fardwader

[fardwader]

you’re too good to me (and you know it, too) pt. 5

pairing: peter parker x fem reader

summary: For some unknown reason, Peter Parker cannot stop finding new, inventive ways to humiliate himself in front of you.

And for some reason, you keep helping him up anyway.

Or, the 5 times you save Peter— and the 1 time he saves you.

pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5, pt 6

a/n: IM ALIVE!!! sorry my life like kind of imploded and i went on a short vacation BUT IM BACK. i hope u guys like this! also thank u all for like all the supportive comments, theyve been so great and literally u guys are angels and ilysm. HEHE HOPE U ENJOY!!

wordcount: 1.9k

taglist: @ladylokilaufeyson5 @wlnut @lonenymphaea, @moon-shampoo, @elfypineapple

tags: 5+1 fic, slow burn, friends to lovers, reader is annoyingly oblivious, no use of y/n, sarcastic peter and an even more sarcastic reader, multi part, past gwen and peter, not canon compliant, gwen stacy is so beautiful...., crazu overuse of italics,

(five)

Peter never realized how beautiful the streets looked from up here.

Usually, he was deathly afraid of heights. But thanks to a little too much alcohol and a lot of painful reminiscing fogging his mind, he could only focus on the breathtaking twinkling of the city lights—like stars dusting against the sky.

He shot a glance at his phone. 

11:43 PM, seventeen minutes to midnight. 

You were at your boyfriend's apartment for his supposedly life-changing New Year’s Eve party. 

His name was James. Or Jonah? He doesn’t remember. 

Not that he really cares to—currently he was way too inebriated to give a fuck about your douchebag boyfriend’s name right now.

To be fair, you did ask him — several times —if he would be okay being alone on New Year's. And Peter, being the absolute liar he is, obviously said yes.

But if he did go, he would’ve stuck out like a sore thumb—he reasoned. He was completely out of his depths when it came to the hivemind clan that was your boyfriend and his friends.

And honestly, he loved you too much to make you do that uncomfortable thing where you try to include him in everything, even when it’s clear it’s not working.

So he’s alone. On the rooftop of your apartment building. Dangling a little too close for comfort along the edge, a bottle of lukewarm Bud Light hanging loosely in his fist.

At first, he tried to find something to do. He cleaned your junk drawer, vacuumed— hell, he even dusted. 

And then he went through your beer stash, which snowballed into him looking through old photos of him and Gwen.

It’s not like he meant to.

He swears he was totally over it.

But for some reason, that’s where his mind wandered.

The way she looked when the sun hit right before it was setting, her sea green eyes glowing in the light.

Or the way she intertwined his hand with hers, perfectly fitting like it was handmade by God to fit in between his. 

To be with him.

He blinked hard, taking another swing before wincing as the taste hit his tongue.

Then he thought of you.

The way you laughed, the sound practically breathing life into the room. Or the way you made him feel like he mattered– even when he didn’t deserve an ounce of your kindness.

Or the way he felt when he saw you and Jonah. His arm wrapped around your shoulders, even thinking of the sight made his stomach twist into knots.

Jonah was a douche— the kind of douche who couldn't sit through one movie without offering unsolicited commentary, as if it were more important than the actual plot.

He didn’t deserve you.

His chest ached. A different kind of ache. Not the sharp stab of grief, but a low, warm pressure— like his chest was collapsing in on itself.

He took another gulp, finishing the bottle in one fell swoop— then dropping the glass onto the concrete.

The empty bottle clinked softly as it rolled a few inches, then stilled.

Peter leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, staring down at the streetlights a dozen stories below. 

The wind was cold up here, biting at his cheeks.

Another glance at his phone: 11:47 PM.

Thirteen minutes to midnight.

He opened your contact and stared at your name for a long time. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, chest tight.

He rubbed a sweaty hand over his face, groaning into his palm— This is so stupid. You’re so stupid, Parker.

He didn’t want to ruin your night. Didn’t want to be that guy.

But his heart was too loud— too aching. And he was too alone.

He typed. Backspaced. Typed again.

Okay nevermind, fuck it. I guess he’s calling you.

No, stop, that’s definitely a bad idea.

Peter [11:48 PM]: >i need you >not like need you need you but im on the rooftop if u can >nvm ignore whatever this all was, everythings good. happy new year! hope ur having fun:) 

He stared blankly at the message and the little ‘delivered’ icon below it, the regret hitting almost instantaneously.

What was he expecting? 

He chuckled, a short— bitter thing, before dropping his phone lazily onto the gravel behind him.

The wind picked up again, threading through his curls and dusting his skin with a flush of pink— or maybe it was the alcohol he can’t quite tell anymore. 

He looks down again, the streetlights blurring as tears sting at his waterline. God, he was so pathetic he could almost laugh. 

Distant sounds of the city filter in from below— honking horns, mistimed fireworks going off early, the indistinct echo of friends celebrating in the streets.

He feels a little outside of it all— removed. Like he’s watching the whole world spin without him.

You were laughing when your phone buzzed.

Well, not really. It was half-hearted, polite– the kind of laugh that didn’t come from anywhere real within you.

Jonah had disappeared somewhere between the tequila shots and a very intense debate about cryptocurrency with some guy named Brad. Or maybe it was Chad— you didn’t really care. 

You were left stuffed in an uncomfortable strappy dress— awkwardly wedged on a stiff, decorative couch,  between two of his college friends, who didn’t bother even trying to include you in their riveting conversation about true crime podcasts.

So when your phone buzzed in your pocket, you were so, so grateful for the distraction.

Until you noticed what Peter sent you.

“I need you.”

You read it once. Twice. Three times.

Then you were on your feet. 

You didn’t say anything to the people on the couch. Didn’t go looking for Jonah. Didn’t grab your coat. You just left.

Because Peter never said stuff like that.

He masked his feelings under a thick blanket, never letting how hurt he actually is slip past his carefully built defences. 

So when he messaged you like that— upfront, and so very raw? It was worrying, to say the least.

The cold air of the night slapped you in the face as you walked, sending goosebumps running up your exposed arms, heels struggling against the uneven pavement— but you didn’t stop. 

You just kept moving, legs carrying you as fast as they could toward your apartment— toward Peter.

You buzz yourself in and take the stairs two at a time— nearly twisting your ankle on the third flight, puffing out wheezy breaths as you will your legs to climb.

Your fingers trembled as you pushed open the rusty door to the rooftop, metal groaning painfully on its hinges. The wind hit you instantly— cold and biting— but then the regret of not grabbing your coat fades when you see him.

Peter.

He was hunched forward— almost folded in on himself, elbows on his knees. The soft, varied colored lights of the city casting a glow against the side of his face.

His hair was windswept, his zip-up rumpled, his face flushed from the cold— that’s when the glint of a bottle half hidden in the shadows by his foot caught your eye. 

Oh, Peter.

“Peter,” you called out, your voice tight as you begged it not to falter. 

He flinched, whipping around, looking at you like he wasn’t sure if you were actually there or he was making this all up.

His eyes were glassy— from the cold, from the alcohol, or something deeper, you couldn’t tell. 

He smiled— a weak little thing, lop-sided and wobbly around the edges. It did little to comfort you.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough, “what are you doing here?”

“‘What am I doing here?’” You crossed the rooftop quickly, folding your arms over your chest— more for warmth than anything. “What the hell, Peter?”

He blinked.

“You texted me ‘i need you im on the rooftop’ and just expected me not to show up?” 

Peter’s gaze was fixed on anything but your face, shame tugging the corners of his mouth down.

“I didn’t mean to…” he mumbled, then trailed off. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have sent it. Wasn’t thinking”

“You think?” you snapped, but your voice wasn’t angry— just breathless and worried, like the adrenaline was still catching up with your brain. “Jesus, Peter. You scared the hell out of me.”

He nodded slowly, back towards you, gaze fixed on the city.

“I was just– lonely,” he said, finally. “And stupid. And maybe a little drunk.”

You sighed, rubbing your palm over your features. "You don't get to do that. You don’t get to drop a message like that and then disappear. I thought–” You swallowed. “I didn’t know what to think.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean to make you worry. I just–I just didn’t know who else to call.”

You hoisted yourself over the ledge, sitting next to him— so close your shoulders were bumping.

“Are you okay?”

He gave a half-hearted shrug. “I’ve been worse.”

“Not exactly comforting.”

There was a long pause, filled only by the distant sound of music from other rooftops and muffled voices counting down the minutes somewhere far below. 

The wind whipped past again, rustling Peter’s strands and making you shiver.

“You’re freezing,” he said suddenly, shrugging out of his zip-up. “Here.”

“I’m fine,” you said, out of reflex. But he was already moving, already draping the warm, rumpled hoodie over your shoulders.

You blinked up at him. He was close now— so close you could count every freckle, every tiny scar, every mole etched into his skin like constellations.

His voice was quieter this time. “Thanks for coming.”

You nodded, adjusting the sleeves around your hands. “You looked like you needed someone.”

"I did," he said. "I do. I just–" he paused, shaking his head. "I didn’t want to ruin your night. I wasn’t trying to be clingy or needy or whatever. I just didn’t know what else to do."

“To be perfectly honest, my night kind of sucked,” you smiled gently, “Didn’t know that there were that many nuances to investing in crypto and I wish I still didn’t.”

That got a small laugh out of him.

“Jonah’s big New Year’s party not what it cracked up to be?”

“Yeah, not my crowd. I guess.” 

You shrugged, pulling his hoodie tighter around yourself. It smelled like him— laundry detergent and a slight hint of coffee. 

He hummed, setting his gaze onto the skyline— to the stars that sprinkled the sky. “Seriously, thanks for coming.”

“Of course I came,” you said, bumping your shoulder lightly against his. “You said you needed me.”

He was quiet at that, his hands twisted in his lap as he fidgeted awkwardly.

Then he said, barely loud enough to hear over the chatter of the city below: “I just didn’t want to be alone when the year ended. I think.”

Your heart squeezed a little in your chest.

“Then I’m glad you texted me,” you said quietly. “I don’t think I wanted the year to end without you there.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

And then, somewhere in the distance, the first firework cracked across the sky.

You both turned to look.

More followed. Bright bursts of color lighting up the night sky— blue, red, purple, all painting the night, dancing with the stars. 

Peter glanced at you, the flurry of colors kissing your face. 

