#Peter prattles | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jamespottersdaisy · 1 year ago

Text

Dulcet

Peter Parker x fem!reader

in which it's a game

a/n: let me know if there are mistakes, more notes at the end <3

Shallow breaths echo around the forlorn silence. He keeps a distance. You endure pain.

He doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t want to. He brings you water when you ask and carries you from one room to another. He ensures your pillow is high enough while you eat,and your TV show is amusing enough while you lie. But he doesn’t talk.

You can’t speak, either. You don’t dare. Besides the meek requests and whispered gratitude, your lips fail at words. You want to ask him if he is angry with you and if he hates you as he attends to your wounds. You want to know if he counts the minutes until he leaves you to bed and if he’s been sleeping enough because his eyes are red most of the time. But you can’t speak.

Peter’s hands are shaking as he pressures your wound, his vision blurry, his ears ringing. Mark is dead. Soon, you will be, too, if he doesn’t find a way out of this.

He needs to think. Fast. He needs to stop crying your name and calm down. He has to get it together, he has to stop trembling, and he has to calm down, and he has to–

He can't breathe, so he takes off his mask. He hates the garment on his hands that prevents his touch. They are shaking as he moves your shirt up to see the wound. Curses echo in your ears.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, I told you not to–” he moves around, estimating the safest way to hold you. “Why didn’t you listen? Why don’t you listen?!”

Your mind is foggy, the ability to move your limbs lost on you. You hear Peter’s complaints and pleas, feel his firm grip on your weak body.

“Peter…”

“Why? Why?! I told you! I told you to- Why don’t you never listen?!” he holds your hands and brings them on his. “Pressure the wound. Don’t move your hand, you hear me? Just, just- just hold them tight–”

So you do. You put all your strength left into your wound, feeling your hand get wet and red, all while Peter gently places his arms around you, careful not to move you too much. He elevates your legs while carrying you. He doesn’t know what he is supposed to do.

He doesn’t know where to take you.

You listen to the faucet running as your nails dig into your palm. It is lamentable how the only sound ringing in your ears is either water splashing or footsteps thudding when he is around. Heavy words have soared akin to a mountain between you two, one that is painful to climb. The high walls of unspoken cries refuse to crack now that neither of you dares to speak.

He exits your bathroom, head down, hands wet. You know the routine; he’ll dry his hands with his shirt, pad to your kitchen, and make you a sandwich. He’ll ensure you eat it and then leave to come back late at night to attend to your injury again.

He stops midway to the kitchen and turns around. You watch him enter your room and avoid eye contact with you. He frowns and moves his eyes from one corner of the room to another.

“What is it?” you ask, voice hoarse.

“It’s time for the,” he gesticulates carelessly, and then he nods to your desk as if he found what he was looking for. “the thing that you always watch at five.”

He grabs the remote from your desk and places it next to you. You wish he hadn’t moved his hand so fast before you could touch it. “Thank you.”

He glances at you for the first time in that hour and quickly averts his eyes.

You let him walk away. What can you even say?

“Peter, it hurts.”

“I know, I know, I know, just hold on, trouble, come on,” he prattles, all while holding you in his arms. He doesn’t know if he can swing you in this position, but it is the only solution.

Where was the nearest hospital? He swings around the sky all the time; why did he never pay attention? What was he thinking dragging you into this? Why does his heart sting as your whines pierce his mind?

He shakes his head.

Standing still is no help to you. He needs to move. Thus, he shoots one web after another, flying with you in his arms, searching for a place that will keep you safe. Safe from danger, safe from hurt, safe from him.

You are clinging to him the hardest you can, eyes closed, face in a frown. He wonders if you feel sick or dizzy. If you do, it is his fault.

All of this is his fault.

You are bleeding on him, and it is his fault. It should have been him. It should have been him staining your shirt red, not the other way around. This is not how it goes. You are not the one crying from agony. You are not the one in need of saving. You are not the one whom he gets worried over; you are the one that does the worrying.

If not, then it’s his fault.

He thinks of the possible replies to doctors' questions.

You would think the female lead would understand that the boyfriend is lying and that the right person for her is her best friend, but for some reason, she keeps ignoring the poor guy’s pure love. You would also think that Peter would have the same opinion as you.

“He is not stupid. He is in love.”

“Which made him stupid,” he murmurs as his eyes trace the bloody scar on your torso. It’s one of the few sentences he has given you that day. “Sit straight.”

“How is wanting to be near the girl you lo–”

You sit straight after Peter shoots you a harsh look. He places a pillow behind your back, and you let him slowly take care of your wound.

“As I was saying,” you start again. This is a mere attempt to have him talk to you more than usual, one that is very uncomfortable for you. “He just wants the girl he loves to be happy.”

“He should leave her alone then,” Peter glances at you when you hiss at the burning sensation of the antiseptic.

“Why?! She loves him, she just doesn’t know it yet.”

He doesn’t reply, and you know no more words will leave his lips until he is done with his work. Thus, you talk no more, letting silence dawn per usual.

If only one of you broached the subject that’s growing heavier day by day, this could have been easier.

He lays you down on your bed, careful not to wake you up. When you whimper as he does, he curses under his nose. Stepping back, he stares at you for a moment.

He thought he was late.

He thought all the flying in the air had made things worse. He thought your wound would not close, your bleeding would not stop. He thought he’d have to–

Peter feels faint. His limbs are weak, and he remembers he hasn’t eaten all day long. He also hasn’t drank any water, which explains the headache. His body is sore, rightfully so. After getting you to the hospital, he has flown back to his house, changed into something he now realises is wrinkled, and ran back to you as Peter instead of Spiderman.

He drinks your water and nibbles on your bread. He falls to his place by the window and stares at the carpet.

He knew this day would come. He knew he’d have to wait by your bed, count the seconds, and listen to your heavy breaths. He knew he wouldn’t be able to protect you from harm.

Nothing is new.

Moonlight shines and glazes as Peter watches you sleep.

He has no idea what and how to say when you wake up. He doesn’t know how to act. All he knows is that he will take care of you until you are strong enough to slap him when he leaves.

"I can do it myself," you protest.

"The hell you can," Peter grumbles, face in a grumpy scowl as he grabs your arms. You refuse to lean to him, determined to carry yourself around with as much grace as possible.

By around, I mean the toilet.

It is embarrassing enough that Peter helps you shower; you don’t need him to know your bowel movements.

“How am I supposed to heal if you keep coddling me?” you murmur.

Peter stops in his place, snaps his head towards you. He doesn’t say anything, and yet the look in his eyes is enough words to your heart.

