#TASM 2 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

literaila · 5 months

Text

i’ll tell you in the morning

tasm!peter x reader

summary:

“you’re going to fall through the couch.”

“the couch would never betray me.”

warnings: overly considerate peter, scheming reader, fluff and stuff

“you’re supposed to be in bed.”

his voice rolls, like a click on a cassette, and you know that peter is not really there.

because it’s all a little blurry. his voice, the door opening, the feeling when he kneels down next to you, his breath hot in your ear.

it’s all some remanent of a dream. a brief moment where you might wake up, but decide not to.

“i’m serious,” his voice ebbs and flows, waving in and out, like your consciousness. “you know i don’t like it when you wait up for me.”

you groan and roll even further into the couch. your face is smushed, and your hair is a mess, sweaty because you’re drowning under every blanket in the house. it smells like cotton, and peter’s deodorant, and potato chips that you probably dropped through the cushions.

you dig your nose in deeper, trying to get back to that dream.

peters probably not actually there, you think, because if he was he would’ve kissed you awake. his hand would be lazily running through your hair, and his body would be pressed against yours. you would be cuddling by now.

real peter is much nicer than dream peter, who shakes your shoulder, albeit massaging you right afterward. “c’mon, bug, we’re going to bed.”

“sleeping,” you mumble, pulling away from him.

dream peter continues to try and wake you up, while you wonder—amidst the dream, no doubt—when real peter will be home. you want to be drowning in his collarbone instead of your own sweat.

there’s a kiss next to your ear. “you’re going to fall through the couch.”

“the couch would never betray me.”

“we’ll see if you’re saying that in the morning, when your neck is bent the wrong way,” he whispers, and rests his head against yours. you feel it as he breathes out, relaxes. almost like he’s purring into your ear.

so you keen into him, a bit awkwardly, considering that it’s his forehead. “why’d you wake me up?”

“you can’t sleep here.”

“c’mere,” you murmur to him, your hand wrapping around the back of his neck, fingertips just brushing his hair. “cuddle with me.”

“being cute isn’t going to stop me from moving you.”

“peter,” you try and push him away, “go to bed.”

“why are you out here?” his nose trails down your hair, to your neck. “it’s almost four in the morning.”

you ponder this, and decide that you don’t really remember what you were doing before you fell asleep here, with your hand shoved in the crook of your neck. “the beds cold,” you slur, head falling back into the cushions as you doze.

“that’s because all of the blankets are out here. why didn’t you turn the heat up?”

he’s playing with some baby hair by your ear now, trying to lull you to sleep, probably, because he loves you.

“i was waiting for you,” you whisper this like a prayer, “and now you’re here.”

“you waited in the wrong spot. i would’ve come to bed with you. there’s no room for me here,” he smiles when you finally turn your head towards him. he’s got a smudge on his nose, and his eyes are sunken in—aged from exhaustion.

“i know.”

you’re both whispering. trying not to wake that drowsy, lovesick part of yourself right now.

“hmm?” he leans into you, nose brushing your cheek. almost like he’s breathing you in. “what, bug?”

“i wanted to fall asleep with you.”

then his eyes are wide open, and he leans back, brows furrowed in a tight line. “i told you i was going out.”

you muse at his confused face, and lean back towards him. “i know. i didn’t know when you’d be home.”

“you could’ve called.”

“i’m not going to interrupt your repertoire with a burglar at midnight. it’s rude.”

“not to me.”

you tsk, and lean away, back into the pillow comforting you while simultaneously scheming to ruin your morning.

“you need more sleep than i do,” peter adds, trying to keep you awake with his sheer willpower, his hands squirm under your shoulders. “we’ve talked about this.”

“no, you threatened to tell my mom—“

“that’s not what i said,” peter interrupts, groaning into the sofa.

“that i wasn’t getting enough sleep. and i said that you could make your own decisions, but that i wasn’t going to stop waiting up for you.”

“it makes me feel bad,” he ignores your gentle protesting. “i don’t want to keep you up.”

“peter, it’s not like you’re out dancing with strippers.”

he laughs, unexpectedly. and you grin back at him, with a sheer conviction undiluted by any hints of remaining sleep.

“you’re up helping people. i don’t mind waiting for you,” you emphasize this by leaning in to kiss his forehead, tasting sweat and not minding at all.

“you’re going to be tired tomorrow. when did you fall asleep?”

you acknowledge your win for what it is, and sit up on the couch, looking around your apartment like you can’t remember where you are. “probably an hour ago. i didn’t know when you’d be home, and i waited a while, but then i moved to the couch so you’d have to wake me up if i fell asleep.”

“so this was an elaborate scheme, huh?” peter laughs at you as his teeth graze your cheek. his chaste kiss makes you warm.

“i learned from the best.”

peter chuckles against you, and the two of you sit like that for a moment. calculating each others breathing like there’s something you might miss, however brief.

and then you smile at him, and he smiles back. “bed?” he asks you, softly, fingertip running against the skin of your jaw. you nod.

his arms wrap around you as he picks you up, your head rested comfortably on his shoulder, legs wrapped around his waist.

“i’m leaving you on the couch next time,” he threatens as he walks, “just so you know.”

“then we’ll both wake up with sore backs. not just you.”

peter snorts. “i didn’t say i would be there.”

“like you can sleep without me.”

he doesn’t say anything to that, but you feel him murmur in your hair suspiciously.

peter sets you down on the bed softly, pushing your legs so you’ll lay down, then covering you with the comforter. he tucks you in like any average middle aged dad.

when you grin he nods, very satisfied with himself.

“i’m just gonna change,” he says, taking a step back.

“hurry. i’m tired.”

“now, look who’s talking,” he shakes his head, but moves swiftly to the bathroom. you hear it as he runs the sink, as he bangs his foot on something and curses, and when he pads back into the bedroom, looking like a young child sneaking out of bed in his pajamas.

you laugh. “where did you get those?”

peter looks down to himself. to the many cartoon styled spider-man’s dancing across his cotton pajama set. “what? this old thing.”

“i don’t think i can be seen in public with you if you’re wearing that.”

“we are in the privacy of our bedroom,” he points out.

“i don’t think i can be in the same room with you if you’re wearing that.”

peter shakes his head, pouting like he’s disappointed, but he slips the shirt off, a concession he’s apparently willing to make.

though you don’t doubt that there are ulterior motives to this move.

“c’mon,” you whine to him, “i’m cold.”

“you’re so needy.”

you roll your eyes, but sink into him as he shuffles from beside you, laying his head near yours. “you’re not coddling me.”

“i’m so very sorry, my dear,” he whispers, and wraps his arms around you.

“shh,” you nuzzle your nose into his neck, and murmur against his hot skin. “i want to go back to the dream i was having.”

peter must be laughing at you, you can tell, even slightly asleep, because something jostles you.

“what was it about?”

you smile against him, listening to his heart like a hymn you’re devoted to. “i’ll tell you in the morning.”

he whispers something, brief, a whisper in the quiet of the room. but you feel the words as he settles into the bed, his calloused hands running over your skin.

and you fall asleep; hands clutching the others heart.

2K notes · View notes

dailyflicks · 1 month

Text

The Amazing Spider-Man 2 2014, dir. Marc Webb

939 notes · View notes

emocheremuha · 9 months

Text

[part 3]

#artists on tumblr #digital artist #spideypool #deadpool #amazing spider man #spideypool fanart #spiderpool #tasm peter parker #tasm #tasm 2 #two tickets for barbie please #barbie #barbie movie #couple goals #date night #kiss #my art #my artwork

1K notes · View notes

toytle · 1 year

Text

shoutout to my friend for sending me a lego reenactment of gwen stacy’s death the second i told them i finished tasm 2

#peter parker #harry osborn #gwen stacy #andrew garfield #the amazing spider man #tasm #tasm 2 #spider man #marvel #danart #alt text #described #i cried over the dumbest parts but didn’t even shed a tear over gwen’s death #i’m sorry man but it was LITERALLY max’s birthday!!! i’m GOING to cry abt it!!!#also surprisingly rly liked harry even if he’s nothing like his comic counterpart #made a playlist for him and everything… strange behavior…

2K notes · View notes

spiderspunkoriginal · 8 months

Text

I’m really funny

#spiderman #peter parker #harry osborn #parksborn #spiderman raimi #tasm peter parker #Raimi peter Parker #Raimi Harry Osborn #TASM #the amazing spiderman #tasm 2 #The amazing spider man 2 #the amazing Spider-Man #raimiverse #raimiverse harry #raimi trilogy

1K notes · View notes

rancidpancakebatter · 2 months

Text

For Him - [P.P.]

Pairings: Peter Parker x Depressed!Reader

Summary: You were fine. He doesn’t understand. You were fine. You had been a little distant lately, but he had learned that was a pattern for you. When the months got colder and the nights got longer, you needed an adjustment period. Your space would get messy, and your naps would get longer. But you were always fine.

