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 has been working himself to the bone, but never forgets to visit his favorite bakery before it closes to see his favorite person…the food is nice too ig. but what happens when his midnight loopy rambles turn into him forgetting what he said the night prior.
warnings :: fluffff (had me giggling and kicking my feet writing it my gods) peter being a cute stuttering teenager stuck in his 22 year old body
word count :: 2k
pairing :: peter parker x fem!reader
marvel masterlist
a/n :: this can be read using any pater variant btw, I just got back from watching brand new day for the third time already so obviously tom holland is itching in my brain the most currently
The bells above the bakery door chimed, a sound you usually only heard when the sun was higher and the streets were busy. You looked up from wiping down the marble counter, a greeting already on your tongue, but the words caught in your throat.
Standing in the doorway, bathed in the bright morning sunlight, was Peter.
For the past four months, Peter had been your midnight regular. He always showed up exactly ten minutes before closing, looking like he was running on nothing but sheer willpower and cheap coffee. Half the time, his hair was a wild, windblown mess, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, and he would mumble through conversations, completely forgetting what you two had talked about the very next night. You had grown used to his sleepy, charmingly loopy late-night visits, always making sure to save him a warm pastry and a listening ear.
But seeing him now, in the middle of the day, felt entirely surreal.
"Peter!" you said, a wide smile breaking across your face as you set down your towel. "Wow. It is incredibly nice to see you in the daylight. No offense, but you usually look like a zombie when you walk through that door."
Peter blinked, looking a bit startled, though a soft, tired smile tugged at his lips. He adjusted the strap of his backpack, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Yeah, uh, hi. I was just in the neighborhood and realized I’ve never actually seen what this place looks like when the sun is up. It’s nice. You’ve got a really great setup here."
"Thanks," you chuckled, leaning against the counter. "I’m just glad you’re awake enough to appreciate it. Though, I have to admit, I didn't expect to see you until tonight. I’m really excited for our date, by the way."
Peter froze.
The color drained from his face, his jaw dropping slightly as his eyes widened in pure, unadulterated panic. He stared at you, his mind clearly racing, trying to dig through a foggy haze of sleep-deprived memories that simply weren't there.
"Our… our what?" Peter squeaked, his voice cracking slightly. "Our date? Tonight?"
You blinked, observing the utter confusion radiating off him. Then, the pieces clicked into place. The late nights. The heavy eyelids. The way he could barely remember his own name on some days.
"Oh no," you said, a soft, sympathetic laugh escaping you. "Peter, do you not remember?"
"I—I am so, so sorry," he stammered, his hands flying up in a frantic, apologetic gesture. His cheeks flushed a bright, burning red. "I swear I’m not doing this on purpose. My brain has just been absolute mush lately, and I—I honestly don't remember asking you out. I feel like the biggest jerk on the planet right now. I am so incredibly sorry."
"Hey, hey, breathe. It’s okay," you reassured him gently, waving off his apologies with a warm smile. "Seriously, Peter, it’s fine. You don't have to apologize. I know how exhausted you've been lately. Look, it’s totally okay if you don't remember. And honestly, it’s also totally okay if you don't actually want to go on a date with me. You can absolutely back out, no hard feelings. I get it."
"No!" Peter blurted out, a little too quickly, a little too loudly, causing the elderly lady who had just walked in to startle a little. He cleared his throat, his eyes locking onto yours with sudden, intense earnestness. "No, it’s not that at all. I—I actually would really, really like to go on a date with you. Like, a lot. I've wanted to ask you out for months." He rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish, breathless grin replacing his panic. "Clearly, my subconscious had more confidence than I did. I just… um… where exactly did we say we were going?"
You let out a delighted laugh, charmed by his sudden burst of honesty. "You didn't say. You told me it was a surprise."
Peter blinked, a look of comical defeat washing over him. "Of course I did. Sleep-deprived me really set the bar high, huh?" He shook his head, a genuine, excited smile finally taking over his face. "Okay. A surprise. I can do that. I will figure something out, and I will be back to pick you up tonight."
"Actually, hold on a second," you said. You grabbed a small notepad and a pen from beside the register, quickly scribbling down a few lines. You tore the piece of paper off and handed it across the counter to him. "Just pick me up from my place instead. I’m closing up the bakery a little early tonight to get ready."
Peter took the paper, his fingers brushing against yours, sending a spark of nervous excitement through both of you. He looked down at your address, a beaming, radiant smile spreading across his face.
"I'll be there," Peter promised, his voice soft but full of genuine excitement. "I won't forget. I promise."
"I'll hold you to it," you teased gently.
As Peter turned and walked out of the bakery, the morning sun catching the edge of his jacket, he couldn't stop the massive grin from taking over his face. For months, those late-night stops had been his only sanctuary from the chaos of his life. He adjusted his backpack strap, glancing down at the paper in his hand one more time. He couldn't believe his luck. His midnight bakery visits had somehow landed him a date with a truly beautiful woman, and for the first time in a long time, Peter Parker couldn't wait for the sun to go down.
You opened your apartment door, the words already forming on your lips to ease his anxiety, but Peter beat you to it.
"I am so, so sorry," he rushed out, standing on your welcome mat with his shoulders hunched, breathing heavily. He looked adorable in a nice button-down shirt and clean jeans, but his hair was a messy, windblown crown. "The subway was completely stalled, and then my phone died, and I just—I swear I didn't forget this time, I just—"
"Peter, hey, look at me. It's fine—" You cut yourself off, your eyes catching on something bright and wet at his hairline.
Just above his temple, hidden slightly beneath his brown curls, a small trickle of fresh blood was peeking out and staining his skin.
Before he could finish his next frantic sentence, you lunged forward, grabbed the collar of his jacket, and haphazardly pulled him straight into your apartment. You slammed the door shut with your foot and immediately stepped into his personal space, your hands lifting to his face.
"Oh my gosh, you're bleeding," you gasped, your fingers gently parting his hair to inspect the cut. "What happened? Did you get hit? Did you fall? Are you okay? Does your head hurt? Do you feel dizzy? Should we go to the hospital? Peter, talk to me!"
Peter blinked down at you, completely frozen by how close you were and how fast you were talking. His heart hammered against his ribs, partly from his sprint over here, but mostly because your hands felt incredibly warm against his skin. He gently took your wrists, pulling your hands down a fraction to stop your frantic inspecting.
"Hey, hey, I'm okay, I promise," he said, trying to brush it off with a casual, lopsided smile. "It's just a scratch. I, uh, I actually ran into some trouble on the way here. There was this person getting mugged in an alley near the station, and I couldn't just walk past, you know? I stepped in to help, and things got a little… messy. But the guy was safe! I just took a little tumble."
It wasn't entirely a lie. He had saved someone from a mugging. He just conveniently left out the part where he did it while wearing a red and blue spandex suit and swinging from a building.
You let out a long, heavy breath, the tension leaving your shoulders. "You got hurt helping someone?" You looked into his eyes, searching for any signs of a concussion, but found only genuine sincerity. "Wow. Okay. If that is the reason you're late, then it's more than okay. You're a good person, Peter Parker."
Peter’s cheeks flushed a light pink, completely caught off guard by your praise.
"Sit," you commanded gently, pointing to one of the chairs at your small kitchen table. "Don't move. I'm going to get the first aid kit."
You turned and hurried toward the bathroom, opening cabinets and rummaging through shelves. Left alone in the kitchen, Peter finally took a moment to look around.
Your apartment was lovely. It was filled with the warm, comforting scent of vanilla and sweet cinnamon—exactly like the bakery, but softer, more personal. The space was decorated with cozy lights, thriving potted plants on the windowsill, and framed art that made the whole place feel incredibly inviting. It was so much nicer and cleaner than his own cramped, drafty apartment. It looked exactly how he had pictured it would.
"Found it!" you called out, jogging back into the kitchen with a white and red plastic box.
You pulled up a chair right next to him, opening the kit and pulling out an antiseptic wipe. "Hold still. This might sting a little."
