Not a question but I just wanna say I found Nice to be Kneaded a few days ago and I’ve been ABSOLUTELY OBSESSED 😫😫 what killed me (in thee best way) is that I have a golden sunflower necklace that I wear every single day and hardly ever take off so the fact that he calls her sunflower and gave her a sunflower necklace had me screaming and giggling and clutching my necklace like a schoolgirl!!!! 🫣😩🥹 this fic is pure magic bb, you really did that <3
Omg stooopppppp that makes me so happy!!! This fic was meant to find you! Maybe if you squeeze it hard enough Steve will get the message from whatever universe he’s in right now. I need one! Thanks for reading and sharing this with the class.
I love to hear that you guys are enjoying my stories 🥰
cw: MDNI!! dubcon (bc there's an aphrodisiac involved), oral (f!receiving), fingering, lots of dirty talk, unprotected p in v, mating press, creampie, multiple orgasms, friends to lovers!!, HUNGRY peter
masterlist, taglist, and kinktober 2025 masterlist!
you weren't sure when it became a habit to sneak into the chemistry building after hours with peter to help him work on his web fluid; all you knew was it was your turn to pay for the pizza.
it was nearing midnight as your full belly laughs echoed through the empty lab, crusts long forgotten on the table behind you, as you lost yourself in a story. peter's smile was visible through prickling tears.
he knew it was a bad idea to invite you from the start — there was no shot in hell he'd get any work done as long as you were around him. peter had figured that out by the senior year of high school: he just couldn't seem to focus on anything other than you. he began to lie and say he was finished with his homework whenever you would hang out, covering his lack of progress in your presence.
peter had been distracted by you for the last few years, yet he could never seem to resist your company anyway. he beamed as you laughed at your own joke, relishing in the alone time he got to spend with the one person who made him feel like himself.
you let out a snort, and peter was done for, tears in his own eyes as he joined you in hearty laughter. he reached down and grabbed a vial through blurry vision, adding the final touch to his web fluid 3.0.
except that, instead of a sticky web-like substance, peter was met with a bright flash of hot pink from the liquid in the beaker before a cloud of magenta powder exploded from the glass, dusting the room, and in turn, you and peter.
he was on you instantly, shielding you from the flying shards of glass before the beaker even burst, though the aerosol impact was inevitable. the reaction was quick to hit your lungs, dragging out hoarse coughs, rough and heavy in your chest as you fought to regain a sense of your surroundings.
the headache was almost immediate as peter leaned down to say something, and you winced as you looked up at him.
"what?"
"are you okay? did you get cut at all?" peter frantically examined for any tears in your sweatshirt, checking your hands for any possible nicks.
"i'm okay, rea—woah," peter placed a hand on your jaw to inspect your face, and the touch activated something deep inside of you.
suddenly, you felt the hottest you'd ever been, and the headrush made you weak in the knees. your vision began to cloud, senses on overdrive as you felt an aching pain rising in your chest. meeting peter's gaze with panicked eyes, you began to really take in the state of the situation.
"peter, what did you just mix?"
"i-i don't know, i must've grabbed the wrong thing..." he trailed off as he turned to search through the drawers, but the movement stopped him dead in his tracks.
peter was instantly met with a rush of vertigo, the room spinning violently around him as he braced himself on the countertop. he felt like he did when he was first bitten: hypersensitive and overwhelmed. fuck, what did he mix?
amidst the rest of the world in his ears, peter picked up on the sound of your heartbeat and immediately knew something was wrong. really wrong. he took a moment to analyze you, everything moving in slow motion as he fought to figure out what the hell he mixed together, and where these symptoms were headed.
your current state didn't give him much comfort; peter quickly noticed how you were starting to sweat, your chest heaving as you struggled to catch your breath, despite not having left your chair. your full-body flush made him wonder if he looked just as disheveled.
"are you feeling okay?" peter asked, heavy with concern and guilt.
you shook your head at him, words fighting to escape your trembling lips. "i-i don't know. i feel... warm. i don't know."
and then peter felt it. his cock twitched, and he realized for the first time how painfully hard he was. he looked down in horror, hoping you hadn't yet noticed in your own haze. peter quickly sat down again to cover the evidence, praying to any god who was listening that this wasn't happening.
while successful in his concealment, the slight friction in the movement of his pants was enough to elicit a groan from his throat; he hoped you didn't hear.
but you did. because each little noise he made, conscious or not, egged on every dirty fucking thought you were having right now. and about peter. in front of peter.
"maybe we should get some... some fresh air, or something," peter says weakly.
as you nodded in response and moved to get up, it became horribly apparent to peter that he had to stand up with you, and not only would you also know just how hard he was, but the friction alone might be enough to kill him.
and then he had a thought:
are you feeling this way too?
no, don't think like that. that's your best friend, and whatever's happening, clearly neither of you was in your right mind.
but peter had always felt this way about you. this time, it was just so physically painful for some reason. what the fuck was in that beaker?
he didn't have any more time for his mind to race, as you stood from your stool and he watched your knees buckle underneath you. peter rushed to stabilize you, grabbing your shoulders and keeping you steady. it was pointless, though. somehow, the feeling of peter's hand against you knocked your breath out, far worse than falling ever would've.
you had no idea what was going on, but it was getting harder and harder to think about anything other than peter (as if that wasn't the norm anyway, bffr). but this was heightened. this was all of your wildest desires pulled to the forefront of your mind in the middle of your ochem 403 lab at 11pm on a tuesday night.
what the fuck was going on with you?
you tried to shake off the way peter's touch relieved some of the haze clouding your brain, and tried to shake off the feeling that maybe he was also feeling this way. your thighs clenched at the thought — that peter was also thinking of every possible way to take you on this counter right now.
but this was your best friend, and you needed to get your shit together long enough to handle whatever this feeling was on your own.
"woah, are y'okay?" peter slurred, your body heat under his palms radiating down to the rest of his body and nearly sending him down as well.
"i... i don't know, i think..." you stuttered out, not trusting anything coming from your mouth right now. "i-i think i have to go, i'm, i'm not feeling well."
you turned to make a run for it, hoping to get out of peter's sight before you either passed out or pounced on him. he stopped you, though, grabbing your hand with a pleading "wait!" falling from his lips.
before you could stop it, a whimper escaped from your lips at his touch, and you went bright red in seconds, hand flying up to cover the unexpected noise.
peter didn't help as he stared at you with his mouth agape, pupils blown to shit. he looked fucked out beyond belief and you'd barely even touched.
you cleared your throat, hoping to get out as coherent and PG a sentence as you could. "peter i-i feel really weird. a-and, i think i'm freaking the fuck out."
knowing you were hurting as much as he was broke his heart, and peter struggled to put all his energy into focusing on you. "i know, it's okay, bug. just take some deep breaths, a-and let's try to make it outside, yeah?"
he tried to pull you, but your legs forgot how to work, and you were frozen where you were, breath quick as everything grew downright painful.
peter's breathing picked up as he heard you hyperventilating, panicking himself as he watched you crumble in front of you. he needed to find out what was in that vile, and fast.
but all he could fucking think about was being on his knees in between your thighs.
fuck.
"p-peter, please. please, i-i, i need your help. you have to make this stop."
"fuck— it'll be okay, i promise. i'll do whatever i need to get you better. i-i just..." he clamped his eyes shut, desperately trying to come up with a way to make an antidote of some kind without dying or ruining your friendship along the way.
"peter... i—"
"what?" he cut you off, concern heavy in his tone.
despite his ever-growing problem, peter reached out to cup your cheek, and though not an unnatural thing to do, it was one definitely influenced by a gravity drawing him towards the feeling of your skin on his.
you stared at his lust-blown eyes, wondering if yours looked the same. wondering if he felt the same.
peter spoke your name softly, his thumb grazing your cheek softly and lingering far too closely to your lips to not mean anything.
fuck it.
you grabbed his shirt and pulled him forward, nearly headbutting him in the process as you locked onto his lips, surprised when you felt him immediately reciprocate and tangle his hands in your hair. everything about the kiss was desperate, and the feeling of peter all over you was fucking radiant.
peter was nothing but a moaning mess against you, sloppy and wet against your lips as he pleaded your name as though each time he said it, it took away the pain in his chest. truthfully, it did.
peter pulled away to take a breath, and the lack of contact brought the sharp pain immediately back, earning a whine to fall from his lips. he shook it off, grabbing the sides of your face and doing his best to refocus.
"f-fuck, should we talk about this?" peter asked relectantly.
"i-i don't know. i don't know what's happening right now, pete. all i know is that i need you to touch me. anything, please. i'm sorry. just, please make it go away."
yeah, you could talk about it later.
"nonono, hey. im so sorry, baby, this is all my fault. i'll do whatever you need, i mean it. i'll make it better, i promise."
peter pulled you back into a hungry kiss, rough hands roaming your body in a way he'd never touched you before. the feeling of your curves under his palms was only something he'd dreamed of, and peter was insufferably hard as he pulled you into him further.
there was a nag in the back of his mind, something telling him to stop before you did something you'd regret. because there was no possible way he had you, his best friend, tangled in his arms and lips heavy on his own. and yeah, peter had been smitten with you since the day you met, but he was never going to do anything about it. you didn't feel that way about him, of course. right?
cause right now, you kinda did.
no! fuck! just the chemicals! this was a one-time thing, friends helping friends.
yeah, friends helping friends.
but the pretty little moans that came out of your mouth as peter trailed his way down your neck? those sounded awfully more than just friendly. and the way you whined as he moved his hands up your waist, palming your tits through your shirt as he growled for permission in your ear? peter was never going to be able to look you in the eyes after tonight.
but right now, he was entranced as you bunched his shirt fabric in your hands and begged for it off, pulling the material over his head and immediately attacking his firm chest with a series of hickeys. you shifted your hands down towards his waistband, tugging him by his belt loops as you left a wet, hot trail of kisses down his abs. peter couldn't help but cant his hips forward into you, absolutely fucking losing his mind.
his own hands made their way around your frame, trailing down to your ass and grabbing hard. you gasped at the feeling, then lost your breath fully as peter nipped at your ear and told you to jump. he caught your thighs, shifting to set you on the lab counter and wedging his body between your legs.
everything was hot and heavy, and the effects were evolving and worsening. it was growing stronger with each touch, and though feeling each other was helping ease the pain, the need for more was growing too strong to ignore.
you pulled away from him, tears threatening to spill from your doe eyes as you stared up at peter, who didn't look much better.
"what? what is it, what do you need, baby?"
"i-i... i need you to touch me, pete."
peter went pale at your confession. it was asked so quietly, but it held so much weight. weight he'd think about after he got to find out what you tasted like.
with a deep rumble in his chest and another sloppy kiss to your neck, peter began to fumble his way around your waistband, asking you a thousand extra times if this was okay.
yeah, i fucking think so.
peter's index fingers hooked the hips of your pants; feeling his hands on your bare skin for the first time covered you in goosebumps. it was numbing the pain in your chest and igniting something in it all the same. you were so caught up in the moment, gobsmacked over peter parker, your best friend of six years, tugging your pants down, that you almost didn't notice that he'd pulled them back up.
your cheeks instantly bloomed in mortification. "fuck, i-im sorry, i-i don't know what's come over me—"
"no! stop apologizing, please. i just..." peter took a dramatic pause, and the only thing that could be heard was the two of you heavily panting, taking in the scene unfolding before you as the pain hammered in each of your chests.
"i need to tell you something before anything else happens."
you gave him a worried look, and peter returned it with a heavy sigh.
"i don't know what the fuck is happening right now, and why i feel like im fucking going to die if you don't touch me right now, and this is all my fault and i'm so fucking sorry—"
"peter. what's wrong?"
well, we're already in this deep.
"i don't know what fuck-ass aphrodiasic i just created, but i need you to know that the real me means this too. i can't let anything happen without you knowing that i love you, and this still means something to me. even if i'm not myself right now. a-and i'll do whatever you need me to do, and we can never talk about this again, but you don't deserve me keeping that from you."
you sat on the counter, stunned, as peter anxiously bit his lip, worried he'd just fucked up one of the best relationships that had ever happened to him. and he was still so fucking hard.
the only response you gave him was hopping off the counter and taking your bottoms off for him.
and peter was immediately on you again.
he had a hand rough in your hair as he kissed you, his other firm on your bare ass as he kneaded the soft flesh with a hunger. through his moans and downright whines, he almost missed it:
"i love you too, peter. so fucking much."
something inside of him snapped, and this time he didn't even ask you to jump, wrapping his hands around your waist and lifting you to the counter like you weighed nothing. you wrapped your legs around his hips and pulled him close, the make-out nothing short of a frenzy.
the entire time, peter was in your ear, moaning things into your mouth you only ever dreamed you'd hear:
"this. this isn't how this was supposed to happen."
"you deserve better than this, fuck. deserve better than an empty fucking chem lab, christ's sake."
he was quick to get his hands back on you, traces of mischief left behind as he massaged your thighs and stared at your lace thong with a look you'd never seen from him before. peter had been so caught up in it all, he'd almost forgotten the effects of the reaction. his actions were genuine and intentional. but as he pulled back to get a proper look at you, the pain in his chest settled back in, and his senses reheightened to a million
"fuck, i need to touch you. please, can i touch you?" peter whined.
you were breathless in response, "please peter, do whatever the fuck you want to me. just please, do something. anything."
he groaned and ran his hands up your thighs till he reached the delicate lace, teasingly tracing the hemline. "don't fucking say that. i-i don't think i can control myself right now."
"pete, i don't want you to control yourself," a shudder ran down his spine.
"please. fuck me."
peter didn't have the energy left in him to delay this any longer.
he ripped the underwear clean from your body, pulling you to the edge of the counter and dropping to his knees in front of you. he wasted no time running his tongue through your glossy folds, latching his lips over your clit.
peter was so hungry, and the mixture of the fading pain in your chest and the pleasure blooming inside of you was an insane feeling. he added a finger? oh my god. you were fucking incoherent. he added another? you were pretty sure this rivaled the time you tried molly.
you pulled at his hair, begging him (to stop or to go harder, you didn't know). it was all so overwhelming, and every time you looked down to see the source of your pleasure and remembered it was your peter parker? you were close to the edge the quickest you'd ever been.
"pete, i-i..."
"what is it, baby?" he breathed, quickly returning to your dripping cunt.
baby. jesus fucking christ. that almost did you in right then and there.
"i wanna touch you too."
peter groaned deep inside you in response, and the vibration was enough to send you over the edge. you felt your body fly over the moon as you came, peter not letting down for a second as he fucked you with his tongue so you could ride out the high, lapping up every drop you gave him.
he stood up, breathless, glistening, and a little cocky if you knew peter the way you thought you did. "how are you feeling? did that help, d-does it still hurt?"
you were panting as you came down from your high, taking a second to be aware of your body and headspace again. you couldn't help but feel emotional as you noticed the effects starting to creep back in. you shed a tear and nodded as you felt the headache thundering in the distance.
peter pulled you into a hug, and it was almost enough to sober you up again, because something about this one felt different. more weighted.
"im sorry, baby, fuck. i-i'm sorry, what can i do? how can i help?" fuck, this was all his fault.
you sniffled in his ear, but the movement of your hips against his contradicted your melancholy demeanor. "it's better when you're touching me. please, just don't stop."
between your words and you snaking your hand down to palm him softly, peter parker was a wreck, and wrapped around your finger.
he was quick to envelop you in a kiss and drink you in, and you moved to claw his shirt off of him. you pulled back to look at him, and it wasn't like you hadn't seen peter shirtless over the years, but you'd never seen him this close, in this context. it made your chest hurt in a different way.
"fuck, you're so hot," you groaned, almost as though an inside thought had slipped out.
he snickered. "me? are you kidding me right now?"
peter roughly kissed you before tugging your shirt off, absolutely elated at the discovery you'd forgone a bra under your crewneck. he stared at you like a deer in headlights, starstruck as he saw you for the first time.
"jesus christ, you're a fucking dream."
his hands were on your tits before you could even register it, but the feeling only made you crave him more. you messed with his pants, and he took over amidst your frustration. boxers and all, he sprang free in front of you, and Holy Shit Peter Parker. that's fucking obscene.
"this is your last chance to change your mind. because once i start, i dont think i'll be able to stop," he warned.
"please fuck me, peter."
he attacked your chest with his lips, hands firm on your hips as he shifted you again to the edge of the counter. you wrapped your soft fingers around his leaking cock, and he was almost done for before you'd even started.
peter moaned loudly and moved to put his large hand over yours to line himself up. you were still soaked from peter's previous meal, making it easy for him to slide his head through your slit. you were a begging mess in his ear, nails scraping down his back in anticipation.
peter nudged your entrance and pushed in easily (whether from the pollen or his ample prep, no one knows). the two of you moaned in filthy harmony, the feeling a definition beyond indescribable.
his legs were shaking immediately, and despite his inhuman strength, it became apparent that he couldn't do this standing for much longer if you felt this good.
"fuck, sweetheart," peter grabbed you roughly and pulled you towards him, pushing to the hilt and pressing hip to hip with you. he picked you up, spun you around, and laid you on the cool tile
"this isn't what you deserve, fucking you on the ground like this. fuck, baby."
and then peter was relentless.
he pounded into you with such a force, his mouth still focused on your tits and how they bounced for him. both of you could breathe again, the pain lifting and now replaced with a newly discovered pleasure that made you emotional again. you looked completely fucked out, tears streaming down your cheeks as peter lifted your thighs higher to get as deep in you as possible.
"fuck, please don't cry," he begged, though he kept drilling into you, knees now meeting your own chest. "i'm sorry, i'm so sorry."
you pulled him down, his chest pressing against the back of your thighs, and your foreheads connected as you breathed him in, exhaling a rough "i love you so much, peter".
he stuttered for a moment, eyes as wide as they were the first time he heard you say it. not for long, though, as he stayed pressed against you and picked up the pace like never before.
"oh my god, i fucking love you."
peter had you seeing stars, and you didn't know how long you'd even been in the lab. five minutes could have passed, maybe three hours. all you knew was that you didn't care, and you were close. peter knew it too.
"babe-baby, you're close. i-i can feel it, you're so fucking tight around my cock." you couldn't help but clench him in response.
"fuck, yeah-y-yes. god, squeezing me so good. god, i knew you were made for me."
it was the sentimentality of everything that sent you over this time. hearing the way he talked about you, you came around his cock, and it felt so fucking magical. but peter didn't slow down, determined to ride out your orgasm. he was quickly losing his composure, though, at the feeling of you fluttering around his cock.
"sweetheart, w-where—"
"inside, please."
peter didn't even have time to question the outcomes to his actions because the second he heard you, his best fucking friend, moaning for him to cum inside of her? oh fucking hell.
he let out such a guttural moan as he came, hot and thick, deep inside of you. you felt so warm and full, so much so that it triggered a third orgasm, sobbing peter's name as he just kept going. mixed arousal spilled down your thighs as he continued to fuck you, and through your fucked out haze, you could feel his cum drip down and pool around your ass.
you were barely conscious at this point, but peter kept going as he muttered "i'm sorry" over and over again.
luckily, he'd released the goddamn mating press and released your legs, allowing you to stretch out. peter was able to cover more of your body with his, lying chest to chest with you as his hips rutted into yours. the new position was so much more intimate as he leaned in to capture your lips in a kiss again.
"please. please, just one more. one more and i'll stop."
peter said that three more times that evening before he was done, and he felt like himself again.
he looked down at you in awe, though concern slipped through his fucked out eyes. "you okay, bug?"
"i can't believe you really just gassed us with an aphrodisiac."
peter laughed, a blush creeping on his cheeks at the memory of his fatal mistake. "yeah, that was, uh... that was my bad."
summary: peter parker starts an internship at oscorp, matched into a robotics team led by you — you, who has peter believing in love at first sight. and despite every instinct in his body, peter can't help but fall further and more helplessly in love with you... even if you happen to have a boyfriend.
wc: ~8.8k
cw: discussions around the concept of cheating, an insane amount of pining, mentions of m!masturbation, unprotected sex (p in v), oral (f!receiving), no seriously like a lot of munch!peter, fingering, praise kink, squirting
an: this is for anyone who would rather read my series as one long fic! thank you for all the love on this, i had so much fun writing it
masterlist and taglist
on peter parker's first day at his junior year internship for oscorp, he knew his life would change forever — he was just wrong about how.
he'd dreamed of this opportunity since high school, being able to work in an actual lab and have access to world-class equipment and the one-of-a-kind minds that came with it.
the one-of-a-kind mind that came with it.
peter met you thirty minutes into the onboarding presentation, and he suddenly didn't understand how he'd gone twenty-one years without you in his life. from the first time he was graced with your contagious smile, he was determined to have it as a guiding light through the rest of his days.
he'd never admit it, but that was the day peter started to believe in love at first sight.
you were leading the group on a tour through the facility, going over the expectations and rules, covering everything the internship would entail. he might have imagined it, wished a bit to hard for it, but he swore your eyes caught his more than anyone else's in the group. his jaw ached from the hour-long straight smile he couldn't seem to knock as your melodic voice blessed his ears. fire safety had never sounded so sweet.
an hour and a half in, you broke the large bunch off into their designated teams for the semester, and peter felt his heart nearly leap out of his chest as he saw you approaching his group.
"hey guys! i know you just heard me drone on for a lifetime, but i wanted to reintroduce myself. i'm (y/f/n) (y/l/n), but please, just call me (y/n). i'll be leading you guys as we work on the robotics portion of the project. i look forward to getting to know everyone on my team." you greeted everyone with your heart-stopping smile once again.
my team. not only was peter lucky enough to be graced with your presence on day one, but he'd get to see you five days a week. he was pretty sure this made up for every horrible thing that'd ever happened to him.
"let's take a quick break before starting, yeah? i need a snack before your first impression of me is while hangry." everyone gave a polite laugh, breaking off in separate directions.
you immediately turned to peter, walking his way. "hey,"
okay, he was definitely sure this made up for everything that'd happened to him.
"you're peter parker, right?"
maybe everything that ever will happen to him, too.
"yeah! yeah, that's me. how'd you know?" he gave you a shy smile, trying to not get too lost in your eyes. they were vibrant and speckled, something he was close enough to know now.
your returned smile was filled with much more confidence than his. "i remember your application. you're pretty impressive, parker."
peter was a blushing mess in seconds at your compliment. "oh yeah?"
"oh yeah. i had to make sure you were on my team as soon as i reviewed it." the smirk on your lips was unmistakable.
there was only a nervous laugh in response, a hand scratching at the back of his neck as peter's gaze dipped to the floor. he hoped it passed as humility, rather than giving away just how flustered he was.
"i'm headed to the cafeteria to grab a smoothie quick, wanna grab a bite with me?"
peter's eyes shot back up to meet yours, wide and pupils blown. there's no way you were talking to him right now, no way you remembered him from his impressive application, and no way you'd invited him to hang out (albeit for ten minutes) within two hours of meeting.
your confidence faded a bit as you read into peter's hesitance. "it's totally cool if not! if you'd rather settle in, get to know the lab—"
"no!" peter interjected far too loudly. "sorry, i-i mean, no! i'd love to join. how's the food here?"
your lips curled into a smirk, and once again, peter was in a puddle at your feet.
"not nearly as good as it could be for a multi-billion dollar company."
it may have only been ten minutes, but peter memorized everything he could about you in those ten minutes.
you liked starwberries, he noted from your smoothie choice, and you'd been at oscorp for a little over a year now. you'd started in his spot your sophomore year, an impressive feat to genius peter parker. that was the first thing he learned about you: just how wickedly smart you were. it wasn't often he felt like he'd met his match, someone he was excited to bounce his ideas off of, and it being you made him far more into this internship than he'd previously been.
but honestly, he'd be lying calling it the first. the first thing he learned from his ten minutes walking at your side was how incredibly gorgeous you were. not that it mattered; your intellect and ability to command a room already had him entranced, but holy shit. he didn't know someone could make a lab coat look so irresistible.
everything about you had peter smitten, damn near having to catch drool from his lips. the way your hair framed your face and bounced as you walked, the way your perfume danced inside his nose and filled him with memories yet to come. your downright essence was beautiful, and peter was starting to understand the sheer power aphrodite had over others.
he didn't get much time with you the rest of the evening as you led the introduction to the team, outlining the robotics project for the semester, but being in your presence was enough.
and as he packed his bag to leave and you slipped him your number 'for research purposes', he was already counting the minutes down till 4pm tomorrow.
your smile tormented his dreams the entire night.
actually, your smile tormented him the rest of the week, and he presumed it would for the next few months. truthfully, he hoped it would forever.
peter didn't get to talk to you much as your project started, but he savored the exchanged smirks and glances that came his way. he tried not to work himself up, begging his mind to not read into things too early. but every time he looked up from his paper to catch you already meeting his gaze, every time you came out of your way to say hi to him and check in on his work, peter felt himself getting further and further lost in you.
he started to come up with any excuse he could think of to talk to you, to earn a smile from you that could cure any ailment he had that day.
peter began to surprise you with a smoothie before each shift, strawberry tart, just like the first time. not only was it a reason to be in early, to talk to you until the last second before getting to work, but it freed up your breaks. the breaks you gave more often than any of the other team leads, he'd learned, your care for your team shining through in the way you taught and in the ways you didn't.
that was the next thing peter learned about you: your altruistic sense of others. you put everyone around you first, caring for people you'd known for less than two weeks as though you'd been best friends for years. couldn't make a shift because of work? you understood, new york was an expensive place to live. make a mistake on a task? no worries, you'd help error-correct and walk them through hands-on the right way to carry it out. everything you did was laced in honey, a sweetness oozing from you that nearly made peter sick to his stomach.
nearly.
peter's infatuation with you was on an exponential course, and the closer you grew, the more he couldn't help but fall for you. and the more times he caught your lingering glances, the way you started to return his smoothie favors with his favorite coffee order he'd mentioned in passing, the more his confidence in his affection grew.
it was 9pm on a tuesday night in the third week of peter's internship as the robotics team filtered out of the lab around him for the evening. they'd been wrapping up a busy and overwhelming shift as you prepared a prototype that would be reviewed by norman osborne himself. peter packed slowly as he always did, hoping to be last out and catch even a few more minutes with you.
he approached your desk at the front of the room, both hands tugging at his backpack straps as he closed in. you looked up from your work, a tired smile hanging from your lips.
"hey parker, good work today. as always," you added quickly. a blush crept to peter's cheeks just as fast.
"yeah, you too. are you almost done? i'm happy to walk you out."
you let out a frustrated groan, red eyes drifting back to your computer screen. "no, honestly. amadeus hasn't been in at all this week, so i'm trying to cover his portion before we turn everything in."
before you could even think to protest, peter had his backpack off and a chair pulled up to your desk. "here, let me help."
"peter, it's okay. it's already really late, and i know you have an early lecture in the morning. i can't ask that of you."
you remembering his class schedule had him dizzy, but he shook it off and gave you a soft smirk. "good thing you didn't ask, then."
that night set a different tone for peter. it was the first time he'd spent more than fifteen minutes alone with you, and despite being there to do someone else's work, he relished every single second of it.
he was nervous at first, his chair pulled so close he could feel your knee brush against his every now and then, your hands touching as you reached for the same tool. despite his anxiety, as the hours passed (unbeknownst to either of you), peter felt nothing but relaxed in your presence. he grew to know you more, the you that wasn't presenting to a room full of people, and he didn't know it was possible to fall even more in love than he already was. everything about you was so genuine, and when he talked to you, it felt like he'd known you for years.
it was nearly midnight as you put the finishing touches to the project, shoulders slumping in relief as you let out a breathy laugh.
"holy shit, i can't believe we did it."
peter smiled at you, leaning back in his chair to stretch out. "told you it wouldn't be that bad, (y/l/n). teamwork makes the dream work, right?"
you met his gaze with grateful eyes. "peter, i owe you my life. or at bare minimum the last three hours of your life back. you really didn't have to stay, i can't tell you how much it meant to me that you did."
he sat up, leaning towards you slightly. "nah, don't worry about it. anything to be teacher's pet," he nudged your elbow, earning a laugh that sent an ache through his chest.
"trust me, i'll do anything for you. i'll write you a reference so profound it'll be damn near biblical text."
it was peter's turn to laugh, standing to gather his belongings and pack his bag for the second time that evening. "come on, now i really gotta walk you out of here. i don't trust you alone in a parking garage at nine, let alone goddamn midnight."
you followed suit and grabbed your stuff, logging off of your desktop with a groan. "god midnight, i'm so sorry. you have to be at an analytical chemistry lecture in six hours. i did not deserve your help tonight."
he responded with a scoff. "come on, like i was gonna go to that anyway."
peter held the door for you as the two of you made your way through the empty and dark oscorp tower, tired conversations illuminated only by the faint red glow of the security lights. as you finally made your way into the parking garage and approached your car, you turned to peter with a smile that had him awake again instantly.
"thank you again. i really couldn't have done it without you."
"trust me, i'll do anything for you." he echoed your words from earlier, and had he blinked, peter would've missed the blush on your cheeks.
you unlocked your car to set your bags in the backseat, shutting the door to face him once more.
"well regardless, thank you. not many people would," you reached out while talking to grab his arm and give it a soft squeeze, so quick he almost didn't catch it. he did, though, and his entire body went up in flames at your touch.
"i'll catch you tomorrow, okay?" you gave a soft chuckle as you reached for your door handle. "that's if my boyfriend doesn't kill me for getting home this late. sleep well, pete."
you got into your car, and peter waved you off as though his entire world wasn't crumbling down around him.
holy shit. did she just say boyfriend?
peter didn't get a lick of sleep that night.
he racked his brain for any possible sign he could've missed, any possible indication that you were in a relationship. but he couldn't come up with anything. you hadn't mentioned him before this, and peter was beating himself up for falling this hard for someone he'd known for barely a month.
he replayed all of his memories with you, every time he thought you were flirting or going out of your way to think of him. he felt defeated, and though it wasn't like he was actively trying to pursue you, knowing the avenue was closed and he'd gotten this attached was crushing. god he was embarrassing. how was he supposed to look at you without it tearing him to shreds?
but something hurt worse than the thought of not having you in that way: not having you at all.
whether he meant for it to or not, your presence had become a healing force in his life, your smile a beacon he turned to after a hard day, shitty patrol, anything. facing you was the last thing he wanted, but the one thing he needed.
so he pretended like nothing was wrong — because nothing was. his feelings were unrequited, and that was absolutely fine! you hadn't done anything to wrong him, unknowing you'd even hurt him. so why did he still have to pretend?
peter was in love with you, and he had to push it down. keep things civil, keep things above the belt. and it wasn't hard — he wanted to. he loved spending time with you. so as the weeks passed, he did.
peter kept bringing you smoothies, walking you to your car each night. he even asked about your boyfriend, occasionally, though any story you mentioned physically hurt his chest. and you kept being you. unabashedly considerate of him and an ever-present source of light.
it grew even more tumultuous in peter's brain each time you brought up your boyfriend, more specifically, what you talked about. sometimes they were nice stories, a date you'd gone on recently, or the explanation of an inside joke you couldn't get out of your head. but as time passed, it grew bittersweet. you told stories of fights you'd had, asking peter's opinion. times you thought you'd deserved better, how you wished you weren't scolded for being so passionate about your work. he tried to stay neutral about it, tried to respond how any other friend would.
but he wasn't any other friend, and he was definitely biased. peter didn't understand how anyone could treat you less than a princess, less than the angel on earth you were. how they didn't see all the hard work and late nights you'd put into literally inventing something and building it by hand. but he played it cool, staying inconspicuously on your side and keeping you happy. because that's all he ever wanted to do: make you happy.
he needed to stop, to slow down his time with you; he knew that. but you were gravitational, and peter couldn't help it. he knew the consequences of getting to know you more, of spending more time with you, but the benefits outweighed every. single. time. he started staying late to help you more often, spending more time shamelessly up front with you while working on the project as people broke off into their own groups. you were only a year older than him, but something about the whole "teacher's pet" of it all made it... exciting, to say the least.
that was another thing peter had noticed as time passed: not being able to like you made him incredibly turned on by you.
he felt entirely guilty about it, fantasizing about his coworker, let alone his team lead, who actively vouched for his application. he felt guilty as he watched you lean over others' desks during lab, shifting his stool closer to his own to cover his growing problem as he stared at you. he felt guilty each time you laughed and leaned a little too close to him, the scent of your perfuming driving him crazy and flooding his mind with downright sinful images of the two of you. he felt guily for how hungry he was for you.
peter felt guilty as he lay on his bed each night, hand down his boxers as he palmed himself to the thought of you. how he pictured you on top of him, your hands all over his chest as you rode him so perfectly, your name a prayer on his lips. he felt guilty as he moaned your name, an echo around his bedroom as he came undone night after night.
peter was absolutely fucked.
everything was fine and managable until a friday night, seven weeks into the program. peter had stayed late to help wrap everything up again before a deadline, the clock showing a wide-awake eleven pm as your voice flooded through the room.
"i'm serious! my tongue was bleeding. how do you mess up a kiss that badly?"
peter nearly doubled over, holding his side stitch as he harmoized with your laugh. "that's fucking insane."
"i know right?" you wiped away a tear, a sigh falling from your lips as you leaned back in your chair. "what about you peter? truth or dare?"
he thought about it for a second and then gave a shrug, "truth."
you pondered with an exaggerated thinking face. then a smirk. "what about you? tell me something wacky about your sex life."
peter felt all the blood rush from his face. "w-what?"
"come on, parker. i think you're hiding a lot from me. tell me something crazy you've done. and don't skimp on me here."
he sat for a moment, knee bouncing as he fought through the wave of his own thoughts. you bringing up sex in general was one thing, but flat out asking him about it was another. he had no idea how to look you in the eye while talking to you, or how to do it without getting painfully hard. your patient doe eyes were so not helping him.
"uhh... i-i guess..." peter nervously looked back at you, darting between your gaze and your lips. fuck, why did he do that?
"i don't know. my freshman year of college, the girl i was dating was... a little too into cats. i won't get too into it, but let's just say when i say i'll try anything once, unfortunately, i have a history of meaning it."
peter stared into your wide eyes and cursed himself, cringing and regretful that he'd taken it too far. but then he heard your laugh, the way you hiccupped when you couldn't break any longer, and everything felt safe again. you made everything feel safe, even as he said the most embarrassing thing he could have. fuck, he was so screwed.
"honestly, peter? that's kind of endearing. most men complain about eating you out, let alone going as far as indulging in your kinks."
peter's mouth went dry. "m- wait, what?"
you said it again, as though it were common sense. "i haven't been with a single man that didn't at bare minimum throw a fit about going down on me, some even flat out said no. called it disgusting. as if i can't tell they haven't showered in far too long while i'm down there."
he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "i'm sorry, you're saying men don't want to go down on you? but your boyfriend obvi—"
you gave a pained laugh. "you'd think, right? tried it once and told me he thought it was gross. happy birthday to me."
peter didn't know if the ringing in his ears was from how hard he was at the thought of eating you out, or from the sheer rage that was coursing through his veins. "i'm sorry to overstep, but that's bullshit."
you laughed at him, nodding in agreement. "yeah, you're telling me. don't get me started, that is not a fight i want to relive."
peter gave you a frown before you continued, "speaking of, it's getting pretty late. gonna hear a mouth-full when i get home, sheesh. thank you, again. for staying, i mean. you're always so helpful, peter."
he gave you an unconvinced look, speaking up before he could stop himself. "why do you keep saying that? that he's going to yell at you for being out late. i mean, he knows your working, right? we're working on some pretty cool shit here, i guess i thought he'd be proud."
there was a look on your face peter hadn't seen before. it was solemn, one he couldn't quite decipher. you matched it with a soft chuckle. "you can't say things like that, peter. make me think that i deserve better."
"you do, you know."
you gave him a faint smile. "come on, walk me out, will you? i have more questions — i need to live vicariously through you on this whole 'going down on a woman' topic."
holy shit, peter was so irrevocably, unimaginably fucked.
peter spent the rest of his night imagining what it would be like to taste you. to feel you under his tongue, writhing around for him. he couldn't imagine anyone denying you such a pleasure; it was a disservice to you, honestly. to themselves. because if there was anything peter would bet on, it would be that you tasted as sweet as your honey-laced personality.
after a grueling two months under your spell, peter had to outsource some opinions on the situation, and whether or not he should quit the program and remove himself from you entirely. he reached out to mj first, not expecting her response.
"peter, i think you should be a homewrecker."
"w-what?! that is not what i was getting at!"
"i know, i'm getting there for you. i say, this relationship sucks and you should make a move and win her over."
"mj, this isn't twilight, i can't just start a fucking love triangle in my oscorp internship. i wanted to know if i should quit or not."
"oh? yeah, i don't care about that. quit, don't quit, whatever. but you should definitely be a homewrecker."
"mj, i-i can't... i can't do that."
"can't you, though? don't you want to? just a little?"
she had him there. it wasn't like peter hadn't thought about it, completely blowing past all boundaries and making a move on you. but he wasn't crazy, and he wasn't an asshole. he wasn't going to be like all the shitty men you'd brought up.
but damn if he didn't want to.
no, peter parker was not a homewrecker.
right?
fuck, he needed some more opinions.
peter's conversation with mj hadn't gone as well as he wanted it to.