Word Count: 7.0k

Content: THIS FIC IS CENTERED AROUND A DEPRESSIVE EPISODE. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN MEDIA CONSUMTION.

Depression, language, Mentions of self-harm, Mentions of suicide ideation, friends to...open to being more?, Whump comfort, No actual harm comes to the reader, Happy Ending

( Masterlist )

A/N: I'm trying to get back into writing (I know I've said that before) and while my series are on pause, I've been trying to get back into a schedule with it. This piece is very personal to me and is very much something I wrote for myself. I'm sharing this only because I hope it can bring others the comfort it brought me. Or something close to it.

“Peter- Peter, please fix it!” Peter watched you helplessly as you continued to sob.

Your cries ripped from your chest, and you wished to reach inside the fresh gashes, grasp your heart, and grind it to dust. Anything to make it stop. It felt as if the tissue of your cardiac muscle was pulling itself apart, each painful pump shredding the fragile tissue further. You weren’t sure how much more you could take- how many beats you had left in you. You felt delirious.

It’s common knowledge that when your body is going through immense pain, such as breaking a bone, it goes into shock. Your sympathetic nervous system shuts off momentarily because your brain makes the executive decision that you can’t handle it. You wondered how much pain you could withstand before your body tapped out.

Everything was too much. Your brain couldn’t keep up. Neither could Peter. He watched on in horror as you screamed, clawing at the carpet, pushing your face into the ground, cradling your stomach, and rolling back and forth.

You were fine. He doesn’t understand. You were fine. You had been a little distant lately, but he had learned that was a pattern for you. When the months got colder and the nights got longer, you needed an adjustment period. Your space would get messy, and your naps would get longer. But you were always fine.

You had been ghosting Peter for six days (after two weeks of not seeing each other and you flaking on plans), and he had had enough. In his line of work, he tended to worry, however irrational that worry was, it was still there, palpable. You hadn’t been to class all week, he went to your job to surprise you, but you weren’t there either. He thought maybe you were upset with him, but the nagging thoughts racing through his mind couldn’t let you be. If something was wrong, he needed to know.

Peter has had a key to your place since you moved in. He was the only person you trusted, and you knew that sometimes he hated going home, finding it hard to leave “work” at work. You loved that your apartment was a safe place for him. Somewhere, he could rest his head and forget, for a moment, about Spider-Man and return to Peter Parker.

To say your place was a mess was an understatement. You were respectfully tidy; your space consistently looked lived-in, as opposed to Harry’s place, which always looked like a catalogue.

The smell of rotting food triggered his gag reflex momentarily. He soon got his bearings and saw dishes piled everywhere; the full plates looked almost untouched. Various fast food containers littered every surface. Clothes were draped over random furniture, and he could smell you too. He didn’t smell your strawberry shampoo and cocoa butter lotion but rather sweat and musk.

He entered cautiously, calling out to you, but heard no response. He surveyed his surroundings, looking for any possible distress. He worried for a minute that his Spidey-Sense™ wasn’t working. Obviously, something was wrong, but his sixth sense remained dormant in his nerves.

Then he heard it, breathing, a heartbeat. He moved in its direction, slowly approaching the couch. Curled up in a ball, you lay there, surrounded by malodorous clutter. You looked very uncomfortable slotting yourself between mounds of tupperware and dirty clothes. He called out to you again but got no response.

He lept over the back of the couch, landing in front of you, disregarding anything in his path. He brought a hand to your face and the other to your exposed wrist, checking for a pulse. You turned your face away from him, and he felt a rush of emotions surge through him.

Firstly, he was elated: you were alive, your pulsed drummed with the precision of a seasoned battlefield drummer, and you didn’t seem to have a fever or show any other indications of illness.

Secondly, he was angry: he hadn’t heard from you in a week, but he sees your phone on the floor in front of him. You were trying to move away from his touch as if his hand on your face was the broccoli your mother demanded you eat before leaving the table. And when he called to you, you didn’t respond- despite very obviously being awake.

Then, he was worried: he watched as your fingers trembled, your hand limp as he held your wrist. You looked dull, as if someone had turned down your saturation, drowning you out in the background of surrounding hues. Your eyes were glassy, seemingly unfocused as you stared ahead. You looked despondent, a husk of his dear friend.

He called out to you again, and you let out a small whimper. He was beginning to panic. You, on the other hand, were trying to find the will. The will to care, to respond, to look at him, to live.

“(Y/n), can you hear me?” again, you gave him nothing, and he felt panic rise in him again.

“(Y/n), come on, you gotta give me some sign of life.” You focused all of your energy, fighting desperately against your brain, and blinked, long and slow.

“Was that on purpose? Was that your response?” You blinked again, and Peter felt his chest tighten.

“Are you okay? You’re freaking me out, Bubs.” You blinked twice, and Peter stopped for a moment.

“Is two blinks a ‘no’?” You blinked again.

Peter ran a hand through his hair, and you realised he was stressed. You wanted to care so badly. Your friend was hurting, and it was your fault, and you couldn’t even care. Some friend you are. Peter deserved someone better, someone who could be there for him, someone who didn’t completely fall apart when the world became too heavy, someone who could convince themselves that breathing was a good thing. You felt someone shaking you.

“Hey! (Y/n), come back to me, buddy!” You blinked again, and the shaking stopped, but you could still feel his eyes boring into you.

“I asked if you were on drugs. Are you overdosing right now?” You blinked twice. You were feeling tired again. How ridiculous that you can lay here all day, but having to blink is too exhausting? You let out a yawn, and Peter relaxes some.

“(Y/n), can you try and talk to me? I’m freaking out here.” With a great amount of effort, you opened your mouth.

“I’m sorry.”

It was barely audible; your voice croaked due to its inactivity. You blinked a few times, forcing yourself to look at him. His brows were furrowed, and his eyes were wet. You had done that. The ache in your bones grew and spread at the realisation. Peter just shook his head.

“I don’t need you to be sorry; you need to tell me what’s going on.”

To anyone else, he would have sounded cold, but you knew this tone. Peter was working a case, searching for clues, answers. You were dealing with Spider-man. You felt bad that you had drawn that out of him, that he was so distressed he had to put on his suit of armour.

How could you tell him? There was nothing going on. Not one thing, at least. It was a bunch of small things that you were handling like a baby. Your parents were upset with you, your grades were slipping, your job was stressful, you were constantly fatigued, and everything just felt like so much work. Work that you didn’t sign up for. Work that you were done doing.

“(Y/n), what’s going on?”

He hadn’t meant to raise his voice at you, but he was growing annoyed with your crypticness. He wanted to help you- wanted to make sure you’re okay- and he couldn’t do that if you didn’t tell him.

You let out some sharp breaths that almost resembled crying, but no tears left your eyes. You wondered if you had run out; if your brain had decided you had met your quota and had cut off your supply. Or maybe you were just so dehydrated that you didn’t have enough water to spare.

You watched as a single tear rolled down his cheek. You had made him cry. You were uncaring and cruel. You were hurting him. You were a shitty friend. He was so worried about you, and you did nothing to ease his concern. He had called you many times, and you would watch as your phone danced on the table. You would listen to his voicemails, at first light-hearted before quickly turning to panic. You stopped listening to them three days ago, unable to process his emotions as well as your own.

“Bubba, please. What is going on with you? You haven’t answered my texts, you haven’t been to class, you haven’t been to work. I’m really worried. Please, please talk to me.”

He was begging and the thought broke your wretched heart. You attempted to curl more into the couch, to hide away from the pain you saw in his eyes. His hand on your shoulder stopped you, and you didn’t have the strength to resist.

“I’m sorry.”

You watched as Peter’s face contorted wildly between emotions: anger, fear, concern, sorrow. He chewed on his lip as he looked you over again. His mouth gaped as if he was tripping over his words before they could even leave his mind.

“Why? What-? Did you do something?”

You shrugged your shoulders.

How could he even ask that? He knows what you did. He had just listed half of your offences. How could he even stand to look at you? You were a monster, vile and vicious.

You blinked again, and Peter frowned. You knew he wanted to hear you speak, that it would ease his worry, but you couldn’t. Saying the words is hard, flexing all those muscles to use your voice. Too much. It was all too much.

“What did you do?”

You can hear the fear in his voice. It makes you sick to your empty stomach. The weight of his question weighed on your chest.

You knew what he was asking. It was a question you had been asked many times by your parents, by professionals, and your friends. You had lost many over the question. Some of them running away screaming at your honesty. Others have told you it’s not your fault, they just can’t carry the weight. So they leave you to carry it on your own.

You recognised the way his eyes quickly darted to your wrist, then moved to any possible exposed skin. You saw the way he checked his surroundings, looking for anything there. You knew what he was looking for, even if he didn't.

