#tasm imagine

[spider-stark]

INFINITELY YOU

part one // back at the beginning

SUMMARY - In every universe, Peter Parker seems destined to fall in love with you. And, in every universe, he realizes it too late. When universes collide and two of them are granted a second chance at rectifying their biggest mistake, neither of them are willing to let the opportunity go to waste–even if you end up not being the person they thought you were.

WARNINGS - 18+, story will contain mentions of blood, broken bones, weapons, suggestive language, and more. all versions of peter are between the ages of 19-23 in this story. I will try to update warnings accordingly for each chapter, but please read at your own discretion

WORD COUNT - 5.4k

// masterlist // series masterlist // send me your thoughts // playlist // no way home fan fiction //

The world seemed to slip out from under you, fracturing beneath your feet and leaving you to sink into a deep, dark hole.  

It was quiet—so unbearably quiet—and the tension between you and your estranged friends had become so thick that you feared it would soon take form and seep into your lungs. Maybe that would be for the best, you thought, wondering if suffocating on your collective grief would somehow be easier than whatever came next.  

“Aunt May…” You sputtered, unable to force the words out. Shaking your head, you asked, “Are you sure?”  

God, what a stupid question. You almost wanted to slap yourself for asking something so mindless.

Ned’s lips pressed into a thin line, trying to swallow his own sorrow. “I wish we weren’t,” he said with a small, wistful chuckle, still too shocked to fully acknowledge the gravity of it all. “But… yeah, we’re sure. She’s… She’s gone.”  

Your heart sank, unable to think of the right string of words to form a reply.  

With your mind reeling, you couldn’t stop yourself from thinking that this was some sort of cruel joke–the kind where the punchline would never quite hit. But all it took was one look at the red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks of Ned and Mj to know that they were telling the truth.  

She was dead—Aunt May was dead.  

And, somehow, it seemed as though that wasn’t even the worst part of the mess your friends had gotten themselves in.  

“I know that it’s a lot to take in all at once,” Ned started back up, perhaps noticing the way the color seemed to drain from your face. “If you need me to go back over it or explain anything then I can-”  

You stopped listening to him, staring blankly at the doormat beneath their feet. They hadn’t even bothered to come inside your apartment, too panicked to waste any time before delving into the details about Doctor Strange and the multiverse and other Spider-Man’s.  

But honestly, you didn’t care about any of that.  

You didn’t care about string theory or whatever multiversal villains had apparently slipped into your world—because you couldn’t stop thinking about what Ned had said about how May died. It hurt to think about it, the shrapnel and debris that had torn her flesh, the glider that had punctured her side and left her bleeding out in Peter’s arms…  

Aunt May had died a horrific and brutal death, and you weren’t sure that there would ever be any way for you to come to terms with that.  

“Peter,” you finally spoke, fire raging in your eyes as you looked at Ned. “Where is Peter?”  

He spared Mj a sidelong glance, as if silently asking for her permission to answer. Frustration began to prick your skin, crawling up your spine as your stare turned harsh, offended that he didn’t just tell you outright. You knew that things between the four of you hadn’t ended well, but this… 

Mj crossed her arms, looking almost as frustrated as you were with Ned’s choice to look to her for permission, and decided to answer in his place.  

“Downstairs,” she told you, her tone purposefully clipped as a way to show that the wounds sustained in the downfall of your friendship had not yet healed–and you didn’t care, because you knew that yours hadn’t either.  

“Is he…” you trailed off, not sure how to say it. If May’s death had been so brutal, then God knows what kind of injuries Peter might’ve sustained in the fight?  

But you didn’t have to speak, because whether the two of you liked it or not, you had been friends—and she always knew what you were thinking. “He’s safe,” she told you, quelling your nerves just a little. A reluctant sigh slipped her lips, shaking her head as she added, “But he’s not okay.”  

You knew what she meant—physically Peter had survived the fight with this Goblin man that they had told you about, but mentally…  

You understood why she was hesitant to tell you about it, too. Of the three of you, there was only one that had ever been able to delve down into the depths of Peter’s trauma and help him claw his way back out of the gnawing pit that threatened to consume him—and it wasn’t either of them.  

And, just as Mj knew you, you knew her. 

She didn’t want you around Peter, not anymore—and so if she was willingly telling you that he wasn’t okay, then it meant that she knew how much he truly needed you right now.  

“You guys should’ve told me sooner,” you grit your teeth, desperately trying to bite back against the resentment rising in your throat. “You should’ve told me as soon as all of this started, instead of waiting until everything went to shit.”  

It wasn’t your intention to sound bitter, but that didn’t stop you from coming across that way. Ned recoiled from your tone like a blow, but you didn’t have it in you to feel guilty right now.  

They had been dealing with all of this multiversal crisis bullshit for nearly a week now—and yet none of them had thought to say a single word to you until now. And while you knew that your presence likely wouldn’t have changed the course of events that had unfolded, it still hurt.  

And it still made you angry.  

“What do you need me to do?” You asked after realizing that neither of them intended to respond to your sharp statement.  

“Well,” Ned started, nervously rubbing his sweaty palms against his khakis, “it’s gonna take us some time to figure out where the villains are hiding, and even longer to work out what to do with them. And, since these other Peter’s have dealt with these guys before, we could really use their help…”  

He trailed off, once again looking to Mj, this time to silently urge her to finish his sentence.  

She rolled her eyes. “We need you to let them stay here.”  

Your brows furrowed, glancing between the two of them as if once again waiting for some sort of punchline to hit. It didn’t.  

“It might take us a bit–a few weeks, maybe—to find all of them and stop them. And now that Happy’s complex was literally blown to pieces, we don’t have anywhere for the two of them to stay while they help out.” Mj tried to explain. She looked defeated when she said, “We didn’t know who else we could go to that would actually understand.”  

Understand.  

If you weren’t still reeling from everything they had just told you, then you probably would have laughed at the word. You would hardly say that you understood what was going on—but you knew what she was getting.  

Mj’s dad would hardly allow two random men to stay in his house with them, and Ned’s Lola probably wasn’t too keen on the idea either. With Happy’s place destroyed, they had nowhere left to turn.  

You weren’t sure how to feel now that you knew they had only come to you because you were their last choice.  

At the risk of aggravating Mj, you said, “I wanna talk to Peter.”  

“I don’t know if now’s a good time,” Mj swiftly shot back. “I told you that’s he’s not okay—”  

“But he’s here,” you stated, nodding your head towards the stairs somewhere behind them that led back down to the lobby. “And you’re insane if you think I’m gonna agree to let two random ass men stay in my house without at least knowing what his plan is.”  

Mj bristled at the harshness of your tone; and so did you.  

You weren’t used to this.  

Mj had been your friend for far longer than she had been whatever she was to you now, and neither of you were used to this—to your once special connection being reduced to nothing more than strained conversations and fractured feelings towards one another.  

“Fine,” Mj surrendered, her hands lifting slightly. “Do whatever you want.”  

It wasn’t until then that you realized that you had been waiting for her permission, even though you didn’t believe you truly needed it. Peter was your friend—and he had been your friend long before he even knew Mj. If you wanted to talk to him, then you had every right to.  

Yet you still hadn’t been able to will yourself to push between the two of them until she had spoken, side-stepping to let you pass. When you started descending the stairs to the lobby, you were shocked that neither she nor Ned followed, offering you a sense of privacy with Peter that you hadn’t expected—as if she still held some shred of trust in you.  

You didn’t want to think about it though, unsure of how you felt about that, too.  

Halfway down the dank stairway of your complex, you felt a shiver dance along your spine. It prickled your skin and set your nerves on edge, but it didn’t catch you off guard. You always felt this way when Peter was around—as if your body could always sense when he was around, even when you hadn’t yet seen him.  

The last step creaked when you placed your weight onto it, and from across the poorly maintained lobby, Peter’s neck snapped in your direction at the sound.  

It felt like ice skittered across your bones at the sight of him, your heart lurching against your ribcage.  

You had gotten used to seeing Peter battered and bruised years ago. Even before he became Spider-Man, he often found himself the victim of bullies and assholes, rarely going more than a few weeks without a busted lip or a new bruise. But this…  

This was different, somehow.  

It wasn’t just the blood-stained suit that set your heart racing, nor was it the lacerated skin or his sweat-matted hair. No, those things were normal—in the same way that being bitten by a radioactive spider was normal.  

It was even normal to see him standing before you, his chin high and shoulders back, presenting a perfect image of strength even after experiencing something as traumatic as losing May.  

Peter’s relationship with trauma had been intimate enough these past few years that you weren’t shocked to see him like this, standing tall rather than balling up and crying on the floor. You figured that was what most others would do if they were in his situation.  

But Peter wasn’t like other people.  

Peter was a hero—and if you had learned anything about heroes in your lifetime, it was that they were incredible liars.  

His eyes couldn't lie, though.

Bloodshot and ringed with exhaustion, his eyes were what had made you feel so sick, your stomach twisting itself into knots.  

They lacked the life and hope of the boy you had loved so dearly, replaced with something like rage—a pure, unbridled and unrelenting type of rage. Looking at him now you couldn’t ignore the burning talon that seemed to rake against your mind, filling your brain with thoughts you didn’t want to think right now—telling you that looking at Peter now, with the light draining from his eyes, was the same as looking in a mirror.  

“Peter,” a metallic tang danced on your tongue as you dug your teeth into your cheek, biting back against the tears threatening to well-up in your eyes.  

Letting your instincts guide you, you rushed across the lobby to where he stood by the front door, reaching for his hand without a second thought.  

His suit had been torn along his palm, and as you felt the warmth radiating from his calloused skin, you tried to take some comfort in the fact that at least he had survived—even if you still weren’t ready to accept that May hadn’t.  

“Don’t,” He yanked his hand back from you, his voice hoarse. “Don’t say you’re sorry.”  

You froze for half a heartbeat, your hand hanging awkwardly in-between the two of you. “I wasn’t going to.”  

You weren’t sure if you were telling the truth, but it didn’t seem to matter either way.  

Either way, you tried to understand his reaction, even as you winced from the sting of rejection. What good would an apology really do for a boy who had already lost everything?  

It wouldn’t bring the light back to his eyes.  

It wouldn’t bring May back to life.  

“Ned told me everything,” you told him, unwilling or unable to say Mj’s name right now. You clenched and unclenched your fists, painfully aware of the absence of his warmth. “You know I’ll do anything I can to help, so just tell me what needs to be done and I’ll do it.”  

Peter scoffed, his jaw tensing. “We both know that what I want doesn’t matter,” he said bluntly. Motioning to your surroundings, he continued, “If what I wanted mattered, then we wouldn’t even be here. We wouldn’t be asking for your help—wouldn’t be dragging another person into this and asking them to risk their life!”  

You did your best not to react, knowing that he hadn’t meant it quite as bad as it sounded. It already hurt knowing that you had been Mj and Ned’s last choice for help, but knowing that Peter didn’t want you to be a choice at all hurt far worse—even if it was to keep you safe.  

“Well, you’re here now,” you told him, keeping your voice steady. “So you might as well tell me what your plan is—or at least tell me how long I’ll need to play bunkmates with strangers.”  

You were lying when you had told Mj and Ned that you needed to talk to Peter before agreeing to let the alternate Spider-Men stay in your apartment—you didn’t care about housing with strangers, aware that there was nothing they could do to you that you haven't endured before.  

Selfishly, you had just wanted a reason to come down and talk to him. To see him. To know that he was alive. You didn’t care about anything else.  

Sometimes you worried that you didn’t even care about your own life, only Peter’s.  

But Peter cared about your life—far more than you would ever want him to.  

“My plan doesn’t matter,” he said, his tone clipped, “cause I don’t want you getting involved. And I definitely don’t want you to let those guys stay here, alright? We don’t know them.”  

You steeled yourself, resisting the urge to argue with him and instead asking a simple question. “Do you have anywhere else for them to go?”  

He didn’t respond, huffing out a breath, already frustrated with the defiance he knew you were about to display.  

“You might not want my help, but if Ned’s right–” you told him, gesturing backwards towards the staircase, “–which he usually is—then you’re gonna need these guys.”  

“But that doesn’t mean we need you,” Peter protested gruffly.  

Your chest tightened, but you kept shoving back against the hurt. Later, you would deal with that later.  

“It doesn’t matter if you need me,” you retorted with a defiant tilt of your chin, unwavering as his rageful gaze seemed to pierce through your skull, “because you’re stuck with me either way.”  

You hadn’t expected the statement to affect him, but it did, his voice softening slightly. “I always have been.”  

“Exactly. So you might as well make this easy on the both of us and not fight me on it,” you declared, trying to conjure up the most convincing smile you could offer. “Let me help, Peter.”  

A sigh slipped his lips, heavy with reluctant resignation as he realized he wasn’t winning this battle. “We’ve already lost so many people… I’ve lost so many people. And there’s already enough blood on my hands,” he said, lifting his hands to display the torn, blood-stained fabric, driving his point home. “It doesn’t matter what I say—so let them stay here or don’t, I don’t care. But just know that whatever happens to you, it’s not on me. Because I told you to stay out of it, alright?”  

He took a step closer, and you didn’t dare move a single muscle as his lips hovered just inches from your own. “Do whatever you want,” his voice was barely a whisper, laced with a venomous edge that nearly made you tremble, “but don’t expect me to come running to save you when it all goes to shit.”  

His words hung in the air like a curse, lingering in the lobby for far longer than he did. As soon as the promise had left his lips, he was already turning on his heel and shoving the door open, abandoning you in the dim space.  

You knew better than to think he meant it.  

But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.  

You stuck your hands beneath the running faucet, scrubbing the blood from a jagged cut on your palm. It wasn’t all that deep, shallow enough that it probably wouldn't even leave a scar once healed. When you were done rinsing it, you cupped your hands and gathered the water in them, splashing your reddened cheeks.  

Crying would have been a normal part of grieving for May, and when you forced yourself to look back at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you couldn’t help but wish that you could’ve been a little more normal.  

But tears hadn’t been the cause of your flushed appearance—no, because you had never been very good at expressing the more delicate emotions, like sadness.  

You were good at expressing anger, though.  

You were very good at expressing anger.  

After Peter had stormed out of the lobby and abandoned you to choke on his cruel promise, it had taken you several minutes to work up the nerve to go back upstairs and face Mj and Ned. By some stroke of luck you had managed to keep a tight leash on your often volatile attitude, telling them your decision to let the other Peter’s stay with you.  

And then you lost control as soon as they left, loosening the reins on your anger and taking the uncomfortable feelings out on a nearby potted plant, shouting curses as you tossed it at the wall.  

By the time you thought to clean it up, after finishing another string of irate profanities, your hands had been shaking so bad that you cut yourself on one of the dirt-covered shards. And maybe, once you felt the jagged ceramic dig into your palm, you should’ve hissed or cursed more or stopped cleaning to patch yourself up.  

But you didn’t. You stayed quiet, continuing to pluck the shattered fragments off the floor until you had gotten them all, dumping them into the trash before grabbing the broom and dustpan and cleaning the dirt and scattered leaves, too.  

There were more important things to deal with than cleaning a dirty wound.  

Like making sure none of your friends could see that you weren’t nearly as composed as you tried to seem.  

The familiar rhythmic rapping of Mj’s knuckles against the front door made you forgo the bandage you were going to fix to your palm, tossing the rag you’d used to dry your face into the sink and heading straight to the living room.  

Carefully shoving your injured hand into your pocket, you opened the door and tried not to look surprised when Peter wasn’t standing in-between Mj and Ned. Of course he hadn’t come with them—why would he? He had already made it clear how he felt about all of this.  

It did become significantly harder to mask your shock however when a tall, messy haired boy stepped into view from behind them, clad in a crimson and cobalt webbed suit.  

“Get inside,” you hissed a bit harsher than intended, stepping aside and waving the three of them into your apartment.  

The last thing you needed was your neighbors seeing an unmasked, alternate version of Spider-Man standing in front of your door. It had already been risky enough that Peter had come here in his suit, standing in the lobby and sticking out like a sore thumb.  

Once they were inside, you shut the door and turned to Ned. “I thought you said there were two of them,” you noted, avoiding looking at the lanky Spider-Man who seemed just as desperate to avoid you, busying himself with walking around the room and studying the art on the walls.  

Ned shrugged. “He didn’t wanna come.”  

“Not that he didn’t want to come,” Mj pointedly corrected him, frowning at his bluntness. “He just wanted to keep patrolling. The Goblin, the one who…” she cut herself off, unable to force the words off her tongue. Scrapping the sentence altogether, she started again, “The Goblin’s from his world, so he seemed to think that he had the best chance of hunting him down. But we gave him the address.”  

You didn’t bother giving her an actual response, a subtle nod the only sign you had heard her at all. She didn’t seem to care much, just as unsure of what to say to you as you were to her.  

“So,” Ned clicked his tongue, trying to cut through the growing tension. “This is Peter 3!” He announced, gesturing to the other Peter, who was picking up a frame that had been face down on an end table. “That’s what we’re calling him, at least. Y’know, to tell them apart. The other one is Peter 2.”  

You gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Creative.”  

Done dawdling over Ned and Mj, you forced yourself to look at the un-masked hero from another world. He was placing the frame back onto the table—not face down, as he had found it, but up-right. You frowned at the photograph it displayed, a picture of you, Ned, Mj, and Peter from sometime last year.  

“You’re awfully nosy,” you told him, your voice like ice.  

His muscles tensed, hesitating as he faced your gaze. “Sorry,”  

His voice was slightly deeper than Peter’s, his hair a shade or two darker, his features a bit less soft, but still noticeably young, putting him in his early twenties at most. Truthfully, if it weren’t for the suit he was wearing, you would’ve never guessed that he was supposed to be the Peter Parker of another world.  

You had expected him to be more… Peter-like, in appearance, and yet as far as you could tell the resemblances were very slight, if they even existed at all.  

The mannerisms were there, though. The subtleties of Peter Parker, the things that most people never noticed and yet were ingrained in your mind. He licked his lips, a nervous tic that left you always carrying chapstick in your pocket. His hands hung at his sides and you saw the way his thumb tapped against each of his fingers, starting with his index and ending with his pinky, only to start over again.  

Watching him, taking note of every familiar twitch and tic and habit, made something in your chest tighten.  

And, when you told him your name, it was as if your icy tone had melted altogether. “It’s nice to meet you.”  

For a moment you thought he wouldn’t respond, his throat bobbing as he swallowed roughly, eyes darting around the room. But then, suddenly, he gave you a weak smile. “You too.” A trace of amusement laced his response, too subtle for you to detect.  

“We’ve gotta go,” Ned suddenly spoke, jutting a thumb towards the door. “Peter’s waiting outside so he can make sure we get home safe, but-” he stopped, brows furrowing as considered whether he should finish. “But text us later, okay? Just to let us know that you’re okay.”  

Your heart stuttered at the mention of Peter’s name, at knowing that he actually had come—even if it hadn’t been for you—but you didn’t mention it.  

Instead, you focused on Ned, giving your sweet friend the kindest smile you could muster—which, admittedly, didn’t feel like much. Despite everything that had happened with your friends in the past few months, your fight had never been with Ned. He was just caught in the middle, unfairly forced to pick sides.  

And you couldn’t bring yourself to be mad at him for picking Peter. Not when you knew that you would’ve done the same.  

“I will,” you promised.  

Ned gave you an equally somber smile before opening the door to leave. Even once Ned was in the hall, already descending the staircase, Mj lingered in the entryway—not for long, a heartbeat, maybe—turning back towards you just long enough to mutter, “Keep your guard up.”  

You didn’t have a chance to say anything back to her before she let the door slam shut, following quickly after Ned and leaving you alone with… this guy.  

The other Peter had abandoned his spot by the end table, seemingly done with investigating your apartment and left to do nothing but stand awkwardly a few feet away from you, clearly unsure of what to do or say now that it was just the two of you.  

“So,” you breathed out, popping your lips. “Peter 3, yeah? Good name. You go by that back home, too?”  

He laughed, a suit-clad hand nervously rising to the back of his neck. “Uh–yeah, no, definitely not. Just plain ole’ Peter Parker over there.”  

The nervous energy radiating from the boy almost seemed contagious as you started to pick at your nails. “Do you have a nickname?”  

He blinked, looking as if he hadn’t heard a word you said. “Sorry, what?”  

“A nickname,” you repeated, only for your brows to then furrow. “You have those where you’re from, don’t you? Nicknames? Like, you know, something you go by other than your actual name?”  

“Oh! Yes—sorry, yes we have nicknames in my world,” he exclaimed, his pale skin starting to flush.  

“I just thought that this whole numerical system thing that Ned’s going with to keep track of who’s who seems a little dehumanizing, yeah?”  

“For sure,” he agreed, sucking on his lip as he nodded along with you.  

You gave him a second, waiting and waiting for an answer to your apparently long-forgotten question, before asking, “So… Do you have one?”  

The slight blush that had tinged his skin instantly darkened, suddenly the same shade of crimson as his suit. His grip on the back of his neck tightened, too, his fingertips prodding into his own skin.  

“Sorry-” he apologized for the millionth time, more nervous laughter spilling out alongside it, “I do! I mean, sort of, I think. I don’t know if it’s really a nickname, but back in my world you really just called me by my last name most of the time anyway, so–I don’t know—maybe that would work?”  

