thatswhatijustsaid

[thatswhatijustsaid]

hi jadey would you do something with r peeling an orange for peter even though he’s perfectly capable of doing it for himself but she wants to do acts of service for him ☹️🫶

There are some bad boyfriends out there. Guys who’d rather argue, who won’t walk their girls to the door, who never help with the dishes. There are losers who expect things after they pay for dinner, and never say please. 

Peter Parker is the polar opposite of all those men. Peter Parker gets home from a long day at work and a short shift as his crime-fighting alter ego and makes you a hot chocolate without asking how many marshmallows you want. “Hello,” he says, kissing you behind the ear as he comes around you from behind, the hot chocolate set carefully next to your laptop. “Did you hear me come in, or are you ignoring me?” 

The former, for sure. You beam to yourself and twist in his hold to meet his eyes, brown and wide where they take you in. “Hello!” you say, not shouting, but certainly not whispering either. “I never hear you. You’re a cheater.” 

“You have ears,” he says. 

“And I choose not to use them.” 

“You okay?” He gives your shoulder a concerned rub. When you nod, it turns to a quicker, softer patting. “Okay. I’m gonna make dinner, yeah? I’m starving.” 

He’s strange in that he says ‘starving’ like he’s excited about the feeling. You nod and he nods back, tangible affection in the air between you before he presses his nose to your forehead and leaves. 

You’re just a girl. You finish what you’d been working on as quickly as you can and close your laptop, sipping at the hot chocolate he’d made you with a smirk. Your boyfriend loves you a lot. He’s handsome and tall and smart but he fucking loves you; Peter comes home from a long day hungry and makes you a drink. 

“My love.” You push open the kitchen door. 

“Yeah?” he asks. 

“I can make dinner.” 

“No, that’s fine. I’m making it.” 

“I can do it, Pete,” you say, putting your mug down on the counter. 

“I’m gonna do it,” he says, taking your hands, moving you out of the way of the fridge. His smile is as sugary as his eyes. “You have hot chocolate to drink. Before it’s cold chocolate.” 

“Boo.” You let him win reluctantly. He’s too strong, you argue to yourself smugly, he could totally take you in a fight. There’s never any winning with him. 

Peter turns the oven on and lights the stovetop, a frying pan on the heat, a square of butter melting in the centre. He cuts the veggies swiftly, asking question from over his shoulder. How was your day, babe? Did you eat enough? Did that headache come back? 

You lean on the counter and take a clementine from the fruit bowl. It was fine, you tell him, digging your fingers into the skin. Not much to say. I ate plenty. Headache stayed at home. The sharp citrus smell of torn pith hits the air as you peel the skin from the fruit's flesh. Then you spend a good five minutes taking off the stringy white bits as Peter fries your veggies with some leftover chicken from last night. 

“Here,” you say, breaking the clementine into pieces. 

“Oh, thank you,” he says, taking one from the well of your hand.

He eats it so fast you could argue he doesn’t taste it. 

“It’s for you, Peter,” you say, putting the rest of the clementine on the chopping board next to the carrot tops. “I’ll peel you another one. I know one’s not enough for you.” 

“Au contraire,” he murmurs, grabbing your waist, tugging you in, orange on his breath as you let him take your weight and move in. “You’re the only one for me.” 

“Terrible,” you murmur back. 

Peter’s grinning as he takes your face into his hand. He tips your head back, your heart fluttering just as much as it did the very first time he touched you like this, his eyes lit by a deep, unignorable sweetness for you. “Thank you,” he says. “You’re real nice to me, huh?” 

“Thank you for the hot chocolate.” 

“That wasn’t me. That was just sitting here when I got in.” 

You wrap your arm around his neck to close him in. “Sure it was.” 

“It was!” He kisses the corner of your mouth eagerly. Each word he says after is half smothered by the press of his lips on your cheek and the soft skin just below your eye as you laugh. “Wanna feed me as I stir? I think our dinner’s burning.” 

“If you keep kissing me, then yeah. I’ll peel every orange in that bowl for you.” 

Such a promise spurs another round of soft kisses. 

[thatswhatijustsaid]

Whumptober 2023

Welcome to Whumptober 2023 — the sixth year running!

To those of you who participated last year, welcome back! To everyone joining this year, welcome!

Please make sure to read the Event Info carefully, as most of your questions will be answered there already. For everything else, you are welcome to come to our ask box or ask questions in our Discord server here.

This year’s AO3 Collection can be found here.

And this years playlist can be found here.

There are 139 prompt options in total this year - this is including the alternatives list! A special thanks goes out to those who took part in our trope vote back in July. From the 1526 responses to our list of 223 tropes, we looked through the popularity results, as well as your honourable mentions, and were able to produce this years prompts list. Stay tuned, as we will be posting some of the results at a later date!

We’re very excited to see the community come together once more and be a wild, chaotic bunch of creators and consumers of whump. Go wild with the prompts, and support your fellow creators - we wish you all the fun!

Best of luck and happy whumping,

Mods Vanne, Yenn, Kitty and Surro

(All 31 Themes + Prompts, Event Information and FAQs are posted below the cut!)

Whumptober 2023 Prompt List

No. 1: “But now this room is spinning while I’m trying just to fill in all the gaps.”

Safety Net | Swooning | “How many fingers am I holding up?”

No. 2: “I’ll call out your name, but you won’t call back.”

Thermometer | Delirium | “They don't care about you.”

No. 3: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.”

Journal | Solitary Confinement | “Make it stop.”

No. 4: “I see the danger, It’s written there in your eyes.”

Cattle Prod | Shock | “You in there?”

No. 5: “You better pray I don't get up this time around.”

Debris | Pinned Down | “It's broken.”

No. 6: “Do or die, you’ll never make me; Because the world will never take my heart.”

Recording | Made to Watch | “It should have been me.”

No. 7: " “I paced around for hours on empty; I jumped at the slightest of sounds.”

Alleyway | Radio Silence | “Can you hear me?”

No. 8: “I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier.”

Overcrowded ER | Outnumbered | “It’s all for nothing.”

No. 9: “Learning everything ain't what it seems, that's the thing about these days.”

Polaroid | Mistaken Identity | “You're a liar.”

No. 10: “Can’t you see that you’re lost without me?”

Broken Phone | Stranded | “You said you'd never leave.”

No. 11: “All the lights going dark and my hope’s destroyed.”

Animal trap | Captivity | “No one will find you.”

No. 12: “I haven't slept in days but who's counting?”

Red | Insomnia | “I’m up, I’m up.”

No. 13: “It comes and goes like the strength in your bones.”

Cold Compress | Infection | “I don’t feel so good.”

No. 14: “Feed me poison, fill me ‘till I drown.”

Flare | Water Inhalation | “Just hold on.”

No. 15: “I don't need you to help me I can handle things myself.”

Makeshift Bandages | Suppressed Suffering | “I’m fine.”

No. 16: “Would you lie with me and just forget the world?”

Gurney | Flatline | “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

No. 17: “You’re the lump in my throat and the knot in my chest.”

Collar | Touch Aversion | “Leave me alone.”

No. 18: “I tend to deflect when I’m feeling threatened.”

Blindfold | Tortured For Information | “Hit them harder.”

No. 19: “I’ll take one final step, all you have to do is make me.”

Floral Bouquet | Psychological | “I’m not as stupid as you think I am.”

No. 20: “People don’t change people, time does.”

Blanket | Found Family | “You will regret touching them.”

No. 21: “See the chains around my feet.”

Vows | Restraints | “Don't move.”

No. 22: “They never saw us coming, ‘til they hit the floor.”

Glass Shard | Vehicular Accident | “Watch out!”

No. 23: “It’s gonna get me by the end of the night.”

Shadows | Stalking | “Who’s there?”

No. 24: “I’ve got a head full of chemicals; mouth full of ridicule.”

Goodbye Note | Neglect | “I thought they were with you.”

No. 25: “You’re not delivering a perfect body to the grave.”

Storm | Buried Alive | “They’re not breathing!”

No. 26: “Sometimes I get so tired; I don’t even know myself.”

Seeing Double | Working To Exhaustion | “You look awful.”

No. 27: “You drew stars around my scars; But now I’m bleeding.”

Matches | Scars | “Let me see”

No. 28: “We might not make it to the morning; so go on and tell me now.”

Bloody Knife | Sacrifice | “You'll have to go through me.”

No. 29: “I only sink deeper the deeper I think.”

Scented Candle | Troubled Past Resurfacing | “What happened to me?”

No. 30: “It’s okay, just to say, ‘I’m not okay’.”

Borrowed Clothing | Bridal Carry | “Not much longer...”

No. 31: “I thought that I was getting better.”

Emptiness | Setbacks | “Take it easy.”

Alternatives List:

Betrayal

Aftermath of Failure

Brass Knuckles

Decoy

Body Modification

Playing Cards

Examination

Hunting

Drugging

Shaking

Panic

Broken

Miscommunication

Lab Rat

Reluctant Whumper

Event Info & Rules

~ Please read our extensive event info posts before sending us an ask - A link can be found at the top of this post. ~

WHUMPTOBER is a month-long, prompt-based creation challenge (think: Inktober, but whumpier). There are 31 official themes this year - one for each day of the month - which can be used, skipped, or combined in any way you’d like. The 'theme' of each day is the line of lyrics.

The prompts are merely to serve as inspiration without being taken literally (e.g. you don’t have to include the exact wording of prompts into your work). Feel free to run rampant on interpretation. For example, if the prompt is "flame", you could create something with reference to a candle/campfire, your character could have suffered a burn, or the flame could be related to the 'spark' of a relationship. It's truly up to you!

In total, there are 4 prompts for each day: there's lyrics, an object, a trope and a line of dialogue to choose from.  We want to give everyone as much creative freedom as possible, as well as increase event accessibility for folks with triggers and squicks.

Creators can PRODUCE work in any media they choose, including but not limited to: writing, visual artwork, photo/video/audio edits, paper crafts and elaborate recommendation lists (not just a list of links). Creators can PARTICIPATE as much or as little as they want (i.e. you don’t have to do ALL the prompts if you don’t want to) and prompts can be used in any order. They are also free to use even after the event ends.