"peter, i think you should be a homewrecker."
that wasn't the reason he called, and it definitely wasn't a notion he was trying to entertain. after two months of torturing himself in your presence, peter thought it might be best to drop the internship. he didn't need it to graduate; it was more of a hobby for him. truthfully, he hoped he'd be able to sneak away unnoticed every day, able to work on his own inventions and mass-produce some web fluid.
but then you happened, and his entire life flipped upside down. you'd consumed his every waking and unwaking thought, and being around you was becoming unbearable. he didn't want to leave you, to never get the chance to see you again. actually, that was the last thing he wanted, but it seemed to be his only option.
peter, i think you should be a homewrecker.
no! what?! why was he even thinking about it this much? he was better than that; he knew better than that. but every day he saw you, every time he thought about seeing you... he kind of didn't want to be better than that.
fuck, he needed to call ned.
"yeah, that's really tough, buddy. i don't think you should quit, i mean, this seems like a really good opportunity for you!"
peter sighed at ned's response, aimlessly nodding against the phone.
"on the other hand, i would've dropped off the face of the earth two weeks in. i think you're kind of screwed either way, dude."
"right?" his voice was laced with frustration. "fuck, i don't know what to do..." peter trailed off, hesitant to ask his next question.
"uh... mj, she... she made a stupid joke, told me i should be... a homewrecker. that's completely stupid, right?"
the silence on the other line was deafening.
"holy shit ned, say something. anything, please."
"sorry, sorry! i'm thinking."
"so heavily? is it not completely stupid??"
ned made gave a thoughtful hum into the receiver. "i don't know. her boyfriend sounds really shitty from what i've gathered."
"that does not justify me being a homewrecker."
"it doesn't not justify it. you're always such a goodie two-shoes, dude. maybe it could be fun to do something stupid."
maybe it could be fun to do something stupid.
no, fuck!
"ned! you were supposed to be the voice of reason!"
"maybe i am being the voice of reason."
peter gave a frustrated groan, even more lost than he was five minutes ago. "fuck you guys, i'm calling nico."
he didn't even bother with his initial question this time around. as soon as nico picked up, he immediately answered with the question he really wanted to ask: should i be a homewrecker?
"parker, what the fuck? is this about (y/n)?"
needless to say, nico was not as supportive as the other two. she was against it immediately, going on a long rant about infidelity and it's correlation to the women's rights movement. he tried to listen, he really did, but he couldn't stop his mind from all the racing thoughts, all the possibilities with the new option he'd been presented with.
"peter, are you even listening?"
"y-yeah, sorry nico. i mean, honestly, i'm sorry, women. i-i just... i don't know what to do. i can't stand being around her much longer, it just... hurts."
peter heard her soft sigh on the other end, matching his own. "i know, i get it. but that's not how you want a relationship to start."
she was right, and he knew it. that isn't how he wanted things to play out with you. you deserved better. that was peter's entire point in all of this: that you deserve better.
but he could give you better. everything he did would be better than the jerk you were dating. and the more peter thought about it, the more he started to rework his thoughts. entirely accidentally. yeah, ambushing you with his feelings was not what you deserved. but the passion of it? the raw, unfiltered emotion? that's what you deserved. to know just how wanted you are.
fuck, he was so screwed.
peter gave it a few days, doing his best to distance himself from you and take a step back. he felt good, at first, as the project was rapidly approaching a major checkpoint, and he was able to dive in fully on his work. but his resolve faded by the end of the second day as you approached him after the shift was up, bag in hand and confidence-melting smile on your lips.
"hey, pete. i missed you yesterday, you ran out pretty quick. everything okay?"
fuck, did she have to be so nice and caring about his wellbeing?
he willed his eyes to stay focused on the bag he was packing, knowing he'd lose it the second he met your gaze. "uh, yeah. fine. just had to get home."
peter hated how short he was being with you. he could see it on your face as he flickered his gaze up, features contorted into confusion and a glimmer of hurt flashing across your face at his half-assed response. what the fuck was he doing, anyway? this definitely isn't what you deserved, to be brushed off when you did nothing wrong.
he looked up to reach your eyes, to actually hold eye contact this time, a soft sigh escaping his lips. "i'm sorry. i just had something to deal with, that's all. i'm okay, thank you for checking in."
peter saw your shoulder visibly relax, and a smirk return to your lips once again. oh, fuck.
"good, i'm glad. i've gotten quite used to my nightly escorts, you know." you tossed him a wink.
fuck. he's so fucking fucked.
"do you have the time to walk me out tonight?"
fuck it. he had to do something. he had to say something, to tell you how he felt, and it was either going to be really awesome and the best thing that'd ever happened to him, or he was going to have to drop the internship and move cities. peter weighed the two outcomes heavily, chewing at the inside of his cheek.
"pete?" you noticed.
fuck, you can't call him that when he's trying to be good.
you reached forward, your fingers gently grazing his jaw in hopes of catching his attention, drawing his wandering gaze back to you. peter took a sharp inhale, his body rigid with restraint. his mind played tricks on him as he watched your eyes ghost over his lips, a shy smirk dancing on your own.
he tried to form the words, he really did. but there was only one thought on his mind.
fuck it. they have crime in the bronx, too. right?
peter grabbed the collar of your lab coat with possibly too much aggression, pulling you stumbling into him as he locked his lips on yours. he held his breath as he kissed you, though the action itself was nothing shy of breathtaking. he kissed you with such fervor, taking his (likely) only chance at this opportunity and not wasting a moment of it.
peter moaned against your lips the second he felt you kiss back.
the kiss was hungry, two months of pent-up emotion he'd fought to suppress bubbling over the surface and into you. he tangled his hands in your hair, his knees buckling at the soft sounds escaping your throat as he pulled you further into him, wanting to be as close to you as physically possible.
after he'd lost all the air from his lungs, peter reluctantly pulled back, panting and eyes blown wide. he stared at you, taking in your disheveled state as he noticed how pink and plump your lips had grown from the kiss, your entire face flushed as you fought for your own air.
peter took a step back, trying to catch any semblance of humility he had left.
"(y/n), i know i probably just fucked so much up. i know that, and i'm sorry. i'm so sorry, and i'll leave you alone from now on. i promise. i know you're in a relationship, and i've only known you for a few months, and i know i'm being insane, and now i'm rambling," peter gave a nervous chuckle, his hand scratching at the back of his neck as his gaze hit the ground.
"i'm not going to go on a rant about how you should pick me instead, about how much better i would be for you. but when you're mad at me for this — and rightfully so,
"don't forget that you kissed me back."
peter grabbed his bag quickly, giving you an awkward wave goodbye as he nearly sprinted out of the room, leaving you alone and utterly dumbfounded.
holy fucking shit.
peter didn't break his sprint until his feet hit the steps of his apartment building.
he ran inside, slamming his door shut behind him and dropping his backpack to the ground. peter's back hit the couch with a heavy thud, his arms splayed out to the sides.
he wanted to be upset with himself, he really did. and he should be. he shouldn't have put you in that position; it was unfair to you. he tried to ridicule himself, to feel any ounce of shame for his actions.
but all peter could think about was the lingering feeling of your lips on his.
his fingers traced where they once laid, a tingling sensation still heavy on his lips since he'd left oscorp over fifteen minutes ago. all peter could think about was how you tasted — your sharp, minty breath against his. he thought about your perfume, how good you smelled that close to him. everything about the kiss was intoxicating, and now he knew he definitely needed to quit the internship, because there was no way in hell he could see you without experiencing that kind of temptation again.
god, he should've listened to nico. sorry, women.
a sharp, rapid knock on his apartment door jolted him out of his thoughts, and peter shot up instantly.
either you were about to bitch slap him, or your boyfriend was. and either way, he deserved it.
he made his way to the door, steps heavy as he dragged his feet underneath him, not ready to face the consequences of his actions. really, peter didn't need to open the door. he could stay in here and hide forever, block your number, and move cities. yeah, that could be good. maybe if he just moved slow enough, he could make it back to the couch without—
"peter?" your voice called through the wooden door.
fuck.
"peter?"
fuck.
he's so fucked.
peter let out a pained sigh, shaky hand making its way to the door handle despite everything in his body screaming to run the other direction. he pushed it down, opening the door and ready to be told off, ready to face the consequences of his actions.
there you stood, cheeks flushed from the cool new york night, and slightly damp from the drizzle outside. you stared back at him with those big doe eyes that he could no longer meet without a pang of guilt in his chest.
peter gave you a crooked smile, the normal sparkle in his eyes now clouded with anxiety, "hey."
"hey."
the two of you stood in silence as your hearts each raced, still in the doorway as peter stared at you, anticipating your wrath.
"sorry, do you want to come in? y-you seem a bit wet, can i get you a new shirt?" he asked quietly, stepping to the side to let you into his apartment.
because that was peter. even though he knew you were here to cuss him out, he wanted to make sure you were comfortable first.
you turned to face him, and there was something about your expression he couldn't quite read. between that and your unexpected silence, peter was driving himself crazy.
"please, you have to say someth—"
"i broke up with him." you let out in a rushed exhale at the same time. your chest was heaving, the confession alone making you out of breath. peter flooded with a mixture of emotions, ranging from confusion, to pure guilt, to a glimmer of hope. he stared back at you, wide-eyed.
"what?"
you nodded. "two weeks ago."
"oh," peter blinked, eyebrows tight in confusion.
"you told me i deserved better," your eyes flickered down to his lips, just for a moment. "you were right." the words were hushed and shaky, like you still didn't quite believe yourself.
"oh," peter whispered back.
you nodded at him, taking a step towards peter and watching as warmth spread throughout his face. he cleared his throat and stood a little taller as you met toe to toe with him, his eyes heavy on your own.
"i did," you began softly, your voice dripping in honey as always. peter was already beginning to lose himself in your presence again. "kiss you back, i mean."
the unspoken staring contest was adding to the pulling tension in the room, a weight peter could feel growing on his chest.
"yeah," was all he could muster in response, dizzy at the thought of your sweet lips against his.
you moved even closer to him, close enough to hear his breath hitch as you ghosted your hand over his chest and trailed your way up to his collarbones peaking out of his oversized sweater.
"did you mean it?" your fingers were teasingly slow as they padded across his delicate skin. "that you could give me better?"
peter nodded fervently, not trusting the pitch of his own voice right now. you smirked at him, finally breaking eye contact to watch the way his lips parted as you looped your finger around his collar and pulled him into you, giggling as his nose bumped into yours.
"will you?"
that was peter's breaking point, a low and desperate moan escaping from his throat as he grabbed the sides of your face and crashed into you. his lips were hot on yours as they were quick to devour you, breaking only to trail their way down your neck. peter found a sweet spot behind your ear, nipping at your soft skin and earning a gasp from you.
"every day."
you pulled back with a moan, locking eyes with him again. they were clouded with lust, but they were sincere. peter always meant every word he said, and it made your knees weak to hear such pretty ones come your way.
peter gave you a soft smirk before pulling you back in, kissing you harder than before. he was quick to slip his tongue into your mouth, exploring with his own as his hands began to make their way around your waist. they traveled lower, giving a firm squeeze to your hips before sliding them down the back of your jeans. he palmed your ass as he continued to swallow your every breath.
peter massaged what he could through your pants, making his way down to your lower thighs as he broke free from your lips and trailed his way back to behind your ear.
you gave a soft gasp as he nipped at your lobe. "jump."
you obeyed immediately, wrapping your legs around his hips as you took advantage of the new position and attacked the pale skin on his neck. he groaned and squeezed your ass again before heading down the hallway towards his bedroom. you couldn't keep still in his hold, his hands burning through your clothing. you writhed against him, moaning as your core made contact with his growing hard-on.
he set you down on his bed gently, letting you go to stand straight and pull off his sweater. he leaned down to kiss you, hard, as peter's fingers snaked their way under the hem of your shirt, fingertips dancing delicately on your stomach.
you got the message, tugging your shirt off and leaving you bare in the prettiest lace bra peter had ever seen.
"every part of you is so gorgeous," he moaned. "it's not fair."
he climbed over you and helped you lay back fully on his bed, his lips finding yours after a painful minute away from them. the way peter kissed you was hot and needy, but it was also so tender. you couldn't remember the last time you'd been kissed with so much emotion and passion.
you smiled into the kiss, infecting peter with the same dopey grin. he broke the kiss, making his way down your neck and trailing your collarbones with sloppy, wet kisses. he watched the goosebumps form under his touch as he made his way lower, kissing his way down the valley of your breasts. he moved one of his hands to tug at the lace cup, exposing your soft flesh to the cool air. it didn't take him long to have your hard nipple in his mouth, his tongue teasing you with every passing movement.
peter got lost in the noises you were making, only remembering himself as you tugged on his curls with an exceptionally loud moan. he let your nipple go with a sharp pop! and traveled his tongue down your stomach, chuckling at the way you writhed underneath him and your muscles tensed against his mouth.
"we don't have to do anything you don't want to do," peter said breathlessly as he looked up at you, lips swollen and pink. "but i'm dying to get my mouth on you. m'not above getting on my knees, right here and now, and beggin' to get a taste of you."
his words alone had you more turned on than you're sure you'd ever been.
but you maintained yourself, remembering what he was even asking for. "oh, peter. you don't have to do that."
peter let out a loud laugh, one seemingly at you. "have to? baby, i don't know how to tell you i need to."
you bucked your hips in response and gave him a bashful nod, giving him permission as he hooked his hands around your belt loops and slid the jeans and panties off your body in one swift motion. the cold air on your cunt sent a chill through your body, but it wasn't long until you were hot against peter's touch.
he spread his tongue flat and made his way through your messy folds as a string of profanities fell from your lips.
"fuck, peter," you breathed.
he looked up at you with a dopey smile hanging from his loose jaw. "yeah, baby? feel good?"
peter chuckled as you nodded frantically, leaning down to leave a light peck against your throbbing bundle of nerves. "good. god, you taste like fucking heaven, sweetheart. just like i knew you would."
you bucked your hips up with a whine, hitting him in the chin and earning a deep laugh from somewhere sinful in peter's chest. he ducked his head back down, getting to work as he attached his lips to your swollen clit.
you gave a sharp gasp as he sucked, pleasure blooming throughout your stomach and tunneling your vision. he brought his fingers up to tease your entrance, spreading you open as he increased his bruising pace on your clit. he groaned against you as you tugged at his hair, his name spilling from your lips as the vibration swelled the knot inside of you.
"that's it, baby," he groaned against you. "i want you to feel so fucking good. i want you to cum for me, please. i need you to cum on my face."
you let out a downright desperate whine at his words, grinding your hips up to match the movement of his mouth. his fingers found their way to your entrance again, and you were done for, the anticipation of him inside of you enough to send you over the edge.
the face you made when you came was the prettiest peter had seen you yet, and the noises you made didn't follow far behind. he was rutting himself against the bed as he rode you through your orgasm, lapping up every last drop of your arousal. he was a moaning mess against you, pulling back only once you gave his curls two sharp tugs.
peter sat up and stared at you in awe, taking in the sight of your flushed, bare figure on his bed. this was something he'd only ever dreamed about, and seeing you laid out before him, still panting his name as you came down from your high, sent a rush to his cock that made him twitch and groan. he climbed his way up you, trailing soft, wet kisses against your damp skin as he found your lips.
the kiss he gave you was the softest yet, and you melted under his touch as you tasted yourself on his lips. he didn't break contact as he tugged at his jeans, pulling them and his boxers down together.
peter laughed as he struggled to shake them off, only to be cut off with a deep groan as you reached down and grabbed him at the base. he was hot and heavy in your hand, the room echoing with a series of curse words falling from his lips. you tug at him slightly, gasping at how strained he was in your palm as he twitched against you. peter dipped his head down, panting in your ear as you pumped him a few times.
peter was in a dream; he was sure of it. there was no way you had your pretty little hand wrapped around him like this, begging for him to be inside of you. it was overwhelming, the sheer relief in the reality of it all. twenty minutes ago, he had apartments and jobs in the bronx pulled up, planning his new life in shame. and now, he was so high that he didn't even process your words as you told him that you were on birth control. he jerked his hips forward into your hand, swearing like a sailor as you began to line him up to your dripping entrance.
he canted forward slightly to catch you, moaning loudly as he sank slowly into you. it took everything in him to not finish on the spot as your walls fluttered around him, taking his time as he opened you up to him. you were so warm and wet.
"f-fuck, baby. baby, you're s'fucking tight," peter moaned in your ear. "you're taking me s'well. you're so perfect, fuck—"
you groaned at his praise, digging your nails into his shoulder. "pete, please move."
he chuckled, pulling almost all the way out of you. "anything you want, sweetheart."
peter began to fuck you, building speed until he found the exact pace that made you tremble underneath him. your string of moans was music to his ears, and the way you clenched tightly around him brought peter to what he could only assume was heaven. he leaned down to catch you in a kiss, reaching further down your body to hoist your legs higher, pounding deeper into you than before.
"god peter, don't stop. please," you moaned in his ear, voice cracking from the overwhelming pleasure coursing through your veins. "y-you feel even better than i imagined."
with that, peter was done for. he was so fucking done for hearing you admit you'd imagined how his cock would feel inside of you.
he pulled out, much to your dismay, taking his aching cock in his hand and pumping quickly, your name pleading on his tongue. he let out a grunt and a shaky exhale as he came all over, painting your clit and stomach with hot, thick ropes of his cum.
the feeling was dizzying — the pleasure you were getting from watching him finish over you knocked the wind out of your lungs. you panted as you watched peter scoot his way back down the bed.
"sorry, baby, promise m'not always so fast," he sat in between your legs, palming his way up your plush thighs. "i just can't tell you how much of a dream come true this is."
he positioned himself back down to eat you out with a smirk on his lips, and you were snapped out of your haze. "oh, peter! that's o-okay, you don't have— oh, fuck!"
you were cut off by your own gasp as peter began to lap up the mess he made between your legs. his tongue was everywhere, inside and out, cleaning up his own release off of you and moaning at the salty taste on his tongue.
the entire thing made you way too hot.
he groaned and pulled back to circle your clit with his index finger, looking up at you with a sloppy smirk on his wet lips.
"didn't want you thinkin' i forgot 'bout you," you threw your head back as he easily slid his middle finger inside of you.
"promised i could give you better," peter growled. "that's exactly what you're gonna to get, baby. come on, i want you to feel so good."
you moaned loudly as his lewd words only tightened the building knot inside of you. he added a second finger, and you were immediately on the edge, breathless as his pace was relentless.
"that's it, honey. fuck, you feel so perfect on my fingers. you're so perfect."
peter moved his head back down to attach his lips to your clit, fingers still pumping inside you at a bruising pace. his teeth nipped at your sensitive bud, and you were pushed over the edge, splashing out around his fingers and all over his face. you gasped as you felt the sensation, looking down at peter. he groaned against your cunt, only making your orgasm stronger and making you squirt harder on him. he lapped it up with a hunger, groaning into you one more time as he thrust into the mattress below him and came again against his stomach at your sweet taste on his tongue.
you pulled him up by his hair when you'd come down, out of breath and vision blurry. peter swung his head back, flicking his damp hair out of his eyes and looking up to see your exhausted figure above him.
"holy shit," you both whispered at the same time, earning tired laughs to fill the now quiet room.
you felt peter shift beside you, and suddenly he was gone. though, somehow, he was back just as fast with a wet, warm towel and an apple juice box. he handed the drink to you with a sloppy smile as he leaned down to clean you up, rough hands now gentle as ever with you. he was delicate on your skin as he cleaned the mixed arousal from you, tuned in to how sensitive you were now. he admired the bruises blooming around your thighs from where he gripped you.
peter moved to clean himself up, throwing the soiled towel in his laundry bin and grabbing two pairs of boxers and two of his sweatshirts. he tossed you one of each, a dopey smile on his lips the entire time.
he sat down on the bed with you again, clothes in hand as he stroked your messy hair, gazing at you with the same feeling he had in his chest the first time he ever saw you.
"listen, i know you just got out of a relationship," he started with a sheepish blush painting his cheeks. quite the stark difference to the peter in front of you five minutes ago.
"a-and if this was all you wanted, i can live with that. but i-i meant what i said. i'd really love the chance to show you better, every day."
you gave him a lopsided smile and shifted to climb onto his lap. even though you were both still naked, nothing about it was sexual. you gave him a hug, wrapping your arms around his neck and holding him close. in that moment, you swore it was the safest you'd ever felt. peter was thinking just the same thing.
"there's no way you're real, peter parker."
he smirked into your neck. "funny, i was thinking the same thing about you."
summary: peter parker starts an internship at oscorp, matched into a robotics team led by you — you, who has peter believing in love at first sight. and despite every instinct in his body, peter can't help but fall further and more helplessly in love with you... even if you happen to have a boyfriend.
wc: ~8.8k
cw: discussions around the concept of cheating, an insane amount of pining, mentions of m!masturbation, unprotected sex (p in v), oral (f!receiving), no seriously like a lot of munch!peter, fingering, praise kink, squirting
an: this is for anyone who would rather read my series as one long fic! thank you for all the love on this, i had so much fun writing it
masterlist and taglist
on peter parker's first day at his junior year internship for oscorp, he knew his life would change forever — he was just wrong about how.
he'd dreamed of this opportunity since high school, being able to work in an actual lab and have access to world-class equipment and the one-of-a-kind minds that came with it.
the one-of-a-kind mind that came with it.
peter met you thirty minutes into the onboarding presentation, and he suddenly didn't understand how he'd gone twenty-one years without you in his life. from the first time he was graced with your contagious smile, he was determined to have it as a guiding light through the rest of his days.
he'd never admit it, but that was the day peter started to believe in love at first sight.
you were leading the group on a tour through the facility, going over the expectations and rules, covering everything the internship would entail. he might have imagined it, wished a bit to hard for it, but he swore your eyes caught his more than anyone else's in the group. his jaw ached from the hour-long straight smile he couldn't seem to knock as your melodic voice blessed his ears. fire safety had never sounded so sweet.
an hour and a half in, you broke the large bunch off into their designated teams for the semester, and peter felt his heart nearly leap out of his chest as he saw you approaching his group.
"hey guys! i know you just heard me drone on for a lifetime, but i wanted to reintroduce myself. i'm (y/f/n) (y/l/n), but please, just call me (y/n). i'll be leading you guys as we work on the robotics portion of the project. i look forward to getting to know everyone on my team." you greeted everyone with your heart-stopping smile once again.
my team. not only was peter lucky enough to be graced with your presence on day one, but he'd get to see you five days a week. he was pretty sure this made up for every horrible thing that'd ever happened to him.
"let's take a quick break before starting, yeah? i need a snack before your first impression of me is while hangry." everyone gave a polite laugh, breaking off in separate directions.
you immediately turned to peter, walking his way. "hey,"
okay, he was definitely sure this made up for everything that'd happened to him.
"you're peter parker, right?"
maybe everything that ever will happen to him, too.
"yeah! yeah, that's me. how'd you know?" he gave you a shy smile, trying to not get too lost in your eyes. they were vibrant and speckled, something he was close enough to know now.
your returned smile was filled with much more confidence than his. "i remember your application. you're pretty impressive, parker."
peter was a blushing mess in seconds at your compliment. "oh yeah?"
"oh yeah. i had to make sure you were on my team as soon as i reviewed it." the smirk on your lips was unmistakable.
there was only a nervous laugh in response, a hand scratching at the back of his neck as peter's gaze dipped to the floor. he hoped it passed as humility, rather than giving away just how flustered he was.
"i'm headed to the cafeteria to grab a smoothie quick, wanna grab a bite with me?"
peter's eyes shot back up to meet yours, wide and pupils blown. there's no way you were talking to him right now, no way you remembered him from his impressive application, and no way you'd invited him to hang out (albeit for ten minutes) within two hours of meeting.
your confidence faded a bit as you read into peter's hesitance. "it's totally cool if not! if you'd rather settle in, get to know the lab—"
"no!" peter interjected far too loudly. "sorry, i-i mean, no! i'd love to join. how's the food here?"
your lips curled into a smirk, and once again, peter was in a puddle at your feet.
"not nearly as good as it could be for a multi-billion dollar company."
it may have only been ten minutes, but peter memorized everything he could about you in those ten minutes.
you liked starwberries, he noted from your smoothie choice, and you'd been at oscorp for a little over a year now. you'd started in his spot your sophomore year, an impressive feat to genius peter parker. that was the first thing he learned about you: just how wickedly smart you were. it wasn't often he felt like he'd met his match, someone he was excited to bounce his ideas off of, and it being you made him far more into this internship than he'd previously been.
but honestly, he'd be lying calling it the first. the first thing he learned from his ten minutes walking at your side was how incredibly gorgeous you were. not that it mattered; your intellect and ability to command a room already had him entranced, but holy shit. he didn't know someone could make a lab coat look so irresistible.
everything about you had peter smitten, damn near having to catch drool from his lips. the way your hair framed your face and bounced as you walked, the way your perfume danced inside his nose and filled him with memories yet to come. your downright essence was beautiful, and peter was starting to understand the sheer power aphrodite had over others.
he didn't get much time with you the rest of the evening as you led the introduction to the team, outlining the robotics project for the semester, but being in your presence was enough.
and as he packed his bag to leave and you slipped him your number 'for research purposes', he was already counting the minutes down till 4pm tomorrow.
your smile tormented his dreams the entire night.
actually, your smile tormented him the rest of the week, and he presumed it would for the next few months. truthfully, he hoped it would forever.
peter didn't get to talk to you much as your project started, but he savored the exchanged smirks and glances that came his way. he tried not to work himself up, begging his mind to not read into things too early. but every time he looked up from his paper to catch you already meeting his gaze, every time you came out of your way to say hi to him and check in on his work, peter felt himself getting further and further lost in you.
he started to come up with any excuse he could think of to talk to you, to earn a smile from you that could cure any ailment he had that day.
peter began to surprise you with a smoothie before each shift, strawberry tart, just like the first time. not only was it a reason to be in early, to talk to you until the last second before getting to work, but it freed up your breaks. the breaks you gave more often than any of the other team leads, he'd learned, your care for your team shining through in the way you taught and in the ways you didn't.
that was the next thing peter learned about you: your altruistic sense of others. you put everyone around you first, caring for people you'd known for less than two weeks as though you'd been best friends for years. couldn't make a shift because of work? you understood, new york was an expensive place to live. make a mistake on a task? no worries, you'd help error-correct and walk them through hands-on the right way to carry it out. everything you did was laced in honey, a sweetness oozing from you that nearly made peter sick to his stomach.
nearly.
peter's infatuation with you was on an exponential course, and the closer you grew, the more he couldn't help but fall for you. and the more times he caught your lingering glances, the way you started to return his smoothie favors with his favorite coffee order he'd mentioned in passing, the more his confidence in his affection grew.
it was 9pm on a tuesday night in the third week of peter's internship as the robotics team filtered out of the lab around him for the evening. they'd been wrapping up a busy and overwhelming shift as you prepared a prototype that would be reviewed by norman osborne himself. peter packed slowly as he always did, hoping to be last out and catch even a few more minutes with you.
he approached your desk at the front of the room, both hands tugging at his backpack straps as he closed in. you looked up from your work, a tired smile hanging from your lips.
"hey parker, good work today. as always," you added quickly. a blush crept to peter's cheeks just as fast.
"yeah, you too. are you almost done? i'm happy to walk you out."
you let out a frustrated groan, red eyes drifting back to your computer screen. "no, honestly. amadeus hasn't been in at all this week, so i'm trying to cover his portion before we turn everything in."
before you could even think to protest, peter had his backpack off and a chair pulled up to your desk. "here, let me help."
"peter, it's okay. it's already really late, and i know you have an early lecture in the morning. i can't ask that of you."
you remembering his class schedule had him dizzy, but he shook it off and gave you a soft smirk. "good thing you didn't ask, then."
that night set a different tone for peter. it was the first time he'd spent more than fifteen minutes alone with you, and despite being there to do someone else's work, he relished every single second of it.
he was nervous at first, his chair pulled so close he could feel your knee brush against his every now and then, your hands touching as you reached for the same tool. despite his anxiety, as the hours passed (unbeknownst to either of you), peter felt nothing but relaxed in your presence. he grew to know you more, the you that wasn't presenting to a room full of people, and he didn't know it was possible to fall even more in love than he already was. everything about you was so genuine, and when he talked to you, it felt like he'd known you for years.
it was nearly midnight as you put the finishing touches to the project, shoulders slumping in relief as you let out a breathy laugh.
"holy shit, i can't believe we did it."
peter smiled at you, leaning back in his chair to stretch out. "told you it wouldn't be that bad, (y/l/n). teamwork makes the dream work, right?"
you met his gaze with grateful eyes. "peter, i owe you my life. or at bare minimum the last three hours of your life back. you really didn't have to stay, i can't tell you how much it meant to me that you did."
he sat up, leaning towards you slightly. "nah, don't worry about it. anything to be teacher's pet," he nudged your elbow, earning a laugh that sent an ache through his chest.
"trust me, i'll do anything for you. i'll write you a reference so profound it'll be damn near biblical text."
it was peter's turn to laugh, standing to gather his belongings and pack his bag for the second time that evening. "come on, now i really gotta walk you out of here. i don't trust you alone in a parking garage at nine, let alone goddamn midnight."
you followed suit and grabbed your stuff, logging off of your desktop with a groan. "god midnight, i'm so sorry. you have to be at an analytical chemistry lecture in six hours. i did not deserve your help tonight."
he responded with a scoff. "come on, like i was gonna go to that anyway."
peter held the door for you as the two of you made your way through the empty and dark oscorp tower, tired conversations illuminated only by the faint red glow of the security lights. as you finally made your way into the parking garage and approached your car, you turned to peter with a smile that had him awake again instantly.
"thank you again. i really couldn't have done it without you."
"trust me, i'll do anything for you." he echoed your words from earlier, and had he blinked, peter would've missed the blush on your cheeks.
you unlocked your car to set your bags in the backseat, shutting the door to face him once more.
"well regardless, thank you. not many people would," you reached out while talking to grab his arm and give it a soft squeeze, so quick he almost didn't catch it. he did, though, and his entire body went up in flames at your touch.
"i'll catch you tomorrow, okay?" you gave a soft chuckle as you reached for your door handle. "that's if my boyfriend doesn't kill me for getting home this late. sleep well, pete."
you got into your car, and peter waved you off as though his entire world wasn't crumbling down around him.
holy shit. did she just say boyfriend?
peter didn't get a lick of sleep that night.
he racked his brain for any possible sign he could've missed, any possible indication that you were in a relationship. but he couldn't come up with anything. you hadn't mentioned him before this, and peter was beating himself up for falling this hard for someone he'd known for barely a month.
he replayed all of his memories with you, every time he thought you were flirting or going out of your way to think of him. he felt defeated, and though it wasn't like he was actively trying to pursue you, knowing the avenue was closed and he'd gotten this attached was crushing. god he was embarrassing. how was he supposed to look at you without it tearing him to shreds?
but something hurt worse than the thought of not having you in that way: not having you at all.
whether he meant for it to or not, your presence had become a healing force in his life, your smile a beacon he turned to after a hard day, shitty patrol, anything. facing you was the last thing he wanted, but the one thing he needed.
so he pretended like nothing was wrong — because nothing was. his feelings were unrequited, and that was absolutely fine! you hadn't done anything to wrong him, unknowing you'd even hurt him. so why did he still have to pretend?
peter was in love with you, and he had to push it down. keep things civil, keep things above the belt. and it wasn't hard — he wanted to. he loved spending time with you. so as the weeks passed, he did.
peter kept bringing you smoothies, walking you to your car each night. he even asked about your boyfriend, occasionally, though any story you mentioned physically hurt his chest. and you kept being you. unabashedly considerate of him and an ever-present source of light.
it grew even more tumultuous in peter's brain each time you brought up your boyfriend, more specifically, what you talked about. sometimes they were nice stories, a date you'd gone on recently, or the explanation of an inside joke you couldn't get out of your head. but as time passed, it grew bittersweet. you told stories of fights you'd had, asking peter's opinion. times you thought you'd deserved better, how you wished you weren't scolded for being so passionate about your work. he tried to stay neutral about it, tried to respond how any other friend would.
but he wasn't any other friend, and he was definitely biased. peter didn't understand how anyone could treat you less than a princess, less than the angel on earth you were. how they didn't see all the hard work and late nights you'd put into literally inventing something and building it by hand. but he played it cool, staying inconspicuously on your side and keeping you happy. because that's all he ever wanted to do: make you happy.
he needed to stop, to slow down his time with you; he knew that. but you were gravitational, and peter couldn't help it. he knew the consequences of getting to know you more, of spending more time with you, but the benefits outweighed every. single. time. he started staying late to help you more often, spending more time shamelessly up front with you while working on the project as people broke off into their own groups. you were only a year older than him, but something about the whole "teacher's pet" of it all made it... exciting, to say the least.
that was another thing peter had noticed as time passed: not being able to like you made him incredibly turned on by you.
he felt entirely guilty about it, fantasizing about his coworker, let alone his team lead, who actively vouched for his application. he felt guilty as he watched you lean over others' desks during lab, shifting his stool closer to his own to cover his growing problem as he stared at you. he felt guilty each time you laughed and leaned a little too close to him, the scent of your perfuming driving him crazy and flooding his mind with downright sinful images of the two of you. he felt guily for how hungry he was for you.
peter felt guilty as he lay on his bed each night, hand down his boxers as he palmed himself to the thought of you. how he pictured you on top of him, your hands all over his chest as you rode him so perfectly, your name a prayer on his lips. he felt guilty as he moaned your name, an echo around his bedroom as he came undone night after night.
peter was absolutely fucked.
everything was fine and managable until a friday night, seven weeks into the program. peter had stayed late to help wrap everything up again before a deadline, the clock showing a wide-awake eleven pm as your voice flooded through the room.
"i'm serious! my tongue was bleeding. how do you mess up a kiss that badly?"
peter nearly doubled over, holding his side stitch as he harmoized with your laugh. "that's fucking insane."
"i know right?" you wiped away a tear, a sigh falling from your lips as you leaned back in your chair. "what about you peter? truth or dare?"
he thought about it for a second and then gave a shrug, "truth."
you pondered with an exaggerated thinking face. then a smirk. "what about you? tell me something wacky about your sex life."
peter felt all the blood rush from his face. "w-what?"
"come on, parker. i think you're hiding a lot from me. tell me something crazy you've done. and don't skimp on me here."
he sat for a moment, knee bouncing as he fought through the wave of his own thoughts. you bringing up sex in general was one thing, but flat out asking him about it was another. he had no idea how to look you in the eye while talking to you, or how to do it without getting painfully hard. your patient doe eyes were so not helping him.
"uhh... i-i guess..." peter nervously looked back at you, darting between your gaze and your lips. fuck, why did he do that?
"i don't know. my freshman year of college, the girl i was dating was... a little too into cats. i won't get too into it, but let's just say when i say i'll try anything once, unfortunately, i have a history of meaning it."
peter stared into your wide eyes and cursed himself, cringing and regretful that he'd taken it too far. but then he heard your laugh, the way you hiccupped when you couldn't break any longer, and everything felt safe again. you made everything feel safe, even as he said the most embarrassing thing he could have. fuck, he was so screwed.
"honestly, peter? that's kind of endearing. most men complain about eating you out, let alone going as far as indulging in your kinks."
peter's mouth went dry. "m- wait, what?"
you said it again, as though it were common sense. "i haven't been with a single man that didn't at bare minimum throw a fit about going down on me, some even flat out said no. called it disgusting. as if i can't tell they haven't showered in far too long while i'm down there."
he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "i'm sorry, you're saying men don't want to go down on you? but your boyfriend obvi—"
you gave a pained laugh. "you'd think, right? tried it once and told me he thought it was gross. happy birthday to me."
peter didn't know if the ringing in his ears was from how hard he was at the thought of eating you out, or from the sheer rage that was coursing through his veins. "i'm sorry to overstep, but that's bullshit."
you laughed at him, nodding in agreement. "yeah, you're telling me. don't get me started, that is not a fight i want to relive."
peter gave you a frown before you continued, "speaking of, it's getting pretty late. gonna hear a mouth-full when i get home, sheesh. thank you, again. for staying, i mean. you're always so helpful, peter."
he gave you an unconvinced look, speaking up before he could stop himself. "why do you keep saying that? that he's going to yell at you for being out late. i mean, he knows your working, right? we're working on some pretty cool shit here, i guess i thought he'd be proud."
there was a look on your face peter hadn't seen before. it was solemn, one he couldn't quite decipher. you matched it with a soft chuckle. "you can't say things like that, peter. make me think that i deserve better."
"you do, you know."
you gave him a faint smile. "come on, walk me out, will you? i have more questions — i need to live vicariously through you on this whole 'going down on a woman' topic."
holy shit, peter was so irrevocably, unimaginably fucked.
peter spent the rest of his night imagining what it would be like to taste you. to feel you under his tongue, writhing around for him. he couldn't imagine anyone denying you such a pleasure; it was a disservice to you, honestly. to themselves. because if there was anything peter would bet on, it would be that you tasted as sweet as your honey-laced personality.
after a grueling two months under your spell, peter had to outsource some opinions on the situation, and whether or not he should quit the program and remove himself from you entirely. he reached out to mj first, not expecting her response.
"peter, i think you should be a homewrecker."
"w-what?! that is not what i was getting at!"
