#andrew peter parker

[withahappyrefrain]

Just a Game

You and Peter like to play a game. It requires no trivia or plastic pieces. Just two people and feigned innocence.

Warnings: CNC (which has been discussed explicitly) unprotected sex, language, minor breeding kink at the very end

You and Peter like to play a game. 

It's not a board game, though you two enjoy those from time to time. Not a video game, though Peter has expressed interest. 

This game doesn't require any trivia knowledge or plastic pieces. No one has to keep track of points. There isn't a timer. 

All this game requires is a surface and your two bodies. 

Sometimes it was a couch, when you two were in the middle of watching a movie. Other times it could be your kitchen counter, dinner be damned. Rarely, it would be the back of a car, which was your favorite. Peter’s favorite-against a wall- depended on when and where. 

Today the surface was your shared bed. 

It started innocently, like it always does. Peter found you curled up in bed, reading. He hadn’t considered playing today. But then he saw you, wearing only one of his hoodies and those pastel yellow panties that drove him wild. 

It didn’t help that Peter could smell you. Though the cover of your book didn't look out of the ordinary, your arousal revealed the true nature of your reading choice. 

“What’cha reading ladybug?” He asked, curling up to you. 

You put on an innocent smile, keeping the book to your chest, “Oh nothing. Just one of those silly romance books.” 

Peter raised his eyebrows, “Silly? Let me see.” 

Before you could squeak out an objection, Peter snatched the book away, his eyes scanning the page you were on. 

“He pushed her dress up to her hips, revealing her wet core. He dove in, lapping up her arousal like a starved man, his mouth quickly attaching itself to her clit.”

Sometimes you got so caught up in playing your role. Peter had said much dirtier things to you and yet there you were, head in your hands and a warm flush coursing through your body. 

Peter placed the book on your nightstand before bringing your hands away from your face. 

“Oh baby. You’re too sweet to be reading something like that. Why don’t we cuddle instead?”

With his brown puppy dog eyes and sweet smile, he actually sounded genuine. For a moment, you thought he wasn’t inviting you to play. Not when he had his head in your lap, practically purring as your fingernails gently scratched his scalp. 

But then his long, nimble fingers made their way under the blanket, grazing against your bare skin, drawing shapes along your thighs as he made his way up your body.

“Peter.” His name was said in a sweet, sing-song voice, “Thought you wanted to cuddle.”

He sat up, pulling you closer, “I do bug.” Peter's other hand was now underneath your shirt, creeping up to your chest.. 

“Peter,” you could barely breathe, too enthralled with how good his fingers felt kneading your breasts, “This isn’t cuddling.” 

“I know,” He sighed, as if he felt some guilt about what he was doing, “But doesn’t it feel good bug?”

You could only nod, breath hitching up when one of his large hands began to toy with the elastic waistband of your panties. 

The foreplay was fun, but it wasn't the main focus of the game. 

That didn't come until you were underneath him, completely bare and withering as his hard cock slid between your soaked folds. It was a battle, fighting the urge to jerk your hips up, potentially catching him. 

“Peter, w-we shouldn't,” your voice was shaky as you tried to come across as worried rather than in a pleasure laced haze.

“I know. We shouldn’t.” He's panting. Peter's lips ghosted over your bare skin, leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses. 

In this game, your birth control and five year relationship didn't exist. 

No. In this game you were wide-eyed and innocent. In this game, both your heads were clouded with lust, longing threatening to overtake common sense. 

“Maybe,” His voice is soft, addictive. “Maybe I-we-just the tip?” 

You throw your head back when the head of his cock makes contact with your clit. Desire racked through your body, fingers creating crescent shaped marks along his back as you searched for something, anything to ground you amidst the pleasure haze that was clouding your judgment. 

Part of you wanted to break character so he would fuck you sooner. 

But where was the fun in that?

“But we-fuck- we don’t have a condom?” A box of condoms was currently stashed away in your nightstand. You had been on birth control for years. There was no concern.

Again, not in this game. 

With your wide, doe-like eyes, sweet voice, and withering body, Peter was truly surprised he hadn’t come already. 

But where was the fun in that? That didn’t allow him to play, to take off the friendly neighborhood hero mask and act out his deepest desires. 

His head dropped down to your chest, his thin pink lips quickly latching on to one of your breasts. Your back arched in pleasure, hands grabbing Peter’s soft chestnut locks upon feeling the scrape of his teeth. His hips continue to thrust forward, reminding you of what was within reach. 

“I know, forgot to bring some. It would just-just be the tip,” He sounds like he just ran a marathon. You’re so warm and wet. Everytime the plush head of his cock nudges against your clit, he can feel your walls clenching, trying to catch him, enticing him in. 

“Peter,” the way you moan his name is sweeter than any song he’s heard, “We-no. Peter, don’t.”

He’s already grabbed the backs of your thighs, hitching them up to your chest. Now he has the picture view of his cock sliding through your slicked folds. You have the prettiest cunt Peter’s ever seen and God, does he want to use it.

Your hips twitch as he nudges his cock towards your all too welcoming entrance, entranced by how your walls eagerly suck him in. Eyes roll to the back of your head upon feeling the head of his cock begin to stretch you, nearly forgetting your role in all this. 

“W-wait!” You try to prop yourself up, try to jerk your hips away. 

But Peter is stronger. It drives you crazy, his strength. His hands grasp your shoulders, pushing you back down onto the mattress. 

“It’s okay bug. Just the tip, remember?” The ambered irises are blown out with lust. Combined with the downright wicked smirk adorning his handsome face, he looks more devilish than heroic. 

It thrills you. No one else sees this side of him, only you. Only you does he feel comfortable enough to indulge in these desires. 

For a few moments, it's only the tip, sliding in and out of your tight walls. 

Sometimes he’ll dive right in, other times he'll drag it out, as if Peter is truly at war with his morals when it comes to your sweet cunt. 

“Just….just the tip,” he whispers, as though he’s trying to convince himself, trying to convince you. 

The outcome is clear, but you still nod your head. “Just the tip,” you agree. 

“So…fucking tight,” He watches where you two connect in awe, lips parted, “So warm. God…feel fuckin’ incredible.” 

The praise leaves goosebumps on your skin, almost distracting enough to not notice that Peter has been slowly pushing his cock in more and more with each passing moment. Your body betrays you, hips jerking upwards in a desperate, near pathetic attempt to get more of his cock. 

Sometimes the game is hard to keep up with. There have been times where you both forfeit, craving each other far too much to continue. 

If Peter noticed you breaking character, he didn’t acknowledge it. He’s too mesmerized by the way your cunt eagerly welcomes him. 

“Fuck, baby, m’sorry, it’s-you feel s’good.” His speech is slurred, drunk off your body. Before you can react, he thrusts forward, filling you to the brim. 

Finally. 

“Pete-no! We can’t!” You plead, despite your body enthusiastically welcoming the intrusion, “You said-ah! You said the-the tip!”

His cock twitches at your words, at the feigned concern in your voice. His lips ghost over your face, hips increasing the speed of their thrusts. 

“I know, I know,” it’s almost convincing, that he truly feels bad for this, for giving in to lust. As if neither of you wanted it. 

He picks up his pace, shushing your fake protests. His cock feels incredible, so full. No matter how much prep beforehand, the sheer size of Peter is still an adjustment. 

“You'll- you’ll pull out, right?” You gasp, eyes meeting his. 

“‘Course bug,” He chuckles. 

He won't. But it's the false promises that keep you going.

“As-ah- as long as you pull out, it's okay, right?” You're committed to the role of the naive girlfriend, Peter will give you that. The concern in your eyes is incredibly convincing. 

Sometimes he's so caught up in the euphoria of you that he forgets to play along. All he has to do is look you in the eyes to remember his role. 

“Yeah, it's okay. God, feels incredible. Your pussy.” He hitched your legs further up until they were nearly resting on his shoulders. The change in angle allowed him to thrust deeper, reaching the spot that made you see stars. 

Bliss quickly overcame you, causing you to focus less on the game and more on the coil that was currently winding up in the pit of your stomach, threatening to snap at any moment. 

“God, you're clenching me. Can barely pull out.” His pressed his lips against yours, capturing them in a messy kiss. 

You shake your head, “Y-you should. Peter!”

But Peter continues, relishing in how tight you're gripping him. It's addictive. 

“Everytime I try to pull out, your little cunt sucks me back in. Think she wants me to stay.” His words elicit a downright desperate whimper from you. 

“How’s this? I'll stay ‘till ya cum.” His composure was incredible, his voice so soft you almost believed him. 

Almost. 

Weakly, you nodded as Peter’s perfidious promise promptly pershing into the periphery of your mind. Who could express you to focus, when his nimble fingers were toying with your clit? 

Your pleas to stop fade away, occasionally a feeble no falling from your lips. His massive hands were all over you, kneading at your soft skin, sure to leave bruises. 

It's one of the best things to Peter, waking up and admiring the work he did on your body from the night before. 

But for now, he could enjoy another favorite-you. It was cute, nearly adorable how your legs shook, your hips jerking upwards, desperate to get more despite already being full of him. The pathetic whimpers that fell from your lips, unable to form anything coherent. With each thrust, your breasts bounced against your chest. 

