summary: peter’s new arachnid senses often leave him disoriented—hibernating and waking up in places he doesn’t recognise. it’s a small problem, one he's willing to deal with on his own, till he wakes in your apartment with his arms wrapped around you.
pairing: peter parker x reader
content: no bnd movie spoilers (feel free to read if you haven't seen bnd), FLUFF, clingy! peter parker, comfort, light banter, arachnid! peter, peter goes through it, yearning
Peter hates most of the new developments that arrived with the enhanced levels of his arachnid half—and migraines are definitely top of the list. Particularly the ones that start early in the morning, muffling his senses and rendering him a zombie slob for the entire start of the day. He stirs in his sleep, a soft, pounding ache burrowed in the back of his skull. It's an irritating sensation, one he's already grown familiar with, worsening the overheating, the sensitivity that comes with his overloaded senses, the pull of nerves behind his eyeballs.
His nose burrows deeper into a comforting scent, arms tightening around something soft. Letting out a dragged sigh, low against his throat, the pain fades into something barely noticeable. A sort of relaxed relief that hasn't hit him in years, with his entire body growing slack and heavy, the kind that only comes after a restful sleep. One he hasn't achieved since—his gaze peers open, blinking heavily as his eyes adjust to his surroundings.
The first thing he catches sight of is a familiar bundled sight of hair, and the curve of a shoulder. He must be dreaming. The sunlight stings the sensitivity of his eyes, and he blinks harsher in an effort to recollect himself. His brows furrow as he loosens a hand, parting from his tight grip to run his fingers gently over the loosened hair.
He wasn't dreaming. Somehow, he was laying in your bed, hugging you like an oversized koala.
"What?" He mumbles, the word falling soft out of his cotton mouth.
You stir slightly in response to the grazing of his touch, and it kicks Peter-Tingle on high-alert that this was not a figment of his imagination. He's quick to un-hand you, scooting backwards towards the edge—and tumbling harshly onto the floorboards with a loud thump, snatching the sheets with him.
The noise echoes in his eardrums, curls splaying out over the floorboards, and Peter is completely frozen. In absolute cold, drowning terror, he watches you stir fully, turning around and stretching at your limbs—a dissatisfied frown perched in your lips at the sudden loss of warmth.
What has he done?
"Spider-Man?" You mumble, voice groggy, almost muffled as your nose dips deeper into the pillow, the one he occupied seconds ago.
Your gaze finally peers open, one palm coming to rub at your undereyes—before meeting his own widened, nearly terrified expression.
"You're awake." You state, as if his existence within the walls of your apartment is a daily, common occurrence. Even if he hasn’t stepped foot into his most favourite apartment, in years. "Hm, you've got brown eyes, who would've thought?"
Why is he here? Why are you so calm about this?
“I’m—so, so sorry.” His words fumble over each other, ears reddened at the tips. Feeling awfully exposed, he wraps his arms around his knees as he lifts himself into a sitting position, caving in on himself as he averts his gaze. “I don’t know why—or how—oh god. Was I hugging you? How did I even—I’m so sorry, I swear I have no clue on how I ended up here.”
Worse, he wasn't wearing a mask. Or much of anything really, aside from an old t-shirt, and Hello Kitty shorts that barely fit his thighs. As his fingers grip at the edge of the shirt, running over the hem, it hits him that these are his clothes. Ones he never stole back from your place, that he had merely assumed was lost to time.
Nothing could have prepared him for this situation, no prep-time or warnings from E.V.I.E.. He didn't have the protection of being Spider-Man and the mask that's become his second skin. No, he had landed bottom-first as bare-faced, shell-shocked Peter.
"You really don't remember how you got here?" You question, lashes fluttering shut as you struggle to stir awake. "Damn, I was wondering if you could tell me."
"No—I swear, I completely blacked out." He scrambles for a response. "Next thing I knew, I was in your bed—I can't believe I just said that."
Running a hand past the bridge of his nose, he hides pathetically behind his fingers, his best attempt of a mask against the chaotic churn of nerves bundling through his gut. He had promised to keep you safe by staying as far away as he could—aside from the daily checking of your social media pages and the occasional swing down your usual coffee shop just to see if your favourite order remained the same, but this? How was he ever going to forgive himself for it?
He hears shuffling, in the normal sense and not the heightened echoes he’s used to ever since his arachnid side started spinning out of control. Strangely, his senses have been dialed down to normal since he regained consciousness—and he can’t dumb it down to just a good rest. It has to be cause of you.
His lashes flutter against the pads of his fingers as he meets your gaze through the gaps. You face him head-on, sitting cross legged right in front of him, head tilted in innocent curiosity.
“You’re a cuddler.” You hum in acknowledgment.
He was genuinely going to be the first Spider-person to ever die of shame, not that he's met many, but he's sure Peter 1 and Peter 2 have never unknowingly climbed into the bed of their special someone because they couldn't control their own DNA evolution. A low sound escapes his throat, clenched through his teeth—completely at a lost for words.
He has no clue on what he’s supposed to do, not when there's no routine or steps to fall back on. Be Spider-Man (Mask's gone). The man the city actually wanted (One who preferably doesn't have panic attacks wearing Hello Kitty pants). Stay far away from his previous life (Scored a huge FAIL here). Get flowers for May (Done). Scroll through your social media pages (..Done). Feel the thrumming vibrations of the washing machine after patrols (Skipped, was too nauseous). Rinse and repeat.
There’s no coming back from this, and it wasn’t even in his control. He hadn’t meant to find you. The last thing he could recall before passing out in his apartment was—he had just wanted to go home. He swore that was all he intended.
“Hey.” Your voice, soft and warm, finally coaxes him out of his thoughts. He hadn’t even realised just how tight he had been clenching his eyes shut—as his gaze takes a few seconds to adjust back into colour with you in his full view.
Slowly and gently, your own fingers raise to pry his away from his face. He’s sure he has hand marks all over his skin, but you look at him with such a soft expression—he nearly keens.
“I got you. You're safe.” You reassure, repeating it as a mantra. “You’re safe here.”
His Adam’s apple bobs harshly, and he feels the tightening of his chest nearly burst at the seams. God, he missed you. All he wanted was to hug you, and tell you he was sorry—for all of it. That he hadn’t gone a single day without wanting to hear your voice, to be exactly where he was right now—that this was all he needed if he wasn’t so weak. If he wasn’t cursed.
“Sorry.” That’s all that comes out, a croak in his voice that he failed to swallow back.
Your lips quirk into a soft smile, and you look like home. He feels his muscles physically deflate in tension at the sight, something no inhibitor or invention could ever replicate. His life has been spinning out of control, and you've just set the needle aside without even blinking.