When uploading Whumptober content to your blog, be sure to tag the with:

#whumptober2023 …..(the event tag)

#no.1, #no.2, #no.3, …..(day number)

#lyric, #bruises, #stabbing,  …..(the theme or specific prompt you chose)

#fandom or #OC, … (ironman, originalcontent, oc …)

#medium …..(gifs, fic, podcast, art, etc.)

#teeth, #gore tw, #etc …..(trigger warnings & any additional tags. Add "tw" AFTER the trigger/content warning. )

#nsfwhump …..(only for nsfw content)

#your own tags go here

PLEASE BE DILIGENT WITH YOUR TAGGING. Only properly tagged posts are considered for archiving on the official @whumptober-archive blog. They must be tagged in the order above. An elaborate post about our tagging system can be found [here]

Unfortunately, due to the sheer number of participants in recent years, we cannot guarantee your work will be archived. A random selection of properly tagged posts from all genres will be reblogged each day.

Whumpers who produce content for 31 total theme days are considered event completionists and will be tagged in a masterpost at the end of the month. A form will be published at the beginning of November asking you to tell us if you completed the event. You do not need to post anything you have created, we rely on trust and we will not check this.

Questions not addressed in one of our many event info posts can be directed to this blog. We will not answer any questions that have been answered in the FAQs or rules already.

Frequently Asked Questions

Q. How does this year’s prompt list work? What do I have to choose?

You can create something based on:

The overall theme/lyric of the day

Prompt 1, 2 or 3

One or several of the alternative prompts

A combination of the above

Q. Is [specific anything] allowed?

When in doubt: JUST DO IT!

Q. Do I have to do all 31 days?

Participate as much or little as you like! Just be sure to tag your posts properly (ex. #no.7, #radio silence). If you create works for 31 total theme days you will become a completionist. But apart from that, there are no repercussions if you don’t fill prompts for each day.

Q. Can I post early/late?

Yes, you can post whenever you want. We will only reblog posts during October, but you can use our prompts all year round. The day you post will only affect your probability of being reblogged.

Q. Will you reblog my post?

Due to the sheer number of content posted during Whumptober we can’t promise to reblog every single post. We will make a random selection trying to capture a wide variety of content. The following will increase your chances at being reblogged:

tag your post properly

post within 2-3 days of the theme you want to fill: if you fill the prompt for Day 1 your chances of being reblogged during October 1st to 3rd are highest and will go towards zero afterwards.

Q. What if I don’t understand a prompt/theme?

Send us an ask! We’re happy to help with wild, unhelpful clarifications or brainstorming. That being said, the themes are entirely up for interpretation. Don’t take them too literally. For example: You can be choking on a cherry, someone else can choke you or you could be choked up on emotions, etc.

Q. What kind of content can I make? Can it be NSFW?

This is a MIXED MEDIA event! You can write fic, post meta, doodle or paint, create a gifset or photo edit, link a song, or get crafty with video - anything goes. As for NSFW, make what you like, we just hope that you’ll tag your work accordingly so that others participating in the event can stay safe.

Q. Can I combine Whumptober with other creation challenges?

Absolutely, as long as the other challenges allow it too.

Q. Can I upload/repost my Whumptober content to other social media platforms?

Of course! You can post your own content wherever you like (or you can opt to not publish it at all). Additionally we’ve created an AO3 Collection to archive any fics posted there. It can be accessed here. The tumblr blog @whumptober-archive is the official archive, so please respect the boundaries of any closeted whumpers in your social circle.

Q. Can I use prompts to write a new chapter for an existing fic?

Yes.

Q. An existing fic I am currently writing contains many of the Whumptober prompts, can I use it?

If you are actively writing this fic at the moment with the Whumptober prompts in mind, yes. If you’ve previously posted something that checks the boxes, we ask that you not include it retroactively for this current year. You can, however, add new chapters relating to one or more of the prompts.

Q. What kind of characters can I write for?

Fandom characters, OC characters, human, furry, alien, cyborg, RPF, whoever you like. You can use the generic “whumpee” character or have specific ones.

Q. Does it have to take place in a specific fandom?

No, you can create works for your own worlds or for fandoms or for both. You can also create more generic or pan-fandom works. You can do cross-overs or use OCs, whatever you want.

Q. Can I use a prompt multiple times?

Yes, but it only counts once towards being a completionist.

Q. If I’m not comfortable with one day’s prompts can I use a prompt of a different day as a substitute and still be a completionist?

No, you can’t exchange prompts for different days. However, if all four prompts of a specific day make you uncomfortable, we have created an alternate prompts list that you can draw from. You can exchange any prompt with these, but please make sure not to use them twice.

Q. Where can I post my work?

Post where and how you want. You don’t have to (cross)post it to Tumblr or at all. Just keep in mind if it’s not on Tumblr we will not be able to add it to the blog archive.

Q. Can I start posting early?

You can, but this is an October event and wouldn’t it be more fun with everyone doing it at the same time? That being said, you can post early, but we won’t be reblogging any work predating October 1st.

Q. Do I have to finish a fic I started/can I post WIP’s?

Yes you can post WIPs. And you’re not obligated to finish it in October for it to count towards being a completionist.  

Q. Is co-writing allowed?

Yes, absolutely, and it would count towards being a completionist for both/all of you.

Q. Do I have to create 31 standalone pieces to be considered a completionist or can I write one continuous story?

One continuous story is fine.  The challenge is to write something for 31 prompts. If that’s spread over 31 fics or just one, you are still considered a completionist. (The same goes for every other media you choose.)

Q. Is there a min/max limit on word count?

There is no limit.

Q. Can I combine prompts? Is there a limit on how many?

No limit and combine as many as you’d like.

Q. Is a hc/angst/emotional whump focus ok?

Of course! We are not going to establish a threshold for whumpiness. If you think it’s whumpy enough, then it’s whumpy enough. It can be physical, psychological, emotional, or any combination of the three.

Q. What’s considered nsfw?

See this post

Q. What is whump?

Typically the genre includes situations where a fictional character is hurt, be it emotionally, psychologically, or physically. Fanlore provides information here.

Q. My interpretation of the prompt isn’t whumpy at all, does that count?

If you don’t think your interpretation is whumpy, then it doesn’t count for Whumptober. Remember that whump comes in many forms, though, and that we don’t have a whump-checker or a threshold for how much whump needs to be included. If you think your interpretation contains enough whump to count, then it does.

Q. Can I start working on the prompts before October?

Absolutely! That’s why we post the prompts a month in advance. We recognise how difficult it can be creating for 31 days in “real time” so feel free to start creating early!

Q. How do I tag triggers?

tw at the end of the word, ex. #gore tw

Q. Do I have to use your tags?

Yes, if you want your work archived on the blog. If not, feel free to use whatever tags you want. 

Q. Does combining prompts count towards completion?

Yes

Q. Can we @ you?

Yes but we mostly rely on the #whumptober2023 tag.

Q. Is there anything we are absolutely not allowed to write?

There are no rules, but please make sure to properly tag your trigger warnings. And keep in mind Tumblr’s policies if you are posting it here (or the policies for whatever site you use).

Q. Where can I go for brainstorming help?

Here on Discord or come into our ask box.

Q. My characters are minors, is that ok?

Yes, but as with everything else, use clear and descriptive tags.

Q. Can I cross post on other blogs?

Yes, multiple platforms and blogs are perfectly acceptable. You can also post different works to different accounts under different names, without posting them everywhere at once.

Note: This is a creation challenge, please don’t repost your old work under our tags (unless it’s been changed or edited for the event).

Thanks for reading, and happy whumping!

[thatswhatijustsaid]

I love writing. Would love to do it again someday

[thatswhatijustsaid]

hi jade <3 can you pls write an “idiots in love” scenario between fem!reader and peter. something really gushy and fluffy <333

hi baby <3 I'm really sorry I think I may have misunderstood this so they're idiots in love but they aren't together yet !! fem!reader, 1k

Peter's dragging you by the hand through the crowd like one might dangle a carrot on a stick, though you aren't sure what it is he's hoping to attract in the sticky floored Burger King you're dominating. 

"Coming through!" he shouts, shouldering past people in a way that isn't strictly polite. 

You're laughing so hard your waist aches and the tether of your hand is a necessary precaution to stop you collapsing into a baby stroller. The greasy bag of your spoils quivers with a paper crunching as it whacks some poor bystander in the arm, your "Sorry," a swallowed shout in the busyness. 

Finally, you arrive at your destination. Broken crayons and tear away colouring pages splayed messily over a table hidden in the corner of the room, and there, nestled between the chaos, a precious diamond in the rough, lays the true purpose of your visit to such a fine dining establishment on such a hot summer's day. The Burger King crowns lay in their pop put forms, thick printed card stock. 

"They were more impressive when we were kids," you say.

"They're rustic." Peter drops your hand and gathers up way more crowns than you. "Understated. Humble, even." 

"Yeah," you say, giggles emerging once again. 

Peter tucks the crowns into your bag and you leave the way you came through herds of disgruntled New Yorkers and out into the summer heat, dipping into shadows as the glaring yolk of sun dips behind a skyscraper. Peter leads you deep into a cold alleyway and fiddles with the shooter at his wrist. 

"You're sure you won't drop me?" you ask, taking the paper bag of burgers and cradling it against your chest like a child. 

"You think you're so heavy," Peter complains, wrapping an arm around your waist. 

"I am heavy, Pete. A normal guy could pick me up, much less carry me onto a rooftop." 

"I'm not a normal guy." Chest to chest, Peter gives you a shameless smirk. "Hold on tight. I won't drop you, but if you drop even a single French fry, I'll be tempted." 

"Don't even joke about thAT–" your words turn to a breathless hoot as Peter thwicks his wrist upward and the two of you careen through the air. 

"It's alright!" Peter shouts. 

"Woah woah woah!" you shout back, strangling him as you try to climb up his arms and away from the bottomless air below you. Another thwick and you climb higher. A swing that takes the air out of your lungs ends with a jogging stop on a gravel rooftop. "Woah, I'm gonna chuck up." 

