You tell Spider-Man about your crush on an oblivious Peter Parker. Spider-Man recommends giving Peter a signal—a sign, so he knows what you want. [4k words, shy!fem!reader/tasm!peter]
˚₊𓆩༺ 🕷༻𓆪₊˚
The night is sweet and warm.
The sun is setting, and the bakery at the end of the street is closing. You watch from your rooftop as one of their workers smokes a cigarette out back, smoke drifting upward, a sight at odds with the smell of powdered sugar ever-present on the breeze.
You pull your knees up toward you and rub your face with a sleeve-covered hand. The hoodie Peter got you is soft to the touch, smelling of detergent against your nose. You stretch it over your knees and peer down at your socks, black with little flowers on the sole. Peter said they looked Minecraft-y, and then he asked if he could borrow a pair from the pack that you never saw again.
You like thinking of him wearing them. Maybe he thinks of you when he does, or maybe they’re rolled up and forgotten under his bed.
You loose a depressed sigh and lean back in your summer chair. There wasn’t much heat for sunbathing today, but the roof makes for a good place to rest in the agreeable evenings. Less so when it rains, which is often. You eye a grey cloud on the horizon but your reluctance to move nor gather your stuff leaves you frowning. You are trying quite hard to stay away from your apartment and, as a consequence, your evil phone. If you have your phone, you’ll check over and over if Peter has replied to your message, but he hasn’t. He doesn’t, really, reply very often.
The sun goes and goes, presenting a miserable dark sky with little in the way of stars, but there are lights in the distance, buildings and cars, all now flocked in artificial white. It’s no soft glow.
You lay down, sit back up, lay down again. You reach for your book and discard it with a sigh. You count the planes that fly overhead, searching for the next whenever the former flies from view. You think about Peter and his big hands, how hot they’d felt pressed to your waist. How brown his eyes are, how soft his lashes must be when touched.
The swip and thwip of spiderwebs being thrown catches your attention immediately. Spider-Man. He must be near—you’ve seen him in person more times than you can remember, and the sound puts you at ease, that delicate snap and stick as he ejects, lets his weight pull, then cuts the line. You lean over the edge of your chair to look for him–
And almost lose your nose as a suit of red and blue comes flying up toward your rooftop.
“Holy–”
“Fuck!” you say, throwing yourself backward with a shout. You bring your hand to your chest, pressing your heart back behind your ribs as the blur of colour comes to a stop on the edge of the roof.
“Sorry!” Spider-Man says. “Jesus, you didn’t see me? I’m kind of, you know, brightly coloured?”
“You came out of nowhere! You’re going sixty miles an hour!”
Spider-Man rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I got places to be. Well, most of the time.”
You feel your heart jumping under your palm. Spider-Man shifts, his head tilting down as though he’s squinting at you assessingly.
“Hey, are you okay? I didn’t mean to scare you.”
You swallow your nerves. “Yeah. Yes, I’m fine. You scared me, s’all. Sorry for cussing. And yelling.”
He giggles brightly, plonking down on a creaky lawn chair, unperturbed by its green moss. “Yeah, you should be sorry, potty-mouth. Kiss your ma with that mouth?”
You laugh without thinking. “Sometimes.”
Spider-Man lays back in the chair and folds his arms over his stomach. It strikes you that you wouldn’t know if his eyes were open or closed, he looks relaxed, like he could doze. He looks tired, actually. He gives a long sigh and sits up some. Eyes open, decidedly.
“What are you doing up here?” he asks.
“Oh, I’m reading.”
“Reading what?”
You refuse to tell him that it’s a silky sweet romance with a besotted leading man and a beautiful girl, but struggle to think of a lie. The silence lingers until it’s awkward.
Finally, Spider-Man waves a hand at you, his voice genial as he says, “Keep your secrets.”
“Are you okay?” you ask.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
It might be more apt to ask him what it is that he’s doing up here. Surely Spider-Man has more important things to get too than sitting in a rinky-dink chair waiting to snap beneath any weight at all on your dreary rooftop in the cold weather. And more that he doesn’t know you, hasn’t ever spoken to you, no matter how many times you’ve seen him around the city.
“You look tired,” you say softly.
“I’m okay. But, hey, thanks for asking.”
“Sure.”
Awkward silence lingers again. Your blatant confusion as to his presence becomes obvious, and Spider-Man looks away, rubbing at his neck again with that same nervous hand.
“You looked lonely,” he says. “I guess I wondered if you wanted company, or– or a shoulder to cry on, or something. Anything.”
“Is that something you do often?”
“What good is looking after the neighbourhood if everybody in it goes home sad?” Spider-Man shrugs. “You don’t have to tell me anything, I’ll only sit here if that’s cool.”
“Don’t let me stop you.”
You’re thinking about Peter again. It’s ridiculous, there’s a superhero on your roof and you’re thinking about Pete, but you can’t help it. Spider-Man reminds you of him, his height and build, even his voice, though Spider-Man is all bravado and gruffness where Peter’s a tiny bit shy. It’s what made becoming his friend possible—he’s shy and you’re worse, you’re immovable, you struggle to talk half the time. If Spider-Man hadn’t scared the fuck out of you scaling up the building, you wouldn’t have been able to open your mouth.
“I have a friend,” you say, buckling under the pressure of the quiet. “And I like him. And I don’t know what to do, so. That’s why I’m all messed up.”
“You don’t look messed up,” he says, bringing a hand to his chin to hold like he’s pondering something deeply. “You like someone? That’s a good thing.”
“I don’t think he likes me back.”
“That sucks, but– okay, sorry if this is weird, but you’re beautiful.” Spider-Man straightens in his chair. “Like, you’re really beautiful. And your voice is so nice, I’ve barely heard it and I already know it’s addictive.”
You laugh again without meaning to, a sputter of sound.
“You’re really pretty. If he doesn’t like you back, I’m sure you can find somebody else.”
“Thank you, Spider-Man, but I don’t want anybody else,” you say softly. “He’s really perfect. Have you ever–” You clear your throat, picking at a scagged thread on your pajama bottoms and avoiding his gaze. “It’s stupid.”
“I bet it’s not.”
Nobody’s ever called you beautiful before. Nobody’s ever…
Peter makes you feel beautiful. Tips your chin up with his pinky finger to get your eyes, takes a good look at you when he’s seeing you for the first time in a while, but he never says anything about it. He smiles and he's sweet, but he doesn’t call you beautiful.
“He makes me feel like the only person in the world,” you confess. “He’s not perfect, like I said. He lashes out, and he forgets all the time, he’s late constantly, but he always says sorry, and you know he really means it? He’s the most genuine person. And he’s–” pretty, you want to say, but you look sideways at Spider-Man and can’t bring yourself to say it. “I want more of him than he wants to give me, is all, but I don’t mind. I like being his friend.”
“You want more,” he says, as though turning the words over in his mouth.
“That’s the hard part.”
“That’s a nice love story.” He exhales slowly. “Lucky guy.”
“It’s not a love story,” you say, trying for happy acceptance and sounding weak.
“It could be. Have you told him how you feel? I don’t see how a guy could hear all that from a girl like you and not at least try to make it work?”
You bring your knee up and rest your nose on the fabric there. “I don’t usually talk to people like this. I find it really hard.”
“Oh, so I’m special?”
“You’re an exception.”
“You don’t talk to this guy?”
You press your face fully to your knee, thighs aching.
“Peter doesn’t answer the phone,” you mumble, hoping Spider-Man won’t hear you. “Can’t talk to him about anything. And what would I even say? I know we’ve been friends for years and all but I like you now, and I’m prepared to make things awkward between us forever?” You whine quietly. “Everything’s so hard.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
Spider-Man sounds flustered. Sounds like he took a long plunge from a tall skyscraper. You look up, perplexed, and he’s facing you completely still. It’s like he’s been turned to stone.
“You–” He swallows. “This Peter guy, you really like him?”
“I’ve had a crush on him since forever! And he never notices me, ever!” You scrub at your face. “I know it’s stupid and childish and high school, I know I should tell him how I feel even if there’s not the slightest chance that he’d ever want me back–”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
You squint at him. “You don’t know Peter.”
He laughs, still sounding all flustered and weak. “Okay.”
“Sorry. I guess I’m being really corny, huh?”
“No.” His voice is higher, too, almost like he’s holding his breath. “It’s not corny, it’s nice.”
“He’s really pretty,” you say, lamenting your sad lonely life without him. And now you’ve made a mess all over Spider-Man’s generous listening. If there was a chance he’d come to see you again, you have surely ruined it.
Spider-Man squeaks.
You stare at him. He’s pulling at the edge of his mask, fanning himself, giving you rare glimpses of his pale skin.
“Are you okay?” you ask.
“I’m sorry, I’m– super warm.”
“Oh. Is the suit hot?”
“It can be, yeah.”
“I guess I don’t know how to move on,” you say, breaking your gaze to stare at the gravelly rooftop instead. “He’s a great friend, and I didn't always want it so badly. I don’t know why… why it got so much worse lately. I see him and I wish he’d grab me and– and kiss me–” You bite your tongue. “Sorry, Spider-Man. That’s too much information."
“Kiss you how?” he asks.
You jolt a little. “Uh, you know. Just kiss me. A real kiss. He’s kind of affectionate, like, sometimes he tries to hold my hand before we cross the street, and one time he did kiss my cheek, but it was, like, a bit. I want a real kiss.”
“Huh.”
“It’s lame.”
“Love is kinda lame. Corny and cheesy,” Spider-Man sounds oddly pleased. “But maybe he’s got all these lame feelings too, and didn’t want to push you. You seem kinda shy. Maybe he’s worried he’s not reading things right. If you’re the kind of girl who’s easily flustered, how can he know if it’s because of him or not?”
“But what do I do?”
“I don’t know.”
You laugh. “Thanks.”
“I’m sorry, but whatever you do, if he gets the signal, he’ll reciprocate.”
“How do you know?”
“Girl as pretty as you?” Spider-Man’s voice goes soft as butter. “He’d be an idiot not to.”
—
By the time you’d made it back inside that night, Peter had replied to your message.
In fact, Peter had spammed you. Answered everything you said with detail and then launched into an apology for not responding, cos he had a bunch of stuff to do and Aunt May had the car and his phone died on the subway home, yada yada.
He then asked you out.
Alright, he didn’t. He asked if you wanted to come over and watch a movie the next day, which is pretty standard Peter friendship activity, but has you smiling like a loser at your phone.
Yes, you’d texted him, would love to, I’ll bring dinner?
Do not!!!! I will order in for us when you get here :D
You’re standing in your nicest skirt, a pretty pink thing that ends at the knees and, and your newest converse, which aren’t all that new. Your cardigan is charcoal wool and buttoned all the way up to fight the sudden chill. It’s later than you realised; you spent an hour panic-changing your clothes and lamenting your response Spider-Man’s advice. You have to give Peter a signal, right?
You are dressed very cute for a movie at his place, and you smell delicious. You’re gonna give him a wide-eyed flirty stare and who knows, maybe he’ll finally get the message.
Or he’ll wonder why you’re so overdressed.
The door finally opens, and Peter’s already smiling. His cheeks are red like spring cherries with a flush that crawls down his neck and probably stains his broad chest, too, his hair in order for once, his usual hoodie and jacket traded in for a plain white t-shirt that’s a little tight. Shows the indents of his chest, the lines of firm muscle there.
“Hey, beautiful,” he says.
You want him to call you beautiful forever. “Don’t,” you say instead. He should know better. You fluster at anything.
Peter stands aside to let you in. You’ve been to the Parker house a ton of times, but it’s noticeably clean, and dimly lit. There are a couple of candles lit in the living room and a bowl of popcorn stands on the coffee table, filling the room with the smells of toffee and butter.
“Was it cold?” he asks.
You nod hurriedly. “So cold. I thought it was supposed to be summer.”
“We’re not that lucky. Make yourself comfy, okay? I gotta grab your drink.”
You unlace your shoes and leave them by the doorway, padding into the living room in your socks. The couch is fitted with enough throw pillows to turn a three-seater into a two-seater. You’re forced to plop yourself somewhat in the middle, but you’re too tempted by the popcorn to worry. You sneak a piece while Peter’s gone, humming as the sweetness breaks out across your tongue.
“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he calls.
“For what?”
“For not answering you!” His voice echoes nearer, and he grimaces his way through the hall into the living room, two glasses of your favourite in his hands. “I’m awful. I’m an idiot, and I never check my phone. I’m sorry.”
“Peter, it’s fine.”
“You sure?”
Your eyes widen of their own accord as he sits down next to you, thigh to thigh, so close you can see the little bits of amber that swim in his irises, all that brown fragmented by shards of sunlight.
“I–” You nod oddly. “Am sure. Of course. I don’t expect you to drop everything–”
“I know you don’t, but still. I have my phone with me. I can answer you more, and you’re important to me. I get distracted.”
“Did you get all your errands done?”
“Sure.” He hands you your glass and puts his own on the coffee table. “Thanks. You’re an angel.”
“You’re not so bad,” you say.
You relax. Peter lets you choose the movie, and you feel warm sitting there pointing his remote at the TV, flicking unsurely through everything, but he’s Peter. You put on Cado Lake and hand him the remote, sure he’ll enjoy a sc-fi flick, and are instantly gratified when the movie hooks his attention. Not too much, though. He’s clear of mind enough to put the popcorn bowl in your lap and nip you with little questions. Who’s that again? Hey, she looks like May. Wow, you smell good, what is that?
You’re about an hour into the movie when Peter’s hand sews itself behind your back.
It’s warm, and big. His fingertips skate over the mall of your back until he’s found your side, where it curls, and he pulls you gently toward him. Your head drops into the space between his shoulder and head, the TV a colourful blur in front of you, your hand paused dead in the nearly empty popcorn like you’ve been frozen.
“Okay?” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” you say. You’re fine.
He’s warm. He’s solid beside you.
“You’re letting me eat all the popcorn…”
His laugh is a huff against your head. “I’ll make some more.”
“No.” You rest your cheek on his arm. Bliss flits through your entire body like a wave. “It’s okay. I won’t eat your share.”
“You do what you want,” he says, and you wonder if he’s relaxing beneath you, too, heat of his body seeping through his clothes and into your skin as his fingers rub gently into your side. “Get you a sack of popcorn, if you want me to.”
“This is nice.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. This is good.”
You struggle to pay attention to the movie for the next few minutes, wondering if this is really what you think. It’s not exactly friendship-level affection to wrap your arm around someone, is it? But Peter’s so lovely, it could be nothing. Why would it mean anything? What could Peter want with you? Of course you have a crush on him, he’s gorgeous, but Peter has no such motivations about you. Does he?
He’s quiet for a while. You think the movie might’ve really snagged him, but then he turns to you with a shy smile that brightens exponentially when you sneak a glance at him and end up smiling back.
He doesn’t look away.
It gets so hot you wish you could peel out of your cardigan, but you don’t wanna move and displace the moment.
“You’re missing the movie,” you whisper.
“I’ve missed so much of it,” he says.
“What?”
“Look.” He swallows. “Look, I don’t know if I’m– maybe I’m way off base here, and all, but,” —his hand climbs your side, folding over your, pulling you even closer— “maybe I’m not? I don’t know.”
“Off base about what?”
“You know.”
“Do I?” you ask. You can hardly speak above a breath, but Peter hears it.
Peter’s gaze darts down.
You lift your chin. Spider-Man, you think, watching as Peter’s brows knit like he’s in pain and his pupils turn to dimes, sunshot brown melding dark, this better work.
Peter inches his face down until your noses are touching, your eyelashes forced shut in a flutter at his proximity.
He lingers there, in the quiet, breathing the air your exhale and holding his tongue as he raises his hand to cup your cheek tenderly. His fingers slip beneath your ear and his thumb drags over your cheek, distending your lips, and his lips brush against yours so softly you aren’t sure if he really has kissed you, or if you want it bad enough to conjure the sensation. But then he presses in for a proper kiss, and the quiet in the room gets replaced by the pounding of your heart in your own ears.
He tips your head a little and kisses upward, parting his lips to encourage you to let him in. You suck in a breath as he wades in for a real kiss, the heat of tongue and the soft plush give of his lips on yours. He encourages your head back quick, your eyes squinting ever so slightly, but he’s only moving you to wade in for the same kissing at a new angle. His nose tip scrunches into yours.
Your thoughts are electric. Your hand vies for a place to anchor, grasping tightly at his shirt, screwing the fabric over his chest into a ball.
“Holy crap,” he says, pulling back a touch.
His eyes are shining. His mouth is damp with spit, but you aren’t certain if it’s yours or his.
“I can’t believe I had the willpower to wait this long for that,” he says, running his thumb over your bottom lip. “Shit, you're just as perfect as I thought.”
You laugh in a tangle. “What?” you ask breathlessly.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long. Wow, you taste like toffee.”
“I’m sorry–”
Peter gets his thumb under your chin to tip your face up. “For what? For being perfect?”
“For tasting like popcorn.”
“That is the least of my worries.” He does a one-eyed squint at you, stroking your chin and cheek with his thumb, a caress that makes your stomach ache as much as the kisses had. “Sorry it took me so long to kiss you. You’re a hard girl to read.”
“I know,” you mumble.
He kisses your cheek and ducks his face into the side of your head, gathering you in for a hug that’s strong but careful, too, your thigh curving into his lap. He doesn’t seem to notice the way he’s dragging you onto him as he breathes in your hair.
“Pete?”
“Yeah?”
You struggle out of his arms. “Can you kiss me again?” you ask.
“Yes. Yeah. Oh my god, absolutely.”
Your laugh as he bends your backwards into the mountain of throw cushions is ecstatic. Then smushed, quickly, but it’s fine. The kiss is worth getting cut off.
—
(One month later.)
“I was going to tell you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Seriously, I was! But I didn’t want you to be embarrassed."
“Right.”
“And I didn’t want you to be mad.”
You stare at Spider-Man in your boyfriend’s bedroom, unmasked, Peter Parker with hair like a dandelion and eyes so sorry he’s almost winning you over, the mask clasped in hand.
“You knew who I was talking about,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, “and you still made me give you a signal? Do you know how hard that was for me?”
“You can do hard things!”
“Peter.”
“I wanted to be sure. I have a huge crush on you, you know that? It was just as scary for me as it was for you.”
You sniff indignantly. Spider-Man drags himself from his window to take your hands, pouting like a loser for your forgiveness.
“Can you please forgive me?” he asks. “Don’t you think it would’ve given my secret away if I turned up at your door and planted one on you? You do not understand the strength it took to wait.”
“Peter, it wasn’t even twenty four hours.”
“You’re really pretty,” he mumbles.
You forgive him already, not that he needs to know that. You have more important questions to ask.
“So, what’s with the webs?”
“D’you like ‘em?”
“I didn’t say that.”
He whines.
You plant a little kiss on his jaw and make for the bed you’d been planning on napping in before his impromptu return through the open window. “Come hold me while I nap,” you say, moving back his sheets, “please. And maybe I’ll think about forgiving you.” You’re too tired to think about this in depth.
Peter throws himself into the mattress. You crawl into his arms.
“You kinda smell like street,” you mumble, nuzzling his neck, a hint of forgiveness to settle his bad nerves.
His head falls back as he lets out a relieved sigh. “You smell perfect,” he says.
Bullshit repeats itself / Is that how the saying goes? / Been here a thousand times / Selective memory though
You say we're drifting apart / I said "yeah I fucking know" / Big deal we've been here before and we'll be here tomorrow
Overview: A headass couple: people acting in a "slightly delusional, somewhat cheesy bubble," oblivious to how cringy or ridiculous they appear to others.
For some reason, you'd thought yourself to be the untouchable exception to the rule that all relationships eventually hit a rough patch. Peter and you were perfect, best friends first, and then dating. There wasn't a better match than the two of you. Except, of course, until there was. Your perfect image is shattered as you realize he's hiding more from you than you'll ever know. After a rough breakup, only one person seems able to cheer you up. A certain webbed viglinate. But, wait... why does his voice sound so familiar?
a/n: There will be the occasional ridiculous name/reference; if you catch them, they're all real (including Jumbo’s Clowns)
wc: 10.0K
They say that the best foundation for a relationship is built on friendship. And you used to believe that. When you first met Peter, it was like coming together with a missing piece of yourself. Even before the romance, the dates, the sex. When it was nothing more than something wonderfully platonic, you thought everyone was right.
But you were delusional. Your head had been too far up your ass to realize the truth of your relationship. You weren’t soulmates. You weren’t any more special than anyone else dating their best friend.
You would think, though, that being friends with someone for years would build enough respect for them not to blatantly mistreat you. To not lie to your face when they hide where they are at night. Sure, maybe other couples who didn’t know each other lied. But not you and Peter.
That’s what you thought, at least. Shows what you know.
Two Months Earlier
“Hi,” Peter rushes into your apartment, breathless and flustered as always. You get a firm kiss to the cheek before he disappears into your bedroom.
Laughing slightly, you peer around the corner and try to get a glimpse of him. “Everything okay, Petey?”
