Warnings: Canonical violence, attacked reader, building fire
Prompt: “Is that my shirt?” from this list
Summary: Y/N is dating Peter Parker, an all-around great guy that she’s trying to convince herself she should stay with, when a late-night incident forces her to confront a hidden detail about him.
A/N: It’s been awhile since I’ve written for Peter and I’m always in my feels about him after No Way Home, so I decided it was time to put pen to paper. I hope you enjoy this story. Thank you, as always, for supporting my writing in all the ways you do. It wouldn’t be the same without someone to read it. Dividers by @firefly-graphics
Peter is a nice guy. He’s handsome, he’s kind, and he never makes you wonder whether or not he actually likes you. You remind yourself of this all the time, and you do the mental arithmetic every time your brain betrays you and tries to tell you that you should break up with him. After a long string of boyfriends that left you brokenhearted and crying on the subway, it’s about time you finally found one that doesn’t. And yet… A part of you never stops hoping that you’ll find a good guy who’s also a little bit of a rebel. Just a little bit.
“Do you want Chinese or Italian?” Peter asks, and you look up from where you’re crocheting on the couch. You’ve got your feet propped up on the rickety coffee table you’d helped him carry up seven flights of stairs last weekend. It was scratched on both the legs and the top, but it was free, and neither one of you could argue with that, though you feel a little bad every time you think about it. Peter doesn’t have many nice things, and you know that he’s worked hard for what he’s got.
“Italian sounds good,” you answer. You don’t look up, but you feel his eyes on you, so you reluctantly finish the row you’re working on before dragging your eyes away from your latest project to look up at him. “What?”
He’s got a little half-smile on his face, the kind that lifts up just one corner of his lips and always makes you grin back at him.
“Nothing,” he replies, and you laugh, feeling your face grow warm when he breaks into a real smile a moment later.
“Stop staring at me, you weirdo!” You throw a skein of yarn at him and he catches it easily.
“I wasn’t staring, I swear! I was just thinking!”
“Oh yeah? Were you… thinking really hard while looking in my direction? Because it sure looked like you were staring at me.” He tosses the yarn back onto the couch beside you and sits on the end of his bed. His GED study manual is still on the floor and he pushes it under the low wooden bed frame with his foot so it’s out of the way. He’d passed the test a few weeks ago—you’d gone out for dinner to celebrate, and he’d been a little flustered when you’d insisted on paying. You’ve learned that he doesn’t like it when other people foot the bill, even if it’s for a good reason.
“Something like that,” he says, still smiling to himself.
He picks up his phone and starts ordering the food, and you go back to your project. Comfortable silence settles over his studio apartment. In the hallway, the neighbors two floors down are fighting again, and the wind outside is howling in the alley created by Peter’s building and his neighbors. If you sit up a little, you could probably see the man across the way doing pull-ups on the bar he’s conveniently installed near the windows. You’re fairly certain it’s there so he can feel like he’s being admired by whoever catches a glimpse of him when he works out, which is frequently, but who are you to judge?
“Food’s ordered.” Peter sets his phone down on the bed, only to pick it up again when it chimes. He straightens immediately after reading the notification, and you lift your eyebrows so you can look back up at him. You knew the sound—his work group chat had a distinct chime.
“What’s wrong?” you ask.
He glances at you, and you can tell just from the quick look on his face that whatever it is, it’s serious. You set the crochet in your lap so you can give him all your attention. He doesn’t reply.
“Peter?” Standing from the bed, he shoves phone into the pocket of his khakis and grabs the jacket he’d thrown on his desk chair when you’d come in. His backpack is on the floor beside it, and he grabs that too.
“There’s an emergency,” he tells you, and you know that it’s not the whole truth. There are lots of “emergencies” at the repair shop. This behavior is not “emergency” behavior. This is “catastrophe” behavior. He’s rushing his words and looking around wildly until he finds his watch on the side of the kitchen sink.
“Peter—“
“The food’s all ordered, it’ll be here in 45 minutes. Save some for me, yeah? I gotta go!”
He’s headed toward the door already and you hurriedly set aside your hooks and yarn, standing and stepping around the coffee table to get to him, but Peter’s in the hallway and taking the stairs in threes by the time you even get to the door.
“Be safe!” you call after him.
There’s a strange feeling in your stomach, one you don’t get very often. Something is very, very wrong, and you don’t like that he isn’t being honest with you about whatever it is. You try to respect Peter’s privacy when it comes to work; he’d told you when you’d first met that he works with technology that’s still being patented and machines that are top secret. He’s low on the food chain at the shop, but he knows enough that he can’t talk about it.
You stand in the doorway to his apartment until you hear the front door slam at the bottom of the stairs. Peter has a chain lock and a deadbolt, and you lock both before standing just inside the apartment, fidgeting with your phone. The door slams again, echoing in the stairwell, and you jump a little bit. It feels like your skin is crawling. You shiver and grip your phone harder before forcing yourself to take a long, slow breath. You slip your phone back in your pocket, then go back to the couch and pick up your crochet.
The attempt to focus is short-lived. Less than a few minutes later, you’re up again, pacing back and forth across Peter’s apartment and checking your phone every few seconds. You’re not even sure what you’re looking for or waiting for, but the small voice in the back of your head keeps telling you over and over again that something is wrong.
“He’s fine,” you say firmly, stopping yourself in the middle of the room. “He’s fine. He’s an adult. He can handle whatever it is. If something was really wrong, he’d tell me. He knows that he can trust me, and I can trust him. He’s fine.”
Though deep down you know you’re unconvinced, you take another deep breath and look around. Peter hasn’t had a chance to tidy up since the weekend, so you put your phone down on the coffee table and put yourself to work picking up dirty laundry and piling it together. Once that’s done, you start folding the basket of clean clothes that he’d stashed between his nightstand and the wall after your joint trip to the laundromat last Friday night.
About halfway through the basket of laundry, you realize that you’re still wearing your work clothes. You haven’t put away your own clean clothes, so you’d pulled your last-resort outfit from the dresser this morning. It’s uncomfortable in the worst possible way.
He won’t mind, you think, staring at the t-shirt in your hands. Would he?
The shirt is a dingy white and baggy, just like the shirts you wear for pajamas, so after a quick glance to make sure the door is locked and both sets of blinds are down, you shed your work clothes and pull on a pair of Peter’s loosest sweatpants and the t-shirt. The yellow taxi on the front is a bit obnoxious, but no one will see you wearing it except Peter.
Satisfied, you flop back down on the couch, stretching your legs out and grabbing your crochet. From this position, you can see the door clearly, and it would be easy to put your hooks down when the food arrives. Your phone is still on the table to your left and you glance at it, wondering if you’ve missed anything. The volume is up though, so you know you haven’t.
You fall asleep with your crochet in hand. You wake to a knock at the door, and you squint into the darkness, your half-awake mind only processing that you’d fallen asleep, and now you’re awake again. You don’t truly hear the knock until it happens again, and even then all you do is shift your eyes to stare at the door instead of the ceiling. Groaning a little, you sit up and scrub your face with your hands. There’s crusty gunk in your eyes, which is a surefire sign that you’ve been out for at least a few hours. Your back is stiff and all your muscles protest at the change in position. You grab your phone and tap the screen, squinting at the light so you can read the time. It’s after midnight and you frown. There’s no way the person that knocked—who now knocks for the third time, at the very least—is the food delivery person from the restaurant Peter had ordered from. Your brain is starting to catch up, and there’s a weird sense of dread as you look over at the locked front door, listening in total silence. The person shuffles out in the hallway and you get the single warning of the doorknob jiggling in place before the door is blasted into the apartment with a force much greater than just a single person. You shout and throw yourself out of the way. Your back hits the couch cushions before you scramble upwards, sitting on top of them with your back against the wall and your feet where you’d just been sleeping.
A burly man dressed in black barrels toward you, and you jump off the couch to try and get away from him. You run to the bed, then dart toward the door when you think you have an opening, but he grabs your wrist and yanks hard, pulling you back toward him. In what feels like a split-second, he has you pressed with your back against the kitchenette. Your arms are pinned against your sides and he presses one gloved hand over your mouth when you try to scream again. A smoke detector somewhere in the building is going off and your mind is whirling, trying to process everything that’s happening. Your heart pounds in your chest and it feels like you can’t breathe. The apartment was already dark, but your head is swimming and a small part of you knows that if you don’t get yourself under control soon, you’re going to pass out.
“Where is he? Where did he hide it?” the man growls, and you frantically shake your head, staring at him with wide eyes.
Is he looking for Peter? Why would anyone like this want anything to do with Peter?
A second man pushes his way into the apartment behind the first and starts to look around, overturning couch cushions and the bed covers. He tears Peter’s apartment apart as you struggle against the man holding you against the stove. You can feel the knobs for the gas burners pressing into your back and the smell of gas is slowly filling the space around you. It makes your head swim even more and between that and the hand smothering you, you’re having trouble staying focused.
“It’s not here,” reports the second man, and the first pulls you away from the stove, keeping you carefully held so you can’t escape. You thrash in his grip, screaming as loud as you can behind the leather glove that’s pressed against your face.
“Check again!” he orders. “He’s gotta have it here somewhere. We saw him leave and the tracker was in this unit. It’s gotta be here!”
Smoke is wafting in from the doorway behind you and you freeze, watching as it rolls across the ceiling, its acrid smell mixing with the gas in the apartment. The smoke detector you’d heard continues to beep, and more have joined it. The detector in Peter’s apartment doesn’t go off, however, and you have a vague recollection of reminding him that he needed to change the batteries. After a few seconds, your brain helpfully kicks in again.
Fire, it reminds you, and you suddenly lurch forward on instinct, catching the man off guard. His grip loosens just enough for you to move your arm up and back. Your elbow lands near his hip and he lets go of your face, cursing.
Get out of the building!
“Help!” you scream. “Fire! Help me!”
The man has let go of you even more now, and you wiggle away from him, trying to get to the door, but the second man has realized his partner’s predicament and is heading for you. Just as you reach the steps, he grabs you by the hair and drags you back into the apartment. It’s quickly filling up with smoke, and the burner knob is still twisted just enough to keep releasing sharp-smelling gas into the air. Your eyes are burning and you cough, choking on it.
“Let her go!”
You freeze at the new voice, and the two men do too. Though your scalp is burning from the smaller man’s grip on your hair, you turn just enough to see that the window is open. Spider-Man is perched on Peter’s desk.
Thank God, you think, and you cough again, your lungs trying desperately to get fresh air as it seeps in through the open window. You didn’t even know Peter’s windows could open.
“Where is it?” the first man says over the sound of sirens down at street level. He coughs hard at the end of his demand and brings his hand up to his face to try to protect himself from the smoke.
“Listen man, I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I can guarantee it’s not here. Just let her go so I can get all these people outta here,” Spider-Man replies. “The cops already know you’re in here and they’ll be here any minute.”
There’s a tense moment where nobody speaks or moves. You inhale shallow breaths, trying to keep your presence as small as possible in hopes that the man might loosen his grip on you again. Before you can attempt another escape, however, the building shudders beneath you and the burly man charges Spider-Man.
All hell breaks loose. The man is immediately flung backward, landing on the door that had been lying propped up against the coffee table. It cracks and falls to the floor, which shakes beneath your feet. The man holding you lets out an angered shout and yanks you to the side. He throws you toward his partner, who grabs you and wrestles you to the floor. Spider-Man leaps from the desk to avoid being grabbed, and then the man holding you is lifted away. You scramble backward, heading for the door. The building is old, and the only fire escape on the floor is through a window in the hall, so even though you can feel the intense heat radiating up the main stairwell and into Peter’s apartment, you still have to try.
“Stop! Y/N!”
Your legs follow the command before your brain catches up, and you stop just before you reach the open doorway to the hall. A second later, there’s an explosion of heat in front of you, scorching your face and making you screw your eyes shut. Something tugs the back of your shirt and you’re pulled away from the doorway. You fight against the person’s grip until you open your eyes again and see the red arm wrapped around you.
“Hang on!” Spider-Man orders, his voice right in your ear. You grab onto him as tightly as you can, coughing as the smoke fills your lungs. Only a moment later, fresh night air replaces the burning and your head swims all over again. The world around you flies by. Lights blur into long thin lines and you blink a few times, your head and eyelids feeling heavy as wind whips your hair across your face.
“I think I’m gonna pass out,” you say, but your mouth feels like it’s someone else’s and you’re not quite sure if the words actually made it out.
“I gotcha, it’s okay.”
The next thing you see is Peter above you, his eyes searching your face. When he sees you dumbly staring up at him, he breathes a sigh of relief.
“Peter?” you ask. Your head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. Part of you is trying to put together what happened, but mostly you’re soaking in the feeling of cold concrete beneath you and even colder wind on your exposed skin. It’s the exact opposite of the fire and as you stare up at him, your brain registers that Spider-Man had just pulled you from a burning building where you’d been attacked.
You gasp and sit up suddenly, then grab Peter’s offered arm when it feels like you might immediately slump over again.
“Peter! Your building! It’s— I was—”
The words don’t come out like you want them to. You start to try again, but you fall silent when you realize what Peter’s wearing.
At a loss for words, you try to catch your breath as you look him over. The red and blue suit you’ve seen on the news and online over the past year looks different up close, and it highlights lean muscles that Peter usually hides beneath several layers of clothing. The mask is gone completely, revealing his pale skin that stands out against the darkness. He’s watching you with uncertainty in his eyes, like he’s not sure if you’ll make a run for it.
“You’re…” You trail off, not really believing what you want to say. You look him over again to make sure you’re not just seeing things.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
You swallow thickly. Your throat is burning after inhaling so much smoke and gas, and you feel like you could sleep for a hundred years, but you just can’t get the words out. All this time you’d been under the impression that Peter was nothing more than a good boyfriend that you could feasibly see yourself settling down with, when in reality, he’d been hiding a secret life. It was almost too much to wrap your head around.
“Y/N?” he prompts, and you nod.
“I’m okay, I think.”
“You passed out.” Peter reaches forward with one hand and brushes hair out of your eyes as another cold wind blows over the rooftop. “When I realized what was happening, I—” He chokes on the words and it’s then that you notice the tears in his eyes.
Carefully, you reach out and take his gloved hand in yours. The fabric is softer than you expected.
“You saved me,” you tell him. “I didn’t…” You inhale deeply and cough, pressing your other hand to your mouth as he shifts closer to rub your back with his own free hand.
“It’s okay,” he soothes. “I’ve got you.” His voice is so tender that it makes your heart squeeze in your chest.
How often does he talk to people like this? How many people has he saved? How often does he come that close to dying?
Tears prick in your eyes and as your lungs settle, expanding and contracting smoothly once again, you swallow the dry feeling in your mouth and try again.
“They could have killed you, Peter. You could have died. I could have died.”
He closes his eyes, as if the simple thought of that happening is too much for him to bear. Your stomach churns a little at the realization of how close you’d come to a terrible ending. You breathe in sharply through your nose, pressing your lips together and closing your eyes to try and quell the feeling. The cold air against your face helps and you tilt your head back to feel it more against your cheeks.
“I wouldn’t let that happen,” Peter says, and you open your eyes, lowering your head to look at him again. He’s staring at you with such ferocity that you think for a second that he’s angry, but then you realize it’s something else.
His ex, you remember. He’d told you shortly after you’d started dating that he’d been in an accident with his ex-girlfriend and his best friend almost a year ago. It’s one of the few things that he refuses to talk about, along with the details of his work.
Which probably doesn’t have anything to do with patents at all, you think, realizing the real secret he’d been keeping isn’t a secret any longer.
“Peter?” you ask quietly. You need answers to at least one of your questions, so you start with the first that came to mind. When he inclines his head toward you, you continue, “You said you’d been in an accident with your ex-girlfriend and your friend…”
He looks away and though you know it’s painful for him to talk about, you press on. You need to know.
“Was it something like today?” you ask him.
After several long moments, he inhales deeply and sits up a little, but he still doesn’t look at you. Even from the side, you can see that his eyes are puffy and rimmed with red, and he clenches his jaw in an attempt to stave off the tears that are gathering in his eyes.
“No. It wasn’t… There was more to it than there was today. Today was just normal people.”
“And with her they were… not normal people? What does that mean?”
He shakes his head and sniffles, and he wipes tears on the back of his hand with an angry swipe. “It’s complicated. They… had abilities that they shouldn’t have. I can’t talk about it.”
You stare at him for a few seconds before nodding. You’ll have to learn to live with not knowing, at least until he’s ready to tell you. After all, life as a vigilante—a superhero—is bound to come with secrets.
“Okay,” you quietly say.
In the distance, you can see the flames from Peter’s apartment building, and the lights from the firetrucks and police cars reflecting against the windows of other buildings nearby. You look over at them, your shoulders slumping in defeat.
“Oh, Peter… Your apartment. It’s gone.”
He pulls you closer and wraps his arms around you, adjusting his position so that you’re sitting with your back against his chest. You watch the fire as it slowly gets put out by the trucks, but you both know that the building was beyond saving even before you’d stopped to watch its destruction.
“Is that my shirt?” he murmurs. His arms around you are keeping you warm despite the short sleeves, and you turn your head a little to look back at him.
“I wanted to change out of my work clothes. I’m sorry.”
Peter shakes his head and holds you a little tighter. His voice sounds choked when he replies, “No, it’s… It’s my favorite. You saved it.”
Relief unravels the knot in your stomach and you lean back against him, closing your eyes. He presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“Thank you,” you murmur back. “Not just for today, but for everything you’ve done. You’ve helped so many people, Peter. You’re a good guy.”
He’s silent. Finally, you open your eyes and tilt your head back against his shoulder to look up at him. His gaze is focused on the building in the distance, and he’s tearing up again. Hesitantly, you reach up with one hand to cup his cheek in your palm.
“Peter?”
He meets your eyes, and there’s so much pain in his expression that you immediately shift positions, turning in his arms so you’re sitting face to face. He looks away then, staring down at his hands when you collect them in yours.
“You can stay with me, okay?”
He shakes his head. “It’s all gone.”
“Your stuff?”
“Their stuff.”
You don’t question what he means by that. You know that he’s talking about the picture frame of him and his aunt, and the few things he has from his childhood. There’s another picture of him and Tony Stark that he keeps on his desk, one that he looked at whenever he needed motivation to study for his GED exam. You also know that he’s talking about the small box of things he keeps under the bed, pushed against the wall, from his time with his ex-girlfriend. You’ve never seen him take it out, nor have you ever seen what’s in it, but you know it’s there, and you know it’s important to him. He’d truly loved her, and you think that a small part of him still does, even to this day. It would bother you more if you knew she was still out there, but Peter’s made it clear to you that it’s not even a possibility any more.
You’ve both been through a lot and the exhaustion is weighing heavy on your bones. You know that it is for Peter, too, when he shakes his head a little to try and wake himself up. He takes a deep breath and wipes his eyes again.
“Let’s go to my place,” you tell him.
“I should take you to the ER,” he counters. “I should’ve taken you as son as you passed out. You inhaled a lot of smoke, and you got thrown around…”
You shake your head and squeeze the hand your still holding. “Take me tomorrow. Right now I just want to shower and go to bed.”
Reluctantly, he agrees and grabs his mask from where he’d tossed it onto the concrete. You stand up together. He takes a few steps toward the edge of the roof, and you watch as he pulls his backpack from a dark crevice.
“You don’t seem surprised to find out I’m Spider-Man.”
“Do you want me to be?” you ask.
“Most people have lots of questions.”
Shrugging a little, you slip your hand into his. “I’ll think of some for tomorrow, okay? I’ll pester you all day with them if you want.”
A small, tired smile appears on his face. “Okay. Hold on tight.”
Peter shows you the places where it will be the easiest for you to hold onto him, and he pulls you so close that you feel almost too hot from the heat radiating off his body. After he’s checked that you’ve got a good grip, there’s a moment of stillness where the two of you stand together on the rooftop. The wind has quieted down as you breathe in the scent of Peter’s soap and the smoke that lingers in the fabric of his suit. You’re used to him holding you, but not like this. It’s different—it’s more intimate. You know more of him now than you did the last time you stood together like this.