It was picturesque. Peter wished he could grab his camera to immortalize this moment, but that would break the illusion. 

So instead, his fingers skim your soft skin, tracing over your plush curves, downward until he reaches his desired location. 

After all, he promised he'd pull out once you cum. So why not help? 

His fingers on your clit felt like lightning, sending a crack of electricity up your spine. It's euphoric, you can't even bother to play along, hands gripping the strands of his hair tightly as the bedroom is quickly filled with your moans. 

When you finally get pushed over the pleasurable edge, it’s loud. There are no whines or pleads for Peter to pull out. Only raucous moans that fill the bedroom, combining with the erotic sound of his skin slapping against yours. 

“Shit, feel s’good. S’fuckin tight,” He pants, “Babe-baby. You feel s’good. Don’t know if I can pull out.”

His words jolt you out of the lavender haze, reminding you of the part you were still playing. 

“N-No. You can’t!” 

Peter nods his head, though he’s not agree with you, “M’sorry,feel s’good.”

You try to sit up, to put up a fight. But just as you do, you’re pushed back down, your hands above your head, enclasped with Peter’s. His body covers you like a warm weighted blanket, the kind where it’s so soft and deceptively confining, you can’t get up even if you wanted to. The spicy scent of cinnamon that always lingers on his body floods your nostrils, his mouth swallowing your pleas to stop as his hips erratically slam into yours. 

It was blissful. You were enraptured by Peter, by his body, roleplay be damned. Your legs wrapped themselves around his lithe waist, pulling him closer. 

Peter reaching his own high triggers yours again, walls clamping tightly down on his cock as he floods you with his warm. 

“Baby, m’s’sorry, feels too good,” it's then you register he's still rutting his hips against yours. 

Well this is a new move. Usually the game ended at this point. 

The chance to prolong, to try something new was thrilling. 

So you shook your head. “Peter!” Your moan contained more desire than it did distress, “N-no, you need-oh- pull out!” 

But Peter just grunts. It's so animalistic, your thighs clench at the sound. His refractory period was much shorter than anyone else you had been with, no doubt thanks to a radioactive spider bite. 

Now sensitivity is surging through your body, pain and pleasure mixing together. He's hitting the spot that makes you see stars, the spot you didn't think existed until you met Peter. 

It's getting harder to stay in character. But as long as Peter is trying, so will you. 

“Y-you promised you'd pull out!” 

“I know,” he groans in your ear, “Shouldn't have such a fucking tight cunt then. Don't know how ya expect me to pull out.” 

His teeth sink down into your throat, earning a sharp gasp. 

“God, your cunt,” the scruff of his beard scratches against your skin, “Think you want me to cum in ya again.” 

You shook your head, “No! Please!” Fingers claw at his strong back to no avail. He continues with his harsh thrusts, paying no attention to how your mixed arousal was leaking onto the sheets. 

“No- stop!” But that wasn't your safe word. 

He could tell you were already close, your moans increasing in pitch, how your walls were clinging to his cock. 

You just needed a little help getting there. 

“Gonna cum in ya again. It might just take this time. Is that what you want? For me to fuck a baby in ya?” 

The illusion of your feigned innocence shatters, his words igniting a flame in you that can't be fanned out. 

You're now wailing, nodding enthusiastically at Peter's words. Fingers which were once clawing at him now grip his shoulders. Instead of jerking away, your hips move upwards. 

“Y-yes! Want it to take s’bad! Please fill me up!” 

Your voice was nearly unrecognizable; whiny and desperate. It only spurs him on, his cock thrusting into you at a near bruising pace. 

Peter's next high is with your’s, hips stuttering as he fills you once more. He knows he could go again, but everyone needs a break, an intermission before the next act. 

The next few moments, you two are speechless. The only audible sounds are that of heavy breathing and the overhead ceiling fan.

“Well, that was fun,” you chuckled, running your fingers absentmindedly through his hair. 

Peter finally made eye contact with you. His eyes are dark, almost black with lust. The grin on his face is downright wolfish. 

“Oh sweetheart, I'm far from done with you.” 

You were in for a long night. 

[biblio-smia]

shy shy shy

a little insecure tasm peter parker x reader, early stages of relationship

masterlist | requests are open!

buy me a ko-fi!

nerdy peter lovers rise

They were just glasses.

On, off. On, off. A clear reflection of Peter in the bathroom mirror, a few circles of color where his head and body would be.

Peter examines himself with the lenses on, pulls out a piece of his sweater that had gotten caught inside his plaid pajama pants. His hands run up through the damp hair that falls flat against his forehead in an attempt to give it a little volume but it's no use without his usual styling products. Peter slaps his palms on his cheeks, shakes his head and sends micro-drops of water sailing. He bounces in place, attempting to shake out the jitters his body has had trouble containing all day.

Peter pushes his contact lens case aside, gives himself one last glance over. He contemplates for a few seconds, biting the inside of his cheek. Peter sighs as he pulls the lenses off again, cradling them in his hands and blowing air through his lips.

Metal frames, thick lenses.

Couldn't have that spider fixed his vision while he was at it?

Okay, Peter's vision wasn't that bad. Maybe he could survive without the frames Peter felt altered his appearance so drastically (or at least, reflected more accurately the type of person Peter was in his spare time). Peter with Contacts was cool and confident - scaled back from the confidence he had while he was in his suit, but not as pathetic as he was back in high school. Peter with Glasses? Yeah, that guy looked deserving of wedgies.

He reaches for his phone to check the time (and make sure he hasn't left you alone for too long), but can't make out what the white numbers say through his cracked screen.

Okay, maybe it is pretty bad.

Peter sighs, picks up the mess he'd made pre and post shower, hyping himself up one more time before opening the door and flipping the light switch off.

Peter pads down the hallway and peers his head around the corner into the small living room. He squints and can just barely make out the top of your head sitting on his couch.

Even though he can't see you very well, Peter's heart makes a funny feeling in his chest, even through the eye strain.

It's like you can feel Peter's eyes on you (which, you probably can - Peter is working overtime to try and make out the details of you) because you sit a little straighter and turn your head. Peter pushes his glasses on just in time to see you smile. And then grin.

"You wear glasses?"

Your voice is curious, not at all condescending, though Peter can hear the smile in your voice as you come up to meet him.

"For the aesthetics," Peter grins, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms in an attempt to make you believe the false sense of confidence he's putting up. It's stupid, really, but a tiny piece of Peter thinks someone as consistently perfect as you should be with someone who is equally on par. And, at the moment, Peter feels like he's letting you down.

You stand close to Peter, too close (his heart can't stop fluttering and his breath has caught in his throat). Peter fights the urge to pull you close to him. Too much, too soon, though he'd really like to kiss you right about now.

You try to contain your smile, a part of you still not quite believing that you've been so consistently guilty of making Peter Parker flustered.

Your fingers gently pull Peter's glasses off with a glint in your eye and Peter frowns at the sudden loss of sight - only because he doesn't want to miss looking at you from so close.

"For the aesthetics, huh?" You grin, turning the glasses to measure the thickness of Peter's lenses. Your suspicions about the strength of his prescription are confirmed by the way Peter's eyes are squeezed together as he looks at you.

"A hundred percent," Peter persists, opening his eyes normally and looking straight at the blurred lines of your face.

You take a step back and flash your phone at Peter, tiny words melted into a block of black. Peter instinctively squints and leans forward, trying to distinguish what the small screen said.

"You're like a grandma," you laugh, fully now.

"You should feel horrible for making fun of the elderly." Peter's arms drop, reaching for his glasses with an easy smile. But you move your hands away and Peter's hands catch on the crooks of your arms as you carefully place Peter's glasses back on his face, taking care to place them behind his ears as comfortably as you can. Your fingers graze against Peter's hair, still damp from his shower, gently moving a few stray pieces back into place.

"Well, you can't go to sleep like that," you murmur. "You'll get sick."

"So I guess we have time to kill?" Peter asks, hoping the two of you will sit down for a movie - or anything that'd keep him close to you, really.

"I guess we do," you grin, hands falling to Peter's shoulders, savoring the feeling of his hands on you, unable to help the craving you have for more.

"Pete?"

"Hmm?" Peter is partially entranced, melted like chocolate with the sweet sound of that little nickname coming out of your mouth. His eyes flicker and he's trying not to stare at your lips, bottom lip caught in his mouth in anticipation.

"Could I put my stuff in your room?" You ask sweetly, trying not to laugh at the way Peter falters, blinking quickly.

"Oh, yeah, sure," Peter nods frantically, hoping he's not as red as he feels.

You bite back your grin as Peter stays there, not moving until you do, sweet brown eyes slightly magnified by his glasses. Oh, but it'd be so cruel to deny him.

You press a quick kiss to the corner of Peter's mouth. It's a little shy and you turn away immediately to grab the overnight bag you'd packed. Two pairs of cheeks are red and grateful for the excuse of it, trying to shake off the little bit of nervousness the two of you still have around each other. It's a little strange, neither of you quite used to having someone around to love so freely. It's new, too, both of you still a little afraid to do something that would scare the other off, each of you knowing you'd never be the one to run off.

But this tiny fear that lives in both of your brains is what had Peter picking over his appearance earlier and is what makes him nervous now as he leads you down the hall to his room. He'd cleaned it thoroughly, considering hiding all his trinkets and trophies, ended up shoving things that had littered his shelves into his closet.