You know you strike a chord each time you mention anything regarding your wound, healing, hurt and pain, but he needs to grow up. He needs to handle this without his emotions, ones that he refuses to communicate.

You seize the opportunity and enter the bathroom yourself.

“Call if you need help!” you hear Peter yell behind the closed door.

“Don’t spy, you creep!”

You hear him step away from the door; he must have really pushed his whole body to hear your movements.

“It’s not spying,” he calls back. “I was just making sure–”

“Peter!”

“Sorry!” he says, steps fading away.

It takes time, but you manage to leave the bathroom without a call for help. Bittersweet, that is. A few days ago, you would groan and whine with each movement, trying to stifle yourself so that Peter wouldn’t hear you. As of now, you are slowly gaining your strength back, and the only reminder of the unfortunate incident is the occasional sting and Peter’s distant mannerisms.

“I think I want to make my own sandwich today,” Peter’s back greets you when you enter the kitchen; he’s been going through your fridge in the hopes of ingredients.

"I was gonna make you pasta," he turns around, and you suppress the urge to smile.

He wanted to cook for you.

But again, he's been doing that for some time now.

"Are you hungry?"

When he nods, you slowly walk up to your shelves. Another thing you have noticed is that since Peter has been living in your apartment part-time, your fridge and shelves are full of groceries.

"You shouldn't be walking around," he opens the shelf next to yours.

"I'm sick of lying in bed," you shrug, stretching your hand to take the pasta.

The sting strikes, almost knocking you over; you shouldn’t have pulled your arm that swiftly.

Peter hisses your name, “Mule,” he utters before taking down the pasta himself as his other hand rests on your bicep.

You scowl at him while recovering, “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are,” Peter bends over to find your pan. He’s looking at the wrong places.

“I can handle myself, you know.”

“And I’m Spiderman.”

“You are Spiderman,” you hand him the pan, which he takes without glancing at you.

You notice the subtle curl of his lips and the effort he wasted to hide it. You are doing the exact same; bickering with him has always been fun, even if he is distant and you are injured.

“How about you make yourself useful and sit on a chair?”

“How’s that any useful?”

“It helps the worrying.”

“I see no reason for worrying.”

“That’s because you are slow,” he turns around once he has put the pasta to cook. You feel his arms around your limbs, firm but gentle not to push your body to its limits, and let him lead you to the chair behind the table.

“You look pretty without being a hindrance,” he says when you sit down.

You don’t think you look pretty at the moment at all. “Mind you, you are the one in my apartment.”

“Preparing you a meal,” he nods and starts making the sauce.

“One that I’m perfectly capable of making.”

Peter scoffs. “Uh-huh. You as in you who whines every time she moves her arm.”

He finds it amusing that you are willing to banter even in a state like this.

“Oh, I wonder why.”

“Probably because you are so intent on hurting.”

“I am just strong enough to handle it,” you shrug playfully, pretending not to feel his burning stare piercing through your forehead.

You know what he is thinking; you can almost hear his thoughts. You haven't forgotten the fights roaming in your room, his harsh looks and raised voice against your aching body and breathless words.

He doesn’t remember when the silver hues of the moon abandoned their place for the golden light of the sun to take over. His mind has fled from the grasp of time, running amok with the perilous thoughts between its palm.

Its games have been played. Deceptions toward self, fear and rage dangling from the ropes it clutched have triumphed in gaining power over his heart.

The sound of his heart has been drowned, its echoes only blurring the clarity of the past, staining the white flames of apathy.

He has made up his mind.

A low whine averts his darkened eyes from his bruised knuckles to your frame on the bed. He slowly rises from the floor, staring at you, gaining consciousness back as the sore muscles and agony of your injury kick in.

It takes time for you to fully focus.

You are confused, in pain, and uncomfortable.

Memories of red, blue and black flashing like pictures in your mind, sounds echoing around, but none of them makes sense. Not yet.

You can’t move around. Your eyes look for water and find Peter instead. Maybe he can bring you water.

He’s standing a bit far away.

“Peter,” you say, but your voice doesn’t seem to reach him. Or you.

You clear your throat as he steps forward, hovering over you beside your bed. “Good. You’re awake,” he nods.

His voice is far, or maybe that’s just the ringing in your head.

“What happened?” you manage to ask. “I need water.”

He turns around and leaves, coming back with a glass of water.

“Thank you,” you whisper, attempting to rise from bed. He helps you.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

Now, they all make sense. The cure and your running. Peter and Mark, the excruciating pain in your bones, Peter’s distressed calls. You remember now.

“Hurt. What happened? Did you cure Mark? What about the–”

“Mark is dead.”

You look up to him, your face in a grimace and your breathing shallow. His face has no indication of feeling. His eyes are shrouded. “You couldn’t cure him?”

“I had to kill him.”

It means the same thing; you know it does. But it doesn’t feel the same.

“What happened after,” you look for the right words. “You know, after I–”

“Almost bled to death?”

He is angry. Not the screaming and yelling one. The silent one.

“Peter, look,” you try to move up, but the pain arises. “I’m sorry, alright? I know what you said, and I know what I did, and I’m truly sorry. It won’t happen again–”

“No, it won’t.”

His tone is curt, and so are his eyes.

You put the water glass away. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He doesn’t say anything at first.

“Nothing, really,” he shrugs. “It just won't happen again.”

You don't like how that sounds.

“Peter–”

“You should lay down,” he cuts you off. “Don't tire yourself out.”

This is not right. This is not how you left things. You are too weak to play games.

“What the hell is wrong with you? If you're mad at me, just say so–”

“If I'm mad at you,” his eyebrows shoot up as he scoffs. “If I'm mad at you?”

“That's what I said, yes.”

Your eyes watch him pace around, his face changing with every thought his mind produces.

“You could've died,” he says, mostly to himself.

“I–”

“You could've died there. In my arms, from a wound that I caused,” he turns to you.

You finally see it.

The anger. Fear. Desperation and exhaustion. All have painted his countenance into something unrecognisable to you. Something strange. Distant.

“You didn't cause anything,” you decide to reason.

“Oh, I did. I did, and I won't ever again because this,” he gestures the distance between you two. “Is not happening again.”

Your heart drops. You don't try to hide the feeling.

“What are you even saying?”

“What I'm saying is after I make sure you are okay, that you can walk and talk without groaning from pain, I'm not seeing you again.”

No.

You shake your head, albeit it makes you dizzy. You want to reach out to him, but you are not sure you can stretch your arm without hurting.

“That's not fair,” is all you can say between the pain and hurt. “That's not fair, you can't punish me like this–”

“I'm not punishing you, I'm protecting you because clearly, you can't do that yourself when I'm around.”

