#Tasm Peter Parker imagine

[luveline]

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧

Things between you and Peter change with the seasons. [17k] 

c: friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort, loneliness, peter parker isn’t good at hiding his alter ego, fluff, first kisses, mutual pining, loved-up epilogue, mention of self-harm with no graphic imagery

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

Fall 

Peter Parker is a resting place for overworked eyes, like warm topaz nestled against a blue-cold city. He waits on you with his eyes to the screen of his phone, clicking the power button repetitively. A nervous tic. 

You close the heavy door of your apartment building. His head stays still, yet he’s heard the sound of it settling, evidence in his calmed hand. 

“Good morning!” You pull your coat on quickly. “Sorry.” 

“Good morning,” he says, offering a sleep-logged smile. “Should we go?” 

You follow Peter out of the cul-de-sac and into the street as he drops his phone into a deep pocket. To his credit, he doesn’t check it while you walk, and only glances at it when you’re taking your coat off in the heat of your favourite cafe: The Moroccan Mode glows around you, fog kissing the windows, condensation running down the inner lengths of it in beads. You murmur something to do with the odd fog and Peter tells you about water vapour. When it rains tonight, he says it’ll be warm water that falls. 

He spreads his textbook, notebook, and rinky-dink laptop out across the table while you order drinks. Peter has the same thing every visit, a decaf americano, in a wide brim mug with the pink-petal saucer. You put it down on his textbook only because that’s where he would put it himself, and you both get to work. 

As Peter helps you study, you note the simplicity of another normal day, and can’t help wondering what it is that’s missing. Something is, something Peter won’t tell you, the absence of a truth hanging over your heads. You ask him if he wants to get dinner and he says no, he’s busy. You ask him to see a movie on Friday night and he wishes he could. 

Peter misses you. When he tells you, you believe him. “I wish I had more time,” he says. 

“It’s fine,” you say, “you can’t help it.”

“We’ll do something next weekend,” he says. The lie slips out easily. 

To Peter it isn’t a lie. In his head, he’ll find the time for you again, and you’ll be friends like you used to be. 

You press the end of your pencil into your cheek, the dark roast, white paper and condensation like grey noise. This time last year, the air had been thick for days with fog you could cut. He took you on a trip to Manhattan, less than an hour from your red-brick neighbourhood, and you spent the day in a hotel pool throwing great cupfuls of water at each other. The fog was gone just fifteen miles away from home but the warm air stayed. When it rained it was sudden, strange, spit-warm splashes of it hammering the tops of your heads, your cheeks as you tipped your faces back to spy the dark clouds. 

Peter had swam the short distance to you and held your shoulders. You remember feeling like your whole life was there, somewhere you’d never been before, the sharp edges of cracked pool tile just under your feet. 

You peek over the top of your laptop screen and wonder if Peter ever thinks of that trip. 

He feels you watching and meets your eyes. “I have to tell you something,” he says, smiling shyly. 

“Sure.” 

“I signed us up for that club.” 

“Epigenetics?” 

“Molecular medicine,” he says. 

The nice thing about fog is that it gives a feeling of lateness. It’s still morning, barely ten, but it feels like the early evening. It’s gentle on the eyes, colouring the whole room with a sconced shine. You reach for Peter’s bag and sort through his jumble of possessions —stick deodorant, loose-leaf paper, a bodega’s worth of protein bars— and grab his camera. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m cataloguing the moment you ruined our lives,” you say, aiming the camera at his chin, squinting through the viewfinder. 

“Technically, I signed us up a few days ago,” he says. 

You snap his photo as his mouth closes around ‘ago’, keeping his half-laugh stuck on his lips. “Semantics,” you murmur. “And molecular medicine club, this has nothing to do with the estranged Gwen Stacy?”

“It has nothing to do with her. And you like molecular medicine.”

“I like oncology,” you correct, which is a sub-genre at best, “and I have enough work without joining another club. Go by yourself.” 

“I can’t go without you,” he says. Simple as that. 

He knew you’d say yes when he signed you up. It’s why he didn’t ask. You’re already forgiven him for the slight of assumption. 

“When is it?” you ask, smiling. 

—

Molecular medicine club is fun. You and a handful of ESU nerds gather around a big table in a private study room for a few hours and read about the newer discoveries and top research, like regenerative science and now taboo Oscorp research. It’s boring, sometimes, but then Peter will lean into your side and make a joke to keep you going. 

He looks at Gwen Stacy a lot. Slender, pale and freckled, with blonde hair framing a sweet face. Only when he thinks you’re not looking. Only when she isn’t either. 

—

“Good morning,” you say. 

Peter holds an umbrella over his head that he’s quick to share with you, and together you walk with heads craned down, the umbrella angled forward to fight the wind. Your outermost shoulder is wet when you reach the café, your other warm from being pressed against him. You shake the umbrella off outside the door and step onto a cushy, amber doormat to dry your sneakers. Peter stalks ahead and order the drinks, eager to get warm, so you look for a table. Your usual is full of businessmen drinking flat whites with briefcases at their legs. They laugh. You try to picture Peter in a suit: you’re still laughing when he finds you in the booth at the back. 

“Tell the joke,” he says, slamming his coffee down. He’s careful with yours. He’s given you the pink petal saucer from the side next to the straws and wooden stirrers. 

“I was thinking about you as a businessman.” 

“And that’s funny?” 

“When was the last time you wore a suit?” 

Peter shakes his head. Claims he doesn’t know. Later, you’ll remember his Uncle Ben’s funeral and feel queasy with guilt, but you don’t remember yet. “When was the last time you wore one?” he asks. “I don’t laugh at you.” 

“You’re always laughing at me, Parker.” 

The cafe isn’t as warm today. It’s wet, grimy water footsteps tracking across the terracotta tile, streaks of grey water especially heavy near the counter, around it to the bathroom. There’s no fog but a sad rattle of rain, not enough to make noise against the windows, but enough to watch as it falls in lazy rivulets down the lengths of them.

Your face is chapped with the cold, cheeks quickly come to heat as your fingers curl around your mug. They tingle with newfound warmth. When you raise your mug to your lips, your hand hardly shakes.

“You okay?” Peter asks. 

“Fine. Are you gonna help me with the math today?” 

“Don’t think so. Did you ask nicely?” 

“I did.” You’d called him last night. You would’ve just as happily submitted your homework poorly solved with the grade to prove it —you don’t want Peter’s help, you just wanted to see him. 

Looking at him now, you remember why his distance had felt a little easier. The rain tangles in his hair, damp strands curling across his forehead, his eyes dark and outfitted by darker eyelashes. Peter has the looks of someone you’ve seen before, a classical set to his nose and eyes reminiscent of that fallen angel weeping behind his arm, his russet hair in fiery disarray. There was an anger to Peter after Ben died that you didn’t recognise, until it was Peter, changed forever and for the worse and it didn’t matter —he was grieving, he was terrified, who were you to tell him to be nice again— until it started to get better. You see less of your fallen, angry angel, no harsh brush strokes, no tears. 

His eyes are still dark. Bruised often underneath, like he’s up late. If he is, it isn’t to talk to you. 

You spend an afternoon working through your equations, pretending to understand until Peter explains them to death. His earphones fall out of his pocket and he says, “Here, I’ll show you a song.” 

He walks you home. The song is dreary and sad. The man who sings is good. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over. It feels like Peter’s trying to tell you something —he isn’t, but it feels like wishing he would. 

“You okay?” you ask before you can get to your street. A minute away, less. 

“I’m fine, why?” 

You let the uncomfortable shape of his earbud fall out of your ear, the climax of the song a rattle on his chest. “You look tired, that’s all. Are you sleeping?” 

“I have too much to do.” 

You just don’t get it. “Make sure you’re eating properly. Okay?” 

His smile squeezes your heart. Soft, the closest you’ll ever get. “You know May,” he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders to give you a short hug, “she wouldn’t let me go hungry. Don’t worry about me.” 

—

The dip into depression you take is predictable. You can’t help it. Peter being gone makes it worse. 

You listen to love songs and take long walks through the city, even when it’s dark and you know it’s a bad idea. If anything bad happens Spider-Man could probably save me, you think. New York’s not-so-new vigilante keeps a close eye on things, especially the women. You can’t count how many times you’ve heard the same story. A man followed me home, saw me across the street, tried to get into my apartment, but Spider-Man saved me. 

You’re not naive, you realise the danger of walking around without protection assuming some stranger in a mask will save you, but you need to get out of the house. It goes on for weeks. 

You walk under streetlights and past stores with CCTV, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re not thinking. You feel sick and heavy and it’s fine, really, it’s okay, everything works out eventually. It’s not like it’s all because you miss Peter, it’s just a feeling. It’ll go away. 

“You’re in deep thought,” a voice says, garnering a huge flinch from the depths of your stomach.

You turn around, turn back, and flinch again at the sight of a man a few paces ahead. Red shoulders and legs, black shining in a webbed lattice across his chest. “Oh,” you say, your heartbeat an uncomfortable plodding under your hand, “sorry.” 

“Why are you sorry? I scared you.”

“I didn’t realise you were there.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t come any closer. You take a few steps in his direction. You’ve never met before but you’d like to see him up close, and you aren’t scared. Not beyond the shock of his arrival. 

“Can I walk you to where you’re going?” Spider-Man asks you. He’s humming energy, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot. 

“How do I know you’re the real Spider-Man?” 

After all, there are high definition videos of his suit on the news sometimes. You wouldn’t want to find out someone was capable of making a replica in the worst way possible. 

You can’t be sure, but you think he might be smiling behind the mask, his arms moving back as though impressed at your questioning. “What do you need me to do to prove it?” he asks. 

He speaks hushed. Rough and deep. “I don’t know. What’s Spider-Man exclusive?” 

“I can show you the webs?” 

You pull your handbag further up your arm. “Okay, sure. Shoot something.” 

Spider-Man aims his hand at the streetlight across the way and shoots it. He makes a severing motion with his wrist to stop from getting pulled along by it, letting the web fall like an alien tendril from the bulb. The light it produces dims slightly. A chill rides your spine. 

“Can I walk you now?” he asks. 

“You don’t have more important things to do?” If the bitterness you’re feeling creeps into your tone unbidden, he doesn’t react. 

“Nothing more important than you.” 

You laugh despite yourself. “I’m going to Trader Joe’s.” 

“Yellowstone Boulevard?” 

“That’s the one…” 

You fall into step beside him, and, awkwardly, begin to walk again. It’s a short walk. Trader Joe’s will still be open for hours despite the dark sky, and you’re in no hurry. “My friend, he likes the rolled tortilla chips they do, the chilli ones.” 

“And you’re going just for him?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Not really. I mean, yeah, but I was already going on a walk.” 

“Do you always walk around by yourself? It’s late. It’s dangerous, you know, a beautiful girl like you,” he says, descending into an odd mixture of seriousness and teasing. His voice jumps and swoons to match. 

“I like walking,” you say. 

Spider-Man walking is a weird thing to see. On the news, he’s running, swinging, or flying through the air untethered. You’re having trouble acquainting the media image of him with the quiet man you’re walking beside now.

”Is everything okay?” he asks. “You seem sad.” 

“Do I?” 

“Yeah, you do.” 

“Maybe I am sad,” you confess, looking forward, the bright sign of Trader Joe’s already in view. It really is a short walk. “Do you ever–” You swallow against a surprising tightness in your throat and try again, “Do you ever feel like you’re alone?” 

“I’m not alone,” he says carefully.

“Me neither, but sometimes I feel like I am.” 

He laughs quietly. You bristle thinking you’re being made fun of, but the laugh tapers into a sad one. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world,” he says. “Even here. I forget that it’s not something I invented.” 

“Well, I guess being a hero would feel really lonely. Who else do we have like you?” You smile sympathetically. “It must be hard.” 

“Yeah.” His head tips to the side, and a crash of glass rings in the distance, crunching, and then there’s a squeal. It sounds like a car accident. Spider-Man goes tense. “I’ll come back,” he says. 

“That’s okay, Spider-Man, I can get home by myself. Thank you for the protection detail.” 

He sprints away. In half a second he’s up onto a short roof, then between buildings. It looks natural. It takes your breath away. 

You buy Peter’s chips at Trader Joe’s and wait for a few minutes at the door, but Spider-Man doesn’t come back. 

—

I don’t want to study today, Peter’s text says the next day. Come over and watch movies? 

The last handholds of your fugue are washed away in the shower. You dab moisturiser onto your face and neck and stand by the open window to help it dry faster, taking in the light drizzle of rain, the smell of it filling your room and your lungs in cold gales. You dress in sweatpants and a hoodie, throw on your coat, and stuff the rolled tortilla chips into a backpack to ferry across the neighbourhood. 

Peter still lives at home with his Aunt May. You’d been in awe of it when you were younger, Peter and his Aunt and Uncle, their home-cooked family dinners, nights spent on the roof trying to find constellations through light pollution, stretched out together while it was warm enough to soak in your small rebellion. Ben would call you both down eventually. When you’re older! he’d always promise. 

Peter’s waiting in the open door for you. He ushers you inside excitedly, stripping you out of your coat and forgetting your wet shoes as he drags you to the kitchen. “Look what I got,” he says. 

The Parker kitchen is a big, bright space with a chopping block island. The counters are crowded by pots, pans, spices, jams, coffee grounds, the impossible drying rack. There’s a cross-stitch about the home on the microwave Ben did to prove to May he could still see the holes in the aida. 

You follow Peter to the stove where he points at a ceramic Dutch oven you’ve eaten from a hundred times. “There,” he says. 

“Did you cook?” you ask. 

“Of course I didn’t cook, even if the way you said that is offensive. I could cook. I’m an excellent chef.” 

“The only thing May’s ever taught you is spaghetti and meatballs.” 

“Hope you like marinara,” he says, nudging you toward the stove. 

You take the lid off of the Dutch oven to unveil a huge cake. Dripping with frosting, only slightly squashed by the lid, obviously homemade. He’s dotted the top with swirls of frosting and deep red strawberries. 

“It’s for you,” he says casually. 

“It’s not my birthday.” 

“I know. You like cake though, don’t you?” 

You’d tell Peter you liked chunks of glass if that was what he unveiled. “Why’d you make me a cake?” 

“I felt like you deserved a cake. You don’t want it?” 

“No, I want it! I want the cake, let’s have cake, we can go to 91st and get some ice cream, it’ll be amazing.” You don’t bother trying to hide your beaming smile now, twisting on the spot to see him properly, your hands falling behind your back. “Thank you, Peter. It’s awesome. I had no idea you could even– that you’d even–” You press forward, smushing your face against his chest. “Wow.” 

“Wow,” he says, wrapping his arms around you. He angles his head to nose at your temple. “You’re welcome. I would’ve made you a cake years ago if I knew it was gonna make you this happy.” 

“It must’ve taken hours.” 

“May helped.” 

“That makes much more sense.” 

“Don’t be insolent.” Peter squeezes you tightly. He doesn’t let go for a really long time. 

He extracts the cake from the depths of the Dutch oven and cuts you both a slice. He already has ice cream, a Neapolitan box that he cuts into with a serrated knife so you can each have a slice of all three flavours. It’s good ice cream, fresh for what it is and melting in big drops of cream as he gets the couch ready.

“Sit down,” he says, shoving the plates with his strangely great balance onto the coffee table. “Remote’s by you. I’m gonna get drinks.” 

You take your plate, carving into the cake with the end of a warped spoon, its handle stamped PETE and burnished in your grasp. The crumb is soft but dense in the best way. The ganache between layers is loose, cake wet with it, and the frosting is perfect, just messy. You take another satisfied bite. You’re halfway through your slice before Peter makes it back. 

“I brought you something too, but it’s garbage compared to this,” you say through a mouthful, hand barely covering your mouth. 

Peter laughs at you. “Yeah, well, say it, don’t spray it.” 

“I guess I’ll keep it.” 

“Keep it, bub, I don’t need anything from you.” 

He doesn’t say it the way you’re expecting. “No,” you say, pleased when he sits knee to knee, “you can have it. S’just a bag of chips from Trader–”

“The rolled tortilla chips?” he asks. You nod, and his eyes light up. “You really are the best friend ever.” 

“Better than Harry?” 

“Harry’s rich,” Peter says, “so no. I’m kidding! Joking, come here, let me try some of that.” 

“Eat your own.” 

Peter plays a great host, letting you choose the movies, making lunch, ordering takeout in the evening and refusing to let you pay for it. This isn’t that out of character for Peter, but what shocks you is his complete unfiltered attention. He doesn’t check his phone, the tension you couldn’t name from these last few weeks nowhere to be felt. You’re flummoxed by the sudden change, but you missed him. You won’t look a gift horse in the mouth; you won’t question what it is that had Peter keeping you at arm’s length now it’s gone.

To your annoyance, you can’t stop thinking about Spider-Man. You keep opening your mouth to tell Peter you talked to him but biting your tongue. Why am I keeping it a secret? you wonder. 

“Have something to tell you.” 

“You do?” you ask, reluctant to sit properly, your feet tucked under his thigh and your body completely lax with the weight of the Parker throw. 

“Is that surprising?” 

“Is that a trick question?” 

“No. Just. I’ve been not telling you something.” 

“Okay, so tell me.” 

Peter goes pink, and stiff, a fake smile plastered over his lips. “Me and Gwen, we’re really done.” 

“I know, Pete. She broke up with you for reasons nobody felt I should be enlightened right after graduation.” Your stomach pangs painfully. “Unless you…”

“She’s going to England.” 

“She is?” 

“Oxford.” 

You struggle to sit up. “That sucks, Peter. I’m sorry.” 

“But?” 

You find your words carefully. “You and Gwen really liked each other, but I think that–” You grow in confidence, meeting his eyes firmly. “That there’s always been some part of you that couldn’t actually commit to her. So. I don’t know, maybe some distance will give you clarity. And maybe it’ll break your heart, but at least then you’ll know how you really feel, and you can move forward.” You avoid telling him to move on. 

“It wasn’t Gwen,” he says, which has a completely different meaning to the both of you. 

“Obviously, she’s the smartest girl I’ve ever met. She’s beautiful. Of course it’s not her fault,” you say, teasing.

“Really, that you ever met?” Peter asks. 

“She’s the best girl you were ever gonna land.“ 

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I guess so.” After a few more minutes of quiet, he says, “I think we were done before. I just hadn’t figured it out yet. Something wasn’t right.” 

“You were so back and forth. You’re not mean, there must’ve been something stopping you from going steady,” you agree. “You were breaking up every other week.”

“I know,” he whispers, tipping his head against the back couch. 

“Which, it’s fine, you don’t–” You grimace. “I can’t talk today. Sorry. I just mean that it’s alright that you never made it work.” You worry that sounds plainly obvious and amend, “Doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re never a bad person, Peter.” 

“I know. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome. You don’t need me to tell you.” 

“It’s nice, though. I like when you tell me stuff. I want all of your secrets.” 

You should say Good, because I have something unbelievable to tell you, and I should’ve said it the moment I got home. 

Good, because last night I met the bravest man in New York City, and he walked me to the store for your chips. 

Good, because I have so much I’m keeping to myself.

You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned. 

— 

He visits with a whoop. You don’t flinch when he lands —you’d heard the strange whip and splat of his webs landing nearby. 

“Spider-Man,” you say. 

“What’s that about?” 

“What?” 

“The way you said that. You laughed.” Spider-Man stands in spandexed glory before you, mask in place. He’s got a brown stain up the side of his thigh that looks more like mud than blood, but it’s not as though each of his fights are bloodless. They’re infamously gory on occasion.

“Did you get hurt?” you ask. You’re worried. You could help him, if he needs it. 

“Aw, this? That’s a scratch. That’s nothing, don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse from that stray cat living outside of 91st.” 

You look at him sharply. 91st is shorthand for 91st Bodega, and it’s not like you and Peter made it up, but suddenly, the man in front of you is Peter. The way he says it, that unique rhythm. 

Peter’s not so rough-voiced, you argue with yourself. Your Peter speaks in a higher register, dulcet often, only occasionally sarcastic. Spider-Man is rough, and cawing, and loud. Spider-Man acts as though the ground is a suggestion. Peter can’t jump off the second diving board at the pool. Spider-Man rolls his shoulders back in front of you with a confidence Peter rarely has. 

“What?” he asks. 

“Sorry. You just reminded me of someone.” 

His voice falls deeper still. “Someone handsome, I hope.” 

You take a small step around him, hoping it invites him to walk along while communicating how sorely you want to leave the subject behind. When he doesn’t follow, you add, “Yes, he’s handsome.” 

“I knew it.”

“What do you look like under the mask?”

Spider-Man laughs boisterously. “I can’t just tell you that.” 

“No? Do I have to earn it?” 

“It’s not like that. I just don’t tell anyone, ever.” 

“Nobody in the whole world?” you ask. 

The rain is spitting. New York lately is cold cold cold, little in the way of sunshine and no end in sight. Perhaps that’s all November’s are destined to be. You and Spider-Man stick to the inside of the sidewalk. Occasionally, a passerby stares at him, or calls out in Hello, and Spider-Man waves but doesn’t part from you. 

“Tell me something about you and I’ll tell you something about me,” Spider-Man says. “I’ll tell you who knows my identity.” 

“What do you want to know about me?” you ask, surprised. 

“A secret. That’s fair.” 

“Hold on, how’s that fair?” You tighten your scarf against a bitter breeze. “What use do I have for the people who know who you are? That doesn’t bring me any closer to the truth.” 

“It’s not about who knows, it’s about why I told them.” Spider-Man slips around you, forcing you to walk on the inside of the sidewalk as a car pulls past you all too quickly and sends a sheet of dirty rainwater up Spider-Man’s side. He shakes himself off. “Jerk!” he shouts after the car. 

“My secrets aren’t worth anything.”

“I doubt that, but if that’s true, that makes it a fair trade, doesn’t it?” 

He sounds peppy considering the pool of runoff collecting at his feet. You pick up your pace again and say, “Alright, useless secret for a useless secret.” 

You think about all your secrets. Some are odd, some gross. Some might make the people around you think less of you, while others would surely paint you in a nice light. A topaz sort of technicolor. But they aren’t useless, then, so you move on. 

“Oh, I know. I hate my major.” You grin at Spider-Man. “That’s a good one, right? No one else knows about that.” 

“You do?” Spider-Man asks. His voice is familiar, then, for its sympathy. 

“I like science, I just hate math. It’s harder than I thought it would be, and I need so much help it makes me hate the whole thing.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t drag the knife. “Okay. Only three people know who I am under the mask. It was four, briefly.” He clears his throat. “I told one person because I was being selfish and the others out of necessity. I’m trying really hard not to tell anybody else.”

“How come?” 

“It just hurts people.” 

You linger in a gap of silence, not sure what to say. A handful of cars pass you on the road. 

“Tell me another one,” he says. 

“What for?” 

“I don’t know, just tell me one.” 

“How do I know you aren’t extorting me for something?” You grin as you say it, a hint of flirtation. “You’ll know my face and my secrets and even if you tell me a really gory juicy one, I have no one to tell and no name to pair it with.” 

“I’m not showing you anything,” he warns, teasing, sounding so awfully like Peter that your heart trips again, an uneven capering that has you faltering in the street. 

Peter’s shorter, you decide, sizing him up. His voice sounds similar and familiar but Peter doesn’t ask for secrets. He doesn’t have to. (Or, he didn’t have to, once upon a time.) 

“Where are you going?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Oh, nowhere.” 

“Seriously, you’re out here walking again for no reason?” 

“I like to walk. It’s not like it’s dark out yet.” You’re not far at all from Queensboro Hill here. Walking in any direction would lead you to a garden —Flushing Meadows, Kew Gardens, Kissena Park. “Walk me to Kissena?” you ask. 

“Sure, for that secret.” 

You laugh as Spider-Man takes the lead, keeping time with him, a natural match of pace. It’s exciting that Spider-Man of all people wants to know one of your useless secrets enough to ask you twice. The attention of it makes searching for one a matter of how fast you can find one rather than a question of why you’d want to. It slips out before you can think better of it. 

“I burned my wrist a few days ago on a frying pan,” you confess, the phantom pain of the injury an itch. “It blistered and I cried when I did it, but I haven’t told anyone about it.” 

“Why not?” he asks. 

He shouldn’t use that tone with you, like he’s so so sorry. It makes you want to really tell him everything. How insecure you feel, how telling things feels like asking for someone to care, and half the time they don’t, and half the time you’re embarrassed. 

You walk past the bakery that demarcates the beginning of Kissena Park grounds across the way. “I didn’t think about it at first. I’m used to keeping things to myself. And then I didn’t tell anyone for so long that mentioning it now wouldn’t make sense. Like, bringing it up when it’s a scar won’t do much.” It’s a weak lie. It comes out like a spigot to a drying up tree. Glugs, fat beads of sound and the pull to find another thing to say.

“It was only a few days ago, right? It must still hurt. People want to know that stuff.” 

“Maybe I’ll tell someone tomorrow,” you say, though you won’t. 

“Thanks for telling me.”

The humour in spilling a secret like that to a superhero stops you from feeling sorry for yourself. You hide your cold fingers in your coat, rubbing the stiff skin of your knuckles into the lining for friction-heat. The rain has let up, wind whipping empty but brisk against your cheeks. Your lips will be chapped when you get home, whenever that turns out to be. 

“This is pretty far from Trader Joe’s,” he comments, like he’s read your mind. 

“Just an hour.” 

“Are you kidding? It’s an hour for me.” 

“That’s not true, Spider-Man, I’ve seen those webs in action. I still remember watching you on the News that night, the cranes. I remember,” —you try to meet his eyes despite the mask— “my heart in my throat. Weren’t you scared?”

“Is that the secret you want?” he asks. 

“I get to choose?” 

Spider-Man throws his gaze around, his hand behind his head like he might play with his hair. You come to a natural stop across the street from Kissena Park’s playground. Teenagers crowd the soft-landing floor, smaller children playing on the wet rungs of the climbing frame. 

“If you want to,” he says. 

“Then yeah, I want to know if you were scared.” 

“I didn’t haveI time to be scared. Connors was already there, you know?” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it before. I wasn’t scared of the height, if that’s what you mean. I already had practice by then, and I knew I had to do it. Like, I didn’t have a choice, so I just did it. I had to save the day, so I did.” 

“When they lined up the cranes–”

“It felt like flying,” Spider-Man interrupts. 

“Like flying.”

You picture the weightlessness, the adrenaline, the catch of your weight so high up and the pressure of being flung between the next point. The idea that you have to just do something, so you do. 

“That’s a good secret.” You offer a grateful smile. “It doesn’t feel equal. I burned myself and you saved the city.” 

“So tell me another one,” he says. 

—

Maybe you started to fall for Peter after his Uncle Ben passed away. Not the days where you’d text him and he’d ignore you, or the days spent camping outside of his house waiting for him to get home. It wasn’t that you couldn’t like him, angry as he was; there’s always been something about his eyes when he’s upset that sticks around. You loathe to see him sad but he really is pretty, and when his eyelashes are wet and his mouth is turned down, formidable, it’s an ache. A Cabanel painting, dramatic and dark and other. 

It was after. When he started sending Gwen weird smiles and showing up to the movies exhilarated, out of breath, unwilling to tell you where he’d been. Skating, he’d always say. Most of the time he didn’t have his skateboard. 

You’d only seen them kiss once, his hand on her shoulder curling her in, a pang of heat. You were curdled by jealousy but it was more than that. Peter was tipping her head back, was kissing her soundly, a fierceness from him that made you sick to think about. You spent weeks afterwards up at night, tossing, turning, wishing he’d kiss you like that, just once, so you could feel how it felt to be completely wrapped up in another person. 

You’d always held out for Peter, in a way. It was more important to you that he be your friend. You were young, and love had been a far off thing, and then one day you suddenly wanted it. You learned just how aching an unrequited love could be, like a bruise, where every time you saw Peter —whether it be alone or with Gwen, with anyone— it was like he knew exactly where to poke the bruise. Press the heel of his hand and push. The worst is when he found himself affectionate with you, a quick clasp of your cheek in his palm as he said goodbye. Nights spent in his twin bed, of course you’ll fit, of course you couldn’t go home, not this late, May won’t care if we keep the door open —the suggestion that the door being closed might’ve meant something. His sleeping arm furled around you. 

Now you’re nearing the end of your second semester at ESU, Gwen is going to England at the end of the year, and Peter hasn’t tried to stop her, but he’s still busy. 

“Whatever,“ you say, taking a deep breath. You’re not mad at Peter, you just miss him. Thinking about him all the time won’t change a thing. “It’s fine.” 

“I’d hope so.” 

You swing around. “Don’t do that!”

