#tasm!peter parker x y/n | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thursdaygxrls · 9 months

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thin ice — one

part one | part two | part three

summary — she didn’t handle the sports section of the campus newspaper, but apparently, she did this week. interviewing hockey players was easy, though—unless one of those players happened to be peter parker.

pairing — uni hockey player!peter parker x fem!journalist!reader

disclaimers — i don’t own peter parker. and pls don't come for me with the accuracy of this situation i'm begging

warnings — reader is referred to as ‘kitty’ (there’s a reason, i promise), slight one sided enemies to lovers, sewer slide jokes (very briefly), possible maybe slightly ooc, and very unedited

“You’re joking. You’re pulling the biggest prank I’ve ever seen, you are the impractical joker,” she huffs out, her eyes wide as furiously clicks her mouse, “I’m gonna die. I’m writing the note tonight—farewell, my lovely!”

“Woah, okay,” MJ, her roommate, had only just entered the room when she was bombarded with a sudden rant. She didn’t even have time to take down her ponytail of thin, red braids before her eardrums were assaulted.

“I mean it.” Spinning her chair, she meets MJ’s eyes.

“I literally just got here,” MJ plops down on the bed in front of the desk, “Care to tell me why you’re writing that note?”

“I’m a dumb, dumb girl, that’s why,” she groans in response.

“We already knew that.” MJ’s words only cause the girl in front of her to shoot daggers with her gaze; “Sorry, sorry. Why are you a dumb, dumb girl?”

“God, okay, so,” she lets out a loud sigh, “Eli is gonna be gone for the rest of the month—Europe or something, good for him. Anyways, they needed someone to cover his assignments for him until he gets back, and I volunteered, but, like, only to be nice, y’know? I did it as an obligation. But…”

“But?” MJ pressed.

“I just got an email, and it’s me,” she grumbled, “They’re putting me on Eli’s assignments.”

“Hm, I see,” MJ’s lips curl into a frown as she gently rubs the girl’s arm, “Too much work?”

“Oh, no, my stuff’s easy,” she waved her off, “Just reading the poetry submissions. I mean, it can be exhausting, but it’s not too bad.”

“Then what is it?” MJ cocks her head.

“Eli…Eli does sports,” she shuddered. MJ couldn’t contain the loud laugh that slipped out, clamping a hand over her mouth to stifle it.

“You’re worried about sports?” She giggles, her eyes twinkling.

“It’s not funny!” She smacks MJ lightly, “Sports aren’t unbearable or anything, but, like, why me? I don’t know enough! I’ll screw it up, I’ll lose my spot, they’ll stick me back in—”

“Relax,” MJ grabs her shoulders, bringing her closer, “First off, no, you won’t lose your spot, we both know they’d be losing their minds without you. Second, they wouldn’t just throw it on you if they thought you’d give them bad work, right?” She eyes MJ almost suspiciously. There’s a momentary stare-down before she relents.

“I hate that you’re right,” she sighs, spinning her chair around. MJ stops the spin by putting her hands down on the arms of the chair.

“Thought you’d be used to it by now,” she giggles, “So, what do you have to do?”

“I don’t know.” Is the mumbled reply.

“You didn’t even look?” MJ laughs again, “You were losing your mind, and you didn’t even know what you’re doing?”

“I’m sorry that I’m sensitive,” she huffs. Her gaze moves back to the laptop before her. The email is open on the screen, so she begins scrolling through it, MJ reading the words over her shoulder. Her eyes nearly bulge out of her head when she gets to the end.

“Fuck this,” she almost slams her laptop shut, but is stopped short by MJ.

“Slow down!” The redhead slaps her hand out of the way to read the rest of the email.

The ESU hockey team had made it to the NCAA Division I Men's Ice Hockey tournament for the first time in six years—and they were doing damn good. Eli had been tasked with interviewing the team captain as well as a few other star players, but, of course, it was no longer Eli's job.

"Oh, come on,” MJ rolled her eyes, “They gave you a Google Doc with questions, all you have to do is ask them and write down their response."

“That's the problem, I have to ask,” she shivered.

"You've done interviews before!" MJ was ready to smack her.

"With professors! And cool artsy people! Not hockey guys," she cringed, “I bet half of them are in a frat. They're probably gonna be assholes and tell me I have cooties."

“Are you twelve?” MJ groaned, “You sort of lucked out with this—half the work is already done for you! You don’t need to write up any questions!” A sigh left her lips as she took on a more comforting tone: “If it makes you feel any better, Harry is on the team.”

Ah, Harry. MJ had been seeing him for a little over a month by now. He wasn’t a bad guy at all. A little full of himself, but nice enough to talk to. Her eyes roved over the list of players she was set to interview. Sure enough, Harry Osborn was there. So was Miles Morales, who was described as an extremely promising freshman. Zack Coleson, who had the highest number of goals for the season. Last on the list was the team captain: Peter Parker.

“I can talk to Harry,” MJ offered, “I can let him know that it’s you doing the interviews. I’ll make sure he tells them to go easy on you—”

“No, no,” she shook her head, “That might make it worse. And they already know that it’s not Eli coming. Or they should, at least”

“You sure?” MJ quirked a brow, her features crinkling in a way that was only intelligible as concern.

“They’ll be walking on eggshells around me if they know I’m chickenshit, I won’t get a good interview,” she sighed. Even if the interview wasn’t what she wanted to do, she was going to have to. And she would do a good job—a great job.

“You got this, Kitty,” MJ squeezed her shoulders. The nickname pulled a smile from her, and she gave into MJ’s touch.

“We’ll see about that,” she relented. Her eyes traveled back to the computer screen. The interviews were scheduled two days from now at the Stark Memorial Rink.

“Hey, MJ,” she hummed, “Could you grab me my noose?”

The rink was colder than she expected. The empty stands provided no body heat, not to mention there was a literal sheet of ice on the floor. Tugging at the strap of her messenger bag, she took slow, careful steps to the plexiglass.

Clink.

Her eyes widened. There were around ten to fifteen guys in full gear out on the ice, and another ten to fifteen more on a bench near the glass or flitting around the edge of the rink. She was nervous, so she got there early. Now, she was stuck watching them practice.

Leaving was so tempting. She could go back to her dorm, or better yet, leave college entirely. She could just give up and fall off the grid, cut her credit cards, throw her phone in the ocean, sail off to Greece—

“Hello?”

She cursed the muffled voice that pulled her back into reality. Blinking, she found that standing before her was one of the very hockey players she’d seen skating on the rink before her. He was tall, and gear under his black and purple jersey made him appear far more bulkier than she theorized he was. He slipped his helmet off to reveal brown, curly hair that was drenched in sweat.

“Hi,” she replied, trying not to sound as nervous as he would. He cocked his head at her as he popped out his mouth guard.

“This is a closed practice,” he said, though, he didn’t sound all too upset that she was here.

“Oh, yeah, I know,” she nodded quickly, her fingers toying with the strap of her bag again, “I’m a bit early, I’m supposed to be interviewing some people on the team. I’m—”

“Kitty?” She was interrupted by the sound of a voice as well as skates scraping across the ice. Glancing past the guy in front of her, she saw Harry slide off the ice and clomp to benches where they currently were.

“Hey, Harry.” Her lips were screwed up in a tight grin. He’d heard MJ call her Kitty once, and now it was the only thing he’d refer to her as.

“Kitty?” Mystery guy repeated the name with a hint of intrigue.

“It’s not my real name, my friends just call me that,” she shook her head.

“What’re you doing here?” Harry asked, swinging an arm around the shoulder of the guy in front of her.

“I’m Eli’s replacement,” she explained, trying to plaster a friendly smile to her lips, “I’m doing the interviews.”

“Aw, shit, why didn’t MJ tell me we got the cool Kitty-cat on the case?” Harry grinned.

“Could you try to never say those words again? Really hated it, thanks,” her nose crinkled.

“You got it.” He tried to point finger guns at her, but with the thick gloves on, it just looked like he was pointing his whole hand.

“Hey,” he started up again, “You’re a little early, so practice isn’t over yet, but we’re almost done. It’s just the four of us, right?”

“Right,” she nodded in response. It was a relief that they’d been briefed on the situation.

“Alright, well, I’m Harry, obviously, Miles and Zack are on the ice somewhere, and this right here—” Harry jostled the shoulders of the Mystery guy, “—is Peter. Oh captain, my captain!”

Peter chuckled as Harry clapped him on the back. The noise that emanated from the friendly hit was harsh, but Peter didn’t move a muscle.

“Right,” she nodded, “So, I figured we could do them individually? There’s some sort of specific questions for each of you.”

“Sounds good, Kitty,” Harry replied. She’d smack him if he said that name again.

“Sit tight for a bit,” Peter spoke up. Even with the stubble on his chin, his smile gave him a boyish appearance. He looked her up and down quickly, “We can try to wrap up practice early.”

'A bit' ended up feeling like forever. At first, she tried to distract herself with her phone, but it didn't work: she would open apps, scroll through them, then close them just to reopen them over and over again. So she organized her bag, which took about five minutes. Time seemed to tic by in a tauntingly slow manner. It was only when she saw a few of the players emerge from the locker room did she let out a breath of relief. She immediately sucked that breath back when she realized that she would actually have to talk to some of them.

Harry went first. It was easy enough to go through the questions with him. It was like talking to an over-eager relative at a family reunion, one who was just dying to talk about all the new things they're doing. Miles wasn't all that bad to interview, either. He was a lot more nervous than she was. His awkward pauses and constant strings of 'um' and 'uh' was almost comforting. Then came Peter.

"Kitty," he grinned as soon as he saw her seated on the bench next to the rink. He no longer wore his gear—just a hoodie and a pair of gray sweats. His hair, however, was still wet and tousled. She gave him a tight lipped smile in return.

"That's not my name," she replied. Before she had time to properly introduce herself, his raspy chuckle was already echoing through the open arena.

"You said that's what your friends call you, right?" He cocked his head as he sat down on the other edge of the bench.

"You're not—” If she could just make it through the interview without fuss, she'd be one person away from being free, "—right. That's what my friends call me."

"I'm going to be recording this, just so I can reference it later," she explained almost monotonously.

"This isn't my first time," he responded with another light laugh. She had to physically bite her tongue to fight off any comments. A soft click sounded from her phone as she started a new voice memo. Her eyes scanned the list of questions on the page before her. Some she'd already asked to Harry and Miles: How does it feel to make the tournament? What is the atmosphere of the team right now? She chose a fresh question to start with.

"What's it like to be the captain of this team? Are you proud? Overwhelmed?" She asked, her voice taking on a new tone closer to a news anchor than a regular person. Peter's lips curled up at the change.

"I'm proud, yeah," he nodded, his voice smooth, "This is a great group. But we all work our asses off, so I'm not surprised by how far we've come. Being their captain is really something."

"And—"

"Do you normally do sports? For the paper, I mean." Before she could even get her next sentence out, he interrupted her. Her grip on the papers in her hand tightened.

"No, not normally," she grit out, "And going along with your thoughts on being captain, what about making it to the tournament this year?"

"It's the best feeling in the world. It's something I've been chasing after for years now, finally getting to it is just...sort of indescribable." Even when his tone is nothing but sincere, he can't wipe the cocky grin from his lips.

"I can imagine," she smiled tautly in reply, "What was it like working your way up to captain? Was it a personal journey, or did you get support from the team?"

"I'd say it was an even mix of both," he hummed, "Do you like hockey?"

"What?" She furrowed her brows.

"Are you a hockey fan?" He reiterated, "Because our next game is home, and it's sort of packed, but I could get you some tickets assuming you don't have some already—"

"No—Peter," she let out a frustrated huff, tapping on her phone to momentarily pause the recording, "This is an interview, not social hour."

"Aren't interviews inherently social?" His smirk was infuriating.

"I mean that I ask the questions, you answer them," she grumbled, "Do you act like this with Eli? Are you not taking me serious because I'm a woman?"

"What?" His smirk fell immediately, "What? No—no. I'm taking you seriously, I take women very seriously. I'm all for women. They're great."

"Then can we just do this interview and get it over with?" She sighed, her finger hovering over the unpause button. He nodded, but before she could resume the interview, he quickly added: "But do you want tickets?"

Ignoring the question, she carried on. Peter seemed to mellow out after a while and didn't interrupt again. It was almost surprising how well he'd listened: he was giving her real, insightful answers to her questions without a hint of flirtation. The final interview with Zack flowed easily, and she fled Stark Memorial Rink as quick as she could.

Transcribing the interviews was the easiest part. Days later, she would be hunched over her computer in the darkness of her shared dorm, playing and replaying the recordings and typing out the words onto the screen. Her concentration was briefly interrupted, though, when the door opened and a stream of light threaded its way through the room and onto the back of her head.

"Light bad!" She slapped her hands over her eyes, "Light very bad!"

"You're gonna go blind if you keep staring at your computer in the dark," MJ spoke in a warning tone, but ultimately closed the door.

"Then blind I must go," she sighed, swiveling on her chair to look at her roommate, "How was class?"

"Normal," MJ shrugged, sliding her bag off her shoulders, "But I have a little something for you."

"Something for little ol' me?" She gasped in dramatized delight.

"Yes," MJ grinned widely as her hand reached for the zipper of her bag, "Close your eyes."

She obliged immediately, her nose scrunched in anticipation, "I hope it's a million dollars. Is it a million dollars? Am I close?"

"Almost," MJ giggled. After a moment of anticipation, MJ gently grabbed her hands and place something into them. It was thin and papery and rectangular. Opening her eyes, she looked down to see a white envelope with 'Kitty' written out on the front. Her brows furrowed at the unfamiliar handwriting.

"Is there a check for a million dollars inside?" She asked as she cocked her head.

"No clue, it's not from me," MJ shrugged.

"Then who's it from?" Her fingers slid under the lip of the envelope.

"Harry gave it to me to give to you," MJ grinned, "He said it's from Peter."

She should've sailed to Greece when she had the chance. Inside the envelope were two tickets—Empire State University versus Pennbrook University this Saturday at seven. A long groan left her lips before she finally met MJ's eyes.

"You never got me that noose I asked for."

a/n — not sure how i’m feeling abt this one guys. hockey peter has been causing me brain rot tho so i couldn’t help myself.

652 notes · View notes

jamespottersdaisy · 4 months

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Dulcet

Peter Parker x fem!reader

in which it's a game

a/n: let me know if there are mistakes, more notes at the end <3

Shallow breaths echo around the forlorn silence. He keeps a distance. You endure pain.

He doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t want to. He brings you water when you ask and carries you from one room to another. He ensures your pillow is high enough while you eat,and your TV show is amusing enough while you lie. But he doesn’t talk.

