#basically the what a week huh? captain it’s wednesday meme | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

whirlybirbs · 6 years

Text

studying.

pairing: college!peter x reader rating: all audiences welcome to this fluff what to listen to: roll up by fitz & the tantrums a/n: for the anons who gave me some ideas, here is the start of a potential series? or, as i would say, peter crushes on his TA.

After months of applications and tours and accepted student days, Peter had finally settled on MIT.

(It had helped that Tony had written his recommendation letter. A lot.)

September brings a new leaf.

Peter trades in the hustle and bustle for NYC for that of Boston. It is less shiny, less new. He likes it though; likes the cobblestone, the spirit, the history and the rhythmic rattle of the T under the Kendell stop. The late summer breeze is crisp as Peter shrugs his hoodie on, bagel dangling from his mouth as he chews and launches himself up the steps towards the quad.

His sense are in a haywire; it is the new environment. His sunglasses are maybe a little darker than they should be.

A week ago, his phone had been buzzing with kissy emoji from Aunt May, a good luck text from Tony and of course Ned -- his friend had settled in only a few T stops away at Harvard. The first day of classes had come and gone, bringing it with it an overwhelming sense of belonging. For once, Peter didn’t feel like an outlier.

The only text Peter is paying attention to this morning is yours, though.

pls help me study for my bio quiz later, peter, i am begging u

It makes him laugh. Peter grins, dimples digging in a little bit as he settles into a quick pace. Strawberry converse beat against the jagged cobblestone.

I mean, he wasn’t going to lie to himself -- you were, like, gorgeous. And funny. And you thought it was cool that he’d binged the entirety of Jason Todd and the Outlaws in one night. The fact that you’d excitedly added him on Facebook last Friday after class was enough; he’d messaged you, asking if avoiding the chicken at McCormick was a smart move.

You were a sophomore. You knew the ropes. Peter is totally using it as an excuse.

it’s literally the second week??? who is giving quizzes already??? who’s THAT evil???

You’re laughing, crossing the quad on the opposite side of campus when you get his texts.

It was only happenstance you two started to become friends. His first class, an 8:30am entry-level history course run by Professor Frankfurt (which was really just one big Captain America fanboy session) happened to be the class you’d decided to TA for -- and in turn, the class you’d first met Peter in. Forced to sit front row after arriving late -- he’d had trouble finding the Tang Auditorium -- he ended up being the one to sit next to you.

He was wearing a Saint Motel t-shirt. You’d stopped him after class, nervously chirping your admiration of that particular album. He’d stuttered in surprise. You were a little mortified, mostly since you had realize how pretty he was. He had big brown eyes and dimples. Dimples.

From that point forward, it was like you couldn’t escape him. He joined the Broadcasting club -- and you’d laughed out loud when he walked through the door wearing a different Saint Motel t-shirt. Comic Roundtable wasn’t safe either, as Peter Parker had suddenly become the fresh face among the small club of eight. It truly culminated when you realized Peter had taken up residency on Danny’s floor -- the R.A. was a fellow Anthropology major, and one of your closest friends.

So, yeah, texting him and asking for help on a Gen Ed Bio course quiz was kind of pushing it. You wanted to hate Peter, honestly -- as a freshman he’d already met a handful of prerequisites through his famed Stark Internship, working his way through a good half of the first year Computer Science and Molecular Biology course load. The air at MIT was competitive, but for some reason Peter didn’t feed into it. You felt okay admitting a fault.

It wasn’t like you were going to go to Academic Computing. They’d definitely roast you for not understanding cell structure and osmosis and all that other shit. You were an Anthropology and American History double major for god’s sake. You didn’t need that stuff in your brain. You needed room for other things.

So, you text Peter back.

it’s prof steck. don’t play urself. stay away from her. but is that a yes??? bc if it is i’ll swipe for u at baker!!!

Peter’s slipping through the auditorium doors when he texts you back.

Your phone buzzes on your desk, and you laugh a little when you read the message.

only if u buy me mozzerella stix!!!!

He shoulders you as he sits down. The touch is enough to light up Peter’s nervous system; he ignores the happy tingle that creeps up his back.

The stack of graded papers is jostled a bit by the movement -- Frankfurt had done an assessment on Wednesday, intending to get a gage for what he was working with in the class. So much for syllabus week. You, of course, had been tasked with grading. Not that you minded, though, it had distracted you from asking Peter to come out with you on Saturday night.

“You know,” you chirp, “Baker has make your own stir fry tonight...”

“No way!” Peter’s voice clips a bit, high and excited, “Then forget the fried cheese sticks, buy me stir fry.”

“Only if you don’t make fun of me,” you hum, rolling your eyes a little, “This quiz on is the simple stuff and I don’t know why, I just don’t get it.”

“Well,” Peter chides, settling back in his seat. His fingers dance across the trackpad of his laptop, waking it up, “Mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.”

You deadpan.

Peter grins. It’s toothy.

“Is that what the Stark Internship taught you?”

His laugh is boyish. Those dimples are back. Your chest caves a bit, face hot with a gooey expression. What the hell is wrong with you? Going gaga over a freshman?

“Naw, memes taught me that one.”