Spider-Man looks vaguely chastened, taking a step back. “I called out.” 

“You did?” 

“I did. Hey, miss, over there! The one who doesn’t know how to get a goddamn taxi!” 

“I like to walk,” you say. 

“Yeah, so you’ve said. Have you considered that all this walking is bad for you? It’s freezing out, Miss Bennett!” 

“It’s not that bad.” You have your coat, a scarf, your thermal leggings underneath your jeans. “I’m fine.” 

“What’s wrong with staying at home?” 

“That’s not good for you. And you’re one to talk, Spider-Man, aren’t you out on the streets every night? You should take a day off.” 

“I don’t do this every night.” 

“Don’t you get tired?”

Spider-Man’s eyelets seem to squint, his mock-anger effusive as he crosses his arms across his chest. “No, of course not. Do I look like I get tired?” 

“I don’t know. You’re in a full suit, I can’t tell. I guess you don’t… seem tired. You know, with all the backflips.” 

“Want me to do one?” 

“On command?” You laugh. “No, that’s okay. Save your strength, Spider-Man.” 

“So where are you heading today?” he asks. 

There’s a slip of skin peeking out against his neck. You’re surprised he can’t feel the cold there, stepping toward him to point. “I can see your stubble.” 

He yanks his mask down. “Hasty getaway.” 

“A getaway, undressed? Spider-Man, that’s not very gentlemanly.” 

You start to walk toward the Cinemart. Spider-Man, to your strange pleasure, follows. He walks with considerable casualness down the sidewalk by your left, occasionally letting his head turn to chase a distant sound where it echoes from between high-rises and along the busy street. It’s cold and dark, but New York is hectic no matter what, even the residential areas. (Is there such a thing? The neighbourhoods burst with small businesses and backstreet sales, no matter the time.)

“Luckily for you, crime is slow tonight,” he says. 

“Lucky me?” You wonder if your acquainted vigilante flirts with every girl he stalks. “You realise I’ve managed to get everywhere I’m going for the last two decades without help?” 

“I assume there was more than a little help during that first decade.” 

“That’s what you think. I was a super independent toddler.” 

Spider-Man tips his head back and laughs, but that laugh is quickly squashed with a cough. “Sure you were.” 

“Is there a reason you’re escorting me, Spider-Man?” you ask. 

“No. I– I recognised you, I thought I’d say hi.” 

“Hi, Spider-Man.” 

“Hi.” 

“Can I ask you something? Do you work?” 

Spider-Man stammers again, “I– yeah. I work. Freelance, mostly.” 

“I was wondering how you fit all the crime fighting into your life, is all. University is tough enough.” You let the wind bat your scarf off of your shoulder. “I couldn’t do what you do.” 

“Yeah, you could.” 

He sounds sure. 

“How would you know?” you ask. “Maybe I’m awful when you’re not walking me around. I hate New York. I hate people.” 

“No, you don’t. You’re not awful. Don’t ask me how I know, ‘cos I just know.” 

You try not to look at him. If you look at him, you’re gonna smile at him like he hung the moon. “Well, tonight I’m going to be dreadfully selfish. My friend said he’d buy my movie ticket and take me out for dinner, a real dinner, the mac and cheese with imitation lobster at Benny’s. Have you tried that?” 

Spider-Man takes a big step. “Tonight?” he asks. 

“Yep, tonight. That’s where I’m going, the Cinemart.” You frown at his hand pressing into his stomach. “Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna throw up.” 

“I can hear– something. Someone’s crying. I gotta go, okay? Have fun at the movies, okay?” He throws his arm up, a silken web shooting from his wrist to the third floor of an apartment complex. “Bye!” he shouts, taking a running jump to the apartment, using his web as an anchor. He flings himself over the roof. 

Woah, you think, warmth filling your cold cheeks, the tip of your nose. He’s lithe.  

Peter arrives ten minutes late for the movie, which is half an hour later than you’d agreed to meet. 

“Sorry!” he shouts, breathless as he grabs your hands. “God, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. You should beat me up. I’m sorry.” 

“What the fuck happened?” you ask, not particularly angry, only relieved to see him with enough time to still catch the movie. “You’re sweating like crazy, your hair’s wet.” 

“I ran all the way here, Jesus, do I smell bad? Don’t answer that. Fuck, do we have time?” 

You usher Peter inside. He pays for the tickets with hands shaking and you attempt to wipe the sweat from his forehead with your sleeve. “You could’ve called me,” you say, content to let him grab you by the arm and race you to the screen doors, “we could’ve caught the next one. Why were you so late, anyways? Did you forget?” 

“Forget about my favourite girl? How could I?” He elbows open the doors to let you enter first. “Now shh,” he whispers, “find the seats, don’t miss the trailers. You love them.” 

“You love them–”

“I’ll get popcorn,” he promises, letting the door close between you. 

You’re tempted to follow, fingers an inch from the handle. 

You turn away and rush to find your seats. Hopefully, the popcorn line is ten blocks long, and he spends the night punished for his wrongdoing. My favourite girl. You laugh nervously into your hand. 

—

Winter 

Spider-Man finds you at least once a week for the next few weeks. He even brings you an umbrella one time, stars on the handle, asking you rather politely to go home. He offers to buy you a hot dog as you’re walking past the stand, takes you on a shortcut to the convenience store, and helps you get a piece of gum off of your shoe with a leaf and a scared scream. He’s friendly, and you’re getting used to his company. 

One night, you’re almost home from Trader Joe’s, racing in the pouring rain when a familiar voice calls out, “Hey! Running girl! Wait a second!” 

Him, you think, as ridiculous as it sounds. You don’t know his name, but Spider-Man’s a sunny surprise in a shitty, wet winter, and you turn to the sound with a grin.

He jogs toward you. 

You feel the world pause, right in the centre of your throat. All the air gets sucked out of you. 

“Hey, what are you doing out here? Did you get my texts?” 

You blink as fat rain lands on your face. 

“You okay?” Peter asks, Peter, in a navy hoodie turning black in the rain and a brown corduroy jacket. It’s sodden, hanging heavily around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s go,” —he takes your hand and pulls until you begin to speed walk beside him— “it’s freezing!” 

“Peter–”

“Jesus Christ!” 

“Peter, what are you doing here?” you ask, your voice an echo as he drags you into the foyer of your apartment building. 

Rain hammers the door as he closes it, the windows, the foyer too dark to see properly. 

“I wanted to see you. Is that allowed?” 

“No.” 

Peter takes your hand. You look down at it, and he looks down in tandem, and it is decidedly a non-platonic move. “No?” he asks, a hair’s width from murmuring. 

“Shit, my groceries are soaked.” 

“It’s all snacks, it’s fine,” he says, pulling you to the stairs. 

You rush up the steps together to your floor. Peter takes your key when you offer it, your own fingers too stiff to manage it by yourself, and he holds the door open for you again to let you in. 

Your apartment is a ragtag assortment to match the one next door, old wooden furniture wheeled from the street corners they were left on, thrifted homeward and heavy blankets everywhere you look. You almost slip getting out of your shoes. Peter steadies you with a firm hand. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook, prying the damp hoodie over his head and exposing a solid length of back that trips your heart as you do the same. 

“Sorry I didn’t ask,” Peter says. 

“What, to come over? It’s fine. I like you being here, you know that.” 

All your favourite days were spent here or at Peter’s house, in beds, on sofas, his hair tickling your neck as credits run down the TV and his breath evens to a light snore. You try to settle down with him, changing into dry clothes, his spare stuff left at the bottom of your wardrobe for his next inevitable impromptu visit. You turn on the TV, letting him gather you into his side with more familiarity than ever. Rain lays its fingertips on your window and draws lazy lines behind half-turned blinds. You rest on the arm and watch Peter watch the movie, answering his occasional, “You okay?” with a meagre nod. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks eventually. “You’re so quiet.” 

Your hand over your mouth, you part your marriage and pinky finger, marriage at the corner, pinky pressed to your bottom lip, the flesh chapped by a season of frigid winds and long walks. “‘M thinking,” you say. 

“About?” 

About the first night in your new apartment. You got the apartment a couple of weeks before the start of ESU. Not particularly close to the university but close to Peter, your best, nicest friend. You met in your second year of High School, before Peter got contacts, ‘cos he was good at taking photographs and you were in charge of the school newspapers media sourcing. You used to wait for Peter to show up ten minutes late like clockwork, every week. And every week he’d barge into the club room and say, “Fuck, I’m sorry, my last class is on the other side of the building,” until it turned into its own joke. 

Three years later, you got your apartment, and Peter insisted you throw a housewarming party even if he was the only person invited. 

“Fuck,” he’d said, ten minutes late, a cake in one hand and a whicker basket the other, “sorry. My last class is on–”

But he didn’t finish. You’d laughed so hard with relief at the reference that he never got the chance. Peter remembered your very first inside joke, because Peter wasn’t about to go off to ESU and meet new friends and forget you. 

But Peter’s been distant for a while now, because Peter’s Spider-Man. 

“Do you remember,” you say, not willing to share the whole truth, “when you joined the school newspaper to be the official photographer, and you taught me the rule of thirds?” 

“So you didn’t need me,” he says. 

“I was just thinking about it. We ran that newspaper like the Navy.” 

Peter holds your gaze. “Is that really what you were thinking about?” 

“Just funny,” you murmur, dropping your hand in your lap and breaking his stare. “So much has changed.” 

“Not that much.” 

“Not for me, no.” 

Peter gets a look in his eyes you know well. He’s found a crack in you and he’s gonna smooth it over until you feel better. You’re expecting his soft tone, his loving smile, but you’re not expecting the way he pulls you in —you’d slipped away from him as the evening went on, but Peter erases every millimetre of space as he slides his arm under your lower back and ushers you into his side. You hold your breath as he hugs you, as he looks down at you. It’s really like he loves you, the line between platonic and romantic a blur. He’s never looked at you like this before.

“I don’t want you to change,” he whispers. 

“I want to catch up with you,” you whisper back. 

“Catch up with me? We’re in the exact same place, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know, are we?” 

Peter hugs you closer, squishing your head down against his jaw as he rubs your shoulder. “Of course we are.” 

Peter… What is he doing? 

You let yourself relax against him. 

“You do change,” he whispers, an utterance of sound to calm that awful bruise he gave you all those months ago, “you change every day, but you don’t need to try.” 

“I just… feel like everyone around me is…” You shake your head. “Everyone’s so smart, and they know what they’re doing, or they’re– they’re special. I don’t know anything. So I guess lately I’ve been thinking about that, and then you–”

“What?” 

You can say it out loud. You could. 

“Peter, you’re…” 

“I’m what?” he asks. 

His fingers glide down the length of your arm and up again. 

If you're wrong, he’ll laugh. And if you’re right, he might– might stop touching you. Your head feels so heavy, and his touch feels like it’s gonna put you to sleep. 

He’s Spider-Man. 

It makes sense. Who else could have a good enough heart to do that? Of course it’s Peter. It explains so much about him, about Peter and Spider-Man both. Why Peter is suddenly firmer, lighter on his feet, why he can help you move a wardrobe up two flights of stairs without complaint; why Spider-Man is so kind to you, why he knows where to find you, why he rolls his words around just like Pete. 

Spider-Man said there are reasons he wears his mask. And Peter doesn’t tell you much, but you trust him. 

You won’t make him say anything, you decide. Not now. 

You curl your arm over his stomach hesitantly, smiling into his shirt as he hugs you tighter. 

“I was thinking about you,” he says. 

“Yeah?” 

“You’re quieter lately. I know you’re having a hard time right now, okay? You don’t have to tell me. I’m here for you whenever you need me.” 

“Yeah?” you ask.

“You used to sit on my porch when you knew May wouldn’t be home to make sure I wasn’t alone.” Peter’s breath is warm on your forehead. “I don’t know what you’re worried about being, but I’m with you,” he says, “‘n nothing is gonna change that.” 

Peter isn’t as far away as you thought. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

He kisses your forehead softly. Your whole world goes amber. He brings his hand to your cheek, the thought of him tipping your head back sudden and heart-racing, but Peter only holds you. You lose count of how many minutes you spend cupped in his hand. 

“Can I stay over tonight?” he utters, barely audible under the sound of the battering rain. 

“Yeah, please.” 

His thumb strokes your cheek. 

—

Two switches flip at once, that night. Peter is suddenly as tactile as you’ve craved, and Spider-Man disappears. 

He’s alive and well, as evidenced by Peter’s continued survival and presence in your life, but Spider-Man doesn’t drop in on your nightly walks. 

You take less of them lately, feeling better in yourself. Your spirits are certainly lifted by Peter’s increasing affection, but now that you know he’s Spider-Man you were waiting to see him in spandex to mess with his head. Nothing mean, but you would’ve liked to pick at his secret identity, toy with him like you know he’d do to you. After all, he’s been trailing you for weeks and getting to know you. Peter already knows you. Plus, you told Spider-Man secrets not meant for Peter Parker’s ears. 

You find it hard to be angry with him. A thread of it remains whenever you remember his deception, but mostly you worry about him. Peter’s out every night until who knows what hour fighting crime. There are guns. He could get shot, and he doesn’t seem scared. You end up watching videos on the internet of the night he ran to Oscorp, when he fought Connors’ and got that huge gash in his leg. His leg is soiled deep red with blood but banded in white webbing. He limps as he races across a rooftop, the recording shaky yet high definition. 

It’s not nice to see Peter in pain. You cling to what he’d said, how he wasn’t scared, but not being scared doesn’t mean he wasn’t hurting. 

You chew the tip of a finger and click on a different video. Your computer monitor bears heat, the tower whirring by your thigh. Your eyes burn, another hour sitting in the same seat, sick with worry. You don’t mind when Peter doesn’t answer your texts anymore. You didn’t mind so much before, just terrified of becoming an irrelevance in his life and lonely, too, maybe a little hurt, but never worried for his safety. Now when Peter doesn’t text you back you convince yourself that he’s been hurt, or that he’s swinging across New York City about to risk his life.

It’s not a good way to live. You can’t stop giving into it, is all. 

In the next video, Spider-Man sits on a billboard with a can of coke in hand. He doesn’t lift his mask, seemingly aware of his watcher. You laugh as he angles his head down, suspicion in his tight shoulders. He relaxes when he sees whoever it is recording. 

“Hey,” he says, “you all right?” 

“Should you be up there?” the person recording shouts. 

“I’m fine up here!” 

“Are you really Spider-Man?” 

“Sure am.” 

“Are you single?” 

Peter laughs like crazy. How you didn’t know it was him before is a mystery —it couldn’t sound more like him. “I’ve got my eye on someone!” he says, sounding younger for it, the character voice he enacts when he’s Spider-Man lost to a good mood.  

Your phone rings in the back pocket of your jeans. You wriggle it out, nonplussed to find Peter himself on your screen. You click the green answer button. 

“Hello?” Peter asks. 

You bring the phone snug to your ear. “Hey, Peter.” 

“Hi, are you busy?” 

“Not really.” 

“Do you wanna come over? I know it’s late. Come stay the night and tomorrow we’ll go out for breakfast.” 

“Is Aunt May okay with that?” 

“She’s staring at me right now shaking her head, but I’m in trouble for something. May, can she come over, is that allowed?” 

“She’s always allowed as long as you keep the door open.”

You laugh under your breath at May’s begrudging answer. “Are you sure she’s alright with it?” you ask softly. “I don’t want to be a burden.” 

“You never, ever could be. I’m coming to your place and we’ll walk over together. Did you eat dinner?” 

“Not yet, but–”

“Okay, I’ll make you something when you get here. I’ll meet you at the door. Twenty minutes?” 

“I have to shower first.” 

“Twenty five?” 

You choke on a laugh, a weird bubbly thing you’re not used to. Peter laughs on the other side of the phone. “How about I’ll see you at seven?” 

“It’s a date,” he says. 

“Mm, put it in your calendar, Parker.” 

—

Peter waits for you at the door like he promised. He frowns at your still-wet face as he slips your backpack from your shoulder, throwing it over his own. “You’re gonna get sick.” 

“I‘ll dry fast,” you say. “I took too long finding my pyjamas.” 

“I have stuff you can wear. Probably have your sweatpants somewhere, the grey ones.” Peter pulls you forward and wipes your tacky face. “I would’ve waited,” he says. 

“It’s fine.“

“It’s not fine. Are you cold?” 

“Pete, it’s fine.” 

“You always remind me of my Uncle Ben when you call me Pete,” he laughs, “super stern.” 

“I’m not stern. Look, take me home, please, I’m cold.” 

“You said it wasn’t cold!” 

“It’s not, I’m just damp–” Peter cuts you off as he grabs you, sudden and tight, arms around you and rubbing the lengths of your back through your coat. “Handsy!”

“You like it,” he jokes back, his playful warming turning into a hug. You smile, hiding your face in his neck for a few moments. 

“I don’t like it,” you lie. 

“Okay, you don’t like it, and I’m sorry.” Peter gives you a last hug and pulls away. “Now let’s go. I gotta feed you before midnight.” 

“That’s not funny.” 

“Apparently, nothing is.” 

Peter links your arms together. By the time you get to his house, you’ve fallen away from each other naturally. May is in the hallway when you climb through the door, an empty laundry basket in her hands. 

“I see Peter hasn’t won this argument yet,” you say in way of greeting. Peter’s desperate to do his own laundry now he’s getting older. May won’t let him. 

“No, he hasn’t.” She looks you up and down. “It’s nice to see you, honey. And in one piece! Peter tells me you’ve been walking a lot, and I mean, in this city? Can’t you buy a treadmill?” she asks. 

“May!” Peter says, startled. 

“I like walking, I like the air,” you say.

“Can’t exactly call it fresh,” May says. 

“No, but it’s alright. It helps me think.” 

“Is everything okay?” May asks, putting her hand on her hip. 

“Of course.” You smile at her genuinely. “I think starting college was too much for me? It was hard. But things are settling now, I don’t know what Peter told you, but I’m not walking a lot anymore. You know, not more than necessary.”

She softens her disapproving. “Good, honey. That’s good. Peter’s gonna make you some dinner now, right?” 

“Yeah, Aunt May, I’m gonna make dinner,” Peter sighs, pulling a leg up to take off his shoes. 

Peter shouldn’t really know that you’ve been walking. He might see you coming back from Trader Joe’s or the bodega on his way to your apartment, but you haven’t mentioned any of your longer excursions, and everybody in Queens has to walk. That’s information he wouldn’t know without Spider-Man. 

He seems to be hoping you won’t realise, changing the subject to the frankly killer grilled cheese and tomato soup that he’s about to make you, and pushing you into a chair at the table. “Warm up,” he says near the back of your head, forcing a wave of shivers down your arms.

He makes soup in one pan, grilled cheese in the other, two for him and two for you. Peter’s a good eater, and he encourages the same from you, setting a big bowl of tomato soup (from the can, splash of fresh cream) down in front of you with the grilled cheese on a plate between you. You eat it in too-hot bites and try not to get caught looking at him. He does the same, but when he catches you, or when you catch him, he holds your eye and smiles. 

“I can do the dishes,” you say. You might need a breather. 

“Are you kidding? I’m gonna rinse them, put them in the dishwasher.” Peter stands and feels your forehead with his hand. “Warmer. Good job.” 

You shrug away from his hand. “Loser.” 

“Concerned friend.” 

“Handsy loser.” 

”Shut up,” he mumbles. 

As flustered as you’ve ever seen, Peter takes your empty dishes to the kitchen. When he’s done rinsing them off you follow him upstairs to his bedroom and tuck your backpack under his bed. 

You look down at your socks. Peter’s room is on the smaller side, but it’s never been as startlingly small as it is when Peter’s socked feet align with yours, toe to toe. Quick recovery time, this boy. 

“There’s chips and stuff on my desk. Or I could run to 91st for some ice cream sandwiches if you want something sweet,” he says. 

You lift your eyes, tilt your head up just a touch, not wanting him to think you’re in his space no matter how strange that might be, considering he chose to stand there. “I’m all right. Did you want ice cream? We can go if you want to, but if you want to go ’cos you think I do then I’m fine.” 

“That’s such a long answer,” he says, draping an arm over your shoulder. “You don’t have to say all of that, just tell me no.” 

“I don’t want ice cream.” 

“Wasn’t that easy?” he asks. 

“Well, no, it wasn’t. Saying no to you is like saying no to a puppy.” 

“Because I’m adorable?” 

“Persistent.” 

“Yeah, I guess I am.” He drapes the other arm over you. The soap he used at the kitchen sink lingers on his hands. 

“Peter…?” you murmur. 

“What?” he murmurs back. 

You touch a knuckle to his chest. “This– You…” Every quelled thought rushes to the surface at once —Peter doesn’t like you as you desire, how could he, you aren’t beautiful like he is, aren’t smart, aren’t brave, no exceptional kindness or goodness to mark you enough for him. It’s why his being with Gwen didn’t hurt; she made sense. And for months now you’ve wondered what it is that made him struggle to be with her. And sometimes, foolishly, you wondered if it was you. But it’s not you, it’s never you, and whatever Peter’s trying to do now–

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, taking your face into his hand. 

“What are you doing?” 

“What?” He pushes his hand back to hold your nape, thumb under your ear. “I can’t hear you.”  

You raise your voice. “Why did you invite me over tonight?” 

“‘Cos I missed you?” 

“I used to think you didn’t miss me at all.” 

Peter winces, hurt. “How could you think that? Of course I miss you. What you said to May, about college being hard? It’s like that for me too, okay? I miss you all the time.” 

You bite the inside of your bottom lip. “…College isn’t hard for you.” 

“It’s not easy.” He frowns, the fallen angel, his lips an unsure brushstroke. “What’s wrong? Did I say the wrong thing?” 

You’re being wretched, you know, saying it isn’t hard for him. “You didn’t. Really, you didn’t.” 

“But why are you upset?” he implores, dark eyes darker as his eyebrows tug together.

“I’m not–”

“You are. It’s okay, you can be upset. I just want you to feel better, you know that?” He settles his hands at the tops of your arms. Less intimate, but something warm remains. “Even if it takes a long time.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“You’re not fine.”

“How would you know?” you finally ask. 

Peter stares at you. 

“I know you,” he says carefully, “and I know you aren’t struggling like you were, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen or that you have to be a hundred percent better now.” 

“I didn’t realise that I was,” you say, licking your lips, “‘til now. I didn’t get that it was on the surface.”

Peter pulls you in for a gentle hug. “I’m here for you forever, and I’ll make it up to you for not noticing sooner,” he says, scrunching your shirt in his hand.

After the hug, he tells you to change and make yourself comfortable while he showers. So you put on your pyjamas and climb into Peter’s bed, head pounding as though all your energy was stolen in a fell swoop. You press your nose to his pillow and arm wrapped around his comforter, gathering it into a Peter sized lump. The shower pump whines against the shared wall. 

Things aren’t meant to be like this. You thought Peter touching you —holding you— was the deepest of your desires, but you feel now exactly as you had before he started blurring the line, needing Peter to kiss you so badly it becomes its own kind of nausea. Why are you still acting like it’s an impossibility?

When he comes back, you’ll apologise. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He does keep a secret, but don’t you keep one too? He’s Spider-Man. You’ve had deep, complicated feelings for him for months. They are secrets of equal magnitude, and are, more apparently, badly kept. 

You wish you could fall asleep. Your heart ticks in agitation.

Peter returns as perturbed as earlier. 

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair. A towel hangs around his neck. 

“I’m sorry for being weird.” 

“You’re not weird,” Peter says, bringing the towel to his hair to scrub ruthlessly. 

“It’s just ‘cos things have been different between us.” And, you try to say, that scares me no matter how bad I wanted it. because you’re not just Peter anymore, you’re Spider-Man. I’m only me, and I can’t do anything to protect you.

Peter gives his hair a long scrub before draping the towel on his desk chair. He rakes it messily into place and sits himself at the end of the bed. You sit up. 

“Yeah, they have been. Good different?” he asks hesitantly. 

“I think so,” you say, quiet again. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

“I don’t want you to feel like I don’t want to be here. I just worry about you.” 

Peter uses his hands to get higher up the bed. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, “Jesus, please don’t. That’s the last thing I want from you, I hate when people worry about me.” 

You curl into the lump of comforter you’d made. Peter lets himself rest beside you, his back to the bedroom wall, tens of Polaroids above him shining with the light of the hallway and his orange-bulbed lamp. His skin is glowing like it’s golden hour, dashes of topaz in his eyes, his Cupid’s bow deep. How would it feel to lean forward and kiss him? To catch his Cupid's bow under your lips?

You brush a damp curl tangled in another onto his forehead. 

You lay there for a little while without talking, listening to the sound of the washing machine as it cycles downstairs. 

“Am I going too fast?” Peter murmurs. 

You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely. 

“Is it something else?” 

You don’t move. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks. 

“No.”

Peter rewards you with a smile, his hand on your arm. “Alright. Let me get this blanket on you the right way. You’re still cold.” 

You resent the loss of a shape to hold when Peter slips down beside you and wrangles the comforter flat again, spreading it out over you both, his hand under the blankets. His knuckles brush your thigh. 

He takes a deep breath before turning and wrapping his arm over your stomach, asking softly, “Is this alright?” 

“Yeah.” 

He gives you a look and then lifts his head to slot his nose against your temple. “Please don’t take this in a way that I don’t mean it, but sometimes you think about things so much I worry you’re gonna get stuck in your head forever.” 

“I like thinking.” 

“I hate it,” he says quickly, a fervent, flirting cadence to his otherwise dulcet tone, “we should never do it ever again.” 

“I’ll try not to.” 

“Would you? For me?” 

You laugh into his shirt, feeling the warmth of your breath on your own nose. “I’ll do my best.” 

“Good. I’d miss you too much if you got lost in that nice head of yours.” 

You relax under his arm. You aren’t sure what all the fuss was about now that he's hugging you. “I’d miss you too.”

May comes up the stairs about an hour later. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch when she finds you and Peter smushed together watching a DVD on his old TV. He’s holding your arm, and you’re snoozing on his shoulder, half-aware of the world, fully aware of his nice smells and the shapes of his arms. 

“Door open,” she says. 

“Not that either of us want it closed, May, but we’re adults.” 

“Not while I’m still washing your clothes, you’re not.” 

He snorts. “Goodnight, Aunt May. The door isn’t gonna close, I promise.” 

“I know that,” she says, scornful in her pride. “You’re a good boy.” She lightens. “Things are going okay?” 

Peter covers your ear. “Goodnight, Aunt May.” 

”I have half a mind to never listen to you again. You talk my ear off and I can’t ask a simple question?” 

“I love you,” Peter sing-songs. 

“I love you, Peter,” she says. “Don’t smother the girl.” 

“I won’t smother her. It’s in my best interest that she survives the night. She’s buying my breakfast tomorrow.” 

“Peter Parker.” 

“I’m kidding,” he whispers, petting your cheek absentmindedly. “Just messing with you, May.” 

You smile and curl further into his arms. His voice is like the sun, even when he whispers.  

—

To your surprise, Spider-Man comes to find you after class one evening. A guest lecturer had talked to your oncology class about click chemistry and other molecular therapies against cancer, and the zine book she’d given you is burning a hole in your pocket. Peter is going to love it. 

You pull it out and pause beside a bench and a silver trash can, the day grey but thankfully without rain. The pages of your little book whip forcefully in the wind. It’s chemistry, sure, but it’s biology too, wrapping your and Peter’s interests up neatly. If it weren’t for Peter you doubt you’d love science as much as you do. He’s always been good at it, but since you started college he's been a genius. Watching him grow has encouraged you to work harder, and understanding the material is satisfying, if draining. You take a photo of the middle most pages and tuck the book away, writing a quick text to Peter to send with it. 

Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!! 

The moment you press send a beep chimes from somewhere close behind you, all too familiar. You turn to the source but find nobody you know waiting. Coincidence, you think, shaking yourself and beginning the trek to the subway. 

But then you hear the tell tale splat and thwick of Spider-Man’s webbing. 

You wait until you’re at the alleyway between Porto’s Bakery and the key cutting shop and turn down to stop by one of the dumpsters. 

“Spider-Man?” you ask, shoulders tensed in case it’s not who you think. 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

You gasp as he hops down in front of you, his suit shiny with its dark web-pattern caught by the grey sunshine passing through the clouds overhead. “Shit, don’t break your ankles.” 

“My ankles?” He laughs. He sounds so much like Peter that you can only laugh with him. What an idiot he is for thinking you don’t know; what a fool you’d been for falling for his put upon tenor. “They’re fine. What would be wrong with my ankles?” 

“You just dropped down twenty feet!” 

“It’s more like thirty, and I’m fine. You understand the super part of superhero, don’t you?” 