You can’t speak, either. You don’t dare. Besides the meek requests and whispered gratitude, your lips fail at words. You want to ask him if he is angry with you and if he hates you as he attends to your wounds. You want to know if he counts the minutes until he leaves you to bed and if he’s been sleeping enough because his eyes are red most of the time. But you can’t speak.

Peter’s hands are shaking as he pressures your wound, his vision blurry, his ears ringing. Mark is dead. Soon, you will be, too, if he doesn’t find a way out of this.

He needs to think. Fast. He needs to stop crying your name and calm down. He has to get it together, he has to stop trembling, and he has to calm down, and he has to–

He can't breathe, so he takes off his mask. He hates the garment on his hands that prevents his touch. They are shaking as he moves your shirt up to see the wound. Curses echo in your ears.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, I told you not to–” he moves around, estimating the safest way to hold you. “Why didn’t you listen? Why don’t you listen?!”

Your mind is foggy, the ability to move your limbs lost on you. You hear Peter’s complaints and pleas, feel his firm grip on your weak body.

“Peter…”

“Why? Why?! I told you! I told you to- Why don’t you never listen?!” he holds your hands and brings them on his. “Pressure the wound. Don’t move your hand, you hear me? Just, just- just hold them tight–”

So you do. You put all your strength left into your wound, feeling your hand get wet and red, all while Peter gently places his arms around you, careful not to move you too much. He elevates your legs while carrying you. He doesn’t know what he is supposed to do.

He doesn’t know where to take you.

You listen to the faucet running as your nails dig into your palm. It is lamentable how the only sound ringing in your ears is either water splashing or footsteps thudding when he is around. Heavy words have soared akin to a mountain between you two, one that is painful to climb. The high walls of unspoken cries refuse to crack now that neither of you dares to speak.

He exits your bathroom, head down, hands wet. You know the routine; he’ll dry his hands with his shirt, pad to your kitchen, and make you a sandwich. He’ll ensure you eat it and then leave to come back late at night to attend to your injury again.

He stops midway to the kitchen and turns around. You watch him enter your room and avoid eye contact with you. He frowns and moves his eyes from one corner of the room to another.

“What is it?” you ask, voice hoarse.

“It’s time for the,” he gesticulates carelessly, and then he nods to your desk as if he found what he was looking for. “the thing that you always watch at five.”

He grabs the remote from your desk and places it next to you. You wish he hadn’t moved his hand so fast before you could touch it. “Thank you.”

He glances at you for the first time in that hour and quickly averts his eyes.

You let him walk away. What can you even say?

“Peter, it hurts.”

“I know, I know, I know, just hold on, trouble, come on,” he prattles, all while holding you in his arms. He doesn’t know if he can swing you in this position, but it is the only solution.

Where was the nearest hospital? He swings around the sky all the time; why did he never pay attention? What was he thinking dragging you into this? Why does his heart sting as your whines pierce his mind?

He shakes his head.

Standing still is no help to you. He needs to move. Thus, he shoots one web after another, flying with you in his arms, searching for a place that will keep you safe. Safe from danger, safe from hurt, safe from him.

You are clinging to him the hardest you can, eyes closed, face in a frown. He wonders if you feel sick or dizzy. If you do, it is his fault.

All of this is his fault.

You are bleeding on him, and it is his fault. It should have been him. It should have been him staining your shirt red, not the other way around. This is not how it goes. You are not the one crying from agony. You are not the one in need of saving. You are not the one whom he gets worried over; you are the one that does the worrying.

If not, then it’s his fault.

He thinks of the possible replies to doctors' questions.

You would think the female lead would understand that the boyfriend is lying and that the right person for her is her best friend, but for some reason, she keeps ignoring the poor guy’s pure love. You would also think that Peter would have the same opinion as you.

“He is not stupid. He is in love.”

“Which made him stupid,” he murmurs as his eyes trace the bloody scar on your torso. It’s one of the few sentences he has given you that day. “Sit straight.”

“How is wanting to be near the girl you lo–”

You sit straight after Peter shoots you a harsh look. He places a pillow behind your back, and you let him slowly take care of your wound.

“As I was saying,” you start again. This is a mere attempt to have him talk to you more than usual, one that is very uncomfortable for you. “He just wants the girl he loves to be happy.”

“He should leave her alone then,” Peter glances at you when you hiss at the burning sensation of the antiseptic.

“Why?! She loves him, she just doesn’t know it yet.”

He doesn’t reply, and you know no more words will leave his lips until he is done with his work. Thus, you talk no more, letting silence dawn per usual.

If only one of you broached the subject that’s growing heavier day by day, this could have been easier.

He lays you down on your bed, careful not to wake you up. When you whimper as he does, he curses under his nose. Stepping back, he stares at you for a moment.

He thought he was late.

He thought all the flying in the air had made things worse. He thought your wound would not close, your bleeding would not stop. He thought he’d have to–

Peter feels faint. His limbs are weak, and he remembers he hasn’t eaten all day long. He also hasn’t drank any water, which explains the headache. His body is sore, rightfully so. After getting you to the hospital, he has flown back to his house, changed into something he now realises is wrinkled, and ran back to you as Peter instead of Spiderman.

He drinks your water and nibbles on your bread. He falls to his place by the window and stares at the carpet.

He knew this day would come. He knew he’d have to wait by your bed, count the seconds, and listen to your heavy breaths. He knew he wouldn’t be able to protect you from harm.

Nothing is new.

Moonlight shines and glazes as Peter watches you sleep.

He has no idea what and how to say when you wake up. He doesn’t know how to act. All he knows is that he will take care of you until you are strong enough to slap him when he leaves.

"I can do it myself," you protest.

"The hell you can," Peter grumbles, face in a grumpy scowl as he grabs your arms. You refuse to lean to him, determined to carry yourself around with as much grace as possible.

By around, I mean the toilet.

It is embarrassing enough that Peter helps you shower; you don’t need him to know your bowel movements.

“How am I supposed to heal if you keep coddling me?” you murmur.

Peter stops in his place, snaps his head towards you. He doesn’t say anything, and yet the look in his eyes is enough words to your heart.

You know you strike a chord each time you mention anything regarding your wound, healing, hurt and pain, but he needs to grow up. He needs to handle this without his emotions, ones that he refuses to communicate.

You seize the opportunity and enter the bathroom yourself.

“Call if you need help!” you hear Peter yell behind the closed door.

“Don’t spy, you creep!”

You hear him step away from the door; he must have really pushed his whole body to hear your movements.

“It’s not spying,” he calls back. “I was just making sure–”

“Peter!”

“Sorry!” he says, steps fading away.

It takes time, but you manage to leave the bathroom without a call for help. Bittersweet, that is. A few days ago, you would groan and whine with each movement, trying to stifle yourself so that Peter wouldn’t hear you. As of now, you are slowly gaining your strength back, and the only reminder of the unfortunate incident is the occasional sting and Peter’s distant mannerisms.

“I think I want to make my own sandwich today,” Peter’s back greets you when you enter the kitchen; he’s been going through your fridge in the hopes of ingredients.

"I was gonna make you pasta," he turns around, and you suppress the urge to smile.

He wanted to cook for you.

But again, he's been doing that for some time now.

"Are you hungry?"

When he nods, you slowly walk up to your shelves. Another thing you have noticed is that since Peter has been living in your apartment part-time, your fridge and shelves are full of groceries.

"You shouldn't be walking around," he opens the shelf next to yours.

"I'm sick of lying in bed," you shrug, stretching your hand to take the pasta.

The sting strikes, almost knocking you over; you shouldn’t have pulled your arm that swiftly.

Peter hisses your name, “Mule,” he utters before taking down the pasta himself as his other hand rests on your bicep.

You scowl at him while recovering, “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are,” Peter bends over to find your pan. He’s looking at the wrong places.

“I can handle myself, you know.”

“And I’m Spiderman.”

“You are Spiderman,” you hand him the pan, which he takes without glancing at you.

You notice the subtle curl of his lips and the effort he wasted to hide it. You are doing the exact same; bickering with him has always been fun, even if he is distant and you are injured.

“How about you make yourself useful and sit on a chair?”

“How’s that any useful?”

“It helps the worrying.”

“I see no reason for worrying.”

“That’s because you are slow,” he turns around once he has put the pasta to cook. You feel his arms around your limbs, firm but gentle not to push your body to its limits, and let him lead you to the chair behind the table.

“You look pretty without being a hindrance,” he says when you sit down.

You don’t think you look pretty at the moment at all. “Mind you, you are the one in my apartment.”

“Preparing you a meal,” he nods and starts making the sauce.

“One that I’m perfectly capable of making.”

Peter scoffs. “Uh-huh. You as in you who whines every time she moves her arm.”

He finds it amusing that you are willing to banter even in a state like this.

“Oh, I wonder why.”

“Probably because you are so intent on hurting.”

“I am just strong enough to handle it,” you shrug playfully, pretending not to feel his burning stare piercing through your forehead.

You know what he is thinking; you can almost hear his thoughts. You haven't forgotten the fights roaming in your room, his harsh looks and raised voice against your aching body and breathless words.

He doesn’t remember when the silver hues of the moon abandoned their place for the golden light of the sun to take over. His mind has fled from the grasp of time, running amok with the perilous thoughts between its palm.

Its games have been played. Deceptions toward self, fear and rage dangling from the ropes it clutched have triumphed in gaining power over his heart.

The sound of his heart has been drowned, its echoes only blurring the clarity of the past, staining the white flames of apathy.

He has made up his mind.

A low whine averts his darkened eyes from his bruised knuckles to your frame on the bed. He slowly rises from the floor, staring at you, gaining consciousness back as the sore muscles and agony of your injury kick in.

It takes time for you to fully focus.

You are confused, in pain, and uncomfortable.

Memories of red, blue and black flashing like pictures in your mind, sounds echoing around, but none of them makes sense. Not yet.

You can’t move around. Your eyes look for water and find Peter instead. Maybe he can bring you water.

He’s standing a bit far away.

“Peter,” you say, but your voice doesn’t seem to reach him. Or you.

You clear your throat as he steps forward, hovering over you beside your bed. “Good. You’re awake,” he nods.

His voice is far, or maybe that’s just the ringing in your head.

“What happened?” you manage to ask. “I need water.”

He turns around and leaves, coming back with a glass of water.

“Thank you,” you whisper, attempting to rise from bed. He helps you.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

Now, they all make sense. The cure and your running. Peter and Mark, the excruciating pain in your bones, Peter’s distressed calls. You remember now.

“Hurt. What happened? Did you cure Mark? What about the–”

“Mark is dead.”

You look up to him, your face in a grimace and your breathing shallow. His face has no indication of feeling. His eyes are shrouded. “You couldn’t cure him?”

“I had to kill him.”

It means the same thing; you know it does. But it doesn’t feel the same.

“What happened after,” you look for the right words. “You know, after I–”

“Almost bled to death?”

He is angry. Not the screaming and yelling one. The silent one.

“Peter, look,” you try to move up, but the pain arises. “I’m sorry, alright? I know what you said, and I know what I did, and I’m truly sorry. It won’t happen again–”

“No, it won’t.”

His tone is curt, and so are his eyes.

You put the water glass away. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He doesn’t say anything at first.

“Nothing, really,” he shrugs. “It just won't happen again.”

You don't like how that sounds.

“Peter–”

“You should lay down,” he cuts you off. “Don't tire yourself out.”

This is not right. This is not how you left things. You are too weak to play games.

“What the hell is wrong with you? If you're mad at me, just say so–”

“If I'm mad at you,” his eyebrows shoot up as he scoffs. “If I'm mad at you?”

“That's what I said, yes.”

Your eyes watch him pace around, his face changing with every thought his mind produces.

“You could've died,” he says, mostly to himself.

“I–”

“You could've died there. In my arms, from a wound that I caused,” he turns to you.

You finally see it.

The anger. Fear. Desperation and exhaustion. All have painted his countenance into something unrecognisable to you. Something strange. Distant.

“You didn't cause anything,” you decide to reason.

“Oh, I did. I did, and I won't ever again because this,” he gestures the distance between you two. “Is not happening again.”

Your heart drops. You don't try to hide the feeling.

“What are you even saying?”

“What I'm saying is after I make sure you are okay, that you can walk and talk without groaning from pain, I'm not seeing you again.”

No.

You shake your head, albeit it makes you dizzy. You want to reach out to him, but you are not sure you can stretch your arm without hurting.

“That's not fair,” is all you can say between the pain and hurt. “That's not fair, you can't punish me like this–”

“I'm not punishing you, I'm protecting you because clearly, you can't do that yourself when I'm around.”

You abhor the way he composes himself.

“No, you're punishing me, you're punishing me with your absence, you know damn well it was an accident–”

“Accident or not!” he raises his voice this time. “Accident or not, you could’ve died, alright?! I’m not betting on that again.”

“It is not up to you, Peter! I can die walking on the sidewalk, too!” you match your tone to his regardless of how much it’s agonising. “You can’t protect me all the time!”

“I can try.”

He is not thinking properly. This is not right. You need to make him understand that this is not right.

“Peter, please, listen to me–”

He shakes his head and takes the glass you’ve put aside. “No, don’t. Don’t, okay? You need to rest. Rest and heal, exhausting yourself won’t do any good.”

Maybe it is not so nice for you to start healing. To start not needing Peter as much as you used to do.

He can see it. He can see that you are getting back on your feet, and it absolutely terrifies you that he will leave.

You don’t think he’s changed his mind.

Otherwise, he would talk to you. Not talk to you as if you are a civilian he is responsible for taking care of, but as if you are his friend. Yet, he refuses to.

“How are you feeling?” He enters the room with bags in his hands. The flex of his biceps under the shirt distracts you, and you wonder if he chose the shirt on purpose, as the weather is far from welcoming this kind of attire.

It’s late; you figure he must’ve come back from nightly patrols, which means he’ll leave to sleep in an hour or so.

That makes one visit a day.

You avert your eyes from him to the laptop screen. “Is that pizza?”

You hope it is; you’ve been too lazy to prepare yourself a proper meal.

“Have you eaten today?”

He knows you haven’t; he knows you too well after caring for you all this time.

“Coffee?”

He nods with an ‘ah’ to your sheepiness. “No wonder you have a headache.”

You do not want to miss this, him worrying over you in a teasing way. You don’t want to miss him.

“And I’m–”

“And you’re cold, yes, I know,” he puts the pizzas next to you. “Plates?”

“Nah, we can eat without.”

“All right, loafer,” he nods but still heads towards the kitchen.

“I’m sure I said no plates.”

“How many glasses of water have you had today?” his voice echoes from the kitchen, and you start to count in your head.

“Two?”

“So, two glasses of water and coffee, am I right?” he returns with a bottle of water, aiming it at you.

Your eyes widen at the ominous possibility, your hands already in the air to shield yourself. “Yes, but– hey, DON’T THROW IT!”

