istillmissyou2

[istillmissyou2]

sweethearts

The Amazing Spider-Man 2012 | dir. Marc Webb

[istillmissyou2]

twisted in bedsheets

pairing: tasm!peter parker x f!reader

tags: slow burn leading to 18+ graphic smut, angst, fluff ensures, mentions of break-ups and dating apps

summary: the second part to august slipped away in which closure is sought after and second chances are given. you and peter find one another again, but things have turned bittersweet.

notes: highly requested sequel to august slipped away which you can read in the link! can be standalone as well, but i recommend the first part for everyone!!! enjoy! (not my gif btw)

missing out? ➤ [my masterlist]

The only purpose of autumn is to make you forget the beauty of what was summer. At least, that’s what Peter says to feel better about himself. The sun moves out of the way to make room for falling red leaves and time is supposed to be slower, which meant Peter’s days would eventually feel longer than usual.

If only August could have done the same.

It’s the peak of November now, and for the second time in his life, Peter is in heartbreak.

He hates the emptiness of New York — the same old weather, the layers of jackets upon sweatshirts and sleepless nights in a bed that feels too big, too quiet, too cold. The streets are always bustling with noise, and Spider-Man is needed more than ever. Without a doubt, he misses the salty air of California, the excessive sunscreen and crowded beaches with soaked shores full of sandcastles. He misses the flavorful taste of boardwalk ice cream, the harmonies of chirping birds and the lullabies of ocean waves during low tides.

Most of all, he misses you.

Your voice. The scent of your hair. The curve of your hips. The weight of your fingertips.

Bedsheets that smelled like lavender. Swimsuits hanging on top of your balcony railing. Sunsets where you would stay up drinking gross beer or taking tequila shots by the local bar. Lazy mornings where he’d wake up to the warmth of your enticing thighs and the taste of your swollen lips, clothes thrown about and onto the wine-stained carpet.

He really fucking misses you. Letters and phone calls just don’t suffice. The pixelated images of you in small bikinis with that cheeky look just can’t bring his lustful thoughts any justice. Not when Peter can’t touch you, can’t run his hands down your body and smile at the thrumming of your laughter or the satisfied moans in his ear.

He knows he was the one who left, but part of him feels it would be easier for him if it was you who ended up leaving.

Selfish, but honest.

He can’t visit. With barely enough money to pay rent in Queens, how could he afford a ticket to see you? And with you going back to university, how could you fix your schedule to accommodate him?

He left half of his heart on the other side of the world and somehow he can’t get it back.

January is supposed to be a month of new beginnings. He’s supposed to be celebrating, to pop a bottle of champagne and claim that this year is going to be his year like he’s done every other year before this one. The only thing he receives from you is a text message and a candid picture. You look happy. It makes his heart feel fragile, because he wants nothing to wish you a happy New Years and kiss you tenderly once the countdown reaches zero.

But he can’t. Because he’s here and you’re there.

He sends you an ‘I love u.’

You can only reply with a laconic ‘U too.’

Overnight video calls on the laptop suddenly turn into short two hour catch-ups on the phone. Paragraphs of texts become meaningless conversations — his daily question of ‘how are you?’ and your simple reply of a half-assed ‘good’ after forty minutes of nothing.

The lack of elaboration is enough for him to understand that he was right all along: your relationship was never built for long distance.

It was either New York or California, nothing in between and no compromise.

Peter thinks that it would be better to move on, even though he still loves you. Seasons change, people only remember to forget, life continues forward, and it’s supposed to be alright.

He’s supposed to be alright. He will be. He has to be.

But deep down, he misses you more than he remembers you.

The handwritten love letters stop coming. His phone is the quietest it has ever been, and yet he can’t bring himself to delete your number. However, he removes the pictures: the ones of you at the beach, in bed, in his arms, him with your friends and him kissing your cheek as you smile back at the camera with eyes glimmering of sunshine. It hurts, but he tells himself it’s just a photo. He just can’t look at you for too long or else it would be a reminder of what could have been.

He can’t look at you and not think about August — how he chose to slip away and how he’s been dealt with the card of immense regret.

Another year passes by.

It’s finally summer.

Peter doesn’t think of you as often anymore. As pathetic as it sounds, he’s turned to dating apps for pointless meetings with girls he doesn’t even like and hook-ups that never go past foreplay. He’s not actually looking for a relationship — godforbid he gets into one in the first place — but it helps him, sort of. The hole in his heart is still aching, but he’s found (healthy and unhealthy) methods to keep it at bay.

To keep the thoughts of you at bay.

He refuses to give into the virtuous construct that absence makes the heart grow fonder.

He’s not one to dwell on what he can’t have, therefore he avoids thinking of you. He’s proud of himself, because not once has he drunkenly texted you nor called you like those clichés in movies. You’re nothing to him but a memory. And memories have no place in the present. What’s past should stay past, and Peter knows better than to cross the fine line of dead relationships.

He doesn’t hate you. In fact, he hates that he can’t hate you. Every ounce of him perks up whenever he hears your name. It’s hope, but for what exactly? A romantic affair that lasted the entirety of summer, just to crumble at the arrival of autumn? If the fire in your heart was so passionate, then why did it burn out?

Was growing apart supposed to hurt that bad?

He’s staring out the window of an old diner, one of those historical NYC restaurants too iconic to tear down. The red leather of the booth that he’s sat in has begun to chip, flaking onto the colorful tiled flooring as the neon sign by the bar buzzes in his eardrums loudly. The clanking of the dishwasher in the back kitchen and the bubbling of a coffee maker fills the intimate silence. Peter’s basically the only one here except for the group of laughing teenagers in the corner.

He’s envious. They have so much time on their hands.

The waitress approaches his table with his plate of onion rings and a hamburger, accompanied by a strawberry milkshake and a small glass of water. He shoots her a polite smile, ignoring the way she lingers more than she needs to.

It’s late afternoon outside and his date is twenty minutes late when he checks his clock for the tenth time. He knew he shouldn’t have trusted that new dating app and that girl he accidentally swiped right on (Anita Millis PhD, MIT alumni with a sun in Sagittarius according to Bumble) – most likely a catfish, but the calculus pun in her profile made him crack up.

He’s starting to think she won’t show up. Asshole.

Not that he wasn’t entitled to a date, but he traveled all the way from Queens to Greenwich Village for this. So, yeah, maybe he is a little let down. But it’s fine. He could go exploring, check out some new patrol routes, the possibilities were — sort of — endless.

He’s halfway finished with his burger when the bell by the door chimes and a woman comes walking in.

Not Anita Millis, that’s for sure. But he can’t really see her face with how briskly she walks to the front of the diner. She takes a seat on one of the barstools, leaning over the C-shaped counter as she warmly greets the older cook in the kitchen.

“Hi, Carl!” She throws a hand up, wiggling her fingers in a friendly wave.

“Hey, sweetheart. Back already? It’s only July.”

She shrugs casually at his comment. “Gonna be August soon. School starts in a week and I wanted to make sure I was all adjusted. Plus, you know I’m loving the east coast.”

No, can’t be.

“Well, good to see you’re enjoying it. I’ll go ahead and get your usual.” Peter continues to observe the stranger. It’s too familiar — the way she fiddles with the strap of her tank top, the summer-like sunkissed highlights on her head and the timbre of her kind voice. “One strawberry milkshake.”

Strawberry.

“Thank you, Carl.”

He hands her a straw, “Pleasure’s all mine, Y/N.”

Impossible. Fucking impossible.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you take a sip of your shake.

A breathy laugh leaves you when Carl mentions something about his time in university during the seventies, then Peter thinks he’s having an acid trip. Maybe he’s been drugged. Maybe this is a dream. Weakly, he slaps at his cheek.

God, this is real.

It’s even more real when you glance at the table of teenagers in the corner and the slope of your nose is on full display. Then, your head turns over your shoulder in Peter’s direction.

You’re looking right at each other.

He hasn’t seen you in almost two years. Time stops and it feels like August all over again.

The unforgettable shade of honey in his eyes, the curious pout on your soft lips, the shared shock that falls upon both of your features as you instantly recognize each other. Memories of tall palm trees and windy road trips come barreling in, and Peter is taken back to a different universe — a different time when everything was picture perfect. Almost. He stares at you and thinks of sunny postcards, of the tan lines on his body that never quite went away. It feels like sand is blinding him again, pebbles and cracked shells digging into the soles of his burning feet atop of concrete.

“Y/N?” He breathes out, eyebrows knitting into pure confusion as his exasperated voice echoes over the quiet music.

“Peter? H-Hi, hi, wow.” His name rolls off your tongue like a crashing wave. It’s like second nature when the two of you stand up, approaching one another slowly with hands that want nothing but to reach out for the other.

But neither of you dare to make that decision.

You bury your fingers into your pockets, and Peter does the same. It’s an awkward distance as you stand in front of him, eyes traveling over the freckles that your lips had once traversed and marked their own. Somehow, it’s only been a year and Peter thinks you look older — a good older, because you look even more beautiful than he remembers.

“What are you — what are you doing here?” He chuckles nervously, fidgeting on either foot as he pinches the reddened bridge of his nose.

You notice he still hasn’t broken that habit.

“I, uh…” You touch your cheek. “I go to school here.”

“What?” The disbelief in his tone is evident. You can’t tell if he’s confused or upset. “Wow, since — since when? That’s… all the way over here? Really, Y/N?”

“Yeah, NYU.” You shyly look away when Peter huffs in amazement. “They had a program for out-of-state students.” He nods, gesturing for you to continue despite the reluctance in your stance. “I just got back from California, actually. So, you’ve caught me at a really weird time.”

“California.”

The word shares sentimental value. It’s rich with nostalgia, a fleeting romance and the hazy memory of skin against skin. It’s like finding a letter that got lost months ago in the mail.

Even worse, a letter full of things that he meant to say, but never meant to send.

It stings and soothes him at the same time.

“And you? How have you been?”

“Fine. You know, just… just trying to get by.”

“Ah, I see. That’s nice. How’s Aunt May?”

He’s already sick of pretending to enjoy this small talk, pathetically acting as if you never shared a bed together or spilled your darkest secrets to one another.

He reminisces about all the times he practiced what he’d say to you if he saw you again by chance.

“Y/N, why didn’t you reach out?”

He recognizes the flicker of pain in your avoidant gaze.

Peter can tell he’s hit a real nerve when nothing but silence comes out of your mouth. “Can we talk outside?” You weakly gesture towards the door, curling up under his unwavering stare as he fishes out a fifty from his wallet and leaves it on his table.

The bell chimes on your way out, where the two of you stand beneath the shaded awning of the diner. Peter watches you pull your hair back into a ponytail, strands sticking to your neck from the New York heat. You catch him staring, and an awkward smile is exchanged between you when he glances away a second too late.

Never did Peter imagine he’d feel awkward around someone he used to feel safe around. Unsure. Uncertain. A maybe.

Perhaps that was the keyword — maybe.

‘Maybe’ had countless connotations.

Maybe if he stayed. Maybe if he fought for it. Maybe if you fought for it. Maybe if you begged him even more, he would have given in. Maybe if you didn’t understand the extent of his responsibilities. Maybe if your relationship was strong enough — wrong, it was, perhaps the two of you weren’t the strong ones.

Maybe if it wasn’t August.

Maybe if you were given more time.

“Peter…” You sigh, hand pressing to your temple as his question rings through your head.

“And don’t bullshit me on this, Y/N.”

A wounded scoff mistakenly leaves you. “You act like it was all one-sided.”

Peter gapes at you as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Because it was? You are the one who stopped replying… stopped trying.”

“You don’t think I tried?” You scrunch your nose at him in frustration. He didn’t understand how it felt. “I thought about you every day. Every waking moment, you were the only thing on my mind. I missed you so much, it consumed me. I didn’t want anyone else, Pete. I didn’t look for anyone.”

“Is that supposed to excuse everything?” He looks down at the ground with anguish.

“You — you left me.”

“You told me you were okay with that, Y/N. You told me that we would be alright. You didn’t fight for it.”

“What was there to fight for?” He tenses when you finally lock eyes, tears glistening on your lashes when you rub the spot over your heavy heart. “You were decided. That was always the case, right? That you were gonna leave? And I was always gonna stay behind?” Your voice hitches when you take a painful gasp of air. “And yeah, of course I was going to be okay with it. Because it was for you. Letting you go back, letting you come here… I had to be okay with it. So, yes, maybe — maybe I didn’t fight for it, but at the end of the day, you needed to get home. That was all that mattered. Why are we having this conversation right now?”

Peter exhales through gritted teeth.

“You were my home. That was what mattered to me.”

The comment knocks the wind out of you, fists unclenching at your sides as deafeaning silence washes over.

You nod at him. This was no argument. There was no right person here, and at the very same time, neither of you were wrong. “I’m sorry that I drifted away.”

“And I’m sorry that I left.”

“That’s nothing to be sorry for.” Peter gazes at you longingly as you continue, eyes following the movement of your mouth. “You know, I stopped replying because I thought that was the right thing to do.”

“Did you think if you distanced yourself from me, it would’ve helped?”

He knows you too well.

“Helped the pain? Yeah.” You smile sadly at him. “One thousand percent.”

The phrase comes out of your mouth at the same time.

“It never helps.”

“It never helps.”

Surprised chuckles echo onto the sidewalk as you and Peter look at each other. It’s yearning. It’s melancholic. It’s the kind of laugh that fades out into sadness, then reality suddenly isn’t a reflection of what could’ve been. And as Peter liked to say, it is what it is. Only this time, he doesn’t want to believe that. There must be more to this, more to what your relationship was and could be.

“I hope you’re doing okay.” Your fingers twitch outwardly in his direction. It’s an instinctive reaction, but your skin doesn’t meet his. He wishes you’d touch him.

“I am… I guess I am now.” All the progress Peter made of trying to forget you has dwindled down to a barren autumn tree. He doesn’t want to admit that he wants more than another ephemeral August with you. He’s scared. Not because you’re here. But because he knows what this means for himself. “So, I overheard that you’re enjoying it here, miss NYU.” Peter pipes up humorously, muscles straining around his shirt sleeves when he crosses his arms over his chest. The course of the conversation feels more natural now. The tension isn’t so unbearable when the dimples on his face deepen. “Better than LA? I won’t be offended if you sugarcoat it.”

The corner of your lips tug into a lopsided grin as you squeak out a noise of uncertainty. “Eh, honestly, I haven’t gotten a proper tour around.” Subconsciously, your bodies have moved closer to one another. There’s still a few feet between the two of you, but the slight shift in the way you carry yourselves is unmistakable. “Never really found the right guide, so I don’t— I don’t really have a fair opinion.”

Peter amusedly hums at that, training his stare towards the setting sun. The playful tone in his voice is nothing but charming. “I know a guy.”

Your smile widens on its own account, teeth on full display as you teasingly run your tongue across your molars. “Oh, really now? A guy?”

“Yeah, totally. Lived here all his life, a local from Queens, knows a lot about subways if ever you get lost but he told me that he prefers walking because it really gives off that…”

“Oh, sure. Sure.” You tilt your head with a lighthearted giggle, eyelashes fluttering at Peter while he admires the shadows on your face.

“…That, you know, genuine feeling of being a real New Yorker. Really brings the whole vibe together, Y/N.”

You point your chin up at him, feigning a look of deep interest. “How does one get a hold of this guy of yours? Would he be able to give me a tour?”

Peter doesn’t break eye contact. He notices how you ever so subtly glance at his parted lips, throat flexing as a bead of sweat trickles down your neck. He wonders if you know the effect you have on him even after being unable to see you for so long. But fuck, he isn’t sure if he deserves that place in your life again. He doesn’t even know if you’re the same person you once were. A year can change a person. A breakup can change a person. If he crossed that line with you again, would you be able to walk with him till he reached the other side?

Could every month be your August? Could every year be an entire summer?

“What are you doing tonight?” Peter squints at you, gnawing on the inside of his cheek nervously when your features widen at the soft-spoken question. “I don’t really have plans. And well, I don’t mind clearing up my patrol schedule to show you around. There’s this taco truck that I’ve always wanted to try, but I just never really wanted to go alone.”

“Oh, Peter. You don’t have to do all that.”

You’re beautiful when you’re shy.

A determined sigh escapes him. “I know, but I’d like to.”

“Peter, I… I’m sorry, I wouldn’t want to bother.”

“It’ll be like old times.” He clears his throat. “No pressure though. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you — seeing you around, I mean! Not like… not like seeing you in that kind of way, Y/N, not that it’s bad or anything but….“

Your chuckle breaks his rambling. “Stop talking, you dork.”

Peter laughs, words trailing off into an incoherent, childish apology until he finds your eyes through the spaces between his falling curls. “I missed you.” He purses his lips together solemnly and kicks at a loose rock with the toe of his scuffed Chucks. “And I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have — I shouldn’t…”

“Hey.” You lightly tap his arm with your hand, gaining his attention. “I missed you, too.” He grasps it before you can pull away, thumb running wistfully across your knuckles until his pinky finger nudges against yours. “So much.” Peter stifles the choked sob that wants to leave him, happiness threatening to spill over his eyes. “I am free tonight, by the way.”

He squeezes your arm, then gingerly lets go of it. He nods his head slowly, sucking on his bottom lip hard enough to make an audible sound. “Okay. We can… I can meet you at your place? Just send the address and I’ll come swinging by.”

“Mhm, sounds great.” You’re about to turn away from him until the thought crosses your mind. You quickly spin on the balls of your feet, arms hugging over your front. “Do you still have my number?”

Peter studies your expression with certain intent.

“Of course, I do. Do you still have mine?”

The crinkles by your eyes stretch as a wave of embarrassment comes over you. “Well, I have a multitude of Peters in my phone, but I’m just gonna assume yours is the one with the heart.”

He clicks his tongue playfully. “Interesting. A heart, huh?”

“Don’t let it get to your head, spidey.” You glance at Peter over your shoulder, carefully putting one foot in front of the other as you start to walk away from him.

He stays put, raising his eyebrows at what he wants to believe is a term of endearment. “I’ll pick you up. Eight o’clock.”

Another lingering stare. Another jitter in your hands as butterflies flutter around in your stomach.

“I’ll see you tonight.”

-

It’s eleven minutes before eight when a soft knock vibrates against your front door. You mumble a foul string of curses under your breath as you slip on your left shoe, smoothing down the front of your dress until you’re retouching your makeup in the mirror for the millionth time of the night. Winded and stressed, you inhale deeply, pinching the pads of your fingers together in an effort to calm the adrenaline coursing through you.

And with one swift turn towards the door and a twist of the knob, you’re met with Peter Parker standing on your welcome mat and a bouquet of sunflowers in hand. His lips pull into a perky smile as you lock eyes, arm outstretched to give you the yellow arrangement.

“Hey.”

The simple greeting makes him blush, especially when he notices you’re wearing that particular green dress that drove him crazy.

He thinks he could kiss you right now.

“Hey.” He quickly composes himself, putting on another grin when you gesture for him to come inside.

“These are really gorgeous. You didn’t have to, Peter. I’ll just set these in a vase, then we can head out.” Your voice echoes from the kitchen, drowned out by the sound of a running faucet.

He takes the liberty of glancing around your apartment. Part of him was hoping he’d see pictures of himself, pictures of you both at the beach, any semblance of California — somewhere, some reason, as if you still had that same fervor for him.

“Everything good?” You chirp during your return to the living room, tossing a crumpled paper towel into the trash as you blink patiently up at Peter.

Then he sees it.

It baffles him how he never saw it in the first place from the moment he looked at you; the initial necklace sat perfectly between your collarbones.

P for a promise. P for Peter Parker.

The silver chain was something that he had given to you the night he left. It laid there, on his side of the bed, in place of his inevitable absence for the following day. But now, here it is, dangling on your chest — and god, it belonged. As it glistens under the ceiling lamp, Peter finds himself entranced that you kept it on. Even when he wasn’t yours, and you weren’t his, you made it seem so. You came to New York, knowing Peter was there, no longer part of your life and yet you still wore his necklace despite the ties that had been cut. It was a proclamation of the love that was birthed by August, faded by the end of last January.

Were you waiting all this time?

“Peter?”

“Yeah?” He snaps out of his thoughts, noticing how you mindlessly roll the silver-plated initial between your fingers. Your eyebrows are drawn into concern, unaware of what was running through Peter’s mind.

“You’re okay?”

His stomach grows warm when you step closer. “I’m perfect.” The words leave him exasperated and unsure as he toys with the loose yarn of his cardigan.

He wants to kiss you.

He forgets what it feels like to look in your eyes, to look into the swirling flecks in your irises and see a lifetime of summers, an endless August and the burning of sunlight against his skin. He forgets what it feels like to reach out towards you, brush his roughened fingertips against the softness of yours. He forgets what it feels like to trail his hand up your arm, feeling goosebumps form beneath his touch as he finds solace by the naked crook of your shoulder.

You lean into it, not breaking the intensity of his stare as your lips part to speak a cracked whisper. “Yeah, well, you don’t exactly look like it.”

He wants to kiss you.

Peter cups your chin ever-so-gently. “That I don’t… I don’t look perfect?” You chuckle, feeling his thumb hesitatingly press against the corner of your mouth as your palms slowly travel up his torso. His breaths are shallow, fanning softly over your face as you shake your head with a twitchy smile. “What are you trying to say, Y/N?”

“No, no, you look perfect.” Your fingers tangle between the curls by the nape of his neck. “It’s just—”

He’s going to kiss you.

You can feel the low bass of Peter’s voice thrum against your own chest. He looms over you, his tall and lean shadow swallowing your figure. “I think you’re perfect.” His hands cradle your face now, tucking the wispy strands of hair behind your ear. “So absolutely perfect.”

“Pete, I…”

All at once, his lips are on yours like a crashing wave. It’s high tide and his arms are pulling you into the whirlpool that is him, his body, taking you under. His breaths are heavy and loud against you, teeth bumping and tongues remembering the warmth of each other’s mouths as he grasps your waist like a lifeline. Similar to a man deprived of water, he drinks at you as if you’re his first glass in years — tasting the chapstick on your lips and the perfume on your neck when he kisses down your throat. Every part of you quenches his thirst, and he passes through all four seasons — winter, spring, summer, fall — when you whimper his name.

“Peter…” You sigh, his forehead pressing against yours as he pulls away. He’s kissing you like his life depends on it. Starved, needy, messy. It’s more of an ‘I missed you’ kind of make-out rather than a ‘I need you’ but you supposed those two things were one in the same at this point.

“I’m sorry — I wasn’t thinking—“ You kiss him this time before he can continue. It’s short and sweet, but the brunette finds himself wanting for more when he desperately reconnects his lips to yours. “Y/N, the more you kiss me… the more I…”

“Do you… should we stop?” Kiss. “I just… you looked…”

“Really kissable?”

“Yeah — I mean, no, but I… I missed you. Missed this. And you were staring at me as if I wasn’t…” You moan when his hand wanders up your thigh, the other on your lower back. “As if I wasn’t real… and I just… had to prove it to you—“

“Do you have a boyfriend?” His nose nudges against yours, tightly-shut eyes fluttering to gaze at you between pecks.

“You said what?”

“A boyfriend.” His voice is charmingly hopeful, yet wheezy from his lack of oxygen. Breathe, Peter. Breathe.

“You didn’t think to ask before you kissed me?”

“Well, to be honest, I—“ And you interrupt him again, reaching up on the tips of your toes to pull his face back down to yours. “I just assumed.”

“Should I be offended, Parker?”

He chuckles at himself, then mumbles an apology against your skin. “You know, I had a whole thing planned out tonight. Wanted to take you out to that taco truck, maybe walk around the city for a bit, take you swinging if you’d let me. We could’ve caught up. I’d ask you about your studies and you would ask me about my lower than minimum wage job… but honestly…” His fingers run over the initial on your chest. “I really, really, really wanna keep kissing you.” He winces. “Is that okay?”

“Certainly wasn’t the welcome I was expecting, but… okay.”

“Say yes for me.”

You nod, teeth tugging on his bottom lip with eagerness.

“Yes, that’s okay.”

Then instantly, you find yourself backed up against the door to your bedroom. The once-hanging purses and jackets drop loudly onto the floorboards as Peter kisses down your stomach, head buried beneath the short skirt of your dress while your left leg dangles over his shoulder. His bare shoulders ripple below you, flexing as his arms effortlessly hold you up.

“Everything about you, Y/N…” His words are muffled under the green silky material, pining and breathless. “So fucking soft. Missed touching you. Kissing you.” He hooks his thumbs over the waistband of your boyshorts, tugging it down your knees until they pool around your bare feet. “Making you squirm.” He nips at your inner thigh. “Making you mine.” A shudder leaves you when he inhales through his nose. “Missed your scent — that sweet fucking scent. Christ, I can’t wait to taste you again, Y/N.”

“P-Pete…” You whisper, searching for his face beneath your dress. The tone of your voice alarms him slightly, and he doesn’t hesitate to pull his mouth away to check on you. His features are caring, yet worrisome. “I’m alright, I…” You avoid his stare in the poorly-lit overcast of light in your bedroom. “I just wanna be able to watch you.”

His forehead rests against yours in the chaos of your heaving bodies. “Watch me…? What, baby? Help me out here.”

Smug bastard. “Watch you eat m-me out.” You huff out.

A low hum. “Who said I was gonna eat you out?”

“Huh?”

“Y/N, I’m not just gonna eat you out…”

“Well, I mean, I’d hope not.“ You gulp, laughing shyly as he dips down to catch the bashful glimmer in your pupils. “Cause honestly, I’d be a little disappointed—“

You yelp when his hands find your hair, tugging it roughly so that you’re forced to look up at his lusted eyes. “I’m gonna devour you, baby. I wanna remember how it feels to be buried in you again.” He smirks visibly, admiring how your jaw falls ajar at the filthiness of his forward declaration. “Can I do that? Lay you out on your bed and have you all spread out for me?” He thumbs at your bottom lip. “Make you cum tonight, over and over, just to tell you how much I missed you?”

You nod meekly.

You let Peter’s thumb dip into your mouth, your voice quiet and dripping with desperation. “Can’t I show you how much I missed you first?”

He shudders when you suck on the digit. “Okay, show me then. I’m all yours.”

The phrase is enough to make you drop to your knees. Peter exhales shakily as you unbuckle his belt, fingers flying between the buckle and popping the button of his jeans before you’re excitedly pulling the denim down his legs.

You missed him. More than words. More than actions and sex could ever show, but this would work. This could work.

His boxers join the puddle of clothes on the floor, leaving his already-hard dick fully exposed to you. Precum dripped from the aching tip, his girth wider than you remembered as you pumped his length slowly in your smaller hand.

You haven’t experienced a man this big in more than a year.

“Come on, baby.” Peter groans when you press a chaste kiss to his slit. “Don’t be shy now.”

“M’not shy, just wanna admire you.” You lick a stripe from the head of his cock to the base, lips worshipping the smooth skin of his abs. “Just as perfect as the night you fucked me silly in that bathroom.”

“Please, Y/N. Need your mouth already.” He gapes as you stare up at him, batting your lashes innocently as his member prods against your tongue. “Please.”

“Anything for you, loverboy.”

Loverboy. Fuck, he could cum right now.

With doe-eyed pupils, you watch Peter slowly fall apart as you guide his length between your swollen lips. He’s heavy in your mouth, poking the skin of your cheek with enough pressure to create a bulge.

A satisfied hiss escapes him when you use your middle and ring finger to wrap around what your mouth can’t reach, head bobbing on him as he uses the door for standing leverage. His palms are splayed out onto the wood, chin tucked against his chest to watch you suck his cock.

“Oh, fuck, Y/N. Fuck. So good, you take my cock so well.” He bites his lip, restraining himself from bucking his hips into you. “S-Shit, Y/N. You look so gorgeous with my dick in your mouth, all filled up and drunk on this — jesus, this fucking cock.” You hum at the statement with a growing smile, causing Peter to moan at the vibrations of your sweet chuckle. Your free hand strokes at his thigh, painted nails digging into his flesh as your pace quickens.

You’re gagging around his dick, a string of saliva pooling from your chin as your mouth begins to work faster. Peter pushes your hair away from your face, leaving two wispy strands to frame your cheeks as he attempts a poor take at a ponytail.

“Mmm, Peter…” You mumble with a throat full of saliva and a sore jaw, fist stroking him gently. “Can’t wait to have you inside me. Stretching me out… fuck, making me yours.”

“Me too, me too, but Y/N, I’m sorry — I need to… I need to eat you out first.”

You giggle, running your lips across his shaft with a tantalizing gaze. “Right now? You don’t wanna cum in my mouth?”

“I would love to, but tasting you again is at the top of my list of priorities.” Peter carefully pulls you off of him, grabbing you by the hands to help you up from your kneeled position.

“Didn’t know you had a list… was tasting me the first thing you thought of when we saw each other?” You joke, fighting back your excited grin when he turns you around to unzip your dress.

“Thought about a lot of other things.”

His lips skim over the back of your neck, following the hot skin below while he drags the zipper lower and lower and…

You help him pull the straps of your dress from your shoulders, his fingers resting on top of yours as he whispers sweet nothings by your ear.

“Missed you. You drive me crazy. I can’t believe you’re real.”

Peter’s hand wraps around your throat; it doesn’t feel rough, nor is it meant to be an act of outright dominance. It feels like a warm morning, the enveloping heat between blankets and the blossoming of flowers in the wind as his fingers trail across your jaw so tenderly, lips complimenting the ghost of his touch like little birds flocking to a nest. You turn your face up to him, and while his touch is a reminder of all things summer on a hot afternoon, his eyes are a window to the constellations of clear nights.

“I can’t believe you’re here. I’m sorry, I never should’ve left.”

You see the Northern Lights in the glimmer of his affectionate stare and Cassiopeia beneath the Milky Way of his heavy eyelashes. His mouth finds yours in the universal chaos of summer and fall, index and middle finger placed on either side of your ear. He smells of musk, but rather than a forest of evergreen trees, Peter is more like swaying palm trees along the breezy coast of Malibu.

Going with the flow. Here, not there.

You’re here. He’s here.

His stature towers over you, toned arms pushing against you until the back of your knees hit the bed. He doesn’t let you lay back — not all the way, at least.

“Didn’t you wanna watch?” He quirks a smug brow, teeth tugging on the fat of your inner thighs as his mouth nears your needy core. You can feel his cool breaths against you, large hands holding you down by the waist as his nose nudges at your clit. “You’re gonna sit up the whole time, and I’ll give you what you want. Lemme see that pretty face, Y/N.”

He carefully pulls your legs apart, softly drawing hearts on your calf as he gauges your reaction. Your smile twitches with anticipation, a mixture of shyness and amorous familiarity broadening your features.

Peter immediately picks up on the way your heartbeat quickens. “This okay?” He whispers, barely audible when he brings his thumb to your clit. The nub is already throbbing under his light touch, and you let out a whiny hum of approval because it feels so — oh, god, he’s kneeling.

Still keeping you upright, his mouth suckles at your folds. You jolt at the sensation, broken gasps mewling from your throat as he moves back and forth from your clit to your dripping hole.

“Peter, f-fuck…”

“Shh, I know.” He looks up at you with eyes full of adoration and desire. “I know it feels good. Don’t need to tell me. I already know.”

“You still remember what I…”

“Y/N, of course I remember what you like.” He swirls the pad of his middle against your cunt, collecting your wetness before he uses it to push into you. “I remember exactly how your body wants it — wants me. My fingers.” You throw your head back when he adds another digit. “My cock.” His wrist slowly snaps against you, the heel of his hand prodding against your sensitive clit.

“No one gets me off like you do.” You whisper, nails massaging at his scalp as you guide his lips back onto your core. “You were always so — fuck, so attentive with me. So caring, so careful and so…” You whimper when he curls his fingers into you. “So giving.”

“And you, always so needy.”

You exchange bubbly laughter. Even with his face buried between your thighs, he radiates nothing but love.

Pure and absolute all-consuming love.

The combination of being fingered and his mouth starts to make your legs shake, abdomen flexing as you try to even out your breathing.

“Baby…”

“God, I can just feel you squeezing around me. Ready to cum, sweetheart?”

The vulnerable word leaves you in a gasp. “Please.”

Peter doesn’t say anything, but his moans join together with yours as he watches you reach your orgasm. You clench your thighs around his hand, forcing to keep your eyes open as you press your forehead to his.

He coaxes you with a free hand on your back. “There’s my girl. Yeah, ride it out. Fuck, Y/N.” He holds you in place, afraid that you’d topple over from the intensity. “Did so well for me.” He kisses either side of your cheek. “Do you wanna stop? Let me know if you can’t handle any more.”

You shake your head. “I can handle it.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” You gaze into his eyes for what feels like the first time all over again. He’s so unbelievably pretty, that you’re afraid this is all a dream. His lips tug into the faintest smile, almost as if he could read your thoughts. “Hey, stop staring.”

You flick his shoulder. “I’m not staring.”

“You are.” He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, letting his hand hold you by the back of your head. “Never stop staring at me.”

His name tumbles out in a trembling thrum when you pull him towards the bed. “Peter.”

“Y/N.” He lays beside you, elbow propped up as he studies you.

“I missed you.”

His features soften as you straddle his lap. “I missed you more.” You lean forward, hands on either side of him as you slowly sink down onto his length.

A collective moan echoes through the quiet air. His features mimic yours — eyebrows furrowed, lips parted in a surprised gasp from how full he makes you feel.

And how your cunt is already milking his cock just from him bottoming out.

You roll your hips against his, testing the waters. Peter can’t help but sit up, back resting against the headboard as your bare tits distract him from the view of your dripping cunt. He kneads at the soft flesh, giving attention to either nipple with his warm tongue while he looks up at you.

But something about the way you ride him is different from all the other times.

It’s not a desperate goodbye. It’s a wish for him to stay. Strings of curses and the familiar mewl of his name don’t fall from your lips at this moment. It’s on loop, as if you were afraid that this memory would be fleeting like the rest.

I missed you.

I missed you.

I missed you.

And Peter doesn’t want to say he missed you too. Instead, he utters his next three favorite words in a slow, hushed whisper.

He assures you he won’t slip away.

“I love you.” His hands remember the curve of your hips, the love handles and the dips in your thighs that left him in awe. He kisses you like he’s reaching for your heart rather than your lips. His cheeks are incredibly flushed, tears blurring the portrait of you in his vision. “I love you, Y/N.”

You breathlessly grin at him, “I love you, Peter.”

His hips snap into you, breasts bouncing in his face as he pulls you as close to him as possible. No other words are exchanged. Your moans are full of passion and your hands endlessly tug at each other’s skin in yearning.

Almost two years. August. Summer. California. The way your sweat feels against his. New York. July. You, this is real. Peter, this is real. Strawberry milkshakes and sandy bodies. Ice cream and silent walks on the boardwalk. The afterglow of city lights. The burn of tequila and the feeling of three beers in.

The necklace around your throat.

The way Peter breathes all of you.

You and him twisted in bedsheets like always.

He cradles your head against his shoulder as you both cum, bodies quivering from the long high as Peter coats your walls with his warm cum. Your arms are thrown across his back, forehead slick with sweat as you stick to his body.

A shudder leaves him when you roll off his lap, blankets feeling hot against your exhausted bodies.

It’s just you two and the rare peacefulness of New York.

“Y/N?” You let out a soft grunt in response, too overwhelmed to reply. “I won’t slip away this time.”

“I hope not.”

“It would be an honor…” He inhales himself against your skin. “… to be yours all over again.”