The sheer quantity of word vomit spewing from his mouth was impressive and likely hard-to-follow for most, but you consider yourself a bit of an expert in the anxious ramblings of Peter Parker.  

“In your world?” You echoed, instantly catching the subtle mention. “We know each other?”  

Maybe it shouldn’t have been shocking to learn that there were other versions of you throughout the multiverse as well, and yet it was. You figured that it was plausible, of course, considering that two variations of Peter had just been thrown into your world, but for some reason it just didn’t feel right.  

You reasoned that anyone would feel that way, though.  

“Yeah,” the boy, Parker, answered, a bit clipped. “We do.”  

“Interesting.” Your brows lifted, “Are we friends?”  

Parker scrunched his nose, his head tilting slightly.  

“Yeah,” his voice was an octave higher than before, and if you knew him better, then you likely would’ve called him on the obvious tell. But you didn’t know him, and so you didn’t say anything when he decided to double-down on the lie, “Yeah, we’re friends.”  

“Well I guess that means that this is just as weird for you as it is for me, then.” You laughed, trying to add some humor to the situation.  

Parker gave a tightlipped smile. “Definitely weird.”  

The seconds felt like they stretched into minutes after that, silently racking your brain for something to say, hoping that he might say something—but, eventually, you settled on offering an escape from the situation instead.  

“You’re probably exhausted from the whole multiversal travel thing, so if you want, I can just show you the guest room and give you some privacy or something,” you told him, vaguely gesturing towards the hallway.  

Parker seemed to relax a bit at the prospect of being alone, loosing a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Uhm–yeah, that’d be great, actually.”  

He followed you down the short hall, his hand finally falling from his neck and his skin returning to its normal complexion as his nerves began to wane.  

“This is it,” you told him, the hinges crying out as you shoved the door open. “It’s not much, but it’s somewhere to sleep, at least.”  

Wasn’t much felt like an understatement, though the room was typical for a New York apartment.  

A tad bigger than your average shoebox, there was just enough space to fit a full-sized bed, a small armoire, and a single nightstand adorned with an old desk lamp and a little pink teddy bear—a gift from Peter, years ago.  

Parker walked into the room, looking around and brushing his fingertips against the emerald quilt. It was a bit old and somewhat thin, but it was better than nothing you supposed, and Parker certainly didn’t seem like he was going to complain about it.  

“It’s great,” he assured you, and even though he did sound genuine, you couldn’t help but snort. He looked over at where you still stood in the doorway, giving you a timid smile as he said, “Way better than sleeping on the streets.”  

You returned the gesture, lazily lifting a shoulder. “We’ll see if you still feel that way in the morning. That mattress is about a hundred years old, so it’s probably the equivalent of sleeping on really lumpy cement.”  

Parker hummed his amusement, carefully perching on the edge of the bed, his smile seeming to deepen when he caught sight of the little bear on the nightstand.  

“I guess I’ll let you get some sleep,” you told him, reaching for the door handle, “if you need anything—extra blankets, or something—just let me know; my room’s right across the hall.”  

He muttered his thanks, but as you went to pull the door closed, you heard your name fall from his lips. It was strange sounding, strangled and foreign, like he didn’t quite know how to say it. When you turned back to face him, a subtle wince seemed to etch across his face.  

“Can I… Can I ask you something?” Parker stammered out the question, his voice faltering like a candle flame in the wind.  

You nodded once, fingers still wrapped around the knob, savoring the coolness of the brass against the now-clotted wound on your palm.

He took a breath, his gaze momentarily flickering back to the teddy bear on the nightstand. His thoughts felt heavy on his tongue as he tried to force them out of his mouth, “Are you happy?”  

You blinked at him, unsure of what to make of the hope that seemed to cling to each syllable and half-wondering if you’d heard him right.  

“I-” you tried to start, only to realize that you had no clue what to say.  

There was a fleeting moment where you realized that you could tell him the truth. You could tell him that happiness felt like a distant shore far from your reach, forever obscured by the fiery tempest of a brutal and ancient rage—a rage that, sometimes, didn’t even feel like your own.  

But then he looked at you with those big, expectant eyes; eyes that should have been foreign to you, and yet felt so familiar—and you realized that he wouldn’t like that answer.  

Sucking in a breath, you evaded his question as best you could. “Ask me again when all of this is over,” you told him, your lips curving into a soft, playful arc, “and maybe I’ll tell you the truth.”  

This time when you went to close the door, he didn’t stop you.  

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a/n - i wish that i could properly express just how amazing (and terrifying) it has been to rewrite this story. first created at quite possibly the lowest point of my life, infinitely you has provided me with a necessary escape at a time when i desperately needed it. now that i'm in a better position, i found it necessary to give it the plot, writing style, and dedication that it deserved. i'm aware some people might not be interested in a rewrite and that's ok, but for those that are i just wanna say: thank you, thank you, thank you for giving infinitely you (and me) another shot. you're incredible.

if anyone would like to be added to the tag list, just let me know! as of right now, chapters will be posted every other monday, though i may switch that to weekly soon!

part two, titled "crullers & constants", to be released april 1st

#peter parker imagine #peter parker fanfiction #no way home imagine #no way home #peter parker fic #peter parker x reader #peter parker imagines #tasm fanfiction #tasm imagine #andrew!peter imagine #tobey!peter imagine #tom!peter imagine #tom!peter x reader #tobey!peter x reader #andrew!peter x reader #mcu x reader #dark peter parker #peter parker headcanons #peter parker fan fiction #spiderman imagine #spiderman imagines #spiderman fic #spiderman fanfiction #marvel x reader #marvel imagines #marvel imagine #tobey maguire #andrew garfield #tom holland #infinitely you

[spiderfunkz]

thinking about peter parker whos girlfriend is a total book nerd . . . where he'd always take you on dates to the bookstore and insists on buying you a new book. where he'd follow you around the store like a lost puppy while you run around trying to find the book you want.

peter parker who'd always be there to comfort you when your favorite character meets their end, where he would say, "maybe they'll get resurrected in the next book, who knows?" while awkwardly smiling, which usually puts you in the mood again to smile and laugh at his attempt to comfort you. "the series is done peter, that was the last book." you sniff, "hey maybe they'll do a cameo in the prequel!"

peter parker who'd listen to your rambles about your most recent read and do research afterwards because he couldn't process all the lore properly and got confused halfway as you were talking. but even when he is confused, he still listens and nods anyways.

peter parker who waited for it to rain at night so he could recreate the 'kissing & dancing in the rain' scene from one of your favorite books because you wouldn't stop talking about it, and he personally thinks you deserve to experience that at least once. you both ended up getting a cold

peter parker who lays beside you and reads comics while you're reading your books. where he'd slowly inch closer and closer to you and rest his head on your shoulder, placing his comic book down and just slowly fall asleep on your shoulder as you whisper the lines from your book.

peter parker who'd secretly read along from behind and dramatically gasps when a character does something remotely weird. where at the end you two would just start gossiping about how that character would do such things.

#tasm #tasm peter #tasm peter parker #tasm spiderman #tasm fanfiction #tasm peter fluff #tasm fluff #tasm!peter #tasm imagines #tasm imagine #tasm!peter imagine #tasm!peter parker imagine #tasm!peter fluff #tasm!peter x you #tasm!peter parker x reader #tasm!peter parker #tasm!peter x reader #peter parker #peter parker fluff #peter parker x reader #peter parker headcanon #peter parker imagine #the amazing spiderman #the amazing spider man #the amazing spiderman fluff #tasm!peter x y/n #tasm blurb #peter parker blurb #tasm!spiderman x reader #andrew garfield!peter parker

[mayfieldss]

Lessons in chemistry - Peter Parker

Synopsis: Your best friend Peter tries to teach you how to skateboard, but distractions occur.

AN: it's one in the morning, and I gave in to the delusions. They have taken me in as one of their own, and they said they would let me go if i posted this.

"You gotta trust me, okay?" Peter's got one foot on the skateboard, holding it steady as you stand a fair distance away, hesitant and unsure why you agreed to this particular day.

Peter had offered to teach you to skateboard, and while the offer seemed perfectly reasonable and fun at the time, being here now was an entirely different story. You were beyond clumsy and hopeless when it came to learning new things. Peter knew this, yet he seemed so certain you could do this one activity.

"I don't think this is a good idea, Peter." You're squinting as the sun beats down at you, and the concrete you stand on currently seems far too menacing to learn to skate on. Peter had originally offered to start you out on grass, but to do that you would have had to go somewhere more public to find some, being in new york and all, and you weren't fond of embarrassing yourself in front of more than just Peter.

"Just c'mere." Peter is waving you over to him, and the gentle smile on his lips is enough to bribe you closer.

"Okay, now give me your hands."

You do as you're told, and he gives your hands an encouraging squeeze.

"I'm holding the board steady. It shouldn't go anywhere when you get on, okay?" He's trying to make you feel better, but the anxiety within you picks apart his words.

"It shouldn't, but it might." You mumble, eyes down on the board, glaring harshly at its existence.

"Can you just trust me madame pessimism?" There's a humorous sigh that falls from him as you get up the courage to step on the board, and when you do, it seems okay.

"See? There you go. The first step is done." Peter squeezes your hand again, and you wobble a little on the board despite Peter keeping it from rolling away.

"Well, this was fun. Time to go home now." It comes off as a joke, but you're more than serious as Peter shakes his head.

"Give it a chance."

You look up at him, and you're oddly close. With your hands in his, it's almost as though you're about to dance under the old overpass at which you stand. "Okay, Parker, I trust you." You mean it, but that doesn't mean you're at all comfortable with what you're about to do. Part of you wishes you'd stayed home, while the other is glad to be here with Peter.

"I'm gonna take my foot away from the board now, okay? It's gonna roll a little, but I got you so don't worry."

"I'm worrying Peter."

He laughs. A beautiful laugh and a wonderful smile accompanying it before he begins the fated count down. "On three, one, two–" he lets the board free, and you don't move much, being on flat ground and all, but still the slight adjustment freaks you out just a little. Again, you sway on the board, and Peter holds you steady.

"I hate this so much." You whine, unable to contain the true depth of your feelings. The situation is so far out of your comfort zone that it feels as though your skin is crawling with you inside it.

"Well, it's not like I can tell or anything. I mean, you look like you're having a great time. You know, with the tense shoulders and genuine panic in your eyes, I would have assumed you were having fun or something." his sarcasm does little to ease you, but it's so truly Peter. So authentic to his person that you can almost imagine yourself standing on flat ground beside him, rather than supported by the wheels of his old and flimsy skateboard.

"Let's just get this over with." You try for a smile, but it's hard to do, every muscle in your body preoccupied with trying to stay as still as possible.

"We're gonna try and move now, just a little."

"Fuck."

"Yeah," Peter laughs "fuck."

And just like that, you're rolling along, heart beating quickly as Peter sends encouragements. You're stable for a few moments before you get into your head and feel yourself tilting backward. Letting go of his hands, you rush to grasp Peter's shoulders, his hands falling to your waist as he pulls you toward him and off the board.

"Woah, okay, that was a good first attempt."

You're gripping him tight, too tight, as the board rolls away from you both. Peter will go get it later, but for now he's with you.

"I almost died." You mutter, a death grip on Peter's jacket.

"You were fine." Peter chuckles, pulling you in for a hug. You accept it, despite the fact you're slightly upset with him for making you do this. And when you pull back, squinting up at him you lose all the stress from before.

Peter loses himself entirely, thinking things nowhere near the topic of skateboarding and closer to the topic of kissing.

"You did great... really great." Peter insists one hand running down your back as he tries to stop the thoughts racing through his head. He'd always liked you, as more than a friend. He'd always wanted to wake up beside you, hold your hand, take you to prom. He'd always wanted you.

He clears his throat, and you look away from him, almost disappointed.

"You want to try again?" He asks, trying to get back on track. You shake your head and look back to him, and in your eyes, he sees something different. A sort of confidence.

"What do I get if I do?" You're teasing him. He thinks you are, at least, but the mischief you're offering is tempting.

"What do you want?"

"A dinner date, somewhere where there's pasta." You answer, so sure of yourself, and Peter's brain freezes up.

"A date as in a date or...?" He sounds so stupid like this, and he realizes just how close he still is to you. Where his hands are placed softly on your hips and where your fingers hold fast to his shoulders.

"Whatever you want it to be, Peter. Now, if we have a deal, I would like to try again." You look to the direction the skateboard had gone and see it paused a small distance away, but you don't get to retrieve it. Before you can, Peter's hand comes up to your face, fingers placed gently on your jaw to turn your gaze back his way.

It's not what you expect from him, and in honesty, it's not what Peter expects from himself either but he leans in closer, pausing just long enough for you to pull away if you want to.

"Do it." You whisper, your breath brushing over his lips, as if painting the grin that spreads onto his face.

The kiss is gentle, his nose bumping awkwardly with yours as he leans closer, closing the gap. He can feel the heat in your cheeks when he places his hands there, thumb brushing over the skin as he breathes you in. Your fingers grip his shoulders harder now, moving up toward his neck to hold him closer, and there's something about the way you move with him so perfectly that makes him think this can't possibly be real. But it is, and when he pulls back for air, he examines your features, hoping for your reaction. You speak first, before he can.

"That was weird," you say, breaking his heart a little. "But in a good way. I'd like to try it again sometime, if that's okay with you?" You mend the break easily, and soon he's grinning again, one hand finding it's way into your hair.

"It's definitely okay with me." Peter mumbles, eyes drifting back down to your lips in anticipation.

"Should I book a time with your secretary for our next appointment?" Your head tilts to the side as you watch every expression that crosses his face. He's beautiful, definitely, and his heart is yours.

"As a matter of fact, I have an hour or two free right now. I was skateboarding with this girl I really like, but I think her mind is wandering elsewhere."

You smack him hard on the arm, but before you can remark anything back, he's kissing you again, sending you into a blissful silence.

You're learning very little about skateboarding, but it seems your time is well spent anyway. Peter doesn't care how long he's here for, and he'll forget his skateboard under the overpass in favor of walking you home. He'll hold your hand the whole way there and kiss you goodbye on the doorstep before he leaves. He'll have everything he's ever wanted by the end of the day, skateboard or not, and that's more than okay with him.

GENERAL TAGLIST: @heliads @candywh0r3 @hiya-itsamber @s00buwu

MARVEL GENERAL: @5kyyyy

TASM PETER PARKER: @arignipanja574 @winter-soldier-vibes

#peter parker #tasm peter parker #tasm #tasm fanfiction #tasm!peter x reader #tasm!peter x you #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker fanfic #peter parker fic #andrew garfield #tasm!peter parker #tasm!peter imagine #tasm!peter fanfiction #tasm fanfic #tasm imagine #peter parker imagine #peter parker one shot #peter parker fluff #tasm peter x reader #tasm peter imagines #tasm peter x you #andrew garfield fanfiction #marvel #marvel fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #spiderman #spiderman fanfiction

[gatorbites-imagines]

Andrew Peter Parker x male Deadpool reader, jus headcanons

TASM Peter Parker x Deadpool male reader

Headcanons

I always love when Peter is extra spidery. Been a while since I watched the amazing spiderman movies ngl.

I imagine this takes place after Peter comes back home after the No Way Home movie, so he has a deeper understanding of just how broad and different his universe is.

He keeps being spiderman like he’s always been, but at maybe you show up as a coworker at his job, or just during the night when he’s patrolling, but soon you two are spending a lot of time together.

Seeing as Deadpool is conscious about being inside a comic or media, I have the idea that you to some degree know this too, meaning you make jokes about the multiverse, or memes that don’t exist in your universe.

You would crack jokes about Peter having gone to a different dimension too, and make comments about villains that don’t exist in your universe, which would be what really caught Peters attention.

The white and yellow voices you have are all for you flirting with peter, as peter and as spiderman, and it leads to you guys having a relationship kinda like comic spiderman and Deadpool.

In the beginning Peter isn’t really sure what to do about you, especially seeing as you kill people, but you are super friendly, affectionate, and call him your soulmate.

Youd grow on him over time, and Peter would start looking forwards to seeing you around. He would even start getting worried if you don’t show up for a bit, even though he knows you taken contracts as an assassin and a gun for hire.

Cue you guys teaming up more and more, and you killing less when he’s around. You can’t fully stop, it’s just not in your nature, but you’ll try for Peter, which he appreciates.

Patrol always ends up with you guys eating something, sitting on the edge of a building, masks pushed up over your noses as you guys talk about whatever it is you can think of. If you have scars like most versions of Deadpool, Peter would be surprised at first, but would never judge you or look down on you for having them.

It takes Peter a while to realize he’s got feelings for you, as there’s part of him that scared to lose you like he did Gwen. Sure, you could heal from an atomic explosion, but that doesn’t keep the guilt and anxious thoughts from existing.

Your always very verbal about being in love with Peter, as he’s your other half and perfect partner, in your own words. Your flirt with him, bring him gifts, ask him on dates after every patrol, or ask him for a kiss when you’ve gotten hurt even though you’re healing.

Imagine your surprise when one day, after you had gotten impaled by a lamppost or something, you have your mask tucked up over your nose. And when Peter asks if there’s anything else he can help you with, after he’s patched you up, you pucker your lips and tell him he could kiss you better.

And for once, instead of scoffing and laughing, he actually leans in and kisses you. You immediately bluescreen, eyes wide as saucers as he gives a little grin and salute before he swings off into the night.

After that you crank your advances even more, and you guys share many more kisses before anything becomes official. You’re both dancing around the subject, but there are clear sparks and feelings between you.

Peter still struggles with the fear of losing you and not being enough, and deep down you have many insecurities of your own, but at some point you guys finally become official.

That’s also the first time you get to see him without a mask, if you don’t know each other during your day life. You swoon, flopping down on the ground with an arm over your eyes and a hand on your heart, gushing about how handsome he is.

Peter leaves you completely flustered when he compliments you in return when you take your mask off, especially if you have the usual Deadpool scars. Your yellow and white voices both agree Peter was the right choice.

You guys start officially dating, and going out during the day as much as you do during the night.

You shower him in gifts, since you have a lot of money doing your gun for hire job, compared to his job of the moment. You have a much better finance than he does, since you can work whenever you want compared to him trying to work a day job and also be spiderman.

Some of his coworkers, or most honestly, think you’re weird when you stop by his workplace if he forgot his lunch, or to bring him something.

But they can also see just how smitten you guys are. They’re more likely to be jealous, since their own partners won’t look at them with as much look as you do when looking at Peter.

When you guys move in together, it’s in a brand-new apartment. Peters isn’t big enough for the both of you, and people who want you dead know your current address.

The apartment is kind of a mess, with all your different accessories, weapons, webshooters, suits, the likes, all over the place. But its perfect for you two and just what you need.

Theres just some kind of peace to be with someone who knows the others’ secret identity, and someone you don’t have to worry will get hurt because of your hero, or antihero, work.

Peter still struggles to hold a day job, since you are as scatterbrained as him, or since your own schedule is super wack, so you don’t notice if he’s late or missing work. You could easily finance the both of you, but Peter being Peter won’t accept being a freeloader in his eyes.

Sure, you still kill people for money and just because you feel like it, but it’s a lot less than you use too, and there are moments Peter needs to step in and reel you guys’ in. But it doesn’t lessen the love you guys have for each other in any way, and when things get tough, you always have one another when it matters.

#male reader #spiderman #tasm #peter parker #marvel #andrew garfield #the amazing spiderman #spiderman imagine #spiderman headcanon #spiderman x male reader #spiderman x reader #tasm imagine #tasm headcanon #tasm x male reader #tasm x reader #peter parker imagine #peter parker headcanon #peter parker x male reader #peter parker x reader #marvel imagine #marvel headcanon #marvel x male reader #marvel x reader #andrew garfield imagine #andrew garfield headcanon #andrew garfield x male reader #andrew garfield x reader #the amazing spiderman imagine #the amazing spiderman headcanon #the amazing spiderman x male reader

[the-kr8tor]

Reporting for duty Captain!

A tasm Peter Parker request for a shy reader who likes Peter but backs out when she wants to talk to him or- OR, (more like and) a reader with w rizz who's known Peter since forever and ever. Who has the same interest in photography as he does?? Works in a photo store??

Cook chef!

*gasp* a peter parker request?! Got you, my love 🫡 happy to oblige.

Pairing: TASM! Peter Parker x fem! Reader/ TASM! Spider-Man x fem! Reader

Tags: use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader, CW food mentions, Love struck Peter, Fluff.

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

Peter doesn't need to ask around campus for you, he already knows where you are, a perk of knowing you since grade school. He evens his breathing when he finally reaches the worn out doors.

The bells jingle as he enters the old store, yellowed wallpaper greeting him and drab shelves lined with rolls of films, the vintage cameras make up for the boringness of the gray shelves. Ancient posters of movies lined the walls, a time capsule of the early eighties. It's silent inside, no other customer than him.

His sneakers squeak on the linoleum as he walks towards the cashier, expecting to see your smile, your hands occupied with whatever book you're currently (hating) reading. He finds it empty.