“You’re all good, Spidey.” Your voice is warm, comforting. “Aside from hogging the blankets, it wasn’t half-bad for my first sleepover with a vigilante.”
His lips part, a laugh caught in his throat—half shattered, half hopeful.
“Could you—I don’t know, explain to me what happened?” He raises his hands, gesturing to your apartment. “I can’t believe I lost control—I don’t remember anything.”
Your lips part, a small grin tucked between your lips. "If you insist."
A loud crash resounds behind you, kick-starting your frightened senses. Head whipping to the window, you spot your window ledge shoved half-way with brutal force, and a body covered in deep reds and blues on your wooden floorboards.
"Holy shit." You mutter to yourself, skillet pan still in hand, the oil coating its surface bubbling into tiny pops.
Spider-Man is in your living room. Spider-Man is spread out across your floorboards, seemingly knocked out cold, in your apartment.
Another sizzling pop snaps you out of your stump, and you realise the collapsed vigilante is your responsibility. Your fingers fumble to switch off your stove with a click, skillet haphazardly placed over the stove burner—apron still hanging around your neck as you rush towards the body. God, you hope it wasn't an actual body.
"Spider-Man?" You call out tentatively, and you're struck by how his body moves in response, the stretch of his back with that familiar logo disappearing to reveal a mop of dark brown curls.
He wasn't wearing a mask. You didn't know what you expected from a hero who seemed nearly indestructible on the news, even when in the process of being smashed into buildings by tanks, but Spider-Man looks much younger than you expected, ahead of you by at most a couple years—bearing a youth that is almost frightening.
He certainly did look battered. Bruises littered his cheek, as if he had slammed himself into bricks or concrete on the way, before he had landed himself in your apartment. Dark circles pooled as a dark shadow under his eye-bags, and his hair was a wet, clumped mess from the rain.
You didn't know where to begin—if you were even allowed to touch him to check if he's hurt, or to call a professional. Did the professionals even know who he was, of his true identity? What if you doomed New York City's most beloved vigilante to his fate, just because you made the wrong call?
Your knees meet carpet, hands trembling in indecision and nerves, coming to rest on his shoulder. At your touch, a hiss escapes his lips and you immediately snatch your hand back, clutching it at the wrist. Who were you kidding, you were the last person equipped to save a person's life—much less a hero's.
You rise halfway, head swinging around to locate your phone—when you feel an insistent pull of your apron, tripping you back to land on the carpet.
"Don't go." He whispers.
Your gaze snaps back to his face, and find his eyes open. Or at least, that's where his pupils should've been. He must be half-unconscious, with the way his eyes are blown into a darkened void, lips parted in some sort of daze.
"I'm going to get help." Your words form despite the panic arising in your chest at the state of him. Is this poisoning? What else could explain the blackened sclera, the way darkened veins coated his skin in an almost bluish-purple. "I'll be right back." You promise.
He shakes his head, almost insistently stubborn, jaw clenching in panic. "No, don't go." His grip tightens almost instantly, and you're swept by his abnormal strength with a sudden tug, tumbling on top of him. "Please."
You freeze, feeling the wet raindrops from his suit seep into the cotton of your apron. Before you even have a chance to push yourself off, his arms wrap around you protectively. Squashed between his broad chest and the tight grip of his hold, your nose is buried into the crook of his shoulder. You smell fresh detergent, sweat, and something so achingly familiar—it churns your senses into mush that it takes you a few seconds to register.
He's shaking, and almost feverishly warm.
"Spider-Man." You plead. "Listen to me. You don't look good. And I do not want a dead Spider on my conscience, so please—you have to let me go so I can find some professionals, just someone to check if you're alright."
His touch is a sizzling heat as the warmth envelopes you, almost like a weighted, heated blanket.
"No. Stay." He pleads. "Please, I don't want—I just need you."
He sounds so exhausted. Why wouldn't he be? Before he had suffocated you into this strange circumstance of a hug, his entire face had been dull in colour, sweat pooling at the curls over his forehead, and he just looked—fragile. Completely unlike the hero of the city you're used to seeing on screen, whether it be receiving the keys to the city or those cheerful quips that make its frequent rounds through the internet when he swoops in to save the day.
"Spidey." You call him gently, trying to think of how to persuade him. "—I won't leave you alone, I promise. Just let me get up, to at least fetch you a change of clothes. You're soaked."
The seconds passing by without a response, or the loosening of his muscles, feel like the longest beats of your life. Your own heart thumps along with the rise and fall of his chest, waiting with bated breath.
"Promise?" He murmurs weakly.
"I promise." You whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."
You feel the slow release of warm breath against your skin, the way his fingers tremor over the small of your back. Something in him relaxes just enough, and his arms give in, thumping heavily at his sides. You rise instantly, palms pushing at his chest and falling back onto the carpet. Feeling the wet residue of the rain coat your apron, and the side of your cheek that had been buried in his shoulder—your cheeks grow impossibly hot.
You need to snap out of it. He needs clean clothes. Yeah, that's a start.
Stumbling in your step, you rush towards your wardrobe—digging through the unorganised mess for a bag of clothes you had kept hidden in the most corner nook. One you hadn't thrown out since your first discovery of its existence, containing Hello Kitty shorts, some old, faded T-shirts—choices you would've never purchased for yourself but had for as long as you could remember.
You had run through a list of reasons for its existence, seemingly packed for an overnight guest. Maybe from that house-warming party you had thrown once before deciding you much preferred your space being reserved for only you, and someone had left their clothes mistakenly. Despite whatever plausibility or excuse—you never found the strength to throw them away. Even when you had every reason to, your mind instinctively buries the thought and the bag remained exactly where it was, kept in a zip-locked bag for it to be used by someone.
Apparently, today was its much-needed day.
Hoisting the bag over to the living room where he still laid, cheek pressed to the carpet, you’re relieved that the tension that previously consumed his expression has faded somewhat, with his lips parted slightly in slow exhales. His body seemed to be recalibrating, instinctively calming down right in the centre of your home.
Your hand comes to rest on his cheek, tapping it gently. Although his eyes with that dark void don't open, a low rumble escapes his throat—convincing you that he's still somewhat conscious.
"Hey, Spidey." You whisper. "I brought some clothes. Do you have the energy to change?"
He doesn't respond, and you poke your tongue into your cheek, analysing the length of him with dawning dread. It's no big deal, you just have to peel off this ridiculously tight suit with no zipper in sight without making it weird, and attempt at successfully pulling a T-shirt over his head.