He does and you fail at catching it.

“Yeah, you’re a hopeless case,” he nods before taking a slice of the pizza.

“You need to stop throwing things at me,” you take the bottle from the ground, noticing the absence of pain. You are indeed healing.

“Someone has to train those reflexes, you can’t catch a ball to save your life,” you watch him pick the mushrooms on the pizza and eat them separately.

“I’ve got you for that.”

“Not always.”

“I don’t understand!” no matter how hard you’ve tried not to raise your tone, there you are, getting irritated by your own voice.

“What is there to not understand? We’ve been over this for a hundred times by now,” he says calmly.

He is not wrong.

No other words have been heard in the last twenty-four hours.

“It’s bullshit. Leaving me for my own good. If you don’t want to see me anymore–”

“Nope. No, absolutely not,” he abruptly stands up from the chair, shaking his head. “I’m not playing that game.”

“You can’t make a decision on my behalf!”

Your name leaves his lips in a whisper.

“I’m tired of this, trouble,” he leans to the counter with a disappointed look on his face. “You know why I’m doing what I’m doing.”

You know. You do know, and yet knowing does not make it any less painful.

“You are a selfish jerk, Parker.”

Your heart beats in your ears as you try not to make it obvious that Peter’s every touch sends shivers down your spine. You wonder if you’ll ever feel his touch again after this, ponder what to say, how to behave to not break the already strained thin string between you.

“It’s healed,” he reclines, dropping his hand to his knees.

It takes all the vigour in you to keep your face still, to not let him know how much you are devastated to hear the words.

“Thanks to you,” is all you can say, and he leaves it unanswered.

Peter doesn’t think he deserves thanks for anything he has ever done. He watches your dismal eyes and knows he doesn’t even deserve a smile anymore. Especially not from you.

He’s been acting distant to the best of his abilities, breaking your heart into a million pieces, readying you for his decision.

He hates himself for that.

He absolutely abhors himself for being the reason for your gloomy countenance, broken laugh, and moments spent ruminating on the things he renders no control from you.

They falter him, placing doubts in his mind, pushing his mind against its limits and his heart down its cliffs. He often finds himself contemplating if this is the right choice. If cutting ties with you will indeed save you from future disasters. If speaking how he actually feels towards you will put you in further danger.

Sometimes, the words push against his lips. They threaten to spill over, to relinquish every hold he has over his heart to you, to divulge all his soul’s secrets to yours.

Then, he remembers.

He remembers the red in his hands. He remembers the echo of your whines in his ears. He remembers the unconscious moans haunting him all night long.

“I better get going,” he stands up, dusting himself off, attempting to remove the image from his mind.

“Where?” you ask, eyes following him around.

He doesn’t know how to answer. He can lie and tell that he has things to do. He can avoid any reply.

“Home.”

But he doesn’t. Instead, he watches your smile waver, sees your exertions to hold everything together.

“This soon?”

“Yeah.” he nods, not noticing his tone lower to match yours.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

There it is.

There goes the hope you’ve been holding onto, and he is about to strip you off from it.

Peter whispers your name and the light in your eyes ebbs. The sofa you’ve been sitting on shrinks, suddenly unable to hold you. You rise from your seat, hoping to be close to him as if it would help.

“Peter, come on, you know this is ridiculous,” you try to reason once more. “Don’t toss this away just because you’re afraid.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t get it, do you?” he stares into your eyes. “This has put you into danger so many times that I’ve lost count.”

“Peter–”

“Sweetheart,” he takes a big step towards you, holding you by the arms. “Don't make this any harder than it already is.”

Peter feels a lump in his throat as you shake your head and squirm away from his hold.

“You have no right, no right to do this,” you say, this time firmer than before. “You can’t decorate your own decision as ‘protecting me’, Peter.”

“My decision is to protect you!” He steps forward, hovering his hands close to your body.

“I don’t want that!”

Peter tries to calm himself. He knows exploding won’t do any good. He reminds himself that this is a lot more agonising for you than it is for him– he is the one making the decision while you are not allowed any control over it.

“It is not about what you want–”

“Peter, do you even hear yourself?!” your tone raises, and he can feel the anger burning in your veins. Anger from being desperate, from failing to change things, from not being able to have a say in this. “Do you even fucking hear yourself?!”

He knows this is his cue to leave. He can not stay any longer.

“That’s it, I’ve overstayed my welcome,” he looks around to find his jacket. He doesn’t see you run a hand through your hair or hear you mutter curses under your nose.

You don’t try to persuade him any longer. He is not sure if he is grateful or resentful for that, but he knows you won’t lose further dignity to get a boy to stay.

He takes his jacket, throwing it around his shoulders, and striding to the door. The door creaks open, and he, despite all the protests of his mind, spares you one last look.

“Take care, trouble.”

“You are a coward, Peter Parker,” you shake your head and dash to your own room, shutting its door.

He knows you are right.

You’ve become bitter. Easily irritated and grumpy. Tired most of the time from overthinking.

You brush your teeth and think this is taking too long. You’ve never noticed how much time you've been putting aside for this.

You sit to study and find your thoughts fled to him. You believe your attention span has declined since the last time you studied. Either that or he has become the only thing you can think of.

You walk to campus and expect to run into him. You never do, and yet, you wait for it.

In the class, you notice you don’t take notes any more. Instead, you doodle so you don’t stare his way.

You return home with him in your mind, leave the room with him in your mind, and eat and drink with him in your mind.

And when you get in bed, that’s when the real nightmare begins.

That’s when not only your mind but your heart wreaks havoc as well.

Your feelings stain the sober thoughts, fogging your brain, deeming you unable to probe the facts.

Most of the time, it’s rage.

It’s the rage of being deprived of a say. It’s the rage of having all the ropes clutched off your palm. It’s the rage of being tossed aside in the name of love.

It burns in you.

It consumes you whole, blinds your senses. Its poison reigns in your veins, conquering your heart over his image. You rally no longer, welcoming the safety it provides.

Sometimes, however, it’s the heartbreak simmering under it.

It’s whys and ifs haunting your nights. The questions you want to ask him meddle in your mind no matter how well you know their answers will make no change.

You detest the sorrow of it– of losing someone you loved. Someone you love.

You struggle to tolerate it. The moment the tears prickle your eyes, you remind yourself of the rage, sheltering under its wings.

You run, and run, and run to escape the heartbreak’s crushing heft. Some days, you prevail. Some nights, the tears do.

You miss him.

You miss the evenings that dimmed into nights with him by your side. You miss his weight on your bed when you’ve just washed your sheets. You miss the light things around your home being thrown at you because he wants to train your reflexes. You miss the food he makes you eat.

You miss his laugh echoing around your heart.

You hate him for that.

You want to slap him across the face for keeping your favourite person away from you. You want to kick him in the stomach for marking every inch of your room with his memory. You want to hit him in the chest for rendering your body yearn for his touch.

You want to make him regret your absence, and you want to drive him crazy while doing it.

You simply don’t know how.

It’s midnight, and he’s not swinging in your room any more. He hasn’t been for a week. You shouldn’t wait.

Just close the damn window.

In the end, Peter is not visiting, and your room is cold.

Dusks turn into dawns, each hour a torment inflicted upon you. A day becomes one of the many others, yet he doesn’t become one of the others.

He is still there, alive and well.

And away.

Stolen glances are each a sharp knife in your heart. Clandestine yearning pulls you down, drowning you in his memory.

Nothing happens, but your heart beats as if it intends to abandon your ribcage.

You don’t talk, you don’t banter, you don’t even acknowledge each other.

He passes through you like the wind when you encounter. You don’t look him in the eye when you have a professor putting you two through a painful exercise together. He hides his wounds from you, and you don’t ask about them when you catch a glimpse of the bruises.

People pick on quickly.

They feel the loss of dynamic between you two in the class. Whispers arise behind your back, as well as the questions before your face. All of them get left without a reply.

“Please drop it, Ash,” you shake your head, sighing in annoyance. Not only in annoyance, but you can’t dwell on the other feelings in public. “Or ask him, not me. I’m tired today.”

“Okay, sorry, honey,” the redhead smiles, helping you with your drinks as you carry the meal to your table. “It’s just he also acts a bit off, you know?”

“He does?” you can’t help but ask as you two sit.

“Yep, it’s as if he’s not there. It’s not really productive for the project.”

“He must have a lot on his mind,” you say, playing with your food. You should eat it before it gets cold, as the weather is not forgiving these days. Or you simply shouldn't have chosen to sit outside. “Anyways, how’s the project going? We’re struggling a bit.”

“We can do better if Parker gets his shit together,” Ashley frowns, taking a bite from his burger. “Other than that, just the same old–”

A scream soars in the distance. Not a long time passes before it gets accompanied by the gunshot, wicked echoes of instructions. You see the silhouette of the people running around in the hopes of hiding.

You definitely shouldn’t have chosen to sit outside.

You don’t think; holding hands with Ashley, the first thing you do is to leave the table and flee to the inside, and if you are lucky, hide inside the bathroom.

Inside of the building is crowded to its limits, but there’s no turning back. You have to hide; that’s the only thing your mind instructs you to do.

“Ash, quick,” you drag her to the left, running the length of the corridor. If you remember correctly, which hopefully you do, there needs to be stairs.

Your heart beats in your ear, silencing every scream and yell echoing around the building. You don’t feel the push and pull of each person bumping into you, all of them rushing into some other place their mind decided.

Apparently, most of them indeed trust the building’s bathrooms enough to run there, blocking the stairs.

“Holy shit!”

“It’s okay, we can–” You look around to find something and fail to see anything.

“What about the classrooms?” Ashley asks, and you shake your head frantically.

“Too out in the open.”

“We are out in the open here too!”

You feel your body shaking in terror, mind operating too swiftly to regulate your breathing. “The other stairs! If we can circle the building–”

“You go,” she lets go of your hand. When you see what she’s doing, you find her boyfriend stretching out his hand towards her. It turns out he has a place for one next to him. “You go and, and, and text me when you get to safety, alright?”

When she leaves, you feel the sheer panic run down your spine. You waver between the two decisions. You wouldn’t think of leaving if only…

If only you weren’t the last person in the crowd pushing each other at the stairs. If they make it to this point, you’ll be the first one to get hurt.

Maybe it’s better if you run and circle the building. You turn around to take off, charge to the other side.

Instead, a taller figure crashes onto you, holding you by the arms as firmly as possible.

“Stay here! Don’t you dare move!” Peter orders with a stern expression. “You hear me? Stay here!”

He doesn’t give you much of a chance before taking off. Next thing you know, while you try to make your place between the frenzied crowd, a loud crash before the building hurts your ears.

You see Spiderman swinging around, and that is the only thing you see.

He blocked the main entrance by wrecking the billboard against the door.

Which gained you enough time to hide.

Your mind reflects his image only while your body runs for safety. If you look back to those moments, you wouldn’t remember a thing–how you pushed through the crowd in enough time to hide, how the shooting blarings got only closer and closer, how Spiderman’s fight only echoed in the place as descriptions from the girl close to the door.

You hoped he wouldn’t get injured in the process. You wondered if he’d visit in case of an injury or if he already had someone to ask for help. You scolded yourself for creating jealousy in your head in vain when he can be in pain out there.

You don’t know how the time passed.

All you remember is the shake in your legs as you followed the crowd outside after the announcement, according to whom criminals have been disarmed and neutralised. Only then you notice your phone being gone, left forgotten on the table you were dining at an hour ago.

You need your phone back.

If the announcement is true, there shouldn’t be any problem with you going back to the yard.

Checking your surroundings, you decide to make a turn and head in the opposite direction once you’re sure no one has their eyes on you.

You hope no one has touched your purse. Not only your phone but also your wallet and ID card are in there. It would be a big headache if you were to lose them all at once for a bunch of criminals–

“Where you going? Everyone is going that way.”

Your heart skips a beat at first, thinking one of the professors caught you, and then takes the pace after recognising the voice.

You don’t turn back.

“My purse is out there, I’m not letting it get stolen,” you continue walking, hearing Peter’s footsteps following you. “That is if it’s not already stolen.”

His hand grabs your arm and turns you around. “I’ll go get it, you get back to the others.”

“I can get my own purse, Parker, it’s not like there are any other bad guys running around–”

“There is one I haven’t caught yet, they just didn’t mention it in the announcement. Now, will you please get back to the others?”

You frown, forgetting the history with the guy before you.

“Then why the hell would they want us to expose ourselves? Are they crazy?”

Peter scoffs, letting you go. “They didn’t expose you, they asked for you to gather in the Hall, did you even listen?”

“I must’ve missed that part,” you murmur. “Anyhow, I need my purse. Take care, Parker.”

“No, absolutely not,” he grabs you by the arm once more when you turn around. “You go to the Hall, I’ll find it and bring it to you.”

“Such a gentleman,” you pull your arm from his hold, and walk to catch up to the crowd.

As you enter the Hall, your eyes look for Ashley or her boyfriend, and it doesn’t take much as there are only a handful of redheads around.

“I thought I told you to text!” she hugs you for a short moment, and you smile at her.

“You had the chance to take your phone?”

“Oh, honey, my phone is always with me.”

Looking around, you focus on people’s faces–distraught, confused, worried, and angry ones. For some, it still doesn’t feel real, for others it was shaking to the core. You still don’t know how you feel; you’ve been through worse.

Still, it doesn’t mean the worse doesn’t show up in your dreams. It does. It wakes you up in a cold sweat and obliges you to turn the lights on for a few moments. It gets better with time, but again, you’d wish there was nothing to get better in time.

“There you go,” Peter interrupts your thoughts, your belongings in his hand. “Nothing was stolen.”

You take them from him, relief washing over you. “Thanks.”

“Are you alright?” he asks, eyes wandering around your body, checking for an injury. You miss the feeling of his hands on you. “You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

“I didn’t,” you say. “I’m fine.”

He averts his eyes up to yours, and at last, the feeling hits you in the gut.

Who would’ve thought a pair of brown eyes could drown you to your death? You would laugh at yourself once if I told you your heart would cripple under his brown eyes, your breath would hitch, and your core burns in yearning for him.

And yet, now, there you stand.

Ready to ignite under his touch.

“Right,” he drops his hands. “Nice.”

He nods, like he always does, biting his lips. “Just follow the crowd, alright? Don’t- don’t change the route or something.”

With that, he turns around to leave.

The feeling sinks back.

He finally acknowledged you when he thought you were in danger. This was the first time after that day that he actually held a conversation with you.

Suddenly, a lamp lights in your brain.

You know how to drive him crazy.

Peter narrows his eyes, trying to decipher your intention. This is the third time this week– not to mention it’s been ten days he’s been babysitting you from the air– yet you are determined to die.