Peter's spidey senses don't tingle so he can relax knowing that you're in the back of the store. He jumps over the counter effortlessly thanks to his abilities. Knocking on the door, he hears the muffled sound of your speaker.

“Y/N?”

“In here, Pete—! Wait!!” With a creak, Peter opens the door without skipping a beat. The light from the store filters through the dark room, white covering and filtering out all the red. “No! Close it quick!”

“Oh shit!” He shuts it quickly behind him, too fast and harder than he thought, the wood almost cracks at the sheer force. Wincing, you both mirror each other's expression.

“Pete…” you sigh, closing the distance to check the door, you can't afford to lose a chunk of your paycheck for repairs. But you don't blame him, it's hard to stay mad at Peter especially when he's looking so apologetic at you, almost like a kicked puppy. “You got too excited to see me huh?”

He shuts his eyes with a smile, head falling down, chin atop his chest. He looks exasperated but he did it to hide the blush on his cheeks, hoping that if you manage to glimpse it you'd think it's from the red light.

This won't do, you thought. You missed him too much today just for him to hide his face from you. To remedy the feeling, you grasp his cheek, thumb gently placed right under his eye.

“There you are webhead,” your voice is saccharine, the ruby light bouncing off your face, illuminating your features perfectly. Peter thought he'd melt right on the spot. “Missed me?” In truth, you're the one who misses him most.

He wants to say yes without a second thought but knowing you, you're already aware of his answer. Even though you refuse to acknowledge it. Under all the teasing exterior there's shyness underneath it all, with just one flirty comment thrown your way you'd probably collapse.

Peter finally meets your smiling eyes and for a moment you're the only thing that matters.

With classes and spiderman responsibilities, hanging out with you has been scarce, he needed a fix right away, that's why he came sprinting towards the store immediately after a three hour class and after swinging across town to your favorite deli with his wind swept hair and shirt that definitely needs ironing.

“Not really.” A lie, an awful lie on his part.

“Aww,” you dramatically clutch at your chest, hand leaving his skin to his dismay. “Hear that? You just broke my heart, Parker.”

“D’you even have one?”

“Hey!” You playfully punch his shoulder. “You're the one who ruined my pictures.”

His eyes flick towards the clothesline filled with pictures that just screams ‘you.’ “I can see from here that they're not ruined.”

You click your tongue, hands on your hips, you walk back towards the table. “What are you doing here then, webhead?” Lowering the volume of your speaker, you decide to shut it off when his voice is a much better alternative.

“I feel like I should be offended by that.” Peter stands beside you, hip to hip, arm brushing along yours.

Placing his hand on the small of your back casually, he loops his thumb around your belt loop, pressing softly on your skin. He's done this a hundred times during your friendship but it never fails to wake up the butterflies in your stomach.

“I've called you that numerous times.” Holding the tongs, you carefully place the developed photo in the chemical mixture in the basin, eyes watching the picture pop up slowly.

“Stop being mean, I've come bearing gifts from the deli you like.” His voice is quiet, soft just for you.

“The one that's on the upper west side? Peter, that's really far away.”

“I don't mind, that's what web swinging is for right?”

You scrunch up your nose, Peter has the best seat in the house while he admires your expression.

“And here I thought it was for fighting crime.” You chuckle, pushing the paper further down in the basin. His deep chuckle stops abruptly at the sight in front of him.

Peter's own smiling face greets him and your charisma cracks.

“Oh” you manage to let out with your dry mouth.

You can hear him shudder a breath next to you. The picture is framed perfectly, his face centered in the middle amongst the crowd, zoomed in more like. You clearly avoided having other people in the frame, your main subject was him and him alone.

“...Good picture.” He slaps himself mentally.

“Yep, one of my best, I think.” You say quietly, too quietly. Clearing your throat, you avoid his eyes, “why don't you ready the food? Outside, please?”

Peter shakes himself awake. His skin feels like lava, there's a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. Hands clammy, he nods wordlessly. He awkwardly pats your back before leaving your side.

Walking towards the exit, your back turned towards him, shoulders slouched and tensed. He turns towards you before exiting, “looks like you missed me more, sweetheart.” He's called you that millions of times, all filled with more affection than the last but this one, oh this one he added with so much love that it could stop your heart.

And you think it has.

Peter hears you squeak, a sound he hasn't heard you make since high school when he asked you to dance during the winter formal.

You whirl around, catching sight of his Parker smile, charm oozing out of him that's already gone before you could admire him in the crimson light.

He leaves, shutting the door quickly. Laying his sweaty forehead on the door, he tightly closes his eyes again, feeling like a lightning just struck him and adrenaline coursing through his veins, needing to swing off the extra energy.

Blowing hot air, he takes his clammy hands off the doorknob to take out the food he bought, grinning through it like a mad man.

Meanwhile, you clutch the table with a grip, heart threatening to jump out of your chest, heat in your cheeks as the photo of Peter smiles at you.

Laughing to yourself, you take out his picture to clip it on the clothesline next to the other pictures. You have no idea what to say to him once you leave the room, or do you just stay in the dark room forever? Either way, you're absolutely fucked.

#request done #peter parker x reader #peter parker #peter parker x you #peter parker x fem!reader #tasm peter parker #tasm peter parker x reader #tasm imagine #tasm fanfic #tasm x reader #tasm!peter x reader #peter parker fluff #spiderman x reader #spiderman x fem! reader #cw food mention #fanfic #the kr8tor's creations

[reysdriver]

Mattress Acting | P.P.

Day 8 of Kinktober: Photography/Sex Tape — peter x fem!reader

warnings: 18+, Minors DNI - smut, sex tape, slight exhibitionism, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, piv sex, creampie

words: 1.3k

a/n: I told yall im gonna stick to kinktober even tho its literally december! NEVER BACK DOWN NEVER WHAT??

The idea had struck you both at the same time last night. When Peter had picked up his camera off his dresser as you were changing into your pyjamas. You heard the click sound of the shutter when you were pulling your shirt over your head, and you knew exactly what it was. 

After pulling off the piece of fabric, you saw your boyfriend standing against the wall with a cheeky grin on his face. 

“I’ll delete it, I promise.” He said, still smiling. 

“You don’t have to.” You told him. “I always like when you use me as a model.”

So now here you were, getting dressed up in your nicest set of sexy underwear while Peter was in his boxers, setting up his camera on a tripod beside your bed. 

Once you were done getting ready, you came out of the bathroom and called for Peter’s attention. He looked up at you with wide eyes. As much as you loved his flattery, you were excited to start and didn’t want to waste much time. 

“How’s the camera?” You asked, motioning to the stand. 

“All set up, everything looks good.” He answered. “I’ll press record whenever you’re ready.”

You smiled at him excitedly. “Let’s make a sex tape, then.”

He pressed the red button on the top of the device, then walked you back to the bed. He kissed you as he laid you back against the sheets, then softly pecked the crown of your head. 

“You’re gonna be a goddamn movie star, baby.” Peter told you, then returned to your lips as he laid atop you. 

His large hands started travelling all across your body. They started at your cheeks as he held your face close, then they started moving down. 

Then, at your chest, they cupped your breast over the bra and kneaded at the lush flesh. When he felt that wasn’t enough for him, he moved one of his hands to your back, and you arched for him, He easily manoeuvred the clasp open, and kept going how he was before. 

And finally, at your hips, he pulled you tightly against him, and you could feel his boner through his boxers. Unfortunately, with that and your panties, there were still two layers of fabric separating you from your boyfriend. Now that just couldn’t be anymore.  

Luckily, Peter seemed to share your sentiment because he hooked two fingers around your waistband and tugged slightly, wordlessly telling you to lift your hips. And you did, of course. You let him pull down your underwear, and he pulled away from the kiss so he could toss them aside. You watched as he discarded them in the direction of the tripod, and they fell to the floor after hitting the stand about a foot under the camera. 

Oh, that camera. You felt the same rush whenever Peter used you as the subject of his photography. In school, he went to you first for every photography assignment he could possibly fit you into—partially because he claimed you as his inspiration, and partially because he knew how much you loved it. 

You were pulled out of your haze when you felt Peter shifting his body down along the bed so he could hold his face between your legs. 

A swarm of butterflies rushed from your core into your stomach when Peter pressed that first warm kiss to your centre. As if your limbs were moving without you even thinking about them, your legs interlocked behind Peter’s back and your hands latched onto his soft hair. 

It seemed like he took your actions as a sort of motivation, he brought his mouth to your clit and began working it. You didn’t even have to perform for the camera; his kisses unleashed a perfectly pornographic moan from deep inside you. 

God, the way he knew how to please you with just his mouth was insane. Each and every movement of his tongue or his lips was just so amazingly perfect. 

You knew from the start that you wouldn’t last long, but when Peter just kept lapping at your pussy while using all the moves he had kept track of over the time you’ve been together because he knew they made you cum, of course the petit mort was almost here. 

Your vision quickly became dark and you started seeing stars. Your jaw fell slack and your hands gripped your boyfriend’s hair. It was almost unbelievable how good he was at this. 

And it wasn’t even close to over yet. 

“Pete.” You breathed. “That was amazing.”

“Just trying to put on a good show.” He shrugged. He was acting nonchalant, but you could see his smile peeking through his lips. 

He lifted himself up, and you could see his hard member straining against his boxers. It was definitely one of your favourite sights of all time. 

“You want me to help you with that?” You asked happily. 

And because you both knew what the answer was going to be, he just smiled back at you as he removed the little bit of fabric that was covering him. 

You dragged your fingers along your own slit, picking up some of your own slick to use as lubrication, then you brought your hand up to grasp his cock as he sat beside you. 

Peter inhaled deeply when you wrapped your hand around his dick, and his sounds of pleasure only increased in volume when you started to jerk him off. He definitely didn’t need the extra arousal—he was already hard as a rock from eating you out—but maybe you just wanted to build anticipation even more. 

After what you felt was a sufficient amount of strokes to move him along and raise lust, you sat up and nestled yourself onto his lap. You guided him to your pussy and sank down onto him. The stretch around him was so perfect; you and Peter were both audible in proving that. 

With hands on his shoulders to steady yourself, you started bouncing up and down on his cock. You kept riding your boyfriend, motivated by his sweet groans close to your ear, but the task was getting somewhat tiresome. Not that it wasn’t exciting, but you felt like your energy had been largely used up by Peter eating you out. 

And he clearly noticed this because he brought his hands up to your hips so he could do the hard work. He started lifting and lowering you for both your pleasures, and he did it brilliantly. 

You felt Peter gradually tense up, and you knew he was almost at his climax. He twitched once, then twice, inside of you before releasing pumps of cum inside of you. He kept using you for a few pumps after he was all done, then while still inside of you, he laid you on your back and pressed a series of soft kisses on the side of your neck. 

Once you had both cooled down, Peter slowly pulled out of you and reached over to the camera and stopped the recording before lying back down and cuddling with you. You hummed with his touch and thanked him quietly. He smiled back at you and interlocked your hands. 

“Can we watch it together tomorrow night?” You asked. 

Peter brought your hand up to his face and kissed it gently. “Of course. I’ll even promise not to touch the camera until then so I won’t see anything.”

He was too sweet. You pulled the duvet over the two of you and tucked the two of you in with the blanket.

He spoke up again. “And then I can even pick out the best shots, and we could get them framed and put them right up on the wall there.” He smiled and tapped the wall behind the headboard. 

You laughed along with him, but you weren’t entirely opposed to the idea. 

#xena's kinktober celebration #kinktober #peter parker #tasm #tasm peter #tasm!peter #tasm!peter x reader #tasm peter parker #tasm!peter parker #tasm imagine #peter parker x reader #peter parker smut #peter parker fanfiction #spiderman #spiderman smut #marvel #the amazing spider man

[alloftheimaginesblog]

breakfast {peter parker}

been going through my inbox to see what old messages/requests inspire me

prompt: “I can't get over how a few months ago I wanted to learn your name and now you're having breakfast with me in my sweater.”

character: peter parker tasm x reader

The sun warmed your bare leg which had escaped from under the duvet early that morning as you gradually began to wake up. You could hear the muffled noise of the usual New York traffic from the open window, a sound you'd learned to drone out, and as you began to stir, you snuggled in closer to the warmth which was that of Peter Parker.

Upon you snuggling into him, he himself began to stir and wake up, eyes struggling to adjust to the brightness as he opened them, peering down at you confused before he realised the events of the previous night. He smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead as he mumbled a sleepy greeting to you.

"G'morning," you said back through a yawn. Nerves and excitement bubbled together in your stomach as you fully woke up. It had been the first time you'd stayed at Peter's apartment. The two of you had been dating for the last few weeks and last night, you... well, sealed the deal.

He let you shower first as he prepared breakfast. Eggs, toast, beans, bacon and mushrooms. You'd been in his apartment before, he'd made you dinner here, but not like this. You'd never got to use his vanilla body wash; never got to feel his soft towels on your skin, never got to use his toothpaste. It was all rather intimate.

Peter had thought of the issue at hand before you did. When you walked out of the en-suite to his bedroom, you realised that you didn't have a fresh set of clothes to wear but Peter had sorted you something. On the bed lay a large ESU hoodie and a pair of boxer shorts.

I've put your clothes in the washing, they'll be ready in an hour or so, in the mean time here's some of mine to keep you warm. Making breakfast - P :)

You smiled widely as you pocketed the note, you liked to have little keepsakes like that, and you changed into his clothes. They were too big for you but you loved the comfort of them. They smelled like your favourite cologne he owned.

When you walked out, Peter brandished two plates full of food, "Just in time." You sat at the breakfast bar, tucking into your food. You hadn't realised how hungry you were until you smelled the food in front of you and then all of a sudden, you were ravenous. Peter watched you with a smile, "I can't get over how a few months ago I wanted to learn your name and now you're having breakfast with me in my sweater."

You looked up at him, mouth full and smiling, and Peter's heart grew three sizes. He loved that even though this was your first official sleepover, you were already comfortable with him, you didn't mind sitting wearing his jumper, hair messy and eyes tired. He loved that you didn't mind eating in front of him and you didn't mind to show that you liked to eat. You swallowed your mouthful and said, "Remember how nervous you were to ask me out?" Your voice was teasing and Peter rolled his eyes with a laugh as he sipped at his coffee.

"Best decision I ever made though," he told you truthfully, "now I have a pretty girlfriend."

You spluttered at the word, "Girlfriend?" As far as you knew, it wasn't official yet. He hadn't asked and you didn't want to just assume. You were shocked that he'd said it but not because you didn't want it, you did. You wanted to be his girlfriend, you wanted to be exclusive and hear he was just throwing the word around without you knowing.

Peter's face blanched, "Shit, sorry, I- I didn't - it's too soon, isn't it? I just- shit."

Realising he'd taken you the wrong way, you shook your head, "No, no, Pete!" You had to yell over him for him to stop the quick excuses, "I didn't mean that to be bad, I was shocked, that's all."

He released a breath, "Oh, good." There was a pregnant pause before he spoke again, "So... you want to be my girlfriend?" Here he was, at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, and he was bloody nervous over asking you to be his girlfriend.

You grinned, "Of course I do, Pete," you nodded, "I have a boyfriend." The giggle that you let out was the most adorable thing that Peter had ever heard before and all of a sudden, he was taken over by a rather animal urge. He pushed your plate away, pulling you off of the stool you sat on, "What are you-"

He kissed you hard and you knew exactly where this was going, "Last night, we weren't together. Now, you're my girlfriend. I say we need to celebrate that," he murmured against your lips as he navigated the two of you backwards and back to the bedroom.

So far being Peter Parker's girlfriend was a phenomenal experience.

#tasm #one shot #os #reader insert #tasm imagine #imagine #the amazing spider man #spider-man imagine #spider-man #spider man #spider man imagine #peter parker imagine #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker #tasm! peter parker x reader #tasm!peter parker

[rancidpancakebatter]

For Him - [P.P.]

Pairings: Peter Parker x Depressed!Reader

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

Word Count: 7.0k

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

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

( Masterlist )

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

“(Y/n), what’s going on?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.” 

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

“Why? What-? Did you do something?”

You shrugged your shoulders.

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

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

“What did you do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t think you mean that.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I was worried.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you scream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It hurts, god, it hurts so much!

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

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

“Peter- Peter, please fix it!” 

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

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

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

Disgusting Pathetic Selfish Broken Useless Dumb Weak

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love.

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

Love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry,” you began. 

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

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

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

“It’s okay-” he begins. 

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

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

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

Peter rolled his eyes, chuckling.

“Tough luck.”

You look at him baffled, but he remains unfazed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought you’d never ask.”

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

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

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[shewroteaworld]

Movie Date Migraine

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

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

Word count: aprox. 3,500

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

(Y/N) knows she should go home. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you need some air?”

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

You shove those fantasies from your mind.

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

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

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

Your resolve crumples. “I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.” You say. 

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.” You squeak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay.”

***

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

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

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

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

“Babe?” He asks. He lets you go free.

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

“I feel nauseous.” You groan.

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

You take a deep, shuddering breath. 

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course.” He whispers. 

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

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

You hum your approval. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I speak, darling?” He asks.

“Mm-hmm.” You hum.

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

You point your index finger.

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

You hold up one finger. 

“Are you sensitive to sound?”

Once again, one finger.

“Are you sensitive to touch?”

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

“Okay. Can I hold you?”

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

Shit. 

Not here. 

Not now. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stomach aching, you collapse against Peter’s chest. 

“You okay?” Peter asks. 

“Yeah.” You pant. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is your headache better?” He asks. 

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

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

“Yes, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

“We need to talk.” 

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

“Can we sit?” He asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really?” You ask, voice cracking. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

xoxo, shewroteaworld

#tasm peter parker #tasm!peter x reader #tasm!peter fluff #tasm peter #peter parker #peter parker x reader #tasm peter x you #tasm fic #peter parker imagine #tasm imagine #the amazing spider man #tasm 2 #tasm x reader #peter parker fluff #tasm peter imagines #tasm peter fluff #tasm peter x reader #amazing spider man #peter parker fanfic #tasm!peter fic #tasm!peter imagine #tasm!peter x you #tasm!peter fanfiction #the amazing spiderman

[spider-stark]

INFINITELY YOU

part three // spitfire

SUMMARY - In every universe, Peter Parker seems destined to fall in love with you. And, in every universe, he realizes it too late. When universes collide and two of them are granted a second chance at rectifying their biggest mistake, neither of them are willing to let the opportunity go to waste–even if you end up not being the person they thought you were.

WARNINGS - 18+, minors DNI

WORD COUNT - 4.5k

// masterlist // series masterlist // send me your thoughts // no way home fan fiction // rewrite

name key: tom!peter = peter // andrew!peter = parker // tobey!peter = pete

On the walk back from Peter Pan’s, it seemed as though Parker had managed to entirely escape the sputtering awkwardness that had ensnared him the night before. 

And, after countless city blocks of listening to him babble about absolutely everything and anything, you realized that there was one very striking similarity between him and Peter. 

Both boys had a fervent interest in all things nerd. 

“New Hope takes place nearly two decades after the rise of the Galactic Empire, meaning that Leia is only nineteen when she's kidnapped and forced aboard the Death Star! Which is like, absolutely insane, right? Seriously! Imagine being nineteen years old and stuck inside of something that has the potential to obliterate an entire planet!” 

Shoving open the lobby door to your complex, Parker hardly even waits for you to hum your agreement before continuing his retelling of the Star Wars film. 

“And at the exact same time, Luke is finally beginning his Jedi training! Which, honestly, nineteen is actually super old for that, but-” 

Moving towards the stairs, Parker close on your heels, you cut him off with a question. “Too old? Nineteen is hardly even an adult,” you argue. “What age do most Jedi start training?” 

“About four or five, so obviously Luke was way behind,” 

Not even a full three stairs up, you come to a grinding halt, leaving Parker to bump into your back. “Four?!” You cry out, wide-eyed as you spin around to face him. “That’s insane!” 

Parker only lifts his shoulders, clearly not understanding the reason for your horror. 

Furthering your point, you add, “There’s nothing ethical about taking a bunch of little kids and training them to be weird, intergalactic warriors!” 

“It’s the best way to train them!” He lifts his hand defensively, explaining, “The earlier they start training, the less likely it is that the kids will have formed an attachment to their families! That way they learn to act out of logic instead of emotion!” 

For a heartbeat, you’re rendered entirely speechless by the absurdity of his claim, left to stand with your mouth agape as you blink at him. 

“That sounds like emotional abuse,” you finally huff, shaking your head. “Actually, scratch that—it doesn’t sound like emotional abuse, it just is!” 

“It’s not abuse-” 

You hold a hand up, stopping him before he can say anything else. “Give me one good reason why a group of adults should withhold love and affection from children if they aren’t abusing them.” 

“Uh, how about the fact that love is basically what made Anakin turn to the dark side!” Parker scoffs, clearly unwilling to recognize how insane the notion he was pushing actually is. 

“Or maybe Anakin turned to the dark side because he was indoctrinated and traumatized by some stupid space cult!” 

The expression on his face is downright laughable. 

It was as if you had just reached out and slapped him across the face. His jaw went slack, his mouth hung open in blatant offense. As a sputtering noise falls from his lips, trying and failing to come up with a good rebuttal, you smirk. 