You get a slight hum of acknowledgment before he goes back to what sounds like rustling through papers. Shaking your head, you bring the popcorn bowl over to the couch and wait for him to reemerge.
It doesn’t take longer than a few minutes until he’s strolling back toward you, a slightly cocky pep to his step. You narrow your eyes at him but fail miserably at holding back a grin. “Whatcha up to, Parker?”
“Who, me?” He shrugs, playing dumb as he jumps over the back of the couch, landing on the cushion beside you. You spot something folded in his hand before he tries to hide it.
With little warning, you lunge forward, reaching for his hand. “Hey!” He jumps back, unable to hold in his laughter. “That’s cheating, you know?”
You don’t acknowledge him, grunting in frustration as he holds his hand further and further away from you. “Alright, well, what happened to no secrets?” You push, slightly embarrassed at how breathless you sound.
“Oh, wow,” his hand comes up, cupping your jaw as he pulls your face closer to his. “That’s playing dirty,” he whispers. You can’t subdue your smile, inching closer until your noses are brushing.
“You like it when I play dirty.” Peter’s eyes widen, a visible flush on his face as your lips just barely brush together. The whisper of a kiss. He was so focused on that, he failed to notice you ripping the paper from his hands.
He groans as you lean back on the couch with a triumphant grin. “You’re too easy, Parker,” you tease.
He props his chin on your knee, “Only for you.”
“Oh God, you are so cheesy.” He opens his mouth, a stupid grin on his face. You pinch his lips together and laugh, “Don’t say it again. For the sake of our relationship, please.”
You release him and he presses a quick kiss to your hand before leaning back. “Well,” he nods toward the paper in your hand. “Don’t you want to see what you’ve won?”
Excitement bubbles inside you as you unfold the small piece of paper. The print’s slightly smudged from your wrestling match, but when you bring it closer, you can’t help the sharp gasp that escapes you.
“Peter!” He’s smiling widely, posture relaxed and completely smug as you gush. “I can’t believe you managed to get tickets.”
“One of the guys in my lab knows someone at the museum. He owed me a favor,” he shrugs it off like it’s not a big deal. Like he didn’t just get you into one of the most exclusive exhibitions in Queens.
He lets out a slight grunt when you toss yourself at him, arms wrapping like a vice around the back of his neck. You can feel the exhale of a laugh as he buries his head in the crook of your shoulder, arms quick to wrap around your waist.
“Thank you,” you whisper, pulling back slightly to get a proper look at him. He keeps his grip firm, reluctant to let you get much further.
“You know I’d do anything for you,” he tells you and he has all the conviction of a man who really believes it.
“That’s a big promise,” you smile. “Sure you can keep it?”
“‘Course I can.” When you lean in to kiss him this time, you make sure it's real. Not the whisper of a touch, but something deeper as he pulls you into his lap completely. You don’t think you’ll ever get over how wonderful it is to be loved by Peter Parker.
“Christ,” you blow into your gloved hands and hope some of the warmth bounces back to your face. You knew it was going to be cold today, but you hadn’t thought it would be a problem. Peter had said he was going to meet you outside the museum, but it’s already been fifteen minutes and you’re losing feeling in your nose.
He does have a mind going 100MPH most days. Usually, you like to give him a leeway on timing. But it’s absolutely freezing today and snowflakes have just started falling. If you were with your boyfriend, this would be like a scene out of a romcom.
Instead, it’s about to be a nature documentary on wild stood-up girlfriends freezing in Queens tundra.
Pulling out your phone again, you bite the thumb of your glove and tug it off. You’ve sent Peter about twenty messages, none of which have even so much as gotten a ‘read.’ You try calling him this time, tucking the phone between your shoulder and ear as you hurriedly tug your glove back on.
“Hey, this is Peter, you know what to do.”
You roll your eyes at his voicemail. “It’s your girlfriend, Pete. But, I swear, if you make me wait any longer in this damn snow, I’m going to be your ex.”
“Good thing you don’t have to wait.” With a squeak, you whip around to find Peter standing behind you. You slap his shoulder and he bounces back with a laugh. The tip of his nose has been nipped red by the cold and his cheeks aren’t much better.
“You’re lucky I like you,” you snap.
“Extremely,” he agrees, not an ounce of sarcasm in his voice. It softens you slightly. When you can feel your fingers again, you’ll consider forgiving him. He throws his arm over your shoulder, struggling slightly with the scarf triple-wrapped around you.
Glancing down to hang up the call, you see a little news notification pop up.
Spider-Man & Molten Man Spotted in Times Square
“What’re you looking at?”
You shake your head, tucking your phone away. “Nothing.”
You send him a smile that he returns eagerly. He passes the staff your tickets and opens the door for you as you step into the museum. You’d like for the first thing you appreciate to be the gorgeous mural on the wall in front of you. But you are far more interested in the blast of heat coming from the vents above.
“Oh, thank God,” you grumble, blocking the door as you greedily soak up all the warmth you can.
“Come on, bug,” Peter laughs, tugging you along so the line of people can get by. “We’ll get you an overpriced coffee at the cafe.”
“You’re paying,” you tell him sternly. “I still can’t feel my nose.”
“Deal.” Peter doesn’t hesitate, just leans down and presses a quick kiss to the tip of your nose. It’s the type of thing you used to see others do in public and gag.
You’d think about how you would never be one of those touchy-feely couples. Peter makes it feel so natural, though. As if you’ve been together all your life and this is just another one of your daily routines.
The giddy smile on your face is wide and can’t even be hidden behind your scarf as you lean into him. He chuckles as he pulls you closer, taking you toward the cafe. “What do you want to see first?”
“I read online that they’ve got a bunch of Monets by the south entrance, we’ll go there and then circle back to the front.”
“You’ve had this planned since you saw the tickets, haven’t you?”
You laugh and shake your head. “Since I read about the exhibit. Remind me to thank you again when we get home.”
Peter glances down, brows raised with a cheeky look on his face. You snort and push his face away. “What? I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did,” you tease. Peter laughs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as you get in line for a coffee. You don’t even feel like you need it anymore. You’ve been warmed inside-out just by Peter’s presence.
God, when did I become such a cliche?
9:50
where the hell are you
they keep talking about distillation columns and thermo-something
you know I don’t understand nerd
Checking the time on your phone for the nth time, you feel your leg begin to bounce. Something uncomfortable has tied itself around your stomach, squeezing until you can’t stand one more sip of your beer.
Peter’s labmates celebrate around you. They keep jostling each other’s shoulders, talking in technobabble. You have never felt as stupid as you did when Marcy asked you what your thoughts were on a plug flow reactor. Whatever the hell that is.
You’d just said, “Oh, yeah, they’re great.” She’d smiled and slowly backed away, eagerly jumping into the next conversation.
It’s not that they’re not nice people, but this clearly isn’t where you’re meant to be. Not without Peter, at least. You’d promised to come thinking, oh, you know, that your damn boyfriend would be here.
10:30
Peter
Please
I feel so stupid
Nausea is thick in your throat as you hunch over the bar. Peter’s friends have all moved to a table, but you didn’t feel like following. It’s not like they were talking to you anyway. They didn’t know how and you didn’t either.
“This is so stupid,” you mutter, dragging your hand down your face. You push away your empty beer and find yourself drawn to the TV, looking for any sort of distraction.
It’s the news and, of course, Spider-Man’s swinging around the city again. His suit is bright against the night sky, and there’s an odd shape on his head that’s catching the snow. Leaning forward slightly, you snort when you see he’s wearing a red beanie.
“Of course, New York gets the weirdo for a hero,” you mutter. You grimace as you watch Spider-Man get punched down by a man who looks like he’s made himself a megazord. Pulling back the sleeve of your blouse, you sigh at the time.
There’s a tight pinch in your chest as you slide off the barstool.
11:02
I’m going home
You debate saying anything else but decide not to. Tugging on your winter attire, you stop by the others’ table and bid them all goodnight. They’re nice enough to say bye, but you’re pretty sure they thought you had already left.
The wind pushes against the bar’s door as you make your way outside. Snowflakes are quick to whip at your cheeks, landing in your lashes and melting into your scarf. You pull the scarf tighter and trudge forward.
The cold isn’t bothering you any more than your absentee boyfriend is. You’ve always been gracious with Peter about being late. It’s a chronic sickness for him at this point and you’ve been around it the majority of your life.
But it feels different now that you’re dating. Waiting outside an arcade or a restaurant for a friend isn’t a big deal. But when you’re sitting on your own at a table in a crowded restaurant, that’s absolute humiliation.
He’s been dropping the ball a lot more lately and that hurts. But he hasn’t given you any other reason to worry about the state of your relationship. So, despite the sting, you’ve resolved to just swallow down the embarrassment and keep on going.
You hear a small thud behind you and your hand instinctively goes to your purse. Swallowing thickly, you keep walking, hoping it’s nothing more than your paranoia. Then you hear the crunch of snow behind you, the clear footsteps matching your pace. Your hand wraps around the mace Pete bought you and you whip around on them.
To your absolute horror, Peter’s standing behind you. He throws his hands up and lets out a nervous laugh. “Okay, an hour late is really bad, but please don’t mace me.”
You tilt your head and give him a flat look. “Two hours, actually.”
His face screws up and you cross your arms. “Sweetheart, I am so sorry.”
You shake your head and turn back around. “Forget it, Pete. Just go celebrate with your friends.”
Peter jogs to catch up with you and darts in front of you, a frown on his face. “Wait, no, come on. Why don’t you head in with me?”
You let out what can only be described as a guffaw and push past him. “And suffer through more questions about plug flow-whatever’s? Pass.”
“Plug flow reactors?”
You glare at him over your shoulder and he fails horribly at hiding the amused look on his face. “Trying to speak nerd with them was humiliating, Peter.” His face softens at that and he reaches forward to pull you closer.
Out of pure stubbornness, you should resist. But standing outside in the cold is making you desperate for Peter’s insane body heat. “Come inside, just for a little while,” he brushes a hair off your cheek and smiles softly. “I swear, I’ll teach you all our science jargon.”
You roll your eyes, but he knows he’s won when you sink into him. “You’re way too persuasive,” you snap. Peter does his best to lace your mittened hands together as he turns you back toward the bar.
“Yeah, but you love me.”
“Unfortunately,” you glare at him, but your smile gives you away.
For once in your relationship, you’re the one running late. Something you know Peter is about to take far too much joy in. He’s already sent about fifteen texts. The majority of them bemoan being all alone and then asking if this is how you always feel. Those were followed by an influx of apologies.
You’re not thinking about the texts, though, as you jog down the street. You spot Peter waiting outside the diner, leaning against the wall. He’s got his phone in his hands, fingers moving rapidly across the screen.
Sure enough, you can hear your phone ding with yet another passive-aggressive text. “Would you quit it?” You demand, completely out of breath, as you stop in front of him.
He tosses his head back dramatically and groans. “God, finally. I thought you were just going to leave me out here to freeze.”
“Would serve you right,” your brows furrow. “When’d you get this?” You flick the edge of the red beanie shoved over his hair.
Peter shrugs and readjusts it. “I dunno, I’ve had it forever.” You frown, biting your lip as you think. You swear to god you know it from somewhere, but you must’ve just seen Peter in it before and forgot.
He holds the door of the diner open for you and lets out a relieved breath as you both step into the warmth. You would feel bad for him if he hadn’t done this to you five times within two weeks.
“How come you wanted to…” The go to this place so bad trails off into a laugh. You should have known when he kept badgering you about coming here.
Plastered floor to ceiling are comic book characters, clips from the stories, and various forms of memorabilia. You’re absolutely surrounded by a hundred different fandoms, and you’re honestly surprised Peter hasn’t had a heart attack yet.
“I really should have seen this coming.”
Peter laughs and leads you over to an empty table. A busty woman with a purple leotard stares you down from where she’s painted on the wall. You give Peter a flat look and he flushes.
“I mean… the name is Strips.”
“Oh, seriously, Parker. Why would my mind immediately go to comics? I was worried you were taking me to a strip club or something.”
Peter wrinkled his nose and frowned. “That’s way too on the nose. I’d take you somewhere classy like Jumbo’s Clown Room.”
Your lips part and you just shake your head. “I don’t want to know if that’s a real place. And if it is, I don’t want to know how you found out about it.”
“Blame Flash,” he mutters as a waitress comes over with a coffee pot.
You smile and thank her as she walks away. “Oh, I don’t think I’ve gotten a chance to tell you about this, yet.” Peter perks with interest and a wide smile blooms on your face. “You know how I was trying forever to be Professor Beeter’s TA. The position never opened but,” you trail off slightly as the people behind you start getting loud.
“Oh my god, he is wrecking this place!” Frowning, you glance over your shoulder and take a look at what they’re watching. Someone’s phone is propped in the middle of the table and you see yet another ridiculous villain punching through the Chrysler building.
Rolling your eyes, you settle back in your seat. “What was I saying?”
“Um,” Peter’s leg bounces under the table and his gaze shoots toward the door. “I’m not sure.”
You frown, watching him warily as he grows more antsy. “Oh, it’s about Professor Beeter. He offered me a-”
“Sweetheart,” he interrupts you and jumps to his feet. “I’m so sorry, but I just remembered I promised I would help May today.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“What? Peter! You wanted to come here!” He’s already running out the door. You watch, astounded, as he races past the window like hell’s nipping at his heels. You sink back into your seat with a stunned expression and your heart aching.
Clearing your throat, you look up to find your waitress giving you a pitying look. She offers you a sympathetic smile that only makes you sick to your stomach. Grabbing your bag and coat, you jump out of the booth, rushing outside.
What the hell is going on with him? You think, glaring down the street where Peter had gone. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you swallow down a lump in your throat and decide to just head back home.
After his abrupt exit, you haven’t heard from Peter all day. You’ve sent him a few texts, checking in on him and asking about May, but you only got one answer before he went AWOL.
You:
Everything good with May?
Petey:
Yeah
Her pilot was out had to make sure she had heat
After that, you’ve gotten nothing from him. Also, as far as you’re aware, May doesn’t use gas for heat. Peter hooked her up with better appliances forever ago.
It’s as you’re dialing May’s number that you have to try and convince yourself you haven’t gone total psycho girlfriend. It’s perfectly normal to want to check on your boyfriend. Especially after how he was acting today. The line only rings a few times before she picks up.
“Hello?”
“Hey, May.”
She says your name and you practically hear the smile in your voice. “Hey, sweetie. How are you?”
“Fine,” you answer quickly. “I just wanted to be see how Pete’s doing?”
She’s silent for a moment too long. She clears her throat and you frown at the pitch of her voice. “Oh, yeah, Pete’s fine. I’d let him talk to you, but he’s busy right now.”
You hum, fingers twisting your hoodie (Peter’s hoodie) strings as your stomach ties itself into a knot. “Right. Uh, what’d he say he was helping you with, again?”
“Cleaning out the gutters. Apparently, it can be a fire hazard or something, I’m not sure.”
Your body goes cold while something venomous rushes up your throat. “Okay,” you can barely hear your own voice. “I’ll let you go, then.” You hang up before she can respond, phone slipping from your hand and clattering to the ground.
“Oh, my god,” you let out a panicked whisper, smoothing your hands over your hair as you try to think of a reasonable explanation. But there are no anniversaries, no birthdays, nothing special coming up that he might be lying about for a surprise.
You’re honestly more shocked that May would lie to you. Growing up, she’d always seemed like the type of woman to protect a girl from sleaze-bag boyfriends.
So maybe that means Pete isn’t doing anything bad. Maybe she’s covering for him for a good reason.
So, why can't you think of one damn reason May would lie to you?
You don’t want to start spiraling for no reason. People lie, not just boyfriends, and not always for insidious reasons. Plucking your phone off the floor, you call Gwen. She’s usually good at pulling you out of your head when you start getting bad.
The phone rings a few times before she finally answers. “Hey, what’s up?”
You frown and cross your arms across your stomach, trying to keep the nausea down. “Why do you sound so out of breath?”
“What?” She clears her throat but that only makes her sound worse. “No, I’m not. Did you need something?”
“Uh,” slightly taken aback by her tone, you struggle to find the right words.
“Gwen!” Your heart beats ruthlessly against your ribs as your entire body stills.
“Is that Peter?” You know it is. You could pick his voice out of a crowd if you were blindfolded.
Gwen lets out a tense hum. “Yeah, it is. Uh, he was helping me with some chem stuff. So, I gotta go. Call me later, yeah?”
She’s hanging up before you can say anything else. Your hands are trembling as you set your phone on the table. Squeezing your throat to try and keep the lump back, you shake your head.
There’s a reasonable explanation for everything. Right?
The nausea’s still coiled tight around you by the time Peter gets to your apartment. Your eyes are staring blankly at the wall, the only light coming from your window. You’re not sure how long you’ve been lying there. Trying and failing to sleep as you consider all the reasons Peter might have lied to you.
Why he would be with Gwen instead of you.
You hear him padding through the hall and shut your eyes, tugging the blanket slightly over your head.
“Bug?” He calls softly. He’s quiet as he approaches the bed. He brushes a hair off your cheek and leans down to press a kiss to your temple. “You awake?”
Part of you wants to tell the truth. She wants to spring up and start laying into him, demanding to know why he lied. And the other half, she’s a coward. So, you stay curled into a ball, eyes closed, and pretending like you’re not falling apart.
Peter lets out a low groan as he settles in your bed behind you. It takes everything in you not to jerk away when he wraps his arm around your stomach, pulling you into his chest. The last thing you want right now is to have him touching you. But saying that requires being awake.
And that’s more painful than a sleepless night.
Peter wakes up slowly, his body aching after last night. He’s not sure who decided a “living robot” was a good idea. But his ribs are paying the price.
Stretching, he ignores the twinge of pain along his side. His arm gropes blindly along the sheets, searching for you, for your warmth. When his fingers brush against the wall, he reluctantly opens his eyes.
He frowns when he realizes you’re not in bed beside him. Turning toward the rest of the apartment, he doesn’t hear you. You’re not in the shower or humming in the kitchen.
With something cold settling inside him, he gets out of bed. “Sweetheart?” He calls out, hoping to hear you answer. It’s Saturday, and while it’s never been something you’ve both spoken aloud, traditionally, you spend all day in bed together. Just crashing from stressful weeks and overloaded uni schedules.
“Bug?” He tries again, wandering through your apartment. He already knows, deep down, that you’re not in here. But he doesn’t want to accept it. He’s barely had any time for you this week and he was really looking forward to just being lazy with you all day.
In the kitchen, pinned to your fridge, he finds a pink note with his name on it.
Prof. Beeter asked me to come in. Someone messed up last week’s research log
Should be home for lunch <3
The only thing stopping him from spiraling is the little heart at the bottom of the note. He knows it’s silly, but he’s slightly worried that you’re mad at him. He can’t explain where the feelings are coming from, but it's gnawing along the back of his mind.
Peter glances at the clock and groans. It’s only 9, and lunch to you is usually 2 O’Clock. He’s not sure if he’s patient enough to last that long. Peter glances at the note again and leaves it on the counter to go get dressed.
He had Professor Beeter last semester and they got along pretty well. He’s sure the older man wouldn’t mind Peter bugging you for a little while.
Still heavy with the feeling that he’s done something wrong, Peter brought along your favorite sweet treat from the cafe on campus. Hopefully, that will soothe his worries and give you a boost for the day. He knows you look forward to Saturdays just as much as he does.
Peter’s heading toward the lecture hall when his brain finally catches up with the rest of your note. What research were you talking about? You hadn’t told him you were a part of any projects.
He’s always yapping to you about his labs. He figured you would do the same. Maybe it’s new, he thinks.
Pushing open the door, he spots you immediately. You’re at a desk, papers and books piling all around you. There are three other people with you, each of whom he has a vague recollection of.
“I mean, I don’t even know how we’re supposed to salvage this.” Your voice sounds strained, completely pulled taut. Peter frowns, wishing he could just take your problems and shoulder them for you.
“It’ll be okay,” one of the girls assures you.
You finally lift your head from your hands. “Twelve pages with zero references, we’re going to be at this all damn day.” Peter draws back slightly, suddenly wondering if this is such a good idea.
He knows how testy you can get about school. Especially major projects. Sometimes just leaving you alone seems to work better than smothering. But, then, before he can back out, one of the girls, he thinks her name’s Mila, catches sight of him.
“Peter?” She calls out. Your eyes instantly snap to him. If he thought you were angry at him before, he does not feel any better now. Your gaze is sharp, lips in a flat line, and there’s absolutely nothing on your face except perpetual irritation.
“What’re you doing here?” You snap and your voice is way sharper than he was expecting. Holding his hands up slightly, he approaches slowly. He doesn’t want to treat his girlfriend like a stray dog, but you look ready to go for someone’s jugular.
“I thought you might want something to eat. Figured you didn’t have any time before you left to get something.”