You almost wanted to laugh at that. It was funny to your fucked up brain. They always want to know. They insist on it. They have to know if you’ve done something to yourself as if their knowledge could rewrite time and change futures. As if they know they have the special combination of words that would make you see the light and bring you back. As if they could say something-- anything --you hadn’t heard before. But that wasn’t the funny part. The funny part was being right.

You knew that it was getting bad again. You knew if Peter saw you like this, he would get scared. You knew he would assume the worst. And here he was, doing just that. The funny part was knowing that when people see depression, they expect it to just be this, and if it’s not, you’re fine. And when it does look like this, you must be suicidal.

And honestly, you wish you were. And you shouldn’t say that, but it’s true. At least then you could do something with it. But instead, you’re curled up on your couch, immobilised, waiting for the storm to pass. You look and feel pathetic. But for now, it’s funny. Mostly because you can’t handle how frustrating this is.

You tug your sleeve down, and Peter’s eyes track the movement, tracing over the smooth skin as it’s revealed. His body remains tense even as you stop. You move the other one, and he’s just as attentive. When both wrists are revealed to be fine, you expect him to relax, but he doesn’t.

You watch as his chest rises and falls, not quickly but noticeably. As if he’s trying to stay calm. You appreciate that, though feeling like a bit of an ass for it.

He takes a deep breath, his fingers coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose, “So then, why are you sorry?”

He looked at you expectantly, and you felt like crying again. It was too much. You knew what you had done, how shitty you had been. It’s all you could think about as his calls continued to go unanswered and your filth continued to pile around you. But he was asking too much. You didn’t want those words to leave your lips. You didn’t want him to hear them.

If he did, he might realise you’re right. He’d leave you here, and you’d never hear from him again. He’d be another soul lost to your devastation. Another broken person you made by knowing you. He’d realise how you tainted him, recognise you as sickness, and cut you off. And you couldn’t be mad at him when he did it. Because he would be right.

Or he would defend you. All that Peter Parker love pouring from him, insisting that everyone is good and deserves a chance. He would ignore all of your words, writing them off as nonsense. And maybe, maybe you’d start to believe him. You’d let him convince you that you’re okay. But soon, he would realise that he was wrong about you.

Either way, he would leave you. So maybe if you push him now, it won’t hurt so bad later. If you don’t let him build you up, you won’t fall as far.

So you said nothing, holding his gaze until you couldn’t anymore. His face shifted again, and you couldn’t take it. It was too much. It was your fault. You managed to roll over from your side to your stomach. You paid no mind to the various objects falling off the couch; you didn’t care that Peter had to dodge the debris. Especially when it distracted him long enough to let you hide. You buried your face into your crossed arms but didn’t close your eyes, the dark pocket you created being more than enough.

You felt hollow. Like life had finally broken you, taken everything that you were. You weren’t yourself anymore, just a husk. One that wouldn’t eat, or change clothes, or leave the house. But you weren’t empty. No, you had been carved out, but disgust and anger filled you now. But those big feelings left you feeling tired, tired constantly. No sleep was restful, no break long enough. It was baked in, carried in your bone marrow.

Peter was silent and you listened closely to his breathing. You couldn’t understand why he hadn’t given up yet, why he was sticking by your side. So you told him to leave.

You waited patiently for him to shout, for his footsteps to fade away, but he didn’t. He remained there, where you could feel his eyes on you. It was pissing you off.

“Leave!” you tried again, the sharpness of your tone muffled by the couch cushions.

You waited again, and this time, you heard movement. You heard a piece of silverware land softly on the coffee table and trash move around the floor. Finally, you thought. But then you felt a weight lean against the couch, then soft noises coming from a phone.

You peeked your head out to see Peter sitting on the floor, his back against the couch, scrolling through Instagram. He didn’t chuckle or laugh. He wasn’t really looking at his phone. His eyes were darting over to you every few seconds. You knew he knew you were watching him. This game went on for a long time. Nearly an hour passed in silence, one watching the other.

“I’m not leaving,” he said eventually, “not without you.”

That exhaustion was melting now, and all that left you with was anger.

“Fuck you,” you spit, then tucked your head back into your arms.

“I don’t think you mean that.”

Oh, fuck him. You snapped up, your arms supporting your body as you glared at him from the couch. He looked surprised, but not frightened. Peter had put himself in a terrible position. You were swirling with hatred, and now he had made himself a target. You couldn’t help the words tumbling from your mouth.

“You don’t get to tell me what I mean!” you shouted, your voice crackling like flames. “You don’t get to tell me how I feel! You don’t get to come in here where you’re not wanted and fuck with me. I don’t want you here! I don’t want to see you again!”

He winced at your words, and that made you feel a little powerful. You were hurting so much, seeing him feel a fraction of it made it feel smaller.

“I haven’t talked to you in days and you think, ‘Oh, I’ll just pop over.’ What a fucking joke!”

You laugh, though there’s no humour in it.

“I was worried.”

His eyes are wet again– his voice is so small –like he was seconds from breaking.

Good. Let him break as I have. Maybe then he can see, and understand. Or maybe he’ll leave, get the hell out of dodge. Doesn’t matter.

“No, you were selfish,” You bite. “You got lonely and figured I would be there. You didn’t want to think I just didn’t want you anymore, so you showed up. Because you know no one comes looking for you. Not without the suit.”

You watch as he recoils. He’s looking at you like a monster, and he should. You are. His mouth hangs open, his eyes locked onto yours. The air feels stiff, like a sheet of glass waiting to be shattered. He sniffled a little, and suddenly you didn’t feel so powerful. The game’s not fun if he’s not yelling back. He’s not telling you that you’re right or wrong, he’s not mad. He’s just hurt.

The anger drops from your face and now your eyes are wet too. You feel like you might vomit, but you know that’s just a bluff. You can’t remember the last time you ate something. Or more than three bites. Food doesn’t smell yummy anymore; it doesn’t taste flavorful. Your empty stomach isn’t as noticeable, and chewing is too much work for such little payoff.

Peter’s eyes soften slightly, like something’s clicked for him. His brows pull down and his lips pout.

Pity. He’s showing pity. You’ve hurt him, and he pities you.

You rise quickly, and Peter is quick to his feet to meet you there.

“I’m sorry,” you say, covering your mouth as you feel your breath quicken. You were going to break down again. “You should leave.”

You pushed past him, ignoring his calls after you. You beat him to your bedroom, where you shut and lock the door. Both hands cover your mouth as the tears begin falling and your chest starts heaving. It hurts; the muscles sore from how often this seems to happen.

You hear him jiggle the handle, calling your name through the door, begging you to open it. You sink down, your shirt bunching against the wood as you descend. But you wait. You can’t let it out now, not with him here. He shouldn’t have to see this. He shouldn’t have to put up with it.

Eventually, the knocking stops, and you hear him walk away. You wait longer still until you finally hear the front door open and close.

Then you scream.

It’s deep and guttural. A middle finger to the universe. It’s pure agony released from your throat. It’s all the words you can’t say fast enough. A battle cry from a broken soldier.

You continue to weep, crawling towards your bed, littered with clean clothes you haven’t folded, books you haven’t picked up, and various other trinkets you haven’t put away. But then the exhaustion comes back.

You curl in around yourself, crying out again in frustration.

You’re weak. You’re tired. You’re cruel. You’re pathetic. You’re fat. You’re too skinny. You’re disgusting. You’re heedless. You’re everything, but never enough.

Peter had never felt so defeated. He could see that you needed him, but you didn’t want him. That wasn’t a new feeling to Peter. He had long ago abandoned any hope that you would see him as more than a friend. Even if everyone you ever dated left much to be desired, you didn’t want him.

But this was different. This was something he hadn’t seen before.

He had gotten close. May had gotten pretty close herself. But it was never that. Whatever you were dealing with-- however you were dealing with it-- he didn’t know what to do with it.

You had never looked at him like that before, so full of hate. You had ripped him to shreds on your living room floor. Your words hurt, and it looked like you wanted them to. Like you enjoyed hurting him. It was scary. But then he saw it. That glint of fear in your eyes. The regret falling on your brows. And when you looked like you might cry, he knew.

That was something he did recognise, something he had seen in himself many years ago. The need to hurt. That primal urge to rip everything around you to ribbons. So it can look as ugly as you.

He followed you to your door, beginning to understand the hurt you were feeling. He didn’t want that for you. He wished he could remove it like a faulty wire, but you shut yourself off. He could hear your ragged breathing on the other side of the door, even through his pounding and shouting. But you wouldn’t open up, and he couldn’t do anything until you did.

He weighed his options and tried his best to leave. He wanted to trust that you would be okay, that you would someday unlock the door, but for now, he had to leave you be.

