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allllium · 1 month ago

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andrewgarfield!peterparker x reader where reader has the biggest crush on peter but doesn't know he's spiderman? angst to fluff please!

have lovely day/night <3

Unrequited (I've always loved you)

~ Sorry this took so long and it's a lot longer than I usually write but I love how it turned out <3

~ Fluff, hurt/comfort?, Angst, WC: 2,274

~ Your best friend has a secret

Being in love sucks. Being in love with someone that's not in love with you sucks even more. But that's fine. Everything's fine. Nothing can go wrong when you're in love with your best friend.

Peter looks over at you as you repeatedly tap your pencil against your notebook, very obviously not doing the homework. You're sitting on his bed while he's across from you at his desk. Ignoring the tap from your pencil, you look around his room, lost in random thoughts, well thoughts mostly of him.

"You alright?" He asks, soft voice coming from a few feet away.

"Ugh, just bored." You slightly whine. Standing from the bed to look more around his nerdy room. All the walls are covered with different things that you don't really understand.

He just nods and returns to his work. You admire him from your stance behind him. The way his fluffy hair falls softly in front of his face or the way he's dressed so casually but still looks so good. You don't understand how one person can be so perfect. Not to mention the way he's stronger than he looks, allowing him to maintain his lanky figure that fits him so well.

Out of your boredom you start rummaging through all the stuff he has lying on his bookshelf, which leads to opening all the drawers you can find. You continuously look over at him to see if he has a problem with what you're doing but he makes no move to stop you even as he watches what you're doing.

As you're digging around you eventually reach his closet, you're a little hesitant because you don't wanna press your luck too far but what are best friends if not nosy. His closet is small and way overcrowded with clothes you swear he's never worn. You wouldn't doubt that his aunt tried to sneak them in to help him fit in more.

Something catches your eye as you go to shut the door. You wouldn't think anything of it but the red color of it deeply contrasts the rest of the closet. It looks like fabric but it's not hanging up with the rest of his clothes. Instead it's in a box on the floor, only a piece of it visible as if he rushed to put it away.

Peter shoots out of his chair when you bend down towards the box. He grabs your arm and pulls you away so he can quickly shut the door.

"What was that?" You ask in suspicion. Peter's reaction is one you haven't seen from him before.

"Nothing." He tells you, a serious look falling over his face. He pushes you a little further so he can stand between you and the door.

"Peter, c'mon." You deadpan. All the embarrassing things it could possibly be run through your head. Nothing you think of would warrant this much of a reaction.

"No. Leave it alone." He doesn't exactly snap at you but it's definitely on the line of it.

"Okay then. I'll go now." You tell him quickly. You gather up your stuff and look at him one more time before leaving, his gaze is focused on the floor in front of him. Shaking your head in even more confusion, you leave.

You don't see him for the rest of the day. Or the next day. Or even the day after that. You get the feeling he's avoiding you. It's a mystery why you think to yourself in a sarcastic tone.

Of course you see him around school but he always does more than necessary to avoid looking at you. At this point you're determined to know what was in that box. Is it a huge violation of his privacy, yes. Do you care, no, not one bit. If he doesn't want you to violate his privacy, why would he hide things from you? Make it make sense.

It's not that hard to get access to his closet considering Aunt May will let you in the house will no explanation. After school you walk right in, she gives you a bright smile and continues whatever it is she's doing. Not one question.

You have no problem going into his room, he's probably off skateboarding or whatever else nerds do in their free time. Once you get your hands on the box, that he's now shut completely, you have second thoughts. Maybe it really is wrong of you to invade his privacy like this? Oh well you open it anyway.

Holy shit. You don't even know what to think as you pull out a spiderman costume. You think, well hope, it's a costume because you don't know what to think about your best friend being the New York superhero.

How? When? How again? Is this why he's so strong? You've been friends with Peter long before Spiderman showed up which means he chose not to tell you. Is it because he doesn't trust you? Or maybe he doesn't like you as much as you like him? That stings.

Now you know why he was so adamant you leave it alone. But how is this even possible? He swings from buildings and fights giant lizards. How are you supposed to believe that your Peter can be doing that?

You quickly put the suit back in the box and hurry out of his room. As you rush down the stairs, he's coming up, running into his shoulder halfway down. You know he immediately knows but you keep running anyway.

He doesn't even stop to explain as he continues up the stairs. You walk home and wonder if there's any possibility it was just a Halloween costume.

Your phone rings over and over and over. It's obviously Peter. It's only nine in the morning on a Saturday so you have no plans of getting up or moving enough to answer your phone.

You're guessing he's mad. He should be. Now that you know what it is you can think a little clearer and you understand that maybe you should've respected his wishes a little more.

You don't answer the phone because you know he'll be mad and you don't want him to ever be mad at you. Or he'll be sad and you don't want that either. But of course, above all, you don't want to admit to him that you were wrong.

Once you finally get to moving out of bed, you spend a lot of time reading articles on Spiderman and trying to figure out how he does what he does. Now that you know Peter is Spiderman some of it makes more sense but all the other stuff makes even less sense.

Your phone rings a couple more times and you get a dozen messages but eventually they all stop. You focus your time on reading every single thing you can about him. From everything about the giant lizard to saving cats from trees and catching falling women.

"That was an interesting day." A voice comes from behind you. You jump out of your seat and turn to face them. A not so flattering shriek leaves your mouth and your heart beats faster than you thought possible.

"Peter, what the fuck." You gasp. Heart still racing and breathing slightly heavy. You take a moment to look at him, taking notice of his messy hair and the fact that he's in the Spiderman suit. Obviously he looks insanely hot but very very angry.

"Oh what? Did I invade your privacy?" He mocks, throwing down the mask you're just noticing was in his hand.

"I mean you came through the window so I'd say so." You whisper, not sure what you're actually supposed to say.

"I guess we're even now huh." He takes a seat on your bed and you almost want to say something about outside clothes on your bed but you don't have that right.

"Yeah I'd say so." A simple shrug of your shoulders has him rolling his eyes.

"That's the second time you've said that."

"I don't know what else to say."

"I wonder why." He mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

"Were you ever gonna tell me?" You ask, hurt covering your voice.

"I wanted to." You sit next to him on your bed.

"No you didn't. You should've told me."

"I don't see how it's any of your business." The setting sun shining in through your window glows on his face. You can see every detail of both him and his suit.

"Because we're friends. I don't know, maybe it wasn't."

"Really? You're gonna play this card." He stands in front of you.

"What card, Peter?" You almost yell back.

"You! Acting all sad and betrayed, trying to pretend you don't know if we were ever real friends." He's yelling now too.

"What does that even mean!? I'm allowed to be upset when you keep something like this from me!" You stand up, not liking the way he was looking down at you.

"It's none of your business." He enunciates every word to get his point across.

"Fine. It's not my problem. I shouldn't have done it. Now get out of my room."

He stares at you for a full minute. Like he's not done with whatever he wants to say or maybe he just wasn't expecting you to snap. Either way he respects your wishes, waiting only a moment more to leave out your bedroom window.

The next week rolls around very similar to the last. You go to school, you go home. Peter still avoids you, and what looks like everyone else. Throughout the whole week you don't see him talk to Gwen or anyone else he usually hangs out with.

It's not until Thursday that Gwen actually comes up to talk to you. Usually you would talk everyday but she's been more than busy with her band.

"Hey, are you alright?" She asks, coming up behind you as you put stuff back in your locker.

"Yeah, why?"

"I don't know Peter's being weird and all mopey so I thought he finally kissed you or something." She sighs so freely like she didn't just say something like that.

"What do you mean finally? Why would he kiss me?" She looks panicked. Clearly she wasn't supposed to say something but everyone knows Gwen isn't someone that keeps secrets very well.

"Fuck." She turns around and starts walking off. You slam your locker shut and follow her.

"No, no, no, no. Gwen, you get back here."

"I can't, I wasn't supposed to say that." She starts walking through people and down random halls.

"Gwen, you better get talking or I'm telling Peter what you already told me." That makes her stop in tracks. She turns to you with a look of both disbelief and betrayal.

"You're not even on speaking terms!"

"We'll go on speaking terms outta spite."

"Fine, I'll tell you but you can't tell anyone." She points her finger at you accusingly.

"Who would I tell?"

"Peter may be an insy tinsy bit in love with you."

"Gwen!"

"What? I'm not the one in love with you!"

You take a deep breath while you try to process everything you've learned in the past three minutes.

"I've been trying to get him to admit it to you forever but he didn't want to do it until he told you he's Spiderman." She continues her explanation, not realizing she's yet again saying more than she's supposed to.

"So you already knew he was Spiderman?"

"Fuck." She whines and turns to leave again but this time you let her. It's not her fault Peter didn't trust you. Or that he's in love with you.

"Gwen told me she told you." Peter says, not even a moment after you opened your front door. "And so I guess I don't really have a choice but to explain myself. And I mean that literally because Gwen is giving me no choice." He talks quickly. It sounds like he's trying to say it as fast as possible to get it over with.

"Wanna come in?" You ask, again not knowing what to say. It's funny how all it takes is his presence to make you more nervous than you ever have been.

He walks in hesitantly and doesn't move further than the entryway before he starts talking again.

"I only told her first because I'm not in love with her. I didn't want to tell you because I didn't want it to affect anything, but I didn't want to tell you I was in love with you before I told you that I was Spiderman because it didn't feel right to keep that a secret."

"That makes no sense." You run your hands tiredly over your face. "I mean seriously at least have a good excuse."

"I don't have one. Okay, I don't know why I didn't tell you."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I love you and I don't want this to ruin anything." He looks down at his feet, breaking the eye contact you were making.

"I love you too but if I was a superhero I'd tell you."

"I know you would. I don't know why I didn't." He shrugs. "Did you just say you love me?"

"Not if it takes you that long to notice." You smile, forgetting about being mad.

"I really am sorry." He says, stepping closer to you.

"So am I." You say, also taking a step closer.

"Can I kiss you?" He asks, closing the space between you.

"Of course." Your smile grows even wider as his lips reach yours.

#peter parker #tasm peter fluff #tasm peter imagines #tasm peter parker drabble #tasm peter parker fluff #tasm peter x you #the amazing spiderman #spiderman #the amazing spiderman fanfiction #spiderman x reader #spiderman x you #spiderman x y/n #spider man x reader #spider man #marvel #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker x y/n

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reidslovely · 1 year ago

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Something about helping frat!blonde! Peter touch up his roots. Like he calls you and reader must think its for hooking up purposes - then he surprises her w “can you. uh..retouchmyrootsplease” and she’s like “??? 🤨wat” and you just go over to his place and spend time with him, washing his hairr, he making eye contact with reader through the mirror, etc. But he’s still stubborn about his feelings so he’s like “this was a one time thing only don’t let it get to ya head”

sorry if this was jumbled I just had this in my head for a while now

Yes this idea is so so so so so cute. I have written something vaguely similar before but I love it so much I don't care to write it again

please reblog or comment in place of liking/hearting this post 🫶🏼

“Pete?” You questioned picking up your phone, your eyes locked on the clock that read 4:00pm. “It’s far too early for a booty call..what’s up pretty?”

“Ya flatter bashful.” His chesty laugh could be heard on the other end of the phone. It sent your heart doubling in speed, your cheek pressed lovingly into your shoulder.

“You still with me bashful? I need you to do me a favor.”

“So this is a hookup call..you only ask me that if-” You're cut off by him rushing out a string of words. None of which you caught. “Pete..baby. I need you to breathe and say that again.” You laughed softly, already gathering your stuff up to head over to the Theta Tau. Regardless if this was a hookup situation or not you were tired of your homework and Peter always seems to take any type of stress away.

“Can you uh..” There's an awkward cough and sigh. “Retouchmyrootsplease?”

The questions still came out as one word this time around but at least you actually caught what he was saying.

“Sure, Pete.” You tried not to laugh. “Do you have what you need or do we need to run by Sally?”

“No, no I have everything here for you. Thanks for this.”

“Course Pete, anything for you.” You hung up before you could get any type of snarky reply.

Peter’s blond locks were a new addition about three weeks into your situation ship and you absolutely loved them. They flattered his face, and made his little baby deer eyes even more baby deer like. Which made you want to kiss him even more, and made it hard to say no when he’s asking you for another round.

“You’re literally the best for this. Just moved up to like number two in my ranking.”

It was a joke, you were easily number one if not the only girl in Peter’s ranking but you have to play along or else you’ll scare him away.

“Offended, whose number one.”

“May..sorry.” Peter sighs dramatically, leading you up the stairs to his bathroom. Tossing a few nods and hey’s to his brothers walking down the steps.

“Mhm can’t be mad at that.”

Peter laughed sitting on the chair he’d tucked away in the bathroom, pulling off his shirt.

“Awe did you go ahead and set everything up for me?”

“No I was gonna do it myself but that's how we ended up in this scenario in the first place.”