Peter takes a breath before opening his creaky door, smiling as he welcomes you in, hoping you somehow wouldn't notice - or maybe, wouldn't care to ask about - any of the posters or books or medals or figurines that made Peter, Peter. He was partially embarrassed and entirely nervous about sharing more of himself with you. After all, Peter was an expert at shutting people out and not too great at letting them in.

He doesn't know if he's relieved or even more anxious as you stare in awe, bag abandoned near his bed. It's clear you're taking in every detail of Peter's room, eyes not missing a single decoration. Peter feels as if he's being dissected, fidgeting as he waits for you to finish your analyzing. He's about to suggest that movie when you walk over to the desk he has shoved against the wall. Peter doesn't think there's anything special about books and pencils, but you're touching the tops of the things on his desk with care and a fascination he doesn't quite understand.

You quietly move onto old trophies and medals Peter has displayed, only the ones he was proudest of.

"Princeton Math Competition? Wow, Pete." You only turn your attention to him momentarily, returning your eyes to the shelf with a grin.

Peter's heart flutters when you sound... impressed? It was an accomplishment he was proud of, but not something he went around telling strangers.

"Oh, that... that- that's old," Peter laughs, coming up behind you, sure now there'd be no chance of getting you to watch that movie.

"Tell me about it."

"W...what?" Peter laughs, glancing at you curiously.

"I wanna hear about it," you say genuinely, taking a seat on the edge of Peter's bed. "Tell me about it."

Peter doesn't have to tell you he's shocked for you to realize it, a small smile tugging at your lips as you look up at him. Peter's not sure he has the courage to ask why before you beat him, sensing his hesitancy.

"I wanna know everything about you Peter. I wanna hear about your math competitions. I want you to tell me what books you're reading. I wanna know what matters most to you," you shrug, face a little warm from the confession. You don't have too much time to be embarrassed before Peter is next to you, hands digging into the bed at your sides. His face is inches away, his breath warm on your lips.

"Please let me kiss you," Peter whispers.

"Please do," you whisper back, letting Peter take your face in his hands and pull you into a kiss. The surface you've chosen is a little unstable as the both of you shift around, neither of you quite able to let the other go until you're forced to, breathless and grinning.

Peter's glasses have fogged up and he groans, pulling them off exasperatedly. "God, I hate these things."

"Really? But you look so good in them," you comment innocently, picking up the frames and attempting to look through them, muttering something about how, wow, Peter is blind.

Peter's not paying attention, though, heart hammering in his chest. He takes you by surprises when he kisses you this time, glasses still in your hands as they rest against his chest.

"You're trouble," Peter says when he finally pulls away. "You're doing awful things to my heart."

"Should I make fun of you, then?" You tease.

"Oh, I think that'd make it worse."

"I didn't know you were into that."

Peter shoves you as you laugh, though he can't help but join you.

"I didn't know you were into nerds," Peter quips, letting you slide his glasses back onto his face - the ones that suddenly don't seem that bad anymore.

"Only the really pretty ones," you murmur, and really, how could Peter not kiss you for that one?

Peter tries to take his glasses off as your kissing grows heated, knowing they'll be useless when they eventually fog up anyway. But your hand stops Peter, lips puffy from plenty of kisses and still eager for more.

"Nuh-uh," you say, pulling Peter's hand back down. "Keep them on."

[forever-ev]

Mom!reader being upset postpartum and starting to get her pink back

°°°♡°°°☆°°°♡°°°☆°°°♡°°°☆°°°♡°°°☆°°°♡°°°

Peter sits in the rocking chair in Charlotte's nursery, swaying back and forth with your newborn daughter. You walk in and just stare at the sight of your beloved husband and daughter.

"I can't sleep." You say softly.

"Yeah? I'll go lay with you once I put her in her bassinet."

Peter gets up carefully and walks with you back to your bedroom. Charlotte is placed in her bassinet and you two lean against your headboard.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there to change her myself." You whisper.

"Baby, you deserve to sleep. You pushed a whole ass human out of you only a few weeks ago. It's my job to take care of her too."

"Yeah, I just feel guilty. I feel like I could be doing more, and I know I've had my almost four trimesters of this, but I just feel gross and tired, and I should feel just love."

"I know you love her, sweetheart, and I'm so proud of you. You are her food source and previously the only thing sustaining her. It's okay for things not to be perfect."

"It's just hard for me to feel blissful when she spit up in my hair earlier and I'm exhausted and bleeding." You groan.

"You have a dinner plate sized wound in your uterus, baby, you're going to feel awful for a bit." He chuckles softly.

"Where'd you hear that?" Your brows furrow and you laugh in shock.

"The nurses when you had her. I was freaking out and they were trying to calm me down with weird facts." Peter laughs along with you.

"Oh, Pete...what did I do to deserve you?" You shake your head.

"Just being you. You deserve every part of this including the baby spitting up on you."

"Whatever." You snort. "Would it be bad if I showered and got dressed up just for fun? I know it's four in the morning but I feel so ugly and gross so maybe that'd help."

☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇

You walk into the living room to see Peter bouncing Charlotte gently while holding her against his chest. He gasps then holds her up closer to you.

"Awww, look at mommy, Charlie. Isn't she so pretty?" He coos.

You giggle and reach for your baby, "Hi, baby...oh, you stink. Does daddy need to change you?"

"Oh, I need to change her?" He laughs.

"Yeah, I thought it was your job too."

"Don't weaponize my own words." He groans but takes her anyway.

°°°♡°°°☆°°°♡°°°☆°°°♡°°°☆°°°♡°°°☆°°°♡°°°

[sincericida]

Do you have any favorite Peter smut fics to recommend? I'm in need something spicy! I'll take anything you can think of!

Dear, if you want to turn up your temperature with some of the smut fics I’ve read recently, here are a few:

So, So Mean, by @lovelettersforthedamned

Smitten, Peter's Angel, The Ruler and The Killer, Peter and a Cam Girl, Enraptured, Doing so Well, Not so Innocent, The Goddess, In The Dark, Cheating With Peter, Phone Sex, and my favorite ever Back to Basics, by @blooming-violets

Love on the Brain: Sugar & Vice, vol 2, Sugar and Vice, Sweet Dreams, These Violet Delights, by @liz-allyn

Bondage, Mattress Acting, by @reysdriver

August Slipped Away by @peterthepark

Symbiote mini series by @mrshipsmcgee

Florence series by @periprose

Dulcet by @jamespottersdaisy

Quiet Temptations by @parkerpeter24

Sparks Fly by @mortwig

Jawbreaker by @witchywcmans

The Angel In The Garden of Evil series, In Your Boss’s Office, Professor Peter Parker by @backtothefanfiction

'Til Kingdom Come by @pedrito-friskito

Masterlist of @withahappyrefrain

This fic of @deviouz

Going to The Edge of Heaven by @multifandomworldsposts

Another Love series by @abibliophobiaa

Too Close For Comfort by @lovelettersforthedamned

Thick and Thin by @ficthots

Daddy Issues seeries by @venus616

I’m Holding my Breath for You by @lxinesux

There must be others I’ve read, but I’ve read so much fanfic… You must find more things in this tag [peter parker fanfic] that I usually put in the fics I reblogged.

Thank you to all the writers on Tumblr!

[rancidpancakebatter]

For Him - [P.P.]

Pairings: Peter Parker x Depressed!Reader

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

Word Count: 7.0k

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

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

( Masterlist )

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

“(Y/n), what’s going on?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.” 

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

“Why? What-? Did you do something?”

You shrugged your shoulders.

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

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

“What did you do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t think you mean that.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I was worried.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you scream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It hurts, god, it hurts so much!

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

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

“Peter- Peter, please fix it!” 

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

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

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

Disgusting Pathetic Selfish Broken Useless Dumb Weak

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love.

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

Love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry,” you began. 

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

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

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

“It’s okay-” he begins. 

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

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

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

Peter rolled his eyes, chuckling.

“Tough luck.”

You look at him baffled, but he remains unfazed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought you’d never ask.”

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

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

[reidslovely]

Something about helping frat!blonde! Peter touch up his roots. Like he calls you and reader must think its for hooking up purposes - then he surprises her w “can you. uh..retouchmyrootsplease” and she’s like “??? 🤨wat” and you just go over to his place and spend time with him, washing his hairr, he making eye contact with reader through the mirror, etc. But he’s still stubborn about his feelings so he’s like “this was a one time thing only don’t let it get to ya head”

sorry if this was jumbled I just had this in my head for a while now

Yes this idea is so so so so so cute. I have written something vaguely similar before but I love it so much I don't care to write it again

please reblog or comment in place of liking/hearting this post 🫶🏼

“Pete?” You questioned picking up your phone, your eyes locked on the clock that read 4:00pm. “It’s far too early for a booty call..what’s up pretty?” 

“Ya flatter bashful.” His chesty laugh could be heard on the other end of the phone. It sent your heart doubling in speed, your cheek pressed lovingly into your shoulder. 

“You still with me bashful? I need you to do me a favor.” 