Peter rubs between your shoulders. "You always say that." 

"I'm dying." 

"Don't crouch like this, you're begging to be sick." 

Peter helps you up, close and smelling like all things nice. Laundry detergent from a stickler of a laundry sheriff, deodorant and aftershave and the sweet burned sugar smell of his unwise experiments. 

The rooftop is one you've come to before, wide, abandoned, but outfitted with two camping chairs that can be dragged into or out of the sun depending on what half you sit on. You drag your chairs into the sun once your nausea has abated and sit down, Burger King bag in your lap. Peter peels the straps of your tote down enough to grab your unmanufactured crowns, his fingertips summoning an odd shyness from you while they touch you. He's familiar to the point of seamlessness, usually; you and Peter may as well be one person. But now every close encounter, each gentle hand on your skin, is demarcated by a fizzy excitement you can't ignore. 

Peter hooks his chair with an ankle blindly, dragging it under his butt as he sits and pops crowns from their cardstock holdings. He guesses the sizing for your head, and props a golden crown on your head while you retrieve his cheeseburger. It slips down your nose. 

"Woah," Peter murmurs, leaning in to nudge it back up. He looks you right in the eye, close enough to kiss. "Hi there." 

"Hello, good sir," you say, eyeing his own crown. 

"Your majesty," he corrects. 

"Your majesty. Take your burger." 

"Where are my fries?" 

"The crown suits you, I think, considering you're a royal pain. Give me five seconds and I'll give you your fries, jerk." 

Peter's eyes squint gently closed in a slow blink, eyebrows raised. "Jerk. Nice. You're a royal dick." 

"Nice!" You pass him his fries, and the ketchup dip. "We should've got milkshakes." 

"Then you really would throw up." 

"You're probably right," you say, leaning back into the chair, the sun warming your cheeks like a lingering kiss. You tip your head back to eat a handful of soggy fries, salt like an explosion on your tongue. 

"Christ," Peter says, fries in one hand, burger in the other, "they're trying to give us heart disease!" 

"I was thinking the exact same thing," you laugh. 

Peter nods, pleased to be on the same wavelength, and curls your legs together, elbows bumping as you eat with all the laziness of rich people poolside at the country club. The subtle crunch of fries, the crinkling paper bag held under your foot to stop from flying away on the breeze. New York doesn't need anymore litter. 

You give up on your salty fries and Peter doesn't ask, he doesn't need to, polishing them off. His metabolism is enhanced in time with his healing and regenerative abilities, his stomach an endless pit. 

"You should've gotten another burger," you say. 

"You should mind your business." 

"Is it 'cos I was paying?" 

Peter dunks your crown down your face, kisses your cheek, and steals another handful of your fries. "Too slow." 

You laugh and tip your head until the crown falls off. The wind picks it up, and Peter throws his wrist forward without looking, catching it in a web before it can fly off. Burgers, laughter, the flirting sun and an accompanying breeze. Things are perfect. 

You look at Peter as he tries to pull his web from the crown without ruining it. He gives up, grabbing a new one from your tote. 

Well, things are almost perfect.

[thatswhatijustsaid]

heat of the moment, pt 3: (500) days of suffer [tasm!peter x reader x groundhog day au]

summary: get ready to die hard. again. and again. and again. angst; fluff; humor; final destination vibes; and yes this is in tribute to my favorite episode of television ever written - "mystery spot"

words: 6.2k

warnings: death. a lot of it. repeatedly. in this chapter: tw gore, blood, burns, smut (but not really graphic), body horror, s*lf h*harm, su*c*de

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

Peter looked over at you and the way your tiny legs carried you a nose ahead of his pace down the sidewalk. “Bug, why’ya walkin’ so fast?” he asked.

Your gaze was focused straight ahead of you, brow furrowed with determination. “Because Gouda needs meds and 45 minutes of vigorous exercise, and no matter how much his owner watches Cesar Milan, nothing will ever change that.”

He picked up his pace, and had to skip just to keep up with you. “Say what now?” he said, puzzled.

“Watch your step!” you admonished him as you approached a crosswalk. You halted at the stop signal, putting a hand protectively over Peter’s chest as the tour bus sped past you. “This sidewalk is a minefield.”

He blinked, confused. “Why are we even going this way? When you told me you were skipping work, I thought we could get some breakfast—”

“No breakfast,” you sternly replied. “Other plans.” 

Peter watched you quietly, concern drawing lines across his features. It was clear he was dissatisfied with how curt you were being towards him this morning, especially when he seemed so needy, but you didn’t budge. 

You were on a mission.

“Bug, as much as I love storming down Lexington with you in unpenetrable silence, it would really help me out if I understood—?”

“I’m looking for someone.” 

You sounded frustrated, but he wasn’t sure why. “Who?”

The light to cross changed. “The girl who got me killed in the first place,” you declared, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

You glanced both ways, even as the crowd began to move ahead and around you, before you stepped down into the crosswalk. Peter stared blankly as he watched you go, still processing what you said.

“Wait—what?” he blurted, rushing up behind you. “What are you talking about?”

“Watch out!” you snapped, gripping his arm and yanking him to the side of a puddle near the curb. You pointed at the puddle, reprimanding him. “Live wire!”

He stepped to the side, his eyes following the path of your finger, until he saw the frayed bit of cable from the base of an old lamppost. 

When he looked back up at you, he stared incomprehensibly. “How did you know that was there?”

You rolled your eyes, continuing down the sidewalk. “I’m in a time loop, Peter,” you sighed.

“A time loop?” he repeated.

“A time loop.”

“Like in Groundhog Day?”

You groaned, “Yes. Whatever that means.”

“What?” His jaw dropped, staring incredulously. “Really? How have you not seen—?”

“I haven’t had time to watch it!” you snapped bitterly, causing him to pull back. “I’m sure it’s a real fucking hoot.”

He quirked a brow towards you. “Someone woke up on the wrong side—”

“Of your dick this morning?” you glared over at him. His cheeks turned rosy as you levelled your finger. “That’s hilarious, Parker. Really. “

He let out a nervous laugh, his shoulders hunching a bit. “How did you know—?”

“It’s the sixteenth time you’ve said it,” you replied.

“Hold up, so you’re saying you’ve had this conversation sixteen times?”

“You’ve made that joke sixteen times. I’ve had this conversation twenty-three times.” Your eyes drifted ahead as you spoke and you came to a sudden halt.

“There!” You grabbed Peter by the shoulder and pointed to the thin woman with stringy hair. She moved down the sidewalk as you had seen her in days past, floating unseen through the world like a ghost. Her eyes were cast down and she cocooned herself in clothes that didn’t fit her. Observing her, you noticed for the first time how sunken in her eyes looked. Combined with her pale skin, she looked like death. 

“Who is that?” Peter questioned curiously.

“The grim reaper,” you scoffed. “Like, a tragically pretty grim reaper.” You gestured for him to follow you as you began stalking towards the woman. “This bitch,” you declared, “has gotten me shot. She’s gotten me electrocuted. She’s gotten me hit by a train. This bitch has killed me nineteen times—she’s gotta be the key to this.”

“She’s trying to kill you?” he repeated, shaking his head as he observed her. “But she’s so tiny? Why?”

“Who cares,” you replied coldly. “This time, I’m gonna kill her first.”

A hand suddenly gripped your arm tightly, as your boyfriend pulled you back towards him, the humor vanished from his eyes. “Whoa! Time out, time out... Let’s... talk about this?”

“I don’t have time to talk about this!” you raised your voice. “I don’t have the luxury of having time left! I’m ending this. Now.”

You moved to yank away from him, but he held you more firmly. He dragged your gaze towards his, speaking with measured breaths between hushed tones. “Listen to yourself, you don’t even sound like you right now—”

“Who do I sound like, then?” you snapped, burning with frustration and pent up rage. “You?”

When you saw his reaction, you realized it would’ve been kinder if you had just slapped him. Your jaw fell slightly agape as you measured the weight of the words that had fallen sloppily— hastily, cruelly—from your lips. Peter’s face was grim like the scene of a crime, the evidence of an unkind act of betrayal shattering him.

It was a tearful, late night confession a couple of years before that had illuminated knowledge about his period of darkness. It happened long after he’d met you. But not long after you discovered he was Spider-Man. Shortly after he promised no more secrets from you. The same night he realized he couldn’t live without you. And immediately after he told you he didn’t deserve you. 

Once he started telling you the stories, they didn’t stop. Each one removing a stone from his chest. Fueled by grief, and fresh bloodshed, and three whole bottles of Jack, and so much guilt, you felt like it was a wonder Peter ever got out of bed at all. 

As he predicted, you were devastated to hear about the period of time he stopped pulling his punches. Not by shame, however. But by how one person could bottle up so much pain. 

You let him cry into your lap as if he were a child, and you stroked his hair and rubbed his back, and swore that you’d never let him anguish in that pain again. Not alone.

And yet here it was again, smeared across his face. His brown eyes stinging. Nauseated, his complexion paled from it. He swallowed hard, the pieces of his heart feeling like glass in his chest. He was once again that caged animal. Once again, that monster. Again, he was alone.

Peter removed his hands from your arms, somewhat mechanically, as he fixed his dark eyes to the ground. Concealing a sniffle, he locked his jaw in place, unable to look at you.

“Peter,” you breathed, desperate to take the words back.

“It’s fine,” he said, shortly. He turned away from you, towards the crosswalk ahead. 

“No, Peter, please, just wait—”

Then, you both looked up with surprise to see your Grim Reaper. She stood with her back towards you, her gaze fixed on the rush of traffic ahead of her. Head up, shoulders back, she stepped off of the curb into the crosswalk. Right into the path of the city tour bus from one of your earlier demises.

“Wait!” Peter shouted as the two of you watched the space close between the woman and the bus. She was feet away from meeting the same fate as you. 

In that moment, you felt sympathy for her, remembering the sensation of your ribs piercing your lungs. 

The next moment, Peter lifted a wrist and aimed a web at her back. He yanked and pulled the tiny woman from the road, whipping her back into his arms.