Mila and the other girl both aw over him and it gives him the briefest amount of hope. But then you’re shoving out of your chair and storming toward him. Peter swallows roughly as you approach. He almost wishes he were fighting that living-fire guy right now.
You snatch his sleeve in your hand and drag him back toward the door. “Peter, why are you here?” You demand, voice lowered so the others can't hear.
He frowns and shrugs helplessly. “It’s Saturday, we always spend Saturday together.”
You cross your arms, a sharp, derisive look on your face. Okay, definitely mad. “Oh, so you can remember dates now? What’s next? Are you going to show up on time for once?”
“Hey,” he objects, hoping to lighten the mood. “I was on time yesterday.”
Your eyes narrow and something on your face goes blank. He can’t place it exactly, but it’s like there’s a wall where he can usually read you so well. “Yeah, doesn’t count if you ditch me ten minutes later, babe.”
The venom in your voice makes him take a step back. He looks down, knowing you’re right. But he doesn’t want you any more mad than you are, instead of addressing it, he nods toward your desk.
“What’s going on here?”
“We’re working on the dementia research project with Professor Beeter.”
Peter wants to light up, to hug you, and congratulate you for finally getting an in with the professor you’ve been trying to work with since last year. But you deliver him the news so flatly he feels like you’d only get more mad.
“You didn’t tell me about that,” he says instead. Which is very clearly the wrong answer, by the way you back off with a sharp scoff.
“I’m not sure when I would have, Peter. I got placed two weeks ago and I haven’t seen you for more than an hour since then. Besides, when I tried to tell you yesterday, you fucking bolted to May’s.” You pause, and your lips curl up into something cruel. “Or was it Gwen’s place? Sorry, I can’t remember which lie you bullshited your way through.”
Peter feels his heart drop to his feet. It’s like a film goes over his eyes as his mind scrambles for any explanation that isn’t ‘I was busy beating up a robot with a weird, creepy human brain in it.’ Because he’s pretty sure that would be grounds enough for you to dump him right now.
You really don’t give him a chance, either way. You snatch the bag from his hand and the smile drops from your face. “Thanks for the visit. You can go now.” You turn back toward your teammates without another look at him. “Hungry?” You call out to Mila.
She gives a hesitant nod and you toss Peter’s pastry at her. “Dig in.” Even when you sit down, you don’t look up from your books. Not even a twitch as he opens the door.
Peter walks out, still slightly numb from the whole… argument? Did that even count as an argument? Or was that just you finally calling him out?
You’ve let him get away with a lot and maybe he took advantage of that, but he’s worried you might have the wrong idea. He doesn’t know why you would bring up Gwen, but the tone of your voice was so accusatory that he feels sick to his stomach.
Yes, he was at her house last night. But that’s because he needed to be stitched up. She’s known about Spider-Man since high school. It was either bleed out or have her use her beginner's sewing kit.
Peter lets out a shaky breath and runs his hands through his hair restlessly. You’ve both gotten into worse fights before. It’s not like you were a perfect couple. Surely, you could find a way to get over this. He just needs a half-decent excuse for his lying.
Peter perks up as he hears you step into the apartment. He glances at the clock and grimaces. You’re going to be pissed that you had to stay there until 6, fixing someone else’s screwup. When you round the corner and see him, he hears you let out one of the most exhausted noises he’s ever heard from you.
“Peter,” he finally turns to meet your eye. “Why are you here?”
His chest clenches as he forces a smile. “I figured you would be hungry.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Are you ever at your own place?”
Ouch. “I just wanted to make you dinner. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as it’s done, bug.”
You shrug off your jacket and take a seat at the kitchen island. Peter takes your silence as agreement and goes back to stirring the pasta. When you speak again, his ears practically touch his shoulders. This dreadful feeling in his stomach has just been mounting all day. He feels ready to vibrate out of his own skin.
“Peter, where were you last night? I want the truth.”
Peter’s hand clenches around the spoon and he keeps his back to you. “Went over to May’s to help around the house and then I saw Gwen.”
You let out a loud scoff and your hands slap against the counter. “Did you all get your stories straight? Am I hearing the right lie, now?”
Peter drops the spoon and turns to face you. He expects anger, maybe sadness. But you’re not giving him anything. You’re just… cold and Peter hates it. He’s seen you use that look before. It’s always been directed at people you don’t care about. You don’t hate them, you don’t love them, you just… don’t care. He doesn’t want to be someone you don’t care about. He can’t be.
“Look me in the eye,” you command. “Tell me the truth.”
Peter takes in a steadying breath, doing his best not to make it obvious. “Sweetheart, I swear, I went to help May with the heat and the gutters. Gwen called and she needed my help on her chemistry project. I’m sorry that I got home late-”
“I can’t,” you clear your throat and the way your voice cracks makes his heart ache. “I can’t believe that you’re just going to stand there and lie to me.”
He shakes his head and takes a desperate step forward. “No, bug, I’m-”
You hold your hand up and his jaw snaps shut. “You’ve talked Peter, now it’s my turn. I have put up with a lot from you. If anyone treated me the way you do, you know what you would tell me?”
He opens his mouth and you shoot him a look that makes him shrink into himself. “Do not answer that, I am still talking. You would tell me to cut them out. If someone doesn’t respect my time, my dates, if they lie straight to my fucking face, then that’s not someone who deserves to be in my life. You are never on time, if you even show up at all.”
He wants to object, he really does, but he knows you’re right. Still, you must sense his apprehension. “Scroll through our texts from the past two months. It’s just a block of me asking where you are and telling you how stupid I feel. Then you show up, make everything better, and I just let you get away with it. Because I have known and loved you for so long, I let you disrespect me. I can handle missing dates, I can handle not being on time, always being at my place and never letting me over at yours. But I can’t do this, I can’t just swallow down you lying straight to my face. Getting your aunt and my best friend involved in this is sick, Pete. What do you expect me to think when Gwen’s lying about why you’re at her place?”
“No, sweetheart,” he finally speaks, rushing toward you, voice breaking on something desperate. He reaches for you, but you jerk back and he swears something cracks open inside him. “I would never.”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Why would I ever believe you?”
Peter flounders. He tries to think of anything. Anything that isn’t a lie and isn’t the truth about who he is. But his mind is blank. The panic flooding through him is overriding anything that might get you back, might get you in his arms again.
You suck your teeth and give him a jerky nod. “Why do I feel like I’m losing you?” He whispers, afraid that if he speaks any louder, he might actually cry.
“I think this has been happening for a long time, Peter. It’s just your first time realizing it.”
No, no, he can’t handle that. He can’t handle knowing that this awful, barbed feeling ripping through him is how he’s made you feel for so long. But he can’t just spill his guts and tell you everything.
Right after Gwen had discovered him, it was like the bad guys had a missile lock on her. She kept getting thrown into danger, nearly dying, because of him. He can’t be the reason you get hurt. He can’t live with that.
But he’s hurting you either way and for once, he can’t think of a way to make this all smooth over.
You take in a sharp breath and turn away from him. You walk to the stove, turning off the burner as the food begins to smoke. “I think you should go, Peter.”
“Bug,” but he doesn’t have anything to say and you still won’t look at him. He just wants you to look at him. He feels as if you did, if you saw how sorry he was, something here might be fixed.
“I’m going to take a shower. When I’m done, I expect you to be gone.” You toss the pot in the sink and head down the hall, not another word spared for him. And Peter…
He just spirals. Every mistake, every time he showed up late, just pummels into him as he realizes this is all his fault.
You turned off your phone yesterday. The missed calls and texts from Peter were bordering on obnoxious and you couldn’t take it anymore. Even Gwen kept trying to call you. Kept texting you that it’s not what you think.
But did they ever offer any other explanation?
No, they fucking didn’t.
So, not only did you lose your boyfriend, the man you’ve been in love with as long as you’ve known him. You also lost your best friend.
Best. Week. Ever.
Sick of being sad in your bed, you decide to go be sad outside. Maybe just grab a pint of ice cream from the bodega and lock yourself inside your apartment for the rest of your life. That sounds like a decent plan.
Leaving your phone, you grab your keys and some cash. It’s still cold outside, though the snow has calmed down a little bit. It soaks through your tennis shoes, now, seeps along the hem of your sweatpants. No part of you can be bothered to care about that as you trudge toward the shop.
It’s unusually quiet as you walk inside. Usually it’s a lot busier this time of night. Maybe the universe decided to give you a break.
Digging through the freezer section, you frown when you don’t see your favorite flavor. You turn toward the shop owner, Al, who has gotten used to you coming down here the past few days. “You guys don’t have any more Turtlesaurus Rex?”
Al’s silent and you frown, finally turning to fully face him. A man in a black jacket lingers by the counter, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. Al gives you a tense smile, and your brows furrow as dread picks at you.
“All out. Maurie down the street might have some.” There’s something about how wide his eyes are that’s making you think you probably should have brought your phone. Especially because you definitely just saw the handle of a gun in that man’s jacket and you really need to call the cops. (Even though they probably won’t do anything.)
“Yeah, I’ll go check over there.”
“Have a good night.”
You try not to sound stiff as you return the sentiment. But you’ve barely made it to the door when you hear the distinct sound of a hammer being pulled back.
“You think I’m stupid?” What a wonderful time this would be for a freak in red and blue spandex to show up.
You turn slowly and shake your head, absolutely zero idea how to defuse this.
“I think the lady’s just being polite. Personally, I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone encapsulate the term ‘mouth-breather’ so well.”
Your eyes widen, and you whip around to see Spider-Man standing at the entrance of the bodega. What the fuck is your life?
“Hey, jackass,” you hiss, and his head whips toward you. “Who’s he pointing the gun at?”
Spider-Man shrugs, “What gun?” You barely have a second to blink before a thick white string is twhip-ing past you and jerking the gun out of the man’s hands.
“Smartass,” you mutter under your breath.
“I think you mean, ‘thank you, Spider-Man for saving my life,’” you shoot him a flat look and walk out of the bodega. Maybe it’s time to just accept that you’re not meant to be in the outside world. You’re better off cocooned in your bed.
There are no robbers there. No cheating boyfriends and conniving best friends.
About a minute later, you hear rapid footsteps approaching. “I don’t have a purse, phone, or wallet.”
“Wow, great mugger-deterrent. I totally don’t want to rob you now.”
You plant your feet in the snow and hear Spider-Man let out a sharp breath as he skids around you. “I thought you were the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Not the quippy, neighborhood pervert who follows girls around at night.”
Spider-Man lets out a noise that can only be described as a guffaw. “I’m making sure you get home safely. Since clearly you don’t care. I mean, who walks around this late at night without mace at least?”
“Me,” you tell him flatly.
“Pretty girls shouldn’t be walking around here on their own.”
Your lips curl and you gag as you continue toward your apartment. “Okay, first of all, totally not helping with your creep angle.” He groans and you almost laugh at the defeated sound. “Also, I’m fresh off a break-up, so keep the compliments to yourself.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Spider-Man quickly jumps in front of you and you frown as he blocks your way. “Breakup,” his voice is pitched so high, you swear it almost sounds familiar. “You broke up with someone?”
“Uh… yeah.”
“R-really?” He tries to lean against a lamppost, slips, and then straightens awkwardly like he meant to do that. “Because you know sometimes people think that it’s just a break and not a breakup, you know? Big difference. Are you sure this isn’t just a break?”
He’s talking so rapidly you can barely understand him. It doesn’t help that he’s got that mask on, so you can’t try to catch the words on his lips to decipher them. You think you might have gotten half of that word-vomit.
“Well, I’m the one who did it. I feel like I should know.”
“Does he?” He holds up his hands, quick to correct himself. “Or she? Spider-Man doesn’t judge.”
“Oh, good to know, he’s a pervert, but at least he’s an ally.” You push past him. “Look, if he doesn’t know, then he’s a lot stupider than I gave him credit for.”
You hear a low, “Ouch,” behind you and figure you might be being a tad harsh about Peter. But what the hell would Spider-Man care?
“You know,” Spider-Man continues after you.
Jesus, he’s like a damn dog.
“I’ve always believed that everyone deserves a second chance.”
You glare over at him and swear you see the eyes of his mask turn down. You’ve never seen a mask emote before; it’s incredibly bizarre. “Do they deserve a second chance after sleeping with your best friend?”
Spider-Man shrugs, throwing his hands in the air. “Do you have evidence that it happened, though?”
“Dude,” you snap. “What do you care? And what other evidence would I need besides the fact that he wouldn’t tell me the truth? If there was nothing to hide, why would he continue to hide shit?”
You hear his inhale of breath and shake your head, holding your hands up. “No, you know what, no. Alright? I didn’t get my Turtlesaurus Rex and I am not going to listen to some weirdo in a unitard give me relationship advice.”
“Unitard?” He scoffs. “I’m not a weirdo.”
“Oh, yeah?” You call over your shoulder. “Then stop following me home!” It takes a few minutes to believe he’s actually gone and you can finally breathe again. What weird ass fever dream was your life turning into?
You sit on the ledge of your roof’s building, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You’re scrolling through all the texts Peter’s sent you in the last three hours. There are at least fifty of them. But it’s the one at the end that really catches your eye.
Is this really it? Are we done? Bug-
You stop reading at the nickname and put your phone down. Reluctantly, Spider-Man’s words from the other night pop into your head. Some people think it's a break, not a breakup.
How could Peter not have gotten the message by now?
“Fancy meeting you here.”
You let out a screech and jolt forward. Arms winding wildly as you try to regain your balance. The city tilts below you until something’s latched onto the back of your shirt and you’re suddenly being pulled into a firm chest.
“Why would you sit on the edge?” Again, his voice gets an impressively shrill pitch.
Shoving away from him, you whip around and slap his shoulder. “Why would you scare someone sitting on the edge?”
You can hear his sharp intake of breath before his argument fizzles out. “That’s what I thought Spider-Boy-”
“Man.”
“Whatever.” You walk back to the edge and rewrap yourself in your blanket. With a pointed glare over your shoulder, you hop right back on your perch. Spider-Man lets out a world-weary sigh before he jumps up beside you.
“You know,” he drawls. “Most people say thank you when a superhero saves you.”
“Oh,” you laugh. “Is that what you are, now? A superhero?”
“Dude. What is your problem?” His voice goes so flat, all humor sucked out of it, that, for some weird reason, it’s the first thing he’s said to get a real laugh out of you. He seems just as confused as you are if the way he tosses his hands up means anything.
“I cannot figure you out.”
You shake your head and brush a stray curl from your eyes. “It’s not you, Bugboy-”
“Rude.”
“It’s life,” you spread your palms out, gesturing to the sprawling city across from you. “Just broke up with the love of my life. Lost my bestie. The research project I’ve been trying to join for a year is falling apart at the seams. Oh, and I almost got shot yesterday.”
You point your face to the sky and let out a dramatic sigh. “God hates me.”
There’s a light nudge on your arm and you look over to see that Spider-Man’s moved closer to you. “God doesn’t hate you.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Because I didn’t let you get shot. I’d say that’s pretty damn lucky.” You snort and from the mask, you think he’s… pleased? It’s really hard to tell.
“I guess that’s fair.”
Spider-Man lets out a satisfied hum as he turns to the city. “You gotta stop being so hard on yourself, bug.”
Your entire body goes still. Your eyes widen as they stare down at your lap, adrenaline rushing through your blood as you turn toward Spider-Man. “What’d you say?” You ask, voice so low you’re surprised he even registers it.
He shrugs, “I said to stop being so hard on yourself.”
“No, you called me something. What’d you call me?”
“Bug,” Spider-Man drawls and you swear you’re going crazy because that voice is painfully familiar. “You called me Bugboy, I thought it would be fair.”
It’s too hard to distinguish whether this swooping feeling in your stomach is relief or disappointment. And you hate yourself for not knowing which one you want it to be.
“Right,” you scoff and rub your eyes. “I’m going crazy, now.”
Spider-Man lets out a long sigh as he watches you. “You kind of seem like you’re having a mental breakdown. Maybe, I don’t know, get off the edge of the very tall building.”
“Oh, don’t tell me Bugboy’s got a crush.”
Your lips curl at his scoff. “You’re impossible.”
Feeling only slightly guilty for the hell you’ve given him, you slip off the edge and get your feet planted firmly on the ground. “Better?”
He surveys you suspiciously before nodding. You pick your phone up off the ledge and, for some reason, are compelled to open up the texts with Peter. You should have guessed how nosey Spider-Man was going to be about it.
“That the ex?”
You shoot him a flat look as he kicks his legs over the ledge. “Yeah. That’s the ex.”
“So, what are you going to tell him?” He motions toward the last text. “Break or breakup?” Your mind snags on how Peter called you bug and Spider-Man’s weird slip-up before you force yourself to dispel the thoughts.
“Breakup. I guess I should have made it more clear.” Your fingers hover over the keyboard before you shoot Spider-Man a look. His back has gone weirdly tense and you frown. “Hey, you’re a guy. How’s the nicest way to tell him it’s done.”
“Don’t.” His voice is clipped, almost angry. “He’ll get the hint. Trust me.”
Your brows furrow as you eye him warily. “Are you okay?”
“Gotta go. Superhero business, you know?” You shrug, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s already leaping off the ledge, thwip-ing his way to the building across from yours.
“Weirdo,” you scoff.
You figured that after Spider-Man’s abrupt departure on the roof, that would be the end of it. But, no, it’s only gotten worse for you. He’s everywhere now. He’s somehow more consistent than your ex ever was.
Walking home from late research sections, look who wants to be a walking buddy.
Heading to the bodega for a midnight snack, somehow, Spider-Man had the same idea.
Your life is now a Sunday comic strip in the paper. It’s like there’s some sadistic artist out there exploiting your misery for humor. It’s not just him, either. It’s the month. In all your drama with Peter, you’d failed to keep up with the dates.
Now, freshly single for the first time in a couple of years, you sit alone preparing yourself for the next week. Valentine’s Day is Saturday, which means suffering through pink streamers all over campus and girls walking around with gift baskets lovingly curated by their boyfriends.
“I don’t like how often I find you on this ledge.”
You spare a glance over your shoulder and smile. “I don’t like that you still haven’t learned not to scare me.”
“Touche,” Spider-Man breathes out, taking quick strides toward you. “You seem tense. Feel like sharing? I’m a great listener.”
“Nothing big, just Valentine’s Day. I’ve had a boyfriend for so long I forgot how bitter and annoying it is for single people.”
“Tell me about it,” he sighs.
“Really? The Spider-Man is single?”
“I appreciate the surprise in your voice, no matter how forced it is.” You let out a wry chuckle and you swear you can hear a smile in his laugh.
“Probably a good thing, though. I can’t imagine any girlfriend would be happy with the amount of time you spend on this ledge with me.”
“No,” he agrees, “probably not.” The next noise he lets out is soft, tired in the kind of way that resonates with you. For the most part, your interactions are shallow. There’s banter, stupid quips, and then he’s off. You don’t usually hear something so real from him.
“Freshly single?” You ask. His head whips toward you and you shrug. “I recognize the misery of your sigh. It resonates within my withered heart.”
Spider-Man swats your shoulder lightly and you grin. “Yeah, it’s fresh. I still don’t think I’ve accepted it.”
You prop your chin in your hand and smile at him. “What level of not accepted are we talking here? Stalking? Or just crying over Instagram posts?”
Spider-Man goes quiet and you pull back. He recognizes the suspicion on your face and waves his hands. “No, no, no, this doesn’t count as stalking. Not really. I mean, it’s consensual?”
He sounds more unsure of himself at the end than you did. “Let's just not talk about that,” you offer. “I don’t think I want to know what your idea of consensual stalking is.” Spider-Man snorts and you shake your head.
A billboard across from you catches your eye. It’s Gwen’s favorite band, an announcement that they’ll be coming through soon. There’s a sharp ache in your chest when you remember you can’t just text her about stuff like that anymore.
“Gwen would love that,” you say, almost without thinking.
But what’s worse is when the man beside you doesn’t think either. “Oh, yeah, she would.”
Consensual
Stalking
Oh. My. God.
Your entire body stiffens as you turn to Spider-Man/maybe your ex-boyfriend. He doesn’t seem to realize his slip-up and that just makes you freeze up. You don’t know what to do. You can’t just blindly accuse him of being Peter. If you start hinting at secret identities, he might stop talking to you.
Loathe as you are to admit it, you’ve begun to enjoy his company. The main reason being he reminded you of how it was with Peter before you guys started dating.
Oh, Jesus, you’re gonna throw up off the ledge of your building. When the pavement below seems to swim up to you, it’s time to slip off the ledge. Slowly, fighting off the vertigo of your discovery, you drop back to safety.
Spider-Man watches you, head tilted in question. “Um, I have to go.” You search for an excuse, but none comes. “Yeah, I have to go.”
“Oh,” he seems taken aback, but doesn’t comment. “Alright. I’ll see you later?”
You let out a noise between a hum and a squeal as you rush back into your apartment building. Your mind is racing while you scramble through the door of your apartment. Like a detective, you flit through different memories, red string connecting each one as you start to line up Peter’s disappearances with Spider-Man's greatest hits.