You looked so beautiful.

You turned toward him with a soft smile, the kind that made everything inside him go quiet. Then, without a word, you rested your head on his shoulder.

“Happy New Year, Pete,” you murmured.

He didn’t answer at first. Just leaned down, pressing the gentlest kiss to the top of your head. His voice was soft when it came.

“Happy New Year.”

previous chapter !!

[fardwader]

you’re too good to me (and you know it, too) pt. 4

pairing: peter parker x fem reader

summary: For some unknown reason, Peter Parker cannot stop finding new, inventive ways to humiliate himself in front of you.

And for some reason, you keep helping him up anyway.

Or, the 5 times you save Peter— and the 1 time he saves you.

pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5, pt 6

a/n: im alive!!!!! oh my god i have been in the worst writing slump ever, this chapter actually took everything out of me to write (also i am so sick helpme), anyways URGHHH im so sorry for the late upload i hope u guys like this i lowkey hate it but its whatever...

wordcount: 3k

taglist: @ladylokilaufeyson5 @wlnut @lonenymphaea, @moon-shampoo, @elfypineapple

tags: 5+1 fic, slow burn, friends to lovers, reader is annoyingly oblivious, peter is a sad dork, no use of y/n, sarcastic peter and an even more sarcastic reader, multi part, past gwen and peter, not canon compliant, gwen stacy is so beautiful...., crazu overuse of italics, reader is terrified and in denial, reader highkey lowkey doesnt like her boyf...

(four)

Jonah had impeccable timing.

He bumped into you— quite literally— at your cousin's birthday party, sending a huge chunk of chocolate fudge cake off of his plate and onto the only decent evening dress you owned. 

You looked up, ready to physically tear him a new one, and there he was: tall, sharp-jawed, and already offering you a napkin with a sheepish grin plastered on his face.

“I promise you that was not the first impression I was going for.” 

All the insults you had mentally prepared died on your tongue as he smiled, warm and disarming— like sunlight breaking through the sky.

Normally, you’d roll your eyes and mutter something snarky under your breath while you walked away, but instead, a quiet burst of laughter escaped you— a surprised, breathy huff that honestly surprised the both of you.

You quirked a brow. “Do you usually throw dessert at girls you like, or am I just special?”

“Nope,” he said, smile widening, “just you.”

That made you laugh again, fuller and realer this time. Maybe it was the soft haze of the champagne that was making you more agreeable, or the ridiculousness of the entire situation— but suddenly the night didn't seem all that bad.

“Alright, cake boy,” you sighed, dabbing at your ruined dress. “You owe me a drink.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he said, shooting his hand out, “It’s uh– Jonah, by the way.”

One drink turned into two, then a shared plate of fries, then lazy conversation about seemingly everything and nothing at the same time. 

Jonah was quick-witted and so very easy on the eyes— muscle in all the right places and dimples that punctuated every warm smile.

He was the kind of guy who, for some reason, knew how to make you laugh without trying too hard. He didn't ask too many questions or try to dig deep. 

He just let things happen. Light, casual, and uncomplicated.

And that was the part you found most appealing.

Because after weeks of quiet, suffocating tension— of tiptoeing around feelings you weren’t ready to name and fearing what might happen if you did— “uncomplicated” felt like exactly what you needed.

So when he asked for your number at the end of the night, you gave it to him without even thinking.

It didn’t feel like a big deal.

Just… nice.

You honestly weren't looking for anything serious, and to Jonah's credit, he never made it feel like you had to be.

Your dates were simple, nothing to write home about. Tacos at a food truck on a Wednesday night, or a walk through Central Park with his hand brushing yours like he wasn’t sure how to hold it just yet, or a movie you barely remembered because the seats were too comfortable and the company too easy.

Jonah never pushed or prodded.

You liked that about him.

You weren’t exactly sure when it shifted— when an easy distraction started to feel like something real.

Maybe it was the night he waited with you at the subway station in the rain, holding his jacket over you both— though it did little to stop you from getting soaked. Still, it was the thought that counted. 

Or maybe it was the morning he showed up at your door with bagels and that dumb, dimpled grin, just because he “had a feeling you forgot to eat breakfast again.”

There wasn’t a single grand gesture. No fireworks. No earth-shattering kiss that rewrote the entirety of your being.

Just a slow, steady bloom of something tender inside of you.

You found yourself texting him when something stupid happened at work, reaching for his hand when the sidewalk got too crowded.

And he was always there.

It didn’t make your heart race, didn’t make you feel like you were flying. But it was there.

Steady. Predictable. Safe. 

And honestly, that felt like enough.

That’s why it stung a little more when he canceled on you for the third time that week. 

It wasn't a huge deal. Just a trip to the movies to catch some shitty slasher movie that came out recently. Something as chill as all the other dates that came before it.

But it was supposed to be your thing, a tiny pocket of time carved out of a week all for you.

'hey, work ran late. raincheck? promise i'll make it up to u?"

You typed out a quick response, yeah no worries its good :), before sighing and chucking your phone face down onto your bed— digging the heels of your palms into your eye sockets— because that felt easier than telling the truth.

Because the truth was, you actually tried. Like, really tried.

You'd put on that soft brown sweater he said he liked— that skirt he bought you. You even tried to do something with your hair— for once.

All in a stupid attempt to actually impress him. To matter.

And now, here you were, dressed up for no one. Your chest tight in a way that always came after expectations were left unmet.

You stayed like that for a while— palms pressed against your face, trying to push back whatever ugly emotion that was clawing its way up to the surface. 

Disappointment, maybe. Or just that crushing feeling of someone not showing up for you the way you'd hoped they would.

Eventually, you peeled yourself off the bed and padded into your kitchen. 

Might as well go out or something, go get food while you're actually put together, so the night wasn't as unsalvageable.

But that’s when you saw him.

Peter, looking like death incarnate, slumped against your kitchen counter— practically bracing against it like it’s the only thing holding him up, a hoodie about two sizes too big draped over his form.

His skin is alarmingly pale, contrasted by the flush of his nose. His eyes are glassy, and his hair— usually messy in an endearing way— now just looks sad, flopped against his damp forehead.

“You look like hell.”

“Aw, thanks,” he rasps. “You always know how to make a guy feel special.”

You cross your arms against your chest, leaning against the doorframe, “You’re sick.”

“I’m fine,” he says, voice all muffled and nasally.

“You’re absolutely not fine, you sound like a congested lawnmower,” you say, shooting him an unimpressed look.

“I gotta–I gotta go,” he sniffs, grabbing for his backpack and missing by at least six inches. “Dr. Connors is waitin’ on those tissue samples and I—achoo!—can't just not show up—”

“Come on, Patient Zero,” you grab him by the shoulders, dragging him to the couch, “sit down before you pass out.”

Peter opens his mouth to argue before being interrupted by a violent cough that practically doubles him over.

You arch a brow.

“...That could’ve happened to anyone,” he manages to rasp out when it’s over.

“Sure. Anyone who’s extremely, definitely sick.”

“I heal fast,” he says, still fighting. “I’ll be fine in like, twenty minutes— just need some Dayquil and maybe one of those throat lozenges that taste like May’s purse.”

You place a hand on his forehead.

He leans into your touch before he can stop himself— he’s burning up.

“Pete,” you say, softer now, “please don’t make me tie you to the couch. Because I will.”

His eyes flutter half-closed at your touch. 

“You don’t have rope.”

“Not the point.”

He hesitates— wobbles a little, then lets out the world’s most dramatic sigh and finally sinks down onto the couch.

“You shouldn’t have even left your bed in this condition,” you say, digging through your junk drawer for a thermometer.

He groans, muffled through the throw pillow. “I had things to do.”

“You have a fever,” you call back, “I doubt you could be useful in the lab right now, Parker.”

When you return, he’s slumped sideways, eyes half-lidded. You nudge his shoulder and hold up the thermometer.

“Open.”

“Wow, at least buy a man dinner first.”

“Peter.”

He opens his mouth. The thermometer beeps after a few seconds, and you frown at the number that flashes on the screen. 

“39.4°C”

He shrugs weakly. “That’s not that bad.”

“Parker.”

He blinks up at you, sluggish and glassy-eyed, the fever clearly fogging up whatever filter he has left. His gaze drifts, moving from your outfit and lingering somewhere around your face— though it’s hard to tell exactly where he’s looking.

Then, inexplicably, he smiles.

"You look nice today."

You blink, momentarily stunned. Not because of the words themselves— you've heard compliments before, of course— but because of the way he said it. 

Soft. Offhanded, like it had slipped out before he could catch it.

You glanced down at yourself— the version of yourself you had put on all in an attempt to get your boyfriend to notice you. 

And now here was Peter Parker, feverish and flushed and somehow still managing to see you better than Jonah had in weeks.

“Don’t try and change the subject, Peter–” 

“No seriously,” he hummed, already halfway unconscious, blinking up at you like he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming. “You always look nice and stuff. Just… extra nice tonight. Fancy.” 

"Mhm," you muttered, heading back into the kitchen under some flimsy excuse to get some medicine to try and hide the flush that climbed its way onto your cheeks, "I had plans. They got canceled."

Peter doesn't say anything, not right away. 

Then: 

"Cake Boy?" 

You snort, "Jonah. Yes." 

Earlier, you hadn't really told Peter about Jonah and how far your relationship had actually progressed. Only the faint mention of some guy who spilled cake down your dress.

It wasn't like you were hiding it or anything. It just felt weird to tell him.

You weren't sure why. 

Maybe because saying it out loud made it feel more real. Maybe because the second you told Peter about Jonah, it would become something that mattered— and you weren’t ready to admit that it did.

Or maybe it was because Peter has always been the person you told everything to. 

The one who stayed up with you on the fire escape at 3 a.m. eating greasy pizza, the one who binged watched cheesy horror movies with you— the one who somehow always knew what you were feeling, even when you couldn’t find the words for it.

So yeah, maybe bringing Jonah into the conversation felt like inviting a stranger into something private.

You rummaged around your cupboards for some Ibuprofen and a mug, more for something to do with your hands than any real purpose.

“We were supposed to catch that new slasher movie tonight,” you said, trying to keep your tone light, like it didn’t bother you. “Third time he’s bailed this week. But you know. Work."

There’s a grumbled noise that comes from the couch that sounds suspiciously like a judgmental hmmph.