“Who said you’re a superhero?” 

“Nice. What are you doing down here?” 

“I was testing my theory. You’re following me.” 

“No, I’m visiting you, it’s very different,” he says confidently. 

“You haven’t come to see me for weeks.” 

“Yes, well, I–” Spider-Peter crosses his arms across his chest. “Hey, you’re the one who told me to take a day off.” 

“I did tell you to take a day off. It’s not nice thinking about you trying to save the world every single night. That’s a lot of responsibility for one person to have.” 

“But it’s my responsibility,” he says easily. “No point in a beautiful girl like you wasting her time worrying about it. I have to do it, and I don’t mind it.” 

“Do you flirt with every girl you meet out here in the city?” you ask, cheeks hot. 

“No,” he says, fondness evident even through the mask, “just you.” 

“Do you wanna walk me home? I was gonna take the subway, but it’s not that far.” 

Spider-Man nods. “Yeah, I’ll walk you back.” 

He doesn’t hide that he knows the way very well. He takes preemptive turns, crosses roads without you telling him to go forward. You can’t believe him. Smartest guy at Midtown High and he can’t pretend to save his life. 

“Are you having a good semester?” he asks. 

“It’s getting better. I’m glad I stuck with it. I love biology, it’s so fucking hard. I used to think that was a bad thing, but it makes it cooler now. Like, it’s not something everyone understands.” You give him a look, and you give into temptation. “My best friend got me into all this stuff. I used to think math was hopeless and science was for dorks.” 

“It’s definitely for dorks.” 

“Right, but I love being one.” You offer a useless secret. “I like to think that it’s why we’re such great friends.” 

“Me and you?” Spider-Man asks hoarsely. 

“Me and Peter.” You elbow him without force. “Why, do you like science?” 

“I love it…” 

“You know, I really like you, Spider-Man. I feel like we’ve been friends for a long time.” You’re teasing poor Peter. 

He doesn’t speak for a while. He stops walking, but you take a few steps without him. When you realise he’s stopped, you turn back to see him. 

Peter’s gone so tense you could strike him with a flint and catch a spark. It’s the same way Peter looked at you when he told you about his Uncle, a truth he didn’t want to be true. Seeing it throws a spanner in the works of all your teasing: you’d meant to wind him up, not make him panic. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Can you hear something?” 

“No, it’s not that…” He’s masked, but you know him well enough to understand why he’s stopped. 

“It’s okay,” you say. 

“It’s not, actually.” 

“Spider-Man.” You take a step toward him. “It’s fine.”

He presses his hands to his stomach. The sun is setting early, and in an hour, the dark will eat up New York and leave it in a blistering cold. “Do you remember when we first met, the second time, we swapped secrets?” 

“Yeah, I remember. Useless secret for another. I told you I hated my major. It’s not true anymore, obviously. I was having a bad time.” 

“I know you were,” he says, emphasis on know, like it’s a different word entirely. 

“But meeting you really helped. If it weren’t for you, for Peter,” —you give him a searching look— “I wouldn’t feel better at all.” 

“It wasn’t his fault?” he asks. “He was your friend, and you were lonely.” 

“No–”

“He didn’t know what was going on with you, he didn’t have a clue. You hurt yourself and you felt like you couldn’t tell anybody, and I know it wasn’t an accident, so what was his excuse?” His voice burns with anger. “It’s his fault.” 

“Of course it wasn’t your fault. Is that what you think?” You shake your head, panicked by the bone-deep self loathing in his voice, his shameful dropped head. “Yes, I was lonely, I am lonely, I don’t know many people and I– I– I hurt myself, and it wasn’t as accidental as I thought it was, but why would that be your fault?” 

“Peter’s fault,” he says, though his head is lifted now, and he doesn’t bother enthusing it with much gusto. 

“Peter, none of it was your fault.” You cringe in your embarrassment, thinking Fuck, don’t let me ruin this. “I was in a weird way, and yes, I was lonely, and I really liked you more than I should have. You didn't want me and that wasn’t your fault, that’s just how it was, I tried not to let it get to me, just there were a lot of things weighing on me at once, but it really wasn’t as bad as you think it was and it wasn’t your fault.” 

“I wasn’t there for you,” he says. “And I’ve been lying to you for a long time.” 

“You couldn’t tell me, right? Spider-Man is your secret for a reason.” 

“…I didn’t even know you were lonely until you told him. He was a stranger.” 

You hold your hands behind your back. “Well, he was a familiar one.” 

Peter reaches out as though wanting to touch you, but your arms aren’t in his reach. “It’s not because I didn’t want you.” 

“Peter,” you say, squirming. 

He steps back. 

“I have to go,” he says. 

“What?” 

“I have to– I don’t want to go,” he says earnestly, “sweetheart, I can hear someone calling out, I have to go. But I’ll come back, I’ll– I’ll come back,” he promises. 

And with a sudden lift of his arm, Peter pulls himself up the side of a building and disappears, leaving you whiplashed on the sidewalk, the sun setting just out of view.

—

You fall asleep that night waiting for Peter. When you wake up, 5AM, eyes aching, he isn’t there. You check your phone but he hasn’t texted. You check the Bugle and Spider-Man hasn’t been seen. 

You aren’t sure what to think. He sounded sincere to the fullest extent when he said he’d come back, but he didn’t, not ten minutes later, not twenty. You made excuses and you went home before it got too dark to see the street, sat on the couch rehearsing what you’d say. How could Peter think your unhappiness was his fault? Why does he always put the entire world on his shoulders?

Selfishly, you worried what it all meant for his lazy touches. Would he want to curl up into bed with you again now he knows what it means to you? It’s different for him. It isn’t like he’s in love with you… you’d just thought maybe he could be. That this was falling in love, real love, not the unrequited ache you’d suffered before. 

But maybe you got everything wrong. All of it. It wouldn't be the first time. 

—

You and Peter found The Moroccan Mode in your senior year at Midtown. The school library was small and you were sick of being underfoot at home. When you started at ESU, you explored the on campus coffeehouse, the Coffee Bean, but it was crowded, and you’d found yourself attached to the Mode’s beautiful tiling, blues and topaz and platinum golds, its heavy, oiled wooden furniture, stained glass lampshades and the case full of lemony treats. The coffee here is better than anywhere else, but the best part out of everything is that it’s your secret. Barely anybody comes to the Mode on purpose. 

You hide in a far corner with a book and an empty cup of decaf coffee, a slice of meskouta on the table untouched. Decaf because caffeine felt a terrible idea, meskouta untouched because you can’t stomach the smell. You push it to the opposite end of the table, considering another cup of coffee instead. It’s served slightly too hot, and will still be warm when it gets to your chest. 

The sunshine is creeping in slowly. It feels like the first time you’ve seen it in months, warming rays kissing your fingers and lining the walls. You turn a page, turn your wrist, let the sun warm the scar you gave yourself those few months ago, when everything felt too big for you. 

Looking back, it was too big. Maybe soon you’ll be ready to talk about it.  

The author in your book is talking about bees. They can fly up to 15 miles per hour. They make short, fast motions from front to back, a rocking motion. Asian giant hornets can go even faster despite their increased mass. They consider humans running provocation. If you see a giant hornet, you’re supposed to lay down to avoid being stung. 

You put your face in your hand. Next year, you’ll avoid the insect-based electives. 

Across the cafe, the bell at the top of the door rings. Laughter falls through it, a couple passing by. The register clashes open. A minute later it closes. 

You don’t raise your head when footsteps draw near. A plate is placed on the table, pushed across to you, stopping just shy of your coffee. 

“Did you eat breakfast?” Peter asks quietly. 

His voice is gentle, but hoarse. 

You tense. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, not waiting for your answer to either question. “You don’t look like yourself. Your eyes are red.” 

You lift your head. Wet with the beginnings of tears, you see Peter through an astigmatic blur. 

“What are you reading?” He frowns at you. “Please don’t cry.” 

You shake your head. Your smile is all odd, nothing like his, no inherent warmth despite your best effort. “I’m okay.” 

He nudges you across the booth seat and sits beside you. His arm settles behind your shoulders. He smells like smoke and soap, an acrid scent barely hidden. “Can you tell me you didn’t wait long for me?” 

“Ten minutes,” you lie. 

“Okay. I’m sorry. There was a fire.” He rubs your arm where he’s holding you. “I’m sorry.” 

“Will you go half?” you ask, nodding to the sandwich he’s brought you. It’s tough sourdough bread, brown with white flour on the crusts and leafy greens poking between the slices. You and Peter complain about the price. You’ve never had one. He passes you the bigger half, holding the other in his hand without eating. 

“I know you’re hungry,” you say, tapping his elbow, “just eat.” 

You eat your sandwiches. Now that Peter’s here, you don’t feel so sick —he’s not upset with you. The dull pang of an empty stomach won’t be ignored. 

Peter puts his sandwich down, which is crazy, and wipes his fingers on the plates napkin. You’ve never seen him stop before he’s done.

“It was in the apartments on Vernon. I– I think I almost died, the smoke was everywhere.” 

You choke around a crust, thrusting the rest of your half onto the plate. “Are you hurt?” you ask, coughing. 

He moves his head from side to side, not a shake, but a slow no. “How long have you known it was me?” he asks, curling his hand behind your back again, fingers spread over your shoulder blade, a fingertip on your neck. 

You savour his touch, but you give in to your apprehension and stare at his chest. “The night you caught me outside in the rain in November. You called me ‘running girl’. The way you said it, you sounded exactly like him. I turned around expecting,” —you whisper, weary of the quiet cafe— “Spider-Man, and I realised it’s him that sounds like you. That he is you.” 

“Was that disappointing?” 

“Peter, you’re, like, my favourite person in the world,” you whisper fervently, your smile making it light. You laugh. “Why would that be disappointing?” 

“I thought maybe you think he’s cooler than me.” 

“He is cooler than you, Peter.” You laugh again, pleased when he scoffs and draws you nearer. “I guess you’re the same person, right? So he’s just as cool as you are. But why would being cool matter to me? You know I like you.” 

“You flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.”

“Well, he flirted with me first.” 

You chance a look at his face. From that moment you can’t look away, not from Peter. You like when he wears that darkness in his eyes, the hint of his rarer side so uncommonly seen, but you love this most of all, Peter like your best memory, the way he’s looking at you now a picture perfect copy of that moment in a swimming pool in Manhattan with cracked tile under your feet. His arms heavy on your shoulders. You didn’t get it then, but you’re starting to understand now.

“I’ve made a mess of everything,” he says softly, the trail his hand makes to the small of your back leaving a wake of goosebumps. “I haven’t been honest with you.” 

“I haven’t, either.” 

“I want to ask you for something,” Peter says, a fingertip trailing back up. He smiles when you shiver, not teasing, just loving. “You can say no.” 

“You’re hard to say no to.” 

“I need you to talk to me more,” —and here he goes, Peter Parker, flirting and sweet-talking like his life depends on it, his face inching down into your space— “not just because I love your voice, or because you think so much I’m scared you’ll get lost, but I need you to talk to me. We need to talk about real things.”

We do, you think morosely. 

“It’s not your fault,” he adds, the hand that isn’t holding your back coming up to cup your cheek, “it’s mine. I was scared of telling you for stupid reasons, but I shouldn’t have let it be a secret for so long.” 

“No, I doubt they’re stupid,” you murmur, following his hand as he attempts to move it to your ear. “It’s not easy to tell someone you’re a hero.”

His palm smells like smoke. 

“That’s not the secret I meant,” he says. 

You take his hand from your face. Peter looks down and begins pressing his fingers between yours, squeezing them together as his thumb runs over the back of your hand.

“So tell me.”

The sunshine bleeds onto his cheek. Dappled orange light turning slowly white as time stretches and the sun moves up through a murky sky. “You want to trade secrets again?” he asks. 

“Please.” 

“Okay. Okay, but I don’t have as many as you do,” he warns. 

“I find that hard to believe.” 

“I don’t. It’s not a real secret, is it? I’ve been trying to show you for weeks, we…”

He tilts his head invitingly. 

All those hand-holds and nights curled up in bed together. Am I going too fast? You know exactly what he means; it really isn’t a secret.

“I’ll go first,” he says, lowering his face to yours. You try not to close your eyes. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks.” He closes his eyes so you follow, your breath not your own suddenly. You hold it. Let it go hastily. “What’s your secret?” 

“Sometime I want you to kiss me so badly I can’t sleep. It makes me feel sick–”

“Sick?” he asks worriedly. 

You touch the tip of your nose to his. “It’s like– like jealousy, but…” 

“You have no one to be jealous of,” he says surely. He cups your cheek, and he asks, “Please, can I kiss you?” 

You say, “Yes,” very, very quietly, but he hears it, and his smile couldn’t be more obvious as he closes the last of the distance between you to kiss you.

It isn’t the sort of kiss that kept you up at night. Peter doesn’t hook you in or tip your head back, he kisses gently, his hand coming to live on your cheek, where it cradles. It’s so warm you don’t know what to make of him beyond kissing him back —kissing his smile, though it’s catching. Kissing the line of his Cupid’s bow as he leans down. 

“I’m sorry about everything,” he mumbles, nose flattened against yours. 

You feel sunlight on your cheek. Squinting, you turn into his hand to peer outside at the sudden abundance of it. It’s still cold outside, but the Mode is warm, Peter’s hand warmer, and the sunshine is a welcome guest. 

Peter drops his hand. “Oh, wow. December sun. Good thing it didn’t snow, we’d be blind.”

“I can’t be cold much longer,” you confess. “I’m sick of the shitty weather.” 

“I can keep you warm.” 

He smiles at you. His eyelashes tangle in the corners of his eyes, long and brown. 

“Did you want my meskouta?” you ask. 

Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow. 

You let the sunshine warm your face. Two unfinished sandwich halves, a mouthful of coffee, and a round slice of meskouta, its flaky crumb and lemon drizzle shining on the table. You would ask Peter for his camera if you’d thought he brought it with him, to take a picture of your breakfast and the carved table underneath. You could turn it on Peter, say something cheesy. This is the moment you ruined our lives, you’d tease.

“You never told me you met Spider-Man, you know.” 

You watch Peter lick the tip of his finger without shame. “They could make a novella of things I haven’t told you about,” you murmur wryly. 

Peter takes a bite of meskouta, reaching for your knee under the table. He shakes your leg a little, as if to say, Well, we’ll work on that. 

—

Spring

“Sorry!”

“No, it’s–”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m– shit!”

“–okay! All legs inside the ride?”

“I couldn’t find my purse–”

“You don’t need it!” Peter leans over the console to kiss your cheek. “You don’t have to rush.” 

“Are you sure you can drive this thing?” 

“Harry doesn’t mind.” 

“I don’t mean the car, I mean, are you sure you can drive?” 

“That’s not funny.” 

You grin and dart across to kiss his cheek, too. “Nothing ever is with us.” 

Peter grabs you behind the neck —which might sound rough, if he were capable of such a thing— and pulls you forward for a kiss you don’t have time for. “If we don’t check in,” —you begin, swiftly smothered by another press of his lips, his tongue a heat flirting with the seam of your lips— “by three, they said they won’t keep the room–” He clasps the back of your neck and smiles when your breath stutters. You squeeze your eyes closed, kiss him fiercely, and pull away, hand on his chest to restrain him. “And then we’ll have to drive home like losers.” 

Peter sits back in the driver's seat unbothered. He fixes his hair, and he wipes his bottom lip with his knuckle. You’re rolling your eyes when he finally returns your gaze. “Sorry, am I the one who lost her purse?” 

“Peter!” 

“I can’t make us un-late,” he says, turning the key slowly, hands on the wheel but his eyes still flitting between your eyes and your lips. 

“Alright,” you warn. 

He reaches for your knee. “It’s a forty minute drive. You’re panicking over nothing.” 

“It’s an hour.” 

Your drive from Queens to Manhattan is entirely uneventful. You keep Peter’s hand hostage on your knee, your palm atop it, the other hand wrapped around his wrist, your conversation a juxtaposition, almost lackadaisical. Peter doesn’t question your clinging nor your lazy murmurings, rubbing a circle into your knee with his thumb from Forest Hill to Lenox Hill. There’s so much to do around Manhattan; you could visit MoMA, Central Park, The Empire State Building or Times Square, but you and Peter give it all a miss for the little known Manhattan Super 8. 

It’s been a long time since you and Peter first visited. You took the bus out to Lenox Hill for a med-student tour neither of you particularly enjoyed, feeling out future careers. It’s not that Lenox Hill isn’t one of the most impressive medical facilities in New York (if not the northeastern USA), it’s that all the blood made him queasy, and you were panicking too much about the future to think it through. He got over his aversion to blood but chose the less hands-on science in the end, and you worked things through. You’re a little less scared of the future everyday. 

You and Peter were supposed to get the bus straight back home for a sleepover, but one got cancelled, another delayed, and night closed in like two hands on your neck. Peter sensed your fear and emptied his wallet for a night in the Super 8. 

The next morning it was beautifully sunny. The first day of summer that year, warm and golden. The pool wasn’t anything special but it was invitingly cool, blue and white tiles patterned like fish below; you clambered into the water in shorts and a tank top and Peter his boxers before a worker could see and stop you. 

It was one of the best days of your life. When you told Peter about it last week, he’d looked at you peculiarly, said, Bub, you’re cute, and let you waste the afternoon recounting one of your more embarrassing pangs of longing. A few days later he told you to clear your calendar for the weekend, only spilling the beans on what he’d done when you’d curled over his lap, a hand threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring, Tell me, tell me, tell me. 

He’d hung his head over you and scrunched up his eyes. Cheater.

The best thing about having a boyfriend is that he always wants to listen to you. Peter was a good listener as a best friend, but now he has his act together and the secrets between you are never anything more than eating the last of the milk duds or not wanting to pee in front of him, he’s a treasure. There’s no feeling like having Peter pull you into his lap so he can ask about your day with his face buried in your neck, sniffing. Sometimes, when you text one another to meet up the next day, you’ll accidentally will the hours away babbling about school and life and things without reason. Peter has a list on his phone of your silliest tangents; blood oranges to the super moon, fries dipped in ice cream to the world record for kick flips done in five minutes. It’s like when you talk to one another, you can’t stop. 

There are quiet moments. You wake up some mornings to find him awake already, an arm behind you, rubbing at your soft upper arm, fingertip displacing the fine hairs there and trailing circles as he reads. He bends the pages back and holds whatever novel he’s reading at the bottom of his stomach, as though making sure you can see the words clearly, even when you’re sleeping. 

There are hectic, aching moments —vigilante boyfriends become blasé with their lives and precious faces. You’ve teetered on the edge of anxiety attacks trying to pick glass from his cheek with a tweezers, lamented over bruises that heal the next day. It’s easier when Peter’s careful, but Spider-Man isn’t careful. You ask him to take care of himself and he’s gentle with himself for a few days, but then someone needs saving from an armed burglar or a car swerves dangerously onto the sidewalk and he forgets. 

He hadn’t patrolled last night in preparation for today. 

“Did you know,” he says, pulling Harry’s borrowed car into a parking spot just in front of the Super 8 reception, “that today’s the last day of spring?” 

“Already?” 

“Tonight’s the June equinox.” 

“Who told you that?” 

“Aunt May. She said it’s time to get a summer job.” 

You laugh loudly. “Our federal loans won’t last forever.” 

“Harry’s gonna get me something, I think. Do you want to work with me? It could be fun.” 

You nod emphatically. It’s barely a thought. “Obviously I want to. Does Oscorp pay well, do you think?” 

Peter lets the engine go. The car turns off, engine ticking its last breath in the dash. “Better than the Bugle.” 

You get your key from the reception and find your room upstairs, second floor. It’s not dirty nor exceptionally clean, no mould or damp but a strange smell in the bathroom. There’s a microwave with two mugs and a few sachets of instant coffee. Peter deems it the nicest motel he’s ever stayed in, laughing, crossing the room to its only window and pulling aside the curtain. 

“There it is, sweetheart,” he says, wrapping his arm around you as you join him, “that’s what dreams are made of.” 

The blue and white tiled pool. It hasn’t changed. 

It’s about as hot as it’s going to get in June today, and, not knowing if it’ll rain tomorrow, you and Peter change into your swim suits and gather your towels. You wear flip flops and tangle your fingers, clanking and thumping down the rickety metal stairs to the pool. There’s nobody there, no lifeguard, no quests, and the pool is clean and cold when you dip your toes. 

Peter eases in first. Towels in a heap at the end of a sun lounger, his shirt tumbling to the floor, Peter splashes in frontward and turns to face you as the water laps his ribs. “It’s cold,” he says, wading for your legs, which he hugs. 

“I can feel it,” you say, the cool waters to your calves where you sit on the edge. 

“You won’t come in and warm me up?” he asks. 

You stroke a tendril of hair from his eyes. He attempts to kiss your fingers. 

“I’m trying to prepare myself.” 

“Mm, you have to get used to it.” He puts wet hands on your thighs, looking up imploringly until you lean down for a kiss. The fact that he’d want one still makes you dizzy. “Thank you,” he says. 

“You’ll have to move.” 

Peter steps back, a ripple of water ringing behind him, his hands raised. He slips them with ease under your arms and helps you down into the water, laughing at your shocked giggling —he’s so strong, the water so cold. 

Peter doesn’t often show his strength. Never to intimidate, he prefers startling you helpfully. He’ll lift you when you want to reach something too tall, or raise the bed when you’re on his side to force you sideways. 

“Oh, this is the perfect place to try the lift!” he says. 

“How will I run?” you ask, letting your knees buckle, water rushing up to your neck. 

Peter pulls you up. He touches you easily, and yet you get the sense that he’s precious with you, too. There’s devotion to be found in his hands and the specific way they cradle your back, drawing your chest to his. “I don’t need you to do a running start, sweetheart,” he says, tilting his head to the side, “I’ll just lift you.” 

“Last time I laughed so much you dropped me.” 

“Exactly, you laughed, and this is serious.” 

The world isn’t mild here. Car horns beep and tyres crunch asphalt. You can hear children, and singing, and a walkie talkie somewhere in the Super 8’s parking lot. The pool pumps gargle and Peter’s breath is half laughter as he pulls you further from the sidelines, ceramic tiles slippery under your feet. In the distance, you swear you can hear one of those songs he likes from that poor singer who died in the Wolf River. 

He’s a beholden thing in the sun; you can’t not look at him, all of him, his sculpted chest wet and glinting in the sun, his eyes like browning honey, his smile curling up, and up. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says. 

You rest an arm behind his head. “The rash guard is a good look?” 

“Sweetheart, you couldn’t look cuter,” he says, hands on your waist, pinky on your hip. “I wish you’d mentioned these shorts a few days ago. I would’ve prepared to be a more decent man.” 

“You’re decent enough, Parker.” 

“Maybe now.” 

“Well, if things get too hot, you can always take a quick dip,” you say. 

You’re teasing, but Peter’s eyes light up with mischief as he calls, “Oh, great idea!” and lets himself drop backwards into the water. You pull your arm back rather than go with him. You can’t avoid the great burst of water as he surges to the surface. 

He shakes himself off like a dog. 

“Pete!” you cry through laughs, wiping the water from your face before the chlorine gets in your eyes. 

“It just didn’t help,” he says, pulling you back into his arms, “you know, the water is cold, but you’re so hot, and I actually got a pretty good look at them when I was under, and you’re just as pretty as I remembered you being ten seconds ago–”

“Peter,” you say, tempted to roll your eyes. 

Water runs down his face in great rivers, but with the dopey smile he’s sporting, they look like anything but tears. “Tell me a secret?” he asks, dripping in sunshine, an endless summer at his back. 

A soft smile takes your lips. “No,” you say, tipping up your chin, “you tell me one first.”

“What kind of secret?” 

“A real one,” you insist. 

“Oh…” He leans away from you, though his arms stay crossed behind you. “Okay, I have one. Ask me again.” 

You raise a single brow. “Tell me a secret, Peter.” 

He pulls your face in for a kiss. His hand is wet on your cheek, but no less welcome. “I love you,” he says, kissing the skin just shy of your nose. 

You’re lucky he’s already holding you. “I love you too,” you say, gathering him to you for a hug, digging your nose into the slope of his neck as his admission blows your mind. “I love you.” 

Peter wraps his arms around your shoulders, closing his eyes against the side of your head. You can’t know what he’s thinking, but you can feel it. His hands can’t seem to stay still on your skin. 

The sun warms your back for a time. 

Peter lets out a deep breath of relief. You lean away to look at him, your hand slipping down into the water, where he finds it, his fingers circling your wrist. 

“That’s another one to let go of,” he suggests. 

He peppers a row of gentle kisses along your lips and the soft skin below your eye. 

You and Peter swim until your fingers are pruned and the sun has been blanketed by clouds. You let him wrap you in a towel, and kiss your wet ears, and take you back to the room, where he holds your face. 

“I’ll start the shower for you,” he says, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, each stroke of them encouraging your face from one side to the other, just a touch, ever so slightly moved in the palms of his hands. 

“Don’t fall asleep standing up,” he murmurs. 

Your eyes close unbidden to you both. “I won’t.” 

He holds you still, leaning in slowly to kiss you with the barest of pressure. Every thought in your head fades, leaving only you and Peter, and the dizziness of his touch as he lays you down at the end of the bed. 

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

please like, comment or reblog if you enjoyed, i love comments and seeing what anyone reading liked about the fic is a treat —thank you for reading❤︎

[keerysfreckles]

kinda really into a bestfriends w/ no boundaries with tasm!peter 👀

andrew’s just seems the touchiest haha <33

touchy feely fool – peter parker (tasm)

pairing: tasm!peter x bff gn!reader

warnings: use of y/n, no specific pronouns mentioned, PETER FLUFF!!!!!!!!

a/n: IM BACK POOKIES RAAHHH

꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱

"peter!"

"y/n!"

you laugh, "why are you being so touchy today? i have to study for kaminksy's test."

"you're the smartest student in our grade. everyone knows you'll pass," peter responds, not daring to move his arms from hanging loosely around your neck.

"plus, you promised we'd have our movie night tonight, since someone bailed last weekend," he added.

"not really my fault i got sick pete," you answer, gaining a small chuckle out of the boy.

peter rests his chin on top of your head, watching as you continue writing flashcards for biology.

"are you almost done?" peter whines.

you giggle at his impatience, "i have four more cards peter. think you can wait that long?"

peter lets out a grumble for an answer, before flopping backwards onto your bed.

twelve minutes pass and just as promised, you stand from your desk chair to face peter. the boy instantly lights up, "are you done?"

you nod, "yes pete, now what movie do you want-"

before you can even get your question out, you feel your body being lifted off the ground. you can't help but laugh as you realize peter's holding you by your waist and running down your hallway towards your living room.

"peter!" your laughter continues, until he places you on the couch. "was that really necessary?" you move any hair that got in your face from the moment prior.

"yes, it was absolutely necessary," peter simply answers, before kneeling down and looking through the dvds beside the tv stand.

"you're an idiot parker," you can't help but smile.

peter smiles, "your favorite idiot."

[astxroiid]

harry's girl // any!peter parker -- non powered!au/virgin!peter

and she's loving him with that body, i just know it.

❥ you're dating Harry Osborne, Peter's best friend since kindergarten. And that should be totally fine... except Peter can't stop thinking about you. ((NSFW)) ib: jessie's girl by rick springfield. playlist

wc: 6k - should be more, imo but, whatever, i'm lazy.

navigation

Peter Parker and Harry Osborne had been inseparable since, basically, birth. Well, except for the four years of high school that Harry's dad had sent him away to private school.

Both boys had tried to stay in touch, but with the distance, and honors classes, and clubs it was difficult.

After high school, both Peter and Harry ended up at The Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Elated to see one another, Harry had invited Peter to a beginning of the year party being hosted by one of his friends.

Peter tentatively accepted.

He had walked into this house expecting something not completely unlike the grandeur he found. Marble floors, giant windows, and authentic art adorning the magnificence of the estate.

A home so nice, Peter never believed he'd ever step foot in one. Classical music was flowing from all corners of the manor, bringing Peter out of his daze.

I mean, who plays Mozart at a college party?

Except; this isn't college, it's an institute. And this is no mere party, it was a gathering of some of the richest and smartest twenty-something's in the country to drink expensive booze, or liquor rather, and have sex.

A lot of which was already taking place around him.

Peter found an antique looking loveseat in the corner of the drawing room and slunk into it.

He opened his phone, scrolling through a random social feed and allowing his mind to go numb.

"Parker!" A tall, thin boy emerged through the crowd of bodies, smiling from ear to ear.

"Osborne." Peter smiles back, standing to greet his friend.