Making your choice of a 'I Survived My Trip To NYC' graphic tee found at the top of the pile inside, your gaze switches back to the sprawled vigilante. From how heavy his arms had been earlier, rendering you immobile when pinned under them, you wouldn't dare make the mistake of assuming his weight would be easy to flip over. You could attempt to at least expose his back for you to take off that suit—assuming the costume even had a zipper.
Your long calculation apparently does the job for you as Spider-Man senses you near, and his arm curls protectively around your thigh, burying his nose into the crook below your knee. Your entire body stills, a tight grip over the tee as he gently rests his head over your knee, the soft texture of his curls brushing goosebumps against your skin. HIs body turns just enough to expose the expanse of his back—and the sight of a hidden zipper beneath that familiar symbol is a good sign.
Okay, sure. You could work with that.
He was ripped. You should've expected that, but the slow rise and fall of his chest expands the muscles across his exposed torso. You force yourself to tear your gaze away from the sight, reassuring yourself that your eyes were purely looking for possible injuries. You wouldn't go that low to check out a vigilante who was passed out in your living room.
Your fingers press into the sides of his cheeks, maneuvering his head so you could fit the opening of the tee over his head. Curls run through the white fabric before landing over his shoulder blades. It's strangely intimate, the way he's easily pliable in your hands—trusting you so completely. His lashes flutter once every few seconds, but he remains exactly where he is, body wrapped almost completely around yours—acting as a human barrier to you and the outside world—as you dress him in something soft and clean.
He's not supposed to be here, and you're not supposed to feel this protective over a stranger who dresses in two primary colours. Yet, seeing him at rest—makes you feel calm. The quiet of the apartment is a low hum rather than the empty chasm you’re used to, and your fingers run through his hair almost habitually.
You can't just leave him on the floor. There's also the latter half of his suit you don't want to deal with.
"Spidey." You whisper.
He lets out a low groan, wincing as his eyes shut tighter—burying himself deeper into your skin.
"No-no." Your hands come up to gently cup his cheek, coercing him.
His lashes part, and you're met with that same, expansive void, finding your own reflection in his gaze. He's still not quite himself, you believe—but he is able and willing to listen to you.
"I need you to put on these shorts." You gesture to the Hello Kitty pants you laid out for him. "Then, I need you to come to bed."
His brows furrow, lashes fluttering slowly as he processes your request. "Bed."
"Yes." You repeat. "You're exhausted, and I'm not leaving you on my floorboards. It's not too far, so please—help me out a little, Spidey."
His gaze doesn't blink, but you feel the shift in his muscles at your command. He stumbles as he raises himself, body slumping into you—but you steady him with your own grip. His nose buries itself once more into a crook to inhale your scent, this time being your shoulder.
"Okay." You mutter. "That's progress. Come on, up."
It takes you a couple minutes, mostly because he clings to you with every step and he is made of heavy weight. Whatever they feed the heroes of New York, it was clearly something out of limits from your measly grocery bill. By the time he managed to slip himself into those Hello Kitty shorts while you kept your gaze heavily fixated on the ceiling, making sure only to look when the waistband was tight around his torso, it wasn't long before he tripped himself face-first into your blankets. Your own body collapses beside him—equally tired as he is.
You attempt to form a pillow fort in your daze, a barrier of sorts. More for him than you, as you're sure in the morning once this side of him disappears—he'll have a much different reaction to waking up in an apartment with a stranger he doesn't know.
It gets demolished within seconds.
As if the pillows have formed a personal vendetta against him, they're thrown aggressively onto the floorboards. Your hand reaches out to grab them because you had just put them in the laundry—but your wrist is snatched too and you're tugged into his embrace.
You land back into the sheets, cheek smothered against his chest, and there he goes again, wrapping himself around you like a cocoon.
Here in your bed with his arms wrapped around you like you're his only anchor, brows furrowed tight—Spider-Man looked so human. Soft, and incredibly vulnerable. His arm still grips limply onto you even if you can feel his consciousness fading, as if the lack of contact would have you disappearing completely from his reach.
"Those pillows were meant for you, y'know." You mutter, unable to hide your amusement.
His lips curl into a stubborn pout. "Don't want them." He grumbles, words nearly incoherent with the small parting of his lips. "In my way."
You snort softly, before noting the dirt that coats his cheeks. With such a close proximity, you see everything. The soft lines at the corners of his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and just how beautiful he was.
"You've got dirt on your face." You whisper softly. "I should help you with that."
His grip tightens considerably, and you're dragged up so close to his face that your noses nearly bump into one another.
"Okay-okay. I'm not going anywhere." You feel the need to remind him, hand slowly lifting to press against his bruised cheek.
If the press of your finger-pads against the bruise was painful, he didn't show it—only burrowing his face deeper into the curve of your palm, a relieved sigh escaping his lips. The crease between his brows finally unfolds, and the years coated on his expression fades with it—leaving him looking impossibly young.
"Smells like you." He grumbles lowly, pressing the tip of his nose deeper into your palm.
Your heart skips a beat, traitorously even when you're sure he won't remember any of this by the morning.
“Do you have anyone?” You ask gently. “Someone I need to call?”
It’s heart-breaking, the way he immediately shakes his head, his curls ruffled against the sheets. For someone so beloved by the city, even in such a weakened state, he still believes that he has no one.
"Why are you here?" You murmur more for yourself, gazing openly over the fanning of his lashes over his darkened circles.
If it weren't for the expansive heat seeping from his broad chest through the cotton tee you tugged over his head, you would've believed yourself to be in the thick of a sweet, non-sensical dream.
You expect him to be fully asleep, but you hear it, low and almost inaudible. "Home."
Your heart tremors, barely able to comprehend it. "What?"
His words grow muffled against the sheets, the mess of his curls sinking deeper into the pillows—but you hear it. “Wanted to come home.”
Peter watches as you wring a cloth of its excess water over the sink, and the familiarity is dangerously luring. How many times has he sat here on your couch, watching as you prepped a medicine kit or a towel after his patrols? It’s almost unfathomable how quickly the new routines, rigorous with repetition and duty, all that control—that responsibility that leashed him tight falls apart the second he is in your proximity. Where old overpowers the new, because there is nothing he craves more than this. The past—the memories that became more present than reminder, when his own life had pressed ‘pause’ the moment he lost you.
He should’ve insisted on leaving when you offered to clean up the dirt that still coated his face. He should’ve shattered the hope that gleamed in your eyes when he gave you the barest nod, knowing how dangerous that fleeting belief could be when his own had never held value.
