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Saying Things

Peter Parker x Reader

So this is for the precious, most adorable person @dej-okay because she deserves only good things.

Summary: You’d lost count of how many times you’d thought of kissing him. You had never let yourself imagine that maybe, he thought of it, too.

“Or how badly I’ve wanted you like this,” and he didn’t have to explain what he meant...”

Warnings: None. Just A LOT OF FLUFF AND CHEDDAR CHEESE. Words: 3.6k

“Parker,” you cautioned as he not-so-gingerly picked up the beaker that was mostly full of blue liquid that resembled and even smelt a little like Windex, shaky hands bringing it over to your side of the lab table, mixture sloshing around the insides, goggles beginning to steam up around his eyes from how heavily he was breathing, tiny rogue hairs from fallen waves at his forehead fluttering as warm puffs of air escaped from the spaces between funny eye wear.

It had taken the two of you nearly half an hour to mix the contents in said beaker just right, waiting for the telltale appearance of that crystal blue to color the glass and signal the correct chemical change.

You’d both laughed excitedly as you’d watched with anxious eyes, two pairs of goggles level with the table; forgetting that you were still holding glass tubes and going in for a high five, catching yourself with a sheepish expression just in time. He’d offered an air five instead.

“Peter, carefully,” you urged when the clumsy boy caught a sneakered foot on the corner of the table, neon blue peeking at the edge of its container as it swayed inside, nearly raining down on top of the shiny black below it.

“I know, I know, I’ve got this,” a tiny smirk following his words, and you found yourself believing him despite the sound of glass clanking together as he began pouring that blue liquid into the compound you’d just finished mixing up. The puffs of air fogging up both of your goggles stopped as blue hit green and you held your breaths, the whole feel of him changing when that red precipitate formed in uneven clumps at the bottom of the beaker. Bubbly laughter spilled from his lips in a rush of air as the tension released from his lungs and the smile that lit up the whole of his face kept you from doing the same, kept you from breathing, and you weren’t sure if you would ever be able to bring yourself to draw air into tingling lungs again if he were going to smile like that around you, at you.

Because he was looking at you with the sun in his eyes and happiness making up the whole of his features in a way that warmed your heart entirely and made your body feel sluggish and uneven like the mess of chemicals in that beaker. The longer you looked, the more aware you became of how the color of your cheeks must match the color of that clump, and oh, but his eyes were glowing, and you were glowing, and his lips were pink and stretched prettily across white, mostly-even teeth in that charming way that only his lips could.

And that was the first time you realized that Peter Parker was someone that you could kiss. Peter Parker was someone you wanted to be kissing.

“Look, the nerds got it right,” Flash’s voice broke through your thoughts, your eyes ripping away from the sun to look at the group gathering around your lab table, every pair holding a various shade of blue or green between them.

“Go team nerd,” and this time your hand met with his, palms and fingers slapping together beneath rubber gloves, bright smiles and fluttery lashes hidden beneath hair and goggles too big for your face as he started filling out the lab sheet in his neat, even handwriting.

Peter didn’t notice, but Flash certainly did. And it was strange, to see that the boy who regularly lashed out at him, chose this particular moment, this observation, and you suspected, this shared feeling, to offer you a small, secret smile behind the back of a sweatered Peter Parker.

Peter had been blowing up your phone for the past two days, texting you at all hours, constantly checking in on you since you had fallen down the stairs in your rush to get to class. He’d actually been the one to find you at the bottom, tears welling up in your eyes and a tear in your jeans where you’d hit and skid across the tile, twisting your knee and shredding the skin.

He’d surprised you with his strength, and then again when he’d delicately tucked you into his chest, lifting you up from the ground with careful arms behind shoulders and a rapidly bruising knee, taking you to the nurse. You’d nearly laughed out loud, laughed at yourself when your body reacted to his closeness even after taking a tumble; the way your body felt pressed into the lines of his, the fluttery tingling you felt between nerves that were burning, how soft his voice had been as he’d uttered feathery words like: “It’s OK, you’re OK, I’ve got you.”

“Please, please don’t cry. If you cry, I’ll cry, and I don’t have any tissues, so you’ll have to wipe your nose on my sleeve, and it’ll just be one big mess. We can’t have that, can we?” His face had been inches from yours, concern painting his eyes as he looked down at you.

