#tasm! peter parker x y/n

[imagines--galore]

||A Nonverbal Confession||

Summary: Your boyfriend assumes you are fast asleep as he slides into bed next to you. He ends up confessing what he thinks is a secret. Little does he know, you’re awake, and more then aware of what he just said. Or didn’t say.

Pairing: TASM! Peter Parker x Reader

Rating || Genres || Warnings: K+ Romance. None I guess.

A/N: Well you guys voted and this is what I wrote! Hope you enjoy it!

You had promised to wait up for him. It was something you always did before he went out on patrol. It was more for your peace of mind. You honestly couldn’t sleep unless you knew he was back, sleeping beside you, safe and sound. That night though, he had run a little late, and you had greeted him bleary eyed and a sleepy smile on your lips. Peter had told you to go to sleep on numerous occasions, to which you had refused.

You knew of his identity as Spiderman before you had started to date. It was a complete accident. You had been preparing to go to sleep in the apartment right next to Peter’s when he had accidentally stumbled into your place and yanked his mask off. And since he was a little banged up from a recent run-in with law-breakers, you had decided to help him as much as you could to clean up. And even helped him get clothes from his apartment so he wouldn’t have to wander the halls in his ripped up spider-suit.

That was a long time ago, and you were now living with him. The ritual of your staying awake till he came back started very early on, and you had carried it into your dating life as well.

“Running a little late there Parker, I was starting to get worried.” You stated with a huge yawn, slowly walking past him. As you went, you reached up to playfully pet his cheek. Peter gave you a pout, having been hoping for a kiss. “Well keeping New York safe is never an easy job.” He stated, following after you, dropping the mask, which he had removed as soon as he stepped into the apartment. “I suppose so.” You mused, dropping onto your shared bed and snuggling into the softness of the mattress and many many pillows you kept on your side. Peter made to lie down next to you, but you held him back by holding out your leg and playfully pressing your foot against his stomach.

“No way am I letting you get into this bed with the entire city on you Spider-boy.” You stated firmly. “I changed the sheets yesterday.” Peter grumbled under his breath, playfully grabbing your ankle and giving it a tug. You shrieked as you nearly slipped from the bed, throwing your boyfriend a glare as he quickly disappeared into the adjoining bathroom. He only just managed to close the door to avoid getting a magazine thrown in his face by his sleep-deprived girlfriend.

“Bully!” He heard you through the door. Chuckling softly to himself, Peter quickly stepped out of his suit and into the shower. He made quick work of washing himself, wanting to get into bed. It hadn’t been a tough patrol, but he was tired, and he had to get to work in the morning. But mostly, he wanted to catch a few snuggles with you before you fell asleep. And once you were asleep, even the devil couldn’t wake you. Well he could, but he would wish he hadn’t. You were very particular when it came to your beauty sleep.

Pulling on a pair of pajama bottoms, after quickly drying his body, Peter stepped out of the bathroom. Only to freeze at the threshold because of the sight that greeted him.

You were asleep, that much was clear to see from the steady rise and fall of your chest. What he hadn’t expected was for you to be snuggled against his pillow, nose almost buried in the fabric. As if you had fallen asleep while.....a sweet blush stole across his cheeks. Well he shouldn’t complain. He was always burying his nose in your neck and inhaling your scent. What was to stop you from doing the same.

Despite his protest of you always staying awake when he went on patrol, Peter couldn’t help but adore you for it. It just warmed his heart, to know that you cared about him so much, that you worried about him and his safety. Sighing to himself, Peter climbed into bed just behind you. It wasn’t his normal sleeping place, but once the scent of your shampoo slowly registered in his mind, he wasn’t about to complain.

Your shirt, or rather his shirt, had ridden up while you had been adjusting to find a comfortable position. His warm gaze drifted from the back of your head to the exposed skin. Slowly, he reached out, splaying his hand across the soft skin of your back. His hand was warm, so you barely even felt anything as you continued to slumber. First his fingers began to stroke along your skin, but when you gave a little shiver and seemed to curl into yourself, he opted to trace non-nonsensical patterns against your skin.

Slowly the patterns began to take shape in the form of words. He traced your name, over and over, before moving to tracing whatever pet-name he had called you since you had begun dating. Since you remained asleep, and he ran out of nicknames, he started to spell words he associated with you. Any positive adjective that rose within his mind, he traced every single one.

And once he finally ran out of those, and his brain began to drift off into slumber-land, Peter Parker poured his very heart and soul into tracing those three words into your skin, hoping those words would be somehow branded into your heart and mind. That you would know just how much he adored you.

What he didn’t know, was that you had only dozed off, and when you felt his hand against your back, you had stilled, wanting to see what he would do. It had taken a little while, but you had managed to comprehend what he was tracing against your skin. A sleepy smile pulled at your lips as he continued his little game, your heart swelling with more and more adoration for your boyfriend. It was when he traced those three words into your skin that your eyes snapped open and you went completely still. He didn’t notice, having pulled back to get to sleep himself. But you wouldn’t let him sleep without saying what you knew he deserved to hear. 

Seemingly satisfied, Peter gave a small sigh, reluctantly pulling his hand away from your skin, and pulling the blankets up to cover you. He shifted into a more comfortable position, but his movements seemed to have stirred you awake. You shifted, slowly turning over. Despite your eyes being closed, your body seemed to gravitate towards him. Peter gladly helped you adjust against his chest, wrapping an arm around your middle as you finally settled against him.

“I love you too, Peter.”

He had been about to fall asleep, his eyes had closed almost completely when he felt you speak those words to him, your breath warm against his bare chest. Peter made a move as if he were about to speak, but a quick press of warm lips against his skin had him stilling. “Go to sleep Spider-boy, we’ll talk in the morning.” If it were possible, you snuggled deeper against him, slowly drifting back asleep.

Peter gave a soft laugh, his lips dropping a sweet kiss to the top of your head before his eyes closed, and he fell asleep as well.

[venusianelf]

Rules Are Meant To Be Broken

Part 1 | Part 2

Pairing: Frat/Fuckboy! TASM! Peter Parker x Fuckgirl! F! Reader

Genre: Smut

Summary: You and Peter get paired up for a project in class, which leads to you both breaking the “no seconds” rule.

Warnings: Swearing, Rough Sex (Thigh Slapping, Belt Used as a Restraint, Orgasm Denial, Choking), Unprotected Sex (Use protection irl please), One use of Y/N, Probably OOC! Peter, Reader is kinda bitchy/cold to Peter at the beginning, Not proofread

Word Count: ~3,600

A/N:  Took me a while to write part two of this but here it is! I have plans for a part three too but it might take me a long time, or it might not. We’ll see lol

!!By clicking read more you are agreeing you are 18+!!

A few months had passed since your fateful encounter with Peter, you entered the classroom and took a seat in your usual seat, noting that Peter had arrived earlier than you and seemed to be fiddling with a camera. Scolding yourself for seeking him out among the crowd, you focused on setting up your laptop to take notes. When the professor cleared his throat to signify the beginning of class, you snapped out of your thoughts and focused on the lecture.

“-And that students concludes the presentation. Now you all will be assigned into two-person groups for this next assignment, and before you start looking for your friends, I’ve assigned your partners for this project,” The professor explained with a collective group of groans and sighs could be heard from the students, no one liked assigned groups, even you and your flirty ways.  It was way too much close time to be spent with someone in your eyes, especially if it was with an ex-hit.

“Peter Parker and Y/N L/N,” The professor announced among the other pairings, you looked up in surprise at hearing that you’d be partnered with Peter. Turning to glance at Peter, you found him already looking at you with that playful smile you wanted to smack off his face. Rolling your eyes, you grabbed your laptop and moved to stand up and walk out before he could catch up to you. As you exited into the hall, you heard him call out for you as he quickly hurried behind you to catch up.  “Soo, looks like we have to work together on this project,” He said, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “Yes, it does,” You replied coldly, the truth was you didn’t really want to be so cold, but you were already wary from your growing crush on him since you two hooked up.

“Which part did you want to do?” He asked as he kept up with your hurried pace, unfazed by your cold demeanor. “I don’t know, what are you good at?” You replied in question, glancing over at him just to see his eyebrows raise teasingly. “I think you already know the answer to that,” He joked, which made you roll your eyes. “But here’s my number, we can go over the project later.” He handed you a slip of paper with his number written on it, you weren’t sure when he had the time to write that down but took it regardless. “I’ll.. text you later about it then,” You replied hesitantly, you didn’t typically give out your number so texting him over message and not social media felt strange, but he didn’t particularly give you another choice.

You brushed your fingers through your hair as you switched back to your messages app and checked when Peter said he’d be heading over, calculating how close he was to your apartment. Just as you were doing your mental math, a new message popped up from him saying he was here. Hopping off your bed, you slid your phone in the back pocket of your jeans before heading to open the door. “Sup,” He greeted, and you gave a smile before stepping to the side to let him in to your apartment. “Hi to you too,” You replied as he stepped inside, and you closed the door behind him. “Nice place you’ve got here,” He responded as you moved to lead him to your room, where you two were going to be studying. “Thanks, you want a drink or anything?” You asked as you two entered your room. “Nah, I’m good, thanks though,” He answered as he looked around your room as you took a seat on your bed and gestured for him to sit at your desk. 

As you two worked on the project, asking each other’s opinion on parts of it as you worked, you could swear you felt his gaze on you when you weren’t looking. When you turned to check though, he seemed to be intently staring at his laptop. Shaking your head to yourself, you continued trying to work on the project but found yourself distracted by his stare and if you were imagining it or not. Chewing your bottom lip between your teeth, you saw Peter adjust how he was sitting slightly from the corner of your gaze. “Distracted there?” He teased as you glanced over at him. “Hard to focus when I can feel you checking me out,” You quipped back as he rolled his eyes. “What? Am I supposed to just ignore a hot girl when she’s in front of me?” He asked sarcastically, and you chuckled at his question. “Don’t you have a rule against hooking up with someone twice?” You teased and he shrugged. “So?” He replied, and now it was your turn to roll your eyes. You moved from where you were laying on your stomach with your laptop in front of you to sitting up.

“So it doesn’t mean anything to you?” You asked as he tilted his head, and you had to fight back your thought of how cute he looked doing that. “What, the rule?” He questioned and you nodded in reply. “I mean, rules are meant to broken.” He twirled a pen, your pen from your desk you recognized, in his hand as you contemplated his words. “You have a point there, I suppose,” You conceded, and he smiled brightly at that. “So princess, you want to get back to work, or?” He said, trailing off at ‘or’ trying to get his implication across. You raised your eyebrow in question at that, “Are you seriously asking to hook up right now?” You asked incredulously. 

