˖ ݁♬⋆.˚𝄞 ALI she/her. isfp. march pisces. bisexual. immunity bambi. alicorn. swiftie + daughter of cain. certified bunny girl. bears beets battle star galactica. professional napper. hopeless romantic. steve harrington’s angel. clairo replied to my insta comment<3.
clairo. yellowjackets. ethel cain. the pitt. djo. tlou. sophie thatcher. the office. sabrina carpenter. taylor swift. marvel. southern gothic. silver. star wars. stranger things.
˚⊱🪷⊰˚ read my latest
♱ i lowk suck at writing so i’m just here to read and be silly
weird random little idea I had bc in my brain Frank castle would be a big huge mushy bear at night after a construction shift ☹️
contains Frank castle x reader, nothing but fluff, bedtime stuff
Frank apparently took a little bit of overtime at work.
A little, meaning; he’s regularly home by six, latest. Tonight, you hear his apartment key twist in the lock at ten.
You knew how hard of a worker he was. Part of you wish that he was less so. Or maybe, that he had atleast given you a heads up. A, hey, don’t make me a plate at dinner. Or even a, I’ll be home late, don’t wait up.
You don’t wait up anyways. You went to bed even earlier than you regularly would, pettily, but feeling some kind of victory at punishing Frank. Denying him the loving gesture of staying up late on the couch, waiting to see him.
So, no. When Frank comes back to the apartment, even though you’re conscious enough to register his arrival, you don’t get out from under the covers and kiss him hello. You lay, listening through the darkness as his boots thunk on the hardwood— mentally, you scold him for dragging in dirt. A pause, then the sound of his footsteps lightens, work boots discarded.
You stay in the pantomime of sleeping even as he opens the bedroom door, the faint light from the kitchen bleeding through your closed lids. You listen to the sound of fabric rustling, him undressing and undoubtedly tossing the work clothes in the hamper; the pad of his bare feet towards the attached bathroom. The shower turns on. Maybe five minutes later, off. Again, footsteps.
There’s the sound of his soft grunts breaking through the silence. He must be sore. Tired— no, exhausted.
Your anger has grown a twin feeling, some kind of guilt by the time that his weight dips the other side of the mattress. The feeling only worsens as Frank shifts closer, his warmth against your back, and throws a burly, heavy arm over your midsection.
Still, you don’t say anything. Two things can coexist. Your frustration, and his exhaustion.
To your quiet groan (unfortunately telling to the fact that you’re awake,) that arm over your middle tugs, just enough force to pull you into him. Tight. You feel Frank’s nose nudge the crook of your neck. Can hear the breath inward he takes, in no rush to mumble, almost indistinct, “Sweet girl.”
You don’t make a peep. You have a feeling it’s petty. Still, his beard scratches the skin of your neck exposed by your pajama, as he lays down an unhurried kiss. “Know you’re awake,” he rasps after a long few moments.
You make a disagreeing sound, like he’s bothering your rest. In reality, you feel about twenty times better lying against him. His skin is warm from the shower, his hair damp against your jaw, and one large hand is lying over your stomach. Not rubbing, not grabbing. Just holding.
“..M’sorry.” Frank murmurs after a longer pause. Noses at the skin behind your ear before evidently deciding not to push you, laying his head on your pillow. The bridge of his nose fits against the crown of your head, and you can feel his sigh against your hair. “I’m late. Should’ve given you a heads up.”
“Mhm,” you hum. That hand on your stomach sneaks under your pajama shirt, without suggestion. His palm, calloused and strong, just scrapes upward slightly, thumb in line with your sternum. You’d be a liar to say you didn’t appreciate Frank’s touch, his constantly reaching hands. The facade of anger was getting increasingly hard to keep up.
“Y’know I’m sorry, baby.” Frank mumbles, voice all quiet and close in that way of his. “Please. S’been a fuckin’ day.” You feel him shift and there’s another kiss, now to your nape. His beard is damp against the skin there.
You inhale, deep and slow. He smells distinctly like soap. “You suck, a little.”
A sound somewhat like a huff of amusement leaves Frank. “I know.”
With the plan in mind to thoroughly scold him in the morning when you weren’t so eager to let yourself fall asleep, warm against his chest, you resolve to give your man a break. You shift, laying a hand on his forearm over your waist. Peering over your shoulder and squinting through the dark, you find him already staring at you with those tired, almond eyes. There’s a ghost of a smile in the creases in his face.
“..Hey there.”
“Hi.” You mumble in reply. That almost-smile develops into a real one, however unexaggerated. You watch him push up onto the arm not over you, and lean over to plant a gentle kiss onto your cheekbone. Why would you bite back the soft sound of appreciation that comes from your throat? There wasn’t any hiding from Frank.
He probably knew that you’d forgiven him already, anyway.
“I missed you. Y’know that?” The admission comes natural, looking up at him. He nods, barely.
“Missed you, lady.” His voice stays low, softer than anyone would think a man as hard as he was would be capable of. He squints, brows drawing as he shakes his head in some strange kind of disbelief, “Been waiting for this all day.”
“For what?”
Frank settles back down behind you, arm tugging you ever closer into him. His body is like a furnace; he’s very lucky that the AC is cranked up, because otherwise he’d be banished to the other side of the bed. For now, he gets to sigh against the baby hairs at the back of your neck, and get your pillow wet with shower-damp hair (meanwhile, his own pillow is perfectly functional and available.)
His eventual response makes you smile, eyes closing with satisfaction, “Sleeping with my woman.”
Frank's favorite part of the day is when you two are going to bed. He’s usually reading something, keeping busy like he did when he was away because old habits die hard. And you’re on your phone scrolling social media because, again, old habits die hard.
But the two of you are so perfectly intertwined together, as you use his arm for a pillow, curling into his side, his chest warm to combat the cold autumn night.
And sometimes, when the page is too boring or his eyes are getting too heavy to continue much longer, his hand will reach down to your head, playing with your hair. Planting soft kisses, distracting you from whatever video you were watching.
Eventually, when he’s really bored with the book, he’ll close it gently, turning off the lamp beside him. Turning over his eyes, meeting yours as he scoots down to meet you. Pulling the covers up more until both of you are covered.
He’ll plant one final kiss on your lips, muttering a simple “bedtime” against your lips. The mint from the toothpaste still lingering. He’ll reach over to force your lamp off too. The room dark, only illuminated by the soft glow of your phone, before his hands reach the power button, clicking that off too.
“I was watching that” as you put the phone to charge, because the tiredness is starting to take over you too.
“Not anymore. Sleep with me, baby.” his voice was low, a grumble basically.
“M’kay,” as you plant one final kiss on his forehead. Before the warmth of Frank's arms around you and the slow and steady rise of his breath put you to sleep.
——————
a/n: I can’t thank you guys enough for the love on the last couple of Frank Castle things I’ve posted!! Comments likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated. If you want to read more of my Frank stuff click here !
WORD COUNT. 1228
SUMMARY. frank comes to collect you from a nightout with your friends. you're sloppy and slurring, tripping over your words and feet in a way that shouldn't fill him with as much adoration as it does.
