Pairing: Peter Parker x Fem Reader
Summary: You and your boyfriend get into a heated argument that leads to him groveling for your forgiveness.
Warning(s): Cursing, Fluff, Angst/Comfort
Yes Baby I won’t forget :) was the last text you got from Peter today. He sent it at 6:50 p.m. It is now 1 a.m.
Over the past couple of weeks, he’s been missing numerous dates. At first, you let it slide, he’s Spider-Man, after all, but then it became increasingly more annoying as he began ignoring you completely. You couldn’t find the right way to communicate with him about it. How do you tell your boyfriend, New York’s superhero, to take a break from keeping the city safe just so you can go out to dinner a couple of times?
How do you tell him that you need something as simple as a text to soothe your racing mind?
How do you tell him that you hate what he does because you’re terrified one day he won’t come home?
It’s 2:45 a.m., and you’re still staring at your phone, hoping for something, anything, to show he’s okay.
Knock knock knock. You glance over and see the shadow of a certain spider-boy outside your window. Hesitantly, you remove the blanket from your body and walk over to let him in.
As soon as you open it, Peter comes stumbling inside.
“Oh my fucking gosh, Peter, what happened?” you exclaim the moment you see the severity of his injuries.
His face is bloody, one eye is swollen and black, and his suit is torn in multiple places.
“M’fine,” he mutters under his breath as he brushes past you and heads straight to your bathroom.
You can’t believe the audacity. He has the nerve to show up at your apartment unannounced, blow you off for hours, and expect you to just be okay with it.
You weren’t even mad at first, but the way he’s acting right now turns your worry into full-blown anger. You follow him to the bathroom. You’re not letting this slide.
You swing the door open, and the sight infuriates you even more. He looks worse without the suit. Bruised ribs, cuts, a fresh bandage across his shoulder.
“So are you gonna tell me what’s up, or are you just going to keep ignoring me?” you ask flatly.
“I don’t know what you mean. Nothing’s up,” he responds, like every word pains him.
Why is he being like this?
“Peter, don’t fucking bullshit me. You come into my house practically bleeding out, and expect me not to be worried? I didn’t know where you were for seven fucking hours, and you tell me nothing’s up?”
You’re yelling now. Weeks of bottled-up frustration, anxiety, and helplessness burst from your chest.
“I don’t fucking know what you want me to say! I’ve been more busy than usual, okay?! What do you expect me to do, drop everything just to fucking text you?!”
You’re not asking him to drop everything every minute. You just want a heads-up. A single text to let you know he’s alive. But now, he’s acting like you’re the reason he’s stressed. It’s a stab to the heart.
He knows you’re insecure about seeming clingy—and he chose to say that anyway.
“Don’t even, Peter. You know I’m not asking for a lot. Just some fucking form of communication so I know you’re alive.”
“It’s a little hard to do that while I’m saving civilians,” he replies with that stupid, condescending tone.
“I’m just asking you for one SIMPLE thing.”
“AND I’M ASKING YOU TO BACK OFF. GOSH, YOU’RE SO DAMN SUFFOCATING!”
That’s what he thinks of you? Suffocating?
It’s dead silent. You’re both standing there. Your tears threaten to spill, but you won’t let them. You won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s hurt you.
“No. I know exactly what you meant, Peter. And I’m sick of it.”
You finally say what’s been trapped inside your heart:
“I’m tired of waiting for you. And you’re right, it’s selfish of me to ask for your attention when there are people in danger who truly need it. I’m sorry for asking for so much. I’m sorry for being suffocating.
Which is why I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep expecting something that’s not going to happen.”
The look on his face nearly breaks you—but you stand your ground.
“Baby, no, wait! I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I said that. Ple—”
“Save it, Peter. Get out.”
“No, baby, please, I didn’t mean any of it. I’m just tired, I took it out on you. Please, I’ll do whatever you want, I promise.”
“It doesn’t work like that, Peter. You can’t just say sorry. Not for this.”
He’s sobbing now, profusely. But it’s too late. He should’ve thought about his words before lashing out.
He looks at you with those big brown eyes you’ve grown to love, filled now with nothing but heartache.
“Please, baby,” he whispers one last time.
But life doesn’t work that way.
“You said it yourself, Peter. I’m suffocating. So leave. Get out of my apartment.”
Those are words you never thought you’d say to your boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend now, you guessed.