He picked up his stuff, made a mental note to come back and help you clean, and stepped outside. Before he released the handle, he heard you scream. A very real scream. He moved with urgency, panic rising in him. He fumbled with the key in his hands painted with red and blue nail polish. It was chipped from the many years of hanging on his keychain.

He called out to you but got no response. You continued to howl from the other room, and he rushed there. Trying the handle, he cursed, finding it still locked. He had never heard a noise like that before. Your guttural wailing filled his mind. He had one thought, banging and pulsing through his head: Save her. Save her. Save her. Save her.

He didn’t want to kick down the door and frighten you, so he spun hopelessly outside it, fingers tangled in his hair as he tried to make use of his big brain. There was pounding mixing in with your cries now, and Peter felt scared that you were reaching a peak he wouldn’t be able to get you down from.

He threw his backpack to the floor and began opening pockets. His eyes glanced over his wallet, and then he dove for it, pulling out the library card you made him get. You had drawn on it because he complained about how boring it looked. It was the spiderweb in the corner that caught his eye now. From it hung a little spider, but its abdomen was shaped like a heart. He had teased you relentlessly for it at the time, pointing out its anatomical incorrectness. You told him it was a reminder, but for what you never said.

He pushed the thought aside, sliding the card between the door jamb and the lock latch, wiggling it until he felt it release. Your cries could be heard from the other side, so he steeled himself. You needed him, and you needed him strong. He could do that for you. He could do anything for you.

He was taken aback, for a moment, by the display before him, his lips parting in a gasp. You thrashed about, showing rage in your despair. He felt a wave of disgust for himself. He supposed he had let this happen, let you stew too long.

All this time, he thought you were fine. In the same way he was always ‘fine’. But every time he wasn’t, you were there. You were by his side, ready to talk him down. But him? He just waited for you to do it on your own.

He would see the signs and put his head in the sand, remembering how embarrassing it is when someone notices and asks. Remembering the rage that would boil up in him, as if this person could even begin to understand where he was coming from. But he forgot how much he needed it too. How much that small kindness meant. He forgot the value of a shoulder to cry on and an ear to hear, even if they don’t understand.

But he couldn’t dwell on that now. He can’t focus on what he could have done, only what he can now. Because you’re here now, and he wants you around later.

He drops to his knees, his hands coming out to hold you before he stops himself. He calls out softly instead.

It’s apparent to him that you didn’t realise he was there, your wild eyes scanning over him, trying to decipher if he’s real. Your chest heaves as you lay on the ground, your face swollen and red. His heart breaks, for a moment, whispering an apology you don’t hear.

It hurts to have him look at you like that– to see you like this. But this is what you were afraid of, him seeing you and running. But so far, he hasn’t. And you’re selfish, bordering on desperate. It doesn’t matter why he’s here; it just matters that he is. And as much as you desperately want him to leave, to forget you and move on, you can’t help clinging to him.

The one ray of sunshine you have. The one who always gets it even if he doesn’t. The one that remembers to get things in your favourite colour and reminds you to change your water filter. Your rock. And you could use a rock right now, and you can't bring yourself to worry about it destroying him.

You begin heaving again, and Peter panics, still unsure how to help you. His eyes are too much, so you roll around onto your belly, your legs curled up underneath, your forehead against the carpet. Your hands are wrapped around your gut as everything in you comes out. All the rage, and despair, and confusion leaking through your broken cries.

Peter only intervenes when your fists start slamming down against your stomach. You can feel his hand trembling as it grabs yours, and you scream again. His hand retracts, uncertain how to move forward.

Snot is running down your face, and you can feel some dribble on your chin. You feel like a child. You feel like a disgusting mess. He shouldn’t have to see you like this.

It hurts, god, it hurts so much!

His name leaves your lips, broken and frayed around the consonants, and he scoots closer.

“What?” He asks, sounding nearly as broken as you. “What can I do?”.

“Peter- Peter, please fix it!”

You’re not sure why you asked. You weren’t sure what he could do. But you knew he would do it. That’s what he does, fix things. He fixed your laptop, and May’s stove, and your bad study habits, and your sour mood. He always did and asked for nothing in return.

But maybe this was too big of an ask. How could he fix this- A chemical imbalance that you’ve been fighting your entire life? How could he fix what doctors hadn’t? What if you couldn’t be fixed?

You slammed your fist back into you, each hit punctuated with an insult.

Disgusting Pathetic Selfish Broken Useless Dumb Weak

But then, you felt gentle, shaking hands once again. His touch was warm but different from the fire you felt inside. It didn’t burn, but sooth. He had come up behind you and guided your arms tighter around yourself, using his to keep them there, coaxing you into sitting up and resting against him.

He was all around you now; his heart beat steadily against your back, even as yours pounded fiercely. You screamed again, but this time Peter didn’t let go. He held you tighter, hoping desperately that if he held on harder, he could keep you from slipping away. That you would feel his love on your skin. That he could shove the broken pieces back together enough to help you set them right.

Your head hurts; pressure building behind your eyes. But you felt safe, even in this pain. Because Peter was here, holding you tightly. He was here, even if he shouldn’t be. He was here. And you found yourself relaxing into his hold, melting against him.

Your sobbing fell into a quiet whimpering, letting him soothe you with gentle shushes and his forehead resting on the side of yours. He readjusted his hold on you, rubbing up and down on your arm with one hand and pulling you closer with the other. You hung loosely like you had lost the strength to hold yourself up. Peter swore you wouldn’t have to.

“I got you,” he whispered, placing a kiss where his head once was.

Soon, your cries became sniffles, and you turned around to face Peter. His face seemed sad, maybe even tired, but he smiled at you nonetheless. It wasn’t out of sympathy, but true and genuine. That was still too much, feeling embarrassed by your current state, so you hid.

Peter let you wrap your arms and legs around him, trying not to shiver as your nose rubbed against his neck. He pulled you into his lap, relishing in your tight hold. You were coming back to him.

He rubbed soothing patterns on your back, resting his head against yours while whispering encouragements.

“Good job, sweetie, you’re breathing so well for me. That’s right, big breaths, you got it.”

The world slowly stopped spinning, and your body stopped spazzing. You got the feeling back in your fingertips, running them in circles across Peter’s back, trying to recalibrate. He breathed with you, praising for each one you took.

Then, you were still, your eyelids heavy with exhaustion. Peter could feel your eyelashes slowly brush against his neck as you blinked.

“Hey,” he called softly. You hummed, and he was grateful. “I know you're tired, but you should take a bath first.”

You shook your head no, curling into him deeper. His heart panged, wanting desperately to hold onto you longer, but not like this.

He scooped you up, and you whined, wrapping your legs around him tighter as his arm came around to hold your hips. You knew he wouldn’t drop you, but you weren’t used to being toted around.

He let you cling to him as he began filling the bath, making sure the water was warm but wouldn’t hurt. He then travelled to the laundry room to grab some fresh towels and threw in some bubble bath he had found under the sink.

“Come on, baby,” he tried, “In the bath, you go.”

You felt your cheeks warm at the nickname and tried not to think about how much you didn’t want Peter to let go.

It’s not him, You told yourself, he’s just here.

But it didn’t sound very convincing, not even to you. But regardless of your wishes, you knew he wouldn't always be, and what would you do when he left? You’d probably end up on the floor again, or worse.

“I’ll still be here when you’re done,” He said, as if he could read your thoughts, “I promise a bath will make you feel better.”

You took a deep breath, raising your head to look into his eyes. Galaxies lived there, swirling and teeming with life. Every emotion, every thought, bubbling in his irises. And one came through over all of them, ringing through the silence.

Love.

You saw it there as he looked at you. How could this be?

Love.

Had he not seen how monstrous you could be, how depraved and insane you truly were? How could he possibly find it in him to still love you? And how could you let something like that go? He had a love for you that you didn’t have for yourself, but you needed it.

You nodded your head, pushing the thought aside, as you rose on shaking legs. Peter smiled, then left, grinning at you through the crack in the door.

“Thank you,” he said before closing it behind him.

You peeled off your sweat-soaked clothes, feeling embarrassed once again when you realised you were only in a t-shirt and a pair of underwear this entire time. Peter was a very good friend, and you couldn’t imagine why he was thanking you for anything.

You got into the water, your muscles relaxing as soon as they broke the barrier. You stretched, letting yourself sink deeper into the water. You lay there for a moment, relishing in the peace, in the momentary break in misery.

You dunk your head under the water, holding your breath and counting. You come up gasping, feeling the adrenaline coursing through your veins. You feel alive again.

You do that a few more times before actually washing your body. You try not to wince as you scrub the film from your body and hair. You took the time to pamper yourself, letting the lavender scent surround you. You even shaved so you could curl up in your fuzzy blanket later and just feel the softness. Peter was right- a bath made you feel a lot better.