You had expected a verbal response, maybe a head nod or shake, but when he put your pen down and stood up, you looked up at him in surprise. He walked closer to you before putting his hands next to you on the bed, caging you in, before replying, “What if I am?” He said with his boyish smile you always felt made your inside mushy. You broke his gaze and glanced away before you felt his fingers under your chin guiding you to look back at him. “You gonna use your words princess?” He teased as you narrowed your eyes at him. “Fuck off, Parker,” You retorted at his teasing and he raised an eyebrow before leaning close to your ear, “I’d rather fuck you.” You felt your cheeks warm at that as he pulled back to study your reaction. You closed your eyes for a second as you contemplated if you were really about to break your own main rule before deciding, ‘fuck it.’ 

You opened your eyes again before moving one of your hands up to the back of his neck and pulled him in. As you felt your lips clash, you felt the bed dip as he climbed more onto the bed and over you. You kissed him passionately as one of his hands moved to grasp at your waist. He bit your lip gently at first before hearing your gasp and moving to do it again, rougher this time. Your hand on the back of his neck moved to tangle in his hair as your other hand moved to join. He groaned into the kiss when you tugged on his hair a little. Parting from the kiss, he took the moment to look you up and down before moving his hands to your thighs and manhandling you so he could sit in between your thighs. “You miss me, princess?” He teased and you rolled your eyes at him. “Why would you think that?” You replied as he smirked, and he moved one of his hands from your thighs to rest on your neck for a moment before trailing down to rest over your collarbones. “I could feel your gaze on me every time we’ve been in the same room,” He answered, his gaze moving from his hand on your chest up to your eyes before dropping back to your mouth as he spoke.  You felt your cheeks heat up further at the realization that he’d caught you staring all those times. 

His hand on your chest moved to your face, with one of his fingers dragging over your bottom lip as he studied the way your lips parted slightly at the action. “If it makes you feel better, I was also looking for you in the crowd all those times,” He continued as felt his thumb press into your lips seeking entrance, which you happily obliged. You looked up at him as you circled your tongue on his thumb, watching his gaze darken before he pushed his thumb further in your mouth to catch you off guard. You gasped a little at the sudden movement and felt a small amount of spit dribble out of your lips, which his gaze immediately laser focused on. “Fuck,” He groaned as he pulled his thumb from your lips to wipe up the spit before pushing it back into your mouth. Pulling his thumb back and moving to hold your cheek with his hand, he leaned in and kiss you again, significantly needier and rougher than before. You whimpered into the kiss, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss. You felt your mind spin at the sensation as he moved his hand on your thigh to help you lean back onto your bed so you were laying down. 

He broke the kiss, and you attempted to chase his lips, which pulled a chuckle from him before he placed kisses on the side of your mouth and began trailing down your neck. Finding your sweet spot on your neck, he kissed and nipped at it until you were panting. Looking up at you from his place on your neck, he smirked before speaking, “Mind if I take these off?” He asked, tugging slightly at your clothes. “Y-Yeah, Go ahead,” You replied, finding your voice a bit shakier than before. With your consent, he helped you discard your top and jeans before stepping off the bed and tossing his shirt off. You propped up on your elbows as you watched him unbuckle his jeans, his gaze catching yours as he smirked. “Like what you see?” He teased and you rolled your eyes again. “Shut up,” You replied, and he raised an eyebrow before taking his belt in his hands and looking between you and the belt. 

“If you want to act like a brat, I’m gonna have to treat you like one princess,” He warned, and you narrowed your eyes at him. “I am not-” You went to argue but cut yourself off with a squeak when quickly moved to grab both of your hands in his grasp and pinned you down with his body weight as he secured your wrists with his belt. “I did warn you,” He tsk’d as you looked up at him incredulously. “You did not just-” “Oh, I did,” He said with a chuckle at your disbelieving state. You attempted to pull your wrists from the restraints but found he had secured them surprisingly well. He smirked as he watched you struggle before moving, so his face was close to your panties. He carefully plied your thighs apart as he leaned in close to breathe hot air over your covered slit. Your hips jumped a little at the sudden sensation before one of his hands rested over your hips to keep them still. “Maybe this will fix your attitude,” He teased, he leaned in closer and licked you through your panties as you gasped. He kissed your covered slit before kissing up over your mound and up to the skin above your panties. Carefully, he took your panties in his teeth as he pulled them down. You bit back a groan at the erotic imagery before you. 

Once he discarded your panties, he leaned back in, kissing your thighs and sucking some hickeys there as you gasped and squirmed from his touch, wishing it was on your core instead. “Patience,” He chuckled as he watched you squirm, continuing to kiss closer and closer to your core before moving towards your other thigh and sucking a couple hickeys onto your skin over there. You whined at his teasing and arched your back in an attempt to force his head where you wanted it. He groaned at your neediness before you felt his lips finally kiss your slit. He then licked over it before moving his free hand to open you up to him. Then he licked over you in broad strokes before moving to suck on your clit. You moaned and arched into his touch at the sensation, hands struggling against his belt once again in an attempt to free them so you could bury your hands in his hair. 

Looking up through his lashes, he watched as you struggled and moaned, feeling his pants tighten at the erotic image before him. He ground his hips into the mattress beneath him to take the edge off. Once he got a rhythm going from finding the best way to make you squirm, he took his hand holding you open for him and moved to rub a finger around your entrance. You whined at the sensation of his teasing before being cut off with a moan as he stretched you out with a finger. He worked his finger into you, getting you used to it before adding another and searching for your soft spot. You choked out a moan at the overwhelming sensation when he found it, feeling your orgasm build as you started clenching on his fingers. He groaned as he ate you out, causing you to moan from the vibrations. You felt yourself get closer and closer until you were right on the edge before he pulled back. You cried out as you felt your orgasm get ripped from you.

He moved to settle on his knees as he chuckled at your whines. “What the fuck, Peter?” You huffed with lidded eyes. “I know, I know, I’m mean,” He joked as he shuffled out of his jeans and boxers he was still in. “Fucking asshole,” You bit back before yelping when he smacked your thigh. “What the fuc-” “Calm down princess, you’ll get what you want soon enough,” He lectured, but it came off teasing and demeaning. He leaned back over you before looking at your wrists bound with his belt. “Causing some wear on my belt, huh?” He teased but continued before you could respond. “Condom or not?” He asked as his gaze traveled down to yours. “Not,” You replied but looked at him, frustrated still from him denying your previous orgasm. 

He nodded in acknowledgement before lining his tip up with your entrance. He pushed his tip in as you gasped, his gaze shifting down to where he connected with you. He moved to pull your thighs on either side of him as he pulled his tip out and pushed back in, fucking you with just the tip. You whined and struggled against your restraints again. “Jesus, just fuck me already,” You huffed as his gaze snapped back up to yours. “Nope, what’s the magic word, princess?” He asked with that stupid grin you loved, as you rolled your eyes. Mid-eye roll, you squeaked as he pushed himself further into you. “Oh my god,” You breathed out as Peter smirked. “That’s right, princess, I’m right here,” He teased as you wanted to smack his smirk off his face. He stayed still in you as you huffed and glared at him. “Fucking move,” You snapped at him and raised an eyebrow. “Not until you say the magic word,” He replied, as you huffed in response. “Please, fucking move,” You repeated with the addition, and he seemed to contemplate if it was satisfactory. You moaned as he finally moved, your legs moving to lock behind him to pull him closer. He snaked one of his hands between your thighs to play with your clit as he fucked you. 

“There you go,” He said as he fucked you roughly, “What happened to that little princess from last time, hm?” He teased as you moaned and squirmed under him. “Do I just need to fuck the brat out of you?” He asked when you didn’t reply. His free hand moved to rest on your throat. Pressing down slightly as he continued to fuck you and play with your clit, your mind swirled with pleasure as you felt your orgasm creep back up again with more and more force before you were close once again. Just as he felt you about to tip into pleasure, he stilled and released the pressure on your throat. You panted as your lungs filled with oxygen again. “How about now, hm? You gonna be a good girl for me?” He asked as you looked up at him with neediness written on your face.

“Please, Peter,” You gasped as you tried to move to fuck yourself on his cock, but he kept you still with the hand that hand previously been on your throat. “C’mon, we both know you can do better than that,” He said with an expectant look. “Please, Peter, I need it, need you, please, please, please,” You said as you began to babble. He smirked before leaning down to kiss you again as he began moving again. You moaned into the kiss as he fucked you, him using the opportunity to give you open mouth kisses. Leaning back, he continued to thrust into you roughly and circled your clit with his fingers as he took in your disheveled look. 

As you neared your orgasm, you grew desperate for him to allow it. “Please, ‘M so close, please, please,” You babbled as he groaned and shut his eyes as he felt you tighten up. “Go ahead princess, cum for me,” He said as you moaned in relief and pleasure as your orgasm swept over you. You swear you felt stars prick behind your eyes as your orgasm hit you extra hard. “Fuck,” You heard him swear as you tightened around him. He continued fucking you through it, even when the overstimulation kicked in. You began whining and squirming again as it became overwhelming for you. “It’s okay, you can take it baby,” He moaned as his gaze focused on your overstimulated face, your eyes beginning to water. 

You fought against his belt in an effort to grab your bedsheets or him, his gaze glancing up to it. He, as quickly as he could, discarded his belt from your wrists. Your hands moved to scratch at his back in an effort to express the overwhelming, almost painful amount of pleasure he was inflicting on you. He groaned at the sensation and felt you tighten up once again as your second orgasm creeped up on you through the overstimulation. He buried his face in your neck as nipped and sucked on your neck. “Can I come in you princess?” He asked, slightly muffed from having his face in your neck. “Ah- Yes!” You cried out as he bit down on your neck as he tensed up and spilled into you. Your second orgasm hitting you at the same time, milking him as he came. He shuddered as he fucked you both through your orgasms. 

As you both came down, he rested more of his weight on you, but was careful not to crush you. You both focused on catching your breath as he stayed inside you. “Thank you, Peter,” You mumbled out dazedly. “For what? Fucking you?” He chuckled as you playfully hit his back. “No, well yes, but that wasn’t what I was going to say. I was going to say thank you for making the first move because I certainly wasn’t.” You explained as he nodded before pulling back up to look at you. “No problem, princess, for both of those,” He said with a playful smile. “Oh my god,” You replied, exasperated at his cockiness. 

“Yeah, yeah, where’s your bathroom?” He asked as he sat up, pulling out of you. You rolled your eyes at his dismissal before pointing towards your bathroom door. He nodded before going to your bathroom. You looked around the room for your top but saw his and decided fuck it and slipped it on instead, finding it to be baggy on you. You moved to lay back on your bed as you caught your breath.

You looked towards him as he exited your bathroom when he whistled at your choice of clothes. “Goddamn, gonna make me get hard again, if you’re not careful princess,” He teased making you roll your eyes, before spotting the washcloth in his hands. He made his way over to you and indicated for you to open your legs again. “Since you were in such a rush last time, I didn’t get to clean you up. So let me do it this time,” He explained before you nodded. You felt the warm washcloth on your slit and gasped slightly as he cleaned you up. 