"I'm glad you made it! I didn't know if it was your scene or not, but I hope you enjoy it all the same."

Peter nodded, looking to Harry's side and making eye contact with one of the most beautiful people he's ever seen. "Oh. Hello," His voice is small.

"Hi," you smile at the charming boy in front of you.

Peter feels himself internally retreat back, instantly self conscious of what you think of him. Was he weird for being on his phone at a party? Were the clothes he picked out wrong? Did he seem uninteresting?

"Ah, Peter. This is my girl," Harry squeezes you closer to him and you both smile as he gives Peter your name.

Having his fear confirmed, Peter gives a tight smile.

⡠﹞⚘﹝⠢

Peter didn't care much for the party. The drinks were nice, but he'd honestly rather be home.

He found himself outside on the porch, propped on the railing and watching his sigh disappear in the cold night air.

⡠﹞⚘﹝⠢

Days turned into weeks of school, studying, reluctantly being drug off to parties, and staring at a wall - trying not to notice you and Harry in the corner, making out.

Every now and then, Peter would watch Harry drag you off to one of the bedrooms, trying to ignore the pit in his stomach.

Most often, though, Peter would hide in the bathroom. He was trying to avoid the sight altogether.

That's where he is now. Sat on the edge of the tub, head rested in his hands as he internally screams at himself.

You can't have a crush on your best friend's girlfriend! That's the biggest rule in bro-code! What the fuck is wrong with me?

Peter rubbed his hands down his face. Sighing. His rumination broken by the sudden slam of a door. Giggling and shuffling.

Peter hadn't given much thought to choosing a bathroom that was connected to a bedroom. Until now.

He cracked the door open and the sight before him made his mouth dry. You were pushing Harry onto the bed, scooting your dress down your body.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Peter quickly, but quietly shut the door. Heart pounding, he slides down the wall.

"God, you're so beautiful," Harry sighed.

Peter pressed a fist to his eye. God I'm an idiot.

It wasn't long before he heard moaning, damn near screaming, and dirty talk he'd rather have never heard from his best friend.

"Such a good girl... just like that... fuck."

Peter would cover his ears but it'd do no good. Instead he covers his face, ignoring the twitch in his pants at every single noise you make. He tries not to think about what's going on behind that door.

But his mind keeps flowing back. To you. To your body, your moans. It's not long before Peter is hard and imagining how good it'd feel to be inside you.

He can hear everything. Every time you cum, which has been many. Every time the position changes. Even every time Harry puts his hand around your throat.

It's everything Peter can do to not touch himself right there in the bathroom. He's gripping at the sides of his pants, trying - desperately - to hold out.

Finally, he can hear Harry finish. All three of you out of breath. A kiss. And what sounds like clothes being put back on.

"I gotta go, baby. The boys are wanting me to do a final round of shots with them."

"I gotta go too, my roommate wants me to bring take-out on my way back."

With that, silence follows for the first time in what felt to Peter like hours.

⡠﹞⚘﹝⠢

When Peter got home he ran a cold shower instantly. Scrubbing his body raw and pushing his mind away from anything to do with you.

Harsh indeed, but necessary.

And as he laid down in bed, he tossed and turned all night. The only dreams and thoughts he had were of you.

⡠﹞⚘﹝⠢

Peter Parker awoke the next morning more erect than the night before. He had his subconscious to thank for that.

This began a series of sleepless nights for Peter. Each night restless, and each morning flustered.

He had opted out of the last three parties Harry had invited him to. All being on a Friday night, Peter lied and said he had a weekend full of studying to do.

"Always the most dedicated student, even in your twenties, I see," Harry had mused this afternoon.

Peter gave an awkward nod of his head and walked away.

Later in the evening, Harry had texted Peter.

I know you said you're busy this weekend, but you should drop by my place for some lunch tomorrow.

Peter flopped his phone beside him on the couch, sighing. He hated what his feelings had made of him. He was avoiding his best friend of years all because of a stupid crush.

He picked his phone back up.

I'm sure I can squeeze in a lunch. It better not be that pizza from last time though.

Peter smiled at the memory of the burnt pizza Harry had attempted to make, turning his head back to the tv.

⡠﹞⚘﹝⠢

Peter walked into Harry's apartment, following the information given to him the night prior about the door being unlocked.

He looked around, admiring Harry's decorations. His friend is nowhere to be found. Peter called out,

"Hey, Harry?"

Silence.

Maybe he's getting changed or something.

Peter makes his way back to what he assumes to be the bedroom. He freezes about a foot away from the door. It's wide open. And he can see the whole room.

To put it gently, you and Harry seemed to be having a great time.

You were on top of him, blanket wrapped around your waist with your bare back showing. Soft moans flowing down the hallway.

Peter couldn't take his eyes away from the indents Harry's fingertips were making in your lower back.

Shit.

Peter's pants tightened. He couldn't look away. The way you were slowly rising and falling onto Harry's lap instantly being etched into Peter's mind.

"Fuck... Harry... m'gonna..." you threw your head back.

He had never heard such an angelic sound in his life. Poor Peter believed he might have a heart attack at the sight before him. All he could do was blink.

The echo of your climax rattled its way through the apartment. And finally, Peter came back to earth.

Fuck. Fuck, what if they see me? God, it's gonna look so weird.

A split-second decision had Peter quietly scurrying to the door. How do I keep ending up in these situations? He stepped out into the hallway, catching his breath. Peter tugged his phone out of his pocket, and messaging his friend.

Hey, I'm here.

In a moment Harry was opening the door, sleep shorts the only clothing on his thin frame. He was smiling.

"Peter! I told you the door would be unlocked."

"Yeah," Peter gave a sheepish smile. "I was just nervous."

You and Peter ended up sitting together at a small table in the kitchen while Harry stayed around the stove, cooking.

"Hope you don't mind her joining us, Peter."

Peter feels a pit in his stomach surrounded by the both of you. Too many conflicting emotions swirling in the room for him.

"No problem," he waves his hand. "Only gives me more of a chance to learn about my best friend's girlfriend."

You giggle and give Harry a look only you two understand. Peter looks confused.

"What? I thought you two were... but you said...?"

"Harry and I aren't exactly dating, Peter."

God, his name sounded like heaven coming off your lips. So much so he almost didn't render what you'd said.

"Oh," was all he could allow out without sounding too excited.

"We just enjoy each other's company," you smile.

"And if one of us finds something more permanent, no one's hurt," Harry shrugs.

"Got it," Peter's heart skipped a beat.

So maybe he had a shot after all.

⡠﹞⚘﹝⠢

After brunch you and Peter ended up on the couch, chatting while Harry cleaned the dishes. He had insisted.

Peter had a question long held in his throat. One making his heart pound, no matter the fact that it was a simple question. It was still a question to you, nonetheless.

"So," Peter rubbed his hands on his jeans. "The thing about you and Harry...." God. It was such a simple question. Why couldn't he get it out?

You looked at him, smiling. His mind went blank. Any question he had was forgot.

"What about it?"

Peter scrambled to finish his question. "Uh, do you like it? Him?"

"Most of the time."

"Most of the time?"

"Yeah, it's just-" you pause yourself, finding the right words. "Because of our... arrangement, Harry only focuses on what he needs. Which, I can't complain too much, I do the same. But-" you twitch your mouth from side to side.

"But, I enjoy caring for my partner. And when my partner does the same."

Peter is taking mental notes. He nods his head, ignoring the ache in his crotch at details you give.

"Yeah, I get that."

"Right? And - I enjoy my time with Harry, but he really isn't the kind of man I prefer in bed."

Peter's heart races.

"What kind of man do you prefer?" He pushes.

"Well, Harry's very assertive. And I really like a man to let me do the work. Someone more submissive," Peter please get the hint. You pray.

"Oh." Peter, being as inexperienced as he could possibly be, was confused. He made a mental note to figure out what you were talking about.

You had known the moment you'd met Peter that he was the exact kind of man you needed. Sweet disposition seeping into every facet of him. He was everything you'd been craving for months, if not your whole life, really.

You study Peter, seeing him squirm slightly under your gaze. You scoot closer, pressing your thigh to his. Peter feels a tingle down his back at the warmth you spread to him.

You prop a hand on the back of the couch, toying with the hair at the nape of Peter's neck. He stiffens, then relaxes into your touch. "What do you think, Peter?"

He snaps from his daze. "Uh... about what?"

"Y'know... what would you prefer, with whoever you're with." God, I hope this isn't too forward.

"Oh," he's quiet. Too quiet. You wait with bated breath. "Well, I uh, actually don't know..."

"What do you mean you don't know? A man's gotta know what he likes!" You smile, moving your fingers along his scalp momentarily.

"I, well," Fuck, Peter, just spit it out. But really how is he supposed to tell the woman of his dreams, best friend's girl, the most amazing person he's ever met; that he's never done anything more than kiss a woman? And it wasn't more than a peck at that.

You wait, staring at him with wide eyes. You hope he feels the same as you. About a lot of things, really. But especially this.

"I wouldn't really know. Because," he takes a breath, eyes anywhere but you. "I've never really done anything to be able to learn what I like."

You smile. Not a malicious nor mocking smile, but a genuine, heartfelt, earnest smile. "Peter," it almost sounds chastising. "You don't need to do anything with anyone else to know. You just need to know what turns you on the most."

"Hm?" Peter's lips are pressed tight as he moves his honeyed-brown eyes back to yours.

"What can you think about, or watch, that gets you off the quickest?" You let your nails lightly drag across the back of Peter's neck, watching as he shivers from your touch.

He shifts uncomfortably, feeling your eyes on him. How the hell did he get himself in this situation? Beginnings of a hard-on in his pants, your fingers dancing on his skin, and mind a mess of any thoughts other than the one he needs to be having.

Peter never really watches porn. He's heard of it, of course. He's seen the memes about the websites, screenshots of funny faces - but when he's alone with himself, he usually just closes his eyes and waits for it to be over. How does he tell a woman like you that? Without sounding like the weirdest person ever?

"I, uh... don't know..."

You huff a laugh through your nose. "Well if you ever figure it out, I'm curious to know what gets a cute boy like you off," you smile and stand, ruffing Peter's hair as you walk towards the kitchen.

'She called me cute. She wants to know what gets me off. Maybe I have way more of a shot than I thought.'

⡠﹞⚘﹝⠢

Later that night, Peter rested against the headboard of his bed. He stared at the search bar on his phone, a familiar orange and black logo in the top corner.

Peter wracked his brain, trying to figure out what to look up to understand what you meant.

And I really like a man to let me do the work. Someone more submissive.

Peter sighs, typing 'submissive man' and holding his breath as he hits enter.

The videos the boy is left to find stir something deep in his stomach. The leashes, the ropes, the positions, the words.

It's not long before Peter's hand makes its way into his pants. He's pumping himself breathlessly, struggling to keep his phone steady. He's imagining you. You doing exactly to him what they're doing in the videos.

God, it's perverse. It's depraved and even a little bit carnal. It doesn't take long for beads of white ejaculate to roll onto Peter's hand. He trembles and whines.

Shame washes over Peter like a hot wave upon the sand. Fuck. He's so stupid. So gross. Thinking of his best friend's girlfriend like this. Peter drops his phone beside him, rubbing his face with his undefiled hand

Technically they aren't really 'together'. Says the sanguine voice in the depths of Peter's mind. But wouldn't it still be weird? Obviously not to Peter if this is how he thinks of you in his spare time.

Regarding his thoughts of you; his mind dances back to before, imagining how your lips would feel on his neck, hand around his cock, whispering sweet praises and he begs you to let him cum. He's definitely hard again.

"Fuck," he whines. Peter's hand returns to his cock, throbbing in his fist. He bites down on his shirt collar to keep from whimpering too loud and begins to fuck into his hand again. This time more forceful than the last. He's squirming under your imagined touch, shaking as his mind races to fantasize about you holding him down, having your way with him.

And there he goes again, bursting at the seams with his desire for his best friend's girl.

⡠﹞⚘﹝⠢

Peter finds himself over at Harry's place more frequently than before. The lie he tells is that he hates being home. Not a complete lie, but not a complete truth either. The thought at the forefront of Peter's mind: how can I spend more time around her?

And it works. You and Harry believe him, though anything that keeps Peter around you won't look into too much. Harry makes or orders food, he stops asking Peter out to parties - inferring his best friend's aversion for them.

Sometimes, late at night, you and Harry talk about him.

"So what do you think of Peter?" He'll ask.

Your hand dances on Harry's chest, swirling circles and stars. "I think he's cute," you'll admit. "He's very sweet, and shy. It's endearing."

Harry will nod his head along. "I think he likes you," said nonchalant because it is. Harry always is. "Have you noticed?"

"Do you think so?" Risking sounding too eager is an irrelevance.

"Sweetheart, if you could see the way he looks at you, you wouldn't be questioning me right now."

You smile to yourself before pausing. "Would that be weird for you? Seeing your best friend with someone you've fucked?"

He smiles down at you. "If they looked at each other the way you two do, not at all. I'd wish them the best."

⡠﹞⚘﹝⠢

Somehow, you ended up with Peter's number. Somehow, you ended up texting him all night, every night. And somehow, neither of you minded.

Endless conversations about mindless nothings. Just getting to know each other. There were plenty of times where Peter would worry about Harry. He'd reassure himself that his best friend said he wouldn't care and either way, there was nothing going on between the two of you.

And then, you'd send a goodnight text with a kiss beside it. Or a good morning text with a pet name in it. And Peter's heart would flutter.

You often discussed school and home lives. That's how Peter found out that you attends MIT as well, and that you live in an apartment with a roommate who chews too loud but is otherwise fine. And, more importantly, how he found out that you don't spend as much time with Harry as Peter's past predicaments would make it seem.

This is how you find out Peter lives alone in a tiny apartment near the university, that he has a tendency to stress himself to death, and that he's more lonely than he seems.

Leading you to the text you'll send today.

I've heard rumors of an amazing coffee shop near your place. Wanna come with?

Sent at the perfect time for him to have just gotten home from his last class. You knew he needed a break, he was working himself too hard on one class alone.

Absolutely! Meet you there?

Peter's chest tingled and he responded. A date? No. But almost.

⡠﹞⚘﹝⠢

Peter made it to Mug & Meadow about four minutes before you, waiting by the door.

When you arrived, he held the door for you. Ever the gentleman.

A wave of warm air washes over you. The scent of espresso mingling with burnt vanilla. You step onto the dark wood floor, taking in your surroundings while Peter lets the door swing closed.

Dark, chocolate colored walls matching the wooden floors, except, around the counter has a black and white, diamond-tiled design. Arched windows across the front of the store. Warm lighting pieces scattered about the ceiling.

Light jazz dancing through hidden speakers, soft chatter melding with the beats. Wow. You smile and turn back to Peter, seeing him taking in the surroundings as well. He looks to you, smiling back.

After ordering, Peter tells you to find a seat while he waits on the drinks. You choose a two seated table off to the side. A window to one side and the rest of the store to the other. A nearby bookshelf calls your name.

Peter finds you with your nose off in a leather-bound collection of Robert Frost works. "This place is nice," he sets the cups down on the provided coasters.

You place the book down on the hardwood table, old wax sticking to your fingers ever-so-slightly.

"Yeah," you give your breathless response. "I love it."

"Already? But you just met it," Peter jokes.

"When you know, you know," you sip from your steaming cup. "Who says I don't believe in love at first sight?" You give Peter a knowing look.

He falters. "Uh, well, I was talking to the barista and he said this place is also a library. Which is super cool," He's redirecting.

"Really? That's awesome."

"Yeah, it's something to do with the fact that the owner is like a simi-famous author with the last name Meadow, hence the name," Peter waves a hand up, referring to the shop.

"We definitely have to come back here forever," You take another sip of your drink.

Already booking our next almost-date.

⡠﹞⚘﹝⠢

Peter's stomach swirled, heart beating fast. He was pacing around his living room. A small space, albeit well decorated thanks to May's input and Christmas presents from last year.

"When you have girls over, you'll thank me for helping," And here he is now, mentally thanking her.

You'd asked Peter when the three of you were hanging out at Harry's place last weekend if you could come over. Just you. No Harry this time. A simple question. 'I just wanna hang out with you," it was all you'd given as a reason and it was more than Peter needed to say yes to you.

He's started to say yes before you even explained, not needing a reason more than just seeing you. But the nerves from being alone with you had started to get to him.

Maybe I should've said no. What if she thinks im weird? Especially without the cover of Harry's coolness, Peter felt almost naked. He checked his phone as it chimed.

Google maps says I'm a block away!

Peter nearly chokes on his tongue. Shit, shit, fuck. Okay, how does everything look? There's no messes, no gross smells? Oh, god, how do I look? He ran back to the mirror in his bedroom, double checking his whole outfit.

A simple look. Jeans, sneakers, and a black hoodie layered with a red flannel over it to combat the mid-fall/early winter Massachusetts weather.

Peter brushed his dark curls into place with his fingers, tucking any loose hairs away. He cups a hand over his mouth, letting out hot breath. He brushed his not even five minutes ago, but let his anxiety get the better of him.

A knock on the door and the ding of his phone send his mind flying. Peter takes a deep breath and checks his phone as he walks to the door.

37D right? If so, I'm here!

He slips the phone into the pocket of his jeans and calms himself, reaching for the door handle. "Hey," he smiles wide, happy to see you despite his nerves.

"Hello," you smile back, nearly losing yourself in his warmth. Late November on a cloudy day indoors, and you feel you might get a sunburn. "I brought the takeout we talked about!" You shake the bag excitedly.

"Did you get the egg rolls? It's the only way I can grant you admittance into my abode, I fear."

"I have, although I'm sure you wouldn't leave a fair maiden out in the cold, would you?" You laugh.

"Never one so pretty," Peter steps to the side, guiding you into his apartment. He shuts the door behind you, offering to take your coat, hanging it on the rack beside his door.

"So what movies did you pick? Only the best I'm sure."

"What makes you say that? I could have a real shit taste in movies you know. What if I only watched the Shrek movies?"

"Oh no!" You giggle. "I gotta go."

So far, Peter feels like he's doing great. He's got you to laugh twice and the smile on your face has yet to falter.

You set the takeout on the coffee table and Peter helps you set everything up, begging you to let him do it because you're the guest. You insist on your help.

Within minutes; your laying with your legs over Peter's lap, throw blanket over your legs, plates of food in hand and the movie's starting.

"Can I know what movie this is?"

"Shh, it's starting," Peter squeezes your leg, spreading warmth throughout your body. "And no, it's a secret."

For the duration of the movie you find yourself scooting closer and closer to Peter. Eventually, both your hearts are pounding in your throats as Peter wraps his arm around you, pulling you tight against his side. You wrap your arm around Peter's waist.

He's trying not to breathe too quickly. Efforts fail when you bury your face in his neck, hot breath fanning across his skin. He stiffens slightly. You notice.

You glide your hand from where it rests around his waist to his thigh, rubbing lightly. Peter is trying his best to focus on the movie and definitely not the growing ache in his pants.

You nuzzle your nose below his jaw, purposely breathing against his neck again. Peter lets out a sigh, not a negative one, more so a breath he'd been keeping in. Perhaps for as long as he's known you.

Peter finds himself stretching his hips forward. More subconsciously than anything. You take the chance, heart in your throat, and slide your hand over Peter's crotch.

God, is this actually happening? Peter's mind is trying to find any way he could be misreading this. Oh, shit. You press your palm into Peter's lap.

He looks down at you, a new emotion in his eyes. You share the same look in yours. A beat of a moment passes and you're sending Peter's head reeling and you slowly move closer. Sharing breath and keeping his eyes locked with yours all the way up until you close your eyes and press your lips against his.

With a body full of confidence and a mind full of you, Peter kisses back. It's sweet and gentle like him, yet as needy and passionate as you. He hums and you melt at the sound.

You feel his bulge grow under your hand and you keep your movements soft. Earning whines from him kissed into your mouth. You hold his crotch tight and rub your thumb up and down. Peter huffs into you and pushes his hips against your hand. He's never experienced as much pleasure in his life as he has right now and yet, he finds himself nearly begging for more.

You oblige to his unspoken request and straddle his hips. The broken kiss causing a fleeting warmth between you. "And this is okay?" Your words are sincere and nearly concerned.

"Nothing has ever been more okay than this," Peter puts a hand on the back of your neck, pulling you to kiss him. You both smile.

You press your hips into him, earning the cutest whimper you've ever heard in your life. You grind yourself into Peter's growing bulge and he rests his head against the back of the couch, moaning loud.

The boy in front of you looks like a dream. Face flushed, dark ochre curls a mess, lips parted as his head lay back. You use the opening to kiss at his throat, leaving marks you know won't fade anytime soon.

With each rock of your hips Peter moans louder. Having never had a man as vocal as him, you drink up all he'll offer. You have that pretty bulge of his trapped right against your hips, exactly as you want him.

Your movements are getting faster, as are Peter's moans. Whimpers only increasing your need for him.

Peter can hardly stand it. He's gripping your hips about as tight as he can, trying to hold himself back but fuck the pressure feels so good, and you look so hot right now. Your kisses are sending chills down his spine.

He pulls you to kiss him on the mouth, needy and fervent. Your mouths move in unison, an unspoken rhythm known only to the two of you.

You grab his hair and pull his head back. "Fuck," he chokes, looking down at where your grinding against him.

You feel his cock twitch inside his pants, begging to be touched, pleading to be sucked off. You switch your pace to an even tempo with hard pushes and watch as Peter's eyes darken under you.

Peter grabs your hips tighter, and goes still. He lets out a low whine. You feel his hips jolt beneath you and you pause. His face is flushed a deep rose all the way to his neck.

You stare in disbelief. Peter hides his face in your neck, holding your body close. You look beneath you, seeing a dark spot form in Peter's jeans.

"Aw, baby," you pull his face from your neck, looking him in the eyes. "Don't be embarrassed, that's so fucking hot."

It's Peter's turn to hold the look of disbelief. "Really?" Every ounce of shame draining from his body by the look on your face alone.

"Absolutely. I've never made a man cum from so little before."

Peter's sigh of relief doesn't go unnoticed. You smile and kiss his cheek, loving and kind, same as him. You quickly kiss down his neck, making way towards his pants. You slide onto your knees on the floor between Peter's legs.

He's breathing fast again. Fingers restlessly fidgeting beside him. He's not sure he believes what's happening is real. There's no way you're between his knees right now, looking at him like that.

Peter holds a breath as your fingers move to the button on his pants. His zipper deafening in the surrounding silence. You press a kiss to the wet spot in Peter's boxers, looking him directly in the eyes as you do. You feel him twitch against your lips.

There's no way...

You gently pull him out of his underwear, shock evident in your eyes when you see he's hard again, cock covered in his own cum. Peter twitches at the contact, more sensitive than ever.

"Fuck, Pete... that's so hot."

Never in his life. Never did Peter believe he'd ever experience anything like this. To be honest, he'd convinced himself he'd die a virgin. Sad, true, but a reality to him all the same.

You slowly, teasingly, stroke Peter's length and watch as his hips shake. "F-f-fuck..." You run your thumb over the tip of his cock, biting your lip with anticipation.

You can't help yourself, can't stand it any longer. You wrap your mouth around the head of Peter's dick, the taste of his cum has you rolling your eyes back into your head. Peter whines and you take him in, all you can fit.

His strangled moans fill the room as you work him up. Peter can hardly breathe, swapping between looking at the ceiling and you.

The noises from you are lewd. That alone would have Peter finishing faster than ever if not for his sheer determination to experience this pleasure for as long as he can. That said, he's still not going to last long. You can tell.

You pull off of him with a pop, watching the mixture of cum and saliva flow down his shaft.

"Fuck, that was-- you're amazing," Peter's dopey smile stretches his cheeks.

"Just wait until you're inside me, Peter."

Peter chokes at the implication. His dick twitches on his lap. An aching boner growing once more.

He watches as You begin to undress yourself, slowly, in front of him. Taunting his erection with each piece of exposed skin. Your shirt is the first to go, immediately exposing your hardened nipples.

Peter's struggling to keep himself together.

You slip your jeans down your legs, giving Peter a show with each fabric gone.

Instinctually, Peter wraps a large hand around his aching, sensitive cock. He slowly pumps himself.

You grab his wrist, grip firm. "Did I say you could touch yourself?" You're completely naked, eyes stern as they look into Peter's.

"No..."

You raise an eyebrow, silently asking.

"No, ma'am," Peter is so unbelievably turned on right now.

"Good boy," you smile, releasing his wrist and kissing his cheek.

God.

You step close to Peter, grabbing his hand. "Feel how wet I am for you," Peter feels he might faint before even touching you. He presses a finger between your folds. Fuck, you're soaked. "That's what you do to me."

He looks up at you, pleading. He nearly whispers your name. "I need you."

Those words are all you need to plant your legs on either side of his hips. You reach between your bodies and wrap your hand around Peter's length. He moans. You glide his tip along your slit, soaking him in your arousal.

Peter violently grabs the arm of the couch, white-knuckling the fabric. You slide his cock inside you and you lower your hips. Moaning loud at the sensation of him filling you up. Peter's panting, staring between the two of you in disbelief.

No way this is actually happening right now. Fuck, she's so tight. So warm, so amazing...

You slowly begin to bounce on Peter's lap, loving the way his eyes and head roll back. "Fuck, Pete."

You place your hands on his shoulders, picking up a pace near intense. Your lips find his in a heated embrace. Moans slipping from both your mouths like a symphony of pleasure.

Your body squeezes around Peter's cock and he's brought to the edge all too quickly. You wrap a hand around his throat, squeezing the pulse points. He grabs your hips so tight you're sure you'll have marks left. You don't mind at all.

"God, you're so good. So, fucking, good. Please... don't stop," he's panting, out of breath and dizzy from pleasure. Peter never believed this would be his first time. Not with you. Not like this. Not this amazing. It's the most euphoric sensation he's ever felt in his whole life.

"I want you to cum inside me, Pete, please," your voice is pleading, needy.

"But--"

"--I'm on the pill. Peter. Please. Cum inside me."

Never needing to be told more than twice; Peter pulls your hips down against his own, holding you hard against him. He cums deep inside you, shaky whine echoing throughout the apartment.

He rests his head against your chest, huffing. You tangle your fingers into the hair on the back of his head. He kisses between your breasts, slowly moving to your neck. "Fuck, you're amazing," Peter pants between kisses to your hot skin.

You hum, kissing the top of his head. "I take it you enjoyed your first time?"

Peter's head snaps back up to you. "How did you--"

"--Peter..." Please don't make me tell you how obvious it is. He turns red, hiding his face in your neck.

"God, that's so embarrassing."

"Not at all, it's actually really hot."

"Really?" His eyes shine beneath you.

"I've always wanted to be someone's first. And the fact that it was you, Peter...."

Peter kisses at your chest again, moving to leave matching marks to his own on your neck. You let out a small, yet heavenly, moan. When he feels the way your body squeezes around his, he whines and presses an embarrassed face into your neck. His arms wrapping tightly around you.

You feel him harden inside you, gasping. "Peter."

This is going to be an amazingly long night.

i will most definitely be reusing that coffee shop description in future fics - i love it!

very proud of this one - please remember likes are appreciated but comments and reblogs mean the most <3

[spider-stark]

SPIDER-BOY

Pairing - Peter Parker x Reader

Summary - Thinking he has no chance with y/n as himself, Peter begins approaching them as Spider-Man.

friendly reminder - the best way to support writers on Tumblr is to reblog their work or comment <3:)

// masterlist // send me your thoughts //

Two months. 

That was how long it had been since Peter first indulged in his ridiculous idea of talking to you under the guise of Spider-Man. Of course he hadn’t meant for it to last this long, promising himself that it was just to help him build his confidence–maybe even learn a bit about what kind of things you liked–so that he could actually ask you out as himself. Unfortunately, though, things hadn’t gone quite as he had planned. 

Spider-Man offered him a type of courage that he just wasn’t able to muster as Peter Parker. Under the cover of his mask he was able to come across as easy-going and flirtatious, never failing to leave your cheeks a deep crimson from the playful banter. Yet, when he did manage to speak to you as plain ole’ Peter, all of that was suddenly lost on him, leaving him a complete and total bumbling mess. As far as he was concerned, Peter Parker had no chance to be what any girl wanted, especially you. But Spider-Man was a different story.

And so he continued to exploit Spider-Man, using the masked hero as a means to continue getting closer to you, pretending to be oblivious to the fact that he wouldn’t be able to hide behind his secret identity forever. To be fair, he would rationalize to himself, Spider-Man had taken a lot from him, it was only fair that he got something in return. 