"i know, i'm getting there for you. i say, this relationship sucks and you should make a move and win her over."
"mj, this isn't twilight, i can't just start a fucking love triangle in my oscorp internship. i wanted to know if i should quit or not."
"oh? yeah, i don't care about that. quit, don't quit, whatever. but you should definitely be a homewrecker."
"mj, i-i can't... i can't do that."
"can't you, though? don't you want to? just a little?"
she had him there. it wasn't like peter hadn't thought about it, completely blowing past all boundaries and making a move on you. but he wasn't crazy, and he wasn't an asshole. he wasn't going to be like all the shitty men you'd brought up.
but damn if he didn't want to.
no, peter parker was not a homewrecker.
right?
fuck, he needed some more opinions.
peter's conversation with mj hadn't gone as well as he wanted it to.
"peter, i think you should be a homewrecker."
that wasn't the reason he called, and it definitely wasn't a notion he was trying to entertain. after two months of torturing himself in your presence, peter thought it might be best to drop the internship. he didn't need it to graduate; it was more of a hobby for him. truthfully, he hoped he'd be able to sneak away unnoticed every day, able to work on his own inventions and mass-produce some web fluid.
but then you happened, and his entire life flipped upside down. you'd consumed his every waking and unwaking thought, and being around you was becoming unbearable. he didn't want to leave you, to never get the chance to see you again. actually, that was the last thing he wanted, but it seemed to be his only option.
peter, i think you should be a homewrecker.
no! what?! why was he even thinking about it this much? he was better than that; he knew better than that. but every day he saw you, every time he thought about seeing you... he kind of didn't want to be better than that.
fuck, he needed to call ned.
"yeah, that's really tough, buddy. i don't think you should quit, i mean, this seems like a really good opportunity for you!"
peter sighed at ned's response, aimlessly nodding against the phone.
"on the other hand, i would've dropped off the face of the earth two weeks in. i think you're kind of screwed either way, dude."
"right?" his voice was laced with frustration. "fuck, i don't know what to do..." peter trailed off, hesitant to ask his next question.
"uh... mj, she... she made a stupid joke, told me i should be... a homewrecker. that's completely stupid, right?"
the silence on the other line was deafening.
"holy shit ned, say something. anything, please."
"sorry, sorry! i'm thinking."
"so heavily? is it not completely stupid??"
ned made gave a thoughtful hum into the receiver. "i don't know. her boyfriend sounds really shitty from what i've gathered."
"that does not justify me being a homewrecker."
"it doesn't not justify it. you're always such a goodie two-shoes, dude. maybe it could be fun to do something stupid."
maybe it could be fun to do something stupid.
no, fuck!
"ned! you were supposed to be the voice of reason!"
"maybe i am being the voice of reason."
peter gave a frustrated groan, even more lost than he was five minutes ago. "fuck you guys, i'm calling nico."
he didn't even bother with his initial question this time around. as soon as nico picked up, he immediately answered with the question he really wanted to ask: should i be a homewrecker?
"parker, what the fuck? is this about (y/n)?"
needless to say, nico was not as supportive as the other two. she was against it immediately, going on a long rant about infidelity and it's correlation to the women's rights movement. he tried to listen, he really did, but he couldn't stop his mind from all the racing thoughts, all the possibilities with the new option he'd been presented with.
"peter, are you even listening?"
"y-yeah, sorry nico. i mean, honestly, i'm sorry, women. i-i just... i don't know what to do. i can't stand being around her much longer, it just... hurts."
peter heard her soft sigh on the other end, matching his own. "i know, i get it. but that's not how you want a relationship to start."
she was right, and he knew it. that isn't how he wanted things to play out with you. you deserved better. that was peter's entire point in all of this: that you deserve better.
but he could give you better. everything he did would be better than the jerk you were dating. and the more peter thought about it, the more he started to rework his thoughts. entirely accidentally. yeah, ambushing you with his feelings was not what you deserved. but the passion of it? the raw, unfiltered emotion? that's what you deserved. to know just how wanted you are.
fuck, he was so screwed.
peter gave it a few days, doing his best to distance himself from you and take a step back. he felt good, at first, as the project was rapidly approaching a major checkpoint, and he was able to dive in fully on his work. but his resolve faded by the end of the second day as you approached him after the shift was up, bag in hand and confidence-melting smile on your lips.
"hey, pete. i missed you yesterday, you ran out pretty quick. everything okay?"
fuck, did she have to be so nice and caring about his wellbeing?
he willed his eyes to stay focused on the bag he was packing, knowing he'd lose it the second he met your gaze. "uh, yeah. fine. just had to get home."
peter hated how short he was being with you. he could see it on your face as he flickered his gaze up, features contorted into confusion and a glimmer of hurt flashing across your face at his half-assed response. what the fuck was he doing, anyway? this definitely isn't what you deserved, to be brushed off when you did nothing wrong.
he looked up to reach your eyes, to actually hold eye contact this time, a soft sigh escaping his lips. "i'm sorry. i just had something to deal with, that's all. i'm okay, thank you for checking in."
peter saw your shoulder visibly relax, and a smirk return to your lips once again. oh, fuck.
"good, i'm glad. i've gotten quite used to my nightly escorts, you know." you tossed him a wink.
fuck. he's so fucking fucked.
"do you have the time to walk me out tonight?"
fuck it. he had to do something. he had to say something, to tell you how he felt, and it was either going to be really awesome and the best thing that'd ever happened to him, or he was going to have to drop the internship and move cities. peter weighed the two outcomes heavily, chewing at the inside of his cheek.
"pete?" you noticed.
fuck, you can't call him that when he's trying to be good.
you reached forward, your fingers gently grazing his jaw in hopes of catching his attention, drawing his wandering gaze back to you. peter took a sharp inhale, his body rigid with restraint. his mind played tricks on him as he watched your eyes ghost over his lips, a shy smirk dancing on your own.
he tried to form the words, he really did. but there was only one thought on his mind.
fuck it. they have crime in the bronx, too. right?
peter grabbed the collar of your lab coat with possibly too much aggression, pulling you stumbling into him as he locked his lips on yours. he held his breath as he kissed you, though the action itself was nothing shy of breathtaking. he kissed you with such fervor, taking his (likely) only chance at this opportunity and not wasting a moment of it.
peter moaned against your lips the second he felt you kiss back.
the kiss was hungry, two months of pent-up emotion he'd fought to suppress bubbling over the surface and into you. he tangled his hands in your hair, his knees buckling at the soft sounds escaping your throat as he pulled you further into him, wanting to be as close to you as physically possible.
after he'd lost all the air from his lungs, peter reluctantly pulled back, panting and eyes blown wide. he stared at you, taking in your disheveled state as he noticed how pink and plump your lips had grown from the kiss, your entire face flushed as you fought for your own air.
peter took a step back, trying to catch any semblance of humility he had left.
"(y/n), i know i probably just fucked so much up. i know that, and i'm sorry. i'm so sorry, and i'll leave you alone from now on. i promise. i know you're in a relationship, and i've only known you for a few months, and i know i'm being insane, and now i'm rambling," peter gave a nervous chuckle, his hand scratching at the back of his neck as his gaze hit the ground.
"i'm not going to go on a rant about how you should pick me instead, about how much better i would be for you. but when you're mad at me for this — and rightfully so,
"don't forget that you kissed me back."
peter grabbed his bag quickly, giving you an awkward wave goodbye as he nearly sprinted out of the room, leaving you alone and utterly dumbfounded.
holy fucking shit.
peter didn't break his sprint until his feet hit the steps of his apartment building.
he ran inside, slamming his door shut behind him and dropping his backpack to the ground. peter's back hit the couch with a heavy thud, his arms splayed out to the sides.
he wanted to be upset with himself, he really did. and he should be. he shouldn't have put you in that position; it was unfair to you. he tried to ridicule himself, to feel any ounce of shame for his actions.
but all peter could think about was the lingering feeling of your lips on his.
his fingers traced where they once laid, a tingling sensation still heavy on his lips since he'd left oscorp over fifteen minutes ago. all peter could think about was how you tasted — your sharp, minty breath against his. he thought about your perfume, how good you smelled that close to him. everything about the kiss was intoxicating, and now he knew he definitely needed to quit the internship, because there was no way in hell he could see you without experiencing that kind of temptation again.
god, he should've listened to nico. sorry, women.
a sharp, rapid knock on his apartment door jolted him out of his thoughts, and peter shot up instantly.
either you were about to bitch slap him, or your boyfriend was. and either way, he deserved it.
he made his way to the door, steps heavy as he dragged his feet underneath him, not ready to face the consequences of his actions. really, peter didn't need to open the door. he could stay in here and hide forever, block your number, and move cities. yeah, that could be good. maybe if he just moved slow enough, he could make it back to the couch without—
"peter?" your voice called through the wooden door.
fuck.
"peter?"
fuck.
he's so fucked.
peter let out a pained sigh, shaky hand making its way to the door handle despite everything in his body screaming to run the other direction. he pushed it down, opening the door and ready to be told off, ready to face the consequences of his actions.
there you stood, cheeks flushed from the cool new york night, and slightly damp from the drizzle outside. you stared back at him with those big doe eyes that he could no longer meet without a pang of guilt in his chest.
peter gave you a crooked smile, the normal sparkle in his eyes now clouded with anxiety, "hey."
"hey."
the two of you stood in silence as your hearts each raced, still in the doorway as peter stared at you, anticipating your wrath.
"sorry, do you want to come in? y-you seem a bit wet, can i get you a new shirt?" he asked quietly, stepping to the side to let you into his apartment.
because that was peter. even though he knew you were here to cuss him out, he wanted to make sure you were comfortable first.
you turned to face him, and there was something about your expression he couldn't quite read. between that and your unexpected silence, peter was driving himself crazy.
"please, you have to say someth—"
"i broke up with him." you let out in a rushed exhale at the same time. your chest was heaving, the confession alone making you out of breath. peter flooded with a mixture of emotions, ranging from confusion, to pure guilt, to a glimmer of hope. he stared back at you, wide-eyed.
"what?"
you nodded. "two weeks ago."
"oh," peter blinked, eyebrows tight in confusion.
"you told me i deserved better," your eyes flickered down to his lips, just for a moment. "you were right." the words were hushed and shaky, like you still didn't quite believe yourself.
"oh," peter whispered back.
you nodded at him, taking a step towards peter and watching as warmth spread throughout his face. he cleared his throat and stood a little taller as you met toe to toe with him, his eyes heavy on your own.
"i did," you began softly, your voice dripping in honey as always. peter was already beginning to lose himself in your presence again. "kiss you back, i mean."
the unspoken staring contest was adding to the pulling tension in the room, a weight peter could feel growing on his chest.
"yeah," was all he could muster in response, dizzy at the thought of your sweet lips against his.
you moved even closer to him, close enough to hear his breath hitch as you ghosted your hand over his chest and trailed your way up to his collarbones peaking out of his oversized sweater.
"did you mean it?" your fingers were teasingly slow as they padded across his delicate skin. "that you could give me better?"
peter nodded fervently, not trusting the pitch of his own voice right now. you smirked at him, finally breaking eye contact to watch the way his lips parted as you looped your finger around his collar and pulled him into you, giggling as his nose bumped into yours.
"will you?"
that was peter's breaking point, a low and desperate moan escaping from his throat as he grabbed the sides of your face and crashed into you. his lips were hot on yours as they were quick to devour you, breaking only to trail their way down your neck. peter found a sweet spot behind your ear, nipping at your soft skin and earning a gasp from you.
"every day."
you pulled back with a moan, locking eyes with him again. they were clouded with lust, but they were sincere. peter always meant every word he said, and it made your knees weak to hear such pretty ones come your way.
peter gave you a soft smirk before pulling you back in, kissing you harder than before. he was quick to slip his tongue into your mouth, exploring with his own as his hands began to make their way around your waist. they traveled lower, giving a firm squeeze to your hips before sliding them down the back of your jeans. he palmed your ass as he continued to swallow your every breath.
peter massaged what he could through your pants, making his way down to your lower thighs as he broke free from your lips and trailed his way back to behind your ear.
you gave a soft gasp as he nipped at your lobe. "jump."
you obeyed immediately, wrapping your legs around his hips as you took advantage of the new position and attacked the pale skin on his neck. he groaned and squeezed your ass again before heading down the hallway towards his bedroom. you couldn't keep still in his hold, his hands burning through your clothing. you writhed against him, moaning as your core made contact with his growing hard-on.
he set you down on his bed gently, letting you go to stand straight and pull off his sweater. he leaned down to kiss you, hard, as peter's fingers snaked their way under the hem of your shirt, fingertips dancing delicately on your stomach.
you got the message, tugging your shirt off and leaving you bare in the prettiest lace bra peter had ever seen.
"every part of you is so gorgeous," he moaned. "it's not fair."
he climbed over you and helped you lay back fully on his bed, his lips finding yours after a painful minute away from them. the way peter kissed you was hot and needy, but it was also so tender. you couldn't remember the last time you'd been kissed with so much emotion and passion.
you smiled into the kiss, infecting peter with the same dopey grin. he broke the kiss, making his way down your neck and trailing your collarbones with sloppy, wet kisses. he watched the goosebumps form under his touch as he made his way lower, kissing his way down the valley of your breasts. he moved one of his hands to tug at the lace cup, exposing your soft flesh to the cool air. it didn't take him long to have your hard nipple in his mouth, his tongue teasing you with every passing movement.
peter got lost in the noises you were making, only remembering himself as you tugged on his curls with an exceptionally loud moan. he let your nipple go with a sharp pop! and traveled his tongue down your stomach, chuckling at the way you writhed underneath him and your muscles tensed against his mouth.
"we don't have to do anything you don't want to do," peter said breathlessly as he looked up at you, lips swollen and pink. "but i'm dying to get my mouth on you. m'not above getting on my knees, right here and now, and beggin' to get a taste of you."
his words alone had you more turned on than you're sure you'd ever been.
but you maintained yourself, remembering what he was even asking for. "oh, peter. you don't have to do that."
peter let out a loud laugh, one seemingly at you. "have to? baby, i don't know how to tell you i need to."
you bucked your hips in response and gave him a bashful nod, giving him permission as he hooked his hands around your belt loops and slid the jeans and panties off your body in one swift motion. the cold air on your cunt sent a chill through your body, but it wasn't long until you were hot against peter's touch.
he spread his tongue flat and made his way through your messy folds as a string of profanities fell from your lips.
"fuck, peter," you breathed.
he looked up at you with a dopey smile hanging from his loose jaw. "yeah, baby? feel good?"
peter chuckled as you nodded frantically, leaning down to leave a light peck against your throbbing bundle of nerves. "good. god, you taste like fucking heaven, sweetheart. just like i knew you would."
you bucked your hips up with a whine, hitting him in the chin and earning a deep laugh from somewhere sinful in peter's chest. he ducked his head back down, getting to work as he attached his lips to your swollen clit.
you gave a sharp gasp as he sucked, pleasure blooming throughout your stomach and tunneling your vision. he brought his fingers up to tease your entrance, spreading you open as he increased his bruising pace on your clit. he groaned against you as you tugged at his hair, his name spilling from your lips as the vibration swelled the knot inside of you.
"that's it, baby," he groaned against you. "i want you to feel so fucking good. i want you to cum for me, please. i need you to cum on my face."
you let out a downright desperate whine at his words, grinding your hips up to match the movement of his mouth. his fingers found their way to your entrance again, and you were done for, the anticipation of him inside of you enough to send you over the edge.
the face you made when you came was the prettiest peter had seen you yet, and the noises you made didn't follow far behind. he was rutting himself against the bed as he rode you through your orgasm, lapping up every last drop of your arousal. he was a moaning mess against you, pulling back only once you gave his curls two sharp tugs.
peter sat up and stared at you in awe, taking in the sight of your flushed, bare figure on his bed. this was something he'd only ever dreamed about, and seeing you laid out before him, still panting his name as you came down from your high, sent a rush to his cock that made him twitch and groan. he climbed his way up you, trailing soft, wet kisses against your damp skin as he found your lips.
the kiss he gave you was the softest yet, and you melted under his touch as you tasted yourself on his lips. he didn't break contact as he tugged at his jeans, pulling them and his boxers down together.
peter laughed as he struggled to shake them off, only to be cut off with a deep groan as you reached down and grabbed him at the base. he was hot and heavy in your hand, the room echoing with a series of curse words falling from his lips. you tug at him slightly, gasping at how strained he was in your palm as he twitched against you. peter dipped his head down, panting in your ear as you pumped him a few times.
peter was in a dream; he was sure of it. there was no way you had your pretty little hand wrapped around him like this, begging for him to be inside of you. it was overwhelming, the sheer relief in the reality of it all. twenty minutes ago, he had apartments and jobs in the bronx pulled up, planning his new life in shame. and now, he was so high that he didn't even process your words as you told him that you were on birth control. he jerked his hips forward into your hand, swearing like a sailor as you began to line him up to your dripping entrance.
he canted forward slightly to catch you, moaning loudly as he sank slowly into you. it took everything in him to not finish on the spot as your walls fluttered around him, taking his time as he opened you up to him. you were so warm and wet.
"f-fuck, baby. baby, you're s'fucking tight," peter moaned in your ear. "you're taking me s'well. you're so perfect, fuck—"
you groaned at his praise, digging your nails into his shoulder. "pete, please move."
he chuckled, pulling almost all the way out of you. "anything you want, sweetheart."
peter began to fuck you, building speed until he found the exact pace that made you tremble underneath him. your string of moans was music to his ears, and the way you clenched tightly around him brought peter to what he could only assume was heaven. he leaned down to catch you in a kiss, reaching further down your body to hoist your legs higher, pounding deeper into you than before.
"god peter, don't stop. please," you moaned in his ear, voice cracking from the overwhelming pleasure coursing through your veins. "y-you feel even better than i imagined."
with that, peter was done for. he was so fucking done for hearing you admit you'd imagined how his cock would feel inside of you.
he pulled out, much to your dismay, taking his aching cock in his hand and pumping quickly, your name pleading on his tongue. he let out a grunt and a shaky exhale as he came all over, painting your clit and stomach with hot, thick ropes of his cum.
the feeling was dizzying — the pleasure you were getting from watching him finish over you knocked the wind out of your lungs. you panted as you watched peter scoot his way back down the bed.
"sorry, baby, promise m'not always so fast," he sat in between your legs, palming his way up your plush thighs. "i just can't tell you how much of a dream come true this is."
he positioned himself back down to eat you out with a smirk on his lips, and you were snapped out of your haze. "oh, peter! that's o-okay, you don't have— oh, fuck!"
you were cut off by your own gasp as peter began to lap up the mess he made between your legs. his tongue was everywhere, inside and out, cleaning up his own release off of you and moaning at the salty taste on his tongue.
the entire thing made you way too hot.
he groaned and pulled back to circle your clit with his index finger, looking up at you with a sloppy smirk on his wet lips.
"didn't want you thinkin' i forgot 'bout you," you threw your head back as he easily slid his middle finger inside of you.
"promised i could give you better," peter growled. "that's exactly what you're gonna to get, baby. come on, i want you to feel so good."
you moaned loudly as his lewd words only tightened the building knot inside of you. he added a second finger, and you were immediately on the edge, breathless as his pace was relentless.
"that's it, honey. fuck, you feel so perfect on my fingers. you're so perfect."
peter moved his head back down to attach his lips to your clit, fingers still pumping inside you at a bruising pace. his teeth nipped at your sensitive bud, and you were pushed over the edge, splashing out around his fingers and all over his face. you gasped as you felt the sensation, looking down at peter. he groaned against your cunt, only making your orgasm stronger and making you squirt harder on him. he lapped it up with a hunger, groaning into you one more time as he thrust into the mattress below him and came again against his stomach at your sweet taste on his tongue.
you pulled him up by his hair when you'd come down, out of breath and vision blurry. peter swung his head back, flicking his damp hair out of his eyes and looking up to see your exhausted figure above him.
"holy shit," you both whispered at the same time, earning tired laughs to fill the now quiet room.
you felt peter shift beside you, and suddenly he was gone. though, somehow, he was back just as fast with a wet, warm towel and an apple juice box. he handed the drink to you with a sloppy smile as he leaned down to clean you up, rough hands now gentle as ever with you. he was delicate on your skin as he cleaned the mixed arousal from you, tuned in to how sensitive you were now. he admired the bruises blooming around your thighs from where he gripped you.
peter moved to clean himself up, throwing the soiled towel in his laundry bin and grabbing two pairs of boxers and two of his sweatshirts. he tossed you one of each, a dopey smile on his lips the entire time.
he sat down on the bed with you again, clothes in hand as he stroked your messy hair, gazing at you with the same feeling he had in his chest the first time he ever saw you.
"listen, i know you just got out of a relationship," he started with a sheepish blush painting his cheeks. quite the stark difference to the peter in front of you five minutes ago.
"a-and if this was all you wanted, i can live with that. but i-i meant what i said. i'd really love the chance to show you better, every day."
you gave him a lopsided smile and shifted to climb onto his lap. even though you were both still naked, nothing about it was sexual. you gave him a hug, wrapping your arms around his neck and holding him close. in that moment, you swore it was the safest you'd ever felt. peter was thinking just the same thing.
"there's no way you're real, peter parker."
he smirked into your neck. "funny, i was thinking the same thing about you."
Summary: His problem was this—that stupidly impossible and funny mouth of his. Peter Parker and his witty responses. Peter Parker and his clever quips. Peter and that mouth you'd love to shut so much. So you do.
OR; At a bar, you finally snap and give Peter Parker something better to do with those gorgeous lips than running it.
WC: 5,7k
A/n: I missed writing about my boyfriend, so here I am. Spidey enthusiasts, gather around, please! I love this Peter Parker playlist to set the mood. / read on ao3
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"Oh my goddess in fucking heaven, do you ever shut your goddamn mouth, Parker?!"
The whole bar goes quiet, and as soon as his name is out of your lips, it's a heartbeat too late.
The drink in your hand feels like a bomb as Peter turns around, a stupid smile already plastered on his stupidly gorgeous face.
Everything about him is so—so stupid. He said so himself in class once. "I'm the world's stupidest genius, professor," with a laugh, that smile, that easy shrugging shoulder.
His eyes are fixed on you, as chocolate as ever, as bright and sparkling as they were when you first met him, but with a glint of something unrecognizable. When he opens his mouth, your chest tightens and your breath stills, waiting for it, knowing something clever and smart will come out of it, dreading whatever it is.
"You said you want to shut my mouth, did I hear that correctly?"
There's sweat somewhere in the back of your neck, you're sure of it. "I didn't say that."
"No?" He props his chin on the backrest of his chair, eyes now fixed in your direction and glinting with something you have never seen before. "I could've sworn I heard you saying you wanna shut my mouth."
"Nope. Hearing things once again, Parker. All I did was question whether you have the capacity to ever shut that trap of yours."
The image is born without your permission at his words, though. You wanna shut my mouth.
They echo.
You wanna shut my mouth.
How would you go about that?
You shiver.
He pouts. Sometimes, Peter does that—one of his annoying habits that drives you up the wall, or simply drives you to stand up as you are right now. Standing up in the middle of your table because that boy can get under your skin, no matter where you are, no matter how sober or not, apparently.
"That's mean. Why are you so mean to me?" The question is delivered with a smile.
You roll your eyes and bat away the hand of your friend who's pulling on your jacket in a silent request for you to sit back down. "I don't know. You awaken that part of me like very few people do." It was the truth, and it also wasn't.
The truth—the embarrassing and mortifying truth came with a weight you had no desire to even think about right now, in the middle of the bar while surrounded by your friends and once again arguing you Peter. The overlying excuse, on the other hand, had its own truth—even before The Incident, Peter already got under your skin.
His existence meant danger before you knew about his stupidly witty mouth and his clever brain. Before you shared classes with him, only to discover how funny he was underneath all those clapbacks.
"How can I put it back to sleep, then?" He lifts both arms in mock surrender, dropping a bit of his drink on the friend next to him. "I didn't even—oh, shit, my bad Lia, wasn't paying attention. I didn't even do anything to you this time!" He redirects his attention to you after his apology, and there it is—the sweet, and yet cocky smile that drives you up the walls. "I was here, talking to my friends, having a nice time, and you decided to meddle in our conversation. What did I say this time that pissed you off so much?"
This time, the clapback belongs to you and it's at the tip of your tongue. "Ah, so you're the only one who can meddle in other people's businesses, is that it?" Even his friends laugh at it.
Peter winces a little through his smile, and there you are, smiling as you bicker with him once again.
How many times have you ended up here? Wanting his clever mouth to be shut while talking to him at the same time? Prodding and poking whenever you get the chance.
"Fine. I'm a meddler. I can admit to that, but can you admit that so are you?"
"I don't have to admit anything to you," you replied just for the sake and pleasure of being difficult.
Peter was still smiling. He did the nose scrunch thing once again, and you hated how your entire chest responded to that stupid habit of his. "You like being difficult."
"And you like being mouthy and loud about it."
"I'm seriously wondering what I said this time that was so wrong that it earned your rage." He gestures with the empty hand this time. "We're at a bar, milady! And although it seems our old married couple bickering seems to entertain the masses even here, I'm pretty sure you're as tipsy as me. You were supposed to be having fun."
I am right now. "Who said I'm not?" It was harder to keep your smile and facial features organized into something neutral or sarcastic with alcohol in your system.
Peter's smile widened. "I'm taking that as the admission, then."
"Admission to what?"
"How much you adore pulling my pigtails." As if the words were not enough, Peter pretends to tug a chunk of his hair and feigns wincing in pain. Somehow, the smile's still there, in his eyes, in the corner of his mouth.
This time, you roll your eyes and sit back down, too bothered by how much his glee affects you. "You wish, Parker. Just—you could try keeping your shitty and wrong opinions to a low volume, at least."
From this distance — there are two tables filled with people between you and the object of your conversation — it's a bit hard to tell, but you're sure his friend makes a comment about you two under his breath.
Peter either misses it or chooses to ignore it. "I'm gonna have to insist, then. What was it that I said so wrong this time, milady, hm? Maybe I'll even apologize."
"Why don't you two stop half-screaming from across the bar and go talk somewhere else? Jesus fucking Christ, every Monday and Wednesday this shit." It's someone from one of the tables between you both.
The guy's friend says loud enough for you to listen. "Leave them to it. You know how they are."
And he replies with, "Of course I do! Everybody fucking does. Every week. Just fuck already, for fuck's sake. And stop talking over fifteen thousand other people!" He adds that last bit with a directed look at both of you.
Just fuck already.
It mixes in your brain with you wanna shut my mouth and suddenly—yeah. "I'm going outside," you announce to your friends.
"What?! Babe, no. We were in the middle of our ratings," she gives you puppy eyes, but you're already coming around the table.
Rating every Tolkien character from least to most fuckable would have to wait until after your freak out.
"I know. I'll be back. Keep on without me," you need air. Also water.
In the back of your neck, there's the prickly and distinct feeling of being observed as you wander to the bar and order a bottle of water. "Actually, make it two, please?"
He's observing you as you walk out of the bar to the back alley where all the smokers gather. Without a glance in his direction, you can confirm that Peter Parker has observed every step you take before you are out of his sight.
The air does you good, though.
It's chilly, and it smells like cigarettes instead of back alleys, and it's a trade you'd make any day.
None of the people smoking bother you.
Drinking the water does wonders for calming your nervous system down on any given day, but today, words are rolling around your head, and they are enough to turn your brain hostage.
You wanna shut my mouth.
Yes. Groaning, sipping bigger gulps from your bottle, you can admit to yourself, under the blanket of darkness and surrounded by complete strangers, you would love to shut Peter Parker's mouth.
Maybe the confession is too much for a brain without its usual filters because it breaks a dam.
It's a domino effect: one image of you shutting his mouth inside the bar created directly by his own words, melts and gets mixed, shuffling into another image.
In this one, both of you are in the classroom you share, and yet there you are, still shutting his mouth.
Suddenly, all the instances where you and Peter have ever shared the same place are flooded by those: shutting him up, quieting him, making him lose words, making Peter unlearn all the clever things he knows until he has nothing but blabber to say or whimpers to release, noises, gasps, your name, your name—
The prickly sensation on your nape returns, and you react as if being stung.
Tense. Waiting for it, knowing it's coming, there he is, your brain offers, but you're too much of a coward now to look.
He approaches anyway.
"Permission to come closer?" He asks.
What a fucking nerd. Not that you are far from one, but you snicker at the comment, curse yourself mentally and maybe under your breath, but allow it anyway. The side eye you give him tells him just as much.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
She's loud, mouthy, insanely clever, beautiful, and all the things Peter keeps telling himself he only observes.
It's easier said than done.
Easier in class when it can be pivoted towards something purely academical, or at work when he can pretend it's harmeless due to the distance, or at night as he swings from building to building and she's only in his mind, and not his life.
It's harder when he's been drinking with his friends and she looks even prettier without all the walls so hung up tight.
Alcohol makes people's filters go down.
Not his—Peter doesn't have a filter, never did, and ever since the bite his body responds to very little things, at the same time as it responds to absolutely everything.
His body responds to her.
Gods, if only bickering with her weren't so damned adictive.
When their little scene causes other people to complain and she leaves, Peter curses under his breath, leaves his glass on the table and gets up before he can even think about what he's doing.
His hearing picks up on Lia's 'oh, fucking finally' and the way Jorge responds with 'I know, if they don't get it out of their system I'm doing something insane like locking them inside a cupboard, I don't fucking know' and he thinks oh...
Maybe it's not 'easy', then.
Maybe it's been only 'obvious' and 'ridiculous' so far.
Too bad—Peter's got no other way of flirting. He can admit it as he navigates the sea of bodies to make his way outside now; they have been flirting.
He's been, at least. Despite his promises to himself that Peter Parker had no right to flirt with anybody, that he had no right to make anyone his anything ever again, that's what he's been doing — they've been doing? — and everyone's been watching, annoyed or amused, entirely aware of what's going on.
The alley is filled with smoke that come out of the three groups standing in their little circles, but his gaze fixes on a very specific body standing alone against the wall, chugging a half emtpy bottle of water.
Fuck it.
He approaches, shoving both hands inside his hoodie in hopes of maybe not being so flamboyant and expressive. Not flirting too much.
(Who is he still trying to fool?)
"Permission to approach?"
Her response is a snicker, and Peter notices her body language switches to straight up shoulders without even glancing in his direction.
"Hi, Parker."
"Hello, milady."
"What can I do for you?"
Shut my mouth, apparently. Peter holds the teasing for now and his eyes wide in surprise when he sees a bottle of water being lifted in his direction. He takes it. "Thank you." Does she think he's tipsy? Probably. "Sorry if I annoyed you in there."
"No, you're not."
He smiles before he takes the first sip. "Eh," he is sorry... a little bit. "I kinda am."
Another snicker. She finishes her bottle of water. "Hard to believe ya."
"Why is that?"
"I think you love pissing me the fuck off."
Peter laughs. He hasn't gotten used to how foul mouthed she is just yet. It's been more than a year but it still makes him laugh and think about what his uncle would've said if he heard how much such a pretty lady can curse.
Probably something old fashioned enough to make her say even more curse words.
"I..." he thinks carefully of his next words and feels the entirety of his neck tingling, then warming when her eyes set on his face. "... like how passionate you can get while arguing."
At that, she takes a second. Then, she answers with, "What the fuck does that mean?"
"Means that you get involved in arguments and discussions in nice ways."
"Nice ways? What we've been doing is nice?"
"It hasn't been?"
She stops, and Peter's seen enough to recognize when a smile is being held back. "You're crazy."
He smiles. "So are you."
"It seems that way." A sigh. "Peter..."
"Yeah?" His heart speeds up. She never says his name. That is the distance—his delusion about all of your exchanges being nothing... and the way you never say his name. He wants to hear it again. Desperately. One single time of his name out of your lips, and he already wants to hear it again.
God, what are you doing to him?
"I'm sorry," you say.
Peter stops in his tracks, his entire body still. "I—what?"
"You heard me, don't make me say it again."
"I know I did, I just—why? I don't get it. You've got nothing to apologize for."
Your eyes are not as glassy as they were inside the pub, and when you look at him, Peter feels something pull him a step closer.
There's a distinct vulnerability in the way you're staring that he's never seen before, or maybe never saw from this proximity to be able to identify.
"Don't I?" your voice is low and he misses the way you were speaking to him in there. He shakes his head, and takes one more step. He ignores the way this is the closest you two have ever been, and tells his speeding heart to shut the fuck up because it's too loud. You lick your lips and—fuck, maybe it's kind of impossible to tell his heart to do anything in your presence other than react to every miniscule action of yours. "I've been told I'm a... what's the term? Raging bitch, I believe, a few times."
His laughter is loud and honest, and it makes him happy when his eyes open and he sees that it pulled a smile out of you. "Oh—fuck, I'm sorry. That was hilarious."
"You think me being a raging bitch is hilarious?"
"No!" He's still laughing, but he's also warm enough to feel it in his face from the way you're staring at him from under your lasher. He mentally takes note that you made no comment on the proximity. He relishes in that fact. "No—I just think it's funny how much men are fucking crybabies nowadays." He chuckles when your eyes widen in surprise and your smile does too.
"Who said it was only men who called me that?"
He says your name in a tone that says 'please'. "I don't go to the same course as you but we do share two classes, remember?"
"Yup. We bicker in them every time."
"Exactly. I might've heard it once or twice when someone said something about people I know. About you." He might've also told them off every single time, but he keeps that part to himself—for now, at least. "They're raging bitches if you ask me."
The way you laugh should be printed and bottled. "They really are."
"Not me, though?" He's fishing, and from the way you look at him, you call it immediately.
"Parker."
"Oh, no!" He groans, hands flying out of his pockets straight to his face. "Back to Parker, fuck me!"
You laugh again, and Peter cannot get drunk, but he is. All your little 'fights' and arguments have never been real—you two enjoy playing the devil's advocate when in each other's presence but you've always been aware the other one is a decent person, he's aware of that. He knows you don't actually hate him because Peter's seen how you react around people you hate. Around men you hate, especifically.
"I can't call you by your name?" You ask, being difficult.
There it is. The thing you two do—be difficult with one another. "That's my surename."
"Which is part of your name."
"I know, but Peter sounds so much nicer."
"Hmmmm, I don't know. I'm quite fond of Parker."
His smile is wicked when hearing those words. "I'm printing that out and putting it on a T-shirt."
You try to fight a giggle and lose it. Peter had no clue what he was expecting out of tonight—frankly, he just wanted to please one of his friends by doing something he rarely does (or has the money to) and go out for a bit, and suddenly, there you were.
Suddenly, here he is. Laughing with you.
"You're actually ridiculous."
"But not a raging bitch?"
You punch his arm, laughing. "Stop!" Peter's heart spikes once again at the contact. "I hate it when you're funny."
"So what I'm hearing is that you hate me?"
Peter's cheeks hurt by now. He's been here for what? Two, three minutes tops, and his cheeks hurt because he's unable to stop smiling.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It's the smile that's doing it—your heart is attempting to murder you, or maybe Parker is, because he's been smiling non-stop and it's doing things to your insides that you're unable to stop now.
This might be flirting.
A part of you — the insecure girl who still lives somewhere in your subconscious — tells you there's no way Peter Parker is flirting with you.
The women who grew to have at least some confidence in reading basic signs and body language says his tilted head and side smile are more than enough.
You test the waters.
"You're not that funny, Peter," and there it is—his squirming when you say his name in a low voice.
He groans again. "God, you're such a shitty liar."
"So you're back to insulting me now?"
His laughter is so nice it's unfair. "Fine. Fine!" He throws both hands up and bites his lip and your brain's sirens go off, spinning in red, blue, and screaming. "I'll just leave then. I'm not funny and I'm clearly bothering you..."
The bait is so ridiculous you're able to reel the laughter in this time, watching as he spins on his heels with the precise smoothness of his moves that always baffled you, and he starts walking away slowly with his head and eyes still on you.
You manage to hold back the desire to reach and hold him by his clothes, too terrified of what you'll end up doing if you touch him again.
You felt a jolt of electricity at the simple touch, and you keep your hands to yourself this time.
"You need a compliment from me this badly, huh?"
He stops pretending to walk away. "I would like at least the admission that I'm the funniest guy you've ever met. It's the least you could give me for making you laugh so much tonight. Plus all those times I made you laugh in class inside your head but you held it in because you gotta keep up your appearances, milady."
It's only one compliment he's fishing for, but you decide to throw everything up in the air and—well, fuck everything.
Peter is flirting with you, and maybe you've been stupid all along to think that the biggest crush you've ever had was once sided.
So you decide, for once in your life, to be brave.
He's waiting patiently, a small smile still in the corner of his mouth as he waits to see if you'll yield, and you dive into it.
"Well... you're not only the funniest guy I've ever met, but..." you speak slowly, watching as his shoulders straighten and his face sombers at the realization something else is happening here. "Also... the smartest."
And there it is.
You've done it. You managed to shut Peter Parker's mouth.
Matter of factly, his mouth opens up slightly, gaping at your words and his eyes widen at the sincerity in your voice.
Without waiting for his brain to catch up with what just happened, you decide that since you're wet already, might as well swim in this accomplishment.
I managed to shut up smarty pants Peter Parker.
