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pvarker · 2 years ago

Text

scripts thrown into the fire

peter parker x reader

summary: you and peter make a bet before spending seven minutes in a closet before new year hits, and he ends up telling you what he feels

word count: 3,117

warnings: another enemies to lovers, peter being a huge dick, mentions of gross alcohol, fluff and slight angst

a/n: nothing. i just really really liked this :)

MASTERLIST

༻✦༺ . �� ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ . ༻✧༺

“Fuck Peter Parker.”

MJ looked at you, eyes widening at your vulgarity. “Fuck him? Or… fuck him?”

You glared at her. “You know what I mean.”

She scoffed, lips turning into a frivolous smile. “Trust me, I don’t. You could mean – fuck Peter Parker, he’s a douchebag – or – I would like to fuck Peter Parker.”

You rubbed your temples, closing your eyes. You were already having a headache from the absolutely blinding lights, and MJ’s question made your head hurt even more. “Michelle, I hate him. I despise him.”

“Do you really hate him? Or do you just hate him because you’re afraid of how much you love him?”

With your jaw slacking the slightest, you scoffed in offense. “I don’t love him! And if I did, it wouldn’t be love, it would probably be infatuation.”

“So you admit it! You like him!”

“I said ‘if I did’,”

“Same thing.”

“No- no it isn’t!”

She’d caught you off guard. MJ smirked, placing the cup back between her lips.

You never liked Peter Parker. You didn’t know what it was that just ticked you off – that struck your nerves. Maybe it was because he did nothing but strut down the hallways with that smug look on his face knowing he was the smartest, or that he dated the hottest girls or that everyone appreciated who he was.

You didn’t know when you started hating him because you felt that way for years. But you knew why you hated him.

You hated him and that was it. Your new normal.

MJ disappeared, excused herself and got inside the bathroom beside her. You didn’t know what to do next, so your legs mindlessly brought you to the crowded kitchen, grabbing another slice of pizza.

“Is it just me or something smells rotten?”

His voice, like a deceitful man, rang around your ears. You felt like you were about to explode, the blood inside you boiling as he appeared beside you like a Devil in disguise. Rolling your eyes, you sucked your cheeks in before giving him a forced smile.

“Ah, so you are a dog. Smelling things from afar and whatnot.”

“Do you ever shower? Or is that just the grease from the kitchen I smell?”

“Did it ever occur to you that the grease you’re smelling is from your shirt?”

“What grease?”

Your fingers, previously holding your pizza, dragged itself on the side of his shirt. Peter yelped, eyes widening when you touched him. You smiled when you spotted the imprint of your fingers that he was now wiping with a towel. “Thanks for the tissue.”

Still rubbing the spot, he sneered at you. “You’re disgusting.”

“Learned from the best.”

“Who? The blonde senior you slept with? Or the guy with the mullet who sells beer at the store near campus?”

Your eyes widened, but not in offense (if you were being honest, you would be offended if it were MJ or any other friend, but it was kind of shocking when Peter said it). “How’d you know about that mullet guy?”

“I have my ways,” he shrugged, taking a sip from the cup in his hand. “Honestly, don’t you have to look for something interesting to do?”

“Oh, like being Spider-Man is interesting?” You raised a brow, taking a bite from your pizza despite losing your appetite the second he came. “You’re a new type of stupid.”

His head tilted sideways, placing his elbow on the kitchen counter to look at you. Peter smiled, with a hint of nervosity, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. He contemplated on saying that no, being Spider-Man is fun. But he remembered that he was still denying the truth to you, and he wasn’t about to prove you right. “For the last time, sweetheart, I’m not Spider-Man.”

You chewed on your pizza, looking at him. “You wanna bet?”

Peter continued to stare into your eyes, like it didn’t spend half of his life burning him alive. But he didn’t care – he liked the burn. He liked anything your eyes gave him, threw at him, said to him. If it meant getting your attention, he��d endure that imaginative fire scalding his skin.