“Mine. Just all mine.” You turn to him feverishly, glassy eyes glancing at the clock on your nightstand. “I won’t slip away either.” Your finger points at the flashing numbers, a playful smile on your lips. “Would you look at that?”

The brunette looks over his shoulder.

August 1st.

With tangled limbs and vibrant smiles, he pulls you into another breathtaking kiss.

Peter thinks August could be the start of forever.

[istillmissyou2]

august slipped away

pairing: tasm!peter parker x f!reader

summary: peter parker and you spend the last days of your summer together with the intention of saying goodbye, even though you aren’t ready.

tags: umm sad lol, fluff and angst, graphic smut, lots of physical touch, heartbreak, peter is in love and it sucks, mentions of the ocean

notes: SURPRISE FIC!!! based off of taylor swift’s “august.” enjoy lovebirds <3

missing out? ➤ my masterlist

part two: twisted in bedsheets

The sea below Peter whispers a soft ballad as it brings him to a newfound place of tranquility. His clothes billow in the breeze while he pushes off the rail, treading along the crowded pier with his hands in the pockets of his board shorts. There’s sand in his unruly hair, quite possibly in his eyes, and his chest feels sticky with sweat. The heat stings his face, in which he regrets not wearing sunscreen. He can’t help but touch his skin, feeling the whisper of your hands around his collarbones and his ribs, the shape of your lips tattered down his spine.

It’s the peak of August now, and for the first summer in his life, Peter is in love.

Love is an understatement, because Peter could still recall how you chatted him up at the diner one warm night. You could tell he wasn’t a local, moreso you could tell he wasn’t even from California — over a strawberry milkshake, Peter had told you that he had been avoiding home and that he just needed to get somewhere far away for a little while. The New Yorker made out with you in the mens’ bathroom before you even knew his name. Since then, he spent every waking day with you; he’d smell of sex and the ocean, and walk around town decorated in hickeys. Had it been anyone else, Peter wouldn’t have called it love. But with you, it was different. It felt real, and Peter didn’t need years to know who you were. In the months he spent with you, he memorized you like the back of his hand.

But like every other season, summer eventually comes to an end. And with summer comes autumn, meaning Peter has to leave for New York sooner or later. In a hazy late-night argument about wanting him to stay, he had admitted to being Spider-Man; it rendered you speechless, and you understood his reason. The hero didn’t belong here, to which you realized that Peter had much bigger problems than you.

Loving him came so easy, but it hurt so bad knowing that he’d be gone one day. You always wondered what would be more painful: him being erased from your life completely and knowing he was still somewhere, or him never existing in the first place.

Peter’s hands encircle around your waist when he finds you underneath the shade of the ice cream stand. His calluses brush over the exposed skin of your stomach, while his chin buries itself into your shoulder.

“Hey, loverboy.” You laugh, turning your head to kiss him softly on the cheek. You offer him your ice cream cone, and Peter licks at the vanilla scoop with a teasing glint in his eyes. Boyishly, he moans at the taste and throws his head back before winking at you. You shake your head at him with a hushed voice. “You dirty man. What are you up to?”

His lips feel wet against your skin. He gathers your hair to one side of your neck, pushing it away from your face. “Just been thinking about how I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

He can practically see the pout on your face.

“What’s up, bug?”

“Last day.” You mutter in a weak and broken whisper, looking out at the waves crashing onto the shore. “Today’s our last day, right?”

“Yeah.” Peter’s smile seams into a thin gloomy line void of emotion. “Last day.”

You don’t respond with anything but a short hum of acknowledgment, slightly swaying in his grasp as you lean against his front. He closes his eyes, moving his arms to wrap them around the width of your shoulders while the bump of his nose nudges against your back. Peter places a hand over your beating heart and reminds himself to breathe. He doesn’t want to think of anything else but you and the saltiness of the sea.

“Let’s not talk about it and let’s just,” You look at him with wide and hopeful eyes that dart rapidly across his features. He could see your desperation masked behind the calmness of your demeanor, to which his heart aches at the sight. “Go somewhere. Away. Are you finally sick of the beach?”

Peter shakes his head, intertwining his fingers with yours. “I like it here with you. The weather is beautiful.”

“Oh, is this who we are now? Talking about the weather?” The warm rumble of Peter’s laugh seeps into you.

He mimics a news anchor, contorting his face into different expressions. “And for today’s forecast, we have a temperature of ninety-eight degrees with sunny skies. The clouds are nowhere to be seen, but if you squint at the skyline, we have a bit of smog approaching from the west.” His voice dips down into a low octave, eyebrows pulled into a serious furrow as he continues. “But, wait! We have breaking news coming to you live.”

“Oh, God.” You rub at your eyebrows with a grin. “Peter, drop it—“

He tilts his head to look at you, his bottom lip jutting out. “You don’t wanna hear my breaking news, Y/N?”

You cup his cheek with a sigh. “Pardon the technical difficulties, please continue.”

“According to an unknown source, a beautiful girl has been spotted on the Santa Monica beach.”

“Oh, has she now?”

“Mhm.” He hums, eyes dancing over you as he fixes the bangs framing your face. “And she’s mine.” He dips down to kiss you, taking your bottom lip between his teeth and tugging. He pulls away for a second. “She’s all mine. My little lovebug.”

His nose bumps into yours longingly. You adore him. His jokes, his smile, his voice. You wish things were different, and the thought of Peter packing his bags after spending many nights and mornings together makes you blue. A sniffle escapes through your nostrils, and Peter’s thumb quickly catches the teardrop by your waterline.

“Can’t we just lay in bed all day and cry?” You laugh through watery eyes, running your fingers through his hair.

He can’t deny how beautiful you look.

“Y/N, you know I’d love to do that,” His expression falters, and Peter can’t help but look over at the ocean again. “…but I think I’d wind up staying.”

“And is that such a bad thing, Peter?”

He kisses you again, refusing to answer because he couldn’t trust the strength of his own voice. But he gives in. Peter preferred the warmth of your own bed rather than the sights of the city. Sunlight peeks from between the cracks in the curtains of your small townhouse. It overlooks the sand, performing its own soundtrack of waves crashing upon the shore. The young sunrise casts over your room and the unmade bed, bouncing off the unfinished beer bottles on the balcony and the drying swimsuits that hang over the rail like a clothesline. As Peter unties the back of your bikini top, his lips find your clavicle, reuniting with a bittersweet hello to the love bite that he had left not too long ago. The sun frames you, and it looks as if you’re glowing from the inside.

Everything about you reminds Peter of the sun.

He thinks summer is his favorite season.

“Peter…” You breathe into his mouth, pulling him onto the bed that still memorized the indents of your bodies. The boy sits with his back against the headboard, and you take it as an invitation. You swing your legs on either side of him, letting your knees meet the mattress. He guides your hands to his shoulders, while his rest on your hips.

“I love you.” He whispers with tenderness.

You want to cry.

“I love you.” He says again, curling his finger against your jaw.

You melt into him and lovingly lean your head against his.

“I love you.”

You capture his lips in a desperate kiss. Your movements are rushed, hurried, and messy; it makes Peter realize that time is slipping. It reminds him that every minute he spends with you will be his last unless he’s ever able to see you again, and his chest feels tight as he follows the outline of your curves with a lack of fluidity. He wants to remember this.

Peter grasps at you as if you’re a lifeline, yet at the same time he finds himself drowning in you.

“You’re so beautiful, Y/N.” He murmurs into your ribs as your back arches. Your head rolls back whilst you softly grind your hips against his lap. You’re covered in the wetness of his kisses and your body quivers at the sounds of his whimpers. “Where have you been all my life?”

Another tear of overwhelming love rolls down your cheek, trailing down your cheekbone and past your neck.

You didn’t know the answer when Peter had first asked that night in the diner, and even now you still didn’t know the answer. You too wondered where he had been all your life. And you wondered why your time together could only be so long.

“I’ve been here…” You rock against him, needily tugging his shirt over his head. You toss it away and let your nails roam down his chest, across his abdomen, then you kiss the scars on his biceps. “… waiting for you.” Peter sits up and his hands cup either side of your face, staring into your eyes fervidly. “And I’ll be here…” He blinks back tears as you press your forehead against his. “… waiting for you like I have before, Peter.”

He guides you down onto the bed with one hand on your lower back, rolling on top of you so that he could kneel between your legs. “Fuck, you drive me crazy.” Peter feels like a lovesick puppy; he kisses up and down your inner thighs slowly, only ever using teeth to nip at the supple skin. His eyes wander over your face, taking in the way you look at him with such trust and devotion. “So warm, so perfect.”

You chuckle at the remark. “Mm, warm? Am I a blanket?”

Peter outstretches your leg and rests it upon his shoulder. He cranes his head to leave open-mouthed kisses along your calf. “Exactly like a blanket. I could stay wrapped in you forever.” He caresses your ankle. “Always so warm when I touch you.”

Your eyelashes flutter at him shyly as he moves to your other calf. “Maybe you make me all hot inside.”

“I think you’re just hot, bug.” His laugh is soft, but his gaze darkens as his mouth travels up your leg again. “Mine, yeah?”

“Yours.”

Peter fumbles with the button of your shorts. His fingers find the zipper, then he’s pulling the denim down your thighs. He discards the material, throwing it off to the side like you had done with his shirt. “I’m so in love with you.” He leans down to kiss at your clothed mound, lips ghosting over the lacy thong as his nose nudged against your stomach. “You make me wanna be a better man.”

Your nails card through his hair, massaging his scalp as you buzz under his touch. “You are a better man, the best.” You send him an air-kiss as he smiles at your words. “My hero. My Spider-Man.”

His eyes find yours when he hooks his fingers around the waistband of your panties. You nod in approval, watching Peter with eagerness as he rids you of them. You sigh when he presses a kiss to your core, then he’s suctioning his lips around your clit. You moan breathily, spreading your legs wider for him as he nestles between. He’s already hard from making out with you, and you motion for him to take off his shorts.

There’s a wet patch of pre-cum leaking through his underwear, and Peter grows flush as you look shamelessly. You simply smirk at him before the brunette returns his attention to you.

His lips suckle at your folds — he’s gentle, using his hands to soothingly trace the outside of your thighs.

“Oh, Pete…” You mewl when his tongue flicks at your entrance. Peter spreads your folds apart with his fingers to taste more of you. Your fragrance takes over his senses, spurring him on as he buries his mouth deeper into you. You bite down on your index finger, shutting your eyes at the sensation.

“S’okay, Y/N. Let me take care of you.” Peter’s eyes follow the rise and fall of your chest, and he can’t help but latch his lips onto your nipples as his middle finger slips into you. You moan his name again with a loosened jaw. “There you go, baby. Feels good, doesn’t it? One finger enough to make you cum?” You shake your head at him. “Two?” You nod, grasping Peter’s forearm as his ring finger joins his middle. You clench around him, and he groans. “That’s my girl. God, I love this view — my fingers filling you up, pumping in and out of you. Fuck, Y/N. I’m gonna fucking miss this.”

The noises from between your legs are filthy. Juices squelch around Peter’s digits and he licks at your folds with lust-blown pupils. “Shit, Peter… f-fuck.” You gently push his head further into you, pulling at his locks. The motion makes his cock twitch in his underwear, and he can’t help but palm himself for relief. “S-so good with your mouth.”

“Yeah? Tell me more, bug.”

“I love — I love your fingers. The way you stretch me out… oh, fuck… so nicely.” Peter grins against your skin as you shyly look away. He likes hearing this. “But… fuck.”

“Hm? But what?” His mouth hovers over your core, raising an eyebrow.

“I like your cock better.”

The comment sets fire to the pit of his stomach.

Peter cooes. “Oh, baby, I know you do.” His fingers slip out of you, and his hands knead at your ass. “Such a good girl telling me what you like.”

One of your favorite things about Peter is his way with words. Although his mouth usually uttered nothing but nerdish nonsense or even the dirtiest of remarks, the brunette had the ability to praise like no one else. Sometimes ‘good girl’ would turn into ‘little devil’ and sometimes ‘my whore’ would turn into ‘my lovebug,’ and it drove you wild. He knew how to turn you on, and he knew his way around the depths of your body.

“Peter, please.”

“Hey, don’t worry. I’m just as ready to be inside you.” You suddenly shift onto your knees, mirroring Peter. “What are you doing?”

“Making you feel good, too.” You gently push his underwear down, and Peter lifts himself up momentarily to join the boxers with your collection of clothing. Your thumb finds the reddened tip of his cock, swiping the pre-cum off his slit. Your hand becomes a fist as you stroke him slowly, and his head falls onto your shoulder in a loud moan. His thighs are sprawled out, muscles rippling as his knees dig into the sheets. “Look at you, my loverboy.”

“You see what you do to me?” Peter ruts himself against your fist, hissing as your pace of hand changes. “God, fuck. You’re gonna make me cum.”

“Cum then.” You whisper against his ear, licking at his earlobe. “Please cum, Peter. It’s gonna feel so good.”

It’s a sight to see; Peter Parker kneeling on the mattress with his face burying into your shoulder, moaning unabashed as you give him a handjob.

The man was nothing but putty in your grasp.

“Fuck, Y/N.” He shuts his eyes, placing his mouth on your pulse point. He bites you softly, and you praise him as cum spills over your fist. His whole body twitches, and you place a steady hand over his thigh as you lean to kiss him.

“Let me ride you.”

“No, no. Lay down.”

“Pretty please?” You lick Peter’s cum off your hand, blinking at him expectantly. The intimate action causes Peter to groan, and he gives in to your request. He moves to sit back against the headboard, and your legs take their place on either side of him once more. “I’ll go nice and slow, yeah?”

“If you get tired, just tell me.” He mumbles, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I won’t.”

You take his length into your hand, guiding it slowly into your entrance. You gasp as his tip pushes into you, and you could still feel him pulsating from his last orgasm.

“Take it easy, bug.” Peter whispers as he pulls you flush against his chest. His arms wrap around you, mixing your sweat against his. “Don’t rush. I wanna remember every part of you.” His head rolls back as you fully envelop his cock, grinding your hips in a rhythmic motion once he settles in. “S’like you were made for me.”

“I’m yours.”

“Mine.”

“Yours.”

His large hands cup your ass, spreading you apart as you begin to roll against him. Your pelvis starts to bump into his abdomen, and Peter can’t help but admire the way your tits look. He kisses at the swell of your breasts, taking a nipple between his lips while he looks up at you. His eyes, though hungry and blown with lust, are filled with nothing but adoration and awe.

He loves how your body looks in the sunlight.

“Oh, Y/N.” His voice is garbled, and his gaze shifts to look at how he slips in and out of your entrance. “F-fucking hell, Y/N.”

“I love you so much.” You breathe hard, kissing the bridge of Peter’s nose as he takes over. His hips snap into you; the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room. Though, faintly, he could still hear the ocean waves, with their intermixed blues and whites crawl to the doused shore.

Peter thinks your moans are prettier than the ocean itself.

He feels you clench around him and his thrusts slow. His cock reaches deep inside you, prodding against the particular sweet spot that always felt so pleasurable.

You’re nothing but a moaning blubbering mess, scratching at Peter’s back as he coaxes you further onto his length.

“I’m gonna — Peter, fuck, I’m cumming!”

His embrace is tight around you, and his thrusts don’t stop anytime soon. He lets the wave of your orgasm pull you under, and he cums once more at the sound of your moans. You gasp at the feeling of fullness and the feeling of his cum soaking inside you. In a breathy fit of laughter, your forehead hits him, and you stay there with heads pressing against one another. Peter can hear the quickness of your heartbeat; he places a chaste kiss just above your left breast.

Opening his eyes, he looks at you with longing. And your lips pull into a sad smile as your fingertips trace over the smattered freckles on his cheeks. Unspoken words are shared in the glimmer of your gazes.

Peter speaks up first as he helps you roll off of him. “I’m gonna miss you.”

He joins your body to lay on the bed, taking you into his long arms. You think for a moment, reveling in the warmth that radiated from him. You wonder what your life will be without Peter Parker — without his fluffy hair and his soft dark eyes. You wonder if your bed will ever feel the same, if the cheap mattress will still remember the shape of his body and if your sheets will still carry the scent of him. You wonder if your kitchen will always smell like freshly-made breakfast, and if your pancakes will still be made in the shape of a heart.

You wonder what kind of future you could build together.

“God, this is painful.” You mumble the confession into the saltiness of his skin. “I remember when you asked me if this was a one-time thing.” He hums. “And part of me wanted to say yes, but… everything about us felt so right.”

Peter follows your story. “The way you looked at me in that diner made me feel things.”

“Good things?”

He chuckles as if the answer was obvious. “Incredible things. Couldn’t even explain how nervous I got when you asked me to come over.”

“So much for a summer fling.” You scoffed.

“I know.”

“Yet here I am, so desperately in love with you.” Your hands rest atop of his.

“If I could abandon everything… for you. I would. I’m totally yours.”

“We both know I’d never allow that. Not anymore.”

“And the whole Spider—“

“I know, love. The Spider-Man thing. Don’t let me stop you.”

“I want to keep you safe. But at the same time, I don’t wanna go back. And I don’t want to ask you to come with me, because your life is here and — and not there. I’d never ask you to leave this behind.”

“I’ll leave anything behind for you.”

In your mind, you selfishly want to say stay. You wanted to wake up to his face in the mornings, not the memory of him. You wanted to spend every season with him — not just summer. You wanted winter and spring and autumn and everything in between.

You wanted him.

Your voice breaks the silence. “I don’t think I could ever picture Spider-Man in Los Angeles.”

The comment brings a boyish grin to his face. Peter raises his brows, displaying innocent curiosity. “Oh, really? Why is that?”

“The, uh, spandex suit.” You giggled, gesturing with your hands as a matter of factly. “You would die of a heatstroke.”

“I see how it is, smart one. You don’t think my suit has built-in air conditioning?”

“Your suit does not have built-in air conditioning!” You laugh boisterously at him.

Peter wishes he could record that sound and replay it over and over. Sure, he had your number, countless pictures and videos of you, but nothing could beat seeing it in front of his own eyes — it assured him that this was no illusion, but it was real. Everything about you was real.

“Promise to call me?” His voice is unsure now, void of whatever amusement he had earlier. “Day, night, whenever and wherever — just call me.”

“I’ll call you, I promise. I’ll write you love letters, even.”

“I’d like that.” He takes your words to heart even though he knows you’ll eventually grow apart, forget him, his number, his voice; he feels that familiar build-up of tears in his eyes. “I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you more, Pete.”

The sunrise has shifted into an yellow sunset. It casts shadows over your naked bodies entangled in the sheets. Peter’s head is in the crook of your neck, chin digging into your collarbone. His hands lock at your stomach, and you rub circles along his scarred knuckles with shut eyes.

The room glows brightly, and it reminds you of Peter.

The guy you had met in the diner. The smart New York hero who was too kind for his own good. The boy who loved you at the beginning of summer, and the boy who loved you till its end.

And the one that got away.

Peter Parker had slipped away from your life that night like it was merely a moment in time.

But even though time was against you, and time was a ticking reminder that he was never yours, you loved Peter and that was all that mattered.

He was your August.

And August always came to an end.

-

[istillmissyou2]

THIS FIC IS SO GOOD OMG. Ahh I wish it was completed though

begin again (7)

pairing: tasm!peter parker x f!reader

tags: angst, fluff, mentions of blood and weapons, descriptions of wounds, descriptions of suturing, 6.3k words of pure love

summary: you and peter navigate your way around his secret, leading to hearts opening up and what should’ve been a peaceful morning.

notes: okay i genuinely think theres one to two chapters left after this!!! love this story with all my heart but all good things must come to an end <3 but for now, enjoy this chapter!

missing out? ➤ [my masterlist] - [series masterpost]

The tension in the air could cut glass. Every obnoxious creak and footstep from the floor above seemed nothing short of tumultuous.

A police siren echoed by the glass frosty windows while incessant flashes of scarlet reds and dark blues illuminated the apartment walls, reminding Peter of the sweat and blood that has been poured into this godforsaken city. Was it all worth it? Just for it to come to this? All of his attempts to protect you, were they for nothing? He was equivocally cursed, as if being a hero wasn’t enough to balance the karmic consequences in his life. What was the point of saving other people when he couldn’t save himself? What was the point when none of it eventually led to you?

Every time he was so close to touching the sky, he would fall back to Earth like an angel with clipped wings.

Peter was Icarus. You were the Sun.

Would he ever be able to reach the clouds?

His head throbbed painfully while the colors of the apartment diluted to nothingness, the dirty cracks of his palms ever prominent. The walls haven’t been this quiet in ages. It feels wrong, it feels empty, but Peter could hear the static of your mind even in the silence, even despite the distance between the shadows of your bodies. For the first time, Peter isn’t able to decipher the emotions that lay behind your lifeless eyes.

His voice came out as a weak, defeated crackle.

“Say something, please?” His broken fingers shakily reached out for you. “Y/N, come on, please.” A choked gasp left your body, and your hand trailed up your tear-stained face to cover your mouth.

All at once, the shock merged into utter betrayal. The deep furrow in your eyebrows tugged into a raised line as your words broke the tightness in your throat.

“Who are you?”

You stepped back as Peter stepped forward. “It’s me.” He shook his head at you, feigning a smile as pained tears prickled at his vision. “Same old me. It’s Peter.”

The scene in front of him pulled at his heart when you slowly doubled over, grasping at your sweatshirt in an effort to ground yourself as muted sobs pounded through your ribcage. “Oh, my god.” He rushed over to you, ignoring the way his skin felt like it was ripping to pieces when his arms abruptly encircled you.

“It’s me. I’m sorry. It’s me.”

“You’re Spider-Man.”

It wasn’t a question anymore, but rather, a dreaded statement of acceptance that he never wished to ever hear from you. Regret filled him instantaneously.

He has flashbacks to that night he had lost Gwen.

“Y/N. Come here.”

Muffled with his mouth pressed to the top of your head, the syllables of your name left him woeful. You felt the unyielding fear radiate off of his body, seeping into the coolness of your own. Peter was trembling, his limbs desperately trying to entangle with yours as if you would disappear at any moment. All traces of affliction had vanished into a simple memory when you saw that his blood had transferred onto your hands, where red fingerprints littered your skin. You erratically wiped at your tears when the liminal shade reminded you of how you lost your parents.

This was no time to feel hurt when Peter was.

Your firm whisper had cut through the rigid air, “You’re bleeding, what do I do?”

“That doesn’t matter right now. Talk to me.”

“Peter, your fucking blood is everywhere. It is on me. It is on the floor. It is on my fucking counters and my sofa. You need to tell me what to do or else I’m sending you to a goddamned hospital before this place looks like a crime scene.” You finally looked up at him. “We can talk later.” He immediately missed the familiar scent of your hair when his cheek left the comfort of your head. Your hands found his hips, delicately leading him back into the couch. “I just need you to tell me. I don’t know what to do.”

He thinks he’s lost himself in your eyes all over again.

“Stitches. Bandages. Do you have a first aid kit?”

“I don’t.”

“Fuck, uh. I have one in my bathroom, but I don’t have my keys on me…” You turned your back on him, padding over to the window near your potted plants. His face hardened when your fingers curled beneath the ledge. You roughly pulled it up until a harsh breeze sprinted throughout the room. “What are you doing? Y/N?” You didn’t answer, legs swinging up and over the fire escape while the cruel snow began to nip at your ears and your exposed forearms. “Hey! What the fuck are you doing? Get inside! Y/N!”

Peter completely lost all composure when you jumped to the window of his apartment, landing on the metal grating of the nostalgic fire escape with newfound scrapes on your palms. The injured boy tried to pace his breathing while he stared at the ceiling light — too immobilized by the sharp pain in his stomach. He could hear the shuffling of you entering his living room, then how you made your way through the messiness of his hall until you hurriedly rummaged for the kit in his bathroom.

Then, your movements suddenly became too quiet for his own liking. Peter couldn’t help but panic.

“Y/N?” He shouted, hoping you’d hear him through the wall. His voice was hoarse as he kept pressure over his wound. “Y/N!” He hissed through clenched teeth, legs unable to stay still on the sofa. Peter gasped out in relief when you reemerged into view, cheeks gaunt and lips bluing from the cold as you maneuvered yourself back into the apartment. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Your place is a mess.” You quipped. You shut the window in one motion, tossing the first aid kit onto the sofa as you went to wash your hands and get rid of the blood. “But I guess you don’t have enough time to clean anyways since you’re so busy getting yourself killed.”

“Y/N.”

“I don’t know how to suture a wound,” You dried yourself off with a paper towel. You walked back to him with long strides, avoiding his gaze as you sat beside him. “I can do it for you, but you’ll need to teach me. Is that okay?”

“I can do it myself.” He shook his head at you, propping himself up against a pillow.

“You’re in no condition to do so.”

“Y/N, I’m okay.”

“You’re shaking. How are you gonna stitch yourself when your fingers are all messed up?” Peter flexed his jaw, nostrils flaring as he stared at you despite your stubbornness. He’d been lying if he said this didn’t feel familiar, his case of deja vu was strong. He hasn’t had anyone fix him ever since Gwen, the last person to ever touch his wounds, to take his suit off and reach for his heart. Peter succumbed with a weak nod, eyes never leaving your face as you helped him shrug his jacket down his shoulders without a thought. “Shirt off.”

“Was hoping to hear that in the bedroom.” He chuckled jokingly. He could imagine you rolling your eyes. “Not while bleeding out on your sofa.”

You held back your scoff. “Pete, you’re not funny.”

The nickname felt consoling.

“Sorry, just trying to make you feel better.” He frowned, studying your body language meticulously as you slipped on a pair of blue surgical gloves.

A faint sigh left you. “I’ll feel better once you do.” Peter was torn. He didn’t know what you were thinking for once and it irked him. He thought that it would be better for either of you to never address the confession, his secret: the fact that he was Spider-Man. But as he studied the vacant look on your face, he would have rather you lashed out. He would have preferred a punch to the face or a string of heavy curses at him. But your anger presented itself as silent and that was even scarier – it spoke volumes. He didn’t miss the way your eyes fixed onto his suit. Almost in astonishment, you traced the embedded spider symbol with reverential fingertips. “You made all of this?” Peter could feel you through the lycra material, and it sent a shiver down his body as you hesitantly reached behind him to feel the zipper whilst he nodded. Your gaze flickered up to his. “Can I take it off?”

Peter held your stare for longer than he meant to. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” He surveyed you patiently as you unzipped the neck of the suit, peeling it off of his skin with the lightest touch – like he was so delicate. Like he wasn’t capable of hurting you when the both of you knew exactly what he was capable of. Like you hadn’t witnessed what he’d done to those criminals before you knew who he was. “Tell me if it hurts.”

“It won’t. Not with you.” Your face was irresistibly close to his, and he found it difficult to concentrate when your lips looked so inviting. Unsure breaths fanned over his cheeks as you pushed the suit down to his hips, letting it pool over his lap. With his chest now bare, you could see the scratches and slices along his pale skin. They were an aggressive color, and the bleeding gash along his stomach made you wince visibly at the thought of what kind of knife was used. Your hair brushed against his arm as you turned to the first aid kit, preparing to set aside a few tools on the coffee table. “Now, you’ll take the thing that looks like scissors.”

“The forceps?”

Peter coughed through a grunt. “Yes, those.” He shifted, laying back a bit to give you access to the gash on his stomach. “Grab the needle with it. It’s the curved one, not straight.” With fearful eyes, you faced him again. “It’s not a deep wound, see?” He guided your hands with his, placing your fingers on either edge of the cut. “We’ll go slow and steady. I won’t feel a thing.”

“How fast do you heal?”

“Two to three days. This one might take a little longer, but it’s okay.” You looked far-away, almost as if you were spending too much time in your own head. “Y/N.” Peter slowly took the suturing tools from you, then gingerly touched your jaw to bring you back to this moment with him. “Look at me, Y/N.” Your pupils met each other with ease. His lips tugged into an ardent smile; yours had done the same. “Hey, you.”

You had never sounded so quiet. In fact, Peter never realized how soft your voice was until now. “Hi.”

“What are you thinking about right now, beautiful?” He whispered as he searched the details of your features.

He memorized the way your teeth tugged on your bottom lip anxiously, how you eventually leaned into the palm of his hand like you had been craving his touch the entire night. You inhaled deeply, and that was all it took before tears ran down your cheeks. Peter pulled you into his arms, feeling the weight of your sobs against his shoulder.

“How come you – you didn’t tell me?”

He lifted your chin off of himself to look at you, thumb and pointer finger resting beneath your jaw. “How could I?” He narrowed his eyes for emphasis. “Couldn’t put you at risk like that, Y/N.”

You gulped, messily patting at your nose with your sleeve. “Am I not trustworthy enough?”

Peter laughed with fondness at you and rubbed his forehead against yours. “Baby, I trust you with my life.”

A hearty bubble of a giggle left your body. “Are you calling me ‘baby’ because I called you that?”

“Because I care about you.” His fingers traced over the skin of your throat then dipped into the concavity in your collarbone. “Because I like you.” He touched your lips, nose nudging against yours as he closed his eyes in unswerving rapture. “Because I want you – I adore you, I need you.” You let out a startled gasp as his mouth hovered over your neck, bestowing earnest kisses upon you as he gauged how your body reacted to him. “Y/N, I think the world of you. I could never not trust you.”

The thought rarely crossed your mind, but when it did, it felt like searing pain inside your heart. You couldn’t help but ask.

“When you see me, do you think of Gwen?”

Peter was stunned, pulling back to properly look at you.

“What?”

“Do you?”

“I would never want you to be Gwen.” He cradled your face. “Never. I don’t want that.”

You shrugged, insecurities running through your mind as everything began to connect. His loss, his hesitation, the reasons as to why he needed to keep you from knowing his secret. “Why?”

Peter’s eyebrow twitched in thought before the words came to him so easily.

“Because the way you look out for me is… it’s different. I don’t want to compare, but it’s just different.” He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “You got so angry with me, Y/N.” A flash of confusion washed over you. He wasn’t finished. “Earlier. The way you looked at me. It was genuine anger at most and I really never saw you like that until today. It showed me that it matters.”

“Matters? What does?”

“That my life matters. That I hated seeing you angry, you crying, you in pain. And how you care for me, well, it’s just different now — isn’t it? I was scared when you opened that door. I was scared for you, more than for myself. But when you looked at me… like I was so fragile, like I could break any second. I felt it. I felt it for the first time in a while — that I was scared to die. Because if I died then I wouldn’t be here, I wouldn’t have you and if it wasn’t for the reality check that was that anger, I wouldn’t have felt human.” He fought back tears, continually touching your skin to ground himself. “You make me feel human. Like it’s okay to make mistakes. Like it’s okay to forgive myself and it’s okay to feel even though emotions are complicated.” You glanced down at his wound, but he was quick to touch your chin and bring your gaze back to him. “It’s okay to love. It’s okay to want to start anew, begin all over again. It’s okay to remember my past, but I need to look forward to my future.”

You placed your hand over his beating heart. “Do you see your future?”

“I’m looking right at it.”

You kissed him. His mouth was slow against yours, savoring every drop of you and your skin as his fingers mindlessly roamed beneath the fabric of your sweatshirt. You could taste the blood off of him, but it didn’t bother you. You wanted more of Peter, and from how warm his palms were as they roamed upon your stomach, you could tell he wanted more too. Yet, you could sense the pain of his body — how his movements felt heavier, dragging, like he was exhausted.

You forced yourself to pull away from him. He groaned, not in agony, but at the loss of contact. “Let me fix you, okay?”

“Just kiss me again. S’all I need.” Your noses touched. Peter lingered by your lips longingly. “Y/N…”

“You’re bleeding.” You shook your head at him, showing restraint. “We need to stitch that wound unless you want me to…” You sighed blissfully when he nibbled at your jaw. “… get an ambulance.” His fingers pressed into your waist. “Peter, come on.”

He exhaled against you, “Okay.” He nodded, licking the taste of your chapstick off of his lips. “Yeah, you’re right.”

You cradled his cheek. “Tell me what to do.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be with you every step.”

You laid him up against the sofa before you ran a clean towel under the sink to clean the bloody wound — he could see how nervous you were. Your eagerness to help him was endearing, however, as you quickly approached him. Peter could tell you were trying your best to be gentle. The feathery touches reminded him of the stolen glances and the way your fingers would subtly brush against his when he first met you — shy, scared, afraid of what was going to come next. If only he could tell his past-self that it would be alright. He watched you with diligence, making sure that you weren’t piercing the needle too deep into his skin as you started the first throw — a simple knot with two loops. He felt his heart jump whenever you’d look at him, silently wondering if you were doing a decent job. Peter would smile, and push your hair back away from your eyes.

The silence hadn’t been so angry anymore.

“So, all those times that you were making noise on the other side of the wall…”

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.” He chuckled as a playful smile began to form on your lips.

You glanced at him, snipping the excess thread of his sutures. “And the ‘I need help moving my sofa’ thing, that was bullshit too?” He nodded, mouth moving to speak until you interrupted with a snort. “Oh, my god. You absolute whore.” Peter gasped at the remark. You wagged a gloved finger at him. “You stalked me in the subway station too. Near Brooklyn.”

“First off, how dare you.” He ruffled your hair, laughing as you complained with a string of whining. “I did not stalk you. I ran into you. You know what?”

“What?”

“You said I had nice muscles.”

“Okay, yes! I did, it’s true. I’m not done yet. You gotta tell me about the Spider-Man boxers, don’t you think that’s a little conceited?”

Peter pouted, avoiding your gaze out of embarrassment as he gestured with a hand. “They were on sale.” You shook your head at him. He noticed the glimmer of amusement in your eyes, but your face soon fell as you finished the remainder of his stitches. “Y/N?”

“Mhm?”

“You’re caught up in that big head of yours again.”

“Yeah.” Your lips pursed together.

“Something crossed your mind?”

“You know, you saved me that night.” The sounds of scissors snipping filled the air. “In Hell’s Kitchen. And I looked at you…. and…. I don’t know. I felt something.”

“I did too.” Peter got quiet, chewing on his lip as he cleared his throat and gazed off to the side. “I’ve always wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Your eyebrows furrowed as you reached inside the first aid kit, scoffing at his unnecessary apology. “Why are you sorry?”

“Your parents. If I got there sooner — I wish I got there. That wasn’t fair to you.”

You shushed him. “You can’t change what happened.” His shoulders deflated as you kissed his forehead. “You can’t, and sometimes that’s okay.”

“Do you get mad about it?”

“Of course.” You nodded. “I get mad knowing they died for such — such fucking shit reasons.” Your jaw clenched. Peter studied the look in your eyes, knowing that feeling all too well from what happened with Uncle Ben and Gwen. “I tell everyone and myself that I’ve moved on from that night. But… but no one tells you how hard it is to lose your parents, especially because I was so young and I had no one else, really. I think that hurt more than them dying. Being alone.”

“Do you think…” Peter lovingly drew circles on your thigh while listening intently. “…that Fisk deserves the same fate?”

You paused, pulling the bandage out of its sleeve before you were laying it across Peter’s skin. “I do. Sometimes.” He hummed as you gently smoothed down the dressing. “I think he deserves to pay. Not with death, but — but he just does. I know he shouldn’t get away with this.”

“I tried. I visited one of his warehouses tonight.” Peter scoffed regretfully. “Full of his fuckin’ men. It was bait.”

“Peter.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I should’ve —should’ve said something about where I was going. I didn’t want you to follow in case.” He shuddered at the idea of you trying to find him and running into what he encountered. And again, he’d be too late. He didn’t want to think about it.

“Well, you’re pretty stupid for that.” You helped him sit up, arms holding him by his broad shoulders. “You left a note. The bookmark in Pride and Prejudice with all the addresses, was that it?”