You abhor the way he composes himself.

“No, you're punishing me, you're punishing me with your absence, you know damn well it was an accident–”

“Accident or not!” he raises his voice this time. “Accident or not, you could’ve died, alright?! I’m not betting on that again.”

“It is not up to you, Peter! I can die walking on the sidewalk, too!” you match your tone to his regardless of how much it’s agonising. “You can’t protect me all the time!”

“I can try.”

He is not thinking properly. This is not right. You need to make him understand that this is not right.

“Peter, please, listen to me–”

He shakes his head and takes the glass you’ve put aside. “No, don’t. Don’t, okay? You need to rest. Rest and heal, exhausting yourself won’t do any good.”

Maybe it is not so nice for you to start healing. To start not needing Peter as much as you used to do.

He can see it. He can see that you are getting back on your feet, and it absolutely terrifies you that he will leave.

You don’t think he’s changed his mind.

Otherwise, he would talk to you. Not talk to you as if you are a civilian he is responsible for taking care of, but as if you are his friend. Yet, he refuses to.

“How are you feeling?” He enters the room with bags in his hands. The flex of his biceps under the shirt distracts you, and you wonder if he chose the shirt on purpose, as the weather is far from welcoming this kind of attire.

It’s late; you figure he must’ve come back from nightly patrols, which means he’ll leave to sleep in an hour or so.

That makes one visit a day.

You avert your eyes from him to the laptop screen. “Is that pizza?”

You hope it is; you’ve been too lazy to prepare yourself a proper meal.

“Have you eaten today?”

He knows you haven’t; he knows you too well after caring for you all this time.

“Coffee?”

He nods with an ‘ah’ to your sheepiness. “No wonder you have a headache.”

You do not want to miss this, him worrying over you in a teasing way. You don’t want to miss him.

“And I’m–”

“And you’re cold, yes, I know,” he puts the pizzas next to you. “Plates?”

“Nah, we can eat without.”

“All right, loafer,” he nods but still heads towards the kitchen.

“I’m sure I said no plates.”

“How many glasses of water have you had today?” his voice echoes from the kitchen, and you start to count in your head.

“Two?”

“So, two glasses of water and coffee, am I right?” he returns with a bottle of water, aiming it at you.

Your eyes widen at the ominous possibility, your hands already in the air to shield yourself. “Yes, but– hey, DON’T THROW IT!”

He does and you fail at catching it.

“Yeah, you’re a hopeless case,” he nods before taking a slice of the pizza.

“You need to stop throwing things at me,” you take the bottle from the ground, noticing the absence of pain. You are indeed healing.

“Someone has to train those reflexes, you can’t catch a ball to save your life,” you watch him pick the mushrooms on the pizza and eat them separately.

“I’ve got you for that.”

“Not always.”

“I don’t understand!” no matter how hard you’ve tried not to raise your tone, there you are, getting irritated by your own voice.

“What is there to not understand? We’ve been over this for a hundred times by now,” he says calmly.

He is not wrong.

No other words have been heard in the last twenty-four hours.

“It’s bullshit. Leaving me for my own good. If you don’t want to see me anymore–”

“Nope. No, absolutely not,” he abruptly stands up from the chair, shaking his head. “I’m not playing that game.”

“You can’t make a decision on my behalf!”

Your name leaves his lips in a whisper.

“I’m tired of this, trouble,” he leans to the counter with a disappointed look on his face. “You know why I’m doing what I’m doing.”

You know. You do know, and yet knowing does not make it any less painful.

“You are a selfish jerk, Parker.”

Your heart beats in your ears as you try not to make it obvious that Peter’s every touch sends shivers down your spine. You wonder if you’ll ever feel his touch again after this, ponder what to say, how to behave to not break the already strained thin string between you.

“It’s healed,” he reclines, dropping his hand to his knees.

It takes all the vigour in you to keep your face still, to not let him know how much you are devastated to hear the words.

“Thanks to you,” is all you can say, and he leaves it unanswered.

Peter doesn’t think he deserves thanks for anything he has ever done. He watches your dismal eyes and knows he doesn’t even deserve a smile anymore. Especially not from you.

He’s been acting distant to the best of his abilities, breaking your heart into a million pieces, readying you for his decision.

He hates himself for that.

He absolutely abhors himself for being the reason for your gloomy countenance, broken laugh, and moments spent ruminating on the things he renders no control from you.

They falter him, placing doubts in his mind, pushing his mind against its limits and his heart down its cliffs. He often finds himself contemplating if this is the right choice. If cutting ties with you will indeed save you from future disasters. If speaking how he actually feels towards you will put you in further danger.

Sometimes, the words push against his lips. They threaten to spill over, to relinquish every hold he has over his heart to you, to divulge all his soul’s secrets to yours.

Then, he remembers.

He remembers the red in his hands. He remembers the echo of your whines in his ears. He remembers the unconscious moans haunting him all night long.

“I better get going,” he stands up, dusting himself off, attempting to remove the image from his mind.

“Where?” you ask, eyes following him around.

He doesn’t know how to answer. He can lie and tell that he has things to do. He can avoid any reply.

“Home.”

But he doesn’t. Instead, he watches your smile waver, sees your exertions to hold everything together.

“This soon?”

“Yeah.” he nods, not noticing his tone lower to match yours.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

There it is.

There goes the hope you’ve been holding onto, and he is about to strip you off from it.

Peter whispers your name and the light in your eyes ebbs. The sofa you’ve been sitting on shrinks, suddenly unable to hold you. You rise from your seat, hoping to be close to him as if it would help.

“Peter, come on, you know this is ridiculous,” you try to reason once more. “Don’t toss this away just because you’re afraid.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t get it, do you?” he stares into your eyes. “This has put you into danger so many times that I’ve lost count.”

“Peter–”

“Sweetheart,” he takes a big step towards you, holding you by the arms. “Don't make this any harder than it already is.”

Peter feels a lump in his throat as you shake your head and squirm away from his hold.

“You have no right, no right to do this,” you say, this time firmer than before. “You can’t decorate your own decision as ‘protecting me’, Peter.”

“My decision is to protect you!” He steps forward, hovering his hands close to your body.

“I don’t want that!”

Peter tries to calm himself. He knows exploding won’t do any good. He reminds himself that this is a lot more agonising for you than it is for him– he is the one making the decision while you are not allowed any control over it.

“It is not about what you want–”

“Peter, do you even hear yourself?!” your tone raises, and he can feel the anger burning in your veins. Anger from being desperate, from failing to change things, from not being able to have a say in this. “Do you even fucking hear yourself?!”