DISCLAIMERS. for the plot it's the readers bday, but has no relevance - just bc she gets absolutely sloshed and she’s out with her friends. one tiny suggestive mention but that's it. just frank babying her and being all gentle and helping her into his truck
Your messages had hardly been concise, to an untrained eye it'd be mumbo jumbo, a casual slamming of keys on the screen, but to Frank he knew what your nonsense texts meant; somehow, and rather bizarrely knowing that 'raedt ihn 1p' did in fact mean 'ready in 10.'
He was already outside the club awaiting your drunken, stumbling arrival, he didn't need the reminder be where he needed to be. Nine minutes had passed since your text and he hops out the truck, stepping around the heaping pile of junk to meet you kerbside. Frank places his phone into his jean pocket and directs his attention back to the bar doors — gaze almost surveying as he filters his focus through the groups of inebriated individuals in the smoking area.
Though his dark darting eyes still when he recognises a friend of yours, cigarette hanging out her mouth as she seemingly describes a story with theatrics, it inevitably catches his attention until you step into clear view. He leans backwards and against the passenger door of his truck behind him, getting comfortable as he watches you just simply exist. From afar he watches you —well, twenty or so feet away— you're smiling and laughing, chewing on the straw from your drink as you make input with that said story. You look happy, most genuinely.
He can't help but mirror you, match the joy that seems to spread in your face. Though he realises where he is, standing in the middle of the street in front of a truck, watching a group of women outside a bar — that doesn't exactly bode well. And with that thought shocking him back into reality, he lowers and shakes his head, hoping the act will straighten out that grin he can't help.
"Frankie," he hears a loud voice, your voice.
He directs his eyes back to how they were a moment ago and he sees you jumping on the spot, arm up in the air as you wave at him. Smile so sincere that it made the one you had on your face a minute ago look almost fake. He watches you as you hug your friends, giving them all a little individual moment before you stumble away, shoulder bag dragging on the floor with each uneasy step.
Frank's eyes remain locked on you, attention hawk-like as he watches you totter closer and closer towards him. As if he was weary of someone else snapping you up.
"Hi," you smile and grab his extended hand, the one he was holding out for you to take.
He brings his other hand out from behind his back and places it across your elbow, dual hold on your arm keeping you stabilised.
"Hey, baby," he greets, voice low and gravelly.
Your name gets called from where you were standing a minute ago, though you can't make out the direction from where it came. You twist your head left to right, back to left, trying to locate where your friends had disappeared to.
Frank chuckles, the noise deep but slight. He nods behind you, gesturing to the smoking area from where you stumbled away from.
"Right over there, baby," he guides, eyes directing your gaze.
You twist around, the sudden motion making your head spin. You make out a rather hazy image of your friends, all of them right where you left them.
"Get that birthday dick, babe," one shouts and another punctuates it with a heckle and hoot, holding up her drink to cheers you in spirit.
Your mouth hangs open enthusiastically and your eyes squint, almost like it was a laugh so quiet that no noise came from it all. You give them an unstructured wave goodbye and turn to look at Frank, giving him a small head shake and a giggle.
"They're… gross," you slur, wiping your eyes.
Frank straightens his amused grin and looks over to your friends.
"Your girls got rides comin'?" he questions and you give him a singular nod, the motion almost unconvincing, "sure?"
"Abso-pos-a-fruitly."
His smile spreads, features entertained. Frank releases his hold around your forearm and reaches for the truck door behind. Pulling you away carefully, he tugs on the door — opening it for you. You stumble over your own footing as you itch closer to the door, ankle rolling in your high-heels over the uneven weight you just rested on it.
"Easy there," he supports you, holding you up by your underarms, "steady, sweet girl."
"God, my feet kill," you exaggerate, features almost dramatic in their wild movement.
"Yeah, I bet," he glances down to your feet for a moment and then up to you, eyes unknowingly filling with adoration, "let's get you in the truck first, huh?"
"But my feet," you whine, reaching down, trying most miserably to undo the clasp.
He gives you a solid nod and bends, either arm coming up behind you. He settles one behind your knees, the other on the small of your back — distributing the weight of you he found no such trouble. Bridal-style, he lifts you and sets you in the passenger seat of his truck; placing you carefully inside.
Frank releases his grasp around you and lowers either arm down to your feet, the ones you have preemptively lifted up for him to take. He shakes his head as if to hide his smile, and then wedges your foot between his thighs — holding it there in place.
"D'you have a good time?"
You bite down on your bottom lip and smile, head nodding dramatically as if to further emphasise it. "I did."
"Yeah?" he hums.
He lowers his gaze from your own and directs it to the clasp he's struggling to undo, fingers too large for something so fiddly. With much an effort, he removes your first heel and drops it into the foot well of the truck. He sets your foot down and picks up the other, placing it between his thighs like the one before.
"Get any special birthday treats, my girl?" he asks, eyes flicking up to yours.
You giggle mirthfully and lean in closer to Frank. "Oh yeah."
"Yeah? What?"
"Lots, and lots, and lots of shots," faint lines of joy crease in your face as you whisper. You stick your blue tongue out and bite down onto it lightly, pulling an exaggeratedly playful face. "Like so, so many," you whisper.
Frank unclasps your heel and places it with the other, lowering your foot like he did with the one before. He settles his hands over your knees, using them as leverage and stability while he itches in, closing the distance.
He presses a kiss to your lips and pulls back, the sudden motion like a jolt.
"D'you have a smoke?" he questions, tasting faint cigarette amongst the cherry and vodka and grape and tequila and raspberry. It was slight, but he knew it was there.
You shake your head diagonally, not quite a yes, not quite a no. You instead lift a hand, pinching a small gap between your thumb and index. "Only a little," you slur on your words.
"Only a little," he repeats after you, rugged voice soft in a way that's reserved for you alone. He smiles down at your lap, the act an effort to hide it. "Get that belt on baby, and we'll get you somethin' to eat."
⎯ 𑄹 ⎯
its so hard to not make a tipsy reader sound cringe!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
So, tell me, what's the joy of giving if you're never pleased? -Champagne Coast, Blood Orange
series m.list. Playlist. next ->
this is part 1
summary: when your exhausted across-the-hall neighbor practically passes out on his own doormat, you decide to step in with a fresh batch of warm muffins. what starts as a simple, neighborly act of kindness quickly turns into an invitation for peter to escape his freezing hallway and sit on your couch and maybe even sleep on your bed!
The radiator in the hallway of apartment 4B was emitting a high-pitched, metallic hiss that had been echoing down the corridor since roughly mid-November, but at six in the morning on a Tuesday, you were entirely convinced it was doing it just to spite you.
You pulled your fleece robe a little tighter around your shoulders, clutching your mug of coffee like a lifeline as you nudged your front door open to grab your parcel. That was when you nearly tripped directly over the pair of beaten-up, scuffed Converse sitting haphazardly in front of the door across from yours.
Peter. Of course it was Peter.