“Fuck. You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“What did you find out?”

“I don’t know. I just… your name was thrown out a couple times. Your parents. Something about that and — and money, lots of it.”

You fiddled with your necklace nervously. “My parents worked for Fisk. It makes sense now.” Peter reached for your hand. “It was, uh, a loan. A business loan, probably for bad things. Dunno why I always thought they were so innocent or so normal. I guess they never paid Fisk back. An altercation or something happened, and well… you know how the rest pans out. My whole Batman origin story.”

“I do.” He scoffed dryly at the joke. “I should’ve said something that night.”

You chuckled, shutting the first aid kit and pushing it aside as you shifted closer to Peter. “Like what?” He raised his arm up, softly pulling you to his chest. He felt warm. You liked how easy this felt, your scents intermingled, how his body ignited yours, his heartbeat in your ear like a symphony — all of him felt so easy, like it was always meant to be this way.

“I should’ve comforted you, or something. Rather than just leaving without saying a word like a complete idiot. I wish I had said a lot of things to you.” He glanced at the faded picture of you and Sam on the shelf. “Not even just back then, Y/N.”

“Hm.” You looked up at Peter. His fingers slipped under your chin to hold your gaze. “You can tell me now. All the things you wanted to say to me, but didn’t.”

“You just wanna hear me be nice to you.” He blushed shyly, stroking your cheek with a curled finger. “My thoughts… they’re — I wouldn’t wanna overwhelm you more than I already have. Just stupid thoughts.”

“I’ll tell you my stupid thoughts too.”

His hazel-flaked eyes were dilated, searching yours endlessly like he could spend days admiring you. You saw autumn in his irises, brown leaves falling upon green flowered grass like he was a meadow in spring.

“Christ… I guess,” Peter sighed; his other hand still rested on his bandage as you blinked patiently at him. “Uh, when you first opened that front door… and you greeted me, I thought you were so gorgeous. Even though you looked so annoyed, you were pretty. Felt like a dumbass, asking you to move a sofa with me.” You shared a knowing look. You could feel him pulling you even closer. “I knew then that I wanted to be your friend, at that time. Just friends. No matter how infuriating you were and adamant you were on getting me to like your shitty podcast.” He laughed at himself. “Stupid, huh?”

You wiped at the dried blood by his eyebrow, shaking your head at him with an adoring smile. “Stupid.”

“Stupid.” He huffed. “Your turn.”

“That day we saw each other in the subway. I was staring at you for a long time way before you were staring at me — ow!”

He elbowed you hard. “And you called me a stalker? Me? What was it that you said to me?” You groaned, rubbing your hip with mumbled curses while he mimicked the pitch of your voice with newfound amusement. “Ogling me, Peter? Really?”

“Oh, see, I was gonna say something nice, but now you’ve just gone and ruined it.”

His apology came in the form of a soft kiss to your lips, one that lingered for too long to be called a peck. His nose brushed against yours, his voice dipping to a breathy tone. “Sorry. Go on, then.”

“I was thinking to myself that… maybe you aren’t so bad. That I liked looking at you.” You ran a thumb over his cupid’s bow. “Thought that I could get used to looking at you all the time. And that itself would be the highlight of my day.” You felt his lips part under your thumb, a smile threatening to break loose. “So stupid.”

Those brown eyes became softer with endearment as he repeated after you. “So stupid.”

“You again.”

He tenderly brushed your hair away from your forehead, features ridden with exhaustion and drunk off of your fond gaze. “I lied to you in that café.” Peter doesn’t let you interrupt him. “When I said… when I said that I liked you.” He gulped, a shaky exhale leaving his body. “That’s such bullshit, Y/N. I wanted to say something else, but – but I was scared.”

“What do you mean?” You lifted your head with knitted eyebrows as his grip grew tighter.

“The word ‘like’ is so funny, don’t you think? We use it to talk about all of our favorite things. You know, I like coffee. I like reading. I like how you look at me and I like the perfume you always use. I like how pretty you look in the mornings and how even prettier you look right now. I like being here with you.” His hand covers the entirety of the side of your face, fingers tucking itself by your jaw while tears blurred his vision. “But ‘like’ can only go so far. It’s such a simple word for what I feel towards you. Y/N, I don't even think a dictionary can help me. It just doesn’t exist — that… that word.” He hurriedly wiped the tears away from his eyes and lashes. “Stupid, see?”

“I think there’s one for it, Pete.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded. “Love.”

“Love.” He repeated. The word left him in a whisper.

Love was one of those terms he hadn’t uttered aloud in ages, fearful that it would be too much in too little time – again, not since Gwen. A lot of things hadn’t happened since Gwen, but here he was, replaying how ‘love’ rolled off of your tongue again and again in his head. How could he become addicted to it so quickly? It felt like a drug. It felt right. And he liked it – no, he loved it. He loved how you said ‘love’ and looked at him with such unwavering hope that made him want to wrap you in his arms and never, ever let go of you. You made him feel like life was a dream, as if his days were just pictures on grainy film and his nights were nothing but sweet, sweet illusions of magic. But this, being here with you, it was no dream or illusion. It was reality and that was everything.

“We can just start from there.” You smiled sweetly at him. “Let’s start with love and see what words we can find after, yeah?” He stared as you quietly picked a fallen eyelash from his face with an innocent smile. “Hm, now make a wish, Pete.”

“Don’t need to.”

“Why’s that?”

“I got everything I need right here, Y/N.” He looked at you, then Webster who lingered by the bedroom hallway in the midst of your conversation. He took the tiny strand of hair from you, holding it between his thumb and pointer finger. “I do wish that you’ll forgive me for all the times I lied to you, though.”

“All is forgiven, spidey.”

“Good.” He kept his enthusiasm restrained, ignoring how his body bubbled with anticipation when you leaned into him.

Your lips felt kind and warm. The skin of your cheek was soft, and the frostbite on the button of your nose and tips of your reddened ears were an adorable greeting from winter itself. He wanted to remain in this moment. No fights. No arguments. No secrets and no Fisk. But Peter just couldn’t shake the thought off. Now more than ever, he needed to protect you. He needed to know that he’d wake up to the sound of you cooking in your apartment again, and that he’d see you walking on the sidewalks with your third cup of coffee. He needed to know that your voice would emerge from the other side of the wall like it always did, and that you’d laugh at him or call him a ‘doofus’ for being so loud.

But like before, Peter was petrified. He was excited for what could happen between the two of you, but he was horrified knowing that his time with you could never even be promised or guaranteed.

Who would he become if one day he knocked on your front door and it was no longer you who answered? Who would he become if one day he swung by your window and saw that someone else inhabited your apartment? The pictures of you and Sam, gone. The unwashed dishes and lively plants, gone. Who else would be able to understand him?

It terrified him. Absolutely. But the sensation of your mouth against his was enough to repress the nightmares surrounding his conscience. The feeling of his calloused palms against your hips and waist, the sounds of your needy breaths against his neck, the way your body pushed up against his as he pulled you into his lap with amorous yearning – that would be enough.

This was enough for him. You were enough.

The bedroom window was frosted over. Little, miniscule snowflakes woven intricately found solace on the ledge, blending in with the snowed-in streets outside and broken stop lights that created a whirlwind of traffic. The room was chilly, even with the matching fuzzy socks that you and Peter sported beneath the sheets, and even with Peter’s extreme body heat that made you feel like you were cuddling with a heater. He stirred against you with a groan, pulling you closer towards him despite already suffocating in the grasp of his arms.

Your bodies were ridden with exhaustion, yet the hickies on each other’s necks and the discarded clothes on the floor were a possible attest to the reasons why. You inhaled the scent of Peter, disappointed that he no longer smelled of his usual self after having given him a sponge bath last night. You rolled over to face him, eyes still laced with sleep as you cracked a faint smile at him. He looked peaceful – the most at peace you’ve seen him ever since you’d met one another, and that spoke lengths about how comfortable he was around you. A hero who was willingly allowing his guard down around someone he trusted: that was love in itself. The Spider-Man suit glistened on top of your laundry basket, littered with sliced fabric and crusted blood that didn’t look elegant in the slightest. You pressed a gentle kiss to Peter’s nose before you pried his large hands off of you, stifling a laugh as he mumbled sleepy protests at the lack of you in bed.

“Baby… come back.” His arm stretched towards you, fingers flexing as he emphasized his need. “S’early, what are you up to?”

“Gonna do some chores.” You glanced over to him. It was an endearing sight, his long frame splayed out over the mattress of your queen-sized bed, tangled in forest green sheets and weighted blankets like a little flower. “I’ll join you in a second. Just get some rest, how about that?”

He didn’t reply, only a soft grunt until he was back to quietly snoring once again.

Oh, Peter.

Making sure that you wouldn’t wake him, you slowly slipped on a hoodie. You shook your head at the heart-shaped kisses along your collarbone as you passed by your mirror, admiring his work before you were carefully taking the Spider-Man suit with you into the kitchen. The streets were loud, but the apartment felt quiet – a good quiet, compared to the giant mishap that happened between you and Peter yesterday. It was, again, domestic. Something that you always wanted for yourself, something that you didn’t realize you needed but it was here, and it felt nice. You flicked on the kitchen sink, running the suit under the cold water and over the drain as a soapy mixture of dirt and old blood seeped out of the webbed indentations. It was surreal, at the same time, holding the very thing that you sought after in all your days at the Bugle.

It still hadn’t fully sunk in that Peter was Spider-Man. But it made sense. All the unexplainable things that happened now had an explanation. The cobwebs on his clothes, the noises in his apartment, the new patrol route in your neighborhood, the polaroids.

The polaroids.

You hung the suit over the back of one of the dining chairs, letting it air-dry for now until Peter could wake up. Swiftly, you searched for your wallet, finding the array of pictures inside it. It brought a nostalgic smile to your face – with the knowledge that you had now, it was apparent as to why Peter was so inclined to help you and why Spider-Man never showed up that night. All along, he was sitting right beside you. You felt like an idiot, but you never would’ve known. No matter how many times you thought he was an oddball, you never would’ve thought it was because of his double identity.

Never would’ve guessed.

Peter leaned against the doorway into the kitchen, arms crossed on his shirt-clad chest as he studied you affectionately from across the room.

“Hey, you.”

You jumped, turning towards the sound of his raspy voice with furrowed eyebrows and a look of surprise. “You – you stalker!” Hand over your heart, a laugh graced its way upon your lips. “Scared me, Pete.”

“M’sorry.” He smiled shyly, coming towards you with slow steps before his hands took place on your arms. It reminded you of that night he went into your apartment, worried sick and reeking of protectiveness as he held you in the dark moonlight of your living room. It was a contrast now, except he held you with the same caring fervor. “Good morning, Y/N.”

“Morning, sleepyhead.” He kissed your temple, drawing his lips down your neck as he ghosted over the marks he made. You chuckled at the ticklish sensation, holding the polaroids up to his eyes with a proud smirk. “These are yours, by the way. Return to owner if found.”

“No, no, no.” He protested, shaking his head against you while he pushed the pictures from view. “Yours now. Always been yours.”

The statement held a deeper meaning, but you didn’t need details to know what he meant. You looked up at him with a chuckle, wishing that you could spend forever in his arms. But the collection of articles and documents about Fisk appeared from the corner of your eye. You fought to keep your gaze on the boy in front of you, but it distracted you – and then you were taken back to last night, how Peter knocked on your front door with wounds that he couldn’t even explain, wounds that you didn’t want to think about. And then you thought about your parents: a death that was always to come, but never was deserved. Peter didn’t notice the tension in your jaw, too caught up playing with Webster and what to get for breakfast.

With eyes that didn’t quite meet his, you piped up with an idea that lingered dangerously in your head.

“I’ll get breakfast.” You faked a smile as you subtly picked up the copy of Pride and Prejudice on the coffee table. Your fingers reached for the note of scribbled addresses, to which you pocketed in your sweatpants.

“You should stay. I can do it. Look outside, it’s freezing.” Peter reached for your apartment keys, but you quickly rushed over and captured his lips in a messy kiss. He let out a moan of surprise, laughing against your front teeth as you pulled away. “Still not done?”

“Don’t forget how hard I worked on those stitches. And like I said, you need to rest. I don’t care if you’re a superhero. You’re still my annoying neighbor.” You gestured at his stomach before you were hurriedly putting on your boots. “I’ll be back. I promise.”

Peter didn’t like your eagerness. He didn’t attempt to question you, though. You’d been through too much in the span of one night.

“You better not take too long, Y/N.”

“It’ll be like I never even left.” You scoffed, layering up with a coat. You stood on the tips of your shoes, pressing a long kiss to the brunette’s cheek as you cradled his jaw with gloved hands. “Maybe think about that word other than ‘love’, okay?”

“Hey, be careful.” He grabbed your wrist before you could leave, pulling a beanie over your ears as he admired your face one more time. You put your hand over his and squeezed.

“It’s just breakfast.”

Peter watched you leave with an oblivious smile and eyes full of hope.

218 Front Street, Vinegar Hill, NY.

You were going to find out what Wilson Fisk wanted. And you’d be damned if he hurt someone close to you ever again.

-

TAGLIST (open! some blogs unable to be tagged)

@silverwindptv @kdatthecastle @pufflepride @whatevergea @xthecyber @fandomscombine @carryon-doctor-lock @family-buisnes @hanniebee33 @renaroo123 @andeys-obsessions @ouralcohol @abibliophobiaa @spidergraph @milfodyssey @parkerssss @draw-back-your-bow @agustdeeyaa @ghostedgwen @mayxn15 @good-vibes-and-glitter @pr3ttyj3sus @jasmin7813

[istillmissyou2]

begin again (6)

pairing: tasm!peter parker x f!reader

tags: mentions of loss, dating, physical touch, fluff and angst ensures, descriptions of wounds and blood, brief mentions of guns and drugs

summary: you and peter talk about what happened in new jersey, leading to first dates and disappointments that could make or break everything.

note: surprise!!!! early release :) i know im so kind, anyways, enjoy almost 7k of peter & our infamous y/n!

missing out? ➤ [my masterlist] - [series masterpost]

The fire alarm deafeningly blared throughout the apartment complex. Grogginess was written all over your body as you groaned at the painful screeching of the noise. Bedsheets were strewn about as you searched for Webster beneath the duvet cover, where the grey cat nestled by your ankles. The sound was horrible, and you knew that you needed to leave as soon as possible. Taking Webster and your keys, you quickly darted out into the hall. It was too early for this, and you had been feeling a cold creep up on you for the past couple days ever since you had gotten back from New Jersey.

A lot happened in New Jersey.

Your eyebrows drew into a deep furrow as you stood outside the complex with the other residents. The crowd slowly became bigger and bigger, but as more faces appeared, you couldn’t help but search for the one face that truly mattered. You cradled Webster to your chest, slowly spinning as you tried to find that recognizable head of messy hair. Relief washed over you as Peter jogged down the lobby steps sporting a heavy green coat (with his pajamas peeking out from beneath) and a printed beanie. You realized, then too, that he’d been looking for you also. A smile made its way onto your lips when he found your eyes, and you could see the breath of exhale he had let out in the chilly winter air.

The kiss was never directly addressed and neither was the mutual understanding that you and Peter had felt the same for one another. The car ride back to New York felt normal, as if the kiss was just a kiss and not an entire proclamation of whatever was happening between you two. But ever since Jersey, you and Peter barely saw each other. You weren’t entirely sure what his reason was and you knew that he wasn’t doing it on purpose, while Peter understood you had been working extremely long hours lately in order to catch up with the rest of your co-workers at the Bugle. And with the days leading up to Christmas, the two of you had only gotten busier and busier – you with your job, and Peter with his patrols. People always got rowdy around the holidays, therefore his responsibilities as Spider-Man had grown exponentially.

But it was obvious that neither of you had forgotten about the kiss, because on the nights you’d come home late to your apartment, you would find sticky notes on your front door from Peter. Usually, they would contain cheesy puns, and when Peter knew that you had been having a bad week, it would be a reminder to eat or get enough sleep. You would reply with a text and he would never answer over the cellphone, instead you would find another note the following day.

It was one of those situations where you were unsure as to where you and Peter stood in terms of relationship. Neighbors? Yes. Friends? Sure! But was there more than that? You had no idea, and frankly it seemed childish.

Then again, you had promised him that nothing needed to change between you unless he was ready.

Maybe he just wasn’t ready yet. Or maybe he was drunk that weekend and you hadn’t been informed. Or maybe Peter really did like you and he was just… confused, torn, guilty. Maybe he wasn’t looking for a relationship, especially after Gwen. Yet, you were obviously unaware that Peter had been feeling the same way and had been attempting to brainstorm ideas for a date. He didn’t want to bring it up unless you did – which meant there would be no end to dancing around what happened because while he was waiting on you, you were waiting on him.

Peter pushed through the tenants politely, making his way to stand beside you at the back of the crowd. “Hey.” He smiled, voice worn with sleep. Webster meowed at him, purring as Peter scratched the feline’s head.

“Hiya.”

“How are you?”

You chuckled with a nod of your head. “I’m well. You?”

“Good.” He cleared his throat as he looked at you. You glanced at him, but he looked away. A suspicious and questioning expression formed on your face. Peter paused and scratched his neck. “Hey, so I…”

“Yeah?”

“I finished that, um, book you let me borrow. Was hoping I could give it back to you anytime soon.”

“Oh.” You tried to hide the disappointment on your face. “Sure, I can take it whenever we go back inside.”

“Honestly, I think we’re gonna be out here for a while.” Peter shifted on either foot. “I heard EDM guy left the cookies in the oven for too long.”

“Sounds like something you’d do.” You nudged him with a soft smirk, laughing when he pushed you gently with his elbow. “Dumbass.”

“I take it you haven’t had a single drop of coffee yet?” You shook your head at him. He could see the bags around your eyes, and it made his heart pang because he hated knowing that you were going through a rough patch — whatever it may be. “Have you been sleeping?”

“Well…”

“Y/N, you—“

“Look, take me out for some coffee and breakfast, and I’ll tell you what I’ve been up to.” Peter didn’t wait up, proudly gesturing for you to lead the way as he trailed behind your pajama-clad frame and the ball of fur in your arms. He nervously chewed on his lip as he caught up to you, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket as snow began to dust upon his shoulders. The atmosphere between the two of you was quiet, except for the bustling of trucks and taxis on the road.

You and Peter exchanged several stolen glances, hiding back your smiles in the midst of the crisp December snow. It reminded you of what happened that night, and you found yourself hugging Webster closer to your chest as the thought of Peter’s lips made you feel dizzy.

Yet you weren’t sure how to feel because he’d never brought it up again.

“So…” The boy started, putting his foot in front of the other as you came to a stop by a crosswalk.

“Yes, Peter?”

“Are you doing anything for Christmas?”

You shrugged, crossing onto the street as the pedestrian symbol appeared. “Dunno.” Peter followed with a frown, unsure as to why you were being short with him. It felt awkward and he hated it. “What made you ask?”

“Y/N,” He gently grasped your forearm with a caring tone as he turned you towards him. You stubbornly looked up at him. He noticed the cloudiness in your eyes, suddenly feeling guilty that he hadn’t made an effort to actually talk to you about where his emotions were at. Peter didn’t want you to think that he was leading you on, or that the kiss was a one-time incident. His gaze shifted to where his hand wrapped around you. “Hey, I just want to spend time with you.” His head dipped down to catch your eyes with intent. “Is that a problem?”

You had to admit that your legs felt like jelly when the words ‘I want to spend time with you’ left his mouth, because you wanted to as well. Peter appeared sheepish and yet it came off as charming, even though his lips had been on yours just a couple nights ago.

“Sorry, yeah.” You cringed at the memory of snapping at him. “I’m sorry. I do too, you know.” He exhaled in repose. With the hand that hadn’t been holding Webster, you apologetically intertwined your fingers with his, nodding your head towards the coffee shop. The simple action was enough to assure Peter that you weren’t angry with him, and he doesn’t complain any further as you tug him towards a booth.

The little café was decorated with odd vintage trinkets, but even some Spider-Man memorabilia took space on the wall shelves; Peter took kindly to the soft holiday music that echoed on the record player, enveloping his palms around his cup of cappuccino. He felt his heart warm at the sight of you eating a croissant, offering Webster a tiny piece while you laughed as if there wasn’t a worry in the world. He liked seeing you carefree. He loved seeing you happy, even if it wasn’t a result of his antics or his tomfoolery. It was no surprise that you had ended up capturing Peter’s heart and everything in between. And as his doting gaze remained on you – as if he hadn’t already memorized the way you looked to him after thousands of stolen glances – he enjoyed the hominess and the intimacy of sitting across from you and the cat in a coffee shop. It felt like home, like Peter could just be himself and the world could go on without him. There was something special about seeing you freshly-woken up in the mornings; Peter felt like it was an image he could get used to.

He could get used to having you in his life more.

“You’re staring again.” Your animated voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “Is my bedhead that bad?”

“It’s horrible.” Peter crossed his arms on top of the table, leaning towards you.

You pouted, touching your hair self-consciously. “Are you being serious?”

“Y/N.” He shook his head at you. “You look fine. You always look fine.” He caught how your lips pulled into a subtle smirk, and the rolling of your eyes told him that the compliment made you flustered. “What?”

You chuckled dryly, taking a sip of your coffee. “You don’t talk to me for days and now you’re complimenting me.” You didn’t make eye contact, staring out the cafe window withdrawn. Judging by your tone, Peter knew you were asking from a place of sincerity yet frustration, not in a manner that would spur an argument. “I’m just confused, Pete. I’m not angry. I know you have other priorities, but… it would’ve been nice to have a talk about what happened between us.” You pursed your lips and anxiously bit down on the knuckle of your index finger. “There is something between us, right?”

Peter inhaled deeply. He sighed as he reached across to grab your hands. You shuddered at his touch, feeling your body react to the familiar texture of his fingertips on your skin.

“Y/N, I like you a lot.”

The coffee felt hot on your tongue.

“I like you, too.”

Peter’s cappuccino was long abandoned.

“More than for my own good, actually.” You nodded in understanding. “I’m sorry, I suck at talking.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s just been a while since I’ve liked someone as much as I like you. And — and I haven’t felt this way… about anyone since Gwen. Jeez, sorry, I’ve never said this out loud since therapy. Feels weird, but… but good.”

One thing Peter had worked on during that time with his therapist was communication. He wasn’t some eighteen year-old kid anymore, but a grown man who needed to have his emotions in check and himself in check as well. Peter had lacked the ability to admit deep-down what was wrong with him, and even denied himself the opportunity to feel — to feel sadness, to feel anger, to feel hurt. He had oftentimes pushed his own feelings aside and pretended that the world around him was unchanging, that his thoughts didn’t actually matter and if he ignored them, they would just go away.

He learned the hard way, and now, Peter doesn’t hide away from emotion anymore.

Or at least, he tries to.

“Take your time.” You rested your chin on your shoulder, briefly glancing outside again with a meek shrug. “If it helps, I haven’t felt this way about anyone since Sam either. Y’know, the whole dead ex thing.”

A laugh bubbled from Peter at the ongoing joke. “I genuinely don’t know how you can say that.”

You squeezed his hand. “Because I’ve healed.” You let the statement sink in as Webster purred in the background, studying Peter carefully. “Have you?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I have.”

“Listen to me,” You laughed lightly. “I’m not — I’m not asking you to forget about all the times you spent with Gwen. I’m not asking to replace her or anything… because a relationship like the one you had with her is the kind that’s just irreplaceable, you know. I’m sure it was special to you, and I hope you feel the same about Sam. But if… if you’re real about me, Peter, if that kiss meant something to you, I just wanna know if your heart has room for one more.”

“My heart doesn’t just have room. You don’t need room.” He brought your hand up, kissing it with his soft lips. “It can be yours, completely and entirely yours if you’d let me, Y/N. I won’t ever forget Gwen, but I know she’d call me dumb if…” He sighed shakily. “She would want me to love again.” You innocently giggled into his skin, lightening the mood. “What?”

“Did you just use the l-bomb on me? Already? We’ve only kissed once, Casanova.”

Peter liked the nickname. He blushed visibly with vibrant eyes at the slip-up. “Fuck off, Y/N. You know what I meant.”

You hummed. “I do. Am I just that amazing?”

“You’re everything and more.”

You made him breathless. You made it easier to wake up, knowing that you were just next-door watching television or listening to your stupid podcasts. You made him excited for what was next to come, and he found himself wanting to tell you about his day.

You made him want to forgive himself for all the times he went wrong and all the times he wanted to give up.

You made him happy.

You made him want to begin again.

A clean slate.

The comment brought a grin to your face. You played it off, deciding that you and Peter had spent enough time in the café for now — but honestly you couldn’t handle sitting in front of him knowing that he was studying every feature and mannerism of yours, you’d just become a blushing mess and that was the last thing you wanted Peter to see. You followed him back outside while Webster found solace on top of his broad shoulders, mindlessly tickling — and bothering — the boy with his tail. By the time you walked back to the apartment, it seemed as if everyone was allowed back inside. Full of coffee and sugar croissants, you and Peter raced up the stairwell again, nearly pushing each other up the steps.

“You’re cheating!” You heaved, hot on his tracks as you made an effort to run after him.

“How am I cheating?!” His voice bounced off of the walls, and you scowled childishly as he scooped Webster from his shoulders and into his arms. “I’m clearly at a disadvantage holding this chubby rat.”

“Hey! Don’t call him that!”

“You named a fucking cat Webster, Y/N!”

“You own Spider-Man boxers!”

“Dude! You said they were cool!”

“I was flirting, Pete.”

“Flirting, yeah right.”

You huffed as Peter reached the top of the stairs, lifting Webster into the air as he cockily basked in his victory. He flashed a lopsided grin, and you pushed him aside as you tried to catch your breath. Leaning against the wall, you clasped your hands behind your back as Peter approached you with dragging feet.

You ran your tongue along your front teeth, shaking your head in disbelief. “You’re a cheat.”

He laughed energetically, standing beside you with Webster tucked in his arm as he gave you a sideways glance. “How was that cheating? I’m just better.”

“Faster, not better.” You pointed a finger at him.

Peter followed the rise and fall of your chest, matching your breathing so that you wouldn’t pick up on how his stamina hadn’t shifted at all. But with Peter’s physique, you weren’t surprised that he beat you, especially when you had spent the majority of your nights sitting in uncomfortable swivel chairs writing for the Bugle. You looked down at your shoes, crossing your arms over your chest as you grasped your elbows in comfortable silence.

He shut his eyes when your head found its place on his shoulder.

You invited Peter back into your apartment, tenderly offering him a glass of water he didn’t need but the gesture was appreciated anyhow. The red spray paint on your door had faded and he realized that you’d gotten a few other plants, but the new unmistakable collection of photos and the Daily Bugle articles on the wall where your grocery lists used to be made his face harden.

It looked like an investigation scene — maps, photos of Fisk, photos of Spider-Man and his connections to coalitions across the city, photos of your parents, emails, letters, bank transactions, and more.

Is this what you’d been up to? Sleepless nights because of Fisk and your parents? Where were you getting all this info? On the nights he’d been on patrol, did you go out of your way to hunt down your own demons?

Peter wasn’t sure how you got ahold of all this, and it was pretty impressive, but nevertheless he was nervous. But while he studied the articles closely, he noticed that something was off.

“Since when did you stop writing the Spider-Man column?” His eyebrows furrowed. He’d collected numerous editions of your other writing before, but with the spike in high-level crime and the distractions of being Spider-Man, he hadn’t found the time to properly pick up the infamous newspaper.

“What?”

“Where’s your name? You didn’t write any of these.”

“Oh? I didn’t tell you?” You glanced at him from across the room, throwing out old leftovers from the fridge.

“That you stopped writing?”

“No, I am — I still am, don’t worry.” You laughed, scratching your nose. “Ever since the door incident, I realized how incredibly stupid it was to use my real name.” You moved to stand by the brunette, mirroring him with your hands on your hips as you stared up at the taped articles. “Especially now that Fisk is… well, I just hope he hasn’t read anything of mine. Or at least anything with my real name attached to it. I don’t think he reads anyways, not the Spider-Man articles even… so maybe I’m in the clear. I just can’t believe it took me this long to realize. And don’t even get me started on how I had to convince Jameson. He didn’t understand since my name was already out there, but I just wanna play it smart from now on.”

“So you’re using an alias…”

“Yeah. I’ve been doing some investigating ever since the wedding. Don’t need Fisk to know that I’m sniffing him out.” You nodded with amusement, tearing a paper off the wall to show him. “Look, I wrote this one.”

The alias. The fucking alias.

“Mary Jane?” His voice faltered.

Where has he heard that before?

“Yeah. Thought it was sorta fitting.” You shrugged casually. Peter continued staring at the piece of paper, nearly turning pale at the skin. “Are you good?”

Oh, my god.

“Yeah, just…” He puffed his cheeks. “It’s familiar.”

“It’s a common name, Pete. You know, I was gonna go with MJ, but it just felt so… informal.” You snatched the article from him and taped it back onto the wall, not paying mind to the shock on his face as your ramblings grew passionately fast. “I’m thinking we take Fisk up on that offer. I’m sure that tower is full of answers.”

“Woah, woah, woah. Can we just — can you slow it down?” Peter outstretched his hands in a surrender.

“Why?” You squinted at him. “Pete, you said we’d do it.”

He chuckled regretfully. MJ. The universe was teasing him at this point and it wasn’t funny.

“I-It’s… it’s gonna be Christmas.”

“Okay?” You blinked at him quietly, awaiting a reason. Peter felt his throat dry up, and suddenly he needed that glass of water from earlier because he had no idea how to defuse this. “Pete? What does that have to do with Fisk?”

He gulped painfully, reaching for your clenched hand with a wounded look. “Can’t I at least take you out on a date first, Mary Jane?”

The blood immediately rushed to your face. Whatever confidence you had going for you had completely dwindled, and you felt like a highschool girl getting asked out for the first time all over again. Even though it was given that Peter liked you, it was different hearing him say that he wanted to take you somewhere — to take you on a date, which you hadn’t experienced again in ages. It was strange, yet it was exciting.

“Like a date-date?” You piped down, touching your neck.

“Yeah, like a real one.”

You laughed at him. “So we’ve been on fake dates before is what you’re saying?”

“Does the fire escape count?”

“That was not a date, Peter.”

“Well, I did kiss you when you were my fake girlfriend at Jessica’s wedding so…” His voice was laced with rasp as his hands reached for your waist. “… is it so wrong of me for wanting to get to know you better?”

You watched as he licked his lips, inching closer towards him as he held you tightly. “And what kind of guy kisses a girl before the first date?”

His eyes flickered to your mouth. You could feel his stomach pressing against yours, and you had to admit the gesture made you warm inside. Peter lightly backed you up against the collection of articles, letting out an amused huff of air when your back came in contact with the wall in a soft thud. His leg nudged by your thigh while his fingers cupped the underside of your chin.

He sighed euphorically against your skin, and the eager sound sent chills throughout your body. “Y/N, can I kiss you again? I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”

“If you keep talking like that,” Peter placed his hand against the wall beside your head as you spoke delicately, keeping you trapped with his taller frame. “I don’t think I’ll stop you.”

“What is it then?” You held back a breath when his lips tickled against your earlobe. He looked down at you teasingly.

You eyed him with a wide grin. “Just shut up and kiss me.”

“Before the first date?” He leaned into you ever so slightly.

“I thought you couldn’t stop thinking about me.”

He let out a defeated hum at that. “You got me there.”

“And now you’re lying to me, too? You’re a walking red flag, Parker.”

“Infuriating, Y/N.”

Your heartbeat grew faster and faster as Peter’s face came down to your own. His lips touched your skin, trailing to leave open-mouthed pecks against your jaw before he kissed you softly on the mouth. He’d be kidding himself if he denied that the kiss hadn’t excited him. This time, there were no eyes watching you. It was just you and him in the privacy of your apartment, away from noise and interruptions. There was no pretending to be done, no white-lies and half-truths that would leave Peter confused at how he felt.

Because in this moment, he knew what he felt.

And it set him on fire.

His lips moved against yours slowly, jaw straining as he dipped to your height. His hands wandered across the small of your back, but they never went any lower than that — in fact, his touch was so delicate, you wouldn’t have felt it if you hadn’t been paying careful attention to the brunette. It was as if he was afraid to touch you even though he wanted to touch every part of you. The way he held onto you hadn’t insinuated anything sexual, but it was hard not to think about what he was capable of doing to you when he was breathing hard against your mouth.

“About that date…” Peter pulled back, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “What are you doing this evening?”

You chuckle sweetly, smoothing down the front of his coat. “Nothing. Well, maybe hanging out with a strange man who can’t leave me alone. You?”

“Ran into this really weird girl who isn’t very nice to me. Think I might take her to this delicious Italian restaurant, though. Authentic.”

“Oh, she isn’t nice yet you’re taking her out?” You raised your eyebrows at him with a tilted head.

He shrugged. “Yeah, I think it’s cute when she’s feisty.”

“I’m not — I’m not feisty!” You delivered a soft push to his shoulder with a gasp, feigning a dramatic look of offense as his hands made grabby motions towards you. “You’re really ruining your chances with me, Peter.”

“Oh? I have a chance?” He took you back into his arms, swaying you around the open living room. “Y/N, I was starting to think you were out of my league.”

“God, are you always this corny?”

You liked the way Peter looked at you.

You liked the way his hand brushed against yours by the front door when he handed you the book he had borrowed from you. He leaned against the doorway, fighting off the urge to kiss you again as the corners of your mouth tugged into surprised amusement.

The pages were filled with post-its of Peter’s handwriting. Certain words had been highlighted in a different color than the marker you had used previously when you read it, meaning that Peter had dedicated his own time to annotating the novel you had recommended to him.

No one had done that for you before.

“You liked it?”

He cleared his throat dramatically. “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

The fond gaze in his eyes made you bite your lip.

The quote rolled off of his tongue in such a genuine manner, you would have thought it was really his own.

“That’s your second l-bomb of the day, Mr. Darcy.” Your hushed tone sent sparks to Peter’s brain. The softness of your words reminded him of your exchange in New Jersey, how you spoke to him under the moonlight. “Will you be speaking in Pride and Prejudice from now on?”

He bowed in front of you with a smirk. “We ride at dusk, milady.

You winked at him, going along with his theatrics. “See you then, good sir.” Coursing a hand through your hair, you smiled quietly at each other. “Send me the details.”

Nodding, he ran a thumb over his cupid’s bow. “Hey,” He started before you could close the door. There was a sureness in his voice, yet it almost sounded as if he was trying to convince someone, but you weren’t sure if it was directed towards you or himself. “I’ll see you tonight.”

You reached over bashfully and kissed his cheek like it was second nature.

“I’ll see you.”

His heart did a somersault.

He was on fire.

It was late noon once Peter recognized his body was running on an adrenaline rush. And judging by how quickly he was able to put on his Spider-Man suit, he figured that it wouldn’t dwindle anytime soon. An early patrol would mean he’d be able to dedicate the rest of his night to you, and having the opportunity to spend time with you meant everything to him. But Peter had some things he needed to take care of, especially now that you were investigating Wilson Fisk on your own account.

He needed to assure himself that you’d be safe.