He did none of what he was supposed to do—and he didn’t even have the gull to feel ashamed for it, taking in the sight of you with unconditional hunger, absorbing every trace of movement and the way your voice resonated in the hearth of your home. He belonged in your life once, the same way the remains of his old t-shirts were kept in your wardrobe, or how the bathroom door still has the replaced hinges he fixed once on your third home date. There’s him all around, and the sight was its own guilty pleasure that the universe hadn’t completely stripped away the parts of him that used to exist in your life.
"You didn't do anything." You reassure him from across the kitchen counter. "Trust me, when you showed up in my apartment—you weren't in a state of anything other than being near-collapse."
His expression contorts. As if he needed more reasons to hate these new changes to his body—messing up all that is predictable. Predictable is good. It's safe. What isn't within even the remote levels of safe, is forcing you to look after him the entire night because he isn't even in control of his own body.
You stop in front of him, brushing some magazines and half-littered candy wrappers to the side as you sit on the coffee-table, knees brushing against his.
"Breathe." You murmur softly, eyes crinkling with a soft teasing expression.
He hadn't even realised he was holding his breath, being so close to you that it makes him feel faint. Oxygen swoops back into his lungs, his chest rising and falling as he stares at you openly with his mouth slightly gaped.
The cloth in hand raises to press against his cheek, and he feels the slight sting of its cool temperature against the warmth of his skin, the bruise above his cheekbone.
It doesn't truly register for him, not when you're staring at him so keenly he feels the need to ask. "What?"
"I just didn't expect Spider-Man to be so—" You struggle to find the words. "Human. I don't know. I suppose that sounds stupid, but you could pass by me in a coffee shop and I'd just sum you up as a cute stranger I'd never see again, not an actual crime-fighting vigilante."
The two of you were together, so it shouldn’t have struck him with elated surprise to hear it, but the admission that you still found him—he feels sixteen again, taken back to when you had first pressed a kiss onto his cheek and he understood immediately on what it meant to fall in love so completely that you could never look back.
You're too focused on dapping the wet cloth to notice his widened gaze, or the way he swallows dryly—licking at his lips. "You think I'm cute?"
"I mean—this entire time, I half-expected Spider-Man to be at least half-spider. Plus, I have eyes." You tease, your fingers gently brushing the wet cloth over the darkened soot across his cheek, rubbing off the marks. "I meant to do this last night, but you kept protesting when I tried to leave the bed. Clinging onto me—"
"Okay, okay." He raises his hand, catching you by the wrist. He's definitely flustered now. "I don't need to hear the details. I believe you."
You snort softly. "Thought you wanted the full story."
"Yeah, summed up—minus the details." He splutters. "I'm already dying inside from shame, and I've definitely ruined my impression with you forever."
"That's not true." You hum.
He blinks slowly, processing your words.
"There's no shame in reaching out for help, hero or not. I know you’re under a lot of public scrutiny but—it doesn't change who you are, y'know? You're deserving of support, just as much as everyone else. Even if the world expects you to be a hero—" You state. "You're still a person, and it seemed like you really needed someone."
He stiffens, jaw tightening as his eyes avert from yours to pinpoint his focus elsewhere—anywhere but you.
"You're not just someone." He mumbles lowly.
The press of the cloth against his cheek falters. "What?"
"You're—" His voice trails off, jaw clenching tight. “You weren’t scared of me?”
He understands how he can get when he loses control. The way his vision blacks out, and how his mind caves into silence—with his body moving on instinct rather than command. The reflection of a monster in the mirror, everything he swore not to be. The version of him that snuck into your apartment, clinging onto you as a lifeline—was stripped of the rules and promises he had made to keep everything together.
It was him at his most selfish—doing what his instincts pleaded—no, begged for him to do, and he had caved in for all of it. That's why he's here, and why you're staring with an expression he didn't dare uncover.
“I think you’re a lot more scared of yourself right now than I am.” You answer truthfully. “You were in a lot of pain. The last thing I would be was scared, when all you needed was someone to look out for you. Even if it's just for a little while.”
"I—" What is he supposed to say to that? That you're right on, and you've always been even without knowing who he is, and that he's been losing himself ever since he lost you? He swallows thickly. "I haven't been myself lately."
Your fingers tighten imperceptibly, grounding him. "You're still you, maybe you've just been putting aside what reminds you of that. I'm no vigilante, but working yourself to the bone and collapsing in a stranger's apartment—I think that's a signal for a horrible work-life balance."
"I have been resting." He argues. "I get enough hours, I have proof."
"Yeah, that's definitely why you slept like a log last night."
His lips part, gaze finally meeting yours, staring at you wordlessly. Eventually, a laugh escapes his lips, deepening the lines near the corners of his eyes. It's a little sad, and you wonder just how much he had to carry on his own—for a laugh to sound that broken.
"This is hard. I'm not supposed to—" He mutters, and that's the closest thing to raw honesty that you've pulled out of his mouth. "You're way too good for me."
Your smile deepens, and your fingers trace gently over his cheek where the bruise was finally fading. That must've been the mistake of it—the familiarity of muscle memory after a long patrol. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek in thank you.
It’s only when he spots your frozen expression that he realises what he's done.
"I was not supposed to do that." He mutters to himself, widened eyes locked onto the spot where he left the kiss.
You blink, and he follows the movement—staring at each other in complete silence. His expression contorts, and you can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you.
"That was—wow." You choke back on your laughter. "I think you're running out of things you're not supposed to do, Spidey."
His own gaze crinkles into a smile, abashed. "I'm sorry, I just—I wanted to thank you. It was out of habit."
"Habit—you crash into people's apartments often and give out these free kisses?" You tease. "Is it part of the job description?"
He shakes his head immediately, terrified by the suggestion. "No—no. I swear this is my first time ever doing anything like this. I got the habit from my aunt, she used to—um..."
His expression dampens considerably. "Kiss my cheek for good luck."
Your gaze softens. "She sounds sweet."
"Yeah." His laugh churns awkwardly with a wince. "You would've loved her."
You watch him, and you sense it again—that chasm that ran deeper than the surface of his winced smiles. The way he shook his head when you asked if he had anyone, and even now, the way he fumbled with his fingers as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself in your gaze—and how he hadn't suggested once since waking up that he wanted to leave.
He was waiting, the way one waits for permission to exist in a room when they haven't been invited in one for years.
"Spidey." You call out.
He whips his head to look at you, pupils still widened in some perpetual disbelief, over the fact that he was in your apartment—that you were right in front of him.
"I'm going to make breakfast." You start, not leaving room for argument. "And you're going to help me."
He blinks once, then twice in astonishment. He swallows dryly. "O-Okay."
Your smile loosens into something reserved for a vigilante you had stayed up all night checking his temperature for.
You find that Spider-Man is pretty good in making pancakes, and that he easily maneuvers himself around your kitchen as if he had already memorised the layout. Of where your favourite mugs are, and how he didn't question twice when taking out the ice-cream tub without you needing to say it.