“Exactly,” you boast, taking his inability to speak as a sign of victory. 

Twirling on your heel, you continue up the stairs, nearly all the way to the top before you finally hear him come stomping up behind you. 

“The Jedi Order is not a cult!” He finally shouts after you. 

Already traipsing through the hallway, fiddling with your keys, you sing-song, “Whatever you say, bug-boy.” 

Reluctant to admit defeat, Parker continues grumbling under his breath as you unlock the door, spouting something off about your lack of respect for George Lucas. 

“Look,” you tell him, pushing the door open, “if liking Star Wars matters this much to you, then I’ll gladly watch them with you.” A wry smile plays on your lips as you turn to look at him, standing in the doorway, “Maybe watching them will be enough to change my opinion on turning kids into galactic slaves.” 

Eyes narrowing in a playful glare, he’s only able to hold the expression for less than a few seconds before a laugh causes him to break character. “I just can’t believe that Peter hasn’t made you watch them already,” he admits. “I had you watch them so much that you could probably recite the scripts from memory alone!” 

His amusement dies off as soon as he finishes the sentence. Despite having been the one to bring it up, the mention of his world seems to cast a sullen shadow over him, ruining his sweet, boyish smile. 

Curiosity instantly claws at you, begging you to ask him why his world seemed to have such a negative effect on him. Or, rather, why his version of you seemed to have such an effect. 

This had happened last night too, when you had asked him if the two of you were friends in his world—and it was because of this that you assume that you’re somehow the common denominator in his discomfort. 

Still, you don’t let yourself ask him about it. For as much as you’re starting to like Parker, you don’t know him nearly well enough to try prying into his life. 

Not yet, at least. 

“Well, you’re more than welcome to force me into sitting through them in this world, too.” You tell him sweetly, sweeping an arm out to gesture inside of your apartment, inviting him. “It’s not like I’ve got any plans for the rest of the day.” 

You couldn’t even remember the last time you did have plans. Life had been so quiet since that last night with Peter and Mj—the night when everything went so horribly wrong. 

Parker sucks in a breath through his teeth, a hand coming to rest against the back of his neck. “I should probably get back out on the streets,” he reluctantly says, sounding more like he was convincing himself of that than you. “But, I don’t know, maybe we can take a rain check on it, yeah?” 

Disappointment washes over you, sudden enough that you’re sure it shines through on your face. It takes a shocking amount of willpower to stop yourself from trying to persuade him to stay, wanting to remind him that two other Spider-Men were already running themselves ragged in pursuit of the villains—so why did he have to go, too? 

You had grown used to his constant talking, having found solace in the chatter that kept you from slipping too far into your own thoughts. Selfishly, you wanted him to stay so that you wouldn’t have to be alone; so that you wouldn’t have to risk thinking too long about Doctor Strange or the multiverse or constants or Peter. 

The thought of admitting any of that out loud, however, felt incredibly humiliating. 

“For sure,” you force a smile, trying to ignore the many thoughts swirling in your mind. Then, eyeing the slightly too-tight Ramones shirt that he’d stolen from you, you add, “But shouldn’t you at least come in and change?” 

His nose wrinkles slightly as he shakes his head. “Nah—I think this city has more than enough spider-people swinging around it right now. I figure we might actually benefit from one of us patrolling on the ground-level, y’know? Maybe I can ask around for any giant lizards or blown light bulbs.” 

It’s hard to tell if the last bit is meant to be a joke or not, but you laugh anyway if only to avoid knowing why you should be worried about lizards and light bulbs. 

“Sounds like a plan,” you second his idea. “Well, I guess I’ll see you later then?” 

A surprising sense of joy lights his eyes at the sound of your hesitance, unfitting of the simplicity of the moment, but charming nonetheless. He grins—a wide and endearing sort of grin—as he takes a step back, “I won’t be gone long,” he promises before reminding you, “lock the door behind you, alright? And if you need anything-” 

He pauses, patting the pockets of his jeans only to remember that he didn’t bring a phone with him to this universe—and that, even if he did, there likely wasn’t a wireless plan good enough to support multiversal travel. 

“If you need anything, call 911.” 

“Got it,” you laugh, watching as he stumbles backwards towards the stairwell, cheeks red with faint embarrassment. 

Turning to go inside, you can’t ignore the warmth that now blooms in your chest. 

You could definitely get used to having him around. 

A peculiar sensation prickles at your skin, curling along your spine like icy fingertips. 

Something was wrong. Very wrong. 

The usually comfortable atmosphere of your apartment had shifted. An eerie tension fills the space, a near-suffocating feeling that has the very walls holding their breath, humming a tune of warning as you inch further into the living room. 

Your stomach twists as the sharp tang of exhaust fumes fills your nostrils. By the couch, a faint breeze rustles the curtains of a window, wafting in the nauseating scent of the city street below—a window that hadn’t been open when you left earlier. 

A mere foot or so away, you notice that the picture frame Parker had been fiddling with before is now lying on its face, having been knocked off the end table and abandoned. Atop the table, you notice that the lamp is sitting askew, its base just inches from tumbling over the edge and joining the frame. 

Someone had come in through your window—and it didn’t appear as though stealth had been very important to them, given that they had clearly stumbled into the table upon their entrance. 

Adrenaline floods your senses, your spine stiffening as you take a series of slow, quiet steps. 

Moving towards the corner, you carefully reach out a hand to grab the metal bat propped against the wall. The bat had been an unlikely housewarming present from when you first moved in, given to you by Peter’s mentor and your own reluctant renegade, Tony Stark. For nearly two years now it had sat in this corner, unused and gathering dust—until now. 

You wrap your fingers tightly around the base, wincing slightly as the rubber grip pulls at the still-healing flesh on your palm, making you curse yourself for not properly bandaging the wound last night. 

But you’re used to pain—and so you’re easily able to bite back against it as you ease through the living room, checking for any sign of the intruder's presence. 

As you walk, gripping the bat like your life depends on it, you can’t help but hear Tony Stark’s voice echo in your mind. 

If you’re gonna live alone, then you should have some sort of protection—he had told you, gently placing the cool steel into your hands for the first time, a ribbon tied sloppily around it—not that you need it. 

Satisfied with your search of the living room, you start easing towards the hall. You’re good at sneaking around, having had a lot of practice at it—every movement you make is calculated, every footfall so purposefully gentle that it’s nearly silent. 

Quiet as you were, you could do nothing to ease the sound of your blood thrumming wildly in your own ears, your heart pounding against your chest. 

The incessant beating worries you—because you know that there are people in the world with the unnatural ability to hear such things. Peter, even with his enhanced hearing, had to be close to someone in order to hear something as soft as their heartbeat; but you had heard rumors that there were others who could hear a pulse from miles away, others like the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. 

The thought makes your blood run cold, though you try to push the worries from your mind. From what you know, the Devil doesn’t have a habit of breaking into apartments, nor was Queen's his usual jurisdiction. 

No—what you were dealing with had to be no more than an average burglar! 

An average burglar who, somehow, scaled up the side of a building to break into your apartment… 

Alright—you think, approaching the end of the hall—perhaps it’s a not-so-average burglar, then! Still better than the Devil. 

Peeling one hand from the bat’s handle, you curl your fingers around the doorknob to the guest room, Parker’s room. You ease the door open slowly, trying to keep the old hinges from crying out as you peer into the space. 

The sweet scent of vanilla is the first thing that hits you, contrasted by the subtle bite of vetiver. 

Parker—the room smells of him, even though he had only been here for one night. 

On the bed, the quilt is rumpled and thrown about, pillows strewn about. The doors of the armoire are wide open, a few old shirts hanging over the edge of one of the shelves, no doubt from when he went digging through your clothes in search of something to wear. 

The room was messy, but empty. 

Your shoulders sag, half-a-breath loosing from your lungs. The relief is short-lived, however; as by the time you edge back into the hall to turn towards your own door, you’re overwhelmed with dread. 

If whoever broke in was still here, then this was the only place they could be—save for the bathroom, though you seriously doubt any burglar would have much interest in scouring through your toiletries… 

Easily, gracefully, you twist the knob, the metal yielding quietly to your careful touch. 

The curtains are tightly drawn, eradicating any trace of sunlight and leaving the room cloaked in shadows. But, even in the darkness, you’re able to see the rough outline of a figure sprawled out across your mattress. 

For a split second, you think of Parker’s advice to call 911, the weight of your phone suddenly heavy in your back pocket. 

You think of how you should follow that advice. 

You think about how fast you could run—if you would be able to reach the front door before they could catch up to you. 

But then you stop thinking, disregarding all logic and reason as you take a step into the room, as if drawn in by some invisible force. 

Remaining mindful of your surroundings, you slowly approach the edge of the bed. Squinting in the darkness, you try to study the body laid out atop your comforter. Watching the steady rise-and-fall of their chest, it suddenly hits you that, whoever they are, they’re asleep. 

Slinking around the corner and coming to stand at your bedside, you’re finally close enough that you can see them in spite of the absence of light. Crimson and blue spandex clings tightly to their arms as they cling one of your pillows to their chest, and you feel your entire body sag with relief as you loosen your grip on the bat. 

So this must be Peter 2. 

The fabric of his mask is bunched up and resting along the bridge of his nose, which is somewhat smushed against the pillow he’s holding, no doubt leaving him to breathe in the scent of laundry detergent and your perfume. 

Lower, you can make out the subtle contours of his jawline and the curve of soft, pink lips. Higher, you’re met with the impassive stare of then white lenses sewn into his mask. 

The lenses shield his eyes from your view, and a curious feeling begins to tug at the furthest corners of your mind. Take it off—it seems to whisper, compelling you to move in closer, your shins pressing against the side of the mattress—take it off. 

You grit your teeth and try to ignore the feeling, try to ignore the velvet-voice slithering through your mind; begging you to look at him, to touch him, to notice him, to-

Pain shoots along the side of your temple, likely in response to the sudden tightness in your jaw. It distracts you enough that you’re able to shake the strange feeling long enough to regain your focus—even if the remnants of it still linger. 

You shouldn’t be interested in him—you should be pissed at him. 

Not only had he broken into your house, which was already bad enough, but he had also climbed into your bed and made himself cozy! The absolute gall, the audacity he must have, has you allowing the tiniest sliver of rage to ignite inside of you. 

Both hands still gripping the bat, you lower it from where it rests against your shoulder to swiftly jab its head into his stomach. 

A cough sputters past his lips as the impact pushes the air from his lungs. 

You’re actually shocked that you landed the blow—in truth, you had expected his spider-sense to kick in and detect the incoming hit, waking him with just enough time to dodge the shot. But, apparently, his instincts had made the mistake of assuming that you were of no threat to him. 

“Morning sunshine,” you chime, your feigned cheerfulness set off by a sneer. 

He’s scrambling into an upright position, knees sinking into the mattress as he presses a hand against the sore spot you’d created on his stomach. “What the fu-” 

His voice is hoarse—from sleep or pain, you’re not sure—and he doesn’t finish the curse spewing from his mouth once his head shoots up towards you, as if finally registering the sound of your voice. 

“I don’t know what things are like in your world,” you muse, swinging your bat back to rest against your shoulder, “but in this one, breaking and entering is considered a crime.” 

He’s still catching his breath, and while those damn white lenses covering his eyes give so little emotion away, you assume that he’s going to apologize. It’s what Peter would do, and Parker, too. 

But not him. 

“Your friends said I could stay here,” he defends himself. Taking another deep breath and extinguishing the burning in his lungs, the lower-half of his face transforms into a defiant smirk. “It’s not breaking and entering if you were invited.” 

“And did they tell you to sleep in my bed, too?” You shoot back, brows rising in annoyance. “Word of advice: next time you’re invited to stay in a total stranger’s house, maybe try not to repay their kindness by crawling through their window.” 

He mocks you without missing a beat, “Word of advice: you live in a shitty neighborhood—if you don’t want people coming through your windows, you should try locking them.” 

“Ah, right! Cause the average person is definitely willing to scale the side of a building for the prospect of an unlocked window!” 

“You’re a pretty girl in a dangerous city,” he drones, lifting a shoulder as he meets your sarcasm with purposeful calm. “You’d be surprised what people would be willing to do for a chance at getting you alone.” 

The insinuation sends a shiver down your spine, but you mask your unease, flashing a smile that’s more predatory than sweet. “Aw,” you coo, “so you think I’m pretty?” 

He returns the expression, skillfully avoiding your derisive question. “I think you’re irresponsible—and a little cocky.” 

“Better to be cocky than a felon,” you remark. “Just spare my neighbors the acrobatics show next time, would you? Maybe try knocking on the door like a normal person! Preferably when you’re not dressed like… that.” 

It’s not that his suit wasn’t nice, because it was. But it lacks the advanced Stark-tech that makes Peter’s suit so uniquely sleek, meaning that it was likely safe to assume that no one in this world would mistake this boy for the real Spider-Man. 

Unless they were to catch him scaling up the side of your building… 

“I tried knocking.” he sounds exasperated, as if you are testing his patience. “You weren’t home.” 

You snort a laugh, wondering if he truly believes that is all the reason he needs to break into someone's home. 

“Then you should’ve waited until I got home,” 

“I hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours. I was too tired to wait.” 

“Then you should’ve slept in the alleyway with the rest of the strays,” you hiss at him, fingers tightening around the bat as your frustration builds. 

The sheer ferocity in your voice gives him pause, stunning him into silence. 

Then the corner of his mouth begins to twitch upwards, lazily grinning at you as if he actually enjoys the verbal onslaught. 

You can tell that he’s watching you through those white lenses, and his tongue darts over his bottom lip, you feel your breath catch in your throat. “Fine,” amusement dances in his tone as he raises his gloved hands, “fair enough.” 

For a moment, no sound comes from your parted lips, leaving you to stand there gaping at him until you remember how to speak. “Fair enough?” You echo, shaking your head slightly. “That’s all you’ve got? No apology?” 

He moves, forcing you to take a step back as he shoves his legs over the side of the bed and rises to his feet. He’s not as tall as Parker, but he still stands an inch or so higher than you, making it hard to not feel intimidated as he stares down at you, your own face staring back from the reflection of his lenses. 

“Better not push your luck, Spitfire,” 

He’s baiting you—he has to be! Using a stupid nickname to get under your skin, to try and prod further at your short temper. And it’s working—god, you hate how much it’s working!—because you find yourself contemplating putting his superhuman durability to the test by whacking him over the head with your bat. 

“By the way,” he says before you have a chance to act on your intrusive thoughts, pointing at your hands, “you’re bleeding.” 

As if his words switch a flip in your head, you’re suddenly aware of the acute throbbing in your palm. You loosen your grip on the bat, letting it clatter recklessly to the floor as you hold your hand out to examine it. 

Unsurprisingly, the rubber handle managed to tear open the barely-healed cut on your palm, courtesy of your too-tight grip on it. You hiss through your teeth, watching as blood oozed from the cut, dripping down towards your wrist. 

Slipping past you, the boy only half-manages to stifle his laugh. “You should probably take care of that.” 

He’s already slipping out into the hall by the time you regain enough awareness to follow after him, gritting your teeth against the pain. 

“And where do you think you’re going?” 

“To the other room,” he calls over his shoulder. Once he’s standing in front of Parker’s door, he spins back around to face you, his snarky expression still in-tact. “Where I’m hoping you won’t follow me.” 

Everything about him causes your blood to boil—his grating voice, his insolent attitude, his stupid soft lips. 

“Would it kill you to be nice to me?” You exclaim, your voice strained with pain as you try to wrap your hand in the lower half of your shirt. 

It takes no-time for blood to start seeping through the thin material, and you certainly don’t look intimidating like this—the lower half of your abdomen on display as you try to apply whatever pressure you can to the wound—but you don’t care. 

“I don’t have to let you and Parker stay in my house—I’m doing it because I’m nice, alright? And, so far, you’ve been nothing but a dick!” 

The thin fabric of his mask shifts, brows furrowing at the mention of Parker. Unlike Peter, however, he doesn’t bother commenting on the nickname. “Nice isn’t exactly the word I’d use to describe you. Especially since you’re the one calling me names.” 

The levity in his tone makes you want to scream—what was his deal?! 

You press harder against your bleeding palm, your breathing turning shallow. You’re not sure if it’s frustration or pain or what, but you feel like your head is spinning. “Look, I don’t know you, alright? But this? Isn’t gonna work,” you bark at him, chin lifted defiantly as you stare into his mask, unrelenting. “If you plan on staying in my house, then you’ll get your shit together—got it?” 

His head tilts, curiously watching as you continue your frantic speech. 

“No crawling in through my windows or sleeping in my bed or smarting shit off! And take off that stupid mask!” You huff, shaking your head. “Or, I don’t know, pull it down the rest of the way! Just do something because you look stupid like that!” 

The words are spewing from your mouth like a torrential downpour, fueled by the rage swirling in your stomach and the throbbing in your hand and—

He laughs, a genuine laugh that isn’t born of derision, and you feel your racing thoughts slow to a halt. “You should work on your insults,” reaching for the nape of his neck, he tugs his mask off. “Because that was pathetic.” 

It’s no longer just your thoughts that have slowed, but the entire world. Everything around you feels like it has come skidding to a stop—leaving you staring up at him like a dumbfounded idiot. 

He’s beautiful—a commonality among Peter’s variants, it seems. 

He’s smirking, an infuriatingly charming smirk that lets you know he has no intention of listening to your demands for him to silence his quick wit. But you’re not focusing on that—no, you’re focusing on the features that had been hidden from you this whole time; his dark hair, tousled from removing his mask, falls in a chaotic halo around his face, contrasting the vibrance of his eyes. 

His eyes. 

They leave you breathless, and you hate it. Colored with the deepest cerulean you’ve ever seen, his eyes feel like staring into the depths of a crystalline ocean. You can almost feel yourself getting swept up in their tides, feel them enveloping you in a feeling of familiarity, as if this wasn’t the first time you had been pulled into their ebbing waters. 

“Have we–” your mouth has gone dry, your voice cracking. “Have we met before?” 

It’s a ridiculous question, and you recognize that even as it’s spilling from your lips. You couldn’t have met him before—not when the two of you weren’t even from the same universe! 

He seems to be thinking the same thing, and you’re already preparing to take the full force of whatever smartass comment he’s about to fling at you. “I’ve met you,” he says simply, taking you by surprise. Then he inclines his head towards your still-bleeding hand, “You should patch yourself up before you stain the carpet.” 

You look down at your hand, at the hem of your shirt, soaked in blood. 

“But just so I know,” you look back up, his body half-turned towards the door, his fingers resting against the knob, “if Peter and Parker are already taken, then who does that make me?” 

You have to force yourself to take a breath. “What did I call you in your world?” He’s silent for a moment, staring at the floor and chewing on his lip. Then, pushing the door to Parker’s room—their room—open, he smiles.

“Pete.”

a/n - ayyy, pete's finally here! and, ofc, lots of other little important details sprinkled around as well.

also, i really wanna say thank you to everyone who has been reading and enjoying this story so far! it truly means the world to me to read all of the nice comments and to know that you guys are interested in this story! so, again, thank you 💖 as always, please comment/like/reblog and let me know if you wanna be added to the taglist!

part four, titled "blooms of subterfuge", to be released april 29th

#peter parker imagine #no way home imagine #peter parker fan fiction #peter parker fic #peter parker one shot #mcu imagine #spiderman imagine #spiderman fanfiction #andrew!peter imagine #tom!peter imagine #tobey!peter imagine #tom!peter x reader #andrew!peter x reader #tobey!peter x reader #peter parker x reader #spiderman fic #peter parker #mcu x reader #mcu imagines #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #marvel imagines #andrew garfield #tobey maguire #tom holland #spiderman headcanon #spiderman imagines #tasm imagine #tasm imagines #raimiverse imagine

[stinkysam]

Peter Parker - All about the angle.

Warning : none

Genre : fluff

Synopsis : “tasm Peter parker x male reader, just the two being love sick idiots and everyone around them sees it and just thinks those two are going to be together forever. 🩷” - anon

Reader : male (he/you)

“I love you.” You said quietly, kissing Peter's lips. He smiled, looking at you with adoration in his eyes and wrapped his arms around you.

“I love you too.” He kissed you again and again as you giggled, happy.

“I have to go.” You said. “My father is waiting for me in the car.”

“Okay.” He said, kissing you one last time before letting you go. “I love you.” He repeated and you whispered it back to him before quickly walking toward your father's car.

“So, how long have you two been together ?” Gwen asked, looking at Peter with big interested eyes.

“Huh ?” He jumped, he hadn't heard her arrive, too focused on you leaving.

“You and [Name].” She laughed. “Since when are you dating him ?”

“Uh.” He brought his right hand to his lips, chewing lightly on his thumb. “We're not… We're- We're not dating.” He said with a nervous chuckle.

“Oh, come on. I've seen the way you look at each other. Like he's some angel coming down from heaven. Don't worry he looks at you the same.”

“W- what ? We don't…” He shook his head. “He's just a friend.”

Gwen raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“Do you kiss all your friends on the lips like that ?”

Peter, panicking, continued to laugh nervously.

“We didn't- We just- You saw wrong, it was the angle. It looked like we were kissing but we weren't.”