There were a couple Fisk hideouts throughout the city that he had been monitoring long before he had even met you. At least two or three in Mott Haven, possibly another in Koreatown, and one that he hadn’t visited yet by Vinegar Hill. His issues with Fisk had only arisen after encountering a few of his men during patrol, where he then received a tip about a base that was the source of organized money laundering. With a couple threats and thrown punches, Peter was able to locate the site – retrieving stolen contracts, precinct files, and Fisk’s plans of rebuilding the crime society in New York. There were tabs on all the high-crime families of the city, as well as each of the illegal and legal business operations that he was conducting right under the eyes of the law. Fisk had all sorts of connections with government agents and politicians, and if that wasn’t enough to worry him, the man had information on Spider-Man and his patrol routes.

From then on, Peter kept a close eye on the man.

And the Kingpin kept a close eye on him.

Too close.

The sleepy enclave of Vinegar Hill had always sent a chilling sensation down Peter’s back. Even in the confines of his suit, he could feel the hairs on his arms stand up just from the sickly stench in the air — the neighborhood reminded him of iron and blood, with alleyways that were full of overflowing dumpsters and strays that reminded him that he was far from home, far from you and Webster and your apartment. Peter wasn’t a fan of the waterfront view either, and it pained him to think what was laying at the bottom of the bay whenever he’d swing near the Manhattan Bridge.

Even with the setting sun, the city carried an empty eeriness to it — like someone was watching him all the time, like every move he made was being recorded and studied. His body was telling him something was extremely off as he approached the location he’d been looking for. The faded warehouse was made of red bricks, wider than it was tall. The nine-pane windows were tinted with a frosted glaze, cracked at the edges and purposely made harder to see through. There was a skylight atop of the flat rooftop surrounded by AC units and whirring fans.

Peter had the tendency to be paranoid, but it was warranted when it came to this line of duty.

Shit, where were the cameras?

The hero checked his phone.

Five o’clock. He had enough time.

Peering into the skylight, Peter was able to catch a glimpse of the interior. Beams lined the ceiling, therefore obscuring the complete view of the warehouse’s layout, but it could come as an aerial advantage for him. He heard a variation of different voices speaking, mainly mentions of the Maggia and name-dropping about Fisk.

A staticky radio echoed below, playing a song that was oddly romantic for the circumstances — a stark contrast to the sorting of shady duffle bags and the heroin packs that were littered on the stainless steel tables.

When the moon hits your eye

Like a big pizza pie, that's amore…

God, he couldn’t get you out of his head.

He sent you a quick text regarding the date for later, pocketing his phone in his backpack that he webbed to a nearby electrical panel. Shaking off his grin, Peter forced himself not to think of you any further. You were a distraction to him, and he proved that theory well-enough when he struggled to acknowledge Fisk’s looming presence at the wedding reception. It hadn’t ever happened — where he was so consumed by the thought of someone that his enhanced senses became nullified, not even with Gwen. Whatever it was, Peter needed to focus, no matter how much you lingered in the hallways of his mind as if you permanently resided there.

The faster he got this done, the faster he could be with you.

Peter propped the skylight open slowly, the webbed soles of his feet stepping onto the brass beams with calculated precision.

When the world seems to shine

Like you’ve had too much wine, that’s amore…

The metal creaked under him.

Bells will ring, ting-a-ling-a-ling

Ting-a-ling-a-ling and you'll sing, "Vita bella…”

Peter quietly shot a string of webs to the other side of the warehouse, cautious of the growing group of Fisk guards beneath him. He tugged on it to make sure it would hold his weight before he discreetly swung himself over.

When the stars make you drool

Just like a pasta e fasule, that’s amore…

The spider crawled along, pocketing himself behind a pillar as he counted the number of heads in the room – lucky number thirteen. He should be able to take them on. He’s taken more guys before. This would be easy, a walk in the park.

Yet, he flinched as their voices grew louder.

Something about someone owing money.

Something about a woman.

Something about the Kingpin’s step-niece.

You.

When you dance down the street

With a cloud at your feet, you're in love…

A trembling gasp left his lips. Before he could realize, Peter’s foot had slipped on the brass beam. He tumbled through the air in slow motion, throwing a web back above him in hopes of gaining redemption from getting caught.

But, he was one second too late. Always too late.

Spider-Man landed on the cold steel tables with a reverberated thump, earning a wounded groan from Peter beneath the mask. The zip-lock bags of heroin popped under him from impact, staining the back of his suit as he fought to sit up. All thirteen men turned towards his body in a hurricane of shouts; the reloading of guns overshadowed the pleasant love song that reminded him of you.

It was all darkness from there.

-

Hey! We can just meet up at that Italian place by South, is that okay?

absolutely! no worries xx

Might run a little late!! Go on without me ;)

The last text Peter had sent you was two hours ago. Staring at his humorous contact name, you figured he was running errands since he hadn’t been home in a bit. You put off calling him, not wanting to come across as clingy or too excited even though you were sure that Peter shared the same sentiment. As you debated between two pairs of boots, you couldn’t help but feel a bit nervous, in the sense that this was going to be your first date in a while, and that you hadn’t even been this excited for dinner ever since your relationship with Sam, and plus this would mean that you and Peter were truly more than neighbors or friends. You couldn’t wipe the stupid lovesick smile off your face. Even as you dabbled another layer of lipstick on your lips, the corners of your mouth twitched in frantic anticipation at seeing Peter again. Any past doubts you had about the brunette were long replaced with the feeling of ecstasy.

It would be healthy for you and him to have this – to go out and date, to just be like normal people and do whatever normal people do these days without having to dwell on the loss around you.

The restaurant was a quaint little building that you were sure neither you or Peter could find yourselves blending into very well. The dim lights, the five-star menu that contained plates or bowls larger than the actual meal, the dusty vines on the tiled walls and low-hung chandeliers that reminded you of how you were paying for ambiance rather than the actual gourmet food. You were never a fan of fancy restaurants, but Peter did sure bust an arm and a leg into getting you a reservation on a busy Saturday night — you had no clue as to how he’d done it, but he did.

A couple dressed in heavy trench coats and matching sweaters walked outside the window beside your table tucked in the corner, holding hands with bright grins that reminded you of yourself and Peter. It looked peaceful outside – a perfect night, certainly too perfect for dinner. Even with the holiday traffic and the jam-pack of hustling cars on the road, smattering your vision with hues of bright red taillights, the night looked kind and inviting.

Even though the wooden chair in front of you was empty, you didn’t feel lonely in the slightest.

The world didn’t seem as intolerable now that you had Peter in your life.

Waiting for the boy to answer your text, you resorted to skimming through his handwritten annotations on your tattered copy of Pride and Prejudice that you had brought along with you to pass some time. You snorted at his takes on characters like George Wickham and Caroline Bingley, nitpicking their actions throughout the novel with insulting notes and silly illustrations that he had doodled on the corners of various pages. He had underlined some of his favorite lines, a majority of them having to do with love and romance and – oh, what a sap.

The lingering smile faltered on your face when a piece of lined paper fell out of the novel, falling right into your lap. It was folded into fourths, Peter’s inked penmanship seeping through the other side as you picked it up with raised eyebrows and opened it curiously.

It was a list of addresses. There were five of them, each crossed off except for the very last one.

218 Front Street, Vinegar Hill, NY

You’d be lying if you said that the information wasn’t piquing your interest. Perhaps it was the journalist in you, or the weird feeling in your gut as you searched up each of the locations on your phone.

Sketchy warehouses in alleyways? What did Peter have to do with these?

Concerned that he still hadn’t responded to your text and bothered by the number of waiters who had approached you with the same wandering question as to whether you were ready to order, you called him.

After three long rings, it went straight to voicemail.

‘Is this recording? Hello? Hey, it’s Peter! Leave a message and I’ll try to get back to you whenever I can. Thanks! … God, that was ter—‘

Beep. Click.

“Hey, Peter.” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose as you thought of what to say. “I’m at the restaurant right now, or well — I have been for the past hour. Let me know if we’re still on, alright?” You pursed your lips with a hopeful look. “I’ll be here waiting… and I hope that you’re okay, whatever you’re up to. See you.”

Yet as another thirty minutes passed by, you were starting to believe that Peter wasn’t going to show — maybe he wasn’t feeling well, maybe he got caught up somewhere, or perhaps outright ditched you. You refused to be emotional or show immaturity about it, but you were completely disappointed that he couldn’t even send you a simple text or return your call with an update. What ever happened to communication? If Peter couldn’t make it tonight, then why would he make plans with you in the first place? Did the hopeful conversation in the café even mean anything?

You felt wrong doubting Peter. You knew his intentions were genuine, yet you couldn’t prevent how your mind turned against you and told you an entirely opposite story in the conditions of self-sabotage. It felt pointless waiting for Peter’s ghost to show up and sit in front of you as if you hadn’t been trying to convince yourself that you didn’t look stupid in the hours you’d been waiting.

Whatever it was, he stood you up.

No text. No explanation. Not even a call as you walked back to the apartment with slumped shoulders and a heart that felt too heavy. The night that was supposed to be perfect for either of you had faded into mere disillusionment, leaving you alone in the dark as you shuffled through the hallway and shakily unlocked your apartment door with teary eyes. You sniffled, pressing the back of your hand to your forehead as you tried to push back the wave of pitiful waterworks that threatened to spill down your face.

“God, I’m so dumb…” You hissed, flicking on the lamp in the living room as you harshly threw your purse and the paperback of Pride and Prejudice onto the coffee table. “Why did I think this was a good idea? What the fuck was I thinking? Come on, Y/N.”

You breezed through your apartment while shrugging the puffer jacket off your shoulders and undoing the button of your jeans; you wanted nothing more than to sulk in your pajamas with a tub of ice cream.

God, ice cream sounded really good right now. Plus, a romantic comedy — no, even better: a sad movie.

A really sad movie.

You were halfway through your film when a weak knock at your door echoed through your kitchen. You didn’t think much of it until the person knocked a few more times, clearly not taking the hint. With a frustrated sigh, you paused the movie and padded over barefoot towards the sound.

You didn’t even bother to clean up the haphazardly thrown blanket and crumpled tissues that were piled on the sofa in the time you’d spent trying to not think about how horrible your night had gone, because who would show up this late unannounced?

You refused to think about Peter.

Peter, who still hadn’t answered your calls.

Peter, who didn’t show up at dinner.

Peter, who stood at your front door covered in blood and dirt as if he’d been through hell and back.

“Y/N…” He coughed out, his chapped lips dripping with reddened saliva as he fought to stand properly. Peter’s bloodshot eyes slowly met your expression of shock and disbelief. “I’m so sorry, I was so excited for tonight,” He sucked in a deep shuddering breath as the words rushed out of his mouth. “I didn’t mean to stand you up.”

“Peter.” You clutched onto him immediately with trembling fingers, voice cracking at the sight of him.

“Please, don’t be mad at me.” His whole weight shifted onto you. “I really wanted to be there.” He groaned loudly, wincing when he tried to laugh it off. “God, I was really looking forward to some Italian food. Really wanted to share a noodle with you and pretend we were in Lady and the Tramp. I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you. Do you like tacos? You like tacos, yeah?”

Your gaze followed the position of his hands, clutching his lower stomach tightly as shades of crimson stained his beautiful palms. You couldn’t stop staring at the scabs on his knuckles, as if he had been in a fight, as if he had been attacked. The bloody cuts along his jaw and cheekbones were equally as concerning, and you found yourself fearful for someone other than yourself for the first time in ages.

Not since that night with your parents.

Not since that morning you lost Sam.

“Oh, my god! What the hell happened? I’m calling an ambulance. Holy shit, Pete.”

You were panicking, because he looked like he was going to pass out any second. Yet, the growing smile on his face never wavered, not even with the bleeding stab wound on his torso.

“Y/N… Y/N,” One of his hands came to touch your jaw, leaving sticky blood on you as you frantically looked at him. Your mind raced in distress. “No ambulances. Y/N, stop. Relax.”

You wordlessly took him under your shoulder, carefully laying him onto your sofa before you ran around to find your phone. He got up and followed you like the pain was nothing — because to him, it was.

He’d heal in a matter of hours, but he could never make up for the fact he failed to show up for your date.

“Relax? You want me to fucking relax?” You huffed as the reality of the situation became even more real when he groaned in agony, holding himself up by your kitchen counter. “Are you crazy? You’re bleeding!”

“I’m gonna be fine.” Peter shook his head at you with half-lidded eyes. “You need to listen to me.”

You rushed over to him, caressing his face with worry through blurred vision.

“Baby, you are bleeding. I cannot fix this. I cannot fix you. Peter, you need to go to a hospital.”

Somehow, his grin became brighter.

“Did you just call me baby?”

You gaped at him. “Oh, my god! Now? Seriously? You are insufferable!“

“More like I’m in suffering. But you know, have it your way.” He shrugged in amusement, taking in the silence that fell upon your tongue as you found your phone. You glanced up at him for a brief second before your thumbs quickly flew across the dial pad. “Y/N — Y/N, put it down. I’m not kidding, stop it. This is excessive.”

“Who did this to you?”

“I’m fine. End the call.”

You whined, “Peter, you’re hurt. I have to call someone.”

His eyes were pleading. “End the call.”

“And if something happens to you? What am I supposed to do?”

“You don’t have to do anything. I just need you, Y/N.”

You didn’t even waste a moment to look at him, pressing the phone closer to your cheek as you bit your nail in anxiety. “Hello? Yes, I have an emergency…”

“Y/N. Don’t do this.”

“Shut up, Parker.”

Peter murmured desperate swears under his breath as you paced across the room. He hissed loudly and prayed to the ceiling above him as he acted on impulse.

He hoped this was the right choice.

“Oh, fucking hell.”

The boy swiftly pushed up the sleeve of his jacket without hesitation. In mere seconds, your phone was laying on the floor — cracked, broken, and webbed. You followed the glimmering string of silk with wide eyes, to where Peter’s wrist had a black device clasped around it. His hazel irises were glossed over, not from the pain of his wounds but from the revelation that was forced out of his own want.

And you saw it then — the familiar red and blue material under the torn cotton of his shirt.

The symbol of New York City’s valiant hero that bled through his garments as if it were part of his body.

As if it were part of Peter. As if Peter was him.

Spider-Man.

-

TAGLIST - (open! some blogs are unable to be tagged)

@silverwindptv @kdatthecastle @pufflepride @whatevergea @xthecyber @fandomscombine @carryon-doctor-lock @family-buisnes @hanniebee33 @renaroo123 @andeys-obsessions @ouralcohol @abibliophobiaa @spidergraph @milfodyssey @parkerssss @draw-back-your-bow @agustdeeyaa @ghostedgwen @mayxn15 @good-vibes-and-glitter

[istillmissyou2]

begin again (5)

pairing: tasm!peter parker x f!reader

tags: tooth rotting fluff, some angst, mentions of wounds and vague depiction of panic attacks, one bed trope, weddings and yk all that

summary: peter deals with the aftermath of your family’s revelation, and swears to protect you. but he finds himself becoming vulnerable for you every second.

note: lol this chapter was cute…. enjoy this early release! comment or send an ask for the taglist ;)

missing out? ➤ [my masterlist] - [series masterpost]

Peter couldn’t breathe. His throat felt tight and his lips could barely move, almost as if he had webbed his own mouth shut. The bathroom lights were too bright and the humming of the bulbs were driving him insane. He picked up on every tiny sound — the leaky faucet in the kitchen, the scraping of silverware against porcelain, the groaning of pipes inside the wall. He could hear the rushing of blood inside him, and it harmonized with the ringing in his ears.

The room felt eerily cold.

Wilson Grant Fisk. New York’s token crime lord. Leader of organized crime. Great enemy of the syndicate group known as the Maggia. Powerful. Wealthy. Deadly. Four-hundred and fifty pounds of pure brute and muscle.

And a fucking piece of shit.

To the public eye, the heavyset man was simply nothing but a powerful businessman and wealthy philanthropist. He’d done his noble part in donating to charity, funding activists and establishing foundations around New York.

But to Peter, the man was nothing but rot.

Peter shuddered audibly as he looked at himself in the mirror. His pupils were dark and his lips appeared chapped, as if he had gone through hell in the past ten minutes he’d spent hiding in the bathroom (and he was going through hell). His skin felt itchy and the palms of his hands grew cramped as he gripped tightly at the sink counter. The feeling reminded him of the rainy nights he’d spent alone at Aunt May’s, scrubbing at the blood on his skin as he sat by the edge of the tub. It reminded him that the world was still just as cruel and dark as he remembered it to be and that wherever he went, ruin inevitably followed him no matter how happy he was.

No matter rain or shine, the day or occasion, he was always going to be Spider-Man somehow.

Peter had his fair share of encounters with Fisk’s coalition. It never led to good things, and caused more altercations with their rival gang Maggia as well. Robberies, bank heists, kidnappings — Peter had dealt with all of their bullshit and he had gotten himself into trouble every single time. He’d come home to the apartment with gashes on his side, highlighting the outline of his ribs; you’d hear the brunt end of it, unaware that the hissing and groaning on the other side of the wall was the product of Peter’s poor stitchwork.

A knock on the door caused him to tense up. He pushed himself off the sink counter, approaching the door with a defensive stance. He leaned his cheek against the thick wood, pressing his ear to it.

Oh. Your heartbeat. He’d recognize it from anywhere.

“Pete?”

His shoulders relaxed. He didn’t hesitate to turn the knob and open it. You stood worried, wringing your hands together against your dress; Peter could see the anxiety in the tangles of your hair, in which you had been running your fingers through nervously as you looked for him. In the middle of dinner, Peter had run off as a stuttering mess without an explanation. You chased after him in a flurry of concern, wondering if you had done something wrong or if this was too much for him. He exhaled once your eyes met his. “Are you okay? You look awful.”

You have a criminal living right under your nose.

He forced himself out of his trance, scoffing at the remark. “Wow, thanks.”

“I’m just saying how it is.”

“Y/N, I’m good,” You narrowed your eyes, wondering why his tone was suddenly sharp. He picked up on it, then cleared his throat to speak with a softer voice. “Just not a big fan of — of that kind of food. Nothing beats the classic microwave and tea on an empty stomach, which I’m sure you know a lot about. Coffee addict.”

You saw right through his lie. You didn’t laugh at the jab.

“Pete, are you sure you’re okay?”

He nodded through gritted teeth. “I’ve never been better, Y/N.”

Footsteps approached, and Peter felt himself tensing up again — just when he had relaxed at the sight of you, Fisk stood in the hallway.

The looming image of his suit and gold cane left a hitch in Peter’s breath. His nails dug into his hands, and he bit down harshly on his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

“You two alright?”

“Just peachy.” Peter huffed with a firm nod of his head, licking his lips. You were taken aback when the boy grabbed your arm abruptly, pulling you to stand behind him. He didn’t let go of you, but his grip tightened around your skin with every word he said. “You know what, we were actually gonna head to bed early.” He glanced at you, and you took it as a sign to follow along.

“Yeah, I…” You hesitated. “We’re pretty tired from the drive. I think we’ll call it a night, Wilson.” You shrugged with one shoulder, putting on your best smile as Peter started to lead you out the hall. “Thanks for dinner.”

Peter’s steps were quick, tugging you behind him as you whispered questions under your breath and tried to match his pace.

“It was great meeting you, Peter.” Fisk spoke slowly.

His laugh was bitter as he looked over his shoulder with a piercing scowl. “You too, Mister Fisk.”

Peter didn’t speak until you reached the bedroom. The tension was unbearable. You could tell your neighbor was trying to mask his anxiety; it was too noticeable from the way his hands trembled and his jaw flexed under the shadows of the yellow-hued room. You shut the bedroom door behind you as he sat on the edge of the queen bed, hunching over as he stared vacantly at the floor. You didn’t move from your place, surveying him from afar as questions of your own started to arise. You leaned against the door with your hands behind your back, swaying on your heels.

“What is your issue?” You asked blankly. Part of him was scaring you, but you had a feeling that this was deeper than he was letting on.

He shook his finger at you, almost like he was thinking aloud. “Fisk is your…”

“My aunt’s boyfriend.”

“And – and how long have they…?”

“Like six years. Why?”

“Just curious.”

You huffed loudly, drawing Peter’s gaze towards the sound. His head perked up as you approached and sat beside him. “Then why do you look scared shitless?”

He turned to you with an offended look. “I’m not scared shitless.”

“You sure look like it. Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?”

“Wilson Fisk is… he’s a bad man, Y/N.” You stared at him, chewing on the inside of your mouth.

“Yeah. I know, Peter.”

The nonchalant tone of your admission left him perplexed. “What?”

You laughed at him. You just laughed, and Peter was even more confused because this wasn’t a laughing matter.

“You don’t think I know what a background check is? Peter, Wilson Fisk is all over New York. The Fisk Tower, everything. I’d be stupid not to research him, especially if he’s dating my aunt.” You paused, sucking in a breath. “Can I be honest with you?” A beat. “I joined the Bugle because...” Another beat. “Well, I’m sure you’ve realized that my parents aren’t around anymore…”

“Yeah.” He sighed. “God, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, Peter. I’m fine. I figured – I figured my parents were nobodies. They were good people, but at the end of the day they were nobody. My family was always well-off, but when Wilson – when Fisk, made his way into our lives, it just changed. I thought we were in New York that time for a vacation. But, fuck, we were there for a business deal.” You lowered your voice, glancing at the door with apprehension. “And we got mugged, and it couldn’t have been a coincidence. I know Fisk had something to do with their murders, and so I joined the Bugle because I need help. And the only person who can help me with this level of a threat is Spider-Man. It’s a reach, I know — but if he saved me once, he can do it again.”

Peter looked at you with such intensity. Your speech knocked the wind out of him, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away from his reflection in your eyes.

Familiarity.

Your eyes. He knew you.

That young girl he saved in Hell’s Kitchen with the bullet that barely grazed her arm. The girl that looked at him with such longing that guilted him because he couldn’t save her parents. The girl that, even when he was beating her parents’ murderers to a pulp, stopped him and touched his fist with such tenderness as if he wasn’t covered in blood.

The girl that looked at him like she could just see through his mask.

You were her. And it made so much sense now.

“Was that too much?”

He stared at you with his lips slightly parted, breathing heavily as you blinked at him. “Y/N, you have no fucking idea what you’re dealing with.” Peter stood from the bed, interlocking his hands behind his head as he paced back and forth in front of you. “Shit. Shit. Shit!”

“Dude! Hello?! You are being so confusing!” You snapped at Peter, jumping up from your position.

“Oh, jeez. If only you knew.”

“Knew what?” Your gestures were wide and dramatic, outstretching your arms into the air as your face contorted into irritation. “What is going on with you?” His breathing quickened, and your face fell as his chest began to heave abnormally fast. “Hey. Hey, Peter.” You stepped in front of him, resting your hands upon his shoulders. The motion caused his distracted gaze to frantically meet yours. You flashed a strained smile at him. “Hey, you. Easy, there. Breathe with me.”

One. Inhale. Two. Exhale.

He was swimming in the color of your dilated eyes. His body calmed itself at your touch, and Peter followed your pace of breaths while you refused to break his stare.

And again, it felt as if you were seeing right through him.

Fuck it.

“Y/N,” Peter began, jaw trembling. His fumbling hands grabbed your arms, and he shook you gently. “Y/N, I’m Spid—“

The bedroom door opened with a creak. Jessica peeked her head through the crack, concerned but amused eyes bouncing between you and Peter.

“Wilson mentioned you guys left? Am I interrupting something?”

You and Peter looked at her with wide eyes. “Yes!”

She quickly closed the door, and Peter felt like every ounce of courage in his body had dissipated. He stood there, breathless. He knew he looked absolutely stupid with his mouth ajar and his nostrils flared. Your head turned to him attentively. “You were saying?”

“It was nothing.” Based on the frown on your lips, you didn’t look convinced. He laughed it off weakly, letting go of you. “It’s nothing. I swear.”

“You’re sure?”

“Definitely.”

You shifted on your feet. “Okay. If you ever need to bring it up again…”

“I don’t. Trust me.”

Yeah, totally. Way to go, Parker.

He was relieved, yet he felt nothing but foolish. Peter was angry at himself for being reckless once again, especially now that Fisk was involved. Had he told you about Spider-Man, it would’ve made you even more vulnerable, and that was the exact situation that Peter wanted to avoid. Hurting you. Finding you one minute too late in your apartment — hurt. His world was full of darkness, and Peter knew he couldn’t lose the light that you’ve brought into his life. He wondered if you had any idea of how much you’ve been a help to him, to his health, to his habits, to the sadness that lingered in the back of his mind; he wondered if you knew how much of a grip you had on him, even though he’d never admit it aloud.

There were many things he couldn’t admit to you.

But he knew that he needed to keep you safe.

Especially when you’d look at him like that, like you understood every part of him, even the parts of him that he couldn’t understand himself. It pained him, because he wanted to tell you things; he wanted to be as open as possible, but he’d rather keep to himself if that meant having you alive in his life.

Now that Peter thought about it, he wasn’t keeping things from you because of Spider-Man, but because he was a coward.

A cowardly fool.

He straightened himself out on the tiny loveseat as the light from the bathroom shut off, muttering curses under his breath as he pretended to scroll mindlessly through his phone. Peter kept his eyes trained on the screen as you walked past in a heavy sweatshirt, casually drying your hair with a towel as you rearranged the clothes in your luggage.

“You’re taking the sofa?” You piped up. He merely nodded in an effort to act occupied, not even bothering to look at you. His lack of interest made you frown, but you quickly covered it up before he could take note. “See anything interesting on there?”

He finally glanced at you. “Hm?”

Peter noticed that your shampoo scent changed, and that he’d never seen you in that sweatshirt. It was unfamiliar, yet he liked it on you.

He liked a lot of things about you.

“Do you do that often? The spacing out thing?”

“It’s called thinking, Y/N.” He smirked at you. “Dunno if you do much of it anyways.”

You scoffed. “You treat all your girlfriends like this?”

Girlfriend. Peter liked how it sounded coming out of your mouth. He tossed his phone into one of the pillows, smugly crossing his arms against his chest as he looked at you. “Only the fake ones.”

You zipped up your luggage, placing a hand on one of the bedposts with quizzical eyes. “Oh? Plural?” You bit your lip. “Exactly how many fake girlfriends have you had, Peter?”

He slowly grinned with realization. “Are you jealous?”

“Nope.” You huffed, turning away. “I don’t get jealous of fake relationships. Or any — or any relationships.”

“Sure, Y/N.”

“I’m serious!”

He raised his hands in a surrender. “No, no, trust me. I believe you.” You playfully shook your head at him. “No need to be defensive.” He sat up, peering at you from across the room with puppy eyes. “You’re the only fake girlfriend I’ve had.”

“Very reassuring, Peter.” It shouldn’t have made you giddy, but it did. It was pathetic how a simple comment such as that made you smile. You forced yourself to keep a neutral face as you slipped under the bedsheets. “Lights off?”

“It’s your call.”

“Night, then.”

Peter sighed, throwing a blanket over his head. “Night.”

It was quiet. And for once, it felt cozy.

Yet Peter appeared cramped from his spot on the loveseat; his long legs were bent at an awkward angle, and you stifled a sleepy laugh at how he curled up like a ball. It was oddly endearing, seeing the grown man tossing and turning on either side of his body with frustration as he tried to withhold his sighs. Peter was obviously awake and the shifting of his movements wasn’t making it any easier for you to fall asleep.

You cleared your throat, hoping you’d catch his attention for a moment. “Comfortable over there?”

“Luxurious.” He mumbled almost immediately, like he anticipated your question. “You?”

“Spacious. I give it five stars, honestly.” You stared at the wall clock with wide eyes now, watching the second hand tick loudly in the darkness of the room. Pity loomed over you, having had plenty of experiences sleeping on an uncomfortable sofa, and you couldn’t help but become troubled at the idea of Peter waking up with a stiff neck and jumbled limbs. “Do you want to maybe… sleep here?”

Your voices were shy and quiet, but a tiny bit of excitement laced itself in your tone.

A breath escaped from his lips. “Like next to you?”

“You can take the other side.” You continued staring at the clock, ignoring how Peter’s head slightly raised from behind the loveseat. “I’m okay with anything.”

He paused, unsure of what to say next. “I don’t know about that.”

“You don’t have to.” You gulped as you suddenly felt dryness in your mouth. “Figured we’re, you know, both adults… and I guess I just want you to be comfortable.”

Another pause.

“I want you to be comfortable, Y/N.”

“Always am around you.” His heart skipped a beat.

Peter reluctantly got up from the other side of the room, padding over to the bed with short steps. Moonlight seeped through the drawn curtains, illuminating the conflict on his face and the jitteriness of his hands as he slid under the comforter. You felt his eyes searching your face, but you nervously trained your gaze to the ceiling. You were clutching the sheets tightly with newfound stiffness in your body as the bed dipped from added weight.

“Thanks.”

His jaw tensed as he tried not to move, not wanting to bother you with his restlessness. You felt dizzy as you attempted to even your breathing. Peter wasn’t sure where to put his arms, awkwardly tucking them by his sides as you continued to lay on your back. He could just feel the heat radiating off of you.

Silence, yet the both of you were wide-awake. You abruptly laughed at the awkward circumstances, and you cursed yourself as Peter’s head slightly rolled to the side to look at you.

“What’s so funny?”

“Hm.” You turned your neck. “Are you always this quiet?”

He yawned softly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrugged, squinting your eyes at him. “Just kinda surprised since you make all sorts of noise back in your apartment.” You pursed your lips together. “It’s not very neighborly of you.”

“Neighborly? You know what’s not neighborly? Talking to your neighbors through the wall. Like some weirdo.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to do all that if you’d be quiet at night. You know, when people are sleeping and stuff.”

“Yet you’re always awake, listening to me.”

“And how do you know I’m awake?”

Neither you or Peter had noticed how your bodies were fully facing one another at this point, distracted by your banter while your eyes glazed over the intensity on his face. You weren’t sure if it was the mindlessness that came with sleep, or if you were just too caught-up in the conversation to care, but you don’t shy away.

His arm briefly brushed against yours as he propped his elbow up on the pillow, resting his head against his palm. It felt intimate with how close together you were now, but you mirrored his position without a thought. The night beamed between the strands of your damp hair, hiding the rosiness that creeped up your cheekbones while the corners of your mouth tugged into a knowing smile.

“You’re infuriating.” Peter whispered raspily.

There was an unexplainable form of tenderness expressed in his words. Your tongue darted out to lick at your lips, and his brazen eyes shamelessly followed the motion.

“Have you met you?”

He wanted to lean in. Every fiber of his being told him to do it — to kiss you softly, to cup your jaw and caress you like you were the most gentle creature in the world, scared that he’d break you, scared that he’d like you even more and more till it ate him alive. And every inch of you pleaded longingly in silence, ‘kiss me,’ as if you could hear his thoughts, as if you could feel the fear in his heart and the aching of his bones.

But Peter didn’t lean in. He just couldn’t. Instead, his hand trailed down the side of your face, tucking a loop of hair behind your ear. You closed your eyes at the sensation of his warm fingertips, afraid to look at him as you helplessly leaned into his touch.

Is this what neighbors do?

“Shut up and go to sleep, Y/N.”

You could hear the smile in his words, but there was a hopeless yearning in his heart that bothered him. You slowly opened your eyes and touched the skin in which his fingers had ghosted over. And for some reason, you felt a little disappointed. Moving to lay on your back again, you simply looked up at the ceiling, afraid that your face would give away a different story.

“Why do you always do that?”

His pulse was racing. “Do what?”

You frowned. “Touch me like you — you care.”

Peter was so quiet, and had you not completely been focused on the timbre of his voice, you would’ve missed it.

“Because I do care.” He paused, inhaling shakily. “I care about you.”

He was lying. He did more than just care about you. It was such a small word for the great things he felt.

“As friends?

Fuck. The bile in his throat had nearly choked him, and you bit your lip as his body shifted under the sheets.

“Yeah.” You hummed at that. “Do you… do you like it?”

You rolled onto your side, facing him. He was watching you carefully. “The friend part or the touching?”

Touching you. He laughed meekly. “Mm, the friend part.”

“I like being your friend.”

“I do, too.”

Is this what friends do?

The two of you studied each other’s faces, desire sinking in your pupils as you admired his features in the dark. But what Peter least expected was you reaching out to touch him, coursing a careful hand through his hair. You tugged lightly, undoing the knotted tangles in his curls like he had precisely done to you. An unspoken message was exchanged as you smiled kindly at each other.

For once, he slept peacefully that night.

Maybe Peter had no reason to be a coward after all, but a fool — oh, becoming a hopeless, falling fool for you was inevitable.

The following evening felt like a regular day between you and Peter. Neither of you had brought up the events of last night; not even when Peter woke up with your leg pressed against his, or when you caught Peter taking up your side of the bed with his long limbs in the morning. It was as if nothing happened, yet everything did at the same time.

But it was the day of Jessica’s wedding, and Peter had to play the part as your boyfriend. It wasn’t so difficult as he watched you apply lipstick in the bathroom, unable to stop staring at your reflection in the mirror.

And again, it wasn’t so difficult when you stepped out in a long backless gown, leaving him at a loss for words. “Do I look good?” You ran your hands along your hips, smoothing down the silky material.

“Stunning.”

You laughed shyly, pressing your hand to the warmth of your cheek. “Do you need help with that, Peter?”

You gestured to his messy necktie, and his eyes widened as he began to stutter. “Oh, I… I think I’ll figure it — well, actually yeah. I do.” He sighed with a sheepish smile, rubbing his neck as you approached to help him. His eyes flickered down to you, keeping a level head while you adjusted his collar and hummed a soft tune under your breath.

His skin looked soft in the glow of the afternoon hour and it took every ounce of your self-control to not reach for him.

“There.” You smiled, patting the lapels of his blazer as you took a small step backwards. “You clean up nicely, by the way.”

His whole face tinged with bashfulness. “You too.”

-

The reception was undeniably beautiful — exaggerated, and a bit rich for your taste but nevertheless beautiful. Everything was made of dark wood, from the giant beams and gazebo-like overhang as the ceiling, to the drink bar, to the floorboards. It was rustic in a cozy sense with clumps of leafy foliage and orange string lights dangling from above, accenting the white tables and chairs. Though it was outdoor, and the middle of winter in Jersey was practically freezing, you believed the backyard venue was as perfect as it could be.

Yet, your attention remained on Peter, who had been looking at you for the entirety of the earlier wedding ceremony. He had spared a few quick gazes at you in hopes of being subtle, yet, Peter hadn’t realized that he was the only thing occupying your mind, and the weight of his stare made your face hot. Moreso, the way his eyes would shift to your hands in your lap, as if he wanted to hold them. And even when Jessica and Issac were exchanging their vows, Peter just couldn’t stop stealing a glance at you. You ruled out the possibility that it was your imagination playing tricks, because even when you had your arm interlocked around Peter’s as you walked around the venue, he still couldn’t stop looking. Part of you knew he was just trying to sell the vision as your ‘boyfriend,’ but he was doing it too well — even when people weren’t looking at you or engaging with you both, he still had his arm out to guide you and his eyes trained on you as if there was no other person in the room but you.

But although the fluttering excitement from Peter’s touches and his glances were coursing adrenaline through your body, you couldn’t help but feel a bit saddened.

Weddings.

It reminded you of Sam and what could’ve been. It reminded you of the engagement band that was tucked away in your nightstand back home, collecting dust like it had collected countless memories. It reminded you of what it felt like to be loved, and your flaws, and the way Sam had been too good to be true.

Peter squeezed your hand softly, noticing the glaze over your eyes before you blinked back any form of emotion. You smiled weakly, and he frowned because he knew then what was wrong. “Oh, Y/N. I’m — I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s nothing to worry about. I just feel… dunno, it makes me feel a bit sad.” The two of you moved to lean on either side of a wooden beam, crossing your arms over your chests.

