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marsrogers · 2 years

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love me again (funeral blues pt. 2) | tom holland’s peter parker x stark! reader (18+)

warnings: mentions of death, underage drinking/drug use, angst, harry osborn being an asshole, oral (f-receiving), handjobs, fingering, sex (piv), female orgasm, male orgasm, swearing

synopsis: Unable to come to terms with Peter’s rejection, you attend a party at Harry’s to take your mind off of things. Things only get worst...until they get better.

word count: 10.8k

note: this is a second part to this imagine! it makes sense to read this after reading the first part.

A/N: Apologies for the incredibly delayed update; life has inhibited me from writing as frequently as I wish I could. As for the important details of the imagine, I thought it would be fun to pair Gwen and MJ together, as it’s something I’ve never seen done before but seems fitting. Additionally, I have no face claims in mind for Gwen nor the other characters I made up, such as Grace and the other Midtown High girls. That being said: enjoy!

It’s been two weeks since your father’s funeral, and all you’ve done since the memorial is alternate between sleeping on your left and right sides, catch up on episodes of Criminal Minds, eat, and shower. To say that getting out of bed was a chore would be an understatement, and the lax attitude that your school had about your return wasn’t helping to pull you out of your funk. Then again, you suppose that your school was in no position to rush you back, seeing as to how your father had resurrected the missing half of the population. Plus, you’re sure that your dad’s generous donation a few years back that doubled the size of Midtown has something to do with their laissez-faire attitude.

It’s currently 9:30 am on a Saturday, and you’re not even sure why you’re up this early. This is undoubtedly the earliest you’ve risen from your slumber in weeks, and you can’t deny that it feels good to have somewhat of a regimented schedule. You’re even contemplating exiting your room to have breakfast with your stepmother and sister. Key word is almost. You try to push away the desire to emerge from solitary confinement, but it’s persistent. Something is encouraging you to escape from the limits of your room. So, a little less than an hour after waking, you find yourself downstairs, slumped over your kitchen island with a bowl of cereal in your hands.

Pepper screeches when she comes down the stairs and sees you sitting in the kitchen.

“Morning,” you mumble through a mouthful of cereal.

She screeches and jumps in place, her right palm flying to clutch her heart. “Jesus, Y/N—you scared me. I didn’t expect you to be up this early. Frankly, I didn’t expect you to come out of your room today at all.” The last part she mutters, but your acute sense of hearing allows you to take in her words.

You shrug in between, placing a mouthful of cereal into your mouth. “Couldn’t stay in there forever.”

She gives you a nod of affirmation, a sudden smile beginning to find its way to her face. She makes her way over to you, a freshly brewed cup of coffee in her possession. Coming to stand beside you, her hand gently finds its way into your hair and strokes it softly. From your peripheral, you catch the way her engagement ring sparkles in the light of the kitchen window. You suddenly feel sick.

“How’re you doing today?” She questions soothingly.

“I mean, I waited, like, fifteen minutes after waking up before I started crying, so progress, I guess?” You joke. Pepper frowns, continuing to card her fingers through your hair.

Your words trigger an instant change in her demeanor. She swallows thickly. “I just want you to be okay, Y/N.”

“I will be.” Your answer surprises you. You offer it without thinking about whether or not you actually mean it. You’re not really sure if you do.

She offers another sad smile. “I know, I know.” Her response brings about an awkward silence among you two.

You wait a few seconds before you stand up and decide to break the quietness. “Okay, I’m going to go back to my room.”

“No, no, please don’t leave,” she implores. You can see the sadness and loneliness in her eyes, which makes you swallow nervously. “This is the first time you’ve been out of your room fully in days. I don’t want the cycle to continue repeating itself. Why don’t you invite Gwen over?”

The Gwen in question was your best friend in the entire world, Gwen Stacy, and while you’d normally be inclined to spend any available time you had with her, the prospect of her inducing a trauma dumping session scared you. But Gwen kept you grounded and forced you to be pragmatic during the times when you wanted to be the most impulsive. She’d been there for you through breakups, traumatic missions, and death. And you’d been there for her through her similar calamities: shitty partners, overbearing parents, and identity crises. You knew that asking her to come over to spend the day with you would be enjoyable, but you just didn’t know if you were up to it yet.

You swirl the remnants of milk and tiny pieces of cereal around in your ceramic bowl, trying to decide whether or not you should oblige Pepper. She stares at you expectantly, hoping to coax a favorable answer out of you.

“Okay,” you ultimately surrender. “Fine.”

Pepper’s hand finds its way to the small of your back, and she beams at you. “It’s not for me, it’s for you. It’ll be good.”

So, you punch Gwen’s name into your smartphone and type out a message to her, practically begging her to come over. Instead of retreating to your room, you opt to spend time with Morgan for the first time in days. She’d forced you to watch Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug and Cat Noir with her, and while you’d initially been slightly agitated about it, you secretly enjoyed the show.

You toggle back and forth between paying attention to the TV and surfing through various applications on your phone. You await Gwen’s response in giddy anticipation, hoping she’s not too busy to spend time with you.

She replies about half an hour after you text her, and you can feel her excitement oozing through the phone. Her answer is a cheery one, typical of Gwen. You and she were opposites in that regard. Where she always took to finding the positives in every situation, you were a glass-half-empty kind of girl. You had gotten a little better at shaking that pessimism, but that change had occurred when things were different. The person you were now—the things you’d experienced recently—made you think it would be impossible to ever be the kind of happy Gwen was. You’d always envied her for that quality. Now more than ever.

When Gwen arrives at your house, it’s almost noon. You hadn’t moved from your place on the living room couch, and while Pepper would’ve normally scolded you for being dormant in one spot for so long, you could tell how glad she was to see you out of your room.

“Be right back, Morgana,” you ruffle your sister’s hair, then pull off the blankets you’d placed on your body.

Without a glance backward at you, she gives you a thumbs up. You walk over to the front door, open it, and come face to face with your best friend.

“Hey, girlie,” she offers you a sympathetic smile. You want to roll your eyes because how could your best friend be staring at you with as much pity as everyone else? “How are you?” She pulls you in for a hug, and you inhale the calming scent of her jasmine perfume and relax. Gwen is a perpetual presence of calm in your life, and when you give yourself a second to breathe, you observe how your heart rate slows down at the sight of her. You remind yourself that she cares about you, just as everyone who has been doting on you does.

“I’m okay,” you answer honestly, stepping aside to usher her inside your home. “I’ve been worse. I’ve been better.”

She nods understandingly, stepping inside the foyer of your home. “I get it.”

“I’m glad you’re here, though,” you admit. “I missed you a lot.”

“I missed you too,” she agrees. “You look good, Y/N/N.”

“I’m hanging in there,” you let out a shaky sigh. “Doing the best I can.”

“I’m glad you texted me,” Gwen links her arm with yours, leading you to your original spot on the couch. “If you had waited any longer, I would’ve come over uninvited.”

Morgan quickly pulls her attention away from the television screen, and her eyes light up at the sight of your best friend. “Gwen!” She squeals, finding her way into Gwen’s arms. Despite only meeting the blonde a few weeks ago, she’d automatically gravitated towards her. You couldn’t be surprised, though, as Gwen was indeed a real-life princess.

She kisses your sister on her forehead. “Hey, Morgan, how are you, babe?”

“Good, because Y/N is spending time with me for once,” she replies absentmindedly, attention turned back to the television.

You let out a sigh. You usually would’ve snapped at Morgan for such an inflammatory response, but you know that what she’s saying is true. You realize that you hadn’t been there for the first five years of her life, which was entirely out of your hands. But now that you had the opportunity to connect with your little sister, the grief you felt completely inhibited you from doing so. You had to give yourself some credit for getting out of bed today, though.

“I’ll be better, Morgan, I will,” you promise. “I’m sorry.” You mumble the last part, feeling the tears start to sting your eyes.

Gwen instantly notices your change in demeanor and opts to change the subject. “So, Morgan, what are we watching?”

Your sister launches into a rant about her show of choice, but you tune her out, your mind automatically wandering to the person it always wanders to: your father. The aching pain in your chest for your father had managed to subside over the last few days, but unfortunately, it had been replaced with an ache for someone else: Peter. On the day of the funeral, you’d spent the subsequent hours after your incident with said teen superhero crying into Gwen’s arms on your bathroom floor. By the time Pepper had found you, almost everyone had already left your home. She’d observed your mascara-stained cheeks and red eyes and chalked it up to your mourning. In a way, she was right, but not about the person you were grieving. You weren’t sure how you’d even explain the whole Peter situation to her. You hoped it would resolve itself before you had to.

A few hours more of monotonous cartoon watching passed until Pepper relieved you, making up an excuse about you and Gwen having homework to do. The reality was that you hadn’t touched your homework in weeks. At this point, you barely cared if your status as valedictorian held up. You’d find it in you to worry about it at some other time.

When you and Gwen are finally alone in your bedroom, you collapse on your bed, and she takes a seat on the spinning chair at your desk. You turn on some Taylor Swift music as background noise while you and Gwen spend most of your time scrolling through your phone.

“I completely forgot that Harry was throwing a party tonight,” Gwen states after some time has gone by, typing something into her phone.

At the mention of a party, you prop yourself up in your bed. You may have been fighting a seemingly incurable case of insomnia, but it wasn’t strong enough for you to miss a social gathering. You were indeed your father’s daughter in that sense. “Party?”

“Shit, I totally should’ve mentioned something to you, but Harry told me that he already texted you,” she apologizes. “I didn’t think you’d be up to it. I’ll just hang around with you and tell him we’ll see him soon.”

You think back and try to remember receiving a text about a party from your aforementioned friend. Your memory settles on a message that you’d received a few days ago and absentmindedly replied to with a “thanks.” Frankly, it took a lot for you to respond to Gwen's messages, let alone anyone else.