At least, that’s how it looks from the roof of a skyscraper.

Yes, he is following you. No, he is not stalking you.

In his defence, you are proving to be more of a challenge than any other criminal he has ever fought; he needs to keep an eye on you.

It was rather confusing at first; how all the bad luck seemed to greet you only. However, later on, the realisation has hit him like lightning, shedding light on your clandestine intentions.

In the beginning, it started with small clumsiness.

Peter felt the ache hammer his temples as if thorns were prickling against his eyes. He needed to sleep. Three hours were simply not enough for every day of the week.

He would sleep if only the haughty professor giving the lecture would stop scrutinising him the moment his head hit the desk. Thus, there he is, attempting at his best to force his eyes open.

He stares at the board. Takes in the numbers and denoted letters, notices how none of them mean anything to him. He must’ve stopped listening a long while ago.

He glares at the lecturer. Notes how he glares back and that the green of his eye is extremely vibrant. Wonders if he is indeed human.

He focuses on the lecturer’s lips. Thinks the professor might not be the cleanest person on earth because of the beards surrounding his lips. Decides he is too sleep-deprived for this.

He looks around. Doesn’t understand how and why his eyes land on you. You look bored as well. And dismal. He’d know; he has looked at you more than anyone else.

He wonders if you are upset because of him or if something happened in your life that he is not allowed to know any longer. He’d hate to drag you back into the same hell of a place as he did before everything went south. To have your sleep poisoned, your smile broken, and your heart shattered.

He wishes he never agreed to your help; it ended the same way regardless– him without you on his side.

He wonders whether your hair still smells like heaven, whether your phone screen is still cracked, and whether you bought a new kettle for your home.

He doesn't see the yearning in the brown of his eyes, but he can feel it in his heart. The crave to reach out and touch you. Feel your skin aflame under his touch. He has always, always, felt it, felt you melting under him. It filled his heart with something greater than he was willing to admit.

Losing it– losing you– was the hardest decision he has ever had to make.

He averts his eyes before yours can find them.

He closes them for a moment– just for a moment– and lays his head on his arms. He will raise it back in a few minutes. He will.

When he does, he realises the lecture has ended, everyone has left, and his spider senses are tingling.

Almost everyone except you.

You are on your tiptoes, reaching for a globe almost your own size, dragging it by your fingertips. The black plastic base makes a low screeching sound, and Peter grimaces.

“Stop that, what are you doing?” he asks, standing up and shoving his backpack to his shoulders.

“I need that,” is all you murmur as you drag the base closer, not minding the fact that the heavier part of the globe is facing you.

“Let me,” he says as he advances, but before he can approach you, you shoot a nasty glare in his way.

“I can do it myself,” you say and drag the base swiftly.

The globe falls with your force, aiming at your pretty head, threatening to break it in two. You are too late to protect your skull from it. Peter is not.

A silver web of Spiderman sticks to the sphere and pulls it away from you, right beside your feet.

You flinch at the sound of the impact, and Peter frowns. “Where’s your head at? Did you really think you could carry that around?”

“I hoped. Is it broken?”

Peter scoffs, almost laughing genuinely, but stops. “Would be surprised if it wasn’t.”

He doesn’t wait for any reply, moving past you to the door.

Peter didn’t denote any meaning to it. It was an unlucky accident and a lucky coincidence that he was there. He had to admit, he did panic when he saw your frightened face, trying to cover yourself from the blow, but that is how he always felt when something happened to you.

Thus, by the next day, he had forgotten about it. That is until he took notice of the bandage around your dominant hand.

His eyes were narrowed, trying to figure out how you’d managed to harm yourself. There was no way for it to be broken, and yet it was a mystery to him how you managed a gash that deep to be bandaged.

It was none of his business.

Yes, of course. None of his business. He shouldn’t wonder, as there is absolutely no reason for him to worry. He shouldn’t give in to the urge to walk up to you and question you. Or get mad at you for not being careful like he used to do.

He put distance between you for a reason.

Albeit you are indeed with an injury, it could have been worse with him around. Or he could have prevented it. You could have been captured, or tormented, or gotten into another accident trying to save him, and even though your hand must have bled again, you are better off, right? You could’ve been—

“What happened to your hand?”

You look up, eyes nonchalant grey and countenance indifferent towards him. He glances at the papers before you, deducing that he must have intervened with your studies. You shouldn’t have studied in the canteen anyway.

“Nothing serious,” you wave off your bandaged hand, which only makes Peter more uneasy. He doesn’t enjoy seeing you injured– no matter how small and insignificant it is.

“You cut it?” his brown eyes never leave yours, and he feels heartburn inside his chest at the sight of you. This might not be the best idea.

“Yeah.”

You are cold. Distant and indifferent. Unlike the first days, when he’d drown in your sorrow, cursing himself for your every shed tear, and burn to ashes at the sight of you, you now have a nonchalance painting your visage shadowed with a confidence he is not sure where you’re getting from.

“Knife?” he nods.

Your eyebrows raise, and Peter feels strange in his own skin. What is he doing? He has no right to this.

“Worried much, Parker?”

“Just want to make sure it’s nothing–”

“Nothing serious, that was the first thing I said,” you cut him off.

Peter feels himself falter. “Alright, that’s-that’s good.”

You nod, lowering your gaze back to the letters and numbers before you. Peter takes the cue and turns around to leave.

He looks back and sees you smile to yourself.

Going back, all of many things made sense, except that one. He didn’t think you’d be crazy enough to inflict pain upon yourself.

Peter shakes his head, jumping to another roof to have you in his vision. You are walking out of a coffee shop with a boiling hot one in your hand. He wonders if you’ll somehow manage to spill it and burn yourself again.

He watches your hair get wet in the rain and knows you deliberately didn’t take an umbrella with you. It is absolutely frustrating.

You are absolutely frustrating.

The birds that are chirping at this time of the year must be a simulation, Peter thinks. Or robots. He remembers the game that had android birds. Although he never understood their purpose, he supposed it was one of the ways to signal the player that twenty years later, androids will–

“Parker!”

Ashley’s call startles him and he turns around. Oh, she has dyed her hair purple. And you are there with her.

“Hey, Ash, what’s up?” he cracks a subtle smile after failing to catch your gaze. You are staring at the hot coffee before you. He thinks it is hot– who would want an iced coffee in winter? Maybe you, he’s not sure.

“Wanna sit with us?”

No, he doesn’t. Not with Ashley around. “Uh, actually, I was just about to leave.”

He wasn’t. He was going to think of the game and its complicated flowchart. Maybe guess how other choices may lead to totally different endings.

“Didn’t you just come?” She raises a brow.

Five minutes doesn’t count as just. “Yeah, for a change of air.”

Peter smiles and gets up from his seat to approach yours. “You ladies need me to bring you something?”

You don’t cast him a glance, toying with your coffee cup. He’d tell you to stop doing that unless you want to burn yourself, but he bites his tongue. It’s not his business.

“You’re gonna burn yourself.”

“No, I won’t. Thanks for the warning, though, Parker,” you continue to do it nonetheless.

Ashley is talking, and yet Peter can’t hear; his eyes are on the cup and the steam that hovers over it. Another blow that is a bit stronger than the one before, you’ll spill it and burn yourself–

Peter sees you hit the cup harder, and in a swift moment, he pushes the cup towards himself in the hope of not burning you. The dark liquid spills over, its steams soaring slowly.

“You alright?” his eyes check for anything wrong like they always do and rest on you when they don’t find any.

“Did you just spill her drink?” Ashley laughs.

“No–”

“He totally did,” you nod, determinant in your movements.

Peter scowls in confusion, staring into your eyes. You tilt your head in response. You still are so pretty, he realises. He thinks it is not the right time to miss the taste of your lips against his. He never got to kiss you the second time, did he? If the first one even counted as a kiss.

“You owe me a cup of coffee, Parker.”

He watches you leave in perplexity.

As he follows you from the air, the irritating regret fills him for not kissing you the second time, but he shuns the thoughts away. He doesn’t know what this game will result in, how hard the limits will get pushed into the verge of the break, and he certainly doesn't want any new ideas to get to his head now that he sees you frequently.

What goes through your head with your each escapade is still a mystery that he has yet to solve. How you dare to face the most ridiculous circumstances without even a tremble in your hands is a wonder to him.

How much more any of you is willing to go…that’s another story that Peter can complain about for hours.

His shoulders sulk with his idle steps. Gray stains the weather and his heart. He thinks of Mark. How he had to kill him. How the rage had blinded him, numbing his senses. What worries him sometimes is the fact that he does not regret Mark’s death, unlike all the other criminals who had to die in the battle against him.

All he could think was you when he was face to face with that man.

He wonders if that makes him a bad one as well.

He only wants to get back home and sleep.

He looks around the campus, finding the best route out of all the busy chatterbox students and couples who are about to have sex out in public.

He recognises your frame a few steps ahead from your backpack. He notices your limping state, frowns, and, without a second, thought approaches you.

“Why are you limping?”

“I sprained my ankle,” you don’t seem surprised to see him as the reply flows smoothly from your lips.

“Where?”

“The stairs.”

Peter’s heart stings with every one of your winces as you step on your feet. “Don’t you have a ride home?”

“I sprained my ankle after I turned down the ride.”

He checks his surroundings. “Let me take you to a doctor.”

You shake your head while Peter practically drags your backpack from your shoulders and carries it on his own. “It’s just a sprain.”

“Maybe, but you are walking on it, at least let me swing you home,” he keeps his tone as reserved as possible, not wanting to give away how this situation annoys him.

“What’s the worst that can happen?”

How would he know? He is not a doctor. “I don’t know, but I do know it’s not good to walk on it. Don’t insist, come on–”

“Peter,” this is the first time you’re calling him by his first name after everything. “If you weren’t around, I would still walk on my sprained ankle.”

“Yeah, but now that I’m around, let me help you,” his tone changes to irritation, and surprisingly, he knows you enjoy it.

“Oh, no,” you frantically shake your head before wincing again. And yet, a smile climbs up to your lips. Not a happy or a genuine one. One that resembles a smirk. “See, you being around has a big possibility that I’ll end up hurt.”

Peter’s frown deepens as his heart skips a beat. His mind runs amok with many interpretations of your words. “Is this what this is about?”

When you don’t answer, time fills in the gaps. He finally makes sense of every little bad luck. Pieces merge together like a puzzle.

You’ve been putting yourself in trouble on purpose.

He doesn’t plan to confront you about it yet. He has some thinking to do.

“What?” you ask, genuinely confused.

“Don’t torture yourself, let me carry you home,” he ignores the question altogether.

“I said no.”

He could not change your mind that day, just like you could not change his once. Yet, he did not have the heart to leave you alone unattended.

Thus, he followed you home from a distance.

From that day on, he's made sure to keep an eye on you.

Of course, there was no way of always being around you, and yet when he was, he’d have to prevent a disaster, whether from happening or from hurting you.

It was flattering, truly. To know you have placed enough trust in him to put yourself in ridiculous situations. It even drives him to actually not help you once, but his heart just won’t let him.

His night was mostly done; all he needed and wanted to do was idly check around the neighbourhood and make sure everyone was safe. He had a nice night– no big fights, just a few pickpockets and drunk potential dangers.

On his way home, he decides to pass through your street for the last time just to make sure you are indeed safe.

To his luck, you are not.

At first, he struggles to recognize you from the tiny silhouette and almost passes through you swinging in the air. Something, however, stops him in mid-air.

His eyes squint under the white cloth of the mask, and he jumps to the ground.

“It’s three in the morning, trouble,” his tone is indifferent, but what he feels is far from indifferent.

“Didn’t ask for time, Spider,” you don’t cast him a glance, shrinking to your coat instead. He turns around, walking backwards.

“Only homeless people and criminals wander around alone at this time. Which are you?”

“Just a girl,” you disregard. “You should leave me alone.”

“It’s not safe,” he shakes his head. “You gotta stop this, sweetheart.”

He can feel the shift in the air around you. Your confident walk wavers only for a second, and yet he notices.

“Stop what?” you ask, pretending that the name had no effect on you.

“Whatever game it is that you are playing,” Peter stops in his tracks; so do you. “Cut it out. It’s not safe.”

You look at him and shrug. “I can’t take you seriously with that mask.”

He takes it off with a quick movement, tousling his hair in the process. He would pay a heavy sum to know what you were feeling in the moment. He catches the change in your gaze and the quick glimpse at his lips.

He murmurs your name, “I know why you are doing this.”

“Pray tell.”

“You are trying to prove that you can get hurt without having a Spiderman in your life–”

“You said it, not me.”

“By jumping at every damned opportunity to get hurt,” he finishes the sentence ignoring your interruption.

When you don’t say anything more, Peter feels the frustration slowly climb up his core. He is tired from worrying about you every day. For a few days, he exhausted his own mind for a glimpse at yours to understand the logic behind all this.

He doesn’t know what to do.

“How long do you plan on keeping this up?”

To his surprise, you finally look him in the eye. His heart skips a beat. He forces himself not to dwell on how much he misses you.

“Until you stop the ‘for your own good’ bullshit.”

“Trouble, it was for your own good,” his tone has changed, growing tender now that your eyes rest on him.

They remind him of the glow he's been admiring for the past months. The laughter echoing in his heart, the light shining in his soul. The heat and desire and lust burning to ashes in his veins.

Maybe it is late. Nothing good happens after 2 a.m.

“Then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, Parker,” you stride forward, and Peter hurries after you. He can’t leave this conversation like this.

He has to show you how insane it is to hurt yourself deliberately for his attention.

“Are you seriously that mad? That crazy enough to cut your own hand?” he demands when he catches up to you.

“When the hell did I cut my own hand?”

You sound truly confused, and he is only a step left to madness.

“The bandage!”

“Oh, no, it had nothing under it. But it did work, didn’t it?” you laugh, and Peter’s body ignites in so many colours. “Did you really think I would hurt myself for someone?”

“You burned yourself and dropped a globe!”

“No, I didn’t,” you laugh again, and not only Peter feels the desperation mingle with anger, but he also feels the self control slowly slipping between his palms. Ah, that laugh.

“You did–”

“You prevented any of that happening, remember?”

“And you bet on that chance?!”

When you giggle again, Peter’s eyes fall to your lips. He drowns the urge. It is neither the time nor the place.

“Yeah, I did. You should try the same thing sometimes instead of running like a coward.”

He has no idea what you said. The only thing he can hear is the dulcet tone and the lips singing the tune. Would you slap him if he slammed his lips to yours?

You’d have a right to.

“Trouble–”

“Stop calling me that, Parker,” you beckon with your hand. “And goodnight.”

Peter does not think he is a coward. Not when it comes to being the hero. When it comes to his heart, however, he is not so sure.

All he knows is that the obligation to keep you safe is growing heavy on him.