Peter would never admit to it but he had set everything up for you. He’d done it before he even picked up the phone: not that he knew you'd say yes but he could hope.

“Mhm I see.” You hummed running your fingers through Peter’s hair. He grabbed his phone starting his music, looking at you in the mirror as you started sectioning his hair out.

Admittedly the whole time he was locked on you. Every move you made he was locked on you, not wanting to miss a moment. His head lolled back as you ran; you painted the bleach on his roots. Earning soft little ‘stops’ and ‘hold your head up’ from you as he relaxed. Your eyes were fixed on his hair making sure you’re applying everything evenly and correctly. Peter held his phone up in the mirror snapping a quick photo of the two of you. The photo falling amongst the others he’s sneakily taken of you or the both of you that you had no clue about.

“Okay you gotta sit for a while and then I’ll wash it, tone it, all that after.” You said sitting on the toilet lid next to him taking the gloves off, tossing them in the trash can.

“This is nice.”

Peter's comment threw you off, you two only really hung out in the context of having sex or it being mutually beneficial for both. You hated to admit you had more moments like this.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm no pressure, at least not for you. I still gotta make jokes and keep you entertained.”

“Tragic.” You tsked resting your arm on the sink hand to head as your free hand started a 30 minute timer.

“Come on, we have enough time to watch some of that Hulu cooking show you like.” Peter stood taking your hand in his walking to his room. You flopped down on Pete’s bed watching him sitting next to you. “Careful you’ll get bleach on your..”

“No no, I'm good sitting up.”

You nodded and laid your head on his lap watching The Bear, Pete’s fingers combing through your hair switching between watching the TV and you.

Pete’s head was tilted back in the sink, a towel under his neck for comfort. “Stop looking down my shirt, Parker.”

“I’m not…I’m not.” He lied, turning his eyes up to look at you as you shampooed after toning his hair. “Do I look fabulous?”

“Oh absolutely.” You laughed wrapping his hair up in a towel helping him sit up. Ruffling the towel through his hair you laughed watching it sticking up every which way. You blow dried it for him smiling and singing under your breath as you fixed his hair perfectly.

“How do you feel Parker?”

“Amazing..I look great thanks bashful.” He says turning around, capturing your hips in his hands. “Let's get dinner, and then we can come back here.”

“I hate sex after dinner.”

“No, no we come back here and finish the show.”

“Oh I get to come back to the Theta house? And not have sex?” You fake a gasp of shock.

“I know it’s a rare occurrence. This is a one time thing though, don’t let it get to ya head.” Pete taunts, hand rubbing your side grabbing his wallet off his dresser.

“Oh baby it has.”

Peter knew and even in his playful disdain and stubborn personality you were slowly craving a spot out in his chest and making a home in it, and at this point he had no say in it.

___________

tags: @helloheyhihowdyheya @sincericida @moonyslove78 @a-lumos-in-the-nox @messymissy @adhdhufflepuff @toomanyfictionalboyfriends @ateliefloresdaprimavera @eevylynn

#tasm peter parker x reader #tasm andrew garfield #tasm!peter imagine #tasm peter parker #bambi writes #tasm fanfiction #tasm peter #tasm peter smut #tasm peter x you #tasm peter x reader #tasm!peter x reader #tasm peter parker imagine #tasm peter imagines #tasm peter fluff #andrew peter parker #tasm peter parker smut #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x reader #frat!peter

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flightlessangelwings · 7 months ago

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The Way We Feel When We Dance

Tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader

Word count-3.9k

Warnings- s.mut (18+ ONLY!), reader dances, protective!Peter, harassment, Spiderman picks up reader (he has super strength but still I wanted to add this here), reader is hinted to be more curvy but it open to interpretation, fluff, feelings, Peter and reader are both adults and are at a dance club in the beginning, no use of y/n

Notes- This is a very late part 2 of my 5k follower thank you gift fics (I did one Pedro character and one non Pedro character lol). Thank you all who have been following and supporting me and my works here! While this reader is not physically described at all other than body parts, I pictured and heavily implied that she is Latina here. But it can absolutely still be read by anyone. Enjoy!

@flightlessangelwings-updates is my update blog so please follow that as well and turn on post notifs to stay up to date on when I post new things!

The pulse of the upbeat Latin music reverberated through the room as the lights danced in harmony with the beat. Sweaty bodies filled the dance floor that all moved to the rhythm. Feet stepped in time with the beat as hips swayed from side to side and arms shimmied with purpose. Smiles and laughter filled the air between each dancer as everyone had a fun time dancing the night away.

From the edge of the room, Peter sat at the bar. Even though the crowd, his gaze stayed solely on you. You captivated him with the way you danced to the music, carefree and beautiful. Your outfit accentuated your hips perfectly, and Peter couldn’t look away even if he wanted to.

Feeling his eyes on your figure, you opened your own from when you closed them from getting lost in the music. When your gaze met his, a bright smile lit up your face, which Peter mirrored. He raised his glass up in cheers as he watched you melodically make your way across the dance floor. A tinge of heat rose across Peter’s face as you stared at him with intent as you closed the gap between your bodies.

“Why don’t you join me, Peter?” you asked in a sultry tone as you swayed your body against his.

Peter’s cheeks reddened, “You know I have two left feet, sweetheart,” he giggled, feeling like a schoolboy around you.

You smirked as you leaned in closer to murmur in his ear, “You can swing from building to building hundreds of feet in the air,” you teased, “And you’re afraid to dance in public?”

“It’s not the same,” he retorted playfully as he nudged your side. Peter’s gaze dropped down to where your hips still swayed from side to side in a slow, lazy rhythm, “Besides, I’m enjoying my view right now.”

“Oh come on, Pete,” you pleaded as you slid your hand in his, “Here I’ll start off with an easy one. It’s three steps, I think you can handle it.”

“But…”

“Come on, babe!” Your instance was firm yet light-hearted. You knew if he truly didn’t want to dance, he would stop you, and you wouldn’t force it. Sometimes, your boyfriend just needed a little encouragement. And besides, you really wanted to feel his arms around you and the two of you danced together to the beat of the music, letting the rest of the world fade away…

Peter’s nervous giggle got drowned out by the music as he allowed you to guide him back to the dance floor. With all his strengths as Spiderman, Peter knew that you were his ultimate weakness, and he couldn’t deny you anything even if he wanted to. So, he could put his insecurities aside for the night and dance with you. Besides, holding you close as you lost yourselves in the music wasn’t a terrible thought…

“Put your arms on my waist,” you instructed once you found a spot on the dance floor with some space to move.

“Gladly,” Peter grinned widely as he did so.

You rolled your eyes for a moment, but let out a soft gasp when you felt his tight grip on your body. It made your heart pound more than the dancing did as the warmth and security of his embrace engulfed you, and you lost yourself for a moment. It was only your name in Peter’s voice that brought you back, “Right,” you met his eyes as you placed your hands on his shoulders, “Ok, watch me and do what I do in reverse.”

Peter swallowed hard and nodded as his gaze slowly ran down your body. He took the opportunity to study your outfit and how good it looked on you up close, and he memorized every inch of your figure.

“Like this,” you started slowly, shifting your weight from foot to foot as you stepped to the rhythm in a simple motion, “One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three,” you stepped back and first, side to side as your hips shimmied to the music.

Peter tried his best to keep up, but under your lead, he found he quickly fell into the rhythm.

“That’s it!” you exclaimed as you started to pick up your pace to better match the beat that played around you.

Laughter erupted from Peter as he felt himself get lost in the music too. The Latin beat that played highlighted your movements as the two of you danced together, wrapped in each other’s arms. A grin of your own lit up your face as your lips parted in a wide smile and you started to add more flair to your movements.

Peter was captivated. He almost forgot to move as he watched you lose yourself in the music. You looked so beautiful like this, and Peter counted himself the luckiest man in the world to get to have you, to get to be with you. A stupid smile lit up his face as he lost the rhythm on the song that played from being too enthralled with you.

Until…

“Ow!” you exclaimed as you suddenly stopped dancing.

“Sorry!” Peter realized what the problem was: he was so focused on you that he accidentally stepped on your foot, “Sorry, sweetheart,” he repeated as he caressed your shoulders, “You alright?”

“I”m fine,” you waved it off with a laugh. Feeling his grip on you, suddenly the music faded away and your world became just Peter. The way he held you and the way he looked at you made your heart flip in your chest, and you found that you didn’t care about your night out of dancing anymore.

Sending the change in your demeanor, and knowing that look on your face, he leaned in close and murmured, “Wanna get out of here?” Peter’s tone was low, rumbling against your ear and sending a chill down your spine. He placed a light, playful kiss on the tip of your nose while he was so close to you.

“Yes,” you breathed, knowing exactly what he meant and wanting that exact same thing.

This time, it was Peter who slid his hand in yours and led you away. You followed willingly and eagerly as you couldn’t help but giggle. No one had ever made you feel the way Peter did, and finding him was the best thing that ever happened to you.

And Peter felt the exact same way about you.

The cool air made you dizzy for a moment as the door to the outside opened. You let out a sigh as you adjusted to the feeling of the New York night air on your skin, and it became a welcome relief from the heat inside.

“You alright?” Peter asked.

“Great,” you answered, “Let’s go home.”

Peter smiled as he led you away from the club and into the busy night streets. New York truly never slept, and even late into the night, it was full of life and hustle and bustle. It was just as crowded outside as it was inside as you and Peter made your way down the long streets of the city. You felt safe, though, with your hand firmly in Peter’s.

But, you didn’t make it far before a group of men sneered at you as you passed by them. You felt their pointed gazes before Peter noticed them and you shuffled yourself closer to him. As the two of you walked by, they blew kisses at you and yelled obscene nicknames.

“Hey baby!” one of them shouted, “Why don’t you drop that little shrimpy boy and I’ll show you what a real man can do?”

The other man laughed as they all started to follow close behind.

Peter frowned as he pulled you in closer, tightening his grip on you, “I’ve got you,” he whispered to you, “Come on,” he turned down another street, hoping to lose the men in the crowd and avoid the situation escalating.

You let out a whine as you put your trust in him. Easily, you figured out that Peter wanted to use the crowd as a cover, but you stayed glued to his side still. Glancing over your shoulder, you saw that the men weren’t deterred and still tailed close behind you.

“Peter…”

“I know, I…”

He was cut off when a drunk couple bumped into the two of you, knocking you out of Peter’s grasp. You yelped as you found yourself separated from him, and over the noise of the crowd, you heard him call out your name.

“Peter!” you shouted back, trying to find him.

It was no use, though, and before you could blink, you found yourself alone. Not completely alone, though, as the group of men somehow found you after you got pushed away. “Shit,” you cursed under your breath as you turned and ran in the opposite direction. You could find Peter later, right now your first priority was losing these guys.

You made turn after turn trying to shake them, but it was no use. No matter where you went, the men were close behind, and they were catching up to you. And they continued to taunt you while they did so.

“Come on, sweet girl,” one leered, “We won’t hurt you.”

“Too badly,” another cackled darkly.

“Just give us a chance, pretty girl,” another pleaded in an insincere voice.

You whimpered as you tried to look for Peter in the crowd again, but to no avail, “Peter…” you hissed, “Dammit.” Lost in your panic, you didn’t notice that you turned into a dead end alley until you were face to face with a brick wall. “Shit,” your hands trembled as you turned around and saw that the men followed you, trapping you in the alley.

“It’s ok sweetheart,” one of them said in a voice that sent a chill down your spine, “We’ll take good care of you.”

Looking down at the ground, you saw a loose brick that fell out of the wall. You picked it up and threw it in the men’s direction, “Stay back!” you warned as the men easily ducked out of the way of the flying brick.

The men just laughed as they reached out for you. Having no other options, you closed your eyes and held your breath, anticipating the feeling of their rough hands on your body. But, it never came.

A twip from above whirled through the air, and the ball of webbing hit the hand of the man closest to you. He was knocked back, and his hand was pinned to the wall, stuck with the webbing.

“Didn’t anyone teach you boys that when a woman says “no” that you leave her alone?” a voice rang from above.

You opened your eyes and looked up, breathing a huge sigh of relief, “Spiderman!” you exhaled as he flipped down from his perch and stood in front of you, blocking the men.

“Spiderman!?” the other men clamored, “We weren’t doing nothing, we just…”

“It didn’t look like nothing to me,” he replied as he flicked his wrist, sending more webbing to the other men.

They all clamored as they tried to fight back, throwing punches that missed the webslinger over and over again. Spiderman easily avoided their punches and with just a few more flicks of his wrist, was able to catch all of them in his net. The men grunted and cursed as they found themselves stuck to either the wall or the ground, unable to move.

“Damn, you Spiderman!” one cried out.

“Fucking cockblock!” shouted another angrily.

Spiderman ignored them and turned to you, “You alright?” he asked in a softer tone.

“I am now,” you replied breathlessly as your heart pounded in your chest.

“Want a lift out of here?” he asked, a hint of playfulness in his tone.