“That better?” He asked when he finished. “Mhm, thank you, Peter,” You answered. You watched as he climbed on to bed next to you and opened his arm in an offer to cuddle. You sighed, having already broken your main rule, you went for it and moved closer to him and laid your head on his chest. “So, how would you feel about this being a regular thing, hm?” He asked, as you chuckled at his question. “Sure, might as well,” You replied as he hummed happily in response. In the back of your mind you worried about what feeling that could stir up, but for now you let yourself enjoy his cuddles and decided to let future you deal with the consequences.

[madwcman]

hear me out hear me out… peter parker x sunshiney!reader

shes just a girl who will always take the lighter option, always listening to abba, a constant grin on her face

a girl who thrives when the weather climbs above 55 degrees farenheit and breaks out her tanning lotions and beach towels, and lives to wear flowy outfits

if its not too much maybe a little something like that?? i feel like theyd be perfect together 🙏🏻🙏🏻🫶🏻

a/n: i’m so hearing you out!! thanks for requesting!! i hope you enjoy <3

pairing: tasm! peter x sunshine! reader

you’re currently laughing as your gripping peters hand as you both walk on the side walk. peter loves the spring and summer. well, not really but he loves that you love the spring and summer. you thrive during the warmer seasons. in fact peter thinks you actually glow when the weather gets warmer.

you always seem to have a smile on your face, but it’s wider and brighter when you’re outside, hanging out with peter. he would like to think you’d agree with him on this. he would love to think he knows you as much as he knows himself.

“pete we should have a picnic!” you smile brightly, breaking peter out of his trance of you. he turns to you and smiles. “we definitely should, let’s go back to the apartment to grab some things.” you both head back to your shared apartment.

as soon as you walk into the apartment you zoom to your kitchen, peter watches as you quickly grab a chair just for you to climb on it to reach the top of your cabinets, where your picnic basket is located. grabbing the basket you climb down and put it on the counter.

“what should we pack?” you turn to peter, opening the basket. “sandwiches, fruit, chips and maybe some water bottles.” you nod as you move around your kitchen, peter joining you to help prepare the food.

you make sandwiches as peter helps cut up fruit and puts them into plastic containers, you both grab a couple small bags of chips and a couple of water bottles for yourselves. peter quickly puts everything into the basket and holds it for you as you both make it out of the apartment.

“could we go to a park?” you ask peter as you turn to look at him, with such a lovely smile. peter thinks he could faint if you smile at him like that again.

“we can go anywhere you want, sweetheart.” peter kisses your cheek, grabbing your hand in his free one, dragging you out the apartment building. he smiles to himself as he hears your lovely laugh.

[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❤︎

[iridescentparkers]

lessons in sexting ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

warnings: very suggestive! (18+)

“PETER!” you exclaimed, and he dropped inside of your bedroom window. You lay on your shared bed where you once waited for him to arrive. He yanked off his mask and crawled between your legs, quickly placing his hand along your waist and head buried in your chest. “What’s wrong?”

“I can never go outside again,” he muffled, turning his face to the side as he remained on your chest. 

“What are you talking about?”

He dug around in his pocket before grabbing his phone and scrolling to find a picture of himself. Lying down, his sight refused to meet yours as his head remained turned to the side, and he raised his phone to your face. “Read the text.” 

The photo was quite…shameful. In the photo, the phone was angled downwards towards the bottom half of his thin, sweaty suit. Peter was unbelievably hard and gripping his erection above the material. The upper half of the photo showed Peter’s teeth gripping his mask, drippings of sweat falling down his face. Underneath it was a text that read, “Baby, I miss you <3” 

“I didn’t get this text-” 

“Look up,” he murmured, and you moved your eyes to see that he sent it to Harry. You couldn’t help but laugh, Peter then groaned into your body and placed his hands on his face. 

“Is business rough these days? I didn’t realize Spiderman offered this kind of service.” You laughed, slamming his phone down on the bed. 

“Please.” he began, “He hasn’t responded 'cause it's late but I know he will never let this die.” 

“I don’t know if I will either!” 

“I missed, you!” He exclaimed. “It was getting boring and hot in that suit.”

“If it helps,” you whispered, running your fingers through his unkempt hair. “You looked good.”

“Really good?” He murmured, moving his eyes up to your face before placing kisses on the top of your breasts.

“Mmm hmm,” you hummed, nodding as Peter moved to hover above your body, placing you beneath him as he kissed you deeply. “Really good.”

[lostalioth]

𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐛𝐬

→ premise: peter needed to test how strong the new formula for his web shooters is so why not get his gf’s help, and have a little fun with it. its not like he had millions of other more scientific ways to test its strength.

→ pairing: tasm!peter x fem!reader

→ warnings: smut | 18+, bondage [with peters webs], fingering, small edging, peter possibly ooc, nicknames [baby, princess]

→ a/n: kinktober 04

Sure Peter had plenty of other ways he could test out the strength of his newly formulated web fluid. But you were just so eager to help your boyfriend out, always asking him if there was something you could do. Sewing up gashes and holes in his spider suit, patching him up after a fight, etc. So why not enlist the help of his pretty girlfriend instead of testing it out the same old boring way he always did. Of course being unaware of his little scheme you innocently and sweetly said yes when he asked if you'd help him out with an experiment. That was how you ended up in Peter's bed, hands restrained together and stuck to the headboard with his webs.

His body was currently nestled between your spread legs, eyes roaming your body before fixing on your face. Your lower half is entirely exposed, the breeze from his open window nipping at your skin making you squirm. “This wasn't what I thought you meant when you asked for help, and I said yes Peter” you whine and buck your hips into his touch as his hands roam up your sides, rubbing and caressing your body. You can feel the cool metal of the singular web shooter strapped to his left wrist. “Oh this is fully what I intended when I asked baby, tug all you want, squirm all you want” he coos as he uncovers your breasts by pushing your shirt up to reveal them. “Need to test how strong the new formula is” he explains softly as his right hand falls between your open thighs, middle and ring fingers nudging open your slit and rubbing through your folds. Slick immediately collecting on the tips of his slender fingers.

With a sharp intake of breath you twist your body and try shifting your hips away from his hands. His free hand that has the web shooter aims towards your writhing leg and shoots webs that wrap your ankle tethering it to his foot board. “You sure this wasn’t what you intended, princess? You're so wet for me” he emphasizes his tease with a tilt of his head, smirking softly as his two fingers push at your hole.

You whine and push your hips back on his hand trying to get them inside you, your hole clenching at the small intrusion. “I missed you Pete, you've been so busy” you explain and look through your lashes at your boyfriend hovering over you, your eyes full of longing and love. “Awww well i'm here now baby” he leans down and presses his lips to yours just as his two fingers push knuckle deep inside you. You let out a short surprised moan against his lips as you kiss back greedily. You tug at the webs around your wrists, hands desperate and itching to touch Peter. “Keep tugging baby, try your hardest, you can do it” he mumbles into your mouth, his words both encouraging and mocking before humming when you whine in response. Goosebumps rise on your skin from the pleasure, his free hand coming to pin your hips down holding them still.

Pumping his fingers in and out of your leaking cunt, a sloppy squelching sound filling the room along with your muffled whimpers and moans. “Fuck!~” you let out a plaintive cry and pull away from peters mouth when his thumb is added in, stimulating your clit. Rubbing small circles on your bundle of nerves as his fingers speed up their movement, making your mouth fall open and your head fall back against his pillows. Your hands tug as well as your leg at his webbing, the action doing nothing to tear or unstick it. A heat spreading through your body, you liked this idea of him tying you up with his webs more than you could’ve guessed, the heat settling and growing in the pit of your stomach.

“Come on baby, i don't think your tryin’ hard enough to break out” he taunts as his long fingers find that spongy spot deep inside you and start abusing it, the rough pad of his tongue speeding up its circles. “Gonna have you cumming before you break the webs princess” he chuckles softly and leans down to kiss along the exposed column of your neck. Your head goes fuzzy from his mouth on you, his fingers ruthlessly thrusting inside you, the feeling of him all over you. “Can’t- I can’t do it Pete, i cant break em’ fuck- please baby im gonna cum!” you whine and cry out, your eyes squeezed shut as you teeter on the edge of your climax.

He grabs ahold of your chin and moves your head up the movement forces your eyes open, you stare into his deep brown eyes, his pupils blown.

“Not yet baby, the experiment hasn't gone on long enough, need to see if they break” his voice comes out sweet yet concedesing as he crashes his lips against yours to muffle your wanton moan.

Truthfully Peter had gotten enough information from all your squirming and pulling that he figured it was strong enough, he was just having far too much fun playing with his pretty girlfriend.

→ a/n: i havent written for tasm!peter in a bit so I feel like he’s possibly out of character ? Idk I felt rusty when writing him

[welovelouisandbucky]

Me: *gets periods* *sighs*

Also me: *searches x reader period fics on Tumblr/ao3*

[parkerpeter24]

quiet temptations

pairing ➳ tasm!peter parker x fem!reader

word count ➳ 2.3k

warnings ➳ SMUT. characters are 18+ and MINORS DNI. this contains depictions of fingering, oral (m recieving). fluff, peter being sweet but also horny-

summary ➳ you’re awfully quiet but peter can’t seem to take that.

“is everything alright?” peter mumbled as he laid beside you. your back was to him, his arm wrapped around you, “you’re not talking.”

the bed you were laying on was warm, a thin blanket over the sheets because you got extra cold during the winters and a quilt that covered you and peter both. your fingers danced against the wall adjacent to the bed, feeling the cold plaster contrasting peter’s own fingertips that danced on your waist, under your sweatshirt.

“you gonna talk?” he placed a kiss on your hair that was loosely tucked behind your ear, making it fall over your eyes. chuckling when he heard you groan and push the lock of hair back in its original place, “so.. no?”

you sighed softly.

“that’s alright.” peter responded, feeling as if he was just talking to himself now, “we don’t need to talk if you don’t want to.”

the sound of your hum was accompanied by peter’s hand gliding under your sweatshirt and caressing your stomach. he was careful, as if you were made up of glass, watching out for any signs of refusal on your face but your features looked solemn, unchanging.

he sighed, not being able to hold in his concern, “alright, just nod if everything is okay…”

he waited for you and surely you did nod after a few seconds, making peter’s worries dissipate.

“what’s gotten you so quiet?” he tried to get you to talk, his fingers taking a detour from trailing upwards, making contact with the elastic hem of your sweatpants– which originally belonged to him, “‘cause one way or another, i’m gonna hear that pretty voice.”

you felt your face heat up but peter still didn’t notice any change in your expression. if he couldn’t see the blinking of your eyes and sense changing breathing pattern, he’d have assumed you were asleep.

“at least tell me you want this.” he mumbled into your neck, pressing his lips against your exposed skin.