“Fuck it, let’s go,” you proposition your best friend. “It’ll be fun. I need to get out of the house anyway.”

Your best friend regards you cautiously, examining your appearance. “You sure? Even Harry didn’t think you’d want to go. He texted me, like, so many times asking if I thought you were going to make it. I swear to God he even offered to reschedule it so that you could come. I bet he’s going to die if you do.”

Your stomach drops at Gwen’s implication. There was only one boy’s opinion that you cared about, and he didn’t even want to give you the time of day anymore. Frankly, you were unsure if he’d ever give it to you again.

“Yeah, I want to. I’ve been cooped up in this house for too damn long. Besides, I think this might be the only time that Pepper willingly and eagerly lets me go to a party,” you hum.

Gwen lets out an overjoyed shriek, and you wince. And while you’re more than eager for a change of scenery to clear your head, a larger portion of you hopes that a certain someone would swallow his pride and push away his contempt for you and Harry and possibly make a guest appearance at Harry’s party. You wish more than anything.

_____

It had taken practically three hours of preparation—mental and physical—until you left your house.

You let Gwen borrow a cute pale green mini dress purchased from a Marc Jacobs pop-up shop before the Blip. It brought out her eyes and accentuated her long legs. You knew her parents would’ve had a heart attack if they saw her dressed the way she was, complete with bright red lipstick and intricately drawn-on eyeliner.

You opt for a dress of the same style—a baby pink Chanel one that barely reached the tops of your thighs. You had a vague (salient) memory of Peter complimenting you in that dress some time ago, but you convinced yourself that that was not at all the reason why you’d chosen it for the party. Besides, you weren’t even sure if he was going. He wasn’t a partier and there was the very obvious issue of it being at the house of his mortal enemy, but you still had some hope!

Pepper had generously driven you to the party, a ride mainly consisting of her and Gwen chatting about arbitrary things. You tuned everything out, too busy searching for every strategy in your arsenal to assuage your budding anxiety.

When your stepmother finally pulls up in front of Harry’s apartment complex, you let out an audibly nervous sigh. Gwen swivels in her seat to examine you, then pulls your hand into hers.

“You’re okay,” she squeezes your hand. “This is supposed to be fun, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you affirm with a tiny nod. “Yeah, you’re right.”

She nudges you towards the car door. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

“Make smart decisions!” Pepper calls after you as you exit. You roll your eyes at her statement and keep your hand intertwined with Gwen’s as she leads you towards the apartment complex’s main entrance.

The elevator ride upstairs to Harry’s penthouse apartment is quiet. You could cut the tension with a knife. Gwen, ever the peacekeeper, does her best to mitigate it.

“This is the quietest I’ve ever seen you,” she jokes. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I miss the rowdy Y/N.”

You gnaw at your thumbnail. “I’m nervous, so nervous. I’m not even sure for what if I’m being completely honest.”

“If he’s here, you take it one step at a time. I guarantee you he’s not going to ignore you completely; he has a heart,” Gwen answers. She’d done a pretty good job not bringing up Peter thus far, but she knew you well enough to understand that most of your nerves were a result of wondering whether or not he would be making an appearance tonight.

You continue to chew on the tip of your thumb. “Mhmm.”

With a ding, the elevator stops directly inside the Osborn’s apartment. The party is clearly in full swing, with guests in every possible crevice. You let your eyes wander to Betty and Ned, who are chatting amiably. You nudge Gwen, and she gives you a smirk, her reaction a tacit affirmation of what’s budding between said duo. You take in a few other familiar faces but no one of genuine interest.

Stepping out into the foyer, you link arms with Gwen as you familiarize yourself with your environment. It’d been over five years since you’d been at Harry’s, and while you remember some things, the lack of time you had spent at his house before the Blip meant that you didn’t exactly know where you were going.

The space was beautiful, though, decorated with expensive furniture and rare paintings and equipped with enough rooms for at least two families to reside. It reminded you a lot of your apartment, and now, you and Harry had another thing in common: no father around to make the home feel a little less large. Harry’s situation was much different than yours as his father chose to be absent, and yours had, well, died, but it was something that you figured he could empathize with you on in some capacity.

Walking through the halls of the penthouse and settling in the kitchen, you let your eyes rest on a picture hanging from the wall of Harry in his Midtown High lacrosse uniform, the smile he wears so cocky and confident that it’s almost blinding. Ever the New York socialite. It makes you giggle.

“Wonder where Harry is,” you ponder.

When you receive no response from Gwen, you glance over at her. “God, I didn't think MJ would be here.” You follow Gwen’s eyes to where MJ sits on a stool at the kitchen island, head resting on her palm as she scrolls through her phone. The blonde gapes at her crush, and you giggle at her frazzled reaction. It gives you some comfort to see that you aren’t the only one nervous to see someone you have feelings for. Yeah, you want what’s happening between you and Peter to work out, but Gwen deserves happiness more than anyone. She’d been subject to some shitty romantic partners, but MJ had the capacity to change Gwen’s perception of love. She had already started doing that.

“Go talk to her, loser,” you hip-butt her.

Gwen’s emerald eyes light up at your encouragement. “You sure? I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“I’ll be totally fine,” you assure her. That’s maybe 50% true, but you don’t want to give Gwen any more reasons to worry about you. Plus, you’re not a child and don’t need a babysitter. Most of the time.

“Okay, okay, I’ll see you later,” she squeezes your shoulder. “Keep me updated, Y/N, please.”

You give her a nod, your lips turning up into a smile. “Make smart decisions.”

Gwen giggles at how you mock your stepmom, then skips toward MJ, her curled blonde hair bouncing with each step she takes.

Distracted by your friend and her crush, you miss entirely the person approaching you from behind.

“Holy shit, you’re here,” a familiar male voice observes. “I didn’t think—oh my God, this is like the best surprise ever.” Your question about where the party's host was had finally been answered.

You whip around to face Harry, and you grin at him, as he pulls you into his arms. “Shit, Harry, didn’t think I’d get this reaction from you. Am I that important?”

“I’m so excited to see you,” he acknowledges. “And yeah, you’re pretty much the life of the party. You know that. Come with me.” And with that, he’s pulling you by your arm into another part of the house. You end up in the living room, where there are even more people than there were scattered throughout the house.

“Thank you for that compliment. I know the party was incredibly dull without me, but now I’m here, and you can officially start to enjoy yourself,” you tease. Harry rolls his eyes playfully and continues leading you on your original path.

You set eyes on more familiar faces. Some people from your classes that you’ve interacted with a few times here and there. Others are strangers, while some others look vaguely familiar.

“Everyone, look who decided to make an appearance!” Harry bellows, grabbing your hand and lifting it above your head to draw attention to you. People’s conversations halt as they stop to listen to Harry. “The one, the only, Y/N Stark!”

The room is silent for a good few seconds, people staring you up and down and whispering to their friends as the realization of who you are—or rather who your father is—sets in.

A few more seconds go by until you decide to break the awkward silence. “Well, what are you all staring at me for?” You laugh awkwardly. “Isn’t this supposed to be a party?!”

That’s all it takes for the crowd of moronic teenagers to erupt into raucous screams.

“You were right,” Harry calls to you. “You really are the life of the party.” You laugh awkwardly. Maybe this party wasn’t such a great idea after all?

_____

You end up having more drinks than you probably should have. When your head starts to pound, and the ceiling spins above you, you decide it’s time to slow down. You were pretty sure Harry was crossfaded, as he was much more talkative (and flirty) than usual—telltale signs that he wasn’t sober. You knew his vices of choice were weed and sometimes—only sometimes— coke, but he had sworn that he had kicked that habit. You weren’t sure what he was on tonight, but you were positive it was a combination of at least two substances.

So after stumbling with him back into the living room, tripping over your platform Versace heels a few times, and almost knocking over a few vases, you finally come to sit on a vacant couch.

“So, how’d you get your dad to agree to this?” You gesture around the room.

“Told him I was only having a few people over. He won’t know the difference, and either way, he’s halfway around the world,” he answers. “Plus, it’s not like he gives a shit about me anyway.”

“At least your dad’s alive,” you sigh (somewhat dramatically, you might add), and collapse on the couch behind you, your dress riding up slightly in the process. You observe how Harry’s eyes flicker over towards the tops of your newly exposed thighs, and while the attention would normally make you giddy, you feel the compulsion to pull the skirt of your dress further down your thighs.

Harry clears his throat awkwardly, but you watch as he examines you out of his peripheral vision.

“You, um, you look really nice tonight, Y/N. Like really, really, fucking pretty,” he blurts out.

“You already told me that, like, one hundred times, silly,” you giggle.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he answers awkwardly. “Just thought I’d tell you again.”

An uncomfortable silence settles between you for a few moments after the barraging of compliments that Harry paid you.

“Hey, I’m going to go to the bathroom,” you finally speak up, standing up abruptly and smoothing your skirt off.

Harry’s quick to respond, standing up at almost the same time as you do. “Yeah, yeah, of course. You good?”

You force yourself to smile. “Mhmm. I’ll be back in a jiff.” You watch how Harry regards you strangely at your awkward choice of phrasing, and you cringe as you turn away from him.

You stagger towards the bathroom, and when you arrive at the one closest to the kitchen, it’s packed, even considering how large it is— filled to the brim with girls doing various things like applying makeup, or smoking, or snorting illegal substances off the marble countertop. You’d pushed past two girls making out, hands groping each other wildly, not a care in the world for the fact the others were in the bathroom, too.

Not in the mood to be overwhelmed by a gaggle of girls, you exit the room as quickly as possible and go to find another vacant bathroom. In your slightly drunken stupor, it feels like it takes forever to walk down the halls of the penthouse, and you brace yourself on the wall with the palms of your hands.

Trailing down a long hallway that’s completely uninhabited, your hand closes around every door knob you come in contact with, but each time you open a door, you fail to find a bathroom. Pouting frustratedly, you decide that if the next door you open doesn’t lead to a bathroom, you’ll give up on the whole thing and return to Harry. Plus, it wasn’t like you actually needed to use the bathroom; you just needed a breather.