As you consider this, he breaks into a sprint and then you’re flying through the city air. You let out a cry, one that’s simultaneously a shout of surprise and of unhindered joy. Your breath catches in your throat as you let out a laugh, and you’re torn between squeezing your eyes shut and keeping them open so you can take it all in. The wind stings, making your eyes tear and your cheeks tingle, but it’s exhilarating and your heart pounds in your chest as a newfound love for your city blossoms inside of you. You’ve never experienced it like this, let alone with the person you’re beginning to love, and it almost makes up for everything you’ve been through today.
When you finally land on the rooftop of your own building, you’re laughing. Peter grins as he releases you and pulls off his mask.
“That was amazing!” you say, almost out of breath. “Is it always like that?”
“Not always, but it’s pretty cool,” he agrees. “You never forget it.”
You nod in agreement and wrap your arms around him in a tight hug. You press your cheek against him and close your eyes so you can really hug him hard. “Thank you.”
He hugs you back, and you can tell he’s smiling when he replies, “Anytime.”
You pull away after a second, then look up at him, still grinning. “We should head to bed.”
“I don’t know if I can sleep, not tonight,” he answers, though you know he’s dead tired.
Squeezing his hand, you pull him toward the access door to the stairs as you say, “Then we can just lay down together. You can watch something on my laptop, if you want.”
Peter lets you lead him down the stairs to your apartment, where you collect the extra key from the hidden nook carved into the ancient stair rail. You unlock the door, lock it behind the two of you, then lead him to your room, where your comfortable bed and sweet, blessed rest await.
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Amazing Spider-Man!Peter Parker x Female!Nurse!Reader: Kaleidoscope Heart
Summary: It's been a long, long time since Peter Parker thought he had a chance at being happy.
Rating/Tags: T (Reader-Insert; Female Reader-Insert; POV Second Person; Amazing Spider-Man!Peter Parker; Post-Spider-Man: No Way Home; Nurse!Reader; mentioned Gwen Stacy; Mentioned Gwen Stacy/Peter Parker; Love Confessions; Hospitals; Secrety Identity Reveal)
Pairings/Relationships: Peter Parker/Reader
Tag List: @imaginesfire
Ao3 Version
Word Count: 3,501
Request: "Hello! I’m being brave with no anon lol I finally got around to seeing TASM2 and I loved it, so I figured I’d toss in a possible request for a TASM-verse!Peter x reader where the reader is a nurse at the same hospital where May works? Otherwise if that’s too specific I’m just very excited for this other TAS oneshot you dangled (heh) a few days ago."
Requester: @toy-flower
Notes: Wow, this request sure took me nearly five years to complete, didn't it? My sincerest apologies. Sometimes I go a very long time without writing, and then on top of that I really did avoid tackling this for a long time just so that I didn't have to rewatch The Amazing Spider-Man 2 because it always makes me cry. But I finally got around to it because I wanted to make this Peter sound like that Peter, not just write the MCU Spider-Man and call it a day. I hope that that makes a marked difference.
Honestly, I don't even know if the requester will see this. Again, I am sorry for taking so long. I decided to combine your request with the one shot idea I had at the time--I never could come up with a good plot to go alongside it.
Kaleidoscope Heart
Peter Parker thought he had never seen New York City so beautiful—his New York City, moody gray streaked through with gleaming red, smelling of manhole steam and Subway restaurant bread. He breathed in deeply. New York, New York! How he had missed home, not just while he'd been in the other New York City, but for the last seven years. Funny how a day or two trapped in a world of searing scarlet and gold could make him long so much for the perpetually muted colors of his own universe.
"Woo-hoo!"
The thrill of knowing that he and the other two Peters had succeeded momentarily caused him to forget himself. His voice echoing back against the windowed walls of the nearby skyscrapers reminded him. He clapped one hand over his mouth and moved away from the ledge he stood on. Yes, those were definitely his lips, not the smooth expanse of spandex he should have felt. Swearing, he hastily smoothed out the crumpled mask in his hand and yanked it over his head.
"Ow! Mother—"
Another important detail lost in the euphoria: He hurt, badly, not just his face, but every inch of him. Dr. Connors and Max being out there somewhere, safe and (hopefully) sane made the pain worth it. Even more hopefully, the return of their sanity would keep them out of trouble for the time being. Peter had two important things to do before he went to check on his former nemeses. At least he could get both things done at the same place if he played his cards right.
Peter took several swift steps back to his original position. Then he stopped. All he needed to do was take a cab. The nagging voice in the back of his head that claimed he deserved no joy—installed there when Captain Stacy passed and firmly rooted after Gwen followed—came back with a vengeance. Go home, Peter, the slow way. Forget you ever believed you could be as happy as the others.
For a long moment, he gazed out into the hazy night with his jaw set. A simple thought interrupted this familiar torrent of self-flagellation: No. Not anymore.
And Peter flew.
He soared. He swooped. Wind rushed past him, unable to get a solid grip with the speed he used. Each dip was lower than the last; each high, higher. A wild laugh rose unbidden from his throat. Though he had never quit being Spider-Man again—not since the Rhino nearly flattened a little boy in Peter's absence—he had not allowed himself to enjoy the gig either. Now, free for the first time in ages, the butterflies that erupted in his stomach whenever the street rose up to meet him went straight to his head, leaving him almost giddy.
Perhaps the source of his jubilance was the same thing leading him onward to his destination like some sort of homing beacon.
Of course, Spider-Man couldn't just waltz right inside. Doing so would cause undue commotion. Reluctantly—because every second he put this off risked his succumbing to the voice inside his head that said he shouldn't bother—Peter landed softly in a dim, brown side street containing one of his many stashes of civilian clothes. Moments later, he emerged to join the endless stream pedestrians. Despite the painful heartbeat in his palms making the moment feel eternal, it did not take long to find an opportunity to stroll through the automatic front doors of Forest Hill Hospital's emergency room.
Bright white light pierced his eyes. Good thing he knew this place like the back of his hand. The murky blur to his right covered in vague smears of various skin colors was the waiting area. The bright square ahead led to the hospital hallway. And up front sat a desk the same dingy white as the floor. Here Peter stopped and offered a winning (if still blinded) smile.
"Hey, Marge. How are you doing this fine—er—early morning?" he asked.
A dark-skinned woman wearing scrubs patterned in splotches of teal, pink, and purple looked up from her paperwork to turn an unimpressed gaze on him. "Peter Parker, you've been fighting again."
"What? No. I—ouch!" The simple act of casually leaning an arm on Marge's reception desk made his shoulder scream. He could only imagine what he looked like, and hastily amended: "Okay. I've been fighting a little. But I swear, this time, these guys came at me first."
"Don't they always."
Marge's attempt at staying annoyed fell flat. The crease of concern between her eyebrows became increasingly obvious until, a moment or two later, she reached for the phone next to her.
"What are you doing?" Peter asked.
"Paging May."
Peter forced a laugh that made his entire mouth taste like rust. "You don't need to do that. I don't want to bother her at work."
"Peter, you practically dragged one of your legs behind you the whole way in here. Now, she doesn't have to be involved in your care, but she should know you're receiving treatment."
"I didn't come here to get treated."
"What other reason would you have for coming to the emergency room in your condition?"
"I came to see..."
But he trailed away as the reply to Marge's question came walking straight through the set of doors leading to the hallway all on her own. Every other color in the room seemed to seep into her and light her up from the inside out: [color] skin with most of the makeup rubbed off after so many hours at work; [color] hair disheveled from running this way and that all shift; [color] scrubs splattered with vibrant yellow-brown vomit across their fronts.
[F Name] [L Name] did not show any sign that she noticed Peter standing there gawking at her from a few feet away. She pushed a wheelchair containing a squirming, booted child to the exit, all the while rattling off a list of instructions and advice to the concerned woman walking in step with her. And then the child hopped right off the chair and ran out to a waiting car idling just outside. [Name] waved them goodbye before finally, finally turning around to lock eyes with Peter.
Something behind him thunked—Marge putting the phone back down. She smiled at him knowingly. "If she's who you came to see, get on with it. We're busy. She'll make sure you take some ibuprofen anyway."
He returned her grin while nervously fluffing the hair on the back of his head. During this exchange, you marched wordlessly right past the desk in the direction from which you had come. Peter started, then jogged after you.
"[Name]!"
You stopped, arms crossed, eyebrows barely raised. "Peter, you've been fighting again."
"They hit me first."
"Don't they always."
"That's what I said," Marge chimed in. Peter motioned for her to stay out of it, but this only caused her to lean a hand on her chin to clearly signal she had no intention of doing so.
While he was distracted once again, you turned to leave. Peter reached out to grab your shoulder and stop you without thinking. He released you immediately, as though gripping you like that caused him pain—and it did, but his rapid retraction had more to do with the flash of warning in your [color] eyes than anything else. Just to emphasize that he hadn't meant anything by it, he shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. The cuts on his fingers stung in protest, but he thought he did a passable job of not wincing when he asked:
"Where are you going?"
"To get May," you answered flatly.
"No!" Why did everyone insist on doing that first? Wasn't he a grown-ass man in his mid-20s? "I promise I will talk to May in a little bit. But I didn't come here to get patched up. I came to see you."
"While you're actively bleeding from the face?"
"Am I? Sh—" He'd taken your bait and pressed a thumb right into a gash on his cheek. "Not the point right now. I just need to talk to you."
You made to turn again. "If you're still here when I go on my break—"
"Now. Please?"
He didn't know exactly what got you to change your mind. You had seen him in worse condition than this since you'd met him. Maybe he'd made the pleading note in his voice just a little too obvious. After a moment of heart-stopping hesitation, you sighed in defeat.
"Marge, is it all right if I take my fifteen now?" you asked.
"Harper should be back any minute. Just don't take longer than fifteen," said Marge.
You flashed her a thumbs-up before pushing through the metal doors. No one objected to Peter following you inside, nor remaining at your heels as you weaved your way through the busy hospital corridors to the employees-only break room. He spent so much time there that some members of the staff probably thought he worked there, too. Thankfully, no such staff members (or those who knew he only came to have lunch with May and spend time with [Name]) were taking their breaks when the two of you walked inside.
The place smelled like stale coffee and iodine. That hadn't changed. But had it always been this gleaming in here? The cheap plastic card table blazed white; the wobbly chairs screamed orange; and the sofa glared blue. He soon became too captivated by watching you move to the back counter containing the coffee maker and a microwave to wonder more about the loud colors. All Peter could do was stare until you snapped him out of his trance via shoving a hot paper cup in his face.
"Do me a favor and try to stay awake and upright long enough to tell me why I'm giving up my break for you, won't you?" you said.
He grabbed the cup and took a sip without answer. Once the scalding liquid sloshed into his stomach, he coughed out a laugh.
"God, that's awful!"
"Peter? Are you...okay?"
"Fine. Better than fine, actually. Everything—everything's so beautiful, you know? Even Forest Hill's terrible coffee."
As if to prove his point, he gulped down the rest of the sludge, then smacked his lips for dramatic effect. This did not seem to settle your nerves. Quite the contrary; now you looked downright worried.
"Did you hit your head during the fight?"
"No. No, I promise. Listen, I need..."
It struck him in that moment that he might have skipped a few steps. If he moved forward like this, he'd only end up in the same old downward, on-again, off-again spiral that he had had with Gwen. Two ghosts bogged him down enough as it was. The last thing he needed was a third. And yes, Gwen had known, made her own decisions that played a part in that horrible night. But the other MJ—the MJ he had saved—knew as well. He couldn't not give you the same choice when he wanted so badly for this to work out.
"I need to show you something," he finished.
"Can you do it in less than twelve minutes?"
"Uh..."
"Peter, I need to keep this job."
"I'll try."
Then...nothing happened. The ancient fridge buzzed audibly in the background. You drummed your fingers against the sides of your cup. Peter held in his breath. Several precious seconds were wasted in utter silence.
"Well?" you asked pointedly.
Peter, having got lost in your eyes again, started. "Well, what?"
"Are you going to show me or what?"
"Now? Here?"
"I got the impression you thought it was kind of important, yeah."
"I can't exactly show you here..." he said, trailing off into a weak laugh.
You exhaled sharply, discarded your nearly-untouched coffee in the bin, and muttered, "I'm getting back to work."
"No, no, no, no, no, no, no. No."
He couldn't let this opportunity pass him by. That awful voice hissing about his unworthiness would only get louder the more time he spent with you without saying anything; it always did. Peter sped past you before you could reach the door. This time, he didn't apologize when he touched you. His fingers wrapped firmly yet carefully around your wrist, and he pulled.
"Peter!" you snapped as you stumbled after him.
The eyes he turned on you were pleading. "We don't have to go far. Okay?"
He took your silence—and the relaxing of your arm inside his grip—as permission to continue. But he knew that didn't pause the rapidly-dwindling countdown hanging over his head. Swiftly (although much less swiftly than he would have liked or was capable of), he led you down the hallway to a door with a gleaming red "EXIT" sign above it. This he tugged you through after he made sure no one else was watching.
Thank God, no one had chosen this moment to take a smoke break either. The early morning air was crisp, but the tang of nicotine lingered still. The barest hint of sunrise pink haloed over the tops of the buildings surrounding this backstreet.
"And what exactly are we supposed to be doing out here?" you asked.
"Hold on just a—hey, what's that over there?"
"What's what?"
In the half-second you turned in the direction of the closest street, Peter shot the lurking security camera with a wad of webbing. The camera probably didn't work, but better safe than sorry. And he did it just in time, too. You stopped craning your neck to see past the distant violet streetlight to shoot him a look of outright suspicion.
"I must be seeing things. Probably got conked on the head real good during my fight. Sorry about that."
"You've got less than ten minutes now."
"Okay. Hold on. Just...don't freak out, all right?"
"Why would I..."
Without breaking eye contact with you, Peter backed up against the brick wall, pressed his palms right to it, and slowly inched his way upward until he clung there several feet about your head.
"Oh, my God," you said.
Peter cracked a smile. "Surprise?"
You lifted your shaking hands to your mouth, lowered them, and moved slowly forward. Peter disengaged from the wall upon seeing your approach. He landed neatly on the ground just in front of you before digging around in his back pocket long enough to find his wadded-up Spider-Man mask. Your sharp inhale seemed to indicate you recognized it.
"I guess they really do always hit you first," you said, your eyes fixed on the red-and-blue material."
Peter chuckled, a hopeful sound. "Most of the time."
The way your eyes locked on his silenced that hope. You took one more step nearer. Then you asked the last question he expected:
"Why are you telling me this?"
Not Why didn't you tell me before? Not Who do you think you are? Not even How dare you burden me with this knowledge? Only curiosity as to why you could be trusted with his secret now—and Peter knew then that it was because it had never been about trusting you. It had always been about trusting himself.
His arm holding his mask flopped to his side. "Because I have something more important to tell you, but you needed to know this first."
The two of you stood close enough that your breaths mingled when you said: "And that is?"
"I love you, [Name]."
You shivered. Peter gulped and went on:
"I don't think I love you. I know it. I've known it for years, but I didn't have the courage to say anything about it. I still don't know if this is the right thing to do, but I—but I—but I—"
"Peter." A gentle palm to his chest quieted him. "Breathe. Just tell me what brought all this on tonight."
"I think you're my MJ," he blurted.
"Huh?"
"I got sent to another universe where there was another Peter Parker. Actually, there were two other Peter Parkers. And all of us are Spider-Man—well, the one from that universe is more of a Spider-Boy. Anyway, nothing was perfect for them either."
Your mouth fell open, and Peter went on:
“The younger Peter, he’s got these big plans to go to MIT with his friends. Can you believe it? Me? At MIT? And the other one—well, he's got a bad back, but he just had this calmness about him that I sure as hell don't have. And we got to talking, and it turns out they both have the same girlfriend—okay. Not the same-same girlfriend. That—that sounds really gross. The older one's nearly 50. But they're both called MJ. And that got me thinking about how I don't have an MJ, and maybe that makes a difference. Peter—the older Peter—he said—"
A distinct glaze had covered your eyes. Way to not stick the landing, Peter.
"Okay. I—I get it. Multiverses. Multi-Peters. It's a lot to adjust to. You just found out about the whole Spider-Man thing. Maybe take it slow. Maybe don't mention that magic exists in this other universe?"
You gave an infinitesimal nod in reply.
When Peter spoke again, he did his absolute best to speak more slowly and skip straight to the point: "I haven't let myself be happy since Gwen died. I didn't think the universe would allow somebody like me to be happy. But now I think I could be happy...maybe...with you...if you're interested?"
You stared. At least your eyes had returned to their typical sheen. That had to be a good sign, right? Peter held his breath and waited. Spiders could stay underwater for a long time, so he didn't have to breathe again anytime soon. But even his lungs began to burn before you said another word. He had just realized what in incredibly stupid thing he'd just done when you finally moved, launching forward to grab a fistful of the front of his sheet and yank his mouth right up against yours. HIs cry of pain was quickly stifled.
The kiss wasn't long—at first. You drew away almost immediately. Peter, on the other hand, stepped closer. He no longer cared that every single inch of body hurt. Both your lips moved together with such synchronicity that any passerby might have thought you and Peter had been kissing for years. His hands found your waist. Your fingers found his hair. When you parted, Peter's lips stung in the best way possible.
"Wow. Shouldn't you have taken me to dinner first?" he asked.
Your pupils remained blown wide even when you narrowed your eyes at him. "After all the years of flirting without any hint you reciprocated?"
"Yeah. Okay. I'll take you out first."
"You're gonna have to get a consistent job first, Parker."
"You might need to, too. Pretty sure we were kissing for more than what was left of your break."
With a yelp, you pulled your phone out of your scrub pocket. Whatever you saw there caused you to scurry for the door back inside. "If I get fired over a love confession, I swear I'll—"
"Break up with me?" he offered.
You paused for a second, then you turned a soft expression toward him. "Promise you're not going to meet a girl actually named MJ before the end of my shift?"
He lifted his right hand and solemnly said, "You're my MJ, [Name]. It just took me a while to work that out."
You disappeared only to reemerge a moment later. "Get some sleep before our dinner date. You look like death warmed over. I can't be seen with you out in public like this."
"All right, all right. I'll take a nap if you promise not to wear that top tonight."
The look on your face when you spotted the splatter of throw up across your clothes indicated you'd entirely forgotten about it during that kissing session. Still, you kept it together and did not deign to respond to him as you went back inside. Just as Peter went to turn and leave, you stuck your head out once again.
"And take some pain meds, or I really will tell May you got in another fight. And I won't tell her whose fault it was."
He lifted both his hands in surrender. Seeing this, you smiled, hesitated, and blew him a kiss. You didn't come back this time around. Peter slowly lowered his arms and laughed. The bright sound of it sparkled into the lightening sky, now Easter blue and pink and yellow above the familiar gray-brown tops of the buildings. Peter strode for the nearby street, only to stop a few inches away, bite his lip, and slip into the remaining shadows to change.
He thought, for the first time in a long time, he just might take the long way home.
Peter standing up as a groomsmen for someone's wedding and he sees reader in the audience tearing up and he mouthes I love you to her 😭🫶🏾🥺
peter is such a loverboy </333 thank u for requesting this is a short and sweet one!
Weddings have always made you emotional. They’re a beautiful thing, especially when they’re people you know.
And somehow, now that you’re in love yourself, they get you even more. Peter stands on the groom's side, his suit crisp and hugging him perfectly. He looks as pretty as ever.
You’re sitting a couple of rows back with the rest of the guests, and though you’re meant to be watching the couple that’s saying their vows right then, your eyes keep flicking over to Peter.
Listening to the words the couple says, the happiness and the watery laughs, your eyes well up pretty quick. As if he can sense it, Peter’s eyes meet yours in the crowd, and he huffs a small laugh when he notices you trying to fan away your tears.