The next moment, you saw the bus swerve suddenly. Overcorrecting. Tires wailing against the pavement. Hopping the curb. Careening into the sidewalk. A hot dog stand vendor retreating out of the path of the bus as his cart goes flying. 

It tumbles through the air. 

You look up at the cart as it flies above you. 

Contents spilling out.

Boiling water. Falling. 

Drenching you in blistering, searing waves.

You screech as your skin bubbles up and peels instantly under the 200 degrees Fahrenheit temperature of the water.

You can hear shouts and screams around you. A mix of voices of stunned witnesses, a horrified hot dog vendor, and even the Grim Reaper herself. And of course, you could hear the love of your life shrieking desperately. 

You could hear him, but your eyelids were melted shut.

The pain was unbearable. This was probably the worst way to go, you thought. And unlike other times, you hoped it would end quickly. Except that you’d deeply regret that the last thing Peter will remember you for is calling him a murderer.

The pain is unbearable. You step backwards blindly. You figure you have it coming this time.

Just your luck. You step right into a puddle, next to a lamppost.

TUESDAY, 7:00am

Your eyes popped open as you were viciously ripped away from the darkness. Music invaded your ears, your senses assaulted by a toe-tapping tune.

“It was the HEAT of the MOMENT...”

“You’re in what now?” Peter questioned incredulously, walking side by side with you down the sidewalk.

“A time loop.”

“Like in—”

“Yes, Peter,” you sighed, wandering aimlessly. If anything, you were more tired this Tuesday. “Exactly like Groundhog Day. And no, it’s not deja vu, like a glitch in The Matrix. It’s a time loop.”

“How’d you know I was gonna—?”

“Because you always reference some scifi movie that I’ve never seen.”

“What?” His jaw dropped, staring incredulously. “Really? How have you not seen—?”

The sound of your phone vibrating interrupted the tense conversation. He noted you made no attempt to answer it, continuing on your warpath. 

“Who is that?” Peter asked.

You rolled your eyes. “It’s Kim.”

At once, his face lit up. “Your mom?” he replied, jumping in front of you, blocking your march. “Cool, you should answer it!”

Stopping, you shot him a look, and he immediately sobered his reaction. “Why would I do that?”

“Um... I... dunno,” he shrugged, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. Other pedestrians swarmed past you, forking where you obstructed their path. “You guys... don’t really talk that much, I was jus’... thinkin’— I dunno, it’s weird that she’s calling you, right?” 

You eyed him suspiciously as he glanced around the sidewalk, suddenly appearing uncomfortable in his own skin. 

“Hey, do you want coffee?” he deflected. “I need some caffeine, especially if we’re gonna live through this day multiple times. I’m gonna get us some coffee. Almondmilk Latte, right? I’ll see if they have lavender.”

Before you could attempt to argue or stop him, he disappeared into the coffee shop you’d stopped in front of. 

You stood by outside on the sidewalk, glaring indignantly. “Fucking toddler,” you groaned under your breath. Your pocket buzzed again. You felt your anger building up again. This time, you did the thing you had avoided up until this point.

You accepted the call, hesitantly putting the phone to your ear. You took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself down, while also trying to spot the source of drilling noises from nearby construction. “Hi.”

A bright, cheery voice greeted you through the line. “Hi, honey! I didn’t think I’d get you—wasn’t sure if you were busy at school!”

You rolled your eyes. “Graduated two years ago, Kim.”

You heard your mother’s breath hitch, as if you could hear her bubbly nature deflating like a balloon. “Ugh,” she sheepishly responded, “you know I hate it when you call me that, honey.”

You glanced from side to side, suspiciously eyeing a flock of pigeons as they landed nearby. You were still on high alert that death could literally strike at any moment. “Y’know now’s not really a good time for me...” you sighed, trying to ease yourself out of the awkward call.

“No, no, I get it,” your mother quickly replied, returning to her more positive tone. “I know you’re busy. But—hey, the reason I called is that I was thinking of coming into the city on Saturday. Um... I... wanted to see if you were available to get together? For dinner? Or lunch?” 

Now you were the one holding your breath.

Saturday. This Saturday. 

Saturday seemed like a fantasy. Something so far away from reality, it might as well have been a fairy tale. A carrot on the end of a string. A cruel joke at your expense. 

How could you think of Saturday, when you were fighting to make it to Wednesday?

“Maybe you could invite that boyfriend of yours,” she added, the smirk evident in her voice. “Peter, right? It’d be nice to finally meet him.”

You bit down on your tongue so hard you could taste blood. It was a taste you were becoming accustomed to. You felt the blood in your veins practically boiling. Another familiar feeling, in a literal sense.

Weeks in between text messages, months in between calls. Never once has the idea of taking an interest in something you cared about crossed into conversation. What would it matter, you wondered—nothing you cared about was ever good enough for her anyway.

The resentment was too much to hold back, seeping into your voice. “Are you serious? Why would you want to meet Peter?” you practically spat. “We’ve been together for over a year and now you want to meet him?”

You heard her huff. This was the reaction between you two, always, no matter what variables were in play. You were a volatile mix, you would explain to your boyfriend. 

“Well,” you noted the shift in her tone, tension building, “I’d say that’s serious, right? Not like the others.” 

You flinched at her casual mention of your past failed romantic relationships. That one word was meant to summarize years of therapy and difficulty letting Peter into your heart. Like it wasn’t the reason you rose early and stayed up late, filling your time with the dogged pursuit of your career aspirations. Pursing a Master’s. Climbing a ladder made up of people that didn’t look like you. Devoting your energy to making sure that you were never nothing again, even if you were alone.

Peter wasn’t the only one with baggage or built up walls. 

“I just feel like I should get a chance to meet him,” your mother babbled on, oblivious to her poor word choice and also to the fact that she caught you on The Worst Day Ever. “Don’t I get a say since he’s practically part of the family now?”

Your mouth was moving before your brain could catch up. “What on God’s Green Earth makes you think that I would want that?” you hissed, your aggravation boiling over, spewing venom into the phone’s mic. “Are you fucking kidding me? What makes you think that I would want Peter to be a part of this family?”

You rounded on your heel and came to a halt. There in front of you, was the devil in question, holding a coffee cup in each hand and his broken heart on his sleeve. Once again, not even battle scars and knife wounds could be as painful as your careless words. 

You stood there forever, gazing into his chocolate eyes, witnessing the storm clouds brewing there. His brow creased, and his lip hung loose, and his arms slowly dropped, as if he’d lost the strength in his body. You held the phone to your ear and could hear your mother arguing in the distance, but it was drowned out by the sound of Peter’s heart breaking.

You did that to him. You hurt him. You. You always do. And you always will. 

“Pete...” you breathed, aghast and unable to explain yourself properly.

He shut his mouth, locking his jaw. The pain burned away from his features and left a stone expression behind. You pulled the phone away from your ear and opened your mouth, but he was already retreating. Angrily, he turned on his heel and began pacing back down the street, disrupting the flock of pigeons.

“Peter, wait!” you called after him, the phone call forgotten. Your voice bounced off the glass buildings around you and caught the attention of pedestrians, but it didn’t slow his pace. You bounded behind him, embarrassed. “Pete, I didn’t mean that—”

“Nah, no need. I got it,” he icily chuckled, his deep frustration coming out in the form of his sharp Queens accent. “Made ya’point pretty clear, didn’t ya?”

“No, wait, I can explain,” you cried.

“I don’t wanna hear it!” he shot back.

“Just wait—please, look at me for one second.”

He stopped walking, but hesitated, throwing his head back in frustration. With pursed lips, he finally obliged, turning to face you. 

He was met with horror, right as an 8-foot length of rebar, knocked loose by a pigeon looking for a place to land, fell from the scaffolding above and impaled you from neck to ankle. The force of the skewering jolted you back a couple of inches as the rebar buried itself into the concrete. It was if you were speared in place, forced to look upon the stunned confusion and growing distress on Peter’s blood-splattered face. 

You felt your legs lose their balance. You couldn’t fall backwards or to the side. Instead, you slid down the length of the rebar, your blood and ruptured organs lubricating your kebab. 

TUESDAY, 7:00am

Your eyes popped open as you were viciously ripped away from the darkness. Music invaded your ears, your senses assaulted by a toe-tapping tune.

“It was the HEAT of the MOMENT

Tellin’ me.  what.  my. HEART meant...”

You gasped, reaching for your shoulder where the rebar had pierced your torso. Sweat covered your neck, chest heaving with the phantom ache of feeling your insides slice open. 

“The HEEEAT of the MOMENT…

Showed in your EYEEEES…”

You sat up in your covers, eyes wild and filling with furious tears. You glared at the clock radio. The music flowed at an obnoxious volume as it swallowed you up and spit you out into another Tuesday. 

It was all too much. There was an ache in your chest, and you weren’t sure if it was caused by the rebar, or the terror of your current living nightmare, or the agony of watching the man you loved more than anything being destroyed again.

“Mornin’, Sunflower!” the devil in question rang out from your en suite bathroom. A moment later, Peter Parker’s head poked around the corner.

You gazed at him, your vision going blurry. Hot tears formed in your eyes and spilled down your face. In the blur, you could see his expression change as he noticed your distress. “Bug?” he questioned.

You gazed at him. Helpless. And then you launched yourself off of the bed, exploding into a growling, rageful tantrum. You tore the clock radio off the nightstand, ripping the cord from the socket, and hurled it into the drywall. Peter flinched with a stunned expression as the device smashed to pieces.

He looked back at you, horrified. You stalked over to the bedroom wall where your gold-and-pink embossed desk calendar hung up beneath an intricate, gold-leaf cursive decal. You glared up at the letters above the calendar, as together, they mocked you:

SEIZE THE DAY

You seethed, glaring at it like some cursed object. Peter wouldn’t have known this, but to you, it was a pointless relic. 

With narrow eyes, you peered at each enlarged square filled with rows of your elegant handwriting. Scribbled on every line of a plentiful, packed schedule of events that didn’t matter which you would never attend. 

He half expected the calendar to burst into flames with the way you were staring at it. He opened his mouth, just to be cut off by your shriek. You tore the calendar from the wall, hissing and grunting, shredding each page of the calendar with your fingers. 

