peri's fics @periprose - Tumblr Blog

Mar 12

tasm! Peter Parker with the diner by billie eilish pleaaseee I just know he would fit the cute stalker boyfriend thing so BAD

anon I fucking LOVED this ask and your mind. Obvious warnings, there's some dubcon vibes and also stalking is never right in real life (duh)

The Diner

Peter Parker x Reader

Peter stalks you from afar, and has been for years. He comes too close and realizes maybe he's getting more than he bargained for. Inspired by The Diner by Billie Eilish

Genre: stalking, obsession, light voyeuristic tendencies, dubcon, pining, idolization, slightly smutty implications.

Word Count: 3.7k

The fresh mug of tea is scaldingly hot as you place it in front of Mr. Watson, the friendly middle-aged man who always tips you at the end of every transaction.

“Here you go, Watson–” You shake your head. “Sorry. Mr. Watson.”

“Thanks, Sherlock.” He winks at you, no harm done.

“Anything else you’d like?” You ask, wiping your hands down the apron of your uniform.

“Not a thing. You’re a great waitress.” Mr. Watson laughs, and you grin at that.

Unbeknownst to you, a man is sitting in the far booth, closest to the door, watching your interaction with this man. Watching your smile.

He sees you trace your hair around your index finger, and bite your lip as you walk away, lost in thought– and something inside him shatters.

He wants you to smile at him like that. Share an inside joke with him like that.

He knows you’re wary of him. Ever since, back at Midtown High, you had the same math class– he offered his calculator to you, because he heard you ask Gwen for one– and you looked at him in confusion, mouth slightly ajar, before accepting it.

He’s never known what he did wrong.

Then there was that time at Empire State University. He watched you climb up the stairs, slightly drunk after a frat party, and offered his hand so you wouldn’t stumble. Instead, you looked fearful– you backed away, gait slightly skewed by how inebriated you were.

Peter Parker knows you don’t have to be afraid of him.

His aunt has always said he’s a good, sweet boy. He’s not a threat, a nobody to everyone– but he wants to be somebody to you.

He’s what you need, he thinks. He sees you walking through your neighbourhood– you’re shy, you’re ducked down, wired headphones jammed in your ears, a wistfully, sad look upon your features. Peter thinks you’re too pretty to be so depressed.

Peter could make you so happy. He could make you a star, a model on all the magazines, eyes tantalizingly gazing at him, the eternal viewer– he has one creep shot he took while you were walking past the park, where he was sitting conveniently at the bench and aimed at the sky, catching your beauty, your bright, soulful eyes, your lips slightly parted.

You shouldn’t be working in a diner as a waitress.

Although you wear the uniform perfectly, with a girlish-yet-womanly cheer that isn’t overly offputting, unlike others who try too hard to be cute. Peter thinks you could really do anything and it would be right.

In the present, you turn slightly to talk to Cindy, the other waitress at the diner– her family owns the joint– and she slumps against you, laughing, and you smirk back, and Peter gets that sensation that tells him he’s been staring for too long, so he looks away before you see him.

He knows your shift ends in half an hour, so Peter reaches out of the seat, out of the booth, his laptop bag around his side.

No one seems to notice him.

Peter daydreams as he waits for you to commute home. He knows the bus route you take– he takes that one too, when he has the time to wait around your block.

He hopes you never see him, face to face, ever again, because you’re going to ruin his fantasies by calling the cops. He knows, he utters it everyday under his breath like a little, dirty secret, that no one can ever know how badly he craves you. Least of all you.

As he sits on the park bench, he thinks about you. He thinks you’d be a stunning girlfriend, or when his little daydreams get ahead of themselves– his wife. A perfect bride, shining in an ivory gown, all his to carry into the newlywed’s home, and lay down on the bed right then and there– no time to waste. Kissing you, stripping open that silken corset to reveal lacy lingerie, and the two of you tracing each other’s skin and becoming impossibly close, glowing with pleasure, until he’s kissing up your body, feeling up your chest, waist, hips; entering you as you wrap those firm, soft legs around him, hearing your normally sweet, clear voice in a hazy moan imbued with pleasure.

That’s not the only thing he’s interested in, but it is on his mind. How could it not be? Peter’s never been with anyone, and he’s decided he’s okay with saving himself for you.

He often lays in a sweaty, sticky hot mess in his own apartment at night, his hand tired from jerking off so aggressively. Something Peter is insecure about is just how badly he wants you– a proper man wouldn’t be so excitable, he thinks, and he hopes he would be enough to satisfy you.

He would do anything for you.