You raise your brows as you return to the living room, bottle of water in one hand, two pills in the other. “What was that?”

"Nothin'," Peter says, barely lifting his head.

“Seriously, he works a busy job,” you defend as you sit beside him, handing him the pills, “he works in finance, he’s in line for a promotion, I think.”

“Sure,” he croaks, sniffling into the collar of his hoodie.

You shoot him a look as he takes the pills from your hand, dry-swallowing them without blinking. You hold the water bottle out anyway, but he just shakes his head.

You cross your arms. “Okay. Dude, what’s your problem with him?”

Peter shrugs one shoulder weakly. “I dunno. Doesn’t seem like your type.”

You scoff, settling back against the couch. “What is my type, then?”

He opens his mouth, then hesitates. His eyes flick toward you— like he might actually say it. Like he wants to.

You feel it hang in the space between you– another one of those moments that’s all potential and no follow-through.

But instead, he coughs— long, wheezy, miserable.

You hand him a tissue and let it go.

He blows his nose dramatically. “Thanks, Nurse Ratched.”

“I should’ve let you suffer.”

“You kind of are,” he says, voice muffled through the tissue. “You just keep talkin’ about your perfect, rich finance boyfriend while I’m dying.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, fighting a smile. “You are so dramatic.”

Before you can roll your eyes, he shifts— slowly, like it’s second nature— and lets his head drop into your lap with a quiet, exhausted sigh, cheek pressing against your thigh.

You freeze. Just for a second.

Then your hand hovers awkwardly in the air like it isn’t quite sure what to do with itself. Peter’s curls are tickling your arm. His breath is warm against your leg. 

He’s got the smallest, softest smile on his lips. 

"So, finance guy. Huh?" You can feel him smirk against your thigh.

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite behind it– there’s never any bite behind it.

Your fingers twitch, finally settling in his hair— gently carding through the curls that are still damp from his earlier fever-sweat.

“Yes, finance guy,” you reply, your voice dry but fond. “He wears loafers and talks about stocks unironically."

Peter lets out a hoarse chuckle. "Sexy."

“Oh, incredibly,” you deadpan, scratching lightly at his scalp. “Every woman’s dream.”

His eyes were barely open now, lids even heavier with your hand carding through his hair. “I’m sorry your plans got canceled,” he mumbled into your thigh, voice rough. “But I’m kinda glad you’re here.”

Your hand stills for a beat in his hair.

It’s subtle, barely a hitch, but Peter notices.

Because, of course, he notices.

He seems to notice everything when it comes to you— every shift in your voice, every change in your routines, every text you type a little too quickly, and every laugh that was a bit too warm.

So when you started dressing a little nicer, started canceling on him last minute, started smiling down at your phone in a way that wasn’t meant for him— he knew.

And he let it happen.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t pry. Didn’t say a word, even when it stung more than he cared to admit. Because he knew he didn’t have the right, you weren’t his— and he knew that.

But here you were. His head in your lap, your hand tangled in his hair, and something about it feels dangerously close to hope.

You gently tap his shoulder, “C’mon, up, Parker. You’ve gotta get up.”

He groans, low and muffled, pressing his face further into your thigh like that might somehow make you take it back. “Five more minutes,” he mutters, voice thick with sleep and congestion.

You bite back a smile, trying— and failing— not to sound as fond as you feel. “Get up, I’ve gotta get you some soup.”

He groans again.

You huff, amused, and your fingers brush over his scalp again before you catch yourself. “Peter…”

He finally looks up, just barely. His eyes are glassy with exhaustion but still achingly soft, locked on yours. “I like it here,” he admits, quieter now. “Don’t make me move yet.”

But, to his disappointment, you gently shove him off. 

He lands back against the cushions with a dramatic oof, flopping onto his side like his bones were made out of jelly.

"Rude," he mumbled, squinting up at you through red eyes. "I bare my soul and you throw me to the wolves."

"You were melting into my thigh," you say, standing and stretching with a small smile. "I need circulation, and you need soup, Peter."

"Who needs sustenance when you’re comfortable?" he counters, eyes fluttering shut again as he dramatically clutches at the throw pillow you hand him like it’s a poor substitute for you. "You’re cruel. Heartless. 0 stars, no bedside manner."

You shake your head, laughing softly as you drape the blanket over him— walking over to the kitchen.

Peter watches you move around the room, your silhouette softened by the dim glow of the kitchen light. 

You’re humming— quietly, absentmindedly— and it makes his chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with the fever. 

He pulls the blanket tighter around himself, coating himself in its warmth. But it's not as warm as your lap, or your fingers in his hair, or the sweet sound of your voice up close and soft just for him.

For a second, you were there, and you let him have it. That intimate and easy quiet, and then it was gone.

Because you’re not his, never was, never will be. 

He needs to start reminding himself of that.

He hears the clink of a spoon, the cupboard shutting, the soft pad of your feet returning— and he plasters on a grin like it doesn't matter at all.

“Any chance my nurse also makes toast?” he rasps, winking.

Because if he keeps it light, maybe it won’t feel so heavy.

You arch a brow, setting down a small bowl beside him on the coffee table. "Your nurse made soup. Homemade, by the way. Well, semi-homemade. I just added some garlic and salt to the canned stuff. But whatever."

Peter grins up at you— it’s lazy, foggy at the edges, but it still carries that boyish charm that seems to emanate from him. "Gourmet."

You flash him a smile. “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

Peter takes a slow, careful sip of the soup, wincing a little at the temperature but grateful for the warmth.

You settle beside him again, brushing a stray curl from his damp forehead and tucking it behind his ear with a tenderness that catches you both off guard.

“You just focus on getting better,” you say softly, your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest. “I’ll handle the rest. Soup, tea, maybe some actual toast if you're good.”

He tries to protest, but his voice is too weak, so he just lets out a tired chuckle. His eyes close briefly, his breathing evening out.

You stay there, watching over him, fussing— let’s be real, when do you not fuss over him?

And slowly, imperceptibly–  he starts to look a little less like the sick, feverish mess from earlier and more like the Peter you know and love. 

And for a moment, you forget about Jonah, him canceling, and the way he made you feel.

And, honestly— for now, that’s enough.

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[fardwader]

you’re too good to me (and you know it, too) pt. 3

pairing: peter parker x fem reader

summary: For some unknown reason, Peter Parker cannot stop finding new, inventive ways to humiliate himself in front of you.

And for some reason, you keep helping him up anyway.

Or, the 5 times you save Peter— and the 1 time he saves you.

pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5, pt 6

a/n: hiii, im so on the fence about this stupid chapter but i rlly hope u guys like this!!! also how tf do u describe the insides of a toaster?????? gaps? prongs???

wordcount: 2.2k

taglist: @ladylokilaufeyson5 @wlnut

tags: 5+1 fic, slow burn, friends to lovers, reader is annoyingly oblivious, peter is a sad dork, no use of y/n, sarcastic peter and an even more sarcastic reader, multi part, past gwen and peter, not canon compliant, gwen stacy is so beautiful...., crazu overuse of italics, reader is terrified and in denial

(three)

It starts with a knock.

Not a polite one— like a soft rap against your door, but a frantic, desperate thud against your door like someone tried to shoulder-check it open.

You groggily untangle yourself from your net of blankets, your movements coated in that thick, syrupy glaze of interrupted sleep. 

Your apartment is quiet, save for the rain tapping steadily against the windows, and your clock reads 1:27 AM in blinking neon-red digits.

You shuffle down your hallway, stifling a yawn. Only to open the door and see Peter Parker standing in your doorway. Barefoot.

Soaked from the head down. Clutching a duffel bag that looks older than he is, being aged even more by the sodden stare of it.

“I come bearing gifts.” 

“Jesus, Peter— what happened? Did you walk through the rain?”

“My apartment flooded,” he says simply, his footsteps squelching against your hardwood as he collapses onto your couch–your brand new couch, you’d like to add— like a soggy loaf of bread. 

“Like, Noah's-Ark-level flooded. Turns out, my upstairs neighbor decided tonight was the night to test the limits of modern plumbing,” he says, digging the heels of his palms into his eye sockets.

“Spoiler alert: the limits were not high.”

He smells like rain and moldy carpet and something else— maybe wet dog, but it's hard to tell at this point.

“That sounds like a nightmare,” you wince, before sauntering off to your bathroom, trying to find something Peter can dry off with.

“Oh, it gets better,” he says brightly, in that I’m-actually-spiraling-but-humor-is-my-defense-mechanism tone you’ve come to recognize. 

“The landlord’s gone AWOL. Maintenance guy took one look, said ‘damn, that’s rough,’ and just walked out like he had somewhere better to be.”

“That can’t be legal,” you shake your head.

“I tried to save my laptop,” he says solemnly, “Unclear if it survived. I think it drowned.”

You toss the towel at him gently, and he catches it with a tired sort of grace, rubbing it over his wet curls.

You stand there for a second, watching him halfheartedly dry off, until you finally say, “Okay, no offense, but you smell like shit.”

Peter lifts his arm and sniffs himself. “Yeah, that tracks.”

“You should take a shower,” you say, gesturing toward the bathroom with a lazy flick of your wrist. “Before your moldy aura seeps into my furniture.”

He blinks up at you from the couch, eyes wide and almost childlike. “Are you sure? I don’t want to, like, invade your space more than I already have. I know it’s late and—”

“Peter,” you interrupt, voice soft but firm. “You’ve done way more embarrassing things than taking a shower in my apartment.”

That earns you a tired laugh. “Good point.”

As he pads his way to your bathroom, you try to dig up some clean— well, clean-ish, clothes. 

An old pair of sweatpants you don’t remember buying and a hoodie that might’ve belonged to an ex, or maybe you just stole it from a roommate at some point. 

Either way, it’s oversized and cozy, and Peter accepts it with a grateful nod.

“Thanks,” he says, hoisting the bundle under his arm.

“The shower’s a little weird,” you warn as he heads toward the bathroom. “You kind of got to jiggle the handle a bit for it to work.”

Peter pauses in the doorway and turns to you, one eyebrow raised. “Jiggle it how?”

“Just grab it, shake it, sweet-talk it a little, and pray it works,” you say with a shrug. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, and for the first time tonight, the tension in his shoulders eases just a little. “Jiggle it how? Seductively or threateningly? There’s a huge difference.”