You could narrow it down to Spidey-senses, or whatever theories that's come up on your feed for his inhuman capabilities—but could it really just be that? Could his super-human abilities be the only reason behind why the warm hazel of his eyes light into the tiniest fireworks as he watches you scourge on your pancake, smiling at him with butter at the corner of your lips—as if the sight of you eating breakfast was the most beautiful thing he's ever seen?
Or why he picked you as his destination for home, or the slip of his tongue on how you meant a great deal more to him than just a someone who so happened to let him stay the night.
You have so much to uncover, but for now, he's just a boy in a NYC graphic tee that’s his exact size, and fluorescent shorts that do nothing for his thighs. He catches your gaze on his peculiar outfit, and his own lips purse in amusement.
"Any reason for the outfit choice?" He murmurs, a knowing smile covered by his fist as he rests his chin over his wrist, head tilting slightly as he gazes at you. "It's inventive."
"Oh—" You blink. "I don't know. I kinda always had them. They don't belong to me, but I just didn't see a need to throw out free clothes."
Your lips quirk up, teasing. "Suits you though. Think you'll keep it?"
He shrugs. "I don't know. I think I'll have to return it."
"Why?"
"So I can borrow it again." He suggests slowly.
You stare at him, unable to hide your growing grin. "Smooth, Spidey. Real smooth."
His gaze lights up. "Better than the cheek kiss?"
"Tons better. You could try it again—I'll see if I can adjust the scores." You tease.
"Really?" He stutters, akin to a flustered high-schooler.
"Yeah, but you'll have to tell me your name." You gesture with a point of your fork. "Can't go around giving free kisses without ID."
You meant it as a joke. You're no expert in superhero protocols, but you're sure the codenames meant no personal information spilled outside their work-life. Even when you've already seen his face, and shared a bed with him, and let him take your second favourite mug though he can't possibly know that last one. There's lines you've certainly crossed, but his name?
You part your lips to take back your impulsive request, to brush it off—only to find genuine consideration forming in his expression. Your smile falls slack in wonder. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't possibly.
Yet, he looks at you, almost peering deep into your soul. He looks at you as if he knows you, all boyish and unguarded. Whatever he sees, past the bed-hair and ice-cream smothered lips—it's worth it to him. It's worth something honest, and sacred—a truth he'll never be able to take back. It's a genuine, soft thing—a precious smile that lifts his lips, one you have no idea how brave he is for keeping. He has made his choice, and you're a part of it, always.
Peter looks at you, and he sees the only present he'll ever want. Past spells and starting-overs and stupid choices—at the centre of it all, it all becomes so simple. You—who his body sought out of instinct, who inhabited his mind with your own personal island, who had taken his heart from the first time he saw you. You're home, and no rules or lines drawn could've stopped him from returning back to you. His everything.
"Peter. Peter Parker."
likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3!!
marvel masterlist - coming soon! (do let me know if you'd like to be added to a peter parker taglist, i may be making one as i have more fics coming up for him <3).
now that everyone is done watching bnd.. i’m expecting a shit ton of arachnid sensory overload! peter parker fics immediately at my desk by tomorrow morning with a side of canon compliance…
summary: you find yourself calling jason after your boyfriend cheated on you.
note: first jason fic! yay!
you wove your way through the mass of sweaty bodies on the dance floor—beelining for the club’s exit—your now ex boyfriend trailing close behind you.
“baby, please just listen to me!” he insisted, reaching for your wrist—which you snatched away before he could wrap his sleazy fingers around your soft skin. tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you finally broke free from the pulsing crowd.
“don’t you have other girls to kiss?” you hissed over shoulder as you practically slammed your body door against the door leading to the dark, rainy gotham night. of course—he followed you outside. ugh. you turned on your heels to face him, the world spinning from the drinks you had earlier. tears ran down your face; streaking the makeup you spent an eternity meticulously putting on hours before.
“are you seriously throwing all of this away?!” he accused, his hands gesturing towards the space between both of you. “over one fuckin’ mistake?”
“yes i am! we are done!” you scoffed. the rain starting to come down heavier as thunder rumbled overhead. “and you were the one who decided to ruin what we had!”
“bullshit.” he sneered, stepping closer to tower over you.
“the fuck do you mean bullshit?! i saw you kissing her, asshat!” you laughed up at him, the rain hiding the tears that were falling from your pretty eyes. “we are finished!” you barked, trying to hide the small cracking in your voice. “i’ll grab my shit from your place tomorrow.” you added coldly.
“fine. have fun walking back to your apartment in the middle of the night.” he scoffed. he truly got off at the way your eyes widened in fear at his words. he smirked condescendingly at you before turning and marching back into the bar.
the realization of you situation set in. you now have no ride, you are completely soaked to the bone, and your apartment is far too many blocks away.
you sobbed quietly as you stumbled your way under an awning attached to a nearby building. at least that solved the rain issue. but what are you supposed to do now?
jason.
okay well, don’t do him—you freak—call him.
jason was your close friend…well, that was until you started dating him. he was painfully insecure anytime jason was around and forced you to stop talking to him. jason understood, but god, the past five months have been torture without you.
you fumbled with the soaked zipper of your purse as you sobbed. finally hearing the satisfying sound of the teeth disconnecting. your trembling hands reaching in and wrapping around your phone as you tried your best to focus your blurry vision on the screen. the stupid lock screen of you and your ex taunting you as you struggled to type your passcode in.
after what felt like an eternity, you found yourself starting at jason’s contact picture. your thumb hovering over the ‘call’ button. you sniffled and messily wiped your tears away with your free hand.
you looked up at the striped awning, taking a deep breath before you called him.
your phone dialed him once, twice, thr—
damn. he picked up quick.
“doll?…are you okay?” his voice gruff, the pet name slipping off his lips casually. he just got home from patrol, his phone leaving his ear momentarily so he could pull his soaked mask off, his hair being tousled harshly.
that’s when he heard it. the sound of a sniffle on your line. and were you…outside?
“jay…m’ sorry i know it’s late and you probably had patrol—”
“where are you?”
you could already hear the sound of jason changing out of his suit.
“jay…he cheated..” your voice cracking pitifully.
“are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” he sighed, running a hand down his face. “what an idiot…send me your location i’ll be there in ten.”
he was there in six. he saw you under the overhang next to the bar, your arms wrapping around your trembling, soaking frame. the small dress you had on was doing nothing to keep you warm. the sound of his rumbling motorcycle made you raise your head to look at him. you took a step but your heels made your feet ache and your legs felt like jello. a small sob wracking your body.
jason noticed, and immediately parked his bike. ripping his helmet off to run over to you.