He was currently pressed flat against his own front door, forehead resting against the peeling wood, his backpack slung over one shoulder and his dark hair sticking up in three different directions like he’d slept on it completely wrong—or hadn't slept at all. He was wearing an oversized grey sweatshirt that looked two sizes too big, muttering something incoherent under his breath while his hands blindly dug through the front pocket of his worn denim jacket.
"Lose something, Parker?" you asked softly, leaning your shoulder against your doorframe and taking a slow sip of coffee.
Peter flinched, jumping about three inches off the worn carpet before spinning around so fast he nearly dropped his bag. His wide brown eyes locked onto yours, his cheeks instantly flushing a deep, dusty pink that spread all the way to the tips of his ears.
"Oh! Hey," he stammered, his voice doing a little octave-jump that he tried and failed to cover up with a fake cough. "Hi. Good morning. I mean—yeah. A little bit. My, um, my keys. I think I dropped them somewhere between here and the library. Or near the subway. It's... it's a whole thing."
He let out a breathy, nervous laugh, running a hand through his messy curls and only making them stick up worse. Beneath his right eye was a dark, purplish bruise that definitely hadn't been there when you saw him taking out the trash two nights ago, and his dark circles were so pronounced he looked like he’d been running a marathon in his sleep.
You raised an eyebrow, nodding toward his face. "Rough night with whatever late shift you're pulling these days?"
"Oh, yeah," Peter said instantly, nodding a little too fast, his hands flying into his pockets. "Yeah, super rough. Just... lots of night shifts. Lots of running around the city. You know how it is." He offered a weak, lopsided smile that was so painfully endearing it made your chest ache just a little bit.
You looked at him for a long moment—this quiet, ridiculously sweet guy who lived on dry cereal, stumbled through the hallway like a newborn giraffe, and looked like a stiff breeze might blow him clear across the East River. You'd exchanged polite head-nods by the mailboxes for a month, but seeing him practically vibrating with exhaustion was the last straw.
"Stay right there," you said gently.
You turned back into your apartment, setting your coffee mug on the small table by the entrance. From your kitchen counter, you grabbed a plastic Tupperware container filled with hot, freshly made blueberry muffins you’d baked the night before, along with a bright yellow sticky note.
When you stepped back into the hallway, Peter was still standing there, watching you with that earnest, slightly bewildered expression he always had whenever you talked to him.
"Here," you said, holding out the container.
He blinked down at it, his jaw dropping slightly. "Wait, are these... did you make these?"
"Muffins. Real food. Not Pop-Tarts," you specified, tapping the sticky note affixed to the snap-on lid, where you’d written 'Eat at least two before 10 AM or I'm taking them back' in black sharpie. "And since you're locked out, you're coming in to sit on my couch while I call the super to let you in. I'm not watching you freeze in the hallway."
Peter stared at the container like it was made of solid gold, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. "I—wow. Okay. Thank you," he murmured, his voice dropping into something impossibly soft. "You really don't have to do that, y'know. I feel like I'm bothering you."
"You're not bothering anyone, Peter, you look like you're about to pass out on the welcome mat," you teased gently, stepping back to hold your front door open for him. "In. Now."
Peter looked at you, his dark eyes shining with something so sweet and raw it made your heart do a strange little flip. A genuine, radiant little smile broke across his face, dimples showing through as he stepped over your threshold.
He carefully kicked off his muddy sneakers by the entryway, toeing them into a neat little pile beside the rug as if he were afraid of leaving a speck of dirt on your floor. His oversized sweatshirt practically swallowed him whole as he walked into your living room, his shoulders hunched slightly in that hesitant, careful way he always carried himself.
"Sorry about my... everything," Peter apologized softly, gesturing vaguely toward his hair, his torn jeans, and his general state of disarray. "I promise I don't usually look like I got dragged behind a bus."
"Could've fooled me," you laughed, walking past him into the kitchen to grab a second coffee mug. "Sit down, Parker. You're making me nervous standing there like a statue."
He hovered by the edge of your couch for a second before carefully sitting down on the far end, placing his worn backpack on the floor by his feet. He set the Tupperware container on his lap, cradling it in his hands like it was precious cargo.
While you poured a fresh cup of coffee, you listened to the quiet rustle of the plastic lid popping open behind you. When you turned around to hand him the mug, Peter was already halfway through a blueberry muffin, his cheeks puffed out slightly as he chewed. He caught you watching him and froze mid-bite, his eyes widening in mortification as he tried to swallow quickly.
"Sorry," he squeaked, his face flushing crimson once again. "They're just—wow. They're really good."
"Take a breath, it's fine," you smiled, taking a seat on the opposite end of the couch. "I made them so someone would actually eat them. My apartment usually smells like stale coffee and old radiator heat, so baking keeps me sane."
Peter took a slow sip of the coffee you handed him, his shoulders visibly dropping an inch as the warmth hit him. He leaned back against the cushions, letting out a long, quiet exhale that sounded like it had been trapped in his chest for days.
"You have no idea," he murmured, looking down at the mug in his hands with a faint, melancholic little smile. "I don't... I mean, I haven't had a home-cooked thing in a really long time. It's really nice of you."
"Well, you live right across the hall," you said gently, nudging his knee with yours. "So if you ever get sick of microwave dinners, you know where to find real food."
Peter looked up at you, his wide brown eyes searching your face. The tension in his jaw softened completely, and for the first time since he'd stumbled into the hallway, he looked genuinely relaxed.
"I might take you up on that," he said softly, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "As long as you let me pay you back somehow. I can... I don't know, fix your sink? Help you carry heavy stuff? I'm surprisingly good at carrying heavy stuff."
"Deal," you laughed. "Now finish your muffin while I go hunt down Mr. Henderson for your spare key."
As you stood up and headed for the door, you looked back over your shoulder. Peter was leaning back against your sofa cushions, sipping his coffee, looking warmer and more at peace than you'd ever seen him. The heavy silence of his solitary apartment was gone, replaced by the quiet, comfortable warmth of yours—and as you stepped out into the chilly hallway, you realized you were already looking forward to the next time he knocked on your door.
It happened a lot sooner than you expected.
Three days after the muffin incident, you heard it.
It was nearly two in the morning. You were curled up on the edge of your couch in a faded t-shirt and sweatpants, halfway through a late-night movie with the volume turned down low, when two soft, incredibly hesitant taps sounded against your front door.
Knock. Knock.
It wasn't the loud, heavy bang of Mr. Henderson doing his landlord rounds, nor was it the sharp rap of a delivery driver. It was quiet. Almost shy.
You paused the TV, pulling your fleece blanket off your legs as you padded over to the door in your socks. You slid the chain lock back and pulled the door open, expecting to see an empty hallway or maybe a stray package left on the floor.
Instead, you found Peter.
He was leaning heavily against your doorframe, one hand clutching a plastic grocery bag and the other holding a half-eaten bag of convenience store pretzels. His oversized gray hoodie was soaked through at the shoulders from the cold drizzle falling over the city, his dark curls plastered messily to his forehead. He looked like a stray dog that had spent three hours standing in the rain.
When the door swung open, Peter winced slightly at the sudden spill of yellow light from your entryway, looking up with wide, apologetic brown eyes.