Setting your sights upon one last room, you absentmindedly tug the door open. Your mouth instantly falls open as soon as you do this.

The good news about the current sight before you was that you had in fact found a bathroom. The bad news was that you had stumbled upon two people in quite a compromising situation, one of whom was the person you’d been looking for the entire night. You never would’ve imagined walking in on with a girl’s legs wrapped around his waist as he kissed her fervently. They were practically dry-humping each other, and you were even sober enough to hear the tiny whimpers that she emitted.

It takes you a few seconds to process the scene that unfolds before you, and when it all finally resonates with you, you let your mouth fall open in shock. “What the fuck?”

Peter pulls away from his partner, who you finally recognize as a girl you had APUSH with during your sophomore year. You think her name is Kelly? Maybe Karen? Maybe Kristen? Even without the disdain that you currently held for her, you could objectively say that she was a bitch.

Peter’s eyes are the size of saucers, and a deep crimson blush paints his cheeks. “Y/N.”

“I can’t believe you,” you seethe. “You were rejecting me less than two weeks ago and now you’re hooking up with her.”

“I have a name,” Kendra? Kirsten? Chrysanthemum? snaps back at you, then turns to Peter, a perplexed look on her face. “She tried to get with you two weeks ago?”

“‘I have a name,’” you mock. “And he tried to get with me first. Can we talk about this outside? I don’t really want her knowing our business.”

Peter obliges you, and you make your way into the hallway together.

“I don’t really know what to say to you, Y/N,” Peter answers sheepishly.

Crossing your arms over one another you scoff. “You’ve said and done enough.”

“Y/N,” he sighs, then pauses abruptly, running an awkward hand through his hair. “After everything that happened at your dad’s funeral, I felt so shitty, we should’ve talked about us at another time. It was wrong of me to treat you that way.”

You instantly perk up at his apology, uncrossing your arms. “So what are you saying?” A large part of you is optimistic that Peter wants to try to work things out with you, but judging by his tone and disposition, you know your hopes are futile.

“I still don’t think it would be a good idea for us to be together,” he replies. “Things aren’t great right now for either of us.”

“But it’s okay for you to move on? If I would’ve walked in, like, five minutes later, you probably would’ve been fingering her,” you snap crudely.

“Who am I to tell you what to do with your life? Who are you to tell me what to do with mine? You should be able to be with whoever you want,” he replies back in the same tone.

A wicked smirk settles on your face as you analyze his words. “Oh yeah? Anyone? Well, then I guess I’ll see what Mr. Obsorn’s up to at this very moment.”

He gapes at you. “You’re being cruel.”

You pout tantalizingly. “You used to like it when I was mean to you. Now you don’t like it anymore? Strange.”

Peter’s already dark brown eyes flame so deeply that they almost turn black. “Fuck you.”

Already having turned on your heel to return back down the hallway, you let out a coquettish giggle. “Yeah, yeah, you already had your chance!”

You wait until you’re finally out of Peter’s line of vision to let the tears fall.

_____

It hadn’t taken much to convince Harry that you wanted to find yourself in some place more private. After your debacle with Peter you’d sauntered over to where he was, still situated patiently on the couch that you had both been occupying. It had only taken a few swishes of your hips, some hair tousling, and a kiss on Harry’s cheek before he had led you to his room.

You hadn’t been in his room since before the Blip when you’d been forced to work on a lab report together for AP Chemistry. Your purpose for being in his room now was clearly very different.

Within a few minutes of being alone, he’d pinned you against his bedroom door and placed his lips on yours. His hands had traveled straight to your waist, and before you knew it they were traveling even further down until they rested on your ass. The whole interaction was as lackluster as it had been the only other time you’d tried it with Harry, but you didn’t have the capacity to think straight.

He’d led you to his bed to make you more comfortable, taking note of your reaction every few seconds. You did your best to focus on the scent of his expensive cologne or how soft his hair felt as you tangled your fingers in it, or how comfortable his duvet felt underneath you, but none of this did anything to quell your nerves or, quite frankly, arouse you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers gently into your ear, moving some loose strands of hair away from your eyes. “I’ve been thinking about doing this with you again forever.”

You cringe at his admission, but once again, do your very best to suppress the apprehension that you feel. This is obviously a terrible idea, born from impulsivity, alcohol, and anger, but you can’t will yourself to stop.

You try to relax as his lips trail down from your ear to your jaw and finally to your neck, sucking tiny patterns into your skin, while his hands trail slowly underneath your dress and up your thighs. His hands are soft on your skin, but his movements are abrupt. Instead of savoring the experience, it seems as though he can’t wait to get it over with. To get you out of your clothes so that something favorable can happen.

But all you can think about is Peter. How Peter would hold you so much more tenderly, how he would paint your neck red with his kisses, and how instinctually you’d part your legs for him so he could touch you where you needed him most. How he’d trail his hands over your ribs, kiss down your stomach, and use his tongue to make you cry out his name. And it’s at that moment when you decide that you can’t do this anymore. You can no longer make stupid, capricious decisions. You can’t be with Harry in any way that’s not platonic. But most of all, you can’t be without Peter.

Mustering up the courage, you finally pull away from Harry’s kiss. “Harry, I can’t do this.” You grab his hand soothingly, hoping that this will mitigate some of the imminent hurt he’ll feel.

He regards you with concern. “What’s wrong? Did I do something?”

“No, no, it’s not you, it’s me,” you squeeze his hand. Cliche much? “I just feel like maybe, this is not the right time to do this. We both were drinking and that makes things so much more confusing. And, like, maybe we’re rushing into this?”

You’re not prepared for the way that Harry’s expression instantly morphs from one of confusion into one of anger. “I’m confused—what are you saying? Y/N, I’ve waited for you for twelve fucking years.”

“Harry,” you caution, finally sliding out from under his grasp. You cross your legs over one another and prop yourself up a few inches away from where he sits. “I don’t understand why you’re getting so mad about this.” You knew it was better to play stupid than to try to console him and tell him that you knew full well why he was feeling what he was. It was obvious that you had led him on and clear that you’d been doing so for years. But couldn’t he at least cut you some slack, especially during this difficult time?

“I’m mad, Y/N because I’ve spent so much of my goddamn time trying to get you to like me, trying to make you realize that I’m head over fucking heels for you,” he snaps. “I don’t know how much clearer I could’ve been. Calling you every damn day to check up on you, buying you sympathy gifts, spending this entire night with you when I could’ve actually been hanging out with other people.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” you hold up your hand to signal to him to pause his rambling. “You’re telling me that you did all of that, so what—so I’d suck your dick? So I’d let you go down on me? Do you realize how that sounds, Harry.”

“Stop playing dumb. You’ve known all along how I feel about you. How badly I want you,” Harry laughs bitterly. “And you completely strung me along. The flirting wasn’t fucking one-sided, Y/N.”

“I wasn’t entirely sure,” you mutter, looking down at your lap in embarrassment. “And I was just being nice.” Even you realize how much of a lie that is.

“‘You weren’t entirely sure,’ oh please, look me in the eye and tell me that. Look me in the eye and say that to me with a straight face, Y/N,” he dismisses you.

Your lip quivers, and you let out a shaky breath. “Stop it, Harry.”

“Oh, you’re about to cry, Y/N?” He taunts. “I should be the one fucking crying. You’re pathetic.”

You quickly wipe at the tears forming in your eyes. “Harry—Harry, you’re being mean.” You were pretty sure Peter had just told you the same thing a few minutes ago, but that wasn’t important right now.

“And you’re a bitch,” he states tersely. “You need to leave.”

“Harry,” you plead, placing a hand on his shoulder. He shrugs it off abruptly, and your hand falls back into your lap. You can barely see through the sea of tears flowing from your eyes. “Don’t be like this.”

“Get out,” he spits.

You climb off of his bed as quickly as your legs will carry you, doing your best to remain calm. “Fuck you,” you choke out. “Every time you think about why we stopped being friends—every time someone asks you what happened between us—every time you miss me—I want you to remember this moment. I want you to remember that you treated me like garbage because I wouldn’t let you fuck me.”

Harry remains silent, facing away from you and offering you no reaction. Just as your hand is on the doorknob to leave, Harry calls out your name to stop you.

“Oh and, Y/N,” he begins. You stop where you stand but don’t offer him the courtesy of turning around to meet his gaze. Just by the tone of his voice, you knew that he wasn’t going to say something pleasant. “I know all about you and Parker.”

You’re not even sure that you’re breathing at that point.

“I bet your father’s rolling in his grave right now,” he lets out a sarcastic chuckle. “I mean, Jesus, what kind of whore hooks up with someone at her dad’s funeral?”

“Go to hell,” you snap back, grabbing the handle to his bedroom door and slamming it shut.

“Maybe I’ll see you there!” Harry calls back.

It hits you at that instant that Harry is the second boy to reject you in about two weeks. It seems that regardless of how much you beg or how much you solicit yourself, you can never seem to attain the attention and affection of anyone fully.

It stings that you’d expected Harry to never be like the other boys that you and your friends complained about. He’d always been so respectful, so caring, so patient. Now, he was treating you like a stranger, as though you’d done the most egregious thing known to mankind. If this was the way that Harry truly was behind closed doors, then frankly, you wanted nothing to do with him.

_____

After your blowout with Harry, you’d gone searching for Gwen all around the apartment, and with a misplaced phone, you couldn’t contact her to find out where she’d gone. When you finally found your phone, you saw that she had texted multiple times looking for you. The last text she’d sent you had informed you that she was leaving with MJ but that she’d looked all over for you.

So, you grabbed your belongings and exited the apartment as quickly as possible. You hadn't exactly planned out what you’d do after leaving though…

You spent a good half hour wandering around the streets of the Upper East Side aimlessly, letting yourself sob uncontrollably into your tweed Gucci jacket. You had undoubtedly ruined the white fabric with your mascara-stained tears, but you didn’t care enough.