“Dealer’s choice.”

Then the bathroom door clicks shut, and you’re alone again, standing in the middle of your living room with a puddle on your floor and a couch that now smells like mold.

You sigh, before unzipping his mushy dufflebag and unsheathing his— likely broken, electronics. You're beginning to appreciate buying that huge bag of rice when it was on sale.

Fifteen minutes later, Peter emerges, steam billowing around him like he’s just walked out of a sauna. 

His curls are still damp but now springy and fluffy, and he’s swimming in the hoodie, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The sweatpants hang low on his hips, the drawstring tied in a lazy knot.

“You’re alive,” you announce, tossing the soggy towel into the laundry hamper.

“Barely,” he grins, padding over in your fuzzy socks— where did he find those? “I sweet-talked the faucet like you said. Called it ‘baby girl.’ I feel gross now.”

You snort, “I tried doing that rice trick on your stuff, hopefully something’s salvageable— and I threw your clothes in the wash, it’ll probably be ready by tomorrow.”

Peter flops down onto your couch again, this time in— thankfully— dry clothes, smelling faintly of your vanilla body wash, something warm and familiar clinging to him in a way that makes your chest pull tight.

You like the smell of your scent on him— you quickly push that thought down before it can surface.

He exhales, long and heavy, like someone who’s been carrying the world on his shoulders.

You plop down beside him, curling one leg underneath you. “So what’s the plan now? You gonna go camp out in the lab and pray Dr. Connors doesn’t find you?”

“Tempting,” he says, tilting his head back against the couch, eyes slipping shut for just a second.

In the silence, you slowly trace his profile with your eyes, coated by the warm honey-glow of your desk lamp. 

He looks tired. So tired.

His hazel eyes dull with exhaustion, shadows hanging under them like bruises. You’ve never really noticed how tired he looks until now.

Something in your chest folds in on itself, like your heart breaking into two. 

You don’t like seeing him like this.

In the countless months you've grown to know Peter Parker, you've learned he is so many things. 

Witty, smart, annoyingly self-deprecating, infuriatingly good at making you laugh— but you've never seen him this tired, this frustrated.

The way his shoulders are slumped, like every bone in his body is numb with exhaustion, or the way his fingers clamp around the edge of your throw pillow like he's desperately trying to hold himself together.

"You can stay here if you want," you say, almost a whisper. The words slip out before you can even think. 

"Just for a while, I mean. Like, until things get figured out with your place.

Peter opens his eyes slowly, his head turning to look at you. "Are you sure? I mean, you're already doing me a huge favor letting me in this late, letting me shower, and I—"

"Peter," you cut him off, "You're my friend. I don't even have to think twice about letting you crash on my couch."

Your words seem to ease the tension resting on his shoulders. 

"Thanks," he says softly, so softly that it almost gets swallowed by the sound of the rain outside. "I never realized how much I needed to hear that."

A gentle smile makes its way onto your face, as you nudge his knee with yours. "You'd do the same for me anyways."

"Yeah," he chuckles, "except my couch is like, two feet wide and smells like Chinese takeout. I'm pretty sure you'd rather take your chances in a motel or something."

You laugh, it's airy and genuine. "Guess I'm doing you a favor, then."

He smiles at that— it's small and tired, but it's real— and leans his head back again, eyes fluttering shut once more.

“Alright, Parker. Let’s head to bed, I still have work in the morning, y’know,” you say, standing up to fetch an extra blanket. 

But before you can get very far, you feel a sudden weight wrap tightly around you. 

It's Peter, arms locked tightly around your torso, face pressed into the crook of your neck like it's the only thing keeping him upright. 

It catches you off guard. Not just the hug, but how hard he's clutching onto you, like he's afraid you might disappear if he loosens his grip. 

You freeze. "Uh, Peter?" 

"Just let me have this," he mumbles, breath warming your neck, “Please.”

You don't say anything, just slowly bring your arms up and hug him back.

It's a little stiff at first, awkward, so to speak, like you aren’t quite sure where your limbs should go— how to hold someone who’s about to unravel in your arms.

But then, he exhales shakily against your shoulder. Your fingers find the fabric of the hoodie stretched over his back, and you give the smallest squeeze, just enough to say I’m here.

“I just…” he starts, then stops, the words catching in his throat. “I think I needed not to be alone. Just for a little bit.”

"You're not alone, I promise." You nod against him.

You can feel his fingers curl even deeper into the fabric of your shirt, like he's trying to anchor himself.

Eventually, the hug loosens, no longer as desperate. Just tired.

And kind of uncomfortable, because your neck is cramping and your legs are starting to tingle.”

"Pete, come on," you murmur, "my feet are starting to go numb, let's at least sit down before we both pass out."

He laughs, breathy and reluctant, pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes glassy with that familiar mist of tears.

"Sorry," he mumbles, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck, "I'm not usually this clingy—"

You raise a brow. “You flooded your apartment, almost broke your laptop, and ran here in the rain. I think you get a free pass for a hug, man.”

He cracks a smile. "Wow, your standards are low."

“Don’t push it, Parker.”

You grab him an extra blanket from your closet and toss it over to him, watching as he curls up on the couch, knees tucked in, sheets swallowing him like a cocoon. 

He's still tired, still worn. But at least the worst of the weight seems a little lifted now.

You hover, unsure if you should say anything, do anything. But his breathing starts to slow, lashes brushing his cheeks as his eyes begin to slip shut.

So you just click the lamp off, leaving only the soft patter of rain and the quiet that's settled over your living room.

The next morning, you wake up to the smell of coffee. And smoke.

It takes a second to register, in the haze of the morning, your sleep-addled brain just assumes you're dreaming. 

But the scent is very much real, wafting in from your kitchen.

Peter is in your kitchen. You realize.

You pad over slowly and catch him, tufts of hair sticking up in different directions, the sleeves of your hoodie rolled halfway up his arms.

He's staring down your toaster like it’s the culprit who flooded his place.

"Burning down my apartment is a weird way of repaying me, Parker."

He jumps.

 "Oh, god no. I mean, maybe? I was trying to make you breakfast, but apparently, everything in your apartment has a grudge against me."

You peer into the gaps of the toaster, the bread. Or what remains of it lies charred between the metal prongs. "It's weird, you have to jiggle it a certain way to get it to work."

Peter snorts, "Does everything in your apartment need to be jiggled to work? Or is it just me?"

"No, yeah, pretty much," you say as he hands you a mug. 

It’s warm, and it’s the same one you gave him from the night you first met— you can’t help but smile at the thought.

He watches like he’s waiting for a verdict as you bring the mug closer to your lips, sipping carefully. 

“Not bad, Peter,” you say. 

He practically lights up, tension easing from his features, “High praise coming from you.”

The rest of the morning eases into a slow rhythm— it’s strangely domestic. You both shuffle around the apartment in that kind of shared haze people fall into when they’ve spent the night in the same space. 

You'd assumed that last night would just be a one-time thing. A stepping stone or pit stop before he figured something else out.

 And then a day passed. Then another.

It's not like he officially asked to stay, but his clothes have their own drawer– then later own it's own closet after a short trip to IKEA— his toothbrush settled next to yours on the bathroom sink, and his shoes found a permanent place in your doorway.

He started doing things around the house, too.

 Like washing the dishes, fetching the groceries, and always remembering to buy oat milk instead of regular milk because you preferred it.

You didn’t mind. Not really.

But it also... scared you a little.

Because it was easy. Way too easy. And somewhere deep in your chest, you were afraid of what that meant.

You liked your relationship with Peter the way it was— banter-filled, sarcastic, safe. 

You were friends. Best friends, even. And you didn’t want that to change. 

Because if things did change— if lines blurred or feelings crept too far past the edges— everything could fall apart. Things could get messy.

So you did what you always did: keep him at arm's length, make jokes, act like you didn’t feel your heart splitting into two at the thought of him not being yours.

And maybe, just maybe, if you kept pretending long enough, you’d believe it too.

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[fardwader]

you already know | jason todd

summary: when you quietly piece together jason’s secret identity as the Red Hood, your subtle hints push him to the brink of ending things to protect you.

You noticed it again.

That faint, acrid scent of gunpowder clinging to his hoodie like an afterthought. A fresh bruise stretching along the curve of his jaw, turning his usually smooth skin into something dark and aching. He tried to hide it with the collar of his jacket — same one he always wore — but it didn’t escape your eyes.

It never did.

Jason was leaning against your kitchen counter, fingers wrapped around a chipped mug like the warmth might chase the shadows away. His knuckles were scabbed again.

“Rough night?” you asked, keeping your tone casual as you reached into the fridge for milk. “You look like you lost a fight with a vending machine.”

He snorted, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Some guy got handsy with a waitress at the bar. Stepped in. No big deal.”

You hummed, setting the carton down. “Right. Must’ve been one hell of a guy to get past you.”

Jason shrugged, eyes flicking to the bandage just barely visible beneath his sleeve. “Drunk assholes are unpredictable.”

You didn’t press further. Just handed him a spoon for the coffee and watched as he stirred it counterclockwise — something he only did when he was trying to distract himself.

Outside, Gotham was quiet. The kind of silence that comes after something loud and violent.

Funny. Red Hood had been seen not far from Crime Alley last night. You saw the grainy footage. He’d taken down a drug ring, left the cops a pile of tied-up thugs like some twisted gift. The news anchors were still buzzing about it this morning.

And Jason had come home limping, shirt torn at the shoulder.

But of course, that was just a coincidence.

Weeks passed. The bruises stayed.

Sometimes he’d vanish for a day or two with a half-assed excuse and eyes too exhausted for someone just “crashing at Roy’s.” Other nights, he’d come in soaked to the bone and collapse on your couch without a word.

You’d say nothing. Just wrap a blanket around his shoulders and press your lips to his temple. He always kissed you back, softer than you'd expect from someone who carried so much violence in his bones.

Then one night, while folding laundry, you noticed a tear along the seam of one of his jackets. The lining beneath was familiar — black reinforced mesh, almost tactical. The same kind you’d seen Red Hood wearing in a fight broadcasted just last week.

“You know,” you said with a teasing lilt, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to cosplay Gotham’s favorite outlaw.”

Jason froze for just a second too long. Then a low chuckle, forced.

“Please. I’ve got better hair.”