“Oooh…” She nodded. “That's weird because a lot of angles do that with you two.”

“Ahah… Oh yeah ? Weird. Huh… that's- he's part French. They kiss each other for greetings, he likes… to do that…”

“Oh yeah ? On the lips ?”

“Cheeks ! On the cheeks. It was on the cheeks.”

“Damned angles that made it look like you're kissing him on the lips, am I right ?”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” He frowned with a laugh, throwing back his bag on his shoulders.

“It's cute. You two, I mean. A bit too down bad for each other though, but still.” She said more quietly.

“Ahah yeah we're not- we're still not dating.”

“Oh yeah, right, sorry, my bad. I meant, whatever french thing you two have together.”

“There's no… French thing. Just… friends.” He smiled awkwardly.

“Right, right. Like those friends that end up living together for years. Historians say they were just friends.”

“Gwen…” He shook his head. “There's really nothing.” He laughed. “But I'm starting to believe you want us to be a thing.”

“If you're not a thing already, which I highly doubt with the suspicious French angles, then, yes, just get together already.” She nodded with a smile as Peter sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“We aren't, Gwen. And we won't.” He said, leaving. “Bye !”

“Maybe next time don't kiss in public ! And don't make me take pictures of you two !” She yelled, watching him disappear.

You entered your house and went to your room, planning to finish the book you had started a few days ago. Only for Peter to barge in through the window.

“She knows !” He whispers-yelled, looking at you with big eyes.

“Hi again.” You chuckled. “Who knows what, babe ?” You said, eyes still on your book as you yawned.

“Gwen, about us.”

You immediately closed your mouth, looking at him. You quickly stood up, throwing your book on the bed.

“How does she know ? Did you tell her ?”

“No !” He almost looked offended by your question. “Why would I come here if I did ?”

“Is she spying on us ?” You asked, looking out the window before closing the curtains.

“She saw us kiss. Several times.” He said and you scoffed.

“Wh- what ? Us kissing ? Ah ! Ahah !” You began to laugh

“She's not here.”

“I know I was practicing. Was it good ?”

“You're part French.”

“I'm part what !?”

“It was really good, a bit less disgust in your voice, maybe.”

“I swear to God if I have to raise my grades in French, Peter, you're dead.”

#male reader #m!reader #tasm #tasm x male reader #tasm imagine #the amazing spiderman #the amazing spiderman imagine #the amazing spiderman x male reader #peter parker x male reader #peter parker imagine #peter parker #peter parker x reader

[spiderfunkz]

✦ CITY OF STARS.

summary : peter swings you to a perfect late-night date.

word count : 0,6k

warnings : tooth rotting fluff, implied fem!reader, pet names, kisses.

a/n : inspired by this deleted scene!! requests for peter are open if u want to send in ur ideas / prompts ^_^ also kind of inspired by that one scene in atsv where gwen & miles hangout by that tower yk

"let's get out of here." peter whispers, his voice tickles your skin again as he places another kiss on your nose.

you sigh, cupping his cheek, "i can't peter, i told you." you repeat — which not surprisingly causes peter to pout. "why not?"

"because. i have.. homework." you shrug. it's true though, the pile of papers near your desk is practically calling you to be read or marked.

he pouts, again. but he isn't giving up.

"don't look at me like that." you chuckle, your thumb caressing peter's cheek, running through his freckles.

"like what?"

"with your big brown doe eyes."

peter tries a bit more. the more you make eye contact with him, the harder it is to say no.

"fine. but you seriously have to get blue contacts, peter." you let go of his cheek.

"yes, ma'am." he nods. you couldn't tell if he's joking or not, but it's funny either way.

he gets up and grabs his backpack, it seems heavier than usual. "grab your jacket, bub. it's gonna be cold."

"where are you taking me?"

"secret."

"that doesn't sound creepy at all."

"come on. trust me." peter's waiting near the window. "are you gonna take me on a swing?"

peter puts his beanie on. "does the hat give it away?" he asks, the spiderman crochet beanie in bright red staring right at you.

you smile. "yeah it kinda does."

peter tucks the loose hair behind your ear before helping you out the window, and before you know it you're one with the wind. and also with new york's pollution.

peter's gentle, one hand holding your waist and the other thwip! -ing away at buildings. your hands are wrapped around his neck, face burried in the crook of it. you could smell his cologne, it's the one you like.

you relax at the scent of it. it almost makes you forget that you're meters up in the air.

but then your shoes touch ground.

it was a ledge of a clock tower. it's not steep, it's actually very spacey up here. if you think about it you could probably fit a picnic up here, a small hangout even with a few friends.

"you good?" peter lets go, "yeah. this is cozy." you say, fixing your sweater. "don't you think people will see us here?" you ask.

"no. but. if they do-" peter opens his bag, "i got back up." he reveals a beanie, like the one he's wearing, it's a spiderman one too but with different colours.

it's white with pink outlines.

"we're matching!" peter puts the beanie on you. it fits perfectly, "that's so cute peter. do i get to keep it?" — "of course. made it just for you. besides i don't think people can spot us here unless they really, really, really squint. and now when they do, they'll just see our hats."

you nod. peter gestures for you to sit.

"i got more stuff." he smiles, teeth showing, teasingly.

you roll your eyes at him before sitting next to the empty space beside him.

he pulls out two takeout boxes, followed by the plastic eating utensils, and some water, and some more.

"oh. wow." you say, impressed.

you weren't kidding. you could fit a picnic here.

"what're you waiting for? dig in!" peter passes your takeout. "i got your favorite too."

"aw. thank you, peter." you give him a kiss. "i'll get you ice cream after this. or whenever you feel like ice cream." you give him another kiss.

"thank you!" he gasps, dramatically. "that is everything i have ever wanted." peter replies.

you smile, "this is everything i have ever wanted."

#tasm #tasm x you #tasm x reader #tasm fluff #tasm imagines #tasm imagine #peter parker #peter parker fluff #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker x y/n #peter parker imagines #peter parker imagine #tasm peter parker #tasm!peter #tasm!peter fluff #tasm!peter imagine #tasm!spiderman x reader #tasm!peter x reader #tasm!peter x you #tasm!peter parker #the amazing spiderman #the amazing spiderman fluff #the amazing spider man #andrew garfield!peter parker #tasm!peter parker fluff #tasm!peter parker imagine #tasm!peter parker x reader #spiderman #tasm spiderman

[ash5monster01]

Request for Andrew Garfield: he introduces the reader to his closest friends and they tell him she’s a keeper

She’s a Keeper

Pairing: Andrew Garfield x FemReader

Warnings: fluff, mentions of alcohol, implied smut

Summary: meeting Andrews friends seemed terrifying, desperate to make a good impression, and when you finally get the chance to meet them it goes much better than planned. (sorry this took forever, I kept getting distracted starting different requests but this one was to cute to forget about)

Masterlist

Andrew had met all of your friends. They all loved him and you were content spending time with them in a group setting. You still had yet to meet Andrews friends but you were extremely nervous. Your friends were simple people, friends from college, people you’ve seen make stupid mistakes. Andrews friends were famous, older, and they’d probably look at you and wonder what the hell was wrong with their friend for dating you.

Of course you couldn’t avoid it forever and Andrew had made plans that you couldn’t back out of. You already planned to spend the night with him when he informed you that you were going to get drinks with Jamie Dornan, Charlie Cox, and Eddie Redmayne. If you had any chance of survival you weren’t sure. The thought of you sat around a table with well known famous actors almost made you laugh, surely onlookers would laugh at you too.

You prided yourself on being a very controlled and out going person but as you stared back at yourself in the mirror not even you could ignore the slight shake of your hands as you brushed the blue fabric of your dress. Andrew thought it was adorable that you were nervous about making a good impression on his friends. So he walked up behind you, his large hands covering your shaking ones as he pulled you back into his chest, his face nuzzling into your neck, his beard tickling you.

“You look beautiful baby” he spoke the words into your neck, kisses pressed lightly to your skin.

“Are you sure I’m not overdressed?” your head tilted in concentration as you continued to look over yourself. Making a good impression and not making a fool of yourself was top priority. Andrew thought it was adorable and he chuckled as he spun you around so you could stop obsessing over how you looked.

“The dress is perfect, you’re beautiful. Not even a hair out of place, well at least until I get my hands on you” your cheeks flamed red as he pushed your hair out of your face, his hand trailing along your neck.

“I just want them to like me” you told him as you grabbed the ends of his blazer, pulling him into you.

“They’re going to love you, just like I do” he whispered before pressing a kiss flush to your lips. The hard kiss made your head spin and you grinned for such a distraction. A faint imprint of your red lips sat on his own and you weren’t going to tell him.

“Let’s go before we’re late, they’d probably blame me if we were” you said slipping out his grasp as you pulled him out of the apartment. Getting a cab wasn’t difficult and soon enough you were pulling up outside of the bar, a bit fancier than your usual taste but you figured they picked it to have less chance of being overwhelmed in public.

“Ready?” Andrew asked and you nodded as he offered his hand and helped you out if the car and onto the sidewalk. Before he could pull his hand away you tightened your grip and locked your fingers with his, your nervousness showing. Andrews heart fluttered at the fact this meant so much to you.

“There he is” a booming voice called as you stepped through the doors of the bar. You looked over the see the three very recognizable men sat at a table, empty glasses and new drinks in front of them.

“Always late” Jamie chuckled and you felt your heart drop slightly, wanting to avoid that.

“I bet he drives you nuts, he can never be on time to anything” Charlie said as his eyes flitted to you and your nervousness eased that they didn’t blame you.

“Probably to busy putting his lipstick on huh?” Eddie teased with a wink and Andrews eyes widened as he realized you had left your mark, him quickly wiping at it with his sleeve.

“If I didn’t drag him out of the door we would’ve been later” you teased and the three men laughed.

“Guys this is Y/N” you smiled and quickly shook all of their hands before Andrew pulled out your seat for you to sit.

“It’s nice to finally meet you guys” you beamed at them, trying to remind yourself they’re still just people.

“How’d a pretty girl like you end up with this guy?” Jamie asked and a deep crimson blush covered your cheeks, because well, Christian Grey just called you pretty.

“He practically begged, I finally just got sick of him asking” the group laughed including Andrew especially because everyone at the table knew you said yes the first time he asked.

“He’s a very determined guy” Eddie said as he clapped his hand to his shoulder. Andrew shook his head, realizing he was in for an afternoon of teasing.

“And stubborn” you pointed out and the boys laughed again. You started to feel more comfortable especially when you realized you were all there because of someone you love which meant you all already had something in common.

“Speaking of stubborn, I have a story for you” Andrew was quick to lean forward and wave a hand in Charlie’s face.

“Alright enough of that” he quickly spoke and you shook your head as you slapped a hand over your boyfriends mouth.

“Shut up baby I want to hear this” you told him and he groaned as he fell back and away from your hand.

“Few years back we went out to this club, and Andrew got wasted. I mean like stumbling around, slurring speech wasted, and we just wanted to go home. Yet this guy somehow still wanted to party, I mean no one was even out anymore and we couldn’t drag him away from the table. So I did the only thing I could think of” Andrew recoiled into his seat, shielding his eyes with his hands as if it would lessen the embarrassment. “I told him Anne Hathaway was at the apartment and she was looking for him. The guy couldn’t control himself as he ran out of the club”

“Anne Hathaway huh?” you rose your eyebrows at your boyfriend and he shook his head.

“I went through a Princess Diaries phase” you and his friends laughed loudly at his defense.

“It’s okay baby, I went through a She’s The Man phase, Channing Tatum man” the boys continued to laugh, able to picture them both in their young obsessions.

“We all had our phases. Avril Lavigne has had my heart since 07” Jamie said and the group continued to share their laughs.

“I’m happy to know he’s still the same, we came home from a night out the other night and he cried while watching Ratatouille” the boys chuckled as they imagined their friend crying over the cartoon.

“Look he found out it was his Dad, and Remy won the heart of the food critic. I don’t think I have to defend myself here” Andrew held his hands up in defense and you giggled while reaching to grab his hand.

“It was cute, I just wanted to cuddle him for hours because of how sweet he was” Andrew blushed and you smiled. You were no longer nervous to be around his friends.

“Yeah I oddly remember feeling that way about drunk Andrew too” Eddie said which caused more laughs.

“I’m gonna use the rest room, I’ll be right back” you stood and left the boys at the table. Once you were out of sight they all turned to the brunette boy.

“I like her man” Jamie quickly said and the other boys nodded.

“Me too, she’s funny. I’m glad you didn’t bring another dud to drinks” Eddie spoke and Andrew rolled his eyes before smiling.

“I love her man, she’s so full of life. I can’t get enough of her” the grin of adoration was evident on Andrews face as he spoke about the girl.

“We approve dude, she’s a keeper” Charlie told him and Andrew felt his heart warm. He knew you’d win them over, you were just that kind of girl.

After some more chat about how much his friends liked you, you returned to table with drinks for the both of you in your hands. The rest of the night full of more laughs and fun. You couldn’t wipe the smile off your face as you both left, you hugging each of the friends, as you moved to return home. The minute the apartment door shut behind you Andrew wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling your back into his chest.

“What’s this about?” you asked as his face nuzzled into your neck and started pressing soft kisses into your skin.

“I just love you so much” his hot breath fanned over your neck as he spoke, causing you to recoil away because it tickled.

“You’re in a good mood” you told him as you turned around to press a kiss to his lips.

“Of course I am, my best friends love my girlfriend” he quipped before kissing you hotly again.

“Oh so it’s confirmed, I’m the favorite” you teased and Andrew chuckled before scooping you up and starting towards the bedroom.

#andrew garfield x reader #andrew garfield imagine #tasm andrew garfield #andrew garfield #imagine #andrew garfield fanfiction #andrew garfield fic #andrew garfield fluff #romance #marvel #tasm!peter smut #tasm x reader #tasm au #tasm fanfiction #tasm imagine #tasm fic #tasm peter parker

[buckyseddie]

always hold you

pairings — tasm!peter parker x bff/gf!fem!reader

summary — in which, she needs her boyfriend's support more than anything else, after another particularly bad fight with her father.

word count — 2.6k.

warnings — a little bit of angst, use of pet-names [dove, sweetheart, darling, love, bug], reader calls peter pete, lots of fluff and this is basically just a hurt/comfort fic, protective/soft!peter, this is also sort of similar to my other peter fic (take as a part two that one), peter comforting reader, mentions of the reader's low self-esteem issues and it being explained a bit more, both physical and emotional abuse (manipulation and gaslighting, but not from peter), hugs and cuddles, forehead kisses, peter just taking care of the reader and showing her the love that her family refuses to do, gwen is in here for a second and being the comforting platonic best friend that she is to reader, peter comes off as a little harsh and scares reader a little bit but he makes up for it in the end.

notes — hi! so, this is really more of a vent fic. i know i've written in the past about dealing w/ a toxic family member and how i really enjoyed writing fics similar to my experiences with my favorite comfort characters to comfort the reader because that would usually help me deal with everything. but recently, the abuse that me, my mom, and my brother have been experiencing has become a lot more complicated and traumatizing for me to deal with. and things have only gotten worse. so, i figured i'd do another comforting fic like the other peter fic i wrote about going through that said abuse. i really just feel that it's important to not hide my true feelings and act like everything's fine behind a screen and i just want to be able to talk about this topic a lot more (especially in my writing), because it's so serious and not nearly talked about enough. but, nonetheless, if there's anyone out there that sees this and is a victim of abuse (whether it's emotional/mental or physical abuse, or both) please don't feel obligated to read this. i really don't want to trigger or upset anyone who's dealing with this situation in a very heavy and overwhelming way. just remember though, no matter what anyone says or does to you, you ARE strong and deserve the entire world. i love you all <3. anyways, i hope this makes up for the lack of posting anything (i've been really struggling with a lot, but i'm trying!). gif and divider creds to owner!

p.s., feedback is very much encouraged and appreciated <3.

other fic

main masterlist

IT'S OBVIOUS NOW THAT SHE was stupid to think that he could change. it was even more stupid of her to go back to that apartment.

but, she's always been one to see the best in people — in her case, it's come to bite her in the ass.

even now, as she awaits her boyfriend to return home from his nightly patrol around the city, [y/n] knows that she should've known better.

she trembles as she sits on their shared bed, one of her legs bouncing anxiously — the thought of how peter will react to her foolish decision and the outcome from it is stressing her out, beyond words.

after how he responded the first time he found out about the truth about her father's cruelty and what she'd had to go through, she's worried of how he will react this time — it took almost everything in him to not confront her father, when he first found out.

she abruptly jumps when she hears the front door of the apartment shut softly.

a shaky breath leaves her lips, wondering if it's too late to try to hide the marks on her face and body.

but, when she hears him call out her name from the living room, she knows that it's too late — there's nothing she can do now to hide this.

and even if she wanted to for a split second, she promised peter she'd never lie to him again — after the last time, they promised each other that they'd never hide anything from the other again.

so, with another shaky breath, [y/n] sighs and hesitantly pulls the bedroom door open.

she keeps her head down, her hair falling around her face and covering the marks as she walks out and into the living room.

"sweetheart..." peter's voice trails off, eyes wide with shock and worry.

her breath catches in her throat as soon as she finally looks up at her boyfriend and sees the intense, protective look in his eyes.

"i—i'm sorry, peter." she whispers, voice too raspy to get any louder.

a flash of anger fills his eyes. "please... tell me that you didn't go back to him!" he exclaims in a quieter tone of voice as he pinches the corner of his eyes.

[y/n] flinches at the amount of frustration in his voice.

"peter, i—i'm sorry... " her voice trembles, guilt and regret quickly filling her — she just feels so stupid.

peter sighs, regretting taking his anger out on her.

his eyes immediately soften. "sweetheart, i'm sorry." he murmurs, before starting to walk over to her.

but, before he can reach her, she flinches and winces.

he stops short, freezing in place. more guilt fills him as he realizes that in this moment, she's scared of him.

"look... i—i know that i shouldn't have gone back," she whispers, tears clouding her eyes as she remembers the anger and hatred in her father's eyes.

peter's silent for a moment, waiting and giving her time to explain more — if she's able to.

"i'm... i'm so stupid, peter." she whispers, too ashamed to talk any louder.

peter's eyes widen in shock, not expecting that statement to come out of her mouth. "w—what? darling, that's not true."

this time, a tear falls down her cheek. "yes, i am. peter, who's stupid enough to choose to believe that their abusive, monster-of-a-father can change? me — it's me!"

the rambling and the self-loathing words coming out of his girlfriend's mouth becomes incredibly clear to peter as he walks over to her.

this time now, he doesn't hesitate to pull her into his chest as her voice becomes more trembling and wavering, "this is on me — it's my fault."

"it's okay now, love. don't blame yourself." he murmurs as she stops holding herself back and breaks into breathless sobs into his chest.

after a while, her crying slows and quiets down with her tears now dried on her cheeks.

she faces him and takes in a deep, calming breath as he wipes away the remaining tears away and looks over her bruises more intensely.

"i wanna kill him for doing this to you — again." the venom in his tone sends shivers through her spine — knowing what he would do to protect her comforts her.

but, on the other hand, she also knows that hurting her father isn't going to do anything for them or fix anything.

"no, peter. i know you don't mean that." she murmurs seriously.

an angry frown places itself over his lips. "no, i do."

she sighs. "okay, maybe you do. but, it won't fix anything and we both know that," she says, moving one of her fingers up to smooth out the crease in between his very furrowed eyebrows.

"it's okay now — i'm okay." she whispers seriously, grabbing his hand and rubbing soothing circles over his thumb.

you'd think from how she's comforting him that peter was the one that got hurt, not her — that's just how she is; she always finds herself taking care of everyone else, when she really should be taking care of herself.

maybe that's why they're such a good pair — while they're taking care of everyone else and their loved ones, they can trust the other to take care of the other.

"that's the thing, love. it's not okay! you shouldn't have to go out of your way to avoid him, just to protect yourself." he exclaims, ripping his hand out of hers and this time pacing around the living room with his hand now gripping his hair in frustration.

she sighs, frowning — this is exactly why she didn't want to tell him because she hates worrying him like this.

"it may not be fair, but if it's what i have to do to protect myself, then that's what i'll do — i should've kept doing that, instead of being an idiot to believe he'd change." she admits, shrugging, trying to play this all off, as if it's not that big of a deal.

"don't say that — don't do that!" he abruptly yells, turning around to face her defensively.

she flinches — once again — at the volume of his voice. "don't do what?" she asks meekly, her voice too soft.

he sighs in regret. "i'm sorry. i'm not trying to scare you." his eyes are downcast at the floor, before he looks up again, the guilt clear in his irises this time.

"it's okay, peter." she gulps, berating herself for some part of her being afraid of him — after all, she has no reason to fear him because he'd never intentionally hurt her.

"it's not. i shouldn't have gotten so angry — i'm not mad at you, i promise," he says in a much more quiet voice, sighing as he sees that look in her eyes — the one that she always has when she feels like a burden and feels like she should be apologizing.

"sweetheart, don't even think about apologizing. none of this is your fault."

