#the fact that none of the mentors you meet in the Quell fic are even in their 30s 😭they should be at a club

[kald-dal-write]

Drawing of Ash and Claude because I realised I made them both smokers and then I was like “huh maybe they would be friends they have some similarities”. And then boom, this drawing happened haha

[petersmparker]

The River Café (Peter Parker x Reader)

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader, Flash Thompson x Reader (as a Plot Device™️ (that I ended up being lowkey attached to?? hit me up flash))

Summary: You’ve decided that you’re going to go out and have a nice time, insistent feelings for your best friend Peter Parker or otherwise.

Word Count: 3757

Warnings: a spicey hint of sailor’s mouth

A/N: I started this two days ago and nearly shitcanned it but now I’m like... kinda in love with it?? I hope y’all like it, I know sticking Flash up in there is unusual but honestly I dig how it came together and I hope everyone’s willing to give it a shot 💙❤️ and also believe me when I say that Flash’s name is legitimately Eugene I fucking swear it (side note: consider this part of my congratulations to @moonstruckholland for one year on her blog!! I hope you enjoy this girl idk what your fic prefs are)

"Let's go on a date friday night."

-

Your group of friends has grown together over the past few years. Leaps and bounds past what you ever might have expected, even. It’s something that you still find yourself reassessing sometimes; occasionally getting caught off guard by something that’s actually pretty natural by now. You can’t help but be pleasantly surprised, though, when you catch yourself thinking back to what it was while witnessing what it is.

Sophomore year of highschool was a ton of awkwardness wrapped up in a silly belief that everyone had already become the person they were meant to be. Senior year, you find it much more appealing to declare just how much no one knows that they’re doing.

The one constant for you in all this time has been Peter. Peter, ever-changing, ever-moving, ever-working, has not remained static in his existence. He has, however, stayed unwaveringly connected to you. For him, you do the same.

You’re there when Uncle Ben dies, sitting in the stairwell of the funeral home when Peter can’t handle another person passing on their condolences. It’s you who makes Peter do his homework and study for his tests when he determines that he doesn’t need school anymore. Your eyes follow him as he sprints from the gymnasium on the night of homecoming, and again later when he decides to sneak off the bus to investigate the space ship descending upon New York. When you wake up on the other side of the Blip, it’s you who runs to Peter’s apartment to find him mourning the loss of his mentor.

“Don’t you get tired?” Peter asked once in junior year, as you wiped blood from his side with a wet wash cloth, fuming over the newest live report of J Jonah Jameson, “You don’t wish you didn’t have to deal with all of this?”

“Never,” you had responded, “I. . . I love you, Pete.”

Peter had given you a small, weak smile and returned to digging through the first aid kit, seemingly untouched by your admission. It’s not difficult to assume that he had interpreted it friendly in nature, and you figure that that’s proof enough of his nonexistent feelings for you.

That's why, a year later-- assured in the belief that Peter views you only as a friend and comfortable enough in the fact that you’re still figuring this whole life thing out-- you decide to accept the offer of one Flash Thompson for a date.

What’s the harm, you figure. It seems casual enough, and Flash had mellowed out over the years. He's no longer quite so quick to tease others or flaunt his wealth, and had become a relatively decent friend of yours. Worst case scenario, it’s awkward, you get a free meal, and the both of you continue on to pretend it didn’t happen. Best case. . .

Maybe you move on from Peter.

-

Peter shows up unannounced at your door late Friday afternoon with a backpack full of schoolwork and snacks. It's not unusual of him at all, and yet when you hurry to answer the door, the sight of him catches you by surprise.

His gaze flicks upward to your wet hair, twisted into a towel, and then down to your hands, which you're holding out cautiously to avoid ruining a fresh coat of black polish. The confusion on his face is amused in nature. You're not normally one to paint your nails unless there's an event going on.

"Uh, hi, Peter," you say, trying not to sound unwelcoming.

This is such bad timing.

"Hey," he greets, hand wrapping around the strap of his backpack, "What's up? I was thinking we could do homework for an hour and then give up to watch movies instead."

You hadn't told Peter about the date. Telling him, you feared, would feel like you were asking for him to disapprove. To ask you not to go. It wasn't a disappointment you were willing to inflict upon yourself. Not when you were feeling a bit of hope for the outcome of the date. You wanted to be enthusiastic; wanted to enjoy the company of a friend and see if something could come out of it that was more than hopeless pining.

"I kind of have plans," you admit, unable to meet his eye.

Confusion colors his tone now, too. "Oh, really? Well, uh, do you mind if I come in for a little while anyway? Since I'm here. I need a bit of help with the English assignment."