Peter sat perfectly still as you leaned in. He barely felt the sting of the wipe—his advanced healing was already working on the cut anyway—but he definitely felt the gentle, careful way your fingers brushed through his hair. You applied a small, neat bandage over the wound, smoothing down the edges with a satisfied nod.
"There. All patched up," you said, closing the first aid kit. You looked at his tired eyes and then out the window, where dark clouds were starting to roll in. "You know… considering you just fought off a mugger and look like you're about to collapse, what do you say we just stay inside tonight? We can cancel the surprise plans."
Peter blinked, a look of mild panic returning. "Wait, really? But I actually did figure something out! I have a whole plan, I promise—"
"And it can be saved for next time," you interrupted smoothly, offering him a warm, reassuring smile.
Peter relaxed back into his chair, his shoulders dropping as the stress fully left his body. "Yeah? Okay. Next time sounds great."
Then, a beat passed.
Peter’s brain, slow as it was from a long week of superhero things, finally fully comprehended what you had just said. He jumped slightly in his seat, his eyes locking onto yours in utter shock.
"Wait," Peter squeaked, his voice cracking again. "Next time? We're… we're gonna have another date?!"
You chuckled, amused by his sheer disbelief. "I mean, yeah. If you want to?"
"Are you serious?" Peter asked, leaning forward, his expression a mix of awe and confusion. "You still want to put up with me? Even after I completely forgot we had a date this morning, and then showed up to your apartment late, bleeding, and ruined your plans tonight? You still want a second date?"
You just shrugged, a playful glint in your eyes as you stood up from the table and walked over to the fridge. "Peter, you got a concussion—or, well, a cut—saving a stranger. I think I can forgive a little lateness. Besides, I like a guy with a good heart." You pulled out some fresh pasta and ingredients from the fridge, setting them on the counter. "Now, how do you feel about homemade pasta? I'm making dinner."
Peter sat at the table, watching you move around the kitchen. His shocked, wide-eyed expression slowly melted away, replaced by a massive, beaming smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. Peter knew he was exactly where he wanted to be.
open! comment or message me if you wanna be added!
likes, reblogs, and follows are always helpful! reblogs are helpful to get my work spread around, so if you enjoy my work why not reblog lol. also if you enjoy my work then feel free to go crazy in the comments. I love to hear what you guys think, I care if you simply tell me you love it or if you write me a whole dang paragraph about your favorite moments…I wanna know how my work makes people feel!
if you have a request be sure to send it in! and if you want to request but don’t know what to request you can check out my full masterlist!
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.
Summary: His problem was this—that stupidly impossible and funny mouth of his. Peter Parker and his witty responses. Peter Parker and his clever quips. Peter and that mouth you'd love to shut so much. So you do.
OR; At a bar, you finally snap and give Peter Parker something better to do with those gorgeous lips than running it.
WC: 5,7k
A/n: I missed writing about my boyfriend, so here I am. Spidey enthusiasts, gather around, please! I love this Peter Parker playlist to set the mood. / read on ao3
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"Oh my goddess in fucking heaven, do you ever shut your goddamn mouth, Parker?!"
The whole bar goes quiet, and as soon as his name is out of your lips, it's a heartbeat too late.
The drink in your hand feels like a bomb as Peter turns around, a stupid smile already plastered on his stupidly gorgeous face.
Everything about him is so—so stupid. He said so himself in class once. "I'm the world's stupidest genius, professor," with a laugh, that smile, that easy shrugging shoulder.
His eyes are fixed on you, as chocolate as ever, as bright and sparkling as they were when you first met him, but with a glint of something unrecognizable. When he opens his mouth, your chest tightens and your breath stills, waiting for it, knowing something clever and smart will come out of it, dreading whatever it is.
"You said you want to shut my mouth, did I hear that correctly?"
There's sweat somewhere in the back of your neck, you're sure of it. "I didn't say that."
"No?" He props his chin on the backrest of his chair, eyes now fixed in your direction and glinting with something you have never seen before. "I could've sworn I heard you saying you wanna shut my mouth."
"Nope. Hearing things once again, Parker. All I did was question whether you have the capacity to ever shut that trap of yours."
The image is born without your permission at his words, though. You wanna shut my mouth.
They echo.
You wanna shut my mouth.
How would you go about that?
You shiver.
He pouts. Sometimes, Peter does that—one of his annoying habits that drives you up the wall, or simply drives you to stand up as you are right now. Standing up in the middle of your table because that boy can get under your skin, no matter where you are, no matter how sober or not, apparently.
"That's mean. Why are you so mean to me?" The question is delivered with a smile.
You roll your eyes and bat away the hand of your friend who's pulling on your jacket in a silent request for you to sit back down. "I don't know. You awaken that part of me like very few people do." It was the truth, and it also wasn't.
The truth—the embarrassing and mortifying truth came with a weight you had no desire to even think about right now, in the middle of the bar while surrounded by your friends and once again arguing you Peter. The overlying excuse, on the other hand, had its own truth—even before The Incident, Peter already got under your skin.
His existence meant danger before you knew about his stupidly witty mouth and his clever brain. Before you shared classes with him, only to discover how funny he was underneath all those clapbacks.
"How can I put it back to sleep, then?" He lifts both arms in mock surrender, dropping a bit of his drink on the friend next to him. "I didn't even—oh, shit, my bad Lia, wasn't paying attention. I didn't even do anything to you this time!" He redirects his attention to you after his apology, and there it is—the sweet, and yet cocky smile that drives you up the walls. "I was here, talking to my friends, having a nice time, and you decided to meddle in our conversation. What did I say this time that pissed you off so much?"
This time, the clapback belongs to you and it's at the tip of your tongue. "Ah, so you're the only one who can meddle in other people's businesses, is that it?" Even his friends laugh at it.
Peter winces a little through his smile, and there you are, smiling as you bicker with him once again.
How many times have you ended up here? Wanting his clever mouth to be shut while talking to him at the same time? Prodding and poking whenever you get the chance.
"Fine. I'm a meddler. I can admit to that, but can you admit that so are you?"
"I don't have to admit anything to you," you replied just for the sake and pleasure of being difficult.
Peter was still smiling. He did the nose scrunch thing once again, and you hated how your entire chest responded to that stupid habit of his. "You like being difficult."
"And you like being mouthy and loud about it."
"I'm seriously wondering what I said this time that was so wrong that it earned your rage." He gestures with the empty hand this time. "We're at a bar, milady! And although it seems our old married couple bickering seems to entertain the masses even here, I'm pretty sure you're as tipsy as me. You were supposed to be having fun."
I am right now. "Who said I'm not?" It was harder to keep your smile and facial features organized into something neutral or sarcastic with alcohol in your system.
Peter's smile widened. "I'm taking that as the admission, then."
"Admission to what?"
"How much you adore pulling my pigtails." As if the words were not enough, Peter pretends to tug a chunk of his hair and feigns wincing in pain. Somehow, the smile's still there, in his eyes, in the corner of his mouth.
This time, you roll your eyes and sit back down, too bothered by how much his glee affects you. "You wish, Parker. Just—you could try keeping your shitty and wrong opinions to a low volume, at least."
From this distance — there are two tables filled with people between you and the object of your conversation — it's a bit hard to tell, but you're sure his friend makes a comment about you two under his breath.
Peter either misses it or chooses to ignore it. "I'm gonna have to insist, then. What was it that I said so wrong this time, milady, hm? Maybe I'll even apologize."
"Why don't you two stop half-screaming from across the bar and go talk somewhere else? Jesus fucking Christ, every Monday and Wednesday this shit." It's someone from one of the tables between you both.
The guy's friend says loud enough for you to listen. "Leave them to it. You know how they are."
And he replies with, "Of course I do! Everybody fucking does. Every week. Just fuck already, for fuck's sake. And stop talking over fifteen thousand other people!" He adds that last bit with a directed look at both of you.
Just fuck already.
It mixes in your brain with you wanna shut my mouth and suddenly—yeah. "I'm going outside," you announce to your friends.
"What?! Babe, no. We were in the middle of our ratings," she gives you puppy eyes, but you're already coming around the table.