He doesn’t argue. Just looks at you, broken. Then, he walks to your window... and swings away.
Once he’s gone, that’s when you lose it. Everything comes spilling out. You cry so hard, you don’t even realize when you fall asleep.
It’s the next morning now. You wake up at noon.
To your surprise, Peter hasn’t reached out. Not a single call. Not a single text. Nothing.
To you, it means he doesn’t care enough to try and repair what’s broken. You spend the whole day moping around in your pajamas, which, ironically, are his hoodie and sweatpants.
It’s now midnight. You’re still in bed. Still alone. Still without your Peter Parker.
You wake up earlier today, 11 a.m., and decide to take a shower.
The warm water and steam are like a hug. For the first time in days, you feel... okay.
After your shower, you tidy up the apartment, it’s a mess. While cleaning, you find a Polaroid on the coffee table.
You don’t remember it being taken, but there it is: you, asleep on Peter’s chest, and him grinning like an idiot.
He must’ve left it the last time he was over.
The deep hole in your heart widens.
Then you remember: he still hasn’t contacted you.
Anger and resentment return.
You rip the photo in half. Then in quarters. Toss it in the trash. A little part of you goes with it.
That night, you fall asleep alone. Again.
Oddly enough, you feel... better. Almost hopeful.
You throw on a pretty outfit, do your makeup, and head out to your local café for a latte and pastry. The breeze is soft, the skies are clear, and the sun is warm. Just what you needed.
You eat, breathe, exist. It feels good.
But when you return home, you reach for the door... and notice something strange.
No, no, I locked it... right?
You start to panic. Did someone break in?
You dig through your purse, grip your pepper spray, Peter made you carry it for situations exactly like this.
You slowly open the door with one hand and ready the spray with the other.
As you push inside, a shadow moves toward you
You spray them without hesitation.
“WHAT THE FUCK—MY EYES!” the voice shouts. Familiar.
“OH MY GOSH—PETER?! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?! ARE YOU OKAY?!”
Your victim is none other than your ex, Peter Parker.
“I—I CAME TO TALK—OH MY GOSH IT BURNS!”
He’s flailing like a maniac.
You rush to the kitchen, wet a towel, tackle him to the ground, and start dabbing his eyes.
“That feels so much better, thank you baby,” he mumbles.
“You have no right to call me that anymore.”
That nickname. It stings now.
Peter sighs and sits up, rubbing his red eyes and trying to focus on you.
“Don’t say that. Please. I don’t know what to do, I’m so sorry.”
A tear slides down his cheek.
“You were clearly fine. You didn’t contact me once these past few days,” you shoot back.
“You think I was fine? I couldn’t sleep. I kept having nightmares. You were everywhere, in my mind, in my soul. I didn’t reach out because I thought you needed space. But don’t think for one second that I’m ever fine when you’re not by my side.”
You’re stunned. Your eyes sting again. How dare he come back just as you were starting to move on, and make you feel everything all over again.
You stand, turn to walk away, but he grabs your wrist.
And the moment he touches you, you break. Fists pounding on his chest.
“H-How could you do this to me?”
Pound. “You left me like I was nothing.”
Pound. “You made me feel worthless.”
Pound. “You asshole.”
He lets you hit him. Lets you scream. Lets you cry.
Then, in a lull, he wraps you in his arms. Holds you tightly. One hand around your back, the other cradling your neck.
“I’m getting snot and tears all over your shirt,” you sniffle.
“I don’t care. I just want to hold you.”
The world slows. It feels right again.
Peter gently pulls away, holding your face in his hands.
“I’m so sorry, baby. Please. I can’t breathe when you’re not with me. I can’t think. I can’t function. I made a mistake. A huge mistake. I want, no, need, to fix it.”
You’d already forgiven him the moment he held you, even after you pepper-sprayed him.
“Peter... I need to know you’re serious. About this. About us.”
“I am. I’m more serious than I’ve ever been. I’m sorry I lashed out. I made you feel small for expressing your feelings, and that’s my biggest regret. I won’t ever do it again. Not if it means losing you.”
“If I forgive you... I need to know you won’t take advantage of me. Or this.”
“Never, baby. I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“I’m not asking for much. Just one night a week. No interruptions. Just you and me.”
“Anything you want, baby. I’ll do everything for you.”
And deep down, you know you’ll forgive him.
And he loves you. So much he would do anything for you.