He shakes his head at you with a wide smile, his eyes crinkling in the corners.
Looking at him up there, it makes everything even more special. Because you know what it’s like to love someone that way. To want to shout it out to anyone who’s listening. To know that you’re loved the exact same way.
Peter’s done that for you.
You wipe the first tear that falls down your cheek quickly, glancing up to the sky to try and reign it in. When you look back, Peter’s still looking at you.
‘Stop,’ you mouth at him, like he’s the one making you cry these tears of joy and overwhelming emotion.
He just shakes his head again. Then, his lips move, shaping the words ‘I love you.’
Just like that, as the couple says they do and you mouth the three words right back to Peter, another tear falls down your cheek.
When the couple walks down the aisle, hands clasped and smiles stretching their faces, you stand with the crowd, clapping for them. Peter finds you quickly, pulling the handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbing your tears away for you.
“You’re a wedding crier,” he says, a hand pinching your chin gently to keep your face tilted to his, the other wiping away the small mascara smudges under your eyes.
“I can't help it. It’s so sweet.”
He dips down to kiss your cheek, then your mouth. It’s quick but it tells you enough.
“I love you, bug. Wedding tears and all.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you push his hair off his forehead. “I love you, too.”
Yeah, it’s nice to be loved enough that you’d never question it, that the words come easier each time.
Playstation Spidey is sooo blorbo- I love himmm. May I request something where Pete and Reader have been too preoccupied with studying and taking exams all week that when their date arrives on Saturday, they don't do anything but makeout instead cause they miss each other so much?🥲 (I just wish I had a Peter Parker to kiss😔)
I love him too and this idea is just 🤌🤌. I hope it's okay I made this a friends to lovers instead? :)
Your phone buzzes with a new message from Peter.
Peter: hey we still good for Saturday? the study date at the library?
Peter: sorry for not picking up earlier. Phys 403 is kicking my ass 🥹
You giggle to yourself. Peter had been so excited to see you this week- he was terribly busy with internships and FEAST and every single exam that was assigned this week.
You had half the workload he did, and you struggled to finish things, so you had no idea how he did it. It was quite irritating, not being able to catch up with Peter as often as you'd like, but you were hanging on for Saturday.
Even now- he strangely missed your calls and would usually pick up ASAP- and May's told you he's not at FEAST, so it's really confusing to you where he'd be. But you're not concerned, because you have exams to study for.
You: Yea we're still good pete
You: don't stress about it. worry about your exam
Peter: 🫡 will do ma'am
You laugh, picturing Peter saluting to himself.
/
The timer for your Shakespeare exam just rings as you hand it in to your professor, who gives you a firm, steely nod. You know how strict he is- he doesn't always allow for students to hand in things after the time's up, and even as you leave the classroom, you hear students pleading with him to let them hand in their exams.
You shrug to yourself, and turn the corner of one of the many hallways of Empire State University- bumping straight into Peter.
"Oh-!" You topple over, and although at your trajectory in the air you should've fallen over Peter, he somehow has enough strength to keep you upright in the air, holding you gently by the waist, and before you can think too much about his surprisingly strong capabilities, he's set you down again already.
"All good?" Peter asks, and you nod bashfully.
"Yeah. Just finished my Shakespeare exam. Not sure if I did all that well." You tell him, and Peter raises his eyebrows.
"With Strict Dr. Powell, huh?" Peter gives a wary glance past your shoulder, and then leans in extra close, seemingly not noticing how you fail to maintain eye contact. "Just between you and me, I'm pretty sure he's not actually tenured."
"What?" You stare up at him in surprise. "How else would he be qualified to teach a fourth year English course?"
"Well, let's just say I did a little sleuthing after getting a C- on my last essay. I know, I know what you're going to say-" Peter shushes you as you laugh, taunting him about an unusually low grade. "It was on Asimov, you know? Father of Science Fiction?"
"I think that was H.G. Wells, Pete."
"Right, whatever." But Peter's features bristle with that familiar fondness for you, and you smile softly at him as he continues. "I knew even if my essay wasn't perfect, a C- was really lowballing what it should've been. So I searched some of the school records, and he's actually named Powalski. ESU's letting him stay tenured even though he's only been a professor for five years. My guess is that they owe him some kind of favour."
"And that's why our poor student body has to worry about failing English classes this year, when they should be easy. Because of one crazy professor." You surmise, and Peter nods. "Still, I can't believe you went through the school records! How did you even access them?"
"Uhhhh..." Peter shrugs as he starts backing away, a slightly flustered look on his face. "Parker luck?"
"Peter, I thought that was supposed to mean bad luck." You retort, laughing over his antics.
"Yeah, I never said I wasn't in hot water for doing that." Peter jokes, and he flashes a peace sign at you. "I gotta head to my Physics exam. Talk to you later?"
Before you can respond, Peter suddenly squeezes your shoulder in a quick move, and he takes a moment, staring at your face, and your mouth, before dashing off. "I'm sure you did great on your exam, regardless!"
"Thanks." You're left with a sheepish smile that you shake off your face when Peter's far in the distance, unaware that he's got the same expression on his face.
/
Peter's kind of struggling a little bit with physics.
Sure, he's a total brainiac, and he's sure to ace it even with his current mood- he's just terribly distracted.
You smelt really good today. Like warm, vanilla-cinnamon goodness. Peter's heightened senses tell him you've got a new perfume.
But he's more focusing on your lips for some reason. Ugh, no. Peter knows why he focuses so much on your lips- you just happen to smile in the cutest, sweetest way.
And just now- you had laughed in the funniest way, your lips curling into a pout that Peter was sure was seared into his mind for good.
Oh, no. I'm a total goner. He gets back to his exam, ignoring this urge to kiss you.
/
There's a knock at your apartment door just as you're finishing tidying up. Your living room tends to be pretty ugly, and the last thing you want is for Peter to think you're a slob.
Peter calls your name through the door. "I'm not going to think you're anymore messy than I am. Stop cleaning! We gotta leave soon if we want to make it for our allotted study room time, and I just need to use the bathroom."
You shake your head, give yourself one last glance in the mirror, and then open the door.
"Finally. God, dude, you would think your apartment is a pigsty or something. I'm only going to be in here for five minutes." Peter jokes. "You would hate to see mine."
"Is that why you've never invited me there?"
"Uh, yeah. Otherwise you could crash whenever you wanted to there." Peter suddenly turns red. "I mean... you know, you're always tired after class and your apartment is further away from ESU than mine is."
"It's fine, Peter. No need for rambling." You reach forward, wanting to take the books out of his hands- you notice a slight scar on his palm. "Hey, what's that?"
"Ah, just an accident at Octavius' place. No big deal, it'll be gone before I know it." Peter randomly opens a door. "This the bathroom? No, it's a closet. Darn these misleading doors..."
"Down the hall, to the right, Peter."
He nods, and you suddenly feel a wave of giddy energy as he's gone. Yes, you've crushed on Peter for a while- you just don't think it's going to go anywhere since you're both so busy.
You're reapplying your lip balm when Peter wanders back to you a couple minutes later.
"Ah, should we go?" You say, slightly muffled as you continue reapplying. It's a delicious honeydew flavour- you can't help but eat your lip balm off your lips from time to time.
"Yeah..." Peter struggles to say something, anything, and you catch his eyes drifting from yours, to your lips.
"Is something wrong?" You look up at him uncertainly. "There wasn't enough toilet paper, was there?"
"Shoot. Might've used the last bit, sorry." Peter jokes, but he turns quiet, and he grows a little pink.
"Well, if that's all, let's get going." You put your lip balm back in your pocket, and move to get your coat out of the closet, but Peter grabs your arm with that too-quick motion he always seems to possess.
Peter wordlessly cradles your face- there's something echoing through his expression right now, affection, the kind, softness you've always known him to possess, but something else, too. Yearning.
You can't help but smile up slightly confused at him, not sure of his intentions, and while you're not stupid, you're not going to assume anything.
Peter doesn't hesitate and simply leans in and kisses you, a soft kiss that turns a lot more firm as you're pulled inwards by his hands, and you eagerly kiss him back, and you feel him grinning widely when he knows that you've wanted this as much as he had.
It's easy, it's always fun when it's with you, and he figures you both need stress relief anyways. Rather than studying chemistry in the library.
You reach upwards, and run your fingers through his brown, soft hair, and Peter groans ever so slightly against your mouth, which pleases you.
Suddenly he lets go, deeply red and looking a little woozy, but he still holds you close. "Sorry, I- I got a little carried away there."
"Don't be sorry. I wanted to do that too." You admit, a little shyly. "Are you okay with not studying?"
"Really? That's what's on your mind?" Peter looks genuinely a little aghast, even if he is joking. "I must've not kissed you hard enough."
Peter brings you to your couch, where you kiss him again, taking the lead in a way that makes his stomach flip-flop, not dissimilar to the way he feels when he free-falls off a building. You clamber onto his lap, trying to be gentle- and he pulls you down fully on him, wanting to feel every inch, every millimeter, even, against his body. There's an excited thump in his body for every squeeze he makes against you, and he feels his restraint leaving him when you suddenly sweep your tongue into his mouth.
Even when you leave room for air, Peter is insistent, reaching forward with more little kisses all over your cheek, and you reach back again for him, pressing your lips against his, feeling like there's no need to ruin this time with talking.
He really likes that. These are precious moments, few to be found considering how busy you both are, and Peter intends to make the most of it.
summary: you're late to your class and someone's left a skateboard on your path. the owner of the skateboard has very brown eyes.
w/c: 0.8k
author's note: um, hi. this is the first thing i've written for peter parker (i know, shocking, i mostly read about him) so i'm not sure whether i've captured his essence, but i tried. also i know it's a bit cringey but i started writing it in the reader's pov and i couldn't change it to peter's in the middle like i wanted to so, i guess, next time. i hope you like this! constructive criticism is encouraged, please be nice :)
you had not imagined your first day of university to go this way. it was a cloudy day, pleasant and not too windy. you were hoping to make it to class a few minutes early and have everything set up before the professor arrived.
but instead, you were late, you were not organized at all, and you were panicking. all because your stupid alarm hadn’t gone off. why? because you’d forgotten to change the timezone in your phone. moving to the new city had not been easy and now you were super late for your class.
cursing yourself for your stupidity, you were hurrying across the campus, you weren’t sure where your class was, but you were hoping that you’re walking in the right direction.
checking your bag, hoping to god that you’d grabbed the right books on your way out, with a cup of coffee in your other hand, you awkwardly jogged across the campus to the building where you hoped would be philosophy by mr. jackson.
you were in the midst of congratulating yourself on successfully having the correct textbooks in your bag when the earth shifted.
okay maybe that was a bit dramatic but that was what had happened to you. the earth hadn’t shifted, but you’d fallen on your butt because someone had left a skateboard lying in the middle of the walking path.
thankfully, your coffee hadn’t spilled but your books sure had. looking up you found a brown-haired boy bashfully kneeling down and start collecting the books, profusely apologizing.
"-really sorry, are you okay? did you break anything? i broke my ankle a couple of years ago but i was just being stupid, oh god did you break your ankle? i hope you didn't, that hurts a lot. i'm so so sorry, are you okay?" he finished, turning his brown eyes on you in concern.
he looked very... soft. he was wearing a brown jacket and a navy blue zip up over a light blue tshirt. his headphones were hanging out of the neck of his tshirt. he looked like he smiled a lot. his brown hair was ruffled, his brows furrowed and you realized he was still waiting for your answer.
"i dont think i've broken my ankle if that's what you're worried about," you sat up. your butt was sore, but other than that you were okay.
"okay, that's good, that's a start, anything else broken?" he bit his lip, and you tried not to stare at it.
"no, doesn't feel like it," you took a breath, and looked away from him, towards the guilty board, "why don't you explain why your skateboard was just lying there?"
he helped you up, your coffee was still intact, you dusted yourself off.
"oh, uh yeah, again, i'm really sorry, i was checking my schedule on whether philosophy was right now or in an hour and i didn't realise it had rolled away from me," he did look very guilty, his frown saying as much.
he returned your books and you stuffed them in your bag which was lying on the ground. he was still looking at you.
"be careful then," say something clever, why wasn't your brain working?
"i'm really sorry," he offered, why was he still looking at you?
he picked his own bag up from the ground and looked away, grabbing his skateboard too.
you blinked.
"i think philosophy is right now,"
he looked at you again.
"which reminds me," you walked past him, fast. almost running, looking straight ahead.
philosophy is right now and you are very late.
"um, hey!" you heard him call out and turned around, still walking. he was facing your direction, looking at you again.
"philosophy by mr. jackson?" he asked, his skateboard in one hand and his brown bag slung across his back. did he really like the color brown?
"yeah," you called back, hoping he didn't have the same class as you.
"his classroom's that way," he pointed his thumb behind him.
goddamnit.
you stopped and started walking in his direction and he joined with you as you went past him. he took the hint that you were late and didn't really feel like making conversation. you tried not to visually show your panic but he seemed like a good observer.
you both reached the classroom (it was the first room in the building how could you have missed it?), and saw that yeah, you guys were very late.
the classroom was full, and a middle aged man was already talking to the students. professor jackson noticed you both before you had a chance to say anything.
"ah late on the first day, not making a good impression mr. and miss...?"
"peter- uh parker, peter parker," the boy next to you said.
you introduced yourself and mr. jackson let you both get to your seats without further embarrassment.
you sat down, pulled your textbook out and tried listening to what the professor was saying.
you looked for him and found peter parker's brown eyes already on you.
》 PAIRING: peter parker x avenger/secret agent female!reader
》 TROPE/GENRE: friends to lovers; fake dating-ish; fluff
》 SUMMARY: You're a trained spy, Peter was not. But you two ended up on a mission together where he was needed to be less of the chatty superhero in red & blue tights and more of a debonair undercover agent in a suit & tie. It shouldn't be too difficult, right? No mask, no web shooters. Just you and him pretending to be fiancés, hiding and making out in a closet to avoid getting caught—simple. Unless he included his overgrowing feelings for you, of course.
》 WARNINGS: peter being down bad & horny™️ for r (my fave genre of peter by the looks of it), slight self-deprecating peter, pet names (darling, my love, babe, angel), peter x suit x glasses (a dangerous combo), mediocre spy-ish stuff, canon typical violence (i.e. guns, knives, fighting, ass-kicking), slight jealousy/possessiveness (both parties), slight pettiness from r, closet make-out, little peter got excited (idk why i said it like that lmao it’s just a boner), cuddling w/ boob grab (not sexual lol).
》 WORD COUNT: 21.3k+ (is anyone still surprised)
✘ MOODBOARD
A/N: this idea has been in my drafts since sept or oct 2020? I think? basically i plotted this a decade ago a.k.a this happens after Endgame but before...anything else (NWH who? lol) this is more an alternate universe tho. i honestly have no idea how i feel about this but i did enjoy writing it. a pretty tame, fun lil spy au fic so nothing groundbreaking sksks anyways! i hope you enjoy!
📍 BLOG NAVIGATION
✩ PETER PARKER MASTERLIST ✩ MAIN MASTERLIST ✩
⊱ ─────.⋅♚ *｡･ﾟ.★. *｡･ﾟ✫*.
The sun rays that leaked through Peter's bedroom window tickled his eyelids, making them flutter open as he yawned.
A tired smile curled on his lips as he buried his nose into his pillow. It was rather comforting, hearing the faint chirping of birds, the soft rustle of the tree just outside his room, and hell, even the chants in the far-off distance of people training.
It was a peaceful Saturday morning, and Peter really liked that.
To top it off, summer had just begun, so no college work to worry about in the meantime. He was finally having a much-needed break from obligation and responsibilities—well, not entirely since the superhero gig didn't really have actual breaks. But he was hopeful that today was a quiet day, at least.
There were plenty of activities that could take up his whole day. He could start with a morning run around the large stretch of land, maybe pack up some breakfast and eat it by the lake, located at the edge of the area. He didn't mean to sound like some guru, but he could really use being one with nature for a little bit. Maybe he could meet his friends for lunch if any of them were free, or maybe he could spend the afternoon relaxing by the compound's private pool—
"Good morning, Peter."
Peter jumped with a squeak, limbs tangling with his sheets, making him fall off the bed with a loud thud. Groaning, he slowly sat up on the floor, rubbing the back of his head to soothe it.
That was certainly one way to get the sleep out of your system.
"Emergency meeting in conference room A-One in ten minutes."
Well, so much for his plans to relax.
"Got it, FRIDAY."
It was still a bit odd hearing the A.I. as an alarm early in the morning most of the time. She was certainly very helpful though. From scheduling to reminders, simple google searches to more complicated equation-solving whenever he would need help.
FRIDAY was like the compound's own Alexa but much, much more advanced. Well, she certainly wasn't meant to be used as such but nobody could truly blame him for not taking the perks for granted.
And there were a lot of perks living in the place—the Avenger's compound, to be specific—and despite being here for almost a year now, Peter still hadn't gotten used to its extravagance, much less exhausted all its resources.
It was a drastic change from the little apartment where he and May used to live, and he wasn't talking about the size alone.
She was living with Happy now, Peter visiting over for dinner whenever he could. She was a bit reluctant to let him move out at first. It was expected when they'd practically been living together for a good chunk of his life. But he was grown now, so wanting to dabble into independence shouldn't come off as a surprise.
Sure, it was more him being available and closer to saving the world type of independence, but independence, nonetheless.
Plus, Peter simply wanted to give them as much privacy as he could.
Happy and May were like teenagers in love and the things he heard despite the thick walls thanks to his enhanced abilities…he'd rather not think about it. His super hearing definitely helped in making the decision.
He still hadn't stopped patrolling New York, of course. If it was a quiet day on earth—more so, the universe—he still swung about the city, stopping any petty crime he would come across. But when an Avenger's level threat would arise, Peter was now only a couple of doors down, equipped and ready to join the mission.
It was difficult to juggle: his normal life, attending college, being Spider-Man on top of being an official Avenger.
Nonetheless, Peter wouldn't have it any other way.
Maybe it was because he enjoyed the thrill of taking the superhero gig to the next level. Or maybe it was because he was granted the opportunity to live lavishly in the compound. Maybe it was the sheer feeling of accomplishment and pride to be able to save the world.
Or maybe it was because he got to see you every day.
You, who Peter has an insanely huge crush—no, who he really, really liked.
He might even go as far as to say that he was falling for you.
The two of you had moved in at the same time.
He could still vividly remember how he'd just placed the last box on his bed when the building shook. He peered out his window to see what the commotion was about, just in time to catch the Quinjet landing on the well-kept grass. His brows had furrowed in curiosity when the door opened, watching Sam and Bucky come out first, then a third figure trailing right behind them.
Peter didn't really believe in love at first sight, but God did it feel like that when he first saw you.
Okay, maybe it wasn't exactly love—or maybe it was, who knows—but he really couldn't deny how intrigued he was of you, intimidated even. And that was when you walked into the common room in simple jeans and a pink hoodie.
He swooned the minute you smiled at him when you introduced yourself, his knees wobbling the minute you shook his hand.
It was later on that he found out that you were a former (more like forced) member of HYDRA, abducted at a young age, trained to be one of their elite spies, and brainwashed to do their bidding. Which was why it made so much sense how the one and only Bucky Barnes had a soft spot for you—quite surprising for someone who was known to be a huge grump.
You actually came from Wakanda that day, to erase whatever it was HYDRA planted into your brain. Now, you were a recruit on the team, willing to do good with the skills you now had.
You and Peter were around the same age—part of the young ones, as Bucky pointed out—so it didn't really take long for you to become friends.
Well, a friend he kept ridiculously fawning over, a friend who made his heart race whenever you were nearby, a friend who Peter didn't really want to remain as such.
He was thankful though, being your friend was better than being no one to you at all.
But still, it was difficult to suppress his feelings, especially when you were one of, if not, the sweetest and kindest person Peter had the pleasure of knowing.