"Hey," he rasped, his voice doing a tiny, embarrassing squeak before he cleared his throat. "Um. Hi. I'm... I saw your living room light on from under the door, and I—I really hope I'm not disturbing you, I can totally just go back across the hall—"
"Peter, it's two in the morning," you interrupted gently, taking in the way he was vibrating with nervous energy. "What are you doing?"
"Right. Yeah. Sorry," he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck with a wet hand, leaving his curls even more chaotic. "I just... I brought back your Tupperware. Wash—washed it. In the sink. With soap. TWICE."
He held up the plastic container like a peace offering. It was spotless, stacked neatly inside a plastic bodega bag alongside a slightly squished paper sack.
"You knocked on my door at two AM to return a plastic bowl?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.
Peter flushed, his cheeks going bright red despite how cold he looked. "No! Well, yes, but—okay, no. I also got those little cinnamon pastries from the bakery down on 4th? The ones you said you liked when we were talking by the mailboxes last week? I was... working late near there. And I thought, y'know, if you were awake..."
He trailed off, looking so ridiculously earnest and completely exhausted that any annoyance you could have had evaporated instantly. But as he tried to shift his bag, he accidentally bumped his elbow against your doorframe.
In a classic Peter move, he panicked, tried to catch the paper sack, lost his balance, and somehow managed to trip over his own wet shoelaces—pinwheeling his arms in slow motion before catching himself with one hand on your entryway wall.
He froze, face-to-face with you, his wide brown eyes practically dinner plates.
"...I meant to do that," Peter squeaked softly. "It was... a tactical entry."
You stared at him for three full seconds before breaking into a laugh, leaning against the open door. "A tactical entry, Parker?"
"Yeah. Extremely stealthy," he muttered, slowly standing up straight and tucking his hands deep into his hoodie pockets, his face burning a shade of red that put stoplights to shame. "Anyway. Cinnamon pastries?"
You let out a soft sigh, swinging the door wide open. "Get in here, dork. Before you trip into the hallway radiator."
Peter let out a breathy, relieved laugh as he stepped over the threshold, carefully kicking off his soaking wet sneakers.
"I'm really sorry," he murmured softly as you took the grocery bag from his hands and guided him toward the kitchen counter. "I didn't mean to burst in like a circus act."
"I told you," you said, reaching into the cupboard to pull out two mugs for hot chocolate. "It’s fine! You can come whenever."
Peter sat down on the high stool by your counter, his shoulders slumping as he finally let himself relax. As he set the box of cinnamon pastries between you two
And just like that, the 2:00 AM knock became a habit.
It didn't happen every night—some evenings Peter’s apartment across the hall stayed completely silent, the dark gap under his door giving away that he was either out late or finally getting a full eight hours of sleep. But whenever your living room light cast a soft yellow glow into the hallway past midnight, two quiet, rhythmically awkward taps would inevitably follow.
Tap-tap.
By week three, you stopped asking why he was up. You just unlocked the door, swung it open, and stepped aside to let the cool draft of night air and the scent of rain or city smog drift in behind him.
Peter’s routine was always the same: he’d kick off his scuffed sneakers by the mat, murmur a quiet, flustered "Hey, sorry if I'm late," and wander straight over to your kitchen counter like a giant, soft-hearted stray cat.
In return, your routine shifted to accommodate him. You bought the extra-large loaf of bread at the corner bodega instead of the small one. You kept a fresh jar of peanut butter in the pantry that was strictly reserved for his late-night sandwich craving, and you learned that if you handed him a mug of chamomile tea, he’d drink it without realizing it was meant to make him sleepy.
"You know," you said one Thursday around 1:45 AM, leaning against the counter while Peter sat on the high stool, aggressively spreading peanut butter onto a slice of toast, "most neighbors just exchange polite nods by the trash chute."
Peter paused mid-swipe, the butter knife hovering in the air as his dark brown eyes snapped up to yours. A tiny smear of peanut butter had somehow already found its way onto his thumb.
"I—I mean, we can do that!" he offered quickly, his voice doing that familiar, anxious little jump. "If this is too much! I can definitely be a trash-chute-only guy. I just... you had the good tea, and my apartment smells like old radiator dust, but I can totally—"
"Peter," you laughed, reaching out to gently nudge his arm. "Relax. I like having you here."
Peter melted instantly, the nervous tension draining out of his shoulders so fast he practically deflated into his oversized sweatshirt. "Oh. Okay. Good. Because... yeah. I really like being here, too."
He took a bite of his toast, chewing thoughtfully while looking around your cozy, warm kitchen. Without fail, within twenty minutes of eating whatever food you put in front of him, the heavy fatigue Peter carried around all day would catch up to him.
By 2:15 AM, he was usually slumping sideways on your couch.
"I'm awake," Peter declared sleepily from under the fleece blanket you’d tossed over him, his eyes already heavy and half-lidded. "I'm just... testing the lumbar support."
"Right. Lumbar support," you hummed, sitting on the opposite end of the couch and turning the TV volume down to a quiet whisper. "You're free to go sleep in your actual bed across the hall, you know."
"Too far," he mumbled into the cushion, his voice thick with sleep. "Way too many steps..."
Within two minutes, his breathing evened out into a steady, quiet rhythm.
You sat there in the dim glow of the television, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. His curly hair was a wild, unruly mess against your sofa pillows, and for the first time all day, his face looked completely smoothed of stress.
You reached out, gently tugging the edge of the blanket up over his shoulders. Peter made a soft, contented little hum in his sleep, turning his face slightly toward the warmth of your apartment, utterly unaware of how naturally he’d woven himself into your life—or how quickly you were falling for the boy across the hall.
It started with a tiny, ridiculous realization on a Tuesday night.
You were sitting on your couch, reading a book, when you caught yourself glancing over at the front door for the third time in ten minutes. The clock on the microwave read 1:48 AM. Your door was locked, chain slid into place, and you were literally sitting there waiting for those two awkward taps so you could get up and let him in.
You looked down at the brass lock, then at the empty space on the kitchen counter where you’d already set out his peanut butter and a fresh mug.
This is stupid, you thought, a small smile tugging at your lips.
You stood up, walked over to the door, unlocked the deadbolt, slid the chain back, and simply left the handle unlatched.
At 2:04 AM, the doorknob turned.
The door swung open just a few inches, revealing Peter standing in the dim hallway light. He had his hand raised, fingers curled into a knuckle, entirely frozen mid-knock. He stared at the slightly open door, then at you sitting on the couch, his brow furrowing in instant, high-alert confusion.
"Um," Peter stammered, stepping inside on tiptoe like he was walking through a minefield. He gently shut the door behind him, his wide brown eyes darting toward the lock. "Hey. So... your door was unlocked."
"I know," you said, not looking up from your book. "I unlocked it."
Peter blinked, hovering by the entryway rug with his sneakers half-unlaced. "Did... did the lock break? Because I can fix it! I have tools. Well, I have a screwdriver and a pair of pliers, but I can fix it right now so nobody sneaks in—"
"Peter," you laughed, finally setting your book down. "The door is unlocked for you."
He stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth staying slightly open. "For... me?"