Feeling more at ease, a smile grace your face, “I’d love one.”

“I’m gonna pick you up now,” his voice was soothing to you as he extended his arms out.

You nodded.

Spiderman stepped forward and wrapped his arm around you, lifting you off the ground with his superhuman strength. He paused and turned to the men who pursued you and said, “This is how you ask a lady out,” he sniped, “You should try asking nicely next time.” he added before he flicked his wrist and launched himself and you up and away.

Normally, you were too scared whenever Peter carried you through the city like this. But, after what almost happened, you were too preoccupied to notice more than the cool air in your face and the tight grip around your body. You buried yourself in the crook of his neck as you tightened your own grip on Peter as he flung you between the tall buildings of New York and towards the tiny apartment you both shared.

In no time, Peter made it to your window, opening it from the outside and setting you down carefully and gently. He hurriedly closed it before turning back around to face you, ripping his mask off in one swift motion as he closed the gap between your bodies.

“Are you ok?” he asked in a panic, “Did they hurt you?” Peter’s hand landed on your shoulders as he looked you over for any cuts or marks as he finally allowed himself to feel scared for you.

“I’m ok, Peter,” you replied back, your own voice sounding distant, “You found me just in time.”

Peter’s eyes locked with your for a moment before he dropped to the ground on his knees before you. He started to sob as he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you in cose, burying his face in your midsection, “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he choked out between cries.

Tears of your own filled your eyes as your heart pounded in your chest. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders and leaned over, covering him as you both held each other, “Don’t be sorry, Peter,” you whispered, “You saved me. I know you’ll always save me.”

He couldn’t help but cry harder at your words as he tightened his grip on you, “When we got separated,” he started, pausing to catch his breath, “I was so scared,” Peter confessed, “I was so scared something would happen to you… And I wouldn’t find you in time…”

“Hey,” you wiggled your way down to join him on the floor, “Look at me, Peter,” you cupped his face, and more tears fell down your cheeks as you looked into his red eyes, “You will always save me, Peter Parker. I know you will. I trust you with everything I am.”

Truthfully, you were just as scared as Peter was. The moment you were separated, you lost your security, your safe place. And while you had faith in him- you always did- that fear was still there. But right now, you had to be there for him, since he was already there for you.

Another tear rolled down Peter’s cheek, and you used your thumb to wipe it away. He whispered your name as he closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of your touch under his skin. It was a comfort, and anchor, and Peter knew he had to trust you just as much as you trusted him. He saved you tonight. And he would always save you. That was his promise to you.

“Peter…” you breathed his name as you closed the gap between your faces, pressing your lips to his.

It felt like an explosion of fireworks between your bodies as you connected as one. Passions quickly arose as Peter clung to you and deepened the kiss, tasting you. You moaned into his mouth as you kissed him back just as passionately and tightened your grip on him.

Heat rose in the room as suddenly you both had one thing on your minds. The need to feel each other, to get tangled together and lost in the other, was overwhelming. With only breaking away for quick moments to undress each other, you and Peter clumsily made your way to the bed, stripping each other and kissing wherever you could reach along the way.

By the time your legs hit the edge of the bed, you and Peter were both bare for each other. He grabbed onto you in an attempt to land you underneath him as he leaned your bodies towards the mattress. But, you surprised him. You grabbed onto his torso and turned your bodies around so that by the time you hit the bed, you straddled overtop of Peter.

“Wow,” he murmured as his eyes trailed across your naked body on top of him. Peter’s hands caressed up and down your sides, feeling every dip and curve of your body, memorizing every inch of you with his hands.

“Wow yourself,” you snickered back as you bit your lip and enjoyed the sight of Peter, your Peter, in between your legs.

Leaning forward, you placed your hands on his pecs, giving them a soft squeeze as you rocked your hips along his. Both of you hissed and mewled as your folds ran along his hardening cock. Jolts of electricity ran up your spine with every movement, and you felt the way his cock twitched in anticipation underneath your hips.

Peter let out a curse as his hands dug into your hips. And he only groaned louder when you lifted yourself up to line up your entrance with his cock. Normally, Peter liked to take his time with you, kissing you all over and worshiping your body before he entered you. But today was different. Today, you were both too needy, too desperate to feel each other that neither of you could wait any longer.

You let out a gasp as the tip of his length pushed past your first ring of muscle and started to stretch you out. Slowly, you lowered yourself along his length, letting Peter fill you up inch by inch as your hips moved closer to his. Peter’s own groans harmonized with your moans as he felt your warmth engulf him.

“Fuck…” Peter whispered in awe when your hips met his and he felt your muscles clench around him. He moaned your name as he tightened his grip on your body and fought to keep his eyes open; Peter didn’t want to miss a second of how beautiful you looked.

A loud moan escaped your lips as you rolled your hips forward, feeling Peter’s cock inside you. You squeezed his pecs harder as you started to bounce up and down. Feeling bubbled over as you rode Peter’s cock so that they were almost physically palpable between the two of you.

Moving faster, you heard your skin slap against Peter’s as you felt every inch of him inside you. Heat rose in the room as you both clung to the other. Emotions drove you as your tights screamed at you the longer you lifted and lowered yourself onto him. But, Peter helped you. He used his strength to guide your hips along his cock, along his body. He never lessened his grip on you as he slid his hands to the soft mounds of your ass to help you and feel you more.

Peter lost the battle with his eyes, and they finally closed to allow himself to get lost in you. A louder groan echoed from deep with him as he felt your warmth and your tightness envelope him over and over again. And Peter knew he wouldn’t last much longer if you kept riding him like this.

In a flash, Peter’s eyes snapped open and he lunged forward, wrapping his arms around you. Before you could register his movements, you suddenly found yourself on your back as Peter flipped your bodies over so that he covered you.

“Peter…”

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he grunted as he leaned forward, driving his cock even deeper into you as his forehead touched yours.

All you could do was moan as a shiver ran up your spine. Peter’s cock hit that sweet spot inside you with precision, and you felt like your body was floating as he started drilling into you at a fast and desperate pace. “Fuck!” you cried out as your body began to tremble.

Peter snaked his hand up the sheet and took yours as he continued to rock into you over and over again. You took his hand, holding it tightly as you felt his breath against the skin on your face. Fresh tears rolled down your cheeks from the overwhelming emotions, and you could feel ones from Peter as well.

Peter groaned your name over and over again with every thrust of his hips as he held your hand as tightly as he possibly could.

“Peter… I’m gonna cum…” you gasped.

“Me too, sweetheart,” he words were strained from how breathless he was, “Cum with me, sweetheart. Let me feel you.”

��Pete!” you cried out as more tears fell down your cheeks as your entire body tingled. As you were about to let out a loud cry with your climax, Peter’s lips suddenly covered yours, muffling your screams.

His own groans and grunts were muffled as well as he felt his own peak hit at the same time as yours. Peter’s eyes shut tightly as he kissed you deeply while he spilled himself into you. He could feel every muscle in your body clench around him as you came hard on his cock, and your moans reverberated within him as he kept his lips on yours.

Peter kept up his pace as long as he could, riding out every ounce of both your climaxes until he couldn’t hold himself up any longer. With one final thrust of his hips, Peter finally broke the kiss as he pulled out of you and collapsed down next to you with a loud huff. You exhaled deeply as you caught your breath, feeling your heart pounding in your chest. Together, the two of you laid sprawled out next to each other on the bed, letting yourself recover from that whirlwind of passions.

Neither of you were sure who moved first, but you both instinctively reached out for each other, wrapping yourself up in a pretzel of limbs as you held each other close. You kissed his skin wherever you could, and Peter did the same to you, peppering feather light kisses on your body. As your heartbeats both came down to normal, a comfort washed over both of you. Feeling each other cose like this, knowing you were both here, made you know that everything was ok. You were ok. He was ok.

“I’m gonna do everything I can to protect you, sweetheart,” Peter broke the silence, “No matter what. Your safety always comes first,” he said as he squeezed you tightly.

“I know you will, Peter,” you whispered back as you kissed his skin, “I trust you. I know I’m safe with you.”

“You always will be,” he sounded more distant, as if sleep started to take him over.

“I love you, Peter Parker.”

He smiled, “I love you too, sweetheart.”

You were quiet for a few moments before you grinned against his chest, “Next time we go out dancing, let’s leave the action for the dance floor instead of the streets.”

Peter joined your laughter as he placed a soft kiss on the top of your head, “I was thinking the same thing.”

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underoospeterparker · 7 months ago

Note

🪸 CORALS - send me a character + an au (rockstar!sirius, bodyguard!james, etc) and i'll write a blurb!

now i would love to see your take on bodyguard!tasm peter 🤭

i got ur back!! (in this fic, their relationship isn't really specified but you can assume that they're dating but no one knows hehehe)

bodyguard!peter parker x fem!reader - mcu!peter / tasm!peter, unspecified

At a ball, everyone dressed up. No matter whether they were counts or dukes, princes or heirs, they were either in dresses or suits, and there was absolutely no exception.

You glanced at your reflection in the mirror, smoothing your hair down with a hand as you realised just how different you were from two months ago, and you weren't just talking about your appearance.

Your entire life had been flipped over the moment your landline had rang in your service apartment at three in the morning. You'd reluctantly crawled out of bed, an annoyed frown on your face. It disappeared immediately when you received the news that your father, who you'd never met, had been assassinated, and that you needed to return back to his kingdom, which you'd never even known existed, to become a princess.

Now, everything was surreal. Completely unreal. The crown may have looked glamorous from the outside, but it sure wasn't the same on the inside. Apart from a few exceptions, of course. Peter, for one, Beatrice, your father's old maid, and Queen Cordelia, your grandmother.

When you stared at yourself a second too long, Peter spoke up. "Are you okay?" His voice was soft, gentle, as it had always been when he spoke to you. He knew exactly what you'd been through, and you him, even though he wasn't supposed to have told you anything about his own life. You'd promised him you'd keep his story a secret: not that he had ever doubted you, anyway.

You nodded, giving him a bright smile as you turned around. He offered you his arm, which you gladly took, learning into him. "I'm okay," you whispered, more of a reassurance to yourself than to him.

When Peter was sure no one was looking, he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. "You're okay," he repeated.

As soon as you entered the ballroom, you were subject to bright lights, tall glasses of champagne, and maddening people you were forced to talk to and form relationships with under the instruction of your grandmother. You made your rounds cautiously, a welcoming smile on your face. It was completely false, though, which Peter knew, because he knew your expressions far too well. He knew you far too well.

You curiously watched as a man in all black and a hood covering his head entered the room. He was dressed unlike anyone else there; informal, casual. Peter mirrored your expression. The man eyed the room until he saw you, and he paused, frowning. He moved to pull something out of his pocket, and you stilled when you realised it was a gun that he was holding.

The guards surrounded him, holding him down, but he was quick to fight, and he pointed the weapon straight at you.

Two shots fired. That was all it looked for Peter to throw himself over you, shielding your body with his own. You clamped your hands over your ears, heart thumping, whole body shaking under his.

"I need backup immediately," he murmured into his hand, eyes scanning the crowd for the perpetrator. "Phoenix is under attack. The threat needs to be neutralised. I repeat, the threat needs to be neutralised." Upon a word of agreement from whoever was on the other side of the line, Peter's attention turned swiftly to you. He surveyed your surroundings carefully, and when he believed it was safe, he held out a hand to pull you up away from the crowd, all shaking in their crouched positions.

Peter held out a hand for you to hold as he pulled you up and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, hurrying you away from the eyes of the crowd and into a small closet.

Peter sat you down on the floor, then turned to lock the door. He returned to you, his lips turning downward when he noticed your teary eyes. He crouched down in front of you, his expression soft.

When you let out a half-suppressed sob, he cooed at you gently, as if you were a wounded animal. "Oh, honey," he murmured, pulling you into his chest. "It's okay now, you're safe," Peter whispered, his large, warm hand cradling your head. You trembled under him, tears spilling from your eyes. "You know I've always got you, okay? No matter what."

"'t was so loud," you cried, the explanation lost in your throat, "and I was so scared." He frowned at you sympathetically, then pressed a kiss to your forehead. You paused, knowing he'd interpreted what you said wrong. "Not for me, though," you added.

He sighed, a pleasant sound that warmed your scratchy throat. "The Queen has her own men," he reassured you, "and Beatrice isn't even in the Palace today, sweetheart. They're okay."

"I wasn't only scared for them, Pete," you whispered, turning your attention towards him. "I was scared for you."

Your bodyguard looked completely shocked. You giggled wetly at his expression, then rushed to justify yourself. "Peter, you put yourself on the front line every single day," you whispered, your smile vanishing, "and I can't help but wonder if one day, you're not gonna come back to me."

Peter face fell. He tugged you closer to him, wanting to bury himself in your scent. "I'll always come back to you," he murmured. "No matter what."