Whenever he would stumble into the compound late at night, all badly beaten and bruised, somehow, you'd be the only one awake, helping him up to his own room where you'd then clean his wounds for him.
The first night it happened, you had said FRIDAY alerted you of his presence. You had rushed as fast as you could when the A.I. mentioned he was injured. After that, it simply became a routine for you both.
It was like an unspoken rule around the compound, how you were always the one who'd patch Peter up after missions—unless you weren't present, of course. There were even a handful of occasions where Peter would be the one patching you up, a rare instance where he'd be home from campus while you'd come back from an intense mission that rewarded you with fresh bruises and cuts.
He was convinced you were simply being nice to him, though. You did consider him as your friend and you were kind enough to help with an ailment or two. You were such a caring person overall. He was sure if it was any other person, you'd do the same. So, Peter wasn't exactly special in that regard.
But then you got assigned to help him train every weekend, which only made his overgrowing crush for you, well, grow some more.
It was a new requirement for recruits, learning how to fight without much use of technology.
From the wise words of the new captain: Gadgets and tech should be there as extra sets of tools, not as a replacement for your arms and limbs. If you rely on them too much, they're going to become crutches.
Bucky stared at Sam funnily at that—since his vibranium arm was both a tool and a replacement of his limb—but everyone got what he meant. Being able to take down bad guys with only your bare hands was definitely more helpful than not.
Peter didn't know if someone was secretly spying on him, or had overheard him gushing about you to Harley—or if said friend himself had ratted him out—that led to the two of you being paired together.
Bucky said that you were the best woman for the job to help improve hand-to-hand combat or overall fighting skills. You'd been training since you were young after all, and that was saying something. Peter was probably still learning his additions and subtractions while you had already mastered the art of jiu jitsu. Wanda added that the two of you were already close hence why you got paired together, simply to skip through that awkward phase of introductions.
Peter had a feeling the two were playing matchmaker. But he chose to ignore it.
Either way, it certainly didn't help his predicament.
Being so close to you in that regard, with you wearing those tight leggings and tank tops, grunting and sweating, your bodies getting tangled and just…yeah.
Training with you was enough to make his head—both heads, if being honest, but he'll keep the other one to himself—explode.
You were incredible.
So it didn't take much for him to get distracted by you during your sessions, either.
More often than not, Peter would find himself watching you in awe rather than trying to dodge your punches. You called him out on it a few times, and each time he'd turn pink, the tint on his skin turning darker when you'd order him to do push-ups as a means to discipline. You were strict at times, but he was still so lucky that you were also being patient with him when he couldn't get it quite right the first few times. Although, you being in command and in control only added to his endless list of things he was swooning over you for.
It was admirable the way you would have him so out of breath after a spar and he was the one with superpowers. You were being smart with it, tactical with the when, where and how to hit rather than just throwing a punch for the sake of it. You'd dance around him, gracefully, swiftly, strongly, each move precisely choreographed to outmatch him as if you'd already looked into the future to know what he was going to do next.
Peter was a goner the minute you pinned him down on the floor for the tenth time in that one session.
He didn't know if it was the smug smirk on your face, your knees on either side of his hips, the way you had his hands above his head, or everything all at once. But Peter's blood was definitely boiling with every touch, rushing up to his brain that quickly turned it to mush—or maybe it was rushing down. He really couldn't tell where the pulsing was coming from. If it was his heart or some other organ that gets filled with blood.
By then, he couldn't stop thinking about you, couldn't stop talking about you, head over heels like he was living and breathing for you.
Ned and Harley said it was an obsession at this point but in his defense, you were way out of his league.
And he hadn't even taken into account how you felt about him.
Sometimes, Peter would have an inkling that his feelings were reciprocated. With the way you'd smile at him, the way you'd say sweet things to him, and the lingering touches from time to time, how could he not?
But, what if that was his rose-colored glasses making them seem like something they're not? Was it truly acts of affection and adoration or was it Peter's brain just romanticizing the shit out of simple kind gestures done for a friend?
Then came the thought that you were sweet and kind to everyone. It was just who you are, a ray of sunshine through and through—a ray of sunshine that could kick your ass ten times over but still. He'd rather not give himself too much hope. It was safer to assume that you were only seeing and treating him as a friend and nothing more.
Besides, it was too far-fetched, someone like you feeling something for someone like him.
You'd walk down a hallway with your head held high, while Peter would keep his eyes trained on the tiles. You'd stare your enemy down with no hesitation, your presence commanding, threatening, both words and actions carrying that certain chill that would make anyone second guess crossing you. While Peter would dance around them to avoid proper confrontation, going for silly jokes and sarcastic quips to mask any nervousness he would sometimes feel.
You're one hell of a powerful, strong woman and that's without any enhancements or superpowers involved.
While Peter…well, he's just your dorky, other times clumsy, friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.
As he said, you were way, way, way out of his league.
So he really couldn't do much but admire you from afar—or up close, but discreetly—until he would grow the extra set of balls needed to actually do something about his feelings for you, especially with the possible outcome of rejection.
He'd like to believe he'd grown quite a bit of confidence after entering college. It was a slow progress but he did manage to break out of his shell. With the number of parties Harry Osborn had managed to drag him into, how could he not? He was quite glad that now, he was able to talk to pretty girls without much stuttering and blushing involved.
But somehow when it was you in front of him, he would suddenly revert to his old high school self again. His cheeks would either be red or pink, barely able to get his words out as he would sometimes stare at you for longer than he should, all awestruck and dazed with admiration.
Peter's point was painfully proven right once again when he saw you down the hallway.
You were wearing black leggings and a black tank top along with your favorite running shoes. It was your usual getup whenever you would train or workout. Yet no matter how many times Peter had seen you in them before, it never failed to make his heart skip a beat. It was nothing fancy at all, but God did it look stunning on you.
It was mostly unconscious, and well, his rational brain did sometimes take a backseat when it comes to you. But his eyes drifted over your body, from your exposed shoulders to your collarbones, flitting momentarily on your chest, before they went to your legs, your tight leggings leaving so little to his imagination as they hugged your thighs. He tried to move his gaze back up to look at you more appropriately but simply got stuck on your hips. There was a slight sway in them as you walked—in slow motion, he was sure of it—with such confidence, and the way you held yourself with power and poise was breathtaking.
Shit. Did the AC malfunction? Why is it suddenly so hot—
"Hi, Pete."
Your voice snapped him out of his stupor. But your bright, beautiful eyes and your so-goddamn-pretty smile all while you stood right in front of him was more than enough to have him swooning again.
"H-Hey," he squeaked, painfully aware of how hot his cheeks had gotten. Add the fact that he hadn't been out under the sun much, he was sure you could see how pink it was. That knowledge alone probably made it a shade darker. Then came the fleeting thought that you might've caught him practically eyeing you up—
He quickly cleared his throat, keeping his head down to hide his blush as he opened the door to the conference room.
"After you."
"Thank you," you hummed, reaching a hand out to squeeze his arm before you moved past him.
It took a lot for his knees not to wobble at the gesture, even more, when he caught a whiff of your shampoo…or was that your perfume? But if you had just gone on a morning run and taken a shower—no, that wasn't your body wash. You didn't look like you'd just got out of the shower, so maybe it was just your scent. God, you always smell so nice.
"Holy—get your shit together man," he grumbled to himself, hastily wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans, fixing up his hair before entering the conference room.
It was relatively empty—well, the whole compound was given that the rest of the Avengers weren't at headquarters in the meantime, caught in other obligations whether personal or otherwise. The only other person in the room was Wanda, sitting across from you.
"Pete," you called, tapping the chair beside you before he could even choose a seat to take. There were plenty of vacant ones. Trying to calm his raging heart, he walked over to your side and sat down. But each beat only grew faster when you tilted your head at him with a smile. "Did you go on a run this morning?"
"Oh—uh, no, not yet," he said, trying his best to keep his eyes on yours rather than let them wander, like…down your lips. Shrugging to seem unbothered, he added, "FRIDAY announced the meeting just when I woke up."
"I haven't either," you hummed. So, it was just your scent earlier, the same one that was filling up his nostrils now as you leaned a little closer to him. "Maybe we can go—"
"Another day, another robbery," Sam cut you off as he and Bucky entered the room.
You moved away from him then, leaning back on your seat, attention now on the captain. An unconscious frown made its way onto his lips, because yes, he was slightly—greatly—annoyed at the interruption.
"Only this time, it calls for a national emergency," Bucky added, taking the seat next to Wanda.
"Global, if we don't stop it in time," Sam sighed, connecting a flash drive to one of the USB ports installed on the table.
"Oh no, did they steal the president's nudes?" Peter joked, immediately shrinking in his seat when the two men shot him a look. "Sorry, sorry, bad joke and definitely not the time—I'll shut up."
"That was funny," you whispered, flashing him a smile and Peter's face immediately burned. He wasn't given much time to respond when Sam cleared his throat.
"As much as that would be horrifying, it's something much worse." He pressed a button on the table that made the hologram come to life. There was only one item shown, a rectangular, gold-colored device, probably the size of a credit card but thicker by half an inch. Sam pointed at it and said, "The Gold Codes."
"The Gold Codes?" Peter muttered, brows furrowed in confusion.
"The president's nuclear launch codes," you answered, always willing to help him out on things he wasn't too well versed on.
"Oh." Peter nodded, smiling at you appreciatively before his face fell, eyes widening in realization. "Oh. That's definitely worse than his nudes."
You laughed, and it made Peter's heart do flips.
"And of course, its partner, the nuclear football. But instead of it being a whole briefcase, it's been reduced to this—" Sam flicked through the hologram, a black device coming up beside the gold codes. It looked like a plain external hard drive, roughly the same size as a pocketbook. It wasn't that big so it was definitely easy to carry around and, by the looks of it, easier to steal.
"Technology advancing sometimes isn't the best," Bucky grumbled.
You sat straighter in your seat, forearms resting on the table as you eyed the devices. There was a furrow between your brows, lips pursed as you tilted your head.
Peter couldn't stop his smile.
He always found your thinking face adorable.
You turned to Sam after a moment and asked, "Don't they change the codes every day?"
"Yes, but as our hundred-year-old resident said, technology is advancing so the card automatically syncs up to any changes made," Sam explained.
"That's the stupidest thing ever," Wanda scoffed.
Peter nodded in agreement. "Why did these even get stolen in the first place?"
"The one who was carrying the nuclear football was a double agent," Bucky said.
"Classic," you scoffed. "And have we found where it is?"
Sam nodded at Bucky, the super soldier rummaging around a bag that Peter just noticed he brought with them. He slid across a black envelope with gold detailing, your brows furrowing as you took it in your hand.
"Oh wow, an invitation to a charity gala tonight at The Aces," you gushed, scanning through the glossy, black paper before you turned to look at Peter. You probably saw the confused look he wore because you offered him a sweet smile before explaining, "It's one of the fanciest ballrooms in New York, most of the galas they hold are very exclusive for the rich and the rich-rich, like filthy 'I can end world hunger but I'm an asshole so I won't' rich."
"Thanks," Peter hummed, smiling.
"I got you." You bumped his shoulder with a wink, which quickly made him blush.
"But it's a smokescreen," Sam continued. "The real party happens later in the night."
"That's what she said," Bucky interrupted enthusiastically, earning a heavy eye roll from Sam and laughs from you and Wanda. The technically old man looked around the room. "What? Did I say the joke wrong?"
"You got the spirit," Peter chuckled.
"As I was saying, they're holding a black market auction later in the night in the small underground theater a floor beneath the building." Sam continued, swiping up the hologram until it showed a floorplan of a theater along with a couple of photos of high-tech armor, guns, and a whole bunch of things Peter couldn't exactly name. What stood out the most to him, though, was the logos: Stark Industries, Oscorp, Pym Technologies, Sable International, and the likes. "Stolen technology and weapons being sold to anyone who has the money to buy them."
"So, it's like the dark web, but fancier," Wanda quipped.
"Stealing items and then selling them to the highest bidder," Peter hummed. "Sounds like the British."
You snorted, quickly covering your mouth when everyone turned to you with raised brows.
"Sorry," you mumbled, kicking him under the table playfully, probably as a warning to stop making you laugh. Peter only grinned proudly in response. He always felt proud whenever he made you laugh.
"Anyway, the nuclear football is easier to find. It's locked in a room along with the other items they're planning on selling," Sam started, flicking through the hologram to show a floor plan of the whole building. He circled the large room in the middle before tracing a pathway leading up to another, much smaller room. "It's located on the east wing, right side of the main ballroom. It has double doors so you wouldn't miss it, especially with the armed guards."
"And the card?" Peter asked.
"Would be much more difficult to retrieve. It's going to be with the person who orchestrated this whole thing. The problem is—"
"You don't know who it is," you finished.
Sam nodded grimly. "Whoever is the mastermind of this grand scheme has been quite good at maintaining anonymity. The only time they're going to reveal themselves, along with the codes, is during the secret auction, which you can't get into unless you're chosen to be there."
"If you think the gala was exclusive, the auction is on a different scale," Bucky explained.
"We don't know what code or secret handshake will be needed to be able to attend the auction. Our best course of action is to attend the gala, scope the scene, and hopefully, get intel on how to join the auction without much breaking and entering involved," Sam said. "I had Harley tap into the security system of the building and guess what?"
"You found an even bigger problem," you and Peter said at the same time.
Sam nodded. "The whole building is now armed with sensors fit to detect every single Avenger's superpower, any Stark-grade weapons and also, vibranium. Bucky's metal arm, Wanda's magic, my wings, so on and so forth. Neither of us could simply swoop in because the second those silent sensors go off, or any commotion will start, poof goes the codes along with our criminal."
Bucky shifted in his seat. "Even if we discard all of that and try not to use it, going in there as, quote-on-quote civilians won't work either because—"
"Everyone would immediately recognize who we are," Wanda finished.
"Since there are only two people here whose faces aren't known publicly"—Sam looked between the two of you—"Peter and Y/N, you two are going to be the ones to retrieve the codes and the football."
"W-What?" Peter choked, eyes wide as he stared at the captain. "Don't they have my powers in the sensors?"
"They only have it for your web shooters and suit, and as far as I know, both are detachable."
"But that's me, that's how I operate," he stammered. Going out there as himself wasn't part of his skill set. He'd feel too exposed without his suit. Not to mention he was going with you. Which of course wasn't a bad thing at all but it only added this pressure to not mess things up. He couldn't live with himself if he'd fail this mission, fail you—or worse, have you get hurt because he wasn't capable enough. "How am I supposed to be Spider-Man without those?"
"You have to give yourself more credit, Pete," you said, placing your hand over his own, the one resting on his thigh. Peter's eyes followed your touch before he met your gaze again, his blush prominent, heart thumping so loud he was scared you might hear it. "You're more than just a suit. And you need to remember how you've managed to make your synthetic web in the first place. So I'm sure you'll do fine with your brain alone. Even then, you still have other abilities, and you have me."
Peter looked at you fondly, a smile curling on his lips as he turned his hand so your palm was over his, squeezing it to silently say thank you. He wasn't even aware of what he was doing, not until he saw your smile turn slightly shy. It was the quick glimmer in your eyes that made him realize he was absentmindedly stroking the back of your hand with his thumb.
"Seconded." Wanda smiled at the two of you, chuckling when you and Peter jumped slightly away from each other. You pulled your hand away, Peter frowning at the loss of contact. But he shook his head, turning his focus back on the mission.
"Y/N here also said you'd gotten really good at your hand-to-hand combat skills," Bucky said, an all-knowing smile on his face as he glanced between you two. "So, I don't think you'd need your web shooters as much if ever it comes to a fight."
"Which we hope won't result in that," Sam quickly added with a reassuring nod. "The plan is simple: scope and mingle, assess the scene, try and get some information as to how to get into the auction. Once you've done that, sneak into the vault to retrieve the nuclear football. I've already assigned Harley to make a duplicate device to swap with the real one so it won't trigger the alarm.
"Then, you sit at the auction and wait until the codes come up. I'm sure it will be presented by the anonymous seller so by then, we will be able to put a face on the mastermind. Our agents should already be blocking every single exit of the building by that time so all you have to do is to retrieve the code calmly. Try and ease your way into the main stage, charm and persuade, or whichever way works. Any more questions?"
You and Peter looked at each other, before you both turned to Sam, shaking your heads.
"Good. We've already set your fake identities up, google searches running for miles, the last thing we need are photos, together, individually, candid and professional which would only take a few minutes. Your fake names are already on the guest list, your outfits and everything else you need will be waiting for you at the hotel you're getting ready at as part of the whole ruse," he instructed. "You two are the best and only shot we've got in this. Plan your moves wisely and rely on each other. We can't afford to lose those codes."
"Yes, Captain."
•••
The hotel suite was fancy.
Peter had never been in one this expensive-looking before.
It had its own living room, a minibar, a huge bathroom, a king-size bed, and then a massive window that overlooked New York City. He definitely indulged himself with their complimentary champagne, and given the fact that he couldn't get drunk, he mostly did it for the taste—which was flavored expensive, to those wondering. Hell, even the chocolate they had tasted expensive.
Then again, the two of you were undercover as a rich, engaged couple so it was part of the whole thing. You never know whose eyes and ears were for who in these types of missions.
But still, it was quite the treat and he'd be stupid not to make the most of it—without getting too distracted, of course.
Peter was now all suited up, not in spandex this time. It was a crisp, black, formal suit made with fabric he wouldn't dare guess the cost and a brand he couldn't even begin to pronounce. He had a white dress shirt underneath, paired with a black tie. The one he was currently having a hard time doing as he stood in front of the floor-length mirror in the living room.
He groaned in frustration when he once again messed it up. He didn't wear this kind of clothes often, so he really didn't have much of a reason to learn to master the art of…tying?
"Need help?"
Peter turned around, the breath knocked out of him once he saw you come out of the bedroom.
Wow.
Oh wow you looked gorgeous in red.
It was an off-shoulder, long-sleeved dress, your arms covered in lace as the fabric hugged your figure. The skirt was long as it fanned onto the floor with a really high slit on your right leg to show off the silver heels you were wearing. Your hair and make-up were done to marry the whole style, all while enhancing your natural features rather than covering them. Your red-painted lips though—
"Wow."
"Yeah," you laughed softly, your gaze falling over yourself as your hands smoothed the fabric of your dress. "I don't know who picked it but it's really pretty and it fits really nicely. Perks of having body scans for our suits, I suppose."
"You look beautiful," Peter breathed out, still frozen in his place as he stared at you in absolute awe.
"Thank you," you said, your sweet smile turning into a smirk as you eyed him up and down with a nod. "You clean up nice, too, Parker."
"Oh—uhm, t-thanks." He blushed, shaking his head before gesturing both hands at you. "But you, I—wow, you look, wow."
"Shut up," you laughed, your dress flowing as you moved closer to him. "Here, let me."
Peter wasn't even given much time to recompose himself when you once again took his breath away by simply standing so close to him. Every inhale was just filled with your scent, his heart skipping a few beats as he scanned your face, only a couple inches from his and God did you look even more beautiful up close.
His blush deepened when you reached for his tie, your brows furrowed in that adorable way he'd come to familiarize as you slowly did it for him.
Peter honestly didn't know what to do with his hands, yet there was some sort of pull that he couldn't resist, like an instinct as he gently rested them on your waist. He was distracted by how close you were, but not enough to miss the way your breath hitched at the contact. Testing the waters, he squeezed it gently, biting his cheek to stop his smile from growing when he saw your fingers falter.
But oh did the pride bubble in his chest.
You shook your head, finishing up his tie with a smile. It was Peter's breath that hitched this time when you smoothed it over his chest, your palms flat against the muscle, touch so sweet, skin so warm. You looked up, your smile faltering when your eyes met his.
He didn't know how long you stared at each other. He also didn't know who moved a little closer first, but he definitely wasn't complaining. Not when he was so close that he could count exactly how many eyelashes you had. And he gladly would've if your voice hadn't snapped him out of the trance that nobody could ever put him under but you.