"You come over every night," you pointed out, gesturing to the kitchen stool that had basically become his official seat. "You knock, I get up, I open the door, you apologize for being late, and then you eat my food. We can just skip the middle part."
Peter’s face went through a rapid series of expressions: utter bewilderment, intense fluster, and then a slow, deep flush of red that started at his neck and burned all the way to his forehead.
"I—you... you left your door unlocked... for me?" he repeated, his voice dropping an octave into pure, disbelieving awe.
"Unless you'd rather stand in the drafty hall and knock twice every single night," you teased.
Peter stood there for a long moment, looking at the unlocked door, then back at you. Something exceedingly soft and overwhelmed settled in his eyes. He swallowed hard, a breathless, beaming little smile slowly spreading across his face, bringing out those deep dimples.
"No," he murmured, his voice impossibly tender as he kicked off his shoes and walked over to the kitchen. "No, I... I really like the unlocked door.
summary: your cute upstairs neighbour holds many secrets. you're willing to close one eye to his secrecy or the way he looks at you as if you hung the stars, till you accidentally uncover letters upon letters nedpeter’s kept in his apartment—all addressed to you.
pairing: peter parker x reader
content: slight angst, flufff, comfort, no major movie spoilers!!, yes peter fumbled by using ned as his fake name, yearner peter parker!!
Hey! It’s Peter, your Peter.
Peter—clearly, Ned wasn't even his real name. Ned, the friendly neighbour from 28B who was a secretive, genius oddball—whom you suspect to be some sort of undercover agent after catching a glimpse of the ridiculously high-end tech flooding his apartment.
Overly sweet Ned, who never failed to offer a hand with your laundry basket or delivery packages, or dropping off your exact coffee order at the front door before your morning shifts, just because he could. Ned, who snaps his neck up half the time looking around with a widened, hopeful gaze when you do address him in the laundry room—as if looking for some other Ned that meant a greater deal to him than himself.
You had suspected he was likely involved in illegal activities, but when the temptation of finding his laundry basket unattended remained, you finally took the chance to return those little favours. Maybe he was the kindest stranger you've ever known, or maybe he just looked like he could use a helping hand—with how his shoulders drooped low whenever he thought no one was looking in the dingy hallways. He seemed—lonely.
Not like you were one to judge. You had always felt like a piece of you was missing, and that gaping hole behind your ribs didn't magically stitch itself closed when you grabbed your degree with crippling student loans biting at your heels, and a lousy job in the nearest soul-sucking company you could find within train distance to your apartment.
So, maybe Ned's smile that crinkled the corners of his hazel eyes flashed more than once in your thoughts, and you decided it was time to get to know the man who lived one floor above you. You expected his smile to greet you when you climbed up the rickety stairs to his apartment, not his door left ajar with webs sticking out the hinges—or letters all addressed to you scattered across the floorboards.
You didn't know what you had expected when you walked into his mess of an apartment. More so than usual, enough for you to sense the abnormality of webs upon webs coating his furniture. Stepping into what seems to be a genuine crime scene, it's as if the culprit was one massive spider that decided to make its hive in Ned's apartment.
"Ned?" You call out, worry raised in your tone as you look around—catching no sight of him through the thick layers of webbing. His large monitor screens are all left online, files left unclosed on the window tab, with no sign of their user.
You're one step away from the monitor, tempted to call the cops when you catch sight of crumpled papers upon papers scattered on the wooden floors beneath the desk. Brows furrowed, you crouch down, brushing away the loosened cobwebs coating the papers. They are— letters.
Your first instinct as your fingers trace over his handwriting, paper crumpled at the edges, is to leave it alone as it's most definitely personal—before your eyes catch sight of your name. No—you weren't imagining it. The letters were most definitely, addressed to you.
Hey! It’s Peter, your Peter.
Earlier was bad. Like, really bad. I can't believe I said 'Oh no!' to your face, like what kind of idiot does that as their first impression? Well, technically that wouldn't be our first meeting, though I doubt you'll remember me. I was anything but smooth on all the other occurences either.
Just talking with you in the hallway and carrying your boxes—I nearly forgot myself. I still can't decide if it's a curse or some cruel joke of a blessing that you moved into my apartment complex of all places. It's like the world's trying to tell me to just say the truth.
I should be going out there and telling you this instead of writing this stupid note or letter, but a letter should come in one of those fancy envelopes, so I guess I should call this a note? Anyways, I'm getting off track.
I miss being with you, and I’m so scared I’m starting to forget how it iswas between us, and talking to you again like everything was normal just—I had the urge to sit down and write to you, before I did anything stupid. So I could talk to you, in some way, without hiding behind 'Ned'. How stupid can I be, using Ned's name, like was that seriously all I could think of? I don’t know if this note will be worth anything by the end, but I think it’ll hurt worse if I just let what happened simmer in my brain.
I miss you so, so much. It feels like it's killing me sometimes, and I don't know what to do with myself now that you're here, so close to me, for what could be a really long time. I don't know what hurts worse, being apart from you or this, and I don't know what I'm going to do. You'd know what to say, and I wish you could tell me. I miss you ordering me around. I just miss you.
Love,
Your Peter.
Your heart thumps painfully against your ribcage, fingers tightening over the crinkled edges, digging deeper into the forming lines. What kind of sick joke was this? Had he known you for longer—since before you moved into this apartment?
His strange reaction when he had bumped into you in the hallway for the first time reformed in your memory, the intensity of a stranger that came off as more than usual awkwardness.
"Sorry for bumping into you—" You huff, a cramped smile peeking through the many boxes you're carrying. "Not my best line of sight right now."
Past the boxes, is possibly the cutest potential neighbour you've ever seen. With wettened curls drooping over his forehead, a towel draped around his neck, in his grey sweats and baggy hoodie—this stranger looks like a dream. Or maybe you're just in desperate help to ease the load on your arms that carries your entire future life in this new apartment complex.
"What are you doing here?"
You blink, stunned by his sudden interrogation. That was—not what you expected. You run faces through your mind, anyone you may have accidentally pissed off in the last four years of your university life, but his doesn't come to mind at all. You would remember that face.
Especially if he's staring at you like the existence of you in this cramped hallway was a signal that the world was collapsing on him and his perfect curls.
"Uhm, I live here?" You answer, shuffling the boxes awkwardly between your two palms. "Well, starting today—I do."
Your words register slowly for him, and you feel it in the strain of your arms under the boxes, as the fact that you're his actual neighbour slowly kicks in to his senses.
"Oh." His lips part in genuine anguish. "Oh no."
"Yikes." You wince. "That's a warm welcome."
He's panicking. The cute stranger looks like he's one miscalculated breath away from passing out in the hallway, and you're in no position to assist him when you're clearly winded yourself.
"No—I didn't mean—" His voice stutters, catching at the tail-ends and running out of breath. "Oh, this is not how it's supposed to go."
"No, I don't think I've ever caused genuine pain to a neighbour just from my mere existence." You snort, offering a lighter tone. "Though Margeret may disagree."