“yeah.” you mumbled and peter wasted no time in sliding his hand under the fabric of your lower, arm holding your body against him. you let out a soft breath as his fingers travelled lower. his middle finger slid your panties to the side before making contact with the skin. he pressed soft kisses to your neck before his nimble finger delved into your folds.

a leg pressed between both of yours, parting your thighs as he nestled a warm hand against your sex.

you let out a soft sound, clutching onto the quilt. his finger sank deeper until he found the earliest bit of your arousal and pulled it out, wanting to spread the wetness everywhere.

his finger travelled up to your clit, circling around it and you bit your lip when he fucked it back into you, knuckle deep. he groaned softly, loving the way your muscles almost clenched his finger.

he repeated his actions a few more times until you couldn’t hold back the soft needy moans that he beyond waited to hear. you felt his teeth sink into the skin of your neck before he sucked that spot, soothing the sting from the bite.

you moaned when he curled his finger, trying to search for a spot that would make your sounds louder. his finger dipped into you inch by inch every time, showing he was in no hurry.

peter’s arm was strongly keeping you pressed against himself as you started to arch your back. he could tell you were getting needy but he wished to hear something from you– even though he was loving the musical moans you were letting out.

he pressed his ring finger into the mix, adding it when he pumped them into you the next time. his face pressed further into your hair when you tried to get away. he could tell you needed more– you were writhing, trying to grind your hips into his already hard cock– but he kept going at the slowest pace he could. one brush of his fingers against your most intimate spot and your lips parted in a loud gasp.

you tried to arch your back which only led to peter’s arm pressing harder against your abdomen. his lips were pressed together, letting out soft hums which accompanied each one of your moans as if encouraging you.

he pulled out both his fingers, fucking in again and then back out and in again until it became a faster rhythm. squelching sounds filled the mostly silent room as his leg parted yours even further.

peter rolled his fingers into you continuously, the heel of his palm nudging against your clit which had your eyes rolling to the back of your head, “pete-” you gasped, “m-more.”

the desperation in your voice made peter grind into your ass. his fingers fucked you faster, holding your legs apart, curling them into you just right until you were jutting your hips, chasing your high.

“good girl.” peter mumbled, “keep it up, baby.”

his fingers moved continuously in and out of you. he could tell you were close with the way you clenched his fingers, however before the coil in your abdomen burst, his fingers pulled out of you, a soft wet sound following it– completely opposite to the loud whine that left your mouth.

“oh my god- why’d you stop?!”

“now you wanna talk?” he mumbled into your hair.

you felt your cheeks heating up further than they were. you hid your face into the pillow, but peter wasn’t letting that happen. he tugged at your chin with his free hand, “oh, baby. trust me, i want you to cum.”

you whined, biting your lip softly at his dirty words. you wondered if peter came prepared for this because no other day would you have expected such filthy words escaping his lips. he’d never done so before in all the times you two were intimate.

he turned you around gently, slowly pressing his forehead against yours as he brought up his fingers to his own lips, sucking them clean. he moaned at the taste as his tongue swirled around the digits, sending a wave of shivers up your spine and arousal to your core.

the second his fingers were released from between his soft, warm lips, your own pair replaced them, tasting remnants of yourself on his lips. you moaned softly, pressing your chest up against his.

“want you.” you breathed out heavily.

peter only shook his head, “not until you tell me what’s with the silence.”

“huh-” your brows pulled together in confusion, “you’re really not gonna-”

“first you tell me what happened.” he pecked your lips once, twice, and a few more times.

you sighed, pursing your lips as you tried to formulate what to say to him– or rather how.

when peter saw you struggle, opening your mouth and then closing it, he brushed a thumb against your cheek, “it’s okay, you should take your time.”

you nodded, feeling the warmth of his hand transfer to your cheek as your eyes met. his chocolate brown eyes swam with what you could identify as pure adoration.

“until then…” he mumbled, leaning in to kiss you.

soft at first, it escalated when he brushed his tongue past your lips, quickly finding yours in a slow yet passionate dance. peter pressed you against the mattress, handling the covers to stay over your bodies.

he wasted no time in moving his lips to your neck, hands going to hold your thighs apart as his thumb now brushed against your clothed thigh, kneading gently as his teeth nipped at your collarbone.

you gasped softly, letting him do as he pleased with you. as you held the back of his head with one hand, the soft, brunette sea of hair engulfed your fingers.

peter moved his hands to the hem of your sweatshirt, wasting no time in sliding it up past your chest, careful enough that you weren’t exposed to the coldness of the room. he dived under the quilt, wrapping his lips around one of your nipples, the other being knead in the palm of his fingers.

you gasped as peter’s tongue flicked the bundle of nerves, your stomach flush against his torso.

you could feel his lips curl into a smirk before he switched, rolling your sensitive left nipple between his slender fingers as he licked and pulled the right one in his mouth.

you were getting fidgety, squirming under peter as he felt your grip tighten on his locks, not enough to hurt. he moaned against your skin, placing a few kisses right under your breast, moving lower, now seeming in a hurry.

“pete-” you almost pleaded, finding your voice breathy.

his hands travelled under the pair of sweatpants, making quick work of sliding them down as he traced your thighs, down to your knees before you felt the material slide off you.

you lifted the quilt slightly, just wanting to get a glimpse of peter. the few rays of light that touched him weren’t fast enough to warn you as his lips pressed to the wet patch over your panties. you gasped and threw your head back.

you felt peter’s hot breath and the muffled sound of his moan from under the blanket. he pushed your thighs apart, diving deeper as his nose pressed against your clit, the fabric thick enough to make you grit your teeth, wanting his lips and tongue on you.

maybe peter heard the clenching of your teeth or the way that your hand found home in the tufts of his hair again but he was eagerly pushing down the material past your legs throwing it down to the floor.

you felt peter’s forearms lift your thighs as he shuffled closer to your core, licking up a bold stripe across your folds. your back arched but peter’s grip was keeping you against him.

for a moment you heard him groan as he retracted, “what’s wrong?” you breathed out, supporting yourself up on your elbows.

you almost laughed when his hand creeped out from under the quilt, holding his fogged up glasses out for you to take. with a chuckle, you held the frame between your fingers, quickly placing them to the bedside table.

as you laid your back against the bed, peter was quick to wrap his lips around your clit. you let out a moan as he licked and sucked on the bundle of nerves.

he held onto your thighs, keeping you firm against his lips as he explored the very intimate part of you. his tongue darted out, poking at your entrance, but not giving you enough time to notice that as he slid the muscle deeper against your walls.

you moaned, pressing a hand over your mouth to muffle the lewdest sound you’ve ever made. the bridge of his nose poked against your clit and peter only pressed deeper as his tongue delved in and out of you. it seemed as if he would see no tomorrow if he stopped making out with your dripping hole.

you arched your back, “pete- oh god-”

you felt him hum against you, sending your jaw drop open as you finally felt the pleasure crash all over your body. your toes curled and eyes rolled to the back of your head. you could swear this was the hardest you’d ever come before as goosebumps covered your arms.

you let out a sigh as peter helped you ride out your high, keeping up his ministrations. finally stopping, he placed a soft kiss over your clit, sending your body flinching at the action.

when peter climbed out from under the blanket, surely he looked like he needed to clean up. his chin dripping with your arousal and forehead all sweaty from being so long under the warm quilt.

“you need to wash your face.” you chuckled, brushing back a few locks of hair that were sticking to his forehead.

“and you need to tell me what’s wrong.” he mumbled and you sat up, adjusting your sweatshirt back down.

“it’s nothing-”

“and don’t you dare say it’s nothing.” he sat up as well, beside you, wiping mouth with the sleeve of his shirt– that thing was going in the washing machine the second this conversation was over.

“it’s… just… exams and stuff. you know how anxious i get.” you sighed.

“i know… but you don’t have to! there’s still a week left before-”

“okay, that may seem like a long time but trust me, it’s not.” you looked up at him, meeting the brown eyes that held concern, “i’m sorry, i… i was just overwhelmed. didn’t feel like talking.” you almost pouted, making peter pull you against his chest as he hugged you. you in turn wrapped your arms around his waist.

“trust me, i know how stressful exams can be. but it’s nothing you haven’t been through before.” he placed a soft kiss against your hair, making you hug him even tighter, “you got this, beautiful.”

“yeah, yeah, yeah. easy for you to say.”

he chuckled, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“you’re like, i don’t know, the smartest guy of our whole generation.” you mumbled against his shoulder.

peter shrugged at that comment, “hey, even i watch youtube videos for help sometimes.”

“yeah, but you grasp every concept so quickly, like you don’t even have to try.” you looked up at him, blinking when you realised how that must have sounded, “...that was supposed to be a compliment.”

“you’re adorable.” peter chuckled, “how about we study together? i’ll make a time table; and don’t worry, it’s not going to be super chaotic, just a simple time table; and we can figure it out together. how’s that sound?”

you smiled at him, feeling your heart swell at the amount of his care, “sounds perfect.”

his smile mirrored yours, “thanks for telling me.”

you gave him a grin.

“now since i told you, can we fuc-”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

masterlist

[rainydayathogwarts]

Just the tip - Ex!Peter Parker

summary: just the tip with ex!peter parker cw: SMUT, kind of pushy/manipulative peter but everything is consensual. wc: 2k

When Peter fell through the open window of your bedroom, you had let out a loud gasp, spinning around in your desk chair, only clad in your exposing pyjamas. At the sight of your ex boyfriend, you put your hands on your hips, instantly abandoning the homework laid out on your desk. Standing up, you walked towards the hopeful boy, watching as he approached you, a pleading look in his eyes. “So we’re normalising breaking into our ex’s apartments now?” Peter opened his mouth, putting both hands on your hips desperately. “Peter just because you’re spider-man-” “Please.” Peter whispered, his eyes tearing up slightly. “I miss you.” He said, making you drop your hands flatly by your sides. One of your hands came up to cup Peter’s face, thumb caressing his cheek softly. Peter leaned into your touch, shutting his eyes as he savoured the moment.

You looked at Peter with concern; this wasn’t the first time he had come back to you, longing to be held. Things had always escalated to more despite telling yourself that you wouldn’t allow it to happen again. “Can you hold me, please?” Peter asked, ducking his head down to nuzzle in the crook of your neck. Obediently, you snaked the hand on Peter’s face around his neck and over his shoulder, the other one wrapping around his torso. Peter sighed, his own arms enveloping around the curve of your waist. You held him for a moment, inhaling his familiar scent as you gently stroked his back. From where Peter’s head is pressed up in the pocket of your neck, he slowly presses a soft kiss to your skin. You took in a sharp breath, jumping slightly at the sudden movement. Peter kissed your neck again, but you didn’t have the heart to pull away from him. “We can’t keep doing this Pete.” You mumbled instead, a hand finding its way in Peter’s soft locks. “Just this once. It’ll be the last time I promise.” You vividly recall him uttering similar words to you last time.