“Sure,” he whispered, finger dragging along the skin of your neck, pushing the hair away. “If you have me saying a secret of mine by midnight, I’ll tell you the truth and everything that comes with it.”

You raised your eyebrow. “And if I don’t?”

He smiled. “I get to kiss you.”

Your mouth parted.

You wondered if the iceberg you created between the two of you had melted from the heat of the fire your eyes lit on his body; if it melted and created a puddle beneath you so you’d blunder in your thoughts.

Peter Parker wanted to kiss you.

No, he doesn’t. He’s a cocky bitch with an ego as big as his ears.

Peter Parker created a game in his masquerade; He was so foolishly cynical in himself that he’d end up unmasking in his own play. He knew that, and you might have known that too but at that moment you didn’t, because all you could think about was the brevity of your breath the second you imagined his lips on yours during your demise.

You wanted to back down, maybe even tell him he can go fuck himself. But you weren’t like that – you wanted to fight a war he’d most definitely lose in. So that he’d be the one looking up at you, calling you his queen, and you'd be lost in your own pious ataraxis.

It was a quintessentially monarchical thought, but why not.

“Deal.”

Literally just made a deal with the devil. Kind of fucking nervous.

You offered your hand for him to shake, but instead he placed his soft lips on the skin of your knuckles, remaining eye-contact. “Can’t wait to kiss you, pretty girl.”

Peter smirked when your small smile disappeared. You fought the urge to place both your hands on his face and slam his head on the counter, breaking his nose. Instead, you gathered up the courage to smile again, tilting your head.

“And I can’t wait to tell everyone that you’re Spider-Man,” maybe you were drunk, maybe you weren’t, but you didn’t mean that. You knew that if he were ever to tell you that he was Spider-Man, you wouldn’t tell anyone. But you enjoyed seeing him get anxious and feel the sweat in his hands knowing you caught him off guard.

You pat his cheek before walking away.

“Flash, I’m not your mom. Stop begging me for attention.”

Peter almost laughed when he heard you say that, but his eyes narrowed at your failed attempt to shove Flash’s arm off your shoulders. “That was mean,” Flash said, pouting. “Just join us, (y/n)!”

The drink in his hand was stagnant now. Peter grimaced at the bland taste, throwing the substance into the sink. But he didn’t know which grossed him more: his drink that he was sure had a hotdog thrown into before he took it, or that Flash was weirdly holding you in his arms, pulling you into the living room, and that you were letting him touch you like that.

“Dude,” Ned hissed in his ear for the third time, narrowing his eyes. “The longer you stare at them, the more you’re being obvious.”

Peter frowned, standing straighter. He wanted to be oblivious (“what do you mean obvious ?”) but he figured Ned would have just told him what he didn’t want to hear at the moment. “S-sorry.”

“C’mon man, just talk to her.” Ned pushed his shoulder. “There’s no harm in telling her the truth. Well, the Spider-Man one, maybe. But that you like her? What’s the worst that could come?”

“Rejection?”

“…right…”

He shook his head. He didn’t know why he made that bet in the first place. Peter was in the spur of the moment; he wasn’t thinking straight, and he blamed it on the alcohol. But who was he kidding? He wasn’t even at least half dunk.

He blamed it on you. Not because you probably knew that he was Spider-Man, but because you had the most exquisite and alluring eyes he’s ever seen that he felt like he had just gotten hypnotized into making the bet – a bet he knew he’d renounce his heart in.

Peter sometimes didn’t enjoy what your eyes did to him. Whether it was roasting him alive, or making him helpless in the knees; your eyes always made him anxious, and quite often, had him making stupid decisions. But he liked it when you looked at him, regardless of what your eyes currently signified.

He liked it so much that he couldn’t help but stare directly into your eyes that were glaring at him from across the room drunkenly. It tore his concentration away from Flash, who still stood beside you.

“Hey,” Ned nudged him. “They’re playing Seven Minutes in Heaven in the living room. Come on.”

He dragged his arm before Peter could protest. He sat opposite from you, cautiously eyeing the bottle in the middle of the carpet as people gathered around him.