“oh sweetheart..” he cooed, taking in your disheveled, shivering state. without hesitation, jason shrugged off his leather jacket, stepped behind you, and gently guided your trembling arms into the sleeves. the feeling of warmth covered your torso; along with the smell of his cologne filling your senses. “shh..you’re okay. i got you.” he reassured as he stepped back in front of you. his large hands coming up to cradle your face, thumbs absentmindedly wiping your tears away.
“can you walk?” he asked gently. you slowly shook your head, your big doe-like eyes looking up at him. without another word, jason scooped you up bridal-style, carrying you to his motorcycle. your body starting to relax as you felt the feeling of his warm embrace surrounding you. he set you down gently, clicking a helmet over your head before he slipped his on. he guided you onto the intimidating machine. he sat in front of you, reaching behind to wrap your arms around his waist, giving your forearms a gentle squeeze—silently telling you to hold on.
the ride was practically a blur for you. but yet, you still noticed how careful he was driving. like you were precious cargo. and technically, to him,
you were.
after what felt like another blur, jason was fondling with his keys, trying to unlock his apartment with you in his arms. your damp head pressed against his chest. finally, the door opened with a loud creak, then shut behind him as he padded his way to his bed. as gentle as he could be—which was surprisingly gentle—he set you on the edge of his mattress. wordlessly he knelt down, carefully undoing the buckle on your heels, then peeling them off your aching feet.
“thanks for doin’ this jay..” you mumbled, absentmindedly reaching down to brush the white lock of hair off his forehead. he smiled up at you, pressing a quick kiss to your ankle before standing up.
“don’t mention it.” he replied, disappearing into his closet to grab you a shirt to wear. when jason finally re-emerged, t-shirt in hand, he couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of you trying—and failing—to unzip your dress. his leather jacket was discarded on the bed next to you. “need some help there, doll?” he snorted, closing the distance between you two. his calloused hands reached out to grab yours, helping you up on your feet. he gently turned you, setting the shirt on the bed before his hands met your zipper.
“a’least take me out to dinner first!” you teased, looking over your shoulder at him.
he rolled his eyes, slowly unzipping your dress. the flimsy material bunched at your ankles as jason helped you step out. his stunning green iris’s were practically hearts as he watched you slip on his shirt that was two sizes too big. you turned to face him, your mascara still streaking down your rosy cheeks; even though your tears stopped on the ride earlier.
“lay down. i’ll grab a towel for you to clean up with.” he said as he reached to brush a stand of hair away from your perfect face. you did as he asked, slowly climbing into his bed and pulling the comforters over your body, feeling the warmth start to seep back into your skin. within just a few seconds, jason walked out of the bathroom with a damp towel in his hand. the mattress dipped as he settled next to you, gently holding your chin as he wiped your makeup off. “m’sorry…I know it’s not all the fancy shit you use on that pretty face of yours…” he grumbled with a laugh, wiping the final smudges off.
when he felt satisfied with his work, he leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before he started pushing himself off the bed. “i’ll be on the couch if you need anythi—“
“wait.” you blurted. he paused, looking down at you. “can…can you stay? please?” you pleaded looking up at him. and you both knew he can’t say no to you.
“yeah..yeah of course.” he agreed, lifting the covers and curling his body around yours. your face finding the crook of his neck as you felt sleep start to overtake you.
“i got you.” he soothed, smoothing down your hair. “always.”
thank you for reading!! please like and reblog! love you xx
SYNOPSIS: Damian pushes her head back down to his chest and smooths his hand through her hair gently. "Nothing of concern." He murmurs quietly, in a tone that the others have never heard before. "Go back to sleep, Habibti."
"Oh my God." Dick blinks in amazement.
"I don't think pinching is enough, I might have to ask Jason to shoot me in the foot." Tim wheezes when Dick elbows his chidingly.
MASTERLIST
"Someone pinch me." Tim whispers in disbelief, peering into the living room from the doorway leading to the hall.
The glare Damian fixes him with from his spot on the couch is withering, and if Tim wasn't a bat that was practically immune to his little brother's moods he would've ran for the hills.
Instead, he grins, slow and shit-eating. "Dick!" He calls over his shoulder. "Dick, come here!"
"Quiet!" Damian hisses, voice pitched low. The scowl on his face is fierce, and completely at odds with the entire scene.
He's laying on the couch, his girlfriend nestles onto his chest, fast asleep. There's a movie nobody's paying attention to anymore droning on in the background, his arms around her securely making sure she stays put and comfortable. She is warm against him, soft and soothing. The weight of her makes the thing that's always coiled tense and tight in his chest unwind, the scent of her coaxes his muscles to relax.
Nights like this are his favourite, back at their abode. Soft music playing in the background, the lights dimmed low and those candles she loves lit on the coffee table. It's moments like those where everything slows down and Damian feels, if but for a while, that he can be still and not suffer the consequences.
His first mistake was agreeing to stay over at the manor. It's the middle of the night, and it was a mistake on his part to oversee the fact that half of his idiotic family is practically nocturnal.
It was just so easy to fall back into habits, he'd been cocooned with the familiarity of her body against his before Damian had realised that perhaps this was not the best place to settle down without the intention of being seen.
It's not that he wishes to avoid being seen with her; that would be a lie severe enough to warrant cutting his tongue out in punishment. No, if Damian had his way, they'd never be apart. He'd have her with him always. It's more that...he's naturally a private person. It had taken an entire year for him to bring her over to the manor itself. These little things, the little pockets of contentedness, Damian finds himself protective over them. He wants every shred of her kindness, wants to keep it close to his chest where it'll be safe.
By the time his oldest brother enters the room curiously, Damian's ears are a little red, but he refuses to let anything but disdain show on his face.
He does not understand why they are treating this like such a monumental sight. He loves her. They live together. They have been each other's for two years now and yet the sight of them together like this is still enough for Dick to laugh in glee and pull his phone out.
"Grayson, I will eviscerate you." He threatens as the flash goes off. "Put that away, this is childish." Automatically, his hand covers her eyes to shield it from the burst of light, and Grayson at least has the decency to look apologetic.
"You're gonna have to move out from under there first, Dami." Dick snickers, looking through the photos, barely holding back a coo. "This is adorable." He grins. "I'm getting this printed; it's going up on a wall here somewhere."
"You will do no such thing!" His face prickles with heat. "As if I-"
He cuts himself off when she stirs against his chest with a soft sound, eyes fluttering open, half lidded. "Hmm?"
Tim and Dick watch in amazement as their brother, regal and cut from stone, softens into something quieter. The hard lines smooth over, the determined glint in his eye ebbs away.