Its stress is straining his nerves thin, his feelings elevating the unease further. He can’t handle this any longer, and yet here he is, wanting to make sure you cross the road safely.

Watching you from afar proves to be more difficult than he had guessed initially.

To have you in sight all the time and yet not be able to hear you, talk to you, or touch you is pushing him to the verge of madness. Your memories start to haunt him, your smile before his eyes, your touch on his skin, and, oh sweet Lord, your lips hovering over his lips.

He curses every interruption ever hindering your lips away.

The feelings he has buried deep dig their way up to the surface with every strand of your hair wavering in the wind. Every laugh that is not presented to his ears taunts him. Every touch lingers on a skin that isn’t his burdens his chest.

He feels like he’s going crazy.

Lost in thought, he misses how you don’t check the road before walking. How the cars won’t stop for your sake.

He was afraid that you’d spill your hot coffee and burn yourself. No, you’re going to kill yourself in a car crash.

His heartbeat picks up as he stands up in a second, sticking a web to the roof after jumping off it. The cold breeze would not usually hurt him; thus, he is sure it is the adrenaline that spills cold water down his spine.

When you enter his vision, so close to a car that’s speeding as if it’s going to fly, he opens his arms and grabs you by the waist.

Your coffee spills on him, burning his skin, yet he clenches his jaw at the pain.

Swinging over the cars, his ears sting from your screech. He carries himself up by the web and lands on the rooftop.

Leaving your waist empty, he takes off his mask in rage.

“Are you out of your mind?!” he yells. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Your nose is red from the bone-shattering weather, but your smile radiates sunlight enough to warm hearts. “Oh, hey, Parker.”

“No! Don’t ‘hey, Parker’ me, you hear me?! Just-just stop this madness!”

Peter is frantic, which amuses you more. His face is red, and you are certain it is not from the weather. The vein in his neck bulges, but it does nothing to scare you.

“What madness?”

“Stop trying to kill yourself to prove a point, trouble, or you’ll actually die one of these days!”

Your smile widens. Your plan worked. It took a terrifying amount of fear to implement it and much more trust in him to act on it, but in the end, it worked, and you are so close to what you want now.

“I can die any time of any day.”

“Yes, but no,– fuck!” Peter curses roughly.

You know you just have to push him a little bit more. Make him face his fears. Just a little bit more, and he’ll break.

“I can jump from this roof, you know, you are practically encouraging me.”

He lets out a frustrated groan. "Alright! Alright! Fine, fine! Stop this! You win," he screams, hands in the air, eyes wide with fear and defeat. "Hell, you're gonna be the death of me!"

“I win?” you ask, eyebrows raised. "So, you’ll stop the 'for your own good' bullshit?"

Peter stays silent for a moment, the only indicator of his distress being his swiftly heaving chest.

Your shoulders sulk at his hesitation.

If you’ve gone through all the trouble and still failed to change his mind, then maybe it is not worth it. Maybe it was easier for him to endure your absence than it was for you to endure his. Maybe he has already accepted the situation, unlike you, who was simply tolerating it for a change to betide.

Defeat and desperation grow heavy on your shoulders. It carries to your eyes as well.

You shake your head and turn to leave.

Peter’s hand grabs your wrist before pulling you into his chest. His thumb raises your chin, and before you can react, his lips crash with yours.

Your heart hammers against your ribs. The last breath leaves your lungs as Peter’s hand travels to your waist and lower. This time, you don’t hesitate; you don’t let the shock confuse you.

You kiss him back.

You welcome his lips over yours, letting your hand touch his soft skin.

God, you’ve missed it.

It is soft and tender. The reminder of the affection you once had, of the tension you never lost.

It is not enough, and yet, nothing ever made you feel this at peace.

You draw a sharp breath when he slowly breaks the kiss.

"You owed me one,” he whispers against your lips. You flutter your eyes open, gazing at the brown you’ve missed.

He parts his lips to talk, "And yes, I will... stop the- the thi–”

You don’t let him. You know what he’s going to say anyway.

You don’t want to hear it. Why would you wish to hear it when you can feel it, taste it?

This time, the kiss is sloppy, hungry, filled with a yearn radiating from your lips to your hearts. It is rough and firm, just like his hands around your waist. You didn’t know there was any distance left between you two, and yet he managed to pull you closer by his hand on your lower back.

His other hand climbs up your neck, cupping your cheek.

It was cold outside, and now you are sweating under your coat.

You play with the hair behind his neck and let his tongue between your lips. The deepening kiss feels wrong out in the air, but his body against yours numbs any morals.

You forget frost, the traffic, the spilled coffee.

He forgets the mask, the roof, rain falling onto you.

There is nothing and everything, and both of them are you.

“How about you tidy up your place from time to time?”

You step on Peter’s shirt on your way to his bed.

“This is the tidied-up version,” he lays next to you, a cookie plate in his bed.

“You sure you’re okay with the crumbs?” you involuntarily smile and take one, but instead of biting it, you divide it in half.

“Yeah, it’s seen worse,” Peter watches the crumbs fall to his bed and averts his eye back to you. You look disgusted.

Instead of denying it, he smirks.

“Ew, Peter!”

“Ew yourself, missy. My bed is cleaner than your room.”

“There is a sock,” you point to the corner of his bed.

“Does it smell?”

“No, but it has a gap,” you laugh and don’t notice Peter staring at your lips. “Can you wear it?”

“Later,” he murmurs before moving you by the chin to face him. You smile against his lips as he kisses you.

Your days have turned into soft touches with him by your side and your nights into lustful kisses with you on his bed.

You don’t complain. He still drives you mad, pushes your limits with every study you two ever have to do, but he also encourages you, loves you, and on nights like this where it is only you, the serene darkness and him, kisses you like it’s the first time every time.

A slow, almost non-existent moan escapes from you, and he smiles his mocking smile. You let him guide you to your back as he props himself up by his elbow over you. His hand roams your body and reaches the hem of your shirt to travel under it–

“You guys want anything else?” the door cracks open.

“Oh, come on, May!”

okay, this is the final! i'm so so so sorry that it took almost three months, and thank you to every one of you who patiently waited for me <33

i loved writing dulcet, and i hope you loved reading it with me, please let me know what you think of the series and the final.

if you want, buy me a coffee

tags✿ : @starsval @taylorann2013 @miwagila @just-henny @pepsicolacoochie @teddtheweeb @1ts-izzy @simp-sentral @naok-iyuu @hearttjason @itsfloorcry @olivezgalore @wildestestdreams @patis643 @lovelyweepingrebel @thedavax @qwintlimon7 @delwrites @daddyjackfrost @eddieslooneymoonie @msstillinskimorgan @lilmaymayy @tarzinnia @warrenposts @thehappygrungelife @peridotermine @ihearttities @hitoshislut @sassyrizznerd @aheadfullofsteverogers @booksandfairytales-mainblog @marmie-noir @thelonerlover @ttulipwritezz @unicornforscale @gorillaglue23 @inkthgoat @dinovickydzillarex @simp-sentral @miwagila @adiaz-25 @void21 @pingpongfingfong @just-levyy @mommymortuary @kindlover @turningtoclown @xreaderbooksreads @anuncalledbridge @ezzynf @birdsinmywalls @somethingsmart123 @dreamsarecloserwithyou @sincericida @hollandweather

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headkiss · 1 year

Note

hey can i pls request peter with a gf who’s scared of spiders??

hiii this idea is so cute i hope u like it (sorry it’s a shorter one!!) | 0.4k of fluff and a spider !

“Peter!” You all but shriek from the bathroom.

Being who he is, the hairs on his arms and that back of his neck raise, his senses dig deeper to find any sort of danger. He doesn’t feel anything. He runs to you all the same.

“Bug? What’s wrong?”

“There’s a spider on the wall,” you point, wrapped in your towel post-shower, which is enough to distract him for a moment.

“Just a spider?” He tries not to smile or laugh. He has to cover his mouth with his hand.

It’s ironic, you being so afraid of spiders and dating Spider-Man himself. What a trip. As much as he teases you for it, he can’t deny feeling proud of himself every time he takes a spider out of the apartment in a glass with a spare bit of paper held over the opening. He’s just happy to help you.

“It’s not ‘just’ a spider, Peter. It’s a huge one.”

You can't even bring yourself to look away from it. Like as soon as you look away, it’ll pounce on you.

“Okay. It’s fine, I’ll get it out.”

He rushes to grab his usual supplies, and walks over to the wall where the spider sits slowly, trying not to startle it. You hold your towel to yourself tightly, wince at the sight of the creature bugging you.

“It’s looking at me,” you say.

“‘Cause you’re pretty.”

“Peter.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m getting it.”

He places the cup over it carefully, and you let out a small squeal when it moves around inside.

The first time Peter had to save you from a spider, he was prepared to smush it with the nearest object he could find. He only didn’t because you’d stopped him saying, ‘don’t kill it! It’s your relative!’

He couldn’t hold in the laugh at that, though you genuinely sounded concerned. He just thinks you’re the cutest ever.

Now, he slides the paper beneath the cup, a technique he’s had to master especially while living with you, and begins to carry the spider away to the widow of your fire escape. As soon as it’s outside, he shuts the window and turns to look at you, still in your towel, shuffling on your feet and shivering just a bit.

“All done, bug,” he says, walking over to you and rubbing his hands up and down your upper arms for warmth. “How about you get dressed and we can watch a movie?”

You lean your head against his chest just for a moment, careful not to get his shirt wet with your hair, “thanks, Peter. Best boyfriend and spider remover ever.”

“Can I have an award for that?”

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katsu28 · 10 months

Note

hii my love i hope ur okay <3

uhhh Sunflower - drunken rambling about their adoration ; with tasm! peter if u want to bcos he’s my babygirl djfjjs <3

— ivy <3

@inkluvs i adore u and peter <3

sunflower: drunken rambling about their adoration, tasm!peter parker x reader, 0.9k

You didn’t even know Peter could get drunk, honestly. Something about a higher metabolism from the spider bite allowing him to burn off alcohol fast enough so that he never actually got drunk no matter how much he drank.

That assumption was quickly struck down when you heard knocking at your window at almost one in the morning, right when you were about to go to bed.

It wasn’t uncommon for your vigilante boyfriend to swing by your place after a night of patrolling, always telling you that he wanted you to be the lasting memory at the front of his mind before he fell asleep. In a world full of bad, you were the good, and that’s what he needed to remember.

Sometimes he was so tired he even stayed the night, passing out curled around you with his face pressed against your neck. Those were the times when he disappeared early before you woke up in the morning, only leaving you a messily scribbled note telling you he’d see you later. You kept those notes in a box on your desk and looked at them whenever you missed Peter a little too much.

This time, however, you were surprised to see that he wasn’t in his suit like he usually was, just sweatpants and a hoodie under that battered army green jacket he always wore, still crouched on your fire escape rapping his knuckles against the glass with the dopiest grin on his face.

“Peter? What—what are you doing here? Where’s your suit, someone could’ve seen you!” You were hurling questions at him at a mile a minute, but he just blinked slowly, swaying on his feet a little bit.

“You’re so pretty.”

“Thank you?”

“I mean it.”

“Are you drunk?”

“What? No, I’m…maybe. Just a little. Like, this much.” He held his thumb and forefinger barely an inch apart, snickering.

“Yeah, sure,” You snorted, helping him through the window so he didn’t topple over into the room. As soon as his feet were planted on the ground, he kissed you, slipping his hand around the back of your neck. Peter tasted a little bit like beer, but you didn’t really mind, not when he was kissing you this deeply. “What was that for?” You panted as soon as you pulled away, bracing your hands against his chest after his kiss had stolen the breath out of yours.

“Because you’re pretty. Because I love you.”

“How much have you had to drink?”

“Not a lot.”

“Here, drink some water.” You went to grab the water bottle from your bedside table, but a web stretched past you before you could reach it, hitting the metal with a thwip and whipping it back into Peter’s hand.

He took a large swig from it, snickering when you gave him a pointed look. “I’m not drunk, see. I totally nailed that.”

“You’re so cool, Pete.” You hummed idly, tugging him out of his jacket and tossing it off to the side, guiding him towards your bed. He stumbled over his own socked feet a few times, but you were there to steady him.

“Have I told you how much—how much I love you?” He hiccupped, flopping onto the mattress with no real strength behind the movement. You made a noise of acknowledgement, busying yourself with getting Peter’s sneakers off instead. “I love you so much it hurts, right here,” He jabbed a finger against his chest, right above his heart, letting out a small ‘ow’ with the force of it. You stifled a laugh, plucking the glasses off his face and setting them down next to your alarm clock. “You’re so smart, and—and sweet, and kind and…pretty. Did I say pretty yet?”

“Yeah, I think you might’ve mentioned it.” Your mouth quirked into a warm smile at his drunken rambling. Even drunk, Peter knew how to make you feel loved beyond words. You switched off the lamp beside you, shrouding the room in darkness. The only light was the moon outside, and it washed over the softened angles of Peter’s face almost angelically.

“Oh. Really? I don’t remember that.” He frowned, scratching his cheek aimlessly. Then he shrugged, picking up the edge of your blanket and shoving his lanky self under it, shimmying around until he was satisfied with his comfort. “Anyways, we’re atoms.”

You had to stifle a laugh at his blunt statement. “What?”

“Y’know, like, atoms? How they’re…what’s the fucking word, what’s the—oh! Attract! How they’re just, like, super attracted to each other.” He held one hand up above him, then the other a few inches away. “If this hand is you, and this hand is me, we’re like atoms. Attracted to each other.” He smacked his hands together, linking his fingers through each other. “You’d be a pretty atom.”

“Pete, atoms repel each other once they get close enough.”

Peter’s mouth dropped onto shocked ‘oh’, eyes widening. “No, no, I didn’t mean it like that! I just meant that you and—you and me, we’re meant to be together.” He turned his head to look at you, nearly going cross eyed at your close proximity. “Oh, hello! C’mere.” He pulled you into his arms without a second thought, tucking his chin over the top of your head and sighing contently.

“I love you, you nerd,” You said softly, pressing a kiss against the hand closest to your face. When Peter didn’t respond after a few seconds, you furrowed your eyebrows, craning your neck to look up at him only to see that he’d already fallen fast asleep. You weren’t surprised, he’d been under a lot of stress lately and probably hadn’t been sleeping much because of it.