"You're also sweet," you add, smiling in victory when his eyes widen even more. "I mean—walking with arms linked with your aunt in the market? That's—god, I wanted to jump into the river when I saw that, and we don't even have rivers here! That was so sweet. She looked adorable, by the way. You two laughing, talking. You're also quite talented. I noticed all your seminars have pictures that you took, and they're really fucking good, y'know that?" He has no answer to your question, but you're flying high on how stunned he is. Too stunned to speak. "You've got a great sense of morality from what I've heard around campus. That's hard to come around in guys these days. I know that's one of those 'bare minimum' requirements, but—still. Hmmm..." you wonder how much more you can make his jaw fall, and decide to end on a high note. Pretending to just remember something, you go. "Oh! And..."
This time, it's you who steps closer.
There are only a few inches separating you two now, and you get to see that he's blushing from this distance — or lack thereof.
Even in the darkness you can see it, and if your heart was beating fast before, it's beating hard enough for you to feel it in your ears now.
"It doesn't hurt that you're also the most handsome guy I've ever seen. I know beauty's subjective, or whatever, but... to me. You're really pretty to me. I like when you're wearing your glasses, too."
The world spins and halts then, because Peter huffs out a single breath and the next thing you know, both of his hands are on your neck.
Then, his lips are on yours.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Your skin is feverish under his touch.
Peter knew it must be just his imagination, but your words drowned every thought he's had tonight—fuck it, it drowned every thought he's ever had in his whole life it seemed.
One of his hands slides through your side feeling every inch ofyour arm and then wraps around your waist, pulling you closer. As close as you can get.
He's rewarded by a groan, muffled against his mouth. Swallowed by his tongue.
There's your tongue, sliding with his with the precision and tempo of someone who's been doing that for years, despite it being only the first time. Peter moans when your hands squeeze him right back. He loves how strong you hold on to him. He loves how you fit your body inside his hold, squeezing yourself to push against him, grind against him, and he's whining into the kiss.
"Fuck—I did, I fuckin' did—oh." Your words are muffled by your sigh when he sucks on your earlobe.
"Did what?"
"I shut you up," your giggle is a little bit of a moan, and Peter manages to chuckle as he assaults your neck. "That feels good."
"You feel good," he grabs your waist tighter, being extra careful with his strength there, and then someone in the alley wolf whistles, reminding the both of you how not alone you are in here.
The realization hits you both at the same time, stopping the kiss, but not the desire.
Ignoring the taunting that comes next, he focuses on the way you stare at him with expectation.
Peter smiles and you beat him to it. "Your place or mine?"
He winces a little at the question, but then he's hit by those words that tattooed themselves all over his brain once again, the part where you went 'I mean—walking with arms linked with your aunt in the market? That's—god, I wanted to jump into the river when I saw that, and we don't even have rivers here! That was so sweet. She looked adorable, by the way. You two laughing, talking' and he realizes how much you got under his skin by blurting out everything that you seemed to be thinking regarding him.
His face relaxes back into a smile and you're waiting for it, patiently. "Ah—I live with her."
"Oh! Your aunt."
"Yeah." He'd leave it at that, but he feels the need to add: "I did have my place for a while, but when she fell at work—didn't feel right. Didn't wanna leave her alone after that."
"Of course not." As simple as that, and said with a smile that makes him want to burn everything down, or maybe build a whole fortress around you. "Mine, then?"
Peter nods, then drags you away.
In the cab, Peter watches as you text your friends to let you know that you're alive and won't be coming back. He does the same, and feels with a jolt of electricity running through him the second your hand comes to rest on his thigh.
As a result, he's half-hard by the time the ride is finished and you two make it to your apartment.
"I have a roomate, but she's still at the pub," you lock the door behind you and he nods, understanding he can do as he pleases.
Peter sort of wants to make you scream.
There's a second of silence when you two are alone in the dark, and you throw your keys in the table next to the door.
Slower than the first time, he glues himself to you once again.
This time, there's nobody around to stop either of you.
First, he starts by undressing you.
Piece by piece of clothing, Peter unwraps you with the same care he unwrapped the first gift he got from uncle Ben that he knew was expensive. None of the harsh and rushed tearing—he removes the clothes, leaving kisses on every new inch of exposed skin.
A part of him wants to shy away when you decide to do the same with the exact same care, but your gaze pins him to his spot, unable to move or do anything to stop it.
He's burning.
Peter feels exposed—worse yet, he feels seen, and wanted, and where there usually would be jokes there's nothing but silence.
He enjoys how you drag both you to your room without detaching your bodies.
Then, something happens to break the silence—when the back of his knees hit the edge of your bed and he sort of stumbles into it, his hands fly to his sides, dropping the picture on your side table on the floor.
"Oh, shit! Sorry, I'm sorry," he mumbles.
You laugh at him, picking the frame up and putting it back on its place. "It's fine." You sit on his lap earning a groan from him—there are only a pair of briefs and panties separating your bodies, and the way you grind and wiggle to feel his hard cock makes him whine, too. "Hmmm."
"What?" you ask in a low voice. The silence spell was broken, and Peter's hands are all over you again.
His brain keeps screaming for him to be careful all the time, but that voice has to swim with all of the want and need he's feeling. "Such a baby."
Condescending tone—and he whines louder. Huh. "Shut up."
You chuckle, wiggling your hips slower, making a mess of his neck and chest with your mouth. "You want me to?"
"No."
"Thought so." The way you whine your hips makes your pussy fit along his cock and Peter hasn't felt this lightheaded in years. "Wanna ride you, Peter."
"Oh, fuck."
"You like it when I say your name, don't you?"
"I really do," and it sounds like a confession even to his ears.
"Hm. Maybe I'll have to make you earn that, then."
Peter refuses to admit he's a whining mess underneath you, but there's probably a stain in his briefs already and the desperate way he's bucking his hips into you while his hands grip your hips strong enough to maybe leave bruises says enough.
"You're mean," he sounds wrecked and you barely started.
Peter opens his eyes to see you smiling in delight.
"I think you like it," it might be the way your condescending tone is just right or maybe it's just you, but he does. Peter nods, defeated and desperate, and grinds harder. "Fuck."
"Yes, please."
"Patience."
"Okay," he yields in the same second. He'd allow you to hang him upside down right now. "Whatever you want."
"Oh, god." He's thankful for this, at least. He's not the only one wrecked in this room. "You're so good."
Peter has some objections to that, but they get lost when you get up for a second and then remove the last items of clothing separating both of you. He has to bite his lip when he sees you grabbing a condom because as much as his brain is screaming at him to fill you up until you're dripping down your thighs with his cum, there's no safe way to tell you he's unable to transmit any diseases.
"I wanted to give you a mindblowing blowjob, but I'll be honest—"
"Please sit on me," he begs.
The smile you offer him is the brightest thing he's seen in months. There's a laugh, too, and Peter's too high on your touch to even manage a smile.
The next two hours pass in a blur of limbs, sweat, tongue, slick, and muffled words tangled in moans, screams, whines.
Peter has to hold his strength and he loses that battle a few moments.
The second he snaps his hips up to meet your thrusts and is rewarded with a scream and a cry of his name, he moans even louder.
You moan so pretty, baby, you tell him.
That only makes him moan louder.
Don't do that, wanna hear you, you say when you catch him biting his lips, and he cries out at that.
"Oh god, god, please, Peter," you beg at one point, and that's when he first snaps.
He's been good—Peter's allowed you to sit on him at the speed you desire, torturing him by going as slow and as fast as you like, teasing him with smirks and playing with the head of his cock against your clit during a few moments, but when your thighs start to lose their strength and your knees weaken, you beg and that's all it takes before he flips you on your back and climbs on top of you.
Slides inside you again with so much ease.
Both of you are wet enough to make your whole sheets wet.
You're dripping enough to ruin every night of sleep he'll have for the following month, at least.
Then, there's the filth spilled back and forth between you two.
It turns out the sass and clever replies are worse in the dark and between four walls.
Peter whispers everything you seem to love hearing it, and it turns out, he does love being talked down by you—just a little.
You just do it so well.
"That's it—no. Slow down. That's it. Don't be greedy. Fuck—you wanted—oh, you want to please me so much, hm? So eager to obey. I like that. Don't go faster—don't cry, baby, I don't care—FUCK, just like that, Peter. Fuck me slow and I'll let you use me however you want, baby."
It gets to his head.
Peter's human — well, most of him is, anyway, and you seem to have the key to his guts.
All he can do is obey because he wants to obey.
Peter fits so well inside of you he grunts with the effort to not bury himself deep enough to live there.
Your voice whispering filthy, sweet nothings make a home in his brain, and he's almost crying by the time you grab his by the neck, strong enough to make him wonder if he will have bruises the next day, and say, "Fuck, I'm so close, let it go, Peter, fuck me, fuck me, it's okay."
He's almost sure he actually cries at that.
And then he does as he's told.
He lets go, and fucks you the way he secretly desired to every time you two exchanged looks. He fucks you while holding you by the neck, while holding onto your waist for dear life, while moaning and chanting your name over and over the same way you're screaming his.
Both of you get so lost in the pleasure that when you both cum, Peter thinks you two black out for a second.
He sort of wishes he could go to sleep inside of you, and that thought is the one that brings him back to life for long enough to eventually slip out and realize he'll have to be the one with the strength to clean you both up into enough shape that you can slide under a sheet and get some sleep, but he does all that on shaky legs and a foggy brain.
Peter's fucked.
Both of you are, and it goes beyond the mindblowing sex that just happened.
He pulls you into his arms and sleeps with that knowledge. That's a problem for when the sun is in the sky.
synopsis: Peter really likes your Spiderman pajama pants
warnings: kinda suggestive
Peter Parker swung into your apartment window mid-sentence, mask pulled halfway up his face as he rambled about patrol. “And, seriously, who even owns a unicycle anymore? Like, that’s gotta be—”
He stopped abruptly, mid-step, when his eyes landed on you.
You were sitting at your vanity, totally unaware of the effect you were having on him. Your head was tilted slightly as you concentrated on whatever you were holding—maybe a bottle of lotion, maybe a tube of lip balm, he couldn’t even tell because his attention had zeroed in on something else entirely.
It was the pants.
The red and blue Spider-Man pajama pants that hung low on your hips, decorated with tiny web patterns and logos. His logo. Paired with your black tank top, the whole look made him forget how to breathe for a second.
“Are you—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, his mask now forgotten in his hand. “Are those... Spider-Man pajamas?”
You glanced up, catching his reflection in the mirror. The corner of your mouth quirked into a grin, like you’d been waiting for him to notice. “Uh-huh,” you said casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Cute, right?”
Peter blinked, still standing near the window like his feet had been glued to the floor. “Cute?” He let out a short laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “No, no. You don’t get to call that cute. That’s—damn, baby. That’s a problem.”
Turning in your chair, you swiveled to face him, laughing softly at the look on his face. “Oh! I almost forgot to show you the full effect.”
You stood up, giving a playful little spin that made the fabric swish around your legs. When you stopped, your hands went to your hips, and you grinned at him like you knew exactly what you were doing.
Peter groaned, running his hand through his hair as he finally pushed away from the window and crossed the room in three long strides. His hands found your waist as he pulled you against him, his thumbs brushing along the waistband of the pants.
“I can’t even be mad about this,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing. “You look so good with me all over you. Pun very much intended.”
Your grin turned mischievous as you leaned closer, your breath warm against his skin. “Well, I can’t wait for you to see what I’ve got on underneath.”
Peter blinked, his grip on your waist tightening slightly as his brain tried to catch up. “Underneath?”
With a sly smile, you stepped back just enough to hook your thumbs into the waistband of the pants, pulling them down just enough to reveal a peek of red and blue. The Spider-Man bra and panties were unmistakable—the webbed details, the tiny logos, the way they hugged your skin perfectly.
Peter stared, his mouth falling open slightly as his eyes darted between your face and the glimpse of fabric. For a moment, it seemed like he couldn’t even speak, his brain short-circuiting entirely.
“Oh no,” you teased, crossing your arms and tilting your head. “Did I break Spider-Man?”
He let out a breathless laugh, his hands running through his hair as he closed the space between you again. “You’re insane,” he muttered, his hands sliding back to your waist as he leaned down, his lips hovering just above yours. “And I am obsessed with you.”
“You don't ever have to say please to me," he told you, eyes heady, voice warm.
summary: spider-man likes you a little bit too much, and wants to help you get rid of your migraine - by whatever means necessary. 3.4k
warnings: smut, fluff, low-key sickfic, nsfw, 18+ only please, college!peter, she/her pronouns used for reader, fem reader
The summer sun bore down on the back of your neck relentlessly. You speculated that you might have heat stroke or something similar - a persistent, acute migraine having formed behind your lashes. You didn’t have far to walk now from the public library to your apartment, the home stretch clear and achingly white with the sun. You’d covered your eyes with your hand, head down, blinking against the dryness.
You felt like your shoes were made of lead, just about managing to weave through the pedestrians packed tightly together on the sidewalk despite your impaired vision. Maneuvering through your fellow New Yorkers was usually common practice, the civilians moving through the city like schools of fish through a coral reef. You wheedled past mother’s and their children, businessmen and artists and rundown looking summer school students who crowded your avenue's bodega for lunch. In a haze, you began crossing the street, eyes to the burning hot tarmac beneath you. There was a loud beeping noise, a jolting sensation, and suddenly you were being pulled off of your feet.
The air rushed out of you in a big puff. You gasped, hands coming up to grip on tightly to the solid ones that had taken hold around your waist. You were deposited on the other side of the road by familiar red and blue arms, a warm chuckle already sounding. You winced, knowing what he’d say.
“Anybody ever taught you the golden rule of looking both ways before you cross one of the busiest streets in Queens?” Spider-Man asked you, tone turning incredulous toward the end.
“Same person who taught you to keep your hands to yourself,” you murmured, pulling out of his arms.
“Don’t be like that, Y/N,” he said, voice light.
“Thank you for saving me,” you said, deflecting his flirting. You squinted up into his masked face, glad to be turned from the sun's melting rays and in the shade.
Spider-Man was emotive despite the mask, his stance telling you what you wanted to know. He was in a terrible mood, evidently - terrible for you - his gait confident, his shoulders rolled back. He was going to keep flirting with you, you realised, and then he'd insist on walking you home.
He often sought you out. When you tried to accuse him of this, he argued that the one seeking you out was actually trouble, and he was the neighbourhood’s defense against trouble. “You’re an integral part of the neighbourhood,” he’d reasoned, “so of course, I’ll be protecting you.”
That had been a long while back, when he’d first showed up in Queens. Since then he’d walked you home countless times, returned your menace of a cat just as many, and spent all together too much of his time on you. You weren't the sharpest tool in the shed but you also weren't stupid enough to miss that Spider-Man seemed to have a crush on you.
"You're always in the right place at the right time, aren't you, bug boy?"
"What are you implying?" he asked.
You let your back rest on the cool alley wall, smiling as best as you could despite your pounding headache. The movement made you wince.
His easy going demeanour melted away quicker than you could process, his arms crossing over his chest.
"Are you okay?"
“Sorry,” you said, bringing your hand back up to press against your hot forehead. “Migraine.”
“Can you walk?” he asked worriedly.
You laughed at him. “It’s not that bad.”
“Hurts?”
You were surprised at the inklings of tenderness in place of his usual bravado.
“A bit,” you mumbled, pushing your hair from your face.
His hand stretched out between you like he might try comforting you. You wondered what he'd been about to do, maybe he would've placed his gloved hand on your shoulder, rubbed it placatingly up and down your arm, worked it behind you to hug you to his side.
"Wait," you said, perplexed. "Gloves?" You reached out for his hand and he let you take it. You turned his wrist in your hands, assessing the almost invisible seam. "You have a good seamstress."
"I-" he cleared his throat, "I made the suit myself."
You almost dropped his hand. "You did?"
"Impressive, yeah?"
He couldn’t remember when he’d had the thought to move from full sleeves to gloves, which could be attached and reattached, only that he had, and as a result his life had been suddenly easier, he explained to you. Easier to clean when they got dirtied with blood, grime, and general street germs, easier to repair, and easier to replace altogether when he burned through them, whether with fire or friction.
"That's really cool," you praised him, falling into step beside him.
He took you through the shortcut to your apartment, shrugging off your compliments. "I've made a couple, now."
"I can imagine," you said, the words sounding like you were underwater.
The sun was microwaving you. You swayed on your feet, instinctively pushing your hand out to try and grab onto your superhero escort. He was already shooting sideways to grab you, his strong arm coming up under your armpit and around your shoulder blades.
"Okay," he said, grunting, "alright, you're good. You're okay."
You screwed your eyes shut, taking a shaky breath. "I don't feel okay."
"You have water in your bag?" he asked, gesturing to your tote bag on the opposite shoulder. You nodded and he pushed his hand into the bag. If he found it difficult to hold you up and search for the flask he said nothing of it, pulling the clear bottle out and unscrewing the cap to press into your hand. "Drink, doll."
You sipped. You would've rolled your eyes at the pet name if your eyes weren't already shut and hurting.
"Remember when I asked if you could walk? I love being right," he said, trying to cheer you up.
You laughed, the sound bouncing around inside your skull like a super-powered top, hitting the sides and making you cringe.
"Done?" he asked. You handed the bottle off to him and he tucked it back in your bag. "I'm gonna carry you now," he informed you politely.
He moved behind you. You gripped his arm.
"Don't-"
"Come on, you need to get home somehow."
"I'm worried I'll throw up," you confessed, squinting at his masked face.
"You won't, and if you do I know a laundry sheriff that'll fix me up afterwards," he said elusively. He gathered you in a bridal carry in his arms like you weighed nothing, mutant strength letting him walk you to your apartment building as though you were a sack of flour in his arms.
“A sheriff?” you asked him, face pressed into his chest.
“A formidable one.”
“She wears the trousers in the relationship?”
“Not my girlfriend. And not very progressive of you.”
You chortled unattractively. “Don’t worry, bug, I didn’t think you were talking about a girlfriend.”
“Schoolyard taunts are beneath you, really. If you’re going to insult me, do it properly.”
You nodded, letting your chin flop forward to touch your chest. “Is this really necessary? I’m dizzy, not dying.”
“Indulge me.”
“You’re ridiculous. I feel much better after the water, so put me down,” you told him, squirming in his iron grip.
“Relax,” he said. “We’re here. Is your window open?”
You shrieked, felt yourself being lifted into the air and then you were being carried through your bedroom window.
“Spider-Man,” you said through clenched teeth, “I’ll pretend that you knowing what window is mine isn’t creepy if you put me down.”
He dumped you on your bed. You looked at him blearily, feeling him fluff your pillow up behind your head. “It’s not creepy, I walk you home all the time. And you leave your curtains open.”
“Okay, stalker,” you mumbled, enjoying the cold sheets underneath you. “It’s so hot today,” you whispered, remembering your pounding headache.
“You have Tylenol?”
“In the medicine cabinet.”
He disappeared into your bathroom. You moaned, stretching out onto the bed so hard it made your weak legs shake, your shoulders locking up. You kicked your shoes off, pulling your cardigan free and then your skirt off. I can’t believe he put me on my bed in outside clothes, you thought to yourself, moody. I’ll have to change my sheets. Tomorrow.
Spider-Man walked back in with the Tylenol. It was so ridiculous you
couldn’t help but laugh, the sight of him standing unsurely in the doorway with half your medicine cabinet in his hands.
“My hero,” you said warmly, opening your hands. He shook two pills into your open palm and you took them, sipping at the water on your nightstand from the night before.
“I wish it would work quicker,” you confided, stretching a hand over your eyes.
You felt him sit at the end of your bed. “Do you still feel faint?”
“No, I’m fine, Spider-Man. You can go home now, if you like. Thanks for helping me.”
There was a long silence. You peeked through your fingers to watch him. He was oddly still as he spoke. “I could… help more.”
Your mouth quirked up into a disbelieving smile. “You can’t fight a migraine.”
He cleared his throat. You marvelled at his voice, soft and flirtatious, a heart-rending shyness underneath it. “I read something once…”
“You can read?”
His shoulders shook. “Let me finish! I read that sometimes, girls can experience a different kind of pain relief.”
“What kind of pain relief is that?”
“I could show you?” he said, voice lilting up at the end in question.
You could hear the busy streets outside, the car horns and the bodega bell, the people shouting and chattering and the train that rattled past like clockwork a street down. So loud outside, and yet the loudest sound was your heart in your ears and Spider-Man’s suit sliding against your bed sheets.
The barest touch of his gloved knuckles against your thigh made you snap back into reality. “Y/N?”
“Show me,” you repeated his words, letting your hand fall from your eyes. "Please."
It was like a switch - shy Spider-Man was replaced with his usual, confident self. It was all encompassing. He sidled up closer still, pulling his glove free one finger at a time.
He had lovely hands - big hands, long, nimble looking fingers and a wide palm which he lay flat on your naked thigh. "You're appropriately dressed."
"I'm sorry," you said, embarrassed, "I was warm."
"I'm not complaining," he said, palm hot against your skin. "You're killer."
"You're incorrigible," you murmured, goosebumps jumping up your skin from his touch.
He pushed his hand up and over the elastic of your underwear, pushing the edges of your thin tank top up to slide his palm over your tummy.
He inched up under your shirt. “This okay?”
You breathed out too quickly. "Yeah."
He pushed under your shirt. You bit your lip as he massaged your chest, catching your nipple between his fingers.
You were caught between arousal and surprise, unable to really take in what was happening. "Spider-Man," you started.
"What?" he asked quietly. It was as though neither of you wanted to disrupt the relative quiet of your room, should it shatter the bubble that had formed around you both.
"Can't I call you something else?"
"Handsome works," he said, rolling your nipple between his two fingertips.
"Handsome," you said, testing the word. "Doesn't sound right."
He pinched your skin spitefully. You couldn't help gasping in pleasure, chest heaving under his touch. He pushed your shirt up completely, exposing your breasts to the warm air.
"Cute," he commented, as if to himself.
He stopped his touching to hook a neat fingernail under the edge of the mask, pulling it up so the lower half of his face was exposed. You felt starstruck, startled by his sudden reveal and his soft, pretty face, barely noticing as he climbed over your legs to sit on your thighs, looking down at you with his head pushed towards his shoulder, like he was assessing you.
You felt self conscious under his gaze. “What are you looking at me for?”
“Admiring the view,” he said. He’d discarded his other glove now and was pressing both hands to your chest, paying special attention to your nipples. He leaned down to kiss the underside of your breast and then the nipple, nibbling at it in a motion that sent shudders through you. You hesitantly cupped the back of his head, feeling the softness of his hair underneath the mask.
Your head fell back against the pillow, tracing the familiar lines of your bedroom ceiling whilst your friendly neighbourhood superhero traced the lines of your body. He smoothed the skin of your trembling abdomen flat as his unoccupied hand travelled lower, teasing the waistband of your panties. He lifted the elastic to let it snap against your skin, grinning into your skin when your breath caught.
His hand found its way under the fabric. He broke away from your chest to watch his own hand move against your cunt, fingertips pressing into the button of your clit, curiously dipping into the pool of wetness just below.
He pushed your panties to the side and pulled back from hovering over you to sit on his haunches atop your thighs, running the pad of his thumb from the growing slick at your centre to your clit, spreading the mess your body was making carefully, in gentle strokes. Each time he crested your clit it made your core burn, twisting at the sensation.
He moved from straddling you to in between your legs, pushing them up slightly, your heels digging into the mattress springs. You felt much more provocative this way, bared to him. It was odd not to see his eyes as he touched you so intimately,
"I think you're toying with me, handsome," you murmured.
"Do you really?" he asked, trailing the tip of his finger down the crease of your cunt, stopping just above your entrance. "Why would you think that?"
He pushed the tip of his finger into your heat. You both groaned. "You seem like a tease," you told him, voice high.
He laughed, settling into a rhythm and soon joining his first finger with his second. "I'm the tease? You threw yourself at me 20 minutes ago."
"I fell over!"
"Fainted from my presence," he corrected gently, curling his fingers inside you.
You balled the sheets up in your hand. "You're right."
"Knew you'd see it my way."
"The fact that you can run your mouth while- while messing with me is ridiculous."
"I'm not messing with you, bub, I'm playing with you."
This was obvious. He flicked his wrist, reminiscent of the motion he made to shoot webs, pushing incrementally deeper inside you. You keened, covering your hand with his, trying to force his fingers in deeper. "So eager…" he muttered, though he didn't pull away. He stayed with his fingers deep inside you, fucking and curling til you were panting, stomach tensing up.
"Relax," he said, laughing. You'd pushed up onto your elbow to watch his ministrations, open mouthed.
He spread his fingers open inside you, slowly pulling out, the stretch a pleasurable ache. Your panting slowly edged into whining territory, your hand like iron around his. He used his free hand to poke at your clit carefully, the barest touch of his fingertip against the bead of it. He bit his lip at your moans, his hips jutting forward where he sat.
You let yourself fall flat again and groaned. Spider-Man was spreading you open with his fingers, dick straining against the spandex of his suit.
"Han- handsome," you stuttered, disrupted by his speeding up. His index and pinky finger hit the soft flesh of your cunt with every thrust, each collision wet and fast.
"What, baby?" he said, so softly, distracted with his actions.
"Can you- can we-" you struggled to find the words, struggled worse to say them without feeling embarrassed.
"You want," his fingers left you, the tip of his index finger now joining the first two at your entrance, "this?"
"Please…"
He pushed the beginnings of his three fingers inside you, pushing up on your clit to spread your pussy open. "You don't ever have to say please to me," he told you, eyes heady, voice warm. "Tell me if it hurts."
He buried his fingers in your cunt to the first knuckles, then the second. The further he pushed in the more overwhelming it became, your legs beginning to shake. He leaned down to kiss one of your thighs, amused if his smirk was anything to go by. He pushed against the soft barrier he'd found. You positively mewled, alarmed that he'd found your sweet spot and was now seeking it out with abandon, his thrusts sharp and fast. You were still so tight that each one was a lovely agony, tears welling in your eyes.
"Too much?" he asked, retreating.
You shook your head vehemently. "Feels nice," you wobbled.
"Yeah?" He grinned, three fingers deep inside you as they could go, thumb on your clit. His other hand fell away, moving to palm his cock through the material of his suit.
You swallowed hard. His coordination must be fantastic, you thought, because he didn't miss a beat; he stroked the length of himself, touch down soft as he ruined you, manipulating the button of your clit with his fingers curled against your soft spot. You squirmed, rolling your hips, almost begging.
"Please, please," you mumbled uselessly, over and over.
Spider-Man stopped touching himself to wrap his strong hand around the underside of your knee, pushing your leg back into your chest to spread you wide open, before leaning down to catch the most sensitive part of your cunt with his mouth.
You gasped, quickly threading your fingers into the down-soft hair at the nape of his neck. He suckled the bead of your clit and forgot any pretense of gentleness, the lewd sound of his debasement of your cunt echoing in your ears. He surfaced to plant kisses on the skin between your centre and your thighs, breathing hard. He licked a stripe from his hand to your clit and then, in what was your undoing, nibbled ever so lightly.
You froze, leg tensing up in his grip, the climax so sudden you couldn't help the sound you made, loud and clear. He groaned as your walls clamped down around his fingers.
He pulled his fingers out finally, leaning back to continue his own touching with your slick still on his hand, hips jutting up. You held your hands out and he crawled forward to meet you, letting you pull his lips down to press against yours.
He tasted like you. Your hand went to his back, pressing him close to your body without thinking. You could feel the shape of his cock against you, rutting up against you as you kissed, lips firm. He made a sound like a hiccup that made you want to propose marriage, pressing his hips down into yours hard. You were so sensitive from cumming the sensation made you cry out.
He moaned, his lips pressed against the corner of your mouth, hands digging into your neck so hard it was almost painful.
"Gonna cum for me, Spider-Man?" you asked hurriedly.
He might have laughed, you weren't sure, the sound covered up by a groan that sent sparks to your already oversimulated cunt. He jerked into you, movements choppy, before he collapsed, his forehead digging into your neck.
“You’re crushing me,” you said into his head, the top of the mask cold on your mouth.
“You’re whining,” he said, though he pressed a kiss to your shoulder and climbed off of you anyways. “How’s the headache?”
You clamped your thighs closed and covered your eyes bashfully. “Gone,” you admitted.
His hands climbed down the length of your thigh, drawing your knees apart again.
“You don't ever have to say please to me," he told you, eyes heady, voice warm.
summary: spider-man likes you a little bit too much, and wants to help you get rid of your migraine - by whatever means necessary. 3.4k
warnings: smut, fluff, low-key sickfic, nsfw, 18+ only please, college!peter, she/her pronouns used for reader, fem reader
The summer sun bore down on the back of your neck relentlessly. You speculated that you might have heat stroke or something similar - a persistent, acute migraine having formed behind your lashes. You didn’t have far to walk now from the public library to your apartment, the home stretch clear and achingly white with the sun. You’d covered your eyes with your hand, head down, blinking against the dryness.
You felt like your shoes were made of lead, just about managing to weave through the pedestrians packed tightly together on the sidewalk despite your impaired vision. Maneuvering through your fellow New Yorkers was usually common practice, the civilians moving through the city like schools of fish through a coral reef. You wheedled past mother’s and their children, businessmen and artists and rundown looking summer school students who crowded your avenue's bodega for lunch. In a haze, you began crossing the street, eyes to the burning hot tarmac beneath you. There was a loud beeping noise, a jolting sensation, and suddenly you were being pulled off of your feet.
The air rushed out of you in a big puff. You gasped, hands coming up to grip on tightly to the solid ones that had taken hold around your waist. You were deposited on the other side of the road by familiar red and blue arms, a warm chuckle already sounding. You winced, knowing what he’d say.
“Anybody ever taught you the golden rule of looking both ways before you cross one of the busiest streets in Queens?” Spider-Man asked you, tone turning incredulous toward the end.
“Same person who taught you to keep your hands to yourself,” you murmured, pulling out of his arms.
“Don’t be like that, Y/N,” he said, voice light.
“Thank you for saving me,” you said, deflecting his flirting. You squinted up into his masked face, glad to be turned from the sun's melting rays and in the shade.
Spider-Man was emotive despite the mask, his stance telling you what you wanted to know. He was in a terrible mood, evidently - terrible for you - his gait confident, his shoulders rolled back. He was going to keep flirting with you, you realised, and then he'd insist on walking you home.
He often sought you out. When you tried to accuse him of this, he argued that the one seeking you out was actually trouble, and he was the neighbourhood’s defense against trouble. “You’re an integral part of the neighbourhood,” he’d reasoned, “so of course, I’ll be protecting you.”
That had been a long while back, when he’d first showed up in Queens. Since then he’d walked you home countless times, returned your menace of a cat just as many, and spent all together too much of his time on you. You weren't the sharpest tool in the shed but you also weren't stupid enough to miss that Spider-Man seemed to have a crush on you.
"You're always in the right place at the right time, aren't you, bug boy?"
"What are you implying?" he asked.
You let your back rest on the cool alley wall, smiling as best as you could despite your pounding headache. The movement made you wince.
His easy going demeanour melted away quicker than you could process, his arms crossing over his chest.
"Are you okay?"
“Sorry,” you said, bringing your hand back up to press against your hot forehead. “Migraine.”
“Can you walk?” he asked worriedly.
You laughed at him. “It’s not that bad.”
“Hurts?”
You were surprised at the inklings of tenderness in place of his usual bravado.
“A bit,” you mumbled, pushing your hair from your face.
His hand stretched out between you like he might try comforting you. You wondered what he'd been about to do, maybe he would've placed his gloved hand on your shoulder, rubbed it placatingly up and down your arm, worked it behind you to hug you to his side.
"Wait," you said, perplexed. "Gloves?" You reached out for his hand and he let you take it. You turned his wrist in your hands, assessing the almost invisible seam. "You have a good seamstress."
"I-" he cleared his throat, "I made the suit myself."
You almost dropped his hand. "You did?"
"Impressive, yeah?"
He couldn’t remember when he’d had the thought to move from full sleeves to gloves, which could be attached and reattached, only that he had, and as a result his life had been suddenly easier, he explained to you. Easier to clean when they got dirtied with blood, grime, and general street germs, easier to repair, and easier to replace altogether when he burned through them, whether with fire or friction.
"That's really cool," you praised him, falling into step beside him.
He took you through the shortcut to your apartment, shrugging off your compliments. "I've made a couple, now."
"I can imagine," you said, the words sounding like you were underwater.
The sun was microwaving you. You swayed on your feet, instinctively pushing your hand out to try and grab onto your superhero escort. He was already shooting sideways to grab you, his strong arm coming up under your armpit and around your shoulder blades.
"Okay," he said, grunting, "alright, you're good. You're okay."
You screwed your eyes shut, taking a shaky breath. "I don't feel okay."
"You have water in your bag?" he asked, gesturing to your tote bag on the opposite shoulder. You nodded and he pushed his hand into the bag. If he found it difficult to hold you up and search for the flask he said nothing of it, pulling the clear bottle out and unscrewing the cap to press into your hand. "Drink, doll."
You sipped. You would've rolled your eyes at the pet name if your eyes weren't already shut and hurting.
"Remember when I asked if you could walk? I love being right," he said, trying to cheer you up.
You laughed, the sound bouncing around inside your skull like a super-powered top, hitting the sides and making you cringe.
"Done?" he asked. You handed the bottle off to him and he tucked it back in your bag. "I'm gonna carry you now," he informed you politely.
He moved behind you. You gripped his arm.
"Don't-"
"Come on, you need to get home somehow."
"I'm worried I'll throw up," you confessed, squinting at his masked face.
"You won't, and if you do I know a laundry sheriff that'll fix me up afterwards," he said elusively. He gathered you in a bridal carry in his arms like you weighed nothing, mutant strength letting him walk you to your apartment building as though you were a sack of flour in his arms.
“A sheriff?” you asked him, face pressed into his chest.
“A formidable one.”
“She wears the trousers in the relationship?”
“Not my girlfriend. And not very progressive of you.”
You chortled unattractively. “Don’t worry, bug, I didn’t think you were talking about a girlfriend.”
“Schoolyard taunts are beneath you, really. If you’re going to insult me, do it properly.”
You nodded, letting your chin flop forward to touch your chest. “Is this really necessary? I’m dizzy, not dying.”
“Indulge me.”
“You’re ridiculous. I feel much better after the water, so put me down,” you told him, squirming in his iron grip.
“Relax,” he said. “We’re here. Is your window open?”
You shrieked, felt yourself being lifted into the air and then you were being carried through your bedroom window.
“Spider-Man,” you said through clenched teeth, “I’ll pretend that you knowing what window is mine isn’t creepy if you put me down.”
He dumped you on your bed. You looked at him blearily, feeling him fluff your pillow up behind your head. “It’s not creepy, I walk you home all the time. And you leave your curtains open.”
“Okay, stalker,” you mumbled, enjoying the cold sheets underneath you. “It’s so hot today,” you whispered, remembering your pounding headache.
“You have Tylenol?”
“In the medicine cabinet.”
He disappeared into your bathroom. You moaned, stretching out onto the bed so hard it made your weak legs shake, your shoulders locking up. You kicked your shoes off, pulling your cardigan free and then your skirt off. I can’t believe he put me on my bed in outside clothes, you thought to yourself, moody. I’ll have to change my sheets. Tomorrow.
Spider-Man walked back in with the Tylenol. It was so ridiculous you
couldn’t help but laugh, the sight of him standing unsurely in the doorway with half your medicine cabinet in his hands.
“My hero,” you said warmly, opening your hands. He shook two pills into your open palm and you took them, sipping at the water on your nightstand from the night before.
“I wish it would work quicker,” you confided, stretching a hand over your eyes.
You felt him sit at the end of your bed. “Do you still feel faint?”
“No, I’m fine, Spider-Man. You can go home now, if you like. Thanks for helping me.”
There was a long silence. You peeked through your fingers to watch him. He was oddly still as he spoke. “I could… help more.”
Your mouth quirked up into a disbelieving smile. “You can’t fight a migraine.”
He cleared his throat. You marvelled at his voice, soft and flirtatious, a heart-rending shyness underneath it. “I read something once…”
“You can read?”
His shoulders shook. “Let me finish! I read that sometimes, girls can experience a different kind of pain relief.”
“What kind of pain relief is that?”
“I could show you?” he said, voice lilting up at the end in question.
You could hear the busy streets outside, the car horns and the bodega bell, the people shouting and chattering and the train that rattled past like clockwork a street down. So loud outside, and yet the loudest sound was your heart in your ears and Spider-Man’s suit sliding against your bed sheets.
The barest touch of his gloved knuckles against your thigh made you snap back into reality. “Y/N?”
“Show me,” you repeated his words, letting your hand fall from your eyes. "Please."
It was like a switch - shy Spider-Man was replaced with his usual, confident self. It was all encompassing. He sidled up closer still, pulling his glove free one finger at a time.
He had lovely hands - big hands, long, nimble looking fingers and a wide palm which he lay flat on your naked thigh. "You're appropriately dressed."
"I'm sorry," you said, embarrassed, "I was warm."
"I'm not complaining," he said, palm hot against your skin. "You're killer."
"You're incorrigible," you murmured, goosebumps jumping up your skin from his touch.
He pushed his hand up and over the elastic of your underwear, pushing the edges of your thin tank top up to slide his palm over your tummy.
He inched up under your shirt. “This okay?”
You breathed out too quickly. "Yeah."