Rating every Tolkien character from least to most fuckable would have to wait until after your freak out.
"I know. I'll be back. Keep on without me," you need air. Also water.
In the back of your neck, there's the prickly and distinct feeling of being observed as you wander to the bar and order a bottle of water. "Actually, make it two, please?"
He's observing you as you walk out of the bar to the back alley where all the smokers gather. Without a glance in his direction, you can confirm that Peter Parker has observed every step you take before you are out of his sight.
The air does you good, though.
It's chilly, and it smells like cigarettes instead of back alleys, and it's a trade you'd make any day.
None of the people smoking bother you.
Drinking the water does wonders for calming your nervous system down on any given day, but today, words are rolling around your head, and they are enough to turn your brain hostage.
You wanna shut my mouth.
Yes. Groaning, sipping bigger gulps from your bottle, you can admit to yourself, under the blanket of darkness and surrounded by complete strangers, you would love to shut Peter Parker's mouth.
Maybe the confession is too much for a brain without its usual filters because it breaks a dam.
It's a domino effect: one image of you shutting his mouth inside the bar created directly by his own words, melts and gets mixed, shuffling into another image.
In this one, both of you are in the classroom you share, and yet there you are, still shutting his mouth.
Suddenly, all the instances where you and Peter have ever shared the same place are flooded by those: shutting him up, quieting him, making him lose words, making Peter unlearn all the clever things he knows until he has nothing but blabber to say or whimpers to release, noises, gasps, your name, your name—
The prickly sensation on your nape returns, and you react as if being stung.
Tense. Waiting for it, knowing it's coming, there he is, your brain offers, but you're too much of a coward now to look.
He approaches anyway.
"Permission to come closer?" He asks.
What a fucking nerd. Not that you are far from one, but you snicker at the comment, curse yourself mentally and maybe under your breath, but allow it anyway. The side eye you give him tells him just as much.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
She's loud, mouthy, insanely clever, beautiful, and all the things Peter keeps telling himself he only observes.
It's easier said than done.
Easier in class when it can be pivoted towards something purely academical, or at work when he can pretend it's harmeless due to the distance, or at night as he swings from building to building and she's only in his mind, and not his life.
It's harder when he's been drinking with his friends and she looks even prettier without all the walls so hung up tight.
Alcohol makes people's filters go down.
Not his—Peter doesn't have a filter, never did, and ever since the bite his body responds to very little things, at the same time as it responds to absolutely everything.
His body responds to her.
Gods, if only bickering with her weren't so damned adictive.
When their little scene causes other people to complain and she leaves, Peter curses under his breath, leaves his glass on the table and gets up before he can even think about what he's doing.
His hearing picks up on Lia's 'oh, fucking finally' and the way Jorge responds with 'I know, if they don't get it out of their system I'm doing something insane like locking them inside a cupboard, I don't fucking know' and he thinks oh...
Maybe it's not 'easy', then.
Maybe it's been only 'obvious' and 'ridiculous' so far.
Too bad—Peter's got no other way of flirting. He can admit it as he navigates the sea of bodies to make his way outside now; they have been flirting.
He's been, at least. Despite his promises to himself that Peter Parker had no right to flirt with anybody, that he had no right to make anyone his anything ever again, that's what he's been doing — they've been doing? — and everyone's been watching, annoyed or amused, entirely aware of what's going on.
The alley is filled with smoke that come out of the three groups standing in their little circles, but his gaze fixes on a very specific body standing alone against the wall, chugging a half emtpy bottle of water.
Fuck it.
He approaches, shoving both hands inside his hoodie in hopes of maybe not being so flamboyant and expressive. Not flirting too much.
(Who is he still trying to fool?)
"Permission to approach?"
Her response is a snicker, and Peter notices her body language switches to straight up shoulders without even glancing in his direction.
"Hi, Parker."
"Hello, milady."
"What can I do for you?"
Shut my mouth, apparently. Peter holds the teasing for now and his eyes wide in surprise when he sees a bottle of water being lifted in his direction. He takes it. "Thank you." Does she think he's tipsy? Probably. "Sorry if I annoyed you in there."
"No, you're not."
He smiles before he takes the first sip. "Eh," he is sorry... a little bit. "I kinda am."
Another snicker. She finishes her bottle of water. "Hard to believe ya."
"Why is that?"
"I think you love pissing me the fuck off."
Peter laughs. He hasn't gotten used to how foul mouthed she is just yet. It's been more than a year but it still makes him laugh and think about what his uncle would've said if he heard how much such a pretty lady can curse.
Probably something old fashioned enough to make her say even more curse words.
"I..." he thinks carefully of his next words and feels the entirety of his neck tingling, then warming when her eyes set on his face. "... like how passionate you can get while arguing."
At that, she takes a second. Then, she answers with, "What the fuck does that mean?"
"Means that you get involved in arguments and discussions in nice ways."
"Nice ways? What we've been doing is nice?"
"It hasn't been?"
She stops, and Peter's seen enough to recognize when a smile is being held back. "You're crazy."
He smiles. "So are you."
"It seems that way." A sigh. "Peter..."
"Yeah?" His heart speeds up. She never says his name. That is the distance—his delusion about all of your exchanges being nothing... and the way you never say his name. He wants to hear it again. Desperately. One single time of his name out of your lips, and he already wants to hear it again.
God, what are you doing to him?
"I'm sorry," you say.
Peter stops in his tracks, his entire body still. "I—what?"
"You heard me, don't make me say it again."
"I know I did, I just—why? I don't get it. You've got nothing to apologize for."
Your eyes are not as glassy as they were inside the pub, and when you look at him, Peter feels something pull him a step closer.
There's a distinct vulnerability in the way you're staring that he's never seen before, or maybe never saw from this proximity to be able to identify.
"Don't I?" your voice is low and he misses the way you were speaking to him in there. He shakes his head, and takes one more step. He ignores the way this is the closest you two have ever been, and tells his speeding heart to shut the fuck up because it's too loud. You lick your lips and—fuck, maybe it's kind of impossible to tell his heart to do anything in your presence other than react to every miniscule action of yours. "I've been told I'm a... what's the term? Raging bitch, I believe, a few times."
His laughter is loud and honest, and it makes him happy when his eyes open and he sees that it pulled a smile out of you. "Oh—fuck, I'm sorry. That was hilarious."
"You think me being a raging bitch is hilarious?"
"No!" He's still laughing, but he's also warm enough to feel it in his face from the way you're staring at him from under your lasher. He mentally takes note that you made no comment on the proximity. He relishes in that fact. "No—I just think it's funny how much men are fucking crybabies nowadays." He chuckles when your eyes widen in surprise and your smile does too.
"Who said it was only men who called me that?"
He says your name in a tone that says 'please'. "I don't go to the same course as you but we do share two classes, remember?"
"Yup. We bicker in them every time."
"Exactly. I might've heard it once or twice when someone said something about people I know. About you." He might've also told them off every single time, but he keeps that part to himself—for now, at least. "They're raging bitches if you ask me."
The way you laugh should be printed and bottled. "They really are."
"Not me, though?" He's fishing, and from the way you look at him, you call it immediately.
"Parker."
"Oh, no!" He groans, hands flying out of his pockets straight to his face. "Back to Parker, fuck me!"
You laugh again, and Peter cannot get drunk, but he is. All your little 'fights' and arguments have never been real—you two enjoy playing the devil's advocate when in each other's presence but you've always been aware the other one is a decent person, he's aware of that. He knows you don't actually hate him because Peter's seen how you react around people you hate. Around men you hate, especifically.
"I can't call you by your name?" You ask, being difficult.
There it is. The thing you two do—be difficult with one another. "That's my surename."
"Which is part of your name."
"I know, but Peter sounds so much nicer."
"Hmmmm, I don't know. I'm quite fond of Parker."
His smile is wicked when hearing those words. "I'm printing that out and putting it on a T-shirt."
You try to fight a giggle and lose it. Peter had no clue what he was expecting out of tonight—frankly, he just wanted to please one of his friends by doing something he rarely does (or has the money to) and go out for a bit, and suddenly, there you were.