Damian pushes her head back down to his chest and smooths his hand through her hair gently. "Nothing of concern." He murmurs quietly, in a tone that the others have never heard before. "Go back to sleep, Habibti."
The trust between them is obvious, because all she does is answer with a sleepy hum, and push herself a little higher on his body so she can tip her face into the crook of his neck. Damian's arms tighten around her, and he adjusts to make them more comfortable.
"Oh my God." Dick blinks in amazement.
"I don't think pinching is enough, I might have to ask Jason to shoot me in the foot." Tim wheezes when Dick elbows his chidingly.
"We can go to our room." Damian is not startled when she whispers against his neck. Perhaps if he was younger, more brash and easily riled up he would have agreed. Maybe he would have even pushed her off, or been vigilant enough to never let himself be caught in this position to begin with.
But he's grown older, and being here with his family has chiselled down his sharper edges into ones that are still rough, but don't cut as easily. He wouldn't call it 'going soft', because at the end of the day Damian is still inherently the same person. But he understands more now, he knows that beneath their teasing, their intentions are innocent. Their eyes are warm with something like pride and happiness for him. Grayson exudes it as the telltale ping on his phone on the coffee table tells him those pictures have just been sent to him.
"We have no obligation to move." He answers, taking her nuzzling into him as agreement. He's tuned his brother's out, but eventually Tim steps out when his phone rings, and Grayson takes his leave shortly after with a wink and a grin.
And it's peaceful.
They lay there for a moment until he notices fondly that their breathing is in sync.
Carefully, he feels around the back of the couch with one hand and grabs the decorative throw Alfred introduced to the rotation last month. Damian shakes it out and adjusts it to cover them, knowing by the soft exhale against his skin that it was the right choice.
"Wake me up if we do need to move." She says sleepily, lips brushing against his jaw chastely. "Love you, Dami."
Fondness seeps through him, cements itself in the cracks of something he had always felt was missing before she came into his life. A balm, cool to the touch, healing to his soul.
"Ya Rouhi." is lips press against her forehead, sweet and intense as he always is. "Rest."
He watches her muscles relax, watches the way she trusts him so openly, notes exactly when she falls back asleep with the way her breathing deepens. Damian always sleeps better with her there, holding onto her like this, keeping her against him reassures that part of him that is used to his joy being torn away for a lesson that might have been beat into him regardless.
He feels better knowing she's safe, protected, even if he knows she's the last person that would need it.
Eventually sleep calls to him too, the crackling fireplace ambient noise enough for Damian to let his eyes shut as well. He'd probably resolve to get up after a while, to carry her to the room they're staying in because although it's cozy here, he would much prefer to rest on an actual mattress.
But for now, the moment is his. Theirs.
"What the fuck am I seeing?"
Nevermind.
Annoyance flaring, he holds back a sigh and takes the blanket off of them, manoeuvring to slide an arm under her knees and pick her up.
Jason looks stunned as Damian pushes past him towards the stairs wordlessly.
"Told you so." She smiles against his chest when he grumbles.
choso is your friend. except he doesn’t fully get what exactly that entails.
i.
movie night. the three of you are sat on the couch, too deep into a debate that has no business being one in the first place.
the discussion moves forward mostly by you and yuuji’s exchanges. choso is there too. even if sometimes you forget that until he speaks.
he stands a little too close. watches you a little too long. neither of which you notice because you’re too busy trying to win an argument that has no stakes.
your hand lands on choso’s forearm to emphasize a point. he freezes, staring at your hand like it’s something he’s seeing for the first time.
you pull away and apologize, assuming you made him uncomfortable, but your wrist doesn’t retract—it can’t. not when he keeps it in place.
“no.” he says, intensely flat. “don’t.”
you blink. “choso, i—”
“your hand.” he looks at where your skin meets his. “it was warm. i liked it.”
you don’t know what to say.
yuuji doesn’t know what to make of it.
choso doesn’t let go.
ii.
later, you’re half-asleep on the armchair. yuuji snores lightly on the couch across you.
“i will walk you home.”
the voice comes from somewhere above you. you crack an eye open.
“ah—choso?”
choso nods.
“mmm. too tired.” you stretch, considering his offer. he stays put, waiting for the answer.
“you sure you can’t just carry me directly to my bed instead?”
it’s a joke. it’s clearly a joke. because you’re tired.
choso receives it with absolute seriousness.
“i can.”
the fog of sleep recedes. you open your eyes.
“do you want me to?”
he’s not joking.
“i...” you sit up a little. “choso, i was just... joking. plus that’s—that’s a boyfriend thing.”
his head tilts. “and?”
“...and we’re friends.”
silence.
you don’t add ‘just’ before ‘friends’.
choso’s expression doesn’t change, though something in his eyes shifts.
“friends,” he says, testing the word. like they don’t fit right in his mouth.
iii.
“okay—need to ask. is there something going on with you and choso?” yuuji corners you.
“nothing!” you say. it comes out too fast. “we’re friends.”
yuuji purses his lips slightly. “well... ‘cause he asked me the other day if it was normal for him to think about your heartbeat.”
“he WHAT?” you choke.
“told him i’d get back to him on that.” yuuji smiles sheepishly.
“yuuji!”
“what—i didn’t know what to say!” he throws his hands in the air. “i dunno if that’s normal.”
“well...” you quieten for a moment. “is that... all he said?”
yuuji rubs his chin in thought. his eyes narrow slightly. “yeah, i think so—oh. no wait.” he pauses. “that.”
“that what?” you ask, immediately kicking yourself mentally for not reeling back your interest.
“well, apparently he can hear it.” yuuji says. “when you’re close.”
“hear what?...” the lag with which yuuji chooses to relay information to you is maddening. almost cryptic. driving you wild. you can hardly believe they’re only half related.
“your heartbeat.”
“...mine?” you can only mutter. “my heartbeat?...”
thankfully it’s just the two of you—he could hear it now.
“he said that,” you manage. “he said that to you.”
yuuji nods, real casual. “he said it was distracting, too. what do you think he means by that?”
iv.
choso finds out you like flowers.
he saw you stop once to look at a garden. that was enough.
“it will survive longer than cut ones,” he says, holding out a small, slightly wilting succulent like he’s offering you a sacred artifact.
it’s the saddest little plant you've ever seen.
you take it happily.
v.
slow day. you’re at work. your phone buzzes. it’s him.
choso: yuuji says friends send each other things during the day.
you watch as he follows up.
choso: i don’t know what to send.
a smile appears on your face as your fingers move to the keyboard.
you: you don’t have to send anything. but what were you thinking about?
you press send.
the three dots appear. disappear. appear again.
choso: you.
you stare at the message bubble until your coworker asks if you’re okay. you reassure them, face too warm, that everything is fine.
vi.
walking back from a late-night snack run.
yuuji is carrying an arm-numbing amount of plastic bags. your newfound interest in the pavement beneath your shoes doesn’t go unnoticed.