Plus, the interactions had been mostly innocent. Or at least that’s what he kept telling himself, opting to ignore the many times that coy attitudes began to border on actual sexual attraction. He tried not to think about those times (though there had been many nights where he purposely let those interactions slip into his mind, reliving them from the privacy of his bedroom), instead just promising himself that he wouldn’t let his romantic escapades as Spidey go too far. 

“So,” your voice filled his ears, his heart skipping a few beats at the sound, “at what point should I start to wonder if you’re stalking me?” 

Peter chuckled at the question, his fingers gripping the railing of the balcony to your apartment, effortlessly hanging from it. “Do you feel like I’m stalking you?” 

“Hm,” you placed a finger against your chin, pretending to be deep in thought, evoking even more laughter from the boy. “Maybe a bit.” 

“Oh yeah? What did I do to give that impression?” 

“Well, to be fair, you’re currently dangling a couple hundred feet in the air off the side of my balcony.” You told him matter-of-factly, gesturing to where he was still hanging from the railing. 

His brows furrowed beneath his mask, an expression that was barely noticeable due to the fabric covering his face. “And that makes me a stalker? I thought you’d find it romantic, a sort of Romeo-and-Juliet moment.” 

“Romeo threw pebbles at her window, he didn’t scale an entire apartment building dressed in spandex.” You reminded him, “But, actually, it’s more so that I don’t remember ever giving you my address.” 

Peter froze for a moment, having not thought about the fact that your previous run-ins with Spider-Man had always been in public spaces–catching you after work or just happening to bump into you on the street while patrolling–never at your home. He only knew where you lived because you had told him, but as Peter Parker, not Spider-Man, when the two of you were assigned to a project together last week. He mentally face-palmed at his own ignorance. 

“Superheroes keep up with where all the pretty girls live. One of the lesser-known parts of the job.” He quipped, hoping that flattery would keep you from thinking too much into it. You only rolled your eyes at the comment, luckily not pressing any further. 

“So what did I do to deserve a surprise Spidey visit this time?” You hummed, leaning back against the cold brick of your apartment building.  

Peter hoisted himself over the edge of the balcony so that he was standing across from you, his arms finally beginning to ache from holding up his bodyweight for so long. “What, I’ve gotta have a reason to stop by and see my favorite civilian?” 

“Civilian?” You snorted. “And here I was thinking you and I were friends.” 

He dramatically placed his hands on either side of his face, feigning shock at your words, “Oh God no! You and me? Friends?” he let his hands fall to his waist, an exaggerated breath leaving his mouth, “No, not at all. I think that would be a conflict of interest.” 

You cocked a brow at him, “How so?” 

“I mean–I just think it would really interfere with our whole superhero slash damsel-in-distress routine, ya know?” 

“Damsel-in-distress?” You gasped incredulously at the claim, though the corners of your mouth were still quirked up in a smile. 

Peter nodded, “Uh, yeah. That’s literally our whole thing, isn’t it? You constantly running into trouble, me swinging in and saving your life.” 

“You haven’t had to save my life once Spider-Boy.” Peter scoffed at the name, acting like he was insulted. 

“Oh c’mon!” Peter dragged the word out, practically whining as he took a fraction of a step towards you, the movement enough to leave only a few inches between the both of you due to how small the balcony was. “You are literally always getting yourself into danger.” 

“Okay,” You crossed your arms over your chest, craning your neck so that you could actually look up at him, the masked vigilante having several inches on you, “give me an example then.” 

Peter rolled his eyes, a gesture only evident by the dramatic way his head moved along with them. He reached a gloved hand to your face, letting his fingertip gently brush against the semi-healed cut along your forehead. “You literally got this by tripping over your own shoes and banging your head against the counter at a coffee shop. Not to mention the fact that you spilled your entire coffee on yourself in the process.” He trailed away from the cut, moving to brush a stray hair behind your ear. He didn’t take his hand away, though, letting it rest against the side of your face. “You are always in danger because you are the danger.” 

Your eyes widened for a moment, so quick that he didn’t even notice the reaction. He was right, you had done that, an unfortunate consequence of being the clumsiest person alive. But, still, his words left you confused; remaining silent for just a moment as you turned them over in your head. When you finally opened your mouth to speak you were cut off by the sound of distant sirens, a groan immediately coming from him, knowing that your interaction would now be cut short. 

His thumb brushed against your cheek, acting as an unnecessary silent apology. 

“Sounds like somebody needs Spider-Man.” You told him as he let his hand fall from your skin, forcing himself to the railing. If he didn’t go now, he wouldn’t leave at all. “You better hurry, it could be one of those pretty girls you keep tabs on.” You shot a teasing grin in his direction, referencing his earlier comment. 

“Ugh, they just never give me a day off.” He joked, swinging his feet over the balcony railing before gripping onto it and allowing himself to once again hang from it. “Try not to trip into anything dangerous until I’m back.” 

He turned his head and reached one hand out, likely to shoot a web at the building across from yours, but hesitated when he heard you speak again, a sudden panic filling his body at your words, “Be safe, Parker.” 

The sirens continued blaring, growing closer with each second, but all he could hear was the sound of his own heart wildly thumping against his chest. “What?” He sounded completely dumbfounded, his head slowly turning back to look at you, only to find you standing with your own finger pointing to the cut he had traced on your forehead, a wide grin on your face. 

“Spider-Man wasn’t there the day that I fell.” You shot a knowing glance in his direction, one that had his cheeks heating up. He had never been more thankful to be wearing a mask, aware that his face was likely beet red. “I asked Peter to meet me there so I could borrow his biology notes.” 

Peter didn’t speak, too stunned by his own stupidity for slipping up and not thinking about how he was there that day as himself, not Spider-Man. This time you were the one to take a step forward and close the gap between you, having to lean down just a bit in order to be face-to-face as he dangled from the railing. 

“You’re a lot more confident in the suit.” You mused, your hands finding the base of his mask, lightly tugging the material up to reveal his face. Even though it was dark out you could still see that he was blushing. “But I prefer you without it.” 

His jaw fell slack, words getting caught in his throat as a million thoughts raced through his mind, though one thought in particular was a lot louder than the rest: I prefer you without it. 

“You should definitely go.” The sirens were now close enough that you could actually see the faint red-and-blue lights a few streets over. He looked in the direction of them but still didn’t make a single move to leave. You seemed to recognize his hesitation, tugging the mask back down over his face. “If you ever remember how to talk then you can come back when you’re done. But ditch the mask.” 

Peter nodded at your words, his eyes remaining glued to you as you straightened back up, turning your back to him to go back inside your apartment–leaving him to go off and be a hero. Once you were inside he couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head as he forced himself to get into motion, swinging in the direction of the police lights. 

Turns out Peter Parker did have a chance.

[backtothefanfiction]

Professor Peter Parker

Summary: The first day of college nerves are suddenly made worse when you realised the guy you f*cked last night is your new Physics Professor!

Warnings! 18+ ONLY! This is some of the filthiest smut I have ever written and posted on here yet. Female reader and pronouns, Age gap (everyone is of legal age, Peter is a very young Professor), Oral (F + M Receiving), Dirty Talk (so much fucking dirty talk), praise kink, edging, P in V, Peter Parker (YES he does need his own warning), One Night Stand... or is it?, ITS SEX PEOPLE, JUST STRAIGHT UP SEX WITH A LITTLE PLOT FOR ADDED TENSION AND POW!

Word Count: 4.9k+

A/N: Consider this my formal application piece for the literary prostitutes society. There are no words for this, so I'm just gonna type/sing Don't Lose Your Head from Six. "Sorry not sorry but what I said, I'm just tryin' to have some fun..." But seriously though this was so self indulgent and I can't believe this came out of me. It's very much giving Aria and Ezra in Pretty Little Liars but older and much more Peter Parker. Also I am really sorry about if the tense keeps changing, I sometimes have a problem with finding my rhythm and I really cba to spend the time working it all out and changing it.

First day of college. Standard level of nerves for a first day. Are you running on just a couple hours of sleep? Sure. Still a little tipsy from last night? Okay, yeah, maybe just a little, but that’s a good thing right. Takes the edge off. But then again numbers and science had never let you down before. You can do physics. You’ve got this.

You took a deep breath, hand hesitating on the door handle. ‘This is the first day of the rest of your life.’ You said to yourself, breathing deeply.

You found a spot somewhere in the middle of the room. Not so eager you were at the front but you also didn’t want to hide away in the back. That and you were pretty sure you were due for an eye test and if you sat any further back you wouldn’t be able to read the board. You got out your notepad, flipping open to the first page, your fingers smoothing across the fresh paper comfortingly. You reach for a fresh pencil from the novelty pack your Mom had bought you especially for your first week, knowing you prefer the feel of writing in pencil than pen, the ink always getting smudged on your hand from your messy scrawl. You pluck the one with tiny zebra all over it from the clear case before placing it back in your bag. Your fingers drum the back of the pencil on your page nervously as you wait. You tried not to overthink things as your stomach began to churn. Had you really turned up this early? You took a quick look around the room at the other 5 people who had actually been there before you. ‘Hey,’ you reasoned to yourself, ‘at least you weren’t as early as them.’ 

You yawned. Damn you were tired. Although you had this early class, when your new room mate suggested you go out with the guys who lived across the hall you couldn’t say no. To be fair, it had been a good night all considered. You had met some new people, exchanged a few numbers, agreed to go to the end of semester drama club performance even though the term had only just started, drank way too many jello shots, got snuck into a local bar and then ended up going home with a tall brunette with the softest yet devious brown eyes you had ever seen who completely rocked your world. 

You absentmindedly rubbed your thighs together, squirming slightly in your seat as you thought back to his head between your legs. The lewd moans he’d pulled from your lips echoing around your brain. It sent a fresh new wave of arousal straight to your core.

‘Not the time or place.’ you berated, instead forcing your mind back into the classroom and the task at hand. ‘Physics of Matter with Professor Peter Parker. He was probably middle aged’ you thought to yourself. It was always the case with classes like these, middle aged men finally leaving the lab for the first time after finally completing their life's work, now relenting to their wife’s begging to spend more time with the family. Or older men with white hair, wrinkles and tweed, desperately holding on to their independence, understimulated by the idea of retired life when all that knowledge of matter and the universe was rattling around their brains. ‘Young hot professors were only to be found in the movies or on TV’ you daydreamed as you tried to distract yourself from the growing pit of nerves in your stomach.

You check your phone every few seconds as other students file into the room, finding their own seats as you count down the minutes. 5 minutes… 3 minutes… 2 minutes… 1 minute… … He’s late… 1 minute past… 2 minutes past… 3 min-

“Okay, okay, settle down!” A voice called out as the classroom door opened, far younger than she expected and slightly familiar. “Welcome to Physics of Matter,” the voice continued as he made his way towards the board, picking up a bit of chalk and lifting it to the board as he spoke, “I am Professor Parker, but please,” he said dropping the piece of chalk back onto the little shelf at the bottom of the board, “call me Peter.” He said finally turning around.

SHIT!

DOUBLE SHIT!

You dip your head towards your page as you sink a little bit down in your seat. Hopefully he won’t notice. ‘FUCK!’ your head was suddenly screaming as all those memories of the night before flooded your brain again. His messy hair. His naked body. The way he had moaned into your cunt- FUCK!

You subtly glanced around the room from your head's dipped position. This had to be some new prank show right. There’s no way this happened in real life. There had to be cameras. He’s an actor right? Ashton Kutcher was about to burst through the classroom door shouting “YOU’VE BEEN PUNK’D” any second followed by the actual Professor Parker, right? Right?

“Now I’m not gonna ask you to get your books out this lesson,” he began to say playfully, his voice carrying around the room as he walked back and forth in front of his desk surveying his new class. “Today is about you getting to know me and me just going over all the things we are gonna be covering over the course of our year together.” He said, talking a lot with his hands. “As much as I’d love to start getting into equations with you, I’ve learnt that that tends to be futile during our first lessons. I mean, just by a show of hands, who went out drinking last night?” Professor Parker asked and a shower of hands across the room went up, Peter’s gaze scanning across the faces of the raised hands as he continued, “Keep your hand up if you’re still a little bit drunk-” his voice cut off as his eyes finally landed on you, his own oh shit face befalling him.

You felt your skin crawl as people lowered their hands and began following his gaze to you. You moved your hand up to your face as you sank down in your seat further. ‘Stop staring. Stop staring. Stop staring!’

8 HOURS EARLIER 

“I couldn’t help but see you staring.” He said as he sidled up to you. ‘Holy fuck’ he was gorgeous. Tall, lean, perfectly messy brown hair and the most delicious biceps (not too big) that were flexing under the cuffs of his fitted T-shirt you really just wanted to wrap your fingers around and squeeze. Damn. “Is she okay?” He said turning to your friend.

“Yeah she’s just-“ your roommate started before nudging you and breaking you from your hypnotised gaze on this absolute Adonis of a man. “She thinks you’re really hot!” she shouted over the music to him.”

He raised his eyebrows as he gave a small chuckle, flattered, as you cringed. They both laughed at you. “Do you wanna dance?” he asked as he took your hand.

“Yes, she does!” your friend said, pushing you off your stool. His other hand comes out to steady you as you almost slam into his chest. You blush before turning to give your roommate a death stare. 

He flashed one of those charming smiles again before he began to guide you away from her and to the dance floor. His hand doesn’t leave yours as he starts to bop and bounce, easing you both into the music. You slowly relax, smiling as a giddy feeling churns in your stomach, as you begin to bop with him to the music.

The music swells and he gives you a twirl under his arm before he pulls you closer to him. “So have you got a name or am I supposed to refer to you as flower for the rest of the night?”

You frown. “Why Flower?” 

“Isn’t that the name of the skunk in Bambi who is all quiet and has those big eyes and blushing cheeks and-”

“Don’t call me Flower.” you quickly say, slightly embarrassed by the way you had gone all goo goo eyed and helpless over him.

“Okay, then what can I call you?”

You hesitate for a second as you think about giving him your real name but what would be the fun in that, especially if this only turned out to be a one night stand. “Trouble.”

He laughs, his head dipping to hide his amusement. “Is that so?” he says from beneath his lashes. “Fine, if that’s how we’re playing it, you can call me Professor Brat Tamer, Professor for short.”

You feel your arousal soak your panties the moment he says it, the words going straight to your core. What have you gotten yourself in for? It’s like he knows too from the way he’s smirking. He turns you, pulling you back into him, his hands resting on your hips as he begins to grind himself against your ass. “Now, are you gonna be a good student?” he coos against your ear only loud enough for you to hear. “Or are you gonna be like your namesake says and cause me a whole lot of trouble?”

He can feel the way you relax your body back against him, your eyes closing as you relish in the feeling his words elicit in you. 

You smirk as you look back at him, “I’m sorry Professor, but you may have your work cut out for you.”

An hour and a half later he’s pulling you into his apartment, your back slamming hard against a wall of exposed brick as your mouth latches onto his. Both of you had done so well keeping your hands to yourself the whole way back, but the moment you got through the door it was like a starting pistol had gone off, both of you suddenly in a race for pleasure.

You moan against his mouth as his tongue slips between your teeth. You can taste his final Jack and Coke he had had before you left. Your skin felt like it was burning under his touch.

“Fuck.” You gasp as his mouth is suddenly moving across your jaw and down your neck, his teeth and stubble grazing you slightly in his hunger for you. 

“God Trouble, you sound so fucking pretty.” he coos against your chest, his hand moving to paw at your breast, bunching it up to spill over the top of your dress as he leaves wet kisses across the skin.

Your fingers wrap around his messy tresses as you pull his head back up so you can connect your mouth with his again, a small growl escaping his lips at the slight pain. You kiss him messily, both of you breathing heavily before you push him back, allowing you room to drop to your knees on the hardwood floor. Your fingers immediately begin to fight with his belt buckle, the sound of the metal clinking sending arousal straight between your own legs.

“Fuck.” He pants as he looks down at you, his hand reaching to cradle either side of your face as you pull down his jeans and his boxers in one swift pull. “Uh, baby, baby, baby.” he coos as you take his length into your mouth and immediately begin to work your tongue up and down his cock.

His fingers move away from your face, grabbing at the hem of his t-shirt and you watch as he pulls it up and over his head, exposing the rest of his body to you. Fuck he really was gorgeous. “Oh my god.” he cried out when you began to swallow his length down your throat, your nose pressing to his pelvic bone. “Uh,” he said, his head tipping back, “she’s not trouble, she’s fucking perfect.” he says as he drops his head back forward to watch you, his thumb reaching to wipe away a stray tear at the corner of your eye.

You take his length out of your mouth as you gasp for air and he thinks it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever heard. “Come here Trouble.” he says as he takes your face and chin in his hands and lifts you from the floor, pulling your lips back to his as he smashes his mouth into yours.

He begins to kick off his shoes as well as his jeans and boxers that now sit tangled around his ankles as he continues to kiss you, freeing himself so he can lift you up into his arms, your own arms throwing themselves around his neck, as he carries you to his bedroom.

You can’t help but cheekily bite at his lower lip as he stops just before the foot of the bed. “Oh she has some bite does she?” he says against your mouth. Your teeth almost clash together from how close you are as you grin, waiting to see what he’ll do or say next. “Okay,” he says as he pauses a little for dramatic effect, “I can bite back.” he says before throwing you back on the bed.

You let out a small squeal as you're caught by the mattress springs and pillows. You quickly prop yourself up on your elbows so you can see the devilish look on his face as he pulls off your heels before he stalks up the bed towards you. He leans over you, attaching his lips to yours once more, his tongue sliding deftly into your mouth and out again with every kiss until his last, when he uses it to suck your lower lip between his teeth, pulling on it. He releases it just as you’re beginning to feel it bruise, his lips instead attaching to your throat as his hands come up to pull down the top of your dress. He had already clocked that you were sans bra from how low the back of your dress was and is even more grateful now he can immediately latch himself onto your nipples, his tongue lapping at the small sensitive nibs, one and then the other.

You moan under his touch, your eyes falling closed as your head tips back, fingers gripping tightly at the covers beneath you. When he looks up at you, keening under his touch, he thinks it's the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “Look at me baby.” he softly commands and you oblige, your chin pressing to your chest as you gaze straight into those big brown eyes. It’s the sexiest eye contact you’ve ever held. It’s like he’s fucking you with his eyes as his fingers begin to snake their way up your thighs, lifting the bottom of your dress up to your hips so he can pull down your underwear. He takes one feel of them before saying, “Fuck, trouble, these are soaked.”

You can only nod in agreement, as all words seem to have left your brain. ‘Fuck, he’s so fucking hot’ you think, as he kisses his way down your middle, over your dress until he reaches the hem where he can start kissing at your skin. You sigh, your head falling back again at the sensation of his lips kissing across your hips and then down your thighs. 

His fingers spread your legs and he gives a small nip to the inside of your thigh and you gasp at the small feeling of pain, that quickly turns to pleasure, as yet another wave of arousal floods between your legs.

“Fuck, baby, you’re dripping.” he says as his finger scoops up the arousal thats begining to drip down your thighs, bringing it up to his mouth. You watch hypnotised as he sucks on his fingers. “Damn, trouble, you tast so fucking good.” he says as he slips his fingers from his mouth. It’s so filthy. He has barely done anything and you’re a fucking goner.

His tongue suddenly crashes between your folds. “FUCK!” you cry out loudly. His fingers trace over your thighs, reaching for your own fingers which you entwine with his. He’s got his eyes closed, savouring every moan, every little gasp he pulls from you. 

He can tell you’re getting close from how your cunt begins to grind itself down against his tongue, chasing you’re high, but to allow you to have it would be too easy. He listens closely to your breathing, your moans; one… two… he suddenly moves his mouth away and you want to scream. He playfully nips at the inside of your thigh, almost hard enough to bruise. You really do scream now in frustration. “Told you I could bite.” he says coily as he mumbles against your skin. 

He licks another stripe through your folds as if in apology, as if to soothe the sting but his tongue flicks at your sensitive clit before he sucks it hard between his lips and you cry out again. “Mmmm.” he hums against your cunt, “you sound so pretty when you scream like that.”

You want to cry, you are so sensitive and overstimulated but suddenly he’s lapping at your pussy again and you’re melting back into the bed as your muscles begin to relax again with the long slow licks of his tongue.

When you both begin to feel the build of your climax again he doesn’t pull away this time. He lets you have it, your thighs closing around his head, hips bucking off the bed as the wave of pleasure crashes over you. He keeps going, his mouth lapping up everything you’ll give him until you're pulling yourself away from him. Tears well in the corners of your eyes from the over stimulation as you pant and whine and rub your thighs together, desperate for the feeling to dissipate. He grabs at your ankles, holding you still as you flop back into the pillows at the top of the bed.

“So good for me Trouble, you’re doing so good.” he says as he crawls up the bed to kiss you. 

Although he’s wiped at his mouth, the taste of you still remains and you lick it off every part of his mouth you can reach as he settles himself between your legs.

His hands slide up your thighs before they’re grabbing ahold of your waist and suddenly he’s flipping you, his head crashing into the pillows as you straddle his hips. Your lips race to chase his as you continue to pant breathlessly into his mouth, another flood of arousal soaking between your legs. 

His fingers reach for the bottom of your dress, lifting it up and off your head, leaving you finally, completely naked before him. “Fuck, trouble,” he moans as his eyes drink you in, “has anyone told you how absolutely fucking perfect you are.” You giggle and blush as you lean down to kiss him. “No. No. Look at me.” he says as he takes your head in his hands and moves you away from him so you have to look at him. He’s giving you that look with his eyes again as he holds your face in place, not allowing you to break eye contact with him for one single moment as he begins to grind his hips up against you, his rock hard cock grinding against your clit. Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp. “So fucking perfect.” he repeats. “Now tell me, trouble, how do you want me to fuck you?” You can’t think, your eyes closing as you try to focus your thoughts as his skin drags across your clit teasingly. He gently taps your cheek with his fingers, forcing you to open your eyes and look at him. “Eyes on me Trouble,” he says, “find your words, tell me how you want me to fuck you.”

You shake your head as you close your eyes again, really unable to think. “Options.” you say breathlessly, your eyes flying open, before he can punish you for breaking eye contact again. “Give me options.” 

“Okay.” he concedes with a small nod and a smile. “Okay, pretty girl.” he repeats again soothingly as he pulls you back down closer to him, his lips kissing you sweetly and encouragingly, aware he’s over stimulating your brain. “I can fuck you like this.” he says as he looks into your eyes. His hand slowly trails down to wrap around your throat, his other hand still cradling the back of your head as he flips you again. “Or I can fuck you like this.” he says as he continues to slowly grind himself against your sex. “Or,” he says as he lowers his head down to the crook of your neck, breathing you in deeply as he speaks directly into your ear, “I can flip you over and fuck you from behind.” You sigh as his words go straight to your core again.

“The last one.” you say breathlessly as your eyes close.

“MMM.” he hums into your ear as his teeth nip at your jaw, satisfied with your response. He pushes you back into the bed slightly as he lifts himself onto his knees, his hands moving away from your face and you watch him eagerly as you await his next move. He leans over to the bedside table, reaching into the draw for a condom, lazily tugging at his length with one hand whilst he uses his teeth and the other hand to open it up. You’re almost starring as he’s rolling it down the length of his cock, fully taking in his erect size. He smirks when he looks up to notice you nibbling at your lower lip.

“Come here, trouble.” he says before he’s flipping you over, your head finding a comfortable position on the pillow as he lifts your ass into the air. 

He slides his fingers down your opening before placing two fingers slowly inside you, stretching you out and you let out another breathy moan at the feeling. He pumps them in and out of you a couple more times before he slowly lets them slide out of you, his fingertips dragging agonisingly across your clit before he uses them to pump his cock again a couple times, shifting himself into position.

His fingers grip tightly onto your hips as he lines himself up and slowly pushes himself inside you, your back arching with the stretch, head shifting as you let out another moan of satisfaction into the pillow. “Mmm, let me hear you baby.” he says as his hand removes itself from your hip to reach for the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he turns your head back towards him.

“Fuck.” you hiccup as he pulls himself out little by little before he’s slamming his hips forward against your ass, pushing himself in even deeper.

“Fuck, trouble. So fucking tight for me.” 

You lose all ability to speak as he begins fucking into you, slowly building his pace until he’s fucking into you at a wicked speed. You want to scream again, your face screwing up in ecstasy as his cock continuously hits that spot inside you that makes you want to explode. His other hand reaches around for your throat, pulling you back up as he leans over you so he can stick his tongue back into your mouth. It adjusts his angle somehow, making the feeling in your cunt even more intense. Your mouth falls open as he holds it there, you’re panting and moaning into his mouth. “Look at me.” he encourages as his thumb rubs soothingly across your jaw. You can’t help but obliged. 

It’s too much. It’s the hottest, most filthiest sex you’ve ever had. You know you’ll never be the same again. Nothing, no one, will ever compare to this. “Please, please, please.” you find yourself repeating as your eyes close again. You’re so close and he knows it because your cunt is constricting like a vice around his cock. 

He moves his hand down to circle at your clit between your legs. “Come on, trouble, give it to me,” he coaches, “Fuck, baby!” he snarls against your mouth as he smashes his lips to yours again, pulling at your lips bruisingly. 

You pull your mouth away from him, wailing, gasping for breath as your body convulses around him, his pace only slowing slightly to help you ride out your climax. “So good.” he coos, “My trouble, so fucking good for me. Atta girl.”

His pace is steady as he feels you begin to relax again but you’re still so stimulated. You’re surprised he’s still going. “Your turn.” you say to him breathlessly and he smiles. When he doesn’t say anything you decide to push your luck. “How do you want to fuck me?” you coo, now you’re the one who’s eye fucking him.

You watch as he closes his eyes, head falling back. He chuckles then, something low and devious. He suddenly pulls out of you. It makes you feel so empty. You’re about to whine but then he’s flipping you over and pulling your legs together and then over his shoulder as he bends you in half. He lines himself back up with your entrance and slips back in with ease and you gasp as he bottoms out, the position making him hit that devastating spot inside you instantly. He leans all the way over so he can kiss you, his mouth swallowing every moan, gasp and breath that leaves your mouth as he pounds down into you like something fierce.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” you whine as the sensitivity grows too much. His pelvis is slamming against your clit with every thrust. Now you really are crying, your eyes rolling back in your head as you feel yourself clamping down on his cock again. 

“Oh my god, baby.” he says. “You’re so fucking wet. So fucking good. Such a good fucking girl.”

It’s a guttural wail you let loose into the room as you cum and his head dips down as he buries himself in the crook of your neck, his thrusts growing even faster as he chases his high. “Stay with me, Trouble,” he says, trying to ground you. He lifts his head, hand reaching for your face, forcing you to look at him. “Just a little bit longer, baby, just a little bit-” but he can’t finish his words. He’s so fucking close. One pump, two- he suddenly stills as he buries himself inside you, his forehead pressing into yours grounding you both as he pumps his seed into the condom inside you. You whine at the feeling of his cock pulsating against the still extremely sensitive spot inside you.

“You did so good.” His voice reassures as he strokes soothingly across your cheek forcing you to look at him as you breathe deeply and heavily in your come down. “So fucking good.” he says as he kisses your forehead before slipping out of you. 

With his body no longer crowding you you fully relax back into his sheets, your eyes closing as you try to regulate. You think you might even pass out. You think you may even have blacked out for a second, but you know you haven’t as your eyes fly open and your body jumps at the feeling of a cool damp cloth between your legs.

He watches you content as you suddenly relax once more, the cool washcloth doing wonders to soothe the hot swollen feeling between your legs as he cleans you up. You definitely black out then, completely exhausted.

You are disturbed again a few minutes later, a soft reassuring hand brushing up your legs. “Here.” his voice says softly as he sits on the side of the bed next to you, waiting for you to open your eyes and look at him so he can pass you a glass of water.

The cold liquid does wonders to help regulate your temperature and you can’t help but stare at him again in wonder as he sits before you in a pair of flannel pyjama bottoms. He leans over you, kissing the top of your head, breaking you from your sex induced stupor.

“You can stay if you want.” You nod your head, you have no energy to move yet.

“Okay.” he says with a soft smile as he takes the now mostly empty glass from your fingers. “I’m gonna go get you another one of these,” he says motioning to the glass now in his hands, “you go to the toilet, there’s a spare toothbrush under the sink, get yourself ready for bed and when you get back we can cuddle.”

You still have no words, just dociley nod and agree. You wobble slightly as you try to stand, blood rushing back to your limbs and his hand reaches out to steady you. “I’ve got it, I’ve got it.” You say as you sway slightly and wave him away.

He just chuckles. “Whatever you say, trouble.”

You crawl into bed beside him 5 minutes later, tucking yourself into his side as his arm wraps around you. “You really are Professor Brat Tamer huh?” you joke as you nestle into his bare chest.