[y/n] sighs in exasperation. "maybe it is. i'm the one that is always making a fool out of myself by believing in the best of everyone."

she sighs when a flash of irritation shows in his eyes. "what?" he whispers, his eyebrows furrowing together.

she takes in another breath when he walks over to her and hesitantly places his hands over her cheeks.

[y/n] sighs again.

"this isn't your fault, love. know that," he murmurs, his eyes searching hers for some kind of understanding. "please, tell me that you know that."

she sighs again, noticing the tears filling his eyes — it becomes incredibly clear to her how much the man in front of her cares about her.

"peter... " her own eyes fill with tears, even spilling to her cheeks.

without another thought, he gently wipes away her tears. "promise me that you understand me."

she sighs again. "y—yes, i understand," she murmurs, hating the hope that fills his eyes. "but, i just don't believe it."

he opens his mouth to object, but she interrupts him before he has the chance to say something, "i want to. but, i can't just shut off the way i feel — i was raised the way i was and with the trauma i have gotten along the way, i can't just forget it."

more tears fills his eyes, before he moves incredibly closer to her and brings her close to kiss her forehead. "knowing you want to believe it is good enough for me."

when he pulls away from her he smiles warmly at her. "let's go cuddle now, yeah?"

the softness in his voice makes her smile. "sounds like a plan, pete." she murmurs with a nod and leads him to their shared room.

once they're inside of their bedroom, [y/n] walks over to their shared bathroom, to change into her set of pajamas she set aside earlier in the day, after she had just gotten back from her father's home — she used to call it her home, but that all changed once her once-very-close relationship with her father changed.

after she changes and brushes her hair and teeth, she takes in a deep breath and tries to mentally prepare herself for the rest of the night.

but, when she shuts off the light and opens the door, she comes to realize that the bedroom is empty.

she walks out of the bathroom and looks around, her eyebrows quickly knitting together in confusion.

and just as she's about to call out her boyfriend's name, she hears hushed voices outside of the room.

with much more confusion filling her body, she slowly walks out of their room and into the living room, only to see peter standing at the door, talking at the door in a hushed voice.

"pete? is everything okay?" she asks as she walks up from behind him.

he jumps a little in surprise, before motioning towards the door.

the blond hair of their current guest surprises her.

"oh, gwen. hi." she greets her best friend and then her boyfriend, wrapping her arms around his waist and leaning into him with her chin resting on his shoulder.

"what are you doing here?"

gwen shrugs. "i just wanted to check up on you — your dad called me, yelling at me because he thought that you'd left to go hide at my apartment."

the words that come out of one of her best friends' mouth shakes [y/n] to her very core — anytime she hears anything about her father, she gets easily nervous and scared.

in a matter of seconds, [y/n] slowly pulls away from her boyfriend's body.

she knows that she should try to pretend everything's fine and as if her friend's words don't affect her, but she can't help it.

if she had a few more seconds, she'd probably fall into a state of mind where she'd completely shut down.

but, when a light touch to her shoulder by peter shakes her out of her daze, she sighs and nervously finds her boyfriend's eyes on her.

"what's going on, guys? did something happen?" gwen asks worriedly after seeing the tense look on [y/n]'s face.

peter doesn't speak. he doesn't even look away from his girlfriend — his eyes simply say that the decision is all hers.

despite the fact that him and gwen are pretty close friends, he's always respected [y/n]'s choices.

with a sigh, [y/n] turns to gwen. "i kind of had a run in with my dad earlier."

as she hears that statement, gwen begins to notice the bruises on her best friend's face.

she frowns. "are you okay?" she asks, but after a moment, she groans and rolls her eyes at herself.

"i'm sorry. that was insensitive — of course you're not okay."

[y/n] laughs, despite the seriousness of the situation. "it's okay."

gwen gives her a pointed look, not believing for one moment that what she asked was okay.

"really, gwen," she says, finding some courage inside of her. "i'm probably not okay. but... " she trails off, suddenly feeling like everything is going to be okay with the ones that truly love her by her side.

"for the first time, i think i'm going to be okay — that everything will be okay." she says confidently, moving even closer to peter and practically burying herself into his arms.

gwen smiles. "good. i'm glad."

—————

AFTER A LITTLE BIT MORE of talking, they all finally say their goodbyes and peter shuts the door gently.

they move over to the couch, peter covering them — mostly [y/n] — with one of the fuzzy throw blankets that was lying over the front of the couch.

"you doing okay?" he asks softly as she lays her face into his neck.

she smiles, feeling reassured for the first time.

she lifts her head back up to look at him.

"i know going back was stupid. i do—" before she can continue, he interrupts her with guilt evident in his brown eyes. —"i'm sorry, bug. for how angry i got earlier."

she tilts her head in confusion. "what do you mean?"

"i shouldn't have gotten upset with you. and i'm sorry for startling you. i was just worried." he murmurs seriously, frowning at her confusion.

"i just... every time i think about your dad being near you or hurting you, well, it drives me crazy, sweetheart." he says, trying to ignore the anger in his voice every time he thinks about the type of person his girlfriend's father is.

"pete... it's okay. i'm not going to go back — i learned my lesson." she says, cupping his jaw with one hand, in order to try to calm him down.

he sighs, leaning into her hand and covering it with one of his own.

"that's the point, sweetheart. you shouldn't have to be cautious and scared to avoid him, so that he doesn't act like that. it's not okay."

she frowns, wishing that she could stop him from worrying.

but, she also knows that he needs to get these feelings out and off of his chest.

"tell me, peter. what is it?" she asks, being the understanding girlfriend that he loves — no matter how cliche that actually sounds.

"i love how good-hearted you are, sweetheart. the way you always see the good in everyone, despite what they've done to you — it's amazing," he starts, pulling her hand away from his jaw to hold over one of his legs.

"and i never want you to stop being that person. but, i also hate that you have to avoid him. you shouldn't have to give up your happiness and peace."

she nods in clear understanding.

he groans again, leaning his forehead over hers.

"it's okay, peter."

he pulls away and opens his mouth to say something in defense, but she stops him by speaking before him, "peter, i know it upsets you that he doesn't get to be punished for his actions and i get that."

he stops short, giving her a chance to finish talking.

"i know you hate that. but, i know that you love me more than any urge that you have to give him what he deserves — and that's what i need you to do, okay? love me more than you hate him." he frowns at her words.

as if noticing his hesitation, she says, "for me. please?"

he sighs in defeat and nods. "fine. for you." he murmurs as he pulls her closer into his embrace and body.

she smiles in victory as she lies her head on his shoulder. "i love you, peter parker. you know that?" she murmurs, cuddling up close to him.

"i know i can always count on you." she says, once more, smiling as he chuckles and stretches over to kiss her on the forehead.

"good. because i love you more and i'll always hold you when you need it, dove." he murmurs, smiling at her calm and at peaceful face.

and like that, they cuddle until they fall asleep with peaceful expressions on their faces.

#peter parker #peter parker imagine #peter parker imagines #peter parker one-shot #peter parker one-shots #peter parker x reader #tasm!peter parker #tasm!peter parker imagine #tasm!peter parker imagines #tasm!peter parker one-shot #tasm!peter parker one-shots #tasm!peter parker x reader #andrew garfield #andrew garfield imagine #andrew garfield imagines #andrew garfield one-shot #andrew garfield one-shots #andrew garfield x reader #tasm #tasm imagine #tasm imagines #tasm one-shot #tasm one-shots #tasm x reader #the amazing spider-man #the amazing spider-man imagine #the amazing spider-man imagines #the amazing spider-man one-shot #the amazing spider-man one-shots #the amazing spider-man x reader

[literaila]

it’s really nothing 

tasm!peter x fem!reader (office au) 

summary: with peter parker as your coworker, work is something to look forward to. 

warnings: idiots to lovers, pining, reader has a panic attack, peter gets sick, spider-man stuff, fluff, actual idiots, they both “hate” m&ms 

a/n: this is the longest oneshot i’ve ever written. and also, i really like calling people criminals. let me know what you think! 

*

peter parker has pretty eyes.

this is what you're thinking about while he stands in front of you, smiling politely, waiting for you to say something. 

to shake his hand and establish a growing work relationship. 

they're brown. soft and warm and a bit too bright for so early in the morning--he probably hasn't been up all night and probably doesn't suffer from a severe coffee dependency. 

not that you do, either. it's just... 

"y/n," you say, smiling even though it feels more like a wince. like trying not to scare away the newbie. you shake his hand.

the newbie who you were supposed to be director of today. 

the newbie who you definitely did not forget about. 

and who is absolutely not almost devilishly handsome. 

his eyes are crinkled at the edges and you can't tell if it's because he's amused or concerned. 

or if he is just pleasantly waiting for you to say something. 

"sorry," you clear your throat. look away from him, to the person in the cubicle beside you--who is not judging you in the slightest. "busy morning." 

"it's okay. i like... awkward silences." 

he's got dimples. a little quirk on his cheek as he waits for you to tell him where to go. what to do. how not to get fired on the first day. 

"i'm a little distracted," you concede, almost regretful. almost like he definitely thinks you're crazy. 

he turns to look at whatever you were staring at. "yeah," he turns back, smiling. "that's a nice wall." 

"okay," you take a deep breath in, feel the shame smother you with your shirt. "let's try this again." 

peter, who looks like a tiny little beam of light in this room full of half-asleep people, nods. he holds his hand out again. "hi, i'm peter. i'm supposed to ask you where my desk is." 

you almost laugh. "y/n," you say again, to clarify. "i'm supposed to show you where your desk is." 

"hopefully it's facing that wall." 

and so ensues the battle of trying not to stare at him for thirty seconds every time he makes eye contact with you.

fraternization is forbidden from the office. 

you lead him to his desk, show him all of the drawers, completely with a jar full of pens--courtesy of the company--and a little welcome gift. 

a little bag of m&ms that you may or may not have rushed to get from the vending machine down the hall. 

"what's this?" 

you swallow. again. maybe for the fiftieth time. "just a 'welcome to the office' sort of thing." 

peter raises a brow. "from who?" 

"me. i'm, uh, supposed to be your 'office buddy' while you settle in." 

more specifically, you're supposed to be the person he goes to. the person with all the answers. the person who does not get distracted when looking into the eyes of their coworkers. 

third time's a charm. 

 peter nods. "oh, well, i don't like m&ms."

there is a tiny fraction of you that would like to beg him not to make this even harder than it already is. 

"you don't like m&ms," you repeat. 

he shakes his head. his hair is messy. and soft. you'd like to reach out to touch it. 

and burn your hand off immediately after. 

"i didn't realize we were hiring criminals," you shrug. take the candy from his hands. 

peter's jaw drops, minimally. "um, sorry?" 

"not like m&ms is a federal crime." 

his eyes widen. he looks a bit relieved. and then his face switches, smooth and chill, and almost evil eyes. "guess i must've missed that one." 

"if you don't take my candy i'll have to eat it myself." 

he raises a brow. "i'm assuming you like m&ms." 

"nope. hate 'em." 

he laughs. "then why would you give them to me?" 

"it was the last thing in the vending machine. and i assumed you weren't also on probation. " 

"neither of us is very good with assumptions," he leans back, looking a little bit more comfortable than he did a minute ago. 

like maybe he doesn't think that you're absolutely insane. 

you smile at him, try and keep the energy up even though you would really like to lay down on his desk and take a nap. 

"so," you say, clasping your hands together. "my desk is right there." 

across from his, of course, because you're already the office leader in procrastination. 

"if you have any questions i won't be too far away." 

"questions?" 

"yeah. like, about what email to use for an article. or where to find files in the overly complicated filing system. or why it smells like pickles every couple of days." 

his brow furrows. "pickles?" 

"don't ask." 

he picks up a pen. clicks it. puts it back down. 

you watch because how are you supposed to do anything else? 

especially when he's got a voice like that and a face like that and eyes that could probably remove your heart from your chest and take a bite out of it. 

he clears his throat. "does everybody get an office buddy?" 

"only the pretty ones." 

immediately you turn around, run directly into the wall. 

you fall directly onto the floor. 

you don't dare to look at his face. 

you laugh, awkwardly, scratching your neck. "sorry. i, um. i'm not very good at this." 

at talking to people who are insanely attractive, or showing anyone around. or breathing, really. 

"being an office buddy?" peter tilts his head, but he's smiling at you. 

you're pretty sure the crinkle is amused. 

"talking to people. especially when i'm sleep-deprived. or, trying to make a good impression." 

peter laughs, seemingly appreciative of your self-depreciation. "you're doing fine," he assures. "you know, after the whole wall thing. and then the m&m thing." 

you cross your arms. "it was an example of your everyday employee." 

"oh okay, then." he nods. "it worked." 

"and that was a welcome gift." 

"you called me a criminal." 

"i also called myself a criminal. and if you turn out to be anything like me, then you'll last at least a year." 

he bites his lip, looking a little bit confused. 

you laugh. 

"c'mon, i'll show you where we keep the snacks." 

his eyes light up even more. you have to take a deep breath in before you start walking. 

*

peter tries not to bother you. 

he took this job with the money in mind. 

because selling pictures and running around all night and falling asleep in a bed made out of more cardboard than cushion, well, it was time for a change. 

time to become an actual adult--in aunt mays words--and get an adult job. 

when peter took this job--mostly because it was the first acceptance he'd gotten and the rejection letters were killing his ego, piece by piece--he figured that it would almost bore him to death. 

but pay the bills. 

but make it possible to keep up with his extracurriculars and avoid getting his water turned off when he was covered in a slime-like substance that he would really rather not think about. 

he figured that it would be horrible; because having a job was, inevitably, horrible. 

but he was good at suffering. he was good at balancing the scales and doing what needed to be done. 

and may had threatened him with not letting him do his laundry at her house anymore, so, he didn't really have any other choice. 

when he took the job, peter hadn't thought that he would be spending almost every night rushing to submit his forms and edit a million different articles. 

he really hadn't thought that most of his hours spent in the office would be spent staring at you. 

at watching your lips move as you talked to someone on the phone; or straining to hear you whispering to yourself--because not even with his senses could he make everything out completely. 

or at staring at your hands as you typed. your eyes as you laughed. or when he said something--how he managed to, peter wasn't sure because his brain all but stopped whenever you were within five feet of him--to make you smile. 

because your smile, god. it was the worst of all. 

it was soft and beautiful and so mesmerizing that peter was worried you had already killed him every time he saw it. 

there was just something about you. 

something funny. something intriguing. a tiny little thing he wasn't sure how to describe. 

and so, it really wasn't his fault that he didn't get any work done. 

it's not as if he'd chosen to sit right across from you and be forced to watch you work all day. 

he made a conscious effort not to. 

to only stare when you were staring back. 

to type random things onto his document and swear that he was actually going to get something done. 

today. 

but, of course, today he was having a problem. 

the problem being that he didn't want to bother you but he also hadn't talked to you all morning. 

three weeks after he'd officially met you. 

you were his office buddy. his friendly coworker who he was just a little bit infatuated with. 

and he didn't want to bother you. 

he tried not to. 

to keep his staring down to a minimum and avoid planning what he was going to say to you the night before. 

he smiled at you during lunch, asked how everything was going. 

and that was that. 

until now, because peter was having a problem. 

"hey," peter whispered, trying to keep his voice down. 

you looked up from your computer, a quick smile making its way to your face. 

peter pretended not to notice the three cups of coffee on your desk. 

or that your shirt was inside out. 

"hi, peter." 

"hi. i'm--i'm having a little bit of trouble with a document..." 

you raised a brow, making one of your eyes quirk up. just so peter could memorize the color a little bit more. "trouble?"

"i don't know how to change the font." 

it wasn't a complete lie. it also was a poor, poor excuse to talk to you. 

to not bother you. 

"the font?" you ask as if he was lying. 

which he would never do. especially not to get your attention. 

"i've never used this program before." 

"microsoft word?" 

he nods. he watches the edge of your mouth quirk up. 

he watches your fingers tap against the desk. 

"okay," you say, so easily. "i'll show you." 

you stand up, close enough to peter for him to smell your perfume and practically taste your amusement. 

"thanks," he says, quickly, taking a couple of steps back. 

and then a couple of steps more. 

he allows you to lead him back to your desk. to sit in his chair and spin around, just so that he's looking at your face again. 

"i like what you've done with the place," you say, gesturing to his almost empty desk. 

"thanks. i try." 

you laugh. "very cozy." 

and then you spin around again, and peter leans a bit closer to you, watching your eyes as they flick over the computer screen. 

"see the little 't'?" you patronize him, using the cursor to point.

he avoids laughing and giving himself away. he feels like a child. 

which, in hindsight, he pretty much is.  

peter nods. he's sure you can feel it. 

because he can almost feel it when you swallow. 

"you click that," you do so, "and then choose whatever font you want. except for comic sans. because that is against office policy." 

"what if i like comic sans?" he whispers, closer than he wants to be to your ear. 

"then we can't be friends and i'll be switching departments." 

he chuckles. "where would you go?" 

and he leans up, just so you can turn around again. and maybe because he feels little bit lightheaded. 

it's really nothing. 

"probably legal. they have a ping-pong table down there." 

"and a dungeon with all of their lost souls." 

you shrug. "reasonable price to pay." 

you're smiling at him, so small that he might not notice if he hadn't been watching you do it for three weeks.

"i'd personally go with janitorial. get the whole place to yourself." 

"they also have to clean up your desk, so." 

he crosses his arms. "what is that supposed to mean?" 

"you think i haven't seen the old wrappers and cans of soda? did you clean up just for me?" you touch your chest, mock appreciation. 

"nope. it is 10 am, and the janitors love me." 

"i highly doubt that." 

you stand up, wiping your hands on your pants. "okay. you got it now?" 

"yup. thanks for your help." 

peter can see you trying not to laugh. he watches very closely. 

"sure thing, peter. let me know if you have trouble finding the space bar." 

and if peter's got a little bit of a crush, so what? 

he likes his new job. 

*

you poke him on the shoulder. "peter." 

he doesn't budge. his eyes barely even move. his chest just barely inflates. 

so you resort to almost pushing him out of his chair. "hey," you say, just a little bit louder. "peter." 

and then, as soon as you've begun to push him again, his hand darts out to grab onto yours. 

you let out a little yelp. 

it scares you more than it scares him. you try to flinch back but his grip is hard, his eyes are stern and confused as he looks at you. 

as he looks down at the hand that's on you; creating bruises on your wrists. 

and then he lets go, as if your hand was burning hot, and jumps away from you. 

"i'm sorry--" 

"are you okay?" 

peter blinks. looks like he's forgotten where he is or what he's doing here. he blinks again. "what?" 

"you were asleep. i woke you up." 

"oh." 

you nod. take a breath in and readjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder. "you okay?" 

"i'm fine." 

you stare at him. his eyes are a little bit wild. a little bit all over the place. 

he's staring at his keyboard like he's lost the ability to think clearly. 

"peter," you say, softly. "it's five." 

"five?" 

"yes. time to go." 

"oh." 

you frown. "how long were you asleep?" 

"not long. like, an hour." 

some part of you wonders how you didn't notice that. considering how much you're looking at him on any average day. 

"i didn't realize. i would've woken you up sooner." 

you rub your hand, taking a step back as he gets up from his desk. as he grabs a bunch of spare things and doesn't really look you in the eyes. 

"it's fine. i wasn't getting a lot done anyway." 

his voice is quiet. soft. a bit rough--like he's been using it too much. sore. 

"having a hard time sleeping?" you ask, trying not to step over the boundaries of your office buddy relationship. 

peter snorts. "you could say that." 

you nod. stand there uncomfortably. 

not sure if you should just leave or wait for him. which one will cause you more pain. 

peter looks up. he sighs. "your hand," he gestures to the red mark you've got on your wrists--which really don't hurt that bad but are a bit startling. "i'm sorry."

"oh," you look with him. shrugging. "it's fine. it's what i get for waking you up." 

"no, i just--" he pauses. shakes his head like he's being stupid. "sorry. i don't know what's wrong with me." 

"i'm sure there's a multitude of answers, peter parker." 

you say it with a smile on your face, trying to avoid the seriousness of this situation. in which, you should probably be concerned for him. 

in which you would really like to hug him because he looks sort of sad. sort of crumbled as he picks up his bag. sort of small. 

he chuckles. "good guess." 

"ready?" you ask him, straightening up. 

"i'll walk you to your car." 

you hold a finger up, brow raised. "i think i'll walk you to your car.  'cause you're looking a little... green." 

peter blinks. 

"and also because i'm a gentleman." 

"of course," peter snorts a little bit, beginning to walk. "thanks for waking me up," he says, "i would've just slept there all night." 

"and then what would the janitors think of you?" 

he waves a hand. "they'd just clean around me." 

"or call the police." 

"yes. or that." 

you smile at him. 

appreciate the way he smiles back. even if it's just for show. 

*

when peter runs into you just as he's leaving the bathroom, it's a completely normal reaction to be a little bit shocked. 

to crave the warmth of your body, even if it's slamming into him and causing him to trip. 

causing you to trip, which, peter does not take advantage of. 

he does, of course, steady you with his hands, looking down at you as you blink. 

"woah," you say. "i didn't think i was going that fast." 

"practicing for a marathon?" 

you glare at him, just a little. "just going to lunch." 

your eyes are delightfully smooth. your mouth is quirked up in peter's favorite way. 

he laughs. "i would run too." 