“Oh,” you wave your hands as Professor Frankfurt throws himself into the auditorium in a huff, “Even better.”

You’re both silenced into a hush as the rest of the first year class follows suit. Professor Frankfurt calls roll. Your name is called after Peter’s. You hand out the exams, and then sit beside Peter for the rest of the class, basking in the warm glow of his semi-permanent smile.

“You know it’s not a date, right?”

Your roommate has her fists halfway into a family sized bag of doritos. Netflix glows from the top bunk. You’re fixing your hair in the mirror hanging on the door.

“I know, but,” you sigh, “He’s cute.”

“He’s a freshman,” she waves as The Office drones on, “He’s fresh meat -- dead in the water. That’s social suicide, you know. At least wait until after Rush Week.”

“Peter doesn’t seem like the fraternity type.”

“Yikes.”

“That’s not a bad thing!” you huff, tugging your hair up and away, “Seriously, there’s a reason why you keep getting your heart broken by dumb boys.”

“Is it because I have an affinity for beefy rich assholes named Brad?”

“That’ll do it, honestly.”

“Fair enough,” she tosses a grin your way, “Good luck on your dinner date with Peter.”

“It’s not a date!”

It’s not a date.

Totally not?

Why is he so nervous?

Oh god, his hands are sweating.

“I’ll have the sweet and tangy sauce, please.”

The box of stir fry is handed to him -- you’re already digging in with a goofy grin on your face. You much on the lo mein noodles happily. You’re covering your own nervousness well. Thank god for deodorant because Peter has you sweating -- literally. It had climbed into the high 70s by late afternoon, leaving Parker in a t-shirt that seemed too tight to be legal and a pair of shorts. He was tan. And he had freckles. Everywhere.

Your hair is swept into hazy curls by the late summer heat. Peter watches the curls along the back of your neck as you both work your way through the check out in the dining hall.

You both make your way to the Hayden Library, strides slow. The sky looks gold, and the clouds glow in the deep blue of the September evening. Traffic drums on, but you both are locked into conversation. Nothing is breaking it -- not even the wave of friends across the street.

“So, New York, huh?”

“Yeah,” he laughs, taking a bite from his takeout container, “My Aunt told me that if I ever went to a Red Sox game, she’d murder me in cold blood.”

“Yikes,” you chatter, “You’re missing out -- I mean, no Big Papi anymore, but Hanley Ramirez is a big deal. Be a shame if you never saw him play in Boston.”

“Are you trying to convince me to go to a Red Sox game?” Peter’s voice hitches, “Because that’s not happening.”

“C’mon, the Yankees suck,” your smile is challenging and Peter laugh as you take a few steps ahead, turning around to watch him as you skip backwards, “Turn to the dark side, Peter! It’s more fun! We have a green monster.”

“I think I’d rather take the Hulk, honestly.”

“Me too,” you wink, “Bruce Banner is an absolute babe.”

Peter laughs at that -- loud and rowdy in the late summer heat. It’s intoxicating.

Your takeaway boxes have been abandoned, licked clean, in favor of a biology textbook and notepads. Though, it wasn’t a welcome abandonment. You wanted to pull your hair out. It showed.

Your lips are pulled into a pout. Peter watches your brows screw together. The study room is filled with the chatter of a Bio101 Youtube video he’d pulled up, hoping to explain osmosis and semipermeable membranes and the importance of saline.

“See?” Peter’s pen taps the screen, “From high to low!”

“Always?”

“Always.”

“Sounds fake,” you hum, mushing your cheeks together as you lean on the wooden table, “But okay.”

“It’s not fake! It’s science.”

“So,” you lean back, waving your fingers, “... magic?”

“Basically,” Peter shrugs, “My formal title after grad school will be Wizard.”

“I want to be a wizard.”

“Then --”

“And make this whole quiz disappear.”

Peter drops his head into his hands, laughing softly as he rubs his brows together. You were getting it, albeit slowly. He couldn’t say he really minded losing his Monday night to you -- in fact, he found himself enjoying this a little bit too much. Your knee brushes his under the table as you shift, eyes drawn back to the video.

His skin tingles. Hot and prickly.

“How about one more hour of studying?”

“Thank god,” you whisper, “I can do that.”

“Power hour?”

“Power hour.”

He walks you back to your dorm.

Even though it’s in the opposite direction of his.

“I hope I helped,” he sighs, “Even if it’s a little bit?”

“You helped a lot -- seriously, I think I’m a wizard now.”

You blossom with pride as he giggles, eyes screwing shut as his head falls backwards. His converse scuff against the pavement as he shoves his fingers into his pockets. Peter glows under pinks and yellows of the streetlights. It’s cute. You wind your own fingers together, toeing the ground.

There’s a weighted pause between you both. Brown eyes burrow into your own.

It’s broken by the door to your dorm swinging open and a group of guys bustling by. It prompts you both to laugh again.

“I’ll see you on Wednesday, then?”

“Yeah! And, uh, I’ll let you know how I do on my quiz!”

“Make me proud!”

He waves, you wave, and you swear it’s the warmest you’ve ever felt.

#peter parker imagine #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #spiderman imagine

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