"We should get going," you whispered, but you still lingered for a few more seconds, more than enough for his brain to run its course, thinking that maybe, his feelings for you weren't as unrequited as he thought.
It was the sound of a beeping alarm that broke you two apart.
"Come on, we can't be late," you said after a breath, flashing him a sweet smile before going to grab your things.
"Wait," he cleared his throat, patting around his pockets before finally retrieving a velvet box. You turned around just as he'd opened it, showing you the ring that resided inside.
Your eyes widened, lips opening and closing as you gawked at the sparkling diamond for a few seconds before you met his gaze. "Peter—"
"Oh shit! It's not what it looks like!" he panicked.
Peter did always find himself daydreaming about you often, and he would be lying if he said he hadn't already pictured something similar to this moment. But even he could recognize how many steps he'd basically jumped over by showing you a diamond ring. And as much as he would love to fast-forward to that part, he'd also like to take you out on a date first. Well, if he'd even get the courage to ask you that, anyway.
"I-uh, you know, us, covering as an engaged couple? So, of course, uhm, you'll need an engagement ring?"
"O-Oh," you fumbled, nodding quickly before you offered him your left hand. "Yeah, of course."
Peter took it in his delicately, fingers running over your knuckles before he carefully slipped the ring on. Squeezing your hand, he reluctantly let go.
"Did you pick this?" you asked, bringing your hand up to your face, fingers wiggling as you admired the ring.
Peter nodded. "Yeah, I did—well, Bucky helped."
"It's beautiful."
"It looks even more beautiful on you."
Your eyes snapped up to look at him, your smile growing as you hummed, "Charmer."
"It's the expensive suit." He shrugged, a teasing grin with a blush to match.
You laughed that lovely laugh of yours, adoration and pride swelling in his chest.
"Oh, Harley asked me to give you this," you said after a moment, pulling out a familiar pair of glasses before handing it to him. "He said it's all you need to do your magic."
"Nah, it's just a little tool kit I put together, really, kinda like a small computer so nothing magical about it," he chuckled, waving the glasses before putting them on. "It's carbon-based nanotech, passable through metal detectors. I've managed to look up what security system they had installed in the safe and there's sort of a minicomputer inside so it should be easy to bypass the system. I already have the program in here that would run through all the probable security codes so all I need to do is activate the glasses and it would automatically unscrew everything and connect to a hopefully pre-existing female micro-USB slot with the male counterpart in this old thing and—" he paused, face heating up as you gazed at him with a twinkle in your eyes. "What?"
"Nothing, just—you're amazing," you sighed, smile widening before you nodded. "Let's go?"
Peter ignored that way his whole body tingled at your praise and offered you his arm.
Not like it was a new reaction whenever he was around you, anyway.
"Let's."
•••
"Mr. Reid, the car is already waiting for you."
That was the first sentence Peter heard when you reached the hotel lobby. He looked behind him before looking at the man in a suit, pointing at himself in confusion.
"I'm not—"
"Lucas, honey, come on," you cut him off, slipping your fingers in his. You flashed him a knowing smile, squeezing his hand before you tugged him along as you followed the guy.
Right. Fake identities.
"Woah." Peter gawked at the car in front of him, leaning closer to you as he whispered, "Is that a Rolls Royce? Like, the new one?"
"Sort of. It's the Phantom Extended." You nodded with an amused smile. "The best way to blend in with the rich, don't you think?"
Peter was about to open the door for you but then the butler—at least, he assumed that was who he was—beat him to it. So, he opted on helping you with your dress instead, making sure it didn't get caught on anything as you settled inside.
"Thank you, my love," you giggled.
My love.
Peter luckily didn't slip on the expensive lambswool floor mat as he got into his seat.
It's pretend. Get a grip.
Once the car started moving, you pressed a button on the center console, the clear glass that separated the front and back immediately turning into an opaque white, completely secluding the two of you from the driver. He looked at you curiously, nervous—okay, and maybe a bit excited—as to why you decided you suddenly needed privacy. Peter had heard a lot of stories about what goes on in the rear cabin of expensive cars, especially with the partition up, so could it be—
"Did you get to read about our fake identities? The one Sam sent?"
Thinking with the wrong head again, aren't we, Parker?
"I, uhm, no, got too preoccupied with the ring and getting dressed," he admitted, looking at you guiltily. The mission had barely started and he was already messing it up. "I'm sorry."
"Hey, no, it's okay," you reassured with a smile, hand on his thigh, squeezing for good measure. He wasn't able to relish in the warmth of your touch for long as you shifted in your seat, turning around to face him. "I mean, everything is very last minute. I'll just tell you about it.
"Lucas Reid, the young 26-year-old and dashing CEO of Reid Enterprises. You inherited the company at nineteen when your father died of illness," you started.
Peter scrunched his nose. "So, basically, I'm a trust fund baby?"
"Sort of, but you do prove that you did the work," you said. "Company sales skyrocketed when you took the seat."
"What about you?" Peter gestured at your ring, blushing. "Well, apart from being my fiancée."
"I run my own fashion company." You shrugged, winking at him as you added, "Can't be living in my future husband's shadow now, can we?"
Future husband.
God how Peter wished for that to be true.
He shook his head, hands rubbing on his thighs. "Do we have a backstory? Like, as a couple?"
"Not much. Five years ago, we met in Milan during fashion week—"
"Let me guess, sparks flew right off the bat?" he chuckled.
"Love at first sight, obviously," you scoffed, rolling your eyes teasingly.
Not too far off from reality.
"Besides that, it's all the basics from there. Dates, extravagant gifts, and then two months ago, you proposed."
"Right," he started, bumping your knee with his lightly. "So, when's the wedding?"
You laughed, "We're not sure yet. Too busy."
"Of course," Peter sighed, rolling his eyes playfully. "Can't get me out of my office, now can you?"
"I have my ways," you hummed, wiggling your brows at him.
Peter was so sure his face had gone so red.
"You always do," he chuckled shyly, shaking his head before smiling at you. "Can we go over the plan real quick?"
You smiled. "Of course."
Peter knew what to do, obviously. He'd already gone over the plan probably a hundred times in his head. But he simply wanted to make sure he wasn't missing anything, especially something that could potentially jeopardize the whole mission. He couldn't afford even one single misstep, not when you and your safety could be put at risk—and the millions around the world that would suffer if those weapons got into the wrong hand, of course.
"We're almost there," you said once you've gone over the plans twice, eyes scanning across the windows. "It's just on the next turn."
Peter's heart quickened.
He didn't even notice that his emotions had gone evident on his face. Not until you squeezed his arm.
"You okay?" you asked, brows furrowed in concern.
"Yeah! Yeah, of course," he said quite unconvincingly. It was when he heard the ticking of the turn signal did his nerves shift to overdrive, his eyes wide as they met yours. "Shit, I don't think I can do this. I mean, I'm not usually out there with my face showing, you know? And I'm so so so not James Bond, I'm the farthest from James Bond I'm like, Lame Bond. I'm not smooth o-or charming or suave enough to be a spy—oh no. No, no, no, what if they find me out right away? I'm going to mess everything up and this is going to go horribly wrong and—"
"Hey!" you interjected, hands cupping his face, squishing his cheeks slightly as you pulled him closer, eyes boring into his with determination. Peter didn't know if it was the proximity that shut him up, or if it was your scent that overpowered his senses—probably both. "You're going to be fine. You've got this."
He gulped, nodding before letting out a shaky breath.
You smiled reassuringly, thumbs brushing over his cheeks, his skin turning redder with each caress. "Be observant, you don't have to talk. With this kind of crowd, trust me, the quiet ones are the most intimidating. If there's anything you feel like it's a bit off, trust your gut, and let me know, okay?"
"Okay," he breathed out, nuzzling into your palm absentmindedly, finding a sense of comfort from your warm touch.
"And if it gets overwhelming, just follow my lead."
•••
Peter got out of the car, nodding curtly with a tightlipped smile at the driver who opened the door for him.
He decided at the last minute that Lucas Reid was going to be a stoic, passively quiet CEO with a resting 'serious' face that only means business.
Peter straightened up his suit before he offered you his hand, the huge rock on your finger glinting underneath the city lights as your palm met his.
He gently guided you out of the car, helping you fix up your dress before offering you his arm. Your fingers curled around his bicep as you kissed his cheek with a soft thanks. Peter smiled at you warmly, pulling you closer to his side as you made your way inside the building.
Stoic and passive except towards his lovely fiancée, of course.
He might or might not have stumbled upon a few Mobster Spider-Man fanfictions on some website not too long ago. And he might or might not have taken some inspiration from it.
"Please take a basket to put your phones and any other electronic devices in and step under the detectors one by one," one guard instructed.
Adjusting his glasses, he pulled out his newly upgraded phone. It was sponsored by the Avengers obviously since he couldn't exactly rock up with his old, cracked one, with him being rich and everything. He smiled at the lock screen photo—it was of you and him, your lips pressed against his cheek, taken just a couple of hours ago to have photos to make this engaged couple gimmick believable—before he placed it in the basket you were holding up for him.
You smiled reassuringly before you stepped under the metal detector first, Peter following just closely after.
He let out a nervous breath when he saw how heavily armed the guards were. A variation of M17s and a couple of AK-47s were in the hands of fully uniformed men from head to toe. They look like your typical SWAT team, but Peter knew they were more dangerous than that, especially when their morals were as corrupted as he'd presumed.
He was an enhanced superhero, yes, but he sure as hell wasn't bulletproof. And as much as he could probably dodge a few shots, he would rather not take the gamble of finding out exactly how many he could avoid.
That wasn't what he was worried about, though. Because as he felt your fingers slip back into his, he was reminded of how vulnerable and defenseless you were. No superpowers, no bulletproof vests, still an amazing badass who without a doubt could take on two guys in a fight and win, but still a human who could get badly hurt by a simple pull of a trigger.
There were only so many bullets he could jump in front of you for.
"We're going to be fine," you whispered, squeezing his hand as if you could sense his worry. "I got your six."
Peter squeezed back. "And I've got yours."
The two of you stayed close to each other, arms linked as you headed towards the ballroom. But once the huge archway came into sight, you leaned closer to him.
"You go ahead," you whispered in his ear, squeezing his bicep. "I need to go to the bathroom."
Peter nodded.
He knew that some agents had already hidden some of your equipment hours before. Well, he hoped they successfully did, anyway. If not, then, you both might have to compromise.
Peter didn't know what exactly he was expecting when he entered the ballroom but it definitely wasn't as fancy as this.
The ballroom was grandiose in itself with its ornate marble columns and crown moldings, complementing the beautifully impressive murals that covered the ceilings. Even the red curtains that draped along the walls seemed far too luxurious for the mere fact that they were curtains for crying out loud.
Peter had never seen so many chandeliers hanging all in one space, not to mention, ones that seemed to be decked out in gold and crystals…or were those diamonds?
Everything was decorated with a color scheme of cream, black, silver, and gold, from the round tables and accompanying chairs. To contrast were various glass structures illuminated by some kind of light as they glinted and shimmered even from the corner of his eye. There was an open bar in one corner, a long table of finger foods and various desserts, and live music coming from the string quartet on a rotating, circular stage right in the center of a—is that an indoor fountain?
"Wow," you gasped as you appeared beside him, your eyes twinkling underneath the chandeliers. "It's gorgeous."
"Yeah," Peter sighed, eyes trained on the way your face glowed in awe as you admired the space. "Gorgeous."
Your smile brightened as you tilted your head, gaze meeting his. Then, your brows furrowed, stepping in front of him and eyeing the top of his head. "Come here. I need to fix up your hair."
Peter ducked his head without question, hands around your waist as he let you settle the mess of his windswept curls. He found the furrow of your brows absolutely adorable, but the way your tongue slightly poked out of your red lips made him want to just pull you in and kiss you senseless.
You tucked a few short strands behind his ear, gently pressing your thumb into his concha, the earpiece fitting snugly before he heard a faint crackle and then a deep voice.
"Parker, can you hear me?"
"Aye, aye, Captain," he muttered.
He heard a few snickers in the background followed by Sam scoffing sarcastically.
"My, aren't you two cute."
Peter's brows furrowed, confused eyes meeting yours. "What does he mean?"
"I answered the same way," you giggled, shrugging as you smoothed over his tie and buttoned up his suit jacket.
Peter's heart fluttered at that.
"We'll be on the line listening. Be discreet. Only communicate what's necessary."
You and Peter shot each other a look, grins widening into a knowing smirk.
"Aye, aye, Captain."
"Jesus Christ."
The line went quiet, presumably Sam muting their end until further notice.
Peter shook his head, chuckling before turning to you. "So, what now?"
"Scope," you said, waving back at a random woman who was making their way over to you both. You turned to him with a smile. "And mingle."
•••
Peter was so far out of his element.
He was already a terrible liar when under pressure, stuttering and blubbering until he would end up telling the truth. And that was around people he got along with.
Now how was he supposed to make small talk with the rich all while pretending to be rich himself when he clearly was not?
His best course of action? He didn't talk.
It fit well with the persona he'd created, anyway.
He was mostly following your advice—well, more like literally following you around. He was like your trophy fiancé in some way, and honestly, Peter wasn't opposed to it.
You were taking charge, and all he had to do was scope the scene, nod and smile whenever he was acknowledged while mostly speaking only to you.
From an outsider's point of view, he probably looked like such a puppy for his girl, only meeting your eyes, hovering by your side, his attention and touch always on you. A hand on the small of your back, an arm around your waist as he hung onto every word that slipped past your beautiful red-painted lips. For them, he was simply a man completely enamored by his soon-to-be wife. So it definitely sold this whole fiancé gimmick you two got going on.
Then again, it wasn't like he had to pretend that much, either. It wasn't hard to act all smitten with you because he already was. And, okay, he was playing it up a little. Peter would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy acting like you were his and he was yours, even if it was only for a mission.
Other than that, he also quite enjoyed indulging in the food and beverages that were paraded around by the waiters. It tasted so good, so obviously made with high-quality and expensive ingredients, but most importantly free. Could you blame him for taking advantage of it?
He was being an opportunist, he was well aware, which was why he didn't think much about downing the very tasty champagnes they offered, especially when he was free from any consequence that the drink brought—well, one of the consequences.
Because as much as he was immune to the buzz of the alcohol, he couldn't say the same for the effects it brought on his bladder.
It didn't really expand when his abilities got enhanced.
With how utterly gorgeous you looked tonight, it shouldn't have surprised him that the second he left your side, some men in this gala would take his absence as an opportunity to make a move.
He might've been acting like a guard dog, he admits, glaring at anyone who dared to glance at you wrongly. You were "his fiancée" after all, he was simply playing the part of your possessive protective husband-to-be.
That was what he told himself, anyway.
But still, when he came back after his little bathroom break, Peter wasn't too keen on what he saw.
You were talking to some dark-haired man wearing a bold, fully gold-colored suit and an even bolder beard. He didn't look old, but he didn't exactly look young, either. Or perhaps his facial hair played a part in that regard. He was—as much as he hated to say it—well-built and good-looking. If Peter was to guess, he was probably in his early 30s.
The interaction looked innocent enough, and Peter wouldn't have found it a big deal if this guy wasn't eyeing you up like you were a piece of meat.
"Amelia Devonché," the man greeted, his French accent thick, his flirtatious tone, even thicker.
So that's your fake name.
"The one and only," you said, smiling as you tilted your head. "Although I don't think we've been introduced."
"Halbert Auclair," he said, bowing as he held out an open palm.
Halbert? What kind of name is that?
"Pleasure to meet you," you hummed, slipping your hand into his.
"Pleasure's all mine. You look quite lovely tonight, mademoiselle," he crooned, bringing the back of your hand to his lips and kissing your knuckles.
Peter's jaw clenched, an intensely heated emotion boiling his blood, only relaxing slightly when he heard your fake giggle.
He'd heard your real one enough to differentiate the two.
"Why, thank you, monsieur."
Clouded by his emotions, Peter took long strides towards you, swiftly wrapping a possessive arm around your waist and pulling you to his side, kissing your temple and then, without thought, near the corner of your mouth.
Your eyes snapped to meet his, a fleeting look of surprise on your features before you quickly masked it with a smile. "This is my fiancé—"
"Lucas Reid, one of the youngest yet richest CEOs here today," Halbert interjected, offering his hand out to shake.
"Hmm," Peter said with a curt nod, his grip a little tighter when he shook it.
"Man with few words, I see," Halbert chuckled dryly, flexing his fingers once they were free from his hold.
Peter bit his cheek to stop a smirk, pushing his glasses up before slipping his hand into his pocket, looking at you with a much more relaxed smile.
"My fiancé isn't great with crowds. Always stuck in his office, he is. The only thing in his mind is the business, and well, me," you gushed, resting your left hand on his chest, tilting your head to flash him a smile. "Am I right, handsome?"
"Very much so, darling," Peter said, unaware of how his voice sounded. He was still running on jealousy that he couldn't help but gently take your hand from his chest, bringing the back of it to his lips and then kissing the diamond ring on your finger. He smiled at you sweetly as he ran his thumb over your knuckles. "You still owe me a dance, my love."
You blinked a few times, lips parting before you shook your head with a soft laugh, "Oh, yes! How can I forget."
"Have a lovely night, madem—"
Peter didn't even wait for him to finish his sentence as he gently ushered you towards the dance floor, just in time for the string quartet to play their version of Quando, Quando, Quando.
So…he didn't quite think this through.
Peter had no idea how to dance.
His boiling jealousy was quickly replaced with nervousness and dread as you guided his hands, one on your waist, the other curled around yours.
You were so blatantly staring at him that his nerves could only grow tenfold. It was only a matter of time before you realized just how jealous he acted. Hell, he only just realized it after the emotion had left his system. And despite avoiding your eyes, he could still sense it, how you were trying to figure out why he'd done what he just did.
Peter cleared his throat, "Something wrong?"
"Are you okay?" you countered, placing your hand on his shoulder before moving to the music.
He didn't know if he should be thankful or slightly embarrassed that you were the one leading the dance. But then again, there probably would never be a time when Peter wouldn't follow your lead—dancing or otherwise.
He'd follow you to the ends of the earth if he could.
It was working, though, bodies synchronously swaying to the sound of strings as if you'd done this plenty of times before. It was either a testament to how good you were at basically everything—a quick learner, a leader, a teacher and hell, a dancer—or just how well you two complemented each other.
Peter believed it was both.
"Yeah," Peter chuckled timidly, eyes trained on the ground to avoid your eyes and to make sure he wouldn't step on your foot. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"You just seemed…" you paused, hand squeezing his shoulder lightly. "Angry."
Peter blushed.
Jealous. Not angry.
"I'm not," he brushed off, shaking his head. "Got nothing to be angry about."
"Right," you hummed, and it sounded like you didn't believe him at all.
"Did I mess up?" Peter sighed, worried eyes finally meeting your curious ones.
"What? No. You just came off as quiet which isn't a big deal," you reassured, smile widening with amusement. "Where did that South London accent come from, though?"
"Wait." Peter blinked, frowning. "I did an accent?"
"Yeah, you did," you laughed. "Which I didn’t even know you could do."
"I guess I was too nervous to even realize," he admitted, chuckling. "I've been binge-watching The Great British Bake Off lately, maybe I just picked it up."
"So nervousness makes you do accents," you hummed, smiling. "Interesting."
"What?" He narrowed his eyes at you teasingly. "Don't tell me you like a British accent too, like, half the world apparently."
"It's cute," you admitted with a shrug. "But I like your accent more."
Peter blinked. "Really?"
"Yeah, I like the kid from Queens," you said nonchalantly.
Peter almost stepped on your foot. If you weren't a trained spy with quite good reflexes, you might've gone home with a bruised toe.
You shook your head, giggling as you pulled him back to the rhythm of the dance. "You're going to have to keep the charade if you speak to other people, now, though"
"Yeah, didn't really think about that." Peter scrunched up his face, clearing his throat before he looked at you shyly. "I really don't dance."