When you were finished with the calendar, you moved to the corner desk, ripping the items off. Your pencil cup, a letter organizer, your mousepad, your wireless keyboard. You lifted the laptop in the air and smashed it on the desk, obliterating it. 

“Whoa!” Peter shouted, startled and now prompted to action. “Hey, hey, what’s happening? What’s wrong—?”

“It’s a joke!” you screamed. “It’s all a fucking joke!” You grabbed the edge of your tiny writing desk and flipped it. You toppled your desk chair right after it. You were like a tornado, tearing through the bedroom, yanking on drawers and turning your room upside down. 

“Bug, just calm down—”

“This is all a joke!” you shouted, tears streaming down your face. “My entire life is a joke! This day and every single day that came before it! It’s all nothing! It’s just bullshit! It’s bullshit!”

Peter held his hands towards you, trying hopelessly to placate you. “Okay, okay, just slow down, we can figure this—”

“I’ve already figured it out!” you screamed back, stalking towards the opposite nightstand. You knew that Peter kept a knife in the bottom drawer. A switchblade swiped from one of his captured criminals, kept for emergency use only. 

Usually, it’s primary purpose was to slice through unruly webs when testing or repairing his webshooters. 

You had a different use for it now. “I’m fucking ending it!” you hissed, reaching for the bedside drawer.

Peter snapped to attention. “No, wait!”

You yanked the drawer open, pausing as your eyes landed on an unfamiliar object. 

Your brow furrowed as you observed a tiny velvet box, taking it into your hand. Curiously, you opened it. 

Inside, a ring with a single, glittering, colored solitaire gemstone. It dazzled you with a sparkle that caught in the morning light. Not just any gemstone. Your favorite. 

Its meaning unmistakable. 

Your mouth fell open, the breath being carried from your chest. Glancing up, you looked back to Peter, who stood anxiously on the other side of the room, running a hand through his dark wet locks. His face was rosy pink, flushed with embarrassment and spoiled plans.

He sighed, with a pointed lack of courage. ”I.... Um... This... uh, this-this isn’t how I wanted this to go.” 

The tension melted out of your body as you gazed at him, dumbfounded. He shuffled his weight between his feet, wrapping his arms in front of his bare chest. He was twitchy and nervous, like an eighth grader called upon in English class to read a poem. 

He was so gentle, you thought. So full of earnest hope. 

He slapped his giant hand down his face, groaning sheepishly. “Ugh, this is... That just happened. Okay.” You watched him turn and pace for a few strides, before pausing and planting his hands on his hips. “I - I had this planned,” he gave a shaky, soft chuckle. “And I wasn’t in a towel.” He briefly lifted his eyes up off the floor to meet yours. He was timid, like a deer who could be spooked at any minute.

He cleared his throat, “I was gonna wear a suit, uh... I-I had a dinner thing. A picnic by the Boathouse.” You vividly recalled the place in Central Park he was referencing. The site of your first date. 

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as he continued, “I had a blanket and a basket, wine, cheese, little LED candles and these tiny string lights...” His mouth sounded dry as he gaze bounced from you to the floor, “And I was going to tell you to get dressed up because I had some fancy dinner at a restaurant planned, and then I was gonna tell you I got caught up because of Spider-Man stuff, and for you meet me by the Boathouse and you’d get there and I’d be there with the candles, and with the picnic all spread out, and flowers, and... then...”

His voice tapered off as he summoned all the strength in his heart to steady himself. You watched him with silent tears, the rage behind them having morphed into something tender, but equally painful. 

He looked so beautiful today, you thought: The smile on his face. The bounce in his step, and the light of his eyes. Golden amber eyes, filled with dreams. Hope for the future.

“I was gonna say this speech that I... I-I... for the life of me, I can’t remember what it was, but it was really nice. It was great.” Warmth that could outshine the morning sunlight filled his face, a boyish smirk softening the anxiety on his features. It was a look that made you smile every time. 

This time was no different. He responded to seeing the soft curve of your mouth, with another burst of joy that he struggled to contain behind his teeth. Peter’s smile was magnificent, but this was something else. It was like a rose blooming. Fireworks bursting. A thousand watts of light. 

He shyly added, a little more confident, but still carrying a hint of uncertainty, “And at the end of it... I was gonna ask... if I could spend the rest of my life with you?”

The pain was unbearable.

Your face crumpled. The spear lodged deeper. The hole in your heart grew wider. You looked down at the engagement ring in your hands, then turned back to him. 

Lip quivering, eyes watering, you squeaked out a single word. “Today?” 

The pain is unbearable. It’s unfair. Unfair to him. 

He observed you carefully, eyes locked on yours as if he were entranced. He nodded gently. “I know. Shoulda done it sooner,” he said with a half-smirk, but his tone implied earnestly that it wasn’t really a joke. 

It wasn’t a joke. This was hell. 

He didn’t deserve to be here. But you did.

You slammed your eyes shut with the finality of a coffin being sealed. Covered your mouth to swallow an agonized cry, the tears now cascading down your cheeks. Although uncertain of your reaction, he slowly moved towards you anyways, drawn into a magnetic field that needed to hold you. You needed to hold him. You wanted to hold on forever.

“Peter,” you choked out. His hands came up, cradling your face. 

“I’m tired,” he whispered, using his thumbs to wipe away tears he could not fully understand. “I’m tired of waiting... for more money, for our careers to take off, for this city to not need Spider-Man, or waiting for when I’ll finally feel like I deserve you, because I don’t think I ever will. I’m done waiting for the right time. It’s now. Now is the right time.”

You shook your head. Your body felt heavy, like you were going to collapse. 

He leaned in close, his voice barely above a breeze. “I don’t want to spend a single day without you in my life,” he dreamily stated, like a promise. A vow. One that you couldn’t reciprocate. 

“Peter,” you cried softly, gazing through blurry wet tears into the warmth of his eyes. 

He was so vulnerable. So eager. The memory of the times you’d broken his heart haunted you.

And then it was like a dam breaking. You pulled him into a kiss, your tongue invading his mouth. You were desperate for him. Desperate to console him. To heal wounds of past Tuesdays. Your fingers came up to grip the nape of his neck. You never wanted to let him go. 

But you had to tell him, didn’t you? You had to tell him that today was the last day of your life. It was the wrong day to promise anybody a lifetime of happiness. You had to tell him. 

But he was wrong about you. He wasn’t the one who was undeserving. It was you.

Selfishly, you breathed him into you, tasting the wonders of his mouth. Your fingers gripped his wet locks and he moaned into your mouth. He pulled away, his anxiety on his lips and a question weighing on his mind—the one you hadn’t answered.

“Please, don’t say anything,” you mumbled, your fingernails trailing into the flesh of his neck. He hissed at the sensation. It was rougher than you intended it to be. But you were getting used to pain. You wanted to share it as much as you wanted to escape it.

You kissed him, invading his mouth once again. “Please, just kiss me, Peter, please...” His shoulders relaxed as his tongue explored yours, a different kind of tension taking over his body. You felt his hand grip the back of your head, fingers twisting into your hair. You sucked and bit his soft lips, abusing the flesh. 

“Just stay here with me,” you moaned as you felt his hands travel down your back and thighs. You pressed your hips into his. “I don’t want to leave. I don’t ever want to leave. Just-just let’s stay here forever. Please.”

His breath hitched as you attacked the skin of his neck. He felt achingly hard beneath the towel, you pressed your warmth up against him. You climbed up until your legs wrapped around his waist like a serpent. You were the Tree of Knowledge, filled with lust, and truth, and the horror Tuesdays past. You wanted to intoxicate him. You wanted to protect him. You wanted to feel him. 

“Stay with me,” you gasped, your tongue skinning him. “Just touch me, please.”

As swiftly as the bullet fired from your least favorite officer’s gun, Peter scooped you up in his grip. Your back landed against the firm mattress, springs creaking beneath you, and Peter climbed on top of your body.

The world became a feverish blur. Fingers gripping. Nails biting. Teeth scraping. Every gasp met with a breathless sigh. Every pleasure-filled moan met with an aching cry. Soft caresses. Vicious kisses. Haphazard gropes in between the rhythmic percussion of thrusts. 

You could tell he wanted to slow down. He wanted to savor each moment as if he had plenty. He wanted to be gentle with you. To hold you as delicately and proudly as the precious metal held onto the solitaire gemstone of your engagement ring—still inside the box, discarded on the ground.

It didn't matter.

Peter was all you wanted. And as you doggedly pursued a building climax, you held onto him tightly. Each moment was worth more than any treasure on Earth. Each moment vanishing.”

“Harder,” you begged, “please, faster…”

The noise he responded with barely sounded human. A guttural groan through gritted teeth.

“Harder, please…”

“Don… wanna… hur’chu—“ he mumbled between labored breaths, his hands gripping the mattress on either side of your head. You swallowed his protests.

You wanted this to hurt. You welcomed the pain. “Please, Pete, harder,” you hotly whispered in his ear. “Harder!” You felt his thrusts deepen as he impaled your belly. “More! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” His hands curled beside you. He drove his hips further, moaning into your mouth.

Beneath the sound of panting, you heard the sound of metal creaking. Fabric tearing. Peter’s fingers dug into the mattress, and as the fabric gave way, blood splattered across his neck.

He gazes down at you. Confused. Stunned. He pulls back, face turning white. You watch his eyes fill with terror. Panic. Then your gaze falls downwards. A twisted, coiled wire from the box spring had erupted through your chest. The severed muscle walls of your heart gush blood. You hear Peter call out your name.

TUESDAY, 7:00am

Your eyes popped open as you were viciously ripped away from the darkness. Music invaded your ears, your senses assaulted by a toe-tapping tune.

“It was the HEAT of the MOMENT...”

You lay limply, exactly where you died. Your eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“Tellin’ me.  what.  my. HEART meant...”

Your chest throbbed and your body ached. 

“The HEEEAT of the MOMENT…

Showed in your EYEEEES…”

Perhaps you were right after all, you thought. 

This was a joke. And, yes. This was also Hell.

This was a curse.