You gave him a soft smile, curling yourself into his hold. Slowly, your eyes drifted shut, clearly exhausted. Peter allowed himself a moment to just stare at you, mesmerised. When your breathing evened out, he whispered, "How did I ever deserve a girl like you?"

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shewroteaworld · 1 year ago

Text

Movie Date Migraine

Premise: On a movie date with Peter Parker, a migraine strikes you down. You don't want Peter to see you like this, but he refuses to let you go home alone.

Reader is female-identifying. Reader has hair long enough to be put in a ponytail.

Word count: aprox. 3,500

tw: descriptions of nausea and vomiting, reference to childhood trauma (unspecified)

(Y/N) knows she should go home.

But, she can’t. Not until this movie is finished.

Sitting next to Peter Parker in the darkness of the movie theater, with your forearms touching and fingers brushing when you reach for popcorn, is typically an experience that sends heat dancing up your arms and butterflies flitting around your stomach.

Right now, nausea was the only thing pulsing through your stomach. And with the surround sound tightening the band around your forehead and the lights sending sparks across your vision, Peter’s arm touching yours is only adding to the sensory tsunami slamming you.

You denied it when zigzags cut across your vision when you touched up your lipstick in the elevator. You denied it when Peter’s voice distorted on your walk to the theater. You denied it when a wave of dizziness hit you on your way to the restroom. But now, you couldn’t deny it any longer: a migraine storm was upon you. A rough night awaits, but you’re not ready for Peter to get up close and personal with your migraines yet.

For your entire life, you battled with migraine. In grade school, the pain forced you out of field trips, sports practices, and musical rehearsals and into bed with blackout curtains drawn, a cool cloth laid on your forehead, and a bucket by your bedside. Not a particularly attractive sight for your new(ish) boyfriend to see.

The aura for this headache was coming on strong. When the actors’ voices began changing intonation like a chameleon changing colors, you knew a harsh spell encroached. You need to make it through this date and get back to your apartment before Peter sees you collapse in a pile of puke and tears.

And, you have a game plan. Phase 1: Make it through the film without collapsing or puking. Phase 2: When Peter walks you home, hold his arm and lay your head on his shoulder. It’ll masquerade as a cute gesture, when in reality, you’ll be using him as a human cane. Phase 3: Get home, lock the door, and go into Migraine Emergency Mode.

Slowly but surely, you were revealing your layers to Peter at a safe, comfortable pace. This shitty action movie was not going to get in the way.

An abrupt on-screen crash shocks you out of your scheming. The main characters sent their car careening into a ditch. Just as the jackhammering in your head began to die down, the car burst into flames.

You throw a hand over your eyes. A gurgle of nausea twists in your gut.

“(Y/N)? Are you okay?” Peter whispers in your ear.

You snap your eyes open. So much for appearing nonchalant. You take your hand from your face. Red hot pain radiates down your body, but you clamp your lips into a neutral expression. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Do you need some air?”

On one hand, you could surrender. You could let Peter walk you into the foyer and buy you an icy drink to hold to your eye. Maybe you could even let Peter take you home and cuddle you through the pain. You know Peter wants to be there for you.

You shove those fantasies from your mind.

“No.” You whisper at a volume only Spider-Man could hear.

Suddenly, a yelling match breaks out on screen. You close your eyes shut. You can’t hold back a whimper.

Peter wraps his arm around your shoulders. “Honey, you don’t seem alright. We can leave.”

Your resolve crumples. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry” barely passes your lips before Peter’s slung both your jackets over his arm and looped the strap of your cross body bag around his fingers. “Please, don’t be sorry.” Peter stands in front of you, but you stare at your lap. Peter’s fingers intertwine with hers. “I’m sure this blockbuster will be here all summer.” He jokes, and in your mind’s eye you can see his smirk. You don’t have the energy to crack a smile.

“C’mon, sweetie.” Gently, Peter grabs your limp wrist.

You focus all the energy in your body to propel you out of the chair. You stumble into Peter’s chest.

He stabilizes you. “Okay, baby, okay.” He soothes.

“I’m sorry.” You say.

“Sweetheart, you’re fine.” He’s bending down to meet your eyes, but you refuse to look at his face. “Lean on me. Let’s get you out of here.”

With Peter’s arm wrapped around your waist and your head resting on his chest, you descend the cinema stairs and make your way out of the theater.

***

Getting down the stairs wasn’t as hard as you thought it would be. Typically, during a migraine, stairs are your personal hell.

But, with Spider-Man supporting most of your bodyweight, the physical exertion lessens significantly.

Plus, it’s not just the safety of Spider-Man that’s helping. It’s Peter Parker’s safe hands holding you close. It’s Peter Parker's frame shielding you from gruff moviegoers working their way around you down the mall steps. It’s Peter Parker keeping you upright, and that’s enough to keep your brain generating numbing happy chemicals even in the worst of times.

Peter guides you to a bench next to the atrium. You lay your head on his shoulder, but abruptly sit up.

This nightmare gets worse from here. You have to go home by yourself. You’re not ready for this. You’re not–

“(Y/N), honey? Are you with me?” Peter’s tenderly cradling your face. “You’re starting to scare me.”

You blink. “I’m here, I’m here.” You take a deep breath to ground yourself from the swirling dizziness. You force a weak smile. “Just a little headache.”

Peter cocks an eyebrow. “A little headache?” He cradles your chin. “You look like you’ve been concussed, babe.” Softer, he asks, “Do you get migraines?”

Your chest falls. The jig is up. “Yeah, I’m having a migraine.”

“Okay.” His tone is soft, but there’s a hardness in his eyes and a pinch between his brows and you know it’s not from worry. He’s annoyed you didn’t tell him. If there’s one thing that puts a rift between you and Peter, it’s that you won’t let him help you. You didn’t tell him when you forgot your lunch the day you had a big presentation. You didn’t tell him when your insomnia came back. You didn’t tell him when you caught the 24-hour bug 2 months ago. And now he knows you’ve been hiding this.

“I’m sorry.” You squeak.

“Oh, honey, no.” Peter whispers. “Let’s just focus on getting you out of here and in bed. Don’t even think. I’ll get you back to my apartment.”

“No,” you shake your head but stop when nausea slithers up your throat. You swallow hard. “No, I need to go home.”

“Sweetheart, your apartment’s across town, and I don’t think you can walk or swing right now.”

The damp wool of your sweater constricts your sweaty skin. “I have all my medication and things in my apartment.” You argue, but the fight in your voice is weak.

“I have lots of meds and supplies stocked because of…you know. I think I’ve got everything you need, and I can always swing over to your apartment to grab something.”

Suddenly, a crowd of moviegoers comes stomping towards the foyer, ushering in a cacophony of laughter and voices.

You squeeze your eyes shut, and Peter drags your face into his shoulder. You fist his sweatshirt and squeeze until your fingers hurt.

“Let’s get you home, my love.” He whispers.

You know by home he doesn’t mean your apartment. You know he means his place, where you spend half of your time and have your personal belongings threaded through his.

Maybe it’s the crippling exhaustion. Maybe it’s the fact that every step sends pain shooting through your skull. Regardless, you surprise yourself with your answer.

“Okay.”

***

“I know, I’m sorry, honey.” Peter whispers into your hair. He presses your body against his side as he leads you to the second set of elevators in the foyer.

Dating a chemical engineer has its perks; Peter could afford a nice apartment. However, the first set of elevators broke an hour after you left for your date. More steps for you.

Even with Peter nearly carrying you, the final stretch to the elevator feels like a mile. The wait for the elevator to arrive worsens when a twist of nausea wracks your stomach. But soon, the elevator doors ding open.

As soon as the doors shut behind you, you push against Peter’s hold.

“Babe?” He asks. He lets you go free.

You sink to the floor and unbutton your jacket. You take a deep breath, reveling in the coolness of the air conditioning and freedom from residual body heat.

“I feel nauseous.” You groan.

He kneels next to you. “Do you need to throw up?” There was something about his hand on your shoulder, his tone, and his stern yet compassionate expression that reminded you of Spider-Man. He’d likely posed that same question on the beat to trauma victims. The guilt bubbling in your stomach amps up the queasiness.

You take a deep, shuddering breath.

“No.” You say. Peter cocks his brow again. Despite yourself, you shrink. “Maybe later. Not at this moment.”

“Okay, darling. Would you let me carry you in?”

You swallow your shame. “Yes,” you say.

Peters picks you up as if you weigh a feather. You wrap your arms around his neck as the elevator opens to his floor.

***

You’re laying in Peter’s bed with his sheets wrapped around your face. Even with the blinds drawn, the New York City lights burn your sensitive eyes.

Despite your prior objections, you can’t deny the comfort of laying in Peter’s soft duvet with the spicy scent of his cologne filling your nose.

You hear the creak of the door as Peter steps into the room.

“Baby?” He whispers. “I brought you some stuff.”

Peter’s gait is slow and light, as if he’s trying not to creak the floorboards. Something taps the bedside table next to you.

“Can I see your head, baby? I know it’s bright outside, but I have this wrap around ice pack I think will really help.”

With a groan, you pull the blankets below your chin. You crack open your eyes, and to your surprise, Peter is holding a black version of your favorite migraine ice pack. It’s like a thick bandage that wraps around your eyes and forehead and velcros closed in the back. It’s cold, pitch black heaven.

You smile weakly. “Thanks, Peter.” You mumble. Dating someone with super hearing is a huge perk when you’re a migraineur.

“Of course.” He whispers.

Peter lays the ice pack on your forehead, and your body relaxes. The pain still pulses like a bass drum beat in a metal song, but at least there’s something combating it.

“Can I help you sit up, sweetie? I want to tie this behind your head.”

You hum your approval.

Gently, Peter raises your limp body and velcros the ends of the ice pack behind your head, creating 360 degree relief.

You moan in relief. “Thank you, Peter.”

“Oh course, sweetheart. There's a glass of water on the bedside table for you. Would you like some Pepto-Bismol?”

You hold back a gag. “No.” You croak. “But thanks.”

“After I change, can I get into bed next to you?”

You can’t help but smile. He’s so conscientious. Too conscientious. “Of course, Peter.”

A few minutes later, the bed slowly sinks as Peter gingerly adds his weight.

“Can I speak, darling?” He asks.

“Mm-hmm.” You hum.

“I’ve never been with you during a migraine before. I want to know how to take care of you. Could you answer some yes or no questions for me?” He whispers. “You don’t need to speak. Maybe one finger for yes and two for no.”

You point your index finger.

“Excellent.” Peter says. “Are you sensitive to light?”

You hold up one finger.

“Are you sensitive to sound?”

Once again, one finger.

“Are you sensitive to touch?”

You hold up two fingers. There’s some nuance to that, but there was only so much you could communicate. You really needed some sleep.

“Okay. Can I hold you?”

Warmth fills your ribcage. “I can’t lay on my side, but could you hold my hand?” Heat burns your cheeks. “And maybe lay against me?”

“Of course.” Peter whispers, a smile in his voice.

He presses a tender kiss to your shoulder. “Goodnight, my love. Feel better.”

***

You wake to a knot in your stomach. You twist onto your side which only tightens the cramp.

You moan. Your eyes crack open only to be weighed down by the ice pack from last night.

Last night. Peter was a saint. You were an embarrassment. A well-loved and well-cared for embarrassment, but falling over yourself all the same.

Your shame spiral stops as soon as it begins when a bubble of queasiness turns you rigid.

Shit.

Not here.

Not now.

You take a deep breath. Peter is slumped against your back, and thanks to his spidey senses, an infinitesimal movement could wake him up. To make matter worse, when it came to you, Peter was always extra jumpy. It was a miracle he hadn’t woken already.

You take another deep breath. Maybe if you lay as still as a statue, the nausea will go away and you’ll drift off to sleep.

A second later, like a wave careening to shore, nausea swells in your chest and up your throat. You sprint from the bed, shoving the sheets onto Peter who instantly jumps awake.

You dash into the bathroom, nearly tripping over your own feet when the carpet transitions to ice cold tile.

You collapse and promptly stick your head into Peter’s toilet bowl. Your face burns with embarrassment, and the humiliation has not reached its peak.

You dry heave three times. Of course, when you start throwing up, you feel your hair being lifted from your shoulders.

“I’m so sorry.” Peter whispers. He must have grabbed a scrunchie from your purse, because your hair stays off your face and neck while Peter’s hands rub your back and hold your hand gripping the toilet tank cover.

You can’t get out the words “get out!” to Peter with all the retching in the way.

“It’s alright. You’re alright. Breathe, baby.” Peter whispers. He draws wide circles on your upper back, and your shoulders betray you by relaxing into his palm.

You didn’t think your stomach could hold so much. You continue to gag, making a mess of Peter’s bathroom, but Peter never flinches. He continues whispering sweet nothings to you until you finish expelling all of last night’s dinner and popcorn.

Stomach aching, you collapse against Peter’s chest.

“You okay?” Peter asks.

“Yeah.” You pant.

“Take some deep breaths.” He whispers. “Would you like some water?”