“So this is a hookup call..you only ask me that if-” You're cut off by him rushing out a string of words. None of which you caught. “Pete..baby. I need you to breathe and say that again.” You laughed softly, already gathering your stuff up to head over to the Theta Tau. Regardless if this was a hookup situation or not you were tired of your homework and Peter always seems to take any type of stress away. 

“Can you uh..” There's an awkward cough and sigh. “Retouchmyrootsplease?” 

The questions still came out as one word this time around but at least you actually caught what he was saying. 

“Sure, Pete.” You tried not to laugh. “Do you have what you need or do we need to run by Sally?” 

“No, no I have everything here for you. Thanks for this.”

“Course Pete, anything for you.” You hung up before you could get any type of snarky reply. 

Peter’s blond locks were a new addition about three weeks into your situation ship and you absolutely loved them. They flattered his face, and made his little baby deer eyes even more baby deer like. Which made you want to kiss him even more, and made it hard to say no when he’s asking you for another round. 

“You’re literally the best for this. Just moved up to like number two in my ranking.”

It was a joke, you were easily number one if not the only girl in Peter’s ranking but you have to play along or else you’ll scare him away. 

“Offended, whose number one.”

“May..sorry.” Peter sighs dramatically, leading you up the stairs to his bathroom. Tossing a few nods and hey’s to his brothers walking down the steps. 

“Mhm can’t be mad at that.” 

Peter laughed sitting on the chair he’d tucked away in the bathroom, pulling off his shirt. 

“Awe did you go ahead and set everything up for me?”

“No I was gonna do it myself but that's how we ended up in this scenario in the first place.”

Peter would never admit to it but he had set everything up for you. He’d done it before he even picked up the phone: not that he knew you'd say yes but he could hope. 

“Mhm I see.” You hummed running your fingers through Peter’s hair. He grabbed his phone starting his music, looking at you in the mirror as you started sectioning his hair out. 

Admittedly the whole time he was locked on you. Every move you made he was locked on you, not wanting to miss a moment. His head lolled back as you ran; you painted the bleach on his roots. Earning soft little ‘stops’ and ‘hold your head up’ from you as he relaxed. Your eyes were fixed on his hair making sure you’re applying everything evenly and correctly. Peter held his phone up in the mirror snapping a quick photo of the two of you. The photo falling amongst the others he’s sneakily taken of you or the both of you that you had no clue about. 

“Okay you gotta sit for a while and then I’ll wash it, tone it, all that after.” You said sitting on the toilet lid next to him taking the gloves off, tossing them in the trash can. 

“This is nice.” 

Peter's comment threw you off, you two only really hung out in the context of having sex or it being mutually beneficial for both. You hated to admit you had more moments like this. 

“Yeah?” 

“Mhm no pressure, at least not for you. I still gotta make jokes and keep you entertained.” 

“Tragic.” You tsked resting your arm on the sink hand to head as your free hand started a 30 minute timer. 

“Come on, we have enough time to watch some of that Hulu cooking show you like.” Peter stood taking your hand in his walking to his room. You flopped down on Pete’s bed watching him sitting next to you. “Careful you’ll get bleach on your..”

“No no, I'm good sitting up.”

You nodded and laid your head on his lap watching The Bear, Pete’s fingers combing through your hair switching between watching the TV and you. 

Pete’s head was tilted back in the sink, a towel under his neck for comfort. “Stop looking down my shirt, Parker.” 

“I’m not…I’m not.” He lied, turning his eyes up to look at you as you shampooed after toning his hair. “Do I look fabulous?”

“Oh absolutely.” You laughed wrapping his hair up in a towel helping him sit up. Ruffling the towel through his hair you laughed watching it sticking up every which way. You blow dried it for him smiling and singing under your breath as you fixed his hair perfectly. 

“How do you feel Parker?” 

“Amazing..I look great thanks bashful.” He says turning around, capturing your hips in his hands. “Let's get dinner, and then we can come back here.” 

“I hate sex after dinner.” 

“No, no we come back here and finish the show.” 

“Oh I get to come back to the Theta house? And not have sex?” You fake a gasp of shock. 

“I know it’s a rare occurrence. This is a one time thing though, don’t let it get to ya head.” Pete taunts, hand rubbing your side grabbing his wallet off his dresser.

“Oh baby it has.” 

Peter knew and even in his playful disdain and stubborn personality you were slowly craving a spot out in his chest and making a home in it, and at this point he had no say in it.

___________

tags: @helloheyhihowdyheya @sincericida @moonyslove78 @a-lumos-in-the-nox @messymissy @adhdhufflepuff @toomanyfictionalboyfriends @ateliefloresdaprimavera @eevylynn

[iamthejam]

did this cause i'm obsessed with andrew

[cybersinsposts]

College AU with TASM Peter headcanons.

cuz i’m bored.

again...

college!peter-who met you at the school library because of volunteer work.

college!Peter-who needed to keep going to the library to borrow multiple books for a 'biology project'.

college!peter-who got an angry email after not returning over 20 books.

college!peter-who returned all the books with cuts on his face from his hero job.

college!peter-who got mercy from the librarian who got out a first aid kit to help him.

college!peter-who could not stop looking at your face while you fix him up.

college!peter-who got you roses the next day as an apology.

college!Peter-who should up the next day with a flushed face and roses, not as an apology but to ask you out on a date.

college!Peter-who planned a romantic picnic for both of you.

college!Peter-who was too love drunk to look up the weather forecast and was met with bullets of rain on your date.

college!Peter- who shielded you from the rain with his zip-up hoodie while you guys ran to his dorm.

college!Peter- who couldn't stop littering your face with kisses.

college!Peter-who could only focus on your pleasure.

college!Peter-who is a munch.

college!Peter-who relied on his spider senses to make you scream louder and louder.

college!Peter-who was happy after giving you Bambi legs.

college!Peter-who couldn't stop smiling after getting a noise complaint.

college!peter-who couldn't stop laughing after finding out he made you lose your voice.

[iwillbefamousonedayipromise]

We as a community need Deadpool and Andrew's Peter Parker to have a film or serie where they are boyfriends.

Especially Andrew.

[companionjones]

Next To You

Pairing: Andrew!Peter Parker x Reader

Fandom: The Amazing Spider-Man Movies

Summary: You're injured in an attack against Green Goblin, BUT YOU LIIIIIIVE!!!!!1!!

Warnings: Injuries

*******

"Y/n!"

Peter swung to the floor a few yards away and ran the rest of the way toward you. He crashed to his knees as soon as he was next to you, and ripped off his mask.

"I'm okay! I'm okay," you told him, even though your vision was getting blurry. You glanced in the direction Harry in which was wreaking havoc. "Go get him. I'll be fine."

Peter started shaking his head immediately. "No, no, no--"

"The paramedics'll be here in a few seconds. Can't you hear them?" You also didn't want Peter to be seen with his mask off. With one final look, you urged, "Go."

You'd been right about the paramedics. They appeared almost immediately after Peter left your view.

At the hospital, the doctors told you that you'd suffered a few broken ribs, a broken nose, and even a cracked skull from the Green Goblin's attack. You didn't care much. The real torture was not knowing if Peter was okay. You had every faith that he could take care of himself, but it still terrified you to be away from him while he was off being Spider-Man.

Luckily, you two wouldn't be apart for much longer. The visiting hours for your family eventually ended, and about an hour after the sun went down, the window to your hospital room slid open.

"Heeeyyy, gorgeous," Peter greeted as he took of his mask.

You could tell by his eyes that he was checking every inch of you he could see for injuries. You were doing the same to him. You only had his face to go off of, but if it was any indicator of the rest of his body, Peter was in bad shape.

"Oh my god, Peter." You reacted appropriately, brow furrowing as you motioned for him to come closer.

Peter sat down on the side of your bed. "It's really not as bad as it looks..." he tried to tell you. "You, on the other hand..."

"I'm worse than I look," you sighed, "Most of my stuff's on the inside."

Peter cringed at the news.

"But it's nothing that can't be fixed," you backtracked, "All there is to really do is to just wait for everything to heal. No surgeries or anything."

A thick silence settled.

You tried to soothe the intensity by changing the subject. "Harry...?"

Horrible subject to go with, you realized.

Tears pricked Peter's eyes. "He got away. I'm so sorry! I fought him for a while, but he put me down hard. I barely got up in time to chase him. I followed him for a few miles, but he was already long gone. I'm so sorry, Y/n. I shouldn't have--I should have--" Peter tried going on, but he was getting too choked up.

"Oh, Peter..." You took him in your arms.

Peter climbed into bed next to you, being careful to avoid your ribs. He continued to mutter apologies to you.

"Baby, you have nothing to say sorry for," you explained, "You saved my life. You saved the lives of this whole city. So what if you and I get a few scrapes and bruises along the way? That's part of the gig, right?"

You felt Peter tense up next to you.

"Peter. Hey, hey." You turned to look at him, and you made him do the same. For the time being, the city is safe. Harry isn't going to try anything with everyone on high alert. Just for tonight, just focus on the fact that you and me are okay, okay?"

At that, Peter gave a little nod and gently brought himself closer to you. "O-okay," he answered.

"Good." You gave a curt nod as well and ignored the sharp pains in your ribs as you shifted to a more comfortable position. Pulling Peter the rest of the way to you, there was no space left between your bodies as you finally settled down and drifted toward sleep.

