➹one make out session, please➹ (peter b. parker x reader)
The sad and divorced man who’s become a regular for the past year is constantly spilling his emotions to you, his favorite bartender. This wasn’t something new; you can’t count with both of your hands the times you’ve heard someone recount the odyssey of their life. But these flutters in your stomach were definitely something you didn’t experience with your customers, and you definitely did not end up making out with them at the end of the night. Maybe Peter B. was your only exception, though.
a/n: i tried like 8484 times to add a gif but tumblr wouldn’t let me so ((:: hello @ whoever’s reading this tho!! love how i went from 2k to 7k words lol, i’m sorry about that i don’t know how it happened. feel free to help me out w ideas and send requests if you want (: hope u enjoy !!
Tiresome was a massive understatement when it came to having to describe enduring the same routine most nights. Not that you peacefully slept like a newborn baby all the time before taking the job as a bartender at the bar; but once in a while, when you came back home and watched the faint red numbers of the clock switch to 5 o’clock in the morning since your brain was punishing you by not giving you your well deserved rest, you surely did miss those simpler times when you didn’t work at night. Yeah, at first it may be amusing to watch a drunk customer go haywire as they try to understand the meaning of life, and it’s nice listening to the story of how someone ended up drinking 5 shots of tequila that evening. You relished listening to other people’s problems, their stories, their lives— perhaps because you didn’t make much out of yours. However, after two years of the same old, every conversation and dusk began to blur together; everything became a monotone daze, like an old movie replaying endlessly every week. The obvious route would be to quit your job as a bartender before you lost your mind, but the old lady who owned the bar paid quite generously— both with affection and money— and you knew well that the customers would be lost without your glorious daiquiris and margaritas. You’d also grown fond of the people there and the new friends you made once in a while (you didn’t have the exact explanation as to why, but whilst you were in that hazy trance, you were quite the charmer). Every night was just like that, until a man who you guessed was probably nearing his forties and with a really, really nice nose (what could you say? You had an appreciation for the art of beautiful noses), dropped on the stool directly in front of you with a heavy sigh.
“One whiskey served over ice, please.” He muttered, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. You didn’t think much about it as your hands got to work, moments later handing the man his drink. You later spent your time trying to distract yourself with the preparation of other beverages, yet your eyes were drawn to him momentarily once or twice. Even as you’re talking with a tourist— a woman from Croatia asking about the best restaurants and stores in the city— the image of the guy itched at the back of your head, and you couldn’t figure out why. He was attractive, you decided, despite his rugged looks; he honestly appeared as if a train had hit him. Whether it was a physical or emotional train, you wouldn’t be surprised if it had been both.
The tourist sadly ended your conversation, distracted by the game on the TV, but you took that as an opportunity to comply your desires and approach the man. You see, you liked to believe you had powers (useless ones, to say the least): just by a quick scan, you knew if a person needed a good talk— it could be after their third drink, maybe even when they’re still sober. Suddenly, though, your bartender-senses abandoned you along with your charm and you simply couldn’t find a way to spark up a conversation with the guy. Really? You thought to yourself. Right now, when a cute older dude is sitting right in front of you, probably in need your comradeship? Yes, he was most definitely older than you; perhaps by some ten years, but did you really care?
You were stuck, unable to crawl out of the crater until, eventually, he asked for his third drink. Showtime, you breathed in, the confidence hugging your entire body. “Just saying, but I could already sense this third drink once you walked in through the door,” You tried to joke.
He huffed through his nose, a hint of a smile on the corner of his lips. “Do I look that bad?” He asked, a playful tone in his voice. You gave him a lopsided grin, slightly leaning over to wipe the surface next to where his hands rested.
“The opposite, actually. You’re quite the handsome guy.” Oh, there it was. He didn’t seem repulsed, which could’ve been a good sign, except that he didn’t look like anything; his expression was unreadable.
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