"Well, you're doing great so far," you hummed, pulling him closer as you wrapped your arms around his neck.
Peter secured his on your waist then, both of you gliding across the dance floor to the symphony of the strings as you held each other's gaze. It was impressive, really, that this was the first time you both danced together, but danced like two spiders spinning their silks in a synchronized choreography to create a large heart-shaped web.
Then, he felt bold, confident.
He didn't know if it was from that same pull from earlier tonight, his senses being muddled by your overpowering presence, your warm body pressed so close against him, or the sweet lure of the music that added something to the air.
Perhaps it was everything all at once.
But Peter couldn't help but lean even closer, the tips of your noses just a hair's breadth away.
"You are so beautiful," he whispered, his gaze fluttering across your face before meeting your eyes.
Peter reveled in the way your smile got shy.
"You've said that already."
"Once will never be enough."
You shook your head with a giggle, eyes twinkling, "And you said you aren't smooth."
"Like I said," he started, lowering his voice, shrugging with a teasing grin, "It's the expensive suit."
Peter's heart warmed at your sweet laugh, that certain pull growing stronger at the lovely sound. He dipped his head, noses touching before he pressed his forehead against yours. He squeezed your waist when your breath hitched, warm and inviting as it tickled his lips, tempting, oh so close—
"Ahem."
You both jerked back, eyes wide with surprise.
"Sam! You've ruined it!" Peter heard Wanda hiss through the earpiece.
"He was finally getting somewhere!" And that was Harley.
Peter's whole face grew hot with embarrassment, squeezing your waist, still keeping you close as he looked away.
He completely forgot about the comms being live and open to everyone back at the compound.
Then again, all of them had been suspiciously quiet until now.
"Well, damn, I'm sorry? But this is an important mission, not a radio drama?"
"You just had to cockblock—"
"I'm surprised you even know what that means, you white fossil—"
You cleared your throat, smiling at Peter shyly. "Any intel?"
"I think that French dude is our bad guy," he answered swiftly, ready to change the subject or else his knees might go out.
"Auclair?" You raised a brow at him with a smirk. "How so?"
Peter might sound like he had a vendetta against the guy who shamelessly flirted with you. But, he did have a few points to back his claim.
"It's kinda weird how quickly he knew about us. Unless he stole the guest list and researched every single one of the names or he's the host. Also, he really made a point in stating how rich I am. You only do that when you want money for the auction. And if that's not proof enough—" Peter pulled a black and silver playing card out of his pocket, the same one Halbert gave to him during the handshake. "Seven of hearts, well, kinda. It's more arrows than it is hearts. All of them are pointing downward no matter which way you turn it. Look—" He turned the card, an almost holographic effect as the arrows remained south. "That's not how normal playing cards are. So I assume it means downstairs to the secret auction. And we've got about an hour max until it's seven. And if that's not obvious enough—" Peter showed you the back, tilting it to the light to expose the words 'Big Toys, Bigger Guns' in the middle in gold lettering.
"Cheesy, but it works," he finished.
"That's a really good catch, wow," you praised, grinning proudly. "Someone's getting the hang of this already, huh?"
"Watching those James Bond movies finally paid off, I guess," he chuckled, nodding at you. "Plus, I got a good teacher."
You smiled. "Keep a careful eye on him," you instructed, snorting a little when he all but glared when he found the man. You squeezed his slightly tensed shoulders. "Subtlety."
"I don't think I need to be subtle because he keeps eyeing you like he stands a chance as if the rock on your finger isn't big enough. You're my fiancée. So me glaring at some guy with too much beard who looks at you far too long for comfort let alone appropriate isn't out of the ordinary," he grumbled, shaking his head. "Men are pigs I tell you."
"Someone's committed to the bit," you teased, smiling far too bright for it to be innocent. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're jealous."
Peter quickly snatched a champagne flute from the tray when a waiter walked past, handing it to you with a small curtsy.
"You look parched, my darling."
You rolled your eyes but took the glass anyway, your grin telling him that maybe you like the accent more than you were letting on.
But she likes your accent more.
Peter couldn't stop his heart from melting at the thought.
He was also glad that his distraction worked, his jealousy hopefully forgotten as he guided you toward the bar once the song finished.
"Door's unguarded," you murmured against the glass, sipping gingerly before you handed it back to him. "Stay here and keep an eye out. I'll find us a key."
Peter nodded, sitting on one of the stools as he carefully and deliberately followed your movement. Not that he thought you couldn't handle yourself, but an extra pair of eyes will always be better than none. Also, he was being observant of his surroundings, his enhanced senses helping in making sure there wasn't anything suspicious going on, keeping him on high alert in case he needed to jump in.
He watched with pride as you slyly stole a keycard from a gullible enough guard who was too distracted by your flirting. It was an impressively swift sleight of hand that if he wasn't paying attention enough, he would've missed it.
Still, Peter couldn't help but roll his eyes at how stupid and easy these guards tend to be, any focus and rational thought out the window all because of an alluring smirk, a teasing touch and a glimpse of skin—the simplest seduction from one gorgeous woman.
But then again, he wasn't exactly one to talk. Because as innocent as a bright smile from you, Peter would literally do anything you ask him to.
He was far too focused on you that he didn't even realize that someone had replaced your seat, not until he heard his name—well, the fake one.
"Lucas Reid."
Peter turned, eyes landing on a woman wearing a gold dress, curled, long hair framing a somewhat familiar face. Peter wasn't blind, he could see she was objectively pretty. But she simply could never hold a candle next to his gorgeous fiancée—fake or otherwise.
"Greta Auclair," she said with a smile, holding out her hand.
Peter didn't miss the flirtatious undertone in her actions. How could he when she was so adamant on fluttering her eyelashes at him, or the way she wasn't subtle at pushing up her chest, the low-cut top doing so little to hide…it? Them?
Not that he was looking. It was simply in his line of sight.
"Auclair," he hummed, shaking her hand briefly as he tried to make sure his accent didn't sound so forced. He honestly didn't know why he decided to make things harder for himself. "Any relation to Halbert?"
"Twin sister," she waved off, flipping her hair to one side.
Peter nodded without another word, attention swiftly shifting to search for you in the crowd.
"I must say, I've heard a lot of things about you," she hummed as she leaned forward, fingers curling around his bicep, gold-colored, manicured nails glinting underneath the light as she squeezed the muscle. "Apart from being a quiet man, of course."
Peter's resolve faltered a little, the gesture completely catching him off guard.
What's up with this family and overstepping personal space?
"Good things, I hope." He smiled tightly, crossing his arms over his chest, subtly shaking her hand off.
"Oh yes, very good things," she giggled, hand on his thigh as she leaned forward with a smirk. Winking, she added, "Naughty ones, too."
Peter gulped as he leaned back.
"O-Oh, uh—"
"Lucas."
He quickly spun around on his stool to the sound of your voice, facing you fully. His eyes widened in surprise as you gently nudged his knees apart but he didn't even hesitate to make room for you to stand in between. He placed his hands on your hips when you pulled him closer, your arms snaking around his neck.
Peter didn't know exactly what was going on, but he certainly wasn't complaining. Besides, like he said before, he would always follow your lead.
Yet still, he looked up at you in both curiosity and confusion, trying to gauge what was going through your mind. But you certainly were better at reading people than he was. Or perhaps that was you simply being a master at masking your emotions. Because apart from the slight edge on your smile, he was coming up empty.
"You must be Amelia," Greta interrupted.
Your grip on Peter's shoulder tightened, eyes rolling with a scowl before you turned to Greta with a forced smile. "Yes, hi."
Peter's brows raised at your uninterested tone, even more when you didn't even bother prolonging the conversation as you turned back to him, body leaning closer.
Interesting…
"Can you help me find the bathroom?" you purred, tone seductively sweet to match the implication of your words. You pressed your chest against his, faces only inches apart as your fingers played with the hairs on the nape of his neck.
Peter short circuited.
He merely stared at you in awe, blood growing hot, heart pumping erratically as his grip on your waist tightened.
Peter would be lying if he said he wasn't at the least bit turned on.
"Please?" you added with a pout when he didn't manage to speak for a good few seconds.
It was the slight pinch on his skin that snapped him out of it.
"Of course, my love," he said, clearing the lump in his throat as he hastily stood up.
Peter wasn't even given the time to get his bearings straight when you immediately took his hand in yours, pulling him away from the bar and down the hallway. He squinted at the sudden brightness of the ceiling lights, greatly illuminating the cream wallpaper with intricate gold-colored patterns, similar crown molding from those in the ballroom, and various paintings hanging on the walls for guests to admire. The space was obviously still for public access, but it was relatively empty.
Once you two were alone, you didn't bother hiding your emotions. And Peter could clearly tell that you were angry.
It was making him slightly nervous.
"Is everything okay?"
You ignored him.
Peter frowned when pulled your hand from his and put some distance between you. He watched as you tensely opened a metal door, entering in haste without looking back. He ran after you to avoid getting locked out, the two of you entering another much smaller hallway that could only fit one person at a time. It was more of a tunnel, to be honest.
He never liked it when you were upset, especially during a high-risk mission. But most of all, he hated disappointing you, and with the way you were acting, he could only assume he'd done something wrong.
Peter was hot on your tail, carefully watching your every sharp turn, just to make sure he wasn't going to lose you. Though, it wasn't long until you two emerged into a hallway that was similar to before.
You were staring straight ahead, heels clicking angrily as the skirt of your dress rapidly swished with every harsh step.
Oh you were pissed.
"Did I do something?"
"You shouldn't be distracted on the job," you said, tone clipped.
"But I wasn't distracted," he defended, his frown deepening.
"Flirting, distracted, same thing," you scoffed, rolling your eyes. "It's not the time to woo girls. This is not a frat party."
Flirting? Woo girls?
"But I wasn't flirt—wait," he paused, his smile breaking out as realization dawned on him.
He could be quite oblivious sometimes, but he was not dumb. This wasn't going over his head, not when the way you were acting looked far too familiar. He'd seen the same thing happen only a couple of minutes ago, after all.
Because you weren't angry.
Much like how he wasn't angry moments before your dance.
Peter stopped, looking at you carefully with arms crossed over his chest, smirking as he quoted your words,
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're jealous."
You halted in your tracks, shoulders straightening with a huff before you continued walking.
It told Peter everything he needed to know.
He couldn't wipe off his smirk, pride bubbling in his chest, confidence boosted that little bit more as he jogged after you.
"There's going to be two guards at the door," you instructed monotonously once he reached your side, eyes avoiding him. "I'll distract one. You take care of the other one."
Peter stood straighter with a salute, still grinning from ear to ear.
"Yes ma'am."
You rolled your eyes, but he didn't miss the way the corner of your lips quirked up.
•••
"Excuse me, ma'am, this area is restricted."
"Oh, dear! My apologies, is this not where the bathroom is?" you gasped, and Peter was impressed at how clueless you sounded. If he didn't know you beforehand, he never would've guessed that you'd be one of the most elite and smartest spies there ever was. "Would either of you fine gentlemen guide me to where it is?"
Peter heard the two guards grumble before one spoke up gruffly, "Go. I've got this covered,"
"Yay!" you giggled, clapping your hands excitedly. "Thank you so much!"
Peter couldn't stop his grin at how cute you were.
When you and the other guard were out of sight, Peter made a run for it. Guard Two only caught a split-second glimpse of him before his fist harshly connected with their jaw, wincing when he heard a faint crack.
"Sorry," Peter whispered with a grimace, standing straight and adjusting his glasses. "Didn't mean to hit that hard."
He quickly turned towards the sound of grunts and hisses, fists colliding against muscles and then a body falling onto the floor. He rushed towards where you disappeared, entering the hallway just in time to see you fixing up your dress. Your eyes met his when he walked over to you, your smile sweet yet proud.
"Need a lil help carrying this guy," you said, gesturing behind you.
He nodded with a chuckle, eyes trained on your face once he reached your side before his brows furrowed.
"You got a little—" Before he could think about it, he reached a hand up, thumb rubbing over the corner of your mouth, attempting to get rid of the smudged lipstick.
He couldn't help but stare, easily putting him in a trance as he smoothed his thumb over your bottom lip, pulling it away slightly before letting it plop back, your warm breath tickling his skin when your lips parted.
Your little outburst of jealousy earlier might've boosted his confidence a lot more than he'd initially let on.
"Peter," you murmured. "The guard."
"Oh! Right," he cleared his throat, moving over to the unconscious guard, hauling them over his shoulder effortlessly as if they weighed nothing. He walked over to the second guard, doing the same over his other shoulder. When he turned around, he saw you standing there, brow raised. He shrugged, smirking. "Super strength."
You shook your head, rolling your eyes, "Show off."
Peter laughed.
After carrying both guards into the room—unlocked thanks to their keycards and fingerprints—you busied yourself with their weapons.
Peter was looking through the various crates and boxes, all labeled with familiar and not-so-familiar logos, some in different languages, while others were completely blank. Some items weren't hidden at all, from high-tech guns in glass displays to alien guns in wooden crates, various iterations of vibranium shields, and holy shit, is that a Wakandan spear?
"Where the hell did they get all of these? This is so much ammo in one room—"
Peter's words died in his throat when his eyes landed on you.
You were leaning over, one foot resting on one of the boxes on the floor, your fingers grazing your leg as you carefully pulled your skirt up inch by tempting inch until your thigh was exposed to him. Your gun holster later came into view, the straps squeezing the supple flesh tightly and fuck—
Peter had never wanted to be an inanimate object so badly ever in his life.
He quickly averted his gaze when you pulled your skirt back down. He pretended to read the labels on some crates as he cleared his throat, tugging at the collar of his shirt because Jesus it's getting really hot in here.
"Take this," you said, walking over to him with your hand extended, your fingers curled around the barrel of a gun.
Peter's eyes widened as he looked at the gun and then at you. "We haven't gotten to this part of my training yet."
"Come on, you've seen some movies."
"Since when did movies become tutorials?"
You stared at him for a moment, shaking your head with a chuckle before holding up the gun before him to demonstrate.
"Safety on when you don't want to shoot, safety off when you want to shoot," you said, flicking the pin on the side of the gun. "Cock it only once. It's semi-automatic so after that, all you need is to pull the trigger for continuous shots. Grip with two hands, dominant hand tight around it, other hand on top. Don't try to be arrogant by holding it with only one, especially when you've never fired a gun in your life. Point and shoot, simple. Make sure you aim at the bad guy, though."
You took his hand and placed the gun in his palm, smiling at him sweetly as if you hadn't just given him a loaded weapon.
"Got it?"
Peter stared at you dumbfounded, gulping as he held it to his chest, "That's definitely not all there is to it when using a gun."
"Hey, don't worry," you said reassuringly, squeezing his shoulder. "It's just for precaution. You might not even need to use it."
Peter nodded with a sigh, staring at the gun in his hand before he slipped into the hem of his pants, snuggly kept there by his belt.
Rookie mistake.
"Make sure the safety is on before you put it there, wouldn't want an accident to happen."
Peter froze before he quickly pulled it out, aiming the barrel as far away from him as possible.
He groaned in utter embarrassment when you laughed.
"Can you just carry it for me?" he asked, pouting for good measure. "Please?"
"You're fine," you giggled, gesturing at your leg. "And I only have one thigh holster."
Yeah. I saw.
"I really don't want to shoot myself in the balls," he said, physically shuddering as he screwed his eyes shut. "And I think you're aware of how clumsy I get sometimes."
You laughed out loud, shaking your head as you moved back toward one of the unconscious guards. Peter watched you curiously as you started checking their suits, a faint 'aha!' leaving your lips before you started taking one of their jackets off.
Peter's brows shot up. "What are you—"
"Jacket off," you interjected, showing him a shoulder holster. He did as told as you walked back to him. You helped him slip the harness on, clicking buckles and adjusting the straps before taking his gun and slotting it in soon after. You tilted your head as you smooth it over him. "Better?"
"Much," he breathed out, smiling at you gratefully as he slipped his jacket back on. "Thanks."
You returned his grin, patting his chest before you went and looked for the safe.
Which didn't take too long.
"They could've at least made it inconspicuous, shit's too easy," you scoffed, gesturing at the safe that had a huge American flag on it, stars and eagles, too, as if it wasn't obvious enough. You looked at him with a knowing smile. "Do your magic."
Peter squatted in front of it, taking his glasses off and twisting the nose bridge. There was a soft whirring sound before the glasses turned into a mini, android spider.
Carbon-based nanotech will always impress him. Imperceptible to metal detectors all while never losing its function and durability.
"Of course it's a tiny spider," you muttered, delight laced in your tone.
"What?" He looked at you over his shoulder with a teasing pout, holding up the spider in his palm. "You don't like him?"
You purse your lips, shaking your head before meeting his eyes. "He's cute."
"And hopefully he works, too," he said, turning back to the safe before carefully placing the little guy on the keypad. It took a few moments for the mechanical spider to do its thing. Peter let out the breath he was holding when the safe opened without a hitch. He looked at you with a grin, gesturing at the device inside. "Voilà."
You scrunched up your face. "And that proves that you can't be good at everything."
"Hey!" he gasped. "It wasn't that bad."
"Just leave the French accent alone," you teased, though your eyes were shining with admiration. "But that brain of yours is definitely something else."
Peter blushed, waving your compliment off, "Nah, it's just—"
"Shut up, Parker," you scoffed playfully, but your smile was genuine. "You're incredibly smart and annoyingly amazing. It's not up for discussion."
"Thanks," he chuckled shyly, cheeks turning redder. He gestured at the nuclear football, before looking up at you. "You have the decoy, right?"
"Oh, right." You nodded, reaching into the neckline of your dress before you pulled the rectangular device out, showing it to him with a proud grin.
Peter stared at you, mouth agape.
"What?" you snorted, shaking your head at his surprised face. "I don't have pockets!"
"You could've asked me to carry it."
"I can't exactly bring you with me into the ladies' restroom now, can I?" you said, shrugging. "And I couldn't just hand it to you in the middle of the ballroom with all those people."
"Touché," he hummed, taking the device from your hands. His brows furrowed as he turned it in his palm. "Is it supposed to be warm?"
"It's been with the girls in the past hour or so, of course it's going to be warm."
"Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he tried not to let his curious thoughts wander.
He was failing, though. Miserably so.
Because holding the device when it's been in your boobs made him wonder exactly how warm your boobs would actually feel if it was direct contact, right in the palm of his—
"What?" you asked, none the wiser, briefly. Because then it was immediate, the realization crossing your face, probably noticing just how red his face had gotten. "Oh my god—Peter!"
"Sorry!" he squeaked, hurriedly turning his back on you, focusing on the task at hand.
"My boobs are clean, by the way."
"That wasn't the route my thoughts went to," he grumbled.
"Yeah, I figured," you giggled. "Just wanted to confirm."
He rolled his eyes even though you couldn't see him.
Focus. You got this.
But just as he was about to switch the devices, you moved closer to him, bending over until you were at eye level with the safe, your scent overpowering to the point of being distracting.
"Y/N," Peter sighed, head hanging low as his hand fell onto his sides. "You're making me really nervous when you're breathing down my neck."
"Sorry! Sorry," you laughed, heels clicking as you moved further behind him. "I'll just…step back."
With bated breath yet careful fingers, Peter swiftly switched the devices, blowing out his cheeks in relief when nothing happened.
"Great job, Pete."
He shot you a smile over his shoulder and closed the safe, letting his spider friend reverse its steps before taking him off the safe, pressing its tiny tummy for it to turn back into glasses.
Peter put it back on, running his fingers through his hair before turning to you.
You beamed and held out your palm.
But just as he was about to hand you the device, he quickly pulled it back with narrowed eyes.
"Are you putting this in your boobs again?"
You stared at him in amusement. "I didn't grow any pockets at the last minute, so yes."
"Don't you think it's dangerous?" he reasoned, carefully waving the device to get his point across. "I mean, this is the real thing."
"It's not radioactive," you chuckled. "It's not going to suddenly blow up."