You wanted Peter to be close behind you, but you knew your Spider-Man would stay up at least a while longer to brood. You tried not to worry too much about him. After all, Peter was next to you in that moment and the rest could wait until morning to sort itself out.

*******

Author's Note: Thank you for reading! Fill up that heart and reblog if you liked it. I would also really appreciate a comment, if you have the time. If you would like to read more, check out my masterlists. Have a nice day, night, or whatever time it is for you! <3 <3 <3

[bitchyycapricorn]

for ur october reqs; dom! reader & sub!tasm!peter?? maybe w overstim idk

Sub!TASM Peter x Dom!Reader + Overstim

-Fucked Out-

Kinktober Masterlist

Masterlist

AN: It’s been a while pookie bears. Not edited. If you saw it say bandage instead of bondage no you didn’t.

Warnings: SMUT SMUT SMUT! Dom/Sub, overstimulation, bondage, praise kink

A whine escapes Peter’s lips as he squirms against the restraints keeping his hands bound to the head board.

“Someone’s being awfully needy” You smirk, swinging your leg over Peter’s hips. Slowly, you eases down so your cunt just barley grazes over his acing shaft. You slowly swivel your hips in a teasing manner causing another whine to leave Peters lips as his tip brushes against your bare thigh. The feeling of his pre-cum smearing against your inner thigh has you mind going fuzzy already.

“P-please…” Peter begs, struggling to keep still. A small smirk forms on your face at his pleas, you can’t help but reach down to align him with your entrance.

“You want me pretty boy?” You hum, barely allowing his tip to enter your hot cunt. Peters eyes screw shut as a few rather pathetic noises leave his lips. “Look at you…barely able to keep yourself together and only the tips in…” you tease.

Keeping his eyes shut, Peter can only seem to respond with yet another whine. He’s been rather touch starved for the last few days due to his…job. But now he was here, under you. Whimpering and whining pathetically. He drew his lip between his teeth as you lower your hips. Your warmth surround his cock as he fills you up.

“Fuck Peter…” you mutter with a moan. “You feel so good…stretching me out so good.” You praise him, rocking your hips slowly against his. Steadying your body you slowly lean back, allowing your back to arch as you slide up and down his length. Peter can’t help but watch as your hips move against his. His eyes focusing in on the way it looks for his cock to slide in and out of your cunt. He watches as the head of his cock bulges inside you, all while you use him for your pleasure.

The feeling of your body against his is slowly becoming overwhelming as you pick up speed. Peter allows his eyes to roll to the back of his head as his first orgasm washes over him. Hot cum now seeping out of you as you continue to ride him.

Peter whimpers at the sensation, his voice shaky as he begs you to slow down. “I- it’s too much..” he murmurs, his hips involuntarily thrusting upwards.

“You can take it…” you hush, pushing his cock even deeper in you as you drag your hips back and forth, all while gliding your hips up and down.

“I don’t…I can’t…” Peter gasps, pulling at his restraints again as yet another orgasm surges through him. His eyes snap shut as a few moans tumble from his swollen lips. His cock twitches as he releases into you again.

“Look…you did it,” you smirk, leaning forward to place your hands on his chest now. Your finger traces over his abs as you allow Peter to adjust to the new position and its sensation. “Think you can give me another?” You ask as you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Peter squirms beneath you, realizing you weren’t going to let up until he was completely fucked out. He let out an incoherent murmur before nodding. His fluffy brown hair falling into his eyes as he looks up at you.

A smile spreads across your face as you press a proper kiss to his puffy lips. “So good for me…” you mumble, your lips still against his. You begin to slowly pick up your pace again, grinding your hips onto his, feeling his length deep inside you as a soft moan leaves your lips. “Such a pretty boy,”

His eyes flutter close at your words, his brain and body completely overstimulated by your touch. He could feel your walls flutter around him. He could feel the way you were gripping his shoulders. He could feel how flushed your tits are as you push your chest against his. Another whine escapes his lips. “I-I’m” he cries, his body tensing at the feeling of yet another tight knot building up.

Another kiss to his lips and he was sent over the edge, his body completely spasming as he finishes deep in you. You feel your own high come over you as Peter’s coming down from his.

+++

Taglist?!?!

@nataliewalker93 @sarapaprikas-blog @justkeepitblanc @sickomodesmell @etaerealboy @purplerose291 @witheringawayagain @arij3lly @dandelionqueen@brightlilith @laurens2002 @siriusly1 @shugrcrush @hazzarules @cl0v3r-s0up @jibiwoni @maria-pqrker @just-henny @little-jana @ellie-emb @valslittleheart @reeseisinapiece @happilyneverafter69 @gram-cracker24 @kisstheskin @whenmypartysover @nightiresss @wowitsem @chinaza444 @sherlockstrangewolf @daisydarko0509 @shine101 @moniffazictress11 @cryptidcreaturewrites @severenpcenergy @talking-to-the-stars @tinafuentes @idontknowtbhsworld @asthmaticcchoeee

[withahappyrefrain]

I’m just *know* peter is the kind of guy to pound into you before giving you the softest most gentle kiss

He absolutely is! 18+! We have some size kink because I'm a basic bitch.

"Peter." Your voice was barely above a whisper, strained and desperate. Hands clutched his dark locks, tangling yourself further with him.

"I'm right here ladybug," His words did little to soothe the throbbing ache between your legs. You needed him, all of him.

"Please." You try to cant your hips upwards, in a pathetic attempt to get more of him. And he knew exactly what you were trying to do, able to hold your hips down to the mattress.

"Just gotta ease in ya, 'kay?" A whine escaped your lips upon feeling his cock sink further into you. It felt so good and yet still not enough.

Peter pressed a kiss to your collarbone, "I know, doing so good for me. Taking me so well."

He was always gentle when it had been awhile since you two were intimate. Insisted on easing into you, getting you reacquainted with the sheer size of him.

Whines became all out groans as he bottomed out. Back arching in pleasure, you threw your head back as you reveled in the fullness you now felt.

"Feel so fucking good bug," Peter groans into your skin, feeling practically drunk off your scent.

"I-Peter-fuck." Your head is too busy spinning from how divine it feels when his cock brushes against that one spot.

Peter can't help but let out a chuckle, the corners of his eyes slightly creasing, "Already bug? I just started."

"Oh fuck off," the last word goes from intelligible to babble due to Peter finally increasing the pace of his thrusts.

All you could do was cling onto him as your body was submerged in total pleasure. It felt amazing to be full of him once more, to be consumed by only him. The scent of cinnamon was filling your nostrils, your fingers could feel every scar and mark on his body.

He pushed himself off of you, ignoring your whines as he sat up.

"Peter-"

"Just trust me bug."

That wasn't hard. You trusted him with your whole heart, with every fiber of your being.

His large calloused hands wrapped themselves around each of your ankles, bringing your legs up to his shoulders.

"Pete-oh!"

The new angle allowed him to thrust even deeper. Your fingers quickly found the bedsheets, grasping the fabric as your body was entirely at his mercy.

"You're s'pretty like this bug. All spread out just for me."

Heat flooded your body from his words. You could feel his honeyed eyes on you, taking in the way your breasts bounced with every thrust.

"Fuck, l-ladybug," Peter's voice faltered as your tight walls clenched his cock.

"P-Peter," you could barely get out his name. All you could focus on was how his cock perfectly found the spot that was making you start to see stars. You were on your way, given the way your thighs began to shake, the way the coil in your stomach was whining up.

"Whatcha need bug? C'mon, use your words, you can do it."

You whined, a hand trailing past your breasts to where your body and Peter's connected.

He moved your hand away from your body, replacing it with his own. Fingers far thicker than your own, calloused from years of hard work, found your clit, rubbing tight circles on the sensitive bundle.

"That's what ya needed, huh? Your poor little clit, I'm sorry bug."

"Th-thank you- fuck!" The last word was screamed, your release hitting you like a freight train. Peter didn't relinquish his intense thrusting, continuing with his ministrations to help you ride out your high.

It felt like you were falling, white hot pleasure coursing through your body. Your eyes fluttered closed, seeing stars as you rode out the wave.

Peter watched you carefully, looking out for any signs of you coming down from your high. Once the loud moans had turned into whimpers, he gently placed your legs down, bending down so his chest hovered over yours.

"Bug?" You felt his thumb stroking your cheek. Upon opening your eyes, you found Peter, his face inches away from yours.

"There she is, my ladybug," He said gently before pressing a kiss to your forehead, "C'mere."

His arms wrapped themselves around your waist, helping you sit up as he pulled you into his lap.

"You okay?" He asked. You nodded, still trying to catch your breath.

"Good." His fingers hooked themselves under your chin, allowing him to tilt your head up.

His lips met yours, gently pressing against yours. His kisses were warm and comforting, always making you feel safe and loved. This particular one was soft, a stark contrast from moments ago.

"You did such a good job ladybug," His lips moved from yours to your cheek, peppering your skin, "You wanna keep going or do you want to take a break?"

"Can we take a break? I want you to come but I need time-"

"We have all the time in the world bug."

[backtothefanfiction]

A Christmas Blessing: The Gift of Moving On | frat!Peter Imagine

Summary: You and your boyfriend had a messy breakup at Halloween. Almost two months later you think you’re ready to move on, even if he’s still holding on.