“And don’t you know it.” he smiles, pulling you tighter into his side so he can place a kiss to the top of your head.

You wake just after 6am, sneaking from his bed with a smile on your face as you pick up your clothes before doing the walk of shame back to your student halls. The sun is just coming up and the leaves are just starting to change, you can still feel the alcohol in your system as well as the after effects of your orgasms and you know, although you’re tired, today is gonna be a great first day… or was it?

________________________-

@tarzinnia @withahappyrefrain @xenasolos @sincericida

Is this a one off? I don't know. Is there a lot of room for this to turn into a collection of shorts... yeah, maybe.

[reidslovely]

Something about helping frat!blonde! Peter touch up his roots. Like he calls you and reader must think its for hooking up purposes - then he surprises her w “can you. uh..retouchmyrootsplease” and she’s like “??? 🤨wat” and you just go over to his place and spend time with him, washing his hairr, he making eye contact with reader through the mirror, etc. But he’s still stubborn about his feelings so he’s like “this was a one time thing only don’t let it get to ya head”

sorry if this was jumbled I just had this in my head for a while now

Yes this idea is so so so so so cute. I have written something vaguely similar before but I love it so much I don't care to write it again

please reblog or comment in place of liking/hearting this post 🫶🏼

“Pete?” You questioned picking up your phone, your eyes locked on the clock that read 4:00pm. “It’s far too early for a booty call..what’s up pretty?” 

“Ya flatter bashful.” His chesty laugh could be heard on the other end of the phone. It sent your heart doubling in speed, your cheek pressed lovingly into your shoulder. 

“You still with me bashful? I need you to do me a favor.” 

“So this is a hookup call..you only ask me that if-” You're cut off by him rushing out a string of words. None of which you caught. “Pete..baby. I need you to breathe and say that again.” You laughed softly, already gathering your stuff up to head over to the Theta Tau. Regardless if this was a hookup situation or not you were tired of your homework and Peter always seems to take any type of stress away. 

“Can you uh..” There's an awkward cough and sigh. “Retouchmyrootsplease?” 

The questions still came out as one word this time around but at least you actually caught what he was saying. 

“Sure, Pete.” You tried not to laugh. “Do you have what you need or do we need to run by Sally?” 

“No, no I have everything here for you. Thanks for this.”

“Course Pete, anything for you.” You hung up before you could get any type of snarky reply. 

Peter’s blond locks were a new addition about three weeks into your situation ship and you absolutely loved them. They flattered his face, and made his little baby deer eyes even more baby deer like. Which made you want to kiss him even more, and made it hard to say no when he’s asking you for another round. 

“You’re literally the best for this. Just moved up to like number two in my ranking.”

It was a joke, you were easily number one if not the only girl in Peter’s ranking but you have to play along or else you’ll scare him away. 

“Offended, whose number one.”

“May..sorry.” Peter sighs dramatically, leading you up the stairs to his bathroom. Tossing a few nods and hey’s to his brothers walking down the steps. 

“Mhm can’t be mad at that.” 

Peter laughed sitting on the chair he’d tucked away in the bathroom, pulling off his shirt. 

“Awe did you go ahead and set everything up for me?”

“No I was gonna do it myself but that's how we ended up in this scenario in the first place.”

Peter would never admit to it but he had set everything up for you. He’d done it before he even picked up the phone: not that he knew you'd say yes but he could hope. 

“Mhm I see.” You hummed running your fingers through Peter’s hair. He grabbed his phone starting his music, looking at you in the mirror as you started sectioning his hair out. 

Admittedly the whole time he was locked on you. Every move you made he was locked on you, not wanting to miss a moment. His head lolled back as you ran; you painted the bleach on his roots. Earning soft little ‘stops’ and ‘hold your head up’ from you as he relaxed. Your eyes were fixed on his hair making sure you’re applying everything evenly and correctly. Peter held his phone up in the mirror snapping a quick photo of the two of you. The photo falling amongst the others he’s sneakily taken of you or the both of you that you had no clue about. 

“Okay you gotta sit for a while and then I’ll wash it, tone it, all that after.” You said sitting on the toilet lid next to him taking the gloves off, tossing them in the trash can. 

“This is nice.” 

Peter's comment threw you off, you two only really hung out in the context of having sex or it being mutually beneficial for both. You hated to admit you had more moments like this. 

“Yeah?” 

“Mhm no pressure, at least not for you. I still gotta make jokes and keep you entertained.” 

“Tragic.” You tsked resting your arm on the sink hand to head as your free hand started a 30 minute timer. 

“Come on, we have enough time to watch some of that Hulu cooking show you like.” Peter stood taking your hand in his walking to his room. You flopped down on Pete’s bed watching him sitting next to you. “Careful you’ll get bleach on your..”

“No no, I'm good sitting up.”

You nodded and laid your head on his lap watching The Bear, Pete’s fingers combing through your hair switching between watching the TV and you. 

Pete’s head was tilted back in the sink, a towel under his neck for comfort. “Stop looking down my shirt, Parker.” 

“I’m not…I’m not.” He lied, turning his eyes up to look at you as you shampooed after toning his hair. “Do I look fabulous?”

“Oh absolutely.” You laughed wrapping his hair up in a towel helping him sit up. Ruffling the towel through his hair you laughed watching it sticking up every which way. You blow dried it for him smiling and singing under your breath as you fixed his hair perfectly. 

“How do you feel Parker?” 

“Amazing..I look great thanks bashful.” He says turning around, capturing your hips in his hands. “Let's get dinner, and then we can come back here.” 

“I hate sex after dinner.” 

“No, no we come back here and finish the show.” 

“Oh I get to come back to the Theta house? And not have sex?” You fake a gasp of shock. 

“I know it’s a rare occurrence. This is a one time thing though, don’t let it get to ya head.” Pete taunts, hand rubbing your side grabbing his wallet off his dresser.

“Oh baby it has.” 

Peter knew and even in his playful disdain and stubborn personality you were slowly craving a spot out in his chest and making a home in it, and at this point he had no say in it.

___________

tags: @helloheyhihowdyheya @sincericida @moonyslove78 @a-lumos-in-the-nox @messymissy @adhdhufflepuff @toomanyfictionalboyfriends @ateliefloresdaprimavera @eevylynn

[love-hs28]

You need to rest. And relax. And come lay with me.

Summary: A long, exhausting day of work means you hadn't had time to eat anything all day. The consequences of this catch up to you while at home with Peter, but thankfully, he's there to catch you, just like always. gn!reader CW: reader passes out from overworking themselves 1k words comfort & fluff Posted on: 5-28-24

a/n: yes i know this is similar to the JJ one I did with this prompt BUT. gotta cover all my bases 😁 enjoy!!!

Peter is working on his suit in the shed one night, and you’ve just gotten off work. It had been a long day of answering stupid questions that could’ve been solved by taking one glance at the menu on the coffee shop wall, and you were exhausted. You’d hardly had the time to eat anything at all, you were thirsty, your back was killing you, and all you wanted was to be with Peter. 

You knock on the shed door before coming in and say “It’s just me,” so Peter knows he doesn’t have to rush to hide the web shooters he was currently trying to fix, his back hunched over the desk, screwdriver in hand. He looks up when he hears you and smiles. 

“Hey, y/n/n. How was work?” 

You sigh and come up behind him to wrap your arms around his shoulders and rest your chin on top of his head. “Long. ‘m so tired. Just wanna be with you right now.” 

He frowns and sets his tools on the table, holding your arms with his and turning his face so it’s buried in your neck. He dots a few kisses there and you run your fingers through his hair as he sighs into yours. 

He spins the chair around and puts his hands on the backs of your thighs to guide you to sit on his lap. His hands find their way to your hair and he runs his fingers through it as yours travel up and down his arms and to his back. One of his hands comes to your waist and the other to the side of your face, and the two of you share a sweet kiss. You pull away after a minute to catch your breath and he rests his forehead against yours. 

“God I missed you.” 

You laugh and gently brush some hair from his eyes. “I missed you too, Pete. You’re already made my day so much better.” You lay your head on his shoulder and he scratches and rubs your back. 

After a minute or two of you sitting like this, you pull back and cup his face to leave a kiss on the tip of his nose. 

“I’m gonna go get a snack. Haven’t eaten anything yet.” 

Peter’s eyebrows raise and he holds your hand as you stand up. 

“You’ve eaten nothing all day? Hun, we’ve talked about this.” 

You kiss his hand and walk over to the small old fridge tucked away in the corner opposite the desk. 

“I know, I know. I’ve just been so busy and honestly haven’t even been hungry. Or thirsty, I guess, so I should probably get some water too.” 

Peter softly laughs and shakes his head, but turns back around to the desk. You grab a water bottle and granola bar from the small counter and move to sit on the little old couch across the desk. You open the water and take a quick sip, but then stand back up. 

“Actually, I’m just gonna go inside and get something else. This granola bar does not look very appetizing right now.” 

But, you must have stood up too quickly, because your vision goes black and you stumble as you walk towards the door. You have to grab onto the back of Peter’s chair to steady yourself, which causes him to turn around. 

“Whoa, you okay?”

You bring a hand on your head and grimace. “Yeah,” you nod, but feel your body get cold all of a sudden as you sway to the side. Peter sees the state that you’re in and carefully stands up and takes your arm. 

“Heyy, let’s sit you back down, alright? You look like you’re about t-” 

Before he can finish his sentence, you slowly grip his arm and fall to the ground. Peter catches you as you faint and puts a hand on the back of your head and gently helps lay you on the ground. 

“Shit shit shit, noooo, y/n. Wake up, c’mon, c’mon.” He shoots a web at the pillow on the couch and puts it behind your head and gently but hurriedly tries to make you wake up. 

The next thing you remember is slowly regaining consciousness and seeing Peter looking down at you with his hand on the side of your face. His worried expression lights up when he sees your eyes start to open. 

“Heyy, there you are. It’s okay, you’re okay. You fainted but I got you. I laid you on the ground before you could hit your head or anything.”

You try to sit up, but Peter gently puts his hands on your shoulder and lays you back down. 

“No no no, you gotta stay down for a minute. If you get up too fast you could fall again.” 

You let out a groan as your hand comes to your head. “Ugh, shit. I’m sorry.” 

Peter gently shushes you and softly laughs. “Honey, you have nothing to apologize for. This is just why you can’t overwork yourself. And why you gotta eat. It’s dangerous.” 

You close your eyes and breathe a few times. They open again to see Peter still looking down at you with a worried look on his face. You gently smile and bring a hand up to the side of his face, your thumb caressing his cheek. 

“I’m okay, Pete. You got me. Thank you.” 

He leans into your touch and turns his head to kiss the palm of your hand. “Don’t thank me. Of course.” 

You grab hold onto his bicep and he helps you slowly sit up. He starts to put his hands under you but you stop him. “What’re you doing?” 

He picks you up and walks to the couch. “You’re gonna lay here for a bit and I’m gonna go get you something to eat. Then I’m gonna come back and we’re gonna eat together and lay together and maybe watch a movie later, but for now you need to rest. And relax. And cuddle with me.” 

You smile at his overwhelming cuteness and lay back on the arm of the couch. “You’re the best, you know that?” 

He smiles and leans down to kiss your forehead. “Yeah yeah, you kinda tell me everyday. Now I’ll be right back, okay?" He points a serious finger at you, but the smile doesn't leave his face. "Don’t. move. I’ll only be a minute.” 

You smile up at him once more and he kisses your forehead before jogging out to the house to get you something to ensure that this incident does not happen again. 

a/n: hope you enjoyeddddd! love ya'll and please leave requests and prompts for me, i'm in a writing mood and my mind is blank!! love ya

xoxo

[flightlessangelwings]

FawKtober2024 Part 3- Tasm!Peter Parker

Tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader

Kinks- romantic sex, pegging, cunnilingus

Word count- 1723

Warnings- s.mut (18+ ONLY!), anal (m receiving), soft sex, oral (f receiving), romance, established relationship, strap/dildo, fluff, light slapping, playfulness, pet names, no physical description of reader other than body parts, no use of y/n

Notes- Honestly, I can't believe I haven't written a pegging Peter fic yet lol so why not use kinkotber this year to fix that! Peter is always so fun to write and I"m really happy with how this turned out! Enjoy!

@flightlessangelwings-updates is my update blog so please follow that and turn on post notifs to stay up to date on when I post!

~

“I like this view, Peter,” you smirked from behind him as you tightened the harness on your hip.

Peter wiggled his hips from where he sat perched in front of you on his hands and knees, “I bet you do, sweetheart,” he turned to look over his shoulder and gave you a wink and a sly smile.

Your face lit up as you laughed with him while you ran your hand across his ass, “You ready, baby?” you purred as you gave him a squeeze.

He swallowed hard as his eyes trailed down your figure to the strap that sat comfortably nestled on your hips. Licking his lips eagerly, Peter nodded, “Ready,” he breathed.

Without warming, you reeled your hand back and landed a slap on his ass, making him yelp in surprise. It quickly turned into a moan as you slapped him again and grabbed his cheek hard, kneading it under your palm, “You like that, Pete?” your tone dropped as you poked your finger at his entrance.

“Yeah,” he whispered as he dropped his head down onto the mattress, burying his face in the blankets and leaving his hips up in the air for you.

“Good boy,” you murmured as you sat mesmerized by him. Lazily, you pushed a finger into Peter, and your pussy clenched as he let out a low moan. “You wore the plug like I asked you to,” you commented, noticing how easily your finger pushed past his muscles, “Good boy,” you repeated your praise as you thrust your finger in deeper.

“Mmmm,” Peter moaned as he lost himself in your touch, “All ready for you, babe,” he quipped once he was able to form an actual thought.

You pulled your finger out and leaned forward to place a soft kiss on his ass where you slapped it. While you nibbled on his sensitive skin, you reached to where you placed the bottle of lube and thoroughly coated your strap with it before tossing it aside.

“Relax, Peter,” you cooed, “I’ve got you today,” you murmured words of encouragement as you lined yourself up with his entrance.

Peter groaned your name as he left the stretch of the tip of your strap slowly pushed into him. “Fuck!” he cried out as he felt the thickness inside of him, even thicker than the plug he kept in him to prepare for you tonight.

“Feeling good, Pete?” you asked in a soothing voice as you ran your hands up and down his spine, devouring the goosebumps that erupted all along his back.

“So fuckin’ good,” he couldn’t help the sultry tone as he pushed his hips back to meet your body.

“Fuck, Peter,” you groaned as you watched the rest of the strap disappear inside him. 

“Sweetheart,” he mumbled in between incoherent babbling, “Please move.”

You let out an obscene sound from deep in your chest at the way he begged for you. And you couldn’t deny him whatever he wanted. Rocking your hips back, you heard a squelch as the strap reappeared, only to disappear again when you thrust forward. Both of you moaned as you started a slow and steady rhythm, rocking into him over and over again like how he did with you.

Grabbing his hips, you couldn’t help but pick up your pace. Encouraged by his moans and string of curses under his breath, you thrust a little harder, testing to see his reaction.

“Feels so good,” Peter muttered as sweat made his hair stick to his forehead.

“You’re taking me so good, Pete,” you murmured praise as you leaned forward and placed a trail of kisses along his spine where your fingers just touched.

“You’re fucking me so good, sweetheart.”

With those words, you thrust yourself as far forward as you could, burying your strap as deep as possible inside Peter. You wrapped your arms around his waist, holding him close as you savored the moment. And Peter released his grip on the blankets to hold onto your hand in response, giving it a tight squeeze. 

“I love you,” Peter whispered.

You smiled against his body as you placed another soft kiss, “I love you too, Peter.”

Letting go of his hand, you started your thrusts again, this time with more determination. You were faster, harder, and your hand snaked down his stomach to wrap around his cock. Peter cried out loudly as you suddenly moved faster, almost overwhelming him with how good you felt. 

“Fuck! Sweetheart!” he screamed as his body burned with desire, “You’re gonna make me cum.”

“Let me see how beautiful you are when you cum, Pete,” you huffed as you started to feel your muscles burn with how much your hips thrust back and forth. 

Pumping his cock in time with your thrusts as best as you could, you could tell he was close. The way he moaned and groaned and murmured your name over and over told you he was about to go over the edge. And you would be there to catch him this time. 

“That’s it, Peter,” you cooed, “You’re taking me so good.”

All he could do was babble incoherently as his arms and legs started to tremble as pure bliss coursed through his veins. Your words of encouragement were all he needed for his climax to take over his body and with a loud cry of your name, Peter came hard. Tears filled his eyes as the emotions overwhelmed him in the best way possible.

You continued to stroke his cock and thrust your strap into him over and over again as every moan and whimper went right to your cunt. You felt his release splash your hand as you kept going, pulling every drop of his orgasm as you could from his body. Peter’s cries of pleasure filled the room as you rode out his orgasm until he collapsed down flat in front of you.

“Peter!” you gasped as your dildo slid out of him with ease from how wet it was. But, you ignored it and rushed forward to cover his body with yours, placing kisses all across his freckled shoulders, “You alright, baby?” you asked.

He hummed as a silly smile lit up his face while he rolled onto his side, “Never better,” he beamed, “You’re so good at this, babe,” he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close.

“I try,” you smiled back at him, “I learned from the best,” you winked back at him as you both erupted into giggles in between kisses.

Peter turned more serious after a few moments as he gently pushed your shoulder and guided you onto your back, “Let me return the favor, sweetheart,” his tone dropped as he shimmied his way down your body, kissing every inch of your skin on his way down.

“Pete…” you moaned as he reached your hips, tucking his fingers under the harness of your strap as he coaxed it off your body.

It was a sensual moment as you lifted your hips up for him, neither of you breaking eye contact as he slid the strap down your legs like he did with your panties so many times before. Peter only broke away to look down at the soaked dildo as he took it into his hands, giving it a quick kiss at the tip before he tossed it aside. Your breath hitched in your throat as you watched the gesture before he knelt down and stilted between your parted legs.

“Beautiful,” he murmured in awe as he stared at your dripping pussy before he dove in.

You screamed as his lips made contact with yours and Peter immediately devoured you like a man starved. Your hands clenched onto the blankets as his tongue swirled around your pussy, tasting you greedily.

“Fuck! Peter!” you cried out as tears already formed in your eyes.

He hummed into you, too engrossed in your body to break away even to tell you how beautiful and delicious you were. Peter held onto your hips, holding you still enough so he wouldn’t miss a spot while still letting your hips grind against his face. The room felt like a sauna from the heat that built up from the passion between you and Peter.

Tears of his own filled the corners of Peter’s eyes as he devoured you desperately. It gave him just as much pleasure to ravage you as when you fucked him. His own hips bucked against the mattress as his tongue ran up and down your folds. A moan of his own escaped his lips as he wrapped them around your clit and sucked hard.

“Pete…” you whimpered as your mind swam in pleasure.

Peter hummed again, determined to make you cum even harder than he did. His tongue worked your clit expertly, knowing exactly what spots drove you wild with ecstasy. And the louder you screamed, the more he knew you were close.

Your hand flew to his hair, tugging hard as you panted, “I’m gonna cum… Pete…” you breathed before you screamed loudly as your release took you over. With your arms and legs trembling, you came into his mouth, gushing with your orgasm while Peter continued to lick and suck at your pussy.

When you whined from the overwhelming emotions and sensation, Peter finally broke away. He breathed heavily, his chin dripping as he stared at you while you laid sprawled out with your eyes closed. He could almost feel the emotions in the air, could almost physically see them in front of him as he watched you come down from your high.

“I love you, sweetheart,” Peter blurted out before he lunged forward and kissed you deeply as he laid out on top of you.

You moaned into the kiss, immediately wrapped your arms around him to hold him as close as you possibly could, “I,” you kissed him again, “Love you too,” you broke away for a breath before he kissed you again, “Peter Parker.”

Peter smiled into your kisses as he rolled to his side, keeping you wrapped up in his arms. Together, the two of you tangled up in a knot that neither of you wanted to break free from. Content to stay in the other’s embrace, both you and Peter never felt safer, or more satisfied. And everything was perfect. 

[3vergr3en]

Earn it.

_______________________

Author’s Note: I have the biggest, most fattest crush on Andrew Garfield. LIKE LOOK AT HIM. Also, if there are any mistakes, I did not proofread this 💀

Summary: Harry is hosting a birthday party for his best friend, Peter. Everything runs smoothly until Y/N’s best friend back in high school shows up and start flirting with the female. Oblivious Y/N doesn’t think much of it, being used to such playful manner. But Peter can see through the man’s facade, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

Paring: Fem!Reader x TASM!Peter Parker

Genre: Smut with little plot.

Word Count: 2.9K

Additional Info: Public sex, unprotected sex (PLEASE WRAP IT), nipple play, orgasm control, Peter has an obvious breeding kink, cream pie, choking, teasing, profanity, name-calling, humiliation, dirty talk, jealousy, established marriage.

_______________________

“Thank you for coming! Please grab some champagne and the appetizers are over towards the left.” You inform with a smile, using your hands to help direct the couple towards the section. You continued on saying the same phrase for the majority, apart from times where you had thrown in a couple different sentences such as, ‘You guys look amazing tonight”, ‘Oh my, I haven’t seen you in so long!’, and ‘Oh thank you, Peter helped me pick out this dress.’

But one familiar fellow caught your attention, “Oh my god, Mark is that you?” You question as your jaw hung low in shock, your eyes widening twice in size. “I’m surprised you still remember me.” The black-haired man laughs as he walks up to you, extending his arms out as an indication for a hug, “How could I not? We spent our entire high school years together!” You exclaim, embracing the latter into your arms. You received a nice, firm hug from the male in return. “God, I missed you.” Mark chuckles, using one of his hands to caress the bare skin on your back through your long, velvet black backless dress. “I missed you as well. I tried contacting you after graduation, but—“ You pulled away.

“I got a new phone, and all of my contacts didn’t save unfortunately.” Mark explains as he held your hands in his, his thumbs rubbing in circular motions on the back of your hands. “You look gorgeous, by the way. You’ve always have been, since high school to now.” Mark compliments, leaning down to kiss your hand. “Oh stop it, Mark. You’re too much. What happened to the Mark that would tease me 24/7?” You laugh, using one of your hands to playfully slap at the man’s shoulder.

You fail to notice a presence coming up behind you, growing concerned when there was an abrupt change in Marks demeanor. “Mark? What’s wrong?” You furrowed your eyebrows as your frowned before looking over your shoulder only to see Peter glaring at Mark with a tightly-clenched jaw. “Oh hon’! Have you seen what Harry has done for your birthday? The ballroom is absolutely stunning! Also, I want you to meet Mark, he was my best friend throughout high school,” You smiled, wrapping your arms around your husband’s arm, oblivious to the tension between the two men. “And Mark, meet my husband, Peter.” You inform, feeling one of Peter’s arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you even closer to him.

“Husband?” Mark questions, raising one of his eyebrows. “Yeah. Dated for 4 years, been married for 5.” Peter stated, holding the hand out that the wedding band around your ring finger. “Oh, well, congratulations. I’m really happy for you, Y/N. But I’m just saying, I would’ve gotten a better ring for a beautiful woman like you.” Mark examines the ring, then to look at Peter with a smug look.

“Pfft, I forgot how much of a jokester you are, Mark.” You grin. “Hey, love? Can you go grab me some water?“ Peter asks with a nonchalant tone, not breaking eye contact with the man that stood in front of him. “Hm? Oh yeah, of course.” You nod, excusing yourself before walking off.

“The fuck is your problem?” Peter mutters, stepping closer towards Mark. “Nothing. It’s just sad to hear that my girl’s married off to some other dude. She looks ravishing tonight. The way the dress perfectly hugs her waist and extenuate her curves. How is she? Is she tight? Does her tits feel soft?” Mark whispers, the corner of his lips curling up into a smirk. Peter balled up his fists, clenching tightly to the point where his knuckles were turning white. As he opened up his mouth to say something, a pair of heels clicking against the smooth, tiled floor pulled him out of his frenzy.

“Unfortunately, they didn’t have water at the moment. They only had champagne, if that’s okay, love?” You explained, each hand holding two glasses. “I got one for you, Peter, and one for Mark.” You smiled. “That won’t be necessary, hon’.” Peter chuckles, grabbing both glasses. Before you could get a word in to ask why, your hands flew to cover your mouth as you watched Peter pour the beverages straight onto Marks head. Peter then handed you the empty glasses, pecking your cheek before turning around to face Mark once more, only to land a hard blow right across the males face. “Oh my god, Peter!” You gawked, immediately placing the glasses on a nearby table prior to rushing over to pull the brunette away from the half insensible Mark. “What is wrong with you?” You question with wide eyes, you look around to see people judgmentally staring at you three.

“You didn’t hear the vile things he said about you.” Peter mutters, shaking the hand that is now starting to bruise up. “Security!” You call out, “Please escort this gentleman out.” As two able-bodied men in black suits walked over, you pointed your hand at Mark who could barely stand. “Thank you.” You say to the two men, smiling.

You then felt a hand gripping at your wrist, dragging you through the crowd of people and up the carpet staircase. “Peter, where are you taking me?” You whispered loud enough for only Peter to hear. “Shut up.” You heard Peter respond back in a churlishly manner. You were bewildered. You don’t even know what Mark could’ve said to have Peter all riled up. You didn’t know where Peter was taking you in all honestly, there was a lot of turns and all you knew was that your feet were starting to hurt. It’s not easy to walk relatively fast in 5 inch heels.

“Peter, can you please slow down? My feet are starting to hurt—“ You gasped as you were suddenly grabbed at your shoulders, turned around to have your back pushed up against a large glass window. “Peter-!” You slightly yelp, looking around frantically. You saw you two were in a short hallway, the lights were fairly dimmed. You look over your shoulder to look through the glass windows and see you were approximately 15 stories high. “Peter, what are you doing?” You whisper, looking up at the male with furrowed eyebrows.

“Are you really that fucking stupid, huh?” Peter spats out. He grabs both of your wrists with one of his hands, pinning it above your head. The other hand now clenched around your jaw. “I don’t understand—“ You whimper when you felt Peter’s thigh force your legs apart. “He was flirting with you. Maybe you’re just too fucking dumb to even notice.” Peter says through gritted teeth. “Touching you.. putting his lips on you,” He scoffs, his hand that held your jaw now making its way down to your neck. “He had the fucking nerve to ask such vulgar questions about my lovely wife,” Peter laughs, tightening his grip around your throat, “But he wont ever know. He’ll live out the rest of his life wondering how tight you feel.. how soft these wonderful tits are.. and how much of a slut you sound like when you’re getting fucked.” Peter whispers into your ear, his thigh inching closer to your aching cunt.

You felt your body becoming hotter. But you also felt yourself becoming wetter with each passing second. “I’m sorry, Peter. Please..” You gasp out, bucking your hips up, trying to grind against Peter’s thigh for some sort of friction. “Look at my pathetic little whore, trying to rub herself on me. Tell me, love, what do you want?” Peter asks, loosening his grip around your throat. “Please fuck me..” You whine, shortly gasping afterwards when Peter finally pressed his thigh up against your clothed pussy. “More. Beg for it.” Peter orders. You began moving your hips forward and backwards, grinding against the soft material of the suit. Small whimpers slipping out of your mouth as you finally gained the friction you’ve been wanting. But it wasn’t enough, you needed more. You itched for more.

“Need more..” You breathed out, shaking your head when Peter had pulled his thigh away, “I want you inside of me.” You moaned when you felt Peter’s hand cupping your sex. “Do you deserve to be fucked, love?” Peter asks as he grabbed a handful of the lace material before ripping it off of you. You gasped at the sudden chill waving at your soaked cunt. He balled it up in his fists before stuffing it into his pant pocket. “Did you fucking hear me?” Peter asks, using the hand that bonded your wrists together, to now wrap around your throat once again, pinning you against the clear, cold glass surface. You nod frantically, mouth a gape, “Yes! Yes! I deserved to be fucked, oh please.. please fuck me.” You pleaded desperately when Peter’s fingers glided a long stripe in between your folds, stopping when the pad of his fingers landed perfectly on top of the clit. “Gotta quiet down, hon’.“ Peter huffs out, rubbing the small bundle of nerves in a slow, agonizing pace. “Please! Peter, faster!” You cried out, unable to take any more teasing. “What the fuck did I just say?” Peter muttered, momentarily pinching the airways on your throat. His fingers now starting to pick up the pace, rubbing in circular motions against the small knob. You moan, your hips bucking up into Peter’s hand. “Oh shit, yes!” You whimper, biting down on your bottom lip in attempt to try to lower your voice.