He knows this is his cue to leave. He can not stay any longer.

“That’s it, I’ve overstayed my welcome,” he looks around to find his jacket. He doesn’t see you run a hand through your hair or hear you mutter curses under your nose.

You don’t try to persuade him any longer. He is not sure if he is grateful or resentful for that, but he knows you won’t lose further dignity to get a boy to stay.

He takes his jacket, throwing it around his shoulders, and striding to the door. The door creaks open, and he, despite all the protests of his mind, spares you one last look.

“Take care, trouble.”

“You are a coward, Peter Parker,” you shake your head and dash to your own room, shutting its door.

He knows you are right.

You’ve become bitter. Easily irritated and grumpy. Tired most of the time from overthinking.

You brush your teeth and think this is taking too long. You’ve never noticed how much time you've been putting aside for this.

You sit to study and find your thoughts fled to him. You believe your attention span has declined since the last time you studied. Either that or he has become the only thing you can think of.

You walk to campus and expect to run into him. You never do, and yet, you wait for it.

In the class, you notice you don’t take notes any more. Instead, you doodle so you don’t stare his way.

You return home with him in your mind, leave the room with him in your mind, and eat and drink with him in your mind.

And when you get in bed, that’s when the real nightmare begins.

That’s when not only your mind but your heart wreaks havoc as well.

Your feelings stain the sober thoughts, fogging your brain, deeming you unable to probe the facts.

Most of the time, it’s rage.

It’s the rage of being deprived of a say. It’s the rage of having all the ropes clutched off your palm. It’s the rage of being tossed aside in the name of love.

It burns in you.

It consumes you whole, blinds your senses. Its poison reigns in your veins, conquering your heart over his image. You rally no longer, welcoming the safety it provides.

Sometimes, however, it’s the heartbreak simmering under it.

It’s whys and ifs haunting your nights. The questions you want to ask him meddle in your mind no matter how well you know their answers will make no change.

You detest the sorrow of it– of losing someone you loved. Someone you love.

You struggle to tolerate it. The moment the tears prickle your eyes, you remind yourself of the rage, sheltering under its wings.

You run, and run, and run to escape the heartbreak’s crushing heft. Some days, you prevail. Some nights, the tears do.

You miss him.

You miss the evenings that dimmed into nights with him by your side. You miss his weight on your bed when you’ve just washed your sheets. You miss the light things around your home being thrown at you because he wants to train your reflexes. You miss the food he makes you eat.

You miss his laugh echoing around your heart.

You hate him for that.

You want to slap him across the face for keeping your favourite person away from you. You want to kick him in the stomach for marking every inch of your room with his memory. You want to hit him in the chest for rendering your body yearn for his touch.

You want to make him regret your absence, and you want to drive him crazy while doing it.

You simply don’t know how.

It’s midnight, and he’s not swinging in your room any more. He hasn’t been for a week. You shouldn’t wait.

Just close the damn window.

In the end, Peter is not visiting, and your room is cold.

Dusks turn into dawns, each hour a torment inflicted upon you. A day becomes one of the many others, yet he doesn’t become one of the others.

He is still there, alive and well.

And away.

Stolen glances are each a sharp knife in your heart. Clandestine yearning pulls you down, drowning you in his memory.

Nothing happens, but your heart beats as if it intends to abandon your ribcage.

You don’t talk, you don’t banter, you don’t even acknowledge each other.

He passes through you like the wind when you encounter. You don’t look him in the eye when you have a professor putting you two through a painful exercise together. He hides his wounds from you, and you don’t ask about them when you catch a glimpse of the bruises.

People pick on quickly.

They feel the loss of dynamic between you two in the class. Whispers arise behind your back, as well as the questions before your face. All of them get left without a reply.

“Please drop it, Ash,” you shake your head, sighing in annoyance. Not only in annoyance, but you can’t dwell on the other feelings in public. “Or ask him, not me. I’m tired today.”

“Okay, sorry, honey,” the redhead smiles, helping you with your drinks as you carry the meal to your table. “It’s just he also acts a bit off, you know?”

“He does?” you can’t help but ask as you two sit.

“Yep, it’s as if he’s not there. It’s not really productive for the project.”

“He must have a lot on his mind,” you say, playing with your food. You should eat it before it gets cold, as the weather is not forgiving these days. Or you simply shouldn't have chosen to sit outside. “Anyways, how’s the project going? We’re struggling a bit.”

“We can do better if Parker gets his shit together,” Ashley frowns, taking a bite from his burger. “Other than that, just the same old–”

A scream soars in the distance. Not a long time passes before it gets accompanied by the gunshot, wicked echoes of instructions. You see the silhouette of the people running around in the hopes of hiding.

You definitely shouldn’t have chosen to sit outside.

You don’t think; holding hands with Ashley, the first thing you do is to leave the table and flee to the inside, and if you are lucky, hide inside the bathroom.

Inside of the building is crowded to its limits, but there’s no turning back. You have to hide; that’s the only thing your mind instructs you to do.

“Ash, quick,” you drag her to the left, running the length of the corridor. If you remember correctly, which hopefully you do, there needs to be stairs.

Your heart beats in your ear, silencing every scream and yell echoing around the building. You don’t feel the push and pull of each person bumping into you, all of them rushing into some other place their mind decided.

Apparently, most of them indeed trust the building’s bathrooms enough to run there, blocking the stairs.

“Holy shit!”

“It’s okay, we can–” You look around to find something and fail to see anything.

“What about the classrooms?” Ashley asks, and you shake your head frantically.

“Too out in the open.”

“We are out in the open here too!”

You feel your body shaking in terror, mind operating too swiftly to regulate your breathing. “The other stairs! If we can circle the building–”

“You go,” she lets go of your hand. When you see what she’s doing, you find her boyfriend stretching out his hand towards her. It turns out he has a place for one next to him. “You go and, and, and text me when you get to safety, alright?”

When she leaves, you feel the sheer panic run down your spine. You waver between the two decisions. You wouldn’t think of leaving if only…

If only you weren’t the last person in the crowd pushing each other at the stairs. If they make it to this point, you’ll be the first one to get hurt.

Maybe it’s better if you run and circle the building. You turn around to take off, charge to the other side.

Instead, a taller figure crashes onto you, holding you by the arms as firmly as possible.

“Stay here! Don’t you dare move!” Peter orders with a stern expression. “You hear me? Stay here!”

He doesn’t give you much of a chance before taking off. Next thing you know, while you try to make your place between the frenzied crowd, a loud crash before the building hurts your ears.

You see Spiderman swinging around, and that is the only thing you see.

He blocked the main entrance by wrecking the billboard against the door.