Inevitably, as married couples do, you’d argue at some point. Peter isn’t stupid enough to believe everything would be happy– he admires your conviction. He’s seen you stand up for what’s right from afar, whether it be for a customer, a classmate, your friends.

He’d say you’re right, no matter what the issue was. Just to keep you happy. What else could a girl want?

And then you could kiss Peter goodnight. A soft, languid kiss, in which he knows your anger isn’t real for him, that you’ll always forgive him.

Your bus arrives to the stop with a real groan, engine sputtering as it does so, and you exit, in a long coat that covers up your waitress outfit– but Peter knows where you’ve been and it gives him a thrill that he knows more than the average passerby, although he notices you don’t immediately step to your house.

No, if anything, you’re approaching the park bench– and Peter has played this out, so many times, that he’ll say hi, as a former classmate, and you’ll laugh in that nice, pleasant, slightly shocked way that you always do, and he’ll launch into a conversation, and it will end with making plans for a future date.

But you have those headphones jammed in, and Peter doesn’t know what to say, because you don’t seem to notice his presence at all when you sit down.

Until you do. You turn slightly at him, and instead of looking alarmed like he’s expecting, you have a tentative smile.

He flushes a deep pink, and then smiles back. You smile for real, your eyes crinkling as you do so, lips plush and upturned, and Peter doesn’t know what to do with himself, until you get up and leave to walk to your small apartment, and now he’s sweating.

He wonders if you recognize him.

Peter waits on the corner until you leave your apartment again, for a midnight bodega run. He knows you do this every Tuesday without fail. He can’t help it, the fantasy is spiralling out of control– he needs to do something more tangible, something more scary.

He hasn’t gotten so close in months. The potential taste of you, the feeling of being physically close to you, it’s a high unlike anything else, and he needs to feel it again. He knows this is dangerous, but he settles for something that will settle his urges– your apartment.

Your daily setting. Where you live your life, carefree, cooking, cleaning, bathing, undressing– he relishes the idea to be the one to see where it happens. He knows you don’t have a boyfriend.

Peter finds it easy to get over the landing of the fire escape, and in through your bedroom window. He lands on his feet, and immediately inhales, feeling his heart pound as he smells your scent floating through the room.

It would be so tempting to lie across your bed, and breathe in everything about you, your peaceful dreams, to your eager awakenings, even terrible nightmares, in which Peter wishes he could comfort you, and perhaps the intimate moments when no one is around and your hand is between your legs, as you cry out in the quiet bliss of your room.

Peter nearly quivers at the thought, and he knows he can’t be here, in this spot, or he’ll never leave.

He approaches the kitchen, feeling his stomach grumble. Perhaps Peter was being a little bad, and he felt like you were starting to form a connection with him, anyways– what would it matter if he took a snack? Soon he’d be feeding you, anyways. The favour would be returned.

He takes a smattering of crackers and cheese, and scarfs them over the garbage bin, feeling compulsive and disgusting, but feeling some visceral pleasure at the whole thing. Peter felt like a rat, like vermin that had no right to be in your presence, to be in this space, to eat your food so you would know someone had been here if you were really focused, and yet that made him feel all the more satisfied.

He doesn’t think pretty girls own the world, by any means– as much as he adores you, he also feels like you owe him. You owe him for seeing you truly as one could, as great as you are, unlike everyone else in the world. Who else has been there for every turn and tribulation, waiting, hoping, and praying that you’d be okay? Who else could love you so deeply, before even really knowing you?

It’s with this notion of ownership that Peter makes his riskiest move, his potential mistake– he left a calling card so you would know it was him.

That first photo of you he took all those months ago. A print that he carries in his wallet, tucked under a post card and magnet on the fridge. Something not easy to find, a surreptitious action that would have an unsteady origin, and be hard to trace back to him in a way– but definitely undeniably weird and would knock you out of the carefree sorrow you seemed to carry.

His ego was getting to him. Peter leaves as quickly as he came.

It’s only when Peter’s got to his apartment that he feels an enormous amount of fear, guilt, worries that they’ll trace his fingerprints in your apartment. He knows, he knows he wants you to know it was him, but he misses that photo of you, and he wants you, more than ever– he just fears how your dynamic will change.

But there’s a sick satisfaction as he lies in his bed, picturing you entering your apartment, wearing your big t-shirt as your jammies, eating your midnight ramen.

Maybe you’ll find the picture today. Maybe you won’t. But knowing that he’s been there and left a voyeuristic treasure makes him exhale in bliss.