Warnings: jealousy, messy break up, sweet Peter, fluff

Word Count: 1K+ (wrote in app again so not completely sure)

A/N; it’s Christmas party season and I was scrolling through fics when this idea came to me so here we go.

He couldn’t help but watch you. It had always been the way. Ever since his frat brother had brought you back to the house that first time. Peter was mesmerised. By your hair, your eyes, the way you dressed. The way you had 5 different laughs. The way you always found time to say hi to him when you came over to the house. If you came over before Matt had gotten back from the library or a lecture or wherever the heck he was, you’d grab a drink for the two of you and just sit with him and talk. It was always just so easy for you both to talk.

It had only gotten worse after you and Matt broke up at Halloween. You’d caught him hiding out in one of the upstairs rooms of a party over at the Theta Beta Phi house, making out with some girl in a slutty super girl costume. The argument the two of you had had, instantly killed the party. Peter had gotten so angry with Matt when he’d found out what he’d done. If the party hadn’t been over when you walked out, it definitely was after he punched Matt in the face on the front lawn.

He couldn’t help but watch you now. Your gaze was focused on something in the adjacent room. Your cup was held frozen in mid air near your chin with one hand, while your other arm wrapped protectively across your chest. You were stood alone, your back to a messy stack of shelves. Where once you looked so comfortable at parties surrounded by friends, now you just looked like you’d rather be elsewhere. And that made Peter sad.

“What are you staring at?” He asked as he approached, but as soon as he was stood in the right angle to follow your gaze, he knew exactly what you were looking at.

Matt stood in the hallway with the girl from the Halloween party. However instead of her slutty super girl outfit, she wore a slutty Santa costume. She was giggling at every word he said. His finger reached out to play with her hair. He took one look in the direction of Peter and you, before he plucked the girls hat off of her head and placed it on top of his own, his body shuffling closer to her.

“It’s like watching a car crash.” You say to Peter. “She doesn’t even realise he isn’t actually into her. He’s just trying to make me jealous.”

“How come?”

“Because I wouldn’t take him back.” You said, finally looking away from them as you took a sip of your drink.

“Good. I’m glad.” Peter said, only slightly fumbling over his words. “I mean, he was a dick and you are way too good for him.”

“Are you allowed to say that?” You question as you adorably tilt your head at him. “Isn’t he your fraternity brother. Isn’t that part of the brotherhood and the pact, to always have each other’s backs.”

“Yeah but I think the rules my Aunt and Uncle taught me about not being a dick to women kind of overrule any fraternity pacts or rules.”

“Well,” you say, lifting your cup towards him for him to cheers with his own, “I guess that must make you a rare breed of man, Peter Parker.”

Your words make him blush as he looks down into his cup as you take a sip from your own.

You both stand with each other in awkward silence for a moment until another fake giggle draws your attention back into the hallway where Matt is now making out with the skinny blonde in the red and white mini skirt. His hand groping at her ass for everyone to see. Peter’s head turns back to looking at you as the expression on your face turns sour.

“He looks like he’s trying to swallow her face.” You comment. “Please tell me we never looked like that.” Peter’s brow furrows, so you elaborate. “When we were drunk making out at parties. Please tell me we didn’t look like that.”

“You didn’t look like that.” He said as you both watched Matt and the girl break apart only long enough for her to giggle, take his hand and starting leading him upstairs.

“I’m sorry.” Peter says.

His statement throws you. It takes you a moment to work out why. It’s because you’re relaxed. For the first time in weeks, your chest feels steady and not jittery. Your mind is calm and not racing a hundred miles a second with a thousand different hypothetical’s. You don’t feel intimidated by Matt or the girl. You feel sorry for them. You think on the way he had come grovelling to you just days ago, begging for your forgiveness only to now be shoving his tongue down another girls throat.

“Don’t be sorry.” You turn and say to him. “She can have him.” And it’s then you really look at Peter. He’s handsome, despite the bleached blonde hair he currently had because of some dare. He’s not like those other frat boys. He has a moral code. He’s always been friendly to you and if rumours are true, he stuck up for you after you had left the Halloween party.

“So um, are you headed home for the Christmas-“

“Would you like to go out with me?” You suddenly asked him, catching him off guard.

“Um uh, like right now or?”

“Or later. Tomorrow? Friday night? Whenever.”

“Uh um, uh,” he struggles with his words, his wildest dreams coming true like it’s some Christmas miracle. “Yes. Yes!” He finally gets out. There’s a pause between you both before he says, “Are you sure? I mean, it’s not too soon or-“

“No. I’m sure.” You smile at him and he feels like the cow that just jumped over the moon. “It’s just,” you say, bashfully looking down into your cup, “I just realised that I don’t think I was ever really supposed to be with Matt, you know.”

The way you look at Peter says so much. It’s always been easy for you two to talk to each other and it seems that also goes for silent conversations as you slowly inch closer to one another.

Before he knows it, he’s reaching a hand up to your face, guiding you closer to his own. You don’t protest as he kisses you, instead breathing a deep sigh of relief. Yeah, you thought to yourself, she can have your shitty ex boyfriend, you have something better right here.

[forever-ev]

Aunt May meeting tasm!Peter's baby

°°°♡°°°☆°°°♡°°°☆°°°♡°°°☆°°°♡°°°☆°°°♡°°°

You hear a knock on your door while you sit on your couch, burping your newborn daughter. Peter answers the door to find his aunt May standing there with a few casserole dishes stacked.

"Hey, Pete, how is she?" She asks softly.

"Good, she's feeling a lot better." He smiles fondly, opening the door all the way and inviting her in.

Aunt May walks in with him to your living room and sits down next to you.

"Hi, sweetheart, how are you feeling?" She asks you.

"Ugh, you don't know how good that feels to be asked. So many people don't even look at me, it's all about the baby. I'm good, I'm tired but Peter's been so sweet about everything and Charlotte's so cute." You sigh.

"Aww, I bet he has been. We wouldn't have raised him to be any different." She chuckles. "She is cute, she's absolutely adorable. Can I hold her?"

You nod and carefully pass her over to May. Your daughter gurgles and looks up at her.

"Look at those big brown eyes and those lashes." She coos.

"Yeah, she's so cute, I just wanna squish her." You laugh.

"Oh, hey, thanks for the casseroles, I'm way too tired to cook." Peter calls from the kitchen as he puts away the meals.

"You're welcome." She calls after him as he walks back in, "She's so beautiful, I really do see Peter in her."

"Well, I see a lot of your personality in her. That's why she's Charlotte Maybelle Parker. She's just as stubborn as you and her mama for sure." He laughs.

"What? How can you say she's stubborn she's so little?" May protests.

"She fights so hard not to sleep, plus I'm pretty sure she side eyed me the other day." Peter argues lightheartedly.

"She's too sweet for that, just look at that cute face." She dismisses.

Charlotte begins to fuss and you hand her over to Peter. He stands up and sways with her, quietly shushing her grunts and whines.

"See? She's a grumpy baby sometimes." You giggle at your baby's disgruntled expression as you look over at May.

"Maybe." She relents, chuckling softly.

°°°♡°°°☆°°°♡°°°☆°°°♡°°°☆°°°♡°°°☆°°°♡°°°

[sincericida]

ANDREW GARFIELD

appears in a new advert for Sky media.

(source)

[rancidpancakebatter]

Another Way to Fly-[P.P.] | Chapter Eight

Pairing: TASM!college!Peter Parker x female!college!reader

Summary: You've been dating Harry Osborne for three years. You love him...but maybe not as much as you once did. Maybe not enough.

AU Where Norman isn’t as sick- he’s just an asshole- and Gwen didn't go to Oxford. Harry is functioning as an apprentice at Oscorp (He graduated with a master's in two years because of his studying abroad). You, Peter, and Gwen are all seniors at ESU. Because Peter isn't Spider-Man and Norman isn’t dying, the whole “Goblin” thing is scratched from the record, so Peter and Harry are besties.

Prompt: Based on an ask for my 200 Follower celebration

Word Count: 4.2k

Content Warnings: Swearing, drinking (of age)

Previous | Chapter List | Next

A/N: I am elusive with no schedule or direction :)) But things are picking up and things are happening in this chapter for sure

You felt a confident hand graze your back, the fingers dancing across the velvet to rest on your hip and pull you into their side. 

Blond hair dipped forward to whisper, “Where are you?” in your ear. 

He pulled away as you turned to face him, your brows furrowed in confusion. 

“Hmm?” you hummed.

Harry chuckled, charm dripping from his smile and tender eyes. He stepped in front of you, his hand making the journey back across your dress and landing on your opposite hip, and the other moved along your hairline, pushing back a few flyaways that had broken free of the gel. 

“You’ve been thinking hard all night,” he said softly, “Is everything okay?”

What a stupid question. Obviously, everything was not okay. Someone you considered your best friend was acting like he couldn’t stand you, and your other friend recently decided she hates your very guts. 

You closed your eyes, deciding to focus only on what you could see when you opened them again. Soft blue oceans called you forward, and you took a deep breath, your chest rising and falling with the tide.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, a little shy from shame, “You’ve been trying so hard to make me feel included, and now I’m the one leaving you alone at the party.”