Suddenly, here he is. Laughing with you.
"You're actually ridiculous."
"But not a raging bitch?"
You punch his arm, laughing. "Stop!" Peter's heart spikes once again at the contact. "I hate it when you're funny."
"So what I'm hearing is that you hate me?"
Peter's cheeks hurt by now. He's been here for what? Two, three minutes tops, and his cheeks hurt because he's unable to stop smiling.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It's the smile that's doing it—your heart is attempting to murder you, or maybe Parker is, because he's been smiling non-stop and it's doing things to your insides that you're unable to stop now.
This might be flirting.
A part of you — the insecure girl who still lives somewhere in your subconscious — tells you there's no way Peter Parker is flirting with you.
The women who grew to have at least some confidence in reading basic signs and body language says his tilted head and side smile are more than enough.
You test the waters.
"You're not that funny, Peter," and there it is—his squirming when you say his name in a low voice.
He groans again. "God, you're such a shitty liar."
"So you're back to insulting me now?"
His laughter is so nice it's unfair. "Fine. Fine!" He throws both hands up and bites his lip and your brain's sirens go off, spinning in red, blue, and screaming. "I'll just leave then. I'm not funny and I'm clearly bothering you..."
The bait is so ridiculous you're able to reel the laughter in this time, watching as he spins on his heels with the precise smoothness of his moves that always baffled you, and he starts walking away slowly with his head and eyes still on you.
You manage to hold back the desire to reach and hold him by his clothes, too terrified of what you'll end up doing if you touch him again.
You felt a jolt of electricity at the simple touch, and you keep your hands to yourself this time.
"You need a compliment from me this badly, huh?"
He stops pretending to walk away. "I would like at least the admission that I'm the funniest guy you've ever met. It's the least you could give me for making you laugh so much tonight. Plus all those times I made you laugh in class inside your head but you held it in because you gotta keep up your appearances, milady."
It's only one compliment he's fishing for, but you decide to throw everything up in the air and—well, fuck everything.
Peter is flirting with you, and maybe you've been stupid all along to think that the biggest crush you've ever had was once sided.
So you decide, for once in your life, to be brave.
He's waiting patiently, a small smile still in the corner of his mouth as he waits to see if you'll yield, and you dive into it.
"Well... you're not only the funniest guy I've ever met, but..." you speak slowly, watching as his shoulders straighten and his face sombers at the realization something else is happening here. "Also... the smartest."
And there it is.
You've done it. You managed to shut Peter Parker's mouth.
Matter of factly, his mouth opens up slightly, gaping at your words and his eyes widen at the sincerity in your voice.
Without waiting for his brain to catch up with what just happened, you decide that since you're wet already, might as well swim in this accomplishment.
I managed to shut up smarty pants Peter Parker.
"You're also sweet," you add, smiling in victory when his eyes widen even more. "I mean—walking with arms linked with your aunt in the market? That's—god, I wanted to jump into the river when I saw that, and we don't even have rivers here! That was so sweet. She looked adorable, by the way. You two laughing, talking. You're also quite talented. I noticed all your seminars have pictures that you took, and they're really fucking good, y'know that?" He has no answer to your question, but you're flying high on how stunned he is. Too stunned to speak. "You've got a great sense of morality from what I've heard around campus. That's hard to come around in guys these days. I know that's one of those 'bare minimum' requirements, but—still. Hmmm..." you wonder how much more you can make his jaw fall, and decide to end on a high note. Pretending to just remember something, you go. "Oh! And..."
This time, it's you who steps closer.
There are only a few inches separating you two now, and you get to see that he's blushing from this distance — or lack thereof.
Even in the darkness you can see it, and if your heart was beating fast before, it's beating hard enough for you to feel it in your ears now.
"It doesn't hurt that you're also the most handsome guy I've ever seen. I know beauty's subjective, or whatever, but... to me. You're really pretty to me. I like when you're wearing your glasses, too."
The world spins and halts then, because Peter huffs out a single breath and the next thing you know, both of his hands are on your neck.
Then, his lips are on yours.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Your skin is feverish under his touch.
Peter knew it must be just his imagination, but your words drowned every thought he's had tonight—fuck it, it drowned every thought he's ever had in his whole life it seemed.
One of his hands slides through your side feeling every inch ofyour arm and then wraps around your waist, pulling you closer. As close as you can get.
He's rewarded by a groan, muffled against his mouth. Swallowed by his tongue.
There's your tongue, sliding with his with the precision and tempo of someone who's been doing that for years, despite it being only the first time. Peter moans when your hands squeeze him right back. He loves how strong you hold on to him. He loves how you fit your body inside his hold, squeezing yourself to push against him, grind against him, and he's whining into the kiss.
"Fuck—I did, I fuckin' did—oh." Your words are muffled by your sigh when he sucks on your earlobe.
"Did what?"
"I shut you up," your giggle is a little bit of a moan, and Peter manages to chuckle as he assaults your neck. "That feels good."
"You feel good," he grabs your waist tighter, being extra careful with his strength there, and then someone in the alley wolf whistles, reminding the both of you how not alone you are in here.
The realization hits you both at the same time, stopping the kiss, but not the desire.
Ignoring the taunting that comes next, he focuses on the way you stare at him with expectation.
Peter smiles and you beat him to it. "Your place or mine?"
He winces a little at the question, but then he's hit by those words that tattooed themselves all over his brain once again, the part where you went 'I mean—walking with arms linked with your aunt in the market? That's—god, I wanted to jump into the river when I saw that, and we don't even have rivers here! That was so sweet. She looked adorable, by the way. You two laughing, talking' and he realizes how much you got under his skin by blurting out everything that you seemed to be thinking regarding him.
His face relaxes back into a smile and you're waiting for it, patiently. "Ah—I live with her."
"Oh! Your aunt."
"Yeah." He'd leave it at that, but he feels the need to add: "I did have my place for a while, but when she fell at work—didn't feel right. Didn't wanna leave her alone after that."
"Of course not." As simple as that, and said with a smile that makes him want to burn everything down, or maybe build a whole fortress around you. "Mine, then?"
Peter nods, then drags you away.
In the cab, Peter watches as you text your friends to let you know that you're alive and won't be coming back. He does the same, and feels with a jolt of electricity running through him the second your hand comes to rest on his thigh.
As a result, he's half-hard by the time the ride is finished and you two make it to your apartment.
"I have a roomate, but she's still at the pub," you lock the door behind you and he nods, understanding he can do as he pleases.
Peter sort of wants to make you scream.
There's a second of silence when you two are alone in the dark, and you throw your keys in the table next to the door.
Slower than the first time, he glues himself to you once again.
This time, there's nobody around to stop either of you.
First, he starts by undressing you.
Piece by piece of clothing, Peter unwraps you with the same care he unwrapped the first gift he got from uncle Ben that he knew was expensive. None of the harsh and rushed tearing—he removes the clothes, leaving kisses on every new inch of exposed skin.
A part of him wants to shy away when you decide to do the same with the exact same care, but your gaze pins him to his spot, unable to move or do anything to stop it.
He's burning.
Peter feels exposed—worse yet, he feels seen, and wanted, and where there usually would be jokes there's nothing but silence.
He enjoys how you drag both you to your room without detaching your bodies.
Then, something happens to break the silence—when the back of his knees hit the edge of your bed and he sort of stumbles into it, his hands fly to his sides, dropping the picture on your side table on the floor.
"Oh, shit! Sorry, I'm sorry," he mumbles.
You laugh at him, picking the frame up and putting it back on its place. "It's fine." You sit on his lap earning a groan from him—there are only a pair of briefs and panties separating your bodies, and the way you grind and wiggle to feel his hard cock makes him whine, too. "Hmmm."
"What?" you ask in a low voice. The silence spell was broken, and Peter's hands are all over you again.
His brain keeps screaming for him to be careful all the time, but that voice has to swim with all of the want and need he's feeling. "Such a baby."
Condescending tone—and he whines louder. Huh. "Shut up."