Every missed date, every time he showed up late, it was all right there. But you never thought to connect it because… Well, why would you? Peter is Peter. He’s not a superhero. He definitely doesn’t have webs. Please, don’t let him have webs.
Scrambling for your phone, you dial the first number you can think of. It’s barely ringing before it’s getting picked up. “Gwen,” your voice is incredibly shaky as you try to calm yourself down. “I’m going to ask you something and if you don’t tell me the truth, we’re never talking again.”
Spider-Man/Peter Parker/ex-boyfriend-
No, no, too many titles. Peter has not been around in the past week. Not as his alter ego, and not at his lectures. Unfortunately, a lot of your schedule seems to intersect and the majority of your day is spent hiding in a hoodie and trying not to make eye contact.
But there hasn’t been any of that at all this week.
Maybe Gwen told him you know. He’s probably losing his mind right now.
But, no, she swore she wouldn’t and you know she’s not going to risk hurting your friendship again. Though you did profusely apologize for ever thinking that she could do that to you. And then she berated you about thinking she would ever be attracted to Peter.
Which… Ouch.
It’s Saturday, which used to mean days spent with him. Instead, it now means watching people get all mushy on Valentine’s Day. That used to be you, disgustingly in love, kissing way more than you should in public.
Now, you watch it all on the subway with that same old glare you used to have before Peter. You’re thinking about him a lot more than you want to. Especially given that he’s supposed to be an ex.
After your long speech on respect and boundaries and honesty, you should be completely over him. But it sort of makes sense now. Especially after Gwen told you what happened to her when she found out about him.
Peter wanted to protect you. You can understand that. But it doesn’t just erase all of the pain you felt while you were in the dark. You let out a low groan, ignoring the people around you as you walk home. You just keep going in circles over and over again.
The streets around you begin to thin out the closer to home you get. You’re still so deep in thought, you don’t notice the man dangling in front of you until your forehead is smacking into his.
“Ow,” you hiss, pressing your palm to the bruise that’s probably already forming. Backing up, Spider-Man, Peter, is dangling from the small overpass, upside down, as he waits for you.
“Dude,” you drawl. “How long have you just been hanging out here?”
He shrugs, “An hour, maybe.” Only in Queens would people pass by a dangling man in spandex and not question a thing.
One of his hands is tucked behind his back, and the other is holding onto his webbing. “Here,” he says. “I’ve got something for you.”
He untucks his free hand and passes you a bright pink, smothered in glitter, Valentine's Day card. You can hear his proud smile as he asks, “Be my Valentine?”
Narrowing your eyes at him, you shake your head with a low laugh. This is the dork you fell in love with. The boy you swore you would follow anywhere. It’s not his fault he’s such an idiot, not really.
Something soothes the ever permanent ache in your heart as you imagine the smile he’s probably got plastered on face. God, you bet he’s so proud of himself for this silly little Valentine.
A deep longing echoes through you and you reach up, going for the edge of his mask, when he reels back. “What’re you-”
“Relax, Parker,” you whisper. He goes completely still and you take hold of the mask.
“Did Gwen tell you?”
“You did, dumbass. You know, you’re really bad at the whole secret identity thing when it comes to consensually stalking your ex.” He lets out a low groan as you peel down his mask, just enough for his lips to be visible.
Pulling back, you take his face in your hands and smile. “Do you want me as your Valentine, or not?”
“What do you think, bug?” With a soft laugh, you lean forward and press your lips to his. It takes a second to get the angle right, what with his chin brushing your nose and all. But you don’t need perfect, you just need him.
Pulling back, he’s got a goofy grin on his face and you smirk. “Parker?” He hums as you fix his mask. “If you ever lie to me again, I’ll cut a hole in the crotch of your unitard. Or, worse second option, I’ll tell Jonah Jameson where you live. Got it?”
He goes still and you raise a brow. “You’re not joking?” You shake your head, expression flat. “Yeah, I got it, sweetheart.”
Smiling, you press a kiss to his cheek and step back. “Be home by six,” you tell him. “And bring some takeout.” You walk around him as he swings himself back up to the top of the overpass.
“I love you!” He calls after you.
“I know you do, Bugboy!”
𝘞𝘦 𝘈𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘉𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘜𝘱 𝘈𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘓𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘕𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵
𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 ♥︎
⇄ ◁◁ I I ▷▷ ↻
⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵
💿 We've been here before and we'll be here tomorrow 💿
a/n: this was meant to be angstier but, well, I started writing him in the Spider-Man “voice” and folded like a wet paper towel
summary: peter parker isn't mentally prepared to see his teammate and crush wearing an 'i ❤️ spiderman' t-shirt, but he tries to play is off smoothly despite being around teammates who can read his behaviour better than anyone in the world.
wc: 1k+
cw: fluff, peter gets humiliated. trying to bring the old thor eats poptarts and clint is in the vents vibes back.
The elevator announces its arrival at the avengers living quarters with a muted ding sounded from inside its closed doors. They begin to open with a dull noise as the mechanisms shift, and from across the living room, Steve hears you humming absentmindedly from inside the elevator. The doors finally open, and the three avengers in the room glance up as you walk out, sipping at a cold drink, your phone in your other hand. There’s a couple of shopping bags hanging from your arms, and your lips are decorated with what seems to be a new gloss.
Natasha and Steve watch as you walk slowly towards the couch, letting all your bags drop from your arms, and Peter, on the couch in front of them, listens closely to your movements while pretending to mind his own business. Your eyes are still glued to your phone as you scroll through texts you missed out on hours ago, and you slump down on the couch between your shopping bags, melting into the cushions and throwing your feet up onto the table. Peter turns his head to look at you, smiling softly at your focused expression. He’s on his own phone, seeing in real time as the texts between him, Ned and MJ get read by you, your little profile photo popping underneath each message as you read it. He almost feels bad for you; the three of them aren’t done with this conversation and it started the second you left the tower.
Then, despite having just sat down, you get to your feet again. You put your drink on the table, putting your phone in your pocket and grabbing all of your bags again. And it’s only then, when you’re standing up straight and moving all your bags to one hand that Natasha sees the design on your tee. She instantly grins, taking the moment to stare while you pick up your drink again and take another sip. Then, she strikes.
“Is that an ‘I love Spiderman’ shirt?”
Peter’s head snaps up towards Natasha, then towards you. You aren’t taken aback by the question at all, only glancing down at your shirt and humming. “Huh, yeah. I’ve had it for a while actually, but these jeans were just never clean.”
Peter’s heart thrums a little too hard in his chest, and he doesn’t miss the way Steve’s lips quirk up into a smirk at his reaction — one which is only obvious to the super soldier. He shakes himself out of his daze, calling out “That doesn’t look like me at all.”
The way you laugh causes another dangerous reaction in Peter, whose breath hitches as you smooth a hand over the graphic design of your shirt. There’s a big red heart, and on it swings an animated Spiderman, who admittedly looks nothing like Peter. In or out of his spider suit. “I’ll make sure to let them know.” You tell him, walking away in the direction of your room.
“Good job buddy, you almost managed to hide that little crush of yours.” Steve comments when you're out of earshot, and Peter huffs to hide the way his face darkly flushes. He sticks his nose back into his phone to hide himself from Natasha before she gets involved with the teasing too. “You gonna tell her how you feel one of those days?” She asks, her voice velvety smooth in a way that almost has Peter marching up to your room and confessing his feelings for you. “I don’t know what you guys are talking about.” He retorts, pitch spiking embarrassingly.
Steve laughs, the sound coming from deep in his chest, and Peter wishes in that moment that he could just disappear. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Captain America laugh like that. Neither does Tony apparently, who comes walking into the living room with something to say — because when does he not?
“A laugh from Captain America? How do you manage that?” Tony asks, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Is it the little article that came out about your girlfriend?” Peter and Natasha straighten up: Peter in a panic and Natasha in a newfound curiosity.
“What article?” Peter squeaks, his mouth going dry. Tony smirks as he walks around Peter, sitting down in the exact spot you were in just a couple of minutes ago. He puts one foot on the table, then swings his second leg over it while he flicks through his phone. “Oh, just this article that popped up on my google alerts. ‘Avenger goes shopping in New York City wearing an ‘I love Spiderman shirt: Is she telling the fans to back off her man?’ And there’s this cute little picture of you guys in your suits outside this mexican place.”
Tony hums to himself as Peter sits there in horror, only imagining your reaction. Would you laugh it off, make a joke, and pretend it never happened? Would you make a face and an accompanying noise of disgust, only able to see Peter as a brother to you? Peter shudders at the possibility.
“That sounds like a first step to me.” Encourages Steve with a smile, but Peter decides to move his gaze to Natasha instead, eyes widening at the sight of her grinning widely at her phone and scrolling through what he only imagines can be tabloid headlines. In his hand, his phone screen lights up with notification after notification, and he furrows his eyebrows as links keep going through the Avengers group chat, all under the name ‘Spider sister🤪🤪🕷️🕷️’. “Not cool, Natasha!” Peter argues, and yet he opens the group chat to scroll through all the news articles she sent. “Now she’s gonna see all of those!”
Except what Peter doesn’t know is that in your room, you scroll through your phone with a smile on your face. You’ve purposefully looked your name up yourself after seeing the text through Natasha’s notification, not wanting her to see that you’ve read her messages. You’re honestly impressed that the news outlets got your message so clearly, but you’ve also learned how to communicate with them, so what can you say?
Maybe this will finally hit Peter with an inspiration to come and tell you how he feels. If not, you might have to buy a ‘I love nerds who are also my roommates who are also spiderman’ shirt.
would love to see some aftercare w tasm!peter where reader is just soo sleepy and he is so tender <3 i adore the way you write him
Thank you for requesting!
cw: mature themes (mdni please), afab reader
tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader ♡ 551 words
Peter might be a pervert for thinking you’re most beautiful like this, but he’s not that worried about it.
Maybe he is a pervert. It’s only for you, specifically, so whatever. He has a feeling you’ll forgive him.
You’re lying on the bed, your limbs lax now, like the last hour or so has taken it out of you so completely that you can’t move a muscle. Peter loves that he gets you like this. Completely unselfconscious. Your lips are kissed swollen, and there are little love marks on your chest to match the ones on Peter’s neck and shoulders, and your eyelids are as droopy as if they have weights sewn into them. He loves to get you like this too; completely tuckered out.
You rouse enough to hiss when Peter brings a wet washcloth between your thighs.
“Hey,” you say, almost scolding. It makes a laugh bubble up in Peter’s chest, which he generously swallows.
“Sorry.” He tucks his grin inside your knee, kissing softly. “I’ll be quick.”
He sweeps the cloth through your folds, and you hiss again, one leg coming up protectively as though you can’t help it. Now, Peter frowns.
“Is it really that sensitive?” he asks you.
He guesses he couldn’t blame you. You and Peter spent more time teasing each other tonight than you have in a while, and you weren’t exactly begging him to go easy on you. Your labia are as kiss-swollen as your mouth, maybe more.
The look you give him says you know he knows. “Yeah.” You heave a sigh, like speech is exhausting, your eyes drifting shut again. “I’m sore all over. Aren't you?”
Peter is, but he also spends his free time doing acrobatics and heaving himself around by his arms. If he twinged a bit walking to the bathroom and back, he bets you’re feeling worse.
He rubs over your hip consolingly. “Wanna take a bath?”
You think on it for a while. You’re tempted, Peter can tell. “I don’t feel like getting up.”
“I’ll carry you.”
You hum somnolently. “Thanks, but you…” You fumble for Peter’s hand. When you find it, you squeeze his fingers, his sweetheart. Peter squeezes back. “You have to get up early for work.”
“Yeah, but I don’t mind.” He catches his voice softening, as if he’s trying not to disturb your sleep when really he’s trying to keep you awake. He doesn’t do anything to correct it. “I’ll have coffee either way. Let me give you a bath, pretty girl.”
It’s a visible effort to open your eyes. You look at Peter like he hung the moon. “Sure?”
He grins. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
“You’d do that?”
Peter groans, his head dropping to your leg. He lets his voice buzz against your skin. “Are you serious? God, I know you’re tired, but let’s use our brains for a second.”
He picks his head up to take yours between his hands. You look slightly more awake than you were a moment ago.
“I would do anything for you,” he says. “Got it?”
Peter watches your surprise meld into a more startled kind of pleasure. He kisses it right off your lips.
“Dramatic,” you accuse, settling back into your pillow as Peter stands to start your bath.
synopsis: Peter really likes your Spiderman pajama pants
warnings: kinda suggestive
Peter Parker swung into your apartment window mid-sentence, mask pulled halfway up his face as he rambled about patrol. “And, seriously, who even owns a unicycle anymore? Like, that’s gotta be—”
He stopped abruptly, mid-step, when his eyes landed on you.
You were sitting at your vanity, totally unaware of the effect you were having on him. Your head was tilted slightly as you concentrated on whatever you were holding—maybe a bottle of lotion, maybe a tube of lip balm, he couldn’t even tell because his attention had zeroed in on something else entirely.
It was the pants.
The red and blue Spider-Man pajama pants that hung low on your hips, decorated with tiny web patterns and logos. His logo. Paired with your black tank top, the whole look made him forget how to breathe for a second.
“Are you—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, his mask now forgotten in his hand. “Are those... Spider-Man pajamas?”
You glanced up, catching his reflection in the mirror. The corner of your mouth quirked into a grin, like you’d been waiting for him to notice. “Uh-huh,” you said casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Cute, right?”
Peter blinked, still standing near the window like his feet had been glued to the floor. “Cute?” He let out a short laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “No, no. You don’t get to call that cute. That’s—damn, baby. That’s a problem.”
Turning in your chair, you swiveled to face him, laughing softly at the look on his face. “Oh! I almost forgot to show you the full effect.”
You stood up, giving a playful little spin that made the fabric swish around your legs. When you stopped, your hands went to your hips, and you grinned at him like you knew exactly what you were doing.
Peter groaned, running his hand through his hair as he finally pushed away from the window and crossed the room in three long strides. His hands found your waist as he pulled you against him, his thumbs brushing along the waistband of the pants.
“I can’t even be mad about this,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing. “You look so good with me all over you. Pun very much intended.”
Your grin turned mischievous as you leaned closer, your breath warm against his skin. “Well, I can’t wait for you to see what I’ve got on underneath.”
Peter blinked, his grip on your waist tightening slightly as his brain tried to catch up. “Underneath?”
With a sly smile, you stepped back just enough to hook your thumbs into the waistband of the pants, pulling them down just enough to reveal a peek of red and blue. The Spider-Man bra and panties were unmistakable—the webbed details, the tiny logos, the way they hugged your skin perfectly.
Peter stared, his mouth falling open slightly as his eyes darted between your face and the glimpse of fabric. For a moment, it seemed like he couldn’t even speak, his brain short-circuiting entirely.
“Oh no,” you teased, crossing your arms and tilting your head. “Did I break Spider-Man?”
He let out a breathless laugh, his hands running through his hair as he closed the space between you again. “You’re insane,” he muttered, his hands sliding back to your waist as he leaned down, his lips hovering just above yours. “And I am obsessed with you.”
CW: Peter being an absolute HORN DOG & reader realizing Peter may have been hiding a serious secret
fluff and mentions of light smut ahead
again i’m writing at like 2am so sorry for any grammatical mistakes or typos!! <3
2 years, 5 months, 3 weeks, and 3 days.
That's how long you and Peter had been dating. Not that you were keeping count or anything. You had fallen for Peter, hard. He was your first serious boyfriend.
Peter was equally in love with you. He basically worshipped the ground you walked on. If the two of you didn’t have school and work, he’d probably spend every waking moment with you.
Recently, however, you noticed Peter being a little weird. His sleeping habits became sporadic, he began eating three times what was needed to sustain his rather thin frame, and most of all his sex drive was through the roof. You knew male puberty was rough but you could’ve sworn that part of puberty was over seeing as Peter had just turned 21.
Nevertheless, you found yourself being woken to the familiar grasp of your boyfriend
“Good morning, baby.” you felt him whisper into your ear.
You let out a small yawn, smacking your lips.
“What time is it?” you cried trying to shove your head further into your pillow.
"Early," he said, his arms tightening around your waist.
"10 more minutes," you whined, before feeling a slight bulge resting on your thigh.
"Peter...are you hard?" you said fully opening your eyes and turning to face the man who was holding you.
He let out an awkward chuckle.
"He just has a mind of his own," Peter joked.
You playfully rolled your eyes and turned your body to face his.
“Does the morning breath do it for you?” you joked. Peter nodded his head.
“Everything about you does it for me baby,” he said seductively leaning in for a kiss.
You smile, turning your face so he kisses your cheek rather than your lips.
“Let me at least get the crusties out of my eyes and brush my teeth sir” you say untangling yourself from his body and standing up.
“Damn, so you’re just gonna leave him hanging?” he says as you walk to the bathroom connected to your room. You laugh, answering his question .
He kisses his teeth. Soon you reemerge with your toothbrush in your mouth.
“Peter, we’ve had sex almost everyday…more than once actually,” you say trying not to spit any toothpaste out of your mouth.
“Like I said…he’s got a mind of his own” Peter blushes.
You roll your eyes. You walk back into the bathroom to finish brushing your teeth. You soon feel the silhouette of your boyfriend press behind you, forcing your body into the sink.
“My turn,” he says leaning over you to grab his red and blue toothbrush. You slide over, giving him space to use the sink. In doing so, your arm accidentally brushes the caddy that holds your makeup brushes in it. Before you even have time to process that the caddy is about hit the ground, your boyfriend quickly slides his hands underneath it, not only catching the caddy but also catching any spare brushes that found their way out.
You sigh in relief.
“Talk about lightning reflexes, babe,” you say impressed. Peter lets out a nervous laugh. You slipped out of the bathroom to begin getting dressed for the day. You slipped one one your socks and began to think about breakfast.
“Oh babe! you know what would be really good right now?” you said excitedly.
“Hmm, blueberry pancakes from Martha’s?” Peter said, almost reading your mind.
“No—wait yes…how did you know that?” you asked surprised. After almost three years together you could admit Peter did know you almost better than you knew yourself, however he was still a man at the end of the day. He had never guessed your craving on the first try like that.
“Lucky guess,” he shrugs.
The two of you finished getting dressed and made your way to car to get breakfast.
While at breakfast, you and Peter shared a plate of blueberry pancakes and some eggs.
“How is everything?” your waitress asked making her rounds. She was clearly stressed as Martha’s seemed to be packed this morning. The waitress was balancing four glasses on a tray.
The two of you nodded and gave your thanks. She smiled and began to walk to the table behind you. As she stepped, she tripped over her foot flinging both herself and the tray towards the ground. In the blink of an eye, your boyfriend who was once in front of you was now standing behind the waitress. Peter had caught both the waitress and her tray and somehow managed to keep all the glasses steady.
“Oh my goodness, thank you!” the waitress exclaimed. Peter rubbed her shoulder and took his seat in front of you. Your jaw was still agape.
“Okay Peter, what the actual fuck is going on right now?” you said.
Peter pensively pursed his lips. “Let’s finish breakfast first,”
The two of you quickly finished breakfast and Peter guided you out to the car.
He began pacing in front of it.
“Okay, what are the odds that you’ll believe me right now?” he started.
“Well given the stuff I’ve seen today, I’ll believe anything,” you reply.
He takes a deep breath before he explains.
“Okay so a few weeks ago when my professor and I went to Oscorp for our research project…I kinda wandered off and ended up in this really weird room..”
“Okay and?”
“…and the room was full of this equipment and spider webs. I think I got bit by some kind of experimental spider and ever since then I’ve had like spider powers.” he finishes
“…Spider powers?” you say in complete disbelief.
“This is like the funniest thing I’ve heard all week Pete” you laugh. His face remains completely still.
“I’m not joking babe.” he says in a monotone voice.
“I know it sounds unreal, I didn’t believe either until I started getting this tingly feeling before something happens—like your makeup brushes or the waitress falling, or even knowing what your wanted to eat for once!”
You scrunched your face.
“and I’m a lot stronger now babe, I’m so hungry all the time, and i’m sure you’ve noticed my libido…”
You couldn’t deny his last statements.
“Okay, show me.” you said quietly.
“Show you what?” he said confused.
“Show me your ‘spider powers”
Peter sighed and walked over to the car and picked it up. You stood there with your jaw on the ground.
“Believe me now?” Peter said in a snarky tone. You nodded.
“So…what now?” you whispered.
“I don’t really know…I haven’t thought that far yet. I couldn’t even figure out how to tell you until now.” he says, his gaze focused on the ground.
“Well…I guess we’ll figure it out together then, Spiderman” you said reaching for his hand.
“Spiderman…I like the sound of that,” he said smiling
~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•
Hii!! I’m lowkey thinking of writing a prologue to this with smut so lmk what you think!! likes, reblogs, and comments are always much appreciated <3
A Spider-Man Fanfiction 🕷️ | Peter Parker x Reader
Summary: He spent three weeks pretending he didn't need her. She spent three weeks wondering what she'd done wrong.