His hand trailed down your temple and across your cheekbone, a small frown overtaking his features.

“It’s okay,” He reassured, his thumb rubbing circles across your skin. “There’s no need to apologise. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

You melted into his touch, letting him ground you back to the planet. 

“I’m alright,” you finally said, “I was just feeling a bit insecure, I think.”

“Nonsense!” Harry sounded almost offended, “You look gorgeous, baby!”

He gave you a twirl to emphasise his point, pulling you closer as you completed the turn, but your stomach didn’t appreciate the abrupt movement. 

You wanted to tell him about how you were insecure because Peter jumped from your touch like you were diseased, and how Gwen spoke to you with such unexpected frigidness you felt your bones lock up. You wanted to tell him that Peter was just as miserable as you, if not more, and you were frustrated that you couldn’t help him, because he refused to let you near. And even in the briefest of moments when he seemed okay to speak with you, Gwen didn’t want him talking to you, and she didn’t seem too keen on having a conversation either. You had convinced yourself that you must be the world’s worst asshole if you had upset your friends and couldn’t even recall how or when. 

Instead, You smiled wide at the man before you, who was trying his best to be a good boyfriend to you. Even though your feet were beginning to ache in your heels and your stomach was gurgling for something bigger than a Ritz cracker. Even though Harry was laughing with Gwen so casually when you returned from sobbing in the bathroom. Even though she found an excuse to disappear again as soon as you came into her field of vision. Even though Peter looked at you with pity in his eyes, recognizing even the smallest traces of crying from underneath your reapplied makeup, as he was dragged away.

You smiled because that was then and this now. Now being ten in the evening, marking the final stretch of this stupid event. Before you had zoned out, a stout man with a shiny bald head and a bowtie tied so tightly around himself the fat of his neck spilt out around his collar announced that soon we would hear from “The Leaders of Oscorp.” 

The room teemed with excitement, and you were baffled by this collective sentiment. However, you were grateful for it, as upon hearing the announcement, Harry immediately led you out of the crowd and off to the side. The crowd had naturally begun gathering around the stage, leaving most of the floor space open everywhere else. As the band continued to play, Harry took the opportunity to wrap you in his arms and sway with you to the rhythm.

As your head rested on his shoulder, a small, real smile crept onto your face. Harry was being especially affectionate in these last few days, and you were enjoying every single second of it. Your feet moved you in circles, new parts of the same room coming into view with each step. Your eyes trailed across the long velvet curtains draping over the huge windows, then to the chandeliers above that looked like they were covered in dew as the crystals twinkled in the warm light, and finally, you lifted your head to look at Harry. 

You rocked gently for a few minutes like that, alone in the world with your man. That was until you tore your eyes away, interrupted by your least favourite interruption. He doesn’t need to weave his way through the crowd, the people split for him, like magnets. No one dares even brush his shoulder. Harry was oblivious to his approach– his head coming to rest on your shoulder– but the surprisingly sweet gesture was cut off by the gruff voice of his father. 

“Harold, it’s time to make a speech.” Harry jumps away from you quickly, standing straight and fixing his collar, as Norman's eyes roam over your body. You hate that you can’t stop him from doing so. “You should wear blue more often, it suits you.”

You thank every star in the sky that he left it at that, knowing the embarrassment both you and Harry would feel if he had hit on you in front of everyone and God. But it seems he can acknowledge the inappropriateness of hitting on your son’s girlfriend, just not in front of his own son. Which makes you hate every comment before even more, because now you know it was just to get at Harry, an unnecessary assertion of power over him. Some way of making sure he “knew his place,” and you knew yours. You wish more than anything you could put Norman in his. 

The man disappears back into the crowds and Harry turns to you, fussing over his suit and asking if he looks alright. Your eyes fall upon his sharp, worried face and push Norman from your mind. His high cheekbones look tensed, his smile more than nervous, and his eyebrows dance awkwardly as if he’s trying to make them relax but they refuse to obey— twitching back and forth; flickering between fine and panicked. And in his eyes, you see a boy trying so hard to be the man he thinks he’s supposed to be. 

You straighten out his collar and readjust his tie, beaming at him as you move a few strands of hair around. 

“You look great,” you reassure—which isn’t a lie. All the adjustments you make now are just to make him feel better. “You got this.”

His smile relaxes, slipping to the side. 

“Well, you’ve never lied to me before.” He jokes, then leans down for a quick peck. 

You giggle, surprised by the display of PDA in a space he would normally never think to. It makes you swoon a little. But then he’s gone, making his way to the stage, where his father has already begun droning on about how important he is to everyone in the room. 

Your feet carried you forward, anxious to get a good look at Harry up there, hoping if you can see him, he can see you. Other outliers seem to have a similar idea, and you join their pursuit of pushing through the crowd.

As Norman tells the tale of the founding of Oscorp and how far he (singular, one person) has built it up, you join the crowd in their polite laughter and overzealous applause. Sometimes you wondered if he threw these shindigs just to have a room full of people listening to him talk, as if he had anything important to say. He spoke in bad parables and broken metaphors and hid behind “you’ll get it when you’re my age” at the sight of any confusion. He said many good things about himself, things that make you wonder if anyone has ever said these things to him, though it was much more likely that he just decided that they were in fact true and that he had simply beaten someone to saying it. 

As he prattled on, the engagement from the crowd dwindled. There was a heavy silence between punchlines and bored claps following each dramatic retelling. Soon, Norman realised and cleared his throat, turning on his charm. 

“Well, I’m sure you’ve heard enough from this old man, but I hope you’ll allow me to talk to you a bit about my son.” 

He gestured towards Harry, and as if they had reversed it, he stepped forward immediately, joining his father’s side as they hugged in greeting. The last time you saw Norman hug Harry was his birthday, and it was awkwardly, right before he jumped in his car. He hugged Harry the same way you fix your fly: when you notice that people are looking at you a bit funny and then you realise it’s because you just completely forgot to do it, so then you do it as quickly as possible, as if that will make people forget that you had already made a fool of yourself. It was stiff and cold, punctuated by a “Make it a good year, Harold.” No well wishes, just a demand. 

If you weren’t dating him, you wouldn’t be able to tell that Harry was practically shitting himself, praying that his father would show mercy tonight; that he wouldn’t receive a compliment that was false or backhanded in front of this enormous sea of people that he wanted to respect him. 

As Norman spoke, you felt the same fear— waiting patiently for him to do exactly what you expected. But he didn’t. Not one rude sentiment was uttered. He spoke of his pride for his son and his active involvement in both the business and the breakthroughs. He thanked him for his true dedication to Oscorp, going as far to say, “I couldn’t leave it in more caring hands.”

To be honest, you were floored, and it seems Harry was just as stunned, frozen on the stage beaming at his father, finally hearing the words he’s always wanted. To know that he wasn’t just given this company, but knowing that he earned it. This wasn’t a silver spoon, it was hard work, it was commitment. He did this as Harry, not Harold Osborne. 

To the right, a mess of brown hair turned, grabbing your attention. He was at least ten feet away, separated by many bodies in between, but you knew it was him before you even turned your head. The coldness in his eyes seemed to melt when he saw you standing there. He shot you a smile that looked a little guilty. You wondered if it was meant to be an apology. 

But Norman stepped away, bringing your attention back to the stage, allowing Harry to talk. He looked a little more comfortable up there, and you knew later he would tell you about how much he swears by the “fake it ‘till you make it” method. 

Harry’s speech was considerably shorter, lasting only three minutes. He spoke of the great honour he held, how he couldn’t wait to one day take the helm and lead us into a world of great progress. He talked of the many trials and obstacles they faced in their discoveries, and asked everyone in the room to “never give up!” The crowd was just as responsive, clapping every time he took a pause in speaking, and cheering for his accomplishments. 

“Thank you, thank you,” he said, politely shushing the crowd. “But I couldn’t have done this on my own. While it was my idea, I had a team of very bright and talented people to help along the way. Tonight, I would like to thank them.”

He raised his champagne flute and cheers erupted from the crowd.

“Yes, you all should be very proud of yourselves.” He continued, “But there is one in the room who holds the most honour. They worked late nights and early mornings, they worked hard and kept me sane through all the madness. I wouldn’t be the man I am today without her: Gwen Stacy!”

Your stomach did a little flip when you heard her name called. She looked like an actual goddess tonight. She wore a simple white gown, the silk gathering across her chest to rest on one shoulder where it tied into an elegant bow resting down her back, and the bodice was perfectly tailored, giving the illusion that she floated instead of stepping toward. She was breathtaking. 

She beamed as she approached Harry, arms already open for a hug. The man chuckled, bending down to scoop her up and spin her around before placing her back down and kissing her cheek. The crowd roared, though you weren’t sure why, and couldn’t find it within yourself to join in. 

As she takes the mic, she thanks everyone: her coworkers, the guests, the caterers, the staff, and “My dearest Harry.” There is applause for everyone mentioned, but your eyes follow hers back over to the right. His face is hollow as she stares him down, and suddenly you feel very uneasy.

She speaks of the wonderful times she’s had at Oscorp and all the wonderful people she met. A few people got a shout-out, and you would see a glass rise from the crowd in acknowledgement. She spoke of all the things she learned, and how excited she was to learn more in England. 