You wrapped yourself up in your towel, feeling fresh and a lot less heavy, and opened the door. Peter was there sitting on your floor, thumbing through your record collection. You gasped at the vision around you, and Peter jumped up, a smile on his face.

“Hey, you’re back!” He saw your surprise and hastily apologized, “I hope you don’t mind. Just thought I’d put on some music.”

You shook your head at the man, ignoring his apology completely. You didn't care about the music. Your eyes wandered around the made bed, with fresh sheets, and the clothes that once occupied them neatly folded. The dirty clothes on your floor were gone, the hamper was empty, and when you listened carefully, you could hear the washing machine running in the other room.

“You didn’t have to clean up,” you said, embarrassment rising to your cheeks.

“It’s all good,” he brushed off, like it was nothing. “I pulled these out for you to change into, but you can- you can wear whatever, of course. And...I don't have to tell you that.”

The way he fumbled over his words was adorable, but you remembered then that you were only in a towel, standing in front of your best friend. You clutched it tighter, and he seemed to notice then too. Redness grew from his neck to his cheeks, and he quickly turned around.

“Sorry!” He shouted. Then calmly, “Sorry, I’ll uh- I’ll let you change.”

You reached for the pyjamas he set out and slipped them on. It felt nice. I mean, the pj’s weren’t new, but wearing something Peter picked out for you, with you in mind, felt…sweet. And they were extremely comfortable. You smiled softly as you smoothed out the fabric, then opened the door.

Peter was standing just on the other side with his back turned to it, but upon hearing the handle, he turned. His eyes quickly skated over your form before he beamed at you. You invited him into your room and turned down the record he had put on so it was softly playing in the background.

He stood awkwardly in your room, hands in his pockets, like he didn't know what to do next. You felt a similar way, sitting back on your bed. The silence was loud; both of you stuck between wanting to ask a million questions and not sure how to make the words right.

You figured he had done enough of the work today; you could try for him.

“I’m sorry,” you began.

He turned to you, worry written across his brows and a retort on his lips, but you cut him off.

“I- I was cruel to you. You didn’t deserve that.”

His face falls as he sighs, then trudges over to sit at your side with heavy feet.

“It’s okay-” he begins.

“Don’t say that,” You spit, some of that anger you tried to bury coming back. Peter stilled, and you felt bad, but he had to hear you. It was important. “Don’t say that how I treated you was acceptable because it wasn’t. You don’t deserve that from anyone. If I had seen someone speak to you that way– or ignore you the way I did –I would have killed them. I don’t get to lash out at you like that, okay?”

Peter’s eyes were twinkling again, and you couldn’t understand it.

“You- you shouldn’t have to put with it,” you continue shakily, “and I don’t think you should stick around.”

Peter rolled his eyes, chuckling.

“Tough luck.”

You look at him baffled, but he remains unfazed.

“You can’t get rid of me that easy,” he explains, “I spend most of my days chasing people who actually want me dead. You having a little outburst because you’re hurting and you don’t know how to say it? I can handle that.”

He grabs your hand, and you try to stop the butterflies taking flight within you.

“You disappearing for a few days? That’s nothing. Me leaving?” He laughs full-on now; it rolls through him, blooming from his chest, “That’s never gonna happen.”

“Peter-” you try, but it’s he who cuts you off now.

“No, I’m not hearing any of it. I’m not going anywhere,” he insists. “I’m not leaving you again. I will be right here, for as long as you need me, and even when you don’t.”

His hold on your hand is tighter now, as if he’s trying to press the promise into you. Placing it in your hand and hoping you never let it go. Or maybe it was more than the promise. You look into his eyes, and you see it again– love. You can’t make sense of it. Over and over again, that look. One you’ve seen so many times. Why?

“Because you shouldn’t have to do it alone.” He answers your silent question, “Because I don’t want you to do it alone, not when I’m right here.”

He lifts your hand and puts it over his heart. You can feel how fast it’s beating. Yours flutters in a similar way. It’s terrifying and thrilling, this promise he makes. You want Peter there, always. That’s why he has a key, free to pop into your life whenever he finds the time. Because you always want him there. It’s why he’s your emergency contact and the only person you trust (other than May, but you would never ask it of her) to water your plants when you’re away.

But if he stays, you’ll grow attached. More attached, at least. He’s seen one of many battles in a war you’ve been losing for as long as you can remember. He’s crazy enough to think he can handle more when you barely can yourself. But maybe that’s what you need, someone to fight with you. Someone to fight for.

You bring your arm around his neck, pulling him into a jarring hug. He accepts it, pulling you closer. You’re trembling ever so slightly, but you’re not fighting him anymore. He knows what this means. You’re letting him stay, and he’s so grateful.

You allow yourself to just breathe with him- to let him be here, and hold you. You never got that before, and accepting it now is hard, but you can do it.

“Do you wanna stay the night and watch some b-horror films?” you asked.

Peter smiled against you, and your heart leapt at the action.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

You feel a bit selfish as he steps into the bathroom to change into comfier clothes, as he crawls into bed and lets you curl into him, as he drapes his arm around you and holds you close. You can’t give him what he wants right now, what he deserves, but you want to. It’s hard, it’s terrifying, but you know that you can. You can do it for him. You're strong enough.

Tag List: @actuallypeterparker, @barbecuetiddy, @cherriescherriesred25, @heejinw0rld, @ilovemoonknight, @Isshecrazyorissheclever, @mirrorballin24, @miwagila, @negasonic-teenage-asshole, @onlyangel-444, @preciousbabypeter, @purple-amaranthe, @raajali3, @remuslupinsdocs, @rudy-the-winged-wolf, @supernerdycookietrashblrr, @wannapizzamymindposts, @whoreforklitz

226 notes · View notes

asterias-record-shop · 20 days

Text

moan our name (p.p. (t.h.) & p.p. (a.g.))

(No forgotten memories, Peter 1 isn’t with MJ, Peter 3 is with you, never got with Gwen — in Peter 1’s world you’re this college girl he has a crush on.) When experimenting with a Sling Ring you found with your boyfriend, you couldn’t believe it when you both fell into a portal in another Spider-Man’s room. — 1.3k words

“Babe, I thought you said you weren’t going to keep messing with that thing?”

Peter was concerned for you, mainly because he was worried about your safety. He really didn’t want you to fall through a portal with no way to get home like he did.

“I’m just trying…” you muttered, humming softly as you attached a clip to it. “To see if it’s a conductor.”

Peter snorted as he came behind you, letting his arms wrap around your torso, softly pressing kisses to your temple. “Why do you need it as a conductor, baby?”

“To see if I can put its powers into something like a bracelet or something,” you muttered in response, heavily focused until it blitzed slightly. You gasped when it did so, and Peter jumped slightly as flickers of gold started to pour out through the ring, proceeding to sink down into some sort of ring-like portal.

“Son of a bit-”

Peter didn’t get to finish before you both fell down what seemed to be a portal like when Peter fell through one a few months ago and helped save another universe. Peter quickly uses his powers to shoot a web at you, pulling you into his chest and twisting so he makes impact with the floor instead of you.

He grunted as you looked around, inhaling as you sat up in his lap, letting your eyes trail the posters in the high apartment that seemed as though it cost more than all of Peter’s lab. “Where are we?”

Peter looks around, sighing thankfully. “Oh thank fuck.”

“What? Peter, where are we?” You asked as you slowly stood up, helping your boyfriend up as he softly kissed your head.

“We’re on the other Peter’s earth,” he mumbled into your hair, thankful that you were okay. “Remember I told you about him?”

You swallowed, about to nod before someone yelled.

“Peter 3!”

Your boyfriend pulled away, smiling when he saw the other brunette. “Peter 1!”

He was about to give your boyfriend a hug before he noticed you, his face immediately flushing. “Y/N?!”

Peter 3 paused, looking from Peter 1 from you to Peter. “You have a Y/N here?”

Peter 1 swallowed, nodding — he had literally just got off to the thought of you. Well, his you.

“Oh, you’re Peter 1!” You said as you stepped forward, offering your hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you! My Peter has told me all about you.”

Your Peter grinned when you called him ‘my Peter,’ watching as you stepped forward to greet the other Peter. Still, Peter 1 was shocked when you touched him, the firm shake of your hand making his jaw go slack.

“This must be Tony Stark’s empire you took over,” your Peter said as you stepped back, face scrunching slightly.

“Who’s Tony Stark?”

“His… dad, I believe,” your Peter said as you looked around. “We don’t have a Tony Stark. Or, a famous one at least.”

“Wait! Do they have Goblin?” You asked as you turned around, almost as though you needed to prepare before your Peter laughed as he walked over to you.

“You don’t have to worry, baby,” he whispered, softly kissing your lips as Peter 1 looked away, putting his hand over his groin area to try and hide himself from getting hard again. Your Peter noticed this, smiling as he pulled away and looked over at Peter 1.