Warnings: Graphic descriptions of blood and injury, medical procedures performed in a non-medical setting (wound cleaning, resetting a dislocated shoulder), intense emotional arguments and verbal conflict, themes of emotional neglect and abandonment, mild language throughout, depictions of anxiety and guilt, brief non-explicit nudity in a non-sexual context
Word Count: 8k
You can imagine any Peter you want, I just wrote this keeping Andrew in mind <3
You're already walking.
The November air bites at your face, cold and damp, carrying the promise of rain that hasn't decided whether to fall. Your breath plumes white. Your hands are shoved deep in your coat pockets, fingers curled around the spare key Aunt May gave you three years ago. You pass the deli on 23rd where you and Peter used to split sandwiches after chemistry club—he'd always steal your pickles, and you'd always let him, rolling your eyes while your heart did stupid things in your chest. The lights are off now. The metal grate is pulled down over the window.
Three weeks.
You pass the bus stop on 20th where Peter once told you he wanted to study Biochemistry. Not because he loved it—Peter loved physics, loved quantum mechanics, loved anything that let him trace the universe back to its smallest parts—but because he wanted to understand his own body now. How the spider bite had changed him at a molecular level. What it meant to be strong in ways that terrified him. He'd talked for twenty minutes, gesturing wildly, nearly hitting a streetlamp, and you'd listened and nodded and fallen a little more in love with him with every word.
Three weeks since he stopped sitting next to you in lecture. Three weeks since he stopped coming to your apartment after patrol, bleeding and apologetic, waiting for you to patch him up on your bathroom floor. Three weeks since he stopped answering your texts—not all at once, but slowly, like a faucet dripping dry. Can't make lunch. Rain check. Maybe next week. Then nothing.
You pass the tailor shop on 19th. The one with the old Italian man who always waves at you through the window. You remember the first time you walked past it with Peter, years ago, and you'd stopped to look at the sewing machines in the window. "I could do that," you'd said, meaning the careful stitching, the steady hands. And then, months later, you did—sitting on your bedroom floor at three in the morning, sewing his first Spider-Man suit by hand because he'd shown up at your window with a sketch on notebook paper and a desperate look in his eyes. Your fingers had bled from the needle. He'd apologized a hundred times. You'd told him to shut up and hold the fabric steady.
The Parker house appears at the end of the block. Porch light on. Garden overgrown the way it's been since Uncle Ben died—the rose bushes still blooming every summer even though no one tends them anymore. Flowers in the window boxes. Purple mums that refuse to die even as November closes in.
You stop at the bottom of the porch steps. Your hand goes to your pocket.
Family doesn't have to knock.
May had pressed the key into your palm with both hands, her fingers warm and dry. You'd cried. Peter had found you in the kitchen afterward and pulled you into a hug without saying anything. Held on until you stopped shaking.
The key turns in the lock.
The house is dark. May's knitting on the armchair—a half-finished scarf in deep blue wool. Peter's textbooks on the coffee table. A mug of cold coffee on the side table, half-drunk, abandoned. He always does that. Makes coffee, drinks half, gets distracted by something—a news alert, a text from Ned, an idea for a web fluid improvement—and forgets to finish it.
"Peter?"
Nothing.
You climb the stairs. The fourth step creaks—it's always creaked. You remember the first time you stayed over, years ago, and Peter warned you about it so you wouldn't wake May. You'd stepped on it anyway. May had called out, "Is that you, Y/N?" and you'd frozen like a deer in headlights, and Peter had laughed so hard he nearly fell down the stairs.
Photographs on the wall. Peter as a baby, gap-toothed and grinning. Peter and Uncle Ben on a fishing trip, both sunburned and happy. Peter at graduation, cap slightly askew, May beaming beside him with tears in her eyes.
There's a photo of you, too. Sixteen years old, at the science fair, holding the second-place trophy. His arm around your shoulders. Your arm around his waist. You look happy. You were happy.
His door is closed. You push it open.
The room is exactly the same. Textbooks piled on the desk. Periodic Table poster slightly crooked—it fell down last year and neither of you could find the tape. The science fair trophy still dusty on the bookshelf. You keep meaning to dust it. You keep not doing it.
The photo on his nightstand: you and him, sixteen, grinning.
You sit on the edge of his bed. The mattress dips under your weight, familiar and creaking.
You've sat here a hundred times. While he ranted about exams—gesturing wildly, nearly knocking over his lamp. While he stressed about patrol—some new villain, some close call, some innocent person he couldn't save. While he grieved Uncle Ben, and you held his hand in the dark, and you didn't say anything because there was nothing to say.
While he talked about Gwen—nervous at first, fumbling over his words, asking you if you thought she might like him back. Then later, excited, telling you about their first date, their first kiss. You'd smiled. You'd been supportive. You'd pretended your heart wasn't breaking, because that's what best friends did. They showed up. They were happy for each other. Even when it hurt.
Now you sit here alone, in the dark, waiting for someone who might not want to be found.
The anger rises. Hot and sharp. You've been carrying it for three weeks, letting it simmer, and now it's bubbling over.
You don't get to disappear. You don't get to decide I'm not worth an explanation. I've cleaned blood off your skin and sewn up your suits. I've lied for you. Covered for you. Stayed up until dawn waiting for you to come home.
I've earned more than your silence.
Peter is so fucked when he gets home.
And then the window explodes.
Glass shattering. Wood splintering. The heavy, sickening thud of a body hitting the floor—books rattling on the shelves, trophy wobbling, the photo on his nightstand toppling over.
You're on your feet before you can think.
His suit is shredded. Not torn—shredded. Red and blue fabric hanging in ribbons, soaked through with blood that looks black in the dim light. The spider emblem on his chest barely visible anymore. His mask is gone. His face is a mess of bruises—one eye swollen nearly shut, skin purple and black. A gash across his forehead still bleeding, blood dripping into his eye. His lip split and swollen. Blood dripping off his chin onto the floor, mixing with shattered glass.
His ribs are exposed where the suit has been ripped away—dark purple bruises spreading like spilled wine. His chest is a mess of cuts and scrapes and deeper wounds. One shoulder sits wrong. Dislocated. The joint angled in a way that makes your stomach turn. His hands are scraped raw, knuckles bloody and swollen, fingers trembling.
He tries to stand. Gets to his knees. Collapses. Catches himself on the edge of his desk, knocking over textbooks. The half-empty mug shatters on the floor.
He looks up. Sees you.
His face drops.
"What are you—you shouldn't be here."
You don't answer. Every rehearsed speech—gone. Nothing in your head but static.
You grab the first aid kit from under his bed.
You put it there years ago. After the third time he showed up at your window with injuries he'd tried to hide. A black eye from "falling down the stairs." A knife wound from "a broken bottle." You'd seen through every lie. Stocked the kit yourself—gauze, medical tape, antiseptic, sutures, painkillers, bandages in three sizes. Made him promise to use it.
The kit is still full. He hasn't touched it. He is an idiot who hasn't taken any care of himself.
Your hands shake. You don't let them stop.
"Y/N, stop. You need to leave. You shouldn't be here—"
You ignore him. Antiseptic. Gauze. Tape. Lined up on his nightstand with the precision of someone who's done this a hundred times.
"—it's not safe, if someone saw you come here, if they followed you—"
You haul him up. He's heavier than he looks—all that muscle and spider-strength, and he can barely support his own weight. You get him to the edge of the bed. Push him down.
"—please, I can handle this myself—"
"You can't even fucking stand."
You cut away what's left of his suit. The fabric comes away in strips, stiff with dried blood. His chest is a mess—fresh bruises, a gash along his side still bleeding, older scars you've memorized over years of patching him up. The one on his ribs you stitched two years ago. The burn on his shoulder. The thin white line on his forearm from his first year as Spider-Man.
There's too much blood. Too much dirt. You can't see what you're doing.
"You need a bath." you mumble.
"What?"
"You're covered in blood. I can't see the wounds. You need to get in the bath."
"I'm fine—"
"You're not fine. You're the opposite of fine." You grab his good arm and sling it over your shoulder. He's heavier than he looks—all that muscle and spider-strength, and he can barely support his own weight. His skin is slick with blood and sweat, and his fingers grip your shoulder with a desperation that tells you he's in more pain than he's letting on. "Can you walk?"
"...Maybe."
"That's not a yes."
"It's not a no either."
"Peter."
"I can walk. Just—just go slow."
You guide him down the hall. It's slow going—his legs are unsteady, and every few steps he falters, his weight pressing into your side. You can feel the heat of his body through your clothes, the damp of blood soaking into your sleeve. You don't care. You've had his blood on you before. You'll have it on you again.
The bathroom is small—pink tile from the 1950s, a clawfoot tub that's probably older than Aunt May, lavender soap on the sink that she buys from the organic market on 19th. You lower him onto the closed toilet seat. He sits heavily, his head drooping, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
"You with me?"
"...Yeah. Yeah, I'm—I'm here."
"Don't pass out."
"Wasn't planning on it."
"mhm I doubt it."
You turn on the tap. The pipes groan—they always groan, this old house, nothing works the way it should—and then water thunders into the tub. Steam rises, fogging the mirror, filling the small room with warmth. You test the temperature with your wrist the way May taught you years ago. Not too hot. Not too cold. Just right for damaged skin.
"Arms up."
He obeys, wincing as he lifts his good arm. His bad arm doesn't move at all—the dislocated shoulder keeps it pinned to his side. You peel the rest of the ruined suit off him. The fabric sticks to his skin, glued there by dried blood, and you have to work it loose with careful fingers. Down his arms. Over his chest. You have to kneel to get it past his hips, down his legs, over his feet. The suit comes away in pieces, leaving dark red stains on your hands.
He's in nothing but his boxers now.
You don't look. You're not looking. You're focused on the wounds—the gash on his side that's still oozing blood, the way his breathing is too shallow, the way he's shivering even though the bathroom is warm with steam. You catalog each injury with clinical precision. The laceration on his ribs. The bruising across his abdomen. The swelling around his eye. The dislocated shoulder. You've done this a hundred times. You know how to shut off the part of your brain that sees Peter and turn on the part that sees a patient.
But it's harder tonight. It's always been hard, but tonight it's harder.
"Get in the tub."
He pushes himself up with his good arm. His legs shake. You take his elbow—steady him—and he steps into the water. One foot, then the other. Then he sinks down, slowly, painfully, his body disappearing beneath the surface. The water turns pink immediately, then red, then a deep, murky crimson. He hisses as the heat hits his wounds, his jaw clenching, his good hand gripping the edge of the tub.
"Breathe," you say.
"I'm breathing."
"Breathe slower."
"I'm—" He takes a shaky breath. Lets it out. "I'm trying."
His head falls back against the rim of the tub. His throat is exposed—long and pale and vulnerable. You can see his pulse beating there, too fast, a frantic rhythm under his skin. His eyes close. His chest rises and falls. The water ripples with each breath.
You kneel beside the tub. The tile is cold and hard against your knees. You grab a washcloth from the rack—one of the soft ones, the ones May keeps for guests—and dip it in the water.
Start with his face.
Gentle here. Gentler than you've been all night. You dab at the cut on his forehead, wiping away the dried blood, revealing the wound underneath. It's not as deep as it looked. Head wounds always bleed more than they should. You clean it carefully, your touch feather-light, and he doesn't open his eyes but his breathing steadies. His jaw unclenches. The tension in his shoulders—the good one, at least—starts to ease.
You move the washcloth down his cheek. Wipe away the blood that dripped from his forehead. Clean the swelling around his eye—careful, so careful, because the skin there is tender and purple and painful-looking. The washcloth comes away red. You rinse it in the water. The water swirls with color.
"How long," you ask quietly, "since you took care of yourself?"
He doesn't answer. You didn't expect him to.
You move to his chest. The washcloth trails over his collarbone, dipping into the hollow at the base of his throat where his pulse still flutters too fast. Over his shoulders—the good one, then the bad one, as gently as you can manage. Down the planes of his chest, through the smears of dried blood and dirt and sweat. You're thorough. Methodical. You've done this before.
But you've never done it like this. You've never done it in a clawfoot tub in the Parker house with steam fogging the mirror and his breath the only sound in the room. You've never done it after three weeks of silence. You've never done it with your heart in your throat and your hands trembling and his blood still drying under your fingernails.
You're not thinking about his body. You're not thinking about the way his muscles shift under your hands, the way his skin feels warm and slick and alive. You're not thinking about the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the waterline, or the way his stomach tenses when your fingers brush a particularly sensitive bruise.
You're not.
"Sorry," you murmur, as he flinches.
"Don't—don't apologize." His voice is rough. "You shouldn't even be here."
"And you should be letting me help."
"I was trying—"
"Lean forward."
He hesitates. Then he obeys, shifting in the water, his back emerging from the pink-tinged surface. You move the washcloth across his shoulder blades, and your breath catches in your throat.
His back is worse than his chest. Deep purple bruises spread across his shoulder blades like spilled ink. A long scrape runs from his spine to his ribs—not deep enough for stitches, but painful-looking. The muscles are knotted with tension, even now, even when he's supposed to be relaxing. You've seen him shirtless before. You've seen him injured before. But you've never seen him like this—bared and vulnerable and completely, utterly still under your hands.
You clean the bruises gently. Your fingers trace the curve of his spine, checking for injuries you might have missed, feeling each vertebra, each rib, each shift of muscle under skin. The water laps against his waist. The steam curls around your face.
He shivers.
"Cold?" you ask.
"No."
"Then what?"
"...Nothing. I don't—nothing."
You don't push. You work your way down his back, then his arms—the good one first, then the bad one, as carefully as you can manage with the shoulder still out of place. The water has gone lukewarm now, the heat fading. The blood has washed away, revealing the full extent of the damage—bruises spreading like watercolor across his ribs, the edges already fading from purple to green as his accelerated healing kicks in. Cuts that are already starting to close. Scrapes that will be gone by morning.
He'll be fine. He's always fine. That's the problem.
"Time to get out."
He stands. Water sluices off his body, running in rivulets down his chest, his stomach, his thighs. His boxers cling to him, soaked through, leaving nothing to the imagination. You grab a towel from the rack—the biggest one you can find, soft and worn from years of use—and wrap it around his shoulders.
Your fingers brush his chest. Accidentally. Barely a graze of knuckles against damp skin.
His breath catches.
Your eyes meet. Just for a fraction of a second. Just long enough to see something flicker in his gaze—something raw and unguarded and terrified.
You look away first.
"Bedroom," you say. "Now."
He limps back, leaning on you, his good arm slung over your shoulders, his weight pressing into your side with every unsteady step. The hallway seems longer than it used to be—or maybe that's just the exhaustion, the adrenaline fading, the three weeks of silence and the past hour of chaos catching up with you both at once. His bare feet drag on the floor. His breath is warm against your hair. You can feel his pulse through his skin where his arm rests against your neck—still too fast, still racing from the fight and the pain and whatever he's not saying.
You lower him onto the mattress. He sinks into it with a grunt, his good hand gripping the edge of the bed, his bad arm hanging useless at his side. The sheets are still tangled from this morning—or yesterday morning, or whenever he last slept in this bed. You don't know. You weren't here. You haven't been here for three weeks.
The sheets will get bloody. You don't care. You've washed blood out of his sheets before—more times than you can count, actually. There's a bottle of hydrogen peroxide under the bathroom sink specifically for that purpose. You're the one who put it there.
You start wrapping his ribs.
Your arms reach around him, passing the bandage from hand to hand, your knuckles brushing his back with every rotation. The bandage is white against his skin, stark and clean, and you wrap it tight—tight enough to support, loose enough to let him breathe. You've done this before. You know the right tension by heart.
He's warm. He's solid. He's so close you can smell the lavender soap from the bath, the faint metallic tang of blood that still lingers, the something-else that's just him—the scent you've never been able to name but have always recognized. His breath is warm on your neck every time you lean close, and it hitches slightly every time your fingers brush bare skin. You can feel his eye on you, tracking your movements, watching your face. Neither of you speaks.
This is when you notice it.
Now that the blood is gone. Now that the dirt and grime have been washed away. Now that you know he's going to be okay—that the cuts are already closing, that the bruises are already fading at the edges, that he's not going to bleed out on his bedroom floor. Now that the fear has subsided and the adrenaline has faded and you're just a girl wrapping bandages around a boy she's known for seven years.
Now you notice.
The way his shoulders taper to his waist. The lean definition of muscle in his arms—even bruised, even battered, even with one shoulder still sitting wrong. The way his stomach tenses under your hands every time you tighten the bandage, the muscles shifting beneath his skin. The trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the towel still wrapped around his hips. The way his jaw looks in profile—sharp and strong and dusted with stubble he hasn't shaved in days.
You've seen him a thousand times. You've patched him up more times than you can count. You've seen him shirtless and bleeding and broken. But you've never let yourself really look before. You've never let yourself notice the way your pulse picks up when you're close to him. You've never let yourself acknowledge that the heat pooling in your stomach isn't just concern.
You look now.
You can't help it. After everything—the fight, the fear, the three weeks of silence, the confession that's still hanging in the air between you—you can't keep pretending you don't see him. All of him. The way you've always seen him.
He catches you.
His eye meets yours. His gaze is steady, unblinking, even with the other eye swollen nearly shut. There's something in his expression—something raw and unguarded and a little bit terrified. Like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't. Like he's seeing you see him, and he doesn't know what to do with it.
"...What?"
"Nothing."
"You're staring."
"I'm checking your bandages."
"You've been checking the same bandage for like a minute." His voice is rough, but there's something underneath it—something almost teasing, almost familiar. Almost like the Peter you knew before he disappeared.
"I'm being thorough."
"You're blushing."
"I'm not."
"You are. Your ears are doing that thing."
"My ears don't do a thing."
"They do. They always have." He shifts on the bed, wincing as the movement pulls at his ribs, but his eye doesn't leave your face. "They go all pink. First the tips, then the whole ear. It's how I know you're lying. They've done it since we were 17. Remember that time you told Smith you'd finished your essay on Shakespeare and your ears gave you away?"
"That was one time."
"It was at least four times. I kept count."
"Of course you did."
"I remember things." His voice softens. "About you. I always have."
The air between you shifts. Charged. Heavy. You're still holding the bandage. Your hands are still resting against his ribs. You can feel his heartbeat under your palm—steady now, no longer racing.
"Focus on your injuries," you say.
"I'd rather focus on—"
"Peter I will slap you."
"Sorry."
You finish wrapping his ribs in silence. Your movements are efficient, practiced, but your hands are trembling slightly. You hope he doesn't notice. He notices everything but maybe, for once, he'll pretend he doesn't.
The gash on his side is clean and closed. The bandages are secure. All that's left is the shoulder.
You step back. Take a breath. Look at him—really look at him—sitting on the edge of his bed with his ribs wrapped and his arm hanging useless and his one good eye fixed on your face.
"It's dislocated."
"...Yeah."
"I'm putting it back."
"...Do it."
"Just like that? Do it?"
"What do you want me to say?" His voice rises, frustration bleeding through. "What do you want? I'm trying—I've been trying all night—I don't know what you want from me."
"Anything! Something! You've been silent for three weeks, and now you're just—just sitting there like—"
"Like what?"
"Like this is normal! Like you crashing through windows and bleeding everywhere and pushing me away is just something I should accept!"
"I'm not asking you to accept it." He stands up—too fast, his ribs protesting, his face going pale. He sways on his feet but doesn't sit back down. "I'm asking you to reset my shoulder. That's all. Just—reset my shoulder, and then you can yell at me all you want."
"You think this is about yelling at you?"
"I think you're angry, and you have every right to be. So be angry. Shout. Throw things. I don't care." He gestures at his shoulder, frustration twisting his features. "But I can't—I can't think straight with this thing. I can't give you what you want when I can barely stand up."
"What I want is for you to stop running."
"I'm not running. I'm right here."
"For now. What about tomorrow? What about next week? What about the next time some villain decides to use me to get to you?"
"I don't—"
"You don't know. That's the problem. You don't know, and instead of figuring it out together, you just—you left. You decided for both of us."
"Because I was scared!"
"You keep saying that! You keep saying you were scared, like that makes it okay!"
"It doesn't make it okay! Nothing about this is okay!" He's shouting now, his voice cracking, his whole body trembling. "I know it's not okay. I've known it's not okay since the moment I stopped answering your texts. But I didn't know what else to do. I still don't know what else to do. Every time I try to—to let someone in—"
"You push them away first."
"...Yes."
"That's not protection. That's cowardice."
"I know." His voice drops. "I know what it is. I've always known."
"Then why do you keep doing it?"
"Because I don't know how to stop!" He turns away from you—stumbles, really, his bad shoulder throwing off his balance—and braces his good hand against the wall. His back is to you now. You can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his spine is rigid, the way his head is bowed. "I don't know how to stop being scared. I've been scared since the day I got bitten. Scared of what I can do. Scared of what I can't do. Scared of losing people. And you—you're the person I'm most scared of losing. So I thought—I thought if I pushed you away first, it would hurt less. If I was the one who left, I wouldn't have to watch you leave."