You chuckle, wiggling your hips slower, making a mess of his neck and chest with your mouth. "You want me to?"
"No."
"Thought so." The way you whine your hips makes your pussy fit along his cock and Peter hasn't felt this lightheaded in years. "Wanna ride you, Peter."
"Oh, fuck."
"You like it when I say your name, don't you?"
"I really do," and it sounds like a confession even to his ears.
"Hm. Maybe I'll have to make you earn that, then."
Peter refuses to admit he's a whining mess underneath you, but there's probably a stain in his briefs already and the desperate way he's bucking his hips into you while his hands grip your hips strong enough to maybe leave bruises says enough.
"You're mean," he sounds wrecked and you barely started.
Peter opens his eyes to see you smiling in delight.
"I think you like it," it might be the way your condescending tone is just right or maybe it's just you, but he does. Peter nods, defeated and desperate, and grinds harder. "Fuck."
"Yes, please."
"Patience."
"Okay," he yields in the same second. He'd allow you to hang him upside down right now. "Whatever you want."
"Oh, god." He's thankful for this, at least. He's not the only one wrecked in this room. "You're so good."
Peter has some objections to that, but they get lost when you get up for a second and then remove the last items of clothing separating both of you. He has to bite his lip when he sees you grabbing a condom because as much as his brain is screaming at him to fill you up until you're dripping down your thighs with his cum, there's no safe way to tell you he's unable to transmit any diseases.
"I wanted to give you a mindblowing blowjob, but I'll be honest—"
"Please sit on me," he begs.
The smile you offer him is the brightest thing he's seen in months. There's a laugh, too, and Peter's too high on your touch to even manage a smile.
The next two hours pass in a blur of limbs, sweat, tongue, slick, and muffled words tangled in moans, screams, whines.
Peter has to hold his strength and he loses that battle a few moments.
The second he snaps his hips up to meet your thrusts and is rewarded with a scream and a cry of his name, he moans even louder.
You moan so pretty, baby, you tell him.
That only makes him moan louder.
Don't do that, wanna hear you, you say when you catch him biting his lips, and he cries out at that.
"Oh god, god, please, Peter," you beg at one point, and that's when he first snaps.
He's been good—Peter's allowed you to sit on him at the speed you desire, torturing him by going as slow and as fast as you like, teasing him with smirks and playing with the head of his cock against your clit during a few moments, but when your thighs start to lose their strength and your knees weaken, you beg and that's all it takes before he flips you on your back and climbs on top of you.
Slides inside you again with so much ease.
Both of you are wet enough to make your whole sheets wet.
You're dripping enough to ruin every night of sleep he'll have for the following month, at least.
Then, there's the filth spilled back and forth between you two.
It turns out the sass and clever replies are worse in the dark and between four walls.
Peter whispers everything you seem to love hearing it, and it turns out, he does love being talked down by you—just a little.
You just do it so well.
"That's it—no. Slow down. That's it. Don't be greedy. Fuck—you wanted—oh, you want to please me so much, hm? So eager to obey. I like that. Don't go faster—don't cry, baby, I don't care—FUCK, just like that, Peter. Fuck me slow and I'll let you use me however you want, baby."
It gets to his head.
Peter's human — well, most of him is, anyway, and you seem to have the key to his guts.
All he can do is obey because he wants to obey.
Peter fits so well inside of you he grunts with the effort to not bury himself deep enough to live there.
Your voice whispering filthy, sweet nothings make a home in his brain, and he's almost crying by the time you grab his by the neck, strong enough to make him wonder if he will have bruises the next day, and say, "Fuck, I'm so close, let it go, Peter, fuck me, fuck me, it's okay."
He's almost sure he actually cries at that.
And then he does as he's told.
He lets go, and fucks you the way he secretly desired to every time you two exchanged looks. He fucks you while holding you by the neck, while holding onto your waist for dear life, while moaning and chanting your name over and over the same way you're screaming his.
Both of you get so lost in the pleasure that when you both cum, Peter thinks you two black out for a second.
He sort of wishes he could go to sleep inside of you, and that thought is the one that brings him back to life for long enough to eventually slip out and realize he'll have to be the one with the strength to clean you both up into enough shape that you can slide under a sheet and get some sleep, but he does all that on shaky legs and a foggy brain.
Peter's fucked.
Both of you are, and it goes beyond the mindblowing sex that just happened.
He pulls you into his arms and sleeps with that knowledge. That's a problem for when the sun is in the sky.
summary: finding out your best friend is Spider-Man.
‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿
Spider-Man crashes into your fire escape loudly. You immediately get out of bed when you hear the noise and dash over to the window of your room.
You blink in shock before opening your window as quickly as possible. “Spider-Man!?”
He coughs a few times, then gestures for you to move out of the way and proceeds to climb through your window, grunting in pain as he lands awkwardly on the floor.
You close your window behind him, then quickly kneel beside him. This is very much not what you expected to happen tonight. What are you even supposed to do in this situation?
“Uh..” You stare at him for a good moment, thinking of what you should say before saying it. “Do you need.. a med-kit?”
Spider-Man hisses in pain, taking a moment to catch his breath before nodding. “Yeah, probably a good idea.”
You nod back, immediately panicking when you realise you have no idea where your med-kit is, or if you even have one. But you get up anyway and sprint desperately around your apartment.
When you return to your room with the med-kit you don’t find Spider-Man, you find Peter Parker, your best friend.
You stare blankly at Peter, who’s sitting on the edge of your bed. His mask is discarded on the floor, and he’s looking at you with an awkward yet goofy smile. Blood is dripping down his chin from his lip.
“Peter-Man..” You mumble in shock, then shake your head. “I-I mean, Peter..?”
“I’m Spider-Man.” He says bluntly, tilting his head and studying your expression for your reaction. His awkward smile becomes even more awkward, if that’s even possible.
“Peter.. you’re..” You trail off, then you scream, “You’re WHAT!?”
His smile fades slowly. “Surprise..?”
“Surprise?” You don’t know if you’re angry or not, but you take a few steps to close the distance and stand between his legs. “You’re Peter Parker, my best friend, and you’re Spider-Man!?
He puts his hand on your waist automatically. “Listen-”
“Listen?” You echo, disbelief clear on your face. You drop the med-kit and grab his shoulders to shake him. “You go out and get beaten by criminals every day, and you didn't tell me!?”
“Man..” He hisses in pain. “Don’t shake a guy who needs immediate medical attention.”
You pause at that, and then you let go of him. You take a deep breath, “..Sorry.”
“Just-” He grunts and clutches his side. “Help me out here.”
“Right, right,” You nod rapidly, bending over to grab the kit you dropped on the floor. You set it on the bed and open it, pulling every useful item out of it. “It doesn't have much, I-I don’t use it often.”
Peter grabs the bandage, putting it in his mouth and ripping it with his teeth.
You admire his attractiveness for a moment before telling yourself ‘Don’t find your best friend attractive when he’s bleeding’ and snapping yourself out of it. “Isn’t the other steps before bandaging.. like cleaning the wound?”
He pauses, his gaze flicking to yours. “Grab a wet towel and whatever cream you have. Knowing you, you probably don’t have much pain relief around here.”
You roll your eyes before running off to your bathroom.
You return with a wet towel, a container of pills and anti-septic cream. “See, I do have good stuff.”
Peter tries to take the wet towel but you quickly pull it away. “I’ll help.”
He squints suspiciously at you, but unzips his suit anyway and reveals his muscular but incredibly bloody torso. “Are you sure you want to?”
“Mhm,” You mumble, gesturing for him to get more comfortable on your bed. He shifts back and leans his back against the headboard, taking a few deep breaths to calm himself.
You sit on the side, glancing at him for permission before gently starting to dab and wipe at his torso and try to ignore his abs. He lets out a quiet groan of pain which makes you feel guilty. “Let me know if it’s too much, okay?”
His eyes flutter shut. “I have a high pain tolerance.”
“Or you’re just stubborn.”
He opens one eye. “You’re more stubborn than I am, though.”