Part of you wants to say no. But you can't look at Peter Parker and turn him away, and so you back up to let him into your apartment. He knows the way to your room by now and leads the way there. Every available surface is littered with items of clothing. He'd seen your room somewhat messy before, but you can tell he isn't expecting it to look like a tornado has been through your closet. You avoid his eyes, embarrassed, when he turns to give you a questioning look.

He throws himself onto your bed, shifting to sit with his back against the headboard, and digs a notebook from his bag. After a moment, he pulls a dress out from under himself and puts it aside.

You find yourself standing awkwardly in the doorway. A glance at the alarm clock on your nightstand tells you that Flash will be picking you up in only forty-five minutes. Peter clearly doesn't intend to leave until he's asked, and you don't have the will to ask. Which means you're going to have to just finish getting ready, anyway, and send him off before Flash arrives.

"What did you need help with?" You ask, going over to the dresser to look into the mirror above it.

You remove the towel from your hair to find that it's mostly dry. Satisfied, you brush it all back, away from your face. You see him looking at you in the mirror, but attempt to ignore it. It's already uncomfortable enough preparing for a date in front of the guy you're in love with. Must he make you feel weird for prettying yourself up a bit, even inadvertently?

What did I do to deserve this? you wonder, and apply a hint of peach eyeshadow with the tip of your finger.

He looks back to the notebook. You pretend not to notice that, either.

"The argumentative essay," he says finally, with a sigh, "Mr. Sharpton said my thesis needs work."

"Sharpton tends to be a picky little bitch. Read it to me," you instruct, dabbing glitter onto your eyelids and across your freckles.

He does. It's not the worst thesis statement. The intention is clear. Peter's always been better with math and science, but he's never been hopeless with English, either. "Well, you've got all three prongs already," you start, before pausing to apply a healthy amount of clear gloss, "They're just not parallel. It sounds awkward. For what you're trying to say, you could probably just reorganize the sentence, but structure it around the phrase, 'Through the author's use of. . . '" you wave your hand, indicating his points, "'. . .blah blah blah is represented.'"

Peter hums in understanding, followed by the scratching of pen against paper. You take the time to apply mascara and go about picking through the clothes strewn around the room to reassess what to wear. Kneeling on the floor, you throw various clothes back toward the open closet door.

Too casual, too dressy, too casual, too casual, that's stained, ew.

Your cell phone beeps on the bedside table. The sound of pen on paper ceases. Before you can say anything, Peter, who've never minded reading your texts, picks it up out of habit. He reads the message out to you.

"Um. Flash says to wear something fancy?" He says, sounding disconcerted.

The sick feeling in your stomach is immediate.

"Uhh. Thanks."

You pull the black dress that you'd deemed too dressy back out of the closet, hoping to appear more casual and less about-to-vomit. Thirty minutes left. Not even that much. Just twenty minutes and you could have sent Peter home none the wiser and had an extra ten to hype yourself up for this date, but now you're confronted with the fact that Peter knows. He knows and you're going to have to hear about it.

"You're going out with Flash?" He asks as you attempt to quell your nerves by focusing very hard on removing the couple of cat hairs that stick to the velvet material of the dress.

"Yeah."

"Like, on a date?"

"Yeah."

You risk a glance at Peter. His expression is unreadable. The sight of it makes your stomach twist. To escape it, you step into the closet and close the door under the guise of changing clothes.

"How did that happen?" Peter calls through the door.

You wince. There's something in his tone like disappointment, and you realize that you never considered the possibility that he might judge you for your willingness to go on a date with Flash. Sure, they were something like friends nowadays, but maybe that didn't mean Peter actually genuinely liked the guy. The prospect of having just lost Peter's respect is like a needle to the heart.

"He- He asked me out after decathlon the other day. I thought it might be fun."

"That's. . . interesting," Peter says, tone still off in some way.

The feeling that spreads through you is gross. There's a bitter taste in your mouth. You hate it. This was supposed to be something simple, something nice you could enjoy for yourself. You don't want Peter to ruin it for you, whether or not that's his intention.

You tug on the dress hurriedly and exit the closet, doing your best to maintain some sort of neutrality in your expression. "Flash is my friend. He said he that he kinda likes me and it seemed like it would be nice to go out with him," you say, "Whats wrong with that, Peter?"

Peter looks like he's been accused. Your tone wasn't as calm as intended, so it's no surprise.

"Nothing!" He responds, throwing his hands up in a placating gesture, "It's just- it's weird, isn't it?"

It feels like the air has been sucked out of your room. Your ears ring. In the back of your head, you know-- you know he only means it's weird because it's Flash you're about to go out with. But you're being faced with a conversation you didn't want, forced to acknowledge that you were never going to just find a person who makes you laugh and be able to just get the hell over Peter, and what comes out reflects the hurt feelings that are eating at you in the moment.