“No, we can’t. No snot for you,” giving him a watery smile, face tight as you’d tried to get up from the floor; his hands were quick, and warm, and sweet as one wrapped around your shoulder, fingertips brushing at the bare skin of your neck, a calloused thumb hovering over a delicate collar bone, the other tethering your thigh to tile.

“No, no, let me, your knee looks bad, it’s already changing colors,” his brown eyes were asking permission and his cheeks were flushing with color, funny eyebrows raised and waiting for your answer.

“Y-yeah, OK, t-thank you, Peter,” without even thinking your nose had pressed into the crook of his neck as soon as he had you in his arms and off the ground, drawing in the scent of the heated skin there, all sunshine, honey, and musky rain clouds, “I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t hurt like hell.”

“I-I kn-know,” words stumbling out of him as your breath puffed against fine hairs, tickling, moisture teasing, unbeknownst to you, leaving smatterings of goosebumps over tensing arms and an excited heart, “almost there.”

He’d stayed with you in the office, elbows on his knees and a pointy chin in his hands with caramel-flecked eyes that watched your every move as you lay there, knee propped up on a stack of pillows, pack of ice balancing precariously where it was most swollen. His sweater had come off at the first sign of a shiver from you.

“Please?” His fingertips brushing past yours as he passed it to you.

“Thanks, Parker,” brushing hair out of your eyes, using long, shy lashes as blinds, avoiding what rested beneath his own for fear of giving yourself away.

“Yeahyeah, no problem.”

He surprised you again when on the third day of your absence he was there, knocking at your bedroom door and peeking a head covered in messy brown curls past the frame. You moved quickly to cover your legs with your blanket, self-consciousness immediately kicking in at the sight of him so close to the bubble of your safe space, at the thought of him seeing your legs bare, at seeing you in a tank top, at seeing you in your bed in your room where his eyes had never been before.

“P-parker, what are you doing here?” He hadn’t pushed the door open yet, careful eyes scanning your face, eager fingers peeking past the wood.

“Can I – Is it OK that I come in?” You were nodding before your brain had time to process that Peter Parker, the boy who constantly blinded you with dazzling smiles and a heart made of the sun, who was secretly strong but always gentle, was entering your world. It was strange that it felt such a big thing, like it was important, like it should be noted, even though it was happening now with no ceremony, no bells or whistles, just rattling nerves and shaky smiles.

“Yeah, yes, enter at your own risk,” sweaty fingers pointing up at the sign hanging above his head. When he walked past that threshold and into a new world where Peter suddenly existed where you did, and his shoulders shook as he laughed, eyes crinkling and cheeks pushing at baggy, tired puffs of sleeplessness, your heart settled and you released a breath, deciding that this was good and you very much liked him here, with you.

Even when he stood in the middle of your room, hands stuffed in pockets, backpack hanging off of one shoulder and messing up the plaid collar peeking from under a grey sweater. Even when those chocolate eyes scanned over the little secret pieces of yourself, secret pieces that weren’t a secret to him anymore, and a lazy smile had found those lips. Even when he finally turned to you and stared, words lost, like perhaps he too was beginning to realize the step he’d just taken.

“I like your room,” he managed, “did you do those?” He pointed to the push board you had decorated with sketches of flowers, the moon, famous faces, your childhood home, and him. You were praying he hadn’t noticed the one of him. You nodded, trying to rein in the panic and prepare yourself for the embarrassment when he did.

If he saw, he was gracious and kind, as he always was and said nothing, “They’re amazing. I had no idea you liked to draw.”

“Sometimes,” your eyes followed him as he moved to take a seat at the end of your bed, dropping his backpack at his feet, “it’s all about inspiration.” You didn’t miss the pale pink coloring the tops of his ears as he took your words in. Of course he’d seen. His eyes focused on his hands, tracing the lines of his palms, as seconds turned into a minute, maybe two where you just watched him and he worked studiously to avoid your eyes. His silence was too much, he was too much, pink ears, dark eyelashes, and fidgety fingers were too much, so you broke it.

“What are you doing here, Parker?” Curls jostled, settling over too-big ears and temples as he whipped his head towards you to catch your voice and offer a sheepish smile.