You missed your father. You needed Gwen. Hell, you would’ve even settled for being comforted by Pepper. But ultimately, you just wanted Peter. You hated that he was all you could think about. Even after getting into a fight with him that night, you still needed him. You couldn’t part ways with him so quickly, and you knew he felt the same way. You knew that he was pushing you away to protect himself, and you understood that. But you knew now more than ever that you were ready to commit to him.

You knew that the way you had pushed him away in the past was beyond fucked up, and you knew that making him adhere to your time frame meant that he didn’t owe you anything. And, of course, there was the whole Harry situation. You regretted everything that had to do with Harry—not only what had transpired tonight. But maybe, just maybe, if you could go to him, and have a real heart-to-heart, then maybe things could be different.

Another capricious decision leads you to get on the train to Queens. You hadn’t been on the Subway in years. Your father had always denounced public transportation, explaining there was no reason for it when Happy was there to take you anywhere you wanted. Now, you certainly could’ve called your godfather to pick you up, but you didn’t want him to see you so defeated. Plus, you needed the time to think about what you’d say to Peter. How would you rectify this situation? If you could rectify this situation.

The trip feels so long and arduous—especially given the time—as it requires you to get off at various stations, sometimes walking for ten minutes at a time to catch the next departing trains. Part of you enjoys this, though, as it gives you time to think about how to approach this issue, and sober up too.

When you arrive in Queens, it’s 1:08 am exactly. You had texted Pepper and told her you were sleeping at Gwen’s. Hopefully, she didn’t question it.

You know the way from this station to Peter’s apartment. A walk that normally felt like a few minutes currently felt like hours. Finally, his apartment complex coming into your line of sight makes you wish that the walk could’ve possibly been a little longer. But you muster up all the strength that you have and enter the building.

The elevator ride upstairs has you wringing out your hands nervously and pacing back and forth. It feels like the exact same experience that you had earlier today going up to Harry’s apartment. This is the worst kind of deja vu ever.

The next few minutes feel like a blur as you walk to Peter’s apartment, doing your best to breathe and not to cry. You exhale shakily and finally let your knuckle come in contact with the wooden door that leads inside the Parker’s home.

May opens the door a few seconds after your knock, an incredibly shocked look on her face. Ever the beautiful woman, she has her long hair placed in a haphazard yet stylish bun. Glasses rest crookedly on the bridge of her nose, and she wears some comfortable-looking loungewear, notably a Star Wars t-shirt (that you’re pretty sure belongs to her nephew). She was obviously sleeping before you woke her up, and now you feel terrible. Even more than you already did.

“Y/N,” she states, blinking a few times to take in the sight of you. “What are you doing here, sweetie?”

“Um, oh, God, I’m sorry,” you breathe out nervously, feeling the tears starting to fall from your eyes for the umpteenth time that night. “I came here looking for Peter, but I just realized how crazy it was for me to come here uninvited in the middle of the night. I’m gonna go now. I’m so sorry for wasting your time, Ms. Parker.”

“No, no, Y/N, please, please come in. Talk to me, something is obviously wrong. Talk to me, honey,” she urges you, grabbing your arm to lead you inside her home slowly.

“I, um, I messed up really badly, and I’m trying to make it up to Peter, but I’m doing a shitty—I mean, I’m doing a really bad job, and he won’t forgive me. But I need him to. I need to talk to him so badly,” you ramble hysterically, your chest rising and falling in uneven, labored increments. “It’s just been a really bad night.”

“Oh, Y/N,” May coos softly, wiping your tears away with her thumbs. “It’s going to be okay. It is, honey, I promise. Peter’s taking a shower, okay? But you’re more than welcome to stay here and wait until he finishes. Do you want to do that?”

“Yeah,” you nod abruptly. “Please.”

“Okay,” she offers you a concerned smile. “Come here, honey.”

She guides you over to the largest couch in the living room and takes you into her arms, rubbing comforting circles into your back. You will yourself to stop crying but you can’t. The tears feel like they’ll never stop.

Another fifteen minutes pass until you hear the water shut off in the bathroom. When it finally does, your heart jumps.

“You know,” May states gently. “I’m not sure what’s going on between you and Peter—even though I can probably make some assumptions—but I want you to know that he does care about you, and I’m sure he always will.”

“I don’t know. I feel like he hates me,” you mumble, wiping some more tears away from your eyes.

May laughs. “Never. He could never.”

You fiddle with your fingers nervously. “Yeah, I’m not so sure. Like I said, I really messed up. I don’t know how to fix it.”

May continues to rub your back soothingly. “Well, you’re here now, and that has to count for something.”

“I don’t even know what I’ll say to Peter,” you sigh.

“Just be honest with him. He’ll be able to tell when you’re putting up a front, but he’s not as stubborn as you peg him to be. Peter just wants you to know that you care,” May answers.

“I do care; so much,” you agree fervently.

The sound of Peter’s bedroom door opening brings your conversation to a halt. You hold your breath as you wait for Peter to appear. You have no idea how he will react or if he’ll even hear you out. You try to take May’s advice and praise yourself for even seeking him out. However, your anxiety berates you and calls you obsessed, desperate, pathetic. He already turned you down one time, so why are you continuing? You don’t even know.

May calls to him. “Hey, Peter, you doing okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m exhausted, though,” he yawns. You watch as he emerges from his room in nothing but a pair of loose plaid boxer shorts as he simultaneously dries his hair off with a towel. You subconsciously shift in May’s arms to get a better look at him, your eyes gliding across his taut abs and the cords of muscle that adorn his arms and hands. Your tongue instinctually darts out to wet your lip, but you do your best to quell the budding arousal that you’re experiencing. Now is certainly not the time for that way of thinking.

As he walks closer to you, you feel like you’re going to faint. You can’t remember the last time that you were this nervous.

When he finally does set eyes on you, you see many emotions flashing across his face: anger, confusion, hope?

“Hi, Pete,” you choke out, offering him a cautious wave.

“Y/N,” he states. You can see a tiny wave of concern flash across his face as he takes in your fully disheveled state. “What’s wrong?”

“So many things,” you reply through teary eyes. “So many things went wrong tonight. But, please, please, Peter, let me talk to you; please hear me out.”

“I’ll leave you two alone,” May announces softly. You pull away from her, and she gives you a knowing look as if to say, “You’ve got this!” She then slowly makes her way to her room; however, you’re pretty sure she lingers outside of it around for a few minutes.

Peter makes his way over to where you are on the couch, but instead of sitting, he remains standing with his arms crossed.

You swallow nervously before answering. “I know you say you don’t want to be with me. That you think it’s a bad idea for us to be together, but I can’t do this anymore. It’s killing me to be apart from you. I think about you all the time. I—I don’t know how much longer I can go on without you. And I don’t want to beg you to be with me, I know I look so pathetic coming here and pleading with you, but I don’t know how else to apologize.”

He stares at you blankly. “Y/N, the reason that I say we can’t be together is that I know how easily you change your mind. How easily you get confused and bored and how difficult it is for you to make sense of how your actions hurt others. In a relationship, that’s not okay. I just feel like—I don’t know, you have no regard for how other people feel sometimes.”

“You’re right,” you agree. “But you had no regard for how I felt tonight. You totally dismissed how I was feeling after I walked in on you and Kameron. Do you know how badly that hurt? The way that you made me feel is the way that you seem to feel when Harry and I do anything together..”

“First of all, her name is Keira. Secondly, I saw how you and Harry were at the party tonight. You were practically sitting in his lap begging for him to sleep with you,” Peter retorts.

“I didn’t go to the fucking party for Harry. I went to the party for you. I can barely get out of bed most days, but I got up today for you, and I made myself look pretty for you, and I went searching around Harry’s entire fucking apartment for you,” you sob. “And when you rejected me tonight, I made a complete fucking fool out of myself. I thought that trying to distract myself with Harry would make me feel better. But it didn’t—he hates me just as much as you do. He called me a whore and a bitch.”

Peter immediately sits next to you on the couch, his eyes filled with rage. Once again, seeing Peter in such a worked-up state made your thighs clench together. “He called you what?”

“He said I was a whore,” you repeat, wiping away some more tears. “He knows about us, and when I rejected him, well, he went off. Said all of these horrible things to me.”

“That fucker,” Peter mutters under his breath. “I’m going to kill him.”

“But I’m not your girlfriend, so you shouldn’t care,” you reply dryly.

Peter stares at you for a few seconds as though fully taking you in. Thoroughly analyzing your facial features and trying to understand the implications of your words. “Y/N, it’s impossible for me to stop thinking about you too. I’ve tried so hard to remind myself of what I said to you the day of your father’s funeral. Tried to force myself to stick to my words. But I didn’t mean any of that; I was an asshole. Hell, it killed me to reject you again tonight. And I do believe that we’re bad for each other; but not all the time. I do believe that this might not work. But maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance that it could?”

Your ears perk up at his words, but for once, you choose to keep your sarcastic remarks to yourself.

“I think it could,” you reply quickly. “I know it could. Because I want you, I want you so badly, and I’m willing to work for it. To work to make this good for the both of us.”

“Yeah?” Peter’s eyes flicker from your eyes to your mouth. “You sure?”

“Mhmm,” you nod enthusiastically. “More sure than I’ve ever been of anything.”

“Maybe we can try this and see how it goes,” he suggests, his hand having found its way to your cheek to stroke it.

“I’d like that,” you say. “I’d like that a lot.”

When he finally leans in to press his lips to yours, you swear you ascend to heaven. Where you had tensed up as Harry had kissed you, you relax under Peter’s embrace, letting him guide you through laying back on the couch and moving his hands to skirt up your thighs. You buck against him as his tongue moves in tandem with yours, and you tug at his wet curls.