You smiled, but the moment hung too long. Thick. Heavy.

You didn’t push. You just kissed his cheek and folded the jacket anyway.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this — loving someone in shadows.

But you loved him anyway.

Even when he came home half-alive, a bullet graze on his ribs, stammering about a mugging gone wrong. You didn’t buy it. You didn’t say you didn’t buy it.

You just stitched him up, fingers steady while your heart felt anything but.

“Red Hood got clipped last night,” you said quietly, dabbing alcohol along his side. “Same spot.”

Jason’s shoulders tensed. A beat passed. Then he laughed — hollow.

“Guy should really consider armor upgrades.”

You paused, holding the gauze against his skin a little longer than needed.

“You don’t have to lie to me,” you whispered.

He didn’t say anything.

And you didn’t ask again.

When he called you to come over, his voice was off. Not tired — resolved.

Like a man marching to his own firing squad.

You found him on the fire escape, sitting with his back against the wall, moonlight cutting across his face. His helmet — the helmet — was tucked behind a plant like it could disappear if you weren’t looking.

He didn’t know you’d already seen it.

“Jason?” you said gently.

He didn’t meet your eyes.

“We need to talk.”

Your stomach twisted.

“Okay.”

He exhaled, fingers threading through his hair like he was trying to hold his skull together.

“This... us,” he started, voice cracking. “I can’t keep doing this. I’ve been lying to you, and that’s not fair. I thought I could balance both — have this normal thing with you — but I’m only dragging you into something dangerous.”

You stayed quiet. Let him speak.

“I’m Red Hood,” he said finally. “And if you stay with me, one day you won’t wake up. Someone will use you to get to me. That’s just how it works in this city.”

You took a step closer.

“Jason—”

“No.” He stood. “You don’t understand. I’ve lost too much already. I can’t lose you too.”

You looked up at him, voice soft. Steady.

“I already know.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I’ve known,” you said again. “The bruises. The jacket. The way you disappear on the same nights Red Hood shows up in the news. I’m not stupid, Jay.”

He looked shattered.

“I tried to drop hints,” you continued. “I wanted to give you the chance to tell me. But I knew. And I stayed. Because I love you. All of you. Even the parts you hate about yourself.”

He sank back down, breathing uneven. “You shouldn’t have to love someone like me.”

“Maybe not,” you said, reaching for his hand. “But I do.”

He cried.

Not sobbing. Not broken.

Just quietly — the kind of tears that came after years of silence and guilt. You held him while he leaned into you like he couldn’t hold himself up.

You didn’t say it would be okay. Not right away.

But you stayed.

And in Jason Todd’s world of guns, ghosts, and second chances — that meant everything.

[fardwader]

seeing my man with his canonical love interest 💔💔💔💔

[fardwader]

Second Times a Charm

Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary: After a small dog escape Bob meets you, and doesn’t end up exchanging details with you. Thinking it was just meant to me a one time thing till Maisie your dog brings you back together and eventually starts a relationship. But the Thunderbolts are suspicious when Bob lately has been in a too good of a mood so they all decide to track and investigate it.

WC: 3.3K

A/N: Guys… I might redo this it’s def not the best fic ive down, i’m like drained with all the fica ive released in the last week. #grind #slowingdownnow

⸻

Central Park, Late Spring.

Bob wasn’t much of a runner, yet.

He liked walking. He’d only recently learned to enjoy the quiet discipline of it. No heavy footfalls, no pounding heart. Just motion. Just breath. A rhythm he could set. Something calm and human and entirely his own.

The chaos in his head, dark, howling, bottomless, was quieter when he walked. Especially here.

Central Park in the spring was like something from a memory he’d never had. Trees budding green again. Sunlight catching in the ripples of the lake. Children laughing distantly, dogs barking somewhere beyond the trees. The world felt simple when he was out here. Manageable.

His boots crunched lightly against the gravel path as he made his way to his usual spot, a bench by the water, partially shaded by an overgrown maple. The bench itself was old, paint worn off at the edges, wood slightly splintered at the armrests. But it was his bench. The one he rested on during each walk, always at the same point in the loop.

He sat down with a soft sigh, stretched his long legs out, and tilted his face toward the sun. Eyes closed. Breathing even. Peace-

THUD.

Something hit his knee.

Bob startled slightly, blinking down in confusion. A leash, frayed and pink with little daisies on it, was coiled loosely around his shin. And attached to the other end.

A golden retriever.

Tongue out, tail wagging like it was powered by joy alone. Its big brown eyes looked up at him like he was the best thing it had seen all day. The leash dragged behind her like an afterthought.

“Oh- hey, buddy.” Bob said softly, as if afraid to scare her off. “You… uh. You got loose?”

The dog barked once, as if to answer.

Then-

“Maisie!” a voice called out, breathless, somewhere down the path. “You little menace, come back!”

He looked up.

And there you were.

Jogging toward him, your stride uneven from the sudden sprint. A t-shirt clung damply to your back, your hair pulled messily away from your face, cheeks flushed from exertion and probably a little embarrassment. There was something raw and real about you, like you hadn’t had time to smooth yourself into what the world expected yet. Something golden about the way the light seemed to settle on you, drawn in like gravity.

Bob felt the breath knock out of him in a way that had nothing to do with superpowers.

You reached him with a huff, one hand clutching your phone, the other already moving to scoop up the leash.

“I’m so sorry.” you said, slightly winded but grinning as you crouched beside him. “She gets overly excited when people sit down. Thinks everyone’s her new best friend.”

Bob smiled, half-crouched next to the retriever. “She’s not wrong. I could use a friend.”

You gave a short, surprised laugh. It made his stomach do something it hadn’t done in years.

“She didn’t bite you or anything, did she?”

“No, she just… announced herself with enthusiasm.” He gave the dog a fond pat. “Maisie, right?”

You nodded, finally catching your breath. “Yeah. I’m Y/N.”

“I’m Bob.” he said, rising a bit awkwardly and offering a hand. You shook it, firm but warm.

“Thanks for catching her.”

“Of course. It’s not every day someone runs into you with a leash.”

Your smile turned shy at the edges. “No, usually I wait until the third date for that.”

Bob blinked.

You blinked.

Then you both burst out laughing.

The tension in his chest eased. Something about your energy was grounding. You weren’t looking at him like you sensed something was off, like people so often did. You were just… smiling.

You ended up walking together. Slowly at first, letting Maisie sniff her way along the path. You talked about how long you’d lived in the city, how your dog hated pigeons with irrational fury, how the best bagels were always from the sketchy places with no signs.

Bob told you he’d just recently gotten into walking every day. That it helped clear his head. That he liked being outside, in the real world. You asked what he did for work and he gave you the kind of vague answer that didn’t invite more questions, freelance consulting, logistics, a lot of government red tape. You nodded like you understood. Like you weren’t going to pry.

He liked that.

You laughed easily, shared the story of how you got Maisie from a rescue uptown, and how she’d managed to eat an entire rotisserie chicken when you turned your back on her once. Bob listened, enraptured. Every word from you felt like it mattered.

Eventually, the path forked.

“This is me.” you said, motioning left toward a small side path. The sun dappled your skin, your smile soft and open.

He pointed to the opposite direction. “And this is me.”

“See you around?”

“I hope so.”

You both turned, walking away.

Bob finds himself turning around to get one last glimpse of you just to properly engrave your memory into his head permanently. So he can brood and think about the time he was sure he met his future wife but forgot to ask for her number and couldn’t ask for it after because he was far too far already to ask without making it awkward.

Five feet.

Ten.

Twenty-

Then, the clatter of a leash.

“Maisie!” you gasped.

Bob turned just in time to catch the dog as she barreled into him like a guided missile. He braced, kneeling again, catching the leash before it tangled. Maisie’s tongue was already swiping at his face.

You came jogging back, hands on your hips, a groan half-laughing in your throat. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He stood, leash in hand, grinning.

“I think she’s in love with you.” you said, huffing as you reached him.

Bob looked at you, really looked.

His voice was quiet, but sincere. “Yeah. Me too.”

There was a heartbeat of silence between you.

You tilted your head, eyes flickering with interest.

He panicked.

“I mean- I didn’t mean me, I meant her-obviously, she- your dog- I just- uh-“

You laughed. A full, sparkling, head-tossing laugh that made Maisie wag her tail harder.

“Just- give me your phone, smooth-talker.”

He blinked.

You tapped your fingers. “Come on. Before she escapes again.”

He fumbled to pull it out, handing it over. You typed in your number, saved it with a little dog emoji next to your name, and handed it back.

“There. Now next time she escapes, you’ll have someone to blame.”

He looked at your name glowing on the screen.

“I’ll take that risk.”

Maisie barked again, triumphant, like she’d orchestrated this entire meeting with divine precision. Bob was still staring at your contact in his phone, thumb hovering over the screen like it was too delicate to touch, as if the moment might vanish if he blinked too hard.

You watched him for a beat longer, a smile tucked lazily in the corner of your mouth. There was something about him, tall and a little awkward, like he wasn’t used to being seen, really seen, but trying his best not to flinch when he was.

“I’ll, uh, text you,” Bob said, looking up, finally pocketing his phone. His voice was shy, but hopeful.

You nodded, stepping back, tugging gently on Maisie’s leash. “Good. And if you don’t, Maisie has your scent now. She’ll track you down.”

Bob gave a quiet, stunned laugh. “I believe it.”

You gave a mock salute and turned again, this time getting a few full strides before Maisie glanced back one more time, gave a soft whine, and mercifully kept walking with you.

He stood there, still half-smiling, until you and the dog disappeared down the winding path. The sounds of the park filtered back in, the breeze shaking the leaves above him, the faint honk of a distant cab, a couple laughing somewhere nearby.

And yet, everything felt different now.

It wasn’t until he sat back on the bench and

his fingers brushed the screen of his phone again, flicking it on to see your name one more time ”Y/N 🐾” glowing there like a small miracle.

⸻

Several weeks later. Thunderbolts tower.

Something had shifted.

It wasn’t drastic. No dramatic speeches. No cape swirling in the wind. But everyone noticed.

Bob was… different.

Lighter, somehow. More present. Like the edges of him, usually a little frayed from the weight he carried, had softened.

He was humming in the kitchen again, swaying slightly as he flipped pancakes with ease, the scent of cinnamon and maple drifting through the tower. Not unusual for Bob, he always cooked but there was something extra in it now. A rhythm. A bounce.