All you could do was hope he’d sleep well here with you.

follow @katsu-library to be notified when i post a new fic :)

#tasm!peter parker #tasm!peter parker x reader #peter parker #peter parker x reader #tasm!peter parker x you #tasm!peter parker x y/n #tasm peter parker #tasm peter parker fluff #tasm peter parker fic #andrew garfield

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magicaloneandmystery · 1 year

Text

easy to love. (p.p. x reader)

pairing: TASM!Peter Parker x reader

summary: Peter is relentlessly there to help pick you up when you are too tired to do the same.

warnings: heavy negative self-talk, allusions to depression, please don't read this if you are not comfortable with either of these. additionally, my inbox and messages are always open if you ever want to vent about anything

word count: about 850 words

a/n: if you are suffering or even slightly down today, take this as your reminder that you are loved, cared for, and you matter. sending so many hugs to all of your way <3

(gif not mine, credits to the owner/creator)

you had been in bed since morning and it was 2 pm now.

suffice it to say, it was a bad day.

you were drowning in your thoughts, unable to distinguish the light on the surface from the darkness of the depths. you were not sure if there was any surface, to be honest.

you had forgotten to call in from your work in the haze that surrounded you but left a message about an hour earlier, a simple text to your boss that read apologies for not coming in today, feeling a bit sick.

bless her heart, you were only met with a text saying are you okay? that was left on read.

you should answer that soon.

there were several other texts you were yet to reply to, the most glaring ones being from Peter.

good morning sweetheart was the first one.

you okay? after a few hours of no reply.

y/n talk to me, please? was the last one.

you wanted to talk to him so bad, but it was much easier staying there and pretending the world didn’t exist for as long as you could, as long as it was viable.

you didn’t realise it was way later than 2 pm when you suddenly turned in your bed to see the darkened skies. you supposed time flies when all you do is lie beneath your covers thinking about all the reasons you couldn’t get up. (more often than not coming up with none.)

you jumped when a knock sounded on your window but didn’t remove the blanket from your face to see who it was. you knew who it was, you were just hoping he left you alone.

alas, that hope went out the window (no pun intended) when he stepped into your room. you wished you had turned the lock on them but in your state last night it didn’t matter whether they were on or not. no amount of locks could ensure that you felt safe.

“you should not leave your windows unlocked like that, sweetheart,” he said, noticing the piles of clothes in two places. apart from that, though, your room was organised like it usually was. not a lot of people could’ve said something was wrong by looking at your room.

“I know you’re awake, it’s fine if you don’t wanna talk to me,” he sighed. he was disappointed in you. you should get up and talk to him. greet him, at least. he came all this way just for you. and here you are, lying there like you don’t want it, want him. ungrateful brat. “did you have something to eat?"

you wondered why he bothered trying.

“y/n,” he sat down next to you. his ungloved hand came into your view as he tucked away the blanket a bit. you realised he wasn’t wearing his suit. did he not come here after his patrol?

you’re disrupting spider-man too. selfish selfish selfish.

“babe,” he started, stroking your cheek. “just give me a simple nod if you want me here. I’ll be gone if you don’t.”

tears were pooling in your eyes. you wanted him gone but more than that, you knew you needed him here. it was unfair to still need him for anything.

gathering all your strength, you nodded once.

his fingers gently wiped away the tears that managed to spill over.

"I love you," he said, before leaning down and kissing your forehead. your eyes shut tightly, undeserving of his love, his beauty, his warmth. "I'm gonna clean this room a little, okay? I must say, you've managed it quite well already."

you knew he was lying but it made the pressure holding you down lift a little. maybe you were not a complete failure.

a few minutes of his cleaning had put some life back into your body, making it easier to breathe in and out. you moved into a sitting position by your bed, legs hanging off its side.

"hey, bug," Peter grinned, triumph swimming in his eyes. "wanna eat something?"

you nodded after some time, contemplating.

"something light? I was thinking of some soup."

you nodded again.

"be right back!" he skipped out of the room, already familiar with your apartment enough to know where all the ingredients were kept.

you listened to the clanging of the utensils for some time, head bent in the doorway’s direction. slowly, you stretched your legs and decided to join him. walking seemed to take tremendous effort but when you saw Peter, his back to you, stirring the pot on your stove, making food for you. the realisation felt heavy but it seemed to make your steps lighter all the same. maybe you could be loved.

“hello there,” he called out to you. his senses were already attuned to you, and his heart fluttered wildly when he realised you were joining him in the kitchen. he stretched his hand out to you, sighing when your body slotted itself to his side as you both stared at the boiling soup.

as your head rested on his shoulder, eyes fixated forward, you realised it’s very easy to love Peter Parker. sometimes, that was all you needed. a reminder you could love.

phew, thanks for reading if you did!! comments and reblogs are much appreciated :) please do remember to check in with your closed ones and to never be afraid to ask for help.

#tasm!peter parker #tasm!peter parker x reader #peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x you #peter parker #tasm!peter parker x y/n #tasm!peter imagine #tasm!peter parker imagine #tasm!spiderman x you #tasm!peter fanfiction #tasm!peter parker x you #andrew garfield x reader #andrew garfield x you #tasm!peter parker fanfiction #peter parker fanfiction

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softtdaisy · 1 year

Text

SAVIOR - PETER PARKER

DESCRIPTION I peter will always love you and protect you, specially from your new guy who seems to hate him

PAIRING I tasm!Peter Parker × fem!reader

WORD COUNT I 2,9k

A/N I i was watching Wednesday and I have the biggest crush on Xavier and there is this episode where he is the scars on his neck??? yep the inspo comes from here. I hope you will love this story ❤️

It was a quiet Friday night. The week was over, you’ve done all your homework for your uni classes and you were in front of your favorite tv show. Nothing could have prepared you for what was going to happen.

At first, you noticed a shadow behind your window. You thought it was just you being paranoid about living alone. You knew from a pretty good source that the city wasn’t as safe as they want to make it look. But when you gave it another look, you knew for sure that you didn’t hallucinate the first shadow. Your heart missed a beat and you promised that you were going to kill that stupid idiot if he wasn’t in a bad shape already.

“Peter!” you whispered loudly when you opened your window. And of course, your best friend gave you this sweet and flirty smile that only him can gave. It wasn’t the first time he was coming at your house late at night, oh hell no. But he always managed to scare the hell out of you. Which was super ironic considering he was wearing his spiderman suit, meaning he was supposed to save you from the scary thing outside. Not be one.

Peter put a hand through his hair before placing his elbow against your wall, looking like a model posing for a picture. “I know you miss me today, baby.” You could tell he had a pretty long day from his broken voice. You haven’t seen Peter at all today. You usually eat together at least one time a day but sometimes his missions keep occupied all day. But as soon as he can, Peter always managed to come see you. Even if it’s three in the morning and you’re already sleeping.

“I fucking hate you right now, Parker. Get in.” You heard him laugh while you got back in your apartment. When you turned around, he was already taking his suit off. Good things you always had some clothes for him here. There were some good things in dating your now best friend in the end.

You and Peter dated for a year, during your first year of high school. Maybe you were too young to understand how love was supposed to feel like. During the summer, you decided to break up to focus on your friendship. You kept saying you were soulmates and that you didn’t want a heartbreak to make you hate each other. You were jealous when Peter started to date Gwen during your last year. For the first time, you felt like Peter was slipping through your fingers. What if she was the one for him and you never had to live the best romance trope when you would both fall in love with each other again in a few years?

Because deep down, you always felt like you would get back with Peter one day. It was meant to be, you knew that. But the only question was when? Were you ready to wait your whole life just to feel Peter’s lips on yours again? To have his hands exploring your body like it was the most precious piece of art he ever got to touch? To his beautiful eyes looking at you and giving you all the love, you deserved? You kept thinking about that at night sometimes.

But even if Gwen left after high school for London, making her and Peter break up, there was still one cloud in the horizon: your best friend was New York favorite superhero. And let’s be honest, it wasn’t the best option to have peaceful relationship. Being Peter’s best friend was already threatening enough. He didn’t want to risk having you as his girlfriend and losing you.

And from this lack of attention and love, you started to give your heart to other. That’s how Spencer entered your life. More than a classmate, he became your friend from day one. It felt normal to start seeing each other when you realized you had so much in commons. You weren’t dating officially; you wouldn’t call him your boyfriend. But it was enough for your best friend.

And just like you were jealous of Gwen, Peter was terribly jealous of Spencer. You were not stupid, you knew he always managed to be occupied to avoid him when you proposed to go out together.

When you came back in the living room, Peter looked at you, frowning. A quite funny picture considering he was wearing only his boxer. A quite hot picture too, you had to admit. “You’re alone, right?”

“No, my clients of the night are waiting in the bedroom. You want to participate, Parker?” you said with a flirty smile. That was when you realized your outfit wasn’t the most appropriate to welcome someone at home. Of course, it was only a pajama but your short ride up and Peter could easily see your thighs entirely if he wanted to. Nothing he never saw but still. So, you tried to pull it down discretely after throwing him some clothes.

“No. I meant, no Spencer tonight?”

Beyond being jealous of him, Peter was sure Spencer wasn’t sincere. As soon as he met him, Peter kept saying that something wasn’t right with Spencer and that he must be hiding something. Of course, you believed his gut and tried to see what could be wrong with your partner. Turns out nothing was, and you stopped looking for clues that didn’t exist. Peter wasn’t happy with your decision. But he accepted it and kept looking for something individually.

“Nope.” You saw the way Peter’s look changed with just this single word. Nobody was there. And no one would come. It was just you. And him. If you wanted to. He started to make some step towards you, still in his underwear while your hands were still on your short. “No, Spencer.” You finished answering right when Peter was just a few millimeters away from your face.

You could feel his breath against your lips, and you were dying to taste them again. Peter’s eyes couldn’t leave you. They screamed attraction and desire. He wanted to do so many things to you. “Maybe tonight is the night we can try some things again then…” he whispered, bringing a hand to your cheek. You loved the way his thumb was brushing your skin so slowly it became sensual. Especially when it moved slowly to your mouth, and he started caressing your lips.

That was how you knew Peter would always be the one. You were ready to throw everything away for one kiss. And that was you did when you put your arms around his neck to bring him closer and close the gap. Peter didn’t waste any second and put his arms above your butt to lift you up. Your back was now against the wall, your legs around his waist and your lips lost against his. Maybe it was the waiting that made the kiss so good. Or you both just got better.

When you caressed his back, you felt some big scars and immediately looked at it. You couldn’t contain the gasp that escape your lips when you noticed those three massive wounds. “Oh my god Peter, what happened?” you asked. But he was too busy kissing your neck to answer you. And you almost gave up from the way his lips felt against your skin. Almost. “Peter. Parker.” You said, hitting him behind his head after each name. Which made him sigh, obviously.

“I got attacked tonight. That’s why I was there in the first place before your legs seduce me.” He offered you his magic smile before giving you a kiss. “Let’s take care of that after, ok? I need to take care of that first.” He said, getting back to the kiss. His hands started to lift your shirt and you knew that you wouldn’t be able to argument more.

Nothing could have made you stop kissing Peter right now. Not when you could feel him growing in his underwear and his skin getting hotter from all the desire, he had for you. No. Nothing.

Except one thing.

Three knocks on your door. “[y/n], it’s me. Spencer.”

You didn’t expect him to come. And Peter could tell by your expression. Spencer knew you were alone tonight, and it wasn’t that surprising that he would come here to see you. And it wasn’t like you could lie about your presence: everyone could see the lights from your window.

You quickly left Peter’s arms and pushed towards your bedroom. “Go hide there. I’ll make him leave.”

“Hide your bedroom? While your boyfriend is here? Damn, [y/n] that sounds like a strange way to propose a threesome.” He excepted the hit on his arm when he talked, but he still managed to laugh about it. “Parker!” you groaned before finally pushing in your bedroom for good.

You put a hand in your head, trying to look at least a little presentable when you opened the door. “Hey you.” You used this innocent tone you always have when you’re hiding something. Like the boy you were kissing seconds ago hiding in your bedroom.

“I won’t bother you for long, I just wanted to check on you.” You felt bad for Spencer. He was so sweet for coming here late just to make sure you were alright. And when he kissed you softly, your mind couldn’t focus on anything else than Peter’s lips. And how better they tasted.

You let Spencer come inside, offering him a drink while he was telling you about his night with his friends. He gave you names that you didn’t remember hearing in the past. Or maybe you weren’t paying much attention. And clearly, you weren’t either now. Otherwise, you would haven notice immediately when he stopped talking.

It wasn’t after a few seconds of you whispering for yourself that you noted the silence in the room. “Spence?” you asked, frowning and coming back to the living room.

To see him with holding the one thing you almost forgot was there in the first place. To your defense, you tended to forgot Peter was Spiderman for your own good. It was way too stressful and you knew that if someone started to say mean thing about him you would defend him. Like a true best friend. So yeah, you didn’t expect to see Spencer holding the Spiderman’s suit in his hand.

“What’s this?” he asked, like it wasn’t obvious. And you wondered why you should feel guilty since you were one of the few people who knew about Spiderman’s identity.

“A suit. For…a costume party.”

You didn’t think this would work out perfectly. You didn’t think Spencer was stupid enough to believe you blindly. But you didn’t think he would get that mad.

“You really think I’m a fucking idiot?” You never heard get mad before. But it wasn’t the only reason you felt in danger. There was something different here. You tried to walk away but stumble on your table and ended up on your butt. Did it hurt? Yes. But not as much as realizing you’ve been wrong about someone for so long. “Where is he?”

You wanted to play dumb, asked who he was talking about. But he didn’t give you the time. “Where is Parker!” he yelled, throwing your vase and the flowers bouquet inside right on the floor. You protected your face like you were going to be hit. But it got worse. Because you didn’t get hurt, no. Because when you looked back at Spencer, he wasn’t there anymore. Instead, there was a kind of monster mixed with a werewolf standing in the middle of your living room.

And for the first time, you understood why Peter said being with him could be that dangerous.

“Tell me where he is.” At each word, Spencer was taking a new step to you. And right before he was facing you, you heard your door opening in your back. You had no idea if you should be relieved to know Peter was there to save you. Or scared that in the end, he was the person Spencer was looking for.

“I knew your ugly face reminded me of someone when I saw you tonight.” You heard Peter say. You turned your head and wasn’t surprised to see him in his suit, compared to Spencer who seemed to confuse. A few months ago, Peter asked if he could keep one here in case something happen, and he can’t get back to his place. You hide it in your wardrobe, behind all your old clothes. You were glad that he never had to use it, it meant he was always in control. But tonight, he didn’t have another option. You couldn’t help but think it was because of you.

“But I should have known it was you when you were too stupid to end me down there.” And that’s when it clicked.

“You tried to kill Peter?” you asked. Or reproached him, more exactly. Which resulted in you being grabbed by the throat. You could feel his claws almost piercing your skin and the tears growing in your eyes from the pain.

“Yes, I tried to kill your perfect stupid best friend that is so love with you.” His voice was nothing like the one you used to hear. Spencer had this soft deep voice that you loved. Now it had this deeper almost incomprehensible tone that you hated. The way the word love sounded in his mouth was disgusting and it was even more awful to think he used to talk about Peter.