"I wasn't going to leave."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." You step closer—close enough to touch him, but you don't. Not yet. "I've been here for years, Peter. Through everything. Through the bite, through Ben, through Gwen, through every disaster this city has thrown at you. I've never left. I've never even thought about leaving."
"That doesn't mean you won't."
"It does, actually. It means exactly that." Your voice softens. "I'm not going anywhere. I've never been going anywhere. But you have to let me stay. You have to stop making decisions for me. You have to trust me enough to let me choose."
He turns. His eye meets yours. His expression is cracked open, raw and vulnerable and terrified.
"How?" he whispers. "How do I do that?"
"I don't know. But we figure it out together. That's the point."
Silence.
"Your shoulder," you say. "Sit down. Let me fix it."
He hesitates. Then he nods—just once—and lowers himself back onto the bed. You move to stand in front of him, positioning your hands on his shoulder. The joint is swollen and wrong under your palms, the bones misaligned. You've read about how to do this. You've never actually done it before.
You pause. Look at him.
"I helped you sew your first suit."
He looks up, confused. "What?"
"We stayed up until four in the morning. My fingers were bleeding from the needle. You kept apologizing, and I kept telling you to shut up." You hold his gaze. "Did you really think I didn't know what I was choosing?"
His expression cracks. His hand comes up—hesitates for just a moment—then rests on your hip. His fingers are warm through the fabric of your jeans. "...No. I guess I didn't."
"On three. One—"
You do it on two.
The joint slides back into place with a sickening pop. He cries out—a raw, broken sound that tears from his throat before he can stop it—and his hand tightens on your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. His forehead drops to your stomach. His whole body shakes. His breath comes in ragged gasps, hot through the fabric of your shirt.
"Fuck," he breathes.
"It's done."
"That—" He takes a shaky breath. Another. "That hurt more than the fight."
"Deserved."
He laughs—wet, broken, muffled against your shirt. It's not a happy sound. It's the sound of someone who's been holding everything in for too long and has finally run out of strength to keep doing it. His hand is still on your hip. His forehead is still pressed against your stomach. You can feel his breath through the fabric, warm and ragged, and the faint tremor that runs through his body every few seconds.
"You're still holding onto me," you say.
"...Yeah."
"Are you going to let go?"
"...I don't want to."
His hand tightens. His thumb traces a small circle on the fabric of your jeans—an absent, unconscious gesture, like he doesn't even realize he's doing it. Neither of you speaks. The silence is different now. Less angry. Less charged. Something softer.
"I love you," he says. His voice is muffled against your shirt, barely audible.
He lifts his head. His eye meets yours. And despite everything—the blood, the bruises, the broken window, the three weeks of silence, the argument that's still echoing off the walls—he smiles. A real smile. The one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him look younger. The one you've loved since you were fifteen years old, even when you couldn't admit it to yourself.
He's still holding onto your hip. You're still standing between his legs, close enough to feel the heat of his body, close enough to count his eyelashes. The room is quiet. The broken window lets in the cold night air and the distant sounds of the city—a siren, a car horn, the rumble of the subway. The photo on his nightstand is still toppled over. The glass is still swept into a pile in the corner.
None of it matters.
"I love you too" you say. "In case that wasn't clear."
"It was clear. It was very clear."
He kisses you.
It's not gentle. It's not careful. It's not the kind of kiss you imagine when you let yourself imagine this—which you have, God, you have, more times than you'd ever admit. Those imaginary kisses were soft. Tentative. The kind of first kiss that happens after a confession, after years of waiting, after everything finally falls into place.
This is not that.
This is desperate. This is his good hand fisting in the fabric of your shirt, yanking you closer, like he's afraid you'll disappear if he doesn't hold on tight enough. This is his split lip catching on yours, rough and swollen, and the faint copper taste of blood on his mouth. This is his breath—ragged, uneven, half a sob caught in his throat—mixing with yours.
He kisses like he's drowning. Like you're air. Like he's been holding his breath for three weeks—for years—and he's finally, finally letting himself breathe.
His hand slides from your shirt to your jaw, his fingers trembling. They're cold. They're always cold after a fight, after the adrenaline fades and his body remembers it's supposed to be in shock. But his palm is warm against your cheek, and his thumb traces the line of your cheekbone like he's memorizing it, like he's been wanting to do this for so long he doesn't know where to start.
You lean into him, careful—so careful—of his ribs, his shoulder, the bruises spreading across his chest like spilled watercolor. Your hands find his face, your fingers brushing the edge of his swollen eye, the cut on his forehead, the stubble along his jaw. He flinches—not from pain, but from the gentleness. Like he doesn't know what to do with it. Like no one's ever touched him like this before.
His forehead presses against yours. His breath is warm on your lips. His hand is still on your jaw, still trembling.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm—"
"Stop."
"I can't—"
"Stop apologizing."
"I don't know how else to—"
"Then don't. Just—" You kiss him again. Softer this time. Slower. Your lips brush his, and you feel him exhale—a shaky, broken sound—and his hand slides into your hair, and he kisses you back like you're the only thing holding him together.
An hour has passed.
You've swept up the broken glass. Found an old board in the garage to cover the window—you'll fix it properly tomorrow. You've made tea, your hands moving on autopilot, reaching for the mugs you've always used. The blue one with the chip in the handle is yours. Peter's is the red one with Minnie Mouse on it.
Peter is in bed. His ribs are wrapped. His shoulder is back in place. The bruises are already fading to yellow-green. He's been watching you move around the room.
"You should sleep," he says.
"I'm not tired."
"You've been up all night."
"So have you."
"I have accelerated healing. What's your excuse?"
"Do I really need one?"
You set down your mug. Walk over to the bed. He shifts to make room for you, wincing, and you climb in beside him. His head finds the curve of your shoulder. His arm drapes across your waist. His fingers find the sleeve of your hoodie—the one he left at your apartment last year, the one you never gave back.
"You kept it," he murmurs.
"Of course I kept it."
"It's been like a year."
"It smells like you."
"...That's either really sweet or really creepy."
"Shut up."
"Much more creepy than it is sweet though"
You laugh, and he laughs with you, and the sound fills the quiet room. The sun is starting to rise outside the broken window—pale grey light creeping over the rooftops of Queens.
"I love you," he says, already half-asleep.
"I know."
"The fuck is 'I know'? you have to say it back."
"I love you too, maybe" you smirk
"...Good. I can work with a maybe temporarily."
His eyes close. His breathing evens out. His hand relaxes on your sleeve.
"Still here," you murmur. "Not going anywhere."
His brow smooths. His grip relaxes.
You stay exactly where you are.
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed this, feel free to drop a comment; I'd love to hear your thoughts. I'm currently open to requests for Harry Potter characters (especially Fred, George, Harry, Ron, Cedric, Hermione and Draco) and Spider-Man (Peter Parker). If you have a prompt or an idea you've been wanting to see written, send it my way.
pairing: academic rival! peter parker x fem reader
word count: 12.4k
summary: an academic competition sends you into overdrive to beat your archnemises peter parker, not only for the sake of braaging rights but for the prize of a week long trip to mexico (away from him). but what happens when that prize is suddenly split into two, forcing you and him to be travel buddies?
warnings: SMUT! praise kink, pet names (bunny), oral sex, messy make-outs, dry humping, man-handling, slight hair pulling, forced proximity, jealously/ angst, swearing, mentions of alcohol consumption, reader has anxiety
The person that stared back at you in the mirror was a girl you could barely recognize.
She seemed almost empty, as if her insides had been scooped clean and scraped off the sides from the outer walls of thick flesh. It had been nearly thirty hours since you had slept. The bags under your eyes were as dark and as heavy as the night air outside your apartment.
A gentle breeze gusted through your opened window, the only thing keeping you sane as you lifted a hand to your face, as if your mind was unsure if you were real. The only two things that had kept you awake was the endless amount of caffeine, which now left a sacrine taste stuck to your teeth, and the drive to beat Peter Parker.
Wiping that smug smirk off your nemesis’s face when you beat him would make these past few months worth it, and then some. It was the chemistry department's annual “thesis” competition, something they loved to drag through the mud at NYU.
On top of the actual thesis one had to vomit out at the end of their two years of a masters, there was an additional competition the department hosted in the first year, courtesy of the schools seemingly endless funds towards the STEM students.
It wasn't a required entry, hence why only ten people in the whole program had signed up.
You being one of them.
Peter Parker being another.
It wasn't like you were only competitive and hard-working because of Peter. You would never give him that satisfaction, even if it was the case it was the truth.
No, you had always been this determined and hard working, even in simple high school chemistry labs. But the pool had certainly widened since high school, high achievers with much sharper teeth swam alongside you now.
You had to prove yourself more than ever before, but the reward of the Deans List and praise from your family and professors was worth the endless work and study-sheets.
You had actually worked hard to get to where you were now.
Unlike some people, where it came naturally. Or their parents had money, and could weasel their way into the Dean's mind like snakes, to cater to their golden child.
The mere thought of Peter Parker made your jaw clench so hard you worried teeth would crack.
No, you wouldn't give him the satisfaction, even though this was in your mind, and your mind alone- that you gave him even the slightest bit of time in your day. Or night, in this case. It was now 12:05.
Six minutes after the deadline for your secondary thesis, your countless months (years really, you always just used a near dying pen and a napkin to jot it down) of jumbled ideas, random thoughts and hypotheses spewed out onto a nice, neat document.
Organized, somehow, when your mind felt like it was moving a mile a minute, jumping from one thought to the next.
And somehow, he was in the mix. Of all the things you could think of, he was right up there with the worst of the worst.
You should be celebrating, it was done, and you were free. But all you felt was built churning in your gut, making you queasy.
Whether it was the lack of sleep, the limited and very poor diet and the endless stress and perfectionism, or if it was Parker on your mind- you didn't know. It would be funny if you told him the thought of him actually made you sick.
But that would tell him that you thought about him. And you couldn't have that.
You were winning. You had to stay winning.
You dragged yourself from the mirror, slamming the laptop shut before you let out a deep sigh. It was as if the weight had lifted, just a smidge from your shoulders, but there was still the pressure of nerves.
You had to win this. Winning this meant a free week at an all inclusive resort in Mexico, with a guest of your choosing. You needed a heavy handed pina coloita, and a beach with clear waters more than anything after this year.
If you lost that… if you lost that to Parker…
You shook your head, trying to rid the cobwebs of dread and anxiety that coated your mind. You were free, for now, at least. In a few days, you’d present your research. The next week, you’d have plane tickets to Mexico in your hand.
Tomorrow, you’d go to a cafe with your best friend Gwen, buy nine dollar iced vanilla lattes and check out a new antique store you’d been dying to explore.
It was going to be a good day.
And for now, you had to just focus on taking the days, one at a time. And not think about Peter Parker, and that charming, smug smirk.
🌊⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°🫧 🌊⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°🫧
The nerves had threatened to consume you alive a week ago.
They started to slither their way back to the surface as you tried to enjoy your much deserved break from school work.
It had been nearly seven days on the dot since you had presented your findings, Dr. Banner silently cheering you on from the back corner of the room, which was much needed, a contrast from the cool and collected looks of the committee staring at you as you presented.
You had worn black that day, knowing it would save you from the embarrassment of visible sweat stains, thank god. You had even traded your three espresso shots for a measly one and a half, knowing it would churn with the nerves in your stomach and possibly make you a jittery, vomiting mess in front of everyone.
All and all, it had gone as well as you thought it could go. Dr. Banner thought so at least. Not even the sight of Parker could break your stride as you left the little meeting room, his eyes being the first thing that met your gaze as you left.
He was the most attractive man you had ever laid eyes on.
And that pissed you off even more.
How’d it go bunny? He had asked, a twinkle in his eye as he took you in.
You refused to let yourself curl inwards as much as you wanted to, it was something you would not allow in his presence. Your eyes had rolled at the pet name he had refused to drop, despite your countless requests to drop it.
You were not a bunny. You were not his bunny.
“Excellent. Break a leg Parker.” You had snapped, brushing past him, the smell of his husky cologne choking you. He sucked the air out of every room and hallway he was in, not just because of his larger size, but because he was just that much of a cocky prick.
You almost guaranteed he had called every girl something sweet to get into their pants.
Over your dead body you’d ever be one of them, the rake.
He chuckled at your comment, knowing you meant it literally. You never filtered yourself around him.
“That mouth’s gonna get you in trouble someday bun.” he called as you walked away, turning the corner before you could let yourself react. He did not ruin the perfect, checking items off your list day.
And he wouldn't ruin it today.
In a week, you’d know if you had scored two tickets to Mexico, and the excitement mixed with anxiety made you want to stay curled up in bed, under twenty blankets. You squeezed your knees into your chest, attempting to take deep breaths, though they came out shaky.
You had to pull yourself together, rip it off like a bandaid. Tune everything else out, make everything into a list.
You pulled yourself out of your tangled position, reaching for a notebook you always kept handy at your bedside table, for exactly this reason.
All that could be heard was your shaky breaths, the loud hum of the wonky AC you begged your landlord to look at for the last month, and your pen scribbling on the page so hard you thought it would rip.
1. Put on an outfit
2. Fix my hair
3. Make my bed
4. Fill up water bottle
5. Check the stove is turned off
6. Subway
7. Find out if I did all that work for nothing (I don't care about the ‘experience’)
8. Start making my packing list with Gwen, or drink myself sick in sadness
🌊⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°🫧 🌊⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°🫧
You arrived with five minutes to spare, and you had cursed everyone in existence for your lateness.
You scrambled to try and fix your hair before stepping inside, but it was no use. The wind was picking up, despite spring being in full swing. If you had spent less time panicking, and picking your outfit, you honestly could've used the walk.
Maybe then you would've avoided the subway delay, and the hundreds of people that lacked spacial awareness to move out of the way, rather than standing around in congested herds.
Shaking the past from your mind, there was no use in dwelling on the what-ifs now, you carried yourself forward, headstrong and confident through the doors.
You would win this.
If you told yourself that enough times, maybe it would come true.
You blinked to adjust to the flickering buzz of the fluorescent lights as you stepped inside the older building, making your way up the stairs to the same conference room you had entered a week earlier. You followed the low mumbling voices, surprised there were only a handful of people hanging around the doorway.
Had the other students already gone inside? Or had they been eliminated already?
You rubbed your hands subtly on your skirt before fidgeting again with the rings on your fingers, before an older woman directed her attention to you. Her face lit up.
“Ah Miss. Y/L/N. Right on time. Come on in and we’ll get started.”
You swallowed, trying to plaster a smile on your face despite it most likely looking something like a grimace as you stepped past some people to make your way inside.
All that waited for you was empty chairs- almost, all empty.
Peter sat at the desk that faced the dozens of other chairs,his long legs brushing the chair you assumed was yours. You avoided his gaze as you sat, smoothing out the wrinkles in your skirt before folding them neatly in your lap.
“Not even a hello? I’m hurt, bunny.”
“Not now Parker.” you bit out, not sparing him a glance as everyone sat in their seats.
“You’re late, you know. I was beginning to get worried.”
That was the straw that broke the camel's back.
“I was not late, and you are so self absorbed and lack the human decency to worry for anyone but yourself. I could be skinned alive in front of a live audience, and you would be at the concession stand.” you snarled, earning a chuckle out of him.
The room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
“Are we set to begin Miss. Y/L/N?”
You felt heat rise across your body as you quickly averted your eyes, trying to fix a smile on your face. “Yes ma’am. I apologize."
“Good. So to begin, we all want to thank you both for your hard work, time and dedication with your work. Both of you should be proud of your hard work.”
You nodded, trying to seem engaged as she droned on about academic honours and such. You needed her to get on with it. Your attention started to wane, zoning in as soon as she grabbed her score sheets from last week.
“It was extremely tough to decide who to give this award to. Your scores were identical. Both of you are tied for first.”
You closed your eyes, clenching your fists and started to pray for a genie to come in, and give you three wishes.
This could not be happening.
“You both scored a 97. That is something you should each be extremely proud of. Therefore, you both are winners.”
Yes, yes she had said that already! Jesus fucking Christ woman…
“Does that mean we rock paper scissors to see who wins?” you asked, eyebrow raised as you shifted your gaze to look at Peter.
“I always throw a rock, but I’m sure I could mix it up this time with paper.”
“Well don't give away your tricks now.” he muttered under his breath.
He was calm and collected, as he always was.
Why the hell wasn't he concerned about this?
“As fun as that would be, we collectively agree it is not fair to give someone the pair of tickets, rather than the other. So, for the first time in the history of this competition, you will each be receiving one ticket.”
Your eyes widened. Oh. Fuck.
“Oh?” you sputtered, feeling Peters stare on the side of your face as you collected yourself.
Everyone was smiling. You felt like smacking your head off the table in front of you repeatedly, until you were unconscious and blood coated the walls.
“Congratulations you two! Start planning matching outfits. We will send all the details to your emails within the next few days.” Someone said, who you couldn't focus on, as your head was buzzing so loud it was as if mosquitoes had swarmed your ears.
You felt dizzy.
All this work, the effort and countless nights you had put into this project.
And you were to share the celebration with Peter fucking Parker.
Your arch nemesis.
The universe had played some sick, cruel, twisted joke on you, pointing down from above and laughing so hard the earth had begun to shake. Chair legs began to push against the tile, squeaking as a steady buzz of chatter hummed in the room, and yet you felt frozen in your seat.
“Matching outfits eh? What do you think, pineapple, or Hawaiian button- ups?” Peter's teasing voice broke you from your spell, making the room come back into focus, and then some.
It was too loud, too hot, too much.
And he made everything worse. He always made everything worse.
“I cannot believe this. I cannot believe you.” You pointed, shooting up from your seat- your eyes sharp enough to stab daggers into his chest. Steam might as well have been spewing from your ears.
He was hazed over in a paintbrush stroke of red, anger clouding your vision. He swallowed every single frame of vision you had, whenever he was in a room.
This time, it was no different. He threw his hands up in mock defense.
“Congrats to you too bunny. We’ll be in touch soon, I’m sure.” was all he said, and you couldve sworn a sliver of hurt was etched across his features, before it had adjusted itself back into the cool, calm and collected nature he displayed so well: with that taunting smile, those stupid fucking dimples appearing as he brushed past you, too close to be anything friendly.
You heard his name called by someone, another voice calling yours to talk more about where you had landed marks, and where the three had been taken off.
You didn't care anymore.
You just needed to call Gwen, and tell her about the nightmare that had just taken place, in real time.
🌊⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°🫧 🌊⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°🫧
It had been two weeks and you still could not get the last conversation with Peter out of your head.
You had gotten everything out of your system, when you were out at the bar with your friends, when you had started packing your bag while on the phone with your mom, and now in the car as Gwen drove you to your terminal.
“I wanted to go with you so bad Gweny.” you sighed, looking longingly out the window as the rain pattered down. There was no point lingering on the past now, you knew that. You had psychoanalyzed the whole situation to a tee, including Peter's reaction.
You don't know why that little flash of emotion had stuck with you so much.
Was it the fact you were the one who had cracked his facade? Or was it just suppressed joy that your harsh words had landed their blow as intended?
You hadn't seen him since that moment in the room, and it wasn't exactly like you wanted to seek him out. What were you going to do, apologise? You had meant what you said, and he needed to hear it.
You had to stand your ground, and you were going to continue to show him, and others- for that matter that you weren't one to be walked all over.
“I know babe, but its okay! WIth all the juicy drama deets I’ll get, it will make me feel like I’m right there with you.” she laughed as you rolled your eyes. “There won't be any updates because as soon as we land I am getting as far away from Parker as I can get.”
She sighed, watching the wipers move back and forth, the traffic pretty well at a standstill. “I’m sure it will be a fantaboluis love story for the ages. The one bed trope, enemies to lovers and all.”
“If that's the case I’m drowning myself in the ocean.” you snorted, popping a gummy-bear in your mouth.
Traveling made you nervous, which made you snacky, and somehow, hangry at the same time.
“You know, my dad has been thinking about another vacy soon. Would you want to come back to Mexico together?” she asked, reaching over to squeeze your hand, noticing you had begun to fidget.
Gwen's parents were quite wealthy, and something like a week long Mexico trip was pocket change to them. Still, it didn't make her offer any less meaningful.
“That would be awesome Gweny. I’d love to. I’m sorry again about this all not working out..” you sighed, admiring her freshly manicured fingernails.
They were sparkly and long, compared to yours, which were torn up and chewed from anxiety. You cursed yourself for not stopping your nervous tics, the skin around your nails all bloody and scratched. You picked at your skin, your nails, your lips.
And it was ten times worse this week, for obvious reasons.
Still, you had at least tried, painting them a bright, summery colour. You tried to stray from anything dull and flat for this trip, focusing more on bright colours and fun patterns. You had a whole compartment in your suitcase just for whimsical jewellery and hair pieces you couldn't wait to play around with.