11:52

Peter could feel his skin sweat from the watch wrapped around his wrist. Flash sat beside you, hand on the bottle.

“This game is for middle schoolers,” he heard you mutter underneath your breath. Flash frowned, fingers playing with the glass.

“Didn’t you suggest this?” he said softly, looking at you.

“What? No, Cindy suggested it.”

“Then why’d you agree with her?”

“Because – just spin the fucking bottle and let’s get this over with.”

He shrugged, followed by a wry chuckle as his wrist twisted and the bottle spun. Peter didn’t know why, but his senses heightened in anticipation, watching as the glass spun unevenly against the carpet.

When it slowed and landed on him, his eyes immediately darted to yours.

You weren’t looking at him.

“Parker!” Flash bellowed. “Get in the fucking closet!”

Peter’s eyes widened, moving backwards. “What? Why? I don’t want to go in there.”

He stood up nonetheless. Peter didn't know why, but he felt himself blush when Flash had grabbed your arm and hauled you up for you to stand, pushing you towards the closet.

“Hey, what the fuck?” you hissed, rubbing your shoulder as you glared at Flash. “I do not consent-”

“Blah blah,” he cut you off. “You suggested the game, you go in first.”

“But- Cindy suggested it!”

Cindy looked at Flash in faux-innocence, shrugging. “No, I didn’t. You did. Right, Flash?”

You gasped, tugging on your arm but no matter how much you tugged, Flash kept his grip on you. “Stop gaslighting me!”

Peter was roughly forced into the closet. He didn’t know why he let himself be pushed like that. He could have effortlessly opposed back, but maybe the idea of you being stuck with him in a small expanse made his body unexpectedly go limp and he decided not to fight back.

You fought back, however. Something about being stuck in a room with the person you loathed the most made you want to hurl, albeit it was a way for you to have an opportunity to win the bet. You knew you had him encased around your finger; you’ve seen the way he looks at you and you knew what your stare does to him. It made you feel emphatic, no doubt, and you knew you could easily make him fold but you just couldn’t stand being in a small room with him.

It had gotten to a point where Flash had to wrap his arms around you and carry you inside while Peter stood watching like a fucking idiot.

Flash closed the door, and neither of you heard the sound of the lock snapping.

You glared at Peter. It became a habit - glaring at him. And even though he enjoyed your murderous gaze, it almost always caught him off-guard. “I fucking hate you.”

“I’m honored,” he leaned closer, bending slightly so his eyes met yours directly, “to be fucking hated by you.”

11:53 was on Peter’s watch, signifying that you’ve only been with him for a minute. It felt ironic, really, that he was with you six minutes before New Year inside a closet - it felt ironic because you’re supposed to spend it with your family but instead here he was, in a closet with you.

He felt his chest compress when he recognised how tight both of you were. The tips of your shoes abutted, and he could feel the faint touch of your chest against his. You were both so close but Peter felt as if you were far away from him - incapable for him to touch; to sense.

Peter frowned when you shifted uncomfortably and pushed yourself off the wall, not even caring that your forehead now touched the fabric of his shirt. Your eyes warily darted on each corner of the room, and he could sense how your heart beat rose each look you took.

“Are you alright?” he asked genuinely. “Are you claustrophobic?”

You looked at him, the glare in your eyes softened the slightest as you leaned backward. “No. I’m Peter phobic.”

His jaw tightened. “That’s a made up word, dumbass.”

“All words are made up, dumbass ,” you mocked. “God, you’re such a fucking know-it-all.”

“And you’re so fucking infuriating!” he hissed, eyebrows furrowing in frustration. “Why can’t you just be fucking nice even for seven-fucking-minutes?! Being mean to me the entire fucking time isn’t going to make time faster.”

Your eyes narrowed, jutting your chin upwards. “How can I not be mean if you’re being pretentious?”

Peter scoffed, arms flinging. “What do you mean pretentious ?!”