“Could you make me ginger tea?” You ask. Guilt tightens your throat. You were already puking in his bathroom– you could’ve settled for plain water.

But that’s exactly what Peter has been insisting you work on– being honest about asking for what you need.

He kisses your temple. “Of course.” He says, a smile in his voice.

Two minutes later, Peter returns to the bathroom, a steaming mug in his hand.

He places your tea on the edge of the marble counter. “It’s still brewing.” He whispers.

“You can speak at a normal volume now.” You croak. You were laying on the floor, arms and legs limp yet heavy as lead.

“Is your headache better?” He asks.

“Marginally,” You say. “If I throw up, it’s usually better after.” Like the climax of a movie, once you puke during a migraine attack, it’s usually coming to its resolution.

“Okay.” Peter said, returning to his normal volume. He sits next to you. “Do you want to brush your teeth and go back to sleep?”

“Yes, please.”

Five minutes later, you’re curled under the covers, half a mug of ginger tea sitting on Peter’s bedside table.

You’re about to slip into slumber when Peter asks you a question.

“Can I text your boss that you’re not coming in tomorrow?”

Your breath hitches. Your instincts scream “No!” You have to go to work.

You take what feels like your millionth deep breath in the past 24 hours. But going to work wouldn't be good for your body. You already tried to sit through an action film with a migraine which resulted in you hurling at 3 am. It was time to take Peter’s advice and give your body a break.

“Yes.” You say, relief and guilt washing over you simultaneously.

“Okay.” Peter says, satisfaction in his voice. “Sleep tight, my love. Rest up.”

Peter presses a soft kiss against your hairline as you fall back to sleep.

***

“We need to talk.”

“I know,” you say. You knew this was coming. As soon as you walked into the kitchen this morning, you could tell Peter was holding something in from the hitch in his jaw. Being the gentleman he is, he gave you the grace of waking up a bit more and making sure your migraine was gone before starting any serious conversation. You watch the brown sugar dissolve into your peppermint tea as you trace the spoon around the circumference of the mug.

“Can we sit?” He asks.

You stop stirring. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.” You keep your back turned to him. Guilty tears fill your eyes.

“(Y/N), look at me. I’m not mad, I’m just….frustrated? I’m at a loss.” He amends.

Blinking wasn’t helping. You twist your face further away from Peter, determined not to let him catch a glimpse of your melodrama from the kitchen table. “It’s okay if you're angry with me. We already talked about this. And I ruined your night.”

“But that’s the problem.” Peter says. “You didn’t ruin anything. The reason I’m annoyed is because you think any little inconvenience like you being sick or unhappy is an annoyance when it’s really not. You’re my girlfriend, and I want to help. I want to figure out how to help you.” He sighs. “And before I can do that, I want to figure out what I can do better to build that trust between us."

You face Peter. “Peter, there’s nothing more you can do. You’ve been perfect.” Peter Parker is more of a perfect boyfriend than you could’ve imagined. He’s a human– he’s flawed— but he has one of the most beautiful souls you’ve ever come across. “It’s just me, I’m just…scared.” You admit. You turn your gaze to the kitchen island.

“What can I do to help you feel safer?”

And there was the crux of the issue: Peter has done everything to make you feel safe. But the wall between you and Peter has nothing to do with Peter.

“It’s hard for me to feel vulnerable with people because of…you know.”

Peter nods. He knew most of the unsavory details of your bittersweet childhood. “I know. Did I do something that triggered memories?” Peter asks, anxiety creeping into his voice.

“Peter.” You meet his eyes for the second time. “Absolutely not. You’re so good to me.” A tear drips down your cheek. “I want to tell you. About everything. I want to call you when I’m sick and tell you when I’m hurting.” You blink up at the ceiling. “It’s just so hard to break through that wall. To feel safe feeling vulnerable again. And I’ve talked about it with my therapist, I’ve been trying it’s just…such a big step.”

“Would it help if we discuss it together? All three of us?” Peter asks. The confusion must have shown on your face. “Maybe we could have a session together so we could work through this.”

“Really?” You ask, voice cracking.

“Of course, really.” Peter says, half-smiling.

“You’re not breaking up with me?” The question slips from your lips before you can hold your tongue.

Peter looks like he’s been slapped. “Over a migraine?”

“Over not being vulnerable enough. Not giving you enough.” The words leave a bad taste in your mouth. You weren’t able to give Peter what he needed. Your caged heart won’t open.

Peter stands. “(Y/N), you’ve given me more than enough. Who’s there to stitch me after patrol? Who’s on the phone with me at 3 o’clock in the morning when I have night terrors? Who has all of my grounding strategies memorized because I have panic attacks?”

A small smile slips onto your face. “Me.”

“(Y/N),” Peter smiles. “You’re the most amazing girlfriend I could ask for.”

You open your arms, and Peter wraps you in the warmest hug.

Even with someone as safe and loving as Peter, being vulnerable was going to be hard. But if there’s someone you want to go on this trek with, it was Peter Parker.

“I wouldn't want to go on this journey with anyone but you.”

Peter squeezes you tighter. “We’ll get through this together.”

---

Author's Note: Hello! This is my first fic I've ever finished, and I'm super excited to post this! I'm new to having a writing blog, but would love to start chatting!

xoxo, shewroteaworld

450 notes · View notes

literaila · 2 years ago

Text

listening ears

tasm!peter x fem!reader

summary: in which peter is terrible at keeping secrets. and socks.

warnings: idiots to friends to lovers, no angst just pining, arguments, fluff, ahhhh

a/n: heres the link to the playlist. for a real time experience, listen. (this makes it sound like an amusement park which i think is funny)

word count: 10k

the first time you meet him, you're listening to sad music.

it's unclear which song--being that it's late enough that they've begun to blur together, instrumental shifting to piano and soft sullen voices and heartbeats you can't hear but feel--but it rings in your ears as he walks by.

as spider-man is suddenly in front of you, suddenly right in front of your bench, flashing blue and red and ego and playing with some weird white string between his fingers.

you're also fairly certain that he's cursing.

so, quietly, you hit pause on your phone, taking out an earbud. you watch him, hoping that he's already noticed your presence.

hoping that maybe he'll leave and there will be no questioning--from either of you--about what you're doing out this late on a night like this.

the snow on your head has melted, turning your hair several different forms of wet.

and when spider-man has not looked up, or any other place he might be mugged, you, graciously, clear your throat.

alerting him of your presence and beginning an attempt to beg him to leave.

spider-man, unsurprisingly, jumps back.

his white eyes are wide, but that might just be the costume.

you smile and wave.

"wha--" he looks around, behind himself, like you might be waving at someone else. "when did you get there?" he asks.

his voice is quieter than you've heard it before. less animated. maybe a bit rough, or sore.

you tilt your head, lifting a brow. "about an hour ago."

spider-man stares blankly at you. "no."

you contemplate laughing, or maybe tripping him with your leg as he peers closer at you, but ultimately hum. "okay." you drawl, "maybe i didn't."

your smile is soft. your voice is abundantly sweet.

you do not doubt that if spider-man wanted to, he could make both of you disappear in an instant.

not that you're afraid, of course. you've seen the news. and experienced an average day in new york.

spider-man tries again to pull his hands apart. fails.

"sticky?" you ask him, swinging your legs.

you think--but really just know--that spider-man glares at you.

and then, with the subtleness of a child, he leans up again, straightening his back. clears his throat like he's got a lot to say. "what are you doing out so late?"

his voice might be even deeper now, as some method of intimidation.

unfortunately for him, you got over your fear of spiders a couple of months ago.

"i could ask you the same thing," you respond.

spider-man does not find this amusing, apparently, because he just stares at you. waiting and watching.

eventually, maybe just to evade some awkward silence approaching, you sigh and relent. "i was drawing," you say, gesturing to the notebook you set aside.

you don't tell him about the music, or your sore eyes.

or about how when he first showed up you almost fell off the bench.

these are things he probably doesn't need to know, you think.

spider-man must frown or something because he grumbles out his next question. "drawing?" he repeats. "at three in the morning? in the dark?"

"there's a light right there," you point to the streetlight above your head, the picture of innocence.

you continue to smile at this man, if only because he seems to find it immensely irritating.

"aren't you cold?"

"the weather?" you furrow your brows, criticizing him. "c'mon, i thought you were better than that."

"it's snowing."

"i hadn't noticed."

"your paper is getting wet--" he points to your notebook, to the soiled edges.

it's the first thing to make you frown since he's shown up.

"shit," you whisper, brushing some snow and lead off of the paper. "i liked this one."

"sorry." spider-man clears his throat again. he bounces between feet like he's freezing.

"is spandex warm?" you ask him, leaning forward.

"i'm fine."

you frown. "are you always this grumpy? or is it just cause i scared ya?"

"you didn't scare me."

"must be the hands then," you say, leaning over so you can try and see the hands he's kept hidden behind his back.

but spider-man pulls them out--two of them--wiggling his fingers.

you frown. "how'd you do that?"

spider-man doesn't answer. instead, he looks around, probably for someone to rescue him.

unfortunately, everyone else went to bed hours ago.

you grin at him, suddenly and smoothly, holding your notebook out to him. "wanna see?"

spider-man is definitely judging the mess of a journal you have, but he takes it from you anyway, if a bit hesitantly. "whoa--" he says, turning it over. and then he pauses.

he looks back to you.

you smile.

"this is a penis."

you and maturity have never gotten along.

you make an effort to keep a blank face--snickering internally at the dry way he says it--and shake your head. "no," you say, "if you turn it over it's a smile."

spider-man does so.

and surely behind the mask, he's doing a slow blink, probably scowling at you.

"do you like it?" you ask him, keeping your voice soft and sincere.

he hands it back to you, sighing. "you should head home."

"so, no?"

"really," he says, almost gently. "you'll get frostbite. there's a reason no one else is out."

you blink, leaning back. "except you?"

spider-man swings his arms back and forth. he looks away. "except me."

"you can't get frostbite?" you guess.

and spider-man, despite himself, tries to smother a laugh with a cough. but you hear it clearly enough.

you furrow your brows as you peer at him.

and so he points a finger at you, stern. "get packing."

"what if i live on this bench?"

he doesn't laugh this time. he just starts to walk away, eyes still on you. "if you're not gone in five minutes i'm swinging you home."

"you don't know where i live," you say, calling his bluff.

but he turns around, waving nonchalantly.

you watch him, maybe surprised or irritated.

either way, you call after him.

and he spares you a glance.

"maybe i'll draw you next time," you say.

and then he's gone, and you're switching playlists.

when peter runs into the bathroom he's not really thinking about germs.

or toilet seats or washing his hands, or, obviously, checking the stalls for anyone else in there.

the fire alarm went off two minutes ago; anyone who remains, peter thinks, is probably not going to connect any dots between him and spider-man.

and when he unzips his backpack, digging his suit out of one of the pockets and cursing as pencils and pens fall onto the ground, he wonders why he didn't iron it this morning.

why he even tried to do laundry yesterday, considering that he's not very good at it and may has definitely noticed.

still, he kicks his shoes off.

the floor isn't wet this time, peter's thinking, so thank god for that.

he swings his jacket off of his shoulders and hurries to unbutton his pants.

there's a gentle buzzing of a fan in the corner, only slightly drowned out by the siren that is giving peter a headache. and flashing lights. and people running by.

and lots of chances to get caught, but not enough care in the world.

and if peter focuses enough, he can hear some type of music playing, somewhere close.

loud bass, quick rhythm.

he almost pauses to think about it, and then decides against it.

he flings his pants onto the floor, folding his shirt over his head.

it is very cold in this bathroom.

still, peter slides his socks off, hating the tiled floors, and internally screaming when one of the socks falls under the stall, disappearing to places that peter does not have time to look in.

and then he's squeezing into a very irritating suit.

trying to remind himself what the greater good is and blah blah blah. . .

but his arms are sore as he tries to zip it up, jumping to reach.

peter is insanely grateful for doors and peace and quiet and advil, of course.

and finally--finally--when he has the suit on, he scrambles to pick up everything he left on the floor while also putting his web-slingers on.

a good effort, really.

he sticks his backpack to the wall, promising himself that he's not going to forget it.

and then he unlocks his stall, beginning to step out when he catches a glance of you.

standing right in front of him, white earbud dangling toward the ground, proud smirk as you hold his sock up.

peter pauses. he stares at you.

you tap an innocent finger on your chin. "aren't you supposed to check the bathroom before you change?"

peter's first move is to try and grab the sock from your hand. but you, swift on your feet, duck away, humming to yourself.

"you're gonna go save a bunch of people with a sock in your hand?" you ask him.

peter thinks for a moment--not about socks, thank god--if you were standing in there when he walked in.

if you had paused when he burst through the door, not thinking about what bathroom this was or any person who might've stuck around. if your eyes were wide and mischievous--as they are now--when he quickly ducked into a stall.

but he knows, really, that you weren't there.

because, peter recognizes, he wouldn't have been able to miss you.

still, you're smirking at him.