"We don't know that—"
"Hey, don't worry," you hummed, your reassuring smile turning mischievous. "I'll still have my boobs at the end of this mission."
Peter rolled his eyes. "I'm concerned about you, like, as a whole person."
"Yeah, I know, and that includes my boobs."
He groaned, "Is this becoming a thing?"
You shook your head, laughing, "No, no, I just didn't think I'd find out that you're a boob guy, during a mission, no less."
"I'm not a boob guy," he scoffed.
Peter was a you guy, to be honest, as in you as a whole person—eyes, boobs, lips, butt, thighs, everything included.
And personality, obviously.
You laughed, leaning close to kiss him on the cheek, throwing him off-guard that you were able to take the device from him without breaking a sweat.
Peter sighed in defeat.
He really wasn't any better than any of the guards in this building.
"Come on," you called, hands now free, the device properly hidden with 'the girls' as you opened the door for him. "We need to get going."
•••
You both were navigating your way back into the ballroom when the hairs on the back of Peter's neck stood up.
"People incoming," he warned, grabbing your hand as you pulled you down a hallway. His enhanced hearing just about picked up the sound of guns being loaded. "Armed."
"How many?" you asked, your free hand picking up your skirt as you walked even faster.
He tried to listen closely, calculating the footsteps that echoed down the hall sans both of yours
"Four," he confirmed, brow raising. "Maybe Five."
"That's too many. The minute they'll see us, they're going to get suspicious. It's going to be too late for both of us to take all of them down without at least one sending a signal," you rushed, testing out every door down the halls in hopes that you'd get lucky. "We need to find a place to hide."
"Shit," Peter cursed, looking from left to right of the hall. "They're coming from both sides."
"In here!"
He wasn't given much to process your words when you all but grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and pushed him inside a room. The space was quick to grow smaller when you followed suit, your dress knocking over a broom on your way in.
Of course it had to be a janitor's closet.
As if his life wasn't already filled with enough clichés.
Peter grabbed the handle to pull the door close, darkness swallowing you both as it clicked shut. He felt around the metal knob only for his fingers to fall on an entirely flat surface.
"There's no lock," he said, so deathly confused. "What kind of door has no lock?"
"Quiet!" you hissed, pressing your palm over his mouth.
Peter stared at you wide-eyed, his pupils slowly adjusting to the lack of light that he was only now able to gauge just how close you two were.
"Listen," you whispered.
He nodded, closing his eyes as he concentrated on distinguishing the voices.
"The guards have been knocked out."
"Nothing is missing in the room."
"Still, check everything. Be on high alert for anything out of the ordinary."
Peter's eyes snapped open, panic settling in as he heard the footsteps growing nearer.
"Shit, shit, shit!" he cursed, voice muffled by your palm. You removed your hand, eyes confused yet expectant. He explained in hurried whispers, "They're not suspicious of anything being stolen yet but they're coming this way. If we get caught, they're going to immediately find out what we're up to and we're doomed."
Peter watched as your face went through different types of emotions. First, it was worry, a flicker of panic crossing your eyes only to be replaced by something else entirely. The crease between your brows deepened, lips pursed as you tilted your head.
It was that all too familiar thinking face he'd grown to adore.
A second later, your brows shot up, eyes wide, and—if he didn't know any better—twinkling as if a light bulb lit up on top of your head.
"Not unless we make them believe we're just some couple needing a quick fix."
"What?" Peter asked, confused.
You only gave him a sheepish smile and a barely-there whisper of,
"I'm sorry."
Peter wasn't given the time to ask what you were apologizing for when you suddenly grabbed him by the nape of his neck and crashed your lips against his.
He stumbled, his back hitting the shelves. Although the way his head was spinning was definitely not because of the impact.
Peter groaned, kissing you back immediately and with fervor, his hands gripping your waist, head tilting as he pulled you closer.
He shivered when your hand moved down his chest before moving inside his jacket, only realizing that you were slipping the nuclear football between the holster, tugging the straps a little tighter to stop it from slipping out.
Then, you guided his hands, much like with your dance earlier. Yet this time, one landed on your exposed thigh as you hiked your leg against his waist, placing the other on top of your ass.
Peter felt like he was about to faint.
But with every bit of respect he had for you—which was a lot—he still hesitated.
He was unsure as to how far he was allowed to go, deeply worried to cross the line of no return. He didn't want to make you uncomfortable by pushing your boundaries.
He also didn't want to ruin everything he had with you. Whether that was you being his friend or you being his teammate, he really didn't want to lose any of it.
Peter didn't want to lose you.
"It's okay," you whispered against his lips, probably sensing his inner turmoil. "Touch me, Peter."
That was the last thing that made any sliver of his self-control snap.
He growled, squeezing your ass and your thigh simultaneously, pulling your body flush against his as if you could go any closer.
Your gasp was met by a low groan, your hand fisting his jacket as the other took home in his styled hair.
The door swung open, a momentary stream of light illuminating the tiny room. There was a disgusted growl before the door slammed close, darkness covering you both again but neither of you stopped.
Peter gripped your hips, pushing you back slightly until you were the one pressed against the closed door. He cupped the back of your neck, arm curling your waist as he slotted his thigh in between yours in a desperate need to be inhumanly closer.
Your soft moan just about made his knees buckle.
It also made him feel daring enough to gently tease his tongue against your bottom lip. You let him in with his ease, both of you moaning as your tongues did their own dance inside your mouth.
It was intoxicating.
The faint taste of champagne mixing with the taste of you.
It was something that Peter probably spent a great amount of time thinking about yet nothing in his imagination ever came close. No matter what his brain had conjured in the past, it could never do you justice.
It was addicting.
Your pretty little sighs in response to his soft groans, how you were everywhere, your scent, your taste, your overwhelming warmth engulfing his very being. Peter was drowning in all things you, the very thing that could make him breathe again.
It was too much, yet he needed more.
You were so close, but not close enough.
Peter's hands glided down your body until he was cupping your ass, their warmth settling on each of his palms. But just as he was about to tell you to jump up into his arms, you placed a firm hand on his chest.
Your lips detached with a soft pop, the back of your head softly thumping against the door. You gasped for air, hands fisting his jacket before you rested your forehead against his.
He really needed to remember the fact that he could hold his breath longer than any average human could.
Peter put his hands back on your waist, fingers squeezing as he nudged your nose.
"Y/N, I—"
"Like you, too."
Peter's eyes widened, head pulling back as he stared at you in shock. Whatever confession he had left his brain, a lump caught in his throat, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as he failed to string any letter into words.
Oh boy he was flustered.
The thought of you, you, someone so confident, someone who is way out of his league liking him back, him, little nerdy, dorky, stumbly old Peter Parker, it made his heart soar.
"I'm a trained spy, Pete, I know how to read people," you giggled when he stayed silent for a few seconds. "It's written all over your face. You really haven't been subtle about it the whole night, either."
"I don't think subtlety is my specialty," he whispered, a shy smile growing on his lips as he pressed his forehead against yours, the tips of your noses brushing in the sweetest of ways.
"It really isn't." You nodded in agreement with a wide smile of your own.
"So I don't think I need to be subtle about this," he started, gaze holding yours. He was nervous, but if he didn't say this out loud, he might just explode. "I'm falling for you."
"You're so cliché," you giggled, his cheeks growing hot, his whole body melting, his heart jumping out of his chest and landing straight into the palm of your hand when you added, "I'm falling for you, too."
"Really?" he asked, surprised yet his voice came out a little shy.
It was obvious enough. The words had been said. But he wanted to make sure because this just seemed like one big lucid dream and he'd actually die if he were to wake up any moment now.
"I mean, I haven't been subtle about it either," you giggled, kissing him briefly yet sweetly, brushing your nose with his as you breathed out, "But yeah, I do. I feel so strongly for you Peter that I just—I feel nervous, I feel giddy, I feel safe and appreciated and I just feel so, so happy whenever I'm around you and I just, whatever I did in the past didn't matter because you accept me for me and I trust that you've got the best intentions, I trust you with my life, and you're just the sweetest most thoughtful and I'm just glad to have known you and—" you paused, shaking your head with a soft laugh, "I'm such a sap."
God this felt like a dream come true.
"I like you being a sap," he chuckled shyly. "But I'm just…me, though."
"Exactly," you confirmed, smile genuinely laced with pride. "You're brilliant, Peter Parker. How can I not fall for you?"
Peter's cheeks were starting to hurt with how wide his smile was, but he sure as hell wasn't complaining.
"You're so way out of my league," he whispered, arms wrapping around your waist.
"I could say the exact same thing to you," you giggled, pecking his lips. "But let's debate about this another time, yeah? We still got some codes to find and a bad guy to catch," you said, turning around swiftly to face the door before he could even have a chance to stop you.
"Wait, don't—" Peter sucked in a sharp breath, his grip on your waist tightening as his face landed on the juncture between your neck and shoulder. Your back was against his chest, bodies pressed up far too close. "—move," he lowly groaned against your skin.
"Oh."
Peter felt his whole body heat up from embarrassment. Because he knew you could definitely feel it behind you. He could hear the fast pace of your heart, and if that wasn't a tell-tale sign, he didn't know what was. And no matter how much he tried to pull away, even just slightly, the small space of the closet wasn't letting him do so.
"I'm sorry, I am so, so, so sorry, I didn't mean for that to happen I—"
He tried to move away from you again, but clumsily elbowed the shelf on his right instead which made a few empty buckets topple over from the top. He quickly pulled you back to avoid you getting hit by the falling cleaning supplies, but in turn, it made your ass press against him a little harder.
"Fuck," he groaned, body going rigid when you gasped. You probably think he was a proper pervert now. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to do that either. And I tried to control it I swear but it's just—my senses are enhanced and you're so close and that kiss was really hot and you're even hotter and your ass really feels nice in my hands—shit! I shouldn't have said that, I should not have said that. I mean not! Not that it's untrue, it's very, very true. You've got a really pretty and nice ass and I should really shut up goddammit—"
You cut him off with a giggle, head tilting to the side as your fingers reached up, burying it in his now messy brown hair.
"I feel flattered that a kiss got you this excited," you teased, earning a soft whine from him.
"It's not just a kiss when I've been wanting to do it for so long," Peter confessed, kissing your shoulder softly before he mumbled, "And it's not my fault that you're out here looking like a goddess."
"Look at you," you giggled, squeezing his forearm that was wrapped around your waist. "That expensive suit is really doing wonders with your smoothness, huh?"
"It brings out the suave in me," he hummed, grinning. "Makes my eyes pop, too."
You let out a sweet, hearty laugh.
Peter chuckled, heart warming as he buried his face into your neck.
"How about you take this because I really don't want to accidentally drop it," he started, pulling the device out of his jacket and handing it over to you, kissing your shoulder with a deep breath, "And just give me a second to calm down."
You giggled.
But what you said next did anything but help.
"Yes, sir."
•••
It was quarter to seven when you both made your way down to the underground theater.
There were fewer people this time around. Peter supposed it was expected. What, with a secret auction selling dangerous weapons, you simply couldn't hand out invitations like it's free candy. It could land in the wrong hands—well, right hands, in this case.
He fiddled with the card inside his pocket, free fingers pushing up his glasses, eyes narrowed at the guards by the entrance.
"Shit," he cursed under his breath, noticing how they were ushering people into the theater individually. "I think it's a card for each person and we only have one—"
Peter stopped when he found no sign of you.
"You're not supposed to disappear without letting me know," he said through his comms.
He heard you giggle in response, "I was supposed to be back before you even notice."
"Point still stands," he grumbled. "Where are you?"
Peter grinned when he felt a familiar warmth behind him, your arms wrapping around his waist as you rested your chin on his shoulder.
"Hi."
"Hi," he chuckled, taking your hand to pull you by his side. He circled his arm around your waist, brow raised. "Where'd you go?"
You smiled innocently, yet the proud glimmer in your eyes was unmistakable. You held a hand up, a black and silver card pinched between two fingertips.
Always ten steps ahead of him.
It made him want to push you against a nearby wall and kiss the living daylights out of you.
"Now, how'd you get that?"
You winked. "You know I have my ways."
Before Peter could respond, everyone suddenly turned around to the sound of a commotion.
"Sir, you're not allowed without an invitation," one guard said.
"But I had it!" a man with a stark white beard exclaimed, patting around his pockets, "It was here!"
"I'm going to have to ask you to leave, sir."
"Well, you just lost your highest bidder!"
Peter turned back to you, impressed. "You need to teach me how to do that."
"I can't teach you all my tricks—" your laugh died once you walked by a lamp, illuminating both your faces in this otherwise dimly lit entry hall. You pulled him back under the light, your eyes widening. "Oh shit."
"What?" he asked, worried. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, it's just—" you snorted, gesturing to get him to come closer, hand cupping his cheek. "There's lipstick all over your mouth."
Peter blushed, chuckling, "Would it be so bad to just leave it?"
"You look like you just ate a can of tomato sauce."
Peter pouted.
You shook your head with a laugh, thumbs brushing as much lipstick stain as you could. Just when he thought you were done, you cupped his face, pulling him closer to kiss him firmly on the cheek.
"There," you hummed, giggling, "Since you want my lipstick on you so bad."
"It's hot," Peter shamelessly admitted with a smirk.
You rolled your eyes but grinned anyway, taking his hand and pulling towards the entrance.
"Come on. Let's go spend the millions we don't have."
•••
It took a few more minutes for everyone to settle in their seats. You and Peter choose the front-right corner. It was near the stage but not at the center of attention.
As the clock struck seven, the main stage lights lit up. There were a couple of marble statues littered across—for decoration he assumed—and vases filled with wildflowers he could never name. Right at the center was a white podium, a huge projector screen behind it.
Then, a flash of gold appeared on the stage.
Peter immediately knew who they were.
"Welcome, everyone," the Auclair twins said in sync.
"Why is it always evil twins?" he said.
Obviously, he knew about Halbert, he was the one who gave him the card. But he didn't expect his twin sister to be in on it, too. But then again, the guy seemed to be all beauty with no brains.
And no, he wasn't biased.
"I knew there was something off about her," you scoffed, arms crossed over your chest, pout prominent as you glared at the stage. You were starting to look like you were throwing a tantrum. But Peter decided not to say anything.
Yet.
"I think you all know why we've gathered here so I won't bother you with unnecessary semantics," Greta started, waving her hand at the projector, now showing a live feed of the room you broke into earlier. "Any or all of those high-grade toys could be yours tonight, if you're willing to empty out your pockets, of course. But, to lift everyone's spirits up," Greta paused, giggling wickedly as she dug her fingers into the neckline of her dress, procuring the star of the night, and the bane of yours and Peter's existence.
"The Gold Codes and the nuclear football, available for bidding at the end of the night," she purred, waving the card around as if it wasn't one the most dangerous items on the planet. "We have to save the best for last, of course."
"So hiding things in your boobs is a common thing then," Peter said, catching the sour look on your face from the corner of his eye. He was trying really hard to bite back his smirk.
"So you found the codes before anyone else did."
"What?" Peter looked at you confused. "But I didn't."
"You did," you said, jaw ticking. "You just didn't know you were already looking at it."
It took Peter a moment.
"I was not looking at her boobs."
"Sure you weren't," you scoffed, rolling your eyes.
"Darling," he drawled teasingly, playing up the accent, the fire in your glare unmistakable as you met his eyes. He pinched your chin between his forefinger and thumb with a grin. "You've got nothing to be jealous of."
Huffing, you pulled your face off his grasp, "Shut up."
"You know," he started, daringly throwing his arm over your shoulder. You were never one to cross when you were angry. But Peter simply wanted to have some harmless fun. After all, this was the first time he'd ever seen you like this. "I still haven't decided if you're cute or hot when you're jealous."
"Don't tempt me to punch you."
He chuckled, leaning to press his lips against your temple. His smile widened when he felt your whole body relax beside him.
"So, what’s the plan?" he murmured against your skin.
You shifted in your seat, resting your head on his shoulder.
"We wait until the codes and the football are up for bidding," you mumbled. "Then, I'm going to be a show-off, placing a higher bet over anyone while moving closer to the stage. Once I'm in good proximity, cause a distraction and I'll swipe the codes."
"Got it," he confirmed, flinching in his seat when he heard the bang of a hammer.
"Your numbered paddles are under your seats. Now, let's begin."
Peter had only seen auctions in movies, and they always seemed to be the most boring thing ever.
He never expected them to be as anxiety-inducing as this one.
It was probably the fact that these were dangerous and deadly weapons, carelessly sold to anyone who had the money to buy them.
His heart would sink every time he'd hear that fucking hammer.
Peter was fidgeting with the bridge of his glasses, eyes sharply trained on the stolen Chitauri gun being wheeled off the stage.
"Relax," you whispered, hand on his knee to stop it from bouncing. "We've got backup near the premises. Once we secure the codes, they'll immediately interfere. None of those weapons are getting out of this building."
"They're buying it like it's candy," Peter grumbled frustratingly. "As if lives won't be put at risk if it gets out there."
"Next up, Oscorp's drone satellite," Greta introduced excitedly. "Bigger, better, deadlier than the one by Stark Industries."
Peter's fist clenched. "Why do they always find the need to one-up each other?"
"Egomaniac billionaires," you supplied, hand curling around his fist, bringing his knuckles up to your lips before you intertwined your fingers together.
It helped him calm down a little.
"Things are starting to get boring, don't we think?" Greta laughed, waving around the controller. It was either she wasn't aware of how dangerous the device in her hand was, or she simply didn't care. Her wicked grin told Peter it was the latter. "So how about we do a little test run?"
"Shit," he cursed, sitting upright. "That's not part of the plan."
"You're the faster one," you said, tone calm as you tugged your skirt discreetly and pulled your gun out. "When I give the signal, immediately run towards her and secure codes."
"What signal?"
You stood up, gun raised.
Everyone froze as you shot at the wires that held the scaffolding that was hanging on top of the stage. It immediately gave way, dropping onto the wooden stage and blocking both exits on each side.
Chaos erupted then.
The people running towards the small entryway made it difficult for the guards to get in right away.
But Peter was still staring at you in shock.
"Go!"
He snapped out of it, taking long strides towards the stage, reaching the twins just in time before they could even manage to escape.
"Mr. Reid," Halbert chuckled darkly, pushing Greta right behind him before pulling out a revolver. "You should've bought a gun."
"Well, good thing I did," Peter quipped, reaching inside his holster only to find nothing. He looked up, eyes wide. "Shit. I dropped it."
"Oh my God—" Peter heard you groan in disappointment, and he could practically hear that eye roll.
He would've found the time to be embarrassed if Halbert hadn't started shooting at him. He dodged every bullet easily. His enhanced reflexes paired with how inaccurate this guy's aim was, it wasn't really much of a challenge.
And no, he wasn't showing off.
Okay, maybe a little bit.
Peter couldn't stop his chuckle when he heard the familiar clicking of an empty cylinder.
"Well, looks like I didn’t even need one," he bragged as he stalked towards Halbert, yanking the gun out of his hold before hitting him on the side of the head with the butt of his own gun, rendering him unconscious. He turned to Greta with a mocking tut, "Your twin isn't the wisest, isn't he?"
"No," she scoffed, smile widening as she glanced over his shoulder. "But he bought us time."
Peter saw the entryway clear of civilians, the armed guards swiftly invading the theater.
"Shit."
A flash of red caught his eye, your sharp heels clicking rapidly before you slid on the floor, picking up the gun Peter dropped. You knelt on one knee, gun in each hand, aiming it toward the guards and raining hell on them motherfuckers.
You didn't miss a shot.
He shook his head in awe, "And you said to hold it with two hands!"
"I've fired guns since I was twelve!" you said, tilting your head to throw him a smirk. "I think I can be an exception."
How could he argue with that?
Peter swerved to the right, heart thumping as the glint of a knife covered his periphery. He grabbed their wrist, pulling him forward in one swift motion and throwing the culprit towards the seats.