“Yeah. I can’t imagine how hard this might be.” He paused, biting the nail of his thumb. “Did you have it planned out?” You hummed to acknowledge his question. “The wedding with Sam and all?”

Your laugh was wistful. “No, not at all. We wanted to wing it, see what kind of chaos we could pull off.” Peter allowed the silence to take over, the conversation ending as a soft piano played in the background and the chatter of people began to grow. “Do you want something to drink?”

Maybe he shouldn’t have brought it up. Peter winced, shooting you a close-lipped smile and a shake of his head. “I’m good. You go get wasted, I’ll be the sober boyfriend.” You sent him a funny glare over your shoulder before you approached the bar, tapping your nails against the countertop while you sent a few glances his way. Once you were out of earshot, Peter had let out a tired sigh and a string of pointless mumbling. “Yeah, fake boyfriend. Jeez.”

Peter decided on leaving you alone to give you some space. He knew what you were feeling to a point. The constant reminders of loss and pain were something he also dealt with because of Gwen’s death. A few years ago, all it would take was for Peter to see a bouquet of flowers before he’d be crying into the sleeve of his jacket, or he’d pass by the Brooklyn Bridge and be in tears by the time he got home. Peter became accustomed to it though, but grief was different for everyone — the least he could do is comfort you and give you room to breathe.

He had been so occupied thinking about you, he hadn’t even noticed the tingling of his heightened senses; that never happened before, and it worried him.

He quickly scanned the gazebo before his eyes met Fisk’s, who had already been staring at him from one of the tables. The boy nodded his head politely, feigning a smile before Fisk excused himself and made his way over to him.

“Ah, Peter.” The bald man grinned toothily. The sound of his cane tapping against the floorboards was loud in Peter’s ears, drowning out the noise of laughter from the other guests. “Beautiful venue, isn’t it?”

“It’s great.”

“I take it you and Y/N have discussed…?”

Marriage?

Peter froze up, feeling his jaw grow tight. “No.” He laughed wryly, shaking his head as he tucked his fists into the pockets of his dress pants. “Not at all.”

“It would be a shame,” Fisk took a drink from the glass in his hand, raising it to a few groups of people who passed by. He let out a loud breath of satisfaction. “If you lost someone as determined, beautiful and,” He chuckled. “…wealthy as she is. Well, I mean, her family. It’s a sad story, what happened with her—.”

“Yeah, her parents,” Peter turned to glower at him. A scowl made its way onto his face, deepening the wrinkles of his forehead. “I know what happened.”

Was he gloating? Peter didn’t like where this conversation was headed, especially when Fisk was making the topic about you. At this point, Peter would have rathered Fisk to know of his identity as Spider-Man, than your actual one.

Fisk gave him a subtle once-over. “You’re from New York as well?” Peter nodded, checking over his shoulder to look at you. You were speaking with the bartender, unaware of the current interaction. “Familiar with Spider-Man, then?”

Fuck.

“Not really a fan.” Peter raised his eyebrows, speaking with venom directed towards the criminal. “Personally, I think he’s a bit of a dick. And the whole spandex thing he got going on? Awful.”

Fisk laughed heartily and downed the last drops of his drink. “Mhm, I see you’ll fit right in with this family.” Peter held back a scoff. “Perhaps you should pay me a visit when you’re back in the city. You and Y/N, I’d love to give you a tour of the new tower. Just renovated it, it’s quite beautiful.”

“Appreciate it.”

“Hey!” Peter turned towards the familiar voice to see you walking over. He noticed the small quirk of your eyebrow, almost as if you were asking him what was happening. He shifted uncomfortably, hoping you’d also take note of the message. “Wilson. Good to see you in something other than a white tux.” You were a bit tipsy, and for once Peter was thankful that you were talkative. You pressed yourself into his side, snuggling up to his arm before you looked into his worried eyes. “We’re gonna go dance now, yeah?”

“Yeah,” He met Fisk’s glare. “Excuse us.”

Peter softened at the way you tugged him towards the dance floor, wondering if you had any clue at what had just happened. An upbeat 80s’ song had been playing over the speakers; the bass drummed through your bodies as you swayed to the music. Peter allowed himself to smile, even though he was deeply disturbed from the earlier conversation between him and Fisk.

He did his best to keep up with the beat, feeling awkward with his long limbs and tall frame.

“What’d he say?” You neared Peter, leaning towards his ear so that he could hear you better (not that he needed to, because frankly, he could hear everything).

“Offered a visit to the tower.” Your face scrunched up. “Hey, you’re not going.”

“Peter.”

“I know you want to find out what happened with your parents, but…”

You interrupted him, slightly raising your voice in frustration. “If I could get info, it would be there.”

“But you’re not going unless I am.” He reached for your arm. “Look, I know how important this is to you. And I know I can’t… I can’t really stop you because you’re stubborn, and you’re you, which means you’re not gonna follow anything I say.” He laughed, knowing that he’d regret doing this once the moment came. “Who am I to stop you anyways?”

A smile broke out onto your face, and you nodded in agreement to his deal. “Thank you, Pete.”

His gaze lingered for longer than it should have. “Anytime, Y/N.”

The music faded into a gentle, romantic melody of guitar strings and drums. People began to leave the floor while a few couples flooded in, leaving you and Peter standing in the middle with uncertainty of what to do with yourselves. He fiddled with his tie, and you cleared your throat as you looked at the ground. The blood rushed to your cheeks as soon as you realized it was a slow dance, and Peter cursed to himself for thinking about how beautiful you looked when you were shy.

With shallow breaths, Peter outstretched his hand. You looked at it, then him, searching his eyes as if you were looking for something. If Peter couldn’t admit his feelings, then maybe, at least, he could give you a dance.

“May I?” He whispered softly. You nodded, and you rested your palms on Peter’s shoulders without a second thought, letting him take the lead as he guided you by the waist.

“Didn’t think you were the dancing type.”

His eyelashes fluttered, avoiding the butterflies in his stomach as you gazed up at him. “I’m not.”

Your lips twitched. “Neither am I.”

“Well, you haven’t stepped on my toes yet so…” He twirled you around slowly. It made you blush, leaving the apples of your cheeks incredibly hot. “I suppose you’re off to a great start.”

Suddenly feeling self-conscious, you turned your face away from him, unable to take the intimacy of the moment. You rested your head against his blazer, staining it with makeup. You trained your gaze on the snowflakes from outside the gazebo, watching as it built patterns of snow among the grass. You made Peter nervous, like he was a boy in highschool taking a girl to prom. But it felt nice, as if it was meant to be. As if this feeling was always supposed to be familiar to him. He liked the image of your arms slung around the back of his neck.

“Peter, everyone’s looking at us.”

He glanced around, biting his lip. “Are they?”

“Yeah.”

A sweet chuckle left his throat.

“Y/N, I think they’re looking at you.” Your lips parted, but Peter went on to speak before you could continue. “I bet they’re wondering, what is this beautiful girl doing dancing with a complete idiot like that guy?”

The words found solace in the depths of your heart.

Maybe it was liquid courage, but your mouth worked faster than your brain.

“Why didn’t you kiss me last night?”

Peter almost fell to his knees. Your head lifted off of his shoulder. His eyes met yours, and he could see then, that you were being genuine. He gulped, and your arms tightened around him anxiously.

“I wanted to.”

Your hand travelled along his neck, up his cheek and to his temple before you played with his hair yet again like you had done hours before.

“What’s stopping you from kissing me now?”

“Everything.” He breathed out in a desperate tone, voice faltering as his grip tightened on you. “You’re drunk, Y/N.”

You scoffed, continuing to follow his steps. “Barely.”

“Would you say this stuff if you were sober?”

“I am sober.”

You didn’t break eye contact once.

Peter’s fingers tucked themselves beneath your chin, slightly tilting your jaw upwards. He hesitated as his eyes flickered to your lips, and you leaned forward. He pulled back a little to let his breath ghost against your face, before his other hand rested upon the exposed skin of your back. His nose bumped against yours, and you shakily exhaled. Your eyes were telling him an entire story, as if you’d been waiting for this moment. They told him you were fearful, you were excited, you were nervous, and that you wanted this as much as he did. He savored the feeling of your skin, the peak of his nose squishing against your cheek as if touching you was enough.

You could stop him right now, and he’d still be just as happy.

“Y/N, this isn’t neighborly at all.” He whispered, licking his lips as he pressed his forehead against yours. He could feel your chest against his, hearing your heart pound drastically.

You smiled, and Peter’s top lip barely brushed over yours. “And what do you know about that?”

“I know lots of things.”

“Like?”

“Like this.” His lips parted as his head tilted to meet you. His soft mouth connected to yours in a slow, drawn-out kiss. You tugged at Peter’s bottom lip with your teeth, eyelids opening slightly to survey his expression. He liked it, judging by the way he stepped closer towards you and his hands completely enveloped the frame of your face. You brushed his hair back, sighing against his swollen lips as you pulled away for relief. “And this.” You couldn’t help but moan into his mouth, hoping he hadn’t heard it before he was softly peppering your skin with kisses.

“Peter…” You rubbed his jawline. His hand moved to the back of your neck to hold you. “Pete.”

He swiftly pulled back from your tone of voice, immediately searching your eyes. “Is — is this too much?”

Your nose pressed against his as you blinked up at him through your lashes. “You should’ve kissed me last night.”

He melted.

“I wish I did.” His hand found yours, and he squeezed tightly knowing that he was safe with you. “I wanna… I wanna tell you a lot of things.” You nodded at him. “I’m just… I’m not ready.”

“S’okay.” You smiled with understanding, shaking your head. “Nothing needs to change.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

You rested your forehead against his, blissfully shutting your eyes as the song began to dwindle to an end. You could still feel Peter’s lips on yours, how gentle he was. His curls tickled against your skin, causing a soft, natural giggle to leave you. Peter basked in the sound.

All of his senses, they were full of you. And as he watched you smile and laugh for the remainder of the night, he found himself falling even deeper than before.

-

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@silverwindptv @kdatthecastle @pufflepride @whatevergea @xthecyber @fandomscombine @carryon-doctor-lock @family-buisnes @hanniebee33 @renaroo123 @andeys-obsessions @ouralcohol @abibliophobiaa @spidergraph @milfodyssey @parkerssss @draw-back-your-bow

[istillmissyou2]

begin again (4)

pairing: tasm!peter parker x f!reader

tags: crush galore, pining, mentions of loss and gwen stacy, mentions of family issues, mentions of loneliness, like 4k words of fluff and plot

summary: you and peter leave new york for dinner for your cousin’s wedding. he senses that your family is hiding a huge secret — until his suspicions are confirmed when a familiar guest arrives late to dinner.

note: a lot of this chapter contained filler and just tons of pining between pete and the reader buttttt… we got a big bad coming up real soon in this story!! thx for the reads!!!

missing out? ➤ [my masterlist] - [series masterpost]

Peter Parker did like weddings. He was in love with the idea of other people in love, and to witness such a sacred moment between couples was considered an honor to him. Maybe it was because he wished that he’d get to experience something like that one day. One day, hopefully. It made him smile. Peter was one of those people who had his life extensively planned out — from how many kids he wanted (he even had baby names in the notes app of his phone), if he wanted dogs or cats in the house, what kind of husband and what kind of father he’d be. He had to admit that when he was with Gwen, he imagined that exact life with her. He imagined running away, abandoning New York and the suit for a family. He wanted to settle down in the quiet suburbs, maybe somewhere in Maryland or upstate Maine. Peter had this vision of letting Gwen decorate their little house however she wanted, because frankly he wasn’t the best interior designer. He wanted a big yard and a trampoline, perhaps even a climbing wall. He wanted to wake up next to the blonde-haired girl and not have to worry about Spider-Man.

Yet, the universe always somehow ruined his plans. Peter wasn’t entirely pessimistic, knowing that if he tried hard enough, maybe he’d have that life of his own one day. Just not with Gwen. And that’d be okay with him, because he knew it would be okay with her; there had to be a reason she was present for only a sliver of his life.

For someone who liked being holed up in his apartment and playing video games, Peter found it unlike himself to be hauling luggage into the parking structure below the apartment.

“I’m surprised you even own a car. I never see you take it.” Peter’s voice echoed against the concrete pillars as he threw the bags into your trunk.

“You should be surprised I even have a license.” You grinned, catching his eye in the rear-view mirror before he circled around to the passenger seat. He looked at you nervously, like your words worried him. “Oh, trust me. You’ll be fine, but maybe now’s the time for religion because you’ll be praying once I hit a curb.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if I drove?” Peter gestured to the steering wheel, gandering at how your personality even affected the interior of your vehicle — the Spider-Man themed air freshener that hung down the mirror, the album copies you had inside the dash, the little plush toy that sat in the backseat staring lifelessly at him. Everything was you even in the car and he was basking in it and all its glorified cuteness.

“Is it because I’m a woman?” The question stunned him, and his mouth started moving quicker than his brain, therefore running him speechless. “I’m kidding, Parker. Don’t worry, I won’t be accusing you of misogyny anytime soon.”

He laughed nervously. “Very funny, Y/N.” Peter glanced out the window next to him with wide eyes and a hand through his hair.

This was going to be a long trip.

New York to New Jersey was almost a two hour drive. But with you as the driver, Peter had a feeling that two hours would turn into four. You had stopped at a couple convenience shops already to use the bathroom, returning to the car with a handful of candy and chips that Peter had to restrain himself from eating because he didn’t want to seem rude. You insisted with bright eyes after you’d noticed him staring at the bags and handed him the same brand of granola bar he had offered you previously in his apartment; his eyes never left your face as he took it from you with a smile.

That time, your fingers brushed over his.

The Cure played softly on the radio as you drummed your hands against the steering wheel. You were humming along to the lyrics as you checked your blind spot; in the mirror, you caught Peter’s eyes looking at you.

You bit back a grin, and he noticed.

“I wonder how Webster is doing.” You thought aloud, turning off your signal light.

“Hope he choked on catnip or something.”

“Hey! That’s rude.” You raised your eyebrows at him. You attempted to reach for your slurpee, hands fumbling as you multitasked looking at the highway and finding your drink. “I’m sure Mrs. Rodriguez is pleased with having a feline presence for once instead of those annoying chihuahuas.”

Peter shook his head, raising the plastic slurpee cup to you. He had figured you were going to take it from him, but you simply angled your head and suctioned your lips around the straw, slurping loudly. His eyes nearly bulged out of his sockets at the motion, clearing his throat mousily as he looked out the window once more.

The cityline was pretty, but the reflection of you in the glass sporting a beanie and scarf was even prettier.

Peter found himself laughing more than he had laughed in a while. He hadn’t met someone with such similar humor to him, someone who understood every nerdy reference he made, someone who could catch up with the speed in which his brain worked, someone who matched his level of energy and more.

Not that dating had any correlation towards you — but when Peter first re-introduced himself to the world of dating and dating apps (per Aunt May’s latest obsession to his surprise), he really couldn’t stand it. In every girl he saw, or at least tried to see, he would end up comparing them to Gwen. Even worse, he’d try to find Gwen in them. It wasn’t that he was doing it on purpose, but he wanted to seal the hole in his chest that Gwen had left so suddenly, and each date became harder for his conscience to keep up with.

But now, talking and getting to know more of you, not once did he catch himself trying to find Gwen in the innocence of your smile or the crinkles by your eyes.

Peter saw you.

He didn’t feel the need to compare, instead he wished that he could introduce Gwen to you. He wanted to tell her how amazing it was to hold a conversation with you, how you were so understanding of his loss, how you bickered with him like you’d known him forever. You understood him so well, and it riddled him speechless every time.

“So, just to prepare you, Peter. My extended family is very — very eccentric.”

He snapped his fingers. “Ah, I suppose that’s where you get it from.”

“Peter, seriously, listen to me. They’re a bunch of rich east coast pricks with CEOs for husbands and probably haven’t worked a day in their life. They just reek of privilege and old money. Had it not been for my cousin… and what I owe this family… we wouldn’t be on our way right now.” You exhaled loudly. Peter noted how your knuckles turned white around the steering wheel. “They’re super judgemental, like a bunch of snakes. Don’t be surprised if they say some bullshit about you or bullshit about me. And I don’t know why, but my family has something against Spider-Man, especially my aunt’s boyfriend so please don’t… don’t bring anything up.”

Peter had an inkling that something was horribly suspicious about this extended family of yours. The only people who seemed to hate his identity were criminals and J. Jonah Jameson. Maybe even a couple more people, but a whole family except you? He was already on edge. A privileged family with old money full of nothing but assholes seemed to really fit the description of high-class criminals. Peter groaned internally at his thought process. Was he really labelling your family as criminals right now? On the way for your cousin’s wedding rehearsal and three-course dinner that you graciously invited him to? Did his service as New York’s vigilante influence his mind that much?

However, Peter wanted to be meticulous. He didn’t know what he was walking into but the Spider-Man suit was folded neatly at the bottom of his luggage if anything. At least he’d have eyes on you. Protect you, even though you weren't his responsibility.

“They don’t know you work for the Bugle?”

You shook your head. “You could say I’m the Spider-Man of this family because no one knows what I’m up to and I’d like to keep it that way. We haven’t seen each other in person for years.”

The Spider-Man of this family.

“What do they know, Y/N?”

Peter had realized you’d woven a pretty intricate web of lies for your family. They knew that you lived in Chelsea, when you actually lived in Queens, working a marketing job for a graphic design company that was supposed to be up and coming. They knew that you’d been dating around, and you stressed to Peter that the last time you had talked to them, they assumed you had a boyfriend. You told Peter there was no boyfriend, obviously, and you haven’t even dated anyone in years after Sam — but you were being pressured into “remarrying,” quoting your Aunt Katherine, ‘Boobs eventually get saggier. You’re running out of time.’ Peter could tell how stressful this was for you, and with every approaching mile, he could see the build-up of your anxiety through your rambling.

“Y/N, you’ll be okay. It’s gonna be fine.” Peter comforted you, turning in his seat towards you. “If anything, maybe they’ll end up loving me more than you.”

“By all means, please. Save me from my cursed family.”

“It was my plan all along, you know. Get an invite to your cousin Janice’s wedding, make an interesting impression, then inherit all that money.” He winked with a playful smile. “My plan is finally coming together.”

“Jessica, not Janice. Janice is the sister.” You chuckled, “But there’s really no difference. Both are a bitch.”

You weren’t exaggerating when you said your family was made of generational wealth. The brick-paved driveway was the biggest sign that Peter had drastically underestimated how powerful this family actually was. What kind of people had this kind of money just laying around? There were trimmed hedges and a large tree by the three-arch entrance to the estate, in which a balcony overlooked the cars in the driveway and the tall mermaid fountain in the middle. The grass was extended across the field in acres, while the orange lanterns against the stone pillars illuminated the glossy exterior of your car. Even in the night, the estate was undeniably beautiful — but Peter had a feeling that the residents of this place were not, at least in a character sense.

How come you were living in an eight-story shitty apartment in New York when your family had the means of placing you in this mansion? It intrigued him. But, he doesn’t pry based on the tight clench of your jaw as you eyed him, pulling the handbrake roughly into place.

“Smile and nod, Y/N.” You smoothed down the hairs sticking out at the back of your head in a panic. Peter would’ve found it cute, but you were quite literally having a mental breakdown and flirting would’ve been highly inappropriate of him. “And you,” You faced Peter. “Smile and nod.”

The dimples of his cheeks lit up. “I got it, Y/N.”

“Maybe not like that — Pete, why are you always smiling at me that way?”

The boy shook his head without uttering a word, stretching over the console to run his fingers through the stubborn hair on the top of your head. The gesture was soft, and there was a twinkle in Peter’s brown eyes as he slowly pulled his hand back to look at you, letting it brush against the crook of your neck — as if he didn’t want to stop, as if he wanted to keep running his hands through your hair until it was perfect, just to mess it up in the end and do it over and over again.

Just to touch you.

He looked like sunshine in the darkness of the car and you were bathing in the ardor of his curious gaze.

You couldn’t help but glance at his lips.

“There you go. All better.” He spoke delicately. His voice was just above a whisper. He rubbed his jaw, looking at you intently to gauge your reaction.

“All better.”

Frankly, the thought of seeing your family again made you sick. When your parents had passed, they were at your side for a while — they were supportive and present, and they did what family was supposed to do: care. Until they found out your parents were caught up in some debt situation. They turned their back on you the moment they discovered it, not wanting to burden themselves with the failures of your mother and father even though you as a teenager had nothing to do with it. You weren’t entirely fed with a silver spoon; your parents had settled down for a comfortable and casual life away from the east coast, so you never grew up in the same environment as your other family members. You never understood the Spider-Man discourse amongst your relatives either, debating over dinner about the hero as if he were some New York politician.

You knew your family was carrying a huge secret, but you had no idea what it could be.

Yet, you and your neighbor stood nervously side-by-side on the marble porch. You exchanged a couple nervous looks, hands clasped in front of you. Your breaths were short, and your voice was tight with worry. Your energy was making him anxious.

“Are you sure you rang the doorbell, Peter?”

“Trust me, I rang the doorbell.”

“Is the doorbell working?”

“I don’t know, Y/N. Is this even a doorbell? Do rich people have doorbells?”

“What if it’s not a doorbell?”

“You’re telling me this isn’t a doorbell?”

“Can we stop saying doorbell?” With a groan, Peter pressed the button by the ridiculously large front door. You could hear it chime a soft classical tune from outside the mansion. A mousy squeak left your mouth as you heard voices on the other side. “Yeah, it’s definitely a doorbell.”

“Could you stop talking now?” Peter winced, purposely elbowing you in the hip as the front door opened.

Aunt Katherine stood there, proudly modeling what could’ve been a custom-made dress by the owner of whatever luxury brand she was obsessing over lately. Peter instantly saw through her, especially how her ‘welcoming’ smile didn’t even reach her eyes. She didn’t even try hiding her distaste as she recognized you.

“Y/N! Heavens, you made it!” She laughed fakely, drawing out her words as she moved to embrace you. “And I see you’ve finally brought a guest along. A handsome guest. What a surprise.”

You awkwardly stepped back from her embrace, mirroring the fake smile of your relative. Peter realized you were so used to pretending among these people, and had he not known your hatred for this family, he would’ve believed your smile was incredibly real. Even in the face of backhanded compliments.

“Aunt Kathy, this is my friend from New York…”

Peter extended a hand out.

“Peter. You can just call me — call me Peter. Very nice to meet you, Katherine.” He smiled graciously, and you had to admit he was putting up a pretty good front. “Thank you so much for the invite, we’re honored to be here.”

Like the cougar she was, you recognized your aunt’s mischievous smirk from anywhere.

“Oh, Peter! Please, call me Kathy!” You stifled a laugh behind your hand as she pressed a wet kiss to the brunette’s cheek, completely disregarding his offer for a handshake. Peter’s eyes widened, and he looked over at you with a plea for help.

“Now, now, Aunt Kathy. Let’s not seduce the guests.” You laughed at your own comment, before ushering the two of you inside. “Why don’t you give us a tour?”

Needless to say, neither you or Peter knew why any person would need seven fucking bathrooms. You understood two, or maybe even three, but seven was borderline insane.

Yet, for a mansion with seven bathrooms, it came to a surprise when Aunt Katherine had assigned you and Peter to one shared bedroom.

You immediately refused.

And you couldn’t help but groan at the irony of this entire situation.

Peter, however, took charming and becoming your family’s favorite to a different level.

“Kathy, please, it’s not an issue.” Your neighbor placed a respectable hand on her shoulder, smiling teasingly as you bore holes into him with your stare. “Me and Y/N are… we’re close,” He looked over at you with sincerity, but you mistook it as acting. “So, really it’s not a big deal. I don’t mind if she doesn’t.”

You were close.

That time, you willingly let the grin spread upon your face.

You supposed sharing a room wouldn’t be any different than being next-door neighbors.

Peter hasn’t worn a suit in ages. Formal attire or wearing any kind of shoe other than sneakers was something he never enjoyed; it reminded him of funerals, of the flowers, of the gravestones, and teary goodbyes. The same suit (basically the only one he owned) he wore to Gwen’s wake hung over the standing mirror in the bedroom. His eyes shifted over to your reflection standing in the bathroom, fiddling with the zipper on the side of your dress as you got ready.

As if you knew he was staring, you called out to him. You smoothed down the front of the dress with uncertainty written all over your features. Peter followed you into the bathroom, lazily leaning his head against the doorway as he admired you in the mirror above the sink.

“Is this too much for dinner?”

A little black dress.

“I think it’s perfect.” His eyes shamelessly trailed down the material, all the way to the strappy heels on your feet. “You look perfect, Y/N.”

“Flirt.” You curled a brow at him, gaining confidence in how he tried to cover up checking you out as you strutted out of the bathroom.

“What?”

He couldn’t focus.

“I said, Peter Parker,” You approached him, fixing the collar of his jacket. “You’re a flirt.”

He looked down at the movement, then to you.

“Am I not allowed to compliment a beautiful girl when I see one?”

You laughed almost like you hadn’t believed him.

“Oh, shut up.” You pushed his shoulder.

He rubbed the spot with a lingering smile, fingers ghosting over where you had touched him.

“I’m serious. You look beautiful.”

Your confidence faltered for a moment at the remark, and Peter’s heart swelled at the way you became flustered in front of him.

-

Peter’s face was in pain from fake-smiling by the time you stepped into the rehearsal dinner. He felt like every minute he spent in this goddamn house was similar to a knife twisting into his guts, as if every move he made was being judged and nitpicked, like if he was grinning too much or not enough. He wondered if the guests were judging his choice of casual clothes, or the unruliness of his hair because he hadn’t been to a barber in months. Peter was a simple man, therefore excess and ostentation hadn’t made any sense to him because he naturally didn’t understand the superficial life of luxury. As he looked around the estate, he knew why you felt so out of place. He couldn’t imagine you under layers of pearl necklaces, nor wearing diamonds around your wrists and fingers. He couldn’t picture you in cashmere cardigans or in the tallest of heels, covered in hairspray and expensive fragrance.

Peter liked you just the way he always thought of you: the you that barged into his living room, the you who’d knock on his bedroom wall and fail to knock on his front door. He liked you flustered, he liked you cocky. He liked you in your sloth-themed pajama pants and the oversized shirt that belonged to Sam. He liked your ramblings about Spider-Man as if he was the eight wonder of the world and the you who loved cats to death, especially Webster.

He liked your voice and how the name Peter Parker rolled off your tongue so easily.

Most of all, he liked you on the couch of his apartment, sipping your third cup of coffee while you teased him about his boxers with the biggest smile tugging on your lips; he liked you basking under the sunlight of his window, keenly gazing at him as if you’d known him for centuries.

In every scenario, every universe, every version of yourself that you had shown him — Peter knew he liked you and for once, he didn’t hate the idea.

In the mess of dinner guests, Peter’s hand somehow grasped around yours in an effort to not get lost. At this point, he had already lost track of who you were related to and the names of your relatives. He’d felt himself growing clammy at how the pads of your fingers pressed against his knuckles, especially how you had kept glancing back at him to see if he was still following — as if he’d ever leave your side. The pair of you stopped under the kitchen doorway, allowing you to talk to him freely over the chatter and the soft violin that played in the foyer.

Your hand left his, and he rubbed his fingertips together to savor the warmth your touch had left in his empty palm.

“I’m gonna go talk to some people.” You gestured over your shoulder, biting your lip nervously. “Did you wanna come with me?”

“Oh, I think I’ll just… chill out here. Do your thing, I wouldn't wanna keep you.” He looked around him, holding a glass of champagne that he didn’t intend to drink at all. “I’ll be here until you’re done, Y/N.”

“Are you sure?”

He waved you off with a nod and a smile. You mumbled a meek ‘okay’ at him; Peter watched as you weaved through the dinner guests and disappeared into the living room, leaning back against the doorway.

Peter didn’t know what to do with himself — not because you’d left him alone, but because his self-revelation about liking you was a bit jarring. It scared him as much as it made him excited. He hadn’t liked someone in ages, and even if he did, he was sure that he didn’t like them with the same intensity as he liked you.

He wondered if some part of you felt the same. He wasn’t oblivious to your touches or how you smiled at him, and although he was drunk that night, he remembered the way you looked at him under the stars.

There was a chatter of hushed voices in the kitchen.

“… practically a widow at such a ripe age.”

“I hear she’s brought someone. Boyfriend?”

“No, I doubt it. What kind of man would date a woman with such trauma? Poor girl. Y/N’s beautiful though, glowing. And her guest seems too… refined for someone like her.”

The women laughed.

If your family wanted to act fake, he could also play at that game.

Peter clenched his jaw, the tightness in his fist nearly snapping the stem of his champagne flute in half at the overheard conversation. With a huff, he left to go find you, not even bothering to say ‘excuse me’ as he brushed past mingling people. He panicked when he couldn’t find you at first, checking inside rooms with closed doors and knocking on three of the seven bathrooms until he saw you by the dining room speaking with your cousin Jessica and her fiancée. Peter approached you with a calmer demeanor, setting his untouched champagne on a table before he placed a gentle hand on your upper back.

“Peter.” You jumped at the motion, but he could feel your muscles relax under his touch. “I was just gonna go find you.”

“Sorry, I got antsy.” Peter’s hand dipped a little lower while he whispered, “Forgive me for what I’m about to do.”

The declaration confused you. Your cousin cleared her throat, and the two of you had snapped your heads in the direction of the noise.

“Yes, sorry. Peter, this is Jessica.” He nodded his head, sending a brief smile. “And her fiancée, Issac.” The men shook hands. “Guys, this is Peter. He’s my—“

“I’m Y/N’s boyfriend.”

“Exactly, you’re… huh?”

What?

You glanced at his hand on your waist, just barely touching you. Confused, you looked at him and met his stare. He was up to something and you could see it.

Oh, not this. Absolutely not.

Jessica nudged your arm. “Y/N, you never told us you had a boyfriend!”

I didn’t know either, you thought to yourself. You chuckled weakly, eyeing Peter as you went along with his little act. You pressed yourself further into his side, allowing Peter to tighten his grip on your waist.

“Well, Y/N likes to keep things private.” Peter took the lead, softly digging his nails into your dress so that you’d remember to smile. “Never knew she was so shy about us.”

You spoke with an awkward voice. “Ha, yes! Yes, I do. I definitely do. But, um, he’s here. Peter — my boyfriend. Figured I’d introduce him to some family.” You patted his chest, scrunching your nose up in an effort to appear as convincing as possible. “Just a sweetheart.”

“Well, I’m happy that you’re dating again! Peter, please join us for the rest of the night, we’ll be having dinner soon.” Jessica nodded at both of you, before Issac and her excused themselves to go welcome other guests.

Neither of you spoke, standing there like statues. Peter’s hand rested on your waist, while yours still remained loosely on his chest.

“I’m sorry I did that.” He blubbered profusely, looking down at you apologetically.

“What. The. Fuck.” You turned to him, lowering your tone. You didn’t seem angry, rather just extremely confused. “What was the reason?”

“Everyone in this house is shit-talking you.” He explained with exasperation. “I can’t stand the way they talk about you and — and look at you like you’re some withering plant. I understand if this was an overstep, it’s fine, we can give it up but I figured…” He paused, biting his tongue. “I figured that if we were gonna pretend to like these people then maybe a little more pretending wouldn’t hurt.”

He was right.

“I assume you being my boyfriend is supposed to save me from being an embarrassment.”

He chuckled. “If anything, you’ll probably come out even more as an embarrassment since I’m the boyfriend.”

His hand felt so nice on your body. You smiled at him.

“Come on then, darling, let’s go sit down.”

Peter’s stomach danced at the term. You sighed at him, forcing yourself to leave his grasp. You hated that you had a growing crush on him and it was blooming with every second you spent together. And now, sitting beside him at dinner before tomorrow’s wedding, you were sure nothing could prevent you from falling, especially when he was such a great actor — like playing the role of your boyfriend was meant for him. As if he’d rehearsed this before.

The dinner table was long, decorated with poinsettias in Italian vases and wax candles atop of the embellished runner. He’d been asked questions about your relationship, effortlessly lying about how you’d met and how long you’d been dating. According to him, he worked at a coffee shop by your workplace and you were a regular that came by often. And according to you, you’d been dating for a year.

You hadn’t even known Peter for more than a month and a half.

It had already been the second course, and for some reason, Peter couldn’t stop staring at the empty seat at the head of the table.

He could hear heavy footsteps near the front door, slowly approaching the dining room.

The hairs on his arms stood up and his ears twitched. It was as if the whole room was shaking, and the chandelier above him wobbled.

“Aunt Kathy’s boyfriend is here.” You poked him.

Peter winced at the sudden shot of pain that travelled down his spine; he hesitantly glanced to the head of the table, eyes widening as the empty seat had suddenly been taken.

Oh, fuck.

“Hey, this is Y/N’s new man.” Jessica spoke teasingly through a mouthful of salad. “Peter?”

The boy hadn’t noticed the large hand extended towards him. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the arms of the chair, while his face twisted into a ghostly pale as he gulped audibly. His vision tunneled into blurriness until he registered your voice pulling him into reality.

“Sorry.” Peter trailed off, unable to take his eyes off the arrived guest. “I’m — I’m Peter.” The boy had felt bile building up in his throat. “And you are…?”

He had no means to ask. He knew who this man was.

His hand felt crushed in the suffocating grip.

The guest smiled widely.

“Wilson Fisk. A pleasure to meet you, Peter.”

-

TAGLIST:

@silverwindptv @kdatthecastle @pufflepride @whatevergea @xthecyber @fandomscombine @carryon-doctor-lock @family-buisnes @hanniebee33 @renaroo123 @andeys-obsessions @ouralcohol

[istillmissyou2]

begin again (3)

pairing: tasm!peter parker x f!reader

tags: angst and fluff combo, classic bantering, alcohol, mentions of death and loss, sickness, grief, heart to hearts, tension, mentions of engagements and weddings, 6kish words

summary: you try to return the spider-man polaroids to their owner, but that leads to a ‘not-a-date’ hangout on the fire escape with peter parker and a heartfelt conversation that provides some clarity.

note: grateful for the love on this series!!! i wasnt too sure about this chapter but it is definitely leading to another trope and another direction if you squint really hard in the ending ;)

missing out? ➤ [my masterlist] - [series masterpost]

The thumping against the wall was concerning, really. It was never-ending, nonstop, and you had to admit it was a little suspicious. You weren’t insinuating Peter was having sex. You had already done it once before, and learned your lesson being nosy by finding out he wore Spider-Man boxers to bed. But the muffled noise just would not stop and at this point, it was driving you nuts - Well, Peter Parker always drove you nuts. You stared at the wallpaper, mouth agape as you shared a disgusted look with the stray, gray cat sitting in your lap.

“Ew.” You whispered, hurriedly getting up from the couch.

Peter slowly banged his head against the wall, groaning in pure frustration and riddled by self-sabotaging anxiety. He should’ve never given you those polaroids. What was he even thinking? A disgruntled sound escaped his throat, and he theatrically sobbed into his hands before dragging them down his face.

Peter Parker was such an odd person, but you were so extremely interested in who he really was because sometimes — things didn’t add up. You figured it was your paranoia as a result of the uncertainty that came with having a new neighbor in the complex.

Or maybe Peter was right and that you should’ve cut back on watching those murder mystery podcasts a long time ago.

“Are you alright?” He perked up at the mumble from the other side of the wall, to which he stepped back. “I can hear all that — that banging from here, jesus.” You scoff, pressing your cheek against it.