“You mind if we crash here? Until we figure out how to get back,” he hummed as he softly brushed his hand down your back. “My darling girl was trying to put the ring’s power into some bracelets.”

Peter 1 nodded frantically. “Y-Yeah, of course,” he whispered, swallowing. “I’ll call Dr. Strange so he can get you both back.”

Your Peter grinned as you yawned into his chest. “Thanks, kid.”

Peter 1 was upset. Very upset.

For one, you were even nicer than he could ever imagine – and he hated it.

For two, you both were stuck here until the wall between the worlds were thin enough again.

For three, the walls in the Stark Tower were thin with his enhanced hearings. Very, very thin. So much so that he was jacking himself off everytime you both had sex, just like he was doing right now.

He knew you were on your third orgasm. Peter 3 had barely just came, and you were about to cum, but Peter 3 knew just what he was doing.

“Come on baby, come on… moan my name, moan my name baby,” he groaned, the squelching of your pussy bouncing off the walls. He could only imagine how wet you were, the wet thrusts matching his pace of Peter 1 pumping his cock.

He had came just as many times as you had, mainly because he was so desperate to fuck you. What kind of coincidence was it that Peter 3 and you were together?

The thought made him pump his fist faster. He couldn’t stop, he was so so desperate to feel you.

“P-Peter, Peter!” You wailed, sobbing as you threw your head back, the bed continuing to slam into the wall. “I-I’m going to cum!”

Your Peter laughed. “Aw baby, you’re such a good girl… keep moaning my name, moan our name…”

That made Peter 1s eyes fly open.

Oh, he truly knew what he was doing.

It didn’t take Peter 1 long to get up, not even covering his cock as he walked through the halls and banged on the door.

“Ah, took him long enough, my darling…”

“Fuck you!” Peter 1 yelled, not even waiting for Peter 3 to open the door because he knew damn well he wouldn’t pull out of you – because Peter 1 wouldn’t either – stepping inside and stripping his clothes.

“W-We had a bet,” you giggled tiredly, inhaling. “Peter already stretched me out from behind.”

So that’s where he was fucking you earlier.

And so, Peter 1 wasted no time walking toward the bed before your Peter fixed the position of both of you, pulling you into his lap, spreading your legs with his thighs. “Like hell I was going to let you fuck her pretty cunt.”

To be completely honest, Peter 1 would take whatever he could get.

So he kneeled behind you, slowly steadying himself before snapping his hips forward to push into your ass. A loud wail left your lips, your teasing finally biting you in the ass as both Peter’s slowly started to fuck into you in sync.

Peter 1s thrusts were a lot more unsteady, almost as though he was still questioning what was going on, but your Peter’s thrusts were strong and rough.

He looked so pretty under you, sweat dripping down his temple as Peter 1 slowly fucked you from behind, moaning loudly as he kissed your shoulder blade. He was starting to get rougher, and the fact that two men were fucking you at now very different paces made your mind blur as their hands roam your body.

At this point, you truly were just a toy for them – and they were determined to use you like that.

“Come on baby, does it feel too good that you’re silent? Huh? Make some fucking noise,” your Peter basically snarled as his teeth graze your jaw, but that’s truly what you were feeling – you felt so good that you could barely make any noise, only with your mouth agape.

A soft sob fell from your mouth as you finally gave into your pleasure, your mouth wide open as you started to groan loudly. Your stomach felt like it was being penetrated, but it didn’t hurt at all, or you didn’t register that it was hurting.

Their hands squeezed and groped your body, their lips kissing every inch of your skin as you let out another sob. “Fuck, fuck! I-I gotta cum, I need to cum, please let me cum!”

Both Peters basically laughed in unison, a groan falling from your Peter's lips.

“Cum. We have until that portal gets figured out to fuck you.”

I do not ever give consent to my work being published on other platforms or being translated at any point, even if it is a request. If my work is on any other platform, it’s without my permission. Your media consumption is not my responsiblity.

122 notes · View notes

shewroteaworld · 9 months

Text

Movie Date Migraine

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

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

Word count: aprox. 3,500

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

(Y/N) knows she should go home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you need some air?”

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

You shove those fantasies from your mind.

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

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

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

Your resolve crumples. “I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.” You say.

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.” You squeak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay.”

***

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

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

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

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

“Babe?” He asks. He lets you go free.

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

“I feel nauseous.” You groan.

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

You take a deep, shuddering breath.

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course.” He whispers.

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

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

You hum your approval.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I speak, darling?” He asks.

“Mm-hmm.” You hum.

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

You point your index finger.

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

You hold up one finger.

“Are you sensitive to sound?”

Once again, one finger.

“Are you sensitive to touch?”

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

“Okay. Can I hold you?”

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

Shit.

Not here.

Not now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stomach aching, you collapse against Peter’s chest.

“You okay?” Peter asks.

“Yeah.” You pant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is your headache better?” He asks.

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

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

“Yes, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

“We need to talk.”

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

“Can we sit?” He asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really?” You ask, voice cracking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

xoxo, shewroteaworld

405 notes · View notes

sincericida · 8 months

Text

ANDREW GARFIELD on "The Amazing Spider-Man 2" backstage.

Any random day in frat!Peter’s life by @reidslovely and @webslingingslasher

#andrew garfield #backstage #frat!peter #basketball #peter parker #spider man #writers of tumblr #tasm 2 #the amazing spider man 2: rise of electro #the amazing spider man 2 #tasm peter parker #tasm peter #andrew peter parker #andrew peter #andrew spiderman #tasm spiderman #andrew garfield spiderman #andrew garfield peter parker #sincericida

315 notes · View notes

emmellas · 4 months

Text

"emma stone doesn't have range" oh she most certainly does but YOU don't have a valid point !!

260 notes · View notes

sp4rk-p1ug · 6 months

Text

“i didn’t go into this game as a parksborn fan-“ so you just didn’t watch any spider-man content where harry is there. you didn’t watch tobey maguire’s spiderman where harry looks at him like he hung the stars. you didn’t watch peter parker live with harry in a cute apartment. you didn’t watch the amazing spider-man 2 where harry talks to gwen about peter like he’s his old affair that he’s totally keeping a secret. you didn’t watch peter and harry’s weird date where harry admits to peter being a huge part of his life. how did you NOT know about the yaoi before this game

#parksborn #spider man 2 ps5 #raimiverse #tasm 2 #the amazing spider-man 2

237 notes · View notes

literaila · 6 months

Note

hey v ! what about peter and reader getting ready to go somewhere and after reader puts on some red lipstick peter can't stop kissing her ?

lipstick

warnings: ugh, peter

“how many times have you done that?”

peter is standing behind you, leaning against the wall, probably ruining your focus, or your makeup, or your sanity. he’s probably staring just to mess with you.

you refrain from smiling in the mirror. wipe a smudge with your nail. “i don’t know, peter,” you meet his eyes, and his nefarious smirk. “how many times have you watched me do it?”

“i got lost somewhere around the first time.”

you laugh at him, crumbling the napkin you’ve been using, now filled with kiss marks, and turning it around so you can throw it at peter. “are you sick?” you ask him.

instead of answering, he licks his lip and unfolds the napkin, staring at the red marks, creases and tireless efforts arranged in a messy pattern. “this is like art.”

“why are you acting like you’ve never seen anyone wear lipstick before?”

“what?” he asks, hand to his chest. “i cant watch you get ready? i’m banned from being in the bathroom when you are?”

“yes, and yes.”

it does not escape your notice when peter tucks the napkin into his pocket for safekeeping.

he shrugs. “i don’t mind breaking the rules.”

you scoff at him and pat his shoulder as you walk past him through the doorway. “i would’ve locked you out if i knew you were going to be weird about it.”

“weird? how am i being weird?”

“you were lurking. you’re still lurking.”

“i’m talking to my girlfriend. that’s part of our contract.”

“you’re following me.”

peter smiles. “well, i like you.”

you roll your eyes, almost—almost—smiling when you feel his arms wrap around your waist. “please don’t make me argue about your stalker like tendencies.”

“we don’t have to argue,” peter says, kissing the space beneath your ear. his breath is hot.

“i need to put my shoes on, peter.”

he smiles, his teeth clashing against your skin like a dreadful reminder. some type of jumpscare—minus the fact that you merely lean into him, sans jumping. “we can spare fifteen minutes.”

“how can you be thinking about anything besides the fact that we’re already late to meet may?”

he nibbles on the skin by your collarbone, then licks it, as reprieve. “it must be the lipstick.”

“you’ve literally seen me with lipstick before. i wore some on our first date.”

“‘s probably why i like it so much.”

his lips are needy as they crawl around your skin. his hands are stationary, but they pose their own threat as they lurk.

“peter, we have to go.”