He pushed under your shirt. You bit your lip as he massaged your chest, catching your nipple between his fingers.
You were caught between arousal and surprise, unable to really take in what was happening. "Spider-Man," you started.
"What?" he asked quietly. It was as though neither of you wanted to disrupt the relative quiet of your room, should it shatter the bubble that had formed around you both.
"Can't I call you something else?"
"Handsome works," he said, rolling your nipple between his two fingertips.
"Handsome," you said, testing the word. "Doesn't sound right."
He pinched your skin spitefully. You couldn't help gasping in pleasure, chest heaving under his touch. He pushed your shirt up completely, exposing your breasts to the warm air.
"Cute," he commented, as if to himself.
He stopped his touching to hook a neat fingernail under the edge of the mask, pulling it up so the lower half of his face was exposed. You felt starstruck, startled by his sudden reveal and his soft, pretty face, barely noticing as he climbed over your legs to sit on your thighs, looking down at you with his head pushed towards his shoulder, like he was assessing you.
You felt self conscious under his gaze. “What are you looking at me for?”
“Admiring the view,” he said. He’d discarded his other glove now and was pressing both hands to your chest, paying special attention to your nipples. He leaned down to kiss the underside of your breast and then the nipple, nibbling at it in a motion that sent shudders through you. You hesitantly cupped the back of his head, feeling the softness of his hair underneath the mask.
Your head fell back against the pillow, tracing the familiar lines of your bedroom ceiling whilst your friendly neighbourhood superhero traced the lines of your body. He smoothed the skin of your trembling abdomen flat as his unoccupied hand travelled lower, teasing the waistband of your panties. He lifted the elastic to let it snap against your skin, grinning into your skin when your breath caught.
His hand found its way under the fabric. He broke away from your chest to watch his own hand move against your cunt, fingertips pressing into the button of your clit, curiously dipping into the pool of wetness just below.
He pushed your panties to the side and pulled back from hovering over you to sit on his haunches atop your thighs, running the pad of his thumb from the growing slick at your centre to your clit, spreading the mess your body was making carefully, in gentle strokes. Each time he crested your clit it made your core burn, twisting at the sensation.
He moved from straddling you to in between your legs, pushing them up slightly, your heels digging into the mattress springs. You felt much more provocative this way, bared to him. It was odd not to see his eyes as he touched you so intimately,
"I think you're toying with me, handsome," you murmured.
"Do you really?" he asked, trailing the tip of his finger down the crease of your cunt, stopping just above your entrance. "Why would you think that?"
He pushed the tip of his finger into your heat. You both groaned. "You seem like a tease," you told him, voice high.
He laughed, settling into a rhythm and soon joining his first finger with his second. "I'm the tease? You threw yourself at me 20 minutes ago."
"I fell over!"
"Fainted from my presence," he corrected gently, curling his fingers inside you.
You balled the sheets up in your hand. "You're right."
"Knew you'd see it my way."
"The fact that you can run your mouth while- while messing with me is ridiculous."
"I'm not messing with you, bub, I'm playing with you."
This was obvious. He flicked his wrist, reminiscent of the motion he made to shoot webs, pushing incrementally deeper inside you. You keened, covering your hand with his, trying to force his fingers in deeper. "So eager…" he muttered, though he didn't pull away. He stayed with his fingers deep inside you, fucking and curling til you were panting, stomach tensing up.
"Relax," he said, laughing. You'd pushed up onto your elbow to watch his ministrations, open mouthed.
He spread his fingers open inside you, slowly pulling out, the stretch a pleasurable ache. Your panting slowly edged into whining territory, your hand like iron around his. He used his free hand to poke at your clit carefully, the barest touch of his fingertip against the bead of it. He bit his lip at your moans, his hips jutting forward where he sat.
You let yourself fall flat again and groaned. Spider-Man was spreading you open with his fingers, dick straining against the spandex of his suit.
"Han- handsome," you stuttered, disrupted by his speeding up. His index and pinky finger hit the soft flesh of your cunt with every thrust, each collision wet and fast.
"What, baby?" he said, so softly, distracted with his actions.
"Can you- can we-" you struggled to find the words, struggled worse to say them without feeling embarrassed.
"You want," his fingers left you, the tip of his index finger now joining the first two at your entrance, "this?"
"Please…"
He pushed the beginnings of his three fingers inside you, pushing up on your clit to spread your pussy open. "You don't ever have to say please to me," he told you, eyes heady, voice warm. "Tell me if it hurts."
He buried his fingers in your cunt to the first knuckles, then the second. The further he pushed in the more overwhelming it became, your legs beginning to shake. He leaned down to kiss one of your thighs, amused if his smirk was anything to go by. He pushed against the soft barrier he'd found. You positively mewled, alarmed that he'd found your sweet spot and was now seeking it out with abandon, his thrusts sharp and fast. You were still so tight that each one was a lovely agony, tears welling in your eyes.
"Too much?" he asked, retreating.
You shook your head vehemently. "Feels nice," you wobbled.
"Yeah?" He grinned, three fingers deep inside you as they could go, thumb on your clit. His other hand fell away, moving to palm his cock through the material of his suit.
You swallowed hard. His coordination must be fantastic, you thought, because he didn't miss a beat; he stroked the length of himself, touch down soft as he ruined you, manipulating the button of your clit with his fingers curled against your soft spot. You squirmed, rolling your hips, almost begging.
"Please, please," you mumbled uselessly, over and over.
Spider-Man stopped touching himself to wrap his strong hand around the underside of your knee, pushing your leg back into your chest to spread you wide open, before leaning down to catch the most sensitive part of your cunt with his mouth.
You gasped, quickly threading your fingers into the down-soft hair at the nape of his neck. He suckled the bead of your clit and forgot any pretense of gentleness, the lewd sound of his debasement of your cunt echoing in your ears. He surfaced to plant kisses on the skin between your centre and your thighs, breathing hard. He licked a stripe from his hand to your clit and then, in what was your undoing, nibbled ever so lightly.
You froze, leg tensing up in his grip, the climax so sudden you couldn't help the sound you made, loud and clear. He groaned as your walls clamped down around his fingers.
He pulled his fingers out finally, leaning back to continue his own touching with your slick still on his hand, hips jutting up. You held your hands out and he crawled forward to meet you, letting you pull his lips down to press against yours.
He tasted like you. Your hand went to his back, pressing him close to your body without thinking. You could feel the shape of his cock against you, rutting up against you as you kissed, lips firm. He made a sound like a hiccup that made you want to propose marriage, pressing his hips down into yours hard. You were so sensitive from cumming the sensation made you cry out.
He moaned, his lips pressed against the corner of your mouth, hands digging into your neck so hard it was almost painful.
"Gonna cum for me, Spider-Man?" you asked hurriedly.
He might have laughed, you weren't sure, the sound covered up by a groan that sent sparks to your already oversimulated cunt. He jerked into you, movements choppy, before he collapsed, his forehead digging into your neck.
“You’re crushing me,” you said into his head, the top of the mask cold on your mouth.
“You’re whining,” he said, though he pressed a kiss to your shoulder and climbed off of you anyways. “How’s the headache?”
You clamped your thighs closed and covered your eyes bashfully. “Gone,” you admitted.
His hands climbed down the length of your thigh, drawing your knees apart again.
"But," he murmured, "I'm not the only one keeping secrets. Am I, sweetheart?"
"I thought maybe you knew," you whispered. There was no reason for it, nobody was around to hear it, but something about secrets demanded whispering.
"I think maybe I did," he said back, thumb moving over your cheek.
summary best friends know everything about each other, right?
warnings blood, injuries, stitches, fem!reader, she/her pronouns used for reader, fluff, angst, low-key hurt/comfort, mutual pining <3
Your cell phone was ringing.
You sweared loudly and almost dropped your coffee, then remembered where you were and gave an apologetic glance to the other passengers on the train before answering the call and shoving the speaker close to your ear, fighting with the bag of groceries in your hand.
"Hi, Pete!" you answered brightly. "How are you?"
"Hey, bub. I'm okay, I'm great. How are you? I came by your apartment," Peter said, voice crackly with bad reception.
You held your phone to your ear with your shoulder and searched through your purse for your small eyeshadow compact, flipping it open to analyse your appearance in the mirror.
"I'm on the subway 2 stops from your apartment," you said, groaning. "This is why communication is important."
"We communicate all the time."
You chewed your lip. "Actually - I was trying to surprise you because, well, don't you feel like something is amiss lately?"
"Amiss?" he asked worriedly.
"I don't know. We're never on the same page these days," you sighed, taking the phone back in your hand.
There was a small silence.
"You're my best friend," Peter said, like he was telling himself that too.
"I know. You're my best friend too," you replied hastily.
"There's something I haven't been telling you."
You paused. "There is?"
"It's not bad. It's," he chuckled to himself, "it's actually a good thing. You might think it's great, I hope. After the shock wears off."
"Peter, what are you talking about?"
"Look, I'll meet you outside mine and we'll talk, okay?"
"Pete-"
"I'll tell you everything," his words were softer. "No more space. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Catch you in a few."
You wrestled your bags off of the train and through the crowded station, up the steep steps and the ten minutes to Peter's apartment. By the time you got there you were lightly perspiring and stressing about how your hair looked, and you were totally convinced that Peter Parker, your best friend since you were six years old, was about to tell you he was in love with you.
You loved him, of course. It was kind of hard not to love him. Peter was kind down to his bones, loving like you wouldn't believe. He was the smartest person you'd ever met and had ambition that felt almost unfathomable to you, oozed raw talent into his hobbies; he took gorgeous photos that had you in awe like it was no big deal and sewed anything you asked him to. Even the smaller things made you dizzy, like how he never killed a bug if he could help it, how he made you sandwiches every single day freshman year and didn't care if you didn't eat them, how he looked in the sunlight. How he yawned, how he hiccuped, how he laughed. The way he stretched when he woke up, how his muscles moved under his skin when you pretended to be suddenly and irredeemably interested in his wallpaper.
You could see him jogging toward you. When he got close enough he stretched out his hand for your groceries and then your purse.
"Peter, I can carry my own bag."
"Why should you?" he asked impishly, wrestling the strap from your fingers.
He kissed your cheek. "I've missed you, bub."
"I missed you too. It feels like I haven't seen you in a year," you said, glowing.
You fell into step beside him.
"Only 4 days and 5 hours."
"Why do you know that?"
"I know everything."
Right. Sometimes it felt like he did.
You looked at him out of the corner of your eye. He seemed anxious, his shoulders taut, mouth set in a determined smile that was fraying at the edges. You withheld the urge to bump his shoulder, poking fun at him verbally instead.
"Not often Peter Parker's scared to tell me something," you teased.
He grimaced. You watched his hands tighten around your bags, knuckles going white.
"I'm not scared," he complained at your word choice.
"Nervous," you compromised.
He turned his head and you turned yours.
"I'm not nervous."
"Good," you nodded, holding open the first door of his apartment building. He turned around so you could retrieve his keys from the front pocket of his backpack and you did, unlocking the door to begin up the stairs. "There's nothing to be nervous about," you said, hoping to hint at your returned feelings.
He heard the meaningful undertone, looking at you in a calculating way and then sighing, relieved.
"You know?" he asked.
You were at the second staircase now. You paused to clear your throat, feeling your bravado slip away. You grabbed at it with slippery fingers. "I had a hunch."
He tipped his head and groaned. You looked unabashedly at the curve of his neck.
"I suck at keeping secrets."
"From me? Yes, you do."
The third flight of stairs. Peter was unbothered by the weight of what he was carrying, making quick time. You rushed to keep up with him, pushing in front of him so you could open his door and let him in so he could put down the bags as quickly as possible. He laughed at you.
"Thanks," he said warmly.
After he put the bags down he hugged you tightly to his chest. You wormed your arms around his waist familiarly, leaning your head against his shirt. "I'm so happy you're okay with it."
He was being coy.
"Peter, why wouldn't I be?"
"Well," he looked down at you, eyebrows raised, "it's dangerous."
"Right," you said, laughing loudly. Love was super dangerous.
His hands were hot, one arm wrapped over your shoulder the other under. His hugs made you feel protected, undeniably safe.
"That doesn't worry you?" he said, nonplussed.
"Are you kidding?"
"No, I'm not."
"It's a good thing, like you said. It's a great thing."
He swayed you from side to side. "Yeah?"
"Of course it is," you said, shrugging. You looked up at his face, "it is, right?"
"Sure," he was grinning too, "not everyday your best friend gets superpowers."
"Exactly, and-" you blinked owlishly. The world was suddenly very loud in your ears. "What?"
Peter was still grinning. "This is so great. I've been dying to show you the suit ever since I made it. I could use your hands. Oh! You'll have a field day with my embroidering, I know you will, but I didn't have a lot of time. You'll have to-"
"Pete," you said, shrugging out of his hold. "What?"
He scrunched his eyebrows together. "The suit?"
"Superpowers?"
"What, you thought I was doing all that without superpowers?"
"You have superpowers?" you asked incredulously.
"Bub," he laughed, going to grab the hem of your shirt.
You stepped back out of his reach.
"What's wrong?" he asked, lips turning down.
What was wrong? What was worse? Peter wasn't telling you he was in love with you. Peter was…
"You're Spider-Man?"
His apartment was still dark. The groceries were tipping over at your feet. You could hear Peter's upstairs neighbour watching TV.
His smile faded. "I thought you…"
Your chest clouded sharply with hurt and something else, unidentifiable and all consuming. Peter was Spider-Man, the masked superhero that had been protecting New York for literal years now. Years. And you'd had the idiocy to think a mutual crush was the biggest (badly kept) secret between you both.
No. It seemed like Peter was great at keeping secrets.
You shook it off as best you could, which wasn't well.
"This is amazing. It's amazing. How- how did it happen?" you said weakly.
He was squinting at you. "I got bit. By a spider."
You giggled. It was all wrong, pitchy and off center. "A spider?"
"A radioactive spider."
"Do you. Um. Do you have, like, pincers?"
"Bub, no."
You looked down at your hands. "Right."
"You sound disappointed."
"I'm sure I'll recover from your not having pincers, Peter."
"No, I mean- you sound disappointed that I'm Spider-Man."
You stretched out your fingers, struggling to look at him.
"It actually makes perfect sense. You're the only person I know who's kind enough to fit the bill," you said. As soon as you said it you realised it was true.
"But?"
"But what?"
"I can hear it in your voice. There's something you're not saying," he said. His voice was tight, like he was frustrated or about to be.
You squeezed your eyes shut tight and grabbed your bag, turning to his door. Peter's fingers landed at your shoulder, pulling you back in.
"Babe-"
You moved your shoulder from under his hand and flinched away, hands up as if to say please don't touch me right now.
"Y/N," he said.
"I don't feel well."
"Come on, come sit down. We'll talk about it."
"I'll text you when I get home."
"Don't go-" he started.
You shut his door behind you and stood at the doorway for a few seconds, heart racing.
Superpowers.
You blinked back embarrassed tears and started down his stairs. Peter had superpowers.
-
4.56PM
I'm home
alright
is everything okay ??
you left sort of quickly
i put the groceries away - were
you gonna make baked ziti?
7.00PM
we can still make it if you want
if you're feeling better tomorrow
8.00PM
I'm sorry I didn't tell you about it,
if that's why u were upset
bub, call me? or tomorrow, if you're
sleeping
I can explain everything
anything you need me to
You looked down at your phone screen and sighed. You didn't take any pleasure from ignoring Peter. In fact, you felt so guilty you worried people could see it on your face.
The longer you ignored Peter the more he would text you, until this morning when there'd been one last text. Since then, radio silence.
I'm sorry. I'll give you space.
You didn't really want space. You couldn't work it out.
For a while you'd thought it to be anger. He'd kept this from you for so long - he'd probably lied to you, a lot. And he'd been so reckless. How many Spider-Man versus supervillain showdowns had you seen since he'd begun protecting Queens?
And you definitely were angry, so angry, that he would risk his life like this. Every night. When he wasn't spending a night with his Aunt May or watching a movie at your place, somebody was hurting him somewhere.
That made you sick.
After the anger faded came the worry. You worried he was going to die, he was going to be fatally injured, he was going to bite off more than he could chew. You worried he might get knocked down and he wouldn't be able to get back up.
He was only one boy. He was only your boy. How had he done all this alone? It kept you up.
He was probably going to get himself killed and what - you'd have to sit back and watch?
And then, at the base of your isolation, the real reason you couldn't stand to see him. Peter was smart. He was a genius. He must've worked out exactly what you'd thought he was going to say, and so he must know how you felt for him. Suddenly your biggest secrets were laid out on the table and you were trying uselessly to go back to a time where they weren't. Time didn't ever move backwards. This was now. Peter was Spider-Man and you were in love with him. You were in love with Spider-Man. Being in love with Peter had come as easy as breathing. You worried loving Spider-Man would be much harder.
You were mulling this over in bed, staring morosely at your ceiling. The window was open, for once a warm summer breeze was floating in lazily through the gap. It was quiet enough to endure the cacophony of chaos outdoors, and it was the sound that helped you not go insane with your own thoughts. You'd call him, you resolved. You'd call him. You hadn't gone a day without talking to Peter since you were twelve years old when the weekends had felt so long that Peter had saved up enough allowance to buy you a flip phone and you'd cried and held his hand for five hours.
You wouldn't have lasted much longer without his company, anyhow, when your window was being pushed open.
You winced bodily, crawling backwards on your bedsheets to push against the headboard.
"Sorry, I'm sorry. Don't be scared," Peter pleaded, voice slightly muffled by the Spider-Man mask. He pulled it off quickly, and then slumped against your bedroom wall.
"What the fuck," you said, dropping your hands in your lap, "Spider-Man's a burglar now?"
"Breaking and entering – I haven't stolen anything. And only on weekends."
His joke made you laugh, which in turn made you feel guilty.
"Pete, I'm sorry. Really sorry. I know I wasn't as excited for you as I should've been," you said softly.
Peter made a sound like you'd poked him, "That's alright," he said hurriedly, "that's just fine. I don't care."
You frowned, a little hurt. "You don't care?"
"Mind!" he corrected, gasping. "I don't mind."
You traced the gloves of his suit, one pressed tight to his side, and the fabric was all dark and wet and, "Peter, what's that?"
"Don't be scared," he said again, looking between you and the dripping wound, "I got stabbed."
"Stabbed!"
"Quite badly!" he said, tone echoing your own.
You crawled down the length of your bed and threw yourself at his side, trying to pull his hand away.
"Not a good idea, bub."
"What?"
"It's a pretty big gash."
"Gash!"
"Bub," Peter said, voice steady despite his injury, "stay calm. Everything will be okay. I need a - a towel, or anything to put pressure on it while it heals. Okay? Can you do that for me?"
"Right," you spun away from him and then spun back, "you're okay?"
"I won't die in the 30 seconds it takes you to find a towel."
You weren't so sure but you did as he asked and retrieved a clean towel for him to push against his abdomen. He hissed as he did it.
"You need to go to the emergency room," you told him, pressing your hand over his bloody one.
"I only need stitches."
"Only!"
"It's fine." He was looking at you strangely again, like he did that day in the stairwell.
"What if something important got all knifed?" you exclaimed.
He grabbed a hold of your face with a bloody glove, wincing as he did it. You could feel your heart beating out of your chest and your breaths were coming painfully quick. Held still, he looked from one eye to the other and didn't smile, didn't frown, just looked. You realised he was breathing purposefully and made to copy him.
"I'm sorry for coming here. Your place was closer and it's worse than usual, but. It isn't fatal. It isn't an emergency. I need a first aid kit and I'll be fine."
He was nodding as he said it. You copied him, huffing big exhales through your nose.
"How often does this happen?" you asked, stressed.
"Not a lot. Usually with much smaller knives."
You blew hair out of your face and marched into your bathroom for your first aid kit and the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, staining the doorway with blood as you pushed past it.
Peter sat heavily on your floor. You had a sneaking suspicion he was lying about how serious the wound was, as he'd begun to sweat badly. He pulled the gloves off of one hand with his teeth and then pressed his naked hand to the towel to replace the first and did the same, his blood staining his mouth red-pink, like kool-aid.
He looked up at you worriedly. "I got blood on your face."
"Should see yourself," you murmured, kneeling down. You helped him out of the suit's top half, revealing his chiseled chest and torso, his wound lazily sobbing blood. You pressed the towel back to his body and blinked.
"It's slower now," Peter said.
"And if it doesn't stop bleeding?"
"It will."
It did. Peter watched your pour peroxide on his stab wound and let you thread the needle for stitches, but when you moved to assess the cut he stopped you, putting a red hand over yours.
"I can do it."
You inhaled.
"I'm glad. I don't think I have the stomach for it."
"You don't have to watch if it's too much."
Even though he needed two hands and you didn't want to annoy him you still found a way to be close to him, digging your fingers into his thigh. He didn't complain though you knew your grip would've been bruising on anyone else.
You noticed his sharp inhales and knew when he was pulling the stitches tight. Once he'd finished he sort of deflated, clipping the string short and putting the stitching needle back in the plastic case.
Your knees ached from kneeling at his side.
He placed his hand over the bloody side of your face. Your skin burned under his touch. You wavered in that impenetrable bubble of silence for minutes, savouring the feel of his skin on yours, the drag of his thumb against your face.
"M'sorry. For keeping it a secret."
You leaned into his hand more, intending for it to serve as a you're forgiven. You worried if you opened your eyes you'd cry.
"But," he murmured, "I'm not the only one keeping secrets. Am I, sweetheart?"
"I thought maybe you knew," you whispered. There was no reason for it, nobody was around to hear it, but something about secrets demanded whispering.
"I think maybe I did," he said back, thumb moving over your cheek. You peaked at him out of one eye, pins and needles picking at your skin.
"You did?"
"Told you - I know everything."
You laughed and dropped your chin, looking at him from under your lashes, feeling humiliated. "You're full of it, Parker."
He pulled your chin up with his index finger.
"You love me," he said, more fact than question.
"Only since we were 6 years old."
"Watch my stitches," he advised, leaning in.
You squeaked, startled, "What are you doing?"
"No more space. Is that… okay?"
"What, just like that?" you asked, and then kicked yourself. He was trying to kiss you and you were trying your hardest to persuade him not to? Imbecile.
Peter traced the line of your half smile with his index finger. It was so gentle you almost forgot you were both covered in blood.
"We're in love, aren't we?" he asked, smiling softly. "What else do you do?"
You were at once overcome with affection for his worn, tired face, his bleeding body. You did as he said and watched for his stitches, pressing your hand against the space in the middle of his chest and leaned down.
You stopped above his mouth.
"You love me?" you asked. Not because you didn't know but because you were too selfish to wait.
"I love you. N'now I'm all out of secrets," he mumbled, darting upwards to catch your lips in a chaste kiss.
The pressure of his mouth on yours was familiar enough to leave you feeling blindsided and full of shocks, hand trembling over his heart. Peter tilted his head to open your mouth slowly and you moved your hand to his neck, anchoring yourself to his skin.
You broke the kiss, pushing your forehead gently against his chin. "You taste like blood."
He laughed hard enough to hurt, clutching his side.
"Kiss me anyway?" he asked you.
How could you deny him?
<3
thanks so much for reading
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"But," he murmured, "I'm not the only one keeping secrets. Am I, sweetheart?"
"I thought maybe you knew," you whispered. There was no reason for it, nobody was around to hear it, but something about secrets demanded whispering.
"I think maybe I did," he said back, thumb moving over your cheek.
summary best friends know everything about each other, right?
warnings blood, injuries, stitches, fem!reader, she/her pronouns used for reader, fluff, angst, low-key hurt/comfort, mutual pining <3
Your cell phone was ringing.
You sweared loudly and almost dropped your coffee, then remembered where you were and gave an apologetic glance to the other passengers on the train before answering the call and shoving the speaker close to your ear, fighting with the bag of groceries in your hand.
"Hi, Pete!" you answered brightly. "How are you?"
"Hey, bub. I'm okay, I'm great. How are you? I came by your apartment," Peter said, voice crackly with bad reception.
You held your phone to your ear with your shoulder and searched through your purse for your small eyeshadow compact, flipping it open to analyse your appearance in the mirror.
"I'm on the subway 2 stops from your apartment," you said, groaning. "This is why communication is important."
"We communicate all the time."
You chewed your lip. "Actually - I was trying to surprise you because, well, don't you feel like something is amiss lately?"
"Amiss?" he asked worriedly.
"I don't know. We're never on the same page these days," you sighed, taking the phone back in your hand.
There was a small silence.
"You're my best friend," Peter said, like he was telling himself that too.
"I know. You're my best friend too," you replied hastily.
"There's something I haven't been telling you."
You paused. "There is?"
"It's not bad. It's," he chuckled to himself, "it's actually a good thing. You might think it's great, I hope. After the shock wears off."
"Peter, what are you talking about?"
"Look, I'll meet you outside mine and we'll talk, okay?"
"Pete-"
"I'll tell you everything," his words were softer. "No more space. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Catch you in a few."
You wrestled your bags off of the train and through the crowded station, up the steep steps and the ten minutes to Peter's apartment. By the time you got there you were lightly perspiring and stressing about how your hair looked, and you were totally convinced that Peter Parker, your best friend since you were six years old, was about to tell you he was in love with you.
You loved him, of course. It was kind of hard not to love him. Peter was kind down to his bones, loving like you wouldn't believe. He was the smartest person you'd ever met and had ambition that felt almost unfathomable to you, oozed raw talent into his hobbies; he took gorgeous photos that had you in awe like it was no big deal and sewed anything you asked him to. Even the smaller things made you dizzy, like how he never killed a bug if he could help it, how he made you sandwiches every single day freshman year and didn't care if you didn't eat them, how he looked in the sunlight. How he yawned, how he hiccuped, how he laughed. The way he stretched when he woke up, how his muscles moved under his skin when you pretended to be suddenly and irredeemably interested in his wallpaper.
You could see him jogging toward you. When he got close enough he stretched out his hand for your groceries and then your purse.
"Peter, I can carry my own bag."
"Why should you?" he asked impishly, wrestling the strap from your fingers.
He kissed your cheek. "I've missed you, bub."
"I missed you too. It feels like I haven't seen you in a year," you said, glowing.
You fell into step beside him.
"Only 4 days and 5 hours."
"Why do you know that?"
"I know everything."
Right. Sometimes it felt like he did.
You looked at him out of the corner of your eye. He seemed anxious, his shoulders taut, mouth set in a determined smile that was fraying at the edges. You withheld the urge to bump his shoulder, poking fun at him verbally instead.
"Not often Peter Parker's scared to tell me something," you teased.
He grimaced. You watched his hands tighten around your bags, knuckles going white.
"I'm not scared," he complained at your word choice.
"Nervous," you compromised.
He turned his head and you turned yours.
"I'm not nervous."
"Good," you nodded, holding open the first door of his apartment building. He turned around so you could retrieve his keys from the front pocket of his backpack and you did, unlocking the door to begin up the stairs. "There's nothing to be nervous about," you said, hoping to hint at your returned feelings.
He heard the meaningful undertone, looking at you in a calculating way and then sighing, relieved.
"You know?" he asked.
You were at the second staircase now. You paused to clear your throat, feeling your bravado slip away. You grabbed at it with slippery fingers. "I had a hunch."
He tipped his head and groaned. You looked unabashedly at the curve of his neck.
"I suck at keeping secrets."
"From me? Yes, you do."
The third flight of stairs. Peter was unbothered by the weight of what he was carrying, making quick time. You rushed to keep up with him, pushing in front of him so you could open his door and let him in so he could put down the bags as quickly as possible. He laughed at you.
"Thanks," he said warmly.
After he put the bags down he hugged you tightly to his chest. You wormed your arms around his waist familiarly, leaning your head against his shirt. "I'm so happy you're okay with it."
He was being coy.
"Peter, why wouldn't I be?"
"Well," he looked down at you, eyebrows raised, "it's dangerous."
"Right," you said, laughing loudly. Love was super dangerous.
His hands were hot, one arm wrapped over your shoulder the other under. His hugs made you feel protected, undeniably safe.
"That doesn't worry you?" he said, nonplussed.
"Are you kidding?"
"No, I'm not."
"It's a good thing, like you said. It's a great thing."
He swayed you from side to side. "Yeah?"
"Of course it is," you said, shrugging. You looked up at his face, "it is, right?"
"Sure," he was grinning too, "not everyday your best friend gets superpowers."
"Exactly, and-" you blinked owlishly. The world was suddenly very loud in your ears. "What?"
Peter was still grinning. "This is so great. I've been dying to show you the suit ever since I made it. I could use your hands. Oh! You'll have a field day with my embroidering, I know you will, but I didn't have a lot of time. You'll have to-"
"Pete," you said, shrugging out of his hold. "What?"
He scrunched his eyebrows together. "The suit?"
"Superpowers?"
"What, you thought I was doing all that without superpowers?"
"You have superpowers?" you asked incredulously.
"Bub," he laughed, going to grab the hem of your shirt.
You stepped back out of his reach.
"What's wrong?" he asked, lips turning down.
What was wrong? What was worse? Peter wasn't telling you he was in love with you. Peter was…
"You're Spider-Man?"
His apartment was still dark. The groceries were tipping over at your feet. You could hear Peter's upstairs neighbour watching TV.
His smile faded. "I thought you…"
Your chest clouded sharply with hurt and something else, unidentifiable and all consuming. Peter was Spider-Man, the masked superhero that had been protecting New York for literal years now. Years. And you'd had the idiocy to think a mutual crush was the biggest (badly kept) secret between you both.
No. It seemed like Peter was great at keeping secrets.
You shook it off as best you could, which wasn't well.
"This is amazing. It's amazing. How- how did it happen?" you said weakly.
He was squinting at you. "I got bit. By a spider."
You giggled. It was all wrong, pitchy and off center. "A spider?"
"A radioactive spider."
"Do you. Um. Do you have, like, pincers?"
"Bub, no."
You looked down at your hands. "Right."
"You sound disappointed."
"I'm sure I'll recover from your not having pincers, Peter."
"No, I mean- you sound disappointed that I'm Spider-Man."
You stretched out your fingers, struggling to look at him.
"It actually makes perfect sense. You're the only person I know who's kind enough to fit the bill," you said. As soon as you said it you realised it was true.
"But?"
"But what?"
"I can hear it in your voice. There's something you're not saying," he said. His voice was tight, like he was frustrated or about to be.
You squeezed your eyes shut tight and grabbed your bag, turning to his door. Peter's fingers landed at your shoulder, pulling you back in.
"Babe-"
You moved your shoulder from under his hand and flinched away, hands up as if to say please don't touch me right now.
"Y/N," he said.
"I don't feel well."
"Come on, come sit down. We'll talk about it."
"I'll text you when I get home."
"Don't go-" he started.
You shut his door behind you and stood at the doorway for a few seconds, heart racing.
Superpowers.
You blinked back embarrassed tears and started down his stairs. Peter had superpowers.
-
4.56PM
I'm home
alright
is everything okay ??
you left sort of quickly
i put the groceries away - were
you gonna make baked ziti?
7.00PM
we can still make it if you want
if you're feeling better tomorrow
8.00PM
I'm sorry I didn't tell you about it,
if that's why u were upset
bub, call me? or tomorrow, if you're
sleeping
I can explain everything
anything you need me to
You looked down at your phone screen and sighed. You didn't take any pleasure from ignoring Peter. In fact, you felt so guilty you worried people could see it on your face.
The longer you ignored Peter the more he would text you, until this morning when there'd been one last text. Since then, radio silence.
I'm sorry. I'll give you space.
You didn't really want space. You couldn't work it out.
For a while you'd thought it to be anger. He'd kept this from you for so long - he'd probably lied to you, a lot. And he'd been so reckless. How many Spider-Man versus supervillain showdowns had you seen since he'd begun protecting Queens?
And you definitely were angry, so angry, that he would risk his life like this. Every night. When he wasn't spending a night with his Aunt May or watching a movie at your place, somebody was hurting him somewhere.
That made you sick.
After the anger faded came the worry. You worried he was going to die, he was going to be fatally injured, he was going to bite off more than he could chew. You worried he might get knocked down and he wouldn't be able to get back up.
He was only one boy. He was only your boy. How had he done all this alone? It kept you up.
He was probably going to get himself killed and what - you'd have to sit back and watch?
And then, at the base of your isolation, the real reason you couldn't stand to see him. Peter was smart. He was a genius. He must've worked out exactly what you'd thought he was going to say, and so he must know how you felt for him. Suddenly your biggest secrets were laid out on the table and you were trying uselessly to go back to a time where they weren't. Time didn't ever move backwards. This was now. Peter was Spider-Man and you were in love with him. You were in love with Spider-Man. Being in love with Peter had come as easy as breathing. You worried loving Spider-Man would be much harder.
You were mulling this over in bed, staring morosely at your ceiling. The window was open, for once a warm summer breeze was floating in lazily through the gap. It was quiet enough to endure the cacophony of chaos outdoors, and it was the sound that helped you not go insane with your own thoughts. You'd call him, you resolved. You'd call him. You hadn't gone a day without talking to Peter since you were twelve years old when the weekends had felt so long that Peter had saved up enough allowance to buy you a flip phone and you'd cried and held his hand for five hours.
You wouldn't have lasted much longer without his company, anyhow, when your window was being pushed open.
You winced bodily, crawling backwards on your bedsheets to push against the headboard.
"Sorry, I'm sorry. Don't be scared," Peter pleaded, voice slightly muffled by the Spider-Man mask. He pulled it off quickly, and then slumped against your bedroom wall.
"What the fuck," you said, dropping your hands in your lap, "Spider-Man's a burglar now?"
"Breaking and entering – I haven't stolen anything. And only on weekends."
His joke made you laugh, which in turn made you feel guilty.
"Pete, I'm sorry. Really sorry. I know I wasn't as excited for you as I should've been," you said softly.
Peter made a sound like you'd poked him, "That's alright," he said hurriedly, "that's just fine. I don't care."
You frowned, a little hurt. "You don't care?"
"Mind!" he corrected, gasping. "I don't mind."
You traced the gloves of his suit, one pressed tight to his side, and the fabric was all dark and wet and, "Peter, what's that?"
"Don't be scared," he said again, looking between you and the dripping wound, "I got stabbed."
"Stabbed!"
"Quite badly!" he said, tone echoing your own.
You crawled down the length of your bed and threw yourself at his side, trying to pull his hand away.
"Not a good idea, bub."
"What?"
"It's a pretty big gash."
"Gash!"
"Bub," Peter said, voice steady despite his injury, "stay calm. Everything will be okay. I need a - a towel, or anything to put pressure on it while it heals. Okay? Can you do that for me?"
"Right," you spun away from him and then spun back, "you're okay?"
"I won't die in the 30 seconds it takes you to find a towel."
You weren't so sure but you did as he asked and retrieved a clean towel for him to push against his abdomen. He hissed as he did it.
"You need to go to the emergency room," you told him, pressing your hand over his bloody one.
"I only need stitches."
"Only!"
"It's fine." He was looking at you strangely again, like he did that day in the stairwell.
"What if something important got all knifed?" you exclaimed.
He grabbed a hold of your face with a bloody glove, wincing as he did it. You could feel your heart beating out of your chest and your breaths were coming painfully quick. Held still, he looked from one eye to the other and didn't smile, didn't frown, just looked. You realised he was breathing purposefully and made to copy him.
"I'm sorry for coming here. Your place was closer and it's worse than usual, but. It isn't fatal. It isn't an emergency. I need a first aid kit and I'll be fine."
He was nodding as he said it. You copied him, huffing big exhales through your nose.
"How often does this happen?" you asked, stressed.
"Not a lot. Usually with much smaller knives."
You blew hair out of your face and marched into your bathroom for your first aid kit and the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, staining the doorway with blood as you pushed past it.
Peter sat heavily on your floor. You had a sneaking suspicion he was lying about how serious the wound was, as he'd begun to sweat badly. He pulled the gloves off of one hand with his teeth and then pressed his naked hand to the towel to replace the first and did the same, his blood staining his mouth red-pink, like kool-aid.
He looked up at you worriedly. "I got blood on your face."
"Should see yourself," you murmured, kneeling down. You helped him out of the suit's top half, revealing his chiseled chest and torso, his wound lazily sobbing blood. You pressed the towel back to his body and blinked.
"It's slower now," Peter said.
"And if it doesn't stop bleeding?"
"It will."
It did. Peter watched your pour peroxide on his stab wound and let you thread the needle for stitches, but when you moved to assess the cut he stopped you, putting a red hand over yours.
"I can do it."
You inhaled.
"I'm glad. I don't think I have the stomach for it."
"You don't have to watch if it's too much."
Even though he needed two hands and you didn't want to annoy him you still found a way to be close to him, digging your fingers into his thigh. He didn't complain though you knew your grip would've been bruising on anyone else.
You noticed his sharp inhales and knew when he was pulling the stitches tight. Once he'd finished he sort of deflated, clipping the string short and putting the stitching needle back in the plastic case.
Your knees ached from kneeling at his side.
He placed his hand over the bloody side of your face. Your skin burned under his touch. You wavered in that impenetrable bubble of silence for minutes, savouring the feel of his skin on yours, the drag of his thumb against your face.
"M'sorry. For keeping it a secret."
You leaned into his hand more, intending for it to serve as a you're forgiven. You worried if you opened your eyes you'd cry.