“Wanna go to my room?” His fingers glide up and down your arm gently.

“Yes, please. But wait, don’t you think your aunt is going to be suspicious?” You inquire with a smirk.

He trails kisses from your cheek down to your neck down to your collarbone. “She’s asleep.”

“You’re positive?” You whimper, your arm resting comfortably around his neck.

He finally tugs you up from the couch and ushers you toward his room. “Spidey senses remember?”

“Is that what those are for? Not getting caught during late-night sex?” You giggle as he closes the door to his room behind you.

“We’re having sex?” He stares at you with wide eyes.

“Oh, God, shit, I just assumed?” You panic.

“Just messing with you, pretty girl,” he steps closer to you and grins. “I wanted to fuck you since the moment I saw you in this dress.” He grabs your hips to pull you closer to him, then kisses you softly again.

You feel like you barely blink before he has you on his bed, underneath him. You melt under his embrace, reveling in the feeling of his gentle kisses on your lips, your cheek, and your neck.

You bring his larger hand around to the small of your back so he can find the zipper on your dress. “I’ve been waiting for you to take it off me since I first saw you tonight,” you answer breathlessly.

He quickly obliges you, his fingers deftly pulling down the zipper to reveal your back. He plays with your spine, rubbing tiny circles into it, as he simultaneously uses his bare knee to spread your legs wider for him. You moan as his knee comes in contact with your wet center. You sit up momentarily for him to help you out of your dress, and you swear he looks as though he’s seen God when you’re finally out of the garment. You tuck your knees under your lap and straighten your spine so he can take you in. Your cheeks have a beautifully rosy glow, your chest rises and falls in uneven breaths, and your skin shines beautifully under the dim lighting of his bedroom. You watch as his eyes flicker toward your erect nipples, then down toward where you need him the most.

“You’re the most beautiful person in the entire world,” he answers as earnestly as possible. Connecting your lips with his again, you bring his left hand to cup your right breast. His slim fingers instantly go to tweak your nipple, and you moan into his mouth. When he replaces his fingers with his mouth, you almost pass out. He’s barely even given you any stimulation, and you already feel like you might come. You let your hands play with his hair as he alternates between swirling his tongue on your left and right breast.

“Touch me, Petey,” you practically beg. “I’m so wet for you.”

Peter lets one hand travel down from your breast to your panties. He curses when his fingers come in contact with the soaked material. “Gonna take this off, okay? Lift your hips for me.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “Okay.” He tugs the material down your thighs, leaving you fully naked.

His hands rake over your stomach. “My beautiful girl. I really did miss you so much.”

His words alone are enough to make you cry, but when he drags his index finger from your clit down your opening, you think you might start crying real tears. “Peter, Peter, please don’t tease.”

“We’ll see,” he shrugs. “How badly do you want my fingers?”

“More than anything,” you plead. “Please.”

“Someone’s desperate,” he tsks. “Good thing I’m feeling generous.”

You could almost laugh at how submissive you’ve become to him. But it’s so hot to see him assert some dominance over you that you don’t mind it at all.

You yelp when he finally inserts his finger into your pussy. The wet, squelching sound, in combination with his rapid thrusts, makes your head fall back in euphoria. You let your hand travel down to play with your clit, and he adds a second finger, then eventually a third.

“You make me feel so good,” you cry out. “God, Peter.”

The stimulation of your clit in conjunction with the feeling of Peter’s fingers curling upward is heavenly. When he curves his index finger upwards to hit your g-spot, you let out a yelp, and your eyes widen. You’re so close and it’s only been five minutes.

“You gonna come for me?” Peter murmurs, speeding up his pace. You give him an enthusiastic nod, and when he leans forward to take your right nipple into his mouth, swirling it around his tongue, you let out one last cry and finish on his fingers, stifling your moan with your free hand.

“That was—that was good,” you offer Peter a blissed-out smile, reaching up to caress his cheek.

You return to kissing each other for a few minutes, moaning as your sensitive clit comes in contact with Peter’s boxer-clad erection. He finally pulls away to remove his boxers from his body. Your fingers glide across his abs as he strips himself of the last piece of clothing she wears.

He’s just as pretty as you remember—painfully hard against his stomach, at least over 6 inches, and pink tip leaking with precum. You have the urge to get on your knees and place him into your mouth and make him cry out your name. You take him in your hand and wrap your hand around him, letting your thumb brush across his tip and collecting some of his arousal on your fingertip.

He bucks his hips against your hand and groans out. “Jesus, babe.” You beam at the pet name he gives you. You set a comfortable pace, stroking him faster from tip to base. You take the opportunity to mark up his neck and play with his abs.

“Do you like the way I make your cock feel?” You purr in his ear. “You’re so hard for me. Can’t wait for you to be inside me.”

“If you keep doing that, I’ll come all over you,” he moans enthusiastically. “Let me fuck you.”

You separate for a minute for Peter to grab a condom from his bedside table. “I see you planned for this.”

“I was hopeful,” he shrugs with a tiny smile. Unwrapping the package, he’s quick to place the condom on himself.

“I want to ride you,” you assert when Peter pulls you back into his embrace. Peter kisses you again, this time much more slowly and sensually. You settle on top of him, rubbing your core against his cock. You moan into his mouth as he grinds himself against you.

“I missed you a lot, Y/N,” Peter repeats slowly. “I’m really glad we made up. I—I care about you so much.”

Your mouth falls open in pleasure when Peter slowly inserts himself inside your pussy. “Go slow,” you breathe out.

He grunts as he slowly sheaths himself inside of you. Despite being soaked, it takes you a minute to adjust to his size, as you hadn’t had sex in, well, over five years. Your fingers could only have so much of an impact on you.

When he finally bottoms out, you both share a collective moan. Peter brushes a few strands of hair out of your face. “So gorgeous.”

You lift yourself up slowly to ultimately land back on his lap again. “Peter,” you whimper. “Oh my God.”

You rise up and down more quickly on his cock, stifling your moans in his neck. When he starts to meet his thrusts with yours, your head falls back. Peter keeps a secure hold on the small of your back as he continues a consistent pace.

“Missed you. Missed your tight little pussy,” he moans into your ear. He licks and sucks at your breasts, marking them up with his teeth, and swirling your nipples under his tongue.

A comfortable silence arises between you two. The way that he stares into your eyes and cradles your body in his makes your stomach swarm with butterflies and your head go dizzy. When his hand goes down to your clit, you feel the familiar sensation building in your stomach. A look of desperation flashes over your eyes as Peter speeds up his thrusts, and allows his fingers to dance more quickly across your clit.

“Peter, Peter, Peter,” you chant. “I’m gonna—keep going just like that.”

One particular enthusiastic thrust makes you scream out, and your hand instantly flies to your mouth to cover it.

“You feel so good around me,” Peter grunts. “I’m close, too.”

The more Peter continues at the pace he’s established, the closer and closer you get to that very special precipice. And then, like an explosion, it hits you out of nowhere.

You shriek, rising up and down on Peter at an animalistic pace. “Peter, fuck, Peter, I’m coming. Oh my God, baby!” He presses his lips to yours quickly and moans into your mouth, as your pussy contracts, and you gush all over him. Your vision is enveloped by nothing but complete white, as you experience a level of pleasure that you’re sure you’ve ever achieved before. Making love to Peter after having resolved most of your problems makes you feel giddy in a way that you’d only dreamed about. To feel so loved and appreciated and worshiped by him are things you wouldn’t trade for anything.

That familiar look settles in his eyes after you’ve orgasmed, and you work to help him reach his own climax. “Y/N, shit, Y/N.”

“Come on, baby, give it to me, Peter,” you beg, repeating your past movements. “Come for me, Petey.”

With those words of encouragement, he lets out a choked groan that makes you moan out with him and buries his face in your neck as he explodes into the condom.

When he finally comes down from his high, he helps you off of him to lay next to him. Grabbing a washcloth from the bathroom, he helps you clean yourself up and then settles into bed next to you.

“Hi,” you say softly, moving some curls away from his forehead.

“Hi,” he iterates, his hand coming to rest on your hip.

“I’m so sorry for everything. I know I’ve said that already, but Peter, you mean so much to me,” you state sincerely. You can feel a lump forming in your throat at your admission. “I understand that it took so much for you to forgive me, and I understand that you didn’t actually want to in the first place. But I can’t be without you in my life. I just need you to understand that.”

“It was killing me to be away from you, too, Y/N. Like I told you, I missed you just as much,” he replies softly.

“All I’ve ever wanted was to be with you. I hope you realize how much I truly mean that,” you tell him. “I only pushed you away because I was afraid of losing you. I thought that if I let you be there for me, then you’d get tired of me and my problems. That you’d leave me.”

You register that you’re crying when Peter swipes away some translucent droplets from your cheeks. “I could never leave you. You are incredibly annoying sometimes, and so stubborn, and a little bit aloof, but that doesn’t stop me from caring about you like I do.”

You take the opportunity to bring your reunion to a close by wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him gently. “Goodnight, Pete.” You snuggle into his embrace, and he lets his head fall into your neck comfortably, his hands still rubbing languid circles on your back.

You sleep wonderfully that night—certainly the best you have in weeks. When you finally wake up around 11 am the next morning, you notice that Peter is still asleep next to you. Smiling softly at him, you rake your fingers through his curls and place a kiss on his forehead lovingly.

Untangling yourself from his sheets and letting your feet hit the floor of his bedroom, you rummage through his drawers for an oversized t-shirt to pull over your body. Tugging your panties over your legs, you also pull on some of Peter’s fuzzy socks to keep your feet warm.

In your exhausted but elated stupor, you barely have time to think about the fact that May is probably up and waiting for Peter in the kitchen.

It is a Sunday morning after all.

Dragging your feet to the kitchen, you let out a tired yawn.

“Good morning, Peter—oh wow, Y/N?” May yelps, almost dropping the coffee mug in her hand. “I didn’t know you stayed the night.”