Sighing, you stepped away from Peter, unravelling your arms from around him. As though he knew what you were thinking, Peter added “Baby, please.” You let your head drop to the side, crossing your arms over your chest in an unconvinced manner. “Peter, we broke up. Exes don’t keep going back to each other like this.” At your words, Peter dropped to his knees in front of you, both hands landing on your thighs, softly grasping them. He looked up at you with his signature begging, puppy eyes, leaning his chin on your exposed abdomen. “You broke up with me. I’d never leave you. Just one night. Let me spend one night with you.” You uncrossed your arms from your chest, returning your hand to Peter’s hair, softly scratching at his skull. Peter never broke eye contact with you, leaning just slightly forward to press a kiss on your bare stomach. You tugged your short tank top down, hoping to stop the tickle from Peter’s kisses, until you finally gave in, telling the boy to stand up.

Peter followed you to your bed, chanting quietly “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” You tossed the covers off the corner of your bed for you to climb in, patting the empty space next to you for Peter to join you. He immediately climbed in next to you, allowing you to cover him up with the soft blanket before cuddling into you. You turned on your side, facing Peter and watching as he pressed his face directly against your breasts, both hands coming to your hips to pull you closer to him before his arm settled over your waist. Sighing melancholically, you threw a leg over one of Peter’s, tangling your body with his as you leaned forward, pressing a kiss on his forehead. Peter laid still as you played with his hair and kissed along with hairline, treasuring the intimate moment. It had been so long since he had felt loved like this. In fact, the last time he felt cared for was the previous time he had been in your arms, despite your complaints about these reoccurring meetings.

Finally taking his opportunity, Peter shuffled upwards on the bed so that he was face to face with you, nose nudging against yours. With Peter’s intentions clear, you had enough time to pull away if you wanted to, but you felt bad, or at least that’s what you told yourself. You didn’t want consider that the way Peter’s eyes flickered down to your lips made you feel engrossed in him, or that his lips also looked soft. You didn’t want to consider the fact that maybe Peter wanting you so badly drew you closer to him. But he was your ex, and the furthest you would go is a kiss. So when Peter leaned ever so closer to you to press his lips against yours, you didn’t pull away, allowing your eyes to flutter shut.

Peter’s lips moulded against yours, his lips separating slightly so his tongue could shoot out to lips your bottom lip, a silent request for access into your mouth. When your mouth dipped open, allowing Peter’s tongue to press against yours, his hand came up, cupping your jaw to pull you closer to him. Peter pushed himself up on one of his forearms, using the height over you to press you deeper into the mattress as he deepened the kiss, his tongue licking deeper into your mouth. You gasped, pushing Peter away by his chest as you panted in attempt to catch your breath. Peter’s mouth latched onto your neck, immediately suckling at the sensitive skin as he moved his weight over you. Peter held the leg you had on top of his to pull it over his waist, testing your limits as he experimentally thrusted his hips between your spread legs. You immediately gasped, pushing Peter’s mouth off your neck and sitting up straight. Peter fell on the bed next to you, a guilty look on his features. “I thought-” “Peter, exes don’t have sex. If we have sex, we’re official again.” Peter furrowed his eyebrows at your words, the same sentence echoing in his mind over and over again. But I want us to be official again.

“Let me put the tip in. Just the tip.” You looked unconvinced, leaning over to take a sip of water from your bedside table. Peter scanned your legs, your cotton shorts riding up with each movement you did. When you sat up straight again, you readjusted the straps of your tank top and crossed your arms over your chest, suddenly aware of the way your nipples were constraining against the fabric of your top. “Just the tip isn’t sex.” Peter pushed, adding a pleading “Please.” “You’re really going to get off on just putting the tip in?” You questioned, eyeing Peter down. He felt himself harden when your gaze landed on his covered cock. “Just want to feel warm.” He weakly argued.

You rolled your eyes, reaching your hand out to grasp the cotton of Peter’s t-shirt, roughly pulling him towards you so you could slam your lips against his. Peter moaned, softly holding your face, but you broke the kiss as quickly as you started it. Peter froze, awaiting further instruction from you. “Just the tip.” You warned, laying back on your bed. Peter instantly jumped up, as though he had to act before you changed your mind. He tripped over his trousers twice before finally tossing them somewhere in our room, and his boxers went next, carefully watching the way your eyes widened slightly in reminiscence. Peter climbed over you, his knees on either side of your legs as he hooked his fingers through both your shorts and panties. He slowly tugged them down your smooth legs, leaning down to press a single kiss on your mound. Peter climbed off you, manhandling your body to lay on your side and settling himself flush against your back. You gasped, feeling Peter’s hard cock poking against your hip. Peter wrapped an arm over your shoulder, pulling you back to stay put against him while his second hand guided his cock towards your entrance.

Peter’s dick nudged your tight hole and you shut your eyes tightly, listening to the immediate moan that ripped from Peter’s chest. You cursed, seriously considering to tell Peter to push all the way in as you felt his swollen tip dip into your entrance. Peter whined, pulling his dick out of you and you sighed disappointedly. Peter bit his lip so hard it almost bled, his thighs shaking in attempt not to push himself all the way in. He needed to abide by your rules if you were going to let this happen again. “Just the tip.” You mumbled absentmindedly, drool gathering in your mouth as you pushed your ass out for Peter to put it back in. Peter panted, trying to control himself as he put the tip back in your entrance, rocking slowly back and forth. “Just the tip.” Peter repeated, but quickly found himself losing control over his actions, and suddenly, he had half his dick inside you.

The both of you moaned in unison, and Peter brought a hand to the arch of your back, caressing your skin. He needed to take a moment or else he'd instantly be coming inside you. You reached a hand behind you, landing halfway on Peter’s cheek. Peter kissed your hand, pushing himself up to press kisses on your cheek and jaw. You whined in pleasure, rolling your hips back to take as much of Peter’s dick as possible. “Fuck, just put it in baby!” You cried, finally letting your put-together front crumble down. Peter chanted a string of ‘thank you’s, finally snapping his hips all the way in so his cock fully sheathed himself in your folds. Wrapping an arm over your hips, Peter shifted his weight to switch your positions, landing you laying on your stomach with him on top of you.

Whining, you pushed yourself on your knees, chest touching the mattress as Peter kneeled, gripping both your hips tightly before setting an unforgiving pace on your cunt. Your moans immediately increased, small sounds escaping you with each push of Peter’s cock closer to your cervix. Peter relentlessly whimpered, feeling his orgasm building up quickly, but he needed to make you cum. He needed to make you cum or you’d never let him fuck you ever again. Desperately, Peter snaked his fingers around your body, concentrating hard on finding your clit while keeping up the pace and brutality of his thrusts. You whined impatiently, your own hand finding Peter’s to guide him to your clit. When his fingers finally made contact with your clit, your toes were immediately curling, a high pitched moan escaping you. Peter squeezed his eyes shut, feeling your pussy clench around his dick. “Come on baby, cum for me.” He begged, rubbing harsh circles on your clit as his thrusts became sloppy. You couldn’t help your bodily reaction to how pathetic Peter sounded, your cunt clamping on his dick as you came, causing a string of curse words to leave Peter’s mouth as his own orgasm was triggered. “Shit, shit, shit.” He mumbled, whimpering softly as he emptied his loud into you, your sounds of ecstasy ringing in his ears.

Peter softly rocked his hips into yours, hoping to ride out your orgasm, but you whined at the overstimulation, and Peter knew it was time to pull out. You immediately slumped against the bed when Peter pulled out with a groan, sitting next to you to rub a hand over your back. You turned onto your back, looking up at Peter tiredly, and gesturing for him to get closer to you. With a hand on his jaw, you pulled him into another kiss, engrossed in the fact that this would be the last time you two had sex. “Last time Peter. Yeah?” Peter nodded, mumbling “I’m happy with that, yeah.”

But his words sounded so familiar you refused to believe them.

[lomlkenji]

༊*·˚ pretty boy | peter parker

main masterlist

for you, peter is the literally definition of pretty. his big brown puppy eyes and his perfectly structured face, his lean but muscular built, his cute little pout when you don’t give him a kiss before he goes patrolling.

he is just so so very pretty.

you don't know know how long you have been staring at him for, but he didn't seem to notice. too busy focusing on his science project, and his concentration is very hot.

his long slender fingers moving carefully and slowly to put the pieces together and your attention only zeroed on them. such, such pretty hands.

the weight of your stare was starting to make peter nervous. peter gets flustered very easily. and with you? you didn't even have to try.

peter suddenly put down the components for his project and turned to you, “i know i'm hot but can you please stop staring at me like that?” he mumbled, as a soft blush appear on his face. his tone was confident but you can sense his nervousness.

he tried focusing on his project again as you chuckled, the kind of chuckle that sends tingles all over peter's body, “sorry pete, but you are just so very pretty.”

wow. okay he didn't expect that.

peter chocked on his saliva, his body hot all over, nearly dropping the pieces of his homework.

“baby, you can't just say things like that.” he looked at you, eyes wide and soft. and it makes you grin.

“it's the truth.” you shrugged, “you're my pretty boy.” you know you're testing his limits, but it was fun teasing peter.

peter's mind malfunctioned. he's trying to ignore you, but the way you said my pretty boy is replaying over and over in his head.

“damn it.” he quietly swore, putting down whatever left of his project and turning to you.

your eyebrows rose in a teasing manner as a smirk finds its way to your face. “what?” you innocently asked, but you know exactly what you're doing, and he knows it too.

peter chuckled as he walks to where your laying at the bed. the sound send a shiver up your spine and now you're the one who's nervous.

he leaned closer to you, you could feel his breath on your lips as you both took a moment to admire each other. peter was staring at your eyes to your nose and your soft lips, bringing his eyes to connect with yours again and you could feel your stomach doing flips.

“and you're my pretty baby.” he whispered softly before cutting off a whine that rose up your throat with his lips.

his lips were a little chapped, but it fits your perfectly. your hands move to tangle on his hair, giving it a little pull making peter groan into the kiss. he leaned back, his warm hands move to find comfort on your waist as he brings you onto his lap.

peter felt like his heart was about to burst. every single sense of his is override and all he can focus on is you. you. you.

his home.

reblog for a kiss <3

[ohwowimlonley]

peter just coming over to your place to fuck you rough then cuddle w you while he asks about your day lol

Peter loving backshots w you bc of the way reader ass moves lol- idk something tells me he’s an ass man ( especially tasm! Peter )

Double P having you on top and putting you in a bear hug as he thrusts

-

“Well, if Mr Stevens can’t see that you’re acing this photography, then he really shouldnt be teaching at all,” you’d say, raking your nails through his thick hair. He nudges closer to you, cheek resting against your breasts as he tracks his right hand lazily over your naked body.

“I know, I know, just wish I could get a passing grade for once,” he laments, fingers eventually dropping in between your legs, sliding through the wetness of both our your releases.