"But," he murmured, "I'm not the only one keeping secrets. Am I, sweetheart?"
"I thought maybe you knew," you whispered. There was no reason for it, nobody was around to hear it, but something about secrets demanded whispering.
"I think maybe I did," he said back, thumb moving over your cheek. You peaked at him out of one eye, pins and needles picking at your skin.
"You did?"
"Told you - I know everything."
You laughed and dropped your chin, looking at him from under your lashes, feeling humiliated. "You're full of it, Parker."
He pulled your chin up with his index finger.
"You love me," he said, more fact than question.
"Only since we were 6 years old."
"Watch my stitches," he advised, leaning in.
You squeaked, startled, "What are you doing?"
"No more space. Is that… okay?"
"What, just like that?" you asked, and then kicked yourself. He was trying to kiss you and you were trying your hardest to persuade him not to? Imbecile.
Peter traced the line of your half smile with his index finger. It was so gentle you almost forgot you were both covered in blood.
"We're in love, aren't we?" he asked, smiling softly. "What else do you do?"
You were at once overcome with affection for his worn, tired face, his bleeding body. You did as he said and watched for his stitches, pressing your hand against the space in the middle of his chest and leaned down.
You stopped above his mouth.
"You love me?" you asked. Not because you didn't know but because you were too selfish to wait.
"I love you. N'now I'm all out of secrets," he mumbled, darting upwards to catch your lips in a chaste kiss.
The pressure of his mouth on yours was familiar enough to leave you feeling blindsided and full of shocks, hand trembling over his heart. Peter tilted his head to open your mouth slowly and you moved your hand to his neck, anchoring yourself to his skin.
You broke the kiss, pushing your forehead gently against his chin. "You taste like blood."
He laughed hard enough to hurt, clutching his side.
"Kiss me anyway?" he asked you.
How could you deny him?
<3
thanks so much for reading
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"I thought I was safe in all your fantasies?" you mumble, smiling to yourself.
"I'm fighting them off for my own sake. I don't like to share, and every guy in New York wants a piece of you."
summary you notice something about spider-man during a violent villain showdown, then you have to save his life. [5.4k]
warnings canon typical violence, bleeding, swearing, fluff, angst, hospitals, mutual pining, idiots in love, fem!reader, she/her pronouns used for reader
~
Crammed into the same subway seat, you can safely say Peter Parker smells really, really nice. You're trying to work out what it is without asking. You're almost sure it's regular Old Spice but you just can't pin it. He's chatting about college, you're doing your best to listen. You've slowly turned in your seat enough to breathe him in rather than the rest of the subway and you keep getting distracted by it.
You fail to answer properly one too many times and his eyebrows are climbing.
"Sorry," you mutter. "Sorry, I'm listening."
"What's the matter?" he asks, and now your faces are so close you can see the light brown flecks bordering his pupil, can see how they slowly, slowly dilate.
You look at the space between his eyebrows and hope you don't look like a total freak.
"Nothing's the matter."
"Are you cold?" he asks, already weaselling his arm away from where it's crushed between you to set over your shoulder.
"A little," you say. You're lying, the subway is a furnace and you're wearing your winter coat. Anything for this extra closeness.
"Oh, woah!" he says, leaning in closer to your neck. You still, feeling a bead of sweat on your brow.
"What?" you ask, alarmed.
"Have you worn these before? They're very pretty," he says earnestly. You realise he's talking about your earrings, drop earrings with tiny, crystalline white flowers at the bottom. Each flower is made of four opal-like petals.
"I only just got 'em," you tell him. He smiles and looks back up into your face.
You feel your makeup, intricately done, shimmer white in the corners of your eyes and peony pink lip tint, melting away under his stare. You're more done up than usual and he can probably tell. You're not sure whether you want him to notice or not.
"They suit you," he says. You press your lips together to stop from smiling too hard and he chuckles.
You're seconds away from saying something stupid when the tanoy announces your stop and Peter's standing, so tall and so big, he takes up your whole point of view.
He's dressed well, dark jeans, a sweatshirt, a rugged brown jacket with the collar peaking up like a movie star. You stand, eyes at his mouth, and set about fixing it, touch firm but shy as you round his neck, fingers dusted by the soft strands of mousy brown hair at the back of his neck.
"There you go, Elvis."
"Thank you, thank you ver' much," he says, a dramatic and awful rendition of Elvis' voice.
It's his worst imitation to date and you laugh so loud you slap a hand over your mouth, bracelets slipping under your sleeves and jingling. You're so bedecked in shiny jewellery you ring when you walk like a belled house cat. He gets a look in his eyes, teasing, preying on your moment of weakness.
"Found that funny, did you?" he asks, voice smooth and smothered by the rattling carriage.
You nod, index finger pressed over your lips as the last of your giggles fade. He looks like he might say something, his lips parting, but the train slows and you're tasked with needling between the other passengers. Peter's a natural, out the doors and into the subway station like he was born wading through a New York crowd. You're less adept, too polite to push and too shy to say excuse me. Peter pauses two strides ahead when you're not at his side and shuffles back, reaching for your hand.
He pulls you out through the rush hour congregation and up, up, into the busy street that is Queens Boulevard. You've no clue why he gets off when you do; his walk home from your apartment is close to an hour and he must abhor it.
His hand is warm and big in yours. You squeeze his fingers.
"Pete," you say, trying to catch his attention.
He's peeking around the street like he's looking for something. He looks at you, looks at your hands, drops them.
"Why do you get off with me?" you ask him. He smirks and begins to speak when you correct yourself. "The subway! Why do you get on my line at all? You should be taking the 71."
He shrugs his shoulders. "And have you on the subway by yourself?"
"Hundreds of thousands of people do it every day."
He starts in the direction of your apartment building, purposefully dodging your point. "I'd rather spend the extra time walking than have something bad happen to you."
"How do you know something bad won't happen to you?" you ask pointedly.
He laughs like it's the funniest thing you could have said and that makes you feel both furious and dejected. You're not used to condescension from him. He sees your expression and jumps in to correct it.
"You're right, you're right: something bad could happen to me. But you gotta know I'd let it happen to me before I'd let anything happen to you."
It's not a compliment but it feels like one. It's awful, truly, that he'd put his own safety before yours, but it's also sweet enough to make your cheeks heat and your heart rate climb. A stellar feeling, to know he cares so much.
"I don't want you to get hurt protecting me," you say, sighing. "I mean, if somebody mugged us? I am genuinely scared of the stunt you'd pull."
You whisper around a woman bent over a parked pram trying to soothe a whimpering baby and end up with your left side to the road. Peter quickly drops back and encourages you over so he's in between you and the road. It's exactly the kind of stunt you're talking about — in what world could he stop a car from hitting you? It makes you giggle, a hint of derision hiding behind it.
He raises his eyebrows. "What kind of stunt? Do you think about this often? Am I jacked in your fantasy?"
"What, like in real life, you mean?" You're not even flirting, it's a certified fact, Peter Parker is a lean pillar of shifting muscle, even under his clothes. The broadness of his shoulders alone is enough to evidence his bulk.
"Totally missing the point. Tell me more about your fantasy, my damsel."
You're in half a mind to reach out and slap him upside the head.
"I'm no damsel."
"Pretty as one."
You glare at him, though the effect is likely lost from how happy your smile is.
"It's not a fantasy, and I don't think about it. Why, do you think about saving me?"
"No. In my fantasy you're always safe, likely living somewhere super peaceful like Norway or Switzerland-"
"New Zealand," you interject, nodding seriously.
"-and you glare at me way, way less," he says, nudging you with his elbow. Your jewellery clinks.
"That's unrealistic, then." You stutter before a big puddle and Peter grabs your arm before you can really think about it, helping you across. Your sneakers live to die another day.
"You're also a good cook, so yeah, it's very unrealistic." You glare at him. He smiles. "Good to see we're still in the real world."
"If that's your attitude I won't invite you up for coffee," you say.
He wrinkles his nose. "For coffee? What decade is this?"
"And what do you want instead?"
He rounds a corner. You stand at the opening of the last alleyway, a shortcut down into your own street. There's a group of people at the other end.
He pulls you into his side without saying a word and you're grateful for it as you start down the alley. The group looks up, one man sneers, another mutters something you can't hear. Peter has an awfully fierce look on his face with his eyebrows pinched together and his eyes downturned. It's gone as quick as it came - you come out the alleyway unscathed. His hold on you drops.
In the apartment, he still hadn't decided what he wants, laid out on your scratched up leather sofa with your TV remote in hand. You're honestly surprised he's still here.
"Nowhere to be tonight?" you ask him, fighting a losing battle with a saucepan of pasta in the kitchenette.
He sits up just enough to look at you over the back of the sofa and grins. "When do I ever have anywhere to be?"
"Are you kidding? You're always out somewhere. And out of breath when I call. You're not, like, in a gang, are you?" you ask, mostly joking.
"No, bub, I'm not in a gang. You know what I'm like, I waste a few hours skating and then I fall asleep at my desk."
You turn off the hob, poking at the sorry excuse for mac and cheese you’ve thrown together.
"Interesting texture," he says, once you've handed him a steaming bowl topped with extra cheese and breadcrumbs like he likes.
"I'm sorry," you say, tucking your hair behind your ears.
You've swapped your coat for a vest top with lacey edges and stayed in your jeans for decency's sake, though you're wondering if the right way to go is to just stand there in your underwear until he gets the message (if he wants to get that particular message).
"Don't be," he says, and he's serious. "One day I'll teach you how to simmer things without burning the bottom and it'll be over for everyone."
"Yes, I'm sure my ability to make pasta is really what's make-or-breaking me for people."
"Exactly. As soon as your fettuccine is carbon free I'll be on my knees," he jokes with you. The tiniest tip of his tongue pokes out as he channel surfs, concentrating hard.
"You said it was good, last time!"
His shoulders rise to his ears and he laughs, voice higher than usual as he says, "What?"
"Parker, I'm seriously getting to my wits end with you."
"Don't be like that," he says, spearing an elbow on his fork and reaching out to poke it. When it's proven to be soft he eats in and smiles. "You've got the flavours down, babe."
"It's Kraft's mac and cheese! There's nothing to get down!"
He raises his hands in a peaceable surrender. "Alright, alright. I'm sorry. Forgive me, won't you? Please?"
You ignore him and turn to the TV, wondering if the burning on your neck throughout the evening when you're not looking is wishful thinking or if he's sneaking glances at you with the same frequency that you sneak your own.
-
On his knees, he says? Fine, if you have to make one perfect fucking fettuccine alfredo to get him to like you back, that's easy. That's child's play.
You wake up early on a Saturday morning and walk to your nearest local greengrocer for fresh parsley and then to the slightly bigger grocery store for fettuccine, double cream, butter and parmesan. You find yourself in the cosmetics aisle again and kick yourself for making such a fuss. You put down a bottle, shaking your head, and watch as the toner inside ripples. You pause, squinting, and then panic as the bottles begin to vibrate, the shelves rattle, and you can feel a pounding vibration in your feet.
You duck down just as the glass window front burst open, shards of glass raining down like hail stones in a fierce wind. You throw your arms up over your face and crouch, scared the shelves will collapse atop you and scared worse that you'll get cut. You feel a piece of glass flick past your arm and gasp. When you look down, a cut stretches from your wrist to your forearm, having sheared your blouse open.
The fabric is quickly saturated. You drop your groceries and watch as they roll over glass. A horrible screeching sound echoes and you hide behind a display housing a new mascara, trying to find the source of the sound.
Screams ring. Sobbing bounces between the aisles. A light is flickering and a sprinkler or water pipe has been maimed, water collecting in a seeping puddle. In the flickering lights, emergency red, it almost looks like blood.
You gasp as you grasp your own wrist, pressing the saturated fabric into the wound like it might help. You pull your sleeve down to assess the wound and get distracted at a commotion.
"It's Spider-Man!" someone shouts.
You let your shoulders relax. The masked vigilante who'd been keeping New York safe for years now was here. Whatever was happening - an earthquake? - Spider-Man could help.
"It's Spider-Man," someone else calls. The tenor of their voice sends shivers down your spine.
You propel yourself backwards again, away from the front of the store. A huge groaning and whirring of machinery sounds, and the voice begins talking again, ragged and booming through the aisles.
"Hiding, hiding," the voice says. "The incy wincy spider. I'm afraid this might be a hidey-hole you can't climb out of."
You steel your nerves and quickly dart to the next aisle. The glass hasn't corrupted the ground here. You crawl along quietly to the end of the aisle and peer through the shelves. A hulking machine stands in what was once the doorway of the store and is now a great big gaping maw with glass shards and metal frames for teeth. It looks as if it's been pierced by a weight. You follow the trajectory, and there's a car, or what was once a car, smashed into the main display area of the store. Towers of Easter eggs and cuddly toys and paper towels, anything on special, have been knocked clean over. Stuffing and glass scattered over the floor, swimming in a puddle of water. The car is smashed completely at its front.
And there, underneath the car, is Spider-Man.
You gasp so loudly you scare yourself, throwing your hand over your mouth and your entire body backwards.
The car is slowly, slowly lifted up. A blur of red and blue climbs out.
You've seen Spider-Man have cars thrown at him. You've seen him swing into a burning building. You've seen him electrocuted and thrown up into the air like a baseball and you've seen him hit by the subsequent swing.
You haven't seen him bleeding out. That's definitely new.
As soon as he's out from under the car he's trying to get onto his feet and failing. The roaring machine can't fit in the building and for a moment he's safe, but the taunting man is furious.
"I'll rip this building open, you insect! Don't think I won't!" And then, to prove his point, a terrible ripping sound, a pitching of concrete. Things start to rain from above.
Spider-Man is lying on the ground on one elbow, hands pressed to the gash in his side. It's not the only cut. His thigh sobs blood as well, a crimson line of it streaking over the floor as he drags himself backwards. You can hear children screaming, a hissing, the whirring machine, a million things, but the panting, the injured panting of Spider-Man, is what pricks your ears.
That's Peter Parker. That's your Peter Parker.
He's crying, panicked weeping, and you've only heard it once before over the phone, but you can't forget that, and you won't. Your Peter Parker is in the Spider-Man suit bleeding out while you lie meters away huddled in fear.
The leg of the villain's machine creaks, stomps. The cookware begins tumbling from its shelves as though an aftershock has ripped through the store. You cry out as a boxed pressure cooker topples and you catch it haphazardly before it can hit you, tossing it away, blood everywhere, marring the silver of your bracelets and your skin and the floor around you.
When you look back Spider-Man is staring straight at you.
"Peter," you whine under your breath, scared, so scared, and it's too quiet for anyone to hear but he does, you know it, his shoulders tighten and he's pushing on to his feet and moving towards you quickly, a trail of bloody footsteps behind him.
He hooks his hands under your armpits and drags you up, past aisles of smashed baby food and exploded toiletries, hissing deodorant bottles and soaked clothing and then you're sliding into a door of the storeroom. The room is already populated by other store goers, most crying, none seemingly injured.
"Somebody, can somebody come and take care of her?" he asks the room, met with silence. He looks you up and down, his hand tight around your wrist. "It's not bad. It's bad, but it's not bad. It can, it-"
"Pe-" you clear your throat. "Spider-Man," you say quietly. "You can't go back out. Your leg- it's fucked," you say uselessly, your teeth beginning to chatter.
"He'll tear the store open."
"He'll tear you open."
"Why are you here?" he asks, tone more desperate than you've ever heard.
Then you really start to cry. "I was gonna make fettuccine alfredo," you say, feeling hot tears bubble out of you. You sob in panic and tear your arm out of his grip. The walls are shaking and somebody outside of the room is screaming, barrelling cries. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I have to go," he says.
"You can barely walk!"
"I have to go," he says again. "Stay here."
"I'm not staying here if you're leaving."
"Stay here!" he shouts at you. You flinch and the both of you stand in a second of silence.
"Something bad is going to happen to you," you say, shuddering.
"Nothing bad is going to happen to me, Y/N," and his saying your name is the full confirmation, the admittance; it's your Peter.
He runs out.
"Spider-Man!"
It'll happen to me before it happens to you, you think, and run out after him. You're no Spider-Man, you're slow and bleeding and you can't leap over rubble, and he's at the front and out into the street by the time you're in the aisles. You pick over your basket, your bag, picking up your discarded cell phone to slip it into your bra as you go.
The street has been cordoned off quickly, a rush job, police cruisers and flashing lights and a fire engine to one side. You climb out of the hole, slip into the depression made by the machine's hulking left leg and climb out again. There are more guns than you've ever seen pointed at the villain, and Spider-Man is held up in his grasp.
You gasp and scramble out of the hole, pulling yourself up. Your arm burns white fire as you climb and stumble onto the asphalt.
Peter escapes his hold.
You're not superpowered. You're not strong. You're not particularly smart. You need to be resourceful. You need to save Peter.
The machine is huge. This is obvious. Two fat legs on a steel plate body with a glass bubble hood. Peter flips up, webs a building, bounces back. He's trying to smash the glass, you realise, but his leg is too injured to carry the force of it.
You scour the street. He needs to smash the glass and he's too busy fending off the machine's rubber hose arms to think about it. He's running out of time, spins sluggish, dives a whisper too slow. He keeps getting caught up in the arms and squirming out.
You flicker between him and your surroundings, your heart in your mouth.
There, a traffic sign, bent and almost broken. You grab at it with your slippery hands and pull. Your fingers slide, painting half dry streaks of pink over the silver pole.
You rub your hands in your sweatshirt and try again, pushing your whole weight on the pole, heaving back and forth. It snaps and you fall forward, clipping your chin on the ground, arms squished underneath your body. It hurts.
You roll off of the sign and look up into the sky, breathing hard, tucking your bleeding arm to your chest. The sky moves in circles, birds fly overhead. There's a helicopter humming, quiet as a dragonfly. The sirens are dulled, the villain's machine falls silent. All you can hear is the ringing in your ears and your heartbeat in your chest. The floor vibrates beneath you, almost soothing.
Then it comes back into focus. A million sounds, a million hurts.
You gasp and sit up, back aching. Peter is on top of the opposite building, arching over the arms, rolling like a wave. They're undeniably slow but pack enough force to fling him out if they catch him - one hits his legs from under him and he careens down into the ground towards you, snowballing the asphalt underneath him. A meteorite striking the earth.
He lies unmoving in his body's crater.
"Spider-Man!" you scream, loud enough to make your own ears burn.
He doesn't stir.
"Spider-Man! Spider-Man! Spider-Man!" Everything in you wants to say Peter. Peter, Peter Parker. Everything in you is begging him to get up. "Get up right now!" you yell, almost hysterical, words sounding more like a joke than anything.
He finally snaps into full consciousness again. The machine crunches towards you both. You rise and drag the pole toward him, the sign still attached to the top. Peter rolls on to his side and peels up the mask, blood pumping down his face. He dry heaves.
Your back burns as you drag the sign. It leaves a while line in the asphalt where it grinds, scratching a deep, scathing line.
You drop it a foot from him and fall to your knees, taking his face into your hands.
"Are you alright? You need to get up, can you get up? Peter, can you get up?"
He hisses, the sound deeply etched with pain.
"I'm okay. Are you okay?"
"I got you a sharp," you say.
He frowns and his head tilts up as he gazes over your shoulder. His lips press together in understanding. Helicopter blades whir from above as they close in and a crowd of people roar on either side of the barricade in warning while the villain grows nearer and nearer.
"I told you to stay there," he says, furious, voice speckled with pain and exhaustion.
"I'm no damsel, remember?" you ask, half false cheer and half terror, wiping blood from his nostrils, from his lips, to tuck the mask back down to cover his face.
He rises to his feet and pulls you up by your shoulders, dusting you down pointlessly, tucking your hair behind your ears. Your flower drop earrings wobble. "You're pretty as one," he says, masked hand touching your bleeding chin for a split second, then his hands grab your face tight enough to hurt, each word careful. "I'm gonna beat the bad guy. You need to run, as fast as you can, towards the barricade. Run now, Y/N." He turns you around and pushes. You look back and watch as he picks up the broken sign, shoulders set.
You run on numb legs. The ground trembles beneath you. Your legs burn and rubble sprays and a police officer is screaming at you, arms pulling you over the metal barricade and into a crowd of people. Somebody ushers you to sit on the ground. You gasp fast and shallow and cover your eyes with your hands. The crowd shouts and you try to stand. You falter. You fall.
-
Peter's sleeping. There's not a single drop of blood to be found on him, no rusty scabs, no bruises. He looks angelic if a bit tired, hands wrapped around your hand and face pressed into the white, pristine sheets of your bed. He's angled away from your bandage.
The other arm is cannula'd, you discover, when you try and probe your stiff chin. The IV pulls, a sharp pain. You wince and drop your hand. They're obviously not giving you painkillers in the drip.
You squint at the IV suspiciously. What the fuck is it for? And as you remember – the sounds, the pain, the fear – your heart climbs.
Peter flinched awake and blinks hard. "Y/N," he says. "Hey, hey, what's the matter?" he asks.
You shake your hand. His chair scrapes across the floor as he stands, hands skipping over your bandage to run over your arms. You've been handled into a pair of pajamas, ones you've never seen before. Peter pushes his fingers under the short sleeve and squeezes your shoulder lightly. "You're okay, you're okay. Try and calm down."
You frown at him and again try to move the wrong arm. You wince as it tugs.
"Do I have to have that?"
"I'm not sure. It's fluids."
You nod and pull the cannula clean out of your own hand. Peter cringes and takes your hand, pressing his clean sleeve to the bubble of blood that trickles out. "Oh, sweetheart," he murmurs.
"Are you okay?" you ask him.
He raises his chin defensively. "Am I okay? Which one of us is in the hospital right now?" You frown, your eyes burn and he sighs. "Sorry."
You sniffle.
"I'm sorry," he repeats, "so sorry. For everything."
You sniffle again and he hangs his head, tending to your bleeding hand like it's fatal.
"If you don't want to see me anymore, I get that."
You bite your tongue between your teeth and exhale hard. It hurts as you move, shuffling over to the far side of the bed. It's obvious what you're asking. Peter climbs into the bed and lies next to you, and you both stare up at the hospital ceiling without talking. It's quieter here, no screaming, no crying. There's only his breathing and yours.
His shoulder is warm next to yours.
"Whose clothes are these?" you ask him.
"They're yours."
"Never seen them before," you croak.
"I got them for you. From Nordstrom."
"You hate Nordstrom."
"It was closer than your apartment. And I couldn't get in anyhow, and I really needed you to have clean clothes, and-" he cut himself off, pitch rising.
"Thank you, Peter."
You lie in silence again.
You want to ask him if he won, but you know he'd be dead if he lost. You want to ask him if he's healed but you know he is. You want to ask him how he's feeling and the words stay tucked neatly behind your teeth.
"I thought you might die," you say eventually.
His breath catches in his throat. He turns his head and you turn yours at the sound of his movement, the crisp crunch of hospital linen under his shifting.
"You saved me," he said.
"I didn't."
"You did. There's… there's videos." He closes his eyes. He's pale. Whether it's the awful gray New York morning light or the blanching white of the hospital room or his bone deep exhaustion, you can't say.
"Young woman saves Spider-Man, City rejoices."
You frown at him.
"Woman rouses our masked vigilante in dire straits and saves hundreds."
"What?"
"Spider-Man owes his latest showdown victory to unnamed woman, more on page 3."
"Peter, what are you talking about?"
"That's what the newspapers are saying."
You close your eyes and try to cope with what he's telling you. His knuckles rub up your thigh, searching for your hand, your injured arm. He pulls your arm onto his abdomen like he's cradling it and let's his body push up against yours.
"They're wrong."
"How'd you figure?" he asks.
"I didn't save Spider-Man. I wasn't worried about him."
"You did, sweetheart," he says, lips by your hair. He puts his hand on your face, careful of your stitched up chin, fingers over your cheekbone. His hand is all encompassing, a comfort, as he turns you to face him.
"It's Peter Parker I was looking out for," you say. You're tired and thirsty and your head and arm are both pounding at the same time, a painful pulse, and you know your words are half coherent at best. You hope he knows what you mean.
"I'm so angry at you," he whispers, an admission. "I'm so angry. I told you to stay there and you didn't listen and you could have died."
"That's a little rich, don't you think? I've watched you almost die on TV a thousand times," you say lightly.
He takes his hand back from your jaw to scrub over his face and looks up at the ceiling. You trace his angry brow with your eyes, his frown.
"I know I lied to you," he says.
"You did."
"But I did it so something like this wouldn't happen. So you would be safe," he says, agitated.
You blink the white spots out of your vision and sigh morosely. An orderly bustles past the open door with a trolley of things. A fly charts a course around the room for the hundredth time. You want him to cuddle you, and you want to sleep, but you know he won't rest until he says what he needs to.
"And I can't work it out."
"What out?" you ask hoarsely.
"How long have you known? I never would've guessed in a hundred years that you knew."
"I didn't know," you say honestly.
"What?"
"I didn't know. That you're-" you whisper the next bit, "Spider-Man."
"Then how did you know it was me, in the store?"
You sigh, pained, and he rushes to shush you, pulling you onto his chest. You refuse to protest even though everything aches dully, curling your legs, though you can't hug him because he's holding your cut arm hostage. You don't mind, content as his arm comes around you to pull you flush.
"You were crying. I knew it was you. I know what you sound like," you continue to whisper, feeling like this is a secret. "You sounded scared and… and hurt. I don't think I could forget how you sound when you're scared."
"I was terrified," he admits, whispering back.
You don't know what to say to that. You were terrified too.
"Do I look cute? On the news?" you ask.
He hums, tightening his arm around your body, and kisses you on the forehead. The place where his lips touch feels warm for a long, long time. His hand draws lazy circles into your vest top.
"Cute? Nah." You frown in disappointment. He chuckles, the vibrations of it moving in your neck. "You looked beautiful. Beautiful and formidable, really, blood and all. I'll be fighting guys off left, right and centre."
"I thought I was safe in all your fantasies?" you mumble, smiling to yourself.
"I'm fighting them off for my own sake. I don't like to share, and every guy in New York wants a piece of you."
You giggle, looking up at him with bright eyes as best as you can manage with one arm out of action. He helps you up onto his front, arm firm and strong at your back, until you’re chest to chest, supporting yourself with one shaky forearm.
He pushes the hair out of your face. "I found your earring," he says.
"I was missing one?"
"For a little while."
You let your head rest on his sternum and sigh a breath of relief. "So everything worked out, then."
"Everything worked out," he agrees, bringing his hand up to the back of your head.
"Do I still need to learn how to make fettuccine alfredo for you to like me back?" you murmur into his chest.
"No, baby," he says softly, carding through your hair with all tenderness. The word baby is so meltingly warm you feel it run over you in a wave. "I think my fondness for you can transcend even your inability to make the most simple pasta dish in all of human history," he says wryly, two parts dry and two parts loving.
"Awesome," you say, and pass out to the sensation of his lips pressed chastely to the top of your head.
<3
Drunk! Peter and he’s all over reader telling her how he wants to marry her and being handsy lol
hi I hope this okay <3
"I like gardenias," Peter declares, drunk as a skunk and climbing all over you.
You're never letting him go out with his friends again, you decide, brushing the hair out of your sloshed boyfriend's eyes. "Me too," you say.
"Yeah?" he looks exceedingly pleased by this, more pleased than he has any reason to be. He smells like wine coolers.
"Sure. They're pretty."
"And lily of the valley," he adds. "Sweatpeas, jasmine. Oh! Astilbe."
"You've lost me," you say.
Peter wrinkles his nose and works his way further still into your lap, hands at your waist. You roll your eyes at his face, tucked against your chest, very obvious in its position.
"That's fair. We'll ditch the astilbe. Astrantia instead?"
"Baby, what is an astrantia?" you ask, fingers in his hair.
Each time you stroke his hair back from his face his eyes close, like a puppy. It's adorable. He might be drunk and a little messy right now, but he's still your boy. You'd die for this idiot.
"A flower?" he asks, squinting up at you. "I'm talking about a bouquet."
"Oh," you say.
You're distracted from asking why he's discussing bouquets with you at 2AM on the living room sofa when you should both be sleeping by his hands catching yours where it cards through his hair.
He sits up to kiss your fingers, your wrist, small pecks that turn open mouthed that turn nibbling, little wet nips running a course to the sleeve of your T-shirt. He grumbles at being stopped short. You're giggling quietly, endeared and adorned by his affections; you feel like the prettiest girl on earth, covered in his tiny kisses.
"Red velvet?" he asks suddenly, encouraging you to lie back.
"Are you hungry?" you ask, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.
"What? No." He sounds frustrated. "Do you like red velvet?"
"Why are you asking?"
"For the cake," he says, as if this is obvious. You realise Peter is having a conversation without you and elect to ignore his drunken woes, pulling his face down so you can hug him against your shoulder.
"Maybe we should go to bed, hot stuff."
"Are you kidding? We have so many decisions to make."
"They can definitely wait until the morning, baby," you say warmly.
He starts running his hands over your chest, your arm, your chest again. He doesn't touch anywhere important without asking, a gentleman even now, but the longing in his eyes makes you wish he would sober up for proper kisses.
"They can't wait," he insists. "These are so important. We need to talk about them."
You sigh dramatically, feeling very sorry for yourself, long suffering and tired. "Can we talk about them in bed, Peter?"
"No, you'll distract me."
"I'll be too busy sleeping." He pouts. You burst into laughter. "Babe! It's so late, I waited up for you so we could fall asleep together and you waylaid me with hickeys and a game of twenty questions!" You plead your case.
It's Peter's turn to sigh, though his is more of an indignant groan. "This isn't twenty questions, woman!" You raise your eyebrows, dying of laughter on the inside, and he amends, "My beloved. It's not twenty questions."
"What is it, then?"
He smirks at you, hands on either side of you and his knee between your thighs. You suddenly remember how tall he is and how stern he can be when he's not obliterated by cheap booze.
He leans down to whisper in your ear. "I'm gonna marry you."
"Get off of me," you say, rolling your eyes.
"I'm gonna marry the fuck out of you, and then I'm gonna fuck the marry out of you, and we're gonna have centerpieces made up of a thousand white gardenias and asta- astrav- astantrias!"
"And this has to happen tonight?" you ask, playing along, a feeling of white hot and reverential love blossoming from the centre of your chest.
"If you don't mind!" he almost shouts.
"I want vanilla cake," you say steadily, quietly, reaching your hands up to pinch his red cheeks.
His eyes are wide but he's calmer now he's realised you're on his side. "Good choice," he says, blinking. "What frosting? Buttercream, right? Fondant is for losers."
You giggle until you can't breathe. He drops his head down into your chest, hugs your ribs so tight it aches. You can feel his smile even through your sleep shirt.
Things between you and Peter change with the seasons. [17k]
c: friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort, loneliness, peter parker isn’t good at hiding his alter ego, fluff, first kisses, mutual pining, loved-up epilogue, mention of self-harm with no graphic imagery
｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ
Fall
Peter Parker is a resting place for overworked eyes, like warm topaz nestled against a blue-cold city. He waits on you with his eyes to the screen of his phone, clicking the power button repetitively. A nervous tic.
You close the heavy door of your apartment building. His head stays still, yet he’s heard the sound of it settling, evidence in his calmed hand.
“Good morning!” You pull your coat on quickly. “Sorry.”
“Good morning,” he says, offering a sleep-logged smile. “Should we go?”
You follow Peter out of the cul-de-sac and into the street as he drops his phone into a deep pocket. To his credit, he doesn’t check it while you walk, and only glances at it when you’re taking your coat off in the heat of your favourite cafe: The Moroccan Mode glows around you, fog kissing the windows, condensation running down the inner lengths of it in beads. You murmur something to do with the odd fog and Peter tells you about water vapour. When it rains tonight, he says it’ll be warm water that falls.
He spreads his textbook, notebook, and rinky-dink laptop out across the table while you order drinks. Peter has the same thing every visit, a decaf americano, in a wide brim mug with the pink-petal saucer. You put it down on his textbook only because that’s where he would put it himself, and you both get to work.
As Peter helps you study, you note the simplicity of another normal day, and can’t help wondering what it is that’s missing. Something is, something Peter won’t tell you, the absence of a truth hanging over your heads. You ask him if he wants to get dinner and he says no, he’s busy. You ask him to see a movie on Friday night and he wishes he could.
Peter misses you. When he tells you, you believe him. “I wish I had more time,” he says.
“It’s fine,” you say, “you can’t help it.”
“We’ll do something next weekend,” he says. The lie slips out easily.
To Peter it isn’t a lie. In his head, he’ll find the time for you again, and you’ll be friends like you used to be.
You press the end of your pencil into your cheek, the dark roast, white paper and condensation like grey noise. This time last year, the air had been thick for days with fog you could cut. He took you on a trip to Manhattan, less than an hour from your red-brick neighbourhood, and you spent the day in a hotel pool throwing great cupfuls of water at each other. The fog was gone just fifteen miles away from home but the warm air stayed. When it rained it was sudden, strange, spit-warm splashes of it hammering the tops of your heads, your cheeks as you tipped your faces back to spy the dark clouds.
Peter had swam the short distance to you and held your shoulders. You remember feeling like your whole life was there, somewhere you’d never been before, the sharp edges of cracked pool tile just under your feet.
You peek over the top of your laptop screen and wonder if Peter ever thinks of that trip.
He feels you watching and meets your eyes. “I have to tell you something,” he says, smiling shyly.
“Sure.”
“I signed us up for that club.”
“Epigenetics?”
“Molecular medicine,” he says.
The nice thing about fog is that it gives a feeling of lateness. It’s still morning, barely ten, but it feels like the early evening. It’s gentle on the eyes, colouring the whole room with a sconced shine. You reach for Peter’s bag and sort through his jumble of possessions —stick deodorant, loose-leaf paper, a bodega’s worth of protein bars— and grab his camera.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m cataloguing the moment you ruined our lives,” you say, aiming the camera at his chin, squinting through the viewfinder.
“Technically, I signed us up a few days ago,” he says.
You snap his photo as his mouth closes around ‘ago’, keeping his half-laugh stuck on his lips. “Semantics,” you murmur. “And molecular medicine club, this has nothing to do with the estranged Gwen Stacy?”
“It has nothing to do with her. And you like molecular medicine.”
“I like oncology,” you correct, which is a sub-genre at best, “and I have enough work without joining another club. Go by yourself.”
“I can’t go without you,” he says. Simple as that.
He knew you’d say yes when he signed you up. It’s why he didn’t ask. You’re already forgiven him for the slight of assumption.
“When is it?” you ask, smiling.
—
Molecular medicine club is fun. You and a handful of ESU nerds gather around a big table in a private study room for a few hours and read about the newer discoveries and top research, like regenerative science and now taboo Oscorp research. It’s boring, sometimes, but then Peter will lean into your side and make a joke to keep you going.
He looks at Gwen Stacy a lot. Slender, pale and freckled, with blonde hair framing a sweet face. Only when he thinks you’re not looking. Only when she isn’t either.
—
“Good morning,” you say.
Peter holds an umbrella over his head that he’s quick to share with you, and together you walk with heads craned down, the umbrella angled forward to fight the wind. Your outermost shoulder is wet when you reach the café, your other warm from being pressed against him. You shake the umbrella off outside the door and step onto a cushy, amber doormat to dry your sneakers. Peter stalks ahead and order the drinks, eager to get warm, so you look for a table. Your usual is full of businessmen drinking flat whites with briefcases at their legs. They laugh. You try to picture Peter in a suit: you’re still laughing when he finds you in the booth at the back.
“Tell the joke,” he says, slamming his coffee down. He’s careful with yours. He’s given you the pink petal saucer from the side next to the straws and wooden stirrers.
“I was thinking about you as a businessman.”
“And that’s funny?”
“When was the last time you wore a suit?”
Peter shakes his head. Claims he doesn’t know. Later, you’ll remember his Uncle Ben’s funeral and feel queasy with guilt, but you don’t remember yet. “When was the last time you wore one?” he asks. “I don’t laugh at you.”
“You’re always laughing at me, Parker.”
The cafe isn’t as warm today. It’s wet, grimy water footsteps tracking across the terracotta tile, streaks of grey water especially heavy near the counter, around it to the bathroom. There’s no fog but a sad rattle of rain, not enough to make noise against the windows, but enough to watch as it falls in lazy rivulets down the lengths of them.
Your face is chapped with the cold, cheeks quickly come to heat as your fingers curl around your mug. They tingle with newfound warmth. When you raise your mug to your lips, your hand hardly shakes.
“You okay?” Peter asks.
“Fine. Are you gonna help me with the math today?”
“Don’t think so. Did you ask nicely?”
“I did.” You’d called him last night. You would’ve just as happily submitted your homework poorly solved with the grade to prove it —you don’t want Peter’s help, you just wanted to see him.
Looking at him now, you remember why his distance had felt a little easier. The rain tangles in his hair, damp strands curling across his forehead, his eyes dark and outfitted by darker eyelashes. Peter has the looks of someone you’ve seen before, a classical set to his nose and eyes reminiscent of that fallen angel weeping behind his arm, his russet hair in fiery disarray. There was an anger to Peter after Ben died that you didn’t recognise, until it was Peter, changed forever and for the worse and it didn’t matter —he was grieving, he was terrified, who were you to tell him to be nice again— until it started to get better. You see less of your fallen, angry angel, no harsh brush strokes, no tears.