“Oh, um, yeah, it was late by the time that Peter and I finished talking, so I just slept over. I hope that was okay,” you answer uncomfortably.

Her eyes rake over the outfit that you wear. She obviously knows what you stayed over to do. “No problem.”

You quickly pivot on your heel to walk back to Peter. “I’m going to go wake up Peter.”

May nods awkwardly, and you make your way back toward Peter’s room.

When you arrive back inside Peter’s room, you take a careful seat back on the edge of his bed. The action awakens him, and he turns to face you.

“Hey, baby,” you call to him gently. “Did you sleep well?”

“Because you were here, yeah,” he offers you a cheeky smile. “Why are you smiling so wide, pretty girl?” You blush at the nickname as he takes his hand in yours.

“Just happy,” you answer genuinely. You snuggle up next to him and let your eyes flutter closed. And for the first time in weeks, you register that you’d woken up honestly, indisputably happy, and naturally, just as you’d expected, Peter was the cause.

#peter parker x y/n #peterparker x reader #peterparkersmut #peterparker x y/n smut #tonystark #marvel #gwen stacy #harry osborn #smut #marvelsmut #tom holland #harry osborn x reader #mj #zendaya

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marsrogers · 2 years

Text

funeral blues | tom holland’s peter parker x stark! reader (18+)

warnings: death, underage drinking, mentions of drug use, angst, violence, oral (f receiving), fingering, female masturbation, female orgasm, slight degradation, teen heartbreak, swearing

synopsis: While grieving the loss of your father, you end up pushing away the person who wants to help you through your pain the most.

word count: 6.1k

A/N: PSA: This is my first Tumblr post so I’m very excited/nervous?? Anyway, I chose Clint to die for the Soul Stone instead of Nat. I definitely have a new appreciation for Clint after watching Hawkeye, but for the sake of this imagine, I felt that it was more appropriate to have Nat be the one to survive. Also, the reader and Peter are 18 in this! Lastly, I don’t have a specific faceclaim in mind for Harry, I just thought it’d be fun to incorporate him into this imagine and into the universe.

When you were ten years old you sprained your arm after falling off of a horse. You had wailed on the way to the hospital, begging your father to find a way to end the pain that you were experiencing. He had held your hand as the doctors measured you for a cast and after you were let out of the hospital he had treated you to a large ice cream cone with unlimited toppings. You had always considered that to be the worst pain you would ever experience, but your dad being there to help you through it had assured you that you would be able to make it through any obstacle with his assistance.

When you were fifteen, you were stabbed. The sharp blade of a HYDRA agent’s knife had pierced your abdomen right at the junction of your small and large intestines. Your father had cradled you in his arms, stroking your hair and imploring you to stay conscious. Your eyes had fluttered closed, and the images of your family members and close friends flitted in and out of your line of vision. You had felt the sobs wrack your father’s body as Bruce ordered the best doctors that money could buy to stabilize you. A few days in the ICU had you almost as good as new. That was the first time you had ever known yourself to be close to death. That became the worst pain you had ever known.

When you were eighteen, your father died. He had saved the world with one snap of his fingers, and while others had been able to have the happiest reunions with their family members, your familial unit had been destroyed. You now have a gaping hole in your heart where your father’s love and affection used to be. It eats away at you every second of every day. Sometimes it’s quelled by the drawings that your little sister Morgan makes for you or the cautious glances that Wanda and Natasha cast your way. But it’s nothing compared to how your father’s love made you feel. No matter what anyone says, this will forever be the worst pain you have ever experienced.

You feel selfish. Selfish because you wish that it could’ve been anyone else that snapped their fingers and saved the world. Selfish because you want to have had at least one more moment with your father. Selfish because you wish you could still be in the Soul Stone so that you wouldn’t have to feel this way. Of course, there’s the pain and anger that comes as a result of having lost five years of your life. You missed five years of integral, core memories with your father, and that only worsens what you feel. The pain is unbearable. When you think things are going to be better, you feel an overwhelming wave of sadness overwhelm you. It’s even worse when you think about the other losses you experienced. Steve. Clint. Just when you’re about to find a silver lining, reality sets in and you realize just how much Thanos took from you.

Today is the second-worst day of your life: your father’s funeral. You feel so many emotions simultaneously. Sadness, anger, frustration, confusion, numbness. You stand in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of your room. You scowl at your appearance. You acknowledge how elegant you look, but your exhausted and depressed disposition makes you want to scream and cry. You hate this.

You yearn for something that will numb your melancholia even further. So you rummage through your drawers and find what you know you shouldn’t. Soon one sip becomes two, then two becomes three, and before you know it you’ve downed the entirety of the tiny Grey Goose bottle that had been tucked away neatly in your underwear drawer. It’s certainly not enough to get you drunk but definitely enough to numb you. The taste of the vodka burns slightly as it flows down your throat, but you’ve developed a strong enough tolerance that you barely wince anymore at the uncomfortable feeling. Besides, you’ve been drinking since 9 am and it’s already 12.

Your vision immediately blurs, and your head pounds as you finally decide to exit your room for the first time that day. You grab a piece of gum and pop it into your mouth, praying it will mask the scent of your beverage of choice. You hope that your budding tipsiness will tide you over for the duration of the wake. Lord knows that it’s going to feel like an eternity.

The first person that you spot when you make contact with humanity is Pepper. You can already see the concerned look that crosses her features. She’s been looking at you like a wounded puppy since the incident, so scared to comfort you in fear that you might break, but what she doesn’t realize is that you’ve already been shattered. She calls out your name, stepping towards you and reaching out a gentle hand to grab your arm. You instinctively—admittedly with shame—slide away from her and continue on your path. You’re not sure where you’re going but you know you don’t want to deal with your doting stepmom.

You attempt to make a beeline for the backyard, hoping to find some solace in its placid atmosphere. No one is outside, so maybe just maybe you’ll be able to be alone with your thoughts while still being comforted by nature. Your Aunt Nat, however, intercepts you before you can escape.

Grabbing you by your forearms softly, she pulls you towards her. “How’re you doing, my love?” You almost scoff at the way that she regards you so gently. You’re not a child. She’s seen you fight Earth’s most dangerous adversaries and now she’s talking to you like a three-year-old. She is your godmother, you try to remind yourself. She was there for you when you got your first period, when you suffered a nasty concussion after falling out of a building in Brussels, and now when you’re grieving the loss of the most important person in your life. But at this very moment, you don’t want affection regardless of who it’s from. Brushing a manicured hand across the front of your hair, her fingers trail down the side of your cheek.

A fake smile instinctually creeps onto your glossed lips, and you shrug. “I’m alright, I guess.”

Still, even with that admission, she won’t let you go from her grasp. Her piercing emerald eyes take you in, almost as if she’s hoping that you’ll crack under her gaze and break down, sobbing to her about the emotional pain that envelopes you. Your real fear, however—and the one that you won’t admit— is that you’re terrified that she’ll detect the traces of alcohol that stick to you.You know that she probably already has. No one in your family is oblivious to your propensity for hard liquor. Or your love of cigarettes. (You’re trying to quit!) Not to mention your brief dalliance with amphetamines. You’re pretty sure that another trip to a rehab center in Aspen or Malibu after your father’s death wouldn’t be as effective as some might think!

She takes your empty hand in hers and encloses it in hers. “Well, you come talk to me if you need me. You know I’m always here for you, Y/N, hmm?”

You gradually begin to pull away from her, but do your best not to come across as rude. You want to find someplace where you can be alone so that you don’t have to be around all of these prying eyes and hear all of these false sympathies. “Yeah, I know.”

She gives your hand one last firm squeeze, before making her way over to Wanda who stands talking to Shuri on the other side of your house’s living room.

You audibly exhale and feel yourself relax. The chance for some alone time has finally made itself available to you. Being careful not to make it incredibly obvious that you’re trying to escape the chaos that envelopes your home, you begin to walk at a less than glacial pace, your black YSL pumps sounding on the hardwood floors as you go, and the skirt of your black Prada gown bouncing as you walk. Leave it to you to wear the most stylish outfit even in the midst of calamity and despondency.

Your hand goes to reach for the handle to the backyard door when you stop in your tracks.

“Thank you so much for coming, Peter,” you hear your stepmom coo. You don’t have to turn back fully to use your peripheral vision to see how she hugs him. You continue to observe as his aunt May expresses her condolences to Pepper. You’re not so much concerned with her as you are with her nephew, though.

You don’t know what inhibits you from continuing on your way. You haven’t spoken to Peter in days. You wonder if he thinks about the last time that you saw each other. When you had pushed him away and told him that you didn’t need him to take care of you. When you had chastised him for “patronizing you” and acting like Tony was his father too. You cringe when you think about your last exchange. It keeps you up at night and you want more than anything else to take back the cruel words that you had hurled at him the night that your father had passed away.

It only took a few days to realize that you needed him to be there for you desperately. Your stepmother tried her best to bring you comfort, but she wasn’t only grieving the loss of her husband, she was grieving the loss of her best friend and the father of her daughters. And she did consider you her daughter. Morgan, who tried to bribe you out of your bedroom with promises of unlimited ice cream and Disney Princess movie marathons has little to no understanding of your father’s passing. She knows that he won’t be here anymore but she doesn’t truly understand the implications of what that means. Your other family members try to be there for you too, but it’s not the same. Even the kind words of your close friends do nothing to quell the sadness that you feel. There’s only one person that you think will be able to help you break through what you’re experiencing.

“Y/N,” Pepper calls you for the second time that day. She doesn’t even seem phased by the fact that you ignored her only a few moments ago. It only reaffirms how great of a person she is. “Y/N! Come say hi to Peter and May.”