“Mornin’, Sunflower!” the devil in question rang out from your en suite bathroom. A moment later, Peter Parker’s head poked around the corner. He found you sitting up in the bedsheets, staring pensively at the wall above your desk. Your eyes were fixed just above the calendar, on the wall decal. Gold-leaf, curvy letters proclaiming your mantra.

SEIZE THE DAY

You read it again. And again. Your eyes scoured it. Obsessed. 

“Bug?” Peter questioned, watching as you slowly rose out of the bed. You tip-toed gently across the bedroom floor and stopped at your writing desk, digging underneath for a medium-sized storage box. You came to a slow stand, placing the box on the table.

He watched from the doorframe as if he could hear gears in your head spinning. “Uh... you.... Okay?”

You lifted the lid off of the box, fingers digging inside.

“Sorry about the music,” he said sheepishly, glancing over at the retro clock as the synthesized, progressive pop-metal riffs of Asia flowed into a second verse. “I forgot about my alarm...”

You pulled an old photo album from the box. One he’d never seen before. “It’s probably not the most pleasant way to wake up,” Peter remarked, realizing finally that you weren’t even listening. “Babe?”

You opened the photo album your mother sent you two years ago. It was still in the box that it had been shipped in. You remembered scoffing as you opened the Christmas present, rolling your eyes, telling Peter that your mother gifting you a relic of your family history was all he needed to know about her.

You flipped past several pages and came to a stop. Peter slowly approached you, peering over your shoulder at a portrait of four women of different generations, sitting together on a plastic-wrapped couch. It was an awkwardly posed photo, with awful dated fashions and hairstyles. One of the photos taken at family gatherings where instead of a “happy memory,” you get “proof of life.” 

In the picture, there was you—which was obvious, because in many ways you looked the same as you did as a child. Then there was your mother, the woman he’d seen pictures of, but never met, and was only known as “Kim.” Beside her, an older woman who looked strikingly like your mother. A grandmother, Peter guessed.

In the center of the photo, right next to you, there sat the oldest woman. A white-haired old maid with dark circles underneath her tired eyes, faced scored with deep wrinkles. He inspected the photo closely, grimacing, uncertain if the woman being photographed was mentally present at the taking of the photo. 

Your gaze was transfixed on an object that sat in your great-grandmother’s arms. It was a tiny pillow, with an intricate embroidered design: A clockface, and the blocky-lettered words: TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF YOUR LIFE

You were alone in the living room, staring down at the cell phone in your hand. Peter was out of the apartment. You tasked him to bring back donuts, even though you wouldn’t eat any. Listeria was no joke. Besides, you needed the privacy.

Anxiously, you tapped your mother’s contact card, and put the phone to your ear.

After a few rings, you heard her silvery, bright tone. “Hi, honey! Were your ears burning? I was just about to call you! Isn’t that strange?”

“Hi,” you swallowed quietly. It was strange how you were struggling to find your voice. “Hey, Mom.”

“Listen— I wanted to tell you that I’m coming into the city this weekend. If you’re not busy with school, I figured we could catch up.”

You heard the sound of paper bags rustling. The memory of going to a farmers market with your mother popped in your head. You were eight. You told her you didn’t like pomegranate and she argued that you’d never had it before, and pomegranates were better than strawberries, and you were deeply offended by this. 

The ghost of a smile curled your lips briefly, and the memory faded away.

“Maybe we could get dinner, or lunch? Or maybe I can finally meet that boyfriend of yours?”

You considered the first time she’d asked, and considered the timing of the object hidden inside Peter’s nightstand, and suddenly things made sense.

“I know you’re both so busy, but… I think it would be nice to get to know him. And to see you. If you have time.”

You felt your eyes sting. Time was the one thing you had. Just not the right time.

“Yeah, um…I wanted to ask you a question,” you began with a trembling breath. You continued to hear the rustling of paper bags and rattling of canned goods on the other end of the phone. “Could Nana Manners actually see the future?”

The phone went silent as your mother went still. You could practically hear her purse her lips. “Who on earth told you that?” she laughed with a humorless scoff.

More silence. Through the phone, you could hear your mother’s heart beating like a drum.

“She did,” you replied. “The day she died.”

You waited for a laugh. Another scoff. Perhaps a snide remark that would borderline insult your intelligence. Instead, there was a heavy silence filled with a million unspoken things. 

“Don’t be silly,” your mother finally blurted. The clamor on the other end of the line made you wonder if she was doing origami with her paper bags. “You know that poor woman was ill.”

That was all you needed to hear.

To be continued...

A/N: hey what’d you think? Tell me what you liked by reblogging and/or leaving a comment!

Thank you so much for reading, and thank you for supporting fandom writing.

[thatswhatijustsaid]

I call upon the fan fic writing gods to bless you with the perseverance to finish one of your unfinished drafts. 

May your fingers dance along the letters upon your device with ease, may the devil of distraction stay far from you, and may your work not need much editing.

I pass this blessing upon every fan fic writer out there.

[thatswhatijustsaid]

look at all the progress i'm making <3

[thatswhatijustsaid]

- June 1, 1912

- The diaries of Franz Kafka, 1910-1913

[ID: "June 1. Wrote nothing." End ID]

[thatswhatijustsaid]

happy pride month to straight actors who've played a character incredibly gay by accident and to andrew garfield, who did it on purpose

[thatswhatijustsaid]

Ik its only been two weeks since the last i've been the best I can be but I'm so unhealthily invested like im acc obsessed... when is the nextttt one ahhhhh

I'm so sorry for fucking dipping!!! I've had a go of it this past month, but now summer is here, and I'm hard at work on the last parts of this story <3

Thanks for sticking with me :)

Also the idea that my little story is managing to invade your brain space is so incredibly ego-boosting, you have no fucking clue!!! I hope you enjoy

[thatswhatijustsaid]

Also. Hello!!! Sorry for not being around, I’ve had a time. Summer is coming, though, and with it fucking freedom!!! So writing will commence (:

[thatswhatijustsaid]

Hmmmmmmm many opinions to be had. Sam Raimi shone through, soundtrack was very fun, gore and that shit all abounds. Wanda’s arc was…. Interesting.

CGI and cinematography deserves to be applauded (: That is all, I think

[thatswhatijustsaid]

i want to study him like a bug

[thatswhatijustsaid]

Oh my god Vee. Like, oh my god. 

You capture the sultry, sexy, danger of the mob au so fucking perfectly, the whole vibe of your writing in this is so absolutely perfect <3 

I adore what you do with Peter here, the absolute best thing about AUs is the sort of omage to canon, and Peter being a member of the mob with his webshooters, and being called The Spider,,,,, you kill me, the way your mind works is so fucking incredible holy fuck!

That Unwanted Animal (TASM!Peter x Reader)

Summary: Your thoughts, however, lingered on Peter. Peter Parker, whom your fiancé called The Spider for reasons you hadn’t quite figured out yet, though there were rumours. Whispers of his near-unnatural strength, his invention of some sort of weapon that had gained notoriety and left men strung up from the ceiling like they were hanging from meat hooks, and his seeming sixth sense, an uncanny ability to know when danger was near -> or the mob!au Words: 4.5k A/N: one entry for the tasm!peter au celebration; 18+ only; fem!reader; cursing; cigarettes; alcohol; violence (mostly implied); smut (oral, fem receiving); implied abuse/toxic relationship (not with Peter); blood; reader has a tragic backstory; guns; brief su*c*dal ide*tion and half-hearted attempt at s*lf-h*rm (if this is not for you, that is okay! be safe and know that you are loved); not edited; please validate me

The quick scratch of a match being struck. The faint aroma of sulfur drifting up to curl in your nostrils. It all conjured memories of childhood birthdays, of spongy vanilla cake with pink frosting and tables stacked high with wrapped boxes of every size. They were mostly pleasant memories; the lavish parties with more balloons than you’d been able to count, your mother and father holding hands and sipping wine as they watched your smile grow with every passing moment, the guests in their pressed suits and fancy dresses, all of them eager to wish you a happy birthday, the sharp scent of aftershave or cloying fragrance of floral perfume enveloping you as you received hug after hug from people you knew only as “Daddy’s work family.”

A low rumble of thunder sounded from outside the car and then you could smell nothing but the choking stench of tobacco and the polished leather of the backseat. Different memories surfaced then—the sharp crack of gunfire, the blood-curdling pitch of screaming, the distinct coppery smell of blood that you’d eventually learn was caused by the oxidization of iron in hemoglobin. Your mother’s hemoglobin to be exact, that precious protein spilling from a wound blossoming like a rose from her stomach.  

That was how you’d ended up here, wasn’t it? Not here—forehead pressed against the cool window of a massive black Escalade, eyes watching as heavy rain hit the glass and ran down its tinted surface—but here in the more existential sense of the word. Stuck in a life that had you tethered to a man you loathed and feared, looked at by others with respect you felt you did not earn nor deserve until it made your stomach turn. 

“Angel, what are you thinking about?” 

You were pulled from your memories by the sound of your fiancé’s voice, his gruff baritone demanding your attention. Wilson, one hand thrown carelessly across your lap and the other holding a cigarette, watched you as your lips curled up into a sweet smile. 

“Just how much I’d like to be at home,” you lied, the words fluidly slipping from your lips, “It’s so dreary out here.” 

Wilson nodded, content with your answer, sucking at the cigarette between his lips. The glow of the ashes caught the silver of the large rings around his thick fingers, almost making you shudder. You watched him in silence until you were both distracted by the commotion of another man climbing into the opposite side of the car, his entrance announced by the curl of cinnamon scent that preceded him. He was taller and leaner than Wilson, a fact made obvious as he pulled his knees in to avoid brushing them against your fiancé’s as he settled into the seat across from him. 

“It’s done.” 

Wilson eyed the younger man, drenched from the rain, for a long moment before a bark of laughter erupted from deep in his chest. His hand moved from your knee to clap onto the other man’s thigh in praise. 

“Good work, Parker,” Wilson nodded, then turned to you. “Sometimes I think Peter has too much fun on these little errands.” His grin, malicious and crooked, grew as his grasp returned to your thigh. “Aren’t we lucky to have him?”