"Who brings a knife to a gunfight?" he huffed as he kicked away the knife that fell out of their hand.
Peter's attention got stolen by your growl.
His eyes landed on you just in time to see you grab a man's forearm from behind, using all your body weight and the right momentum to throw him over your shoulder, a pained scream when you undoubtedly dislodged his arm, the knife clinking onto the floor. You kicked the guy on the head, his eyes rolling back as he turned limp. You stepped on the knife's handle to fling it into the air, catching it with your left hand before flipping to your right, holding your skirt taught before cutting a new slit on your skirt. Then, you spun, red dress flowing with the motion as you kicked the guy running towards you on the side of his throat.
If Peter wasn't in love before, he sure as hell was now.
"What?" you panted when you caught his gaze, brows furrowed.
"That was so hot," Peter breathed out, your eyes rolling for the umpteenth time before they suddenly widened.
"Down!"
He ducked as you threw the knife, the blade soaring past him and landing into the guy's shoulder, the gun that was aimed at Peter's distracted ass dropping onto the floor.
He looked back at you in absolute wonder.
And did his pants grow a little tighter?
"Will you marry me?"
"Jesus—focus!"
"Is that a 'no'?!" he called out teasingly, elbowing one guy on the chin before hurling his unconscious body toward his allies. He called it the bowling move. Taking a gun from the floor, he turned to you with a pout. "Can't believe you'd reject me, babe!"
"Kinda in the middle of something here!" you yelled back, shooting a guy on the leg before knocking him out with the butt of your gun. You stood straight with a deep breath, tilting your head with your lips pursed before nodding behind him. "How about you help me get those codes first?"
Peter turned, seeing Greta dragging her twin towards the side exit.
"Oh yeah, right," he chuckled sheepishly before going after her. "My bad!"
Fully catching him off guard, Peter flew forward and landed on his chest when Greta swiped his legs. He rolled onto his back, narrowly avoiding the six-inch heel she dug into the floor where his head was supposed to be.
"So you can fight," he breathed out, doing a kip up to get back on his feet.
"I bite too," she hummed, winking. "And I've been wanting to sink my teeth into you, pretty boy."
"Uh, thanks?" he chuckled dryly, face scrunched up. He swerved the knife she threw at him, looking back only to see she got two more, one on each hand. He sighed, "Great. You throw knives."
"What?" she asked, tone mocking as she flipped one in the air, catching the blade in between her fingers with ease. "You don't like knife play?"
"That doesn't sound like fun," he grumbled, running towards her, swiftly ducking as she kicked her leg before grabbing her by the ankles.
Greta fell on the floor with a thud, yet she was quick to kick his knee with her other foot, Peter hissing as her sharp heel dug into his skin. She used this slim window to pull her leg forward, dragging Peter with it and making him land right on top of her.
"Quite a handsome face. Maybe we can go out for dinner sometime," she purred, running her tongue over her lip as she traced his jaw with a knife, sharp tip teasing his throat. "The real party happens later in the night, of course."
"Yeah, no thanks," he breathed out, pulling his head back and quickly grabbing her arms, flipping her onto her stomach in one swift motion. Peter pinned her down using his body weight as he knocked the knives out of her hands. He pulled her wrist towards her back, his knees tight on either side of her hips as he sat up. Holding her wrists with one hand, he undid his necktie with the other, tying her up securely before letting go.
"Kinky," she huffed out a giggle.
Peter rolled his eyes, pulling her up by the shoulders until she was seated on the floor. He walked around, dusting off his suit and adjusting his glasses—they got sticky tape on the sides to not let them fall off during fights. He thought about this ahead, thank you very much—as he stood in front of her.
"I guess it's true what they say about the quiet ones," she said, head tilted as she shamelessly ran her eyes down his body before meeting his eyes. "You're a different kind of man, Lucas Reid."
"The name's Parker," he said with a deep voice as he buttoned up his jacket with the utmost seriousness on his face. "Peter Parker."
You scoffed loudly.
Peter immediately spun, his landing eyes on your figure standing behind him, your jaw tight, arms crossed over your chest, a scowl on your pretty face with that fiery glare to match.
Oh you were pissed.
But Peter had a feeling it wasn't at him.
"You've been itching to do that the whole night, have you?"
"Maybe," he chuckled.
You rolled your eyes, nodding towards Greta.
"Just take the codes."
Peter stared at you like you'd grown a second head.
"What?" you asked, voice taut, so clearly getting annoyed.
"You take the codes."
"Why can't you do it?"
"Because I respect women?"
You blinked a few times before dropping your head with an exasperated groan.
"What? You know where it's hidden!" he exclaimed in defense, gesturing towards the bound woman. "I'm not just slipping my hand in there!"
"I have a feeling she won't mind," you muttered to yourself, but thanks to his enhanced hearing, he heard you loud and clear. "You've practically been humping each other."
Peter decided to keep quiet, scared that you'd actually punch him this time.
Though the glare you shot him was proof that you knew he heard you.
You shook your head, another eye roll before you walked over to Greta, bending at the waist until your face was level with hers.
"Let’s make this quick. Left or right?" you asked.
"Dégage, salope," she hissed.
You gasped, hand over your mouth in feigned shock. "Now, that's not nice."
"Wait, what did she say?" Peter asked as he stood by the sidelines, not too close but not too far. He was giving you the space to do your thing.
"She called me a bitch," you cooed, pouting condescendingly. "Fine. Since you don't want to make this easier for us—"
Before Peter could even question what you were about to do, you stomped on a knife, catching the handle mid-air and straight up slashing the blade in front of Greta.
"Woah!"
Peter downright expected you to have chopped her whole head off—okay, maybe slit her throat because the knife wasn't that big.
But nothing happened.
No chopping, no slicing, no blood, nothing.
Well, not until a split second later when Greta gasped, the top half of her—really expensive, he assumed—dress sliding down her body.
Peter looked away immediately, face hot as he screwed his eyes shut, turning his back on her for good measure.
"Jesus Christ, Y/N," he muttered, taking his glasses off to rub his face with his palm.
But he couldn't wipe his smile off.
Peter knew you could take the codes without having to cut her dress. You were simply being petty. And it was safe to assume it had something to do with the way Greta had been shamelessly flirting with him for the whole night.
Your jealousy fed his ego a little bit.
"You can look now," you said, tone low. "She's covered."
"Are you sure?"
You scoffed, "It's not like you don't want to see it, anyway."
Peter swiftly turned, only catching a glimpse of Greta now wearing Halbert's jacket with the matching gold tie gagging her mouth.
He immediately turned to you who was standing to the side, looking anywhere else but at him. He walked over, rubbing up and down your arms until you uncrossed them. He pulled you closer by the waist, nudging your nose while mirroring your pout.
"Don't be mad."
"I'm not mad."
"Then why did you do that?"
"I had to get the codes."
"Yeah, but it didn't have to involve boobage exposure."
"Boobage exposure," you snorted, the corner of your lip twitching as you finally met his eyes. "I feel like that's something you enjoy."
"I didn't even look!" he defended, his smile widening when you tried your best to hide yours. "I promise. I didn't want to, either."
You shook your head, sighing, "You're such an annoying dork."
"Your annoying dork."
That made your smile appear.
"My dork, huh?" you hummed, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.
Peter smiled, pulling you closer, tip of his nose brushing yours. "Well, if you'll have me, that is."
"Have you as what, exactly?"
"Your boyfriend," he said, slightly surprised by his own boldness. But then again, you two had already established what you felt for each other. The fear of rejection wasn't there anymore. Shaking his head with a smile, he added, "Wait, answer that on our date this Friday?"
"Love the newfound confidence, Agent Parker," you said, giggling. "And yes, to both questions,"
"I really like the sound of Agent Parker," he hummed, wiggling his eyebrows at you. "Am I a certified spy now?"
"Eh, if you don't drop your gun next time, then sure."
"Come on," he sighed, pouting. "I could use a name change, you know, like Spy-Dork-Man."
Peter burst out laughing when you physically cringed.
"Tell me one good reason why I shouldn't kick you because of that god awful pun."
"Because I'm your dork now, bad puns included, so you're going to have to get used to it from early doors."
"Touché," you laughed.
Peter looked at you adoringly, but just as he was about to kiss you, a sudden ruckus of applause made you both jump, stance on defense reflexively.
It was the team, right in front of the stage, clapping and wolf-whistling like a bunch of assholes.
Peter groaned, hiding his face in the crook of your neck as he wrapped his arms around you.
"About time you two solved this…tension you have," Wanda said as she reached the stage, gesturing at the two of you before she held her hand out to Bucky. "Hand it over, Super Soldier. She technically kissed him first,"
"Maybe I shouldn't have held Sam back from unmuting the line in the closet," Bucky sighed, pulling out his wallet and handing over twenty dollars.
"You had a bet?" you gaped at the two of them.
Peter turned to Sam. "You tried to interrupt us again?"
"I wouldn't have to if you guys didn't constantly forget that your comms aren't reserved for the two of you only," the Captain chuckled.
"You guys were so cute, though," Wanda said with a smile.
"The smooching sounds were a bit much." Bucky grimaced.
"Don't forget the abundant talk about boobs and ass," Harley laughed, appearing from behind everyone with a bag in hand. "Good thing you finally grew those balls though, Parker. I've grown really tired of hearing you whine about your obsession—sorry, I mean, crush on her."
"Shut up, man," Peter groaned, burying his face back on your shoulder to hide.
"Leave him alone," you laughed, rubbing his back in comfort.
"I wished I could've hacked the cams earlier so it would've been like watching a James Bond movie meets rom-com live," Harley said. "But the audio was good, popcorns still definitely enjoyed."
"Lives were on the line and you guys enjoyed popcorn," you deadpanned.
Sam laughed as he patted both of your backs. "Nah, we just knew you two got it handled."
"What are you guys doing here then?" Peter countered, glaring at them.
"Clean up," Wanda said, cracking her fingers before adding, "I also need to erase your faces off of people's memories because blowing your covers wasn't exactly part of the plan."
"And this guy practically gave out his real name," Bucky chuckled, patting Peter's shoulder before moving over to the unconscious men lying on the floor.
"I couldn't let the opportunity slip!" Peter protested. "It's probably going to be my only James Bond moment, I had to take it."
"That was pretty stupid," you said, scrunching your face at him with a laugh.
"I know that now, thanks," he grumbled.
"Here." Harley tossed him his web shooters and mask, and Peter felt a sense of comfort as he snapped them onto his wrists.
"Pete, you think you can swing us home?" you asked, slipping your fingers into his.
"Yeah, of course," he chuckled, squeezing your hand. He could definitely get used to feeling your affectionate touch constantly.
"Right, we're going to leave this to you guys, now bye!" you called out before you all but dragged him towards the exit, Peter's groan and your laugh echoing down the hall when Sam yelled,
"Use protection!"
•••
You both were honestly too tired to even attempt and continue what started in the closet.
Well, you did try to.
When you landed back at the compound, you both decided to go to your separate rooms and take much-needed hot showers first. But getting to your quarters in itself probably took around ten minutes, all because Peter simply couldn't help but stop every couple of meters down the halls, pressing you against the nearest wall to kiss you senseless.
It took you shutting the door on his face for you both to finally wash off the sweat and grime of the day.
After he was all cleaned and clothed, he didn't waste any time making his way out of his room. But when he opened the door, you were already standing there, fist in the air, mid-knock.
Peter chuckled as he grabbed your waist and pulled you into his room, giggles and satisfied sighs bouncing off his walls as his lips covered your own. He grabbed the back of your thighs and lifted you with ease, a murmured comment from you about him showing off his super strength as he carried you to his bed.
But the second you both hit the mattress, it was simply far too comfy and soft that the intense heat of the kiss gradually simmered into a mellow warmth. His body was covering yours, fingers intertwined, lips moving slowly, lazily yet just as sweet.
And after a few more moments of you two languidly kissing, you ended up settling with cuddles for the night.
Now, here you were, being the little spoon with your back pressed against his chest, limbs tangled, bodies warm and snug under the covers. He was drawing lazy circles on your stomach, his eyes growing heavier with each rise and fall of your chest, the steady beat of your heart lulling him.
Peter thought you were already fast asleep. And he was just about to follow suit until you spoke up,
"Are your hands cold?"
"Not really," he murmured, voice a little rough. "Why?"
"You can always use my boobs in case you need to warm them up."
He groaned, burying his face onto your shoulder. "Are you ever going to let this go?"
"What?" you giggled softly. "You just seemed so interested in their warmth earlier. I'm allowing you to quell your curiosity."
Peter lifted himself a little, just so he could get a clear view of your face.
"Is this a genuine invitation for me to cup your boobs?"
"Only if you wanna," you said, turning to him with a soft smile, eyes half-lidded. "No playing, though."
He nodded with a laugh, settling behind you and gently sneaking his hand under your shirt, no pressure or anything so that you'll be able to move away whenever you wanted to. Then again, you were skilled enough to break his wrist, anyway.
But you didn't do that, not at all.
Instead, you shifted in your place, providing more space for his arm to fully wrap around your torso until he was cupping a boob in his hand.
You sighed, body melting into the mattress even more, your back warmly pressed against his chest as you nosed his pillow.
"They are really warm," he hummed, his whole body relaxing as he let his hand just…be there, without any malice whatsoever. "This is oddly comforting."
"Yeah," you mumbled, a loud yawn following suit. "Like stress balls."
Peter chuckled, "That's one way of describing it."
You hummed, yawning out a soft, "Good night, Pete."
Peter smiled. "Good night, angel."
The next response he got was your soft snores as you finally drifted off to sleep,
Peter didn't expect his night to end with you sleeping in bed with him, all cuddled up in his arms, let alone, with him cupping your boob—which he surprisingly found comforting and adorable rather than anything else.
But he did expect to fall asleep with a huge smile on his face.
And then later in the morning, the thing that would wake him up wouldn't be the sunlight anymore, it'd be your warmth, tickling his skin as you cuddle closer to him. A tired, yet satisfied smile would curl on his lips as he would bury his nose into your hair, breathing in your sweet scent. It was much more comforting, hearing your little snores and sighs, or even your occasional mumbles about whatever it was you were dreaming about.
It was new, but definitely something he could get used to.
It was going to be a peaceful Sunday morning with you, and Peter really loved that.
✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ♛ *.
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Summary: Peter Parker is aboard the Argo III, the world’s biggest passenger ship. He was sent by Tony Stark to strike a deal with Silver Sable, a wealthy businesswoman. But Stark’s deal will have to wait, as Peter has set his eyes on something- or someone - else.
“Mr. Parker.”
The voice was unmistakably commanding and cold. Peter stiffened and turned around slowly, his eyes widening as he saw Silver Sable standing at the end of the hallway. Her platinum hair caught the warm light of the corridor, and her eyes held a piercing intensity that seemed to pin him in place.
“Oh, Miss Sablinova,” Peter said, trying to straighten himself up and wipe the nervous look off his face.
She stepped closer, her gaze unwavering as she studied him. Peter couldn’t tell if she was amused or annoyed. “Quite the interesting time to be wandering the ship.”
“I was just—uh, getting some air,” Peter stammered, trying to regain his composure. He felt uncomfortably warm in his casual clothes, especially with Silver Sable looking at him like she could see right through him.
“Well,” Silver Sable said, a slight smirk curling on her lips, “since you’re here, Mr. Parker, I think it’s time we had a conversation about business.” She glanced briefly at the closed door of (Y/N)’s room and then back at Peter. “Unless, of course, you have other priorities.”
Peter’s cheeks flushed, and he felt a jolt of panic. Did she know? How could she know? He shook his head quickly. “No, no. I’m ready. Let’s talk business.”
“Good,” she replied curtly. She turned on her heel and gestured for Peter to follow her down the hallway. He swallowed hard and quickly fell into step behind her, trying to shake off the lingering heat in his face.
They walked in silence until they reached a quieter section of the ship, a private lounge overlooking the vast ocean. Silver Sable stopped by the window and gazed out, her expression unreadable.
“Mr. Stark sent you here to strike a deal on his behalf,” she began without preamble. “But it seems that Mr. Stark’s trust in your abilities may have been misplaced.”
Peter felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He wanted to protest, to defend himself, but something in Silver Sable’s tone told him to stay quiet and listen.
“You see,” she continued, “my organization had nothing to do with the loss of Stark Industries’ shipments. That was the result of opportunistic criminals trying to disrupt our operations. But regardless of whose fault it was, I’m here to offer a solution.”
She turned to face him, her eyes sharp. “In exchange for your company’s latest technological developments, we are willing to replace the missing shipments and ensure the security of all future deliveries.”
Peter blinked, trying to keep up. “You want our tech?” he asked, suddenly feeling a lot more out of his depth than he already did. “But Stark Industries—”
“Mr. Stark’s technology is already of great interest to certain parties,” Silver Sable interrupted, her voice smooth but firm. “This would be a mutually beneficial arrangement. Your company gets its shipments, and we receive exclusive access to select advancements.”
Peter opened his mouth to respond but hesitated. This wasn’t the straightforward deal Tony had briefed him on. Silver Sable was adding a new twist, and he didn’t know how to play this. But she was waiting for an answer, her eyes narrowing slightly as the silence stretched on.
“I—I’m not authorized to make that call,” Peter admitted, trying to sound more professional. “But I can pass this along to Mr. Stark and—”
“Mr. Parker,” she interrupted, her voice cold and cutting. “You are here as Mr. Stark’s representative. I need a decision, and I need it soon.”
Peter felt his pulse quicken. “I understand, but I still need to clear this with him.”
Silver Sable’s lips pressed into a thin line, and Peter braced himself for a harsh rebuke. But instead, she nodded once, sharply.
“Very well,” she said. “Contact him. Tell him what I have proposed, and make it clear that time is of the essence. I will only wait so long for his response.”
Peter let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I’ll—um—get on that right away.”
“See that you do,” she replied. She turned back to the window, signaling that the conversation was over. “And, Mr. Parker,” she added without turning around, “if you’re going to represent Stark Industries, you may want to present yourself with a bit more… composure.”
Peter felt his face heat up again, realizing that she probably noticed his earlier state of disarray. He muttered an awkward “Yes, ma’am” before backing away and making a quick exit. As he walked briskly back toward his room, his mind was a storm of emotions—embarrassment, relief, and a newfound sense of urgency.
He needed to call Tony. Now.
As he dialed the number, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the dark window. For a moment, it seemed like there was a shadowy figure standing behind him in the glass—a trick of the light, maybe, or just his tired mind playing tricks.
He turned quickly, but the room was empty. Peter’s heart hammered in his chest as he stared into the shadows, half-expecting someone to step out.
Nothing. Just his overactive imagination. Or was it?
Peter shook off the chill creeping up his spine and focused on the call. He needed to get Tony up to speed on Silver Sable’s proposal and the unsettling vibe of this ship.
peter parker when he doesn't get a math problem and his s/o explains it to him and he's very much in love your honour
thank you!
🥺🥺 he
You explain over his shoulder. One arm wrapped around his front, chest pressed into his neck, the other arm extended with a pencil in hand making small, kind corrections. You're quiet as you work through it but quick. You solve the equation and underline it.
"There," you say, so close to his ear he gets chills. You look at him, impossibly bright. "Understand now?"
Peter wonders if he looks as lovesick as he feels.
"You'll have to take me through it again."
You dip your chin and assess his face, tucking the pencil behind your ear before you reach out to stroke his face, smoothing down the ruffled tail of his eyebrow. "I think you're having me on, Parker."
"Why'd you think that?"
You press your lips together. Peter wants to kiss your pout but he's busy keeping up the act. He really hadn't understood the problem by himself, though your explanation – succinct, lilting and intelligent – the first time had worked. He just wants to hear you explain it again.
You smile, finally, and start the equation from the top. With less patience, he thinks, because you know he's a liar. You underline the answer twice.
"And I'm not explaining it again," you say.
He huffs. "But you're so cute when you talk math." He tries to catch a chaste kiss and you evade, rolling your eyes.