Why were these walls so fucking thin? Peter thought to himself, as if he hadn't purposefully been banging his head against it for the past twenty minutes trying to will himself out of existence.

It had been almost three days since you found the polaroids, and you still hadn’t done anything with them which was sending Peter into a spiral. In retrospect, it wasn’t that big of a deal — he trusted you to a point, and it wasn’t like you’d be able to figure out his identity based on a masked photo of Spider-Man. But at the same time, how were you holding onto them for so long and hadn’t taken any action to use them for your benefit? He hadn’t realized that you were trying to protect Spider-Man, not that he even needed protecting. But these photos seemed too intimate and too personal for it to be on the front cover of a tabloid or on the newest column of The Daily Bugle. You didn’t have a well-thought out reason as to why you felt the need to keep them a secret, but it felt wrong to publish.

Especially when they were left there for you. It couldn’t have been coincidental. It didn’t make sense, really. Because you knew these pictures would get you a raise — hell, a promotion.

But it could also get you into a whole lot of trouble. The red spray paint on your door still hadn’t come off, and you dreaded having to speak to the landlord about it.

“Earth to Peter? Knock twice if you’re alive.” You teased him.

“I see we’re still doing this whole ‘talking through walls’ thing again,” Peter rolled his eyes. “If you wanna talk to me so badly, why don’t you just go to the front door like normal people do?”

“Because you’ve been avoiding me for like this entire week ever since the Spider-Man thing.” You said nonchalantly. Peter felt guilty, because he was avoiding you and it was a choice he had to make. The tips of his ears turned red, and he covered them as if you could see him. “I’m afraid if I knock, I won’t get an invitation inside.”

He doesn’t miss the shift in your voice. It was softer, almost too soft. Peter instantly felt terrible, but relieved to know that you thought of stepping foot into his apartment.

You thought about him and he liked it.

“You can come over, then.”

The words left his mouth in the gentlest tone. Part of you wished that there was no wall between the two of you, that you could see his facial expression and if he actually meant what he was saying or if he was playing a joke on you. You wanted to see the corner of his lips tug into that goofy smile, the dimples in his cheeks emerging to greet a kind hello to you. You had to admit, in the days that you hadn’t seen Peter, you missed the sound of his voice. You knew he was home, because he was a noisy neighbor. But you missed bantering with him and you missed talking to him, even though you weren’t close.

You missed having someone around.

You questioned if Peter felt lonely sometimes, too. You wondered if he had a person in his life that kept him tethered to reality. Peter was used to being by himself though. It wasn’t so difficult anymore, because on the days he wanted to stay in bed all day and mope about his old life, he’d hear you humming through the walls, he’d hear you singing to yourself as you sweeped the floor, or he’d smell your cooking and the homey cluttering of silverware… it would reroute his entire brain and make him roll out of the unwashed sheets and want him to do something. Like read a book, or get around to folding his clothes, or go to the park and relearn some skateboard tricks.

Jeez, when was the last time he went on a date?

Peter didn’t know it himself, but you inspired him.

He offered you a cup of coffee, accidentally reaching for the Spider-Man mug that he meant to hide away in the kitchen cabinets. You accepted with an excited nod, and he teased you about being a caffeine addict.

“I didn’t take you as someone who drank tea.” You smiled into the mug.

He noticed that you had painted your fingernails. Peter then tried to take in everything he had missed in the three days that he was ignoring you. And he started to realize that maybe he had missed a lot. Was your hair a different color? No, it must’ve been the lighting. Were you wearing gloss? Did you always look this nice with a ponytail? Since when did you start wearing earrings? He noticed the bags under your eyes. Were you sleeping alright? Was he really that loud of a neighbor?

And did your lips always look that soft?

Peter knew you were pretty. But he didn’t think you could be this pretty, especially when you weren’t trying to look good. Maybe you weren’t the most attractive girl out there, but in the sunshine of his apartment, he found raw beauty and for a second, he felt happy.

It made his hands clammy and his stomach churn in a good way. It had been years since he felt that.

He shook his head, shivering at his thoughts. “And I didn’t take you as someone who’d break into their neighbor’s home for a Friday morning coffee when you’re perfectly capable of making it yourself, Y/N. Admit it, you missed me.”

You did.

Nodding slowly, you wagged your finger at him. “Ah, ah, ah. You invited me over. So, technically I didn’t break-in.”

“Ah, ah, ah.” He took to the other side of the kitchen counter, standing across from you sitting on the stool. “Technically, my ass.” He muttered under his breath, opening up a granola bar. He handed it over to you.

“I’m not hungry.” You stared at him with attentive eyes, almost in disbelief.

Peter shook his head in refusal. “Coffee on an empty stomach? You’re insane.” He gestured again to take it from him, and you hesitantly did with a pout.

“I do this all the time.” There’s a pause. “Why are you being so nice?”

Peter glanced at you as if you had offended him. Was he really that mean to you? Even though half of his remarks were witty jokes? You hadn’t really experienced such friendliness in a while. Mostly keeping to yourself, and having a few friends from college, you weren’t used to these kinds of interactions — no matter how small, even if it consisted of granola bars and a Spider-Man mug. Peter brushed over the question, turning on the radio near the TV console. You’d come back to that question later.

It felt cozy. Being in someone else’s space, basking in the little touches of them here and there. In the middle of his apartment, you didn’t feel out of place for a single bit.

You cleared your throat, downing the contents of Peter’s coffee. “Is this about Webster?”

“Webster?” Peter’s face twisted into one of confusion. “Like the dictionary?”

You flashed a toothy smile and took a bite from the energy bar, “No, doofus, the cat.”

“You named the cat Webster?”

“Yes, Peter, I named the cat — There’s that look again! Why do you look like that?” He was scowling. And somehow, you found it endearing. “What is your problem?“

Endearing, not cute. Peter wasn’t cute. Oh, but he was.

“Webster is a two-faced bitch.” You gaped at him, sputtering incoherent words. “Sorry, not very nice of me. Correction, your cat is horrible.”

You exchanged laughter, interrogating him about his sudden disinterest in your new pet. Peter told you a half-truth, saying it was a disturbance to the apartment community.

To which you replied, ‘Then what does that make you?’

He hadn’t laughed that hard in ages.

“Welp, anyways,” You interrupted the flow of the conversation. “I bet you’ve been wondering, ‘Oh, shit. What is Y/N gonna do with the Spider-Man pictures?’” Your hands flew crazily around you, putting on a poor impression of the brunette. You joined him on the couch - the one that you had helped him move - where you both sat on opposite ends.

“Well?”

“I’m just gonna give them back.” You chuckled, running your fingers through your hair to rub your scalp. “Pictures aren’t even that good anyways.”

Damn. Peter held back a scoff. Yeah, right. He knew they were amazing pictures for a fact. Your initial reaction proved it. Were you just trying to seem cool? As if your cheeks hadn’t turned a different color at the sight of the hero.

“I’ve literally asked this before, but how? It’s not like he does meet and greets.”

Maybe he’d make an exception for you. Maybe even send you home with his autograph and one of those collectible bobbleheads. Maybe even take you swinging.

You told him you had a plan. It worried him, because (A) you seemed the type to have the worst planning skills ever and (B) you mentioned that he could come along too if he wanted. And with Peter being Spider-Man, how could he possibly juggle being in two places at once?

“So, I’m thinking tonight. You’ll tag along with me, yeah?” You bit the nail of your thumb to gauge his reaction, but Peter was too focused on overthinking and trying to make sense of your whole plan that he hadn’t even heard what you said.

“Mhm, totally.”

“Thanks, Peter! I gotta go do laundry now. Bye!”

What did he just say? Peter was too late to take back his statement, watching as you ran out of his apartment and turned the hall into yours. He was fucked. How could he be in two places at once? Unless, he didn’t show up at all. But, he would be disappointing you, and he hated that idea to the very core. The real question was whether he wanted to show as Spider-Man or as Peter Parker.

Spider-Man would need to take a raincheck tonight. He’d rather the hero disappoint you than the neighbor.

Wedged between the middle of his sofa was a phone that didn’t belong to him. And surely, he wasn’t the guy on the screensaver - not that he was jealous or anything. Your phone vibrated, and Peter couldn’t help but stare at the screen. His fingers subconsciously ran down the outline of your cheesy smile, before he groaned and forced himself out of his trance.

“You, um, left your phone.” Peter waved the device in his hand, suddenly feeling awkward as he stood at your door.

“Oh, sorry.”

“Boyfriend?” It left his lips like a sputtering engine. Peter’s strucken by his own words, having the audacity to ask about such a personal matter. He didn’t know what he was getting at.

You were confused, eyebrows raised. “Excuse me?”

“Your - the lockscreen.” He scratched the nape of his neck and bit down on his bottom lip.

You shifted on your feet, and Peter noticed how the crack in your door got smaller. “No, uh, he’s just a friend.” You muttered, sounding like you were trying to convince yourself as well. Peter could tell it was a lie based on your body language. The sway in your shoulders, the uncertainty of where to put your hands, the rapid blinking of your eyes like there were tears in them. You were avoiding the question.

Have you lost someone too?

“It’s a nice picture.”

“It is.” There it was again. Peter knew you weren’t obligated to open up to him, especially when you were only neighbors and kind of friends. But it worried him how easy it was for you to switch the dynamic, like you didn’t want to get too close to him. You were just like him, though. And maybe that was what worried him most. “I’ll, uh, see you then? Later?”

“Yeah, where do you want me?”

“I was thinking about the fire escape. You know, bring some blankets. Some snacks.” You tensed. “Like ‘cause — because it’s gonna be cold a-and we’re gonna be out there for a long time… probably.” Peter watched the blood rush to your face, and how your heartbeat immediately picked up as he licked his chapped lips. For once, you sounded nervous and it made Peter smile. “Not a date, by the way. Don’t try anything or I’ll have Webster jump you.”

“Who said it was a date?” He smugly looked down at you, crossing his arms against his chest as he leaned against the wall.

“I… whatever, Peter. Just show up.”

You shut the door on him again, and he laughed to himself as he realized that action has become such a regular thing. Your back rested against the white surface, fingertips digging into your palms as you fought off a smile. You admitted that your excitement stemmed from Peter. Because obviously, spending more time with him meant less time by yourself. And you desperately needed that. You needed human interaction as much as water, and being tucked away in the confines of your living space wasn’t always the best influence.

Peter knew that feeling the most. It was all-consuming, and at times, terribly miserable when you were alone. He missed the feeling of having someone in his bed. Not for those reasons, but because the sensation of laying beside a warm body was unexplainable. The sensation of sleeping next to someone you hopelessly adore, and that high of waking up in love. He tried to remember Gwen, in the sheets, her laugh – but he found himself struggling to picture her in his arms. Almost as if she no longer belonged there. Almost like the empty space was supposed to be filled with something else; perhaps Gwen was a misplaced puzzle piece that did not fit his life. It doesn’t pain him, but just makes him a little melancholic. She was a promise that he never got to fulfill. However, he was thankful though, for the short time they were able to spend together.

Peter tried not to bother you for the rest of the time being. He checked his watch regularly, even though you had agreed on meeting later at ten and it was only the afternoon. The boy frowned, realizing that he had absolutely nothing to do for the whole day. Maybe he’d stop by the store to get some snacks. Maybe get you something along the way. For being neighborly, of course. It was only right of him. He was out the door in seconds, clumsily shoving his keys into the pocket of his sweatshirt.

The store wasn’t too far, just within walking distance. It was an old market, and Peter stuck out like a sore thumb amongst all the elderly people with shopping carts. He doesn’t know what he was looking for — but somehow, he ended up in the pet aisle and picked up a couple cat toys for Webster. And by a couple, he meant ten. His basket was loaded by the time he got to the snack section, and Peter started to randomly throw in a variety of different bags and boxes.

He contemplated which wine bottle to get you, standing in the middle of the aisle like a lost kid. What did you even like? Did you even drink wine? Peter wasn’t familiar with expensive wine, or alcohol at all for that matter, but he did indulge every now and then. With a groan, he grabbed the bottle on the top shelf, deciding on a classic red wine. Or possibly you’d hate it.

At least Webster would like his toys.

Unless that dumb cat would hate it, too.

Peter merely wanted to make a lasting impression, even though you had already gotten off on an odd foot. Because this was the first time you’d be really hanging out — no running into each other on the street or barging into each other’s apartments, but an invitation. Not just from anyone either, but from you. Your own words, in front of his own eyes.

He was sweaty by the time he reached the apartment lobby, barreling through the double doors as he tried to catch up with the open elevator. Thankfully, he was able to easily slip through before it could close. He wasn’t aware of how heavy he was breathing, and he hadn’t realized someone was in the elevator with him as he stared up at the rising floor numbers.

A throat cleared, and Peter’s head snapped towards it. You stood there, clutching your mail as you bounced on the heels of your feet. He waved at you, awkwardly. You stifled a laugh.

“Um,” He gestured at the brown grocery bag. “For tonight.” You peered into the contents, nodding your head approvingly.

“Wine? Thought this wasn’t a date.” You don’t make eye contact, looking straight ahead.

Two could play at that game, Parker.

“It isn’t.” He stared at your reflection in the elevator doors. He glanced at his own as well, stiffening when he saw that his hair was sticking up in the wrong places. “Just two neighbors going to hang out on the fire escape waiting for Spider-Man to show up. Nothing date-ish about that.”

“Yeah, right.” You turned to him. “Did you want me to…”

“If you wanted I could…” You talked over one another, and Peter instantly became red in the face. “Go ahead.”

“Did you want me to cook anything? People say I make a mean spaghetti.”

The brunette smiled, and you did too. “You’re sure this isn’t a date, Y/N?”

“Oh, fuck off. This isn’t Lady and the Tramp.” The elevator stopped at a different floor, and Peter was confused as to why you were getting off when you lived higher up.

“Hey! Wrong floor!”

You tossed a middle finger over your shoulders, “I’m taking the stairs!”

And the elevator went quiet as Peter stood there alone.

You would’ve rode with him back to your floor, but you were feeling warmth in your cheeks and a blossoming, cheesy grin that would not disappear no matter how hard you tried. As you rushed with heavy steps into the stairwell, you couldn’t help but let the giddiness take over you — something that you wouldn’t allow Peter to see.

He was obviously handsome. Correction, hot. If anyone were to disagree, you’d call them blind.

After all, who wouldn’t have been interested in the boy next door?

Especially when said ‘boy’ looked like Peter.

Yes, you had to confess: You had a growing schoolgirl crush on the neighbor.

-

Peter was fresh out of the shower when he started to feel the nerves kick in. It wasn’t a date. He stared at himself questionably in the foggy mirror, wincing as he dried off his wet hair with another towel. He’d been alone with you many times; this would simply be a walk in Central Park.

Yet, he still checked the medicine cabinet with uncertainty, torn between whether or not hair gel was necessary. He was afraid of messing with his appearance, self-conscious between looking like he was trying too hard, or wasn’t even trying at all. With a frustrated grumble and a mutter of ‘shit’ under his breath, Peter decided against it. He eyed the cologne in the middle row though. A little spritz wouldn’t hurt him. But it does literally, as the cologne was surprisingly, overtly strong and his spidey-senses were going off the rails with the overwhelming scent.

He flinched in disgust as he went through his closet and drawers. Was he supposed to wear something formal? Did he need to look good? How casual was too casual? It wasn’t a date, damn it. He dug out a green parka, throwing it over his henley. Peter settled on ripped jeans, examining himself one more time in the floor-length mirror.

“Be cool.” He pointed at himself. “Totally got this… It’ll be fine. It’s gonna be great, Peter. Gonna be… great.” His painful smile mocked him as he nerdily threw a thumbs-up at his reflection. He groaned outwardly. “God, I’m a loser.”

After several pep-talks and anxious pacing, Peter knocked on your door. He checked himself in the camera of his phone quickly, before putting it away as he heard you moving the deadbolt on the other side.

He put on his best smile, holding the wine bottle and bag of cat toys close to his chest.

“Hey, Pete.” You laughed.

And God, he was suddenly crushing.

This wasn’t a date, yet he could only focus on how stunning you looked. His eyes were drawn to the dampness of your hair and how he could smell your sweet shampoo from where he stood, and how your oversized knit sweater was falling off one of your shoulders, in which he just wanted to reach out and pull it back up to place. You were wearing subtle lipstick, and suddenly the autumn shade was ingrained in his mind.

Maybe a date wasn’t so bad of an assumption.

“Hi, Y/N.”

You opened the door wider, ushering him into your kitchen. He set the wine down on the counter. The room smelled delicious, and then he realized that you actually had cooked for the both of you.

You cooked for him — the cooking that he’d smell through the walls and make his mouth water tastefully.

When was the last time someone had done something like that for him? All this to return photos to Spider-Man? He suddenly felt terrible, having the knowledge that the hero would not show up. Maybe, he could make it work. Just to make you happy.

“Are these for Webster?” You crooned from the living room with a babyish glee, spilling the contents of the bag onto your carpet. The cat cozied up to you instantly, heart melting as Peter leaned over the back of the velvet sofa to take a gander.

“Yeah, figured I’d…” He rubbed at his cheek bashfully, curls falling against his forehead with a rueful sigh. “Make amends with your… vermin.”

You huffed at him, sending a look over your shoulder at the half-baked comment. “Aw, how kind of you.”

He watched carefully as you stood up, padding over to the kitchen to fish out some plates before you’re handing him a generous serving of pasta.

You don’t miss the way his fingers brush over your knuckles. It made you lose all your bearings, and your teeth gritted together at the sensation. You weren’t sure if you were imagining things — or if your tiny crush on Peter was influencing the way you were interacting with him — but his eyes hadn’t left yours in the slightest, and you struggled to hide the blush creeping up your face as you attempted to appear indifferent. Peter recognized that pursed-lip look from anywhere, and how you suddenly found the floorboards interesting as he took the plate from you. His shoulder brushed past yours as he moved to recollect the bottle of wine, and you busied yourself with fetching some glassware for the pair of you. He was making you rather nervous; the neighbor, who he knew as resolute and cocky to a degree, was mousy under his nerdy gaze and his feathery touches that he hadn’t even meant to enact in the first place.

Wordlessly, you pointed to the fire escape with a fork. Peter followed behind you, a cautious hand hovering over the curve of your back as you climbed out the window. The grated flooring was covered by a picnic blanket; Christmas string lights were hung about the fencing, and Peter questioned if those had been there all along. The boy pulled the window shut before Webster could tag along, flaring his nostrils at the cat behind the thick glass before he shifted to sit next to your cross-legged frame. The silence, for once, was comfortable. The quietness and the bits of snow falling from the sky were a conversation in itself; the only words uttered between you and the neighbor were shivering breaths into the cold air. You revelled in the atmosphere, even leaning your head against the brick wall of the building while Peter unknowingly mirrored the movement.

“You think this’ll work?” The boy watched as you poured the wine with a raised brow. “Do you think he’ll come?”

In the light of your eyes, he caught the same childish glint as before. It made him feel bad, but he figured it was for the best; the color of the wine reminded himself of who he was, what he did to people — especially what happened to people close to him.

“I hope so.” Peter reached for the stem of the wine glass, bringing it up to his lips. “Maybe if you put up a sign, he’ll see us.”

You puffed your cheeks in airy amusement. “This feels dumb.” He doesn’t reply, instead offering to pour you another glass that he hadn’t realized you downed in the past couple minutes. “You could’ve easily said a joke there, Parker.”

“Lemme guess…” His knee was propped up, while his forearm rested atop of it. He gazed up at the sky before looking at you. “This isn’t dumb, but maybe you are.”

“Ehhh, close enough. It sounded so much better in my head.”

“Oh, did it now?” Peter lit up.

“I think the delivery was a little off. I wasn’t entirely convinced.” You talked exaggeratedly with your hands, sarcastically poking at Peter. “Speak from the heart. Try again.”

He shifted closer to you, and you could nearly feel his breath fan over your face. Your knees touched, and his shoe accidentally bumped into yours as he stared intently into your eyes. He was about to retry the delivery of his joke, until he became overcome with laughter. He doubled over into his lap unable to breathe; had he been any closer, his head of messy hair would’ve brushed against your thigh. You laughed too, unable to take him seriously with how contagious his boyish grin was.

“You’re an idiot, Peter.” The corners of your lips tugged upwards cheerily.

He doesn’t know what the look that you shared meant, but it made him feel butterflies in the pit of his stomach. Peter doesn’t mind how your knee constantly touches him for the rest of the night. But at some point, the both of you had lost track of how many glasses of wine you’d had, but judging by the red glow of Peter’s face and the cackling that came straight from your belly, it was an unhealthy amount.

“Mhm, yeah. And there was this one time Jameson was even so desperate for content,” You clutched your stomach, snorting at the story. “He literally took to the streets to find Spider-Man. Couldn’t even last an hour before he was spooked! There wasn’t even like criminals, or anything remotely scary! Ugh, god. Such a pussy.” It was like you had said the funniest thing, because Peter drunkenly high-fived you while his hand nestled its place in the empty space beside your thigh. “And then there’s me, who don’t give a single fuck about what time of day it is. I am my own hero, Peter.”

“Tsk, tsk. Brave girl.”

Although you were drunk, the name hadn’t gone unnoticed, and your cheeks heated at the low tone of voice. His lips looked impeccably plump, and you suddenly wondered if it was just the alcohol in your blood system or if you were coming to your senses. Peter found himself thinking the same thing, awed by how your lipstick smudged by the corner of your mouth and endeared by your drunken words.

“Do I have something on my face?” You whispered shyly, reaching up to touch your hot skin.

Peter let out a disgruntled noise as he sat straighter to lean toward you; you would’ve thought he was up to something else had he not assured you. “Lipstick stain. Right here, by your mouth.” His eyes wandered to yours for confirmation as his thumb made contact with the stained skin.

Since when were you so touchy with each other?

Realistically, you wanted to believe it was the wine. But some part of you wished deep-down that Peter was touching you because he really wanted to — not because he was tipsy and clumsy.

His thumb lingered there for a second until Peter forced himself to sober up at the context of the situation. He opened his mouth to apologize, before your phone interrupted him.

Who could possibly be calling you at this time of night?

“Hello?” You slurred, clutching the phone close to your ear. Peter didn’t hear much from the other line except mumbling. “Mmm… doin’ well. Yeah, same old same old. Yes, I’m in New York. Oh. Jersey?” A beat. “Wow, um. Congrats! That’s awesome. Yes, totally.” You eyed Peter, frowning with an open mouth as the person on the other end continued to blabber. “Plus one isn’t necess— yep, okay.” The phone call ended. “They hung up on me.”

“Who was that?” Peter questioned.

“My dumb cousin.” You grimaced, wrapping your arms around your chest. “She’s getting married.”

“Congrats?”

“Hm, I guess.” You blew a strand of hair away from your face. “Gave me a plus-one knowing that I’m fully, very single. Like a bachelorette.”

Peter had let out a breath that he hadn’t known he’d been holding. His shoulders had relaxed, and for some reason he had felt relief. Your phone vibrated again, but you didn’t care to look at the notification — thrown off by your cousin’s sudden announcement. But Peter cared, boring holes into the pixels of the screensaver that left him utterly stumped. You followed his eyes, and your frown deepened as realization washed over you.

“My lockscreen.” You uttered. Peter wasn’t sure if you were speaking to yourself or him, but he figured the latter when you tucked the phone back underneath your thigh like it was too much to look at.

“Who is he?”

You laughed almost coldly, sobering up at the thought. “Mm, ex-boyfriend.”

“Oh.”

“Yep.” Peter didn’t know what to say next, fearful that he’d overstepped by prying. Yet to his surprise, you continued on, puffs of air blowing into the night as you spoke quietly. “It wasn’t a bad breakup or anything crazy like that. Well, we were supposed to get engaged, but he got really sick, that's all. This horrible sickness that was out of our control. No one actually — you don’t ever actually get prepared for that kind of stuff. At least, I wasn’t when he… when Sam passed.” Another sad chuckle left you; a tear threatened to escape, but you harshly swiped it away in hopes that Peter wouldn’t see it. “Sorry, we came out here for Spider-Man, not this. I don’t wanna feed you a sob story.”

“Hey, it’s fine. I lost someone, too.” He watched you purposefully. His heart prickled at the sight of you fighting tears, and he wished he could take that pain away. His body felt heavy. “Gwen. She was my girlfriend.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was…” His voice cracked subtly. “It was an accident. I loved her. I also wanted to get engaged, but we were just so young. Didn’t seem right yet. She had so much she wanted to accomplish. So smart for her own good. I just didn’t wanna weigh her down with — with me.”

You hummed at that.

“Just two neighbors and their dead exes.”

The brunette couldn’t help but scoff in hilarity at the dark joke.

“Could say that, yeah.”

Peter understood why you were the way you were. Broken, like him, accustomed to loss and hurt and the hopelessness that felt like this neverending rabbithole to nowhere. He understood why you felt the need to be closed-off at times even if you’d fronted vulnerability to him before, because you were scared. You had loved Sam in a similar affliction to how he loved Gwen. Both gone too soon, stripped from each other’s lives like they were so indispensable. Peter no longer felt jealous at the sight of that photo. He felt sorrow memorizing the indents of smile lines on your face and how you were hugging Sam like your life had depended on it. It reminded him of Gwen. He wished that she would have hugged him that hard before she’d passed. Peter couldn’t imagine what it was like to have been given that promise of a new life together, the potential of having a family, building a home — only for it to dissolve at the hands of a funeral. The whitened band around your finger made sense now. It hadn’t been from an odd tan, or the effects of sun damage from walking around the city, it had been from the emptiness that followed your abandoned engagement ring.

“I miss him, sometimes.” You admitted, throat tightening. “I’ve accepted it, but Christ, it’s so hard to forget someone you never got to finish loving.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling.”

You leaned back on your palms, while your fingertips accidentally grazed against Peter’s. His hand inched ever so slightly towards yours, almost unbeknownst to the human eye as he was afraid the touch would scare you even further away.

“I bet Gwen was beautiful.” You turned with a saddened smile.

“And I bet Sam really loved you, Y/N.”

His hand somehow found solace on top of yours. Subconsciously, your pinky fingers entangled together and an understanding exchange of faint smiles followed the movement. You didn’t move it, or tear away from Peter. Instead, you blinked up at the stars in the sky, where Peter realized that he was looking at something even more beautiful than the moon.

“I don’t think he’s gonna show up.” You sighed with exhaustion, tucking the polaroids back into the pocket of your pants. “It’s late. I wouldn’t wanna keep you up.”

“You’re staying?”

“No, I’ll just…” You hesitated. “I’ll catch Spidey another time. A better time. I should head inside, too.”

None of you exchanged a word for the time being, collecting used dishes and the empty wine glasses before climbing back into the shadows of your apartment. The lack of light allowed the midnight sky to illuminate the kitchen, bouncing off of the counter and sink with bluish hues that casted cool tones over your tired bodies. You quietly flicked the faucet on, running the dishes over the warm water.

“Here, I can do them.” Peter whispered, careful not to wake Webster who found the kitchen counter oddly comfortable. His chest pressed against your shoulder as he tried to reach around you; the gesture felt too domestic and too familiar.

“No, it’s okay.” You stood in front of the sink, pushing your weight against it. “Go get some sleep.”

His lips drew into a thin line of concern. “You’re okay, Y/N?”

You stepped to the side, drying your hands with a paper towel. “Always. Are you?”

He shrugged silently. “No, are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Oh, you know me so well, Pete.”

He blushed. “Well, I wouldn’t wanna be bothersome.” There was a small skip in his step as he walked to your front door. “See you.”

Like he anticipated, you called out to him one last time.

“Peter?” He immediately looked to you. His heartbeat raced as you placed your hands on your hips. “By any chance, do you like weddings?”

“Depends on whose wedding — Oh.”

It dawned over him.

“I was thinking if you’d be my plus-one? For my cousin? I… I don’t really have that many friends down here, but you seemed like the best one to pick. I feel like my family wouldn’t really get along with anyone else. I just figured I’d ask you, maybe. Don’t feel obligated to say yes.”

“Ask me again in the morning, Y/N.” Peter had already decided on an answer, but he just wanted to hear it again. “Sweet dreams.”

The front door clicked shut behind Peter. He couldn’t help but lean against it with a huge grin. You called him a friend, not just any friend — but the best one. You had hand-picked him, despite only knowing each other for weeks and it made him feel entirely special. It was like you cured the exhaustion from his body, and he silently pumped his fists like an overtly excited teenager.

Plus-one or not, Peter was enchanted at the idea of spending more time with you.

-

TAGLIST:

@silverwindptv @kdatthecastle @pufflepride @whatevergea @xthecyber @fandomscombine @carryon-doctor-lock @family-buisnes @hanniebee33

[istillmissyou2]

begin again (2)

pairing: tasm!peter parker x f!reader

tags: friends to lovers, awkwardness and humor, slow burn, mentions of blood, mentions of break-ins, cats?? almost 8k words of being in denial lol

summary: peter wants to protect you, but he ends up doing a little gaslighting and finds himself thinking of you in his free time. you discover something that you think belongs to spider-man.

author note: thank u for all the love on the first chapter! this one starts to set the tone just a little, but here’s a bit more pining and slow burn :)

missing out? ➤ [my masterlist] - [series masterpost] - [chapter one]

The Daily Bugle was your least favorite place to be. The air was chilling, and smelled of freshly brewed coffee all the time. It was a high-rise dark brick building, with steep stairs that led to the lobby. It looked brooding on the outside, especially during December. You thought it looked best in the fall. Crowds would sometimes gather outside the building for protests or to get signatures for petitions, so you learned to take the back entrance to avoid being cornered. It consisted of five floors, which were wide and long. They were filled with glass cubicles, and the clacking of keys from computers resonated in the air. Two arched windows were assigned to each wall, the glass covered in frost and condensation. The floor was a dark mahogany wood, and if you bent down to look closely, you could see the mismatched boards from the original building. Your cubicle was first in the middle of seven rows on the highest floor. Jameson was located on the same floor; he moved you from the second to the fifth when he realized it would be easier if he had you closer to him - not because he particularly liked you, or favored you as a writer, but because you were covering Spider-Man and he’d be goddamned if you lost track of him. Jameson knew you didn’t like him, but he also knew you liked money and having your bills paid.

You had applied for the intern position three years ago, hoping that maybe The Daily Bugle would give you a shot. You were rejected at first, having no journalism experience at all as a graduate student. But Jameson took note of your vigor, and didn’t ignore the way you perked up at the mention of Spider-Man coverage. So when his previous writer went on paternity leave, J. Jonah Jameson fired him like the two-faced dick he was, and hired you within two weeks after the rejection. You celebrated by getting drinks with your friends and going to a frat party. Not very like you. But it was necessary.

Jameson was itching for more Spider-Man stories. But it seemed that Spidey was keeping a low profile today, and you hadn’t heard anything about the arachnid on the police scanner downloaded in your phone. It really wasn’t that hard to get access to, but Jameson was impressed. It was like New York was finally behaving itself for once. You’d hear the occasional chatter of officers, responding with different codes that didn’t seem urgent. Minor car accidents, apartment break-ins, boring, boring, boring. Jameson grew irritated with impatience, and urged you to go out into the city and see if you could find anything. That man had no remorse for your safety. But to be fair, neither did you. You felt safe knowing that Spider-Man was nearby. Swiftly, you grabbed your trenchcoat and put it on as you disappeared into the elevators. Your black turtleneck peeked from beneath the wooly material, and you checked your backpack to make sure you brought your camera with you. Although you were a writer, Jameson would pay you extra for any pictures of the hero. You figured that maybe you could dabble in photography in exchange for a bigger paycheck.

The breeze bit at your nose as you exited the building, frowning when you realized that you had left your coffee behind. You’d get one, later. Maybe by that new café that recently opened. Pulling your earbuds into your ears, you walked down the street with long strides. You couldn’t help but smile proudly at one of the Daily Bugle stands on the side, recognizing that headline of yours gathering quite the attention of a few locals.

Peter tucked away the webbed suit at the bottom of his worn-out bag, deciding that he’d put aside Spidey activities for the day unless it was truly an emergency. He learned that the city didn’t always need him. It sounded selfish, promising time for Peter Parker and not Spider-Man, but Peter was still learning that he needed breaks. He deserved them. Aunt May pestered him about days off, and he decided to give into the older woman’s wishes in an effort to not give her a heart attack. Peter pulled at his apartment door for one last time, making sure it was locked. He didn’t like the idea of intruders. He glanced at your door with a longing look, the silver brandished 6C sitting above the peephole. He made sure yours was locked, too. The last thing he’d want is for you to actually be in a murder mystery podcast. That thought made him feel sick.

His skateboard screeched under the rough sidewalk, and Peter wasn’t sure if he was headed the right direction. He could’ve used his web shooters, but then, he didn’t want to be seen in broad daylight without his suit. Halfway through his ride, Peter decided to take the subway for the rest of the time being.

The subway car wasn’t empty, nor claustrophobically full. He busied himself on his phone, adding new songs to his playlist mindlessly. Peter looked up, as his eyes squinted at the sight of the familiar figure rushing through the sliding doors. He recognized you then, when you turned to leverage yourself against one of the railings. Peter admired your side profile, which he knew most people hated that part of themselves. But yours was nice, and Peter admitted to liking nice things. Your hair was tousled, messy at the back from leaning back in your chair at the office. Your bangs were in the way of your face, so he couldn’t see your eyes nor the slope of your nose. He liked your outfit, a charcoal-colored wooly coat with a fitted turtleneck beneath.

Snap out of it.

Peter quickly turned his back when you glanced up from your phone, turning away from you so that he wouldn’t have to deal with an awkward encounter. He didn’t want you to accuse him of following you. Because he wasn’t. He was simply strolling around, and you happened to be in the same subway route as him. For the remainder of the ride, Peter kept his back to you, hoping you wouldn’t see him.

He sighed in dismay when he realized you were getting off at the same location as him, and he hung back for a few minutes to watch you leave as the silver doors slid open. He doesn’t lose you in the crowd of commuters, eyes on your back the whole time.

But a shiver traveled up his spine and to the nape of his neck, where the blondish hairs stood up in his shudder. He instantly left, following you out. That was when he saw the blue-hooded teenager, trailing closely behind you and your backpack. Peter doesn’t wait one second before he tears the guy off you. He pushed him roughly to the side, and Peter doesn’t give one fuck when you turn with a gasp.

“Dude, come on.” Peter scolded the kid. “Really? You're gonna disturb this pretty lady minding her business?” He held out his palm. “Go on, kid. Hand it over.” You curse when the boy pulls out your wallet, and you send him a sharp glare.

The teenager’s body language reeked of embarrassment that he had been caught. You watched in concern as the boy begged Peter not to turn him into the police. Uncertainty flashed over his features as he thought, then with a wave of his hand, and an exasperated sigh, Peter sent the boy off. Your neighbor silently handed over the leather wallet to you, fingertips brushing against yours.

“Thank you.”

Peter smiled pridefully. Neither of you broke eye contact. The air was thick.

He cleared his throat loudly, “I understand if this seems a bit weird.” He winced. “Me, being here in the same station as you. I-I promise I’m not a stalker. Like, I literally was just gonna go thrifting and maybe feed the birds-”

“I saw you in the subway, you know.” You shifted on your feet, pointing your thumb over your shoulder with a cheshire grin. “Ogling me, Peter. Really?”

“I…” Fuck. “I wasn’t ogling you. I didn’t wanna be awkward and say hi and… I was just trying to avoid this exact conversation. You see? You don’t understand how awkward this is and my reputation as your neighbor… well, I have to uphold that.”