He didn’t pester John or clap back when John picked on him.

He smiled, a full, crinkled-eyes smile when Bucky called him Bobert.

And he hadn’t once spent the evening perched on the edge of the roof with a faraway look in his eyes.

It was deeply suspicious.

Yelena narrowed her eyes over the rim of her chipped mug, the steam from her jasmine tea curling around her face like mist. “You’re in love.”

Bob, mid-sip of his chalky protein shake, choked. Hard. He slammed the cup down and coughed until his ears turned pink.

“What?” he rasped.

“Don’t play dumb.” She leaned back, eyes sharp as glass. “You’re glowing. Like a woman in a shampoo commercial. Maybe Herbal Essences.”

Ava didn’t look up from polishing her blade. “He does smell like flowers lately.”

“Lavender and bergamot.” John added helpfully, arms crossed, brows raised. “He’s got that post-date aura. Like a dog who got into someone’s picnic basket and is too proud to feel bad.”

He is in love.” Alexei declared, pounding the arm of the couch like it was a gavel. “We must find her. See if she is worthy. Possibly interrogate her.”

Bob set down his smoothie and raised both hands. “Okay. No. First of all, no one’s evaluating anyone’s bloodline. Second, there is no girl.”

Yelena ignored him and reached for her phone. “He always leaves early. Walks the same route. Central Park. South entrance. Between 9:00 to 9:20.”

“You’ve been tracking me?” Bob blinked.

“You radiate suspicious energy.” she said simply. “We go. We spy. We report.”

“Absolutely not.” Bob said, half-laughing, half-panicked. “You are not stalking my-”

He froze.

Yelena’s eyes glittered. “My…?”

Bob sighed, pressing his hands to his face. “This is a violation of privacy.”

“This is family,” Yelena said smugly. “Deal with it, Bobert.”

“Don’t care.” Ava said. “If she broke his heart, he’d black out the sky.”

“She’s not going to break my heart.” Bob said quietly.

Everyone fell silent for a beat.

John grinned, nudging Ava. “Oh, he’s gone. Deep in the fluffy feelings.”

“Leave him alone.” Bucky muttered from the kitchen, pouring coffee. “Let the man have his peace.”

Yelena looked up with a sly smirk. “I will. After surveillance.”

“Yelena.”

“Fine.” she said, tossing her phone aside. “But if she shows up at tower, we’re giving her the talk.”

Bob rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks faintly pink. “She’s not showing up. She doesn’t even know who I really am yet.”

“Oh my God,” John whispered. “You met her as Bob, not The Sentry.”

Bob nodded.

Alexei let out a low whistle. “A civilian. You are in love.”

Bob just smiled softly into his hands, then reached for the waffle iron.

⸻

The Next Morning

The sun hadn’t quite crested over the tops of the brownstone buildings, but the world was already beginning to stir with the soft hum of morning life. The air was crisp and clean, the kind of morning that made everything feel a little more possible.

You jogged at an easy pace, Maisie trotting contentedly beside you, her leash loose in your hand. The rhythmic beat of your sneakers on the pavement echoed faintly through the quiet streets, punctuated only by birdsong and the rustling of early spring leaves dancing in the breeze. Your breath came steady, matching the easy cadence of the run, a ritual that had quickly become your favorite part of the day.

As you rounded the familiar bend, your eyes were drawn to the sprawling oak tree up ahead, the one that sat at the edge of the park like a quiet sentinel. The one where, not long ago, your world had started to shift.

And there he was.

Bob stood beneath it, leaning casually against the trunk like some lost chapter from a storybook, sunlight catching in the soft strands of his hair. He was wearing that same beat-up flannel jacket you’d teased him about, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms that didn’t match his otherwise gentle demeanor. His posture was relaxed, but there was a tension in his hands, like he was trying not to fidget too much, not to overthink how this moment would go.

He saw you and straightened, raising a hand in a shy wave. That smile, the one that looked like it started in his chest before reaching his lips curled faintly at the edges of his mouth.

Your heart stuttered in your chest. Not the jarring kind of panic, but the warm flutter that made your fingers buzz and your throat tighten just slightly. The hopeful kind.

“Morning.” he called out softly, stepping forward.

In his hands, like a peace offering or a promise, was a steaming cup of coffee.

You slowed to a stop in front of him, brushing a few loose strands of hair from your damp forehead as Maisie circled your legs before flopping dramatically at your feet, before giving him sincere kiss on the lips.

Even after the countless times Bob still can’t help but feel himself grow hot and red.

“You remembered my order.”you said with a grin, accepting the cup. The warmth of it bled into your palms instantly.

“Black, two sugars,” Bob said with a quiet nod sheepishly. “Just how you like it.”

There was something almost reverent about the way he looked at you, like he was surprised you were real, standing there in front of him, flushed from your run and smiling at him like that kiss didn’t just make him see stars.

You were about to thank him when a strange rustling noise rose from the dense shrubbery a few feet away. You turned your head, brows furrowed.

Then, you heard it.

“Oh my god, she’s real.”

“Shut up, John.”

“Bob’s got moves?”

“I told you he had game.”

Your eyes narrowed, confusion knitting across your brow. You looked back at Bob, who had suddenly gone still, his expression a blend of horror and resignation. He muttered something under his breath, something that might’ve been a prayer or a curse before dragging a hand down his face like a man preparing for battle.

“…Did your coffee just talk?” you asked, clutching the cup tighter.

And then it happened.

Like the world’s worst magic trick or maybe a particularly ill-conceived prank, five adults dressed in tactical gear emerged from behind the bushes, one by one. They looked like they’d walked off the set of some spy movie, complete with holsters, combat boots, and the deeply awkward expressions of people who had absolutely not been invited to the party.

You blinked. Maisie let out a low, confused whimper and sat up straight beside you, ears alert.

“What the…” you murmured.

Bob let out a breath like it hurt. “No. No, I’m not being hunted.” He gave you a sheepish glance, eyes full of something between embarrassment and silent pleading. “It’s worse. That’s… that’s my team.”

Yelena strode forward like a woman on a mission, sharp eyes locked on you with unsettling precision. She had the look of someone who could kill a man with a paperclip and still be the most charming person in the room.

“You’re very pretty.” she smiles, offering you a firm handshake. “Congratulations.”

You stared. “…Thank you?”

Before you could process that, another stepped forward, a tall man with slightly blonde hair and a sharp face, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. He gave you a polite nod, his voice low and oddly gentle for someone wearing enough gear to storm a bunker.

“I’m John.” he said. “Bobby here has never acted like this around anyone. Ever.”

Your heart rate kicked up a notch. “I’m scared.” you whispered.

Ava moved closer, her approach quieter, more thoughtful. She had a steadiness about her, like she was used to chaos and knew how to navigate it. She gave your arm a soft, almost comforting pat.

“So are we.” she said, deadpan.

Interrupting the two, Alexei decided it was his turn to say something but by grabbing her and picking her up to spin her around all while yelling to Bob who looked like he was going to pass out if he as so much dropped her by an inch. “Robert! Yes! I am so glad you will not be sad lonely sad man rest of your life!”

Finally after being put down to Bob’s protest and mummurs from the team “Too much buddy.” Behind her, Bucky followed, trying to look casual despite the overwhelming energy of intervention. Bucky, simply nodded once, arms crossed, eyes flickering between you and Bob like he was trying to decode a threat level.

Bob sighed audibly, then leaned in just slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t know they were going to do this.”

You stared at him, at his ridiculous, sweet face and the earnestness in his eyes. And against your better judgment, despite the absolutely surreal moment, your lips twitched.

“You’re lucky I love you, i would have ran screaming. Not every you meet The Avengers on your run.” you muttered.

A long beat of silence passed, broken only by Maisie giving a grumble of displeasure and flopping dramatically against your calf. Then Bob looked back at his team, then at you, and offered a half-resigned shrug.

“Well uh- Welcome to the family.” he said softly.

And somehow, despite the thick gear, the ambush, and the fact that your morning coffee had turned into a stakeout, you believed him.

⸻

That night, in the kitchen.

Bob sat perched on the counter, cheeks flushed a soft shade of pink, not from exertion, but from a quiet embarrassment as the team retold the morning’s story for what felt like the fifteenth time.

You had left with a smile and a wave, promising to call. That promise replayed in Bob’s mind, steady and surreal.

He wasn’t sure if it was real. If you were real. If something this ordinary, this good, could really happen to someone like him.

“She liked you.” Yelena said, eyes sharp but kind. “Even after meeting us. That’s real love.”

The words hung in the air, warm and heavy.

And then Bob… cracked.

He pushed off the counter, fingers running through his hair in nervous rhythm. He paced a little, then turned back to them, eyes wide, raw.

“I’m dating her.” he blurted.

Bucky, never missing a beat, deadpanned, “We noticed.”

“No, I mean really dating. She calls me. She texts me. She wants to know how my day went. She laughs at my dumb jokes and all of them. And she… she touches my hand like it’s normal. Like I’m not made of… whatever I’m made of.”

His voice faltered as he took a shaky breath.

“I didn’t think I’d ever get something like this. Not with what’s in my head. Not with what I’ve done or what I could do. But she looks at me like I’m just some guy she met in the park. And I want to keep being that guy. For her.”

Silence settled over the kitchen.

Then Alexei broke it with a loud clap. “Bob is in love.”

John raised his glass with a sly grin. “To leash girl.”

“To Maisie.” Ava added, a soft smile touching her lips.

Bucky simply smiled, steady and warm. “To hope of a regular life.”

Bob sank back down on the counter, dazed, full of it, full of something he hadn’t dared to hope for in a long time.

⸻

[fardwader]

omg im actually so stupid, i feel like i should also mention this is also cross-posted on ao3 under the same title and username hehe

[fardwader]

you’re too good to me (and you know it, too) pt. 2

pairing: peter parker x fem reader

summary: For some unknown reason, Peter Parker cannot stop finding new, inventive ways to humiliate himself in front of you.

And for some reason, you keep helping him up anyway.