Which gained you enough time to hide.

Your mind reflects his image only while your body runs for safety. If you look back to those moments, you wouldn’t remember a thing–how you pushed through the crowd in enough time to hide, how the shooting blarings got only closer and closer, how Spiderman’s fight only echoed in the place as descriptions from the girl close to the door.

You hoped he wouldn’t get injured in the process. You wondered if he’d visit in case of an injury or if he already had someone to ask for help. You scolded yourself for creating jealousy in your head in vain when he can be in pain out there.

You don’t know how the time passed.

All you remember is the shake in your legs as you followed the crowd outside after the announcement, according to whom criminals have been disarmed and neutralised. Only then you notice your phone being gone, left forgotten on the table you were dining at an hour ago.

You need your phone back.

If the announcement is true, there shouldn’t be any problem with you going back to the yard.

Checking your surroundings, you decide to make a turn and head in the opposite direction once you’re sure no one has their eyes on you.

You hope no one has touched your purse. Not only your phone but also your wallet and ID card are in there. It would be a big headache if you were to lose them all at once for a bunch of criminals–

“Where you going? Everyone is going that way.”

Your heart skips a beat at first, thinking one of the professors caught you, and then takes the pace after recognising the voice.

You don’t turn back.

“My purse is out there, I’m not letting it get stolen,” you continue walking, hearing Peter’s footsteps following you. “That is if it’s not already stolen.”

His hand grabs your arm and turns you around. “I’ll go get it, you get back to the others.”

“I can get my own purse, Parker, it’s not like there are any other bad guys running around–”

“There is one I haven’t caught yet, they just didn’t mention it in the announcement. Now, will you please get back to the others?”

You frown, forgetting the history with the guy before you.

“Then why the hell would they want us to expose ourselves? Are they crazy?”

Peter scoffs, letting you go. “They didn’t expose you, they asked for you to gather in the Hall, did you even listen?”

“I must’ve missed that part,” you murmur. “Anyhow, I need my purse. Take care, Parker.”

“No, absolutely not,” he grabs you by the arm once more when you turn around. “You go to the Hall, I’ll find it and bring it to you.”

“Such a gentleman,” you pull your arm from his hold, and walk to catch up to the crowd.

As you enter the Hall, your eyes look for Ashley or her boyfriend, and it doesn’t take much as there are only a handful of redheads around.

“I thought I told you to text!” she hugs you for a short moment, and you smile at her.

“You had the chance to take your phone?”

“Oh, honey, my phone is always with me.”

Looking around, you focus on people’s faces–distraught, confused, worried, and angry ones. For some, it still doesn’t feel real, for others it was shaking to the core. You still don’t know how you feel; you’ve been through worse.

Still, it doesn’t mean the worse doesn’t show up in your dreams. It does. It wakes you up in a cold sweat and obliges you to turn the lights on for a few moments. It gets better with time, but again, you’d wish there was nothing to get better in time.

“There you go,” Peter interrupts your thoughts, your belongings in his hand. “Nothing was stolen.”

You take them from him, relief washing over you. “Thanks.”

“Are you alright?” he asks, eyes wandering around your body, checking for an injury. You miss the feeling of his hands on you. “You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

“I didn’t,” you say. “I’m fine.”

He averts his eyes up to yours, and at last, the feeling hits you in the gut.

Who would’ve thought a pair of brown eyes could drown you to your death? You would laugh at yourself once if I told you your heart would cripple under his brown eyes, your breath would hitch, and your core burns in yearning for him.

And yet, now, there you stand.

Ready to ignite under his touch.

“Right,” he drops his hands. “Nice.”

He nods, like he always does, biting his lips. “Just follow the crowd, alright? Don’t- don’t change the route or something.”

With that, he turns around to leave.

The feeling sinks back.

He finally acknowledged you when he thought you were in danger. This was the first time after that day that he actually held a conversation with you.

Suddenly, a lamp lights in your brain.

You know how to drive him crazy.

Peter narrows his eyes, trying to decipher your intention. This is the third time this week– not to mention it’s been ten days he’s been babysitting you from the air– yet you are determined to die.

At least, that’s how it looks from the roof of a skyscraper.

Yes, he is following you. No, he is not stalking you.

In his defence, you are proving to be more of a challenge than any other criminal he has ever fought; he needs to keep an eye on you.

It was rather confusing at first; how all the bad luck seemed to greet you only. However, later on, the realisation has hit him like lightning, shedding light on your clandestine intentions.

In the beginning, it started with small clumsiness.

Peter felt the ache hammer his temples as if thorns were prickling against his eyes. He needed to sleep. Three hours were simply not enough for every day of the week.

He would sleep if only the haughty professor giving the lecture would stop scrutinising him the moment his head hit the desk. Thus, there he is, attempting at his best to force his eyes open.

He stares at the board. Takes in the numbers and denoted letters, notices how none of them mean anything to him. He must’ve stopped listening a long while ago.

He glares at the lecturer. Notes how he glares back and that the green of his eye is extremely vibrant. Wonders if he is indeed human.

He focuses on the lecturer’s lips. Thinks the professor might not be the cleanest person on earth because of the beards surrounding his lips. Decides he is too sleep-deprived for this.

He looks around. Doesn’t understand how and why his eyes land on you. You look bored as well. And dismal. He’d know; he has looked at you more than anyone else.

He wonders if you are upset because of him or if something happened in your life that he is not allowed to know any longer. He’d hate to drag you back into the same hell of a place as he did before everything went south. To have your sleep poisoned, your smile broken, and your heart shattered.

He wishes he never agreed to your help; it ended the same way regardless– him without you on his side.

He wonders whether your hair still smells like heaven, whether your phone screen is still cracked, and whether you bought a new kettle for your home.

He doesn't see the yearning in the brown of his eyes, but he can feel it in his heart. The crave to reach out and touch you. Feel your skin aflame under his touch. He has always, always, felt it, felt you melting under him. It filled his heart with something greater than he was willing to admit.

Losing it– losing you– was the hardest decision he has ever had to make.

He averts his eyes before yours can find them.

He closes them for a moment– just for a moment– and lays his head on his arms. He will raise it back in a few minutes. He will.

When he does, he realises the lecture has ended, everyone has left, and his spider senses are tingling.

Almost everyone except you.

You are on your tiptoes, reaching for a globe almost your own size, dragging it by your fingertips. The black plastic base makes a low screeching sound, and Peter grimaces.

“Stop that, what are you doing?” he asks, standing up and shoving his backpack to his shoulders.

“I need that,” is all you murmur as you drag the base closer, not minding the fact that the heavier part of the globe is facing you.