“i’m not known for my punctuality,” he spins you around, his lips curled in mischief, “you know.”

“i’m aware.”

you refuse to indulge him. your brows furrow, your hands held in the air—just so you can avoid accidentally touching him. purposefully.

“then why are you so worried?” peter asks, kissing your cheek.

“i’m not kissing you,” you say, instead of answering.

“you’re not?” peter pouts like a child. he is far too grown.

“no.”

“how come?”

you try to pull away from him, but, shockingly, peter is stronger than you are. your will is weak. “you’re going to smudge my lipstick. i just finished.”

“you have more, don’t you?”

“not the point.”

“what?” he asks, his voice so serious and teasing. “you don’t want to kiss me?”

“no, i do not.”

you look away from him, admiring a wall that has always been there.

“are you sure?” peter asks, ducking so he can catch your eyes again, because he is nothing if not cruel.

you break, pouting. “peter,” you whine, “we’re not going to be late again.”

“i think we are.”

“you can kiss me when we get home later,” you promise, trying again to wiggle out of his grasp.

“that is a terrible compromise.”

“you won’t compromise,” you snap back. “what else am i supposed to do?”

peter grins, tilting his head. “okay. i have an idea. how about i kiss you, and then we leave? you don’t even have to kiss back, even though we’d both prefer it that way.”

“i’ll kiss you,” you mock him. “you’re the worst negotiator i’ve ever met.”

“then how come we haven’t left yet?”

you scowl at him, and he scowls back, but his eyes are alight.

your skin is ravenous with an ache to touch him, he’s so close that kissing him would be nothing—merely breathing, really—but you don’t want to lose this game to peter. and you dont want him to stop looking at you.

he pretends to check a watch. “hmm, it’s getting awfully late.”

“are you british all of the sudden?”

peter grins, biting his lip before he tries to bite you. you lean away. “if you like my accent, all you have to do is say so.”

“i like it when you get out of my way, and stop trying to sabotage me. i like that a lot.”

“no clue what you mean, dear.”

you roll your eyes and manage to cross your arms in his hold.

“i wonder how we could solve this,” peter muses, tapping his finger on your waist. “it’s a big problem.”

“i could leave you behind and have lunch with may myself.”

“that’s one option.”

you roll your eyes again.

“i was thinking something else, though,” peter says, and he’s closer now, but you’re sure that you never saw him move. “something more… proactive.”

“shove it, peter.”

“you don’t even want to hear it?”

you sigh, leaning your chest into him, out of pure delusion. “fine. what?”

peter smiles at you, eyes catching eyes.

the look on his face is soft, delirious. he’s got that look in his eyes, and that smile on his face, and he’s still staring at you like he’s mesmerized by whatever you’re doing.

“what?” you repeat, but softly, like you can’t find your voice in the chest cavity peters taken hold of.

“kiss me,” he says, softly, and it’s really not your fault that his lips are already brushing yours.

and it’s not your fault when you lean in, sighing in relief at the mere feel of him.

you’re almost breathless, from the tiniest of kisses.

but then you kiss peter again, and again, and your hands finally wrap around him—keeping hold of something real in this fake reality—and your voice isn’t your own when you groan at peter for making you do this.

you have evacuated your body. you have lost common sense.

but it doesn’t matter, because kissing peter has always made you forget all of that.

and it still does, when he pulls back, grinning like he’s won. “see?” he says, voice ragged. “it was simple.”

“we’re going to be late and it’s your fault.”

peter laughs, kissing you again, staring at your red lips. “gladly. i’ll take all the blame.”

“and you’re making it up to me later.”

“whatever you say,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

he releases you and watches as you finally put on your shoes.

you don’t think it necessary to mention the red marks on his lips. it’s not like it’s your fault they’re there.

2K notes · View notes

dailyflicks · 8 months

Text

The Amazing Spider-Man 2 (2014) dir. Marc Webb

#spidermanedit #tasmedit #tasm 2 #the amazing spider man 2 #marveledit #filmedit #2010s #*#by caro

521 notes · View notes

graciexmarvel · 1 year

Text

This was so slutty of him

#peter parker #andrew garfield #the sweat pants with the suit tho #I can’t breath #he’s so fucking fine #spider man #marvel #amazing spider man #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #tasm #tasm 2

2K notes · View notes

eyesopod · 8 months

Text

sunflower - michele leigh / the amazing spiderman 2 (2014) / jennifers body (2009) / samantha - chloe moriondo / life is strange: before the storm (2017) / life is strange (2015) / war of the foxes - richard siken / doctor who 8x08, "mummy on the orient express" / awesome party, dude! - sorry mom / not allowed - tv girl / life is strange: before the storm, bonus episode: farewell (2017)

#kades bs #life is strange #lis #pricefield #life is strange before the storm #lis bts #jennifer's body #jennifers body #the amazing spiderman 2 #tasm 2 #parksborn #doctor who #dw #twevleclara #webweave #web weave #long post

396 notes · View notes

fr3akho3 · 7 months

Text

Stuck in a sticky situation

Kinktober day 1: Tied up

Warnings: Tied up, use of nickname ‘Drac’ ‘Draculara’ ‘Princess’, Boyfriend! Peter Parker, Established relationship, Fem! Upset! Reader, slight angst, fluff at the end, after care, slut calling, praise, SoftDom! Peter Parker, Tied webbed to bed

2.5K words

You were having a hard enough day already, everything was off schedule and you were stressed, you were already 14 minuets late to your boyfriend, Peter Parker's, house, your phone had died, and you were not in the mood for mid-day New York traffic.

After 20 more wonderful minutes of Queens traffic you arrive to his apartment, buzzing him then heading up.

As soon as Peter opens the door to you, you collapse in to his warm arms, a comforting smell of cinnamon that he knew you liked so much filling your nostrils.

"You miss me, Drac?" He laughs out, stroking gently on the back of your head. You only let out a quick nod, not caring to step out of the doorway. "You tired, bad day?" You nod softly, a tear trickling down your cheek, the familiar lump in your throat bobbing back up. "Let's go to my room, Draculara, yeah?"

You both lay on Peter's bed, not saying anything, just holding one another peacefully, softly kissing every once in a while.

"You want anything to eat? I can't cook or bake but I own an air fryer? I'm sure I can make something you'd like in there?" Peter says; gently sitting up and placing your head comfortably on his thighs, stroking your soft hair, feeling fuzzy against his callous finger tips.

"Oh my god, dude, you know what would be so good right now? Fuckin' crinkle cut fries, they’re so good, you should make us some," You say smiling happily. "Please, Peter?" You beg happily, to your boyfriend's dismay he gets up and heads to his kitchen but not without turning around and lifting you out of his bed, he places an arm around you, walking you and himself to the kitchen, he pulls out a chair for you and goes to his freezer, getting the fries out as you pull your phone out.

"Drac? Who you texting?" He says; a tinge of jealousy pangs in his voice along with curiosity, as he goes on his toes to try and see.

"No one, i'm putting music on, Pete." You say, smiling as you hear the jealousy in his voice, knowing you would and could never see another person in the same way you love, or even like, him.

"What song, you thinking, bug?" He smiles at you, his smile lines were your favorite.

"Mm Pretty girls make graves, Love songs on the radio, or Luna?" You ask him looking up from your phone.

"I have no idea what songs those are, so you pick." He says, ogling over you just sitting there.

"Luna's a Smashing Pumpkin songs, and Pretty girls make graves is The Smiths, and then Love songs on the radio's Mojave 3" You state like it was the most common thing on the world.

"I'm sorry, Mojave 3?" He says checking on the fries, making sure they're cooking fine and not burning.

"Yeah, good band, promise."

"Put Love songs on the radio, whatever you pick'll sound good" You put on love songs on the radio, the soft melody filling yours and his eardrums as you stare at each other, content with the love you have for one another.

The fries finish and you sit peacefully with each other, the fries sat and watching from an oval bowl, you've both found your way to Peter's bed, eating and watching Hocus-Pocus on his laptop.

"He's cute," you say not thinking about it about Max from Hocus Pocus

"No he's not, he's probably ugly and old now." Peter says getting defensive which gets you smiling

"Peter, I think your beautiful."

"You do, Drac? You promise?" He says looking away, he's aware it's corny and sappy but he doesn't ignore his feelings.

"Yeah...I do, promise." You say softly, kiss between his forehead and hairline.

Peter kisses your lips softly, devouring your saliva like it was The Body of Christ, worshipping your every movement.

Those few kisses lead to you straddling his lap, he kisses your forehead as you go for his neck and collarbone, leaving small bites and hickeys all over.

"You know...May's working a 10 hour shift...we have a lot of time...only if you wanna..." He stuttered through every word, it wouldn't be your first time together intimately and certainly not last, but Peter was always respectful and careful to avoiding breaking boundaries and such.