"better get out there, spider-man," you say, gesturing towards the door.

and peter doesn't have the time to curse at you because you're right.

he doesn't bother to try and grab his sock again.

and when peter opens the door he can hear it--

your laugh.

and a gentle throbbing of another one bites the dust coming from your headphones.

you're trying not to laugh.

really, it's an extreme effort as you store the snort deep inside your chest, trying to melt the smile off of your face.

you are squirming in your seat as your sternum begs for some sort of relief.

and you contemplate leaving the library before this goes too far. before you start cackling in his face, unable to hold back--even if he gives you a weird look and everyone else around you starts complaining.

there's not much you can do to stop it, honestly, not when you've been sitting here, studying, for the last hour, music lulling you almost to sleep. and not when the boy who is now sitting in the cubicle next to you kicked his feet out, revealing some scruffed up converse.

and of course, some mismatched socks.

when you looked down--in a moment of weakness, dropping some type of pencil--you had to do a double take.

not that you can judge this boy, who you've been studying for the last five minutes and his choice of attire. you lose your own socks all of the time.

but there's a grey sock, plain and casual and not unlike your own. and then, just a couple of inches over, there's another sock. this one with a striped, colorful pattern, and words on the other side that you can't really read--for lack of view--but recognize almost immediately.

because, coincidently, you have the same sock in your backpack, awaiting a certain visitor.

and so, as soon as you looked up at this boy, the amusement crowded your not-so-subtle eyes.

he's got brown hair, a frown on his face as he reads a textbook that looks much more than dreadful. his chin is jutted out, his teeth idly munching on the lip between them. a headphone in one ear.

and, of course, this boy doesn't look over. he seems almost unaware of your presence.

and maybe that's what makes this so funny.

being that you've experienced this a couple of times now, and it's getting really hard to not say anything about it.

synchronicities, you know, can only go on for so long.

and this boy--this strange, somewhat attractive boy--is blissfully ignorant.

and you can't believe that he's wearing those socks in public.

you clear your throat, smile unstoppable now.

but he doesn't look over.

and you cover your mouth, shaking your head and turning yourself completely so that when he finally does decide to look over, he will know that you've been staring at him.

he will know that there's no avoiding this interaction.

which, for some strange reason, you're getting immense pleasure out of.

if you listen close enough you can hear the music he's playing.

some melancholy guitar music, completely what you would've assumed from him.

it makes you smile even wider.

you clear your throat again, leaning forward, legs crossed on your chair.

you kind of want to make him jump.

"excuse me," you say, softly. good enough to not draw any attention in this library.

though, your smile might be enough to raise some eyebrows.

the boy looks over, eyes wide and attentive.

you note his face as he takes you in.

"i was just wondering," you continue, innocently, "where you got your socks?"

you have rendered this boy speechless. which you seem to do a lot of.

you cough. "i mean, sock."

he looks down, to his feet, and then to you, seeming to understand. you catch a smudge of panic in his eyes, carefully glazed over as he opens his mouth, trying to say something.

he scratches his neck. blinking, with his mouth open, like he's trying to make sure that you're actually there.

and, to be honest, this is exactly what you imagined of him.

"lose all of your other pairs, too? or do you just like the look of clashing colors?" you blink at him, leaning back.

he takes a deep breath. "i'm sorry?"

"i mean," you shrug, turning back to your desk, "if it were me, i probably wouldn't wear those. especially when someone might have the exact same sock. but, to each their own."

"you--" he awkwardly laughs. "i just, um, found this. in the bathroom."

"was it in a backpack stuck to the wall?" you look back to him--his wide, scared, doe eyes--polite smile on your face.

"actually, i bought them yesterday. they came like this."

"interesting design choice," you respond.

and the boy, who is still staring at you, though not quite as breathless now, ducks down, leaning closer to you. "what do you want?" he whispers, eyes glaring.

"excuse me?" you whisper back.

"i'll--whatever it is, i'll try and get it. just don't--please don't tell anyone."

you frown, resting your head on a hand. "tell anyone what?"

"what you--" he looks around for anyone who might be listening. "what you know."

you tilt your head, questioning, and amused eyes.

"about me," he clarifies, almost hissing.

you lean back, studying him. "we just met," you say, with a hand to your chest.

he glares back.

"i won't spread your questionable fashion choices around the school if that's what you mean."

this boy still doesn't laugh. just like the first time, and the second, he seems to find you distasteful. almost annoying.

and honestly, that might be the only thing fueling this fire in your veins. this want to mess with him until he drops.

"seriously," he says, angry, "what do you want from me?"

"just to know where you bought those."

and then, as quietly and quickly as possible, you bend down to dig into your backpack, smiling in satisfaction as you find it, and then leaning back up, handing it to him.

"i wouldn't leave those around," you whisper. "you never know who might try and copy you."

you are almost threatening him.

the boy glowers. "i don't know what you're talking about."

you shrug, turning away again.

but he grabs your arm. "what?" he demands, again and again.

his eyes are angry, his face is hard and he's leaning away from you like you might reach out and turn him to dust.

but you only smile, asking sweetly "what's your name?"

he stares for a moment, blinking. "what?"

"i think maybe we have met before," you answer. "you seem familiar."

the boy grinds his teeth together.

but you wait, shoving that chuckling down your chest.

"peter," he says, the word mad and tough.

"peter," you repeat, looking away from him. "nice to meet you. i'm y/n."

you reach to shake his hand, and he stares at it like it's poison.

you roll your eyes. "don't worry," you add, softly. "i haven't forgotten. i still have to draw you."

his frown increases.

and you laugh as you turn away, thinking about secrets.

and listening to the music in peter's ears, still drifting over.

peter is not really paying attention tonight.

he roamed around all day--because there was nothing else to do--talking to strangers and not having to smile for pictures, just hoping for something to pop up.

and it did, and then it didn't.

when the problems are easy to fix, peter knows, they're less enjoyable.

still, the distraction was nice.

and you are not as you sit on a bench in front of him, smiling.

you've got that look on your face--the one that makes peter want to run away.

especially because you know who he is.

because he's been especially reckless the past couple of weeks, and as a consequence, you have shown up. you have smiled at him, whispering gentle words and even gentler promises.

and you've got a pencil in your hands.

a glint in your eyes that peter's seen somewhere before.

"fancy seeing you here," you say, amused. this is the same bench he passed by on the first night--when he was thinking about going home but didn't.

peter curses his own stupid decisions; the difference that they could've made.

"are you going to threaten me again?" peter asks, not really joking, though his voice gives nothing away.

"i don't know what you're talking about."

you're shrugging, looking away from him as your lips curl at the corners.

and then you look back up. "you never did answer my question about the socks, though."

peter rolls his eyes, though he doesn't miss the way he moves forward, trying to catch a glance at the surely explicit picture you're drawing.

curiosity is a curse.

"aren't you cold?" peter merely repeats.

"it's not snowing. so, no."

peter grunts. "another body part?" he nods toward the picture you're drawing, the thing you've chosen to look at instead of him.

"a foot," you grin up at him, eyebrows raise. "though, if you wanted. . . i could get started on my picture of you."

peter wishes you could see his frown.

still, he takes another step towards you. "how much?"

"hmm?"

"how much are you charging for it?"

peter watches you stifle a laugh, feels the pin-prick of pleasure in his chest. "only a smile," you say, head tilted.

"no thanks, then."

"c'mon, spider-man," you complain. "you're so much nicer to everyone else."

"everyone else hasn't threatened me."

you pout. "i won't tell anyone," you tell him, eyes wide, "if that's what you're worried about."

peter doesn't answer, just stares at you. looking for any tells.

"i mean," you continue, shrugging. "not that anyone would believe me. you've got enough frown lines to put me to shame."

as if to prove your point, peter frowns. "what's that supposed to mean?"

"well, i don't think anyone else has ever heard spider-man so much as grumble. so you. . ." you scrutinize him, nose wrinkled. "you couldn't be him."

peter narrows his eyes.

but you smile again, patting the bench next to you. "sit."

"i can't. i'm working."

you roll your eyes, sighing. "i'm the only one here. wouldn't you be better off watching me? just to make sure i don't do anything."

you smile at him, and it's more vicious than kind.

peter notes your eyes and the secretive glances you're giving him.

you might be right.

so he shrugs and moves to sit down next to you.

he's been closer, anyway.

you flip to another page, looking up at him, then down.

and so it begins.

you hum as you draw him, and peter taps his fingers on the bench, feeling nervous and uncomfortable, and mostly, hating that he's allowed himself to do this.

maybe just to keep in your good graces.

"what classes are you taking?" you ask him after a couple of minutes go by.

"what?"

"last week," you say, head tilting. erasing something on the paper. you've tilted it up on your knees, leaning against the arm of the bench, so peter can't see. "you were studying. that textbook looked horrible."

peter lets his lip perk up.

"what were you studying for?"

"a chemistry midterm."

you look at him, eyes just a bit tired. "you're into science?" you ask, almost doubtful.

peter crosses his arms.

"i mean, no offense or anything--" you smile as you say it. "--but i would've picked you for a music major. or business."

peter understands the implication. he doesn't say anything.

"gym major?" you ask, stealing a glance at his arms, laughing to yourself.

"what about you?" he asks, suddenly leaning forward. "i didn't realize there were classes on how to manipulate someone."

"that's called law," you respond, dryly. "and i'm an art major."

peter is sure you can feel his raised brow.

you roll your eyes, sighing as you relent. "fine. undecided. but i'm figuring it out."

you smile again like you know something he doesn't.

another minute passes, peter listening to the wind and your pencil as you scribble against the page.

"how long is this going to take?" peter asks, looking up, wondering how long he's been here.

"you can't rush art."

"i can when it's annoying me."

you don't look at him, but peter watches as you tense. he almost catches himself--the words he's just spoken and accidentally let out--and decides not to say anything.

maybe you'll forget about it.

"so," you drawl, after thirty seconds of awkward silence. "you're a chemist."

"engineer."

you scoff. "sorry, but that means the same thing to me."

peter snorts back.

"how old are you?" you ask him, brow furrowed as you concentrate.

"i'm not telling you."

you raise a brow, but don't look at him. "why not?"

"you'll just add it to the file."

you don't say anything.

"the file of things you know about me."

there's a quirk on your face, the clearing of your throat. "i was serious," you tell him, again. "i'm not going to tell anyone. i respect your privacy."

peter gives you a dubious look.

"i respect your anonymity," you revise, giving him a grin. "and if you keep moving your face i'm going to mess up your portrait."

"are you actually an artist?" peter asks, "or is this a ploy to get unsuspecting strangers to stop?"

"guess," you say.

"i'm going with the latter."

you shrug, not looking at him. "i've been told worse. but i think you're really going to like this."

peter doubts that, but he doesn't say anything.

and another tens minutes pass--in which you scrutinize everything about the suit he designed, snorting when he argues back--and then you're tearing out a page, smiling at him.

"i mean it," you tell him, "next time i see you i want a smile."

"i could be smiling right now."

you stare at him.

"just give it to me."

you laugh, putting your notebook in the bag next to you. "just don't look until i'm gone, okay?"

"you don't want to watch my reaction?"

"i don't think i need to."

and peter watches as you put everything else away--pencils and erasers and stick of charcoal. he pauses when he finally notices the headphones you tuck into your bag.

"you were listening to something before i got here?"

you just nod, zipping up your bag.

"what?"

you look up at him, eyes daring. "guess," you say.

"kanye?"

you scoff. "please."

"miley cyrus?"

you tilt your head, "i would be more likely to listen to the hannah montana soundtrack."

"metallica?"

you nod, lips pursing. "you got it, spider-man. i'm a metal kinda girl."

peter could've told you that.

but you're smirking before he can respond, pulling the pencil back out, flipping over the paper, and concealing it with your hand so that he can't see.

"there," you say, after forty-five seconds of scribbling. "now it's finished."

you put the pencil away, standing up.