His lips quirk up slightly, involuntary even if he has no idea who Margeret—your old neighbour, is supposed to be. "No, I'm sorry. That was rude of me." He tries again, voice sincerely apologetic. "Can I please help you with the boxes to make up for it?"
You open your mouth to brush off his request, but the boxes tilt right as you make another forward step. "Fine." You oblige. "Just don't start spreading rumours about me taking advantage of your kindness. I really need a new start here."
"Had personal experience with that?" He raises a brow, almost teasing—softer than he had been earlier in his initial shock. His hands come up under your boxes, brushing over your fingers almost tentatively.
The warmth of his touch lingers for a second longer than it should, but you're too focused on the relief of the heavy weight being lifted off your palms as he carries it into his own arms, clearly handling the boxes with more ease than you had.
"Ask Margeret." You shrug, rolling your shoulders to ease the cramping. "Thanks..."
His lips part and close, realising he's supposed to introduce himself. It takes him awhile to gather the syllables of his name, before he offers it. "..Ned."
"Thanks, Ned." Your smile deepens, and he stares at you long enough, gaze tracing over the curve of your lips for it to teeter towards awkward.
He keeps doing that, registering your presence as something otherworldly, as if it was the last thing he expected in his path. Maybe the complex has few new tenants to explain his abnormal reaction.
"Oh, my door's 13B."
"What—oh, right!" He blinks, still looking stunned and turning with such an abrupt motion towards the direction of your new studio—and somehow, you're fond of it immediately.
Fond of Ned, even if your arrival seems to have jumbled his senses into a frenzy, and you have only known him for approximately four minutes.
Hey, it's Peter again!
It's two in the morning, my ribs are aching from Scorpion, and talking with you in the laundry room was easily the best ten minutes of my life since everything changed. My smile refuses to be wiped and it's been nearly an hour, and I can't sleep cause I'm thinking about you. You genuinely work better than painkillers, and I love you. I love you so much that I have never wished so desperately...
I wish I wasn't Peter Parker. That I wasn't the person who took your love for granted, who reassured you that I'd always make it back to you and that I'd help you remember. I can't even protect the people I love, not without ruining their lives just by letting them in. Being able to keep you safe from me, is the only reason that's enough to keep me from barging in and fulfilling my promise. From reminding you of what I used to mean to you, and what we used to be. I am a coward, but I can only hope that I won't be a selfish one. I've created enough reasons for why I can't stand being me, but I refuse to list another which involves hurting you.
That's enough for tonight. I just wish that if the universe ever gives me the chance to make things right, without making everything else much much worse, I just want you to know that I would never take anything for granted ever again. Over anything. Over pineapple on pizza, or the supremacy of rock bands, or the Lego pieces I stuffed under my bed, or me being Spiderman. I miss you so much, and I hope you're having a better night that I am.
Love,
Your Peter.
“Ned, are you okay?” You ask, watching as he limped forward towards the washing machine, one hand gripped right at his ribcage.
Your own batch is tumbling along, and you're seated cross-legged across your machine as he slumps forward to sit right next to you, hand going towards the cover of the conjoined machine beside yours.
“Peachy.” The crinkles of his eyes deepen, tossing you a wayward smile with a barely concealed wince. “Tripped and slammed into the washing machine yesterday.”
“That’s like the third time this month.” You raise a brow, expression contorting in concern.
“Is it?” He chuckles self-deprecatingly. “Must be really off my game.”
“Of making amends with the washing machine?” You tease.
“Yeah, I suppose.” His smile softens, gazing up at you.
He does that a lot, go soft at the edges, as if he’s peeling back something fuzzy over his expression—and revealing something honest.
"My advice is to make an offer." You whisper conspiratorially. "Throw in your most favourite shirt or something, and the laundry gods will be kinder on you."
He snorts, and it feels strangely familiar to talk to him this way, under the dim lighting of the flickering lamp, surrounded by the scent of detergent. You barely get to see Ned as is, not like you're expecting a practical stranger to make up much of your socialising hours, aside from the quick friendly nods and occasional 'how's your day's' when brushing past each other in the hallway.
He's a busy guy, and the laundry mat has become a sacred space where the two of you existed in each other's worlds for just a few minutes, till the timer runs out.
"I don't really have anything of mine that'll please the gods." He whispers back.
"I could give you something." You shrug non-comittally.
His gaze widens, staring at you as you dig around in your inner pocket, before tugging something out. One of your favourite scrunchies in hand, you offer it to him.
"Here." You gesture. "Just toss it in with the pile, I guarantee you that the gods will leave you alone."
His gaze flickers between the scrunchie in your hand to you. He's about to say something, brows furrowing together in brief conflict, but chooses not to divulge as his hand reaches for the scrunchie. You note the bruises forming along his knuckles as his fingers loop around the silk, and your lips press together further in concern.
By the time your gaze meets his, he's already turned his head and placed the scrunchie gently on top of his pile of clothes. When he sets the settings and presses the button, the machine runs smoothly, beeping along with yours as his clothes begin to turn and tumble without fault.
"Wow, you really do make everything better." He mutters to himself.
Your smile softens. "It's just a scrunchie."
He shakes his head loosely, his curls falling to his forehead before he turns back to face you. His gaze pours over your features, the crinkles in the corner of his hazel eyes so soft in the dimmed lighting. "No, I think it’s you."
Peter here!
I just wanted to say happy birthday to the smartest, beautiful, kindest, most awesome human to ever exist! I ran out of other big words, but you make up the whole dictionary of synonyms for amazing in every language possible. I’m really sorry I couldn’t be there, you have no idea how sorry. I have many other things to be sorry for, but this week, that’s definitely going top of the list. I should really stop with these letters, but I really wanted to give you a proper wish just this once.
It kills me that I can’t celebrate with you, and I know you’d end me yourself if you remembered my promise with the camera. You always did like the grain. You still look absolutely beautiful even without it. I’m so proud of you—for being you, and existing, and just killing it out there in the world. I did something a little sad, and not even close to what you deserve, but I bought a cupcake from Delmar's earlier, and I even have the candle right in front of me.
I wish for you to live the most happiest, fulfilling life, and that danger will never come close to you. I wish that you will achieve everything you've ever dreamed of, and that you'll have people who will look after you and love you just as much as I do. I wish—that you'll live a life worth remembering.
I love you, and I think this will be my last letter. I think it'll be nearly impossible for me to let you go, but I think it's time I accepted that for you to live the life I wished for, I have to try.
I love you,
Your Peter.
P.S. Sorry, just had to add this in one last time. You're always beautiful, and I'm not saying this because I only get to see you from a distance, but because I don't think I ever got to tell you that enough.
"Ned?" Your voice croaked out. "Is that you?"
You hear shuffling, before his left shoulder peeks out from the doorframe, slowly entering into view as he takes the lower step into the laundry room. He's staring down at you as if you've handed him an atomic bomb, and you're a sure mess, nose stuffy and eyebags swollen from crying.
"Hey." His soft call is close to making you lose it. "I didn't know if you wanted me intruding on your—"
"Date with the washing machine?" You huff, amusement dry as you turn back to look at your tumbling laundry. "By all means, join in. This current option isn't really doing it for me."