You whine in protest when Peter pulls his hands away from your body. He then pinched at the straps of your dress, pulling it down your arms, allowing the upper part of the dress to slip off your chest. Your breasts now full out on display, your nipples hard. “Another thing Mark will never know..” Peter breathes out as he turns you around. The front of your body now exposed to the outside world. His hands snaking around your torso till it reached your tits. He cupped them into his hands, kneading the soft, warm flesh. You hold onto Peter’s wrists, tilting your head backwards to rest onto the male’s broad shoulder. He slightly grazed his index fingers against the tip of your erected nipples, chuckling when you twitched against him. “I love how sensitive they are,” Peter whispers into your ear, nibbling at your earlobe. He placed his finger pads onto your nipples, beginning to rub them circular motions. You moan out in delight, squeezing your thighs together. “P-peter,” You whimpered. “Yes, baby. Say my name.” He hums, pinching the buds in between his thumb and index fingers. Twisting it and tugging it very slightly. “Peter!” You moaned out, rubbing your ass against Peter lower half, giggling when you felt his bulge poking through his pants.

“I need to see your pretty face when I fuck my cock into you.” Peter groaned, “Would you like that, baby? Hm? You want my thick cock ramming inside of this pathetic little pussy of yours?” He smirks as he undoes his belt, pulling the pants down enough for him to pull out his erected cock, finding it entertaining watching you fold under him. “Yes! Oh god, yes please! Fuck me, Peter..” You trailed off at the end. Suddenly a wave of boldness came over you, “Unless if I just call Mark right now and have him fuck me instead—“

You cut yourself off with a cry of pure bliss when you felt Peter force himself into you with the help of your wetness as a lubricant. Your hands flew onto the glass, palms spread flat out on the surface as Peter gripped at your hips, pulling out till the tip was barely left in, only to slam himself into you with full force. “Fuck! Peter!” You moaned, your breasts pushed up against the glass window, your chest twitching due to the friction of your nipples rubbing against the surface. “Who can fuck you like this, hm? Who can fuck this pussy?” Peter grunts into your ear, repeatedly slamming his hips against your ass. “You, Peter! Oh fuck, it’s you!” You cry out, already feeling your legs buckling.

You couldn’t think of anything besides the feeling of Peter’s cock ramming into you. Filling you up perfectly. You were already on edge due to the teasing from earlier. You felt like a bucket being filled up, on the brim of tipping over. “Peter, slow down. I’m getting close.” You beg, using one of your hands to reach back and push against Peter’s pelvis. But rather than slowing down, Peter ignored the pleas from his wife and instead thrusted faster, his balls slapping against your cunt. “Oh god! P-please! I’m gonna cum!” You moaned out loud, shaking your head frantically.

Peter abruptly pulls out, catching you in his arms when you’re legs collapsed on themselves. “N-no..” You whined out pathetically when you felt your orgasm was ripped away from you. Peter picks you up in his arms, carrying you to a nearby table that was placed against the wall along the hallway. He sets you down on the marble table, placing himself in between your legs. “Look at me, beautiful. Who makes you this stupid when fucking you?” Peter asks, his tone sweet ironically compared to what he’s asking. “You, Peter.” You smile, wrapping your arms around the male’s neck. “Good girl.” He praises, pecking your mascara stained cheek.

He lines himself up to your gaping hole, pushing in once more, groaning. “Fuck, my baby’s pussy is so warm and tight. Look at it pulling my cock in.” He laughs. Once he fully bottomed out, his hip began snapping against yours. Squelching sounds fills the hallway along with the obscene noises that left your mouth. “I’m going to cum soon, baby.” Peter moaned out. You tightly wrapped your legs around Peter’s hips, locking him in a tight space. “I’m gonna cum in this little pussy of yours. Gon’ fill you up to the brim, fuck!‘M gonna fuck my babies into you.” Peter groans, laughing when he felt you clench tightly around him. “Oh yeah? You like the thought of me fucking my cum so deep inside of you? Getting you pregnant, hm? Your belly round and full of my kids?” He says, “Oh, fuck, yes! Please cum inside of me!” You plead, breasts bouncing with every harsh thrust Peter makes. “I’m.. gonna get you pregnant.” Peter breathes out, his thrusts beginning to get sloppy.

“I-I’m cumming!” You cried out, “Lets come together, love.” Peter moans, his thrusts quickening just for a few moments until it came to a full stop. “Fuck, Y/N!” He says as he came, his cock pulsating inside of you. Thick spurts of white, warm cum shot inside of you. Coating your insides with his seed.

“Peter!” You came straight after. Your eyes rolling back as one last moan that sounded like it came straight from a porno emitted from you. Your legs fully tightening around Peter hips, making sure to squeeze out every single drop of cum from the male. You felt yourself tipping over inside, a wave of pleasure coursing throughout your body, leaving you twitching.

Peter slowly pulls out once he felt himself go limp inside of you. He leaned over to embrace you into his arms, holding you close to him. “Happy birthday, Peter.” You giggle, pecking his cheek. “Thank you, love. Let’s get you fixed up before we go back downstairs, okay?” He suggests, moving a strand of hair away from your face. “But I’m pretty sure they’ve heard you. ‘Oh, fuck, yes! Please cum inside of me!’” Peter playfully mocks. You gasp and punched him in the arm, “Oh shut up!” You whine, hiding your face in Peter’s shoulder. “I hate you.” You mumble, “No you don’t. You love me.” Peter laughs, helping you wear your dress correctly.

[ofbluesandyellows]

Iceblink Luck - TASM! Peter Parker / Fem! Reader

Summary: You can be a little clumsy, and you can have very bad sight with a sprinkle of bad luck but thanks to that you proved Peter Parker that he doesn't always have to be Spider-Man to save someone.

Word count: 5.1k

Warnings: mentions of blood, injury (nothing too bad) and bad sight.

a/n: Hi! Came with a new one, a bit of a long one, and this one is for my girlies with glasses, bad sight, girlies that are clumsy but also adorable. And here's a fun fact: the name of the one shot is from a Cocteau Twins' song, and I found something quite cool- and I quote "suggests a phenomenon that is both natural and mystical, possibly referring to the reflection of light off icebergs, which sailors would use to navigate, implying a sense of guidance or fortune." So that gives something away I guess. Hope you like this one :)

Thank heavens it was a Saturday, the embarrassment was less strong if you were not showing your face at work, but thinking about it you were going to have to explain to them what happened to your nose.

And it was a bit stupid, but stupid things like that happened to you way too often for them to be surprised. 

Yet you couldn’t help wanting to hide when this cute boy stared at you for a little too long as you both waited for your orders at the one bakery where they sell the tastiest poppy seed cakes.

You stared back at him with a lipped smile, trying to be as polite as possible, even if he was the one doing the rude staring.

“Oh sorry,” he scratched his cheek. Ears turning bright pink. “I was just- that looks bad, what happened to you?” he pointed at his own nose.

You had convinced yourself that it didn’t look so bad after applying two layers of concealer but now you weren’t so sure about it. 

On instinct you tried to cover it with your palm. “um, it’s really stupid. I was reading and the book fell on my face,” the boy winced, “yeah was a hard cover.”

The scratch kinda itching for the sudden acknowledgement.

“Is the book okay?” 

You laughed, an ugly kind of laugh, great. “It is, thanks for the concern.”

“Makes you look tough, though,” he smiled.

“Thanks, that’s exactly the look I was going for.”

“Achieved.”

Both exchanged little looks, he sighed when he got handed a paper bag.

“Well, hope your nose heals nicely.” 

“Thank you,” 

“Bye.”

“Bye.” 

You felt the fluttery sensation in your belly, oh god.

•••

You were so late, and you were never late, not when it came to your work, you could be late for dinner, late for a doctor’s appointment but for work? Never, that would be sacrilege. That until today. 

You woke up suddenly, eyes blinking to the ceiling, sunbeams illuminating the room and that was weird. Realization hit you, fumbling with sheets and bumping with your nightstand you whined as the clock on your phone screen shone a perfect 8:08 am.

“FUCK!” The shout felt so foraging to your own voice you stood frozen in front of your closet for a second and then as fast as you could you dressed.

Mismatched socks were no issue to you, you didn’t care one was pink and the other blue, you didn’t mind that they were showing from under your overalls; overalls felt like the easiest choice, that until you wanted to pee and you decided not to, would be a waste of time. Brushing your teeth as you ran to the kitchen, cold coffee in your go to mug, a protein bar you found abandoned in the counter was shoved in your bag. Calling that a breakfast.

“Agh,” you cried as you hit your knee on the chair. 

Glasses.

And fuck you didn’t have time to put on your contacts, frames had to be. But you know how that quote goes about ‘I need my glasses to find my glasses.’ Well that was exactly how you felt, you had to run to the bathroom to spit the toothpaste and rinse your mouth. Squinting you tried to catch the glimpse of light blue, the color of your frames all round the room, a very difficult task to do when you only saw blurriness, not to count how impossible it felt in the mess you had. So you did what you thought easiest. Grabbing the ends of your quilt you made it float upwards, creating a bubble of air underneath and there the soft thud let you know you were right.

Carefully you kneeled and tapped the carpet with your hands.

“Voilà!” putting them on your face a sigh escaped you, everything took shape. 

What now?

Standing up you went to put on some perfume and you even dared to add a few jewelry pieces. Shoving your glasses up your nose, you made a mental note to get the new prescription and change the frames to ones that sat on your nose nicely. At least they didn’t hurt your now healed nose anymore. That saved you some time, no concealer needed. Then all forgotten, as your eyes found it, a stain of toothpaste on your green shirt, there was no time for a change so you tried to put the overall strap over it, it didn’t stay so you shrugged and ran. Shoulder bumping on the door frame. 

There went another bruise, you still wondered how you managed to collect so many of them. There was your answer each time. 

Glasses pushed up your nose again.

A last little check before heading out, apartment keys, shoes, coffee, oh no, what about lunch? You'd have to buy something. Clothes; well yeah. Bag and laptop. Ready.

And you made your way out. 

It all passed in fast glimpses, the couple walking their dog, kids laughing as their parents took them to school. Old lady dressed in an all yellow outfit, and your reflection on a high end clothing store.

Ew. 

Readjusting your glasses on, just to check if it was real, the image you were met with.

It was embarrassing, you’ve walked two blocks surrounded by people with your hair looking like that! If you looked up what ‘pillow head’ was you were sure a picture of you would pop up on the page. Flattening it was doing nothing to the nest of hair, so you looked for a scrunchie, a clip, anything really that could help fix the atrocious hairstyle, but all this just as you walked because you were not going to lose any time, you were already too late to have the luxury to stop.

Aha! An old pen showed up at the bottom of your bag, a grin of triumph appeared on your face but just as fast it disappeared. Pushed from your back, your sight went blurry. Everything kind of mixed and you tried to push those damn glasses again automatically. Yet they weren’t there.

“No, no, no…” 

The person beside you mumbled a sorry and you gasped as you heard a crack, you weren’t sure where your glasses were, not that it mattered anyway, they must be shattered no use of them. 

Blinking you stood there. It felt like being stranded in open ocean what were you supposed to do now, you could see up close pretty well—if you put your phone or your book two centimeters away from your nose that was the sweet spot of perfect sight, not even worth to say how bad things were from afar, you couldn’t see shit, so things weren’t literally looking good for you. 

You needed them for work and to see what the lucky people were able to see without help like the street lights, or what if you fell on a sewer because you thought it was just an oil stain and you ended up in the Hudson River after you traveled all the way there from under the city. Yeah it was a longshot but you were in New York where everything was possible.

What to do was all you could think about, but you were afraid to move as if doing so was going to harm you. And it was so stupid yet so overwhelming, tears started forming in the rim of your eyes, your sight getting even worse.

And the contacts were left at home, why? Because you were in a rush, why didn’t you carry an extra pair? Because you were dumb like that. If only you had grabbed a scrunchie maybe you wouldn’t be in this situation.

Ouch.

“Don’t stand there!” a man pushed you with what you guessed was his shoulder. 

You moved to the side as best as you could. Grabbing your bag with too much force, as a lifeline. Maybe if you called Cam, your co-worker, she could understand and come help you? You scattered around inside your bag, heart pounding harder the more you looked inside.

“No way,” it seemed you were experiencing the so feared ‘worst day ever’ because your phone wasn’t there and you were too blind and too panicked to do anything other than cry.

Spots of color were all you saw from afar and unclose, your coffee had spilled a bit inside your bag, you hadn’t noticed a moment ago but the smell gave it away.

Sniffing you made your way to the bakery a bit ahead on the street, you could make out the teal sign, and the smell of baked goods served as guidance. The next few steps were so slow you had no idea if anyone was coming straight at you, as predicted you felt something hard hit your side.

“My bad, didn’t see you there-” It was the hand grab on your elbow and the kindness of the words. 

You felt tears stream down your face so easily you felt childish for it. His face was a shapeless thing but you noticed he was tall and his hair was brown. What you were certain of was that he was kind.

“It’s okay,” your voice watery and a bit choked up. 

“Are you all right?” 

“I- I’m a bit lost, but i guess I’m fine,” which was not a lie, you were okay if you ignored the little headache forming at the back of your eyes.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,"

You whipped your face with the back of your hand, how embarrasing this was, crying over something like this to a complete stranger.

This boy must have seen the struggle, gentle hand on your elbow still, dragged you closer to the wall of the bakery, out of people’s way.

“Um, you want to call someone?"

“No, I just lost my glasses so… er yeah I’ll go now, thanks though.” 

Turning, not even a full step ahead you hit your leg with the table outside of the place, mumbling horrible things to it. The boy barely hid his snort with a cough.

“Okay, now you need to let me help you.” He said and you could almost hear the smile on his voice.

“You don’t have to-“

“You didn’t see the table and it’s just a foot away from you, I’m not letting you go by yourself in New York.” 

“But I know my way around.” Stubborn you needed the help, yet you couldn’t handle the awkwardness.

You always felt very strong for being independent, now it seemed like you had lost even that.

“Bet you do, but if I watch on the news tonight that something horrible happened to this girl in mismatched sock… I wouldn’t be able to live with myself, so if you aren’t doing it for you, do it for my peace of mind.”

There was no way a random boy could be this nice and unintentionally funny to a girl with bad sight. 

“I guess you can walk me to my building,” you blinked repeatedly, making the tears disappear.

“No problem,” 

With a deep sigh you barely made the image of his arm going up, you grabbed it and he chuckled. The warmth was coming up your neck settling in your cheeks. 

“So right?” he asked.

“Yeah,”

The buzz of the city served nicely as background noise, no need to speak, yet it all felt too awkward, the boy moved you aside or said ‘step’ when needed. No matter how nice he smelled or how strong his arm felt it was impossible to not think of the possibilities of him being a murderer or a bank robber. What if he took you somewhere else to kill you, that would be the definite end of a perfectly ‘worst day ever in history’ so may as well…

“Why do you have a pen in your hand?” 

“Oh?” you felt it then, you were still holding on to it for dear life. Maybe this could be your weapon if something happened, better than nothing you supposed. “I was going to use it for my hair.” 

“Right,” he said deadpan.

Shit, you must look horrible if he said it like that. Yay.

“So you live nearby?” you asked, giving his arms a light squeeze as someone ran beside you.

“Um no, but I like the coffee and the croissants at the bakery. Work nearby though.” 

“Cool,”

“You?”

“Me? Me, what?”  blink, blink.

“You live nearby?”

“Yeah, kind of, we passed the bookstore, so we have another two blocks to go, so…” you shrugged.

“How do you know we passed the bookstore?” he sounded amused.

“I heard Lu’s laugh, she laughs at everything and makes the most awful jokes. An easy to clock kind of laugh, very unique.”

“Is that where you buy your books?” 

You frowned for a second. “Er yes? Best bookstore around here,”

A beat of silence, you could feel his muscles flexing yonder your palm.

“Can I ask you how you lost your glasses? They’re on your face so it’s kind of weird you lost them,”

“Right,” you cleared your voice, the wave of embarrassment creeping in your chest but oh well he was basically serving you as a guide dog. “They were kind of old glasses so they slipped down my nose a lot, and then someone pushed me from behind and they flew out or whatever and I heard a crack and what use was it if I tried to look for them,”

“And you don’t have like an extra pair,” 

Ugh stop with the questions.

“I do, but didn’t bring them… listen I know how this looks, I’m stupid and I had the most awful day ever so stop reminding me of my idiocy, please?”

“Wow, okay. “

Shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, if I was rude, I feel pretty bad for everything and I don't even know you and you are helping me but I do feel very stupid and a little paranoid.”

“No, yeah I understand. Trust me, I was just saying because I know it can be a hassle,”

You blinked, “you wear glasses.”

“Used to,” 

“Must be nice, to see without any kind of thing in front of you,” 

“It is, but you can relax a little, I’m not going to rob you, I would've done it earlier if I wanted to,” he laughed, you tensed and he gulped. “Joking, I'm only joking.”

Both of you remained silent as a woosh of air hit your face. The boy beside you moved fast, suddenly you didn’t feel his arm in your palm but his hand on your other shoulder; a ball bounced off close enough to you.

“Hey, be careful.” he shouted and steps were heard, running and gigging. “You okay?”

Blinking you shrugged unsure as to why you wouldn’t be. “Yeah, what happened? I just saw colors moving"

“Just some kids playing soccer, almost hit you,” 

“Thanks I guess.” 

“Don’t worry about it, so… if it helps to make you feel less wary, let me introduce myself. I'm Peter, and I work at Stark industries.”

The image of a Peter that worked at such an important company kinda took shape in your head. You didn’t know why but you were sure he wasn’t the type to wear a suit, yet you could see a navy blue sweater on him, the fabric felt soft between your fingers.

“Are you a scientist?” 

“Yes, you could say so.”

“Are you or are you not?” you smiled.

“I am, yeah. Neurotech, and all that stuff,”

“Sounds boring,”

He laughed, feeling the rumble coming all the way to your hand. He had a nice laugh. “So what do you do Miss ‘my glasses ran away from my face’?”

You went rigid for a second as a street crossing appeared. His hand went to yours and it felt warm, way bigger than your own. Instinctively you squeezed while you waited for the light to change.

“Um,” the nervous chuckle made it a little less awkward. it was an unsettling feeling holding hands with a man you could barely see. “Editing, work at a kids book publishing company.” 

“Hmm I understand the outfit now,” 

Your mouth formed an ‘o’. If it was an insult he made it seem like a joke as he snorted, probably by seeing your face.

“That’s so rude, and for the record this was picked in a rush, had no time to even check in the mirror.” 

“No, yeah I like it, very I don’t give a fuck.”

“Ugh, please stop.” 

He let out a laugh that made you grin, turning to look at him, you knew he was staring back, you could only imagine how he looked.

“You are very easy to piss off, you know that?”

“I am not! If It wasn’t because I’m partially unable I would punch you on the gut.” 

He scoffed. “You wouldn’t stand a chance, blinks. And you wouldn't even be in this situation if you weren’t partially unable.”

“Touché,” 

A blink later you realized the nickname. Just as you were about to ask him, realization hit you, Peter had distracted you, you walked across the street without noticing and you were now able to recognize your street. One, two, third building to your right and there it was, the smell of roses lingering in your nostrils. 

“It’s here,” 

“Oh,” his hand dropped.

Feeling your fingers tingle you closed them in a fist. Fixing your bag’s strap across your chest, pen still gripped tightly. 

“Thank you, Peter.” you extended your hand to him, it took him a second to hold it, but when he did you felt comforted, maybe the walking and the little conversations had done something to create such sensation, that’s why you felt the need to do more than say the obvious.

“It’s fine, glad you got here safe.”

“Let me make it up to you!” your voice coming out a little too loud, you almost grimaced but there was this thing in your chest that told you to not let him go just yet, maybe it was curiosity about how he looked, to put a face on the kind human that helped you.

“No need, seriously.” He moved and you felt the first step on the back of your heel when you mirrored him.

“Please, just let me go get my phone and we can exchange numbers, I can buy you coffee or a bunch of croissants.” you were smiling, hoping.

“I- really? I mean I love the idea of free food, but there’s really no need-“

“Just stay here, yeah? Be right back, if I don’t come back in like five minutes or if you hear a loud crash, come look for me I probably fell down the stairs and broke my neck,”

You laughed as he grumbled.

“Okay, just be careful, don’t need that kind of burden over my shoulders. Can you imagine what the press would say,”

Snorting, you waved him off. “Be right back!”

And you practically ran, you knew this building better than your own palm, it was easy, almost funny to see how you navigated the place without hesitation.

Contact lenses on and a big smile on your face later you found your phone on the kitchen counter. Your bag plopped on the floor and you headed back down in a rush.

There were like five missed calls and a bunch of texts from your group chat at work. You only texted a ‘call you in five’.

At the bottom of the entry steps, a tall man was leaning on the brick wall railing. You came to a halt, almost losing your step on the way down. His eyes went up to you at the same time as his hands, serving as cushion if you fell yet you managed to save face. Yet the shock was obvious, you gulped and there was Peter looking at you with a soft frown.

Fuck me, it 's him!

Clearing your throat you tried to hide the surprise, he chuckled a bit not knowing what was happening, so you went down the stairs slower now, cheeks feeling hot and your belly making twists and turns when you were face to face with him. 

Oh god.

“How many fingers do you see?” he asked, holding a peace sign in front of you, like way too close you went cross-eyed.

Slapping his hand down, you held it for a little longer than a second, the tingles came back.

“Funny, but I see perfectly fine with my contacts, thanks very much.” your eyes landed on his t-shirt where you read: Zombies eat brains, don’t worry you are safe.

You snorted at it. “And you were making fun of my mismatched socks, hypocrite.”

His laugh and smile were like seeing a sunset, pretty and bright and it took your breath away. 

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you to see it,” he shrugged. 

“You didn’t tell me you were the guy that saw my embarrassing nose bruise!” 

He smiled sheepishly. “Wasn’t relevant,”

“Could've made me feel less stressed about you being a serial killer since minute one,”

“Will do next time, but I do hope there isn’t a next time, not in the same circumstances at least,”

Your eyes found his and the staring was intently, you had to take a big inhaler, you weren’t aware you were holding it in. Peter’s phone buzzed and he frowned, quickly adjusting he sent you a slipped smile.

“I gotta go, but I’ll hold you to your word on those croissants and coffee, okay blinks?”

“Um, okay.” 

Peter didn’t do much as wave at you and he walked fast and away. Blinking you realized you didn’t ask for his number nor why he called you that.

“Worst day ever,” you grumbled going up the stairs defeated.

•••

Unlucky, that’s what Cam said to you as she drove you to the hospital.

Maybe you were unlucky indeed, in the past month you had been at risk of losing your life due to the many little incidents, three you’ve counted so far. But keeping a positive mind was key to surviving them all, or so you tried to convince yourself of it. 

“Third time's a charm of whatever,” you mumbled, making pressure over your palm.

“Oh shut up,” Cam scowled.

You giggled but it cut off when she passed through a hole making your hand shake.

It’s been two weeks since you last saw Peter, and that played an important role in your performance at work. Daydreaming of his voice, how the faint scent of fabric softener still remained in your nose after so many days, and your lack of attention when you walked around the office. 

That’s why you were at the hospital now. 

It was a bump on the knee followed by a bad placement of the coffee cup on your desk that sent the warm liquid over your jeans, between a gasp a swift motion your chair fell back with you in it, hand barely grabbed the corner of the desk cutting through it, and you were unable to explain exactly how that had happened.

Cam took you to the ER the moment she saw blood coming out of your hand.

“You are not bleeding dry, not on my watch.” She said as if by speaking it you magically avoided such destiny.

Sitting in a room where blue curtains hung around, you got chatty with the nurse as she cleaned the wound, making you grimace and wince just a couple of times.

“Feeling alright? You didn’t hit anywhere else dear?” 

“Nope,” you fixed your new pair of glasses up your nose, even the new ones slipped a bit at times.

She smiled, as she wrapped a long strip of gauze around your left palm. “Is that too tight?”

“It’s fine, thank you,”

“It’s my job dear, so if you feel dizzy in the next few minutes let me know okay, I’ll go get the doctor so you can get going.”

“Ok,” 

You were feeling pretty normal, yeah you got a bit scared and it was obvious your hand was a bit sore but the pain killers were already minimizing the pain. 

The nurse with the kindest smile you’ve seen disappeared, the curtain remained open so you distracted yourself with the passing and going of the nurses soundtracked by a few pained moans and low chit chatting here and there. Moving your hand made you wince a bit, but it got choked down in a second.

“Blinks?” 

You blinked, looking behind you as if the person in front of you was addressing someone else. Stupid you felt when he chuckled.

“What are you doing here?” you asked Peter as he entered the little curtain parted cubicle. Fixing your glasses to try and ease the sudden nerves.

“My aunt works here,” his thumb pointed to your left just where he had come from. “Are you okay? What happened?” 

His frown made you feel a little bad, fingers twitching when you moved it around as to show him.

“Cut myself at work. No need for stitches, lucky. Right?”

Peter scoffed. “This is the third time I see you in need of assistance, what’s up with you and getting hurt huh?”

He stepped into the space a little further, you felt your stomach twist, oh the daydreaming was finally paying off. Maybe you should fall more often.

“My luck I guess.”

“Well lucky me that I find you every time.” he grinned.

“Peter! Thought you were gone,” the nurse that had patched you up appeared, sending you an apologetic smile. 

“May, sorry I just found a friend here.” 

“Oh,” the nurse's eyes went from Peter to you, a little smirk on her lips. “Well, you can wait for her outside, she needs to fill in a few forms before she can go.”

“Okay form police, I will, ” palms up defenseless, Peter sent you a quick glance. “Mind if I wait for you?”

Of fucking course not.

“No, it’s fine.”

“Cool,”

When May, the nurse handed you a thing to sign, she was looking at you in a funny way. You couldn’t dare to ask, so when you headed out of the ER, she squeezed your shoulder.

“Thank you.” you said and she nodded.

“Take care dear.”

Immediately after she walked away you texted Cam.

You:

Found the boy I told you about, he is waiting for me. Text you later

Cam:

Ugh,but are you okay? Don’t need a ride home?

You:

I’m fine, just go. See you tomorrow.

Cam:

Ungrateful girl, hope he is as hot as you made him sound.

With butterflies in your belly and the painkillers making their magic you saw Peter glow as he chatted with an old lady at the desk of the hospital. His smile only grew when he spotted you walking his way. He was literally glowing a halo of light all round him.

“All good?” he asked.

You nodded grinning like an idiot, your cheeks were probably cherry red but who cares. “Are you busy now?” 

Peter licked his lips. “I am not, why?”

“Want to go grab that coffee and a bunch of croissants?”

He chuckled, scratching his cheek, “Yeah, why not.”

“Nice,” 

You walked to the bakery since it was only a couple of blocks East.

“So you got new glasses?” 

You pushed them up the bridge of your nose. “Yup, they still slip but not as much as the others. Got extra contacts on my bag.”

“Better be prepared,”

“Exactly… Peter, can I ask you something?”

Peter nodded making his way to your right, where the cars were passing.

“Why you called me blinks?” 

Peter laughed. “Because you blink a lot,”

“I do not… besides how much does one has to blink to be blinking a lot,” 

Peter shrugged, you blinked up at him. “See? you just did it, it’s not like you blink like a normal person, you do it in a slow motion, don’t take it the wrong way, I mean it in a cute adorable way”

You pushed him from your shoulder, he didn’t even move at your attempt. “Now I’m going to be so aware of that ugh, thanks Peter.”

You were making him laugh so much and it was such a heartwarming feeling you didn’t want it to stop at all. 

“Please don’t, I like that, just forget I said anything.”

Cherry on top that day was tripping over a piece of sticking out sidewalk, that only made you extremely embarrassed–what was new anyway– as you held onto his arm for support, Peter didn’t miss a beat either, hands on the small of your back ready to save you.

“This is getting ridiculous blinks, if you want me to hold you just tell me, don’t trip over yourself."

“I swear this is me all the time, don’t need to impress you with my unskilled ways of moving.” you fixed yourself, not being able to look him in the eye, glasses slipping down the bridge of your nose.

“You have impressed me already, never met anyone as clumsy as you.” 

You glared now, a fake mean stare. “That makes me unique then,” you straightened as if proud of that.

“Very, but you’re in good capable hands,” 

The bakery appeared in your line of vision.

“Oh yeah?” 

“Definitely,” his smirk was so self-assured you believed him.

“So you don’t ever trip or hurt yourself?” The smell of recently baked goods hit you the moment Peter pushed the door open for you. 

His light chuckle made your spine tingle. “I wouldn’t say it never happened but it’s different.”

“There’s no difference you either do or don’t” the line moved, he hit your back, strong hands holding you in place. 