"i'll see you soon," you say to him, nodding. "and that smile."

peter snorts.

and then you're walking away, waving an idle hand goodbye as you turn the corner. peter watches until you're gone, making sure that you're not going to pop back out when he least suspects it, and then he slides over on the bench, finally grabbing the paper.

he flips it over to find a black-and-white picture of himself, every slope and curve of his suit that he recognizes in the mirror.

and he knows, for sure, that you lied to him. or he lied to you.

it wasn't the latter.

still, somewhat amazed, smiling under his mask, his eyes drift down to the words you've written at the corner of the page.

you are a call to motion, it says. there, all of you, a verb in perfect view.

and then another foul "smiley face." peter almost laughs.

when you move, you've written, i move.

and your number at the very bottom, scribbled a bit recklessly.

peter memorizes the numbers before he swings home.

you get the first text three days later.

your phone vibrates in your pocket as you're waiting in line at a coffee shop, watching the people around you move with creases in their brows.

your fingers itch for the notebook in your bag.

and when you read the screen, you're a bit confused.

a text from an unknown number, and all it says is:

you lied.

you frown, thinking of who you might've irritated in the past couple of days.

it only takes a couple of seconds to recall the boy who you've messed with the most.

peter and the scowls he's given you.

you smile, knowing what he means.

and then you send him the spotify link to enter sandman.

peter rolls his eyes when he gets the message. still, he clicks on the link, plugging his headphones into the jack.

he walks while he listens, wincing at the words.

and when it's finished--when peter officially decides that he's finished with you--he sends back another link.

one to the song you wrote out for him, the song you happened to lie about.

are you flirting with me? he asks, trying not to let himself regret it.

or smile as he sees the little bubble at the bottom of the screen, letting him know that you're still there.

you send an emoji of a spider back and peter's smile fades.

you're laughing as you type, you still owe me a smile.

you move up in the line, trying not to stumble over the shoes of the person in front of you, scowling when peter sends you a scowl back.

not literally, of course. but it's been two minutes since he read the text, and he has not answered.

which, you think, is very rude.

is that a no? you type out.

peter merely says: you owe me a song.

so you send him knee socks, by arctic monkeys.

and you forget what to order when you get up to the counter.

peter begins to look for you before he walks around any corner.

he's avoided that bench, thinking that if he gets too close, too soon, you will get bored.

that you might've already after you sent him that song and he had nothing good to send you back.

he's been thinking about it for the past couple of days.

while he studies, and showers, goes to class, and swings from building to building, staring down at tiny people and thinking that one of them might be you.

but you haven't shown up. peter thinks maybe you've been hiding out too.

maybe worried because he hasn't texted back.

but then he corrects himself; he can't imagine you worried about anything.

still, he peeks around the corner before he moves, waiting for your cheeky smile and irritating laughter.

instead, he finds a crowd of people that he doesn't know, and who don't know him.

not that you do either.

peter is listening to music as he walks. trying to pretend that there is no correlation between you and this song.

he moves around the people, keeping his eyes low. he says hello to anyone who says anything to him. he smiles at strangers and reminds himself how to be polite.

he thinks about how mean he's been to you, and wonders if it just comes naturally.

and when he gets home, kissing may on the cheek and walking up to his room, happy to finally put down his backpack and all of the books in it, he's still thinking about you.

thinking about the picture he's put on his wall, and your simple handwriting underneath it. neat and smooth, nothing like he'd expected it to be.

he's thinking about you as he gets undressed, sliding on his suit and staring at the socks he's left on the floor.

when you know who's callin' even though the number is blocked. . .

peter shakes his head, kicking them under his bed.

but, right before he leaves, he grabs his phone from his bed, angrily clicking on a playlist.

and then he sends you another link, about a week later.

and he doesn't have it in him to question it.

you awake from your nap to a text.

the name at the top of your screen just says "itsy bitsy," because you were a little bit delirious and thought it was hilarious when you put him in your contacts a week and two days ago.

you almost smile at the notification, and then catch yourself.

spider-man, peter, has sent you a link to love grows (where my rosemary goes).

you click on it, smirking as you do so.

and then two minutes and fifty-four seconds later, you finally text him again.

are you busy tomorrow?

"you're my muse now," you say to him, pointing to a stool.

you sent peter the directions to an art studio, about three minutes off campus, and told him to come at noon.

it is 12:23 and you haven't stopped smiling at peter since he walked in.

"any song suggestions?" you ask him, wide eyes and tilted head and that devious smile that runs goosebumps up his arms.

peter clears his throat.

"no," he says. "pick whatever,"

you asked him to pose for you. told him that he owed you at least that, if not some laughter.

and peter disagreed, but didn't argue.

and now he's not quite sure why.

you put on some soft guitar music, going to a shelf in the corner of the room to grab something.

"how's my bench?" you ask him as you move back over to him and sit on the ground.

peter frowns. "i don't know."

you pull out a notebook, scoffing. "you're telling me that you haven't checked it once in the past week?"

"nope."

"aren't you supposed to be like the protector of new york city, or whatever?" you blow some hair out of your eyes as you say it.

"that typically applies to people."

"except me," you grumble, under your breath.

peter's lip twitches.

"what are you doing, again?" he asks.

"well, i figured since i drew spider-man, the least i can do is also draw peter."

"you said i was a terrible statue."

"you are," you laugh at him, "but you've got a nice face."

peter pretends not to feel it as he flushes.

"i won't show anyone," you tell him, "if you don't want me to. but it would be nice for my still art class."

"so you are an artist," peter says, attempting to evade your subtle question.

"only in my dreams. i'm also taking algebra, economics, and philosophy 101."

peter frowns.

"i'll declare next year," you tell him, frowning as you erase something.

"as an art major?"

you grin at him, but the peter that's on the paper. "wouldn't you like to know?"

peter doesn't answer that.

he watches you as you draw him, peeking an eye on the side of his face every couple of moments, and smiling when you catch him staring at you.

"what's your last name?" you ask him, breaking the silence.

another song plays, and peter still doesn't recognize it.

"parker."

you snort. "figures."

his brows furrow. "what does that mean?"

"of course, you would have a superhero-ey name."

"what's yours?"

"y/l/n."

peter laughs.

you frown. "what?"

"of course, you would have an annoying-sounding name."

you glare at him, but peter doesn't miss the twitch of your lip. "don't copy me, parker."

"don't make it so easy."

and you don't say anything back, instead choosing to focus down at the paper, but peter notices the little chuckle that falls from your mouth. the silent sneer in your eyes.

"what?" he asks after it doesn't go away.

"i think that was the first time you've actually teased me."

you don't say the rest of it. and peter doesn't acknowledge how comfortable he feels, sitting on this stool as you stare up at him, watching you as you look back.

"you can use it," he says, suddenly.

"what?"

"the picture. for your class."

you don't say anything, but nod in acknowledgment.

and peter feels like an idiot as the silence drifts. feels like he shouldn't have said anything, shouldn't have agreed to this.

and the song changes again, a soft, melodic sound.

peter almost smiles.

"is this opera?" he asks, heavily judging you.

you grin, dropping your notebook on the ground and standing up. you take a step closer to him, leaning in.

"shut your mouth and see," you whisper to him.

peter is almost offended, brows furrowed as he stares at you and how close you are.

but then someone else echoes the words back, and you begin to dance, holding a hand out to invite him to join.

peter does, memorizing the slow movement of your hips as he stands up, feeling like his limbs are heavier than they were only four minutes ago.

and the two of you dance to only angel like no one's watching.

peter listens to you sing the words under your breath.

i must admit i thought i'd like to make you mine.

you are humming to yourself when you get the phone call.

when your hand stumbles, pencil creating a harsh line over the drawing you've spent the last twenty minutes hating. you scowl at your hand, and then your phone, for interrupting.

until you see peter's face on the screen.

the picture you took of the picture you drew of him, scowling at you like he seems to do a lot of.

you don't smile, but bite your lip as you press the little green button.

"hello?"

"hey," peter says, voice soft. he clears his throat. "what're you up to?" his voice is suddenly louder like he's using a microphone.

you smile, glad that he can't see it.

"just laughing at this picture of you."

"from last week?"

"yup."

"really?"

you roll your eyes, hoping he can feel it. "no," you drawl. "i was just working on something new. what's up?"

"do you like movies?"

after that, peter doesn't have to avoid you.

he doesn't look for you around any corners, because you've already leaned forward, already allowed him to see your smile and guess what you might be thinking about.

"hey," you say to him as you match his stride. "how was class?"

"boring," peter answers, accepting the earbud you hold out to him.

"of course, it was," you grin at him, "i wasn't there."

and peter just barely laughs, feeling a bit light when you smile back, face full of some sort of victory.

you play a song about being cold, and peter completely understands.

"i can't believe you got me to agree to this," you say to him as you open the door.

you're wearing a dress. pretty and flowing and completely surprising peter, if his face says anything.

"wow," he says, coughing. then clearing his throat. then coughing again. "it's--you look nice."

you scowl. "i look terrible."

peter just chuckles, looking down again, then at your eyes like he's forgotten something.

you just glare at him, waiting for him to tell you that you don't have to come.

but peter holds his hand out to you. "ready?" he asks.

"no. because i'm not going." you try and close the door in his face.

peter pushes it back, just smiling softly at you.

finally, you understand why he's been so irritated and cruel to you. if your smile is anything like his, then his reaction is completely rational.

"it'll be fine," peter coos, reaching a hand out to comfortingly--and condescendingly--rub your shoulder.

"it's a banquet," you say, just barely getting the words out. "for science."

"it's a party for engineering majors. i invited you a week ago and you didn't say anything--"

"all of your teachers will be there," you correct him, staring daggers. "if there are adults there, then it's not a party. and you made it sound fun."

"we're adults."

"i'm an adult, peter. you are a child. you are childish for tricking me into this."

"tricking you?" peter laughs, eyes gleaming. "i don't remember that part of the conversation."

you, suddenly, smile sweetly at him. "i don't know if you've heard," you whisper, smoothly, "but this is going to be terrible."

he grabs your hand, rolling his eyes. "it'll be boring, maybe, but not terrible. i'll stay with you the whole time."

you frown. then say again, in the same, all-knowing tone, "i don't know if you knew this about me, peter parker, but i'm terrible at boring. or being serious. or talking to people."

"you talk to me just fine--"

"as soon as anyone says anything i'll start laughing. it's a nervous reaction, i can't control it."

"i'll put a hand over your mouth."

"that's a violation of my boundaries."

peter snorts, "look, not that i'm not enjoying this--"

you pinch his arm, shaking your hand out of his.

"--but we're going to be late. we can talk about your chortling on the way there--"

"chortling?!"

"witch cackle, guffaw, whatever," peter corrects.

"you are not making me want to go with you."

"c'mon," peter whines, catching your hand again. "you're my plus one. everyone will think i'm a loser if i show up without you."

"they already think that," you hiss at him, moving back again. "and anyway, i can't walk in these."

you gesture down to the heels you dug out of your closet.

it took you two hours to get ready, simply because you were stressed out enough to absolutely ruin every outfit you put on.

"i'll die, peter," you say, staring at him desperately. "die."

he raises a brow. "you can put on different shoes."

"you're a man." you wave a hand, scoffing at him. "what do you know about fashion?"

peter shakes his head. "okay, if your feet get sore, i'll carry you."

you stare at him blankly. "i highly doubt that, noodle arms."

the smile that appears on your face is one of satisfaction.

but peter rolls his eyes and doesn't bother to correct you.

"look," he says, pulling his phone out. "i brought my phone so we can listen to music. i'll let you pick."

you look away from his eyes to the strand between his fingers. then back to him. "you promise?"

"sure," peter says, almost snorting. "and anyway, i heard that there might be karaoke and you know that--"

as soon as he says the words, you're turning around, grabbing your purse from the table by your door, and locking it. you shut it, reaching for peter's hand.

"alright," you smile, easily. "let's go."

peter laughs as you begin to drag him along.

you sing along to sexy silk while you walk with him, just to keep the smile on his face.

"hey," you say to him as you pick up the camera on his desk. "you didn't tell me about this."

peter looks over, noting your frown and the furrow between your brows. he's sitting on your bed while you canvas his room, making fun of everything he's got in there.

not to mention the way you almost died of laughter when you saw your drawing on his wall, telling him that he's a dirty little liar, then smiling a secretive smile at it.

not that peter noticed.

still, he sits up, watching as you click on some button.

"there are lots of things i don't tell you about," he says, smoothly, and smiles at you.

your scowl grows. "you've got a camera?" you ask.

and then, after peter doesn't bother answering that and another moment passes, your jaw drops.

"you've taken pictures of me?" you demand, pointing to a moment he got a week ago, minutes before he met you for lunch.

"that's not you," peter lies, and goes to take it from your hands.

but you pull away.

"when did you do this?"

peter hesitates for a moment, but he sees the look on your face. "last week."

"why didn't i notice?"

peter smiles. "because you are particularly unobservant."

you glare.

". . . and because i was about twenty feet away, and ten minutes early."

"peter," you complain and whine. "why wouldn't you tell me about this?"

"didn't want to steal your thing."

"i don't have a camera."

he shakes his head. "no, art, or something."

"you're lying," you say, peering at him. "that's your lying face."

he holds a hand to his chest, mock offended.

but you don't say anything as you put the camera back on his desk, frowning at the window and avoiding his eyes.

peter watches for a moment, at the pout on your face and how soft and smooth your skin looks.

he thinks about you dancing and almost forgets that you're mad at him.

"hey," he whispers to you, hand reaching out. "i'm sorry i didn't tell you. i didn't realize that you'd want to know."

"of course, i want to know," you mumble. peter thinks you might be saying something else.

"well, now you do."

"i also know about your ninja turtle underwear," you say, with a hint of a smile on your face.

"yeah," peter says, standing up. "and you can hold it against me forever. i won't even complain."

you look over at him, raising your brows. "really?"