Briefly, your eyes flitted across the face of the young man across from you before you nodded, allowing your gaze to shift to the hand pressed idly on your leg. Vaguely, you imagined chopping it off, finger by finger, feeding your fiancé his own flesh, shoving it down his throat until he choked. Instead, you smiled demurely, your own fingers drawing an invisible pattern on the leather seat beside you. 

Your thoughts, however, lingered on Peter. Peter Parker, whom your fiancé called The Spider for reasons you hadn’t quite figured out yet, though there were rumours. Whispers of his near-unnatural strength, his invention of some sort of weapon that had gained notoriety and left men strung up from the ceiling like they were hanging from meat hooks, and his seeming sixth sense, an uncanny ability to know when danger was near. 

It was this final rumour that had made Peter such an invaluable asset to Wilson and his business. You knew that if the young man had risen through the ranks so quickly, there had to be some truth to the mutterings. 

Peter Parker. Part of you was surprised that you were ever able to stop thinking about him. That mop of hair that looked so much like spun wool it made your fingers twitch in longing to touch its softness. His eyes, like molten honey, dark and guarded each time they momentarily met yours. His jaw, firmly set and stubbled in such a way that you wished you could see him wear a smile instead of that perpetual smirk he seemed to don. And his hands, large and strong, but somehow you could not imagine them capable of violence, though you knew they were. Oh, how you wanted those hands to peel away the layers of your clothing, rip open your skin and clutch your heart. 

You told yourself that it was just proximity to this man, elegant as he was, that made you crave him. Not that you’d ever admit to such a thing—it was a sure fire way to get the both of you killed and for all of Peter’s handsomeness, he was still one of Wilson’s men. He was still a murderer and a criminal. 

It had been three months since Wilson had informed you that Peter would be ‘keeping an eye on you’—his way of saying that you’d never have a moment alone again, not since that cop had cornered you for questioning at the shopping mall. And while you hated the very notion that you needed to be babysat, you knew it could have been worse. 

As the driver set off, Peter leaned back in his seat, engrossed in conversation with Wilson, but you didn’t care to listen, blinking as that horrific rusty smell filled your senses. Your eyes suddenly took in the details of Peter’s attire—the blood spattered on his expensive shoes and the wrists of his suit jacket. You’d be willing to bet that there was blood on his hands as well, but he was wearing those sleek black gloves that he hardly ever went without.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t have Harrow killed,” you sighed, words escaping before you had time to bite your tongue and keep them back. A heavy silence fell across the backseat of the Escalade, broken only by the hum of tires and the incessant movement of windshield wipers. 

“Come now, Angel,” Wilson grinned, gathering himself, “How else am I going to buy you all the pretty things you love?”

His condescending kiss to your neck made your skin crawl, but you knew better than to protest, especially in front of one of his men. Truthfully, you hated his pretty things. The satin dresses and diamond necklaces were more symbols of your captivity than alluring presents. Yet you knew it was part of the life that had been chosen for you, to be decked out in shining gems and expensive fabrics, to show off the status that came with Wilson’s power and influence. 

So you played your role, smiling sheepishly at your fiancé and tilting your neck to allow him another kiss, right to your throat. His hand slid up your thigh, bunching your skirt higher than you would have liked with an audience present, but the glance you snuck in Peter’s direction told you that was staring out the window. Smart man. Wilson had had men killed for less than looking at your exposed knee. His fingers crawled to your inner thigh and pinched lightly, earning a gasp. 

“Will,” you admonished lightly, “We’re…” A slap to your thigh silenced you, made your cheeks feel heated with embarrassment. Tears stung at the back of your eyes but hurriedly blinked them away. You wouldn’t let anyone see you cry. 

“We could move in on Harrow’s men as early as next week,” Peter said suddenly, grabbing Wilson’s attention once more. His voice was calm, clipped. Wilson frowned, tapping ash from his cigarette onto your skirt. 

---*

Peter slipped the key card back into his leather wallet and pocketed it, sweeping his arm out in front of him in a gesture that would have been gentlemanly if not for the context. You refused to look at him as you stalked past him, into the luxury suite, making a beeline right for the patterned wingback chair in the corner.

You sat yourself down, tucking your skirt in around your knees as you drew them up to your chest. Peter followed behind you, sliding the deadbolt into place as he closed the wooden door.

“That wasn’t a very good idea,” Peter sighed, eyebrows furrowed. You’d both been dropped off at the expensive hotel that served as one of the fronts for Wilson’s operations, Peter assigned to watch after you while Wilson checked in on other ventures. “Thought you were smarter than that, princess.”

You knew he was referring to your outburst in the car—the one he had so kindly interrupted, not that you felt grateful. There was nothing but thorough shame eating you alive, gnawing from inside your stomach and up your throat so white hot you thought you might explode. Peter slipped out of the fitted suit jacket he’d been wearing all morning, tossing it carelessly onto the bed.

“Don’t call me that.” Your voice was low, displeased, but your eyes stayed keen and alert, watching as Peter rolled his shoulders and pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his discarded jacket. The action allowed you to glimpse the revolver tucked away in one of the inner pockets, a glint of its silver handle catching the light. 

“What would you prefer I call you, then?” Peter chuckled darkly, “Boss’ll slit my throat if I use Angel.” You shuddered at the nickname, the one only your fiancé used, the one that made you feel small and naive for ever thinking he’d make a good husband. Peter took your silence as surrender and grinned. “Thought so. Now be a good girl while I have a smoke, yeah?”

“Fuck you,” you muttered, watching as he strode to the sliding balcony door and stepped outside, shuffling a cigarette from the pack and lighting it. You watched his lips wrap around the filter, blow out a puff of smoke against the backdrop of a grey sky. Part of you wanted to stalk out onto the balcony and rip the cigarette from his hand, slipping it between your lips instead and allowing it to fill your lungs. But you weren’t allowed to do that. 

There were a lot of things you weren’t allowed to do. Perhaps it was that sickening lack of control, that complete surrender to another’s will, that made your mind travel back to the gun in Peter’s pocket. It would be so easy, so incredibly easy. And you knew that people listened when the person speaking to them was holding a gun. 

You waited until Peter was leaning against the railing, his back to you, shoulder muscles visible through his thin white shirt,  to make your move.

In a fluid motion, fuelled by desperation, you leapt to your feet and made for the bed, fumbling as you grasped for the gun in Peter’s pocket, trembling with something like excitement, perhaps relief, as your fingers wrapped around the handle. It was colder than you expected, alien to your touch. 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

You whipped around just in time to see Peter coming in from the balcony. His cigarette fell from his lips and singed the expensive Persian carpet beneath his feet. 

Triumphantly, you held the gun up to your head, pressure on your temple where the cool metal rested on your skin. You were pleased to see Peter’s face grow pale, even more so to see him rake a hand through his hair. 

“Sweetheart,” Peter looked at the gun in your hand, wetting his lips with his tongue. The weapon felt heavy, weighted with bad intentions. “Don’t do anything stupid, yeah?”

You laughed, a hollow sound that was more a mockery of amusement than anything else. Your hands shook around the gun and you willed yourself to stop them, wanting nothing more than to ooze the confidence you felt in that moment, the sick giddiness that was bubbling in your chest.

“I’m not going to be his pretty little pet and live my life on a goddamn chain! I’d rather die.” As if to emphasize your point, you flicked the safety off of the revolver and took a step back from Peter. He continued to watch you, unmoving. 

“Then why are you marrying him?” When he spoke, it was plainly. Peter’s dark eyes were strangely calm, devoid of panic as they stayed trained on your face. 

“You think I want to?” you shrieked, “It was never supposed to be like this. I didn’t choose this!”

“Then what did you want?” Peter asked calmly, “Tell me about yourself?”

The question surprised you, made you narrow your eyes and press the gun further into your temple. It hurt, but you didn’t let on, keeping your face straight. “You know all about me.” 

“That’s objectively untrue,” Peter returned in a quiet voice, “I don’t know anything about you besides what that ring on your finger makes you.” 

Suddenly the diamond resting on your finger felt heavier than the gun in your hand, like it could drag you beneath the surface of a lake and drown you with its weight. You wanted nothing more than to rip it from your finger and throw it away, forget it ever branded you as belonging to someone you hated. But to do so, you’d need to relinquish your grip on the gun.

In your moment’s hesitation, Peter moved, so quickly it seemed impossible. His arm extended toward you, his feet still planted on the ground, but something sticky wrapped itself around your arm and pulled it down so that the gun was facing the floor. Then, Peter had you pulled in close to his chest, his own hand pulling the weapon delicately away from you. 

Shocked, you pulled away, fear curling into your chest to replace the bravery you’d felt moments earlier, the adrenaline that had motivated your act of thievery draining from you. “What—what was that?”

Peter smirked, a little smug, at the stunned tone of your voice as he stepped away from you, keeping his eyes on your face as he backed toward the closet safe and tucked the gun away inside. Then his face was serious once more, eyebrows furrowed together and lips pulled into a taut line. He stood no more than four feet from you, but it felt as though there was a gulf between you, filled with the choppy waters of Peter having seen something he shouldn’t have.

The gravity of what you’d just done caught up with you all at once and sent you spiralling into a panic, hands shaking. “Oh god,” you whimpered, tears in your eyes, “Don’t tell him. Please, Peter, please don’t tell him. I’ll…he’ll…” 

“Does he hurt you?” Peter’s question was blunt. He kept his gaze on you as he stepped forward. 

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. 

You saw Peter’s prominent Adam’s apple bob in his throat in response to your silence. He closed the distance between you in three quick strides, hands on your shoulders as he pulled you into his chest and stooped his head low, lips brushing tentatively against yours. 

For a moment, you couldn’t respond, shocked that someone was daring to put hands on you, much less kiss you. But Peter’s lips were so soft, so generous as they slowly moved against yours that you couldn’t help but to respond, tilting your head ever so slightly to invite him deeper into your space. He kissed you once more, softly, then pulled away, pressing his forehead to yours. The crease between his brows was even deeper now, but there was something fiery dancing behind the amber of his eyes. 

“Now we both have a secret,” Peter whispered, “I’ll keep yours if you keep mine.” 