“Oh trust me it’s way different, but maybe with time you’ll find out.”

Turning in your spot you caught Peter already looking down at you, a knowing smile on his rosy lips, you were ready to take that as your reward after everything.

You blinked and his grin widened. 

“Ugh stop!” however you didn’t look away.

“Blinks…”

“Huh?”

You felt him lean in, slowly you were ready for whatever was coming. With your belly in a knot, Peter stopped just as your noses brushed just barely.

“It’s our turn,”

His eyes were so shiny in that brown hue, it was humbling to have been caught like that; agape, flustered waiting to be kissed. You could almost feel how bright your face was shining as you twirled to find the girl on the counter smiling at you.

“Can I have two coffees to go and as many croissants as possible, please?”

[luveline]

hellooo!! im not sure if your requests are open so feel free to ignore this but i was wondering if you could write for tasm!peter where the reader just got her wisdom teeth removed and she’s all loopy on anesthetics and forgets peter is her boyfriend? i saw this video where this girl got her wisdom teeth pulled and forgot she was dating her boyfriend and fell in love with him all over again😭😭

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZPR7sGQo5/

thank you for your request! ♡ fem, 1k

"Here she is," the nurse says gently, walking you out with his arm behind your back. "Alright, say hi to Peter." 

"Hi, Peter," you mumble, eyes on the floor. 

Peter grins at you, worry warm at the back of his throat. "Hey. Is that everything?" he asks, nodding at the nurses paper bag of aftercare. 

"Everything you'll need." The nurse helps Peter take over, hoisting your arm over his shoulders before stepping away. "Alright, feel better, okay? And don't hesitate to call if something comes up. We're here to look after you." 

You seem appreciative in your fog, but it's hard to tell. Peter curls his arm around your hip and gives it a soft rub as he leads you to the stairs. Whoever devised the floor plan here had murder on their mind —the second floor is completely inaccessible. Luckily, Peter has a lot of strength at his disposal. 

You can feel it. "Woh, you're strong," you murmur. 

"You know that already." His grip on you tightens, pretty much carrying you down the tight staircase. 

"Do I?" you ask. You make a sound like you're hurting, a squeak. 

"I'd hope so." At the end of the staircase, he sits you down, worried you're not feeling well. "You okay? I can princess carry you if you need me to." 

You look at him with wide eyes. He turns to check there's no one standing behind him, but you're really looking at him. "What?" he asks, touching your knee, imploring. "You look like you've seen a ghost." 

"You're Peter?" you ask. 

Ah, the amnesiac effect of anaesthetic. His touch turns comforting, stroking your thigh with as much care as he can drive into his palm alone. "That's me. Hey, if you're forgetting me, does that mean you're not mad at me for last Friday anymore? 'Cos I know you said you forgive me but I can tell it still pisses you off–" 

Your eyes fall to his hand. "Why would I be mad at you?" you ask. 

"I finished the milk and put the carton back in the fridge, even though I promised I'd stop doing it. You see the jug and think there's milk left. We were gonna have macaroni and cheese..." He nudges your fingers with his. "Are you okay? You don't look like yourself."

"What do I usually look like?" 

"Not so, you know. Daunted." 

"You're really handsome," you whisper, refusing to meet his eye. 

"Oh, you think so?" 

You nod like your head is too heavy. You're embarrassed, you sweetheart, oh my god Peter could cry into your lap. 

"Let's get you to the car, baby." 

"Where are we going?" The gauze gives you the world's most adorable lisp, and it turns your gasp into a hum as Peter stands you up. 

"Home." 

"Together?" 

"Yeah, we live together. It's a nice place, and you're a great decorator, you know? It's cozy." 

"Thank you," you say shyly. 

You're not not shy with him, but it's been a long time since you got so quiet over a practically innocuous comment. He wants to see how you'll react to real compliments, over the top stuff that he one hundred percent means. It's a little mean, but when will you ever be like this again? 

He helps you out past the desk and onto the street to your car where it's parked a half a block down. "Don't worry about all this, okay? I'm gonna take such good care of you, sweetheart. There's an ice pack and a brand new comforter with your name on it waiting at home." Peter smiles at your starry eyes as they flash to his, amazed at his simple plans. "How does that sound, beautiful? Is there anything you want before we head home? Anything that would make you feel better?" 

"You're gonna take care of me?" you ask breathlessly. 

"That's my job. That's my number one boyfriend duty." 

"You're my boyfriend?" 

"I am!" he says happily, laughing as he speaks. "For a while. I've been trying to take things further but you're always really shy about getting married–" 

"You want to get married? To me?" 

Peter presses a soft kiss to your cheek. "You're the only person I'd ever want to get married to. We already picked the flowers–" 

"We did?" 

He laughs again, all your questions. He loves regular you but loopy you is especially endearing. "Last time I got super drunk, yeah. You never let me forget it." 

"So you love me?" you ask, stopping short.

"I love you so much," he says immediately, hugging you into his side. He dots another kiss against the top of your head. "You should remember that even if you don't remember me." 

"I love you," you say quietly. 

Peter doesn't know if that's your memory returning, or if you've fallen in love with him in the last fifteen minutes. He could easily fall in love with you that quickly, and yet he's still amazed at your confession. 

"That's good. That's great. Thank you, sweetheart," he says, desperate to hold your face in his hands but weary of causing you future pain. "There's your car," —he points, lowering his head to yours to make sure you can see it, hand now protectively held between your shoulder blades— "let's go home now. Yeah?" 

You start walking again at his requests. He can pretty much see the steam rising off of your face, giddy with happiness at these revelations. You're together, you're in love, and you think he's handsome. He wonders what you'll have to say about his biceps in this state of delirium; you go crazy for his arms sober. 

Which reminds him. 

"I totally have another secret to tell you," he says, unlocking the car as you approach and helping you into the passenger seat. 

"What is it?" you ask. 

Peter closes you in and skirts around the door, climbing into the driver's seat. He's glad that New York is as ridiculously loud as ever, because not even the closed doors or your sodden gauze can smother the way you shriek.

"My boyfriend is Spider-Man?!" 

[keerysfreckles]

tasm! peter parker who takes pictures of you any chance he gets.. and reader finds those pics with cute lil captions of whatever she was doing in that moment

pictures - peter parker (tasm)

pairing: peter parker x f!reader

warnings: use of y/n and she/her pronouns, pure fluff :)

a/n: I LOVE THIS SM OMG andrews peter will always have a special place in my heart <33

꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱

in the middle of impulsively deep cleaning y/n and peter's shared apartment, y/n was standing in peter's closet. he had a pile of clothes inside it that he was meaning to donate. y/n was in the process of grabbing all of the clothes and tossing them into a garbage bag. peter was somewhere in the apartment, but y/n was focused on her own task.

she looked around the closet once before leaving, to see if she sees anything peter hasn't used in over a year.

y/n stands on her tip toes to grab a pair of shoes on the top shelf that were worn out, and she knew peter hasn't worn them since high school.

standing back up on her tip toes, her hand flails around the space on the shelf slightly, as she tries to feel for any other things she can donate. however, her eyebrows furrow once she feels an unfamiliar box.

she grabs it at an awkward angle, before knealing on the ground and taking the lid off.

firstly, y/n's confused, once she sees the box filled with polaroid pictures. she rakes her fingers through all the pictures in the box, and notices they're all of her.

she giggled at the realization that peter was always taking her picture.

she lifted one, and saw it was of her decorating the christmas tree. the bottom was labeled with peter's messy handwriting, 'christmas 2019'.

she picked another one out of the box. her back was facing the camera, and she guessed she was cooking something, seeing a plate full of food next to her on the counter, as she stood in front of the stove. after reading the caption peter had written, she was right, it was when she cooked pancakes for her and peter.

y/n continued looking through the pictures. her heart only warmed after looking at them.

"y/n?" peter's voice echoed in his room.

"in here!" she called back, making peter walk into his closet.

"oh, you found those," peter kneels down besides y/n, with a shy smile on his face.

y/n looks at one with peter looking over her shoulder. he took the picture in front of the mirror, well y/n was the one holding the camera, as peter had his face buried into her neck.

y/n remember that day very vividly. it was the day peter asked her to officially be his girlfriend. they had just gotten back from their first date, and peter thought y/n looked absolutely adorable wearing his pajama pants, so he insisted to take a picture.

"this doesn't really look like cleaning to me," peter chuckles, noticing how distracted y/n had gotten.

"oh shush," she giggles, "what have you been doing this whole time?"

"i was actually cleaning the kitchen. just like you said you were going to go through donations, which clearly is going so well," peter laughs while gesturing to what y/n was doing.

peter kisses the top of her head, before standing up, "since i love you, i'll let it slide just this once."

y/n only giggles again, and waves goodbye to peter before he walks out of his room.

even though she knew she had more cleaning to do, she went back to her previous task, her smile never leaving her face.

[mareagirls]

Hi! If you’re ever in the mood to write a sickfic I like this idea.

Peter and reader are on a date, but reader feels nauseous. But, reader doesn’t want to tell Peter because a: they’ve both been super busy lately between Spider-Man duties and college and/or work and b: because even if reader won’t admit it, being vulnerable and being taken care of kind of scares them. But Peter finds out/figured it out and wants to help and fluff ensues.

Anyway, it’s just an idea. No pressure to complete (obvi)! Hope you’re doing well and drinking water! <3

~🥧

 hey pie anon! i hope this is okay and i'm sorry it's months late! I forgot it was in my drafts :')

You realise something is wrong when you’re only a quarter of the way through your pizza and Peter is over half way through his.

You feel sick. Or at the very least least like you might be - nausea brewing uncomfortably in your stomach as you take small bites of your food.

Your boyfriend chats away opposite you, blissfully unaware that you've started to feel queasy, so you plaster a smile on your face and swallow hard. The two of you have been incredibly busy for the past few days between your work and his vigilante duties, and the last thing you want to do is ruin the first peaceful moment you’ve had together. You can tell how much Peter has needed a little normalcy. The thought of ruining it because you’re feeling a little off feels incredibly selfish.

Beyond that, you're not used to letting people take care of you, and though Peter has told you countless times that he likes doing it, you can never quite dislodge uncomfortable feeling of vulnerability that blooms in you whenever he does. Letting yourself be loved, allowing Peter to look after you when you're not feeling too well - they're processes. You've been trying to work on them for a while, but it's difficult. It always has been.

You’re just trying to rub at your chest discreetly when Peter looks up at you from his almost empty plate. 

"Everything okay?" 

"Yes! Yeah, everything is fine." Your reply comes out wobbly and you only realise afterwards that you’ve made too much of an effort to sound alright. You smile at Peter through gritted teeth and try foolishly to convince yourself that if you pretend the nausea doesn't exist, it'll go.

Peter doesn’t look like he believes you for a second.

"Are you sure? Do you not like your pizza?" He pushes his own plate towards you as if it's the easiest thing ever, offering you his last two slices. "Here, baby. We can swap."

The tender easiness in the gesture very nearly makes you want to cry. Peter Parker might just be the loveliest boy you’ve ever known.

"No, Peter it's okay. My pizza is good,” your hands shifts slightly to rub against your abdomen, Peter tracks your movements cautiously. “I'm just kinda full I think.”

Your boy raises an eyebrow at your barely eaten pizza but nods, never one to push you for explanations.

"I'll ask for the bill and a box to take the rest home. We can have the ice cream in the freezer when we get back. How's that sound?"

The thought of ice cream makes you feel queasy, but Peter seems so hopeful and he's looked so tired and sad in the past few days that you cant help but indulge him.

-

Once you’ve gotten the bill and packed your leftover pizza into a takeaway box, Peter takes your hand in his and guides you out of the restaurant.

New York City in the evening is a sensory nightmare, but your nausea does abate slightly thanks to the fresh air. You catch Peter looking down at you and stamp an awkward smile on your face.

"Home?" He squeezes your fingers gently.

Your stomach churns at the thought of having to go so far, but Peter is looking at you like you've hung the moon and the stars - the journey home feels a little more bearable with him by your side.

"Yes please."

"You okay to walk?" 

"I'm fine, Peter. I promise."

"No, you're not, baby. And that's okay, you don't have to tell me what's wrong if you don’t want to. Just let me take care of you."

You sigh, resigned. You don't even know why you tried to hide it from him. Peter can quite literally hear your heartbeat, of course he was going to clock that you're not feeling too well.

Peter keeps his body angled towards yours as the two of you walk, and you soon realise that he's shielding you the best he can from the light around you and all the bodies rushing past. It's a small gesture, one that he might not even realise he's doing, but makes your chest flutter pleasantly

Then, just as you think that maybe the nausea is easing up, another wave of discomfort overwhelms you and you stumble.

Fortunately Peter catches your wrist just before you can do any real damage, balancing your pizza box in his free hand. He helps you back up easily, his fingers a warm pressure on your skin.

"Woah. Hey, hey, sweetheart. Let's just stop for a second, hm?"

You are mortified, and very sorry about how inconvenient you're being but when Peter pulls you to a stop, you oblige. Tears swarming in your eyes, you make one last ditch attempt at snuffing out the discomfort by pushing your face into the soft sweatshirt your boyfriend is wearing. 

You feel him go still and for one horrible millisecond, you think he's going to push you away, but then Peter’s body relaxes and he presses you against him softly, almost as if he's afraid to hurt you.

You mumble into his chest. "I'm really sorry."

"It's okay, you don't have to apologise," his lips are soft against the crown of your head. "You're good. Let's take a moment, alright?"

You nod, sniffing slightly.

"We're nearly there. Just a few more blocks to go." 

Something like a whine gets stuck in your throat and Peter coos gently, a hand coming up to cup the back of your head. “I know. You’re alright, honey. I've got you.”

You straighten up after a few seconds, aware that this is not at all what he signed up for when the two of you left the house, and Peter frowns a little.

"You can lean into me, baby. You're not a bother."

And you do know, because he's said it to you countless times before in different variations. I like being there for you. You don't have to apologise. I'm here for you, it's kinda in the boyfriend job description.

Peter doesn’t have to repeat himself. When he nudges you closer, you lean in.

-

Once you’re at home, Peter lets go of you carefully, never taking his eyes off you as he reaches into his jacket pocket and pull out the keys to let you both in.

He places the pizza box on the microwave in the kitchen before following you through down the corridor, a hand ghosting the small of your back. When you reach the bedroom, he dims the lights.

You sit on the bed gingerly. Peter sits next to you.

"How are you feeling?" Peter asks.

You’re quiet for a while. Then, a small admission;

"I feel really nauseous Peter." You avoid his gaze. "It started in the restaurant. I don't... I don't know what's wrong."

Peter is silent for a beat. You take it as a sign that you've said something wrong.

"It's fine though. I'm sorry for ruining the meal. I know you were looking forward to this." your voice is hoarse. "I’m really sorry."

When you muster the courage to look up at him, Peter looks horrified.

"Baby, what are you talking about? You didn't ruin anything. It's okay." His hand comes up to brush at your jawline. "I got to spend time with my best girl. I feel like the luckiest guy alive."

You think he might be exaggerating just to make you smile, but there's real sincerity in his tone. "Do you want pain relief? Some ginger tea, maybe?"

Right now, you only want Peter.

"Can we just cuddle for a bit, please?"

"Oh, my girl." Peter is already pulling you down so that you're lying against his chest. "C'mere."

[spider-stark]

HANDS

Pairing - Peter Parker x Reader

Summary - Peter is completely oblivious to just how horny you get while watching him work.

// masterlist // send me your thoughts //

Without a doubt, Peter was the smartest person you had ever met. Yet, somehow, he managed to simultaneously be the stupidest. 

Prepping for college already kept both of you beyond busy, and the fact that all of his free time was spent clad in spandex swinging around New York didn’t leave the two of you with much time to spend together. Despite this, you two worked hard to make time for each other, with most of your hang-outs consisted of sitting in his room doing totally separate tasks, happy to just be in each other's presence. 

Usually this didn’t bother you. Sure, a part of you missed doing all the normal couple things—like cute little dates or surprise movie nights, but the two of you were just too busy. So you savored the time spent in his company, enjoying stolen glances at one another and silly off-hand comments as the two of you tried to focus on your own work. 

But tonight was different. 

You had already finished all the work you needed to get done for the week and got a head start on next week's tasks, leaving you absolutely bored out of your mind. At first you managed to distract yourself, trying not to disturb Peter’s focus as he attempted to repair his web-shooters. You flipped through his comics, toyed with his camera, and even decided to fold the laundry he had carelessly left in the basket. After practically cleaning his room top-to-bottom, you were left sprawled out on his mattress, left with nothing else to do except sit around and watch him work. 

It was interesting to watch Peter tinker with things, especially when they were related to his secret identity, and so you were content to watch him. For a while, at least. As you watched him you slowly noticed your boredom turning into something…else. 

Peter’s hands were one of your favorite things about him—something he teased you relentlessly for—and they were on full display right now. You watched as his slender fingers moved along the web-shooters, muttering something under his breath about how he couldn’t figure out what he was doing wrong. If you were less distracted you might have offered to help him, just to give yourself something to do, but you were too lost in your own dirty thoughts to acknowledge his words. 

He palmed at his desk, blindly reaching for a screwdriver. Your eyes drifted from his fingers to the top of his hand, watching as his blue veins protruded as he gripped the tool. A low groan escaped his lips, the sound only aiding in the fantasies beginning to swirl in your head, your jaw falling open just a bit. He was still struggling to fix whatever was wrong with them (you had long forgotten what the problem was at this point) and you barely noticed as he let the web-shooter fall roughly against his desk, leaning back in the chair and tangling his fingers in his hair.

Normally you would notice that he was getting frustrated, but you didn’t. You were absolutely gone at this point, thinking of how it felt to have his fingers tangled in your hair. The way it felt when he was feeling particularly cruel—just barely letting his fingertips trace against your skin, the sensation always leaving you desperate for more. He knew what it did to you, those featherlight touches as he moved along your hips, venturing dangerously close to your inner thigh. He liked the noises you’d make, the way you’d start to whimper as he pressed soft kisses to your neck, occasionally grazing his teeth against your flesh. 

It was cruel enough that Peter loved to tease you so much, but it was even crueler that he was capable of doing it without even trying. 

Here he was doing absolutely nothing and yet you could practically feel his skin against yours; the warmth of his palms against your waist or the feel of his nails digging into the thick flesh of your thighs. If your fantasies were real then you would’ve already been begging by now, practically on the verge of tears asking him to put his fingers inside of you. 

The thought was enough to make you snap yourself out of your daydream, squeezing your legs together as you realized just how desperate you actually were for him. He was still leaning back in his chair, completely and totally unaware that his totally innocent actions had left you absolutely soaked. He didn’t pay any mind when you stood up from his bed, eyes still glued to his web-shooters as he racked his brain for better ways to fix them. It wasn’t until you were standing directly in front of him that he finally glanced up at you. 

“You ok?” Concern was the first thing to flash across his features, always worried about you. But as you crawled into his lap, effectively straddling him in the chair, his concern faded to confusion. “Uh-whatcha doin?” 

You rolled your eyes, realizing just how clueless your precious boyfriend was. “What do you think I’m doing?” 

“Trying to get me to take a break?” Pete guessed, smiling when you nodded in response. “I guess I can spare a few minutes,” he teased, hands finally moving to rest on your hips, “wanna go get something to eat?” 

You wondered how it was possible for someone to be so dumb, especially when said person had literal super-senses. In an effort to make your intentions even more clear, you leaned into his body and lightly rolled your hips against his, the tiny bit of friction eliciting a low noise from your lips. 

That little moan seemed to be enough to at least kick his Spidey-senses into gear, his gaze darkening as he finally smelled the arousal building between your legs. You dragged your hips against his again, feeling the now growing bulge in his jeans. About time, you thought to yourself. 

Peter didn’t waste any time upon realizing what you were actually after. He quickly lifted you as he stood from the chair, moving so he could lay you back down on his bed. “Fuck, why go out-” he sunk to his knees, caging his head between your legs, his fingers already toying with the waistband of your pajama shorts, “when I’ve got something to eat right here.” 

You couldn’t hold in your laugh at the comment, though once he got your shorts off that laughter quickly faded into different sounds. 

Oblivious as he may be, Peter Parker knows how to make a girl moan.

a/n - i had posted this on my other blog, but tumblr has decided to show my posts to absolutely no one and refuses to answer my emails asking for support so... new blog i guess? if you wanna read previous imagines for Peter that I've written check out spidey-stark, but I'll be posting on here from now on!

[reidslovely]

Idk fuckboy! (or slut!) Peter trying to get into readers pants but she's really really really introverted. And its not like she doesn't have a crush on him-she's just awkward :')

It was hard to miss her amongst the crowd. She was the only one pressed up against the wall sipping whatever godforsaken beverage was in the black solo cup. Peter had his eye on her the last couple parties, he had come up with two conclusions that fit whatever narrative he’d constructed for her in his head. 

The first was that she was miserable, gorgeous, but miserable. 

The second was that she had to at least know somebody at these parties to keep showing up and when Peter found out who it was he was gonna have to give them a ear full for leaving her on her own. Which is how Peter found himself in the position he’s currently in. 

“What are you drinking?”

The girl on the wall looks up to him, her eyes wide and in shock. He could practically hear the words and thoughts whooshing through her head. She was clearly stumbling over her thoughts as he spoke, patiently, he stared at her with a smile.

“Uh..sprite.” 

“You came to a frat party and you're drinking sprite?”

He teased with good intentions, knowing his own cup was filled with water. 

“Well..I-”

“I’m not judging, just want to know if i can get you a refill. I’m Peter by the way”

Her eyes switched from him back to her half empty cup. She nodded her head eagerly, mumbling out her own name as she followed him. Seemingly shocked when he reached his hand back to walk her through the crowd. Peter walked her over to the beverage table, practically standing on top of her guarding her from the crowd as he poured her more soda. 

“Do you wanna get away from the crowd? My room is right up the stairs.” Peter says quietly, his hand on the small of her back. 

She blew nervous air out of her nose, her hand resting on his forearm. “Oh I..I don’t- know.” 

“No or know?” He asked his hand pulling back slightly. 

“I don’t know?” 

Peter smiled at her reassuringly, wanting to ease whatever nerves she was feeling. “That’s fine? Outside then?” 

“Yeah..yeah- sure.” 

She spoke quickly, turning on her heel, her hand still holding onto his forearm. Peter smiled at her, moving his hand up to engulf hers with a tight squeeze letting her know she was good with him, noting the pick up in her heartbeat. What Peter couldn’t feel was what felt like butterflies erupting inside her.

[love-hs28]

It’s okay, you’re allowed to feel this way.

Having to stay after school for Chemistry help wasn't the most ideal situation to be in after having a bad day. And coming home to Peter being so nice makes it almost impossible to hold your emotions in. (You’re living with Peter, May, and Ben bc your parents died in an accident w. Peter's parents. Not important to the story but jsyk)

CW: Reader has panic attack & cries a bunch Hurt/Comfort & Fluff Reader's gender isn't specified 1.3k Words Posted on 5-25-24

My third post, ahhhh!! I cannot thank you guys enough for the love I've seen so far on my first two posts. PLEASE lmk what else you'd like to see! I hope you enjoy this one!!

You had to stay after school one day to get some extra help with your chemistry homework. You didn’t struggle much in your classes, but for some reason, your chemistry class had been giving you absolute hell all semester. It never seemed like you could get the hang of it, and just when you were starting to think you were understanding what was going on, a new concept would be introduced and your progress would restart from the beginning. Peter usually helps you with any tough classwork because he always seems to know what the teacher is going to teach before class even starts, but this time your teacher insisted that you stay after so you could get some ‘real’ help, whatever that meant. You’re pretty sure that if she was actually able to teach you better than Peter could you would have already asked her for help, but whatever. 

You come home and slam the front door as you walk in. May and Ben are still at work and Peter is in the shed working on something for his suit, as he typically is after a school day. You kick your shoes off and angrily walk upstairs. Your bedroom door slams shut as you carelessly toss your backpack on the floor, sitting on the edge of your bed with your face in your hands. You’d felt anxious all day and having to stay after for fucking chemistry and still not understanding it definitely wasn’t helping. You try to control your breathing and just forget about the day and focus on the plans you had with Peter later. 

Out in the shed, Peter could sense that you were home, (he also heard the front door slam), which meant that he could also tell that you weren’t in the best state. He set aside his spidey stuff and made his way into the house and to your room. 

You hear a gentle knock on the door and Peter hesitantly saying your name. ���Y/n? You in there?” 

You sigh and look up. “Yeah.” 

He cracks the door open and peaks in. “Can I come in?” 

You muster a smile, “Sure.” 

He comes in and shuts the door behind him. He gives a warm smile and comes over to give you a kiss and plops down next to you. 

“Hey bub. How was your day?” He absentmindedly rubs your knee with his hand. You know he already knows how your day went and is just trying to be nice. 

You sigh, “Shit. How was yours?” 

He frowns and tucks a hair behind your ear. “Mine was boring. Much better now though; why was it bad?” 

You sigh and stand up and begin to pace. “Well, as you know, I had to stay after for chem help and I’m sure you can guess how that went. I literally cannot fucking understand it no matter how hard I try and it gets so annoying because I’m good in like every other subject but that and I just don’t understand why.” You run your hands over your face and Peter is looking at you, concerned but attentive. “Not to mention the subway ride home was horrible; I had to sit across from this creepy fucking pedo who wouldn’t stop starting at me and he fucking winked at me when I got up to leave,” Tears start prickling in your eyes and your breathing gets heavy and uneasy. Peter notices this and you see that he’s about to get up and come over to you. “And to make it all worse, I saw a stray dog on the way home and he was just limping and I think he hurt his paw or something and I wanted to go help him but I didn’t know if he was a nice dog or whatever so I didn’t want to risk it but he looked so sad and helpless and I felt so bad and now I wanna go back and find him and help him or take him somewhere or something because it’s not fair that he has to be all alone and scared especially when it's getting so cold and I also think I’m about to start my period so that doesn’t fucking help and I’m just-” You’re fully crying now, on the verge of sobbing, and Peter comes over and wraps his arms around you. You bring your hands up to his chest and sob into his shirt while he gently rubs your back. 

He guides the two of you over to your bed and you sit down, your body turned into him and his arms still around you. “It’s okay, honey. Let it out, I got you.” 

You sob and your breath is coming in short gasps. Peter softly kisses your head over and over again to try and calm you down. 

“I’m s-sorry. I don’t know w-why I’m such a m-mess.” You grip his shirt as tears stream down your face. You can feel him shake his head and gently shush you. 

“Shh, don’t apologize. It’s okay. You’re allowed to feel this way, I’m right here.” 

You let out another sob because he’s being so nice and his hand that's not on your back comes up to brush your hair out of your face. As always, when the tears start to die down, the uneven breathing picks up. Peter knows this pattern by now, and rubs your back more firmly. 

“Deep breaths, baby. Follow my breathing, okay?” He exaggeratedly takes deep breaths while maintaining eye contact and you try your best to match the rise and fall of his chest, focusing on his heartbeat under your ear. 

When your breathing eventually slows down, you pull back a bit to sit more upright and rub your eyes, hiccuping. Peter gently puts a hand on the side of your face and tilts it so you’re looking at him. He has a sad but loving look in his eyes that almost makes you want to start crying again. He uses his thumb to gently wipe the remaining tears on your face and kisses your forehead. 

You lean your head to rest on his chest and he rests his head on top of yours. You take a few more deep breaths before leaning up again to look at him. He kisses your forehead once more and softly smiles. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, and wrap your arms around his neck for a hug. He holds you close to him as you breathe him in, the last step to really calming you down.

“Don’t thank me, Y/n/n. ‘s what I’m here for. I’m sorry your day was so shit, you don’t deserve that.” 

You lightly shrug and lean back to softly kiss his lips. “You made it better, it’s okay.”

He smiles and tucks a hair behind your ear. “If you want, we can postpone our date tonight and just stay in and watch a movie. Whatever you want.” 

You shake your head, “No, I think going out to do something will actually help. Get my mind off everything, y’know.” 

He smiles and nods. “Good, because I’ve got something planned that you’re gonna loooveeee,” He says teasingly, and you laugh as he moves you both in a lying position. 

“Oh really, what is it??” You rest your head on his chest and pull one of your legs up over his. He pulls the blanket over you two and takes your hand into his to play with his fingers. 

“Nope, sorry bug, it’s a surprise.” 

You giggle through your nose and snuggle into him. “Well, I’m very excited.” 

He kisses your head once more and you lay there for a bit while he plays with your hair and rubs your back, and you’re finally at peace. 

Hope you enjoyed! As always, please leave requests and such for me. Love you all <3