-

“God, baby, fuckin’ look at it,” it’s a whine, or Peter’s closest approximation to it. He takes your asscheeks in both his hands, pulling them apart, pushing them back together, squeezing, slapping, digging his nails in, “gonna fuck it one day, you won’t be able to walk for a week,”

“Ahh,” you sob, arching your back as he shocks you with the harshest spank yet. You’re sure your ass is red raw by now, but it doesn’t stop Peter from pulling your cheeks apart again and landing a fat glob of spit directly onto your unused hole.

-

“Right there- Peter!” It’s almost a scream, but it’s really not your fault because Peter has his arms wrapped firmly around your back, fingers stretching to the space in between your shoulder blades and using it as leverage to fuck up into you at the perfect angle, right into that soft spongy spot deep inside you that makes you dribble onto his shoulder, “oh, God!”

“Shh, sweetness, it’s okay,” he murmurs into your hair, smirking as you cry out when his pubic hair graze against your engoreged clit, “I’m right here,”

[imagines--galore]

idk Peter being toxic and reader and him both know that he’s bad for this relationship but it’s smutty? it could also end in fluff

Pairing: TASM! Peter Parker x Reader Rating || Genres || Warnings: M. Romance. Angst. Fluff. A bit of smut, allusions to sex, and minor drinking so those under 18 please turn away. A/N: Ok yes, I live for these kind of requests! Also I think this fic got away from me a little bit. Woops? Also, THIS was a roller coaster to write!

What had started out as a casual one time thing, had quickly escalated into something that would not be considered healthy.

Peter had been grieving, was still probably grieving, the loss of his girlfriend. Gwen Stacy. His first love.

You had been mourning the loss of your best friend. The girl you had known since you were in kindergarten together. Had grown up with. Whom you considered a sister and told everything to.

Seems like none of those feelings and years of friendship mattered when you slept with Peter the first time a month after her death.

You felt guilty everyday. Simply recalling the memory of that first night made you feel twisted up and sick inside. You were betraying her, betraying Gwen by sleeping with her boyfriend.

Former boyfriend, your mind had tried to reason with you on more then one occasion. That did not matter, your heart had argued back, she had still loved him, she said so herself.

As you sat in your apartment, nursing a warm cup of tea between your cold hands, your treacherous mind drifted to the fateful night. How you had been crying into your pillow, trying your best to get some sleep. You had a long day of work tomorrow, and yet sleep alluded you. Flashes of Gwen's smiling and laughing plagued your mind, causing you to close your eyes, wishing for those images to go away. They were only causing you heartache.

But then you heard someone, right outside your window. You sat up, and once you recognized that silhouette through the drawn curtains of your window, you quickly threw it open, allowing Peter to stumble in.

You could smell the alcohol on his breath, barely caught him when he almost fell over. You questioned him, asking if he was alright and what was he thinking swinging around while drinking. He could've gotten seriously hurt. He wasn't full on drunk, but he was a little inebriated at the very best.

But once he met your gaze, and you were able to see the sheer sorrow and despair in his eyes, you stopped in your questioning. He whispered Gwen's name before all but falling against you, sobbing into your shoulder.

You felt your own tears sting your eyes as you wrapped your arms around him and held him closer, needing to feel his warmth just as he needed to feel yours. He kept whispering Gwen's name and how he could save her, how he had failed to save the girl he loved. As an act of comfort you pressed a kiss to his forehead, before moving to brush your lips against his cheek.

What you hadn't anticipated was him moving his head at the exact moment. Just enough to allow your lips to meet his lips. Shocked, you quickly pulled back, stuttering an apology as your cheeks reddened and you moved to step out of his embrace. But he stopped you, bringing you back to him. He was looking at you now, and you knew his heart was beating just as fast as yours given how you had your hands pressed up against his chest.

Neither of you knew who moved first, but a moment later your lips clashed together in a flurry of teeth and tongues as your hands began to explore one another. Clothes were pulled off, two bodies fell onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and heady kisses. There was nothing romantic, soft or slow about what happened next.

It was raw.

Emotional.

Desperate.

Your lips continued to meet, tongues battling against one another, hands never stilling as the two of you explored the other's body. There was no gentleness to it either. It was scrapping nails and gripping the other with an almost bruising strength. Never once did either of you open your eyes, perhaps because deep down you knew that once you did, the moment would be over, and reality would come crashing down.

All you needed, what both of you needed, was some semblance of comfort. Of familiarity. A reminder that you weren't alone. Neither of you.

And when Peter pushed himself inside you, when he began to move against you, when you held on tighter and buried your face into his neck to bite and nip at the sensitive flesh, when he moaned deep and sensual against your ear, when you threw back your head and allowed the sweet sweet release to drown every coherent thought from both of your minds, you found.......peace.

As you came down from your high, Peter rolled away from on top of you. You had wrapped your blanket around your body, laying on your back and staring up at the ceiling as you slowly came back to your body, and realized what you had just done.

And perhaps you were feeling selfish, perhaps you were angry at Gwen for leaving you, or perhaps you were exhausted from that constant gut-wrenching pain that crushed your soul, but you couldn't bring yourself to regret your actions. Peter had given you a few moments where you didn't feel like your heart was breaking. And you knew, he had found comfort in your body as well.

Though it didn't stop that feeling of guilt prickle under your very skin as you slowly drifted off to sleep.

                                             ————————–

That had been almost six months ago.

Since then, whenever Gwen's loss would get too much for either of you, Peter more so then you, the two of you would sought out the company of the other.

And while it did provide the two of you with some semblance of comfort and peace for a few moments, your friendship turned into a dry husk.

Before that Gwen's death, you and Peter had been decent friends. You had always been a third wheel between the two lovebirds, but you didn't mind. You were happy for your friend, and Peter was a great guy. And the two of you shared a passion for photography. Now? For almost a year, you hadn't spoken to one another. Even during sex there was barely any verbal exchange, unless one would count sounds of pleasure and approval. Even after sex things were quiet.

Once the act was done, you two would either lay on your back, or turn your backs to each other. And if it had been a particularly tiring day, you would sleep together. Otherwise one of you would put your clothes on and leave.

No greeting, no goodbyes.

And it was tearing you apart.

Tears lined your eyes and this time you didn't bother wiping them away. Pushing aside the now cold tea, you buried your head in your arms placed atop the kitchen island and cried. With every sob your shoulders shook.

You cried for Gwen.

You cried for Peter.

You cried for yourself.

You cried until you had no tears left, but you didn't move from your position.

                                             ————————–

A gentle hand on your shoulder was what shook you awake. Your head snapped up, eyes blinking to clear away the sleep and remaining tears as you did. You found Peter looking down at you, at the look in his eyes seemed to drive a knife into your heart.

He hadn't seen you cry, and yet you had a feeling he had been there for a long time now.

"We need to talk." You said, your voice low and quivering as you looked up at him.

Silently, he nodded.

                                             ————————–

It was her first death anniversary, and you were beginning to feel like your old self again.

You stood in front of her grave, holding a bouquet of beautiful yellow roses. The color symbolized two things, the deep friendship the two of you had shared, and the forgiveness you sought from your friend. Slowly sliding to the ground to sit cross-legged in front of the headstone, you heaved a deep sigh.

"Well its been quite the year Gwenie. My first one without you and its been so strange. Not having you here." As you spoke, you untied the ribbon that was tied around the bouquet, allowing the flowers to separate in your lap. "I did manage to get the apartment we both had our eye on, of course I have to work two jobs now, to pay rent, but its okay, its keeping me busy." You set down a flower on the grass in front of the tombstone.

Tears pricked your eyes but you continued. "And you won't believe it, but I finally managed to get around to watching The Lord of the Rings. I understand now why you begged me to all those years. Though its unfair of you to have called dibs on Aragorn without giving me a fair chance." A small laugh fell from your lips as you laid down another flower.

"Your mom and brothers are alright. They moved away a couple months after you went. I still talk to them over the phone. Your mom actually asked me to come and pick up some of the stuff we shared over the years. Says you would want me to have it. Though she doesn't know I already called dibs on your blue sweater." Another tearful laugh, followed by a flower and a tears that dripped down your cheeks.

You sighed softly. "I.....started to see a therapist. I wasn't....right after you left Gwenie. And I did something bad. But I've been working on it." Laying two more roses, you played with the petals of the next one.

"And I wanted to apologize." Here your voice trembled as your raised your eyes to the name that was engraved in the grey stone. "For what I did with Peter, I just.......I was just so lost and sad with you gone Gwenie. And he was just there. He....understood." You shook your head. "And I know that is a lame excuse for what I did, and I know how much you loved him, and I am so so so so sorry Gwenie. I'm so sorry." Aside from the flower you held in your hand, you laid down every last one of them on the ground.

You sat there quietly for a good few minutes before speaking. "I haven't met him or seen him for months now. We finally decided to just sit down and talk. And we agreed that what we were doing wasn't going to help either of us in the long run. So we stopped."

A deep sigh, one that echoed from the very depth of your soul fell from your lips as you tilted your head back and looked to the beautiful blue skies. "I hope you will forgive me Gwenie." You whispered, your head coming back down to press a sweet kiss to the final flower you held.

You stood up, leaning down to set the flower atop the gravestone. Your fingers lingered there, caressing the cold stone lovingly.

"She wouldn't want you to feel that way you know?"

You jumped slightly at the voice, your head whipping around to see Peter standing there with his hands in his coat pockets. He wasn't carrying any flowers, so you guessed that the ones already there were from him. You had suspected that perhaps it had been Mrs Stacy.

Slowly he approached you, so he could stand beside you, his eyes never leaving the headstone. "I remember when her father died and she was grieving. She was just so sad all the time." You nodded, recalling how devastated she had been after Mr. Stacy's death.

"It was actually the first time we slept together." Your turned your gaze towards Peter, lips parted in surprise. Gwen had never told you that. Peter sighed. "She just looked so sad and I couldn't do anything about it and it just happened. She felt guilty afterwards, saying she had taken advantage of me or something like that, but I told her to not even think like that. That I was glad I could comfort her in some way." He finally turned his gaze towards you, a small understanding smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

You swallowed thickly, pushing back the tears as you returned the smile. "Maybe we could comfort each other as well. As friends." You offered, your heart beating fast in your chest. You had missed Peter, had missed your friend. Maybe this was the do-over the both of you needed.

Reaching out, he grasped your hand tightly, prompting you to smile at the gravestone in front of you. The wins blew softly around you, and though you knew it was not possible, as you closed your eyes, you swore you could hear Gwen's hand slipping into your other hand as you stood side by side.

                                             ————————–

Your eyes blinked open, eyelashes fluttering as you fought the heaviness of sleep from them. Slowly, you blinked them open, snuggling deeper into your warm blankets.

Only to be made aware of the person sleeping beside you.

The scent that enveloped you could only belong to one person, and you smiled as you snuggled closer to him, feeling his arm wrap around your waist as he pulled you closer in his sleep.

You and Peter had spent months building your friendship once again. The two of you had been one another's rock during some very trying times, and now it had been nearly a year and a half. A year and a half of friendship that had slowly started to shift to become something more.