His eyes are still dark. Bruised often underneath, like he’s up late. If he is, it isn’t to talk to you.
You spend an afternoon working through your equations, pretending to understand until Peter explains them to death. His earphones fall out of his pocket and he says, “Here, I’ll show you a song.”
He walks you home. The song is dreary and sad. The man who sings is good. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over. It feels like Peter’s trying to tell you something —he isn’t, but it feels like wishing he would.
“You okay?” you ask before you can get to your street. A minute away, less.
“I’m fine, why?”
You let the uncomfortable shape of his earbud fall out of your ear, the climax of the song a rattle on his chest. “You look tired, that’s all. Are you sleeping?”
“I have too much to do.”
You just don’t get it. “Make sure you’re eating properly. Okay?”
His smile squeezes your heart. Soft, the closest you’ll ever get. “You know May,” he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders to give you a short hug, “she wouldn’t let me go hungry. Don’t worry about me.”
—
The dip into depression you take is predictable. You can’t help it. Peter being gone makes it worse.
You listen to love songs and take long walks through the city, even when it’s dark and you know it’s a bad idea. If anything bad happens Spider-Man could probably save me, you think. New York’s not-so-new vigilante keeps a close eye on things, especially the women. You can’t count how many times you’ve heard the same story. A man followed me home, saw me across the street, tried to get into my apartment, but Spider-Man saved me.
You’re not naive, you realise the danger of walking around without protection assuming some stranger in a mask will save you, but you need to get out of the house. It goes on for weeks.
You walk under streetlights and past stores with CCTV, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re not thinking. You feel sick and heavy and it’s fine, really, it’s okay, everything works out eventually. It’s not like it’s all because you miss Peter, it’s just a feeling. It’ll go away.
“You’re in deep thought,” a voice says, garnering a huge flinch from the depths of your stomach.
You turn around, turn back, and flinch again at the sight of a man a few paces ahead. Red shoulders and legs, black shining in a webbed lattice across his chest. “Oh,” you say, your heartbeat an uncomfortable plodding under your hand, “sorry.”
“Why are you sorry? I scared you.”
“I didn’t realise you were there.”
Spider-Man doesn’t come any closer. You take a few steps in his direction. You’ve never met before but you’d like to see him up close, and you aren’t scared. Not beyond the shock of his arrival.
“Can I walk you to where you’re going?” Spider-Man asks you. He’s humming energy, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot.
“How do I know you’re the real Spider-Man?”
After all, there are high definition videos of his suit on the news sometimes. You wouldn’t want to find out someone was capable of making a replica in the worst way possible.
You can’t be sure, but you think he might be smiling behind the mask, his arms moving back as though impressed at your questioning. “What do you need me to do to prove it?” he asks.
He speaks hushed. Rough and deep. “I don’t know. What’s Spider-Man exclusive?”
“I can show you the webs?”
You pull your handbag further up your arm. “Okay, sure. Shoot something.”
Spider-Man aims his hand at the streetlight across the way and shoots it. He makes a severing motion with his wrist to stop from getting pulled along by it, letting the web fall like an alien tendril from the bulb. The light it produces dims slightly. A chill rides your spine.
“Can I walk you now?” he asks.
“You don’t have more important things to do?” If the bitterness you’re feeling creeps into your tone unbidden, he doesn’t react.
“Nothing more important than you.”
You laugh despite yourself. “I’m going to Trader Joe’s.”
“Yellowstone Boulevard?”
“That’s the one…”
You fall into step beside him, and, awkwardly, begin to walk again. It’s a short walk. Trader Joe’s will still be open for hours despite the dark sky, and you’re in no hurry. “My friend, he likes the rolled tortilla chips they do, the chilli ones.”
“And you’re going just for him?” Spider-Man asks.
“Not really. I mean, yeah, but I was already going on a walk.”
“Do you always walk around by yourself? It’s late. It’s dangerous, you know, a beautiful girl like you,” he says, descending into an odd mixture of seriousness and teasing. His voice jumps and swoons to match.
“I like walking,” you say.
Spider-Man walking is a weird thing to see. On the news, he’s running, swinging, or flying through the air untethered. You’re having trouble acquainting the media image of him with the quiet man you’re walking beside now.
”Is everything okay?” he asks. “You seem sad.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah, you do.”
“Maybe I am sad,” you confess, looking forward, the bright sign of Trader Joe’s already in view. It really is a short walk. “Do you ever–” You swallow against a surprising tightness in your throat and try again, “Do you ever feel like you’re alone?”
“I’m not alone,” he says carefully.
“Me neither, but sometimes I feel like I am.”
He laughs quietly. You bristle thinking you’re being made fun of, but the laugh tapers into a sad one. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world,” he says. “Even here. I forget that it’s not something I invented.”
“Well, I guess being a hero would feel really lonely. Who else do we have like you?” You smile sympathetically. “It must be hard.”
“Yeah.” His head tips to the side, and a crash of glass rings in the distance, crunching, and then there’s a squeal. It sounds like a car accident. Spider-Man goes tense. “I’ll come back,” he says.
“That’s okay, Spider-Man, I can get home by myself. Thank you for the protection detail.”
He sprints away. In half a second he’s up onto a short roof, then between buildings. It looks natural. It takes your breath away.
You buy Peter’s chips at Trader Joe’s and wait for a few minutes at the door, but Spider-Man doesn’t come back.
—
I don’t want to study today, Peter’s text says the next day. Come over and watch movies?
The last handholds of your fugue are washed away in the shower. You dab moisturiser onto your face and neck and stand by the open window to help it dry faster, taking in the light drizzle of rain, the smell of it filling your room and your lungs in cold gales. You dress in sweatpants and a hoodie, throw on your coat, and stuff the rolled tortilla chips into a backpack to ferry across the neighbourhood.
Peter still lives at home with his Aunt May. You’d been in awe of it when you were younger, Peter and his Aunt and Uncle, their home-cooked family dinners, nights spent on the roof trying to find constellations through light pollution, stretched out together while it was warm enough to soak in your small rebellion. Ben would call you both down eventually. When you’re older! he’d always promise.
Peter’s waiting in the open door for you. He ushers you inside excitedly, stripping you out of your coat and forgetting your wet shoes as he drags you to the kitchen. “Look what I got,” he says.
The Parker kitchen is a big, bright space with a chopping block island. The counters are crowded by pots, pans, spices, jams, coffee grounds, the impossible drying rack. There’s a cross-stitch about the home on the microwave Ben did to prove to May he could still see the holes in the aida.
You follow Peter to the stove where he points at a ceramic Dutch oven you’ve eaten from a hundred times. “There,” he says.
“Did you cook?” you ask.
“Of course I didn’t cook, even if the way you said that is offensive. I could cook. I’m an excellent chef.”
“The only thing May’s ever taught you is spaghetti and meatballs.”
“Hope you like marinara,” he says, nudging you toward the stove.
You take the lid off of the Dutch oven to unveil a huge cake. Dripping with frosting, only slightly squashed by the lid, obviously homemade. He’s dotted the top with swirls of frosting and deep red strawberries.
“It’s for you,” he says casually.
“It’s not my birthday.”
“I know. You like cake though, don’t you?”
You’d tell Peter you liked chunks of glass if that was what he unveiled. “Why’d you make me a cake?”
“I felt like you deserved a cake. You don’t want it?”
“No, I want it! I want the cake, let’s have cake, we can go to 91st and get some ice cream, it’ll be amazing.” You don’t bother trying to hide your beaming smile now, twisting on the spot to see him properly, your hands falling behind your back. “Thank you, Peter. It’s awesome. I had no idea you could even– that you’d even–” You press forward, smushing your face against his chest. “Wow.”
“Wow,” he says, wrapping his arms around you. He angles his head to nose at your temple. “You’re welcome. I would’ve made you a cake years ago if I knew it was gonna make you this happy.”
“It must’ve taken hours.”
“May helped.”
“That makes much more sense.”
“Don’t be insolent.” Peter squeezes you tightly. He doesn’t let go for a really long time.
He extracts the cake from the depths of the Dutch oven and cuts you both a slice. He already has ice cream, a Neapolitan box that he cuts into with a serrated knife so you can each have a slice of all three flavours. It’s good ice cream, fresh for what it is and melting in big drops of cream as he gets the couch ready.
“Sit down,” he says, shoving the plates with his strangely great balance onto the coffee table. “Remote’s by you. I’m gonna get drinks.”
You take your plate, carving into the cake with the end of a warped spoon, its handle stamped PETE and burnished in your grasp. The crumb is soft but dense in the best way. The ganache between layers is loose, cake wet with it, and the frosting is perfect, just messy. You take another satisfied bite. You’re halfway through your slice before Peter makes it back.
“I brought you something too, but it’s garbage compared to this,” you say through a mouthful, hand barely covering your mouth.
Peter laughs at you. “Yeah, well, say it, don’t spray it.”
“I guess I’ll keep it.”
“Keep it, bub, I don’t need anything from you.”
He doesn’t say it the way you’re expecting. “No,” you say, pleased when he sits knee to knee, “you can have it. S’just a bag of chips from Trader–”
“The rolled tortilla chips?” he asks. You nod, and his eyes light up. “You really are the best friend ever.”
“Better than Harry?”
“Harry’s rich,” Peter says, “so no. I’m kidding! Joking, come here, let me try some of that.”
“Eat your own.”
Peter plays a great host, letting you choose the movies, making lunch, ordering takeout in the evening and refusing to let you pay for it. This isn’t that out of character for Peter, but what shocks you is his complete unfiltered attention. He doesn’t check his phone, the tension you couldn’t name from these last few weeks nowhere to be felt. You’re flummoxed by the sudden change, but you missed him. You won’t look a gift horse in the mouth; you won’t question what it is that had Peter keeping you at arm’s length now it’s gone.
To your annoyance, you can’t stop thinking about Spider-Man. You keep opening your mouth to tell Peter you talked to him but biting your tongue. Why am I keeping it a secret? you wonder.
“Have something to tell you.”
“You do?” you ask, reluctant to sit properly, your feet tucked under his thigh and your body completely lax with the weight of the Parker throw.
“Is that surprising?”
“Is that a trick question?”
“No. Just. I’ve been not telling you something.”
“Okay, so tell me.”
Peter goes pink, and stiff, a fake smile plastered over his lips. “Me and Gwen, we’re really done.”
“I know, Pete. She broke up with you for reasons nobody felt I should be enlightened right after graduation.” Your stomach pangs painfully. “Unless you…”
“She’s going to England.”
“She is?”
“Oxford.”
You struggle to sit up. “That sucks, Peter. I’m sorry.”
“But?”
You find your words carefully. “You and Gwen really liked each other, but I think that–” You grow in confidence, meeting his eyes firmly. “That there’s always been some part of you that couldn’t actually commit to her. So. I don’t know, maybe some distance will give you clarity. And maybe it’ll break your heart, but at least then you’ll know how you really feel, and you can move forward.” You avoid telling him to move on.
“It wasn’t Gwen,” he says, which has a completely different meaning to the both of you.
“Obviously, she’s the smartest girl I’ve ever met. She’s beautiful. Of course it’s not her fault,” you say, teasing.
“Really, that you ever met?” Peter asks.
“She’s the best girl you were ever gonna land.“
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I guess so.” After a few more minutes of quiet, he says, “I think we were done before. I just hadn’t figured it out yet. Something wasn’t right.”
“You were so back and forth. You’re not mean, there must’ve been something stopping you from going steady,” you agree. “You were breaking up every other week.”
“I know,” he whispers, tipping his head against the back couch.
“Which, it’s fine, you don’t–” You grimace. “I can’t talk today. Sorry. I just mean that it’s alright that you never made it work.” You worry that sounds plainly obvious and amend, “Doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re never a bad person, Peter.”
“I know. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. You don’t need me to tell you.”
“It’s nice, though. I like when you tell me stuff. I want all of your secrets.”
You should say Good, because I have something unbelievable to tell you, and I should’ve said it the moment I got home.
Good, because last night I met the bravest man in New York City, and he walked me to the store for your chips.
Good, because I have so much I’m keeping to myself.
You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned.
—
He visits with a whoop. You don’t flinch when he lands —you’d heard the strange whip and splat of his webs landing nearby.
“Spider-Man,” you say.
“What’s that about?”
“What?”
“The way you said that. You laughed.” Spider-Man stands in spandexed glory before you, mask in place. He’s got a brown stain up the side of his thigh that looks more like mud than blood, but it’s not as though each of his fights are bloodless. They’re infamously gory on occasion.
“Did you get hurt?” you ask. You’re worried. You could help him, if he needs it.
“Aw, this? That’s a scratch. That’s nothing, don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse from that stray cat living outside of 91st.”
You look at him sharply. 91st is shorthand for 91st Bodega, and it’s not like you and Peter made it up, but suddenly, the man in front of you is Peter. The way he says it, that unique rhythm.
Peter’s not so rough-voiced, you argue with yourself. Your Peter speaks in a higher register, dulcet often, only occasionally sarcastic. Spider-Man is rough, and cawing, and loud. Spider-Man acts as though the ground is a suggestion. Peter can’t jump off the second diving board at the pool. Spider-Man rolls his shoulders back in front of you with a confidence Peter rarely has.
“What?” he asks.
“Sorry. You just reminded me of someone.”
His voice falls deeper still. “Someone handsome, I hope.”
You take a small step around him, hoping it invites him to walk along while communicating how sorely you want to leave the subject behind. When he doesn’t follow, you add, “Yes, he’s handsome.”
“I knew it.”
“What do you look like under the mask?”
Spider-Man laughs boisterously. “I can’t just tell you that.”
“No? Do I have to earn it?”
“It’s not like that. I just don’t tell anyone, ever.”
“Nobody in the whole world?” you ask.
The rain is spitting. New York lately is cold cold cold, little in the way of sunshine and no end in sight. Perhaps that’s all November’s are destined to be. You and Spider-Man stick to the inside of the sidewalk. Occasionally, a passerby stares at him, or calls out in Hello, and Spider-Man waves but doesn’t part from you.
“Tell me something about you and I’ll tell you something about me,” Spider-Man says. “I’ll tell you who knows my identity.”
“What do you want to know about me?” you ask, surprised.
“A secret. That’s fair.”
“Hold on, how’s that fair?” You tighten your scarf against a bitter breeze. “What use do I have for the people who know who you are? That doesn’t bring me any closer to the truth.”
“It’s not about who knows, it’s about why I told them.” Spider-Man slips around you, forcing you to walk on the inside of the sidewalk as a car pulls past you all too quickly and sends a sheet of dirty rainwater up Spider-Man’s side. He shakes himself off. “Jerk!” he shouts after the car.
“My secrets aren’t worth anything.”
“I doubt that, but if that’s true, that makes it a fair trade, doesn’t it?”
He sounds peppy considering the pool of runoff collecting at his feet. You pick up your pace again and say, “Alright, useless secret for a useless secret.”
You think about all your secrets. Some are odd, some gross. Some might make the people around you think less of you, while others would surely paint you in a nice light. A topaz sort of technicolor. But they aren’t useless, then, so you move on.
“Oh, I know. I hate my major.” You grin at Spider-Man. “That’s a good one, right? No one else knows about that.”
“You do?” Spider-Man asks. His voice is familiar, then, for its sympathy.
“I like science, I just hate math. It’s harder than I thought it would be, and I need so much help it makes me hate the whole thing.”
Spider-Man doesn’t drag the knife. “Okay. Only three people know who I am under the mask. It was four, briefly.” He clears his throat. “I told one person because I was being selfish and the others out of necessity. I’m trying really hard not to tell anybody else.”
“How come?”
“It just hurts people.”
You linger in a gap of silence, not sure what to say. A handful of cars pass you on the road.
“Tell me another one,” he says.
“What for?”
“I don’t know, just tell me one.”
“How do I know you aren’t extorting me for something?” You grin as you say it, a hint of flirtation. “You’ll know my face and my secrets and even if you tell me a really gory juicy one, I have no one to tell and no name to pair it with.”
“I’m not showing you anything,” he warns, teasing, sounding so awfully like Peter that your heart trips again, an uneven capering that has you faltering in the street.
Peter’s shorter, you decide, sizing him up. His voice sounds similar and familiar but Peter doesn’t ask for secrets. He doesn’t have to. (Or, he didn’t have to, once upon a time.)
“Where are you going?” Spider-Man asks.
“Oh, nowhere.”
“Seriously, you’re out here walking again for no reason?”
“I like to walk. It’s not like it’s dark out yet.” You’re not far at all from Queensboro Hill here. Walking in any direction would lead you to a garden —Flushing Meadows, Kew Gardens, Kissena Park. “Walk me to Kissena?” you ask.
“Sure, for that secret.”
You laugh as Spider-Man takes the lead, keeping time with him, a natural match of pace. It’s exciting that Spider-Man of all people wants to know one of your useless secrets enough to ask you twice. The attention of it makes searching for one a matter of how fast you can find one rather than a question of why you’d want to. It slips out before you can think better of it.
“I burned my wrist a few days ago on a frying pan,” you confess, the phantom pain of the injury an itch. “It blistered and I cried when I did it, but I haven’t told anyone about it.”
“Why not?” he asks.
He shouldn’t use that tone with you, like he’s so so sorry. It makes you want to really tell him everything. How insecure you feel, how telling things feels like asking for someone to care, and half the time they don’t, and half the time you’re embarrassed.
You walk past the bakery that demarcates the beginning of Kissena Park grounds across the way. “I didn’t think about it at first. I’m used to keeping things to myself. And then I didn’t tell anyone for so long that mentioning it now wouldn’t make sense. Like, bringing it up when it’s a scar won’t do much.” It’s a weak lie. It comes out like a spigot to a drying up tree. Glugs, fat beads of sound and the pull to find another thing to say.
“It was only a few days ago, right? It must still hurt. People want to know that stuff.”
“Maybe I’ll tell someone tomorrow,” you say, though you won’t.
“Thanks for telling me.”
The humour in spilling a secret like that to a superhero stops you from feeling sorry for yourself. You hide your cold fingers in your coat, rubbing the stiff skin of your knuckles into the lining for friction-heat. The rain has let up, wind whipping empty but brisk against your cheeks. Your lips will be chapped when you get home, whenever that turns out to be.
“This is pretty far from Trader Joe’s,” he comments, like he’s read your mind.
“Just an hour.”
“Are you kidding? It’s an hour for me.”
“That’s not true, Spider-Man, I’ve seen those webs in action. I still remember watching you on the News that night, the cranes. I remember,” —you try to meet his eyes despite the mask— “my heart in my throat. Weren’t you scared?”
“Is that the secret you want?” he asks.
“I get to choose?”
Spider-Man throws his gaze around, his hand behind his head like he might play with his hair. You come to a natural stop across the street from Kissena Park’s playground. Teenagers crowd the soft-landing floor, smaller children playing on the wet rungs of the climbing frame.
“If you want to,” he says.
“Then yeah, I want to know if you were scared.”
“I didn’t haveI time to be scared. Connors was already there, you know?” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it before. I wasn’t scared of the height, if that’s what you mean. I already had practice by then, and I knew I had to do it. Like, I didn’t have a choice, so I just did it. I had to save the day, so I did.”
“When they lined up the cranes–”
“It felt like flying,” Spider-Man interrupts.
“Like flying.”
You picture the weightlessness, the adrenaline, the catch of your weight so high up and the pressure of being flung between the next point. The idea that you have to just do something, so you do.
“That’s a good secret.” You offer a grateful smile. “It doesn’t feel equal. I burned myself and you saved the city.”
“So tell me another one,” he says.
—
Maybe you started to fall for Peter after his Uncle Ben passed away. Not the days where you’d text him and he’d ignore you, or the days spent camping outside of his house waiting for him to get home. It wasn’t that you couldn’t like him, angry as he was; there’s always been something about his eyes when he’s upset that sticks around. You loathe to see him sad but he really is pretty, and when his eyelashes are wet and his mouth is turned down, formidable, it’s an ache. A Cabanel painting, dramatic and dark and other.
It was after. When he started sending Gwen weird smiles and showing up to the movies exhilarated, out of breath, unwilling to tell you where he’d been. Skating, he’d always say. Most of the time he didn’t have his skateboard.
You’d only seen them kiss once, his hand on her shoulder curling her in, a pang of heat. You were curdled by jealousy but it was more than that. Peter was tipping her head back, was kissing her soundly, a fierceness from him that made you sick to think about. You spent weeks afterwards up at night, tossing, turning, wishing he’d kiss you like that, just once, so you could feel how it felt to be completely wrapped up in another person.
You’d always held out for Peter, in a way. It was more important to you that he be your friend. You were young, and love had been a far off thing, and then one day you suddenly wanted it. You learned just how aching an unrequited love could be, like a bruise, where every time you saw Peter —whether it be alone or with Gwen, with anyone— it was like he knew exactly where to poke the bruise. Press the heel of his hand and push. The worst is when he found himself affectionate with you, a quick clasp of your cheek in his palm as he said goodbye. Nights spent in his twin bed, of course you’ll fit, of course you couldn’t go home, not this late, May won’t care if we keep the door open —the suggestion that the door being closed might’ve meant something. His sleeping arm furled around you.
Now you’re nearing the end of your second semester at ESU, Gwen is going to England at the end of the year, and Peter hasn’t tried to stop her, but he’s still busy.
“Whatever,“ you say, taking a deep breath. You’re not mad at Peter, you just miss him. Thinking about him all the time won’t change a thing. “It’s fine.”
“I’d hope so.”
You swing around. “Don’t do that!”
Spider-Man looks vaguely chastened, taking a step back. “I called out.”
“You did?”
“I did. Hey, miss, over there! The one who doesn’t know how to get a goddamn taxi!”
“I like to walk,” you say.
“Yeah, so you’ve said. Have you considered that all this walking is bad for you? It’s freezing out, Miss Bennett!”
“It’s not that bad.” You have your coat, a scarf, your thermal leggings underneath your jeans. “I’m fine.”
“What’s wrong with staying at home?”
“That’s not good for you. And you’re one to talk, Spider-Man, aren’t you out on the streets every night? You should take a day off.”
“I don’t do this every night.”
“Don’t you get tired?”
Spider-Man’s eyelets seem to squint, his mock-anger effusive as he crosses his arms across his chest. “No, of course not. Do I look like I get tired?”
“I don’t know. You’re in a full suit, I can’t tell. I guess you don’t… seem tired. You know, with all the backflips.”
“Want me to do one?”
“On command?” You laugh. “No, that’s okay. Save your strength, Spider-Man.”
“So where are you heading today?” he asks.
There’s a slip of skin peeking out against his neck. You’re surprised he can’t feel the cold there, stepping toward him to point. “I can see your stubble.”
He yanks his mask down. “Hasty getaway.”
“A getaway, undressed? Spider-Man, that’s not very gentlemanly.”
You start to walk toward the Cinemart. Spider-Man, to your strange pleasure, follows. He walks with considerable casualness down the sidewalk by your left, occasionally letting his head turn to chase a distant sound where it echoes from between high-rises and along the busy street. It’s cold and dark, but New York is hectic no matter what, even the residential areas. (Is there such a thing? The neighbourhoods burst with small businesses and backstreet sales, no matter the time.)
“Luckily for you, crime is slow tonight,” he says.
“Lucky me?” You wonder if your acquainted vigilante flirts with every girl he stalks. “You realise I’ve managed to get everywhere I’m going for the last two decades without help?”
“I assume there was more than a little help during that first decade.”
“That’s what you think. I was a super independent toddler.”
Spider-Man tips his head back and laughs, but that laugh is quickly squashed with a cough. “Sure you were.”
“Is there a reason you’re escorting me, Spider-Man?” you ask.
“No. I– I recognised you, I thought I’d say hi.”
“Hi, Spider-Man.”
“Hi.”
“Can I ask you something? Do you work?”
Spider-Man stammers again, “I– yeah. I work. Freelance, mostly.”
“I was wondering how you fit all the crime fighting into your life, is all. University is tough enough.” You let the wind bat your scarf off of your shoulder. “I couldn’t do what you do.”
“Yeah, you could.”
He sounds sure.
“How would you know?” you ask. “Maybe I’m awful when you’re not walking me around. I hate New York. I hate people.”
“No, you don’t. You’re not awful. Don’t ask me how I know, ‘cos I just know.”
You try not to look at him. If you look at him, you’re gonna smile at him like he hung the moon. “Well, tonight I’m going to be dreadfully selfish. My friend said he’d buy my movie ticket and take me out for dinner, a real dinner, the mac and cheese with imitation lobster at Benny’s. Have you tried that?”
Spider-Man takes a big step. “Tonight?” he asks.
“Yep, tonight. That’s where I’m going, the Cinemart.” You frown at his hand pressing into his stomach. “Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna throw up.”
“I can hear– something. Someone’s crying. I gotta go, okay? Have fun at the movies, okay?” He throws his arm up, a silken web shooting from his wrist to the third floor of an apartment complex. “Bye!” he shouts, taking a running jump to the apartment, using his web as an anchor. He flings himself over the roof.
Woah, you think, warmth filling your cold cheeks, the tip of your nose. He’s lithe.
Peter arrives ten minutes late for the movie, which is half an hour later than you’d agreed to meet.
“Sorry!” he shouts, breathless as he grabs your hands. “God, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. You should beat me up. I’m sorry.”
“What the fuck happened?” you ask, not particularly angry, only relieved to see him with enough time to still catch the movie. “You’re sweating like crazy, your hair’s wet.”
“I ran all the way here, Jesus, do I smell bad? Don’t answer that. Fuck, do we have time?”
You usher Peter inside. He pays for the tickets with hands shaking and you attempt to wipe the sweat from his forehead with your sleeve. “You could’ve called me,” you say, content to let him grab you by the arm and race you to the screen doors, “we could’ve caught the next one. Why were you so late, anyways? Did you forget?”
“Forget about my favourite girl? How could I?” He elbows open the doors to let you enter first. “Now shh,” he whispers, “find the seats, don’t miss the trailers. You love them.”
“You love them–”
“I’ll get popcorn,” he promises, letting the door close between you.
You’re tempted to follow, fingers an inch from the handle.
You turn away and rush to find your seats. Hopefully, the popcorn line is ten blocks long, and he spends the night punished for his wrongdoing. My favourite girl. You laugh nervously into your hand.
—
Winter
Spider-Man finds you at least once a week for the next few weeks. He even brings you an umbrella one time, stars on the handle, asking you rather politely to go home. He offers to buy you a hot dog as you’re walking past the stand, takes you on a shortcut to the convenience store, and helps you get a piece of gum off of your shoe with a leaf and a scared scream. He’s friendly, and you’re getting used to his company.
One night, you’re almost home from Trader Joe’s, racing in the pouring rain when a familiar voice calls out, “Hey! Running girl! Wait a second!”
Him, you think, as ridiculous as it sounds. You don’t know his name, but Spider-Man’s a sunny surprise in a shitty, wet winter, and you turn to the sound with a grin.
He jogs toward you.
You feel the world pause, right in the centre of your throat. All the air gets sucked out of you.
“Hey, what are you doing out here? Did you get my texts?”
You blink as fat rain lands on your face.
“You okay?” Peter asks, Peter, in a navy hoodie turning black in the rain and a brown corduroy jacket. It’s sodden, hanging heavily around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s go,” —he takes your hand and pulls until you begin to speed walk beside him— “it’s freezing!”
“Peter–”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Peter, what are you doing here?” you ask, your voice an echo as he drags you into the foyer of your apartment building.
Rain hammers the door as he closes it, the windows, the foyer too dark to see properly.
“I wanted to see you. Is that allowed?”
“No.”
Peter takes your hand. You look down at it, and he looks down in tandem, and it is decidedly a non-platonic move. “No?” he asks, a hair’s width from murmuring.
“Shit, my groceries are soaked.”
“It’s all snacks, it’s fine,” he says, pulling you to the stairs.
You rush up the steps together to your floor. Peter takes your key when you offer it, your own fingers too stiff to manage it by yourself, and he holds the door open for you again to let you in.
Your apartment is a ragtag assortment to match the one next door, old wooden furniture wheeled from the street corners they were left on, thrifted homeward and heavy blankets everywhere you look. You almost slip getting out of your shoes. Peter steadies you with a firm hand. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook, prying the damp hoodie over his head and exposing a solid length of back that trips your heart as you do the same.
“Sorry I didn’t ask,” Peter says.
“What, to come over? It’s fine. I like you being here, you know that.”
All your favourite days were spent here or at Peter’s house, in beds, on sofas, his hair tickling your neck as credits run down the TV and his breath evens to a light snore. You try to settle down with him, changing into dry clothes, his spare stuff left at the bottom of your wardrobe for his next inevitable impromptu visit. You turn on the TV, letting him gather you into his side with more familiarity than ever. Rain lays its fingertips on your window and draws lazy lines behind half-turned blinds. You rest on the arm and watch Peter watch the movie, answering his occasional, “You okay?” with a meagre nod.
“What’s wrong?” he asks eventually. “You’re so quiet.”
Your hand over your mouth, you part your marriage and pinky finger, marriage at the corner, pinky pressed to your bottom lip, the flesh chapped by a season of frigid winds and long walks. “‘M thinking,” you say.
“About?”
About the first night in your new apartment. You got the apartment a couple of weeks before the start of ESU. Not particularly close to the university but close to Peter, your best, nicest friend. You met in your second year of High School, before Peter got contacts, ‘cos he was good at taking photographs and you were in charge of the school newspapers media sourcing. You used to wait for Peter to show up ten minutes late like clockwork, every week. And every week he’d barge into the club room and say, “Fuck, I’m sorry, my last class is on the other side of the building,” until it turned into its own joke.
Three years later, you got your apartment, and Peter insisted you throw a housewarming party even if he was the only person invited.
“Fuck,” he’d said, ten minutes late, a cake in one hand and a whicker basket the other, “sorry. My last class is on–”
But he didn’t finish. You’d laughed so hard with relief at the reference that he never got the chance. Peter remembered your very first inside joke, because Peter wasn’t about to go off to ESU and meet new friends and forget you.
But Peter’s been distant for a while now, because Peter’s Spider-Man.
“Do you remember,” you say, not willing to share the whole truth, “when you joined the school newspaper to be the official photographer, and you taught me the rule of thirds?”
“So you didn’t need me,” he says.
“I was just thinking about it. We ran that newspaper like the Navy.”
Peter holds your gaze. “Is that really what you were thinking about?”
“Just funny,” you murmur, dropping your hand in your lap and breaking his stare. “So much has changed.”
“Not that much.”
“Not for me, no.”
Peter gets a look in his eyes you know well. He’s found a crack in you and he’s gonna smooth it over until you feel better. You’re expecting his soft tone, his loving smile, but you’re not expecting the way he pulls you in —you’d slipped away from him as the evening went on, but Peter erases every millimetre of space as he slides his arm under your lower back and ushers you into his side. You hold your breath as he hugs you, as he looks down at you. It’s really like he loves you, the line between platonic and romantic a blur. He’s never looked at you like this before.
“I don’t want you to change,” he whispers.
“I want to catch up with you,” you whisper back.
“Catch up with me? We’re in the exact same place, aren’t we?”
“I don’t know, are we?”
Peter hugs you closer, squishing your head down against his jaw as he rubs your shoulder. “Of course we are.”
Peter… What is he doing?
You let yourself relax against him.
“You do change,” he whispers, an utterance of sound to calm that awful bruise he gave you all those months ago, “you change every day, but you don’t need to try.”
“I just… feel like everyone around me is…” You shake your head. “Everyone’s so smart, and they know what they’re doing, or they’re– they’re special. I don’t know anything. So I guess lately I’ve been thinking about that, and then you–”
“What?”
You can say it out loud. You could.
“Peter, you’re…”
“I’m what?” he asks.
His fingers glide down the length of your arm and up again.
If you're wrong, he’ll laugh. And if you’re right, he might– might stop touching you. Your head feels so heavy, and his touch feels like it’s gonna put you to sleep.
He’s Spider-Man.
It makes sense. Who else could have a good enough heart to do that? Of course it’s Peter. It explains so much about him, about Peter and Spider-Man both. Why Peter is suddenly firmer, lighter on his feet, why he can help you move a wardrobe up two flights of stairs without complaint; why Spider-Man is so kind to you, why he knows where to find you, why he rolls his words around just like Pete.
Spider-Man said there are reasons he wears his mask. And Peter doesn’t tell you much, but you trust him.
You won’t make him say anything, you decide. Not now.
You curl your arm over his stomach hesitantly, smiling into his shirt as he hugs you tighter.
“I was thinking about you,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“You’re quieter lately. I know you’re having a hard time right now, okay? You don’t have to tell me. I’m here for you whenever you need me.”
“Yeah?” you ask.
“You used to sit on my porch when you knew May wouldn’t be home to make sure I wasn’t alone.” Peter’s breath is warm on your forehead. “I don’t know what you’re worried about being, but I’m with you,” he says, “‘n nothing is gonna change that.”
Peter isn’t as far away as you thought.
“Thank you,” you say.
He kisses your forehead softly. Your whole world goes amber. He brings his hand to your cheek, the thought of him tipping your head back sudden and heart-racing, but Peter only holds you. You lose count of how many minutes you spend cupped in his hand.
“Can I stay over tonight?” he utters, barely audible under the sound of the battering rain.
“Yeah, please.”
His thumb strokes your cheek.
—
Two switches flip at once, that night. Peter is suddenly as tactile as you’ve craved, and Spider-Man disappears.
He’s alive and well, as evidenced by Peter’s continued survival and presence in your life, but Spider-Man doesn’t drop in on your nightly walks.
You take less of them lately, feeling better in yourself. Your spirits are certainly lifted by Peter’s increasing affection, but now that you know he’s Spider-Man you were waiting to see him in spandex to mess with his head. Nothing mean, but you would’ve liked to pick at his secret identity, toy with him like you know he’d do to you. After all, he’s been trailing you for weeks and getting to know you. Peter already knows you. Plus, you told Spider-Man secrets not meant for Peter Parker’s ears.
You find it hard to be angry with him. A thread of it remains whenever you remember his deception, but mostly you worry about him. Peter’s out every night until who knows what hour fighting crime. There are guns. He could get shot, and he doesn’t seem scared. You end up watching videos on the internet of the night he ran to Oscorp, when he fought Connors’ and got that huge gash in his leg. His leg is soiled deep red with blood but banded in white webbing. He limps as he races across a rooftop, the recording shaky yet high definition.
It’s not nice to see Peter in pain. You cling to what he’d said, how he wasn’t scared, but not being scared doesn’t mean he wasn’t hurting.
You chew the tip of a finger and click on a different video. Your computer monitor bears heat, the tower whirring by your thigh. Your eyes burn, another hour sitting in the same seat, sick with worry. You don’t mind when Peter doesn’t answer your texts anymore. You didn’t mind so much before, just terrified of becoming an irrelevance in his life and lonely, too, maybe a little hurt, but never worried for his safety. Now when Peter doesn’t text you back you convince yourself that he’s been hurt, or that he’s swinging across New York City about to risk his life.
It’s not a good way to live. You can’t stop giving into it, is all.
In the next video, Spider-Man sits on a billboard with a can of coke in hand. He doesn’t lift his mask, seemingly aware of his watcher. You laugh as he angles his head down, suspicion in his tight shoulders. He relaxes when he sees whoever it is recording.
“Hey,” he says, “you all right?”
“Should you be up there?” the person recording shouts.
“I’m fine up here!”
“Are you really Spider-Man?”
“Sure am.”
“Are you single?”
Peter laughs like crazy. How you didn’t know it was him before is a mystery —it couldn’t sound more like him. “I’ve got my eye on someone!” he says, sounding younger for it, the character voice he enacts when he’s Spider-Man lost to a good mood.
Your phone rings in the back pocket of your jeans. You wriggle it out, nonplussed to find Peter himself on your screen. You click the green answer button.
“Hello?” Peter asks.
You bring the phone snug to your ear. “Hey, Peter.”
“Hi, are you busy?”
“Not really.”
“Do you wanna come over? I know it’s late. Come stay the night and tomorrow we’ll go out for breakfast.”
“Is Aunt May okay with that?”
“She’s staring at me right now shaking her head, but I’m in trouble for something. May, can she come over, is that allowed?”
“She’s always allowed as long as you keep the door open.”
You laugh under your breath at May’s begrudging answer. “Are you sure she’s alright with it?” you ask softly. “I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You never, ever could be. I’m coming to your place and we’ll walk over together. Did you eat dinner?”
“Not yet, but–”
“Okay, I’ll make you something when you get here. I’ll meet you at the door. Twenty minutes?”
“I have to shower first.”
“Twenty five?”
You choke on a laugh, a weird bubbly thing you’re not used to. Peter laughs on the other side of the phone. “How about I’ll see you at seven?”
“It’s a date,” he says.
“Mm, put it in your calendar, Parker.”
—
Peter waits for you at the door like he promised. He frowns at your still-wet face as he slips your backpack from your shoulder, throwing it over his own. “You’re gonna get sick.”
“I‘ll dry fast,” you say. “I took too long finding my pyjamas.”
“I have stuff you can wear. Probably have your sweatpants somewhere, the grey ones.” Peter pulls you forward and wipes your tacky face. “I would’ve waited,” he says.
“It’s fine.“
“It’s not fine. Are you cold?”
“Pete, it’s fine.”