You press on one of his bruises, your lips twitching as he grunts. One, you probably shouldn't do that, it’s petty. Two, you shouldn't find that attractive.
“You’re mean,” Peter grumbles, letting out an annoyed huff. “Here I am, bloodied and bruised and you’re causing me more pain.”
“That’s what you get,” You shrug. “For not telling me you’re a vigilante.”
He’s silent for a moment, processing this situation and his own thoughts before speaking, “..Are you actually mad?”
“No,” You answer, letting out a sigh as you flip the wet towel to the less bloody side. “Just.. very shocked.”
“M’ sorry..” He opens both eyes, tilting his head to look at you. “I didn’t want to drag you into this chaos, I wanted to keep you at a distance, but you’re my best friend-”
“Peter, shush,” You put your hand over his mouth, successfully silencing him. He glares at you.
You smile slightly, putting the bloody towel on your bedside with your free hand so you can grab the anti-septic cream. “This is.. awesome. My best friend is a hero. I mean, it is scary and alarming but still so awesome.”
Peter snorts, but that causes him to pull a muscle and wince. His voice comes out muffled from behind your hand, “Awesome, really?”
“Yeah, but like I said, also scary.” You avoid eye contact and remove your hand from his mouth, focusing on applying the cream to his wounds. “..Very scary.”
He goes quiet, watching you tend to his wounds silently. He feels a pang of guilt. He doesn't want to scare you, he wants to tell you he’s perfectly okay and nothing will happen to him, but he can’t guarantee that. And the fact that you’re tending to his injuries works against him.
You grab the bandages. “I don’t have gauze. I heard that’s different from bandages, I-I don’t know.”
“That’s fine, honey.”
You try not to show how the nickname affects you, instead putting all your focus into bandaging his torso.
“Honey,” He repeats, his lips twitching.
Warmth creeps up your neck. “Mhm?”
“Nothing, just watching you blush.”
You freeze, your eyes flicking to his. “I’m not blushing, Parker.”
“But you are,” He grins, moving his hand to pinch your cheek. “It’s adorable.”
You swat his hand away. “Shut your mouth before I press one of your bruises again.”
You’re both quiet for a full minute.
“..You’re pretty.”
“Parker, don't even.”
“How long have we been best friends?”
You sigh. “Six years.”
“And you’re single, and I’m single-”
You press on his bruise, causing him to wince. “Shut it.”
“You’re usually sweeter than this,” He comments, tilting his head. “Am I making you nervous?”
“You’re usually not as confident as this,” You retort, grabbing his arm to wrap a bandage around it too. “Nerd.”
“Well, maybe it's the adrenaline but I really want to call you beautiful.” He winks when you meet his gaze once again. “Seriously, your hair is perfect right now.”
“Peter-”
“It’s so messy,” He continues. “Making me question things, like why aren't we dating-”
He groans as you press one of his bruises to shut him up. “You’re brutal, baby. I’d prefer a shut-up kiss.”
tasm! Peter Parker with the diner by billie eilish pleaaseee I just know he would fit the cute stalker boyfriend thing so BAD
anon I fucking LOVED this ask and your mind. Obvious warnings, there's some dubcon vibes and also stalking is never right in real life (duh)
The Diner
Peter Parker x Reader
Peter stalks you from afar, and has been for years. He comes too close and realizes maybe he's getting more than he bargained for. Inspired by The Diner by Billie Eilish
The fresh mug of tea is scaldingly hot as you place it in front of Mr. Watson, the friendly middle-aged man who always tips you at the end of every transaction.
“Here you go, Watson–” You shake your head. “Sorry. Mr. Watson.”
“Thanks, Sherlock.” He winks at you, no harm done.
“Anything else you’d like?” You ask, wiping your hands down the apron of your uniform.
“Not a thing. You’re a great waitress.” Mr. Watson laughs, and you grin at that.
Unbeknownst to you, a man is sitting in the far booth, closest to the door, watching your interaction with this man. Watching your smile.
He sees you trace your hair around your index finger, and bite your lip as you walk away, lost in thought– and something inside him shatters.
He wants you to smile at him like that. Share an inside joke with him like that.
He knows you’re wary of him. Ever since, back at Midtown High, you had the same math class– he offered his calculator to you, because he heard you ask Gwen for one– and you looked at him in confusion, mouth slightly ajar, before accepting it.
He’s never known what he did wrong.
Then there was that time at Empire State University. He watched you climb up the stairs, slightly drunk after a frat party, and offered his hand so you wouldn’t stumble. Instead, you looked fearful– you backed away, gait slightly skewed by how inebriated you were.
Peter Parker knows you don’t have to be afraid of him.
His aunt has always said he’s a good, sweet boy. He’s not a threat, a nobody to everyone– but he wants to be somebody to you.
He’s what you need, he thinks. He sees you walking through your neighbourhood– you’re shy, you’re ducked down, wired headphones jammed in your ears, a wistfully, sad look upon your features. Peter thinks you’re too pretty to be so depressed.
Peter could make you so happy. He could make you a star, a model on all the magazines, eyes tantalizingly gazing at him, the eternal viewer– he has one creep shot he took while you were walking past the park, where he was sitting conveniently at the bench and aimed at the sky, catching your beauty, your bright, soulful eyes, your lips slightly parted.
You shouldn’t be working in a diner as a waitress.
Although you wear the uniform perfectly, with a girlish-yet-womanly cheer that isn’t overly offputting, unlike others who try too hard to be cute. Peter thinks you could really do anything and it would be right.
In the present, you turn slightly to talk to Cindy, the other waitress at the diner– her family owns the joint– and she slumps against you, laughing, and you smirk back, and Peter gets that sensation that tells him he’s been staring for too long, so he looks away before you see him.
He knows your shift ends in half an hour, so Peter reaches out of the seat, out of the booth, his laptop bag around his side.
No one seems to notice him.
/
Peter daydreams as he waits for you to commute home. He knows the bus route you take– he takes that one too, when he has the time to wait around your block.
He hopes you never see him, face to face, ever again, because you’re going to ruin his fantasies by calling the cops. He knows, he utters it everyday under his breath like a little, dirty secret, that no one can ever know how badly he craves you. Least of all you.
As he sits on the park bench, he thinks about you. He thinks you’d be a stunning girlfriend, or when his little daydreams get ahead of themselves– his wife. A perfect bride, shining in an ivory gown, all his to carry into the newlywed’s home, and lay down on the bed right then and there– no time to waste. Kissing you, stripping open that silken corset to reveal lacy lingerie, and the two of you tracing each other’s skin and becoming impossibly close, glowing with pleasure, until he’s kissing up your body, feeling up your chest, waist, hips; entering you as you wrap those firm, soft legs around him, hearing your normally sweet, clear voice in a hazy moan imbued with pleasure.
That’s not the only thing he’s interested in, but it is on his mind. How could it not be? Peter’s never been with anyone, and he’s decided he’s okay with saving himself for you.
He often lays in a sweaty, sticky hot mess in his own apartment at night, his hand tired from jerking off so aggressively. Something Peter is insecure about is just how badly he wants you– a proper man wouldn’t be so excitable, he thinks, and he hopes he would be enough to satisfy you.
He would do anything for you.
Inevitably, as married couples do, you’d argue at some point. Peter isn’t stupid enough to believe everything would be happy– he admires your conviction. He’s seen you stand up for what’s right from afar, whether it be for a customer, a classmate, your friends.
He’d say you’re right, no matter what the issue was. Just to keep you happy. What else could a girl want?
And then you could kiss Peter goodnight. A soft, languid kiss, in which he knows your anger isn’t real for him, that you’ll always forgive him.
Your bus arrives to the stop with a real groan, engine sputtering as it does so, and you exit, in a long coat that covers up your waitress outfit– but Peter knows where you’ve been and it gives him a thrill that he knows more than the average passerby, although he notices you don’t immediately step to your house.
No, if anything, you’re approaching the park bench– and Peter has played this out, so many times, that he’ll say hi, as a former classmate, and you’ll laugh in that nice, pleasant, slightly shocked way that you always do, and he’ll launch into a conversation, and it will end with making plans for a future date.