He had asked you out on a date, wanting to do things properly this time. And though you had been hesitant at first, an accidental mention to Mrs. Stacy had made you say yes, after the older woman had urged you to not let a guy like Peter get away.

Your first date had been a month ago. Your first kiss as a couple had happened a week after. Your first night together had been last night.

It had been the complete opposite of what the two of you had shared all those months ago. Last night had been slow, sweet and loving. Every caress, every kiss, every look had been full of love and trust as the two of you had floated on a cloud of utter bliss and pleasure. And while you had never met one another's eyes previously, this time neither of you had looked away.

This time neither of you slept with your back to the other.

Neither of you left the bed before the other woke.

And as you felt Peter stir awake, saw him smile sleepily at you, his hair all mussed up from the night before, greeting you with a morning kiss, you allowed yourself to feel something you had not felt in a long long time.

Loved.

[venusianelf]

Game of Passion

Part 1 | Part 2

Pairing: Frat/Fuckboy! TASM! Peter Parker x Fuckgirl! F! Reader

Genre: Smut

Summary: Being the two people on your college campus with the biggest reputations for sleeping around, it was inevitable for you two to run into each other.

Warnings: Alcohol Consumption, Weed Consumption, Swearing, Rough Sex (Spanking, Slapping, Choking, Degradation), Unprotected Sex (Use protection irl please), A couple uses of Y/N, Probably OOC! Peter, Reader and Peter are implied to be kind of assholes to their ex flings

Word Count: ~3,800

A/N: First fanfic I’ve written in a long while, and it’s smut of course lol. Might write more parts to this, not sure yet.

!!By clicking read more you are agreeing you are 18+!!

It hadn’t taken long for the rumors to spread about Peter Parker, all the girls would fawn over him and if they were lucky got to sleep with him, although never more than once. Similarly, it hadn’t taken long for rumors about you to spread. You had most of the men and women on campus wrapped around your finger. Even your best friend was desperate for more of you. You continually would laugh her suggestions off unless it made you potentially look more desirable for your new hit mark. In which case you’d kiss her dizzy and promptly drop her with a faux innocent smile as your newest hit would make their way over to you. Sure, you cared about her but you had promised yourself no feelings for anyone, even her. So you stuck to your rule of one and done.

Of course, from things you’d heard you had grown curious about Peter. Though you were more an attract than a chase kind of girlie. So sure you’d attend parties you knew he’d be at, hell even the ones out of the frat house he resided in. You’d caught a few glimpses of him before but other than a passing glance neither of you made a move. You had thought tonight would be no exception. 

You sat in your dorm room with your best friend as you both prepared for your night out at Parker’s frat house. “Come onnn Y/N, what’s it going to take for you to kiss me again?” She whined as she watched intently as you applied your makeup. You chuckled at her desperation before looking at her in the mirror. “I’ll kiss you again if the situation arises where it’s useful,” You tease as she huffs and rolls her eyes. “No fun,” She replies as she opens her phone and responds to some of her messages. “Uh-huh sure, you’ll live,” You replied returning your focus back on your makeup. Feeling satisfied with it you grabbed your setting spray and generously mist yourself before adjusting your hair to frame your face better.

“What do you think?” You asked as you turned to your best friend. She gave you a look over in your dress and whistled appreciatively. “You look delicious, wish I was the lucky hit tonight,” She replied as you laughed and rolled your eyes. “Another day maybe,” You replied with a wink at her and watched as she promptly blushed before turning back to her phone to avoid your gaze. “Seems a good enough time to head over, you ready?” She asked as she stood up and smoothed out the wrinkles of her dress from laying on your bed. “Sure am,” You replied as you grabbed your purse and phone.

As you entered the frat party you felt the hungry gazes of many partygoers on you, smiling to yourself you held your best friend's wrist in your grasp as you led her and yourself to the drinks. You gave a flirty smile to the boy pouring you two drinks as you recalled the time you had hooked up with him. He hadn’t been half bad and seemed gentlemanly but that wasn’t really your type. You thanked him for the drinks before you continued pulling your best friend outside to watch some of the partygoers play beer pong and other silly games. 

You chatted with her as you sipped your drink and surveyed the potential hits. Although as you did you felt the gaze of someone on you before turning to where you had felt it originate, locking gazes with one infamous Peter Parker. You noted his fluffy blond hair as you watched as his eyes raked over your body. You gave him an inviting smile before turning to your best friend to try to play hard to get. You watched out of the corner of your eye as he handed his drink to one of his friends and walked over to you, leaving whatever poor girl had previously been chatting with him alone. 

You looked up at him in faux surprise as he approached you. Your best friend paused her conversation to look between you to two before excusing herself as she usually did. “Y/N, right?” He asked as you nodded in reply. “Peter, right?” You mirrored as he nodded in return. “Seen you around here a few times,” He replied as you smiled and took a sip of your drink. “I do my best to get out,” You responded after a moment and he raised an eyebrow. “I think you mean get around,” He teased as you rolled your eyes. “As if you don’t do the same,” You taunted and clicked his tongue in response as he put his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “You got me there,” He replied as he looked you over.

“You smoke?” He asked as you raised an eyebrow. “I do,” You replied unsure of if he had meant nicotine or weed, not that it really mattered. He nodded in response. “Care to join me then?” He asked as you contemplated it for a moment. “Sure, why not,” You replied as you watched a smirk play on his lips at your response. “Follow me then,” He said as he grabbed your wrist and guided you through the party crowd upstairs. You had been upstairs before during some of your other hook-ups but it felt somehow different to be heading to Peter’s room.

He opened the door and gestured for you to head in, obliging, you entered and moved to sit on his bed. “This your usual way of getting girls into your bed?” You teased with a raised eyebrow as he scoffed at your comment. He entered after you and closed the door and locking it. “Not usually,” He replied as he rifled through his stash and began rolling a joint for you two. You noted the distinct smell of weed as you got your answer to your earlier question. “Oh? Am I special then?” You joked as he chuckled in response. “If it makes you feel better then sure,” He replied before finishing rolling the joint and taking a seat next to you on the bed. You rolled your eyes at his comment.

He offered you the joint which you happily took and placed between your lips as he held a lighter up and lit it for you. Taking a drag you breathed in it, pleasantly surprised at the higher quality of it. “Not bad,” You commented as you passed it to him. He chuckled at your response. “What? Did you expect me to smoke shit weed?” He taunted and took a hit as you shoved him slightly with your elbow. “A little, yeah,” You replied with a laugh as he gave you a playful glare. He placed a hand over his heart with mock hurt in his eyes. “Ow,” He teased as you rolled your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, gimme that back,” You replied as you went to grab the joint from him. He raised an eyebrow at that before pulling it up over your head, out of your reach. You glared at him before trying to grab it. 

As you made your move to grab it, he focused on the way you had to lean closer to him. His free hand moved to your hip as he pulled you into his lap. With his readjustment of you, you managed to grab the joint. Pulling it to your lips with a satisfied smirk. You took a hit but otherwise gave no indication of the effect being in his lap had on you. He watched as you breathed in the smoke, as you were about to blow it out he leaned forward and captured your lips. You gasped in surprise at his actions before feeling the open-mouthed kiss he placed on your lips. Realizing his intentions, you blew the smoke into his mouth as you two kissed. His hand that was not on your hip was quick to join the other. His grip squeezing your hips tightly as he kissed you hungrily. You felt your head dizzy as you grew breathless from the kiss.

When he pulled back to part from you, you both panted as his forehead rested on yours. One of his hands quickly moved to your hand that was holding the joint before grabbing it and placing it in an ashtray nearby. “Hey! I wasn’t done with that,” You huffed as he chuckled at your response. “Greedy little thing, aren’t you?” He teased as your eyes widened slightly in surprise at his words. You quickly recovered as you swatted at his chest. “No, you’re just a jerk,” You argued as he raised an eyebrow at you. “I’m the jerk?” He questioned as you glared at him and nodded. He chuckled before running his free hand through his hair. “I’ll show what a jerk looks like princess,” He replied, and before you could fully process his words he had pushed you onto the bed with your face down and ass up. You squeaked in surprise as he manhandled you. 

You craned your head back to glare at him. “You treat all your women like objects?” You taunted before squeaking again as you felt his hand collide with your ass as he spanked you. “No, just little sluts like you,” He replied as you bit back a moan from his degrading words. His gaze was trained on your face though and his eyebrow raised as he watched you pull your bottom lip between your teeth. “Figures you’d like that,” He teased as his hands hiked up the bottom of your dress before rubbing circles on where he had spanked you. You shook your head to try to fight back the blush that coated your cheeks. “No- No, I don’t,” You replied trying to deny your interest in his mean words. 

He tilted his head at that, and you moaned out in surprise as you felt his fingers prod at your entrance through your panties. “No? Your body seems to say differently,” He teased before looking down at where his hands touched you. He groaned at the sight of your drenched panties as he continued teasing you with his fingers. “You’re fucking soaked,” He muttered as his gaze was transfixed on how easily you had wet his fingers through your panties. Shoving your panties to the side he swore under his breath as he saw your glistening pussy. 

His digits had you trembling under his touch as he collected some of your wetness of his fingers before moving to circle your clit. He looked up at you as he watched you face twist in pleasure as your eyes shut at his contact. “Sh- Shit! Fuck, just like that,” You moaned out as he chuckled. You opened your eyes to glare at him with that but quickly yelped when he slapped your pussy. “Don’t take an attitude with me whore,” He growled as you nodded back at him with tears pricking your eyes. “Ah! Okay okay!” You conceded as he watched you almost predatorily. You began wiggling as his hand stayed cupping your sex but not touching you more than that. His eyes glanced down at you grinding yourself into his hand before he looked up at your face again.

You whined as you felt the loss of his warmth as he pulled his hand back. “You want more? Then ask nicely,” He replied with almost a stern edge to his voice. Your eyes focused on him as you mentally fought yourself over it. You knew he wouldn’t let it go if you said please but you also didn’t want him to stop. Shutting your eyes you decided to say it regardless. “Please Peter, touch me, please,” You begged as he tsk’d at you. You opened your eyes and took in his disapproving expression as he looked at you. “You can do better than that,” He replied as you pouted at his words. “C’mon, Peter please!” You whined before you yelped as he spanked your ass once again. “Okay okay! Please, you can do whatever you want to me just please touch me!” You begged as his eyes darkened at your words.  “That’s more like it,” He groaned before moving his fingers to your slit again.

Your eyes fluttered shut as you felt him touch you again. His fingers made expert circles over your clit as you started trembling again as little moans and whimpers left your lips. He worked you up before his fingers moved down from your clit to your entrance as whined at the loss of contact on your clit. Although your disappointment was quickly washed away as you felt his tongue lick a stripe through your slit. Two of his fingers pressed into your entrance as he moved to suck on your clit. You moaned at the intrusion before shoving your face in his pillows to attempt to muffle yourself. 