“You always remind me of my Uncle Ben when you call me Pete,” he laughs, “super stern.”
“I’m not stern. Look, take me home, please, I’m cold.”
“You said it wasn’t cold!”
“It’s not, I’m just damp–” Peter cuts you off as he grabs you, sudden and tight, arms around you and rubbing the lengths of your back through your coat. “Handsy!”
“You like it,” he jokes back, his playful warming turning into a hug. You smile, hiding your face in his neck for a few moments.
“I don’t like it,” you lie.
“Okay, you don’t like it, and I’m sorry.” Peter gives you a last hug and pulls away. “Now let’s go. I gotta feed you before midnight.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Apparently, nothing is.”
Peter links your arms together. By the time you get to his house, you’ve fallen away from each other naturally. May is in the hallway when you climb through the door, an empty laundry basket in her hands.
“I see Peter hasn’t won this argument yet,” you say in way of greeting. Peter’s desperate to do his own laundry now he’s getting older. May won’t let him.
“No, he hasn’t.” She looks you up and down. “It’s nice to see you, honey. And in one piece! Peter tells me you’ve been walking a lot, and I mean, in this city? Can’t you buy a treadmill?” she asks.
“May!” Peter says, startled.
“I like walking, I like the air,” you say.
“Can’t exactly call it fresh,” May says.
“No, but it’s alright. It helps me think.”
“Is everything okay?” May asks, putting her hand on her hip.
“Of course.” You smile at her genuinely. “I think starting college was too much for me? It was hard. But things are settling now, I don’t know what Peter told you, but I’m not walking a lot anymore. You know, not more than necessary.”
She softens her disapproving. “Good, honey. That’s good. Peter’s gonna make you some dinner now, right?”
“Yeah, Aunt May, I’m gonna make dinner,” Peter sighs, pulling a leg up to take off his shoes.
Peter shouldn’t really know that you’ve been walking. He might see you coming back from Trader Joe’s or the bodega on his way to your apartment, but you haven’t mentioned any of your longer excursions, and everybody in Queens has to walk. That’s information he wouldn’t know without Spider-Man.
He seems to be hoping you won’t realise, changing the subject to the frankly killer grilled cheese and tomato soup that he’s about to make you, and pushing you into a chair at the table. “Warm up,” he says near the back of your head, forcing a wave of shivers down your arms.
He makes soup in one pan, grilled cheese in the other, two for him and two for you. Peter’s a good eater, and he encourages the same from you, setting a big bowl of tomato soup (from the can, splash of fresh cream) down in front of you with the grilled cheese on a plate between you. You eat it in too-hot bites and try not to get caught looking at him. He does the same, but when he catches you, or when you catch him, he holds your eye and smiles.
“I can do the dishes,” you say. You might need a breather.
“Are you kidding? I’m gonna rinse them, put them in the dishwasher.” Peter stands and feels your forehead with his hand. “Warmer. Good job.”
You shrug away from his hand. “Loser.”
“Concerned friend.”
“Handsy loser.”
”Shut up,” he mumbles.
As flustered as you’ve ever seen, Peter takes your empty dishes to the kitchen. When he’s done rinsing them off you follow him upstairs to his bedroom and tuck your backpack under his bed.
You look down at your socks. Peter’s room is on the smaller side, but it’s never been as startlingly small as it is when Peter’s socked feet align with yours, toe to toe. Quick recovery time, this boy.
“There’s chips and stuff on my desk. Or I could run to 91st for some ice cream sandwiches if you want something sweet,” he says.
You lift your eyes, tilt your head up just a touch, not wanting him to think you’re in his space no matter how strange that might be, considering he chose to stand there. “I’m all right. Did you want ice cream? We can go if you want to, but if you want to go ’cos you think I do then I’m fine.”
“That’s such a long answer,” he says, draping an arm over your shoulder. “You don’t have to say all of that, just tell me no.”
“I don’t want ice cream.”
“Wasn’t that easy?” he asks.
“Well, no, it wasn’t. Saying no to you is like saying no to a puppy.”
“Because I’m adorable?”
“Persistent.”
“Yeah, I guess I am.” He drapes the other arm over you. The soap he used at the kitchen sink lingers on his hands.
“Peter…?” you murmur.
“What?” he murmurs back.
You touch a knuckle to his chest. “This– You…” Every quelled thought rushes to the surface at once —Peter doesn’t like you as you desire, how could he, you aren’t beautiful like he is, aren’t smart, aren’t brave, no exceptional kindness or goodness to mark you enough for him. It’s why his being with Gwen didn’t hurt; she made sense. And for months now you’ve wondered what it is that made him struggle to be with her. And sometimes, foolishly, you wondered if it was you. But it’s not you, it’s never you, and whatever Peter’s trying to do now–
“Hey, you okay?” he asks, taking your face into his hand.
“What are you doing?”
“What?” He pushes his hand back to hold your nape, thumb under your ear. “I can’t hear you.”
You raise your voice. “Why did you invite me over tonight?”
“‘Cos I missed you?”
“I used to think you didn’t miss me at all.”
Peter winces, hurt. “How could you think that? Of course I miss you. What you said to May, about college being hard? It’s like that for me too, okay? I miss you all the time.”
You bite the inside of your bottom lip. “…College isn’t hard for you.”
“It’s not easy.” He frowns, the fallen angel, his lips an unsure brushstroke. “What’s wrong? Did I say the wrong thing?”
You’re being wretched, you know, saying it isn’t hard for him. “You didn’t. Really, you didn’t.”
“But why are you upset?” he implores, dark eyes darker as his eyebrows tug together.
“I’m not–”
“You are. It’s okay, you can be upset. I just want you to feel better, you know that?” He settles his hands at the tops of your arms. Less intimate, but something warm remains. “Even if it takes a long time.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
“How would you know?” you finally ask.
Peter stares at you.
“I know you,” he says carefully, “and I know you aren’t struggling like you were, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen or that you have to be a hundred percent better now.”
“I didn’t realise that I was,” you say, licking your lips, “‘til now. I didn’t get that it was on the surface.”
Peter pulls you in for a gentle hug. “I’m here for you forever, and I’ll make it up to you for not noticing sooner,” he says, scrunching your shirt in his hand.
After the hug, he tells you to change and make yourself comfortable while he showers. So you put on your pyjamas and climb into Peter’s bed, head pounding as though all your energy was stolen in a fell swoop. You press your nose to his pillow and arm wrapped around his comforter, gathering it into a Peter sized lump. The shower pump whines against the shared wall.
Things aren’t meant to be like this. You thought Peter touching you —holding you— was the deepest of your desires, but you feel now exactly as you had before he started blurring the line, needing Peter to kiss you so badly it becomes its own kind of nausea. Why are you still acting like it’s an impossibility?
When he comes back, you’ll apologise. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He does keep a secret, but don’t you keep one too? He’s Spider-Man. You’ve had deep, complicated feelings for him for months. They are secrets of equal magnitude, and are, more apparently, badly kept.
You wish you could fall asleep. Your heart ticks in agitation.
Peter returns as perturbed as earlier.
“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair. A towel hangs around his neck.
“I’m sorry for being weird.”
“You’re not weird,” Peter says, bringing the towel to his hair to scrub ruthlessly.
“It’s just ‘cos things have been different between us.” And, you try to say, that scares me no matter how bad I wanted it. because you’re not just Peter anymore, you’re Spider-Man. I’m only me, and I can’t do anything to protect you.
Peter gives his hair a long scrub before draping the towel on his desk chair. He rakes it messily into place and sits himself at the end of the bed. You sit up.
“Yeah, they have been. Good different?” he asks hesitantly.
“I think so,” you say, quiet again.
“That’s what I thought.”
“I don’t want you to feel like I don’t want to be here. I just worry about you.”
Peter uses his hands to get higher up the bed. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, “Jesus, please don’t. That’s the last thing I want from you, I hate when people worry about me.”
You curl into the lump of comforter you’d made. Peter lets himself rest beside you, his back to the bedroom wall, tens of Polaroids above him shining with the light of the hallway and his orange-bulbed lamp. His skin is glowing like it’s golden hour, dashes of topaz in his eyes, his Cupid’s bow deep. How would it feel to lean forward and kiss him? To catch his Cupid's bow under your lips?
You brush a damp curl tangled in another onto his forehead.
You lay there for a little while without talking, listening to the sound of the washing machine as it cycles downstairs.
“Am I going too fast?” Peter murmurs.
You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely.
“Is it something else?”
You don’t move.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks.
“No.”
Peter rewards you with a smile, his hand on your arm. “Alright. Let me get this blanket on you the right way. You’re still cold.”
You resent the loss of a shape to hold when Peter slips down beside you and wrangles the comforter flat again, spreading it out over you both, his hand under the blankets. His knuckles brush your thigh.
He takes a deep breath before turning and wrapping his arm over your stomach, asking softly, “Is this alright?”
“Yeah.”
He gives you a look and then lifts his head to slot his nose against your temple. “Please don’t take this in a way that I don’t mean it, but sometimes you think about things so much I worry you’re gonna get stuck in your head forever.”
“I like thinking.”
“I hate it,” he says quickly, a fervent, flirting cadence to his otherwise dulcet tone, “we should never do it ever again.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“Would you? For me?”
You laugh into his shirt, feeling the warmth of your breath on your own nose. “I’ll do my best.”
“Good. I’d miss you too much if you got lost in that nice head of yours.”
You relax under his arm. You aren’t sure what all the fuss was about now that he's hugging you. “I’d miss you too.”
May comes up the stairs about an hour later. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch when she finds you and Peter smushed together watching a DVD on his old TV. He’s holding your arm, and you’re snoozing on his shoulder, half-aware of the world, fully aware of his nice smells and the shapes of his arms.
“Door open,” she says.
“Not that either of us want it closed, May, but we’re adults.”
“Not while I’m still washing your clothes, you’re not.”
He snorts. “Goodnight, Aunt May. The door isn’t gonna close, I promise.”
“I know that,” she says, scornful in her pride. “You’re a good boy.” She lightens. “Things are going okay?”
Peter covers your ear. “Goodnight, Aunt May.”
”I have half a mind to never listen to you again. You talk my ear off and I can’t ask a simple question?”
“I love you,” Peter sing-songs.
“I love you, Peter,” she says. “Don’t smother the girl.”
“I won’t smother her. It’s in my best interest that she survives the night. She’s buying my breakfast tomorrow.”
“Peter Parker.”
“I’m kidding,” he whispers, petting your cheek absentmindedly. “Just messing with you, May.”
You smile and curl further into his arms. His voice is like the sun, even when he whispers.
—
To your surprise, Spider-Man comes to find you after class one evening. A guest lecturer had talked to your oncology class about click chemistry and other molecular therapies against cancer, and the zine book she’d given you is burning a hole in your pocket. Peter is going to love it.
You pull it out and pause beside a bench and a silver trash can, the day grey but thankfully without rain. The pages of your little book whip forcefully in the wind. It’s chemistry, sure, but it’s biology too, wrapping your and Peter’s interests up neatly. If it weren’t for Peter you doubt you’d love science as much as you do. He’s always been good at it, but since you started college he's been a genius. Watching him grow has encouraged you to work harder, and understanding the material is satisfying, if draining. You take a photo of the middle most pages and tuck the book away, writing a quick text to Peter to send with it.
Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!!
The moment you press send a beep chimes from somewhere close behind you, all too familiar. You turn to the source but find nobody you know waiting. Coincidence, you think, shaking yourself and beginning the trek to the subway.
But then you hear the tell tale splat and thwick of Spider-Man’s webbing.
You wait until you’re at the alleyway between Porto’s Bakery and the key cutting shop and turn down to stop by one of the dumpsters.
“Spider-Man?” you ask, shoulders tensed in case it’s not who you think.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
You gasp as he hops down in front of you, his suit shiny with its dark web-pattern caught by the grey sunshine passing through the clouds overhead. “Shit, don’t break your ankles.”
“My ankles?” He laughs. He sounds so much like Peter that you can only laugh with him. What an idiot he is for thinking you don’t know; what a fool you’d been for falling for his put upon tenor. “They’re fine. What would be wrong with my ankles?”
“You just dropped down twenty feet!”
“It’s more like thirty, and I’m fine. You understand the super part of superhero, don’t you?”
“Who said you’re a superhero?”
“Nice. What are you doing down here?”
“I was testing my theory. You’re following me.”
“No, I’m visiting you, it’s very different,” he says confidently.
“You haven’t come to see me for weeks.”
“Yes, well, I–” Spider-Peter crosses his arms across his chest. “Hey, you’re the one who told me to take a day off.”
“I did tell you to take a day off. It’s not nice thinking about you trying to save the world every single night. That’s a lot of responsibility for one person to have.”
“But it’s my responsibility,” he says easily. “No point in a beautiful girl like you wasting her time worrying about it. I have to do it, and I don’t mind it.”
“Do you flirt with every girl you meet out here in the city?” you ask, cheeks hot.
“No,” he says, fondness evident even through the mask, “just you.”
“Do you wanna walk me home? I was gonna take the subway, but it’s not that far.”
Spider-Man nods. “Yeah, I’ll walk you back.”
He doesn’t hide that he knows the way very well. He takes preemptive turns, crosses roads without you telling him to go forward. You can’t believe him. Smartest guy at Midtown High and he can’t pretend to save his life.
“Are you having a good semester?” he asks.
“It’s getting better. I’m glad I stuck with it. I love biology, it’s so fucking hard. I used to think that was a bad thing, but it makes it cooler now. Like, it’s not something everyone understands.” You give him a look, and you give into temptation. “My best friend got me into all this stuff. I used to think math was hopeless and science was for dorks.”
“It’s definitely for dorks.”
“Right, but I love being one.” You offer a useless secret. “I like to think that it’s why we’re such great friends.”
“Me and you?” Spider-Man asks hoarsely.
“Me and Peter.” You elbow him without force. “Why, do you like science?”
“I love it…”
“You know, I really like you, Spider-Man. I feel like we’ve been friends for a long time.” You’re teasing poor Peter.
He doesn’t speak for a while. He stops walking, but you take a few steps without him. When you realise he’s stopped, you turn back to see him.
Peter’s gone so tense you could strike him with a flint and catch a spark. It’s the same way Peter looked at you when he told you about his Uncle, a truth he didn’t want to be true. Seeing it throws a spanner in the works of all your teasing: you’d meant to wind him up, not make him panic.
“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Can you hear something?”
“No, it’s not that…” He’s masked, but you know him well enough to understand why he’s stopped.
“It’s okay,” you say.
“It’s not, actually.”
“Spider-Man.” You take a step toward him. “It’s fine.”
He presses his hands to his stomach. The sun is setting early, and in an hour, the dark will eat up New York and leave it in a blistering cold. “Do you remember when we first met, the second time, we swapped secrets?”
“Yeah, I remember. Useless secret for another. I told you I hated my major. It’s not true anymore, obviously. I was having a bad time.”
“I know you were,” he says, emphasis on know, like it’s a different word entirely.
“But meeting you really helped. If it weren’t for you, for Peter,” —you give him a searching look— “I wouldn’t feel better at all.”
“It wasn’t his fault?” he asks. “He was your friend, and you were lonely.”
“No–”
“He didn’t know what was going on with you, he didn’t have a clue. You hurt yourself and you felt like you couldn’t tell anybody, and I know it wasn’t an accident, so what was his excuse?” His voice burns with anger. “It’s his fault.”
“Of course it wasn’t your fault. Is that what you think?” You shake your head, panicked by the bone-deep self loathing in his voice, his shameful dropped head. “Yes, I was lonely, I am lonely, I don’t know many people and I– I– I hurt myself, and it wasn’t as accidental as I thought it was, but why would that be your fault?”
“Peter’s fault,” he says, though his head is lifted now, and he doesn’t bother enthusing it with much gusto.
“Peter, none of it was your fault.” You cringe in your embarrassment, thinking Fuck, don’t let me ruin this. “I was in a weird way, and yes, I was lonely, and I really liked you more than I should have. You didn't want me and that wasn’t your fault, that’s just how it was, I tried not to let it get to me, just there were a lot of things weighing on me at once, but it really wasn’t as bad as you think it was and it wasn’t your fault.”
“I wasn’t there for you,” he says. “And I’ve been lying to you for a long time.”
“You couldn’t tell me, right? Spider-Man is your secret for a reason.”
“…I didn’t even know you were lonely until you told him. He was a stranger.”
You hold your hands behind your back. “Well, he was a familiar one.”
Peter reaches out as though wanting to touch you, but your arms aren’t in his reach. “It’s not because I didn’t want you.”
“Peter,” you say, squirming.
He steps back.
“I have to go,” he says.
“What?”
“I have to– I don’t want to go,” he says earnestly, “sweetheart, I can hear someone calling out, I have to go. But I’ll come back, I’ll– I’ll come back,” he promises.
And with a sudden lift of his arm, Peter pulls himself up the side of a building and disappears, leaving you whiplashed on the sidewalk, the sun setting just out of view.
—
You fall asleep that night waiting for Peter. When you wake up, 5AM, eyes aching, he isn’t there. You check your phone but he hasn’t texted. You check the Bugle and Spider-Man hasn’t been seen.
You aren’t sure what to think. He sounded sincere to the fullest extent when he said he’d come back, but he didn’t, not ten minutes later, not twenty. You made excuses and you went home before it got too dark to see the street, sat on the couch rehearsing what you’d say. How could Peter think your unhappiness was his fault? Why does he always put the entire world on his shoulders?
Selfishly, you worried what it all meant for his lazy touches. Would he want to curl up into bed with you again now he knows what it means to you? It’s different for him. It isn’t like he’s in love with you… you’d just thought maybe he could be. That this was falling in love, real love, not the unrequited ache you’d suffered before.
But maybe you got everything wrong. All of it. It wouldn't be the first time.
—
You and Peter found The Moroccan Mode in your senior year at Midtown. The school library was small and you were sick of being underfoot at home. When you started at ESU, you explored the on campus coffeehouse, the Coffee Bean, but it was crowded, and you’d found yourself attached to the Mode’s beautiful tiling, blues and topaz and platinum golds, its heavy, oiled wooden furniture, stained glass lampshades and the case full of lemony treats. The coffee here is better than anywhere else, but the best part out of everything is that it’s your secret. Barely anybody comes to the Mode on purpose.
You hide in a far corner with a book and an empty cup of decaf coffee, a slice of meskouta on the table untouched. Decaf because caffeine felt a terrible idea, meskouta untouched because you can’t stomach the smell. You push it to the opposite end of the table, considering another cup of coffee instead. It’s served slightly too hot, and will still be warm when it gets to your chest.
The sunshine is creeping in slowly. It feels like the first time you’ve seen it in months, warming rays kissing your fingers and lining the walls. You turn a page, turn your wrist, let the sun warm the scar you gave yourself those few months ago, when everything felt too big for you.
Looking back, it was too big. Maybe soon you’ll be ready to talk about it.
The author in your book is talking about bees. They can fly up to 15 miles per hour. They make short, fast motions from front to back, a rocking motion. Asian giant hornets can go even faster despite their increased mass. They consider humans running provocation. If you see a giant hornet, you’re supposed to lay down to avoid being stung.
You put your face in your hand. Next year, you’ll avoid the insect-based electives.
Across the cafe, the bell at the top of the door rings. Laughter falls through it, a couple passing by. The register clashes open. A minute later it closes.
You don’t raise your head when footsteps draw near. A plate is placed on the table, pushed across to you, stopping just shy of your coffee.
“Did you eat breakfast?” Peter asks quietly.
His voice is gentle, but hoarse.
You tense.
“Are you okay?” he asks, not waiting for your answer to either question. “You don’t look like yourself. Your eyes are red.”
You lift your head. Wet with the beginnings of tears, you see Peter through an astigmatic blur.
“What are you reading?” He frowns at you. “Please don’t cry.”
You shake your head. Your smile is all odd, nothing like his, no inherent warmth despite your best effort. “I’m okay.”
He nudges you across the booth seat and sits beside you. His arm settles behind your shoulders. He smells like smoke and soap, an acrid scent barely hidden. “Can you tell me you didn’t wait long for me?”
“Ten minutes,” you lie.
“Okay. I’m sorry. There was a fire.” He rubs your arm where he’s holding you. “I’m sorry.”
“Will you go half?” you ask, nodding to the sandwich he’s brought you. It’s tough sourdough bread, brown with white flour on the crusts and leafy greens poking between the slices. You and Peter complain about the price. You’ve never had one. He passes you the bigger half, holding the other in his hand without eating.
“I know you’re hungry,” you say, tapping his elbow, “just eat.”
You eat your sandwiches. Now that Peter’s here, you don’t feel so sick —he’s not upset with you. The dull pang of an empty stomach won’t be ignored.
Peter puts his sandwich down, which is crazy, and wipes his fingers on the plates napkin. You’ve never seen him stop before he’s done.
“It was in the apartments on Vernon. I– I think I almost died, the smoke was everywhere.”
You choke around a crust, thrusting the rest of your half onto the plate. “Are you hurt?” you ask, coughing.
He moves his head from side to side, not a shake, but a slow no. “How long have you known it was me?” he asks, curling his hand behind your back again, fingers spread over your shoulder blade, a fingertip on your neck.
You savour his touch, but you give in to your apprehension and stare at his chest. “The night you caught me outside in the rain in November. You called me ‘running girl’. The way you said it, you sounded exactly like him. I turned around expecting,” —you whisper, weary of the quiet cafe— “Spider-Man, and I realised it’s him that sounds like you. That he is you.”
“Was that disappointing?”
“Peter, you’re, like, my favourite person in the world,” you whisper fervently, your smile making it light. You laugh. “Why would that be disappointing?”
“I thought maybe you think he’s cooler than me.”
“He is cooler than you, Peter.” You laugh again, pleased when he scoffs and draws you nearer. “I guess you’re the same person, right? So he’s just as cool as you are. But why would being cool matter to me? You know I like you.”
“You flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.”
“Well, he flirted with me first.”
You chance a look at his face. From that moment you can’t look away, not from Peter. You like when he wears that darkness in his eyes, the hint of his rarer side so uncommonly seen, but you love this most of all, Peter like your best memory, the way he’s looking at you now a picture perfect copy of that moment in a swimming pool in Manhattan with cracked tile under your feet. His arms heavy on your shoulders. You didn’t get it then, but you’re starting to understand now.
“I’ve made a mess of everything,” he says softly, the trail his hand makes to the small of your back leaving a wake of goosebumps. “I haven’t been honest with you.”
“I haven’t, either.”
“I want to ask you for something,” Peter says, a fingertip trailing back up. He smiles when you shiver, not teasing, just loving. “You can say no.”
“You’re hard to say no to.”
“I need you to talk to me more,” —and here he goes, Peter Parker, flirting and sweet-talking like his life depends on it, his face inching down into your space— “not just because I love your voice, or because you think so much I’m scared you’ll get lost, but I need you to talk to me. We need to talk about real things.”
We do, you think morosely.
“It’s not your fault,” he adds, the hand that isn’t holding your back coming up to cup your cheek, “it’s mine. I was scared of telling you for stupid reasons, but I shouldn’t have let it be a secret for so long.”
“No, I doubt they’re stupid,” you murmur, following his hand as he attempts to move it to your ear. “It’s not easy to tell someone you’re a hero.”
His palm smells like smoke.
“That’s not the secret I meant,” he says.
You take his hand from your face. Peter looks down and begins pressing his fingers between yours, squeezing them together as his thumb runs over the back of your hand.
“So tell me.”
The sunshine bleeds onto his cheek. Dappled orange light turning slowly white as time stretches and the sun moves up through a murky sky. “You want to trade secrets again?” he asks.
“Please.”
“Okay. Okay, but I don’t have as many as you do,” he warns.
“I find that hard to believe.”
“I don’t. It’s not a real secret, is it? I’ve been trying to show you for weeks, we…”
He tilts his head invitingly.
All those hand-holds and nights curled up in bed together. Am I going too fast? You know exactly what he means; it really isn’t a secret.
“I’ll go first,” he says, lowering his face to yours. You try not to close your eyes. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks.” He closes his eyes so you follow, your breath not your own suddenly. You hold it. Let it go hastily. “What’s your secret?”
“Sometime I want you to kiss me so badly I can’t sleep. It makes me feel sick–”
“Sick?” he asks worriedly.
You touch the tip of your nose to his. “It’s like– like jealousy, but…”
“You have no one to be jealous of,” he says surely. He cups your cheek, and he asks, “Please, can I kiss you?”
You say, “Yes,” very, very quietly, but he hears it, and his smile couldn’t be more obvious as he closes the last of the distance between you to kiss you.
It isn’t the sort of kiss that kept you up at night. Peter doesn’t hook you in or tip your head back, he kisses gently, his hand coming to live on your cheek, where it cradles. It’s so warm you don’t know what to make of him beyond kissing him back —kissing his smile, though it’s catching. Kissing the line of his Cupid’s bow as he leans down.
“I’m sorry about everything,” he mumbles, nose flattened against yours.
You feel sunlight on your cheek. Squinting, you turn into his hand to peer outside at the sudden abundance of it. It’s still cold outside, but the Mode is warm, Peter’s hand warmer, and the sunshine is a welcome guest.
Peter drops his hand. “Oh, wow. December sun. Good thing it didn’t snow, we’d be blind.”
“I can’t be cold much longer,” you confess. “I’m sick of the shitty weather.”
“I can keep you warm.”
He smiles at you. His eyelashes tangle in the corners of his eyes, long and brown.
“Did you want my meskouta?” you ask.
Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow.
You let the sunshine warm your face. Two unfinished sandwich halves, a mouthful of coffee, and a round slice of meskouta, its flaky crumb and lemon drizzle shining on the table. You would ask Peter for his camera if you’d thought he brought it with him, to take a picture of your breakfast and the carved table underneath. You could turn it on Peter, say something cheesy. This is the moment you ruined our lives, you’d tease.
“You never told me you met Spider-Man, you know.”
You watch Peter lick the tip of his finger without shame. “They could make a novella of things I haven’t told you about,” you murmur wryly.
Peter takes a bite of meskouta, reaching for your knee under the table. He shakes your leg a little, as if to say, Well, we’ll work on that.
—
Spring
“Sorry!”
“No, it’s–”
“Sorry, sorry, I’m– shit!”
“–okay! All legs inside the ride?”
“I couldn’t find my purse–”
“You don’t need it!” Peter leans over the console to kiss your cheek. “You don’t have to rush.”
“Are you sure you can drive this thing?”
“Harry doesn’t mind.”
“I don’t mean the car, I mean, are you sure you can drive?”
“That’s not funny.”
You grin and dart across to kiss his cheek, too. “Nothing ever is with us.”
Peter grabs you behind the neck —which might sound rough, if he were capable of such a thing— and pulls you forward for a kiss you don’t have time for. “If we don’t check in,” —you begin, swiftly smothered by another press of his lips, his tongue a heat flirting with the seam of your lips— “by three, they said they won’t keep the room–” He clasps the back of your neck and smiles when your breath stutters. You squeeze your eyes closed, kiss him fiercely, and pull away, hand on his chest to restrain him. “And then we’ll have to drive home like losers.”
Peter sits back in the driver's seat unbothered. He fixes his hair, and he wipes his bottom lip with his knuckle. You’re rolling your eyes when he finally returns your gaze. “Sorry, am I the one who lost her purse?”
“Peter!”
“I can’t make us un-late,” he says, turning the key slowly, hands on the wheel but his eyes still flitting between your eyes and your lips.
“Alright,” you warn.
He reaches for your knee. “It’s a forty minute drive. You’re panicking over nothing.”
“It’s an hour.”
Your drive from Queens to Manhattan is entirely uneventful. You keep Peter’s hand hostage on your knee, your palm atop it, the other hand wrapped around his wrist, your conversation a juxtaposition, almost lackadaisical. Peter doesn’t question your clinging nor your lazy murmurings, rubbing a circle into your knee with his thumb from Forest Hill to Lenox Hill. There’s so much to do around Manhattan; you could visit MoMA, Central Park, The Empire State Building or Times Square, but you and Peter give it all a miss for the little known Manhattan Super 8.
It’s been a long time since you and Peter first visited. You took the bus out to Lenox Hill for a med-student tour neither of you particularly enjoyed, feeling out future careers. It’s not that Lenox Hill isn’t one of the most impressive medical facilities in New York (if not the northeastern USA), it’s that all the blood made him queasy, and you were panicking too much about the future to think it through. He got over his aversion to blood but chose the less hands-on science in the end, and you worked things through. You’re a little less scared of the future everyday.
You and Peter were supposed to get the bus straight back home for a sleepover, but one got cancelled, another delayed, and night closed in like two hands on your neck. Peter sensed your fear and emptied his wallet for a night in the Super 8.
The next morning it was beautifully sunny. The first day of summer that year, warm and golden. The pool wasn’t anything special but it was invitingly cool, blue and white tiles patterned like fish below; you clambered into the water in shorts and a tank top and Peter his boxers before a worker could see and stop you.
It was one of the best days of your life. When you told Peter about it last week, he’d looked at you peculiarly, said, Bub, you’re cute, and let you waste the afternoon recounting one of your more embarrassing pangs of longing. A few days later he told you to clear your calendar for the weekend, only spilling the beans on what he’d done when you’d curled over his lap, a hand threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring, Tell me, tell me, tell me.
He’d hung his head over you and scrunched up his eyes. Cheater.
The best thing about having a boyfriend is that he always wants to listen to you. Peter was a good listener as a best friend, but now he has his act together and the secrets between you are never anything more than eating the last of the milk duds or not wanting to pee in front of him, he’s a treasure. There’s no feeling like having Peter pull you into his lap so he can ask about your day with his face buried in your neck, sniffing. Sometimes, when you text one another to meet up the next day, you’ll accidentally will the hours away babbling about school and life and things without reason. Peter has a list on his phone of your silliest tangents; blood oranges to the super moon, fries dipped in ice cream to the world record for kick flips done in five minutes. It’s like when you talk to one another, you can’t stop.
There are quiet moments. You wake up some mornings to find him awake already, an arm behind you, rubbing at your soft upper arm, fingertip displacing the fine hairs there and trailing circles as he reads. He bends the pages back and holds whatever novel he’s reading at the bottom of his stomach, as though making sure you can see the words clearly, even when you’re sleeping.
There are hectic, aching moments —vigilante boyfriends become blasé with their lives and precious faces. You’ve teetered on the edge of anxiety attacks trying to pick glass from his cheek with a tweezers, lamented over bruises that heal the next day. It’s easier when Peter’s careful, but Spider-Man isn’t careful. You ask him to take care of himself and he’s gentle with himself for a few days, but then someone needs saving from an armed burglar or a car swerves dangerously onto the sidewalk and he forgets.
He hadn’t patrolled last night in preparation for today.
“Did you know,” he says, pulling Harry’s borrowed car into a parking spot just in front of the Super 8 reception, “that today’s the last day of spring?”
“Already?”
“Tonight’s the June equinox.”
“Who told you that?”
“Aunt May. She said it’s time to get a summer job.”
You laugh loudly. “Our federal loans won’t last forever.”
“Harry’s gonna get me something, I think. Do you want to work with me? It could be fun.”
You nod emphatically. It’s barely a thought. “Obviously I want to. Does Oscorp pay well, do you think?”
Peter lets the engine go. The car turns off, engine ticking its last breath in the dash. “Better than the Bugle.”
You get your key from the reception and find your room upstairs, second floor. It’s not dirty nor exceptionally clean, no mould or damp but a strange smell in the bathroom. There’s a microwave with two mugs and a few sachets of instant coffee. Peter deems it the nicest motel he’s ever stayed in, laughing, crossing the room to its only window and pulling aside the curtain.
“There it is, sweetheart,” he says, wrapping his arm around you as you join him, “that’s what dreams are made of.”
The blue and white tiled pool. It hasn’t changed.
It’s about as hot as it’s going to get in June today, and, not knowing if it’ll rain tomorrow, you and Peter change into your swim suits and gather your towels. You wear flip flops and tangle your fingers, clanking and thumping down the rickety metal stairs to the pool. There’s nobody there, no lifeguard, no quests, and the pool is clean and cold when you dip your toes.
Peter eases in first. Towels in a heap at the end of a sun lounger, his shirt tumbling to the floor, Peter splashes in frontward and turns to face you as the water laps his ribs. “It’s cold,” he says, wading for your legs, which he hugs.
“I can feel it,” you say, the cool waters to your calves where you sit on the edge.
“You won’t come in and warm me up?” he asks.
You stroke a tendril of hair from his eyes. He attempts to kiss your fingers.
“I’m trying to prepare myself.”
“Mm, you have to get used to it.” He puts wet hands on your thighs, looking up imploringly until you lean down for a kiss. The fact that he’d want one still makes you dizzy. “Thank you,” he says.
“You’ll have to move.”
Peter steps back, a ripple of water ringing behind him, his hands raised. He slips them with ease under your arms and helps you down into the water, laughing at your shocked giggling —he’s so strong, the water so cold.
Peter doesn’t often show his strength. Never to intimidate, he prefers startling you helpfully. He’ll lift you when you want to reach something too tall, or raise the bed when you’re on his side to force you sideways.
“Oh, this is the perfect place to try the lift!” he says.
“How will I run?” you ask, letting your knees buckle, water rushing up to your neck.
Peter pulls you up. He touches you easily, and yet you get the sense that he’s precious with you, too. There’s devotion to be found in his hands and the specific way they cradle your back, drawing your chest to his. “I don’t need you to do a running start, sweetheart,” he says, tilting his head to the side, “I’ll just lift you.”
“Last time I laughed so much you dropped me.”
“Exactly, you laughed, and this is serious.”
The world isn’t mild here. Car horns beep and tyres crunch asphalt. You can hear children, and singing, and a walkie talkie somewhere in the Super 8’s parking lot. The pool pumps gargle and Peter’s breath is half laughter as he pulls you further from the sidelines, ceramic tiles slippery under your feet. In the distance, you swear you can hear one of those songs he likes from that poor singer who died in the Wolf River.
He’s a beholden thing in the sun; you can’t not look at him, all of him, his sculpted chest wet and glinting in the sun, his eyes like browning honey, his smile curling up, and up.
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
You rest an arm behind his head. “The rash guard is a good look?”
“Sweetheart, you couldn’t look cuter,” he says, hands on your waist, pinky on your hip. “I wish you’d mentioned these shorts a few days ago. I would’ve prepared to be a more decent man.”
“You’re decent enough, Parker.”
“Maybe now.”
“Well, if things get too hot, you can always take a quick dip,” you say.
You’re teasing, but Peter’s eyes light up with mischief as he calls, “Oh, great idea!” and lets himself drop backwards into the water. You pull your arm back rather than go with him. You can’t avoid the great burst of water as he surges to the surface.
He shakes himself off like a dog.
“Pete!” you cry through laughs, wiping the water from your face before the chlorine gets in your eyes.
“It just didn’t help,” he says, pulling you back into his arms, “you know, the water is cold, but you’re so hot, and I actually got a pretty good look at them when I was under, and you’re just as pretty as I remembered you being ten seconds ago–”
“Peter,” you say, tempted to roll your eyes.
Water runs down his face in great rivers, but with the dopey smile he’s sporting, they look like anything but tears. “Tell me a secret?” he asks, dripping in sunshine, an endless summer at his back.
A soft smile takes your lips. “No,” you say, tipping up your chin, “you tell me one first.”
“What kind of secret?”
“A real one,” you insist.
“Oh…” He leans away from you, though his arms stay crossed behind you. “Okay, I have one. Ask me again.”
You raise a single brow. “Tell me a secret, Peter.”
He pulls your face in for a kiss. His hand is wet on your cheek, but no less welcome. “I love you,” he says, kissing the skin just shy of your nose.
You’re lucky he’s already holding you. “I love you too,” you say, gathering him to you for a hug, digging your nose into the slope of his neck as his admission blows your mind. “I love you.”
Peter wraps his arms around your shoulders, closing his eyes against the side of your head. You can’t know what he’s thinking, but you can feel it. His hands can’t seem to stay still on your skin.
The sun warms your back for a time.
Peter lets out a deep breath of relief. You lean away to look at him, your hand slipping down into the water, where he finds it, his fingers circling your wrist.
“That’s another one to let go of,” he suggests.
He peppers a row of gentle kisses along your lips and the soft skin below your eye.
You and Peter swim until your fingers are pruned and the sun has been blanketed by clouds. You let him wrap you in a towel, and kiss your wet ears, and take you back to the room, where he holds your face.
“I’ll start the shower for you,” he says, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, each stroke of them encouraging your face from one side to the other, just a touch, ever so slightly moved in the palms of his hands.
“Don’t fall asleep standing up,” he murmurs.
Your eyes close unbidden to you both. “I won’t.”
He holds you still, leaning in slowly to kiss you with the barest of pressure. Every thought in your head fades, leaving only you and Peter, and the dizziness of his touch as he lays you down at the end of the bed.
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please like, comment or reblog if you enjoyed, i love comments and seeing what anyone reading liked about the fic is a treat —thank you for reading❤︎
I stayed up all night reading this & wtf I’m actually in love with just how wonderful of a read this was ?!?!
I’m so immersed in this I’d read several chapters IMMEDIATELY! You wrote tasm!peter so well & the pining was hitting my heart SOOOO BAD OMG😩😩 I need more sorry I’m obsessed