But you have those headphones jammed in, and Peter doesn’t know what to say, because you don’t seem to notice his presence at all when you sit down.
Until you do. You turn slightly at him, and instead of looking alarmed like he’s expecting, you have a tentative smile.
He flushes a deep pink, and then smiles back. You smile for real, your eyes crinkling as you do so, lips plush and upturned, and Peter doesn’t know what to do with himself, until you get up and leave to walk to your small apartment, and now he’s sweating.
He wonders if you recognize him.
/
Peter waits on the corner until you leave your apartment again, for a midnight bodega run. He knows you do this every Tuesday without fail. He can’t help it, the fantasy is spiralling out of control– he needs to do something more tangible, something more scary.
He hasn’t gotten so close in months. The potential taste of you, the feeling of being physically close to you, it’s a high unlike anything else, and he needs to feel it again. He knows this is dangerous, but he settles for something that will settle his urges– your apartment.
Your daily setting. Where you live your life, carefree, cooking, cleaning, bathing, undressing– he relishes the idea to be the one to see where it happens. He knows you don’t have a boyfriend.
Peter finds it easy to get over the landing of the fire escape, and in through your bedroom window. He lands on his feet, and immediately inhales, feeling his heart pound as he smells your scent floating through the room.
It would be so tempting to lie across your bed, and breathe in everything about you, your peaceful dreams, to your eager awakenings, even terrible nightmares, in which Peter wishes he could comfort you, and perhaps the intimate moments when no one is around and your hand is between your legs, as you cry out in the quiet bliss of your room.
Peter nearly quivers at the thought, and he knows he can’t be here, in this spot, or he’ll never leave.
He approaches the kitchen, feeling his stomach grumble. Perhaps Peter was being a little bad, and he felt like you were starting to form a connection with him, anyways– what would it matter if he took a snack? Soon he’d be feeding you, anyways. The favour would be returned.
He takes a smattering of crackers and cheese, and scarfs them over the garbage bin, feeling compulsive and disgusting, but feeling some visceral pleasure at the whole thing. Peter felt like a rat, like vermin that had no right to be in your presence, to be in this space, to eat your food so you would know someone had been here if you were really focused, and yet that made him feel all the more satisfied.
He doesn’t think pretty girls own the world, by any means– as much as he adores you, he also feels like you owe him. You owe him for seeing you truly as one could, as great as you are, unlike everyone else in the world. Who else has been there for every turn and tribulation, waiting, hoping, and praying that you’d be okay? Who else could love you so deeply, before even really knowing you?
It’s with this notion of ownership that Peter makes his riskiest move, his potential mistake– he left a calling card so you would know it was him.
That first photo of you he took all those months ago. A print that he carries in his wallet, tucked under a post card and magnet on the fridge. Something not easy to find, a surreptitious action that would have an unsteady origin, and be hard to trace back to him in a way– but definitely undeniably weird and would knock you out of the carefree sorrow you seemed to carry.
His ego was getting to him. Peter leaves as quickly as he came.
/
It’s only when Peter’s got to his apartment that he feels an enormous amount of fear, guilt, worries that they’ll trace his fingerprints in your apartment. He knows, he knows he wants you to know it was him, but he misses that photo of you, and he wants you, more than ever– he just fears how your dynamic will change.
But there’s a sick satisfaction as he lies in his bed, picturing you entering your apartment, wearing your big t-shirt as your jammies, eating your midnight ramen.
Maybe you’ll find the picture today. Maybe you won’t. But knowing that he’s been there and left a voyeuristic treasure makes him exhale in bliss.
He doesn’t even mind being arrested. The cops’ll get him this time, the bail will be absurdly high, and all he can think about is you coming to visit him. Not unlike one of those true-crime chicks who get strangely obsessed with serial killers and send adoring letters. Is he Ted Bundy in this fucked up version of events? Not quite, but Peter knows he’s a criminal nevertheless.
Still, he pictures you deep in the throes of a Bonnie and Clyde syndrome-induced obsession, something that he knows would never happen– you’re normal, unlike him– and you’ve arrived to the jail, dressed in a veil as he requested, and you reach through the holding cell that they’ve got him captured in, and you hug him, and hug him, tightly weaving your arms around his neck, whispering that you believe in him and that he’ll get out and he hasn’t done anything wrong, and all he can do is smell you, your sweet, salty scent, and you kiss his neck, his jaw, up his face, and then onto his lips– and Peter shudders in real life, wishing you were here to pin him down and take advantage of his hard-on by riding him.
/
Peter goes back to the diner that morning.
He sees you working, wiping down the ordering counter– and you turn to greet him.
“Hi…” There’s mild recognition on your face, but not the panic he was bracing to see.
Or maybe anticipating. He’s almost disappointed.
But anyways, he gives you a nod, and sits in his usual booth.
Peter can’t even look at you as you ask what he’d like to order. He mumbles out “Small coffee, black.” And is glad that you walk away with ease.
He starts to pen a letter, as he often does, things that he wants to say to you, but leaves unsent. It’s usually panic-driven, confessions of adoration and love that he knows you would understand if you were like him– but also loose rambles of his addled mind, where he voices his concerns about the world, about himself, venting in a way that he knows you would care about legitimately. If he could get close enough, he’d tell you in person what a loser Peter Parker really was– that this nerd grew up not touching a single girl, that he didn’t ever really connect to someone until he talked to you that one time, all those years ago– but he lets himself write it down.
You place the mug of coffee down, a clink of porcelain against the dull vinyl of the table, and Peter takes it, nodding his thanks while focusing on your hand, your wrist, unable to look at your face.
He feels growing shame and anger when you keep staring, as if you see him a bit better now that you’re closer. You walk away a little more quickly, and Peter chugs his coffee down, having an eerie sense about what’s going on.
As he exits the diner, having slammed some change on the table to avoid paying upfront– around the corner, the cops are waiting, and they stop him from continuing to walk.
“Stay down, sir.” The man tells him, but Peter is terrified, now, that you’ll see him, that you know, and some sense of indignation causes him to try and bolt.
They pin him down to the ground, his glasses knocking off onto the pavement, and he sees in blurry eyes that one of the cops has your picture in a plastic bag. That was his gift to you, and that’s how you treated it?
You’re more sly than Peter realized. Acting like everything was fine, and then pulling the rug from under his feet. And if he made the mistake of coming too close, of thinking you’d get it, he wouldn’t make that mistake now, and it’s with this anger that he clenches his teeth, swearing as he enters the back of the cop car. His teeth are gnashing together.
In his blurry, teary vision, Peter thinks he sees your silhouette kneeling by the pavement.
/
You’re only slightly surprised. The mildly cute, brunette nerdy guy had been on your radar for a few months. Always a fleeting glance, a nervous disposition. You’d try and smile at him, but to no avail– you know you know him from high school, but the guy was a scaredy cat.
You wondered if he hated you. Why else would he linger, be around when no one else was?
But the last thing you expected was for the strange energy in your house, that you chalked up to an accidental break-in, to actually be taken seriously by the police, and now the guy was arrested. Yes, there was a photo he took– but you got the vibe that maybe he was waiting to talk to you, maybe he got scared, maybe you’re so lacking in attention that you’re looking for it in the wrong places.
You don’t care. He was probably harmless– and yes, you know you’re attaching a reputation to a guy you don’t know, but you can’t help but feel sorry. Feel worried that you didn’t get to talk to him first, before he bolted.
You call the number of the penitentiary he’s in. You’ve read it so many times online, debating if you should call, you’ve practically got it memorized. The woman on the phone says you may call when you please in a day, as Peter Parker needs to be processed properly before he can take calls.
You feel sick. You know his name, you know him– you never properly bothered to address him, and now look at what you’ve done. More than anything, you wish you could take it back, the call to the police. You would have pushed harder for Peter, asked him what was going on in his life, ignoring the red flags– because what are red flags if not just the cries of help of a poor soul?