“Right, sorry,” unzipping his bag, he pulled out an old, ratty looking quilt that smelt overwhelmingly of him, passing it over to you with this vulnerable look on his face and in his eyes, “I wanted to bring you this, you-you know, for comfort. To help you, with your knee. It’s mine-well, is mine now. It was my uncle’s before, you know,” Before you could say anything, before you could tell him in so many words that your heart was now a sopping puddle of adoration full of the heaviness of his gesture, he was already talking again, silence having been broken, he was now a bundle of nerves, an open heart, and a blur of words.

“Anyway, here’s all of the homework you’ve missed. I took notes for you, and I thought that I could, um, maybe go over them with you, h-help you with your make-up work and studying, or whatever,” he was digging in his bag again. Your fingers traced over swirling patterns and faded colors as you watched the way his mouth moved around the sounds, lost in thought, lost in all of the walls crumbling and the feel and smell of this new world you existed in, lost in that feeling you’d had many times since that day in chemistry where you realized how much you wanted his lips to know yours, too.

“Oh, and I got you these,” you looked up to the crinkling plastic of your favorite snack and a nervous smile, “I know you like them. I’ve seen you with a bag almost every day at lun-” you cut him off with a kiss to the cheek, too afraid of what else would change if you’d pressed at his lips instead, if you’d thanked him where your eyes always hovered, lingering, trying your best to convey everything you were feeling through the warmth blossoming where bodies were connected by blushing cheeks and blushing lips.

“Oh,” he whispered, like he’d clued in, like he was smiling, like he was singing.

“Thanks, Park-Peter. Peter.”

“Yeahyeah, no, uh, no problem,” he whispered again, eyes wide and full of the sun. Your fingers were pacing over fabric again.

“About this homework -”

“Right, right, so in Physics,” and he was a blushing mess as his fingers shuffled through the papers he’d brought you, smile on his face that brought that feeling right back, lips unsated, lips wanting more now that they’d stepped into that known world of his skin.

“You-you’re,” his answering laugh was uncomfortable, gloved hand rubbing at the back of a masked neck; gesture helping to ground your shocked heart because it was so familiar, “Peter, you’re telling me that you’re the Spider-Man?” There was doubt in your words where there was none in your heart. Looking at the shape of him and the way he held himself, hearing him, that voice and his laugh, smelling him; that mix of sweetness, spring-time, and musk that was wholly Peter, you knew it was the truth, that maybe, perhaps you’d always known that Peter was more.

“That’s what I’m telling you,” the lines of his jaw and too-big ears hiding beneath red lycra nodding as he took a step closer to where you sat, where he’d told you to sit when he’d shown up at the time and place where he’d wanted you to be, yellow light from the lamp post above your heads casting shadows, accentuating the lines of him that you knew so well even beneath the disguise.

“Ok then, Peter, let me see,” shaky fingers pointing up at his masked head that he was already shaking in response.

“I can’t, not here,” he took a seat next to you, scratchy costumed thighs rubbing against the sides of softer ones as he leaned into you, shoulder burning as his pressed into yours, white reflective eyes peering, pleading with the last bit of disbelief gleaming in them, “but you know, I know you know.” Hesitantly, he placed a hand on your knee, warmth of him spreading through your limbs from that point, like he knew that touching you would be the punctuation mark you need for the questions you’d had swirling in your mind. He watched as your eyes traced over red fingers and the ways they molded around you.

“I do, I know,” you were looking at him, looking at those hazy white shields that hid chocolate brown eyes, “you’re so good, of course it’s you.” Warm fingers squeezed and you heard a sigh push past lips, sound muted through tight weaves.

“But, Peter, what you’re doing, it’s so-so dangerous. Why?” You were asking, but in your heart of minds you already knew the answer to that question, the words were still bouncing around your chest: because he is good, strong, gentle, kind, and warm. You remembered that day months ago where he’d picked you up from cold tile and carried you; the ease and grace he’d done it with surprising then, making sense now.

“Because I can, so I should,” the words were simple, but the weight of them pressed down on the red and blue of his back like the moon did the ocean. And suddenly there was that feeling again, only this time you didn’t just want to kiss him for yourself you wanted to do it for all of the times no one had, you wanted to leave hundreds and hundreds of ‘thank yous’ on his skin like craters, for all of the ‘because I cans’ and ‘so I shoulds.’

Instead, you wrapped your arms around the broadness of his shoulders and curled your hands around the back of his head, pulling him to you and holding as tightly as you could; indebted, giving him all of the worry that no one knew they should be feeling for the boy behind the suit, giving him the warmth and unspoken words of gratitude that no even knew to package and label ‘Peter Parker.’