You spot the turn of his lips into a smile in your peripheral vision, before he eventually drops his weight beside you. His knee brushes against yours, and that contact registers like lightning to your senses, before he pulls back to that appropriate distance he always sets between the two of you.
You have no idea why it frustrates you so, even if you have nothing you should expect from him. Your gaze drops to his hand resting over his knee, bouncing slightly with a restless energy—and you spot your scrunchie over his wrist.
Your breath shortens, pulling your attention to his face only to find him already looking at you with unbridled concern.
"You okay?" He asks gently.
Your lip trembles, and you steady yourself as much as you are able. "Fine, just a real shit week."
"I'm so sorry to hear that." He's honest, you can hear it even without really looking him in the eye. "If you want, you can rant to me. I'm a real good listening ear. No mouthing off, just a still statue for your needs."
Your lips quirk up slightly at his attempt at minimising his presence, without even knowing how much it mattered to you that he came in here—or that he stood by the door for a solid ten minutes before you called him out. That he didn't leave, even if any normal stranger would.
"It's my birthday." You shrug, wiping at the tearstain at your cheeks. "And I just lost my job."
His lips part, brows pulling together—but he doesn't interrupt you.
"I was supposed to have a party today, and my college friends cancelled last minute." You mutter weakly. "Not that we were super close, but close enough that it mattered, y'know? I wasn't their first pick, or anyone's for the matter, so it really shouldn't have come as a surprise."
"No, you're—" His voice raises almost in frustration, and you meet his gaze. His Adam's apple bobs up and down, and his tone softens into an admission. "You're definitely my first pick."
Your laugh bubbles out of you, finding his statement absurd. "For what? You barely know me."
"I know you're extremely kind." He starts. "That you'd offer your favourite scrunchie to a stranger just to please the laundry gods. That you're funny, and beautiful—and my first pick for who I'd always want to run into."
You stare at him, unable to suppress your shock. He just called you kind, and funny, and beautiful—things people who've known you for longer hasn't thought to mention in years.
"That's—the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me in awhile." You confess, licking at your lips. "Thank you, Ned."
"It's only the truth." He presses. "I shouldn't be the only person to see that, and I know I'm not the only one who does."
"I don't know." You shrug uselessly. "My birthday hasn't even ended, and I feel completely unseen in my own life. I know it's a stupid thing, but I wish I had someone to take my picture, at least to comemorate that I've completed another spin around the Earth or something."
"You could use my camera." He offers almost instinctively.
"You have a camera?" You blink, before a slow smile spreads across your lips. "Of course you do. Do I need to be a tech-savvy to use those too, secret hacker?"
You're no stranger to the many monitors that crowd his apartment, courtesy to the many curious glances past the few times he's left his door ajar, into the premises of his own studio of what looked to be a completely different realm.
His smile deepens. "No, you just need to press two buttons. I could teach you how to work it out."
"You're into photography?" You ask.
His expression stiffens, thoughts trailing off. "Yeah, something like that. My aunt used to love taking physical photos, and I sorta inherited that trait. There was someone—who used to love using my film camera too. So, yeah—I guess I have some experience."
"You could teach me photography." You offer, almost tentatively. "Not just for the sad, lone birthday picture, I mean."
"Oh." He stares at you, and you see it then. Conflict—a pure, unmasked internal battle. "I—I don't know if I'm the right person."
You shrink slightly, less confident than you had been a few seconds ago. This really wasn't your day. "Right, sorry. I know you're a really busy person."
"No, I—" He winces, jaw clenching tight. "I would really love to. It's just that I'm—"
He pauses, staring at you with a nearly broken expression. Your brows furrow together, waiting for his answer—heart thumping in what could only be anticipation. Rejection is close at hand, and you hate that you find yourself waiting still, for something different. For him to fulfill something even you couldn't quite understand.
"Busy." He eventually settles on, voice trailing off in defeat.
You can't take it to heart. You don't allow yourself to, because disappointment is the last thing you wanted a taste of on a day like this. Ned was still nice enough to sit down here with you while you moped, and you shouldn't expect anything more. Even if you liked him, and the crinkles in the corners of his warm, brown eyes, and the sweet sound of his voice—more than you'd ever admit to yourself.
"That's not very creative." You mumble, presenting him with a weakened attempt of a smile. "I gave you that excuse, thief."
His own softened smile rises to meet yours, equally shattered. "I'm sorry. I promise I'll make it up to you."
You know he means it, you just don't know why your heart churns so painfully when you hear those words coming out of his mouth. You don't know if you have faith in promises lately. You haven't believed in those for a really long time.
You don't know how many letters you've gone through, flipping through confessions scribbled in secrecy, of mind-spells, and magic, and vigilantes—a life you don't even remember to be a fraction of your world.
A loud crash resounds behind you and you instinctively rise, tripping over your feet—almost frightened, lashes wet at the corner of your eyes when you turn and see Ned. No, Peter—dressed in a black tank-top much too short for his defined torso and… Juicy Couture pants?
He’s clearly disoriented, and you’re not sure if it’s the chronic migraines he usually gets—or something heavier he keeps hidden past the pile of letters that’s just spilled everything. You can barely look at him without feeling like you’re going to burst at the seams, and he hasn’t even noticed your presence in his apartment.
“What is this?” Your voice eventually breaks through.
His head snaps up, expression scrunched in tension—and he freezes. That same tentative smile he always tossed to you, always sweet and somehow all-too-knowing, locks in place as his lips part—assuming you’re talking about his outfit. Or the state of his apartment, there’s just too much about him that you could never quite put a finger on.
“Wrong laundry basket.” He huffs, churning out an attempt of a laugh to play it off. “Fell asleep in the laundry room, and I didn't even think to take a look at what's inside. I promise I'm not a thief.”
“Stop.” Your stern expression is caught by him immediately, and his attempt of a smile falters. Slowly, your hand raises the letters to his line of vision. "Peter."
His gaze snaps to the letters creased between your shaking fingers. You can't remember what breathing looks like, especially not when his own chest stutters visibly beneath the tank top, as if all the oxygen's been sucked out of him.
He knows, that you know.
"Oh—no." He whispers weakly, because that is the only appropriate thing to say. You’re struck with déjà vu, back to the first time you ever crossed paths with him in the hallway, when he had looked you with so much pain—one you couldn’t decipher.
He takes a step forward towards you, both hands raised with his lips parting to come up with an explanation. You instinctively take a step back, not on purpose, but the distance you've created lands all the same.
He flinches as if you've struck him, his expression shattered to pieces of that raw agony you've felt slip up from him once or twice. That same gaping sadness beneath his gaze, that he always covered up with a bandaged smile meant more for show.
"I'm sorry." His voice breaks weakly, hands clenching into a fist before dragging back down to his sides. "I didn't mean to scare you. Oh god, this was not how this was supposed to go."
"How was this supposed to go?" You echo back to him. "From your letters, it didn't seem like you were ever going to tell me."
It didn't mean to sound accusatory, but you're high on the precipice of a reality broken to pieces, and you're unsure if you're left alone in apartment with an actual lunatic, or with a truth you weren't suppose to discover.