God knows you have enough of them. People have never really seemed to like you, not in the way you hoped you would have been noticed as a young girl. Unnoticed, until now.
You see that the letter he wrote is still on the table, forgotten in his haste. His penmanship is difficult to make out, long sprawling loops and scribbles making his words a little incomprehensible. But you understand one thing.
He cares for you. He's seen you, as you are, for so many years– he thinks you're beautiful, he thinks you deserve the world. Peter feels awful about himself, though, and you feel a pang of pity, mixed with some kind of intrigue, upon reading his words.
Cindy tuts from the counter, placing a red velvet cake into the display. “That was scary. You think that guy was out to get you?”
You shake your head, and Cindy raises her eyebrows. “No. I think I gotta help him.”
/
Peter thought about ending it all, the two hours he was in that cell. The guard is sleeping– he can’t even go to the washroom and hang himself there.
He’s back up on his feet now, but he can’t see very well. Without his glasses, all he can do is shut his eyes, and stew in shame and agony.
More than anything, there’s this oppressive urge to come and see you. Or for you to see him. You were the last comfort in his increasingly lonely, isolated lifestyle, and now you were gone too.
Until he hears your voice.
“Peter?” You knock on the bar of the holding cell, and he gets up from the floor, alert– he’s afraid that he’s lost it now, that he’s hallucinating you, and this crack in his psyche is going to make him a madman.
But you’re here, and you’re breathing, and you look real. So he takes a step forward. He sees that you don’t even really look disgusted, just… curious.
“Hey.” He says, staring at the ground, and then the collar of your jacket.
“Hey.” You attempt to smile, but he’s not meeting your eyes, so you drop it. “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to, well…”
You trail off, unsure what to say now, because it feels rather heinous to send someone to jail, and just show up and apologize as if this isn’t a serious crime.
“Wait. I can ask them not to press charges–” You turn, but you feel him tug on your wrist through the bars, and you turn back to him.
Peter finally looks into your eyes. There’s deep undereye circles that tell you he’s wrought with anger, terror, but underneath it all– some level of hurt. His mouth is ajar, as he struggles to speak.
“Why? Do you just feel sorry for me? You were supposed to…” Peter shakes his head and then groans. “If you’re thinking your stupid act of goodness is supposed to stop me, supposed to keep me from thinking about you, inspire me into being some… noble, loveable idiot, you’re mistaken. I want you, and I don’t ever want you to think you can do something to stop that.”
Peter expects this to go over poorly with you, but everything hasn’t gone to plan so far– so he doesn’t care. He’s setting it all on fire.
But in your eyes, he sees glee, he sees that same fire, those sick urges reflected in you. You’re smiling sheepishly, even giggling, and Peter wonders if he’s dreaming. You’re just as messed up as he is.
You like this stalker of yours.
“I just… I wanted to talk. I called the people here but they wouldn’t let me talk to you yet.” You swallow, as if you’re saying something difficult, but Peter has never felt more of a kinship with you. He squeezes your hand, compelling you to continue, and you meet his eyes again, feeling reassured.
“I read your letter.” You pull it out of your bag, and Peter stills, but you quickly move to assuage his feelings. “Don’t worry, please– I’m not afraid. I saw what you said, about me, about… yourself–”
You’re trying to be delicate but his face falls. His eyes look to the floor.
“I know how you feel. I’ve felt it my whole life, and it means so much to me that you feel it too.” You smile at him, trying to catch his eyes again– wanting so badly for this sad, mad boy to just trust you.
If you could gain his trust, you could gain anyone’s. And then, maybe, you wouldn’t be so lonely.
But even just one lonely soul by your side– one that apparently saw “the stars in your eyes” – it was worth it to you to be close to Peter.
“And, well, no one’s ever said such kind, sweet things about me. I’m the last thing on anybody’s mind.” You scoff lightly, and then laugh. “I just… Is it all true? Did you really mean it?”
He grabs your hands, both of them, looking into his eyes. “Are you nuts? Of course I meant it. I, I’ve adored you since the ninth grade. I know you’re special. You’re beautiful, and perfect, and best of all– you’re mine. I’m the only one who knows it, and I’m gonna show the world someday.”
Peter’s so excited, he feels maybe double the high he did from sitting next to you. He can hardly contain the smile spreading across his face, he’s in such shock.
You laugh again, giddy with relief, excitement– sudden tears spring to your eyes, happy ones, and Peter wipes them away– and you wordlessly lean into his hands, through the bars, and then you reach into your bag, to take out his glasses.
You place them on his face, smiling at your Peter Parker, and then whisper that you wanted him to be able to see this. And through the bars of the jail, you kiss him, your silly nearly-convicted stalker boyfriend, and you feel him quiver in surprise, blinking before kissing you back.
omg mal congrats on 8k 🖤 may i request venom with tasm!peter (or james 🫣) with the prompt “whispering words of admiration and love between a kiss”
hi angel thank u so much! went with peter cos I haven’t written him in forever hehe hope u enjoy!! join the celly
tasm!peter parker x fem!reader, 0.6k words
“You’re so pretty,” Peter murmurs against your lips.
You try not to melt. Peter’s got you pressed into his mattress, poised above you with his knee wedged between your legs. You’re not so much kissing him as letting yourself be kissed, too breathless and too flustered to do much else. One arm braced on the pillow next to your head, Peter uses his other to hold your shoulder, his thumb pressing into the hollow of your neck.
“You can't even see me,” you whisper back. It’s getting dark in his room, mostly shadows but for a few strips of pale moonlight painting the floor and wall. You don't know how long he’s been kissing you like this. You just know you’re dizzy enough that it could've been hours by now and you wouldn’t know.
Peter laughs against your tingling mouth. “Mm, but I just know you look so pretty right now,” he whispers. “You’re beautiful all the time.”
Warmth blooms in your chest like a flower in spring. You don't know why he has to say things like that. As if his kissing wasn’t enough already. It’s like he wants you dead.
Peter kisses the side of your mouth languidly. Then his lips start to migrate downwards, searching. He paints a hot, sticky trail of kisses moving towards your neck. Meanwhile you’re gripping his shoulders like they’re a lifeline, scared if you let go you’ll melt into the bed like a popsicle in the summer.
“D’you want a hickey?” Peter murmurs into the space under your jaw. His teeth graze your skin lightly and chills shoot down your spine. You grab him harder.
“Yeah, okay,” you nod. His head’s low enough now that you can push your hand up into his hair, fingers curling into the thick, messy strands at the nape of his neck. You push your other hand over the hill over his shoulder to hold his bicep.
Peter hums and his mouth moves downwards to your sweet spot, right in the juncture between your neck and shoulder. He kisses you first, a hot press of his sticky lips. Then his lips part, and his tongue pushes over your skin, warm and wet. You shudder.
Peter chuckles lazily into your neck. “You okay?”
You pinch his arm. “Shut up.”
You feel him smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
You’re about to say something smart back when his teeth scrape over your neck. You inhale fast and tug him closer, your heartbeat turning frantic. Peter takes your skin between his lips and sucks at it, bullying your neck with rough, open mouthed kisses and the scraping of his teeth. He kisses you like this until you go hot as coals under him, worse when he presses his knee up further between your thighs.
When he’s done abusing your skin, Peter straightens up, hovering above you. You can just make out his face in the semi-dark, handsome as ever, his lips swollen and his chest heaving. Your own chest heaves as he looks at you in silence.
”What?” You ask, shy under his heavy gaze.
Peter shrugs. “Nothing. You’re beautiful.” He ducks down to kiss you again, on the mouth this time. “I love you,” he murmurs softly.
You really truly think you might melt in his hands any second now. It’s only a matter of time, when he’s being this sweet on you.
“I love you, too,” you manage weakly.
Peter grins an amused sort of grin. You wonder if he’s teasing you for your inability to function properly, but you don't care enough to do anything about it.
“You want another hickey?” He asks. He thumbs your throat, where your skin feels sensitive and raw. You’re sure it's bright purple by now. “One isn’t really enough, right?”
You tug him back down in lieu of an answer. You don't think you could get the words out if you tried.