But you knew, so you held him and whispered with your arms and heart.

Your lips kissed at where his ear poked through fabric, at his temples, lips spelling out everything for the boy who could, so did.

“You have got to stop,” your hands were linked together behind his neck, a few fingers twirling around loose, toffee curls, forearms resting comfortably on firm jacketed, shoulders. His hands were warm, holding on to your hips, steadying himself as you swayed with him, bodies brushing against each other as you moved.

“I have to stop what?” His eyebrows were furrowed, but the grin on his face told you that he knew. He knew what your heart whispered in that secret space inside your chest. His heart had heard it, had answered many times; had encouraged him to ask you to Homecoming. The last Homecoming.

“Saying things,” forehead leaning against his collar to hide your face, the look of him under the stars, dressed as nicely as he was, with that knowing look in his eye and that stupid smirk on his face too much.

“You want me to stop talking?”

“Yes,” you spoke to the flower pinned at his chest.

“So,” his hands were wrapped fully around your back now, pulling you flush with him, bodies humming and veins swimming with sugar and honey and syrup, “I can’t tell you how pretty you are?”

“Peter,” you whined, face, neck, and chest as red as the rose on your corsage.

“What about,” he paused, drawing out the sounds of his words to tease you further, your heart hanging on every syllable, “how you make my heart feel like its stopping and starting again all at once?” Your ear was pressed to his chest and you could hear it, hear what he meant, how that thing in his chest was flying like a bird does on a clear day. One of his hands had worked its way up your back and into your hair, fingertips sculpting warmth where they touched and pulled at your jaw, pulling your face up from the safety of his chest to look at him. You shook your head with fine, delicate brows furrowed and scrunched, a pout on your stained lips.

“Or how badly I’ve wanted you like this,” and he didn’t have to explain what he meant; that he had wanted to touch you, in all ways, to have your lines blurred, to share in breaths and warmth and feelings, worlds and secret pieces.

It wasn’t so silly to think that his lips probably begged to be with yours in his own secret place, too.

“Peter,” you whispered, that feeling that was always there now, the one that begged you constantly to just embrace his lips like your heart had all of him, was boiling over and you weren’t entirely sure you could keep yourself from it any longer. Not with those words and this night and the way the little points of light above you in that inky blackness were reflected and dancing in the warm, earthy honey colors of his eyes as they took in the sight of you so wrapped up in every part of him.

“I’m going to stop using words now, OK?”

His hands were cradling your face and all of the stars, save for the ones he was made of, disappeared when lips begged no more and instead started to sing.

They kept singing for a second, a third, a fourth, and for all times to come as he kept kissing, kept pulling and pushing in all of the ways you’d wanted to for months, years; the shape of his lips changing as he smiled, happiness leeching into happy kisses. Happy kisses full of bright light; of hearts colliding and a new Universe forming blazed through your body, your soul, when his lips finally blended with the world of yours, a new feeling blossoming as his lips and your lips, your lips; two lips now one, embraced and danced together in warmth, across new terrain and unexplored but well-mapped territory in a land with winds that breathed Peter across mountains, rivers, valleys, and oceans of emotion.

He was still hovering over wet, swollen lips when he found his words again, “Ok, wow, thank you,” thin lips stained a shade darker from the way you’d painted his, eyelashes fluttering over rosy cheeks.

“Really, what sort of dork says ‘thank you’ after a kiss like that?” You were laughing at him and taking in his face, the face of Peter stepping into a new world where you and he existed and kissed each other.

“Umm, the sort of dork you like?” And the way he said it warmed you further.

“And excuse me, but I wasn’t thanking you. I was thanking the Universe, because I was definitely dying tonight if I didn’t get to do that,” and the way he said it was magnetic and pulled your lips to his again, the sound of your lips pulling apart new and exciting and a sound you wanted to hear again and again because it was yours.

“Peter, you are the Universe.”

He smiled that smile that was made of sunlight, pressing those warm, moist lips to your forehead, lingering in that heat pooling where two points of crackling, sparking souls met and spun.

“You need to stop talking now.”

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Tag list: @demigodofthesun @jadeindiamonds @radicalstars @klenasdmitry @dej-okay @spiderling--parker @walkers-imagine @kauffdrop @ironspiderling

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