"No, I—" He sucks in a breath, desperation seeping into his tone. "I swear I was going to, but then I found you and you looked so—"
His hands that have begun to brush through his curls fall flatly to the sides, defeated. "So peaceful—and safe. I felt so selfish to take that away from you. To drag you back into my world, knowing that all you'd face was danger or worse."
"And the truth is that hurt the people I love." He admits, his eyes squinting together as something wet flickers over his lashes, and you can tell he believes it. This so-called truth he tells himself. "Nothing good comes out of being close to me, and I couldn't lose you."
"I had to be okay with it." His gaze meets yours, broken. "Not being in your life will always be better than a world without you in it. I had to protect you, somehow—even if it meant leaving you alone."
"It was easier before you came." He huffs out, pained. "To keep a distance before I saw you everyday, just out of reach. I can't count the amount of times I nearly told you. I was just afraid, that if you didn't remember me, I don't think I can—live with hearing it. I'm a coward, and I took the only path I knew, which was to pretend. Like everything was fine, and that seeing you from a distance was enough."
You see it, the way his brain registers his actions as protection, but you don't feel protected. You feel isolated, locked out of your own memories and faced with a man you're supposed to know, someone your body is pleading for you to recognise past the fog in your brain.
“Listen—whatever worked worked, and I can’t remember.” You breathe out, exhale shaky from your lips. “I can’t remember what we had, but I know myself. I don't let people make promises to me, not unless I trust them so much that I—If you promised you’d find me, that you’d help me remember.” Your fist clenches tighter around the letters. "You should've known that I'd never be okay with leaving you alone to deal with this—"
"How could you know that?" He snaps.
You blink, stunned.
"I mean—you never had a normal life from the moment you met me." He goes on. "You never experienced a life without hoping I'd make it back home safe, without looking over your shoulder when I became the world's public enemy, or having to deal with stitches and blood and worrying about survival—instead of school!"
"You don't see the difference but I do." He confesses. "You're living a good life now, and I already screwed it up by entering it again."
"Peter." You cut him off, nearly pleading. "Stop it."
His jaw locks, lips clamping shut before he lets out a huff, one closer to a panic attack than frustration. "I'm sorry." He mutters, clenching his jaw. Something wet pries behind his lashes, and he runs his palms over them, covering his face. "I don't want to fight."
Your heart cracks a little, because there's something so heartbreakingly earnest in the way he says it, as if he's beating himself up over a million thoughts you can't uncover. Your steps inch closer, almost instinctively your body knowing the rhythm at the sight of a distraught Peter before you even have the chance to piece together the 'why'.
"We're not fighting, Peter." You reassure him, your hands tentatively lifting to rest atop his palm.
He freezes, unable to comprehend your touch. You peer through the gaps of his fingers, and find his gaze staring back at you, fractured and pained.
"I knew something wasn't right." You sigh. "I felt it this whole time. Like there was an absence of something—someone important. It gnawed at me, that emptiness, and it nearly drives me insane some nights."
He recognises the feeling, you know he does with the way his expression draws tighter—in understanding, in regret.
"I wish you came to me." You whisper. "I wish you told me, so you wouldn't have to go through this alone."
His lip trembles, as if he never expected you to hear the truth and stay. As if you'd pick the exit over him, when he clearly needs you now.
"If I had promised I'd be there for you, you should've let me keep that promise." You scold gently. "Even if it meant starting over. You’re not meant to deal with life alone, much less one as heavy as yours.”
His gaze is shaken, staring at you with his pupils blown wide. Waiting for reality to hit, or for you to take back your words—but you remain. You stand there, close enough for him to feel you. You don't falter.
Something in Peter gives—shatters completely, and it’s a mere blink before his arms are completely wrapped around you, squashing you into his chest. His fingers are shaking, trembling—a relieved exhale pressed against your shoulder blade before he buries himself deep into the crook above your collarbone.
“I missed you.” Wet tears pool at your skin. “So, so much. It felt like I was dying a little inside every single day, knowing I wasn't keeping your promise. I couldn't—I really tried letting go and it didn't work, not when you mean everything to me."
"I know you don't remember me or what happened between us but—" His voice shakes, muffled from his tight hold. "I love you and I’m sorry—I’m so sorry for everything.”
You can't answer him, not with the words he wants or deserves to hear with full honesty backing it, not without the memories you used to share. Yet, the hold of him is familiar, the way you run your fingers through his curls like memory work. His entire body caves in deeper to your touch, as if he’d been waiting this whole time since your arrival to let himself fall into you.
"From the first day I saw you." You admit. "I felt like I was meant to know you, Peter. I wouldn't have given you my scrunchie if it didn't mean something, if I didn't want to tie myself to you in some way."
Pulling back slightly so he meets your gaze, you find yourself mesmerised by the familiarity of him, the way his gaze pours over you automatically as if memorising you is all he wishes to do.
"I want to get to know you, Peter." You confess. "And I want to do it without you pushing me away, pretending like my life is happier without you when laundry nights are what I look forward to the most, because of you."
His breath halts, short-circuiting with your words. Something bright and warm bleeds into his face, and you recognise it to be happiness. Genuine, unconditional relief—before his forehead presses against yours, his lashes fluttering to a close as he embraces you.
"I can do that." He mutters softly. "I'll do anything you ask me to."
It's nice, to be held so tightly and finally feel whole. To have that gap in your chest you've never truly stitched up fade into something mind-numbingly warm and fuzzy, in the arms of the one person your body still commits to memory, past even some stupid mind spell.
“Also.." You murmur, still wrapped in his embrace. "Seriously, what is this outfit?"
A surprised chuckle escapes his lips, a little wet-sounding as he clears his throat. "I wasn't lying about the laundry mishap. I swear I don't dress like this normally."
You hum. "I don't know, I kind of like it."
The silence stretches for a brief second. "I'll buy more if you want me to."
a/n: this movie was everything i needed. much more peter parker fics to come!
likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated! <3333
little mortal is the first name that loki gives you that isn't your own. you bristle at it in the beginning, because you think that it's a cruel way that loki wants to remind you about the differences between you.
as time goes on, you start to believe the fondness in his tone. you notice when he says it—when you're being stubborn, when you're feeling bad, when you're on the cusp of doing something just because you can.
dear heart is when he's being patient—either with you, or with himself. when you're ranting, and he wants to pull you back to the point of the matter—"dear heart, come back."
chaos bringer appears the day that you brought home a duck.
"it's hurt," you tell him.
"it's messy," he says.
"so are you. so am i. just until it's healed!"
he sighs, knowing the battle was lost. "very well, chaos bringer."
lovely one is for first thing in the morning. or last at night. when his guard is down and he thinks that he's gotten lucky in a way that has tricked the universe.
when you roll over in the morning, face still crumpled from sleep, and he reaches out—"good morning, lovely one."
cleverness sounds like immense pride, even when he's not thinking about it. especially when he's not thinking about it.
or when he notices your restlessness in the evening, and you've paced a hole in the living room floor as he reads—"come, cleverness," he says, shifting in his chair, "tell me what troubles you so that i may concentrate."