He doesn’t even mind being arrested. The cops’ll get him this time, the bail will be absurdly high, and all he can think about is you coming to visit him. Not unlike one of those true-crime chicks who get strangely obsessed with serial killers and send adoring letters. Is he Ted Bundy in this fucked up version of events? Not quite, but Peter knows he’s a criminal nevertheless.

Still, he pictures you deep in the throes of a Bonnie and Clyde syndrome-induced obsession, something that he knows would never happen– you’re normal, unlike him– and you’ve arrived to the jail, dressed in a veil as he requested, and you reach through the holding cell that they’ve got him captured in, and you hug him, and hug him, tightly weaving your arms around his neck, whispering that you believe in him and that he’ll get out and he hasn’t done anything wrong, and all he can do is smell you, your sweet, salty scent, and you kiss his neck, his jaw, up his face, and then onto his lips– and Peter shudders in real life, wishing you were here to pin him down and take advantage of his hard-on by riding him.

Peter goes back to the diner that morning.

He sees you working, wiping down the ordering counter– and you turn to greet him.

“Hi…” There’s mild recognition on your face, but not the panic he was bracing to see.

Or maybe anticipating. He’s almost disappointed.

But anyways, he gives you a nod, and sits in his usual booth.

Peter can’t even look at you as you ask what he’d like to order. He mumbles out “Small coffee, black.” And is glad that you walk away with ease.

He starts to pen a letter, as he often does, things that he wants to say to you, but leaves unsent. It’s usually panic-driven, confessions of adoration and love that he knows you would understand if you were like him– but also loose rambles of his addled mind, where he voices his concerns about the world, about himself, venting in a way that he knows you would care about legitimately. If he could get close enough, he’d tell you in person what a loser Peter Parker really was– that this nerd grew up not touching a single girl, that he didn’t ever really connect to someone until he talked to you that one time, all those years ago– but he lets himself write it down.

You place the mug of coffee down, a clink of porcelain against the dull vinyl of the table, and Peter takes it, nodding his thanks while focusing on your hand, your wrist, unable to look at your face.

He feels growing shame and anger when you keep staring, as if you see him a bit better now that you’re closer. You walk away a little more quickly, and Peter chugs his coffee down, having an eerie sense about what’s going on.

As he exits the diner, having slammed some change on the table to avoid paying upfront– around the corner, the cops are waiting, and they stop him from continuing to walk.

“Stay down, sir.” The man tells him, but Peter is terrified, now, that you’ll see him, that you know, and some sense of indignation causes him to try and bolt.

They pin him down to the ground, his glasses knocking off onto the pavement, and he sees in blurry eyes that one of the cops has your picture in a plastic bag. That was his gift to you, and that’s how you treated it?

You’re more sly than Peter realized. Acting like everything was fine, and then pulling the rug from under his feet. And if he made the mistake of coming too close, of thinking you’d get it, he wouldn’t make that mistake now, and it’s with this anger that he clenches his teeth, swearing as he enters the back of the cop car. His teeth are gnashing together.

In his blurry, teary vision, Peter thinks he sees your silhouette kneeling by the pavement.

You’re only slightly surprised. The mildly cute, brunette nerdy guy had been on your radar for a few months. Always a fleeting glance, a nervous disposition. You’d try and smile at him, but to no avail– you know you know him from high school, but the guy was a scaredy cat.

You wondered if he hated you. Why else would he linger, be around when no one else was?

But the last thing you expected was for the strange energy in your house, that you chalked up to an accidental break-in, to actually be taken seriously by the police, and now the guy was arrested. Yes, there was a photo he took– but you got the vibe that maybe he was waiting to talk to you, maybe he got scared, maybe you’re so lacking in attention that you’re looking for it in the wrong places.

You don’t care. He was probably harmless– and yes, you know you’re attaching a reputation to a guy you don’t know, but you can’t help but feel sorry. Feel worried that you didn’t get to talk to him first, before he bolted.

You call the number of the penitentiary he’s in. You’ve read it so many times online, debating if you should call, you’ve practically got it memorized. The woman on the phone says you may call when you please in a day, as Peter Parker needs to be processed properly before he can take calls.

You feel sick. You know his name, you know him– you never properly bothered to address him, and now look at what you’ve done. More than anything, you wish you could take it back, the call to the police. You would have pushed harder for Peter, asked him what was going on in his life, ignoring the red flags– because what are red flags if not just the cries of help of a poor soul?

God knows you have enough of them. People have never really seemed to like you, not in the way you hoped you would have been noticed as a young girl. Unnoticed, until now.