"Weird?" You demand, "Is it really so goddamn weird that someone could have feelings for me, Peter? Just because you don't-!"

Anger and hurt clouds your brain and you lose your train of thought entirely, breaking off in an involuntary scoff. You snatch your shoes off the floor and your apartment keys off the dresser. It isn't until you've stalked over to the nightstand to grab your phone that you continue.

"I'm leaving. I'm going on that date with Flash and I'm going to enjoy myself. Lock the door on your way out."

Peter's still on the bed, unmoved. He looks more startled than he's ever been by something you've said, and then even more so when you toss the apartment keys in his direction.

When you storm out of your own home, shoes still clutched in your hand, you try desperately to wipe from your mind the image of the shocked look on your best friend's face.

-

The date is nice.

Like, actually, genuinely nice.

Flash happens to arrive at your building just in time to find you gazing hard into the glass of the lobby. You're swiping frustratedly at the mascara that has run with the few angry tears you couldn't prevent. You manage to play the makeup off as no big deal, but his eyes drift immediately to your bare feet and the shoes clutched in your left hand. There's no good explanation for being shoeless on a New York City street.

"Do I want to ask?" He questions, looking kinda grossed out and at least moderately concerned.

"Please don't," you answer.

He opens the car door for you like you haven't already ruined your chances of impressing him, and you can't help but marvel at how different he is from the Flash of two years ago, who would most definitely have gotten back in his car and sped off.

The drive is long and Flash won't tell you what the destination is. You pass the time with chatter, not all that different from what you'd probably be exchanging in study hall. The convertible's roof is down, which makes it difficult not to look up for a hint of red and blue passing by, but Flash stares up openly for his idol when the car is stopped.

You don't think Spider-Man will be out tonight.

After a while, you cross the Brooklyn Bridge. Flash hands the keys over to the valet of the restaurant and helps you out of the car. He makes a joke about how your shoes better be on, but you barely hear.

"Flash, really?"

"What?"

The entrance to the restaurant is beautiful, lit with warm-colored string lights and surrounded by luscious greenery. You recognize the name on the sign, hand-painted in green; your parents had come here for their 25th anniversary a while back.

"This place is really fucking expensive," you say, and suddenly become very aware of the fact that you hadn't brought your wallet.

"I like the side dishes here," he says, like the scalloped potatoes wouldn’t cost a normal person half a fridge of groceries.

"You're nuts."

Flash buttons the top two buttons of his plaid suit jacket and takes your hand. Your stomach flips. From nerves or guilt, you're not sure. It's probably both.

"Do you have a reservation?" Asks the Maître D' when you enter.

You're prepared to have to leave, figuring that a spot at a swanky place like this would need to be reserved months in advance, but Flash pulls out his license to show to the man.

"Yes we do. 6:30, under the name Eugene Thompson."

"This way then, Mr. Thompson."

Your table next to the window overlooks the East River. The dining room has already begun to fill with the dinner rush and the little band in the corner is playing a sweet-sounding song. The menu is astronomically expensive, but Flash urges you to get whatever you want. You settle for the cheapest chicken dish on the menu and take to watching the boats pass beneath the Brooklyn Bridge. Flash orders a meat and cheese plate to start, unsurprisingly, and arranges combinations on bread and crackers for you to try.

It's more fun than you ever expected it to be, honestly. You'd been prepared for Flash to be a bit much after having agreed to let him choose the date, but he's just trying to make sure you enjoy yourself. He makes jokes and laughs at your own. Refills your drink from the water flute before you've even noticed you've gotten low. Offers you a taste of his meal. You're distracted, Peter no longer at the forefront of your mind.

With Flash, it's easy.

"I'll be honest, Eugene," you start, teasingly, and giggle at Flash's fake-annoyed attempt to jokingly swat at the side of your head, "This is. . . This is really, really nice. My wig is sufficiently snatched."

He busts out laughing, earning a look from those at nearby tables. After a few moments, he quiets and takes to smiling down at his steak.

His smile softens into something a bit awkward, maybe somewhat unsure, when he says, “Can I ask you something?”

Your heart involuntarily skips a beat. When is that question ever a good sign? “I- uh, yeah. Sure. What’s up?”

“What’s up with you and Parker?”

When you meet Flash’s eye, he doesn’t appear accusatory. He doesn’t even seem upset. More than anything, you’d say he looks confused. You, however, can feel heat rising aggressively to your cheeks.

You feel guilty again.

“Peter? What do you mean?” 

He rolls his eyes good-naturedly in response and sets down his fork. “Oh, come on now. You like him right? Since like, middle school.”