“he doesn’t mean anything by it, yuuji,” you say. “it’s just ‘cause i’m your friend.”
yuuji stops in his tracks, rustling violently with every breath as he turns to stare at you.
“are you insane?” he asks genuinely. “last week you had a tiny headache so he turned off all the lights and sat outside your bedroom like a gargoyle. you think he does that for friendship?”
“he’s just protective!” you protest. “that’s what older brothers do.”
yuuji lets out a long, weary groan because shaking you by your shoulders is not an option that’s currently possible.
vii.
yuuji picks up his phone in a haste. his thumb navigates to a group chat.
yuuji: guys guys
yuuji: please respond
yuuji: they’re doing it again
nobara: who
yuuji: YOU KNOW WHO
nobara: them??
nobara: what is it now? radiating extreme spousal energy?
yuuji: YES
yuuji: i felt like i was interrupting a moment that hasn’t happened yet
nobara: you’re the one who walked in
yuuji: I LIVE THERE
megumi: then tell them to talk to each other
yuuji: YOU THINK I HAVENT?
nobara: no lol don’t tell em anything
nobara: im coming over i need to watch you suffer
yuuji: THAT DOESNT SOLVE ANYTHING
yuuji: LET ME VISIT INSTEAD
nobara: nah. omw
yuuji: ☹️harsh
nobara: you deserve it
yuuji: im just gonna ignore that
nobara: you cant in person
yuuji: whatever
yuuji: MEGUMI
megumi: what
yuuji: CAN I MOVE IN WITH YOU GUYS
yuuji: ??
yuuji: LIKE TMR OR ASAP
megumi: stop shouting
megumi: go ask gojo
viii.
“alright.” yuuji says. “i’m gonna say something.”
you know too well what this is about. “yu—”
“—and you’re going to hear me out.”
you stop. because your friend doesn’t interrupt.
“why are you both still calling it friendship?”
the question hangs heavy in the air.
ix.
“what does a boyfriend do?”
yuuji freezes, hand hovering over the half-open fridge door. the hum of the kitchen fills the silence as he slowly turns around, clutching a carton of milk to his chest.
“what does a... what?”
“a boyfriend,” choso repeats. he might as well be asking about the weather. “what does one do?”
yuuji shifts, trying to process his terrifyingly earnest older brother asking him for dating advice. “i mean... it depends? they, uh... they hang out a lot—touch hands... sometimes. walk each other home. eat food. together. and... like, think about each other when they’re not together.”
choso is still for a moment, taking in the answer.
“that’s it?” the follow-up question comes out in a low, quiet rumble.
“well—no, i mean, there’s emotional stuff too!” yuuji stammers, putting the carton down. “like, wanting to take care of them. wanting them to stay with you forever.”
choso hasn’t moved.
“and...” yuuji begins. he isn’t sure if he should say this next part aloud. it takes him all of two seconds to weigh it, then he chooses to lay it out as plainly as he can. “y’know, like, caring about their heartbeat. or the other weird stuff you were asking me about yesterday!”
choso casts his stare to the floor, the silence stretching. yuuji fidgets, moving his weight from foot to foot.
“i already do all of it?” choso says, his deadpan tone betraying a sudden upward tilt. “why do i need a different word?”
“you...” yuuji rubs the back of his neck, defeated by the unyielding logic of a half-curse who doesn’t understand romantic subtext but understands wanting you. “...you gotta go tell ‘em that. not me.”
x.
at the park. you and choso are sitting on a bench.
there's a couple nearby. they're holding hands, laughing at something. you watch them without meaning to.
choso watches you watch them.
“do you want that?” he asks.
you turn. “what?”
he gestures his head towards the couple. “that. the hand thing. the… being together.”
your face heats instantly. “i—someday, yeah. with the right person.”
“what makes someone the right person?”
you can’t answer. the only honest answer is ‘you. you are the right person’.
“i don’t know,” you lie. “someone who makes you feel safe, i guess.”
choso considers it. he shifts closer. his hand rests on the bench between yours, barely an inch away.
“are you safe?” he asks.
your lungs forget to take in air. “huh?”
“with me.” his eyes shift down to the space that’s separating you. “do i make you feel safe?”
you swallow. “i... yeah.”
choso’s gaze softens. his fingers twitch, almost—almost—reach for yours.
Reader who has a real job and actual bills. Reader who prioritizes her own peace over his feelings. Reader who has hobbies that don’t revolve around a man. Reader who actually has a life outside of him. Reader who says “no” and means it. Reader who isn't easily impressed. Reader who’s petty. Reader who has trust issues. Reader who chooses her girls every single time. Reader who has a body count and isn't ashamed of it. Reader who is exhausted by male fragility. Reader who holds grudges. Reader who’s a mess. Reader who’s mentally ill. Reader who makes mistakes. Reader who’s manipulative. Reader who’s selfish. Reader who’s morally gray. Reader who’s awful. Reader who genuinely doesn’t give a fuck.
the tension in the tiny apartment made the small space feel stuffy, almost as if the air had been sucked right out of it and right in the middle of all of that was jason todd. a pout adorning his face making him look more like a sad child rather than an angry man. but you didn’t make a move to baby him, not yet at least.
instead you watched in silence from your spot on the bed, your eyes drifting from the book you pretended to read to watching him undress.
you could tell he took a beating by the way he grunted and groaned yet you wouldn’t ask, wouldn’t point it out, simply because you knew in this very moment he didn’t want to talk and if you forced it he’ll shut down. you learned that the hard way but it was something you’ve come to respect because you knew when he was ready, he’ll talk.
“hi” he whispered, softly taking the book out of your hand to rest on the table beside you—your heart swooning as he made sure to slip the bookmark inside so you didn’t lose your spot.
“hey” you whispered back. he stayed silent after that, opting to fix the area around you to assure you were nice and comfortable before he laid his body in between your legs—his head resting on your tummy as his arms wrapped around your waist.
the moment your fingers tangled with his hair his energy changed, body melting into yours and a loud sigh slipped past his lips. he was calmer, the room no longer felt stuffy and the tension was gone.
before you knew it his body became heavier, full weight now resting on top of you and you happily accepted it, not daring to move to ensure he had a good night’s rest, god knows he needed it.
chubby speaks! wrote this with arkham jason in mind, but
gummygunk
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