"mhmm."

and then you purse your lips, pretending to consider it. "okay, i guess," you say, as a means to forgive him.

and peter is glad about that. glad when you walk over to him, pushing his shoulder.

"but don't do that again," you tell him, almost as a threat.

"do what?"

"keep a secret from me."

peter almost winces, but decides to smile instead. "you already know all of them," he says, simply.

and you smile back.

he doesn't quite let himself believe that it's a lie. doesn't think about you being mad, or what you might do if you found out.

he just sighs, reaching over you to pick up the camera.

"do you want to see more pictures?" he asks you.

and then delights in the eager way you nod back.

you are humming along to the song playing from peter's phone as you doodle on the piece of paper in front of you.

you don't know the name, but peter's played it often enough that you know the words.

and, coincidentally, he's laying his head in your lap--claiming a headache--as you play with his hair.

he is almost distracting you as you attempt to draw a pretty little spider on his bedside table.

peter hums back, but it's not to the song.

"what?" you ask him, pausing your hand.

peter reaches up, moving it for you, and you snort.

"okay, okay," you say to him, and scratch his scalp some more.

"are you ruining my table?"

"no more than you already have."

peter groans, but doesn't bother to look up. you know that he knows that you're not drawing anything on it.

you smile down at him, then get back to the tiny sticky note you found in his drawer.

the pen you stole from the dining table downstairs.

you sing to him, to yourself, and minutes pass, and the song changes.

but you picked this one, and peter doesn't complain.

"do you feel any better?" you whisper to him, refraining from calling him a big baby.

"no. keep going," peter grunts.

you scoff but listen.

"look," you tell him, holding the drawing in front of his face. "do you like it?"

"pretty," peter mumbles.

but he doesn't even open his eyes.

so you flick him in the nose, raising a brow. "you didn't even look, you idiot."

"don't be mean to me," peter whines, "i'm in pain."

"you refuse to take any medicine."

"you're close enough," he whispers, and you try not to feel anything at the words.

"just one eye," you say to him, pulling at his skin.

and peter relents, staring at the picture you've drawn for him. "are you trying to be funny?"

it's a spider, sure, but a very hilarious interpretation of it swinging and falling off a building, and then, a couple of feet away, a picture of it being smooshed.

you grin. "i think you should put it on your next suit."

"i'll think about it," peter says, and closes his eyes again.

you laugh at him and hope he can feel it.

sing along to the song until peter falls asleep.

i wouldn't fall for someone i thought couldn't misbehave.

when peter wakes up, he's alone.

he wonders when you disappeared and where you went. he aches for the feeling of your hands in his hair and your smile and laughter as he wakes up.

it's dark outside though, so peter's glad that you're at home, at least, hopefully sleeping.

he looks at the clock, frowning at the numbers.

he sits up, head buzzing and blinking until he can see.

and then he walks over to the bathroom, figuring that he should probably brush his teeth.

and when he goes back to his bed, back aching and thinking about you, he notices the sticky note you've put on his wall, right next to the picture you drew of him.

he smiles at it, glad you put it there, where he probably would've put it anyway.

and there's another one, right next to your bed.

you're lame and you fell asleep, it says, don't worry, you didn't drool.

peter smiles, appreciating your handwriting. he puts it on his wall, right next to the other one.

and then he texts you.

when did you leave?

you answer almost immediately: about an hour ago.

it's one in the morning, and peter frowns.

did you walk home alone?

yup!

he scowls, immediately dialing you.

"hello?" you say, singing it.

peter wonders how you have so much energy, but doesn't give himself the time to dwell on it.

"you walked home alone?" he asks again.

"yes, peter."

"in the dark?"

you hum.

he's scowling, wishing you were there so you could see how serious he is. "don't do that," he says.

"peter," you sigh, snorting a bit.

"you shouldn't be walking home by yourself."

"might i remind you that you fell asleep? who else was i going to ask at midnight? may?"

"you could've woken me up."

peter hears you laugh.

"aw," you say, "but, baby, you just looked so peaceful."

peter almost flinches at the words, because you're not being serious and still--

"promise me that you will, next time."

you laugh again. "okay, peter. i'll uber home next time."

"you'll wake me up."

"please," you tell him, "i don't have a death wish."

you are frowning as he sits in front of you, but trying not to.

you're trying to keep a calm face and a smooth mind and repair peter without him figuring out a single thing about you.

without getting into another fight with him.

but he knows you, much better than you'd like.

"what?" he whispers to you, the words soft on your cheek.

he's got bruises sprinkled over his abdomen. a bright red cut on his cheek. a black eye and fingers that look more like pens than limbs.

still, you're trying not to be too rough with him.

trying to clean these wounds without opening up any others.

"nothing."

"you're frowning."

"you've got a big cut on your face."

he grabs your hand, stopping your movement as you dab at it. "you're frowning," he repeats, a bit louder.

you sigh and look away. "peter. . ."

"you're mad at me?" he asks, tilting your head back to him.

you're three inches away from him, staring.

and you don't even need to answer, because it takes one look from you, and peter nods.

"okay," he says, turning his cheek so you can clean the cut again.

you do.

and you listen to his breathing, hearing your own heart pound in your ear, staying silent.

there's not much you can say to him without wanting to scream.

"are you going to tell me why?" he asks you, minutes later, when you've had to replace the water so it's not so cold.

you hum. rub some ointment on the wound, apologizing when peter winces.

"y/n," he says, tilting his head. he's smiling at you like it might get you to break.

"you're not taking this seriously," you complain, closing your eyes. you move back, just for peter to move forward.

"hey," he says, grabbing your hand again. his eyes meet yours. "i'm okay."

"you're hurt," you argue, frowning, concern piercing your brows. "you had to come here so i could patch you up."

peter swallows. "i wanted to see you."

"no," you shake your head at him. "you can barely move that arm. you limped in here."

"it'll be fine by tomorrow."

you scoff. "but it's not fine now peter!" you whisper the words, but with enough force that he moves back, his eyes wide and his brow furrowing, as if he's just realized how serious you are.

"you're really mad?"

you shake your head, looking away from him. "i'm scared for you, and i'm mad because you don't even care. every time," you say, "you just brush it off. tell me that it'll be fine."

"because i will," peter swears, trying to catch your eyes.

"but what if you're not?" you ask him, just whispering the words, your voice breaking. "what if you come here," you look back to him, tears evident. "and i can't do anything to help you?"

peter starts to say something, tries to brush the liquid away, but you flinch back.

"no. what if someone else has to move the mask? what if they see you, but you're already--" you stop, not wanting to say the words.

and before you can blink or breathe, peter has wrapped an arm around you, crushing you to his skin.

he apologizes and holds you close, breathing slowly as you try to catch your breath.

he whispers in your ear, rubbing your back.

"i'm sorry," he says, "i didn't realize."

and you know that. and you know that this argument isn't quite fair.

"i promise i'll be careful. i promise, okay?"

you nod against his neck, breathing him in.

and a moment passes, and you try to memorize the feeling of being this close to him.

and then you whisper, "you're my best friend, peter. i don't know what i would do without you."

and it's only partly a lie.

"i know," peter says, moving back so that he can look you in the eye. "i know."

you try and smile at him, and he tries and smiles back.

"okay," you whisper.

and then you notice the small wince on peter's face.

you frown. "what?"

peter looks down to where your stomach has brushed against the cuts on his and clears his throat. "ouch," he says.

you meet his eyes and laugh.

peter knocks on your door, waiting.

he hasn't seen you in a couple of days, and you haven't been answering the phone.

he hears someone move around. hears a lurking at the door.

"y/n?" he calls. "i can hear you."

but you don't answer.

so peter knocks again, checking his phone for any sign of you, and staring at the door.

all he gets is a quick "read" message, and then silence.

he sighs.

"c'mon," he calls again. "just open the door, or text me, and i'll leave."

but you do neither.

peter scowls. "i'm not gonna go," he tells you. "i'll be out here until you are, and when i freeze to death you're going to feel really bad."

he might hear a scoff, but the only thing that follows is some silence.

he says your name again, leaning against the door.

and then he scrolls on your phone, sending you another text.

he hears your phone ring on the other side of the door.

and he can hear you sighing because he's just sent you a link to door.

there's a moment that passes, where peter is just a bit proud, and then you open the door.

"that's not even what that song means," you tell him, glowering, but you let him in.

peter just smiles at you.

you're drawing him again. laughing as he teases you and listening to a playlist that he's made for the two of you--promising that it was great and that you'd enjoy it very much.

this time, though, it's a bit different.

you haven't asked to draw him since that day when he met you in the studio and finally looked comfortable enough to sit still. you haven't wanted to push that line, again, because you knew that it would be different.

and that last picture of him, well. . .

it's not the same as now. not the same as peter is when he's smiling at you.

when he's singing along to a song that he's chosen and rolling his eyes when you say something, or make fun of him.

it's not the same, you know, because last time, it was merely some strange sort of attraction to him. some want, or need, or crazy, fantasy thing.

but now. god.

now you know peter. now you know what he looks like when he's upset, how he acts when he's scared, or what he cares about, or who he truly is, behind the mask.

now you're in love with him and trying to hide it.

unsuccessfully, you're sure.

"how much longer?" peter asks you, spinning around in your chair as you sit on your bed.

it's also different because he's in your room, messing with your things.

"i've already told you, peter, that you can't rush art."

"you're probably not even drawing me."

you grin down at the paper.

peter continues to sing, continues to flip through an old notebook of drawings.

"you know," you tell him, just glancing up to meet his brown eyes. "i don't like this song very much."

peter raises a brow. "really?"

you nod, pursing your lips.

and so he sings even louder.

"a zero, zero," peter says to you, laughing. "now he's a--"

you throw a pillow at him, smirking.

peter frowns. "that's going to ruin the drawing."

"so is your singing," you tell him. "stay still, peter."

"can i at least see?" he asks.

"not till i'm done."

and then the song changes, and suddenly, you're grinning at him.

just like that first day.

as soon as peter hears the opening chords, he's cursing himself for putting this song on the playlist.

for letting himself be manipulated at the thought of your smile, and funny laugh as you danced around to this one the first time. for allowing himself to give in to it.

because your smile is nothing but evil.

and suddenly, you're not drawing, but standing up, biting your lip.

"hey, good lookin'," you croon. moving your hips and your shoulders and smiling at him because you just know. "whatcha got cookin'?"

peter throws his head back and groans.

but you're singing along, dancing around him, and whispering the words in his ear.

"there's soda pop and the dancing's free," you whisper, the goosebumps much more than a physical reaction.

and, really, peter's trying not to smile as he watches you dance. as he watches your smile ebb and flow and listens to your voice, to your accent as--

"--so we can go steady," you gesture at him, smiling sweetly. "how's about saving all your time for me?"

you are a monster, an absolute devil as you pull peter up, as he goes so willingly, and begins to dance with you.

his hands around your waist and yours wrapped around his neck and that goddamn smile.

and your voice, and every single thing that you mean to him.

"c'mon," you say to him, giggling. "dance."

and he does. he can't stop.

then, when the song begins to fade, and you whisper a last "how's about cooking something up with me?" he pulls you down to your bed.

he's almost breathless and laughing at you as you try to squirm away.

he's absolutely gone as you still against him, suddenly realizing where you are.

that he's pulled you so that you're laying right against him. and, peter is three inches away from you, and he can feel your breath against him.

he can see your smile as it almost fades.

as you watch his eyes, but falter, and look down.

down and down and peter's eyes follow.

he's staring at your lips, and he almost doesn't notice it as he leans in, as your breath hitches.

and he kisses you.

finally. finally.

he pulls you as close as he can get you, hand wrapped around your neck, and at the base of your head, and digging into you, and your hands are on his face, they are still and alive as you grip onto him just as tight as he's got you.

as you pull him, push and pull his lips, and breathe into his mouth.

as he finally feels all of you, and thanks god that you're there.

and when he pulls back, almost disassociating, eyes wide, he's staring at you.

he's listening to a song in the background but he doesn't know the words.

he can't think at all, can't breathe with you right there.

"i'm sorry," he whispers, as he suddenly remembers who you are and what you mean to him.

but you--you smile at him. you laugh like you can't believe it.

you look into peter's eyes and you see all of him.

you shake your head, one hand drifting to your lips like you can feel something new.

you laugh again.

"peter," you whisper to him, and he's staring back. "do it again."

if you were a waiting room, i would never see the doctor.

more of them.

my masterlist here.

tags:@moonlarking-blog @v1ci0us @preciousbabypeter @alexxavicry @directioner5life @inthegetawaycarwithtaylah @localrockstargf @thestudiouswanderer @take-my-hand-time-boy @thoughtsofagodlovingsunflower @nyomjoon @moo-b1tch @raindropstearsandtea @rqmanoff @hollandweather @wetcoldnoodle @urlocalavenderhazestan @valvlry @imthatcoolmom @spideysimpossiblegirl invisibletrolleyson-jeremy @sharkswaters

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