You could feel Peter moving in your back which resulted in Spencer increasing his grip around your throat and you having difficulties to breath correctly. “Let her go. This is between me and you.” But of course, Spencer just laughed at Peter’s request. You didn’t except more from the bad guy.

“That would be too easy, Parker.” You could feel yourself getting higher, your head almost touching your ceiling. To say you were scared would be a euphemism. You wished you could back to when you were peacefully kissing Peter. “You had the city; I had the girl. Let’s make a deal.”

You couldn’t see Peter’s face, neither could Spencer with his mask on. He had never been more anxious that he was right now. The idea of you getting hurt, or worse, losing you was killing him slowly. If he wasn’t sure about his feelings for you, now he was. Because he was ready to sacrifice every single thing just to make sure you were alright. “Let her go.” He repeated. “I don’t fucking care about anything else, just let [y/n] go.”

“Peter, no…” but your voice died in a sigh when Spencer squeezed your throat so hard that you couldn’t breathe. You closed your eyes to endure the pain.

Next thing you knew, you were in Peter’s arms, laying in the middle of your living room. You jumped. You immediately imagined the worst scenario. Did Spencer killed Peter and left you with him there? From the mess you could see, something bad happened while you were unconscious. And you couldn’t see Spencer, which, you thought meant that he had win. It wasn’t until you felt Peter’s hand on your shoulder that you realize things were maybe not that bad.

“He’s gone.” He simply said. You turned your head to look at him and put a hand on your mouth to contain a scream. Peter had scratches on his face and neck, and you could easily tell he had some on his body too. You slowly brought your hand to his face, and he cuddled against it. “He won’t be a problem anymore, I promise.”

Peter told you briefly what happened after you lost conscious. Spencer threw you on the floor, like you weren’t important anymore. While Peter checked on you, Spencer started attacking him and that’s how the fight started. They ended up on your rooftop and Peter quickly understood that he would be a fight for their life. He hated that. Peter almost thought people deserved redemption or, at least, punishment and not death. But he had a hard time believing in this for Spencer. Then he jumped on Peter. And after he avoided him, Peter didn’t get the chance to catch him before he fell. “I have no idea how he managed to, but he wasn’t dead after this fall.” He sighed, brushing your hair slowly. “The cops were down there so I explained to them how he had attacked a girl living there and I saved her life. They took him and… well, I don’t care what happen next for him.”

This was a lot to accept and the only reaction you had was to hold Peter tightly. You almost lost him tonight, for good. And there were no way you were going to live another day in this crazy life without having him as your boyfriend. You were going to kiss him when he took your face between his hands. “Please, the next time you try to forget about me, don’t take a werewolf. This shit hurts.” He complained, pouting.

You laughed and hit his arm. “There won’t be a next time, as long as you don’t make a mistake Parker.”

“I’ll be careful about that.” He replied before finally letting you kiss him. Ready to finally end the night the way you were supposed to at the beginning.

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madwcman · 29 days

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saw the post abt requests!! maybe insecure fem!reader and peter just being the best bf in the entire world? no pressure tho!!!!

a/n: sorry this is so late but, thank you for requesting. i hope you enjoy!! don’t be shy and send me a request!

pairing: tasm! peter x reader

you’ve never had a boyfriend before dating peter. and you don’t know how to really act with peter. you two have just started dating so everything is fairly new to you. including kissing. and you’re a little nervous about it. you think you’ve been pretty good at hiding and dodging kissing. key words: you think. peter has definitely noticed. he’s not going to push you into kissing him. but, he is curious why you don’t want to kiss him.

“sweetheart, can i ask you a question?” you turn from the movie you and peter were watching. “yeah, what's up?”

“why won’t you let me kiss you?” peter asks, looking at you curiously. you turn back to the tv. you weren’t expecting peter to ask. you were sure he would ask some day, just not today. “you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” peter speaks softly, wrapping his arm around you, bringing you closer to him. you sigh out. you have to tell him.

“promise you won’t laugh?” you look at your boyfriend nervously. peter grins at you, bringing up his pinkie finger. “i promise, i won’t.” you and peters pinkie fingers lock together.

“i’ve never kissed anyone.” you tell him. you wait for him to laugh at you. he never does. “really?” he looks at you confused. and he is how a pretty girl like you, never experienced their first kiss yet.

“yes, it’s embarrassing, i know.” you laugh at yourself, to defuse the embarrassment you’re feeling right now. “it’s not embarrassing, i’m just confused.” you raise your eyebrows up at peter, you’re now feeling confused about his confusion. “why are you confused?”

“why has no one has kissed you yet.” he states simply moving closer to you. then you see something click in peters head, a mischievous smile appears on your boyfriend’s pretty face. “does that mean i’m going to be the first?” he asks confidently, with a smug face, while you smile clearly flustered. “yes.” you admit to your boyfriend. peter smiles and places his hands on your face. “can i kiss you?” he smiles, confident. you let out a small “yes” and he does.

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bruisedboys · 9 months

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Helluu, congrats!!!

I would like to request STAR TRIPPING, blurbs— “i don’t have time for distractions” and (if it’s okay to choose two prompts, if not you can choose the one you want to write:)) “you look so pretty right now” with tasm!pete<3

another old 4k celly request!! sorry this is so late angel. I went with the second prompt, hope this is okay!

tasm!peter parker x gn!reader

Peter’s bleeding out on your bed. Again.

You can’t say you’re very surprised.

“Pete, would you please just stay still? I cant focus when you keep touching me like that.”

Peter isn’t a very good patient. At least not when you’re nursing him. He wants to touch you and look at your face and basically find any way to distract you from the task at hand. Which just so happens to be patching him up.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling his hands away from where they’d been resting in your shoulders, his thumbs tracing your collarbones through your shirt. His shirt, really. But who’s paying attention to that?

You huff. He doesn’t sound very sorry at all. He sounds like he’s smiling. You look up from where your eyes had been trained on his bruised and bloodied chest and find you’re right. He’s smirking.

You glare. Peter balks.

“What?” He says, dripping in fake innocence. “I just— you look so pretty right now.” His eyes go all melty and soft and so does his voice. He reaches up with one hand to cup your burning cheek. “I can’t help it, dove.”

You groan. He’s lovely. And he’s a total menace. You hate him, you swear.

“I can’t believe you,” you say, nudging his hand away with your cheek. “I just got out of bed. I look so gross.”

“You don’t,” Peter says, sounding way more offended than he needs to be. His hand finds your waist and you can feel it’s warmth through the soft fabric of your (his) t-shirt. You very secretly wish he’d dip his hand under the hem like he always does. “You’re beautiful.”

You drop the cloth you’re dabbing his wounds with and climb out of his lap with a huff.

“Y/N—!”

“I’m going back to bed,” you say grumpily, walking away without looking back.

Despite his wounds, Peter catches up with you within an instant, promising to keep his hands to himself until you’re finished cleaning him up. He doesn’t keep his promise. You find you don’t mind as much as you should.

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moonstruckme · 6 months

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Heyy

Can I request something fluffy with tasm!Peter where the reader refuses to kiss him cause she's coming down with a cold (definitely not me projecting myself into this) and peter doesn't care cause he loves her kisses sick or not

Thank you for your writing *lots of hugs*

-🔮

Oh no, hope you feel better soon lovely! Thanks for requesting <3

tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader ♡ 633 words

“Baby.” Peter’s trying to sound serious, but he’s giggling, chasing you about as you try to evade him. “C’mon, just one.”

“No!” You dodge his hands, dashing around the bed to put something solid between you. “This is for your own good.”

“I don’t care.” He pouts. “Listen, I’m gonna get sick anyway. Why delay the inevitable and deprive me in the process?”

You give him a hard look. “You’re not going to get sick if you keep away from me.”

Peter scoffs. “Babe, please. That’s not happening.”

You cross your arms. “You don’t want this cold,” you reason with him. “It hasn’t even set in all the way for me yet, and I can tell it’s gonna suck.”

He softens. “That’s what I’m talking about, sweetheart. There’s no way I’m not going to take care of you while you’re sick, so why bother with this? Let’s just cut to the chase.”

You hesitate. It really isn’t easy to resist him, looking so soft and kissable with his hair all ruffled from the wind outside and that slight pout to his lips. He’s making his eyes extra big to get to you, you know it. But you’re trying to spare him.

You start to shake your head, but Peter makes to dash around the bed, and you do the first thing you can think of to avoid him, diving under the covers.

Peter chuckles darkly, and you feel him crawling on top of you, his hands prodding at your form through the fabric.

“Bad idea,” he tuts. “I’ve got you right where I want you now.”

“Shut up,” you say, but you’re unable to keep from laughing as his fingers find your side, making you squeal and squirm away from his touch. “Stop! All you have to do is leave me alone for a few days, and then I’ll get better and we can kiss all you want.”

He hums disapprovingly. “You’re asking too much of me.”

He straddles you, hands climbing toward the top of the sheets. You curl your fingers into the fabric determinedly, tensing in anticipation of his attack, but then Peter hesitates.

“Honey,” he says, voice softening slightly. Even though he can’t see you, you narrow your eyes, mistrustful of this change in mood. “You’re only not kissing me because you’re getting sick, right? Like, if you weren’t, you’d want to?”

You hesitate, bemused. “Of course,” you say slowly.

“So you’re cheating both of us by holding out, huh?”

You only scoff, but apparently that’s enough confirmation for Peter, because he uncovers you with one good tug of the sheets, tearing them from your grasp.

“Great, just wanted to be sure.” He holds you in place with a hand at your jaw, pressing his lips to yours with a smack.

“Peter!” you huff, glaring up at him, but he only pats your cheek consolingly.

“There we go, baby, I’m all contaminated,” he says satisfiedly. “Now will you give it up and let me be close to you?”

“Not if it means rewarding your lack of self-preservation,” you grumble, but Peter only rolls his eyes, smiling at you like you’re silly.

“If you’re asking if I’m always going to want to take care of you when you’re sick, then yes,” he says. “Not sure there’s anything you can do to stop me, sweet thing. I know it must be awful, though, to have a boyfriend who loves you and your kisses so much.”

He’s trying to guilt you. It’s working, your eye roll nothing more than performative as you warm to the idea of letting him take care of you while you ride out this cold. Peter can tell, grinning down at you smugly.

“Kiss?” he asks, all but batting his eyelashes at you. “Please?”

This time, you oblige him.

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indecisivemuch · 10 months

Text

Time wasn't in our favor - Part 4 (Happy Ending)

Pairing: TASM Peter Parker (Andrew Garfield) x Female!Reader

Summary: "Maybe I'll give you another reward if you manage to save my New York city," - What if...your soulmate is from another universe but you didn't know? Soulmate AU. Set during NWH, fluff.

Note: Here's the happy ending, if I am honest, I think I'm better at writing sad endings.

Word count: 1k

Series Masterlist: Prologue, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Happy Ending, Sad Ending.

The girl ran through the portal without any hesitation, jumping slightly when she saw it closed straight away. Cautiously exiting the alley, the girl gulped as she realized how reckless she was being - entering another universe with no plan beforehand. How was she going to find Peter?

It has been seven days, three hours and thirty-two minutes since he left his soulmate's universe.

Right after returning to his own world, Peter checked his tattoo. When he did, staring back at him was no longer the faded gray spider web tattoo. In its place was now a red spider tattoo. It was as if the world hated him, and to show this evident hatred, it made his first soulmate die, and his second from another universe where he could not travel to. Ever since then, the boy could barely have a blink of sleep at night or even function properly in the morning. This meant that his performance at being Spiderman was plummeting, and people noticed.

Swinging along buildings in New York City, Peter sought for any commotion that indicated trouble. That was when he heard it:

“Spiderman,” it was far away, but his heightened sense of hearing allowed him to catch it. He glanced in the general direction and saw a person standing atop his favorite building. “Peter Parker,” that was when alarms rang in his head. Has somebody discovered his identity? He swung towards the building, approaching the person without revealing himself.

“I have like roughly 10 minutes.” He almost could not believe it, hearing her voice. Never would he think of meeting the Y/N from his universe. He peered at her from the shadows and it almost made his mouth drop at how similar they looked. There was nothing different about her, which surprised him considering how different he looked in other universes.

“If I can’t find you, Doctor Strange will come back and drag me back home and I need you to…somehow hear me. Spiderman, Peter Parker, Peter 3, or any other name you go by. I…” she stopped before sniffling.

“I can’t give up now, but at the same time, how do I find you in a New York city that is actually so much different than mine? I don’t want to leave, but I don’t know what to do. Why are you so near but so far at the same time,” she sobbed, feeling helpless. Indeed, time was almost up. Y/N wished she had bargained for more time. She went to many of the locations where she thought he would be. She even tuned into the news for criminal activities and recklessly ran to them hoping that Spiderman would be there. But because of his distracted state, Peter has barely made it to crime scenes, and instead slacked off.

Realizing that this was the Y/N that he met yesterday - his soulmate, Peter almost lurched forward from the shadow to wipe away her emerging tears. His heart was in disbelief, but he knew it was her.

“Y/N?” he softly spoke, hoping not to scare her with his presence. Nevertheless, she jumped slightly before realizing that it was him.

"Peter...it's me..."

At this, the boy couldn't help but pull her in for a hug, embracing her in his arms and inhaling as he buried his head in her neck. “I never thought I would see you again,” he muttered against her skin, hoping he could remember her scent before she leaves.

Any thought of leaving left her as she felt herself melt into his arms. How could she? Especially when this was the most that she felt like she was home. How could she when she knew how empty it felt without him or the memories of their moments together? She bit her lip as her head and heart started battling each other. But at the end, her heart won, and it ignored any sensibility or logic that her mind was yelling - that Doctor Strange would come and drag her back to her original universe, or the fact that she might bump into herself in this world.

“...Take me around our New York, Peter,” the girl blurted out while in his embrace, referring back to their conversation days ago. She watched as Peter pulled away from their hug and looked at her. There was slight confusion before a look of shock painted over his face instead.

“You’re staying?” he almost yelled, his tone holding some doubt on whether he had read her implications correctly. She laughed at his exclamation before nodding eagerly to confirm. Peter chuckled in disbelief before lifting Y/N up and flung her around in his arms with pure joy. Their harmonious laughter echoed off the building as the two embraced each other.

“But what about…what about your universe? Don’t you have to go back?” he asked, despite hating to imagine that happening.

“Peter…you’re my soulmate. My universe is here with you,” Y/N muttered, grinning up at Peter, who did not reply to this. Instead, he chose to take a moment of silence with her in his arms, and allow his mind to process the thought of having her forever.