Or, the 5 times you save Peter— and the 1 time he saves you.

pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5, pt 6

a/n: school is actually kicking my ass rn ahah but i'm finally done with finals hooray. pls enjoy this next chapter!!! wordcount: 2.1k

taglist: @ladylokilaufeyson5 @wlnut

tags: 5+1 fic, slow burn, friends to lovers, reader is annoyingly oblivious, peter is a sad dork, no use of y/n, sarcastic peter and an even more sarcastic reader, multi part, past gwen and peter, not canon compliant, gwen stacy is so beautiful...., crazu overuse of italics.

(two)

Peter Parker is a fucking idiot, a desperate one at that— the kind of idiot that gets himself stuck on fire escapes chasing down his ex.

In his defense, he hadn’t planned on following Gwen.

It just, sorta… happened. 

He was grabbing coffee— minding his own business, when he saw her walking out of the conference center across the street. 

Her platinum-blonde hair caught the light the same way it used to back when things still made sense. And suddenly, his feet were moving before his brain could say, 

“Dude. No.”

Peter rationalizes this very stalker-ish behavior by saying he just wanted to see where she was staying, as much as he loves New York— it isn’t very safe.

He’s totally not trying to bump into her and have a totally normal, natural, totally not planned conversation that may— no, he fucking hopes— will lead to a reconnection like those cheesy rom-com movies they used to watch together.

Instead, he climbs up a rickety fire escape on the side of a brownstone she disappeared into, just hoping to catch a glimpse through a window. 

Totally normal behavior.

But the window he had planned on crawling through was, surprise, surprise, locked– and no amount of budging, tugging, and honestly— praying– would get it open. 

Now, he’s crouched down— hood pulled over his head, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible while contemplating all of the life choices that led him here.

“Why am I like this?” he mutters, slumping forward, forehead thudding against the rusty railing.

He exhales a long, miserable sigh that sounds like it carries the weight of the world— glaring at the pigeon that landed smugly a few feet away.

“Don’t judge me,” Peter mumbles at it. 

The pigeon ruffles its feathers and flies off, which somehow feels deeply personal.

“Peter?”

Oh God.

He knows that voice, your voice.

The voice of the person who somehow always seems to catch him at his lowest.

You’re looking up at him from the sidewalk pavement, coffee cup in hand, face contorted in unmistakable confusion.

“What! No–no, nah, nope. Who’s– who’s Peter?” He rambles, voice lowering a few octaves in a very failed attempt to mask his own identity.

You blink slowly. “Why are you hiding in my fire escape? Are you living up there now? Is this, like, your new thing?”

Of course, the one time he gets stuck in a fire escape trying to creepily follow his ex, it’s your fire escape, your apartment.

He should’ve recognized the apartment complex he had found himself in after that one horrible, unfortunate night where he drowned his sorrows in bad beer and whined about his ex to a stranger— before waking up in said stranger's apartment.

Peter sighs, long and theatrical. “No. Yes. Kind of. I was just— Gwen—uh, she walked in there and—”

“Gwen? The Gwen?” you ask, incredulous.

There’s a beat. 

The wind rattles the old rotting frame of the window that is currently trapping him up there.

He can’t seem to form the words in his throat, his face flushing with embarrassment.

“Okay,” you say finally, “stay right there.”

“Not really a choice,” Peter mutters.

You disappear into the building. He assumes you’re either going to let him in or call security. 

He’s not sure which he deserves more.

Two minutes later, the window behind him creaks open with a painful groan.

Peter whirls around and sees you crouched inside, sliding it up with effort. You reach out and wave him in.

“Come on, Romeo. Before someone sees and calls the cops.”

He grabs your arm for support, squeezing his body through the tiny wooden frame.

You cross your arms. “So. You gonna explain?”

He pulls his hood down and flops onto his back, hair sticking out in all directions.

“She didn’t— She didn’t call,” he says, practically deflating. 

You pause. And damn it, the way you soften in that moment— face morphing into nothing but understanding— it makes his throat ache.

“I just thought, if she was gonna come back, she would call, y’know. Ask to meet up or something.” He focuses on the dizzying pattern of the carpet, looking anywhere but your face.

“That’s stupid,” you say gently.

“I know.”

“Kind of sweet. But still, so stupid.”

Peter groans and throws an arm over his face. “God, I’m the human equivalent of a spilled drink.”

“Yeah, but like… a fancy one. Maybe with a little umbrella.”

He huffs out a laugh, but it dies in his throat when the sound of heels clicking echoes down the hallway outside the apartment.

You both freeze, like two stupid deer caught in the middle of a highway.

No words— just wide eyes and a beat of silence that feels like it could shatter glass.

Peter slowly lifts his head, scrambling up and creeping up to your peephole.

He leans in, squints, then visibly recoils.

She’s there. In all her horrifying glory, her perfect blonde hair styled back in a slick ponytail— black headband perched atop her head.

She’s as beautiful as he remembers, maybe even more, actually.

“Oh my god,” he backs away from the door like it’s practically radioactive.

“What? What is it?”

He spins back to you, wide-eyed, shaking his head. “Oh my god,”

Peter’s already at least halfway out the window and onto the fire escape, his lanky arms getting stuck in the wooden frame.

“This is it. This is how I die. Gwen Stacy catches me mid-pathetic-spiral, and I just combust on the spot.”

You grab him by the hoodie and pull him back in before he can do something even dumber. “She’ll see you if you go back out there. Just— get in the closet.”

He blinks. “What— what closet?”

You point. “That one. Go.”

Peter scrambles toward the small utility closet in the corner and practically swan-dives into it, bumping into a mop, a Swiffer, and at least five cans of Raid. He barely manages to tug the door shut as—

knock knock knock

You spin, tug your face in a tight smile, and open the door.

And there she is. Gwen Stacy. 

All effortless elegance, like she walked straight out of one of his better memories, wearing a badge that says “KEYNOTE SPEAKER” like a crown.

She's stunning— even more stunning than you expected. The kind of stunning that makes time stall for just a second. You think you get why he was absolutely floored in that bathtub.

“Oh, hi! I’m uh, Gwen,” Gwen says, blinking in surprise, “listen, this might be a little weird, but do you live here?”

“Yeah. I sure do!” you blurt out, way too loudly, voice an octave higher than normal.

From inside the closet, Peter visibly cringes, the volume physically hurting him.

Gwen’s brows knit together slightly. “Sorry, I just— thought. God, this sounds crazy. But I thought I recognized someone on the fire escape earlier.”

“Nope,” you say, popping the P forcefully— a little too forcefully, causing a speck of spit to fly out of your mouth and right onto her pristine black blazer.

 It almost moves in slow motion, like a car crash you can’t tear your eyes away from.

It finally lands, painfully clear against the black of her— no doubt expensive-blazer.

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry,” you fluster, face warming in absolute mortification.

You frantically fumble your arms around, trying to wipe it off, but afraid of actually physically touching her.

She looks at the foam on her blazer, brows pinching together— before wiping it off with her sleeve, face stretching into a tight-lipped smile. 

“It’s alright.”

A beat of unbearable silence passes between you two.

“So, it’s just you in here?”

“Uh, yeah. Just me in here, it’s just me,” you blurt.

Behind you, a muffled thud echoes from the closet.

Your eyes go wide.

Gwen tilts her head, curious. “Is everything okay?”

“Yep! Totally fine! That was just my, uh— cat!”

“Your cat?”

“My cat!” You’re fully sweating now. “Very big. Very... clumsy.”

Gwen gives a polite smile, clearly weirded out but too classy to say anything. “Well... sorry to bother you. I just wanted to make sure no one was in trouble.”

“No trouble here,” you say, physically blocking the crack of the door so she can’t see your closet. “Have a great conference!”

She lingers one more second, like she’s trying to place something, and then finally walks away, heels clicking smartly down the hall. 

You sag in relief, peeking out the crack in the door just in time to catch her figure pulling out a tiny bottle of alcohol and spraying the spot with it.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, practically dissolving into the floor.

Peter swings the closet door, stumbling out, a little disheveled but absolutely horrified. 

You tug your hoodie tighter around you as you and Peter step out onto the street, blending into the afternoon shuffle. 

You’ve barely gone half a block before he groans again, dragging his hands down his face.

“I hid in a closet,” he mumbles.

“You dove into a closet.”

“In your defense, it was the best choice at the time,” you add helpfully. “Not that there were many.”

Peter shoots you a flat side-eye.

“At least you didn’t spit on her,” you mutter, rubbing your hands over your face.

“You spit on her?” 

“No, like— uh, my mouth did that thing where like, when you talk, a little spit flies out–”

His cackle cuts you off; he’s laughing so hard he’s doubled over, almost stumbling on the sidewalk. 

You feel your face warm. He’s never going to let you live this down.

“You spit on Gwen Stacy,” he says through a wheeze.

“Stop it! I just got really nervous. She’s just so beautiful. You didn’t mention that she was that beautiful.” 

“This is why you shouldn’t fall in love with smart, successful women,” he says through another laugh, “They host conferences, catch you stuck on fire escapes, and make you spit on them.”

“You were not spying— okay, actually, you were. But not like… in a creepy way,” you protest.

Peter throws his hands in the air. “Is there a non-creepy way to stalk your ex and then get stuck outside on a fire escape because you wanted a glimpse at her?”

You think for a moment, but can’t seem to find an answer. 

Peter groans. “I should’ve just stayed in the closet.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “You’re not staying in any closets. You’re dealing with your feelings like a semi-functional human being.”

He gives you a look that screams, Please.

“You followed Gwen because you’re sad,” you say more gently, “not because you’re an actual psycho-stalker. It just didn’t go the way you wanted. That’s okay.”

Peter doesn’t respond immediately. Just stares ahead, shoes scuffing the sidewalk.

“It’s like… there’s this version of me that existed when I was with her. And I don’t know how to be anyone else anymore.”

You bump his shoulder. “Maybe that version of you existed with her, but that doesn't mean it's the only version of you that exists.

You're still you, Peter.

The entirety of your being didn't just disappear when she walked away. You're allowed to grow past that chapter in your life. It doesn't mean you have to erase it though, or erase who you were. Just let it be one part of your story, one part of your past.

Not your whole life.”

Peter looks at you. And for a second— a breath, a heartbeat— something shifts behind his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but the silence stretches between you like a held breath. Quiet. Fragile.

You hold it for a moment. Just long enough for it to settle.

Then he lets out a low exhale, scrubs a hand over his face, and murmurs, “I can’t believe I got stuck in a fire escape.”