“Well, Peter Parker,” You slid the wallet into the pocket of your coat, being careful about its whereabouts now. You hold your fist out to him, and he bumped it, “I think your ‘neighbor reputation’ is pretty high considering you stopped me from getting my wallet stolen.” It was impressive, you had to admit. Peter was able to stop it at the perfect time. You didn’t question it any further. “All jokes aside…” Your eyes met him with sincere gratitude. “Thank you, truly. I would’ve had a breakdown if I lost my wallet before even getting my second coffee for the day.”

Peter hummed, muttering something along the lines of ‘don’t worry about it.’ There was an unwavering feeling between you two, similar to the one you gave him when first introduced himself.

It felt like you were studying him. He can’t help but wonder why you were standing so far apart from each other.

“I think I owe you a coffee.” You laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as your gaze flickered with worry. “Unless you have somewhere to be? I don’t wanna keep you.”

“Oh! Look, I… you don’t have to.” He shrugs, hands playing with the threads inside his hoodie’s pockets.

Peter’s taken aback by the invitation. Not because it was coming from you, but because it had been quite a while since he hung out with anyone. (Aunt May didn’t count). He didn’t want to reject it, not wanting to give the impression he didn’t like you. Yet, Peter was nervous that he’d say too much about himself and scare you off, or that even your wits would catch onto his secret identity.

Peter was a hesitant person. You figured that from the day you met. You weren’t sure where his hesitation stemmed from, considering he was pretty easy to hold a conversation with and carried himself well. Doubtful, you suddenly thought that maybe he felt pressured to be around you.

“If you wanna say no, that’s okay. I completely get it.”

His brown eyes widened as his lips parted. “I mean, if you want me to come.”

“Do you wanna come?”

He blushed. Your soft voice suddenly made him feel shy, and the spoken words pulled his mind into the gutter. He pushed the invasive thought away. Peter rubbed his shoulder, meeting your stare through his lashes. “Of course, Y/N.”

You swear that Peter glanced at your lips for a split second. And he dreaded how that cocky smirk formed on your face.

“Was hoping you’d say no and I could send you on your way, but okay, I guess.” You teased, lightly pushing the tall boy who swayed at the touch.

You made casual small talk, with a tinge of awkwardness. You’d asked him if he moved in for any particular reason. Peter bluffed, saying he liked this part of New York better.

In reality, he wanted to avoid anywhere Gwen had been when she was alive.

He still felt guilty, but the distance kept him at bay. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be near Gwen’s memory, because he did, so fucking desperately. He wanted to touch everything she touched last and he wanted to bask in the love she left behind in their old apartment. Peter told his therapist he was moving on, and found a place.

To which his therapist replied bluntly, ‘Are you sure living alone would be good for you?’

No, he wasn’t.

But his new neighbor made it easier, at least.

Peter grabbed the two steaming coffee cups from the counter, hissing as he jogged back to your table outside. You thanked him quietly, cupping your hands around the beverage. They felt warm against your striped gloves, and Peter mirrored the gesture. He could see your breath puff into the air as you exhaled.

“You never finished your story, Y/N.” He took a bite of the bagel in front of him. You mumbled confusion at the question. “Hm, the one about why you moved to New York?”

“Ah,” You sipped your coffee, wincing at the temperature. “Kinda just got stranded here, really. I was from the west coast originally.” You looked away. “Had some family down here and it was easier to stay. Luckily, I like it. Been here since I was nineteen.”

Had. Peter doesn’t push his luck. Your words were rushed, yet sounded rehearsed. Almost as if you’d been saying that story forever.

He changed the subject.

“So, Spider-Man?” Peter leaned forward on his forearms. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes, and you took it as curiosity.

Nosy.

“Mm, yeah. What about him?” You quirked a brow. You easily understood Peter’s interest. Maybe he was just like you and adored the hero himself. Or maybe he thought it was odd, and one of those douchebags who didn’t believe writing could be a job. Writing about Spider-Man, for that matter.

“What made you wanna write about him?”

What made you want to write about me?

“He’s a superhero. Why wouldn’t I?” You spoke, as if it was such an obvious answer. Peter didn’t get it. “I guess, it’s refreshing. You know, like… writing about someone who gets to live this - this different life. Spider-Man isn’t just some guy, at the end of the day. He’s the good amongst a world of bad. And I think that should be honored, whether it be through my shitty writing, or, or just anything.” Peter stared at you with all of his attention, hanging onto every word you uttered. You continued quietly with newfound grace and wisdom, “I owe Spider-Man a lot, Pete. The least I could do is throw him a couple compliments.”

The good amongst a world of bad.

Peter wanted to believe you. It made him feel good about that side of him.

“I just wish he could do more.” He added, resting his chin in his palm. He doesn’t elaborate, leaving the statement at your feet. His voice faltered slightly.

“Sometimes I think he does too much.” You winced visibly. “He’s human. I can’t imagine having that weight of - of the world on his shoulders.” You giggled to yourself. “Plus, he’s kinda hot.”

Peter nearly spat his coffee out. Yes, you weren’t directly calling him hot, but nonetheless, the suit and the body beneath it still belonged to him. “H-hot?”

“Like in a mysterious, brooding kind of way. Have you seen those muscles? You can’t tell me he isn’t hot under that suit. I refuse to believe that.”

“Okay, and if he’s some fifty-year old guy? What then?”

“Um, then Spider-Man is a DILF? Hello?” You scoff, a smile threatening to spread across your cheeks.

He wished he could laugh hysterically. He wished he could just come out and tell you, just to see the look on your face.

He wished it was easy to carry the burden of his secret.

Peter swore on his fucking life that he wouldn’t ever tell another soul again. He knew the excuse was ran-through, that telling people he was Spider-Man would put a target over their back. Everywhere Spider-Man went, ruin and death followed. Anyone who even knew of Peter was already in danger. But it was true, and he experienced it firsthand many times. He didn’t want to attend another funeral as a result of his recklessness. Ever. He’d rather dig a grave for himself and write his own self-deprecating eulogy. Peter’s greatest fear was loss, and the loneliness that came with it. It haunted him and stabbed icicles into his spine till he was immobilized. The weeks, the months, and the years he experienced without Gwen were torture. He’d see her ghost in the moonlight, and he would send a silent prayer to whatever cruel God there was, hoping that Gwen had forgiven him for his failures.

There were nights where Peter wanted to lock his suit in an old closet and never wear it again. But the world was a dark place, and needed him just as he needed Spider-Man to cope. Peter adored how you viewed Spider-Man. It was like talking to a child about their favorite things, and you spoke of the arachnid with bright, beautiful eyes and jittery hands.

He wished you were right - about him being a good guy. But he wasn’t, not really. When Gwen died, he was blinded by anger and pain. How could he value life when the person that gave him hope was gone? So, he stopped pulling his punches. He took life, after life, and sure, those lives belonged to criminals - but Peter was no God and had no right to take what wasn’t his when everyone deserves a second chance.

He deserved a second chance.

He finally confronted his anger on the night of Gwen’s fifth death anniversary. Peter hadn’t cried that hard in ages, and he tore at his own suit with balled fists till he was breathless.

Breathless.

Now, he was breathless by the time you raced him and made it to the top of the stairs at the apartment complex. You exchanged boisterous laughs, shushing each other in hopes of not being a disturbance to the fellow tenants. Peter admired the way your grin stretched across your face, how carefree and relaxed you looked.

You rounded the railing of the stairway together before that smile drained from your eyes.

The hair on Peter’s arms tickled him. And the sight loomed over his head.

There was red spray paint dripping all over your previously pristine apartment door. The 6C was drenched in a bloody color, and you felt your throat tighten with a mix of anger and fear. The Daily Bugle lay in shredded pieces at the foot of your welcome mat, and this edition of your Spider-Man article had burnt, black edges to it.

Peter mumbled a string of curse words, picking the paper shreds up from the ground. Your eyes widened as his hand twisted around the untouched doorknob with unusual force, and you both sighed in relief that it remained locked.

Mood killer.

“I think someone took your Spider-Man article the wrong way, Y/N.” Peter grumbled, touching the wet spray paint with his fingertips. It was fresh, whoever had done this was just here.

“Wow, my first ever hater.” You joked in hopes of settling down your nerves. “Or perhaps, a secret admirer.”

“Roses would’ve been more practical, don’t you think?” There’s a bit of poison in his words. They feel sharp. Pointed.

In honesty, Peter would’ve laughed at your comments, had the situation been any different. But, he doesn’t. In fact, his heart raced at the thought of someone coming after you because of your job - the job dedicated to his double life. The city was full of Spider-Man fans, but it also had plenty of dedicated Spider-Man enemies. You were at risk now, and there was a target on your back for whatever articles you’d been writing about him. Peter sensed your heartbeat pounding in your chest. He wanted to assure you that he’d protect you, and that you’d have nothing to worry about because hell, Spider-Man lived right next to you.

Yet, he couldn’t promise anything to you. But he promised himself he’d keep an eye out from now on - not that he hadn’t been doing so already from the moment you met.

“Peter? Are you okay?” Your fingers reached out to touch him, but he moved quickly, eyes darting around the hallways.

“No, sorry… I’m just…” You wanted him to look at you. But his eyes were like bullets, bouncing around the walls and windows and gazing down the stairwell. He was alert, like a dog. He turned to you. Was his hand reaching for yours? Peter’s voice was stern, laced with worry. “What if you stayed with me tonight?”

The suggestion came so sudden. You considered it, but you didn’t want to disturb Peter and the damage wasn’t too big of a deal.

“Peter, I don’t wanna be a burden. You should be relaxing, it’s my mess.” He huffed. It made you irritated. “You’re not the one with a vandalized door - I am. And plus, it’s just the door. It’ll come off. My apartment is locked, it was locked before I left, okay? I appreciate you being concerned.” Peter placed his hands on his hips as he began to stress out. “Would you mind coming with me to check inside?”

“You can stay out here, I’ll check.” He made a gesture for you to hand over the keys. But you pulled back, holding it behind you.

“I’m going with you.” He groaned.

“And if someone is inside?”

“Then we kick their ass.”

Peter wanted to push you down the stairs and make you wait in the lobby. Better yet, throw you into a taxi and send you anywhere but here. You were being stubborn, and for a moment, he pictures Gwen laughing at him. Has he finally met someone as stubborn as him? If that was the case, he realized how difficult it was to deal with.

“No, Y/N. Absolutely not. Just wait out here, please?” You raised the keys over your head as if Peter wasn’t taller than you and could easily reach it. Your hands zig-zagged as he tried to grab them, and he embarrassingly missed each time.

At some point, Peter had you backed up against the stairway railing as you childishly hid the keys behind your back. Gulping awkwardly, you realized how close he was and how his scent enveloped you - vanilla and fresh laundry. You made the mistake of looking up at him, to which he cleared his throat while you watched the muscles of his jaw flex. His gaze followed the movement of your neck as you gulped.

“Y/N, can you just give me the keys? Please?” His outstretched palm awaited, and you timidly surrendered them with an annoyed huff after breaking eye contact. The corner of his lips pulled up briefly - he enjoyed your look of irritation.

Your arms wrapped around the front of your chest as you watched him enter the apartment. You walked to stand in the doorway with quiet steps, but Peter instantly shook his head at you from his place in the living room.

It was odd to see him in the darkness of your apartment, but it almost seemed like he belonged there - in the mess of blankets on your couch, sifting through the stacks of antique books by the snake plant in the corner, or eating breakfast on the barstools by your kitchen counter.

You liked seeing him in the space you built. The way he moved around with grace and such silence, almost as if he was hunting an animal. His steps were calculated but fast with purpose. You were upset at how he heard every change in your movement - even the swishing of your coat against your pants.

Maybe he did hear your breaths through the wall. Maybe he heard every thought, every time you’d think of him - not that you were doing it willingly, but because Peter pestered you and was your neighbor so, of course, you’d think about him. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

He disappeared into the bathroom and you immediately followed behind, but turned into the hallway of your bedroom. You peered into the room, letting the door open itself with a light push from your fingertips. You didn’t see anything but the mess of white sheets on your bed, and the stack of laundry baskets in your closet that never shut properly.

“Peter? I think we’re good…” You turned to call out to the boy, but yelped loudly as your body collided with something - no, someone - warm. Hands came to steady you as your wrists shot up to protect your face.

“Fuck, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Peter’s hurried whisper came to comfort you. His grip was tight on your arms, steadying you before you could fall. He heard the sudden change of pace in your heartbeat. “Didn’t I tell you to stay in the hall, Y/N?”

His breath fanned over your face, and he matched the rise and fall of your chest. The scene would have appeared intimate from an outside perspective. Two strangers speaking softly to one another in the middle of a dark hallway, illuminated by nothing but the kitchen light and accompanied by the sounds of a record player from upstairs. Peter’s firm hands hadn’t left your frame, wrapped around your elbows as he fought to draw mindless shapes on your skin out of instinct. His bright eyes were wide with concern, as creases formed on his forehead.

His fingers dug into you. Peter didn’t wanna let go, and for a moment, he got lost in your irises.

Your mouth felt dry. “Y-Yeah.” You shared another look before he removed his grip from you, and you smoothed down the front of your coat. Everything was cold again as you stepped away from each other. You could no longer feel the heat radiate from Peter’s body, or the weight of his hands on you. “I didn’t wanna leave you alone in here. Just in case.”

You heard the exasperated exhale leave him, whistling between his lips. “You should’ve stayed put. If something happened in here, I would’ve handled it. I’d be fine.”

You hissed. Why wasn’t he understanding? “If someone was in here, you could’ve gotten hurt. You’re not invincible, Peter. It wouldn’t have been fine. And it would’ve been my fault.”

Nothing could ever be your fault, he wanted to say to you.

He nodded. You were mad at him. It’s quiet for a little longer before he responded. “Well, it’s empty.” Tense. Peter doesn’t know why but every time you and him talk, it starts out fine until you’re back to square one of whatever awkward tension this is. Everytime you warmed up to each other, it passed. Was he saying the wrong things? He glanced at your window. “You’re sure you’re gonna be okay here?”

“Yeah, I’m sure, Peter.” You started to follow him to your door, not paying mind to how much slower his steps became. You’re sure but he isn’t. What if he failed to sense an intruder? Was he definitive that he checked every possible hiding spot? Would he be okay falling asleep tonight knowing that someone knew where you lived? Knew who you were and what you wrote about?

No, he wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight.

He stopped in his tracks, nearly causing you to bump into the expanse of his back. “Ah, do you - do you, uh, have my number?” He gestured at your phone, ignoring the way it lit up to show the lockscreen of you and some guy.

Boyfriend? Best friend? Brother? You didn’t look alike at all. Peter felt a bit jealous, then shameful, until he realized there was nothing to feel ashamed about. He was just being neighborly with his neighbor, who was nothing but a neighbor. You were borderline friends, that’s it. It wasn’t like he was messing around with you, just protective.

He was like that with everyone.

“Your number?” There’s an amused twang in your voice as your nose scrunches up.

“Mhm, for emergencies. In case I’m not home.” He stated nonchalantly. You handed him your phone, crossing your arms smugly as he typed in his digits. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“I’m not. Just don’t go sharing my number with my secret admirer. I’m already a wanted woman.”

Peter’s face fell. “Tsk, not funny.” He gave back the phone. “Stay safe, okay?”

“Thank you for looking out for me, Pete.” You toyed with the collar of your turtleneck. He immediately flashed a bashful smile, and you returned it. You shook it off quickly, replacing it with the snarky façade that you loved to use on him, “If I die tonight, I’ll be sure you get to partake in a eulogy.”

“Y/N, I swear to God. You think you’re so fun-“ Peter’s mouth hung wide open as you shut the door on him. Your giggles echoed. “Unbelievable, this woman.”

Peter threw himself onto the sofa by the time he was inside his place. He had changed into his pajamas, letting the one-size-too-big sweatpants hang low from his hips. He let himself close his eyes, humming the tune he heard from the record player upstairs. His apartment was messy, despite the lack of furniture and interior designing. The walls were beige and bare except for his highschool diploma and the pictures with Aunt May. The TV console was filled with old CDs and movies, stacked inside its cabinets were an array of games and a dead Nintendo Switch. (Peter had only bought it to play Animal Crossing - he understood the hype now). There’s a few Spider-Man trinkets hidden in plain sight: a bobblehead in the middle of the shelf on the right of his front door, a coffee mug on the counter, clippings from your articles he’d collected recently wedged between pages of literature as bookmarks, a Spider-Man themed calendar stuck to the side of his refrigerator with a cobweb magnet. The apartment was dim with orange light, but Peter found it to be cozy on colder nights when the heater would break. There’s a pair of earbuds in almost every corner of the home, usually tangled or wires broken from anxious twirling on Peter’s end.

His phone vibrated atop of the wood coffee table. He reached over, glaring at the notification with furrowed brows. Unknown number.

just wanted to lyk im still alive :D - y/n

Peter chuckled without thought, not waiting to text back.

If there was a bounty over your head I would’ve turned you in by now.

what a gentleman!!!

He saved your number, fingertips hovering over the keyboard as he thought of a contact name. He laughed when he finally decided.

BTW, I have the best contact name for u.

He swiped down on the text notification from Mosquito, cracking up at the accompanying insect emoji by the name.

lol better than the one i gave you?

Your message came with a screenshot, and Peter felt fuzzy hearing your contagious laughter through the wall.

You named him Pest with a rat emoji. He huffed in amusement at that, sending a picture of himself with his middle finger up.

Copycat.

okay why mosquito?

Cause everytime you talk all I hear is buzzing in my ears and you never seem to get enough of me.

You left him on read. Peter lets the conversation be, busying himself with watering the only living plant in his apartment. The phone vibrated.

pest bc like the rats in new york, i happen to see you everywhere (especially in subways) and i can hear you in my walls

full offense fyi

He had to confess that you were possibly funnier than him. He doesn’t tell you outwardly, not wanting to inflate that balloon of an ego you already had.

Ouch, that’s a good one.

Once more, Peter noticed that you saw the message. You don’t respond again after. He figured at first you fell asleep, but he easily heard the water running and the clinking of unwashed dishes. There was a small smile that lingered on your face, not paying mind to how the dish soap rid up your elbows. But your messages with Peter bubbled in your mind, how the banter flowed so smoothly between the two of you. Nothing seemed forced, nor superficial.

It reminded you of simpler days.

It was good to have someone to talk to, even though Peter was an annoyance sometimes and stubborn to the core. He could say the same about you.

Peter and you were acquainted, but not friends.

He thought otherwise, as he called Aunt May over the phone to let her know he was adjusting. He told her about the cool but hot-headed neighbor next door, and Aunt May teased him about you. We’re just friends, he told her. She asked him if he really believed that, or if he was just trying to convince himself that he wasn’t growing a crush. In retaliation, he explained that twenty-something-year-old’s are incapable of having such a thing. Crushes belonged in high school. He wasn’t a kid anymore. Aunt May goes on about ‘But in my generation…’ and Peter listened intently, finding himself quickly missing her motherly presence after their call.

Peter recalled that encounter in the hall to your bedroom, how he could hear the blood pumping in your veins, how your breath hitched and how you made his voice falter at the slightest of things, how close you stood to him and how your subtle perfume settled on his jacket by the time he left. He memorized how the kitchen light casted shadows over your face and how the strand of hair in front of your forehead bothered him, but he was too anxious to do anything about it. He contemplated the way you trusted him so easily, if you felt safer with him in the apartment.

Did he make you feel safe?

But then Peter remembered that shade of red on your door and he pushed down those thoughts of you, refusing to entertain any ideas.

He put on his Spider-Man suit and quickly went out the window once he heard your footsteps retreat to what he figured was your bedroom. Nightly patrol consisted of the usual criminals - drug deals, kidnappings, car chases. Peter hated to say it, but he was bored tonight.

It was past one when he decided to swing to the top of the Empire State Building, perching at the top after collecting the extra backpack he had kept webbed under the metal beams. There’s a polaroid camera, a bag of potato chips, some back-up web shooters, and a torn sweatshirt he had gotten from an old trip to Washington D.C. He carefully took the camera, fingers sweetly running over the rim of the lens before he pointed it at himself and shot up a peace sign. Gwen had given it to him as part of their graduation gift. Peter was surprised it was still even working, and snapped a few more novelty photos before he let them develop inside the darkness of the backpack. His muscles felt sore, and there was a small bloody gash along the plane of his back. It was a surface wound from colliding with a ladder, but it would heal later since he wasn’t hurt too badly. The purpling bruises on his face were soothed by the chilly NYC breeze - he hadn’t realized people still owned brass knuckles to this day. They hurt like a bitch.

Once Peter didn't hear a single police siren, he cautiously swung back home, taking the backpack with him. He’d need to refill on snacks again. He gracefully hopped onto the edge of the fire escape railing, coming to a crouched perch as he landed next to a stray tabby cat that mimicked his posture.

“What are you doing here?” He cooed at the animal, gently petting its head. It leaned into his touch, and tenderly licked at his gloved hands with closed, satisfied eyes. “You’re a charmer, aren’t you? Are you hungry?”

The cat meowed and Peter shushed it, afraid that the mewling would draw the attention of his next-door neighbor. Peter took out the leftover chips from his backpack, holding out the smaller pieces for the stray.

“It’s not much, but it gets me by.” He whispered, lips pulling into a smile as the cat trusted him. “Not my favorite flavor, though. I think you’d like the cheddar ones better.”

It meowed at him one last time before it hopped across to your side of the fire escape and vanished down the metal staircase to the floor below. Peter loved cats, especially the stray ones. He would make a couple pets along patrol sometimes. He moved to put the chips back into his bag, before his fingers bumped against the polaroids from earlier.

They had developed well, the red of his suit was muted yet glowed from the flash. The location was unrecognizable - except for the black night sky behind him and the skyscrapers that appeared like toothpicks.

With deep thought, he glanced at your window, then very carefully crawled on the wall towards it. When you had explained your job, he remembered that you mentioned something along the lines of Spider-Man photos and how he never took selfies. Peter remembered frowning at that because he did take selfies. Cool ones, at that.

Spider-Man expertly webbed the collection of polaroids to the glass with the hope of you waking up to a surprise the next morning.

It amused him. Okay, maybe it was a bad idea. You were already linked to Spider-Man just by writing about him, and leaving such personal photos of himself when you were already under fire shouldn’t even have happened. But, God, did he want to hear - and see - your reaction, to see that innocent happiness in your smile and the blushing on your cheeks because you theorized that Spidey was attractive.

However, he couldn’t risk it. As much as he wanted to make your day, he would much rather have you alive and well. Peter was about to guiltily backtrack and take the photos back, until the cat re-emerged and approached him. It scowled at him for more food, before taking its place on the ledge of your windowsill. It was blocking the photos, and his face turned sour in frustration.

“Move.” He raised his brows at the cat as if it could see his facial expression under the mask. “Now. Shoo!” He tried to scare the cat away, but it remained, even pawing at Peter in an effort to scratch him. “Get out!”

It was almost as if the cat was talking, because it wouldn’t stop meowing and it really wouldn’t stop trying to scratch him. What did he do to deserve this? The animal’s pitch grew louder and louder, and he swore that it would wake up the whole street had he not quickly snatched it, and stuck it under his arm.

The lamp in your living room switched on. Impeccable timing, he thought with a string of curses leaving him. Peter immediately swung off and stuck himself to the wall above your window so that he was out of sight, holding the cat in a tight cradle.

“What the fuck…” You muttered in a sleepy haze, rubbing your eyes slowly as you looked around the apartment. Were you imagining things? The room appeared untouched and you double-checked the lock of your door, but you swore that you heard some sort of animal and cooing and a voice. It was probably just sleep deprivation. You shuffled to turn the lamp off again, but your eyes flickered to the object taped - wait, webbed - to your window. Your movements were rushed and clumsy as you pulled it halfway up, leaving enough room for your hand to rip it off the sticky surface.

You gasped as you rummaged through an assortment of polaroid pictures, the hues of red and blue blotting your vision. Your hand clasped over your mouth, and you looked out the window before shutting it. Peter let out a shaky breath in relief, shooting a pointed glare at the cat.

Spider-Man? Was this real?

“Holy fucking shit.”

-

Peter was halfway through a yawn when his front door banged loudly. Eight consecutive knocks. The brunette had barely taken a sip of his chamomile tea, having read somewhere in his Google search that it was good for him. He paid no mind, thinking that it was a pizza delivery at the wrong door. Wait, pizza? At nine in the morning? His phone chimed loudly, causing him to jump in sudden surprise. His mug nearly tipped over, but his hands were quick to catch it as a result of heightened senses.

hi good morning

His eyebrows furrowed at the text from you. So, you were sending good morning texts now?

open your door pls and ty

Peter scoffed. No, he wasn’t excited at the idea of you leaving texts for him to wake up to after a long night. He just thought… Well, Peter didn’t know what he thought. His head poked out from the crack of his door as he opened it, and your eyes skimmed over the leftover shaving cream under his chin. Oh, cute. Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment, not knowing that you had awakened the neighbor. To be fair, you knew he was up early by his heavy footsteps and the soft hymn from his TV. Should you come back another time?

“Hi.” You said shortly, hands interlocked in front of you. Your head tilted. “Did I wake you?”

Peter shook his head, lips parting and closing as he struggled to find words. You were wearing a long shirt - one that didn’t belong to you, he could tell because it was oversized and it didn’t smell like you at all - and running shorts.

“No, uh, not at all.” He responded, voice wracked with sleep. You weren’t convinced. He tossed and turned all night, worried about those polaroids. Peter went so far to even check your window once more, hoping that maybe it was a fever dream and you had never grabbed them in the first place. But to his dismay, you had because they were gone and his webs were dissolving in the morning sun. He ended up getting mad at himself, because not only was he being reckless, he was putting you further into the spotlight.

“Can I show you something?” You whispered, gesturing to your apartment. Peter nodded, following you after locking his door.

The messy-haired boy was able to see your place better in the light. It appeared as if you had cleaned up, because the stack of books by the snake plant was no longer there, and the blankets on your brown leather couch were neatly folded. The living room looked lively, compared to his. There were picture frames on the shelves above your TV, and he noticed the same screensaver on your phone inside one of the frames. He sees then, a picture of a younger version of you and your parents, and for a moment, he thought he recognized them. Deja vu, maybe. There were awards and a college degree on the topmost shelf - like him, you pride yourself in your academics. Opposite the wall from the TV was a corkboard with several grocery lists pinned to it. Your fridge was littered with alphabet magnets (the ones that toddler’s would play with), and he had to stifle a laugh at the words ‘Fuckass’ spelled out in rainbow letters.

But your circle-shaped dining table was like a slap in the face to him. The Spider-Man polaroids were spread out across the wood, and Peter took a sharp intake of breath as you pulled him towards them.

“Um, what’s this?” He acted clueless, picking up a personal favorite of his.

“I… I don’t know, but I woke up like halfway through the night and - and these were just on my window.” A grin followed your words. “Peter, I think Spider-Man left them for me himself. Like, he wanted me to have them. Like… like he trusted me, or something. Do you think he reads my articles? Why would he just leave them there? What were they for? Why my window? I heard he was doing patrols in… in the area. What if it was an accident? I should give them back. They were just there, Pete.” You rambled, chest heaving by the time you finished spilling your thoughts.

Peter swooned at your excitement and the fact that you wanted to return them, but he hardened his expression and shook his head at you. “Are you sure this is actually him?” Maybe he could defuse this, maybe you could forget about it and he could continue on his day. You flicked the back of his neck. “Ow! What the hell?”

“Are you seriously gaslighting me right now?”

“I’m not - I’m not gaslighting you, Y/N.” He gave in. Peter decided it was no use to feed white lies to you, knowing that you were smarter than most and that you wouldn’t believe him anyways. “Okay, so if this is him… and I’m not saying it isn’t him… what are you gonna do now? Isn’t it - isn’t it weird that he left these?”

“Of course it’s weird, Peter.” You took the polaroid from him with a stressed sigh, running your thumb over the glossy picture. “What do you think I should do?”

Peter ran a hand through his hair, shrugging as he sat on the couch. If he was more careful, he wouldn’t have had to deal with this. But it would be fine, he’d figure it out. Somehow.

“I don’t know. Publish it? Given that you were almost sent a death threat, Y/N.”

You paused from pacing around the room. You looked so immersed, so deep in thought, that Peter felt like he could leave and you wouldn’t notice at all.

“Wouldn’t that be an invasion of privacy?”

“Dude, you write articles about him all the time.” You were thinking of Spider-Man’s privacy, he thought to himself. It wasn’t everyday he heard that about the arachnid. Heck, It wasn’t everyday that someone treated him like a regular human being that just happened to kick ass for a living. “What difference would this make?”

Why were you acting like that?

“These aren’t my pictures… I-I can’t publish these. I’m gonna give them back.”

Peter’s eyes bulged out of his head. “Wait, why?” You shrugged timidly. “How are you gonna do it?”

“Leave them where I found them, I guess. Maybe leave a note for the guy.”

A thump at your window drew both of yours’ and Peter’s attention. Your heads snapped to the sound, and you quickly brushed past Peter with long strides to check out the source of the noise. Your figure blocked Peter’s view as you bent over the windowsill, peering into the fire escape. His cheeks turned rosy, and he quickly looked away until you stood up straight.

The soft coos from your voice alarmed him, and as you turned with a lump of fur in your arms, he coughed loudly.

The tabby cat that threw him under the bus last night lay spoiled in your embrace, and you sang a chorus of ‘Aw, Peter, look!’ and ‘Hey, there, cutie…” that made Peter boil.

That fucking cat. Would Peter be sent to jail if he told you that he wanted to throw it out the window?

“Why do you look like that?” You piped up, drawing Peter out of his staring contest with the animal.

“Huh?” He sat up.

“Do you not like cats?”

“I do.” You waited for him to continue, his words were blunt and fast with no further explanation.

Your big eyes squinted at him as you petted the cat, exchanging a look with Peter as it purred under your touch. “Okay, and?”

The animal’s head rolled over to the side, and blinked at Peter with slanted eyes before it bared his teeth to him in a growl.

“Just not that one.”

-

TAGLIST: @silverwindptv @kdatthecastle @pufflepride @whatevergea @xthecyber @fandomscombine

[istillmissyou2]

begin again (1)

pairing: tasm!peter parker x f!reader

tags: friends to lovers, awkwardness and humor, slow burn, brief mentions of loneliness, depictions of violence and death, grief, fluff, almost 5k words ;)

summary: peter parker was a horrible neighbor, but that’s the price to pay when you unknowingly live next to new york’s favorite sticky superhero. but despite the snarky remarks and your childish antics, you and peter had a lot more in common, and a lot more walls between each other than the one in your apartment.

notes: epic peter parker series coming up. here’s the first part! much more to come… based off of taylor swift’s song “begin again (TV)” idk how many chapters this’ll have, kind of just rawdogging it and seeing where it goes, but enjoy for now :)

missing out? ➤ [my masterlist] - [series masterpost]

The beeps and honks from the road below echoed as the open window swung lightly against the winter wind. Hues of yellow pooled through, decorating the stained floorboards with sun and light. It was nearing ten in the morning, and yesterday’s coffee sat in a mug ready to be reheated. The radiator hummed - although off - it sang quietly on the days you’d wake up after a long night of reading and frantically typing away on your computer. The TV chimed in the background as you went to collect the bread from your toaster. Your earbuds clattered to the floor as you leaned to take a plate from the cabinet, and you cursed in frustration.

“Fucking wireless… hate this.” You muttered, tuning out the sounds of NYC as you listened to the newest Murder Mystery podcast on your phone. As if you hadn’t been interrupted enough already, your ringtone goes off, and you find yourself groaning at the caller ID. “Hey, Jameson.” He rambles on about the news. “Yeah, I’m watching…” You turn to the TV. “... Absolutely not, send someone else.” You waved your hand around with a stern tone, then scoffed. It was your day off. And there he was, that red and blue spider, swinging away from the unfocused camera after intervening with a bank robbery. “I know he’s my portion of the article. But I’m off… Weren’t you satisfied with what I did last week? Yes, send him instead… ‘Kay, whatever, bye.”

You sighed. Unlike Jameson, it wasn’t your job to tear Spider-Man and his cobwebs to silky shreds. You just liked writing and happened to have a fondness for the vigilante. You knew Jameson was using your Spider-Man fanatics for his own benefit, and for The Daily Bugle, and you didn’t mind. What was cooler than following Spider-Man across the city? You were about to relax on the couch for the first time, toast on plate, plate in hand, until there was a loud clang against the wall behind you. And then there was scuffling in the hallway.

And then a knock.

With furrowed brows and two bites of your toast, you approached the door with long strides. Peering through the peephole, you saw a warped image of a man. Tall, lanky, unsure of where to put his hands and what to do with the stray thread on his jacket. You opened the door slowly, and a smile tugged at the corners of the stranger’s lips. He noticed your confusion, and he purses his lips before speaking.

“Hi, I’m Peter. Peter Parker. I, uh,” He shifted on his feet. Gesturing to the apartment next to yours, he chuckles awkwardly. “I moved in next door, just in 5C. I don’t think we’ve gotten the chance to meet yet.” You blinked. Peter isn’t sure if he said something wrong, or if he was too friendly for your liking, but it takes almost a minute for you to reply. “So, hi.”

He knows because he counted the seconds of silence.

“Sorry, hi, I’m Y/N.” You snapped out of your trance, and he puffed in relief when you responded. You stick your hand out to him. “Great to finally meet the clumsy neighbor.” You laughed, pulling the door open just a little more.

The tips of his ears turned hot, and he cleared his throat by putting his fist against his mouth with embarrassment. “Ha, oof. Clumsy. Yeah, sorry about that. Really. I hadn’t realized the walls were so… thin? I really hope I haven’t woken you up or disturbed anything or -” He paused, calming his rambling. “You know, I really didn’t realize how hard it is to move a sofa when you don’t have anyone to help you move in.”

You hummed, eyeing his beat-up converse and the weird strings of cobwebs on the knees of his pants. “Do you need help moving a sofa?” You squinted at him.

The tension in his body deflated. His shoulders hung with a pleading sigh.

“God, yes, please.”

Peter didn’t need help moving a goddamned sofa. He knew that, but at least you didn’t. His crazy enhanced strength gave him the ability to lift almost anything… except the Empire State Building. (He tried that once, and failed - much to his surprise. Tried grabbing from the base of the building then tried from the top. Didn’t work at all. Every tourist and police officer looked at him weirdly). But, he did know that he was lonely. Peter recalled the look of pity the landlord had given him when he admitted it was just him at the moment. Ever determined, he wanted to make acquaintances in the building. More like acquaintance, singular. Frankly, you were the only one who opened their door after he had been going around knocking. The sofa excuse? He had just finished watching that one episode of Friends, and it was the first thing that came to mind.

Now, he realized maybe this was a bad idea. He didn’t mean to disturb the girl next door. Was it weird asking you to lift a couch with him? Probably. You were pretty, was he wrong for asking you? Would you cuss him out and think he was a weird Queens creep that wanted to be alone with you? No, he had good intentions. Just wanted to be friendly. So much for a welcome. Peter didn’t think that you would even accept, much more open the door. But you did. Out of all the neighbors - the woman with like eight chihuahuas across from him, the old man who would always get locked out of his place, the snotty sorority girl, the man who won’t stop playing EDM music on max fucking volume - you welcomed him. And he’s thankful. Sure, you were sort of timid and kinda kept to yourself but you’d show bits and pieces of who you were to him with witty, quick remarks. But it was just what he needed. He’d take these mysterious neighbors anyday over isolation and a dark bedroom that didn’t feel warm anymore. Peter already decided you were his favorite neighbor, but to a very close tie with the chihuahua lady.