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath. You’re not even sure what you’re going to say to him. Despite spending countless restless nights thinking about calling him or showing up at his apartment and apologizing and begging him to hold you, you’re suddenly at a loss for words. In true Y/N Stark fashion, however, you put on a brave face and saunter off towards the trio, letting the most artificial smile you can muster up find its way to your auburn-colored lips.

Coming to stand by Pepper, you interlock your hands behind your back and let the demure, parent-friendly version of yourself emerge. “Hi, Peter. Hi, Ms. Parker. Thank you both so much for coming.”

So quickly it makes your head spin, May pulls you into a tight hug. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry for your loss. Your father meant so much to Peter, and we know how much he adored you. He’ll be missed.”

You swallow, memories of your father, Peter, and you together staying up late to work on inventions and jetting around to space to mitigate the crisis’ flooding your thoughts. You would give anything to experience that again. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

May pulls away from the hug and gives you a sad look, before turning to Peter and not-so-discreetly motioning for him to greet you.

“I’m gonna go talk to Ned, or something,” Peter awkwardly announces. You don’t miss the way that he surveys you with what appears to be apathy, but also with some anger. You can feel your eyes welling up with tears again. You cringe at the predicament that you’re in.

But you do not let your calm and collected disposition falter, and just as Peter excuses himself to talk to Ned, you follow. You’re going to make him regret not answering your 100 (350) calls. You’re going to make him regret not responding to your text messages. Most of all, however, you’re going to make him regret not begging you to stay there that night.

You realize how deranged your inner monologue must sound. You’ve never been great at accepting your personal faults. You realize that you’ve been a shitty girlfriend—friend-with-benefits?—acquaintance? The point is, that you haven’t been good to Peter, and you know that him finally giving you a taste of your own medicine is completely warranted. But it still hurts. He shouldn’t be allowed to act this way towards you when you’re grieving. Evidently, you can recognize the faults in others but not yourself. You’re truly your father’s daughter.

There’s a slight pep in your step as you make your way over to Peter and Ned. Despite facing opposite you, a few seconds ago, you had observed the way that Peter’s heightened senses picked up on you walking towards him. His ears had perked up and he had started to wring out his hands anxiously. Still, Ned greets you first.

“Oh my God, Y/N, I’m so, so sorry, your dad was like the coolest guy ever. This sucks so bad,” he rambles.

You offer him an awkward smile. “Thanks, Ned. I appreciate you coming, and it does suck; thanks for that sentiment.” Ned gives you a thumbs up, and you almost laugh—your first laugh of the day—but instead turn to face Peter.

You take your glossed lip in between your front teeth and smirk. “Hi, Peter.”

He swallows but doesn’t turn to make eye contact with you. “Hi, Y/N.” Ouch. Hearing him say your full name is so weird. He usually calls you by some type of nickname or pet name. This cuts deep.

Your hand comes to rest on his arm, black acrylics glide over his shoulder and down his back. “Aren’t you going to tell me how sorry you are for my loss?”

You want him to bite, to take the bait, and apologize to you for being distant because of your own actions. He’s not so willing to capitulate.

“Don’t do that.” He still refuses to make eye contact with you. His disposition is stoic, but he laughs, almost cynically.

You choose to play stupid. “Do what?”

“Pretend like I don’t care about you or that I didn’t go out of my way to make sure that you were okay,” he answers. “You sound kind of pathetic.” He leans in to whisper the last sentence into your ear.

You step away from him, completely taken aback. He’s never usually this terse. You don’t recognize this Peter. “Fuck you,” you spit out. And with that, you stomp away.

You spend the next few minutes sulking to yourself in a corner, absentmindedly scrolling through social media and reading the news. Your heart sinks each time you stumble upon post-Blip reunion photos of your friends and their families. While innocuous on the part of your friends, the aforementioned reunions make your shitty day even shittier.

Your bored mood soon dissipates, however, at the appearance of a friend. Completely engrossed in trivial things on your phone, you don’t even notice your close friend Harry Osborn enveloping you in a hug. You jump, but your tenseness loosens up when you realize who it is.

“Oh my God, Harry!” You gasp. It’s been five years since you’ve seen each other, and while you were both blipped with no memory of it, you can feel the hole that was left in your heart from the absence of your friends and family.

You know that Peter is watching the way that you and Harry interact, and you’re feeling incredibly vindictive, so you fling yourself into your friend’s arms, making a dramatic show of your interaction. Harry holds you close to him, carding his fingers through your hair, and kissing your cheek.

You did actually miss Harry, but you also want to make Peter ragingly jealous. Peter and Harry have always had somewhat of a difficult time getting along. Vying for the number two spot of your graduating class (you’re number one, obvi!) only fuels their hatred for each other. But of course, the ultimate preventative factor from them becoming friends is the feelings that they both harbor for you.

He finally pulls away from the hug to brush his thumb across your cheek tenderly. The intimate act almost makes you blush. “You doing okay? Damn it, Y/N, I’m so sorry I couldn’t be here for you more,” he laments softly.

“It’s okay. But you’re here now and that’s all that matters,” you answer, more than loud enough for Peter to hear. The way that you take your lip between your teeth and flutter your eyelashes at Harry is surely more than enough to enrage Peter. You know you shouldn’t be such an instigator, but you’re not sure that you can help it. Your desire to antagonize others when you didn’t get your way was surely a paternal trait that was passed on.

He pauses for a minute to look you up and down. It’s not objectifying or overwhelming but admiring. “This might sound kind of insensitive but you look really gorgeous.”

You laugh. “Thank you. You look very handsome too.”

Out of your peripheral, you can see Peter’s fingers beginning to flex, his knuckles cracking. He bounces on the balls of his feet anxiously, and rotates his neck, seemingly to ease the discomfort. His keen hearing is surely affording him the chance to hear everything you and Harry are saying to each other. Well, that and the obnoxious pitch and volume of your voices.

“Seriously, I forget how stunning you are. Being away from each other has certainly made my heart grow fonder for you,” he continues, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. Ever the charmer, Harry’s flirtatious words and actions (while innocuous) prove to you once again that he’s not as innocent as he seems, and he wants something more than friendship. Today, it seems that you’re willing to entertain that. Maybe it’s the alcohol or the emotional trauma or the lack of attention from Peter but you don’t see yourself stopping anytime soon.

“You flatter me,” you wink.

Harry’s demeanor instantly mirrors yours, and you watch as he scans your features with a small glimmer in his eyes. He grabs your right hand and intertwines it with his, locking your fingers together. It’s like he knows that you want to put on a show and he’s willing to be your co-star. “Wish I could’ve come over a few days earlier to see you. It was just so weird at my house after all this Blip chaos. I feel so shitty that I couldn’t be there for my favorite person.” He’s cheeky about the last part, and it makes you smile.

It’s no secret that Harry has feelings for you. You realize the irony of it all, however. You should be enemies, your fathers possessing such intense hatred for each other and competing to be the most successful technological pioneers in the country, maybe in the world. What you came to realize, however, is that in an ideal circumstance, you two would be together. The universe is practically encouraging you to fall into his lap. You’re both the children of two tech gazillionaires, you’ve both experienced the grief that comes with an absent mother, and neither of you understand the concept of the word no. Not to mention the fact that Harry is kind, witty, and supportive.

You’ve tried the whole Harry thing, though. An awkward makeout session and some ineffective dry humping in his bedroom at a party didn’t do much to satiate your desires or cultivate any feelings for him. You adore him, but not like that. Not like you love Peter.

Still, you find it easy to play into Harry’s flirtations. What you’re doing is not only wrong to Peter but to Harry, yet you don’t see yourself stopping.

“I’m your favorite person?” You lay on the enthusiasm, feigning surprise.

“Of course, you know you’ll always be my best girl,” he grins. You grin back, stepping closer to him and pulling him in for another tight embrace.

You don’t think before you say what comes out next. “I love you,” you practically squeal out. If you were actually rational you’d be cringing at the performance you’re putting on. You really are pathetic. “And I’m so lucky to have you in my life. You’re, like, my favorite person, too.”

“I love you, too,” Harry chuckles. Boom. You don’t even have to turn around to know that Peter’s probably jealous. What shocks you, though, is the way that he marches right up to where you stand, not even giving you a chance to separate from Harry, let alone greet him before he whisks you away to another part of the house before you even have time to blink.

“What the fuck is your problem?” You seethe as he continues to march you towards God knows where.

His grasp on your hand won’t let up, and he still refuses to say a word to you. It’s firm but not uncomfortable and you’re surprised at how direct he’s being, given the apathy that he exhibited only a few minutes prior. You’ve never seen him this angry, and if you had time to process what was happening maybe you’d feel less aroused. His directness lights a fire in your stomach and you wait in anticipation to see what will transpire next.

But you won’t let him off that easily. Your belligerent demeanor will continue to get the best of you until Peter finally gives in and communicates with you in the way that you want him to. “Hello? Are you going to answer me?” Peter continues to pull you through your house, and you’re in such a daze that you barely realize that he’s brought you upstairs to the quietest part possible.

“Shut up,” he spits out, finally coming to a stop right outside your bedroom door. “Just shut the fuck up for five minutes, and stop talking, stop being so damn difficult.”

You swallow. You’ve probably heard Peter curse so infrequently that you could count the number of times on your fingers. “You’re being ridiculously rude.”

“And you’re being a fucking whore,” he retorts. With that, you go completely silent. If you weren’t turned on before… During your past sexual rendezvous with Peter, it had usually been you that was the mouthy and assertive one, but the roles seem to have reversed!

“You can’t talk to me like that,” you fumble. You know that you’re going to be far gone soon, but you can’t even manage to regain your composure.

“‘You can’t talk to me like that,’” Peter mocks. “Give me a break, Y/N. You know exactly what you were doing down there. I’m surprised you weren’t on your knees for him by the time I walked over there.”