You blink— then snort. “I can’t believe I spat on your ex-girlfriend.”

A laugh bubbles out of Peter, warm and soft— and a second later, you’re laughing too, the sound rising up your chest.

This entire situation is completely absurd, and you both know it, too.

“Dude, I’m pretty sure your neighbors thought I was, like, a burglar.”

You grin. “Oh, they know there’s literally nothing in my apartment worth robbing.”

“That’s not true,” he says, lop-sided grin etching itself onto his face, “your couch is pretty soft.”

“If anyone steals my couch, Peter— I swear I’ll burn this entire city down to ashes.”

You walk the next few blocks side by side. Still a little sad. But, somehow, a little lighter.

Something warm settles in his chest, something quiet and steady. It's new, and kind of terrifying.

It’s not Gwen.

But maybe, for the first time in his life, he’s okay with that.

previous part !! or next part !!

[fardwader]

you’re too good to me (and you know it, too) pt. 1

pairing: peter parker x fem reader

summary: For some unknown reason, Peter Parker cannot stop finding new, inventive ways to humiliate himself in front of you.

And for some reason, you keep helping him up anyway.

Or, the 5 times you save Peter— and the 1 time he saves you.

pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5, pt 6

a/n: binge-watched the entire rom-com catalogue on netflix and now its everyone's problem. also literally my first completed fic, pls be kind. wordcount: 1.6k

tags: 5+1 fic, slow burn, friends to lovers, reader is annoyingly oblivious, peter is a sad dork, no use of y/n, sarcastic peter and an even more sarcastic reader, multi part, past gwen and peter, not canon compliant

(one)

The only thing Peter feels right now is the searing cold of linoleum against his cheek as he lies sprawled in a random frat house bathtub, gangly limbs bent every which way.

The room is spinning. Makes sense— he did just drink half his weight in shitty beer handed to him by some guy named Brian. Or Ryan. 

Whatever. It doesn’t matter.

What does matter, though, is that his girlfriend— ex–girlfriend, love of his life, the sun in his sky, Gwen Stacy, is three thousand miles away in a cozy apartment in London.

Very much not here.

They finally broke things off. Mutually— he likes to clarify— because long distance just didn’t make sense. 

Different priorities. Different goals. It was the logical decision.

Which, Peter thinks, is exactly why it hurts so much.

There was no dramatic fight. No screaming in the rain. No broken dishes or slammed doors. Just talking. Calm, quiet talking, with the occasional tear or two. But it was all so civil. 

So reasonable.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Maybe he wanted a fight, for her to throw everything to the wind and just jump into his arms. But that didn’t happen.

He groans, vaguely convinced he’s going to throw up, until the bathroom door creaks open.

He doesn’t have enough self-control— or, honestly, any dignity— to announce that this hiding place is currently occupied.

So he keeps lying there. Wallowing. Face pressed to the cold and probably filthy bathtub. 

“Oh my god.”

Yep. That tracks.

He can feel his face flush. Not sure if it’s from the alcohol or the sheer mortification at the fact that someone just caught him mid-existential spiral in a frat house tub.

“Are you… Okay?” the voice asks again, tentative now.

Peter twists his head awkwardly— still not bothering to lift himself from his slumped position— in a way that he thinks is probably going to give him a stiff neck in the morning. 

What he sees when he finally blinks the world into focus is... unexpected.

A girl, a college girl– you. 

You look reasonable, at least more put together than he is. You’re holding a Solo cup in one hand, and in the other a pair of heels dangling by the lacy straps.

Your face is twisted in concern. Genuine concern.

That, somehow, is the most embarrassing part.

Peter attempts a thumbs-up, but in his drunken state, it misses— his hand goes limb flopping back onto his chest.

“Right,” you mutter. “You’re, like, three bad decisions away from alcohol poisoning.”

He squints up at you, eyes straining against the harsh glow of the fluorescent lights. 

They wrap around your head like a halo, he chuckles to himself.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I’m going to get you some water. And maybe an Advil, also maybe like some wipes— I’m pretty sure that bathtub floor is housing at least three different types of STD’s”

Peter groans. “Do you have a time machine instead?  I’d rather go back six months and break up with Gwen first, or at least stuff myself in her suitcase and be smuggled into London.”

You pause in the doorway, looking at him as if you're trying to figure out if he’s kidding or just that pathetic.

“Okay, bathtub boy,” you say, “try to stay alive for the next five minutes.”

And then you’re gone.

Peter closes his eyes again, hoping the spinning will stop if he just lies still long enough. 

Though, for some reason— tucked under the haze and the fog— he wants to follow you, but his limbs are heavy like they're being weighed down with sandbags.

He lies there for what feels like a millennium.

You’re realistically only gone for the five minutes you said you would be— but it feels like it stretches into forever.

The door creaks open again.

Peter peeks one eye open and groans dramatically, just in case it’s the Grim Reaper coming to collect his soul.

It’s not.

It’s you. Backlit by LED lights, holding a bottle of water, a crumpled paper towel, and something that looks suspiciously like a granola bar.

“Wow, you’re still alive,” you observe.

“Barely,” he croaks, reaching feebly for the water in a way that reminds you of a sad cartoon mouse. “Is this heaven?”

You ignore that.

Instead, you hand him the water and crouch beside the tub with a quiet sigh that says you didn’t sign up for this, but now it’s your problem anyway.

He cracks open the cap and downs the entire bottle in a few desperate gulps. Then leans back against the cool porcelain, eyes fluttering shut.

You hand him the granola bar.

He blinks at it.

“I’m not sure I remember how to chew,” he says gravely.

“You’ll remember,” you say. “Or you’ll choke. Honestly, either one would be kind of on brand for tonight.”

Peter grins at that. It’s weak and crooked and way too pleased with itself for someone curled up like roadkill in a tub. 

“Are you always this nice to strangers, or am I just special?”

You laugh— short, incredulous. 

“Actually, I came in here to hide from the hivemind of frat boys outside, but found a catatonic college boy whining about his ex, face down in a disgusting frat house bathtub.”

Peter winces. “Low blow.”

“You earned it.”

He takes a bite of the granola bar and immediately regrets it— it tastes like cardboard.

Still, he chews.

You sit on the toilet lid, elbow perched atop your knee and cheek pressed against your fist, like you're holding the world’s most reluctant intervention. 

The party thumps distantly through the walls— muffled bass and sloppy laughter, like the world didn’t just end because Gwen Stacy went on that plane.

Peter swallows, then leans his head back again, sighing. “This was not how I imagined my Friday going.”

“Yeah, me neither. I just came here for the free booze and ended up playing Florence Nightingale to a boy in a bathtub.”

Peter lifts a finger. “Man. I’m technically a man.”

You stare blankly. “You’re drinking lukewarm Bud Lite and crying about your ex. You are, at best, a man-shaped boy.”

He opens his mouth to argue. Stops. Nods.

“Fair.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then— softly— “She’s really gone, huh?”

You look at him. “Your ex?”

He nods. “Gwen. She’s in London now. Doing grad school. Being brilliant, changing the world– without me. I told her it was okay. That we’d both move on. And I meant it. I still mean it. It just…”

“…still sucks,” you finish.

He looks at you. Grateful. Like maybe the bathtub isn’t the loneliest place in the world anymore.

“Yeah,” he says. “It really does.”

You smile, gently this time. “Well. At least you’ve got granola.”

Peter chuckles, the sound rough but real. “You’re not going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Oh, absolutely not.”

The next morning, Peter wakes up to the smell of coffee.

Which is wild, because he was fully prepared to never smell again. Or move again. Or be alive, really.

He blinks one eye open. Immediately regrets it. The sunlight coming through the window is way too aggressive for someone whose blood-to-beer ratio is still questionable.

There’s a blanket draped over him— suspiciously soft, and cozy— and a pillow that definitely didn’t belong in a frat house, actually, he’s pretty sure the frat boys in Delta Kappa Tau didn’t own any form of pillow covering whatsoever. 

Also, the couch beneath him smells like vanilla fabric softener and, thankfully, not frat boy sweat.

So not a frat house, nice solve Peter.

Panic sets in.

He shoots upright way too fast and instantly regrets it. The room spins. 

From somewhere behind him, a voice says, “Easy, Nosferatu. You’re safe.”

Peter turns— slowly this time— to see you, standing in the doorway, holding two coffee mugs– one with “World’s Best Dad” printed on the side.

You’re wearing an oversized ESU hoodie that looks way too comfy on you, and fuzzy socks that make an unfortunate squelch as they hit the floorboards.

You hand over the warm mug like it’s a peace offering.

He blinks down at it. “This is…?”

“Coffee,” you deadpan. “It’s what people drink after nearly vomiting in a stranger’s bathtub.”

Peter groans and slumps back into the couch, cradling the mug like a life preserver. “I didn’t vomit, though.”

“Sure. But the vibe was there.”

He exhales a slow, embarrassed breath. “Right. Uh. Did I, like… sleepwalk here? Or did you drag my unconscious body across campus?”

You grin. “Neither. You walked, basically crawled. I gave you water and sustenance, and you turned coherent enough to tell me you lived ten blocks away, and then immediately fell asleep mid-sentence. So, no, I wasn’t about to let you wander the streets like a hungover Bambi.”

Peter stares at you. “You took me home?”

You gesture around. 

“I took you to my home.”

He groans again, rubbing his hands down his face. “I’m so sorry. This is… probably peak humiliation for me.”

“Honestly? You weren’t even the worst part of my night.”

He lowers his hands. “How could anything possibly top this?”

You sit across from him, sipping your coffee like it’s no big deal. “I stepped in a puddle of beer, glitter, and unidentified bodily fluid in someone’s hallway and ruined my favorite heels.”

Peter winces. “Ouch.”

“Tragic,” you agree. “But you did call me a ‘wise and glowy bathtub angel,’ so I guess my night was somewhat salvaged.”

He groans again, dragging the blanket over his face. “I’m never drinking again.”

“Sure you aren’t.”

A beat of quiet stretches between you, broken only by the soft hum of your air conditioner and the occasional traffic outside your window.

Peter peeks out from under the blanket. “Hey… thanks. For not leaving me to die. And for the granola bar. And this couch. And possibly saving my life.”

You smile. “You’re welcome, bathtub boy.”“It’s Peter, actually.”“Bathtub Boy has a better ring to it.”

next part !!