"sorry. didn't mean to crash into you." 

"it's fine." 

he stares at you for a moment. waiting for you to say something. 

you don't because you're not a strange coworker trying to preserve any minute with him you can get. 

"where are you going?" he asks, rocking on his heels. 

"forced to go to the sandwich shop on the corner. i forgot my lunch." 

"charlie's?" 

peter watches you lick your lips. he watches you breathe in and out and pretends that he's not being weird. 

he's not. 

"yeah. have you been there?" 

he nods. smiles a little bit. "it's good." 

you smile back. 

he breathes in; trying to match his heart to yours. 

you look a little bit disheveled; a little bit eager as you stare at him. 

and he's got no clue how he looks because he's got no control over his body. 

you breathe out. "well..." 

"oh," peter steps aside, running a hand through his hair. "enjoy your lunch." 

"thanks, you too." 

and then you walk away from him. 

peter tries not to feel a bit begrudged by his lack of conversation skills--particularly when it comes to you--and he tries not to think about how warm and soft your skin is, or how cute you look when your hair is a little bit messed up. 

but then you turn around, clearing your throat. "you, um, wanna come?" 

it barely takes peter a second to say "let me grab my bag."

*

"where'd you work before this?" you ask peter, sipping on some coffee. 

nursing the fact that you're going out to lunch with him and that he offered to pay. 

not that it means anything. it doesn't. 

it'd be nice to have a friend around the office, though. 

and it's nice to know that he doesn't completely hate you. yet. 

peter swallows some of his sandwich, face contorting strangely. "i did some pictures for a couple of newspapers... but um, just a lot of odd jobs," he shakes his head. nonchalant. 

"you like photography?" 

"just a hobby." 

you raise a brow. "that's not what i asked." 

"yeah," peter answers, slowly. "i like it." 

"you must be pretty good at it, you know, since you got paid for it." 

he shrugs again. "i'm alright." 

you let out a confused breath, trying to take his short answers as a good sign. 

as any sort of sign. 

"how long have you been working here?" peter asks you, quickly changing the subject. 

you pretend not to notice. 

"oh, a year and some odd months." 

peter leans a little bit closer to you. "and you've lasted this long?" he whispers. 

you laugh. "it's not that bad. good holiday pay. free vending machine snacks. and clive, the elevator guy, brings me coffee sometimes. can't let him down." 

"clive?" 

you frown. "you haven't met clive?" 

peter shakes his head. 

"that is a problem. i'll introduce you to him. it'll change your life." 

peter laughs. 

"no, i'm serious. after i met clive i was a completely different person." 

"i guess we'll see." 

"no, peter. i wouldn't joke about clive." 

peter raises a brow. "you joke about getting fired all the time." 

you wave a hand. "pfft. have you ever even met the boss?" 

you say the words like they're formidable. 

kind of like how peter is looking at you right now. 

his eyes are absolutely insane. 

"um..." peter thinks for a moment. "no, i don't think i have." 

"me either." 

"really? you've been there a year." 

you point at him. "exactly. who's going to fire me?" 

peter smiles. "fair point." 

you nod at him, content. 

happy, for some strange, incomprehensible reason. you can feel his eyes on you. 

you look up at the clock. 

"you better finish your sandwich," you tell him, meeting his eyes. "we've got fifteen minutes." 

and so it begins. 

*

"hey," peter says, sticking his head in front of your face, and interrupting your typing. 

you scoff and push him away, moving so you can see the screen again. 

resume typing.

"y/n," peter sings. 

"i'm working." 

"why?" 

you turn towards him, sighing. "what do you need?"

he gestures towards your coffee cup, smiling. "want some more coffee?" 

"no. i've had two cups already." 

peter raises a brow. "that's low for you." 

"rude." 

he grabs your cup. "don't worry. i know how you like it." 

"stalking me, peter parker?" 

"you're in there all of the time," he deadpans. "it would be hard not to know." 

"rude," you repeat. 

peter turns around, whistling as he carries both of your coffee cups. 

you shake your head, somewhat amused, somewhat confused. 

you blink until the image of his face and stupid smile is gone. 

continue writing. 

and then peter sticks his head around the corner again. 

"by the way, you're missing a comma in line three." 

and you hate him, just a little bit. 

you barely even smile as you add the comma in. 

*

peter has been looking for you for the last ten minutes. 

it's become sort of a thing to walk out together; to make fun of the building as you go, swearing that you're never ever going to come back. 

peter, well, he likes the opportunity to stare openly at you while you laugh. 

and when you weren't at your desk, peter took the time to explore a little bit. 

and maybe go through some of your drawers looking for snacks--not that he'll admit to it when you ask. 

he finds you in the basement, going through a filing cabinet. 

"what're you doing?" he asks, attempting to scare you as he turns on a light. 

you've got a flashlight in your mouth and a glare in your eyes. 

"that's too bright," you say, around the flashlight. 

"woah. what's going on?" 

peter gestures to the mess on the floor. to the papers you're practically buried in. 

"i couldn't find a file, and nancy in information technology said that it 'wasn't in the database' so i'd have to come and look for it down here. and none of these are alphabetized." 

"ah. and did nancy use that snarky tone of voice?" 

you glare even harder at him. "yes. she was very unpleasant." 

peter groans as he sits down right next to you, messing with a file you've left on the floor. "sure you're not projecting?" 

"peter, you should go home." 

he laughs. "c'mon, you can't stay here all night. why don't you look for it tomorrow?" 

"i need it tonight." 

he puts a hand over yours, urging you to look at him. "you're gonna be looking forever. who knows the last time these were organized?" 

you sigh, head drooping. "i know. i was trying to do it myself but..." 

"there's thousands of these," peter finishes for you. 

"yeah." 

he laughs. "yeah." 

you rub your eyes, and peter watches you as you try not to yawn. 

"when was the last time you ate?" he asks. 

"had lunch at my desk." 

"you know that's not enough," he chides. "that was six hours ago." 

"my deadline is today. i didn't realize i needed the file until today." 

you sound just a little bit angry. and absolutely tired. 

peter can see the circles under your eyes, and the furrow between your brows that hasn't gone away since he walked in. 

"okay," peter sighs, taking the stack of files from your lap. 

"peter," you sigh. "i really need--" 

"i'm gonna help you." 

you look up at him, frowning. "what?"

"it should only take an hour or two with both of us. and then we'll go get something to eat. and then you'll go home and sleep." 

"it's--peter. that's sweet, but you don't have to. it's already late and--" 

"c'mon," he says, handing you a couple. "who am i going to annoy if you're at home sleeping tomorrow?" 

there's just a quirk of your lips. and then it stills, and you're staring at him very seriously. "are you sure? i know you don't get a lot of sleep anyway." 

he smiles, nudging you with his shoulder. "we'll work fast. and then have fries." 

and the smile it earns him is worth the exhaustion the next morning. 

*

"hey," you frown, tilting your head to get a better look at his jaw. 

peter looks over, eyebrows raised. "hmm?" 

you point to the side of his face, brows furrowed. "you've got a bruise." 

peter touches the spot you're pointing to--as if you've just reminded him of this--and winces. "oh. yeah." 

"does it hurt?" 

he shrugs. "a little." 

"what'd you do?"

he smiles. "how do you know that i did anything? some of us wake up looking this good." 

"peter." 

he rolls his eyes. looks away from you and sighs. "i was helping may hang some pictures. dropped one." 

"on your face?" 

"no, actually," he says, smiling at you. "i dropped it on my foot. the bruise just happened to show up on my face." 

if it wasn't for his smile you might push him off of the bench. 

"you're stupid," you respond. "and reckless. and stupid. did may yell at you?" 

he snorts. "told me that just because i 'act like a child' doesn't mean i'm not 'a responsible adult' and that i shouldn't be so 'stupid.'" 

you nod, pleased. "good. now i don't have to." 

*

peter is not staring. 

he does not stare at you, he swears. 

he watches the wall instead. 

the wall with its lips and eyes and nose and cute little crinkle in its brows. 

he watches the walls and he doesn't get any work done. 

and when you look back at him--because you always do--he'll make a face at you. gesture towards the clock with a frown. 

it might get him a laugh. or a pout. 

and peter finds both of those things equally gratifying. 

so it anyone asks, peter does not stare at you. he has no reason to. no need to look at something that he already knows very well. 

and still, he can't quite look away. 

*

"where are you?" you say, immediately, without any greeting. 

because it's ten in the morning and you're actually staring at a wall. a wall that might've been interesting about five months ago before brown brown eyes took its place. 

now it seems boring, blatant, and annoying. 

"hello?" peter says, sounding as if he's attempting an old man. 

"hi, peter. where are you?" 

"at home." 

"really?" you say, rolling your eyes into the receiver so that he can feel it. "i thought you were sitting right across from me. what i really meant was, where the hell are you?" 

there's a pause. a quick shuffling. and then: "i'm sick." 

you frown. "sick?" 

"you know the thing where your body begins to ache, and then you--" 

"i don't need to hear about your bodily feelings." 

peter laughs. "well, that's where i am." 

you almost whine. you almost swear to god that you're going to drag him in here so that you don't want to nap all day. 

or go over to his apartment and have him cough in your face. 

"what am i supposed to do?" you ask, spinning around in your chair, allowing the cord to wrap around your chest. 

it's not like anyone is looking at you. 

"i don't know," peter answers, voice muffled. "your job?" 

"that's boring." 

"so is reality tv. where did all the good stuff go?" 

"you're at home watching tv and i have to work." 

you hear peter sigh. "i'm at home sick and you're perfectly healthy at your desk. you get to talk to clive today." 

he sounds a bit desperate; a bit peeved. 

"clive misses you." 

"he tell you that?" 

"no. he actually told me that he wants his money." 

you spin back around. pretend to type something into your keyboard. 

"not this again." 

"you lost the bet." 

"i did not, you both knew that i--no, you know what?" peter pauses, breathing against the microphone. you almost have to tilt the phone away from your ear. "i'm too sick to argue." 

your brows furrow. "that's not good." 

he laughs. "i'm going to take a nap. get an article done. ask clive about cacti. steal all of the m&ms from the vending machine." 

"it's not like anyone eats them." 

"goodbye, y/n." 

"but, peter..." you whine. 

and that's how you end up at his door, shivering on his welcome mat. 

*

peter frowns as he opens the door. "what're you doing here?" 

you, immediately, walk right past him, feet pounding on his floor. 

"i brought soup," you say, instead of answering. "and good company. and crackers."

"i don't like soup." 

peter follows you into his kitchen--because somehow you know where everything is and are completely comfortable in his house already--leaning against the counter. 

he tries not to wince as his leg strains to keep up. 

you stare at him a moment, frowning. "you don't look sick. do you have a fever?" you reach out to touch his forehead but peter leans back. 

"i don't like soup," he repeats. 

"ah," you wave a hand. "yeah you do." 

"no." 

you sigh. "peter. soup is good for you. and so is getting out of bed." 

peter stares at you for a moment. 

any other day he might've appreciated the faux oblivious smile on your face. or the humming you're doing as you look for a bowl. 

"y/n," he says, flat. 

"hmm?" 

"how did you get my apartment number?" 

you turn back to look at him, eyes wide. "you know," you say, calm. "google." 

he stares at you. 

"i looked it up." 

he raises a brow. takes the weight off of his left leg. 

"you have a file, peter. which is very useful when your favorite coworker wants to bring you soup because you're sick." 

"clive is my favorite, so--" 

"you're sick," you emphasize. "which means you should go lay down. i'll bring you the soup when it's warm." 

peter bends down so he can look you directly in the eye. 

so he can stare at you a little bit closer and laugh when your eyes begin to disappear. 

so he can watch your skin curve and fall and all of the indentations that he can't see from more than a foot away. 

you stare back at him, eyes wide. 

"you're not sick," he mocks, "which means you should be at work." 

you cross your arms. "it's my lunch break." 

your stubbornness would usually excite peter, but it's getting hard to stand. 

"did you eat?" 

"coffee in the car. and i stole some candy from the candy jar." 

peter frowns. "that's not lunch." 

he teases a small strand of hair out of your eye, pokes you in the forehead gently. 

you pretend to fall backward. 

"i'll have some soup," you say, pleasantly, stepping past him. "there's enough for two." 

"you could've come after work," peter says, mostly just so that you'll look at him again. 

so he can catch an inch of your smile and hide it in his pocket forever. 

it's a crime that his camera is in the other room. 

"i was worried," you admit, a little bit softer than usual. "i didn't think you could get sick." 

"i am human," and even peter doesn't really believe it.

"yeah, but you're, like, naturally gifted. immune system of steel." 

"i wash my hands." 

you laugh, the small sound is a beacon in the room. 

an earthquake shaking peter's core, again and again. 

"you don't have to be worried about me," he says. 

but what he really means is thank you for coming, and i wish you'd stay all day. 

he means absolutely nothing at all. 

"it's not just that," you turn around, gentle light in your eyes, face morphing into something peter can't describe. "i missed you," you tell him. "it's boring." 

he tilts his head. tries not to let the words fall too far to the ground. "you done it before," he protests, just so you'll smile again. 

"well, i didn't have any friends at work before." 

peter takes the words. he grabs them from the air with his hands and throws them into a corner somewhere very far away. 

he waits a moment, for you to laugh at him, to smile, to tell him what the hell to do about any of this. 

and, because you know him, you do. 

"go lay down," you tell him, pointing towards his door. "it'll be just another second." 

and peter tries not to limp as he walks away. 

he tries not to look back at you; fails. 

*

it really means nothing. 

it means nothing as you push away from your desk, legs feeling surprisingly limp, hands shaking as you use them to stand up. 

as you run them over your face, making sure that you're still here. 

you look towards peter's desk and see nothing. he's sick today, you remember. 

he's been sick for three days. 

that this is all normal, and perfectly fine, and just your average workday, really. 

except for the overwhelming feeling pulling at your chest, making it just minimally harder to breathe. 

harder to think. to see. to wonder where you are and why you're supposed to be here. 

work, you rationalize. you think it through again and again. 

and it still doesn't help. 

you take a step, moving away from the cubicle, from the phone that you've left stranded on your desk and the tears that--as you'll find out later--have ruined a document. 

you take another step, swearing to yourself that if you're going to throw up--which isn't even a possibility really--it won't be here. 

it won't be in front of these people, and it will not be over something so small. so trivial. 

still, that sort of fluctuating anger crawls further up your throat. 

if you tried to speak, you would find only air in the place of words. you would find a dry and broken throat. 

you would find that you've lost the ability. 

you walk down the hall, nervous tears dribbling down your cheeks. 

you wipe them away with an errant hand that you can't feel. 

the next goal is the bathroom. the next goal is to calm the hell down and try and pull yourself together. 

it's only nine in the morning. 

it is too early for any of this. 

too early for the sun to be up and too early for these feels to have collapsed your chest in whole. 

you were fine when you woke up, you swear. 

you had breakfast, got to work, had coffee, got to work. 

there's no disorganization in a routine that you've been developing for years. in the same job that you've been used to since you got there. 

panic attacks aren't acceptable when everything is fine. 

you're fine, you tell yourself, a meek repetition in your brain, but whoever is controlling this doesn't seem to care. 

you're fine. 

the bathroom is two hallways away. on normal days, you have to plan out when you need to pee. 

you clench your fists so tight that they lose blood circulation. 

you wipe another tear away, angry at the movement it takes to do so. 

ashamed to be walking down this hallway and avoiding the eyes of coworkers you would usually smile at. 

but they don't deserve this sight. 

you walk a little bit faster, unsure how far you've gotten. 

it could be inches. it could be miles. 

and it's at this point--when you've made it so far from your desk that you can no longer feel the indention of your chair on your legs--that you realize that this isn't going to get any better. 

that compartmentalization has failed you, once again. 

your eyes burn as you look down at the floor, trying to note all of the coffee stains you can see as you walk along. 

you fill your lungs with air, basking in the bit of relief, the cool feeling in your chest before the anger comes back swinging. 

it mocks you with a laugh. with a funny little remark about how deep breathing won't get you through this. 

and it's fine. 

you walk faster, swearing to yourself that you just need a moment alone. 

and then you hear a quick little "hey," before you run directly into someone. quickly looking up while your eyes fill with tears again. mistake mistake mistake. 

running into your coworker--especially this one--is definitely a mistake. 

especially with his eyes and his face and every single thing that he just seems to know. 

"hey," he says, softer, trying to keep you steady with one open hand, the other holding a coffee mug. 

you're pretty sure that he just spilled some of it on the floor but you don't dare let yourself look. 

this is fine, you think, as his fingertips burn your skin. 

"peter,” you whisper, voice cracking. "what're you doing here?"

you try not to wince. 

immediately, he's frowning. "what's wrong?" 

you laugh. you chuckle. you practically cackle at the words. 

what's wrong, do you think? nothing. 

absolutely nothing. 

you stand up even straighter. "nothing. i'm fine. how are you? feeling better?" 

you're very confident that he can't hear the hesitation in your voice. after all, you're completely fine. 

you smile at him. 

you know that there's something else you should be saying, something funny, something to make him smile. 

this might be normal if you could just figure out what that something was. 

"c'mon," he whispers, little concerned brow. little evil eyes. "you're crying." 

you clear your throat. "am i?" pretend to wipe away any remains. "i get really bad allergies this time of year." 

"you don't have allergies." 

you laugh again, little bit smaller. there is no evidence of a lie on your face. 

the feeling is still there, laughing with you. 

"i think i would know, peter," you say, taking a step back from him. "just heading to the bathroom so--" 

"y/n," he's even softer, like whatever you're saying is causing him physical pain. "you don't have to lie." 

"i'm not lying," you swear. 

you swear again and again that you're not going to start crying in front of him. 

because if there's one thing that could make this any worse--besides an actual heart attack--it would be peter parker watching you cry. 

"did something happen?" 

"no. i have to go to the bathroom." 

"did someone do something?" he's leaning down a little bit, trying to get a clearer view of your eyes. 

there's really no better view than this, you think, staring into his brown eyes. waiting. 

"nothing happened, peter." 

"then why are you crying?" 

"i already told you--" 

he tilts his head. he's breathing almost normally. he's standing close to you. his eyes are so gentle, warm. "i just want to make sure that you're alright. you don't look alright." 

"i'm fine," you say, out loud, through clenched teeth. 

and another tear falls down your face, mocks you as it hits the ground. 

and then another, because where else are they supposed to go?" 

"okay," peter says, leaning down just a little bit so he can grab your hand. taking a step closer, and using a hand to get you to look at him. 

to rub your skin with the tip of his thumb. 

to drive you even more insane than you already feel. 

any other time, this might be a dream. 

he takes a moment to look at you. and you look back, a bit perturbed. a bit annoyed. a bit anything but fine. 

and then he nods. "okay," he repeats. looks up from you to around the office--you don't want to know how many eyes are on the two of you. 

peter uses his grip on your hand to pull you, clearly not hearing your protests, as he drags you into a room. 

into a maintenance closet that you didn't even realize existed. 

"there," he says. "no more people." 

the room is big enough for you to take a step away from him. breathe out. "thanks." 

but it doesn't help. 

the tears continue because the floodgates are open and the universe would like to continue to make a fool of you, thanks. 

"it's okay," peter says, and he takes the step forward. his hands wipe away your tears, but they aren't fast enough. "it's okay. you don't have to tell me." 

and then, in a quick gentle motion, he wraps you in his arms. 

he holds you so close. so tight. 

fingertips trailing on the skin of your neck. chest smelling exactly like his house. 

breaths and heartbeats in your ear. 

"why are you here?" you whisper, against his chest. just to break the silence and no longer feel overwhelmed by his very proximity. 

"i missed you," peter answers, quickly. "i feel better." 

"that's good." 

he nods against your head. breathes in even deeper. 

you're not sure if it's for you or him. 

"peter," you whisper, and your voice shakes. 

you topple over the side of the building. 

but he catches you. 

"i've got you," he whispers. "whatever happened, i'm here." 

"thank you." 

"shh," he says, and "don't be ridiculous." and "you look pretty even when you're crying." and "i would offer you some m&ms right now, but i think that would be counterproductive." 

and you breathe against him, allowing yourself to laugh. 

allowing the feeling to envelop you whole. 

you almost don't mind, because however much panic is stuffed down your throat, peter is holding you. 

peter is hugging you and whispering in your ear. 

"it's okay," he repeats, a different variation of your own words. "i've got you," he promises. 

and it's okay, you think. 

it's completely fine. 

this is nothing. 

except, you know, falling in love with peter parker. 

*

"what is this?" peter mouths to you from ten feet away. 

he's got no idea why you're staring at him, but he doesn't really mind. 