You see that the letter he wrote is still on the table, forgotten in his haste. His penmanship is difficult to make out, long sprawling loops and scribbles making his words a little incomprehensible. But you understand one thing.

He cares for you. He's seen you, as you are, for so many years– he thinks you're beautiful, he thinks you deserve the world. Peter feels awful about himself, though, and you feel a pang of pity, mixed with some kind of intrigue, upon reading his words.

Cindy tuts from the counter, placing a red velvet cake into the display. “That was scary. You think that guy was out to get you?”

You shake your head, and Cindy raises her eyebrows. “No. I think I gotta help him.”

Peter thought about ending it all, the two hours he was in that cell. The guard is sleeping– he can’t even go to the washroom and hang himself there.

He’s back up on his feet now, but he can’t see very well. Without his glasses, all he can do is shut his eyes, and stew in shame and agony.

More than anything, there’s this oppressive urge to come and see you. Or for you to see him. You were the last comfort in his increasingly lonely, isolated lifestyle, and now you were gone too.

Until he hears your voice.

“Peter?” You knock on the bar of the holding cell, and he gets up from the floor, alert– he’s afraid that he’s lost it now, that he’s hallucinating you, and this crack in his psyche is going to make him a madman.

But you’re here, and you’re breathing, and you look real. So he takes a step forward. He sees that you don’t even really look disgusted, just… curious.

“Hey.” He says, staring at the ground, and then the collar of your jacket.

“Hey.” You attempt to smile, but he’s not meeting your eyes, so you drop it. “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to, well…”

You trail off, unsure what to say now, because it feels rather heinous to send someone to jail, and just show up and apologize as if this isn’t a serious crime.

“Wait. I can ask them not to press charges–” You turn, but you feel him tug on your wrist through the bars, and you turn back to him.

Peter finally looks into your eyes. There’s deep undereye circles that tell you he’s wrought with anger, terror, but underneath it all– some level of hurt. His mouth is ajar, as he struggles to speak.

“Why? Do you just feel sorry for me? You were supposed to…” Peter shakes his head and then groans. “If you’re thinking your stupid act of goodness is supposed to stop me, supposed to keep me from thinking about you, inspire me into being some… noble, loveable idiot, you’re mistaken. I want you, and I don’t ever want you to think you can do something to stop that.”

Peter expects this to go over poorly with you, but everything hasn’t gone to plan so far– so he doesn’t care. He’s setting it all on fire.

But in your eyes, he sees glee, he sees that same fire, those sick urges reflected in you. You’re smiling sheepishly, even giggling, and Peter wonders if he’s dreaming. You’re just as messed up as he is.

You like this stalker of yours.

“I just… I wanted to talk. I called the people here but they wouldn’t let me talk to you yet.” You swallow, as if you’re saying something difficult, but Peter has never felt more of a kinship with you. He squeezes your hand, compelling you to continue, and you meet his eyes again, feeling reassured.

“I read your letter.” You pull it out of your bag, and Peter stills, but you quickly move to assuage his feelings. “Don’t worry, please– I’m not afraid. I saw what you said, about me, about… yourself–”

You’re trying to be delicate but his face falls. His eyes look to the floor.

“I know how you feel. I’ve felt it my whole life, and it means so much to me that you feel it too.” You smile at him, trying to catch his eyes again– wanting so badly for this sad, mad boy to just trust you.

If you could gain his trust, you could gain anyone’s. And then, maybe, you wouldn’t be so lonely.

But even just one lonely soul by your side– one that apparently saw “the stars in your eyes” – it was worth it to you to be close to Peter.

“And, well, no one’s ever said such kind, sweet things about me. I’m the last thing on anybody’s mind.” You scoff lightly, and then laugh. “I just… Is it all true? Did you really mean it?”

He grabs your hands, both of them, looking into his eyes. “Are you nuts? Of course I meant it. I, I’ve adored you since the ninth grade. I know you’re special. You’re beautiful, and perfect, and best of all– you’re mine. I’m the only one who knows it, and I’m gonna show the world someday.”

Peter’s so excited, he feels maybe double the high he did from sitting next to you. He can hardly contain the smile spreading across his face, he’s in such shock.

You laugh again, giddy with relief, excitement– sudden tears spring to your eyes, happy ones, and Peter wipes them away– and you wordlessly lean into his hands, through the bars, and then you reach into your bag, to take out his glasses.

You place them on his face, smiling at your Peter Parker, and then whisper that you wanted him to be able to see this. And through the bars of the jail, you kiss him, your silly nearly-convicted stalker boyfriend, and you feel him quiver in surprise, blinking before kissing you back.