He sucked on your clit like a man starved as his fingers pressed further and further into you. Before long he began curling them trying to find the soft spongy spot inside of you. Your hips mindlessly jumped as he found the spot. You could feel him smirk against you as he continued hitting it over and over as you felt the coil in your stomach grow tighter and tighter. Your hands bunched up the sheets beneath you as you felt yourself draw closer and closer. “M’ gonna cum,” You whimpered as you turned your head to the side to make sure you were audible. “C’mon cum on my fingers princess,” He encouraged as he pulled back slightly before sucking on your clit with renewed vigor. You bit your lip hard as you cried out and your vision blacked out as white-hot pleasure coursed through you.

You shook as he fucked through your orgasm. As you came down, your hips attempted to jump away from his touch in overstimulation which he chuckled at as he pulled back from you. He flipped you over easily so you were on your back as you looked up at him dazedly and sated. “Look at you, one orgasm and all that sass is gone,” He cooed condescendingly as you blushed and rolled your head to the side to avoid his gaze. He tsk’d in response and grabbed your jaw with his clean and pulled you to look at him again before tapping his fingers that were covered in your juices to your lips. “Open up,” He commanded before your lips fell open in silent obedience. His fingers pressed against your tongue as you sucked on them and cleaned your slick off his digits. “Atta girl,” He groaned. 

Once his fingers were clean, he pulled them out of your mouth as you whined sightly at the loss. He chuckled at that. “Don’t worry princess, we’re not done yet,” He replied. He got to work pulling your dress over your head as you leaned up slightly to help him. Once off, he threw it somewhere across the room as his gaze fixated on your tits. One of his hands moved to circle your nipple as he moved to suck your other nipple into his mouth. His tongue lapped over it as he sucked, your back arching off his mattress as you gasped. Once he was satisfied he let go with a pop before kissing slightly above your tits as he sucked a hickey onto you. 

Normally, you were against most marks anyone wanted to leave on you but his teeth and lips on you had you gasping and whining for more instead. He smirked as he pulled back to admire his work on your chest before leaning down to add more. As he did, you didn’t notice his free hand moving to unzip his jeans and push them down. He pushed his boxers down enough for his cock to spring free and began pumping it as finished littering hickeys along your chest. When he pulled back, your eyes focused on his cock. It wasn’t too long where it would hurt you but it definitely was bigger than average and a bit girthier too. You sucked in a breath as you watched him pump himself and the weeping head of his cock as his pre-cum drooled out of his slit. 

He smirked at your doe-like eyes. “Like what you see?” He teased as your gaze quickly looked up to his eyes. You nodded needily at his question as he chuckled at your enthusiasm. “Need it, please please, Peter, please!” You begged for him without prompting causing him to bite his lip to bite back a groan at your neediness. He clicked his tongue in response. “Well since you asked so nicely,” He replied as he moved to settle between your thighs. He glanced down between you two before glancing over at the drawer of his bedside table. “Can you grab a condom for me princess?” He asked as you blinked up at him dazedly. “M’ on the pill,” You mumbled as he groaned at the implication. “You clean?” He asked as you nodded at his question. “Fuck, fine,” He replied as he lined the tip up with your entrance. 

He swiped it around a bit to gather some of your slick against him before he slowly pushed into you. You moaned and gasped out as your arms went to brace yourself on his forearms, nails digging into him. “Shit, you need to relax,” He muttered as he felt you squeeze the tip of him. He wet his fingers in his mouth before moving to circle your clit with them. You mewled at the touch but he felt you relax as he did. He continued his circles as he pushed further into you. You gasped and trembled under him as you felt fuller and fuller. Getting impatient, he gave a hard thrust up into you as he pushed him to be fully sheathed in you. You squeaked as he did your eyes shutting in the process. He stopped his touch on your clit as you whined. “Open your eyes,” He ordered but you kept your eyes closed as you tried to focus on the feeling of him filling you up so sweetly. 

You squeaked in surprise when you felt his palm connect with your cheek. Your eyes opening suddenly at the impact. “There you go,” He groaned as you pouted and rubbed your cheek where he had slapped you. “What? You want me to kiss it better?” He teased as you nodded at his words. He huffed a little but leaned down to place a light kiss on your cheek. A small smile flitted across your face before you felt him roughly pull out and thrust back up into you. An embarrassingly loud moan leaving your lips. His face settled to bury in your neck as he continued the pace. 

His hands moved to push your legs around his hips as he continued thrusting into you. One of his hands moving to draw circles on your clit as you moaned. You felt your body shaking once again as he built you back up to the edge. He pulled back to look down at you as he continued chasing his pleasure. Watching him with half-lidded eyes, you pawed at his free hand to pull it to your throat. He groaned as you settled his palm over your throat. “Fuck, you really are just a little slut, aren’t you?” He commented as you whined at his words. He placed more pressure against your throat at your needy whine, pulling a moan from you.

With the added sensation, you felt your orgasm rushing to you quicker and quicker. “You gonna cum for me princess?” He asked as he felt you clench his dick harder. You nodded frantically in response. “Go on then,” He encouraged as he tightened his grasp on your neck a little more. You choked on a moan as you felt your orgasm blind you with pleasure for a second time. You vaguely registered his groaning and swearing as you pulsed around him. Your limbs tingled with pleasure as the pressure on your throat prolonged your climax. As you came down from it, he moved his hand away from your throat to next to your head as his other hand rested on your hip to pull you closer to him as he chased his release. You mewled at the sensitivity before he leaned down and captured your lips in a messy kiss.

He groaned into your mouth as you felt his dick twitch before feeling him spill into you. He continued fucking you through his climax as you whined and mewled into his mouth. Once he came to a stop, he sighed before pulling out of you. Looking down, he groaned as he watched his seed spill out of you before moving to collapse beside you. You shut your eyes as you focused on calming your breath. You felt his eyes on you as he watched you, you peeked an eye open at him before making an annoyed noise. “What?” You asked before closing your eyes again. “Just making sure you’re still alive,” He chuckled and you mentally rolled your eyes.

“Uh huh, well your dick isn’t that good that it could kill,” You replied feeling more to your normal self. “Could’ve fooled me,” He laughed as you cringed remembering the way you had been so submissive to him a few moments prior. You shook your head at his words before opening your eyes and pushing yourself up on his bed. He watched you curiously as you looked around his room for your dress. Spotting it, you stood up on shaky legs to pick it up, adjusting your underwear which you both had been too caught up in to take off. Slipping the dress over your head and adjusting it to cover what you needed to you, you tsk’d as you saw the hickeys on your chest. 

You shot him a glare. “What?” He asked with his hands raised in mock surrender. “Hickeys? Really?” You asked with a tilt of your head. “You weren’t complaining when it happened,” He replied with a shrug and you rolled your eyes. “Whatever,” You replied. You checked your phone from your purse as he tucked himself away and made himself decent. You glanced back up at him, “Well see you around then,” You said as he nodded with a boyish grin. “Mhm, same time next week?” He teased as you chuckled. “We both know that’s not how this works,” You replied with a shake of your head. He shrugged in response. “True,” He replied as you unlocked his door and opened it. You looked back at him, “See you around Princess Parker,” You giggled as he rolled his eyes. “Last I checked princess was your name,” He replied as you stuck your tongue out at him teasingly before walking out of his room. 

You headed downstairs as you texted your best friend who quickly found you and promptly teased you about the hickeys you couldn’t fully hide. You promised to tell her the full story on the way back to your dorm. As you left though, you couldn’t help but wonder why your cheeks felt warmer at the thought of him.

[madwcman]

being fwb with tasm peter and you want more but he's so closed off due to his trauma so r just leaves

a/n: thanks for requesting! i hope you enjoy this :)

pairing: tasm! peter x reader

“peter i want more.”

“more what?” peter questions you, as he stands to put his jeans back on. you and peter have been seeing each other for a couple of months now, it’s been nothing serious but now you want more than just friendship and casual hookups. you want a serious relationship with peter.

“i want more of what we have.” you watch peter as he drops his shirt over his chest and turns to you. “and what exactly do we have?” he questions you more, sounding slightly more on edge while turning back to not look at you.

“i want to be in a relationship, peter.” you sigh out, peter was rather difficult. he never wanted a relationship. he stated that from the beginning, and you knew that! but you just couldn’t help falling in love with peter.

“i don’t know about that.” peter says, turning back and sitting on your bed, looking at you. “i like you a lot, but i don’t want a relationship.”

“then i don’t want to continue whatever this is.” you state simply, pointing your finger between you and peter. peter opens his mouth to explain, but you shake your head no. you’re standing your ground. “i’m serious peter.” you frown, and move slightly more away from peter.

“i can’t give you that.” peter sighs out. trying to reach for your hand to hold.

“then leave peter.” you push away his hand, and you leave from your bed walking into your bathroom, a tear sheds as you hear peter leaving your apartment.

[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?!" 

[iridescentparkers]

Tasm Peter for "can we take a break? I'm enjoying this but need a break" bc we all know Petey can get taken away w his super stamina

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳���too much

REMEMBER - FOR 500 FOLLOWERS! you can request a blurb using this list or this one (18+) and add whatever you want to your submission!!! here is the link

warnings - 18+ - light smut

LAZING across your shared bed, the smell of incandescent sex lingering around you both, and Peter’s lips loitered over your own. Cheekily hovering, they waited, impatiently watching as your breathing evened out. 

He was lying above you as you attempted to regain your breath, wiping your finger across the sweat dripping from your forehead. Peter kissed the little indents on your face, stopping at your cheek to nibble on your soft skin. 

Your eyes flutter shut, sleep running to and from you as his kisses put occasional energizers to you. “Peter.”

“Hmm?” 

“Baby, you know I love you.” 

“I do.” 

“And you have been doing so good for me all evening.” You praised as he nodded, Peter faintly whimpering into your ear. “But…”

“But…” he exhaled, and you moved a thumb along his cheek. Peter returns to lazily kissing you.

"Can we take a break?” You giggled between his kisses, Peter’s lips melding so hard into your skin they ghosted as he moved down to your torso. “I'm enjoying this but need a break."

“Already?”

“Yes!” You exclaimed back, pulling his face between your hands as his cheeks squished into your palms. “We’ve both finished three times!”

“And we should finish three more!” Peter exclaimed before kissing along the inside of your wrist and up to the curve of your neck, his hair tickling you across your skin. 

“I want to, but I can’t.” You yawned. 

“All you have to do is lie here,” he begged, stretching his long limbs across the edge of your bed, his brown eyes staring back as he peppered kisses along the inside of your legs. Peter nipped at your skin as he moved to the outside of your opening, his content hums vibrating beneath you. 

“ Peter-“ you whined.

“Okay.” He said, loosely gripping your hips as he laid between your lower half. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

Peter raised you to a seated position, sitting next to you at the edge of the bed. “Tomorrow, I promise I’m all yours.”

He watched as your head fell to his shoulder, “Can’t wait.”