “Anything that doesn’t make me throw up is a win.”
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I spent, like, twenty minutes on those.”
“And I appreciate it,” you said quickly, taking another bite to prove your point. “See? I’m eating them. Voluntarily.”
Peter crossed his arms, unimpressed. “Wow. The bar is in hell.”
“Correct,” you nodded. “And you cleared it. Barely.”
A small huff of laughter slipped out of him as he shook his head.
You smiled faintly, taking another bite.
Peter pulled out the chair across from you, sitting down.
Making sure you were actually eating.
“Slow,” he reminded gently when you took a bigger bite. “You’ll feel worse if you rush it.”
You groaned. “Stop being right.”
You rolled your eyes but slowed down anyway.
A few bites passed in comfortable silence.
“…Did you eat?” You asked, glancing at him.
“You made all this,” you said, gesturing weakly at the plate. “Did you eat anything?”
He shrugged. “I’m not that hungry.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly.
“Eat,” you repeated, pushing the plate slightly toward him.
He stared at you for a second.
You hummed, satisfied, going back to your pancakes as he grabbed a fork and took a bite.
“…Okay, yeah,” he admitted. “They’re kind of just edible.”
“Hey,” he pointed his fork at you. “You’re eating them.”
“Because you made them,” you said simply.
The words slipped out naturally.
Then he looked down at the plate, something softer settling in his expression.
After a few more bites, you leaned back slightly, setting your fork down.
“I think I’m done,” you said.
Peter nodded, immediately standing up. “Okay. Meds.”
He moved around the kitchen quickly, grabbing what you needed, pouring more water, placing everything in front of you like he’d done this a hundred times.
“Take these,” he said, gentler now.
You did, no argument this time.
More than you wanted to admit sometimes.
You swallowed the pills, chasing them with water before slumping back into your chair.
“…If I survive this, I’m never drinking again.”
Peter snorted. “You say that now.”
“I mean it,” you groaned. “Never again.”
“Yeah, we’ll revisit that.”
You shot him a tired glare.
“…Stay?” The word came out quietly. Barely there.
Peter didn’t even hesitate.
He pulled the chair closer this time.
Close enough that your shoulders brushed slightly.
You didn’t comment on it.
Just leaned a little into him.
Your head finding his shoulder without thinking.
Peter went still for half a second.
One hand coming up slowly, wrapping around you and resting against your arm.
“You should rest after this,” he murmured.
Peter’s grip on your arm tightened slightly.
“Yeah,” he said, softly kissing your head.
Night settled quietly over the apartment.
The kind of quiet that felt heavier after a long day.
You were in your room, sitting cross-legged on your bed with your laptop open. The soft glow lit your face as you scrolled, half-focused, half-drifting.
Your headache was mostly gone, your energy slowly coming back.
You heard his footsteps before you saw him.
Like he was testing the mood
You sighed under your breath.
“Yeah?” He said, already halfway inside.
“You’ve been in here like… six times in the past hour.”
“Five,” he corrected automatically.
You finally looked up at him, deadpan. “That’s not better.”
He shrugged, completely unbothered, stepping further in. “Just checking.”
“You don’t need to check,” you said, closing your laptop with a soft click. “I’m fine.”
You rolled your eyes but shifted a little, making space on the bed.
He took the invitation immediately.
Climbing in beside you like he belonged there.
For a few minutes, it was quiet.
Just the soft hum of the fan, the faint sounds from outside.
His arm suddenly slide around your waist.
Chest pressed lightly against your back, his face dipping toward your neck.
His voice was already softer. Lower. Distracted.
“Start what?” He murmured, lips brushing lightly against your skin.
“I’m serious,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m still recovering from near death.”
“You’re dramatic,” he mumbled against your neck.
“Mm,” he hummed, completely ignoring you as his lips pressed a little more deliberately this time.
You sucked in a quiet breath.
Just a slow, lingering kiss.
A soft suck that made your fingers tighten in the blanket.
“…You’re actually the worst,” you muttered.
He smiled against your skin.
“Thought I was a bad boyfriend,” he murmured.
You rolled your eyes, but your voice came out weaker now. “You are. This is manipulation.”
His hand tightened slightly at your waist, pulling you back into him more firmly now.
“Peaches,” he murmured softly, lips brushing your neck again.
That nickname was cheating.
You turned your head slightly, trying to glare at him.
Not when he looked at you like that.
“…You’re not even subtle,” you said.
“Don’t wanna be,” he replied simply.
Later the room was quiet again.
You were lying on your back, breathing uneven, staring up at the ceiling like you were reconsidering every life decision that led you here.
His face buried in your neck, breath warm against your skin.
“…Peter,” you whined, pushing weakly at his shoulder.
“M’comfortable,” he mumbled.
“M’comfortable,” he repeated, voice muffled against your neck.
You stared at the ceiling in disbelief.
“In case you forgot,” you said slowly, “I’m under you.”
“That’s not a good thing.”
“Feels like a good thing.”
It was like trying to move a brick wall.
A very clingy, slightly sweaty brick wall.
You turned your head, glaring at him as much as you could from this angle.
“I live here now,” he mumbled.
Then let out a tired, disbelieving laugh.
“I mean it,” he added, tightening his arms around you slightly. “I’m not moving.”
“You literally just said you live here—on top of me,” you shot back.
“Yeah,” he said, completely serious. “Rent’s expensive.”
You choked out a laugh despite yourself.
“Maybe,” he shrugged slightly, still not lifting his head. “But you like me.”
“…You’re so clingy today,” you muttered.
He huffed a quiet laugh against your neck, his grip tightening just a little.
Your fingers hesitated for a second—
Then lifted. Sliding into his hair.
Peter melted immediately.
His entire body relaxing more fully against you.
“…That feels nice,” he murmured softly.
You rolled your eyes, but your fingers kept moving.
Your earlier annoyance faded slowly, replaced by something warmer.
“…You’re still hovering,” you mumbled.
“Not hovering,” he said lazily. “Attached.”
You let out a small breath, your hand still absentmindedly playing with his hair.
“…You’re not leaving tonight, are you?”
“I meant what I said,” he murmured.
“Not wanting to lose you.”
You didn’t respond right away.
Your fingers slowed in his hair.
“…Then stop being annoying,” you said lightly instead.
Resting loosely around him.
His grip tightened slightly in response.
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