“Let me,” he says as he advances, but before he can approach you, you shoot a nasty glare in his way.

“I can do it myself,” you say and drag the base swiftly.

The globe falls with your force, aiming at your pretty head, threatening to break it in two. You are too late to protect your skull from it. Peter is not.

A silver web of Spiderman sticks to the sphere and pulls it away from you, right beside your feet.

You flinch at the sound of the impact, and Peter frowns. “Where’s your head at? Did you really think you could carry that around?”

“I hoped. Is it broken?”

Peter scoffs, almost laughing genuinely, but stops. “Would be surprised if it wasn’t.”

He doesn’t wait for any reply, moving past you to the door.

Peter didn’t denote any meaning to it. It was an unlucky accident and a lucky coincidence that he was there. He had to admit, he did panic when he saw your frightened face, trying to cover yourself from the blow, but that is how he always felt when something happened to you.

Thus, by the next day, he had forgotten about it. That is until he took notice of the bandage around your dominant hand.

His eyes were narrowed, trying to figure out how you’d managed to harm yourself. There was no way for it to be broken, and yet it was a mystery to him how you managed a gash that deep to be bandaged.

It was none of his business.

Yes, of course. None of his business. He shouldn’t wonder, as there is absolutely no reason for him to worry. He shouldn’t give in to the urge to walk up to you and question you. Or get mad at you for not being careful like he used to do.

He put distance between you for a reason.

Albeit you are indeed with an injury, it could have been worse with him around. Or he could have prevented it. You could have been captured, or tormented, or gotten into another accident trying to save him, and even though your hand must have bled again, you are better off, right? You could’ve been—

“What happened to your hand?”

You look up, eyes nonchalant grey and countenance indifferent towards him. He glances at the papers before you, deducing that he must have intervened with your studies. You shouldn’t have studied in the canteen anyway.

“Nothing serious,” you wave off your bandaged hand, which only makes Peter more uneasy. He doesn’t enjoy seeing you injured– no matter how small and insignificant it is.

“You cut it?” his brown eyes never leave yours, and he feels heartburn inside his chest at the sight of you. This might not be the best idea.

“Yeah.”

You are cold. Distant and indifferent. Unlike the first days, when he’d drown in your sorrow, cursing himself for your every shed tear, and burn to ashes at the sight of you, you now have a nonchalance painting your visage shadowed with a confidence he is not sure where you’re getting from.

“Knife?” he nods.

Your eyebrows raise, and Peter feels strange in his own skin. What is he doing? He has no right to this.

“Worried much, Parker?”

“Just want to make sure it’s nothing–”

“Nothing serious, that was the first thing I said,” you cut him off.

Peter feels himself falter. “Alright, that’s-that’s good.”

You nod, lowering your gaze back to the letters and numbers before you. Peter takes the cue and turns around to leave.

He looks back and sees you smile to yourself.

Going back, all of many things made sense, except that one. He didn’t think you’d be crazy enough to inflict pain upon yourself.

Peter shakes his head, jumping to another roof to have you in his vision. You are walking out of a coffee shop with a boiling hot one in your hand. He wonders if you’ll somehow manage to spill it and burn yourself again.

He watches your hair get wet in the rain and knows you deliberately didn’t take an umbrella with you. It is absolutely frustrating.

You are absolutely frustrating.

The birds that are chirping at this time of the year must be a simulation, Peter thinks. Or robots. He remembers the game that had android birds. Although he never understood their purpose, he supposed it was one of the ways to signal the player that twenty years later, androids will–

“Parker!”

Ashley’s call startles him and he turns around. Oh, she has dyed her hair purple. And you are there with her.

“Hey, Ash, what’s up?” he cracks a subtle smile after failing to catch your gaze. You are staring at the hot coffee before you. He thinks it is hot– who would want an iced coffee in winter? Maybe you, he’s not sure.

“Wanna sit with us?”

No, he doesn’t. Not with Ashley around. “Uh, actually, I was just about to leave.”

He wasn’t. He was going to think of the game and its complicated flowchart. Maybe guess how other choices may lead to totally different endings.

“Didn’t you just come?” She raises a brow.

Five minutes doesn’t count as just. “Yeah, for a change of air.”

Peter smiles and gets up from his seat to approach yours. “You ladies need me to bring you something?”

You don’t cast him a glance, toying with your coffee cup. He’d tell you to stop doing that unless you want to burn yourself, but he bites his tongue. It’s not his business.

“You’re gonna burn yourself.”

“No, I won’t. Thanks for the warning, though, Parker,” you continue to do it nonetheless.

Ashley is talking, and yet Peter can’t hear; his eyes are on the cup and the steam that hovers over it. Another blow that is a bit stronger than the one before, you’ll spill it and burn yourself–

Peter sees you hit the cup harder, and in a swift moment, he pushes the cup towards himself in the hope of not burning you. The dark liquid spills over, its steams soaring slowly.

“You alright?” his eyes check for anything wrong like they always do and rest on you when they don’t find any.

“Did you just spill her drink?” Ashley laughs.

“No–”

“He totally did,” you nod, determinant in your movements.

Peter scowls in confusion, staring into your eyes. You tilt your head in response. You still are so pretty, he realises. He thinks it is not the right time to miss the taste of your lips against his. He never got to kiss you the second time, did he? If the first one even counted as a kiss.

“You owe me a cup of coffee, Parker.”

He watches you leave in perplexity.

As he follows you from the air, the irritating regret fills him for not kissing you the second time, but he shuns the thoughts away. He doesn’t know what this game will result in, how hard the limits will get pushed into the verge of the break, and he certainly doesn't want any new ideas to get to his head now that he sees you frequently.

What goes through your head with your each escapade is still a mystery that he has yet to solve. How you dare to face the most ridiculous circumstances without even a tremble in your hands is a wonder to him.

How much more any of you is willing to go…that’s another story that Peter can complain about for hours.

His shoulders sulk with his idle steps. Gray stains the weather and his heart. He thinks of Mark. How he had to kill him. How the rage had blinded him, numbing his senses. What worries him sometimes is the fact that he does not regret Mark’s death, unlike all the other criminals who had to die in the battle against him.

All he could think was you when he was face to face with that man.

He wonders if that makes him a bad one as well.

He only wants to get back home and sleep.

He looks around the campus, finding the best route out of all the busy chatterbox students and couples who are about to have sex out in public.

He recognises your frame a few steps ahead from your backpack. He notices your limping state, frowns, and, without a second, thought approaches you.

“Why are you limping?”

“I sprained my ankle,” you don’t seem surprised to see him as the reply flows smoothly from your lips.