---*

If there was a shift in the way you and Peter interacted after that, it was subtle enough that no one noticed. He remained so good at pretending he hadn’t kissed you that there were moments in which you wondered if perhaps you’d imagined the entire thing. But then you’d catch his gaze lingering on you when no one else was around and you’d know it was real and you wanted nothing more than for it to be real again, to be undone underneath him.

It was this thought, five weeks later, that had you squeezing your thighs together under the tight red dress that Wilson had insisted you wear to the party he was hosting. For three hours, you’d hung off his elbow, making small talk and looking as pretty as a peach, made up just the way he wanted. But your eyes kept seeking out someone else until you could no longer bear the smell of your fiancé’s cologne. 

“I think the wine has gone to my head,” you frowned, pushing yourself up onto your tiptoes to whisper in Wilson’s ear. You made a show of  pinching the bridge of your nose between two manicured fingers for good measure. Wilson placed a hand on the small of your back and pulled you close, pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

“My Angel,” he murmured, blissfully unaware of how you were imagining sticking your nails into his eyeballs and scratching until his retinas detached.

“I’ll bring her home, Boss,” Peter appeared at your side as if summoned. Wilson nodded, solemn. It made you want to laugh—as if he would miss you for a moment when there were dozens of gorgeous women in short skirts flitting about the room with serving trays. 

“Good man, Parker.” 

Back in the hotel suite you called your own, where Peter had first kissed you, you settled onto the wingback chair you normally read on and looked up at your companion. He looked so incredibly handsome in his pinstripe suit and crisp tie that you were certain God existed and had handcrafted Peter Parker. There was no way such a man could have been an accident of genetics. 

“You don’t have to,” you muttered, crossing your legs and smoothing your skirt over your knees. “Stay, I mean. The party…” 

Peter cut you off with a wave of his hand. You noticed he wasn’t wearing gloves tonight and his knuckles were smoothly ridged. “What if I want to stay?” 

“Then stay,” you replied, slightly embarrassed by the breathiness of your voice. Peter smiled at you—a real smile, warm and airy and unassuming, so different from the smirk you’d come to know and appreciate in its own way. He came over to your chair, sliding down until he was cross-legged on the floor. 

“You know,” Peter continued, shouldering his jacket off. “You never did answer my question.” 

“Hm?” You felt something tighten in your stomach, some coil of nervous anticipation that you wanted to stoke and feed. 

“When I asked you to tell me about yourself.” 

“Oh,” you felt yourself grow warm under the earnest way Peter gazed at you, as if you were a prophet and he wanted to drink up every holy word that tumbled from your red-painted lips. 

“I—I wanted to be a doctor,” you muttered, eyes still fixed on him, vigilant for any indication of his mood. “I wanted to help people.”

“What happened?” There was something about the intensity with which Peter stared at you that made you crawl inside yourself, hide your face behind your hands. He cleared his throat and when you reemerged from behind your fingers, his cheeks were slightly flushed, apologetic and embarrassed. 

“My mom,” you said quietly, voice barely a whisper, “And my dad. And it was a whole mess. I…I don’t like talking about it.” 

“That’s fair,” Peter nodded, scooting an inch closer to you, so close that you could feel his soft breath against your knees. “You can still help people.” 

You laughed, so cold and angry you didn’t recognize yourself in that sound, though you supposed you didn’t recognize a lot of who you’d become. 

“No one walks away from Wilson.” 

“You can,” Peter said, so confident it made your heart flutter. “I can help you.” 

“Who are you?” You gestured weakly at his hands, remembering the sticky remnants of something on your wrist. 

“Doesn’t matter.” Peter gave you a lopsided grin and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, lean and muscled forearms reaching out until his palms rested flat, one against each of your knees. 

Your breath hitched in your throat at the contact, desire rippling inside you. “He’ll kill you.”

“He’ll try,” Peter replied solemnly, too calm for what was about to happen, “But he won’t be able to.” 

You couldn’t help the derisive noise exhaled as your nostrils flared in disbelief. 

“I’m serious,” Peter said, and he sounded so sure of himself it almost convinced you. “I’m…different. I can do things that no one knows about, not even Wilson Fisk.” 

“Peter,” you sighed. He clicked his tongue at you, rubbing your knees soothingly. 

“You’re so tense, sweetheart,” he muttered, “Let me help you relax?” From his spot on the carpeted floor, Peter looked up at you, waiting for assent. When you nodded, breathing out heavily through your nose, he began to pull your knees apart, spreading your thighs. 

Your hands gripped the arms of the wingback chair, nails digging into the fabric so fiercely you worried you might rip it. 

As Peter settled himself closer between your legs, shifting to brace his weight on sculpted forearms pressed on the outside of your legs, you imagined yourself clawing at his back, leaving your mark on him as a reminder of this slip-up, this horrible mistake waiting to happen.

“Peter,” you whimpered, your voice desperate and breathy. “Be good to me?”

“I’ve got you,” he replied, “I’m gonna take care of you, baby girl.” 

His thumb skirted across knee, touch tender, though it didn’t make you feel broken or weak. The movement caused your dress to bunch up and you lifted your hips slightly so it could pool around your waist. Peter’s breath hitched in his throat as your lacy black panties came into view. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, running his forefinger up your inner thigh from your knee to the crease where your underwear ended. He tapped the inside of your leg. “Open up for me, pretty girl.” 

You spread your legs further so that Peter could hook his fingers into your underwear and pull them down, trailing kisses along your legs as he did. Once your panties were off, Peter brought them up to his face. You watched with hooded eyes, moaning as he breathed in your scent and tucked the fabric into his back pocket. 

Kissing back up your legs, Peter pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your core, a low whimper leaving your lips at the sensation of his breath between your legs. Slowly, he licked a stripe from your entrance up to your clit, pausing to favour your sensitive bud. 

“You’re sweeter than I ever imagined,” he muttered, voice muffled as he spoke against your velvet softness. “Can I taste all of you, sweetheart?” 

“Y-yes,” you stammered, hands curling in his hair. “Please, Peter.” 

In a moment his tongue was buried in your cunt, swirling inside you with a sensation that felt almost like a deep tickle. Peter’s nose bumped softly against your clit with each dig of his tongue deeper inside you, lapping at you like a man starved. His firm hands kept your thighs parted as your back arched off the chair. 

“You taste like a fucking goddess,” Peter groaned, nipping inside your thigh. You gasped, wriggling away, only to be stopped by Peter pressing the flat of his palm against your stomach, locking you in place. 

“If you leave a mark…” your warning trailed off as Peter’s mouth slid to your hip, rolling the skin over your pelvis between his teeth. 

“I couldn’t care less,” he muttered, “I’d tell the whole fucking world that I spent a night between these legs.” 

You swallowed hard, biting your bottom lip until it was swollen as Peter continued to pepper your legs with kisses. “Let me…let me take care of you.” 

Peter chuckled, rocking back to balance on his haunches as he peered at you with something fiery in his eyes. “No,” he said simply, “Tonight is for you.” 

“But…” 

“Trust me,” Peter continued, running a finger along your slit, “The little noises that come out of that pretty mouth. The face you’re gonna make when you cum over and over for me? That’s all I need tonight, baby girl.” 

“P-Peter,” you keened, feeling the coil in your stomach tighten at the knowledge that this man wanted nothing more than to taste you—to please you. 

“Just like that,” Peter praised, returning his face to your wet core, kissing and licking your soft folds. His hand came up to press his thumb into your clit, making you gasp. You could feel Peter smile against you as he continued to eat at your cunt, groaning each time you tugged at his hair. The pressure continued to build in your stomach, Peter pausing to look up at you from between your legs. The sight of your juices shining on his lips made your eyes roll back in pleasure. 

“I’ve dreamt of tasting you every night since I kissed you,” Peter told you. On his knees, it was as though he was confessing. “Wanted to have you spread open for me so bad.” 

Your chest was rising and falling rapidly, panting as he slid a finger inside you, hooking it upwards to curl against your soft inner walls. It was enough to make you cry out. 

“Cum for me, sweetheart,” Peter encouraged, lips latching onto your clit as he added a second finger and fucked you up to his knuckles. Peter sucked your tiny bundle of nerves, flicking his tongue over it until he felt you clench around his fingers. He continued to fuck you, shallower, gently kissing the top of your cunt as you toppled over the edge, his name on your lips, tears in your eyes. 

Following your bliss, Peter emerged from between your thighs and wiped his fingers on his pants, wide smile on his face, as if he hadn’t just signed his own death warrant. 

“I’ll grab a towel, sweetheart,” he whispered, “And draw you a bath, yeah?” 

You nodded, only vaguely aware of your surroundings, heart still beating quick. You wondered how long it would be until Wilson discovered what you’d done. 

Three months, as it turned out, almost to the day. 

[thatswhatijustsaid]

thankyou 2022 award season !!

[thatswhatijustsaid]

adopting

gif not mine

| tasm! peter x gn!reader

summary: you adopt a kitten with peter !

authors note: hiii recently i adopted a new kitten, we named her swayze. so i got inspired to write this short blurb about adopting one with peter !

“are you sure i won’t hurt her?” peter asked, taking the tiny kitten into his hands. you couldn’t help the laugh you let out, “pete, she’ll be okay. just hold her close to your chest” you smiled. you hadn’t seen peter so timid before, this was big step for the both of you. the conversation of adopting a kitten was a topic he had brought up a few times, which you were totally on board with. you love animals, especially cats.

you had only been living with peter for a few months, the both of you agreed you wanted the relationship more serious. this was the first step. “she’s so small” he laughed, watching the fur ball roll in his arms. he grinned, “what are you naming her?” he asked. you shook your head, “you name her, she seems to like you”

he paused, staring up at you then back to his arms. “what about salem?” you nodded followed by a smile. “sounds great to me. do you like that name, salem?” you gently poked the kittens nose.

peter laughed, watching the animal lie down in his arms. “oh she really likes you” you chuckled, “what can i say? everyone likes me” he added.

you agreed, “especially me” you pressed a soft kiss on his cheek.

[thatswhatijustsaid]

it’s me boy the ao3 website speaking to you inside your brain listen to me boy we don’t need sleep we don’t need it