You tried to hold onto that as Gwen found a spot to briefly park, close to the automatic doors that allowed the chill and crisp breeze inside.
“Dont you dare apologize! It’s going to be great. I promise. Pinky.”
She stuck out her pinky, and you couldn't help but let yours entangle in that security of oath.
“If you say so.” You sighed, sad to leave her side, as you stepped out of the car, pulling up your hood before you started to grab your bags from the trunk.
The warm smell of florals clouded your senses as she wrapped you in a warm embrace, not caring the rain was spilling down into her seat, her door slightly ajar.
“Be safe. And remember this is a vacation. It's supposed to be fun. Let yourself have that, babe.”
“I love you.” was all you could whisper, trying not to cry.
It was only a week. A week, seven days, you kept telling yourself.
You blamed it on the nerves, and the fact you hadn't traveled alone before. And the fact you got homesick. And because you were going to be on a four hour flight crammed next to Peter Parker.
“I love you too. Next time.” she smiled, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Send me pictures! Love youuu!!” she blew kisses as she got back into the driver's seat, speeding off into the rainfall, as you waved- knowing she’d spot you in her rearview.
You collected yourself, hastily scrambling to get inside before your shoes soaked from the inside out, when you bumped into something hard and solid.
A flannel you knew all too well was what you grabbed onto to steady yourself, looking up to see your walking nightmare staring back at you.
You quickly regained your composure, shrugging him off as you took off your coat, praying you didn't look like a drowned rat when he looked like… well, that.
The backwards baseball cap and watch that adorned his veiny arms really was doing something wonderful for him. You hated it.
“Well that was a very sappy, romantic goodbye. I almost shed a tear.”
“You had nothing better to do than to watch me say goodbye, like a pervert? Do you always just watch women do mundane things and make snarky comments about it?”
“Sometimes.” He shrugged, and you fought the urge to run his feet over with your suitcase wheels.
“You couldn't have been useful and I don't know, maybe checked in?”
“I wanted to wait for you.”
“Oh so this is a bonding exercise.”
“Would you like it to be? I can get really personal if you want me to, bunny.”
You turned away, heading towards the check in desk. Wanting to get this over and done with, because the nerves had started to claw their way back up, not hindering due to Peter's stupid banter.
“I can be anything you want me to be.”
“I want you to be quiet and check in your bag.” You snapped, turning and almost causing another crash between the two of you again.
He was getting under your skin already. You needed to calm down, and get a grip.
“Noted.” he nodded, grabbing your bag, rolling it over to get your luggage tags. There was nothing but silence between the two of you as you each scanned your passports, letting the machine whirl and print out passes, before silently putting them on your bags. He grabbed your suitcase before you could protest, heading off to the desk.
You huffed in annoyance, hating when others did things for you without asking. Did he not think you were capable of weighing your goddamn luggage?
A loud laugh echoed from his direction, the airline worker beaming from ear to ear at a joke he must have made. She looked love-whipped, and you pitied her. So many girls looked at him in the same way, like a newly fostered puppy.
What effect did he have on people, and why did it not work on you?
You shook the thought from your head, because if anything you should be thankful his charms didn't work on you. The last thing you needed was to be a fly in his spiderweb entrapment. He would eat you alive, if you let him get close enough.
After what felt like forever, he finally made his way back to you, a look of achievement on his face as the lady at the desk watched his every move, whispering to her coworker beside her.
“All good. Security?”
“Oh, you didn't want to eat her face off first?”
He raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. You tried not to look at his biceps.
And failed.
“What makes you think that?”
“Maybe because she looks like she wants to eat yours?”
He laughed.
“What?” you said, annoyed beyond belief. This trip was going to be a lot more difficult than you thought it would be. And you hadn't even gone through security yet.
Oh brother.
“Are you… jealous?”
Your eyes widened, heart skipping a beat. Did you sound jealous? Oh god. This was bad.
“No! Of course not. I’m pissed off you took your sweet time.”
“Our flight isn't for another two hours. Are you seriously worried about being late to sit in chairs and people watch?”
“Yes.” you grumbled, adjusting your carry on bag on your shoulder, fidgeting with the strap anxiously. He didn't know of your travel anxiety, or more so your overall general anxiety, not that you expected him to or planned to inform him of such info.
Everything tended to make you a little anxious, but crowds, airports and overall travelling made you super anxious. It was the last place anyone wanted to be at, of course- and the nervous energy that hung in the air like a thick cloud made you feel queasy.
What if something happened, where you were late to the flight? What if you had troubles at security and they thought you had a bomb and pulled you aside for a five hour long interrogation? What if the flight was delayed? What if you were sick…
“Hey? Helloooo bunny?” Peter waved a hand in front of your face, snapping you out of your dazed trance.
”I was just kidding bunny. I’m sorry I took longer than expected. She had a lot of... personal questions.”
“Of course she did. Lets just get this over with.” you mumbled, trying to ignore the fact he had actually apoglized to you. That had to be a first, possibly ever, for him to do to anyone.
Once the hard part was over (no secret bombs on you, as expected), you followed your airport routine checklist to keep you grounded as you waited for the flight.
1. Find your gate
2. Grab a much needed caffeinated beverage (why was the flight so god damn early?!)
3. Grab snacks for plane
4. Fill up your water and use the bathroom as many times as needed once it was scouted out
5. Wait at your gate
As the minutes grew closer to boarding time, you began to get more anxious, and it had gotten to the point Peter had for sure noticed it. Your very visible leg bouncing and constant surveillance of the gate was noticeable to anyone who had eyes, really.
“You okay?” he finally asked, breaking the silence between you two. You nodded, barely registering what he said. You just wanted this over with. To be in sweet and sunny Mexico, away from the large crowds, the loud noise, the constant movement and rush.
“You sure? Because you look like you're two seconds away from becoming Twitchy the squirrel. Was that second coffee needed?”
“I’m going to punch you.”
“Oh so she speaks. Finally.”
You sighed. “I just… really hate airports okay? Sorry.”
You turned to meet his gaze, and you could've sworn something like sympathy was reflected back at you.
“What about them do you not like, if you don't mind me asking?”
“Everything.”
He nodded. “Makes sense.”
And that was that.
When it was finally time for you to board, you practically leapt out of your seat, headphones nearly sliding off your head from the force. You felt yourself shut down again as you both made your way onto the jet bridge, but you knew it was the exhaustion heavy in your bones from the constant stress.
You prayed you would be able to get a wink of sleep on the plane, but that would be unlikely. It was only once you were both seated, the plane starting to make its way down the runway you felt yourself trying to speak again.
Your tongue felt thick, your mouth filled with invisible, weighted sand. You needed a distraction during this takeoff, or else you would have an anxiety attack in the bathroom, no matter how many flight attendants yelled at you to take your seat.
You needed Peter Parker to say something.
Anything. And thats how you knew you were completely and utterly fucked.
“I think we may be lucky this time if the plane crashes.” he muttered, making you tense up even more.
Okay, maybe you didnt need him to speak anymore.
“What on earth could you possibly mean?” you gritted out between clenched teeth, your hands wrung in your lap.
“I mean we definitely have a doctor on board. I think I also saw a guy from the military. And I know the girl we passed two aisles ahead is a therapist.”
“How on gods green earth do you know that?” Your legs began to bounce as you felt yourself starting to leave the ground, tilted up on an angle.
“I saw her reading some fancy book. And she has the glasses they all wear.”
“And we’re talking about this because…?”
“Its good to be prepared. Or its just a game you can play.”
You sighed, your hand instinctively reaching for Peters as you started to soar, pinching your eyes shut.
His hand was warm and soft, enveloping yours with a gentle squeeze on reassurance.
“Do you think the therapist could help me with you?” you asked, not fully grasping the situation at play. The fact you were holding onto Peter's hand for dear life, and the fact he was letting you squeeze his hands so hard his bones were sure to ache afterwards.
“I think you’ll be needing my assistance if we end up stranded on an island.”
“To attract bait?”
“Exactly.” he smiled, looking down to where your hands were intertwined.
You quickly adjusted yourself, flustered as you settled back into your seat, in hands and arms in your own arm rests.
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. Just shrugged.
“I’ll keep my hands to myself now.” you quickly looked away, smoothing the wrinkles in your sweatpants as you stumbled over a one sided conversation.
This was weird. You were making this weird.
“You don't have to.” he murmured, before slipping on his headphones and shutting his eyes as he leaned back in his seat.
Conversation done. Ended.
So why in the hell were you slightly upset at that, when all you wanted for him was to shut up?
It was nerves. It was just nerves, and this flying day was making you antsy.
Of course you wanted the distraction to continue. But instead of making another scene, you tried to do the same- by shutting your eyes and trying to make yourself comfortable (never going to happen).
You gave up and started making a list of things for when you landed.
1. Grab carry on
2. Unboard the plane
3. Grab luggage from correct area
4. Find your driver
5. Triple check th-
“Wake me when they come by with snacks please n thank you bunny.” a featherlight whisper tickled the hairs on your neck as he adjusted himself back in his seat, hands folded in his lap as he drifted off.
Leaving you alone with endless depths of worry that pooled in your mind.
🌊⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°🫧 🌊⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°🫧
You couldn't fully let the tension out of your shoulders until you were within the safe confines of your room at the resort, your bags dropped and your shoes kicked off.
The tile was cool against them, the air conditioning humming steadily in the background.
It was a beautiful resort.
Nothing within your tax bracket, to say the least. Though everything seemed to be as a broke university student.
Everything had been smooth from exiting the plane, your bags were a) boarded on the correct plane, and b) were not lost or damaged (though it always too forever for them to emerge from the plane, which made you think the worst of the worst happened).
Peter had continued his endless jests on the drive over, and they refused to cease until you had practically shut the door in his face. Not even the warm towel and complementary drink when you arrived shut him up (though why were there warm towels in Mexico)?
But now you were here, you were alive in one piece.
You had survived the travel day, and once your suitcase was unpacked, because of course- you couldn't possibly think of resting until that was done and you had changed out of your dirty outside clothes, you could plop down on that comfy looking bed and doze… wait.
An anomaly broke you from your peaceful moment, as you observed a door.
A door that led directly to Peter's room.
Oh fuck.
You quickly ran over to it, locking it firmly. Not that you thought he would barge in unannounced, but Jesus you felt better with it secured.
Of course it was like this, because why would it not be? You were a shared party, so it made sense there would be a shared door. Still…
You sighed, closing your eyes as you leaned against the wood, trying to ground yourself. You were just overly tired and emotional from the long day, you couldn't let these little, insignificant things get to you.
Plus, it could be a benefit if there was an intruder. You could just lead them right to his room instead.
For now, you had to focus on what you could control, aka oragnizing.
You got to work, letting your mind carry you away before you heard three quick raps on your door. Your other, door.
You frowned, quickly unlocking your shared door, wondering why the hell he was choosing to abuse this method of annoying you.
It was truly cruel. You werent even this low.
“What?!”
“Dinner time.” was all he said, inviting himself in.
“Uhm,come on in?”
He beamed from ear to ear, that little dimple appearing like an old friend, always showing when he knew he truly got under your skin.
“Damn you’ve unpacked?”
“You havent?”
He shrugged, spinning around to get a glimpse of your room. “The same as yours, I imagine.” you grumbled, stomping off to the bathroom, for no reason other to get rid of him.
“No one really unpacks on vacation bunny. Anyone who told you that was a liar.”
“I like my things the way I like my things.” was all you said as you grabbed your makeup bag, trying to fix your mascara.
“You sure do like your things…” he muttered, making you scoff.
Now it was two in the mirrors reflection, and you wanted to turn around and stab him with the wand. “Why are you here Peter? I’m busy.”
“Telling you it’s dinner time and we should go.” he said, leaning against the doorframe like some kind of book boyfriend. All tall and broading, swallowing the frame as he crossed his arms, biceps bulging against his crisp white button down.
He needed to get a grip.
“Okay first off there is no universally set dinner time. I know people who eat at 9 o’clock, thank you very much.”
He just raised an eyebrow. “And secondly, why do you not get the hint?”
“Am I not allowed to watch you do a simple task?”
“No.”
He scoffed. “You wound me.”
“Good. I’ll stab this mascara wand in your eye.”
“That is surprisingly very arousing.” he commented, making you whip around in disbelief.
“I suppose anything you do is though. Even when violent.”
“Peter.”
“Fiesty.”
“Get. Out. Please.” you gritted between clenched teeth. You had to fix your hair and get dressed before you could make an appearance at dinner, and if he argued about staying for that, they’d find a body and a note.
He thew his hands up in mock surrender as he moved away from the doorframe, disappearing from your view. It was only when you heard a door open and shut you could feel your chest sag, the air whooshing out of your lungs.
You fixed yourself, slipping on a dress Gwen picked out for you. Gwen.
You quickly shot her another text, telling her every last detail that occurred over the last five minutes. Tossing your phone on your bed, you gathered your wits about you before you opened the door- your door, to yet again be met with Peter's broad chest, which you almost ran directly into.
“Shall we go?” was all he asked. You couldn't even get a response out, shocked at the mere audacity. To be fair, his headstrong attitude was quite attractive, even if it was just to piss you off.
But you tried to not mix the words “Peter Parker” and “attractive” together, even though you repeatedly failed. It was like Pavlov's dog with the bell. How could you not slightly salivate when he looked like that?
But it was his damn attitude.
And you hated him, you reminded yourself as you trailed slightly in front of him, letting your hips dramatically sway as you made your way to the main buffet.
“I got us a reservation at one of the nicer sports here.” he said, his words guiding you in the opposite direction of the original plan.
“What if I said no, I’m not going to dinner with you?”
“Well you did say that. And now here we are. I can be persuasive.”
“You can be a real pain in the ass.” you snapped, falling back to meet his long strides, as he was now the one in charge.
Clearly.
He gave you no more details, so you had no choice but to follow him. It was nice honestly to not have to plan for once. But it still made you uneasy.
“I think you like me, sometimes.” he shrugged, a smirk growing on his face at your clear annoyance and disbelief at his audacity.
“I can tolerate you.”
“I can handle tolerate.” He guided you with a warm, calloused palm on the lower of your back, into a dimly lit restaurant, tables flickering with candles, illuminating the dozens of roses scattered among the premises.
It was beautiful. Far out of your wallets reach.
A glass of wine was poured into your glass as you sat down, curtsy of the house. Whatever that meant.
You basked in the silence, the murmured chatter of the tables around you, filled with couples. You felt like a sore thumb. But the way Peter was currently looking at you, made you feel as if you fit right in.
He looked at you like you were his.
And you liked it. You hated that you liked it.
“Why so fancy?”
He shrugged. “It was the best I could give you.”
An eyebrow perched to your forehead at his statement. “You do not like me.”
“I never once said, or implied that bunny.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes-”
“Are we seriously going to bicker back and forth like children on vacation?” he asked, amused with a tinge of annoyance laced in.
“Yes.”
“Jesus I need a drink.” he laughed, raising his glass to yours.
A truce. “Amen to that.”
⋆.ೃ࿔🌸*:･⋆.ೃ࿔🌸*:･⋆.ೃ࿔🌸*:･
Peter was a sensible man.
At least he thought he was.
He tried to be smart, but with you, he seemed to turn stupid.
You made him excited and eager to engage in whatever it was you two were playing. He yearned to figure you out, you were a puzzle stuck in his mind, one he wanted to unwind like a rubrics cube.
How he could find someone so attractive was beyond him.
He hadn't met anyone before, who had made him this stupid.
This need for attention, only from one person. And now, that need to figure you out had changed course to figure out how to get you back to your room without you vomiting everywhere.
Dinner had been fun. He never figured that would be possible with your instant bickering, but the two of you had settled on something of a truce.
He had suggested dropping any hard feelings, just for the week. Friends, or something of the sort. Not that he had any hard feelings to begin with, and not that he wanted to be friends. The word almost pained him to say.
But it was better than the annoyed glances you spared him, mixed with hints of attraction.
He had to embrace those longing gazes you gave him when you thought he didn't notice, because confronting that without a hint of sarcasm in his voice would likely scare you away.
“Am I scaring you?” you had asked, somehow concerned with his well being as you stumbled back to your room, gripping his arm like it was a teetering life-ring thrown at sea.
He smiled gently, unable to control it around you. “You could never scare me, bunny.”
He didn't know why the nickname had stuck, but it had. You claimed to hate it. But those concerns weren't vocalized now, and hadn't been in a while.
Peter remembered the exact moment he had assigned it to you, the first day you walked into lab, dressed in frilly pinks and whites. Your nose had scrunched at something your friend had said as you two sat down, and it had reminded him of a little baby bunny.
It was adorable. He wasn't sure if you had picked up on the habit, but he refused to spoil it, for fear you'd stop. That, and the constant nail strumming across any hard surface, before you wrung them in your lap, fidgeting with whatever clothing hugged your pretty curves that day.
The way you gripped his arm this time, a painful, nails clawing into skin in warning grip broke him from his trance as he led you closer to the rooms, eager for you to lean on him instead of the walls for support.
“Did we overdo it bunny?”
“No, no I just feel dizzy. And I really, really fucking want Goldfish.” you admitted, fumbling for the room key in your little bag.
He always wondered why women's clothing never had decent, or any pockets, for that matter. It drove him mad, at the mere thought of such inconvenience.
As mentioned, he was a sensible, practical man. You were the smartest person he knew. Maybe you knew the answer.
“Because designers hate women and the whole world hates women.”
“I don't hate women”. he shrugged as you finally pushed your door open, with much more body force then required, stumbling into your air conditioned room, yet the chill did nothing to soothe the pink tinge in his cheeks when he was around you for too long.
“I know you don't. You try to get into their pants and get more benefits on flight packages.” you mumbled into the sheets as you face planted into the bed, causing him to bark out a laugh.
“You’re cute.”
You mumbled something else, too muffled by the sheats to be heard by him. He wanted to help you get comfortable, knowing that it would especially help with any anxiety you'd have, whether it be about organizing, getting an alarm scheduled, even though you were on vacation he was sure that aspect didn't matter…
“Are you going to be okay, bunny?” he asked softly, coming over to the bed to rest a hand on your back.
Your skin was soft and smooth, smelling of vanilla and citrus.
He wanted to bask in it.
“Yes, yes promise. Pinky.” You weakly held up your hand, extending a pinky in offering. He quickly accepted it, wanting nothing more than to touch you, even if it was brief contact.
The promise hummed true in his chest, warming his insides as he slipped from your room, unable to stop looking over his shoulder as he made his way back to the hallway- determined and on a mission.
You were mumbling more nonsense, the sound drowning out in the background as he made his way quickly down the hall, in order to find the nearest convenience store, or something of that establishment within the resort.
He needed to grab you Goldfish, and a nice little drink, like a Gatorade . That always made him feel just a wee bit better when he had thrown back too many beers back in his day (when he actually used to be a serious partier, now he just smoked weed and drank wine with beautiful women aka you).
Even if it was just a placebo effect, he hoped it’d do the same to you when you’d find yourself batting in and out of consciousness, blindly grabbing the nightstand and willing to drink plant water you'd be so parched.
After a few more minutes of looking, he managed to navigate his way around to pick you up everything you needed. He was almost positive you had packed your entire apartment, you were so organized and prepared and he admired that about you.
You were just so smart. It drove him wild.
Jesus Parker okay keep it in your pants until you're back in your room.
With quick haste, he managed to sneak back into your room, through the shared door that was unexpected, but welcomed.
You looked like you had fallen asleep, by the steady sound of your even breaths, and the way your lashes had fluttered against your cheeks. But as he neared, it started to stir.
As if you were excited to see him. Or maybe you just hated him that much.
But if she hated you so much, why does she look at you like that sometimes? Why is she letting you comfort her, when she cannot stand to be aided?
The thought made him smile to himself, and he placed a gentle, soothing touch to your lower back again, just to make himself known.
“I’m not sure if you're awake or not my love.” he murmured softly, knowing damn well you were. “But I brought you some treats, including some Goldfish.”
He placed down your snacks, drink and various over the counter meds that helped him when he was under the weather. Additionally, he placed a chilled washcloth down, one he had brought from his room.
He felt guilty going around your room when you weren't fully awake and alert. It didn't feel right to him, even if it meant only grabbing a mere washcloth.
“I hope you feel better and we can continue this truce tomorrow.” he smiled, placing a kiss to his fingertips before letting them brush the exposed skin of your back, your dress cut and tailored perfectly to reveal your beautiful skin, teasing him for a taste.
Before he could let his mind wander any longer, he wished you goodnight, shutting the door behind him. Letting his hand linger on the knob, he sighed.
Cursed himself.
And after he had stripped naked, pumping himself dry in the shower to the thought of you- the way you laughed when you thought he wasn't around, the little smile you did when you thought he wasn't looking, the way your heartbeat fluttered around him when he was close enough… the little sounds he was sure you’d make, the way you’d look under him…
And he had finished the night by cranking the handle to ice cold, forcing himself to sit in misery until his mind could settle enough for some semblance of sleep.