“I will be leaving to study at Oxford in their molecular pathology program.”

The room erupted in cheers and whistles, her coworkers proud of her work and others recognising the prestige of the accomplishment. Her cheeks reddened as she accepted the praise with humility, patiently awaiting for the crowd to settle before she continued. She spun the microphone in her hands anxiously, casting her eyes to Harry for reassurance. His hand came to rest on her back, moving in a comforting circle on her porcelain skin. 

“I will be leaving this week.”

The crowd erupted again, but the cheers were deafened by your own shock. Your eyes doubled in size as you looked at your beautiful (and very angry) friend, her cheeks filled with glee as she thanked the sea of people, then to Harry, whose smile had stiffened along with the rest of his body, his hand no longer moving across Gwen’s back but frozen there. You were confused, as she had only mentioned briefly moving sooner but you thought she had meant three weeks from now instead of six. Your eyes snapped back to her, where her eyes shone brightly but no longer bounced from face to face, and to her smile that looked almost cruel now.

You followed her gaze to your right where Peter stood frozen. His face was pale and his jaw hung lowly. His muscles were slack, almost as if all life was removed from him by a few syllables. Despite your desire to run to him, the humming of the crowd banged around your skull, amplifying your confusion and planting your feet to keep from losing balance in this turn of events. You dazedly looked back to Gwen and were surprised this time to see she was already looking at you. Her smile twitched at the corners like she was fighting to keep it in place. Her eyes blinked quickly as they glassed over, her brows falling and making her look pained as she smiled. But Harry turned her around to hug her, and with both of their faces hidden and no further answers to your confusion, you turned back to Peter. 

His eyes were also already fixed on you, tears glistening in the soft light. His jaw was tight, the muscles peeking out beneath the skin where they flexed, and there was a slight tremor in his raised shoulders. The pitiful sight of your friend freed your feet of their idleness. You moved through the crowd, carelessly eliminating the distance between you. His head followed as you came closer, and once before him, his chin tucked into his chest. You gazed up at him, your hands raising to hold his. He squeezed them tightly, but not as tightly as he scrunched his eyes, forcing the tears back down. 

“Did you know?”

You didn’t fully realise the words slipping through your shock. But Peter heard them. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed the lump in his throat, and then his lips flapped helplessly for a moment. Soon his grip wasn’t as strong and he was whipping his head back and forth fervently. He only stopped when your hand came to rest on his cheek. His eyes widened at the contact, his teary eyes jumping around your face as if he was looking at someone new. The muscles in your chest feel sore the way they’ve been tensing all night, and you felt the dull throbbing now as Peter looked at you with sadness, but also great confusion. 

His chin pulled back, bringing his face away from your hold, and his hand left yours as if suddenly scorched by your touch. His head began moving side to side again, as if in disbelief at what he was seeing. You wonder what it is that he is seeing, as he has never looked at you like this before. His feet fall back awkwardly as he makes space between you. 

“Peter?” 

Your own face has fallen dramatically, confusion giving way to the hurt and grief you’ve been battling all night. Gwen was running away and hated you, and Peter was doing so now. Everything was ruined but it was great just four hours ago. You were so happy just four hours ago, but now you felt like your entire world was falling apart. 

“I have to go.”

He sounded so far away when he spoke, further than he had removed himself from you. He turned away quicker than you could react, leaving you to be swallowed by the celebration happening around you, as the sounds continued to warp and spin. You stood there for minutes, no longer a part of the room. Not that you ever really were. Glasses clinked and voices cheered in merriment, despite the way your chest rose and fell unevenly or the way tears escaped your lash line. 

Your eyes darted back to the stage but there was no one there you recognised. The crowd had begun to cluster again, the speeches and announcements long over. Only the Maestro stood there now, gracefully leading the orchestra. Your hands gripped and tugged at your neckline, suddenly regretting choosing such a form-fitting dress for the event, as you searched for Harry. 

You slid past several well-dressed scientists and nepo-babbies, unsure if it was your sweat or theirs you were feeling glide across your skin, as you made your way to the front of the stage to see where he had wandered off to. The wood felt rough to the touch as your palms all but slammed against it, lifting yourself to try and see around the crowd. But it seems that this night it was only possible to make bad decisions, as you instantly regretted looking for him as soon as you found him. A huge smile overtook his face, a smile bigger than he had given you in a while, with his arms wrapped around Gwen as they swayed to the music, surrounded by cheering peers. You watched for a while as they spun around giggling, just as you had moments before, and as he placed a sweet kiss on her forehead. A gentle touch he had never given you, but one he could spare for someone with nothing but revulsion for you. 

Your heels clicked furiously against the marbled floors as your hands wiped the fallen tears harshly from your face. Your hands were held high like a boxer’s as you all but pushed people out of your way, no longer caring about offending Harry’s reputation and sick of being pushed around. The bartender straightened as you approached, probably expecting the scowl on your face and the stomp in your steps to lead to some form of complaint. Instead, you tapped your nails across the wood as you eyed the bottles behind him. He awkwardly adjusted his cuff sleeves as he tried to prepare for whatever interaction he was about to have. 

You raised a pointed, manicured nail at the top shelf, then wiggled it in a circle as you moved it left and right across the row of bottles before stopping on a bocksbeutel glass bottle with branches embossed on the side and golden flakes (that were probably actual gold flakes) sitting at the bottom. 

“How much for that one?”

The man before you cocked his head to the side, but quickly remembered himself and hid his expression. He retrieved the bottle from the shelf and flipped it quickly upside down so the gold and glitter swirled around like a snow globe, then presented it to you over his arm like a fine wine. 

“This is a lemon liqueur imported from the orchards of Italy. I recommend pairing it with some blackberry liquor, mint, and maybe even rosewater for a lovely, floral flavour.” Your head nodded dumbly, as he spoke, your smile tight as you bit back your feelings. “You need not worry about pricing as all of the drinks have already been covered by Mr Osborne, but as I said, I would recommend it as a mixed drink.”

“That sounds lovely,” You said, sounding less than reassured by his words. “How much to leave with that bottle?”

“Oh?” The man’s eyes widened as he began fumbling through a response, “I– well. Ma’am, I’m not entirely sure I’m allowed to do that.”

You sighed, placing your clutch dramatically on the bar counter. 

“Well sir,” You began, “Norman’s already paid for it, so it doesn’t really matter. I’m here with his son and I’m sure they wouldn’t have a problem with it.”

He tensed as you revealed your connection to the Osbornes, and he seemed a lot more fearful speaking to you now. 

“I’m sorry ma’am,” He said a little breathless. “But I’m not even sure how much this bottle would cost. The best I can do is give you a name so you can find it.”

You huffed, your nails clacking against the glass of your phone screen. You grinned and flashed him your discovery. 

“So how about you swipe two thousand dollars off this card,” You pushed a black credit card across the polished wood, tapping against the name for him to see. “And then that twenty per cent tip which would be…”

You pursed your lips as you did the math, “four hundred?”

The man said nothing, just continued to stare at you wide-eyed.

“Yeah.” You answered yourself, “Four hundred, but we can just round that up to five hundred. Sound good?”

You watched as he considered the offer, then checked over his shoulders as if looking for his boss, before sighing and replacing the bottle in his hand with the card with “Harold Osborne” written in silver text. He returned– shaking his head– with a receipt and a pen. 

You wished him well, cracking open the wax seal with your teeth as you made your way out of this awful place. You smiled sweetly at the lady at the coat check and asked if she could send a message that you had left. You didn’t care to personally tell Harry you were leaving, he didn’t seem all too concerned for you, and you had left these events separately several times. Instead, you stepped out into the cold and flagged down a taxi. 

The driver tried to make polite conversation but quickly stopped when you gave him a rather short answer and a pointed glare. The orange street lamps flashed by and you considered many times changing your route, but then you made a new game where every time you thought better of your decision you took a swig. Since every decision you made turned out to be the wrong one, it didn’t seem that important to try and make good ones. The best you could do was follow your gut…and the liquor. 

As you approached the concrete steps you recognised you were tipsy, your lips warm and your muscles looser. You hesitated in front of the intercom box, the smiley face taunting you, as you felt anything but that. And you were sure the occupant wasn’t smiley either. You pressed it firmly, letting it ring for a few seconds, then waiting a few seconds more before ringing it again, then one more time. 

It occurred to you several times that perhaps Peter didn’t want to see you, but you refused to believe that until he said it himself. You rang a few other apartments until finally, one answered rather angrily. 

“Sorry,” You said in a pit of panic, “I forgot my key upstairs.”

You grimaced at your performance, but then the door buzzed and you rushed to prop it open with your foot before ringing them again to thank them. 

You made your way up four flights and down two halls before you were stood before Peter’s apartment. You took another great swig before tucking the bottle awkwardly in your coat, then knocked. 

Tag List: @actuallypeterparker, @athenxt, @andrews-lovr, @barbecuetiddy, @cherriescherriesred25, @heejinw0rld, @ilovemoonknight, @Isshecrazyorissheclever, @negasonic-teenage-asshole, @preciousbabypeter, @purple-amaranthe, @raajali3, @rudy-the-winged-wolf, @scorpiolystoned, @supernerdycookietrashblrr, @tayswiftlovebot, @wannapizzamymindposts, @whoreforklitz