Peter seemed like he was capable of lifting it himself. You saw it for a moment, the way the sofa literally hovered over the floor for a few seconds. But, you shrugged it off, deciding maybe he wanted company. He was your new neighbor, the last thing you would want is an argument over a tiny observation of his behavior.

An argument.

Maybe you jinxed yourself because Peter said something about this “god-awful podcast” he heard in the mornings and you choked on air.

“God-awful? Now, that’s a little harsh, don’t you think?” You leaned against the doorway of the hall leading to his bedroom, watching as he arranged the throw pillows on the sofa. It was funny, seeing his long limbs stretched out on the floor. “I don’t think it’s god-awful. I think it’s genius. I like to believe they’re based on real stories. Keeps me up at night. You just lack taste, Peter.”

“Am not lacking taste, but I think it’s almost horrific that you’ve gotten through like, how many episodes? Sixteen? How do you sit through sixteen episodes of a fake podcast?” He looked at you over his shoulder, eyebrows comically drawn into a concerned look. “Torture, I tell you. Having to hear that through my walls every morning since I got here-”

“How do you even hear them? I have earbuds in everyday.”

He paused, almost to think. “Your earbuds are ass.”

“Dude, you just got here and you’re already annoying.” You moved, intending to leave so you wouldn’t overstay your invitation. Peter laughed, running a hand through his locks. It stung a little, only because he was always a sensitive one at heart. But he hadn’t been called annoying in a while and in a weird way, it made him feel youthful. It was oddly comforting. “Now, if you suddenly need help with another sofa, I’ll be next door. You can holler, or you know, start shit-talking my favorite podcast again. I’ll hear either.”

It was a joke, but it was also half-meant. Because Peter Parker was starting to get on your nerves. This buffoon, with no taste in podcasts, and his shitty ugly couch that you should’ve left alone.

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks, though.” He followed you out, shutting the door to his apartment behind him as he stepped into the hallway with you. “I appreciate the sofa help. Let me know what I can do to help you overcome that, you know, bad podcast addiction of yours.” He ducked his head playfully, catching your eyes glimmer with wit.

“Cry about it. You’re welcome.” You can’t help but snicker. The corner of your lip tugged upwards, and you shrugged before glancing at Peter as you let yourself into 6C. “For the record, maybe listening to a bad podcast will help you keep it down there.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Y/N!”

Back inside your apartment, you realized that talking with Peter had taken an hour and a half of your day. It felt longer - fun, despite the various times you’d subtly clash heads and the times he’d shit-talk your tastes in podcasts. You never realized the lingering smile on your face, but you did realize that you had left your phone in here all that time and you missed a couple of important texts.

J. Jonah Jameson. 1 new message.

Your new article was a hit.

I know its your day off but I heard info about some possible Spider-Man sightings for tonight.

Heard he has a new patrol route. Check your area.

(3 attachments).

You sat straighter in the wooden kitchen chair, skimming through the pictures that Jameson sent. Indeed, it was your area. Spider-Man was captured swinging over the coffee shop down the street. Another picture showed him interrupting the drug deal that commonly happened in the graffiti littered alleyway that separated your building from the next. And then the last pic seemed to be Peter’s fire escape. That kinda made you jealous. Spider-Man picking Peter’s fire escape over yours? How rude of him. Urging yourself not to get excited any further, you hurriedly texted Jameson back.

You got me. I’ll be there.

Thanksgiving bonus? :)

Get in on the action then we’ll talk.

-

New York, despite the pollution and no-no empty subway cars, was pretty at night. It was something you’d always known but would never get used to. The lights stretched out for miles, the busyness of people that never died down at night either, the soft thumping of bar music and busking. Although New York was great, it was deeply gorey. It was mean, cold, and cruel. It could chew you up and spit you out. But it had a certain red and blue individual that you couldn’t quite shake off.

Spider-Man saved you.

Which is why you were so fond of him.

He may have been painted as an antihero, altruist, or a no-good vigilante but deep down, you always saw him as a hero.

Flawed, but a hero.

You were nineteen when it happened. You and your parents had been walking the streets late at night. The lights had a green hue to them, and flickered with warning. It was one of the safer sides of the city, so no one was worried. At the time, you were tourists. Visiting family on the east coast during their wedding anniversary. But from there, it all gets blurry in a mix of screams and raw pain shooting through your arm. It was a robbery. Your parents were mugged. Shot. Twice. And you, a bullet grazed your arm, before Spider-Man swung down from the sky and pinned three robbers to the ground within a flash.

You flinched with each punch that Spider-Man pulled.

The way his suit rippled with rage.

Your throat was dry and you felt bile rise in your throat as the criminals pleaded for mercy. It was too hard to watch.

“Spider-Man.”

He didn’t look up once.

You moved, to reach for him, to stop him. “Spider-Man.” You could hear the grunts under his mask. He was steaming with anger. His suit started to turn redder. “Spider-Man!”

You reached for his fist, stopping him from leaving a final blow. He finally looked back at you, pulled back into this reality - this nightmare - as his webbed knuckles stained your palms with blood.

The police arrived five minutes too late.

You remembered how you stood on the sidewalk. In shock, breathless, yet your chest rose heavy with each gasp of oxygen you took. You never felt the rushed hands of paramedics nearly dragging you to the ambulance. You never heard the voices of concern swirling all around you, but the police sirens haunted you. It was like the world had taken all your senses, except sight.

Because you saw. And you watched it happen.

You tore your eyes away from the corpses on the ground, not wanting to stare any longer. Your lifeless glare landed on Spider-Man. He was already looking at you. You wished you couldn’t see the shell of your reflection in the eyes of his mask. The way you sat in the ambulance, the way that everything and everyone felt suddenly unknown to you. But Spider-Man never tore his gaze away as you were treated. You wished, at that moment, to see his eyes behind the mask. Just to see the sliver of the person beneath.

You thanked him with a nod of your head.

You didn’t know, but Spider-Man was crying. He empathized.

He broke your gaze and then he disappeared into the night.

You didn’t find yourself haunted by that memory anymore. In fact, you came to peace with it. There was a time where you questioned why Spider-Man wasn’t able to come sooner. Maybe he could’ve saved your parents. People tended to ask what happened that night when they would find out that you were a witness to Spider-Man in action, out of worry, curiosity, to judge. And you’d tell them that he saved you and you were grateful to be alive. Your parents didn’t make it out. It was just a robbery in the street.

You called it your Bruce Wayne origin-story. No one found that funny, except you.

It was around ten at night when you witnessed the familiar lean figure swing from one building to the next. You would’ve missed it, had you moped longer. But, you saw the quick and calculated motion on the building across the street. You had taken to the roof of your building for a better view, feeling that maybe Spider-Man would feel brave and try that fire escape again. You lost him in the shadows, but you recognized the loud thwip! and your brows raised at the web that landed down the side of the building.

You rushed to turn your camera on, nearly dashing over the edge of the building to catch him in front of Peter’s fire escape. But by the time you were able to check, he was fucking gone, as you peered over the edge. Damn superheroes and their super speed and super sense. The only thing left was whatever remained from his web, and you decided to snap a picture anyways.

You texted Jameson.

It was a bust. I’ll try again next time.

Not entirely disappointed, you made your way back inside your building. You were hit with warmth and the stuffiness of the hallway felt cozy, contrasting from the cold and the bits of snow that accumulated in the cable knit of your beanie. You were just about to pass by Peter’s door when it swung open, as if he had been waiting for you to pass. He was out of breath. His hair - if you thought it was crazy before, it surely was now - sat like a rat’s nest above his forehead. His pupils were wide and his lips were wet as his tongue darted out to lick them.

It’s almost like Peter was caught doing something, but he was quick to acknowledge you, “H-Hi!” His head tilted to the side. He laughed loudly, and you sent him an accusatory look. “What, Y/N?”

“I think you’re so weird.” You enunciate each word. And you look down, out of habit. You didn’t mean to look at him, but you were trying to look at your shoes and that was when the Spider-Man covered boxers caught your eye. You lowered your voice, “If you have someone over, the least you could do is not wear the Spidey boxers. You really are weird, take it to heart.”

He grimaced. Peter realized that you were insinuating that he was having sex and he wore Spider-Man boxers for hookups. His hands move to cover his crotch area, “Oh, my god. No, not what you think. I’m by myself.”

“You don’t need to act like that. I don’t actually care.” You huffed, scratching the back of your head. “M’not your girlfriend so…”

Eh, you kinda did. You would never admit it though.

“Unfortunately.” He joked. And you took the biggest mental note of it. He flirted without a thought, for the first time today. Peter had just met you and he was flirting. He blushed after, taken aback by his own forwardness. You shut yourself up before a stutter could make it past your lips. Peter also noticed. Hoping he hadn’t made you uncomfortable with his joke, he instantly brushed over it with another. “What? Who said that? I think there’s someone eavesdropping on our conversation. I heard it.” He comically looked around each end of the hallway, and you tried to stifle a laugh from his antics.

“I’m your neighbor, which is worse. I can hear everything so if you’re gonna…” You trailed off.

“I’m not. I was changing, Y/N. That’s all.” He bumped your shoulder, wagging his finger at you. “Don’t be jealous of me now.”

There it was. Peter felt like a bit of himself again, cracking his quick-witted jokes. After being stuck in a rut for ages, he finally felt himself being tugged out. Years of therapy maybe got him somewhere.

You poked him away. “Not jealous. Just making sure my neighbor knows that I know what’s up.” You grinned up at him, popping the p. “I’m only joking, Peter. I think the Spidey boxers are kinda cool.”

“Yeah?” He perked up, before you admired how his shoulders broadened.

“But, when you wear them, they look kinda lame.” He snorted at the insult, softly nudging you towards your apartment.

“You’re insufferable.”

You placed your hand on your hip, leaning your weight on one side, “I think I’d rock them better.”

“Y/N? In my underwear? Oh, but we’ve only just met.” The thought made Peter warm and jittery inside, his cheeks rosy. It made you blush, too. For the same reasons.

“I’m sure The Daily Bugle would love seeing their favorite Spider-Man writer in some fanmade merch.” You said, matter of factly.

Peter stopped, smile dwindling as a spark of curiosity nudged him. “Spider-Man writer?”

You nodded, pulling out your phone and showing what looked to be the newest publication of The Daily Bugle. His eyes hurriedly read over the words, and they zeroed-in on the contents beneath the article header.

His eyebrows deepened their furrow.

“Well? Hopefully my bad podcasts don't translate into bad writing.” You gazed up at Peter expectantly, concerned at his shift in behavior.

Peter wasn’t distraught. Nor was he offended. Because the only article that said somewhat good and unbiased things about Spider-Man was yours. He should’ve listened in on all those stressed phone calls you’ve been dealing with. He knew that he recognized Jameson’s voice. You, his neighbor, who had such access to Peter, but not Spidey. At least, he doesn’t think you have access to Spider-Man. Peter was careful, calculated, but he also could be ignorant at times like the dumbass he is. Maybe, you’ve seen him on the fire escape? Not so smart of him, but it was a possibility that he couldn’t just rule out.

Peter would never use his window again.

“Do you know Spider-Man?”

“What? No, doofus. I’m just a journalist.” Peter’s soft eyes met yours for the first time in a while. Like, they were searching. You pried your phone from his tight grip. “If you’re some insane Spider-Man fanboy, I really can’t help you. I don’t think he does selfies.”

That’s when he started to study you. To really look at you, this time. Your eyes. Bright, yet exhausted from the all-nighters you’d pull covering a story. The way your eyebrows fell, how worry creased over the dryness and cracks of your winter lips. You were familiar, but he couldn’t place where. Peter stepped back.

He’d do a background check later. He didn’t know why he hadn’t done one in the first place, and he would’ve decked himself in the head if you weren’t standing so close to him.

“Yeah,” You managed to capture the second glance he gave your phone as you tucked it away. “Huge fan. Can’t you tell?” He gestured to his boxers.

You sensed his slight uneasiness, and you took it as your sign to head back inside. “Okay, well. Maybe I can hook something up one day. Don’t think Spider-Man does autographs either. I’m gonna go sleep this off now.”

“Yup, me too.” Peter’s digits made a beeline for his door handle.

“Hey, actually wait!” You called out to him just before he could leave. He blinked widely at you, awaiting the rest of your sentence. “I-I promise I’m not some Spider-Man hunter or anything… if that’s what you’re thinking of. I just… think he’s a good guy. And interesting. Jonah Jameson takes things too far. I don’t. I think New York needs to see both sides of that coin.”

Peter doesn’t know why, but he believed you. His cheeks warmed at the words of appreciation, something he hadn’t heard for years. For whatever reason, you could’ve been lying. Yet, you didn’t know that side of him, and he was convinced you were speaking from the heart. The sincerity laced in your voice seemed too real to be mistaken for artificiality. He liked that about you, that you were upfront with him with anything. And you sensed him.

Like it was so easy for you to read people. To read him.

Not just Spider-Man. Peter. The last person able to read him so easily was Gwen. And that scared him to pieces. That familiarity you carried, whether it was platonic or not, it gave him some hope. He allowed himself to smile. Maybe these apartments weren’t such a bad thing after all. Peter wanted to be optimistic. He wanted to have fun and live again, and do anything but mope. Gwen had been gone from his life for at least six years. He was older, and being Spider-Man, he was never guaranteed time. Time always felt like it was slipping through his fingertips. It felt as if yesterday he was still a senior in high school, skating across Manhattan with that youthful bounce in his step that blossomed from the goodness of being Spider-Man. So naïve. So young. Too young almost. Peter knew loss from a young age, and so did you.

“Goodnight, Pete.” You sing-song, stepping into the confines of your place. Peter reminisced over the nickname, and thought of Aunt May.

Although you gained most of Peter’s trust, he was still uncertain. It wasn’t that you gave him a reason to be suspicious, but he wanted to be careful. It was in his nature as a hero, and it came easily after dealing with threats day-to-day. Peter’s laptop illuminated his face with a bluish light, causing him to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He hesitated, fingers dancing across the keyboard as he typed your name. It rolled off his tongue easily.

“Y/N Y/L/N, who are you?” Talking amongst himself, Peter is able to find your socials pretty easily. So much for privacy. He found you by the third link, which led him to your Instagram. Having had an inkling as to what pictures he’d find, Peter grinned as he was right.

He wanted to convince himself he wasn’t grinning because he was looking at pictures of you. Some part of him liked seeing his new neighbor standstill for once. No teasing, cocky laughter, nor that signature side eye you’d give him if he’d say something weird. He picked that up immediately. It made things fun with you. The dynamic was different - lighthearted. But the longer he Insta-stalked, Peter suddenly missed the sound of that laugh. It reminded him of himself. A lot of things about you reminded him of himself, really. And you clicked.

Peter’s chin rested in the palm of his hand as he found himself two years deep into your account. He figured you were the sentimental type: most of your posts were dedicated to friends’ birthdays and concerts and whatever cute cats you’d find in the street. You had occasional selfies and outfit pictures. In fairness, he liked how you looked in green. As he scrolled farther and farther, till your posts ended, he noticed that you hadn’t mentioned family. At all. Let alone, there were no pictures of anyone slightly even related to you.

Peter felt a pang of loneliness simmer through his chest, seeping into the weight of his bones. He was sad. Did you have a family? Who took care of you? Peter sucked in a shaky breath. Stop it. Y/N isn’t your problem. Don’t go prying into your neighbor’s business. The brunette knew his boundaries, and he already recognized that he quite literally jumped, sprinted and made a touchdown past that line tonight. That’d be enough. He wouldn’t look into it again because you weren’t his business to worry about, unless you were in trouble. But then that would be Spider-Man’s problem.

His phone chimed, and he’s thankful for the device’s reminder to make a new batch of webs for his web shooters.

You barely slept that night. You wanted to say it was from the coffee you drank after your last encounter with Spider-Man, but honestly, you couldn’t ignore the thumping and boyish screams of aha’s! that came from Peter’s side of the wall. You knew that his bedroom was across yours, and his bed probably mirrored the position of the one in your room. You refused to become flustered at the thought of Peter in his Spidey boxers again. Your curiosity became ridden with frustration, as the sounds didn’t stop despite the pillow over your ears.

When a loud knock echoed right above your head, you turned on your stomach immediately, replying with a long and loud rap of your fist against the wall from where Peter stuck to. He heard the muffled ‘Be quiet!’ on the other side, and he simply chuckled. You’d tell him off in the morning.

Peter’s bedroom was covered in webs. As he crouched to crawl onto the ceiling, upside-down, his eyes piece together an outline of a dick made with web. He did that, accidentally. Peter cracked up. And another knock is heard.

“Peter Parker, please go to sleep or I will personally evict you myself.”

With that, he gracefully let go of the ceiling, cooperating with gravity. His bed creaked as he rolled atop of it, and he turned his head to face the wall.

“Is this how you treat new tenants? Talking to them through walls like a fucking ghost?”

You don’t reply.

“Y/N?” Peter whisper-shouted. “Are you a ghost?”

“I’m really trying to sleep here.” You groaned. “You believe in ghosts but not in my murder mystery podcast?”

“Okay, I promise I’m shutting up now because I’ll never hear the end of it…”

Peter stayed true to his promise, and it was quiet. It was odd to think about, how the only thing between you and him was a thin wall covered in peeling wallpaper. You found yourself wondering how your new neighbor was adjusting to his place. You wondered if the mattress he had was the same as yours - with its broken springs and its wailing creak. You wondered if his radiator went out at night, like yours, or if he could hear the hum of the fridge light. You wondered if he could hear your breathing. If you concentrated hard enough, would you hear his? If you shut your eyes, would you hear the flutter of his lashes or the way his hands rub against his jaw?

You wondered if Peter Parker wonders at night, too. And if he did, what did he think of?

“Ghosts could be real if you put your mind to it, Y/N.”

An annoyed groan bubbled from your throat.

Peter Parker was a walking noise complaint.

-

[istillmissyou2]

"are you awake yet?" "no." "oh, okay sorry." + peter parker + and it's like the first night they've spent together

Pretty Girl

✮ tasm!peter parker x fem!reader

✮ word count: 0.6k

✮ summary: a soft morning with peter.

✮ warnings: allusion to smut, mention of sexy times the night before, reader has hair that can be tucked behind her ear, mentions of morning breath, a soft kiss and a steamy kiss.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

main m.list ⋆ peter parker m.list

not my gif. credits to the owner :)

The comfort of the blankets covering your bare body makes you want to sink deeper into the mattress, but the sudden confusion of your surroundings pulls you out of your groggy state. You come to your senses as you feel for the sheets around you, the unfamiliar texture makes you realize the arm thrown over your waist. 

For a split second, you panic, until you force yourself to calm down. You sigh as you remember that you spent the night with Peter, and you nuzzle your body closer to his, a soft smile appearing on your lips. 

Peter must have felt your sudden need to be closer, because he pulls you closer to his chest, his skin warm from sleep. A flush of warmth runs over your cheeks. Some of it is from pure joy, but most of it is from giddy at the thought of the night before. 

The sun is starting to peek through the blinds of Peter’s window causing you to squint, effectively pulling you out of the sluggishness of sleep. Now that you’re awake, your body can’t stay still. The urge to turn around and press small kisses to Peter’s face was strong, and it took everything in you to stay facing away from him. 

You could only move for so long before Peter started to stir, his heightened senses picking up on your restlessness. An incoherent groan slips past his lips, causing you to giggle. You finally turn your body to face him, your hand reaches up to push a mess of his hair away from his eyes. Your hand lowers to rest on the side of his face, your thumb slowly rubs back and forth. Your voice is still warming up as you ask, “Are you awake yet?” 

Peter’s eyes are still closed, but a small laugh leaves him. His smile falls rapidly as he tries to conceal it. Now with his face forcing a frown, he responds, “No.” 

If your boyfriend wants to play games, you could too. You pull your hand away from his face, and quickly turn back around and move away from his grasp. He opens his eyes at your sudden movement, and he’s met with a view of your bare back. “Oh, okay sorry,” you mumble to him as you make yourself comfortable on the other side of the bed, a grin appearing on your face. 

You can hear a chuckle coming from him behind you before you feel an arm around your waist, turning you around and pulling you onto his chest. Pieces of your hair fall around your face as you laugh. “Hey pretty girl,” Peter whispers as he tucks some strands of hair behind your ear then moves to hold the side of your face. 

Your heart melts at his greeting. He brings your face down to his to kiss your lips softly. You savor the feeling, but quickly pull away, “I have morning breath, Peter!” 

His eyes are still on your lips, his gaze carries an unmistakable look of longing. “I don’t care,” he mumbles as he pulls you back down again. 

This time, you don’t pull away. Your lips are beautifully entangled with his. The kiss is deep and fills you with an overwhelming sense of love. Peter’s fingers begin to weave through your hair, giving it a slight tug as he moans into your mouth. You don’t pull away until you absolutely have to, the lack of air causing your head to swirl. “I thought you weren’t awake,” you tease. 

“No, no,” he starts, “I’m definitely awake. I don’t know what you’re talking about?” You laugh at his response before looking over his features. You take a mental picture of the Peter you’re looking at now. The morning sun looked good on him.

✮ author's note: hi all!! first of all, thank you for the support during my unplanned hiatus. your kind words have meant so much to me. once again, im slowly putting out the rest of the recs from the 400 follower bash, so stay tuned for those!! and im literally so close to 500 already...like what?? so keep an eye out for a little celebration for that too!! ok, ily bye!!!

[istillmissyou2]

Hii ! How are you ?? I wanted to make a request for Tasm Peter Parker, I imagine Peter passing by the street where the reader is walking and picking her up and starting to swing from building to building on the web with her, like that scene from the second movie, when Peter wrote "I love you" on the bridge and then he picked up Gwen while swinging on the web, I imagine the reader hearing screams about Spider-Man, and then, she is meters above the ground

₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊ tasm!peter parker x reader ₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊ 

peter takes you for a swing 

1k words

a/n: i'm good and hope you are too! thank you for requesting babe this was so fun! (i changed it just a bit, hope thats okay) ʚ♡ɞ

Walking down the sidewalk, through the hustle of Queens at lunchtime, you can practically taste the spring rolls that will be in your hands soon. You and Peter’s favorite Chinese restaurant, Pearl’s Garden, is a ten minute walk from your shared apartment. They can make your food in less time than that. The owner, a nice old man, knows you both by name. 

You eventually turn down a street that isn’t nearly as crowded, where people have turned into convenience stores or have gone down to the subway. Just as you see the sign for Pearl’s, a big, green rectangle, you hear a whoosh. An arm wraps around your waist, curling you up toward their body like you weigh 10 pounds. Before you can scream, you shoot up into the air. 

“Peter!” You screech, turning in his arm to wrap your arms around his neck. There’s no need to worry about other people hearing his name since you’re already high up enough. 

His spandex-clad hand tightens around your waist, holding a fist of your jacket just in case. You can’t see it, but you know he has that stupid smile.. “Hi babe!” he says cheerily, like this is a normal place to hold a conversation, flying between tall buildings. “Where were you going?”

You press your face into his shoulder; at some point, you must’ve wrapped your legs around his waist. You’d think you’d be used to this by now, the feeling of shooting up and leaving your stomach far, far behind. Still, you fight the urge to squeeze your eyes shut, but you know that will just make it worse. 

“Were you following me?” You yell over the sound of air passing by your ears. 

You feel the bump of his nose against your temple right before he glides you both around a shiny, windowed building. You think he laughs as your arms tighten around him. “I saw you from above and wanted to say hi. Totally normal boyfriend stuff.”

If you weren’t too scared to let go of him, you’d pinch his side. Still, you smile to yourself. “Can’t you just say hi like a normal person? I think my insides are dying.”

This time, you do hear him laugh... loudly. It buzzes against your ear, soft and scratchy, like he didn’t expect it to come out. He doesn’t respond as you peer over his shoulder hesitantly. You think you’re slowing down; it’s so hard to tell from up here. You watch as cars drive down below, before all you can see is a rooftop. He has landed on a flat roof, most likely some commercial building. 

You unravel your legs from his waist. Just as they are about to hit the ground, Peter’s swinging arm joins the other and wraps around your back, his hand spreading on your side. “Let me go,” you whine, though you don’t let go of him either. He sways you back and forth, a mix between dancing and puppy-like energy.

“I missed you,” He says, his voice sounding clearer, like there's no mask covering his mouth. You lean back, and sure enough, you can see his handsome face now. His crooked smile was creeping in, but it was the way his eyes crinkled when they met yours, soft and golden and impossibly kind, that made your heart ache. 

Your smile matches his. “I saw you a couple hours ago,” you say. Your hand creeps up the back of his neck to touch his hair, the thick, brown locks soft on your fingers. 

He looks pained all of a sudden, as if a couple hours without your presence has physically wounded him. He tugs you back to him, squeezing your body as close to his as he can get without it becoming painful. “Where were you going?” His breath tickles the baby hairs growing from your temple. 

“Pearl’s. I was hungry and wanted lunch. And we don’t have any food at home because somebody forgot my yogurt.” You say, not unkindly. 

He pulls back enough to look at you again, squinting at you. “You told me you weren’t mad about that.”

You aren’t, not really. You just like messing with him. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Parker. And that I was craving an egg roll or two.”

Still, he is never easily mollified. His face falls into the crook of your neck, his nose brushing against your jaw. “I have failed you. As a boyfriend. As your grocery shopper. As a man.” You’re giggling now, which you expect was what he wanted in the first place. He presses a kiss to your jaw. “I’ll get you your yogurt on the way home. Pinky promise, babe.”

You smile into his hair, kissing the outer shell of his ear, simply because you can. “Are you busy with Spider Man stuff? Or can you take a break to have lunch with me?”

He removes his face from your jaw to give you a look, one that says what a stupid question and Oh My God I love you all in one. “Duh.” He punctuates it with a kiss on the tip of your nose. 

You grin at him, heart beating in the way that only seems to happen when he’s this close. When you can see darker rim around his eyes, the blonder streaks of hair around his forehead that can only come from time in the sun. “Good. If you said no, I wouldn’t have gotten you anything for later.”

His jaw drops open dramatically, and before you can push him away, his arms tighten around you like he can read your thoughts. “Cruel,” he says against your cheek. “What have I ever done to you?”

You laugh as he gathers you in his arms again, getting ready to leave. “Forgotten my yogurt, apparently.”

As payback, he doesn’t give you a countdown for when he jumps off the building, heading back to Queens. Your scream gets swallowed up by the rushing air, cars honking, and his laugh against your ear. 

criticism is welcome as long as it’s kind ✮⋆˙

i’m very new to writing ✮⋆˙

[istillmissyou2]

pairing: tasm! peter x reader

a/n: i’m so back! | inspired by that one peter & gwen scene

peter climbs in through his window, into the bedroom he was wearing his spider-man suit, mask off revealing the cuts on his lower lip, and eyebrow. a sigh escaping his lips, as he looked over to his bed, he couldn’t help but smile at you, you were laying in bed, looking peaceful. peter couldn’t tell if you were sleeping or not, the room was a bit dark, even for him to tell.

“peter, are you okay?” you sit up in bed, covers pulling around your waist as you squint your eyes, the only light coming from the moon and the lights from the city.

he smiles softly at you, his lower lip hurting a bit from the cut. "i’m alright, a little beat up, but i’m fine.”

he quickly tosses his mask onto the small desk, and discards his spider-man suit, throwing it into a random corner in the room, he puts on some baggy shorts and makes his way to your side of the bed, sitting next to you. “let me see.” you whisper, moving closer to him. you examine his face, eyebrows furrowed as you see the small scar on his bottom lip and the cut slightly above his left eyebrow.

not trying to hurt him, you softly pull at his chin, gently, looking over his lips “you cut your bottom lip.” you mumble, placing your thumb on peters lip.

“it’ll heal.”

“you cut your eyebrow, too”

“really? didn’t know.” he smiles, he knows he’s slightly giving you a hard time.

“smartass.” you quickly poke at his ribs, knowing it’s his weakness, he laughs, squirming away from you. “hey, stop that!”

“your cheek is bruised too, stop beating up my boyfriend.” you voice out, in a serious tone, as you place your hands under his jaw, and under his small bruise looking over it.

“i’m spider-man, it’s not my fault.” he mummers, his brown eyes analyzing your face. you’re like an old beautiful painting to him, he could stare at you for hours.

“you’re peter, too.” you lean in, pressing a kiss to peter’s cheek, he leans into it, a sweet and pretty smile on his face. he’s sure that your kisses could cure any cut or bruise he has on his body.

you pull back, and look at him gently. he wants to kiss you until you’re sick of him, he breathes a laugh and leans in, his nose poking your cheek. “come’er”

you roll your eyes and can’t help but mumble playfully. “so bossy.”

he presses his lips to yours, they’re always soft and taste a bit like cherry, from his chapstick, you can also taste the small blood from his bottom lip. you don’t mind when it comes to peter.

he pulls and leans back, he looks dizzy and his eyes are lidded, he must be tired. you push his hair out of his eyes, and smile softly at him, you love peter so much, you’re a sap for him, but you don’t mind. you can’t help but climb into his lap and wrap around him, holding onto him while you hide your face in the crook of his neck.

“i mean it bugboy, be nice to my boyfriend.” you mumble into his neck, placing a soft kiss there.

he snorts, from the nickname. it’s been a long time since you called him bugboy. he can’t help but laugh. “yeah yeah, i’ll take care of him.” he holds onto you tight, kissing your head.

“good, i happen to love, and enjoy him.” peter lights up, a wide smile placed on his lips, his scar spilts a bit with the smile, it hurts, but he could care less. how could he care when you’re here holding onto him tight and telling him you love him? he doesn’t. he laughs, holding onto you tight, bringing another kiss to your head. he might be hurting a bit but truly this is curing him. “i love you too, sweetheart.”

[istillmissyou2]

𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟.

college! peter parker x fem reader.

18+ only !!! f! receiving oral sex. peter parker has an oral fixation i said what i said. in my spider-man era again.

peter was a weekly visitor at this point. sometimes, it was twice, but never more than three. three was pushing it.

Three said that Peter meant something to you, and you couldn’t have that. No, whatever this was between the pair of you was strictly transactional. It was Peter texting you late at night, the classic, you up? Gracing your screen, and every time, you would pretend to be annoyed.

As if Peter coming around to give you the greatest head of your life was an inconvenience. Tempted, the devil on your shoulder smirking, to type back, Jesus, again? but never doing it. Instead, you wrote: sure.

Still, it plagued your mind. He never asked for anything else.

It was as if he did this purely for himself.

“Oh fuck,” you mewled, clenching down tight. The hand that was wrapped around Peter’s brown curls clutched and tugged, and the unconscious movement earned you a chastised groan. It rumbled through your cunt, and the echo shot to your clit, making you close your eyes and lean back, wet mouth spilling his name into your dorm.

Peter liked hearing you.

Liked seeing you lose your mind with his head between your thighs, your pussy wet and throbbing from his mouth and fingers. It’s why he came around often. Sometimes, he wouldn’t even text, would just knock on your door -- looking sheepish from under his dark curls -- and just. Not. Say. Anything.

His silence was answer enough. You knew what he wanted. Or, needed, as you later figured out, as you saw how red he’d gotten when you told him he couldn’t come around for a bit. When you said something about focusing on exams, he’d come over anyway, whined, shuffled his feet and said, You can do your work, I just gotta…I’ll be quick.

The lack of explanation made your mind swirl. But regardless, you’d let him in and did your work with his head between your thighs. He’d tutored you, too, told you how to solve for x with his fingers inside of you. He’d said, if you let me make you come again, I’ll do your Maths work for the next week. After he’d left, you stared at the scene of the crime in pure silence.

Just…reflecting.

Peter fluttered his tongue over your swollen clit. Focused on swirling it around his tongue in sloppy, wet circles, and the thick desire that swelled between your thighs began to pool at your lower back, forcing you to arch up into it.

“Please,” you wept, even though he was giving you what you wanted. Flat on your back with his deft grip keeping your bare thighs open. It was 8 pm. He’d caught you just after your shower, so the smell of your shampoo and body wash wafted through the air – Lavender and pear.

Peter had spread you open and said you smelled like spring. You’d been far too turned on to comment on it. He grumbled into your cunt, and you managed to work out the word, more? You hummed, too drunk on him and wound tight to verbalise that yes, you wanted more. Wanted him to make you come, and come again, till all you could do was mumble his name and focus on your breathing.

He'd learnt how you liked it. Paid attention, and he was getting full scores as he pushed his tongue flat against your swollen clit and sucked. Your vision went white.

“Oh fuck – ohfuck, Peter—” you squirmed, but Peter was strong, and he held you to the bed with his vice-like grip, wordlessly saying take it take it take it.

He lapped at you, salvia drooling over your cunt and down his chin, soaking the sheets. He was always so careless. In moments like this, that nervous edge that always fluttered around him was gone, replaced by a visceral drive to either please you, or get what he wanted.

The two bled into each other.

His tempo was leisurely, but that didn’t stop the heat from washing over you all at once.

You clamped your thighs around his ears and moaned -- loud, so loud that you were sure the other students on your floor heard.

Still, the ache was erratic, “So good,” you sobbed, and you heard yourself, heard the near primal need in your voice, and the desperation made you embarrassed, made you cover your mouth with your palm and grip the sheets, willing yourself to cool it. 

“Move your hand, or I’ll stop,” he uttered against you, and your clit was so sore that the echo of his words made your eyes roll back. Peter must have seen, as he hummed a laugh, and kissed your inner thigh, “lemme hear you.”

Managing to gain some sense of sanity, you blearily blinked down at him, but all sense of stability you thought you had was wiped away when you saw Peter had his hand stuffed down his pants.

You dropped back onto the bed and sobbed.

You knew he got off on this, but Jesus Christ, you’d never seen that before.

“Gotta be kidding me,” you breathed, and Peter must have understood what you were referencing, as he buried his reddening face into your inner thigh. He let out a breathy chuckle, “’ M’sorry,” he mumbled, “usually I wait till I get home, but you’re just so hot.”

You had to stay completely still, or you’d burst. Usually, I wait till I get home?

Peter moved his face and began nuzzling the wet folds of your pussy. He bumped his nose against your clit, and you quietly choked.

Peter hummed, “couldn’t help myself.”

You figured he did something like that, but the admission made your thighs tense. You pictured him stumbling home – cheeks still wet with you – and tugging his pants down, quickly shoving his hands into his boxers and taking hold of his aching cock. Did he whimper when he came? Or was he silent, all tremors and low grunts? No. He definitely whimpered.

He was far too pretty to stay quiet.

The sudden desire to kiss him swept over you.

Reaching down, you tugged at his curls, wordlessly motioning him to move. When he did, you briefly saw the red of his cheeks and wet of his nose before you kissed him, all tongue, and tasted yourself on his pink lips.

Peter melted into you. Huffed your name like a sigh, and the sheer tenderness of it had you wrapping your legs around his back and pressing your bare cunt against his jeans.

He was rock-hard. Tentatively, you ran your nails over his chest, and dipped low, pressing between his thighs, cupping his bulge, and gently squeezing. Peter wept.

“Oh fuck,” he sobbed, as desperate as you imagined. With one hand in his hair and the other on his cock, you continued to kiss him, until the ache between your thighs became too much to bear.

“Make me come,” you whispered, “and I’ll put you in my mouth.”

Peter had never moved so fast in his life.

[istillmissyou2]

Andrew Garfield as Peter Parker The Amazing Spider-Man (2012) | Dir. Mark Webb

[istillmissyou2]

TASM! Peter Parker

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