You know you’ve never really actively tried to hide it from anyone, but having it said aloud like that is jarring. It’s embarrassing. You wonder why Flash wants to talk about this, of all things, when your date had actually been going pretty darn well. But you decide to be honest, since fooling him is unrealistic.

“A while, yeah.”

“Then why are you on a date with me right now?” Flash questions.

“You. . . you asked me out?” You answer confusedly.

He passes a hand through his hair a bit agitatedly. You hope he isn’t annoyed with you, but you aren’t sure what he’s expecting you to say.

“I mean,” he clarifies, a laugh escaping his lips, “Why the hell aren’t you dating him? It’s been years already. Did you guys decide that you didn’t want to risk ruining your friendship? What’s up?”

It seems that your brain is exclusively capable of performing the sound of a record scratch on repeat. You have no idea how to respond to anything Flash has just said. None of it makes sense. Peter doesn’t like you. He never has. If Flash has paid enough attention to notice how much you like your best friend, surely he should have noticed that your affection is definitely not returned.

You don't want to think about it. You don't want a spark of hope, only for it to be stomped on. Today's events alone have been proof enough that Peter doesn't like you.

"Why did you ask me out if you knew I like Peter?" You question, staring down at your half-eaten chicken parmesan.

"Why did you agree if you like Peter?"

You can feel him looking at you. When you decide to meet his eye, you're scared to see the hurt that's in them.

It's not there.

"You were hoping to get over him, right?" Flash asks, half a smile on his face, "I was hoping you would, too."

He takes your hand for the first time since you entered the restaurant, and you realize that if anything, he maybe kind of gets it.

“Peter doesn’t have feelings for me,” you manage to say, after several long moments of silence have passed.

“Dude, Parker’s in love with you.”

-

Considering everything, the ride home isn't nearly as awkward as it could have been. 

Flash parks a little ways down the street from your building. He doesn't get up to help you out of the car like he had before. You can't really hold that against him.

"Sorry about all this," you say, guilt still swirling low in your gut, after you've shut the passenger side door.

He side eyes you when he says, "Don't flatter yourself, honey, I'll get over it," and grins, "Go tell Parker that I will actually straight up call my lawyers if he fucks this up now that I've laid all this shit out for him."

With that, he waves his hand once and then pulls away from the curb. 

Thanks Eugene, is the text you send him during the walk home.

He responds with selfie of him flipping off the camera, and things are just about as close to normal between you as you figure they can be, for now. It's with a laugh that you send one back, shoes once again clutched in your flipping-off hand as you knock on the door to your apartment and wait for your parents to let you in.

Peter opens the door.

Your smile freezes in its place and then falls. His gaze averts quickly to the floor, like he's just done something wrong. You aren't sure what to say to him. "You're still here," you settle on pointing out, eventually.

"How'd it go?" He asks, skipping over the part where he explains the fact that he's still in your apartment.

He looks very much like he doesn't want to hear the answer, but also like he's trying to sound enthusiastic for you. Your heart aches. It's been hours since you'd left, and he's been sitting here marinating in the fight. Meanwhile, while you were fine dining with a friend who turned out to be way better of a friend than you'd thought he was.

"We enjoyed ourselves," you admit.

"Oh," he responds, voice a bit shaky, "That's good. I mean- It's great. That's really great. I'm glad. I'm happy for you."

"Hey, Peter?"

"Yeah?"

Your throat wants to close when you look into his eyes, but you press on.

"Are you in love with me?"

". . .Yeah."

Despite the fact that you grasp the front of his shirt in your fist when you lean in to kiss him, it's neither hurried nor forceful. It's a response, and an assurance. You pull back enough to see his eyebrows knitted together in confusion, then kiss him a second time, just a peck.

He leans his forehead against yours, sighing in relief. The tension that he must have been holding in his body releases, and you feel his stance soften with your hand still against his chest.

"I should have told you," he murmurs, reaching up to cup your jaw.

You can't help but crack a smile. "Yeah, Pete. Flash had to tell me. On our date."

"That's so awkward."

You laugh. "You're tellin' me."

He leans away from you when he exclaims, suppressing his laughter, "Hey, you didn't tell me, either!"

"Oh my god, Peter," you gush, "Yes I did! Over a year ago!"

His smile falls like he's just had the air knocked out of him. "You what?"

"Oh my god," you repeat, shaking your head in disbelief, "oh my god." 

Peter falls into a slew of apologies, but you're starting to laugh, and they start to die on his lips just ask quickly as they had begun to form. You pull him forward by his shirt once more and kiss him in the doorway, revelling in the ridiculousness of it all.

"I'm in love with you too," you sigh.

If his delighted smile weren't already enough, the kiss that follows more than makes up for it.

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