“You’re jealous?” You coo, finally regaining back your confidence. “Jealous that I wasn’t flirting with you? Jealous that I wasn’t getting on my knees for you like I used to? Harry and I go way back, you know? Maybe he helped me perfect some of the skills I practiced on you?” You won’t let Peter win. You won’t let him tell you how you should or shouldn’t be behaving after he just spent the last few minutes ignoring you. Again, deep down you know you’re in the wrong but you won’t tell him that you’re acknowledging that.

And with that Peter’s body comes to pin yours aggressively against the wall of the hallway. “Take it back.”

“No,” you pout. You relish the feeling of his body against yours, and long to feel more of it without the restraint of your stupid funeral clothes. “I don’t think I will. Because it’s true, I used to suck Harry off all the time. He was the first person to go down on me, too. Since then no one else has compared.” The vulgar lies flow from your tongue freely, but you can’t stop them. Watching Peter’s already dark eyes dim even further only makes you wetter. You want to shed your clothes and pounce on him now, but you’d prefer that he initiate the action.

The gasp that leaves your mouth when Peter kisses you shocks you. You melt into his embrace as his strong hand cups your jaw abruptly. You love this assertive side of him, and you’re more than glad that it’s finally come out because you always had a feeling that he had it in him. His lips only stay on yours for a short while until he’s kissing down your cheek then down to your neck, forcefully enough that you’re sure it will leave bruises. At this point, you don’t really care.

Your hands instantly go to cling to his broad shoulders as he attacks your neck. He hasn’t even come in contact with the part of you that needs him the most and you’re already begging. You’re not nearly as strong as you wish you were. “Please, Pete, fuck, please touch me.”

He hums against the supple skin of your collar bone. “You wanted me to beg for you, yet here you are begging for me like the slut that you are.”

“Peter, please, come on, please, you can’t leave me hanging. Not after all of this torture,” you groan out. His lips remain on your sweet spot, but his hands haven’t progressed past your hips. “Touch my pussy.”

He stops marking up your neck to pull away from you for a minute. This is an entirely different Peter, with a voraciousness and a deep lust for you. The emotional nature of the day coupled with Harry’s ambiguous intentions towards you seems to be the catalyst for a dominant Peter.

You think you catch him smirking at you, and the next thing you know you’re being pulled into your bedroom. He’s never even been in this bedroom of yours, only the one at the Avengers Tower, and frankly, you’ve barely spent any time in it. Your father had decorated it very basically after he had sold the Tower, and with you presumably dead, you didn’t have much say in how your room would be organized.

“Your room’s cute,” Peter compliments you. You cross your arms at his choice to walk around your room glacially, pretending that he wasn’t just spewing filth at you, and dotting your neck like it was a Monet painting. He walks around your room a few times, playing with your kinck knacks and trinkets. He glides his fingers over a poster of Taylor Swift from her 1989 tour, and you practically yell out with frustration. You wish he would touch you that tenderly.

“I don’t give a shit about the interior design of my bedroom. I mean, like, thank you, I guess? I appreciate the compliment. But I want you to do something to get rid of the way that I’m soaking through my panties,” you huff. Once again hoping to gain Peter’s attention, you hike up the skirt of your dress, dramatically plopping down on your bed, and begin to slip off your heels, followed by your stockings. Peter only looks at you from his peripheral, watching as you tantalizingly slide your hands over your silky smooth skin. Pulling your dress up past your waist and spreading your legs, your hand trails up and down your thighs before it finally makes its way into your thong. Your eyes instantly fall closed, and you let out a shuddering breath. This whole thing is kind of crazy: hooking up with Peter at your father’s funeral, but you suppose that it’s the kind of emotional reprieve you need. Frankly, you can’t believe you’re doing it.

Your middle and index finger dance across your clit, pressing firm circles onto it. You can see Peter watching you intently, but he has yet to say anything. You start to gather the slick between your opening and pussy so you’re able to slip a finger in. Another finger soon follows, and you soon begin to pump both in and out while continuing to play with your clit. The whimpers that start to fall from your mouth aren’t contrived, but simply a result of your wanton need for Peter.

“Peter, please,” you sigh out. Two fingers continue to move in and out of your sopping wet opening, and while that action in conjunction with the pressure on your clit is satisfactory, it’s nothing compared to what it would feel like to have Peter touching you.

All he does is come to sit next to you on your bed, but he still doesn’t say anything. You gaze up at him, your fingers still working dexterously instead of yourself.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he chastises. “I think you’re doing pretty well on your own. Actually, maybe you should call Harry up here to help you with your problem if you’re that desperate.”

“But I want you,” you groan out. “I’m like, going through so much trauma, right now, the least you could do is eat my pussy. Please, you see how soaked I am for you. I need you so badly.”

Peter sighs. You can see that he’s half-hard through his slacks and if you weren’t dying from horniness you’d offer to take care of his burgeoning issues. “Spread your legs.” He orders. You obey instantly, parting your legs even wider than they already were. Peter kneels down so that he’s eye level with where you need him the most.

He starts by kissing up your thighs gently, then with more fervor, until he’s nipping at your smooth skin. You can’t stop the moans that fall from your mouth and so you bring your hand up to cover it. He slides your panties down your thighs abruptly so that they pool by your feet. He delivers an experimental kiss to your clit and you groan. “That’s good,” you manage. “Can you keep doing that?”

You hear him mumble something along the lines of “maybe” against you, but before you know it he’s delving into your cunt, tongue swirling over your sensitive bud. One of his fingers has made its way inside of you, and the pleasure is overwhelming. Your hand tugs on his curls as he goes down on you, and the action makes him moan against you. You’re practically riding his face at that point, murmuring incoherent phrases and pleas, urging him to continue. He’s like a man starved with the attention to detail he exhibits. His tongue traces letters and numbers on your clit, and his fingers—having now transitioned from one to two—fill you up in a way that you feel you’ll never get enough of. For as mad as he was at you earlier, he seems to be pretty set on getting you to finish.

“Peter,” you call out, your voice a bit above a whisper. “Just like that.”

You’re writhing against his tongue at that point, completely delirious and certainly on the verge of climaxing at any moment. Peter pulls his mouth away from you for a moment to stare up into your eyes. He looks so pretty like that, his hair wild, and his eyes lust-filled, completely giving in to your needs, but his actions reflecting brazenness. He wants to put you in your place and let you know that your actions are wrong, but he still clearly cares about you.

“You gonna come for me?” He challenges. His fingers move in and out of your cunt at a ridiculous speed. You can’t even lift your head up to answer, practically on the verge of seeing white completely. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“I’m so close,” you gasp out. “Fuck, Peter, please, please, I’m gonna come.”

The wet sounds of your arousal in conjunction with Peter’s words finally bring you to the precipice of your orgasm. It hits you harder than you think it ever has. Your vision blurs with every shape that ever exists, and your mind is overwhelmed by the feeling of him. You cry out, completely abandoning any sense of respect you have for the occasion and completely forgetting that there are dozens of people downstairs for such a solemn event. Bouncing on top of Peter’s fingers like it’s your life’s mission, you ride yourself through your orgasm.

“I forgot how pretty you look when you come,” he rubs at your thigh soothingly. He kisses you gently, and you melt into his embrace, beyond exhausted, but also content.

Your chest rises and falls in shaky breaths as you start to come down from your high. “And I forgot how good you are at eating me out. We should definitely do this again soon, I think.”

Peter has already stood up from your bed, brushing his hands over his pants. His demeanor has changed again. “This is the last time we’re doing this, Y/N.” He faces away from you as he speaks.

You let out a little giggle. “Yeah, I mean, this was so wrong. I don’t even want to think about the moral repercussions of having sex at a funeral. I think if we’re going to have sex at a sacred event, we should choose a wedding next time, maybe?”

“I’m not kidding,” he answers sternly, finally whipping around to face you. “This was beyond wrong because it’s your dad’s funeral and he’s probably rolling in his grave right now, which I don’t even want to think, to be honest. But you already made it clear how you felt about being with me. I’m not going to casually come around when it’s convenient for you. This is the last time I’m going to give you what you want. You need a lesson in being told no.”

You blink at him, coming to sit up and tuck your feet underneath your thighs. You smooth out the fabric of your dress, then go to pick at a loose string nervously. “Peter, come on, please don’t do this.”

“I want to be there for you, Y/N, more than anything, but I can’t keep putting up with your fickleness. One minute you want me, the next you’re berating me and telling me that I didn’t deserve to know your father, and that I don’t understand what you’re going through, which by the way, you obviously know I do.” He gesticulates emphatically as he speaks.

“We don’t have to have this conversation now,” you mumble. “Please, Peter, not now.” You don’t even realize that the tears have started to fall from your eyes until your tongue instinctively darts out to catch one.

He looks down at his hands, finally regaining his awkwardness. “I think I should go.”

“Baby, please,” you choke out. You can’t remember the last time you called him that. Not even when he was making you scream his name. “Let’s talk about this—we can talk, please, Peter, don’t leave me, I need you.”

He remains silent. “I’m so sorry that it has to be like this, Y/N. But I can’t take this pain. I know you’re going through a lot; I know this is all so confusing, and I’ve tried to be patient. But I can’t anymore. Not being able to love you definitely and consistently is worse than seeing you with Harry.”

You’re rambling incoherently at this point. “But I don’t want Harry. I don’t want anyone but you. You have to know that. I know that I fucked up, and I don’t say that all the time, and I should. But I know, I know I’m so flawed, but we can work this out, and—and we can be happy together.” You want to yell at him for doing something so intimate with you and then leaving, for getting your hopes up and then shooting them down, but you can’t even muster up the strength to do that.

He says nothing, only continues to glance away from you. “For what it’s worth, I agree with Harry: you look absolutely stunning.”

He spares one glance in your direction, this time accompanied with a sad smile. You wait until he leaves to let the sobs fall from your mouth. You’d like to add to that list of the most painful moments in your life. The second most painful thing you’d ever experienced was when Peter Parker broke your heart. Of course, what you fail to realize, in your own narcissistic way, is that the pain is mutual.