"what?" you mouth back, lip quirked a little bit too much. 

peter raises his brows. points at the letter in his hands. 

you squint at it. 

he waits. 

and then you shrug your shoulders. "i don't know," you mouth to him. 

he stares blankly at you. thinks about throwing it across the room. 

you laugh and look down at your desk, resuming whatever you were getting done before he interrupted. 

but peter doesn't mind that very much anymore. 

he emails you with no subject line. 

an invitation.

you take five minutes to respond. in which, peter spends throwing trash into his trash can from six feet away.

he gets every single one in. 

for the work party thing? 

you look up at him, raised brow. 

yes. 

peter thinks about how it would be easier to just text. 

yeah. they do one every year

did you go? 

yes

was it lame? 

yes. and no. there was a dart board

you're a liar

you smile up at him. pretend that you're the most productive employee here.

peter chooses to ignore your face so that he doesn't get distracted. 

are you gonna go? he asks.

not sure. are you? 

for the dartboard

wise decision

go with me. i promise no lameness.

he can hear you laugh but he doesn't look up. 

just keeps your voice as a soundtrack in his mind. copy and pastes the sound. hits save. 

you're a liar peter

but he finally smiles at you. 

*

 peter parker is, above all else, completely wrong about the party. 

not that it took much convincing on his part; one single word, one single chance to hang out with him for just a little while longer, well, that was enough. 

it was enough of an answer, enough of a promise, and the threat of honeysuckle eyes staring at you until you fell apart, piece by piece. 

so the party is lame. 

almost the same as last year. 

there's a punch bowl on the table, spiked with something you choose not to think about. there's a speaker in the corner of the newly arranged office, blasting music that you don't know the words to. 

there's your coworkers, mingling, standing awkwardly together because when is there time to actually talk to each other--nonetheless develop any friendships. or, acquaintanceships. 

discluding you and peter, of course. 

because, as you've recently become aware, he's your best friend. 

he's your best friend when he's curled up on his couch and eating all your popcorn and laughing when you choke in the middle of the movie, but handing you some water anyway, eyes betraying whatever sarcastic comment he was about to make. 

he's your best friend when you're eating lunch together, contemplating the benefits of pulling the fire alarm at one in the afternoon. 

he's your best friend when he sends you memes over email, swearing that they're going to make you laugh. 

he's your best friend when he's throwing things at you from across the office, earning the two of you some nasty looks from the same coworkers in the room now. 

he's your best friend when you want to kiss him. 

when you want to lean in just a little bit closer and confess everything to him; allow yourself to be uninhibited by his smiles and eyes and laughter and voice. 

he's your best friend, and sometimes, you wish he wasn't. 

because it just makes it a little bit harder. 

not so easy to stop noticing all the amazing, wonderful, significant things about him when you're spending each weekday with him and listening to his voice over the phone every weekend. 

not so easy to stop loving him when he's just... 

he's your best friend. 

even now, standing too close to you, whispering in your ear. 

"do you think they're all robots?" he asks you, gesturing towards the group of people. 

"i think we would know by now." 

he looks severely judgmental. "look at them," he points, "they're all just standing there. perfect posture. great smiles. well manufactured." 

"i'm sure some people think that about you too, peter."

he looks at you, offended. 

"oh wait," you say, shaking your head. "you've got the posture of an eighty-year-old, so, probably not." 

"i do not." 

"ninety." 

"we are the same age." 

you raise a brow. "there is no proof of that." 

"besides our birth certificates." 

you wave a hand. "i'm still young," you say, "you're getting up there." 

"weren't you the one complaining about 'wasting your life away sitting at a mindless--'" 

"that proves nothing." 

peter laughs. takes another sip of his punch and winces. 

you look around. anything to avoid his face. and his stupid attractiveness. 

why you're here, you're not quite sure. 

"wait," you say, grabbing peter's shoulder. "i think there's a real person here." 

"really? where?" 

"nancy." 

you gesture towards the woman standing alone, staring at peter like she's going to demolish him in a second. looking at peter like he's an actual greek statue--not too far-fetched--and she'd like to destroy him. 

it might make you laugh if you weren't severely irritated. 

"nancy from i.t.?" peter asks, looking around. 

"yes." 

"the same nancy who gave you attitude and then made the two of us go through files all night?" 

"yes." 

"wow," his eyes land on her, and you watch as she looks away from him, cheeks flushing. "i think she was staring at you." 

you laugh. 

"no, really. her hatred is being fueled." 

"she wasn't staring at me, peter." 

he raises a brow, looking down at you. "uh, i'm pretty sure she was. maybe you didn't see it but she had evil in her eyes--" 

"she was looking at you." 

"what?" he looks back to her, back to you. shakes his head. "no she wasn't." 

there's just something about his eyes. 

"yes, she was." 

"what did i do to her?" 

you laugh. "she was admiring the view." 

peter's brow furrows, and you take the time to admire his eyelashes, the light hitting the side of his face. 

"what does that mean?" peter asks because he's completely oblivious. 

and adorable. 

"pretty much everyone in this room has a crush on you, peter parker. you're a handsome guy." 

"you think i'm handsome?" 

you use the time to take a sip of your drink. to look around the room and admire the disco ball on the ceiling. how they got that up there, you're not sure. 

peter swallows. "everyone in here?" 

"yup." 

"even clive?" 

you laugh. "clive is well beyond a crush. i think it's considered more of an obsession."

peter smiles. he nods, pleased. "good. i feel the same." 

"i'll be sure to let him know," you look down at the floor. try and get the coffee stains out with your foot. 

it hurts a little bit to look at peter right now. 

to stare at his face and understand that it means nothing. 

smiles and laughter--they're yours but not for you. 

and it's fine. 

you're perfectly alright with that. 

you clear your throat. "you should go talk to her." 

peter looks up. "who?" 

"nancy." 

his lips purse. "why would i do that?" 

"she likes you." 

"she was mean to you," peter frowns, eyes right on you. 

looking at you the same way he did that first day. like you're crazy. 

like he can hear the words you're saying but they still don't make sense. like he can touch your skin but can't feel it. 

you shake your head. "it was nothing. she might be nice." 

"why are you trying to set me up with nancy?" 

you sigh. "peter." 

"are you trying to pawn me off to someone else? because i'd really rather go with clive..." 

"i don't--" you sigh again. bite your lip. look down and imagine the ground isn't there. "i don't know. just..." 

peter nudges you with his shoulder. "hey. this is lame." 

you snort. "i told you so." 

there is music blaring in both of your ears. it's gotten increasingly louder in the last thirty seconds. 

if you looked over you might see people dancing. you might actually see your coworkers getting along. 

but you don't look over. you don't dare take your eyes off peter. 

"wanna go somewhere else?" peter asks, with a bit of a smirk. 

and then you follow your best friend out the doors, not bothering to look back. 

*

peter has always considered himself to be fairly strong. 

after a difficult childhood, a difficult teenager, a difficult life--he thinks that he's grown well. that as long as his feet have remained firmly on the ground, then he must be doing something right. 

he must be on his tiptoes now. 

"hey," you say, arm locked in his, so close to him that he can smell you. "there's a diner open. wanna get shakes?" 

he can feel you. 

"shakes?" peter winces. 

"peter parker, if you're about to tell me that you don't like shakes--" 

he laughs. pulls you towards the shop. holds the door open for you. 

he tries to fall back on his heels. tries to remind himself that strength doesn't mean anything. that he could hold you up for as long as you needed. that he would hold you up forever. 

he plants his feet in the ground and digs his toes into the soil. 

he smiles at you. 

"i love shakes," he says. 

and what he really means is. 

i love you. 

*

"it is two in the morning," you complain as peter rubs his hand together, looking like a child. 

excited and lit up and far too awake for this early in the morning. 

"i thought you were young," peter says. pulling you along. 

his hands are cold. 

and still, you don't really mind. 

he's holding your hand. 

"i am young. and old enough to not want to freeze to death on some swings right now." 

"y/n," he chides as if you're being ridiculous. "when was the last time you played on a swing set?" 

"probably when i was five." 

peter points at you. "exactly. you don't remember what it's like. the joy of feeling like you're going to fall off--" 

"and die." 

"i won't let you die." 

"peter," you say, dryly. 

but you're smiling at him.

and as long as he keeps holding your hand, you think, you might follow him anywhere. 

*

when peter notices that you're shivering, he offers you his jacket. 

but you don't take it. 

"i've seen you in the office," you say to him, the words teasing. "and i know that you're the one always turning the heat up." 

"it's cold in there!" peter protests, following you as you lead him to the edge of the world. 

as he tells himself that it's nothing. 

nothing at all. 

expect wanting to keep you awake, to keep you smiling, to keep you from falling on your face, and to keep you in his arms. 

you don't take his jacket, so he must resort to the next best thing. 

slinging an arm around your shoulder so he can nuzzle his nose into your neck. 

"peter!" you squeal, squirming away from him. 

but his hands are wrapped around your waist, holding you close. 

and he's definitely not taking the time to breathe you in and imagine kissing your skin right where it's most warm. 

"are you cold now?" he asks, trailing his nose up your neck, feeling you shiver beneath him. 

"no." 

"are you sure?" his lips are at your ear. 

his grip is weak, barely even there. but he can feel how heavy you're breathing. he can see your breath in the air. 

"i'm perfectly content, thank you." 

you only stutter a little bit. only sound a little bit shaky. 

"you can still have my jacket," peter tells you, lips close to your jaw, nose by your cheek. your skin is soft, smooth. 

"i don't want your jacket." 

"it's warm." 

"so am i," you claim, but you're leaning into him. just a little bit. 

peter pretends that it means nothing. 

and when he walks you home, you snuggle under the jacket with him. 

the pounding in his chest is nothing more but a simple reminder. 

he's strong enough to live with it. 

to hold you this close and have it mean nothing. 

*

there's this thing. 

it's been there for a couple of weeks. 

pressure on your chest, an unrelenting reminder that you need to do something. 

and you ignore it, for the most part. 

tell yourself that it's nothing significant. 

but looking at peter now--peter with his flushed cheeks and wide eyes and small smile and eyes and--you can feel it. 

trickling down your throat, a gentle river, swarming at the bottom of your stomach. 

you take a breath in. 

"that was a lot more fun than last year," you tell him because it's only the truth. 

his smile widens. "i was right." 

you point a finger at him. "the party was lame," you clarify. "but the company was good." 

"just good?" 

he's got dimples. 

dimples that you might drink out of, given the chance. 

you shake that thought out of your mind. 

"getting cocky, parker?" 

his eyes are on yours, swarming your face. "i can tell when you're lying." 

the smile on your face feels almost numb. 

and you don't say anything back to him. 

the pressure enhances, builds and falls, and pounds on the doors to your heart, swearing that it only needs a place to stay. 

you've always been too kind. 

been too forgiving. 

loved a little bit too much. 

"okay," peter whispers, taking a step back from you, hands leaving yours. "you should go inside." 

"why?" you ask, even though you know the answer. 

"it's cold out here." 

"i'm not cold." 

he smiles. brushes the side of your face with his finger. "liar liar," he says, softly. 

his fingertips make your whole body fall apart. 

you might be ashamed if you weren't so completely invigorated with him. 

"are you going to be okay getting home?" you ask, just to break some of the silence. 

tear your heart apart vein by vein. 

"i'll be fine." 

"it's late," you protest. "you could get hurt." 

"i appreciate your confidence," he's smiling at you, but it's not enough. 

"peter," you sigh. 

his hand falls to your chin, tracing a line up your jaw. "hey," he whispers. "i'll be fine." 

"hey," he says to you, again and again. 

the pressure increases until you can barely feel anything at all. 

and here's the thing about peter. 

you can't stop looking at him--from that very first day. 

and you haven't been able to stop loving him for months since then. 

"i've got to go," he whispers, but you both know that he doesn't really mean it. 

"peter," you say. 

he stares at you. his eyes flick from every inch of your face, every small spot, every secret that you have written on the skin there. 

he's close enough that you can feel his breath. 

that you never want him to move away. 

and you should really turn and open the door. 

you should really go inside and forget about all of this. 

you should pretend that this means nothing for just a moment more. 

but. 

"peter," you whisper, one last time. 

"yes?" he answers back, right there. so close to you. 

and his eyes stare back at yours. they have answers. they have so many questions. 

"you need to kiss me." 

and then, he does. 

*

"what?" you whisper to him, walking down the hallway, taking your jacket off, bag in hand. 

peter is pretending that he's not trying to slip his fingers in between yours. 

he's pretending that this is exactly how it's supposed to be. 

"we should've taken the day off," he says. 

"we just had two days off." 

"not long enough," he swears, whispering so that only you can hear. "i want a lifetime." 

"let's start with this week." 

he laughs. he's far too close to you. 

fraternization is forbidden. 

"this is weird," he says. "i want to kiss you." 

"you can kiss me at five." 

"but i want to kiss you now." 

"join the club." 

he smiles at you, and finally lets your fingers slip from his. he watches your eyes, so sure on his that it almost makes his knees buckle. 

"i'm going to hold you to that," he says. 

"good." 

and then you walk to your desk, putting your jacket over your chair. 

peter is staring at you, but what else is new? 

you look up, just so you can smile at him. 

with the lips that he's tasted. the hands that he's felt. the girl that he's spent the last two days with, and also can't get enough of. 

he wants to run over to you. he wants to kiss you just one last time. 

and, if the look on your face means anything, he's pretty sure you feel the same. 

he pouts. 

you laugh. point at the clock. 

he stares some more. 

and really, it's not like he got a lot of work done before anyway. 

*

my masterlist here. 

tags:  @moonlarking-blog​ @v1ci0us​ @preciousbabypeter​ @alexxavicry​ @directioner5life​ @random_writer1021 @inthegetawaycarwithtaylah​

#peter parker #tasm peter parker #peter parker x reader #tasm peter x reader #tasm!peter fluff #office au #the amazing spider-man #The Amazing Spider Man #the amazing spider man imagine #peter parker imagine #tasm imagine #tasm fanfiction #spider-man #spider man #Andrew!Spiderman #andrew peter parker #andrew garfield #andrew garfield!peter parker x reader #andrew!spiderman imagine #andrew!peter fanfiction #andrew!peter x reader #andrew!peter parker #marvel fanfic

[alloftheimaginesblog]

happy new year {peter parker}

part one here

plot: after your ex peter leaves you a card on christmas, you go visit him.

character: peter parker x female character

note: i love emotional, touch starved peter parker

It had been almost a week since Peter had left the card on your fire escape and you'd not reached out in any way shape or form despite Peter's hopes and wishes. He took that as the final nail in the coffin. You had completely moved on so it was time he did too.

He had just finished his second patrol of the day and was coming back to Aunt May's for some lunch when his enhanced hearing could hear muffled voices and laughter coming from Aunt May's home. Someone else was here. Peter frowned. Aunt May hadn't mentioned anyone else coming over today. He shrugged it off, maybe just a neighbour coming to wish her a happy new year.

He pulled the mask off, shoving it into his hoodie's pocket - he liked doing his patrols with a hoodie and sweatpants over it to keep the winter chill of New York away - and opened the door. The voices were louder but still muffled, he couldn't tell who it was.

He dropped his backpack by the door and walked into the kitchen where the voices were coming from. Peter was expecting a neighbour - Mr Jenkins or Anita from across the street - he certainly hadn't been expecting the person who was sitting across the kitchen table from Aunt May.

It was you.

Everything seemed to stop, time slowed right down and all Peter could do was stare at you with an expression with resembled that of seeing a ghost. He was acutely aware of his heartbeat, hammering loudly in his chest, ears ringing as your head rose to look at him. Your smile faltered for the briefest of moments as Aunt May stood, re-introducing the two of you after all this time. Your lips moved but he couldn't hear over the ringing in his ears.

It took a solid ten seconds for Peter to come back to reality. He opened his mouth, closed it and then opened it again. He hadn't prepared for this. He wasn't prepared to encounter you again. He thought that this chapter was done, closed and finished... But you were standing in his Aunt's kitchen.

"Hey, Peter," you said gently. God, he wanted to fall to his knees with the way you said his name. One word, two syllables and he would've killed for you if you asked him to.

Aunt May saw his surprise and half stepped in front of you, almost shielding him from you so that he could regain some form of composure, "(y/n) wasn't sure where your new apartment was, Peter, so she came here. She brought some delicious scones as a new year's gift." Her eyes were aglow with excitement, she had hoped the two of you would find your way back to each other and maybe this was that connection finally happening like it should've stayed.

"Uh," Peter nodded to his Aunt May, silently telling her that was he was okay and she moved out of the way. Peter took a deep breath. You looked perfect. He'd seen you a week ago, Christmas Eve, but right now it was like he was seeing you for the first time. Your hair was loose and bouncy, your cheeks slightly rosy from the winter chill, your eyes wide and smiling at him with a slightly unsure expression, "Hi." All it took was that one word and he saw you visibly relax, saw your shoulders fall and saw a flash of relief on your face.

Aunt May quickly thought of an excuse to leave and left the two of you in the kitchen with so much tension hanging in the air between the two of you, "How-"

"I'm sorry-" you blurted out.

Peter frowned, "What?"

"- for just showing up. I-I went to your apartment - your old apartment - the woman that lives there didn't have a forwarding address for you and she wasn't all very pleasant at all-" Peter smiled slightly at your nervous rambling, "-and I knew where Aunt May lived and I had to talk to you so I just came here. I didn't think to call because- I don't actually know. I-"

"Hey," his voice was so soft and gentle, "it's fine." There was a moment's pause and he continued, "I moved about six months ago. Needed a change." The apartment was full of the ghost of you. "Few blocks away from my old apartment. Nicer. Rent is horrendous though." This made you crack a smile.

Again, silence fell. It was awkward. You had come here prepared to tell him what you needed to tell him and now, standing in front of him... you were too scared. He looked good. Tired but good. He had grown his beard out which was nice, you always loved him with a beard. It suited him. His chocolate eyes were just as warm but there was a sadness surrounding him again, like when you first met him.

"Do you want to go for a walk?" He asked quietly.

You nodded immediately, "Sounds good."

The snow fell slowly, floating down to the ground as you and Peter walked. Neither of you spoke but it was a little more comfortable being out in the open with the sounds of New York around the two of you.

Anxiously, your fingernails dug into your skin. Just tell him, (y/n). You came all this way to chicken out?! You took a breath but Peter beat you to the chase.

"I'm sorry if I overstepped by coming to your apartment," he said sincerely, "I-I know that's why you're here so scream at me if you want, I just... I deserve it." You frowned, confused, "Aunt May had told me she bumped into you and you were with someone and you were happy... I... I got jealous but I shouldn't have done what I did."

"Pete," you said with a shake of the head, "I mean, yeah, you overstepped the mark. It was completely and wildly inappropriate and almost kind of creepy?" You took a second to pick your words, "But you made me kind of snap out of the auto pilot mode I was in."

It was Peter's turn to be confused.

"Jasper... He was great. He's someone Rachel set me up with a few months ago and yeah, he was fun but..." He wasn't you, "it wasn't going to work out. We wanted different things."

You cleared your throat, refusing to look at him and instead looked away from him watching the snow fall, "Wait... you broke up?" You nodded, again not looking at Peter. Embers of hope began to burn a little brighter in his stomach, "Oh."

"He knew about you, you know," you said quietly and had Peter not had enhanced hearing he wouldn't have heard your next few sentences, "He knew he had no chance competing against you even though you weren't trying until last week. He knew that I still loved you."

Peter's face softened and he slowed down with you. He stretched his hand out to take yours but hesitated and his hand fell. For a moment, the two of you stood - you with your back turned and Peter with the most forlorn expression.

"I really tried to get over you, Pete. I really tried." You sniffed, wiping tears away before they could fall. You turned to him, seeing his own eyes welling with tears, "It wasn't your fault, Peter."

His head fell back onto his shoulders as he closed his eyes, tears mixing with wet snow as he exhaled a long breath. For over a year, he harboured the guilt of your accident. It was because of him; who he was. You got hurt and he hated himself for it.

Your hands clasped his cheeks and Peter gasped. He was so touch starved, he hadn't realised that another person hadn't touched him besides Aunt May in a year. You pulled his head away from the sky to look down at you, "You hear me?" You were crying, "What happened to me, it wasn't your fault. I don't blame you, Peter, I never have and I'm so sorry that I couldn't help you last year. I'm so sorry you've held onto this all this time."

He opened his eyes, staring at you again for what felt like the first time, "I didn't mean for you to get hurt."

"I know that," you let out a sob, "Peter, everything you've ever done is to protect me! Had it not been for you, I would've died. You webbed my wounds and took me hospital immediately, you saved me."

"But-"

"You saved me, Peter. None of it was your fault. I do not blame you. Please, please stop blaming yourself."

You pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, pulling him down so you could plant the kiss on him. Then one on his wet nose. Despite the cold, Peter's body was on fire at your touch. This was what he'd been craving for a full year. You.

"You better stop," his voice was thick, "cause if you let me kiss you, I'm never gonna let you go again."

You smiled widely, pressing your foreheads together, "I'm not gonna leave again so by all means..."

He didn't need to be told twice. His lips were on yours in a flash, hot and cold, melding together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He still tasted the same; chocolate, coffee and peppermint. His hands pulled you in, not hesitant anymore but confident and knowing. He pulled you flush against him as he kissed you, a hand weaving into your hair as the other wrapped around your back. God you missed him. And for a moment, just for a moment, everything in the world was good and everything was right.

What a way to start the year.

#one shot #imagine #peter parker #peter parker x reader #reader insert #os #marvel imagine #marvel one shot #andrew peter #tasm #tasm peter parker #tasm imagine #tasm peter x reader #spider-man #spider man #spiderman #avengers