“Where?”

“The stairs.”

Peter’s heart stings with every one of your winces as you step on your feet. “Don’t you have a ride home?”

“I sprained my ankle after I turned down the ride.”

He checks his surroundings. “Let me take you to a doctor.”

You shake your head while Peter practically drags your backpack from your shoulders and carries it on his own. “It’s just a sprain.”

“Maybe, but you are walking on it, at least let me swing you home,” he keeps his tone as reserved as possible, not wanting to give away how this situation annoys him.

“What’s the worst that can happen?”

How would he know? He is not a doctor. “I don’t know, but I do know it’s not good to walk on it. Don’t insist, come on–”

“Peter,” this is the first time you’re calling him by his first name after everything. “If you weren’t around, I would still walk on my sprained ankle.”

“Yeah, but now that I’m around, let me help you,” his tone changes to irritation, and surprisingly, he knows you enjoy it.

“Oh, no,” you frantically shake your head before wincing again. And yet, a smile climbs up to your lips. Not a happy or a genuine one. One that resembles a smirk. “See, you being around has a big possibility that I’ll end up hurt.”

Peter’s frown deepens as his heart skips a beat. His mind runs amok with many interpretations of your words. “Is this what this is about?”

When you don’t answer, time fills in the gaps. He finally makes sense of every little bad luck. Pieces merge together like a puzzle.

You’ve been putting yourself in trouble on purpose.

He doesn’t plan to confront you about it yet. He has some thinking to do.

“What?” you ask, genuinely confused.

“Don’t torture yourself, let me carry you home,” he ignores the question altogether.

“I said no.”

He could not change your mind that day, just like you could not change his once. Yet, he did not have the heart to leave you alone unattended.

Thus, he followed you home from a distance.

From that day on, he's made sure to keep an eye on you.

Of course, there was no way of always being around you, and yet when he was, he’d have to prevent a disaster, whether from happening or from hurting you.

It was flattering, truly. To know you have placed enough trust in him to put yourself in ridiculous situations. It even drives him to actually not help you once, but his heart just won’t let him.

His night was mostly done; all he needed and wanted to do was idly check around the neighbourhood and make sure everyone was safe. He had a nice night– no big fights, just a few pickpockets and drunk potential dangers.

On his way home, he decides to pass through your street for the last time just to make sure you are indeed safe.

To his luck, you are not.

At first, he struggles to recognize you from the tiny silhouette and almost passes through you swinging in the air. Something, however, stops him in mid-air.

His eyes squint under the white cloth of the mask, and he jumps to the ground.

“It’s three in the morning, trouble,” his tone is indifferent, but what he feels is far from indifferent.

“Didn’t ask for time, Spider,” you don’t cast him a glance, shrinking to your coat instead. He turns around, walking backwards.

“Only homeless people and criminals wander around alone at this time. Which are you?”

“Just a girl,” you disregard. “You should leave me alone.”

“It’s not safe,” he shakes his head. “You gotta stop this, sweetheart.”

He can feel the shift in the air around you. Your confident walk wavers only for a second, and yet he notices.

“Stop what?” you ask, pretending that the name had no effect on you.

“Whatever game it is that you are playing,” Peter stops in his tracks; so do you. “Cut it out. It’s not safe.”

You look at him and shrug. “I can’t take you seriously with that mask.”

He takes it off with a quick movement, tousling his hair in the process. He would pay a heavy sum to know what you were feeling in the moment. He catches the change in your gaze and the quick glimpse at his lips.

He murmurs your name, “I know why you are doing this.”

“Pray tell.”

“You are trying to prove that you can get hurt without having a Spiderman in your life–”

“You said it, not me.”

“By jumping at every damned opportunity to get hurt,” he finishes the sentence ignoring your interruption.

When you don’t say anything more, Peter feels the frustration slowly climb up his core. He is tired from worrying about you every day. For a few days, he exhausted his own mind for a glimpse at yours to understand the logic behind all this.

He doesn’t know what to do.

“How long do you plan on keeping this up?”

To his surprise, you finally look him in the eye. His heart skips a beat. He forces himself not to dwell on how much he misses you.

“Until you stop the ‘for your own good’ bullshit.”

“Trouble, it was for your own good,” his tone has changed, growing tender now that your eyes rest on him.

They remind him of the glow he's been admiring for the past months. The laughter echoing in his heart, the light shining in his soul. The heat and desire and lust burning to ashes in his veins.

Maybe it is late. Nothing good happens after 2 a.m.

“Then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, Parker,” you stride forward, and Peter hurries after you. He can’t leave this conversation like this.

He has to show you how insane it is to hurt yourself deliberately for his attention.

“Are you seriously that mad? That crazy enough to cut your own hand?” he demands when he catches up to you.

“When the hell did I cut my own hand?”

You sound truly confused, and he is only a step left to madness.

“The bandage!”

“Oh, no, it had nothing under it. But it did work, didn’t it?” you laugh, and Peter’s body ignites in so many colours. “Did you really think I would hurt myself for someone?”

“You burned yourself and dropped a globe!”

“No, I didn’t,” you laugh again, and not only Peter feels the desperation mingle with anger, but he also feels the self control slowly slipping between his palms. Ah, that laugh.

“You did–”

“You prevented any of that happening, remember?”

“And you bet on that chance?!”

When you giggle again, Peter’s eyes fall to your lips. He drowns the urge. It is neither the time nor the place.

“Yeah, I did. You should try the same thing sometimes instead of running like a coward.”

He has no idea what you said. The only thing he can hear is the dulcet tone and the lips singing the tune. Would you slap him if he slammed his lips to yours?

You’d have a right to.

“Trouble–”

“Stop calling me that, Parker,” you beckon with your hand. “And goodnight.”

Peter does not think he is a coward. Not when it comes to being the hero. When it comes to his heart, however, he is not so sure.

All he knows is that the obligation to keep you safe is growing heavy on him.

Its stress is straining his nerves thin, his feelings elevating the unease further. He can’t handle this any longer, and yet here he is, wanting to make sure you cross the road safely.

Watching you from afar proves to be more difficult than he had guessed initially.

To have you in sight all the time and yet not be able to hear you, talk to you, or touch you is pushing him to the verge of madness. Your memories start to haunt him, your smile before his eyes, your touch on his skin, and, oh sweet Lord, your lips hovering over his lips.

He curses every interruption ever hindering your lips away.

The feelings he has buried deep dig their way up to the surface with every strand of your hair wavering in the wind. Every laugh that is not presented to his ears taunts him. Every touch lingers on a skin that isn’t his burdens his chest.

He feels like he’s going crazy.