Despite the thickness of his shirt, it pricked his skin when your nail dug on his chest. “You act like you’re such an angel when in reality you’re a pretentious, purposely self-effacing person. Not to mention the fact that you’re annoyingly meretricious and I can’t see why people praise you for being a smartass without even them knowing who you really are,” you took a step closer. “I may sound like I’m jealous, or I’m a bitch, but I don’t care. You’re a liar, Peter Parker.”

Your remarks didn’t hurt, but the look on your face did - you looked like you were on the cusp of crying, seeming like you genuinely hated him for being himself. It appeared as if you hated him because he was selfless and he didn’t know why. “Why do you hate me for it, then?”

“Because I envy how you can be so selfless and I can’t,” you whispered. “We’ve gone through the same shit and somehow people praise you for being a better person than I am.”

11:55

He took a deep breath for your pause. “(y/n), did it ever occur to you that you don’t actually know me?”

“And did it ever occur to you that I know you’re an asshole?” you snapped. “I hate you because you were mean to me and I was the only person to actually see you for who you were. And yet I was still seen as the bad guy-”

“Just,” he put a hand over your mouth to shut you up, and you let him, your arms going up to tightly grasp his forearm. “Let me explain, please?”

He didn’t wait for you to nod your head nor shake it to respond to him. Peter slowly removed his hand over your mouth, settling them faintly against your waist. “I-I wasn’t nice to you because I was afraid.”

If it was possible, Peter could feel you relax but tense at the same time. “Afraid of what?” you whispered, your eyes darting from his right eye to his left. “Afraid of me?”

“What- no! I- I was afraid of how much I’d be attached to you.” he replied. “I was afraid because everyone that was important to me died and I didn’t want you to be one of them.”

“What do you mean…?”

“You’re an angel,” he whispered, the sides of his fingers lightly brushing the hair out of your face, lingering there for a bit. “You’re an angel and it’s hard not to fall for you. And I know that if I let you too much into my life, you’d end up hurt and I’ll regret that for the rest of my life.”

11:57

Somehow, you ended up with your hands on his chest, blinking rapidly. “Half of my life, I spent it hating you.”

“Then hate me,” he grabbed your hand, kissing your palm. “Hate me for the rest of your life, and I’ll love you for the rest of mine.”

You looked up. A moratorium on your heart, you repeated his words in your head like a mantra-like a poetry you ought to remember. You were an indecisive person, stuck between hating and loving Peter Parker.

But hating him was easier - it was your own special way of loving him.

11:59

It was now 30 seconds before the new year and you spent the past minute staring into his deceitful eyes that scanned your lips repeatedly.

You could feel his heart beating against the palm of your hand. Something about it felt calming, feeling it beat simultaneously as yours. The benign rhythm proposed at the exceptional moment. They relied on each other to create the most exquisitely dynamic scenery one ought to bestow upon; the sound was inevitably pleasant to the ears that it felt like a composition of operatic music.

His heart beat relied on yours, so he could keep loving you for as long as he lived.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispered, leaning closer. Nose bumping yours and lips touching at the faintest.

“But I won,” you said with a small smile. Peter’s hand gripped the one on top of his heart, his other cupping your soft cheek. “You told me a secret.”

“But I want to kiss you,” Peter replied, tracing your jawline. “I want to kiss you for the rest of my life, and I want you to hate me for it.”

You nodded. “Oh, I’ll totally hate you for it.”

When Peter heard the clamorous sound of the fireworks demolishing outside, he felt the fireworks inside him ignite too as he placed his lips against yours in a swift motion, lips moving at each explosion. He told himself that it didn’t matter how much you hated him, or how much you wanted to physically hurt him. He’d keep loving you despite what you do to him.

You broke his heart a million times.

And still, he kissed you while the world fell.

༻✦༺ . ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ . ༻✧༺

SUPPORT A WRITER AND REBLOG! (please)

#re-re-blogging this bc this is probably my all time favorite peter fic #‘Hate me for the rest of your life and I’ll love you for the rest of mine’ has to be my favorite line EVER okay i gushed abt it on ao3 and #it’s only right i do the same here !!#i don’t even write for peter anymore and yet yhis line has stayed impronted in my head

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