⋆.ೃ࿔🌸*:･⋆.ೃ࿔🌸*:･⋆.ೃ࿔🌸*:･
My love.
He had called you my love. His love.
It had made your heart kick into overdrive.
It was a silly reaction to something so simple but fuck.
You were fucked.
You were not as drunk, and or hungover as you thought you would be. Your heart nearly melted when you broke from your spell of unconsciousness, noting all the little things he had left you. Including goldfish.
The little bugger was sneaking his way into your heart more than your logical mind could combat it. Maybe it was the lack of academic drive that had you place your guard down, to make this little truce with him.
Maybe it was because you felt you were on equal ground, in the here and now. Maybe it was because you secretly wanted to be truce-like with him, and there were feelings that were hidden that were now being shifted and thrown around like a tsunami when you had somehow managed the storm thus far.
It was terrifying, the way you had let yourself cave in so easily.
Was he that bad?
Yes, yes inner monologue, he was.
And even though a truce had been put in place, thankfully before you had finished that first glass of wine, you still had to be at least semi-cautious.
It was vacation afterall, so you figured it couldn't be the end of the world if things went to shit. You could just leave it all here, and never speak of it again.
But what if it was more? What if you wanted more?
You quickly snatched your phone, texting Gwen a much needed update before you managed to drag yourself out from under the sheets you did not remember putting yourself in, barrelling towards the washroom for a much needed shower, to wash away the icky wine feeling that gave a slight weight in your temples.
The hallway was quiet when you emerged from your room, nothing but the chirp of birds and the breeze swaying the palm tree leaves.
It was beautiful.
The realization that you had made it, you were really here hit you as you made your way down to breakfast, watching the sun rise fully, the sky tinged slightly with pinks and oranges before it gave away to a light blue.
You had made it, and you were free from work.
This was a reward, and a relief.
You had to appreciate the little things, and let yourself indulge just a bit this week. You finally had time to read all the fun fantasy books you had been stockpiling for school to be briefly over, which you could read by the pool and bathe in the sun.
There was nothing you had to do today. And that slightly scared you, but the feeling of relief was that much stronger.
1. Eat breakfast
2. Change into my bathing suit
3. See if Peter wants to hang out
4. Read my book by the pool
5. Possibly ingest a fruity cocktail…
Peter didn't join you for breakfast, the dining hall was rather empty as it was rather early considering everyone was here on vacation. But you enjoyed your food anyways, happy for the peaceful quiet, to get your thoughts in order as you nibbled on some fresh cut fruit.
And yet as you continued to eat, you wondered if it would have been nicer to have some company from someone.
Maybe even Peter himself.
🌊⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°🫧 🌊⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°🫧
A day or so later, you made the bold decision to knock on Peter's door, and invite him for breakfast. Part of you wished you hadn't, because whenever you were around him, your body seemed to betray you.
You were in tune with it now.
You refused to ignore it any longer, as much as the deceptive part of your brain tried to tell you otherwise. Your breathing quickened, your heart rate sped up, your skin grew hot, not just from the warming sun. It was vulnerable, and you didn't like it one bit.
You prayed he didn't notice your longing glances when he wasn't looking, conversing with another, or merely distracted.
You wanted to study him, his mannerisms, the outlines of his muscles, the defining ridges of his cheekbones…
“Bunny? Your move.” his gentle voice broke you from your trance,leaving you blinking at him stupidly.
Fool. You were a damn fool of a Took.
Over the last two hours, he had tried to teach you the rules of chess. It wasn't something you always wanted to learn, and now that you had all the time in the world (and a master of chess to teach you), why not learn?
Because you can't even focus on the fucking rules, you just focus on his face which makes you look like a love stricken idiot.
You cleared your throat, fingers hovering over your side of the board as you tried to remember what each piece did.
“This is hopeless.” you sighed, placing your head in your hands. His laughter made your heart sing, a steady melody against the ocean lapping at the sand of the private beach.
He had managed to score you two a cabana, and how- you didn't know. All you knew was it was a perfect place to learn chess. And you were failing, miserably.
“It's okay bunny, it takes time. I didn't understand this for days.”
“It's been days!”
“It's been two hours.”
You sighed. “I should've stuck with my books. They're much nicer than this.”
“You can get back to your fictional boyfriends soon, I promise. I’ll even buy you an iced latte if you win.” his eyes sparkled with amusement, knowing that was one of your weaknesses.
“With-”
“With vanilla and oat milk. Promise.”
“Pinky? That's law.”
“Pinky.” he wove his pinky with yours, letting his hand fall and caressing your bare thigh gently.
“Remeber the knight is in a L-shape.” he noted, pointing to the piece you were caught hovering over. It was at least another hour of this, wanting to make a move, then pandering the million moves you could do, and what he’d do, and what moves even existed for each piece.
He had let you win, smiling as you cheered, hands thrown up in the air in celebration, a cheer loud enough to have the neighbouring cabana peer their head out in alarm.
He hadn't left your side as you read your book (minus grabbing your iced beverage), asking questions about the plot, the characters, what books you liked and wanted to read.
And on top of that, it seemed like he was genuinely interested.
It was becoming harder and harder to hate him. And you hated yourself for it. But it was near impossible to do so when his woodsy cologne engulfed your senses, his touch so soft and gentle, yet filled with teasing and determination as he’d draw shapes with his fingers on your thighs.
His presence was comforting, when once it made you annoyed. But you had never truly given him a chance, and all you had to blame was yourself, and your anxious, closed off tendencies.
🌊⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°🫧 🌊⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°🫧
You had no idea why you had waited here, now, unlike so many other nights.
You believed yourself that you couldn't stand the thought of him, and yet- he had consumed every thought you had this vacation.
You couldn't deny yourself any longer.
The lingering glances you felt on your skin, that caressed your skin like a gentle breeze, despite one being present. The way the air seemed to suck out of your lungs when he passed by you, a gentle hand on your back as he passed by, even if it was to talk to another woman.
Christ you couldn't even think about that.
You had avoided the shared door between your room and his because you feared of hearing another woman in his room would make what you had been trying to hide from yourself come to light.
That you did get jealous. You were jealous at the airport, when the worker had eyed him up like fresh meat. When countless number of girls sunbathing had slipped their sunglasses down to catch a better look, or those who attempted to make small talk with him at the swim up bar, which he happily engaged in.
You didn't want to know if he had found women to warm his bed, even though you had zero claim over him.
And you hated that. You hated the fact you cared. You also hated the fact you had no claim over him.
You let the shoes that dangled in your hand clatter to the floor as you ran a hand over your face, letting yourself feel.
For once in your life, you were going to feel this, to let it swallow you whole and spit you out in its tidal wave. You were not going to shame yourself for how he made you feel, even though you hid it with annoyance and snarky comments
He could see right through you.
You knew he could.
He made you feel cared for and heard, even if you tried to change the topic or shut him down. He made you feel funny, and beautiful, and smart…
He made you feel wanted.
And that was why you wanted him.
Not only because you had two glasses of wine at dinner, and that he was extremely attractive. It was because you had buried this for so long, it had gone through all five stages of grief within the span of this trip.
You didn't want it to end without you and him knowing how you truly felt.
Maybe it was the gentle breeze that pushed you forward through the opened windows, or the hum of excitement in your chest that made you want to surge yourself on, you didn't know. You just knew you needed to see him, now.
You wanted to take up on his offer, no matter how much teasing had been in his tone when he suggested you come over through the door to visit whenever you wanted.
And you were going to let yourself have this.
You were tired of fighting it any longer, and you didn't know if you were thinking rationally. If you wanted it to stay in Mexico, it could.
But you didn't think you wanted it to.
Which is what drove you to rapt your knuckles three times on the wood, the sharp inhale you took so quick it made stars appear in your vision.
A muffled, “come in” allowed you to slowly turn the handle, easing yourself through the crack to peer into his room. It mirrored yours, but his sheets were ruffled, his body now turned towards you- but you saw the book tossed half hazrdly on the bed.
His glasses slid down his nose slightly, he adjusted them, a small smile on his face as he took you in, still in your little dress from dinner.
“I’m sorry, were you reading?”
He nodded. “Come in bunny. I told you to come whenever, did I not?”
“Even when its reading time before bed, grandpa?” you giggled, making him roll his eyes, the veins in his arms gleaming in the soft bedside light as he crossed his arms.
You felt your breath hitch, your heartbeat start to kick up and hum like a war horse whenever you allowed yourself to enjoy him for too long. When you started to really feel the effect he had on you, individually- rather than just that overarching effect of fuzziness.
“You wound me.”
You slipped inside, shutting the door behind you as you plopped beside him in bed, falling back into the sheets with a huff.
”You look beautiful, bunny.”
You felt your skin heat, tingles erupting over you as your nipples tightened, thighs clamming together as his molten hot gaze swept over you, taking his sweet time.
He feasted with his eyes, voice low and throaty as if he had just woken from a dream. As if he were truly admiring you.
You realized then how crazy you looked, hair messy, makeup old and probably slightly smudged, your dress hugging you tightly, but probably revealing more skin then intended from the angle he was at as he looked down on you.
You bit your cheeks, eyes quickly moving away from his, before it became too much.
“Thank you. I figured you’d be out longer, with everyone else around the fires.”
He shrugged. “I like my down time. I could say the same about you.”
“Same here.” you said quietly, realizing you knew less about him then you thought.
For the amount of time you spent around him, you had made a lot of unfair assumptions. Like he would have different women in his bed every other night, or would be drinking until 4am everynight, as a frat boy would.
“Do you feel weird about that, sometimes?” he asked, reaching over, as if he were going to brush your cheek. He hesitated, hovering over your soft skin, eyes meeting yours to ask a silent question.
You nodded, and his finger came down to softly stroke your skin, twirling around a strand of your hair that had fallen out of place. “So many questions.” you teased, making him blush.
You liked making him blush. You liked it a lot.
But you also enjoyed how many questions he asked, because it meant he was genuinely interested in what you had to say.
“Sometimes I do, because I know we’re in school and the whole thing is that we should be ‘living it up’” you scoffed.
“But I’m at peace with myself and knowing what I like and what regulates me into the same as other people my age. I don't care about fitting in, I just… I guess I just like what I like.”
He nodded. “You’re being kind to yourself. That's good. For a minute I worried you laclked any kind bone in your body.” he teased, and you smacked him playfully.
“I’m trying to be.”
“Thats all you can do.”
You adjusted yourself, turning so you faced him on your side, as he adjusted himself to do the same. As if you were at a sleepover, trying to keep quiet so your mom wouldnt wake up and shush you both to sleep.
“That was a good answer, by the way. I’m the same way.”
“I am glad to hear that. I am also glad we share the same passion for Dorian Gray.” you smiled, taking note of the frayed, and very loved book that sat close to your head.
“But you didn't come here to discuss Dorans cruelty, did you?” he asked, tugging on the strand gently, before dropping it.
You wanted his touch back. You reached for his arm, your nail trailing his bicep as you drew little patterns, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
“No.” you sighed. His eyebrow raised, expecting you to elaborate.
“Well?”
“You did say I was welcome in here at any time.”
“This is true. But why are you taking up on my offer now?” he murmured, capturing your hand with his, bringing your knuckles to his lips, his kiss feather light as you felt your breath catch.
“Am I not allowed to actually take you up on offers you give out?” you asked playfully, knowing he would extract the information out of you eventually.
You sighed. “I came to confess.”
“Your undying love for me?”
“Something like that.”
Your answer stopped him short. He wasnt expecting that.
“I like you Parker. Like, I like-like you.”
“You like-like me? What are we, in middle school?” he laughed, in a way you knew he wasn't teasing you, but was just surpised.
“I just-”
“I like-like you too, bunny. But I have to say, I’m surpised to hear it’s mutual, with all the snappy remrks that have been stabed into my chest.”
“I’m sorry.” you looked down, feeling bad for how your cruel remarks must have gotten under his skin over the years.
Yet, he still managed to look at you as a work of art, and take up the challenge of going head to head with your banters. “I have never once taken it personally. I know it's just your way of…expressing your feelings.”
“My feelings?!”
“You tease and taunt because you wish for nothing more than for me to put you in your place. Is that not it?” he asked, his fingers slipping back to cradle your chin, thumb teasing your lower lip.
If it weren't for the truth in that statement, you’d shame him for being so outrageously cocky.
“Bold of you to assume that.”
He smirked. “I know. But you’ve seen the way I’ve looked at you. I have to be bold with you, bunny. I’d lose all my senses if I told you how I’ve felt.”
He paused. “What do you see when I look at you?”
“Desire. Admiration.” you confessed.
It was how you wished he would look at you. You had projected that onto your shared moments of silence longing looks. He tilted his head, studying you as he always did in those moments.
“So you see, I have to be bold- to get you to see those moments. How I feel, how I’ve always felt. You are so beautiful, Y/N. So beautiful it hurts to not have you. To share those secret moments together, all the time, because if I am not bold, I do not get to continue our little exchanges. To hear your laugh, or those smart comments. Because I do not want to scare you away.” he confessed, and you felt your eyes start to well with salty tears.
You refused to cry, blinking your lashes rapidly, but his words were so tender it hurt.
“So yes, I want to put you in your place. I want you to do the same. I want the push and pull, and I only want it with you.”
You were stunned into silence. Yet another thing you underestimated, his way with words.
He gave you a second to catch yourself from free falling down the cliff of emotions, all of them churning in your stomach and making you warm.
Sensitive.
A heat settled between your thighs, pooling like honey.
His eyes searched for something in yours, a confirmation and a blessing. You nodded before your mouth could catch up to you, clearly your throat- words becoming stuck.
“Do you want the same?”
“Yes.” you said, so gently it came out as a throaty whisper.
There was no turning back now. But it wasn't the feeling of shame that coated you so thoroughly- it was want.
It was need.
His thumb captured your bottom lip again, the smell of his cologne intoxicating as he inched closer, eyes searching yours for permission.
You nodded, feverishly. “Please.”
A low groan left his throat at the word, his lips capturing yours delicately at first, then something rougher, passion driving you to lean into his body until it was flush with yours, rolling on top of his much larger frame to cage him.
“You never have to beg with me. Never.” he growled, sending jolts of energy as his hands began to wander, slipping from your hips to cup ass, drawing you flush against his hardened cock that fought against his shorts.
You moaned, his mouth swallowing the sound as his tongue begged for entrance, which you happily granted. You shifted down, needing the friction as his hand guided you, letting you take and give as you pleased.
It became hot and messy, teeth clashing as he bit down on your lower lip, hand coming up to grip your hair, tilting your head the way he wanted to taste you, truly.
Nothing but breathy moans and pants could be heard as you grinded against him,letting his lips wander down your neck, where he bit down on the skin, the sharpness of his bite making you jump.
“I think I’ve found the sensitive spot.” he murmured against your skin, licking the little mark left to soothe the skin.
“Don't tease.”
“Oh I wouldn't dare.” he smiled, planting kisses across your skin until you squirmed against him.
You needed more.
“You are my favourite form of torture.” he whispered as you bucked your hips, his hands sliding down your hips to slip under your sundress, fingers tickling the lace scrap that separated you from his delicate fingers.
“Torture?” you questioned, kissing him gently again.
“It has been torturous to not have you all this time, bunny. Like this. To have seen you in this dress…”
“But I’m here now.” you promised, kissing down his neck as he did to yours, with equal amounts of precision and care, not wanting to leave a single inch of skin untouched.
He groaned, his head sliding back to give you easier access, his adams apple bobbing as you left little marks across the skin.
This was the push and pull you both craved. The little moments of control to then be dominated by the other.
“And I thank every god in the universe for that.” he panted, fingers slipping across the folds of your underwear, slowly parting it to the side as he let a finger drag across your folds, collecting the wetness.
“Is this all for me?” he smiled as you moaned, hips bucking to lean more into his touch.
There goes the control.
“Yeah bunny? You’re such a greedy girl.” he tsked, slowly moving so you were underneath him, a yelp escaping you as he removed his fingers, pulling you like a rag doll so your hips were slightly off the bed.
Before you could wrap your head around what was happening he had tugged your panties off, his fingers resuming their motions as they glided along your slit, before two dipped in, curling that sweet spot that had you seeing stars.
His hands were so much bigger than yours, he fit so nicely and stretched you just right…
“Please don't stop..” you panted, pushing up on your shoulders to watch as his thumb came up to rub little circles on your clit, making your lower half shake.
“What did I say about begging bunny? You never have to beg for me. You want my mouth?”
You nodded. “I wanna hear you say it sweetheart.”
“Yes.”
He smiled, pushing his glasses farther up his nose as he bent down, admiring you as if you were a five star meal. Pulling his fingers out, he brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a mischievous glint in his eye, your lips parted in shock.
It was so dirty and crass it should've disgusted you but all it did was turn you on even more.
“You taste so fuckin sweet.” He came down, tasting you as if he were a man starved, lapping at you with no mercy, his tongue swirling and sucking on your nub.
Hard.
“F-fuck Peter r-right there-”
“So- fuckin-sweet” he panted with each flick of his tongue, his hand slipping up around your thigh to hold you in place as your hips wiggled, the pressure building so tightly in your core it felt like you were uncurling a hot wire.
“I can’t tell how long I’ve waited for this. How many nights I’ve thought about you like this, tasting how sweet you are.” he whispered, his words driving you over the edge.
You came with a cry, his name echoing on your lips as he held you in place, his tongue never stopping as he lapped at your juices, coaxing you through your orgasm.
“There we go, atta girl. Such a good girl for me bunny.”
You shivered, legs starting to shake as he emerged from his kneeling position, towering over you again. You wasted no time to sit yourself up, palming the bulge that was unhideable within his shorts.
He hissed through clenched teeth, head thrown back in pleasure as you touched him. The ridges of his abs were hard against your soft hands, fingernails scraping the happy trail that had tempted you for the last few days.
He was beautiful. So, so beautiful, and for the time being, he was yours.
“If you keep doing that I’m not gonna last bunny.”
“Good.”
He moaned, hand coming up to grab your hair again, tugging on it gently, your neck now angled up to loom into his hungry gaze.
“Do you want this? Truly? Because I don't think- I don't think with you I can control myself if you let me. I’ll take whatever you’ll give me.”
His voice was as rough as granite, Adams apple bobbing with each swallow.
Trying to contain himself. That wouldn't do.
“I want you, Peter. I want you, however you’ll have me.”
That was the snap. His mouth captured yours again, and you tugged his undergarments off as quickly as one could manage with a handsome man on their lips, dominating them.
You found yourself with your back against the sheets, his arm caging you in as the other guided his cock to your entrance, your legs parted and mouth watering in anticipation.
“Can you take this off for me bunny? Show me everything?”
You nodded, letting him aid you in prying the dress over your head, tossed down somewhere on the tile floor. The way he looked you over sent your heart fluttering into overdrive, like prey knowing it was caught by the predator.
He looked at you with such a visceral hunger you knew deep in your soul there was nothing else, no one else he wanted.
“You are so fucking beautiful, my love.” he murmered, sliding the head of his cock between your folds, gathering the wetness that dripped for him.
My love.
“I’m yours.” you blurted out before your brain could let you think it over, before he slowly eased himself in, sending your eyes to roll to the back of your head.
“And you're mine.” he whispered, caging you in completely, planting kisses and nips down the column of your throat, down to your breasts, his tongue swirling and sucking your nipple before moving to the next, giving them equal attention as he eased into you, before you were filled to the hilt.
The stretch was delicious, he consumed you in every way as he was fully seated inside you.
“Is this okay?” he asked gently, and you nodded.
“Words, bunny. Use them.”
“I’m- I’m good Peter.” you confirmed, the air whooshing out of your lungs as he slowly dragged himself half way out before slamming you full again, a loud cry of pleasure leaving your lips.
“I wanna see your pretty little face when you cum, bunny. Wanna hear those beautiful sounds again, they sound just how I thought they would. So, so damn pretty.” he purred, adjusting your legs around him as he found a steady rhythm, the sound of your cries and skin slapping echoing around the room.
His sweet coos and condensation drove you wild as you felt yourself reaching that finish point, before he removed himself fully, slamming into you again.
It drove you fucking wild.
You clenched around him in warning, his noises spurring you on as much as yours did to him.
It was bliss.
“We’ll have endless time for fun my bunny, all the ways I’m gonna have you. You make me so greedy.”
You moaned, gripping his biceps so hard your nails dug into his flesh, threatening to break skin.
“But right now I just wanna have you cum for me. Can you do that for me, my love? I’m right here with you.” he cooed, kissing you softly as you nodded frantically, not able to hold off your organism any longer.
“Peter I’m-”
“There we go my love, that's a good girl. Thats a good- fucking-girl.” he moaned as he spilled inside you, leaving you feeling all warm and fuzzy.
And as he cleaned you up, held you close to whisper sweet nothings in your ear, to trace each curve with a gentle touch and a kiss to follow, you realized you were past the point of saving yourself from Peter Parker.