“You know I won’t say ‘no’, right?” Peter whispered as he peered down at Y/N. “I won’t say ‘no’ if you say that you’ll stay, and I would not give a damn about the universe as long as I have you” he added, gulping at what was probably the most selfish thing he has ever uttered.

“The world has taken so much away from me, and I just want to be selfish for once in my life, and do something for me…and I want you. I need you. So, if you say you’ll stay, I would never say ‘no’. Never,” Peter rambled. He watched as Y/N’s eyes started to water from his words.

“Y/N, I need you.”

“Have me,” Y/N responded with no hesitation. “Keep me…I would not say ‘no’ to that, Peter,” she added.

He glanced down at her lips indiscreetly, causing the girl to grin.

“Our New York. I like the sound of that,” he confessed. "By the way, you still owe me.”

Y/N scrunched her eyebrows at this, trying to scour her memory for whatever she was in debt for. Her confusion only made Peter grin.

"I believe I did save your New York," Y/N's face immediately lightened as she remembered what this was about.

"Oh, my knight in shining armor, Peter Parker! I'm assuming you're here to collect your reward?" Y/N teased, her hand slowly wrapping around his neck. Peter, on the hand, only smirked at her question and did not answer. Instead, he pulled her in, connecting their lips together.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

BONUS:

In the middle of New York, a girl entered her favorite sandwich shop. “Hi, can I get a meatball sandwich without pickles and extra cheese, please? Thanks, Richard” the girl ordered.

“No problem, Y/N. How was the shift?”

“Super busy...and depressing. I had to slip away to get my mind off today's surgeries. Everything just seems to fall apart today,” Doctor Y/N L/N answered. Surgery after surgery, the girl has worked for over 50 hours without sleeping. Not only that, but the bus accident has left many in critical conditions.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Here, a brownie on the house,”

“Thank you, Richard, I’ll see you soon.”

The girl picked up her sandwich and brownie before heading towards the door. Before she could reach it, her knee gave away. She collapsed on the ground, groaning loudly as she felt an excruciating pain on her wrist, where her soul mark was.

“What’s happening?” she looked down to see her tattoo of a spider with two shorter legs slowly vanishing.

“Y/N?” the owner called out, coming up from behind her, trying to figure out what was wrong. The doctor, however, only had her eyes on what was happening to her wrist. There it was, a pink scar in the spot where her soulmate tattoo used to be. Without answering the man behind her, Y/N took out her phone and dialed it.

“This is the Palmer-Strange clinic for soulmate care. How may we help you?” a voice answered through the device.

“Get Doctor Christine Palmer on the phone, please.”

--------------

Anddd that's it for this series. Thank you for reading it. I wrote this pre-"across the spider-verse" so if it doesn't mash well with that, I'm sorry. Miguel would definitely not like it if the events pan out like this ending. The bonus bit is just my imagination spinning and creating a whole universe for this series. Feel free to head over to the sad ending as well.

Series Masterlist: Prologue, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Happy Ending, Sad Ending.

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thursdaygxrls · 9 months

Text

Infrunami

summary — peter’s memory is really good (no it’s not)

pairing — tasm!frat!peter parker x fem!reader

disclaimer — i don’t own tasm or peter. i’ve also been listening to infrunami on repeat for 4 days and had to do something about it.

warnings — mentions of drinking/alcohol, possible ooc, and this is (let’s all say it!) unedited

The frat house was just about as clean as it could be. It was rare for a house full of boys to be spotless, especially with weekly parties like the one going on right now. Surprisingly enough, this particular party had been relatively chill--no broken glass, no body shots. Maybe it was the pungent haze of weed in the air that floated from the mouths of those with sloppily rolled blunts and dying pens. Instead of a blunt, Peter's fingers were wrapped around a red solo cup.

"...and honestly, it's sort of weird because, y'know..."

There was a girl attached to his arm. He wasn't drunk enough to forget her name—well, he wouldn't have forgotten it if he even knew it in the first place. She seemed nice enough: a giggly blonde majoring in poli-sci...or was is psych? Honestly, her introduction was all sort of fuzzy. One minute, he was alone, the next, he was hearing about a research project that was 'sort of weird.'

"Hey, you mind if I go grab another drink?" Peter interrupted her rant, his voice low.

"Oh, yeah, sure," she nods in response, glossy lips stretched into a smile.

He gives her a closed-lipped grin of his own before picking himself off the wall and heading to the kitchen. He weaves his way through the house in an eerily graceful fashion. Upon reaching the kitchen, he looks down at his full cup.

Peter wasn't a dick. At least, he liked to think he wasn't a dick. He wouldn't just tell a girl to piss off if he wasn't interested; he'd make excuses and slip out as fast as possible. Maybe in the long run it was sort of a dick move, but he rarely ever saw those girls again (and if he did, he'd look the other way). There was the fact that he was bound to forget a few faces as well.

“No lady-friend tonight, Parker?” Zack—one of his frat brothers—chimed in his ear. He slipped past Peter and to the keg they’d set on ice in a plastic kiddie pool. Never once did he think he’d see a Sonic the Hedgehog themed kiddie pool next to the oven.

“It’s like, ten, give it a rest,” Peter shot back, sipping at his beer.

“I saw you talking to that blonde.” Zack smiled and made a gesture of approval as he filled his cup.

“Eh,” Peter shrugged.

“‘Eh?’” Zack’s eyes widened, “I’d say she’s at least three tiers up from ‘eh’ category.”

"Eh," Peter repeats, leaning his head back. It wasn't as if he had a girl wrapped around his arm at every party, but it also wouldn't be surprising to see it. Between his freshman and junior year of college, his body count had increased significantly. He had regular hookups—at least one every week and rarely ever with the same person more than once or twice. It was easier to just love 'em and leave 'em. At least, that's what he told himself every time he was ordering an Uber for the girl in his bed.

"Well, if you're gonna 'eh' her, mind if I give it a try?" Zack asked, taking a gulp of the beer, swiping the foam off his lip with his thumb.

"Be my guest," Peter waved him off casually.

"I'm gonna go full Zack-Attack," he grinned widely, shooting Peter a thumbs up.

"Never say that again," Peter called out, though, Zack had already turned his back to approach the blonde. And so it was just him and his beer. His beer and him. A cup and a hand, a drink and a tongue, a—damn, he was bored. Normally, he really liked these parties. He could get a decent buzz or high and usually end the night with someone going down on him. Tonight, though, was so dull. He felt (ironically) like a fly on the wall, watching the world around him through a vignette filter. The boredom was almost comforting. Nothing was happening, but then again, nothing was happening. He could bask in the fact that he had nothing and no one to do—

Thump.

Karma was real, and it was a total bitch. Right when Peter had decided that his night was going to be one of peaceful indifference, he watched an obviously inebriated boy stumble past him. He saw it all happen in slow motion: the way the his feet dragged into one another, one shoe catching the lace of the other. Before the realization that he was falling could hit, Peter grabbed the boy's shoulder and righted him. Unfortunately, the drink in the boy's hand hadn't been so lucky. It slipped from his hands and splashed out beyond him like amber rainfall. If Peter hadn't had much to drink, he probably could've caught it. But his senses were somewhat dulled, and the liquid was already pouring from the lip of the cup.

"Oh, shit."

Karma actually wasn't that bad, Peter thought, as his eyes flashed ahead of him. Instead of splashing onto the floor, the beer had landed on an innocent bystander. An extremely attractive innocent bystander.

Her face was crinkled up like a disappointed mother who just came home to see her kid shoving stuffed animals down the toilet. Though her jeans were nearly beer-free, her shirt was entirely soaked, Splash Mountain soaked. Her gaze first landed on the boy, then on Peter. Okay, so karma was actually really cool.

"I am so sorry!" The boy slurred, his eyes drawn open in horror.

"Yeah, I figured," she sighed. She didn't sound condescending—she just sounded like she was already over it. The ends of Peter's lips twitched, but he suppressed the smirk.

"I can't believe I spilled my drink on you!" The boy was much less over it than she was, "I'm so sorry! I—oh, man—"

"Hey, bud, I heard they're doing Jägerbombs out on the porch," Peter whispered to the boy. The guilt was gone from his face almost instantaneously, replaced with an almost childlike sense of wonder.

"I fucking love Jägerbombs!" He exclaimed, his empty solo cup forgotten as stumbled off and out of the kitchen.

"I've never seen someone move on so fast," Wet Shirt Girl spoke up, watching the boy nearly fall again.

"The power of Jägerbombs," Peter suggested. He slipped his windbreaker from his arms and held it out to her, offering a smile along with it.

"Here," he said, "It doesn't exactly fix the wet shirt, but it works for now."

"Thanks," she nodded, grabbing the jacket. She slid it on with an almost exhausted sigh before speaking again: "I’ll only smell horrible now."

Peter laughed at that. He watched her zip it up, he watched the way it strained against—

"I'm Peter." His eyes connected with hers again. A brief look of shock took over her face before it melted back into the same neutral expression she held before. He almost wondered if it was a brief stroke of imagination that made him see her widened eyes.

"I bet you are." Was her reply. Oh?

"That's usually the cue to introduce yourself," he said, a hint of a smile still on his lips.

"Usually is," she nodded. There was a brief moment of silence, an awkward pause at which they stood at a stalemate. Peter took her in again. She was cute. Really cute. Even if she had been weird about introductions, he couldn't help but admire her. So, he spoke up, his voice splitting through the silence but not the tension.

"Do you want to borrow a shirt?" He asked, "My room's right upstairs." When she didn't immediately reply, he quickly added: "I swear I'm not trying to pull anything, I just figured it would probably be pretty uncomfortable wearing a beer shirt."

She watched him for a moment, her eyebrows crinkling in a way that made Peter fight off another smile. He knew he'd won when she let out another sigh, the tired, over-it kind that he was already becoming familiar with it.

"Alright," she nodded. Peter chose not to hide his grin as he mimicked her nod. He led her away from the kitchen and towards the staircase, peering over his shoulder every once in a while to make sure she was still in his tow. Sure enough, every time he looked, she would be there, pulling the windbreaker—his windbreaker—around her.

His room wasn't messy, exactly. There were scattered papers and rogue socks, and of course his flannel sheets were crinkled at the foot of his bed, but it wasn't disgusting. Their entrance was nothing less than unceremonious.

"This is my room," he stated the obvious, gesturing around.

"I would've never guessed." She shook her head. He gave her another small smile before he crossed the room to his dresser. He searched his drawers for something baggy and stupid, something he wouldn't miss. After a few seconds, he landed on a gray shirt with a smiling pterodactyl on the front. Faded words words under the creature read 'You're Dino-Soaring!' Good enough.

“Hopefully this shirt isn’t too provocative,” he grinned as he handed it over.

“Hm, I’ll have to make it work,” she said, inspecting the shirt in an overdramatized sort of way. While she looked at the shirt, Peter went right back to looking at her. She’d be a welcoming sight to wake up to next morning. He wouldn’t even mind paying for her Uber—hell, he might even walk her out of the house, make sure she gets in—

“You got a bathroom I can use? To change?” Her voice interrupts his thoughts, and he shakes the clouds from his eyes.

“Yeah, of course,” he nodded. A few doors down and they make it to the bathroom. Peter goes first, checking for drunk bathtub dwellers, before slapping the doorframe.

“All yours,” he announced, leaning against the wall next to the door. She gives him a salute before entering and closing the door behind her. It only takes a minute or two before she’s emerging again, extending the discarded windbreaker to him.

“It’s a little sticky,” she warns as she hands the jacket back to him. Peter’s eyes wandered down to her shirt.

“Oh, look, you’re ‘Dino-Soaring!’” He chuckled, the low, throaty kind that says he’s holding back an actual laugh.

“I’m always Dino-Soaring.” Her laugh accompanies his. His lips curl up in another smile.

“Do you wanna get something to drink? I can promise this one won’t end up on you,” he suggested, holding that same grin.

“Alright.” Her nod makes his lips quirk up higher. In a reverse of moments prior, he leads her down the stairs and to the kitchen when the sticky remnants of the spill have dried to the floor.

“What’s your poison?” He asked as he tucked the windbreaker under his arm.

“Just Coke—I think I’m gonna tap out for tonight.” Her eyes travel over the sticky floor and the stained shirt in her hands.

“Two Cokes, coming up,” Peter nodded. Two red cans are procured from the fridge in an instant.

“Thanks,” she hummed as she took the drink from his hands, “And thanks for the shirt, too. It really would’ve sucked to have to wait until I’m home to change.”

“Don’t mention it.” He waved her off, cracking open the tab of the Coke.

“Living in a frat must be…sticky.” She can’t seem to peel her eyes off the spilled patch of beer.

“Sometimes,” Peter chuckled, “But it’s not all bad. I get to give out dinosaur shirts.”

“Oh, don’t tell me that I’m not the first girl to ever Dino-Soar around these parts,” she gasped in mock surprise.

“No, no, trust me, I’ve never seen someone Dino-Soar quite like you,” he grinned in reply. He liked her. She was a little awkward, but so was he. He liked her smile, her laugh. He’d probably like her name, too, if she would ever give it to him.

“You never told me what your name is.” His head cocked to the side in a questioning manner. Her expression twisted in a way that told him she knew that was coming.

“That’s right,” she hummed, “Never told you it. Before I do, can I ask you something?”

“Shoot,” he nodded approvingly.

“Do you not recognize me?” Her lips curled in a small smile, “Peter, we’ve had classes together since freshman year—and not just the lecture hall ones, like, the ones where there’s only twelve people in the room. It’s sort of a statistical marvel. I’m honestly less offended and way more impressed that you don’t know me.”

The words hit him like a semi-truck. Really? She’d been in his classes? She had to be joking—no, she wasn’t joking, the look on her face told him that much. He immediately searched through his memory for her face, combing through classes. Peter never took himself as someone with a bad memory, but he was starting to change his mind. She had to be lying—she wasn’t lying.

“You’re—”

“Where have you been? What the hell are you wearing?” He’s interrupted by another voice. Sliding onto the scene (and effectively ruining Peter’s chances of salvaging the situation into a hookup) is a girl with puffy red hair. Freckles dot her olive skin and scrunch with her as she brings her nose up.

“Long story,” Dino-Soaring Girl responds with a smile, the one she’d been giving to Peter only a moment ago.

“Okay, okay, we’ll come on,” the redhead grasped her arm gently, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Liv threw up after doing a Jägerbomb and we’re gonna head out. I don’t wanna leave without you.”

“The power of Jägerbombs,” Dino-Soaring Girl shook her head. Before she was dragged off, she turned to Peter for one last look.

“See you in class?” She suggested with a smile. He didn’t get to respond before she was gone, the redhead threading through the masses of people. Peter watched her go, unsure whether he should be confused or smiling. He chose the latter.

Peter Parker wasn’t dumb, but he was stupid. And, he was out of a dinosaur t-shirt.

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