Lost in thought, he misses how you don’t check the road before walking. How the cars won’t stop for your sake.

He was afraid that you’d spill your hot coffee and burn yourself. No, you’re going to kill yourself in a car crash.

His heartbeat picks up as he stands up in a second, sticking a web to the roof after jumping off it. The cold breeze would not usually hurt him; thus, he is sure it is the adrenaline that spills cold water down his spine.

When you enter his vision, so close to a car that’s speeding as if it’s going to fly, he opens his arms and grabs you by the waist.

Your coffee spills on him, burning his skin, yet he clenches his jaw at the pain.

Swinging over the cars, his ears sting from your screech. He carries himself up by the web and lands on the rooftop.

Leaving your waist empty, he takes off his mask in rage.

“Are you out of your mind?!” he yells. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Your nose is red from the bone-shattering weather, but your smile radiates sunlight enough to warm hearts. “Oh, hey, Parker.”

“No! Don’t ‘hey, Parker’ me, you hear me?! Just-just stop this madness!”

Peter is frantic, which amuses you more. His face is red, and you are certain it is not from the weather. The vein in his neck bulges, but it does nothing to scare you.

“What madness?”

“Stop trying to kill yourself to prove a point, trouble, or you’ll actually die one of these days!”

Your smile widens. Your plan worked. It took a terrifying amount of fear to implement it and much more trust in him to act on it, but in the end, it worked, and you are so close to what you want now.

“I can die any time of any day.”

“Yes, but no,– fuck!” Peter curses roughly.

You know you just have to push him a little bit more. Make him face his fears. Just a little bit more, and he’ll break.

“I can jump from this roof, you know, you are practically encouraging me.”

He lets out a frustrated groan. "Alright! Alright! Fine, fine! Stop this! You win," he screams, hands in the air, eyes wide with fear and defeat. "Hell, you're gonna be the death of me!"

“I win?” you ask, eyebrows raised. "So, you’ll stop the 'for your own good' bullshit?"

Peter stays silent for a moment, the only indicator of his distress being his swiftly heaving chest.

Your shoulders sulk at his hesitation.

If you’ve gone through all the trouble and still failed to change his mind, then maybe it is not worth it. Maybe it was easier for him to endure your absence than it was for you to endure his. Maybe he has already accepted the situation, unlike you, who was simply tolerating it for a change to betide.

Defeat and desperation grow heavy on your shoulders. It carries to your eyes as well.

You shake your head and turn to leave.

Peter’s hand grabs your wrist before pulling you into his chest. His thumb raises your chin, and before you can react, his lips crash with yours.

Your heart hammers against your ribs. The last breath leaves your lungs as Peter’s hand travels to your waist and lower. This time, you don’t hesitate; you don’t let the shock confuse you.

You kiss him back.

You welcome his lips over yours, letting your hand touch his soft skin.

God, you’ve missed it.

It is soft and tender. The reminder of the affection you once had, of the tension you never lost.

It is not enough, and yet, nothing ever made you feel this at peace.

You draw a sharp breath when he slowly breaks the kiss.

"You owed me one,” he whispers against your lips. You flutter your eyes open, gazing at the brown you’ve missed.

He parts his lips to talk, "And yes, I will... stop the- the thi–”

You don’t let him. You know what he’s going to say anyway.

You don’t want to hear it. Why would you wish to hear it when you can feel it, taste it?

This time, the kiss is sloppy, hungry, filled with a yearn radiating from your lips to your hearts. It is rough and firm, just like his hands around your waist. You didn’t know there was any distance left between you two, and yet he managed to pull you closer by his hand on your lower back.

His other hand climbs up your neck, cupping your cheek.

It was cold outside, and now you are sweating under your coat.

You play with the hair behind his neck and let his tongue between your lips. The deepening kiss feels wrong out in the air, but his body against yours numbs any morals.

You forget frost, the traffic, the spilled coffee.

He forgets the mask, the roof, rain falling onto you.

There is nothing and everything, and both of them are you.

“How about you tidy up your place from time to time?”

You step on Peter’s shirt on your way to his bed.

“This is the tidied-up version,” he lays next to you, a cookie plate in his bed.

“You sure you’re okay with the crumbs?” you involuntarily smile and take one, but instead of biting it, you divide it in half.

“Yeah, it’s seen worse,” Peter watches the crumbs fall to his bed and averts his eye back to you. You look disgusted.

Instead of denying it, he smirks.

“Ew, Peter!”

“Ew yourself, missy. My bed is cleaner than your room.”

“There is a sock,” you point to the corner of his bed.

“Does it smell?”

“No, but it has a gap,” you laugh and don’t notice Peter staring at your lips. “Can you wear it?”

“Later,” he murmurs before moving you by the chin to face him. You smile against his lips as he kisses you.

Your days have turned into soft touches with him by your side and your nights into lustful kisses with you on his bed.

You don’t complain. He still drives you mad, pushes your limits with every study you two ever have to do, but he also encourages you, loves you, and on nights like this where it is only you, the serene darkness and him, kisses you like it’s the first time every time.

A slow, almost non-existent moan escapes from you, and he smiles his mocking smile. You let him guide you to your back as he props himself up by his elbow over you. His hand roams your body and reaches the hem of your shirt to travel under it–

“You guys want anything else?” the door cracks open.

“Oh, come on, May!”

okay, this is the final! i'm so so so sorry that it took almost three months, and thank you to every one of you who patiently waited for me <33

i loved writing dulcet, and i hope you loved reading it with me, please let me know what you think of the series and the final.

if you want, buy me a coffee

tags✿ : @starsval @taylorann2013 @miwagila @just-henny @pepsicolacoochie @teddtheweeb @1ts-izzy @simp-sentral @naok-iyuu @hearttjason @itsfloorcry @olivezgalore @wildestestdreams @patis643 @lovelyweepingrebel @thedavax @qwintlimon7 @delwrites @daddyjackfrost @eddieslooneymoonie @msstillinskimorgan @lilmaymayy @tarzinnia @warrenposts @thehappygrungelife @peridotermine @ihearttities @hitoshislut @sassyrizznerd @aheadfullofsteverogers @booksandfairytales-mainblog @marmie-noir @thelonerlover @ttulipwritezz @unicornforscale @gorillaglue23 @inkthgoat @dinovickydzillarex @simp-sentral @miwagila @adiaz-25 @void21 @pingpongfingfong @just-levyy @mommymortuary @kindlover @turningtoclown @xreaderbooksreads @anuncalledbridge @ezzynf @birdsinmywalls @somethingsmart123 @dreamsarecloserwithyou @sincericida @hollandweather

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