"Mm a lot of time to do what?" You said intoxicatingly, the way your voice sounded induced him further, the apples of his cheeks growing red.

"You know...get together..." He said shyly; his pale face turning a light pink

"Oh yeah?" You say teasingly, not wanting to let the moment end.

"Yeah..." He says getting red. "Can we try something...new...together?" He suggests rather sheepishly

"Like what?" Yoh look at him with those beautiful eyes he loves so much

"Well it's October, Halloween season, and I have webs..."

"Whatcha suggesting, Pete?" You say brushing your hands through out parts of his hair

"Wanna tie you up...web you to the bed..." he says hiding his face in the crook of your neck

"What? Can't hear you?" You tease him further.

"Wanna tie you up and let me fuck you," he says louder, still hiding his face in your neck, leaving soft kisses.

"Do it then, pussy." You laugh softly out; teasing the poor boy to his wits end.

"Oh yeah? You gonna be a good girl and let me?"

"Please" You say looking into his eyes

"Want me to tie you up and fuck you? Yeah? Oh yeah?" He whispers; hesitating to go on

"Fuck, yeah, Pete. I need you" you breathe out, staring at him from on top of his lap.

He slides his shirt off, taking your shirt off of you as well, leaving you in only a bra. He lifts you off his lap and puts you sat back on his bed, elbows propped up beneath you. He soon slides down your pants revealing underwear.

"You look perfect, you know that? Gonna take such good care of you" He says grabbing the Vaseline from his bedside table, rubbing it softly on your wrists.

He gets up and grabs his web shooters you whimper as both your hands are webbed to his bed frame

He's careful to pull your bra above your soft and tender boobs carefully. He takes his callus hands spreading one knee to the side then soon the other, he smiles up at you at your slick spreads with your folds.

He massages around your nipples as you whimper, he brushes your cheek with his other hand, inserting his finger inside, stretching you with your slick

"That feel good ,baby, tell me when you want me, okay?"

"O-okay! I want you now, please! I need you, Parker" you beg, vulnerably.

"I'm gonna put it in, alright?" He says softly; pushing your hair out of your face as you nod rapidly.

He's hardened dick slowly teases your entrance, making sure to go slow not wanting to harm you. He's cold hands grabbing onto your hips, his palms cupping your ass and back of your thighs, while his thumb strokes the inside of your thighs, holding them apart.

His tip enters, he pulls in and out a few times trying to feel you out; leaving you whimpering for more.

He's soft to make sure he isn't hurting you; wanting your pleasure as much as his.

He goes all the way in, earning a grown from both of you. His moan was long and relieving.

“Parker, please, start moving.” You beg, your legs crossed around his hips, your hands gripping at the webbing.

“Be patient, Draculara, s’gonna take good care of you, yeah? You gonna be my good girl?” He teases, slowly moving his hips in and out. “Look at You? My pretty girl, all spread for me, all naked, tied up. Fuck I need you”

He pulls all the way out and slams back in, letting out a lewd moan, you whimper as your knees clamp against his waist.

“Fuck! Parker! Please, go harder, please baby?” You squirm and he lightly pinches at your nipple, caressing the other between his hand

“No, keep ‘em open for me, princess, or I swear I’ll stop.” He goes all the way out, leaving his tip in as he slams his hips in and out. “Yeah? You good princess- ah- fuck- you see how hard I am for you? Fuck- y-you see how my cock fucks you?” His hands Go to your waist, moving you up and down on his cock as he goes in and out.

“Fuck! Parker! Please, I’m begging you! Fuck me harder! Please Parker! Fuck- I need you- I want everyone to know I’m yours and I need you so badly, please, baby?” You beg, trying to move your hands; he lets out a chuckle watching you suffer as one finger goes to your clit and the other on your waist.

“I know, Princess, your doing so good for me, yeah? Just keep going for me, your gonna feel so much pleasure, s’yeah?” He goes faster, the lewd sounds of his moans filling the room, as you bite at your cheek, concealing the sounds of your loud moans.

“You feel so good in me- babe- babe! Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop, please! I- I- I- need you, please baby” you beg your knees clenching together, Peter looks down at you as he stops.

“What’d I say Princess? Spread ‘em Draculara. Maybe I’ll eat you out later if your good, okay? C’mon Princess be a good girl for me and spread ‘em legs?” He’s careful to not mess up your hair as he strokes your cheek

“I-I’m sorry, please, Peter, keep going?” You smile at him as he begins rubbing your clit, ghosting on top of it.

“I’m gonna start going, yeah?” He’s quick to put his cock back in, going slow at first, before putting it all in you, he quickly pulls out leaving just the tip before slamming all of him back in, not giving you time to adjust before fucking you faster then ever, while rubbing your clit with his callus fingers.

“You want it? Mm- yeah princess? You’ll have it. All of it, fuck- all of me. Oh- oh- fuck- mm” deep inhales leave his body, you hear his heavy breathing, his hand leaving your waist and going to your stomach, pressing down to see how far he is, making you go crazy

“Fuck, I love all of you in me, you’re so good to be, Parker, wanna see you cum, wanna see you cum in me, please- Fuck! I- I- I can take it, all of you. I promise.” You whimper out, your back arching forward as your squirm and yell out sinful moans.

“Mm- fuck- Drac- your driving me fuckin crazy- I’m so close- I’m so close- oh- oh- oh! Yeah! Fuck! I love you- princess fuck! Oh yeah? You really love me? Yeah? You gonna let me fuck you? Oh princess…oh fuck, oh what did I do to- ah- deserve this pretty pussy! Mm- please!” He goes faster, you can see this thigh muscles flexing , his cock twitching inside you with every movement.

“Oh- oh- oh! Please! F-fuck! Fuck me! Parker, please, I’m so in love with you, I’m so so in love with you. I need you! I need more of you! I need more of you in me!” You beg as you grind for any friction left.

“Drac- f-fuck! Your tiddies s’beautiful. Wanna suck on ‘em, can I? Please, oh- oh! Please baby let me suck on ‘em while I fuck you and hear your pretty m-moans?” He leans down and takes your boob in his mouth, swirling the warmth of his tongue on your erect nipple.

“Parker! Wanna cum with you! Please let me cum with you! P-please, oh! Oh! F-fuck, oh…oh…you’re so good to me, baby!” You whimper out grasping the webs as your hips lift off the bed.

“Princess- oh Drac! O-oh! Fuck- s’you…you slut…you are just so desperate for me, aren’t ya? You love this cock hard and deep in you? Look at you, didn’t even b-bother! F-fuck-to take your bra off fully, what kind of slut- oh- fuck! Can’t even wait to take her bra off!” He slams deeper within you, hitting the spongey spot that makes you feel so good, he goes up from your chest and leaves hickeys on your collar and moans into your mouth.

He slams his hips, bruising his bones at your entrance. He knows he’s close and he’s hoping you are too. He needs you to cum around his hard and veiny cock.

“F-fuck, my beautiful, smart girl, I’m so in- l-love with you babe! Fuck, can I cum in your pretty pussy, Drac? Pretty please, babe?” He begs with his brown doe eyes.

You don’t stop him, your mouth left agape from everything, his hands on your clit, one on your waist, his mouth against your neck. Soon the feeling of him warm, gooey, seamen fills you and he fucks it into you, it all becomes to much, his screams and yours fill the room.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Don’t stop! Fuck me! Please! I’m cumming! I’m cumming! I’m cumming! Please, Parker! I love you!” You screams, your out of breathe and sweaty as his pace slows down, he kisses your cheek before slowly pulling out, being careful at his tip.

“S’You did so good for me, yeah? So good my princess. Was I Good for you?” He asks, kissing you and getting up, graving a warm wash cloth and wiping his cum out of you, careful to not hurt your tender cunt.

“Thank you, baby. You did so good, I love you.” He kisses you again. He gets an anti-web fluid and sprays it on your wrist, kissing them as he gets your wrists out.

“Wanna shower then cuddle? I wanna get you cleaned up, Drac” he says, rubbing Vaseline over the places where the webs had left purple and red. “S’My pretty pretty girl.”

“Yeah, shower then cuddle sounds good, thank you baby.” He sure you up and kisses your nipples then you, carrying you bridal to the bathroom, where you two were sure to have more fun.

Authors note: how we feeling about my first kinktober?

Tag-list:

@thedevax @tpaints @parkersmjs @eefeefeefeef12345 @whenisthefall @andr3wgarfieldsupremacist @blossoming-cee @d3adp00ls @aliengirl99 @just-levyy @nixxaswrld @mentallysickphysicallythicc @isretroavibe @olivezgalore @jakobsdump @crypticbutterfly5 @practicallylivesonline @did-someone-change-my-name @80pairsofcrocs

Comment to be added (will be posting tomorrows teaser shortly)

217 notes · View notes